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:
Hatch retorted, “Nothing doing.” His eyes lighted with a thought. “It might be the A-something Chambers. Do you know any Chambers beginning with an A?”
“Ante-chambers,” Kerrigan said.
“Kerrigan,” Hatch said severely, “this is serious.”
“Try Paltimore,” Kerrigan said.
Hatch scowled at him, but turned to Baltimore. “Good heavens!” he said. “There’s the Abby, the Academy, the Albion, the Altamont, the Armistead and the Arundel. But still no C, unless it would mean the Academy.”
“How about Poston, or Pirmingham, or Puffalo,” Kerrigan asked, “or Prooklyn, or Palbany?”
Hatch went back to Scotch. “We’re not quite on the right track,” he said. “Perhaps P isn’t the city. Perhaps P is the hotel and AC is the city.” Suddenly he was galvanized. “That’s it! Atlantic City!”
“Damn me!” Kerrigan said.
Hatch split the book. “Plenty of ’em!” he exclaimed. “The Palm-Hall, the Penn-Atlantic, the Palais, the Pennhurst, the Phillips House, the Pierrepont, the Plaza, the President and the Princess.”
Kerrigan said, “Let’s get to work on the telephone.”
“Wait,” Hatch said. “Westcott hoped that the letters PAC would immediately convey to Rhoda Quinn the name of a certain hotel in Atlantic City. Why should they? Because they stayed at that particular hotel upon some important occasion. Kerrigan, it was their honeymoon!”
“Now you’ve got something,” Kerrigan said. “Knowing the kind of woman Rhoda was—”
“We’ll pick out the one she would consider the classiest,” Hatch said.
“She’d take the Palais,” Kerrigan said.
“Absolutely,” Hatch agreed. “The message meant, ‘Rhoda Quinn — you see Timothy in the Palais Hotel, Atlantic City.’ ” He took up the telephone. “Operator, get me the Palais Hotel in Atlantic City. I want to talk with Mr. Howard Westcott.”
“Hold the line,” the operator said.
Hatch sipped his highball. Kerrigan sat on the edge of his chair. Sanders watched them intently. Soon Hatch nuzzled the transmitter.
A voice said, “Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Westcott,” Hatch said.
“Who’s calling?” Westcott’s voice returned cautiously.
Hatch smiled at Kerrigan.
“Damn me!” Kerrigan muttered.
“Cyrus Hatch calling,” Hatch said over the line. “Have you seen the latest papers, Mr. Westcott?”
“Hatch! How the devil did you know— Yes... yes, I’ve seen them.”
“Then you know it’s no use waiting any longer for that certain party to meet you there,” Hatch said.
“I know, I know.”
“You chipped the letters off the door of the Seligman tomb with the idea of connecting with Rhoda and helping her to keep out of the hands of the police, is that it?”
“Yes... yes,” Westcott said.
“You knew that if the police caught up with her, and put the heat on her, that would be your finish.”
“Yes... yes.” Westcott’s voice was ragged. “Great Scott, Hatch, what can I do now?”
“Phone your wife and tell her you’ll be back on the first train you can catch,” Hatch suggested. “Good night, Mr. Westcott.”
He sat comfortably on the bed and looked at the light through his highball.
“And that lets Howard Westcott out also,” he said.
“I hope it does,” Kerrigan said, “but how do you figure it?”
“If Westcott had killed Rhoda here in New York, he certainly wouldn’t have rushed down to Atlantic City hoping to meet her there, would he?”
“Damn me!” Kerrigan said with a sigh.
“That eliminates all our suspects except the ladies. I think we should eliminate them also, if only for the sake of old-fashioned chivalry,” Hatch said. “Just as I remarked at the beginning, the trouble with these murders is that nobody committed ’em.”
“It still isn’t necessarily true that they were all committed by the same person,” Kerrigan said again.
“I’m still sure they were all committed by the same person,” Hatch said.
“A person who couldn’t possibly have committed them,” Kerrigan added.
“Right,” Hatch said.
“We’re all going screwy,” Kerrigan sighed.
Thoughtfully Hatch finished his highball. Putting aside the empty glass, he took up the telephone.
“Operator,” he asked, “is there a public stenographer in the hotel?”
“On the mezzanine,” the operator said.
While he put on his coat and hat, Hatch peered at Sanders.
“Listen, Sanders,” he said. “You asked me to help you get out of this with a whole skin. I’ll do what I can. But I want you to keep one thing clearly in mind. If you let slip so much as one word about the connection between Howard Westcott and Rhoda Quinn, I’ll throw you to the wolves. Understand that?”
“I... I understand, Hatch,” Sanders said.
“We can’t keep the name of Timothy Quinn out of this, but as far as you’re concerned, Sanders, Quinn and Westcott are two separate and distinct identities. From this moment on, Howard Westcott is dissociated in your mind from everything and anything concerning Timothy Quinn. You don’t know a damned thing about Howard Westcott.”
“I... I don’t know a damned thing about Westcott,” Sanders agreed.
Hatch nodded.
“What’s more, you don’t know anything about Timothy Quinn,” Hatch went on. “You don’t even suspect that there was anything crooked going on in Seligman’s office. If you accuse John Pirano of blackmail, he’ll retaliate, and your goose will be cooked. So far as you know, Pirano is a thoroughly honest man. If you insist on that, he’ll keep quiet about you, because he’ll need your support.”
Sanders was absorbing every word.
“Last night, in the Club Grotto, you recognized Rhoda Quinn as a former client of Seligman’s, and you simply asked her if she knew where you might land a new position. When she began to quarrel with Seligman, you discreetly retired. What Seligman said to you was an angry expression of personal dislike. You’ve been avoiding the police on advice of counsel. You’d better get busy on the phone and find yourself a lawyer who’ll back you up on that.”
Sanders nodded eagerly.
“But remember, if you shoot off your mouth about Howard Westcott, you’re sunk,” Hatch threatened.
“That’s right,” Kerrigan affirmed.
“I’ll do exactly as you say,” Sanders promised.
Hatch took Sanders’ key from the dresser. As Kerrigan followed him out, Sanders eyed them distraitly.
“Hatch,” Kerrigan said while they waited for the elevator, “you’re a hell of a decent guy.”
“Whatever I am, I’m too much that way for my own good,” Hatch said wryly.
They left the elevator at the mezzanine and stepped into the public stenographer’s office. A red-headed girl took her feet off the typewriter, closed her book and smiled.
“I want to get off a couple of letters,” Hatch explained, “but I’d like to write them myself.”
The girl said, “Go as far as you like.”
She opened a drawer containing paper and envelopes, took another chair and resumed her book. Hatch sat at the typewriter and fed a sheet of onionskin under the roller. Kerrigan watched his dancing fingers and frowned. Hatch paused at intervals, thinking hard. Finally, when the sheet was covered, he folded it and put it in his pocket.
He wrote a second, shorter letter and typed a name on an envelope. He sealed the second letter in the envelope, then rose and proffered a dollar bill to the girl.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the bill.
Kerrigan followed Hatch from the office, down the stairs into the lobby, out to the curb and into a taxi.