Inspector Queen’s Own Case (13 page)

He gave A. Burt Finner a glum look. But Finner wasn't talking.

“I think, Jessie——”

The telephone rang.

Jessie's heart landed in her mouth with a bump.

He moved nearer the desk, eying the telephone thoughtfully.

“You're not going to answer it?” Jessie said in terror. “Richard, for heaven's sake!”

“Shh.”

His right hand was still bound round with the handkerchief. He used it to lift the phone from its cradle.

He said hoarsely, “Yes?” in a fair approximation of Finner's voice.

Jessie shut her eyes. She heard a phone operator's unmistakable cadence. The old man said, “Yes?” again in the same hoarse voice and the operator said something back and then there was silence.

He muffled the speaker against his chest.

“New Haven calling,” he told her.

“
New Haven?”
Jessie opened her eyes wide.

“Always play a hunch. This may foul me up with my old friends, but I'm here and they aren't.—Yes?”

The man's voice was clipped, successful-sounding. “This is Dr. Samuel Duane calling. Is Mr. Alton K. Humffrey there?”

“Humffrey?” Richard Queen said in the Finner voice. “What do you want him for?”

“It's confidential.” The doctor's tone had an urgent, almost a harried, vibrato. “I must speak to Mr. Humffrey.”

“You'll have to tell me what it's about, Dr. Duane.” He glanced over at Jessie, winking.

“I'm Mrs. Humffrey's physician. She's … worse, and I must find her husband. Do you know——?”

“How bad is she?”

“See here, is Mr. Humffrey there, or isn't he?”

“Well, no, Doctor, but maybe I can find him for you. Did you call his summer place in Connecticut?”

“Good lord, man, do you think I'm an idiot? His housekeeper tells me he left Nair Island yesterday driving the small car and saying he wouldn't be back till tonight or tomorrow. Is——?”

“Didn't he say where he was going?”

“No! She gave me the phone numbers of all the places he might be—clubs, Park Avenue apartment, his home in Concord, even Mrs. Humffrey's relatives in Massachusetts. But I haven't been able to trace him. Have you any idea where he might have gone? I understand you've done some confidential legal work for him.”

“Who told you that?”

“The chauffeur, I think, suggested your name. What difference does it make?” Dr. Duane sounded at the point of explosion. “Will you give me something definite or won't you? I tell you this is urgent!”

“I guess I can't help you at that, Doctor. But if I should hear from him …”

Dr. Duane slammed his receiver.

Richard Queen looked at Jessie as he hung up. “Queer …”

“What did he
say
, Richard?”

He told her.

“But I don't see anything queer about it. Except the coincidence of calling here just when …”

He was shaking his head, frowning, staring at Finner.

Finally he said, “Jessie, I want you to go home.”

“Without you?”

“I've got to notify the police. A homicide has to be reported as soon as it's discovered.”

“Then why didn't you pick up the phone and call the minute you walked in here?” Jessie retorted.

“You're a hard woman, Jessie,” he murmured. “All right, maybe I've come to feel that this is my case. Mine and yours … You and I know the two homicides are connected, but with the Humffrey envelope gone, there's no reason for them to link Finner's murder up with a Connecticut baby-smothering case that's been written off as an accidental death. Not right away, anyway. Meanwhile, we'll have some room to stretch in.”

“Wouldn't it be better to ask for reinstatement, Richard?” Jessie asked quietly. “If they knew you'd been in on this from the start, maybe they'd give you a special assignment to take charge of the case.”

He smiled faintly. “It doesn't work that way. The New York police department has two thousand detectives working out of precincts and Headquarters, not to mention some twenty or so thousand men and women in other police jobs. They don't need old man Queen. Come on, Jessie, I'll see you out of the building. I don't want some night man to spot you.”

Jessie looked back just before he shut the door.

The fat man was still sitting there like an abandoned balloon.

It was after eleven that night when the phone rang.

“Jessie?”

“Richard, why haven't you called before? Where are you?” Jessie exclaimed. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” he said. “I'm down at Headquarters chewing the fat with the boys. Going to bed?”

She understood that he couldn't talk freely and wouldn't be able to come over.

“You can't see me tonight, is that it?”

“Right. I'll ring you in the morning.”

“Good night, Richard.”

Jessie hung up and surveyed the table she had set. She had bought minute steaks, frozen French frieds, and some salad vegetables in a delicatessen on 72nd Street, thinking to treat him to a home meal when he came. So that's what policemen's wives' lives were like …

What am I thinking of! Jessie thought guiltily, and she went to bed.

She was still in curlers and an old wrapper Sunday morning when the doorbell rang. She opened the door to the width of the latch chain, wondering who it could be.

“
Richard!”

“Thought I'd surprise you,” he grinned. “I've got the Sunday papers, frozen juice, fresh rolls, eggs—got any ham? I forgot the ham. Jessie? Where are you?”

“You mustn't
do
things like this,” Jessie moaned, flat against the door. “Don't you know how a woman looks first thing in the morning? I'll undo the chain, but don't you dare walk in till you finish counting ten!”

“All right,” he said, stricken.

When she came out of the tiny bedroom, he was sitting on the edge of a chair with the paper sack in his lap.

“Richard Queen, I could strangle you. Is anything more hideous than a woman in curlers? Don't just sit there. Let me have that bag.”

“I'm sorry.” He looked so deflated that Jessie laughed. “Anyway, I thought you looked fine. It's a long time since I saw a woman in curlers.”

“I suppose it is at that,” Jessie said. She took the bag to the kitchen alcove and got busy.

“Did I say something wrong, Jessie?” he asked anxiously.

“Heavens, no. Make yourself useful. I don't have any ham, but you'll find a couple of minute steaks in the fridge and a box of French frieds in the freezer drawer. How does that sound?”

“Oh, boy!”

It was not until she was pouring his second cup of coffee that Jessie asked, “Well, what happened yesterday?”

“Nothing much,” he said in a careless tone. “The first men there were a patrolman and sergeant, radio patrol car, 17th Precinct—I know both of them pretty well. Then a couple of detectives from the 17th I know very well, and after that a lot of old buddies of mine—Deputy Chief Inspector Tom Mackey in charge of Manhattan East, Chief of Detectives Brynie Phelan, the Homicide boys—it was like Old Home Week.”

“And when they asked their old buddy how he happened to stumble over a corpse,” Jessie said, “what did their old buddy say?”

He set his cup down, shrugging. “All right, I lied. The going was rough for a while, but I think I pulled it off.” He sounded ashamed. “I suppose an honorable lifetime in and out of uniform counts for something, especially when the men you're lying to are friends of yours.”

“What was your story, Richard?” Jessie asked quietly. “I have to know, in case they get to me.”

He glanced at her with admiration. Then he stared at the floor. “I said I'd been going crazy doing nothing, began thinking about some rats I'd known in harness whom we'd never been able to collar, and remembered Finner and his vicious racket. I said I thought it would be nice to get something on him—he doesn't even have a yellow sheet down at the B.C.I., no record at all. So I dropped in on Finner Thursday, I said, and let him think I was still on active duty and that we'd come up with something on him at last … on the theory that if you rattle a rat, he'll panic. I said Finner hinted at a payoff to keep the boys off his back, and I said I pretended to play along and made a date to visit his office again Saturday afternoon, and I said when I got there I found him dead. That's what I said, Jessie, and may the Lord have mercy on my soul.”

“But that wasn't really a lie,” Jessie said quickly. “It's not so far from the truth.”

“Only about a million miles,” he snarled. “It's the worst kind of lie there is. It doesn't tell them a single thing I know that could help them. Jessie, I think I'll have another cup of coffee.”

She emptied the pot into his cup in silence.

“So they're off to the races,” he said, swishing the coffee around. “They figure the killer's somebody who wanted to get at Finner's files for blackmail purposes but was maybe scared off. They don't discount the possibility that the answer may lie in one of the night spots Finner patronized. So they're checking all the babes he's fooled around with, some of them linked with some pretty tough characters. They've got every angle covered except the right one.” He nudged the Sunday papers, which were lying on the floor, with his toe. “Read all about it.”

“Don't feel so bad, Richard.” Jessie leaned across the table to put her hand on his.

He gripped it and held on.

After a moment, pink-cheeked, she withdrew it and began to collect the dishes.

“What do we do now?”

He got up and began to help her. “Well, the problem is still to find out who the baby's parents are.”

“I don't see how we possibly can, now.”

“There's a way.”

“There is?” Jessie stared. “How?”

“Isn't every child born in a hospital hand-printed for identification purposes?”

“Or footprinted.” Jessie nodded. “Most hospitals take footprints these days.”

“Knowing Finner's methods, it's likely he had the mother give birth in a hospital. What we've got to do is get hold of Michael's prints. It means an exhumation, of course——”

Jessie said, without turning from the sink, “What would you say, Inspector, if I told you I have his footprints?”

“What!”

“Mrs. Humffrey'd bought one of those baby books put out by the Chicago Lying-in Hospital—you know, where you keep a record of feeding, teeth growth, and so on. There's a place in them for recording the footprints. I pressed his feet on that page myself.”

“And you have it?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes. After the funeral I asked Mrs. Humffrey where she wanted me to put the book. She got hysterical and told me to take it away, she never wanted to see it again. So I appropriated it,” Jessie said defiantly. “He was a lot more my baby than hers … Wait, I'll get it for you. It's in one of my bags.”

She hurried into the bedroom and came out with an oversized book with a baby-blue cover.

“Of course, we couldn't fill in the birth data except for the date of birth——” Jessie gasped. “The date of birth!”

“This is going to be a cinch,” he chortled. “With these footprints and the birth date, it's only a question of locating the hospital. Finner brought the baby to that Pelham meeting in the morning, so the odds are he picked him up in a New York hospital. I'll have these prints photostated first thing tomorrow, and … Jessie, what's the matter?”

She was staring blearily down at the tiny black feet impressions. “Nothing, Richard.” She fumbled for a handkerchief, turning away.

He started to touch her, withdrew his hand awkwardly. “It's a brutal business, Jessie …”

“He was so little,” Jessie sobbed. “That perfect body … his feet … I used to kiss his toes one at a time reciting Piggy, and he'd gleep …” She blew her nose angrily. “I'm sorry. I don't know what's happened to me lately.”

“You're a woman,” he muttered. “Maybe you haven't had time to find that out before, Jessie.”

She kept her face averted. “What do I do, Richard?”

“The first thing you do is recognize the spot you're in.”

“The spot
I'm
in?” She swung about at that.

“If I'd known about your having this baby book, I'd never have let you get into this. It's a dangerous thing for you to have. Finner was murdered because he was a link in the chain leading to little Mike's mother. This book, with his footprints, is another such link. Who knows you've got it?”

Jessie sank into a chair, staring at him. “Only Sarah Humffrey, I suppose. For all I know, maybe even she doesn't know. She may have assumed I destroyed it.”

He scowled. “Maybe the killer's assumed the same thing. Or doesn't know it exists. All the same, Jessie, you're going to have to watch your step. In fact, the more I think of it the less I cotton to the idea of your living in this apartment alone. I wish——”

“Yes?” Jessie said.

“Well, I can be your bodyguard in the daytime, anyway.” He smiled down at her. “What would you like to do today?”

Before they set out Monday afternoon with the photostats, Richard Queen said, “It's going to be a long pull, Jessie. There must be seventy-five or eighty hospitals in Manhattan and the Bronx alone, not to mention Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, Westchester, Long Island, and nearby Jersey.”

“Why not start off with the maternity hospitals?” Jessie suggested. “Those would be the logical places.”

“Which is why Finner would have avoided them. And he'd certainly not use places like the New York Foundling Hospital or the Shelter for Unmarried Mothers. No, I think he'd figure a big general hospital would give his brood mares a better chance of getting lost in the shuffle. Let's start with those.”