by Rex Stout
“And now I suppose you’re ready for my report,” observed Mr. Leg with an amused smile when Dan had finished.
“If you please, sir.”
“Well, to begin with, I had a hard time to find out anything.” The lawyer took a sheet of paper covered with writing from his pocket. “First I went to the office of Police Commissioner Hammel, who is a personal friend of mine, to get his authority, but he was out of town and wasn’t expected back until this afternoon.
“I was afraid you’d call me down if I put it off, so I went to Inspector Brown, and he referred me to another inspector, Lobert, who is in charge of the case. Naturally, I suppose, they regard it as their business to convict Mount, but Lobert certainly didn’t want to tell me anything. I got most of my information from a record of the testimony at the coroner’s inquest and before the Grand Jury, of which I secured a copy.
“The police arrived at the scene of the murder at twenty-five minutes to twelve. Their story of what happened after they got there is the same as Mount’s. They say that the body of the victim was still quite warm; it wasn’t examined by a doctor until the next morning at nine o’clock, and then all he could say was that she had died between eight o’clock and midnight.
“They took nothing from the flat except the knife, and nothing from Mount’s person of any significance. The knife was an ordinary steel paper knife with an ivory hilt, presumably the property of Mrs. Mount, or Alice Reeves, under which name the murdered woman was living there. The police didn’t examine the hilt for fingerprints, as it was found in Mount’s hand. Besides the wound in the breast, the body showed no marks of violence. Neither Mount nor his wife has any criminal record.”
The lawyer handed the sheet of paper to Dan as he finished.
“So,” observed the youth, “the knife doesn’t tell us anything. I was hoping—”
“Well?” the other prodded him as he stopped.
“Nothing, sir. That is, nothing that is worth telling. But that doesn’t matter; we’ve only begun. Of course, we can’t expect any real help from the police; all they want is to convict somebody. Are you going to see Mount this morning, sir?”
“I suppose so.” Mr. Leg frowned. “The Tombs is an extremely unpleasant place to visit, Dan. Extremely. But, of course, if it’s necessary—”
Mr. Leg suddenly smiled, arose to his feet, drew himself up, and performed a clumsy imitation of a military salute.
“At your orders, Captain Culp.”
When, a little later, the lawyer departed on his way to the Tombs, Dan remained behind to go over the testimony at the inquest. But he found nothing in it of importance except what Mr. Leg had already told him, and, having finished it, he left the office in care of Miss Venner and descended to the street.
A Broadway streetcar took him to a certain address near Union Square which he had got the day before from Mr. Yoakum. He entered a door marked in gilt lettering, “Levis & Levis, Real Estate,” and, after explaining his errand to a clerk, was admitted to the private room of a junior member of the firm.
“Yes,” replied the agent, in answer to his question; “we had a man named Cummings working for us. Patrick Cummings. Yes, he was janitor of the house where the murder took place. But we don’t know where he is now.”
“Isn’t he with you any longer?”
“No. It was mighty curious. He disappeared suddenly, and the funny part of it is we still owe him fifteen dollars wages, which makes it really mysterious. All we know is that when one of our men went up there Sunday, on account of the murder, Cummings was nowhere to be found, although the tenants said he had been there Saturday evening. We haven’t heard anything of him.”
“I should think,” observed Dan, “that you might have suspected his disappearance was connected with the murder.”
The real estate agent smiled condescendingly. “You’re a great little thinker, my lad. We did suspect it, and we communicated the fact to the police. I myself told Inspector Lobert about it. He said he’d let me know if they found him, but I haven’t heard.”
“Would you mind describing him to me, sir?”
“He was a little gray-haired man, about fifty, I should say, with light-colored eyes—I don’t know if they were blue or gray—and a scraggly mustache. He was about five feet seven and weighed about one hundred and thirty-five pounds.”
“Had he been working for you long?”
“About three years.”
“Thank you, sir. One other thing; I’d like to get permission to go through Mrs. Mount’s furniture and things—Miss Reeves, you know. The janitor says it is in storage. A letter from you, sir—”
“Nothing doing,” returned the agent. “It’s under the jurisdiction of the probate court, and I couldn’t give you permission if I wanted to. You’ll have to get a court order.”
So Dan went back down to Chambers Street, where, after interminable delays and examinations of his credentials from Mr. Leg, he obtained the sought-for permission. Then he had to wait another hour until a court officer was ready to accompany him to the storage warehouse; and in the end he had all his trouble for nothing. Among the hundreds of papers and books and other articles which he examined till late in the afternoon, he found absolutely nothing of significance.
“It’s mighty curious,” he muttered disgustedly, “that I shouldn’t find one letter, or one book with his writing in it, or anything.”
It was after four o’clock when he handed the court officer a two-dollar bill out of Mr. Leg’s diminishing hundred and left him to go farther uptown. His destination was the house on One Hundred and Fifty-seventh Street, and when he arrived there he once more made a round of the tenants, from the top floor to the bottom.
To each of them he showed the photograph which he had torn out of the book in his employer’s office, but no one remembered ever having seen the man; and when he asked the pale young woman on the second floor if the photograph resembled the man of whom she had spoken as a frequent caller at Miss Reeves’s apartment, she replied that she really couldn’t say, as she had never had a good look at him.
But most of Dan’s questions on this occasion concerned Patrick Cummings, the missing janitor. He learned little from the tenants; and then, realizing his mistake, he left the house and sought the basement next door.
The janitor here was a broken-down Scotchman with watery eyes. Yes, he replied, he had known Paddy Cummings well: and, urged on by another appropriation from Mr. Leg’s hundred, he furnished a great deal of miscellaneous information concerning the character and habits of his missing confrère.
He said he had been a happy-go-lucky individual, much given, however, to unexpected fits of sullenness.
He had been unmarried, with no apparent relatives or friends whatever. Despite the fact that there was always money in his pocket, he had invariably cheated at pinochle. He had possessed the tastes of a gentleman, preferring whisky to beer. During the past year, however, he had contracted a disgusting fondness for motion pictures, having attended at least three times a week at the nickelodeon around the corner.
The Scotchman knew nothing of where he had gone; he missed him unspeakably, all the more on account of the insufferable Yoakum, who had taken his place.
Dan went back next door to see the insufferable Yoakum, from whom he learned that the former janitor had evidently departed unexpectedly and in a great hurry, as he had left his household goods behind him. Yoakum had found cooking utensils, a bed, two tables, some chairs, et cetera, in their places in the basement when he arrived; presumably they were the property of Cummings. Dan went through the place half a dozen times, but found nothing that gave any trace of the missing man’s reasons for departure.
By the time he emerged again into the street the day was gone; a clock in a window at the Broadway corner said ten minutes past six. He entered and sought a telephone booth to call up the office, thinking it barely possible that Mr. Leg would be awaiting his return, but he got no answer.
He went home to sleep
over the developments of the day.
At the office the next morning Mr. Leg submitted his report of the previous day’s activities immediately upon his arrival. He had written down the answers to Dan’s questions in their order:
Mount hasn’t got the letter his wife left when she ran away. It was destroyed two years ago.
He was employed as bookkeeper at the office of Rafter & Co., coal dealers, foot of One Hundred and Twelfth Street, for the four months previous to the murder.
He was inside the drugstore only a few minutes. The rest of the time he waited outside on the corner. He bought a paper from the man at the newsstand and talked with him a little. He says this man might remember him.
He drank a great deal for the two years following his wife’s disappearance, but not since then. He swears he didn’t touch a drop that night.
He appears solid and calm, with a lifeless indifference that is extraordinary, except when speaking of his wife, when he nearly breaks down with grief.
“There,” said Mr. Leg, “that’s what you wanted to know. I went to Rafter & Co., and they corroborated Mount, saying that he had worked for them a little over four months, and that he had been very satisfactory. He never drank any as far as they knew.”
“I’m glad to hear that, sir,” replied Dan. “That settles it as far as Mount’s concerned. He’s out of it, anyway; only I thought he might have done it in a fit of drunkenness. You see, sir, he couldn’t have had any possible reason to kill his wife. The police supposition is that he found that she had been receiving another man in that flat, and killed her for revenge and jealousy.
“But, according to his story, he had agreed to take her back only the night before, knowing that in all probability she had done wrong. The reason I believe him is because of what he said about the money. He was even willing to make use of the money she was going to bring with her. No man would make up a thing like that about himself, even to save his own neck.”
“Humph!” the lawyer grunted. “So you’re a student of human nature, are you, Dan?”
“Yes, sir. I’m just beginning. I’ve had very little experience, but there’s something else just as good. The people who say experience is the best school don’t know what they’re talking about. Most people could learn more about human nature in one week by studying Montaigne’s Essays than in a lifetime of observation, because hardly any one knows how to observe. Not that I don’t need experience; I’m just beginning to get it. I always keep my eyes and ears open. You remember, sir, it was you who told me to read Montaigne.”
“Yes, I believe I did,” agreed the lawyer. “I never got much out of him myself.”
“No, sir; I suppose not. But to go back to Mount. I am certain now that he’s innocent.”
Mr. Leg frowned. “But that doesn’t get us anywhere.”
“No, sir. But I am also pretty certain that I know who is responsible for the murder.”
“What?” shouted Mr. Leg, nearly falling out of his chair in his surprise.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know who the murderer is!”
“No, sir, I didn’t say that. I only know who is responsible for it, though it may be that he actually did it himself. I wouldn’t think it possible, only I remember that Montaigne says, ‘The passions smothered by modern civilization are doubly ferocious when awakened,’ and that was nearly four hundred years ago.”
“But, good Heavens, Dan, how did you—who is it?”
But that the boy wouldn’t tell, saying that he might be wrong, and that he had no real evidence to support his suspicion. Mr. Leg insisted, but finally gave it up, and listened attentively while Dan recounted the story of the missing janitor, with all the details.
“There’s just one thing we’ve got to do,” finished the boy, “and that is find Patrick Cummings. It won’t be easy, because it’s certain that he’s in hiding, if something worse hasn’t happened to him. I looked around for a photograph of him, but couldn’t find any.”
“The thing to do is get the police after him,” suggested Mr. Leg.
“Yes, sir,” agreed Dan, but there was a curious expression in his eyes. “That’s what I wanted to ask, will you go to Commissioner Hammel himself, since you know him?”
“Yes, I will,” said the lawyer, “and I’ll go right now.”
And ten minutes later he was off, with a detailed description of Patrick Cummings, typewritten by Dan, in his pocket. A taxicab got him to headquarters for eighty cents.
This time he found the police commissioner in, and, being Simmie Leg, Dick Hammel’s friend from college days, he was passed in ahead of a score of others who had been waiting anywhere from ten minutes to three hours.
Police Commissioner Richard Hammel was a tall, well-built man of middle age, with a fine-looking head, well carried, and piercing, cynical eyes. He was well connected socially, being a member of an old New York family that had been prominent in the life of the city for over a century.
“How are you, Simmie?” said he, rising from his chair with outstretched hand as Mr. Leg was ushered in. “Something new to see you around here.”
“Hello, Dick!” The visitor took the proffered hand. “Yes, but you know what Devery said.”
They chatted for ten minutes before the lawyer came to the purpose of his call. Then, pulling Dan’s description of the missing janitor from his pocket, he explained the circumstances to the commissioner saying that he wished a general alarm sent out for him all over the country.
Commissioner Hammel did not reply at once. He was apparently making a careful study of the length of a pencil he held in his hand, as he continued to gaze at it thoughtfully for some moments after Mr. Leg had stopped speaking. Finally he turned to his visitor.
“Simmie,” he said slowly, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”
“Why not?” demanded the lawyer in surprise. “Of course, I know you might be working against yourself in case Cummings’s testimony should free Mount, but justice—”
“It isn’t that.” The commissioner frowned. “Our esprit de corps doesn’t go so far as to want to convict an innocent man of murder. But Mount isn’t innocent.” He eyed his visitor speculatively. “If it were anyone else, Simmie, I’d turn him off with evasion, but with you I can be frank.
“Of course Mount is guilty; the evidence is conclusive. I don’t mean it’s merely sufficient to convict; it’s absolutely conclusive of his guilt. You know that as well as I do. But you think this man Cummings could throw new light on the affair. Well, you’re right. He could.”
The commissioner stopped to clear his throat.
“The fact is,” he continued, “if Cummings were found and allowed to tell his story, he would bring notoriety on somebody. I don’t know who. I really don’t know, Simmie. But it’s somebody that has a voice in high places, for word has come that Cummings must not be found. You appreciate the circumstances. There’s no use kicking up a scandal when it will do good to nobody.”
There was a silence.
“Humph,” grunted Mr. Leg finally, casting a thoughtful eye on the floor. “Of course, Dick, I don’t like scandal any more than you do, especially when it hits one of my friends. But, in the first place, I don’t know that this unknown person is my friend, and I don’t admire this mystery stuff except in stories. And secondly, how do you know it wouldn’t do any good?”
“Oh, come now, Simmie,” replied the commissioner with a smile, “you know very well Mount’s guilty. Don’t be foolish.”
“On the contrary,” retorted the lawyer, “I believe he’s innocent. And Dan—that is, a detective I’ve employed—believes it, too. I tell you, Dick, scandal or no scandal, Cummings must be found.”
“If he is,” said the commissioner decisively, “it will be without the help of the police.”
“But, Dick—”
“No. A good friend of mine, and a valuable member of this community, has asked me to stay off, and that’s all there is to it. I don’t know who he spoke for, and he
wouldn’t tell me; but since we unquestionably have the guilty man—”
“I tell you he’s innocent!” repeated Mr. Leg warmly. He got up from his chair and put on his hat; he was dangerously near losing his temper for the first time in five years.
“Don’t be an ass!” was the commissioner’s reply.
“Is that so?” retorted Mr. Leg inelegantly. “I’ll show you who’s an ass, Dick Hammel! And let me tell you something: Patrick Cummings is going to be found if I have to hunt for him myself!”
And, leaving this awful threat to shake the walls behind him, he departed.
Chapter VI
The Name on the Screen
In the weeks that followed, Mr. Simon Leg experienced for the first time in his life the sensation of mingled rage, helplessness, and doubt that attacks a man when he grimly swears to do a thing and then fails in the execution. He had said: “Patrick Cummings is going to be found if I have to hunt for him myself.” He hunted. Dan hunted. They hired detectives, and the detectives hunted. But three weeks after Mr. Leg had hurled his ultimatum at the commissioner of police the missing janitor was still missing.
The detectives were also set to work on other aspects of the case. They investigated the past lives of both Mount and his wife, but found out nothing of real value. They discovered that for at least a year previous to her disappearance Mrs. Mount had been a more or less frequent visitor to cabarets, and once they thought they had found the man with whom she had run away, but he proved an alibi.
In all, Mr. Leg hired more than a dozen detectives, including the great Jim Dickinson himself, at a cost of several thousand dollars, but all he really got out of it was a huge stack of elaborate daily reports which, in fact, were absolutely useless.
They advised Mr. Leg to advertise a reward of five thousand dollars for Patrick Cummings, since he had expressed his willingness to spend ten times that sum if necessary, and Mr. Leg himself favored the idea. But Dan, who had surprised the lawyer on his return from the commissioner’s office by not being surprised at what the commissioner had said, vetoed it, saying that it might be all right to offer a reward if the police were on their side, but utterly futile under the circumstances.
