I MOVED over and he took the wheel. About eight blocks away he made a right turn and pulled up in front of a large private home.
“Here’s where we get that drink,” he said. “Come on.”
I followed him into anything but a private home. It was a rather elaborate private speakeasy. Tommy and I went to a room marked “Private Drinking Room.”
I giggled at the sign. “This is a new one on me. How did I manage to miss this joint?”
“It hasn’t been open long. I only found it two weeks ago.”
We ordered highballs and after the second one I began to feel better.
“Tommy, what about Mr. Dellman? He must have known that girl was not in the house Saturday morning!”
“I thought of that. Either he’s protecting his wife or else the girl was gone when he got back from Cleveland and Mrs. Dellman told him she had skipped, but gave him to believe she was protecting Lucille. He’s the kind who’d ride along with her story if he liked Lucille.”
“I suppose so. It must be pretty awful to live in the house with a murderess, though.”
“If you know she’s one, yes. But Dellman is mad about that woman and would probably swallow anything she told him.”
We finished our fourth drink, Tommy paid the bill, and we left.
“You take me down, then take yourself home. And stay there,” he ordered.
“Okay, but I want to stop by the office first. I forgot to get my pay check and Dennis must have it for me.”
I drove to headquarters and let him out. He stood for a moment with his foot on the running board.
“Now remember. No visiting the Dellmans tonight.”
“You don’t have to keep harping on that!” I said irritably.
“And you needn’t snap at me either.” He smiled. “It’s just that I want you to keep your health. I have—”
“Yeah. I know. You have too much fun with me when I’m alive. G’by.”
I let out the clutch and drove down to the paper. It was 8:15 and Dennis was out to dinner. Carter gave me my check and I left for home.
Driving up St. Charles I passed the lighted marquee of the Bienvenu hotel. I glanced over as two cab drivers began scuffling together. Memory made a loud chime in my cranium.
“Of course!” I spoke out loud. “That’s where I’d seen that guy who got killed! He was in front of the hotel that Thursday morning!”
I realized I was talking to myself and shut up. Then I began wondering if his murder was any part of the same pattern that had started with Ned McGowan. It could be. He had been going to blackmail someone. Why couldn’t that someone be our criminal? And he too had been shot under the left ear with a small caliber gun! It fitted almost too snugly into the puzzle.
I drove home slowly with my brain spinning like mad, turned in the drive and sat in the garage for several minutes, just thinking. Then I got out of the car and went inside of the house.
I started for the kitchen to raid the ice box when Mother called to me.
“Is that you, Margaret?”
“Yes’m. I’m going to make a sandwich. I’ve had no dinner.”
She came to the door. “I don’t wonder they call stomach ulcers the occupational disease of newspaper people! The way you eat and drink with no regard for regularity is bad for you.”
“Yes’m,” I said meekly. “But I had to go out of town and just got back a little while ago.”
“I know, Brett called me from the field. It must have been a shocking experience, seeing that poor girl’s body in such a condition.”
“It wasn’t particularly appetizing,” I admitted, munching cheerfully on a beautifully sloppy sandwich. “Our paper had the only eyewitness story to the grisly details, thanks to me—and Brett.”
“I saw it. They think it’s suicide.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” I advised her.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a secret. I can’t tell you now. Anybody call me tonight?”
“Yes. Mrs. Dellman called twice.”
“Mrs. Dellman! What did she want?” I thought: She’s seen that story and wants to hand me a lot of oil about how shocked and upset she is!
“She didn’t say.”
“Humph. Well, I’ll call her in a minute.”
“She said she didn’t want you to call her, that she’d call you later if she had a chance.”
“Had a chance? What’s to stop her? There’s phones all over the place.”
“Perhaps she was going out.”
“Perhaps. Well, if she calls again I want to talk to her. If I’m asleep wake me up.”
I made another sandwich and took it with a glass of milk upstairs and into the bathroom. I filled the tub, poured half a bottle of bath oil in, undressed, and climbed gratefully into the warm water, sandwich in hand. I ate the sandwich, drank the milk, then lay soaping luxuriously and reviewing the three—possibly four—murders.
Again the combination of weapons teased my mind. Poison, poker, and pistol. Alliterative choice of weapons; a peculiar coincidence. Idly I began to play a game of linking combinations of three words starting with the same letters. I chanted them out loud as I applied the soapy sponge.
“Chasing, cheating, chiseling; crime, confidence, cabs; blackmail, bludgeon, bayous; discreet, deceit, disguise; fear, fury, fate; home, husband, hussy; innocent, indecent, indiscreet; man, motive, murder; poison, poker, pistol; perfidy, perfume, patchouli—”
Suddenly it was as though someone was whispering those words in my ear, telling me how to group them. I dropped the sponge and sat gazing open-mouthed into space, repeating the words in my mind. I sat so for some seconds, then I scrambled out of the tub and dried off hurriedly. I had work to do and my promise to Tommy could go to hell!
I thought: My God, have I been stupid! The key to the murders lay in the words of that alliteration game and I was pretty sure I’d found it!
I pulled on my clothes and raced into Brett’s room where I searched through his snapshot album until I found two clear enough to suit my purpose. I ripped them out, went to my room, and did a little job of crude retouching on one of them with a pen and ink. That finished, I clattered downstairs to the phone and called Brett, hoping he was still at the field. I got him, held a brief conversation, with me doing most of the talking, which mainly consisted of asking him questions.
I hung up and called Bob at the hotel, gave him some rapid instructions, and then tried to reach Tommy, both at home and in his office. He wasn’t either place and I had no time to waste looking for him. I put up the phone, figuring I’d by to get him from the hotel, but if he should call me I didn’t want him to know 1 was out. I wondered how to fix that.
Mother heard me and came to the door. Her eyes widened as she saw I was dressed for the street.
“I thought you were home for the night!”
“So did I, but urgent unfinished business calls me and I’ve got to go.”
“You’ll wear yourself out racing around all hours,” she protested. “I wish you’d give up that job and get something ladylike.”
I chortled. “Ladylike! Me? I wouldn’t last a week!”
’Well, you were raised a lady and acted one until you went on that paper,” she said stiffly.
“I know, darling. But I like my work, really I do. Hey, where’s Vangie?”
A smile quirked her lips. “Out. As soon as she saw the paper she got dressed and went out of the house like she was escaping prison!”
I laughed. “I have to go fast myself. If Mrs. Dellman calls me, just tell her I said I’d see her soon.”
“Margaret, what are you up to?”
“Don’t be so inquisitive.”
“I wish you’d stay home. Please don’t get into any more trouble. We’ve had enough of that. I know I have.”
“I won’t,” I promised and added silently: I hope.
“Look, if Tommy calls me will you tell him I’m asleep and you can’t disturb me?”
She went stiff on me again.
“Now, Margaret, you know I’ve always refused to lie for you children.”
“Fiddlesticks! This is vitally important and you can confess it next week. I’m going to call him later. In fact, I’ll need him later.”
I got out before she could give me any more argument, flopped in the car, and backed out of the drive. As fast as lights and the speed limit would allow I kited for the hotel and parked near the cab stand in front of it.
Bob was standing by the desk in the lobby talking to a sandy-haired, weak-chinned fellow who wore his pale blue eyes protected by bifocals. I went straight over to them.
“This is Craig,” Bob said. “He’s the guy you want to talk to.”
I said, “Hello,” and he said, “Pleasedtameetchamsure,” and I handed him the two snapshots.
He studied them side by side for almost a moment. Then he said, nodding his head, “Mmmmm, yep.”
I waited for him to elaborate on that, but apparently he’d had his say. He went back to talk monosyllables to the operator.
Bob brought over a boy in uniform. I handed him the pictures.
He looked at them closely, emitted a succinct “Yeah,” handed them back and walked off.
I gazed at his retreating back.
“Migawd! How do you stand these talkative people you work with?” I asked.
Bob grinned. “I guess they were struck dumb by your art work.”
I laughed and went to the phone booth, Bob on my heels. I called Tommy and was relieved when he answered his office phone. I told him where I was and he let out a howl.
“Dammit! Didn’t I tell you to stay home and didn’t you promise me you would?”
“Shut up and listen,” I snapped. “Meet me here in ten minutes. I’ll wait just that long for you. If you’re not here by then I’ll go by myself or take Bob with me.”
I hung up before he could answer and turned to face a staring Sullivan.
“Jeepers! Have you got nerve, sister! I wouldn’t dare talk to a plain harness copper that way, let alone the boss detective! Do you suppose he’ll come?”
“Sure he will. In ten minutes too.”
He made it in five. I started toward him as soon as he stalked through the door.
“Let’s go.” I grabbed his arm. “I’ll tell you the story on the way out.”
“Now just a minute! I want the story before I start any place!”
I dropped his arm. “If you’re going to fiddle around I’ll go on my own. I only called you for protection.” I was out of the door and in my car before he caught up to me. He climbed in.
“Okay, you win this trick. But you better take the pot or you’ll be in the soup. With me, a promise is a promise.”
I was three blocks from the hotel before he stopped griping. Then I opened up and told him the whole story, including the weird feeling that someone was giving me the right grouping of words.
He whistled, a long, low whistle.
“You may have had the blind luck to strike something,” he said. “I hope so, because you’re in a sorry spot if you’re wrong.”
“If I am you can crucify me.”
“I won’t have to. The D.A. and Beton will do that with pleasure!”
I grinned mirthlessly and thought: How right you are!
It was just 10:00 when we pulled into the side street by the Dellman mansion and parked. We made our way to the front door across an expanse of lawn where shrubbery and trees etched wavering, ghostly shadows in the moon-silvered night. We went up the wide marble steps and Tommy leaned on the bell button.
“Very pretty,” I said, hearing the silvery chimes echo through the house.
A white-coated butler opened the door. Tommy beckoned him out and showed him a badge, then gave him rapid, tersely phrased instructions. The frightened servant was speechless, but he agreed to everything by the simple method of nodding his woolly head. We went in the house and Tommy took up a stand behind the heavy drapes which hung at the drawing room door. The butler entered with me close behind him. His voice barely faltered as he announced: “Miss Slone, ma’am.”
I barged right in. The couple was seated in chairs near the ornate fireplace. They both stared at me in surprise.
“I’m a late caller, I know,” I said apologetically. “But I was passing this way and I wanted to see you. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Not at all!” she said with great cordiality. ’Won’t you have a drink?”
“Just a short one,” I accepted.
She poured the drink and handed me the glass.
Dellman remembered his manners then. “Won’t you sit down?
“Thank you.” I moved in on his chair. It gave me a view of the door. He sat on the love seat facing us.
“Have the police called you?” I asked.
“Why no. Why should they call us?” Dellman asked.
I looked at her. She shook her head negatively.
“But you’ve seen the papers, of course?”
’We don’t take your paper any more,” Dellman said curtly. “And the newsboy failed to deliver the other afternoon paper. We’ve seen nothing. Just what are you driving at?”
“Oh. Then you don’t know they found Lucille St. Clair?”
“They did!” Mrs. Dellman’s face was expressive of a strong emotion. “Is—is she all right?”
I let her have it bluntly. “In the words of the fisherman, Jean Pierre, who found her, she is ‘ver dead.’”
She half rose from her chair. Then she sat back down, hard. “Dead!”
“Dead. Suicide, no doubt. That’s what the police think.”
“But it can’t be!” She looked at her husband, a query in her eyes.
“Oh sure,” I shrugged. “Guilty conscience. It often happens.” I watched her narrowly.
“But she had no reason to have—”
Dellman interrupted. “Miss Slone, it’s really too bad you had to make your visit one of being the bearer of such unhappy tidings! I’m sure you must have more important things to do on a Saturday night!” He watched his wife anxiously, as if fearing she’d have another fainting spell.
“It is too bad,” I murmured. “But I don’t mind if you don’t. You know,” I went on hastily before he could tell me how much he minded, “this is really a lovely home. One you must be proud of—or is it one of which you should be proud? Words are my business but I seem to mix up the parts of speech.”
He laughed shortly. “In either case you’re correct. I am proud of it.”
“You must also be proud of being such a philanthropist,” I said.
“Philanthropist?” he echoed, staring at me in puzzled amazement. “What in the world are you talking about? I’m no philanthropist! Of course I give my share to various charities but that’s about all.”
“Oh, come now! Don’t be so modest. I know all about how you paid the bills when Joe Harmon’s leg was broken by your plane during that bad storm.”
“Joe Harmon? Oh, that! That wasn’t philanthropy. It was my plane which injured him and I felt responsible so I paid the bills. That’s all. How did you ever learn about that? It happened a long time ago.”
“Two years ago,” I said. “Newspapers work during storms, you know.”
“Oh, you covered the story? I didn’t see anything about it.”
“The accident was reported,” I hedged. “By the way, have you heard from Joe recently?”
“No. Should I?”
“You couldn’t. He’s dead. Murdered in his cab on the river road.” I watched them both for reactions. She breathed faster and leaned forward. He seemed shocked.
“Murdered! But why?”
“The police think it was a gangster killing—he’d been bootlegging in a small way. I think he was blackmailing someone and got killed to be shut up. In either case it’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s horrible!” he exclaimed. “Do you always bring such bad and lurid news when you go visiting?”
“Not always, only when necessary.” I pawed through my bag and brought out the snapshots. I handed them to him.
“I think you will find these interesting,” I said.
He looked at them. “You’re very clever, Miss Slone. I wasn’t aware you were an artist as well as a reporter.”
“I’m not. It’s a bad job of retouching and faking, but it served the purpose beautifully.”
He sighed. “I suppose so. This complicates things.” He tucked the snaps in his pocket.
I reached out a hand. “I’ll just keep those, if you don’t mind.”
“But I do mind. This development necessitates you and I going some place for a chat.”
“Oh, no, it doesn’t,” I said, chills crawling on my spine. “Besides, I have the negatives.”
Marta Dellman was leaning forward in her chair, her breath coming in short gasps.
“Well, we’ll deal here,” he said. “What do you want for those negatives and this bit of artistry—and your silence?”
“None of the three are for sale,” I told him.
“Then you force me to insure your silence.”
“You can’t scare me,” I retorted. “The police know all about it and if I don’t show up in a few minutes you’re in for it. You’re in for it anyhow! You can put that thing away.” He’d taken a small automatic from his pocket. “It might go off and hurt somebody—meaning me.”
He kept the gun trained on me and I said mental prayers that Tommy would be quicker with the trigger than Dell-man—if shooting began.
“It won’t do you any good, Mr. Dellman. You’re caught. You’re a filthy murderer and you’re hooked.”
Marta Dellman leaned toward him and in a low, tense voice spat words: “Filthy murderer! You’re a fiend, Gerry! Why did you have to kill that child? She’d never harmed you?”
“I did it to protect your reputation, my dear, and to provide an alibi for both of us if such were needed.”
He spoke blandly and indifferently.
“You don’t think I believe you’ve informed the police, do you?” He turned to me. “Oh, no. Your type of ego is well known to me and it was proved by that car identification which appeared in your paper. You denied writing the story, but I know the tip came from you. You didn’t share your knowledge with the police then. You haven’t done it now. If so they would have been here by this time.”
I thought: They are here—only you don’t know it. And I also thought how close I’d come to making this visit on my own. That thought gave me a shiver.
“You think you’re smart,” I sneered. “But you must know you can’t get away with murdering me. You can’t shoot me here, the shot would be heard and you’d spoil your rug.”
“I have no such intention,” he said calmly. “I knew I should have to disappear eventually and my plans are completed for that disappearance. I own property in a place which has no extradition laws and my plane is ready to take me there. You and Marta will go with me, but only she will make the full journey. You see I love her and I shan’t let her go. As for you, at some point over the water I shall put you out and make you swim home.” He smiled at his grim joke.
“You are murder drunk!” I said appalled.
“No. I don’t think I am.” He shook his head judiciously. “I meant to kill only one person. The others were forced on me by circumstances.”
“I could have forgiven you McGowan’s murder,” I said. “I suppose you thought you had good reason for that and it was clever, done with amazing finesse. But Lili and Lucille, they were bestial, brutal killings.”
“Both of which I deeply regretted having to commit.”
“How about Joe Harmon? I suppose you deeply regretted that too?”
“Not particularly. You know, that was really clever of you, pinning that one on me. I find it hard to reconcile your clever deduction with your stupid actions, such as coming here alone.”
I smiled smugly, secure in the knowledge that Tommy was at hand.
“That was just what you called my type of ego working,” I said.
“That snap trick was well thought out,” he said conversationally. “How did you hit on that?”
“Through the process of alliteration,” I said, smiling faintly at the paraphrase. “It struck me that the weapons used all had titles starting with the same letter. I began to link other words together in groups of threes. One group had deceit and disguise in it. Suddenly I saw the whole picture and knew you were the murderer. At least I was pretty sure of it. I knew Brett had snaps of you in his album. I got a couple, inked in the disguise you wore when you checked into the hotel, and took them down to be identified. You know how well it worked. The hotel employees identified the one I’d retouched as a George Danton who’d been a guest there when Ned and Miss Cheng were murdered.”
He nodded. ’It was very clever. You mean you got your clue just through linking alliterative words together?”
“Exactly. Not just the words I mentioned, of course. There were several groups and then there were other things too. Mrs. Dellman’s perfume for one. I’d smelled it in that apartment and several times after that. I knew about those notes and I had a hunch she had been playing around with Ned. As I linked words like cheating, chiseling, husband, hussy, fear, fury, I began to form a picture of a cheating wife, a chiseling lover, a furious husband—a man disguised to commit what he hoped was the perfect murder. It might have been, if you’d stopped with the one. But you couldn’t stop and finally all these killings began to tie in together. They pointed straight to you.”