The headline was plain enough. “TWO WOMEN BATTLED FOR LESTER’S LOVE” it announced in three inch letters. Beneath it were three pictures, one showing Gwen Lester at Palm Beach in a bathing suit that bared most of her back, one showing Gwen in her wedding veil and gown, and one spread all across the bottom of the page showing a girl sitting on a stone balustrade outside some city building with her legs disposed to their best advantage, and captioned “Marian Templeton, office-wife, admits love nest with dead man, shown here after questioning by Prosecuting Attorney….”
Piper turned over a page angrily. “So the Lester case is solved by our bright light of Tammany Hall, Mr. Tom Roche, huh?” He glowered, and then read aloud … “At a late hour this afternoon, announcement was made from official sources that Miss Marian Templeton, secretary of Gerald Lester, had admitted illicit relations with the deceased over a period of five years, and has told of Lester’s breaking off relations recently because of threats from his wife, Gwen Lester.”
He cleared his throat and went on. “This recent development in the case comes as a result of a clever investigation after the Sherlock Holmes method of operatives of the Prosecuting Attorney, Mr. Thomas M. Roche, under the personal direction of Mr. Roche.” Piper grunted derisively. “Got his name in twice in one sentence, so Roche will be happy now.” Then he read on.
“As soon as it was definitely established that Gerald Lester, Wall Street broker and playboy, had met his end by a stiletto thrust through the left ear into his brain, agents of Mr. Roche’s office took up the case in earnest, supplementing the efforts of the regular police forces. Search of Miss Templeton’s apartment in the art colony of Greenwich Village disclosed wearing apparel belonging to Gerald Lester in the closets and bureau drawers, including a hat marked with his initials. (Get that, Miss Withers, a hat marked with his initials) …”
“I got it,” she said.
“When confronted by this evidence, Marian Templeton confessed to her relations with her employer and after questioning divulged further information concerning incidents in the domestic life of the blue-blood Lesters upon which the Prosecutor is acting at the present moment. An early and startling arrest is promised by Mr. Roche, details of which for obvious reasons may not be announced, although Mr. Roche intimated that it will be in a direction hitherto ignored by the regular police investigation.”
“Which is us?” asked Miss Withers.
“Which is us,” Piper told her savagely. “I’ll bet that the root of the whole thing is that Taylor, the operative I put on the Templeton girl, talked to somebody in the D.A.’s office. That means back to a beat in the suburbs for him. And it means that Gwen Lester is going to be arrested by that bungling idiot!”
“But suppose she is guilty?” Miss Withers wanted to know.
“If she’s guilty there’s all the more reason for letting her go free until she incriminates herself. We’ll never get a jury to convict her, or Philip Seymour either, on such flimsy circumstantial evidence. Seymour knows that. That is why he confessed. He knew that he could repudiate his confession at the last moment, particularly since he confessed to a mode of killing that wasn’t used. He’s a lawyer. He knows that if he stands trial and is acquitted he can never be arrested for that murder again, not even if he confesses to it, and not even if we produce non-shatterable evidence. He knows he’s safer in jail than anywhere else, and it builds public sympathy, too.”
Miss Withers felt that matters were rapidly getting too deep for her to follow. She suddenly realized that she was very very weary, and that somehow the day had slipped by. She folded up her copy of the green tabloid and put it under her arm. “I might as well go home,” she suggested. “I’ve got some notes on the day’s questioning, and I suppose you’ll want them typed out….”
Piper nodded. “You know, Miss Withers, it’s been a good thing that the regular police secretary is having his tonsils removed at St. Luke’s this week, because you’ve been twice as much help. You have a certain flair for this, you know? And a good many times an outsider like you will notice a thing or two that we miss in the course of regular routine investigation. It’s been a big help….”
He was paying their checks. Miss Withers stopped short. “You mean that it’s all over as far as I’m concerned?”
“It’s all over as far as anybody is concerned,” the Inspector told her. “All that remains is to dig up a few more proofs that Tom Roche can put before a jury. And that won’t be long. Philip Seymour and the Lester woman are already starting to blame it on each other. That’s the beginning of the end in all these triangle cases. Gwen will incriminate Philip and Philip will incriminate Gwen, and they’ll both face a trip up the river and maybe worse. I was stalling along trying to get complete evidence on them before making public announcements, but as long as the D.A. has spilled the beans, I’m turning over what evidence I have for the grand jury, and we wash our hands of the whole thing. See?”
“I see,” Miss Withers said bitterly. “I see that you are taking the easy way out, and choosing the most obvious suspects. You are bound to treat this case as if it were just another triangle case, as you call it. And deep down in your heart, if a detective has any heart, you suspect that Gwen and Philip didn’t do it. Don’t tell me any different. You know that there is more to the murder of Jerry Lester than meets the eye. And now, just because the Prosecutor announces that his case is complete, you are going to drop the case just where it begins to get interesting, and let two people suffer for a crime you aren’t sure they committed. Isn’t that true?”
Inspector Piper shrugged his shoulders. “You don’t differentiate between belief and evidence, and between duty and individual ideas. As soon as I get to my office, or get in touch with it by telephone, I’ll be officially notified by the Commissioner that the case is closed and that I am to turn in my evidence to the D.A. In other words, I’ll be told to quit.”
“I won’t be ordered to quit, though,” Miss Withers pointed out acidly. “And I’m not going to see a miscarriage of justice if I can help it. So there!”
And she stalked down the street toward the subway, rode northward for twenty minutes on a Broadway-Seventh Avenue Express, and got off at Seventy-second.
At that same moment Gwen Lester was sitting in the depths of an enormous easy chair in her own drawing-room, with the colored sheets of a late tabloid newspaper scattered around her slim feet. The tall windows which looked out on Central Park to the east were mantled with heavy drapes, to shut out the crying of “Extry” which rose at varying intervals.
Across the long room a man moved restlessly, his hands locked behind his back.
Gwen broke the silence. “Anyway … anyway they haven’t come yet, and here it is seven o’clock!”
Barry Costello shot her a glance of sympathy. “They’ll come, all right. Tom Roche will want to make this arrest in time for the Sunday papers. You saw his announcement in the extra, didn’t you?”
Gwen nodded her shapely head. “If I could only get money enough I’d run away,” she announced. “With funds I could get to Mineola and hire a plane … but I haven’t a cent. Jerry’s money is tied up, what there is of it. There’s only his insurance, and the Stock Exchange seat, which ought to be worth a lot. But …”
“By the way,” asked Costello softly, “did your husband have a lot of insurance?”
Gwen paused. “I think it was seventy-five thousand. I got him to double it last year, because he was approaching his thirty-first birthday when the rate jumps. Why?”
“That’s bad,” the Irishman told her. “They won’t pay the premium, now, without a fight. You see, it’s a bad combination, your urging your husband to take more insurance and then your being held for his murder. Insurance companies are …
Gwen looked at him from beneath eyelids darkened by weeping. “You think I did it, don’t you? Just like everybody else. And you aren’t trying to figure out how to prove I’m innocent, you’re just trying to save my life because you’re my la
wyer!”
“I’m a lawyer, yes. Because I happened to be on the spot and was lucky enough to be of service to you, Mrs. Lester. But I’d rather be your friend.” He crossed swiftly to her side.
“I’m going to be your friend, Gwen. Because you need one. And I’ll tell you this much, I’ll believe anything you say.” Costello caught at her cigarette, which was burning merrily into the varnish of a side-table, and dropped it neatly into a tray. “Tell me, not as a client to a lawyer but as … as one friend to another. Did you kill your husband?”
Gwen gave him a long, straight look. Her heavy lids raised, and her lips parted tremulously. Her filmy green lounging pajamas fell away from her throat.
“As God is my judge, I didn’t,” she said solemnly. “I never did Gerald Lester any wrong except by marrying him in the first place. But I don’t expect you or anyone else to believe that. The detectives won’t believe it. The judge and the jury won’t believe it. They’ll send me to the chair….” She was breaking, and Costello knew it.
He took her slim hand between both of his. “I believe you,” he told her earnestly. “Nobody in the world is believing in you any stronger than I am, darlin’ … for I feel in my heart of hearts that your little hands are innocent of blood. And I’m the one that’s going to keep you from going to the chair. Believe me.”
“I … I’ll try,” said Gwen Lester. “God knows I haven’t got anyone else. Even the servants have left, after all the questions and fussing around of the detectives here this afternoon. And now the police are coming back for me …”
Barry Costello took both her hands in his. “You know I’d gladly go with them to the Tombs in your place, if I could!”
Gwen nodded blindly, her eyes wet. Sympathy, honest sympathy, was the one thing hardest to bear, the one thing that made her break. Suddenly she turned and buried her face in Costello’s shoulder, clinging with her fingers to the lapels of his coat. He smelled comfortingly of a faint scent of perfumed soap, and a strong scent of tobacco.
Costello leaned back, letting her weight come on his chest. Gwen felt the astonishing strength of the man as he held her there. “Don’t cry darlin’, don’t be doing that at all … come now! Barry will see you through. Trust him.”
With a sort of numbed surprise, Gwen felt him searching for her lips. Limply she yielded them, with a mental reservation. She felt like a chip, tossed upon waters turbulent and swift, toward a hidden goal. They clung there, the beautiful young widow and her self-appointed lawyer, until the screaming clatter of the doorbell came between them. Gwen went rigid with fear, and Costello with a comforting grip of her hand moved toward the door.
“May you never be sorry for that kiss,” he said tenderly. Then his face hardened as he turned toward the door. “Remember, darlin’, you must refuse to talk except when I’m present, as your lawyer. Remember!”
“I’ll remember,” Gwen promised voicelessly. Her eyes were on the opening door, on the blue-clad policeman she expected.
But Miss Hildegarde Withers marched in, with a nod to Costello. She came over to Gwen, who sat up stiffly in her chair.
“Do you know who I am?”
Gwen nodded. “You’re the school-teacher who told the Inspector what I said when I looked in the tank yesterday….”
Miss Withers nodded. “I did so! Because it was my duty, and besides, there were twenty people who heard you cry out ‘What have we done?’ But that isn’t why I came here….”
Gwen nodded. “That’s right. Just why did you come here?”
Miss Withers glared at Barry Costello. “Young man, there are likely to be detectives in this apartment in a few minutes. Why don’t you wipe that lipstick off your cheek?” Then she turned to Gwen.
“I came here because I happen to live three blocks away, and because I heard that they are going to arrest you tonight for your husband’s murder. I thought maybe a word of warning would be a good idea, but I see that you have an advisor, and that you’ve already seen the paper.”
Gwen was wondering. “But still I don’t see why you should come to warn me….”
“Because, young woman, whatever you’ve done I don’t think you killed your husband. Not even if Philip Seymour says so before detectives….”
Gwen shook her head slowly. “Phil didn’t say that. You must be lying … Phil couldn’t say that. He’s not … it’s not the kind of a thing Phil would do to me. And it isn’t true, besides …”
“He did say it,” Miss Withers told her shortly. “I heard him. And I thought it would be a good thing for you to know before they took you to the Tombs. And what’s more, I don’t know that I exactly blame Seymour for saying it. Doesn’t that work both ways? Maybe Philip was surprised to hear that you had bargained for clemency….”
Gwen’s eyebrows shot up. “I? …” And then the doorbell once more shrilled through the long room. There was a long moment of hesitation, and then Costello moved toward it.
“You let me go,” Miss Withers ordered. “Stay with Gwen a minute….”
She swung the hall door open, and there stood Oscar Piper, Inspector of Detectives. He brushed swiftly past her.
“You here, Miss Withers? What in blazes for? Anyway, don’t tell me now. Where’s Mrs. Lester?”
He dashed into the drawing-room. “Excuse this haste, ma’m. But you don’t know what’s down in the lobby. There are twenty newspaper reporters, twice as many photographers, and even a sound newsreel truck, preparing for the big event. Even the Commissioner is there, though he tipped me a wink when he saw me slip by, and I know that he isn’t happy at being a party to this dodge of Tom Roche’s.
“Don’t you see? They’re waiting for Tom Roche to drive up in his limousine, and then march up at the head of a lot of the D.A.’s detectives to arrest you, amid a blaze of flashlights, fireworks, speeches, and so forth. Can’t you see the headlines over photos of you being dragged in chains to a police car … ‘TIGER WOMAN NABBED BY VIGILANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY’?”
He paused for a second. “You know what that’ll mean. It’ll build public feeling against you, maybe swing a jury. That publicity may send you to the chair….”
“What do you care?” Gwen Lester wanted to know.
“I don’t,” said the Inspector calmly. “But I don’t like fireworks and speeches. I don’t like statements to the press about how the D.A.’s office steps in and solves a crime over the heads of the regular police force. Therefore, I arrest you, Gwen Lester, for the murder of your husband, Gerald Lester!
“The front lobby is blocked, and I couldn’t take you out that way without being over-ruled by the Commissioner himself or one of his deputies. They’re waiting now for the big shot to get here.”
He came closer. “But if there’s a service elevator that goes to the basement, or any other way for us to sneak out of here, I promise to take you down to Headquarters with no publicity at all, and to give you a square break, which is more than you can count on from the big guys. How about it?”
Gwen looked at Costello, who nodded eagerly. But she shook her head.
“It’s no use, Inspector. I’d go with you. But there’s no dumbwaiter, no rear stair, and the service elevators are operated only in the daytime, and that by one of the regular boys. Besides, they run right into the main lobby, too. There’s only one way out of here, and that’s the regular entrance.”
Piper chewed his cigar savagely, and then threw it across the room in the general direction of the fireplace. “Then we’re stuck, and you’ll have to face the music,” he told Gwen.
Miss Withers took off her hat. “I’ve got an idea,” she offered.
Ten minutes later a nervous Irish lawyer and a woman in green lounging pajamas heard the doorbell ring for the third time that night. Costello waited until the second signal, which was followed by a gruff order to open the door before it was broken in.
He swung it wide, and was immediately seized by two stalwart plain-clothes men. The corridor outside was jammed with people, but a
lane opened—
Then a little man in complete evening dress, from silk hat to patent leather pumps, strolled into the apartment. He was followed by half a dozen more detectives, by two photographers, and by a little group of sheepish reporters.
He stalked into the drawing-room, and struck a pose before the woman who waited in the big easy chair, holding an unsmoked cigarette in her hand.
“Gwen Lester,” announced Tom Roche in ringing tones, “as part of my duty toward the people of the City of New York, I order these officers to arrest you for the willful murder of your husband, Gerald Lester.” He was ready to duck at a sign of trouble.
There were two hollow explosions, followed by blinding, glaring flashes of white light, and the photographers leaped back through the doorway, clutching their precious cameras.
“Put the handcuffs on her, men,” ordered Tom Roche. “And be careful, for she’s dangerous….” He turned to a thin, tallish gentleman who sported a gardenia in his buttonhole, and who now put in a bored appearance in the doorway. “Commissioner, here’s your prisoner! Gwen Lester, the Tiger Woman….”
There was a long pause. Then from the street outside came three long blasts of a taxi siren, and the roar of a motor.
“What are you waiting for?” demanded the District Attorney. “Go on, officers!”
“Wait a minute, chief,” said the foremost plain-clothes man. “That don’t look like the Lester woman to me. It don’t look a bit like the picture in the papers … and it ain’t the woman who was here this afternoon when we searched the place!”
A titter went up from the cohorts of the Fourth Estate. But Tom Roche was raging. He blazed at the woman in the chair. “Are you Gwen Lester? Don’t trifle with the law, my good woman.”
“Trifling with the law is the last thing I’d think of doing,” Miss Withers answered him politely. “No, I’m not Gwen Lester. I never said I was. But she lent me those green lounging pajamas, though I think they’re a little loose around the hips….”
The Penguin Pool Murder (The Hildegarde Withers Mysteries) Page 12
