Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 2, March 19, 1938
- Автор: Clark Dale, 12627 Convict
- Год: 1938
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 2, March 19, 1938». Краткое содержание книги:
Lee was arrested immediately, but, with black eyes protruding weirdly from beneath his bushy eyebrows, he maintained his innocence even up to the time he was strapped into the electric chair at Sing Sing several months later.
But the jury before whom he was tried had no doubt that he had left the limbs of his victims in Battery Park, and buried the rest of their bodies in the foul-smelling cellar, covering them with lye to hasten their decomposition.
Coffins for Three
by Frederick C. Davis
Cyrus Hatch finds plenty of evidence but all it proves is that everyone is innocent of murder.
Cyrus Hatch, son of New York Police Commissioner Mark Hatch, becomes involved in a murder when he enters the Club Grotto with his bodyguard, Danny Delevan, and finds “Joan Doe” sitting at his table. Later, she leaves the club with a mysterious stranger; four shots sound quickly outside and a man staggers into the club and dies. The murdered man is Mr. Seligman, a crooked attorney.
Rushing to the sidewalk, Cyrus and Danny see Joan Doe, a gun in her hand, being hustled into a car. Cyrus, against the wishes of his father, decides to work on the case, believing that Joan Doe is innocent.
Also involved are Howard Westcott, who Cyrus saw following Joan Doe; his wife Lois, who was in the night club the night of the murder; and her sister, Terry Alexander, who later calls at Cyrus Hatch’s apartment to discuss the case. When she enters his apartment, she finds Sam Flack, law partner of Seligman, murdered, and Hatch’s secretary unconscious. When Cyrus arrives, accompanied by two detectives, and discovers the murder, they see Terry Alexander running from the house. Refusing to reveal her identity, Cyrus is arrested by his father, but he and Danny escape.
In the meantime, Cyrus discovers that Joan Doe is really Rhoda Quinn, an artists’ model, who had hired Seligman to find her husband who has been missing for several years. Cyrus suspects that Howard Westcott is the missing Timothy Quinn and Westcott later admits that this is true. Cyrus promises to keep his secret unless it is necessary to reveal it in order to clear Rhoda Quinn of the murder charge.
Cyrus and Danny follow Rhoda Quinn and overhear her talking to Lloyd Daly, a magician who is in love with her, and learn that she is aware that Westcott is Timothy Quinn. She says that she is going to his house to demand money.
Cyrus and Danny start for Westcott’s home to warn him when someone holds them up. It is Sanders, the man who had been in the night club with Rhoda Quinn, and for whom they have been searching as the key to the mystery.
Chapter XV
The Third Coffin
Rain blew into the doorway, pelting Hatch and Delevan.
“All I want is a chance to talk to you, Mr. Hatch,” Norman Sanders said in an urgent tone.
“How the devil did you know I was coming here?” Hatch asked.
“I’ve been following you,” Sanders said.
“From where?”
“I was watching your home while the police were there. I saw you come out of the house next door and get into a taxi. I’ve been following you ever since,” Sanders said. “You must listen to me, Mr. Hatch.”
Hatch was gazing obliquely downward. “I feel something pressing against my spine, Danny,” he said. “Something that feels like a gun.”
“Me too, chief,” Delevan said. “Only, what I feel it’s like a howitzer.”
“Mr. Sanders is no two-gun man, Danny,” Hatch said. “The thing in your back is a fountain pen.”
“Cripes!” Delevan said.
As Delevan twisted around, Sanders jerked the pen away from his back and removed his forefinger from Hatch’s. Delevan seized Sanders’ necktie and pulled it while pushing his other hand into Sanders’ face. Sanders choked.
“Your automatic, Danny” Hatch reminded Delevan.
“That’s right,” Delevan said.
He bared his weapon and shoved it hard into Sanders’ abdomen. Gasping, Sanders lifted himself on tiptoes. With his white-rimmed eyes and his pallid face, he looked like a ghost in the gloom.
“This here gun,” Delevan warned, “it ain’t anything which a guy he uses it to write with, neither.”
“Where’ve you been hiding. Sanders?” Hatch asked.
Sanders loosened his tie and swallowed. “Mister Hatch, in heaven’s name, give me a chance to explain.”
“Where’ve you been hiding?”
Sanders forced out, “I have a room at the Commonwealth.”
Hatch nodded. “Keep him covered, Danny, and follow me.”
Delevan put the gun in his pocket and pressed it to Sanders’ side while they left the doorway. Sanders was docile. Hatch signaled a cruising cab. He waved Sanders and Delevan into it. Delevan crowded Sanders into the corner of the seat.
“I’ll be back in a minute, Danny,” Hatch said. He added to the driver, “Wait for me.”
He hurried into a restaurant and stepped into a telephone booth. A moment later, the dial ceased whirring, a woman’s voice said, “The Alexander residence.”
“Mr. Hatch calling Mr. Westcott.”
“Mr. Westcott does not wish to be disturbed.”
“I’ve got to talk to him.”
“But I cannot disturb Mr. Westcott.”
“Then call Mrs. Westcott.”
“Madame Westcott is not at home.”
“How about Miss Alexander?”
“Miss Alexander is not at home also.”
“I’ll bet a hat Rupert Alexander is there,” Hatch said.
“Do you wish to speak with Mr. Rupert Alexander?”
“Good heavens, no,” Hatch said.
He disconnected, left the restaurant and returned to the cab. He sat on one of the folding seats, facing Delevan and Sanders.
“Hotel Commonwealth,” he instructed the driver.
The cab ground off and turned eastward. Rain swished against the windows. Hatch closed the glass panel of the driver’s compartment.
“You’d like to keep clear of the police, wouldn’t you, Sanders?” Hatch asked.
“That’s what I must explain,” Sanders said with an effort. “It will go blinking hard with me if they catch me.”
“Naturally,” Hatch said. “Behave yourself, and you’ll have a chance to talk.”
Sanders strained forward. “I say, that’s damned decent of you, Hatch. You see, I had nothing to do with it. That is, with killing Seligman and Flack. I swear I had nothing whatever—”
Hatch gestured toward the driver. “Your room will be safer,” he advised.
Sanders sank back, eying Hatch entreatingly, wincing under the pressure of Delevan’s automatic.
The cab stopped at a bright marquee. Sanders entered the Hotel Commonwealth between Hatch and Delevan. An elevator lifted them to the fifteenth floor. Sanders took a tagged key from his pocket and opened Room 1521. Following him in, Hatch and Delevan closed the door.
“You’re registered under an assumed name, of course,” Hatch said.
“Yes. I haven’t dared go back to my apartment,” Sanders said. “Millie and Gloria are away. If you’ll believe me, Hatch, I had nothing to do—”
“Sit down, Sanders,” Hatch said. “Danny, keep him covered.”
With his gun, Delevan pushed Sanders into a chair. Sanders’ eyes clung to Hatch as Hatch took up the telephone and gave the hotel operator the number of Howard Westcott’s apartment.
The maid’s voice answered, “the Alexander residence.”
“This is Mr. Hatch calling again. Has either Mrs. Westcott or Miss Alexander come in?”