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:
“They are still out.”
“Then I’ll have to speak with Mr. Westcott.”
“Mr. Westcott say I must not disturb him for any reason,” the maid protested.
“All right,” Hatch said. “Has a young woman called and asked for him?”
“No one has come.”
“Thank heaven for that,” Hatch said.
He broke the connection, consulted the directory, and asked for the number of the Hotel Trafalgar.
“This is the Morning Mirror calling,” Hatch said. “Give me the manager.”
A girl’s voice said, “Mr. Lucas’ office.”
“This in the Mirror calling,” Hatch said. “Let me speak with Mr. Lucas.”
A man’s voice said curtly, “Yes yes, what is it?”
“Carson of the Mirror, Mr. Lucas,” Hatch said. “What are you doing about your magician, Lloyd Daly?”
“His contract has been canceled.”
“Has he a room in the hotel?”
“Entertainers are usually given rooms,” Lucas answered, “but Mr. Daly will not remain in the hotel.”
“Thanks.” Hatch said.
He disconnected, then again called the number of the Trafalgar.
“Mr. Lloyd Daly’s room, please,” he requested.
The line purred several times before a man’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“Mr. Daly?” Hatch asked. “Speaking.”
“You don’t sound like Daly,” Hatch said.
“I’ve got a cold,” the voice said. “Who’s calling?”
“You’re a poor liar,” Hatch said. “This is Mallet, the Commissioner’s secretary.”
“That’s different. This is Sergeant Martin talking.”
“The Commissioner’s calling,” Hatch said. “Hold on.” He lowered his tone, imitating his father’s. “Commissioner Hatch, Sergeant.”
“Yes, Commissioner.”
“Daly will probably show up soon. Watch for him. You have your orders?”
“Yes sir. We’re not to take him to the precinct station, but bring him straight down to Headquarters.”
“That’s right, Martin. That’s all.”
Hatch left the telephone. His shining eyes turned upon Sanders. Sanders leaned entreatingly toward him.
“I know your position in this case, Hatch,” Sanders said. “The newspapers made it clear enough. You’re doing your best to learn the truth and you’re being damned fair about it. That’s why I decided I’d jolly well better talk to you before the bloody police catch me.”
Hatch started. “ ‘The bloody police!’ Great Scott! You didn’t mean the birds were actually bloody. You use that word as a synonym for bally, or confounded. A hell of a fine detective I am, not to have thought of that.”
Sanders seemed confused. “When I was in the Club Grotto—”
“Not now, Sanders,” Hatch said. “Your story will have to keep. Danny, stay here with him. I’ll be back as soon as possible — if I don’t bump into any cops.”
“This is a guy he won’t try anything funny if he knows what’s good for him, chief,” Delevan said. “Where you gonna go?”
“I’m still trying to head off that damned woman,” Hatch said.
He hurried from the room and waited impatiently for the elevator. When he reached the sidewalk, he found it swarming with a home-bound crowd. The rain had not abated. Hatch lost precious minutes while the starter whistled for a taxi.
Ducking into the cab, Hatch gave the driver the address of the Westcott apartment.
Congested traffic delayed him. Forty minutes passed before he reached his destination.
When he pressed the button in the vestibule of the penthouse, the maid peeked out.
“Mr. Hatch calling.”
The maid looked puzzled and uneasy. “Madame Westcott and Miss Alex-antler have not come back,” she said.
Hatch stepped in. The living room was empty. Some of the tension went out of his bearing.
“You’ll have to disturb Mr. Westcott, regardless of what he told you,” he said. “It’s damned important. But whatever you do, don’t go near Mr. Alexander.”
The maid glanced around uncertainly. “Be seated, please,” she said.
She disappeared down the hall as Hatch moved across the living room. He noticed that a blue glass vase lay on the rug near a table. He took it up and replaced it on the table, then glanced about with sharpened interest.
The maid returned. “Mister Westcott is not here,” she informed Hatch. “He has gone out.”
Hatch frowned at her. “Do you mean he left without your knowing it?”
“Yes sir.”
“I suppose you’ve no idea how long he’s been gone?”
“No sir.”
“You’re worried about something,” Hatch said. “What is it?”
The maid shrugged. “It is nothing,” she said.
“Don’t be evasive. You know I’m a friend of the family. What’s wrong?”
“It is nothing,” the maid said again. “A lady was waiting.”
“A lady was waiting here, in this room? Who was she?”
“She say her name is Mrs. Westcott.”
Hatch’s lips drew thin. “Had you ever seen her before?”
“No sir.”
“Who did she want to see?”
“Mr. Howard Westcott.”
“What became of her?”
“I don’t know,” the maid said. “Perhaps she left without seeing Mr. Westcott because of the call on the telephone.”
“What call?” Hatch asked.
“The call came on the house phone,” the maid explained. “Ambrose, the doorman, said a man wish to speak with the lady who is here.”
“Who was the man?” Hatch asked.
The maid shrugged again. “I tell the lady there is a call, then I go back to my room. Perhaps because of what the man said, the lady left.”
Hatch said, “I’ll wait here until Mrs. Westcott and Miss Alexander come back.”
The maid said, “Yes sir,” and withdrew.
Hatch circled the room. In front of the fish tank he paused. He stooped to peer at a dark object lying on the bed of gravel on the bottom of the tank.
It was a blue automatic.
Hatch bared his arm and reached into the water. The colorful fish scattered in alarm. He hooked his forefinger through the trigger-guard of the automatic, lifted it out and looked at it closely.
It was the Mauser automatic which Rhoda Quinn had taken from the office of Sidney Seligman.
With his handkerchief Hatch dried his arm, then lowered his sleeve. He laid the gun on the handkerchief, carefully removed the clip and counted the cartridges in the magazine — ten. He replaced the clip, wrapped the gun in his handkerchief and put it in his hip pocket.
Continuing his circuit of the room, he returned to his chair. The lines around his eyes grew dark with thought.
Suddenly he jumped up and crossed into the comer where the glass-topped grand piano sat.
A red silken rope, an inch thick, was tied around one leg of the piano. Other ropes like it were in use to bind the window drapes, but the drape of the window nearest the piano lacked its cord. The red line led tautly from the leg of the piano across the sill, and out an inch-wide crack of the casement window.
Hatch opened the window and looked down. A few inches below the sill, a dead white face was hovering in the gloom.
It was the face of Rhoda Quinn.
The lower end of the rope was knotted around Rhoda Quinn’s neck. Her upturned face was swollen. Rain was falling upon her staring eyes and her parted lips. Her hair was matted with water and blood. The top of her head was broken as if by powerful blows. She was hanging heavily against the wet wall of the building.
Far below her, the puddled pavement reflected the street lights. People were scurrying through the downpour. Cars were crawling like beetles.