Puzzle of the Red Stallion (14 page)

“I didn’t break in, I still have my key to this place,” Gregg retorted. “And what makes you think I broke out of jail?”

“Why—” Miss Withers blinked. “The people at the jail seemed to have a suspicion that everything wasn’t exactly ‘kosher,’ as they so aptly put it. By the way, who was the friend who posed as a deputy sheriff and got you out on a fake writ?”

A look of wide and complete surprise crossed the face of Don Gregg. “A fake writ? I don’t know what’s in your mind, but I tell you I never saw that guy before. They told me at the jail that everything was okay and I’d been sprung.” He rose from his chair. “You mean—I wasn’t legally freed?”

“Correct,” Miss Withers snapped. She was growing a little annoyed with the complete and transparent innocence of everyone connected with this case. “And when this obliging stranger got you out of the jail where did he take you?”

“He left me at the door,” Don Gregg insisted. “And drove—I mean rode away in a taxi.”

“It must have been a Boy Scout doing his good deed for the day,” Miss Withers remarked, not without a strain of sarcasm. “Of course, you can describe this Good Samaritan?”

Don Gregg tried again to light the pipe. “Sure—sure I can. He was a big, dark chap with a black mustache and a scar across his cheek.”

“He wore horn-rimmed glasses too, did he not?” Miss Withers wanted to know. This young man avoided her eyes.

Gregg thought for a moment. “That’s right, he did. But how did you know?”

“Everybody knows that,” Miss Withers returned. “It’s the same imaginary person who commits most of our crimes. Every witness sees a big, tall man with a mustache and a scar, and glasses. It’s the Bogey-Man, beyond a doubt.” She paused. “The description is more than interesting, because until you gave it I was wondering if perhaps you had not borrowed that blue overcoat from the deputy sheriff who got you out of jail.” She pointed to the coat on his arm. “It so evidently was made for a man much smaller than yourself … but if he was so tall and formidable …”

Don Gregg took his pipe out of his mouth and put it into his pocket. He rose suddenly, facing Barbara. “I’ll be going,” he said to her. “Thanks for the cup of coffee and … everything….”

But Miss Withers also was standing. “Young man,” her voice rang out, “you’re lying like Baron Munchausen and you know it. But before you go, answer me one question and answer it truthfully. Remember, I’m a schoolteacher and I can spot a lie a mile away. Careful now; did you kill Violet Feverel this morning?”

“Of course he didn’t!” Barbara put in indignantly.

“I’m not asking you, you’re too good a liar,” Miss Withers snapped. “Come on, young man!”

Don Gregg faced her without the slightest tremor of his eyelashes, without the slightest wavering of his gaze.

“I hated Violet,” he said softly. “When I was rotting in jail I thought night and day about how I’d like to get my hands around her throat. But I don’t mind telling you, or the police, or anybody else—as I told Barbara here before you came—J
did not kill her
!”

“Then you have nothing to worry about from me—or from the police either,” said Miss Withers, gathering herself together. “I mean that, young man. If you’re innocent I’m on your side of the fence and so, I’m sure, is this young lady.” She shot a glance at Barbara “… Who, by the way,” Miss Withers added, “had no sleep last night and needs it badly.”

The schoolteacher stood beside Barbara, who began to protest. “But I’m not sleepy, really …” she began. The firm pressure of Miss Withers’s hand on her shoulder broke off the sentence.

“Sure,” said Don Gregg. “I’ll go …” His voice too broke off. As he moved toward the door Miss Withers could not help noticing that there was a ragged tear across the lower part of his right trouser leg, a tear which had been somewhat sketchily mended with fine silk thread of a contrasting flesh color. The edges of the tear showed marks of black grease.

Gregg noticed her glance. “Caught it on the fender of a taxi,” he explained. “I’m not used to traffic, you see.” He displayed also a barked knuckle.

“New York traffic is terrible,” Miss Withers agreed sympathetically, “particularly on a hot summer Sabbath when everybody is out of town.” She sniffed. “Young man, I warned you not to attempt lying to me. But come on, let’s take a ride.”

Don Gregg stiffened. “What? Say …”

She faced him, still patient. “You’re wanted for murder, are you not? And for jailbreaking besides. Well, it occurred to me that the best thing for you to do would be to come down to headquarters with me before you’re arrested!”

Barbara rose to her feet protestingly.

“It’ll create a good impression,” Miss Withers urged. “And I have some influence with the police, a great deal of influence, I might say.” She smiled brightly. “They’ll be likely to ask you a few questions and then let you go.”

Gregg nodded. “I’ll go. But I don’t know anything about what happened to Violet. She was probably mixed up with some gigolo, and … but that’s not nice to say, is it?” He looked at Barbara apologetically. “So long, kid … and thanks for everything.”

The girl followed them to the door. Her hair, to Miss Withers, seemed redder than ever and the pale skin more white. “Good luck,” said Barbara Foley.

“Thank you, child,” Miss Withers answered, though she knew that the wish wasn’t meant for her. She let Don Gregg push on into the hall and leaned back toward the girl.

“You want to help solve this murder, do you not?”

Barbara stared at her. “Of course! But what can I do?”

“You can do a great deal,” Miss Withers said. “Young men talk to a pretty girl very freely I’ve noticed. And when young men get jealous over a girl sometimes strange truths come to light. A word to the wise—”

“Wait!” cried Barbara. “I don’t understand!”

“You have inherited a very pretty horse, down at the Thwaite stables,” said Miss Withers. “Why not drop down and see Siwash one day soon. And keep your eyes open….”

The girl nodded slowly, eyes narrowing a little. “Thank you,” she said softly, and closed the door.

Don Gregg waited for Miss Withers down the hall. “I don’t see why I have to—”

He was evidently a young man used to taking short cuts. “It is not necessary that you should,” retorted Miss Withers. “I’m just a meddlesome old maid. But nobody ever got into any trouble through following my advice. And I’m advising you to spike the guns of the police—to come down to headquarters with me. If you do, it will only be a short while before you’re free to go up to the farm….”

“What makes you think I want to go up home?” demanded Gregg.

“You ought to, if you don’t,” she said. “I have a feeling you’re needed there.”

Gregg laughed without humor. “My father’s a great guy, but he and I’d be in each other’s hair inside of an hour,” he said. “We don’t get along.”

They were going out through the lobby. “You seem to have trouble getting along with people, don’t you?” Miss Withers went on. “I didn’t want to ask you before that girl upstairs, but what was the real cause of your breakup with Violet?”

Gregg coughed. “She was an iceberg,” he said slowly. “Violet only thought about dollars and what dollars could do for her. It’s not nice to say now, but I’m not going to pretend I’m sorry she’s dead. She’d been spoiled by seeing her own face looking too pretty in too many magazines.”

“And you couldn’t get along…. Was it another man?”

He shook his head. “I told you Violet was an iceberg. Funny we couldn’t get along, at that. Because we had so much in common—we were both of us madly in love with Violet!”

He was still a little hesitant as they came out into the street. “You’re sure this isn’t going to get me behind the bars?” he asked. “I don’t suppose they can hold me on the alimony rap now, with Violet dead. But the murder charge …”

“You leave that to me,” Miss Withers assured him confidently. “If you’re innocent you have nothing at all to worry about.” And she waved for a taxi.

A car whirled up alongside the curb, but it was not a taxi. To Miss Withers’s amazement it was a small green Ford roadster, the seat filled by two brawny officers and a riot gun hanging forbiddingly across the rear window.

Two officers slid out of the car with guns drawn.

“What, again?” the schoolteacher snapped. “Are you two hired to haunt me?” Miss Withers recognized her acquaintances of that morning.

But Greeley and Shay were starting a fresh shift on duty with evident intentions to cover themselves with glory. “We’ve got instructions to pick you up, Mister Don Gregg,” the sergeant orated. “Also, anybody who’s with you!”

Handcuffs clicked on Don Gregg’s wrists and Miss Withers found her arm in a tight grip. “Get to the phone, Shay, and tell ’em to send the wagon,” ordered the sergeant.

“But we’re on our way down to headquarters …” gasped Miss Withers. “You can’t do this to me …!” She fumbled in her handbag but as she did so she remembered that her silver courtesy badge was safe in a drawer at home.

“Just can’t we!” snapped the sergeant. “I had my suspicions of you this morning, lady. You were trying to cover up for this guy, you and that cur of yours.”

“Idiot!” Miss Withers retorted weakly. But there was nothing she could do. She subsided into a stony silence as they were led back into the hotel lobby to await the arrival of the wagon. A crowd began to form on the street, rising from nowhere, like worms after a heavy rain.

Don Gregg didn’t say anything until the Black Maria pulled up outside and they were being hustled across the sidewalk. Then, as he politely stood aside to let Miss Withers mount the steps ahead of him, she heard a soft murmur: “So you’re the lady who’s got all this influence down at headquarters!”

There were the usual gasps and jeers from the crowd as the two unhappy prisoners ran the gauntlet of gaping eyes. Miss Withers tried to look her best but realized that in spite of herself she appeared extremely hangdoggish, with a general air of being Mamie, Queen of the Underworld.

“G’bye, folks,” said Sergeant Greeley cheerfully. “See you over to the precinct station.”

Miss Withers looked forward to that meeting, but it was not to be. No sooner had the wagon drawn up outside the green lights of the police station than hurried orders from a cop on the curb sent it southward again, cutting across town.

“Stop looking so nervous,” Miss Withers told her companion as they jounced around on the hard bench. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“I’m worrying all the same,” Don Gregg grunted. But there was a new note in his voice and the schoolteacher realized that their joint predicament had joined them subtly together—a pair of captured outlaws. She smiled faintly and resolved to make the most of it.

“The officer on the rear platform can’t hear us in here,” she said softly. “There’s one other question I’d like to ask you. It’s this: Why didn’t your father pay your back alimony and get you out of jail?”

There was a faint suggestion of a sneer on Don Gregg’s face. “You don’t know my old man,” he said. “He never forgave me because I let Violet make a saddle horse out of Siwash. So when Violet and I had our bust-up, with alimony so big I couldn’t pay it, he told me I’d have to take my own medicine. Said he was tired of buying me out of jams with girls.”

Miss Withers edged a little closer. “Go on,” she urged.

“Well, the alimony started to mount up and when it got to almost nine hundred dollars that I owed Violet, she and her lawyer got me thrown into jail. My old man sent word that it would teach me a lesson to rot there for a while. And Violet—she was willing for me to die there.”

“And then …”

“And then my old man raised the nine hundred dollars and gave it to Violet in exchange for a receipt promising to have her lawyer drop the claim. That was just a couple of weeks ago—but just as I was walking out of the jail door, a sheriff’s man nabs me and drags me back in.”

“But I thought your alimony was paid up?”

He nodded. “That’s the racket. It was paid up until the day I went to jail, but all that time it had gone on mounting up. So Violet had a great joke on the old man and on me. She had the nine hundred bucks and I was still behind bars. Nice girl, Violet. Don’t you think so?”

“I think,” Miss Withers told him, “that you’d better get a pretty smooth alibi for the hour of Violet Feverel’s death … for you seem to have had something of a motive for killing her.”

Don Gregg seemed to feel that he had said too much. “You could have found this all out anyway,” he amended hastily. “I told you the truth when I said I didn’t kill her.”

“All the same,” Miss Withers suggested sweetly, “couldn’t you produce some witness who was with you at the time of Violet Feverel’s death—somebody at the Turkish baths, perhaps? It would make a great deal of difference….”

But Don Gregg shook his head. “No, I couldn’t—I mean I can’t do that.” Miss Withers shrugged and relapsed into silence.

The wagon stopped and the oddly assorted couple were hustled out and up the steps of headquarters. They went up two flights of stairs and down a long hall, with here and there a man in uniform giving Miss Withers a cheery good afternoon. But the grip of the officer on her arm was not relaxed. At last they stood in an outer office, inside a door marked “Homicide Bureau.” There was a moment’s wait while a young man at the desk spoke into a telephone.

The answer came clearly through the door. “Drag ’em in,” cried a weary voice. “Hurry up, Georgie, both Gregg and the dame.”

Detective Georgie Swarthout looked up in wonderment. Then he grinned and ushered the prisoners through into the inner office.

“Oh, hello, Hildegarde,” said Inspector Oscar Piper. “How’d you get wind of this so quick?” Without waiting for an answer Piper turned toward the young man in the door. “Swarthout, where’s the dame picked up with this guy?”

“I,” interrupted Miss Withers coldly, “am the ‘dame,’ thanks to the efficiency of your much-vaunted radio police!”

The inspector snapped straight out of his chair, a look of delighted and incredulous wonder lighting his face. “You—you don’t mean to tell me that you got dragged down here in the wagon?”

Miss Withers nodded solemnly.