Face to Face (10 page)

24

The report from Fingerprinting was negative; there were no prints on the .38 Special—the usual result. But Ballistics had news for them. Firing tests and the comparison microscope had established that the bullets dug out of Glory Guild's body and the bullets fired by the Colt Detective found in Lorette Spanier's hatbox had been discharged by the same weapon. The markings were identical.

They had the murder gun.

“It's a break.” Inspector Queen chortled to the two silent men in his office. “This is all we need to establish a case against the Spanier girl, as I'm sure the D.A. will agree.”

“Let's hear it,” muttered Ellery, “out loud.”

“The girl claims Glory didn't tell her about the new will naming her principal legatee. Doesn't it stand to reason that Glory did tell her? After all, what had Glory been looking for her for? To make Lorette her heir. Is it reasonable that, after finding her, Glory
didn't
tell her?”

“They had only a few minutes alone together.”

“How long does it take?” his father retorted. “Five seconds? Number one.”

“That's hardly conclusive, Inspector,” Harry Burke protested.

“I'm talking about the weight of the circumstances, Burke, as you very well know. Number One covers motive.

“Number Two: Lorette claims she left her aunt alive that night at around 11:30. But, again, we have only the girl's word for it. By her own admission no one saw her leave, no one saw her during her alleged walk home through Central Park, no one saw her when she got to her apartment house, no one saw her in her apartment afterwards. She can't produce a single corroborating witness to any detail of her account of her movements. As far as the provable circumstances show, she could just as well have been in her aunt's place till 11:50, she could just as well have shot Glory and got home—however she did it, whether crossing the park on foot or taking a cab—twenty minutes or half an hour later than she says. So that's opportunity on top of motive.”

“That,” said Ellery, “is possible opportunity on top of possible motive.”

“What are circumstantial cases but possibles and probables, Ellery? But then there's Number Three. You can't deny the evidence of this revolver. And neither can she. It's the gun that shot Glory, and that's a fact.
And
it was found in Lorette's bedroom.
And
in Lorette's closet.
And
in Lorette's hatbox in her closet in her bedroom. And all she can say about the gun is that she never saw it before and doesn't know how it got there. Just her unsupported denial.

“It's true,” the Inspector said, “that we haven't been able to establish through the records that she bought the weapon—there's no record of such a gun at all—but she'd hardly buy it through regular channels, anyway, to commit murder with it. You know what a pipe it is to buy an unregistered weapon in this town under the counter. At that, we may be able to tie such an illegal sale to her. If we can, we've got her in spades.

“But even without that,” and the Inspector showed his dentures, “we've got her. In my book this all adds up to a case we can get through the grand jury. What does it add up to you, my son? You look droopy.”

Ellery was silent.

Harry Burke snapped, “Doesn't it strike you, Inspector Queen, that your argument makes the Spanier girl out all kinds of idiot? Why in hell should she have held onto the revolver if she shot her aunt with it? After—to use your own argument—going to the trouble of getting hold of one that couldn't be traced to her? It seems to me the very first thing she'd have done was throw the bloody thing into one of your rivers.”

“That's what you or I'd have done, Burke. But you know as well as I how stupid amateurs can act when they're playing around with murder. Anyway, that's an argument for her lawyers. I can't see the D.A. losing sleep over it. And, talking about the D.A., I'd better go over and drop this in his lap.”

The old man took the Ballistics report and, cheerily, left.

“What do you think, Ellery?” Burke asked after a long silence.

“If you can call it thinking.” Ellery looked as if he had swallowed something with a live bug wiggling in it. “I don't know, Harry. Looked at one way, it's one of those slick circumstantial cases that's all façade, like the camera side of a Hollywood set. Go behind the set and you see nothing more substantial than shoring. Still …”

“Well, in my view there's only one way to look at it.” The Scotsman got to his feet. “With due respect for age and paternity, anyone who maintains that that girl is capable of murder just doesn't know people. The police mind—and I should know, from my years at the Yard—looks at facts, not human capabilities. Lorette Spanier is as innocent of Glory Guild's murder as I am. I'd stake everything I have on that.”

“Where are you going?”

“Over to her apartment. If I judged the Inspector's expression correctly—and if I know prosecutors—she's going to need every friend she can muster. And Roberta would give me the sack if I didn't stand by the poor girl. Coming?”

“No,” Ellery said glumly, “I'll hang around here.”

He did not have long to wait. Less than two hours later a warrant was issued for the arrest of Lorette Spanier.

25

On hearing the news, Attorney Wasser acted as if his late client's principal heiress had developed bubonic plague. With haste he recommended the services of a criminal lawyer and retreated behind a barricade of an astonishing number of appointments. The criminal lawyer, a veteran of the juridical wars named Uri Frankell, tackled the bail problem first.

It was thorny. Lorette Spanier's only substantial assets, her inheritance—aside from interim funds for maintenance of the apartment and incidental expenses—were tied up in Surrogate's Court. They would remain so trussed until the estate was settled, which might take months. Besides, a criminal could not enjoy the rewards of his crime, so until Lorette's guilt or innocence was legally established her rights to the inheritance dangled in limbo. Where, then, was she to get the collateral without whose negotiable existence bail bondsmen developed zippers on their pockets? All this, provided the arraigning judge was willing to set bail in a Murder One case to begin with.

In the end, Lorette went to jail.

Lorette wept.

Roberta wept.

Harry Burke was heard to mutter something not nice about American jurisprudence. (In fairness, he had often in his day muttered not-nice things about English jurisprudence, too.)

Frankell did not think the People had much of a case. He was confident, he said, that he could cast sufficient reasonable doubt into the minds of a jury to get the girl off. (Ellery began to entertain reasonable doubts about the wisdom of Attorney Wasser's recommendation. He distrusted lawyers who were confident in murder cases; he had seen too many unreasonable juries. But he kept his mouth shut.)

“In this one,” Ellery said unhappily to Harry Burke, “I find myself with crotch trouble.” “Crotch trouble?” Harry Burke said, puzzled. “Crotch trouble,” Ellery said. “I'm hung up on the fence.”

Ellery found himself unable to do much of anything in the weeks before Lorette's trial. He haunted police headquarters waiting for progress reports; he frequently visited the Guild apartment (where Roberta kept flinging herself from top to bottom of the penthouse bemoaning Lorette's fate, and her own—“I have no
right
to be living here while Lorette's in that awful cell! But where can I go?”—once even berating Harry Burke for having “talked” her into giving up her old apartment, a charge the Scot suffered in dignified silence); he went to see Lorette and came away with no improvements in her story but a gripe in his groin.

“I don't know what you're so bothered about,” his father said one day. “What's eating you, Ellery?”

“I don't like it.”

“You don't like what?”

“This whole case. Something about it …”

“Like what, for instance?”

“Like the way things don't hang together,” complained Ellery. “Like the way loose ends keep flopping.”

“You mean that face business.”

“For one thing. It's important, dad, I
know
it. And I've vacuumed my brains and can't come up with a single conceivable cross-reference to Lorette.”

“Or to anybody else,” the Inspector retorted.

“Yes. That's right. It's a flopper. Keeps flopping. Charging that girl, dad, was premature. You ought at least to have found out what GeeGee meant by ‘face' before you made the arrest.”

“You find out,” the Inspector said. “I've got other things to occupy my time. Anyway, it's all in the hands of the D.A. and the Court now … What else?” he asked suddenly.

“Everything else. We'd been going, for example, on the assumption that the murder was Carlos Armando-inspired, with some woman doing the dirty work for him. Now it seems Lorette was that woman.”

“I didn't say that,” the old man said cautiously.

“Then you've changed your mind about Armando? He had nothing to do with his wife's murder?” When his father did not reply, Ellery said, “I still maintain he did.”

“On what grounds?”

“By the pricking of my thumbs. By his general odor. By everything I've found out about him.”

“Take
that
into court,” Inspector Queen snorted.

“Granted,” Ellery said. “But you see how tangled everything is. Did Lorette know Armando before they supposedly met for the first time here in this office—when you questioned her after the murder? If she did, was she Violet Veil? Armando's willing accomplice? That makes no sense at all. Why should she have consented to act as Armando's tool when, according to you, she knew she was inheriting the bulk of the estate?”

“You know his way with women. Maybe she fell for him, the way the others did.”

“
If
she knew him beforehand.” Ellery lapsed into brooding.

“Look, son,” his father said. “There's a side to this we haven't touched on. Certainly we'll never be able to prove it—”

“What?”

“I'm not sure myself that money was the motive behind the murder.”

“How do you mean? Are you conceding—?”

“I'm conceding nothing. But if you want to fish around in theories, how about this one? GeeGee Guild dropped her sister, Lorette's mother, after the sister married that Englishman. When Lorette's parents died in the plane crash, GeeGee let the kid be placed in an English orphanage instead of going over there, taking custody of the child, legally adopting her, or otherwise making herself responsible for the girl's future. That kind of cold-blooded neglect could well have made Lorette grow up hating her aunt. It could have been a festering sore that broke out when Burke took her to the Guild apartment that Wednesday night. It's even possible the girl came to New York in the first place to track down her aunt and let her have it.

“It's a theory,” the Inspector went on, “with a built-in advantage. Under it Lorette could have told the truth about not knowing anything of the inheritance.”

“It also raises an interesting alternate,” Ellery said. “That if Lorette killed Glory Guild out of hatred, and not for the estate, then Carlos Armando could still have been plotting Glory's death through an accomplice, only Lorette beat the accomplice to it.”

The Inspector shrugged. “That's certainly possible.”

“If it's possible, why insist that it was Lorette who beat Violet Veil in the race to kill? Why couldn't it have been the other way around?”

“Because,” his father replied, “we have no evidence that it was Violet Veil, as you call her, and we do have evidence that it was Lorette.”

“The .38?”

“The .38.”

Ellery fell into reverie. He had been theorizing as pure exercise. The truth was, he did not believe any of the theories. Had his father pressed him, he could not have answered why, beyond the pricking of his thumbs.

“Unless,” the Inspector concluded, “Violet Veil
was
Lorette. Two motives—Armando's, for what he thought he was going to inherit, Lorette's for revenge.”

Ellery threw up his hands.

26

On the day before the Lorette Spanier trial there was a meeting in the law office of Uri Frankell. It was a Tuesday afternoon, with a dirty overcast and a threat of snow.

The lawyer, who looked to Burke remarkably like Winston Churchill, sat Roberta and Harry Burke down, offered Burke a cigar, was refused, and began to suck on a cheroot himself, looking thoughtful. His air of confidence seemed a little forced today. He said with a well-these-things-happen sort of smile that his investigators had come up to the proverbial blank wall.

“You haven't found
any
corroboration of Lorette's story?” cried Roberta.

“None, Miss West.”

“But somebody must have seen her somewhere along the line—leaving the building, crossing the park, getting home … It's incredible.”

“Unless,” said the lawyer, squinting at the tip of his cigar, “she hasn't told us or the police the truth. You know, you can't find what never was.”

“I don't think that's the answer at all, Mr. Frankell,” Burke said. “I tell you again, that girl is innocent. It's the premise you must go on, or she hasn't a chance.”

“Oh, of course,” said the lawyer. “I merely raised the possibility; the district attorney is certainly going to more than raise it. What I'm counting on is Lorette's ability to communicate her little-girl quality to the jury. She's the only defense we have.”

“You're putting her in the witness box?”

“We call it ‘stand' over here, Mr. Burke.” Frankell shrugged. “I have no choice. It's always risky, because it opens the defendant up to an all-out attack by the D.A. on cross-examination. I've been over it with Lorette a number of times, playing the devil's advocate, so she'll have a good idea of what she's facing. She stands up well. Of course, how she'll handle herself under actual cross remains to be seen. I warned her—”

His secretary came in, shutting the door behind her.

“Miss Hunter, I told you I wasn't to be interrupted!”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Frankell, but I thought this might be important, and I didn't want to talk over the intercom in front of him—”

“In front of whom?”

“A man just came into the office who insists on seeing you right away. Ordinarily I would have said you're out, but he claims it's about the Spanier case. He's very shabbily dressed. In fact—”

“I don't care if he's in his underwear, Miss Hunter. Send him in!”

Even Frankell was startled by the creature his secretary showed in. The man was not shabbily dressed; what he wore was a catastrophe—a ruin of an overcoat which looked as if it had been retrieved from a garbage dump; under it a velveteen smoking jacket of trash-barrel vintage, moth-eaten, runneled with dregs, spattered with old egg, stewstains, and less identifiable slumgullion; a pair of muddy trousers, evidently cast off by some fat man, held up at the waist by a length of filthy rope; shoes two sizes too big; he wore no socks or shirt. He was skeleton-thin, but his hands and face were puffy, his eyes bloodshot and watering, his nose a purple lump. He had not shaved in days.

He stood before them, shivering as if he had never in his life been warm, and rubbed his palms together. They made a sandpaper sound.

“You asked to see me.” Uri Frankell said, staring at him. “Okay, you see me. What's the pitch? Who are you?”

“Name of Spotty,” the man said. He had a hoarse, wine-soaked voice. “Name of Spotty,” he repeated. He added, with a grin that was almost a leer, “Counselor.”

“What do you want?”

“Dough,” the derelict said. “Do-re-mi. Lots of it.” He stood there grinning; half the teeth in his mouth were missing. “Now ask me what I got to sell, Counselor.”

“Look, bum,” the lawyer said. “I'm going to give you just ten seconds to spill what's on your mind. And if this is a pitch for a handout, I'll heave you all the way back to the Bowery.”

“No, you won't. Not when you hear what I got to sell.”

“Well, what?”

“Inf'mation.”

“About Lorette Spanier?”

“That's it, Counselor.”

“How do you know about Miss Spanier?”

“I read the papers.”

“If so, you're the first bum in Bowery history to do it. All right, what's your information?”

“Oh, no,” the man said. “I tell you, and what do I get? A boot in the backside is what. On the line, mister.”

“Get out of here.”

“No, wait,” Harry Burke said. He said to the derelict, “You mean you actually expect payment in advance?”

The bleary eyes slid Burke's way. “That's it, mister. And none o' your checks, neither. Cash. On the line.”

“How much?” Burke asked.

The purple tip of his tongue appeared. Roberta West watched it, fascinated. It swished across his lips and back, like a rain-wiper.

“A grand.”

“A thousand dollars?” the lawyer said incredulously. “You don't want much, do you? What do you think we are, halfwits? Go on, scram.”

“Just a moment, Mr. Frankell,” the Scot said. “Now see here, Spotty, try being reasonable. You walk in here and ask for a thousand dollars on your unsupported claim that you have information that may help Miss Spanier's defense. You'll have to admit you're not the most reliable-looking bloke in New York. How can you expect a reputable attorney like Mr. Frankell to pay out so much of his client's money for a blind article?”

“Who are you?” the man demanded.

“A friend of Lorette Spanier's. So is this lady.”

“I know about
her
—I seen her picture in the paper. How can I expect, mister? Take it or leave it. Them's my terms. From what the paper says,” the bum grinned, “he ain't got much of a case.” A scarred thumb wavered Frankell's way.

Probably never before in his derelict life, Burke thought, had this wino been in possession of a highly negotiable asset. And he had the natural cynicism of the downtrodden everywhere. Spotty was not going to be budged. Nevertheless, Burke thought he must try.

He put on his most man-to-man expression.

“Can't you give us at least a hint, Spotty? The sort of information it is?”

“How do I know what sort? I ain't no lawyer.”

“But you know enough to know that the information is worth a thousand dollars to Miss Spanier's attorney?”

“All I know is it's about the Spanier dame, and it sounds to me like it's mighty important.”

“And if it turns out not to be?”

“That's his hard luck. The grand in advance, and the counselor takes his chances.” The bony jaws set. “I ain't giving no money-back guarantee.” The jaws set harder.

“Let it drop, Mr. Burke,” Frankell said wearily. “I know this breed, believe me. It's probably a sheer invention in the first place. If I paid him for it I'd have to hire Pinkerton guards to keep all the rest of the Bowery bums out of my office, once the word got around. But even if it's legitimate … I'll tell you what I'll do with you, Spotty. You tell me what the information is, here and now. If I think it can help Miss Spanier's case, I'll pay you for the information—what I think it's worth. That's the only deal I'll make with you. Taking or leaving?”

They could see in the man's watery eyes the struggle between cupidity and suspicion. They also saw suspicion win.

“No grand, no talk.”

He shut his broken mouth with finality.

“Okay, bum, you've spoken your piece. Out.”

The derelict stared at the lawyer. Then he grinned again, slyly this time. “You change your mind, Counselor, ask around the Bowery for Spotty. I'll get the word.”

He shuffled out.

The moment the door closed Roberta burst out, “But we can't let him go this way, Mr. Frankell! Suppose he's telling the truth—has really important information? Look, if you feel you can't go into a deal like this, I mean as Lorette's lawyer, how about my putting the money up?”

“Do you have a thousand dollars to throw away, Miss West?”

“I'll borrow it—take out a personal loan from my bank—”

“That's up to you,” the lawyer said, shrugging. “But believe me, Lorette Spanier isn't going to be acquitted through the sherry-colored imagination of some providential Bowery bum.”

Roberta caught the man in the hall as he waited for the elevator. “Wait a second, Mr. Spotty,” she panted. Burke was with her, watching the derelict closely. “I'll pay you the money!”

The man put his dirty hand out.

“I don't have that much on me. I'll have to arrange to get it.”

“Better arrange fast, lady. That trial starts tomorrow.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“I'll reach you, lady. When will you have it?”

“Tomorrow, if I can.”

“You going to the trial?”

“Of course—”

“I'll get to you there.” He winked at her, a rather elaborate process. He stepped into the elevator and the door closed.

Harry Burke made a dive for the fire door.

“Harry! Where are you going?”

“After him.”

“Is that wise? It might get him mad—”

“He won't see me.”

“Wait! I'll go with you. Does he really know something, do you think?” Roberta panted as they raced down the stairs.

“Frankell's probably right,” Harry Burke panted back over his shoulder. “But we can't afford to pass up even a long shot, Bertie, can we?”