“But suppose he’s sick?”
“He…he couldn’t get so sick he couldn’t get out here.”
“I don’t know,” Olney said. “People can get sick so suddenly they can’t even get out of a chair.…Where’s that emergency key?”
“It.…it’s in the safe. But I wouldn’t touch it for the world. I wouldn’t think of it. That would—”
“Where in the safe?”
“In the upper right-hand drawer.”
“You have the combination?”
“Yes.”
“I think we’d better open the safe and use that key.”
She shook her head.
Olney said with cold formality. “Very well, Mrs. Crockett, the decision is yours and, therefore, the responsibility will be yours.” He looked at his watch and said, “It is seven minutes past ten, Mr. Lam. Will you please remember that I wanted to use the emergency key and go in at this time, and that Mrs. Crockett refused—”
“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “Where do you get that noise? You’re not going to throw anything like that off on my shoulders.”
“Then get us the key.”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Very well. Mr. Lam, will you please note that it is now seven minutes and thirty seconds past ten o’clock and that Mr. Olney has advised me that unless I get the emergency key and open this door, he will hold me personally responsible.”
I stood there without saying anything.
Olney said to me, “That’s quite all right, Mr. Lam. Whenever I do anything, I’m willing to take the responsibility.”
“Just a minute,” Phyllis Crockett said sweetly, “I’ll get you the key.”
She walked through the doorway and disappeared.
“There has to be something wrong,” Olney said in an undertone. “He likes to go in there where he can get away from her and not be interrupted. His wife is inclined to take his literary labors lightly and bothers him at the most inopportune times with the most inane comments, such as what he wanted for dinner or whether he wanted to talk with someone on the telephone. The worst of it is, she has no discretion.…However, I shouldn’t be discussing the matter with you. I trust you’ll consider my remarks personal, confidential and caused by the fact I’m just a little worried. I don’t know what’s happening, but I can tell you this. Dean Crockett is in trouble of some sort. I’m afraid he’s had a heart attack or a stroke. That bell button is a secret signal that only his wife and I know about—see if you can find it.”
He stood to one side and I looked over the wooden panel, then I looked it over again. I couldn’t see a thing.
“Now watch my thumb,” Olney said.
He stood up in front of the panel, ran his fingers over the panel for a moment, then suddenly jabbed with his thumb.
I heard the chimes again sounding in the interior.
“Okay,” I said, “I got it that time.”
Olney looked at me with a patronizing smile. “See if you can find it,” he said.
I stepped up to the panel and ran my fingers over the wood just as he had done. As I did so, I moved the toe of my left foot so it was up against the baseboard in exactly the position his foot had been.
I pretended to jab with my thumb, but at the same time exerted pressure with the toe of my boot.
The chimes sounded.
I stepped back.
Olney looked at me with a most peculiar expression on his face. “By God,” he said, “you are smart!”
I didn’t say anything.
The door opened and Mrs. Crockett came in with the key. She said, “I’m letting you take this key, Olney, because you have assured me that—”
Olney didn’t wait for her to finish. He snatched at the key, fitted it in the lock in the door and shot back the bolt.
All three of us started through the doorway, then all three of us stopped. The door opened to the closet that I had seen the day before from Mrs. Crockett’s studio.
Dean Crockett the Second was sprawled out on the floor on his back, his knees doubled, the feet back under him. There was a dart from a blowgun embedded in his chest a short distance below the throat. The guy had undoubtedly been dead for some time.
From where I stood, I gave the place a quick once-over. There were shelves pretty well loaded with curios, canned foods, stationery, notebooks and odds and ends.
At the upper back of the little closet near the ceiling was another dart that had been shot with sufficient force so that the point was deeply embedded in the wood.
“Good God!” Olney exclaimed.
“Look, look,” Phyllis Crockett screamed. “In his throat. A dart from the blowgun.”
“And another one sticking in that shelf up there,” I said, pointing.
Mrs. Crockett leaned forward and reached up to grasp the dart in the shelf.
“Leave that alone!” I said.
She turned sharply at the sound of my voice. “Why…Mr. Lam, you startled me. What do you mean, leave it alone? And who are you to speak to me in that tone of authority?”
I said, “Get away from there. That dart is evidence. You touch anything in there and you’ll be very, very sorry.”
“What do you mean, I’ll be sorry?” she asked.
I said, “The angle of the dart in the wood shows trajectory. You can see that the path of trajectory runs through the open window, and I would say offhand just about down to the bathroom window in your studio.”
She looked at me in openmouthed amazement.
“You go in and pull that dart out,” I said, “and they’ll claim that your first consideration was not for your husband but to hurry in and try to obliterate evidence that indicated the blowgun had been fired by you through your bathroom window in a desire to become a fascinating widow. Now, get out of here and leave things just as they are. I’m going to notify the police.”
Olney turned to me coldly and said, “It seems to me that I am forced to agree with Mrs. Crockett. You’re taking on a lot of authority.”
“You’re damn right I am,” I told him, “I’m a licensed private detective. I know the procedure in these matters. Both of you get out of here and close that door. I’m telephoning the Homicide Squad.”
“And if we don’t choose to obey you?” Olney asked.
I said, “Then, when I tell the police that you loused up the evidence, they’ll know it was deliberate.”
He grinned at me and said, “That, of course, does it. It’s the approach you used with Mrs. Crockett, and I must say it’s effective. Come on, Mrs. Crockett, we’ll step out of here and close the room. And I think, in order to pull the fangs of this little rattlesnake who has suddenly started to hiss and sound his rattles, we’ll let him hold the key until the police get here. In that way, we can’t be accused of removing any evidence.”
He was pushing Phyllis Crockett back and pulling the door closed all the time he was talking. As we stepped out, he twisted the key in the lock.
I reached out and took the key and said, “That’s one of the best talks you ever made. Even if you aren’t smart enough to realize it…or are you?”
Chapter Eleven
Bertha Cool’s friend, Frank Sellers, was in charge of the detail from Homicide Squad that came up to the apartment.
Frank Sellers had a certain grudging respect for Bertha Cool’s hard-boiled outlook on life. He’d never been entirely certain about me. When I came into the firm, Sellers had made no secret of his disapproval. Bertha pointed out in vain that she needed someone younger, quick-thinking and fast on his feet. Sellers simply couldn’t see a small guy. He worshiped brawn. I remember hearing him say to her one time, “Where the hell do brains get you in this world, Bertha? It takes impact to get you anywhere.”
Sellers said, “Well, well, it’s none other than our pint-sized friend, Donald Lam, the brainy fugitive from a law school. Now, what the hell are you doing here?”
“At the moment,” I said, “I’ve finished calling police to report a murder, a
nd I’m headed out for the office as soon as I’ve answered the necessary questions—unless, of course, you want to spend the time in personal badinage.”
“What the hell’s badinage?” Sellers asked with instant suspicion.
“A synthetic substitute for insinuations of guilty participation translated to a plane of pseudofacetiousness.”
“You sonofabitch,” Sellers said angrily. “Where’s Crockett?”
“Here’s the key. He’s behind that door. You’ll find some interesting clues.”
“After you got through messing with them,” Sellers said. He took the key and opened the door.
He stood for a long time in the doorway, then he motioned to two of the other men to come and join him.
They stood there silently.
Sellers pointed to the feathered dart that was stuck in the wood, then pointed to the open window, then down to the studio apartment on the other side of the light well. “Find out who has that apartment down there,” he said to one of the men. “Then get the manager of the place and we’ll get a passkey and take a look.”
“There’s no need for that,” Mrs. Crockett said. “ I happen to be the one who occupies that apartment.”
“What’s the idea of living up here and having an apartment down there?”
“That’s my studio. It’s where I work.”
“What do you work at?” he asked suspiciously.
“She paints,” I told him.
“How long you been connected with this thing?” Sellers asked me.
“Since three days ago.”
“How come?”
“They gave a party. Crockett had suffered losses at previous gatherings, so he retained Bertha to see that—”
“So he did, so he did,” Sellers interrupted, grinning. “I remember reading about it in the paper. And how did Bertha get along with the guests?”
“Wonderful.”
“How is the old gal?”
“Running true to form.”
“Some babe,” he said enthusiastically. Then he added, by way of explanation to one of his men, “There’s a gal who would just as soon gouge your eye out as break your arm.…Okay, Lam, you take these two people back into one of the other rooms. I’m going to leave it to you to see they don’t touch anything that might be evidence. We’re going in with the body and look around.…How does it happen the crime is just being discovered? He’s evidently been dead for quite a while.”
“I just came up here a few minutes ago,” I said, “but I understand he has this as a secret den. He shut himself in there when he wanted to be absolutely undisturbed. It’s a rule of the house that no one disturbs him for anything when he’s in here.”
“How about meals?”
“You can see the canned goods on the shelf, and I understand there’s a kitchenette adjoining the place.”
“How far in did you go?”
“Just as far as the doorway.”
“How about the others?”
“No farther. I turned everyone back.”
“Okay,” he said. “Go in there and sit down. I’ll be out and talk with you after we’ve looked things over a bit. There’ll be a police photographer up here any minute, a fingerprint man, and a deputy coroner. Tell them where we are.…Any way of getting up here except by going through all that rigmarole at the elevator?”
“That’s it,” I said, “at least as far as I know, unless you can get up on some other section of the roof and walk across.”
“Okay, okay. Go on and keep these people occupied. I’ll look around.”
We all went into the living room and sat down.
“How about a drink?” Phyllis Crockett asked as casually as though it had been an ordinary social gathering.
“I think, under the circumstances, it might be better to wait a little while,” I said. “Sellers can get a little rough on occasion, and since he can’t drink while he’s on duty, he might resent smelling liquor on our breaths.…I gave you a blowgun yesterday evening, Mrs. Crockett. Where is it?”
“Why, right where you left it down in my studio,” she said. “Do you think they’ll want it?”
“They’ll want it.”
“All right,” she said, in a casual manner, “I’ll go get it.”
“You’ll stay right here,” I said. “Don’t go down to that studio until you go with Sellers.”
“Why not? It’s my studio.”
“True, it is. However, being suspicious is Seller’s job. He’ll claim you were dashing down there to conceal evidence or get rid of something incriminating.”
“What do you mean, incriminating?”
“ I don’t mean anything,” I said. “Sellers will be the one to explain that to you.”
We were silent for a few seconds. The rattle of the typewriter from the office was nerve-racking.
I said to Olney, “It might be a good idea to tell Denton that the man he was working for isn’t going to sign any more paychecks.”
Olney said, “You tell him.”
I thought I saw a glance flash between him and Phyllis Crockett, so I simply sat down, lit a cigarette and said, “After all, I guess it isn’t important. He’ll find it out soon, and probably Sellers will want all those records transcribed anyway.”
“Well, I’m going to have some coffee,” Phyllis Crockett said. “ My stomach has butterflies.”
“I’ll join you with some coffee,” Olney said. “Let me make it.”
“No, no. I’ll make it.”
Olney smiled at me. “If you’ll excuse us, Lam,” he said, “I’ll help Mrs. Crockett with the coffee. We’ll be back in a minute.”
I got up out of the chair and said, “If you’ll both excuse me. I’ll help both of you with the coffee.”
I walked out in the kitchen with them.
Phyllis Crockett got out an electric coffee-making outfit. “We don’t do cooking here,” she explained, “just coffee, and occasionally we boil eggs and fry bacon. But for the most part we have food sent in or we eat out, or if we’re entertaining, we have a caterer handle the job.”
“How’s the cream?” Olney asked.
“I don’t use it,” Mrs. Crockett said.
“I can’t enjoy coffee without cream and sugar,” Olney told her.
She opened the icebox. He took out a square paste-board cream container, went to the drawer containing the spoons, took out a spoon, poured a little cream in the spoon, tasted it, then made a face and said, “Sour.”
“That’s a shame,” Mrs. Crockett said.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “I can dash down and have some more cream by the time the coffee is ready, or…perhaps under the circumstances I shouldn’t leave. They may want something.…Lam, would you mind terribly just dropping down in the elevator. There’s a delicatessen store just two doors down the street, and—”
“I’d mind terribly,” I interrupted. “So would Sellers.”
I took a spoon from the drawer, tasted the cream and said, “And besides this cream is completely sweet.”
“It tasted sour to me.”
“Something wrong with your taste.”
“That’s what comes of having fruit juice,” Phyllis Crockett said brightly. “I know that when I’ve had grapefruit juice and then try to taste cream, it always tastes sour. How about you, Mr. Lam? Shall we put your name in the coffeepot?”
“You don’t need to put my name in,” I said, “but you might put Frank Sellers’ name in. He’s quite a coffee drinker.”
“I see no reason on our part to wine and dine the police,” Olney said.
“Don’t wine ’em and don’t dine ’em,” I said, “but if you coffee them, you sometimes get them in a more amiable mood. Sellers likes coffee, and if his nose gets the aroma of the coffee but he isn’t offered any, he might not be so cooperative.”
Olney tried to save face by saying, “We don’t give a damn whether he’s cooperative or not.” But after he had said it, he looked significantly at Phyllis Crock
ett and said, “It might be a good idea to put on the large coffee urn, Mrs. Crockett.” She opened a drawer, took out a big silver urn and said, “This holds a gallon of coffee. How much shall I make, Mr. Lam?”
“That’s up to you,” I said.
“Dump in lots of coffee and fill it up,” Olney said. “After all, Lam has a point there. Cops like coffee.”
Phyllis Crockett dumped in coffee, poured in water, turned on the electricity. She went to the refrigerator, took out some frozen orange juice, diluted it with water, stirred it with a spoon and raised her eyebrows in silent interrogation.
I shook my head. Olney nodded his.
She filled two glasses and they silently drank the orange juice.
The door opened and Frank Sellers came in. “All right, Lam,” he said, “give me the low-down.”
I said, “This is Mrs. Crockett, the widow.”
I saw her eyes widen as I said widow, but instantly she was in control of her features once more.
“Yeah, I’ve talked with her already,” Sellers said. “Now, who’s the other one?”
“That’s Melvin Otis Olney,” I said, “the general manager, director of publicity, and, I believe, he was Mr. Crockett’s right hand. The guy who’s pounding the typewriter in the other room is named Wilbur Denton. He’s a secretary. I don’t think he knows of Crockett’s murder. He doesn’t live here. I’m not certain whether Olney does or doesn’t.”
“You live here?” Sellers asked Olney.
It was Mrs. Crockett who answered the question. “Certainly not.”
“Okay,” Sellers said, “let’s have it. I want it condensed in a nutshell.…That coffee in that electric gadget?”
She nodded.
“Good, I’ll have a cup when it’s ready. Now, I’ll take you first, Mrs. Crockett. How long have you been married?”
“Three years.”
“Been married before?”
“Once.”
“Widowed or divorced?”
“Divorced.”
“How about your present husband?”
“He’d been married twice before.”
“When did you see him last?”
“It’s been…well, I didn’t see him all day yesterday. By the time I got up he had retired to his study, and—”
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