Тэлмидж Пауэлл - The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™ - 25 Classic Mysteries

She was weeping delicately now, and Archer led her over to a chair. Her clean — but threadbare — old-fashioned black dress rustled as she sat down. I thought of the Foster girl in the morgue again. Marilyn Foster, tough as they come, ready to hog a rich boy’s money without batting an eye — but giving a home, and no doubt love, to this poverty-stricken little aunt.

Aunt Minna dabbed at her eyes, tried to smile. “Do forgive me for making a scene. I just returned from Philadelphia this afternoon — I’ve been there for a week, caring for my sick sister. I didn’t even know poor Marilyn was dead until I got to town. I... The police were at the apartment.”

She worried her wispy handkerchief in her fingers. “I heard one of the detectives mention that you were connected with the case, and I thought perhaps I...”

Archer cleared his throat. “Well, you see, Miss Minna, we were working on another case, for another client. Marilyn happened to... uh... enter it slightly. But our case is closed now.”

“But there’s something I want to tell you!”

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to tell the police.”

“But the police are not the people for this! Here...” She undid the old-fashioned, crocheted bag in her lap. From it, she took a tiny snap purse. From the purse, she extracted a knotted handkerchief. And once the handkerchief was unknotted, a small wad of bills was revealed. “I know that your services on a murder case come high; but I came prepared. This money I... well, I have always wanted to be able to bury myself, pay my own funeral expenses, and I have saved the money for quite awhile Mr. Archer. But I believe that Marilyn would have done as much for me.”

She laid out the bills — six one hundred dollar bills. Probably the only thing between her and the county home. A long, still moment passed in the office. Archer touched the money with his fingertip. I looked at the hopeful agony in which she was watching, waiting for Archer’s decision. It lumped my throat.

The chief flicked with his finger. The top bill bounded over to the middle of his desk. He picked it up, folded it in a square, thrust it in his watch pocket. The other five bills, he shoved back over to Aunt Minna.

“We are retained,” he said, with that grumpy note in his voice that meant he was castigating himself for a sap. “Tell us your story.”

Aunt Minna refolded her five bills, knotted them in the handkerchief, placed the handkerchief in the snap purse, the purse in the crocheted bag, and told her story.

Late yesterday, the day of her death, Marilyn had phoned Aunt Minna in Philadelphia. She had wanted to inquire after the sick sister’s health and find out how long Aunt Minna possibly would be in the brotherly-love city. “She wanted to know when I’d be home,” Aunt Minna said, “because she said she might be married shortly, and leave the city on a honeymoon — so if I came back to find her gone from the apartment, I was not to worry.”

Aunt Minna shifted, took a breath. “I cautioned Marilyn to be careful in the apartment alone — and to eat hearty — she never ate much, the poor child! She said she’d be quite all right, that a friend was spending the night with her.”

Archer jarred to attention. “A friend? There in the apartment last night? Do you know who it was?”

“I’m coming to that. It was a girl named Rose Tiffin, who worked at the Starlight Club. I... I never like to pass judgment, Mr. Archer, but the time or two I met Rose Tiffin... well, she impressed me as not being a nice girl.”

“But there was no evidence that anybody but Marilyn, and the murderer, were in that apartment last night! Have you told the police about this?”

Aunt Minna’s hands were trembling with excitement. “No, you see, that’s what I meant about Rose Tiffin, why I came to you. I mean, no evidence. If I told the police, they’d go over there and she’d deny it. She’s just that kind, Mr. Archer! She’d say that I had misunderstood, or that she had changed her plans and hadn’t spent the night in the apartment.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Why,” Aunt Minna lifted her wide innocent eyes to Archer’s face, “it’s evident this Rose Tiffin doesn’t want anyone — most of all the police — to know she was in that apartment. If she wanted them to know, she’d have come forward, wouldn’t she? So I decided to come to you; I think you’d have a much better chance of getting something out of Rose Tiffin than the police would.”

Archer raised his brows. “Okay, you win. Lady, you ought to be in this business.”

Aunt Minna didn’t recognize the warped compliment as such. She pressed on, “And perhaps Rose can tell you what happened to Priscilla — and if you find out who got Priscilla, I’m sure you’ll have the murderer of my niece.” She started crying again, but very silently this time, just tears bubbling to the surface, bright and hot on her lids.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Priscilla disappearing,” Archer said. “Did you tell the police about her?”

“Oh, yes, but they were inclined to laugh at me. They said she’d probably just wandered off. But I don’t think Priscilla would do such a thing.”

Archer and I swapped glances over the old lady’s head. “Just who is this Priscilla? What’s her last name?”

“She hasn’t one; you see, Priscilla is my Pekinese dog.”

In the moment of silence that followed Aunt Minna looked from the chief to me. Maybe she misinterpreted the look in our eyes. “I know,” she said, “how some people feel about an old lady who is perhaps overly-fond of a dog. But Priscilla was all I had; she was no trouble. And she was a very good little watchdog — you know that Pekes can be vicious when aroused. Priscilla, especially, had been very easy to get in a temper since her accident. Marilyn was walking her one day, and Priscilla darted away to chase a car. A car hit her, shaking her and mangling one foot. The veterinarian had to amputate that paw, and I think it pains Priscilla at times.

“When Marilyn phoned me yesterday, I asked about Priscilla. Marilyn said the dog had seemed to be acting queer when she got home; she told me she’d look after Priscilla, though, and if she went away, she’d leave the dog with Mrs. Grogan on the floor above us.”

“But the dog isn’t with Mrs. Grogan?”

“No. I asked her just before I left the apartment to come here.” Aunt Minna was worrying that handkerchief again. “Strangely, Priscilla has completely vanished.”

Archer got that pouter-pigeon look that meant he was burning gray matter and about to pull a revelation right out of thin air. But whatever he pulled out of the ozone, he chose not to express it aloud. He took Aunt Minna’s arm, guided her to the door, “We’ll call you as soon as anything develops.”

He crossed the office to his desk, picked up the phone, and called Shorty McGinnis. Shorty was a theatrical agent, and knew everybody; we’d done him a favor or two in the past, and now the chief said, “Shorty, I want the home address of a Rose Tiffin. That’s right, the featured singer at Lon Montague’s Starlight Club. Can you get it this late in the afternoon? All right, I’ll wait for your call.”

He replaced the phone, and I sat down to have a cigarette.

It turned out that Rose Tiffin lived at 543 Columbia Street. Darkness was mantling the earth in a heavy shroud when we finally located the place. It was in a suburban development west of town — a cluster of new houses set on lots in various stages of landscaping — and Columbia being only a couple or three blocks long, we overshot it once in the lowering darkness.

I parked the sedan at the curb, and the chief and I went up the walk. The bungalow loomed white and spectral before us, so new you could smell the paint. Archer thumbed the bell; nothing happened; I knocked on the door.