The Case of the Murdered Muckraker (6 page)
Read The Case of the Murdered Muckraker Online
Authors: Carola Dunn
“Pretty sure. I heard him speak later, in the elevator and then down in the lobby. But there was some traffic noise, a tramâstreetcarâgoing past.”
“So it coulda been the other guy. Carmody finds out sumpin about him. That's his business, after all, digging up the dirt. Whatever it is, he figures it's worth more to keep quiet than to sell it to the noospapers, so he puts the screws on this guy. And the dame's this guy's wife and she finds out and she leaves him, so that's another count against Carmody!”
“But she left with the other man,” Daisy protested. “I saw them going down in the elevator together.” Then she recalled that while she had assumed the pair she saw had been in the room next door, she had no proof. The lift had stopped at her floor, but perhaps the woman in it had come from a higher floor.
They had been standing much closer together than strangers would, though. Daisy was sure enough of her guess, and reluctant enough to admit that it was a guess, to let her statement stand.
“So the dame was talking to Carmody,” Gilligan reasoned. “She just found out he was a dirty blackmailing skunk, and she left with this other guy he was blackmailing.
It was him talking next, refusing to pay up. Now we just gotta find this dame, and she'll lead us to the guy, and there's our murderer.”
It was him talking next, refusing to pay up. Now we just gotta find this dame, and she'll lead us to the guy, and there's our murderer.”
“Could be,” Rosenblatt said with more enthusiasm. “In which case, there's no federal angle.”
“So sonny boy here can run along home,” said Gilligan with a triumphant glare at Lambert.
“I still have to keep an eye on Mrs. Fletcher,” Lambert said stubbornly. “Besides, Mr. Hoover's sending another agent to deal with the case. He's afraid our men up here may have gotten too pally with Tammany Hall.”
Rosenblatt and Gilligan exchanged a foreboding look. Then Gilligan scowled.
“Say, if your job was just tailing the d ⦠lady, how didja know this stiff had anything to do with Tammany?”
“Mr. Thorwald told me. That is, when Mrs. Fletcher recognized Carmody and told us his name, Thorwald recalled that Pascoli had talked about him and the articles he was writing. Naturally I informed Mr. Hoover.”
“Naturally,” said Rosenblatt gloomily. “Why the heck did this hafta happen the week before the election? Even if it all happened like you said, Sergeant, the Hearst and opposition papers will make hay. O.K., Lambert, let's hear what you saw out there.”
Daisy was pretty sure Lambert had nothing to add to her evidence, so she only half listened. She pondered the scenario Sergeant Gilligan had built up.
It sounded reasonable, if one assumed Daisy had wrongly identified Carmody's voice. An expert at ferreting out secrets, he might have turned to blackmail. Though her impression of him was of an unrelenting honesty, it was based
on nothing more than his ferocious forthrightness. She had scarcely exchanged a word with him.
on nothing more than his ferocious forthrightness. She had scarcely exchanged a word with him.
But she
had
heard him speak, and she was almost convinced he was the one who made the remark about the “red cent.” Almost.
had
heard him speak, and she was almost convinced he was the one who made the remark about the “red cent.” Almost.
D
aisy returned exhausted to the Hotel Chelsea, with instructions not to depart from New York.
aisy returned exhausted to the Hotel Chelsea, with instructions not to depart from New York.
After leaving Rosencrantz and Guildenstern trying to rouse the somnolent Thorwald to give his evidence, she and Lambert had descended to ground level to find a mob of reporters on the pavement. Sidewalk.
Held off by the friendly doorman and a patrolman, they were baying for blood, or at least for any scrap of information. They obviously knew, presumably through Pascoli, that one of their own had been foully done to death. Fortunately the
Town Talk
editor had apparently not described either Daisy or Lambert. The newsmen harassed them on general principlesâthey had actually been inside the building where the murder had taken place!âbut did not guess they were witnesses.
Town Talk
editor had apparently not described either Daisy or Lambert. The newsmen harassed them on general principlesâthey had actually been inside the building where the murder had taken place!âbut did not guess they were witnesses.
The young agent forged ahead through the crowd, forcing a path for Daisy. She kept her mouth shut. If they knew anything about her at all, the sound of her voice would give her away.
As they walked back along Twenty-third Street to the
hotel, Lambert kept trying to apologize, for having been set on to follow her and for having failed to keep her out of trouble. Wearily, she cut him short, drawing his attention to an evening newspaper billboard with a notice about a “special” on the murder.
hotel, Lambert kept trying to apologize, for having been set on to follow her and for having failed to keep her out of trouble. Wearily, she cut him short, drawing his attention to an evening newspaper billboard with a notice about a “special” on the murder.
Someone had nosed out that the victim was staying at the Hotel Chelsea. A lesser mob of reporters had gathered on the sidewalk, but they were less aggressive than their brethren at the Flatiron Building. Balfour, the black doorman, was managing single-handedly to keep them out of the lobby, with constant reiterations of “A
private
hotel, ge'men. Residents and their visitors only.”
private
hotel, ge'men. Residents and their visitors only.”
Daisy reflected that Alec would long since have sent a constable or two to take charge.
She and Lambert entered without too much difficulty. “It won't be so easy,” said Lambert gloomily, “once this lot of newshounds puts their heads together with the others and they figure out we're connected with both the hotel and the Flatiron Building.”
“I expect there's a back door they'll let us use,” Daisy consoled him.
“Yeah, sure! I'll go speak to the manager right away.”
He forged ahead towards the registration desk, while Daisy paused in the lobby. It was teatime, and the Misses Cabot were lying in wait.
Miss Genevieve raised an imperious hand. Daisy considered pretending she had not seen, but she wanted her tea, not to mention information which Miss Genevieve was more likely than anyone else to provide. She went over to the pair.
The younger Miss Cabot's pale cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. “My dear Mrs. Fletcher, I guess you have heard
that one of our residents has met an untimely end?”
that one of our residents has met an untimely end?”
“Otis Carmody,” Daisy confirmed.
“I wonderedâMr. Carmody is reported to have died in the Flatiron Building, and I know the offices of
Abroad
are located thereâdid you happen to hear any details of events when you were visiting with your editor?”
Abroad
are located thereâdid you happen to hear any details of events when you were visiting with your editor?”
“I know a fair bit about it,” admitted Daisy, “and I'll tell you what I can, but I'm rather tired and grubby. I hope you'll excuse me while I go up and take off my hat first.”
“Of course! In fact, would you care to come and take tea in our suite rather than down here?”
“So much more comfortable,” twittered Miss Cabot.
“And private,” added Miss Genevieve.
Daisy agreed, and they gave her their suite number, on the third floor. Heading for the lifts, she glanced back to see Miss Genevieve struggling from her seat with the aid of her sister, her stick, and the bellhop.
How painful it must be, Daisy reflected, for a woman who had led the active, independent life of a crime reporter to be so dependentâvery likely worse than the actual physical pain of her crippling disease. Miss Genevieve might well have become a morose hermit. That she had instead retained her spirit and her lively interest in the world was admirable. The old lady deserved to have her curiosity satisfied.
Besides, if Daisy told her what had happened at the Flatiron Building, she was bound to reciprocate with all she knew about the late Otis Carmody.
Young Kevin took Daisy up in the lift. He was bubbling with excitement. “Gee, maâam, I took Mr. Carmody down in this same very elevator just this mornin'. Jist think o' that! And now he's bin croaked. I wish it was my elevator
he broke his neck in,” he said wistfully. “D'ya think the 'tecs'll want to talk to me anyways?”
he broke his neck in,” he said wistfully. “D'ya think the 'tecs'll want to talk to me anyways?”
“Do you know anything which might be of interest to them?”
“Do I! D'ya know what our Bridey told me?”
“No, but I can tell you that the police will want to hear it from your sister, not from you.”
As do I,
Daisy added silently.
As do I,
Daisy added silently.
“Leastways,” Kevin sighed, “I can tell âem she's got sumpin to tell 'em. Seventh floor, ma'am. Going up!” he called to the empty passage. “Going down! Going anywheres you wanna go.”
Daisy laughed. “I'll be going down again in a few minutes, so if no one rings for you, you might as well wait.”
“O.K., ma'am.”
“Is BrideyâBridgetâstill on duty?”
“Yes'm, till eight.”
“Kevin, the detectives may not want to talk to you, but the Press will, and they'll hound Bridget unmercifully if you mention that she knows something.”
“Mercy!” cried the boy, sounding very Irish. “I'll spin âem a yarn'll keep 'em happy without never breathing a word about our Bridey.”
“Do that,” said Daisy, “and better not tell anyone else, either. Thank you, Kevin.”
Going to her room, she tossed her gloves on the dressing table, took off her hat and coat, then rang the bell to summon the chambermaid. She had washed the grime of New York from her face and hands and was tidying her honey brown shingled hair when the tap came at the door.
“Come in.”
“âTis sorry I am to've kept you waiting, ma'am,” the girl
apologized. “I was ironing an evening gown for another lady. What can I do for you?”
apologized. “I was ironing an evening gown for another lady. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing just now, thank you, Bridget. I just wanted to warn you. Your brother told me you know something about Mr. Carmody that may interest the police. Until you have spoken to them, you would do well not to talk to the Press, nor to mention the matter to anyone else. If the murderer were to find out ⦔
“Oh, maâam, 'tis not a soul I'll be telling!” gasped the maid. Her freckles stood out like a rash in her white face, Daisy saw in the looking-glassâshe was now wielding a powder puff in the perpetual effort to conceal her own few freckles. “Oh, ma'am, d'ye think he'll come after me wi' a gun?”
“Not if you're sensible and keep quiet. I didn't mean to frighten you. Have you already told anyone?”
“Oh no, maâam, savin' me brother. You're the only guest has been friendly at all, at all, and I wouldn't gossip about the guests wi' the other maids. Father Macnamara says gossiping is a sin,” she added virtuously.
“Very true,” said Daisy, hoping the stricture did not apply to reporting on one guest to another, particularly a friendly other. “I must go now, but I shall see you later, Bridget.”
“Yes, maâam. Thank you, ma'am. Will I press a frock for you for dinner?”
“Yes, would you, please? I expect you're less busy now than you will be later.” Daisy went to the wardrobe and took out the black georgette she had bought for the transatlantic voyage. “I'll wear this one.”
Suitable for mourning, she thought as she returned to the lifts. Not that she exactly felt like mourning Otis Carmody,
but all the same, she would dress up the plain frock with one of her more subdued scarves this evening.
but all the same, she would dress up the plain frock with one of her more subdued scarves this evening.
Kevin was awaiting her, kneeling on the passage floor, playing at dibs with an astonishing agility. He grinned at Daisy, tossed all five jacks and caught them on the back of his hand. A last toss and catch, and he shoved them into his pocket. Standing up, he brushed off the knees of his livery trousers.
“Gotta do sumpin to keep from going nuts,” he observed. “Third floor?”
“Yes, please. How did you guess?”
“I keeps me eyes and ears open,” said Kevin with a knowing look.
“You went back down to pick up the Misses Cabot,” Daisy accused him, “and heard them talking on the way up.”
“I keeps me eyes and ears open,” Kevin repeated with his infectious grin. “Going down!”
The Misses Cabot's residence comprised a small foyer, a large sitting room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small kitchen at the rear of the hotel. The sitting room had a splendid fireplace, faced with green tile and topped with a carved rosewood mantelpiece, where a small, cheery fire glowed, adding its mite to the already oppressive heat.
There were built-in rosewood bookcases, but most of the furniture was the Cabots' own, heavy mahogany upholstered in faded crimson plush. Whatnots crammed with bibelots and photographs in silver frames were surely the elder Miss Cabot's. One corner of the room was dedicated to Miss Genevieve's business, with a spartan kneehole desk, a cabinet for files and reference books, and a typewriter which matched the one in Daisy's room.
On the walls, whose white paint somewhat relieved the Victorian gloom, hung watercolours of little girls with kittens and little boys with puppies, alternating with framed newspaper cuttings. Daisy would have liked to examine the latter, but the Misses Cabot awaited her, and tea was laid out on a small, lace-draped table by a lace-draped window.
“Tea!” she exclaimed. “You cannot imagine how I long for a cup.”
“Oh dear!” clucked Miss Cabot. “You must drink as much as you like, Mrs. Fletcher. I can easily make more.”
“Do tell me what happened at the Flatiron Building,” Miss Genevieve requested eagerly.
In the course of drinking the pot dry, Daisy described the events she had witnessed. She was careful not to pass on any speculation. The police would have a right to be unhappy if she revealed their ideas on the identity of the murderer, though they had had no business to discuss it in front of her.
But, in finishing, she did say, “I gather Mr. Carmody had written articles which earned him the enmity of people in high places in Washington. And that he was well on the way to doing the same in New York.”
“I have read his Washington articles,” said Miss Genevieve, eyes sparkling. “They were hard-hitting, all right. They have led to at least one official hearing, into Colonel Forbes, Director of the Veterans' Bureau, who was selling surplus government material for his own profit. I wonder if Forbes hired a hoodlum to rub Carmody out.”
“The man I saw running away didn't look like ⦔ Daisy started to protest, but Miss Genevieve wasn't listening.
“No, more likely the Tammany bosses sent one of their local thugs to stop his investigation before they got hurt.
And since both the police and the District Attorney's Office are firmly under Tammany's thumb, they'll get away with it.”
And since both the police and the District Attorney's Office are firmly under Tammany's thumb, they'll get away with it.”
Miss Cabot continued the running refrain which had punctuated Daisy's story: “Oh dear!”
“Not necessarily,” said Daisy. “I understand a federal agent will be involved.”
“The Feds stationed in New York are all in Tammany's pockets,” declared Miss Genevieve cynically.
“A man is coming from Washington.”
“Indeed! Now how did that come about, I wonder?” Her penetrating gaze fixed Daisy, who was immediately certain she looked guilty. She had no intention of revealing that J. Edgar Hoover had sent an agent to take care of her.
However, Miss Genevieve forbore to probe. “That will put a cat among the pigeons, and no mistake!” she went on. “So close to the election, they can't afford to be caught hiding evidence. It would be worse than letting Carmody publish, and almost as bad as being proved to have hired an assassin!”
“Oh dear!”
“You don't think there might have been a more personal motive for the attack on Carmody?” Daisy ventured. “I don't know anything about his private life.”
“He was married,” revealed Miss Genevieve consideringly. “His wife came with him from Washington.”
“Oh dear, the poor woman!”
“But she left him, as you know very well, sister.”
“Only think how guilty she will feel, sister, to have left him in his hour of need!”
“She can hardly have foreseen that he was to be murdered,
sister. Unless,” Miss Genevieve mused, “she was responsible for his death.”
sister. Unless,” Miss Genevieve mused, “she was responsible for his death.”
“Oh dear!”
Married? Then the woman Daisy had heard must have been Mrs. Carmody. Did the fact reinforce or destroy Sergeant Gilligan's pet theory?
“There was also the man he quarrelled with in the lobby the other day,” continued Miss Genevieve. “A Mr. Pitt, a fellow resident and fellow writer. He has written a novel, poor man. I had noticed them together previously.”
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