The Penguin Pool Murder (The Hildegarde Withers Mysteries)

by Stuart Palmer

  “Because the pickpocket is hanging in the middle of his cell at the end of a wire, stone cold,” announced the school-teacher.

  Inspector Piper stroked his chin thoughtfully. “We have bad luck with our confessions in this case, don’t we?” He led the way swiftly up the steps.

  17

  The Happy Dispatch

  “YES, IT WAS ME that found him,” declared Schmaltz, the turnkey of the Tombs. “I was the only guard on duty in that wing this morning. I got through my regular chores and started down to my usual post at the end of the corridor, figuring to read the paper and rest a bit. Then I saw him, hanging there like a Christmas turkey.”

  “You hadn’t heard anything, anything at all?” The Inspector fumbled for a cigar.

  “Look here,” burst in Warden Hyde, “what’s the use of questioning this man now? Why aren’t you going to the cell, where the prisoner killed himself?”

  “Shut up,” said Piper. “You may be number one around the Tombs, but the death of a material witness in my business, see? And I do it the way I like, and if you don’t see why, you can go tell Tom Roche.” He whirled on the worried turnkey, who stood twisting his fingers. Miss Withers and Costello stood a little out of the center of things, waiting and watching.

  “Go on, tell me everything that happened this morning, in your own words,” ordered the Inspector. “Start at the beginning …”

  “I hadn’t heard anything, no, sir. Not since I’d let Mr. Costello out of the cell-block.”

  “Go on, tell us about Mr. Costello’s visit. Rather early, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, it was. I didn’t have my morning chores finished. But you and the Warden told me it was all right for him to come in, and I passed him through. He said he had to see the pickpocket, McGirr, and I led him to the cell and unlocked it for him. He said he wanted to try to make the man come clean, so I locked him in and went on with my work in the other part of the building.”

  “Mr. Costello didn’t stop anywhere else, at Seymour’s cell, for instance?”

  “He did not. When we passed Seymour’s cell he was asleep, or seemed to be so. Anyway he was lying down, sir. So was the pickpocket, for that matter, though he looked up when I let Mr. Costello in to see him.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I heard Mr. Costello call out, and I came back to let him out of the cell, as his twenty minutes was up.”

  “Notice anything then? Was the prisoner any different?”

  The man was thoughtful. “I wouldn’t say he was different. He was laying in his bunk, sort of sobbing. I let Mr. Costello out and locked the door. The prisoner looked down and out. Mr. Costello said he’s stay outside the cell awhile, if it was all right, to try and cheer the fellow up. I could see McGirr in the dark cell, hunching his shoulders like he was weeping, and the bunk creaked. I said I guessed it was all right, and went back to my work of giving breakfast to the prisoners in the other ward.”

  “That was the last you saw of Mr. Costello?”

  “Until he came to the cell-block door to be let out, yes sir. He told me to sort of keep an eye on the pickpocket, sir, because he was afraid the man might try to destroy himself. I said more likely it would be Mr. Seymour that would destroy hisself, sir. Because Mr. Seymour, since he quit asking for news about Mrs. Lester, hasn’t hardly showed any signs of life at all.”

  “All right, go on. You went back to block of cells called Murderer’s Row, where Seymour and the pickpocket were confined?”

  “Not right away, sir. Maybe half an hour. You see, I hadn’t finished my sweeping. When I finally got done, I took my morning News and went down to my usual chair at the end of the corridor. It’s where I’m on duty except in the early morning and at mealtimes. And when I walked past the pickpocket’s cell, I noticed that something was wrong. I stopped …”

  “Tell us what you saw.” Piper was eager.

  “I saw what looked like a man walking on air. Because the place hasn’t got much of a window, and the wire didn’t show. All I could see was the pickpocket there in mid-air, with a chair kicked out from under him where he’d dropped off from, I figure.”

  “The door of the cell … was it locked?” put in Miss Withers?

  “It was that, ma’m. I had to fumble through my keys before I found the right one. And I swung the door open, and then I saw what had happened. I cut him down, but there wasn’t the bit of a breath of life in him at all. And I called the Warden.”

  Piper nodded. “I suppose you might as well show us around, Schmaltz. Miss Withers, would you like to have a look-see? Better not, a man hanged isn’t the nicest sight.”

  “I guess I can stand it,” Miss Withers told him. “Come on, young man.” But Costello hung back.

  “Do you mind?” he asked. “You know where to reach me if you need me. I don’t like to go in there and see him, now. It’s only a couple of hours since I forced him and bullied him into confessing the crime that made his life forfeit, and I feel a bit guilty of it, you see. Unless there’s something you need me for …”

  “Nothing at all,” said Piper. “See you later. This may mean something to your client, and it may not. We can’t tell yet.” And he led the way toward the massive iron doors of the cell-block, followed by Schmaltz, the Warden, and Miss Withers.

  Murderer’s Row was a dank and gloomy place, with a concrete floor that never seemed completely dry, and a light that even now, at mid-day, was pale and feeble.

  They passed the cell where Philip Seymour sat, brooding in his bunk. He did not look up as they passed, nor did he seem to wonder why all this excitement was going on. There were no other occupied cells in that block, except the one where, around the corner and at the far end of the passage, a little frightened man had gained the freedom denied him so long.

  Piper paused at the door of the cell, and peered into the obscurity. He had no eyes for the blanket-covered bundle on the bunk, at least, not as yet.

  “And that’s the wire he used,” pointed out Schmaltz. From a roughly caught knot on the iron grill-work of the door, a tough braided wire of copper ran up, over a steam-pipe that curved from above the door to the center of the ceiling, and then down to dangle in a loose end a little above the height of a man.

  “That’s where I cut it,” said Schmaltz. “The noose is still around his neck.”

  Piper nodded. Miss Withers noticed the rough chair, which lay on its side in a corner. She shivered a little at the thought of those trembling but resolute feet that had had the courage to kick it aside and then tread air …

  Piper moved to the bunk and threw back the blanket. He had seen men hung before, suicides and executed prisoners, and he had learned not to show his feelings. But at the sight of the pickpocket’s face he almost drew back with an exclamation.

  Whatever had impelled Chicago Lew to take his own life, his thoughts at the last moment had not been pleasant, for his face was contorted most evilly. Piper touched the noose gingerly. It had cut deeply into the flesh of the man’s throat.

  He drew back the blanket, and Miss Withers breathed more easily. “Notify the Coroner’s office and get the medical examiner here,” said the Inspector. “Tell Doc Bloom that I want particularly an autopsy on this man’s throat and vocal cords.”

  Miss Withers looked up swiftly. “Then you think, too, that he wasn’t dumb at all?”

  “How do I know? That’s what we’ll find out,” said Piper. “And there’s another thing that we’ve got to find out,” he announced accusingly, glaring meanwhile at the Warden. “How did this wire get into the cell?”

  “How should I know?” asked Hyde.

  “You’d better know. You’re responsible for the safety of this prisoner. Did that wire come from inside the Prison?”

  The Warden shook his head. “We don’t use that type here, even for wiring.”

  “Then it came from outside. Somebody smuggled it in to the prisoner. You’re supposed to search all visitors, aren’t you?”

  “We ar
e, and we do. Now Inspector, I won’t have this …”

  “Shut up,” said Piper again. “Schmaltz, have you searched every visitor to this place lately, without exception?”

  Schmaltz insisted that he had.

  “Why was it you forgot to search Mr. Costello this morning? Were you in a hurry?” This was a shot in the dark, and it got nowhere.

  “But I did search Mr. Costello.”

  “Certainly. Do you mind showing me, Schmaltz, just how you search a person who is coming in here? Suppose I were the person …”

  Schmaltz moved ponderously over to the Inspector and moved his hands swiftly over the larger man’s lapels, down to his coat and vest pockets, snatching at a bulky army revolver and a pair of steel handcuffs as they passed.

  Schmaltz patted the hip and trouser pockets, and stood back. “You could go in now. That search always shows up weapons, or saws either.”

  “Sure, it would,” said the Inspector, as he pocketed the implements of his trade again. “But suppose a man wound fifteen feet of wire around his trouser leg, or around his waist under his belt, he could get it in, couldn’t he?”

  Schmaltz was forced to admit that possibly a man could. “We aren’t on the lookout for fountain pens or matches or bits of wire,” said the Warden testily. “All we search for are things that might be made into weapons of attack or escape. We hadn’t thought of wire.”

  “Well, you’d better think of wire, and think of it plenty,” said the Inspector. “Prisoners aren’t supposed to get the means of dispatching themselves from this earthly plane. It’s due to somebody’s stupidity or negligence that this man is dead. Somebody smuggled in to him the means of escaping the consequences of his crime.”

  “Good heavens, man,” interrupted Miss Withers, “you don’t really think that the pickpocket killed Gerald Lester, do you?”

  Inspector Piper hesitated. “Well, why not? Why else would a man leave a note of confession, hinting at suicide, and then take his own life. Unless he was crazy …”

  “Exactly,” said Miss Withers. “Has it occurred to you that the only explanation of the way this pickpocket acted all the way through was that he was a little touched, maybe from the crack he got when he tripped over my umbrella?”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Piper. “But meanwhile, what do you think I ought to do? If you were me, would you advise the D.A. to hold Gwen Lester for trial? The grand jury found against her the other day.”

  They were leaving the death cell. “Since you’re asking me,” Miss Withers announced, “I’ll tell you what I’d do.”

  “You’d free them both, Seymour and the girl …”

  “I would have, but not now. If I had the authority, I’d put Gwen Lester and Philip Seymour under so many bars and locks that not even dynamite could get to them. Until the trial, I mean. That’s what I’d do.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Piper. They were in the corridor outside Philip Seymour’s cell. “I’d better ask a few questions here, too.”

  Warden Hyde unlocked the door, and Piper entered. Miss Withers and the others waited outside.

  “Can’t you even leave me alone in here?” Seymour wanted to know.

  “I’m afraid not,” Piper admitted. “I just wanted to find out what you know about the events of this morning, Seymour. You were the nearest one to the scene, you know.”

  Seymour showed no interest. “I don’t know anything about any events,” he said.

  “Not even about the pickpocket’s suicide?”

  “So the little man cast off his mortal coil, did he? No, I don’t know anything about it. I was trying to sleep this morning.”

  “You didn’t hear anything? The drumming of a man’s feet on the cement, for instance?”

  Seymour shook his head. “I tell you, I heard nothing,” he insisted. “And I don’t want to be bothered, do you hear? Don’t come here again until you come to let me out, Inspector.”

  “That might just possibly be a long wait,” Piper reminded him. “Can I take any message from you to Mrs. Lester up in the women’s ward?”

  For the first time Philip Seymour showed some interest. “You can tell her for me,” he said slowly, “that her name should have been Cressida.” And he turned his back to the Inspector, who left the cell shaking his head.

  “I don’t remember my Latin so well,” he admitted to Miss Withers. “Who in the devil was Cressida?”

  “She wasn’t Latin, she was Greek,” Miss Withers informed him. “I don’t know quite how to say it, but she was a Trojan girl whom Homer painted as a prime extra-fancy variety of prehistoric slut. But you’re not going to tell poor Gwen that, are you?”

  “Maybe I am,” said Piper. “Maybe she is.”

  18

  The Plots Thicken

  MISS WITHERS WAS NOT due at Jefferson School that afternoon. Her participation in the Lester murder case, both as sleuth and as witness, had made a leave-of-absence necessary, and a paid substitute was in charge of Grade Number Three. All the same, Miss Withers appeared before her class that afternoon, just as the pupils were beginning to fidget in their seats with an eye on the clock.

  She was greeted with hearty cheers. Her activities on the memorable afternoon in the Aquarium had completely captured the blood-thirsty little savages of Grade Number Three. And when she had explained what she wanted of them now they volunteered in a body, from Isidore Marx to Abraham Lincoln Washington, from Becky Arons to Nola McGann.

  Fifteen minutes later a little army swarmed towards street cars and subways, each childish fist gripped around a quarter for carfare and incidental sodas, and a precious half-inch of copper wire.

  The children of Grade Three at Jefferson were playing detective in deadly earnest. Miss Withers watched them go with pride in her heart.

  Then she took the subway north to her own apartment. Before she had taken off her hat the telephone rang.

  It was the Inspector. “I thought you might like to know,” he began. “Just got a report from Doc Bloom on the autopsy. He’s had an expert in nose and throat diseases to consult with him, too, and they both agree that Chicago Lew McGirr had as good a set of vocal cords as any of us. There was nothing structurally wrong with his speech mechanism at all!”

  “Now what do you know about that? Do you think the pickpocket was malingering?”

  “Either that or he was nuts,” said Piper unfeelingly. “And another thing that’s worrying me is what to do about this confession from the dip. The D.A. says that with that in existence, there isn’t a chance of pinning the rap on Gwen Lester. It would be all right if only Costello hadn’t seen it, but now he can insist on its being introduced as evidence, and no jury will bring in a conviction against her with that hanging fire. Even if it can’t be proved absolutely that he wrote it, although both sides will dig up handwriting experts, I suppose.”

  “Where do I come in on all this?” Miss Withers wanted to know.

  Piper hesitated. “I don’t know. But you’ve been acting all along as if you had some ideas or suspicions that you weren’t talking about. Tell me frankly, have you got anything that will tend to clear Gwen Lester? Because if you have, I’ll be forced to release her when Costello comes down tomorrow morning to make his plea.”

  “Costello is coming to your office in the morning?”

  “He is. He just called up, and said he knew I’d be wanting to question him on the pickpocket affair, and when did I want to see him. An obliging chap, Costello. And smart, too. He’s going to free Gwen Lester, whether she did the murder or not.”

  “Maybe,” said Miss Withers. “Anyway, I’d like to drop in at that little conference tomorrow morning, if you don’t mind. And I’ll bring a friend, if I’m lucky.”

  Then she hung up without further explanation. All the same, she was pleased that the Inspector had called on her for help. Before she was through with this business she would show that man that a woman could play sleuth just as well as a member of the so-called stronger sex.

 
; Miss Withers was sitting in Inspector Piper’s office the next morning, with a smile on her face reminiscent of the cat that ate the canary.

  “But I don’t see …” the Inspector was saying.

  “You let me handle this,” Miss Withers insisted. “Here he comes now!”

  Lieutenant Keller opened the door and ushered in Barry Costello.

  “Good morning, Miss Withers! And the top of the morning to you, Inspector.” He took in the Inspector’s new suit, a roughish tweed shot with blobs of red and orange brown, donned in honor of the unseasonably sunny December day. “Well, you certainly are a Pied Piper today, Inspector … Ha, ha …”

  Miss Withers cocked her head thoughtfully on one side. She detested puns, and people who made them.

  Costello seated himself, and leaned back against a case of gruesome exhibits. “What I wanted to see you about, Inspector, is this …”

  “Wait a moment, please,” cut in Miss Withers. “Mr. Costello, do you happen to know how the pickpocket met his death yesterday morning?”

  “He was hanging at the end of some wire, wasn’t he?”

  “Right. It was thick, strong, braided copper wire. There isn’t much of it used, and right away I figured that it could be traced. Naturally it didn’t grow there in the Tombs.”

  “Naturally, Madam.”

  Miss Withers raised her voice. “Becky! Come in now.”

  The door opened, and in from the anteroom came a small, freckle-faced girl towing a tallish, near-sighted man in a well-worn serge suit.

  “This is Becky, one of my best pupils,” Miss Withers announced. “I sent out my entire class yesterday afternoon to do a little errand for me, and Becky was the lucky girl to make good.”

  Miss Withers was watching Costello’s face, but he gave no sign of perturbation. “I gave each of my children a little piece of that copper wire, bits of a length that I cut off the roll when it lay on the Warden’s table, with his shears. I assigned them each a certain section of the city, and between three and six o’clock last night they covered every hardware store in Manhattan. And Becky has brought this gentleman down here because he remembers selling a length of this braided wire a day or two ago, in his hardware and paint store on Third Avenue!”