Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927
- Автор: Valentine, Corley H. W.
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
“I have been up against some tough ones in my time, Barrow,” he told the Citadel man, “but this has them all lashed to the mast. We haven’t learned a thing of any importance.”
Barrow noted the peculiar emphasis Druggan had placed on the three words “of any importance.”
“Have you learned anything?” he asked.
“Only this. The hall boy in the studio building were Gulliver lived says that Gulliver had a package under his arm when he left home yesterday morning. He couldn’t describe it, but we went to his laundry and found that he had left a bundle there. So that’s disposed of.”
Barrow wondered.
“That means, I suppose,” he asked his friend, “that you’ve about decided that it would be useless to proceed any further?”
“I never look at things that way, Barrow,” Druggan replied, and not without indignation. “I never give up when there’s the slightest hope. But I will say this: If I’ve ever known of a murder that offers as little in the way of clews as this one does, I can’t recall it. We have absolutely nothing to go by.”
The detective captain strummed his desk angrily.
“What gets my goat,” he said savagely, “is that it was done in the midst of a crowd, and we have to admit our helplessness. All the yellow rags in this town will be taking a shot at us now. I feel sorry for the commissioner.”
Druggan’s experience had taught him something. Even that very day newspapers were demanding, editorially, that the slayer of David Gulliver be apprehended.
“It is inconceivable,” one editorial writer put it, “that the police force would acknowledge such a crime possible. Where are the Petrosinis and Crays of yesterday, the real detectives who held their jobs because of ability and not through an alliance with politicians? Give us back our police efficiency.”
Barrow sympathized. He knew that a clever criminal had perpetrated this killing after exhaustive planning, perhaps, and that he had covered his tracks so well, apprehension would be exceedingly difficult if ever accomplished.
The Citadel man further realized that it would be impossible to muzzle the opposition press. The less Druggan said in justification of the failure of his men to bring in Gulliver’s assassin the better off he would be, so far as undesirable publicity was concerned.
“I’d let it go at that,” he advised the captain. “Any man with half a grain of sense knows you are doing your best. Why worry about the others?”
Druggan seemed pleased at this confidence.
“What does this mean to your company?” he asked the investigator.
“Nothing much,” was Barrow’s frank acknowledgement. “I’m satisfied that Gulliver was murdered and that this is strictly a police affair. When his wife returns we shall pay her the two hundred thousand dollars rightfully coming to her and write the policy off the books as just another unanticipated death. We have them right along, you know.”
Druggan nodded.
“Of course,” he said absently. He leaned forward toward Barrow.
“You don’t suspect that Mrs. Gulliver had anything to do with it?” he asked.
Barrow explained Gresham’s acquaintance with the Gullivers and how the Citadel claims chief had seen the writer’s wife off as she started on her Mediterranean trip.
Slowly Druggan nodded his head.
“That,” he observed quietly, “seems to settle any such idea. Well, if anything turns up, I’ll let you know.”
Barrow arose and started for the door.
“Of course,” Druggan said, “you won’t concern yourself with this case again, will you?”
The investigator shook his head.
“No,” he replied. “Not unless you find the guilty man. Then I may want to talk with him a bit.”
He smiled. “Good luck,” he waved, and was gone.
Chapter III
Number Two
The days passed without a let-up in the caustic newspaper attacks. Gulliver’s aged mother and father had arrived in New York from their Vermont home, and much was made of their grief over the untimely end of a devoted son.
The commissioner, Inspector Conalan and Captain Druggan were excoriated for what was termed their “indifference.” The papers gave little consideration to the earnest desire of these men to avenge the writer’s death and their long hours of personal investigation. They were not satisfied. Such is the other side of justice.
The flood gates of pathos were opened when the handsome young widow arrived from Europe. Interviewers besieged her aboard ship and columns were written of the pathetic picture she made as she greeted her parents-in-law.
Druggan sat in his office awaiting the arrival of Mrs. Gulliver, whom he had asked to visit headquarters. He was reading the accounts of her arrival and winced at the attacks on the police that held a prominent place in all the stories.
In the midst of these disturbing thoughts the widow was announced and he arose from his chair to greet her. She was bitterly resentful of his failure to snare the culprit.
“Would there be objection,” she demanded after they had exchanged greetings, “to my employing some real detectives on this case?”
Druggan was courteous.
“None whatever,” he assured her, “but I wish you would believe that we have done everything in our power to see that justice is done.”
Her reply hurt him.
“I’m convinced of that,” she said, “and that is why I wish to try it myself.”
Briefly he told her of the sparse clews upon which his men had been working, and cleverly he strove to learn something from her which would give him something more definite upon which to proceed. She could tell him nothing helpful.
Gulliver, she told him in verification of what his men had already learned, was a man of better than average habits. He spent most of his time with her, when she was at home, and so far as she knew he had never made an enemy.
“Of course,” she said, “I can’t answer for his conduct while I was away. You should know something of that.”
The detective captain nodded.
“I do,” he agreed. “We have, of course, inquired very thoroughly about his habits and while our findings should be gratifying to you they are not in the least helpful in solving this mystery. His conduct has been exemplary since you left America.”
This appeared to please Mrs. Gulliver and she was just about to speak when the door of Druggan’s office opened. A uniformed attendant entered quietly and spoke softly to the captain.
“What!” Druggan leaped to his feet. “Send him in here.”
When the attendant withdrew, Druggan turned to his visitor and said quickly.
“This will interest you, Mrs. Gulliver.”
Again the door opened and a huge man stepped through it. Druggan greeted him tersely and presented him to Mrs. Gulliver.
“May I present Detective Thomas?” he introduced. “One of my staff and one of the men who has been working on the death of Mr. Gulliver.”
Thomas bowed.
“This has nothing to do with Gulliver,” he said as he turned to Druggan, “although in one way it has.”
“Go ahead,” Druggan replied. “Mrs. Gulliver may hear it.”
Thomas proceeded:
“It’s just this, chief,” he said. “Fred Tasney, editorial writer of the Morning Sphere, was found dead in his office this morning, when the cleaners went in to straighten up.”
Druggan knew what was coming.