The Matilda Hunter Murder, page 50
The man Snydecker was staring at a letter he had withdrawn from a top envelope. A long whistle escaped his lips. He turned to Ike, who still stood across the small room, automatic pointing exactly halfway between the two men it was covering.
“Ike,” he announced exultantly, “we got our motive! We got it,” he repeated. “Listen here, Ike—just listen, will you.” Whereupon, back now to bureau, he commenced to read forth:
TOBIN AND TOBIN
Attorneys at Law
49 Wall Street
New York City
October 2nd
Mr. Jeremy Evans,
39 Scott Street,
Chicago, Ill.
Dear Mr. Evans:
In view of your most interesting information that your $2500 bequest is required in order to fulfill certain conditions with the family of your fiancée in respect to your impending marriage we very much regret to state that we have had your credentials most carefully investigated by our Chicago legal correspondents, and find that you were born two days after the will of your grandfather, Mr. Albert deVoy, was written, witnessed and signed. Inasmuch as this will quite definitely specifies that Mr. deVoy’s estate shall be applied to making bequests to such of his grandchildren as were then living, providing they shall still be living at the time of his death, you are, you see, automatically excluded from participating in its provisions. We would respectfully suggest that you do not—
Mr. Snydccker read no further but folded up the letter and reinserted it in its envelope. “Same old situation,” he commented wearily, “dished up with a few new frills. Jeez’, love is hell. If you can’t inherit the money your sweetie’s fam’ly require, you kill off one o’ your own relations and get it.” He gazed in unconcealed interest at Jerry. “Who’s the broad you committed murder for? Pretty as hell I bet. I’d like to ask her a question or two. Who is she?”
CHAPTER XXXVII
The White Circle Clue
It was Ike Kletzky, however, instead of the youngest man in the room, who spoke. He was enthusiastic to the bursting point. “Oy,” he burst forth, as the text of the letter seemed to dawn more and more upon him, “does our dear leedle search varrants produce der goots? Oh, Kus, vot—vot a findings!”
“Vot a findings,” mocked Mr. Snydecker, “I’ll tell the world.” He fastened his gaze on Jerry. “Who is she?”
“Try and find out,” bit out Jerry. “Just—try.” Mr. Snydecker gazed fixedly at him but made no retort. Then he turned back to the open bureau drawer, and raised up another letter. Opening it, he read, nodding as he did so. The newspaper clipping affixed to it was plainly visible. “He had a lot of dope, Ike,” he said pleasantly, “on death rays. Enough to spin two dozen yarns about his aunt’s kick-off. Some clipping sent him by his cousin—no, by these same lawyers. Something written, though, by his cousin. New York paper.” Mr. Snydecker now abstracted the rest of the few letters within the drawer, initialing each rapidly with an inkograph pencil, and thrust them into his vest pocket. He turned and surveyed Trotter, whose hands by now sagged wearily at a level no higher than his shoulders. “Oh—put ’em down, Trottie. Put ’em down. I got all I want. Trottie, will you arrest this fellow if I furnish the handcuffs?”
“I will not,” said Trotter angrily, rubbing his shoulders where they had evidently begun to stiffen. But his face was sorely troubled indeed.
Mr. Snydecker turned to his assistant. “Ike, go back downstairs and call up the Detective Bureau again and tell that spaghetti eating nitwit that we’ve got the motive now, and we want a warr—no—wait. Say, Ike, do you know Louie Spindo, the state’s attorney’s chief assistant at the city hall?”
“Oy, I know Louie like my own brutter,” admitted Ike.
“Indictment expert, ain’t he?” asked Mr. Snydecker anxiously.
“Der best vot iss, Kus.”
“Then never mind that wop at the Detective Bureau,” pronounced Mr. Snydecker. “My motto is bigger and better things. Ike, instead of locking this bird up at the bureau and delivering that and nothing more to our chief, Mulhoney, we’ll—we’ll deliver the real 200-proof stuff. Ike, go downstairs and get Louie Spindo on the phone. Lay before him the following points and see what he can do on drawing up a immediate indictment or whatever he has to draw up. The grand jury’s still sitting today, Ike. No reason why he can’t connect—if he wants to. Find out how soon he could present his indictment. In fact, find out everything, while I hold these birds—oh, say this one bird and poor old Trottie—here. Here’s your points, Ike. This nephew of Mrs. Hunter’s was alone with his aunt when she was croaked. He can’t prove otherwise. He started plaguin’ her to take out insurance as early as two weeks ago—that’s the postmark on this letter—and while we ain’t got any records of all his conversations with; her, we got that one letter. He even urged her to take straight life, and let her know the name and exact location of a company that she could get written up in—quick. We got a sample of the writing his machine’s turned out. Tell Louie he claims the letter was left here by an agent for the N.A.M. Co., but he places all the supposed identifyin’ handwritings on the burned portions of it—and uses a dead life insurance agent to boot! Show Louie how this kid had the full run of a medical instrument supply house where he could lay his paws on every kind of a hypodermic device known. Impress Louie partic’ly how this fellow jumped his job on some alleged pretext exactly a couple of days at most after he received this letter, dated October 2nd, from these Wall Street lawyers telling him some $2500 inheritance had blown up. It was right there, Ike, where he cooked up this murder to get the money Fate gypped him out of; and it was right there, show Louie, where he made posthaste for a company that kept cyanides lying around loose on its premises. Be sure to quote Trottie here on how Evans could easy make prussic acid, the deadliest and swiftest poison known today, with sulphuric acid from any drugstore. Don’t forget neither to tell Louie how this kid studied chiropractic—or certainly had textbooks on th’ subject if he was enrolled in that school. If he did, then he knew the whole anatomy of that spinal region—he knew perfec’ly well about them muscles right there, as Gordon Smith explained to us, being insensible to pain. Whether he knew his chiro manip’lations or not, he knew enough about the general spiel of the thing, tell Louie, to induce that poor old lady to lay down face down on his bed so’s he could pal—pal—palpate her spine up above her corset for a headache, or whatever she had. Right there, Ike, is where he poised that needle above the right spot in her back and jabbed it down right through her clothing, and she thought, poor old devil, that her talented nephew was maybe just knocking a vertebra back into place! Sixty seconds later he was propping her body up in the rocker and smoothin’ out the bed for the next step in the drama. Get all this over to Louie now. It’s important. Let him know that Evans is the ben’ficiary of the dead woman’s policy. Don’t overlook that, Ike, whatever else you do overlook. And convey to Louie that our bird’s been up against some sort of love problem where he needed exactly twenty-five hundred bucks to get the girl, and admitted it in writing to these Eastern lawyers. Tell Louie we got all the letters substantiating this stuff, we got the typewriter in the case, Gordon Smith can be subpoenaed to produce that hypo point, and—” Mr. Snydecker reached out and pocketed the burned syringe which lay on Trotter’s hat. “And we got the hypo syringe itself, fished out of the fire here today. Tell Louie we can rush this Tissenden woman before the jury or get a sworn affidavit. And tell him we got a bottle of the dead woman’s blood, too. Now can you transmit all that, Ike?”
But Ike, pocketing his gun, disdained to answer a question devolving about his ability to further himself in the employ of the I.C.P.A. In fact, he was already out of the room. His departure down the stairs left the three men in a strained silence. It seemed too incredible to Jerry Evans that, where a few minutes before he had been but a casual onlooker in this gruesome thing of surprises, he was now being literally dragged head first into it, as a fisherman might be hauled into the sea by an octopus.
“And why, Snydecker,” asked Trotter bitterly, “did this youngster make up this story about a Z-ray and bring it to the detective bureau? Why did he—”
“Because,” retorted the other confidently, “for a reason which any twelve intell’gent men may accept or reject. It won’t matter none much in the face of these facts. But you’ve asked—and I’ll answer.” Mr. Snydecker paused. “That Z-ray tale, Trotter, was contrived because Evans here discovered shortly after his aunt’s carcass had been lugged off—last night, in fact—that he’d busted off the point of his hypodermic needle in her—and he got cold feet for fair! He was afraid that a postmortem might be held, even if a rep’table medic had certified her as a heart failure case; and if it was held, it might reveal that puncture. He was scared all right. He burned up the syringe as fast as he could—yes, last evening—but he couldn’t burn the point. That was miles away by then—in his aunt’s spine. He was so upset he took a walk just before dawn. And after he got back, still early this morning, from that little constitutional, he took stock of things. With the additional happening that took place on North Clark Street, just around dawn, he saw now that he had the inside dope on a total of two mysterious deaths—one a dog, one Loucheur—and a fire, all obviously from Loucheur’s erratic Z-ray. So he just combined ’em neatly with the murder he’d pulled—sort of fused ’em all together—and sprung a real scientific mystery on the world, with that special delivery letter, bearing the phony date line of last night, but actually mailed to the bureau this morning just before the 7 A.M. collection, across the street. If Mr. World thought the death ray just stopped Mrs. Hunter’s heart—well and good. But if Mr. World found a puncture—then it’d reason that the ray had a piercing action as well as a melting one on iron and other metals. Evans didn’t want ’em to suspect that puncture had come from any human hand, and thereby maybe find what was resting at the bottom of it. See, Trottie? Elemental, my dear Watson!”
“And following this all out further, Gus,” snapped Trotter, “why did this youngster construct a story which would forfeit his insurance absolutely—the identical insurance which is the putative motive here?”
“Ah, Trottie, don’t be an ass,” snorted Mr. Snydecker derisively. “I believe you’re kidding me. He didn’t read that part of that policy. Auntie got led astray by bargain rates and took out a lame policy. But this poor fool here didn’t know it. He thought he had an all-around policy with all the trimmings. And the very cock-and-bull tale he drew up was one that knocked his collecting on it sky high. Don’t be an ass, Trottie.”
Which sage comment, Jerry reflected dismally, was about the most accurate comment possible. He had indeed, never dreamed of the peculiar nature of that engraved document until he had wound his way through paragraph after paragraph of extremely fine type matter, only to discover that—
Trotter, evidently realizing that now that the evidence was secured, his hands could in all probability wander where they pleased, stroked his chin troubledly with one, and hung the other in the armhole of his shiny vest. And thus the three men stood warily, taking in each other’s measure, the blue barrelled gun remaining ever on Mr. Snydecker’s knee, and Mr. Snydecker himself occasionally glancing out of the window with but the corner of one eye and thence back again.
At length Ike appeared. He was an enthusiastic Ike. He spoke the minute he got inside the room.
“I get Louie, Kus,” he announced. “Louie say she’s a open and shut case. De grant shoory iss down to de small stuff now, an’ dey’re sittin’ till midnight tonight. He say he pool in a indictment bill dis afternoon—and he say, Kus, he’ll resign if he can’t indict on all vot you’ve gave him. He vants dot you get sworn affidavits from dem blueprinters people dot de kid voorked dere—de same for de medical instrimant people—and a affidavit from der chiropractical school dot he vas enrolled dere. Louie iss making subpeonies now for der lantlady here und Smith der undertaker, vot’s got der hypo point. He vants dot you hustle down dere mit all de docooments—der letters. He say ve bring de typewriter unt de burned hypo.” Ike paused. “And, Kus, he vants a statement from a chemist, eef you can get id, dot der is chust a trace—von leetle trace—of prussian acid in dot bloot. But eef you can’t find dem trace, he vill go aheat mitout and get der indictment anyway. Chust get him der statement if you can—dot’s all.”
“Good,” said Mr. Snydecker cheerfully, “Perfect. If Callahan wouldn’t arrest this bird after he’s actually indicted, the Commissioner’d kick him out on the street. Ike, we’re about a hundred miles to the good. Instead of getting a man just locked up on suspicion at the bureau, we hand our own chief a gilt-edge indictment by late afternoon and see our man tossed in the county jail by night—with no bonds till he comes up for trial. We—” He rose and glanced down avariciously in the still opened bureau drawer. “We—well, if here ain’t a photo of this bird, in case he tries to fly the coop!” Mr. Snydecker pocketed the photo. “Well—that settles his hash. All right, Ike. Take this compass, this portable typewriter, and these papers. And here—this burned hypo. Go to Louie’s office at once. I’ll go straight to Stanley Pryzalski with the blood sample, and in case it’s negative—well, we’ll forego that. I think though—” There was a dread meaningfulness in Snydecker’s voice. “—that we’ll find a trace.”
“Stanley Pryzalski in the Columbus Memorial Building,” said Trotter ironically, “would find wood alcohol in a sample of mothers milk if he was paid for it. Stanley Pryzalski, with a degree from the University of Warsaw, grafting ex-city chemist, who O.K.’d a bunch of t.b. cattle from Avondale Farms—for $65! Sure—the world has forgotten, Gus, but I haven’t. Well, Gus, in case Stanley wants to help a good friend like yourself, and considers he doesn’t want to hurt your case at this stage—because of his knowing he wouldn’t be able to get to first base with a defendant’s attorney if he pulls any crooked analyses—he’ll tell you just what I’m going to tell you now: Stop off at any drugstore and get a nickel’s worth of potassium ferrocyanide and drop in a single drop in your blood sample with a dropper, and you’ll have your required certificate from any reputable chemist in town.”
Jerry gazed at the old man in consternation. His own hands had sunk slowly to the levels of his shoulders. But Mr. Snydecker appeared no longer to mind. But the withering aspect of the slur was not lost on the latter. He gave an uneasy laugh. “Thanks, Trottie. But I think the traces of prussic acid’ll be there.”
Ike had gathered together the evidence: He was already half way out of the door. Mr. Snydecker with a curt nod followed, but himself turned in the doorway, pocketing his gun.
“Don’t leave town, Evans,” he warned. “It won’t pay. You can thresh your case all out in court. When we indict you, we’re out of it. See? We’re N-I after that. In other words, not interested any longer. See?” And he was gone. The footsteps of the two men were echoing along the hall, then faintly down the stairs. Trotter was the first to speak.
“Lord, youngster, why didn’t you tell me of all this?”
Jerry rubbing his own shoulders, replied, “Why—it never came together, dates and all, in my mind as having any such construction as this fellow Snydecker put on it. He simply coordinated a series of things each of which was guiltless enough in itself. Taken together—say—can they indict me on that mass of facts?”
Trotter nodded slowly. “Indeed they can, youngster. Indeed they can. Spindo’s an expert, and he wouldn’t have said so, if they couldn’t. You ought to know by this time that you don’t have to have a watertight case to indict a man. To convict him perhaps, yes; but it’s ten times easier to indict for murder than to convict. But I’d say they’ve got enough circumstantial evidence marshalled together to give you in an actual court trial not less than twenty-five years—if not worse. Well—I’m slipping. That’s obvious. I should have investigated your life and connections instead of standing on my reading of your handwriting.” He shook his head. “I’m slipping—to let those people dig up a case like this right under my nose. An old man—slipping!”
“But why in hades,” demanded Jerry, “did you suggest to that fellow a method by which to alter that blood sample, so as to produce a trace of prussic acid?”
“Because, my boy, this chemist Pryzalski is a crook—a money hungry crook. It’s so easy for any chemist to discern ‘a trace’ of a chemical—for a trace is such a fugitive thing after all. If he did find such when such wasn’t there, his testimony could probably be knocked out subsequently by counter-analyses in a court trial. But he’s a friend of Snydecker’s, and if he can’t find the desired trace and doesn’t care to go on record as having found it, he’ll assuredly tip Snydecker off how to produce a trace and get a reputable analysis from a reputable chemist. It was a foregone conclusion. I merely wanted the other side to be mighty, mighty careful how they stepped—to let them know that I know every move they can make.”
“You don’t think I killed my aunt?” Jerry asked uneasily.
