Besides the pistol permit, there was only one thing of interest — a printed form, reading, “In case of accident, please notify—” The blank had been filled in with the name of Mrs. Clyde Warner, 50 West 79th Street, and then crossed out and the name of Harold Warner, 286 West 89th Street, substituted for it. The 89th Street house was Clyde’s address, too. Cassidy ordered Detective Francis Hanrahan to go there and hold Warner until questioned. Then he addressed the Medical Examiner.
“When was he killed?” he asked.
The Medical Examiner shrugged. “You guys always expect magic. I’d say around two or three in the morning. That’s a guess. I’ll check on it later and let you know.”
Cassidy swung around. “What about prints?”
A discouraged little man who was working with fingerprint powder and a brush looked up. “Either we don’t find any at all or we find too many,” he said glumly. “This time it’s too many. There’ve been a lot of people in and out of this place.”
“What about that whiskey bottle and glass?”
“Half dozen nice clear prints. But they all match up with the guy who was shot.”
The detective stood there gloomily until a patrolman called from the doorway.
“Hey, Cassidy — Schirmer’s here.”
Davis Schirmer was a well-built man in his twenties and he answered questions in a slow, earnest manner.
“Let’s have it,” Cassidy said. “Everything you did between eight last night and now.”
Schirmer’s account was brief. He said that he’d gone to bed at eight o’clock the previous evening, since he had expected to be up most of the night. He woke at eleven and started to dress. Then he heard the bell on his floor ring three times, which meant a phone call for him down in the basement.
It was Clyde Warner, declared Schirmer. Clyde told him there’d been a change in schedule and that Schirmer didn’t have to report. Schirmer had gone upstairs without speaking to anyone. He had read for a while and then gone to bed. He’d got up shortly before a policeman had knocked on his door and told him what happened.
Cassidy showed him the log book. “How about this?”
Schirmer studied the entry — “David Schirmer, 12:01 A.M. till—”
“That’s not my handwriting.”
“Let’s see your air-raid warden’s card.”
Schirmer took it from his wallet and Cassidy compared the signatures. There was no doubt that someone else had written Schirmer’s name in the log book.
“You say you spoke to no one after getting that phone call?” asked the detective.
“No. No one. I live alone.”
“You sure it was Clyde Warner you spoke to?”
“You couldn’t fool me on that voice. It’s always harsh and abrupt, as if he were giving orders.”
Cassidy frowned. “Your only alibi is a phone call that you say came from Warner, and the only proof it was Warner is your own statement.”
“I guess that’s right. But it’s the truth — I swear it! Look — why would I shoot Warner?”
“I don’t know,” said Cassidy, “but if you did, I’ll find out.” He turned and went out and down the stairs.
He walked the two blocks to Warner’s address. There, in an apartment on the tenth floor, he found Harold Warner glowering at the detective he had sent on ahead. The two brothers resembled each other. Like Clyde, Harold had dark, straight hair and thick lips.
At sight of Cassidy, he snapped angrily, “Why am I being kept here? You have no right to hold me — what are you trying to get away with?”
“I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure. Go ahead. I don’t have to answer.”
“Where were you last night, from eleven o’clock on?”
Warner frowned and his chin stuck out obstinately. “That’s my business.”
“You can get in an awful lot of trouble,” said Cassidy quietly. “Either you talk, or you go right down to Headquarters in a patrol wagon. Better make up your mind quick.”
Warner’s small, brown eyes darted at Cassidy. “I was in Brooklyn.”
“What time did you get back?”
“Pretty late.”
“What time?”
“I just told you. Late.” His voice dropped and he added grudgingly, “Around four.”
“Whom were you with?”
“A friend,” Warner said. “Look, I got a right to know what this is all about, don’t I?”
“Sure.” Cassidy hesitated and then let him have it. “Murder.”
Warner scowled, started to speak and stopped. Finally he repeated, “Murder? Who?”
“Your brother.”
“Clyde? He got killed?” Harold gave the detective a calculating look. He took a gold cigarette case from his pocket, opened it, selected a cigarette, tapped it on the back of his hand, and then seemed to forget all about it. Suddenly his closed-mouthed attitude vanished and he began to talk — so rapidly that Cassidy’s pencil had trouble keeping up.
“I haven’t seen Clyde since eleven o’clock last night,” he said. “We both went out together. He said he was going on duty at air-raid headquarters. I took a cab to Brooklyn — 388 Farragut Avenue. I spent the evening with a friend of mine, Joseph Poletti. I got back here around quarter after four and went to bed. The elevator man can tell you that.”
“Any idea who might have wanted to kill your brother?”
Harold shook his head. “Well — no. But he was married and he’d had trouble with his wife. They were separated and Clyde came here to live with me. He wanted to go back to her, but she wouldn’t have him. She was hell-bent on a divorce. That might have something to do with it.”
Cassidy’s pencil noted the name. “Where does she live?”
“At the Barbizon-Plaza, but she’ll be at work now. She’s with the Municipal Life Insurance Company.”
“Thanks,” said Cassidy. He motioned to the other detective. “Come on — let’s go.”
But downstairs he halted. “I’m going to send someone over to trail Warner. You stick here so you can point him out. Then go to the Farragut Avenue address, find Poletti, and check the rest of that story. I’m going to locate this wife of Clyde’s.” He rubbed his chin. “I wish I knew why somebody went off with that file box.”
A phone call was all Cassidy needed to learn that Bertha Warner was not at her office, and fifteen minutes later he was knocking at a door in the Barbizon-Plaza. The woman who answered was dressed for the street. She was smart and attractive, with frank, clear eyes.
Cassidy introduced himself and stated his business. She gasped and turned away from him.
“Clyde... murdered?” she exclaimed. “That’s horrible! How did it happen?”
“That’s what I hope you can tell me. Where were you last night?”
“Me? I had dinner with my parents. But you — you can’t suspect me!”
“What time did you leave?”
She sat down heavily. “Please — you don’t really think I could have killed him, do you? We were separated, but we were friends. There was no bitterness. We still liked each other. We hadn’t even decided definitely on a divorce. We were going to wait and find out. You can see I couldn’t have had anything to do with it, can’t you? All I want to do is help.”
“Then just answer my questions. Everything you did last night.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” She took a miniature handkerchief from a small, initialed pocketbook and dabbed at her eyes. “I had dinner with my parents. They live on 90th Street, off Broadway. I stayed there until about ten. We played three-handed bridge. Then I took the subway to Fifty-ninth and walked across to the hotel. I read a little, took a bath and went to bed around midnight.”
“Why didn’t you go to work today?”