Robert Wallace - The Dancing Doll Murders

He rose and paced the floor in tense excitement. He had worked swiftly because he remembered the words of the “Chief.” There was a “job” in the cards tonight – another murder. Van had hopes of checkmating the killers. And this orchid was his lead. For it seemed more than likely that he could learn who had bought it. Even the most exclusive florists in the city surely didn’t sell such high-priced blooms every day.

Van left the laboratory, made quick phone calls, and his hopes were at once heightened. Only two florists in New York raised Calanthe aureus. One reported that he hadn’t sold any for over a month. The other said he’d sold only a dozen in the past two weeks. He promised to check up after Van, posing as a writer of feature articles for a horticultural magazine, said he’d like to talk to him.

THE search seemed more hopeful when Van reached the store of the florist. Two of the orchids had been sold to debutantes from the best families, society girls who surely would not be mixed up with crime. Even at that Van meant to investigate them, for he never took things for granted.

But first he wanted to get a slant on the person to whom the other orchids had gone. The florist said she was a night club dancer named Dolly DeLong. What seemed to Van a red-hot lead.

“Her gentleman friend is very generous,” said the florist enthusiastically. “He asks for the most expensive orchids I have. He pays fifty dollars apiece for them just like that!” The florist snapped his fingers.

“Appreciates the best things, eh?” There was an ironic gleam in Dick Van Loan’s eyes. “Do you happen to know his name?”

“Not his last name. On his cards he merely writes ‘Blackie!’ He has the orchids sent to Miss DeLong’s hotel.”

“Fine!” said Van. “I’ll be pleased to interview her. Her comments on the beauties of Calanthe aureus will make excellent publicity. ‘Glamour Girl Creates Vogue for Rarest Orchid!’ Your sales should go up. You have her address, of course?”

“Just a moment.”

The florist went through his files and handed Van a slip with the name of the dancer’s hotel on it. It was the Chatterly. Van said thanks, took the slip, and hurried away. His hunch, backed up by logic, told him he was on the trail once more. But it might take time to reach the end of it – and time was precious. For the black forces of death were getting ready to strike. Help seemed advisable. He phoned Frank Havens of the Clarion.

“Van speaking,” he said. I want you to do me a favor.”

The publisher gasped. “Good God, Dick! I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Where have you been? Farragut told me he’d run across you. What happened out at Blackwell’s place? How did you keep from being murdered?”

CAN’T explain it all now,” said Van quickly. “I want to prevent another killing. Every member of the Caulder family, I think, is in danger. One of them, I don’t know which, is slated to die tonight. I want you to let Steve Huston help me. Get him to go to the Hotel Chatterly and make guarded inquiries about a singer named Dolly DeLong. Tell him to be careful, but learn everything he can – particularly who her gentleman friend is, the one who sends her expensive flowers. The girl at the switchboard should be able to give him facts about her phone calls if Steve handles her right. I’ll meet Steve at the hotel and phone you later.”

He started to hang up, but Havens’s excited voice stopped him.

“Hold on, Van! There’s a call coming in from Inspector Farragut right now on another wire.” There was a brief pause, then Havens spoke again, his tones harshly rasping.

“Damn right about the Caulders! Farragut wants to see you. He says Mrs. Tyler, the niece, has just been handed one of the dancing dolls!”

The Phantom swore and his clamping fingers whitened around the phone.

“That means murder!” he muttered softly. “Ask Huston to get to work on the Dolly DeLong slant alone for the time being. I’ll go see Farragut right away!”

Detectives filled Mrs. Tyler’s big West End apartment when Dick Van Loan arrived. He had disguised himself as “Rodney Post” special investigator to the district attorney’s office. Only Farragut and Steve Huston knew that he was the Phantom. There was an air of tense uneasiness in the place. The woman who’d been marked as the Chief’s next victim seemed the least excited of all. But that, Van felt certain, was only a pose. He studied her covertly. It seemed to him that under her slinky beauty she possessed a shrewish disposition and feline claws. And her voice – it was low, husky, affected as she spoke to him.

“You seem different, Mr. Post, from these detectives!” she confided. “It’s a nuisance having them about.”

Van answered grimly. “If they keep you from being murdered, that’s all that counts,” he told her.

“Murdered!” The woman shivered. Van saw haunting shadows of fear deep in her eyes.

“Yes.”

He pointed to the dancing doll that had come in a parcel post package. It lay on the drawing room table staring up at the ceiling with its blank wax face. Its features had been molded into an exact reproduction of Mrs. Tyler’s. The same straight nose. The same high cheek bones. The same arrogant, willful, slightly exotic mouth. And there was a black thread tied around the shapely throat.

“That can mean only one thing,” Van said. “The murder method this time is to be strangulation.”

Mrs. Tyler put her hands to her throat. It was white and soft, and Van saw a tiny pulse throbbing in it. She laughed shakily.

“If you do as we say,” said Van, “I think we can protect you. If you don’t you’ll take your life in your own hands.”

The woman drew in a gust of grey vapor from her cigarette. She laughed again. Two detectives stood on opposite sides of the room watching her. The butts of the automatics they carried in armpit holsters showed inside their half open coats.

The air was charged with tenseness. The threat of death seemed to hang heavy in the room in spite of the precautions taken. Menace tapped with unseen ghostly fingers against the windows that shut out the night. Down the hallway, Inspector Farragut’s voice rumbled steadily as he gave last minute commands.

Mrs. Tyler pressed a button, and nervous steps sounded as her maid, Marie, entered – the only one of her servants Farragut had allowed to remain. The girl’s pallid face showed terror.

“Bring cocktails, Marie.”

“Yes, madam.”

When the maid returned five minutes later with a shaker and glasses, Van noticed a furtive, excited look in her eyes. She set the tray down. Van caught a brief glimpse of a bit of white paper tightly clenched in her palm. She kept it concealed, poured a Martini, and managed to pass the paper along with the liquor to her mistress. Mrs. Tyler’s fingers closed eagerly around the note.

Van’s heart beat faster. What was the woman up to?

She pretended to use her compact, retiring to a couch in the room’s corner, and Van saw her surreptitiously spread out the paper the maid had brought. She read it quickly, slipped it stealthily inside her dress while Van’s thoughts raced. What was this secret billet-doux she found so exciting? Who was it from? He made a gesture of impatience and approached her.

“That paper? I’d like to see it, Please!”

Mrs. Tyler gasped and quick anger flamed in her cheeks. Van smiled sardonically. “It’s my business to watch people. I saw Marie give you a note.”

The woman spoke haughtily.

“Remember that this is my apartment and that Marie is my maid.”

Van nodded. “Right – but the police can’t do their best work without your cooperation. This is no time for secrets.”