Curtain for a Jester (17 page)

“And went to Hoboken?”

“Yes sir. I'm afraid I did, sir. I suppose I should have gone to the police at once, sir, but—but—”

“You didn't want to. Do you usually avoid the police, Mr. Frank?”

“Oh no, sir. But it is natural not to wish to be—involved, sir.”

Bill thought it over. Granting Frank's account probably was not true. Could he prove it untrue? Suppose Martha Evitts had gone to the apartment first. She had left it precipitately, had been seen by Pam North, and her appearance had startled Pam. But Pam had not gone directly to the penthouse. She had stopped first at her own apartment. Then she had gone to the top floor and made her discovery.

While Pam was in her apartment, Frank might have come to the building and ridden up to the penthouse. He might have found the body, made his abortive attempt to notify the police, taken his slow course downstairs, walked in search of a telephone. He might have been out of the penthouse by the time Pam—and the elevator operator, Joe—reached it. And Pam, moving quickly—and she did move quickly—might have got her call through to Weigand while Frank still plodded down the fire stairs. In that event, Frank might have heard sirens as he started to close the door of a telephone booth.

In other words, his version could not be proved untrue—at the moment.

“Right,” Bill said. “We'll leave that for the moment. When did you leave the apartment—after the party, I mean?”

Frank had emptied ash trays, taken glasses and canapé trays to the kitchen; put what he could of the glasses in the electric dish washer and turned it on. He had left the glasses in the washer, at Mr. Wilmot's suggestion. He thought it was a little before two o'clock when he left.

“Mr. Wilmot was having a nightcap,” he said.

“Was he intoxicated?”

“Oh no, sir. That is—well, he'd been drinking, of course. But I certainly wouldn't say intoxicated, sir.”

“Right,” Bill said. “Then you went home? Didn't encounter anyone.”

Frank hesitated. Then he said, “No one, sir.”

(The hesitation seemed marked to Pam North. Surely Bill would pick it up.)

“Right,” Bill said. “Now, there are one or two points about the party, Frank. Things you might help clear up.”

“Any way I can help, sir,” Frank said. He was earnest.

“There's a thing that puzzles us,” Bill said. “Perhaps you can help on that. You'd been with Wilmot for several years. Before he and Mrs. Wilmot were divorced?”

“For a few months, sir.”

“The separation wasn't friendly?”

Again the hesitation.

“Well—no, sir. I'm afraid it wasn't. Mrs. Wilmot found Mr. Wilmot—trying. He was a great man for jokes, sir. Some of them Mrs. Wilmot didn't appreciate.”

“Right,” Bill said. “Yet—Mrs. Wilmot came to the party last night. Everything very amicable, I gather?”

“Oh yes, sir. Of course, it would be, with so many others present.”

“Yes,” Bill said. “What prevailed on her to come, do you suppose, Frank?”

“I suppose—” Frank began, innocence in his voice. But Bill Weigand looked at him. “Because she knew Mr. Parsons was going to be there,” Frank said. “At least, I suspect that was the reason. Mr. Wilmot's nephew, you know.”

“I know,” Bill said.

“Mrs. Wilmot is very fond of Mr. Parsons, captain,” Frank said. “For all he's not related to her—not really related, I mean. I've always thought, sir, her not having any children, you know, and Mr. Parsons being a gentleman who—well, needed the maternal influence, sir. That she felt about him as she might have about a son, if I make things clear.” He paused. “The maternal instinct is very strong, sir,” he said.

Bill skipped that.

“She knew Mr. Parsons was going to be at the party?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Wilmot told her on the telephone. I happened to overhear. I was occupied in the living room and Mr. Wilmot made no effort—”

“Right,” Bill said. “You happened to overhear. Do you happen to remember words?”

“Not exactly, sir. But, generally, he was sure she would want to come because her ‘dear Clyde' would be there. I do remember the ‘dear Clyde,' sir.”

“And you think that persuaded her?”

“Well, sir, she did come. Quite early, indeed.”

“Right,” Bill said. “Now about this mannequin. What do you know about that? The dummy Mr. Monteath shot?”

“Well,” Frank said, “I helped rig it up. On wires, you know. So it would look natural on the terrace. Mr. Wilmot and I fastened wires to—”

“Never mind,” Bill said. “I gather it looked natural?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Mr. Wilmot brought it from the store, sir. He had it prepared there, I presume. It was in sections of course, sir. When he brought it, I mean.”

“Right,” Bill said. “You looked at it?”

“Yes, sir. When we were rigging it—”

“Right,” Bill said. “You must have, of course. Did it remind you of anyone?”

Sylvester Frank gave facial evidence of surprise. “Remind me, sir?” he said. Bill nodded.

“Why no, sir,” Frank said. “That is—it was just a dummy, sir. A mannequin, as you say. I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean, captain.”

“Did it look like anybody, man?”

Frank contributed a moment of consideration. He shook his head.

“Red hair?” Bill said. “Thin face? Scar through the left eyebrow?”

“No sir,” Frank said. “I don't think—” He broke off. “Mr. Barron has a slight scar,” he said. “Mr. Albert Barron. It does—er—bisect one of his eyebrows. I believe the left, sir. But otherwise—Mr. Barron is quite gray, sir. And his face never struck me as thin, sir.”

“Barron,” Bill said. “Who is Mr. Barron?”

“He's the sales manager of the company,” Frank said. “A very old friend of the late Mr. Wilmot, I believe. He was at the—er—gathering last night.”

Bill looked at the Norths. Jerry shook his head. Pam said, “I don't know, Bill. I don't remember him particularly. But I don't remember a lot of them.” She paused. “Names come and go,” she said. “I don't remember anyone with a scar.”

“It was not very evident,” Frank said. “I assure you Mr. Barron was there.”

“Has Mr. Barron irregular teeth?” Bill asked.

“Teeth, sir? I never noticed particularly, I'm afraid.”

“B-a-r-o-n?” Mullins asked.

“Two ‘R's' I believe, sir,” Frank said. He was afraid he didn't know Mr. Barron's address.

“The point is,” Bill said, “that this dummy didn't resemble Mr. Barron in other particulars? Aside from this scar?”

“No sir. The mannequin was a—that is, resembled a—much younger man, captain. I'm sure it was intended merely as a mannequin, sir.”

“With red hair?” Pam North said.

Frank looked at her; he said he was sorry.

“Never mind,” Pam said. “But it does come into it,” she said, to Bill. “All right, Pam,” Jerry said. “We know.” “Please,” Pam said, “don't be tolerant, darling.”

Bill took Frank over the rest of the party, getting the account he had already got several times, if from a different angle, if in language nice to the point of the obsequious. He took Frank again to his departure from the penthouse a little before two that morning, with Mr. Wilmot remaining, alive, well and, it appeared, mildly thirsty. He took Frank down in the self-operated elevator to the street. He had, thereafter, seen no one whose presence in the neighborhood might be interesting?

The question was asked negligently.

But Frank, with words apparently already formed in his mind, about to reach his lips, hesitated.

“Well?” Bill said. “You did see someone?”

Frank hesitated further. But finally, with apparent reluctance, he nodded. He said that he was certain that it was nothing that would help Captain Weigand. “However it looks, sir. I'm certain that—”

“Right,” Bill said. “I'll decide, Frank. Who did you see?”

“Mr. Parsons, sir. He was—”

Parsons had been coming down the street toward the entrance to the apartment building as Frank went out of it. Parsons had been, Frank thought, a little drunk. “In control of himself, sir. But—intoxicated, I'm afraid. He was earlier, sir.” Parsons had turned into the apartment house. Frank had stopped to watch him; then Frank had gone on.

“When you saw him,” Bill said, “he was wearing an overcoat? A topcoat?”

The question was simple enough. It appeared that the answer was not. There was a long pause before Frank spoke, and then he spoke with reluctance. “Yes,” he said. “I'm—afraid so, captain. A gray topcoat.”

“Afraid?” Bill said. “Why afraid, Frank?”

“Captain,” Frank said, “I've been hoping I wouldn't have to say this. It's—it's been worrying me a great deal, sir. I—I hoped if I had time to think about it, I might—might see my way more clearly. But—” He stopped. He shook his head.

“All right,” Bill said. “Let's have it, Frank.”

“Mr. Parsons is such a fine young gentleman, sir,” Frank said. “Things have been so—difficult for him. I hoped that I—wouldn't have to make them any more difficult. I'm sure there's an explanation, sir.”

“Of what?” Bill said. “Get on with it.”

“Mr. Parsons's coat—his topcoat, sir—being in Mr. Wilmot's apartment,” Frank said. “This morning after—after Mr. Wilmot was dead. Because I'm quite certain he was wearing the coat when I saw him before that and—and—”

“No,” Bill said. “There wasn't any coat belonging to Mr. Parsons in the apartment. Not after the body was found. Try again, Frank.”

Frank was sorry; it appeared he was hurt. He realized that he had given the captain cause not to trust him entirely but still—He would much have preferred not to mention it, as the captain must see. But—

“The coat was there,” Frank said. “I'm afraid I took it when I left. It—it was lying on a sofa, sir. It had Mr. Parsons's name on a little label inside a pocket. So—I took it, sir. I was sure Mr. Parsons hadn't—done anything wrong—but, I could see how it might look, captain.”

“You took the coat?”

Frank nodded.

“I—disposed of it,” he said. “In a trash can on my way home, captain. I realize it was a—an unfortunate thing to do.”

“Yes,” Bill said. “It was—unfortunate, Frank.” He looked at the indeterminate little man. “What kind of a damn fool are you?” he asked. “What's Parsons to you?”

“He was always very considerate, sir,” Frank said. “I felt—”

“That you should be considerate in return,” Bill Weigand said. “By destroying evidence. Making yourself an accessory. You realize that?”

“I'm very sorry, captain,” Frank said. “I'm afraid I acted on an impulse.”

“I suppose,” Bill said, “the coat was covered with blood? Mr. Wilmot's blood?”

“Oh no, sir,” Frank said. But as he spoke his eyes flickered away from Bill. It was momentary; then Frank looked again at Bill Weigand. “I do realize I was very wrong,” he said. “I presume that now—that I—that I'm in trouble, captain?”

“Yes,” Bill said, “you're in trouble, Mr. Frank.” He paused. “One way or another,” he said, “you're in quite a bit of trouble.” He looked at Frank, who looked appropriately woebegone. “Sergeant,” Bill said, “you'd better take Mr. Frank—” But he stopped. “No,” he said. “Get Foster down here, will you, sergeant? We'll have him take Mr. Frank downtown.”

Mullins went.

“I've told you everything that happened, captain,” Frank said. “I don't know anything about what happened to Mr. Wilmot. I really don't, sir. You're going to—arrest me, sir?”

“I have, Mr. Frank,” Bill said. “That is, I'm holding you as a material witness.”

“In jail, sir?”

“Right,” Bill said. “In jail. After the district attorney's office has talked to you, and I've talked to you again, and a few more people, maybe you'll remember more. If you do, we'll see what happens next. But for the time being—” Weigand interrupted himself as Mullins came back. Mullins came alone.

“Nope,” Mullins said. “No Foster, Loot.”

“No relief?”

“Nobody,” Mullins said. “Looks like a slip-up somewhere. Want I should get on to the precinct and—”

He stopped because Bill Weigand was shaking his head.

“No,” Bill said. “I'll take care of it. You can take Mr. Frank downtown, book him as a material witness and then—I think you might take a little ride over to Long Island, sergeant. Don't you?”

“Yeah,” Mullins said. “O.K., Loot. I see what you mean. Come on, you.”

“You” was Sylvester Frank. He went. He still looked woebegone. But then, as he preceded Mullins through the door, as he may have thought Mullins's greater bulk shielded his face from the others, his expression of dejection was briefly replaced by another expression. His face was, for an instant, just visible to Pamela North. Pam could have sworn he smiled—almost smiled.

“Bill!” Pam said, as the door closed. “Bill. I think he planned the whole thing. Getting caught and everything. Even—Bill,
he was pleased at getting arrested!
”

The telephone rang. Jerry went to it.

“Because he must have known there'd be somebody,” Pam said. “And all this business about
not
wanting to tell about Mr. Parsons's coat, and of denying there was blood on it so you wouldn't believe him and—”

“For you, Bill,” Jerry said. “Stein.”

“—pleased as Punch,” Pam said. “And—”

“Yes, Pam,” Bill said. “Yes, Stein? In a minute, Pam.”

“Getting reports through on the fingerprints,” Stein said. “From the Wilmot apartment. One of them is pretty interesting, captain. Remember Behren? Alexander Behren?”