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Authors: Carola Dunn

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BOOK: The Case of the Murdered Muckraker
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“He was here, all right,” said the man in the sack. “He brought me an article. Pascoli, editor of
Town Talk.”
He stuck out his hand, so Daisy shook it. “How do you do. I'm Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Pleased to meetcha, Mrs. Fletcher.
Town Talk's
a weekly news magazine, anti-administration.”
“Anti-administration?”
“The New York administration, that is. We got nothing against Coolidge—yet—but our publisher would sure like to get the goods on Tammany. Carmody looked like the guy who was going to do it. He brought me an article, hot stuff, but it wanted a few loose ends tying up. I left him to finish up when I went to lunch.”
“Lunsh!” said Mr. Thorwald loudly, and hiccuped.
“Oh, you poor things!” said the marcelled woman. “Haven't you had lunch yet? I'll send out to the corner drugstore. Thorwald usually has bratwurst on rye. Will that do for you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Uh, yes, thank you.” Daisy wondered just what she was saying yes to, but she decided she was so hungry she could eat practically anything. “It's very kind of you, Miss … ?”
“Louella Shurkowski, Mrs.,
Ladies' Gazette,
and you're welcome.”
“Lunsh,” repeated Mr. Thorwald, plaintively this time.
“Better order in plenty of coffee,” suggested one of the other men. “I never saw Thorwald pie-eyed before. He's had the same bottle of rye in his desk for months. He's really a Scotch man, but honest-to-goodness Scotch is rare as an honest politician these days. He doesn't even like rye. Must be real shook up.”
“So Carmody's dead?” mused Pascoli. “What happened, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Daisy thought about what had happened. She had had too little time and too many questions before to take it in properly. Now the horror struck.
“Hey, this little lady's real shook up, too,” said someone, and hands guided her to a chair by the round table.
Trying to avoid a vision of the grotesque figure sprawled puppetlike on top of the lift, with his head at a crazy angle, Daisy thought instead of what Alec was going to say. He was bound to be furious that she had got herself involved in yet another murder, even though she was thousands of miles from home. Could she keep it from him? He was hundreds of miles away, after all.
But Lambert was telling J. Edgar Hoover, and Hoover would doubtless report Daisy's misdeeds to Alec.
And she was going to have to report to the New York detectives at any moment. “I don't think I'd better talk about it till the police come,” she said. “I'll just tell you that Mr. Thorwald was magnificent, a hero. He believed I was in danger—I did too—and he went right ahead and tackled the man he thought was after me, a man with a gun.”
“It wazh nothing,” said Mr. Thorwald. This modest disclaimer was followed by a huge yawn, whereupon he fell asleep and started to slide gently off his seat.
His colleagues rushed to rescue the hero. While they gathered him up and laid him flat on top of the manuscripts on the long table, for want of anywhere better, Daisy had a few moments of peace.
Then the police arrived.
The first detective to enter was a stringy, dried-up man with a horrid little toothbrush moustache and an unlit cigar protruding from the corner of his mouth. As he came in, he looked back to say something in a high-pitched voice to the plainclothesman behind him, a blond giant who gaped past him and squawked, “Geez, Sergeant, another stiff!”
The sergeant turned back and stared. “O'Rourke,” he barked from the cigarless corner of his mouth, “run and catch the doc before he leaves, and tell the guys there's two for the wagon.”
The second man behind him pounded off in the startled hush before several people simultaneously began to explain.
“He's not …”
“He is …”
“He's just …”
“Overcome by
horror,
” Pascoli overrode them, thus saving Thorwald from divulgence of his overindulgence in forbidden alcohol.
“Witness, izzy?”
“Yes, Sigurd Thorwald.”
“Name?”
“Yes, that's his name.”
“Your name, wise guy.”
“Oh, James Pascoli. And yours?”
The little man flipped his lapel, momentarily revealing a badge. “Gilligan, Detective Sergeant, Homicide Bureau. Witness?”
“Me? Not exactly … .”
“Didja,” said Sergeant Gilligan with exaggerated patience, “or didja not see anything pertaining to the demise of the deceased?”
“No,” Pascoli admitted, “but …”
“Who here's the witnesses, then, besides the guy on the desk?”
“I am,” said Daisy. “My name is Dalrym … Fletcher, that is. Daisy Fletcher. Mrs. Alec Fletcher.”
“That's a lot of aliases, lady.”
“I was married quite recently. I still get muddled sometimes.”
“British, are you?”
“Yes.”
Gilligan rolled his eyes. He looked as if he didn't have much trust in her as a witness, if any. “Anyone else see what happened?” he asked hopefully.
“Just Mr. Lambert,” said Daisy. “He's an agent of the Department of Justice.”
“Don't that beat the Dutch!” Gilligan groaned. “A reliable, trained witness, every ‘tec's dream, but he'll want to make a federal case of it, you betcha sweet life, and the election's next week. So where's this Lambert?”
Daisy pointed. “In there, telephoning Washington.”
“Rats!”
“If I might be permitted to speak,” said Pascoli with a touch of sarcasm, “there's a federal angle to this business anyway. The victim …”
“Right, where is he?” The man who bustled in was small,
like Gilligan, but otherwise the detective's antithesis, being chubby with a round, pink, cheerful face.
“Where's who?” asked Pascoli.
“Smart-ass,” Gilligan muttered, swinging round as the newcomer replied, “The victim, the second victim.”
“Hi, doc,” said Gilligan a trifle sheepishly. “Sorry, looks like there's only one been croaked. But maybe you oughta take a look at this guy anyway. He's a witness, passed out cold from the shock, they say.”
The doctor went across to Thorwald, bent over him, and straightened immediately with a grin. “First time I've heard it called ‘the shock,' but there's a new euphemism coined every day. Let him sleep it off. Oh, there you are, Rosenblatt. I thought you'd be along, with the election coming up.”
“What do you have for me, doctor?” asked the fair, dapper man standing in the doorway, surveying the scene.
“Gunshot to the upper left thigh, superficial wound. It's the broken neck that killed him. I'll try to do the post mortem for you this afternoon, but I make no promises.”
“Good enough. Thank you.” Rosenblatt stood aside to let the doctor depart. “O.K., Sergeant, what's going on?”
“Dangfino, sir,” sighed Gilligan.
S
o far, Daisy was not impressed with the American police. If Rosenblatt and Gilligan were typical, no wonder J. Edgar was prepared to listen to advice from Scotland Yard on reforming his department.
Daisy wondered whether Rosenblatt, whom she assumed to be the district attorney, was more competent. Failing that, she could only hope that they would somehow muddle through to a solution without involving her more than absolutely necessary. Since she had once more—by absolutely no fault of her own—landed in the middle of a murder investigation, she wished Alec were in charge. However angry, he would at least start with a presumption of her innocence.
On the other hand, this was her chance to prove to him that she was quite capable of coping without him. Maybe she could even work out who was the murderer and help the local police collar him. What a coup that would be! Alec would never again be able to claim she impeded his investigations.
Rosenblatt and Gilligan, conferring, kept glancing at her. Of course, she was the only witness both present and compos mentis, as long as she didn't faint from starvation. Mrs. Shurkowski had returned long since from her errand, but so far the promised “bratwurst on rye” had not materialized.
Right now, Daisy would be happy to devour any old brat, best or worst, on barley, or millet, or any other grain available. She had to assume the “rye” in the order was not yet more whisky.
The editors had remained in an uneasy, whispering huddle around the recumbent Thorwald. Daisy saw several of them nod, as if they had come to an agreement. High heels clicking, Mrs. Shurkowski moved towards her while the rest drifted unobtrusively away.
Rosenblatt looked round. “Mr. Pascoli?” he queried; and when the
Town Talk
editor stopped, “Stick around, if you wouldn't mind, sir.”
“I have work to do,” Pascoli complained, “and Sergeant Gilligan didn't seem too interested in what I had to say.”
“But I am. I'll be with you in just a moment.”
Pascoli pulled a face and came to join Daisy as Mrs. Shurkowski said to her, “Honey, us girls have to stick together. You want me to stay and hold your hand?”
“Thank you, it's very kind of you, but I wouldn't want to keep you from your work. I'm sure I shall be all right.”
“Don't you just love the way she talks?” Mrs. Shurkowski said to Pascoli. “Now, you mind what you say to them, honey, and call a lawyer pronto if they try anything on you. Your sandwiches'll be here any minute.”
“Thank you so much,” Daisy said sincerely.
Mrs. Shurkowski went off to edit the
Ladies'
Gazette.
Pascoli sat down in a chair beside Daisy. “Cigarette?” He offered a gunmetal case.
“No, thanks.”
“Whoops, pardon me, don't English gals smoke?”
“Some do. Not awfully many.”
“O.K. if I light up?”
“I don't mind,” Daisy lied. She disliked cigarette smoke almost as much as cigar smoke, but she felt guilty about her continued presence here and the disruption of work, as though her propensity for falling over bodies was actually responsible for the latest crime. What she longed for was the comforting smell of Alec's pipe. “Is there really a federal dimension to the case besides Mr. Lambert's being a witness?” she asked.
“Sure thing!” Pascoli became earnest. “Carmody spent the last several years in Washington, D.C., digging up the dirt on the Harding administration, and he didn't have to dig far, trust me.”
Daisy recalled a comment about Augean stables. “So I've heard.”
“His articles tweaked a whole lotta noses. President Coolidge is already cleaning house and lotsa people are getting the can because of what Otis Carmody wrote. It wouldn't surprise me one little bit if one of them came to town looking for revenge.”
“It does seem possible.”
“It's a dead cert.”
“What about the article he wrote for you?” Daisy suggested. “Wouldn't that upset people?”
Pascoli grinned. “Sure would. He's written three so far,
every one calculated to get up someone's nose. But none of 'em has been published yet.”
“Still, he must have talked to lots of people to get his information. It couldn't be kept secret. Perhaps someone wanted to stop him before he dug any deeper.”
“Or scare me into not publishing,” Pascoli said soberly. “You got a point there, ma'am.” He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder at Gilligan and Rosenblatt.
“The articles are about Tammany? Who is Tammany?”
Pascoli lowered his voice. “It's a what, not a who. Leastways, Tammany was an Indian chief way back, but he hasn't anything to do with today's politics. Tammany Hall's the building that's come to stand for the Democratic machine that runs this burg. Crooked as anything President Harding's Republican pals were mixed up in, but much harder to oust. Heck, half the population owes their jobs to them, including Rosenblatt over there, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.”
“He is the District Attorney, is he?”
“Deputy D.A.”
“That's a political appointment?”
“Got it in one. So are garbage collectors, and a whole lotta folks in between.”
“Garbage collectors? Dustbin men? Heavens, it sounds to me as if it will be just as well if the federal investigators take an interest in the case.”
“You've said a mouthful, sister! Where's this guy Lambert? No kidding, I wanna stand behind him.”
Daisy rather doubted Lambert would be much protection, but she didn't have time to say so as Rosenblatt and Gilligan came over to them. Gilligan, chewing on his dead cigar, looked truculent, Rosenblatt worried.
“Mrs. Fletcher? Rosenblatt, Deputy District Attorney. Say, who's this guy Lambert? What's his connection with this business?”
“You'll have to ask him, Mr. Rosenblatt.” Daisy wasn't going to let herself be drawn into any complications. “I only know that he told Mr. Thorwald and me that he is a federal agent. All I can tell you is what I saw.”
“Yes, we'll get to that in a minute, ma'am. Mr. Pascoli, you know something about the federal connection, sir?”
“Not exactly,” Pascoli hedged. “Nothing to do with the Justice Department specifically, more of a general Washington connection. Otis Carmody ruffled plenty of feathers in the capital. He was an investigative journalist, see, and a good one.”
“A muckraker,” said Rosenblatt, depressed. “Probably had half of the last administration out for his blood.”
“Got what was coming to him,” Gilligan grunted.
“Maybe,” Rosenblatt snapped, “but we still have to pin it on someone. What was he doing in New York?”
“He, uh, wanted to write for the magazine I edit,” Pascoli said evasively.
“Which magazine is that?”
“Town Talk,”
admitted Pascoli with obvious reluctance.
Rosenblatt gave him a hard stare. “I know
Town Talk
. That's an opposition paper.”
Pascoli shrugged. “Hey, I don't set policy. You don't like it, you talk to my publisher.”
“Had Carmody written anything for you yet? Leopards don't change their spots. What's he been writing?”
“Ever heard of the First Amendment, buddy?”
“Say, listen,” interpolated Sergeant Gilligan, “maybe we don't wanna know …”
“Samwidges!” A boy in a cloth cap and a jacket several sizes too large ducked under the arm of the plainclothesman on duty at the doorway to the hall. He bore a white cardboard box in his hands. “Samwidges and coffee for Thorwald.”
“At last,” sighed Daisy, reaching for her bag.
“I'll get it,” said Pascoli. “It'll come out of petty cash, don't worry.” He went over to the boy.
“Say, listen,” Gilligan repeated, “maybe we don't wanna know who the stiff was digging up the dirt on here in Noo York.”
“We gotta find out,” Rosenblatt said gloomily. “The Feds are sure to. And we gotta clean this up quick, with the election next week, or the Hearst papers will wipe the floor with us again.”
“You think that's what this guy Lambert's after, sir? Maybe he ain't got nuttin to do with what Carmody was up to in Washington. Maybe he's here to make trouble for us.”
“No doubt we'll soon know,” said the D.A. as the door of Thorwald's office opened and Lambert came out.
He and the sandwiches reached the round table at the same moment. “Food!” he exclaimed, sniffing the air. “And coffee. Gee whiz, I could kill for a cup of coffee.”
Pascoli glanced at Thorwald, now whuffling gently in his sleep. With a sigh, he pushed one of the sandwiches and a large mug of coffee across the table towards Lambert.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Gilligan was staring suspiciously at Lambert. “Kill?” he growled, his right hand sliding inside his jacket. “You talk mighty easy about killing. Is that maybe what you was sent from Washington for? To croak the guy that blew the gaff on your boss?”
Lambert's mouth, open to take a bite of sandwich, stayed open though the sandwich came to a halt in midair. After a horrified moment, he squeaked, “Who, me?”
Daisy recalled that Lambert had been given back his automatic, and she knew all New York police were armed. Was it time to dive under the table before a gun battle erupted? She hastily swallowed the bite of sandwich in her mouth, just in case (rye had turned out to be a darkish, sourish bread and bratwurst a sort of German sausage, the consumption of which made her feel vaguely unpatriotic).
“Yes, you, mister.” Gilligan drew his gun from his shoulder holster.
Lambert dropped his sandwich and put his hands up. “I didn't! Mrs. Fletcher, tell him I didn't.”
“I can't,” Daisy said regretfully. She did not honestly think the inept agent had shot Carmody, but he had, after all, rushed on stage brandishing a pistol immediately after the murder.
“Lemme pinch him, sir?” begged Gilligan.
“Holy mackerel!” Rosenblatt exclaimed. “You can't go arresting a federal agent without evidence, Sergeant, just like he was anyone. Not without landing us all in deep … er,”—he glanced at Daisy and amended whatever he had been going to say—“in big trouble. It's no go.”
“Rats! But how do we know he's really a Fed?”
“My papers are in my pocket,” said Lambert eagerly. He lowered one hand, but it shot up again when the Sergeant waved his gun.
“I'll get 'em,” Rosenblatt offered.
“O.K., but don't get between me and him.”
The D.A. retrieved the papers and studied them. “U.S.
Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation. All in order,” he sighed.
Lambert's sigh was considerably more heartfelt. “Can I put my hands down, please?”
Reluctantly Gilligan nodded, but he did not put away his gun. “Who's to say he wasn't hired on as an agent just to croak Carmody?” he demanded.
“Mr. Hoover, my boss, isn't one of the people Carmody had an interest in. He's working to get things running on the level again, after the mess Burns made of the Bureau.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes,” Lambert assured him. “See, Burns used federal agents to run his own detective agency. I wasn't one of them, I've only just joined.”
“Just outta college and still wet behind the ears,” Gilligan muttered, returning his gun to its holster at last. Then he noticed that Pascoli, all ears, was scribbling in a notebook. “Hey, you!”
“Me?” Pascoli said innocently.
“Yeah, you. Whaddaya think you're doing? You're not a reporter.”
“No,” said Rosenblatt, “but he's editor of a news weekly, which isn't that different. I guess it's useless to ask you to hand over your notes.”
“Damn right!”
“But we have no more questions for you at present, Mr. Pascoli, and I'm certain you're anxious to get back to your work.”
Pascoli grinned. “If you say so.” He waved his notebook in a jaunty farewell, which made Gilligan bite through his dead cigar to grit his teeth audibly.
Rosenblatt turned back to Lambert. “All the same,” he said, “I get notified whenever a new federal agent is stationed here, as a courtesy and to prevent mix-ups, and you're not on the list. If you weren't after Carmody, what brought you to the ‘Big Apple,' and to the Flatiron Building just when he was killed?”
Lambert threw an apologetic look at Daisy. “I was tailing Mrs. Fletcher here.”
BOOK: The Case of the Murdered Muckraker
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