The Wrong Way Down (11 page)

“I've been wondering about that,” admitted Gamadge.

“I should think you would. How many blunt instruments have that extent of surface without a cutting edge? It had to look like a wound she'd get on the flat of her head by hitting a pavement block.”

“I know.”

“It didn't make a ridge or a roughness. Mighty few blunt instruments like that, mighty few.”

“Call it a portable flat surface. A portable flat surface with a handle.”

“That describes it, but what was it?”

“Hanged if I know.”

“It had to be swung; that blow had force behind it. It had to be broader than a hammer head, less tricky than the side of an axe, more purchase than a flatiron. It had to be just right. If it wasn't just right, then the medical examiner
would
ask himself questions. You're putting a lot of brains into this thing, and I don't mean your own.”

“Yes, it was a brainy job, and a vicious one.”

“There must have been a telephone call beforehand, Miss Paxton must have been ready and willing to come down and open the front door. The murderer wouldn't risk having her come out on that balcony where she might be seen if there was anybody around to see.”

“She'd never have made an appointment for nine o'clock at night unless she thought she knew all about the caller. And the appointment was made after I telephoned her about the burglar alarm; otherwise she'd have mentioned the call to me. I'm pretty sure of that.”

Nordhall glanced at his watch. “It's twenty-seven to one; the shank of the evening in San Francisco. I guess it's about time for a little talk with Ashbury.” He pulled the telephone towards him, and motioned Gamadge to bring his chair around the desk. “Just a little talk,” he said. “I haven't had official permission to scare him. Here's the number, they wrote it down in Miss Paxton's little red book.”

“Let's see the address.” Gamadge had moved up to Nordhall's side. Nordhall shoved the book to him and got through to the switchboard. He asked for Ashbury's San Francisco number.

After a wait a voice came from far away; it sounded like the voice of an elderly Chinese servant.

“Mrs. Ashbury? I think she retired. Mrs. Ashbury is not very well.”

An operator set him right.

“Mr. Ashbury? I will call him.”

Another voice spoke, a loudish, strong, self-confident voice:

“This is James Ashbury speaking.”

“New York calling. Go ahead, New York.”

Nordhall muttered out of the side of his mouth: “I'm betting on you, Buddy; don't you let me down.” He spoke into the telephone: “Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Ashbury; this is Detective-Lieutenant Nordhall, Police Department, New York City.”

“Oh—yes, Lieutenant?”

“About Miss Paxton. You've been very helpful, thought I ought to keep you posted.”

“Thanks. Very good of you. Anything more I can do?”

“I wish we'd known your son and daughter were in town; we might not have had to trouble you at all.”

There was a long pause. Then Ashbury said: “Oh yes. They're on a trip. May I ask how you got in touch with them? I wasn't sure I wanted to let them know anything about the accident—they didn't know Miss Paxton. Nothing they could do.”

“We made the connection through their cousin Miss Iris Vance.”

“
Who?
”

“Miss Iris Vance.”

“There's some mistake. They don't know her.”

“They're intimate, Mr. Ashbury. Have a flat in the same apartment building.”

“News to me,” said the voice angrily. “I suppose the children met her somewhere. My daughter told me she was lucky enough to get a sub-lease. These young people. Never know half their plans…”

Gamadge sat forward, listening in. Nordhall cast a glance at his intent profile, and went on:

“I've had some more information on that accident, Mr. Ashbury. It might be better if you came East after all.”

“Came East? Why?”

“I don't want to say much over the telephone, but there's some doubt now about the circumstances of Miss Paxton's death.”

“Doubt? What do you mean? I thought—”

“From information I received, I'm not so sure now that it was an accident.”

“Not an accident! You mean it was a—was a robbery? I thought she fell.” There was a rasp in Ashbury's voice now.

“We're not so sure just what did happen. There'll be an adjournment of the inquest, anyhow. We might need you. Now about a plane reservation; we might help you there.”

“I could manage it in a day or so, I think. I know a man in a bureau. I suppose this is really important? I'm a busy man, and my wife's not well.”

“It's important, Mr. Ashbury. We'll find somewhere for you to stay when you get here. Perhaps your son and daughter could put you up.”

This suggestion brought a violent negation from Ashbury: “I always go to the Roosevelt.”

“It isn't so easy nowadays. But we'll find something. Oh, one moment more. Do you remember a picture—engraving—that hung in the hall of the Park Avenue house, just beyond the door of the dining room? Picture of—” he looked down at Gamadge's hasty scrawl—“of Lady Audley. By Holbein.”

“I don't understand you. Engraving? I never knew one of them from another. There were a lot of pictures.”

“This one was supposed to look like Mrs. Vincent Ashbury—your grandmother.”

“I never heard of it. What of it?”

“Tell you when you get here. And before we ring off—do you know a friend of your son's named Bowles?”

Dead silence. Then Ashbury said slowly: “Bowles? No.”

“Or a Mrs. Spiker?”

“No. Why?”

“As you say, the young people pick up a lot of funny friends nowadays. Well, good night. Be expecting you.” Ashbury mumbled something and broke the connection. Nordhall sat back in his chair to address Gamadge, his face wreathed in smiles:

“If I get in trouble about this it's worth it. But I won't get in trouble. Could I help following up when he gave himself away about the son and daughter? And the Paxton news was almost too much for him. Hear his voice afterwards?”

“What interested me was the fact that he knew Bowles and Spiker by those names.”

“He knows all the false names you heard tonight. He knows all about it. He's in it up to his neck.”

“But he didn't know his children knew Miss Vance, and he never heard of Lady Audley. I told you that was a side show.”

“I'll believe anything you tell me now. And I'll make sure he does get on a plane, and stays on it till it gets here. Did Bantz take your car?”

“Yes.”

“Ride downtown with us then.”

Gamadge waited in the police car until Nordhall had conversed at length with his superiors over the telephone. At eleven minutes to one the car started, with a sergeant on the seat beside the driver and Gamadge and Nordhall behind.

“I got the green light,” said Nordhall, “but I wouldn't have got it if Bantz hadn't dug the bullet out of the woodwork down there. You got me into this; now you'll have to stick around and see me through it.”

“You couldn't get rid of me.”

A
T ONE MINUTE
past one the police car drew up in front of the old corner apartment house. Harold stood beside Gamadge's car talking to a plain-clothes man. “All right and thanks,” said Gamadge. “Go on home.”

“Want the car?”

“I'd better have it.”

Harold walked off towards Third Avenue. Gamadge joined Nordhall in the lobby, where he was in conversation with an elderly Scot who wore trousers and a sweater over pajamas.

“The manager,” said Nordhall. “Mr. Macdougal.”

Macdougal returned Gamadge's nod, and went on talking:

“When your men rang me just now, sir,” he said, “it was the first I knew that there had been trouble. I have my apartment in a wing at the back, on this floor; off the garden. If the tenants want me after ten o'clock at night they ring me. We have no night porter, we've had none since Christmas of 1941. That one waited for his Christmas tips, and then he went off into Defense; so
we
didn't get any after that, not at night.” He chuckled dryly.

“Need any?” asked Nordhall.

“Not until now, sir, but I don't know why. I hear it's a scandal, these rough characters getting into buildings for purposes of robbery.”

“This was the gentleman that nearly got shot.” Macdougal looked at Gamadge with sympathetic interest, and said tut-tut.

“You've had no complaint from the top floor or elsewhere?” asked Nordhall.

“Not a word, sir. They're very nice quiet young people on the top floor. Miss Vance has lived here for many years, most of her life; her parents lived here until they died. Mr. Vance was buried from the house. He was an artist, and Miss Vance herself does beautiful work for the magazines. You know this is a very old house, sir, one of the first apartments ever to go up in New York. One gentleman here was telling me that his grandfather had the apartment he has now. Our tenants don't like change.”

“Don't like to use latchkeys at night, either,” suggested Nordhall.

“No sir, it annoys them to be locked out. I like to humor them when I can—they humor me.” He gave another dry chuckle. “Very few complaints, they know I do my best. Quiet people we have, for the most part elderly. Writing people, theatre people, artists. Very little noise, even at the New Year there's not much laughing and going-on in the halls.”

Nordhall glanced up into the shadows. “Sounds like a nice place. Who are these friends of Miss Vance's in 5B?”

“A sublet for the holidays, they take the flat by the month, I understand. Miss Vance knows the lady and gentleman that live there. Mr. and Mrs. Seaward; fine people. They went to North Carolina for the winter, and Miss Vance asked them as a favor to let Mr. and Miss Ashbury stay here while they were in New York.”

“When did they come?”

“Just a week ago. Last Tuesday. They're quite in love with the house; they're like all the tenants—they appreciate charrrm,” said Macdougal, “and atmospherrre.”

“Well, Macdougal, I must go up and have a word with them. And one of my men will spend the night in the office, and one of them will stay where he is inside the back alley door. Don't you bother to come up, but if we need you and your passkey the sergeant here will come and get you. The flat might possibly be empty.”

“Well, sir,” said Macdougal equably, “you know the law. It's not so easy to get into an empty apartment, even if you have a passkey. Any noise, even dogs, and you have to apply to the Board of Health. No policeman will go in.”

“This was attempted murder, Macdougal.”

“Well, sir, you know best.”

The top floor was quiet and dim; one unshaded bulb of low power lighted it. Miss Vance's door was ajar.

“Visiting,” said Nordhall. He and Gamadge went into the flat, while the sergeant stood guard at the head of the stairs. They walked through it, Gamadge in Nordhall's wake. When they left, Gamadge shut the door behind him.

Nordhall glanced over his shoulder when he heard it close. “Plugging up the foxholes, are you?” He went over and opened the fire door. Gamadge joined him in his survey of cement stairs going down and a wooden ladder leading up to the trap in the roof. The ladder was askew.

“Somebody ran for it,” said Nordhall. “Banged into the ladder. Didn't climb—the trap's bolted.”

He led the way along the hall to 5B, and pushed the bell. “If Vance is visiting here,” he said, “that means they're still up. Talking it over. What you bet it was Bowles went by the fire stairs?”

“I wouldn't bet.”

“Can't get it through my head how Ashbury could hire a thug and let his children in on it. And they let Vance in.” He pushed the bell again, and rapped on the door. “And somebody let Spiker in on it, too.”

“Quite a gang,” agreed Gamadge.

“And a murder racket!” Nordhall lifted his fist to pound on the door, when it opened. Young Ashbury stood looking at the visitors woodenly.

“Glad we didn't have to get you out of bed,” said Nordhall. “You all might have been sound asleep, time it took you to get the door opened up.”

“A few seconds,” said Ashbury.

“We won't argue it. I'm Nordhall, Detective-Lieutenant in Homicide.”

Ashbury stood away from the door; his eyes moved to the inner, lighted end of the passage.

“And you know this gentleman,” said Nordhall. “Perhaps I'd better introduce you all over again though; he thought your name was Simpson.”