Dutch Shoe Mystery (15 page)

Inspector Queen beckoned imperiously to Paradise. “I want you to keep your eyes open,” he snapped. “Work right along with my men: The Hospital will be under guard continuously until we discover the murderer of Mrs. Doorn. Give us your complete cooperation and I’ll see you won’t suffer for it. Understand?”

“Y-y-yes, but—” Paradise’s ears flamed dangerously. “I-I I’ve never had a murder in my Hospital yet, Inspector. … I hope you—your men will not disrupt my organization—”

“Nothing of the kind. Beat it now!” The Inspector slapped Paradise’s quaking back, not without friendliness, and shoved him toward the door. “Off with you!”

The Superintendent disappeared.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, Henry,” said the Inspector. Sampson nodded patiently. “Now, Thomas,” went on the old man to Sergeant Velie, “you’re to put the finishing-touches on things down here. I want the theater and this room and the Anæsthesia Room next door guarded. No one is to be allowed inside; no one at all.

“And while you’re at it, you might try to trace the back-trail of the murderer from the Anæsthesia Room down the corridor, and see if you can’t find some one who saw him. He probably kept up that limp business all the way down, wherever he went.

“And then I want you to take the names and addresses of every one—nurses, doctors, internes, outsiders, and all the rest. And one thing more …”

Sampson put in quickly, “The histories, Q.?”

“Yes. Listen, Thomas. Put a squad of men to work going over the private history of every person, without exception, that we’ve encountered so far. Just a check-up, that’s all. Kneisel, Janney, Sarah Fuller, doctors, nurses—everybody you have any record of. Don’t bother to give me a long report unless you run across something unusual. What I’m interested in is facts which don’t corroborate or are missing from the testimony already given.”

“Sure thing. Guards, murderer’s getaway, names and addresses, morgue stuff. I got you,” replied Velie, scribbling in his notebook. “By the way, Inspector, Big Mike is still under the influence of ether. Won’t be able to talk for hours yet. Some of the boys are watching upstairs.”

“Fine, fine! On the job, Thomas.” The Inspector ran through the Amphitheater door, barked rapid instructions to detectives and policemen, and returned at once.

“All set, Henry.” He reached for his coat.

“Dismissing them?” The District Attorney sighed and jammed his hat over his ears. Harper and Cronin moved toward the door.

“Might as well. We’ve done all we can down here for the present. Let’s … Ellery—wake up!”

His father’s voice penetrated dimly into the fog of Ellery’s thoughts. Not once had he looked up or lost his frown during the swirling activity of the preceding few minutes. Now he raised his head and saw the Inspector, Sampson, Cronin and Harper ready to leave.

“Oh. … All the garbage incinerated?” He stretched mightily. The wrinkles vanished from his forehead.

“Yes, come on, Ellery. We’re going to the Doorn place to clean up,” said the old man testily. “Don’t dawdle, son—there’s too much to be done.”

“Where’s my coat? Here, somebody—my things are in Dr. Minchen’s office.” He rose to his full height. A policeman was dispatched on the errand.

Ellery did not speak again until the heavy black ulster was on his back. He tucked his stick under one arm and twisted the brim of his hat thoughtfully between his long fingers.

“Do you know,” he murmured, as they left the Anteroom and watched a bluecoat set his back against the door, “Abigail Doorn should have emulated the Emperor Adrian. Remember what he had inscribed on his tomb?” As they passed out of the Anæsthesia Room another man took his stand at the door. “‘A multitude of physicians have destroyed me. …’”

The Inspector froze in his tracks. “Ellery! You don’t mean—”

Ellery’s stick described a short arc and struck the marble floor resoundingly. “Oh, it’s not an accusation,” he said gently. “It’s an epitaph.”

“P
HIL. …”

“I’m sorry, Hulda. When I came here an hour ago from the Hospital, you were resting, Bristol said, and I knew Edith Dunning was with you, and Hendrik. … I didn’t want to disturb you. And I had to go. Some business at the office—very urgent business. … But now I’m here, Hulda, and—Hulda—”

“I’m so tired.”

“I know, dear, I know. Hulda—how can I say it?—Hulda, I …”

“Phil. Please.”

“I don’t know what to say, or how to say it. Dearest. That means something, doesn’t it? Darling. You know how I feel. Toward you. But the world—the newspapers—you know too what they’d say if you—if we …”

“Phil! Do you think that would make any difference to me?”

“They’d say I was marrying Abby Doorn’s millions!”

“I don’t want to discuss marriage. Oh, how can you even
think
…”

“But, Hulda.
Hulda!
Oh, darling. I’m a beast to make you cry. …”

T
HE POLICE CAR ROLLED
to the curb and stopped before the massive iron gates of the Doorn estate. Mansion and grounds covered the entire Fifth Avenue frontage between two streets in the Sixties. A high stone wall, weather-beaten and moss-grown, surrounded the house and gardens like an old granite cloak. It concealed the lower floors of the structure nestled deeply beyond the lawns.

One might, by stopping his ears to the automotive sounds of the flanking avenues, imagine himself in an old-world realm of châteaus and parks, of marble garden figures, stone benches and winding walks.

Across the street lay Central Park. Up Fifth Avenue the white dome and severe walls of the Metropolitan Museum gleamed. Beyond the bare branches of the park’s trees, in the crystal air, the tiny turrets and box-like façades of Central Park West could be seen, small and delicate as toys.

Inspector Queen, District Attorney Sampson and Ellery Queen left three smoking detectives in the police car and tramped unhurriedly through the gates, along the stone approach, toiling up the steep ramp. It led to a portico, a classical structure supported by fluted marble columns.

A lanky old man in livery opened the outer door. Inspector Queen brushed him aside and found himself in a vaulted room of vast dimensions. “Mr. Doorn,” he said with a snarl. “And don’t stop to ask me questions.”

The butler opened his mouth to protest, hesitated. “But who shall I say is—?”

“Inspector Queen. Mr. Queen. District Attorney Sampson.”

“Yes, sir! … If you’ll step this way, gentlemen.” They followed him through rich rooms, tapestried halls. He stopped at a double-door, pushed them apart.

“
If you will please wait with the other gentleman. …” He bowed and slowly walked off in the direction from which they had come.

“The other gentleman, hey?” muttered the Inspector. “Who—why, Harper!”

They stared across the brown somber room to a corner, where Pete Harper, ensconced in the leathery depths of a club-chair, grinned up at them.

“Say,” demanded the Inspector, “I thought you said you were going back to your paper. Trying to steal a march on us?”

“Fortunes of war, Inspector.” The old reporter waved gayly. “Tried to see Hendrik the playboy, but couldn’t—so I waited for you. Sit down, fellers.”

Ellery wandered thoughtfully about, examining the library. On all the walls, from floor to the lofty old-fashioned ceiling, were books—thousands of them. Reverently he ran his eye over some titles. The reverence banished and a peculiar smile appeared on his face as he plucked one volume from its shelf. It was a heavy, richly bound tome in golden calfskin. He flipped its pages experimentally. The sheets fell together, in sections.

“Well,” he commented dryly, “we, seem to have encountered another secret vice of our millionaires. Lovely books with neither fathers nor mothers.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sampson, who was following with curiosity.

“Here’s a copy of Voltaire in a perfectly magnificent format, specially designed, specially printed, specially bound—and specially unread. Poor Arouet! The leaves aren’t even cut. I’ll wager ninety-eight per cent of these volumes haven’t been referred to since they were purchased.”

The Inspector had sunk, groaning, into a Morris chair. “I wish that fat old fool …”

The fat old fool was genie to the wish: he appeared suddenly between the double-door in the bulky flesh, a wide nervous smile creasing his cheeks.

“Wery nice!” he squeaked. “Gladt to see you, gentlemans. Sidt down, sidt down!”

He oozed forward, like a seal.

The District Attorney obeyed slowly, regarding Abigail Doorn’s brother with a scowl of disgust. Ellery paid not the least attention to their host; he kept wandering about the room, looking at the books.

Hendrik Doorn collapsed on a broad divan and folded his fat hands moistly together. His smile vanished as he caught sight of the sprawling figure of Harper across the room.

“Iss that the reporter?” he shrilled. “I will nodt speak before a reporter, Inspector.
Raus,
you!”

“Raus
yourself,” said Harper. He continued soothingly, “Now, keep your shirt on, Mr. Doorn. I’m not here as a newspaperman—am I, Mr. Sampson? The District Attorney will tell you, Mr. Doorn. I’m just helping along with the case. Friendly, sort of.”

“Harper’s all right, Mr. Doorn,” said the District Attorney sharply. “You can speak as freely before him as before us.”
*

“Well …” Doorn eyed the reporter askance. “And he wouldn’t prindt anythings I say nodt to?”

“Who—me?” Harper looked scandalized. “Listen, Mr. Doorn, you’re insulting me. I’m the original clam.”

“You told us at the Hospital,” interrupted the Inspector, “about a story. You hinted it was as much as your life is worth to breathe a word about it. Well, sir?”

Doorn settled himself with painful fussiness on the protesting divan. He said carefully, not looking up, “Budt first you gentlemans must promise me somethings.” He lowered his voice. “Secrecy!” He regarded them quickly, in turn, like an arch-conspirator.

Inspector Queen closed his eyes. He dipped his fingers into the old brown snuff-box which was his constant companion. He seemed to have lost his ill-temper. “Are you making us a proposition?” he murmured. “A pact with the police, eh? Well, Mr. Doorn,” he opened his eyes and sat erect suddenly, “you’ll tell us that story and you’ll do it without bargains, too.”

Doorn wagged his bald head cunningly. “Ah, budt no,” he said in his thin falsetto. “You cannodt intimidate me,
Mynheer Inspektor.
You promise, I speak. Otherwise—no.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said the Inspector suddenly. “You’re evidently afraid for your hide, Mr. Doorn. Suppose we assure you that, if you need protection, we’ll give it to you.”

“You will give me police, detectives?” demanded Doorn eagerly.

“If your safety demands it, yes.”

“Wery well.” Doorn leaned forward, began to whisper rapidly. “I am in debt to—to a bloodt-sucker. For years I have been borrowing money from him. Large sums!”

“Here, here!” put in Inspector Queen. “This requires a little explaining. I’ve been given to understand that you have a tidy little income.”

The fat man brushed the remark aside with a ponderous wave of his hand. “Nothings. Nothings. I play at cardts, horses. I am—what you call—a spordtsman. My luck has been badt—wery badt. So! This man—he lendts me the money. Then he says, ‘I want back my money.’ And I cannodt pay. I talk, and he lendts me more. I give I.O.U.’s. How much—
Gott!
One hundred and ten thousands of dollars, gentlemans!”

Sampson whistled. Harper’s eyes flamed. The Inspector’s expression grew grim. “What security did you offer?” he asked. “After all, Mr. Doorn, you are not independently wealthy, as all the world knows.”

Doorn’s eyes narrowed. “Securidty? The besdt in the worldt!” He smirked all over his fat face. “My sister’s fordtune!”

“Do you mean,” demanded Sampson, “that Mrs. Doorn endorsed your I.O.U.’s, okayed your notes?”

“Oh, no!” He gasped audibly. “Budt as the brother of Abigail Doorn, I wass naturally known as the heir to greadt wealth. My sister knew nothings of this affair.”

“Isn’t that interesting,” murmured the Inspector. “Shylock loans you the money knowing that when Abby Doorn died you’d come into most of the fortune. A pretty arrangement, Mr. Doorn!”

Doorn’s lips hung loose and wet. He looked frightened.

“Well, well!” exclaimed the Inspector. “What’s the point of all this? Let’s have it!”

“The poindt iss this. …” Doorn’s jowls sagged as his body inclined toward them. “When the years passed and Abigail did nodt die, and consequently I could nodt repay—he said she must be killed!”

He stopped dramatically. The Inspector and Sampson looked at each other. Ellery had paused in the act of opening a little book; he stared at Doorn.

“Now that’s a story, isn’t it?” muttered Inspector Queen. “Who is this money-lender? Banker? Broker?”

Doorn blanched. He peered out of his piggish eyes at all corners of the room, uneasily. It was apparent that his trepidation was very real. When he spoke, it was in a heavy whisper.

“Michael Cudtahy. …”

“Big Mike!” the Inspector and Sampson exclaimed together. The old man leaped to his feet and began to trot up and down the thick-piled rug. “Big Mike, by juniper! And in the Hospital, too. …”

“Mr. Cudahy,” said Ellery in cool accents, “has the perfect alibi, dad. At the instant Abigail Doorn was having her throat constricted, he was being put to sleep by a doctor and two nurses.” He turned back to the book-shelves.

“Sure he’d have an alibi,” chuckled Harper suddenly. “That guy is an eel. Smooth—smooth!”

“Oh, it couldn’t have been Cudahy,” muttered the Inspector.

“But it could have been one of his three strong-arm boys,” put in the District Attorney animatedly.

The Inspector said nothing. He looked dissatisfied. “I don’t see it,” he mumbled. “This crime is too refined, too polished. Not direct enough for Little Willie, Snapper, or Joe Gecko.”

“Yes, but with Cudahy’s brain directing it …” argued Sampson.

“Now, now,” said Ellery from his corner. “Don’t be hasty, any of you gentlemen. Old Publius Syrus knew what he was talking about when he said: ‘We ought to weigh well what we can only once decide.’ You can’t afford to make a mistake in calling the turn, dad.”