The Last Express

by Baynard Kendrick

  “I understand that all right, Dunc. It’s Chick’s attitude that worries me. Does he think he’s shooting tiddledywinks? The last time he was questioned he admitted he deposited $130,000 in Paul Zarinka’s account shortly after nine yesterday morning. You heard him yourself! A man’s got to come clean in a jam like he’s in, Dunc. A mere story that he borrowed that from Paul won’t wash! What’s the matter with him?”

  “More psychology,” Maclain said wearily. “He’s undergoing the great experience—he’s in love.”

  “You mean to say—,” Spud began disgustedly.

  “Don’t ever underrate it, Spud, just because your own veins are filled with tomato soup!” Maclain laughed softly. “I’ve seen you do some foolish things over Rena, at that. Before you jump off the deep end, take a look at Charles Hartshorn’s background. Things which may look quixotic and foolish to you are the essence of decency to him.”

  “Don’t mind my feelings,” Spud protested in an injured tone. “Go right ahead and tell me I’m a roughneck!”

  “But such a delightful one, Spud—you never get my brain tied up in knots trying to figure out your obscure motivations. Chick’s full of them—and it doesn’t make things any easier. You’ll find no temporization in the rigid code of Charles Hartshorn! Luckily for him I have known him long enough to recognize the lavender smell of the Gay Nineties in certain corners of his mind. The question of money is taboo! Protection of feeble American womanhood is a task which no true gentleman renounces lightly! Above all,” Maclain continued sadly, “the good name of the dead must be inviolate.”

  “I get it,” Spud said after a moment. “He’s protecting the memory of his sweetheart’s skunk brother.”

  “You put it rather crudely, Spud,” Maclain’s lips crinkled at the corners, “but the facts remain the same.”

  “Even with the chair staring you in the face?”

  “Yes,” Maclain agreed, “even with the chair staring you in the face—if it’s the honorable thing to do. I’m afraid it’s going to cause us trouble.”

  “You and me both,” said Spud. “And if I don’t get a shower, and that damn Dreist doesn’t get off my feet, I’m going to melt away.”

  “Well, you’ll have to solidify by seven,” said Maclain. “We’ve a busy day ahead.”

  When Spud came into the office after breakfast, he found the captain sitting on the floor. Maclain was bathed, shaved and immaculate in a light-gray suit. Beside him was a slotted section of the New York City map covering Sheridan Square and vicinity.

  Maclain, dreamily running one finger up and down the streets under Schnucke’s inquisitive nose, said, “I’ve already talked to Archer on the phone.”

  Spud grunted, lighted an after-breakfast cigarette, and sat down to wait for more.

  “Your capture of Mr. Madonna was a dud.”

  “So he wouldn’t talk.” Spud blew out smoke, making a noise. “I was afraid of that.”

  “He talked, all right,” said Maclain, “but said nothing. He came to the restaurant to meet a girl and got there just about the time the trouble broke. He ducked out the back door and climbed over the fence to get away. Archer says he’s indignant because you put the dog on him.”

  “Maybe he’ll bring suit,” Spud suggested. “Are they holding him?”

  “Not likely. Some shyster lawyer will be there with a writ by nine o’clock, and he’ll be out by ten—if I know anything about it.”

  “You generally do.” Spud watched the delicate touch of Maclain’s finger tracing the streets. “What’s on the cards?”

  “This,” said Maclain. “You’re to meet Archer at the Hi-de-Ho at nine o’clock. From the front of the club I want you to walk to the 4th Street Station of the Independent Subway, take a train to 14th Street—the next stop—and walk back to the club. Hold a stop watch on the time.

  “Then, from the front of the club, go to the Christopher Street Station of the 7th Avenue I. R. T. Subway, take a train to 14th Street, get out and walk back to the club, and stop-watch the time. Then—from inside the club—go out the back way—climb over the back fence, run across two yards—”

  “And fall in a heap—with a dog on me—and stopwatch the time?” Spud supplied.

  “Good!” said Maclain. “You’re keen this morning! While you’re doing this, I want Archer to round up all the performers in the show—including Amy Arden’s understudy and Willie Weiser’s orchestra. He should be able to have them all together by twelve or one o’clock. Run off the show and hold a stop watch on each act.”

  “They’ll be pleased,” said Spud.

  “You can applaud them if you want to. I’ve made arrangements for Fred Schmidt, the electrician of the Metropolitan Opera House, to be there. He’s going to make me a light chart.”

  “Sounds quite theatrical,” said Spud. “What is it?”

  “It’s a series of floor plans of the restaurant showing the exact lights and their distribution during each number of the floor show. Along with those charts, I want the time in split seconds. For example, if a blue light comes on during a song, I want the exact number of seconds it stays on before it changes to another color.”

  “Is that all?”

  “One thing more. Talk to Dr. Saraz first. Archer has his address. He lives two or three blocks from the club in a big apartment house on Christopher Street. If possible, get a written statement from him how long, in his opinion, Amy Arden had been dead when he arrived at the club.”

  “And stop-watch the distance,” said Spud. “Can’t you think up something for me to do in the Bronx? I simply adore walking around New York in the heat.”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps.” Maclain smiled, stood up, and went to his desk. From the left-hand side he raised a Remington noiseless typewriter on a spring stand and deftly inserted a sheet of paper. “I’ll write it out for you so you won’t overlook anything.”

  “You’d better,” Spud told him. “I might come home with a couple of dancers.”

  The captain typed nimbly by touch and with flawless accuracy, for the blind are the most accurate typists in the world. They dare not make a mistake. Due to the difficulty of erasure, a single wrong letter invariably means they must retype an entire page. Maclain, while learning at the American Foundation for the Blind, had been taught infallible accuracy before essaying speed.

  Spud read the instructions when they were finished, and looked up with a thoughtful frown.

  “What about the lockers, Dunc? You didn’t mention them before.”

  “Just what I said about them, Spud. That’s what I want you to do. I want to know every subway station within ten or fifteen minutes radius of the Hi-de-Ho Club that has lockers in it—the automatic kind, used by the public.”

  “I know what you’re talking about, all right,” Spud said impatiently. “Put in a dime, lock up your parcel, and the metal key’s released to you so you can open the door when you come back. But what are you driving at?”

  “This.” Maclain folded his arms on the edge of the desk and leaned across them tensely. “We have a definite starting point, Spud—let’s take it. Davis, Dearborn and Archer are shooting at a barn door. I want to go around behind the barn and see what’s there. They’re so sure Chick knifed that girl that they’ve befogged the whole issue. Somebody present killed her—maybe a few seconds—maybe a few minutes before Chick came to the table. The chances are, that person had blood on his clothes. Suppose you’d planned a murder like that, Spud, and got blood on your clothes, what would you do? It would be foolish to hide them in the club—the Homicide Squad took it to pieces last night, and they’re repeating it again today. You couldn’t arrange for a house or an apartment near by—that would be too dangerous. But suppose you had a car parked around the corner outside—and knew some other way out of the club besides the main entrance.”

  “The lockers!” Spud whistled softly. “That’s a slick idea, Dunc. A man could drive there—already have a nickel in his pocket so he could get through the turnstile
without going to the window for change, and have fresh clothes planted in one of the lockers. He could change in one of the public toilets. He could do that, too, Dunc. It’s a long shot—and it’s going to be a job for Archer to get all the used lockers opened—but it’s worth trying!” Spud stood up and banged his fist into his palm. “By gosh, Dunc, who would be the most likely man in the world to walk in and out of that club without being noticed?”

  “Benny Hoefle, and he’s out of town.”

  “If you broke that alibi”—Spud’s voice was trembling with eagerness—“by finding some of Hoefle’s bloodstained clothes in one of those lockers, it would put you in the spotlight for fair!”

  “When you get the light chart from Schmidt,” Maclain told him, “I’m afraid you’re going to find I was in a spotlight most of last evening—and didn’t have sense enough to know it.”

  Chapter Twenty: ANALYSIS OF A WOMAN

  A pleasant breeze was blowing from off the Hudson when Maclain started up Riverside Drive on his way to the Hotel Kingsley at 95th and West End. He covered the 23 blocks at a fast walk, leaving the drive for West End Avenue at 91st. As he crossed to the desk of the Kingsley a suave assistant manager started to bar his way with an admonition about dogs entering the hotel. Instead, when he saw the role of leader was reversed, he stepped to one side and nodded an “O. K.” to the clerk behind the desk.

  Maclain gave his name and asked for the Hewitts’ apartment. While he was waiting for the phone call to go through, he took a Swiss repeater watch from his pocket and touched the chime button. The expensive timepiece sweetly tinkled the hour as 10:15—an atrocious hour, Maclain felt, to rouse a woman who had been up until 4:00 and undergone the trying ordeal of a murder in plain sight.

  The clerk regretted, after a few moments, that Mrs. Hewitt was not yet dressed and asked to be excused. “Let me talk to her, please.” Maclain held out a hand for the phone on the desk.

  He received Gladys Hewitt’s excuses and said, “I understand perfectly, Mrs. Hewitt, but you needn’t worry about the early morning confusion of an apartment, since I can’t see it. I came up because I felt I might be able to save you and your husband a lot of unnecessary bother.”

  She hesitated at the mention of her husband and finally said, not too graciously, “Very well, come up.”

  A new apartment was always an experience to Duncan Maclain, if not to Schnucke. He attained through the years a weird accuracy in judging the size of rooms by their resonance. A compendium of minute details swiftly gathered by touch and hearing gave Maclain a graphic picture of each dwelling place he entered—a picture permanently filed away in his unusually capacious mind. Even while occupied with the usual inanities of polite greetings he judged the size of a room. His skillful, and usually unnoticed, touching of furniture, wallpaper and drapes, as he passed on his way to a chair, filled in the scene with a vivid brush.

  By the time he was seated in Gladys Hewitt’s living-room, lack of dust and orderliness of layout, added to her displeasure at having him find her disheveled, told him of her neatness. The feel of the Orientals under his feet and the touch of fine fabric under his fingers classified the Hewitts as well-to-do. Maclain knew the rentals in the Kingsley were not cheap. Apparently the Hewitts were not bluffing, since their furnishings harmonized with the location and price of their apartment.

  He settled back in his chair and waited for the swish of cloth to announce she had seated herself.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.

  “Not at all.” He heard her stir uneasily, but instead of beginning he leaned back in the chair, puffing contentedly.

  “You wanted to talk to me?” she said after a painful length of time.

  “Yes,” said Maclain, and added, “Alone.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” There was too much contriteness in her words. “I’d forgotten the maid was in the other room.”

  She rose and went to the door and said, “You can go now, Clara, and come back later.”

  Maclain waited until footsteps went down the hall and the front door clicked, and then refrained from telling Mrs. Hewitt that Clara’s footsteps were masculine to an extreme.

  “Your story about the murder last night seemed to be clearer and more concise than any of the other witnesses, Mrs. Hewitt.”

  “Why not?” she said shortly. “I saw it all. I was facing you and saw him kill her. I was too paralyzed to scream—like the woman across the floor.”

  Maclain shook his head. “It’s a terrible thing, Mrs. Hewitt. Charles Hartshorn is under arrest, as you know. It’s bad for everyone involved, too, but I suppose it’ll be over shortly, and the detectives downstairs in the lobby will be removed so that you can come and go as you please.”

  “What do you mean ?” Her clipped question reached Maclain, dry and tight.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. Really, I thought you knew. I had to get permission from Inspector Davis to come here to see you. You’re being held as a material witness. It’s possible that before the day’s out you and your husband may have to post bond. Four or five others among the guests last night are already in jail. Your husband’s connection with the city has undoubtedly earned you some official consideration.”

  “Consideration! Consideration!” Her tone rose, and she laughed harshly. “I’ve never had any consideration—from anyone! All my life I’ve been the scapegoat—like now. I tell the truth about what I saw, and you come up here to tell me I’m under arrest! Why should I be put under arrest—just because a man like Charles Hartshorn murders somebody?”

  “Then you know Hartshorn very well?” Maclain was casual.

  “I didn’t know him at all—I never want to hear his name again—getting me into a fix like this!”

  “I guess I was mistaken, Mrs. Hewitt. I had an idea that you’d played bridge with Mr. Hartshorn and Miss Zarinka. Didn’t you?”

  She left her seat and began to pace nervously back and forth. “I said I’d never mention that man’s name again.”

  “You might as well tell me all of it.” Maclain was close to purring as he made the suggestion. “The man’s in jail now—charged with murder. Certainly the truth isn’t going to do him any harm. Why do you hate him so?”

  “So you know I hate him?” She spoke with surprise, and viciousness, too, then moaned, “Oh, if I only knew the right thing to do. My head’s splitting!”

  He listened as she went through another room to the bathroom. Running water and the clink of a medicine bottle followed. When she came back Maclain said, “I suffer from headaches, too.”

  “They kill me,” she admitted, “and God knows, Howard does nothing to help them. That’s why I don’t dare tell the truth. I’ve never had any sympathy from my husband.”

  “But surely he wouldn’t blame you for telling the truth.”

  “He’d kill me,” she said soberly, “kill me in cold blood if he ever knew about Hartshorn.”

  “And what about Zarinka?” asked Maclain. A curtain flapped behind him as a breeze from the river crossed West End Avenue and entered the room.

  Gladys Hewitt began to sob openly. “He protected me—he was the only protection I had. Certainly Howard never protected me.”

  “Protected you from Hartshorn?” The name came from the captain in a whisper of surprise.

  “Yes,” she admitted flutteringly, “from Charles Hartshorn. You’re the only one who’s ever understood.”

  He said, “Sit down here, beside me, why don’t you—and tell me about it. Perhaps I can help.”

  He pushed her unresistingly to the floor beside him.

  “It’s too horrible—too awful.” She leaned her head against his knee, and he felt she was shaking. “He was madly—passionately—in love with me, and I wasn’t safe around him—wasn’t safe right here in my own home! He killed Paul—because Paul knew I wasn’t safe when Chick was around me. He killed that girl last night because she knew he killed Paul.” She turned her head and began to weep copiously on Macl
ain’s light summer trousers. He plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and held its absorbent bulk between the falling tears and the fabric of his suit.

  “Well, he can’t hurt you now, that’s sure. He’s in jail.” He stood up and raised the weeping Gladys Hewitt to her feet. “Try to calm yourself, Mrs. Hewitt. Anything you’ve told me this morning will be held in the strictest confidence. I’d lie down and rest now. You’ve been through a terrible experience—it’s apt to make you ill. I can’t stand such things myself—they nauseate me.”

  “And me!” Suddenly she was laughing. “I’ll forget it—before I get sick to my stomach.”

  Maclain grinned. “Do you get sick to your stomach, too?”

  “All the time,” she said gaily. “I suppose it’s the penalty of living with a man like Howard.”

  “Well, I’ve got to be going,” Maclain said hastily. He took hold of the waiting Schnucke and started for the front door. “I’m glad you feel better,” he said by way of parting and added to himself as the elevator door closed him in, “Damned if I do!”

  In the lobby downstairs the assistant manager directed Maclain to a telephone booth and watched through the glass door from a discreet distance away, mystified at the speed with which Maclain dialed.

  Rena answered from the office. “There’s a delegation here,” she told him. “Dearborn and Springer, Gilbert Fox and Howard Hewitt.”

  “Hewitt?” Maclain repeated. “I’m glad to know where he is. I just left his wife.”

  “Shall I tell him?” Rena asked maliciously.

  “No,” said Maclain. “Get to work for a change. I left a list of material witnesses on your desk. Find it and mark this down after Gladys Hewitt.

  “Malicious, mendacious, egocentric, martyrized, exaggerated sensitivity, subject to severe headaches and stomach-aches and inclined to accuse casual acquaintances of personal attacks of a sexual nature. I wanted to get it all down before I forgot it.”

  “Why not just put down ‘hysterical neurotic’?”

  “Clever, aren’t you?” Maclain asked with a laugh. “How did you guess? I’ll hop in a cab and be right down. Hold the customers until I get there!”