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Authors: Carola Dunn

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BOOK: The Case of the Murdered Muckraker
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“Lobby, please,” said Daisy.
“You're going out?” Lambert asked.
“No. Not that it's any of your business. As a matter of fact, Mr. Thorwald is here to see me.”
Lambert's eyes narrowed behind his horn-rims. “Say, you don't think Thorwald did it? He was behind you, wasn't he? He could have pulled a gun without you seeing it. And he had his back to me, and I didn't have much of a view where I was standing.”
“He was only just behind, practically beside me. I might not have seen, but if the shot was so close, it would have sounded much louder than it did, and surely I would have smelt the smoke?”
“Probably,” Lambert conceded reluctantly.
“Anyway, I'm sure Mr. Thorwald had nothing to do with it. He's just not that sort of person.”
“You can't tell by just looking at someone,” the fledgling agent argued. “That's one of the first things they taught us.”
“I didn't ‘just look' at Mr. Thorwald,” Daisy retorted. “I first met him months ago, in England. We have corresponded
regularly. And I have had two long talks with him since I arrived in New York. Here we are,” she said as the elevator came to a halt. “Now, if you insist on hovering over me, do try a little harder to make yourself inconspicuous!”
“I'll try,” said Lambert, abashed.
For all her indignant denial, as Daisy crossed the lobby to greet Thorwald she could not help wondering whether he might have shot Carmody. Suspicion faded at the sight of him. He came to meet her with a hangdog air.
“My dear Miss Dal … Mrs. Fletcher, I cannot apologize sufficiently for my disgraceful behaviour. I am unaccustomed to intemperate bibulation and I fear I was overcome.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Daisy assured him. “It was a natural reaction to such a beastly business. And when you saved me from Lambert”—who, in an unconvincing manner, was studying a Cubist painting hanging nearby which Daisy guessed had been given to the hotel in lieu of rent by a particularly unsuccessful artist; she glared at the agent's oblivious back and turned back to Thorwald—“you were simply splendid.”
Her editor blushed but lamented, “That such an atrocious incident should have occurred upon the occasion of your appointment with me!” He took off his pince-nez and attempted to rub his eyes, only to discover his hat and gloves in his other hand. It was a topper, and he had on a dinner jacket—a tuxedo—under his overcoat.
“Please, don't worry about it. I cannot possibly hold you responsible. But you look as if you are going out to dinner, Mr. Thorwald. Don't let me delay you.”
“My dear young lady, as a matter of fact I was permitting
myself to hope … That is, I telephoned Mrs. Thorwald … My wife is at present sojourning with her mother in Jersey … . I telephoned to describe to her the disastrous course of the day, and she insisted that the only way to make amends … In short, Mrs. Fletcher, since I was unhappily prevented from taking you out to lunch, will you do me the honour, that is, give me the pleasure, of dining with me?”
“I shall be delighted,” said Daisy, who had sampled once too often the dinners the hotel restaurant served to those whose minds must be presumed to be occupied by higher things. “Will you excuse me while I go and change? I shan't be long.”
“Of course.” Mr. Thorwald beamed. “No need to hurry.”
Lambert caught up with her on the way to the lifts. Glancing back, he said suspiciously, “He's taken a seat. Is he waiting for you to come back?”
“Yes,” said Daisy. “He's taking me out to dinner. If you must follow, for pity's sake dress properly. And buck up. We won't wait for you.”
“Gee whiz! Where are you going?”
“I don't know. He didn't say.”
“You mustn't go without me, darn it,” Lambert said anxiously. “The old codger's probably planning to slip knockout drops in your soup!”
D
aisy was not one to dilly-dally when there was a good meal in the offing. Yet Lambert changed his clothes with such speed that he was waiting for her when she stepped out of the elevator in the lobby. He had buttoned his stiff shirt wrong, and his tie was lopsided. Otherwise his evening dress was perfectly adequate. Daisy supposed it was one of the disguises essential to his job.
She gave him a distant nod and walked on. Mr. Thorwald stood up as she approached, but he was looking over her shoulder with a puzzled expression. Daisy turned, to find Lambert lurking unhappily so close behind that Thorwald couldn't help but recognize him.
Almost recognize him: the bottle of whisky had done its work to the extent that he said hesitantly, “Don't I know that young fellow?”
“That's Mr. Lambert, whom you so bravely tackled.”
“The fellow with the automatic pistol? Yes, I recollect him. Don't tell me he continues to pursue you! I'll eject him.”
“He's staying here. And he's a federal agent, remember? Charged with my safety.”
“So he would have us believe,” muttered Thorwald. “He appears to have escaped police surveillance, but I consider it unwise to leave him to his machinations unobserved. Aha, I have it. Hi, you there, Lambert or whatever you call yourself!”
“Me, sir?” Lambert said cautiously.
“Well, is your name Lambert or isn't it?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Then presumably it is you I'm addressing.”
“I guess so,” Lambert admitted.
“Do you care to join Mrs. Fletcher and me for dinner?” Thorwald invited him.
“Who, me?”
“No!” roared Thorwald. “Some other young idiot called Lambert who's been following Mrs. Fletcher around all day!”
“Gee whiz, sir, yes, thank you, I'd be honoured to join you. But let's get outta here quick. Here comes Sergeant Gilligan. This way!”
As Gilligan entered by the front door, turning to bellow at a reporter who dared to pursue him with questions, Daisy and Thorwald hastened after Lambert. He led them past the reception desk and down a narrow, badly lit and indifferently cleaned corridor, down stairs and up again, past kitchens, storerooms, and laundry rooms. Thorwald showed a disposition to balk at this undignified proceeding, but Daisy hustled him onward. For once she was in complete agreement with Lambert: she had no desire whatsoever to come face-to-face with either the sergeant or the Press.
She was explaining this to Thorwald as they emerged into a dark alley and turned towards the bright lights of Seventh Avenue. Coming towards them, silhouetted against the lights, was a man in a bowler hat.
“It's him!” she cried. “Stop him!”
“Who?” Mr. Thorwald asked reasonably. He had been absent in spirit(s) when she described the fugitive to the police.
“The man in the bowler hat.”
Lambert's face turned to her palely. “Bowler … ? Oh, derby!” And he started running.
By then the man in the bowler hat was fleeing. When Daisy, hampered by a long skirt and high heels, caught up with Lambert at the alley's exit, their quarry had mingled with the passers-by and disappeared. The street was busy. Among the silk hats, soft felts, and caps were several derbys. They could not accost them all.
Thorwald puffed up. “Who?” he repeated. “No, don't reply now. Taxi!” He waved.
A chequered cab swooped down to pick them up.
Lambert would not let them discuss “sensitive material” where the driver could overhear. When they reached the restaurant, Thorwald demanded their concentrated attention on the menu until they had ordered. So it was while they waited for the soup that he reiterated his question: “Who? Who is the man in the derby?”
“Didn't you see him?” Daisy asked.
“Only silhouetted against the illumination, which was insufficient to permit recognition.”
“I meant, at the Flatiron Building. He's the man I chased down the stairs.”
“No, I did not observe the object of your pursuit. I was
otherwise occupied, in arresting the progress of your pursuer.” He turned a still suspicious gaze upon Lambert.
“A mighty fine tackle, I'll allow,” Lambert said, glowering, “but I could bear to know just why you got in my way when I was aiming to protect Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Please, gentlemen! Cease hostilities!”
Daisy's plea was aided by the arrival of their soup. A truce was observed until the waiter departed.
“Mr. Thorwald,” Daisy said quickly, “Mr. Lambert knows far too much about my husband's doings to be an imposter. And Mr. Lambert, Mr. Thorwald is an altogether respectable and knowledgeable editor who has never been anything but extremely helpful to me. Please, let's concentrate on catching the murderer. It was an unbelievable stroke of luck to see him tonight, though it's a pity we weren't a couple of minutes later, when he'd already entered the hotel.”
“But what persuades you to suppose … ?” began Thorwald.
“Gee whiz, Mrs. Fletcher,” Lambert overrode him, “we don't have any reason to believe it was the same guy.”
“Then why did you run after him?”
Lambert looked sheepish. “I guess when you yelled ‘stop him' I just reacted without thinking. The chances of his being the guy we're after are, oh, about one in however many men in New York wear derbys.”
“Bosh! What was he doing sneaking down a back alley behind the very hotel where his victim had been staying? And why did he run away?”
“If I was taking a short-cut down a dark alley and someone yelled, ‘It's him, stop him,' I guess I'd run.”
Mr. Thorwald stopped spooning in soup for long enough to nod agreement.
“It's too much of a coincidence,” Daisy argued. “I'm sure it was William.”
Two pairs of bewildered eyes blinked at her from behind their glass shields.
“William?” Lambert queried uncertainly.
“I'll tell you about William in a minute. Let me eat my soup before it's stone cold.”
After her late lunch, Daisy had eaten nothing at tea. She was hungry, and the cream of mushroom soup quickly disappeared. Then, careful to conceal her source, she told them what little she had learnt about the quarrel between Otis Carmody and the man he addressed as Willie.
“Since he talked about family loyalty,” she pointed out, “he's obviously a relative.”
“A reasonable deduction,” Lambert conceded.
“And they were children together. I think they were cousins. If they had been brothers, William would have the same surname as Otis, in which case the hotel people would have noticed and told the police.”
“How do you know they didn't?” Lambert asked sceptically.
“I can't be certain, of course. I'm betting, though, that at least one of my sources of information would have found out and told me. About the surnames being the same, I mean, if not whether the police have been notified.”
“My dear young lady,” Thorwald interjected, “your rationale presupposes that the person in question is a resident of the Hotel Chelsea.”
“If he isn't,” said Daisy, “then what was he doing skulking
around in the alley by the service entrance?”
The men pondered this question while the waiter served the fish course.
“Circular reasoning!” said Lambert, triumphant.
Daisy looked back on her chain of deductions and was forced to admit he had a point. She must be tired. “Well, maybe. But don't you think it's all rather fishy?”
“Mmmm,” said Thorwald happily, and delved into his halibut.
Giving up for the present, Daisy turned her attention to her
sole bonne femme.
It was excellent.
While she ate, she considered her two companions. Thorwald, she suspected, had much rather not think about the murder at all. Even the memory of his heroic gesture was not enough to make the “atrocious incident” a desirable subject for contemplation. Lambert, on the other hand, was quite willing to discuss the case. Unfortunately, his only contributions so far had been to shoot down her theories. He had yet to make any useful suggestions of his own.
She resolved to drop the topic for this evening. Tomorrow morning she'd see what further information Kevin could give her, and then she would take all she knew to Miss Genevieve, who would certainly have her own ideas to add to the seething pot.
When Daisy went down in search of breakfast, Kevin was on duty, and more or less at leisure. The majority of the hotel's guests did not put in an appearance so early, he explained.
La vie bohémienne
allowed, indeed demanded, that they rise at noon or later. “Time is Money” was not a
phrase which dominated them as it did the world of American business.
When Daisy said she'd like to ask Kevin one or two questions, he was delighted. He stopped the lift between the sixth and fifth floors so that they could talk in peace.
“I don't mind telling you stuff,” he said. “Them bulls, now, I wouldn't give ‘em the time o' day. Not after they come round our place last night and scared me mam and bullied Bridey. Bulls!” he exclaimed in disgust. “I told 'em I got better things to think about than listening to the flapdoodle people talk in the elevator, and up and down all day, I got no time for hotel gossip. Ha!” He grinned.
“Whereas I know,” said Daisy with a smile, “that you listen to every word and spend as little time as possible in your elevator. Do you know anything about the man Bridget heard addressed as Willie? Do you know his last name, for a start?”
“Pitt,” said Kevin promptly. “Wilbur Pitt, tenth floor.”
“So he is a resident! Wilbur Pitt?” Daisy mused. “I assumed he must be William. That name sounds familiar. Was he related to Carmody?”
“Dunno ‘bout that, ma'am. I guess maybe. I saw ‘em together a few times and they didn't look like they liked each other, so they wasn't friends, anyways. Yeah, maybe they
was
related. You wouldn't notice seeing 'em apart, but when you saw 'em next to each other, there was something about their faces … Yeah, they wasn't twins or nothing like that, but they coulda been related.”
“Cousins, perhaps.”
“Could be. Mr. Pitt's older'n Mr. Carmody, and he don't look so well fed, 'fya know what I mean. Kinda tough and
stringy. More like he worked hard outta doors, like my brother on the waterfront.”
“I know what you mean. Pitt! That's the chap Miss Genevieve saw quarrelling with Carmody in the lobby. I don't suppose you know what they were arguing about?”
“Not zackly,” Kevin admitted regretfully. “I wasn't there, but what I heard is it was sumpin about interductions. Seems like Mr. Carmody wouldn't give Mr. Pitt an interduction.”
One didn't kill one's cousin simply because he refused to provide an introduction, Daisy thought, disappointed. Now if they had been fighting over money, or a woman … But so much for Cousin Wilbur. A great pity, she had rather fancied him as the villain.
“What about Mrs. Carmody and Mr. Bender?” she asked.
“They was mighty lovey-dovey, them two. Spooning in the elevator,” said Kevin with scorn, “like I wasn't there. Course, last time they came, it wasn't me took 'em down, but I heard she was blubbing and he promised he'd fix things so they can get married. He said he wasn't going to let any pen pusher push him around, no sirree!”
“That sounds promising,” said Daisy. “But isn't that someone ringing for the lift again? You'd better take me down now.”
“Darn it, can't they leave a guy in peace for two minutes?” the boy complained. “O.K., here we go.”
Lambert was skulking in the lobby. He looked so relieved to see Daisy that she wondered whether he was afraid she had done a moonlight flit. With an inward sigh, she decided she could not decently avoid inviting him to join her for breakfast.
“Don't worry,” she said as they sat down, “Alec arrives late this afternoon and you'll be relieved of your arduous duty.”
Lambert blushed. “Not at all,” he stammered. “It's been a pleasure. But I'll be helping Mr. Whitaker, who's coming to figure out whether it was Tammany sent the thug that killed Carmody, or someone in Washington. That's real police work.”
Real police preconceived notions, Daisy thought, but she held her tongue. They gave their orders, which led to a discussion of the differences between American and English food and language. Daisy was still bewildered by an offer of eggs “over easy” or “sunny-side up,” but she approved of waffles and simply adored maple syrup. She hadn't quite accustomed herself to getting syrup on her sausages or bacon, though.
BOOK: The Case of the Murdered Muckraker
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