Greek Coffin Mystery (15 page)

“Everything checks,” replied Velie. “Piggott found the clerk who took the telephoned order. Clerk says that Khalkis himself—he was dam’ sure it was Khalkis; had spoken to him many times on the ’phone, he said—called up last Saturday morning, ordering half a dozen red moiré ties; the time checks, and so does the style ordered. Barrett’s delivery-man’s receipt shows Weekes’ signature as receiver of the parcel. All in order.”

“Well, that ought to satisfy
you,”
said the Inspector maliciously to Ellery, “although what good it does you is beyond me.”

“How about that empty house, Sergeant?” asked Pepper. “Get the warrant all right?”

“Whole thing fell flat,” grumbled the Inspector.

“We got the warrant okay but Ritter, one of our men, reports searching the dump and says there’s nothing to be found there,” boomed Velie. “Place is stripped—no furniture except an old broken-down trunk in the basement. Ritter says he couldn’t find a thing.”

“Ritter, eh?” murmured Ellery, blinking through smoke.

“Well now,” said the Inspector, picking up another sheet of paper, “there’s Grimshaw himself.”

“Yes, the Chief asked me especially to find out what you’ve dug up on him,” said Pepper.

“Dug up plenty,” replied the old man grimly. “Released from Sing Sing on the Tuesday prior to his murder—that is, September twenty-eighth. No time off for good behavior—of course you know he was in for forgery on a five-year stretch. He wasn’t jailed until three years after his crime—couldn’t be found. Previous record shows a two-year stretch in the pen about fifteen years ago on an unsuccessful attempt to steal a painting of some kind from the Chicago Museum, where he had a job as attendant.”

“That’s what I was referring to,” remarked Pepper, “when I said forgery was only one of his accomplishments.”

Ellery had pricked up his ears. “Museum theft? Doesn’t that strike you as rather a too felicitous coincidence? Here we have a great art-dealer, and a museum thief. …”

“Something in that,” muttered the Inspector. “Anyway, as far as his movements since September twenty-eighth are concerned, he was traced from Sing Sing to a hotel on West Forty-ninth Street in the city here—Hotel Benedict, third-rate sort of dump—where he registered under his own name of Grimshaw.”

“He doesn’t seem to have used an alias,” commented Pepper. “Brazen crook.”

“Have you questioned the hotel people?” asked Ellery.

Velie said: “Nothing to be got out of the day-clerk at the desk, or the manager. But I’ve put in a call for the night-clerk—he ought to be here soon. Maybe he’ll know something.”

“Anything else on his movements, Inspector?” asked Pepper.

“Yes, sirree. He was seen with a woman in a speakeasy on West Forty-fifth Street—one of his old hangouts—a week ago Wednesday night, the day after his release. Got Schick here, Thomas?”

“Outside.” Velie rose and went out.

“Who’s Schick?” demanded Ellery.

“Proprietor of the speakeasy. Old-timer.”

Velie returned with a large, robust, red-faced man in tow—a man with “ex-bartender” written all over his hail-fellow-well-met face. He was very nervous. “M-mornin’, Inspector. Nice day, ain’t it?”

“So-so,” grunted the old man. “Sit down, Barney. Want to ask you a few questions.”

Schick mopped his dripping face. “Nothin’ personal about this here confab, Inspector, is there?”

“Hey? You mean the booze? Hell, no.” The Inspector rapped on his desk. “Now, you listen to me, Barney. We know that a ‘pen’ named Albert Grimshaw who’d just been let out of stir visited your dive a week ago Wednesday night. Right?”

“Guess so, Inspector.” Schick stirred uneasily. “The guy that was bumped, hey?”

“You heard me the first time. Now, he was seen with a woman that night. What about it?”

“Well, Inspector, I’ll tell you.” Schick became hoarsely confidential. “This is the straight boloney. I don’t know the broad—never saw her before.”

“What’s she look like?”

“Hefty dame. Big blonde. Runnin’ to beef. I’d say about thirty-five on a guess. Crow’s-feet under her lamps.”

“Go on. What happened?”

“Well, they came in around nine bells—pretty early; there ain’t much doin’ round that hour—” Schick coughed—“an’ they sets down an’ Grimshaw, he orders a shot. The dame, she don’t want nothin’. Pretty soon they start jawin’ at each other—reg’lar battle, I’d say. Couldn’t make out what they was sayin’, though I did catch the dame’s front handle—Lily, he calls her. Seems like he was tryin’ to get her to do somethin’, an’ she’s balky. Anyways, she ups and beats it all of a sudden and leaves the little squirt flat. He was all worked up—talkin’ to himself. He sets there another five, ten minutes; then he faded. ’S’all I know, Inspector.”

“Lily, big blonde, hey?” The Inspector grasped his small chin and thought deeply. “Okay, Barney. Did Grimshaw come in again, after Wednesday night?”

“Naw. Take me oath, Inspector,” said Schick at once.

“All right. Beat it.”

Schick rose with alacrity and fairly trotted from the office.

“Want me to tackle the big-blonde lead?” rumbled Velie.

“Hop to it, Thomas. She’s probably some moll he was tied up with before he was sent up. If they were quarreling it’s a cinch she wasn’t somebody he picked up after only one day out of stir. Look up his record.”

Velie left the room. When he returned, he was herding before him a white-faced young man with shrinking eyes bleared by fright. “This is Bell, the Benedict night-clerk, Chief. Go on, go on, mug; nobody’s gonna bite you.” He shoved Bell into a chair, and towered over him.

The Inspector motioned Velie away. “All right, Bell,” he said kindly. “You’re among friends. We just want a little information. How long have you been on night-duty at the Hotel Benedict?”

“Four and a half years, sir.” The man sat twisting his felt hat between his fingers.

“Were you on duty from September twenty-eighth on?”

“Yes, sir. Haven’t missed a night in—”

“Did you know a guest by the name of Albert Grimshaw?”

“Yes, sir, I did. The man the papers say was f-found murdered in that church graveyard on Fifty-fourth Street.”

“Fine, Bell. Glad to see you’re on your toes. Did you check him in?”

“No, sir. The day-clerk did that.”

“Then how do you know him?”

“It’s a funny story, sir.” Bell had lost some of his nervousness. “There was one night in that week during his stay when something—well, fishy-looking happened, and that made me remember him.”

“What night was that?” asked the Inspector eagerly. “And what was it?”

“Two nights after he checked in. Thursday night a week ago …”

“Ha!”

“Well, sir, this man Grimshaw had
five
people come in that night to see him! All within a half-hour or so.”

The Inspector was admirable. He leaned back and took a pinch of snuff as if Bell’s statement was of no importance. “Go on, Bell.”

“Around ten o’clock that Thursday night I saw this Grimshaw walk into the lobby from the street with a man. They were together—talking fast, in a hurry, it seemed like. I couldn’t hear what they said.”

“What did Grimshaw’s companion look like?” asked Pepper.

“Can’t say, sir. He was all bundled up—”

“Ha!” said the Inspector for the second time.

“—all bundled up. Seemed as if he didn’t want to be recognized, I’d say. Might recognize him if I saw him again, but I won’t swear to it. Anyway, they went to the elevator and that’s the last I saw of ’em.”

“Just a minute, Bell.” The Inspector turned to the sergeant. “Thomas, round up the night elevator-man.”

“Pulled him in already, Chief,” said Velie. “Hesse ought to be here with him any minute.”

“Fine. Go ahead, Bell.”

“Well, as I say, this was around ten o’clock. Practically right away—in fact, while Grimshaw and his pal were still standing there by the elevator, waiting—a man walked up to the desk and asked for Grimshaw. Wanted to know his room-number. I said: ‘There he goes right now, sir,’ just as they were getting into the elevator; I said: ‘His room-number is 314,’ I said, because that was his room-number, you see. This man looked a little funny—seemed nervous; anyway, he went and waited for the elevator to come down. We’ve only got one,” added Bell ungrammatically. “The Benedict’s a small place.”

“And?”

“Well, sir, for a minute or so I’d sort of noticed a woman hanging round the lobby, looking nervous, too. She comes up to the desk now and says: ‘Have you a vacant room next to Room 314?’ Must have heard the man before her asking, I’d guess. Sort of funny, I thought, and I began to smell a rat somewhere. ’Specially since she had no luggage. As luck would have it, Room 316 next door to Grimshaw’s was vacant. I get the key and yelled, ‘Front!’ but no—she doesn’t want a bell-hop, she says, she wants to go up all by herself. I give her the key and she takes the elevator up. By this time the man’d already gone up.”

“What did she look like?”

“Uh—I guess I could recognize her if I saw her. Little dumpy kind of woman, middle-aged.”

“What name did she register under?”

“Mrs. J. Stone. I’d say she was trying to disguise her handwriting. Wrote crooked, as if she was doing it on purpose.”

“Was she a blonde?”

“No, sir. Black hair getting grey. Anyway, she paid in advance for one night—room without bath—so I said to myself: ‘I should worry. Business is rotten enough these days without—’”

“Here, here, stick to your story. You said there were five all told. How about the other two?”

“Well, sir, within about fifteen or twenty minutes two more men came up to the desk and asked whether there was an Albert Grimshaw registered. And if so what his room-number was.”

“Were they together?”

“No, sir. They came about five or ten minutes apart.”

“Do you think you could identify these two men if you saw them?”

“Sure thing. You know,” and Bell became confidential, “what struck me funny was how all of ’em acted so nervous, as if they didn’t want to be seen. Even the guy that came in with Grimshaw originally acted queer.”

“Did you see any of these people leave the hotel?”

Bell’s pimply face fell. “I guess I ought to be kicked, sir. I should have been on watch. But I got a sort of rush after that—bunch of show girls checked out—and they must have beat it while I was busy.”

“How about the woman? When did she check out?”

“That’s another funny thing. The day-man told me, when I came on duty the next night, that the chambermaid had reported the bed in 316 hadn’t been slept in. Matter of fact, the key was sticking in the door. She must’ve walked out not long after she checked in—must’ve changed her mind. It was all right, because she’d paid in advance.”

“How about times other than Thursday night—Wednesday night? Friday night? Did Grimshaw have any visitors?”

“That I couldn’t say, sir,” replied the night-clerk apologetically. “All I know is, nobody asked for him at the desk. He checked out Friday night around nine o’clock, leaving no forwarding address. He didn’t have any baggage either—that’s another thing that made me remember him.”

“Might take a look at that room,” muttered the Inspector. “Did anybody occupy 314 after Grimshaw left?”

“Yes, sir. It’s been occupied by three different guests since he checked out.”

“Cleaned every day?”

“Oh, yes.”

Pepper shook his head disconsolately. “If anything was there, Inspector, it’s gone by now. You’ll never find it.”

“Not after a week, we won’t.”

“Er—Bell,” came Ellery’s drawl, “did Grimshaw’s room have a private bath?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Inspector leaned back. “Something tells me,” he said genially, “that we’re in for some lively doings. Thomas, round up all the people connected with the case so far and have ’em at Eleven East Fifty-fourth within an hour.”

As Velie left, Pepper muttered: “Good Lord, Inspector, if we find that some of those five Grimshaw visitors are people already connected with the case, we’re in some sweet mess. Especially after everybody who looked at the body said they’d never seen Grimshaw before.”

“Complicated, hey?” The Inspector grinned without humor. “Well, that’s life.”

“Good God, dad!” groaned Ellery. Bell was looking from face to face in bewilderment.

Velie tramped back. “All set. And Hesse’s outside with a ‘shine’—the night elevator-man at the Benedict.”

“Get him in here.”

The night elevator-man at the Benedict proved to be a young Negro violet with fear. “What’s your name, son?”

“White, suh. W-White.”

“Oh, heavens,” said the Inspector. “Well, White, do you remember a man named Grimshaw at the Benedict last week?”

“The—the choked gen’man, suh?”

“Yes.”

“Y-yassuh, I do,” chattered White. “’Member him plain.”

“Do you remember a week ago Thursday night—when he came into your elevator in the company of another man about ten o’clock?”

“Yassuh. Sure do.”

“What did the other man look like?”

“Ain’t got no idea, Cap’n. Nosuh. Don’t ’member whut he looked like.”

“Do you remember anything? Taking up other people who got off at Grimshaw’s floor?”

“Took up a passel o’ folks, Cap’n. Millions, seems like. Always takin’ up folks, suh. On’y thing I rec’lects is takin’ up Mistuh Grimshaw an’ his friend, an’ they gets off at the thu’d floor an’ I sees ’em go into 314, closin’ the door behind ’em. 314’s right near th’ elevatuh, suh.”

“What did they talk about in the elevator?”

The Negro groaned. “I got jus’ an empty haid, suh. Can’t ’member nothin’.”

“What was the second man’s voice like?”

“I—I don’ know, suh.”

“All right, White. You’re excused.”

White simply vanished. The Inspector rose, put on his coat, and said to Bell: “You wait here for me. I’ll be back soon—want you to identify some people for me, if you can.” He left the room.

Pepper was staring at the wall. “You know, Mr. Queen,” he said to Ellery, “I’m in this thing up to my neck. The Chief has shoved it all on my shoulders. My angle’s the will, but it looks as if we’ll never—Where in hell
is
that will?”

“Pepper, my lad,” said Ellery, “the will, I fear, has passed into the limbo of inconsequential things. I refuse to repudiate my own clever—if I do say so myself—my own clever deduction that the will was slipped into the coffin and buried with Khalkis.”