The Penguin Pool Murder (The Hildegarde Withers Mysteries)

by Stuart Palmer

  Costello lit his black pipe. “Then you won’t be holding that business of bringing in the wire against me?”

  “No, I guess we’ll forget about the wire,” Piper promised him. “Anyway, that is the least important phase of this case.”

  “The most important phase of it,” Barry Costello announced, “is that now I’ve got a sure-fire defense for Gwen Lester, even if you do insist on going ahead and bringing her to trial next week. No jury in the world will convict her in the face of what has happened here in the Tombs yesterday and today.”

  “You’re very probably right,” said Oscar Piper. “But I don’t think Tom Roche will see it that way. He likes the publicity that comes from trying a beautiful woman for murder. And even if he fails to get a conviction on the woman, the public always thinks that the jury was influenced by her looks.”

  “The jury will be,” said Costello. “Anybody would be. Let me tell you, I was and am. And will be, too, for the rest of my life, if the Gods are good to me.”

  Miss Withers looked at her wrist watch. “Gentlemen, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and I had breakfast at seven-thirty. I’m hungry.”

  “Heavens,” said Costello. “I had a lunch appointment for twelve, with Launcelot Billings, Seymour’s lawyer. We’re to discuss handling the cases as one, but now I won’t consent to it. You’ll excuse me?”

  “I certainly will,” said the Inspector. “But don’t bring any more wires and things into the Tombs, if you should feel inclined to visit your client or one of the other material witnesses. If you do we won’t have anybody to try when the case comes up next week.” He turned to Miss Withers. “Wait for me at my office, will you? I’d like to buy you lunch, but I have a little errand to do first. You’ll wait?”

  “Sure I’ll wait,” agreed Miss Withers. She didn’t have to wait long among the knives, sash-weights and guns of Piper’s office. He was with her in ten minutes, and shortly afterward the detective faced the school-teacher across a lunch-room table.

  “You went up to grill Seymour about this business?” she hazarded.

  Piper grinned. “Yes, I went to see Seymour in the cell where they moved him. But not to grill him. He won’t talk anyway, except about Gwen, for whom his heavy passion seems to have curdled. No, I didn’t grill him. I just looked at his hands.”

  “His hands?” Miss Withers attacked her omelet.

  “Yeah, his hands.”

  “And what did you find out of the ordinary about his hands?”

  The Inspector let fall a veritable snowstorm of salt above his steak. “That’s the remarkable part about the whole thing,” he said. “There was nothing out of the ordinary about his hands.”

  20

  Whom the Gods Destroy

  THERE WAS A JURY in the box, and Judge Maxwell Thayer on the bench, and the case of the People of the State of New York versus Philip Seymour and Gwen Lester was beginning to show every sign of dragging itself through until the Ides of March.

  “If it took them two days to pick a jury, only God himself knows how long it will take to pick a murderer,” said Piper to Miss Withers. They sat together on the first row of benches.

  Miss Withers did not answer. Her eyes were glued on the little door on the right of the dais. Finally it opened, and Gwen Lester came through.

  It was the first time Miss Withers had seen the young widow since the memorable evening of the flashlight photos and the green silk pajamas. Gwen was not dressed in green pajamas now. She was wearing black, with a frilly lace collar and a simple cameo pin at her throat. The dress was low, but it gave the air of being accidentally low, and suggested that if the wearer had known of the shadow of breast it revealed she would at once have pulled it around her throat.

  “Smart girl, Gwen Lester,” said the Inspector.

  Behind her came Philip Seymour. He was wearing a dark double-breasted suit, a blue tie, and his hair was combed neatly, which was more than Miss Withers could say for him when she had seen him in the Tombs. At least it was a good thing he had given over the idea of being his own lawyer, and let Launcelot Billings, his partner, handle the case. Miss Withers noticed that the two defendants avoided each other’s eyes. She was sorry for that. She would have liked to see them smile comfortingly across the space between them.

  Suddenly the bustling figure of Tom Roche had arisen, and was giving tongue. He had an air of efficiency, an evident desire to make up for the long bickering that had delayed the picking of the jury. His air of ease suggested that after all this trial was a mere matter of form, and that all that was really necessary would be to send the man and the woman who faced him up the river and through a little green door into Eternity.

  “Please Your Honor and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “we are gathered here for a stern and necessary purpose. At noon on the fourteenth day of last November a particularly bloody and cruel murder was perpetrated in this metropolis of ours. A successful young business man, gentlemen, a former college athlete, was struck down in a dastardly fashion and under particularly unusual circumstances. The body of Gerald Lester, whom his friends and business associates knew as Jerry, was found floating in a tank in the New York Aquarium. He was not drowned, as was first thought. He had not met his death through a good clean blow on the chin, though he was bruised there. Gerald Lester, gentlemen, had been killed by the insertion of a hatpin in his ear, piercing the bone and entering the brain.”

  Tom Roche paused for effect, and then continued. “The State will demonstrate to you, during the course of this trial, that Gerald Lester had come to the Aquarium because some friend had warned him by telephone that his young and beautiful wife was having an assignation there with a former lover. We shall prove in the proper time the purposes of that assignation between the defendants you see before you.

  “The State will prove to you, gentlemen, that Gwen Lester was tired of her husband. The State will bring you evidence to prove that her fancy had turned once more toward her former lover, particularly since the collapse of the Wall Street market that hit her husband in his pocketbook, and Philip Seymour was rapidly becoming a success in his chosen vocation.

  “The State will show you the movements of the young broker on the fatal day. We are prepared to prove how he went to the Aquarium in defense of the honor of his home, armed with a heavy walking stick, which he was forced to leave at the door, and how he accosted his faithless wife and her lover. We shall continue by showing how the man in the case …” Roche let his eyes linger on the impassive face of Philip Seymour for a moment, and then got back into the swing of his discourse … “how the man in the case met the accusations of the wronged husband with physical combat, how he knocked Gerald Lester into unconsciousness, carried his body behind the tanks into a hidden and secret place, and there completed his job, on a homicidal impulse, with a weapon ready to hand.

  “The State will prove, gentlemen, that the wife of the wronged man was a willing accomplice in this murder, if not an actual participant. We shall show that her stockings were stained with the slime of the penguin tank, although her story maintains that she never passed through the door that led to the murder scene. We shall show that she connived in the attack on her husband by her lover, instead of taking her rightful place in defense at her husband’s side. We shall show you, gentlemen, that before and after the fact, if not during the actual crime, she and Philip Seymour were partners in murder. We shall show that this young and undeniably beautiful woman before you, gentlemen, was the actual one to stumble upon and suggest the weapon with which this murder was committed. The crime itself was womanishly planned, gentlemen. I shall not presume upon your patience further. The State is prepared to demonstrate beyond the possibility of a doubt every point that I have outlined to you above.

  “You have received your instructions from His Honor. You know your duty, gentlemen, and I know as I gaze into your eager and intelligent faces that you will not hesitate to bring in a verdict, when you have heard the evidence, in accordance w
ith that duty.”

  Mr. Tom Roche took a glass of water, and turned his profile so that if a newspaper artist were sketching him, the best angle would be shown.

  “First State witness is Miss Hildegarde Withers!”

  “Miss Hildegarde Withers!” The voice of the court crier boomed through the long room, jammed with people.

  For a moment Miss Withers sat in her place as if turned to stone. Then at a nudge from the Inspector, she rose and went forward. Through the gate, past the table where Launcelot Billings, Seymour’s nervous partner, sat beside Barry Costello, and on, on, practically under the nose of Judge Thayer, who sat in his heavy robes of black silk and appeared to doze. She had not thought to be the first.

  The words of the clerk, who popped up so suddenly that Miss Withers almost screamed, came like the jumbled litany of a mass. “YoudosolemnlyswearthatthetestimonyyougivetothecourtandjuryinthiscasenowontrialshallbethetruththewholetruthandnothingbutthetruthsohelpyouGod?”

  Miss Withers gave her solemn oath that this should be so. Then she mounted the stand, made sure that her skirt hung neatly, and leaned back. Down in the front row she could see the Inspector’s face, and a look of understanding passed swiftly between them.

  Tom Roche pushed aside the heap of papers that littered his wide mahogany table, and cleared his throat. His tone was so matter of fact that Miss Withers had to remind herself that this was a murder trial, that two human lives were at stake for the taking of another human life, and that her words might strike the balance between life and death for the boy and girl who watched her.

  “Miss Withers, you are a school-teacher?”

  “I am. Jefferson Public School, Grade Number Three …”

  “Will you tell the court what you were doing during the noon hour on the fourteenth day of last November?”

  “Certainly. I was conducting my class of some twenty pupils through the New York Aquarium, located at the Battery.”

  “And what were you doing at approximately one o’clock on that same afternoon?”

  “I was hunting for my garnet hatpin, which I had lost somehow during the preceding hour. And my pupils were helping me.”

  “You found the hatpin?”

  “I did, or rather one of my pupils did. It was on the lower step of the Aquarium stair that leads to the upper level.”

  Tom Roche nodded approvingly. “Do you recognize this article, Miss Withers?” He took a tissue-wrapped bundle from his brief-case and opened it. Between his fingers he rolled a six-inch length of shining steel, with a dark red stone at the end.

  “I do,” said Miss Withers. “That is my hatpin.”

  “May I ask to have this introduced as evidence?” asked Tom Roche. There was no objection, and the hatpin was marked for identification.

  This was not what Miss Withers had expected of a murder trial. She had visualized it as a battle between the opposing lawyers, a long and bitter contest of objections and clashes. And now everyone simply sat still and fiddled with bits of paper while the prosecuting Attorney built up his case against the two defendants.

  “You will go on and tell us exactly what happened after one of your pupils found the hatpin?” said Tom Roche.

  “I found that one of my pupils, Isidore Marx by name, was missing,” said Miss Withers. “I looked for him, and finally found him underneath the stairs staring into the penguin tank. He was engrossed in watching the peculiar movements of the birds, which were leaping and biting at something over their heads, out of sight. As I watched, I saw something fall into the tank. It was a dead body.”

  “Just a minute, Miss Withers. How did you know it was a dead body?”

  “I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? A dead man looks different from a live man. So I sent one of my pupils for the guard, who was at the door, and another for a policeman.”

  “Who got there first?”

  “First? Some of the bystanders, I guess. I must have screamed a little. The guard came, took one look, and ran for the Director. He came running, bringing the two people who had been in his office …”

  “And who were the two people?” Tom Roche’s voice was oily.

  “You know who they were. The defendants in this case, of course.” Miss Withers was annoyed.

  “Please answer the State’s questions without comment, Miss Withers,” said His Honor dreamily, and went back to his doze.

  “By that time there was a big crowd around the tank,” Miss Withers continued. “The Director forced his way through the crush, and the others followed him. Then Gwen Lester said … “‘Philip, what have we—’” Miss Withers hesitated.

  “Go on, tell the court what the defendant said!” Roche was urgent.

  Barry Costello was on his feet. “I object, Your Honor. That is hearsay evidence, and absolutely inadmissible.” His voice rang through the overheated courtroom, and suddenly everybody was wide awake.

  Tom Roche was also awake. “But Your Honor, I invoke the right of …”

  The gavel pounded sharply on the Judge’s bench. “Objection sustained,” said His Honor. “You may strike that out of the testimony. Go on.”

  “Then the officer came, and took charge. He insisted that the man in the tank might not be dead, and chose one of the bystanders …”

  “Who did he choose?”

  “It was Mr. Costello, the defense lawyer,” said Miss Withers. “He was trying to help Gwen Lester, who had fainted, and the officer saw his flask. I guess he thought liquor might revive the man in the tank …”

  “Never mind the guessing, Miss Withers. Mr. Costello and the officer went behind the tank, and removed the body from the water?”

  “They did. And we all followed after, and watched. They tried artificial respiration without any results, as I could have told them …”

  “Why could you have told them? Did you see any evidences of murder?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. When I first saw the face in the water, through the glass of the tank, I noticed a reddish tinge of dissolving blood around the ear. That must have suggested something more than drowning to me, though I didn’t reason it out then.”

  “You didn’t, of course, connect your hatpin, which had been lost and found, with the dead body? You didn’t suspect that you had furnished the weapon?”

  “Mercy sakes, no!”

  “All right, go on from there. What happened?”

  “That was all that happened. In a few minutes an Inspector of Police arrived and took charge.”

  Tom Roche nodded. “Very good, Miss Withers. I may want to call on you later, but that will be all for now. Will the defense cross-examine?”

  Miss Withers looked anxiously at Launcelot Billings. He was pulling nervously at a little moustache, already losing its waxed smartness. This being a witness was more wearing on the spirit than she had dreamed it would be. Only an occasional glimpse of Piper’s honest and homely face strengthened her.

  Billings whispered briefly with his client, and then shrugged his shoulders. “No questions now,” he said shortly.

  But Barry Costello thought differently. He stood erect, drawing himself up to his full five feet eleven inches, and threw a look of reassuring comfort at Gwen. Then he faced Miss Withers.

  His air was that of a stage manager of some amateur production. It was understood that this was all among friends, that it was only a farce, and that the serious overtones of Mr. Roche were to be dismissed as the natural lines of a stage villain. Barry Costello might have been drawing Miss Withers out at a very charming dinner party in regard to some amusing adventures of her own. His personal charm took in judge, jury, witnesses, defendants … yes, and even the prosecutor.

  “Miss Withers,” began Barry Costello, “I am going to ask you to tell the Court a few more details about the case before us. I am going …”

  But Miss Withers was not listening. She was staring down into the courtroom, into the faces of the people who waited there. She saw the strained face of Bertrand B. Hemingway, nervously nibbling at hi
s fingernails. There was a guilty face if ever a man had one. She remembered little details, countless little details, as Costello’s pleasant booming voice with its faint touch of the brogue rolled on and over her. She remembered how Hemingway had concealed his stock deals with Lester. She remembered the dark interlude behind the tanks, when Hemingway had left her alone with the Inspector to fetch a flashlight, and how somehow dallied searching for it while the Unknown came back to beat down the officer on guard and carry away an incriminating hat.

  She remembered the incident of the operation on the little black penguin named Nox, and the hat-band that Hemingway had so unwillingly allowed her to identify, and that had disappeared in a flash of darkness.

  Other little incidents, oddly assorted, flitted through her mind, contrary to her early ideas on the matter, but pointed now, and sharp. The cigarette butts that had disappeared from the glass tray on Hemingway’s desk, and the cigarette butts that had appeared in the Men’s Room of the Aquarium … had that been a blind, too?

  Beyond Hemingway she could see Marian Templeton, Lester’s secretary, the “office-wife” already picked as fair game by the tabloids. Whatever happened here in this courtroom Marian Templeton’s life was going to be ruined, and every unsavory bit of soiled laundry would have to be hung out to dry. Before this case was over, even if the guilty were punished, Marian Templeton would be a real sufferer. Hemingway could only lose his Directorship and his life’s work. She herself had only lost a month’s pay at Jefferson School. The Inspector had lost his sleep for many a night. Everyone lost, nobody gained. Even the State of New York, even if it succeeded in gaining a conviction, would pay out some thousands of dollars of taxpayers’ money for every day the trial held forth, and more for the execution if that should ever happen.

  A hush brought her back to herself, and Miss Withers realized that she had been asked a question. Costello repeated it sharply.