As Special Investigator Dundee drove through the city of Hamilton at a
speed of sixty miles an hour, his way being cleared by traffic policemen
warned by the shrill official siren which served him as a horn, he had
little time to think connectedly of the fact that Nita Selim had been
murdered during a bridge game in her rented home in Primrose Meadows.
Even after the broad sleekness of Sheridan Road stretched before him he
could do little more than try to realize the shock which had numbed
him.... "Lovely Nita," as the society editor of _The Morning News_ had
called her, was--_dead_! How, why, he did not know. He had asked no
details of Penny Crain.... Funny, thorny little Penny! Loyal little
Penny!
"Judge Marshall has telephoned Police Headquarters," she had told him
breathlessly over the telephone, "but I made him let me call you as soon
as he had hung up. I wanted _our_ office to be in on this right from the
first."
Beautiful, seductive Nita Selim, almost cuddling under his arm within
three minutes of meeting him--_dead_! A vision of her black-pansy eyes,
so wide and luminous and wistful as they had looked sideways and upward
to his, pleading for him to join her after-bridge cocktail party, nearly
made him crash into a lumbering furniture van. Those eyes were luminous
no longer, could never again snap the padlocks of slave chains upon any
man--as Penny had expressed it.... Dead! And she had been so warmly
alive, even as she had retreated from him at his mention of the fact
that he was attached to the office of the district attorney as a special
investigator. What had she feared then? Was her death a payment for some
recent or long-standing crime? Or had she simply been withdrawing from
contamination with a "flat-foot"?... No! She had been _afraid_--horribly
afraid of some ulterior purpose behind his innocent courtesy in driving
Penelope Crain to Breakaway Inn.
Well, speculation now was idle, he told himself, as he noted that his
speedometer had dropped from sixty to thirty in his preoccupation. He
speeded again, but was soon forced to stop and ask his way into Primrose
Meadows. The vague directions of a farmer's son lost him nearly eight
precious minutes, during which his friend, Captain Strawn of the
Homicide Squad, might be bungling things rather badly. But at last he
found the ornate pair of pillars spanned by the painted legend,
"Primrose Meadows," and drove through them into what soon became a
rutted lane. Almost a quarter of a mile from the entrance he found the
isolated house, unmistakable because of the line-up of private cars
parked before the short stretch of paved sidewalk, and the added
presence of police cars and motorcycles.
Dundee turned his own car into the driveway leading from the street
along the right side of the house toward the two-car garage in the rear.
Ahead of his roadster were two other cars, and a glance toward the open
garage showed that a Ford coupe was housed there.
As he was descending Captain Strawn's voice hailed him from an open
window of the room nearest the garage.
"Hello, Bonnie! Been expecting you.... Damnedest business you ever
saw.... There's a door from this room onto the porch. Hop up and come on
in."
Dundee obeyed. Driving in he had noted that a wide porch, upheld by
round white pillars, stretched across the front of the gabled brick
house and extended halfway along its right side, past a room which was
obviously a solarium, with its continuous windows, gay awnings,
and--visible through the glittering panes--orange-and-black wicker
furniture.
It was easy to swing himself up to the floor of the porch. Strawn flung
open the door which led into the back room, remarking with a grin:
"Don't be afraid I'm gumming up any fingerprints. Carraway has already
been over the room.... The Selim woman's bedroom," he explained. "The
room she was killed in."
"You _have_ been on the job," Dundee complimented his former chief.
"Sure!" Strawn acknowledged proudly. "Can't be too quick on our stumps
when it's one of these 'high sassiety' murders. Dr. Price will be here
any minute now, and my men have been all over the premises, basement to
attic. Of course it was an outside job--plain as the nose on your
face--and we haven't found a trace of the murderer."
Although Mrs. Selim had taken the house furnished, it was obvious that
this big bedroom of hers was not exactly as the Crain family had left
it. A little too pretty, a little too aggressively feminine, with its
chaise longue heaped with silk and lace pillows, its superfluity of big
and little lamps, its bed draped with golden-yellow taffeta, its
dressing table--
But he could not let critical eyes linger on the triple-mirrored vanity
dresser. For on the bench before it sat a tiny figure, the head bowed so
low that some of the black curls had fallen into a large open bowl of
powder. She was no longer wearing the brown silk summer coat whose open
front had given him a glimpse of pale yellow chiffon.
He saw the dress now, a low-cut, sleeveless, fluffy affair, but he
really had eyes only for the brownish-red hole on the left side of the
back of the bodice, about halfway between shoulder and waist--a waist so
small he could have spanned it with his two hands, including its band of
fuchsia velvet ribbon. There also had been a bow of fuchsia velvet
ribbon on the lace and straw hat she had swung so charmingly less than
five hours ago.
"Shot through the heart, I guess," Strawn commented. "Took a good
marksman to find her heart, shooting her through the back.... Funny
thing, too. Nobody heard the shot--leastways none of that crowd penned
up in the living room will admit they did. They'll all hang together,
and lie like sixty to keep us from finding out anything that might point
to one of _their_ precious bunch! But if a gun with a Maxim silencer
_was_ used, as it must have been if that whole crew ain't lying, the
gunman musta been _good_, because you can't sight with a Maxim screwed
onto a rod, you know."
"Have your men found the gun?" Dundee asked.
"Of course not, or I'd know whether it had a Maxim on it or not," Strawn
retorted. "My theory is," he added impressively, "that somebody with a
grudge against this dame hired a gunman to hang around till he got her
dead to rights, then--plop!" and he imitated the soft, thudding sound
made by the discharge of a bullet from a gun equipped with a silencer.
"Doesn't it seem rather strange that a professional gunman should have
chosen such a time--with men arriving in cars, and the house full of
women who might wander into this room at any minute--to bump off his
victim?" Dundee asked.
"Well, there ain't no other explanation," Captain Strawn contended.
"Outside of the fact that my men have gone over the whole house and
grounds without finding the gun, I've got other evidence it was an
outside job.... Look!"
Dundee followed the Chief of the Homicide Squad to one of the two
windows that looked out upon the driveway. Both were open, since the May
day was exceptionally warm, even for the Middle West. The unscreened
window from which he obediently leaned was almost directly in line with
the vanity dressing-table across the room.
"Look! See how them vines have been torn," Strawn directed, pointing to
a rambler rose which hugged the outside frame of the window. "And look
hard enough at the flower bed down below and you'll see his
footprints.... Of course we've measured them and Cain, as you see, is
guarding them till my man comes to make plaster casts of them.... Yes,
sir, he hoisted himself up to the window ledge, aimed as best he could,
then slipped down and beat it across the meadow."
"Then," Dundee began slowly, "I wonder why Mrs. Selim didn't see that
figure crouched in the window, since she must have been powdering her
face and looking into the middle of the three mirrors--the one which
reflects this very window?"
"How do you know she was powdering her face, not looking for something
in a drawer?" Strawn demanded truculently.
"For three reasons," Dundee answered almost apologetically. "First: her
powder puff, as I'm sure you noticed, is still clutched in her right
hand; second: there is no drawer open, and no drawer _was_ open, unless
someone has closed it since the murder, whereas on the other hand her
powder box _is_ open; third: the left side of her face is unevenly
coated with powder, while the other is heavily but _evenly_ powdered.
Therefore I can't see why she didn't scream, or turn around when she
heard your gunman clambering up to her window, or even when he had
crouched in it. I don't see how she could _help_ seeing him!"
"Well--what do _you_ think?" Strawn asked sourly, after he had tested
the visibility of the window from the dressing-table mirror.
"I'm afraid, Captain Strawn, that there are only two explanations
possible. The first, of course, is that Nita Selim was quite deaf or
very nearsighted. I happen to know from having met her today--"
"_You_ met her today?" Strawn interrupted incredulously.
Dundee explained briefly, then went on: "As I was saying I have good
reason to know she was not deaf, but I can't say as to her being
nearsighted, except that it is my observation that people who are
extremely nearsighted do not have very wide eyes and no creases between
the brows. I am fairly sure she did not wear glasses at all, because
glasses worn even a few hours a day leave a mark across the nose or show
pinched red spots on each side of the bridge of the nose."
"You must have had a good hard look at her," Strawn gibed, his grey eyes
twinkling, and his harsh, thin-lipped mouth pulling down at one corner
in what he thought was a genial smile.
"I did," Dundee retorted. "Well, conceding that she was neither deaf nor
half-blind, she would necessarily have heard and seen her assailant
before he shot her."
"What's the other explanation?" Strawn was becoming impatient.
"That the person who killed her was so well known to her, and his--or
her--presence in this room so natural a thing that she paid no attention
to his or her movements and was concentrating on the job of powdering
her very pretty face."
"You mean--one of that gang of society folks in there?" and Strawn
jerked a thumb toward the left side of the house.
"Very probably," Dundee agreed.
"But where's the gun?" Strawn argued. "I tell you my men--"
"This was a premeditated murder, of course," Dundee interrupted. "The
Maxim silencer--unless they are all lying about not hearing a
shot--proves that. Silencers are damned hard to get hold of, but people
with plenty of money can manage most things. And since the murder was
premeditated, it is better to count on the fact that the murderer--or
murderess--had planned a pretty safe hiding place for the gun and the
silencer.... Oh, not necessarily in the house or even near the house,"
he hastened to assure Strawn, who was trying to break in.... "By the
way, how long after Mrs. Selim was killed was her death discovered? Or
do you know?"
"I haven't been able to get much out of that bunch in there--not even
out of Penelope Crain, who ought to be willing to help, seeing as how
she works for the district attorney. But I guess she's waiting to spill
it all to you, if she knows anything, so you and Sanderson will get all
the credit."
"Now, look here, chief," Dundee protested, laying a hand on Strawn's
shoulder as he reverted to the name by which he had addressed the head
of the Homicide Squad for nearly a year, "we're going to be friends,
aren't we? Same as always? We know pretty well how to work together,
don't we? No use to begin pulling against each other."
"Guess so," Strawn growled, but he was obviously pleased and relieved.
"Maybe you'd better have a crack at that crowd yourself. I hear Doc
Price's car--always has a bum spark plug. I'll stick around with him
until he gets going good on his job; then, if you'll excuse me for
butting in, I'll join your party in the living room.... And good luck to
you, Bonnie!"
Dundee took the door he knew must lead into the central hall, but found
himself in an enclosed section of it--a small foyer between the main
hall and Nita Selim's bedroom. There was room for a telephone table and
its chair, as well as for a small sofa, large enough for two to sit upon
comfortably. He paused to open the door across from the telephone table
and found that it opened into a closet, whose hangers and hat forms now
held the outdoor clothing belonging to Nita's guests. Nice clothes--the
smart but unostentatious hats and coats of moneyed people of good taste,
he observed a little enviously, before he opened the door which led into
the main hall which bisected the main floor of the house until it
reached Nita's room.
Another door in the section behind the staircase leading to the gabled
second story next claimed his attention. Opening it, he discovered a
beautifully fitted guests' lavatory. There was even a fully appointed
dressing-table for women's use, so that none of her guests had had the
slightest excuse to invade the privacy of Mrs. Selim's bedroom and bath,
unless specifically invited to do so. Rather a well planned house, this,
Dundee concluded, as he closed the door upon the green porcelain
fixtures, and walked slowly toward the wide archway that led from the
hall into a large living room.
He had a curious reluctance to intrude upon that assembled and guarded
company of Hamilton's "real society." They were all Penny's friends, and
Penny was _his_ friend....
But his first swift, all-seeing glance about the room reassured him. No
hysterics here. These people brought race and breeding even into the
presence of death. Whatever emotions had torn them when Nita Selim's
body was discovered were almost unguessable now. A stout, short woman of
about thirty was tapping a foot nervously, as she talked to the man who
was bending over her chair. John C. Drake, that was. Dundee had met him,
knew him to be a vice president of the Hamilton National Bank, in charge
of the trust department. Penelope Crain was occupying half of a
"love-seat" with Lois Dunlap, the hands of the girl and of the woman
clinging together for mutual comfort. That tall, thin, oldish man, with
the waxed grey mustache, must be Judge Hugo Marshall, and the pretty
girl leaning trustingly against his shoulder must be his wife--Karen
Marshall, who had jumped at her first proposal during her first season.
"Yes, well-bred people," he concluded, as his eyes swept on, and then
stopped, a little bewildered. Who was _that_ man? He didn't belong
somehow, and his hands trembled visibly as he tried to light a
cigarette. Leaning--not nonchalantly, but actually for support--against
the brocaded coral silk drapes of a pair of wide, long windows set in
the east wall. Suddenly Dundee had it.... Broadway! This was no
Hamiltonian, no comfortably rich and socially secure Middle-westerner.
Broadway in every line of his too-well-tailored clothes, in the polished
smoothness of his dark hair....
"Why, it's Mr. Dundee at last!" Penny cried, turning in the S-shaped
seat before he had time to finish his mental inventory of the room's
occupants.
She jumped to her feet and threaded a swift way over Oriental rugs and
between the two bridge tables, still occupying the center of the big
room, still cluttered with score pads, tally cards, and playing cards.
"I've been wondering if you had stopped to have dinner first," she
taunted him. Then, laying a hand on his arm, she faced the living room
eagerly. "This is Mr. Dundee, folks--special investigator attached to
the district attorney's office, and a grand detective. He solved the
Hogarth murder case, you know, and the Hillcrest murder. And he's _my_
friend, so I want you all to trust him--and tell him things without
being afraid of him."
Then, rather ceremoniously but swiftly, she presented her friends--Judge
and Mrs. Hugo Marshall, Mr. and Mrs. Tracey Miles, Mr. and Mrs. John C.
Drake, Mrs. Dunlap, Janet Raymond, Polly Beale, Clive Hammond, and--
At that point Penny hesitated, then rather stiffly included the
"Broadway" man, as "Mr. Dexter Sprague--of New York."
"Thank you, Miss Crain," Dundee said. "Now will you please tell me, if
you know, whether all those invited to both the bridge party and the
cocktail party are here?"
Penny's face flamed. "Ralph Hammond, Clive's brother, hasn't come
yet.... I--I rather imagine I've been 'stood up,'" she confessed, with a
faint attempt at gayety.
And Ralph Hammond was the man who had once belonged rather exclusively
to Penny, and who, according to her own confession, had succumbed most
completely to Nita Selim's charms!--Dundee noted, filing the reflection
for further reference.
"Please, Mr. Dundee, won't you detain us as short a time as possible?"
Lois Dunlap asked, as she advanced toward him. "Mr. Dunlap is away on a
fishing trip, and I don't like to leave my three youngsters too long.
They are really too much of a handful for the governess, over a period
of hours."
"I shall detain all of you no longer than is absolutely necessary,"
Dundee told her gently, "but I am afraid I must warn you that I can't
let you go home very soon--unless one or more of you has something of
vital importance to tell--something which will clear up or materially
help to clear up this bad business."
He paused a long half-minute, then asked curtly: "I am to conclude that
no one has anything at all to volunteer?"
There was no answer, other than a barely perceptible drawing together in
self-defence of the minds and hearts of those who had been friends for
so long.
"Very well," Dundee conceded abruptly. "Then I must put all of you
through a routine examination, since every one of you is, of course, a
possible suspect."