“Do you know whether he made any sales?” I said.
“Yeah, he told me he made some. Took quite a big order at the hardware store. Sold the bakery two of ’em. Delivered those two right on the spot.”
“The bakery?” I said, and looked at Singer.
“What about the bakery?” Singer said.
“Don Eastman works at the bakery.”
“Is that so?”
“Is Eastman up yet?” I said to Harry.
Harry looked uncomfortable. “Well, yes. He’s up. But he ain’t here.”
“He’s not here?”
“Nope. He ain’t anywhere around. The D.A. was looking for him just a few minutes ago. Nobody saw him leave. He’s just gone.”
“Maybe he just went to work.”
Harry shook his head.
“Nope, he didn’t. Because Mrs. Coolidge called up from the bakery a while back and asked whether he was sick. He hadn’t showed up yet.”
“Well, well,” Singer said softly.
“Anything else going on out there?” I said.
“Not much. Weaver’s got Doc Blane examining the corpse.”
“Doc Blane?” Singer said. “Doesn’t he have his own medical man?”
“The county examiner got held up. He’ll be along later,” Harry answered.
I got up.
“Harry,” I said, “will you send my suit over to the cleaner’s?”
I picked the suit up from the desk and, out of habit, looked through the pockets. In the coat pocket I found the envelope Tommy Rowe had given me to put in Marian Mason’s box. I’d forgotten all about it.
I laid the envelope on the desk and handed the suit to Harry. He took it and started to back out the door.
“Oh, Harry,” Singer said, “will you ask Doc Blane to stop in here when he comes down?”
“Sure.” He went out and I picked up the envelope.
“This I forgot about,” I said.
“What is it?” Singer said.
“Tommy Rowe gave it to me to put in Marian Mason’s box. When I went to the bank.”
Singer’s fingers began to twitch.
“Better give it back to Tommy?” I said.
After a moment Singer said, “Is it sealed?”
“Very little,” I said.
I looked at the envelope. Marian Mason’s name was scrawled across it. There was nothing else on it.
“It may be vital evidence,” I said.
Singer’s lingers were twitching like fury.
“I shouldn’t like to give it to the District Attorney,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“On the other hand, as you say—Open it, Joe, for goodness’ sake.”
I pulled up the flap and drew out the contents of the envelope. It opened easily. He must have sealed it in a hurry. It was just barely stuck.
There was a sheet of plain white paper folded over something. I unfolded the paper and a bunch of money fell out. I picked up the money and counted it. There were ten bright new hundred-dollar bills.
“A thousand bucks,” I said to Singer.
“Anything in writing?” he said.
“Yeah.” I read the note written on the plain sheet of paper. “‘I don’t think you got anything out of Father. This is all I can get together now. Please be patient. All my love, Tommy.’”
Singer made a bad face.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “He’ll never know. I’ll put it back in here and give it to him. He’ll never know.”
“Nevertheless,” Singer said, “it isn’t quite fair.”
There was a tap at the door.
“Come in,” I said.
The door opened and Doc Blane came in. The Doc was a nice old gentleman with snow-white hair, a thin, red little face, and the quietest voice in the world. He wore black string ties and stiff collars.
He came in, bowing at both of us, and sat down by my desk.
“Pretty gruesome business, Doctor,” Singer said.
Doc Blane sighed.
“A shame,” he said. “A lovely girl.”
“When did it happen?” Singer asked.
Doc shook his head and laughed softly.
“I’m just a country practitioner—no police experience. I can only guess.”
“What would you guess?” said Singer.
“Well, I guessed for the District Attorney that she’d been dead for at least fifteen hours.”
“About midnight last night,” Singer said.
“Yes. But I could be wrong as much as three hours either way.”
“Nancy Wheeler,” Singer said, “claimed she saw a knife in Miss Mason. Think it killed her right off instantly?”
Doc Blane shook his head.
“Singer,” he said, “I don’t think the knife killed her at all.”
“Then what—” I spluttered.
The Doc interrupted me. “But as I say, I have no experience in these things. There will have to be an autopsy. The county medical man is coming this afternoon. He’ll make sure.”
“The District Attorney seems to think the knife did it,” Singer said.
Doc grinned again.
“The District Attorney,” he said, “wants to get home. He’s afraid he might have to spend the night in Preston. The idea horrifies him.”
He got up and slapped the top of his hat.
“Got to run,” he said.
“As owner of the hotel,” Singer said, “I think I should witness the autopsy.”
He smiled. Doc Blane smiled back. Then he said, “I’ll see what can be done.” He went out.
I looked at Singer. He was gazing into space.
“Yes, sir,” Singer said, “gossip is a valuable thing. We know a lot from gossip that we’d have to ask a lot of questions to find out any other way. For instance, everybody knows that Jonathan Rowe, Tommy’s father—who, besides owning the First National Bank, is president of the School Board—tried to break up the friendship between Tommy and Marian Mason, and even hauled her before a special meeting of the School Board to reprimand her. But Tommy is a good-for-nothing, as everybody also knows, and the Board couldn’t find anything against Marian Mason as a teacher, so that came to nothing. In December, Bill Fogarty joined the army and along in March got into Officer Candidates’ School. Everybody was happy about Bill Fogarty, and thought that Marian Mason would have done well to stick to Bill instead of kiting around with Tommy Rowe. But Marian Mason continued to kite around with Tommy Rowe anyway, and some of the gossip got pretty thick.”
“Getting kind of dirty, isn’t it?” I said.
Singer shrugged.
“‘But that was in another country,’” he quoted, “‘and besides, the wench is dead.’”
“What now?” I said. “If the District Attorney is in a hurry to get home, it looks like either he will give up or somebody will get railroaded.”
“I don’t think he’ll give up,” Singer said.
“Then the salesman from Detroit will get railroaded,” I said.
“Maybe,” said Singer.
“Maybe he did it after all,” I said.
“Maybe.”
I got the idea Singer didn’t want to talk about the salesman.
“There must be more to the history of Marian Mason than we’ve mentioned so far.”
“There must be a lot more,” Singer said.
“How do we find it out?”
“Let’s go talk to Mrs. Fogarty,” Singer said.
But then the door opened again and somebody came in. It was Curly Evans. And right behind him came Mr. Rowe.
Now this Curly Evans was a big boy. He was over six feet tall and he weighed a solid two hundred and twenty—and I mean solid. They told me that when he played football for Preston High School there were fifteen guys from other teams laid up for most of the season. He was kind of muscle-bound now, but still handy with his fists and not too heavy on his feet. He’d got into professional wrestling for a while a few years back, but it worried
his mother so much that he quit and went to work in Ole Davis’s machine shop. He was also a plumber and he did odd jobs around town in his spare time. He took good care of his mother until she died, never made any trouble for anybody, kept his mouth shut, and worked hard. Nobody I knew of ever had anything against him. He’d lived in the hotel about a year. He was maybe thirty-two, thirty-three years old and as bald as a billiard ball.
He came in, looked around the room, then, without saying a word, walked over to the love seat and sat down. The thing squeaked and sagged under him and I saw Singer hold his breath till Curly got settled.
Mr. Rowe sat down in a chair near the door. He didn’t say anything either. I looked at both of them, then at Singer, and asked, “Who wants a drink?”
They both nodded. I mixed a couple of stiff ones and handed them out. Mr. Rowe sniffed his glass, smiled, and took a swallow. Curly lifted his and drained two-thirds of it in one gulp.
I picked up the phone, rang for Harry Baird and told him to bring in a washtub full of ice and two more quarts of liquor.
Curly grinned, drank the rest of his and set the glass down.
“Can’t stay that long, Joe,” he said.
Mr. Rowe said: “Curly came to me and said he had a little information somebody might want. I thought we’d tell the county attorney, Weaver, but—”
“Well?” Singer said, looking at Curly.
“I don’t like that little squirt, Weaver,” Curly said. “They said you was working on this murder case and I figured you’d know what to do—”
He paused, looking for words. Curly wasn’t much of a talker.
“Is this information about the murder?” Singer said.
“Well, no,” Curly said. “It’s about them two kids—Blake’s kid and Granger. I got an idea about where they might go.”
“We found Blake’s kid, you know,” I said.
Curly nodded. “Yeah. I know.” He looked at us, then down at his hands again. “But the other kid—I don’t know. This ain’t much—seems kind of silly now I think it over.”
“What is it, Curly?” Singer said.
Curly looked at Mr. Rowe.
“Go ahead, Curly,” Mr. Rowe said. “Every little bit helps, you know.”
“Where do you think young Granger went?” Singer said.
“I think he went to the City,” Curly said.
Singer looked at me. I felt a little embarrassed. If that was all Curly knew, it did seem a little silly. I mixed him another drink.
“What makes you think so?” Singer said.
The muscles around Curly’s mouth tightened.
“I ain’t ready to say that,” he said.
“Do you have any idea what part of the City he might have gone to?” Singer asked.
“Yeah,” Curly said. “I think you might find him at a certain hotel there.”
“Alone?”
Curly shook his head.
“Nope,” he said. “With somebody that helped him get out of this hotel last night.”
“It might be Don Eastman?” I said.
“It might be,” Curly said.
There was a silence. Curly spoke as if he knew what he was talking about. But he was pretty cagy about how he knew it. I didn’t know how to take it. I knew Curly spent quite a lot of time around the City and had a lot of connections up there. If he was guessing about what happened to the Granger kid, he must know something else, too. But whatever that was, he wasn’t saying.
“Do you think the Granger boy had anything to do with the murder of Miss Mason?” Singer said.
Curly looked at his hands.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Were you in your room all night last night?” Singer asked.
“Yeah.”
“Did you hear anything unusual?”
“Nope. Slept like a log.”
“You didn’t hear it when we put those kids to bed at three a.m.?” I said.
He shook his head.
“After all,” Mr. Rowe said suddenly, “we’re not putting Curly on trial. He merely had some information for you.”
He sounded pretty sharp. Singer nodded.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry, Curly. And I appreciate your telling us about young Granger.”
“That’s all right,” Curly said, getting up. “I got to get going now. Got to run out to the tourist camp and fix them pipes. Froze again this year.”
He went to the door, stopped and looked at Mr. Rowe.
“I can finish that job today,” he said. “Anything else to do down there?”
“No, Curly,” Mr. Rowe said. “Just the pipes.”
“Okay.” Curly went out.
Nobody said anything. Mr. Rowe seemed to be embarrassed.
Finally he looked at Singer and said: “I didn’t mean to be so short with you. It’s just that I feel sort of—responsible for Curly. He’s so big and awkward, and he gets confused.”
“I understand, Mr. Rowe,” Singer said. “I shouldn’t have tried to pump him.”
There was another silence. Mr. Rowe started to get up, changed his mind, looked around the room, and cleared his throat.
“There’s something I ought to tell you,” he said. “It’s hard for me, but I know you keep things pretty straight in your head. I wouldn’t tell Weaver—he’d grab at it and get it all twisted. You’re not like Weaver, Singer. You’ll walk around a thing and look it over before you make up your mind.” He hesitated.
“Yes?” Singer said.
Mr. Rowe cleared his throat again.
“It’s this. My boy—Tommy—was in Miss Mason’s room last night.”
I looked at Singer. Singer’s mild blue eyes were gazing at Mr. Rowe, but he didn’t have any expression on his face. It surprised me to have Mr. Rowe come out with a thing like that, but you couldn’t tell whether it surprised Singer or not. You never can tell what Singer is thinking.
“About what time was that?” Singer said.
“About eleven-thirty,” Mr. Rowe said. “I know he was up there because I followed him.”
“You followed him?” I said.
Mr. Rowe looked sheepish and nodded his head. “I shouldn’t have done it, but I was worried about Tommy’s relations with Miss Mason. I—”
He stopped. You could see that he wished he’d never started this at all. Then he said: “But I know he didn’t kill her. He couldn’t have.”
“And how do you know?” Singer said.
“Because I saw him come out of her room. And after he left I could hear her moving around. She was still alive when Tommy left.”
I had a professional curiosity about it.
“Just where were you all this time?” I said.
“I was standing just inside the door to the bathroom. I held the door open a crack and I could see the door to Miss Mason’s room.”
“How long was he with her?” I said.
“About twenty minutes. They were drinking.”
“And you were in the bathroom all that time?”
“Yes.”
“That was pretty risky, wasn’t it? What if Miss Mason happened to—I mean—”
“I would simply have closed the door and locked it.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Did you follow Tommy out of the hotel,” Singer asked, “after he left Miss Mason?”
“Well, no. I was afraid he might stop in the lobby and I didn’t want him to see me. I went down the fire escape.”
I blinked. “But the fire escape doesn’t run past the bathroom,” I said. “The bathroom is on the inside—on the court.”
“I went through Curly’s room. I had to see Curly anyway.”
“Curly didn’t think it was funny—you going out by way of the fire escape?”
“No. You see, I’ve had occasion to go to Curly’s room several times. He’s helped me sometimes—about Tommy, I mean. I’ve had him watch Tommy, try to keep him out of trouble.”
“Curly’s the boy that could do it,” I sai
d.
And Singer said, “Yes, indeed.”
Mr. Rowe got up. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.
“I had to tell you this,” he said, “about Tommy’s being in Miss Mason’s room. It was bound to get out sooner or later, and I’d rather have you know the real facts. I don’t trust Weaver.”
“Thank you,” Singer said. “Just one question—”
Mr. Rowe had his hand on the doorknob. “Yes?” he said.
“When Tommy came out of Miss Mason’s room last night, was he carrying two drinking glasses?”
Mr. Rowe closed his eyes and thought.
“Now that you mention it,” he said, “I believe he was. He had a big paper bag with a bottle of liquor in it. I know that because he had it when he went in, too. And when he came out he had something in the other hand and he was putting it into the bag. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I guess that’s what it was. Glasses. Why? Is it important?”
“I don’t know yet,” Singer said.
“Well—that’s all,” Mr. Rowe said. “I know Tommy didn’t kill her. I’m sure you’ll look at it clearly and find out the truth.”
“I hope so,” Singer said.
“If there’s any way I can help—”
“Thank you, Mr. Rowe,” said Singer.
Mr. Rowe went out.
Singer leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Do we go see Mrs. Fogarty now?” I said.
“I guess we do, Joe,” Singer said. “I’m afraid it won’t be as dramatic as our talk with Curly and Mr. Rowe, but it will have to be done.”
“Aren’t you going to tell Harley Granger where he can find his kid?”
“Not yet. I want to investigate a little first. I wouldn’t want Mr. Granger to be disappointed.”
“You think Curly was lying?”
“Oh, no, Joe. Not at all. I’m sure he wasn’t lying.” I didn’t ask any more questions. Singer wasn’t in the mood for it.
CHAPTER 6
“Do you suppose Weaver will let me leave the hotel?” I asked.
“Probably,” Singer replied. “I think I convinced him of your innocence while you were down cellar, scrapping with the bad-mannered detective.”
The uniformed cop was stationed at the main entrance. He looked at me as we went out, but didn’t try to stop us.
Hue and Cry Page 6
