“We came here to find out,” said Maclain.
“And I expected more than that from you, Dunc,” Chick protested heatedly. “Such a statement presumes that I know.”
“You said a moment ago that you had told all you could,” Max reminded him. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have amended that to ‘I’ve told all I will’?” He became soothing. “Miss Zarinka employed me to defend you. I’m trying to do so, but you’re making it most difficult. It’s considered not an unusual prerogative of a defense attorney to be able to question his client to a reasonable degree. Do you object to that?”
The room was silent, then Maclain heard the squeak of a chair as Chick straightened up.
“I object to being hounded to death, Mr. Gold—by you or anyone else. I considered Captain Maclain my best friend—until he grew so ethical in the Hi-de-Ho Club that I thought he’d been appointed assistant district attorney!”
Maclain flushed with momentary anger but refrained from speaking.
Chick continued, “Now that you know where I stand, go ahead and ask what questions you want.”
“Wait.” Maclain stood up. “Now that I know where you stand, I don’t want to ask any questions.”
“But Captain,” Max Gold put in placatingly, “I don’t think Mr. Hartshorn meant—”
Maclain’s manner froze the appeal. “I’m quite able to judge what your client meant, Mr. Gold. I’ve known him many years longer than you. I allow lots of things to pass, but when I’m accused of violation of friendship, I fight back. Since Chick has intimated that I’m working for the D. A., then the quicker we dig out the true facts of this case, the better.”
He walked to the door, flung it open, and said to the officer he knew was standing outside, “Please send for Miss Zarinka to come at once. She’s waiting in the reception room.”
He returned to his place at the table and stood behind his chair. Max Gold took off his hat and began to fan himself.
“I’m about ready to wash my hands of this myself, Mr. Hartshorn.”
Chick hunched down in his chair, stared sullenly at the little lawyer, and said,
“Wash and be damned!”
He was still sitting in the same position when Evelyn entered. He rose to his feet, and neither Maclain nor Gold spoke during the long moment Chick held her in his arms. When she sat down, the tenseness of the situation was apparent.
The three men present wore expressions far too uncompromising to be ignored.
She finally asked tremulously,
“What’s the matter?”
Chick set his mouth stubbornly and said, “Ask them.”
“Please.” She put a hand on Maclain’s arm. He sat down and pulled the chair close to the table.
Bluntly he asked, “Would you prefer to find your dead brother had embezzled your estate and lost it in speculation—and that Charles Hartshorn was alive to marry and comfort you? Or would you rather see Charles Hartshorn go to the electric chair, leaving you a wealthy woman—with the memory of your brother unbesmirched?”
Even the indomitable Max Gold whitened at Evelyn’s anguish.
“Chick!” she said weakly. “Oh, Chick, tell me what he means.”
“Just a minute.” Max Gold leaned forward and placed a hand over Evelyn’s cold one on the table. “I think perhaps Captain Maclain is the only one who can tell us what he means.”
“I think perhaps you’re right, Mr. Gold,” Maclain continued. “There’s hardly a necessity to ask Chick questions about something I already know.” Commiseratingly he turned his head toward the girl. “At the expense of forfeiting Chick’s friendship, Miss Zarinka, I’m going to try to save his life. He’s acting like a foolish child. Apparently he has no realization of the impersonal thing we call law. Your brother looted your estate, Miss Zarinka, of at least $130,000—I don’t know how much more. But your estate is still intact today: $170,000 of it was replaced by bribe money your brother received from Benny Hoefle to suppress evidence against him. The other $130,000 Charles Hartshorn deposited to your brother’s account in the bank: shortly after nine Tuesday morning. Your brother had died the night before. Chick placed it there to cover a deficit of that amount.”
“That’s a lie,” Chick declared gratingly. “Don’t believe him, Evelyn. That money was to repay a loan Paul made me. I deposited it before I had seen the papers—before you called me to say that Paul was dead.”
“Now we’re getting some place,” said Max Gold. “So you did put that money into Paul Zarinka’s account?”
“Yes,” Chick admitted miserably. “I deposited it. What of it? It was to repay a loan.”
“I’m afraid not,” Maclain continued implacably. “Paul Zarinka had borrowed from you before. Never you from him! You gave him a check for $80,000 months ago. With your check, and using your name, he opened that account at Ludlow Brothers. One of the partners called him ‘Mr. Hartshorn’—and that gave birth to the idea of trading in your name. He recouped some of his losses and returned the money to you.”
Chick cracked under the strain of Maclain’s calm statements. Hardly able to speak against the huskiness in his voice, he said, “I tried to keep it from you, Evelyn. Paul exchanged checks with me for $80,000—as Dunc says. Mine was drawn to ‘Cash’ at his request. I had only one idea in mind—to protect you. He came to see me the night he was killed and wanted to exchange checks again—for $130,000. I didn’t have that much available but promised him I’d get it the next day. He swore his own check would be good within forty-eight hours—that it was a matter of bookkeeping—just to keep the audit straight. Tuesday morning I borrowed on some bonds and anonymously made the deposit—but I did not know he was dead. The money meant nothing to me—against your happiness.”
“It means nothing to me.” said Evelyn as she came around the table to him, “against yours. I loved Paul so much that I can forgive him anything. Don’t you see how wrong you were? If his actions brought harm to you, I’d hate his memory as long as I lived!”
As Maclain and Gold walked down the corridor together, leaving Evelyn and Chick behind, Maclain asked,
“Where did you get that information about Paul Zarinka being identified as the renter of the office in Hartshorn’s name?”
Max tightened his grip on the captain’s elbow. “Where did you get your information about Chick Hartshorn’s deposit to Paul Zarinka’s account—and the fact that Zarinka was looting the estate?”
“It really wasn’t information I had,” admitted Maclain. “I just figured that it had to be so.”
“Well,” said Max briskly, “I just figured mine out, too. Working together, we’re a damn smart pair!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine: THE TIME CHARTS
Rena and Spud had not been idle while Maclain was at the Tombs. He had left them both one of his carefully typed sheets of instructions. Before leaving the prison he made two calls—one to Gilbert Fox at the New York Electric; the other to Howard Hewitt. Both men lunched with him at Luchow’s on 14th Street and agreed to meet at Maclain’s office at four o’clock, bringing certain information and plans he requested.
Spud was waiting for him when he returned home after lunch. The captain told him what had transpired during the morning’s interview and added the information that Hewitt and Fox would be up later in the afternoon.
Spud made an attempt to look severe under his ludicrous-appearing, singed eyebrows. “As I recall it,” he said, “Mr. Gilbert Valentino Fox was responsible for the hunch that took us down into that railroad tomb in Brooklyn. Do I err in saying that one more hunch like that is apt to serve us both up with parsley?”
The captain forced a smile. Spud had verbally touched a wound badly healed.
“You err when you mention hunches, Spud,” he said a trifle primly. “I’ve played my last. We’re going down—”
“Heaven forbid!” Spud groaned. “I knew it! The next city I live in is New Orleans—it’s so wet underneath the ground they have to bury their dead on top.”
Spud’s lightness vanished. He was quick to recognize the seriousness of Maclain’s statement. Instantly he was alert and eager for more.
“What happened night before last was my fault, Dunc—not yours. You can make all the attempts you want to to take the blame off of me—I know the truth, see. I know who got us into that mess through lack of watchfulness and being asleep on the job. I know whose courage and cleverness got me out alive. I try to cover up the deepest feeling of shame I ever had by being funny—funny because I was afraid you’d lost confidence in me.”
“Then we’re quits, Spud.” There was a catch in Maclain’s throat. “We’ve fought the first real fear in the past two days that’s ever cropped up since we’ve been together. It’s strange, isn’t it, Spud, that we two should ever be afraid of each other! You see, I’ve been nursing the same thing—I was desperately afraid that you’d lost confidence in me. I’m glad we can forget it.”
“So am I”—for a moment Spud’s yellow eyes were sightless as Maclain’s—“but if you want somebody to walk up through the Croton Viaduct in a diver’s suit tonight, just let me know.”
“Thanks,” said Maclain. “Now that we’ve restored each other to good standing, what did you find out this morning?”
“Most of what you asked, Dunc.” Spud took a notebook from his pocket. “Rena hasn’t had a chance to make you a record, but here’s the gist of it.” He thumbed over pages. “The grenade exploded in Zarinka’s car at 10:12. Patrolman Galligan lifted Zarinka out of the wreckage at 10:14. Zarinka said ‘Sea Beach Subway—the last express,’ and died at 10:15. Davis and Archer and three other members of the Homicide Squad arrived on the scene at 10:25. Rindermann and Dilks of the Auto Squad arrived on the scene at 10:30. An officer named Evans phoned Dearborn’s apartment at 10:30. Dearborn was at a meeting at Tammany Hall at Union Square. The call was relayed there. Springer drove him down and he arrived at 10:45.”
The captain tapped restlessly on the arm of his chair. “You checked that with Claude?”
“Or the other way about,” said Spud. “Dearborn gave me the approximate time he was called and the name of the officer who called him. I checked it with Davis. He wasn’t inclined to talk until he found out I already had the information.”
“What about the headwaiter at the Hi-de-Ho?”
“The price was five bucks. Trilby and Shane hang around the club—with an eye for pretty wives airing themselves with wrong husbands. The headwaiter’s a Frenchman, slicker than Boule de Suif—but for five bucks he admitted he recommended the pair to Hewitt.”
“Then he knew Hewitt pretty well?”
“He must have, but he didn’t remember Hewitt being there Monday night.”
“He was sure he wasn’t there ?”
“He remembered Mrs. Hewitt being alone in booth four.”
“Why?”
“She got a phone call.”
“Mmmm.” Maclain rocked back and forth in his chair. “So did Dearborn—right after Amy Arden passed out at our table. He’d gone for the doctor. In the excitement I forgot to tell him.”
“That was Tuesday night, wasn’t it?” Spud asked.
“That’s right,” said Maclain. “Why?”
“I just wanted to mark down the date in my notebook,” Spud remarked carelessly. “That’s the first thing I ever knew you to forget in twenty years!”
“What about Galligan?” Maclain ignored Spud’s trial balloon.
“His story’s stereotyped by now.”
“Did you see his notebook ?”
“Yes. The price was another five bucks—-it seems to be standard—and it wasn’t worth it.”
“Then nothing struck you odd about what he’d written down ?”
“Only his handwriting—it was terrible.” Spud paused and asked with curiosity, “What would?”
“I thought that nothing would,” said Maclain. “Things are beginning to run true to form.”
“You’re beginning to run true to form,” Spud declared, “in keeping things to yourself.”
“It’s time I did, Spud. You checked the entrances to the Hi-de-Ho, didn’t you?”
“Wednesday, with Archer. Hoefle owns houses on both sides of the club, but they don’t connect with it. We covered the house from cellar to roof.”
“I’ll take your word for that.” Maclain looked pleased. “Then anyone leaving would have had to go out by the front door ?”
“Unless they slipped out the back while Archer and I were walking the block with Madonna.”
“A good point,” Maclain commended, “but unimportant. Madonna made his escape and was caught by you after the excitement broke. I’m interested in knowing who went in and out before the excitement broke. Did you question the doorman?”
“No luck. He’s dumb and says hundreds of people go in and out every night.”
“Sometimes I regret the passing of the speakeasies, Spud. We never had any trouble checking who went in and out of them.”
“He did remember Dearborn asking for the nearest doctor,” continued Spud.
“Did you check that with Claude, too?”
“Yes—and with Dr. Saraz.”
Maclain nodded. “I heard your report on Saraz yesterday. He and the medical examiner seem to agree pretty closely. The medical examiner evidently made a careful note of the progress of post-mortem lividity and rigor mortis during the night. At that, he didn’t come much closer than Saraz. I’m hunting for minutes, Spud.”
“I judged that,” said Spud dryly, “since you had me pushing a stop watch at split seconds. What are you driving at, Dunc?”
“Proof of guilt in the most carefully planned murder I’ve ever heard of,” Maclain declared. “Proof of the guilt of a murderer who took everything into consideration—including time, place and weather! It makes it doubly difficult, Spud, when you add a ‘break’ to methodical prearrangement. Through your painstaking reports on time and color I was able to develop the film. I couldn’t make the final print until I added the weather.”
Maclain leaned back, placed both hands on top of his head, and linked his fingers together. Spud urged him on with a single question.
“The weather?”
“The rain,” said Maclain. “Amy Arden couldn’t have been successfully murdered without the rain. She couldn’t have been successfully murdered unless I was blind. She couldn’t have been successfully murdered without the floor show. Particularly necessary was the ‘Dance of the Inferno.’ Still her slayer wasn’t satisfied. Cleverly devised messages brought together at the Hi-de-Ho Club every likely person who could have had the remotest desire to kill that girl or Paul. He arranged it on an afternoon when the weather reports assured a steady downpour for the evening—on an afternoon when the weather itself gave every evidence of bearing out the reports. He had to have the rain, Spud. A man can’t walk out of a night club on a steaming hot night wearing a coat to hide bloodstains unless it’s pouring rain. He had to have my blindness—for he stabbed Amy Arden while she was seated at the table with me. Do you see, Spud, he knew that under the shock of Paul Zarinka’s death Amy Arden would turn immediately to the solace of the marihuanas which had her in their grip. Amy Arden, Spud, was killed twenty minutes, more or less, before the competent Miss Patricia Kellogg screamed out Chick’s guilt.”
Spud left his chair and began to pace the room. He crossed it three times before he said with finality, “That’s impossible, Dunc. Why, the waiters—the girls in the chorus”—he started to wave his hands—“half the chorus passed by within three feet of your table! The girl had a knife in her back—and her white satin dress was soaked with blood! You’re not trying to tell me she sat there for twenty minutes in that condition and was never noticed! Miss Kellogg saw her from clear across the dance floor the instant—” Spud stopped his pacing and turn
ed to look at Maclain’s face.
The captain was inscrutable. “Go on, Spud,” he said. “Finish what you started to say—Miss Kellogg noticed Amy Arden instantly when?”
“When the lights came up,” Spud spoke softly. “My gosh, Dunc—”
“Now sit down for a minute and quit raving. There’ve been lots of things right under your nose that haven’t been seen. The light chart made for me by Fred Schmidt proved that some of them couldn’t be seen. Rena’s transcription of that chart, Spud, told me what I wanted to know. The ‘Dance of the Inferno’ lasts twenty-three minutes. During the dance, the lights on the floor are constantly changing—but mounted at each corner of the dance floor, Spud, is a battery of floodlights which never change during the entire dance. The battery from the opposite corner shone directly on the table where I was sitting. The small handle of the knife in Amy Arden’s back was almost concealed by the center of a white satin bow which held the shoulder straps of her décolleté dress together. That bow was soaked with blood. The whiteness of her back was stained with blood—but nobody noticed it, Spud, for Amy Arden was bathed in something far redder than blood—the rays from the battery of lights diagonally across the dance floor. Nobody noticed her, Spud, because you can’t see blood on a white dress under a blood-red light!”
Chapter Thirty: THE SEA BEACH EXPRESS
Rena had spent the entire morning in research. Dirty, but triumphant, she returned to the office while Spud and Maclain were talking. With the aid of two attendants she had pulled down newspapers from high-up shelves in the Public Library—papers yellow with age, tatterdemalion and begrimed.
Gingerly turning their disintegrating pages—sorting dates in accordance with Maclain’s list—she had gradually filled a notebook with pertinent facts about underground New York.
There was no time to commit them to the Ediphone before the arrival of Hewitt and Fox. She briefly outlined her findings to the captain and Spud, then hurried through a bath and a bite of lunch. The two engineers were announced before she finished eating. Hastily she swallowed her remaining half cup of coffee, greeted them at the automatic elevator, and ushered them into the office.
The Last Express Page 17
