The Case of the Backward Mule

Thirteen

The man who opened the door in response to Terry Clane s ring was tall, rawboned, and flat-waisted. He had long arms, huge hands, big features and bushy eyebrows from underneath which dark intense eyes, that could easily become angry, surveyed his visitor with curiosity but no welcoming friendliness.

“My name is Clane. I am a friend of Cynthia Renton and I wanted to talk with you.”

Bill Hendrum stood to one side. “Come in,” he said. “I’ve heard of you.”

Clane entered the apartment. The place had the litter of masculine occupancy about it. There was a desk in the center of the room, a typewriter on the desk, several sheets of typewritten manuscript, the morning newspaper open and dropped carelessly by the side of a chair. Within convenient reaching distance were a humidor of tobacco, a crusted briar pipe, matches, an ashtray. Hendrum’s coat was draped over the back of the chair in front of the desk. The long sleeves dangled down, awkward in their emphasis on the length of the man’s arms.

Hendrum kicked a chair around with his foot. “Sit down.”

Clane seated himself. Hendrum looked at him for a second or two, then picked up the pipe, pushed tobacco into it, tamped it into place with his powerful forefinger, lit the pipe and settled back in the chair without seeming in the least to relax.

“What’s on your mind?”

Clane said, “Because of my friendship with Cynthia, I want to help Edward Harold.”

“Frankly,” Hendrum said, “I don’t see that necessarily follows.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Because of your friendship for Cynthia, you want to help Edward. One’s a woman, one’s a man. It could be just the opposite, you know.”

“You mean that because of my friendship for Cynthia, I wouldn’t want to help Edward?”

“It could be.”

“It happens that isn’t the case.”

“I just mentioned it,” Hendrum said, puffing on his pipe.

“In order to accomplish what I have in mind, it becomes necessary for me to get in touch with Edward Harold.”

“The police feel the same way.”

“This morning,” Clane said, “the Attorney General is moving the Supreme Court to dismiss the appeal of Edward Harold on the ground that the man is a fugitive from justice.”

“So what?”

“When the appeal is dismissed, he loses his opportunity to have the Supreme Court review his case.”

“Courts and lawyers!” Hendrum exclaimed in a deep, rumbling voice that indicated gathering anger. “They make me damn sick!”

“It happens that that’s the way our lives are regulated,” Clane said. “It’s the procedure by which we administer justice.”

“When you say ‘justice’,” Hendrum told him bitterly, “put it in quotes.”

“All right, I’ll put it in quotes, but It’s still our way of getting justice.”

“It’s not the only way.”

“It’s the only effective way.”

“It wasn’t very effective so far as Ed Harold was concerned.”

“He doesn’t know,” Clane said. “He didn’t try it. He quit when he was halfway through. So far, he has only the verdict of a jury.”

“And a sentence of death,” Hendrum mumbled. “Don’t forget that.”

“Have you,” Clane asked abruptly, “seen the newspaper?”

“What are you trying to do, trap me?” Hendrum asked and motioned as he spoke, almost contemptuously, toward the newspaper lying on the floor.

“George Gloster was murdered last night.”

“So I notice.”

“And when the police took fingerprints of the room in which the murder was committed, they found so many of Edward Harold’s fingerprints that the only logical conclusion is Harold has used that room as a hideout.”

“I read all that.”

“Naturally, the police are pinning this other murder on Harold.”

“Sure,” Hendrum said. “Pick on a guy when he’s down. They’ll use him for a scapegoat now. Pin every murder in the city on him. Damn it, I hope he stands up on his two feet and shoots it out with them. And I’d just as soon be...”

“Yes?” Clane asked as he ceased speaking abruptly.

“Nothing,” Hendrum said.

Clane said, “The Supreme Court Justices are not supposed to be influenced by what they read in the newspapers, but just the same, any person who is human can’t... well, he can’t refrain from being human. I think it would be an excellent thing if the newspapers within the next day or two could contain some evidence which would at least throw doubt on the police theory.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“I do. I also think it would be a good thing if Edward Harold surrendered into police custody before his appeal gets dismissed.”

“So that’s it.” Hendrum said. “That’s what you’ve been getting at. That’s the real reason for your visit here.”

“That,” Clane told him, meeting his eyes, “is the real reason for my visit here.”

“Make it rather nice for you, wouldn’t it?” Hendrum said, his eyes suddenly angry. “You come back from China all nice and smug. Your neck isn’t at stake. You aren’t on the dodge. You can take Cynthia out to dinner and the show and all that sort of stuff while Ed Harold is slinking around through the alleys. The best he can expect is an opportunity to shoot it out with the police in some dark deserted lot somewhere. Pretty soft for you.”

Clane said, “I’m trying to help your friend.”

“That’s what you say.”

Clane went on patiently, “What the newspaper doesn’t say is that there’s another clue they discovered. When they searched the place, they found a woman’s purse. And in that purse was Cynthia Renton’s driving license, cards, address book, lipstick, compact, and about twenty-five hundred dollars in currency.”

Hendrum’s eyes narrowed. “Where did they find that?”

“On a packing case in the warehouse.”

“Well,” Hendrum said, “you should know. You were there.”

“And Cynthia was there,” Clane said.

Hendrum thought that over.

“I’d like to find something that would help Harold,” Clane went on. “I think there is something in the evidence that might help him.”

“What, for instance?”

Clane said, “There’s a diagram of the room where the body was found, in the newspaper.”

“All right. So what?”

“There was an open window on the south. Police found footprints under that window where someone had apparently jumped out. Then that person ran across some moist ground and left the footprints which the police lost on pavement about fifty or sixty feet on beyond. The footprints all went directly away from the building.”

“All right.”

“On the other hand,” Clane said, “when I went to the place, the building was all dark.”

“Yeah, when you went to it,” Hendrum said. “Funny that you happened to be there at just that time.”

“I had an appointment with Gloster.”

“I understand that’s your story.”

Clane said, “Cynthia Renton was with me. I couldn’t very well account for her presence, so I just didn’t tell the officers about her being there. Now they’ve found her purse and that complicates the situation.”

“You mean Cynthia was with you all the time?”

“Yes.”

“That gives you an alibi, doesn’t it?”

“If I wanted to use it.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“Because I didn’t tell the officers about her being along. I neglected to mention it. If I should change my story at this date, it would make things a little difficult.”

“For whom?”

“For me.”

“For Cynthia?”

“Probably not. She’s in as deep as she can get right now.”

“I see,” Hendrum said with heavy sarcasm. “You want me, as a friend of Ed’s, to get him to surrender to the police so it will put you off the spot.”

“Don’t be silly. Whether he surrenders will have nothing to do with what I tell the police. The point I’m getting at is that the place was dark when I arrived. The footprints out of the open window were probably Edward Harold’s. The only light switch in the place is at the north end of the room. Gloster was shot with a very well-placed bullet. Obviously, the person who shot that bullet had to see what he was shooting at. There is every evidence that the bullet was fired from the north side of the room.

“The person who turned out the lights had to be standing at the north side of the room. Therefore, if Ed Harold killed Gloster while standing at the north side of the room when the bullet was fired, he had to turn out the lights, then go across the room in the dark, jump out of the open window and run away. That’s hardly the natural or logical thing for him to have done.”

“Don’t talk to me about Ed Harold’s killing him. He didn’t.”

“I’m simply reconstructing what happened and showing you how the police theory simply can’t hold together.”

“Don’t you suppose the police have sense enough to know that?”

“Yes.”

“What’s their idea in advancing such a theory, then?”

“It might be bait for a trap.”

“To trap whom?”

“The murderer.”

“You?” Hendrum asked.

“The police probably aren’t worrying about who walks into their trap. They’re busy baiting it.”

Hendrum was interested now. “Go ahead. Let’s hear the rest of it.”

“Of course,” Clane said, “Ed Harold could have shot Gloster from the north side of the room. Then he ran down to the south side, jumped out of the open window, and made his escape. If it had happened that way, it would have been because there was someone outside whom he didn’t want to meet, someone who was on the north side of the building.”

“Then how did the lights get turned off?”

“Someone must have entered the building, seen what had happened, turned out the lights, and driven away.”

“You?”

“Don’t be silly. I stayed there after I found the body and called the police. There was nothing to prevent my walking away.”

“Unless the police knew of your appointment.”

“They didn’t.”

Hendrum was watching Clane intently, his big bushy eyebrows drawn together. “Keep talking.”

“Edward Harold,” Clane said, “was hiding in that warehouse. He wrote a postcard to Cynthia Renton, letting her know where he was so that she could get in touch with him. It occurs to me that he might have written you a similar message.”

“Oh, it does, does it?”

“It does.”

“And so what?”

“And so perhaps you went down to see Edward Harold and see if you could do something for him.”

“Nice theory,” Hendrum said. “Try and make it stick. I suppose you’d like to drag me into it as the murderer.”

“Take that diagram and, in connection with the position of the body, figure it out any way you want to,” Clane said. “The most logical solution is that none of the partners had been down to that warehouse for some little time, and Edward Harold had reason to believe they weren’t going to be coming down there. He established a hideout there in the warehouse. Then Gloster, in making an appointment with me and trying to get someplace that would be relatively isolated, selected the warehouse. When he unlocked the front door and switched on the lights, Harold knew he was trapped. He sprinted across the room and jumped out of the window. Gloster ran over to tire telephone to notify the police. Perhaps he’d recognized Harold. Perhaps he thought merely some burglar was in the place. While he was rushing to the telephone, someone who had entered the room with him stood at the door and shot him in the back, then deliberately turned out the lights and drove away.”

“Why do you say it was someone who had entered the room with him?” Hendrum asked.

“The evidence indicates it.”

“What evidence?”

“Gloster was evidently shot as he was moving over toward the telephone. He was shot by someone who was standing near the door on the north side. If my theory is correct, Gloster must have gone to the telephone just as soon as he entered the room, switched on the lights, and saw Edward Harold just going through the window. That would mean that the person who shot him had entered the room at about the same time Gloster did.”

“At exactly the same time?”

“Perhaps just a step or two behind him.”

“You mean then this person must have driven down there with Gloster?”

“Or he might have been someone whom Gloster was to meet there, some third party who was to furnish some information which Gloster wanted me to have. Or perhaps confront me with something which Gloster wanted to have me confronted with. He might have arrived there a few minutes before Gloster and then waited.”

“Well?” Hendrum asked.

“And,” Clane said, “if Edward Harold had sent you a postal card, letting you know where he was, and you had gone down to see him, there is a chance you might have noticed something which would be of some help.”

Hendrum stretched his feet out in front of him, pushed his hands down deep into his trousers pockets.

“So you see,” Clane said, “that I...”

“Shut up!” Hendrum said. “Let me think a minute.”

For some seconds the men sat there. Hendrum, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, its curved stem letting it rest on his coat lapel, puffed nervously, emitting little intermittent wisps of curled smoke. His feet were out in front of him and his eyes were looking at the toes of his shoes; his hands were thrust deep in his pockets.

Clane sat silent, doing nothing to distract the other’s attention.

At length Hendrum spoke with the care of one who is examining and testing each word before he puts it into circulation. “I can tell you one thing, and only one thing, which might help. Ricardo Taonon was driving his automobile in the vicinity of that warehouse about thirty minutes before the time the police think the murder was committed.”

“How do you know?” Clane asked as the other ceased speaking.

Hendrum shook his head.

“Could I say that you saw him?” Clane asked.

“You could not.”

Abruptly Hendrum took the pipe from his mouth, placed it on the pipe rack and got to his feet. “I’ve said all I care to say.”

He walked over to the door, held it open. “I’m sorry, Clane, I’ve gone farther than I intended to. I thought you were something of a heel. I guess you’re all right. But I still wish you’d stayed in China. Good-by.”

Clane took the man’s hand. “Good-by,” he said.

The door of the apartment banged shut.