Stephen Barr - Best of the best detective stories - 25th anniversary collection

So far so good, thought Lieutenant Trant.

The elevator reached the top floor. They got out to face a single door. The girl started to fumble in her pocketbook again.

“So you live here, too,” said Trant.

“I moved in when George moved out. I’m a bodyguard. Hasn’t Marna mentioned me? I’m Joan.”

“George’s sister.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not on George’s side?”

“About the divorce?” Joan Hyde turned. “Are you kidding?”

“I never kid,” said Lieutenant Trant. “I am a very sedate young man.”

Joan Hyde had found the key. “I don’t imagine Mama’s home yet but come in and have a drink.”

“I’d like to very much.”

She opened the door, chattering: “I’ve just been to that French movie with Barrault and Arletty. It’s quite wonderful, but at the beginning I never dreamed he wouldn’t get her at the end. Why are foreign movies always so gloomy?”

Trant followed her into a charmingly casual living room. His trained eye saw several very valuable pieces.

Joan Hyde said: “It’s nothing much. They wanted a hangout in New York and Marna brought up some of the junk from their Long Island attic. I’ll rustle up a drink. Sit down.”

As the girl disappeared into the kitchen, Trant moved to a small Chippendale breakfront desk, reflecting that anyone who had “junk” like this in a Long Island attic had no financial problems. On the desk he saw what he hoped he would see. Beside a portable typewriter, there was a pile of unused Big Pal envelopes; a pile of form letters; a mimeographed list of addresses; and a second neat pile of letters which had been addressed on the typewriter and stamped ready for mailing.

He glanced at the name on the top and saw that a Mr. and Mrs. LeRoy Jones of Seventy-eighth Street were about to be urged to take an interest in delinquent boys. He had just enough time to glance at the letter below which was for a Mrs. Samuel Katzenbach when he heard Joan returning and dropped into a chair.

“I’m afraid there’s only rye.” Joan Hyde appeared with a tray. “After having put up with George for so long, Marna and I are a little cautious about alcohol.” She put the tray down and glanced at him curiously. “I suppose you do know what I’m talking about? You’re not someone who’s come to look at the plumbing, are you?”

“I was never good with my hands,” said Lieutenant Trant.

Joan made drinks and chattered on. As Trant listened, the situation became increasingly clear. Marna had married George. George was a drunk. Marna had met Eddie. Marna had wanted a divorce. The drunken George had made terrible scenes; at one time he had drunkenly tried to kill Marna. Joan, entirely sympathetic with her sister-in-law, had moved in as protection.

“It’s dreary,” meditated Joan. “You can’t help feeling fond of your own brother, but George is quite frightening. And he still has a key. I’m always telling Marna she should get the lock changed. But she’s always putting it off. I...”

Trant was losing interest. In spite of the fascinating accident which had made him conscious of it, this was basically a trite situation. A wealthy alcoholic with a temper; probably a frivolous wife.

His thought train snapped because a noise had come from the room, presumably a bedroom, behind Joan. It was a very slight sound but enough to tell him someone was there.

He glanced at his watch. “Five-ten. Marna made a fuss about my being on time. You don’t suppose she’s in the bedroom? Maybe asleep?”

Joan put her drink down. “I strenuously doubt it. Want me to look?”

“Would you?”

A newspaper lay on the arm of Trant’s chair. To feign indifference he picked it up and glanced at it. It had been turned to a review of the opening of the circus. He looked down the columns.

Joan Hyde reached the bedroom door. She opened it. She gasped. “Marna!”

Instantly Trant ran to her side. Oblivious of him, Joan took a step into the room. Trant followed. A blonde girl in a black dress sat huddled on one of the twin beds. Her hair tumbled in disorder around her beautiful but stricken face. Fantastically she was wearing white suede gloves and over the knuckles of the right hand glove stretched a red damp stain.

Joan ran to her. “Marna, what’s the matter?”

Trant gazed as if hypnotized at the red stain. Marna turned to look at him from blank eyes.

“Joan, tell that man to go.”

“But, Marna, he has a date with you.”

“Tell him to go away.”

Trant took a step forward, his eyes darting about the room. He passed the foot of the bed. He moved toward the window.

Marna jumped up and screamed: “No, no.”

He came to the second bed. He looked down at the area of carpet between the bed and the window. Sprawled on his stomach was the body of a young man. A revolver lay on the floor close to him.

The back of his head had been shot away. He was dead. There was no doubt about that.

Joan came running to Trant’s side. “George!” she cried. “Oh, Marna, he tried to attack you again. He...”

Trant turned to Marna Hyde. She stood quite still. She was as lovely as he could have wanted her to be.

Rather sadly he said: “Since you bought the gun, Mrs. Hyde, I suppose you felt you should get your money’s worth.”

Both the girls were staring at him.

He added: “By the way, do you always wear gloves in the house?”

“She has a milk allergy.” It was Joan who spoke. “Her hands broke out again this afternoon. She always wears gloves when it’s bad. But — who are you? Why are you here?”

Trant shrugged. “I’m sorry to give you such good service. I’m from the Homicide Bureau.” He took Mama’s elbow. “Shall we move into the next room?”

Marna let him guide her into the living room. She dropped into a chair. Joan Hyde came after them.

“Homicide Bureau. I don’t understand.”

“You’re not meant to.” Trant was watching Marna. “You have been sending out appeals for the Big Pal people, haven’t you?”

The girl shivered. She did not seem to have heard the question. He repeated it. She whispered: “Yes.”

“You sent some off yesterday and did some more today?”

“Yes.”

Trant took from his pocket the letter he had received and handed it to her.

“You wrote this, Mrs. Hyde?”

“Yes, but how...?”

“It’s all fairly obvious, isn’t it? Your husband didn’t want the divorce. he’d been acting violently. He was coming at five. You were afraid of him so you bought a gun. He got violent again. You shot him.”

Marna Hyde did not say anything.

Trant went on: “There’s just one thing that seems to be missing. Eddie was supposed to be here. Where is he?”

Marna was looking at the blood stain on her glove. There was dead silence. The buzzer shrilled. Joan started for the door, but Trant outdistanced her to the hall. He opened the door onto a blond young man with broad shoulders and very blue eyes.

Trant said: “Hello, Eddie.”

The young man glared. “Who are you?”

“Just a stray policeman. You’re a little late for the murder.”

“Murder? Nothing’s — nothing’s happened to Marna?”

Roughly the young man pushed past Trant and ran into the living room. Trant followed. The young man hurried to Marna and dropped at her side, his face gaunt with anxiety.

“Marna, baby. Marna, are you all right?”

“It’s George, Eddie,” said Joan. “He’s dead.”

Marna turned so that she was looking straight at the young man. “Eddie, you didn’t...?” Slowly the expression of horror faded from her eyes. “No.” She got up and confronted Trant. She seemed almost calm.

“I haven’t any idea how you got here, but presumably you want to ask me questions. It’s all quite simple. I did buy the gun. I did write George that letter. But that’s all I did. I’ve been out this afternoon. I got back just before five. I went into the bedroom. I–I found George. I was still bending over him when I heard Joan come in with you. I heard a strange voice. It was all a terrible shock. I didn’t want a stranger involved. I decided to wait in the bedroom until you had gone.”