THE LAUGHING GIRL MYSTERY

Putaruru Press, Volume XIV, Issue 679, 18 June 1936, Page 2

THE LAUGHING GIRL MYSTERY

By

VIOLA PARADISE.

Copyright.

“You know where he lives?’’ “No. hut it's in the files, of course.” They had got back to the door of Sheridan's office by now. “You'll be interested in his letter of resignation,” said Alby. “Resignation? Oh, surely he’d not ■■ But Alby had walked to the typewriter desk, and, lifting the black leatherette cover from the typewriter, indicated a letter still in the machine. ■'lt's all right to take it out now,” said .Jenker . “I powdered it for prints. Nothing there.” “Hm." Alby drew it out and.handed it to Sheridan. It read as follow: Mr Dinard. —Nobody ever accused me of stealing before. What would I do with a door-knocker. You could have slipped it into your pocket yourself, or Mr Wilcox could, or Dr. Coe when he came back. He didn’t think I saw him, but i did so goodby and to bad if you killed sumbody but i don't want to be mixed in any murders, besides i don’t like the way you let Dr. Coe think it was me had the cabinet key which i didn’t but i hope you didn’t do the Murder because you was always real nice. yours truly P. Marlin. “What do you make of it?” Alby asked. “Nothing. How long was it between the time Higgins telephoned and the time the police got here? I dare say we could find out?” “Eight minutes,” said Alby. ‘Not time enough for a man to have dressed and have written this note — a man as unused to typing as Marlin apparently was.” “And your conclusion?" asked Alby. “One needs more evidence to draw conclusions. . . . "What do you make of it? After all, you're the detective, not I.” “I imagine we draw the same conelusions. Marlin was dressed when the telephone call came; or else he expected the call, and wrote the note In advance; or else,” Alby added with slow emphasis, “someone else wrote it, as a plant.” “You suspect Marlin, then?” “Surely, you’ve read enough detective stories,” Alby said dryly, “to know' it’s our business to suspect everyone.” “That reminds me,” Sheridan replied. “You had a man following me last night.” “Fortunately for you. His whistle summoned the police. Otherwise you might have been killed." “Hardly,” said Sheridan. “But you doubtless saved me some money and my fiancee’s wedding ring. As it is, he got nothing.” “You’re sure it was a hold-up ?” “What else could it be? Of course the fellow must have been an amateur, to lose his nerve and shoot.” “Is there anyone who would want you dead?” Sheridan smiled. “Not to my knowledge.” “No one who would profit by your death?" “No one. I have- almost no money —oh, enough to marry on, but not enough to get killed for.” “Who’s your nearest relative?” “An invalid great-aunt, aged seventy. Practically my only relative.” “Her name?” “Mrs Anne Hartley. She lives with her sister-in-law at the Brunswick in Boston.” “You have no cousins?” “Not in this country. A few distant ones scattered about France, and maybe one or two in England.” “Your first name sounds like an English surname.” “It is. My maternal great-great-grandfather was one James Sheridan. His daughter eloped with a French student, named Dinard. You now behold the last fruit of that romance—to date.” Could you give me the addresses of some of the other fruit?” “No. I don’t know- any of them. My great-aunt might, but really you’re on the wrong track. If they ever knew of my existence, they’ve forgotten it. And they’d have nothing to gain by my death.”

Inspector Higgins, who had been out of the room, came back. “We’ve reached Wilcox at last,” he said. “He’ll be right over.”

Sheridan frowned uneasily. “I hope you’ll pay no attention to thai query on my list. Wilcox had nothing to do with the murder.” Higgins said, “Ready yet to tell us the name of the girl with lavender eyes ?” Sheridan turned scornfully away from Higgins. “Were there no identifying marks on her clothing?” he asked Alby. “None.” “Then you’ve no clues at all?" “We have the dagger, the statuette “Then you found the statuette?” “The statuette with some manuscript binding wire, like that in Dr. Coe’s library, and traces of putty. Not to mention some fingerprints ” “Yeah, and the absence of fingerprints,” interpolated Higgins. “Your friend Marlin took time to wipe off every print in the smelly bedroom.” “Wait a minute,” said Sheridan. This was a nightmare. His brain refused to believe the implications of the accumulating bits of evidence. Just as, doubtless, there was an explanation of his knowing how the dead girl would look ... If only he could find it. . . . It was all too crazy and impossible . . . Why, maybe the attack on himself had some connection with the matter! As if he had been following Sheridan’s thoughts, Alby now said, “To return to your hold-up man last night. You mentioned that the man limped.” “No. I asked whether he limped. But that was just a freak impression. For I didn’t see him take a step. I had been thinking about Mr Coggs. and I suppose when I came to, the image of Coggs got mixed in with the hold-up. Because the only impression I retain of the man is Coggs-y. Which is absurd.” Alby nodded. “Coggs didn't leave his house last night.” Higgins, who had been glaring sceptically at Sheridan, said, “Too bad about Dinard’s memory. Can’t remember blondes with lavender eyes ' and short upper lips, and can’t remember the looks of a man who gives him the count.” Sheridan’s anger against Higgins rose again. But there was nothing he could say. CHAPTER 8. Apparently it had been agreed between Higgins and Alby that the latter should manage these interviews. Alby returned to the subject of Marlin. “Do you know anything about him,” he asked Sheridan, “before his employment by Dr. Coe?” “Yes. As a preliminary to our first Egyptian expedition Dr. Coe took Mr Wilcox and me to visit an English Egyptologist, Dr. Wellington, in London. The four of us went over our plans, and spent much time with Dr. Wellington. Marlin was his caretaker then.” “When was that?”

“In 1928. Dr. Wellington had a collection of urns, one of which was much like one Dr. Coe had had, which had been broken by his caretaker. Dr. Wellington spoke praisingly of his own caretaker—his museum steward, he called him. The next year Dr. Coe received a letter from Dr. Wellington. I’ll show it to you.” Sheridan went to the files and got two letters. The first was addressed to Dr. Coe: “Adelphi Terrace, London.* “My Dear Dr. Coe : “On your last visit you spoke of wanting a caretaker. Because of heavy taxes and general losses, I have accepted an offer for my entire collec • tion, and am closing my little museum and going out to Cairo. Peter Marlin, my man here for years, is emigrating to the States. I have taken the liberty Of suggesting that he call on you. thinking that even if you are at present suited, you might know of a post for him . Don’t let his unprepossessing appearance discourage you. The scar on his neck was won in the war and the hairy mole behind his ear you

really won’t mind after a bit. He is absolutely honest and dependable. ( “I shall be in Egypt all winter. The British Consul in Cairo will always be able to tell you my whereabouts, should you come over on another expedition.

“Sincerely yours, “George Gates Wellington. The second letter was merely a ref crenee:

“To Whom it may Concern: “Peter Marlin has been in my service for twelve years, during which lime he has been entrusted with the care and handling of all the valuable objects in my museum. 1 assure his next employer that he can be depended upon for honesty, carefulness, and general trustworthiness. “Dr. G. G. Wellington." Alby read both letters and passed them first to Higgins and then to Harrod. Higgins merely sniffed. Harrod asked, “Shall I take them along?” Alby nodded. “As soon as we’ve seen Wilcox,” he said, “Dinard and I will go after Marlin. You can get back to Centre Street. I’ll see you there later.” Harrod put the letters in his pocket Almost immediately Wilcox arrived. “Hello, Dinard,” he said, ignoring Alby for the moment. “What’s this putrid mess? Didn’t I tell you that door knocker would get into the papers? All the same, I’ll bet Dr. Coe burst wide open when he saw it. What’s the inside story?” “Mr Wilcox, I believe?” said Alby. “It’s your inside story that’s wanted now. We’ve been trying to get you since eight this morning.” Wilcox grinned. “I’ve a patent way of warding off phone calls on Sunday mornings. Two bits of cardboard between the bells, and I can’t hear a sound. What can I do for you?" “You can tell me when you last saw Dr. Coe.”

“Dr. Coe? Surely nothing has happened to him!” Wilcox was serious now.

“Do you know where he is?” “At his country place, I presume—oh, I say!” Wilcox suddenly stopped. “Well, say it."

Instead of answering Alby, Wilcox turned to Sheridan. “Dinard, didn't I hear you say ‘l’ll go along to the station with you’ yesterday when Dr. Coe was leaving here?” “Yes."

Wilcox whistled. “Well, he didn' go to Stamford. Or, if he did, h‘ came back. Because I saw him yes terday afternoon.” “When and where?” demanded A 1 by.

“I can tell you exactly when and where. It was at the corner of Twelfth and Fifth Avenue. Just a minute before I saw you,” he turned to Sheridan, “and Miss Sayre in the taxi. In fact, just as I hopped in with you.” “But you didn’t mention it to Mr Dinard at the time?” “No.”

“You didn’t think it strange?” “Dr. Coe doesn’t take me into his confidence,” Wilcox replied stiffly. “It’s nothing to me what he does with his Saturday afternoons." Alby looked at his watch. “We’ll resume this interesting conversation later. Meanwhile, let Mr Jenker here take your fingerprints.” Wilcox exclaimed, “Fingerprints! You don’t suspect me-—” “The whole museum staff, except Marlin," Sheridan explained, “seems to have been a few inches, or feet, or yards from the crime at the moment it was being committed." With a shrug, Wilcox let Jenker ink his hands. “And please be at my office this afternoon—” Alby began. “Sorry, but I’ve another engagement.” “That’s just too bad,” said Higgins. But Alby merely repeated, “At my office, at two-thirty.” Sheridan and Alby started down to the door. Just before they reached the bottom step Alby said “Stop,” and motioned a policeman who was standing near it to step back. There was the sound of a key in the outer door. It opened, and Dr. Coe stepped in—Dr. Coe, hatless, his white hair unkempt, his eyes bloodshot and haggard. He did not raise his eyes to where Sheridan and Alby were standing. But he did see the policeman. “What are you doing in my house?’ he demanded in a shaking voice. “There’s been a murder,” said the policeman. “Murder! . . . .” Dr. Coe seemed to be focussing his mind with difficulty. “Mur—not Marlin 1” he exclaimed, and fell in a crumpled heap on the floor. An hour later, when they left together to seek Marlin, Sheridan’s feelings towards Alby were mixed. He had been pleased to find Alby a human, rather gentle person, not in the least like the district attorneys or detectives of fiction. When Dr .Coe collapsed exhausted on the floor, Sheridan remembered third degree stories of men kept awake for days to wring forth a confession. Higgins was apparently ready for some such procedure.

But Alby asked no questions. He helped to get Dr. Coe up to his room, had a man telephone for a physician connected with his department, and waited for anything Dr .Coe might say when he came to.

Dr. Coe asked one question: “Who killed Marlin?” and at the news that Marlin wasn’t the victim, he sighed with relief and closed his eyes, murmuring, “Leave me alone now." Bui when Sheridan said, “Hadn't I better telephone Mrs Coe?” he sat up suddenly. “Not on any account!” And then, more feebly, “I’m all right.” Mr Alby’s doctor arrived shortly and confirmed this statement. “Or-

dinary exhaustion,” He said. “Otherwise 0.K.” “Well enough to give testimony al —say —four this afternoon?” Albs queried. “Sure.” “Testimony?” Dr .Coe asked wearily. “What lias all this to do with me?” Alby left the explanation to Sheridan. He knew that Alby was listening nol only to his story but to the very words he chose, to his every intonation, and even, as it were, to the items he omitted. He knew, too, that Alby missed no flicker of expression that passed over Dr. Coe’s face. When Sheridan finished, Alby merely said quietly, “We’ll telephone when we need you this afternoon. I’ll question the other witnesses firsr Meanwhile I am leaving some men here.” As Sheridan pulled on his own glove, Alby asked, “Where did you get that scratch on your hand?" Sheridan started, and then laughed shortly. “Not from the Florentine dagger,” he said. “It’s odd,” he continued, “how guilty an innocent man can feel when a district attorney asks him a sudden question. We suddenly see a possible misinterpretation of some slight detail, like this scratch. Which, to answer your question, I got on a loose prong in a ring which Miss Sayre wore the night before last. I should think,” Sheridan continued, “that this incorrect reaction of guilt, this very feel of guilt, in almost any innocent person who knows he’s being watched and studied, would lead you detectives astray.” “It does —sometimes,” Alby replied “Not often.” They were silent the rest of the short distance to Marlin’s address—■ an old-fashioned brick apartment house in a shabby block between Second and Third Avenues. Marlin's name was not in the hall. They rang the superintendent’s bell. “You mean that Englishman? He moved out long ago. ’Round Thanksgiving. No, I don’t know where. Mr 3 Brown, though, or her daughter, might know. He roomed in their flat.” Mrs Brown lived on the first floor, . front. She showed them into what she called the parlour bedroom, which contained a brass bed, a piano, some plush chairs, and countless knickknacks, photographs, and d'oyleys. , “You’ll have to excuse this parlour i being a bedroom,” she said. “We used to have the whole floor when Mr Marlin lived here, but these hard times a person’s got to do what they can, especially with my daughter out I of work, and ” i “No,” she said, when questioned, “I don’t know where Mr Marlin moved to, and I can’t say as I care. If I l knew, my daughter, Susie, wouldn’t let me have no peace. Though what she ’ could see in an old man like Mr Marlin —not that he was really old, but forty if he was a day . But for a girl nineteen—and for him to invite her to s Coney Island, and get their picture taken together, well, it keeps the i young men away. Right now, thank goodness, she’s going steady with a 1 nice young fella. I always told her i ‘Mr Marlin isn’t a marrying man’." CHAPTER 9. “Did Marlin take her out often?" • Alby asked. “Not as often as she’d of liked,” said Mrs Brown. “He was always ’ saying he had to spend his week-ends at tlie museum, and maybe he did, but be careful what you believe that any man says, I told her. But she wouldn’t ‘ hear a word against him. My land, When he had their pictures took to--1 gether at Coney Island, well, Susie she thought he must be gone on her. And then he moved and not a word out of him.” “Smell him?” Alby prompted. “Now, whatever made me say that! Of course, he did have a smell to him. Not real bad, but sort of tobacco-y, only not quite. Not that he wasn’t a clean man. Tidy as a cat. But he did smell. Why, I told Susie for a week after lie left that I could smell him every time I went into this room.” “Why did he leave?" “Just lost his temper, sudden, and no need, either. He forgot to pay hil rent two weeks running, and I reminded him. Now wouldn’t anybody? He never answered a word, but next morning there, on his pillow, was the money, and a note.” “Have you the note?” “No, I haven’t. But it said nobody ever accused him of wanting to get out, of paying his rent before. Susie kept after me till I wrote him a letter to the Metropolitan Museum apologising, but ft came back, marked unknown at til is address. “Where is Susie?” “She’ll be back any minute now. She goes to see her grandma Sunday mornings.” “I’ll see her later. Meanwhile, I’ll borrow this photograph,” said Alby. “Well, my land, I don’t know what Susie’ll say. Gracious, Mr Marlin ain’t wanted for something, is he?” “Did he seem the sort of man who would be wanted?" “But he was honest as daylight," she added. “I never thought he meant to do me out of Hie rent. Why, like I wrote him in my letter, that came back, I’d no more accuse him of cheating than of murder.” She slopped short. “My land,” she narrowed her eyes at Sheridan. “Your pitcher was in the paper this morning, about that murder of the girl that died laughing ! And you ” “From the District Attorney's office,” Alby told her. “Just when was this picture taken?” “Two weeks to the day before he left. I remember on account of when she bought the new hat. But a

murder! And Mr Marlin being asked foul Just wait till I tell Susie.” Susie entered at that moment, youns and slim, and smart despite the cheapness of her clothes. “Susie! Mr Marlin’s been connected with a murder!” her mother exclaimed . “And these gentlemen ” “With a murder!” Susie's thin eyebrows went up. “I don't believe it." “The one in this morning's paper. The girl who died laughing.” “He never did it!" Susie cried passionately. “I don’t believe he did it!’ “There you go, jumping to conclusions, like always,” said her mother.' “I never said he done it. I said he was connected with it. These gentlemen come to borrow his picture They’re from the police. At least, that one is.” “The other one isn't. I know who he is,” said Susie. “He works at Mr Marlin’s museum, one of the two Mr Marlin said butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.” “Are you sure he said that?" Sheridan demanded. Susie nodded. “What else did he say?” Alby demanded. “Nothing. Except that people in museums in England were different.” “But I told you a hundred times,” said her mother, “that Mr Marlin never worked at the museum. The letter came back. You saw it with your own eyes.” (To be Continued). “I don’t remember,” said Susie sullenly. “Maybe I just thought it was the Meterpolitan.” “And it didn’t seem strange to you that he hadn’t told you which museum he worked at?” “He was English. English people are different. Not —not familiar, like Americans.” “Close-mouthed, you mean," said her mother. “Though really, except for that about the museum, he wasn’t what I’d call a close-mouthed man. Liked to talk, when he was in the mood . My land!” Her voice changed. “My roast! Excuse me,” she continued, dashing to the door. The moment she had gone, Alby turned upon Susie. “You were in love with him.”

“No!" But as Alby made no answer, just waited, she added, “I’m engaged to marry somebody else. At least when times get better ”

“And you were never engaged to Marlin ?’’

“No —he couldn't ask me. He —he had a wife in England.” “But he took you places, and made love to you—” “He was a perfect gentleman. Hu told me from the beginning he couldn’t marry me—not as long as his wife was alive. Sha’s been in an insane asylum for eight years in London. He can't get a divorce.” “And so?” Alby prompted. “So nothing,” she retorted. “He said he mustn't stand in my way. So, unless I could feel he was like a father to me, we wouldn’t go out together any more. So I said all right, and after that he never once ” “Never once what?"

“He never once made love to me. Never once even kissed me . He may just of been a earetaker, but he w*as a perfect gentleman, I tell you!” “Was the picture taken before or after he told you about his wife?”

"He told me about his wile being in the insane asylum the third time he took me out, two years ago. Bjit he told me how you couldn't get a divorce lor insanity the same day we had the picture taken.” Mrs Brown breezed back into the room and began talking almost before she entered the doorway. “Was he a hot-tempered man?” Alby interrupted. “My land, no! That’s why I never could understand him going off In a huff when I reminded him about the rent.”

“That," said Susie angrily, “is why. I know Mother must have said something insulting to him.” “Susie Brown, I never! I've told you a dozen times exactly what I said. And he never answered a word. And the next morning there was the note on his pillow—"

"It must have been the way you said it then,” Susie insisted. “He was very—-very honourable. And he’d naturally be insulted if anybody thought he was trying to cheat them out of the rent.”

“But I tell you 1 was as polite as milk. I just said, ‘Mr Marlin,’ I said, ‘I think something’s slipped your mind. I know you’d remember it in a day or two, but my own rent’s due this week ’ ”

Well, thank you very much,” Alby

said. “I'll return the picture in a few days.” “You ain’t going lo put Susie’s picture in the papers!” Mrs Brown exclaimed. “No.” Alby got up to leave. “And tell him I never meant to incincerate that he was trying to get ou£ *— of paying the rent, if you find him.” “When you find him,” Susie insisted and looked darkly from Alby to Sheridan, as they departed. At the corner drug store Alby went into a telephone booth. Sheridan took advantage of this first moment of leisure to slip into another and to call Adelaide. “Sherry, darling!" she exclaimed; “I’ve been trying to get you at your house and the museum—l’ve been ro worried ” “I’ll collect you for lpnch in a little while. I’m with Mr Alby. He’s coming down to have another look at the Coggs’ apartment. It won’t be long " “Just a minute, Sherry. SrfMfe one’s at the door.” Sheridan held the wire. It was rather a long minute. At last slm ' returned to the telephone. “PleAB hurry, Sherry.” “Dear! Is something wrong? Nvffitt is it?" “No, nothing. That is—it's only that they've been asking me ques- , lions ” “Who?” “Some more police inspectors. And they’ve searched the house.” “The brutes. But don’t worry, dear. It's just a routine they’ve got to go through. If you were a policeman, wouldn’t you do the same? They weren t unpleasant about it, were they?” “No—hut ” “But what, darling? I can tell that you’re worried.” “Sherry, they found something!" (To be Continued).