“The wood-nymph of whom you prated in your preamble?”
“Yes—none other. I saw her first this afternoon in a shady nook in Riverdale. And she was at the Domdaniel tonight, accompanied by a johnnie named Puttle, with whom she was baiting the true swain of her heart—a Mr. Burns. He, too, was present tonight, but at a distance, and alone—and glowering unhappily.”
“Your encounter with her in the afternoon suggests more interesting possibilities,” Markham commented listlessly.
“Perhaps you’re right, old dear. The fact is, the lady was alone when I intruded into her woodland bower. But she accepted my encroachment quite simply. She even offered to read my palm. It seems that some haruspex named Delpha taught her the lines of the hand—”
“Delpha?” Heath cut in sharply. “You mean the fortuneteller who does business under that phony name?”
“It could be,” said Vance. “This Delpha, I gathered, deals in palmistry, astrology, and numerology, and other allied didos. Do you know the seeress, Sergeant?”
“I’ll say I do. I know her husband Tony, too. They’re connected in some queer way with a lot of wrong guys in the underworld. They’re tipsters, jewelry touts—what you might call spies for stickups. But you can’t get the goods on ’em. Their name’s Tofana; and they run a flashy joint for suckers… ‘Delpha’!” he snorted. “Plain Rosie she is to the neighbors. She may get by for a while longer; but I’ll nail her some day.”
“You positively astound me, Sergeant. I simply can’t imagine my sylvan fairy—who, by the by, is a working girl in the In-O-Scent perfume factory on weekdays—having aught to do with the darksome witch of your description.”
“I can,” said Heath. “That’s old Rosa Tofana’s neatest stall—surrounding herself with young innocents. And while she’s putting up the sweet, stainless front, old Tony is probably cooking up some deviltry, or picking pockets, or moll-buzzing, or dope-peddling in another part of town. Slick guy, Tony—can do ’most anything.”
“Ah, well,” murmured Vance, “we may be speaking of two quite different sibyls, don’t y’ know. ‘Delpha’ may be a popular nomenclature with the mystic sorority. Probably a bit of phonetic suggestion for the Delphic oracle…”
“Courage, Vance,” Markham put in pleasantly. “Don’t let the Sergeant side-track you from your fairy-tale.”
“And the most amazin’ detail,” Vance went on, “was the scent of citron that hung about the pixie. The perfume was mixed especially for her, and was nameless. Most mysterious—eh, what? It had been concocted by the gentleman named Burns—some sort of scent-wizard employed in the same factory she is—who was so annoyed at her apparent deflection to a rival suitor.”
Markham smiled wryly.
“I hardly see where the mystery of the situation comes in.”
“Nor I,” confessed Vance. “But let your massive brain dwell upon the fact that the young lady should have chosen this very night to visit Mirche’s hospitium.”
“Probably dogged your footsteps from Riverdale till you reached the Domdaniel.”
“That, alas! is not the answer. She was already there when I arrived.”
“Then perhaps the young lady was hungry.”
“I had thought of that.” Vance’s eyes were twinkling gayly. “Perhaps you’ve solved the mystery!… But,” he went on, “that doesn’t account for the further fact that Mirche himself was at the Domdaniel.”
“And where else would you have him, pray?… But perhaps you’re going to tell me he’s the long-lost father of your heroine?”
“No,” sighed Vance. “Mirche, I fear, is sublimely unaware of the young lady’s very existence. Most annoyin’. And I was trying so hard to build up a diverting yarn for your benefit.”
“I appreciate the effort.” Markham’s cigar needed relighting, and he gave his attention to it. “But tell me what you thought of Mirche. I recall that your main object in going to the Domdaniel tonight was to make a closer study of the man.”
“Ah, yes.” Vance shifted deeper into his chair. “You’re always so practical, Markham… Well, I don’t like Mirche. A smooth gentleman; but not an admirable one. However, he exerted himself quite earnestly to enchant me. I wonder why… Perhaps he was plotting some shady deed—though he impressed me as being the type who would need another to do his plotting for him. No, not a leader of men, but an unquestioning and able follower. A dark and wicked fellow… Well, there you have the villain of the piece.”
“And what shall I do with him?… Your tale is fizzling by the second.”
“I fear you’re right,” admitted Vance. “Let me see… I lovingly inspected Mirche’s office; but it was disgustingly void of any wrong. Merely a fair-sized room without a single occupant. And then I gazed fondly at the old door and windows beyond the porte-cochère—inside the driveway, y’ know. But all my intensive scrutiny yielded nothing of a helpful nature. The ivy round them, however, was most pleasing. English ivy.”
“Now you’re down to botany,” said Markham. “I must say, I prefer the Sergeant’s account of the Pittsburgh shooting… But didn’t you speak of a Lorelei?”
“Ah, yes. And deuced blonde she was—as becomes a Rhenish siren. Her name, however, has a Gallic ring: Del Marr. A striking Lorelei—more intelligent, I should judge, than Mirche. But there were serious words between her and our Boniface. During a restful intermission of the orchestra they sat together, and I am sure the conversation was not confined to arpeggios and treble clefs and obbligatos. Rather intimate atmosphere. Liberté, egalité, fraternité—comme ça. No mere entertainer conversing with her impresario.”
“I figured it that way myself, years ago,” Heath put in. “Furthermore, she’s got a swell car and a chauffeur, too. Her singing don’t pay for all that. And I don’t like the looks of that chauffeur either: he’s a tough mug—looks like he oughta be a bouncer in a saloon.”
“At least, Vance,” said Markham hopefully, “you have found one potential connection between the almost totally disorganized and unrelated components of your drama. Maybe you can develop your narrative structure with that as a basis.”
Vance shook his head despondently.
“No, I fear I am not equal to the task.”
“What of the ‘owl without feathers’ you mentioned a while ago?”
“Ah!” Vance sipped his cognac. “I was referring to the opaque and mysterious Mr. Owen of obnoxious memory and ill repute.”
“I see. ‘Owl’ Owen, eh? I had a vague idea he was basking in the California sunshine. It was rumored some time ago that he was dying—probably of his sins.”
“Oh, he was decidedly at the Domdaniel, sitting far across the room from me with two other men.”
“Those two guys,” Heath supplied, “were probably his bodyguard. He don’t move without ’em.”
“I fear there is no material for you in that quarter, Vance,” said Markham. “The F.B.I. were once worried about him; but after an investigation they gave the man a clean bill of health.”
“I admit defeat.” Vance smiled sadly. “I even tried to lure Mirche into an admission of knowing Owen. But he denied the remotest acquaintance with the man…”
After another hour of random talk we were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Markham frowned with annoyance as he answered it; then, putting the receiver down, he turned to Heath.
“For you, Sergeant. It’s Hennessey.”
Heath, too, was annoyed.
“Sorry, Chief. I didn’t leave this number with anyone when I came here.”
As he greeted Hennessey over the wire his voice was bellicose. He listened for several minutes, his expression changing rapidly from belligerency to deep puzzlement. Suddenly he bawled into the transmitter: “Hang on a minute!” Holding the receiver at his side, he turned to us.
“It sounds crazy to me, Chief, but Hennessey’s calling from the Domdaniel, and I gotta see him right away…”
“Splendid!” ejaculated Vance. “Why not have Hennessey co
me here? I’m sure Mr. Markham wouldn’t object.”
Markham shot Vance a look of questioning amazement.
“Very well, Sergeant,” he grumbled.
Heath quickly put the receiver to his ear again.
“Hey, listen, Hennessey,” he barked. “Hop over here to the D. A.’s.”
“What might all the excitement be, Sergeant?” asked Vance. “Has Mirche absconded with his own till and eloped with Miss Del Marr?”
“It’s damn queer,” muttered Heath, ignoring the question. “The boys found a dead guy over at the café.”
“I do hope he was found in Mirche’s office,” Vance said lightly.
“You win.” Heath stared at the floor.
“And who might the corpse be?”
“That’s what makes it cuckoo. A kitchen helper of some kind that worked there.”
“Will that fact help you revive your fizzled tale?” Markham asked Vance.
“My word, no! It blasts my limpin’ yarn completely.” Vance turned to Heath again. “Did you get the name of the defunct chappie, Sergeant?”
“I didn’t pay much attention to it when Hennessey said the guy was just a kitchen mechanic. But it sounded something like Philip Allen.”
Vance’s eyelids flickered slightly.
“Philip Allen, eh? Most interestin’!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Queer Coincidences
(Sunday, May 19; 12:45 a.m.)
HENNESSEY ARRIVED IN less than fifteen minutes. He was a heavy-set, serious-minded man with rugged features and an awkward manner.
Heath went directly to the point.
“Tell your story, Hennessey. Then I’ll ask questions. But first I want to know why you called me here at this time of night.”
“Hell, Sergeant!” Hennessey returned. “I’d been trying for over an hour to get hold of you. I knew you had some idea about Mr. Markham and the Domdaniel, and I figured you’d want to know about an unexpected death there. So I called your home and a lot of other places I thought you might be at. No dice. Then I took a chance and called you here. I didn’t want you bawling me out tomorrow.”
“Well, what do you know?” grumbled Heath.
“The story sounds cockeyed, Sergeant, but along about eleven o’clock I saw Mr. Vance come out of the café. Earlier, I’d seen him monkeying around Mirche’s office—”
“At eight,” Vance put in with a smile.
Hennessey took out his notebook and turned a few pages.
“Seven fifty-six, Mr. Vance.”
“My word, what meticulous observation!”
Hennessey grinned.
“Well, about fifteen or twenty minutes after Mr. Vance left, two men from the Bureau drives up with Doc Mendel;* and the three of ’em go in Mirche’s office. It looked like funny business to me, so I left Burke on watch, and Snitkin and I went to see what it was all about. Just as we was hopping up the steps, Mirche himself comes hurrying down the terrace, all excited, and busts past us into the office. I guess the doorman—you know him: Joe Hanley—musta told him that somethin’ queer was goin’ on…”
“Never mind guessing.”
“All right,” Hennessey continued. “Inside the office was a guy in a black suit lying all bunched up on the floor, halfway under the desk. Mirche went over to him, sort of staggerin’ and dead-white himself. He leaned close over the guy, alongside the doc who was opening the fellow’s shirt and putting one of those ear-trumpets on his chest…”
“A stethoscope! My word!” Vance looked at Markham. “I didn’t know an official Æsculapius ever carried one of those trusty instruments.”
“They don’t, as a rule,” said Markham. “Mendel’s a young fellow; just been appointed to the staff; and I wouldn’t be surprised if he carries a sphygmomanometer around with him, and his diploma, too.”
“Go on, Hennessey,” Heath growled. “Then what?”
“Guilfoyle asked Mirche who the guy was. I don’t know whether it was before or after Mirche answered the question; but anyhow along about then Dixie Del Marr came rushing in. And Mirche says, husky-like, it was one of his dishwashers at the café—a fellow named Philip Allen. I coulda told Guilfoyle that much. I knew Allen, and had seen him myself that afternoon. Then Guilfoyle asks Mirche what the fellow was doing in the office, and where he lived, and what Mirche knew about his being dead. The old toad says he don’t know nothing about the dead guy, or how he come to be there, or where he lives—that it was all a mystery to him. And he sure looked the part.”
“You’re sure he wasn’t puttin’ one over on you?” asked Heath suspiciously.
“Huh! Not me,” Hennessey asserted. “A guy can’t look that jolted and not mean it.”
“What happened then?”
Hennessey continued more rapidly.
“The doc went on examining the man, lifting up his eyelids, looking down his throat, moving his legs and arms—the regular rigamarole. And while he was busy monkeying with the guy, this Dixie Del Marr opens the door of a built-in closet and brings out a ledger. She turns a few pages, then says: ‘Here it is, Dan’—meanin’ Mirche. ‘Philip Allen lives at 198 East 37th Street—with his mother.’”
Markham looked up and turned to Vance.
“I see that your not too profound deduction is being mildly substantiated. Your blonde Lorelei is evidently Mirche’s bookkeeper.”
Hennessey was impatient at the interruption.
“Guilfoyle then asked the doc what the fellow had died of. The doc had the body on its face now, and when he looked round at Guilfoyle you’da thought he’d never seen a corpse before. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He might have died a natural death, but I can’t tell with this much of an examination. He’s got some burns on his lips, and his throat don’t look so hot’—or words to that effect. ‘You’ll have to get him down to the morgue for a post-mortem.’ He didn’t even seem to know how long the guy was dead.”
“What about the Del Marr woman?” prompted Heath.
“She put the book back and sat down in a chair looking hard and indifferent, until Mirche sent her back to the café.”
“So you sent the body down to the morgue.” Heath was puffing gloomily on his cigar.
“That’s right, Sergeant. Guilfoyle took care of calling for the buggy. He and the other man from the Bureau, Sullivan, stayed on the job… It’s a dumb enough story, but I know you’ve always been leery about this fellow Mirche—especially now with the Buzzard on the loose.”
Heath furrowed his brow and fixed Hennessey with a cold stare.
“All right!” he bellowed. “Who went in that office after Mr. Vance arrived there at eight?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” The officer laughed mirthlessly. “The Del Marr woman went in around eight-thirty and come right out again. Then, a little while later, the doorman sauntered down, and he went in too. But I figure that ain’t nothing unusual for him: I reckon Hanley just sneaked in for a snifter, for he came out rubbing his coat sleeve across his mouth…”
“What time was all this?” asked Heath.
“Early in the evening—within an hour after Mr. Vance had been there.”
“I suppose you checked if either of ’em saw the dead guy?”
“Sure I did. But neither one of ’em saw him. The doorman went in after the Del Marr woman did; and you can bet your life that if there’d been a corpse in there, Hanley would have let out a holler. He’s a right guy, Sergeant.”
“Sure; I’ve known Joe Hanley plenty long.” Heath thought a moment. “All of that don’t add up… But here’s something you can tell me: What time did you take your nap tonight?”
The import of Heath’s question suddenly dawned on me.
“Honest to God, Sergeant, I didn’t take any nap. But—so help me! —I never saw that guy Allen go into the office.”
“Huh!” A world of sarcasm was in the Sergeant’s grunt. “You didn’t go to sleep, but Allen slips into the office, has a heart attack, or somethin’, and folds up under Mirc
he’s desk! —That’s a hot one for the record!”
Hennessey turned a vivid red.
“I—I don’t blame you for squawking, Sergeant. But, on the level, I didn’t look away from that door for a split second—”
“Then this guy just made himself invisible and wished himself in there. Or maybe he came down the chimney like Santa Claus—if there’d been a chimney.” The Sergeant’s irony seemed unnecessarily brutal.
“I say, Sergeant,” Vance put in. “The real object of Hennessey’s vigil, y’ know, was to keep an eye open for Benny Pellinzi. You certainly didn’t put three husky gentlemen in the rooming-house to keep track of a poor dishwasher.”
Heath took up another phase of the problem.
“Who put in the call to Headquarters, Hennessey?”
“That’s another funny one, Sergeant. The call came through in the regular way at ten-fifty—not more’n ten minutes or so after you’d left. It was a woman who phoned. She wouldn’t give her name; played mysterious and hung up.”
“Yeah. I’ll say that’s funny… Mighta been this Del Marr wren.”
“I thought of her myself, and asked her about it. But she seemed as ignorant about it as Mirche did. But it coulda been one of the old crones that work around the kitchen. A lot of the help comes and goes through that driveway alongside the office. And if one of ’em should happen to get nosy, they could stretch up and look through the window.”
“What about the office building that adjoins the driveway?” Vance asked.
Heath answered the question.
“There’s no windows there, sir. A solid brick wall for the first three floors…”
Vance’s cigarette had burnt out, and he lighted a fresh one.
“Puttin’ it all together,” he commented, “it doesn’t look very promisin’ for a mysterious crime. Very sad. I had such lofty hopes when Hennessey phoned at this more or less witchin’ hour.”
“I gotta admit,” Heath confessed, “I can’t get hold of anything special in Hennessey’s report, myself… But there’s something else I’d like to know.” He turned back to Hennessey. “You say you knew this dishwasher, Allen, and saw him earlier in the day. What about that?”
The Gracie Allen Murder Case Page 5
