Hoch's Ladies

by Edward D. Hoch

  “We can start our meeting in the meantime,” Simon Feltzer assured them. “Come on in.”

  The blond wood furniture in the little office seemed a holdover from a few decades back. Susan sat across the desk from Feltzer and immediately began to remove schedules and ad layouts from her attaché case. “I was sorry to hear about your brother,” she said sympathetically. “It must have been a terrible shock.”

  “Well, not really,” the man said. “Mildred and I have been expecting it for twelve years, so to speak.”

  “He was on death row that long?”

  “Counting the trial and everything. Let’s see—I’m thirty-nine now. I was a callow youth of twenty-seven at the time, bumming around without a job. David was my older brother, driving a newspaper delivery truck until he got laid off. Mildred was pregnant and he was desperate for money. That’s what made him do it.”

  “The paper said he’d killed a girl,” Mike Brentnor said without feeling. He might have been discussing the weather.

  “I still can’t understand that part. He must have gone a little crazy.”

  “Mildred was his wife?” Susan asked.

  Simon Feltzer nodded. “She stuck by him all these years, never remarried.

  A nice woman. The shock of David’s arrest caused her to lose the child.” Before Susan could say anything else there was a tap on the door and

  Sergeant Green returned. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to tell you, Mr. Feltzer, that they’ve reviewed the results of the autopsy and the preliminary investigation. Your brother’s death is being listed as a homicide. Somebody poisoned that Chinese dinner.”

  The news had left Simon Feltzer speechless, and when Sergeant Green departed Susan Holt was the first to speak. “Why would anyone poison a man about to be executed?” she wondered. “I suppose there’s some slight rationale for suicide—a desire to control one’s own destiny, to cheat the executioner as Goering did—but what would be the motive in murdering someone about to die after twelve years in prison?”

  “I wish I knew,” Feltzer said softly, barely breathing the words.

  “It doesn’t really concern us,” Mike Brentnor decided, trying to steer the conversation back to business. “Now about the opening promotion, I was thinking of a tropical-bird motif—”

  “I—I’m sorry,” Feltzer said. “This has been quite a shock.”

  It wasn’t the first time Susan’s job had involved her in a murder case. “I might be able to help if you told me something of the circumstances,” she offered. “I could try, anyway.” Brentnor shot her a look which she chose to ignore. Certainly Simon Feltzer was no good to them in his present state of mind.

  “I’ve told the police what little I could,” he said. “I visited my brother frequently during his imprisonment, but it wasn’t as if he was free. I suppose his fellow inmates had become his friends.”

  “On death row they’re pretty well segregated from the rest of the prison population,” Susan said. Then she thought about it and asked, “Could you give me the name and address of his wife? Maybe if I went to see her I could learn something.”

  Mike Brentnor objected. “Susan, we’re here to plan the merger promotion—”

  “You two can get started on it while I talk to her.”

  Feltzer seemed to agree. “At the funeral yesterday she told me she’d help in any way she could. I don’t think she ever believed it could have been suicide.” He checked his Rolodex and wrote down an address and phone number for Susan. “She’s still Mildred Feltzer. She never went back to her maiden name.”

  Susan took the slip of paper and gave Mike a wave. “I’ll see you back at the hotel later.”

  Mildred Feltzer had an apartment in a middle-class neighborhood of West Caroline. Susan phoned first and asked if she could come over. It was something about her late husband, she said, not giving details.

  “Are you a reporter?” Mildred asked suspiciously.

  “No. I’m working with David’s brother. He gave me your address.”

  “All right,” she agreed after the briefest of hesitations. “I’ll be expecting you.”

  Mildred was a stout woman with a lined face that must have been very pretty twelve years earlier. Now, with ageing and the weight gain, she was sinking into unattractive middle age. “Hello, Mrs. Feltzer. I’m Susan Holt.”

  “Come in and sit down, and please, call me Millie. I’m Millie to my friends. My husband was always Dave. Simon’s the only one who ever called us David and Mildred.”

  “Thank you,” Susan responded, taking a seat on a worn sofa. “This must have been a difficult twelve years for you.”

  “It’s been a difficult lifetime. I’m used to it by now. I can never forgive Dave for what he did, to the poor girl and to me, but I’ve lived through it.”

  “The police are convinced now that he was deliberately poisoned.”

  “I know. Sergeant Green stopped by to tell me a short time ago.”

  “Why would anyone kill Dave at such a time, just before his execution?”

  “I think it was some sort of horrible accident. I told the sergeant he should be investigating that Chinese restaurant.”

  “Did your husband like Chinese food?”

  “Sure. He often told me that was one of the things he missed in prison.”

  “You stuck by him through the trial and everything even though you knew he was guilty of this terrible crime?”

  Millie Feltzer frowned, perhaps considering how to answer the question. “At first I thought he was innocent. I thought the whole thing was some horrible mistake that would be cleared up in a few days. I even started keeping a scrapbook of the newspaper articles so we’d have a record of the wrong Dave had suffered.”

  “A scrapbook? I’d like to see that if I could.”

  “I suppose it would be all right now. It’s history of a sort, now that he’s dead.” She went over to a bookcase that held a couple of scrapbooks along with a few paperback volumes. At least one was an astrology guide. Susan wondered whether a better day was coming soon for Millie Feltzer.

  She opened the first scrapbook and saw the headline: “Girl Taken Hostage by Bank Robber.” Then, “Missing Girl Found Dead; Suspect Apprehended.” The following day there was a typical newspaper photograph of the accused man in handcuffs being hustled into the courthouse for arraignment, his face partly hidden. “Tell me about it,” Susan requested.

  “I was pregnant at the time and it was my last week at the bakery. In those days there wasn’t any pregnancy leave, at least not where I worked. Dave had lost his job delivering papers and he was pretty depressed about it. Everything was coming apart at the worst possible time. When I told him we needed some money he said he’d get some. He stopped by the bakery in the early afternoon and that’s the last I ever saw of him as a free man.” She was staring at the floor, remembering it.

  “When did you learn of the robbery?”

  “That was a funny thing. I was listening to the radio news while I was driving home around four. They reported a bank robbery across town—a masked gunman who escaped in a Toyota. About a half-hour later two police officers came to the door. They were investigating a bank robbery and asked about Dave’s car. A witness had spotted the license number. Right away I remembered the news report and said it couldn’t be his car because his was a Chevy, not a Toyota. But this was a different bank robbery, and a teenage girl had been taken as a hostage.” She broke down in tears then, and Susan turned to the scrapbooks for what happened next.

  The girl, Meagan Brady, had been found shot to death in a ditch that evening. A few hours later state police had spotted David Feltzer’s Chevy at a truck stop and arrested him without incident. The murder weapon was not recovered, although the dye-stained money was. At first Feltzer admitted the bank robbery but denied killing the girl, saying he’d let her out alive, along the road. The following day, under intensive police questioning, he signed a statement admitting he’d shot her when she started yelling
for help. He later tried to recant the statement but it was used in evidence at his trial.

  While Millie was recovering her composure Susan Holt glanced through the second scrapbook, taking in the long sad story of endless appeals and attempts to gain a new trial. Finally the state supreme court had ruled there were no grounds for a stay of execution, and the governor had made it clear there would be no clemency. That was where the second scrapbook ended.

  “Suicide?” Millie repeated in answer to Susan’s next question. “No, he never mentioned suicide. I think he always expected the governor would relent at the last minute and commute his sentence to life in prison. I knew it wouldn’t happen, but I didn’t expect this.”

  “Did he have a favorite Chinese restaurant?”

  She shrugged. “That was more than twelve years ago. The one we went to most often closed long ago.”

  Susan could think of no more questions. She rose and shook hands with Millie Feltzer. “Thank you for what you’ve told me, Millie. Could I borrow these scrapbooks till tomorrow?”

  “Sure, but what are you looking for?” she asked. Susan paused at the door, but she couldn’t answer that. She didn’t know herself.

  Her rented car was parked on the street, and she knew she should be getting back to the hotel where Brentnor would be waiting. But her plans suddenly changed when she saw Sergeant Green walk across the street to intercept her. He must have remained in his unmarked car after telling Millie the verdict on her husband’s death. He’d witnessed Susan’s arrival and awaited her departure.

  “May I speak with you, Miss Holt?”

  “I suppose so.”

  He came around to the passenger side and got in next to her. “You seem unduly interested in the death of David Feltzer. Might I ask why?” His stocky body filled the seat but somehow he seemed more friendly than frightening.

  “I handle promotions for Mayfield’s of Manhattan. We’ve recently merged with your local Brookline chain and I’m here to work with Simon Feltzer for a few days on our joint promotion plans. Naturally he’s very upset about the circumstances of his brother’s death. I thought I might help by trying to find some answers.”

  “What did you learn from Mildred Feltzer?”

  “That she likes to be called Millie.”

  His eyes narrowed just a bit and she regretted her flippancy immediately. He was a man who took his job seriously. “What did she say about her husband?”

  “Only that he wouldn’t have committed suicide. What makes you think he was murdered?”

  “The warden and the captain of the guard were with him all the time he was eating. They saw nothing unusual. And an examination of the Chinese dinner shows that the poison, a cyanide compound, was all through the food. David Feltzer didn’t swallow a capsule of it, nor did he manage to sprinkle a little on top of his egg foo yung.”

  “So someone at the restaurant must have done it.”

  “So it seems. Though Captain DeMarco, who ordered the meal, swears he never mentioned it was for the condemned man. It might have been for the warden.”

  “Which restaurant prepared it?”

  “The Lucky Dragon. It’s about a half-mile from the prison. DeMarco says he chose that one because it was closest. The state prison is actually outside the city.”

  “I was wondering about that,” Susan said. “Bank robbery is a federal crime. Why was Feltzer in a state rather than a federal prison? And why are you investigating a murder outside the city limits?”

  “We have a metropolitan government in West Caroline, and the state specifically asked our help on this case. As for the federal charges, a judge ruled twelve years ago that since the kidnapping took place outside the bank, the two crimes were separate. The federal authorities allowed us to try Feltzer first on the more serious murder charge and we obtained a conviction.” He smiled a bit. “Does that answer all your questions, Miss Holt?”

  “You’ve questioned the people at the Lucky Dragon?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could the poison have been added at the prison?”

  Green shook his head. “The food was in closed containers delivered directly to the captain of the guard. He got the warden and they delivered the dinner to the condemned man together. I don’t see how it could have been tampered with.”

  “Who else would have visited David Feltzer that night, before his execution?”

  “His wife and brother, and the Catholic chaplain. Of course he was dead before they saw him.”

  “I’ll let you know if I find anything,” Susan promised, hoping he would take the hint and leave her car.

  “That’s generous of you.” His voice carried more than a trace of irony. “But I can’t have you impeding our investigation. This is no place for amateurs.”

  “I’ll stay out of your way,” Susan promised.

  “Good. We understand each other.” He got out of the car, but as she drove away she could see him in the rearview mirror, watching her.

  Susan phoned the hotel and told Mike Brentnor she’d been delayed. “How’d you make out with Feltzer?”

  “Not bad. He settled down after a while. I think he likes the tropical-bird idea. When will you be back?”

  “I want to make one more stop.”

  “Maybe we could have lunch together.”

  “I don’t think so, Mike.”

  “You’re being a detective again, aren’t you?”

  “Just a bit.”

  She hung up and found the address of the Lucky Dragon in the phone book. The restaurant did a fair lunch business, which surprised Susan. She’d always thought of Chinese food as a dinnertime option. The manager was a neatly dressed man named Charlie Osko, and he spoke with her as he folded boxes for takeout orders. “What is it you wish to know?” he asked.

  “It’s about the death at the state prison the other night. I understand the condemned man ate a meal prepared here.”

  “I can tell you nothing I have not already told the police.”

  “Did you work that night?”

  Osko was growing nervous. ‘Yes, I was here as you see me now, handling takeouts.”

  “Then you packaged the prison order.”

  “Yes, just like any other.”

  “Who delivered it?”

  “We employ two part-time drivers for delivery. The prison run was made by Nieh Yuan.”

  “Is he here now?” Susan asked.

  The man smiled about something and replied, “Making deliveries to office buildings. He’ll be back soon.”

  Susan stood to one side, watching the manager’s routine. As the takeout orders came out of the kitchen, he checked them against his list and placed them in white paper bags, writing the destination in pencil on a slip of paper he clipped to the top of each bag. Then he divided them carefully into two groups, according to location. After a few minutes, a Chinese-American youth came in from a delivery. “Got the next batch ready, Pop?” he asked.

  “Right here.”

  Susan took a step forward but Charlie Osko shook his head. “Not Yuan.

  This is my son, learning the business.”

  The son departed with four orders and Osko was distracted by the ringing telephone. While he took down the information for a reservation, Susan went up and checked the bags behind his back. Today there were none for the state prison.

  A young woman of about twenty entered, a high-cheekboned beauty who hurried to the counter and grabbed up the remaining bags. Nieh Yuan had returned.

  “Miss Yuan?” Susan asked.

  “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m interested in the dinner you delivered to the state prison earlier this week.”

  “I told the police nobody stopped me, nobody poisoned it while it was in my car.”

  “Did you have any other deliveries on the same trip?”

  “Just one. Most of the others had been earlier. I delivered the food to the prison first because Mr. Osko said it was important.”

  “
What did you do with it at the prison?”

  “Captain DeMarco was waiting for me at the gate. He took it.”

  “Do you know him personally?”

  “He calls about once a month, usually when he’s on the night shift.”

  “Did he get any food that night?”

  “There was only one meal. I didn’t know who it was for until later.”

  Susan could see that a visit to the prison was unavoidable. She called first and asked to speak with Captain DeMarco. Explaining that she was working with Simon Feltzer, she requested a brief meeting with the captain. Perhaps he thought she was a lawyer. In any event, he agreed to give her fifteen minutes if she could come out right away.

  A guard took her to DeMarco’s office on the second floor of the prison’s administration building. DeMarco was a tall, muscular man with a square jaw and hard eyes. She decided he’d found the right line of work. “I’ll only take a few minutes of your time,” she promised. “I need to know what happened to that Chinese dinner after it arrived here.”

  “Is Feltzer’s brother thinking of suing the state?”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  DeMarco took out a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. “Nothing happened to it. I took it from this Chinese girl who delivered it and went up to the warden’s office. We never opened it until we were in the cell with the condemned man.”

  “And no one could have tampered with the food during that time?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Do you still think he killed himself?”

  “I suppose he must have.”

  “The police are saying it was murder.”

  “I heard that. I don’t believe it.”

  “Who decided to get the Chinese dinner from the Lucky Dragon?” Susan asked.

  “Warden Coyne told me to order it from the closest place. I’d had Chinese sent in from the Lucky Dragon and I knew that was closest.”

  “Tell me, was David Feltzer ever in any trouble during his stay here?”

  “No more so than any death-row prisoner. They think they can get away with anything, but we soon straighten them out here.”