Death from a Top Hat (20 page)

Gavigan’s hand came from his pocket gripping an automatic.

“Open those other doors,” he commanded.

Merlini pulled with both hands and swung them open simultaneously. Gavigan’s gun pointed squarely at the black opening, and from behind him Malloy flashed a torch. The interior was empty. Merlini stepped behind the cabinet and opened the rear door he had mentioned.

“Nobody home,” he said. Coming around to the front again, he knelt and stuck his head inside, peering about interestedly. “Well, there goes solution number four. If the murderer had never left this room the mystery of the absent footprints would dissolve. It would have been the simplest solution of the lot.” Grimm suddenly turned and went into the study. He came back almost at once announcing, “And that Spanish Maiden contraption is just as empty.”

There were steps on the stair and O’Connor came back. “The roof’s clean as a whistle,” he reported, “except for snow. And there’s not a footprint in a carload.”

“And the roof next door?” Gavigan asked.

“It’s the same.”

Merlini had been swallowed by the automaton until only his long legs projected awkwardly from one of the open doors. The Turk’s hand lifted, with a jerky mechanical motion, and completed the move with the Bishop which he had been studying so long. Merlini’s muffled voice issued from the Turk’s chest.

“Checkmate, Inspector! Three from four leaves one. You can get odds on your secret exit now, Ross.” The Turk caressed his beard in deep thought.

Gavigan said, “Merlini, if you could pull those long legs of yours inside, I’d lock you in for the duration of this case. Crawl out of there and—”

He stopped, listening. In the hall a woman’s voice was saying, “I want to see Mr. Duvallo at once.” The voice was young and determined.

A patrolman appeared in the doorway, and Gavigan said, “Show her in.”

The girl stopped abruptly just inside the door. “Dave…” she started, and then saw that he wasn’t there. “Where’s Mr. Duvallo and who—” Her blue eyes, frank and direct until they took in the body, grew suddenly wide, startled. She stepped back, one hand reaching for the door jamb.

Her tall, slim figure stood there, arrested in a pose that was at once graceful and rigid. Her face was cool, capable, and her complexion had a smooth, wind-blown look. She wore a short fur jacket over a smartly tailored blue dress and an oddly twisted snippet of cloth perched insecurely on her head pretending to be a hat. Her mouth was soft and crimson.

“Your name, please?” Gavigan asked.

As she turned her head, the light in her hair flashed warningly, a hot, bright red. The waves of her coiffeur swirled down from under the hat and broke in a foam of small curls at the back of her neck.

“You’re the police?” she said.

The voice from the Turk spoke again, louder this time. “Miss Barclay, this is Inspector Gavigan of the Homicide Squad. Also Captain Malloy and Mr. Harte.”

Merlini slid out of the automaton. “David is upstairs and will be down any moment.”

The girl turned again toward the body and stared. Her shoulders shivered a little, then drew themselves straight.

“You know the man?” Gavigan asked gently.

“Yes!” Her voice was low and taut. “I didn’t at first, but I do now. It’s Eugene! But why is he here? What…what has happened?”

“He’s been murdered,” the Inspector said, stepping across the room so that he stood between her and the body.

From somewhere over our heads we heard a solid thump, a cry, and then feet came pounding down the stairs.

“Judy!”

Duvallo burst in at the door and took her in his arms.

“Dave,” she said breathlessly, “I was afraid…I saw the police cars outside and I had to know—who did it?”

Duvallo glowered at the Inspector. “I’m fed up with being pushed around. When I heard Judy I tripped up my jailer and came on. What’s going on in here anyway? Why—?”

Gavigan moved to one side, and Duvallo saw the body. His arm tightened around the girl, and he turned her so that she couldn’t see. But he kept on looking over her shoulder. Grimm appeared in the doorway behind him, rubbing his jaw, revenge written all over his face.

Duvallo said, “Listen, kid, you wait outside for a minute. Then I’ll take you home.”

She moved away from him and took a seat on the divan. “Don’t be silly. I’m of age. I want to know what happened.”

He scowled at Gavigan. “I’d like to know myself.”

The Inspector said, “Forget it, Grimm. And go watch Jones and that Chinaman before
they
take a run-out powder.” And to Duvallo, “Now you’re here you can stay, but you’ve put yourself right where I want you. One crack out of you at the wrong time and I’ll run you in for assault and battery. That clear? Sit down.”

“But what…?”

“I said ‘sit down!’ ” Gavigan’s Irish temper was moving over a wet pavement, skidding.

Duvallo started for a place next to Miss Barclay.

Gavigan objected, “No, over here.”

Duvallo looked at the Inspector obstinately for a moment, then obeyed. Taking out a pack of cigarettes, he tossed one across to Judy and took one himself.

The Inspector stood over Judy. “How did you happen to stop in here just now?”

She held up her cigarette and smiled at him. He took a paper of matches from his pocket and lit one for her.

“It sounds criminal, Inspector, the way you put it. I was on my way home when I noticed the police cars out in Grove Street. Naturally I was curious.”

“You live near here?”

“On Bedford Street, just around the corner off Grove.”

“And you were coming from—?”

“A movie at the Music Hall. Mystery thriller, full of policemen that barked. I didn’t like it.”

Gavigan elected to ignore that one. “You went by yourself?”

“Yes, I work at NBC in Radio City. Mother was having her evening of bridge tonight, so I stayed uptown for dinner and then went to the show.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Time, please.”

“Oh, am I a suspect, Inspector?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Gavigan saw Duvallo edge forward in his seat as if about to speak. “Well? You were going to say something?” It didn’t take a mind reader to gather that what the Inspector really meant was, “You aren’t going to say anything.”

Duvallo settled back. “I’m as quiet as a mouse, Inspector. Go ahead, browbeat the lady.” But that wasn’t what he meant either.

Judy broke in, “I finished work at five-thirty, dined at the Hotel Bristol from six to seven, and entered the Music Hall at a quarter to eight. I believe I still have my ticket stub.” She looked in her purse and finding it, handed it to Gavigan.

“What do you do at NBC?”

“I write continuities for sustaining programs.”

“Where were you at 2 to 3 A.M. this morning?”

Judy had placed her cigarette to her lips, but she took it away without drawing on it. “Do you always ask people that, Inspector, or do those times mean something?”

Duvallo straightened again, then relaxed as she went on, “I was home and in bed. I have to be at work at 9 A.M., you know.”

There was a commotion at the door, and Dr. Hesse walked in. He started to take off his coat when he saw the pictures on the walls. He stood there, one arm in and one out, looking around the room with a mildly thunderstruck expression on his face. There was a covetous gleam in his eye as he surveyed the posters and playbills.

“Where are we anyway?” he asked. Then he saw Duvallo. “Oh, I see.” He finished removing his coat and threw a distasteful glance at the corpse. “Hmm! Some more of the same. Is this going to go on all night, Inspector? Maybe I’d better just stick around. No sense in all this commuting.”

“Stop griping, Doc. And get on with it. I’m busy.” Gavigan faced Duvallo. “Do you own a twenty-foot ladder?”

Duvallo’s eyebrows went up. “Yes. There’s one in the garden. Lying by the wall. Why? Someone been using it?”

“Something like that. This is an interesting place you have here, Duvallo. Would you mind showing us the trap doors and secret passageways?”

“Oh, oh! Another locked-room gag.” He turned and eyed the door, noticing for the first time that it had been removed from its hinges. Getting up, he went over and looked at the lock. “Sorry about the secret passageways, but those only come with castles. Walls aren’t thick enough here. I’m thinking of buying a moat, though. They’re useful things.”

“It would be a lot less messy if you didn’t take that line, Duvallo,” Gavigan appealed. “I’d like to hear if you can give us as neat an answer this time. It’s on your home grounds.”

Duvallo looked at Merlini. “You at a loss again? Or is he just asking to hear
my
answer?”

“You’re too suspicious, Dave,” Merlini said, from where he sat near Judy. “He wants information. He’s just had several answers shot out from under him, and he’s looking for a replacement.”

“Okay. If he’ll stop snapping at Judy, I’ll take a stab at it. Try anything once. What’s the setup?”

Rapidly Merlini explained, and Duvallo listened eagerly, his bright, black eyes shifting impatiently, searching the room. Presently, as Merlini told about the window and the ladder, they went into the study. Judy followed, listening.

Just then Grimm’s voice came from upstairs. “For Crissake! Will you stumblebums get the hell outta there! I mean it. Scram now!”

Coming up from the garden outside, a new voice replied, “All right, Juliet. Don’t get sore about it. When’s the Inspector going to feed the animals?”

The two windows near the Turk that were black empty squares flared briefly with bright, soundless flashes of light.

“Malloy,” the Inspector exclaimed quickly, “get some men out there and keep those reporters from messing up that yard. Hurry!”

Malloy was gone before he had finished.

Dr. Hesse snapped his black bag shut and announced, “Same report as last time, Inspector. Death from same cause with same markings. Weapon still missing?”

“No. Grimm found that around his neck.” Gavigan pointed at the cord on the mantelpiece.

Dr. Hesse examined it and nodded. “Yes, that’s about what I’d expect.”

The others came back from the study just then, and Gavigan faced Duvallo. “Well, was it another string trick? Or is it mirrors this time?”

Dr. Hesse stood in the doorway, putting on his overcoat. “Pardon me, Inspector, but haven’t you forgotten something?”

“What?”

“It’s not like you. You didn’t ask me when he died.”

“Thanks, but we know that. Ten thirty-five.”

“Oh? Well, that’s a help. Good night. There’ll be a report on your desk in the morning.”

He went out, and Gavigan reminded Duvallo, “Well?”

There was a deep scowl on Duvallo’s face and a worried, restless look in his eyes. “Offhand, Inspector, I don’t know. And this time that’s on the level. I doubt if you realize how much I hate to have to admit that.”

“Miss Barclay?” Gavigan asked.

“Me? Heavens, no! If Dave is up a tree, who am I to have a guess?”

“And neither of you have any suggestions as to who might have had a motive for killing Tarot?”

They both shook their heads.

“And you, Miss Barclay. Did you know Cesare Sabbat?”

“
Did
I know…?” she turned to Duvallo. “Has he been—murdered, too?”

“Yes.”

I saw her breast rise as she caught her breath quickly. Duvallo put his arm around her again, but her slender body was stiff, unyielding, except for the hand that held her purse and trembled.

“No,” she said, keeping the tremor from her voice, “I didn’t know Dr. Sabbat. I’ve heard Dave speak of him, but that is all.”

Gavigan hesitated, eyed Merlini once, and then said, “All right, you two can go for now. Duvallo, you’d better camp out tonight. This is going to be a busy place, and you wouldn’t get much sleep.”

“I don’t think I will anyway. This vanishing stunt has me worried. Come on, Judy.”

The sounds in the hall indicated the arrival of more detectives. When Duvallo and Miss Barclay had gone, Gavigan had several of them in. His brusque commands crackled efficiently as he threw the switches that set in motion the routine machinery of detection. It was obvious that the Homicide Squad was going to meet the dawn sleepless. Watrous, Rappourt, the LaClaires were to be collected at headquarters and gone over by expert inquisitors. Their backgrounds, along with those of Duvallo, Judy, Jones, Sabbat, and Tarot were to be checked and double checked, as were their lives, loves, friends, fingerprints, and habits. Telegrams to the Federal Identification Bureau were mentioned, and cablegrams to Europe for information on Rappourt, Sabbat, and Watrous. The dressing-gown cord, the stone, the
Grimorium
and its torn page were to be taken to the laboratory for more thorough examination. Two men with insufflators began dusting the room for prints, and Bennett was told to finish his pictures, getting the usual shots of the room and some of the garden and the roof.

Malloy answered the phone once, and came back with a report from the detectives who had been going through Tarot’s apartment. They had found his evening clothes—opera cape, hat, coat, trousers, vest, shirt, and tie—strewn about on the floor, as if he had changed in great haste. His monocle was there, and a towel with cold cream and make-up on it.

The Inspector told Malloy to send Jones over to the Charles Street Station, have him sign a statement, and then release him. And to bring in Ching Wong Fu. As Malloy left, Gavigan saw me fish in my pocket and bring out my alibi list.

“What are you going to do with that?” he asked.

“Add Miss Barclay’s name,” I said.

“And how are you checking her off?”

“One up and one to go. The movie isn’t any great shakes as an alibi, of course.”

Gavigan scowled. “I’m almost inclined to give her a clean slate, just because she’s not a magician.”

“Not so fast, Inspector,” Merlini put in. “She’s not a magician. There aren’t many among her sex, but there are a lot of female magicians’ assistants. You see, she used to work for Tarot. The lady he sawed in two.”

Gavigan threw up his hands. “I might have known it!”

“He also used her in a transposition effect. He put her in a trunk that a committee from the audience locked, roped, and sealed. Then, when he clapped his hands she appeared at the back of the theater and ran down the aisle with a revolver, firing blanks and shouting, ‘Here I am!’ They were playing Detroit one day when Judy got a little mixed and came dashing down the aisle of a theater next door where an audience of Guild subscribers were viewing O’Neill’s
Mourning Becomes Electra!
The
Detroit Free Press
next day captioned its story, ‘Mourning Becomes Electrified.’ ”