The Tragedy of Z (14 page)

“Patty,” he whispered, “this is hot! I just got a call from Carmichael!”

Then it came to me with a rush. “Heavens! I meant to ask you about him. Who is he?”

“No time now. I've got to meet him right away somewhere outside of Leeds. Roadhouse, he said. Get your things on.”

We managed to get away from the Clays on some silly pretext—I think father said he had had a call from an old friend—and, borrowing one of the Clay cars, we set out for our rendezvous with Carmichael. We lost our way several times before we struck the right road, and by that time we were both almost frantic with curiosity.

“You'll be surprised to find out,” said father, as he sat at the wheel, “that Carmichael is a government operative.”

I stared. “Oh, lord, this is too much. Not the Secret Service?”

Father chuckled. “Federal dick attached to the Department of Justice in Washington. I met him several times in the old days. One of the best men in the Department. I recognized him as soon as he walked into that room of Fawcett's, but I didn't want to give him away. I figured that if he was masqueradin' as a secretary, he wouldn't thank me for spillin' the beans.”

The roadhouse was a quiet place off the main highway, and it was almost deserted at this early hour. We managed—or rather father managed—cleverly, I thought. He asked for a private dining room, and from the knowing smirk on the face of the
maître d'hôtel,
it was evident that we were classified in his mind as one of those charming American couples who frequent out-of-the-way rendezvous—where the presence of a gray-haired old rip in the company of a girl young enough to be his daughter is accepted as inevitable, American home life being what it is.

We were ushered into our private room, and father grinned: “No, Patty, I'm not going to get fresh,” and then the door opened and Carmichael came quietly in. He locked the door, and when the waiter knocked, father growled: “Go away, you,” evoking a courteous snicker from that case-hardened menial.

They clasped hands with pleasure, and Carmichael bowed to me. “I see from the expression on your face, Miss Thumm, that this old reprobate of a father of yours has told you who I am.”

‘So you're Carmichael of the Royal Mounted—I mean, the Secret Service,” I exclaimed. “I'm thrilled! I thought men like you existed only in Oppenheim novels.”

“We exist,” he said sadly, “but we don't have the fun those book boys do. Well, Inspector, I'm in a hurry. Just managed to sneak away for an hour.” There was something newly forceful in his manner: confident and—more than ever—dangerous. The romantic side of me responded in the usual way; and then I looked at his stocky figure and the ageless colorlessness of his appearance, and sighed. If only he possessed the physical equipment of a Jeremy Clay!

“Why the devil didn't you get in touch with me before this?” demanded father. “I've been on pins and needles waiting for a buzz.”

“Couldn't.” He strode about the room in his oddly animal way, setting each foot down with a minimum of effort and noise. “I've been watched. First by some dame I suspect was put on my tail by Fanny Kaiser. Then by Doc Fawcett. I'm still under cover, but it's getting warm, Inspector. Don't want to rush my exit more than necessary.… Now, get this.”

I wondered what was coming.

“Shoot,” growled father.

Carmichael explained matters in a quiet voice. He had been on the trail of Senator Fawcett and the Tilden County political ring for a long time. They were wanted, almost to the last man, by the Federal government for income-tax frauds.

He had managed by devious ways to worm himself into the inner circle. Having become Senator Fawcett's secretary—I gathered that the exit of his predecessor had been judiciously hastened—he had been ever since collecting, scrap by scrap, documentary proof of the Fawcett gang's tax evasions.

“Ira, too?” asked father.

“I should hope to kiss a pig.”

It was Carmichael whom the Senator had probably meant by the initial
C
in his letter to Fanny Kaiser. He had tapped the telephone wires from outside the house. By this time, however, the source of the tapped wires had been found, and he had since the murder been lying low.

“Just who is Fanny Kaiser, Mr. Carmichael?” I asked.

“Got her fingers on all the vice in Tilden County. Works hand in hand with the Fawcett crowd—gets protection from them, and gives 'em a big cut. Hume'll dig all that out soon enough, and then it will be curtains for the whole dirty bunch.”

As for Dr. Fawcett, Carmichael characterized him as an octopus, the brain behind the stuffed figure of his brother the Senator, working his own sideline of graft through the innocent Elihu Clay. Carmichael gave father a wealth of information about how county and Leeds contracts for marble were routed illegally to the Clay firm without Clay's knowledge, and father took copious notes.

“But what I really came here to tell you,” continued the Federal detective crisply, “is more important. I'd better get it off my chest while I'm still in the Fawcett house, supposedly cleaning up the Senator's affairs.… I've got mighty interesting information about the murder!”

We were both startled. “You know who did it?” I cried.

“No. But there are certain facts in my exclusive possession which I couldn't spill to Hume because in order to explain how I got them I'd have had to tell who I am; and I didn't want that.”

I sat up straighter; was this the clinching point I had been praying for, that last important detail?

“I've been watching the Senator for months. On the night of the murder, when he sent me away, I was suspicious. It looked funny, and I decided to stick around and see what was being pulled off. I went down the porch steps and hid behind a bush off the walk. This was nine-forty-five. For fifteen minutes nobody came——”

“Just a moment, Mr. Carmichael,” I cried in high excitement, “you had your eye on that front door from a quarter to ten until ten o'clock?”

“Better than that. Until half-past ten, when I went back into the house. But let me get on.”

I could have screamed. Victory!

At ten o'clock, he continued, a man bundled up to the eyes had come quickly up the walk, mounted the steps, and rung the front-door bell. The Senator himself had admitted him; Carmichael had seen Fawcett's silhouette on the frosted glass. No one else went into the house. And the same bundled figure left, alone, at ten-twenty-five. Carmichael had waited five minutes, more suspicious than ever, and at ten-thirty went into the house and found Fawcett dead behind his desk. Unfortunately, Carmichael could furnish no description of the lone visitor; the man was muffled to the eyes, and it was pitch-dark outside the house. Yes, it might conceivably have been Aaron Dow.

I dismissed that impatiently. The time, the time! That was the important thing.

“Mr. Carmichael,” I said tensely, “you're absolutely positive you had your eye on that door from the instant you left the house until the time you re-entered, and no one but that single bundled-up figure went in and out?”

He seemed hurt. “My dear Miss Thumm, if I weren't positive I wouldn't make the statement.”

“And it was the same figure who came out that went in?”

“Absolutely.”

I drew a deep breath. There was one thing more, and my case was complete.

“When you entered the study and found the Senator dead,
did you step in front of the fireplace?”

“No.”

We parted with mutual assurances of silence. My mouth was dry all the way back to the Clay house. The beauty and simplicity of the reasoning almost frightened me.… I glanced at father's jaw in the light of the dashboard. It was set; and his eyes were troubled.

“Father,” I said softly, “I've got it.”

“Eh?”

“I'm in a position to prove Aaron Dow innocent.”

The wheel jerked violently, and father cursed beneath his breath as he struggled to right the car. “There you go again! You mean to sit there and tell me that what Carmichael just told us proves Dow's innocence?”

“No. But it furnished the last little block in the theory. It's clear-cut as a diamond.”

He drove in silence for a long time. Then: “Real proof?”

I shook my head. That had worried me from the beginning. “There isn't any,” I said sadly, “that you could take into court.”

He grunted. “Suppose you let me have it, Patty.”

I let him have it. For ten minutes I spoke earnestly while the wind whistled past our ears. Father said nothing at all until I finished, and then he nodded.

“Sounds nice,” he muttered. “Sounds pretty. Damned if it isn't like listening to old Drury spouting miracles. But——”

I was disappointed. I could see that poor father was stewing in a fire of indecision.

“Well,” he sighed, “it's too much for me, Patty old girl. I'll admit I'm not qualified to pass judgment. There's one point in particular I can't quite cotton to. Patty,” his hands tightened on the wheel, “I think we'll take a little trip.”

I was alarmed. “Father! Not now?”

He grinned. “Tomorrow morning. I think we'd better run up and talk to the old buzzard.”

“Father! Please talk English. See whom?”

“Lane, of course. If there's anything wrong with your theory, kid, he'll put his finger on it. I'm washed up here anyway.”

And so that was how it was arranged. In the morning father placed all his facts concerning Dr. Fawcett's machinations before Elihu Clay without revealing the source of his information, and advised him to take no action until our return.

Then we left, not too hopefully.

9. A LESSON IN LOGIC

We found The Hamlet luxuriating in carpets of green, its vast ceiling the bluest blue, and its walls made musical by thousands of birds. By training hypercivilized, I am far from the sedate young lady who sighs sentimentally at the simple beauties of the good earth; but I must confess that the sweetness and vigor of this paradise went to my head, and I caught myself breathing rather more earnestly than a hard-boiled virgin is presumed to in these days of carbonized air and steel interiors.

We came upon Mr. Drury Lane seated, à la Gandhi, on a grassy hummock in the sun. There was a slightly bitter expression on his face; and we saw that he was accepting a spoonful of turgid medicine from the hand of that incredible kobold, Quacey. The ancient leathery little man was grimacing with anxiety. Mr. Lane gulped the sticky brew, made a face, and drew his cotton robe more closely about his bare torso. The flesh of his upper body was firm for a man of his seventy years; but he was woefully thin, and it was evident that he was not well.

Then he looked up and saw us.

“Thumm!” he cried, his face lighting up. “And Patience, my dear! By all the little imps, this is better medicine than yours, Caliban!”

He sprang to his feet and grasped our hands warmly; excited, eyes shining, chattering away like a schoolboy, and overwhelming us with the heartiness of his welcome. He packed Quacey off for iced drinks and drew me down by his feet.

“Patience,” he said, surveying me solemnly, “you're a breath of authentic heaven. What inspired you and the Inspector to come here? It was the kindest charity, I assure you.”

“Been sick, hey?” growled father, with pained eyes.

“Wretched. Old age has struck me in a heap. I seem to have contracted every ailment of senility on the medical calendar.… Now tell me about yourselves and your trip. What happened? How did the investigation go? Have you put this scoundrelly Dr. Fawcett behind the bars yet?”

Father and I looked at each other aghast. “Haven't you read the papers, Mr. Lane?” I gasped.

“Eh?” His smile vanished and he eyed us keenly. “No. My doctors until today forbade any sort of mental excitement.… I see from your faces that something not strictly expected has happened.”

So father told him of the murder of Senator Joel Fawcett. At the word “murder” the old gentleman's sharp eyes glistened, and the color surged into his cheeks. Quite unconsciously he threw off his cotton robe and breathed deeply; and he turned from father to me asking remarkably pointed questions.

“Hmm,” he said at last. “Interesting. Most interesting. But why have you left the scene? Patience, that doesn't sound like you. Giving up the chase? I should imagine that you would have stuck like the personable little bloodhound you are until the very last.”

“Oh, she's sticking, all right,” grumbled father. “But the fact is, Mr. Lane, we're up a tree. Patty's got ideas—hell, she sounds just like you! We want your advice.”

“You shall have it,” said Mr. Lane, smiling sadly, “for what it's worth, which I fear isn't much these days.” At this point Quacey pottered back, staggering under a table of sandwiches and drinks; and Mr. Lane watched us as we fell to with, I fear, impatience.

“Suppose,” he said quickly when we had finished gorging ourselves, “you tell me the whole story from the very beginning, omitting no detail.”

“Spill it, Patty,” said father with a sigh. “By God, this is history repeating itself! Remember—when was it?—eleven years ago? When Bruno and I came up here the first time to tell you of Harley Longstreet's murder? Long time, Mr. Lane.”

“You insist on reminding me of the refulgent past, blast you,” murmured the old gentleman. “Proceed, Patience. I shan't take my eyes from your lips. And be sure you leave nothing out.

And so I told the long tale of the murder of Senator Fawcett, describing everything with surgical minuteness—incidents, facts, impressions about people. He sat like an ivory Buddha, listening with his eyes. And several times those extraordinary eyes glittered and he nodded lightly, as if he saw something of immense significance in what I said.

I completed the epic with an accounting of Carmichael's testimony in the roadhouse, bringing the story up to date. And then he nodded briskly, and smiled, and lay back on the warm grass.