The Essential Noir Bundle, page 105
From the doorway Donny snarled: “Shut up. Stop it. Pipe down.” He addressed Klaus petulantly: “She’s been doing this for an hour. She’s got me screwy.”
Fan said: “Lay off the kid. She feels bad.”
Donny said: “She ought to.” He smiled at Luise Fischer. “Hello, baby. Everything O.K.?”
She said: “How do you do? I think it is.”
He looked at her hands. “Where’s the rings?”
“We had to leave them up there.”
“I told you!” His voice was bitter. “I told you you’d ought to let me sold them.” He turned to Klaus. “Can you beat that?”
The lawyer did not say anything.
Fan had taken Evelyn to the sofa and was soothing her.
Luise Fischer asked: “Have you heard from—”
“Brazil?” Donny said before she could finish her question. He nodded. “Yep. He’s O.K.” He glanced over his shoulder at the girl on the sofa, then spoke rapidly in a low voice. “He’s at the Hilltop Sanatorium, outside of town—supposed to have D.T.’s. You know he got plugged in the side. He’s O.K., though—Doc Barry’ll keep him under cover and fix him up good as new. He—”
Luise Fischer’s eyes were growing large. She put a hand to her throat. “But he—Dr. Ralph Barry?” she demanded.
Donny wagged his head up and down. “Yes. He’s a good guy. He’ll—”
“But he is a friend of Kane Robson’s!” she cried. “I met him there, at Robson’s house.” She turned to Klaus. “He was with him in the restaurant last night—the fat one.”
The men stared at her.
She caught Klaus’s arm and shook him. “That is why he was there last night—to see Kane—to ask him what he should do.”
Fan and Evelyn had risen from the sofa and were listening.
Donny began: “Aw, maybe it’s O.K. Doc’s a good guy. I don’t think he—”
“Cut it out!” Klaus growled. “This is serious—serious as hell.” He scowled thoughtfully at Luise Fischer. “No chance of a mistake on this?”
“No.”
Evelyn thrust herself between the two men to confront Luise Fischer. She was crying again, but was angry now.
“Why did you have to get him into all this? Why did you have to come to him with your troubles? It’s your fault that they’ll put him in prison—and he’ll go crazy in prison! If it hadn’t been for you, none of this would have happened. You—”
Donny touched Evelyn’s shoulder. “I think I’ll take a sock at you,” he said.
She cringed away from him.
Klaus said: “For God’s sake, let’s stop this fiddledeedee and decide what we’d better do.” He scowled at Luise Fischer again. “Didn’t Robson say anything to you about it last night?”
She shook her head.
Donny said: “Well, listen. We got to get him out of there. It don’t—”
“That’s easy,” Klaus said with heavy sarcasm. “If he’s in wrong there”—he shrugged—“it’s happened already. We’ve got to find out. Can you get to see him?”
Donny nodded. “Sure.”
“Then go. Wise him up—find out what the layout is.”
Donny and Luise Fischer left the house by the back door, went through the yard to the alley behind, and down the alley for two blocks. They saw nobody following them.
“I guess we’re in the clear,” Donny said, and led the way down a cross street.
On the next corner there was a garage and repair shop. A small dark man was tinkering with an engine.
“Hello, Tony,” Donny said. “Lend me a boat.”
The dark man looked curiously at Luise Fischer while saying: “Surest thing you know. Take the one in the corner.”
They got into a black sedan and drove away.
“It ain’t far,” Donny said. Then: “I’d like to pull him out of there.”
Luise Fischer was silent.
After half an hour Donny turned the machine in to a road at the end of which a white building was visible. “That’s her,” he said.
After leaving the sedan in front of the building, they walked under a black-and-gold sign that said “Hilltop Sanatorium” into an office.
“We want to see Mr. Lee,” Donny told the nurse at the desk. “He’s expecting us.”
She moistened her lips nervously and said: “It’s two hundred and three, right near the head of the stairs.”
They went up a dark flight of stairs to the second floor. “This is it,” Donny said, halting. He opened the door without knocking and waved Luise Fischer inside.
Besides Brazil, lying in bed, his sallowness more pronounced than usual, there were two men in the room. One of them was the huge tired-faced man who had arrested Luise Fischer. He said: “I oughtn’t to let you people see him.”
Brazil half rose in bed and stretched a hand out toward Luise Fischer.
She went around the huge man to the bed and took Brazil’s hand. “Oh, I’m sorry—sorry!” she murmured.
He grinned without pleasure. “Hard luck, all right. And I’m scared stiff of those damned bars.”
She leaned over and kissed him.
The huge man said: “Come on, now. You got to get out. I’m liable to catch hell for this.”
Donny took a step toward the bed. “Listen, Brazil. Is there—”
The huge man put out a hand and wearily pushed Donny back. “Go ’way. There’s nothing for you to hang around here for.” He put a hand on Luise Fischer’s shoulder. “Go ahead, please, will you? Say goodbye to him now—and maybe you can see him afterwards.”
She kissed Brazil again and stood up.
He said: “Look after her, will you, Donny?”
“Sure,” Donny promised. “And don’t let them worry you. I’ll send Harry over to see you and—”
The huge man groaned. “Is this going to keep you all day?”
He took Luise Fischer’s arm and put her and Donny out.
They went in silence down to the sedan, and neither spoke until they were entering the city again. Then Luise Fischer said: “Will you kindly lend me ten dollars?”
“Sure.” Donny took one hand from the wheel, felt in his pants pocket, and gave her two five-dollar bills.
Then she said: “I wish to go to the railroad station.”
He frowned. “What for?”
“I want to go to the railroad station,” she repeated.
When they reached the station she got out of the sedan.
“Thank you very much,” she said. “Do not wait. I will come over later.”
Luise Fischer went into the railroad station and to the newsstand, where she bought a package of cigarettes. Then she went to a telephone booth, asked for long distance, and called a Mile Valley number.
“Hello, Ito? … Is Mr. Robson there? This is Fräulein Fischer.… Yes.” There was a pause. “Hello, Kane … Well, you have won. You might have saved yourself the delay if you had told me last night what you knew.… Yes … Yes, I am.”
She put the receiver on its prong and stared at it for a long moment. Then she left the booth, went to the ticket window, and said: “A ticket to Mile Valley—one-way—please.”
The room was wide and high-ceilinged. Its furniture was Jacobean. Kane Robson was sprawled comfortably in a deep chair. At his elbow was a small table on which were a crystal-and-silver coffee service, a crystal-and-silver decanter—half full—some glasses, cigarettes, and an ashtray. His eyes glittered in the light from the fireplace.
Ten feet away, partly facing him, partly facing the fireplace, Luise Fischer sat, more erectly, in a smaller chair. She was in a pale negligee and had pale slippers on her feet.
Somewhere in the house a clock struck midnight. Robson heard it out attentively before he went on speaking: “And you are making a great mistake, my dear, in being too sure of yourself.”
She yawned. “I slept very little last night,” she said. “I am too sleepy to be frightened.”
He rose, grinning at her. “I didn’t get any either. Shall we take a look at the invalid before we turn in?”
A nurse—a scrawny middle-aged woman in white—came into the room, panting. “Mr. Conroy’s recovering consciousness, I do believe,” she said.
Robson’s mouth tightened, and his eyes, after a momentary flickering, became steady. “Phone Dr. Blake,” he said. “He’ll want to know right away.” He turned to Luise Fischer. “I’ll run up and stay with him till she is through phoning.”
Luise Fischer rose. “I’ll go with you.”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t know. Maybe the excitement of too many people—the surprise of seeing you back here again—might not be good for him.”
The nurse had left the room.
Ignoring Luise Fischer’s laughter, he said: “No; you had better stay here, my dear.”
She said: “I will not.”
He shrugged. “Very well, but—” He went upstairs without finishing the sentence.
Luise Fischer went up behind him, but not with his speed. She arrived at the sickroom doorway, however, in time to catch the look of utter fear in Conroy’s eyes, before they closed, as his bandaged head fell back on the pillow.
Robson, standing just inside the door, said softly: “Ah, he’s passed out again.” His eyes were unwary.
Her eyes were probing.
They stood there and stared at each other until the Japanese butler came to the door and said: “A Mr. Brazil to see Fräulein Fischer.”
Into Robson’s face little by little came the expression of one considering a private joke. He said: “Show Mr. Brazil into the living room. Fräulein Fischer will be down immediately. Phone the deputy sheriff.”
Robson smiled at the woman. “Well?”
She said nothing.
“A choice?” he asked.
The nurse came in. “Dr. Blake is out, but I left word.”
Luise Fischer said: “I do not think Mr. Conroy should be left alone, Miss George.”
Brazil was standing in the center of the living room, balancing himself on legs spread far apart. He held his left arm tight to his side, straight down. He had on a dark overcoat that was buttoned high against his throat. His face was a ghastly yellow mask in which his eyes burned redly. He said through his teeth: “They told me you’d come back. I had to see it.” He spit on the floor. “Strumpet!”
She stamped a foot. “Do not be a fool. I—” She broke off as the nurse passed the doorway. She said sharply: “Miss George, what are you doing?”
The nurse said: “Mr. Robson said he thought I might be able to reach Dr. Blake on the phone at Mrs. Webber’s.”
Luise Fischer turned, paused to kick off her slippers, and ran up the steps on stockinged feet. The door to Conroy’s room was shut. She flung it open.
Robson was leaning over the sick man. His hands were on the sick man’s bandaged head, holding it almost face down in the pillow.
His thumbs were pressing the back of the skull. All his weight seemed on his thumbs. His face was insane. His lips were wet.
Luise Fischer screamed, “Brazil!” and flung herself at Robson and clawed at his legs.
Brazil came into the room, lurching blindly, his left arm tight to his side. He swung his right fist, missed Robson’s head by a foot, was struck twice in the face by Robson, did not seem to know it, and swung his right fist into Robson’s belly. The woman’s grip on Robson’s ankles kept him from recovering his balance. He went down heavily.
The nurse was busy with her patient, who was trying to sit up in bed. Tears ran down his face. He was sobbing: “He stumbled over a piece of wood while he was helping me to the car, and he hit me on the head with it.”
Luise Fischer had Brazil sitting up on the floor with his back to the wall, wiping his face with her handkerchief.
He opened one eye and murmured: “The guy was screwy, wasn’t he?”
She put an arm around him and laughed with a cooing sound in her throat. “All men are.”
Robson had not moved.
There was a commotion, and three men came in.
The tallest one looked at Robson and then at Brazil and chuckled.
“There’s our lad that don’t like hospitals,” he said. “It’s a good thing he didn’t escape from a gymnasium or he might’ve hurt somebody.”
Luise Fischer took off her rings and put them on the floor beside Robson’s left foot.
THE TENTH CLUE
“Mr. Leopold Gantvoort is not at home,” the servant who opened the door said, “but his son, Mr. Charles, is—if you wish to see him.”
“No, I had an appointment with Mr. Leopold Gantvoort for nine or a little after. It’s just nine now. No doubt he’ll be back soon. I’ll wait.”
“Very well, sir.”
He stepped aside for me to enter the house, took my overcoat and hat, guided me to a room on the second floor—Gantvoort’s library—and left me. I picked up a magazine from the stack on the table, pulled an ash tray over beside me, and made myself comfortable.
An hour passed. I stopped reading and began to grow impatient. Another hour passed—and I was fidgeting.
A clock somewhere below had begun to strike eleven when a young man of twenty-five or -six, tall and slender, with remarkably white skin and very dark hair and eyes, came into the room.
“My father hasn’t returned yet,” he said. “It’s too bad that you should have been kept waiting all this time. Isn’t there anything I could do for you? I am Charles Gantvoort.”
“No, thank you.” I got up from my chair, accepting the courteous dismissal. “I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and we moved toward the door together.
As we reached the hall an extension telephone in one corner of the room we were leaving buzzed softly, and I halted in the doorway while Charles Gantvoort went over to answer it.
His back was toward me as he spoke into the instrument.
“Yes. Yes, Yes!”—sharply—“What? Yes”—very weakly—“Yes.”
He turned slowly around and faced me with a face that was gray and tortured, with wide shocked eyes and gaping mouth—the telephone still in his hand.
“Father,” he gasped, “is dead—killed!”
“Where? How?”
“I don’t know. That was the police. They want me to come down at once.”
He straightened his shoulders with an effort, pulling himself together, put down the telephone, and his face fell into less strained lines.
“You will pardon my—”
“Mr. Gantvoort,” I interrupted his apology, “I am connected with the Continental Detective Agency. Your father called up this afternoon and asked that a detective be sent to see him tonight. He said his life had been threatened. He hadn’t definitely engaged us, however, so unless you—”
“Certainly! You are employed! If the police haven’t already caught the murderer I want you to do everything possible to catch him.”
“All right! Let’s get down to headquarters.”
Neither of us spoke during the ride to the Hall of Justice. Gantvoort bent over the wheel of his car, sending it through the streets at a terrific speed. There were several questions that needed answers, but all his attention was required for his driving if he was to maintain the pace at which he was driving without piling us into something. So I didn’t disturb him, but hung on and kept quiet.
Half a dozen police detectives were waiting for us when we reached the detective bureau. O’Gar—a bullet-headed detective sergeant who dresses like the village constable in a movie, wide-brimmed black hat and all, but who isn’t to be put out of the reckoning on that account—was in charge of the investigation. He and I had worked on two or three jobs together before, and hit it off excellently.
He led us into one of the small offices below the assembly room. Spread out on the flat top of a desk there were a dozen or more objects.
“I want you to look these things over carefully,” the detective-sergeant told Gantvoort, “and pick out the ones that belonged to your father.”
“But where is he?”
“Do this first,” O’Gar insisted, “and then you can see him.”
I looked at the things on the table while Charles Gantvoort made his selections. An empty jewel case; a memorandum book; three letters in slit envelopes that were addressed to the dead man; some other papers; a bunch of keys; a fountain pen; two white linen handkerchiefs; two pistol cartridges; a gold watch, with a gold knife and a gold pencil attached to it by a gold-and-platinum chain; two black leather wallets, one of them very new and the other worn; some money, both paper and silver; and a small portable typewriter, bent and twisted, and matted with hair and blood. Some of the other things were smeared with blood and some were clean.
Gantvoort picked out the watch and its attachments, the keys, the fountain pen, the memoranda book, the handkerchiefs, the letters and other papers, and the older wallet.
“These were Father’s,” he told us. “I’ve never seen any of the others before. I don’t know, of course, how much money he had with him tonight, so I can’t say how much of this is his.”
“You’re sure none of the rest of this stuff was his?” O’Gar asked.
“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. Whipple could tell you.” He turned to me. “He’s the man who let you in tonight. He looked after Father, and he’d know positively whether any of these other things belonged to him or not.”
One of the police detectives went to the telephone to tell Whipple to come down immediately.
I resumed the questioning.
“Is anything that your father usually carried with him missing? Anything of value?”
“Not that I know of. All the things that he might have been expected to have with him seem to be here.”
“At what time tonight did he leave the house?”
“Before seven-thirty. Possibly as early as seven.”
“Know where he was going?”
“He didn’t tell me, but I supposed he was going to call on Miss Dexter.”
The faces of the police detectives brightened, and their eyes grew sharp. I suppose mine did, too. There are many, many murders with never a woman in them anywhere; but seldom a very conspicuous killing.
