It might have been a repeat of a conference that had taken place in
the Eaton-Lathrup offices several days earlier, if twice the original
number of people hadn't been present. Like the earlier conference, it
was held in Macklin's office and in addition to Macklin, Eaton, young
Hansen and Ellers, there were two women and two police officers present.
It _was_ a conference ... in a strictly official sense. Lieutenant
Fenton had made it plain that there were a number of weighty matters to
be discussed and that he wished precisely eight people to be present.
The eight, of course, included First Grade Detective Gallison and
himself. One of the women was Lynn Prentiss, the other Susan Weil, who
presided over the seldom-idle switchboard in the outer office.
As before, it was Macklin who seemed the most intent on asking blunt
questions, and challenging the opinion of the majority. Even Fenton
came under challenge, and the big detective seemed content to let
Macklin talk on for several minutes in almost uninterrupted fashion,
for many of the points which the boyish-looking editor brought up--he
was almost phenomenally youthful-looking for a man in his forties,
Fenton told himself--seemed both discerning and well-taken.
"I don't understand," Macklin was saying, "why there should be any
doubt left in your mind, Lieutenant, as to the guilt of the man you've
just arrested and charged with Gerstle's murder."
"Not as to Gerstle's murder," Fenton said. "I thought I made that very
plain. He'll go before a jury for killing Gerstle. But the other two
slayings--"
"For Pete's sake, Lieutenant," Macklin said, leaning a little forward
and giving him no time to finish. "You've arrested the owner of that
motor cruiser, and he turns out to be someone Helen Lathrup had known
for five years. Not to mince words, John Darby had been her lover for
that length of time, if not longer. They quarreled and she broke off
with him a half-dozen times. But just recently the fire started burning
again, for both of them. He practically admits all that, because I
guess he knows he'd gain nothing by denying it. What he doesn't admit
is that they quarreled again even more recently."
Macklin paused an instant, as if to emphasize the importance of what
he was about to say. Then he went on in a tone of absolute conviction:
"Isn't it all pretty obvious? When the fires started burning again she
sat on Gerstle's story, wouldn't let him run it. It was big, but that
didn't matter. She was determined to protect Darby. Then it stands to
reason they must have quarreled again. You'll never get him to admit
that, because it supplies the strongest kind of motive for murder and
would be the equivalent of a complete confession. They quarreled again
and she threatened to give Gerstle the green light, and that's why he
killed her."
"A pretty drastic way of making sure," Fenton said. "Why didn't he try
making up again with her?"
"He probably did and got nowhere. When once her mind was made up,
it usually stayed that way. Really made up, I mean. She might have
quarreled with Darby off and on for years, enjoyed letting him dangle,
but this time she probably turned absolutely venomous.
"Consider what kind of man he is. That's important, too. A cafe society
procurer--a flesh-for-sale racketeer with a capital-gains league
clientele--big names in Hollywood and the TV industry, not to mention
the magazine field. Consider how far that kind of upper-echelon pimp
would go if she thought she was about to blow his five-million-a-year
racket sky high, and himself along with it? Of course Darby killed her."
"And Ruth Porges too?" Fenton asked.
Macklin nodded. "She worked here, didn't she? I knew that Gerstle was
working on something big which she didn't want him to publish, and she
may have found out more than either Hansen or I knew or suspected. She
may have found out too much for him to let her go on living. It all
hangs together, doesn't it? It would be the wildest kind of coincidence
if Darby just murdered Gerstle and someone else killed Helen Lathrup
and Ruth Porges."
"I'm afraid I can't agree," Fenton said quietly. "It would be the
wildest kind of coincidence if the three crimes were not _closely
related_. But they were, very closely, even if a different person
committed the first two and for an entirely different reason."
"And I'm afraid I can't follow your line of reasoning," Macklin said.
He grinned suddenly. "I don't know why I should be raising problems for
the police to worry about, when you're so convinced that you know just
who did murder Helen Lathrup, and why!"
"We know," Fenton said.
"Then why don't you arrest him then?"
"We intend to," Fenton said. "But first I'd like to point out the flaw
in your line of reasoning. You've just said the flame started up again
between Helen Lathrup and Darby, and she sat on Gerstle's exposé. That
we know--Darby, as you say, has practically admitted it, because he
knows it would remove any motive he might have had for killing Helen
Lathrup. He'd have a very special reason for wanting her to stay alive.
And he did want her to stay alive, you can be sure of that."
"Not if she quarreled with him again still later," Macklin said.
"Just have patience," Fenton said. "I'm coming to that. What makes
you so sure she quarreled with him again, in a deadly serious way
this time, and was going to expose him? We haven't uncovered a shred
of evidence pointing in that direction. It just possibly might be
true, because she was a quarrelsome woman, but even if it were true,
he didn't kill her for that, or any other reason. He didn't kill her,
period. If they had another quarrel, I rather suspect he'd have known
how to talk himself back into her good graces again. So the whole
quarrel motive is pure assumption on your part."
"A very plausible assumption," Macklin pointed out.
"Under ordinary circumstances it would be," Fenton conceded. "But
it carries no weight at all now, because we know who murdered Helen
Lathrup and--well, we can make a pretty good guess as to why he did it,
even if we're not absolutely sure about his motive."
Fenton nodded, his lips tightening a little. "By the same token, we
know that Darby couldn't have murdered her. He happens to have an
unbreakable alibi for that particular morning, and the two hoodlums
who kidnapped Hansen have just as good an alibi, and they were the
only professional, gun-carrying characters in his employ, as far as
we've been able to determine. But Darby couldn't have murdered her
anyway--because someone else did. Someone else went into her office
and shot her dead and it was _that_ which started the fire under
Darby. With Lathrup dead, Darby had no longer a beautiful, protective,
guardian angel--or crime-blinking witch, if you'd prefer that term--to
keep the exposé under wraps, and Gerstle would have had a field day.
And Gerstle was going ahead with it, not telling anyone, not even Mr.
Eaton or Hansen here ... although Darby made the mistake of thinking
Hansen did know and had him kidnapped also, to silence him."
Macklin shook his head. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I just can't buy it.
I'm willing to be convinced, of course, if you've strong evidence to
support it. But otherwise--"
"We've the strongest kind of evidence," Fenton said, "short of what an
eye-witness would be able to tell us. No jury could listen to expert
testimony regarding it, and stay locked up for more than ten or fifteen
minutes."
He paused for a moment to stare around the office. His gaze lingered
for an instant on Ellers and it seemed to Lynn Prentiss--up to that
moment her own gaze had rested on Macklin and the detective--that the
elderly editor paled slightly. But Hansen and Eaton appeared ill at
ease too, the publisher extremely so, and even Susan Weil grew a little
restive under the big detective's prolonged scrutiny.
It was to Susan that he spoke. "The switchboard keeps you pretty busy,
doesn't it, Miss Weil," he said. "If someone came out of one of the
offices on this side of the reception desk and darted past you--I'm
using that word deliberately because it describes the way he probably
moved--it would be quite possible for him to reach Miss Lathrup's
office on the other side of the desk-division unobserved, I should
imagine. Your back would be turned, because the switchboard faces
toward the outer door. Isn't that so?"
Susan wet her lips before replying. But her answer was decisive enough.
"Yes, sir. I'm quite sure I wouldn't have seen him, if I was plugging
in a call."
"Then, if he'd darted back again a few moments later, it stands to
reason you wouldn't have seen him then either ... if you happened to be
answering another call or even--if you just happened to have your back
turned. It would have been very easy for him to pause an instant before
darting back to make sure that your back would be turned."
Susan nodded. "That's right, sir. When someone comes into the outer
office I usually see him right away, because I just have to glance
sideways. But I seldom turn around and look behind me, unless an editor
speaks to me. Editors pass back and forth all the time and even when I
hear them I seldom turn around."
"I see," Fenton said. "That would have cut down the risks for him, made
it even easier. But I imagine he did his best to dart past as quickly
and silently as possible. Did you hear the sound of the silenced gun,
Miss Weil?"
"Yes, I'm sure I did. But it didn't make much of an impression on me,
until Miss Prentiss came out a minute or two later and told me that
she'd heard it also. It seemed to trouble her a great deal."
"Yes, well--that's all I wanted to know."
He looked directly at Lynn. "How long was it, Miss Prentiss, before you
got up, after hearing the sound, and went to investigate? I questioned
you about that on the day of the murder, but it wasn't of such vital
importance then. I mean--it didn't seem so to us at the time. It should
have, and I blame myself for it. Please try to think back again, and
narrow it down as much as you can. A half-minute, a minute and a half?"
"It's hard to be sure," Lynn said, wetting her lips as Susan had done.
"I should say--about one minute. I remember that I just sat staring at
the manuscript I'd been working on, blue-penciled mentally a third of a
page, in fact. Then my curiosity got the better of me--"
She sighed helplessly. "I really don't know. It could have been as long
as two or three full minutes."
"Time enough for the murderer to get back into his office on this side
of the switchboard, if he moved quickly."
"Yes, I should think so."
"That was not a question, Miss Lynn. It was a statement. For my part,
I'm sure of it ... in view of what you've just said. It could easily
have been all of three minutes. Time enough--and to spare."
"Yes...." Lynn murmured, moistening her lips again.
"Just one more question, Miss Prentiss. The typewriters you said you
heard clattering away. If one of them had stopped for as long as ten
minutes, would you have realized it had stopped--if it started up
again the instant you stepped out of your office? Think now. Several
typewriters, a great deal of sound, and you were engrossed in your
editing. Even if it had been the typewriter in the office next to
yours--"
That too, Lynn was to realize later, had been more of a statement than
a question, for Fenton did not even wait for her to reply.
He looked directly at Macklin and said: "It's your typewriter I'm
talking about, I'm afraid. You didn't know she'd heard the sound of
your silenced gun, but the instant she stepped out into the hall some
instinct warned you that you'd have nothing to lose by battering away
on your machine again. It would certainly help to make her believe you
hadn't left this office at all--not even long enough to dart past the
reception desk, shoot Helen Lathrup through the head and dart straight
back again."
Macklin paled visibly, but not a muscle of his face moved. He sat very
quietly returning Fenton's accusing stare, a strangely withdrawn look
in his eyes, as if he had half-anticipated exposure and had steeled
himself to endure the agony of it, if it came, by erecting a kind of
mental block within himself.
"We found the gun you killed her with in Ruth Porges' apartment,"
Fenton said, not unkindly--he could never bring himself to speak
without compassion to a man who was certain to die. "We'll never know
where she found it, unless you tell us, but we don't have to know.
Ballistics has identified it as the murder gun. You searched her
apartment after you strangled her, even tore apart two mattresses in
your search. But you didn't look inside the flushing compartment of the
toilet. It would have been so easy for you to go into the bathroom,
lift the lid and look. But I guess you just didn't think of it.
"It's your gun, Macklin. A war souvenir gun with a long black barrel,
the kind of gun some men, with your kind of war record, like to show to
friends. Possibly you showed it to her once, but that's also something
we'll never know unless you tell us. But she must have known it was
your gun or she would not have attempted to hide it. If she'd found a
stranger's gun--the gun of someone she had no reason to respect or like
or want to protect, she'd have gone straight to the police with it. She
must have felt you were justified in killing Helen Lathrup.
"If you did show the gun to her once--that wouldn't have prevented you
from using it. You had no way of knowing she'd find it and that it
would be traced to you. War souvenir guns are often very hard to trace
to their owners, but we had very little trouble tracing this one....
You're tagged with it, Macklin. You're also tagged with a fingerprint
you left in Ruth Porges' apartment. I imagine you wore gloves and were
very careful, but not careful enough. Remember taking one glove off for
a moment? Well ... it's not too important, so long as we have that one
very fine print."
Fenton sighed and his voice hardened a little. "Would you like to tell
us why you killed her, Macklin? I must warn you, though, that anything
you say now--"
Macklin seemed not to hear him. He spoke softly, almost gently, as if
the violence which had taken two human lives had been long since spent.
"There are two kinds of men in this world--leaving abnormality out of
it. One kind, I think, is very rare. The old saying: 'Love is a woman's
whole life--to men a thing apart' isn't always true. There are men to
whom love is everything. I have always been ... that kind of man. And
when she betrayed the great love I had for her, as she betrayed the
others, she--"
A look of torment came into his eyes. "It would have been better if
she had been the one to slay, to kill me then without compassion and
without remorse. But that was one cruelty she was incapable of, and so
I had no choice...."
"Every man has a choice, Macklin," Fenton said. "There was no need--"
Fenton was later to regret that he had not been more careful, not
stayed more alert and on guard. But when a man does not in the least
resemble a killer in his outer aspect, when he can grin boyishly,
and disarm everyone with his blunt forthrightness, his wry humor,
his complete absence of even the everyday, garden-variety kind of
neuroticism which afflicts nine men and women out of ten--when, in
short, he seems more robustly wholesome, normal than a football player
with a well-rounded love life, it is very easy for a man to go a little
astray emotionally and assume that he can't be too dangerous in an
immediate way.
Fenton had not realized that Gallison was standing so close to
Macklin's desk, facing away from Macklin and that the police positive
on Gallison's hip could be a very formidable weapon in the hands of
killer still bent on saving his skin.
The realization came a split second too late. Macklin had reached for
the gun, whipped it from its holster and was gripping it firmly before
Gallison could swing about. And swinging about did Gallison no good,
for by that time he was weaponless.
Macklin snapped off the safety catch and fired twice. The first bullet
struck Gallison in the right thigh, wrenching a groan from him, and
dropping him to his knees. Blood spurted, spraying out over the floor.
The second shot, also aimed at Gallison, missed its mark. It went wild,
causing Lynn Prentiss to cry out and clutch at her side. Beneath her
fingers a dull stain grew. She swayed a little, staggered toward the
desk and clung to it, supporting herself with one hand, staring at
Fenton in mute appeal.
Fenton had his own gun out now and was taking careful aim at Macklin,
who was heading for the door. But before he could fire Macklin was out
of the office and was racing down the hall, Gallison's gun still in his
clasp.
Macklin reached the reception desk, and started toward the door of the
outer office. But he never reached the door. A tall, very thin young
man with a sheaf of drawings under his arm had just entered the outer
office and he had heard Lynn's stricken cry.
He was all very confused about everything. But the cry did something
to him, because he recognized Lynn's voice and realized instantly that
something quite terrible had happened.
And when he saw the distraught-looking man come rushing out of the
corridor, with a gun in his hand, he acted on impulse, threw out one
leg and tripped the man up, sending him sprawling. A moment later,
while the man with the gun was still sprawling, another very big
strong-looking man with another gun emerged from the corridor, piled on
top of the man he'd tripped and clobbered him over the head with the
butt of the gun until he gave up trying to rise.
It was all very confusing and hard to understand.