Death Wears a White Gardenia Read online

  "I don't know."

  "Oh God, I can't. God help me."

  CHAPTER VI

  Mary Carner had scarcely started up to the eighth floor, before three of the small blue-green roadsters of the police department, one following the other, rolled to the curb beside the 47th Street entrance to the Blankfort store, parked in a line which completely blocked the fire plug and delivery entrance. They arrived with a fanfare of sirens and brakes which brought hopeful spectators racing like leaves blown by the wind. The crowd assembled in time to see, emerging from a taxicab, the portly person of Dr. Leo Martin, the Medical Examiner, and a stenographer and two photographers from headquarters, and to note the arrival of a black departmental limousine from which stepped Inspector Augustus Heinsheimer of the Homicide Bureau, and two plain clothes detectives of his staff, a uniformed policeman, and a finger-print expert. No sooner had these men stepped inside the entrance than another cab rolled up, bringing a genteel little old man, former Judge Graham Van Namee Hodges, District Attorney of New York County, an assistant D.A. and a stenographer.

  Old Tom, the watchman, saw the police force assembling in the back of the store and the crowd of spectators enlarging. He ran to Whittaker's office.

  "My God, Chris," he panted. "The whole force is here. Millions of 'em. What'll we do?"

  Whittaker arose at once. "Cops," he muttered. Tell 'em you want a thing kept quiet and they get up a mass meeting. Mazur, you stay here with these two fellows. I have to stop those idiots before they bring in the police band."

  The men from headquarters formed the nucleus of a good sized assemblage in the narrow passage behind the silk lingerie department—a large and noisy crowd, which grew momentarily as word spread through the back of the store that the law had arrived and things were going to begin to happen. Inspector Heinsheimer, by virtue of his position and bulk, was in front of the sightseeing expedition, and the Medical Examiner and the District Attorney had the places immediately behind him. The Inspector had thrust aside the screen and they all stared without speaking upon the rigid figure in the compartment.

  The Inspector nodded to Chris Whittaker. "He's dead all right," he said.

  "You could have taken my word for it," the detective answered. He looked belligerently over the crowd of policemen, detectives, police stenographers, and photographers. "I told Reilly we wanted this handled quietly, and he brings in a regiment. Don't you lads know what discretion is? We've got a big sale on, and a party upstairs with the Governor's wife. All the crowds we can handle already without any extras."

  Inspector Heinsheimer chuckled. "Keep your shirt on, Chris. We'll thin 'em out as soon as we know what's what. The Commissioner's out of town. Went up to Buffalo for his brother-in-law's funeral. He won't be in 'til late tonight."

  "That's a break," said Whittaker, "or we'd a had to hire Madison Square Garden for this meeting. Only one man's dead. It's not a massacre."

  The wheels of routine began to move.

  A photographer's flash bulb startled the dim passageway. Andrew McAndrew's last photographs were taken, full face, left profile and right side. The finger-print man took over next, spreading his powder carefully on the sides and available walls of the cubicle that contained McAndrew's body. The group watched him intently as he moved to the door which separated the passageway from the underwear department, and blew his powder over the door knob and wooden panels. "Too many prints," he said sadly.

  "Sure," Chris Whittaker put in. "This is a public passageway. People go through here. They open the door. And they close it." He turned to the Inspector, "I don't think your print man's going to do much good. Too many people come and go through that door all day. You'd have to print the whole store and plenty others besides to get anywhere."

  "If we have to print 'em all, we'll print 'em all," Inspector Heinsheimer said curtly. "It's routine. You never know what you're going to turn up, and it's worth taking the chance. You done with this compartment, Zanetti? O.K. Let's get the body out. A man's got a right to lay down after he's dead."

  Two patrolmen stepped forward. One seized McAndrew's body by the shoulder, another by the knees. It held fast.

  "Tight as a drum," commented the Inspector. "The fellow that shoved him in was no peanut. This lad must weigh close to two hundred."

  Get the carpenter, Tom," Whittaker instructed the watchman. "We'll have to take down the wall."

  "That's better," Inspector Heinsheimer turned to the two detectives who had accompanied him. "Levine, you and O'Connor go through." He waved his arm to take in the passageways and the space beyond the partition. "Give me the layout, Chris."

  A stenographer took out his notebook. Chris Whittaker began:

  "The entrance back there through which you came in is used only for merchandise. Deliveries coming and going out. There's a counter there and a ramp for trucks to back onto. We receive merchandise up to three o'clock, and from three to seven outgoing deliveries of customers' merchandise are loaded on our trucks. After seven that entrance is locked. A metal shutter, bolted from inside. Salesmen coming into the store with samples also use that entrance and these stalls have been put up to accommodate them. They sometimes leave sample cases and bundles here when they have to come back for a later appointment, or when they carry several lines. A watchman's on duty at the entrance all day and he's supposed to keep an eye on the salesmen's stuff too. This door in front leads into the main selling floor. That passage at the left ends at the salesmen's and freight elevators. Back of the partition on this side are tables on which incoming merchandise is opened and examined. The stock rooms are in the basement, just below here. The employees' entrance is on the 46th Street side and the employees' lockers are in the basement where my office is located. There's a staircase to the basement down at the end on the other side. Got the set-up? O.K. Now, the store was a little late opening up this morning on account of some special ceremonies at the Fifth Avenue entrance. It opened about 9:25, and about 9:32 a salesman named Ginsburg, who said he had an appointment with the infant's wear buyer, found English Joe Swayzey—I got him downstairs. Has a record. Larceny and narcotics—here with the body. Swayzey was trying to get away and ran into my arms. He hasn't given an explanation yet of what he was doing here, but one of our stock boys says he saw Swayzey in this very passage at about five o'clock yesterday. Just before the store closed."

  "How many people use this passage?"

  "Not a lot. The employees come in on the other side of the building, go down to the basement to put away their things and they take the employees' elevators on the 46th Street side to get upstairs. Of course there's a lavatory for employees down the passage to the left. But clerks coming in from the store to use it would have no need to go down this passage. They just turn left at the door. Understand? The particular spot where McAndrew was tucked away is cut off when you open the door, and the corner's so dark anyway that you wouldn't be apt to see this bunk unless you were looking for it. He might've stayed there till he smelled bad and nobody'd been the wiser, if Swayzey hadn't come around. That," he said slowly, "is what makes me think that the person who killed McAndrew was familiar with the store."

  "Would this Swayzey, for instance, know this place?"

  "Swayzey. Yes. He's the type of shoplifter who knows department stores like a book. A prowler, we call him. Comes in late and hides until the store is closed. Picks out his stuff and hides it in a suitcase or bundle till morning, when he can walk out without being stopped. A spot like this is perfect for him. It's dark and convenient, see. If Swayzey came in to get a suitcase today, which isn't unlikely, there ought to be a piece of luggage around. I see a couple of sample cases in these booths. We can trace them pretty fast. See what they have in them. Find out who put them there and when. Might tell us something. But there's something else that's important. There were quite a number of people in the store last night, trimming windows, fixing displays and getting stuff ready for the anniversary today. That number included window trimmers, decorators, p
orters, cleaning women, watchmen and store executives. The advertising department worked late. There was a meeting of the directors upstairs until about half past nine. I was here myself until about half past ten, and I can say right now that I didn't see or hear anything that has a bearing on this matter. I'll have a list drawn up right away and we can check on every person who was here to find out what they saw or heard, if anything."

  "Any chance of outsiders getting in last night?"

  "Not unless they were admitted by the watchman or one of the store's employees or were hiding here. The Fifth Avenue entrance was the only one used last night The night watchman was on duty there. Oh, Mike," he turned toward a man in overalls who had come up with a metal tool kit. "We want that wall taken down. Carefully as you can. Don't break the wood. Take it easy."

  "That's no trouble at all, Mr. Whittaker. Couple of nails out, and she'll come down. These closets are just slapped together. Just watch me."

  "Got a stretcher?" asked the Medical Examiner.

  "Use the screen," suggested the Inspector. "It'll hold 'til you carry him inside and put him on one of those tables."

  A swift jerk of the carpenter's tool and the upper part of the partition came away. The body fell forward. A policeman caught it on the folded screen, bracing the screen and its burden with his heavy shoulders.

  "Inspector's right," he said. "It was no baby that shoved that feller in."

  "You fellows," Chris Whittaker gestured toward the fringe of stock clerks, "get back to your work." He mopped his forehead. "Gee," he said, "this is a hell of a thing to happen. How we'll get any work done here today I don't know."

  Inspector Heinsheimer glanced at him quickly: "Say, do you lads ever think of anything besides the store? For instance, like—why would anybody want to choke that guy."

  "I haven't any more idea than you have, right now," Whittaker answered. "McAndrew was our credit manager. He's been here seven years. He was, as far as I know, well liked and respected. A married man. I can't say whether he had any enemies here. But he was in a position to make them, understand? Of course I had more contact with him than most people in the store. After all, our jobs were pretty much alike. We both had to watch out for crooks, trying to gyp the store. And maybe some of those he spotted didn't like him any better than they like me." He shrugged his shoulders—" Maybe they'll get me next."

  The police Inspector had gone down on his knees and was thrusting the bright beam of a flashlight into the corners of the cubicle where Andrew McAndrew's body had stood. In the far corners it lit up little heaps of dust and rubbish, picked out a crumpled, trampled, yellow cigarette package, a ball of tin foil, a bit of string. The center of the little booth was clean. Heinsheimer scraped the rubbish up carefully with a card and dropped it into an envelope. Chris Whittaker smiled as he watched him.

  "That's been there for years," he said. "You can't make a case out of it."

  "Say, feller, even if I was sure it wouldn't help none, I'd take it anyway. It's habit. First class scavenger, I turned out to be."

  He stood up and began to brush himself off. Clinging to the smooth woolen surface of his trousers there were fine white particles. Bending to shake them off, he paused, wrinkling his brow. He picked off a single crumb. "Uh-huh," he growled. He brushed the white fragments carefully down to the ground. "You're trampling clues under your feet, Gus," he said to himself. He swept the floor with his beam. Under the edge of the cubicle it found for him a tiny uncrushed segment of what had once been a pearl button. He crawled cautiously, illumining the path before his awkward knees, around the side of the booth. There was a look of satisfaction on his face when he rose again. He held a whole pearl button to which clung a shred of white cloth.

  Chris Whittaker and the District Attorney crowded close to him.

  "Ripped off a shirt," exclaimed the District Attorney. Then the struggle must have taken place right here. The murder must have been committed right here. The murderer must have torn it off and it dropped here. I noted especially that McAndrew's collar was open and his necktie gone."

  "We haven't," put in Whittaker, "found any tie yet."

  "Levine and O'Connor may turn it up," Inspector Heinsheimer answered. "All we got now is a button and a quarter. That ain't a hell of a lot to solve a murder mystery with. Let's go."

  The Medical Examiner was waiting for them. Stretched out on a wide stock table, behind the partition, Andrew McAndrew's body looked somewhat less horrible. Indeed, the dead man, lying there, would have seemed almost relaxed had it not been for his darkened and distorted features.

  "He's probably been dead about twelve hours," said Dr. Martin. "The rigidity of the body—it's stiff as marble—would indicate that he died some time after nine o'clock last night, not much less than twelve hours ago. His right hand's clenched, see. It's tight as a drum. We'll have to work it open. Death apparently resulted from strangulation. There are no bruises except those on the throat. Of course there may be something else in the brain and viscera. Or a contributory heart condition. I'd like the body sent down for autopsy as soon as possible."

  Chris Whittaker bent over the corpse. "Your button, button game isn't so hot," he said. "There's no button missing from McAndrew's shirt. It's a soft collar type. The collar's open, but the shirt's not torn and the buttons are intact."

  Inspector Heinsheimer's studious glance followed his. He raised an eyebrow. "The other guy got mussed up, too," he said laconically.

  "What's that baby got in his fist?" he demanded. He lifted up the rigid arm, and with obvious difficulty began to separate the knotted fingers. The little group watched him with tense curiosity. One by one the clutching fingers yielded. A white flower dropped softly on the table. As it fell, a waxen petal separated itself from the blossom and drifted softly to the floor.

  "Hm," the Inspector grunted. "Our friend's carrying flowers to his own funeral. It's a pretty gesture." He held the crushed flower on the palm of his hand, lifted it to his nostrils. "Still has a little odor," he commented. "Like a funeral parlor. A gardenia. A white gardenia, it was, before he squished the life out of it."

  "A gardenia!" Chris Whittaker echoed. There was a lilt of relief in his voice.

  The Inspector caught the inflection. He turned quickly. "Anybody in this store wear gardenias?" he asked. "Don't your managers—your floorwalkers, wear white gardenias?"

  "Carnations. Carnations," Chris Whittaker answered quickly.

  "White carnations. Everyday. Except today. Today they're wearing golden roses. Never gardenias."

  Inspector Heinsheimer dropped the flower into another envelope and turned to the dead man's left hand. It was a plump, well-kept hand, carefully manicured, the first three fingers faintly tinged with yellow. Methodically, he examined finger after finger, nail after nail.

  "See what I see, Chris?" he exulted. Chris peered closely and saw that the fingers were slightly bent as if clutching the air. Caught into the nails of the index and middle fingers were shreds of dark blue silk. "Get ready for a self-defense," Heinsheimer said to the District Attorney. "The other guy got to the windpipe first." He scraped the silken strands carefully from the gripping nails. "We just gotta look for a man with a white broadcloth shirt with two buttons missing, and a torn dark blue silk tie. A man who likes gardenias. Perfectly simple." He sighed. "The well dressed man is wearing white broadcloth and navy blue this spring a whole lot, ain't he, Chris? And gardenias are in style."

  If there had in fact been a struggle before his death, Andrew McAndrew's clothing gave no further indication of it. His sack suit of dark gray cloth was unruffled. His trousers still bore their crease, and there was no dust or dirt in them or on his coat. "Either," the Inspector said, "he didn't drop to the floor, or his killer tidied him up."

  From the dead man's vest pocket they took a mottled green fountain pen and a matching mechanical pencil; from his wrist a white gold watch with metal strap, still ticking, crystal unbroken; from his coat pocket a silver cigarette case and a light
er; from his shirt sleeves, white gold links, engraved with the initial M—personal property, signifying nothing except good taste and money to spend. The trouser pockets yielded more: two linen handkerchiefs, a bunch of keys, a black leather wallet. The wallet was definitely interesting. Andrew McAndrew, the detectives found, had carried on his person a sizeable amount of money. His slayer had left behind five hundred dollars in crisp new bills of large denominations. There was, in addition to the money, the card of a tailor, a liquor shop, a restaurant, an automobile owner's and operator's license, the card, provided by a life insurance company "in case of accident notify," and a little black book. It was a small leather bound book, thin, no more than three by two inches. Its pages were ruled and covered with initials and numbers. Inspector Heinsheimer glanced at them thoughtfully and passed the book to the District Attorney without comment.

  "Got a list of all this stuff?" he asked the police stenographer. "Right. we'll take it along. Cover him up, Martin. Come on down to Whittaker's office. His wife been notified? All right. I don't want him moved before she gets here. And I want to get a look at your friend English Joe before we go any further."

  CHAPTER VII

  Chris Whittaker glanced up impatiently as Mary came into his office with Evelyn Lennon. "I told you to make it snappy," he said sharply. "Half a day's gone. When's Blankfort coming?"

  "Take it easy," Mary answered. "He'll be down soon."

  The little office was crowded to suffocation. Inspector Heinsheimer sat beside the desk, a police stenographer at his elbow. The Medical Examiner lolled on one of the chairs near the wall, and next to him was the District Attorney. Two uniformed policemen stood at the door. Joe Swayzey, in a straight backed chair at Whittaker's left, looking cowed and pale, drummed nervously on the desk top. Beside him was the talkative young salesman from Cohen and Weinawitz.