Dutch Shoe Mystery (18 page)

“When he located a hack he followed, picked up the trail, then lost it in traffic. Picked it up again near 42nd Street and was just in time to see Janney jump out of the cab at Grand Central, pay off his driver, and disappear into the terminal. … And that’s the last of Janney, blast the luck!”

Ellery looked thoughtful. “Deliberately disobeyed instructions, eh? Skipped town. Of course, it’s only one thing. …”

“Naturally. He’s gone to warn off Swanson.” The old man was morose now. “Ritter was caught in a jam around the terminal and by the time he got out and into the station Janney had disappeared. He recruited a squad of cops right away to watch the outgoing trains but it was useless. Like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Well,” muttered Ellery, frowning, “it’s practically certain that Janney went to warn Swanson, and that Swanson therefore lives somewhere in the suburbs.”

“Taken care of already. Thomas has a group working on the suburb angle. …” The Inspector’s eyes brightened momentarily. “There’s one ray of light, though. Know what this Fuller lunatic has done?”

“Sarah Fuller!” The name leaped from Ellery’s lips. “What?”

“Slipped out of the Doorn house about an hour ago. Hesse was tailing her all day. He followed her to—the home of Dr. Dunning! What do you think of that?”

Ellery stared at his father. “Dr. Dunning, eh?” he said slowly. “Now, that
is
interesting. Anything else from Hesse?”

“Nothing much. The fact alone is enough. She remained in the house for a half-hour. When she came out she took a taxicab directly back to the Doorn place. Hesse reported by ’phone and is still there, working with another man on the job.”

“Sarah Fuller and Dr. Lucius Dunning,” murmured Ellery. He sat down at the table and, looking into the fire, drumming incessantly on the cloth. “Sarah Fuller and Lucius Dunning. There’s a combination for you. …” He smiled at his father suddenly. “The prophetess and the healer. A classic
non sequitur.”

“It’s funny, right enough,” said the Inspector. He drew his outer robe more closely about him. “We’ll have to follow that up in the morning.”

“Evidently,” said Ellery with a strange satisfaction, “on the Slavic assumption that ‘the morning is wiser than the evening.’ Well—we’ll see.”

The old man said nothing. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the pleasure vanished from Ellery’s face. He rose quickly and went into his bedroom.

*
Detective stories should concern themselves with relevancies. No description of the more or less well-known Queen domicile on West 87th Street is furnished here for the good and sufficient reason that it was fully described in an adventure post-dating
The Dutch Shoe Mystery
in time, but antedating it in appearance as a novel. I refer to
The Roman Hat Mystery
(Frederick A. Stokes Company, ‘29).—Author’s Note

T
HE JOURNALISTIC EXPLOSION WHICH
later was to reverberate through the press of the entire world did not achieve its full fury until the day after Abigail Doorn’s murder.

On Tuesday morning every newspaper in the United States carried blazing headlines, voluble front-page stories, and a pitiful handful of facts. The New York press in particular made up for the dearth of available data by devoting whole pages of stories to Abigail Doorn’s astonishing career, her outstanding financial transactions, her enormous list of charities, and the details of her romance with the long-deceased Charles Van der Donk. One syndicate began a hastily assembled series of feature articles titled
The Life Story of Abigail Doorn.

With the early afternoon editions, peals of editorial thunder began to make themselves heard. Thinly veiled shafts of criticism were hurled at the Police Commissioner, at Inspector Queen, at the Police Department as a whole, and in one case, obviously as a political move, at the Mayor. “Twenty-four precious hours have slipped into eternity,” ran one indignant account, “and still not the tiniest shred of fact or clew has been unearthed which might lead to the identity of that foul murderer whose bloody hand yesterday sent the great soul of a great woman weeping into the hereafter, long long before her time.” “Is the redoubtable Inspector Queen about to fall down after so many years of successful man-hunting in this, his most important assignment?” queried another. A third stated categorically that the Police Department of the greatest city in the world, for years “notoriously incompetent” in its regulation of the morals of that vastly moral community, would now have the unexampled opportunity of displaying to the sneering world exactly how incompetent it was.

The only newspaper in New York which neither groaned nor flayed the police was the sheet, strangely enough, to which Pete Harper rendered reportorial service.

But it had not required the insinuations and accusations of a vitriolic press to rouse officialdom from its alleged lethargy. The political and social worlds were rocked to their foundations, and the tremors were recorded on the sensitive seismographs of Headquarters. Public figures in all walks of life showered the Mayor with telegraphed, telephoned and personal demands for swift justice. Wall Street, alarmed at the financial unrest and unable to stem the inevitable tide of falling quotations and growing panic, rose in its wrath. The Federal Government evinced an unusual interest in the case. A Senator in whose State Abigail Doorn owned huge properties made a flaming speech from the floor of Congress.

City Hall was a maelstrom of frenzied conferences. Centre Street buzzed like a gigantic bee-hive. Inspector Queen was nowhere to be found; Sergeant Velie flatly refused to talk to reporters. Rumors, feeding on the atmosphere of mystery and doubt, circulated magically all over the City, whispering that an unnamed and “protected” financier of great power had strangled Abigail Doorn with his own hands in revenge for a financial struggle which he had ignominiously lost to the dead woman. The rumor’s patent absurdity, it seemed, did not retard its circulation. Within two hours official cognizance was being taken of it. …

Late Tuesday afternoon a solemn group gathered secretly in the innermost sanctum of the Mayor’s chambers. Seated around the conference table in the thick smoky air were the Mayor himself, the Police Commissioner, District Attorney Sampson and his aides, the Borough President of Manhattan, and a half-dozen secretaries. Inspector Queen was conspicuous by his absence.

Gloom hovered over them, leering. They had discussed the case from every conceivable angle while a mad, chattering horde of reporters besieged the outer offices for interviews. The Mayor held in his hand a great sheaf of reports, all signed by Inspector Queen, which gave in painstaking detail every fact, conversation and finding accumulated in the case up to Tuesday morning. Personalities had been weighed and judged: the Borough President had expressed himself as satisfied that the fine Irish hand of Big Mike Cudahy was somewhere mixed into the murder, possibly employed by a mysterious enemy of Abigail Doorn. Dr. Janney’s stubborn silence, the search for Swanson, were the subjects of fruitless debate.

The conference seemed doomed to failure. Nothing new had been discovered; not even a lead toward possible action. A private wire to Police Headquarters stood waiting at the Commissioner’s elbow; it rang incessantly, reporting failure in the investigation of the scant hoard of clews.

It was precisely at this critical moment that the Mayor’s personal secretary entered the room with a heavily sealed envelope addressed to the Police Commissioner.

He tore it open and eagerly scanned the top sheet of a number of typewritten pages.

“Special report from Inspector Queen,” he muttered.

“He says here a full report will come later. Let’s see. …” He read in silence. Suddenly he handed the papers to a stenographer at his side. “Here, Jake, read these aloud.”

The clerk began to read rapidly in a clear flat voice.

“Report on Michael Cudahy

“At 10:15
A.M.
Tuesday Cudahy was physically able, according to medical advice, to give testimony regarding possible connection with Doorn case. Questioned in Room 328 at Dutch Memorial Hospital where he was brought yesterday after operation for appendicitis. Weak, in great pain.

“Cudahy professes no knowledge of the murder. First quizzed in effort to confirm story of Dr. Byers and Grace Obermann, nurse, that masked and gowned figure of unknown passed through Anæsthesia Room and into Anteroom Monday morning while Cudahy was lying in Anæsthesia Room ready to be anæsthetized in preparation for appendectomy. Confirms seeing man in white gown, cap, surgical gag, etc., walk hurriedly through, as above, entering from South Corridor. Did not see him leave because ether-cone was adjusted almost at once and he was put to sleep. Cannot identify man. Seems to recall limp but is not sure. This however may be discounted; testimony of Dr. Byers and Miss Obermann sufficient to establish same.

“Careful quiz about Hendrik Doorn. Protection as promised to Doorn by story that D. was watched, suspicious movements led to search of his private apartment in Doorn house and nothing incriminating found except a memo hinting at dealings with Cudahy. C. seemed to accept this fictitious story absolutely. Questioned about these ‘dealings.’ C. admitted lending huge sums of money to D. at
6% interest with bonus,
payable when D. came into his share of the Doorn estate. Exhibited bravado, said he himself has nothing to fear or conceal in this matter since it was above-board and in no way criminal.
Q.
by Inspector Queen: ‘You were never tempted, eh Mike, to hurry Mrs. Doorn’s end a bit in order to collect your money sooner?’
A.
by Cudahy: ‘Inspector, is that nice? You know I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ Under pressure also said that he has been urging Hendrik Doorn for payment, and that he would not be surprised if D. knew more about murder of his sister than he professes.
Q.
by Inspector Queen: ‘How about Little Willie, Snapper and Joe Gecko? Come clean now, Mike!’
A.
by Cudahy: ‘You got ’em in the can, ain’t you? They didn’t have anything to do with this bump-off, Inspector. They were here to guard me while I couldn’t guard myself. You ain’t got a thing on them.’
Q.
by Inspector Queen: ‘Now you’ll be watching out for the health of Doorn, Mike—won’t you?’
A.
by Cudahy: ‘He’s as safe as a newborn babe. Think I want to lose my hundred and ten grand? Nothin’ doing!’

“CONCLUSION:
Cudahy has perfect alibi. Was under ether while crime was being committed. No evidence on which to base conviction of Joe Gecko, Snapper, Little Willie, except their physical presence in Hospital at time of murder. No case at all in this direction.”

The clerk deposited this report carefully on the table and picked up another, clearing his throat.

“A blank again,” grumbled the Commissioner. “This bird Cudahy is as slippery as an eel, Mr. Mayor. But if there’s anything there, Queen will sweat it out of him.”

“Come, come!” interrupted the Mayor. “We’re getting nowhere. Who’s the next report on?”

The clerk read:

“Report on Dr. Lucius Dunning

“Dr. Dunning questioned in his office at Dutch Memorial Hospital, 11:05
A.M.
Accused of secret meeting with Sarah Fuller Monday evening. Seemed disturbed, but refused to give reason for Sarah Fuller’s call or substance of their talk. Claimed visit concerned purely personal matter in no way connected with crime.

“Neither threat of arrest nor appeal was successful. Was willing to submit to any indignity, he said, but claimed he would file suit for libel and false arrest if drastic action taken. No evidence or reason to hold Dunning. Matter therefore left in abeyance. Unsatisfactory answer when questioned how well he knows Sarah Fuller. ‘Not well,’ he said, and refused further explanation.

“
SUBSEQU. ACTION
: Put man on job of questioning other members of Dunning household. Mrs. Dunning saw Fuller woman enter house Monday evening, but took it to be usual professional call. Knows her only slightly through superficial social contact with deceased. Edith Dunning not at home during half-hour Sarah Fuller was in house. Testimony of maid that woman was closeted with Dr. Dunning in private examining-room for half-hour mentioned. Fuller left house to return to Doorn place, as per Report AA7 (Doorn).

“
CONCLUSION
: No action can be taken except judicious pressure to discover subject of Fuller-Dunning conversation. No reason to doubt irrelevancy of such conversation in connection with case except that secrecy is maintained. Fuller and Dunning both under surveillance. Further developments, if any, to be reported.”

“Still nothing,” murmured the Mayor with annoyance. “I feel sorry for your Department, Commissioner, if you can’t make better progress than you’ve evinced so far. Is this man Queen competent to handle this case?”

The Borough President twisted in his chair. “Oh, come now,” he said irritably. “We can’t expect the old warhorse to perform miracles. Blamed case is only thirty hours old anyway. It seems to me he hasn’t overlooked one lead. I—”

“And not only that,” put in the Police Commissioner stiffly, “but this isn’t a mere mob bump-off, Mr. Mayor, where the police can get stool-pigeon information. It’s quite out of the usual run of murders. I think—”

The Mayor threw up his hands. “Who’s next?”

“Edith Dunning.” The clerk crackled the paper in a businesslike way and began to real unemotionally:

“Report on Edith Dunning

“Nothing of interest. Monday morning movements apparently quite innocent, although no complete check-up is possible because she was in and out of Hospital several times on Monday morning until time of operation. Movements accounted for from then on.

“Miss Dunning can give no explanation for the crime or possible motive (nor can her father, Dr. Dunning). She knows Hulda Doorn well, but cannot explain apparent coolness between her father and Mrs. Doorn other than that they were never particularly friendly.

“CONCLUSION:
Nothing to be gained from further inquiry in this direction.”