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:
“No, no,” Ambrose said. “He didn’t have a beard. He was clean-shaven.”
“He had a beard, Ambrose,” Herbert said.
“Herbert, that man hadn’t a hair on his face,” Ambrose declared. “I recall him distinctly.”
Hatch said in an exasperated tone, “Describe the clothes he was wearing, Ambrose.”
After a moment of thought, Ambrose said, “He was wearing a dark gray suit and a dark gray hat.”
“That’s wrong,” Herbert said. “He was wearing—”
“A dark gray suit and a dark gray hat,” Ambrose repeated immovably. “And a herringbone topcoat.”
“He wasn’t wearing any topcoat,” Herbert said. “No topcoat at all.”
Hatch said, “Don’t waste time arguing about it. You both can’t be right, and probably you’re both wrong.”
“What I told you is perfectly right, sir,” Herbert insisted.
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, sir,” Ambrose said with an air of hurt dignity. “I saw the gentleman twice, once when he went up and once when he came down.”
“Did you notice whether he had bits of plaster stuck on his face?” Hatch asked.
“No, sir, he didn’t,” Herbert said.
“No. sir, he didn’t,” Ambrose said.
“On second thought, sir, he may have had,” Herbert said.
“Yes,” Ambrose said magnanimously, “he may have had, sir.”
“Did he have a small black mustache with pointed ends?” Hatch asked, frowning.
“He had a large brown mustache and a beard,” Herbert said. “Brown, light brown, kind of curly.”
“Nothing of the sort, sir,” Ambrose said. “He was clean-shaven.”
“I suppose you both got a good look at the woman as well,” Hatch said, “and you can describe, her as accurately.”
“Why, certainly, sir,” Herbert said. “She was—”
“Never mind.” Hatch said. “Good heavens! Sometime I’ll ask you two men to help with an experiment to demonstrate the worst faults of eyewitnesses.”
“Huh?” they both said.
He hurried out to the sidewalk, leaving Ambrose and Herbert in a hot altercation. Rain was still falling thickly. Keeping close to the building, Hatch strode around the corner. Halfway along the block toward Madison Avenue, he paused and looked up.
The dark shadow of Rhoda Quinn’s corpse was visible high against the side of the building, directly below a bright open window.
At the corner Hatch entered a chemist’s shop. The position of the phone booth enabled him to gaze through the store window and still see the suspended corpse.
He dialed the Headquarters number.
“Police Headquarters,” a man’s voice responded.
“Connect me with the Commissioner’s office,” Hatch said.
His eyes caught a movement at the penthouse window. A woman was looking out. Hatch could not discern whether it was Terry Alexander or Lois Westcott who was gazing down into Rhoda Quinn’s dead face.
“Commissioner Hatch’s office,” Mallet’s voice said over the line.
“This is Cyrus Hatch calling.”
“Just a minute.”
The woman’s head disappeared from the window.
The telephone line hummed.
In a moment the woman’s head reappeared. She bent over the sill. Something in one of her hands reflected the light. She reached down to the head of Rhoda Quinn.
“Hello!” a gruff voice growled in Cyrus Hatch’s ear. “Is that you, Cyrus?”
“Hold the wire, Mark,” Cyrus Hatch said.
“Damnation, Cyrus!” the Commissioner said. “You listen to me.”
Cyrus Hatch did not listen.
The women bending out of the penthouse window was making sawing motions with her right arm.
Suddenly the corpse of Rhoda Quinn dropped. It seemed to roll swiftly down the side of the building. Then, striking an ornamental projection, it bounded out into the air. It became a blurred motion in the rain. It struck the pavement in the center of the street, bounced once, and became a dark, almost invisible mound.
The woman disappeared from the window.
Mark Hatch was growling over the line. Cyrus Hatch did not hear him.
He was watching.
A car turned into the cross-street from Madison Avenue. It proceeded slowly through the beating rain. The dim shine of its headlamps approached the body of Rhoda Quinn.
“Cyrus!” Mark Hatch was saying wrathfully. “Damnation, Cyrus, do you hear me? If you don’t give yourself up, I’ll be forced to crack down on you so almighty hard—”
“Sorry,” Cyrus Hatch broke in, his voice strained. “I may have some important information for you later. Goodby, Mark.”
Hatch disconnected, shouldered out of the phone booth and hurried from the shop. As he rounded the corner, he heard a squeaking of brakes. The car was now in the middle of the block. It came to a quick stop.
Its left door swung open and a man climbed out. He stood in the rain, staring down. The body of Rhoda Quinn lay huddled behind the front wheels of the car. The man looked around, stooped, straightened quickly and stared around again.
Hatch shifted away from the light of the chemist’s windows. He removed the blue automatic from his pocket. Retaining his handkerchief, he threw the gun. It skipped over the wet pavement and splashed to a stop in a puddle near Rhoda Quinn’s body.
Another car swung into the side-street from Madison Avenue. It slowed as it neared the other. Its headlamps were bright. The dripping beams clearly revealed the broken corpse of Rhoda Quinn.
Hatch turned away. At sight of a yellow sedan drifting through the rain, he shouted.
“Taxi!”
Chapter XVI
Sanders Talks
Hatch left the cab at the Hotel Commonwealth. Long strides carried him to Sanders’ room. In answer to his knock, Delevan opened the door.
Sanders, his face haggard, was still sitting in the corner.
“Cripes, chief, what happened?” Delevan asked, the gun still in his hand. “You look like a guy he would like to putta slug on somebody.”
Hatch snapped a wall-switch. The music of a dance band issued from a grating above the switch. Allowing the hotel radio to continue playing, he took up the telephone.
“Chief,” Delevan complained, “I get sorta tired, pointing this here cannon at that guy. How long we gonna keep him here?”
“I don’t know,” Hatch said grimly, as he gave a number.
His call was answered by Suzette.
“This is Mr. Hatch again. Let me talk with Miss Alexander.”
After a moment, Terry said, “Hello?”
“Why did you do that?” Hatch demanded.
Terry was silent.
“I saw you,” Hatch said. “It was the damnedest, coldest-blooded act I ever witnessed. And of course, you did it for dear Howard’s sake.”
Terry said quietly, “They... they won’t come here now.”
“You mean the police? If they don’t, it’ll be the luckiest break you ever had in your life.”
Terry hung up.
Hatch replaced the telephone with a thump and swung around. Delevan was not in the room.
“Where the hell’s Danny?” Hatch demanded of Sanders.
“He just went out,” Sanders said.
“What for?”
“He didn’t say.”
Hatch looked into the hall and found that Delevan was no longer at the elevator door. He turned back with his fists clenched and sat facing Sanders.
“Listen,” Hatch said, leveling a finger. “I’m in no mood to be lied to. Don’t try it. If I catch you lying to me, I’ll break your damned neck.”
Sanders swallowed.
“You killed Sidney Seligman last night, and this morning you killed Sam Flack,” Hatch declared.
“No!” Sanders blurted. “I swear I had nothing to do with it.”