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:
“Go ahead and vindicate yourself to your heart’s content,” Kerrigan said, “but I’m damned if I’ll let you do anything that might incriminate my clients. I’ll see you in hell first.”
Hatch nodded, then shook his head. “I haven’t one little inkling of who the murderer may be.”
“What about your handcuffed friend here?” Kerrigan asked.
Sanders winced.
“Maybe he killed Seligman, and maybe he killed Flack,” Hatch said, “but I’m sure he didn’t kill Rhoda Quinn.”
Sanders gripped the arms of his chair.
Kerrigan asked, “Why not?”
“I saw Rhoda alive late this afternoon,” Hatch explained. “Sanders has been with me, or with Danny, every minute of the time since then. If all three murders were committed by the same person, that lets Sanders out.”
“All three murders were not necessarily committed by the same person,” Kerrigan reminded him.
“I think they were.”
“Why?”
“Because of that gun of Rhoda Quinn’s. Somebody confiscated it. Not for the purpose of framing Rhoda. though. If anybody had wanted to get rid of her, it would have been a hell of a lot simpler to kill her. Anyway, nobody had a reason for getting her into trouble. Just the opposite. It was to the advantage of everybody concerned to keep her quiet.”
“All right,” Kerrigan said impatiently.
“Whoever took Rhoda’s gun did it for one of two reasons. First, he didn’t dare use a weapon of his own for fear it would be traced back to him; or second, he simply didn’t have one of his own to use.”
“All right.”
“So following the Seligman murder, the murderer was without a usable weapon. He probably didn’t expect to do any more murdering right away, but he had to anyway. Twice he found himself in an emergency without a weapon, and he had to use his hands. Flack was strangled. So was Rhoda Quinn. So I say, all three murders are the work of one murderer.”
“All right,” Kerrigan said, “and I still don’t give a damn.”
Hatch took up another sandwich. “I wish I knew where Danny went,” he said.
“All we need to make our joy complete is for Danny to turn up dead,” Kerrigan observed.
“Don’t say that!” Hatch exclaimed. “Listen, Kerrigan. Follow through on this with me.” For a moment he chewed soberly. “We’ve eliminated Sanders. Now take John Pirano.”
“I don’t want Pirano. I wouldn’t take him as a gift. I don’t care whether he’s guilty or not,” Kerrigan said.
“I’m leading up to something you will care a lot about,” Hatch retorted.
“If I have a kick in the teeth coming,” Kerrigan said, “hurry up and get to it.”
“Just keep listening,” Hatch said. “Pirano might have killed Seligman. He had a motive — to take over Seligman’s blackmailing racket. He also had a motive for killing Flack. Flack was dumb, but he was honest, and being honest he wouldn’t stand for any crooked dealing. So, desperate to save himself from exposure, Pirano had to put Flack away. Also, Pirano might have had to silence Rhoda Quinn for the same reason.”
“There’s your case,” Kerrigan said.
“But Pirano said he was asleep, under the influence of an opiate, at the time Rhoda Quinn was killed. It’s a lousy alibi — so lousy it sounds true. In case you ever need an alibi for a murder, my friend, the best alibi is none at all. Maybe Pirano can prove it. If he can, he’s out.”
“All right, he’s out,” Kerrigan said.
“Next take Lloyd Daly,” Hatch said, eating thoughtfully. “Daly was at the scene when Seligman got it. Nobody knows where he was when Flack turned up his toes. But he wasn’t anywhere around when Rhoda Quinn was bumped off tonight.”
“How do you know he wasn’t?” Kerrigan asked.
“I saw Daly get into a taxi over on the west side. I heard him give the driver the address of the Trafalgar Hotel. As soon as he arrived at the Trafalgar Hotel, he was arrested.”
“Who’s left?” Kerrigan asked.
“Leaving the ladies out of it,” Hatch said, “Howard Westcott.”
Kerrigan started with dismay and peered at Sanders.
“Sanders knew all about it anyway,” Hatch said.
“Oh, damn!” Kerrigan said.
“Howard Westcott was outside the Club Grotto last night when Seligman was killed,” Hatch said. “He might easily have been at my apartment this morning when Flack was murdered. At about the time Rhoda was murdered this evening, he disappeared.”
“I know all about that,” Kerrigan said.
“Do you know where Rhoda Quinn was killed?” Hatch asked.
Kerrigan poured himself a new drink and nodded. “That’s why I’m damned near going screwy,” he said.
“There was a man who talked with Rhoda over the house phone from the lobby,” Hatch said. “He may or may not be the guilty party. He went up to the penthouse, and Rhoda let him in, and then he left, but that still doesn’t mean he killed her, whoever he was. Kerrigan, do you know whether Westcott left before or after Rhoda showed up?”
Kerrigan drank and said, “No.”
“The note Westcott left was a phoney,” Hatch said. “It covered up his real reason for leaving town. Now, why did he scram in such a hell of a hurry, and where did he scram to?”
Kerrigan drank again. “I wish I knew,” he said.
“Maybe we can find out,” Hatch said. “Westcott is the man who chipped the letters off the door of the Seligman tomb last night. We know what his message means, all except the symbol PAC.”
Kerrigan sat forward. “Do you think that’s where he’s gone — to PAC?”
“He appointed a rendezvous,” Hatch said. “It’s only logical to suppose he’d try to keep it. PAC must mean a city. A city and something else.”
Kerrigan said. “It might mean the Pittsburgh Amalgamated Company.”
Hatch picked up the telephone.
“Operator,” he said, “look in your telephone directory for Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and see if you can find a Pittsburgh Amalgamated Company or Corporation, or any other Amalgamated thing beginning with a C.”
“Hold the line,” the girl said.
Hatch munched on another sandwich. Kerrigan drank. Sanders sat still.
“I can’t find anything like that,” the operator said.
“Thanks,” Hatch said, and hung up. “No go, Kerrigan, but it’s the right idea. A certain city, a certain place — a certain hotel.”
Suddenly he dropped his sandwich, opened the drawer of the desk and rummaged through sheaves of stationery and telegram blanks. He turned back with a paper-covered book.
“Eureka!” he said.
“What’s that?” Kerrigan asked.
“Travel America Guide and Hotel Directory, Winter Edition, 1938,” Hatch said. “Try to think of all the cities you ever heard of beginning with a P.”
“Pittsburgh first,” Kerrigan said.
Hatch leafed through the book. “No hotel in Pittsburgh has a name beginning with the initials A.C.,” he announced.
“Philadelphia.”
Hatch turned the pages. “In Philadelphia there’s the Adelphia, but there’s no C in it.”
“Peoria,” Kerrigan suggested.
Hatch searched the columns. “Nothing there.”
“Paterson.”
Hatch’s finger pointed over the listings. “The Alexander Hamilton,” he said. “That wouldn’t be it.”
“Palm Beach.”
Again Hatch flicked the pages. “The Ambassador, but still no C.”
“Pensacola.”