“Any time you say,” Dan Coffee said cheerfully. He could not know that within thirty hours he would not only have met the Widow Gable, but that she would be clinging to his arm with panic–clamped fingers, staring at a dead man.
None of it seemed quite real to Dr. Coffee except the wind and the rain outside, making the night lugubrious with sullen, stealthy, muted sounds. Yet the dead man on the stairs was real enough. So was the beautiful young woman he had met half an hour before, staring at the corpse with dark, fear–haunted eyes. Even the imaginary baby crying somewhere in the upper stories of the house must be real, since Dr. Coffee had heard the crying. Leonard Philips had said that Louise Gable was losing her mind, because she heard the baby. For a moment Dr. Coffee thought that perhaps he, too, was losing his sanity – until he reminded himself that this nightmare had begun prosaically and logically at his own front door that very evening. It was a quiet Sunday evening, and Dr. Coffee had been exercising his weekly privilege of cluttering up the kitchen with what his wife called his “pathological culinary experiments.” Dr. Coffee, who liked to eat, had a theory that a good trencherman should be a good cook. So far he had been only partially successful in proving his theory. For the past five Sundays he had been working on the problem of devising a cheese soufflé that would not collapse immediately upon being taken from the oven. Experiment No. 5 succeeded in delaying the collapse by forty–five seconds. He had wiped the flour from his eyebrow and the beaten egg–whites from the kitchen wall, recorded the oven temperature and recipe calibrations in a notebook, and, under the disapproving eye of his wife, stacked an amazing number of kitchen utensils in the sink. Then, since it was raining, he settled himself in an easy chair with a volume of Escoffier's cookbook. Northbank's summer rains usually fell at night – steady enough to soak through the topsoil but never heavy enough to spoil the crops. Northbank owed its prosperity to its nocturnal rains which left the daylight hours to the ripening sunshine and flooded the canneries with fine vegetables from the surrounding farm lands. Dr. Coffee was reflecting that the nocturnal rains also made for cozy evenings at home when his doorbell rang – three long, loud peals that sent resounding echoes scurrying through the house. A gust of cold rain blew into Dan Coffee's face as he opened the door. Dr. Motilal Mookerji stood outside. He wore a yellow slicker over his white uniform, giving him the general contours of a captive balloon. The rain–bedraggled tail of his turban clung to his slicker like a limp pink snake. Through the blur of the downpour, Dr. Coffee could see the gleam of a black coupe at the curb.
“Pardon unannounced intrusion, Doctor Sahib,” the Hindu panted. “But am suddenly encumbered with subacute case of hysterical female jitters. Will you make social and professional acquaintance of Widow Gable at this time? Splendid. Then suggest attiring self in raincloak, since Widow Gable request escort to domicile. Phantom cry–baby presently engaged in habitual frightening vocal exercises.”
Dr. Coffee got his first look at Louise Gable by the glow of the dashboard lights. Her long, oriental–looking eyes peered straight ahead into the rainy night as she gripped the wheel of her car. The street lights whisking past made rhythmic patterns of chiaroscuro with her high, pale cheekbones and the blue–black hair she wore pulled back tightly from her broad forehead and twisted into a lustrous loop that caressed the nape of her neck. There was no doubt that she was very beautiful – and very frightened.
She apologized for taking Dr. Coffee away from his home on a night like this. “But I simply couldn't go into that house alone,” she said. “I'd just come back from driving Roger Gable – that's my brother–in–law – to the airport. As soon as I opened the door I heard the baby crying. I was terrified. My servants were out. I turned to Dr. Mookerji.”
How long had this been going on? Two weeks exactly. Louise remembered the first time she had heard the crying – a Sunday night after returning from taking Roger Gable to the airport. For several days there had been nothing. Then the phantom baby had cried two nights running. The last time she had heard it was three nights ago – Thursday night. And then tonight. She had been particularly terrified tonight, perhaps because she was upset. She had quarreled violently with Roger Gable before leaving him at the airport. Perhaps her mind really was in a turmoil. She would know very soon now.
Louise Gable's house, a legacy from her father, stood back from the road at the end of a long, poplar–lined lane. It had the turrets, the long steep roofs, and the tall chimneys of a Burgundian château, and the general coziness of a mausoleum. The cedars and cypress banked in precise funereal masses were black against the fieldstone walls. The high Gothic windows were dark. Dr. Coffee held a flashlamp while Louise fumbled with her keys.
The massive oak door swung open. Dr. Coffee stood for a moment in the chill, musty silence of the vaulted foyer, wondering at the chill, musty silence of the vaulted foyer, wondering at the queer disquiet that ran through him like the first malaise of a fever. The very rustle of his raincoat seemed to echo in the darkness – peopled by some lurking evil, some nameless terror. Dr. Coffee held his breath while Louise groped for the light switch. “Quite melancholy place, eh, Doctor Sahib?” The voice of the Hindu was shrill in the darkness.
When the great crystal chandelier finally burst into brilliance, Louise Gable was standing with her hand on the switch, her face uplifted anxiously, listening for something she dreaded to hear.
“There!” said Louise. “Can't you hear it?” Dr. Coffee listened to the spatter of rain on the windows, to the wet rustle of the trees bending to the wind, to the throb of his own pulse beat in his ears. He began to shake his head. Suddenly he heard it – a faint, thin, reedy wail which seemed to come from far off. The high, inhuman monotone grew fainter and fainter, then stopped with a quick, sharp sound like the intake of breath, like a sob.
“I can hear it,” Dr. Coffee said.
“Likewise,” said Dr. Mookerji.
“Thank God!” Louise breathed. “Then I'm not really mad?”
“It's upstairs,” Dr. Coffee said.
“We'll trace it.”
“Wait.” Louise slammed the heavy front door. She tried the latch. Then she snapped on the upstairs lights.
The huge gilt–framed mirror on the landing reflected their ascent of the thick–carpeted stairs – the slim, dark girl between the pudgy Hindu and the tall, sandy–haired pathologist.
When they reached the landing, the phantom baby began crying again.
When they reached the top of the staircase, they found the dead man. He was lying face down, his head hanging over the edge of the top step, one arm poked grotesquely through the gilt–bronze balustrade.
Louise Gable drew back stiffly against the wall. She opened her mouth – but there was no scream in her throat.
Dr. Coffee stopped. He turned the dead man over.
Somewhere in the house the thin wail sobbed into silence.
Louise found her voice. She said: “It's Jim Stoneman.” She asked no unnecessary questions. The glazed and bulging eyes, the swollen, blue–gray face spoke unequivocally of death.
Dr. Coffee tried to recall where he had heard the name of Jim Stoneman. Of course, Stoneman was manager of the Barzac Cannery and one of Louise Gable's suitors. The pathologist examined the marks on the swollen neck. He said: “The man's been strangled – not very long ago. Was he here when you left the house, Mrs. Gable?”
“I haven't seen him today.” Louise gave a queer, short laugh. It was not a hysterical laugh. Louise was stunned, but she was not hysterical. Her voice was calm as she said: “Dr. Mookerji, do you know why Roger and I quarreled at the airport tonight?”
The question seemed irrelevant to Dr. Coffee, but the Hindu said: “Am without slightest intimation.”
“Roger asked me again to marry him,” Louise said. “I told him no – once and for all. I told him never to come back to Northbank, because I was going to marry Jim Stoneman. And now – ” Louise put her hands to her temples. Two tears rolled down her cheeks a
s she stared at the dead man. “I've just found out I was going to marry a man I didn't love. I liked Jim a lot. He was comfortable and practical and reliable, and I guess I loved the security he represented. But now that he's dead I don't feel anything – except that I love Roger. I love him terribly – the way I loved Ralph. I love him for all his craziness and irresponsibility and – whatever the war did to him. I even love that metal patch in his skull he's always joking about. I – ”
“We'll have to call the police,” Dr. Coffee interrupted.
Louise clutched his arm. “Doctor, you won't say anything to the police – about what I've just told you – about Jim and me and Roger? Because ... they ... might ... think ...”
The sentence died slowly. Louise was looking past Dan Coffee, looking down the stairs with unfocused eyes. Dr. Coffee knew what the eyes were seeking. He, too, had heard the footstep on the floor below. He murmured: “Phone the police, Mrs. Gable. Dr. Mookerji will stay with you. I'm going down.”
Dan Coffee gently removed the trembling hand from his arm and started down the stairs. From the landing he could see the front door gaping wide. The rain blowing in from the night spattered darkness on the Ispahan rug. There was no one in sight. Standing under the crystal chandelier, Dr. Coffee was uneasily aware that he made an excellent target. There was already one dead man in the house. He snapped out the lights. He was not precisely invisible in the twilight from the upstairs fixtures, but he felt better – until, above the sounds of wind and rain, he heard the creak of flooring. The creak came from somewhere at his right. He moved noiselessly over the thick carpet toward the small Louis XV drawing room just off the foyer. He entered the drawing room, paused. Dark silence swirled around him. His hand explored the wall. Then the floor creaked again – very close by.
“Don't move!” Dr. Coffee was surprised at the peremptory tone of his own voice. “Put up your hands!” His fingers touched the switch. Light flooded the room. A husky, broad–shouldered man with shy gray eyes and a strong jaw stood with his arms crooked awkwardly over his head. He smiled sheepishly, as he said: “You're Dr. Coffee, aren't you? I've heard a lot about you from Dr. Mookerji. I'm Roger Gable.”
Roger lowered his arms and held out his right hand. Dan Coffee hesitated a moment, then shook it. The handshake disturbed Dr. Coffee strangely. It was as limp and nerveless as a newly–dead corpse.
“I thought you went back to New York tonight, Mr. Gable,” Dr. Coffee said.
“My flight was washed out,” Roger said. “I didn't want to bother Louise, so I took a taxi in from the airport.”
“I didn't hear any taxi.”
“He dropped me at the gate. I walked up the driveway. Say, is anything wrong? Where's Louise?”
“You must have heard Mrs. Gable talking upstairs,” Dr. Coffee said. “Why didn't you come up, instead of sneaking off in here?”
Roger hesitated. “When I found the front door open, I was afraid something was wrong. Then, when I heard voices ... Well, I guess I was eavesdropping. Is Louise all right?”
Dr. Coffee's long fingers thoughtfully raked his unruly mop of straw–colored hair. He remembered Louise closing the front door. He looked at Roger Gable as though he were examining a section of tissue under the microscope, studying the cell pattern, seeking signs of malignancy. His lower jaw advanced slowly as he made his diagnosis. Then he jerked his head toward the door. “Let's go up,” he said.
Louise was standing in front of the gaudy mirror on the landing. Her lips parted when she recognized Roger.
“Captain Gable!” exclaimed Dr. Mookerji. “You are arriving in notch of time. What luck!”
“Bad luck, I'm afraid, Roger,” said Louise Gable. She buried her face against Roger's shoulder and sobbed. Outside the house the police sirens were wailing. It was two o'clock in the morning before Dan Coffee got to bed. There had been long, repetitious, and – to Dr. Coffee – stupid questioning by a dozen policemen, including the Chief of Police himself. Anything connected with the Barzac name was still political magic in Northbank, and even if Barzac's sole heir was not a political figure, she was young and female and beautiful and would probably make the front pages – a fact which the Chief could scarcely overlook.
There had been endless retelling of the story of the phantom cry–baby to explain Dr. Coffee's presence in the house – with no corroborative wailing from the upper floors. There had been a bitter argument with the Coroner, because Dr. Coffee had said that proper thermometers might help establish the time of Stoneman's death, which could now only be estimated at less than two hours before the discovery of the body – since rigor mortis had not yet set in. There had been one lucky break – the presence of Lieutenant of Detectives Max Ritter among the confused and determined police dragoons who tramped through the house in search of clues. Ritter had been conducting a one–man fight for a Northbank police laboratory; so far unsuccessful, he had contracted an unholy alliance with Dan Coffee for the unofficial use of the Pasteur Hospital pathology laboratory in puzzling cases demanding the scientific approach. Max Ritter was lavish with his friendly winks during the whole dreary preliminaries. He finally succeeded in getting Dr. Mookerji sent back to the hospital and Dr. Coffee to his home. But he could not prevent his Chief from bundling Louise and Roger Gable off to police headquarters.
At three in the morning, just as Dan Coffee was getting to sleep, his telephone rang.
“Hi, Doc,” said Lieutenant Ritter. “I thought you'd want the score by innings. First of all, Mrs. Gable got her lawyer down here – that patent attorney who's been riding the gravy train ever since he put the legal fences around Barzac's canned tomato sauce. Name is Philips. Looks like he's going to have his fling at criminal law. He's talked the Chief into letting Mrs. Gable go.
“Second of all,” Max Ritter continued, “the Chief is still holding this guy Roger Gable. The Chief sweat his story out of him – that he thought he was going to marry his sister–in–law until she told him tonight she was going to ditch him for Stoneman. So the Chief's got it all pat – Gable killed Stoneman; motive, jealousy, and maybe one greedy eye on the Barzac estate. Do you think Gable did it, Doc?”
“I don't know, Max,” Dan Coffee said sleepily. “I don't know what to think of his story of the front door being open.”
“Neither do I,” the detective said, “but somebody opened it – even if Mrs. Gable says she has the only key to the front door. How did Stoneman get in, Doc – unless she let him in herself? One more thing, Doc. Did you notice this guy Stoneman had both hands doubled up? Well, his right fist was full of little gray lumps, like coarse gravel. Maybe it's nothing, but maybe it's something. Anyhow, I sneaked out a few lumps before the Coroner took over, just in case you want to make with the test tubes. What time you due at your shop in the morning?”
“I'm driving over to Lycoville first thing,” Dr. Coffee said. “They want me to sit in on an operation. Why don't you drop off the samples at my lab? Dr. Mookerji will be there.”
“That Swami again?”
“You ought to know that Dr. Mookerji is a bank–up chemist, Max, after the job he did on the Starkey case.”
“Sure, he's aces in chemistry,” Ritter said. “Only we don't talk the same brand of English. Look, Doc, come right down to the morgue after Lycoville. I'll stall the autopsy till you get there.”
“See you before noon, Max. Goodnight.”
The autopsy revealed little except that Jim Stoneman had been strangled by a strong right hand. The marks on the throat – thumbmark on one side, the four fingers on the other indicated only one hand had throttled Stoneman: the right one. A fractured thyroid cartilage and bleeding in the windpipe were index to the murderer's strength. Louise Gable was eliminated as the strangler because her right hand was too small to fit the marks on the dead man's throat. Roger Gable's hands were plenty big enough, so Roger remained in jail.
After the autopsy, Max Ritter asked Dr. Coffee: “Have you heard from Mrs. Gable?” Dr. Coffee hadn't.
“Her lawyer, that guy Philips, calls me every hour on the hour to ask if I've seen her. Seems she walked out of the police station at three–thirty this morning and nobody's heard from her since. Philips is worried. But I guess she'll turn up. Say, I been talking to your Swami on the phone. I guess he knows what the gravel is, but you'll have to interpret for me, Doc. I'll drive you to the hospital.”
The Hindu resident was bent over the autoclave when the two men entered the laboratory. As he straightened up, emerging like a rotund oriental Mephisto from a cloud of steam, the top of his turban came just to Dr. Coffee's shoulder.
“But Lieutenant Ritter received explanation of utmost lucidity,” Dr. Mookerji protested. “Because of crystalline fracture, ventured opinion that dark, brittle substances were carbide of calcium. Suspicions confirmed by exposing same to contact with water, thereby causing decomposition into calcium hydroxide plus highly inflammable endothermic gas having somewhat stinking odor plus two atoms each of carbon and hydrogen. Gas is entitled acetylene. Correct, Doctor Sahib?”
Detective Duos Page 36
