Dapne Sanders (Craig Rice)
Chapter Three
THE BODY OF DOROTHY Hymers was in a curiously lifelike position, almost bolt upright, in one of the shabbily upholstered chairs. At first glance it seemed as though she had quietly fallen asleep. But a bright blue bathrobe cord was wound tightly, terribly tightly, around her throat.
Later, when Donovan thought back over the events of the evening, it struck him as odd that his most vivid recollection was not of the dead woman, but of Florence Starr. As he'd wheeled around to face the group at the door with his announcement, she was the one who caught his eye.
The little showgirl had stood frozen in the doorway, eyes and mouth wide with horror. The coat she had hastily donned had fallen open, and underneath it her scanty, gaudy, brilliantly beaded costume struck an oddly incongruous note in the room. As the detective watched, she looked up to meet his eyes and suddenly broke the breathless silence with an exclamation that was almost a cry.
“He's murdered her! I never thought he'd do that!”
Everyone turned to stare at her, with a kind of relief at having attention drawn away from the body of Dorothy Hymers.
“Who do you mean?” Donovan asked. “Martelli?”
That seemed to break the spell in her eyes. She looked at him with contempt. “Hell, no! She meant too much money to him!”
“Then whom do you mean by — he?”
She looked at him speechlessly, her face suddenly emptied of emotion. Apparently she felt that she had said too much. Her eyes were as blank as glass. She shrugged her bare shoulders, shook her head, looked away and said nothing.
The detective stared at her for a moment, at last realized that nothing would wring another word out of her now. He started toward the body in the chair, paused, and turned to face Renzo Hymers.
“Hymers, I'm sorry —”
The great financier interrupted him with a gesture. His face was still expressionless, impassive as iron, though he seemed very tired.
“Go ahead with whatever you have to do and get it over with.”
First, to know how it had happened. Donovan stood looking at the woman for a thoughtful moment. Evidently she had been strangled with the bathrobe cord, right there in the easy chair.
“Don't touch anything here, any of you,” he said quietly.
Bathrobe cord. Now, where was the bathrobe? He looked around the room and found it, hung beside the bed a bright blue plaid. The blue of the cord matched it perfectly. Leon Martelli evidently had a gaudy taste in bathrobes.
Suddenly Hymers' voice interrupted him. “Donovan, the bracelets. Are they gone?”
“I'll see.”
The dead woman's purse — where was it? Possibly it was missing, bracelets and all. No, there it was on the floor beside her chair. Donovan picked it up, a beautiful and expensive bauble of beads and linked metal, felt of it, opened it and felt inside.
“No. They aren't here. But Mrs. Hymers may have done as she planned — taken them to the jeweler's to be repaired.
“I doubt it very much,” Hymers said.
Donovan privately agreed with him. “If that's true then the chances are — ” His voice broke off suddenly. “The girl — where is she?”
Florence Starr was gone.
They all hurried into the hall. It was empty.
Donovan located a telephone in the hall, dialed police headquarters, and gave the necessary details quickly and concisely. He added a complete description of the little showgirl who had so inexplicably fled.
“The newspapers,” Renzo Hymers said suddenly.
Donovan shook his head sadly. “You can't keep this out of the newspapers. You'll just have to suffer through it.” A sudden thought struck him at that moment and he rushed back to the telephone to dial another number.
“Tom Clark, please.”
After all, a promise was a promise. The papers would have the story anyway.
“Tom? Dorothy Hymers has been murdered. 4447 Elkton Street. The police are on the way.”
When he returned to the room, Renzo Hymers was standing in the center of it, looking stonily and almost bewilderedly at the dead woman.
“Donovan, there's no possible doubt about this. It must be the work of —” He paused. “Whoever he is.”
Donovan made no answer. In that little time before the police came, he prowled restlessly around the room, seeking something — he didn't know what — but something he hardly expected to find. Whatever that something was, it wasn't going to come to him easily.
Donovan was still prowling unhappily when the sirens moaned softly in the street outside, when the heavy hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs and Tom Clark of the Gazette and Inspector Garrity of the Homicide Squad burst into the room at precisely the same moment.
It took no more than a minute or two to tell what had happened, and most of it did not need to be told with words. It was all there for anyone to see. Neither Tom Clark nor the police officer cast so much as a curious glance at Renzo Hymers when his wife's lover was mentioned, nor did the financier seem to pay any attention to what was being said.
It took a little longer, however, to tell the story of the man who called himself “N.” The letter had to be described, the story of the Forristor painting, the Gifford pearls and the disappearance of Poppy Hymers had to be told.
It was fairly late when they got around to the landlady and had a bit of information to add to what they already knew.
That bit was a description of the young man who had rented the room next door to the one in which Dorothy Hymers' body had been found. He had rented it a week ago, and given it up that very day. She never made it her business to be nosy about her tenants, she stated pointedly in a beery voice, but she had thought it rather odd that he spent so little time in the room and never brought any of his clothes or other possessions there. Never slept there, in fact. Still, he'd paid his rent in advance and who was she to ask embarrassing questions?
Yes, blond he was, with a funny round face, and queer, pointed eyebrows that turned up at the corners. Tallish, she would say, with rather broad shoulders.
He had given up the room that very day and left a note for her saying he wouldn't be needing it any longer. She thought she still had the note somewhere.
After half an hour of rummaging through desk drawers, cubbyholes and wastebaskets, it was discovered. There could be no mistaking that decisive, vertical handwriting. It was the man who signed himself “ N.”
Donovan had no doubt of that, any more than he doubted that the twin bracelets were, at that moment, in his possession.
But murder — that was another thing.
Logic had nothing to do with it. Nor did instinct. While he watched the regular routine of examination and photographing going on in the sordid room, Donovan tried to find out just what it was.
It wasn't until Inspector Garrity stood up and said, “Well, at least we can guess who murdered her,” that he knew.
It was simply that he was going to be terribly, unbearably disappointed if the man who signed himself “N” turned out to be a kidnaper and a murderer, after all.
THE PILE of unread books on his table didn't seem half so inviting as it had earlier in the night. The pipe had gone out where he'd laid it in the tray. The coffee in the little glass pot was cold.
Donovan switched on another light, swore as he banged his toe against a table-leg, bawled loudly “Madelaine,” threw his hat into a corner chair and said to Tom Clark and Inspector Garrity, “Sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”
Madelaine appeared, a tall, thin, grey-haired woman.
“Whisky and soda, and sandwiches,” Donovan told her. “Stacks of sandwiches.”
Not until the tray arrived, the drinks sampled and the first sandwiches devoured, did anyone mention the murder of Dorothy Hymers. Then Inspector Garrity glanced curiously first at the reporter than at the detective. ,
“I don't see what you two are looking so sober about. It's a perfectly open and shut case,” he said. “'N' did it.”
He paused to blow his nose vigorously. “Hymers was the brains behind this stock market shenanigan so naturally this bird is sorer at Hymers than at anybody else. It ain't enough to steal his dough. First he kidnaps Hymers' daughter and then he murders Hymers' wife.”
“All very pretty reasoning,” Donovan said wearily “But then why the hell didn't he murder Hymers himself, instead of taking his revenge on a couple of innocent women?”
The police inspector assumed a very wise look. “That's where his devilish cleverness comes in, Donovan. He didn't just want to see Hymers dead, he wanted to see him suffer.”
Donovan said nothing. He lit a pipe, very leisurely, and sat looking thoughtfully at his old friend.
“Well damn it,” Inspector Garrity said defensively. “Everything points to it. We know he had that room next door to the one where she was killed. We know he was there that afternoon. We know he'd threatened to swipe the bracelets, and they were gone.”
“Yes,” Donovan agreed, nodding. “Everything does point that way. Now all you have to do is find him and arrest him.”
“We'll find him,” the police officer said. “We've got a good description of him. There couldn't be two guys in New York looking like that.”
“Well, good luck.” Donovan said calmly.
Inspector Garrity finished his drink, reached for his hat and strode to the door. “You two can sit up and gab about it all night, if you want to,” he announced. “I know what happened, and I'm going home to bed.” He left the room before either of the two men could reply.
Tom Clark rose, stretched, yawned and mixed another drink. “Are you playing this with the police, or strictly on your own?” he asked.
Donovan sighed. “I don't know.”
The reporter sat down again. “There's entirely too much to this affair that we don't know yet. Who is the man who signs himself 'N,' anyway?”
“I've been trying to find that out for days,” Donovan said wearily.
Tom Clark was checking off his own questions on his long, bony fingers. “Where was Mrs. Hymers' boy friend all this time, and where is he now? What was the reason for his taking a run-out powder after she was murdered?”
“You're as good a guesser as I am, Donovan told him. “You fit in the answers along with the questions.”
“Well, my guess is that boy friend didn't murder mama,” Tom Clark said. “That type steals and gold-digs and blackmails, but it doesn't kill.” He paused to put his glass down. “Then there's some monkey-business about the bracelets that we don't understand.” He grinned. “With the fatal fascination I have for maids, I ought to be able to clear that up without any difficulty.”
“The word for you,” Donovan said admiringly, “is bounder. And let me know what you find out.”
There was a little silence. The big detective lay back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. The points Tom Clark had emphasized were things that could be cleared up. They didn't bother him now. But there was something else, something that was wrong about the picture back in that room. He knew it, but for the life of him he couldn't tell what it was.
“I know,” Tom Clark said. “There's something wrong. Something missing.”
Donovan sat up and stared at him. The reporter's remark had seemed almost like a telepathic flash.
“And maybe,” Tom went on, “I can help you out. Did you get a good look, a really good look, at the dead woman's face?”
Donovan's mouth opened, and closed again without a word. He had realized, suddenly, what had been bothering him in that room. He knew what had been so completely wrong with the picture.
He had seen death by strangulation before. He remembered with especial vividness the eyes of the victims, wide, staring, fairly popping from their heads.
“That's it,” he said slowly. “Her eyes were closed. Peacefully, naturally closed. As though she'd fallen asleep.” He paused. “It's impossible. But—that's it!”
JOHN MOON sat on an upturned box in a room in the cellar of his house. It was a small room, one that had been fitted up as a crude little workshop. A long workbench ran along one end, under a strong clear light.
The man who stood at the bench was small, crippled and well past middle age. His heavy hair was snow white, and his brown face was deeply lined, yet his fingers were incredibly strong and deft. Between two of them he held a magnificent diamond, turning it back and forth under the light.
“A shame to break up the bracelets,” John Moon said. “But it had to be done, I suppose.”
The little jeweler nodded and laid down the diamond. “Tomorrow morning I will let you know how much you will realize on the stones. They are very fine.”
For a little while John Moon watched the white-haired man work, in silence. In his own hand he held a little steel box, artfully lined with silk. From time to time he glanced down at the contents, rolled them from side to side, or poked them about with his finger. It would have seemed strange to any casual observer that he regarded them so lightly, it would have seemed curious that he poked at them with so little emotion. Because the steel box held nine of the most magnificent emeralds in the world.
Marcus, the little jeweler, looked up with a queer, elfin grin. “You do not have any passion for the stones.”
“Not the least,” John Moon said cheerfully. “Let's see the necklace.
Marcus handed over the piece he had been working on. It was still unfinished, but most of the glittering imitations were placed in their setting. The blonde young man held it up to the light, regarding it thoughtfully. At last he picked out one of the emeralds in the steel box and compared the two.
“For my money,” he said, handing the uncompleted necklace back to the cripple, “the imitation is just as good. It serves all the same purposes. It is a beautiful thing. It is an adornment, a decoration. To the unpracticed eye it seems to be real and so it serves the purpose of showing that the owner can afford to wear it.”
“Not just the unpracticed eye,” Marcus said indignantly. “I don't know more than six experts in the entire world who wouldn't be fooled by that necklace.”
“Pardon me,” the young man said, grinning. “For a minute I forgot you were a genius.” His face became serious again. “Well anyway, I'd rather have the imitation necklace than the other. You could do an awful lot with the cash difference.”
John Moon settled down to watching the cripple as he worked busily over the necklace and the imitation jewels. Queer little guy, Marcus, but useful as the very devil. Once he had been a famous jeweler in London, but he had become involved—though innocently—in a scandal that had ruined him. It had been John Moon who had helped him rid himself of the charges that were brought against him and had brought him to New York. Now Marcus, his business future ruined, worked with John Moon and would give his life for him.
Sometimes John Moon thought there was something almost unholy in his skill.
“How soon will the necklace be finished, Marcus?”
“A few minutes. I will bring it up to you.”
“Good.” John “Moon nodded to him amiably and went on up the stairs. At the door to Poppy's room he stopped.
The door was open. Poppy Hymers stood by the table, her face dead white against her flaming hair.
“I didn't know you included murder in your plans!”
He stared at her a moment, then came on into the room. “Murder?”
She thrust a newspaper at him by way of answer.
He glanced at the headlines quickly, then leaned against the door-jamb to read the rest.
“Mrs. Renzo Hymers, wife of the well-known financier, was found slain—”
There was no mention of the man who signed himself “N” nor of the previous robberies, nor of the disappearance of Poppy Hymers.
“A pair of valuable ruby and diamond bracelets belonging to Mrs. Hymers was missing and police believe that Mrs. Hymers was lured to the house by some means, then murdered and robbed.”
John Moon smiled sardonically. Obviously the police were not giving the whole story to the papers. He went on reading.
“Police are searching for Leon Martelli, friend of the dead woman, and Florence Starr, a dancer at the Scarlet Swan Cafe, wanted for questioning in connection with the case.”
Poppy's eyes were dark with horror. As he watched, her lips formed the word “Murder!” but no sound came. After a moment she breathed “I hated her, and I'm glad she's dead. But — ” As he took a step into the room she gasped “Don't come any nearer!”
He frowned. “I'm sorry you take it this way,” he said coldly and turned to go. Just at the door he paused and said, “I'll arrange for you to be taken home as soon as your necklace is done.”
He went down the hall to his study, conscious of a sense of bitter disappointment. Somehow he'd credited the girl with more nerve than that.
For a little while he sat in his easy chair, frowning. The problem of Poppy Hymers wasn't the only one he had to deal with. Right now the story of the man who signed himself “N” was being withheld from the papers, undoubtedly for the very good reason that the police credited him with this more serious crime.
Something was going to have to be done about it.
Not more than five minutes had passed before the door opened softly and Poppy Hymers walked in. “I'm sorry,” she said. Her voice was very calm but her face was still white.
He looked at her for a moment. “It must have been something of a shock. Forget it. Let me mix you a drink.”
He mixed a stiff one and handed it to her, then made one for himself.
“I take it you've changed your mind back. You don't want to resign from your — new job.”
She took a good-sized swallow before answering. “Certainly not. Especially now, when you may need all the help you can get.”
“Good girl.”
She finished the drink, set down her glass. “But why did you take the risk of killing her?”
He stared at her, at her chalk-white face, her brilliant eyes, her firmly set jaw. “You think I killed her and you're still willing to go on with me?”
“Why not?” she said quietly. “I trust you. You must have had a good reason.”
Before he realized what he was doing he had caught her to him and kissed her ruthlessly, almost brutally. For just a moment she clung to him. Then, as suddenly, he released her and walked away.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “That wasn't in the bargain. But for a minute there you seemed pretty damn dear to me.”
She smiled faintly. “We'll overlook it. This time.”
He lit a cigarette and stood gazing out the window for a few minutes before he spoke.
“Well, Poppy, I didn't kill her.”
When he turned around, the girl's face was surprised, but there was no sign of disbelief.
Then he told her, slowly, detail by detail, exactly what had happened the day before in the shabby old rooming house. She listened carefully, not missing a word.
“It must have been Martelli,” she said thoughtfully when he had finished.
“It could have been,” John Moon said. “But any number of people could have walked into that house after I left it, without being seen.”
“But who would have wanted to?” she said, frowning. “Of course, plenty of people would have liked to see Dorothy dead. Then too, who knew she was there?”
“I found it out,” he reminded her. “Someone else could have done it too.”
“Yes, but — ” She thought hard for a minute. “Yes, and someone did. Because now that I think about it, Martelli couldn't have killed her.”
“Go on,” he said. “Go on thinking. You're doing fine.”
“In the first place, he wouldn't have,” she told him. “It would have been like blowing up the old family gold mine. I know the little skunk. As long as Dorothy had money, or could get it, he wouldn't have raised a finger to harm her. But that isn't my reason.” She paused long enough to light a cigarette. “He wasn't the person who searched the house while you were watching, because he went into the house later. And Dorothy was already dead when he did go in. You said that when he came out again he seemed scared to death. Therefore she must have been dead when he went in and looked at her.”
“A nice piece of reasoning,” John Moon said gravely, “and probably correct. Of course it might have scared him to have found her unconscious and the bracelets gone.”
“He's disappeared,” she said, “because he's afraid he'll be accused of murder. He wouldn't have bothered to disappear just because someone else beat him to the bracelets.”
“He'll be found,” the blond man said. “The police will find him, or I will. There will be only one way for me to prove I didn't commit this crime. That is to find the man who did.” His face was very grave. “And do it in such a way that I won't expose myself — and that it won't interfere with the regular business at hand.”
“A large order, brother,” Poppy said.
He smiled at that. “If I don't make it, it won't be for lack of trying. And for you — ” He paused, went to the door and called “Joe!”, then turned to her. “You'll like Joe. Before I found him he'd been a prize-fighter, and a bootlegger and a burglar, in exactly that order. He's not handsome, but he's the most trustworthy man on earth.”
Before he could say more, Joe arrived, a grinning giant of a man with a broken nose and bright, friendly blue eyes.
THE EX-PRIZEFIGHTER, Joe, was perched informally on the edge of a table in John Moon's bedroom, a mischievous grin on his ugly face. “It'll make a new man of you,” he said slyly. John Moon looked distastefully at a little packet he was turning over and over in his hand. “That's the intention,” he said unhappily.
“It washes off easily,” Joe told him.
“It had damned well better. Well—” John Moon sighed deeply. “Here goes.” He began tearing a corner off the packet.
“You have to wet your hair first,” Joe said. “Otherwise you come out spotted. It says so in the directions.”
With a smothered remark the blond young man plunged his head into the washbowl. Then, with little streams and waterfalls running over his face and neck he poured the contents of the packet into the water stirred it a little and stared mournfully at the revolting mess. At last he dipped his head into the bowl.
A few minutes later he examined the results in the mirror. The pale, gleaming blond hair had turned a deep, mousy brown.
Joe surveyed the effect, his head on one side. “Good, but not quite good enough. Y'gotta dye the eyebrows too, so they'll match.”
“How the hell am I going to dye my eyebrows?”
“With a toothbrush,” the big man said. “Here, I'll do it for you! Sit down.”
The hairdressing completed, John Moon turned his attention to his face. A new pair of rubber pads were produced and slipped into his mouth. His face suddenly became round, almost chubby. A pair of glasses, with large round lenses, completed the picture.
He looked in the mirror and saw a brown-haired, round-faced young man with curiously wide and innocent eyes. A friendly young man, likable, but probably none too bright about the practical aspects of life. He might have been a graduate student, or an associate professor.
A collection of pencils, an oversized fountain pen stuck in his coat pocket and a fat notebook under his arm were the finishing touches.
Joe looked him over and nodded his head very gravely. “Perfect.”
Policeman O'Meara was bored. He had been left all alone with nothing to do save reflect on the injustices and discomforts of a policeman's life.
The morning had been busy enough. Too busy. A perfect army of photographers, reporters and curiosity seekers had invaded the house. Then there had been the people from the Homicide Bureau, and, of course, Donovan.
There was a guy for you, thought O'Meara. He didn't waste any time fooling around. He went right to the point of things and got something done. It was a pity he hadn't stayed on the force instead of monkeying around with a private agency.
The afternoon, though, seemed very long and very dull He had been left to guard the premises and the house was all but deserted. Policeman O'Meara sighed and wished for a game of pinochle. He yawned.
Suddenly he straightened up and assumed a stern look as a little, stoop-shouldered man came hesitatingly down the hall.
“Where d'ya think you're going?”
The little man jumped like a startled rabbit. “Oh! You quite startled me! I didn't see you standing there?”
O'Meara looked at him coldly. “Well, whadd'ya want?”
“I beg your pardon,” said the round-eyed man timidly. “But isn't this the place where Mrs. Renzo Hymers was — ah — murdered?”
The policeman nodded. “Yeah. Right there in that very room, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh my!” said the mouse-like little man.
“What's it to you?” O'Meara said. “Are you another one of those curious guys?”
His visitor coughed apologetically. “Not exactly. I mean — I suppose I am curious, yes. Or maybe you wouldn't call it just curiosity. You see — ah — crime is a sort of a hobby of mine.”
O'Meara sniffed scornfully. “Another one of these amateur dicks, eh. Well, you won't find nothin' here.”
The man sighed. “I'd hoped I would. You see, whenever a crime is committed I save all the newspaper accounts and work on them. Whenever I can, I visit the scene of the crime. And of course I go to all the murder trials. Then I work out my own solution of what had happened, and compare it later. You'd be surprised how many times I'm right.”
“I bet I would be,” O'Meara said.
“My name is Albert Bunce,” the little man volunteered.
Policeman O'Meara yawned. “Well, Mr. Bunce, you got my permission to cut out all the newspaper clippings and figger out the crime. But I can tell you who done it and save you a lot of time, because we know already and we're looking for him.”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Albert Bunce said in a disappointed tone. “There couldn't possibly be a mistake, could there?”
“There couldn't,” the policeman said. “I memorized the guys' description this morning, and I hope I'm the first one to see him.”
Albert Bunce shook his head. “Oh well, there'll be other murders.” He looked wistfully at the closed door. “I don't suppose I could go in there, could I?”
“You could not,” O'Meara said. He was getting tired of his visitor, for all that he'd been bored. “I got my orders and that's that. What's more, I got orders not to let nobody do no hanging around here, so beat it.”
He felt just a trifle apologetic, after the little man had gone slowly down the hall. He hadn't been such a bad little guy and the boys at the station would probably get a laugh out of hearing about him. But orders were orders. Besides, he'd suddenly become much too weary to talk.
Policeman O'Meara settled back in his chair and yawned. Funny he felt so sleepy all of a sudden. Maybe it was because the hall was so warm. He closed his eyes for just one more second.
A minute later he was sleeping so soundly that he failed to hear the sounds from the room behind him.
In placing only Policeman O'Meara on guard his superiors had failed to notice the broad ledge running around the outside of the building and the short distance between it and the nearby garage roof — a distance that could easily be covered by an agile, athletic young man.
Later, when Policeman O'Meara awoke with a guilty start, he thanked his stars that no one had discovered him. He was a little too soon in his thanksgiving.
However, it wasn't until evening, when Inspector Garrity paid another visit, that anyone knew there had been an uninvited visitor. It might not have been known even then, save that in the room that had been occupied by the man who signed himself “N” a piece of letter-paper left on the table had disappeared; and that in the ajoining room a few inches had been snipped from the bright blue bathrobe cord that had strangled Dorothy Hymers.
DONOVAN STARED at a large sheet of paper on his desk. He had been staring at it for a long time, occasionally adding a word or two to what was written there.
The paper was carefully ruled down the center, and both sides were covered with notes made in Donovan's neat, precise handwriting. It read like this.
3: Martelli's disappearance. Mrs. Hymers went there to meet him.
4: Why did she take the bracelets to that room?
5: What may be in Dorothy Hymers' past?
6: Poppy Hymers' disappearance. (Or does this have nothing to do with the case?)
1: He had threatened to steal the twin bracelets from Mrs. Hymers.
2: The bracelets are gone, indicating that he carried out his threat.
3: Garrity's theory about the revenge?
4: He occupied the room next to the one in which Mrs. Hymers was killed.
5: Florence Starr's behavior. (But she might not have meant “N” by “he.”)
Donovan shook his head, and sighed. His case for the man who signed himself “N” was pretty thin. Really, he should add one more sentence to the left-hand column. “I just don't think he did it.” But that would lead to another long analysis of his own feelings, and he had been all over that before.
He turned his attention to another sheet of paper, likewise covered with notes. All of them were questions. If he had the answers to them, he asked himself, which case would they strengthen? He read them over again.
1. Why were the dead woman's eyes closed?
2. What does Leon Martelli know?
3. Why did Florence Starr run away?
4. Whom did she mean by “he”?
5. Who is “N”?
Down at the very end of the page, added as though it were an afterthought, was one more question.
6. What happened to John Casalis?
He read the page through twice, then added one more question. After a moment's thought he underlined it.
7. Why does he call himself “N”?
At last he pushed the papers away wearily. “I have all the questions,” he told himself ruefully, “but none of the answers.”
Then there was John Porter, still at large somewhere. Donovan picked up the cablegram from the head of the asylum and reread it. It was a lengthy one — the doctor had not spared words since it was to be sent collect.
Everything possible was being done for the recapture of the escaped patient. It was not easy as he appeared rational to strangers and was exceptionally clever, cunning in fact. But he was dangerous, definitely homicidal. Returning to New York had been one of his obsessions and it was just barely possible that he might have been able to get on board a boat.
A description had been cabled to the New York police and to the customs authorities.
Donovan studied the description thoughtfully, though he knew it well already. Height, 5-foot-10. Weight, 155 pounds. Color of hair, light. Color of eyes, grey. No scars or other distinguishing marks.
Was “N” an escaped madman?
John Porter had suffered most of all of the investors who had lost at the hands of Hymers and the other six. Not only had the entire Porter fortune been wiped out, but he had lost both father and mother. Little wonder he had gone insane. A generous friend — and even Donovan did not know who he was — had paid the bills at the little private sanitarium where he had placed John Porter.
The doctor had described his missing patient as “Clever — cunning.” Before the darkness had fallen over his mind, John Porter had been more than that. Donovan remembered him clearly, A brilliant young man who had taken a great interest in criminology.
Could he have regained his sanity? Doctors had been known to make mistakes. If John Porter were the man who signed himself “N” it might explain the murder of Dorothy Hymers.
But the theft of the Gifford pearls had taken place before John Porter had escaped from the asylum.
Donovan groaned. If John Porter were not “N”— who the hell was?
His meditations were interrupted by the noisy arrival of Tom Clark. Donovan looked morosely at the long-legged reporter.
“Well, did you learn anything?”
“Plenty.” Tom Clark said, making himself at home. “Eve, the late Mrs. Hymers' maid, is a cute little trick. Very friendly, too. In fact, she got very chummy.” He grinned. “Sometimes I wonder how I do it.”
“Never mind your power over women,” the detective growled. “What did she tell you?”
“Several things. First that Renzo Hymers was on to his wife's misbehavior.”
“I'd guessed that,” Donovan said.
“Second, that Mrs. Hymers went out yesterday afternoon to give those bracelets to her boy friend.”
Donovan's eyebrows moved up a half-inch on his forehead, and stayed there.
“Believe me,” the reporter went on, “not very much got by that smart little Eve. Between one thing and another, she was wise to the whole scheme.”
“What scheme?” Donovan demanded.
“Martelli was blackmailing his lady-friend, in a nice, refined way, of course. When Hymers got those notes signed “N,” his wife confided it to Martelli, who immediately had a swell idea. She was to slip him the bracelets, and they would fix things in such a way that the man who wrote the notes would get the blame.”
Donovan was silent for a moment. “Ingenious idea,” he said at last. “So that's why she took the bracelets with her to the house.” He scowled. “But that doesn't explain away the fact that the man who rented the next room was, undoubtedly, “N.”
Tom Clark shrugged his shoulders. “My guess is that he got wised up to the scheme somehow and decided if he was going to get the blame for the robbery he'd get the bracelets too. He seems to get around and learn what goes on.”
There was a little silence before the reporter spoke.
“You know, Donovan, in all this excitement about the murder of Mrs. Hymers, we all seem to have forgotten about Poppy. Or doesn't anyone care?” He paused, and as Donovan was silent he added “All right. You don't need to tell me a thing.”
Shoving chairs out of his way with a hideous clatter, he went out. As he went through the outer office he passed another visitor coming in — Renzo Hymers.
Strange, Donovan thought, looking at his client, how little the tragedy of the past few days had changed him. His wife murdered, his daughter disappeared, a fortune in jewels stolen — yet there was not a sign on Renzo Hymers' face to show that anything out of the ordinary had taken place.
“I'm just making sure you don't drop the case,” Renzo Hymers said sharply.
Donovan raised his eyebrows. “Drop it? Why should I?”
“Because the police have been called in.”
“I haven't considered dropping it,” the detective told him.
Hymers said, “I'm glad to hear it. I want you to find the murderer of my wife.” His voice was cold, and without expression. “Before anyone starts saying I did it myself.”
Donovan looked at him questioningly. “Did you know of your wife's attachment with Martelli?”
“Yes, I did.” There wasn't an instant's hesitation.
Donovan nodded. Then he told what he had learned from Tom Clark about the plant to give Martelli the bracelets. “Did you know about that too?”
“No. I knew nothing about it.” The iron-grey brows drew together. “Of course, there's no doubt but what this madman murdered her. Your only job is to find him.”
“Yes, that's all,” the detective said dryly. “But just to keep the record clear — where were you at the time Mrs. Hymers was killed?”
For just a moment it seemed to Donovan that the faintest nicker of a smile passed over the impassive face. “I was in my club all afternoon. It was about three o'clock when I went there — it may have been a little more or a little less. The doorman will probably remember. I left about five, and Tony drove me straight home.”
“Better check with the doorman to make sure,” Donovan said. “In case anyone asks you any embarrassing questions.”
“Of course I will. Several friends saw me there, too — Hume, McGee, one or two others.”
“Good,” Donovan said. “You may not need it, but it's always handy to have an alibi.”
“Now about Poppy,” Renzo Hymers said suddenly. “Don't let this new tragedy obscure the fact that she's still missing. If Poppy can be found it may be a lead to the man who wrote those notes.”
The office door opened without warning and Donovan, who sat facing it, felt his jaw drop.
“Did I hear my name mentioned?” asked Poppy Hymers brightly, as she walked into the room.
For a moment she stood smiling at the two men who stared at her, wide eyed.
“Well,” she said at last. “Isn't anybody glad to see me?”
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