Bats Fly at Dusk

Chapter XIX

A taxicab Took Bertha Cool to the residence of Dr. Howard P. Rindger. Bertha rang the bell and when the doctor himself came to the door, said, “I think you remember me, Doctor. I’m—”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Cool, the investigator. Do come in, Mrs. Cool.”

“I wanted to consult you professionally Doctor.”

He looked at her shrewdly. “Feeling all right? You look as sound as a nut.”

“Oh, I’m all right. I want to get a little professional advice.”

“All right, come in this way. I have a little office fixed up here at the house for emergency treatment. Some of my patients come in at night. Now, sit down and tell me what I can do for you.”

Bertha said, “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it’s really important.”

“Quite all right. I’m always up late Sunday nights reading. Go ahead, tell me what it is.”

Bertha said, “I want to find out something about poison.”

“What about it?”

“Is there any poison that would take effect say, an hour or two after a breakfast at which the poison was taken, to cause nausea, a burning in the throat, and a sort of collapse that would exist until the person died?”

“When did he die?”

“Around four o’clock in that afternoon.”

Doctor Rindger opened the glass door of a bookcase. “Cramps in the calves of the legs?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Diarrhea?”

“Probably, but I can’t tell you positively.”

“Nausea persistent until the time of death?”

“At intervals, yes.”

“Any treatment?”

“Hypodermics.”

“Tenderness over the stomach and intestines?”

“Yes. He was very sore.”

“Greyish skin? Perspiration?”

“From what was told me, I gather there might have been greyish skin.”

“Anxiety? Depression?”

“I don’t know.”

Dr. Rindger drummed with his fingertips on the desk, reached up to the shelf, and took a book entitled Forensic Medicine. He opened it, and after reading a couple of pages, closed the book and put it back. “Is this just between you and me, or am I speaking officially for publication, and would I be quoted?”

“Just between you and me,” Bertha told him. “You won’t be quoted.”

“Arsenic poisoning,” he said.

“Those are the symptoms?”

“An almost typical case. The burning thirst and nausea are very typical, also the soreness over the stomach and upper abdomen. If you want to be certain, check on the diarrhoea, the cramps in the calves of the legs, the feeling of depression, and note the nature of the vomitus. Rather a rice-water appearance in cases of arsenic poisoning.”

Bertha Cool got up, then hesitated, and said, “How much do I owe you?”

“That’s all right — in case I’m not to be quoted or called as a witness. If I am, that, of course, will be something else.”

Bertha shook hands with him and said, “I’m sorry I disturbed you this late, but it’s an emergency, and I had to know tonight.”

“That’s quite all right. I hadn’t gone to bed yet. Don’t usually go to bed before midnight, although I try to finish with my office work by eight-thirty so I have a little time to relax. How about your partner, Mrs. Cool? What’s his name?”

“Donald Lam.”

“That’s right. Very interesting chap. Seemed to have a remarkably quick mind. I was very much interested in his reasoning on that carbon monoxide poisoning case. I knew some of the parties involved there. Some of the people were quite prominent in medical circles.”

“I know,” Bertha said.

“What’s become of him?”

“He’s in the Navy.”

“That’s splendid! But I suppose you miss him.”

Bertha said grimly, “I got along all right before he came to work for me, and I guess I can get along all right now.”

“You’ll keep the partnership alive?”

“It’ll be there when he comes back,” Bertha said. “Gosh. I hope nothing happens to the little bastard!”

“Oh, he’ll be all right,” Dr. Rindger said. “Well, good night, Mrs. Cool.”

“Good night.”

Bertha Cool was grinning broadly as she climbed back into, the waiting taxicab.

“Where to now?” the cab driver asked.

“The Metro Hotel,” Bertha said, settling her chunky figure back in the deep cushions. “And in case you don’t know, I’ve finally climbed aboard.”

“Climbed aboard?” the cab driver asked.

“The gravy train,” Bertha explained, smiling triumphantly.

“Glad to hear it,” the cab driver said, “I’ve heard the old hack called lots of things, but this is the first time anyone called it the gravy train.”

“Well, I’m riding it.” Bertha said. “Took a little fumbling to get aboard, but I’m on it now.”

At the Metro Hotel, Bertha Cool went directly to the house telephones and said, “You have a Christopher Milbers stopping here?”

“Yes, ma’am. Room three nineteen.”

“Ring him, please.”

A moment later, Bertha Cool heard Christopher Milbers’s sleep-drugged voice saying, “Hello. Yes, hello. What is it?”

Bertha Cool said crisply, “I have something important for you. I’ll be up in exactly one minute.”

“Who is this talking?”

“Bertha Cool,” she said, and hung up.

Bertha Cool marched deliberately across the lobby, entered an elevator, and said, “Third floor.”

The elevator operator looked at her questioningly as though to ask her whether she was registered in the hotel, then thought better of it. Bertha, having the manner of one who knew exactly what she intended to do, strode down the hall, located the door of 319, paused, and was in the act of knocking when Christopher Milbers opened the door. “Sorry,” he said, “I’d been in bed about an hour. I’m hardly dressed for company.”

He was wearing pyjamas, a silk robe, and sandal slippers. His eyes were puffy from sleep, and the hair which customarily was trained so carefully around the bald spot now hung forgotten and neglected on the left ear and down to the neck, giving his head a peculiar lopsided appearance.

Bertha said, “I’m not much at b ting around the bush.”

“That’s a very commendable trait,” Milbers said, seating Bertha in the comfortable chair and perching himself on the bed where he made himself comfortable by putting pillows up against his back. “I don’t mind saying it’s an exceedingly commendable trait.”

“All right,” Bertha said with machine-gun-like rapidity and precision. “Let’s get down to brass tacks.”

“I see no reason why we shouldn’t.”

“Your cousin left an estate of — how much?”

“I wouldn’t know offhand, Mrs. Cool. Does it enter into the situation at all?”

“Yes.”

“I would say at least half a million, perhaps more.”

“You’re cut off with ten thousand?”

“Exactly, Mrs. Cool, and you’ll pardon me if I point out that this is not the important news which necessitated getting me up in the middle of the night. Both of us have known it for some little time.”

“I understand. I’m just laying the foundation.”

“Please consider the foundation as having been completely laid. I think it’s quite time to go ahead with the superstructure.”

Bertha said, “All right, the will’s ironclad. I don’t know how they did it. You don’t know how they did it. Personally, I don’t believe your cousin ever made any such will of his own volition. It looks very much as though he’d been cornered and forced to write the second page the way some other person, or persons, wanted it. Probably they had some blackmail stranglehold on him.”

“That hardly agrees with the testimony of Miss Dell and with that of Paul Hanberry.”

“It depends on the argument that was used,” Bertha said. “The right sort of blackmail might have accomplished wonders. This Myrna Jackson who rooms with Josephine Dell was virtually forced upon Miss Dell by your cousin. She also knows the housekeeper. The whole thing looks fishy to me. She’s apparently an attractive girl, and she’s mixed up in this whole business some way. As far as Paul is concerned, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw an election promise by the tail.”

“Yes, I’m inclined to agree with you there, but please get to the point, Mrs. Cool. You said you were going to be straightforward and not indulge in any beating around the bush.”

Bertha said, “Your cousin was murdered.”

Milbers’s face showed his astonishment. It was a moment before he could regain his composure. “Mrs. Cool, that’s a very strong statement.”

“I know it’s a strong statement, but your cousin was poisoned. He was given poison in his breakfast on the day he died, and he had all the symptoms of arsenic poisoning.”

“It seems incredible. You’re certain?”

“Practically.”

“You have proof?”

“Hell, no! The point is that if we go to work we can get the proof.”

“Oh,” Milbers said, a subtle change coming in his voice, “I thought you said you had proof.”

“No. I said I was practically certain he was poisoned. So far it’s all circumstantial, but I think I’ve got enough right now to get the D.A. to exhume your brother’s body for a check-up to see whether death actually wasn’t caused by arsenic.”

Milbers said, “Oh, come, Mrs. Cool. After all, that’s getting the cart somewhat before the horse. I think you can appreciate that I wouldn’t consider having any such step taken unless there was some definite, tangible proof that I personally considered absolutely ironclad.”

Bertha said, “Well, I think I can get the proof. I’ve got enough at least so they’ll start questioning Nettie Cranning and the Hanberrys. It’ll take a little work on my part, but I think I can get the whole thing lined up and ready to dump in the D.A.‘s lap in four or five days or perhaps a week.”

“After all,” Christopher pointed out, “this is rather an unusual situation. Exactly what did you have in mind Mrs. Cool?”

Bertha said, “If they killed him, they can’t inherit his property. Even if only one of them was in on the job and the others helped, none of them can take anything under the will. That would leave you, as the only living relative sitting pretty. Now, I’d be willing to gamble. I’d take, say, ten per cent of what you got out of the estate and do all of the detective work to make out a perfect case.”

Christopher Milbers pushed the tips of his fingers together, placed the middle fingers directly beneath his chin and frowned at Bertha Cool over the tops of his spread fingers.

“Well?” Bertha asked.

“That opens up a very, very peculiar situation, Mrs. Cool.”

“Of course it does. Why did you suppose I came up here and got you out of bed?”

“Of course, if my cousin was murdered, I want justice to be done.”

Bertha nodded, and then added, “And don’t forget the half a million dollars that’s thrown in for seeing justice done.”

“I’m not forgetting it, but — well—”

“Go ahead,” Bertha said. “Out with it.”

“You think that it would take you some time to work up a case?”

“Naturally. I can’t go out and drag something like that out of thin air.”

“But you have some evidence?”

“Some.”

“And you would want me to employ you to develop the rest?”

Bertha said, “Nix on that employment business. You and I’ll make an ironclad contract by which I’ll take a percentage of whatever you get from the estate.”

Milbers said, “I had quite a conference with Mrs. Cranning earlier in the evening. She’s really very different from what I had first concluded.”

“And her daughter?”

“A very beautiful and interesting young woman.”

“I see. How about Paul Hanberry?”

Christopher Milbers’s forehead puckered into a frown. “Rather antisocial,” he said. “Much opposed to the existing scheme of things. Somewhat a case of maladjustment.”

Bertha said, “I wouldn’t have to use words like that in talking about him. Just about four words would wrap him-AID in a package as far as I’m concerned.”

“Well, in a way my negotiations were with him, but my contacts were primarily with Mrs. Cranning.”

“Okay, okay.” Bertha said impatiently. “I take it that you patched up your personal little spat, and all that. But if they murdered your cousin, that’s something else again.”

“Quite.”

“All right. That’s the dish I’m offering you.”

“Unfortunately, however, Mrs. Cool, it would make no difference in regard to the property.”

“What?” Bertha jerked her head around so as to stare straight at him.

“That happens to be the situation. Late this evening I reached an agreement with the other parties involved; an agreement which I consider, under the circumstances, was eminently fair. I am, of course, not obliged to tell you the specific terms of that agreement, but because of the peculiar circumstances and knowing that I can depend upon your discretion, I will divulge the general basis of agreement. Josephine Dell will take her specific legacy. In order to avoid a contest of the will and any possible litigation, with all of the resulting hard feelings, recriminations, and, above all, the delay, the parties have agreed that the residue of the estate, whatever it may be after paying the expenses of the funeral, the current bills, and the legacy to Josephine Dell, will be divided four ways equally. In other words, distribution will be made to the residuary legatees under the will; but, by this agreement, they have conveyed to me a share sufficient to make the total amount which I receive over and above my specific legacy equal to a one-fourth interest in the estate. That will give me roughly, a hundred thousand net. It’s not quite as simple as that, but the lawyers have managed to work it out and—”

“You’ve already signed that agreement?” Bertha asked.

“We’ve all signed it.”

“That only relates to a contest of the will,” Bertha said. “If I can prove they murdered him—”

“No, you don’t understand. The agreement contains a clause that neither party will do anything which would, in any way, jeopardize the rights of any of the other parties o, directly or indirectly result in depriving them of benefit of the settlement. To hire you would be, under the circumstances, I’m afraid, a violation of the agreement — at least, of the spirit of the agreement. No, Mrs. Cool, I can hardly believe that Mrs. Cranning, or her daughter Eva, could have been party to what you have suggested. It is, of course, possible that Paul Hanberry, without the knowledge of any of the others, has managed to expedite his inheritance. But as far as the others are concerned, it is absolutely out of the question. I will admit, Mrs. Cool, that people are greedy. They are impulsive. At times they are tricky, but to think for a moment that Mrs. Cranning or her daughter would poison my cousin — no, Mrs. Cool, it is absolutely, utterly unthinkable.”

“Well, suppose Paul poisoned him and they found out about it afterwards?”

“No, you don’t understand, Mrs. Cool. In the event that the public authorities, of their own accord, started an investigation, the situation would, of course, be different; but if it should appear that any of the parties were inconvenienced in any way by some action I had taken, or was taking in connection with some investigation which might have, as one of its results, a different division of the estate from that mentioned in the agreement — no, Mrs. Cool, I couldn’t take a chance on doing it. Frankly, I consider that I have made a very advantageous settlement.”

“I guess so,” Bertha Cool said savagely. “When a bunch of murderers can bribe a man not to investigate the murder of a relative—”

Milbers held up his hand, palm outward as though he had been a traffic officer stopping a stream of oncoming traffic. “Just one moment, Mrs. Cool pull-ease,” he said. “I am mentioning only about hiring you. So far as any investigation made by the authorities is concerned, that of course, would, be through no volition on my part, and would in no way subject me to any criticism. But to employ you, to actually pay money directly or on a percentage basis to you as an investigator in order to dig up some evidence of that, sort, that would cost me exactly one hundred thousand dollars. No, Mrs. Cool, I couldn’t consider it, not for a moment. I know my lawyer would thumbs-down your proposition in a minute. He’d censure me for even discussing the matter.”

“It’s a slick dodge,” Bertha said. “They blackmailed him into making this will; then they poisoned him. Then they make a ‘compromise’ with you so their scheme won’t be discovered. It’s a hell of a note!”

“But I can’t think they resorted to blackmail any more than they did to murder. To tell you the truth, I know my cousin wrote that will. His remarks contained in it are typical. I resent them, but I know now that he never intended me to get a penny more than that ten thousand. This agreement is a windfall so far as I’m concerned.”

“Did they come to you, or did you go to them?”

“They came to me.”

“Sure. Rob a man, kill him, and soften up his heir with a hundred grand so there’ll be no investigation! Pretty slick!”

“There’s nothing to prevent you going to the authorities, Mrs. Cool.”

Bertha said angrily, “Phooey! The authorities wouldn’t get to first base with the thing — and where would there be anything in it for me on that basis?”

“Well, of course, Mrs. Cool, if you have some evidence that—”

“What I have, I have,” Bertha Cool said, getting up out of the chair. “I make my living by selling my knowledge.”

“If you have anything in which you think the police should be interested, it is your duty to go to them. If you have any knowledge it is your duty—”

Bertha said, “In other words, you won’t put a red cent on the line. You’re going to sit tight, but you’d like to see that the police get some anonymous tip that’ll start them making an investigation. I suppose you’re trying now to get me to stick my neck out and go to the police on a thank-you basis.”

“It would be the proper thing to do,” Milbers said. “If, as a citizen, you have any knowledge concerning a crime, or even any clues which remotely indicate—”

Bertha started for the door saying, “I’ll get out and let you get dressed. There’s a drugstore on the corner with a phone booth.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” Milbers said.

“The hell you don’t,” Bertha said grimly. “Within ten minutes after I’m out of here the police will get an anonymous call telling them that Harlow Milbers was poisoned and suggesting that they look up the death certificate, talk with the doctor, and then exhume the body in order to get proof. Then you can hang up, come back here, and go to bed with that smug smile wrapped all over your face. It’ll have cost you five cents for the telephone call, and that’s all.”

“But my dear Mrs. Cool. You don’t understand—”

Bertha reached the door in two quick strides, jerked it open, and slammed it shut on the rest of Milbers’s speech.

The taxi which had brought Bertha to the hotel was waiting at the curb as Bertha came out.

The cab driver touched his cap. “All right, ma’am,” he said with an engaging smile. “The gravy train is waiting.”

“Gravy train!” Bertha said, glowering the smile right off of his face. “Gravy train hell! Gravy train my eye!”