Too Many Bodies

Chapter Two The Long Knife

Further questioning by the inspector divulged Aunt Agatha had set the meeting by mail a week previously, this much notice being necessary in order to give her three relatives time to get there. Irene Chambers lived in Chicago, where she was a dress designer, and it required an all-day train ride for her to visit her aunt. Mrs. Monica Madigan lived in Kansas City, which also involved an all-day train ride, and Gerald Rawlins came from Dallas, Texas, a trip of thirty-four hours by train. The latter had flown, however, and made it in only five hours.

All three exhibited ticket stubs to substantiate their methods of transportation. Inspector Home thanked them and kept the stubs. In their stories of traveling as they said they had could be checked, all three had iron-clad alibis, for Irene’s train arrived at three pm, Monica’s at four-thirty, and Gerald’s plane did not get in till seven, just in time for him to rush over to his aunt’s without even stopping to register at a hotel.

Gerald pointed to a suitcase standing next to the wall near the door. It still had half of a bright red baggage stub tied to the handle. “Brought my luggage along from the airport. Had trouble finding a cab and almost missed the meeting. I didn’t get here till a quarter of eight.”

“Forty-five minutes?” the inspector asked with raised brows. “Not more than twenty from the airport here.”

“If you can find a cab,” Gerald agreed.

Unlike the three cousins, Jerome Straight proved to have no alibi whatever. He said he had not been feeling well, had not gone to the office that day, and since he lived alone in a bachelor apartment, could not prove what he had been doing at the time of the murder.

The inspector seemed about ready to wind things up for the night and tell the whole group to go home, when Gerald Rawlins revealed there was another person scheduled to have attended the meeting who had never showed up.

“Adrian Thorpe,” he said. “He’s president of the company I work for. The Fibrolux Plastic Corporation of Dallas. Aunt Aggie’s company, really, for she was majority stockholder. Ad was supposed to get in on the noon train, but I guess he must have missed connections somewhere.”

“Any idea why he was invited to the meeting?” Home asked.

Gerald shook his head. In a voice indicating no love was lost between him and Adrian, he said, “Ad is a protege of Aunt Aggie’s. She thought he was some kind of a business genius and always voted him in as president at the corporation’s annual meeting. She could just as easily have picked someone in the family, if she wanted.”

Since Gerald himself seemed to be the only one of the family actively connected with the business, by “someone”, he obviously meant himself.

The inspector said, “Since you and this Adrian Thorpe were both coming from Dallas for the same meeting, how come he traveled by train and you came by plane?”

“I couldn’t get away so soon. We were having the annual audit and I’m treasurer of the company. So Ad went ahead and I caught a plane at the last minute.”

Something in the young man’s tone did not seem to me to ring quite true as he made this last statement. I could not quite decide why, except his voice suddenly seemed to contain an element of reluctance. Sedalia apparently noticed it too, for all at once her voice boomed out.

“What’s the rest of it, young man?”

Gerald threw her a startled look.

“Out with it,” she pursued. “What was it that held you up?”

“You a mind reader?” he asked. Then he shrugged. “The whole thing will be in the news eventually, I suppose. Adrian had been dipping in the company till. I was held up because the audit showed a hundred-thousand dollar shortage.” He smiled rather bitterly. “So much for Aunt Aggie’s judgment in proteges.”

Jerome Straight looked startled at this announcement, but neither Irene nor Monica exhibited the slightest perturbance. This struck me as strange, since a hundred-thousand dollar shortage in in inheritance of mine would have made me quite angry. Seemingly it struck the inspector as strange too.

“You ladies don’t seem upset over the losing the money,”-he remarked.

Both raised their eyebrows, but it was Monica who replied.

“Fibrolux Plastics wasn’t part of our inheritance. Aunt Aggie had that all tied up so nobody could get at it.”

Jerome Straight cleared his throat. “Fibrolux Plastics was founded by Mr. Chambers,” he said ponderously. “On his death a few years back Mrs. Chambers intelligently recognized she had no business sense and placed Adrian Thorpe in complete charge. He had been first vice president under Mr. Chambers for years and is a very able executive. I must say I am shocked to learn he is a thief. Mrs. Chambers felt the business would suffer if on her death the stock fell to her nieces and nephew and they voted in... ah... someone else as company president. So she placed her shares in perpetual trust, the dividends to go to her heirs, but voting power to remain with the administrator of the trust.”

“And who is the administrator?”

“At present I am,” the lawyer admitted.

Gerald Rawlins broke in. “Listen, I been stewing over something ever since we arrived and found Aunt Aggie dead. But it’s a kind of rought deal to accuse somebody of murder.”

Nobody said anything, waiting for him to go on, but he merely self-consciously wiped his red face with a handkerchief and looked embarrassed.

Sedalia broke the silence. “If this Adrian Thorpe arrived on a noon train like he was supposed to, he had plenty of time to get over here and bash the old lady. That what’s on your mind?”

He looked worried. “Yes,” he admitted. “But I just can’t imagine Ad killing anybody. Frankly I’m not too fond of him, but I want to be fair. Ad just plain would be incapable of murder.”

“His limit’s embezzlement, eh?” Sedalia asked. “Young man, our prisons are full of people who seem incapable of crime. Your aunt know of Thorpe’s misdeeds?”

Reluctantly Gerald nodded. “I phoned her just before I caught a plane.”

“I think,” Inspector Home said, “we better put out a call on Mr. Adrian Thorpe.” He looked at Gerald. “Happen to know where he generally stays when he’s in town?”

Gerald shook his head. “Different hotels. One of the better ones as a rule. The Statler, Lennox or the Sheridan.”

Home turned to one of the silent policemen. “Phone headquarters to put out a pickup order on Adrian Thorpe. Get a description from this guy.” He jerked a thumb at Gerald. “Then phone the major hotels and find out if anybody that name is registered. Phone’s in the hall.”

A few moments later the inspector had the other policeman take down the local addresses of the three relatives and Jerome Straight, warned them not to leave town until they received clearance, and released them. By my wrist watch I noted it was only shortly after nine.

“We still have time for the last half of the concert,” I suggested to Sedalia.

She put an ivory-tipped cigarette in her mouth, watched me thoughtfully as I touched my lighter to it, and then shook her head as though she failed to understand me. She did not even bother to reply.

When the others left, Alvin Christopher had stayed behind, awaiting the results of the policeman’s phone survey of the hotels. He did not have a very long wait, for in a few minutes the man in blue entered the room.

“Second try, Sir,” he said to the inspector. “Thorpe’s registered at the Sheridan, and as far as they know he’s in his room right now. I told them not to ring his phone, because we’d be right over.”

“Good. We will.” He looked at Sedalia and the — assistant D.A. “Coming along?”

Both decided they would.

The manager at the Sheridan Hotel was very helpful. He personally assisted the inspector in questioning the desk clerk, who was very helpful in turn. The clerk said he came on duty at noon, and shortly after coining on Adrian Thorpe had phoned from Union Station for a reservation. He had not actually arrived to claim the room until shortly after seven, however.

“Number six-twelve,” he finished. “I believe he is in now, if you wish me to ring.”

“We’ll go up,” Inspector Home said. He looked at the slim, debonair hotel manager. “Got a pass key?”

“Oh yes, of course,” the man said. He fluttered off ahead of us toward the elevators.

On the ride up he smiled nervously at the inspector and said, “If this is an arrest, you’ll make it as quiet as possible, won’t you, Sir? We’re always glad to cooperate with the police, but there’s no need of the other guests knowing.”

“Be as quiet as possible,” Home conceded, and added, “If possible.”

Through an open transom we could see there was light in room six-twelve, and a radio was playing moderately loud. But no one answered the hotel manager’s repeated knock. Finally he smiled at all of us nervously, slipped a pass key in the door and pushed it open. He stepped aside to let the inspector enter first.

The rest of us waited either side of the door to see if there was going to be any shooting, but when no sound came from the inspector, we all trailed in behind him. We found him thoughtfully staring at the figure on the bed.

Adrian Thorpe was about fifty years old, sparse-haired and slight of build, and with a shrewd, intelligent face. He lay on his back, his head comfortably resting on a pillow. His left arm lay at his side, and his right hand clenched the hilt of what seemed to be a hunting knife.

We could not tell how long the knife’s blade was, for it was buried in his heart.

It was after eleven when we finally got away from the Sheridan. We had to wait until the last police technician had finished his duties and until Inspector Home had questioned everyone he could think of, of course. At a murder Sedalia is like an alcoholic at a party: she is always the last one to go home.

She also had to be the one to make it a murder instead of a nice simple suicide which would have neatly ended the whole affair. At first glance it seemed obvious Adrian Torpe had killed Agatha Chambers when she confronted him with his chicanery, then checked in at the hotel and killed himself in remorse. But as I may have mentioned, Sedalia is constitutionally incapable of minding her own business.

“No suicide would lie on a bed and stick himself with a knife,” she announced didactically. “Remember Ernest Fox, Steve?”

“That nutty kid doctor used to come to your parties?” the inspector asked. “He commit suicide?”

She frowned at him. “He wasn’t nutty and he wasn’t a kid. He was young, but he held a Ph.D. in abnormal psychology. His graduate thesis was on techniques of suicide, and it covered thousands of case histories. One of his conclusions was that suicide by stabbing is extremely rare, but when it is practiced, it always follows a definite pattern. The suicide always either sits or stands and always pushes the blade in with both hands.”

Home gazed at her in amazement. Finally he said, “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard in my whole life.”

“Silly or not, it’s a fact. Ernest pointed out that stabbing yourself is harder than it seems. It takes a lot of force to push a knife in your own chest, because you can’t put the weight of your body behind the thrust or get the leverage you can get when you’re stabbing at someone else. About the only possible way to do it is to put the point carefully between a couple of ribs and suddenly pull in with both hands. Ernest’s thesis lists dozens of cases who tried it by stabbing with one hand, but they all either were discouraged by minor flesh wounds, or after cutting themselves all up, finally got down to business and did it his way.”

In spite of himself Home seemed impressed. He walked over to take another look at the body, muttered something about it being up to the coroner, not up to him, and cast a mildly irritated glance back at Sedalia.

I am afraid I experienced vindictive pleasure at the inspector’s expression. After all, it was his fault we were not at a concert instead of in the same room as a corpse.

When a plainclothesman began looking through the dead man’s single suitcase, Sedalia said, “Turn your photographic memory on that, Hank.”

Obediently, I walked over and watched the man empty the suitcase of clothing, then return it again and latch the case. I saw nothing which seemed as though it could have any possible bearing on the killing, but what there was I filed away in my mind. Without further direction from Sedalia, I followed the plainclothesman around as he made a thorough examination of the rest of the room.

The inspector gleaned very little information from either the hotel personnel or nearby residents. No one had heard a thing, and aside from the desk clerk and the bellhop who had carried Adrian Thorpe’s luggage up, no one even remembered seeing the man. Until Sedalia broke in with a question, the bellhop was able to offer no information other than that he had left Thorpe alone in his room.

“How many bags he have?” Sedalia asked.

“Two,” the bellhop said promptly. “A suitcase and a small traveling bag.”

This naturally instituted a complete researching of the room, but no traveling bag was found.

When we finally got away Sedalia did not mention the case until we got all the way home, knowing I like to concentrate my whole mind on driving when I am behind the wheel. Following our usual ritual, she waited until I had prepared myself a nightcap and poured her a beer before speaking of the evening at all.

Then she asked, “What was in Thorpe’s suitcase?”

“Two shirts,” I said promptly. “Two sets of underwear and socks. Two handkerchiefs, one cravat, one pair of pajamas and a dressing gown. One small linen laundry bag for dirty clothes.”

“Any dirty clothes in it?”

I shook my head.

“No razor or toilet supplies?”

Again I shook my head, this time in a somewhat startled manner. “Those must have been in the missing traveling bag.”

“Yes,” she mused, “but he wouldn’t have put dirty clothes in it when he had a laundry bag for them.”

For a moment I puzzled over this remark, then caught up with her reasoning.

“That fixes the time as almost immediately after he arrived, doesn’t it?” I said. “After a thirty-four hour train ride, the first thing he would do when he finally got to his hotel room would be to take a shower and change clothes. Yet he was fully dressed except for overcoat and hat. And not having changed linen means he had not showered and redressed.”

Sedalia smiled indulgently. “You’re developing a logical mind, Hank. Now apply it to these three mysteries: what was he doing from the time he arrived on the noon train until he reached the hotel at seven-fifteen, why is his traveling bag missing, and why was there no luggage check stub tied to the suitcase which was left?”

One at a time I turned these questions over in my mind. For the first I arrived at a reasonable but improvable answer, but on the last two nothing even resembling an answer developed. By summoning up a photographic image of the suitcase the plainclothesman had examined, I did recall no stub was tied to the handle, but the information meant nothing to me.

I said, “If Thorpe actually was the killer of Mrs. Chambers, he must have gone straight to the house from the station. Afterward perhaps he simply wandered around in remorse for a few hours.”

“Lugging two bags with him?”

I thought this over. “Perhaps he checked them at the station when he arrived, then returned for them just before going to the hotel.”

She nodded. “Possible. Now the second question.”

I shook my head.

Sedalia looked surprised. “A simple one like that, Hank? Obviously the killer wanted something in the bag, but it was either too large to carry without awkwardness, or so distinctive it would have attracted attention. So he simply took bag and all. No one notices a person leaving a hotel with a traveling bag.”

“All right,” I conceded. “Now why was no luggage check tied to the suitcase?”

“That I don’t know the answer to either,” she admitted. She rose abruptly. “Get me up at eight, Hank. I want to be at headquarters at nine. And set the night lock on your way out.”

She disappeared into her bedroom and left me to finish my drink alone. A few moments later I set her apartment night lock as directed, crossed our private hall to my own room and went to bed myself.

In the morning Sedalia went off to headquarters alone, taking a taxi, and left me to catch up on her correspondence, write checks and supervise the cleaning maid who was due that morning. She returned shortly after the maid left at two, dragged me from the study and had me pour her a beer.

“Just to bring you up to date,” she informed me, “Steve Home contacted the main office of the railroad by phone, and the railway stubs Irene Chambers and Monica Madigan had seem to let them out. At least someone used the tickets originally attached to them on the runs they say they were on, and possession of the stubs seems to indicate they were the users. Gerald Rawlins is out too. Not only does his stub match the airline ticket for the flight he says he was on, — his name was on the passenger list.”

I said, “All this is assuming Mrs. Chambers died at one PM?”

“It’s more definite now. They found a neighborhoom tea-room where she had lunch at twelve. An autopsy showed she died about an, hour later. Something to do with the rate of digestion.”

I thought this over. “That seems to leave only Jerome Straight as a suspect.”

“The old lawyer? Not necessarily. There’s young Alvin Christopher.”

“The assistant district attorney?” I said in surprise. “You certainly don’t suspect him!”

“I suspect everybody. It might even be someone we don’t even know about as yet. Possibly even that old standby, the tramp prowler.”

The way she expressed the last remark, I knew she actually gave it no credence at all, and her next comment proved I was right.

“The second murder pretty well knocks out the possibility of a prowler, though. I’m pretty sure the killer is one of the people we met last night.” Then she looked at me curiously for a moment and said, “I’ve got some chores for you, Hank.”

I braced myself for the worst. Whenever Sedalia’s plans for me are exceedingly unreasonable, she refers to them as “chores.”

“Mrs. Monica Madigan is staying in room seven-twelve at the Sheridan. Coincidently, it’s immediately above the room in which Adrian Thorpe was murdered. Irene Chambers is at the Statler in room thirteen-twenty-seven. Gerald Rawlins is there too, in room three-sixteen. Jerome Straight lives in apartment C of the Midway Apartments at Eight and Laurel. Alvin Christopher lives with his mother and a sister at 1712 Brigham Road. I want you to search all those places.”

I sighed, went to my room and slipped my wallet-sized burglar kit into my pocket. I knew there was no use arguing, because I had argued too many times in the past. The fact that entering other people’s homes without permission terrified me, and I had given up a successful career as a burglar nearly twenty years before in order to avoid a nervous breakdown, failed to touch Sedalia. She would have made the searches herself if she knew how, and she had no patience with timidity in others.

When I returned to Sedalia’s apartment, I asked listlessly, “What am I looking for?”

“A railroad baggage stub. The kind that ties to the handle of a suitcase.”

The assignment failed to surprise me. My first five years with Sedalia I spent in a state of constant surprise. Since then nothing has been able to surprise me. “Because Adrian Thorpe’s suitcase had none tied to the handle? You think the murderer killed him just for a baggage stub?”

When she only grinned, I said irritably, “Maybe there never was a stub tied to it. Probably he just stuck it under his berth instead of checking it through.”

She shook her head. “The lack of a toilet kit in the suitcase indicates he carried it in his hand bag. There was nothing in the suitcase he needed on the train. Possibly he carried both pieces of luggage with him, but the obvious thing for him to have done was to check through the larger piece so he wouldn’t have to bother with it. Why the murderer removed the tag, I have no idea, but there’s an excellent chance he did remove it.”

“All right,” I said. “If I find the stub the first place I look, may I stop there?”

She nodded. “But if you don’t find it at all, I have a second chore for you. Go back to the same places and leave one of these envelopes at each place.”

She handed me five small envelopes, unsealed. Dubiously I opened one and found nothing except one of Sedalia’s engraved calling cards. But on the back had been written in ink, The murderer is invited to call at 3:00 PM, Sunday.

Without enthusiasm I asked, “Just where at each place do you wish these left?”

“Leaning against their telephones, so they can’t fail to see them the first time they answer the phone.”

“I see,” I said. “Against their telephones. I’m glad I asked, because I might have done something silly like dropping them in their mail boxes.”

“After they are asleep,” she went on. “Be sure they are in bed asleep before you leave any cards.”

For a minute I stared at her. “You mean you expect me to enter these people’s rooms while they are actually in them?”

“Probably Alvin Christopher and Jerome Straight have their phones somewhere other than their bedrooms,” she reassured me.

I continued to stare at her. “And the three who live in hotel rooms? You suppose their phones are down in the lobby somewhere instead of right next to their beds? Within grabbing distance.”

“Two of them are women,” she said impatiently. “If they awaken, they won’t grab you. They’ll only scream. Don’t be such an old maid.”

So I stopped being an old maid. I took a drink to steady my nerves and started out.

I do not like to talk about the illegal entries I am sometimes forced to make as an employee of Sedalia. Neither my skill at burglary nor my ability to find anything when I search a room are talents of which I am proud, but I must admit I have few peers at either.

During the first round I made I was lucky in finding no one home at any of my visits, and I finished by six o’clock. I found three baggage stubs: one attached to an extra suitcase in Mrs. Monica Madigan’s room, and white airline stubs tied to Gerald Rawlins’ suitcase and satchel. Irene Chambers apparently had brought only an overnight bag and had not checked it through.

I assumed none of these stubs would count, but in the forlorn hope that they might, I phoned Sedalia before starting the second round.

She said they did not.

The second round took me until two in the morning because I had to wait for everyone to go to sleep. Although I encountered no actual difficulty, the experience of entering five occupied bedrooms, one possibly occupied by a murderer, is something I do not care to dwell upon. Suffice to say all five had bedside phones, in spite of Sedalia’s suggestion that two of the visits would be easy, and by the time I disposed of the last note I was a nervous wreck.

When I arrived home Sedalia was still sitting up waiting for me, and hall door to her apartment was open. I walked by, ignoring her, slammed the door of my own room and went to bed.

Later I discovered it was four-thirty in the morning when the shots sounded, but at the time all I knew was that it was still dark. There must have been eight of them, spaced so closely they sounded like the roll of a heavy drum.

I came awake sitting up, not at all uncertain as to what had awakened me, as you sometimes are when it happens in the middle of the night, for at least half of the shots sounded after I was fully awake and aware of my surroundings. They came from Sedalia’s apartment across the hall.

Automatically I reached for my bed lamp, pulled the chain, but nothing happened. In the darkness I swung out of bed, groped my way to the wall and clicked the switch to the ceiling light.

Again nothing happened.

There is something panicking about unexpected darkness. I am not afraid of the dark... at least not-much. But being unable to dispel it unnerved me more than the shots had. I make no claim to bravery, but I am morally certain I would have rushed into Sedalia’s apartment had I been able to turn on the lights, for exasperating as she is, I have a certain fondness for the woman. As it was I managed to get my bedroom door open, but then I stood straining my eyes at blackness, unable to move a foot outside my room.

I was almost relieved when a flashlight glared into my eyes from the door to Sedalia’s apartment. But the relief was short-lived. Flush against the side of the flashlight, and protruding beyond the lens perhaps two inches, was the muzzle of a black automatic. Later, after the police examined the slugs found in Sedalia’s apartment, I learned the gun was a .38 caliber, whatever that means. But I know nothing of guns, and had I been asked to describe it, I would have said the hole looked about the size of a shotgun’s bore.

Imagination, no doubt.

With the light directly in my eyes, I could see nothing beyond it, not even the hand holding the gun. The person holding the flashlight stepped toward me and I stood frozen to the spot. Then the intruder backed down the hall, both the light and the gun still centered on me. Except for my head moving to follow the retreat in fascination, I made no movement whatever.

At the end of the hall the light suddenly winked out, the front door pulled open and then slammed shut. From outside a key turned in the lock.

It was at least a minute before I was able to do anything but stand there and shiver. My inability to move was sheer fright, I confess, but the shivering was at least partly due to the cold, for I sleep with a window open and it was freezing in the room.

Then I turned, tripped over a chair, finally made my way to the window and pushed it closed. Fumbling at my bedside stand, I found my cigarette lighter and by its glow located my robe and slippers. Holding the lighter aloft like a torch, I shuffled across the hall, flicked the switch just inside Sedalia’s door and for the third time was rewarded by continued darkness.

“Sedalia!” I shouted.

From somewhere beyond, her muffled voice called, “Is he gone, Hank?”

I felt a flood of relief. At least she was still alive. “Yes!” I yelled. “Where are you?”

I moved toward her bedroom, reached it just as a door bolt clicked back, and in the wavering light Sedalia opened her bathroom door. I had just time to see she too wore a robe and slippers when my lighter sputtered and went out.

“There’s candles on the mantel in the front room,” Sedalia said matter-of-factly. “And a paper of matches between them.”

Turning, I groped through darkness again, located the candles in their holders and lighted both of them. With one in either hand I returned to Sedalia’s room,

“What happened?” I asked.

“The killer found my card and took direct action, just as I expected,” she said smugly. “After you went to bed I phoned each suspect, then hung up when they answered. They couldn’t miss seeing the card when they answered the phone, of course. Four were simply puzzled, but the fifth, being impulsive, immediately assumed I was accusing him of murder.”

“How do you know the murderer is impulsive?”

In the flickering candlelight her eyebrows raised. “I thought it was obvious. Adrian Thorpe was killed because he knew who murdered Agatha Chambers, of course. Possibly he even witnessed the crime. Both murders have all the earmarks of sudden impulse, rather than long planning. I guessed he would immediately attempt to kill me, so I conveniently left both my apartment door and the outside door unlocked for him.” Parenthetically she added, “I am using the masculine pronoun only for convenience, you understand. The two women are still suspects.”

“How did you manage to survive all those bullets?”

Again she smiled a trifle smugly. “I built a dummy of pillows in my bed, built another bed on the bathroom floor and locked myself in.”

“My God!” I said. “And he fired all those shots at the dummy?”

In the dim light from the candle flames she looked thoughtful. “No. Our killer is a little smarter than I anticipated. Apparently he... or she... discovered the dummy, realized it was a trap of some kind, and tried to shoot off the bathroom lock. Fortunately it was bolted as well as locked, because I think the shots managed to wreck the lock.”

I looked at her in a sort of outraged awe. “And just what do you think you’ve accomplished by almost getting killed?”

Sedalia wagged her head reproachfully. “You have no imagination at all, Hank. Not one of our suspects lives less than a twenty-minute taxi ride from here, providing a taxi can be found at all this time of night. We now proceed to phone each of our five suspects, which should require no more than five or six minutes, and Presto, the one not home is it!”