Death for Dear Clara

by Q. Patrick

  His eyes widened slightly as the door from the outer office opened and John Hobart strolled in.

  The polo player swung across the room with a jaunty swagger which was not quite so convincingly self-assured as usual. The velvet insolence of his eyes was slightly clouded, too. In spite of the elaborate front, Timothy sensed that Mr. Hobart was uneasy.

  “I apologize for breaking in uninvited, but I realized I was next on the fatal list and I want to get this thing over and done with.”

  “So do I,” said Timothy.

  Hobart lounged into a chair. “I don’t know whether Susan’s been breaking the rules, but she’s told me that the awful truth is out. I’m sorry if I’m making things easier for you, but there’s really no reason why I should lie any longer.”

  “I’m glad you realize that.”

  “I only realize it,” said Hobart, flicking a cigarette to his lips, “because I’ve known all along that I wasn’t a real suspect in this case. After all, I was on that plane at four-fifteen and no one on earth’s going to pretend I got from the Advice Bureau to the Newark airport in a little under sixty seconds.”

  “I agree,” said Timothy surprisingly.

  “All right. “Let’s get our teeth into a confession.” Hobart glanced amusedly at Bobby. “I’ll be as succinct as possible to spare the poor stenographer. You, Mr. Trant, obviously think I’m one of Clara’s sons of a something very rude. And I don’t blame you.”

  “I’m keeping an open mind, Mr. Hobart. But as soon as I heard Polo Parade had been written by the Governor General of Senegambia, I felt that your argument with Mrs. Van Heuten had probably been matrimonial rather than literary.”

  “Which, of course, is correct. I’m afraid you took me rather unawares at Winton. I had to concoct my story as I went along.” Hobart’s lithe body bent tensely forward. “There’s no reason why you should believe me, Trant, but I swear I got mixed up in that racket without—without having my eyes open.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s true and I’ll tell you just what happened. It makes me a fool, but better a fool than that kind of knave.” Hobart’s brown fingers tugged the cigarette from between his lips and stubbed it in an ash tray. “About a year ago, I decided to give up polo. Just didn’t have enough cash to go on. The papers published a statement to that effect. You know—promising young polo player retires for lack of funds. A few days later someone brought Tolfrey around to my place. I didn’t pay much attention to him except to marvel at the amount of my brandy he managed to put away.”

  “And Tolfrey made you the celebrated business proposition?”

  Hobart grinned. “But so tactfully. He started saying what a damn shame it was I had to give up polo and that if it was just a question of finance, he might be able to find me a backer.”

  Tersely and rather brutally, Hobart went into the details of Tolfrey’s campaign. Mrs. Van Heuten was mentioned as a lady who could do a lot for young men if she liked them. Of course, one had to be very discreet, talk exclusively about manuscripts and take one’s lead from her.

  “I honestly hadn’t the faintest idea what it was all about when I first saw Clara. I sensed there must be some sort of funny business, but I didn’t give much of a damn anyway. I made vague promises about percentages. And the next thing I knew was that I was having dinner at Clara’s house and that Susan was there.”

  Hobart looked down at his strong, suntanned knuckles. “Of course, Clara arranged it all very neatly for us to go on meeting, but she was so darn discreet, she still didn’t come right out and say what she was driving at.” He glanced up suddenly, his brown eyes steady and frank. “And I was just a sap. I’d forgotten all about our agreements and everything—I swear it. Because from the first moment I saw her, when I didn’t know she was rich, didn’t even know who she was, I was absolutely crazy about Susan.”

  “I always felt,” said Timothy, “that Mrs. Van Heuten had a talent for bringing the right people together.”

  “Well, she did too darn good a job that time.” Hobart’s teeth showed in an ironic smile. “You can imagine that I felt slightly irritated when, after the wedding, Mrs. Van Heuten presented Susan with a silver-framed photograph of herself and me with a neat and accurate report from Tolfrey’s financial agency, giving me an exact account of Susan’s annual income. There was a charming little arithmetical sum attached which pointed out just how much twenty per cent of the gross would be.”

  Timothy’s eyes were amused. “I’m afraid Mrs. Van Heuten lacked a sense of humor.”

  “Mrs. Van Heuten lacked practically everything so far as I’m concerned,” said Hobart. “Of course, I saw then just what I’d let myself in for. Clara started bombarding me with letters—so sweet and subtle at first but gradually deteriorating into threats when I showed no signs of paying up the scalp-money. She hinted she’d tell Susan everything—hinted very strongly.” He paused, and added slowly, “But I didn’t give one pink damn for that because—I had already told Susan myself.”

  Timothy looked surprised. “You told your wife?”

  “I did. Oddly enough, I told her just the night before she got that telegram from the Princess. She was simply swell about it. I felt pretty much of a cad. But, she—” he stared at Timothy earnestly—“I told you once that I’d married one of the finest girls in America. I meant it.”

  “So your wife knew all about it when she went to the Princess’?”

  “Yes. She flew up to New York on the ten o’clock plane. I happened to have received a particularly loathsome letter from Clara that morning, summoning me to the Advice Bureau. Susan had begged me not to do anything about it, but I was mad. After Susan had left, I decided to take the eleven o’clock plane and tell Mrs. Van Heuten once and for all exactly where to get off. When I arrived in New York, I …”

  “You met Tolfrey?” put in Timothy.

  “Exactly. And I was charmed to meet him. It was with infinite pleasure that I socked him on the jaw. I only wish I’d done the same to Clara.” He grinned. “But I was too much of a gentleman. I merely told her in no uncertain terms that she could scream herself hoarse but she wasn’t getting any money out of me. I hinted pleasantly that her day was done.”

  “And you left, catching the 4:15 plane back to Winton which gives you a perfect alibi.” Timothy’s voice was very casual. “All right, Mr. Hobart. I think that’s …”

  “Johnny!”

  He glanced up as the door was pushed open and Susan Hobart almost ran into the room. The little millionairess’ face was pale but determined. She hurried to her husband’s side and stared defiantly at Timothy.

  “I had to come in, Mr. Trant. I don’t know what you’ve been thinking about my husband, but it’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it?” asked Timothy friendlily.

  “He—he explained it all to me. I knew even before the Princess sent me that telegram. Of course I was miserable about it at first. But I understood exactly what had happened. He wasn’t really mixed up in that—that terrible business, Mr. Trant, I swear it.”

  “So he’s been telling me,” said Timothy.

  “And I really think Mr. Trant believes me.” Hobart’s eyes were affectionate, tender as he gazed down at his wife. “I was just telling him how damn unworthy of you I was. There’s no need to defend me.”

  “But I must.” The curls shook emphatically. “I’ve got to tell Mr. Trant because—because of something.”

  She gazed at Timothy. “Of course, it was a terrible shock when I heard Mrs. Van Heuten was murdered. You—you see, I had the crazy feeling that—that perhaps Johnny … Well, Mrs. Van Heuten had really done a worse thing to him than she had to me. I knew how he felt about her and …”

  “So you thought your husband might have killed Mrs. Van Heuten?” asked Timothy.

  “And I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had,” added Susan bluntly. “But that’s why I was scared. That’s why I was stupid—and tried to offer you money. I can admit it now that I know he—he ha
s a perfect alibi.”

  Timothy grinned. “Yes, Mrs. Hobart. It’s a very perfect alibi.”

  “And there’s something else.” Susan Hobart leaned over the desk and whispered portentously as though even here she was a little intimidated by Patricia Walonska. “From the beginning the Princess said we—we had to divorce our husbands, that it was the only dignified thing to do.” She smiled mischievously. “But I don’t want to be dignified. And what I say is—what’s the point of being a rich girl if you can’t have the man you want? I’m not going to divorce Johnny.”

  Timothy’s eyes clouded a moment, then he held out his hand to Hobart.

  “Let me be the first to congratulate an Actual Life Romance.”

  “Thanks.” Hobart glanced rather anxiously at his watch. “We’re meeting some friends at the Ritz at five—little celebration and …”

  “At five? You’re very exact about times, aren’t you, Mr. Hobart? Well, I think you’ll be able to go soon. Are you leaving for Winton tonight?”

  “We thought of taking the eight-thirty plane tomorrow morning.”

  “If I were you, I’d make it the twelve-thirty—a far better plane. And, by the way, don’t forget they’ve stopped running on Daylight Saving Time.”

  Timothy smiled slightly as the two Hobarts moved out of the room. He turned to Bobby Bristol.

  “Well, Bobby, that’s the end of the manual labor. Thanks a lot. And try to forget all these rather sordid details.”

  The boy looked at him in surprise. “You don’t mean you’re through?”

  “Not quite. But I’ve got to have the police stenographer in on the next case.” Timothy’s tone was soft. “Meanwhile, I can’t keep all you people kicking your heels here any longer.”

  He pressed the buzzer and Madeleine appeared.

  “Miss Price, will you please ask the Hobarts, Mr. Muir, the Princess, Gilda Dawn and Miss Kennet to come in? I want you and Mrs. Bristol to stay outside.”

  As Madeleine disappeared, Bobby glanced at Timothy anxiously.

  “Listen, Trant, why—why are you leaving Helen out of this?”

  The detective did not have time to reply. At that moment the little crowd of people had started to troop into the room. They all approached the desk and stood there ranged in a rather uneasy row.

  Timothy picked up Bobby’s pile of shorthand pads. He smiled pleasantly around him.

  “Well,” he said, “I want to thank you people for being so cooperative. I promised to destroy all the records that weren’t directly concerned with the murders. I’m going to give you each a parting present.”

  “You mean we’re exonerated?” asked Beatrice Kennet with mock relief.

  “I think so.” Timothy had selected a sheet of paper from his notes. “This morning I spent several hours working out certain mathematical facts about this case. I won’t bother you with my reasoning, but I finally decided on four essential requisites for the murderer of Mrs. Van Heuten.”

  He glanced at the piece of paper and read:

  (1) He murdered Tolfrey and threatened Miss Price because he was frightened about Tolfrey’s connection with the back door.

  (2) He was hiding in the washroom while the Princess and her friends were talking to Mrs. Van Heuten.

  (3) He murdered Mrs. Van Heuten between 4:15 when the ladies left and 4:30 when another person came in through the back entrance.

  (4) His motive for killing Mrs. Van Heuten was connected with her non-literary activities.

  He put the paper down and turned to the erect, fur-wrapped figure of Patricia Walonska.

  “You ladies came and went by the front entrance, Princess. I can see no reason why you should have threatened Miss Price about Tolfrey and the back door. That rules you out on the first count—and consequently on all the others except number four.” He handed her Bobby’s record. “I don’t know how decipherable Bobby’s shorthand is, but I expect you’d like to get rid of this.”

  The Princess smiled gratefully. She was reinforced by a flashing grin from Beatrice Kennet and a “that’s swell of you” from Gilda Dawn.

  Timothy turned to Derek Muir.

  “Strange as it seems, Mr. Muir, your own frankness has eliminated you. When these ladies left the building around four-twenty Miss Dawn made a certain statement which you over-heard and reported accurately. That proves you were in the street at four-twenty, just about the time the murder was committed.”

  Muir eagerly grabbed the record which Timothy handed him.

  “All my life I’ve wanted an alibi,” he said. “I shall treasure this memory to my dying day.”

  Timothy’s eyes had turned to Robert Bristol. “You get your record back, too, Bobby, as the only genuinely literary client among these people.”

  As Bobby picked up the notes he had scribbled about himself, Timothy turned to John Hobart who was lounging carelessly at his wife’s side.

  “And lastly you, Mr. Hobart. I’m afraid we can’t rule you out on any of the counts—but luckily, there’s that very careful alibi on the airplane.” He tossed him his records. “There’s nothing I can do about that, is there?”

  “Nothing,” remarked Hobart indifferently. “So we have all emerged from the Valley of the Shadow. By the way, exactly who was responsible for cutting short Clara’s promising career as an unofficial matrimonial agent?”

  Timothy looked very grave. “There are still at least two more people to be interviewed, Mr. Hobart. Meanwhile, you’ll be late for your date at the Ritz.” He gave a valedictory nod and indicated the door. “I hate to say goodbye to you all—but the best of friends must part.”

  With marked alacrity, Mrs. Van Heuten’s ex-visitors started to make their leave. John and Susan Hobart hurried out first, followed by Derek Muir who had adroitly maneuvered himself to Gilda Dawn’s side. Beatrice Kennet stalked off alone.

  As the Princess Walonska moved to follow, Timothy called her back.

  “One moment, Princess.”

  Patricia Walonska paused by the desk. “What is it?”

  “I’m afraid I did a little purloining, too. Please don’t give me away.” Timothy had lifted the framed photograph of the Prince Walonski from beneath his notes. “I thought you might like this.”

  Patricia took the photograph, looked at it and at Timothy. Then she did a very unexpected thing.

  Patricia Walonska, the most impeccably dignified of New York’s young matrons, the princess to end all princesses, leaned over the desk and kissed Timothy on the mouth.

  “Do you know,” she said impulsively, “you’ve been one—one hell of a sport …?”

  XXV

  Only Bobby Bristol had made no move to leave. He sat behind the desk, his sensitive face pale but unusually decisive.

  “You’d better be going with the others, Bobby,” said Timothy quietly.

  The boy turned. “You’ve got to tell me, Trant. Is it for Helen you’re having the police stenographer?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “You—you can’t do that.” Bobby’s voice was low, urgent. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re going to say, but you gave the others a break. You’ve got to give her a break, too.”

  “What do you mean?’

  “Won’t I do instead of the police stenographer? Please—after all, Helen’s still my wife and … She wouldn’t do a thing like that. She …”

  Timothy nodded slowly. “All right, Bobby. You can stay.”

  The boy smiled with quick gratitude and sat back in his chair, twisting a pencil nervously.

  Timothy pressed the buzzer for Madeleine.

  “I’m ready for Mrs. Bristol now, Miss Price.”

  Helen Bristol entered the room almost immediately. She smiled fleetingly at Bobby and sat down, her green eyes coldly on Timothy’s face.

  “Just why are you keeping me after the others have gone?”

  “I’m sorry if Mr. Graves has been needing you at Salter’s, Mrs. Bristol, but I’ve got to ask you a few questions.”

>   “Never say die, do you?” Helen Bristol found a cigarette and struck a match.

  “It was you who said die, Mrs. Bristol. You prophesied Mrs. Van Heuten’s death about fifteen minutes after she’d been killed. I want you to tell me why you came around here that afternoon and why you called Mrs. Van Heuten a fool and a knave.”

  “Have I told you six times or is it eight?” The girl’s strong chin was thrust forward. “I’d just seen that beastly letter she wrote about Bobby’s book. Being in the publishing business, I know how cruel it is to raise authors’ hopes when you aren’t sincere. I came round to tell Mrs. Van Heuten just that.”

  “How well did you know her?” asked Timothy suddenly.

  “Hardly at all—just as an unpleasant business acquaintance.”

  “You didn’t know her as a friend?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But if you’d come into this office rather suddenly, Mrs. Van Heuten wouldn’t have been surprised to see you, would she? She’d just have thought you’d called about some business in connection with—er—Mr. Graves and Salter’s.”

  “I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said Helen Bristol.

  “I said—would she have been surprised?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Good.” Timothy turned and pointed at the back entrance. “And she wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d come in by that door, would she?”

  “What are …?” began Helen.

  “Stop!” Bobby’s eyes were bright with bewildered indignation. “That’s not true, Trant. You know Helen didn’t know about the back door.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Bobby. I believe, Mrs. Bristol, that Salter’s used to have the offices directly under this one—the offices now rented by Americo-Japan Rayon?”

  “That’s true.”

  “And that office,” said Timothy, “is the only one in the building that has a back entrance exactly like this. It didn’t need much ingenuity on your part—or the part of anyone working in Salter’s—to figure out there was a back entrance to the Advice Bureau.”

  “But …”

  “Don’t worry, Bobby. I’ll handle this myself.” Helen Bristol’s voice was steely. “What’s urging you to make these remarkable revelations, Mr. Trant?”