The XYZ Murders, page 13
“You’re sure,” he muttered to the detective, who stood in the doorway beside Mrs. Murphy, watching him, “that nobody touched anything in here since last night?”
The detective shook his head. “When I’m on dooty, I’m on dooty, Inspector. It’s just as you left it.”
On the carpet beside the closet was a cheap brown handbag, its handle, broken, dangling by one end. The Inspector opened the bag; it was empty.
He crossed to the bureau and went through its stiff heavy drawers. The bureau contained a few suits of old but clean underwear, a pile of laundered handkerchiefs, a half-dozen soft-collared, striped shirts, a few crumpled neckties, and clean socks rolled into balls.
Thumm turned from the bureau; despite the chill outdoors the room was close, and he dabbed cautiously at his beet-red face with a silk handkerchief. He stood squarely in the center of the room, legs apart, and frowned about. Then he went to the marble-topped table. A bottle of ink, a clotted pen and a cheap pad of ruled notepaper he ignored; but he picked up a cardboard package of Royal Bengal cigars and investigated its interior inquisitively. Only one cigar, which crumbled between his fingers, was in the package. Thumm put the package down, the frown deepening between his eyes, and surveyed the room again.
Above the washstand in a corner was a shelf, with several articles on it. The Inspector strode across the room and stared down at the shelf. A dented alarm-clock which had run down and stopped; a quarter-full pint flask of rye whisky—Thumm took the cork out and sniffed hard—and a glass; a toothbrush; a tarnished metal shaving-case and a few other ordinary toilet articles; a small bottle of aspirin; an old copper ash-tray … The Inspector picked out of the tray the fragment of a smoked cigar, examined a torn cigar-label lying in the ashes. It was from a Cremo. Thumm swung about thoughtfully.
Mrs. Murphy’s malicious little eyes had followed the Inspector’s movements with rapt attention. She said suddenly in her nasal voice: “Ye’ll excuse the condition of the room, Inspector. This man here wouldn’t let me tidy it.”
“Yes, yes,” said Thumm. Then he halted abruptly and eyed the landlady with a flicker of interest. “By the way, Mrs. Murphy—did Wood ever have women visit him here?”
Mrs. Murphy snorted, elevating her pimply chin. “If ye weren’t a policeman, Inspector, I’d bash ye over the head for that, I’ll tell ye! O’ course not! This is a respectable house and everybody knows it. I always tell my roomers that the very first thing. ‘No lady friends callin’,’ I says, polite but firm. No nonsense or monkey-business at Mrs. Murphy’s!”
“Uh-huh.” Thumm sat down in the room’s one chair. “So no women came here.… Well, how about relatives? Any sisters who might have come here?”
“Now as to that,” replied Mrs. Murphy smartly, “I can’t blame a man for havin’ a sister, ye see. Some of my roomers have sisters visitin’ ’em, and aunts and cousins too, but I don’t think Mr. Wood did. You see, I always considered. Mr. Wood my star roomer. Been with me five years, and never gave no trouble. So quiet, so polite, such a gentleman! Never had no visitors, far’s I could see. But then we didn’t see him much; he worked from the afternoon till night on the street-car in N’York. ’Course, I don’t run a boardin’ house—my roomers eat out—so I don’t know ’bout his meals. But I’ll say this for the poor soul—he paid me regular, didn’t bother me, never got drunk—hardly ever knew he was in the house, seems like. I——”
But Inspector Thumm had risen from the chair and turned his thick back upon her. She stopped short in the middle of a sentence, blinked her batrachian eyelids several times, then glared, sniffed and flounced past the detective out of the room.
“And what a hell-cat she is,” remarked the man against the jamb. “I’ve seen rooming-houses before that allowed sisters, aunts, and cousins.” He chuckled bawdily.
But Thumm was paying no attention. He was pacing off the floor, slowly, feeling along the skeleton carpet with one foot. A slight elevation in the flooring at one point, near the border of the carpet, seemed to interest him; he stripped back the carpet and found merely a badly warped board. When he came to the bed he hesitated; but he dropped heavily to his knees and crawled underneath, feeling about like a blind man. The detective said: “Here, Chief—let me help you,” but Thumm did not reply; he was tugging at the carpet. The detective sprawled on his belly and sprayed the beams of a pocket flashlight on the area beneath the bed. Thumm muttered with elation: “Here it is!” The detective ripped away the carpet corner, and Thumm pounced on a thin yellow-covered little book. Both men crawled out from under the bed, rather the worse for wear, choking and pounding the dust from their clothes.
“Bankbook, Chief?”
But the Inspector did not reply—he was swiftly turning pages. The book tabulated numerous small deposits of a savings account several years old; there had never been a withdrawal; no deposit had been for more than ten dollars, and the majority were for five; the last entry showed a balance of nine hundred forty-five dollars and sixty-three cents. In the center-spread of the bankbook was a neatly folded five-dollar bill, obviously a last deposit which Charles Wood had been prevented by death from making.
Thumm pocketed the bankbook and turned to the detective. “When do you go off duty?”
“Eight bells. Relief comes on at that time.”
“Tell you what.” Thumm scowled. “Tomorrow about half-past two call me at headquarters. Remind me that I’ve got something special for you to do here. Get me?”
“I get you. Phone at 2:30 prompt, I will.”
Inspector Thumm strode from the room, descended the stairs—which squealed like porkers at every step—and left the house. Mrs. Murphy was energetically sweeping the porch. She flung herself out of his path with her carbuncular nose indignantly sniffing in a cloud of dust.
On the sidewalk Thumm referred to the cover of the bankbook, looked about, then crossed the Boulevard and walked south. Three blocks away he found the building he was seeking—a small business bank in pretentious marble. The Inspector entered and made his way to the cashier’s cage marked S to Z. The cashier, an oldish man, looked up.
“You the regular man on this window?” demanded Thumm.
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“You’ve probably read about the murder of a man named Charles Wood, a street-car conductor, who lived in this neighborhood?” The cashier nodded at once. “Well, I’m Inspector Thumm of the Homicide Squad across the river, in charge of the case.”
“Oh!” The cashier seemed impressed. “Wood was a depositor here, Inspector, if that’s what you’re after. I recognized his picture in the papers this morning.”
Thumm took Wood’s bankbook from his pocket. “Now, Mr.—” he glanced at the metal name in the grilled window, “Mr. Ashley, how long have you been on this window?”
“Eight years.”
“Serve Wood regularly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see by this bankbook that he made a deposit once a week—the days of the week vary, but you might tell me whatever you can remember about his banking here.”
“There isn’t much to tell, Inspector. Mr. Wood came in, as you say, steadily once every week without missing a week as far back as I can remember. Practically always came in at the same time of day—half-past one or two o’clock—I suppose just before he went back to New York for duty, judging from the newspaper report.”
Inspector Thumm frowned. “As far as you can recall, did he always make his own deposits? I’m particularly interested in that. Was he always alone?”
“I can’t remember ever seeing him with anyone.”
“Thanks.”
Thumm left the bank and made his way back along the Boulevard to the immediate vicinity of Mrs. Murphy’s rooming-house. Three doors from the dairy there was a stationery store. Thumm went in.
The proprietor, a sleepy old man, oozed forward.
“Did you know the man Charles Wood who lived in Mrs. Murphy’s up the street and was murdered last night on the ferry boat?”
The old man blinked excitedly. “Oh, yes, yes! He was a customer of mine. He bought cigars and papers here.”
“What kind of cigars did he buy?”
“Cremos. Royal Bengals. Those two mostly.”
“How often did he come in here?”
“Pretty near every day right past noon, before going to work.”
“Every day almost, hey? Ever see him with anybody else?”
“Oh no! He was always alone.”
“Did he buy stationery here too?”
“Yes. Once in a great while. Some paper and ink.”
Thumm began to button his coat. “How long has he been coming in here?”
The proprietor scratched his dirty white poll. “Four, five years, I guess. Say, you ain’t a reporter, are you?”
But Thumm merely walked out. He paused on the sidewalk. Espying a haberdashery a few doors away, he clumped over and into it. He discovered only that Wood had bought a few items of men’s wear over a long period. No, Wood always came in alone.
The Inspector emerged, scowling more deeply than ever, and in turn visited a cleaning-and-dyeing establishment, a shoe-repair shop, a shoe store, a restaurant, and a drug store in the neighborhood. All the tradesmen remembered the man as a customer of small but steady patronage over a period of several years. But he had never been accompanied by anyone—not even in the restaurant.
In the drug store Thumm had made additional inquiries: the pharmacist did not recall ever having filled a prescription for medicine on Wood’s request, remarking that it was possible that Wood, if he had ever been ill and received a prescription from some physician, might have had it filled in New York. At Thumm’s command the pharmacist wrote out a list of eleven physicians in the vicinity and three dentists—all within a radius of five blocks.
The Inspector visited each in turn. At each doctor’s office he made the same statement and asked the same question. “You have probably read that a man, Charles Wood, Forty-Second Street Crosstown conductor, was murdered last night on the Weehawken ferry. He lives in this neighborhood. I am Inspector Thumm, and I am investigating his background, trying to find someone who knows something about his personal life, possible friends, visitors. Did Wood ever come to you for medical treatment, or have you called to his rooming-house when he was ill?”
Four physicians had not read about the murder and did not know the man even by hearsay. Seven had read the newspapers but had not treated Wood and knew nothing about him.
The Inspector, jaw tight, commenced a round of the three dentists on his list. In the first case, to his increasing annoyance, he was compelled to wait thirty-five minutes before he could see the dental surgeon; and when finally Thumm did corner the man in his laboratory, the dentist refused to answer questions before seeing his visitor’s credentials. The light of hope in his eyes, Thumm squared himself and roared the man into compliance. The light died away when the man’s ultimately grudging statement indicated a total ignorance of Charles Wood.
Neither of the two remaining dentists had even heard of the dead man.
Sighing Inspector Thumm trudged back to the wide drive at the top of the hill, descended the winding ramp which led to the ferries, and re-embarked for the New York side.
NEW YORK
In the City, Inspector Thumm proceeded immediately to the executive offices of the Third Avenue Railway System, plowing through traffic with a look of pained abstraction on his ugly face.
In the edifice that housed the Personnel Department, he inquired for the Personnel Manager and was ushered into a large office. The Personnel Manager was a hard-looking man with worry-lines etched deeply into his face. He hurried forward at once, hand outstretched. “Inspector Thumm?” he asked eagerly. Thumm grunted. “Sit down, Inspector.” The Manager pulled a dusty chair forward and fairly thrust Thumm into it. “I suppose it’s about Charley Wood. Too bad. Too bad.” He sat down behind his desk and decapitated a cigar.
Thumm appraised him coldly. “Checking up on the dead man,” growled Thumm.
“Yes, yes. Terrible thing. Can’t understand it—Charley Wood was one of my best men. Quiet, steady, reliable—perfect employee.”
“So he never made trouble, hey, Mr. Klopf?”
The Manager leaned forward earnestly. “I’ll tell you something, Inspector. That man was a jewel. Never got drunk on duty, everybody liked him in the office here—neat in his reports, one of our honor men—in fact, due for a bigger job, an inspector’s job after five years of the best kind of service. Yes, sir!”
“Regular little Lord Fauntleroy, hey, Mr. Klopf?”
“I wouldn’t say that, I wouldn’t say that, Inspector Thumm,” replied Klopf hastily. “But I’m just saying—we could depend on him. You want a certificate of character, don’t you? That poor fellow worked every working day since he took over the job. He was anxious to make good, I’m telling you! We gave him every chance, too. That’s the motto of our company, Inspector. When a man shows that he wants to get ahead, we push him.”
Thumm grunted.
“I’m telling you, Inspector. He never took time off, never took a vacation, always preferred to work out his vacation time and earn double pay. Why, we’re always getting requests from motormen and conductors for pay-advances. But Charley Wood? Not him, Inspector, not him! Saved his money—showed me his bankbook once.”
“How long had he worked for this company?”
“Five years. Here, I’ll check that up.” Klopf jumped up and ran to the door. He stuck his head out and yelled: “Hey John! Bring me Charley Wood’s record-sheet!”
He walked back to his desk in a moment, a long sheet of paper in his hand. Thumm leaned over the desk, propped on his elbows, reading the record. “There, you see,” said Klopf, pointing, “he came with us a little over five years ago, starting on the Third Avenue run on the East Side, was transferred with Pat Guiness, his motorman, at his own request to the Crosstown three and a half years ago—lived in Weehawken and wanted a more convenient run. See that? Not a black mark against him!”
Thumm looked thoughtful. “See here, Klopf, what about his personal life? Know anything about it? Friends, relatives, pals?”
Klopf shook his head. “Well, I wouldn’t know much about that, but I don’t think so from what I’ve heard. He was chummy with the men but he never went out with ’em, as far as I know. I guess the closest thing to a friend he had was Pat Guiness. Here, just a minute.” He turned the record over. “See that? Record of his application. Next of kin—none. I guess that sort of answers the question, Inspector.”
“I wish I could be sure,” muttered Thumm.
“Maybe Guiness——”
“Never mind. I’ll see Guiness myself if it’s necessary.” Thumm picked up his fedora. “Well, I guess that’s all. Thanks, old man.”
The Personnel Manager pumped Thumm’s arm effusively, accompanied him out of the office and building, reiterating offers of co-operation. Thumm cut him off sharply, nodded in farewell, and then turned the corner.
He stood there, as if waiting for someone, consulting his watch frequently. Ten minutes passed before a long black Lincoln limousine with drawn curtains rolled up to the curb before him. In the front seat was a lean, grinning young man in livery, who snapped on his emergency brake, jumped out, yanked the rear door open and stood aside, still grinning. Inspector Thumm glanced quickly up and down the street; then he climbed into the automobile. Crouched in a corner, more gnome-like than ever, was old Quacey, dozing serenely.
The chauffeur closed the door, pounced on his seat and the car purred off into traffic. Quacey opened his eyes, popped awake. He saw Inspector Thumm, a very thoughtful Inspector Thumm, sitting utterly still beside him. Quacey’s gargoyle of a face suddenly dripped with smiles, and he stooped to open a compartment built into the floor of the car. He sat up, a little red, holding a large metal box, the cover of which, inside, was a mirror.
Inspector Thumm shook his broad shoulders. “A good day’s work, Quacey, all things considered,” he said.
Whereupon he took off his hat, dipped his hand into the box, rummaged and came up with something. He began vigorously to attack his face with a creamy liquid. Quacey held the mirror before him, offered a soft cloth. The Inspector scrubbed his shining face with the cloth; and lo! when the cloth came away Inspector Thumm had disappeared, not completely perhaps, for shreds of a putty-like substance still clung to his features, but the disguise was sufficiently obliterated to reveal the clean, sharp, smiling physiognomy of Mr. Drury Lane.
Scene 7
THE DEWITT HOUSE IN WEST ENGLEWOOD. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11. 10 A.M.
On Friday morning the sun deigned to show his face again, and the long black Lincoln limousine rolled along between quiet residential streets lined with poplars whose leaves made a last flushed effort to catch the yellow light.
Mr. Drury Lane looked out of his car-window and observed to Quacey that West Englewood, at least in its wealthy sectors, had not made the architectural error of building to a pattern. Each residence stood on roomy grounds, a structural unit distinct from its neighbors. Quacey remarked dryly that he much preferred The Hamlet.
They pulled up before a small estate, well kept, with wide lawns hemming a white Colonial house with many ells and porches. Lane, dressed in his inevitable cape and black hat, gripping his blackthorn stick, got out of the car and beckoned to Quacey.
“Me?” Quacey seemed surprised and even nervous. His leather apron, by its temporary banishment, had divested him of his badge of self-possession. He wore a derby, a little black overcoat with a velvet collar, and brand-new sharply sparkling shoes that seemed to pinch his toes, for he winced as he hopped to the sidewalk. Groaning, he followed Lane up the walk to the portico.
