The Case of the Murdered Muckraker (12 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

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But, Daisy noticed, he made no move to stop Gilligan.
“I must call his lawyer. Poor Bart—will they use the ‘third degree'?”
“Of course not, Mrs. Carmody. Not on a prominent citizen with a good lawyer. So there's no hurry for you to telephone. Just sit down, and maybe we can clear this all up here and now.”
Once more dabbing her eyes, Mrs. Carmody sat. “If he did it, I didn't know nothing about it,” she declared again.
“Did Mr. Bender ever make threats against your husband?”
“Oh no, not seriously. Of course he's real sweet on me, so he was madder'n a hornets' nest when Otis wouldn't do the right thing by me. But he was talking mostly 'bout what his lawyer'd do to Otis, not his boys.”
“Mostly?” insinuated Rosenblatt.
“Well, he did say Otis'd change his mind in a hurry if he was to set the boys on him, but I said he mustn't and he promised he wouldn't. I still loved Otis, see.” Mrs. Carmody sniffed delicately and dabbed again. “I wouldn't've wanted anything bad to happen to him, however mean he was. I just didn't wanna fritter away my life playing second fiddle to his work. You unnerstand, don't you?” she asked Rosenblatt meltingly.
“Sure. You're only young once, right? A beautiful lady shouldn't waste her youth on …”
“Uh …” Gilligan reappeared, rather pink in the face. “Hey, you, Lambert!”
“Who, me?”
“Aw, geez, let's not get into this cross-talk deal again! You finished with that mug book?”
“Er … I have, but I don't think Mrs. Fletcher's gotten quite all the way through. I didn't recognize anyone.”
“I guess Mrs. Fletcher better finish up. If you was to reckernize wunna Bender's toughs, ma'am, we'd have him cold.”
Daisy didn't want to return to those beastly faces when she could be listening to Rosenblatt and Mrs. Carmody. “I don't want to delay you,” she said. “Suppose I give the book to Detective O'Rourke when he comes back, or is he going with you?”
Gilligan looked taken aback, as if he had forgotten O'Rourke's existence. Perhaps he had. “That'll be fine, ma'am,” he said. “O'Rourke can bring it back to Centre Street.”
“Shall I tell him that's where you've gone?”
The sergeant's face turned purple, but he reined himself in and merely snapped, “You can leave that to me, ma'am.”
“Right-oh,” said Daisy, and Gilligan stalked out. Daisy stayed put.
“Who are these people?” Mrs. Carmody asked plaintively. Daisy wondered whether she could possibly be so self-centred she actually had not noticed the other inhabitants of the room.
“The residents of this suite,” Rosenblatt explained, “and
a couple of witnesses. If they make you uncomfortable, we can go downtown to talk.”
“Oh no!”
“Not to police headquarters. The District Attorney's of fices are in the Criminal Courts Building.”
“Criminal Courts! Oh no! No, let's stay here, but I don't think I got anything else to tell you.”
“Do you know if your husband had any enemies?”
“Enemies,” sneered Mrs. Carmody. “Better ask if he had any friends. That's what he did for a living, make enemies. I can't begin to list them.”
“Who were his friends?” Rosenblatt asked patiently.
“He didn't have any in New York, not that I knew anyway. If I hadn‘t've gone out and made friends for myself, I'd've never seen anyone.”
“In Washington?”
“There were a coupla guys, couples that we visited with, but I don't think he kept in touch. We'd've maybe exchanged Christmas greetings, you know, like we did with the folks in Chicago. That's where we met, Chicago.”
“Carmody wasn't from Chicago, though.”
“No, he worked there a few years, on the
Herald-American
. He came from some hick town out west, like I come from a hick town back in Iowa.” Mrs. Carmody coyly smoothed the fur cuff at her wrist. “You wouldn't guess it to look at me now, would you?”
“Not in a million years,” said Rosenblatt. “The
Herald-American
, that's a Hearst paper, isn't it?”
“Huh? Oh, you mean Mr. Randolph Hearst owns it? Yeah, could be. Now you come to mention it, Otis mighta mentioned that once. I don't remember for sure, though. Don't quote me!” she giggled.
“Did Carmody keep in touch with his family out west?”
“Just at Christmas. He may've wrote his mother sometimes, I dunno, or his sisters. His dad was a banker, a big man in town. He went to college, you know, Otis. Not just a farm college, either. They got a real university out there, would you believe? I mean, it isn't no Yale or Harvard, but he was real educated, my Otis.”
Mrs. Carmody began to cry in earnest, the first real tears Daisy had seen. Her tiny hankie proved inadequate. With aplomb Rosenblatt handed over his own sizable square, reminding Daisy of Alec's injunction always to pack spare handkerchiefs when he travelled on a case. She repressed an urge to go over and comfort the woman, without great difficulty as she simply couldn't care much about her.
“He's really gone, isn't he?” Mrs. Carmody sniffed. “I didn't really realize before, not for real. We had good times, him and me, back in Chicago. Only then he changed, and he didn't seem to
want
to give me a good time anymore.” She sounded bewildered. “I thought it might be better in New York, more like Chicago, but he was just like in Washington. It wasn't me that changed.”
Daisy felt her sympathies rising, for both of the ill-matched couple. Rosenblatt obviously did not. He went on with his questioning.
“Did Carmody keep in touch with his cousins or other relatives?”
“Nix! On his mother's side, they're just farmers and mill hands and like that.”
“You didn't know one of his relatives is in New York?”
“Gosh darn, you don't say! No, he never told me. If you want the truth, we didn't talk much the last few weeks.”
“A Mr. Wilbur Pitt.”
“Never heard of him. Why would I? Otis didn't talk about his family. What's he doing in New York, this guy?”
“We haven't spoken to him yet,” Rosenblatt said guardedly. He glanced at his wrist-watch. “If he contacts you, will you let me know? Here's my card. I have to go now, I'm due in court. Don't leave town, will you? Either I or Sergeant Gilligan will probably need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Gee, not that sergeant. He gave me the willies. You're a gentleman, anyone can see.”
Flattery left the Deputy D.A. as unmoved as had tears. “In any case we'll be in touch with you about your husband's possessions. If you're not using your hotel room, you better give me the address of your apartment.”
“Aw, gee, I dunno. Bart wouldn't like me giving out that address. It's kinda private, see.”
“I can take you down to police headquarters to ask Mr. Bender's permission.”
“No, thanks! I guess they're gonna sweat it out of poor Bart anyhow, so I might as well tell.” She gave the address. “I gotta powder my nose. Can I use Otis's room?”
“No, I'm afraid not. I'm sure Miss Cabot will oblige.”
“Oh dear! Oh yes, of course, do come this way, Mrs. Carmody.”
As Miss Cabot ushered Mrs. Carmody out, Rosenblatt came over to Daisy and Miss Genevieve.
“Satisfied, ladies?” he enquired sarcastically.
“Why did you stay here,” said Daisy, “if you didn't want us to listen?”
“Strike while the iron's hot. Give 'em time to think and they realize they'd do better to clam up. I'm sure Sergeant Gilligan will be most grateful, Mrs. Fletcher, if you can
find a moment to look through the rest of his precious mug book.”
“I expect I might find a moment.”
“And you will let us know if you plan to leave town, won't you? You're the only witness who actually saw the guy's face.” He cast a reproachful glance at Lambert, who reddened. “Sigurd Thorwald swears he was looking at the elevator and then at Mr. Lambert, not the guy you were chasing. Not that I'd give much for his evidence, the state he was in. Thank you for the use of your place, Miss Genevieve. I guess.”
“You're more than welcome,” said Miss Genevieve cordially. “Any time.”
Rosenblatt departed.
“Sarky beast,” said Daisy. “What do you make of all that?”
“You'd better finish up with the mug book first,” said Miss Genevieve. “O'Rourke will be in for it any minute and we don't want him hanging around. Anyway, we can't talk freely till Elva Carmody's gone. Are you planning on staying the rest of the day?” she demanded of Lambert, still seated at her desk.
“Let him stay,” Daisy suggested, “while I'm here, that is. Otherwise he'll just hang about in the passage outside your door, waiting to see where I go next. I hope you noted where I got to in that book, Mr. Lambert. I don't want to have to go through all those beastly faces again.”
“Yes, I marked the place,” he said eagerly, pleased to have done something right for once.
Daisy returned to the desk and flipped through the last few photographs, without result. None of the beastly faces reminded her in the least of the man on the stairs.
M
rs. Carmody reemerged into the sitting room with her face restored. She came over to the four by the fireplace, Lambert jumping to his feet at her approach.
“I guess you folks must be wondering about me and Otis,” she opened. “I really am all broke up over him passing on, only you don't wanna be a killjoy, do you?”
“Oh dear, so very sorry!” said Miss Cabot. “Of course you haven't had time yet to put on your blacks.”
“Blacks?” Mrs. Carmody turned an astonished gaze on the old lady. “Oh, you mean mourning clothes? That's kinda old-fashioned, you know, and black doesn't suit me one bit.”
“Oh dear!”
“'Sides, I figure now Otis is gone it won't worry him what I wear, and it's my duty now to cheer up poor Bart. He likes me in red. Heck, I gotta go telephone his lawyer.”
“You're welcome to use our telephone,” offered Miss Genevieve, as unwilling as Daisy to let her escape without coughing up a bit more information.
“Gee, can I? That's mighty kind of you. Say, d'you remember his name that Bart told me?”
“James P. Macpherson,” said Daisy.
“Have you a directory, ma'am?” Lambert asked. “I'll look up his number for you, Mrs. Carmody.”
Miss Cabot found the telephone directory in her sister's desk, Lambert found the number, and Mrs. Carmody asked the hotel switchboard to connect her. Miss Genevieve made no pretence of not listening, even hushing Lambert and Miss Cabot when they would have spoken.
“Hello, Mr. Macpherson? … This is Elva Carmody … . No, nothing to do with that business. It's Bart—Mr. Bender. The cops have taken him in … . No, not Fraud, I guess it's the Homicide Bureau.”
A squawk came over the wire, loud enough for Daisy to hear, though not to make out the words.
“Heck no, not one of his goddamn tenants. My husband, Otis Carmody. You musta read about it … . No, I don't believe he did and they haven't acksherly arrested him, but they're gonna grill him … . Well, O.K., if he did, it was for my sake, but it's sure landed us in a heapa trouble. You gotta get down to police headquarters right away.”
She listened for a moment, then said good-bye and hung up the earpiece on its hook.
“Everything all right?” asked Miss Genevieve.
“Mr. Macpherson's going down there and make sure they don't violet Bart's rights. But if the cops got evidence,” Mrs. Carmody went on disconsolately, “he says he might not be able to get him out today. My husband dead, my friend in jail, what the heck am I s'posed to do?”
Miss Genevieve visibly withheld a pithy response.
“Won't you sit down for a moment,” she said, “while you consider your options? Do you know the men who work for Mr. Bender?”
“Nix. Bart didn't want me to trouble my head with business, not like Otis. Otis was always on at me to take an interest in his work. He used to get all excited and say nine tenths of the people in the government was crooks, but like I told him, who cares? That's just the way things are, and worrying about it don't put diamonds around a girl's neck. Anyways, if Bart gets sent to the chair for having Otis croaked, his guys'll all be out of a job and no help to me.”
“True,” Miss Genevieve agreed. “So we must try to figure out who else might have disposed of your husband. If you try real hard, maybe you'll remember which of the many public figures Mr. Carmody antagonized made particularly virulent threats against him.”
“Who got maddest, that he wrote about? Gee, I dunno. Otis read me some real punk letters he got. Most weren't signed, but he often knew pretty much who they were from.”
“Did he tell you?”
“Yeah, but I don't remember.”
“What did he do with them? Did he keep them?”
“Nix. He just laughed and tore 'em up. Said they didn't none of them have the guts to do anything, specially after President Harding passed on and President Coolidge started cleaning house. You figure it was someone Otis wrote about in Washington had him shot?”
Miss Genevieve shook her head. “I think it's far more likely that someone in New York wanted to prevent his publishing the results of his latest investigations.”
“You don't mean Bart, do you? I know Otis was digging up some dirt on Bart.”
“If it was Mr. Bender, the police can be counted on to prove it. They're going to bend over backwards to avoid pinning it on anyone more closely connected with Tammany, unless someone keeps an eye on them. I guess I'm the one. I've still got enough contacts in the right places to keep 'em on their toes if they don't want to find themselves pilloried in the opposition and Hearst press right before the election.”
“Aw, politics! But you mean you're gonna help Bart? Gee, I wish you would. Him and me get on real well together, and I don't wanna hafta go looking for someone else. I'm not as young as I look, see,” Mrs. Carmody confessed with a moue. “I wanna settle down with a man that thinks I'm worth giving a good time.”
“Most understandable,” said Miss Genevieve dryly. “I'll certainly do what I can to make sure the police and the D.A.'s office don't brush any Tammany connection under the carpet. Whether that will help Mr. Bender remains to be seen.”
“Least he won't be railroaded for something he didn't do. I can't help wondering, did he …” She stopped as someone knocked on the door.
“Shall I get that, ma‘am?” Lambert asked. At Miss Genevieve's nod, he went out into the foyer. “Oh, it's you, Detective O'Rourke. Come in.”
Mrs. Carmody jumped up. “Say, you been real swell, but I guess I better get going now. ‘Bye, folks.”
She hurried out, dodging past O'Rourke as if she was afraid he might without warning clap handcuffs on her. He swung round to stare after her.
“Who wuzzat?” he enquired suspiciously.
“A visitor,” Miss Genevieve informed him, accurate if misleading. “What did you find in Wilbur Pitt's room?”
“Geez, ma'am, I didn't oughta tell you.”
“Mr. Rosenblatt has already told me all about the case. I have considerable experience in criminal matters, you know. Did you find a gun?”
“No, ma'am.”
“No gun?” Miss Genevieve was disappointed.
“I thought men in the Wild West always had six-shooters,” ventured Miss Cabot.
Miss Genevieve looked self-conscious, as if she had also been momentarily prey to that misconception. “Mr. Pitt is presently in New York, not the Wild West, sister.”
“No cartridges,” Daisy asked, “or whatever you put in a six-shooter?”
“No, ma'am.”
“What
did
you find, Detective?” said Miss Genevieve.
“Nuttin, ma'am.”
“He's skedaddled?”
“No, ma'am. Nuttin of int'rest, I shoulda said. Just a few clothes, coupla shirts, kinda old-fashioned, nuttin fancy, no evening dress or nuttin, and a cardboard suitcase. There was a coupla packs of cigarette papers—no tobacco pouch, I guess he got it on him—and a big manila envelope with a stack of paper in it, writing paper, all written on.”
“Not typed?” Daisy said.
“No, ma'am, and the writing was dang near impossible to read, but it wasn't letters or nuttin useful.”
“His manuscript,” said Miss Genevieve. “He won't leave without that.”
“Izzat so? The sergeant'll be pleased to hear that, ma'am.
He'll still want to see Mr. Pitt, I guess, but there wasn't nuttin useful anywheres, like I said.”
“Drat,” said Daisy. Wilbur Pitt was the only suspect she had much chance of investigating, but it seemed less and less likely that he had put a bullet into his cousin after a family squabble. She would still like to talk to him, though.
“You didn't reckernize none of the faces in the mug book, ma‘am?” O'Rourke asked her.
Daisy shook her head. “No, sorry. But I'm still sure I'd recognize him if I saw him. Pretty sure.”
“I'll tell Sergeant Gilligan, ma‘am.” Detective O'Rourke departed with the mug book under his arm.
Turning to Miss Genevieve, Daisy asked, “Well, what do you think?”
Miss Genevieve sighed. “I expect Gilligan's right, and Barton Bender hired someone to kill Carmody. He did, after all, have a double motive.”
“Double?” said Lambert blankly.
“Fear of exposure of his unsavory business methods, and to free Mrs. Carmody,” Daisy explained, “so that he could marry her.”
“Gee, I guess so.”
“Do you think Mrs. Carmody knew what Bender planned, Miss Genevieve?”
“Hmm.” After a moment's thought, the old lady said reluctantly, “Perhaps not. Though I wouldn't be surprised if she had asked him to put her husband out of the way and he told her it was too risky. And then he changed his mind when Carmody's investigations threatened him.”
“I doubt she knew,” said Daisy. “She was a rotten liar.”
“Those crocodile tears!”
“Oh dear!”
“Don't be naive, sister.”
“She really was crying at one point,” Daisy argued. “I believe she loved him once and his death hurt her when she let herself feel it. Actually, I'm rather sorry for both of them.”
“An ill-matched pair,” Miss Genevieve acknowledged. “No doubt he fell for a pretty face, like most men, and didn't realize for some time that there was nothing behind it. He grew up. She didn't. Learn by his example, young man!” she admonished Lambert sternly.
“Gee whiz,” he said obediently, “I'll sure try, ma'am.”
“She's trying to have it both ways, of course. She wants to keep Bender, yet she's afraid of being charged as an accomplice. It's not because I'm sorry for the dumb broad,” Miss Genevieve went on with one of her startling lapses into the vernacular, “that I'll be keeping an eye on Rosenblatt and Gilligan. I'm not by any means convinced of Bender's guilt. I'll keep pushing them to make absolutely certain Tammany isn't involved.”
“Won't that guy Pascoli do that?” Lambert enquired. “I mean, I bought a couple of newspapers this morning and they were full of the murder of a muckraker that was investigating Tammany Hall. I figure it must be Pascoli put them onto it.”
“Tell me about Pascoli,” Miss Genevieve requested. “You were talking about him before, Mrs. Fletcher, but I didn't catch exactly how he came into the business.”
Daisy explained that Pascoli was responsible for Carmody's presence in the Flatiron Building. “And he pointed out to Mr. Rosenblatt the possibility that the murder had some connection to Washington or New York politicians.”
“Which I reported to Mr. Hoover, of course,” Lambert
put in eagerly. “I mean, I had to report to him anyway because of Mrs. Fletcher being in trouble, but he wouldn't have sent another agent just because of that. So between the newspapers and Agent Whitaker, I don't think you need to worry that the Tammany Hall side of things will be dropped without a thorough investigation, Miss Genevieve.”
“Possibly not,” said Miss Genevieve, displeased, “but if you want something done well, you should do it yourself.”
“That's what Papa always said,” Miss Cabot ventured, “though he applied it only to men. He never let me do anything except fine needlework. But I
have
learned to make good coffee, haven't I, sister?”
“Excellent, sister.”
“Would you care for a cup, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes, please. Heavens, it's past time for elevenses already. I had no idea it was so late.”
“Elevenses?” Miss Genevieve enquired.
“In England we lunch later than you seem to here, so a cup of tea or coffee and a biscuit is welcome at about eleven o'clock.”
“What a good idea. Ernestine and I usually take a cup of coffee a little earlier, but this has been such an interesting morning, I quite forgot.”
“
I
did not, sister,” said Miss Cabot reproachfully, “but I was forever being hushed. Besides, we don't have enough cups for everyone who was here this morning, and they did keep popping in and out so. I think we have some macaroons in the cookie jar.”
Biscuit tin, Daisy translated. “Perfect,” she said.
Miss Cabot trotted off to her tiny kitchen, to return a few minutes later with coffee pot, cups and saucers, and a
plate of cookies. The macaroons were a disappointment to Daisy, since they turned out to be coconut biscuits, not her favourite almond meringue confections—something lost in translation. Her lack of enthusiasm went unnoticed as Lambert ate all but the last one, which he had manners enough to leave. The coffee was good, though. Daisy complimented Miss Cabot, who blushed and beamed.

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