The bizarre murders, p.66
The Bizarre Murders, page 66
“Leonard says here,” frowned Moley, “that there was something else, but he never could put his finger on it.”
“Something else?” said Ellery alertly.
“Well…a faint trail to an accomplice. Just a suspicion. As if Marco had been working with somebody. But who or in what way he never found out.”
“Heavens, that may be immensely important,” cried Judge Macklin.
“I’m workin’ on it. To make it worse,” added the Inspector, “he was tangled up with a finagler.”
“Eh?”
“Oh, his official name is ‘lawyer,’” retorted Moley.
“Penfield!” both men cried.
“Go to the head of the class. Maybe I oughtn’t to do the gentleman an injustice. I think he’s a crook because I’m convinced no honest lawyer would have tied up with a mugg like Marco. It wasn’t as if the guy was ever up on charges, or on trial, and needed counsel. Only it was this Penfield bird who smoothed matters out for Marco with Leonard. The Spaniard didn’t even appear. Penfield called on Leonard and they had a nice chat, and Penfield said that ‘a client’ of his was being shadowed and found it all very annoying, and wouldn’t Leonard please call his dogs off? And Leonard looked at his fingernails and said there was a little matter of some letters and photos and things that were botherin’ his client, and Penfield said: ‘Dear, dear. Now isn’t that distressing!’ And then they shook hands and the next morning Leonard got all the letters and pictures back in the first mail, no sender’s address—although the package had been mailed from the Park Row post-office. And you remember Penfield’s address. Slick, hey?”
During this remarkable monologue Ellery and the Judge had glanced at each other frequently. The instant Moley paused both of them opened their mouths.
“I know, I know,” said Moley. “You’re going to say that maybe Marco didn’t have his Constable-Munn-Godfrey letters in the Godfrey house at all, and that maybe this Penfield bird has been keepin’ ’em for him.” He jabbed a button on his desk. “Well, we’ll know in a minute.”
“You mean you’ve got Penfield outside?” cried the Judge.
“This office works fast, your honor…Ah, there, Charlie. Show the gentleman in. And remember, Charlie, no rough stuff. He’s marked ‘fragile.’”
Mr. Lucius Penfield beamed from the doorway. He did not look at all fragile. He was, in fact, a very solid and chunky little man with a massive Websterian head almost entirely bald, a neat close-cropped gray mustache, and the most innocent eyes Ellery had ever seen in the face of a human being. They were large, infantile, and angelic—melting brown eyes of a beautiful luster. They twinkled merrily, as if their owner were indulging inwardly a serial jest. There was something Dickensian about him, for he was dressed very quaintly in a baggy and decrepit sack-suit that was olive-green with age and he wore a high collar and a wide cravat with a horseshoe diamond stick-pin. He looked, indeed, as if he would have shrunk from stepping on a beetle. Apparently Judge Macklin, however, entertained no such conception of him. The Judge’s long face was set in implacable lines and his eyes were as cold as twin floes.
“Well, if it isn’t Judge Alva Macklin!” exclaimed Mr. Lucius Penfield, advancing with outstretched hand. “Fancy meeting you here! Dear, dear, it’s been years, hasn’t it, Judge? How time flies.”
“Nasty habit it has,” said the Judge dryly, ignoring the hand.
“Ha, ha! Still the stormy petrel of the profession, I see. I always did say that the bar lost one of its most truly juridical minds when you retired.”
“I doubt if I shall be able conscientiously to say the same about you when you retire. That is, if you ever do. It’s likelier you’ll be disbarred first.”
“Sharp as ever, I see, Judge, ha, ha! I was saying just the other day to Judge Kinsey of General Sessions—”
“Spare the details, Penfield. This is Mr. Ellery Queen, of whom you’ve perhaps heard. I warn you to keep out of his way. And this—”
“Not the Ellery Queen?” cried the bald-headed little man; and he turned his sweet, droll eyes upon Ellery. “Dear, dear, this is an honor indeed. Quite worth the trip. I know your father very well, Mr. Queen. Most valuable man in Centre Street…And this, you were going to say, Judge, is Inspector Moley, the gentleman who’s whisked me away from my very pressing practice?”
He stood there bowing, a beaming little gentleman surveying them all with swift, laughing, jovial glances.
“Sit down, Penfield,” said Moley pleasantly enough. “I want to talk to you.”
“So your man gave me to understand,” said Penfield, promptly accepting the chair. “Something to do with a former client of mine, I believe? Mr. John Marco. Most unfortunate case. I’ve been reading about his demise in the New York papers. You see—”
“Oh, so Marco was a client of yours?”
“Dear, dear, this is all very distressing to me, Inspector. I trust we’re—so to speak—in camera? I may talk freely?”
“And,” said the Inspector grimly, “how. That’s why I’ve had you brought down to Poinsett.”
“Had me brought down?” Penfield’s arching brows arched just a trifle more than usual. “That sounds most unpleasant, Inspector. I take it I’m not under arrest—ha, ha? For I assure you the moment your detective explained—”
“Let’s cut the soft soap, Penfield,” said Moley curtly. “There’s a connection between you and this dead man, and I want to know what it is.”
“But I was about to explain,” said the little man indulgently. “You police officers are so precipitate! An attorney, as Judge Macklin can tell you, is a servant of his clients. I’ve had many clients in my—ah—rather extensive practice, Inspector; I haven’t been able to choose as carefully as I should have preferred, perhaps. Consequently, it’s my sad duty to relate that John Marco wasn’t the—ah—most desirable of characters. Rather an odorous person, in fact. But that’s really all I can tell you about him.”
“Oh, so that’s your angle, is it?” growled the Inspector. “In just what way was he your client?”
Penfield’s pudgy hand, adorned with two diamond rings, described a vague arc. “In various ways. He—ah—called upon me from time to time for advice on business matters.”
“What business matters?”
“That,” said the little man regretfully, “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to state, Inspector. An attorney’s duty to his client, you know…Even death—”
“But he’s been murdered!”
“That,” sighed Penfield, “is most unfortunate for him.”
There was a silence. Then Judge Macklin remarked: “I thought you were a criminal lawyer, Penfield. What’s this about business?”
“Times have changed, Judge,” replied Penfield sadly, “since you retired. And a man must live, mustn’t he? You can’t imagine what a struggle it is these days.”
“I think with a great effort I can. In your case, I mean. And you seem to have developed an extraordinary streak of ethics, Penfield, since the last time we met.”
“Development, Judge, sheer development,” smiled the little man. “Who am I to be uninfluenced by the trend of the times? A new deal in the profession…”
“Rats,” said the Judge.
Ellery did not take his eyes off the man’s mobile face. It was in constant motion—the eyes, the lips, the brows, the wrinkling skin. A beam of sunlight striking through the window illuminated the shiny top of his head with the effect of a halo. Remarkable creature! thought Ellery. And a dangerous adversary.
“When’d you see this Marco last?” barked Moley.
Penfield placed the tips of his fingers together. “Let me see, now…Oh, yes! It was in April, Inspector. And now he’s dead. Well, sir, that’s just another token of the incorruptibility of the fates; eh, Mr. Queen? A bad actor…death. Very pat. The murderous criminal slips through the fingers of our courts for twenty years on technicalities, and then one day he steps on a banana-peel and breaks his neck. It’s a sad commentary on our juridical system.”
“What about?”
“Eh? Oh, I beg your pardon, Inspector. What did he come to see me about in April? Yes, yes, to be sure. One of our—ah—business conferences. I gave him the best possible advice.”
“And that was?”
“To change his ways, Inspector. I was always lecturing him; a likable chap, really, despite his weaknesses. But he wouldn’t listen, poor fellow, and now look at him.”
“How did you know he was a bad actor, Penfield? If your relationship with him was so damned innocent?”
“Intuition, my dear Inspector,” sighed the lawyer. “One can’t practise criminal law in the courts of New York State for thirty years without developing an uncanny sixth sense, as it were, about the criminal mind. I assure you it was no more—”
“You’ll never get anywhere this way with friend Penfield,” said Judge Macklin with a grim smile. “He can keep this up for hours, I’ve heard him do it myself, Inspector. I suggest you come to the point.”
Moley glared at his visitor, jerked open a drawer, snatched something out of it, and slammed it down across his desk in front of the little man’s chair. “Read that.”
Mr. Lucius Penfield permitted himself to look surprised, smiled deprecatingly, took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles out of his breast-pocket, set them on the tip of his nose, picked up the paper gingerly, and scanned it. He scanned it very carefully. Then he set it down, removed his spectacles, returned them to his pocket, and leaned back in the chair.
“Well?”
“This is apparently,” murmured Penfield, “a letter begun by the deceased and addressed to me. I deduce, from the abrupt manner in which it is interrupted, that death intervened and that therefore his last living thoughts were of me. Dear, dear, that’s most touching, Inspector. A tender tribute, and I thank you for having permitted me to see it. What can I say? I’m too moved for words.” He actually dug into his trousers for a handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Buffoon,” said Judge Macklin softly.
Inspector Moley’s fist crashed on his desk; he sprang to his feet. “You’re not going to get out of this as easily as all that!” he roared. “I know that you and Marco corresponded regularly this summer! I know that you fixed at least one attempted extortion case when the going got too hot for both of you. I know—”
“You seem to know a good deal,” said Penfield gently. “Elucidate,”
“My friend Dave Leonard of the Metropolitan Agency has written me all about you; see? So don’t think you’re pulling the wool over my eyes with all this confidential business-matter talk!”
“Hmm. You haven’t been idle, I see,” murmured the little man with a beaming glance of admiration. “Yes, Marco and I did correspond this summer, that’s true. And I did call on Leonard—charming fellow—a few months ago in the interests of my client. But…”
“What’s this clean-up Marco started to write you about?” shouted Moley.
“Dear, dear, Inspector, there’s no cause for violence. And I really can’t hope to interpret Marco’s thoughts. I don’t know what he meant. He was quite mad, poor chap.”
The Inspector opened his mouth, closed it again, glared at Penfield, and then turned and stamped savagely to the window, fighting for self-control. Penfield sat with a sad expectant smile.
“Uh—tell me, Mr. Penfield,” drawled Ellery. The lawyer’s head swung about, a trifle warily. But he was still smiling. “Did John Marco leave a will?”
Penfield blinked. “Will? I wouldn’t know, Mr. Queen. I never drew up such a document for him. Of course, some other attorney may have. I don’t bother with such things.”
“Did he own any property? Would you say he has left an estate?”
The smile faded, and for the first time the man’s urbanity deserted him. He seemed to feel that a trap lurked somewhere in Ellery’s question. He eyed Ellery closely before replying. “Estate? I don’t know. As I say, our relationship was not—ah—” He paused, at a loss for words.
“The reason I ask,” murmured Ellery, toying with his pince-nez, “is that I had a notion he might have consigned certain documents of value to your care. After all, as you say, the lawyer-client relationship is more or less sacred.”
“More or less,” remarked the Judge.
“Documents of value?” echoed Penfield slowly. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Mr. Queen. You mean bonds, stock certificates, things like that?”
Ellery did not reply at once. He breathed on the lenses, scrubbed them thoughtfully, and then placed the glasses on his nose. During the entire operation Lucius Penfield watched with respectful absorption. Then Ellery said lightly: “Do you know a Mrs. Laura Constable?”
“Constable? Constable? I don’t believe I do.”
“Joseph A. Munn? Mrs. Munn, the former Cecilia Ball, actress?”
“Oh, oh!” said Penfield. “You mean the people staying at the Godfrey house currently? I thought I’d heard their names before. No, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, ha, ha!”
“Marco didn’t write you about them?”
Penfield pursed his red lips. It was evident that he was struggling with several doubts, engendered by the fact that he did not know how much Ellery knew. His angelic eyes flicked over Ellery’s face three times before he replied: “I’ve a shockingly bad memory, Mr. Queen. I can’t recall whether he did or not.”
“Hmm. By the way, to your knowledge did Marco cultivate the hobby of amateur photography? Quite the thing these days. I just wondered…”
The lawyer blinked, and Moley turned around with a frown. But Judge Macklin kept his frosty gaze steadily upon the little lawyer’s face.
“You do jump about so, don’t you, Mr. Queen?” murmured Penfield at last with a wry smile. “Photography? He may have. I wouldn’t know.”
“At least he left no photographs with you?”
“Certainly not,” said the little man instantly. “Certainly not.”
Ellery glanced at Inspector Moley. “I believe, Inspector, that there’s no point in detaining Mr. Penfield further. He obviously—ah—can’t help us. Very nice of you to have taken the trouble of coming down here, Mr. Penfield.”
“No trouble at all,” cried Penfield, his good humor returning in a twinkling. He bounced out of the chair. “Is there anything else, Inspector?”
Moley grunted helplessly: “Beat it.”
A thin watch popped into Penfield’s hand. “Dear, dear, I’ll have to hurry if I want to catch the next ’plane out of Crossley Field. Well, gentlemen, sorry I couldn’t have been of service.” He shook hands with Ellery, bowed to the Judge, tactfully ignored Inspector Moley, and backed to the door. “Nice to have seen you again, Judge Macklin. I’ll be sure to send your regards to Kinsey. And, of course, I shall be glad to tell Inspector Queen, Mr. Queen, that I saw—”
He was still talking and beaming and bowing when the door closed upon his sweet, angelic eyes.
“That man,” said Judge Macklin grimly, still looking at the door, “has talked juries out of convicting at least a hundred professional murderers. He has bribed witnesses and intimidated others who were honest. He has commanded judges. He has deliberately destroyed evidence. He once smashed the promising career of a young assistant district attorney by involving him in a patently framed scandal with a notorious woman of the underworld on the eve of a murder-trial…And you expected to get something out of him!” Moley’s lips moved soundlessly. “My advice to you, Inspector, is to forget the man ever existed. He’s much too slick for an honest policeman. And if he is involved in Marco’s death somewhere you may be sure you’ll never discover the connection or get proof.”
Inspector Moley clumped out to his deskman’s office to see that his orders had been executed. Mr. Lucius Penfield, whether he anticipated it or not, was returning to New York with what is professionally known as a “tail.”
As they were driving back to Spanish Cape, the Judge said suddenly: “I don’t believe it, Ellery. The man’s too clever for that.”
Ellery, who had been steering the Duesenberg abstractedly, said: “What are you talking about?” Penfield’s departure seemed to have infected Moley’s office with the virus of newslessness. Reports had come pouring in which told precisely nothing. The coroner had inspected John Marco’s lifeless clay inside and out and sent word that he had nothing to add to his original opinion concerning the cause of Marco’s death. There had been a bulletin from the Coast Guard, and numerous reports of “progress” from local officers all along the coast: to the effect that no one had yet even glimpsed Hollis Waring’s stolen cruiser, that no man of Captain Kidd’s unusual description had been seen anywhere along the seaboard since the night of the murder, and that David Kummer’s body had not yet been washed ashore. It had all been very depressing, and the two men had left Moley fuming in a stew of impotence.
“I mean the notion that Penfield is in possession of those letters,” muttered the Judge.
“Oh, is that worrying you?”
“He’s too smooth to touch anything like that with his own fair hands, Ellery.”
“On the contrary, I should think he’d have got his hands on the documents the very first thing if he’d been able.”
“No, no. Not Penfield. He might advise, instruct, but he wouldn’t handle personally. His knowledge of Marco’s criminality would be sufficient hold for him—and that’s a power over Marco he could carry about in his head.”
Ellery said nothing.
He brought the Duesenberg to a halt before the Grecian pillars opposite the entrance to Spanish Cape. Harry Stebbins’s belly pushed open the door of the gasoline establishment.
“If it ain’t the Judge! And Mr. Queen.” Stebbins rested his arms confidentially on the door of the Duesenberg. “I see ye scootin’ in and out o’ Spanish Cape yesterday. Ain’t it awful about that murder? One o’ th’ troopers was tellin’ me…”
“Quite horrible,” said the Judge absently.
“Think they’ll find the critter that did it? I hear this Marco was all naked when they found him. What’s the world comin’ to, that’s what I want to know. But I always said—”
