The End of Mr. Garment

by Vincent Starrett

  Mollock laid his hand on her arm.

  “Something,” he said slowly, spacing his words, “has happened. Do you suppose—?”

  But his imagination already had leaped to the incredible fact. He crossed the room with long strides, pushed past the frowning eyes of Nidia Kimbark, and stood beside her husband in the doorway.

  “Can I help, Kimbark?” he asked abruptly.

  “I think you can,” answered the strained voice of Howland Kimbark. “This man says he was instructed to bring a gentleman to this address.” He indicated the hulking figure of the taxi driver on the stone porch. “He was told that the gentleman’s name was Garment, and that he was drunk. He wants help to carry him in.”

  Conviction settled upon Mollock’s heart like a steel disc, and with it a sense of crawling shame for all his lightly spoken, cynical words.

  “I see,” he said, after a moment; and his eyes sought those of Kimbark, under the yellow porch light. “Shall we go down together?”

  They followed the taxi driver down the steps and a little distance along the gravel walk to the car. The driver swung the door, flooding the interior with light.

  Then for a little time all three stood shocked and silent in the presence of the dead man, lying back against the cushions.

  Chapter Two

  It is probable that doctors can be in error about the bodies of murdered men. After a certain time it is difficult to establish even the approximate moment of a victim’s death. And when a wound is fresh and new, who can say whether it was inflicted within five minutes or half an hour?

  Stephen Garment had been dead so short a time that his body, when the trio came upon it from the house, might almost be said to have been twitching. Not strictly that, however. Garment was quiet enough, in all conscience. A keen blade had been driven through the stiff bosom of his shirt with vigorous precision, almost, one might have supposed, at the instant that his driver—William Spessifer—had plunged his thumb into the Kimbark doorbell.

  Yet it was quickly established that the novelist, living or dead, had been driven no farther than from the Van Peters’—less than a twenty-minute drive. Miss Bland had called the turn in that connection. The Van Peters had indeed grabbed him, treacherously detained him, and sent him on his tardy way to spoil a Kimbark triumph.

  Even Miss Bland, however, refused to believe them guilty of murder. That, as she pointed out, would have been carrying a joke too far.

  Young Mr. Spessifer, as might have been expected, denied all knowledge of the deed. “My God!” he cried, with desperate and convincing naïveté. “I didn’t even have a knife!”

  Nothing could shake his more important assertion : “He was alive when I got out of the cab— that’s all I know.”

  Cicotte, the rather fattish detective from the Bureau, had an idea. He asked the obvious question first, however. “How do you know he was?”

  “Because he looked at me. I turned around and looked at him, and he looked back at me.”

  The answer did nothing to shake the detective’s idea.

  “Look here, Spessifer,” he said, “how do you know he was alive when they put him in the cab?”

  “Because,” said William Spessifer, “he stepped in by himself. I mean, they helped him—but his legs moved. I saw them.”

  Cicotte was only slightly bothered. “How did he appear?” he asked.

  “Just like what they said. Drunk!”

  “He’d been drinking plenty, all right,” confirmed the coroner’s physician. “There’s no doubt of that.”

  “Maybe he was drugged,” suggested the detective. He frowned, stroking his second chin with plump, soft fingers, like a woman’s.

  The physician agreed. “He might have been. No doubt we’ll find out about that if we post the body.”

  Cicotte shrugged and turned away. Although an American himself, his name and other little characteristics were French. There was French blood in his veins which set his imagination apart from that of most of his associates. Often it led him ludicrously astray. His malicious, coffee-coloured eyes were shot with tiny yellow flames.

  He hated to give over too quickly his notion that the Van Peters—or some member of their party—had murdered the Englishman on their own doorstep, then tumbled him into the waiting cab. It was the sort of thing that appealed to him. Scandals in high life, too, were his favourite chapters of living.

  The body of Stephen Garment had been removed from the taxicab and now occupied the most public spot in the Kimbark billiard room. It was stretched upon the billiard table in that sumptuous basement chamber—an ironic and incongruous catafalque. Upstairs the guests trod restlessly in the deep pile of the Kimbark rugs or conversed in whispers in obscure corners. Some, clear enough as to conscience perhaps, had fallen asleep in their chairs. Plain-clothes detectives loitered awkwardly and self-consciously near the entrances and exits. Their surroundings embarrassed them.

  Kimbark, who had vanished on orders from Cicotte, returned to the billiard room.

  “Mr. Anger is on his way to join us,” he said suavely. “He knows everything that happened at the Van Peters’. It seems he went that far with Mr. Garment, and himself remained when Mr. Garment started for this place. He is greatly distressed.”

  Cicotte shrugged his great shoulders. “Why not!” he commented.

  “The party was about to disband,” continued Kimbark; “but I asked Van Peter to keep everybody there until further orders, as you requested.”

  There was something sardonic and menacing in his speech, for all its studied politeness; but Cicotte was undisturbed.

  “How are they?” asked the detective, with a grin. “All perfectly normal?”

  “If you mean, are they intoxicated, I should say they are not. I spoke only with Van Peter and Mr. Anger. Both sounded quite rational.”

  “Slip over to this Van Peters’ place, MacQueen,” ordered the detective, addressing one of his assistants. “Keep a friendly eye on things, and be sure that nobody leaves until I say so.”

  Kimbark raised his eyebrows. “You surely don’t think—?”

  “A man has to begin someplace, doesn’t he?” argued the detective. “That’s where he was last seen alive. Unless this Spessifer knows what he’s talking about—which is doubtful.”

  “You don’t plan to question my guests, then? I’m glad of that.”

  Cicotte looked him over, his satirical eyes filled with amusement. “Do you suspect any of them?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Good God, no! But you asked them to remain. I assumed you wanted to—”

  “Only their names, for the time being. I’ve got to know who was here, that’s all. We’ll go upstairs in a few minutes.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You don’t think of any reason why this might have happened, I suppose, Mr. Kimbark? What possible enemies he might have made? And why? A man in his position! I suppose you hear any gossip there is to hear.”

  Kimbark shook his head. “There hasn’t been any that I know of. In New York, maybe—not here. It was probably robbery. What else could it be?”

  “Bunk!” cried the detective heartily. “He was wearing a ring that sparkled like the Lindbergh Light. Nobody could miss it. I don’t suppose he ever carried much money. Why should he?”

  He glanced casually at the dead man’s belongings, spread beside the body on the billiard table. Four dollars in green bills, a handful of small change—quarters and halves predominant—a cigarette lighter, a silver cigarette case, a gold pencil, two handkerchiefs, and the blazing ring.

  “Not a scrap of writing of any kind, and nothing to write on with that nice gold pencil. The halves and quarters were for tips. This Anger, you can gamble, carried the main roll. No robbery in this case, Mr. Kimbark, unless it happened before he left. This fellow”—he jerked a thumb in the direction of William Spessifer and again lowered his voice—“would have taken the ring and the money. And where’s the weapon? That wasn’t in the cab.”

  It was Kimbark�
�s turn to shrug. “You’re making out a rather nasty case against somebody at the other house, it seems to me,” he commented.

  The plump detective grinned. “Do you care, Mr. Kimbark?”

  “Not a damn!”

  It was true enough, but it occurred to Howland Kimbark, an instant later, that it was perhaps an unguarded statement. Was this fat-headed Sherlock from the Bureau trying to draw him out?

  “Just the same,” he continued, “the idea strikes me as a bit preposterous. It’s more likely that Garment was murdered somewhere between the Van Peters’ place and this one. If he was murdered!”

  “Oh, he was murdered, all right!” Cicotte was sure enough of that. “Make your mind at ease on that score, Mr. Kimbark.”

  “And that there was plenty of time to get rid of the weapon,” finished Kimbark.

  “That’s only if the driver did it,” said the detective placidly. “We’ve heard his story. He picked up this Garment person—this Mr. Garment—at the Van Peters’ place, and drove him here. There was only one stop; a traffic light caught them at Division Street. Nobody but Garment got into the cab to begin with, nobody else got in after it started, and nobody stopped the cab between there and here. That’s Spessifer’s story—and he ought to know.”

  It seemed an inconsistent statement to Kimbark, in view of the detective’s earlier doubts as to the veracity of the cab driver.

  “So that he was either killed before he was put in the cab—by somebody at the other house—or by the driver, after the cab had driven off?”

  “Or by somebody waiting for him here,” added Cicotte. “William says he was alive when he got down out of the cab. I don’t think William is any too sure of it, as a matter of fact; but that’s his story, and if he’s right, then this Garment could have been murdered—quickly and quietly—while the driver was on his way to your front door.”

  “By somebody who had followed him?”

  “Or by somebody who had preceded him.”

  “M-m-m-m!” said Kimbark.

  Quite suddenly he found himself thinking again of Mollock’s sensational observations in the library, a little time before. A hard smile crossed his face.

  “Something strike you?” queried the stout detective.

  “N-no! Nothing of importance.” Kimbark hesitated, frowned, and thought again.

  “Hard to be certain always,” urged the detective. “I’d like to hear it, if you don’t mind.”

  “I was thinking,” said Kimbark, “of your last suggestion: that Mr. Garment might have been murdered before his driver had reached my doorstep. Something of the sort was actually suggested by one of my guests before we knew that Mr. Garment had been murdered.”

  “The deuce it was!” Cicotte was astounded.

  After all, thought Kimbark, what consideration did he owe to Dunstan Mollock? He had resented the flippant New Yorker from the beginning. And for some hours the fellow’s conduct had been at least exasperating. Not that Mollock had had any idea of what he was talking about. He had been romancing to excite the red-headed Betty Waterloo. But it had been a significant story that the fictioneer had appeared to improvise, and one that might easily raise a suspicion of prior knowledge.

  Cicotte was watching him. After a moment he laughed. “I’m afraid you don’t like that particular guest, Mr. Kimbark,” he said.

  Kimbark was startled. “What makes you think so?”

  “You’re almost bending over backwards to give him a square deal.”

  Kimbark smiled wryly. “I’m afraid you flatter me,” he retorted; but he did not further deny the detective’s interpretation of his silence. And part of it was true enough: he didn't like Mollock.

  “Before the discovery of the murder, eh?” mused Cicotte, with guileful innocence. “You’re sure of that, Mr. Kimbark!”

  “Of course I am. It was merely a flight of fancy, of course. Mollock was the man—Dunstan Mollock. I suppose you know his books?”

  “Never heard of him,” said Cicotte briskly. “Another writer? Good Lord!”

  “That wouldn’t please Mollock,” said Kimbark. “He’s a writer of detective stories. When Mr. Garment didn’t show up, he simply imagined what might have happened to him.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very odd,” said the detective. “By someone in this house?”

  “That was his suggestion, wildly enough. I’m bound to admit that he qualified it considerably. He offered no explanation of how it might have happened.”

  Howland Kimbark explained, with careful honesty, just what the mystery writer had said.

  “I see,” said the detective. “Just an idea—like an idea for a story. Lord, I often wonder where they get them! But it’s a smart idea, at that. I must have a talk with this Mollock before I leave. Perhaps I’d better have a talk with all your guests, after what’s been suggested.”

  He bent his brown, sardonic eyes on the dismayed Kimbark and smiled so that his white teeth showed under his brush-like moustache.

  “You’ll make me wish I hadn’t volunteered that,” growled Kimbark, annoyed.

  “Oh, I’ll be circumspect. Trust me for that, Mr. Kimbark. Besides which, as you know, I’ve my own ideas about this case. This Mollock is from New York, you say?”

  “Yes—quite recently, I believe.”

  “And Mr. Garment is also quite recently from New York!” mused the plump detective. He bounced the fat balls of his thumbs together gently for a moment, glanced about him for a place to spit, and thought better of both performances. “Well, we may as well go up, I guess. Bring Spessifer along with you, Jordan; and you can stay here with the doctor, Lucas. Now why the hell do you suppose the coroner doesn’t show up?”

  He grinned ferociously at the mild-eyed physician who had preceded his chieftain to the scene, tossed a final glance at the body of Stephen Garment, and tramped up the curving stair flight to the main floor of the Kimbark dwelling.

  The doorbell was ringing as they emerged into the upper corridor.

  “That’ll be Kemper now,” observed the detective chattily. “Sounds like his ring.”

  It was not only the coroner but also Harold Anger, secretary to the dead man below stairs. They had arrived simultaneously at the head of the stone steps and bowed without words. With Anger had arrived Anthony Van Peter, who had tarried only for a moment to do something to his car. He ran lightly up the steps and joined the others as the door was closing.

  “Hello, Kimbark,” he said. “Awfully shocked to hear about Mr. Garment. Terrible! Thought I’d come along with Anger and see if I could help.”

  Howland Kimbark extended an unwilling hand and allowed it to be loosely shaken. “Kind of you, Van Peter,” he returned, and his words were as ironic as he had intended them to be.

  It seemed that suddenly the inner corridor was filled with men, jostling one another and talking all at once. The coroner, it appeared, had brought his own gang of detectives. In the living room, close at hand, the bored and sleepy guests were pushing toward the scene of confusion, bent upon seeing what went forward. Denied a glimpse of the body of Stephen Garment—which had been left in the taxicab, at Mollock’s insistence, until the arrival of the police—they had subsided in sullen resignation to await the next divertissement.

  A burly camera man pushed his way through the throng of detectives and started to enter the living room. He also was looking for the body of Stephen Garment. Cicotte caught him by the shoulder and shoved him toward the stairs.

  “Down there,” he said. “For God’s sake, Kemper, get this herd of cattle into the basement, will you? I want to get some work done.”

  Mr. Kemper, the coroner of the county, was at the moment taking his first step downward. He paused and thrust a belligerent chin over the polished railing. “Go climb a tree, will you!” he invited balefully. Then he proceeded upon his downward way—followed, however, by his own contingent.

  The tall and handsome young man who had arrived with Van Pet
er was looking apologetically at Nidia Kimbark—as if asking pardon for his employer’s carelessness in allowing all this to happen. He stepped forward and laid a hand on the detective’s arm.

  “I’m Harold Anger, Inspector,” he said. “Mr. Garment’s secretary, you know? It is Inspector, I hope!”

  “Not in this county, Buddy,” retorted Cicotte. “I may be a lieutenant when this case is over. Lord, but you do have a houseful, don’t you, Mr. Kimbark!”

  He addressed the insolent curiosity of the living room. “Which of you gentlemen is Douglas Pollock, the detective-story writer?”

  Mollock scowled and looked truculent; then he laughed. “I’m probably the man you want,” he admitted. “You have the name slightly mixed, but it’s no matter.”

  “Sorry,” said the detective, without emotion. “I want a few words with you, if you please; and also with Mr. Anger. And with Mr. Van Peters, too.” His persistent adding of an s to Van Peter’s name was beginning to irritate Kimbark, who had a tidy mind. “Perhaps we can find a place where we can all be comfortable together?”

  Out of the press of guests stepped the immaculate figure of John Lexington Pope, of yachting celebrity. He put up a protesting hand.

  “Confound you, Barney,” he remonstrated, “can’t you question us now, and get it over with? What’s the big idea, anyway? We’ve got to get home sometime.”

  Cicotte grinned his recognition. “Is that you, Mr. Pope? I didn’t see you before. Well, maybe you’re right. There’s nothing to it, anyway. All I want to know is who’s here. Mr. Kimbark can tell me that. You people can all go along now, and if I want to talk to any of you I’ll let you know.”

  His roving, sardonic eyes paid eloquent tribute to the attractions of the women, a number of whom thought him perfectly darling. But he turned away quickly enough as Kimbark suggested that they could talk more comfortably in the library. With Mollock, Anger, and Van Peter at his heels, he followed the nervously striding Kimbark down the hall into a book-lined chamber, leaving the hostess to pack her guests off into the night.