Читать книгу Die, Little Goose: A Bret Hardin Mystery - David Alexander - Страница 7

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Two young men in white coats arrived, and at a nod from the medical examiner they began to lift the small body from the wheelchair onto a canvas stretcher. Hardin turned abruptly and walked out into the hall. Romano followed him.

Romano said, “Don’t take it too hard, honey boy. The jury isn’t in yet. Like I told you, I’ve known the old man a long time and I’ll give him every break I can.”

Bart said, “Are you really going to charge this old man with murder, copper?”

Romano shook his head despairingly. “Don’t make it so personal,” he said. “I don’t charge anybody with anything. I take ’em in, that’s all. You heard what the D.A. said. He wants me to take Lennox in. There won’t be any charge yet, not right away. At this stage we just say we’re holding them for questioning.”

“No matter what you call it, you’re arresting him on suspicion of murder,” Bart answered. “That will kill him. You won’t need the services of the executioner up at Sing Sing. It’s not just his heart and his blood pressure and this heat will do it. All that he has left is the memory of a long and blameless life and you’re taking that away from him. You’re not only labeling him a murderer, you’re implying he’s a detestable old man who killed a helpless, crippled girl for a dirty reason. There couldn’t be any other kind of reason for a man his age to kill a girl the age of Daphne.”

Romano regarded Hardin sadly. “You’re making me out a villain because I happen to have the rank and it’s my responsibility to take him in,” he said. “I’m not a villain. I’m just a cop and cops have to do nasty things sometimes. I can’t expect you to see it the way a cop has to look at it, but just the same I’m going to lay it on the line for you. Two women hear a shot fired. One of them is standing right outside the door of the room where the gun went off. Nobody comes out the door. There’s one other way out of the room—through the window and down a fire escape. They open the door and they find a dead body and they find a man standing on the fire escape just outside the window. The man is James Lennox. A few minutes later a cop finds a gun that probably fired the shot on the fire escape right where James Lennox has been standing. Lennox claims he’s standing on the fire escape because it was the only way he could get out of his room when he heard the shot. He says his door was locked from the outside. But the landlady who’s been a friend of his for thirty years and wants to help him if she can has to admit that she tried the door, that it wasn’t locked, that it opened easily. You think the D.A.’s office is going to let a Homicide lieutenant talk them out of taking Lennox in just because he’s a nice old man and has got a blood pressure condition?”

“But damn it all, another man confessed he murdered Daphne Temple!”

“Yeah,” said Romano. “And you’re the one who gave the other man a perfect alibi. He was standing alongside you in a Ninth Avenue bar when the murder was committed, you said. You think he killed her by remote control or something?”

“I think it’s damned suspicious that Adrian Temple confessed he killed his wife and we found her murdered.”

“He confessed he killed his wife last winter and she lived for about six months after that,” Romano answered. “Adrian Temple is a screwball with what they call an obsession. The only reason the medics at City didn’t bug him last time was that everybody is flipping his toupee these days and there’s a shortage of beds in the loony bins. They wrote him off as a harmless drunk and let him go after they’d hit his knee with a little hammer a time or two.”

Hardin said, “I’m going downstairs and talk to Jim Lennox. Then I’m going out to get him a lawyer. I’m going to get him Marty Land.”

“You’re getting him a good one,” Romano replied. “Marty Land’s just about the smartest cookie they ever baked in these parts.”

As Hardin descended the stairs the policeman on guard at the front door walked into the hallway with a well-dressed, jaunty young man. He called to the precinct detective, “This guy claims he lives here.”

Mrs. Mattingly walked into the hall to identify the newcomer. Hardin, who had visited often in the house, recognized the young man as Charlie Montgomery, the ventriloquist who conducted a kids’ show on television.

Montgomery said, “What’s this all about? Why all the gendarmes? Nobody kidnapped my dummy, Woodenhead Willie, did they?”

Mrs. Mattingly had regained some control of herself. Instinctively she had reverted to her role of actress as a defense mechanism in the emergency. When she spoke to Montgomery her voice was hollow-toned, like the portentous voice of Lady Macbeth on the night of Duncan’s murder. “Charles,” she said, “there’s terrible news. Daphne was murdered while we were at the theatre.”

The young man stared at her with disbelief for a moment. Then he paled and said, “Oh, my God, no!” and collapsed into a black walnut armchair.

Hardin walked into the Victorian parlor.

Lennox still sat on the little sofa, his face as white as his long hair, his eyes staring with bewilderment. The fat, sweaty detective hovered over him. The old man looked up at Hardin. “Bart,” he said, “they’re going to arrest me, aren’t they? They’re going to put me in jail. I’ve gone through a lot of human experiences in my time, but this is a thing I simply can’t believe. Did you talk to our good friend Romano, Bart? Does he actually believe I would murder Daphne? I loved her, Bart. She was sweet and gentle and brave and I loved her very much.”

Hardin’s voice was harsh and edgy, as it always was when he was deeply moved. He said, “It’s just routine. They have to take you in for questioning. I’m leaving now to get Marty Land to act as your attorney. Just don’t worry. It’ll be straightened out in no time.”

“But Land is a very expensive lawyer, Bart. I can’t afford his fees. I think the courts will appoint an attorney to represent me without charge.”

“Land is representing you,” Bart said curtly. “I won enough in the floater tonight to afford his retainer.”

“You’re a good man, Bart,” Lennox said. “But I can’t let you do this. I can’t let you spend a lot of money for my defense. It isn’t worth it. My old life can’t be of much value now. There’s too little left of it.”

Hardin turned his back to keep Lennox from seeing his face. He said, “Nuts. Just remember to keep your chin up, that’s all I ask of you. You told me once that Rostand’s Cyrano was your favorite play. Act the part of Cyrano and remember your unblemished plume.”

Bart walked hurriedly from the big room. In the hallway he encountered Sandrean, the Mexican magician who was known professionally as El Diablo. The guard had just ushered him through the door. Sandrean was a dumpy, swarthy little man in his forties. He had none of the leanness and glib suavity that is usually associated with prestidigitators. To compensate for his unimpressive appearance and to justify his stage name, he had grown a Dali antenna of a mustache with waxed points and had supplemented it with arrowhead chin whiskers. Still he resembled a jolly, well-fed friar far more than he resembled Mephistopheles.

Cora Mattingly was still playing the role of tragic heroine. Her tones were sepulchral as she related the story of the murder to her roomer. Sandrean’s reaction to the news was startling.

A stricken look came into his face and he spoke softly, as if he were addressing some person in the shadows of the hallway. “I knew it would happen,” he said. “Something terrible was certain to occur. It is all my fault.”

“What do you mean?” the white-haired detective asked quickly.

“The Feathered Serpent,” the magician said. “It is because of the Feathered Serpent that she died.”

The precinct man said, “What’s this about feathers?”

“The Feathered Serpent Illusion,” El Diablo replied, as if he were still addressing some unseen presence. “I should have known there would be a horrible vengeance for my sacrilege. The old gods are mighty ones. They are not to be mocked. But I went ahead. The Music Hall was a great opportunity for me and I wanted to be impressive, you see, so I invented the new illusion, the Illusion of the Feathered Serpent. I did not wish to perform only the old tricks. I worked a long while to perfect the new illusion. Instead of merely causing rosebushes to grow in thin air, I produced the Feathered Serpent from a receptacle no larger than a matchbox. It was eight feet in length and thick as a fire hose and it was covered with rainbow feathers like a peacock. Even the great Blackstone never produced so ambitious a mechanical illusion. And now the poor, dear little Daphne has died because of me.”

The detective looked annoyed. He said, “Just what the hell are you trying to tell us, mister?”

“I come from the Mexican state of Yucatán,” Sandrean explained. “There is the blood of proud and ancient peoples in me. The Mayans and the Toltecs and the Aztecs. They had a mighty god, the Feathered Serpent. Some knew him as Quetzalcoatl and others called him Kukulcán. When I produced his effigy I made a caricature of it for the amusement of the audience. I gave it a face as foolish as the face of the wooden dummy that my friend Montgomery uses in his act. I made it writhe and wriggle obscenely like a fan dancer. I caused the audience to hoot with laughter at my people’s ancient god. And now death and murder have struck the house I live in.”

Mrs. Mattingly dropped the role of Lady Macbeth and became the practical landlady again. “Oh, quit talking nonsense!” she said.

The pallid dancer, Elsa Travers, had come into the hall. She said, “It is not nonsense. Sandrean is right. There are many ancient mysteries we do not understand.”

“You and your astrology and tea leaves and dream books,” Mrs. Mattingly said disparagingly. “It’s as silly to think that Sandrean’s trick caused Daphne’s death as it is for the police to believe James Lennox killed her.”

Romano had come down the stairs. Bart nodded to him and started for the door. The policeman looked to Romano for confirmation before he let Bart pass.

There was a dim light burning now in the basement shop of the theatrical costumer. A man who wore a sports shirt and Bermuda shorts stood just inside the open doorway of the English basement. He was staring up curiously at the policeman at the door. He called to Bart, “Hey, mister! What happened in there tonight? I just saw them carry a body out.”

On an impulse, Bart turned and descended the two steps to the shop. The man stood aside politely and motioned him inside. Bart walked through the door. The place was a confusion of colorful costumes of many periods of fashion. From the wall, huge carnival masks grimaced at Hardin.

Hardin said, “There was a murder upstairs tonight. Didn’t you know that?”

“My God, no! They didn’t kill old Mrs. Mattingly, did they?”

“A crippled girl was killed. A former dancer named Daphne Temple.”

“That’s awful,” the shop proprietor said. “I knew the poor girl slightly. Saw her dance many a time before her accident. She was wonderful. Who killed her? Do they know?”

“They’re trying to blame it on an old actor who works for me now. Jim Lennox. I’m Bart Hardin of the Broadway Times, and old Jim has been acting as a kind of secretary for me.”

The costumer said, “That’s absurd. I know old Jim well. He wouldn’t harm a fly. He comes down here often and we cut up touches about Broadway in the old days. Just the other night he put that big plumed hat over there on his head and gave me a scene from Cyrano. He’s still got what it takes. By the way, my name is Trenchard. Dick Trenchard.”

“Glad to know you,” Bart said. “I hope that plume on the hat isn’t a goose feather. It might make the cops more suspicious. They found goose feathers around the girl’s body.”

“Goose feather? Of course not. It’s an ostrich plume. They’re darned hard to come by nowadays.”

“Has your shop been open all evening?” Bart asked. “I thought it was dark when I went by here a little while ago.”

“It was,” Trenchard said. “I worked tonight on a consignment for a summer theatre up in Sharon, Connecticut, but I locked up a little before ten o’clock. Then I remembered something I’d forgotten to put on the invoice. So I came back just a few minutes ago, just when they were taking the body out.”

“Did you look outside at all while you were working here earlier?” Bart asked.

“I may have gone out for a breath of air a time or two. But I didn’t see anybody until I was leaving at a few minutes to ten, I guess it was. I saw someone go in then. It was just one of the roomers, though. That dumpy little Mexican magician. He was all dressed up in evening clothes.”

“Did you see him come out again?”

“No. I wasn’t here. I saw him as I was closing up the shop.”

Bart started for the door. He did not suggest that Trenchard inform the police of Sandrean’s visit to the house.

“So long,” Bart said over his shoulder as he left the shop.

He found a cab and directed the driver to Marty Land’s private town house on East Sixtieth near Madison. It was after midnight now, but there was no trace of a breeze and the city was a great stone oven.

Bart knew the Broadway Mouthpiece would be in town. He was defending the sensational case of a young socialite playboy who had got himself mixed up in the call-girl business. There was no assurance Land would be home, of course. Marty was a rounder and a night owl.

Land’s house was a narrow, elegant, three-storied structure wedged in between two tall buildings. Marty’s man, properly attired despite the heat and the hour, answered the doorbell. Bart gave his name and was relieved to learn that the attorney was home.

The servant ushered Bart into a high-ceilinged, air-conditioned living room. Knowing Land, Bart had expected the furnishings to be brashly contemporary. They weren’t. The room was tastefully decorated with deep-piled rugs and traditional English pieces polished to a gleaming luster. Over the onyx mantel one of Blakelock’s golden moons shimmered on dark water through a weeping-willow tree. Marty seemed to fancy dim and dolorous landscapes. He collected Blakelock and Innes, apparently. The crepuscular foliage of the paintings on the wall made this house in mid-Manhattan seem almost sylvan.

Land entered in a few moments, wearing shantung pajamas and a raw-silk robe. Even in dishabille he managed to appear elegantly poised. His face was handsomely sun-tanned, there were flecks of gray at his temples and his mustache was impeccably waxed. He said, “What’s the matter, editor? One of your girl friends suing you for breach of promise at this time of night?”

Bart told him the story. When he finished, he fished for the crumpled bills he had thrust in his pocket when he left the crap game. He tossed the misshapen wad on a table. “There’s about fifteen hundred there,” he said. “Will it do for a retainer?”

“You’re mighty careless with your money, carrying it like that,” Marty commented. “Take it back. Bet it on a big horse when they open up at Saratoga. I don’t want it.”

“You won’t take the case?”

“I took it as soon as I heard Jim Lennox’s name,” Marty declared. “He’s one of the few men on Broadway I’ve ever admired. He’s got a kind of goodness it’s hard for guys like you and me to understand. So I’m going to pamper myself. I’m acting for him all the way, without fee. Oh, I’ll get it back. I’ll get it back the next time Selig sends one of his mobsters to me with a bum rap. I’ll double his retainer. I’m kind of sore at Selig, anyway. He thought my prices were too high and he hired himself another boy. One of the goons the other boy defended just got burned in the Sing Sing death house, so Selig is sending me his business again.”

Bart said, “Thanks, Marty, but I’d rather pay. This much, anyway. I won it in the floater.”

“You can’t pay,” Land said with finality. “When Marty wants to pamper himself and make like a little tin angel he can afford the gesture.”

Bart said, “For God’s sake try to get the old man out of this as quickly as you can. He’s got a heart condition and in this heat a jail cell may kill him.”

“A heart condition? That’s interesting. We’ll pull the covers off a doc I know right away and get old Lennox examined and we’ll have him sent to the city hospital instead of jail.”

“A locked ward down at City will kill him just as fast as a cell in jail,” Bart said.

“He won’t be in any ward,” Marty declared. “He’ll have a private room with a cop standing guard at the door. When you get yourself suspected of murder, you get special privileges.”