The Cases of Lieutenant Timothy Trant (Lost Classics)

by Q. Patrick

  “I never kid,” said Lieutenant Trant. “I am a very sedate young man.”

  Joan Hyde had found the key. “I don’t imagine Marna’s home yet but come in and have a drink.”

  “I’d like to very much.”

  She opened the door, chattering: “I’ve just been to that French movie with Barrault and Arletty. It’s quite wonderful, but at the beginning I never dreamed he wouldn’t get her at the end. Why are foreign movies always so gloomy?” Trant followed her into a charmingly casual living-room.

  His trained eye saw several very valuable pieces.

  Joan Hyde said: “It’s nothing much. They wanted a hangout in New York and Marna brought up some of the junk from their Long Island attic. I’ll rustle up a drink. Sit down.”

  As the girl disappeared into the kitchen, Trant moved to a small Chippendale breakfront desk, reflecting that anyone who had “junk” like this in a Long Island attic had no financial problems. On the desk he saw what he hoped he would see. Beside a portable typewriter there were a pile of unused Big Pal envelopes; a pile of form letters; a mimeographed list of addresses; and a second neat pile of letters which had been addressed on the typewriter and stamped ready for mailing.

  He glanced at the name on the top and saw that a Mr. and Mrs. LeRoy Jones of 78th Street were about to be urged to take an interest in delinquent boys. He had just enough time to glance at the letter below which was for a Mrs. Samuel Katzenbach when he heard Joan returning; he dropped into a chair.

  “I’m afraid there’s only rye.” Joan Hyde appeared with a tray. “After having put up with George for so long, Marna and I are a little cautious about alcohol.” She put the tray down and glanced at him curiously. “I suppose you do know what I’m talking about? You’re not someone who’s come to look at the plumbing, are you?”

  “I was never good with my hands,” said Lieutenant Trant.

  Joan made drinks and chattered on. As Trant listened, the situation became increasingly clear. Marna had married George. George was a drunk. Marna had met Eddie. Marna had wanted a divorce. The drunken George had made terrible scenes; at one time he had drunkenly tried to kill Marna. Joan, entirely in sympathy with her sister-in-law, had moved in as protection.

  “It’s dreary,” meditated Joan. “You can’t help feeling fond of your own brother, but George is quite frightening. And he still has a key. I’m always telling Marna she should get the lock changed. But she’s always putting it off.”

  Trant was losing interest. In spite of the fascinating accident which had made him conscious of it, this was basically a trite situation. A wealthy alcoholic with a temper; probably a frivolous wife.

  His thought-train snapped because a noise had come from the room, presumably a bedroom, behind Joan. It was a very slight sound but enough to tell him someone was there.

  He glanced at his watch. “Five fifteen. Marna made a fuss about my being on time. You don’t suppose she’s in the bedroom? Maybe asleep?”

  Joan put her drink down. “I strenuously doubt it. Want me to look?”

  “Would you?”

  A newspaper lay on the arm of Trant’s chair. To feign indifference he picked it up and glanced at it. It had been turned to a review of the opening of the circus. He looked down the columns.

  Joan Hyde reached the bedroom door. She opened it.

  She gasped. “Marna!”

  Instantly Trant ran to her side. Oblivious of him, Joan took a step into the room. Trant followed. A blonde girl in a black dress sat on one of the twin beds. Her hair tumbled in disorder around her beautiful but stricken face. Fantastically, she was wearing white suede gloves, and over the knuckles of the right-hand glove stretched a red damp stain.

  Joan ran to her. “Marna, what’s the matter?”

  Trant gazed as if hypnotized at the red stain. Marna turned to look at him from blank eyes.

  “Joan, tell that man to go.”

  “But, Marna, he has a date with you.”

  “Tell him to go away.”

  Trant took a step forward, his eyes darting about the room. He passed the foot of the bed.

  Marna jumped up and screamed: “No, no.”

  He came to the second bed. He looked down at the area of carpet between the bed and the window. Sprawled face down was the body of a young man. A revolver lay on the floor close to him.

  The back of his head had been shot away. He was dead.

  There was no doubt about that.

  Joan came running to Trant’s side. “George!” she cried. “Oh, Marna, he tried to attack you again. He …”

  Trant turned to Marna Hyde. She stood quite still, the fair hair hanging to her shoulders. She was as lovely as he could have wanted her to be.

  Rather sadly he said: “Since you bought the gun, Mrs. Hyde, I suppose you felt you should get your money’s worth.”

  Both girls were staring at him.

  He added: “By the way, do you always wear gloves in the house?”

  “She has a milk allergy.” It was Joan who spoke. “Her hands broke out again this afternoon. She always wears gloves when it’s bad. But—who are you? Why are you here?”

  Trant shrugged. “I’m sorry to give you such good service. I’m from the Homicide Bureau.” He took Marna’s elbow. “Shall we move into the next room?”

  Marna let him guide her into the living-room. She dropped into a chair. Joan Hyde came after them.

  “Homicide Bureau. I don’t understand.”

  “You’re not meant to.” Trant was watching Marna. “You have been sending out appeals for the Big Pal people, haven’t you?”

  The girl shivered. She did not seem to have heard the question. He repeated it. She whispered:

  “Yes.”

  “You sent some off yesterday and some more today?”

  “Yes.”

  Trant took from his pocket the letter he had received and

  handed it to her.

  “You wrote this, Mrs. Hyde?”

  “Yes, but how …?”

  “It’s all fairly obvious, isn’t it? Your husband didn’t want the divorce. He’d been acting violently. He was coming at five. You were afraid of him, so you bought a gun. He got violent again. You shot him.”

  Marna Hyde did not say anything.

  Trant went on: “There’s just one thing that seems to be missing. Eddie was supposed to be here. Where is he?”

  Marna was looking at the bloodstain on her glove. There was dead silence. The buzzer shrilled. Joan started for the door, but Trant outdistanced her to the hall. He opened the door onto a blond young man with broad shoulders and very blue eyes.

  Trant said: “Hello, Eddie.”

  The young man glared. “Who are you?”

  “Just a stray policeman. You’re a little late for the murder.”

  “Murder? Nothing’s—nothing’s happened to Marna?”

  Roughly the young man pushed past Trant and ran into the living-room. Trant followed. The young man hurried to Marna and dropped at her side, his face gaunt with anxiety.

  “Marna, baby. Marna, are you all right?”

  “It’s George, Eddie,” said Joan. “He’s dead.”

  Marna turned so that she was looking straight at the young man. “Eddie, you didn’t …?” Slowly the expression of horror faded from her eyes. “No.” She got up and confronted Trant. She seemed almost calm.

  “I haven’t any idea how you got here, but presumably you want to ask me questions. It’s all quite simple. I did buy the gun. I did write George that letter. But that’s all I did. I’ve been out this afternoon. I got back just before five. I went into the bedroom. I—I found George. I was still bending over him when I heard Joan come in with you. I heard a strange voice. It was all a terrible shock. I didn’t want a stranger involved. I decided to wait in the bedroom until you had gone.”

  Lieutenant Trant lit a cigarette. He was thinking hard. He enjoyed thinking hard and he discovered that he was beginning to relish this situation which, whatever it turned
out to be, was no longer trite.

  He sat down on the arm of a chair. All three of them were watching him as if he were a time bomb.

  He glanced at Marna. “So that’s your story. Your husband was dead when you came home?”

  “It’s true.”

  Trant smiled. “You would hardly admit that it was a lie, Mrs. Hyde. Of course, with those gloves, there’d be no fingerprints on the gun. You picked a lucky time for your disagreement with milk.”

  “Marna’s milk allergy is on the level,” barked Eddie. “Show him your hands, Marna.”

  Marna peeled off her right glove. There was no doubt about the allergy. Her thumb, the tips of her second and first fingers, and the whole middle of her palm were sprinkled with little white blisters. She turned the hand over. Her knuckles were split. She put the glove on again.

  Lieutenant Trant looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hyde. I shouldn’t have doubted your word.” He eyed her almost with affection. “I might as well explain

  my presence. There’s no magic involved. I’m on the Big Pal ‘sucker’ list. This morning I got what should have been the appeal. It wasn’t. I got George’s letter instead. I came to see what would happen here at five o’clock.”

  The drinks were still on the tray. Eddie poured himself a shot of straight rye.

  “I thought,” continued Trant, “that I had received the letter by mistake. That, of course, was what I was supposed to think. Unhappily, I don’t think it any more.”

  Marna said: “What do you think?”

  Trant did not reply. “When you’re sending out appeals to people on an alphabetical list, the only way to do it without driving yourself crazy is to send them in alphabetical order.”

  “That’s what I did.”

  “Exactly. Yesterday you got up to the I’s. I took a look at your desk. Today you began with the J’s and K’s. My name’s Trant. Certainly you hadn’t got to the T’s yesterday. You couldn’t inadvertently have put George’s letter in an envelope for me by yesterday.”

  Eddie asked: “Which means?”

  “That the letter was sent to me by-mistake-on-purpose. Someone saw my name on the ‘sucker’ list and knew my reputation as a sort of crackpot policeman. They knew if I received the letter I’d be intrigued enough to show up here at five.”

  The two girls together asked: “But why?”

  “Because they wanted me to come. The letter would have given me a preconceived idea of motive. I would have found George’s body and realized right away that he had attacked his wife and she had shot him in self-defense. I would have written George off as a victim of justifiable homicide. I might even have made a little speech to Mrs. Hyde about Valiant American Womanhood. Yes, it was a neat trap, a very neat trap.”

  Eddie asked belligerently: “Are you suggesting that Marna …”

  “I’m not suggesting that Mrs. Hyde did anything at all,” Trant looked at Eddie. “Do you have a key to this apartment?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “But you were hoping to marry Mrs. Hyde once she got the divorce?”

  He flushed. “I was and I am.”

  Trant turned to Marna. “I imagine your husband was quite rich.”

  “He was very well off.”

  “Seems to have been a kind of irresponsible character.

  Didn’t make the money himself, did he?”

  “No. It’s a trust. When his parents died, they left it all to him in trust. He can’t touch the capital. Just the income.”

  Lieutenant Trant was still watching Marna. “Lucky accident my arrival coincided with your sister-in-law’s, wasn’t it? If I’d come a minute earlier, you wouldn’t have let me in. If I’d arrived a minute later, you’d have told Joan what had happened, and again I wouldn’t have been let in.”

  Marna did not reply.

  Trant continued musingly: “I always rather suspect lucky accidents. They’re not always as accidental as they seem.”

  He shifted his quiet attention to Joan Hyde. “You live here, Miss Hyde. Perhaps you saw Marna writing that letter to George yesterday. Perhaps you even offered to mail it.”

  Joan Hyde looked back at him blankly.

  “I suppose,” he went on in his soft, almost gentle voice, “you called George in Marna’s name and asked him to come a little before five. After you’d killed him, you went downstairs, saw Marna come home, and waited for me. That was an ingenious device, assuming I was a beau of Marna’s. It gave you a chance to sell me once and for all on the manslaughter set-up. The violent George, the unchanged lock …”

  Her dark eyes blazing, Joan snapped: “You’re mad.”

  Lieutenant Trant looked disappointed. “Why do murderers always say: You’re mad? Do you suppose they pick it up in the movies?”

  “You …!”

  “In any case, I’m afraid the movies have been your downfall, Miss Hyde. You got just a little too chatty about your French film. You told me you never dreamed at the beginning that Barrault wouldn’t get Arletty in the end. To be in doubt about the end of a movie at the beginning proves quite definitely that you saw the beginning first.”

  He picked up the newspaper from the arm of the chair. “The French movie happens to be playing at only one Manhattan house. I notice here in the time-table that it begins at 1:20, 3:20 and 5:20. Since you saw the beginning before the end you could not possibly have seen the 3:20 show and arrived here just before five. If you went to the movie at all today, you went to the show which was over just before three twenty. That gave you plenty of time to eliminate George.” He paused. “That does horrid things to your alibi, doesn’t it?”

  Joan Hyde seemed stunned. So did Eddie and Marna. Eddie asked: “But why would Joan …”

  “Failing offspring, a trust fund reverts to the family.” Trant’s amiable gaze moved to Marna. “Am I right in assuming that Miss Hyde is the family?”

  “Why, yes,” faltered Marna. “She’s the only other child. I suppose the trust goes to her.”

  “Money.” Lieutenant Trant sighed. “Such an orthodox motive. Perhaps you’d give me the name of your husband’s lawyer. Just to check.”

  He produced a pencil and a piece of paper. Marna took the pencil in her right hand and scribbled. Trant put the paper in his pocket. He was still watching Marna.

  “When you discovered the corpse, you thought Eddie must have done it, didn’t you? Once you’d realized no court would convict you, you’d almost certainly have taken the rap for his sake. Yes, it was quite an expert little scheme for disposing of an alcoholic brother and living happily ever after on his trust fund.”

  He turned to Joan Hyde.

  She was still quite calm and her eyes were hard with anger. “You’ll never prove it. Never.”

  Trant grinned. “You’ll be surprised at what I can prove when I put my mind to it. For example, we’ve hardly scratched that milk allergy, have we?”

  He turned to Marna. “Would you take off your glove again, please?”

  The girl obeyed. Trant drew Joan toward her sister-in-law and carefully took hold of Marna’s hand.

  “Your sister-in-law wrote down the lawyer’s name for me. See how the pressure of the pencil broke those little blisters? Blisters are very sensitive, Miss Hyde. I challenge even you to have fired a gun and kept your blisters intact.” He shrugged. “Mrs. Hyde couldn’t have fire the gun. Eddie, who didn’t have a key, couldn’t have got in. So …. Like me to do some more proving?”

  Eddie was gazing at Marna’s hand. He muttered: “For heaven’s sake, he’s proved it, Marna. And it took him less than ten minutes.”

  Trant had a firm hold on Joan Hyde’s arm. He still liked her perfume.

  “A really good detective,” he said modestly, “would have solved it before it happened. It’s too bad, Miss Hyde. If I’d been a little brighter, we might be going to the theatre tonight, instead of to the Tombs ….”

  Town Blonde, Country Blonde

  Lieutenant Timothy Trant studied the two b
londes warily. They were both extravagantly beautiful, and one of them was a murderess.

  One of them had just shot Joseph C. Cook III dead in his own living room with his own Colt 32.

  Trant should have been in his element. He had an unorthodox weakness for murderesses. But he was disconcerted, because he still hadn’t the faintest notion which was guilty. He’d already labeled them in his mind—these two discarded girl friends of the amatory Mr. Cook. The Town Blonde and The Country Blonde. Jennifer Towne, Mr. Cook’s Town Blonde, was a fugitive from Hollywood who could have made an Internal Revenue Office glamorous with her lush curves, her red camellia mouth, her champagne shoulder-length bob. Ingeborg Lindquist, Mr. Cook’s Country Blonde, personally imported by yacht from Scandinavia, so athletic, burnt-sugar brown, gorgeously independent of make-up, stirring visions of summer sailboats and Romance.

  It should almost have been a privilege to be shot by either of them.

  But which? They both carried gloves, so there’d be no fingerprints. And both had known where Cook kept his gun.

  The Town Murderess? Or The Country Murderess?

  “It would help me a lot, ladies,” he suggested sadly, “if one of you could seem just a tiny bit innocent.”

  “I do not kill him,” said Country.

  “Neither did I,” said Town.

  At seven Lieutenant Trant and his Homicide Squad had reached Joseph Cook’s hideaway Park Avenue apartment to find Dr. Bourne, the elevator boy, and the magnificent Country Blonde waiting.

  Dr. Bourne said: “Mr. Cook came to my office on the ground floor at six to have his sinuses washed out and to get a penicillin shot. I’m sure of the time because he was very fussy about his health and always punctual. He left at six fifteen.”

  “And I brought him right up here,” broke in the elevator boy. “Around six thirty Miss Towne showed up. Only stayed a couple of minutes though. Just as I took her down again, this lady arrived.” He nodded to the Country Blonde.

  “I knock,” announced Country. “There is no answer. I hear a moan. Quick I ring for the elevator boy. Together we go in, we find him dead.”

  “Shot!” whistled the boy.

  Trant turned to him. “Know where this Miss Towne lives?”