by Anne Austin
Dundee tried to put himself in Nita’s place, confronted suddenly with a group picture containing the likeness of a person—man or woman—against whom she knew something so dreadful and so secret that her silence would be worth thousands of dollars. Would he have chattered of that very person? No! Of anyone else but that particular person! It was easy to picture Nita, her head whirling with possibilities, hitting upon the most conspicuous player in the group—dark, tense, theatrical Flora, already pointed out to her as one of the two female leads in the opera…. But of whom had she really been thinking?
Again a blank wall! For in that group photograph of the cast of “The Beggar’s Opera” had appeared every man, woman and girl who had been Nita’s guest on the day of her murder….
Dundee, paying more attention to his driving, now that he was in the business section of the city, saw ahead of him the second-rate hotel where Dexter Sprague had been living since Nita had wired him to join her in Hamilton. On a sudden impulse the detective parked his car in front of the hotel and five minutes later was knocking upon Sprague’s door.
“Well, what do you want now?” the unshaven, pallid man demanded ungraciously.
Dundee stepped into the room and closed the door. “I want you to tell me the name of the man Nita Selim came here to blackmail, Sprague.”
“Blackmail?” Sprague echoed, his pallid cheeks going more yellow. “You’re crazy! Nita came here to take a job—”
“She came here to blackmail someone, and I am convinced that she sent for you to act as a partner in her scheme…. No, wait! I’m convinced, I tell you,” Dundee assured him grimly. “But I’ll make a trade with you, in behalf of the district attorney. Tell me the name of the person she blackmailed, and I will promise you immunity from prosecution as her accomplice.”
“Get out of my room!” and Dexter Sprague’s right forefinger trembled violently as it pointed toward the door in a melodramatic gesture.
“Very well, Sprague,” Dundee said. “But let me give you a friendly warning. Don’t try to carry on the good work. Nita got ten thousand dollars, but she also got a bullet through her heart. And the gun which fired that bullet is safely back in the hands of the killer…. You’re not going to get that movie job, and I was just afraid you might be tempted! … Good afternoon!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was Wednesday evening, four whole days since Nita Leigh Selim, Broadway dancer, had been murdered while she was dummy at bridge. Plainclothesmen, in pairs, day and night shifts, still guarded the lonely house in Primrose Meadows, but Dundee had taken no interest in the actual scene of the crime since Carraway, fingerprint expert, had reported negatively upon the secret shelf between Nita’s bedroom closet and the guest closet. So far as any tangible evidence went, only Dundee’s fingers had pressed upon the pivoting panel and explored the narrow shelf.
The very lack of fingerprints had of course confirmed Dundee’s belief that the murderer’s hand had pressed upon that swinging panel, had quested in vain for the incriminating documents or letters which had been the basis of Nita’s blackmail scheme, had deposited upon the shelf the gun and silencer with which the murder had been accomplished, and had later retrieved the weapon in perfect safety. A hand loosely wrapped in a handkerchief or protected by a glove…. The hand of a cunning, careful, cold-blooded murderer—or murderess…. But—who? Who?
Bonnie Dundee, brooding at his desk in the living room of his small apartment, reflected bitterly that he was no nearer the answer to that question than he had been an hour after Nita Selim’s death.
“Well, ‘my dear Watson’,” he addressed his caged parrot finally. “What do you say? … Who killed Nita Selim?”
The parrot stirred on his perch, thrust out his hooked beak to nip his master’s prodding finger, then disdainfully turned his back.
“I don’t blame you, Cap’n,” Dundee chuckled. “You must be as sick of that question as I am…. And what a pity it ever had to be asked! If the murderer had not been so hasty—or so pressed for time that he really could not wait to listen to Nita—he would have learned from Nita herself that she had decided to be a very good girl, and had burned the ‘papers’—all because she was genuinely in love with Ralph Hammond…. One comfort we have, ‘my dear Watson’: the murderer still does not know that Nita burned the papers Friday night. Sooner or later, when he believes police vigilance has been relaxed, he’ll go prowling about that house, and to Captain Strawn, who doesn’t take the slightest stock in my theory, will go credit for the arrest…. Unless—”
Dundee reached for a telegraph form and again scanned the pencilled message. Only that afternoon had it occurred to him to ask the telegraph company for a copy of the wire by which Dexter Sprague, according to his own story, had been summoned to Hamilton by Nita Selim.
The manager had been obliging, had looked up the message and copied it with his own hand. It was a night letter, and had been filed in Hamilton April 24—the third day after Nita’s arrival. Addressed to Dexter Sprague, at a hotel in the theatrical district, New York City, the message read:
“EVERYTHING JAKE SO FAR BUT WOULD FEEL SAFER YOU HERE CHAMBER OF COMMERCE PLANNING BOOSTER MOVIE FOUNDING AND DEVELOPMENT OF HAMILTON LOOKING GOOD DIRECTOR WHY NOT TRY FOR JOB AS GOOD EXCUSE ALL MY LOVE—NITA”
Dundee laid the paper on his desk, locked his hands behind his head, and addressed the parrot again. The habit of using the bird for an audience and as an excuse for puzzling and mulling aloud had grown on him during the year he had owned the doughty old Cap’n.
“As I was about to say, ‘my dear Watson’, Captain Strawn’s boys out at the Selim house will have their chance to nab our man—or woman—unless Dexter Sprague ignores my warning, pretends to have the papers himself, and tries to carry on the blackmail scheme, which he undoubtedly knew all about and which, most probably, he encouraged Nita to undertake—the ‘friend’ she had to consult, you know, before she decided to accept Lois Dunlap’s offer.”
The parrot interrupted with a hoarse cackle.
“Have you gone over to the enemy, Cap’n?” Dundee reproved the bird. “You sound exactly like Strawn when he laughed at my interpretation of this message this afternoon. My late chief contends—and it is just possible, of course, that he is right—that Nita was afraid she couldn’t swing the job of organizing and directing Lois’ Little Theater, and wanted Sprague here, both as lover and unofficial assistant. But that’s a pretty thin explanation, don’t you think, ‘my dear Watson’? … Oh, all right! Laugh, damn you! But I’d feel better if Strawn had taken my advice and set a dick to trail Sprague, to see that he keeps out of mischief…. All this, however, gets us no nearer to answering that eternal question—‘Who?’”
With a deep sigh the troubled young special investigator reached for the “Time Table” he had drafted from his notes made during the grisly replaying of the “death hand at bridge,” and scanned it again:
5.20—Flora Miles, dummy, Table No. 1, leaves living room to telephone.
5.22—Clive Hammond arrives and goes directly into solarium.
5.23—End of rubber at Table No. 1. Players: Polly Beale, Janet Raymond, Lois Dunlap, Flora Miles (dummy). Polly Beale leaves living room to join Clive Hammond in solarium.
5.24—Janet Raymond leaves room; says she went straight to front porch.
5.25—Tracey Miles parks car at curb; walks up to the house, hangs up hat in clothes closet and at (his estimate)
5.27—Miles enters living room, talks with Nita, who, as dummy, has just laid down her cards at Table No. 2. Players. Karen Marshall, Penny Crain, Carolyn Drake.
5.28—Nita leaves living room, goes to her bedroom to make up.
5.28–1/2—Lois Dunlap and Miles go into dining room, Miles to make cocktails.
5.31—Judge Marshall enters living room, interrupts bridge game.
5.33—John C. Drake enters living room, having walked from Country Club, which he says he left at 5.10, and which is only three-quarters of a mile from the Selim
house.
5.36—Karen finishes playing of hand, and Dexter Sprague and Janet Raymond enter from front porch, proceeding into dining room.
5.37—Penny Crain finishes scoring, and Karen leaves room to tell Nita the score.
5.38—Karen screams upon discovering the dead body at the dressing-table.
Dundee laid aside the typed sheet and reached for another, the typing of which was perfect, since Penny’s efficient fingers had manipulated the keys.
When he had telephoned to the office just before five o’clock Monday afternoon to see if anything had come up, Dundee had learned from Penny that Peter Dunlap had issued an informal call to “the crowd” for a meeting at his home that evening.
“You’re going, of course?” Dundee had asked. “Then, during the discussion of the case, I wish you’d try to get the answers to some questions which need clearing up—if you can do so without getting yourself ‘in Dutch’ with your friends…. Fine! Got a pencil? … Here goes!”
And now he was re-reading the “report” she had conscientiously written and left on his desk Tuesday morning:
“Peter, declaring he wanted to get at the bottom of this case, presided almost like a judge on the bench, and asked nearly every question you wanted the answer to. Everyone in the crowd adores gruff old Peter and no one dreamed of resenting his barrage of questions. What a detective he would make!
“First: Janet admitted that she did not go directly to the front porch when she left the living room after her table finished the last rubber. Went first to the hall lavatory to comb her hair and renew her make-up. Said she was there alone about five minutes, then went to the front porch. (Revised her story after Tracey had said he did not see her on the porch when he arrived.)
“Second: Judge Marshall said he glanced into the living room when he arrived, saw Karen, Carolyn and me absorbed in our game, and went on down the hall, to hang up his hat and stick. Proceeded immediately to the living room.
“Third: John Drake told Peter he entered the front hall and passed on to the lavatory to wash up. Felt sticky after his walk from the Country Club. Hung up hat in the guest closet. Went to living room within three minutes after reaching the house.
“Fourth: Polly and Clive told Peter they stayed together in the solarium the whole time, stationed at a front window, watching for Ralph. When Peter asked them if they could confirm Judge Marshall’s story and Johnny Drake’s story, they said they had seen them both arrive, but had paid no attention to them after they were in the house. It occurred to Peter, too, to wonder if either Polly or Clive went to Nita’s room to warn her that Ralph knew about Sprague’s having slept the night before in the upstairs bedroom. They both denied emphatically that they had done so.
“Fifth: Judge Marshall—the pompous old darling—still smarting under the insinuations you made about him and Nita right after the murder, volunteered the information to Peter that Nita had not paid her rent, on the plea that she was short of funds, and that he had told her to let it go until it was quite convenient.
“Sixth: The word ‘blackmail’ was not mentioned, and Johnny Drake, because of professional ethics, I suppose, did not tell about Nita’s two deposits of $5,000 each in his bank.
“Seventh: The secret shelf in the foyer closet was not mentioned.
“Peter’s verdict, after he got through with us, was that only Sprague could have done it—using the gun and silencer which Nita herself had stolen from Hugo. I couldn’t tell him that you are convinced that Lydia’s alibi for him is a genuine one, for apparently Lydia hasn’t told either Flora or Tracey that she was able to furnish Sprague an alibi.
“And that’s all, except that Peter asked me to convey to you his apologies for his rudeness Monday afternoon…. Penelope Crain.”
With a deep sigh Dundee laid Penny’s report aside.
“And that does seem to be all, ‘my dear Watson’,” he told the parrot. “Exactly half a dozen possible suspects, and not an atom of actual evidence against one of them—except that Judge Marshall owned the gun. Six—count ’em: Judge Marshall, John Drake, Flora Miles, Clive Hammond, Polly Beale, Janet Raymond…. Every single one of them a possible victim of blackmail, since the girls all attended the Forsyte School, where Nita directed the Easter play for two years, and since the men make several trips a year to New York…. Six people, all of whom probably knew of the existence of the secret shelf…. Six people who knew Nita was in her bedroom, either from having seen her go or from hearing her powder box tinkling its damnable tune! … Yes, Penny! You’re right! That’s all—so far as Hamilton is concerned! If Sanderson won’t let me go to New York—which is where this damned business started—I’ll resign and go on my own, without wasting another day here!”
But Dundee did not go to New York the next morning. He was far too busy in Hamilton….
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Hello, Penny!” Dundee greeted the district attorney’s private secretary Thursday morning at five minutes after nine. “Any news from Sanderson?”
“Yes,” Penny Crain answered listlessly. “A night letter. He says his mother is still very low and that we’re to wire him at the Good Samaritan Hospital in Chicago if anything turns up.”
“Then I suppose I can reach him there by long distance,” and Dundee lifted the telephone from Penny’s desk to put in the call.
“What’s happened?” Penny demanded, her brown eyes wide and startled.
“And hurry it up, will you, please?” Dundee urged the long distance operator before hanging up the receiver and answering Penny’s question. “That’s just the trouble—nothing’s happened, and nothing is very likely to happen here. I’m determined to go to New York and work on this pesky case from that end—”
“Then you’ve come around to Captain Strawn’s theory that it was a New York gunman?” Penny asked hopefully.
“Not by a jugful! … But what’s the matter with you this morning, young woman? You’re looking less like a new penny and more like one that has been too much in circulation.”
“Thanks!” Penny retorted sarcastically; then she grinned wryly. “You are right, as a matter of fact. I was up too late last night—bridge at the Mileses’.”
“Bridge!” Dundee ejaculated incredulously. “So the bridge party did take place, in spite of the society editor’s discreet announcement yesterday that ‘owing to the tragic death of Mrs. Selim, the regular every-other-Wednesday dinner-bridge of the Forsyte Alumnae Association will not be held this evening at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Tracey Miles, as scheduled’.”
“It wasn’t a ‘dinner-bridge’ and it really wasn’t intended to be a party,” Penny corrected him. “It just sort of happened, and of all the ghastly evenings—”
“Tell me about it,” Dundee suggested. “Knowing this town’s telephone service as I do, I’ll have plenty of time to listen, and you don’t know how all-agog I am for inside gossip on Hamilton’s upper crust.”
“Idiot!” Penny flung at him scornfully. “You know society would bore you to death, but I don’t think you would have been exactly bored last night, knowing, as I do, your opinion of Dexter Sprague.”
“Sprague? Good Lord! Was he there? … This does promise to be interesting! Tell me all!”
“Give me time!” Penny snapped. “I might as well talk, since there’s almost no work for me to do, with Bill away…. Ralph called me up last night at dinner time, and asked me if I felt equal to playing bridge again. He said that he, Clive, Tracey and Johnny Drake had lunched together yesterday—as they frequently do—at the Athletic Club, and that Judge Marshall, who had been lunching at another table with his friend, Attorney Sampson, stopped at their table and suggested a bridge game at his home for last night. Hugo said he wanted to coax Karen into playing again, so she would get over her hysterical aversion to the game since she had to replay that awful ‘death hand’…. You see,” Penny explained parenthetically, “Hugo is a regular bridge fiend, and naturally he doesn’t want to be kept out of his game.”<
br />
“Brute!” Dundee cried disgustedly. “Why couldn’t he give the poor girl a few days more?”
“That’s what I thought,” Penny acknowledged. “But I didn’t get an inhibition against bridge, and the idea rather appealed to me personally. The last few days haven’t been particularly cheerful ones, so I told Ralph I’d be glad to go. Tracey had suggested his house, instead of Hugo’s, because Betty wasn’t well yesterday and Flora wouldn’t want to leave her for a whole evening. Well, Ralph and I—”
“Are you going to marry Ralph Hammond, Penny?” Dundee interrupted, as if prompted by casual interest.
Penny’s pale face flushed vividly. “No. I’m not in love with him, and I’m sure he realizes I’m not and won’t ask me again. But I had to say yes Sunday! I simply couldn’t let you walk in on us, after I’d permitted you to eavesdrop while he was talking, without first saying the one thing that would convince him that I believed in his innocence and hadn’t set a trap for him.”
“I see!” Dundee acknowledged soberly, but his blue eyes shone with sudden joy. “Oh! There’s long distance! Just a minute, darling! … Hello! Hello! … Yes, this is Dundee…. Oh! All right! Try again in fifteen minutes, will you?” He hung up the receiver and explained to Penny: “Sanderson hasn’t reached the hospital yet, but is expected soon…. Go on with your story…. Who all played bridge at the Mileses’? You don’t mean to say Dexter Sprague was invited, too!”
