The 24th Horse

by Hugh Pentecost

  “You’re off base, Inspector,” said Guy. “It’s all a magnificent, magnificent hoax, devised with all of Gloria’s schoolgirl ingenuity.”

  Johnny snapped his cigarette into the fire. “God damn it, I’ve had enough,” he said to Bradley. “Linda says Gloria was scared. Well, she had a right to be, didn’t she? She’s dead!”

  “Very dead,” complained Bradley.

  “Then make Guy tell you what she was scared of!”

  Bradley looked at Guy. “Well, Mr. Severied?”

  “No dice, Inspector,” said Guy with a grin. “Absolutely, positively no dice!” He pointed his finger at Bradley. “And don’t try any third degree, my fine friend. I don’t take Swedish exercises every morning for nothing.”

  “Where do you live, Severied?” Bradley asked unexpectedly.

  “Long Island, Riviera, California, and East Sixty-third Street. Got a hole in the wall there with a change of clothes and a soft bed. Like to have you come and see me sometime, Inspector. Cozy little place.”

  “Thanks,” said Bradley. “I’ll probably make it soon.” He turned to Johnny. “Curtin, I’m going to ask you to take him home.”

  “Listen, do you realize Pat’s alone with a hysterical family?”

  “I know. Miss Marsh and I are going there at once. But I want Severied seen home and into bed. And I want to be certain” — he glanced at his wrist watch — “that it takes at least half an hour.”

  “Will you tuck me in, Lochinvar? Will you sing lullabies to me?” Guy’s speech was very thick now, almost unintelligible.

  “Why choose me to be a wet nurse to a drunk?” Johnny was far from amiable.

  Bradley grinned. “Because I can trust you to come straight to the Praynes’ when the job’s done. Mind you, be sure it takes half an hour. Don’t leave him before that.”

  “If you weren’t a friend of Uncle Julius’, I’d tell you to go to hell! But okay.”

  Guy’s legs buckled when he stood up so that Bradley and Johnny had to support him out of the shop, where Rube Snyder got them a cab. Between them the three men hoisted Guy into the corner seat.

  Guy made little moaning noises as they drove uptown and then east. Once he opened his eyes.

  “You’re a good kid … a great kid,” he said.

  “You’ve certainly been giving us a fine lousing,” said Johnny.

  “Extremely clever,” said Guy. Then he scowled. “Take care of Pat, Lochinvar. Pick her up on your saddle and go back to the West where you came from. Hell to pay before this is over.”

  “You’re telling me!”

  “Tabloids, radio, gossips,” Guy stumbled on. “Wait and see, Lochinvar. They won’t even let the dead rest in peace.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Take Pat away. Ride off into the sunset.” He made a sweeping gesture with a limp hand. “They can’t stop you, Lochinvar. Got nothing on you kids. Let the rest of us stew in this mess.”

  “Guy, what do you know? Are you holding out on something that’ll settle this?”

  “Holding out? No. Jus’ being very, very cagey.”

  When the taxi stopped, the driver helped Johnny get Guy into the building. There the elevator boy, whom Guy called “Mike,” took over. Together Mike and Johnny led Guy into his elaborate hole in the wall. The living room was furnished with nautical flavor. There were barometers and compasses, a handsome ship’s model on the mantel, cupboards built like ship’s lockers. Bowed casements facing the East River might have been the outlook of a wheelhouse. In the bedroom Guy collapsed sidewise on the bed.

  “Gosh, what a load!” Mike said. “Can you manage him?”

  “I think so. And thanks.”

  Johnny removed Guy’s shoes, undid his collar, straightened him out on the bed, and covered him with a quilt. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes before he could leave. He paced the room, drawing impatiently on a cigarette. At last he switched off the lights. Guy lay on the bed like a log, breathing noisily. Johnny hurried down to the street and hailed a cruising cab.

  ***

  The moment the apartment door slammed, Guy reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. He sat up, groaning. He rubbed his face and scalp vigorously. Then he got to his feet, wavered into the bathroom, and was sick, He drank several glasses of cold water and was sick again. His face still gray and damp with sweat, he went back into the bedroom. From a closet he took a tweed suit, a necktie, and a soft, dark-blue shirt. He managed to get into them, combed his hair, and walked unsteadily to the coat closet by the front door. A muffler, a heavy tweed overcoat, and a brown felt completed his preparations.

  Then he, too, went out.

  Mike’s eyes bulged when he saw him.

  “You goin’ places, Mr. Severied?”

  “What’s it look like, Mike?” Guy’s voice was quite clear, though rough with fatigue.

  “Well, I’ll be doggoned,” said Mike. “I thought you was out for a month!”

  Guy’s smile was wry. “Marvelous recuperative powers, we Severieds.”

  “Maybe you’re goin’ huntin’ again, Mr. Severied?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ducks? Gee, it must take guts to get out into them blinds when its so damn cold and wet … and dark.”

  Guy’s fingers shook as he lit a cigarette. “Not ducks, Mike. Something much more exciting. A manhunt!”

  “A manhunt!”

  “That’s right, Mike. You ought to try it sometime. The results are so unpredictable.”

  Mike shot a glance over his shoulder. Drunk after all! “Shall I call a cab for you, Mr. Severied?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Mike watched him go, shaking his head.

  Chapter 7

  Captain George Pelham opened the door of the Praynes’ apartment to Johnny. His lined face was yellow, and his eyes looked like holes cut in a blanket.

  “Oh, it’s you, Johnny.”

  “Where’s Pat?” Johnny asked as he draped his overcoat on a bench by the door.

  “In Gloria’s room with the inspector,” Pelham said. “You’ve been with Guy?”

  “Yeah. God, is he stinko!”

  The corner of Pelham’s mouth twitched, and he tried to cover it by pulling at the end of his mustache. “Nasty mess,” he said.

  “How are the others taking it?”

  Pelham lifted his shoulders. “The old man folded, as might be expected. Celia and Linda are trying to bring him around so he can talk to the inspector. What about Bradley, Johnny?”

  “Seems a good sort,” Johnny said. “He could have put the heat on Guy, but he didn’t.” Exasperation spread across his face. “Guy acted crazy … as if he knew the answers and just wouldn’t give.”

  “When he gets drunk he gets drunk,” Pelham said.

  “Maybe that’s it. I’ve got to find Pat.”

  He went down the corridor to Gloria’s bedroom. There he found Pat; Mr. Julius, who had brought her home; and Bradley. Pat went to him wordlessly, a dazed, hurt look in her eyes. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and held her close.

  “Chin up,” he whispered.

  Over the top of her head he saw Mr. Julius. The old man was staring around Gloria’s room with an expression of distaste. The pale-blue curtains, the canopied bed, the ruffled chaise lounge, the mirrored dressing table with its jars and bottles all came under his disgusted scrutiny. The air was heavy with some musky perfume.

  By the windows, over which the curtains had been drawn, Bradley sat at Gloria’s fragile Florentine desk. He gave Johnny a quick smile.

  “Mercy, you’re promptness itself. Thirty-eight minutes to the second. Have any trouble with the patient?”

  “He’s out like a light,” Johnny said. “Anything new?”

  “Only this.” Bradley indicated a pigeonhole full of blue note paper and a brass pen tray. In the tray were a stub of purple sealing wax and a gold signet ring.

  “No doubt of it,” said Mr. Julius, “the letter was prepared here
.”

  “Which letter?” Bradley asked, without looking at him.

  “Damned childish habit of being cryptic,” snapped Mr. Julius.

  “There’s nothing cryptic about it,” said Bradley. “The seals on Miss Marsh’s letter haven’t been tampered with. If there was a substitution, and it seems likely, it was a complete job … envelope and all. Definitely two letters — the one Gloria wrote and the one the murderer prepared.”

  “The murderer!” Pat exclaimed.

  “Who else?” asked Bradley. “Miss Prayne, either your sister was playing a joke — bluffing as Severied said — or she wasn’t. Miss Marsh doesn’t think she was. I don’t think she was. She was afraid, and her fears were certainly justified. I think she wrote a letter, telling who she was afraid of and why.”

  “But …”

  “The murderer somehow learned about the letter. He had to get rid of it. If he stole the letter from Miss Marsh’s desk, it might be missed. In that case Miss Marsh would have told your sister, and Gloria would have rewritten her evidence and been more cautious about where it was left. So he substituted a second letter, outwardly a duplicate of the original.”

  “Been planning this for days,” said Mr. Julius.

  “Waited for just the right minute … then blooey!”

  Johnny felt Pat shiver. “That means,” she said, “that he was at the Garden tonight, and that he’s been at Linda’s — in her private office — sometime recently.”

  “And here,” said Bradley.

  “Naturally,” Mr. Julius said.

  “Why here, Inspector? No one could …”

  Bradley cut her short. “Miss Prayne, he had to come to this room. He had to get at this particular letter paper, this wax, and this ring.”

  “Pat, you can’t get away from it,” Mr. Julius said. “Every step in this thing draws the circle tighter around your own group.”

  “Aren’t you both jumping at conclusions?” Johnny said, responding to the entreaty in Pat’s eyes. “Guy knew about the letter beforehand, and he seemed positive Gloria had been bluffing. This second-letter theory is no more than that, Bradley … a theory.”

  “Mr. Severied was anxious for us to believe that,” said Bradley. “Much too anxious.”

  “It’s crazy even to think it was one of us,” Pat broke in. “People are always in and out of the house.”

  “What people?” Bradley asked. “What people in the last two weeks?”

  “A fair question,” conceded Mr. Julius.

  Bradley glanced up at him and away.

  “Well, there’s Father and Aunt Celia and myself, of course. Linda’s in and out often; Johnny’s been about; George Pelham’s is here nearly every day; and Guy, of course. And those are the ones who couldn’t have done it.”

  “And the ones who could?” asked Bradley.

  “Well, there’s Peter Shea, our groom. I sometimes send him up for something. But, of course, he couldn’t have done it either. And Melissa.”

  “Who’s Melissa?”

  “She’s a colored cleaning woman who comes in once a week. But it’s silly to consider her.” Pat’s face was flushed.

  “I’m still waiting for the ones who could,” Bradley said.

  “Well … you see I’m not home much during the day, Inspector. And this last week … the Show …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Friends of Gloria’s?” Bradley suggested

  “Gloria didn’t ask many friends here, Mr. Bradley. She was … well, she thought of the school as a sort livery stable. She usually met them other places.”

  Bradley sighed. “The ones who could,” he repeated.

  “But you simply can’t …” Pat said. Her fingers tightened on Johnny’s arm. “Aunt Celia or Father will be able to tell you.”

  “But you don’t know of anyone except the people you’ve mentioned?”

  “Yes, I do!” Pat said triumphantly. “Dr. Englehardt came to see Father about his arthritis.”

  “I see,” said Bradley gravely.

  “That’s Jarvis Englehardt,” Mr. Julius said. “New-fangled ideas of diet and injection. Suspect a lot of patients have died.. But murder!” He shrugged.

  Pat’s lips were trembling. “Mr. Bradley … I love these people we’ve talked about. I’d trust them with my life. Accusing one of them is unthinkable … and I won’t think it! You’ve missed something somewhere, Inspector—something that would take you completely away from this line of suspicion. There has to be something.”

  Bradley regarded her gloomily for a moment. “I hope so,” he said, “for your sake.”

  Johnny said, “Hasn’t Pat been through enough, Bradley? Can’t you get on without her now?”

  Bradley didn’t answer. He got up from the desk chair, crossed the room, and slid open the closet door. There were dozens of day dresses, evening dresses, several tailored suits, furs, and scores of pairs of shoes and slippers. He rummaged among the clothes on the hangers. Presently he turned to Pat.

  “Miss Prayne, had your sister any private source of income?”

  “No.”

  “I have a report from headquarters here,” he said. He took a paper from his inside pocket. “Gloria was wearing an evening dress … new; silver foxes and a sapphire ring. For a girl whose family is supposed to be broke that’s fancy equipment. And this …” he added, gesturing toward the closet.

  “But,” Pat explained, “Linda is in the dress business. She gave Gloria a lot … and always let us buy from her at cost.”

  “Another peculiar thing,” Bradley said. “The labels had been cut out of the clothes she wore.”

  “That looks like an attempt on the murderer’s part to keep her body from being identified,” said Johnny.

  “And then,” said Mr. Julius, “he hid the body in her own car! When I was your age, Johnny, I used my brains for thinking!”

  Johnny reddened and was silent.

  “Also,” said Bradley, “the labels are gone from most of the things in that closet. Why?”

  Pat shook her head.

  “How much did your sister have for clothes?”

  “Why … about a hundred a month, I think, for everything.”

  “Could she have acquired that wardrobe, even at cost prices, for that?”

  “I … I don’t suppose she could.”

  “Pat … Good Lord, stop stalling!” commanded Mr. Julius. “Admit it’s queer. But you don’t need a crystal bell, Bradley. Gullible family … told clothes came from Linda, wanted to believe it, accepted it. She cut out the labels in case anyone happened to go through her things.”

  “And where did she get them?” Bradley asked.

  “Do I have to spell it out for you? She was engaged to one of the richest men in America. Guy bought ’em.”

  “Of course that’s it.” Pat was eager. “There’s nothing incriminating in Guy having bought her clothes, is there, Mr. Bradley?”

  Bradley had taken the red tin from his pocket. “Probably not,” he said absently. He filled his pipe. “I’m afraid I can’t put off talking to the rest of your family any longer, Miss Prayne. Will you and Curtin get them together for me? Julius and I will be along in a moment.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Julius, when they were alone, “what’s eating you?”

  Bradley waited till he’d gotten his pipe drawing properly. His eyes kept traveling around the scented, frilly room. “This family is broke, according to all reports,” he said. “At least comparatively broke. Yet Gloria had every luxury.”

  Mr. Julius wrinkled his nose. “Place smells like a bawdy house!”

  Bradley’s grin was fleeting. “A revealing comment, Julius. Wouldn’t have believed it of you.”

  “Rubbish!”

  “And speaking of smells,” said Bradley, “when you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you get so that you can smell certain types of crime.”

  “Can’t abide lectures. Don’t believe in instinct,” said Mr. Julius.

  Bradley looked at h
im, unsmiling. “What does the average citizen do when he thinks his life is in danger?”

  “Runs like hell,” said Mr. Julius.

  “Yes. To the nearest police station for protection.”

  “Unless he doesn’t like policemen.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Stop being cute!” Mr. Julius’ irritation gave his voice a rasping quality.

  “People don’t like policemen when they have something shady in their own lives. A man wouldn’t ask for help if by explaining why he was in danger he incriminated himself.”

  “So?”

  “So Gloria Prayne didn’t ask for help.”

  “What kind of hogwash are you talking? Gloria was a fool — a frivolous, irresponsible idiot. But not a criminal.”

  “Gloria didn’t tell Linda Marsh why she was afraid. She left evidence that would implicate the murderer only after she was dead!” Bradley sighed. “I’d like to bet that she herself told the murderer where she’d left that letter.”

  The old man glared. “Stick to facts.”

  “Blackmail is a nasty business,” said Bradley.

  “Blackmail!”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Clothes … jewels … furs. Taking no chances on her family’s finding out where they came from.”

  “But I tell you Severied —”

  “Why hide it?” Bradley asked, “Is there anything shameful about taking presents from your intended husband? I think, Julius, that Gloria was blackmailing someone for this trousseau. The victim got restless, made threats. Gloria, frightened, wrote down his secret and left it with Linda. She told her victim to keep him from getting tough. But he outsmarted her. I think he got a look at the letter, prepared a duplicate, planted it. Then he was free to act. And he did … decisively.”

  “By heaven, got to admit it makes sense!” Mr. Julius said. Then he laughed. “But you’ve tied yourself up in knots. If the murderer was a blackmail victim and it wasn’t Severied, then it wasn’t someone in this intimate family circle. No one else has two thin dimes to rub together. Better decide which theory you like, Master Mind. You can’t have ’em both!”

  Bradley’s eyebrows rose. “You think not?” he said.

  Chapter 8

  The Prayne family and their friends, with the exception of Guy Severied, were in the living room when Bradley and Mr. Julius came in. Bradley knew them all but Douglas Prayne.