And he began his last struggle, squirming and twisting to slip through their fingers. Yes, he recognized that this added bit of evidence made a link in a fantastic chain. But, he declared, it had not been his typewriter. One of the boys must have brought it along. Who? He couldn’t be sure. Probably Harry Marks. Where could he be reached? Well, he was the son of Gordon Marks of the Marks Stores.
“Call him,” Horn told Padua.
Harry Marks proved to be in Europe.
Horn’s eyes, held on Judd, shone with that unfocused metallic lustre. “You think you’re too clever for us,” he said. “Maybe you’re too clever for yourself.”
Then Judd was in a Marmon again, surrounded by squadmen, speeding once more toward his home, this time to search for the typewriter.
When they entered the house, Judd’s father came toward them with a relieved smile. But Judd spoke loudly. “Now it’s the ransom letter! They want to search the house to see if I’ve got the typewriter that typed the ransom letter!”
Judah Steiner, Sr., seemed not to comprehend. “Is everything all right?”
“Sure. This is quite an experience,” Judd called from the stairs.
Entering his room, he saw the ransacked desk and angrily began to sort his papers. McNamara seized more typewritten notes. Padua, in the doorway, asked, “Those the same batch?” They were. But no Corona was in sight.
The maid was hovering in the corridor. “Say, Miss” – Padua smiled at her – “have you seen Mr. Steiner’s portable typewriter recently?”
“The portable?” Elsa said helpfully. “Well, now, last time I saw it, it was just there, by the desk as usual.”
“And when was that?”
“She doesn’t know what machine she’s talking about,” Judd snapped. But her first words couldn’t be pulled back.
The men searched the room, the closet, other rooms. “No use. I guess he got rid of it,” Padua said. The group started downstairs.
“Did you find what you want, gentlemen?” Judd’s father asked.
“Well, yes and no.” Padua put on his glittering smile. “Does your son own a portable Corona typewriter?”
Hopefully, Judd realized that the old man might never have noticed the machine. “Why, a portable typewriter, no, I never bought him one that I recollect. He has a regular standard typewriter, I’m sure.” Steiner looked questioningly from one to the other. “Are you going to need my son much longer downtown?”
“That’s hard to say. We haven’t got everything cleared up yet.”
Judd showed his father an annoyed smile. The group departed.
Judah Steiner stood there for a moment. His head was moving almost imperceptibly from side to side. Then he went to the phone. He was beginning to feel outraged. But his sister-in-law counselled him to have patience a little longer. And better to send Judd down some fresh clothing.
More and more attackers were lunging at him, but he was fencing them off. If only Artie could see how he was holding them off! But once more they were separated. Once more Judd had been taken to the hotel suite, to be worked on. And there in the room stood Michael Fine, Harry Bass, Milt Lewis. They kept their eyes averted from his; but in quiet voices they formally identified the law notes, and said when and where and by whom they had been typed.
Judd confronted them. “But I typed on my own machine, on my desk. Don’t you remember? Harry Marks must have brought along the portable.”
Milt Lewis looked right into his eyes for the first time. “That was your machine. You had it right there. You bragged about having two typewriters, one for travelling.”
Horn thanked the boys, and they went out.
They stood with us in the other room.
We waited, as outside a hospital door, for the doctor to emerge. But still it did not happen, and after a time the three boys departed.
Across the street from the hotel, the Steiner chauffeur appeared in the State’s Attorney’s offices, carrying a suitcase of clothing. As he turned it over to Healy, reporters surrounded him for a feature story.
Emil fled. He drove all the way back to the house. Somehow, while on the family’s errand, he had not been able to bring up his own thing. But back in the garage, he could not get out of the automobile. His wife came down. “I won’t be able to sleep,” Emil said.
So he drove back downtown on his own errand.
It was just then that Horn and Padua, still unable to break Judd’s denials, decided to try a little stratagem.
During the evening’s frantic activity about Judd’s typewriter, little attention had been paid to Artie. Hour after hour, he had been sitting in the assistant’s office; Swasey didn’t even ask him any more questions.
Now Padua came in. Artie jumped up. He confronted Padua. “Hey, maybe you can give me a straight answer. Am I supposed to be under arrest, or what?”
Padua smiled.
“You’re holding me, aren’t you?”
“Well, you guessed it,” said Padua.
“What for?” demanded Artie, with a show of petulance. “You haven’t got anything on me. I’ve told you all I know.”
“You said you were with Judd Steiner all that day and evening.”
“Yah, sure.”
“Okay. Things don’t look too good for your friend. Besides the glasses, it turns out that his typewriter was the one the ransom letter was written on. Since you admit you were with him all the time, whatever we’ve got him for, we’ve got you for.”
Artie’s cheek was twitching. “Are you nuts!” he shouted. “I told you we just went to pick up some janes.”
“Yah, I know, that’s what you both said.”
It was then that the chauffeur walked in. He marched past everybody toward the glass-doored offices. It was so unexpected that no one moved to stop him. Opening the door Emil stood rigid, like some converted sinner intensifying his resolve to confess. “I want to talk to the State’s Attorney.”
Startled, Padua said, “The State’s Attorney is busy. What’s it about?”
“I’m the chauffeur for the Steiner family.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve seen you. Bring Judd’s toothbrush?”
“I have some information I must give,” Emil stated.
Padua’s manner changed. “I’m the attorney’s assistant. You can tell me.”
Artie everyone listened. “I saw in the papers that Junior said he was driving the Stutz all day, the day it happened. I have to say that is a mistake. The Stutz was in the garage; he left it for me to put oil on the brakes; they were squeaking.”
Artie seemed to sway. His gaze went from Emil to Padua. Then he moved back, and folded on to a chair. Not the glasses, not even the typewriter had had this effect on him. For both those points, there had been some degree of preparation. But Emil’s testimony fitted into that detective-story nightmare, the insignificant, forgotten detail.
Padua was leaning over him. “All right,” Artie gasped, and ran his tongue over his lips, his eyes still evading, evading. “All right. Can I have a glass of water?”
Padua hurried to the cooler, brought the water. Swasey pushed us away from the doorway, Emil among us, and closed the door.
Emil swallowed, staring at the closed glass door. He had the bewildered look of a man who only gave someone a shove, a tiny push. How could he know the fellow would crumple, collapse? Healy led him into another room before we could ask him any questions.
We waited. The men from the morning papers kept calling their offices, telling them to hold open for the big story.
Presently, Czewicki came hurrying through, from the hotel. He went into the corner office. After a brief interval, he emerged, his expression hovering between a smirk and fright, his wide cheeks seeming to wobble.
We besieged him. “Is he confessing? Did they do it?”