Episode of the Wandering Knife

by Rinehart, Mary Roberts;

  “I got both doors locked,” Joe said laconically.

  “Anybody try to get in?”

  “Only the dog. He’s scratched at the door once or twice. The Filipino’s kind of hanging around, keeping an eye on the girl. And the fellow’s gone. Townsend. Went about half an hour ago.”

  “That all?”

  “Well,” Joe said with obvious reluctance. “The Commissioner’s been on the phone. He didn’t sound too good. I told him I’d have you call him soon as I heard from you.”

  “Then you haven’t heard from me,” Brent said and hung up.

  He went down to the grill and ordered a substantial breakfast. He never had worked well on an empty stomach, and he needed food before he called the Commissioner. So far he had got exactly nowhere. He was hot, too, and his feet were still bothering him. He reached down to unlace his shoes, and found the left side of his trousers sticking to his hand. He bent over and examined the spot. He could see nothing, but he could feel it, a long smear that felt like molasses.

  It puzzled him. It was a fresh suit; Emma had sponged and pressed it the day before. Where and how had he got it? He was still wondering about it when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hello,” said a voice. “Thought you were counting eggs somewhere in the country.”

  It was Carver, the hotel detective. Brent glanced up at him.

  “That’s next week,” he said drily. “Still stooging for divorce cases?”

  These courtesies exchanged, Carver grinned and sat down.

  “Understand you’re on the Ingalls murder,” he said. “What was it? Robbery?”

  “Nothing taken. Might have been scared off, of course.”

  The waiter brought Brent’s breakfast at that moment, and Carver glanced at it and grinned.

  “Ham and eggs and rolls,” he said. “Funny. What would you say about a man who ordered that same breakfast up in his room and then hid it in the tank of the toilet in his bathroom? Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  “Probably is crazy,” Brent said indifferently. “Still there? Better keep an eye on him if he is.”

  “Gone. Checked out right after. Left fifty cents on the tray for the waiter, too. Can you beat it?”

  Brent however was not interested. He ate hastily, knowing he would have to call headquarters when he finished. Carver talked on but he hardly heard him. It was almost twelve when he looked at his watch, paid his check and got up.

  “Better follow that fellow up,” he said. “He might be dangerous.”

  He left Carver there and went to a telephone booth. As he had expected the Commissioner’s voice was a blast in his ear.

  “Where the devil have you been?” he roared. “This place is busy with reporters. What do you mean, hiding out when all hell’s breaking loose around here?”

  “I’ve been working. After all I haven’t had much time.”

  “You’ve had time to call me. Now see here, Brent, I want that girl down here for questioning, and I want her soon. I want the man too. Townsend. He’s in it up to his neck.”

  “It may take a little time,” Brent said, thinking fast and ignoring what Joe had told him. “She’ll have to get some clothes on. And she’s in poor shape, too. Give me a couple of hours.”

  “Make it an hour if you can,” said the Commissioner, and banged down the receiver.

  Brent hung up slowly. There was an implied threat in what had been said. Do it and do it fast or else, was what it meant. He was to take the girl down to be mentally drawn and quartered, to be screamed about in the press, and to have the stigma of the interrogation to follow her the rest of her life. Or he would be demoted, even broken.

  He thought of the future, of his pension cut, of Emma’s chickens, his own plan for a kennel. He even had a plan for one in his desk—the runways were to be painted green outside and whitewashed inside. Then he walked slowly out to his car and down to the Ingalls house.

  The patrolman was still there on the pavement, trying to marshal the crowd.

  “Keep moving,” he was saying monotonously. “Nothing to see. Keep moving.”

  Brent nodded to him and went inside. Joe was at the top of the stairs, and he went up to him.

  “Anything new?” he inquired.

  “The laboratory reported. No prints in the room except the woman’s and the daughter’s. The doc says plain strangulation. That’s all so far.”

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “Downstairs. Townsend hasn’t come back.”

  He found Joy in the library. She had put on a black dress and touched up her lips. And in spite of reddened eyes she looked very pretty. Very pretty and very innocent, Brent thought. She even tried to smile when she saw him.

  “Ken went to get a lawyer,” she said. “He seems to think I need one. That’s silly, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it won’t do any harm,” Brent said guardedly. “Fact is, Commissioner wants to talk to you. Might be as well to have somebody around to look after you.”

  She looked appalled.

  “The Commissioner! Then they think I did it!”

  “Not necessarily,” Brent said stoutly. “Just a few questions. That’s all. Better get your hat, or whatever you girls wear these days. I’ll take you down.”

  He watched her as she went out. Maybe she played golf and tennis. Maybe she could throw a baseball hard and fast. But to think of her killing her mother was as impossible as to see her in a chair at headquarters, surrounded by hard-faced men firing question after question at her. He lit a cigarette and wandered unhappily back to the dining room window. The Scottie was again in the yard, but he was not digging. He was sniffing at the hole from which he had retrieved the cork. All at once Brent remembered the little dog wiping his nose on his trouser leg, and he went down the back stairs and into the kitchen. The Filipino gave him an unpleasant look.

  “How long we have police hanging around here?” he demanded.

  “Not long, I hope,” Brent told him. “Where’s that cork he carried in?”

  “He take it out again.”

  Brent went out into the yard. The Scottie was still sniffing around the hole, and Brent bent down and dug his fingers into it. The dog grumbled and nosed at him angrily.

  “It’s all right, old boy,” Brent told him. “I got business here.”

  For already he had found the cache from which the cork had come. It was a small bottle, and whatever had been in it had leaked out. Brent sniffed at it, and then put a finger inside. He stared at his hand and whistled. Then he carried the bottle into the kitchen.

  “Ever see this before?” he asked.

  The Filipino looked at it and shook his head.

  “No see,” he said laconically. “Not mine.”

  Brent dropped it in his pocket and went rapidly up the stairs. Joe was sitting in a hall chair, half asleep, and the girl was moving about in her room. He roused the man with a touch.

  “When she comes out tell her I’ve gone, but I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he whispered. “Where’s the key to the room?”

  Joe gave it to him, and he slipped quietly through the door, closing it behind him. The room was as he had left it. The bed still bore the imprint of the dead woman’s body, but careful examination revealed nothing else. Brent straightened and surveyed the room itself. It was elaborate, with its taffeta hangings, its handsome toilet set on the dressing table, and the chaise longue with a half-dozen lace-trimmed pillows.

  Except for traces of print powder apparently nothing had been disturbed. It was the room of a woman accustomed to comfort, even luxury. And almost certainly Social Register. No wonder the Commissioner was having a fit, he thought drily.

  But he did not give up easily. He heard the girl go down the stairs, and Joe tell her he was out. Then very cautiously he got down on his knees and examined the floor. It looked hopeless. The heavy pile of the carpet had been disturbed by many feet, and his eyes were not as good as they had been.

  He had accumulated quite a bit of d
ust and he was sweating profusely when at last he drew a small magnifying glass from his pocket and went over the floor inch by inch. It was slow work. He had left his flashlight in the car, and the light was not too good. Nevertheless he found one or two almost infinitesimal objects and put them carefully into an envelope in his pocket. He was looking more cheerful when he went out into the hall.

  “Girl’s gone down,” Joe said. “Do I get lunch, or don’t I?”

  “Try working on the Filipino,” Brent told him heartlessly. “Perhaps he’ll feed you. Just sit tight for a while, Joe. Maybe it won’t be long before this thing’s sewed up.”

  Joe glanced at him.

  “I sure hope so. It’s likely to be your last case. Only I hope it’s not the girl. She’s a nice kid.”

  Brent went down the stairs. His feet did not hurt him anymore, or at least he did not notice them. There was almost a spring in his walk. From the voices in the library he judged that young Townsend had returned, but he did not go there at once. Instead, and breathing hard, he made for the telephone, called Carver at the Belmont.

  That gentleman seemed annoyed when he heard his voice.

  “Look, Brent,” he said. “I was at my lunch. What’s eating you anyhow?”

  “It’s about the fellow who hid his breakfast this morning,” Brent said. “Got any idea who he was?”

  “Sure I have. Name’s Somers. Comes from Cincinnati. As if I care!”

  “You said he wore a goatee, didn’t you?”

  “I did. I was curious about the guy. Gray hair, mustache and a goatee, according to the chambermaid. What makes, Brent?”

  “Don’t know yet. When did he leave?”

  “I told you that. Between eight and nine this morning. Only here one night.”

  “How about his room? Has it been cleaned yet?”

  “God knows,” Carver said. “With these conventions and service what it is …”

  “Well, see here, Carver. Do something for me, will you? Go up yourself and lock it. I don’t want it touched.”

  “Ha! Getting interested, are you? What’s happened? Commissioner take you off the other case?”

  “He’s going to, in about an hour.”

  “Like that, is it? I’m sorry, Brent. Well, what if the room’s already done. Still interested?”

  “Lock it anyhow. I’ll be there as soon as I can make it.”

  Back in the library he faced an enraged young man, with his fists clenched and his face flushed with fury. Joy Ingalls, wearing a hat and coat and looking more frightened than ever, had evidently been trying to calm him. Townsend whirled when he heard him.

  “You’re not getting away with this,” he shouted. “She’s not going downtown to be interrogated. She’s not going anywhere. And if you try to pull a fast one I’ll forget your age and give you something you won’t forget in a hurry.”

  Brent winced not at the prospect of a beating, but at this reference to his age. Perhaps a little of his exuberance died. His voice however remained mild.

  “How about taking her to lunch at the Belmont?” he said. “Find a quiet corner, so people won’t notice her, and give her a drink. I expect she needs it.”

  Townsend looked astonished.

  “The Belmont? But I thought—”

  “Never mind what you thought. Do what I tell you. I’ll drop you there if you like. Any back way out of this house? There’s a crowd and a patrolman out front.”

  “There’s an alley,” Joy said. “We can go out through the yard.”

  Townsend was still not convinced, however.

  “If this is a trick,” he said, “what I said before goes. And then some.

  “No trick, son,” Brent said blandly. “I’ll meet you down the street at the corner. And it’s the Belmont. Nowhere else.”

  He called up the stairs to Joe.

  “We’re going out. I’m taking Miss Ingalls downtown,” he said. “Through the yard. There’s a crowd in front.” And he added rather wryly, “If there are any messages just hold them. I’ll be back.”

  “They’ll murder her at Headquarters,” Joe said somberly.

  “Before they’re through with her she’ll think she did it in Her sleep.”

  Brent grinned and, going back to his little party, led the way down the stairs to the kitchen. There he confronted an outraged Oriental with a large carving knife in his hand.

  “You take her to jail?” he demanded.

  “Don’t be a fool, Miguel,” Brent told him. “They’re going out to lunch. Only I don’t want it known. If anybody asks where they are you haven’t seen them. That clear?”

  Even then he might not have got away with it except for Joy. She put a hand on his arm and smiled at the Filipino.

  “That’s right, Miguel,” she said. “The Inspector’s our friend.” She turned trusting eyes on Brent. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. It was true. It was as true as hell. He felt like a man on a wire over Niagara Falls with all he had to help him an infinitesimal scrap in his pocket and a vague hope he could get across. But he managed to smile.

  “Out with you,” he told them. “I’ll pick you up in a minute or so.”

  He watched them go. The Scottie tried to follow them, and they had to send him back. He waited while the little animal trotted resentfully to the house. Then he turned to the Filipino.

  “If you’re the lad I think you are,” he said, “you’ll give that dog the best meal he ever had.” But he added, “Or choke him to death. He may have cost me my job.”

  The crowd on the street had largely dispersed. He sent the precinct man away and got into his car. He had a picture in his mind of the Commissioner waiting behind his desk instead of eating his usual hearty lunch at the club. He felt a trifle sick at the thought, but he had gone all out now. Either his hunch was right or it was dead wrong. If it was wrong …

  He picked up two dazed young people at the corner and drove them rapidly toward the Belmont. Behind him they were quiet, as though they were still bewildered. Young Townsend spoke to him once, however.

  “I’d like to know what’s changed your mind, sir,” he said to Brent’s back. “If you don’t mind saying.”

  Brent negotiated a corner before he answered. Then: “It’s like this, son,” he said. “I’ve been in the service a long time, and you get to know people that way. You learn to listen when they talk, and you learn to know what they can do and what they can’t. I nearly slipped up this morning because I didn’t listen when I should have.”

  “That’s the hell of an answer,” said Ken, and relapsed into silence.

  He left them in the lobby of the hotel and went to Carver’s office. Carver was smoking an after-lunch cigar and he eyed Brent curiously.

  “Room’s the way he left it. Want me to take you up?”

  “It’s not necessary. All I need is the key.”

  Carver gave it to him, but he was still inquisitive.

  “I’ve been up. There’s nothing there, Brent.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Brent said. “If you want to be useful, get a description of Mr. Somers. How he acted. If the waiter saw him. What luggage he had. Anything you can pick up.”

  “I told you a lot of that before.”

  “Sorry. I had other things to think about just then.”

  “I noticed.” Carver grinned. “Your feet, wasn’t it?”

  Brent left that unanswered, and went upstairs. The room when he entered it had obviously not been touched. Only in the bathroom two large soggy rolls and a substantial slice of ham had been removed from the tank and placed on top of the porcelain washstand. Brent examined them and left them where they were. But he gave the washstand itself a good going over before he abandoned it.

  The room itself offered nothing at first. The ashtrays had not been used, but a burned match on a windowsill indicated that Mr. Somers had just possibly emptied them out the window. Brent opened it and looked out. The hotel doorman was standing just beneath. And he permitted hi
mself a wry smile. He wondered what would have happened had Somers attempted to dump his breakfast the same way.

  He went over the bedroom carefully. The bureau showed no use whatever. If the late occupant had emptied his pockets before he went to bed, or even placed a pair of brushes on it, there was no sign of it on its virginal cover. But Brent wasted no time on it. He went to the bed and stood looking down at it. It was unused, as though someone had lain in it, but the creases were rather shallow. Mr. Somers had not slept hard, or long. Then he struck gold. He moved a pillow and there it was. It was his case. All he had to do now was to prove it.

  He knew how and why Mrs. Ingalls had been murdered. He was fairly sure who had done it, and he was confident that if his evidence held up the girl would not be arrested. But he grunted as he prepared to leave. It was up to the Commissioner now, and to his cooperation. Or was it? Perhaps he could go a step farther first.

  He called Carver on the house telephone and instructed him that the room was to be left as it was. Then, locking the door behind him, he went down to the elevator and stopped at the desk.

  “Will you see if you have a card for an F. C. Somers, from Cincinnati?” he asked the clerk. “Think he checked out this morning.”

  The clerk grinned.

  “Fellow who dumped his breakfast in the can?” he said. “What do you want to know? He left this morning about eight, traveling light on a cup of coffee.”

  “When did he get here?”

  “Last night, about nine-thirty. Carver’s been looking up his card, so I know. Some asylum looking for him?”

  “Remember what he looked like? He must have paid his bill.”

  The clerk looked bored.

  “Look, Inspector,” he said, “we had two conventions here. One of them came in last night. One left this morning. How in blazes could either the cashier or I remember that fellow? His card says he paid for one night in advance, so he probably had no luggage. That’s all I know.”

  Nor was the waiter who had taken up the breakfast any help. Mr. Somers apparently had been in the shower when he got there. The hall door was open, so he merely left the tray. He hadn’t noticed anything later when he went back for it. The money for the check was on it. And a half-dollar tip. Somers had gone. But the waiter had seen one thing. There had been a small black overnight bag on the bed.