Murder Up My Sleeve

11

Man is prone to attach too much importance to the spectacular, and not enough to the cumulative effect of the little things. Terry, having won his way to the street, having ascertained that Inspector Malloy’s trap had clamped down upon Dr. Sedler, was filled with elation. He had removed the original portrait from Juanita’s apartment. Cynthia’s alibi remained as good as gold save as it had been impeached by the testimony of the manager of the apartment house who had seen the portrait in Juanita’s apartment as late as seven o’clock that evening. But Cynthia had been able to back up her claims by the physical production of an actual portrait. Juanita had not. Until Malloy could establish the existence of that other portrait by indisputable evidence, he would move very cautiously. And, by sowing the seeds of suspicion in the minds of the conspirators who had been a part of Mandra’s blackmail ring, Terry had opened the door for Inspector Malloy to unearth and expose Mandra’s sinister activities. Moreover, since everyone connected with those activities believed that the others had been guilty of deceit, the stage was all set for confessions, accusations, and recriminations which would be of far-reaching importance.

Having accomplished so much, Terry had but to reach Cynthia in advance of Malloy and see that she understood the situation. And he found himself baulked by the absurdly simple fact that he could find no effective means of transportation.

The hour was late. The neighborhood was one in which cruising cabs seldom ventured. It was, moreover, foggy and the steep, hilly pavements were wet and slippery. Even walking must be attempted with circumspection. Stores were closed. Nor could Terry pound on the door of a private residence or apartment house and ask to use the telephone. This section of the city was tenanted for the most part by a poorer class of Latin peoples who lived in terror of nocturnal visitors. So Terry, thinking every time he had negotiated one wet, slippery block that he would find a cab at the next block, or, at least, some place from which he could put in a telephone call, continued to hurry through the fog. Twice he tried to signal passing automobiles, thinking that by explaining his predicament to a motorist he might secure a lift to a better lighted, more prosperous district where he could find a cruising cab. In both instances the cars he signaled veered off, and whipping beads of muddy moisture thrown from the whirling tyres spattered Terry’s clothes and face in a coldly discouraging shower.

There was a night club half a dozen blocks away. Terry had visited it two weeks earlier. He knew he would find a cab there, and, as a last resort, set himself the task of negotiating those six blocks — and the night club was closed. A raid had left the building dark and tenantless. Finally, Terry found a little beer parlor. He was able to telephone, and a few minutes later, a cab came hissing through the darkness in response to his call. But Terry’s wrist-watch showed him that more time had been lost than he cared to contemplate.

He gave the driver the number of an apartment house a block from the place where he maintained his residence. If Malloy had closed in on the place, Terry didn’t want to come driving up in a cab and plump himself into Malloy’s hands.

Terry paid off his cab, walked rapidly towards his apartment house. No suspicious-looking cars were parked in front of the place. A casual glance through the windows of the lobby showed no one whom Terry could not account for. Reassured, he opened the lobby door and entered the lighted interior. The elevator was descending. As Terry moved towards it, it slid to a stop and the door opened. An athletic young man with heavy shoulders, a waist which was just a trifle too thick, a pugnacious jaw and hands which were clenched into fists, stood belligerently in the doorway of the elevator.

Terry inspected the blue serge, pin-stripe suit, the golf-club tie pin, the hostile grey eyes, and said casually, “Mr. Nash, I believe.”

Stubby Nash launched into invectives. “A hell of a friend you turned out to be!” he blazed.

“Of yours?” Terry asked.

“Of everyone.”

“I don’t think,” Terry told him, “I’ve ever made any particular claim to your friendship in the past, I certainly don’t care to do so now.”

“You’re a hell of a friend for Cynthia, then, if you want it that way.”

“And you, I take it, are censoring Cynthia’s friendships? Doubtless that will give her great pleasure.”

Nash pushed forward. Terry gave no ground, but swung slightly to one side. Nash said in a low voice, “Never mind what Cynthia wants. I know a rotter when I see one. You’ve dragged her into a hell of a mess, and now you’re keeping her in your apartment.”

Terry, looking over Stubby Nash’s shoulder, saw a police car slide to a stop at the curb. The door opened and Inspector Malloy bounded to the curb. Behind him other men spewed forth, and separated. Malloy barged into the lobby of the apartment house and grinned broadly as he took in the situation.

Stubby Nash said, “If you won’t understand words, you may understand this!...” and swung his fist.

Terry stepped smoothly back, shot up a deft hand, plucked Stubby’s blow out of the air, diverted it into glancing futility, and heard Inspector Malloy say:

“Now, now! That’s no way to do, boys! I wouldn’t want to have to arrest you. That’d be too bad! Come on, boys, into that elevator. I want to talk with you.”

His broad shoulders pushed them back into the cage. Two plain-clothes officers, following Malloy into the lobby, came crowding in after the inspector.

“Who the hell are you,” Stubby Nash demanded.

Inspector Malloy flipped back the lapel of his coat, gave Nash a glimpse of a gold shield, indicated the two plain-clothes men and said, “A couple of assistants.”

Nash was breathing rapidly from rage, and his exertion. “I’m Nash,” he said, “and I...”

“Yes, yes,” Malloy interrupted, “I know all about you, Nash. You’re a friend of Miss Cynthia’s. You retained a lawyer for her. Glad to see such devotion. The first thing I said when I heard about you and what you’d done was that it was too bad you’d had to do it. If you’d only have come directly to me in the first place we could have fixed things all up. It’s too bad you didn’t... But right now, my business is with Mr. Clane. I’m going to search your apartment, Clane.”

Terry said grimly, “Not without a warrant.”

Malloy beamed. “Do you know, Clane, what I told the boys at headquarters when I telephoned for them to meet me here? Well, I told them I fancied your nerves would be getting worn a bit thin, and that it was just too bad we had to intrude on you again to-night. You’ve had rather a long day, rather a strenuous day. It began when you were summoned to the D.A.’s office early this morning, and it’s been keeping up ever since. I told the boys I wouldn’t blame you a bit for refusing to let us in without a warrant, and I told them to get a warrant and meet me here. It’s just too bad, Clane, but it’s something I have to do.”

Clane said wearily, “Yes, I knew it would be too bad. What specifically are you searching for, Inspector?”

“A portrait of Jacob Mandra. It was stolen from the apartment of Janita Mandra some time after seven o’clock this evening. Of course, Clane, that doesn’t mean we suspect you of any crime. It merely means that we want to take a look through your apartment. Just a matter of form, you know. But when you consider that the murder weapon had been taken from your apartment, you must realize that it’s only reasonable to suppose some of the other things that figured in the crime might be hidden there.”

“Did the portrait figure in the murder?” Terry asked.

“I’m afraid it did,” Malloy told him.

“You can’t let them in there now!” Stubby expostulated to Clane.

Inspector Malloy seized on the remark.

“Not now?” he asked Stubby. “And why not now? What’s the reason this particular time is so inopportune?”

Nash lowered his eyes, said nothing.

The elevator came to a stop, and Inspector Malloy said, breezily:

“Well, here we are. After all, it’s just a formality. Come on, boys, and we’ll get it over with as quickly as possible and let Mr. Clane get some sleep... And why shouldn’t we search the place now, Nash?”

Stubby avoided his eyes.

“I wonder if you’re referring to the presence of some other person in Clane’s apartment,” Malloy said musingly, walking down the corridor, his hand on Nash’s elbow.

“I think, Inspector,” Clane remarked, “you’ve gone about far enough along that line. Suppose you show me the search warrant.”

“By all means,” Malloy agreed cordially. “Here it is, Clane. Just a formality, of course; but one of those little formalities which are sometimes so necessary. You’ll notice that it’s all in order. And there’s an endorsement that it may be served in the night time. Notice that, please. You see, I left Juanita Mandra’s apartment and went directly to a telephone. I called headquarters and told them to get a search warrant for your apartment. Then I went back to Mrs. Mandra’s place. She’s his widow, all right. She was married to him. Rather a bundle of emotions, that girl, but then, you wouldn’t know her. She’s a dancer... Well, well, here we are. Perhaps you’d better explain to that Chinese servant of yours that we’re free to go all through the place, Clane. Those Orientals are sometimes a little slow about understanding our laws, and I’d hate to have any misunderstanding. You see, these boys of mine are a little quick on the trigger... No, no, Nash, that’s just an expression... I didn’t mean they’d pull a gun, but they swing a wicked fist on occasions, and I’d hate to have any misunderstandings, particularly since Mr. Clane’s been so willing to co-operate with us all along.”

Terry didn’t open the door of the apartment, but rang the bell. When Yat T’oy answered the bell, Terry said to him, “These men alla-same policee men. Must come make search this place... Oh, hell, Inspector, I can’t explain it to him in English. I’ll have to tell him so he can understand...” And Terry, switching abruptly to Chinese, said, “Get the painter woman out of here, while I keep these men...”

He was able to say no more. Inspector Malloy pushed past him into the apartment, sending Yat T’oy spinning back against the wall. “Come on, boys,” Malloy said to the plainclothes men. “The warrant’s been served. You can go ahead explaining to the Chink while we make the search, Clane.”

Clane tried to reach the bedroom before the members of the searching party, but the men spread out as though they had carefully rehearsed every move. With ruthless efficiency, they ransacked the place, going through closets, trunks, files, peering behind pictures, in drawers, even moving out clothes from the closets.

Terry managed to enter the bedroom as the men were piling things on to his bed. The bed was freshly made. The pillows were smoothed into perfect mounds of unwrinkled white.

Inspector Malloy said to Stubby Nash, “How did you know Miss Renton was here?”

Clane interrupted the question. “I thought your warrant was to search for a portrait of Mandra, Inspector.”

“That’s right, Clane, that’s right. But, do you know, I had an idea we’d find Cynthia Renton here, and we want to question her. There’s nothing in the law which says you can’t find two things while you’re searching for one.”

Clane said hotly, “That’s a hell of a trick!”

“Now, now,” Malloy soothed, “your nerves are all ragged, Clane, I don’t blame you. You’ve had a hard day. But if you’ll just tell us where Miss Renton is... You see, I happen to know she’s here, and Nash knows it, too. She couldn’t have gone, and yet...”

He paused, frankly puzzled.

“The fire-escape,” one of the men suggested.

Malloy shook his head.

“A man’s watching it at the bottom. Another man’s watching the roof.”

“Did you,” Terry asked, as one who is mildly interested in the answer, “have any particular reason to think she’d be here?”

Malloy said nothing, but Stubby Nash said, “You damn well know she’s here. You’ve compromised her good name and spoiled her chances of getting out of this mess. Someone should punch you on the jaw.”

“Since you’re showing such remarkable powers of observation, not to say clairvoyance,” Terry suggested, “perhaps you can go further and supply the name of the person who should punch me on the jaw.”

Malloy, stepping between them, said, “That’ll do, boys! That’ll do.”

Stubby sneered. “That’s not going to stand in my way when I meet you again.”

“I should most certainly hope not,” Terry agreed.

Stubby turned wrathfully away.

Inspector Malloy fixed Terry Clane with forceful eyes. “Look here, Clane, you’ll admit Miss Renton was at your apartment earlier in the evening.”

“I’ll admit nothing.”

“But she was here.”

“Axe you certain?”

“Of course I’m certain.”

“Then why ask me to admit it?”

“Because I want to find out just where you stand.”

Terry shrugged his shoulders.

“You won’t admit it?”

“No.”

“You’ll deny it on your word of honor?”

Terry said with dignity, “If you’re quite finished, I think I’ll get some sleep.”

“We’re a long way from finished,” Malloy said, turning away. “Nash, you stay with me. I don’t want you two getting into a fight.”

“Is Nash, perhaps, one of your deputies?” Terry asked.

“What do you mean by that, Clane?”

“I mean that you’re here as an officer. Nash isn’t my guest. If you’re responsible for him, you’d better deputize him so I can hold you accountable for any damage he may do.”

Malloy frowned, then grinned at Stubby. “He’s got you there, Nash,” he admitted. “I’m afraid you’ll have to step out. Just wait outside in the corridor. I want to talk with you. No, no... he’s right, Nash. This is his apartment. Some other time you can say what you have to say to him. Not now. And, besides, I want to talk with you first.”

He escorted Stubby to the corridor and returned to the search. Thirty minutes later the men finished ransacking the apartment and acknowledged defeat. But Malloy refused to be shaken from his booming cordiality. “It’s too bad, Clane. I hated to do it. But you’ll remember I told you right at the start it was just a matter of form. It’s too bad you got mixed into the business in the first place... all over the theft of that gun, too! Well, good night!”

The men shuffled out into the corridor. Terry looked at Yat T’oy with raised eyebrows.

Yat Toy’s voice showed no emotion. “The woman,” he said in Cantonese, “climbed up the fire-escape.”

“Up the fire-escape!” Terry exclaimed.

Yat T’oy gravely nodded.

“And where the devil did she go after she went up the fire-escape?”

“I am but a servant,” Yat T’oy told him, “and these things are beyond me.”

Terry went to the fire-escape and looked out. It stretched down into the milky darkness, up into the swirling mist of moisture. He realized that the detectives must have made a similar inspection. The answer was beyond him. He still suspected Yat T’oy of having pulled a fast one, but the servant’s face was as blank as the front walls which camouflage the houses of Chinese millionaires.

Terry locked the door of his bedroom, donned his pajamas, turned out the lights, and was just getting into bed, when he sensed that some vaguely indistinct object was perched on the fire-escape outside of his window.

He reached for the light with a start, to hear Cynthia Renton’s voice chanting in a soft monotone:

“What the devil are you doing out there?” Terry asked.

“Getting my clothes wet,” she confessed. “This fire-escape is sopping. Are you going to invite me in?”

Without waiting for him to say anything, she climbed in through the window.

Terry switched on the light.

“Oo, Owl,” she moaned, “I’ve got a headache!”

He thrust his feet into slippers, went into the bathroom and returned with a bronco seltzer, which she drank eagerly.

“If you’d been Mandra,” she said, “I’d accuse you of having drugged me. I went out like a light.”

“Never mind about that now,” he said. “The point is, how did you get out of here, and where have you been?”

She giggled. “Stubby Nash came up and pounded on the door and tried to get Yat T’oy to let him in. The argument woke me up, Owl, and there I was, lying in your bed! What a predicament, Owl. And Stubby’s so narrow-minded! So I got up and made the bed and wanted to get out. Then I heard you having an argument with Malloy as you came walking down the hall. I climbed out the fire-escape. I realized they’d have men in the alley, so I couldn’t go down the fire-escape, but it was foggy enough so I could climb up without being seen. I was afraid to go clean up to the roof because they might have men there. The man in the apartment above you had his window open. I crawled in and sat down in a chair.”

“Was he there?”

“Lord bless you, yes. He was in bed and snoring like a freight train on an up-grade.”

“And you calmly sat there all this time?”

“There was nothing calm about it at all. I was shivering in my boots... Wouldn’t it be just like Stubby to go ahead and spill the beans?”

“How did he know you were here?”

“He just suspected it. It’s that rotten, jealous nature of his. I’m going to tell him where he gets off, in words of one syllable. He isn’t engaged to me, and has no right to pull a stunt like that. He should know better... Tell me, Owl, why did you get me tight?”

“I didn’t get you tight.”

“You plied me with liquor.”

“You said you wanted a drink.”

She tilted her head to one side, surveying him as a bird might survey some strange bug. “It’s the Oriental in you, Terry, you won’t answer a straightforward question. You’ve become like the Heathen Chinee, with ways that are dark and tricks that are vain. You drugged me so I wouldn’t know what you were doing. Tell me, Owl, what were you doing?”

“What makes you think I was doing something?”

“But you were. You went out somewhere and did some dire, dark deed. Come on, Owl, ’fess up.”

Terry was about to reply, when he heard the sound of pounding knuckles on the corridor door and Stubby Nash’s voice shouted, “Cynthia’s in there! Let me in. I demand it! The cops have gone, and we’re going to have this out, man to man.”

“That damn fool,” Cynthia said critically, “is going to wake the house up. Open the door, Terry, I’m going to tell him plenty.”

Terry strode to the door, snapped back the bolt, opened it and in a voice cold with fury said, “Is there any way we can keep you from making such a confounded fool of yourself?”

Stubby whirled on him.

“Damn you!” he cried, “keep out of my business and let my girl alone!”

Terry saw cumulative hatred welling up in the man’s eyes. The right shoulder swung back, then he saw Stubby’s fist coming in a wild swing towards his jaw.

Terry jerked back. The blow missed his jaw by inches.

“Shut up,” he cautioned. “Are you completely crazy? Those officers may still be around here.”

“I’ll show you who’s crazy!” Stubby yelled, as he came swinging forward.

Terry caught a glimpse of the grinning face of Inspector Malloy, standing in the doorway of an adjoining apartment.

“Well,” Terry grunted, “at least I’ll have one satisfaction.” He stepped swiftly to one side, with the agile motion of a trained boxer, and swung a blow which was as perfectly timed as the golf swing of a professional.

As his fist thudded on the side of Stubby’s jaw, sending him backward and down, Inspector Malloy sauntered into the room and said, “That’ll be about enough of that. You, Miss Renton, are under arrest. And there’s just a chance, Clane, that you’ll have a permanent change of address if you keep on monkeying with buzz saws.”

Terry turned so he could watch Stubby Nash, who had propped himself to a sitting position and was stroking his jaw, his punch-groggy eyes glassy and unfocused.

“And there’s more where that came from, Nash,” he said.

Inspector Malloy nodded to Cynthia. “Come on, sister,” he commanded.

“I presume, of course,” Terry observed, “you have some grounds for your action. I believe Miss Renton has an attorney who will see that her legal rights are protected.”

Malloy grinned.

“It would have been a swell scheme if it had worked,” he said, “but it just happens that this Juanita woman was the one who went down the stairs of the apartment house at two o’clock in the morning carrying Mandra’s portrait. That leaves Miss Renton’s alibi all full of holes.”

“You have found the portrait you refer to and can prove it was the one taken by the woman you call Juanita?”

Malloy’s face showed irritation.

“Otherwise,” Terry went on, holding the flame to the end of a cigarette with a hand which showed not the slightest sign of trembling, “C. Renmore Howland would have but little difficulty in convincing a jury that the police had been more than usually credulous.”

He knew by the swift flicker of expression which crossed Inspector Malloy’s face that his shot had told, but Malloy gave no other sign of weakening as he escorted Cynthia to the elevator, with a rather dazed Stubby Nash stumbling along behind.