The Richard Deming Mystery Megapack

by Richard Deming

  “He lost it for me too,” Weygand said dryly. “I was his partner, remember?”

  “I know,” she said on a note of contrition. “You’ve been like the Rock of Gibralter in this, Jules. You could have prosecuted.”

  “I told you he wasn’t planning anything but a drunk.”

  “Oh, my!” she said. “If he’s drunk, he might do anything. I’m coming there.”

  “I thought you probably would,” he said resignedly. “So I checked train and bus schedules. The next train leaves Rochester at six P.M. and gets here at seven-thirty. There isn’t a bus leaving there until eight.”

  “I’ll be on the next train.”

  “What do you expect to accomplish?” he asked. “I didn’t hold off for his sake, Lydia. Only for yours. You know how I feel about you.”

  “I don’t want to hear that as long as I’m married to Jim,” she said with a return of sharpness. “And I certainly can’t leave him now, when he needs me more than he ever has.”

  “That sounds as though you finally plan to, once he’s straightened out,” Weygand said in a pleased voice. “It’s the first real encouragement you’ve given me.”

  “Meet me at the station at seven-thirty,” she said, and hung up.

  * * * *

  Jules Weygand was waiting when Lydia Hartman got off the train at Buffalo. When she saw him standing, tall and lean and handsome, at the top of the inclined ramp leading up from the trains, it occurred to her that a month ago the sight would have made her heart skip a beat. But then he had been a successful businessman; now he was a bankrupt. She might have traded one successful businessman for another, but she had no desire to trade a bankrupt for a bankrupt. At thirty-two a girl had to start being practical.

  He stood smiling down at her as she moved upward toward him, openly admiring the rounded slimness of her body. When she paused before him and he took the small overnight bag from her hand, she tossed her blond head pettishly.

  “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t be so beautiful,” he countered, taking her elbow to steer her toward the main exit.

  His car was parked on the lot only a few yards from the exit. Dropping the overnight bag in back, he held the door for her, then rounded the car to slide under the wheel.

  Without turning on the ignition, he said, “Now that you’re here, what are your plans?”

  “To talk to him. If he won’t come home, I’ll stay here with him.”

  “And watch him drink himself into a stupor? He may stay on this a week.”

  “Then I’ll stay a week.”

  “You’ll lose your job.”

  “I can phone in the morning. Mr. Tremaine is understanding.”

  “But you’ve only been there three weeks, Lydia. Even an understanding boss won’t put up with you taking a week off so soon.”

  “I’m not exactly a new employee,” she said. “I worked for Apex Insurance five years while Jim was getting on his feet.”

  “You’ve been away five years too.”

  “Apparently I haven’t been forgotten, or I wouldn’t have been taken back with a set-up to chief clerk.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That hasn’t helped Jim psychologically either, you moving back to your old employer with a promotion at the moment he’s bungled himself out of business entirely.”

  “Bungled?”

  “If embezzlement to play the ponies isn’t bungling, I don’t know what is. Why don’t you leave him to stew in his own juice, Lydia? A month ago you were considering it.”

  “A month ago he wasn’t down. I can’t leave him now.”

  “Your damned loyalty,” he said irritably. “He’ll never get back on his feet, even if you stick with him. He’s washed up.”

  “So I should leave him for you?” she asked sarcastically. “You’re as bankrupt as he is.”

  “But not through my own fault. I’ll spring back again, eventually. Jim won’t. Even if you managed to help him back on his feet again, he’d fritter it away a second time. He’s weak, Lydia.”

  “Perhaps. But he’s my husband. And at the moment you’re no better prospect than he is. I don’t think you realize what a practical person I am, Jules. Even if I weren’t married to Jim, I wouldn’t have you at this point.”

  He gave her a surprised look. “Are you serious?”

  “Completely,” she assured him. “Maybe ten years ago I’d take the chance. As a matter of fact, I did with Jim. With youth, you don’t mind helping a man struggle ahead. But I’ve gone through that once. Now I’m thirty-two and you’re nearly forty. I’m not interested in any more financial struggles that can be avoided. I’m stuck with Jim, but I’m not about to jump from the frying pan into the fire. My next husband, if there is one, is going to be firmly established before we say the vows.”

  “You don’t make sense,” he growled. “You’ll have a lot more financial struggle with Jim than you would with me.”

  “We happen to be already married. And I’m just as loyal as I am practical. Shall we go where he’s staying?”

  Wordlessly he started the engine and drove off the lot.

  The Redmill Hotel was on lower Pearl Street, hardly the best section of town. However, Jules Weygand assured Lydia, it was a perfectly respectable second-class hotel. She left her overnight bag in the car when they went inside.

  The building was ancient and both the furniture and carpet in the lobby were well worn, but it seemed a clean enough place. Two old men sat in the lobby reading newspapers and a middle-aged man with a bald head was behind the desk.

  Going over to the desk, Weygand said to the bald man. “He still in his room swilling the booze?’ The man merely nodded. Weygand led Lydia on toward the elevator.

  “I slipped him a ten to keep track of Jim’s activities for me,” he said in explanation. “That’s how I knew about the bourbon he had delivered.”

  “I’ll repay all your expenses,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly. What’s a few more bucks when you’re fifty thousand in the hole? I have enough ready cash.”

  They stepped on the elevator and Weygand said, “Seventh.”

  When they got off at seven, Weygand led the way down the hall and around a corner to a door numbered 714.

  “Well, here you are,” he said.

  Over the door there was a transom with its glass painted white. It was open about four inches at the top, enough to show that a light burned in the room. Lydia gave the door a timid knock.

  When there was no response, she rapped harder. After several moments of waiting, Weygand stepped forward and pounded several times.

  A door across the hall opened and an elderly man peered out, then closed the door again.

  Lydia said, “He must be asleep.”

  “More likely passed out drunk,” Weygand growled. “I’ll go down and have Baldy bring up a pass key.”

  Lydia waited in front of the door while Weygand went down stairs. In a few minutes he reappeared with the clerk.

  “This is Mr. Simms, Lydia,” Weygand said. “I’ve explained that you’re Jim’s wife. Mrs. Hartman, Mr. Simms.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the desk man said a little dubiously. “There isn’t going to be any trouble here, is there?”

  Lydia said, “I’m just concerned about my husband, Mr. Simms. We haven’t been having any marital discord, if that’s what you mean. I assure you he’ll be glad to see me if you let us in.”

  “Well, I guess it’ll be all right,” Simms said reluctantly.

  He fitted a pass key in the door, turned it and pushed on the knob. Nothing happened.

  “He’s got it bolted!” Simms said. He pounded on the door until several doors along the hall opened and tenants peered out.

  “Just a sound sleeper, folks,” Simms announced generally.
“Excuse the noise.”

  The tenants withdrew and their doors closed. The three in front of 714 listened for some sound within the room, but there was none. Lydia said worriedly, “He usually snores, particularly when he’s been drinking.”

  This made Simms look worried. He tried the pass key again, with no more result than before.

  “Is there a fire escape?” Lydia asked.

  Shaking his head, Simms pointed to a fire-exit sign up the hall. “Just fire stairs in each hallway. Maybe we can see something through the transom. I’ll get a ladder.”

  He went away and was gone some ten minutes before he returned carrying a six-foot stepladder and a small, stubby screwdriver.

  As he set the stepladder before the door, he said, “I know I won’t be able to reach the release, because it’s too far down. But I may be able to unscrew the sideplate and get the transom open that way.”

  Climbing the ladder, he attempted to peer into the room through the V-shaped crack left by the partially open transom.

  “Can’t see anything but a piece of the ceiling,” he announced.

  Holding the screwdriver, he thrust his right hand through the very top of the aperture and groped around for a moment. Then he withdrew it and climbed down the ladder.

  “The metal plate holding the rod that opens and closes the transom is on the right edge about halfway down,” he said. “My wrist’s too thick to get my hand down thru far. You want to try it, lady?”

  “All right,” Lydia said in a steady voice.

  Taking the screwdriver, she climbed the ladder. Holding the screwdriver in her left hand, she inserted her right in the crack and felt for the metal plate. As Simms had said, it was attached to the edge of the transom about halfway down. Her hand and wrist were small enough to reach it easily. She couldn’t see it, but with her fingers she could feel that it was held by two screws.

  Withdrawing her hand, she transferred the screwdriver to it and pushed it through the aperture again. Even though she couldn’t see what she was doing, the screwdriver was short enough so that with its butt end nested in her palm, she could still touch the screws with her fingertips. Guiding the blade into the slot of the lower screwhead, she unscrewed it, pulled her hand back out and handed the screw down to Simms.

  “Better hold the top of the transom with your other hand when you unscrew the second one,” Simms cautioned. “Otherwise it’ll bang down against the door and maybe break the glass.”

  Lydia put her hand through the crack again, located the upper screw by feel and seated the blade of the screwdriver. Before unscrewing it, she grasped the top of the transom with her left hand. When the screw came all the way out, the transom was suddenly released from its rigid position. Handing down both the screw and the screwdriver, Lydia cautiously let the transom move forward and swing down, climbing higher as she did and thrusting her arm further into the room until the transom finally hung vertically downward against the door below it.

  Only then did she peer through the oblong frame at the motionless figure lying on the bed. She stared at it silently for a long time.

  “Is he all right?” Weygand asked.

  The question roused Lydia to action. Kicking off her shoes and letting them fall to the floor, she climbed clear to the top of the ladder, steadied herself by grasping the upper part of the transom frame with both hands and slid her legs inside.

  As she lowered herself to a seated position, Weygand said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Going in to open the door,” she said calmly.

  Reversing herself to roll over on her stomach and transfer her grip to the bottom sill, she slid backwards into the room and dropped to the floor. Quickly she crossed to the bed and bent over the still figure there.

  Outside in the hall, Jules Weygand tired of waiting for the door to open and climbed the ladder to peer in. His face appeared just as she turned away from the bed and began to move woodenly towards the door.

  “What is it?” he asked worriedly when he saw her numb expression. He couldn’t clearly see the figure on the bed because her body partially blocked the view.

  Without answer she went to the door, drew back the bolt and pulled the door open. Weygand came down off the ladder, set it to one side and followed the bald-headed Simms into the room. Lydia quietly stepped out into the hall and put her shoes back on. Then she leaned against the door jamb and closed her eyes.

  Inside the room the two men stared down at the figure on the bed. It was that of a man, about thirty-five, good-looking in a weak sort of way, but beginning to go to fat. He wore nothing but socks and trousers, his shoes lying in one corner and the rest of his clothing wadded on top of a chair. An empty pint bottle lay next to him on the bed and another lay on the floor beside the bed. His hands were crossed on his stomach just below a thin, horizontal slit of a wound on the left side of his chest, as though he had been reaching for the wound when he died, and hadn’t quite had the strength to raise his hands that high.

  Simms tentatively touched the dead man’s cheek, then hurriedly withdrew his hand. “Cold,” he said, “Must have been dead for a while.”

  “And I told her drunks never commit suicide,” Jules Weygand said softly.

  Simms gave him a sharp look. “Suicide? Where’s the knife?”

  Lydia’s eyes popped open. Weygand’s expression turned startled. After glancing about the room, he fell on hands and knees to peer under the bed. When he rose, he stared at the desk clerk strangely.

  “The door was bolted from inside,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Simms said slowly. He glanced at the window, which was unscreened and wide open from the bottom.

  “It’s the seventh floor,” Weygand reminded him. “And you said there’s no fire escape.”

  He walked over to look out, then turned and stared at the closed bathroom door from narrowed eyes. Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. The desk clerk gulped.

  “You think the killer is still in there?” Simms whispered.

  Without answering, Weygand returned to the bed, stopped and picked up the empty bottle lying next to it. Holding it by the neck he quietly approached the bathroom door and suddenly flung it open. He stepped in with the bottle raised high as a club.

  Lowering it again, he came out, his expression puzzled. Simms’s gaze strayed to the door of the closet.

  Striding over to it, Weygand jerked it open, the bottle again held high. The closet was empty.

  With a snort of disgust Weygand set the bottle atop the dresser. Returning to the open window, he peered out a second time.

  “There’s a ledge about a foot wide just below the window,” he announced. “Who has the rooms on either side of this one?”

  “I’d have to check the register,” Simms said faintly. “We’d better get out of here and let the police handle this.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Weygand said. He moved toward the door. Lydia stepped back out of the way, swaying on her feet. Grasping her arm to steady her, Weygand gave her a sympathetic smile.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said in a low voice.

  Setting the spring lock, Simms pulled the door closed behind him and led the way to the elevator. Weygand steered Lydia after the desk clerk, still holding her arm. She moved stiffly, leaning against him for support.

  Downstairs the two old men still sat in the lobby. Simms moved behind the desk and lifted the phone. Weygand led Lydia over to a sofa.

  “I’ll be all right now,” she said, pulling her arm from his grip. “I don’t want to sit down.”

  He gazed down at her speculatively. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not the fainting type,” she said straightening her shoulders. “I don’t suppose we’ll be able to go back to Rochester tonight, will we?”

  “I hardly think so. The police will want to talk to us. And of course you’ll have to arra
nge for a local funeral director to ship Jim home.”

  “Are you registered here?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not registered anywhere. For all I knew, you meant to have me load Jim in my car and drive back to Rochester tonight. I didn’t even bring a toothbrush.”

  “We may as well stay here, don’t you think?”

  “The place seems clean enough,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll see if I can get us a couple of rooms.” He walked over to the desk just as Simms hung up the phone.

  “They’ll be right over,” the desk clerk said. “You and Mrs. Hartman better stick around.”

  “We plan to,” Weygand said. “Do you have a couple of rooms on the same floor, or perhaps adjoining?”

  As Simms was checking his room chart, Lydia quietly walked to the door and outside. When Weygand finished registering, he turned to find her standing behind him with her overnight bag in her hand.

  “You should have let me get that,” he said, taking it from her.

  “It isn’t heavy,” she said. “Did you get rooms?”

  “Two right across the hall from each other on five. We may as well wait here until the police arrive, though. Mr. Simms says they’ll be right along.”

  Lydia walked over to seat herself on the couch she had previously refused. Setting the bag next to the desk, Weygand went over to sit beside her.

  A homicide team arrived five minutes later. It consisted of a burly middle-aged man who introduced himself as Sergeant Charles Carter and a lean, younger man named Harry Nicholson. Carter had a puffy, red-veined face and heavy-lidded eyes which gave a first impression of stupidity until you noted the shrewd glint in the eyes behind the drooping lids.

  The first thing he asked was if Simms had phoned for a doctor.

  “Yes, sir,” the desk clerk said. “Before I called you. We have an arrangement with a man just up the street to be on call. He should be here any minute.”

  “Then let’s take a look at the body,” Carter said. “Harry, you stay here with these folks and send the doc up when he comes.”

  The sergeant and Simms moved off toward the elevator.