The Case of the Glamorous Ghost

Chapter number 12

The Titterington Apartments turned out to be a narrow-fronted, three-story, brick building, more than a hundred feet deep, with no clerk on duty. The names of the tenants of the apartments were listed in a long directory to the right of the locked front door. There was a speaking tube by each name and a call button.

“Old-fashioned joint,” Paul Drake said. “What do we do?”

Mason found the name of Frank Ormsby Newberg listed opposite apartment 220, and pressed the button.

There was no answer.

Mason waited a while, then pressed the button the second time.

Mason turned to Della Street.

Wordlessly she handed him the set of four keys.

Mason tried the first one in the front door. Nothing happened.

The second one fitted smoothly in the lock and clicked back the bolt.

Mason held the key between his thumb and forefinger, said, “This looks like the key. Let’s go.”

Drake said, “Are we apt to get into trouble over this, Perry?”

“Of course,” Mason said, “but all I’m doing at the moment is trying to find out if the keys fit.”

“Are you going into the apartment?”

“That,” Mason said, “depends.”

There was a little cubbyhole lobby in the front of the building and a sign reading “Manager — Apt. 101,” with an arrow pointing to the apartment.

Mason led the way down the corridor to the lighted elevator shaft. The automatic elevator wheezed upward to the second floor. Apartment 220 was designated by a number on the door in a poorly lit corridor. There was a fairly good-sized crack at the bottom of the door and no light came through from this crack although other apartment doors on the same floor showed well-defined ribbons of light.

There was a doorbell to the right of the door. Mason pressed this and could hear a buzzer sounding on the inside of the apartment.

Drake said, “Perry, this thing gives me the creeps. Let’s go talk with the manager. Let’s keep our noses clean.”

“Before I talk with the manager,” Mason said, “I want to be sure what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t want to go in,” Drake said.

“You don’t mind if we demonstrate that the key fits, do you?”

“I don’t like any part of this,” Drake said.

“I don’t like it myself,” Mason told him, “but I’m trying to find evidence.”

They stood there waiting.

The corridor was poorly ventilated. There was a warm aroma of cooking odors mingled with the feel of human tenancy. Down the corridor someone was listening to a television show and the words were plainly audible through the thin door of the apartment.

“An old dump made over,” Drake said.

Mason nodded, then gently inserted the key which had opened the front door, and which he had been holding in his thumb and forefinger.

“I’m just going to try this,” he said.

The lawyer twisted the key. Nothing happened.

He moved the key slightly back and forth in the lock, exerted pressure, but the key refused to turn.

Della Street said, “How about the file, Chief? The locksmith said perhaps we’d have to dress off a high spot.”

Mason withdrew the key, looked at it for a moment, then tried another key on the key container. That key didn’t even fit the lock. Nor did a third key. But the fourth key slid smoothly into the lock.

Again Mason twisted the key and this time the bolt on the door slid quietly back.

“Oh-oh!” Drake said.

Mason, placing a handkerchief over the palm of his hand and the tips of his fingers, gently turned the knob and opened the apartment door.

“Now this,” Drake said, “is where I came in. I don’t want any part of this.”

Mason stood in the doorway for a second or two, then reached in and groped for the light switch. He found it and pressed the light button.

The interior of the apartment looked as though it had been visited by a cyclone. Drawers had been pulled out, cupboards had been opened, dishes had been piled on the floor, clothing was stacked in a heap, papers had been strewn about indiscriminately.

“I guess someone beat us to it,” Della Street said.

The elevator door clanged open. Someone started down the corridor.

“Inside,” Mason said, and led the way into the apartment.

Della Street followed him immediately. Drake hesitated, then reluctantly entered.

Mason kicked the door shut.

“Don’t touch anything,” the lawyer warned.

“Now look, Perry,” Paul Drake said. “We’re sitting in on a game. We don’t know what’s trumps. The only thing we know for sure is that we don’t have any.”

As they stood there waiting they could hear steps in the corridor and voices.

Paul Drake whispered, “Perry, this is carrying things too far. If anything should happen and we were seen and recognized as we go out...”

Della Street put her finger to her lips. “Shhhhh, Paul!”

The voices came closer.

Abruptly they could recognize the voice of Sergeant Holcomb of Homicide Squad saying, “Now as I understand it, Madam, you think you recognized his picture.”

The steps paused in front of the door.

“That’s right,” a woman’s voice said. “I’m satisfied from the picture in the paper that he’s the one who rented this apartment, under the name of Frank Ormsby Newberg.”

“Well,” Sergeant Holcomb said, “an identification from a picture is a tricky thing. We’ll see if there’s anybody home.”

The buzzer sounded.

Paul Drake looked desperately around him. “There must be a back way out somewhere,” he whispered.

“We haven’t time to find it,” Mason whispered in reply. “They have a passkey. Della, do you have a notebook?”

She nodded.

“Get it out,” Mason said.

The buzzer sounded again.

Mason said, “Start writing, Della, anything.”

Della Street starting writing shorthand in the small notebook which she took from her purse.

Knuckles pounded on the door, then Sergeant Holcomb said, “All right, we’ll try the passkey.”

Mason turned the knob, swung the door open and said, “Well, well. Good evening, Sergeant Holcomb. This is a surprise!”

Holcomb’s face registered dismayed incredulity.

“What the devil?” he exclaimed as soon as he could find his voice.

Mason said smoothly, “I’m taking inventory.”

“You are? What the devil right have you got to be here and what are you taking an inventory of?”

“The assets of the estate, of course,” Mason said.

Holcomb stood, groping for words that refused to come.

Mason said, “My client, Eleanor Hepner, is the widow of Douglas Hepner. We are, of course, at the moment engaged in a murder trial but that doesn’t affect the estate. As soon as she’s acquitted she’ll be entitled to inherit all of the property as the surviving widow. In the meantime she’s entitled to letters of administration and naturally, as her attorney, I’m taking an inventory.”

Mason turned to Della Street and said, “Five dress shirts. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven athletic shorts. One, two, three, four...”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Sergeant Holcomb bellowed. “What is this? Are you trying to tell me that Frank Ormsby Newberg is an alias of Douglas Hepner?”

“But of course,” Mason said. “Didn’t you know that?”

“How the devil would we have known it?” Sergeant Holcomb asked. “If it hadn’t been for this woman calling the police and insisting that she recognized Douglas Hepner’s picture in the paper as that of the tenant of one of her apartments who hadn’t shown up for a while, we’d have never got a lead on this apartment.”

“Well, well,” Mason said indulgently. “Why didn’t you simply ask me?”

“Ask you!” Holcomb exclaimed.

“Why, certainly,” Mason said.

“How did you get in here?” Holcomb demanded.

“With the key,” Mason said.

“What key?”

Mason’s voice had the quiet patience of an indulgent parent trying to explain a very simple problem to a very dull child. “I have told you, Sergeant, that my client, Eleanor Hepner, or Eleanor Corbin as she is mentioned in the indictment, is the surviving widow of Douglas Hepner. Quite naturally she’d have the key to the apartment where she spent her honeymoon, wouldn’t she?”

The woman who was evidently the manager of the apartment house said, “Well, he never told me anything about being married.”

Mason smiled at her. “I understand. Rather mysterious, wasn’t he?”

“He certainly was,” she said. “He’d come here and keep the most irregular hours, then he’d disappear and you wouldn’t see him for a while. Then he’d be back and... it drove us crazy trying to get in a weekly cleaning of the apartment.”

“Yes, I can well understand,” Mason said. “Eleanor told me that... however, I think perhaps under the circumstances I’d better wait until she tells her story on the witness stand.”

Sergeant Holcomb, completely nonplused, said, “Perhaps you can tell me what this is all about. How did it happen this apartment is wrecked like this? You didn’t pull all this stuff out taking an inventory.”

“Evidently,” Mason said, “someone has been in here, someone who was searching for something. As soon as we had completed our inventory I was going to suggest that the police had better try taking some fingerprints. As you’ll perhaps notice, Sergeant, we’re not touching anything but are simply standing here in the middle of the floor making an inventory of the things that are readily visible. Now, Della, there are some men’s suits in the closet. Try not to leave any fingerprints on the door. Open the door with your foot. That’s right. Three business suits, one tuxedo, five pair of shoes, and... yes, that’s a suitcase in the back of the closet there, and...”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Holcomb said. “All this stuff is evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s sure evidence. Someone has been in here.”

“Elemental, my dear Sergeant,” Mason said.

“Dammit, I can get along without any of your humor, Mason. You’re willing to admit that Frank Ormsby Newberg was Douglas Hepner?”

“But, of course,” Mason said as though this were one of the most obvious facts in the entire case.

“Well, we’ve been trying to find out where he lived. We were satisfied there was some sort of a hideout like this.”

“You could have simplified matters a lot if you’d asked me,” Mason said.

“You evidently just got here yourself,” Holcomb said.

“That’s right. I’ve been busy, Sergeant.”

“Well, we want to investigate this. I’m getting in touch with Headquarters. We’re going to have some fingerprint men down here. We’re going to go through this thing with a fine-toothed comb looking for evidence. We don’t want anybody in here messing things up.”

Mason hesitated for a moment. “Well,” he said at last, “I don’t think there’s any objection on the part of the widow to that, Sergeant, except that I want you to take great precautions to see that the personal property is conserved. There is, of course, as you know, a mother involved in the case and it may be the mother will make accusations against the widow and...”

“If you know where the mother is,” Holcomb said, “you can tell us. We can’t find her.”

“Neither could we,” Mason said. “She seems to have disappeared. Now wouldn’t you consider that as a suspicious circumstance, Sergeant?”

Sergeant Holcomb, gradually recovering his poise, said, “We don’t need any wisecracks from you, Mason. Do you know where the mother is?”

“No.”

“You have a key to this apartment?”

“That’s right.”

“I want it.”

Mason shook his head. “No. The manager can let you in with the passkey. The key that I have I want to return to... well, you can understand my position, Sergeant.”

“I’m not sure that I can,” Holcomb said. “There’s something fishy as hell about this whole business.”

“There certainly is,” Mason agreed good-naturedly. “Someone has been in here searching for something. I had assumed it was the police until you told me that this whole thing came as a surprise to you. Of course, Sergeant, I’m willing to take your word. I won’t question your statement for a minute, although there are times when you seem to be a little reluctant to return the courtesy.”

Sergeant Holcomb turned to Della Street. “How long have you folks been here?”

Mason said patiently, “For a little while. I’ve been busy in court and I’ve been busy with the preparation for trial. I haven’t had an opportunity to look into the civil aspects of the case because of the criminal charge that has been pending against my client. I do, however, expect to file an application for letters of administration and...”

“Now listen,” Holcomb interrupted. “You don’t need to go over that again. I asked a question of your secretary.”

“I’m trying to give you the information you wanted,” Mason said.

“Oh hell, what’s the use!” Holcomb exclaimed disgustedly. “Get out of here. I’m telephoning Headquarters for some fingerprint men. Now get the hell out of here and don’t come back until I tell you you can.”

“That’s rather a highhanded attitude,” Mason said, “in view of the fact that...”

“Come on. Out!” Holcomb said. “Just get the hell out of here.”

He turned to the manager of the apartment house, a rather fleshy woman, in the late forties, who was standing in the doorway with eyes and ears that missed nothing. “We’re going to seal up this apartment,” he said. “We’re going to see that no unauthorized person enters it. Now if you’ll just step out in the corridor we’ll get these three people out of here, then I’ll be the last to leave the apartment. You can give me the duplicate key and I’ll telephone Headquarters.”

The woman stepped out into the corridor.

“Go on,” Holcomb said to Mason. “Out.”

Paul Drake moved out into the corridor with alacrity. Della Street followed, and Mason brought up the rear, saying, “You can make a note, Della, that the taking of inventory was interrupted by the arrival of the police who wished to investigate an apparent burglary. Make a note of the date and the exact time. And now,” Mason said urbanely to Sergeant Holcomb, “we’ll hold the police responsible. I take it that you’ll notify me when you’ve finished with your investigation so we can continue with our inventory. Good night, Sergeant.” And Mason, nodding to Della Street, led the way down the corridor to the elevator.

As they entered the cage and closed the door, Drake leaned back, supporting himself in a corner of the elevator, and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, made elaborate motions of wiping his brow.

“You can do the damnedest things, Perry,” he said.

Della Street, voice apprehensive, said, “Now how are you going to explain the fact that Eleanor, who has previously told the police she can’t remember a thing about where she spent the time or what happened after she started on her honeymoon, has disclosed to you the apartment where Douglas Hepner lived and given you a key to that apartment?”

Mason said, “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“The hell of it is,” Drake groaned, “there isn’t any bridge. There’s only a chasm, and when you come to it you’re going to have to jump.”