Bolston objected, “You mean the key he says I used.”
“I mean the key you used.”
In shifting his weight, Crane brushed his knees against the green wool on Miss Brentino’s suit. “The key brings up the story of the telephone call. We felt that whoever called Westland would have to cut into the line in Miss Martin’s aunt’s home in case he called back. We went out to Miss Martin’s apartment and found where the wires had been tapped just outside the dining room.”
“The hell you did!” exclaimed Strom.
Miss Martin said, “Yes.” Saying the word dimpled her chin. “It was tapped all right. The wire must have gone right out the dining-room window.”
Finklestein rubbed his diamond ring against his lips. “You don’t know who tapped it?”
Miss Martin said, “No, we don’t.”
Crane said, “Yes, we do.” He smiled at Miss Martin’s surprise. “It puzzled me quite a bit, but I happened to solve the problem while I was enjoying a hangover. There’s nothing like a hangover for clear thinking.”
Williams said, “Why look at me? How should I know?”
“It was really Miss Brentino who gave the clue away.” He looked down into her luminous eyes. “She once asked: ‘Who could best imitate Miss Martin’s voice?’”
“Well, who could?” asked Finklestein.
“Miss Martin herself.”
Her eyes suddenly all whites, Miss Martin fainted, slid from her chair to the dusty floor. Bolston said, “You son of a bitch,” and started for William Crane. Surprisingly, Deputy Strom intercepted him, seized his arms. Westland, watching the action dazedly from the door, made no move to help Miss Martin.
Woodbury and Miss Brentino pulled Miss Martin into her chair. She moaned, drank some of the water the warden poured from a tarnished silver decanter, and then sat up unassisted. Her face was wan, her expression was preoccupied and secret.
“You must be wrong here, Crane,” Woodbury objected. “We know Miss Martin didn’t leave her home that evening and that the telephone is in the front of the apartment, where her uncle and aunt would have heard her if she had called.”
Crane watched Bolston from the corner of his eyes, ready to jump behind the warden’s table in case he got free of Deputy Strom. “The telephone is in the front of the apartment,” he agreed, “but I discovered the solution. Westland told me he heard a roaring noise, like a water fall, when he was talking to Miss Martin and she was cleverly using the bad grammar so he wouldn’t be sure later whether or not it was her. Well, the noise he heard was the roar of water from a shower bath.
“Miss Martin tapped the wire in the dining room, only a few feet from her door, ran the cord under the rug through her room into the bathroom. Then she shut her door, also the bathroom door, and further, to make sure her family didn’t hear her, she turned on the shower full tilt. There’s nothing like a shower to drown out the sound of a human voice.”
Williams asked, “Then her story about a strange man comin’ to fix the phone on the day of the murder was a phoney?”
“Sure. She made it up while we were questioning her. I don’t suppose she thought anybody’d ever find the place where the wire was tapped.” Crane stared boldly at Miss Martin. “It makes a pretty, even a seductive picture, the thought of Miss Martin standing naked in her shower and making the phone call which nearly sent Westland to his death. I’d like to have been there.”
Miss Martin passed the back of her hand over her eyes.
“So would I,” said Doc Williams.
“I’m sorry to say that Miss Martin and Bolston were in cahoots,” Crane continued. “That’s where the key to Westland’s apartment comes in. Simmons told us Miss Martin was the only other person to have a key, and of course she gave it to Bolston before the murder. That’s how he got in to steal the pistol.”
“But why the hell would Miss Martin do that?” Finklestein objected. “She was engaged to marry Westland.”
Crane looked at Miss Martin’s tremulous lips. “Who knows why a woman does anything? However, I can give you a couple of pretty fair reasons. One is that she was due to inherit about seventy thousand dollars from Westland in case he died.
“The other is that she never could have married him because she was already married to Bolston.”
The lawyer said, “Well, I’ll be God-damned!”
“Yes, indeed. Williams saw part of a marriage certificate while we were going through her room to look for the tapped wire and—” Crane tried a lie—“we checked up on it and found it was for Miss Martin and Bolston.”
Miss Martin sat upright in her chair. “I thought you prying fools saw all of it,” she said.
Bolston said, “Be careful.”
“They can’t make a wife testify against her husband,” she said, “and besides——”
“Shut up!” Bolston shouted.
Crane pivoted around to State’s Attorney Ross. “I guess that gives it away, doesn’t it?” He rolled his head so that he was looking at Bolston. “Williams just saw Miss Martin’s name on the license, not yours. She said it was her mother’s certificate, but it seemed a little strange that her mother should have the maiden name of Emily Lou Martin too.
“And then I remembered I had seen Miss Martin buying you neckties in Saks’ Fifth Avenue. That was the fatal clue, because nobody but a newly married husband would let a woman buy ties for him.” Crane grinned at the state’s attorney. “You know what kind of ties a woman buys?”
Ross said, “Don’t I!”
“Why Miss Martin fell for Bolston is something I can’t tell you,” Crane added, “but I’m sure they thought it would be nice to keep the marriage secret until Miss Martin had Westland’s money. Then they could get married again openly.”
Miss Martin stared at Bolston, but he wouldn’t look at her. Instead, he looked out the window, his face inscrutable. Deputy Strom, still holding his arms, said, “If you can tell me the motive, I’ll have to admit you’re right.”
“The motive isn’t so tough.” Crane watched Miss Martin’s frightened eyes. “The brokerage business hasn’t been so hot lately. In fact, Westland, the head of the firm, had to depend on his income, yet Bolston has been living in style, with a fancy car costing twenty thousand dollars, a Japanese servant and his own apartment, a couple of clubs and lots of shows and parties. He admitted to Williams and me he had no private income, so naturally the question is—how does he do it?”
“Yeah,” said Finklestein, “that’s the question.”
“The answer is Westland’s accounts, which your auditors found filled with stolen and counterfeit bonds. You can buy these for a dime on the dollar in any big city if you know the right place to go, and Bolston did. Before Westland was put in jail, Bolston had been sticking those hot bonds in his own accounts, thinking, I suppose, he could leave the country when things seemed about to be discovered, leaving Westland to make good. He probably had a nice sum of money tucked away, because there’s a good profit in buying a bond for ten dollars, sticking it in place of one worth a hundred, and then selling the good bond for ninety dollars profit. Do that long enough, and you’re bound to make money.”
Strom nodded.
“But Mrs. Westland, who kept a lot of her own stocks and bonds in her apartment safe, discovered that some of her carefully purchased securities were bad. Bolston had been handling her stock transactions for two years, ever since she and Westland separated, so she immediately suspected him.
“She called Woodbury and told him she wanted to see Bolston about some bonds, and Woodbury relayed the message to Bolston, who knew at once he was about to be discovered. This was on a Friday, and Bolston knew he would have to face her on Monday, which gave him Saturday and Sunday to decide what to do. I think he must have been contemplating a murder before this, though he may have made up his plan on the spur of the moment, but anyway he realized that if he could get both the Westlands out of the way everything would be just dandy.
“Not only would Bolston’s wife
inherit Westland’s money, but he would also be able to remove the hot bonds and stocks from his clients’ accounts and stick them into those of Westland’s clients. This would make it unnecessary for him to flee the country, since people, when the bad bonds were found after Westland had been electrocuted, would be convinced that Westland had not only murdered his wife but had defrauded his clients.
“So the Westland case turned out to be sort of an oblique murder—the slaying of Mrs. Westland to get Westland out of the way.”
“But what about the killing of Grant,” asked Finklestein, “and Sprague?”
“Bolston had to have Grant killed because he wasn’t sure what the burglar had seen. Naturally, sitting in our council meeting, he knew all about our plans to find Grant, and later Miss Martin informed him of the date we’d made through Petro.
“Bolston got his gangaster friends to have Grant killed as he sat trying to decide whether or not to talk to us in the night club. I don’t know who the gangsters were, and I don’t care. That’s up to Deputy Strom. Neither do I know who killed Sprague, who had evidently come across some traces of Bolston’s account juggling. He tried to do a little detecting on his own, even went up to see Simmons, then made an appointment with Woodbury to tell him about it. Sprague had already warned us he was on the track of something, and Bolston, watching him at the office, probably saw he had been looking through the accounts.
“A couple of the gangsters, very likely the same friends, trailed Sprague in an automobile, ran him down when he got off a streetcar. One of them jumped out and felt of their victim, not so much to make sure he was dead as to find if he had any papers on him which would incriminate Bolston. If there were, he got them; but that’s another job for Deputy Strom.”
Finklestein started to ask, “But the key? How did——” He halted, goggling at Miss Martin. She had fainted again, was slowly slipping out of her chair. The state’s attorney caught her and said to the warden, “You better have her taken to the infirmary.”
Two shapeless matrons came and helped her out of the room. She glided between them like a sleep walker. Crane didn’t watch her go; neither did Bolston.
“I’ll bet she’ll do some talking,” said Strom.
Williams asked, “But how about Miss Brentino and Woodbury? Why did they have a phoney alibi on the night of the murder?”
Woodbury looked surprised. “Phoney?”
“The alibi was all right,” said Crane. “They said they were at the Black Hawk, and we thought they couldn’t have been there because the place was reserved for a sorority party. But I’m certain Miss Brentino is an alumna of the sorority and was invited to that party.”
“Phi Mu,” said Miss Brentino.
Crane scratched the back of his neck. “I think that’s about all.”
“Plenty,” said State’s Attorney Ross. “I’ll put in a call for the Governor from my office right away. Warden, you better come with me and talk to the Governor after I get through.”
“What’ll I do with this guy?” asked Deputy Strom, a massive hand on Bolston’s shoulder.
“Take him down to the Bureau and book him for murder,” said the state’s attorney.
“Before I go,” said Strom, “I’d like to find out how this guy got out of Mrs. Westland’s apartment if there wasn’t an extra key.”
“So would I,” said Finklestein.
Crane said, “It was quite easy, wasn’t it, Bolston?”
Bolston stared out the window.
“After Bolston had shot Mrs. Westland, he took her keys out with him, locking the door behind him. Then he returned in the morning, a few minutes after the time he knew the maid always got there, and helped break in the door. He was the last one of the little group to rush into the room, as Miss Dea told us, and while the others were looking with horror at the body on the floor, he simply placed the keys on the table with Mrs. Westland’s purse and the coins.”
“Well, for God’s sake!” exclaimed Finklestein.
Bolston said nothing while Deputy Strom fastened the handcuffs to his wrist, made no protest when he was led away. He did not appear to be frightened.
Finklestein watched until Strom and his prisoner had left the room. “They’ll have a tough job putting anything over on Bolston,” he said. “He’s as cool as a hunk of dry ice.”
Crane was looking at Westland, surrounded by people offering him congratulations. He said, “Bolston ought to get you to defend him now, Finklestein. That would be poetic justice.” Westland’s face was unhappy, he looked as though he were going to be sick to his stomach.
“Not me,” said Finklestein. “I got an engagement with that Miss Hogan to go to Florida.”
Crane said, “The hell you have!”
CHAPTER XIX
Saturday Morning
12:03 A. M.
The priest’s voice was loud and triumphant.
“I absolve thee from all censures and sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.… Amen.”
Connors knelt on the cement floor of his cell, his head bowed over his hands. Warden Buckholtz, in the corridor, hauled out his fat gold watch. “It’s past time——”
A guard swung open the cell door. Connors arose unsteadily, followed the priest out into the corridor. Westland and Isadore Varecha, from their cells, watched them pass. Farther along was Guard Galt, pressed against the wall. His lips were wet.
The priest, holding up the silver crucifix, sonorously chanted:
“Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.
“Lord, have mercy. Holy Mary, pray for him.”
Behind the gliding surplice, a half-length white shadow over the black cassock, Connors veered toward Guard Galt. His fist shot out; Galt’s head hit the wall, and he fell senseless to the floor. Blood gushed from his mouth.
The priest, oblivious, chanted:
“All ye holy Patriarchs and Prophets, pray for him.
“St. Peter, pray for him. St. Paul, pray for him.
“St. Andrew, pray…”
A turn in the corridor made the words in the litany indistinguishable.
Seven minutes later they came for Isadore Varecha. His face was eager; he said to Westland, “I ain’t afraid as long as you’re coming behind me.”
“Don’t worry,” Westland lied; “I’ll be coming right behind you.”
The little fiend trotted between two jailers, did not look back. Westland waited for the lights to dim, but they didn’t. The electric chair was not attached to the regular jail circuit.
Presently Crane came and put a hand on his arm. “You can move back to another cell, now,” he said. “They’ll probably set you free tomorrow.”
Westland’s face was waxy. “I’d just as soon have gone with them.”
Reporters in the corridor clamored for “Just a word, Mr. Westland.” Two cameramen were busy screwing flashlight bulbs in a triple holder.
Crane said sympathetically, “Don’t worry about Miss Martin, fella. There’s other fish in the sea just as good.”
Intense blue-white light flooded the corridor as the Tribune photographer set off a gunpowder speed flash.
Westland managed a sickly smile, asked, “But who the hell wants a fish?”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1935 by Jonathan Latimer.
Copyright renewed 1962 by Jonathan Latimer. Reprinted with the permission of the author’s estate and Curtis Brown, Ltd.
Introduction copyright © 1990 by Max Allan Collins
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