Dutch Shoe Mystery (16 page)

The fat man seemed singularly pleased at the stir he had created. Although his eyes were carefully screwed up in scores of tiny crinkles, he was smirking. “At first Cudtahy said I should do it. Budt,” virtuously, “it wass an infamous suggestion. I threatened to go to the police. What? I said. My flesh and blood. … He laughed and said
he
midght do it. I said, ‘You are nodt serious, Mike?’ He said, ‘That iss my business. Budt you are to keep your mouth shudt, you understand?’ What could I do? He—he would have killed me. …”

“When did this conversation take place?” demanded Queen.

“Last September.”

“Has Cudahy ever discussed it since?”

“No.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Three weeks ago. … There iss little else.” Doorn was perspiring unpleasantly; his little eyes, unsettled, roved from face to face. “When I saw this morning that my sister she wass dead, murdered—what else could I think budt that Cudtahy … You see? Now I will have to—I mean I will be able to pay my debt to him. That iss what he wants.”

Sampson shook his head worriedly. “Cudahy’s mouthpiece would riddle your story to bits, Mr. Doorn. Have you any witnesses to his threat? I thought not. No, I’m afraid we have nothing on which to hold Big Mike. Of course, we can keep our fingers on his three thugs, but not for long unless definite evidence against them is found.”

“They’ll try to spring ’em to-day,” said the Inspector grimly. “But those boys will stay in our hands. I’ll promise you that, Henry. … Only, it doesn’t ring true. Snapper’s the only one of the three who is small enough to have impersonated Janney, and somehow …”

“I tell you this story,” interposed Doorn in an eager squeak, “because of my sister.” His brow darkened. “Vengeance! The murderer will pay the penalty!” He sat erect, like a fattened rooster.

Harper placed the tips of his tobacco-stained fingers together and tapped them against each other in silent applause; Ellery caught the movement and smiled.

Sampson said, “It seems to me, Mr. Doorn, that you have very little to fear from Cudahy or his mob.”

“You think so?”

“I’m positive. You’re worth much more to Cudahy alive than dead. If something happened to you, he wouldn’t stand a chance of collecting—not Cudahy, on I.O.U.’s. No, sir! His best bet is to let you alone, have the estate settled, and then bully you into paying him what you borrowed.”

“I suppose,” queried the Inspector sardonically, “you’re paying regular rates of interest?”

Doorn groaned. “Fifteen per cent. …” There was silence as he swabbed the perspiration from his face. “You won’dt tell?” His jowls quivered ludicrously.

“Usury. …” The Inspector mused. “We’ll treat your story confidentially, Mr. Doorn, I can promise you that. And you’ll have ample protection from Cudahy.”

“Thank you, thank you!”

“Now, suppose you give us an account of your own movements this morning?” ventured the Inspector casually.

“My movements?” Doorn stared with goggle-eyes. “Budt surely you don’t … Ha! So. It iss a matter of form, no? I heard by the telephone of my sister’s fall. The Hospital called. I wass still in bedt. Hulda and Sarah left before me. I arrived at the Hospital aboudt 10:00 o’clock. I wass trying to findt Dr. Janney. Budt I could nodt, and aboudt five minutes before the operation I came to the Waidting Room where wass Hulda and young Morehouse, the lawyer.”

“Just wandered about, eh?” The Inspector looked glum. He gnawed his mustache. Ellery, striding into the group, smiled down at Hendrik Doorn.

“Mrs. Doorn,” he said, “was a widow. How is it, then, that she was known as ‘Mrs. Doorn’? Isn’t the family name Doorn? Or did she marry a distant cousin of the same name?”

“Wery goodt,” piped the fat man. “You see, Mr. Queen, Abigail married Charles Van der Donk, budt when he died she took back her maiden name and added the ‘Mrs.’ for her dignity. She was very proud of the Doorn name.”

“I can substantiate that,” put in Harper lazily, “because I took a quick look at the back-files before I dashed down to the Hospital this morning.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it in the least.” Ellery polished his glasses with vigor. “I, was just curious. And how about your obligations to Michael Cudahy, Mr. Doorn? You mentioned cards, horses. How about the larger and more exciting game? The ladies, to be literal.”

“Hein?”
Doorn’s face once more assumed a glistening aspect as the perspiration beaded it. “Why—ah—”

“Attention!”
said Ellery sharply. “Answer my question, Mr. Doorn. Are there any women on your list to whom you
still
owe money? Note that I am the perfect gentleman and omit mentioning the reason.”

Doorn licked his blubbery lips. “No. I—I am all paid up.”

“Danken sie!”

The Inspector was regarding his son keenly. Ellery’s head jerked the merest bit. The Inspector rose and, with the utmost casualness, put his hand on Doorn’s huge soft arm.

“I think that will be enough for the present, Mr. Doorn. Thanks, and don’t worry about Cudahy.” Doorn struggled to his feet, wiping his face. “By the way, we should like to see Miss Hulda for a moment. On the way up, will you—”

“Yes. Yes. Goodt-by.”

Doorn waddled quickly out of the room.

They looked at each other. Inspector Queen located a telephone on a desk and called Police Headquarters. It was while he conversed with a deputy inspector that Ellery murmured, apropos of nothing, “Did it strike you that friend Doorn, the living Colossus of Rhodes, has upset the dictates of his own slimy nature by spilling his story?”

“Sure it has,” drawled Harper. “The cush.”

“You mean if Cudahy were convicted of Abigail Doorn’s murder he wouldn’t …” Sampson knit his brows.

“Exactly,” said Ellery. “The mammoth wouldn’t have to pay back what he owes. Perhaps that accounts for his anxiety to cast suspicion on Cudahy. …”

And then Hulda Doorn entered the library leaning on Philip Morehouse’s arm.

With a glum and watchful young Morehouse hovering about her, Hulda Doorn soon revealed that behind the thick old walls of the rococo Doorn chambers a bitter feud had grown up. She revealed it only after the combined cross-questions of the Inspector and the District Attorney made excuses and subterfuge no longer possible.

Morehouse stood behind her, his crisp features dark with irritation.

Abigail Doorn and Sarah Fuller … two old women, snapping at each other behind closed doors, wrangling like fishwives over no one knew what. Hulda did not know. For weeks the two women, septuagenarian and spinster faded prematurely by an obsession, would live side by side without speaking to each other. For months they would confer only on essentials, and then in monosyllables. For years they had not had a kind word for each other. And yet weeks and months and years passed and Sarah Fuller remained in the service of Abigail Doorn.

“Was there ever any question of Mrs. Doorn discharging her?”

The girl shook her head mechanically. “Oh, mother would be angry and sometimes say she was through with Sarah, but we all knew it was just talk. … I used to ask mother why she and Sarah didn’t get along. She—she used to look strange and say it was just my fancy, and that a woman in her position couldn’t very well be intimate with even a high grade of servant. But that—that wasn’t like mother either. I—”

“I told you about all this,” snapped Morehouse. “Why do you torture—”

They paid, no attention to him. … Domestic quarrels, ventured Hulda finally. Surely it could have been nothing more serious. Otherwise why—

The Inspector suddenly dropped the matter.

Questioned as to her movements of the morning, Hulda corroborated Sarah Fuller’s recital in the Anteroom of the Hospital.

“You say,” pursued the Inspector, “that Miss Fuller left you in the Waiting Room and wandered off somewhere, and that Mr. Morehouse came to you there shortly after Miss Fuller left. … Was Mr. Morehouse with you all the time from then until he left to witness the operation?”

Hulda pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Yes. Oh, except for about ten minutes or so, I think. I asked Philip if he would please find Dr. Janney and bring back some word to me about mother. Sarah had gone and not returned. Philip came back later saying he couldn’t find the doctor. Isn’t that so, Phil? I—I’m not very clear about—about …”

Morehouse said quickly, “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

“And at what time, Miss Doorn,” asked the Inspector delicately, “did Mr. Morehouse return to you?”

“Oh, I don’t remember. What time was it, Phil?”

Morehouse bit his lip. “I should say—it must have been 10:40, because I left you again almost immediately to go to the Amphitheater gallery, and the operation—the operation was begun in a very short while.”

“I see.” The Inspector rose. “I believe that’s all.”

Ellery said smoothly, “Is Miss Dunning in the house, Miss Doorn? I should like to speak with her.”

“She’s gone.” Hulda closed her eyes wearily; her soft lips looked parched, fevered. “She was so sweet, coming here with me. But she had to go back to the Hospital. She has charge of the Social Service Department there, you know.”

“By the way, Miss Doorn.” The District Attorney was smiling. “I’m sure you will want to give the police every possible assistance. … It will be necessary to examine Mrs. Doorn’s private papers for a possible clew.”

The girl nodded; a spasm of horror twitched her white features. “Yes. Yes; I just—can’t believe …”

Morehouse said angrily, “There’s nothing in the house here that can help you. I have all her business papers and those things. Why don’t you leave. …”

Morehouse bent over Hulda. She looked up at him.

They left the room together, quickly.

The old butler was summoned. He had a wooden face but extraordinarily bright little eyes.

“Your name is Bristol?” said the Inspector briskly.

“Yes, sir. Harry Bristol.”

“You realize that I expect you to tell the exact truth?”

The man blinked. “Oh, yes, sir!”

“Very well, then.” The Inspector tapped Bristol’s quiet livery with a punctuating forefinger. “Mrs. Doorn and Sarah Fuller quarreled frequently?”

“I—well, sir …”

“Didn’t they?”

“Well … Yes, sir.”

“What about?”

A helpless look crept into the man’s eyes. “I don’t know, sir. They were always arguing. We heard them sometimes. But we never knew the reason. Just—they were just unpleasant to each other.”

“And you’re sure no one belowstairs knew why?”

“No, sir. They were always careful, it seemed to me, not to quarrel before the help, sir. Always in Mrs. Doorn’s rooms, or in Miss Fuller’s.”

“How long have you been serving here?”

“Twelve years, sir.”

“That’s all.”

Bristol bowed and walked sedately out of the library.

They rose.

“How about this Fuller woman again, Inspector?” said Harper. “Seems to me she might be put on the grill.”

Ellery shook his head violently. “Let her alone. She won’t run away. Pete, I’m surprised at you. We’re not dealing with a thug or a normal citizen. She’s a mental case.”

They left the house.

Ellery inhaled deeply of the fresh cold January air. He was accompanied by Harper. The Inspector and Sampson preceded them at a crisper pace, striding toward the Fifth Avenue gate.

“What do you think Pete?”

The reporter grinned. “Hooey, the whole set-up,” he said. “Can’t see any real lead. Everybody had a chance to pull the trick and a lot of ’em had motive.”

“Anything else?”

“If I were the Inspector,” continued Harper, kicking a pebble out of the path, “I’d dig in a little and follow the Wall Street angle. Old Abby ruined many and many a budding Rockefeller. Maybe some one in the Hospital this morning had a revenge-financial motive. …”

Ellery smiled. “Dad’s not exactly a novice at this game, Pete. He has that line out already. … You might be interested in knowing that I’ve already made certain eliminations. …”

“Eliminations!” Harper halted. “Say, look here, old man, give me a break, will you? What is it, this Fuller-Doorn business?”

Ellery shook his head. The smile vanished; his face clouded over. “There’s something strange there. Two old viragoes following Napoleon’s advice. ‘People should wash their linen in private.’ It’s unnatural, Pete.”

“You think there’s a deep underlying secret, huh?”

“I’m sure of it. It’s perfectly apparent that this Fuller woman shares it, and that somehow it’s shameful. … By heaven, it worries me!”

The four men climbed into the police car. It sped away, leaving its former occupants, three detectives, on the sidewalk. They sauntered through the gate and up the walk.

At the same instant Philip Morehouse emerged from the front door, looked about with peculiar caution, and stopped dead as he caught sight of the approaching trio of plain-clothesmen.

Then he buttoned his overcoat tightly up to his chin and ran down the steps. He brushed by the detectives with a muttered apology and hurried toward the gate. They stared after him.

Morehouse reached the pavement, hesitated, then struck out with long strides to the left, in the downtown direction. He did not look back.

The three detectives parted at the portico. One doubled on his tracks and slouched after Morehouse. The second disappeared into a patch of shrubbery near the main house. The third clambered up the steps and knocked thunderously on the front door.

*
In the whole history of reporter-police relations there has never been a more interesting chapter than that written by Peter Harper. To credit the unique privileges he enjoyed, it is essential to understand that the police never found him an abuser of confidences. In addition, he had been instrumental “in tracking down through his independent efforts several notorious criminals sought by the police. He may be remembered for his inspired journalistic efforts in the nation-wide hunt for Chicago Jack Murphy, in the Barnaby-Ross revelations, and in the case that has come to be known throughout the world as the “Mimic Murders.”-The Editor

D
ISTRICT ATTORNEY SAMPSON URGED
speed; he was overdue at his office. Harper was dropped off on the West Side to dash for a telephone. The police car screamed on its way through the dense midafternoon traffic.