Queens Full (15 page)

He patted her, trying to pull away.

“John, come to bed?”

“No. I've got to cool off.”

“Darling—”

“I'll walk it off.”

“But it's pouring!”

Carroll snatched his hat and topcoat from the foyer closet and plunged out of the house. He sloshed down Fifth Avenue in the rain and fog, almost running.

The next morning John Carroll got out of the taxi before the Hunt house on East 61st Street like a man in a dream. The streets had been washed clean by the downpour of the night before, and the sun was already hot, but he felt dirty and cold. He pressed the Hunt bell with a sense of doom, a vague warning of horrid things to come he tried not to imagine. He shivered and jabbed at the bell again, irritably this time.

A maid with a broad Spanish-Indian face opened the door. She led him in silence up to Felicia Hunt's rooms on the second floor. Tully West was already there, thoughtfully contemplating the postage-stamp rear garden from Felicia's picture window. West was as tall and fleshless as a Franciscan monk, an easy man with an iron-gray crewcut and unnoticeable clothes.

Carroll nodded to West and dropped into one of the capacious Spanish chairs Felicia surrounded herself with. “Crosstown traffic held me up. Felicia, what's this all about?”

Felicia de los Santos Hunt was in her dramatic mood this morning. She had clothed her dark plump beauty in a violently gay gown; she was already fingering her talisman, a ruby-and-emerald-crusted locket that had belonged to a Bourbon queen. Felicia was the daughter of a Latin-American diplomat of Castilian blood; she had been educated in Europe after a high-walled childhood, and she was hopelessly torn between the Spanish tradition of the submissive wife and the feminism she had found in the United States. What Felicia de los Santos had seen in Meredith Hunt, an American primitive twice her age, Carroll had never fathomed.

“Meredith is missing.” She had a charming accent.

“Missing? Isn't he in Chicago?”

“The Michaelson people say no.” Tully West's witty, rather glacial voice was not amused today. “They phoned Felicia this morning after trying to reach the office. Meredith never got there.”

Carroll felt his forehead; he had a jolting headache. “I don't understand. He stopped by last night about half-past nine and said he was on his way to the airport.”

“He wasn't on the plane.” Hunt's wife seemed more annoyed than alarmed. “Tully just had La Guardia on the phone.”

“All planes were grounded from about eight
P
.
M
. yesterday until three in the morning by the fog,” said West. “Meredith checked in at the field all right, found his flight delayed, and left word at the desk that he'd wait around the airport. But when the fog cleared and the flight was announced they couldn't find him.” Carroll's partner sat Felicia Hunt down on her silk divan, handling her gingerly. She appealed to him with her moist black eyes, but he turned to Carroll. “How long did he stay last night, John?”

“When he stopped by? For just a few minutes.” Carroll shut his eyes, remembering their tussle. “He didn't mention anything that would explain this.”

Felicia Hunt twisted her locket; her perfect teeth glittered. “He's left me.”

Tully West looked shocked. “Left you? My dear Felicia! Meredith would as soon leave his wallet.”

The maid said from the doorway, urgently, “
Señora
. The police.”

Her mistress stiffened. Carroll turned sharply.

Three men were in the doorway behind the Indian woman. One was vast and powerful; one was small, gray and wiry; and the third was tall, slender and young.

The broad man said, “Mrs. Hunt? Sergeant Velie. This is Inspector Queen.” He did not bother to introduce the tall young man. “We've got bad news for you.”

“My husband—”

“An officer found him around six-thirty this morning over on East 58th, near the Queensboro Bridge, in a parked Thunderbird. He was spread across the wheel with a slug in his brain.”

She got to her feet, clutching the pendant. Then her eyes turned over and she pitched forward.

West and Carroll both caught her before their mouths could close. They hauled her onto the divan and Carroll began to chafe her hands. The maid ran to the bathroom.

“Ever the delicate touch, Velie,” the tall young man remarked from the doorway. “Couldn't you have hit her over the head?”

Sergeant Velie ignored him. “I forgot to mention he's dead. Who are you?”

“I'm Tully West, that's John Carroll.” West was very pale. “We're Hunt's partners. Mrs. Hunt phoned us this morning when her husband failed to show up in Chicago for a business appointment He was to have taken the eleven
P
.
M
. plane—”

“That's already been checked.” The small gray man was watching the maid wave a bottle of smelling salts under Felicia Hunt's little nose. “Hunt didn't come back home last night? Phone or anything?”

“Mrs. Hunt says not.”

“Was he supposed to be traveling alone?”

“Yes.”

“Make such trips often?”

“Yes. Hunt was outside man for the firm.”

“Was he in the habit of driving his car to airports?”

“Yes. He'd park it and pick it up on his return.”

“Carrying any valuables last night?”

“Just cash for the trip, as far as I know. And a dispatch case containing some papers and a change of linen.”

Felicia Hunt shuddered and opened her eyes. The maid eased her expertly back on the divan and slipped a pillow under her head. The young widow lay there like Goya's Duchess, picking at her locket Carroll straightened.

“Suicide,” Tully West said, and he cleared his throat. “It was suicide?”

“Not on your tintype,” Inspector Queen said. “Hunt was murdered, and when we identify the Colt Woodsman we found in the car, we'll know who murdered him. Until we do, any suggestions?”

Carroll glared around helplessly. Then he clapped his hand over his mouth and ran into Felicia Hunt's bathroom. They heard him gagging.

“Was Mr. Carroll unusually fond of Mr. Hunt?” asked the tall young man politely.

“No,” Tully West said. “I mean—Oh, damn it all!”

“Detectives will be talking to you people later in the day.” The Inspector nodded at his sergeant, said “Come along, Ellery” to the tall young man, and then he marched out with his old man's stiff-kneed bounce.

“Come in, please.” Inspector Queen did not look up from the report he was reading.

John Carroll came into the office between Tully West and a detective. The partners were gray-faced.

“Have a seat.”

The detective left. In a rivuleted leather chair at one corner of his father's office Ellery sprawled over a cigaret. A small fan was going behind the old man, ruffling his white hair. It made the only noise in the room.

“See here,” Tully West said frigidly. “Mr. Carroll's been interrogated from hell to breakfast by precinct detectives, Homicide Squad men, the deputy chief inspector in charge of Manhattan East, and detectives of the Homicide Bureau. He's submitted without a murmur to fingerprinting. He's spent a whole morning in the Criminal Courts Building being taken apart piece by piece by an assistant district attorney who apparently thinks he can parlay this case into a seat in Congress. May I suggest that you people either fish or cut bait?”

The Inspector laid aside the report. He settled back in his swivel chair, regarding the Ivy League lawyer in a friendly way. “Any special reason, Mr. West, why you insisted on coming along this morning?”

“Why?” West's lips were jammed together. Is there an objection to my being here?”

“No.” The old man looked at Carroll. “Mr. Carroll, I'm throwing away the book on this one. You'll notice there's not even a stenographer present. Maybe if we're frank with each other we can cut corners and save everybody a lot of grief. We've been on this homicide for five days now, and I'm going to tell you what we've come up with.”

“But why me?” John Carroll's voice came out all cracked.

West touched his partner's arm. “You'll have to forgive Mr. Carroll, Inspector. He never learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Shut up, John, and listen.”

The old man swiveled creakily to look out his dusty window. “As far as we can reconstruct the crime, Hunt's killer must have followed him to La Guardia last Friday night. A bit past midnight Hunt reclaimed his car at the parking lot and drove off, in spite of the fact that he'd told the airline clerk at ten-thirty that he'd wait around for the fog to lift. It's our theory that the killer met him at La Guardia and talked him into taking a ride, maybe on a plea of privacy. That would mean that after reclaiming his car Hunt picked the killer up, and they drove off together.

“We have no way of knowing how long they cruised around before crossing the Queensboro Bridge in Manhattan, but at around one forty-five
A
.
M
. a patrol car passed the Thunderbird on East 58th, parked where it was later found with Hunt's body in it. The deputy assistant medical examiner says Hunt was killed between two and four
A
.
M
. Saturday, so when the patrol car passed at a quarter to two, Hunt and his killer must have been sitting in it, still talking.

“Now.” Inspector Queen swiveled back to eye Carroll. “Item one: Hunt was shot to death with a bullet from the Colt Woodsman .22 automatic found beside the body. That pistol, Mr. Carroll, is registered in your name.”

Carroll's face went grayer. He made an instinctive clutching movement, but West touched his arm again.

“Item two: motive. There's nothing to indicate it could have had anything to do with Hunt's trip, or any client. Your firm doesn't practice criminal law, your clients are conservative corporations, and the Chicago people had every reason to want Hunt to stay healthy—he was going to save them a couple of million dollars in a tax-refund suit against the government. Mr. West has gone over the contents of Hunt's dispatch case, and he says nothing is missing. Robbery? Hunt's secretary got him three hundred dollars from the bank Friday for his trip, and well over that amount was found in his wallet. Hunt's Movado wristwatch and jade ring were found on him.

“That's the way it stood till Monday morning. Then Hunt himself tipped us off to the motive. He wrote us a letter.”

“Hunt
what?
” Carroll croaked.

“By way of Miss Connor, his secretary. She found it in the office mail Monday morning. Hunt wrote it on airline stationery from La Guardia Friday night and dropped it into a mailbox there, probably before his killer showed up.

“It was a note to his secretary,” the Inspector went on, “instructing her that if anything should happen to him over the weekend she was to deliver the enclosure, a sealed envelope, to the police. Miss Connor brought it right in.”

West said, “Good old Meredith.” He looked disgusted.

“Hunt's letter to us, Mr. Carroll, says that he visited your home on Fifth Avenue before going to the airport Friday evening—tells us why, tells us about your fight … incidentally clearing up the reason for the bruise on his mouth. So, you see, we know all about the twenty grand you lifted from that trust fund, and Hunt's ultimatum to you a few hours before he was knocked off. He even mentioned his suspicions about you and Mrs. Hunt.” The Inspector added mildly, “That's two pretty good motives, Mr. Carroll. Care to change your statement?”

Carroll's mouth was open. Then he jumped up. “It's all a horrible misunderstanding,” he stammered. “There's never been a thing between Felicia Hunt and me—”

“John.” West pulled him down. “Inspector, Meredith Hunt was stupidly jealous of his wife. He even accused me on occasion of making passes at her. I can't speak about Mrs. Hunt's feelings, but John Carroll is the most devoted married man I know. He's crazy about his wife and children.”

“And the defalcation?” the Inspector murmured.

“John's told me all about that. His no-good brother was in serious trouble and John foolishly borrowed the money from one of the trusts our firm administers to get the brute out of it. I've already replaced it from my personal funds. Any talk of theft or prosecution is ridiculous. If I'd known about Meredith's ultimatum I'd have been tempted to pop him one myself. We all have our weak moments under stress. I've known John Carroll intimately for almost ten years. I can and do vouch for his fundamental honesty.”

Ellery's voice said from his corner, “And when exactly did Mr. Carroll tell you about his weak moment, Mr. West?”

The lawyer was startled. Then he turned around and said, with a smile, “I don't believe I'll answer that.”

“The gun,” Inspector Queen prompted.

“It's John's, Inspector, of course. He's a Reserve officer, and he likes to keep up his marksmanship. We both do a bit of target-shooting now and then at a gun club we belong to downtown, and John keeps the target pistol in his desk at the office. Anyone could have lifted that Woodsman and walked off with it. The fact that John keeps it in the office is known to dozens of people.”

“I see.” The old man's tone specified nothing. “Now let's get to last Friday night. We'll play it as if you've never been questioned, Mr. Carroll. I suppose you can establish just where you were between two and four
A
.
M
. last Saturday morning?”

Carroll put his head between his hands and laughed.

“Well, can you?”

“I'll try to explain again, Inspector,” Carroll said, straightening up. “When I lose my temper, as I did with Meredith Friday night, I get a violent physical reaction. It takes me hours sometimes to calm down. My wife knows this, and after Meredith left for La Guardia she tried to get me to go to bed. I wish to God I had taken her advice! I decided instead to walk it off, and that's just what I did. I must have walked around half the night.”