The detective conceded: “You could go even farther and say you’re a lowdown, mangy, hound-dog. To that I’ll agree — the rest of it, I’ll argue to a finish.”
The holographist showed no alarm — quite the contrary, he grinned. “I’ll surprise you, shamus. If Mullet died half an hour ago, you’ve got absolutely nothing on me. My alibi is ironclad.” The grin curled derisively. “Here’s why — I was sitting up with Johnny Taine tonight.”
O’Hanna reflected. It’d been Eva Taine first, then Kuhn, now there was yet another heir in the air. “Johnny? So he’s here, too?”
“He’s here, period, as far as I’m concerned.”
O’Hanna quizzed: “And just how are you concerned?”
“It’s commercial. Johnny’s grandfather, old Colonel Taine, left a rather large collection of holographia to his family. Johnny’s different — he collects night club chorines, and he’s spent plenty of money,” Janathan enlightened. “I’ve been trying to trade him my autograph on a check for some of those rare old historical documents he inherited.”
“Trying? You mean he wouldn’t sell?”
“He’s too willing — he wants to sell the works, lock, stock, and barrel. It just so happens Colonel Taine wasn’t a discriminating collector. His was the old story of the millionaire and a hobby-horse. A man as rich as he gets no thrill out of Packards and pearls — too many other millionaires can have those things. There aren’t enough George Washington and Thomas Jefferson holographs to go around — that’s what makes them valuable. I’m trying to say, the colonel had the bankroll, but he didn’t have the expert judgment. He owned some really rare items, but most of his collection was just plain junk.” The bow-legged man paused as if suddenly thought-struck. “But, shucks! I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. The Catlin Papers couldn’t mean anything to a hotel detective.”
O’Hanna protested: “But I am interested in cats.”
Alexander Janathan fried another egg in his corncob. “I didn’t say cats, I said Catlin. It goes ’way back in American history. George Catlin was a famous artist who took to studying the American Indians. His letters command a high value on account of the sketches he drew in the margin.”
“Yeah. Now let’s bring the history down to date. You say Johnny Taine inherited these Catlin letters from his granddad, and you’ve been trying to buy them from him. Where did this ironclad alibi take place?”
“You’ll find Johnny in 431. I was returning from his room when I found Mullet in the hall down here.”
O’Hanna scorned: “Pardon me for not laughing, but I’ve heard you tell that one before.” But the house dick’s eyebrows were battened down in a perplexed scowl as he walked away from the bow-legged holographist. That Janathan had lied, he didn’t doubt — the question was, why? It sounded as though the professor wanted to pin the murder rap on himself! He was doing his damnedest to fix the slay schedule so he wouldn’t have an alibi!
O’Hanna reached the battery of elevators, punched an UP button. Glumly, he reminded himself — Alexander Janathan hadn’t cooked up his cockeyed yam just to stick his neck in a noose. The professor stood to gain from his fable about the corpse living half an hour longer than it really had.
Twin elevator doors slid apart — and Lucas Kuhn bolted out between them, lurched headlong into the detective’s arms.
“Help!” the plump man sobbed. “Oh, it’s you! Thank God! I just had the most hair-raising experience!”
“Such as?”
Lucas Kuhn breathed hard. “I started back to the chalet, Mr. O’Hanna. I’d no sooner set foot in the darkness than the killer tried to lasso me!”
“Lasso you? For God’s sake!” the house dick exploded his open disbelief.
“That’s right. He looped a rope right around my neck. It’s only by dumb, blind instinct I managed to throw it off and run for my life.”
O’Hanna doubted aloud: “I know. You want your gun back.”
Lucas Kuhn said hoarsely: “You’re damned right I want my gun back. There’s a murderer on the loose. I can see it all now — he killed Mullet first, then he tried to strangle Eva, and this makes twice he’s tried for me. My blood’s on your hands if he strikes again and I’m not armed to defend myself.”
Irritably, O’Hanna sighed: “Oh, come on. I’ll be your bodyguard.”
He waved Kuhn back into the elevator, and said to the wide-eyed operator: “Fourth floor.”
“Fourth... You aren’t even going to investigate my story!” the pink-faced man accused bitterly.
“I’m investigating it my own way.” O’Hanna led the way out into the fourth-floor corridor. “Let’s be logical about it. How do you explain this wholesale vendetta against your entire household?”
“I can’t, but I’m getting a hunch it all goes back to the first time — the attempt to dynamite Grandfather Taine and me.”
O’Hanna was surprised. “You were in the dynamite deal, too?”
“Certainly. I was supposed to be right there in the back seat — with the old man. I’d already chucked my briefcase and topcoat into the car, then I remembered a letter I was supposed to mail. I went back into the house after it, otherwise I’d have been blown to bits.” Lucas Kuhn shuddered and said: “You know, the biggest piece of that briefcase we ever found wasn’t any larger than an inch square.”
“I didn’t know, but I’ve been wondering. How could the killer be sure Colonel Taine was inside when the dynamite blew up?”
Lucas Kuhn said: “It was clever — hellishly clever. The Bomb Squad figured it was a double switch, wired to work when the car door closed, but also wired so contact was impossible without a weight pressing down the seat cushion. Apparently the topcoat and briefcase supplied just enough weight so the juice fed to the dynamite cap without a human being inside the car.”
They’d reached 431, and found the door unlocked.
Startled exclamations came from the pair in 431 — a man and a woman. The man — Johnny Taine — was fair-haired and puffy-faced, pallid-skinned except for the alcohol crimsoning his fleshy nose.
Johnny Taine had been hitting the hooch, and there was whiskey on the breath he whooshed at O’Hanna in the doorway.
“Whyinell don’cha knock before you come barging into wrong rooms?” he yelped.
“It’s the right room. I’m the house detective.”
Johnny Taine giggled. “You’re off-base this time, snooper! This lady happensh to be my sister, so pfooey on you!”
O’Hanna looked at the sister. She wasn’t Eva Taine. This one was red-headed, and she was older, and she was so thin she could almost have used a broomstick as a dress form.
The explanation came as Lucas Kuhn bobbed around O’Hanna’s elbow, and gurgled: “Good Lord, it’s Belle — my wife.”
That seemed to make the family reunion complete, thought O’Hanna.
The red-haired woman said to Lucas Kuhn: “Your ex-wife, you mean, you beast.”
“You two are divorced?” O’Hanna surmised.
Lucas Kuhn said: “She has an interlocutory decree, but it isn’t final yet.”
The divorce angle was new, and it was the last straw on the camel’s back. O’Hanna’s black Irish streak flashed as he exploded: “Holy— Well, if you folks have got any more heirs, in laws, cat caretakers, and grandfathers’ ghosts — let’s hear about them now. I’m tired of bumping into a brand-new Taine family skeleton every time I open a door!”
Johnny Taine wrapped up a giggle in bourbonized breath, tossed it at O’Hanna. “Snooper, you sound higher’n I feel...”
Belle Kuhn said freezingly: “Johnny, keep out of this. I’ll attend to the man.” She turned to the detective, a prim, grim expression on her blade-thin face.