The Last Express

by Baynard Kendrick

  “His wife was at the Hi-de-Ho,” said Alf Shane.

  “Shut up, you fool,” Trilby snapped at him without thinking.

  “And your client?” Maclain persisted gently. “Where was he?”

  “You can’t pump us!”

  “But we’re trying hard,” said Spud. “Come clean. Where was he?”

  “How do I know? Howard Hewitt was paying me to trail his wife, not to trail him.”

  “You must have quit your usual methods, Bill. Spud and I used to hear that you had no objection to taking money from both parties in a divorce case and leaving them tied up together in one grand, involuntary reunion, with operatives’ reports that they were two-timing each other.”

  “Are you going to let that pass, Bill?” Shane demanded.

  “Yes,” said Trilby. “It’s slander, but I’ll let it pass. You can believe what you like, Captain Maclain, but we don’t know a thing about this case except that we were paid to get the dope on Mrs. Hewitt and Paul Zarinka. We know where she was last night, but we don’t know where Howard Hewitt was—and don’t care.”

  “And this morning you put your heads together, didn’t you?” Maclain asked sadly. “You decided, with a corespondent dead, that the graft wasn’t good any longer, and you thought you’d come up here and see if you could get some information from Mr. Hartshorn first and maybe sell him some information about his fiancée’s brother second. It sounds awfully bad, Bill, for a man of your high standing. I’d hate to think that you and Shane would stoop to anything so low as extortion.”

  “I’m willing to keep my mouth shut—if you will,” said Trilby.

  Maclain stood up, and Schnucke got to her feet beside him. “I’m not going to make any agreement with you, one way or the other, but I’m going to tell you this: Both of you’d better keep your mouths shut about anything you know. Now get out of here.”

  Spud stepped aside from the door and allowed the overeager firm of Trilby and Shane to pass through unmolested. He slammed the door behind them and turned back furiously to Maclain. “They’re lying in their teeth, Dunc, both of them! You know they’re lying in their teeth!”

  The captain sat down in his chair again and said placidly, “Sure, Spud, sure they’re lying. Let’s try to find out why, and how much.”

  He turned his dark sightless eyes in Evelyn’s direction and seemingly moved them from her to Hartshorn. Once, the night before, she had felt creepily that Duncan Maclain could see, although the blankness of his gaze belied that. Unconsciously she moved closer to Chick. As though he divined her feeling, Maclain gave her a sympathetic smile.

  “You arrived at a most opportune moment,” Chick remarked. “That pair had us fooled completely.”

  “It’s not difficult to fool people under stress,” the captain declared. “It’s cruel, perhaps, but not difficult—and it’s part of their business.”

  “I tried to get in touch with you earlier this morning,” Spud told Evelyn. He settled himself in a comfortable chair facing Maclain. The drink of scotch Chick had poured before the arrival of Trilby and Shane stood close to hand. Spud drank it with relish and leaned back. “Your maid told us you were coming up here; hence our visit. We’ve had a busy morning, with plenty of visitors ourselves—first the D. A., then the real Davis and Archer.”

  “Dearborn came to consult you about Paul’s—” Evelyn hesitated. All morning she had been stumbling over the word murder, unable to actually connect it with her brother.

  “Partly that, and partly because he’d learned you’d been to see me,” Maclain explained. “Last night you came to me for help. Today I’m coming to you. There’s no need for you to be under any more expense, since Claude Dearborn has agreed to foot the bill.”

  Evelyn’s mind flashed back to Trilby’s accusation against Chick, and she said quickly, “I still want to know the truth, Captain Maclain. I must know.”

  “You shall,” he said firmly, “but for the moment let’s look at things as they stand: We have definite information from the D. A. that your brother was collecting evidence against Benny Hoefle—”

  “That’s proof enough for me,” Spud interjected, “that Hoefle killed your brother, Miss Zarinka.”

  “And proof enough for me,” Maclain said quickly, “that Hoefle didn’t, Spud. Hoefle never committed a murder in his life. He’s far too clever for that, and manpower’s far too cheap. Inspector Davis agreed with me that anyone working on this case has a wide field to search. It’s grown wider with the injection of Trilby and Company onto the scene, although Hewitt and his wife look almost too obvious as suspects.”

  “His wife?” Chick asked, surprised.

  “Why not?” said Maclain. “Believe me, Miss Zarinka, I’m not trying to hurt you, but there’re certain things I want to find out. Do you think there’s any possibility that your brother was tired of Gladys Hewitt?”

  “I’m afraid he was never fond of any one woman for long,” Evelyn said numbly.

  “I get it. It’s not bad, Dunc. We’ve got three prospects from friend Trilby—Howard Hewitt, the jealous husband; Gladys Hewitt, the passé sweetheart—and the possibility of another woman! Any one of the three might have been by in that taxi!”

  “Or any one of Hoefle’s hirelings,” said Chick.

  “Exactly,” Spud agreed. “That leaves a raft of people who might have tossed the bomb in the car.”

  “Tossed?” Duncan Maclain’s forehead wrinkled in surprise. “Whatever gave you the idea it was tossed in there, Spud?”

  “Well, how do you think it got there?”

  “Figure it out for yourself,” said Maclain. “Paul Zarinka’s car was parked within two blocks of his office. Nobody knew what time he was going to leave. He was killed with a Mills hand grenade, not a percussion bomb—and it takes a Mills grenade about ten seconds to explode after the plug’s pulled. It was pouring rain and the chances were that the windows would be closed in his sedan. Would you sit around the scene of a prospective murder for two hours in a taxi, waiting for your victim to appear, then let him climb into his car and drive off before you went by in your taxi and threw a grenade in the window of his sedan? It’s messy, Spud, terribly messy. Suppose—when the window broke—he picked it up and tossed it out again and took the number of your car?”

  “It does sound cockeyed—the way you put it,” Spud agreed, “but I still say—how did it get there?”

  “It was placed there,” Maclain declared, “by somebody who got out of Paul Zarinka’s car—probably the man who was seen by the officer on the beat. There’s a lot of difference, Spud, between placing and tossing—I think we’ll find that out.”

  Chapter Eight: A CHOICE OF CABS

  Duncan Maclain had the utmost confidence in his partner, Spud Savage. They had served together in the army during the war and afterward, through the most trying period of Duncan Maclain’s life, the warmhearted Spud was his constant friend and companion. It was really Spud’s appreciation of Maclain’s unusual intellect, diversified knowledge and hypersensitivity of the senses which led them into the hazardous field of private investigation.

  Spud was a natural athlete, far above the average. Casual clients of the firm were inclined to classify him as the strong-arm man and to underestimate his mental ability. His business acumen, however, was not to be disparaged. He realized the enormous publicity value which might accrue to a figure such as Maclain, and the friendly and flattering interest which the press took in Schnucke and her master was as often as not due to Spud’s adroit manipulations.

  It was Spud, always solicitous of Maclain’s security and peace of mind, who secured the attractive and capable Rena Martin for Maclain’s secretary, and—as Rena maintained—it was Spud who married her and turned her into a combination housekeeper and amanuensis to obviate the chances of her ever getting a better job!

  Rena had staffed the Maclain-Savage penthouse with a Negro couple, Sarah and Cappo Marsh. Sarah effectively dominated the immaculate kitchen, turning out succulen
t meals which kept the captain and Spud fighting their waistlines. Sarah also, without trouble, dominated her gigantic Negro husband, who intermixed the job of houseman and chauffeur for Maclain’s Packard sedan.

  From 1917 to 1930 Duncan Maclain had borne his hopeless blindness with an astounding fortitude and cheerfulness. He had fought it with a savage relentlessness, spending every waking moment and utilizing every device which his clever mind could conceive to make himself as independent as any man who had the use of his eyes.

  Only Spud and occasionally Rena were aware that he knew miserable days of bitterness when he felt that he was a helpless burden on his friends. Those days of bitterness disappeared with the coming of Schnucke in 1930. Immediately, with the ability restored to him to come and go as he pleased, all of Maclain’s highly developed talents were released for use. They came rushing to the fore, turning the blind captain into a superman of intelligence and efficiency which left both Spud and Rena a trifle breathless.

  At first Spud was worried at Maclain’s insistence that he be allowed to go out and negotiate the difficult and hazardous traffic of the city on his own. He knew the Seeing Eye dogs and their blind masters were trained together with skill and intelligence; still, Spud felt some hesitation in trusting his friend to the sole guidance of a dog.

  For some weeks after Maclain’s return to New York Spud followed him surreptitiously on every trip he made around the city. He summed it up to Rena by saying, “Schnucke’s a better guide for him than I am. They walk so fast through the crowds I can hardly keep up with them. After seeing her lead him around a low awning which might have bumped his head—I give up! I probably wouldn’t have noticed it myself!”

  On his own part, Maclain contended, and with justification, that he could get more information on an investigation than Spud, and without arousing suspicion. It was a natural thing for a blind man to ask questions. “What’s the size of this room? What’s this object I have in my hand, and what building is that across the street?” Policemen on duty, passers-by and casual acquaintances went out of their way to answer such things with courtesy and accuracy and considered them all natural when they came from Duncan Maclain. Consequently, the captain was able to build up a clear and comprehensive picture of a crime, undisturbed by outside complications and extraneous materials which might have thrown Spud or the police off the track.

  It was Schnucke’s duty to lead him where he wanted to go, and she obeyed unhesitatingly the commands “Forward,” “Left” or “Right,” stopping at each curb until Maclain found the step down with foot or cane. Her warning signal to her master of danger ahead or the presence of something she did not understand was disobedience—for nothing Maclain could say would force her to go into a situation which she considered unsafe for her master.

  Naturally, to negotiate the streets of the city Maclain had to have a mental picture of where he was going and how to get there. A walk in Central Park meant turning right as he left the apartment, crossing West End Avenue, traversing the difficult intersection of Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue by a stop on the triangular island where the subway station split the two streets, proceeding thence across Columbus Avenue under the El, and at Central Park West crossing the street where he found the entrance to the park.

  That was simple enough, but his journeys through other parts of the city were subjects of wonder and admiration to his friends.

  Built into a corner of his office, concealed behind the paneling, was a large metal file containing in more than 100 flat drawers a sectional map of Greater New York. It was the most expensive piece of equipment in Maclain’s establishment, for on its wood surface was grooved every street and alleyway, with the names of the most important appearing in the grooves in tiny raised letters of Braille.

  The captain consumed his luncheon of grilled lamb-chops, fresh green peas and a salad with scarcely a word to Spud and Rena. One of the strongest reasons for their compatibility together was the fact that Spud and his wife reacted so sympathetically to Maclain’s moods.

  In his office he asked Rena to bring him the sections of the map which covered lower downtown and Greenwich Village. For more than an hour he sat on the floor, consuming endless cigarettes and letting his fingers travel over the grooves of the streets, while Schnucke stood by with lolling tongue and watched him inquiringly. She was always as interested in the maps as a trained bird dog is in the sight of a shotgun. It had not taken her long to learn that their appearance preceded the joy of a walk with her master.

  It was nearly three when Spud came in and asked, “Where are you bound?”

  “Centre Street. I want to look over the scene.”

  “Can I help? It’s a filthy day.”

  “I don’t mind that,” said Maclain. “But you can help. Get a file on Howard Hewitt and his wife, and while you’re at it, dig up what you can about Trilby and Shane.”

  Spud slipped his hands into his pockets and stood looking down at the maps on the floor. “What about Hoefle ? I thought you were working on him.”

  “I am, but he won’t be as careful with me around as with you. I have a plan in mind, but I’m keeping it to myself. I don’t want to hear you grousing about it.”

  “Go ahead!” Spud spoke good humoredly, but his pleasant face showed worry. “Run foul of Hoefle, and you’ll have half the thugs in New York trailing you and Schnucke around in a parade.”

  “That’s part of the idea,” Maclain said, grinning.

  “Well, watch your step, and don’t fall in any manholes—they’ll be taking off the covers ahead of you.”

  “Schnucke’ll see them if I don’t.” Maclain laughed. “And what put that idea into your silly head?”

  “You did—you and the mice and the whiffs of poison gas that makes ’em wriggle.”

  “Sometimes,” the captain said, with a touch of admiration, “you are more of a nuisance to me than a help, but it’s an interesting idea, isn’t it ?”

  “It’s so interesting,” Spud told him, “that if I hear of you prowling around any tunnels I’ll take your dog and cane away and give you a tin cup.”

  “If I’m not back for dinner, don’t worry.”

  “I won’t,” said Spud. “I’ll go out and bring you back.”

  The captain waited until the door closed behind his friend, then went to the desk and telephoned Sergeant Archer at headquarters. Ten minutes later he was standing on 72nd Street in front of the apartment.

  As the captain paused just outside of the door, Mike the doorman said solicitously, “Your car’s not here, Captain Maclain. You want to sit down inside while I send for it? Cappo took it to the garage half an hour ago.”

  “Thanks, no. I told him he could go. I’ll take a cab.”

  The doorman raised his whistle to his lips, but before he could blow it a cruising taxi driver swooped in to the curb, swinging wide his door. The captain made no move to step forward under Mike’s umbrella but asked, “Do you know that cab?”

  “No, sir. He was cruising.”

  “Send him away,” Maclain said curtly. There was a rustle of skirts close by him as two women stepped from the apartment house. “Wait, Mike,” Maclain continued, before the doorman had a chance to speak. “Let the ladies have the taxi. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Certainly, Captain Maclain.”

  One of the women said sweetly, “Oh, thank you so much,” and added, “What a beautiful dog!” Then, as she got into the waiting cab, she noticed Maclain’s blindness. He grinned, as they drove off, for he heard her remark: “But he is blind, my dear! How could he possibly know we wanted a cab!”

  He grinned further, too, for he strongly suspected that the man in the driver’s seat was muttering things which he could not hear. The cab had arrived altogether too precipitately. He might be wrong, but there was no use taking chances.

  Mike whistled and another cab came from the ranks. “Joseph Cappabello,” Mike said. “Number 6893.”

  “Okay,” said the captain and got in. He worded h
is directions to Cappabello in such a way that the driver was forced to answer. As soon as Joe replied, Maclain knew there was a man in the driver’s seat who had carried him many times before. Duncan Maclain never forgot the sound of a voice.

  Chapter Nine: UNDERGROUND PROSPECT

  Maclain left the taxi at the lower end of Centre Street near City Hall Park, urging out the reluctant Schnucke with a firm word. She enjoyed walking with her master. Still more she enjoyed the delights of riding in a car and sticking her large head inquisitively out of the window at each stop for traffic lights.

  Perspiring under dripping raincoats, Sergeant Archer and a pock-marked little man, whom Archer introduced as Sergeant Rindermann, were waiting for Maclain’s arrival in answer to his phone call. Rindermann had been attached to the New York Police Department since 1928 and was a member of the Motor Vehicle Homicide Squad, which was formed at that time.

  The real duties of the squad of specialists were to determine the question of guilt in fatal motor accidents and supply necessary technicalities in such terms as to convince a skeptical jury. While the killing of Paul Zarinka did not fall directly within the squad’s jurisdiction, Inspector Davis was utilizing Rindermann’s uncanny ability to read the story from the time Paul’s car left the curb until it stopped for the traffic light at Canal Street.

  Rindermann briefly told his findings to the captain as he pattered along beside him up the rain-drenched street. From sketches made the night before of the almost-obliterated tire tracks, Rindermann had checked Officer Galligan’s statement that Paul Zarinka’s car was parked on the east side of Centre, between Walker and White streets, headed north. The car had left the curb, driven north slowly, and stopped at Canal Street for the light.

  The captain said nothing until they reached the place where Zarinka’s car had stood at the curb and Sergeant Archer explained, “This is where he left from on his last ride.”