The Case of the Murdered Muckraker (5 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

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Rosenblatt and Gilligan swung round to stare at her. The sergeant's hand hovered over his chest as if he wasn't sure whether to draw again. “Her?” he asked, incredulous. “The dame's ‘wanted'? Geez, she looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.”
“No, no,” Lambert sputtered, “just to protect her. Mr. Hoover was told by an English cop, a Superintendent Stork, that Mrs. Fletcher has a habit of landing herself in trouble.”
“Superintendent Crane,” corrected Daisy. “The rotter! How beastly of him!”
“You know this superintendent bird, ma'am?” said Rosenblatt dryly.
“He's my husband's superior in the Metropolitan Police,” Daisy admitted, hoping they would not have heard of the Met.
“Metropolitan … Isn't that Scotland Yard?” The Deputy D.A. blinked. “Your husband's a Scotland Yard man?”
“Yes, actually. He's a Detective Chief Inspector.”
“Geez, Chief Inspector? Whassat in our ranks?” demanded Sergeant Gilligan.
“I'm afraid I don't know. I'm sure the system is quite different, and in any case he has no official standing here,” Daisy said tactfully.
“Chief Inspector Fletcher is in Washington in his official capacity,” Lambert contradicted her with a certain relish. “He is advising our government.”
“Aw, rats!” said Gilligan.
“In Washington,” Rosenblatt pointed out. “Not here. Mrs. Fletcher, ma'am, I'd be grateful if you could see your way to giving us your evidence now, so that we need not keep you any longer.”
Daisy decided to exploit her newfound advantage. “Would you mind awfully if I finish my sandwich first, Mr. Rosenblatt? I really am frightfully hungry.”
Gilligan turned an interesting shade of purple, and Rosenblatt looked as if he was biting his tongue. Fortunately, a large, stolid uniformed policeman—patrolman?—came in to report, so Daisy didn't discover the limits of her power. She listened as she munched.
“Whole building's been combed, sir, roof to basement. Ain't nobody that don't have a good reason to be here.”
“Whassa doorman say?” asked Gilligan.
“Door
men
, Sergeant. There's two main entrances, on the Avenue and Broadway. They say nobody's been let to leave since the first patrolman got here after the homicide was phoned in. But gen‘rally they don't make a note of everyone that comes in and don't take no notice of them going out, 'specially at lunchtime. It's a commercial building, see, not like one of them fancy apartment buildings that no stranger gets in without they buzz the residents.”
“I know it's a commercial building,” Gilligan snapped.
“And then there's the doors from the lobby to the shops on the street level. They got outside doors, too. We talked to all the shop clerks, but there's people going in and out alia time, specially in the lunch hour. They don't notice
'em 'less they looks like they're gonna buy sumpin or pinch sumpin.”
The sergeant groaned. “What about the elevator attendants? Someone gotta of seen sumpin!”
“Seems three of ‘em goes unofficially off duty between the lunch rush out and the lunch rush in. Poker in the basement, I reckon. They ain't none of 'em noticed nuttin outta the way, 'cepting the old buzzard what the stiff fell on toppa his elevator.”
“And what did he see?” asked Rosenblatt.
“The stiff on toppa his elevator, sir.”
The D.A.'s mouth twitched, whether in amusement or irritation Daisy couldn't tell. “The stairs start at the second-floor level,” he said. “So our fugitive must've taken the elevator down to the ground, so one of the men must've seen him.”
“There's service and emergency stairs from first to second, sir. I guess he musta took 'em. The doors ain't locked.”
“They wouldn't be,” Rosenblatt sighed. “You took the name and address of everyone in the building that doesn't work here? And where they claim to have been when Carmody was shot?”
“Yessir. Detective O'Rourke's got the dope.”
“O.K., we'll try to get a decent description of the guy that was seen running off, then we'll need—lessee—make it four men to go round again. The rest of you can go for now.”
“Figure we'll need more'n four, sir,” grunted Gilligan. “Or it'll take all day.”
It was the first unmistakable sign Daisy had seen that the detective was not happy to have the District Attorney's Office
supervising his investigation. She wondered just what Rosenblatt's duties were in such a case. There was no equivalent in England to his position.
Rosenblatt conceded. “O.K., O.K., Sergeant, however many you need. Now, Mrs. Fletcher, if you've quite finished your sandwich, let's hear what you have to tell us about Carmody's death.”
Daisy swallowed the last bite and followed it with a draught of strong black, lukewarm coffee. Other than Alec's presence, the one thing in the world she wanted was a hot cup of tea to fortify her for the interrogation.
W
henever Alec was forced by circumstances beyond his control to take evidence from Daisy, he always started by insisting that she give him only facts, not her speculations. He always ended up taking her comments and theories into account, if not counting on them, but Daisy suspected pure conjecture would not go down well with Rosenblatt and Gilligan.
“Where would you like me to begin?” she asked.
Gilligan sighed heavily.
“At the beginning?” suggested Rosenblatt, not without irony.
“But is the beginning when Mr. Thorwald and I approached the lifts—elevators—and saw Carmody …”
“Fine!” said Gilligan.
“ … or when I heard him yesterday,” Daisy persisted, “arguing in the room next door?”
“Next door?”
“At the hotel where I'm staying.”
The sergeant was incredulous. “Carmody was in the next room?!”
“I guess we could go back to that later,” Rosenblatt said hastily. “For now, let's stick with today. Just the facts, ma'am.”
“Right-oh. It was after most people had left for lunch. That's usually twelve noon here, isn't it? Mr. Thorwald said it was long past noon and invited me to lunch at the Algonquin.”
“The Algonquin?” said Gilligan. “That's quite a joint for an editor to treat a reporter at.”
“Oh dear, is it a speakeasy?” Surely not, or Miss Genevieve would not visit it—or would she? “I can't believe it, Mr. Thorwald is fearfully respectable.”
Gilligan and Rosenblatt guffawed. Well, at least she had cheered them up, Daisy thought.
“Speakeasy! No, ma'am,” said the D.A., “the Algonquin is one of the smart hotels, though it's true it's frequented by literary types. What sort of money spinners were you writing for Thorwald?”
“I'm a journalist really, not a reporter. I write travel articles for
Abroad
magazine.”
“That's wunna them glossies. Still, geez, the Algonquin!”
“I expect,” put in Lambert, “Mr. Thorwald considered it suitable because Mrs. Fletcher is a titled lady.”
“Titled?” yelped Rosenblatt.
“Whaddaya mean, she's Lady Sumpin or sumpin?”
With a silent groan—what else had Crane told about her?—Daisy said quickly, “No, not Lady anything, and it's just a courtesy title, not a proper one. Mr. Thorwald and I went out to the elevators. Mr. Carmody was already there. I recognized him at once, though I couldn't see his face, because …”
“Hang on! You recognized him?” asked Rosenblatt.
“You had met him, not just heard him talking? Here or at your hotel?”
“I hadn't
met
him. We hadn't been introduced. I'd seen him and been told who he was. As I was about to say, I recognized him at once because I'd seen him doing exactly the same thing at the hotel. He's … he was an impatient sort of chap. If an elevator didn't appear right away when he rang for it, he'd open the gate and look down the shaft, I suppose to see how far down it was, how long he'd have to wait.”
“Say, there's five elevators out there,” Gilligan objected, “not counting the freight elevator. Howd'e know which one to look down?”
“They make a frightful racket, and you can see the cables moving.”
“Oh, sure.”
“That's what he was doing when you saw him,” said Rosenblatt, with exaggerated patience, “peering down the shaft?”
“Yes. He was holding the handle of the gate—you know, the bit you grab to open it—and leaning forward to look down. The shock of being shot must have made him let go. Once he'd done that, he hadn't a hope.”
“Could you tell which direction the shot came from?”
Daisy shook her head in negation. “I thought the sound was just part of the noise of the machinery until I saw him fall. It could have come from anywhere.”
The sergeant shook his head in disgust. “Coulda come from anywheres, huh? In backaya, in frontaya, anywheres at all.”
“I guess it reverberated,” said Rosenblatt soothingly.
“At the time, I assumed it had come from ahead of me,
because I saw a man run across the passage and down the stairs.”
Rosenblatt and Gilligan both leaned towards her. “Yeah,” breathed Gilligan, his pencil poised over his notebook, “the man at headquarters that took the report on the phone said the killer was seen escaping. This guy, whaddy look like?”
Daisy tried to picture the man. “He was very pale,” she said, “and he looked absolutely horrified. I had an impression of something vaguely familiar about him. But I didn't get a really good look. I thought I ought to keep him in sight, so I started chasing him …”
“Geez!” said Gilligan, shaking his head again, whether in admiration at her courage or disbelief at her folly Daisy did not enquire.
“But then,” she continued, “someone yelled at me to stop and I glanced back and saw Mr. Lambert running after me waving a gun, and …”
“Waving your gun, were you?” Rosenblatt said reprovingly.
“To protect her,” Lambert protested. “I didn't know what was going on.”
“Nor did I,” said Daisy. “I guessed that you must be the murderer, but before I could work out what to do, Mr. Thorwald brought you down.”
“That was some tackle,” Lambert admitted grudgingly. “I lost my glasses and my gun.”
“Which I caught. So I stopped worrying about what you were up to and went on chasing the man who was running away, who had to be either an accomplice or a frightened witness. In any case, he ought to be stopped if possible.”
“Whaddy
look
like?” demanded Gilligan.
“Well …” Daisy considered, then shrugged. “Just ordinary. I only had a glimpse before he started down the stairs.”
“No distinctive characteristics?” said Rosenblatt gloomily.
“I don't think so. Once he was going down I couldn't see much but his hat, and that was a sort of bowler, rather shabby.”
“Bowler?”
“I think you'd call it a derby.”
“Dahby—oh, durrby. A derby hat doesn't tell us much.”
“I'm afraid not.”
Gilligan snorted. “You don't see many of 'em around these days. It's all soft felts, homburgs and trilbies and fedoras. But you can't arrest a bird for wearing a derby,” he said severely.
“I can't describe him any better, but I have a feeling I'd recognize him if I saw him again.” She frowned. “I'm pretty sure I haven't seen him before, so it's odd that he seemed familiar. If only I could think why!”
“Yeah, well,” said Gilligan, “you think why, you let us know. Guess you better have a go at the mug book.”
Not for the first time, Daisy wished she spoke American. “What's a mug book?” she asked cautiously.
“Scotland Yard don't have ‘em yet?” Gilligan snickered, with mingled scorn and pride. “When we pinch—arrest—someone, see, we make 'em mug for the camera. We take a photo shot of their mugs, so we got a record.”
“Oh, of course. I think Scotland Yard calls it their rogues' gallery.”
Gilligan looked chagrined at not being a step ahead of the Yard. “Yeah, well, we call it that, too.”
“What next, ma'am?” asked Rosenblatt. “You were chasing the man down the stairs.”
“He was far ahead of me by then. It was obvious I'd never catch him.”
“You didn't shout to him to stop?”
“I did call, ‘Come back,' but not very loudly. I mean, I was always taught that ladies simply don't shout in public. And to tell the truth, I wasn't absolutely sure I wanted to catch up with him. After all, I didn't know whether he was just a witness, or a murderer, or Lambert's accomplice.”
“You had a gun,” Rosenblatt pointed out. “You said you caught Mr. Lambert's.”
Daisy stared at him. “Gosh, but … but I couldn't
shoot
it!”
The D.A. sighed. “No, I guess a lady that can't shout out in public isn't gonna know how to fire a gun. Heck,” he went on generously, “there aren't too many women in America could do it, not in the East, anyhow. It's not like we live in the Wild West, with rustlers and bandits and rattlesnakes all over. So you gave up the chase, ma'am?”
“Not just like that. Mr. Lambert came running down the stairs after me. He said he'd get him and I must stay out of it. I hadn't the foggiest what was going on, but it seemed wisest to go back up to Mr. Thorwald.”
“You betcha!” Gilligan exclaimed. “A dame that can't fire a gat's got no business chasing crooks that can. So you went after him, Lambert?”
“One thing at a time,” said Rosenblatt. “We'll take Mr. Lambert's evidence when we've finished with Mrs. Fletcher's.”
Storm clouds gathered on the sergeant's brow, but they gradually dissipated as Daisy described the arrival of Carmody's
corpse, riding on top of the elevator. Tears came to his eyes when—mindful of Alec's frequent injunction to omit no detail, however apparently insignificant—she told of the elevator attendant's efforts to view the “stiff.” She didn't think Gilligan's tears were tears of sorrow. It
had
been funny in a macabre way.
She reported Lambert's return, and his admission that he couldn't see much without his glasses. That was a detail whose significance Gilligan did not miss.
“Rats!” he said. “What's the use of chasing a guy without you can see him?”
“I could see a running figure,” Lambert protested. “If I'd caught up with him …”
“Later!” Rosenblatt snapped. “Go on, Mrs. Fletcher.”
There was not much more to tell. She had urged ringing up the police. Lambert had wanted to call his superiors in Washington, but Daisy had insisted on Mr. Thorwald notifying the local police first.
For the first time, Rosenblatt and Gilligan eyed her with something amounting almost to approval. It did not last long.
“I feel I ought to warn you,” she said, “that as Mr. Lambert has reported to Mr. Hoover, and my husband is working with Mr. Hoover, it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that he—my husband—will shortly turn up in New York.”
“Rats!” groaned Gilligan.
“I'm sure we'll be glad of any tips Scotland Yard has to offer,” Rosenblatt said sourly. “Now, what's all this about you overhearing Carmody at your hotel? Where are you staying?”
“The Hotel Chelsea. It's …”
“Full of bohemians.” The sergeant did not appear thrilled by the prospect of having to interview the Chelsea's residents.
Daisy told them of the sounds of altercation she had heard through the walls. “The first time it was just one other man, I'm pretty sure. The second time there was a woman and another man.”
Gilligan brightened. “So there's a dame involved! That's the answer, you betcha.”
“But you didn't hear what they were saying?” Rosenblatt asked.
“Not most of it. Then I went out onto the balcony for a breath of air. Carmody's window was open.”
Once again Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—Blast! Daisy had been trying so hard not to think of them like that. If she wasn't careful she would address them as Hamlet's friends. They might not recognize the reference, but it would not raise their low opinion of her wits—
Rosenblatt
and
Gilligan
leaned towards her.
“I heard the woman call him by a rude name, and she said she would not return to him if he had a million dollars. And he said that if he made a million dollars, she still wouldn't squeeze one …” Daisy hesitated. “I think she said ‘red cent.'”
“That just means a penny,” Lambert explained.
“He said she wouldn't squeeze one out of him.”
“Blackmail!” cried Gilligan. “Say, listen, this is how I figure it. This dame is Carmody's frail, and she's gotten the goods on him. She knows sumpin he done that if she told the right people, they could put pressure on him to stop
writing about them, and then kablooey goes his career. And they break up, see, and she finds this other guy and tells him, and they put on the screws.”
Rosenblatt frowned. “Could be, but a blackmailer doesn't usually kill his victim. It's the other way around.”
Gilligan was only momentarily taken aback. “O.K., so maybe it is the other way around.” He turned to Daisy. “You sure it was Carmody said that? About not a red cent?”

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