“Yes, sir. I didn’t go out at all.”
“Westland had dinner at home?”
“Yes. He had dinner alone and then, after Mr. Woodbury had gone, he went…”
Finklestein and Crane exchanged glances. “Woodbury?” asked the lawyer. “What was he doing here?”
“He came over after dinner to talk over some business matter. I didn’t hear what it was. He only stayed for a few minutes.”
Crane asked, “Did many people know Mr. Westland kept the pistol in the drawer here?”
“Oh, yes, sir. He had a story about it—about using it to attack a German bombing plane when his machine gun failed him. He’d show the gun when he told the story; it had a silver plate with his name on it.”
Finklestein asked, “Did Mr. Westland leave Woodbury alone in the room at any time while he was here that evening?”
“You mean—” Simmons’ fingers nervously pulled at the cuffs of his dark suit—“you mean Woodbury is the murderer?”
The attorney raised a hand. “Nothing of the sort.” Light glittered from the diamond ring. “We are just checking on every possible angle.”
Simmons frowned in concentration. “I don’t … yes! He did leave him alone. He came out to the kitchen for some extra soda after I had served the drinks.” He added in explanation, “You see I had gone to bed.”
“Good.” Finklestein’s palms rubbing together made sucking noises. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Crane asked, “Have Woodbury and Mr. Westland always been good friends? No quarrels or troubles over money or anything?”
“Oh no, sir. They’ve always been on the best of terms ever since I started to work for Mr. Westland right after the war. You know they served together in France.”
Doc Williams had been sitting in one of the brown chairs, his hat tilted over his eyes. He never took off his hat indoors except in the presence of ladies. “I got a question,” he announced. “Do you mind if I got a question?”
Everybody said they did not mind. “What I want to know is, did that red-haired babe call him like she said she did?”
“I couldn’t tell you that. Someone called him and he went out soon afterwards.”
“Did you hear him come back?” Crane asked.
“No, sir. I had gone to bed. My room is in back of the kitchen—I wouldn’t be apt to hear anything.”
Finklestein lifted his tan overcoat from the chair. He looked dubiously at the cabinet with its gold-handled drawers. “I don’t suppose there’d be any fingerprints?”
Crane said, “I imagine Simmons has polished that since Mr. Woodbury was here that night.”
“Yes, sir.” Simmons’ thin school-teacher face was anxious. “Did I do wrong?”
“You couldn’t have known about prints,” Crane assured him. He jerked his head at Williams.
Finklestein allowed Simmons to help him on with his coat. He said, “I guess we better pay a little attention to Woodbury.”
Simmons said, “If there’s anything I can do…”
“Just don’t talk about what we have asked you.” Crane was trying the doors of the cabinet. They worked smoothly and without noise. “Where was Mr. Westland arrested?” he asked suddenly.
Simmons appeared surprised. “He was at the athletic club. The police called here on the telephone and I told them where he was. I didn’t know anything was wrong then.”
“What was he doing at the club in the morning?”
“He played squash every weekday with a professional at eleven o’clock.”
The attorney was turning his hat in his hands. “We’ve a lot to do this afternoon——”
“Wait just a second.” Crane was still testing the cabinet drawers. “I’d like to get the background clear in my head. Simmons, did they hold Mr. Westland after they got him at the club?”
“Yes, sir. They took him to the Detective Bureau on State Street to question him about the letter he had written to his wife—they found that in her purse, you know—but they were going to let him go even then until the coroner’s office reported that she had been shot with a Webley automatic.”
“How do you know they were going to let him go?”
“I was at the Detective Bureau.”
“You were? Did they arrest you too?”
“No. You see, Mr. Bolston called me on the telephone to say that the police had gone to arrest Mr. Westland and that they would take him to the Bureau. He told me to go down there so I could help if Mr. Westland needed somebody to phone for a bond, or anything.”
“Why didn’t he go down himself?”
“He wanted to go to the office to secure money for a bond, and to get hold of Mr. Westland’s lawyer. He came down to the Bureau about one o’clock and sent me home.”
Crane winked at the impatient Williams. “What time did Bolston call you?” he asked Simmons.
“It was just eleven-thirty, sir. I happened to notice the clock.”
“Now I have something important to ask you.” William Crane moved from the cabinet to admire the antique brass andirons in the fireplace. “Do you know if Mr. Westland had a duplicate made of the key to his wife’s apartment?”
“I am sure he didn’t. The poor lady had a fear of losing her jewelry and bonds in the wall safe. That’s why they had a special lock put on the door in the first place. Mr. Westland’s key was fastened on a ring.”
Interest narrowed Finklestein’s eyes. “Couldn’t somebody have taken the key and had a duplicate made?”
“Not unless they took the whole ring, and Mr. Westland would have noticed that.”
“Did anybody have a key to this apartment besides you?” Crane asked.
“Nobody—” Simmons looked faintly embarrassed—“except Miss Martin. She sometimes stopped off here in the afternoon after a shopping trip. Nothing out of the way, you understand.”
“I understand.” Crane moved to the door. “Don’t say anything about this to Mr. Woodbury, Simmons.”
The servant held the door for them. “I hope you can save him.” He stood watching them until the descending elevator caused the floor to obliterate him, like a stage drop working upside down.
Wind shook the trees with convulsive jerks and roared around the corners of tall apartment buildings. Across the Boulevard the Lake tried to hurl itself over the stone breakwater, tossed defeated fountains of spray into the moving air. A whirling eddy of leaves and paper and dirt engulfed Doc Williams.
“Now I know why they call this the windy city,” he said. “Where we going?”
“They call this the windy city because of the talkativeness of its early inhabitants,” Crane replied. “And Mr. Finklestein knows where we are going.”
The attorney was walking with short, quick steps. “I think we better stop and see Miss June Dea. She was Mrs. Westland’s maid, and she works down the street.” He eyed Crane through his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Looks as though we’d got onto something with Woodbury.”
“It won’t hurt to check him,” Crane agreed. “But don’t forget that Simmons gets ten grand in the will.”
A butler in the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer English manner answered the doorbell. “Miss Dea?” He eyed them haughtily. “I believe there is someone here by that name.” He stood squarely in the doorway.
“Well, trot her out,” said Williams.
“Miss Dea is one of the servants. If you wish to communicate with her, I suggest you do so at her own home.”
Finklestein stuck his foot in the closing door. “We’re from police headquarters,” he said, “and if you don’t change your attitude damn quick we’ll run you in for obstructing justice.”
Williams added, “How would you like a good paste on the schnozzle right now?”
Somewhat shaken, the butler disappeared into the dark hall. He left the door wide open, and warm air came out from the house. It felt pleasant on their faces and hands. When Miss Dea arrived she was good and mad.
“What are you flatfeet trying to do?” she aske
d. “Lose me my job?” Her hair was licorice black, and in her silk maid’s costume she was pretty and pert, but not so very young.
She became more friendly when Finklestein explained they came from Westland. She said Mr. Westland was a fine man. She said she had always liked Mr. Westland.
Finklestein asked, “Where can we talk to you? We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Miss Dea led the way along a wood-paneled hall, down half a flight of stairs, and into a light-walled kitchen. A large, elderly Irishwoman in a blue cotton dress and a white apron was peering intently at a boiling kettle on the electric stove. A sour-sweet mouthpuckery smell of cooking jelly filled the kitchen. The old woman regarded them with suspicion.
Miss Dea explained, “These are policemen.”
The old woman’s face did not change, but she bent over the kettle again, stirring the cherry-colored mixture with a spoon.
Crane explained to Miss Dea that they hoped to find some clue to the identity of the real murderer. “We are particularly interested in the special keys to the apartment,” he added. “Are you sure Mrs. Westland didn’t have more than one?”
Miss Dea shook her neat head. “I’m positive she didn’t. She trusted me, but she wouldn’t let me have a duplicate made because she was afraid I’d lose it. And there couldn’t have been a duplicate made without her knowledge, because her key never left her possession.”
Finklestein asked, “Do you think Mr. Westland might have had an extra one made?”
“I’m certain he wouldn’t. He knew his wife’s fear about her safe, and he promised her (I heard him) he wouldn’t let his key out of his possession.”
“How did she happen to let him keep his key anyway after they had separated?” Crane demanded.
“He’d had a specially constructed wine cellar built in the apartment with an automatic temperature control, and he kept some very valuable wines there. They agreed to let him use the cellar, as it would have cost him an awful lot of money to build another in his apartment. He used to come over and get a bottle or two at a time.”
Finklestein asked, “Does he own this apartment, that he would go and build a wine cellar in it?”
“Yes, he does; Mrs. Westland’s building was part coöperative.”
Crane asked, “Is there any other way the murderer could have gotten out of that apartment besides the door?”
Miss Dea shook her black head slowly.
The old Irish cook had left the sour-sweet kettle and was cleaning celery on the chromium sink. Her knife, over the noise of running water, made a crisp sound. She was cutting the celery into nice tasseled pieces with triangular bits of heart at the blunt end.
“Did you always arrive at Mrs. Westland’s apartment at the same time in the morning, Miss Dea?” Crane asked.
“Yes, at nine-thirty. Mrs. Westland always slept late, and she didn’t like to have me come before that.”
“Can you remember just how you and the others went into the room after you broke down the door?” Crane looked longingly at the celery. “I mean in what order?”
“Well, the house detective broke open the door. He was the first in. The rest of us followed. I guess Mr. Bolston and I came in last. I remember Sullivan, that’s the house detective, gave a sort of a snort when he went into the living room from the hall. We all ran in behind him, and there she was on the living room rug. She looked just like she was asleep, except for her pretty brown hair.”
“Her hair?”
“It was all soaked with blood.”
There was no noise of celery being cut now.
Crane asked, “Where does the hall go in the other direction?”
“It runs back to the bedrooms.”
“Then wouldn’t it have been possible for the murderer to wait in the bedroom until you were all in the living room and then simply stroll out to the elevator?”
Miss Dea wrinkled her pert nose. “Not a chance. Tony, the elevator boy, waited out in the hall. He stood in his car while the door was being broken down. And then, afterwards, he took the assistant manager, Mr. Wayne, down to call the police.”
His fingers on the gold-rimmed spectacles, Finklestein said, “Well, that’s damn funny. Are you sure the key to the special lock was there?”
Crane attempted to take one of the celery stalks. “No you don’t,” said the old lady. She cupped the pile of celery in her two hands, carried it to the Norge Rollator.
“The key was there all right.” Miss Dea smiled at William Crane. “I saw it. It was with her other keys and some dimes and quarters beside her purse on the table. She was lying right under the table.”
The cook, bending over the open refrigerator, made a wrapping noise with some paper.
“How about Mrs. Westland’s jewelry?” Finklestein asked Miss Dea. “Was any of it stolen?”
“Everything was there. Even the pieces she had on.”
Williams asked, “Where’d she get shot?”
“In the side of the head. It seemed to me that she hadn’t seen it coming, as though she had been shot unexpectedly.”
“I guess that’s all,” said Finklestein.
Miss Dea opened the kitchen door. “You better go out the back way; the butler’s got ants in his pants.” She smiled at Doc Williams. “I hope you catch somebody before poor Mr. Westland goes.”
As Crane passed the pantry, the Irish cook held out a newspaper-wrapped bundle. “Here’s something that’ll be helpin’ you,” she whispered mysteriously, her right eye screwed up into a ferocious wink. “Me boy Ed’s a policeman himself, in Deetroit.”
Crane accepted the bundle gingerly. Outside it was quite dark, and each street lamp stood in a circular pool of light. The three halted in one of these while Crane undid the parcel. It contained half a broiled chicken. Crane took the leg and passed the rest to Finklestein. The attorney jerked off a wing, handed the breast to Williams. They munched reflectively and unembarrassedly as they walked along the Boulevard.
“Not a bad life,” Crane observed, “a policeman’s.”
CHAPTER VIII
Late Tuesday Afternoon
They questioned Gregory Wayne, assistant manager of the building in which Westland and his wife had owned their apartment, in his Gothic office with the stained-glass windows, for some time, but it was no good. Mr. Wayne was forty, he had a paunch, and he was puffy about the jowls. He was convinced Westland had killed his wife.
“He must have shot her and locked the door himself,” he said. “The keys for that lock couldn’t be copied by an ordinary locksmith.”
Like a bored and politely superior curate, he observed the amenities of question answering without enthusiasm. He was positive the apartment had been, except for the single door, locked from the inside. He had seen the window catches himself. He was equally sure nobody could have been hiding in one of the bedrooms.
“It’s too bad Mike Sullivan, the house detective, has gone to Cleveland,” he said, “or he’d verify the facts. Tony will also tell you that nobody could have come out. He could see the door from his elevator.”
Crane shrugged his shoulders in response to Finklestein’s inquiring glance. Wayne was just repeating Miss Dea’s story.
“How about her key?” Finklestein asked. “You’re sure you saw it?”
“Certainly I’m sure.” The manager’s tone was sharp. “I saw it lying on the table with the other keys and the change. The man from the coroner’s office took charge of it after Miss Dea had pointed out it was for the special lock. The police, especially Deputy Strom, realized from the first that the apartment’s being locked was important.” Wayne placed soft hands on the red leather arms of his chair, lifted himself to his feet behind his desk. “Now, gentlemen——”
Crane said, “I’d like to give the apartment the once over.”
The manager puffed out his cheeks. “I’m sorry, but a Miss Hogan is living up there. She wouldn’t——”
“I understood the apartment was privately owned by Mr. Westlan
d,” Finklestein said.
“It is, but I rented it.”
“So!” Finklestein shook a finger under the puffy man’s astonished nose. “You rented it, did you? And now we have to get a court order to get inside?” The lawyer swelled like a pouter pigeon. “Let me tell you that when we do, we’ll get a warrant for your arrest at the same time.”
“I just thought—” the manager’s fingers pulled at a button on his faintly purple suit—“I thought since it was not being used that it would be advisable to have someone living there … I mean to keep it in order.…” He succeeded in establishing a feeble smile on his plump face.
“You may lose your job here for that.” Finklestein was very serious. “You call the lady and tell her we’re coming up. If anything in that apartment is broken or missing it will be up to you to pay for it.” He turned his back on the manager and winked at Crane and Williams. “We’ll decide later what should be done with you, Mr. Wayne.”
Wayne fumbled with an ivory cradle phone on the desk. “Get Miss Hogan.” He held a moist hand over the speaking end. “I didn’t suppose anyone would objec——” He removed the hand. “Hello, dear.”
His voice melted. “Some of Mr. Westland’s lawyers want to look in his apartment. They are coming right up.” The receiver made a spluttering noise. “I can’t help it,” Wayne said in a louder tone; “they’re in a hurry. Just throw something on.” The receiver spluttered again. “I don’t give a damn,” Wayne said. “We’ll be right up.” He slapped the phone on the cradle.
Finklestein said, “You’re not coming up. We’ve had enough of you. You better sit here and pray there’s nothing missing.”
They stepped out of the elevator and rapped at 2303, and the door was flung open by a sullen lady with orange-colored hair, scarlet lips, and blue-shaded eyes. Her voice was metallic. “You pick a funny time for a visit.” She moved from the door; her brilliant red, blue, and green dressing gown fleetingly exposing a tapering bare leg the color of Boston coffee. “What d’you want?” Her jaws moved on a piece of gum.
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