Clues for Dr. Coffee, page 14
“I think it’s murder,” Ritter declared. “That Devoto dame, first of all, is lying her head off. She says she never saw the inside of Suite 232, but I find her prints all over the place. So I bring in the night clerk of the Southside and he identifies her as a dame who went up in the elevator about half an hour before the telegram came for Belinda, and who came back down five minutes later. So the Devoto dame changes her story. She says a New York phone call came for Holliday in Boone Point, and it had to be answered right away because it involved a big deal in white pepper. She didn’t know Holliday had sent the wire, so she thinks she’ll find him with Belinda. The door to Belinda’s apartment is open so she walks in, she says, and finds Belinda dead. So naturally she didn’t want to talk about her visit.”
“She’s protecting Holliday, Max,” Dr. Coffee said. “I think if we find that Belinda was murdered, and that Holliday may have killed her, Anne Devoto will confess that she did it herself. Why else would she leave her fingerprints in the apartment?”
“Could be,” Ritter said. “She’s been Holliday’s secretary for fifteen years, and I guess she’s been in love with him for fourteen. But Holliday is lying, too. That blackout story of his is phony. I find his car, all right, against a tree about a quarter mile this side of Boone Point. But it was going about three miles an hour when it hit the tree. There’s just a little dent in one fender. And it backs right away when we get in and step on the starter.
“So I start looking for this spice importer. No trace of him. He’s not in Northbank, not in Boone Point. So I call New Orleans. His home don’t answer. His office ain’t seen him in two days. Then I bring that night clerk from the Southside down to the station again and let him look at Holliday. ‘That guy,’ the clerk says, ‘came into the lobby just before Miss Devoto stepped out of the elevator, coming down. I remember she grabbed his arm and they went out together.’ So maybe she murdered Belinda to keep Holliday from taking her back, and talked him into inventing these cockeyed stories to protect her.”
“If Belinda was murdered,” Dr. Coffee said. “What about Manson?”
“I been holding him, too, while we checked his movements,” the detective said, “but I can’t keep him much longer. All his stories tally. He’s going, to marry that Bosworth babe who owns the shoe factory all right. And she’s out in California visiting relatives, like he says.”
“And the young man Belinda was in love with?”
“Holliday and Manson back each other up on that one,” Ritter replied. “They both think he was walking out on Belinda, and they both seem to think he was married, but nobody knows his name.”
“Is the spice importer from New Orleans married, Max?”
“He is. And I’m still trying to find him,” the detective said. “Flash me when you know something, Doc.”
Next morning at ten o’clock Dr. Coffee flashed Lieutenant Ritter. “It’s murder, Max,” he said into the telephone. “Belinda wasn’t drowned. She was poisoned—by someone who knew her intimate habits.… No, it wasn’t cyanide. I’ll tell you all about it later. Can you bring all your suspects up here late this afternoon, after I’ve finished my hospital routine? About five o’clock.… Sure, bring the spice importer, too, if you find him. Meanwhile, don’t book anybody and don’t mention the word murder.
“Another thing, Max. Since practically everybody in this case has been making free with the truth, I’d like you to do a little second-degree fibbing yourself. First, that bath-oil bottle is still in the apartment, so far as you know. Second, you’re positively going to be out of town tonight. You have to leave in a hurry right after our conference. Okay, Max. See you at five.”
Ritter had not turned up his spice importer by five o’clock, but he appeared at Dr. Coffee’s laboratory with Warren Holliday, Roy Manson and Anne Devoto. The two men had undergone marked transformation during their brief police custody. Holliday had aged ten years. His gray eyes were no longer just tired; they were frightened. And Manson had shed not only his acquired executive manner, but his homespun shyness as well. He was edgy, harassed, with a badgered, almost haunted look. Only Miss Devoto was her own calm self, demure and maidenly despite her vital, dark eyes.
“You no doubt know,” Dr. Coffee began, “that Lieutenant Ritter suspected foul play in the death of Mrs. Holliday. I’ll put your minds at ease by telling you at once that we have found no evidence of murder. We did find methemoglobin, a pathological factor produced in the blood by some diseases and certain poisons. Does any one of you know if Mrs. Holliday had had a recent attack of—say malaria?”
Nobody remembered any serious illness.
“Then there is the possibility of anaphylaxis—a fatal allergy,” the pathologist continued. “She may have been hypersensitive to some drug or cosmetic product. Mr. Holliday, did your ex-wife habitually use any particular brand of bath oil?”
“Belinda was crazy about anything that had the scent of almonds,” Holliday said. “Her favorite was something called Kiss of Kandahar. She used it for years.”
Dr. Coffee turned to Ritter. “Max, are any of your men still on duty at the Southside?”
“Nope,” the detective said. “I pulled Brody off at noon today.”
“When you get a chance, I wish you’d go back to Mrs. Holliday’s apartment and get me that bottle of bath oil I noticed the other day. It was empty, but I may be able to squeeze out a drop or two and make an analysis.”
“Is tomorrow okay?” Ritter asked. “I won’t be in town tonight. I got to leave in half an hour for a quick trip upstate.”
“Tomorrow’s fine,” Dr. Coffee said. “There’s no hurry. Meanwhile you’d better release these good people. There seems no valid reason for holding them further.”
Warren Holliday rose from his chair. The mask of fear slipped from his face as he turned to Miss Devoto, seeking confirmation. She smiled, and he smiled back at her, wonderingly, as though seeing her for the first time. “You mean we can go?”
“If the doc says you can go, you better hightail it out of here quick,” Ritter said, “with the thanks and apologies of the police department and three bucks a day material-witness fees.”
The trio had hardly left the laboratory when Max Ritter said, “I guess we can cut the double-talk now, Doc. Do you and the swami here know what was in that bottle?”
“Quite,” Dr. Mookerji replied. “Analyzed contents with own hands. Same contained mononitrobenzene, alias oil of mirbane, which is noisome protoplasmic poison of high-octane potency.”
“Then why do we let these characters go, Doc?”
“Because if one of those three killed Belinda, the guilty person knows there was mononitrobenzene in the bath-oil bottle, and that I may be able to identify the poison if I can get my hands on it. Therefore I am convinced that the murderer will sneak back to Belinda’s apartment tonight to get the bottle. You and I will be waiting there.”
“Okay, Doc. Let’s go, then. Swami, take any messages that come here for me.”
En route to the Southside Apartment Hotel, Ritter said, “Tell me more about this oil of whozis, Doc.”
“Mononitrobenzene,” Dr. Coffee said, “is called oil of mirbane in commerce. It used to serve as artificial bitter almond flavoring in the days before Federal food and drug laws. It is still used in small and safe amounts in perfumery, among other things. In large enough amounts, it can decompose the blood and act on the central nervous system. It can be absorbed through the skin, causing death—sometimes within the hour—by paralyzing the respiratory centers.
“Belinda’s habit of reading and smoking in the bathtub would allow plenty of time for absorption of the pleasant-smelling poison. Therefore the murderer was well acquainted with her intimate habits.”
“Like that spice importer I can’t locate,” Ritter said.
“Or any of the three persons you’ve just released. I think I know which one it is—for reasons you’ll understand, if I’m right.”
Ritter parked his car behind the Southside. The two men entered through the basement and walked to the second floor by the fire stairs. Ritter opened Suite 232 with a passkey.
They had been sitting in the dark for more than an hour when there was a knock at the door, followed by a violent, persistent ringing of the bell. “This upsets my theory,” Dr. Coffee whispered.
“I’ll upset that Swiss bell ringer,” Ritter growled. He flung open the door. “The swami! Get inside here quick! What’s the idea of—”
“Have no fears, leftenant,” Dr. Mookerji said. The door closed again and he continued talking in the dark. “Took every precaution to conceal present destination, making surreptitious entrance via devious routes. However, two telegraphic messages arrived for you from police station, leftenant, so decided to deliver same in person to maintain secrecy of current whereabouts.”
Paper crackled as the Hindu pressed something into the detective’s hand. Ritter shoved the two envelopes into his pocket. “I’ll read ’em later,” he said. “No lights, now.”
A series of thumps, followed by suppressed exclamations, marked the progress of the Hindu in the darkness. The creak of sofa springs and a sigh announced the success of his search for a seat.
Another hour passed in silence before Dr. Coffee heard the sound he had been waiting for: the scrape of a key in the lock.
The door opened slowly. The narrow ribbon of light widened into a pale oblong silhouetting briefly a human figure which disappeared instantly as the door clicked shut. Dan Coffee held his breath. So apparently did Ritter and Dr. Mookerji. Only the breathing of the newcomer was audible.
A flashlight beam speared the gloom, and a luminous disk rippled across the rug. Then Max Ritter touched the switch and the living room was flooded with brightness.
“Hello, Mr. Manson,” Dr. Coffee said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Roy Manson stood in the center of the room, blinking at the gun in Ritter’s hand.
“I thought you’d have a key,” Dr. Coffee continued, “to be able to substitute mononitrobenzene for Belinda’s bath oil during her absence. And a man familiar with Belinda’s intimate bathing habits would have a key. You were Belinda’s lover, weren’t you, Manson, for some time before she went south for a divorce?”
Manson turned on a frozen white smile. “We were just old friends,” he said.
“Such close friends,” Dr. Coffee said, “that Belinda got rid of her husband and came to Northbank to be near you—the man she expected to marry. But she wasn’t going to sit by quietly, was she, just because you changed your mind while she was away and decided to marry the shoe heiress instead? When does your fiancee, Miss Bosworth, get back from California, Manson?”
Manson did not reply.
“Answer to said conundrum now reposing in Leftenant Ritter’s pocket, perhaps,” Dr. Mookerji volunteered.
“That’s right. I wired the police chief at Beverly Hills today.” Ritter fished the crumpled yellow envelopes from his pocket. He chuckled grimly as he tore them open. “Esther Bosworth is due back in Northbank tomorrow by air. So I guess Belinda got killed because she was going to spill her story to Miss Bosworth—about how she got a divorce to marry her lover, and how Manson was going to ditch her to marry a shoe factory instead.”
“It was the shoe factory that first made me suspect Manson,” Dr. Coffee said. “Since mononitrobenzene is used in dyeing leather for black shoes, Manson must be well acquainted with its deadly qualities. I’m sure you’ll find drums of it at the factory to prove his access to the poison. And with the key to this apartment in his possession—”
Dr. Coffee was interrupted by a childish whimper. Manson sank into a chair, tried to speak, then buried his dead-white face in his big hands.
“Hey, look!” Ritter said. “This other wire is from New Orleans. The spice importer ain’t been near Northbank in months. He just got back from a three-day fishing trip in the Gulf.” Ritter frowned. “Then who got Holliday over to Northbank on a wild-goose chase?”
“Roy Manson, of course,” Dr. Coffee explained. “He knew that Holliday was still in love with Belinda and was sure to go and see her once he was in Northbank and at loose ends. A visit from Holliday to his ex-wife on the day of her death would misdirect suspicion in case the subject of murder was brought up. Even Miss Devoto, who also knew that Holliday might go to Belinda’s apartment, suspected Holliday when she found Belinda dead. That’s why she not only dreamed up that elaborate story about migraine and the phony auto accident, but even went all out to leave her own fingerprints here.”
Max Ritter lighted a cigarette and blew a contemptuous cloud of smoke at the man who sat motionless in the chair. “A swell guy, this Manson. He even brought flowers for Belinda. I’d like him to meet my sister sometime.”
“Shoemakers,” commented Dr. Mookerji, “should remain stuck to last.”
“Were going to stick this shoemaker, all right,” Ritter agreed. “And believe me, it’s going to last.”
“You know, Max,” Dr. Coffee said, “when Holliday left my lab this afternoon, I think he realized for the first time that his secretary actually believed he had killed Belinda, and that she was ready to do anything to save his neck, even to taking the rap herself. I’ll ask Miss Devoto to come by the lab some day next week. Maybe Doris can give her a few pointers on fixing her hair. She’s really quite a good-looking gal, and Holliday may not be aware of it.”
Wrong-Way Tosca
The place was a shambles when Lieutenant of Detectives Max Ritter arrived. Two overmuscled, uncongenial ogres seemed to have been throwing the livingroom furniture at each other. Chair legs and lamps littered the apartment. Light bulbs had been smashed, so that the police had to work by flashlights until emergency illumination had been set up. The bed was a rat’s nest of bloody tatters. A trail of gore led from the bedroom through the living room into the bathroom. The bathroom tiles were slippery with half-congealed blood and the walls were red with arterial spatters and frantic hand prints.
The dead man was lying in the bathroom in a pretzellike posture that would have made a Ringling Brothers contortionist green with envy. He had one foot in the toilet bowl, one arm in the wash basin, and his head in the sticky-red bathtub. The wood-handled longbladed kitchen knife which had carved hieroglyphics into his torso had been left lying on the bathroom floor. So had a cheap plastic raincoat which the murderer had obviously worn to protect his clothing during the butchery, as well as the crumpled bloody towels with which he had wiped his hands and probably his shoes.
The house phone was off the hook and lay on the floor, a fact which led to the early discovery of the crime. The desk clerk of the Westside Residential Hotel plugged a jack under signal light that suddenly flared for Apartment 26. He said “Office” several times but got no response. He thought he heard curious sounds in the background and said “Office” several times more. When he heard what he thought was the sound of a door closing, he ran up the stairs—the selfservice elevator was somewhere in the stratosphere—and banged on the door of Apartment 26. When there was no response, he ran back down the stairs and called the police. He made no attempt to enter the apartment with his passkey until the squad-car cops arrived. Why should he, a law-abiding and unarmed citizen, usurp what was the unquestioned duty of the uniformed forces of the law?
While the print men, photographers and other technicians were picking their way gingerly through the gory mess in Apartment 26, Lieutenant Ritter was collecting background data. The swarthy, lugubrious beanpole of a detective found the desk clerk, the manager, and the neighbors singularly uninformative. It seemed incredible to Ritter than such a desperate life-and-death struggle could have gone on without arousing some auditory interest, but this appeared to be the case. The man and wife across the hall were addicted to loud television—the wife was rather deaf—and the people in the apartment next door were out for the evening. The girl at the end of the hall had taken a sleeping pill and even slept through five minutes of police door-pounding.
Neither the desk clerk nor the house manager was of much help at first. The desk clerk, a young man with curly brown hair, long eyelashes, and suspiciously red lips, was terribly, terribly bored and terribly, terribly vague about who had come and gone through the lobby during the evening. The manager said that the dead man had registered three weeks previously as Gerald Simpson of New York, although he agreed with the desk clerk that the deceased had a pronounced Southern accent.
Max Ritter was convinced that the dead man’s name was not Simpson and that he did not come from New York. In the wastebasket of Apartment 26, he had found an envelope addressed to Mr. Paul Wallace, General Delivery, Northbank, and postmarked Baton Rouge, Louisiana. There was no return address on the envelope and no letter inside or in the wastebasket.
In a dresser drawer, under a pile of expensive shirts, Ritter found a Social Security card in the name of Paul Wallace and a passbook showing a balance of some $1,700 in a Cleveland bank to the credit of P. L. Wallis. In an envelope stuffed into the inside pocket of a Brooks Brothers sports jacket hanging in a closet, the detective found an envelope containing a dozen newspaper clippings about a young singer named Patsy Erryl.
Even in the smudged halftone pictures, Patsy was a comely lass, apparently not far out of her teens, brimful of that intangible effervescence which is the exclusive property of youth. In most of the poses her lips were parted with the eagerness of young innocence. Her eyes glowed with the roseate vision of an unclouded future. Her blonde head was poised with the awareness of her own fresh loveliness. Patsy Erryl was quite obviously a personality. Morover, Lieutenant Ritter concluded as he read through the clippings, Patsy had talent.
Patsy had been singing in Northbank night clubs for the past year. Just a month before the sudden demise of Mr. Paul Wallace, she had won the regional tryouts of the Metropolitan Opera auditions. In a few weeks she would go to New York to compete in the nationally broadcast finals.
