Death From a Top Hat

Chapter 11 Alibis Wanted

Captain Malloy came in, answering the Inspector’s summons.

“What did Spence say about Mrs. LaClaire?” Gavigan asked.

“Not much,” Malloy answered. “He says that if you’ll make her kick and scream a bit and cuss some, maybe he could tell. He was two floors below, and all he’ll swear to is that it was a woman’s voice and she was mad. He’s stuck at that.”

“All right. Send her in again.”

Merlini settled himself on the davenport and crossed his long legs. “This suspense about Spence is terrific,” he said. “Who might he be?”

“Reporter.” Gavigan glanced in my direction. “House seems to be crawling with ’em. I ought to report it to the Department of Health. Spence lives on the first floor. When he let himself in at three this morning, he heard some female, up on this floor, pounding on a door and cussing like a longshoreman. Seemed to be mad at somebody. I’d hoped he would recognize Rappourt’s or Mrs. LaClaire’s voice, but his answers aren’t promising. It could have been Zelma. She could have left the subway at Grand Central and stopped up here on her way home. Or it may have been some girl friend of Harte’s banging on his door?” He inspected me questioningly.

“No,” I protested, “I don’t know any longshorewomen. Sorry.”

“And when Spence came down the street,” Gavigan added, “he saw a man leave this building. Everyone else in the place says they were sound asleep at that hour and, except for the spinster on the floor below, they all sleep in pairs and back each other up. She could have been entertaining him, I suppose, only Malloy says that Spence describes the guy as walking, and in his opinion any male that left her apartment at three A.M. would be running like hell.”

“Description?” Merlini asked.

“Short, maybe forty-five, round face, decked out in derby, carnation, spats, and cane.”

Merlini lifted an eyebrow at that description, but Gavigan didn’t notice. He had turned toward the doorway through which Zelma LaClaire came, swaying. The light glinted coldly on the platinum brightness of her hair and hotly on the full red mouth. Her poise was smooth and unruffled.

Gavigan wasted no time. “Let’s have the rest of that fairy tale. You’ve had time to polish it up and round off the edges. So it should be good. You were saying that you didn’t phone Sabbat, but your husband thinks you did because—?”

She scowled. “If you don’t believe it before you hear it, what the hell chance have I got?”

“Get on with it,” he said shortly.

“Anybody got a cigarette?” Her voice was calm, confident.

I supplied a cigarette and held a match for her. She puffed absently, without inhaling.

“Al,” she said, talking through the smoke, “thought I was calling Cesare, because I wanted him to. I had intended to phone him, but I caught a glimpse in my mirror of Al listening at the door, so I kept my finger on the hook and carried on a one-way conversation. I only intended to give him something to worry about. Maybe I gave him too much.”

Gavigan’s nose wrinkled as if at a bad smell.

“You see!” she said, “I knew you wouldn’t like it. But it’s true.”

Merlini was playing with that half dollar again, watching it speculatively as it flickered in his fingers, vanishing and reappearing like an uncertain ghost.

“Malloy!” the Inspector snapped. “Get LaClaire in here.”

Merlini’s coin fell floorward, spinning. He grabbed quickly, snatching it from the air. “Wait, Inspector!” he said quickly. “May I ask a question first?”

Gavigan didn’t take his eyes away from Zelma. “Shoot,” he said.

She half turned toward Merlini, waiting, alert.

“Mrs. LaClaire, is the phone in that dressing room a wall phone or a desk set?”

“It’s — it’s a hand phone.”

“And a dial phone, of course.” Merlini still eyed his coin. With a quick motion he made it invisible, and then, a second later, extracted it deftly from nowhere.

Zelma and Gavigan both watched him now, frowning. I wasn’t so clear about things myself.

“How would you like to go back with the circus, Mrs. LaClaire?” he went on solemnly. “Billed as ‘The Woman With Three Hands’? That’s what your story amounts to. It’s the only way you could hold a receiver to your ear, dial a number, and keep a finger on the hook all at the same time. With a wall phone, the hand holding the receiver can double in brass. With a desk phone — perhaps you’ll show us how it’s done?” He indicated the phone on Sabbat’s desk.

“You go to hell!” she said briskly.

“All right, Babe!” Gavigan threatened. “That tears it. Start talking, and make it mean something!”

She tilted her face up at the Inspector and switched on the sex appeal. “Okay, what if I did twist things a bit? I don’t want to get mixed up in a murder case.”

“You missed a train, Babe. You are mixed up in one, and you’re going in the wrong direction for an exit. Come on. You told Sabbat you were coming up. What happened when you got here?”

Suddenly her eyes were wide, startled. “Say, is that when he was killed, at — at about three this morning?”

“Maybe you should tell me?”

She took an uncertain step or two backward, away from us, and then, feeling the chair against her legs, she sat down slowly. Her body was tense, her eyes wide.

“Well?” Gavigan persisted.

She focused on him, and then abruptly relaxed, leaning back in the chair and drawing deeply at her cigarette.

“Okay,” she said easily, “but you might have said so before. I did call Sabbat, but I didn’t come up here — and — and I can prove it. Sabbat put me off. He’d been doing that lately. Cesare and I argued a bit, then made a date for tonight, after the show. After that I went straight home.”

“And how do you go about proving it?”

“Alfred phoned me just after I had got there. It was just three o’clock. Ask him. He was checking up on me. Maybe he does want a divorce. But his luck wasn’t so hot. I was home, and that means I didn’t have any time left over to stop off on the way. I don’t understand why — why he didn’t tell you… unless—” She drew the back of one hand slowly across the bright red of her mouth. “—unless he doesn’t intend to—Inspector!” She was on her feet clutching at his arm and gripping it desperately. Her purse and cigarette dropped to the floor. “Inspector! He’s framing me… you… you’ve got to make him tell… you must—”

“Get him, Malloy!” Gavigan snapped.

Zelma still clung to his arm. The last female witness had fainted. This one was about to have hysterics. The Inspector pushed her toward the chair and got her into it.

“You sit there and keep quiet,” he ordered.

Malloy brought Brady and LaClaire from the bedroom. The latter threw a swift inquisitive glance toward Zelma, faced Gavigan, and stood waiting. His underlip had a tight, drawn look.

Zelma, leaning far forward in her chair, pleaded in a voice that, though low, had all the piercing quality of a scream, “Alfred, for God’s sake… you must tell him… you can’t hate me like that! You know I couldn’t—”

Gavigan stepped in front of her, swiftly, took her by the shoulders and shoved her back into the chair.

“Another word out of you, and I’ll smack you one. I’m running this show. Now calm down.”

He swung on Alfred. “You said you had no idea what time your wife got home last night?”

Alfred looked at the Inspector for a second, steadily. Then he said, “Pardon me, Inspector; I don’t think so. You didn’t ask me that.”

“All right, I’m asking now.”

“She was home at three o’clock, I know that. I phoned the house and she said she had just come in.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.”

The Inspector looked at them both grimly, his jaw hard. He threw a hopeful glance at Merlini, but that gentleman was back at his coin tricks. Wearily, he said, “Brady, get these two out of here. Have somebody take ’em downtown in one of the cars.”

Mrs. LaClaire went out hurriedly. Alfred hesitated just slightly, then followed her.

Gavigan said, “Any idea what all that means, Merlini?”

The latter tucked his coin away in his vest pocket. “Well, for one thing,” he replied, “it would seem that Sabbat was still alive and kicking at 2:00.”

“I got that. What else?”

“I rather got the impression that Zelma LaClaire is considerably more quick-witted and imaginative than the general run of platinum-blonde burlesque queens. She’s also a good liar and an accomplished actress.”

“Can you pick out the lies?”

“Most of them, I think. She didn’t know Alfred was outside her door when she dialed Sabbat. When we told her he’d heard, she pretended she had known and presented us with the ‘pretending to call’ version. She hadn’t warmed up yet, and that was a foul ball. If she had pretended to call her lover in order to get her husband’s goat, she wouldn’t say, I’m coming up,’ and then let herself be argued out of it. She’d give him something worth listening to. Check?”

“I never try to predict what a woman will do. But that sounds all right.”

“Just to be sure, I took that long shot with the question about dialing a French phone while holding down the receiver rest. If she had only been pretending to call Sabbat, she’d have known the right answer. But since she wasn’t, and since she was under a bit of a strain, she didn’t think of it.”

“And how do you do it?”

“Receiver in the left hand, dial with the right, any number, and then break the connection with the right hand. You don’t have to do all three at once. Or you can dial your own number and not have to break the connection at all.”

“The voice of experience speaking?”

“Maybe.” Merlini grinned. “It’s not a criminal offense, is it?”

“Depends on whom you’re pretending to call. But go on. What about that alibi? Alfred checked with her on it. If she invented it as she went along… how come he had the same story? They had no chance to… Damnation!”

“Exactly, Inspector. I warned you to keep that pair in separate cages. You must catch their act sometime. He goes down into the audience and takes a peek at someone’s watch. Standing on the stage, blindfolded, she immediately begins spouting a description that includes the make, the number of jewels, the inscription on the cover, and so forth. She clutched at your arm and got hysterical so you wouldn’t think to shoo her out of the room before getting him in. Then she cued him and transmitted the whole alibi. She was playing a long shot too, unless he’s scared of her and she knows it. Anyway, he played up and she won.”

“Why’d you ask Zelma if she wanted to go back in the circus? They don’t have strip-tease artists, or at least not when I was a boy.”

“No,” Merlini grinned, “no strip artists yet. The pink tights are scantier, but they’re still relatively modest. Zelma and Alfred both used to work with the Al G. Robinson Combined Shows. Believe it or not, she did one of those hanging by her teeth butterfly acts. He was a trapeze artist, one of the best until he fell and smashed that hand of his. They left the circus then, and she got a job with Minsky. He was unemployed for a couple of years. Then he worked up this second sight routine.”

“That’s what’s meant by checkered careers, isn’t it?” Gavigan said. “If Spence could only identify the dame he heard. Zelma’s a two-to-one shot unless — oh, the hell with it! I’ll take them over the bumps again later. Malloy, chase Duvallo in here. I’ve been saving him for dessert.”

I sat up and opened my eyes all the way.

The man that followed Malloy through the door carried a faded blue overcoat on his arm and held a battered black felt hat. He stopped just inside and glanced quickly around the room, his gaze resting interestedly on the pentacle and candlesticks. His movements were all impatient, alert ones that indicated abundant vitality, and his poise held the assured self-confidence of the athlete. His face, even when he smiled, was taut with the obstinate determination that one might expect to see in a man who made his living escaping from impossible situations. He was of average height, in his late thirties; and I was sure, somehow, that I had seen him before, probably on the stage, though I had no remembrance of it.

In looking us over he saw Merlini.

“Hello!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Merlini nodded. “Hello, Dave.” Then he introduced the Inspector, Malloy, and myself. Duvallo bowed and waited. Gavigan began:

“You know what’s happened up here?”

“I’ve got a hazy idea, yes. The reporters outside seem to be under the impression that Sabbat has been murdered. Judging from the number of squad cars and cops cluttering up the neighborhood, I’d guess there was something in it.”

“There is,” Gavigan informed him.

Duvallo indicated the splintered door panel and asked, “I see you had to break in. Door locked?”

“And bolted. But before we go into that… I understand you knew Sabbat quite well. Maybe you can tell us what all this is about?” Gavigan motioned toward the chalk marks.

Duvallo walked over and took a closer look. “Strikes you as screwy, I suppose. Well, Sabbat was screwy, pretty much. I knew him well enough to know that. Though I wasn’t a close friend by any means. He didn’t have ’em. Not the sociable type, unless it was with the ladies.”

“Who, for instance?”

Duvall shrugged. “Different ones. He liked variety.”

“Mrs. LaClaire, maybe?”

He lifted an eyebrow delicately. “You’ve been reading Winchell.”

“Well, is it so?”

“Yes. But I’d rather not be quoted.”

“How long have you known him?”

“A couple of months. I met him through Tarot.”

“Was he in the habit of rolling back his rug and marking up his floor like this?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. He was apt to do most anything. The circles are obviously for the conjuration of some demon named Surgat. I’ve heard Sabbat talk about such things as if he believed in them. But he wasn’t altogether batty. He put across one or two fast ones that had me guessing. That’s why I persuaded him to ask Watrous… by the way, Watrous was here, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he and your other friends found the body.”

“I seem to have missed all the excitement,” Duvallo said regretfully, “but where’s Sabbat and just what did happen? My curiosity is about to boil over.”

“I’d rather get your statement first, if you don’t mind.”

“You make it sound ominous, Inspector. But you’re the boss. Only I’d feel more at ease if I knew what I was stepping into.”

“Dave,” Merlini said, coming to life, “what was it Sabbat did that had you guessing? First time I ever heard you admit that.”

Duvallo smiled. “That’s why I never told you about it. I thought maybe I could get on to him first. He had a couple of parlor tricks that were Grade A. The Inspector here is going to think I’m batty if I describe them.”

“I’ll take a chance,” Gavigan said brusquely.

“Okay. You asked for it. I sat up and took notice first when he materialized a first class spook one night that I’m damned sure wasn’t made of the usual cheesecloth and luminous paint. Then once we got into an argument about Home’s levitation phenomena. He got pretty steamed up about my skepticism — his temper was lousy, anyway. Finally, to shut me up, he said he could duplicate anything Home ever did. That was a good-sized mouthful, and he had to back it up. He went through some ritualistic gibberish, and I was beginning to feel sorry for the old boy and his delusions, when I’m damned if he didn’t float right up off the floor a good foot and a half and just hang there. He let me pass my hands under his feet, and in full light too. He stayed there almost a minute and then, his eyes almost popping out with strain, he said in a low whisper, ‘I can’t hold it any longer!’ and he came down with a thump. I didn’t get any sleep for a week trying to dope out that one.”

“And did you?” Gavigan inquired.

Duvallo shook his head slowly, smiling. “Maybe. And if I did, now that Sabbat’s dead, I don’t think I’d broadcast the answer. I’d have an exclusive on it.”

“Then it was a trick and not black magic?” Gavigan asked.

“What do you think?”

The Inspector growled, “Do I have to join the Conjurer’s Club, or whatever it is, and take the 33rd degree before I make any headway on this case?” He scowled at Duvallo. “You didn’t like the man particularly, did you?”

Duvallo’s glance was amused. “That’s what they call a leading question, isn’t it? No. I didn’t. His persecution complex was particularly annoying, and he was as suspicious as — as a detective. Thought people were after his secrets. That’s why those big bolts on the doors.”

“It looks now as if he had some reason to be suspicious, doesn’t it? Who do you know that might have wanted to kill him?”

“Nobody. I didn’t think anyone took him that seriously.”

Gavigan sat down on the edge of the desk and pushed his hat back on his head. “Suppose you give me an account of your movements since last evening, say about this time.”

“Why since last night? When was he killed, anyway?”

“Let’s take my question first, shall we?”

Duvallo shrugged, sat down on the davenport, and then, in a straight, level monotone reported on himself. “I’ve been working night and day since I got back from the road two weeks ago. Getting a new show ready for an opening next month. I was dead tired, and I hit the hay early for a change. I’d worked all night the night before on a new triple-locked coffin escape. I want to see you about it, Merlini. I’m having a little trouble with the—”

Gavigan broke in. “You live alone?” he asked.

“Yes, 36 Van Ness Lane, near Sheridan Square. I was up at nine, worked all morning and until four this afternoon, going out only to eat. A phone call—”

“Just a minute, Dave,” Merlini interrupted. “See anyone you knew when you went out to eat?”

Duvallo’s head jerked round at Merlin. “What — why, yes. The waiters at the lunch stand on the corner know me. But—”

“Go on, Duvallo. A phone call… ” Gavigan reminded.

“A phone call caused me to rearrange my plans. I asked Tarot to pick up Watrous and Rappourt and bring them here since I’d have to be late. I had an appointment to see a man about a dog. After that I came on here.”

“Let’s hear about the dog, please,” Gavigan insisted. His tone was polite and pleasant, but stubborn. “It took longer than you expected, didn’t it?”

Duvallo stood up, and now, for the first time, he seemed nervous. He walked back and forth. “Yes, Inspector, it did. And I don’t think I like it much. It seemed funny at the time, and when I come up here and run smack into a murder investigation — it begins to look queer as hell.”

“Mind telling us what you’re talking about?”

“I had a phone call,” Duvallo said slowly, “from someone I don’t know, a Mr. Williams. He’d heard I collected old and rare locks. He said he had a Spanish pin-lock that dated from 1400. He was in town only for the day, and if I’d meet him uptown some place he’d have it along. It sounded like a good buy, so I told him I’d meet him at my office. He said okay and then wanted to know if I’d be alone. I cooled a bit on the proposition when he said that. It sounded like maybe the lock didn’t belong to Mr. Williams at all. But he gave me some more sales talk that made me decide it was worth a look, anyway. I went up there and waited. He didn’t show up, and I was just about to pull out and come over here when he phoned to say he’d been held up and couldn’t get there for another half hour. I waited another — say—!” Duvallo stopped and looked curiously at the Inspector. “Did you send somebody to hunt me up?”

The Inspector said, “I did.”

“Now I know I don’t like Mr. Williams. Just after he called someone knocked on the door. I knew it wasn’t Williams because he hadn’t had time to get there, and there were two of them. Anyway, knowing Mr. Williams wanted peace and solitude, I kept mum like a damned fool and didn’t answer. You may as well get out your handcuffs, Inspector. If Sabbat was killed while I was sitting there on my fanny busily avoiding the best witnesses I could have had, then I am in a spot.”

“How about Williams?” Gavigan asked. “Won’t he testify that he talked to you over the phone?”

“I waited almost an hour and a half after that phone call and he never showed up. I thought it must be somebody’s perverted idea of a practical joke, but it doesn’t look like a joke now. Or am I imagining things?”

“I couldn’t say,” Gavigan answered. “Sabbat was killed early this morning around three. Are you sure you didn’t recognize the voice?”

“No, I never heard it before. But that doesn’t mean much. I know a lot of actors, and if one of them wanted to disguise his voice… ” He shrugged.

Gavigan scowled, turned and looked down at the desk where the business card lay face down.

Duvallo regarded the door. “Since this door was smashed in,” he said, “I suppose the kitchen door was locked too. Was it bolted as well?”

Merlini answered. “Yes. And I’d like to know what you think of the setup. The keys to both doors were in the pocket of the bathrobe Sabbat was wearing.”

Duvallo closed the door, tried the bolt a couple of times, and then, leaving it in the locked position, stood back and looked at it. He turned after a moment, and said, “How about the windows?”

“Same thing there. All locked on the inside.”

“Then you’ve got some very good reason for calling it murder and not suicide? Bullet in his head and the gun missing?”

“No, worse than that,” Gavigan said. “He was strangled.”

“He couldn’t have strangled himself?”

“Suicides can do that only by hanging; otherwise they lose consciousness before the job is completed. Sabbat was lying flat on his back on the floor in the middle of that — that pentacle.”

“Hmmm. Let’s take a look at the other door.” Duvallo started for the kitchen and we followed. He looked at the door and, getting down on his knees, ran his fingers along its bottom edge. He shook his head. “You couldn’t throw the bolts from the outside with a string running under the door. Both doors fit too tightly in their jambs. But if the string was looped around a thumbtack or something of the sort in the wall, to attain a sideward pull, it could go out through the keyhole. And the matter of the lock is simple enough. It’s an easy—”

Merlini broke in, “Perhaps, before you go too far with that theory, you’d better know that both keyholes were plugged up from the inside, with quarter pieces of Sabbat’s handkerchief, the remainder of which was, with the keys, in his pocket.”

Duvallo stopped, hand on the bolt. He regarded Merlini closely. “Listen,” he said, “if you really want my help why so secretive? I’d do a lot better if I didn’t get information by installments. What’s the idea?”

Gavigan, I noticed, had brought along the business card and was turning it over in his hand. There was an awkward silence, and then Duvallo threw the bolt over, impatiently.

“Tarot and party,” he asked, “are quite sure no one was hidden in the apartment, someone who might have sneaked out after they broke in?”

“You tell him, Harte,” Merlini said. “You were here.”

“That was the first thing we thought of,” I said, “and we searched the place. Result: zero.”

“How does one get to the roof?”

“There’s a trap in Harte’s apartment,” Gavigan replied.

Duvallo spoke, avoiding my gaze. “How about a rope from the roof and replacing a windowpane after locking the window from outside?”

“Harte’s alibi has been checked. The putty in the panes is all old.”

So he’d checked up on me, had he? I was beginning to think that working all night did have its advantages.

Duvallo looked a bit worried now. He turned to Merlini. “What do you think?” he asked.

But Gavigan cut in, “You’re not licked already, Mr. Duvallo? I understand that your business is squirming out of packing cases that have been nailed shut and dropped in the bay. This should be pie, after that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, I was afraid that was going to be your attitude. Don’t you see what a lovely pickle that puts me in? If I admit I’m stuck, there goes a nice big hole in my reputation. Big headlines in tomorrow’s papers: Escape King Meets Defeat. And if I say ‘Sure, I could get out of here like rolling off a log,’ then you’ll immediately figure that’s just what I did. No thanks. Particularly since I slept alone last night and haven’t any witnesses to swear I was in bed when the dirty work was done. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll skip it.”

“If the answer is no, I’ll promise that the reporters won’t hear about it,” Gavigan said. “And if you can show me some way anyone could have gotten out of this room… well, I’d have to have more than just that, before I took your case to a jury. That fair enough?”

Duvallo hesitated, then said quickly, “Okay, I’ll chance it. The answer is no. I couldn’t have gotten out of this room and left it as you found it. Satisfied?”

Gavigan’s face wore a cat-at-the-mousehole expression. He replied softly, “No. I’m not.”

Duvallo’s black eyes gleamed angrily. “And how do I go about proving I can’t do something?”

“It might help,” Gavigan said, “if you’d explain this.” The Inspector turned the card so that Duvallo saw its face.

The latter looked at it a long moment before he lifted his eyes to Gavigan’s. “So you did have that something else necessary to take my case to a jury.” His jaw muscles were tight and his voice held a dark undercurrent of anger. “Where did you find it?” The Inspector touched off his cannon cracker.

“It was lying on the floor of the living room. Under Sabbat’s body!”

Duvallo digested that and then said slowly, “It’s that bad, is it?”

“Yes.”

“May I see?” Duvallo held out his hand.

Gavigan drew the card back with an instinctive movement. Duvallo scowled, thrust his hands into his pockets and said, “I won’t touch it.”

The Inspector held it up and Duvallo examined it closely.

“Well?”

“It’s mine, all right,” Duvallo admitted. “But I haven’t the slightest idea how it got where you say you found it. What happens now? Handcuffs and the Black Maria?”

“No, nothing quite so dramatic as that, but I’m afraid you may have to be a house guest at headquarters for a day or so until we get this ironed out.”

Duvallo looked at him a moment; then he took a cigarette from his pocket, tapped it on the back of his hand and put it in his mouth.

“All right,” he said slowly, “I’ll tell you how the murderer got out of this apartment.”