The Penguin Pool Murder (The Hildegarde Withers Mysteries)

by Stuart Palmer

  Gwen’s fingers clawed for the arm of her companion, but he too was staring into the tank, his face white as chalk.

  She felt her lips move, and heard words come forth that she would have given anything in the world to keep from saying. “Oh, Phil … what have we done!” Damningly clear, the sentence rang through the high-arched room. The crowd surged closer, nightmare fashion, and then blurred out. Gwen felt herself slipping. Her hand grasped at the smooth glass for support, and then drew back as if it were itself sentient of the thing that lay just behind, staring out with eyes that saw nothing. The blurred phantasmagoria of light and shade became darker … darker….

  Gwen came to herself lying at full length on the floor, her head held by someone … she was choking….

  She opened her eyes and stared straight up into the smiling face of the handsomest man she had ever seen … a total stranger. He was pouring something between her clenched teeth, something that stung her throat….

  “And now be easy, darlin’!” It was a silver flask, heavily chased, that pressed against her lips. “Just one more swallow. There, now. Just lie quiet….”

  There was something warm, something intimately caressing, in the slight suggestion of Irish brogue which colored the speech of this dark-haired stranger who had stepped out of the crowd. This good Samaritan had bright blue eyes, and a forehead covered by rebellious black curls.

  It was very pleasant to lie there, and not to think. But a voice rose above the hubbub of many voices. “Young man, if you don’t stop pouring those nasty spirits down this girl’s throat, we’ll have two corpses on our hands.”

  Gwen looked up and saw for the first time the stern face of Miss Withers. Behind her a policeman was pushing his way through the crowd, a broad blue policeman in tow of a small black boy, like a tug with a liner attached, or an ant with a piece of biscuit. Donovan was here again, a strangely self-important and quiet Donovan. He came straight to Miss Withers.

  “An Inspector is on his way here from Headquarters,” he announced. “Till then, I’m in charge. The boy here says there’s been a killing. Where’s the stiff?”

  He looked toward the display tank, and was dumb for a moment. Then … “In the water, hey? Quick, somebody show me the way back there. I’ll need a man to help me, too. Maybe there’s life in the corpse yet, if he’s only fell in the water….”

  His eyes wandered through the crowd, which was being slowly forced back by Hemingway. No one volunteered, but then he caught sight of the man who still knelt beside Gwen Lester. He caught the glint of the silver flask, and an answering gleam came in Donovan’s eye.

  “You’ll do,” he decided. “Follow me.”

  The stranger helped Gwen to sit up. “You’re feeling fine now,” he assured her. “I’ll be running along now. But remember, I’m at your service, ma’m. Barry Costello is the name.” Her eyes thanked him, and lingered as the big man rose lightly to his feet and passed through the door after Donovan.

  Somehow Gwen struggled to her feet and pressed forward with the rest of them. Miss Withers was beside her, and Bertrand B. Hemingway was trying to get through. She looked for Philip, but he was still staring at the tank as if turned to stone by the hollow glare of those sightless eyes.

  Inside the door marked “Public Not Admitted Here” there was a sharp turn to the right, and a flight of three steps up. Donovan stood at the top of these steps, facing the darkened runway ahead of him, a long curve of cool obscurity. Here were the open tops of the exhibition tanks, here were the thousands of criss-crossed pipes that made up the circulation system of the place. A narrow cat-walk, about ten inches wide, ran along the tops of these tanks, and on this walk two black penguins complained bitterly at the turn events had taken … complained above a six-foot square of water on which floated a man’s hat.

  Donovan craned his neck along the tanks, and up toward the higher level, reached by an iron ladder. But there was no one in sight. He bent gingerly over the tank, and Costello came up beside him.

  Hemingway was making voluble explanations from the doorway. “This door is always kept locked,” he was protesting, “except when we are working back here in the runway. It just happened that today workmen were supposed to come to clean out the big central pool, and so my assistant Olaavson put the penguins here in this spare tank, temporarily, as he always does in such a case. He must have gone off to lunch and forgotten to lock the door.”

  Donovan was rolling up his sleeves. “Here’s for it,” he said slowly. “Come on here, Mister, and grab hold of him.”

  Costello hesitated, and then nodded. They lifted the dripping body out onto the runway, while eager faces packed the doorway. “Looks sort of cold, doesn’t he?” Donovan shook his head. “Let me have that flask of yours, mister.”

  “I could do with a swig myself,” agreed Costello. “But you’re on duty, aren’t you?” He looked toward the doorway. “Can you get away with it in front of all the audience?”

  “Sure I’m on duty.” Donovan took the flask and forced its neck between the blue lips of the body which lay between them. “It’s not for meself.” His effort was not a success, and he returned the flask to its owner, who seemed to have lost his thirst.

  “Well, orders is orders,” said Donovan. “We’ll have to do what we can. You’ll take turns with me, mister!”

  “Take turns at what?” Something of the joviality had gone out of Costello’s voice. “Sure, I’d better be running along now, officer.”

  “You’ll stay here with me,” said Donovan. He shook his little black notebook in the face of the other. “You’ll stay and do what I say, mister. Here it is in the little book, in black and white. In case of drowning, it says to apply artificial respiration. That means to turn him over on his face and pump his ribs. We learned all about it in police school, and I’m going to try it. Sometimes men have been brought to life after an hour in the water, with a lot of pumping. That’s why you’ve got to stay right here and take turns with me.”

  Costello showed a certain not unnatural reluctance. He would rather have been outside, murmuring polite words of comfort to the young lady who had fainted, and he made no bones about it. But at last he nodded. “I’ll stay,” he agreed. “If you think we ought to pump this guy, sure we’ll be pumping him.”

  He looked down at the pallid face of the man who lay beneath them, and then looked quickly away. “Sure I’ll stay….”

  Miss Withers shook her head as the two men knelt in the iron runway, and Donovan began the monotonous refrain … “One-two-press … one-two-press….” Her mouth was set in a grim line.

  Then someone pushed lazily through the press about the door, a tall gaunt man in a loose topcoat. He looked like a newspaper reporter grown gray in the harness, and Miss Withers took one look at his protruding lower lip and thought it was like a sulky little boy’s.

  But the voice that broke the tension was not a little boy’s voice. “Donovan! What the merry hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Donovan left off his life-saving activities, and saluted. “Good afternoon, Inspector Piper. I was just trying to bring this man to life, Inspector. According to regulations….”

  “Never mind.” Piper mounted the three steps and bent over the body. He viewed it from every angle, and then turned it over carefully. “Drowning, huh? What a funny place for bathing.” He looked without enthusiasm or visible interest at the fishy tanks beneath them … at the tangles of water piping above … and finally at a thin ray of light that slid in through a window high in the wall toward the bay.

  “Who’s the stiff?” He turned to Donovan, but Miss Withers answered him from behind.

  “The Director here identified him as a Mr. Lester, a stockbroker,” she said. She pointed out Hemingway.

  “Yeah? And who are you?” The pale tan-colored eyes focused themselves on the official. “Boss of this fish house, I suppose?”

  “I’m Director of the New York Aquarium,” gurgled Hemingway. His face was red. “The man m
ust have been drunk, and fallen into the tank….”

  “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?” Piper touched the body with his foot. “Friend of yours?”

  “I’ve known Gerald Lester for years, but never intimately,” explained Hemingway. “I didn’t know he was here today until I recognized his face.”

  “Well, Mr. Lester appears to have a bruise on the point of his chin,” said Piper slowly. “And a bump on the back of his head. It would seem that there’s something a bit fishy here.”

  “I knew that a half an hour ago,” said Miss Withers acidly. “That’s why I sent one of my pupils for a policeman, and to call somebody from Headquarters, Inspector.”

  “Hmm.” Piper nodded gravely. “Mr. Director, there seems to have been a homicide committed here. In such a case, I have a right to require your cooperation. Take one of my uniformed men and go through this crowd outside. Sort out the people into two groups … those whom you or anyone else remembers as being here when you first got on the scene, and those who pushed in later. Let the last bunch get the bum’s rush as soon as we have their names and addresses, and take the others into an office somewhere and keep them there. I want to do a little preliminary questioning, though the police stenographer isn’t available.”

  Gwen felt the hand of a policeman on her arm, and leaned her weight against him as they moved back down the hall. Ahead of her she saw Philip similarly escorted, and she realized with a start that already the police knew of her exclamation on seeing the body. She had spoken one short sentence … was it going to be a death sentence for somebody? Philip had not spoken since the announcement in Hemingway’s office, and he still avoided her eye.

  Miss Withers patted her precious hatpin more tightly into her hair and stalked along, saying nothing. The others chattered and exclaimed and complained, even yet—all but Philip. Gwen still resisted thinking.

  If he would only speak to her … tell her … answer one of the questions that filled her mind! She was afraid—not for him, but for herself. She wondered if they were to be taken back into Hemingway’s private office? Yes, they were led on, past the doors, into the long room, the office lined with empty glass vessels and odd machinery which bristled with rubber tubes and metal dials. There were three chairs. One window looked on the eastern waterfront, where a ship was pushing out toward the Goddess of Liberty and the Narrows.

  Gwen found herself thinking idly of something she had read somewhere, supposed to have been remarked by a visitor to our shores when he saw the statue…. “Ah, you Americans, just as we do at home, erect statues to your illustrious dead!”

  At least, liberty seemed to be dead and gone as far as one person, perhaps two persons, in that room were concerned.

  She prayed for a miracle to come and lift her from this room onto the deck of the vessel that was rolling out to sea, towards Rio, Cherbourg, Liverpool … anywhere. But the age of miracles is past.

  Piper was at the door. “Stay on guard here,” he was telling one of his men. “Nobody comes out and nobody gets in, except of course Doc Bloom when he’s finished his examination.” And the door slammed.

  There were more than a dozen people in the room. Fink, the guard, had been relieved at the main entrance and now stood at ease near the window. Miss Withers was standing with her feet wide apart, waiting. Bertrand B. Hemingway strode nervously up and down. The others fidgeted, whispered, and moved uneasily. Gwen was too late to get a chair.

  Inspector Piper came straight to Philip Seymour. “If you make a confession now it will save us all a lot of trouble,” he said in a quiet, friendly tone. “It’s clear as daylight what happened, Seymour. You bumped off the husband when he got inconvenient. We know that. Mrs. Lester gave it all away when she saw the body in the tank. Come clean….”

  Seymour shook his head. “I didn’t commit a murder, Inspector. I’m ready to tell the whole story, just as it happened, to you or to anybody else. It looks bad, but it isn’t as bad as you think. I did have a fight with Gerald Lester, but …”

  “You not only had a fight with him … you killed him by shoving his head into the water and holding it there.” Piper’s voice grew harsher, and more tense. “We know you did it, and we know why you did it! It’s the old triangle, Seymour. You’re in love with Mrs. Lester, and you killed her husband to make the way clear for yourself. Did you do it alone, or were both of you in it?”

  Seymour kept his voice low. “I’m a lawyer, Inspector. I know enough not to lose my temper. It’s no use bullying me into anything. I tell you that I don’t think I killed Jerry Lester, and that if I did it was an accident. You can’t make it more than homicide….”

  “I can’t, huh? You killed him, and you’re going to confess it and save the state the trouble and expense of a jury trial. You killed him, with your bare hands, Seymour. It looks as if the two of you lured him here. If Mrs. Lester was in on it, we’ll find that out later, too. Looks like another Snyder-Gray killing to me. Better come clean….”

  “I tell you I …”

  Gwen felt her knees go weak and watery with fear. Fear for her life, fear for her own white body. Fear of walls and bars and a short last walk to an armchair that would not be an easy chair….

  Someone offered her a packing box, with a sweep of his hat that might have presented a Louis Quatorze masterpiece. It was Costello, but she could hardly smile her thanks. She sank back weakly.

  “I’m a lawyer, Mrs. Lester,” he whispered. “You need help … won’t you let me help you?”

  A glance from Piper kept her from answering, but her shoulder pressed against Barry’s arm. Gwen was desperate. She relaxed herself against her self-appointed protector.

  Suddenly a door at the farther end of the room was flung open. There stood a young man, loose yellow hair touselled above thick spectacles, and in one reddish fist he held a small, cringing person by the scruff of the neck, though two officers hurried to separate them.

  Everybody spoke at once, until Piper’s voice silenced them. “Shut up, everybody!”

  He turned to the young Viking in the door. “What do you want, and who are you?”

  The stranger smiled a wide smile. “I’m Olaavson. Got to see Mister Hemingway. This man, he’s been hiding up in the upper tanks. Maybe he wants to steal my invention. Just now I find him.”

  “Who are you, and what were you doing behind the tanks yourself?” Piper stared up at the big blond man, and the big man stared down.

  Hemingway broke in. “This man is my new assistant, only been on this side a year or so. He’s been working behind the tanks for months, perfecting an automatic lung to purify the water for the aquarium fish, and testing it in the circulation system. I forgot to mention him … but you can trust him. I forgot to tell you about that door.”

  “Sure,” agreed Olaavson. “I been working on the upper level, up the iron stair and around on the west side. There I set up my machine. All day I work there. I forget to go to lunch. But just now I hear a little noise behind me and there I see this little worm. He has no business back there. When I ask him what he’s doing there, he just mock me because of my bad English speaking. He just gobble. I shake him a little, maybe, and then I bring him to Mister Hemingway.”

  Olaavson dropped his burden, and the little man slumped down disconsolately to the floor. He was sadly battered, no doubt partly from the Viking’s little shaking, and he seemed to have little interest in the proceedings.

  But there was no mistaking his identity. Miss Withers nodded slowly and thoughtfully, and Fink gasped. Someone else caught his breath suddenly, and expelled it in a sigh.

  “It’s the man I got with my umbrella,” broke in Miss Withers. “It’s Chicago Lew!”

  The little man opened his eyes, tentatively. Piper leaned over him.

  “Hiding behind the tanks, huh? Maybe you got something to tell us? We know you and we know how to treat dips like you. You know something, and you’re going to tell it, or we’ll find a handy way to make you. Come on, come
clean!”

  Chicago Lew looked up at the Inspector, and then around the room. His face was strangely bland. His mouth opened as Piper shook him by the collar … the lips moved … but only the most horrible medley of vowel sounds came forth.

  “Gaw … oooooo … waw …” It was the pitiful mouthing of the speechless. Louder came the mangled sounds. “G-gggggg—awk….”

  Then for the second time that day the little man known to the police as Chicago Lew stretched out flat on the tile floor, dead to the world.

  In the strained silence that followed, through the half-open door of the long room, a distant cry of the black penguins could be heard, like a raucous and misshapen echo…. “G-g-gawk….”

  3

  I Told You So!

  “TAKE HIM AWAY,” PIPER said suddenly. “Lock him up. Why, the man’s a deaf-mute. Get him out of here.”

  Two officers led the prisoner through the door. Donovan was one of them. “I’ve seen Chicago Lew before,” he said to no one in particular, “and he could talk as well as anybody before he went back of those tanks!” His voice came gruffly as the door swung shut behind them. “… and now the poor devil squawks like those heathen penguins!”

  There was another long moment of silence. Piper, however, intended to be master of ceremonies.

  “I’ve got a lot of questions for somebody to answer,” he said slowly. “And I want answers, too. Who was the first person to see the body?”

  Miss Withers stepped forward. “I was. Go ahead, young man.”

  It nettled Piper to be called a young man by a woman who could not have been any older than he was. But he ignored it.

  “You found the body?” She nodded.

  “Alone?”

  “No, I was with my class of pupils. One of them discovered it with me, and the rest of them crowded around before I could prevent them….”

  “Yeah?” Piper was annoyed. “Where are those pupils of yours? I thought I gave orders for every single person who’d been here at the time of the finding of the body to remain for questioning. What do you mean letting them go home?”