The Viola Brothers Shore Mystery

by Viola Brothers Shore

  “I know—he’s suggesting holding Mackenzie for further questioning. They naturally asked him to stay in Havana for the routine investigation. But he hasn’t stirred out of his room since we landed.”

  “I suppose that’s what you were discussing with the chambermaid this morning?”

  “It was,” replied Gwynn, utterly unabashed. “I was trying to figure out some excuse for calling on him. I’d like to ask him how he came to hire a secretary—without references.”

  * * * *

  Gwynn certainly plays in luck. When we reached the National, there was a message from Mackenzie asking us to call him. We stopped at his room instead. William Mackenzie could not have been over twenty-six, with a fine athletic frame and a lot of curly hair and gray-blue eyes in which there was something helplessly worried as he begged us to come in.

  He told us the Commissioner had been there, wearing him down with questions about Schmidt. “I think Schroeder put him up to it. He’s darned clever, Schroeder. Of course I stuck to what I told them all along.”

  “Why not, if it’s true?”

  “But it isn’t,” said Mackenzie. I hoped he didn’t see the look Gwynn shot me out of those absurdly expressive brown eyes. “We had sailed as Mackenzie and Secretary and I didn’t see, why certain things should be dragged in that I was anxious to keep quiet. But this Cuban chap put the screws on me pretty hard. And I’m anxious to get away. You’re the only people I know in this part of the world, and I’d like to ask your advice.”

  I did not look at my wife although, in case I have not mentioned it, she is very easy to look at, with dark hair going off one ear and towards the other in a natural swirl, and clothes that always make other women look either overdressed or undergroomed.

  “Last Thursday,” began Mackenzie, “I arrived in New York with my wife. We went to the Wendham Hotel. Saturday morning, a little before ten, I went out to keep a business engagement. When I came back, my wife was not there. And she was not in the dining room, or anywhere in the hotel. I opened her closet and it was bare. The bureau was empty, too. Everything belonging to my wife had been cleaned out of the place!

  “While I was trying to grasp what could have happened, there was a knock at the door. A strange man stepped into the room.

  “‘Look here, Mr. Mackenzie,’ he said, ‘my name is Schmidt. I’m the house detective. I was next to the operator when you called down to ask about Mrs. Mackenzie.’ And he told me he had seen my wife drive off with her bags, but had thought it better to say nothing downstairs in case there was anything in the nature of a scandal. Because there had been a man in the cab—also with bags.

  “You have to understand the relationship between my wife and myself to realize my state of mind. Three years ago I took a trip to Hollywood and met my wife, who was working in pictures. In ten days we were married. Since then we had never been separated for a day—hardly an hour. And now she was gone …with another man! I was utterly stunned and grateful for this stranger’s help. Alone I would not have known where to turn.

  “I hadn’t the faintest notion of who this other man could be. We had been in New York only two days, and together all the time. She hadn’t known until the day we left that she was coming. How could she have arranged an elopement? And up on the farm we lived a very secluded life. The few people who visited us were old friends of mine.

  “Schmidt went out to make some inquiries. The more I thought, the more I was baffled. I admit I have a jealous nature and I had always been watchful. I could recall nothing—no absence—no letters—no mysterious phone calls that should have made me suspicious at the time, or that offered any clue as I paced my room, waiting for Schmidt.”

  “And being a suspicious man, you hadn’t asked Schmidt anything about himself?” inquired Gwynn.

  “Why, no. He was the house detective—and besides I was too upset to think about him. And of course I didn’t know he was going to jump off a boat and get me in a mess.”

  “Of course not. I suppose he asked you for money.”

  “I gave him a little for immediate expenses. Later, of course, I furnished money for cables and bribes and all sorts of things—a lot of money,” he concluded ruefully.

  “He came back to say that the starter recalled it was a Yellow Cab, and also the man in the cab, but not his appearance. We agreed not to mention anything to anybody, since I was eager to avoid scandal and the hotel people might resent his conduct. But he was sick of his job and eager to start off as a private investigator.

  “Finally he found a driver who had been picked up by a man with a gladstone bag and stopped at the Wendham for a lady answering the description of Mrs. Mackenzie. He had driven them to the Ward Line pier. The Orizaba had sailed that Saturday. And Schmidt’s next report was that a tall blonde in a black coat with a Persian collar and a man with a gladstone bag had sailed on the Orizaba.

  “Schmidt offered to trail them. Of course I wanted to go, too. He made all the arrangements. I was too stunned to do more than follow his instructions. I swear to God that’s all I know about Philip Schmidt. But you can see why I didn’t immediately blurt it out when I was questioned.”

  “Of course,” said Gwynn. “You certainly seem to be having hard luck. And now that you’re eager to be after your wife, they hold you here. Have you made any inquiries at all?”

  “No. I didn’t think it wise—feeling that I was under surveillance.”

  * * * *

  “There!” said I to my wife as we were getting ready for bed. “What do you think of your murder case now?”

  “I admit I have an entirely different slant on it. Let’s talk to Schroeder tomorrow… But doesn’t it seem funny that Schmidt, having secured the kind of job he wanted, should take himself off so mysteriously?” And she began to sing: “‘Just for a handful of ptomaine he left us—’”

  I turned out the light.

  * * * *

  The next day we called at Schroeder’s hotel. He had already seen Mackenzie, who, on Gwynn’s advice, had told him the story. Schroeder was surprised that Mackenzie had confided in us.

  “It’s because I wore my Girl Scout badge,” said Gwynn. “Matter of fact, I don’t know whether he wanted our advice half so much as our money. He was dying to get us into a game.”

  “What kind of game?”

  “Any kind—as soon as he heard we were bad money players.”

  I am always amazed at how mean and suspicious Gwynn can be when she doesn’t like a person.

  “I don’t like him, either,” admitted Schroeder, “but I’ve checked his story. Mackenzie and wife registered at the Wendham from Edmonton. She left two days later. However, the starter couldn’t recall whether she left alone, and denied having given any information about a Yellow Cab. In fact, Schmidt was unknown at the Wendham and they employed no house detective.

  “So any deception seems to have been on the part of Schmidt. I haven’t the faintest idea what his game was. But since he’s gone, why bother? We have also had word from Edmonton that a William R. Mackenzie lives there, and that he left last week for New York with his wife. So there seems no further reason for holding Mackenzie and I understand the Cuban police have told him he may go.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” said Gwynn. “Before he checks out, ask him what his business was in New York, and what his wife’s name is. Perhaps, if he is so anxious to trace her, he will show you a picture.”

  “But why? What have you in mind?”

  “Nothing,” replied Gwynn, “only I’d like to see the type of woman who would run out on a man like Mackenzie. Of course, it may have been his stinginess. But then, there was that lavish display in the bar. If a tight man loosens up to that extent, there must be some reason. The reason is missing. A lot of things are missing. Principally why Schmidt killed himself.”

  * * * *

  The following morning Mackenzie ta
pped on our door to ask us whether we wouldn’t care for a chukker of backgammon—which we wouldn’t— and to tell us he had been released by the authorities.

  “That’s fine,” said Gwynn. “I suppose you can’t wait to start looking for your wife. How are you going about it?”

  He gestured helplessly. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “How about the Commissioner?” I suggested.

  “How about Erik Schroeder?” suggested Gwynn. “If anybody can find her, Schroeder can.”

  “But he’ll want too much money. And besides, I don’t like him. What concern is it of his what my business was in New York? Matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind telling it to you. If you’re writers, you might be able to use it. It would make a great yam.”

  My wife and I exchanged that certain look. Everybody has a story that would make a great yam. And everybody is so generous in the manner of telling it!

  “I’ve been working on an invention in Canada. I needn’t tell you what it is—but it has to do with film. It should be worth a fortune if properly marketed. Of course it’s tough dealing with those big corporations and the proper approach is as important as the invention.

  “Well, one day I got a letter from a man named Paul Stone outlining a scheme for promoting my patent. And the details of the scheme were exactly as I had dreamed them. I don’t know how he got wind of my invention, because I kept it very quiet. I have my own laboratory. My wife helped me and not another soul knew about it. Naturally I wrote back to Stone and he suggested that I come to New York and talk it over. He wanted me to come alone, but at the last minute I decided to take my wife. I felt she was entitled to a trip.”

  “Also, wives get into trouble if they’re left alone.”

  “I thought of that. So she came along.”

  “Eagerly, I’ll bet?”

  “Well, of course, she claimed she had no clothes, but—This fellow Stone had reserved a room for me at the Wendham and we went there. I found a wire saying he had been called out of town, but would be back Saturday. So my wife and I went sightseeing and Saturday morning Stone phoned and asked me to meet him in the lobby of the Alamac.”

  “Up on 71st Street?”

  “That’s it. Well, I waited awhile, and then had him paged, and then waited some more. Then I inquired at the desk whether he was in his room. They told me there was no Paul Stone registered at the Alamac! I didn’t know what to make of it, because I had always written him there. However, he had brought me all the way from Alberta for that appointment and I was sure he meant to keep it. But at one o’clock I went back to my own hotel. And would you believe it—I never heard another word from Stone? What do you make of that?”

  “I make that Mr. Stone was very eager to get Mr. Mackenzie out of the way so that Mrs. Mackenzie could get out of the Wendham. I make also that Mrs. Mackenzie prompted Mr. Stone’s entire correspondence. There is always an accommodating laundress to receive mail, or a farmer’s wife who brings around fresh eggs… The decision to take Mrs. Mackenzie to New York probably upset the original plan. If Mr. Mackenzie had gone alone, he would perhaps not have heard from Mr. Stone at all. Nor found Mrs. Mackenzie back on the farm in Edmonton.”

  Mackenzie looked stupefied, then furious. “What a fool I’ve been! I’ll put Schroeder on her track—no matter what it costs! Where is Schroeder? I want to see him!”

  We offered to take him to Schroeder’s hotel. On the way out we stopped for the mail. Mackenzie tore open a letter and read it, a puzzled frown between his brows.

  “What do you make of this?” he demanded, holding it out to me.

  “‘Darling Philip—’” it began.

  I looked up. “For Schmidt?”

  He held out the envelope. It was addressed to Philip Schmidt, Care William R. Mackenzie, Hotel Nacional, and bore a Cuban stamp.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have opened it, but—you understand. Read it,” he urged.

  When I sent that wire to the boat I really meant to patch things up with Emilio and never see you again. But last night he was drunk again—terribly—Oh my darling this time I mean it. I will go away with you—Come at once. I need you. Love—love—love—

  C—

  It seemed plain enough then. Schmidt had wanted to get to Havana. In some way he got wind of Mrs. Mackenzie’s flight and played on Mackenzie’s credulity and distress to work the trip. On the boat he received a cable from his Señora calling the deal off. Curtain for Mr. Schmidt.

  I was so pleased with my perspicuity that I blurted it out, not thinking of the effect on Mackenzie. I suppose subconsciously I felt I was doing him a good turn. I didn’t realize that all along he had been buoyed up by the hope and excitement of the chase. With the prop removed he was in a bad way. No use now in seeing Schroeder. No use in anything.

  He seemed on the point of collapse, and I did what I could for him. It was pitiful the way he clung to us. By nightfall Gwynn had a headache, but I went in and played cards with him. And the next morning, as the headache persisted, we started off without her for Morro Castle. He looked wretched and there was a feverish light in his eyes. As I look back now I can understand it. His manner became more and more curious. He carried a Panama hat; but although the sun was doing its tropical best, he refused to put it on. And under his arm he clutched a package as though it contained rubies. I remember, before we left, Gwynn moved the package and he jumped and took it away from her and held it on his lap until I was ready to go.

  Clarence Cobb had sent us a Captain of the Militia to act as guide. As he walked around the outside of the fortress, Mackenzie kept asking about sharks. The Captain told us stories. Vivid stories. They seemed to have a horrible effect on Mackenzie, who kept peering into the water and insisting he saw sharks. I couldn’t get him away from those rocks. And he asked me whether I thought there had been sharks when Schmidt went overboard. I assured him there were none.

  “I hate to think—maybe there were sharks—” He shut his eyes and swayed. I begged him to put on his hat. I thought the sun was affecting him. But he continued to spot sharks and mumble about Schmidt—once excusing him: “I can understand him. Why go on living without the one thing you want most?” and the next time cursing him: “I had no reason for loving the ——, but if I had thought that there were sharks—”

  That sentence stuck in my mind until I realized it was because of the tense. If he didn’t know until yesterday…

  The Captain was telling us about the dungeons where tradition has embroidered fantastic tales of cruelty to prisoners. Mackenzie shuddered and swayed again.

  “Look here,” I said, “if you’d rather not go in…?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” He bridled. “Why shouldn’t I look at dungeons?”

  I wanted to get away. An idea had occurred to me. Since Mackenzie had opened Schmidt’s letter, perhaps he had also opened that wire on the boat and read it… Fury at Schmidt would supply a motive.… I wanted to talk it over with Gwynn.

  There is nothing in those dungeons except what imagination paints into them. But we had no sooner stepped inside than Mackenzie had to go out again. We waited for him to return and then went in search of him. Back on the rocks where we had watched for sharks I saw something. I picked it up. It was a wallet monogrammed W. R. M. It had not fallen there. It had been wedged between the rocks—conspicuously—where searchers would not fail to find it.

  I looked down at the graying water. A Panama hat floated on a wave. Was it imagination or did I see a dark fin cutting the surface of the water?

  …Suddenly the hat disappeared. I became violently ill.

  * * * *

  The papers gave the story a great play. Suicide of Wealthy Canadian in Waters off Morro Castle… Eyewitness Sees Sharks Attack Hat… Wm. R. Mackenzie, despondent over the loss of his wife, ended his life, etc…etc… And they gave plenty of space to the wallet, which contained travelers
’ checks and a farewell note addressed to Mrs. Mackenzie.

  “So I guess Mrs. Keats had the right hunch,” said Schroeder, “and Mackenzie did finish Schmidt before he went up to the bar.”

  “Quite a while before,” said Gwynn, and outlined what she thought had taken place. “I figure he got him out on deck and possibly hit him over the head while he was leaning over the rail. The steward said the man was lying with his head on his arms and looked ghastly. Our boy friend may only have pretended to get an answer about the doctor. Maybe there was no answer. Watching his chance, he dropped him overboard. Then he went into the stateroom and fixed up Schmidt’s suitcase—messed up the bed—rang for the steward and met him in the companionway to register that Schmidt was asleep. Then he went to the bar and began that wild orgy of treating, during which he proceeded to get so sick that he wouldn’t have to go back into that cabin, or have anything to do with discovering Schmidt’s absence. Or answer too many questions. And I daresay, when I dropped in, he was a little sorry he had been so friendly the night before.”

  “Poor guy,” said I. “Out of a boatload of people, he just had to pick on you. Author of Perfect Crime Makes One Fatal Error.”

  “Author of this perfect crime made several. And something tells me it will eventually make good telling.”

  “Eventually! Why not now?”

  “I should say not! Think of my sense of drama. By the way, Mr. Schroeder, did you ever find out his wife’s name?”

  “Temple Mackenzie.”

  “Temple—” said Gwynn musingly.

  “Why?”

  “It might be a good thing to remember.”

  * * * *

  Back in New York, we received a phone call from Erik Schroeder. He was working on a big case and wanted Gwynn’s hunch on it—the well-known woman’s angle. At his apartment, the talk naturally drifted to Mackenzie. Schroeder had followed up certain threads. “You never can tell,” he jeered, “I may want to write it up for the magazines.”