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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Mystery, February 1925, with
"Death By Appointment"
EDDA MANBY had an idea for a feature story: Girl Reporter on a Murder Case. So she put on her best bib and tucker, and went to see the Sunday editor of the Sphere. He approved the idea—and the bib and tucker, and sent her down to the city room to get a suitable murder for a background.
The city editor's name was Blanchard; quite a wit in his own estimation. He grinned and said: "Sorry we have no murders today." But while Edda was there, the telephone rang, and after hanging up he said, "Here's one now. Woman found dead in a hairdresser's shop."
"Sounds promising," said Edda.
Blanchard shouted down the room: "Barnhill!" and filled in a card that would pass Edda through the police lines. "Don't let the boys know you're new to the job, or they'll give you a runaround."
"Thanks for the tip," said Edda dryly.
He glanced at her. Not such a downy chick as she appeared!
A long-legged young man with a humorous nose came striding to the desk. Blanchard said: "Barnhill, this is Miss Manby. I'm trying her out on an assignment. Let her go with you. The address is, Paul's Hairdressing Parlor in the Peerless-Grober Building. Customer getting a permanent just found dead in the chair."
"Well," said Barnhill, glancing sideways at Edda to make sure she was getting it, "she'll be all fixed up for her funeral!"
Edda thought: Thinks a little too well of himself. She looked blank, and Barnhill was dashed.
He said no more until they were on their way in a taxi. "This your first assignment, kid?"
Edda fished a little mirror out of her handbag and looked in it. "Must be my school-girl complexion," she murmured.
"What rag do you work for then?"
"Schenectady Register."
"Never heard of it."
"We are crushed!"
"You have a kind of New York look to me," he said.
"Oh, yes?"
"Yes! Sort of Pierre's, Central Park Casino, Conradi-Windermere look."
"A girl can buy that."
"I doubt it... I got to see more of you, Edda. Will you lunch?"
"I generally do."
"I'll hold you to that. Mind, if any other newspaper guy tries to date you up, I saw you first. I'm the best-looking fellow in the bunch anyhow."
"Average must be low."
The Peerless-Grober Building was at the center of things. There was a subway station in the basement and an all-night drug-store on the Forty-Second Street side. Many out-of-town newspapers had their New York offices upstairs; consequently streams of people passed through the lobbies at all hours of the day and night.
Paul's establishment was on the second floor at the head of the stairs. A uniformed officer was located at the door; knots of the curious stood about in the corridor, whispering. Entering a gray and old-rose reception room with French furniture and mirrors Edda found the elegant apartment profaned by a number of large, coarse detectives and newspapermen. There was a feeling of ugly excitement in the air.
The proprietor was addressing the press with tears in his voice. He had a continental accent.
"Men, I beg you not to mention my name in your stories! It will ruin me! If it is published that there has been a death in my atelier nobody will come! I pay an enormous rental here and you wouldn't want to see all my refined young ladies thrown out of employment!"
One of the reporters answered gruffly: "It can't be left out, Paul. The public's entitled to know the particulars."
"If anything to my credit had happened here you wouldn't mention my name," wailed Paul. "You'd be afraid of giving me a free advertisement. But you will tell about this and ruin me!"
The reporter interrupted him bluntly. "What do you know about this woman?"
"Nothing, I tell you. I never saw her before."
"Who sent her to you?"
"I don't know. She landed from the Europa this morning. Yesterday afternoon I got this wireless. Read it! Read it!"
The message was handed around. Edda moved up. Barnhill drew her arm through his with a proprietary air. She quietly removed it.
"Keep your mind on your job," she whispered. She read over somebody's shoulder.
PAUL,
PEERLESS-GROBER BUILDING
WANT APPOINTMENT FOR PERMANENT NINE A.M. TUESDAY
DETMOLD.
"My establishment does not open until ten," the hairdresser continued, "So I asked my assistant, Miss Polly, to keep this appointment. I told her she could order her breakfast sent up from the restaurant below."
"Did she do that?"
"She did. The lady was prompt to her appointment. She came direct from the pier bringing her hand baggage. Miss Polly put her in the chair in alcove two, wrapped her hair and affixed the curlers. The lady said she wanted a tight permanent, which takes twenty minutes, so Miss Polly gave her a magazine to read, and went back to the assistants' room to eat her breakfast."
"Leaving the customer alone?"
"Yes. But there was a push button on the arm of the chair so she could summon the assistant if she wanted anything."
"During this time was the outer door of the suite locked?"
"I don't know. Presumably not. Miss Polly would unlock it so the customer could enter, and naturally she would leave it that way."
"Go on."
Paul squeezed his manicured hands together. "At the end of twenty minutes Miss Polly returned to the alcove and found... and found... Oh God!... the woman sitting in the chair with her hair in the curlers just as she had left her... dead!"
"What did the girl do?"
"Ran out in the corridor screaming for help."
"Where were you at this time?"
"On my way here. I arrived ten or fifteen minutes later. The police were in charge then."
"Where is Miss Polly now?"
"In the assistants' room in the rear. A detective in questioning her."
Edda turned to look the scene over. Barnhill was still at her elbow. "You stick to me," he murmured. "I'm a dab at murder cases, you know!"
"Oh, yes?"
Across the front of the suite ran the three little rooms which Paul had referred to as "alcoves." The door of the middle one stood open, and inside, Edda caught a glimpse of something that caused her flesh to creep as if clammy fingers had been drawn over it. She clenched her teeth, and followed Barnhill in.
In the elaborate porcelain and nickel chair sat Paul's last customer bolt upright with a bunch of curlers clipped in her hair, all the cords running straight up. Like Medusa with her snakes standing on end. The curling apparatus was holding her head up as straight as in life. Her sightless eyes looked straight ahead; the make-up stood out crudely on her livid skin. A woman of about thirty-two, a natural blonde, who obviously had been beautiful in life.
Beside the chair a detective was kneeling on the floor going through the dead woman's hand luggage. It was the red-headed Sergeant Crehan, whom Edda knew.
"'Lo, Edda!"
She spoke up briskly: "'Lo, Pink." The only way to get by, was to make believe the thing was not there.
Barnhill looked at her reproachfully. "From Schenectady!" he murmured.
"Ugly work for you," said Crehan with a jerk of his head toward the chair.
"You have to take it as it comes," said Edda.
"No wound on her," said Crehan. "Not a mark anywhere."
"Could she have got an electric shock?"
"Impossible. The voltage carried by these wires couldn't hurt her."
"Natural causes then?"
"So it would seem. However, there'll be a stomach analysis, or an examination of some kind."
"She would scarcely take poison while having her hair done," murmured Edda.
"Carried a German passport," Crehan went on, rummaging through the bag. "Name of Ida Detmold. Visaed by the U. S. consulate in Berlin. Couple of hundred dollars in her pocketbook. Railway ticket to Washington, D. C...."
"Let's see it," said Edda. The ticket was handed up. "Stamped yesterday," she said casually.
Crehan snatched it back. "That's so! And she wasn't supposed to have landed until this morning. You have stumbled on something, girl."
Edda smiled dryly. "Stumbled? What would it have been if you had found it, Pink?"
He made believe not to hear, "No papers on her. Except a slip, with two names written down. The first was Robert Bassett, Assistant Secretary of State, Washington D. C.... Looks like she might have been an international spy."
Edda thought: Dicks are always hypnotized by names written down! Why couldn't the woman remember two names that were important to her? More likely the slip was planted in her bag.
"The second name was Carl Buller...."
"I know that name!" cried Barnhill. "The papers were full of him a while ago. Supposed to be at the head of the Nazi propaganda in America. Then he disappeared... By God! I have it! A spy! Sure she was! A Nazi spy! Came to this country to sell their secrets to our government!'
Edda stole a glance at the strangely still figure in the chair, and shivered slightly. How queer to be discussing her in her presence!
"The Nazis followed her here, see?" Barnhill went on, "and rubbed her out before she could betray them!"
"How, rubbed her out?" asked Crehan sarcastically.
"I leave that to the medical examiner."
"If they followed her across the ocean, why wouldn't they throw her overboard?" asked Edda mildly. "Easier and safer."
"Maybe she knew her danger and stayed inside the whole way."
"How would she know about Paul's place?"
"Some American passenger on the ship recommended him to her."
"Well, if you ask me, I think she just had a stroke," said Crehan.
"A stroke! Rats!" said Barnhill. "Young and healthy people like that don't die from strokes!... I'll go down to the Europa to interview officers and stewards. I'll telephone Bassett in Washington. I'll cable our Consulate in Berlin. I'll have this case solved for you before twelve o'clock, Sergeant!"
"That's real kind!"
"Come on, Edda!"
"Think I'll stick around a while," she drawled. "You get the facts and I'll soak up human interest."
"Don't forget lunch. I'll keep in touch with you by phone." He ran out.
Crehan shut up the second bag. "Nothing in this but clothes."
The medical examiner entered the alcove with his assistant and his bag of tools. He called back into the reception room:
"Hey, Paul! Come and unfasten these gadgets!"
The hairdresser ran in and set to work with tremulous fingers on the curlers. The strong light from the front window was cruel to the pretty manikin. Forty if he's a day, thought Edda. He was breathing light and fast like a fever patient.... Deprived of its supports one by one, the head began to loll to one side.
"Hold her!" cried Paul in fright, "or she'll fall on me!"
When he had removed the curlers, Paul of old habit, began brushing the released hair around his fingers. Edda seeing the soft, natural curls, thought: The heat was not turned on for twenty minutes or anything like it. Her eyes told her other things. The woman was wearing a perpendicular corsage of three orchids of which the middle one was badly crushed. Why only the middle one?
While the medical examiner was doing his job, Edda looked into the two other alcoves. That on the right was precisely the same in every particular, that on the left was a larger room and more luxuriously furnished. This, clearly, was where the master practiced his art upon select clients. In addition to the hairdresser's chair, it contained a chintz-covered chaise-longue, a dainty dressing table with every requisite for the toilet, a locked cabinet that Edda suspected was for liquid refreshments. It had a cord plugged into a wall outlet. Refrigerating compartment?
Edda sniffed at the cut-glass perfume bottle on the dressing-table. The extract was Adieu Sagesse. She knew it well. Seductive odor.
She sat down on the chaise-longue while her eyes travelled around from object to object. A little powder had been spilled on the floor in front of the dressing table. It had been brushed up but not expertly. She noted the key on the inside of the door. Feeling a little roughness under her hand on the chaise-longue, she looked and discovered some microscopic bread crumbs there. Also a crumb or two on the floor in front. Strange! Because the suite had undoubtedly been cleaned before business hours. It suggested that this little room had been locked up when the cleaners were making their rounds. Who had lunched there?—or breakfasted?
Edda was drawn out of the alcove by the sounds of a slight commotion at the entrance door of the suite. A woman's voice was demanding admission. "Paul! Paul!" she cried.
Edda looked at Paul. A queer change came over his face. It remained waxy smooth, but a little lump stood out on either side of his jaw. He hastened to the door. "It's all right," he said to the officer stationed outside.
She entered. Edda had an impression of beauty, but quickly corrected it. Only the woman's clothes were beautiful. She was dressed for thirty years old and was double that. As soon as she spoke, all the aids to beauty failed her. The effect was ghastly. She had preserved some remains of a figure, that was all. Nobody was deceived but herself.
She clung to Paul's arm. "Oh, darling, what has happened?" she cried tragically. Her unnaturally bright eyes darted from face to face around the room. Edda thought: Feeds on excitement like a drug!
Paul's face wore the stormy look of a man who is holding himself in, and Edda saw for the first, that there was force in the pretty fellow. The reporters scenting something good, hastened up to the pair—including Edda. One asked with the bluntness of his trade:
"Who are you, Madame?"
She was visibly savoring the situation. "I'm Mrs. Paxton. The widow of J. Eddiloe Paxton, President of the Erie Central. I'm Paul's best friend. In fact we're engaged to be married, aren't we, Paul?"
He patted her hand. "Of course!" he said stonily.
Edda studied him through her lashes, but was unable to penetrate the mask. She thought: Why need he have been so cut up about the ruin of his business if he's going to marry the rich Mrs. Paxton?
"Tell me what has happened?" cried Mrs. Paxton.
The blunt reporter informed her in a sentence. She appeared to be fainting, but was able to check the weakness. Paul led her to a chair. She favored the press with further particulars about herself:
"I live at—Fifth Avenue. I built the apartment house on the site of my former mansion. I never go into society—such a bore!—but I entertain extensively in Bohemian circles. Joe Figueroa, Pete Fenner, Ronald Mannering and Ethel La Claire are my intimate friends. Among my friends, that is the people who do things, it is nothing that Paul is a hairdresser. We honor him as one of the greatest artists in his line!"
They bombarded her with questions. She had taken off her gloves and held up her wrinkled hands covered with expensive rings. "Please, please; one at a time!"
Edda thought: She loves it!
"How did you know there was trouble here, Mrs. Paxton?"
"One of the girls telephoned me. She was so overcome, I could not understand her."
Edda made a mental note: Ask the girls about this.
"How long have you known Paul, Mrs. Paxton?"
"Oh, a very long time. Ever since he came to this country four years ago."
"That was before your husband died, wasn't it?"
Mrs. Paxton affected not to hear.
"Would you mind telling us the circumstances of your first meeting?"
"Certainly not!" she said, bridling like a girl. "Nothing is sacred to you boys!"
There was a general laugh.
One asked: "Can you throw any light on this matter, Mrs. Paxton?"
"No indeed! How should I?"
"Would you mind taking a look at the body, just to make sure you've
never seen the woman before?
"No!" said Paul sharply.
"Why not?" she said. "I'm no bread and butter Miss."
She crossed the room without any sign of weakness, the reporters huddling around her. Edda took up a place where she could watch her face. She looked in through the door of the alcove. The medical examiner had tipped the hairdresser's chair back, and the body was now lying in a recumbent position, partly unclothed. Crehan was beside the doctor taking notes.
"Still in the chair!" said Mrs. Paxton shrilly.
"I can handle her best this way," said the doctor."
"What killed her?"
"I can't tell you, Madame."
"A strange case!"
"Very!'"
For some moments Mrs. Paxton gazed at the body. As if slightly drunk on morbid excitement. "No, I never saw her before," she said, turning away. "Ugh! how ugly she is!"
At that moment a detective came through the door leading to the rear of Paul's suite, bringing Miss Polly and another of the assistants. Both girls wore their graceful tan and green linen working uniforms. The detective signed to them to sit on a sofa, while he went in to consult Crehan. Polly was in the wide-eyed stage of hysteria. The other girl had an arm around her.
It was the first chance the reporters had had at the star witness, and they gathered around Polly, leaving Mrs. Paxton. Edda went with the bunch, but continued to watch the old woman covertly. Paul was speaking to her swiftly. His face was still mask-like, but his words had a powerful effect. Mrs. Paxton went flat; gazed at him imploringly. They got up and passed through the door to the rear.
Edda had a hunch that Paul was getting the woman out. She quietly left by the main door. "Got to telephone my story in," she said with a smile to the officer on guard.
Sure enough, Mrs. Paxton presently appeared through a door further along the corridor. This would be the employees' entrance to Paul's suite. Edda waited for her to come up, and followed her into the elevator. She looked her age.
"Isn't it terrible?" said Edda ingratiatingly.
Mrs. Paxton bridled in her usual manner, but the pressure was low. "Oh, you were one of the reporters in there." She primmed her lips. "I'm not talking!"
"I quite understand how you feel," said Edda. "It's awful the questions those men ask. I'm not a reporter. I'm a feature writer."
"It's all the same to me," said Mrs. Paxton. When the elevator door opened, she started for the Seven Avenue entrance.
Edda stuck to her elbow. "I feel sorry for Monsieur Paul," she said sympathetically. "He's such a wonderful man! To think that this thing should happen to him!"
This was a direct appeal to Mrs. Paxton's complex, and the old woman's eyes burned with the light of infatuation. "Wonderful?" she breathed. "Nobody knows!" She held herself in with an effort. "Nothing to say," she snapped.
"I'd like to write an article about him," Edda persisted. "Not about this ugly affair. This has nothing to do with him. But about his art, and his great success. I'm sure you have had a lot to do with it."
Mrs. Paxton was sorely tempted. She drew in breath enough to say plenty, but feebly let it out again, and shook her head. "He does not wish me to talk."
"Of course I should submit my article to you and to him before publishing it."
"No!"
By this time they had reached the pavement. Mrs. Paxton looked for a taxi but there was none at hand.
"Such an article would counteract the unfavorable publicity that this will bring him," said Edda seductively.
"He doesn't have to work," said Mrs. Paxton.
"Oh, is he giving it up?" said Edda. "What a loss that would be to his clients."
"I didn't say he was," said Mrs. Paxton sharply.
"Well, I'm glad of that...." Then very casually: "Wasn't it strange about that wireless message?"
"Nothing strange about it," said Mrs. Paxton. "Americans travelling in Europe have spread Paul's reputation all over the continent." Immediately afterwards she added: "Paul showed me that message last night."
Edda thought: Saved herself by a hair!
A taxi came across Forty-second Street and Mrs. Paxton hailed it. Edda made one last attempt.
"I would like to get Paul in an article! Such a fascinating character! Couldn't we go some place and talk about him?"
But Mrs. Paxton opened the door of the taxi without answering.
"Where to, ma'am?" asked the driver.
"Go on. I'll tell you later."
When the door slammed, a whiff of Adieu Sagesse puffed out in Edda's face.
She looked for another taxi. As luck would have it, northbound traffic was stopped at that moment, and she had the mortification of seeing Mrs. Paxton's cab turn the corner and disappear. The woman's address had not registered on her mind, and she ran into the drug-store to get it from the telephone book. When she came out the lights had changed. Hailing a taxi, she gave the driver the Fifth Avenue number.
Mrs. Paxton's door was opened by a maid who looked as if she had stepped out of an English parlor comedy. Mrs. Paxton was not at home, she said.
"Are you expecting her soon?" asked Edda.
"I can't say, Miss. She left no word."
"But she's in town, isn't she?"
"I can't say, Miss."
"But you must know whether she slept at home last night or not."
"I don't know you, Miss. And my instructions are not to give out any information to strangers."
"Naturally," said Edda. "I am Miss Manby. Mrs. Paxton and I are well acquainted."
"I don't doubt it, Miss, but you see..."
"I see that you know your job," said Edda with her best smile. "Might I come in and write a little note to Mrs. Paxton?"
The maid looked her over. The best bib and tucker did Edda good service then. Deciding that she was neither crook nor canvasser, the maid stood aside. "Certainly, Miss."
From the spacious foyer Edda looked through a vista of gracious rooms. Whatever Mrs. Paxton's personal taste might be, she could afford the best. The maid brought paper and envelope and Edda sat down at a table in the foyer with her own fountain pen. While she scribbled a meaningless note she interrupted herself to ask careless, friendly questions. "You're English, aren't you,... How do you like our country?... This ought to be a pleasant place..." And so on. The maid relaxed and began to chatter. In the end she fell into Edda's little trap.
"I hope she'll get this before lunch time."
"When she went away last night she said she'd she back for lunch today
The maid caught herself up, and looked at Edda anxiously. Edda was writing away.
A key turned in the entrance door and Edda stiffened. Mrs. Paxton appeared on the threshold. She was carrying a black satchel. Her overnight bag! "You!" she exclaimed seeing Edda.
Edda arose smiling. "Hello, Mrs. Paxton." She tore up the note.
The maid meekly offered to take the bag. Mrs. Paxton held it from her. Edda thought: Too precious!
"What do you mean by letting this person in?" Mrs. Paxton demanded of the servant. "How many times have I told you...." She scolded the girl roundly.
All Edda's desires centered on the black bag.... Picked it up somewhere on the way home! If I could only see what was in it!...
Edda said smiling: "It's not her fault, Mrs. Paxton. I beguiled her."
The older woman turned on her then. "I never heard of such persistence! I have already answered you."
Edda saw that there was fear mixed with her anger. She said: "In my profession we are not allowed to take no for an answer."
"Well, it's all you'll get from me! Please leave!"
"But Mrs. Paxton...." Edda remonstrated good-humoredly.
"Go!" she cried with a stamp of the foot. "Or I'll have you put out. I have men servants here, too!"
"A newspaper woman is not accustomed to this," said Edda quietly, with a certain meaning.
Mrs. Paxton got it. She considered the consequences, and paled. She swallowed her anger. "I'm sorry, she muttered. "Just a momentary irritation. But I won't give any interview."
"That's all right," said Edda soothingly. "I was just hoping that I might be allowed to see your beautiful apartment. You are bound to be written up you know, and the public loves such details."
Mrs. Paxton hesitated, biting her lip. She adored publicity; she couldn't see any particular danger in showing Edda through. "Very well," she said. "Excuse me a moment, and I'll be with you."
Turning into a side corridor, she opened a door. Edda had a glimpse of a luxurious bedroom. She was of a mind to follow Mrs. Paxton to make sure of the contents of the bag. But that lady without closing the door, put it on a chair and came back again.
"Now," she said, turning on a badly-worn smile. She was ugliest when she smiled.
Edda was led through the beautiful rooms: library, living-room, dining-room, boudoir. She made suitable noises of appreciation, but her mind was ever with the black bag. How can I get into it? How can I get into it? She thought of a dozen wild schemes and discarded them all.
Mrs. Paxton showed no disposition to take her into the room where it lay. "What's in here?" asked Edda as they passed the door.
"Oh, just my bedroom."
"I must see that!" said Edda opening the door and entering.
There lay the bag on its chair. Edda decided that the boldest method was the best. She picked it up. "I'm going to take this," she said. "It's useless for you to protest."
Like a flash Mrs. Paxton was out of the room. Edda tried the catch of the bag. Perhaps a glimpse of the contents would be sufficient. It was locked. Before she could get to the door, Mrs. Paxton ran back through the little hall, presenting a gun. She looked like a crazy witch then.
"Drop it, you thief!" she cried hoarsely. "And get out! I'll give you that chance before I call the police!" With her free hand she was changing the key from the inside of the door to the outside.
"Nice of you," drawled Edda.
She had to do some quick thinking. There were two other doors; bathroom, clothes closet. No way out except through the door that Mrs. Paxton held. The woman would certainly shoot before letting her get away with the bag. But if the bag was disposed of, it would do her no good to shoot. Edda turned and threw it out of the window. Somebody would get it.
There was a silence. Then the smack of the bag on the pavement below. A choked cry broke from Mrs. Paxton. She slammed the door and turned the key. Edda heard her running away. She ran to the window. The bag had burst open on the sidewalk. A man was in the act of picking it up.
"Hold it until I get there!" Edda screamed to him. "There's a reward." He looked up and nodded.
A ledge ran along outside the window, and it was a small matter for Edda to climb out and in again through the window of the adjoining bedroom. But she lost precious time. Mrs. Paxton had a good start on her out of the apartment. Edda dared not wait for the elevator to come back. She had the layout of the rooms in her mind. She rushed to the kitchen, thrust the amazed servants out of the way, and ran down the service stairs.
When she got out on the sidewalk, a small crowd had gathered. In the center of it the man who had picked up the bag and Mrs. Paxton each had hold of it. Edda smiled grimly when she saw part of a tan and green linen dress protruding from the burst side. A long needle dropped to the sidewalk. Edda picked it up unnoticed, and stuck it in her dress. The hall servants were backing up Mrs. Paxton.
"It's all right," they answered the man, "This lady lives here. It's her bag."
"I want the reward," he grumbled.
"I'll give it to you!" gasped Mrs. Paxton. "Come upstairs!" Anything you want!"
But her frantic terror gave her away. Everybody was conscious of it. She trembled so that she could scarcely articulate. Her dyed hair was flying. The man hung on to the bag.
"You ain't the one who hollered to me out of the window!"
A policeman pushed up. Everybody started explaining at once. Edda bided her time.
"Hollered out of the window and told me to hold it until she came," said the man. He pointed to Edda. "That's her! She offered a reward."
"Right," said Edda. "I only have five dollars in my pocketbook, but I'll double it if you come to my hotel. It's the Marston, and the name is Edda Manby."
"But it's my bag! It's my bag!" screamed Mrs. Paxton.
"Officer," said Edda, "I suggest that you take me and this lady and the bag to the station-house and let the lieutenant decide. And keep your eye on the bag!"
About half an hour later, after two speedy rides in a taxi, Edda and Mrs. Paxton got back to Paul's suite. Mrs. Paxton was now escorted by two officers from the West —th Street police station. Edda had the bag. She had been gone little more than an hour, and the situation was scarcely changed. Some reporters had left; others had come. Paul and his two assistants were sitting on a sofa in the reception room with strained faces.
When Paul saw Mrs. Paxton coming in under guard, he quietly keeled over in a faint. One of the girls held him up, the other ran for water. Before Crehan and the medical examiner were attracted by this slight commotion, Edda entered the alcove where they were still working.
"I have found the cause of death," said the doctor. "Some tiny object, possibly a needle, was thrust between eyeball and socket into the woman's brain. There is a spot of blood bigger than a pinhead on her eyeball.
"Something in Barnhill's theory" said Crehan. "Two followed her in here. The first one threw an arm around her holding her in the chair. That's how the orchid got crushed. He clapped his other hand over her mouth—you can see where it's bruised. The second man come up in front of her and did the trick with the needle. So far it's clear. But it seems funny she would let them come up so close without raising a rumpus."
"Not at all funny," said Edda. "One of them was her husband, and the second, a woman, was dressed like one of the assistants here."
"Her husband?" said Crehan staring.
"Paul," said Edda. "He and Mrs. Paxton wanted to marry. She was mad about him. So they brought over Paul's lawful wife from Germany and put her out.... If Mrs. Paxton had married Paul," she added reflectively, "I reckon she wouldn't have lived long either."
"My God!" murmured Crehan and the doctor together.
"Here's the needle," said Edda. "The linen dress and other evidence are in the satchel. Paul and Mrs. Paxton spent the night, or part of it in the adjoining alcove. They were right on hand when the assistant went back to the rear of the suite. After the murder was done, they had only to go out through the door, run downstairs and mix with the crowd in the lobby. Paul walked around for a quarter of an hour and came back. Mrs. Paxton drove to Grand Central—you can hire dressing-rooms there, you know; changed into her own clothes, and checked the bag."
"How do you know that?" demanded Crehan.
"The end of the check is still hanging to the bag.... She made a fatal error in coming back here. Paul had told her to keep away, but the woman had such a craving for morbid excitement she couldn't resist it. Do you remember when she saw the body, how she screeched out: 'Still in the chair!' That gave me my lead."
"My God!" murmured the doctor again.
"How did you find out about Paul being her husband and all?" asked Crehan.
"That's in the bag, too. The woman had a little writing case in one of her valises. They took it when they went through her luggage. There were a lot of letters in it. They didn't have a chance to destroy them. One of them was from Paul. It's in German. I took German in High School, and I can translate it roughly. Listen:
"'My Darling Wife:
"'At last I am able to send for you to join me. I can scarcely wait for the day when we shall be together again! Business has been fine lately. I want you to sail on the Europa first-class, and give yourself every comfort. I am enclosing a draft for — marks.
"'The only obstacle in the way of our complete happiness is the silly old woman who set me up in this business. She imagines that she is in love with me as I have told you, and she watches me like a cat. Of course I have never told her I am married, or she wouldn't have done what she has for me. So we'll have to keep our marriage a secret. I'm sure you won't mind that if we are happy. We'll have many a good laugh together at the silly old fool. And as soon as I pay off what she has advanced me, I'll tell her to go to Hell.
"'Under the circumstances I can't meet the ship. I suggest that you send a wireless to my business address the day before you land, asking for an appointment to have your hair done at nine A.M. One of my girls will receive you, and afterwards I will slip in. What fun, eh?...'
"There's a lot more," said Edda grimly. "But that's all that matters. He tells her to destroy the letter when she has digested the contents, but she had nothing on her conscience, and she neglected to do so."
Crehan gravely shook Edda's hand. "I was on the way, kid, but you beat me to it."
"Sure, Pink. What does it matter? You take the case; all I want is the feature story."
When Edda left the building she met young Barnhill striding up to the door. His tail was down.
"Couldn't get anything on the Europa," he grumbled. "They said Detwold was just an ordinary quiet passenger. Bassett in Washington, said he never heard of the woman. Undoubtedly lying. No answer from Berlin."
He eyed her hungrily. He was a good-looking fellow, and Edda's heart softened. My fatal good nature! she thought. Slipping her arm through Barnhill's, she told him the story as they walked along. He could scarcely take it in for staring.
"Telephone it in," said Edda, "and then come and buy me that lunch you promised me."
"But... but," he stammered. "You got the story. Don't you want credit for it?"
"Oh no," said Edda airily. "I've decided not to be a reporter."
Barnhill was a little dazed.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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