by Paul Ernst
“You saw no one in the corridor?”
Bohr shook his head and glanced impatiently at his watch. He had as good a story in this murder as in even a juicy scandal. He wanted to get out and gild his column with it.
“You made only the one trip back here?” Ryan persisted.
“Just the one. Your bass viol thumper can confirm that.”
“All right,” said Ryan. “I know where to find you if any more questions occur to me. By the way, you’ll be patted a bit in the corridor. Don’t be annoyed by it, a lot of people will be searched tonight.”
“Searched!” Bohr choked a little. “Me?” Then he shook his high-fronted head with determined quizzicality. “And what might I have on me?”
“I am looking for the gun that killed Rose Rosslyn. And the bullet that went through her head.”
Bohr nodded. Then he said, “By the way, where was the girl killed, back here?”
“In this room,” said Ryan pleasantly. “This was her room.”
Bohr jumped, and for the first time—as far as could be judged—he noted the damp spot on the floor with a seeing eye. He skirted it carefully on his way out to the corridor.
“Allen Siltz,” said Ryan’s man, like a bleak sort of butler, bringing in the second on the brief list.
I widened my eyes at that, and looked swiftly at Ryan. For here, in this name, was the foundation for his unexplained remark about me being perhaps more interested than ever in this affair.
I had never met Allen Siltz, but I’d heard a lot about him, and much of it not good. He was a diamond broker of less than sterling reputation, doing a lot of business, with some of it, I am sure, not recorded in any account books. I won’t say he was a part-time fence, because if I did that he could smack me with a libel suit and make it stick. But he did have a queer way of turning up with precisely the number, quality, size and cost of gems his customer of the moment might want.
I could not help but wonder if someone recently had expressed in his hearing a sincere wish to own the Duysberg diamond.
Siltz entered the room in a thoroughly apprehensive way. His reputation was not such as to make desirable a chatty meeting with the police. But the damp spot on the floor had nothing to do with his apprehensions; he walked over it without even seeing it. Could be acting, of course, but few people out of the profession, or even in it, according to some soured critics, could be that good at acting.
“I’m Ryan,” said our master of ceremonies, running his hand over his shoebrush hair. “Homicide. A few questions to ask you, Mr. Siltz.”
“I am happy to answer all I can,” said Siltz, looking as unhappy as I have ever seen a man look. He was a lugubrious-appearing little character anyway, as low in the forehead as Bohr was high, very thin and yet with excess flesh hanging in loose, flat jowls. Like a starved hound.
“You were here at the Fifty tonight just for the entertainment?” Ryan began.
“No,” said Siltz. “On business.”
“With Rose Rosslyn, perhaps?”
“Absolutely not,” said Siltz, one dank wriggle of agitation. “No, not at all. I came here tonight to see Mr. Checckia.”
“Let’s hear about it.”
“I came at nine-thirty or maybe a little later. I came early because I thought I might get to leave early and go home. I have stomach upsets, and I need lots of rest. I stayed first in the reception room, sending for Mr. Checckia. I thought we might conclude our business there, and at once. But Mr. Checckia send word he was sorry, I would have to see him a little later as he was very busy. I went in and took a table.”
I was beginning to wonder if this was one way Checckia helped fill his club—by phoning people and promising them things if they would come.
“At ten I went back to his office,” Siltz continued, looking unhappier yet. “He was not in it. Twenty or twenty-five minutes later I went back again. He was again not in. I never did get to see him, and now perhaps he won’t want to see me at all. After this.”
“You haven’t yet told us what you came to see him about.”
“Oh? Oh! I haven’t, have I? I came to sell him some diamonds, if he should like them and I should be so fortunate.”
I almost blurted: Sell him? For this was not the way my thoughts had been perambulating in the last few minutes. Maybe Ryan had half-expected an outburst for there was a hesitation before he went on.
“You can prove that, Mr. Siltz?”
“Oh, yes.” Siltz unbuttoned coat, vest, shirt, old-fashioned-looking undershirt. There was a flash of pale dank-looking skin, and of an inner leather belt with a chamois pouch stitched to it. He opened the pouch, and a little glittering trickle ran into the careful palm of his bony hand. “These, I brought. Commercially perfect, one carat or more, blue-white. Mr. Checckia was considering diamonds as an investment, a hedge against inflation.”
Well, there you were. Siltz might or might not have gone behind the curtain on an innocent business matter; many diamond merchants carry gems with them constantly; they love the stones. But he could make a good story of it, and later the artificially tanned manager would probably agree with it.
Ryan asked his stock question. While Siltz was back here had he heard a shot or a commotion of any kind. No, said Siltz, he hadn’t. He had simply come back to Checckia’s office twice, opened the door, seen each time that the office was vacant, and gone back to his table.
He went out with no regard for the damp spot, and Ryan’s man searched him prior to bringing in the next victim, and I said, “This might be a good time to search me, too.”
“Search you?” said Ryan, looking as puzzled as if he didn’t know the meaning of the word.
“Sure,” I replied. “I’m people. And you’re searching everyone else.”
“I hardly think it’s necessary,” Ryan murmured, but with his gaze already ranging over me for bulges. I could be morally sure he was going to do it anyway, before the evening was over, and just possibly my volunteering might be a small mark for me on the credit side. I was still leery of that appearance of collusion.
He smiled and shrugged. This is silly between two like us, his expression implied. His fingers didn’t match the expression; I’ve never been more thoroughly searched.
“Now do you feel more noble?” he asked when he was done.
“Not being noble,” I said. “I’m with one of your suspects. I’d like to be cleared as completely as possible.”
“Why, Cates! I’ve said I had you in here because you might help me, and because this might mesh in with a case of yours.”
“Howard Denham,” said Ryan’s man stolidly at the door.
That name was a royal surprise to me. Howard Denham, ten-goal man soon to marry Marylin Keppert, Ellen’s cousin. Here. At the Club 50. On the same night when Ellen was also inexplicably here. That seemed more than coincidence.
I didn’t attempt to conceal my surprise from Ryan; there was no point in such concealment. I looked wide-eyed at Denham as he entered—and walked obliviously across the damp spot on the floor,
Howard Denham was not very rich, apparently, but he was very, very social register. To anyone with money in her own family, like Marylin Keppert, he was one of the most eligible males in New York, just for the name. He had more than that, however; he was good-looking, too. Big, bronzed, light-eyed and dark-haired, wearing his dinner jacket as if born on Savile Row.
But why was he here tonight? And how long had he been here? I hadn’t seen him in the supper room, which was not remarkable since the room was very crowded and, sitting down, you could see no more than two tables away. Ellen had seen him, though; I recalled her little start of astonishment back at the table…
So, I thought, on her part at least his presence was coincidence; she had not expected to see him here.
“Why, hello!” said Denham to me. And this time it seemed there was too much surprise. It was a good bet that he had seen me, out there, though I’d not happened to glimpse him.
I said, �
�Hello,” and introduced Ryan to him as if it were a cocktail party we were attending.
“You wanted to see me?” Denham said to Ryan.
“Yes,” said Ryan. “You were one of four outsiders seen coming back here at about the time Rose Rosslyn was shot. Naturally I wanted a word with you.”
“Naturally,” murmured Denham.
“You didn’t come here to see Miss Rosslyn?”
Denham laughed, displaying luxurious white teeth. It is peculiar; teeth accustomed to biting into high-priced steaks look different from those used to hamburger. “If I had, I’d lie about it, don’t you think?”
“Not if you were clever,” said Ryan. “Because if you did see her, it would come out eventually.”
“I didn’t see her. I didn’t come to see her. I don’t know her, except by name as an entertainer here. Good dancer.”
“Why did you come here, alone, tonight?”
“Just to kill an empty evening.” Denham’s tone was easy. “I’ve been here often. Usually alone, several times with Miss Keppert. I like the place.”
Ryan did not say, “Why?” He said, “What brought you back here to the dressing rooms?”
“Not any of the dressing rooms. Checckia’s office. I came back to see him.”
“What for?”
Denham’s athletic shoulders moved. “Just to say hello. I have been here enough to know him slightly. I find Gar an interesting character.”
This was the lousiest smoke screen we had seen tonight. The odds against Howard Denham’s liking this place enough to come often, and liking Gar Checckia enough to while away some friendly moments in his office, were at least eighty to one.
I spoke up. What the hell? I might as well ride this fiction of Ryan’s that he had me with him only because he loved me and respected my abilities. “You say you’ve been here with Miss Keppert? Miss Marylin Keppert?”
“Of course, Marylin Keppert,” replied Denham good-naturedly. “She’s the Keppert I’m engaged to.”
“When was the last time you were here with her?”
“Six weeks ago, I’d guess. Maybe longer.”
“And the last time you were here alone?”
“Three weeks. About.”
“Did you always go backstage to see Checckia?”
“Let’s see… No. This is the first time the impulse ever struck me. Fine night I picked for it, wasn’t it?”
“Fine night we all picked,” I said. “You. Ellen. Me.”
Denham frowned anxiously. “That’s not so good—Ellen. I was bowled over when the crowd thinned and I saw Ellen. And then saw her held here with just three others of us. She came back here, too?”
“She did,” I said. And Ryan took over smoothly.
“Did you see Checckia, Mr. Denham? Was he in his office when you got back here?”
“Yes. We chatted for several minutes, and he gave me a shot of some special brandy he keeps in his office.”
“Then?”
“Then I went back out to my table and enjoyed the encores Mansfield sang.”
Now I knew he was lying. No one, male and under thirty, could have enjoyed that.
Ryan asked the two other questions. Had he heard a shot? A scream? Denham said no. Ryan then regretted the fact that he would have to submit to a search along with the other sweaty plebeians—and Denham’s air of ease became a quivering shell.
“Search me?” he said. “What for?”
“The gun,” said Ryan. “The bullet.”
“Then you’re accusing me of…”
“Nothing, Mr. Denham. But I couldn’t very well have everyone else searched and omit you, now could I?”
“It’s ridiculous! You can see from here I have no gun—”
“Or bullet? That’s pretty small. And someone, the one we are after, could have slipped it into your pocket.”
Denham began going through his pockets. “There’s no—”
“You can be searched here, or I can take you to headquarters,” Ryan said, gray eyes seeming to flatten. “Either way, you’ll be searched. Stengel.”
The plain clothes man playing the bleak role of butler appeared in the doorway. Ryan nodded to Denham. “And ask Miss Keppert to come in, please.”
“My, my,” I said when Denham had been escorted out. “We certainly object to being searched.”
“Be interesting to see why,” said Ryan. “And to find out really why he came here in the first place. A member of the Keppert family, a member-to-be of the Keppert family, both here on the same night, when a girl was killed.” He did not add, “Plus an insurance company investigator who has had dealings with that family within the month.”
Stengel opened the door.
Ellen came in.
I looked at her and my professional impersonality melted some more around the edges.
She was cold with fear. Stiff with it. And she looked at us composedly and even made with a small smile. Poor kid. I tried to buck her up with my stare and at the same time keep too much sympathy from being revealed to the omniscient Ryan. A neat trick if it could be done. And I prayed a little that she wouldn’t make any false passes.
She averted her eyes from the damp spot on the floor, and managed to keep from walking over it as she came up to Ryan and me.
Ryan lit one of his frequent cigarettes, and I could see his mouth harden.
He said, “You came in tonight, I believe, with Mr. Cates.”
Ellen’s lips parted and I was so afraid she’d try to lie that I couldn’t stand it any more. I said, “Look, Miss Keppert, I don’t know what this is all about.” For Ryan’s benefit, though I couldn’t hope that it would weigh much with him. “But I do know that it is serious. Very serious. For you, and almost as directly for your uncle.” I saw her wince at that. “Don’t leave anything relevant out of your answers. And don’t put anything in that doesn’t belong there.”
Ryan’s eyes were turned my way and they were as flat and gray as agate. I’d done myself no good by speaking out of turn. I think Ellen caught that, too, for her eyes warmed a bit. She nodded as if she had come to some decision. I hoped it was the right one.
“No,” she said to Ryan, “I didn’t come with Mr. Cates. I came in alone, and he came in a minute later. It could be that he was following me. And that could be because of what happened at our place a month ago. He was in on that, you know.”
“Yes,” said Ryan softly, “I know. Why had you come here alone, Miss Keppert? It seems an odd thing to do.”
I held my breath. I saw Ellen’s lips work with the several answers she wanted to give.
She said steadily, “I came to see a friend of mine. Rose Rosslyn.”
I don’t think any of the three of us really sighed, but it was as if we all did, and it rose up and hit the ceiling and settled down on us again.
“You came to see Rose Rosslyn,” Ryan went on. “A friend, you say?”
Ellen nodded. And moistened her lips.
“And did you see her?”
I could see her round white throat move as she swallowed. “I—Yes.”
The little dressing room was still. The voices of the Misses Club 50 across the hall came through the walls to us.
“She was alive, then?” said Ryan.
“No.” Ellen’s hands shut tight on each other. “I came back here to see her. During the cancan number. I knocked on her door. There was no answer. I thought she’d be back in a minute, and that I’d go in and wait for her. I opened the door. She was lying there.” Her eyes went to the damp spot, no longer trying to conceal the horror they had gazed upon.
I saw the glint in Ryan’s eyes. His first pay dirt.
“You came in?” he said.
Ellen shook her tawny head. “I stood in the doorway about one second, fighting off a fainting spell. Then I went back out to Mr. Cates.”
“And tried to get away from the building at once.”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you know how that would look later?”
“I didn’t know anything except that I wanted to get away. And I didn’t want to hurt my uncle through the publicity.”
“It would be bound to come out that you had come back here. Running away would have made it worse.”
“And is this making things any better?” Ellen asked a little bitterly. “Coming in here and telling everything I know. Is this helping me any?”
I was curious to hear how Ryan would answer that one. He didn’t; he avoided it. “Did you see anyone in the corridor while you were back here?”
“No,” said Ellen. “No one.” She looked as if she regretted her candor now, though for a fact it had been wisest for her.
“While you stood in the doorway”—were the words faintly underlined with irony?—“looking in at Rose Rosslyn, did you see a gun lying near?”
“Why, no. If there was one, it was out of sight.”
“You would have remembered if you’d seen one?”
“I think so. The thing stayed with me like a picture. Rose there, looking almost as if she were asleep instead of… The lights all on and bright. An opened jar of cold cream on the dressing table. Like snapping a shutter and getting a picture. I saw no gun.”
“And you didn’t enter the room. You opened the door, stood there looking for a second or two, closed the door and went away.”
“That’s right.”
“Where is Rose Rosslyn’s dressing case?”
“Her what?” said Ellen.
“Dressing case. Overnight bag. Suitcase.”
“Why, I don’t know. I didn’t see that, either.”
“What did you come to see her about?”
I was lulled a little. Things had gone along as well as they could in the circumstances. Which was not, of course, well at all for Ellen Keppert, poor kid. But there’d been a minimum of friction, and she hadn’t given any trouble.
And then she said it. For half a second I didn’t think I’d heard right. But she said it.
“I came to see her about a mermaid.”
I don’t think she meant to say it. She had said it flippantly to me, twice, to invite me to mind my own business, and it had gotten grained into the tape recorder of her subconscious, to come out again now at the worst possible time.
