The Last Express

by Baynard Kendrick

  His respect for the immutable laws of human conduct was so great that when Evelyn Zarinka confided her fears to him about her brother Paul he was inclined to make light of them. To him it was not unnatural that an assistant district attorney should receive late telephone calls and have certain embroilments with women representing the seamier side of the city.

  Finally, although he did not voice it to Evelyn, some of her worry began to communicate itself to him. His own attempts to allay her fears proved fruitless. He was genuinely fond of her and saw that she was growing a trifle hysterical under the strain.

  Duncan Maclain had a happy faculty of relieving people of uneasiness, so Chick sent Evelyn to consult him, knowing his blind friend could help her if anyone could. When she tremulously phoned him the news of her brother’s death he wished he had taken such action weeks before.

  Evelyn was due at his apartment at 11:00. He spent a restless hour beating down the soft nap of the gray Chinese rug in his living-room. The longer he walked, the more difficult his problem became. He automatically removed a thin platinum watch from his fob pocket and discovered it was still 25 minutes to the hour.

  Annoyed at himself, the beastly weather, and the slow passage of time, he poured a stiff drink of scotch from a cut-glass decanter, then decided against it. The day was stifling hot, and he compromised with a shower. He had just shut off the stinging spray of cold water when the buzzer announced someone at the door of his apartment. He knew it could not be Evelyn, for she invariably phoned her arrival from downstairs.

  With a muttered word of annoyance he slipped into a large bathrobe of Turkish toweling and crossed the room to investigate, wondering if some keen reporter had already unearthed his connection with the Zarinkas.

  There were two men outside; one slim, straight and crinkly eyed, in a thin, rain-spotted, well-pressed suit of light gray; the other stouter, with an arrogant round face under a dripping hat. The thinner of the two smiled pleasantly and said, “Mr. Hartshorn?”

  Chick admitted his identity but kept the door closed to an inquiring slit. The man in the gray suit held out his hand and disclosed a badge. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said. “I’m Inspector Davis of the Homicide Squad, and this is Sergeant Archer.”

  The heavy man removed his wet hat in acknowledgement and put a large hand against the door. Chick stepped back into the hall and swung it open. He was annoyed but certain there was nothing he could do about it. Inevitably there would be questions. He had rather the brunt of them fell on him than on Evelyn. He beckoned the two men inside and closed the door behind them, watching the sergeant’s eyes travel appraisingly over the rich furnishings of the apartment and come to rest on the silver-framed picture of Evelyn adorning the mantel.

  Chick pointed to the decanter of scotch on the table and said, “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll slip on some clothes.”

  There was a telephone in his bedroom. He intended to leave word at the desk downstairs for Evelyn not to call, but to come back an hour later. His knowledge of police procedure was very slight, but the mere presence of the two men in the living-room filled him with a strange trepidation, causing him to tiptoe around the bed toward the phone. As he lifted the phone from the cradle and waited for the voice of the apartment-house operator, he started guiltily.

  In the mirror of the bureau he saw that the door to the bedroom had been opened. The man in the neat gray suit was leaning against the doorjamb watching him.

  “Order please?” the operator asked.

  “Two bottles of White Rock and some cracked ice,” Chick said quickly and put the phone back in place.

  The inspector grinned. “You must figure on doing a lot of drinking,” he remarked.

  “Oh!” Chick turned around. “Why?”

  “Maybe the frigidaire I passed in your serving pantry is out of order. Skip it! Neither of us drink while we’re on duty. Were you expecting somebody else? You seemed in an awful hurry to get to your bank this morning—and back home!”

  Chick sat down on the edge of the bed and wiped his damp ankles on the hem of his bathrobe before he replied. “I was, as a matter of fact. My fiancée’s coming in a few minutes.”

  “Miss Zarinka, isn’t it?”

  Chick nodded. “I hoped—”

  “That’s all right,” said the inspector. “We’re not going to bite her. It’s you we want to talk to.”

  “What do you expect to get out of me?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why we came up. When did you hear Zarinka was killed?”

  “Evelyn called me early this morning.”

  “That’s his sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did she hear?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t she tell you how she heard her brother was killed?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “And you didn’t ask?”

  “No,” Chick said shortly. “I didn’t ask.”

  “How long have you known them?” The inspector came closer and sat down on the other side of the bed.

  Chick hesitated. “About six years.”

  “Pretty well off, aren’t they?”

  “I believe so. It’s rather a personal matter, hardly one for direct inquiry.” His sarcasm was lost.

  “Don’t you ever get personal with a girl you’re going to marry? I suppose you’re not interested in money.”

  “Not particularly,” Chick said after a moment. “I’ve enough to keep me going.”

  “From what?”

  “My father’s estate. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  The telephone rang by the bed. Chick reached to answer, but the inspector already had it.

  “Ask Miss Zarinka to come up, please.” He hung up and grinned at Chick. “There’s no use getting mad, buddy. All your personal life’s going to be dragged out and hung on a line and looked at—until we find out whether it’s clean or dirty!”

  Chick slipped on his socks without replying, then shed the bathrobe and got into underwear, clean white flannels and a sports shirt.

  The inspector stood at the window, looking out, and when the buzzer rang at the apartment door he said, “Wait. The sergeant will let her in.”

  Chick deliberately brushed his hair and walked into the living-room. Evelyn, white and distraught, stood looking at the big form of the man who had admitted’ her.

  “It’s the police, darling,” Chick explained. “I suppose we have to expect this sort of thing.” He led her to a divan and sat down beside her, holding her hand. “This is Sergeant Archer of the Homicide Squad. Inspector Davis is in the other room. He’s been asking me some questions.”

  The sergeant’s round face softened with an affable grin. He eased his bulk into a big chair and sat looking at them. The inspector came in from the other room, glanced sharply at the girl, then at the picture on the mantel, and said, “Mr. Hartshorn tried to warn you we were up here, Miss Zarinka, but I didn’t give him a chance.”

  He took another chair and sat silent for a few moments, his crinkly eyes shifting from Chick to Evelyn. “Were you two together last night?”

  “For dinner.” Chick opened a humidor beside the divan and took out a box of cigars. The sergeant took two, lit one and put the other in his pocket. The inspector refused. Chick, who was not a cigar smoker, lit a cigarette for himself and said through the smoke, “Miss Zarinka—”

  “Can speak for herself,” the inspector interrupted.

  “We had dinner together at Bennett’s Inn on Long Island.” Evelyn’s hand tightened its clasp on Chick’s. “I had an appointment—”

  “At night?” the sergeant asked.

  “Yes,” she flared suddenly, “at night! Was there anything wrong in that?”

  “I don’t know,” said the sergeant. “Tell us.”

  “Chick drove me back from Bennett’s Inn—”

  “That’s near Flushing, isn’t it?” the inspector said musingly.

  She nodded and w
ent on, “—to my home in Forest Hills. He left me there, and I got my own car and drove in town.”

  “To where?”

  “It was a private matter,” Chick said.

  The inspector’s crinkly eyes glinted. “Keep out of this, please. I asked Miss Zarinka where she went.”

  “I went to talk to Duncan Maclain.” She released her hand from Chick’s and took a handkerchief from her bag. The inspector and the sergeant exchanged glances.

  “You must have been in trouble if you went to see Maclain.”

  “That’s not so!”

  “But your brother was,” said the sergeant.

  “I don’t know.” Evelyn’s throat spasmodically tightened. The sudden, unexpected questions were confusing, coming so soon after the shocking news of Paul’s death. She felt that her most innocent remark might be construed into something unfavorable toward Charles. With Paul gone, he was the only person who kept the great emptiness of life from crushing her.

  Vague apprehensions crept over her, nameless and unformed, but nevertheless real. It was unfair and cruel for the police to attack and harass innocent people at the very height of agony in an emotional crisis. She wanted Paul’s murderer apprehended, but, over and above that, she wanted peace and security with the man beside her. She knew Chick had nothing whatsoever to do with her brother’s death and realized at the same time that her lack of self-possession was dangerously apt to make it appear that he had. The thought steadied her. She began to think more clearly and answer more calmly.

  “Let’s get this straight.” The inspector took two quarters from his vest pocket and began to click them together. “You had an appointment to see Duncan Maclain last night, but you weren’t in trouble, and your brother wasn’t in trouble.”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t know whether or not my brother was in trouble.”

  “Then it wasn’t a social call?”

  “No. I was worried about Paul.”

  “You thought he was up to some mischief?”

  “I didn’t think any such thing. Actually, I was afraid he might be involved with some unscrupulous woman.” She stopped. Chick waited expectantly for one of the officers to make the obvious remark in bad French about cherchez la femme.

  Instead, the sergeant scratched himself and said, “Dames drive a guy bats.”

  “So that’s all you know.” The inspector stood up, returned the quarters to his pocket and stretched. Then he whirled around and pointed a finger at Chick. “And where did you go last night—after you left this young lady?”

  “To a movie.”

  “To a movie!” the inspector repeated mockingly. “Everybody goes to a movie. What movie?”

  “The Road to Glory at the Rivoli.”

  “And after you got out you came right home?”

  “That’s it,” said Chick. “Right home.”

  “I thought so.” The inspector’s words became venomous. “And how much of Paul Zarinka’s money did you drop on the stock market through Ludlow Brothers, Mr. Hartshorn?”

  The abrupt question made Evelyn curiously sick. She looked at the towering man in the gray suit through a mist which made him wavery and ethereal. From somewhere beside her she heard Chick’s voice answering, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  A welcome relief came in the buzz of the front door. The sergeant scrambled out of the deep chair with unexpected alacrity and picked his straw hat from the floor beside him. Chick, as if glad of the interruption, strode across the room quickly and opened the door.

  There was a curious expression of disbelief visible on the faces of the watchers as Schnucke preceded Duncan Maclain into the living-room and led him to the chair just quitted by the sergeant. Behind the captain, mopping a perspiring brow, merriment dancing in his yellow eyes, stood Spud Savage. He closed the door softly, said, “Hello, Chick,” and stood with his back against the door, looking inquiringly at the two men.

  “This is Inspector Davis of the Homicide Squad and Sergeant Archer, Spud,” Chick said soberly.

  Spud’s mouth widened in a pleasant smile. He seized the inspector’s hand and shook it cordially, then turned to the sergeant. “How are you, Sergeant?” he said and took the big man’s hand in his own. “It’s nice to meet you again. Did you hear that, Dunc? Miss Zarinka’s here—and guess who else? Sergeant Archer and Inspector Davis of the Homicide Squad!”

  Maclain bowed toward Evelyn, sensing her location with uncanny accuracy. “You have my deepest sympathy, Miss Zarinka.” A perceptible change took place in his voice. “And it’s so jolly to see you and the sergeant so soon again, Inspector. Did you climb up outside and come in the window? I understood you were returning to headquarters when you left us downstairs a few minutes ago!”

  Chapter Seven: GRENADE TECHNIQUE

  Evelyn Zarinka found herself immeasurably relieved at Spud’s words. The man in the gray suit was not Inspector Davis as he claimed. Whoever he was, he must have lied when he stated that Charles had been playing the market with money received from her brother. She relaxed and leaned back on the divan, regaining courage from the very presence of Maclain.

  “It seems to be a gala day for the private dicks.” The man with the crinkly eyes looked truculent, then made a quick mental estimate of Spud Savage and decided to be friendly. His companion’s round face wore a ludicrous look of consternation.

  “So you’re turning from private to public now.” Spud folded his arms but made no move to leave the door. “Trilby’s the name, isn’t it? And this mock orange with you—unless I’m mistaken—is good old Alf Shane.”

  “My! My!” exclaimed Duncan Maclain, quizzically raising his right eyebrow, “this is charming! Spud, you’re sure you and Schnucke haven’t made a mistake and led me into a lady’s bedroom? I never expected to find this pair of divorce artists anywhere else. Suppose we get down to facts before a couple of real policemen come in and begin to get tough.”

  “You’ve got nothing on us.” Shane gravitated toward the gray-suited Bill Trilby, and together they rested themselves half on, half off, the enamel box housing the cold radiator, their backs toward a large window overlooking Park Avenue.

  “We came up here on business, same as you.”

  “It must have been serious.” Maclain reached down with one finger and scratched Schnucke’s head. “And there must have been a lot of money involved—more than you could make by peeping through keyholes.”

  “What do you mean ?” Trilby demanded.

  “Impersonating an officer. They send out the radio cars to pick up guys who do that, and revoke their licenses—and send them up to play on the Ossining baseball team.”

  “That’s a lie.” Alf Shane paled. “Mr. Hartshorn misunderstood us. Bill showed him a badge—”

  “And he guessed your names,” put in Spud. “That makes it just ducky. Since we’re getting nowhere, I think we’d better call up the real pair and let them talk to these two ladyfingers. Maybe they’ll be easy on them.”

  “Archer particularly,” Maclain agreed. “I heard he kicked a man on the shin four years ago, and he just limped out of the Orthopedic Hospital yesterday. Of course they wouldn’t take any action like that against fellow detectives!”

  “Now listen,” Trilby said pleadingly. “We’re in a jam, see. I know it as well as you do—but, after all, there’s such a thing as honor among thieves.”

  “One more crack like that,” Spud warned him, “and the traffic cops’ll be picking the two of you out of a Park Avenue puddle. For your own sake, we’d better get down to cases. I don’t like you, and Dunc doesn’t like you—and the dog doesn’t like you. Mr. Hartshorn and Miss Zarinka are more than clients of ours—they’re friends. The best thing you can do is talk, and talk quick! Who sent you up here, and why?”

  Bill Trilby shed his mask of friendliness and became ingratiating. He had heard well-confirmed rumors that Spud Savage was a man of violent temper with an ingrained streak of homicidal tendencies when rubbed the
wrong way. He glanced around the room, hoping to find a more friendly face to which he could direct his appeal, but even the peaceful Schnucke disappointed him. He thought he detected a rather baleful gleam in her dark-gray eyes. “I came up here for a client.”

  “I know that,” said Maclain. “Who was it?”

  “That isn’t very ethical,” Trilby pleaded.

  “It’s a good word—if you had any idea what it meant.” Maclain’s voice was impatient. “You’ve jumped from a divorce case into a murder, Bill. I’m afraid you’re out of your depth. Who sent you?”

  “Go on, Bill, tell him,” said Shane. “What’s the use?”

  “Hewitt’s the name.” Trilby twisted uneasily on his perch. “Howard Hewitt.”

  Evelyn drew in her breath sharply. “That’s impossible!”

  “Nothing’s impossible in this business, miss. Your brother’s been playing around on the wrong side of the street with our client’s wife.”

  “That’s interesting.” Spud’s arms folded tighter across his chest. “Are you selling murders now as a sideline?”

  Maclain heard the movement as Alf Shane stood up. He lifted his hand from Schnucke’s head and held it up placatingly. “Don’t be mean to them, Spud. They’re just a couple of nice boys trying to make a living. Let’s see if we can’t help them along. Miss Zarinka told me last night that Howard Hewitt is an extremely jealous man, and that her brother had been seen dining with Mrs. Gladys Hewitt. I suppose you know where,” he shot in the direction of Bill Trilby.

  “Several times at the Hi-de-Ho, twice at the Biltmore and once at the Commodore during the two months we’ve been on the case.”

  “That seems to check.” Maclain dropped his hand again and resumed scratching Schnucke. “I presume you have an airtight alibi for your client last night.”