Clues for Dr. Coffee, page 8
Biff Walters and Josephine were huddled in the back seat of Ritter’s car. Ritter was standing beside the car, revolver drawn.
“Spurious compatriot is no doubt causing felonious shenanigans, eh, leftenant?” said Dr. Mookerji.
“Yeah,” Ritter said. “Zygon jumped when we slowed for the curve, and he landed running. He won’t go far, though. He’s wearing bracelets.”
A shadow moving toward Ritter materialized as Duncan Floyd.
“I warned you he was a slippery character,” the insurance man said. “I was afraid—”
A shout from the darkness interrupted him. “Over this way, Max. Looks like we winged him.”
Six flashlight beams fingered the night, contracting as they converged on a tall plain-clothes man standing beside a syringa bush. Dr. Coffee followed the lights. Zygon was lying under the bush, his turban partly unwound and caught in the lower branches. His face was gray and shiny with sweat. A bright red stain was spreading across the front of his white tunic. The wounded man groaned as Dr. Coffee examined him.
“Get him to the hospital,” Dan Coffee said. “Quick.”
Pasteur Hospital was just over the hill. The interne on emergency duty started giving plasma to Zygon while the stretcher cart was being rolled to the elevator. In the operating room the resident surgeon took one look at the unconscious man and ordered X rays. Unless the bullet was lodged in some vital organ so that the patient would die were it not removed at once, the surgeon was reluctant to operate.
Dr. Coffee, Dr. Mookerji and Max Ritter followed the stretcher cart to the X-ray department. They waited while the radiologist made a panorama of Zygon’s midsection. As soon as the films were out of the developer and into the fixing bath, a technician gave the high sign and the little group crowded into the dark room.
The resident surgeon glanced at the wet films, decided the bullet would have to come out, and went to scrub up while Zygon was rolled back to the operating room.
Dr. Coffee remained in the dark room, studying the films. After a minute he gave a peculiar laugh.
“Apparently our friend Zygon has an appetite like an ostrich,” he said. “Look at this.”
Ritter peered over the pathologist’s shoulder and the Hindu peeked under his arm. Dr. Coffee indicated a point on the film, just below the latticed shadows of the ribs. Two other shadows were clearly visible, shadows that must have been caused by two opaque objects several inches long and pear-shaped.
“No wonder we couldn’t find the sparklers on him!” Ritter exclaimed. “He chewed the stones off the mountings and swallowed ’em.”
“Some non-Hindu Indians quite notorious for ingesting strange foodstuffs,” Dr. Mookerji said. “Gastric symptoms now explained.”
“Anyhow, the case is solved,” Ritter said. “Zygon killed Sandra and stole—Those are the earrings, ain’t they, Doc?”
“They’re certainly not smoke rings,” the pathologist said. He was silent a moment as he re-examined the X-ray film. “Still, I’m not sure our solution is quite so simple. Where’s Mr. Floyd, Max?”
“He’s in the waiting room with Josephine and her boy friend. Brody’s keeping an eye on ’em.”
“Bring them to the lab, Max. I’ve a few questions.”
Dr. Coffee carefully carried the wet film to his laboratory. When the insurance man came in, Dr. Coffee asked:
“Mr. Floyd, did you ever have Mrs. Farriston’s earrings in your own possession?”
“Oh, yes,” Floyd replied. “I had them appraised when I wrote the original policy about two years ago. And a few weeks ago, when the policy came up for renewal, we made a routine reappraisal.”
Dr. Coffee produced the film. “Would you say, Mr. Floyd, that the objects shown in this X-ray photograph of Zygon’s stomach resemble Mrs. Farriston’s diamonds?”
“Good lord!” Floyd excitedly extracted a micrometer caliper from his pocket and measured the shadows. “Those are the stones, all right. What a relief!”
“Where did Mrs. Farriston get the earrings originally?”
Floyd didn’t know, but Biff Walters did.
“Josephine’s father gave them to Sandra,” Walters said.
“You mean Sandra’s brother?” Ritter asked.
“I mean Sandra’s ex-husband, Henry Sewell. He was there tonight.”
“Is that true, sister? Was Sandra your mother?”
Josephine nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Sandra thought it was a big secret,” Walter continued. “She didn’t even admit it to Josephine. But it’s common knowledge around Carnegie Hall in New York that Sewell paid for Sandra’s European successes in the late twenties. Sandra was never more than a third-rate singer, and she sang in French and Italian theaters because Sewell bought out the house on the nights she sang. You could also buy favorable criticism in the European newspapers in those days. When Sewell lost his money in the 1929 crash, he left Sandra. She divorced him in Paris before Josephine was born, without even telling him she was about to bear him a child. Sandra was proud.”
“That might explain the five grand,” Ritter said. “Has Sandra been giving Sewell the shakedown?”
“Never!” Josephine said.
“Look,” Ritter insisted. “Sandra’s been borrowing like mad for years. She’s mortgaged everything she owns to keep this gal headed for a career. Her credit’s been running thin lately, and she even had trouble financing her shindig tonight. But I found out this afternoon that Sandra deposited five grand in her bank account yesterday—in cash. I’ll find out from Sewell if the five G’s didn’t come from him.”
“You’re all wet, Ritter,” Walters said. “Sandra didn’t give Josephine Sewell’s name. She never told him Jo was his daughter. She wanted to keep the girl all for herself. We had a big fight about it this afternoon. I was trying to convince Sandra it would be better for Jo to be a hit blues singer than a bad prima donna, and Sandra—”
His speech was cut short by the arrival of the resident surgeon. The surgeon’s gauze mask dangled from one ear and there was blood on his short-sleeved white jacket. He carried a gauze-covered metal cup. ‘
“I couldn’t save your man,” the surgeon said. “He died on the table. But I got the bullet. I suppose you’ll want it.”
“What about the diamonds?” Floyd demanded. “The man swallowed two very valuable diamonds before he was shot.”
“Dr. Coffee will have to recover them for you when he does the autopsy,” the surgeon said. He placed the cup on the lab workbench and departed.
“At least I can sleep tonight,” the insurance man said. “Do you gentlemen need me any more now?”
Ritter shook his head. “Go on home,” he said.
After Floyd left, Ritter lifted the gauze from the surgeon’s cup. The bullet was slightly twisted, but it was not the usual shapeless mass of lead that is dug out of gunshot victims. It still resembled a bullet.
“Hell!” Ritter exclaimed. “This looks like a .32.”
“Please, what is hellish about .32 bullet?” Dr. Mookerji asked.
“Every cop in Northbank carries a .38 police positive,” the detective said. “If my boys didn’t shoot Zygon, who did?”
“Dr. Mookerji and I had the opportunity,” Dan Coffee said. “So did Mr. Walters and Miss Farriston.”
“Floyd, too,” admitted Ritter. “But I went over Floyd with a fine comb, and the prince and princess here were searched, too. None of them could have been hiding a gun. After all, there are some things a guy can’t swallow.”
Dr. Coffee arose quickly as though a sudden idea had struck him from below. He grabbed his hat.
“Max, I’ve been stupid. Let’s try to catch up with Mr. Floyd.”
They had to wait several minutes for the elevator, and by the time they reached the ground floor, Floyd’s car was gone from in front of the hospital.
“I know where he lives,” Ritter said.
“Try his office first,” said Dr. Coffee.
Floyd’s car was standing in front of the office building. Ritter tried the car door. The car was unlocked.
“He’s careless,” Ritter said.
“Or in a hurry,” said Dr. Coffee. “Try the glove compartment.”
There was nothing in the glove compartment but a tattered road map, a flashlight, and a square of chamois.
They rang the night bell. The sleepy night elevator operator took his time about answering. Yes, Mr. Floyd had come in a short while ago. Yes, he would take them up.
Duncan Floyd did not seem surprised to see them.
“Hello,” he said. “I stopped by the office to draft my report to the home office. They’ll be glad to know there won’t be a claim to pay on the Farriston diamonds. What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“You can open that safe behind you,” Dr. Coffee said.
“I’d be glad to,” Floyd said, “except I’ve just had the combination changed, and I have trouble remembering it. We’ll have to wait until my secretary comes down in the morning.”
“Open it now,” Ritter said. “Or I’ll send for the Safe Squad.”
“Well! What’s the hurry? What the devil’s in the safe?”
“Mrs. Farriston’s diamonds,” Dr. Coffee said.
Floyd laughed. “Doctor, you assured me the diamonds were in Zygon’s stomach. You yourself showed me the film. I saw the X-ray photo of the stones with my own eyes.”
“You saw what Zygon thought were the Farriston diamonds,” Dr. Coffee said. “But the gems in the X-ray photo are imitations.”
“Well! Appraisal by photo.” Again Floyd laughed. “Aren’t you exaggerating the miracle of the X ray, Doctor?”
“On the contrary. If Zygon had swallowed the true gems, they could not have been seen in the photo. Gentiine diamonds are perfectly transparent to X rays. False diamonds, however, are made of strass, a brilliant glass with a very high lead content. Don’t you know, Mr. Floyd, that lead is opaque to X rays?”
“Remember the combination now, Floyd?” Ritter said.
“I’ll—I’ll try. I’d like to prove you’re wrong.”
Floyd crouched in front of the safe, twirled the dial. The heavy door swung open. Floyd spun about as he straightened up. In his left hand was a small chamois bag. His right held a revolver.
“Hands up, gentlemen!” he ordered.
The detective and the pathologist complied. The bald-headed little man dropped the chamois bag into his pocket and yanked the telephone cord from its baseboard connection. He backed toward the door, taking keys from his pocket with his left hand.
“I find you are right after all, gentlemen,” Floyd said. “So I will require a few hours’ head start.” He opened the door behind him. “There’s a ten-story drop outside that window, and you’ll find this lock very difficult to pick.”
As Floyd started backing through the half-open door, his expression suddenly changed. His head jerked back. He stiffened.
A high-pitched voice in the hall said: “Kindly elevate hands above head, subsequent to relaxing grasp on revolver gun!”
Floyd dropped the revolver. Ritter pounced on it. Floyd re-entered the room, pushed from behind by Dr. Motilal Mookerji, who was poking something into the small of his back.
“Suggest use of manacles, leftenant,” Dr. Mookerji said, “in view of apparent homicidal intent of smallish hairless gentleman.”
Ritter snapped steel about Floyd’s wrists. The Hindu withdrew the bunch of keys he had been poking into Floyd’s back and handed them to Dr. Coffee.
“Please pardon intrusion, Doctor Sahib,” the Hindu said, “but remarked you were forgetting keys on laboratory workbench. Therefore, knowing Mrs. Coffee’s dislike of rude awakening in small hours of nighttime, I—”
“Swami, I could kiss you,” Max Ritter said. He was examining Floyd’s revolver. “It’s a .32 all right. He musta transferred it from his car to the safe before we got here. How about it, Floyd?”
Floyd refused to talk without advice of his attorney. Dr. Coffee, therefore, reconstructed the case from his own deductions.
“Sandra Farriston evidently made some deal with Floyd to dispose of her diamonds, replace them with exact reproductions, and then collect insurance on the loss of the replicas,” the pathologist said. “The five-thousand-dollar cash deposit no doubt represented a down payment on what was to have been a long-range scheme.
“But Sandra wanted more money in a hurry. Her peculiar pride made her prefer dishonesty to seeking help from a former husband. So she obviously made arrangements with Zygon to steal the imitation earrings, so she could collect the insurance. This unforeseen haste threw Floyd into a panic. I can see no other reason for the desperate measures he adopted. Before paying a fifty-thousand-dollar claim, the insurance company would put trained investigators on the case—while the original diamonds were still in Floyd’s possession. I was sure they must have been still in his possession, to drive him to commit two murders. To try to prevent being caught in a fifty-thousand-dollar fraud, Floyd came to you in the afternoon, hoping to stop the projected robbery.
“When Sandra refused police protection—for good reason, as we have seen—Floyd grew even more desperate. And when Zygon actually stole the earrings in the dark, Floyd stabbed Sandra with Zygon’s dagger. Sandra’s death would eliminate a possible witness against him. It would precipitate police intervention so that Zygon would be caught with the earrings on his person; thus there would be no claim to pay and no insurance investigation. And finally Floyd would be left in full possession of the original gems—and a very neat clear profit.
“However, Zygon’s method of hiding the gems upset Floyd’s new plan. The earrings were still missing, and an insurance investigation was still an unpleasant possibility. So when Zygon made a break in the park and your boys started shooting at him, Max, Floyd took the gun which he obviously kept in his car—you hadn’t searched his car, remember—joined in the hunt and bagged his game. He might have got away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for Dr. Wilhelm Roentgen.”
“Roentgen?” Ritter interrupted. “I thought the resident surgeon’s name was Smith.”
“Dr. Roentgen discovered X rays,” Dan Coffee said.
“Am foreseeing only one unhappy possibility arising from otherwise happy aforesaid solution,” Dr. Mookerji said. “To wit, as follows. If title to high-priced diamonds is reverting to golden-haired Josephine with silver-plated voice, will not same lady feel compulsion to pursue dismal operatical career?”
“That,” said Dr. Coffee, “is a matter I think we can well leave in the hands of Mr. Biff Walters.”
Murder Behind Schedule
Dr. Daniel Webster Coffee, chief pathologist at Pasteur Hospital, having helped his wife with the dinner dishes, installed his portable typewriter on the dining-room table, moistened the bottom of a snifter with an amber inch of Armagnac, and sat down to write. He had barely typed the words “New Methods of Post-mortem Diagnosis of Drowning” when his phone rang.
“Hi, Doc,” said Max Ritter, the tallest, skinniest and sharpest lieutenant of detectives on the Northbank police force. “Put your shoes on and hurry over before the coroner gets here to louse up the clues. Our boy finally got it.”
“Which boy, Max?” Dr. Coffee was used to acting as Ritter’s private medical examiner.
“That guy Waverly. Only now he’s like a case for that Dr. Gideon Fell you made me read about last summer. Remember? The locked room?”
The pathologist was immediately intrigued. “Max, where are you?”
When the detective gave him an address, Dr. Coffee gulped his Armagnac with sacrilegious haste, gave his wife an apologetic kiss, made himself decent, and took off.
As his wind-broken six-year-old coupe wheezed its way across town, he tried to remember everything he had heard about the late Michael Waverly. Nobody in Northbank could be neutral about Waverly. People either worshiped him or hated his guts, and the haters had apparently gained a decisive majority.
Waverly was a relative newcomer to Northbank. He had arrived with three expensive cars, title to the biggest house on the fashionable Heights, a winsome wife twenty-odd years his junior, and a frank determination not to be ignored. He joined everything that would give him status, bankrolled a little theater group, donated a Mondrian to the local art gallery, and endowed a string quartet for his wife Brenda to program. Aesthetes regarded the big, pink-faced, silver-haired Croesus as the answer to an art lover’s prayer—an angel, a connoisseur, and a collector. But when Waverly began collecting factories, particularly small firms in trouble, amalgamating the most promising and shutting down the most anemic, he also began to collect haters.
Dr. Coffee had been exposed to the overpowering Waverly charm but had not been infected. The man’s public-spirited generosity was so ostentatious that the pathologist suspected he was overcompensating for some secret cruelty and that Brenda could expect little warmth from a man whose veins ran with ice water. Wagging tongues had hinted that Brenda had been seeking warmth and understanding from the second violinist of the Waverly String Quartet and that her quest had not been in vain. Talk of pending divorce, however, had been largely discounted. What woman would throw away the overstuffed if cold security of the Waverly fortune for the threadbare if warm devotion of a semipro violinist who made his living as a mechanic for the Kent Airframe and Instrument Co.? Of course, if Waverly died and left her his fortune.…
Dr. Coffee wedged his aging chariot in among the police and newsmen’s cars that had made a parking lot of the Waverly lawn. As Lieutenant Ritter ushered him into the dead man’s study, the pathologist noted that the door was off its hinges. Waverly was sprawled backward in a chair behind his desk, his mouth open in a silent shout of terror. The telephone cord was hooked in his elbow; the instrument was on the floor.
“‘Help!’ he yells to me on the phone,” Ritter explained. “‘Help! He’s after me again! He’s going to—’ Then I hear like a groan, then loud banging noises, then nothing.”
When the first squad car arrived seconds later, Ritter continued, Paul Monson, Brenda Waverly’s favorite second violinist, was ringing the front-door bell. The uniformed cops took over and were banging on the door when Ritter arrived. At almost the same moment, Mrs. Waverly opened the door, rubbing her eyes and apologizing for not having heard the bell. The servants were out and she had fallen asleep over a book. She had not heard her husband come in, she said, but she supposed he was in his study.
