Death Wears a White Gardenia Read online

  "Yet," said Mary Carner, "there's no doubt that some customers had occasion to dislike McAndrew. All sorts of people will take advantage of charge accounts. And an account opened five years ago may still be listed on our books as a good account, while the customer may have become utterly worthless as a credit risk. In these times people may be buying what they can't ever hope to pay for, and it may just have happened that one or two of them have gotten in bad with McAndrew for that."

  "Can those accounts be checked over?" asked the inspector.

  "Naturally. If Blankfort gives permission. Accounts are confidential information and he would have to give permission for us to inspect them. Of course, the store has about a hundred thousand charge customers, but there is certainly a separate section for accounts in arrears. And there is no doubt a file of McAndrew's correspondence. Evelyn Lennon ought to be able to help us there."

  "It's a possibility, but a fairly faint one," Chris said. "And we're not ready to rule out a single one at this time. We've got a bunch of leads but nothing you could put your teeth into."

  "The trouble with this crime," Inspector Heinsheimer complained, "is that there are too damn many possibilities. We've already got two wronged women, a coke sniffing thief, a mysterious business associate, and there were half a hundred people around the store last night after your closing time whom we haven't even talked to. Any one of them may be the person that strangled McAndrew, and none of 'em may be. And in the meantime the murderer may be off to Europe or over the border." He sighed heavily. "A department store's a hell of a place for a murder. It's got too many possibilities. Now you find a feller done in in a saloon, and you know where you're at. The bartender knows everybody, or there's a stool—hanging around who can find out for you. You know who you gotta look for, who you gotta talk to, and what you can do to 'em if you catch 'em. Or if a chippie's shot in a love nest, you know it's an old lover or the new one. But you get a guy like McAndrew in a place like this store, and almost anybody coulda done him in. The one thing we can be pretty sure of—and that won't help the D.A. to get a first degree verdict—is that the guy that killed McAndrew is going to yell self-defense. And he'll probably get away with it—because if you're planning to kill a guy you bring along a weapon. Any weapon. A knife, a gun, a sash weight—unless of course, your hands are so good that you can depend on them. Jeez, I forgot." He picked up the telephone and gave the headquarters number to the operator. "What? What? Well, hold 'em all." He turned away from the phone with a smile on his face: "Well, whaddya know about that? There's a detective for you. Grundzweig tells me they picked up twelve middle aged, brown haired men in dark suits and soft dark hats outside the phone booths at Pennsylvania station and six of them admitted their name was Smith. That's what you call a howdy do."

  "Uh, huh," Chris grunted. "And our little pal is probably calling himself Shlivovitz by this time, and on his way to Palm Beach."

  "Sure," the Inspector agreed. "That Smith's give us the slip and is out of the state already."

  The phone buzzed behind Whittaker. He jumped off the desk and reached for the receiver. "Let me," said Mary Carner. "It might be Bill again."

  It was. To the voice which said, "Is this you, Evelyn?" she answered "Yes," made her voice low and sad, and heard, "This is Bill, Evelyn. What's up? I've been trying to get Mac on the phone all morning. Where is he?" she managed to inject what might pass for a sob into her throat as she replied: "Bill, something's happened to Mac. I can't tell you over the phone. Bill, I've got to see you.... Listen, Bill, one o'clock's my lunch time. Will you meet me at Tony's? I've got to see you. I'll tell you then."

  "Bill Smith," she announced, "doesn't seem to have the faintest idea what's happened to McAndrew."

  "Smart girl," Inspector Heinshemier beamed, "but at least he may know why." He looked at his watch. "You gave us time enough. We got nearly an hour to go through the desk and see if we can get a line on Bill Smith's business."

  He called headquarters again—"Say, let the guys go. None of them's Bill Smith, you dumbkopfs. What'll you say to them? How should I know? Say excuse me—or pleased to meetcha...."

  The sound of a voice raised in anger came to them from McAndrew's private office where the finger-print man was completing his work.

  "I tell you," said the voice, "I won't have this. It's Mr. Blankfort's orders. He can't have the store full of policemen today. This is demoralizing to the whole organization...." ("It's Pursell. It's the general manager," Whittaker whispered to Inspector Heinsheimer.) "You can come back after five o'clock." The voice went on. "After the store's closed, if you have to do this. This is a busy day around here and we can't have our work interfered with because McAndrew got into trouble."

  "But I'm not interfering with anyone," protested the finger-print man. "This office has been locked up. No business is being transacted here."

  "It's Mr. Blankfort's orders. Mr. Blankfort is running this store. Not the police department. Get out."

  The finger-print expert put his things together reluctantly, grumbling under his breath. Pursell watched him a minute to make certain that the man was carrying out instructions, and then he stalked out.

  The finger-print man paused at the door of the little room where the three detectives waited for him. "It's O.K.," he murmured behind his hand. "I got everything. Want anything downstairs?"

  "Wait till I get down," the inspector answered. "I might have something."

  "O.K."

  Stepping on tiptoe, the three detectives followed one another into McAndrew's office.

  "If Pursell says no, he means no," said Whittaker. "Even for me. So let's move fast." He unlocked the center drawer of the desk. "The inspector and I will go through this. Here, Mary, grab the keys and run your eye over the files. Snappy, before he gets back."

  The top drawer of the steel file slid open, the drawer marked A—E. It was crammed with manila folders holding ledger sheets. Mary shuffled them rapidly, one after the other. A light began to burn in her eager face. "Gee," she said to herself softly. "Give me the black book," she whispered. "R.L..A., I.C.C., B.S.B., G.D. Here they are. Grab them quick, Inspector. Wait a minute. What's that other name? Chase. H. G. Chase. No, that's not here. There's no Chase folder."

  "Here. I've got it here! He kept that one in his own locked desk drawer. With his bank books and his personal things. Right, Mary. Grab what you can. Let the rest go for the present. Stop. Here comes Pursell. Shut the drawer."

  The general manager marched into the office. His thin face was livid. "I thought I just told you..." He paused as he saw the detectives. "I beg your pardon, Inspector, I thought your finger-print man was still here." His tone softened, but it was still decisive. "I'm sorry. Mr. Blankfort's very much upset by this whole affair. And he requested me to insist that you postpone this part of your investigation until after the store's closing hours. He wants to avoid, if he can, policemen and detectives going about the building today. As it is, the staff is demoralized, the customers are spreading this terrible news....It's—it's the most dreadful thing that could have happened to us today. Inspector, you'll understand our position. We can't add to the excitement, and must do everything in our power to diminish it."

  "What I don't understand," said the Inspector slowly, "is just this. Does Mr. Blankfort, or does he not, want us to find the murderer of Andrew McAndrew?"

  "Of course he does," Mr. Pursell seemed agitated. "You've misunderstood me entirely. You just don't appreciate our position. Just as soon as the store's closed you can carry on your investigation as freely as you wish. You can make a list of the people you wish to interrogate, the things you wish to have to assist you in your investigation and I give you my word you shall have them after closing time."

  "Uh huh, and by that time, Andrew McAndrew's murderer will be miles from here. Extradition is no cinch, even if you do catch 'em."

  "I'm sorry, Whittaker. I'll trouble you to leave those folders completely undisturbed. They are the confidential files of the
Blankfort Company and they cannot be turned over to the police until the owners of the store have made certain that this information is necessary to the progress of the investigation. And may I have the keys for this office and this desk? Just to be sure Mr. Blankfort's wishes are carried out. At five o'clock, gentlemen, I may be able to turn them over to you again."

  "Well, I'll be goddamned," said Inspector Heinsheimer aloud. "I'll be goddamned. You'd think that we were the crooks, trying to get away with somethin'. Mr. High and Mighty. I'll be goddamned. The worst of it is," he muttered to Whittaker as the three detectives filed out like sheepish children caught behind the barn, "the worst of it is, he's got the right to do this if he wants to."

  CHAPTER XI

  Nellie Donovan, store detective, came down to the basement to deliver to Christopher Whittaker an hysterical fat woman in a mink coat, whom she had caught, beyond a doubt, in the act of slipping into her antelope handbag, without benefit of a sales slip, a fairly expensive pair of jade earrings and an imported marcasite pin. The anteroom before the office of the store detective had taken on the aspect of a convention. Every available seat and foot of standing room was filled with men, women and policemen. Mrs. McAndrew had been joined by two smartly dressed women, whose arms were around her, whose kid gloved hands patted her shoulders sympathetically. Occasionally they glared at Evelyn Lennon who, pale and with downcast eyes, sat opposite them. Irene Gates of the Advertising Department had drawn up a chair next to Evelyn, and behind the two grils slouched a lean, frightened colored man.

  Mazur had to go upstairs for folding chairs, and set them up outside the door for the accommodation of the weeping shoplifter and the detective who had brought her down. But Mary Carner, Whittaker and Inspector Heinsheimer striding through, flushed with anger and impatience, gave them all no more than an abstracted glance.

  "Say," began Reilly of the police force, "these people..."

  "Wise guys..." Joe Swayzey started to say.

  Unheeding, the detectives marched into the private office and slammed its door. Graham Van Namee Hodges was in the chair behind the desk. He started to get up. His face bore a look of satisfaction.

  "Sit still, Judge," Chris told him. "Sit still. I'll take one of these chairs."

  "You're back in a hurry," the District Attorney answered. "Apparently there was nothing to be found upstairs."

  "Haven't the least idea whether there was or wasn't" growled the Inspector. "Your pal Johnny Blankfort wouldn't let us find out. He says we're interfering with his business, and we got to wait till he gets ready to let us solve a murder. Say, if we have to get a court order, there's nothing else to it—we'll get a court order."

  The District Attorney shook his silver head in mock sorrow. "That's too bad. That's quite too bad. But maybe we won't have to trouble him much after all. Captain Haines has called. Our search, I have reason to believe, is near its end. Captain Haines has located a New Rochelle taxicab driver who drove Mrs. McAndrew and a large, heavy set man from Mrs. McAndrew's house to the New York, New Haven and Hartford station at half past nine last night, and saw them board the New York train at 9:25. Isie Horowitz is the taxi driver's name, and he's on his way in. Haines told him to start right away. The same man drove these two people back from the station to the McAndrew house right after midnight. He said he remembered them especially because of the way they behaved in his cab and because he was sure he'd seen Boylan somewhere before and was certain he knew him. And the Addison maid said she was at home all evening, and that Mr. and Mrs. Addison and Mrs. Addison's sister sat around reading magazines and listening to the radio until ten o'clock and then went to bed." He spread his palms in a gesture of finality. "No visitors. No bridge."

  For some reason not clear to him, the three detectives failed to share his elation. They lifted their eyebrows and nodded their heads in acknowledgment of the information, but the District Attorney's news failed to enkindle any visible enthusiasm. They seemed to be people with something on their minds. "All right, Judge, fine," Chris Whittaker said absently, "but let that go for a while. There's something else we want to get cleared up first, while it's fresh in our minds. Now look here, Inspector, I've got McAndrew's bank books. I had them in my pocket before Pursell came in." Chris tossed them on the desk. "I can remember some of what I saw in that folder in McAndrew's top drawer. I don't know how much Mary remembers of what she found in the files, but we ought to try to piece this thing together. This much I saw. H. G. Chase carried an account here. The merchandise purchased on it is sent to Miss Lucille Waverly at 908 West 58th Street and the bills go to him at the Empire City Bank, and all this week, Miss Waverly's been on a shopping spree.

  "Yes," added Mary Carner, "$3,645.50 worth."

  "That was only yesterday." The detective's voice was scornful. "She's been running up bills at the rate of two or three thousand dollars a day all week. Buying as if she was going into business—three of those and four of that. Enough clothes for half a dozen trousseaux. As a sugar daddy old man Chase is in a class by himself."

  "No wonder Andrew got worried."

  "Obviously, that's the credit manager's responsibility," Judge Hodges put in, "and I can see, too, why you, as representatives of the store might be interested in this purchasing phenomenon, but I cannot see what it has to do with the strangulation of the deceased Andrew McAndrew."

  "Possibly nothing—or everything," answered Mary. "But it was the last, or nearly the last thing to occupy Andrew McAndrew's attention before he was killed. His hand wrote Chase's name and totalled up Lucille Waverly's shopping list within the hour of his death."

  "Chase came in to see Blankfort this morning, remember," Whittaker added. "That, too, may mean something, and it may be pure coincidence. It doesn't seem reasonable, however, that if Chase had anything to do with this murder he'd be showing his face around here today."

  "What interests me," said Mary Carner slowly, "is that every one of those folders in McAndrew's locked file represented the same sort of account that Chase had for Lucille Waverly. Robert L. Adams, deliver to Grace Rayburn, Garret Dawes to Muriel de la Tour, I. Charles Cleeman to Peggy Perry...."

  "Kept women!" exclaimed the Inspector.

  "Precisely," Mary echoed. "I'm not particularly surprised that he kept that file in his own office under lock and key. That's a sensible precaution. Most of the men who carry charge accounts here for their mistresses are persons of wealth and social position, and not infrequently of prominence in the community. Usually they are married men. It's essential that bills for purchases of this sort go to the right place and not home to mama, and it's just as important that as few people as possible know about it. You can imagine what an unscrupulous person could do with this information." Mary paused, as if startled by her own statement. "You can imagine! I'll be...No," she shook her head, "it's too preposterous. I won't even mention it."

  "Come across, Mary. Spill it."

  "Well," she said thoughtfully, watching her auditors, "gentlemen, the initials in his little black book matched those names in the files....Inspector, Mr. Whittaker, Judge—I'll put my bottom dollar on it; that's what McAndrew's mysterious business was. He used the information in his confidential file for blackmail.''

  "With Smith as his accomplice." Whittaker's voice squeaked with excitement. "Look here. Here's his savings account. Get out the black book. Mmmmmmm." He ran his eyes up and down the columns of figures. "Here's one. The second of February, 1935, $4,000, I.C.C. Now where's the bank book. Whoopee! February third, $2,000 deposited. The fourth of March—$1,500 from S.L.N. Wait a minute. No. That's not here. Where's the other book? Yep. On March fifth Andrew deposited $750. Fifty-fifty. Wasn't that neat? How d'ya think he fixed it on

  his income tax?"

  "And we have a date for one o'clock with Mr. Bill Smith," Inspector Heinsheimer crowed. "Oh boy, are we getting somewhere. To hell with old lady Pursell and his shush-shush."

  "Has it occurred to you," Judge Hodges put in coldly, "that we're looking fo
r a murderer and not for a blackmailer?"

  "It has," Chris Whittaker answered him, "but has it occurred to you that the blackmail trail may lead us to the murderer?"

  "Judge," Gus Heinsheimer's manner was that of a teacher addressing a slightly backward pupil. "You gotta establish a motive for a crime before you can get very far toward solving it. Any rookie in the police college'll tell you that. And, sweetheart, it helps to get convictions, too."

  The District Attorney pretended that he had not heard the sneer. "It seems to me," he said gently, "that you have no shortage of motives. With two hot-headed women and a cocaine addict sitting on your doorstep you waste all our time...."

  'Listen, Judge Hodges," Heinsheimer told him with a gesture of impatience, "if it's that White Sulphur trip that's eating you, you can just pick up your hat and run along. We'll get on."

  "Oh, I say...that's too rough, Inspector."

  Chris Whittaker lifted his telephone receiver and called a midtown number. "Hello, Anthony," he greeted the voice at the other end of the wire, "this is Whittaker at Blankfort's. I'm fine. How're you? That's good. And the missus? And the kiddies? That's great. Listen, Anthony, I want you to do something for me. I want some information in a hurry. Get me a line on H. G. Chase of the Empire City Bank. What he does there. How much he makes. Is he married. Where does he live. How fast can you get it? What? Sure I'll hold the wire. You're getting better and better, kid. (That's speed for you. That's the kind of boy to have at a central bureau. He's calling up on another wire.)" Chris beat a tattoo on his desk with his pencil. Mary Carner and Inspector Heinsheimer fidgeted on their chairs. "Yeah, Anthony. Go slow. I'm writing it down. Horace Greeley Chase, Vice-President Empire City Bank. What number? I mean what number vice-president? They got more vice-presidents than we got shoplifters today. He's one of the bottom ones. Yeah, $7,500 a year. Married. Three children. Lives over in New Jersey. What's the address? Much obliged, Anthony. What's that? Yeah. We did. McAndrew, the credit manager. Yes, it's too bad. I guess it's spread around town. Thanks a lot, Anthony. G'bye." He hung up the receiver and turned to his waiting colleagues. "Say, that man Chase didn't make enough money to keep the Waverly girl in silk stockings."