Читать книгу Die, Little Goose: A Bret Hardin Mystery - David Alexander - Страница 6

two

“How stupid can cops get?” Hardin asked bitterly.

Romano’s dark Italian eyes regarded the editor sadly. He knew Hardin well and he knew that he was dangerously angry now. “Pretty stupid, I guess,” he answered mildly, hoping a soft answer would turn away wrath.

Hardin was not to be placated. The bronze skin beneath his close-cropped blond hair was darkly flushed. “Charging old Jim Lennox with murder is as silly as accusing Grandma Moses of juvenile delinquency,” he said. “I’ve known him ever since I was born. He’s the last of a disappearing breed on Broadway—a gentleman. He was in the theatre at the turn of the century and he stayed in it until a guy named Stanislavsky came along and started something called the naturalistic school of acting which meant actors were supposed to stumble around the stage with their heads averted from the audience and mumble their lines. Jim thought the playwright had a right to have the lines he’d written heard and he thought the customers in the back row of the balcony had a right to hear them. His type of acting wasn’t fashionable any more. But his knowledge of Broadway and the theatre has been worth a lot to me on the paper. Old Jim has lived for three-quarters of a century and he’s been about as decent a human being as God ever made. He’s so kindly and gentle he’s practically out of this world. Nobody ever had a word to say against him until some pea-brained precinct cop comes along and calls him a murderer.”

“Sometimes these sweet-faced old pappy guys do funny things,” Grierson put in. “Especially when they get as old as this Lennox and there’s a young chick around.”

“Keep your goddamn mouth out of this, copper,” Hardin said furiously. “I’m talking to the lieutenant.”

Romano held up a restraining hand. “Don’t flip your wig, editor,” he said. “Not until the votes are counted, anyway. I know old Lennox. I’ve known him ever since I’ve had the Broadway beat, and that’s been an awful lot of years. I like him. But don’t blame the precinct men too much. Two people hear a shot. They find a woman dead with blood all over her. They see a man standing outside her window and there’s a gun at his feet that’s just been fired. You can’t just overlook a thing like that.” He turned to Grierson, who was glaring at Bart. “Put your shirt on,” he said. “We’re gonna have to go uptown and the new commissioner don’t like for Homicide dicks to go out on squeals in their underwear.”

Hardin said, “I’m going up there with you. I’ve got a police pass that the department issues to newspapermen. It should entitle me to that. If you let these chowderheads take Jim Lennox in I’m going to get him a lawyer. I just won enough in the floater to afford a retainer for Marty Land.”

“That pass don’t entitle you to much of anything except to go through police and fire lines if the policemen and firemen want to let you through,” Romano answered. “But I’ve got no objection to you going along. After all, the old guy works for you. Only I want to talk to this Adrian Temple some more first. Tell Farber to send him in.”

Grierson had donned his shirt. He walked from the room, stuffing shirttails into trousers. He returned with Adrian Temple. Farber stood behind them in the doorway.

Romano regarded Adrian for a moment before he spoke. “I’ve got bad news for you, Temple,” he said. “Your wife is dead.”

Adrian dropped his head. For a moment his body shook with silent sobbing. Then he said, “It’s true, then. I knew it was true this time. But I still hoped it would be like the last time, that I only dreamed it.”

“You still think you killed her?” Romano asked. “Tell me again. When did you kill her? How?”

“I stabbed her to death about twenty-four hours ago,” Adrian answered. “I’ve told you that. I confess. For God’s sake do whatever you’ve got to do. Lock me up and get it over with. I’ll sign anything you want. Only don’t let them beat me.”

Romano said, “Nobody’s going to beat you. Where were you at about five minutes to eleven tonight?”

“Tonight?” Adrian looked at Romano in perplexity. Then he looked at his watch. “Why, I guess I must have been with Hardin here.”

Hardin nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “We were in a bar called Mike’s at the corner of Ninth and Fiftieth.”

Romano said, “Take him out, Farber, and keep him on ice. If you go off duty, leave him with somebody. I may want to talk to him later on. Then we’re going to send him to the psycho ward and see if the bug doctors can figure out why he’s always coming down here and confessing to murders.”

Adrian stared at the lieutenant. “But you said she’s dead!” he protested. “I killed her!”

“Yeah,” Romano answered. “Your wife is dead. And I’m kind of sorry you’ve got an alibi from a solid citizen like Hardin here. It’s going to make a lot of work for me in this hot weather.”

Farber led the protesting Adrian out again. Romano, Grierson and Hardin went to the street and got into a police car. Grierson drove them to the rooming house on Fifty-third Street near Sixth Avenue. It was one of the last brown-stones in the neighborhood. The darkened basement was occupied by a theatrical costumer who displayed suits of armor and a collection of antique feathered hats in his window. The house was in relatively good condition, although the sandstone had weathered and the gargoyles that decorated its posts and lintels were chipping away, giving the grotesque faces a mutilated look.

The three men climbed out of the police car and mounted a high stoop, where a uniformed policeman stood guard. The window in the oak door was covered by a lace curtain. The policeman recognized Romano. He saluted and opened the door.

The dusky hallway was lighted by a small bulb that glinted through a stained-glass shade. It was darkly carpeted and decorated with potted ferns and yellowing photographs of theatrical personalities. A grandfather clock and carved wooden chairs were in the hallway. Aside from air-conditioned bars and theatres, it was the coolest place Hardin had found during the thirteen days of the heat wave. The house had been constructed in the days when builders made walls thick as protection from the cold and pitched the ceilings high to minimize the summer heat.

A folding door opened into the first-floor parlor, where several persons were gathered. Cora Mattingly sat in a high-backed chair, answering the questions of a white-haired detective who stood beside her with a notebook in his hand. She was a plump woman in her sixties with an apple-round and apple-rosy face and an abundance of lavender-washed white hair that had been set into mathematically precise ridges and curlicues by her hairdresser. She dabbed at moist eyes with a wispy handkerchief and the motion of her tiny, pudgy hand was graceful. Hardin remembered that she had once been an actress in a Shakespearean repertory company.

A tall, slender girl stood behind Mrs. Mattingly, clasping the landlady’s shoulder with a bony hand. Her blood-red nails gleamed like jewels against the soft gray of Cora Mattingly’s dress. Hardin recognized the girl as Elsa Travers, Adrian Temple’s latest dancing partner. She had a gaunt, peculiar beauty. She affected an Italian bob and spikes of her black hair spilled down on a high white forehead. Dead-white make-up emphasized the triangulated bone structure of her face, whose pallor was relieved only by the crimsoned mouth that was over-large and by the dark, unswept penciling of her brows and eyes. She wore a dark jersey dress that fit her as tightly as a dancer’s leotards and her sharp breasts thrust nakedly against the material. Her only jewelry was a heavy silver chain that circled her waist. The buckle was set with an enormous imitation topaz.

Jim Lennox sprawled upon a Victorian love seat near the baroque marble mantelpiece. He was a tiny man, barely five and a half feet tall, and he seemed as fragile and delicate as a Sèvres figurine. His thick white hair hung down his neck and curled over the opened collar of his shirt in an antiquated theatrical fashion that had only lately been revived by young hoodlums and television actors and was called a ducktail haircut. Even in his most poverty-stricken days the old man had always been neat and chipper. Now he was rumpled and frightened and he seemed utterly defeated. His usually keen old eyes were dimmed by bewilderment and shock.

A fat detective who was sweating profusely stood beside the little man, apparently guarding him. The contrast between the prisoner and his keeper was almost ludicrous. The tableau made Hardin think of a lumbering St. Bernard mothering an undersized Chihuahua.

Recognition swam into Lennox’s eyes as Bart entered. “Bart!” he cried, rising from the small sofa. “For God’s sake, Bart! These policemen think I’m a murderer!”

Bart tried to think of something reassuring to say. Before he could speak, the white-haired detective was addressing Romano. “Hello, Lieutenant,” he said. “You’re just in time. We’re about to take the statement of the ladies who discovered the body and heard the shot. This is the landlady, Mrs. Mattingly, and Miss Travers.” He turned to the woman on the chair and said, “Now just try to compose yourself, ma’am, and let’s go over it again. This is an officer from Homicide and he’ll want to hear what you have to say.”

Mrs. Mattingly choked back a sob, dabbed at her eyes.

“I’ve told it so many times already,” she said.

“Tell us about the house and the roomers first,” the precinct detective prompted.

“There are five rooms in the house that I rent out,” Mrs. Mattingly said, pressing her fingers to her temple as if she were trying to squeeze the story from her mind in proper sequence. “I occupy an apartment on this floor. There are three rooms and a bath and a linen closet on the second. The first, the smallest room, is occupied by Mr. Lennox here. The largest room was occupied by Mr. Adrian Temple and his wife Daphne, who was—was murdered. She was an invalid. The third room is occupied by Mr. Temple’s dancing partner, Miss Travers, who is here with me. My daughter has a small apartment on the top floor but it is unoccupied now because she’s playing stock in Louisville. The other two rooms on the top floor are rented to Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Sandrean. Mr. Montgomery is a ventriloquist who conducts the ‘Woodenhead Willie’ program for children over television. Mr. Sandrean is a Mexican gentleman who is a magician. He is known professionally as El Diablo. Neither gentleman was home this evening. In fact, no one was home except poor Daphne and James Lennox. I shouldn’t have gone to the theatre.”

Mrs. Mattingly was weeping and dabbing at her eyes with her wispy handkerchief again. “Now, now,” the detective said soothingly. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, ma’am.”

“We had these tickets to the Music Hall,” she continued. “Mr. Sandrean—El Diablo, that is—has a spot in the current stage show and he gave us tickets for everyone in the house, except poor Daphne, of course. Even Adrian, Mr. Temple, was going with us. He thought he could find some friend to sit with Daphne. But yesterday Mr. Temple had one of his little disappearances, as I call them. Adrian has a weakness, poor, unfortunate man. He drinks at times. When he does, he simply wanders off for a day or two. We’ve come to expect it every few months. He is still missing, in fact. Of course, we didn’t like leaving Daphne alone. My maid comes in days and she leaves around six as a rule. Elsa offered to stay with Daphne, but Daphne wouldn’t hear of it. She wouldn’t hear of any of us missing the show, in fact. She said her husband would probably return anyway, because she knew his habits when he’s on one of his little sprees.

“Then Mr. Lennox came back from his office, all done in by this terrible heat. He has a slight heart condition and he looked pale and wretched. He said he had a terrible headache and was going to lie down. That solved the problem. His room is right next to the one the Temples occupy. James often sits with Daphne when Adrian and Elsa have an engagement at a club. If Daphne needed anything, she could call or tap on the wall. She’s very self-reliant, really, and gets around quite well in her wheelchair.”

The plump little woman gasped and shivered. The bony hand with the blood-red nails patted her shoulder comfortingly.

When Mrs. Mattingly recovered, she continued, “Mr. Montgomery, the ventriloquist, accompanied Miss Travers and me to the theatre. I’m afraid two tickets went to waste. The ones that Mr. Sandrean had given Adrian and Mr. Lennox. After the show Mr. Montgomery invited us to a bar for refreshment, but Elsa has been feeling the heat and she wished to get home and shower and retire early. Mr. Montgomery left us to go for a drink. I suppose we must have left the Music Hall about a quarter to eleven. It’s only three blocks from here, you know. Anyway, we were home at seven minutes to eleven exactly. I know, because I have a habit of glancing at the big grandfather clock in the hall. And it’s always right. It was just a couple of minutes later that it happened.”

She paused again, overcome by emotion. Then she said, “Elsa went directly upstairs to go to her room. I came into the parlor and turned on the lights. A few seconds after Elsa reached the top of the stairs, I heard this shot. I ran out into the hall. Elsa was screaming, calling me. I rushed upstairs. We hesitated a moment, trying to guess where the the shot had come from, calling Daphne. We went into Daphne’s room. She was there in her wheelchair, dead, covered with blood.” Mrs. Mattingly buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

“And Mr. Lennox was standing on the fire escape, staring at poor Daphne,” Elsa Travers said, her chalk-white face grim.

Bart turned to the stricken old man on the love seat. He said, “Can’t you explain this, Jim?”

“I have explained it, Bart. But they won’t believe me,” Lennox answered. “You thought I looked peaked and you sent me home early from the paper. I stopped at the Automat and had a salad and some tea. It was all I felt like eating. My blood pressure has been acting up in this heat. I came home and the others were going to the Music Hall to see El Diablo. I simply wasn’t up to it. I said I would stay home with Daphne. After they left for the theatre I looked in on Daphne. She was well, but she was drowsy. She didn’t want me to help her onto the bed. She felt sure Adrian would return this evening and she wanted to be sitting up when he arrived. She said he was always remorseful when he came home after he had been drinking and she wanted to be awake to comfort him.

“I hardly slept at all last night. Tonight I took some medicine the doctor gave me for my blood pressure condition. There’s a mild sedative in it, I think. I lay down on my bed without undressing. I didn’t lock my door. No one here ever does. The keys are almost always on the outside of the doors, in fact, until we retire for the night. I left mine on the outside. I got up once and looked in on Daphne. She was dozing in her chair. I went back in my room about nine and lay down on the bed again. I was stupefied by the heat or the sedative, and I fell into a deep sleep. The shot awakened me. I thought of Daphne at once. Then I heard someone screaming and calling Mrs. Mattingly’s name. I tried to get out my door, but it was locked from outside, so I went out on the fire escape to get into Daphne’s room through the window. I saw her there in the chair, with blood on her. I could smell the smoke from the shot. I guess I was frozen stiff with horror. The door to Daphne’s room opened and Cora and Elsa came in. Cora rushed downstairs to call the police and then Elsa left, but I just stood there, stupefied, until the police came. This policeman says he found a gun on the fire escape where I was standing. I didn’t see the gun. You know I wouldn’t own a gun.”

The fat, sweaty policeman said, “The gun was up against the rail of the fire escape, like somebody had tried to kick it off but hadn’t pushed it far enough.”

The white-haired policeman said, “Tell them about the door, Mrs. Mattingly.”

The plump landlady bit her lips. Finally she said in a faint voice, “When James told me the door was locked, I tried it. The key was on the outside but it hadn’t been turned. It wasn’t locked.”

Bart said, “In this humid weather doors are warping and sticking all over the city. Jim tried the door and it stuck and he thought it was locked, so he rushed out on the fire escape, that was all.”

“Did the door stick when you tried to open it, Mrs. Mattingly?” the white-haired detective asked.

Mrs. Mattingly looked despairingly at Lennox. “Oh, James,” she said, “I hate to do this to you. I know you’re no murderer. I know you loved Daphne as we all did.” She looked at Bart. “James Lennox is one of my oldest friends, Mr. Hardin. You know that. We trouped together in Mantell’s Repertory more than thirty years ago. But I have to tell the truth. The door wasn’t stuck. It opened quite easily.”

The precinct officer addressed Romano. “The body’s upstairs, Lieutenant,” he said. “Along with an assistant M.E., and an assistant D.A. and I.D. men and some more plain cops. Maybe you want to take a look.”

Romano nodded. Grierson and Hardin followed him up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, the door to Lennox’s room stood open. Policemen were ransacking it. It was a fair-sized room and it was comfortably furnished. The window opened on a fire escape and an airshaft and faced the blank wall of the next buliding, but Bart knew that a peculiar downdraft in the areaway made it airy except in this still, hot weather. The old man who had endured grim poverty for many years had found a haven here with Bart’s help. The walls were covered with theatre programs, framed pictures of himself and other actors in scenes from forgotten plays.

The next room, much larger, was the one occupied by Adrian and Daphne Temple. It had windows on both the front and side of the house. In front was a bath and Elsa Travers’ room and a large linen closet.

Even in the pallor of death, Daphne Temple seemed petite and childish. She lolled in her chair now, her back to the wall behind the bed, her profile to the window on the fire escape. She had been shot at close range through the heart. There was a great dark stain drying on the blue silk robe which she wore over a lace nightgown. Her eyes were closed as if she had been sleeping when a murderer’s bullet blasted her life away.

An identification man held up the gun on a peg board for Romano’s inspection. “Army forty-five,” he said, “with the serial number filed off. It was warm when the precinct man found it and the barrel smelled of cordite. Two shots fired. No sign of the other one. It might have been fired at some other time, of course. The slug went right through her and imbedded itself in the back of the chair.” He palmed a misshapen pellet, showed it to the lieutenant. “We pried it out. This is it. It’s a forty-five, that’s for certain. Ballistics can tell us more.”

The assistant D.A. was a youngish, tired-looking man named Senber. He had deep, liverish circles beneath his eyes. “Well, you Homicide guys have got an easy one this time,” he said. “It’s too hot to work hard, anyway. They found the old man on the fire escape a second after he chilled her, and he told a lot of lies about locked doors to explain how he got there.”

“You think you’ve got enough to ask for an indictment?” Romano asked.

“Enough?” the D.A. said. “How much you want? This is what you cops call catching a criminal with the meat in his mouth. Don’t try to make it complicated. It’s too damned hot for complications.”

Romano turned to the medical examiner. He was a spindly, middle-aged man who did not seem to be affected by the heat. His cord suit was crisply creased and his white collar wasn’t wilted. Romano said, “Anything to tell me, Dr. Grew?”

Grew shrugged. “It’s pretty cut and dried,” he answered. “I never say too much about the probable time of death without an autopsy. That would be particularly hard because of the blood coagulation and so forth of a woman who is paralyzed. But it’s a cinch she wasn’t killed very long ago and the time of ten fifty-five that is set by the two women who heard the shot would be just about right, I’d think. Oh, there’s one queer thing.”

“What?” Romano asked.

The M.E. leaned forward and plucked a small object off the blue robe. “Feathers,” he said. “White feathers like this one. We found a few of ’em. Some were stuck to the wound. Some others were on the robe or scattered around her feet and a few were on the fire escape where the old man was standing.”

Romano took the feather. “Feathers,” he said. He handed it to Grierson. “You make anything out of this feather, Grierson?” he asked.

Grierson looked at the feather briefly.

“I can tell you one thing,” he answered. “I can tell you what kind of feather it is. My brother-in-law runs a poultry farm on Long Island, and I go out there a lot.

“This is a goose feather.”