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Authors: Carola Dunn

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BOOK: The Case of the Murdered Muckraker
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On second thoughts, that was an easy question to answer. The hotel switchboard girl had told him. Pascoli was right to be wary of eavesdroppers.
“Well, you be careful, you hear? I got my people watching, but if he pulls a gat, there ain't nuttin much they can do. Hey, Mr. Lambert, sir, you maybe better frisk him soon as he gets here.”
Lambert's jaw dropped, but he managed not to say, “Who, me?” “I—I guess so,” he stammered instead.
“Frisk?” Daisy asked.
“Check to see is he packing heat,” Kevin explained. “I'll see you get some ‘Irish tea' right away, sir. What you need's Dutch courage.”
“I guess so,” Lambert agreed gratefully.
Kevin ushered them out of the lift and through to the lobby. There he seized Stanley—his inferior in age, size, and cheekiness—by the ear. “Here, you order tea for the ladies and a spot of the Irish for Mr. Lambert. And put some pep in it!”
“I always do!” Stanley buzzed off to the restaurant to pass on the order, and Kevin, seeing the desk clerk coming in to take over from the manager, dashed back to his lift.
Only one other couple was in the lobby, and they left after a few minutes. A waiter arrived, his tray laden with two teapots and the cakes and biscuits for which the Misses Cabot must have a standing order. “Indian,” he said, setting the large pot before Miss Cabot. The small one was deposited in front of Lambert. “Irish. I'll need cash for that.”
While Lambert fumbled for his wallet, Daisy reached for
her handbag, saying, “Let me treat you both, Miss Cabot.”
“So kind!”
“No, no,” said Miss Genevieve. “My dear Mrs. Fletcher, you eat like a bird. It can go on our tab.”
Daisy had never in her life been told she ate like a bird; in fact her mother had frequently castigated her for eating like a horse. She smiled and gave in gracefully.
Miss Genevieve regarded Lambert with disapproval. “You're a federal agent,” she reminded him as he picked up his cup and took a gulp of whiskey.
He choked, coughing and spluttering while tears came to his eyes. When he had recovered his breath, he begged, “You won't report me?”
“Do I look like a police nark?” Miss Genevieve demanded in outraged tones.
“Something's been puzzling me,” Daisy put in quickly. “The first time I saw Carmody, he took a nip of spirits from a flask. Yet I'm sure he was interested in Kevin's arrangements from the muckraking reporter's point of view, not as a source of supply for himself. If he drank himself, why would he want to expose someone dealing in drink?”
“What makes you think so?” asked Miss Genevieve.
Daisy thought back. “We were in the elevator. Kevin whispered to me that he could get me genuine Irish whiskey and it was quite safe because all the ‘right people' had been paid off. I don't know how much Carmody overheard, but at the very least he heard ‘paid off.' Kevin cleverly pretended he'd been telling me his brother was laid off.”
“That's it, then. Carmody wasn't interested in bootlegging as such, only in the police accepting bribes to ignore it.”
“Oh yes, that's much more …”
“Here's Pascoli,” said Lambert, who was facing the door. “Do I really have to frisk him?”
“No,” said Daisy.
“Yes,” said Miss Genevieve.
“Better safe than sorry,” said Miss Cabot brightly.
Lambert stood up, squaring his shoulders. “Aw, gee,” he said, “Mr. Thorwald's come, too.”
“Don't you dare frisk Mr. Thorwald!” said Daisy. “He'd never buy another article from me. And he won't be happy if you frisk his colleague, either.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Cabot, “but better safe than sorry, you know.”
However, Daisy's protest resonated strongly with Miss Genevieve. When Lambert looked at her she shrugged, sighed, and nodded. The two editors were permitted to approach unfrisked, though Lambert observed them closely as if trying to spot unnatural bulges.
This constant vigilance and endless suspense were very wearing on the nerves, Daisy thought. What with one thing and another, she thanked heaven that Alec was not an American policeman!
D
aisy went to meet the editors. “Hello, Mr. Pascoli,” she said. “Mr. Thorwald, I'm frightfully glad to see you're safe and sound.”
Thorwald took her hand in both his. “My dear Mrs. Fletcher, I'm most sincerely obliged to you for your advice and encouragement in a situation in which I felt myself at a considerable disadvantage.”
Now Daisy felt herself at a considerable disadvantage, due to her upbringing. Miss Genevieve, no doubt, would have seized the moment to request an increase in her remuneration. Daisy could only murmur, “It was nothing,” and hope his gratitude was long-lasting.
“What did they want?” she continued, leading the way back to the others. “Gilligan and Rosenblatt, I mean.”
“Exactly as you suggested, Rosenblatt wanted my narrative reiterated, and Gilligan desired me to scrutinize a person whom he held in custody.”
“Barton Bender. You didn't recognize him, did you?”
“Certainly not. While circumstances may upon occasion require one to be in proximity to such individuals, I don't
hesitate to affirm that no male acquaintance of mine would adorn his person with such a quantity of gold and gems, to say nothing of the excessive and disagreeable effluvium of bay rum which remained in the atmosphere after his departure!”
Daisy didn't think Thorwald had quite understood the purpose of the exercise, but as she was quite certain Bender had not himself shot Carmody, she held her peace. “Miss Cabot, Miss Genevieve,” she said, “may I introduce Mr. Thorwald and Mr. Pascoli?”
“So happy to meet you,” twittered Miss Cabot. “Will you take tea?”
Miss Genevieve regarded the gentlemen with interest as they bowed, Pascoli dismayed, Thorwald with a look of foreboding. “Sigurd Thorwald,” she pronounced, “so you're an editor now. I suppose it was inevitable.”
“I'm most obliged to you, ma'am,” said Thorwald in surprise, taking off his pince-nez and polishing the lenses vigorously.
“Always did use half a dozen words where one would suffice, but I dare say you're quite capable of cutting other people's words to good effect.”
In the meantime, Pascoli drew Daisy aside and said, “I hoped for a word with you in private, Mrs. Fletcher. I'd like to discuss the Carmody case and the old ladies won't want to talk murder.”
“On the contrary. Miss Genevieve knows just as much about it as I do,” Daisy assured him, “and she's positively eager to discuss it. Maybe you've heard of Eugene Cannon?”
“Sounds familiar,” said Pascoli, puzzled. “Oh, you mean the crime reporter? Yes, his writing was held up to me as
a model when I started in the business, but he was pretty near retirement then. I never met him. Why? Just a minute, there was something odd about him. I can't remember …”
“He was a she. Eugene Cannon was Genevieve Cabot.”
Pascoli swung round to stare at Miss Genevieve. “This lady here? Oh boy!”
Miss Genevieve stared back, critically.
“Mr. Pascoli is interested in Carmody's murder,” Daisy said to her. “You've been in the news business. I'm sure you know much better than I what information will be useful to him.”
“
Town Talk
?” Miss Genevieve's eyes gleamed. “I expect I can give you a few pointers, young man. Sit down.”
Daisy left them to it, turning to Thorwald, while Lambert divided his attention between the two conversations.
“Tell me what happened at police headquarters and the D.A.'s Office,” Daisy invited.
“I consider myself exceptionally fortunate that my profession has never required me to frequent Centre Street,” Thorwald began. “In actual fact, today was the occasion of my first visit to that abominable place.”
“And you went as a witness, not a journalist,” Daisy said sympathetically.
“Indeed! The headquarters building I cannot bring myself to describe to a lady of refinement. Suffice it to say that I was escorted to an apartment of the most sordid aspect, which my lawyer later informed me was one of the better rooms. There Detective Sergeant Gilligan interrogated me in an unpleasantly hectoring fashion, demanding a repetition of the narrative with which I obliged him immediately after the crime.”
“I'm afraid the police practically always want to hear
one's story at least twice. One often recalls later details which seemed insignificant at the time.”
“My description of the scene did differ in significant respects from the original of yesterday,” he admitted, “according to the sergeant, that is. He made no allowance for the fact that I was at that time … ahem … indisposed. He appeared to believe that I had deliberately misled him!” Thorwald took off his pince-nez again and blotted his forehead with his handkerchief. “I cannot say, my dear Mrs. Fletcher, how inestimably grateful I am for the advice you gave me over the telephone, to insist upon my lawyer's attendance.”
“It seemed a sensible precaution. In England, the police have to warn suspects that their words may be used against them, and that they have a right to legal representation. I suppose there's nothing like that here?”
“If so, it is, I believe, ‘more honoured in the breach than the observance,' but I am unacquainted with criminal law. Certainly Sergeant Gilligan never made any such communication to me.”
“I expect it's just because you're a witness, not a suspect,” Daisy said soothingly. “Your lawyer put an end to the harassment, I take it.”
She paused as the waiter returned with tea for the two editors—two small pots. Pascoli must have given Stanley an order for the real thing for Thorwald and Irish for himself. Thorwald poured himself a cup, the rising steam confirming half Daisy's guess.
“By the way,” she went on, “did you recall anything helpful about the crime? Were you able to tell Gilligan where the shot came from?”
“I'm convinced it came from beyond the elevators.”
Thorwald sounded confident. “However, when I so declared to the sergeant, he became abusive. If I understood him correctly, he is hoping for evidence which will implicate Mr. Lambert, who, like us, approached from the opposite direction.”
“Who, me?” asked Lambert, aghast. “He wants to send me up the river? What about Barton Bender?”
“If Barton Bender is the person bedizened with gold and diamonds whom I was asked to identify, then I believe he has been released, there being no grounds to arrest him. My impression was that he is still under extreme suspicion. Detective Sergeant Gilligan's interest in Mr. Lambert, on the other hand, is of a purely sanguine nature. He little expects to succeed, but should he find credible evidence against Mr. Lambert, it will enable him to—as he expressed it—get the Feds off of his back.”
“But it won't!” Lambert squawked. “I
told
him Washington is sending another agent. A guy called Whitaker's going to arrive this afternoon.”
“Perhaps Gilligan hoped Mr. Whitaker would be too taken up with exonerating you to delve into the police department's or Tammany's misdeeds,” Daisy suggested. “Anyway, you needn't worry. Mr. Thorwald is sure the shot came from the opposite direction. Which makes me think: what if the man on the stairs was neither the murderer nor a frightened witness but actually the intended victim?”
“Gee whiz,” said Lambert, impressed, “that would sure explain why he ran away.”
Daisy pursued the idea. “And if he was Wilbur Pitt, it would explain why no one has seen him since then.”
“Who is Wilbur Pitt?” Thorwald wanted to know.
“Otis Carmody's cousin. He has a room here at the
Chelsea, but he hasn't come in since yesterday.”
“Might the attack possibly stem from some species of primitive feud?” Thorwald proposed hesitantly. “That is, the murderer is an individual with animosity towards both Carmody and his relative?”
“Gee, yes, a grudge against the family! After all, they come from the sticks, like the Hatfields and the McCoys.”
“Capulets and Montagues.”
“Hardly,” Daisy deflated them. “There was only one shot. There's no reason to suppose more than one victim was aimed at. But there is reason to suppose the shooter was a rotten shot—otherwise why wasn't Carmody killed outright? He could very well have aimed at Pitt and hit Carmody by accident.”
“
If
the man on the stairs
was
Pitt,” Lambert said a bit sulkily. He had rather fancied his Hatfields and McCoys, whoever they were, and whatever the sticks were. “How do you know Pitt hasn't come in since yesterday?”
“Actually, I don't,” Daisy was forced to concede. “All I know is that Kevin—the lift boy—hasn't seen him since yesterday, and there's not much escapes that lad's eye.”
“He's only here days,” Lambert pointed out. “Besides, if Pitt's fleeing a would-be murderer, he could always come in the back way like we went out.”
“The man in the bowler hat!” said Daisy triumphantly.
Thorwald blinked at her, looking thoroughly bewildered. “You said his name was William.”
“At that time, I'd only heard him referred to as Willie. Oh, never mind, that's all conjecture. Did you learn anything of substance when you saw Mr. Rosenblatt? Tell me about that interview. Did you see him in the same place as Gilligan?”
“No, no, the Criminal Courts Building presents quite a different ambiance. Though distinctly shabby now, it was once an elegant edifice, with marble pillars and balustrades and ornate iron scrollwork. Mr. Rosenblatt's office has beautiful golden-oak woodwork and a bronze and porcelain chandelier depending from the high ceiling. The view from the window, however, is unpleasant, not to say sinister.”
“How so?”
“It looks out onto the Tombs,” pronounced Thorwald in a voice of doom.
“Whose tombs?” Daisy asked.
“The Tombs is a prison. I believe it was constructed on a graveyard, hence the appellation. Its round grey tower cannot but bring to mind those ancient castles whose dungeons were the scene of unspeakable torments.”
“I'm glad you only saw it from the outside. Rosenblatt didn't threaten you with incarceration, did he?”
“Happily, no. He questioned me closely about you, my dear Mrs. Fletcher. Naturally I was able to assure him most fervently that your antecedents are well known to me and of the utmost respectability.”
“Thank you!”
“Not to say
nobility
.”
“Please, Mr. Thorwald, I allowed the use of my courtesy title on my articles, but we did agree it was not to be mentioned otherwise. You told Mr. Rosenblatt about the direction the shot came from, I assume? Was his reaction as extreme as Sergeant Gilligan's?”
“By no means. He declared himself satisfied to have the problem solved.”
“So the D.A.'s not looking to frame me?” Lambert said in relief.
“Frame?” Daisy asked. “Is that the same as send up the river?”
“Not exactly. It's fixing the evidence to make it look like your fall guy's guilty.”
“Fall guy? Scapegoat, I suppose.” Daisy sighed. “I was beginning to think I understood American! Surely the police wouldn't do that?”
“You can betcha sweet life they would,” said Lambert gloomily.
“Not to a federal agent,” Thorwald said, “not when it would undoubtedly induce an even closer scrutiny of New York police practices than will already eventuate from this disgraceful affair.”
“In any case,” Daisy reminded Lambert, “Mr. Thorwald's evidence exculpates you, so you have nothing to worry about. What I want to know is whether I have anything to worry about. Is there really a chance some bullyboy is after me because I'm the only witness who saw the murderer's face?”
“Jumping jiminy!” Thorwald exclaimed, appalled.
This outcry from his undemonstrative colleague drew Pascoli's attention. “What's that?” he queried.
Both Daisy and Lambert started to explain. Before they had sorted out who was going to speak, they were interrupted.
Balfour burst through the glass swing doors from the street. “Miz Fletcher, ma‘am,” he cried, “a man headin' this way and he walk like he totin' a gun!”
Lambert jumped up. “Get under the table, Mrs. Fletcher,” he ordered incisively.
“It's glass!” Daisy pointed out. “He's probably not coming
here anyway. Besides, how can one possibly tell from the way a man walks that he's got a gun?”
“You can tell,” Lambert, Pascoli, and Miss Genevieve all affirmed at once. Balfour elaborated, “He kinda swaggerin', like he not afeared o' nuttin. You better hide, Miz Fletcher, ma'am! I'll go slow him down.”
BOOK: The Case of the Murdered Muckraker
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