Macaulay interrupted him: “Suppose you let me tell what I have to tell first, Lieutenant. It belongs ahead of Mrs. Jorgensen’s story and—”
Guild waved a big hand at the lawyer “Go ahead.” He sat down on an end of the sofa. Macaulay told him what he had told me that morning. When he mentioned having told it to me that morning Guild glanced bitterly at me, once, and thereafter ignored me completely. Guild did not interrupt Macaulay, who told his story clearly and concisely. Twice Mimi started to say something, but each time broke off to listen. When Macaulay had finished, he handed Guild the note about the bonds and check. “That came by messenger this afternoon.”
Guild read the note very carefully and addressed Mimi: “Now then, Mrs. Jorgensen.”
She told him what she had told us about Wynant’s visit, elaborating the details as he patiently questioned her, but sticking to her story that he had refused to say a word about anything connected with Julia Wolf or her murder, that in giving her the bonds and check he had simply said that he wished to provide for her and the children, and that though he had said he was going away she did not know where or when. She seemed not at all disturbed by everybody’s obvious disbelief. She wound up smiling, saying: “He’s a sweet man in a lot of ways, but quite mad.”
“You mean he’s really insane, do you,” Guild asked, “not just nutty?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Oh, you’d have to live with him to really know how mad he is,” she replied airily.
Guild seemed dissatisfied. “What kind of clothes was he wearing?”
“A brown suit and brown overcoat and hat and I think brown shoes and a white shirt and a grayish necktie with either red or reddish brown figures in it.”
Guild jerked his head at Andy. “Tell ’em.” Andy went out.
Guild scratched his jaw and frowned thoughtfully. The rest of us watched. When he stopped scratching, he looked at Mimi and Macaulay, but not at me, and asked: “Any of you know anybody that’s got the initials of D. W. Q.?”
Macaulay shook his head from side to side slowly.
Mimi said: “No. Why?”
Guild looked at me now. “Well?”
“I don’t know them.”
“Why?” Mimi repeated.
Guild said: “Try to remember back. He’d most likely’ve had dealings with Wynant.”
“How far back?” Macaulay asked.
“That’s hard to say right now. Maybe a few months, maybe a few years. He’d be a pretty large man, big bones, big belly, and maybe lame.”
Macaulay shook his head again. “I don’t remember anybody like that.”
“Neither do I,” Mimi said, “but I’m bursting with curiosity. I wish you’d tell us what it’s all about.”
“Sure, I’ll tell you.” Guild took a cigar from his vest pocket, looked at it, and returned it to the pocket. “A dead man like that’s buried under the floor of Wynant’s shop.”
I said: “Ah.” Mimi put both hands to her mouth and said nothing. Her eyes were round and glassy.
Macaulay, frowning, asked: “Are you sure?”
Guild sighed. “Now you know that ain’t something anybody would guess at,” he said wearily.
Macaulay’s face flushed and he smiled sheepishly. “That was a silly question. How did you happen to find him—it?”
“Well, Mr. Charles here kept hinting that we ought to pay more attention to that shop, so, figuring that Mr. Charles here is a man that’s liable to know a lot more things than he tells anybody right out, I sent some men around this morning to see what they could find. We’d give it the once-over before and hadn’t turned up nothing, but this time I told ’em to take the dump apart, because Mr. Charles here had said we ought to pay more attention to it. And Mr. Charles here was right.” He looked at me with cool unfriendliness. “By and by they found a corner of the cement floor looking a little newer maybe than the rest and they cracked it and there was the mortal remains of Mr. D. W. Q. What do you think of that?”
Macaulay said: “I think it was a damned good guess of Charles’s.” He turned to me. “How did you—”
Guild interrupted him. “I don’t think you ought to say that. When you call it just a guess, you ain’t giving Mr. Charles here the proper credit for being as smart as he is.”
Macaulay was puzzled by Guild’s tone. He looked questioningly at me. “I’m being stood in the corner for not telling Lieutenant Guild about our conversation this morning,” I explained.
“There’s that,” Guild agreed calmly, “among other things.” Mimi laughed, and smiled apologetically at Guild when he stared at her.
“How was Mr. D. W. Q. killed?” I asked.
Guild hesitated, as if making up his mind whether to reply, then moved his big shoulders slightly and said: “I don’t know yet, or how long ago. I haven’t seen the remains yet, what there is of them, and the Medical Examiner wasn’t through the last I heard.”
“What there is of them?” Macaulay repeated.
“Uh-huh. He’d been sawed up in pieces and buried in lime or something so there wasn’t much flesh left on him, according to the report I got, but his clothes had been stuck in with him rolled up in a bundle, and enough was left of the inside ones to tell us something. There was part of a cane, too, with a rubber tip. That’s why we thought he might be lame, and we—” He broke off as Andy came in. “Well?”
Andy shook his head gloomily. “Nobody sees him come, nobody sees him go. What was that joke about a guy being so thin he had to stand in the same place twice to throw a shadow?”
I laughed—not at the joke—and said: “Wynant’s not that thin, but he’s thin enough, say as thin as the paper in that check and in those letters people have been getting.”
“What’s that?” Guild demanded, his face reddening, his eyes angry and suspicious.
“He’s dead. He’s been dead a long time except on paper. I’ll give you even money they’re his bones in the grave with the fat lame man’s clothes.”
Macaulay leaned towards me. “Are you sure of that, Charles?”
Guild snarled at me: “What are you trying to pull?”
“There’s the bet if you want it. Who’d go to all that trouble with a corpse and then leave the easiest thing of all to get rid of—the clothes—untouched unless they—”
“But they weren’t untouched. They—”
“Of course not. That wouldn’t look right. They’d have to be partly destroyed, only enough left to tell you what they were supposed to tell. I bet the initials were plenty conspicuous.”
“I don’t know,” Guild said with less heart. “They were on a belt buckle.” I laughed.
Mimi said angrily: “That’s ridiculous, Nick. How could that be Clyde? You know he was here this afternoon. You know he—”
“Sh-h-h. It’s very silly of you to play along with him,” I told her. “Wynant’s dead, your children are probably his heirs, that’s more money than you’ve got over there in the drawer. What do you want to take part of the loot for when you can get it all?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said. She was very pale.
Macaulay said: “Charles thinks Wynant wasn’t here this afternoon and that you were given those securities and the check by somebody else, or perhaps stole them yourself. Is that it?” he asked me.
“Practically.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” she insisted.
“Be sensible, Mimi,” I said. “Suppose Wynant was killed three months ago and his corpse disguised as somebody else. He’s supposed to have gone away leaving powers of attorney with Macaulay. All right, then, the estate’s completely in Macaulay’s hands forever and ever, or at least until he finishes plundering it, because you can’t even—”
Macaulay stood up saying: “I know what you’re getting at, Charles, but I’m—”
“Take it easy,” Guild told him. “Let him have his say out.”
“He killed Wynant and he killed Juli
a and he killed Nunheim,” I assured Mimi. “What do you want to do? Be next on the list? You ought to know damned well that once you’ve come to his aid by saying you’ve seen Wynant alive—because that’s his weak spot, being the only person up to now who claims to have seen Wynant since October—he’s not going to take any chances on having you change your mind—not when it’s only a matter of knocking you off with the same gun and putting the blame on Wynant. And what are you doing it for? For those few crummy bonds in the drawer, a fraction of what you get your hands on through your children if we prove Wynant’s dead.”
Mimi turned to Macaulay and said: “You son of a bitch.” Guild gaped at her, more surprised by that than by anything else that had been said.
Macaulay started to move. I did not wait to see what he meant to do, but slammed his chin with my left fist. The punch was all right, it landed solidly and dropped him, but I felt a burning sensation on my left side and knew I had torn the bullet-wound open. “What do you want me to do?” I growled at Guild. “Put him in cellophane for you?”
31
It was nearly three in the morning when I let myself into our apartment at the Normandie. Nora, Dorothy, and Larry Crowley were in the living-room, Nora and Larry playing backgammon, Dorothy reading a newspaper.
“Did Macaulay really kill them?” Nora asked immediately.
“Yes. Did the morning papers have anything about Wynant?”
Dorothy said: “No, just about Macaulay being arrested. Why?”
“Macaulay killed him too.”
Nora said, “Really?” Larry said, “I’ll be damned.” Dorothy began to cry. Nora looked at Dorothy in surprise.
Dorothy sobbed: “I want to go home to Mamma.”
Larry said not very eagerly: “I’ll be glad to take you home if…”
Dorothy said she wanted to go. Nora fussed over her, but did not try to talk her out of going. Larry, trying not to look too unwilling, found his hat and coat. He and Dorothy left. Nora shut the door behind them and leaned against it. “Explain that to me, Mr. Charalambides,” she said. I shook my head.
She sat on the sofa beside me. “Now out with it. If you skip a single word, I’ll—”
“I’d have to have a drink before I could do any talking.”
She cursed me and brought me a drink. “Has he confessed?”
“Why should he? You can’t plead guilty of murder in the first degree. There were too many murders—and at least two of them were too obviously done in cold blood—for the District Attorney to let him plead guilty of second-degree murder. There’s nothing for him to do but fight it out.”
“But he did commit them?”
“Sure.”
She pushed my glass down from my mouth. “Stop stalling and tell me about it.”
“Well, it figures out that he and Julia had been gypping Wynant for some time. He’d dropped a lot of money in the market and he’d found out about her past—as Morelli hinted—and the pair of them teamed up on the old man. We’re sicking accountants on Macaulay’s books and Wynant’s and shouldn’t have much trouble tracing some of the loot from one to the other.”
“Then you don’t know positively that he was robbing Wynant?”
“Sure we know. It doesn’t click any other way. The chances are Wynant was going away on a trip the 3rd of October, because he did draw five thousand dollars out of the bank in cash, but he didn’t close up his shop and give up his apartment. That was done by Macaulay a few days later. Wynant was killed at Macaulay’s in Scarsdale on the night of the 3rd. We know that because on the morning of the 4th, when Macaulay’s cook, who slept at home, came to work, Macaulay met her at the door with some kind of trumped-up complaint and two weeks’ wages and fired her on the spot, not letting her in the house to find any corpses or bloodstains.”
“How did you find that out? Don’t skip details.”
“Ordinary routine. Naturally after we grabbed him we went to his office and house to see what we could find out—you know, where-were-you-on-the-night-of-June-6,-1894-stuff—and the present cook said she’d only been working for him since the 8th of October, and that led to that. We also found a table with a very faint trace of what we hope is human blood not quite scrubbed out. The scientific boys are making shavings of it now to see if they can soak out any results for us.” (It turned out to be beef blood.)
“Then you’re not sure he—”
“Stop saying that. Of course we’re sure. That’s the only way it clicks. Wynant had found out that Julia and Macaulay were gypping him and also thought, rightly or wrongly that Julia and Macaulay were cheating on him—and we know he was jealous—so he went up there to confront him with whatever proof he had, and Macaulay, with prison looking him in the face, killed the old man. Now don’t say we’re not sure. It doesn’t make any sense otherwise. Well, there he is with a corpse, one of the harder things to get rid of. Can I stop to take a swallow of whisky?”
“Just one,” Nora said. “But this is just a theory, isn’t it?”
“Call it any name you like. It’s good enough for me.”
“But I thought everybody was supposed to be considered innocent until they were proved guilty and if there was any reasonable doubt, they—”
“That’s for juries, not detectives. You find the guy you think did the murder and you slam him in the can and let everybody know you think he’s guilty and put his picture all over newspapers, and the Distria Attorney builds up the best theory he can on what information you’ve got and meanwhile you pick up additional details here and there, and people who recognize his picture in the paper—as well as people who’d think he was innocent if you hadn’t arrested him—come in and tell you things about him and presently you’ve got him sitting on the electric chair.” (Two days later a woman in Brooklyn identified Macaulay as a George Foley who for the past three months had been renting an apartment from her.)
“But that seems so loose.”
“When the murders are committed by mathematicians,” I said, “you can solve them by mathematics. Most of them aren’t and this one wasn’t. I don’t want to go against your idea of what’s right and wrong, but when I say he probably dissected the body so he could carry it into town in bags I’m only saying what seems most probable. That would be on the 6th of October or later, because it wasn’t until then that he laid off the two mechanics Wynant had working in the shop—Prentice and McNaughton—and shut it up. So he buried Wynant under the floor, buried him with a fat man’s clothes and a lame man’s stick and a belt marked D. W. Q., all arranged so they wouldn’t get too much of the lime—or whatever he used to eat off the dead man’s features and flesh—on them, and he re-cemented the floor over the grave. Between police routine and publicity we’ve got more than a fair chance of finding out where he bought or otherwise got the clothes and stick and the cement.” (We traced the cement to him later—he had bought it from a coal and wood dealer uptown—but had no luck with the other things.)
“I hope so,” she said, not too hopefully.
“So now that’s taken care of. By renewing the lease on the shop and keeping it vacant—supposedly waiting for Wynant to return—he can make sure—reasonably sure—that nobody will discover the grave, and if it is accidentally discovered, then fat Mr. D. W. Q.—by that time Wynant’s bones would be pretty bare and you can’t tell whether a man was thin or fat by his skeleton—was murdered by Wynant, which explains why Wynant has made himself scarce. That taken care of, Macaulay forges the power of attorney and, with Julia’s help, settles down to the business of gradually transferring the late Clyde’s money to themselves. Now I’m going theoretical again. Julia doesn’t like murder, and she’s frightened, and he’s not too sure she won’t weaken on him. That’s why he makes her break with Morelli—giving Wynant’s jealousy as an excuse. He’s afraid she might confide to Morelli in a weak moment and, as the time draws near for her still closer friend, Face Peppler, to get out of prison, he gets more and more worried. He’s been safe there as long
as Face stayed in, because she’s not likely to put anything dangerous in a letter that has to pass through the warden’s hands, but now … Well, he starts to plan, and then all hell breaks loose. Mimi and her children arrive and start hunting for Wynant and I come to town and am in touch with them and he thinks I’m helping them. He decides to play safe on Julia by putting her out of the way. Like it so far?”
“Yes, but …”
“It gets worse as it goes along,” I assured her. “On his way here for lunch that day he stops and phones his office, pretending he’s Wynant, and making that appointment at the Plaza, the idea being to establish Wynant’s presence in town. When he leaves here he goes to the Plaza and asks people if they’ve seen Wynant, to make that plausible, and for the same reason phones his office to ask if any further word has come in from Wynant, and phones Julia. She tells him she’s expecting Mimi and she tells him Mimi thought she was lying when she said she didn’t know where Wynant was, and Julia probably sounds pretty frightened. So he decides he’s got to beat Mimi to the interview and he does. He beats it over there and kills her. He’s a terrible shot. I saw him shoot during the war. It’s likely he missed her with the first shot, the one that hit the telephone, and didn’t succeed in killing her right away with the other four, but he probably thought she was dead, and, anyhow, he had to get out before Mimi arrived, so he dropped the piece of Wynant’s chain that he had brought along as a clincher—and his having saved that for three months makes it look as if he’d intended killing her from the beginning—and scoots over to the engineer Hermann’s office, where he takes advantage of the breaks and fixes himself up with an alibi. The two things he doesn’t expect—couldn’t very well have foreseen—are that Nunheim, hanging around trying to get at the girl, had seen him leave her apartment—may even have heard the shots—and that Mimi, with blackmail in her heart, was going to conceal the chain for use in shaking down her ex-husband. That’s why he had to go down to Philadelphia and send me that wire and the letter to himself and one to Aunt Alice later—if Mimi thinks Wynant’s throwing suspicion on her she’ll get mad enough to give the police the evidence she’s got against him. Her desire to hurt Jorgensen nearly gummed that up, though. Macaulay, by the way, knew Jorgensen was Rosewater. Right after he killed Wynant he had detectives look Mimi and her family up in Europe—their interest in the estate made them potentially dangerous—and the detectives found out who Jorgensen was. We found the reports in Macaulay’s files. He pretended he was getting the information for Wynant, of course. Then he started worrying about me, about my not thinking Wynant guilty and—”