Black Maria, M. A.: A Classic Crime Novel

by John Russell Fearn

  Maria studied him keenly. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. I don’t even know what you are talking about.”

  “Hmm....” Maria felt for a watch-chain that was not there. Then she said slowly, “I am inclined to believe you, but—”

  “You are!” he interrupted eagerly. “Look, if you’ll give me a break I’ll never try again— Honest! I’ll blow town. I’ll do anything

  “The break, my friend, has conditions,” Maria added grimly. “I want some information from you—and this time you will give it. Ransome has a typewriter in his office, hasn’t he?”

  “Why, sure....” The man looked his surprise. “What’s that to do with me?”

  “Have you ever typed on it?”

  “I used to do a bit of one-finger work.” He gazed at her queerly. “Haven’t done any in a long whiles, though. I bust the roller lever about a week back and I guess it’s too much trouble to turn it up every time— You ain’t thinkin’ of engagin’ me as a typer?” he asked sardonically.

  “You broke the roller lever?” Maria demanded, her eyes lighting.

  “Yeah...so what?”

  Maria mused. “You can tell me something more. Where was Hugo Ransome on the fourth of June?”

  “June fourth? Hell, that’s a long ways back. Any idea what day it was?”

  “It was a Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday...I can’t remember what happened in the morning, but on the Tuesday afternoon he’d be at a Directors’ Meeting at the Onzi Trust. Always goes on Tuesdays—did anyway, until he got pinched.”

  “Thank you,” Maria said softly. “Thank you very much, my friend. And now a final word of warning. I’m going to let you go now, but my bodyguard will have orders to turn you over to the police immediately if you dare threaten me again.”

  “I won’t. I promise you I won’t.”

  “Very well. Joey, take him out the way he came. And leave his gun: I may need it for evidence.”

  “Okay, Maria. Go on, you, get moving! Quick!”

  Maria watched them climb over the balcony in the dawn light, then she got up and closed the window after them.

  “So Ransome is eliminated,” she muttered, and for a long time stood thinking.

  Finally she went back to bed, but she could not sleep after the interruption.... So she spent the time meditating, knitting together the threads of the web, taking out the strands no longer strong enough to stand the weight of suspicion.

  She was glad when Lucy arrived with the morning cup of tea.

  Maria was putting the finishing touches to her dressing when Janet knocked lightly on the door and entered. She gave a rather tired smile as Maria greeted her.

  “Good morning, Aunt. Everything all right?”

  “Is there any reason to expect otherwise?” Maria asked, screwing her hair into its famous bun.

  “No, I suppose not....” Janet hesitated, then went on in a quiet voice, “I wanted to catch you before breakfast and save you some embarrassment in case you should say too much.... You see, I know you followed me last night.”

  Maria finished her hair in silence, then turned her cold blue eyes on the girl’s troubled face.

  “I think,” Janet added, “that I’m entitled to some explanation. I saw a taxi hard on the trail of my car all the time we were heading for East Side. Besides, I caught sight of you twice as you followed me across the harbor wharf.... You are not very good at shadowing, Aunt.”

  Maria gave a bleak smile. “Maybe I had better re-read Calfort’s A.B.C. of Tracking.... As for you knowing that I followed you, that would condemn you badly at a trial for attempted murder, my dear. Some unknown tried to drown me last night after I had left your beloved’s lodging-house. I was pushed off the harbor wharf and left to drown. I would have drowned, too, had it not been for—a passer-by.”

  “Tried to kill you!” Janet gazed in stunned amazement for a moment. “But, Aunt, this is terrible! Who on earth—?”

  Maria raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh, I see,” Janet said slowly. “You are thinking that I am the only one who could have gotten near you?”

  “Well, by your own admission you know I followed you. What was to prevent you tracking me back? Nothing! Again, your opening words in this room a moment or two ago showed you were not best pleased that I had followed you—.”

  “Oh, why do you try and twist everything?” Janet’s face had colored hotly and her voice was like a whiplash. “Why do you always have to have a smart answer for everything everybody says? I didn’t push you in the harbor, nor do I know who did.”

  “Very well then,” Maria replied quietly. “You have no need to raise your voice to me, Janet. My hearing is excellent. I always had the impression you were the kind of girl who remains calm under all circumstances....”

  “I still want to know why you followed me!” she blazed. “And I am annoyed about it—good and proper! What business is it of yours where Peter lives?”

  “I think it is my business to know where Mr. Wade was on the day your father was murdered. I intend to question him about it, hence I had to know where he lives. Otherwise, your strange private romance does not interest me in the least. I could have given you away long ago had I wanted.”

  Janet cooled a little, but her face was still angry.

  “I don’t know where he was, Aunt. I’ve told you so before.”

  “I know. That is why I intend to ask him for myself.”

  “Well, I can’t stop you doing that,” Janet shrugged. “I could have saved you a lot of trouble last night, though, if you had asked me for Peter’s address in the first place.”

  Maria smiled. “I like to find things out for myself, Janet. And besides, I had no guarantee that you would have given me the address had I asked for it.... So I took the initiative.” She paused and added quietly, “Shall we go down to breakfast?”

  “We might as well— Oh, just a moment,” Janet broke off. “I came for something else, too. Have you finished with my type­writer yet?’

  “Surely,” Maria nodded. “There it is on the table. Runs very nicely, too.”

  Janet went over to it and flung up the lid. “Yes, they seem to have made quite a good job of it. I guess it would never have broken down at all if that reporter woman hadn’t blundered in.”

  “Reporter?” Maria paused at the door and turned. “What reporter?”

  “Are you off again?” Janet sighed, picking the machine up in its case. “It was before you arrived in America anyway, so I don’t think it would interest you.

  “It might,” Maria said, as they went along the corridor together. “Tell me about it.”

  “Well it was the day before dad—died. I was at the theater collecting my things following the run. I was alone; Mary had gone to fix up about returning some costumes or something. Any­way this reporter turned up and her card said she was Kathleen Melrose, of the Stage Echo. She wanted a quick reaction to the finish of my run. How did it feel when a recital had ended? And so on and so on. I said anything to oblige and shot her the works. She asked for the loan of my typewriter—it was on the dressing table—and then she began­ to type at a furious speed. Said she wanted to rush the copy right away to her rag.... I thought nothing of it and when she left she had the interview all typed out. Only....” Janet frowned as she and Maria reached the lounge. “Only the article never appeared in the Stage Echo,” she finished slowly, putting her typewriter down. “I suppose that’s rather odd. I’d almost forgotten about it until now.”

  “And afterwards your typewriter was damaged?” Maria asked.

  “Well, it seemed pretty rocky. I couldn’t be bothered to find out what was wrong with it, so I told Mary to take it to be overhauled.”

  “Hm! What did this reporter look like?”

  Janet reflected. “She had blonde hair, pale complexion— Oh, yes, and thick glasses. Very thick. They made her eyes look like little spots. It rather beat me how she could see what she was typing. I don’t think her
sight was too good for she blundered into the door as she went out....”

  “Thick glasses....” Maria was tugging at her watch-chain.

  “Uh-huh.... But I don’t suppose it matters, anyway. Come along to breakfast.”

  Maria was silent as they went out on to the terrace for the usual morning meal. The conversation, mainly owing to Maria’s con­tinued muteness, stopped at commonplaces. When the meal was over Maria got to her feet and drew Janet on one side.

  “Janet, I’m going to worry you again. Where did you send your typewriter for repair?”

  “Mason’s, just off Times Square. Why?”

  “I just wondered. I’m thinking of buying a typewriter for myself.”

  “You can still use mine if you want,” Janet offered. “I only have a couple of letters to do.... Better still, if you are going to Mason’s why not tell them to call and pick up Pat’s machine? Then I can send my own back to the theater where it really belongs.”

  Maria looked surprised. “You mean you don’t keep it at home when you do your own correspondence?”

  “Why, no! No sense in lugging it about when Pat has one. I used to do my correspondence on hers—or rather, Mary used to do it for me at my dictation—when at home. Until the spring snapped, that is. It went in the middle of my last letter on that—that after­noon. Pity!” Janet gave a regretful shrug. “Pat’s is such a lovely machine, too, if only it were seen to—brand new really and completely noiseless. That’s why I used to use it. Doesn’t disturb mother if she’s trying to doze in the lounge, or on the terrace.”

  “Of course,” Maria said slowly, nodding. “Of course.”

  “Of course what?” Janet looked surprised.

  “Of course it would save disturbing your mother,” Maria smiled. Then she went on, “Well, I’ll tell Mason’s to call for it. I’m going anyway because I can’t impose on your generosity any longer. And besides, you must have your own machine.... Yes, I’ll buy one.”

  She went on her way through the lounge, her eyes gleaming. Up in her room she searched the phone directory and finally dialed the number of the Stage Echo.

  “Managing editor, please,” she said briefly; and in a moment his deep voice came over the wire.

  “Hallo? Yes, managing editor speaking....”

  “I have an enquiry to make,” Maria said. “Have you ever at any time had a reporter working for you by the name of Kathleen Melrose?”

  “Never heard the name, madam. In any case, our articles don’t have a byline. Our interviews are done through the mail as a rule— freelance stuff. Why? Has such a person tried to claim our pub­lication as her source of authority? If so—”

  “No—no, nothing like that,” Maria interrupted. “I just won­dered if you had a reporter of that name. I am trying to trace a—a friend.”

  “Oh, I see.... Sorry I can’t be of more help, madam.”

  Maria put the receiver back, sat in thought for a moment, then got up and put on her outdoor clothes. Leaving the house, she took a bus for Times Square. This time walking did not appeal to her: it was more a case of speed being the necessity.

  She found Mason’s Typewriter Emporium without difficulty. A, smartly-dressed individual emerged from a waste of gleaming stands, typewriters, duplicators, and Dictaphones.

  “Good morning, madam, good morning! What may I be privi­leged to show—”

  “I think,” Maria interrupted, “we can dispense with the sales talk. I would like some information, young man.... A little while ago a typewriter was repaired by you for a Miss Black. I’d like a copy of the bill. It was paid, of course, and everything is quite in order—but I would like an itemized statement of the repairs that were made. Can you do that?”

  “Certainly, madam. Be seated, won’t you....”

  Maria nodded and waited impatiently through a long interval while the salesman vanished to parts unknown. He returned with a billhead in his hand.

  “Here we are, madam. Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  Maria glanced down it quickly. Then she said, “Do you recall who brought the machine in?”

  “Why, yes,” the man nodded. “We get very few repairs, as a matter of fact: we are mainly suppliers. I saw the young lady myself.... She said the machine wanted overhauling and a spring replacing on the carriage rack. There were more things that were wrong, however, as you can see from the bill. It needed a thorough rebuilding....” The man stopped suddenly and looked devas­tated. “Madam, can it be that our service has not given satisfaction?” he asked in horror.

  “On the contrary, your service is excellent,” Maria smiled, putting the bill in her handbag. “Tell me, do you recall what this young lady looked like?”

  “Not very clearly, I’m afraid. She was fairly tall—a little taller than you perhaps. I seem to remember she had on a brown coat and hat— Yes, and fair hair. I cannot recall anything else. My main surprise was—hmm!—that a young lady should be so conversant with a typewriter’s workings. So few ladies seem aware of mechanical intricacies, if you know what I mean.”

  Maria smiled without warmth. “Thank you, young man: you have been most explicit....” She wrote down the address of the Black residence on the back of her personal card and handed it over. “Send up to this address as soon as possible to collect a portable machine for repair, will you? Thank you....”

  “It shall have my personal attention, madam.”

  Maria went out into the sunshine again, lost in thought. Reading the bill again, she found it a highly technical summary with frequent references to “dogs” and “claws.” What really signified however was the spring replacement.

  “And the girl was obviously Mary, Janet’s maid,” she mused, “who knew the spring had gone, whereas Janet apparently did not. Hmm! A most interesting ramification—”

  “Hey! Pssst!”

  She turned at a faint cry and a hoarse whistle. Pulp was in a neighboring doorway, trying to attract her attention. She moved to him.

  “Why, Mr. Martin! You still at it?”

  “Until you tells me to stop,” he said doggedly. Then with sudden anxiety on his face he asked, “How’s them lungs? You didn’t catch cold?”

  “No, Mr. Martin. I am in excellent health, thank you. And you?”

  “Aw, forget all about me! A guy like me doesn’t know how to catch cold— But say, I attracted your attention for a reason. I wanted to tell you where I’d seen that dame before. Remember that I tried to tell you last night?”

  “Oh, yes!” Maria recalled the incident. “You mean about my niece, Janet Black? Something about seeing her before somewhere? Well, it’s quite possible. She is a well known singer—“

  “Not her!” Pulp insisted. “The dame with her! The one who called her car at first—”

  “Her maid?” Maria exclaimed, starting.

  “Is that what she is? Yeah, I guess she will be....” Pulp mused and rubbed his chin. “I didn’t see her clearly at first when she called the car; but I did the second time under the lights— But maybe you’re not interested?” he asked doubtfully as Maria stood eyeing him.

  “Believe me, Mr. Martin, I am deeply interested. Well, where did you see this young woman before?”

  “A year back I was doing a job over in Columbus, Ohio, see? I had to call in a store and find my way to a joint I had to get to. The dame in the store was the same dame who’s now that maid. I’m sure of it. I never forget a face.”

  “Columbus, eh?” Maria’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, that checks exactly. My niece was singing in Columbus when she employed this girl.... What sort of a store was she in?”

  “Hardware. Electric light globes, paraffin oil, screws, and bolts.... The dame didn’t know the place I wanted, so she called her ma and pa and asked them. They told me....” Pulp gave a shrug. “Nothing to it, I guess—but when I see a face I like to place it. Now I’ve done it I’m satisfied.”

  Maria pondered for a time while he looked at her expectantly; then at last she seemed to make up her mind.<
br />
  “Mr. Martin, I have an important case for you. Find Joey and let him take your place as bodyguard—though I hardly think I need one now. Then”—she dived her hand in her bag—”you will take this money and entrain for Columbus right away. Can you find that store again?”

  “Yeah...sure.” He stared at her. “But what the heck—?”

  “I want you to find out if the store is controlled by Black’s Chain Stores, my late brother’s concern. Also find out if the girl’s parents are really dead: I understand that they are. In other words, find out everything you can and telephone me from Columbus at the first opportunity.”

  “Okay.” He stuffed the money in his pocket. “If I go by train it may be tomorrow before I can give you the lowdown. If I went by plane I could find out much quicker.”

  “Tomorrow will do: I have other matters to attend to in be­tween,” Maria said. “But find out all you can. How long will it be before you can tell Joey?”

  Pulp grinned and released an ear-splitting whistle. Joey’s taxi appeared from round a side street and drew to a halt against the curb. Maria gave s complacent smile.

  “Good! Joey, take me to the same East Side spot as last night.”

  “Okay, Black Maria. Hop in!”

  Pulp held open the door for her and she clambered in. He slammed it shut and winked significantly. “I’ll phone the dope,” he said, then turned and strode off actively....

  Joey started up the taxi and began to thread his way through the traffic.

  “Well, Black Maria, how goes your murder case?” he asked, without turning his head from the front.

  “Excellently!” Her voice was complacent. “In fact, I might go so far as to say I know exactly whom to single out as guilty. Only it would be dangerous without my final proofs.... A moment, Joey! Is that a public library over there?”

  “Sure is....” He drew to the curb and stopped the engine.

  “I shan’t be a minute,” Maria said, and hurried inside the build­ing. She asked the clerk for the directory of businesses—English section. It was promptly placed on one of the tables for her and she waded through its massive pages, running her finger down the “L” section.