Hue and Cry

by Thomas B. Dewey

  “You left Marian alive?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s none of my business,” I said, “but why did you go up to see her? Just a social visit?”

  “Well—” He hesitated. “I wanted to talk with her.”

  “About her being pregnant?”

  He was startled. “You know about that?” he said.

  “Yeah. Autopsy brought it out.”

  He shuddered. “I wanted to marry her,” he said. “I would have. I was going to, anyway…

  “Anyway what?”

  “In spite of what my father told me.”

  I waited.

  “He told me that if I married her, he’d disown me—make me leave the bank—even leave town. I couldn’t face that. I—to tell you the truth, Joe, I don’t think I could hold a job anywhere else. I’m—all shot to pieces. Father knows that.”

  “What did he have against Marian?”

  “I don’t know, really. He wouldn’t tell me. He was vague about it. I think he knew something about her that nobody else knew. He hated her. He tried to have her fired, you know. But teachers are hard to get now, and she was a good teacher.”

  “Could it have been your fault she was going to have a kid?”

  He blushed a little. “It could,” he said. “I don’t think it was.”

  “Who else could it have been?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t with me all the time. She’d run off by herself a lot. She said she went to the City, or over to Montpelier—to visit friends. I only saw her once or twice a week.”

  “She wanted you to marry her—after she found she was pregnant?”

  “Yes. She even threatened me. Said she’d go to my father.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yes. She went out to the house one night. I wasn’t home. I came in just as she was leaving.”

  “You didn’t talk to her then?”

  “Not with Father there. I didn’t dare.”

  “When was this?”

  “About four days ago.”

  I noticed he was getting the shakes in earnest now. “You better go get a drink,” I said. “You’re in bad shape.”

  “I know, Joe. I just wanted to let Singer know about last night. Maybe whoever was watching me was the one who killed her. I was afraid to tell Weaver.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll tell Singer.”

  “All right.” He went out, closing the door behind him.

  I went back to my room and finished dressing.

  So Tommy Rowe knew that somebody had been watching him when he went up to Marian’s room. But evidently he didn’t know who it was.

  I got my coat on, put on my hat, and started through the living room toward the lobby. But before I could get there, the door opened and Singer came in, followed by Weaver, both of his dicks, and a stranger who looked pretty fed up.

  Singer was getting sore. I could tell by the way he left everybody standing around, marched over to the table, and poured himself a drink.

  “Having a party?” I said.

  Weaver just snorted, meaning he was sore, too. But I didn’t care about that.

  “Sit down,” Singer said vaguely.

  The stranger, looking bored and disgusted, sat down in the easy chair and put his hands in his lap. I saw that they’d handcuffed him. I gave him a cigarette and lit it for him.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Joe,” Singer said, “this is Mr. Pfeffer, who was a guest of ours last night and whom Mr. Weaver suspects of having murdered Miss Mason. Perhaps Mr. Weaver will be good enough to explain his suspicions.”

  Singer sat down in his rocker and looked out the window.

  “It’s simple,” Weaver said. “This guy had a sample case full of knives exactly like the one that killed the victim. The victim was a beautiful girl. This guy sneaked into her room and got fresh. When she wouldn’t come across—after a few drinks—he got sore and let her have it.”

  “Fine,” I said, “only she was poisoned.”

  “He did that first,” Weaver said. “Poisoned her drink. Then later he was afraid it might not have killed her, so he sneaked in again and stuck the knife in her.”

  I guess my mouth was hanging open. The guy—Pfeffer—took a long drag on his cigarette and said softly, “My God!”

  “It’s quite a theory,” I said. “But we happen to know that somebody else went up to Miss Mason’s room to have a few drinks. And when he left, he took the liquor with him.”

  “Who?” Weaver said.

  I looked at Singer. He nodded his head slightly.

  “Kid name of Tommy Rowe,” I said.

  “The banker’s son?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t kill her.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Weaver said.

  “Because he said so.”

  Weaver snorted again.

  “I have a few questions I’d like to ask Mr. Pfeffer,” Singer said.

  Weaver was getting confused and curious. He didn’t like having Singer butt in, but he wanted to find out what he was thinking. “All right,” he said, “but hurry it up.”

  “Do you mind?” Singer said to Pfeffer.

  “Go ahead,” Pfeffer said. “I might as well talk to you as anybody.”

  “First,” Singer said, “I’d like to know how many people you heard or saw out on the fire escape the night of the murder.”

  “What the hell!” Mr. Weaver exclaimed.

  Pfeffer’s eyes narrowed a little and he looked at Singer with a little interest.

  “I didn’t see any,” he said. “I heard four.”

  “That is,” Singer said, “you heard somebody out on the fire escape four different times.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you couldn’t say whether they were four different people or only one or two different people several times.”

  “There were at least two.”

  “How do you make that out?”

  “They walked different. One was a woman. I heard her voice.”

  “You heard all that stuff going on outside your window,” Mr. Weaver said, “and didn’t even get up to look?”

  “Hell,” said the guy, “I was tired. All I wanted was to go to sleep. I figured it was some guy sneaking in to see his girl. I didn’t pay any attention.”

  “Not till later,” Weaver said, “when you went in and tried to make the dame and she wouldn’t come across. So you poisoned her and stabbed her.”

  “Oh, sure,” the salesman said. “Then I hanged her with an invisible rope. I also shot her, but it was such a small bullet you couldn’t see the hole. I would have strangled her, too, only I was tired out by that time.”

  I laughed. Weaver looked at me. “What’s so funny to you, little man?” he said.

  “The whole goddam county government,” I said.

  The salesman started singing Stars and Stripes Forever. “Shut up,” Weaver said.

  Singer said: “One other question. You sold some knives here, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. I took some orders.”

  “To whom did you sell?”

  “I got a big order from the hardware people, and I sold a couple of grocery stores and the bakery.”

  “The bakery,” Singer said. “Did you merely take the order, or did you have the products on hand?”

  “I had ’em. They only wanted two—a big one and a small one. I had ’em with me.”

  “Have you seen the knife they found in the murder victim?”

  “Yeah. It was one of mine.”

  “Was it like the large one you sold to the bakery?”

  “Exactly,” the guy said.

  “That’s all,” Singer said. Then to Weaver, “Why don’t you take the handcuffs off this man so he can smoke easily?”

  “He’s a suspect,” Weaver said. “I’m going to turn him in tonight—or this morning, if you ever get through fooling around.”

  “You really think he did it?” Singer said.

  “Sure
,” said Weaver, but he didn’t look sure. “Anyway, what’s all this about selling a knife to the bakery?”

  Singer’s voice was as patient as ever, but anybody who knew him could feel the edge on it a mile away.

  “The bakery employs a chap named Don Eastman,” he said. “He lives in this hotel, only two rooms removed from the scene of the crime. He is known to have been intimately associated with the victim. Lastly, he disappeared from the hotel this morning and he has not been seen around town since.”

  There was a silence. You could tell Weaver was chewing on it.

  “And if that’s not enough evidence to throw doubt into your case, there is the murder of Curly Evans, of which I have lately informed you. It is unlikely that Mr. Pfeffer, picked up by the police in Detroit some four hours ago, could have killed Curly Evans, who died only forty-five minutes ago.”

  “I’m not saying he killed Evans.”

  “And yet,” Singer said, “as I have told you, Curly Evans had given us some information which may have an important bearing on the crime.”

  There was another silence.

  “Mr. Weaver,” Singer went on, “if you will give me until midnight tonight, I will prove to you absolutely that Mr. Pfeffer could not possibly have committed this crime. I will also prove who did. And I will turn the real murderer over to you.”

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Weaver said. “You know now who the murderer really is?”

  “I believe I do,” Singer said. “But I can’t prove it. I need some time to make sure.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you know and let me follow it through? I have legal standing. I can make arrests.”

  “You, operating as an officer of the law, couldn’t possibly get the information we need to complete the case.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” Singer said. “If I told you what I think you wouldn’t believe it. If you went ahead and acted on it, you wouldn’t be able to get anywhere.” Weaver thought it over.

  “All I need is six hours,” Singer said. “At midnight I’ll have the answer. If I’m not back by midnight, you can leave right away.”

  “I can leave any time I’m ready,” Weaver said, “whether you’re back or not. Anyway, where are you going? The murder happened here. Why do you have to take a trip?”

  “A part of the answer to this problem lies in the City. That’s in another state. You have no jurisdiction,” Singer said. He looked at his watch. “I have no more time to argue. For my own satisfaction, I am going to follow the case through. You do as you like. Joe and I must be on our way.”

  He started for the door.

  “Wait a minute,” Weaver said. “Don’t be nasty about it. I’ll give you until midnight. But your friend Spinder”—he jerked his thumb at me—“he stays here.”

  Singer looked at him out of his big blue eyes.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

  “No, it isn’t. I’m holding him as a material witness. I’m still not satisfied about that marriage license I found with his name on it.”

  “What the hell!” I said.

  “You’ve done some suspicious moving around here today, Spinder. I’m not taking any chances. I think you know more than you’ve let on.”

  “You going to let one of your boys work me over while Singer’s gone?” I said.

  That burned him. “Enough of that,” he said. “I’m just holding you.”

  “As a hostage, no doubt,” Singer said.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen Singer so sore as he was then.

  I looked hard at Singer, trying to tell him to go ahead, that they wouldn’t hold me for long. I don’t know whether he got it or not, but after a minute he said: “Very well. Suit yourself. If you’re here at midnight, I’ll have the murderer for you.”

  He went out.

  I went over to my desk and poured a drink. The salesman named Pfeffer watched me. He sat very still in his chair, the smoke from his cigarette curling up around his face. Weaver stood in the middle of the room, looking sillier than usual. His two dicks shifted from one foot to the other, looking first at Weaver, then at me, then at Pfeffer.

  I heard the six-o’clock bus draw up opposite the hotel and imagined Singer climbing on. I wanted to catch that bus, and I knew how I could do it, but I’d have to get started pretty soon.

  I poured a drink for Pfeffer and took it to him. He said, “Thanks,” and handed me what was left of his cigarette. I snuffed it out in an ash tray on my desk and picked up my own glass.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes,” I said to Weaver, “what’s the play? Shall I turn on the radio? Shall we dance?”

  Weaver snorted. He was the best snorter I had ever heard.

  He was saved from making some stupid remark by a knock on the door. Weaver opened it himself. It was Doc Blane.

  “I’ve a report on the death of Curly Evans,” Doc said, “if you care to hear it.”

  It was plain that Weaver wanted to get away. He jerked his head at the dick in plain clothes. To the uniform he said: “You watch these two birds, Connally. If either one tries to make a break, let ’em have it.”

  I laughed. Weaver threw me a terrible look and stamped out, followed by the other dick, who slammed the door behind him.

  I sat down by the desk and took a couple of swallows. The cop sat down on the love seat near the window.

  We were lined up diagonally across the room. The dick on the love seat, then Pfeffer in the easy chair, out from Singer’s table, then me—at my desk. I caught Pfeffer’s eye and tried to stare a message into him. The City bus had been gone for at least three minutes. The next stop would be eight miles up the line, in Bridgeville. It would take the bus fifteen or twenty minutes. I could make it in ten minutes, if I had enough gas, and I thought I had.

  Everything depended on Pfeffer. If he caught on, I could do it. If he didn’t I might get six months for clipping an officer of the law. I had to take my chances with Pfeffer.

  I took one more swallow, set my glass down—it was half-full—wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stood up.

  Connally the cop stood up with me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he said.

  He was pretty nervous. Murder was no doubt out of his line. Self-consciously, he reached around and unsnapped his holster.

  I shrugged. “After all,” I said, “when a guy has to go—you can’t object to that.”

  “Wait a minute!” Connally said.

  He hesitated. I turned and started toward the bathroom door.

  “Hey! Wait a minute!” he said.

  I kept going, wondering whether he was reaching for that big rod he packed.

  “Hey!” he said, and I heard him take heavy steps.

  I was at the bathroom door now and I looked back. Connally—jerking at his gun, which seemed to be stuck—was moving after me. Just as he got to the easy chair, Pfeffer stretched both his legs out suddenly and caught Connally just below the knees. Connally, his eyes on me, crumpled and sprawled all over the floor, cursing. His gun fell out of the holster. I heard Pfeffer say, “Sorry,” and saw him start to get up. Then I was in the bathroom with the door shut and locked behind me.

  I went on into my bedroom and opened the door into the kitchen. We’d had a door cut in there so Dora could get into the suite with our meals without having to go through the lobby. It came in handy.

  Dora was alone in the kitchen, cooking. I walked fast across the room, saying, “If a cop comes in here, tell him I went down cellar.”

  As I went through the door and down the back steps, Dora asked, “Will you boys be home for supper? It’s ’most ready.”

  I hit the alley running. My car was sitting behind the bank, headed out toward the street, for once.

  It looked like a clear road. Three jumps, into the seat—car still warm, step on the gas and bango! Hi-ho Silver!

  How wrong I was.

  As I rea
ched the edge of the area-way between the hotel and the bank, somebody stepped out in front of me. I tried to dodge past him and he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. I looked up. It was Olson, Weaver’s big bruiser.

  He’d lost his grip when I turned so fast and he was reaching for me now with both hands.

  I had a terrible hate for that lug and I wasn’t going to let him hold me up now. I hauled back my right leg and threw my foot into his groin with everything I had. He gave a funny little scream and doubled over. I hunched down and hit him with my shoulder. It knocked him over and he rolled away. I stepped wide as he reached for my ankle and beat it across the area-way. I climbed into the car, turned on the ignition, and got her started. As I drove away, I looked back and saw Olson getting to his knees.

  The alley went on for two blocks beyond Oak Street and I stayed in it. There was nothing in sight on Oak Street so I didn’t even have to stop. I was hitting fifty in the middle of the next block and I slowed a little as I approached High Street. Nobody coming there, either, so I tore across High and into the last block of the alley. I had to watch myself here, because the alley ran behind houses and people were pretty careless about where they dumped their trash.

  So I was going pretty slow when I reached Brick Avenue. And it was a good thing because a girl was walking down the sidewalk, across the alley, and she wasn’t looking at me. Even though I was going slow I had to slam the brakes on to keep from hitting her, and my tires screeched on the pavement. That scared the girl. She jumped and looked around. Then she came over to the car. It was Elsie Schaffner.

  “Are you going to Bridgeville?” she said.

  I jumped. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. I just wondered. Would you give me a lift, please?”

  “I shouldn’t,” I said, “but I will.”

  She got in and slammed the door, and without wasting any more time I turned into Brick Avenue and headed for Front Street. Front Street was County Highway 17 and led straight into Bridgeville. Once beyond the town limits I could burn up the road. Olson was probably following me, but the county line was only three miles up the road and he couldn’t go beyond that. I figured I still had ten minutes. If I could pass the bus on the way I could make it. But I didn’t think I could get far beyond Bridgeville. Not enough gas.