The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  “Yes,” Kane said. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. A line from the letter Dorian had written him on Fabian’s mezzanine persistently returned to him. She just borrowed my pencil because the pen at her desk is broken. And there were soft blotting pads on the desks on Fabian’s mezzanine. No one could have written legibly in pencil on such a surface. The blonde Inez Polk must have used something for a writing block. Perhaps a magazine—one that she might have carried home with her, one that might even now be in the basement of the Lindstrum Apartment.

  Again the fragile thread of hope, and Kane fingered it cautiously, delicately, like stacking matches in the neck of a bottle….

  Hours later, Kane sat on an orange crate in the basement of the Lindstrum Apartment, surrounded by a disordered sea of magazines. His hands were covered with grime, his small face smeared with coal dust. Cobwebs trailed from the brim of his hat. His eyes were bloodshot and burning.

  Thousands of magazines in that stack, and only one that mattered. There was an aching lump in his throat like wanting to cry as he held the January issue of Vogue in his shaking hands and tilted it toward the light. Letters, even complete words were impressed in the glossy surface of the magazine cover—some sharply indicated, others only suggested, and still others conspicuously missing.

  Janu 11, 1945

  De Noll:

  I fi fiv hun ed o th n’t enough. Make se en undre next time.

  I re eat the same ord of arning: Make no attempt o ind out who I or olice will learn who illed yce Revers hree y rs go.

  Irma Pet rsen,

  Stati n A, B x 518.

  “Blackmail!” Kane said aloud. Irma Petersen was Inez Polk. That fitted with her mysterious source of income which Lindstrum had supposed was alimony. It fitted the poisoned aspirin tablet which she had given to Dorian that day. Someone—“Dear Noll”—had tried to poison Inez Marie Polk, and Inez, through some strange quirk of fate, had given the poisoned tablet to Dorian. Dorian hadn’t swallowed it. She’d given it to her Uncle Phineas.

  But this wasn’t proof. It wasn’t anything but another tantalizing thread of hope. And the watch on Kane’s dirty wrist stood at 6:45 P.M. and the hours of the fourth day were running out….

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Silver Frame

  As Peter Kane had reconstructed it, the letter which Inez Marie Polk had written at Fabian’s that day, read:

  January 11, 1945

  Dear Noll:

  I find five hundred a month isn’t enough. Make it seven hundred next time.

  I repeat the same word of warning: Make no attempt to find out who I am or police will learn who killed Joyce Revers three years ago.

  Irma Petersen,

  Station A, Box 518.

  “And you say you haven’t taken this to the police?” Vickers asked incredulously. They were seated in Kane’s shabby little room in the Alpha Hotel with the clock creeping around toward midnight.

  Kane shook his head. His blue eyes were feverishly bright, sleepless. “It isn’t proof,” he said to Vickers. “And I don’t dare take it to the police. If this were to break into print, it would only serve as a warning to Inez Marie Polk, wherever she may be. She might move again. She might cover her trail even more than it is already covered. I’ve got to have more than that.”

  Vickers sucked thoughtfully at his pipe, found it cold. He struck a match, applied it to the pipe bowl. “And this Joyce Revers who was murdered—you’ve found out something about her?”

  Kane nodded. “An English music hall girl who came to New York before the war. Better than three years ago she was found strangled in her New York apartment. Her killer has never been found.”

  “And what’s the next move?” Vickers wanted to know.

  “The post office,” Kane said. “The reason Inez Polk is in hiding is that she still has her hooks into the killer. She doesn’t want the killer to find her again, naturally. At the same time, she doesn’t want to let him go.”

  Vickers shuddered. “God, she’d rather let Dorian die than lose out on her blood-money! A woman like that ought to be killed.”

  “I think she will be,” Kane said softly and drew one of those swift, searching glances from Vickers.

  Vickers stood up, reached for his coat which lay across the bed. He said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Kane.” And then he left.

  Kane went to bed that night, but not to sleep. He lay there, staring into the dark, whispering to Dorian, who wasn’t there. Chin up. There’s a way out. We’ll find a way out.

  If only there was time….

  * * *

  —

  Early the morning of the third day before Dorian was to die, Kane was in the Post Office Sub-Station A. Box 518 was empty. And it was not until late in the afternoon that some hidden hand behind the bank of lock boxes thrust something into 518. It was a white, squarish envelope, resting address side down. And there was nothing for Kane to do but stand there and wait for somebody to come and get the letter.

  Somebody came at dusk—a stooped little old man with bowed legs and tired, dragging feet; a little man with spidery black eyes and a fixed smile that tucked deep wrinkles into his cheeks. He shuffled to the boxes and stooped in front of 518. Kane, in his eagerness, stood directly behind the other. The little door came open. The gnarled fingers caught the letter by the corner.

  “Ah, from my Jacob!” came audibly from the old man’s lips. He turned, still stooping, and bumped into Kane. He lifted spidery eyes to Kane’s face and smiled widely.

  “Excuse me. A letter from my Jacob and I’m so excited I do not see where I am going.” He waved the small War Department V-Mail envelope under Kane’s nose. “My Jacob, thank God, he is still safe!”

  Kane swallowed. “That’s fine,” he said. “That’s swell.” He watched the old man shuffle out of the station, then he turned, limped over to the registered letter window. A spectacled clerk looked out at him, shook his head.

  “Sorry, but we close at five. Try the main post office downtown.” And the flexible steel curtain rolled down firmly in Kane’s face.

  There was only one card left in Kane’s hand and he knew it wasn’t an ace. Call it a two-spot. If “Irma Petersen” had left a change-of-address card at Station A, the post office would not reveal her new address. It would, however, forward her mail. If Kane then directed a registered letter to her and asked for a return receipt, it would be necessary for her to sign the receipt before the letter was deliverable. Kane’s guess was that she would not sign it. In which case the letter would be returned to him and it would carry the correct address.

  But suppose she had returned to New York? Suppose she were somewhere on the west coast? There was nothing slower than a registered letter, especially when you waited and watched. And suppose she was wise to the trick? Suppose it only served to warn her to move again? The chance was a slim one, but the only one left. He had to try it.

  * * *

  —

  On the second day there was nothing. Kane hung around the lobby of the Alpha Hotel, or he sat at the Alpha Bar, drinking whiskey as a substitute for food and sleep. Vickers dropped in on him there and Kane simply raised his haggard eyes from the bar and shook his head.

  “Nothing?” Vickers asked.

  Kane shook his head. Then Vickers sat on the stool beside him, ordered a drink. He sat in silence, drawing on his pipe.

  “Nothing else you can do?”

  Kane shook his head again.

  “You’ll let me know if anything turns up?”

  “Yes,” Kane said. “I’ll let you know.”

  And then Vickers went out, his drink untasted.

  Kane sat at the bar, fumbled a sheaf of newspaper clippings from his pocket. They included everything that had been printed about the
poisoning of Dorian’s uncle, the arrest, and the trial. Kane knew them by heart, he thought, and yet he started over them again. The first clipping was that from the morning paper of January 12th, the day that Inez Marie Polk had vacated her apartment at the Lindstrum.

  The day that Inez Marie Polk had vacated her apartment at the Lindstrum. Kane squinted to take the blur out of the newspaper account. There wasn’t anything there about Inez Marie Polk, of course. Why did his brain continually repeat: January 12th, the day that Inez Marie Polk had vacated her apartment at the Lindstrum.

  He said, “My God!” hoarsely.

  The barkeep, polishing glasses, leaned forward attentively and asked, “Huh?”

  Kane stared at the man without seeing him, stared right through the bartender. The whole, incredible truth was right there in that first clipping dated January 12th. Yet it didn’t mean a thing unless you realized that on that day Inez Marie Polk had vacated her apartment at the Lindstrum.

  Kane said, “It’s something you can see and can’t touch.”

  The barkeep nodded sagely. “I had a girl like that once. She drove you nuts.”

  Kane swept up the clippings, slid off the bar stool and staggered back into the lobby. The maddening part of the whole thing was that what he now knew didn’t do any good without Inez Marie Polk herself. If only she hadn’t left town! If only he could reach her in time!

  He found his way to the phone booth, went in, fumbled the door closed behind him. He dialed police headquarters, asked for Lieutenant Graden. Graden was in the building, somewhere. It would take a few moments to locate him. Kane waited and thought that the more waiting you did the harder it was to do.

  “Peter Kane,” he said when Graden’s husky, weary voice came out of the receiver.

  “Well?” Graden said, and didn’t sound pleased.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” Kane told him. “Can you come to the Alpha right away? I’ve got something. I know what actually happened. It’s been right under our noses all the time.”

  Graden took an audible breath. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be over this evening….”

  * * *

  —

  Kane’s registered letter was returned to the hotel desk on the morning of the last day. He took it from the clerk’s hands, turned, stumbled to the nearest chair and sat down. Somebody had written “Unclaimed” across the face of it, in blue pencil. Black pencil had crossed out the Box 518 and substituted an Audubon Drive address—

  He now had her address—her address as of yesterday.

  “Oh, God!” he murmured prayerfully, then shoved himself out of the chair to cross the lobby and go out into the street.

  The Alpha Hotel didn’t have a doorman, no one to whistle for cabs. Kane limped down Illinois Street to the corner and stood there on the curb. Three taxis passed him before one pulled up at a wave of his arm. He got in, gave the forwarding address on the envelope.

  It was a matter of thirty crawling minutes before the taxi stopped in front of a brick duplex on Audubon Drive. Kane paid the driver, got out. The last figure in the “Irma Petersen” address was a fraction, so Kane assumed that she occupied the upper half of the duplex. He climbed to the porch, rang the bell for the lower apartment. A woman in a blue housecoat, with her yellowish white hair in metal curlers, came to the door. She had heavy, sagging features and curious blue eyes.

  “Yes?” she said as though it were a preamble to, “I don’t want any.”

  Kane said, “Can you tell me something about your neighbors in the second floor?”

  “The Reddings, you mean?”

  Kane didn’t know. He asked, “Is Mrs. Redding a tall, striking looking blonde?”

  The woman shook her head. “She’s tall, all right, and I guess you’d call her striking. But she’s no blonde. That is,” she added spitefully, “she hasn’t been a blonde since she moved in here!”

  Kane smiled slightly. “Is she at home?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” said the woman. “Why don’t you try ringing their doorbell instead of mine!” And she started to close the door.

  “I mean,” Kane said hastily, “she hasn’t moved, has she?”

  “Well, certainly not. That’s their garbage bucket sitting out in front. I saw Mr. Redding take it down this morning.” And this time Kane let the woman slam the door in his face.

  He went back to the sidewalk, limped north half a block to cross the Pennsylvania Railroad tracks. There was a little drugstore just beyond, and he went on in and back to the phone booth. He looked up the number of the Oliver Vickers apartment, dialed. It was Mrs. Vickers who answered.

  “Oh, Mr. Kane!” she said, pleased. “Oliver isn’t here. Poor man, he’s been having to work nights—one executive meeting after another. So much to do. They’re planning for conversion after the war, and—”

  “Thanks,” Kane said. “I’ll try the office. If he should drop in, tell him I’ve found Inez Marie Polk. And you might jot down this address.” And he gave Mrs. Vickers the address of the duplex.

  He then called the Rad-Ion Laboratories, only to learn that Vickers was not there, but was expected shortly. He left exactly the same message, then hung up and left the store. He returned the short distance to the duplex and this time entered the vestibule at the foot of the stair leading to the second story. There a locked door barred his passage. There was a pushbutton and speaking tube above the single mailbox on his left. He pressed the button, waited until a feminine voice came from the speaking tube.

  Kane asked, “Mrs. Redding?”

  “Yes.” It was not an unpleasant voice.

  “This is David Brooks,” Kane said, “of the Department of Internal Revenue. I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”

  “Oh.” A moment of silence. “Are you sure you have the right Mrs. Redding?”

  “Certain of it,” Kane said. “Is your husband in?”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Then I’ll talk to you. It won’t take a moment.”

  “Well—”

  The electric lock on the door buzzed. Kane opened the door, stepped halfway across the sill, kept the door open with a knee while he stuffed his handkerchief into the bolt socket at the door jam. Then he allowed the door to close, wedged open a little way by the wad of handkerchief. He went on up the steps, his heart beating in his throat.

  She opened the door at the top of the steps, stood waiting for him. She was tall—taller than Kane—a big, full-bosomed woman in her thirties, her hair dyed black and worn in a low knot at the nape of her neck. She had on a white silk crepe negligee over her night dress, and she wore white satin slippers with open toes. Her lipstick, her nail polish were the same deep shade of brownish red. Knowing what she was and what she had done, Kane found her large, perfect features hideous.

  * * *

  —

  She smiled a slow, lazy smile. “Come in, Mr. Brooks,” she invited. “I don’t know what the Department of Internal Revenue wants with poor little me, but—” She shrugged and backed, and Kane stepped wordlessly across the sill.

  He was dimly aware of luxurious furnishings and soft carpets, of the haunting fragrance of expensive perfume. He closed the door behind him, took a long, slow breath.

  “Miss Inez Marie Polk, I believe,” he said. “Alias Irma Petersen.”

  A fleeting shadow of fear crossed the blue eyes. But the smile came again, easily.

  “Now I know you’ve made a mistake, Mr. Brooks,” she said. “I’m Vera Redding. And before I married Bill, I was Vera Schultz.” She took sidling steps and sat down sideways on a small Empire chair that stood in front of a mahogany serpentine front desk.

  Kane said, “I’ve made my share of mistakes, but this isn’t one of them. You’re caught, and you’re going to talk. And I’m not Brooks. I’m the gu
y Dorian Westmore was writing to that day on Fabian’s mezzanine.”

  Inez Marie Polk pursed her lips, frowned thoughtfully. “Dorian Westmore? Oh, that’s the girl who poisoned her uncle.” She shrugged. “But that’s no skin off my nose.”

  “It’ll be skin off your nose,” Kane said. “That poison was intended for you. You’re going with me down to Police Headquarters. You’re going to confess blackmailing the killer of Joyce Revers. You’re going to explain that you knew Dorian told the truth about the aspirin tablet. And you’re going to explain why you knew the aspirin was poisoned. You’re going to show the evidence you have against the killer. And—you’re—going—to—do—all—that—right—now.”

  She sent a fluttering glance about the room, perhaps taking swift inventory of the soft, lazy life she loved more than anything else. Then, as Kane took a step toward her, she glanced over her shoulder at a closed door.

  “Bill,” she called. “Bill, you’d better come in here.”

  The door opened. A man in gaudy pajamas and a red-brocaded satin dressing gown came out of the bedroom. He must have been all of six feet three inches tall and would have weighed close to two hundred pounds. His face was mostly jaw and when he closed his mouth his lower teeth overlapped the uppers. He had close-set black eyes and there were crooked wrinkles above them, as though possibly he had a hangover and his head was killing him.

  “Buck fever, huh, little man!” Inez flung at Kane. She was standing now, in front of the desk, and she’d used Bill’s entrance to cover her getting a gun from the desk drawer. It was a small, nickeled revolver and it was leveled at Kane.

  Bill jerked a thumb at Kane. “Who is he, Inez?” His voice didn’t go with his hulking figure; it was thin, reedy.