Headed for a Hearse

by Jonathan Latimer

  Back in the hall again, bending over the place where the wire had been cut, Crane asked, “What’s directly opposite this point on the other side of the wall?”

  “My bathroom,” said Emily Lou.

  Polished green-and-white tile, as lustrous as semiprecious stones, made the bathroom dazzling in the electric light. Two fluffy black rugs ink-spotted the tile floor; aquamarine tinted glass enclosed a shower; an asparagus green tub with silver taps was coolly inviting. On a chromium shelf above the tub were a Japanese loofa; a cylinder of pine bath salts, and a nail brush. Half-a-dozen oversize towels, monogramed in green, hung from a chromium rack.

  Williams walked across the floor gingerly, as though in a museum display, and examined the wall adjacent to the hall. It was unmarked. He looked around cautiously for the toilet but was unable to find it. He thought, What the hell kind of a bathroom is this?

  “The wire didn’t come through here,” Crane said.

  “It didn’t come through anywhere because there wasn’t a wire.” Mrs. Prudence’s eyes were exasperated. “Don’t you think you’ve been bothering us long enough?” She turned and marched toward the front room.

  Williams followed her, but Emily Lou detained Crane. “Is there any chance of saving him?” she asked in a low voice.

  Crane turned away from the tears in her eyes. “I don’t know. There’s still time for something to turn up.”

  She let the tears run down her cheeks, looked at him unashamed. “I don’t care,” she said, “I can’t be brave all the time. I try to believe it will be all right, but——” Her carmine lower lip trembled.

  Crane pressed her arm gently with his fingers. “Keep in there pitching,” he said. “It means a lot to him.”

  In the hall she asked, “Do you think the wire means anything?”

  “Well, I figured it must have been tapped here, but I don’t see where they could have run their cord. It would either have to go through the dining room or through your room, and I don’t see how it could have without being noticed.”

  Williams and Mrs. Prudence were waiting at the front door. “I hope you’re satisfied,” said Mrs. Prudence acidly.

  “Genius is an infinite capacity for not being satisfied,” William Crane replied. He bowed to Mrs. Prudence, smiled at Emily Lou, and started down the stairs. Four steps down he halted and called back, “Miss Martin, do you think Miss Brentino would know your voice well enough to imitate it?”

  Emily Lou said slowly, “She certainly heard it enough when she was Robert’s secretary.”

  Even on the second landing Mrs. Prudence’s snort of contempt was audible.

  As they were climbing into the waiting taxi, Williams observed, “Damn funny people.”

  Crane gave the address of the ballistics laboratory, then asked, “Why?”

  “They spend all that money on a bathroom and then don’t put a toilet in it.”

  “You just didn’t see it. It was in a special closet.”

  “All right, but why do they have to have kitchen furniture in the living room?”

  They rode in silence for the rest of the trip because Crane couldn’t think of an answer for that one.

  Major Lee, the ballistics expert, met them in his outer office. He handed Crane Woodbury’s gun.

  “No luck?” Crane asked.

  “Depends upon what you want,” said Major Lee. He was a tall blond man with a whiskey-red face and a curly mustache. “This gun didn’t fire the bullet that killed Mrs. Westland, although it is of the same type.”

  Crane asked, “There isn’t any possibility that this was Westland’s pistol, is there? His had a name plate on it, but it might have been taken off.”

  The major shook his head. “This never had a name plate on it.”

  Crane fingered the gun, gazed reflectively at the major’s pepper-and-salt suit. “What did Deputy Strom say when you told him?” he asked.

  “He said, ‘That puts the bee on Westland.’ I think he was worried for fear I would find this was the gun.”

  “He was.”

  “I can’t say I blame him. I never thought Mr. Westland was guilty; the evidence fitted together too nicely.”

  “Then why did you testify for the prosecution?”

  “I merely said the bullet which killed Mrs. Westland was fired from a Webley automatic. I didn’t say it was fired from Westland’s automatic.”

  “You didn’t say it wasn’t either.”

  “You find me Westland’s pistol and I’ll tell you one way or another in a very short time.”

  “Touché!” Crane said. “I haven’t been able to find anything so far on this case.” He thanked the Major and led Williams to the faithful taxi.

  “Where to now?” Williams asked.

  “Up to Miss Hogan’s apartment to meet Finklestein.”

  “How do you know he’ll be there? He didn’t say anything about meeting us there.”

  “He ate clams for lunch, didn’t he?”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Wednesday Night

  Crane knocked loudly on the polished door of the apartment occupied by Miss Hogan. The giddiness from the absinthe and the other liquors had subsided, and he felt very gay. He knocked again: tap-titi-taptap-tap-tap.

  Doc Williams, frowning, stood behind him. “How much was the cab bill?” he asked.

  Crane was entranced with the hollow sound his knuckles made on the door. He tried, “We’ll rally ’round the flag, boys, we’ll rally once again,” rotating his knuckles against the wood to imitate the military swirl of drums. The result was impressive. “If you only had a fife,” he said to Williams, “we could do Yankee Doodle.”

  “How much was the cab bill?” Williams repeated.

  Crane said, “Eleven dollars,” and then prepared to play “The March of the Wooden Soldiers” with both hands on the door. This proved impossible, however, because the door swung open, and Finklestein, dressed in a dark-blue suit and carrying his overcoat on one arm, stood there in its place. His face changed slowly from dignified composure to intense rage.

  “My God, I thought you were the house detective,” he exclaimed. “What’s the big idea?”

  “I am a detective,” Crane said with dignity. “I’m a very great detective.”

  “He’s drunk,” said Williams.

  “What’s the big idea?” the attorney demanded again. “What’s the idea of coming up here and scaring me half to death?”

  Crane pushed past him into the apartment. “Where is the lovely Miss Hogan,” he asked, “… the lovely Miss Hogan?”

  She was standing in the hall, hands on hips, a scornful scarlet smile on her lips. “What do you want?” she asked metallically. She had on black silk lounging pajamas, cut low over firm breasts, and high-heeled open sandals. Painted toenails matched her orange hair.

  “You,” Crane said. “I like you.”

  He felt that he did, too. He not only liked the smell of narcissus that came from her, but he liked her smooth tan flesh and the narrowed blue-penciled eyes and the sullenly descending curve of her lips. He looked at her, and she at him, her eyes sultry, until Finklestein came back from the door.

  “Where have you been all afternoon?” the lawyer demanded. “I thought you were going to look me up.”

  “Too busy,” said Crane. “We’ve been working.”

  Finklestein looked interrogatively at Williams, who said:

  “I don’t know. At least we spent thirty-four dollars for cabs.”

  “Thirty-nine,” said Crane. “I gave five bucks to the last guy.” He took his eyes from Miss Hogan, added: “Let’s go sit down. I want to hear about those alibis you were supposed to get.”

  In the subdued light from two lamps, the living room was exotic with the coin-covered tapestries and the huge red-and-brown portrait of the Spanish boy on the terra-cotta walls, and the big windows backgrounded with city lights.

  Crane dropped into a deep chair and demanded a drink.

  “There’s only gin,” sai
d Miss Hogan.

  “Gin? That’s a medicinal drink, isn’t it? Like soda pop?”

  “You don’t have to drink it,” said Miss Hogan acidly.

  “No, but I wouldn’t think of refusing something you recommend. In fact, I’d like to taste gin. I’ve heard about it so long.”

  She hesitated, undecided between laughter and rage, until Finklestein said, “You better make some gin bucks for all of us.”

  After she had crossed the red-tile dining-room floor to the kitchen, Crane asked, “How about those alibis?”

  Finklestein shook his head. “They’re all bulletproof. I can account for everybody at the time Sprague was run over except Simmons.”

  “You’re sure none of them could have been driving that car?”

  “Positive. Want me to tell you where they were?”

  “No, I’ll take your word for it.” Crane swung his legs over the arm of the chair. “You covered Miss Martin?”

  “Everybody but Simmons.”

  “I’ll fix him,” said Crane. “Is there a telephone in this apartment?”

  The telephone, an ivory cradle model, proved to have such a long cord that Crane was able to use it without moving from the chair. He called Wabash 4747 and finally located Deputy Strom.

  “The gun wasn’t the one,” he said.

  “I knew it wasn’t,” the deputy replied. “It was Westland’s pistol that killed his wife.”

  “Maybe, and maybe not.”

  The deputy snorted.

  “Listen,” Crane said.

  “Yeah.”

  “That Simmons. You know Simmons?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, listen. He just told me he saw Sprague.”

  “The hell he did!”

  “Yes he did. He said he just saw Sprague, I mean he just said he saw Sprague. He said he lied to you.”

  There was a pause while the deputy sorted out this information. Crane made clutching motions at Miss Hogan, who had returned from the kitchen with fogged tumblers on a silver tray, and she handed him one. He was drinking deeply when the deputy asked:

  “Did he tell you why he kept that from me?”

  “He didn’t tell me much, but he acted very suspicious … very suspicious.”

  The ice cubes in the glass made the bottom damp in Crane’s hand. The drink had lemon juice, charged water, sugar and plenty of gin in it, and it made his mouth taste clean and fresh. He thought if they made a mouth wash of gin and lemon juice it would sell very well.

  Deputy Strom said, “I think I’ll pick that guy up. It won’t hurt to ask him some questions.”

  “You better check his fingerprints.”

  “Who do you think you’re dealing with,” the deputy asked bitterly; “a bunch of nincompoops?”

  Crane said, “Yeah,” and the deputy hung up violently.

  Finklestein asked about the gun, and Crane told him how the deputy’s men had taken it to the ballistics expert.

  “Too bad it didn’t match,” commented Finklestein. “We might have been able to pin something on him with that and his phoney alibi on the night of Mrs. Westland’s murder and the fact that he’s the only one who could have taken Westland’s pistol.”

  “I don’t like that guy or his girl,” said Doc Williams. He was sipping his drink slowly. “She tried to tell us that the phone call Westland got that night was really from Miss Martin.”

  “Miss Brentino’s all right,” said Crane. “She’s got a lovely figure.”

  Miss Hogan said, “Those are the dames to look out for.”

  Crane finished his drink, handed the glass to Miss Hogan. “Those are the dames I’m always looking out for.”

  Williams said, “She was Westland’s secretary before he got in a jam. Why couldn’t she and this Woodbury have framed something on Westland? Maybe they stole some of his stocks, or something, and then framed him.”

  “Why would they have to frame him?” asked Finklestein. “If they stole something from him all they’d have to do is to leave the country. Framing him wouldn’t do any good, because the theft would be discovered when his estate was audited.”

  “Maybe so,” Williams shook his head, “but there’s something funny about that pair.”

  Crane said, “I wish you would check over his account, anyway, Finklestein. There might have been some funny business.”

  “All right. I’ll put some auditors to work tomorrow.” Finklestein suddenly sat up in his chair. “Say! That reminds me of something. One of Westland’s lawyers called me yesterday and said that when Mrs. Westland’s estate had been probated they found nearly eight thousand dollars’ worth of stolen and counterfeit stocks and bonds among her things.”

  “The hell you say!” Crane thrust out his lower lip. “Could Bolston…?”

  “No, I checked on that. The phoney securities were listed as having been bought for Mrs. Westland when Westland was still handling her account. He was in such a jam, and besides the estate was left to him, so the attorney never did anything about it.”

  “Christ! Everything keeps coming back to Westland.” Crane, drinking and talking at the same time, spilled gin buck on his necktie. “But I still don’t think he did it.”

  “Who gets his money?” asked Miss Hogan. “I bet the one that gets the money did it.”

  Finklestein gazed at her admiringly. “You’re a smart one.”

  “I’m always thinking of the money first,” Miss Hogan confessed.

  “Like a mercenary soldier,” Finklestein observed.

  Crane said, “She belongs to an older profession than that.”

  “You go to hell,” said Miss Hogan.

  Finklestein spoke hastily: “That Miss Martin gets all the money. He’s left it to her in a will.”

  “Wouldn’t Wharton have a chance of breaking it?” Crane asked. “He’s the nearest relative.”

  “He might, but he’d have to prove duress, or undue influence, or insanity, to get anywhere.”

  “Hell, they’ve all got motives,” said Williams. “Bolston or Woodbury could have the same reason to get Westland out of the way—to rob the office—and Simmons gets ten grand according to the will, don’t he, counselor?”

  “That’s the main bequest.”

  “For ten grand a person might do a lot of things,” said Miss Hogan.

  Crane pointed at his glass. “How would you like to get us another little drink?” He smiled at her vivid face. “Just a touch more gin than the last one.”

  While she was gone, Crane related the story of the trip to Miss Martin’s home. Finklestein was much impressed.

  “How do you suppose anybody got into the house to cut the wire?” he asked.

  “I suppose it was the first telephone man Miss Martin spoke about,” Crane said. “The second one was legitimate.”

  “But if Miss Martin saw the first man, why didn’t she identify him? You said you were sure the plot was arranged by someone close to Westland, and certainly she would know him.”

  “I guess he could have an accomplice.”

  “I suppose so. But how could they get the wire loose after they had talked to Westland? They’d have to do that if the trick was to go unnoticed.”

  “All they’d have to do would be to jerk it loose. They had the dining-room window open a crack and the wire would slide out. That’s probably what put the phone on the blink.”

  Miss Hogan returned with the drinks. She gave Crane one which had in it slightly more gin than lemon juice and charged water. “That ought to hold you,” she said.

  Crane tasted the mixture, replied, “You’re doin’ better, baby.” He drank about half the glass.

  Finklestein watched him with reluctant admiration. “If you only detected as well as you guzzled liquor you’d be all right.”

  “I’m a great detective.” For emphasis he waved his glass in the air and splattered liquid over his trousers. To avert another such accident, he drank all that was left. “I tell you I’m a great detective.”

&nbs
p; “Sure,” said the lawyer, “you’re a great detective. But what else did you do this afternoon?”

  Crane told him about Joe Petro. “I didn’t like to see the poor guy beat up,” he confessed, “but you can’t let him go around shootin’ at you all the time. I mean there’s a limit to almost everything.” He stood up abruptly, and the glass shattered on the floor. “I mean I’m a good-natured fellow and all that, but I——“

  “Why was he trying to shoot you?” Finklestein asked. He was impressed.

  Williams said, “He thought we put Mannie Grant on the spot at the night club. He was just tryin’ to pay us back.”

  Crane leaned unsteadily over Miss Hogan. “I’m a great detective,” he asserted. “You know me, don’t you, baby?”

  “Sure,” said Miss Hogan. “I know you.” She was listening to the others.

  “And then,” Williams said, “we made the waiter tell us what Grant had seen on the night of Mrs. Westland’s murder.”

  “What was that?”

  Crane said, “Tha’s right, don’t pay any attention to a great——” He tripped over the large table, miraculously caught a toppling lamp.

  Williams continued, “Grant saw Westland leave this apartment, and he saw Mrs. Westland say goodnight to him. That proves he couldn’t have killed her.”

  Finklestein shook his head. “No good as evidence now.” He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “It’s of no value coming second hand the way it does. If we only had Grant…”

  “He’s dead.” Crane, returning from the kitchen with a glass of straight gin, screwed up his face in derision. “Hadn’t you heard, counselor?”

  “Has he got all the gin?” Williams asked Miss Hogan.

  “No, I haven’t got all the gin,” said Crane. “I left some in the bottle.” He collapsed on the davenport. “I’m not a hog, I’m just a great——”

  The three of them left hurriedly for the kitchen. Miss Hogan took Finklestein’s and Williams’ glasses and poured the remainder of the gin in them. Running hot water over a tray of ice cubes, Finklestein asked Williams, “Do you think Crane’s got hold of anything?”

  Williams tossed a squeezed lemon into the garbage pail. “I wouldn’t know. He never makes sense on a case, but he usually delivers the goods.” He poured the lemon juice from the squeezer into the glasses.