The woman in the velvet cape moved swiftly, but with a neat economy of movement that robbed her going of all semblance of flight, to the hinged service door at the other end of the corridor, giving onto the unguarded back stairs.
III
Post-Mortem on Mitchell
Wanger’s superior didn’t put him on it until nearly a week after it had happened. A man named Cleary had been working on it in the meantime and getting exactly nowhere.
“Say, listen, Wanger, there’s a peculiar case over at the Helena Hotel. I’ve just been reading the reports sent in on it, and it occurred to me it has certain features in common with that Bliss incident — remember that, six months or so ago? At first glance they’re not at all alike. There’s no doubt about this one, it’s an out-and-out murder. But what gave me the notion was they both feature a woman who seems to have gone up in smoke immediately afterward, for all the trace we’ve ever been able to find of her. Also a complete lack of discoverable motive. Neither of which is exactly usual in our line. That’s why I thought it’d be a good idea to have Cleary run through it for you, give you his findings; you talk to some of the people he’s lined up. You see, you’re familiar with that Bliss affair, he’s not; you’re in a better position to judge. If you think you detect any connection, no matter how slight, let me know, I’ll assign you to it full-time.”
Cleary said, “Here’s what I’ve gotten so far, after seven days on it. It all stacks up very nicely, but it has no meaning. It’s as irrational as the act of a feminine homicidal maniac, but I have definite proof that she is nothing of the sort, as you’ll be able to judge for yourself later, when you hear it. Now, he died from a pinch or two of cyanide potassium introduced into a glass of arak—”
“Yes, I read that in the examiner’s report.”
“Here are transcriptions of the witnesses’ statements. You can read them over later, I’ll give you the gist of them now, as I go along. First of all, I found a red theater-ticket stub — you know, the remainder that’s returned to the customer to hold after it’s chopped at the door — in the lining of one of his pockets. I traced it back and here’s the story: two nights before his death a very beautiful red-haired woman stepped up to the box office at the Elgin Theater and said she wanted to buy an entire loge outright. The ticket seller asked her what night she wanted it for, and she said that didn’t matter, any night. What did matter was that she wanted to be sure of getting the entire loge. That was unusual for two reasons: with most customers the date is the important thing; they take the best they can get on the particular date they want. Secondly, the number of seats didn’t seem to concern her, either; she didn’t ask whether she was getting three, four or five. All she wanted was the entire loge for her own. He gave her the four seats for the first night they were available, which happened to be the very next night. Naturally the incident impressed him.
“Two of them were never used. Mitchell was seen by the theater staff to show up alone on that particular night and turn in one ticket. The same woman who had originally bought them also showed up alone, but a considerable time later, long after the curtain had gone up.”
“Only one person is in a position to state for a fact that she was the same woman who bought them,” Wanger warned him.
“The ticket seller; and that’s his affidavit you have under your thumb there. He’d shuttered his box office for the night and happened to be standing watching the show from the mezzanine stairs; she passed him on her way up — alone — and he recognized her beyond any possibility of doubt.
“Now we come to the important part of the whole thing. I’ve questioned the usher on loge duty. What he tells me convinces me they were utter strangers to each other. He paid particular attention to the act of seating her for several reasons. He has fewer people to seat than the orchestra or balcony ushers. She came in unusually late and so stood out. She was strikingly beautiful and came alone, which seemed to him to be unusual.
“He watched closely, if not altogether intentionally, for the above reasons, as she settled herself in her seat. Neither one turned to greet the other. Neither one spoke or even nodded. He remained within earshot long enough to be sure of that. He’s positive; by everything he’s ever learned in all his years of theater ushering, that they were complete strangers.
“And that cinches it, to my mind. If they hadn’t been, Mitchell would have waited for her down in the lobby instead of going up ahead. Any man would have, even the crudest.
“It was only during the intermission that the usher noticed they’d begun to talk to each other. And then it was in that diffident way of two people who are just becoming acquainted.”
“In other words, it was a pickup.”
“If they were strangers, how’d she get his ticket to him? She bought them, he showed up with one of them.”
“Anonymously, through the mail. I found the envelope, also, in one of the pockets. The ticket was a vivid crimson. There’s a faint pinkish discoloration visible on the inside of the envelope; somebody with sweaty hands, either at the post office or downstairs at the hotel desk — or, maybe Mitchell himself — handled it, dampened the dye a little. This is it here.
“She was only seen one more time after that. Then she vanished completely. I haven’t been able to get a line on her since then. The night of the murder she wasn’t seen entering or leaving the hotel. However, that isn’t quite as confounding as it sounds, because there’s a service stairs at the back that leads directly out into an alley without passing the lobby. The alley door works on a spring lock, can’t be opened from the outside, but it could very easily have been left ajar to admit her. These precautions must have been her own suggestion, since she evidently came prepared to kill Mitchell.”
“Then who was it saw her that one more time you just mentioned, after the theater episode?”
“The girl he was keeping steady company with, a waitress named Maybelle Hodges. She called at the room within a few moments after the time established for his death by the medical examination. When she knocked on the door, this woman came out. She’d been in there.”
“What did the woman say to her?”
“She admitted she’d killed him, and advised the girl to go downstairs again, get away before she became involved herself.”
Wanger felt his chin dubiously. “Do you think that statement’s trustworthy?”
“Yes, because the girl’s description of the woman, both as to appearance and the clothes she was wearing, tallies completely with that given me by the theater staff, so you see she couldn’t very well have made the story up. And that brings up a point I mentioned before. She’s not a homicidal maniac by any means; she had a beautiful opportunity to kill the Hodges girl then and there. All she had to do was admit her to the room — there was a screen around his body. She had plenty of time. Instead she warned the girl off, for the girl’s own sake.
“There’s the whole thing. More material than we need, in one way. But the keystone that would give it a meaning is missing; no motive.”
“No conceivable motive, and they didn’t know each other, and she vanishes as completely as a streak of lightning after it’s struck once,” Wanger summed up, baffled. “Well, he sent me over here to see if I could make anything out of it. I’m only sure of one thing: this case strings along with the Bliss one; it’s an accurate copy.”
Colored chambermaid, fourth floor, Helena Hoteclass="underline"
“I never seen her before, so I knew for a fact she didn’t live in the hotel. I thought maybe she was visitin’ somebody. She was just passin’ by the hall that day. This was about, um, two weeks before it happened. Maybe mo’. She stopped and looked in the open door while I’m cleanin’ his room, I said, ‘Yes’m, you lookin’ for Mr. Mitchell?’ She said, ‘No, but I always think you can learn so much about a pusson’s character and habits just by lookin’ at their rooms.’ She talk so polite and refine’ it’s a pleasure to hear her. She look at the girls’ pictures he have all over the wall and she say, ‘He likes women to be mysterious, I can tell by them. Not one is an honest everyday pitcher of how those girls really look. They all tryin’ to look like somethin’ else, for his sake. Bitin’ roses and starin’ through lace fans. If one if ’em gave him her pitcher like she really was, he most likely wouldn’t put it up.”