There was a Crooked Man

by George Worthing Yates

  “Armed with a hammer, Michael Madden made a dash at the spirit, but it disappeared in the shadow, and Madden was unable to touch it. It gave no answer when we called to it to stand.

  “It was light enough where we worked, and we saw it plainly. There was no imagination on our part. We two carpenters got near the light and stood there until Olsen came back with the watchman. Then we looked about and saw that our coats and our lunches had been trampled and disturbed. We looked in the space at the back of the stage when we had light there to see by, and also in the theatre itself, but we got no more sight or trace of the thing which had visited us.”

  This manifestation seemed unaccountable enough by itself. However, it was made even more obscure by the prompt action of Mr. Lowes Levison, who happened to be still in the building at the time. He ordered a thorough search of the place to be carried out at once. It appeared to be physically impossible for the murderer, if he were the missing watchman, or any other intruder, to escape. The search took almost the whole night to accomplish. It turned up absolutely nothing. Levison, in conference with Anthony Suttro, decided to take the attitude that the apparition was an employee’s prank, and mainly innocent. Which, though it served as a feeble explanation, was utter nonsense.

  The appearance, and news of the watchman’s discovered body, were kept out of the papers until Monday afternoon.

  When he found out about the ghost, Bennett showed no surprise. He said he had been rather expecting something of the sort.

  Tussard, not boggling at paradoxes, came to the conclusion that the murderer, in a panic-stricken and theatric effort to send the police off on any false trail convenient, had been tricked into a tragic mistake. Tussard kept his conclusions to himself.

  A nasty few days for the murderer, these last, as he writhed like a worm on hot coals, burned by alarms and overwhelming, unreasoned fear.

  2.

  Saturday, May 26, was a fine day, clear and warm. Hope brought Bennett’s tea.

  “Miss Emma Whittacker telephoned this morning, sir.”

  “Asking for what?”

  “For Raymonds, sir.”

  “Ah. How is he?”

  “She seemed to think he was desperate, sir. Not well, sir.”

  “Drunk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Too bad.”

  “He repaid the ten dollars, sir. He gave it to the clerk to give me, sir. Last evening.”

  “Quixotic fool. Don’t gloat, Hope.”

  The sun rose higher, grew hot and strong. The telephone rang more and more often, new and more appalling discomforts appeared, and the post was brought up. Bennett looked at it while he munched his toast. In it were four threatening letters, and one begging demand for money.

  Bauer arrived, displaying his freshly brushed teeth. He said, “Good morning. What happened to you, Mr. Bennett?”

  “Good morning. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “They’ve got a plain-clothes man down in the lobby, keeping an eye on you.”

  “Tussard’s unkindest cut. Fears I’ll spirit away his Raymonds again, I dare say.”

  Then came one of the blotting-paper secretaries, anxiously bearing a letter. The letter was from a firm of lawyers, acting in behalf of their clients, Mr. Francis Mapes, who (for damages endured by reason of his unjust dismissal, false imputations of dishonesty, and slanders against his reputation) required twenty-five thousand dollars.

  “This is the third from them, sir. The first was not answered. The second we sent to Washington. I fear they are bringing suit.”

  “Five thousand pounds? Fantastic!”

  “I believe it may cause difficulties when we sail for England, sir.”

  “Go away. Oh, go away.”

  Bauer said, “There’s a process-server waiting downstairs. One of the boys just tipped me off. Looking for Lord Broghville.”

  Propped and folded against Bennett’s rack of toast, a newspaper declared:

  SAYS HIS LORDSHIP WON’T PAY

  Detective Suffered $25,000

  Worth—Claim.

  There followed a brief, but galling, description of Francis Mapes and his claim, alleged. It was decorated with a photograph of Mapes, and another of Bennett himself, in a line drawing of ducal robes and coronet, so that he seemed to be gazing at a diminutive Manhattan with disdain.

  It was exquisitely derisive.

  3.

  The Christien lawyer looked gratified. Paula Christien, clasping her hands in her lap, smiled a little as her reassurance grew. Bennett smoked his pipe and strode back and forth across the lawyer’s office in downtown New York.

  He said, “You have enough, I think. The death of Boxworth cannot be brought against Freddie or Paula. Do you need more?”

  “I don’t think so,” said the lawyer. “Just the same, it would be wise if you’d tell me all you tan.”

  “Very well. Last Tuesday night, the memorandum of a committee meeting was taken almost under the eyes of the police. Mrs Christien did not take it. Indeed, it reappeared in the possession of one of the persons to whom the notices had been first sent.”

  “It was stolen and returned?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do the police know about that?”

  “They will, if they’re told about it.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Nothing but the identity of the murderer. If absolutely necessary, I shall cable you. However, I don’t think it will be necessary. What do you plan to do?”

  “Speak to the District Attorney. Under the circumstances, I think I can induce him to announce in the newspapers that Mr. Christien is entirely innocent of connection with the crimes, and had never been suspected. Perhaps a word of sympathy for Mr. Christien’s illness.”

  “That will be complete vindication?”

  “Better, Mr. Bennett, than I had hoped for earlier. Of course if you could tell me what lies behind all this—”

  “I shan’t.”

  “I realize your delicate position. So many people of character and prominence, like Anthony Suttro. I suppose I’m asking too much, in wanting you to accuse one of them.”

  “Rot.”

  “Oh?”

  “A man with the character and prominence of Anthony Suttro does not commit crimes. Levison, Christien, Boxworth, my dear sir, it’s absurd! If you expect me to cry murder in these high places, pray undeceive yourself. It should be obvious that they are quite innocent.”

  “Why are you so reluctant, Mr. Bennett, to tell me? If, as you say, the guilty person is not prominent?”

  “My dear chap, I have accomplished what I set out to do. Mr. Christien is no longer in danger. I refuse to involve myself further. My privilege, I think. What evidence I have, is also in the hands of the police. I can do no more.”

  “Of course, if you feel that way, it is your privilege. But the danger of a murderer——”

  “I can do no more.”

  The interview was closed. Bennett rode uptown in the Christien limousine. Paula Christien said, “Freddie asked about you this morning. He’s getting better now.”

  “May I look in at him?”

  “Of course. I’m afraid he won’t be able to talk, though.”

  “Indeed. Then I shan’t have to bore him with an account of the case.”

  “It’s a shame,” she said, “that this had to happen, the first time you two could see each other in ten years. I’m terribly sorry you were treated so badly.”

  “Doesn’t matter, my dear. Ah. Getting frightfully old, softening, becoming more sensitive to trivial impressions. My severity and precision are half legendary now, the Broghville legend, and I think I have somewhat outlived it. Rather like having the world din your obituary into your ears. Really, Paula, I’m a melancholy, sentimental old charwoman at heart. I mention this, my dear, because I’m dashed unhappy about what I believe will happen. The case makes me sad. I loathe being made unnecessarily sad.”

  “Is that why you’re hurrying back
to England?”

  “My reputation has been clawed and tattered until it seems scarcely decent to walk about in. I must keep what remains of it.”

  4.

  Bennett told Paula Christien, as he took final leave of her outside the door of Frederick Christien’s room in the hospital, that he had only three more things to do before he left America: go to a wedding, go to a tea, and visit the Museum of Natural History.

  He went to the Museum on Saturday afternoon. Returning to his hotel, with the problem of a wedding present for Ann Crofts (portable, of course, in view of the trip to China) filling his mind, he waved aside Bauer’s warning about the process-server. Something, he thought, from the silversmith’s...

  He stalked into the lobby. Bauer followed him. Bennett scarcely noticed the dingy little man making convulsive efforts to cram through the door with him. Bennett merely brushed him aside.

  He advanced towards the elevator, ignoring pursuit. He scarcely heard the voice addressing him. When importunate hands caught his arm, and dragged on him with insistence that brought him to a halt, he looked down with some displeasure at the annoyance. The dingy man clung to him, and babbled. Bauer, the commissionaire, a clerk, all plunged to the rescue. Bennett, however, dealt with the matter promptly and adequately. He waved the besieged arm, and sent the little man reeling backwards. The man reeled a surprising distance, tottered, made protesting noises, and clutched as if it were some sort of patent life-belt, his weather-beaten hat. He then encountered a chair, and toppled it over, and fell with it to the floor.

  Bennett stalked on, unruffled, to the elevator. Bauer and the commissionaire dealt with the process-server by pulling him roughly to his feet and shaking him thoroughly, so that his hat and the process fell to his feet. It is doubtful that Bauer, as the man charged in swearing out the warrant, punched his face. The process and the hat were restored. The dingy man was expelled firmly into the street. He stood on the sidewalk for several minutes, fumbling with his hat and muttering angrily, then went away.

  By Sunday noon, and probably at the suggestion of Mapes, a warrant for the arrest of Geoffrey Bennett on a charge of assault, had been sworn out.

  5.

  Sunday morning, however, Bennett and Bauer were driven in the limousine from a motor livery company to Brooklyn, and Anthony Suttro’s house.

  The streets of Brooklyn Heights stretched in long and quiet vistas. Houses were square and dignified, sober and dignified church-goers promenaded in front of them, and even little boys carrying Sunday papers carried them with a dignity peculiar to Sunday, and to that part of Brooklyn. Suttro’s house, or what was left of it, stood at the top of a rising terrace, behind a low brownstone wall. A curving carriage drive led to the front door. The door stood open. Stains of smoke and water, and gaping panes in the windows, made the house look peculiarly desolate. The top floor had been gutted.

  Bennett skirted a pile of gleaming new luggage, Suttro’s presumably, ready for his departure at the door.

  A rubble of lath and plaster covered the floor inside. Suttro’s flat opened to the right. The ceiling had fallen, and brought down complete ruin on the furnishings. Anthony Suttro and Ann were showing Lowes Levison the scarred remains of a piano that had once been handsome.

  “Hello! It’s very good of you to come, sir.”

  “Hello,” said Ann. “Join the mourners. Isn’t this pitiful? I’m ready to weep.”

  “Frightful,” said Bennett, poking fastidiously at the rubbish with the tip of his walking stick.

  “Can’t the piano be repaired?” said Levison.

  “And those books,” said Ann. “I’d really sell my soul to the devil to have some of these lovely things in my own house. It must be worth thousands and thousands, Tony. Can’t some of them be fixed?”

  “Hardly worth it, dear.”

  “But it is worth it, isn’t it, Mr. Bennett?”

  “Priceless, indeed,” agreed Bennett. He looked at the stained and soggy remains of a fine library, slumping on charred shelves; etchings, gashed and trampled and smutted among the fallen debris. With his walking stick, he turned up a Chopin manuscript in a heap of wet charcoal and plaster. As he moved about, his shoes crunched on the pieces of a broken porcelain figurine.

  Bennett’s opportunity presented itself when Suttro, whose adoration of Ann Crofts had a little unsettled his usual poise this morning, was required to sign half-a-dozen releases for Levison. Bennett said, “It’s most unpleasant here. Shall we go outside?” and firmly piloted Ann to the front steps.

  “Why,” he asked, “did we meet in this horrid ruin in the first place?”

  “Tony’s church is across the street there. He didn’t want to wait in the Rectory.”

  “Dare say.”

  “It was marvelous of you to come at all. You’re awfully kind.”

  “Not kind, really. Quite otherwise! My dear Miss Crofts, I came to implore you again, not to marry.”

  “But why? Why?”

  “Sorry. However, I must. Why? Not merely inadvisable, but downright dangerous.”

  Ann’s face lost all its usual vivacity. A sudden and bitter discouragement descended upon her. Brooklyn grew cold and cheerless, and the sunlight seemed thin and sour in the empty length of street.

  Ann murmured, “You think that Tony did it, or you think I did it. Which?”

  “Do you really expect me to answer?”

  “It isn’t true, though. You’ve made a mistake.”

  “You mean, you intend to marry Mr. Suttro nevertheless?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Be assured, I shall do no more then, I shall, as the cliché has it, wash my hands of the affair.”

  “Thank you,” said Ann Crofts in a harsh, flat voice, oddly unpleasant.

  When Suttro and Levison came out to join them, they had clutched for the commonplace, and just succeeded in retrieving it. Ann was saying, perhaps a shade too emphatically, that she had never been in Suttro’s house before the fire; and that she regretted not having seen the lovely piano before.

  “Does Mr. Suttro play?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Time for us to go,” said Suttro, bearing his watch before him. Across the street, the congregation had begun flooding out upon the pavement. Ann lifted her chin, and stepped forward at Suttro’s side, and they crossed silently to the Rectory.

  6.

  The wedding breakfast was an elaborate and joyless lunch at a restaurant, and during it, Bennett presented the bride with a silver traveling set, and a notably morbid kiss. The celebration ended in haste, when the bride and groom had to hurry to Grand Central to catch their train for Chicago.

  Ann said goodbye, with mixed melancholy, resolution, and defiance, in the corridor of the train. Bennett was embarrassed.

  “I wrote my aunt,” she said, extending an envelope to him.

  “Shall I post it?”

  “Take it to her yourself, please.”

  “Cruel. To me, I mean.”

  “But aren’t you going to tea with her? I understood...”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “And you’ll say hello to Hobey for me, if you see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I shan’t ever forget your kindness.”

  “How tired you are! My dear, you must rest.”

  “I’ll be all right. Goodbye...”

  The train was about to pull out. Levison bought newspapers and magazines, thrust them into Ann’s arms. Suttro stood on the platform with Bennett. Cheerfully, Suttro said, “I hope that Chelsac Theatre business straightens itself out. I hope nothing else happens.”

  “Nothing will.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Definitely.”

  “If it does stop as soon as I go away, they’ll think I did it, won’t they?”

  “Probably,” said Bennett.

  “Then I hope it doesn’t stop. Do you think the police will follow us west?”

  “Undoubtedly.”


  “Do you think—Oh, we’re going now. Well, goodbye, sir. And a thousand thanks. Goodbye, Lowes...”

  “Goodbye, goodbye...”

  The train slipped past them along the tunnel. Ann’s mute face at the window, moving away, and Suttro looking over her shoulder, disappeared. The cars gathered speed, swerved into the stretches of underground track. The end of the train vanished in a final wink of lights.

  “She needs the money,” said the cynical Mr. Levison.

  Bennett nodded morosely, and took Levison’s arm, and marched slowly up the inclined ramp to the gates.

  7.

  Bennett shuddered at the thought of Aunt Emma’s tea, and told the chauffeur to take him to the Plaza, where she lived. Out of all reason, it had begun to rain, and an unconvincing rumble of thunder came from the west.

  Bennett knocked with the handle of his stick on Aunt Emma’s door. He heard her voice tell him, “Come in,” first in a high b flat, then, correcting itself to an octave lower, in b natural. The quavering voice, and Aunt Emma’s swollen eyes and her agitation, showed Bennett too well how things stood. He groaned softly.

  Outside the sitting room windows, a drenching rain obscured Central Park. Within, there was a stuffy smell of lavender, roses and Turkish tobacco, altogether discouraging. Aunt Emma had upset a great cascade of papers and account books to the floor. She crouched ineffectually over these, fumbling them about, and smiling to Bennett and a chair, and trying to disguise the fact that she was wiping her eyes dry on the sleeve of her dress.

  Bennett said, “Sorry. Perhaps I’m too early.”

  “No,” she said, straightening. “No, why I’ve just been sitting here, really! Tea will be up soon, I suppose. Oh, have a drink! I was just going to have a drink myself, really!”

  She abandoned the papers on the floor. She dashed to a cabinet and knocked over a glass. She poured two very stiff pegs of gin, and added tonic water to them. She upset the cigarettes. At last she sat down, panting somewhat, and blew her nose heartily.

  “I was—I straighten my accounts on Sunday,” she said.