Robert Wallace - The Dancing Doll Murders

They left the window.

“Wait till I see whether the boys have found anything on the roof,” Farragut snapped, “then I want to tell you something I’ve got on my mind, Phantom.”

He hurried away. Van began pacing hands shoved deep in pockets face set grimly. He had a sense of keen disappointment, of failure, in the matter of Mrs. Tyler. He was angry with himself that he hadn’t forced her to show him the note. But after all, the woman was old enough to be her own mistress. The murderer must have taken that, too, into consideration. The leering face of Satan himself seemed to lurk behind the identity of the Chief.

Farragut returned, and said that his men hadn’t been able to find anything.

“The strangler must have crossed over to the roof of another apartment building and got down that way. I didn’t figure men should be posted three stories up on the roof. How did I know Mrs. Tyler was going to open a window and stick her head out?”

“You didn’t,” said Van grimly. “She practically committed suicide when she disobeyed your instructions.”

Farragut nodded. “I did my best to protect her. She just wouldn’t let me. And now, Phantom, let’s see if we can’t get some things doped out straight. What happened tonight here proves to me what I’ve thought all along – one of the Caulder heirs is behind these murders! Not only that – I’ve got a theory who the guy is!” The inspector spoke with harsh conviction. He was obviously excited.

Van looked interested. “Good!” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

Farragut drew a black cigar from his pocket and bit off the end savagely. “It sounds screwy, I’ll admit. But this is a screwy case, and it must have a screwy answer. I’ve given the whole thing a lot of thought. The cops have a saying ‘once a killer, always a killer’ – and the man I suspect made his first kill ten years ago.”

“You mean Judd Moxley?” said Van quickly.

“Right! It wasn’t premeditated murder I know. I’ve gone over all the court records. He killed a pal in a fight after an all-night drinking session. But it showed the killer instinct. Now he’s had almost ten years in jail to think things over. He’s still a killer, but a crafty one this time.”

VAN nodded. “Sounds logical, Inspector, but how about the little matter of his being in jail? I’ve reason to believe, as I’ve told you, that the man they call the Chief is the real brains behind this thing. And I’m practically certain that the Chief has visited, or intends to visit, at least one of his gang’s hideouts.”

“Now we come to the screwy part of it,” said the inspector, looking wise. “I’ve been doing some investigating too, I’ve had a man nosing around up in the State pen. He’s uncovered something. There’s a wealthy prisoner, a banker who got too gay with other people’s dough, in a cell right next to Moxley’s. This banker’s still got plenty of kale. I’ve learned he tried to bribe one of the night guards to let him out for a few hours so he could visit his chorus girl sweetie. Of course he didn’t make it – the warden got wise. But how do we know another man mightn’t have succeeded where he failed? Far-fetched as it seems, how do we know Moxley hasn’t been getting in and out?”

Van knitted his brows. “You may have something there. It checks up with the fact that the Chief seems to make his visits late at night. Let’s say, for the moment, that Moxley’s guilty. Have you figured a motive?”

Farragut nodded. “I’ve got a certified copy of the Caulder will right from the probate court. That gives plenty of motive. Here -” Farragut took a legal paper in a blue folder from his pocket, opened it, and pointed to one page. “Erasmus Caulder died in nineteen twenty-seven. Esmond Caulder was appointed administrator to take care of the fortune for ten years and then divide it among the heirs. It’s due to be handed to them some time this year. With Esmond Caulder on his deathbed they’re going to get it even quicker. And the will reads that the share of any heir who dies is to be divided among the others. You couldn’t have a much stronger motive for murder. If one heir can manage to bump off all the others he’ll get the entire fortune.”

“That means that Eben Gray, Reggie Winstead, or even Simon Blackwell might be guilty,” said Van. “We’ve seen how shrewd the murderer is. Supposing that business of Blackwell’s getting one of the dolls and being visited by the killers was just a stall? I’m not saying it was, but it might have been.”

“Yeah, it might have been – but the smartest thing of all would be for a guy in prison to engineer these killings. You couldn’t pinch a fellow for murder if he could prove that all the time the murders were being committed he was in jail. Judd Moxley is the one heir who’s got an air-tight alibi – unless I can prove he’s been skipping in and out of the cooler while the killings were going on.”

“I think I can help you on that,” said Van quickly. “I’m working on something right now. If it breaks right I hope to get a look at the king-pin murderer some time tonight. Suppose you have your man up at the pen keep his eye on Moxley every minute. If he stays in his cell, and if I get a look at the Chief tonight, we’ll know your theory is all wet and that Moxley isn’t guilty.”

Farragut agreed. “But how in hell, Phantom, are you going to make contact with this Chief?”

“That’s what I’m waiting to find out!” Van muttered.

The phone in the Tyler apartment rang ten minutes later, while a police photographer was taking pictures of Mrs. Tyler’s body and after the medical examiner had made out his report. A detective answered it.

“Huston of the Clarion wants to speak to Mr. Post,” he called. “Shall I tell the guy to get the hell off the wire and stop bothering us?”

“I’ll take that call!” snapped Van, and he grabbed the phone out of the detective’s hand as though it were a life-and-death matter. “Rodney Post speaking. Go ahead, Huston!”

The voice of the little newshound on the Clarion came over the wire holding a note of triumph. “I don’t know what it’s all about, Phantom; but I take it you’re making some fast plays as usual, And I’ve been working like a fool on that assignment. Anything I don’t know about that Dolly DeLong dame you could write on the back of a Christmas sticker.”

“Swell!” said Van. “You’re tops, Steve. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

Praise from the Phantom was sweet balm to Steve Huston. He began spouting facts about Dolly DeLong as though he were quoting from her life history.

“Born in Milwaukee. Twenty-eight years old. Real name Fanny Green. Married a guy in Chicago in nineteen thirty. He got bumped off by the cops sticking up a slop joint in Cicero. She could hoof and sing a little and had a nifty shape. She came to the big town and landed a job in the Club Eldorado. Sings a bunch of mammy songs that are swell tear-jerkers. On big nights she doubles with a fan dance.”

“Yes,” said Van. “And how about her friends?”

“I was coming to that. I got chummy with the phone girl at the Chatterly like you suggested. I slipped her a few drinks at the bar and sure oiled her tongue. This Dolly DeLong dame is a one-man woman. Right now, anyway, she has to be. She’s mixed up with a guy named Blackie Guido who’s plenty tough. He phoned her this evening. She’s having dinner with him in the Rainbow Room of the San Carlo right after she’s finished her first hoof number. She wears size three-and-a-half shoes, likes Nuit d’Amour perfume, goes in big for caviar and truffles and -”

Van cut him off. “Save the rest till I see you, Steve! You’ve told me all I want to know. I suggest that you call it a day, grab your best girl, and paint the town red – and, incidentally, charge all expenses to Rodney Post. You’ve earned it.”