The Penguin Pool Murder (The Hildegarde Withers Mysteries) Read online

  Miss Withers fished a crumpled dollar bill and three quarters from her purse to pay the exact fare, and then ran after the Inspector. The rusty Checker taxi was jammed in with a cluster of other assorted vehicles, caught by the red light.

  The light changed as they neared the corner, but Piper flashed his badge and yelled at the Checker.

  His hand went to his coatpocket, and he jerked the taxi door open. There was nobody inside.

  “Where’s your fare?” he demanded of the blankfaced driver. “Describe him, quick!”

  “I didn’t have anybody in my bus, mister. You must be crazy. I’m just cruising around….”

  Piper leaned into the taxi and gave the rear seat a careful scrutiny. Then he tried the far door. It was swinging, unlatched. He stared at the meter, but the flag was up. Then the detective shrugged his shoulders and motioned the man to drive on.

  Miss Withers arrived, breathless, just as he reached the sidewalk. “False alarm,” Piper told her.

  “A man could have slipped out of the far door and lost himself among the cars and trucks that were there,” she pointed out. “He could have made the other curb before you got there.”

  Piper shook his head. “Doesn’t sound plausible to me. I think you were suspicious of an innocently cruising cab. There’s more than one battered Checker left in this town. Probably just coincidence that you found this one on my tail when …”

  Miss Withers was walking along the sidewalk, staring into the gutter. Suddenly she pounced on a little yellow slip of paper that fluttered from under the flying tires of traffic.

  She showed it to Piper. He read the following, peering to make out the fine type. “Meter receipt, Checker Cab Company—$1.75—pay no more….”

  “I just paid your taxi bill down from the drug store where we had breakfast,” Miss Withers told him. “It was a dollar seventy-five … the same distance!”

  8

  Lambs to the Slaughter

  MISS WITHERS AND THE Inspector looked at each other. “It’s deeper than we understand, this business,” Piper told her. “Maybe you’d better come along with me, for today at least. I’m going down to have a look at the murdered man’s office before the clerks get down.” They hailed another taxi, and this time no shadow hovered behind them.

  It was well after eight-thirty when they arrived at last before the door of the Fleming Trust Company on upper Wall Street. Already a few early clerks and bookkeepers, the vanguard of the vast financial army, were moving deviously through the short street that starts in a graveyard and ends in a river. This was before the advent of the hundreds of “unemployed” apple salesmen, but already hawkers were offering the latest novelty on the corner.

  It was a perfect reproduction of a check bearing the name and insignia of the ill-fated Bank of the United States, printed on an oblong of thin rubber!

  But Miss Withers and the Inspector did not pause to wonder at the type of mind which could find humor in such a philosophic view of a fair-sized catastrophe. They were hunting bigger game than bank officials.

  There was a brass plate beside the door of the Fleming Trust Building, which bore in worn but polished letters the legend “White and Lester—members of N. Y. Stock Exchange—first floor.”

  The brokerage offices founded by Gwen’s father, and continued by her husband until noon yesterday, were up one flight of narrow stairs. Piper did not wait for the elevator, and Miss Withers followed him up. It was hard to realize that twenty-four hours ago an ordinary, everyday business man climbed this stair for the last time.

  “I’ve got a search warrant to show if I need it,” the Inspector told her. But he didn’t need it. There was only an office boy in the place, and he stepped back in awe at Piper’s badge.

  “Here is where we get a line on Jerry Lester,” the Inspector announced. Miss Withers surveyed the deserted place, the empty desks for clerks, the empty benches for messengers, and the silent tickers under their glass domes. The entire scene made her realize for the first time, with a slight catch of her breath, that Gerald Lester had once been something more than a case, a problem to be solved. He had been alive yesterday at this time. He had been a living man, breathing, loving, hating, working … and now he lay on an autopsy table somewhere.

  Piper gave the office boy instructions to make himself scarce. On the bench was a morning paper he had been reading. Miss Withers caught sight of the headline. “Broker A Suicide in Fish-tank?” it blared forth. Then Piper hadn’t given Philip Seymour’s confession to the press.

  Miss Withers followed the Inspector into the largest private office, through a door marked “Private—Mr. Lester” …

  She remarked to Piper that it seemed somehow fitting for this vast place to be deserted and quiet now that its head was gone. Piper stopped his casual survey of the office.

  “More likely the place is deserted because it’s an early Saturday morning,” he informed her. “The Exchange is closed today, you know. It’s a good thing, it gives the tickers a chance to catch up with the market. Since the crash last month there’s been hell to pay.”

  He walked over to the big desk, and sat down in the cushioned armchair behind it. Then he lifted one of the four black and gold fountain pens that slanted up from a massive slab of malachite and scribbled on the desk calendar. “I thought Lester would be the type to use a stub pen,” he remarked. Then he poked through the drawers. Miss Withers leaned over to watch as he came to the top one on the left side. It contained a .45 Savage automatic pistol.

  It was brand-new and showed no signs of having been fired, though it was fully loaded. Piper put it in his pocket and felt for a cigar. Somewhere there was the sound of a door closing, and he put away the cigar swiftly. Then he pulled Miss Withers into the lee of a rank of file cases that stood to the left of the door, and gripped her wrist.

  In a moment a young woman came into the room. She did not stop to close the door behind her, and she was still wearing her hat. She went directly to the top lefthand drawer of the desk and fumbled there.

  “If you are looking for Mr. Lester’s gun, I have it here,” said the Inspector gently. The young woman whirled like a flash, her gray eyes wide with terror. Then a cool mask of self-possession came over her.

  “You have no business in this office,” she said in a low voice. “I am Mr. Lester’s private secretary. I …”

  “And your name is …?” Inspector Piper showed the silver shield once more.

  “I am Miss Templeton, Marian Templeton.” The girl, not more than twenty-three or four, drew herself up rigidly as Piper motioned her to a chair.

  “I’ll stand, thank you,” she said. Miss Withers scrutinized her carefully. Blue turban, not the latest style but very becoming. Smart gray coat trimmed with fox, over a fitted blue suit which did not conceal lines more womanly than businesslike. Sheer gunmetal hose, and kid shoes a trifle rundown at the heel. Miss Withers always noticed shoes.

  Marian Templeton slipped off the turban, exposing a short, smooth bob and a high forehead. Inspector Piper slid comfortably into a chair and lit his cigar.

  “Just a few, a very few questions, Miss Templeton. You will naturally wish to help us in the investigation of the death of your employer? I knew I could count on your help. But to begin, why did you come for the gun, first thing this morning?”

  Miss Templeton shrugged her shoulders. “Because I was afraid that the police would be snooping around, and I knew that Mr. Lester hadn’t had a permit. I was afraid there would be trouble….”

  “I see. Been with Mr. Lester long?”

  “I’ve been his secretary for five years,” she told him. “Mr. Lester brought me with him from his old office when he came here as a junior partner. Mr. White was here then. And now … now this terrible thing has happened! I didn’t sleep any last night. To think that he would kill himself!”

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Templeton. Your employer didn’t kill himself. He was murdered!” Piper brought out the last word with a crash, but the
girl kept her face set. “I gave the suicide story to the newspapers because as yet there was no definite proof of murder, but we know it was done,” he went on. “All we need to find out is who did it. Can you help us?”

  “I help? I don’t see how.” Marian Templeton suddenly leaned forward. “But why don’t you ask his charming little wife? I’m sure she would know more than I. I’m just the secretary!”

  Piper nodded. “You were here yesterday morning when Mr. Lester came in? Suppose you start at the beginning and tell it your own way. Everything … all he did and said.”

  “It was just as usual,” the girl began. “I got here at nine-fifteen as I always do, and Mr. Lester came in about half an hour later.”

  “Did he seemed troubled, or upset in any way?”

  “No more than usual,” said Marian Templeton. “He’s always been troubled since the crash last month. It hurt Mr. Lester’s business terribly. It hurt every brokerage house on the Street. You see, he was interested in the moving picture leaders, and he lost heavily. And then the trouble with his wife … I shouldn’t mention that, but everybody knows it. They didn’t get along.”

  “And why was that?”

  Marian Templeton shrugged her shoulders. “Really, I don’t know….”

  “Bother that,” said Piper. “A good private secretary, who has been with her employer for five years, knows more about him than his wife, more about him than he knows himself. Now be frank with us.”

  “His wife is a silly little fool that only cared about spending money,” said the secretary after a moment. “And when there wasn’t so much money to spend … she had no patience, no sympathy for him. I don’t think she ever cared much for him. Her father, old Mr. White, arranged the marriage, they say. That was how Mr. Lester got to be junior partner. I know that Mr. Lester didn’t marry Gwen White for love….”

  “How do you know that?” said Piper very softly. For a moment Marian Templeton’s mouth hardened, and the line of her red lips grew straight. Then she smiled sweetly. “Because, as you say, a good private secretary knows more about her employer than he knows about himself.”

  “Very good. And after Mr. Lester came in the office yesterday …?”

  “He said good-morning to me and I took his hat, coat and stick, as he passed my desk, which is just outside this door here. In a moment he rang for me, and I brought him his mail. Then he dictated some letters.”

  “Wait a moment. Anything in the mail that might upset him? Anything at all?”

  The girl shook her head. “I’ll dig the letters out of the file if you want them. Also the carbons of the ones he gave me. They were all pertaining to business, though.”

  “Never mind. Go on.”

  “Then he asked me to call Mr. Fairchild into his office. Mr. Fairchild is the chief customer’s man.”

  “Any other callers during the morning? Anybody at all?”

  Miss Templeton paused to think. “No, there wasn’t anybody else at all. No customers came in during the morning. Business has been very slack, you know, and lately Mr. Lester has been letting Mr. Fairchild and the other customer’s men take over most of the outside work. He …”

  “How long was this Mr. Fairchild in Mr. Lester’s office?”

  “Nearly an hour. Then he came out, and a few minutes later—I should say about noon—Mr. Lester hurried out of his office. He seemed in a hurry, and he didn’t leave word with me as to when he would return, as he usually does … I mean did. He took his hat.”

  “What kind of a hat was that?” put in Miss Withers. The girl looked at her in surprise, but Piper nodded for her to answer.

  “It was a derby,” said Marian Templeton. “Mr. Lester usually wore a derby.”

  “And his coat and stick? What kind of a stick did he usually carry?”

  The secretary thought again. “It was his heavy malacca one that he carried yesterday. But usually he carries a curved whangee.”

  “This is very important, Miss Templeton,” said Piper. “Just when did Lester stop carrying the bamboo whangee and change to a heavy malacca—a loaded malacca, was it not?”

  “I didn’t know it was loaded,” the girl said. “But he’s been carrying it for a week or more, no longer. I noticed it about that long ago. But why?”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” said Piper. “One thing more. Do you know what it is that Mr. Lester and Mr. Fairchild were discussing during that hour yesterday?”

  “No, I do not,” said Miss Templeton.

  “Your chair is just outside this partition,” Piper pointed out. “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “I don’t listen to my employer’s conversations.”

  “Of course you don’t. But I had hoped that maybe you had a suspicion what it was all about. You haven’t?”

  “No-o, I haven’t.” But there was a shade of hesitation in the girl’s voice. Piper leaped to the breach.

  “Come, be frank, Miss Templeton. You can’t obstruct justice, you know. We don’t want to be unpleasant, but …”

  “Well,” admitted the girl, “I do know what some of it was about. Because after Mr. Fairchild went out, Mr. Lester gave me this memo to type out and hold for his signature.” She disappeared into the outer office, and returned shortly with a neatly typed notice on a yellow sheet marked “Inter-office.”

  Piper read it aloud. “To Mr. Lathrop, from G. L., copy to—blank—In view of Mr. Fairchild’s resignation on this date, November 18th, please make out an immediate account of his commissions due, and send me the check for my signature.”

  Piper handed it back to the girl. “Mr. Lathrop is the treasurer of the firm, I suppose?”

  She nodded. “It didn’t go to him, because Mr. Lester didn’t come back to sign it,” she said evenly.

  “Do you think Mr. Fairchild resigned in actuality, or is that a form?”

  She shook her head. “Of course I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him? But I don’t mind telling you that Mr. Lester has had to let several high-salaried employees go on account of the crash. Mr. Fairchild had a drawing account of eight hundred dollars a month against his commissions.”

  “I see,” said Piper. “By the way, where did you have lunch yesterday, Miss Templeton?”

  “In the Exchange Grill, where I usually eat. Why?”

  “Alone, or with some other member of the office force, or a friend?”

  “I was alone,” said Marian Templeton. There was a sound of bustling in the outer office, and she moved restlessly. “Anything more to ask me, Mr. Inspector?”

  Piper relit his cigar. “I don’t know that there is,” he said slowly. “You might bring me the file on a customer … Mr. Sproule of Chicago?”

  The secretary frowned. “We never had a customer by that name,” she announced.

  Piper nodded. “Then let me have the file on Mr. Costello!”

  He was watching her face like a hawk, but it retained its bland innocence. “I’m afraid we never had a customer by that name, either….”

  Piper nodded. “Then bring me what records you have on the account of Mr. Bertrand B. Hemingway, please.” Miss Withers knew he was aiming blindly.

  “Mr. Hemingway? Why, we sold out Mr. Hemingway’s account about three weeks ago, because he couldn’t put up any more margin!”

  9

  Again the Garnet Pin

  “BEFORE YOU GO,” SAID Inspector Piper to the secretary, Marian Templeton, “please tell me one more thing. Did Mr. Lester have a phone call, by any chance, just before he went out yesterday?”

  The girl shook her head. “Not as far as I know. His calls all come to my desk, and then if I recognize the person calling, or the name, I ask Mr. Lester if he wants to talk to them.”

  “Pretty complicated system,” Piper observed. “Why did Lester surround himself with so much red tape?”

  “He had to do it,” flashed Miss Templeton. “You see, a lot of our customers lost their shirts—I mean, they lost everything in the market crash. Of course a broker has no ch
oice in such cases, when the customer is buying on margin. If the stock drops, the customer has to put up more margin or lose everything he’s got. Like every other brokerage house, we had to sell out a lot of our customers, and some of them didn’t realize how serious it was. They blamed Mr. Lester, or the firm, rather. And a lot of them used to call him and there was some unpleasantness, so he evolved the system of having me take his calls. But no, there wasn’t even one call yesterday morning.”

  “All the same, will you send in the telephone girl who was on duty at the switchboard yesterday forenoon?”

  Miss Templeton nodded, and withdrew with not-too-well concealed haste. In a moment there was a knock on the office door, and at Piper’s “Come in” there entered a plump, red-haired young lady with a great many freckles and a good deal of chewing gum.

  “I’m Maggie Colton,” she announced. “Switchboard op. You want to quiz me?”

  Piper shook his head. “Just one question, Miss Colton. Why did you put through a phone call to Mr. Lester yesterday morning about twelve o’clock without buzzing it on Miss Templeton’s wire?”

  The girl clicked her gum. “Yesterday morning about noon? Yeah, I remember. Well, the man said it was very important. He said that Mr. Lester was in trouble, or something. I don’t just remember what. So I put it right on Mr. Lester’s wire. That’s all I know.”

  Piper looked at Miss Withers. Then he turned to Miss Colton again. “What kind of a voice was it? You said a man’s voice, didn’t you? Was it deep and low?”

  The girl shook her head. “It was just … just a voice.”

  “It wasn’t high and nervous, like this?” Piper gave a passable imitation of a Hemingway tenor. The operator shook her head, doubtfully.

  “It wasn’t a bit of an Irish brogue to it, the like of this?”