Green Ace

by Stuart Palmer

  “Not at all,” Miss Withers told him, as she settled into a chair like a nesting Buff-Orpington. “California is a good place to vegetate. The climate is mild, and my asthma is much improved. Probably it was only caused in the first place by an allergy to those awful stogies you chain-smoke from dawn until midnight.”

  “This happens to be a clear-Havana puro-puro out of the box you sent me for Christmas,” the inspector protested mildly. But he put it out. “Anyway, it’s good to have you back. I’ll confess that in a way I’ve sort of missed—”

  “Why, Oscar!” she bridled.

  “—missed that hat,” he concluded wickedly.

  “But I’ll have you know it’s a brand-new one, from Bullock’s-Westwood!”

  “No! I’d have sworn you borrowed it from the Smithsonian. It looks like all the others you used to wear, only more so.” He grinned. “Okay, okay. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I’d have met you.”

  “More probably you’d have mislaid my wire and left me stood up in Grand Central. But thanks anyway for the gallant thought.” She surveyed him critically. “You need a haircut, Oscar. And you look a bit peaked. Overworking?”

  “Nothing special. The homicide index is up a few points, as it usually is when temperature and humidity get in the eighties. But most of the stuff is routine, and can be taken care of at precinct level. Today’s been dull—I was just about to shut up shop.” The inspector stole a quick glance at his watch.

  “But I am keeping you from an appointment or something?” Then Miss Withers snapped her fingers. “Of course, I’d forgotten. This is Thursday, and you’re planning an evening of bowling and a few hands of stuss with your raffish cronies; now, don’t try to deny it.”

  “The Third Avenue Schooner and Pastrami Club,” he told her, “has a rather distinguished membership—aldermen, attorneys, doctors and civic leaders.”

  “I can imagine. But you just run along and be distinguished, then. Don’t mind me. I’ll be here a week or more, and there’ll be other times for us to meet.”

  “Yes, but I can just as well—” Suddenly Piper’s jaw dropped, and he did a broad doubletake. “A week or more? You’re not actually going back out West?”

  She nodded. “I just returned to close up my apartment and sell my furniture, all but the walnut table and some books and things I’m having shipped.”

  “But—” he said incredulously. “But—but—”

  “Stop making noises like an outboard motor, Oscar, and listen. As Emerson once said, ‘It is time to be old, to take in sail.’”

  “Why can’t you furl your sails right here in civilization?”

  Miss Withers sniffed eloquently. “Like most New Yorkers, Oscar, you make the mistake of thinking that everything west of the Hudson is a howling wilderness.”

  “That description,” he told her firmly, “fits Los Angeles like a glove! And you could never be happy away from the bright lights of the big town.”

  “No, Oscar, New York is for the young. It’s for people who are still fighting. It’s a beehive, with no place for a retired old drone like me.”

  With admirable restraint the inspector refrained from telling her some of the facts of life about drones and beehives. For many years his secret fondness for this courageous, preposterous old biddy had grown and deepened, and it cut him to the quick to hear this new note of defeat in her voice. Of course, retirement often did that to people. He fiddled absently with some reports on his desk and then said very casually, “By the way, there’s a couple of interesting new cases in the open file.”

  “‘Two blockheads to kill and be killed,’” quoted Miss Withers. “Murders aren’t what they used to be, and neither is anything else. Come, Talley.” She caught the end of the leash and dragged the big apricot-colored poodle away from the office wastebasket, where he had been foraging for scraps of the inspectorial lunch. Then, almost in the doorway, she paused. “By the way, Oscar, do you know what tomorrow is?”

  “Friday,” he said blankly. “All day.”

  “Friday, and the sixteenth of August.” She waited expectantly.

  “Let me see. Can’t be your birthday, because you stopped having those years ago. Say, is it the anniversary of the day we didn’t get married?”

  “It is not. I jilted you in the autumn, as you well remember. Tomorrow happens to be the day set for the opening of a certain murder trial, I believe in the Court of General Sessions. Can you fix me up with a ticket of admission?”

  “Trial? What trial?”

  “A young man named Winston H. Gault, for the murder of Tony Fagan, so-called radio and television comic. Your memory, Oscar …”

  “Sure, sure! Junior Gault, the radio sponsor who got tired of being ribbed on his own program and did something about it with a blunt instrument.” Piper sat up straight. “How come you’re so interested?”

  “It’s a very mild interest, Oscar. You wrote me about the case at the time, and even sent me some laudatory press clippings. I gathered you handled the investigation personally, and that it was one of your major triumphs?”

  The inspector nodded, almost complacently. “I knew from the first moment that Gault was guilty. His alibi didn’t stand up for ten minutes, and almost as soon as we arrested him he made a confession. No rubber-hose stuff either, so don’t go getting any ideas.”

  “Relax, Oscar. I have no intention of trying to upset any applecarts; my days of sleuthing are over. And if it’s too much trouble getting me admitted to the courtroom, no matter. I can while away my lonely hours here in town by going up to the American Museum of Natural History and studying their sea shells. Since I’ve been out in California I’ve become something of an amateur conchologist, you know.” She reached into her handbag and produced visual evidence. “Here is a Hairy Triton I found at Malibu, unusually well-marked. This is a Ravenal’s Scallop, and the spotted one is a Junonia.”

  “Snail shells, yet!” muttered Oscar Piper, with ill-concealed distaste. Something had to be done for poor old Hildegarde, and soon. If he could only keep aflame this one feeble flicker of interest in her oldtime pursuits…. He reached for the telephone and dialed a number. “John Hardesty, please. Piper, Headquarters. Hello, who’s this? … What? You people keep banker’s hours, don’t you? Where’s John, out getting warmed up for the big court job tomorrow? … What?” He listened for a moment, said “Judas!” and hung up. “No dice, Hildegarde.”

  “Oh, dear. No seats left?”

  “No trial. That was one of the other assistant D.A.’s. He says that Hardesty is going to get up in court tomorrow and ask for a postponement.”

  “But why?”

  “The fellow either didn’t know or couldn’t tell me over the phone.”

  “Oscar, is it true that Sam Bordin is the defense attorney?”

  Piper nodded. “With all the Gault dough, Junior would only hire the best. Further proof that he’s guilty, as if we needed any. Innocent men don’t retain Bordin, a legal magician who’s a combination of Darrow and Steuer …”

  “With a dash of John J. Malone, who never lost a client either?”

  “You’ve heard of him, then. Yeah.” Piper sighed. “The trial can be set back on the docket for thirty or maybe sixty days, but Bordin will be hoping to get a nol-pros. Somebody’s slipped up somewhere.” He shook his head, scowling.

  “Well, Oscar,” said Miss Withers, shrugging, “let me know sometime how it all comes out.” She edged toward the door again. “And do give me a ring when you’re not so tied up. I’ll be at the Barbizon.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Oscar Piper. “Just for my own satisfaction I’d like to get the lowdown on this new development. Hardesty will probably be dropping in at the club tonight as usual, and I’ll twist his arm.”

  But Miss Withers and the poodle were gone. The inspector gnawed on his cold cigar for a moment, then cleared his desk by shoving all the official papers helter-skelter into a top drawer. In three minutes he was on an uptown subway.


  “Botheration!” remarked Miss Hildegarde Withers somewhat later that evening. She had just lowered her angular frame into a steaming tub, and of course there was no surer way on earth to make a telephone ring. Swathed in an insufficient towel, she made her moist and dripping way out into the little hotel bedroom, stepped over Talleyrand, picked up the offending instrument and said wearily, “Yes, Oscar?”

  “How’d you know it was me?” was the blank response.

  “I,” she corrected absently. “Perhaps it was ESP and perhaps it was just that you’re the only person in town who knows where I’m staying.”

  “Okay, okay.” His voice was jumping. “Had dinner yet?”

  “Why, I was just going to order up a tray …”

  “Don’t. Hell’s a-popping. How about meeting me and John Hardesty somewhere for a bowl of soup?”

  “But, Oscar, I’m tired from the trip, and …”

  “This is right up your alley, and we really need your help. That poor girl … But I can’t tell you any more over the phone.”

  Curiosity had always been her besetting sin, and Miss Withers hesitated only a maidenly moment before she said, “Very well. But after months of Los Angeles cooking you’re very much mistaken if you think I’ll settle for anything less than duckling bigarade at La Parisienne or perhaps sauerbraten at the Blue Ribbon.”

  “Anything!” conceded the inspector. “A car will pick you up in ten minutes.”

  So it was that theater-bound Manhattanites that evening were amused by the spectacle of a large and whimsically-plucked French poodle, with a bit of green hair ribbon in his topknot, sitting regally enthroned beside the uniformed driver of a police limousine illegally parked half a block off Times Square. Talleyrand was not in the least bored with the long wait. He listened with interest to the radio as it droned forth interminable lists of the license numbers of stolen cars; he shared with polite enthusiasm the lunch of the embarrassed policeman beside him; hamburgers, onion, pickle and all. Talley was a dog who took things as they came, especially food.

  Inside the pleasant old Bierstube the dog’s mistress had been slowly paying less and less attention to her excellent sweet-and-sour pot roast while she listened to the official tale of woe. “You see, Hildegarde,” the inspector was saying earnestly, “it’s a matter of my personal pride. They’re always saying around town that a rich man can get away with anything, even murder. If Gault goes free the wise-guys will nod and wink and whisper that the fix was on. He’s simply got to be tried and found guilty and take his punishment, or the law and the department and my whole career are just so much dust and ashes. Isn’t that so, John?” His voice trembling faintly, Oscar Piper busied himself with his bratwurst.

  “That’s—that’s right,” John Hardesty agreed, swallowing. He had turned out to be a tall, snub-nosed man in his thirties with unruly hair and large hands, who looked somewhat like a prosperous farmer. “Now, none of what I’m going to tell you must go any farther,” was his cautious beginning.

  Miss Withers tossed her head indignantly. “The inspector here will bear witness that when necessary I can be twice as silent as the grave.”

  Oscar Piper choked suddenly on a bit of sausage, but Hardesty was already outlining the highlights in the Fagan murder, on the surface at least a black-and-white, open-and-shut case if there ever was one. It seemed that at eight-thirty on the evening of December 17 last, Tony Fagan had started his eleventh weekly video program for Gault Foods. While on the air he had said certain unkind things about his sponsors under the thin guise of humor, the barbs particularly aimed at Winston H. Gault, Jr.

  The same evening a little after midnight, Fagan had run into Gault sitting alone at a table in a well-known night club, and had gone over to apologize. Gault had refused to accept the apology and had said something indicating an intention to assault Fagan, but as the younger man was rising from his chair and off-balance, the comedian had swung first and lucky-punched him colder than Kelsey.

  Fagan had then left for his apartment at the Graymar, on East Fifty-fifth, where he was later joined by some friends and business associates, including his divorced wife Ruth, the party breaking up around four. A little after six in the morning Gault had shown up and, when Fagan made the mistake of answering his door, had given him a severe beating and then smashed his skull with something heavy—possibly a blackjack. Or it might have been a vase or a piece of bric-a-brac from the apartment, which was as crowded as a museum. With Fagan dead, there was no way to check whether or not anything was missing.

  “No fingerprints,” put in Piper. “But everybody knows about them nowadays. And Gault had plenty of time to clean up his traces afterwards.”

  Hardesty nodded, and went on to say that Junior had then walked home to his bachelor apartment on Park and had given the night elevator man fifty dollars to say—if anyone asked—that he’d come home about two. When arrested next morning just before noon he had said, “Then I really did go kill the bastard—I thought it was only a bad dream. Well, he had it coming …” or words to that effect.

  “If you can prove all that—” Miss Withers nodded thoughtfully—“I don’t see what the prosecution has to worry about. Why postpone the trial?”

  “When you go up against a smooth defense lawyer like Sam Bordin,” the assistant D.A. explained patiently, “you’ve got to have something more than just motive and circumstantial evidence. You need witnesses.” He rubbed his high forehead, imparting still more disorder to his hair. “There were three important witnesses against Gault, like the three legs of a milking stool. Our case rested on them. First was Ernest Pugh, the waiter at the Stork Club who saw the one-punch battle—”

  “But Pugh happens to be a lieutenant commander in the Naval Reserve, and got called back to active duty six weeks ago,” the inspector put in. “Now he’s on the U.S. Boxer, somewhere in the Pacific.”

  “Second leg,” Hardesty went on, “was the taxi driver, Maxfield Berg, who picked Gault up outside an after-hours bottle club on Second Avenue around six that morning and drove him to Fagan’s apartment house. Berg swore that his passenger was crazy drunk; that the young man told him to wait, he’d just got to run upstairs a minute and beat somebody’s brains out. Hearsay evidence, but valuable since it shows intent, and thus is properly part of the res gestae …”

  “Only it was discovered that Berg had spent time in a mental hospital a few years back,” Piper said. “You can’t put a former schizophrenic on the witness stand; Sam Bordin would tear his testimony to shreds.”

  The schoolteacher looked puzzled. “But if you have their sworn statements …?”

  The two men exchanged a knowing fraternal smile. “Of course,” Hardesty went on wearily, “depositions, and also any testimony given at the hearing or before the grand jury, are admissible. But they don’t carry much weight even when they are read into the record. Juries always have a feeling that if the prosecution has witnesses they should be right there in court, so that the defense can cross-examine.”

  “I see.” The schoolteacher nodded, frowning. “But what about the third witness? Perhaps a milking stool should have three legs, but from my girlhood days out in the Middle West I seem to remember some stools with only one.”

  “Sure,” said Hardesty bitterly. “The third and most important witness of all was one Ina Kell, a little country cousin camping out in the next apartment who heard the fight, peeked out into the hall and saw Gault sneaking away after the murder, and then who went on in and discovered the body. Only …”

  “Only what?” demanded Miss Withers. “You don’t mean that something’s happened to her? She’s not—?”

  “Disappeared,” Hardesty said flatly. “Like a soap bubble. Now you see it shining and floating, and then—pouf!”

  “Well!” said the schoolteacher, in a tone that Oscar Piper had not heard her use in a long time. “A fine kettle of fish! So a brutal, ruthless killer is going to get away with it because you men hadn’t sense enough to keep an eye on an
important witness. Why, she may even be dead!”

  “I thought of that,” nodded the inspector solemnly, avoiding Hardesty’s eye.

  “More details,” demanded Miss Withers after a moment’s deep thought. “And more coffee.”

  “… There ariseth a little cloud out of the sea, like a man’s hand …”

  —I Kings

  3

  “I KNEW YOU’D BE interested,” the inspector was saying. He took the perfecto out of his mouth and smiled wryly. “I was telling John here earlier about the Bascom case and how you set out to solve the disappearance of three thousand women all at once.”

  “And ended up by disappearing myself?” Miss Withers sniffed modestly. “But never mind the good old days just at the moment. Do go on. If you want me to try to help find Miss Ina Kell, I’ll have to know more about her than just the fact she reported finding Fagan’s dead body.”

  “That’s just the point,” Hardesty put in. “She didn’t.”

  “But you said—”

  “Inspector, you take it from here, will you?” The lawyer gestured. “After all, you were on the scene and everything.”

  “Okay,” said Oscar Piper. “It was the boy on that paper route on Fifty-fifth who phoned in and reported that he had just discovered a dead body while in the act of leaving the usual copy of the Herald Tribune outside the door of Fagan’s apartment. The door had been left open, so naturally he peeked in. Our radio car got there in a few minutes, the precinct men soon after, but I was called over on account of the victim being a sort of public character. The body was a mess of blood and brains, but I learned that it had been found partly covered by a Persian rug. Right away I concluded that somebody else must have found it before the paper boy—presumably a woman.”

  “Mercy,” said Miss Withers. “I’ve seen several corpses in my time, but I never had the slightest impulse to throw rugs over them.”

  “A certain type of woman,” the inspector explained, “always wants to cover up horrible things, to get them out of sight. Of course, when the rest of Fagan’s apartment was searched and Ruth Fagan, the ex-wife, was found asleep in a back bedroom, we figured it was her. Only she claimed that she had just had too much to drink at the party, had wandered off alone and fallen into a deep sleep.”