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. All he knows is that Rhoda Quinn is married to Lloyd Daly.”
“Flack didn’t know anything at all about it?” Hatch inquired.
“That’s right,” Sanders said.
“You thought you ought to have a share of the swag,” Hatch said. “But you didn’t get it.”
Sanders’ mouth drooped sourly. “I jolly well didn’t. Seligman sacked me. He warned me that unless I kept mum, he’d report me.” Sanders inched forward in his chair. “Hatch, I entered this country illegally. I jumped ship. I married an American girl, Millie Black, and Millie and I have a beautiful little daughter. I could be deported — separated from my wife and child forever.”
“Don’t try to sound like East Lynne,” Hatch said. “Couldn’t they join you in England?”
“I... I’m a fugitive,” Sanders said. “There’s a charge hanging over me. Scotland Yard wants me for forgery.”
“Good heavens!” Hatch said. “So this is why you were so anxious to talk to me. You thought I’d sympathize with you and keep you out of it.”
“That’s right, Hatch,” Sanders said, his eyes full of supplication. “Millie and Gloria are visiting Millie’s mother in Sedalia, Kansas. Millie’s sick. It’s pernicious anemia. She took Gloria to her mother’s home because I’ve been stony since Seligman sacked me. I’m down to my last quid.”
“This is lovely,” Hatch said in a bitter tone.
“If... if you could find out the truth. Hatch — about who killed Seligman and Flack — perhaps no one else need ever know about my past. If the police arrest me as a suspect, they’ll investigate me — they’ll discover the whole bloody mess. But if the case is cleared up first, perhaps the authorities won’t tumble to me at all. I swear, if I ever get out of this, I’ll go straight as a die, Hatch.”
Hatch stared at him. “Whether you deserve to get out of it is damned questionable.”
Knuckles rapped. Carrying the bottle, Hatch opened the door. Delevan sidled in, grinning with satisfaction.
“Where the hell’ve you been, Danny?” Hatch asked.
“Watch this, chief,” Delevan said.
He went to Sanders, removed a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, snapped one circle around Sanders’ right wrist and the other around the arm of the chair.
“Those there bracelets they’ll hold him, chief,” Delevan said confidently. “They sure will.”
Sanders stared at the manacles, transferred his glass to his left hand and emptied it at a gulp.
“Where the hell did you get those things, Danny?” Hatch demanded.
“Over in a pawnshop on Third Avenue, chief,” Delevan said. “They cost me two bucks. Now we can keep this here guy as long as we want him.”
“Very good, very good,” Hatch said gravely. “Did the two bucks include a key?”
Delevan tapped his vest pocket. “Got it right here. You been grilling hell outa this here guy, chief?” he inquired.
“Sanders has put me in a worse spot than ever,” Hatch said. “Apparently I’m the custodian of half a dozen different destinies. If I don’t do the right thing by everybody concerned, I’ll leave a terrible trail of broken lives strewn behind me.”
Delevan wistfully eyed the bottle of Scotch. Hatch swigged from it.
“You haven’t finished talking, Sanders,” Hatch said. “How did you happen to be at the Club Grotto last night?”
“I needed money badly, Hatch,” Sanders said, twisting his wrist in the steel cuff. “I knew Seligman often went there. I wanted to ask him to give me another chance in the office.”
“Then you didn’t expect to find Rhoda Quinn,” Hatch said.
“I hadn’t the foggiest she’d be there,” Sanders said. “When I recognized her, I decided my best chance to get hold of some money was to sell my information to her. I suggested to her we’d better go to another place, for fear Seligman might happen in and see me with her.”
“But you ran into Seligman on the way out,” Hatch said. “He knew immediately what you were up to. He warned you he was going to make his threat good. He told you were on your way out, and that meant out of the country.”
“He was going to report me, Hatch. It got my wind up. I wanted to chuck the whole business, for Millie’s sake, and Gloria’s. That’s why I went away.”
“Seligman’s death saved you from being deported and thrown into prison.”
“But it hasn’t done that,” Sanders protested. “Don’t you see it hasn’t? There’s even more danger now.”
“You didn’t have time to think of that before you shot Seligman.”
The radio had been playing steadily, but now it was silent. After a moment an announcer spoke.
“We bring you a special dispatch from the Press Radio Bureau. The dead body of Rhoda Quinn, for whom the police have been searching in connection with the Seligman homicide, was found a short while ago on Eighty-Second Street, between Fifth and Madison Avenues. The body was discovered by a passing motorist, Charles Wakefield, of Flushing, who immediately notified the police. The cause of Mrs. Quinn’s death is thought to be strangulation.
“The police theory is that Mrs. Quinn was choked to death in some other part of the city, then her body was dumped from an automobile. Evidently she was thrown out with considerable force, to judge from the condition of her body, or she was struck by another car which did not stop. No witnesses have been found. Police have begun a search of all garages in the metropolitan area, in the hope of discovering the car in which Mrs. Quinn’s corpse was transported.”
“Some people have incredible luck,” I latch observed.
“Lloyd Daly has again been taken into custody by the police,” the radio continued. “He was arrested when he entered his room at the Hotel Trafalgar this evening. He had just arrived at Police Headquarters when the news of the discovery of Mrs. Quinn’s body was received there. He is being held for questioning.
“John Pirano, the law partner of Sidney Seligman and Samuel Flack, both victims of a murderer within the past twenty-four hours, surrendered to the police this evening. Pirano stated that he left his office this afternoon a few minutes after Flack had left for the home of Professor Cyrus Hatch. He said he was in a state of nervous exhaustion and, in order to recuperate without being molested, he rented a room at the Montblanc Hotel. He said he took a sedative, and slept soundly until this evening. Then, he said, learning from the newspapers that Flack was dead and that the police were searching for him in connection with the murder, he communicated with Joseph Glatzburg, an attorney, and went with Glatzburg directly to Police Headquarters, where he told his story to Commissioner Mark Hatch. He is being held.
“This dispatch comes to you from the Press Radio Bureau. Further details will be found in your newspapers.” The radio resumed its music.
Hatch removed his coat and vest.
“Alla time you look more and more like a guy he would like to murder somebody hisself, chief,” Delevan observed. “You ain’t ate anything since breakfast. Maybe you would feel more like something human if you had yourself some dinner.”
“A fine idea. Danny,” Hatch said grimly, taking off his tie. “Send a bellboy out for a bottle of Scotch.”
“What I was talking about it was something you eat it, chief,” Delevan explained.
“I shall have dinner,” Hatch said, removing his shoes. “As an appetizer I shall have Scotch. Instead of soup, I shall have Scotch. I shall have Scotch as the main course, and I shall have Scotch salad with Scotch dressing. For dessert I shall have Scotch. I will top off the dinner with some Scotch.”
“After a heavy meal like that, chief,” Delevan said, “a guy he can drink all night and not feel it any.”