Postmark Murder (29 page)

“Now, now, Doris!” Charlie took off her coat; he put it over a chair. “Now, my dear, take it easy. Why did you go to Koska Street?”

“Because that man—the first one, the one that was murdered— he telephoned to me. That’s why.” She caught her breath, smoothed back her hair, gave herself a little shake to settle her dress into smooth lines, and eyed them both with suddenly calm but defiant brown eyes.

C
HARLIE TOOK OUT A
handkerchief and dabbed absently at some pink lipstick on one shirt cuff.

Laura said blankly, “I don’t understand—”

“Neither do I,” Charlie said. “Doris, do you mean to say that this first man—the murdered man—talked to you?”

“Of course he did, Charlie.” All at once Doris was sweet, gentle, completely self-possessed. “He telephoned to me. He asked me about Jonny. He asked me where she was.”

“And—what did you tell him?”

“I told him that she was with Laura. What else could I say?”

“And he told you that he was Conrad Stanislowski?”

“Yes. He said he was Conrad Stanislowski and he had just got here and he wanted to know where his child was, and I told him.”

Laura found her voice. “What did you do?”

Doris didn’t look at her; she spoke to Charlie. “Well, I didn’t do anything—not right away. I—I was upset about it. I didn’t know what to do. I had the appointment at the dentist’s, so I went. And I had a bad filling. The dentist gave me a light anesthetic, and after he put the filling in, the nurse put me in a little room with a couch so I could rest until I got over the anesthetic. And I got over it right away and I simply walked out. Nobody saw me leave. He had told me where he was staying, I asked him. I decided that I would go over to that rooming house, and—and talk to him. I got a taxi and started out to the west side. But then on the way I decided to phone to you and to Matt, and tell you about it before I saw him. I, really, Charlie”—her little white hands went out to Charlie’s arm—“I didn’t know what to do. It was all so strange and unexpected and—anyway I changed my mind. I stopped in a drug store there on a corner. I started to dial your number and Matt’s, and then I thought that I—well, I thought I wouldn’t. I came home. I didn’t go near the rooming house and nobody can say I did!”

“But you told the police—” Laura began.

“Of course I said that! If nobody claimed that trust fund, some of it was to go to me. The police might suspect me! I
had
to lie! Didn’t I, Charlie?” She said in a sweetly reasonable way which utterly disclaimed responsibility.

Charlie ran an uneasy finger around his collar. “But, Doris— the police— You should have told me. Did you tell
anyone
that this man telephoned you?”

“No, I didn’t, Charlie.” Doris’ voice was gentle and pleading. “I know it was wrong of me but I thought I’d better wait and see what happened.”

“Did he ask you to tell nobody about his arrival?”

Doris was suddenly very busy. Her small white fingers were folding the corner of Charlie’s lapel. “Yes, he did,” she said. “And that made me think there was something—there was something very odd about it. But I didn’t tell Matt, or you Charlie, or anybody because I— I decided to think it over first.”

She meant, Laura thought, with clear and cold understanding, that she intended to think of ways and means to fight Conrad’s claim. A wary note in Doris’ voice all but admitted it.

Doris lifted her soft brown eyes to Charlie. “You do understand, don’t you? I couldn’t just act without thinking it over. I had to think about all the implications—everything. And besides I knew that this man—if he were really Stanislowski— would come forward at some time. And then you could deal with it. You and Matt.”

“Of course,” Charlie said. “Of course.” And Laura thought suddenly, that’s why Doris has been frightened. That’s why she tried to claim an alibi for herself for the time when Catherine Miller was murdered. That was why she had asked Laura if she had seen anybody she knew at Koska Street.

“Your perfume,” Laura said slowly, “there was your perfume in the telephone booth.”

Doris flashed around. “So that’s what you told them!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“My perfume! I thought you’d seen me. You see”—she whirled around to Charlie—“I told you, she hates me. She’d do anything.”

“I didn’t tell anybody about the perfume,” Laura said. “I thought you were at the dentist’s. I thought anybody might have used that perfume.”

“I didn’t murder him!” Doris cried. “You can’t say I did! Nobody can say I did! I didn’t go near the rooming house. Nobody saw me. I didn’t go there.” She turned back to Charlie. “Charlie—they can’t arrest me because I was there at that drug store. Can they?”

“No, Doris. No. That’s not evidence. What did Peabody say?”

“He just questioned me,” Doris said coolly again, mistress of the situation. “When he said they’d found my fingerprints, I told them the truth.”

“I am sorry that you didn’t tell me and Matt, the instant that man phoned to you—”

“Oh, I was wrong! But—after all,” Doris said with a childlike note of frankness, “there was all that money! He said he was Conrad Stanislowski, but—but then he said to keep his presence a secret. He said he didn’t want to come forward openly yet so—well, for all I knew, he would never come forward. So I thought I’d wait!”

She wanted to think of ways around it, Laura thought again; she was as cautious and wary as a cat—and as gentle and confiding as a kitten when she chose to be. She brushed her head in a coaxing way against Charlie’s shoulder. “Come with me, Charlie. Take me out to lunch somewhere. Let’s pretend nothing has happened. I’m upset.”

“All right,” Charlie said. “I only came to ask Laura if she’d changed her mind about Stanislowski.”

“No,” Laura said.

He didn’t attempt this time to argue with her.

She watched them leave, Doris hanging on Charlie’s arm, smiling and talking to him. There was an air of triumph about Doris’ small face as she turned back from the elevator and gave Laura a complacent glance. The elevator door closed.

Clearly Doris felt herself out of danger from the police. Clearly, her visit to the drug store in no sense was proof that she had also visited the rooming house. It was not evidence.

Yet Doris had been near Koska Street at about the time the first Conrad was murdered. She had known that there was a man who claimed to be Conrad. She had always intended to oppose the plan to keep the trust fund intact for Jonny. This first Conrad’s arrival had threatened Doris’ third of that trust fund, and she had known there was such a claimant.

Charlie, too, admittedly had been in the vicinity of the rooming house. And the little scene with Doris proved that he was wax in Doris’ soft white hands.

But she, Laura March, had found the murdered man.

Jonny was in her room looking, or pretending to look, at a book of pictures. She had not come out to greet Charlie; that was probably because she had heard Doris’ voice, too. Laura studied the quiet little figure bent over the picture book, absorbed in it— too deeply absorbed, it struck her. When exactly had Jonny seemed to change? Why?

Or was there, really, a change? She could not question her. With a feeling of helplessness Laura turned away.

A few moments later Peabody came again; this time a policeman, not Sergeant O’Brien, but also a stenographer, came with him. He sat down in a straight chair behind Lieutenant Peabody on the sofa, and whipped out a pad and pencil and without preamble the Lieutenant brought forth his evidence. He pulled it as a matter of fact from his pocket and put it in Laura’s lap. “Does that belong to you?”

It was a scarf, a white silk scarf, with her initials “L. M.” embroidered on it in red. It was the scarf Matt had given her.

She looked at it incredulously. It was no longer white. It was stained with dark grimy marks. One corner was torn.

“So it does belong to you,” Lieutenant Peabody said.

“Yes.”

There was the whisper of the stenographer’s pencil scribbling.

Catherine Miller had been killed by a scarf, drawn and knotted tightly about her throat.

“That’s all I wanted to know,” the Lieutenant said.

Laura caught her breath. “Where did you find this?”

“It was found in a trash basket, a large trash basket, over at the corner of State Street. We had sent out a blanket order for anything like this to be handed over to the police. It was found last night and brought to me.”

“I didn’t—I don’t know anything about it! I didn’t kill Catherine Miller! I didn’t throw this in a trash basket—”

“Do you mean that somebody else put it there?”

“I don’t know—I—yes! Somebody—”

“In that event somebody has gone to considerable pains to arrange evidence against you. Who?”

Keep your head, Laura told herself; don’t be frightened. “I don’t know any other explanation for it. The scarf was in a drawer in my room—”

“When?”

For a moment she couldn’t remember. “I wore another one— yesterday. Yes. A red one. I don’t remember seeing this one, then. The day before—”  She had gone to the moving picture; she could see herself adjusting the white scarf. “Yes,” she said. “I wore it then.”

“So you say that sometime in the last forty-eight hours somebody took that scarf?”

“Yes. I didn’t lose it, I’m sure. I’d have known.”

“Who took it? Who had a chance to take it?”

Who? Nobody, to her knowledge. Except Matt.

She wouldn’t tell Peabody that. He waited a moment; then he glanced at the stenographer, who rose. “That’s all,” the Lieutenant said, and started toward the door. The stenographer followed him. Laura thought, I can’t move; I can’t speak. But she did move. She ran across the room, and put her hand on Peabody’s thin arm. “I didn’t do it,” she cried. “You must believe me. Somebody—”

“Oh, yes,” he said wearily. “Somebody took the scarf. Somebody came in here at great risk to themselves and put a sedative in the thermos bottle. Somebody followed you in the park. But it’s never anybody you can identify.”

He went away without a backward look, an edge of her once-white scarf dangling from his pocket. The policeman marched behind him. Laura bolted the door automatically.

So, now, he had evidence.

Who could have taken the scarf?

Who could hate her to the extent of planting evidence against her? Evidence of murder.

The Lieutenant had not arrested her. He had not made a murder charge. Nevertheless he now had tangible evidence.

A long time later, she thought, I’ve got to tell Matt. As she went to the telephone, it rang. “Hello,” she said. “Hello.”

Matt replied. “Laura, I want you to come over here, to my apartment. Hurry.”

She said like a sleepwalker, dazedly, “Matt, something—something’s happened. My scarf—”

“Your
what?
”

“The scarf you gave me. The scarf with my initials on it. Lieutenant Peabody was here. The scarf was found in a trash basket, at the corner of State Street. Matt, it’s evidence.”

There was a short silence. Then Matt said, “Has Peabody got the scarf now?”

“Yes. He took it away with him.”

“Are you alone now?”

“Yes, except for Jonny. Earlier, Doris and Charlie were here.”

“What did they want?”

She didn’t seem to know. Nothing mattered. She could only see that scarf—the gift from Matt, once so white and lovely, now stained and knotted as if it had been twisted hard. “They came together. Doris was at the drug store near Koska Street—”

Matt interrupted. “Yes, I know all that. Peabody told me. But —there’s something else now, Laura. I want you to come over here. Bring Jonny. When you get to the hotel, phone from the desk to me. I’ll come down.”

“All right,” Laura said.

Jonny was quiet, too quiet, as she got obediently into her coat and hat. All her former cautious docility had returned, the dreadful docility of a child who has been too well trained in unquestioning obedience. It touched Laura’s heart with pain and compunction. Perhaps she ought to have sent Jonny away, at once. Where?

They got a taxi. It was threatening snow again. Christmas weather.

It was only a few short blocks to the towering apartment hotel where Matt lived. As they entered the lobby, Matt himself emerged from an elevator, and came quickly to them. “It’s Maria Brown,” he said in a low voice. “She’s upstairs in my apartment. I want you to hear her story.”

He took them quickly into the elevator. With a glance at the elevator man, he said to Jonny, “How are you, Jonny, this morning? I think it is going to snow. You know, snow.”

“Snow,” Jonny said obediently, but with no answering sparkle in her blue eyes.

Laura said, “When did she come? How did you find her?”

The elevator stopped. Matt led them out into the wide corridor. “I put an advertisement in the Personal Column last night. I said in the advertisement, ‘Jonny needs mother. Protection promised,’ and gave my phone number. And she answered it. Just came here to the hotel. When I got back from talking to Peabody, there she was sitting in the lobby waiting for me.”

“What did she say?
Is
she Jonny’s—”

“I don’t know. I put the advertisement in, on the basis that she is Jonny’s mother and that there might be some legitimate, some comprehensible reason for the fact that she left her husband and baby. If that’s true, some of her behavior can be explained. That is—maybe. In any event, it seemed worth taking a gamble. Nothing lost if she didn’t answer it. I rather thought Peabody or some of the police would turn up this morning and question me about it, but apparently they missed it.”

“And she’s here now!”

“Unless she got out the back way, while I went to meet you! But I don’t think she did. Because you see, if she is the mother, there are two alternatives. Either she is on the level about things, and simply wants her child, or she wants her child all right, but she is either in cahoots with the second Stanislowski or she murdered the first one in order to get hold of Jonny, herself. I want you to listen to her. I don’t know whether she is telling the truth or not.”

He led the way on down the hall and opened the door of his apartment.