Westland clasped her arm protectively. “I shouldn’t have let you go.” His eyes were anxious. “I won’t let you do anything like that again.”
Williams gazed maternally upon the man and the pretty red-haired girl. “He’s a real sport,” he whispered to William Crane. “That guy’s death probably means a casket for Westland, but all he’s worried about is his gal.”
“By gad, Bill,” Cousin Lawrence Wharton exploded, “don’t be too hard on the gel. How’d anybody know that fellow was going to get his last night?” His red face challenged contradiction.
Attorney Finklestein pushed his gold-rimmed glasses closer to his eyes. “Then you don’t think his murder had anything to do with our investigation?”
“Preposterous!”
Westland asked, “How would anyone have found out that we wanted to get hold of him?”
“Plenty of ways,” Crane said.
Miss Brentino, seated beside Amos Sprague, smiled at him. She was wearing a floppy brim sand-colored felt hat, a tobacco-brown Chanel suit with a red and yellow silk scarf, tied Ascot fashion, around her neck.
“Damn it!” said Wharton. “This is deuced far fetched. That Grant was a horrid little thief, and those fellows live in danger of their nasty lives all the time.” His bulldog face was purple. “He simply got it last night.”
Crane said, “They don’t kill horrid nasty little thieves that way.”
Wharton was wearing gray-checked knickers with blue golf socks. He faced the detective. “Young fella, are you trying to tell me that I don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“That’s the general idea.”
Wharton said, “You’re a dem fool.”
“It seems to me you are pretty anxious to have everybody believe Grant’s murder was a coincidence.” Crane balanced on the sill. “You haven’t a personal reason for wanting us to think so, have you?”
Wharton clenched his fists. Williams, standing at the side, got ready to bust the old geezer on the conk with the handle of his automatic pistol. Westland seized his cousin’s arm. “Now, Larry,” he said soothingly, “calm yourself.”
Wharton allowed himself to be led to a chair. “The bla’guard as much as said I killed that fellow,” he muttered.
“Mr. Crane meant that we must look at every possibility,” Finklestein announced; “didn’t you, Mr. Crane?”
William Crane said, “Sure.”
“There isn’t much we can do about that shooting, anyway,” Finklestein said. “It’s up to the police.”
“It was a gangster job,” said Williams.
Crane said, “The man we’re after didn’t do that killing. He may have hired those fellows to knock off Grant, but they wouldn’t know who hired them; it would be done through a third party, and even if they did know and they were caught, they wouldn’t talk. We’d better stick to our own business and let last night’s shooting alone.”
“Is it so easy then, to hire killers?” asked Miss Brentino. Her make-up—mascara, powder and lipstick—was theatrical in daylight.
“I believe you have hit something, Miss Brentino.” William Crane turned to Finklestein. “Anybody can’t go out and hire some torpedoes. It looks as though our murderer, if he arranged last night’s show, has some underworld connections.”
“I guess you’re right.” Finklestein thrust out his lower lip. “Mr. Westland, have you ever had any contact with the underworld, with gangsters or kidnapers or men like that?”
“Never—at least, not with anybody except my bootlegger before Repeal.”
“Have any trouble with him?”
“Not the slightest. We got along very well. I even sold him my Lincoln roadster.”
“Was the car O. K.?” Williams asked.
“Shut up,” said Crane.
The door to the warden’s office opened. Bolston, in a suit of gray Scotch twist, Woodbury, and a fusty middle-aged man entered the room. The closing door shut out the warden’s gross and curious face. “This is Dr. Shuttle,” Bolston said. “He and his wife heard the shot that killed Mrs. Westland.”
Finklestein pulled out his notebook, fingered the pages.
Dr. Shuttle looked like a Western Congressman or an unemployed Shakespearean actor. His face was a graph of wrinkles. His hair, dyed the color of tarnished brass, hung over his ears. “This is very embarrassing,” he said; “but these gentlemen were so insistent.” His black silk tie was fastened in a loose bow; gold spectacles hung from a black ribbon around his neck.
Westland said, “That’s all right. I don’t hold any grudge.”
“I only did my duty,” Dr. Shuttle stated with dignity.
Woodbury was immaculate in a blue business suit, snugged almost effeminately at the waist. His slim hands were carefully manicured. He sat down on the edge of Miss Brentino’s chair, and the two of them, poised and dark, reminded Williams of a photograph he had once seen in the Mirror of a Spanish duke and his wife who were visiting New York.
Bolston said, “Bob, I think I’ve got something.” His face was a healthy pink, his blue eyes were clear. “I want you to think carefully. What time was it when you left your home on the night of your wife’s murder?”
“A little after eleven-thirty. I had been reading in bed.”
“What time was it when you reached Joan’s apartment?”
“A little before twelve.”
Finklestein, peering near-sightedly at the figures in his notebook, nodded.
Bolston asked, “How long did you stay there?”
“About forty minutes.”
“Then you left before one o’clock?”
“My clock said one when I got home.”
“All right.” Bolston thrust his hands in his pockets. “Do you recall the date of the murder?”
“Why, sure.” Westland’s eyes rounded in surprise. He lifted his hand off Emily Lou’s arm. “It was the morning of April 28th.”
“The day before was April 27th. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“At midnight on April 27th Chicago changed from standard time to daylight saving time.”
Westland was puzzled. “Sure, but what of it?”
“Didn’t you set your clock ahead?”
“Why, yes. Before I got in bed.”
“That is—before you went to Joan’s apartment?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” Bolston straightened his broad shoulders. He looked like an Arrow collar ad. “All your figures are on daylight saving time.”
Bolston turned to Dr. Shuttle. “Now…” Crane slipped around the wall on tiptoe, Indian fashion, and jerked open the door. Warden Buckholtz was kneeling there, his palms forward in an attitude of prayer. His right eye was where the keyhole had been. Ponderously he overbalanced, fell forward clumsily on his thick hands. Crane helped him to his feet, tenderly dusted him off. “Won’t you join us?” he asked.
Warden Buckholtz finally managed to speak. “I wanted to see if my guard was in with you, but I didn’t want to disturb you.” He squeezed backward through the doorway. “He must be in the jail.” The closing door blotted out his jowls.
“Maybe that’s where the news we were searching for the late Mr. Grant got out,” Finklestein said.
Crane leaned against the knob. “He won’t get any more.”
“Now, Dr. Shuttle,” said Bolston, “what time did you and your wife hear the report?”
Dr. Shuttle fumbled with his pince-nez glasses. His voice trembled nervously as he said, “Exactly twelve-twenty by our clock.”
“At the trial you gave this testimony in order to help the State prove Mr. Westland was in the apartment at the time.”
Dr. Shuttle’s posture was dignified. “I merely told the truth.”
Bolston leaned towards him. “What were you and your wife doing up at that time?”
“Drinking tea.”
This drew a general laugh. Dr. Shuttle pursed his lips with an air of injury.
“What time
did you finally go to bed?”
“Not until nearly one-thirty.” The doctor twirled his glasses on the silk ribbon. “You know I play the organ.” Williams’ sudden giggle turned to a cough under Dr. Shuttle’s indignant glance. “Sir! I have given recitals before the nobility of Europe.” He addressed Bolston. “My wife and I always sit up after I have given a recital. It takes some time for my artistic frenzy to wear itself off. My nervous system is pitched very high.”
“You had given a recital?”
“Yes, in Orchestra Hall.” Dr. Shuttle thrust out his chest and stomach. His back arched inward like yew bow. “You apparently did not recognize my name. I am Dr. Frederick Shuttle, the church organist.”
“I should have.” Bolston’s white teeth shone. “I have often heard your name mentioned.” The skin over his cheek bone was firm and pink like salmon flesh. “But, Dr. Shuttle, we are very much interested in when you set you clock ahead.”
“But I told you that at the apartment. I set the clock ahead when we went to bed.”
Bolston spoke slowly. “Then you heard the shot at twelve-twenty Central Standard Time. By Westland’s time, that was one-twenty, or more than twenty minutes after he had reached his own apartment.”
There was a momentary silence. A sparrow, on one of the skeleton trees in the court, chirped. Dr. Shuttle looked apprehensive.
Westland gripped Bolston’s arm. “That’s damn smart, old man.”
Dr. Shuttle began, “I only told the truth as…”
“That’s all right,” said Westland.
Miss Martin exclaimed, “I think it’s splendid. Now all we have to do is to tell the Governor you couldn’t have been there when Joan was killed and…” She had hold of Westland’s left hand.
“Just a minute.” Attorney Finklestein was waving his notebook. “We aren’t out of this yet. Even if Dr. Shuttle heard the shot after Mr. Westland said he left, that won’t do us any good.” The attorney’s diamond glittered. “Mr. Westland can’t prove he did leave his wife’s apartment when he says he did, even though we know he did, and he’d have to be able to do that before the Governor would even listen to us.”
Bolston was crestfallen. “I thought I’d hit on something pretty good.”
“It helps. It all helps.” Finklestein closed his notebook. “But we got to keep on going. If we could only get hold of someone who saw him leave.”
“That’s where Grant might have come in handy,” Woodbury observed.
“I think it’s mighty fine of Dick, anyway, and mighty clever too,” Emily Lou said. “That shows us Robbie couldn’t have done it.”
Miss Brentino spoke casually, without inflection. “You knew that anyway, didn’t you, dear?”
Hurriedly Westland said, “What do you think we ought to do next, Mr. Finklestein?”
“I’d like to look into that locked door business. We’re certain there were only two keys. Mr. Westland had his, and the other was found with Mrs. Westland inside the locked apartment, but the murderer must have gotten out some way. I think Crane and Williams and I ought to look the place over.” Finklestein patted his lips with the silk handkerchief, knuckles held outward so the diamond would show. “But the important thing is the motive. If we could find out why Mrs. Westland was murdered, we’d have a good start.” The handkerchief was hand initialed “C.F.” in green thread.
Amos Sprague had been sitting quietly in a corner. “I think I can tell you the motive tomorrow, Mr. Attorney.” His laugh was a barnyard cackle, but his bright eyes under craggy white brows were grim. “Tomorrow, Mr. Attorney.”
“What do you mean, Amos?” Westland asked.
“I can’t tell you now, Mr. Westland, ’twould be too soon.” The old man nodded his head as though he had been stricken with palsy. “But I can tell you it involves millions.” His falsetto cackle rose. “Millions … millions … millions.”
Finklestein’s gold watch snapped open. “It’s almost time for lunch again,” he said. He pocketed the watch, pushed his notebook in his hip pocket. “Bolston has disposed of the time of the shot, anyway.”
As the others were filing out, William Crane asked Bolston, “How’d you happen to think about changing time?”
“I don’t know. It just popped into my head that the last Sunday in April was the day you shifted. So I asked Shuttle about it.”
“Well, it was a damn smart piece of work.” Crane hurried out of the room, caught Finklestein at the top of the steps. “Like to have lunch with Williams and me, counselor?” he asked.
“Sure.” Finklestein was watching Woodbury and Miss Brentino. Arm in arm, heads close in conversation, they were descending the steps. “Seem pretty intimate, don’t they?” the attorney said.
Crane watched the sweeping curve of the woman’s half presented profile, her narrow hips, her slender legs below the Persian lamb coat. “I wouldn’t mind being intimate with her myself,” he said.
Attorney Finklestein said, “That makes it unanimous.”
CHAPTER VII
Tuesday Afternoon
They had lunch at Ricketts, just off the Boulevard on Chicago Avenue. They had martinis, and Williams had a crêpe suzette for dessert. “It tastes pretty good,” he said; “but what have you got after you eat it?”
William Crane said, “You wouldn’t be able to get out of that chair of yours, Doc, if you ate another of those pancakes—you probably can’t now.”
Williams looked at their ash-blond waitress, allowed one lid to curtain momentarily a wicked eye. “I’m a spry fellow for a G. A. R. Vet.” He pretended lumbago pains wouldn’t let him straighten up in his chair, eyes on the waitress. His coat caught on the chair back, exposing a black leather holster with a pistol in it under his left arm. The waitress giggled. She did not see the weapon.
William Crane said, “I thought you were going to leave that cannon at the hotel?”
Doc Williams said apologetically, “I feel just like I was naked without it.”
“Don’t worry about the pistol,” Finklestein said. He finished the last of a bowl of preserved figs. “I’ll spring him if the police get him.”
“I wish the police would get him. I’m not worried about that.” Crane was having coffee, no dessert. “I’m afraid the damn thing will go off some time and shoot me.”
Finklestein paid the bill. Williams rubbed his sleek brush mustache with the napkin, still watching the pretty waitress. “What’s your name, baby?” he asked.
The waitress had dimples. “Gladys,” she replied.
“I’ll be coming up to see you sometime, Happy Bottom.”
The girl’s eyes were almost perfect circles. “How did you know they called me that?”
“I’m a detective,” said Williams.
When they reached the Boulevard, Finklestein suggested, “Let’s go round and see Westland’s man, Simmons. We might as well walk—it’s only a few blocks to Westland’s apartment.”
Sidewalk shop windows framed women’s apparel—sturdy tweeds, fragile evening gowns, soft silver fox skins, mink coats, pastel underthings that looked as though they had been loomed by a spider. Straight from the northeast, damp from the Lake, a flagellant wind whipped blood into the cheeks of passers-by. Suddenly upflung skirts disclosed shapely thighs, and flesh and garters: pink, white, and black. Into the wind the populace walked with bowed heads as though a day of prayer had been proclaimed. Down wind they ran, leaning backward, with short jerky steps, Chinaboy fashion.
Williams, looking at a display of shirts with tab collars in the window of Saks’ Fifth Avenue, nudged Crane. “Look who’s in there.”
It was Miss Martin. She was standing in front of a counter, holding up a tie with regimental stripes to the light. Beside her was Richard Bolston, two other ties across his arm. He saw Crane and Williams, smiled a greeting and motioned them to come inside. Crane shook his head, pointed a finger at Finklestein’s retreating back, and said the word “Work” with his lips. Bolston nodded that he understood.
&n
bsp; Crane was pleased when they reached Westland’s apartment on Astor Street. His right cheek bone ached from the cold, and his hands were numb. They took the automatic elevator to the eighth floor, where Simmons answered the doorbell. He was a nervous middle-aged man with sharp features, and he wore a black suit with a stiff collar. He looked like a school teacher.
“I’m Mr. Finklestein,” said the lawyer. “Didn’t Mr. Bolston call you this morning?”
Suspicion faded from the man’s eyes. He drew open the door. “Come in.”
The 28 x 30 living room was chaste in apple green and ivory. Venetian blinds, cloaked with Brewster green satin drapes, screened the two tall windows overlooking the street. Above the virginal black-and-white marble fireplace hung a brilliantly colored Parisian cafe scene by Toulouse-Lautrec … three prostitutes soliciting a bearded gentleman drinking emerald absinthe from a tall glass. The rug, tailored around the black composition hearth, was pale gray, and the modern furniture, chairs and a huge divan, were covered with material which looked and felt like sun-bleached gunnysack. A black and silver directoire lamp with a parchment shade stood on an end table.
“We’re interested in Mr. Westland’s pistol,” Finklestein said. He took off his tan topcoat, jerked it away from Simmons. “Never mind; we won’t stay long.” He tossed the coat over one of the brown chairs. “Where’d he keep it?”
“In this cabinet, sir.”
Two jade elephants trumpeted at each other on the cabinet top, and along the front were a series of gold handles for the drawers. Simmons opened an empty drawer. “That’s where it was.”
Crane asked, “When did you see the pistol last?”
The man hesitated, sucking in his thin lips over his teeth. “I saw it the afternoon of the murder.”
“You did? Did you tell the police about it?”
Simmons glanced uneasily from Crane to Finklestein.
“It’s all right,” Crane said. “We don’t like the police any better than you do.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, sir, I didn’t. I didn’t think it would do Mr. Westland’s case any good.”
“You were probably right,” Finklestein said.
Crane ran his hand across the rough material covering the davenport. “Were you in all the rest of the afternoon, after you saw the gun?”
Headed for a Hearse Page 7
