Dutch Shoe Mystery (20 page)

He called the District Attorney. “No word yet from Swanson?”

“Not a peep out of him. Well, it’s early yet. I’ll let you know the moment he calls. You’ll want to trace him back anyway, to make sure he gets here.”

“We’re taking care of that.” A pause, and then the Inspector spoke more truculently. “Henry, have you thought over my recommendations about that whipper-snapper Morehouse?”

Sampson coughed. “Now, look here. Q., I’ll go the full length of the rope with you, and you know it. But I’m afraid we’ll have to let the Morehouse thing go by.”

“You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you, Henry?” The old man scowled into the mouthpiece.

“I’m still with you, Q.,” said Sampson. “But after the first heat died down, I thought the whole situation over. …”

“And?”

“Q., he was absolutely within his legal rights! That clause in Abby’s will pertained not to a part of her estate, but to a private trust. As a private trust, Morehouse didn’t have to wait until the will passed through probate to destroy the documents. It’s a separate thing entirely. You can’t show cause why the documents should have been preserved, can you?”

The Inspector sounded weary. “If you mean can I show that the documents contained evidence—no.”

“Then I’m sorry, Q. I can’t do a thing.”

When he had replaced the receiver, the Inspector laid Harper’s paper carefully on his desk and rang for Sergeant Velie.

“Thomas, get me that pair of canvas shoes we found in the ’phone booth!”

Velie scratched his huge poll and brought the shoes.

The old man set them down on the glass top of his desk and eyed them longingly. He turned to Velie, frowning. “Do you get anything out of these blamed shoes, Thomas?”

The giant caressed his granite jaw. “All I get,” he said at last, “is that the shoelace broke and whoever wore the shoes stuck a piece of adhesive on to hold the broken pieces together.”

“Yes, but what that means is beyond me.” The Inspector looked unhappy. “Ellery wasn’t talking through his hat, Thomas, my boy. There’s something in these shoes that tells an important story. Better leave ’em here. I may get a brainstorm.”

Velie tramped out of the room, leaving the old man deep in contemplation of two very innocent-looking white canvas oxfords.

Ellery had just crawled out of bed and performed his ablutions when the doorbell rang and Djuna admitted the tall windy figure of Dr. John Minchen.

“Hullo! Don’t you ever see a sunrise?”

Ellery wrapped the folds of his dressing-gown more closely about his spare body. “It’s only 9:15. I was up half the night thinking.”

Minchen dropped into a chair, making a face. “On my way to the Hospital, and I thought I’d drop in to find out firsthand if that newspaper story this morning about Janney is on the level.”

“What newspaper story?” asked Ellery blankly, attacking an egg. … “Join me, John?”

“Had breakfast—thanks.” Minchen stared at him keenly. “So you don’t know, eh? Well, the paper this morning has it that Dr. Janney will be arrested to-day for the murder of the old lady.”

“No!” Ellery crunched into a piece of toast. “Modern journalism is certainly a wonderful thing.”

Minchen shook his head sadly. “No information to-day, I see. But it all seems too silly for words, Ellery. The old man must be boiling mad. Murder his benefactress!” He sat up straight. “Say! I’ll be coming in for my share of notoriety too, won’t I?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” said Minchen soberly, “as Janney’s colleague in writing our book—
Congenital Allergy
—the press will naturally look me up and just about pester me to death.”

“Oh!” Ellery sipped coffee. “I shouldn’t worry about that, John. And forget Janney for the moment—he’ll be all right. … How long have you two been working on your magnificent opus?”

“Not so long. You see, the actual writing is the least of it. It’s the case-records that count. It’s taken Janney years to assemble his histories. They’re quite valuable, incidentally. If anything should happen to Janney I’ll fall heir to them—they wouldn’t mean anything to a layman.”

Ellery wiped his lips tenderly. “Naturally not. By the way, if I’m not nosing, John—what’s your financial arrangement with Janney on this thing? Equal partners?”

Minchen flushed. “He insisted on it, although he’s contributed so much more than I that it’s a shame. … Janney’s been very decent to me, Ellery.”

“Delighted to hear it.” Ellery rose and made for his bedroom. “Give me five minutes to dress, John, and I’ll walk down with you. Excuse me.”

He disappeared into the next room. Minchen rose and began to amble about the living-room. He stopped curiously at the fire-place and examined a pair of crossed swords above the mantelpiece. There was a swift rustling noise behind him; he turned to find Djuna, grinning up at him in a knowing manner.

“’Lo, son. Where did these swords come from?”

“Dad Queen got ’em from a feller.” Djuna stuck out his thin chest proudly. “Feller in Europe. …”

“Oh, John!” shouted Ellery from the bedroom. “How long have you known Dr. Dunning?”

“Ever since I’ve been with the Hospital. Why?”

“Just curious. …What do you know that’s interesting about Dr. Pennini, our Gallic Amazon?”

“Very little. She’s not a friendly person, Ellery. Never mixes with the rest of us if she can help it. I think she has a husband somewhere.”

“Really? What’s his occupation?”

“Sorry. I’ve never seen him, or discussed him with Pennini.”

Minchen heard Ellery bustling energetically about the bedroom. He sat down again, restlessly.

“Acquainted with Kneisel?” came Ellery’s voice.

“Barely. He’s a real hound for work. Spends his life in that laboratory of his.”

“Were he and Abby Doorn chummy?”

“I think he met her several times through Janney. But I’m sure he didn’t know her well.”

“How about Edith Dunning? Is she friendly with Gargantua?”

“You mean Hendrik Doorn? That’s a queer question, Ellery.” Minchen laughed. “I can close my eyes and picture the young and businesslike flapper in the arms of friend Hendrik—yes, I can’t!”

“Nothing doing there, eh?”

“If you’re looking for a
liaison
between those two, you’re simply crazy.”

“Well, you know the German
bon mot,”
chuckled Ellery, appearing in the doorway fully dressed. “‘The stomach is master of all arts. …’ Let me get my hat, coat and stick and we’ll be off.”

They strolled down upper Broadway, talking over light matters of mutual recollection. Ellery refused to discuss the Doorn case further.

“By George!” Ellery halted suddenly. “There’s a little volume on Viennese crime-methods I meant to get at my bookseller’s. Forgot completely that I’d promised to call for it this morning. What time is it?”

Minchen consulted his wrist-watch. “Just 10 o’clock.”

“Going directly to the Hospital, are you?”

“Yes. If you’re dropping off here, I’ll hop a cab.”

“All right, John. I’ll join you at the Hospital in a half-hour or so. It will take you ten or fifteen minutes to make it anyway.
A rivederci!
”

They parted, Ellery to walk rapidly down a by-street and Minchen to hail a taxicab. He climbed in. It swung around the corner and headed east.

“H
E’S IN!”

The grapevine telegraph of the Police Department had never better lived up to its reputation for speed than on Wednesday morning, shortly after 9:30
A.M.,
when a slender man, slight and small-boned, and garbed in dark clothes walked down Centre Street, passed Police Headquarters, and proceeded with a trace of nervousness to scan all the building-numbers within range of his vision, as if he did not know precisely the site of his destination. When he came to Number 137, he furtively studied the ten-story structure which housed the official residence of the District Attorney, adjusted the collar of his black overcoat, and walked into the yellow-bricked building.

Mysterious, elusive Swanson!

The word flashed into every nook and cranny of Centre Street. It traveled from a whispering clerk in the District Attorney’s office through the bridge to the dingy old brownstone Criminal Courts Building, and from there sped across the Bridge of Sighs into the cavernous Tombs. Every guard in the Tombs, every detective at Headquarters, every traffic officer on duty within a radius of four blocks, every bondsman and hanger-on in the vicinity had heard the news within five minutes of the moment when Swanson stepped off the elevator at the sixth floor of Number 137, flanked by two detectives, and vanished within the private office of District Attorney Sampson.

Ten minutes later, at 9:45, Swanson was perched in the center of a ring of intent faces. Surrounding him were the District Attorney and Timothy Cronin, his assistant, and several aides; a faintly smiling Inspector Queen, who had made a supernaturally rapid appearance; Sergeant Velie, taciturn and dour as ever; and the Police Commissioner himself, who sat a little to one side in watchful silence.

Up to this moment the newcomer had spoken only once. He had said, in a thickish baritone surprising from one of his thin physique, “I’m Thomas Swanson.” The District Attorney had courteously inclined his head and indicated a central chair.

Swanson sat quietly enough, surveying the gathering of his inquisitors. He had dull blue eyes and dark lashes, but he was a pronounced blond type, with sandy thinning hair and even, clean-shaven, undistinguished features.

When the company was seated and a detective’s shadow wavered and fixed itself beyond the glass pane of the door, the District Attorney said, “Mr. Swanson, why have you come here this morning?”

Swanson seemed surprised. “I thought you wanted to see me.”

“Ah, then you’ve been following the papers?” asked Sampson quickly.

The newcomer smiled. “Oh, yes. … I may as well clear up everything at once. But first—look here, gentlemen, I realize that you’re all suspicious of me because I kept away despite the newspaper stories that you were looking for me. …”

“We’re delighted to hear that you realize it.” Sampson regarded him coldly. “You have plenty of explaining to do, Mr. Swanson. You’ve cost the City a pile of money. Well, what’s the excuse?”

“Not really an excuse, sir. I’ve been in trouble and I’m in trouble now. This whole business is something of a tragedy for me. You see, there was a good reason for my not coming forward before to-day. And then I didn’t believe Dr. Janney was seriously involved in the murder of Mrs. Doorn. Nothing in the papers even hinted at such a fact. …”

“You’ve still to explain,” said Sampson patiently, “what was behind your hideaway stunt.”

“I know, I know.” Swanson looked down at the carpet thoughtfully. “It’s really tough on me,” he said. “If not for the fact that Dr. Janney is going to be arrested for a murder which I know positively he didn’t commit, I wouldn’t have shown up to-day. But I can’t let you do a thing like that when he’s so plainly innocent.”

“Were you in Dr. Janney’s office between 10:30 and 10:45 Monday morning?” demanded Inspector Queen.

“Yes. His story was correct in absolutely every particular. I came to borrow a small sum of money. We were in his office together the entire time—neither of us left for a moment.”

“Hmm.” Sampson looked him over carefully. “Such a simple story, Mr. Swanson, and yet you’ve allowed us to scour the City for you merely to get an unimportant substantiating piece of testimony.”

“What’s Janney protecting you from?” said the Inspector suddenly.

Swanson lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I see it has to come out. Gentlemen, it’s quickly told. … I’m really not Thomas Swanson at all. I’m Thomas Janney—Dr. Janney’s son!”

The story was involved. Thomas Janney was the stepson of Dr. Francis Janney. The surgeon had been a childless widower when he remarried. His second wife was Thomas’s mother, and Thomas was two years old when Dr. Janney legally became his father. His mother died eight years after.

There had never been a question, according to Thomas Janney, about the purpose of his thorough education. He was to become a second Janney—a surgeon. He was sent to Johns Hopkins.

In a low and shamed voice, the man for whom the entire Police Department of New York City had searched vainly for two days related how, wild and irresponsible, he had betrayed the trust of his famous step-father.

“I knew it all in those days,” he mumbled. “I had a good academic record—stood near the head of my class—but I drank like a fish and gambled away the generous allowance dad gave me.”

Janney had been calm about this youthful defection. His steadying hand had guided the young hellion through his preparatory work and medical studies, and upon Thomas’s graduation had placed him in the Dutch Memorial Hospital as an interne.

“So that’s why Isaac Cobb thought his face looked familiar!” muttered the Inspector to himself. He was listening with a puzzled frown.

His interneship served, and for a long time on good behavior, Thomas Janney became a member of the regular surgical staff of the Dutch Memorial Hospital under his step-father. He did well for a short period.

Swanson paused, licked his lips—continued with a faraway stare above the head of the District Attorney. “Then it happened,” he said in a brittle voice. “It was five years ago—just about this time of year. I slipped. Began to drink again. And one morning I operated on a patient while under the influence of liquor. My hand trembled at a critical moment, the knife cut too deeply … and the patient died on the operating-table.”

No one spoke. The ex-surgeon seemed to be living over that devastating moment when the work, the plans, the dreams of his youth came crashing about his ears. He had been afraid, he said—unnerved and sickened. There had been three witnesses to the tragedy, but the rigid ethical code of the profession kept the story from leaking out of the Hospital at that time. Then Dr. Janney himself informed Mrs. Doorn of the tragedy—and his stepson’s culpability. The old lady was inexorable. The young surgeon would have to go. …

He was compelled to resign. Quietly, despite all the efforts of his step-father, the news circulated and he found all Hospital doors barred to him. Without fanfare or publicity he lost his medical license. Dr. Thomas Janney became plain Thomas Janney, and in self-protection Thomas Janney changed his name to Thomas Swanson—his mother’s maiden name.