The Case of the Petticoat Murder

Chapter Seven

NINE TWENTY-THREE Bethune Street turned out to be a rooming house, one of those once-elegant, high-stooped buildings that were originally residences of the rich and which, in New York, are almost always referred to as brownstones, despite the kind of building material used in their construction. In this case, the “brownstone” was actually a four-story whitestone, soot-darkened to within a shade or two of black.

I knocked on the door of the third-floor front, which, according to the list of roomers beside the mailbox in the tiny foyer downstairs, belonged to Martin Hutchins.

There was no answer. I knocked again, and was just starting to knock a third time when I heard the creak of bedsprings and the sound of heavy steps moving toward me across a bare wood floor.

The man who opened the door was bulky-shouldered and narrow-waisted, a wedge-shaped man with practically no hips at all. His dark hair was uncombed, his eyes were bloodshot, and his drawn, beard-stained face was sheened with sweat. He wore a slightly soiled white T-shirt, new-looking green chino pants and dark brown loafers with a very high shine.

He looked at me, grimaced, and started to close the door. “No,” he said. “Whatever it is, I don't want any.”

I caught the door with my hand and showed him my potsy. “Police officer, Mr. Hutchins,” I said. “I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“So soon?” he said, standing back to let me pass inside.

“I was kind of hoping you'd wait a while.”

The room was small and hot and almost completely airless, and there was the kind of sweet-sour smell that comes from someone sweating out a protracted hangover. There was a narrow day bed, a straight chair with a stack of magazines on it, a cigarette-scarred dresser covered with mounds of odds and ends at either side of a clock-radio, and a bed table with a huge, butt-filled ash tray, a nearly-empty fifth of whisky, two scummy glasses and a dented, black-enamel carafe.

Hutchins took the magazines off the straight chair, dropped them on the floor and then sank down heavily on the bed. “Have a seat,” he said. “I didn't quite catch your name.”

I closed the door and sat down. “Selby,” I said. “Sixth Detective Squad.”

He tried to fashion a grin, but it didn't quite come off. “I was kind of hoping you'd let me die in peace,” he said. “Lord, what a head.” His voice had the soft, lazylike quality the bartender at the Hi-Lo had remarked upon, but it was far from a drawl; it was, in fact, one of the richest, most mellifluous male voices I'd ever heard.

“You were expecting me?” I said.

“Why, sure,” he said, reaching for the bottle. “Time for some more medicine. You want some?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Why were you expecting the police, Mr. Hutchins?”

He took a long drag straight from the bottle, shuddered, took another, even longer one, and put the bottle down on the floor between his feet. “I heard it on the radio,” he said, nodding toward the one on the dresser. “Just about half an hour ago.”

I try always not to make assumptions in such cases, even when the reasons for making them are almost overwhelming.

“Heard about what?” I asked.

“Why, about Nadine,” he said, frowning puzzledly.

“What'd the radio say about her, Mr. Hutchins?” I asked.

“Not much. Just that she was dead, that's all.”

“No more than that?”

“Well, it said she'd been killed.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“Not so good.”

“Is that all? Just 'not so good'?”

“I sure hate that it happened. I feel real bad about it.”

“But you're not exactly all broken up about it, are you?”

He sighed and reached for the bottle again.

“Lay off the booze until we finish here, Hutchins,” I said.

“A man can take a drink in his own room, I guess.”

“He can also do his talking at the station house,” I said. “Lay off the jug.”

He shrugged. “You're the boss-man,” he said. “A fella can't afford to mess with cops in this town.”

I studied him for a moment. The bartender at the Hi-Lo had thought he was about thirty; to me, he looked much more like twenty — five but a twenty-five with a lot of fairly hard living behind it.

“You know anyone with either the first or last name of Clifford?” I asked. “And if you don't, do you know whether Nadine did?”

“Clifford?… No, I sure don't. I can't say about Nadine.”

“I'm told you were Mrs. Ellison's boy friend,” I said.

“Mrs. Ellison?”

“You didn't know she was married?”

“I sure'n hell didn't,” he said. “Well, I'll be damned”

“You never even suspected it?”

“No, sir, I sure didn't.”

“How long had you known her?”

“Not too long.”

“How long is that?”

“About two months. That's all the time I've been in New York.”

“Where are you from?”

“Florida.” He shook his head. “So that gal was married all the time. Well, what do you know.”

“You see quite a bit of her, did you?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“It was along about ten o'clock yesterday morning.”

“You sure of that?”

“Just as sure as I'm sitting here wishing I had a drink.”

“All right,” I said. “Take it, and then get your mind off it for a while. This is a pretty serious business, Hutchins.”

“Man, I know it,” he said, reaching for the bottle again.

“I know it better'n almost anybody. That's why I need a little extra medicine.”

“You didn't see her after ten o'clock A.M. yesterday?”

“I didn't even think of her after that. I ran into this little old girl over on Waverly, and from then on I didn't waste time thinking about anything else at all. I reckon you might say I just more or less had my hands full, if you know what I mean.” He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, fished around in another pocket for a lighter, and glanced at me questioningly. “Smoke?”

I shook my head, thinking about the way the bartender at the Hi-Lo had described Hutchins' treatment of the long-shoreman who had tried to mimic Hutchins' accent.

Hutchins started to thumb the lighter, dropped it, then picked it up, tried again, and dropped it a second time. “Aw, to hell with it,” he said, flicking the cigarette beneath a chair and dropping the lighter down beside him on the bed. “It'd probably taste awful, anyway.”

“Little nervous, Mr. Hutchins?” I asked.

“A little,” he said. “Hangover jitters, I guess. I get them every time.”

“Where do you work?”

“Nowhere, right at the moment. I had me a little money saved up before I came North.” He shook his head. “But it's running out pretty fast. I didn't have any idea it cost so much to live up here.”

“Did you know Nadine was in the assignation business?”

“What?”

“Don't stall me, Hutchins. She rented out her apartment to couples who wanted to bed down for an hour or two. You knew all about it.”

He shook his head. “No, I didn't, either. It's a complete surprise to me.”

“Come off it, Hutchins.”

“I'm telling you the God's truth. I didn't know one thing about any carrying-on like that, and that's a fact.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don't expect you to believe anything. I'm just telling you, that's all.”

“How'd you meet Nadine?”

“In a tavern.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I don't know whether it's exactly right or not, seeing as she's dead now.” He paused. “Down where I come from, we—”

“Never mind all that,” I said. “What about this meeting?”

“Like I said — you're the boss-man. If you make me tell it, I will.”

I didn't say anything.

“She was sitting on the next stool,” he said. “I noticed she was kind of showing her legs, and all, and so I started up a conversation. She was wearing these round garters, and I said a person didn't see them much any more, and then — well, you know how one thing leads to another. We talked up a storm, and what with buying each other drinks and all, it wasn't too long before we both got pretty polluted.”

“And you took her home?”

“She asked me to. I kind of had the same thing in mind myself, of course. But when she came right out and asked me that way, I got a little leary. You know. I figured she might be looking to charge me a little something, or that maybe she might take me some place where she had a fella waiting to hit me on the head and rob me. I'd read about how much of that went on up here, and I guess I got a little jumpy.”

“But you took her home, just the same?”

“It was the way she kept showing her legs and all. After a couple hours of that, I figured I just had to take the chance.”

“And then you and Nadine started going around together?”

“Yeah. We started hitting it off pretty good. Right at first, there, I still figured she might be fixing to ease me out of some money. But she never did. She wouldn't let me spend any money on her at all.”

“She have dates with anyone else?”

“Not that I know of. She said she didn't, anyhow.”

“She didn't work anywhere, Hutchins, and yet she always had money. How did you think she got it?”

“I didn't know where she got it. I still don't. That business about her renting her apartment to people is news to me.”

“Were you pretty fond of her?”

“I was for a while. Lately, though, she'd been getting me down a little.”

“In what way?”

“Oh, hell, I don't know. It was her lying, more than anything else. She couldn't say two things in a row without one of them being a lie. I don't like to talk about dead people, but that girl could outlie anybody I ever heard of in all my born days. I mean it. She'd break off right in the middle of one lie to start another. And when she'd get through with the second one, she'd come back and finish up the first one.”

“I see.”

“It got so bad that I had to tune her out half the time. I'd just sit there and nod my head now and then and not hear a word she said.” He paused. “And then there was the way she kept carrying on about babies.”

“Babies?”

“Yeah — and it didn't make any difference whose or what kind, either. If we saw one in a movie or on television, I knew the minute the show was over she'd be off again. I used to think she was hinting around about us getting married or something, but she wasn't.” He shook his head. “The worst was when we'd pass one on the street. Nadine, she'd stop and goo-goo-goo around and make funny noises until it was enough to turn your stomach.”

“Funny you'd go with her so long,” I said.

“Nothing funny about it,” he said. “That Nadine Ellison was the one best-looking woman I ever got next to. She had a body on her would drive you crazy. And besides, she wasn't costing me a dime. I figured, hell, she's beautiful, and she's free, and where's a guy ever going to do any better?”

“Was she wearing her sapphire earrings when you saw her yesterday morning?”

“Her earrings?” Hutchins said. “Jeez, I don't remember.”

“When's the last time you did see them?”

“You got me,” he said. “I never paid much attention.”

“They may have been stolen.”

Hutchins' bloodshot eyes hardened a little. “Not by me, by God,” he said. “I never stole anything off anybody in my life.”

“You hear me accuse you of anything, Hutchins?”

“That's the way it sounds, by God. If you aren't hinting around that I did it, then what are you doing?”

“What I'm trying to do is get a few answers. Her earrings are missing. If she was wearing them as recently as yesterday morning, it would probably mean—”

“Hold on a minute! You mean somebody stole them off her after she was dead?”

“We think that's possible, yes.”

He stared at me with what I would have been willing to swear was genuine astonishment. “Jesus Christ,” he said softly.

“You spend much time in her apartment?” I asked.

“Tell me something straight out,” he said. “Do you think I'm the guy that killed her?”

“Answer the question,” I said. “You spend much time in her apartment, or didn't you?”

“Some,” he said. “Most of the time, she'd come over here.”

“She have an address book?”

“Sure. I guess everybody does, don't they?”

“We didn't find one.”

“You look in her fish-tackle box?” he said.

“Her what?”

“Fish-tackle box. She used it for — well, like a strongbox, It's got a big padlock on it.”

“Where'd she keep it?”

“In the bottom dresser drawer. You mean you didn't find it?”

“No.”

“Well, that's where she kept her address book, anyway.”

“Why would she have kept something like an address book in a strongbox?”

“Search me, fella. She just did, that's all.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw her haul it out enough times, for God's sake. She was always putting something in or taking something out.”

“She keep it locked?”

“She never missed.”

“What all did she keep in it, beside the address book?”

“Everything. Bills, letters, money, junk jewelry — everything.”

I could understand now why Stan Rayder's search of Nadine's apartment hadn't turned up even so much as a rent receipt. Whoever had taken the dead girl's earrings had obviously taken along her strongbox at the same time.

“How do you know the jewelry was junk?” I asked.

“I'm just going by what she said. She told me the only real jewelry she had was her earrings.” He shrugged. “As for me, I never much more than caught a fast glimpse of it.”

“What'd this box look like?” I asked.

“Like any other fish-tackle box.”

“How big was it?”

“About one by three — maybe even a little bigger.”

“Pretty big for a girl to be using as a strongbox. What color was it?”

“Gray crackle, I guess you'd call it.”

“She ever tell you there was anything of value in it?”

“No, she never did. I started to josh her a little about the size of it once, but I could tell she was getting kind of peed-off, so I changed the subject.”

“She tell you much about herself, Hutchins?”

“No. She said anything that had happened more than five minutes ago didn't count.” He paused. “Oh, of course she'd tell me one night about having done this particular thing, and the next night turn right around and tell me something else. Like maybe she'd been in South America digging around in some old ruins with a couple of scientists. Or maybe it would be that she'd been an airline hostess. It could have been anything, and the truth is that it was almost everything. She told them one right after another, right around the clock. Hell, once she even told me she used to be a stunt girl out in Hollywood.” He spread his hands. “You name it. To hear her talk, she'd done everything there is to do.”

“She ever indicate she was in fear of her life?”

“You mean, did she think somebody was after her?”

I nodded.

“No,” he said. “She never seemed to have a worry in the world.”

“You say you can prove where you were last night?” I said.

“I didn't say it, but I can.” He paused, looking at me levelly. “But I'm not going to unless I have to.”

“Why not?”

“Because there's a lady involved.”

“You're saying you spent the night with a woman?”

“That's right — but I'm not saying which woman.”

“Has this got something to do with gallantry, Hutchins?”

“You can call it anything you want.”

“This the same girl you met over on Waverly yesterday morning?”

“I'm not saying.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. “It means I'll have to take you over to the station house and ask you all over again.”

“And get out the rubber hose, I suppose?”

I didn't say anything. There are times when a statement such as Hutchins' gets a rise out of me and times when it does not. This time it didn't.

“You going to arrest me?” he said.

“Better than that,” I said, bluffing. “I'll book you as a material witness.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means no bail, no lawyer, no anything.”

“For how long?”

“Until the case comes up for trial. Say about six months.”

“You couldn't do that.”

“I'll tell you what,” I said. “There's a wall phone in the hall downstairs. On our way out to the police car you can stop and look up the number of any lawyer you pick out of the directory. You can call him and ask him what it means to be booked as a material witness. It's a pretty nasty business, Hutchins; I hope you'll spare us both the trouble.”

He looked at me for a long moment, and then made a soft, contemptuous sound in his throat.

“You'd do it, too,” he said. “You haven't got any more respect for women than I've got for a dog.”

“Or for Nadine Ellison,” I said.

He reached down for the bottle again, muttering something about my ancestry.

“What did you say, Hutchins?” I asked.

“I said her name's Elaine Walton,” he told me. “She's got a room at the Leighton Hotel, over on West Fourth.”

“And you were with her all night?”

“Yes, damn it. All night.”

“Until how late?”

“About noon.”

“Fine,” I said. “But you'd better put a shirt on, Hutchins. Those hotels can be a little fussy.”

“You mean you're going to take me over there with you?”

“I don't know how else to keep you off the phone,” I said. “Hurry up with the shirt.”

“Listen, copper!”

“The shirt, Hutchins,” I said, getting to my feet. “And the name is Selby.”