Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 3, Number 1, January, 1955

“You didn’t care much for Lucille, did you?”

“I loathed her.”

“And Schuyler?”

She took a deep breath. “I... I guess I was in love with him once. But no more. After Lucille had been there a couple of months, he called me in and fired me. Just like that. He didn’t even give me a reason — because there was no reason. He didn’t need two girls, and so he just kicked me out on the street. Why, it was all I could do to get him to write a few references for me. And that after I’d been there all those years...”

I nodded. “A tough break, Miss Webb.”

“When will you arrest him?”

“We’ll talk to him again.”

“But isn’t it plain enough? What more could you possibly want?”

“We’ll talk to him,” I said again. I got out my notebook and took down Miss Webb’s address and phone number.

“I see I’ve wasted my time,” she said.

“Not at all,” I said, making it friendly. “I’m very grateful to you. As I said, we’ll—” But she had turned quickly and was walking off down Sixth Avenue. Once she hesitated a moment, as if she might turn back, but then she went on again, walking even more rapidly than before.

I went into a drug store and called the Twentieth Precinct. Paul Brader told me that Vince Donnelly hadn’t opened his mouth, except to demand a lawyer. Paul had been able, through other sources, to establish that he was the same Vince Donnelly who had gone around with Lucille Taylor, but that was all. We had nothing at all on Donnelly, and unless we came up with something within the next few hours we’d have to let him go.

“I got a feeling about this guy,” Paul said. “I think we’re on our way.”

“Yeah? Why so?”

“I just sort of hunch it, that’s all.”

“Well, keep at him. I’m going to check out a couple things with Schuyler, and then I’ll be over to help you.”

He laughed. “Schuyler — or the girl?”

“Schuyler.”

“Okay. See you later.”

I hung up, located the after-business-hours number of the Lormer Jewelry Shop in the directory, and finally got through to Mr. Lormer himself. He lived in a hotel on Lexington Avenue, and asked me to come up. From him I learned that the diamond engagement ring, while large, had been of the lowest quality he carried. I asked if Schuyler had brought a young woman to the shop for a fitting, and Mr. Lormer said no. Schuyler had asked that the engagement ring be made up in the same size as a small intaglio he wore on the little finger of his left hand. And then — very reluctantly — Mr. Lormer told me that Schuyler had returned the ring yesterday morning. He had not wanted a cash refund, but had applied the refund value of the ring against two jewelled wrist watches, to be delivered to his two daughters.

I took Mr. Lormer to his shop, impounded the ring, signed a receipt for it, and took him back home. Then I drove to Seventy-second Street and got a positive identification of the ring from Lucille Taylor’s aunt and uncle.

I located Schuyler’s home address in the directory, picked up Paul Brader at the Twentieth, and we drove downtown toward Schuyler’s apartment house.

In his office, Schuyler had been as cool as they come. Standing in the doorway of his apartment, with his wife and daughters just behind him, he was something else again. We had counted on surprise and the presence of his family to unnerve him, and we weren’t disappointed. He had divided his life into two parts, and we had suddenly brought the parts together. He stared first at Paul and then at me, moistening his lips.

I had the engagement ring in the palm of my hand, and now I opened my fingers slowly and let him see it.

“What is it, dear?” his wife asked, and one of the girls moved a little closer, her eyes questioning me.

“I... I can’t talk here,” Schuyler said, in what he probably thought was a whisper. “My God, I—”

“Get your coat,” I said.

He nodded rapidly. “Yes, yes — of course.”

We rode down in the self-service elevator, phoned in a release for Vince Donnelly, and crossed the street to the RMP car. Paul got behind the wheel and I got into the back seat with Schuyler. Paul eased the car out into the heavy Lexington Avenue traffic.

“We have the ring, Mr. Schuyler,” I said. “We got a positive identification of it. You returned it after Lucille Taylor had been murdered. We’ll have no trouble taking it from there. Not a bit. We’ll put a dozen men on it. We’ll work around the clock. We’ll get a little here, and a little there — and pretty soon we’ll have you in a box. The smartest thing you can do — the only thing you can do — is make it a little easier on yourself.” I paused. “And make it a little easier on your family.”

“My girls!” Schuyler said. “My God, my girls!”

“Tell us about the other girl,” I said softly. “Tell us about Lucille.”

It was a long moment before he could keep his voice steady. “She threatened me,” he said at last. “She said she was going to my wife and daughters and tell them about — about us. I knew I could have patched it up with my wife, but... my daughters... God, I—”

“You admitted to Lucille that you’d never intended to divorce your wife and marry her?”

He nodded almost imperceptibly. “I had grown a little tired of her. She was pretty, but so — so immature. I told her, and she became enraged. I was surprised. I hadn’t thought she was capable of so much fury. We had walked down Seventy-second Street to the river. We were sitting on one of those benches down there, watching the tugboats. When I told her, she began to curse me. She was almost screaming. I couldn’t see anyone else nearby, but I was afraid someone would hear her. I tried to calm her, but she got almost hysterical. Then she slapped me, and I grabbed her. I... I don’t know just what happened then, but somehow I made her head hit the back of the bench. And then I kept doing it — kept beating her head against the back of the bench.” Suddenly he covered his face with his hands and his body slumped. “And then — and then I carried her to the railing across from the bench and threw her into the water.”

I watched the neon streaming by. “But not before you stripped that ring off her finger, Schuyler,” I said. “You sure as hell didn’t forget the ring, did you?”

He didn’t say anything.

As we neared the Harbor Precinct, I could hear a tugboat whistle, somewhere out there on the cold Hudson, a deep, remote blast that was somehow like a mockery.

“God,” Schuyler murmured. “My poor girls, my poor little girls...”

And don’t forget poor little Lucille Taylor, I thought, while you’re feeling sorry for your victims.

Jim’s wife didn’t mind if he left her alone. She was very understanding. That’s what began to bother Jim ...

No sound, no movement anywhere, then a perceptible awakening. A breath of wind, a palm frond moving, and shadows thickening below the hotel balcony. Jim Withers sat forward and watched the white-clad figure climbing the steep road toward the hotel. Even at that distance he recognized the man and frowned. In another moment he leaned forward again and nodded his head in sign of grudging respect for the one in white. The chap was running up the hill.

But why not? The natives were capable of feats that could stun, if not kill, anyone else. But this Juan... Jim sat back once more and wiped the perspiration from his face. The wind had faded, evening brought no relief from the fierce tropic heat. He closed his eyes, steps on the tiled floor alerted him. Seconds later a pair of cool hands pressed against his eyes. An exotic bouquet floated around him.