The Bizarre Murders, page 70
4
“Oh,” said Ellery oddly, “I see.” He looked disappointed. “Well, what does she do?”
“She plans to kill him,” said Moley with triumph. “She plans to have him killed, rather; and on the chance that he’s got the letters and things with him, steal them back and destroy them. So she hunts up this Captain Kidd that she’s heard about while she’s here, hires him to bump Marco off, Kidd picks up Kummer by mistake, she finds out almost immediately, types the note off making the fake appointment with Marco that night on the terrace, goes down, picks up that bust of Columbus and socks Marco, then strangles him with the wire she’s brought with her, and—”
“Undresses the corpse?” asked Ellery quietly.
Moley looked annoyed. “That’s just pink candy!” he exploded. “Just smoke in our eyes. Doesn’t mean a thing. Or if it does, she just got a kick out of—well, you know what I mean.”
Judge Macklin shook his head. “My dear Inspector, I can’t say I agree with you on any specific count.”
“Go on,” said Ellery. “The Inspector isn’t finished, Judge. I want to hear this out to the bitter end.”
“Well, it suits me,” snapped Moley, nettled. “She thought she was safe, then. No clue left, the note was either destroyed or, if not, pointed to Rosa. Then she goes lookin’ for those letters of hers and those photos. Well, she can’t find them. In fact, she goes back with the idea of lookin’ again the next night—last night, when you caught her and this Munn doll and Mrs. Godfrey. Then she gets the call from the one who’s really got the proofs and sees she’s in for the whole damned business of blackmail all over again. She’s killed a man for nothing. This time she doesn’t even know who’s hitting her up. So the game’s up and she commits suicide. That’s all. Her suicide was a confession of guilt.”
“Just like that, eh?” murmured Judge Macklin.
“Just like that.”
The old gentleman shook his head. “Aside,” he said mildly, “from a. number of inconsistencies in your theory, Inspector, surely you must see that the woman doesn’t fit as the criminal psychologically? She was petrified with fear from the moment of her arrival at Spanish Cape. She was a middle-aged woman of the bourgeois type—the family woman pure and simple; good clean stock, narrow in her moral viewpoint, attached to home, husband, and children. The Marco incident was an emotional explosion, over as soon as it was set off. Now a woman like that, Inspector, may commit murder on impulse when she’s pushed far enough, but not an ingenious murder deliberately planned in advance. Her mind couldn’t have been clear enough. Besides, I doubt whether she possessed sufficient intelligence.” He shook his fine old head. “No, no, Inspector, it doesn’t ring true.”
“If you gentlemen are through heckling each other,” drawled Ellery, “perhaps you, Inspector, will be kind enough to answer a few questions? You’ll have to answer them to the press eventually, you know; they’re sharp lads and lassies; and you don’t want to be caught, as they say in our robuster literature, with your pants down.”
“Shoot,” said Moley, no longer triumphant or annoyed. If anything, he was worried. He sat biting his fingernails, head cocked on one side as if he were fearful of losing the merest word.
“In the first place,” said Ellery abruptly, shifting on the rustic bench, “you say Mrs. Constable, unable to pay blackmail to Marco, planned to kill him. But in planning to kill him, you maintain, she hired Captain Kidd to do the dirty work! I rise to ask: Where did she get the money to pay Kidd?”
The Inspector was silent, fretting over his nails. Then he muttered: “Well, I admit that’s a sticker, but maybe she just promised to pay him when his job was done.”
The Judge smiled, and Ellery shook his head. “And run the risk of having Cyclops on her neck as a result of welching? I think not, Inspector. Besides, it doesn’t strike me that Kidd is the type of scoundrel who would commit murder without payment in advance. You see, there’s at least one weakness in your theory, and a very basic one. In the second place, how did Mrs. Constable know about the Marco-Rosa connection—so well as to be certain that the bait of the note would work?”
“That’s easy. She kept her eyes open and found out.”
“But Rosa,” smiled Ellery, “has apparently been very secretive about it. You see, if there’s anything in my objection, it’s weakness number two.”
Moley was silent. “But those things—” he began after a moment.
“And in the third place,” continued Ellery regretfully, “you haven’t explained that business of Marco’s nudity. Most important omission of all, Inspector.”
“Damn Marco’s nudity!” roared Moley, jumping to his feet.
Ellery rose, shrugging. “Unfortunately, we can’t dispose of this case so easily, Inspector. I tell you we shan’t have a satisfactory theory until we’ve discovered one that explains sanely why—”
“Hush,” said the Judge in a whisper.
They all heard it at the same instant. It was a woman’s voice, choked and faint, but she had screamed somewhere nearby in the gardens.
They made their way rapidly toward the source of the cry, running noiselessly on the thick grass. The cry was not repeated. But the sound of a queer feminine mumbling came to their ears, growing louder as they advanced. Instinctively they felt the need for stealth.
Then they were peering through a yew-hedge into a grove set in a circle of blue spruce. One look, and Inspector Moley set his muscles to spring through the hedge. Ellery’s hand tightened on the detective’s arm, and Moley sank back.
Mr. Joseph A. Munn, the South American millionaire with the poker face, stood tensed and furious in the girdle of trees, his big brown hand clamped over the mouth of his wife.
The hand covered most of her face; only her eyes, frantic with fear, showed. She was struggling in a mad panic, and it was from her mouth that the mumbling issued, choked and distorted by his hand. Her hands beat backward over her head at his face, and she was kicking him with her sharp heels. He paid no more attention to her blows and kicks than he would have paid to the thrashings of a bug.
Mr. Joseph A. Munn looked neither like millionaire nor poker-faced gambler at the moment. The little veneer he had so carefully cultivated had curled off in a flash of passion, and the cold mask he wore had been dropped at last to reveal a terrifying rage. The muscles of his powerful jaws were drawn back in a brutish snarl. They could see the fierce humps of muscle on his shoulders and the iron bulk of his biceps through the taut coat.
“First lesson,” muttered Ellery, “in how to treat your wife. This is truly educational…”
The Judge poked a sharp elbow in his ribs.
“If you’ll shut that trap of yours,” rasped Munn, “I’ll let you go.”
She redoubled her efforts, the mumble mounting shrilly. His black eyes flashed; he lifted her from the ground. Her head snapped back and her breath was shut off. The mumble ceased.
He flung her from him to the grass, wiping his hands on his coat as if they were dirtied from the contact with her. She fell in a heap and began to cry in short, gasping sobs, almost inaudible.
“Now you listen to me,” said Munn in a tone so strangled that the words were blurred. “And you answer my questions straight. Don’t think that forked snake’s tongue o’ yours is going to get you out of this one.” He glared down at her balefully.
“Joe,” she moaned. “Joe, don’t. Don’t kill me. Joe—”
“Killin’s too good for you! You ought to be staked down on an ant-hill, you two-timing, rotten little bitch!”
“J-Joe…”
“Don’t ‘Joe’ me! Spill it! Quick!”
“What…I don’t know—” She was quaking with fear, looking up at him as if to ward off a blow, her bare arms raised.
He stooped suddenly, thrust his hand in one of her armpits, heaved effortlessly, and she flew backward to a bench, landing with a thud. He took one stride, raised his hand, and slapped her cheek three times in the same spot. The slaps sounded like revolver-shots. They jarred her to the spine, her head flying back and her blonde hair coming loose. She was too frightened to cry out, to protest. She slumped on the bench, holding her cheek and staring up at him out of her darting eyes as if she had never seen him before.
Both men were muttering in rebellion to either side of Ellery. He said: “No!” in a sharp whisper, and dug his fingers into their arms.
“Now talk, damn you,” said Munn evenly, stepping back, He jammed his big hands into the pockets of his sack-coat. “When did this happen between you and that crawling scum?”
Her teeth chattered, and for an instant she could not speak. Then she said in an unnatural voice: “When—you were—off on that business trip to Arizona. Right after we—got married.”
“Where’d you meet him?”
“At a party.”
“How long did you let him—” He choked and finished with a vile, blistering phrase.
“Two—two weeks. While you were away.”
He slapped her again. She buried her reddened face in her hands. “In my apartment?” They could scarcely hear his voice.
“Y-yes…”
His hands bunched in his pockets. She looked up and at their concealed bulk with slow horror. “Did you write him letters?”
“One.” She was whispering now.
“Love stuff?”
“Yes…”
“You changed maids while I was away, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” There was the strangest note in her whisper, and he looked at her sharply. Ellery’s eyes narrowed.
Munn stepped back and strode about the grove like a leashed animal, his face a thundercloud. She watched him with almost panting anxiety. Then he paused.
“You’re getting a break,” he said with a snarl. “I’m not going to kill you, see? Not because I’m softenin’, understand, but because there are too many bulls around here. If this was out West, or down in Rio, I’d have wrung your neck instead of slappin’ you around like a nance.”
“Oh, Joe, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong—”
“Don’t yap! I’m liable to change my mind. How much did that Marco bastard suck out of you?”
She shrank away. “D-don’t hit me again, Joe! Most-most of that money you put…in my account.”
“I gave you ten thousand dollars for spendin’ money while I was away. How much did he get out of you?”
“Eight.” She looked at her hands.
“Was it this gig that got us the invite to come up here to Spanish Cape?”
“Y-yes.”
“I thought it was the bunk. What a sucker I’ve been!” he said bitterly. “I s’pose that Constable dame and this Godfrey woman were both in the same boat. Why the hell else should the fat one commit suicide? You didn’t get that letter back from him, did you?”
“No. No, Joe, I didn’t. He fooled me. He wouldn’t sell. When we got here he asked me for—more. He wanted five thousand. I—I didn’t have it. He said I should get it from you, or he’d turn the letter and—and the maid’s statement over to you. I told him I didn’t dare and he said I’d better. Then—somebody killed him.”
“And a good clean job, too. Only thing is he didn’t get the right kind of killin’. They handle those things better down in South America. They can do wonders with a knife. Did you bump him?”
“No, no, Joe, I swear I didn’t! I—I’d thought about it, but—”
“Naw, I guess you didn’t. You haven’t got the guts of a louse when it comes to the real thing. Not that I give a damn. Hell, that crooked mouth o’ yours couldn’t tell the truth if it tried. Did you find that letter?”
“I looked for it, but”—she shivered—“it wasn’t there.”
“So it’s on the level. Somebody beat you to it.” Munn scowled thoughtfully. “That’s why the Constable critter threw herself over that cliff. Couldn’t stand the gaff.”
“Joe. How did you—know?” whispered the blonde woman.
“Got a call a couple of hours ago from somebody with a voice that smelled bad. Told me all about it. Offered the letter and the maid’s written story for sale. Ten grand. Sounded kind of hard up. I said I’d think it over—and here I am.” He slowly tilted his wife’s face upward. “Only that horse-thief doesn’t know Joe Munn. He’d ’a’ done better to go to you direct and have you steal some dough.” His fingers were biting cruelly into her flesh. “Cele, you and I are through.”
“Yes, Joe…”
“As soon as this murder stink blows over, I’m goin’ to get me a divorce.”
“Yes, Joe…”
“I’m goin’ to take that jewelry away from you—all the stuff I gave you that you loved so damn much.”
“Yes, Joe…”
“The La Salle roadster goes to the boneyard. I’m goin’ to burn that mink coat you bought for winter and that you haven’t worn. I’m goin’ to make a bonfire out of every stitch of clothes you’ve got, Cele.”
“Joe…”
“I’m goin’ to take your last cent away from you, Cele. And d’ye know what I’m goin’ to do after that?”
“Joe…!”
“I’m goin’ to kick you out into the gutter where you can play in the manure with all the rest of the—” For some time his voice went dispassionately on, in a catalogue of American and Spanish obscenity that made the listening men writhe. And all the time Munn’s fingers dug into those stricken cheeks, and his black eyes burned into hers.
Then he stopped and pushed her face back gently, and he turned on his heel and marched off down the path toward the house. She sat crouched on the bench, shivering as if she were cold. There were blackish welts on her face; they looked black in the moonlight. But in her attitude they sensed a queer and extraordinary gratification, as if she were also incredibly surprised to find herself still alive.
“My fault,” frowned Ellery as they made their way rapidly but cautiously back toward the house in Munn’s footsteps. “I should have anticipated that call. But so soon! How could I? The creature must be in the last stages of desperation.”
“He’ll call again,” panted Moley. “Munn practically said so. Munn’ll tell him to go to hell—he won’t pay—but then maybe we’ll get a line on where this guy is callin’ from. For all we know it may be from the house itself. Those extensions—”
“No,” snapped Ellery. “Let Munn alone. There’s no reason to expect that the call will be any more traceable than the first. And we might spoil everything. We have one card left to play—if it’s not too late.” He quickened his stride.
“Mrs. Godfrey?” muttered Judge Macklin.
But Ellery was already lost under the Moorish archway.
Chapter Thirteen
FOUL DEEDS WILL RISE
HE KNOCKED INSISTENTLY ON the door of Mrs. Godfrey’s sitting-room. To their astonishment it was opened by the millionaire himself, who thrust his ugly face pugnaciously up at them and scowled.
“Well?”
“We must speak with Mrs. Godfrey,” said Ellery. “It’s on a matter of the utmost importance—”
“These are my wife’s private quarters,” snapped Godfrey. “We’ve been hounded from pillar to post until my patience is exhausted. As far as I can see all you’ve accomplished is a lot of talking and running about. Can’t this ‘important’ matter wait until morning?”
“No, it can’t,” said Inspector Moley rudely, although he had no idea what was in Ellery’s mind; and he pushed past the millionaire into the room.
Stella Godfrey rose slowly from a wide couch. She was dressed in something both voluminous and thin, and her mules were on bare feet. She drew her négligé about her with a queer light in her eyes that puzzled them—a soft, dreamy, almost peaceful expression.
Godfrey marched himself in his brocaded dressing-gown to her side, standing a little before her in a protective attitude. The three men exchanged startled glances. Peace had come at last to the house of Godfrey—a peace and understanding that had not existed before. The little man, then, was even more amazingly unpredictable than his reputation…They could not help visualizing at this moment the convulsed fury on the face of Joseph Munn as he loomed over his wife in the gardens. Munn was the beast, the primitive man with a simple psychology—a savage sense of possession, a blind agony venting itself in the impulse to hurt, to batter, to crush when that sense of possession was outraged. But Walter Godfrey’s was a civilized, almost an effete, psychology. For more than a score of years his wife, while faithful to her marriage vows, had virtually not existed for him; and yet when he discovered that at last she had violated those vows, he recognized her existence, apparently forgave her, and began once more to devote himself to her! Of course, it might have been the unfortunate fate of Laura Constable that drew him to her; the stout woman had been a tragic figure, even in silence, and her shocking end had cast a pall over the household. Or perhaps it was the proximity of danger, the overhanging threat of the law, the fusing property of common fears. At any rate, the Godfreys were as tenderly reconciled as the Munns were irremediably ruptured; that much was evident.
“Mrs. Constable,” began Stella Godfrey; the shadows under her eyes had deepened. “She’s—they’ve taken her away?”
“Yes,” said Moley gravely. “She’s committed suicide. At least you ought to be thankful that there’s not another murder to complicate matters.”
“How horrible,” shuddered Mrs. Godfrey. “She was so—so lonely.”
“Frightfully sorry to intrude at such a time,” murmured Ellery. “Violence breeds violence, and no doubt you’re all heartily sick of the whole lot of us. Nevertheless, Mrs. Godfrey, we have a certain duty to perform; and as a matter of fact the more co-operation we get from you the sooner you’ll be rid of us.”
“What do you mean?” she said slowly.
“We believe the time has come to put our cards plainly and openly on the table. Your silence has put us to considerable trouble, but fortunately we’ve been able to learn nearly all the truth in other ways. Please believe me when I say that it’s no longer necessary for you to keep silent.”
