“See him hang first.”
“I don’t blame you, sir. But he can make trouble, if he wants to.”
“Quite.”
“Am I free, then, to do what I want about it?”
“Quite free. What will you do?”
“Refer him to the lawyers. That’s all. That’ll be the end of him, as far as we’re concerned. But I didn’t want to go ahead with anything till I’d found out how you stand.”
“Thanks. How good of you!”
4.
They resumed their stroll, when Bennett had lighted his pipe. Levison said, “What do you think of the case now?”
“The case? Damnable.”
“Getting nowhere?”
“Contrariwise.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Matter of slow routine for the police, do you see? They’ll find the chap at the end of any of his trails. The trunk that was sent to Christien’s house. A laundress in the city.”
“You think there’s no doubt?”
“No doubt.”
“I don’t think I’d call it damnable, then. We’ll all be glad when it’s cleared up.”
“My dear Levison, I say ‘damnable’ because the wretched fellow may be aware of his mistakes. There’ll be red herrings all over the shop. Not a consistent murderer. Given to alarms and fancies, I believe. My word! I’m desperately afraid of his ingenuity. Afraid of the last desperate turns of his wit. Indeed, how frightful it must be, to know yourself a murderer undone.”
Levison merely murmured, “Disturbing, I imagine. By the way, John Boxworth’s taken ill.”
“Really?”
“Called up to say he wouldn’t be able to come to his Office today.”
“Quite sudden, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him yesterday.”
“Where does he live?”
“Going up to visit him? He’s got an apartment in a place called the Burgundy, one of those old hotels along Central Park South. I tried to call him up about half an hour ago, but they said he wasn’t in.”
“Curious.”
“He may have told the operator not to ring his rooms, so he wouldn’t be disturbed.”
“Quite so. Of course.”
“If you find him, you might tell—”
“Oh, sorry,” said Bennett. “Must go play the ass, you know, and mumble over the tree...”
The amiable gentleman was wiping the rain out of his face and beckoning with an eyebrow for Bennett.
5.
Bennett mucked about with a spade for a moment, while Bauer held an umbrella over him. Bennett’s mind was not on his work. The roof of De Lancey College was a garden, forty stories from the ground, pathetically Old-World, and all fresh and green and sodden with water. Late daffodils grew in the lawn. The hedges and trees dripped, and spattered drops on those who touched them. For that matter, the Mayor dripped, too, and the uniforms of the cadets from St Charles’s looked dark and oozy. It was all very melancholy.
Bennett’s mind was engaged with the supposed sudden illness of John Boxworth. He was preoccupied with this, and he made a brief speech. Unfortunately, his wit in rainy weather ran mostly to Latin puns, and his distraction made him utter brevities that were too brief, so that his hearers were left in complete bewilderment and fuddle. The reporters, who were not allowed to approach very close to him, got the worst of it. Then Bennett left the roof-top garden to be taken to a very dull lunch.
“I say, Bauer,” he asked in the elevator, “would the evening papers be on the streets by this time? The early editions, you know?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get me them. Get me all that are out.”
“You’ll be at lunch, sir. You want me to bring them in to you?”
“No. Read them yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“For news about the watchman’s body, of course.”
“You want to know if Tussard kept it quiet?”
“Precisely. And Bauer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I find it very important that I talk to Mr. John Box-worth. Immediately after lunch. Arrange it, will you? Now pity me, I go to be feasted.”
When his hosts at last set Bennett loose, it was three in the afternoon. Bauer waited for him in the commissionaire’s booth (the lunch had been given at the League Club) and joined him as he came out. Bennett waved away his limousine, popped up his umbrella, took Bauer’s arm, and set off down the street on foot.
“Mr. Boxworth?”
“Disappeared, sir.”
“Come, Bauer! Disappeared?”
“I don’t know what else you’d call it, sir. I couldn’t raise him at his hotel or at his office, and nobody knows where he’s gone to.”
“Boxworth’s hotel, then. The Burgundy. Stout boots? Good. Mind a bit of a walk? About the newspapers, then.”
“The stolen Chewy isn’t in any of them. Neither is. the dead watchman.”
“Am I?”
“Well, one or two of them took a crack at you. Being an amateur detective, one of them said. Not my place to give you advice, sir.”
“No, it isn’t. What advice?”
“If you gave those newspaper guys a break, they’d probably give you a break.”
“How devilish true! If, like Coriolanus, I showed them my wounds, they would probably worship me. It saddens me, Bauer. However, it’s too late. Shall we cross the road?”
Boxworth’s hotel had an air of dignity, an appearance of solid pride. Bennett asked at the desk, and learned that Boxworth had gone out early in the day, leaving no word; and had not returned. His valet had been given the day to himself.
“Does Mr. Boxworth disappear frequently?”
“He goes away for a weekend once in a while. But not on Friday, usually.
“Luggage?”
“I’m not allowed to give out information...” said the clerk, looking regretfully into space.
“Good Heaven, man! I assure you, it’s frightfully urgent. Mr. Boxworth must be found at once. He’s in grave danger, and he knows nothing about it, do you understand? Come now. Luggage?”
“I believe nothing was brought down, sir.”
“Visitors?”
“There have been calls for him during the day. But since he wasn’t in...”
“Quite. Has anybody gone up to his rooms?”
“The afternoon mail was put under his door. You see, we don’t enter his apartment as we would a transient’s, and so...”
“No visitors?”
“No, sir. Nobody like that would be taken up unless he left instructions.”
“Thank you,” said Bennett, “and a very good day to you.”
He strode away, spun the revolving doors, and stopped abruptly on the wet pavement, where Bauer caught up with him. His previous decisiveness had melted suddenly into a gentle, anxious melancholy. He looked at the wet park, the wet street, the rain-soaked face of the hotel, and woke a stir of vain hope in a rank of taxi drivers.
“What now, sir?”
“I don’t know,” said Bennett.
“Anything gone wrong?”
“Eh? Oh. Almost everything. I don’t know.” Unenlightened, Bauer followed Bennett’s slow saunter westward. He followed Bennett’s unexpected turn eastward. They patrolled the front of the Burgundy in this almost aimless fashion for fifteen minutes, back and forth, without speaking. The Burgundy stood in a narrow space, between two vaster buildings. At its eastern extremity was a modest service entrance, open, and showing a lighted elevator at the end of a murky passage. Bennett came to a stop at last, folded his umbrella, and made an exploratory craning of his neck within. At the service entrance, they could hear distant muffled noises, but they could see no-one.
“Ah,” said Bennett.
“Phew,” said Bauer. “Cooking.”
“Come,” said Bennett, and crooked a finger. There were cases and a few large pieces of luggage in their way. There was a time-clock, and a vacant chai
r beneath it. The watchman, presumably, had left his post for the moment. Bennett and Bauer went the length of the passage without being challenged, and entered the elevator, a large, scarred and dented automatic, controlled by push buttons.
“You want to go up to Mr. Boxworth’s, don’t you, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Eight-o-one is the number. Eighth floor. Here we go.” With a whirr, a click and a shudder, they went. The cage came to a docile stop on the eighth. They left the door open to prevent the elevator returning below, and explored the corridor. The heavy door and wooden transom of John Boxworth’s apartment were both closed. Bennett knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Silence. “Knock again, sir.”
Bennett did.
Bauer leaned forward with his ear close to the door, satisfied himself on some point, then beckoned Bennett a few steps down the corridor.
“Somebody’s in there, sir. You can just hear a little movement.”
Bennett nodded, took out his note case and a pencil, and scribbled a message on a card. He said, “Put this under his door. Asking him to come to my hotel at eight this evening. Perhaps he will let himself be persuaded. We can do no more, Bauer.”
Bauer thrust the card under the door, and they descended. It was Bauer’s idea, for them to leave the elevator on the second floor and go down by the stairs for caution’s sake, in case the watchman had returned to his door. The watchman was sitting under the time-clock, but he kept his post only a few minutes before he shuffled down the passage to the kitchens in response to an electric buzzer. Unseen, Bennett and Bauer slipped out into the rain.
6.
Bauer waited outside the Basque Shop, and Bennett entered gingerly.
Ann Crofts, in a fresh gray smock, permitted Bennett to stand about for a few minutes while she finished a piece of small trading with two uneager customers. When these had gone, she confronted him. She looked nervous, weary, harassed; yet, at the same time, determined, and a little defiant. The case had worn her, exhausted her. As much to conceal this weakness, as to accomplish any great deception, she allowed her voice to become a little nonchalant and ironic when she said to Bennett, “Thanks for your note. Very nice of you to be interested in us.”
“How rude it was! Nevertheless, Miss Crofts, how earnest!”
“You meant to be helpful, I suppose.”
“Come, not that bad? My dear Ann.”
She softened, and smiled. “I’m not really angry. Smoke your pipe, if you want to. If Tony or I had any doubts about each other, we might put it off; but we haven’t.”
“No doubts about this murderer?”
“I know Tony Suttro didn’t do it, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
“Ah!”
“I shan’t ever forget the way you say ‘Ah,’ it’s the most superior sound a man ever made. We’re leaving for Chicago Sunday afternoon. We’re going to China.”
“Dash it, Ann, you can’t really—”
“Please. It’s decided. We’re going to be married Sunday morning at Tony’s church. Clinton Street, Brooklyn. I very seriously want you to come to the wedding, if you care to, and you said you did.”
“Of course.”
“Then we’re going on round the world, and maybe this mess will be mopped up before we get back. We hope so.”
“Foolish, my dear. But I pay a compliment to your spirit and pluck, when I withdraw my arguments against it. Sunday morning, then, in Brooklyn.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t take it as nicely as that.”
“Thank you. Does Raymonds know?”
“Aunt Emma,” said Ann, glaring at a knitted scarf, “called him up in Washington to tell him. He came rushing back here to get me to change my mind.”
“Of course. I wondered. So did Hope, for financial reasons. Aunt Emma resists to the utmost, then?”
“She isn’t speaking to me now.”
“Why does she dislike Mr. Suttro?”
“There’s no reason. She thinks Raymonds is the better man. She thinks Suttro is too old. She thinks her niece is too young to marry. She’s got some new explanation every day. Of course, Hobey’s penniless, and he knows he can’t get married; and Tony is hardly more than ten years older than I am; but you can’t reason with Aunt Emma. Tony’s only thirty-eight. And anyhow, if I married Hobey, I wouldn’t have a cent to give to her to straighten out her money troubles, but she never thinks of those things. She’s not at all practical.”
“Quite. And you are?”
She became grave, frightened, perplexed again. The change was startling and abrupt. Slowly she said, “Yes, I’m practical. That’s all I can be.”
“Ah,” said Bennett. “I’m boring you. I shall go away.”
“Day-after-tomorrow, at Tony’s house in Brooklyn. We’ll meet there. You have his address.”
“Thank you. By the way, where is John Boxworth?”
“Mr. Boxworth? I don’t know. Isn’t he in his office?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t Lowes Levison know?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Is it important? Tony might be able to find him for you.”
“Rather important, yes. Indeed. You might tell him I shall expect him at eight this evening. If you meet him, that is. Good of you. And now, au revoir, my dear Ann...”
7.
Bennett made two more vain inquiries; both from a telephone booth smelling of rubbers and damp clothing. The first, of Anthony Suttro:
“Have you seen Hobey Raymonds?”
“He came up to see me half an hour ago. Drinking a bit, I may warn you. Telling me what would happen if I didn’t take proper care of Ann. Poor man.”
“Borrow money?”
“Ten dollars.”
“Damn. Too bad.”
And then, of Louis Holcomb:
“Has Mr. Boxworth returned?”
“No, I don’t believe he has, sir.”
“Could you ask him to call on me at eight this evening, if he does?”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“What is Tussard doing?”
Holcomb made unhappy, writhing sounds, then finally said, “I don’t know. I mean—I don’t know.”
“Quite. Why not?”
“Well, it’s just—you know, I mean, I have to—”
“I am excommunicated?”
“That’s about it, sir,” said Holcomb’s voice, noticeably happier. “I’ve got to obey orders, if I’m going to hold my job. I don’t want you to think that I...”
“Indeed. I shan’t.”
“I’d be glad to help you,” said Holcomb, adding, with a flash of frankness, “but I’m being very careful. God alone knows what’s going to happen next. I can’t afford to have it happen to me.”
“Can’t blame you. Though your voice has a devilish silly sound. Will you violate sacred confidences if you tell me whether or not Tussard is looking for Mr. Box-worth?”
“I don’t know.”
“Unsuccessfully?”
“I don’t know.”
“To arrest him, perhaps?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ah. Really. No, don’t speak to me, Holcomb, if it distresses you. Thank you. And goodbye.”
In the rainy streets once more, Bennett continued his walking. This was treatment for his deep impatience and unease. Through swishing motors and preoccupied pedestrians, they pushed on with aimless speed. The pace was formidable. Bauer’s legs had grown wet and aching with fatigue, yet Bennett raced as if the devil were after them. Once Bennett paused to buy a paper at a corner stand, to read it then in the light of the street lamps, and to throw it with an exclamation into the streaming gutter.
Crossing the street, and pausing in the path of a thundering bus for the purpose, Bennett said bitterly, “I can do nothing.” The tone of Bennett’s voice startled Bauer, wakened him out of his discomfort. “You may remember, Bauer. I can do nothing. And I shall return to England. I can do nothing, nothing.”
&n
bsp; They escaped the bus. They turned towards Bennett’s hotel at last. The old man seemed more cheerful, more resigned, and he said no more.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“COME IN, BAUER,” cried Bennett, almost gaily. “How wet you are! Take off your shoes. Hope, get the man something to wear. Take off your trousers. Hot rum, eh? Come, I insist! Sit down, take off your shoes at once. Bauer, we shall observe High Tea. Play draughts—or checkers, as you call it. Oh, and Hope! A spot of rum for the master, too. And a ration for yourself, under the circumstances. Ah! Hope, we leave for England on the first seaworthy steamship to set sail, and so, God bless us all!”
Hope administered. Bennett stripped off his ceremonials, his top hat and morning coat and striped trousers, and took his ease in a black silk dressing gown. Bauer bashfully changed into another of Bennett’s gowns, which fitted grotesquely. They fortified themselves with rum and hot water, ham and eggs, hot pudding, and a few pints of stout.
“Now, Hope, the draughts board. And the steamship.”
They played checkers more or less intently. Bennett diverted himself (during the long minutes of deliberation while Bauer studied his moves) with discussions on the various ships Hope suggested. Finally they fixed upon one sailing Monday morning early.
“Will you go aboard Sunday evening, sir?” Hope asked.
“I shall.”
“The newspapers have been less insistent, sir. May I inform them of your departure?”
“You may not. No.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Have Podham-Jones explain it to the Embassy in the morning. I shall see Mrs Christien and their lawyer tomorrow. Ah. My compliments, Hope, to everybody else, and may they all go straight to hell. Sorry, Bauer, but you will forget my king, won’t you? Stout’s made you a bit muzzy. However, will you join me in another game?” At twenty to eight, the telephone rang. Hope, answering it, said, “Mr. Boxworth, sir. Wishes to know if you are in.”
“I am.” Bennett interrupted the game, told Bauer, “Go away now. Sleep. Read a book. Shan’t go out tonight.” Then he strode to the telephone—but Hope was hanging up.
“I want to speak to him.”
“He rang off, sir.”
There was a Crooked Man Page 20