Stenn pulled the chain on the shaded light over the table. Morganson stood back in the shadows. The stenographer opened his notebook under the glare.
Stenn chanted in a low monotone, “Alligator purse with shoulder strap, not new, apparently hand-sewn, with brass or bronze clip; no label or maker’s designation. Contents: One-half pack of Camels, two partially used packages of book matches, both advertising Harold’s Club in Reno, one small wide-rib Dunhill lighter, one gold bill clip made of a... a Mexican fifty-peso gold piece, forty-two dol-dollars in bills, one round leather coin purse containing fifty-one cents, one coach ticket from here to Dumont, one partially used lipstick labeled Duchay’s Tangent, one dime-store compact with cracked mirror, one plastic red comb, miscellaneous light-colored bobby pins.”
He turned the purse under the light and fingered its depth. “No identification, keys or anything like that.” He looked toward Morganson. “Not much, eh?”
“Enough to know that somebody will claim her, Paul. That money clip is worth the price of admission. Isn’t that a ring there?”
“I was about to cover that. One ring, white gold or platinum, containing one diamond of an estimated one-carat size plus two small green stones, on either side, which could be emeralds.”
He placed the enumerated objects back in the purse, broke the string on the package. “Okay. Clothes. One brassiere, pale yellow and pants, same, both labeled Oxford of San Francisco. One grey flannel suit, hand-made. No label. No apparent cleaner’s marking. Jacket intact. Skirt badly ripped and bloodied. One white nylon blouse. One imitation-jade lapel ornament. Grey snakeskin shoes, size seven quad A, labeled Rodriguez of Mexico, D.F. Left shoe scraped, right shoe intact. Nothing in jacket pockets.”
He looked again over at where Morgan-son stood. “I don’t like it,” he said.
“Why?”
“Nothing to tie to this city. Smells like a transient. If so, identity may be tough. She might have been running from something.”
“She’d have to have a place to live, wouldn’t she?”
“You mean a hotel. How about if her stuff was checked some place? We can’t go pouring over all the stuff in all the check rooms. It might be thirty days before we get a look at unclaimed stuff. You notice anything that maybe I didn’t, Al?”
Morganson stepped into the light. He fingered the purse. “I bought my wife one of those once. It’s Mexican or Guatemalan, but you can’t tell how old. They wear like iron. Catherine still uses hers for best.”
“Tell you what,” Stenn said. “Maybe you save me a little time. I’ll fix it so one of your boys can take a picture. The face is okay. Have one of your staff artists fix it so it doesn’t look dead. You know what I mean. Ask the public who she is. But don’t put it in the works until morning. We got to give the relatives all night before they start checking. And get me a half-dozen of the prints fast so I can put some boys on the hotels. But on this I got a hunch.”
“Care to tell me?”
“I figure it like this. She was a big, strong girl. Maybe five-eight, around one-thirty or a little over. Not the kind to faint. No liquor in her, according to that doc. She’s a good-looking dish. Show me a good-looking woman who messes herself up knocking herself off and I give you a big cigar. The only way I get her under that train is somebody shoving her.”
“I can’t print that!”
“Did I say you should? It’s a hunch, that’s all. You ask me — I tell you.”
Chapter Two
The Lady’s Out for Blood!
It was a fifty-minute run to the commuter community of Dumont. At nine o’clock Stenn folded his newspaper and got off. There was a bean wagon down the street from the small station. He had a cheese sandwich and coffee.
The first witness lived at 81 Clover Road. It was a fifty-cent taxi fare. Stenn carefully wrote the amount plus tip in his notebook. As he walked up to the doorway of the small Georgian red-brick house he saw the man inside glance up from the paper. He was a small, puffy man with the grey, cautious expression that spoke of organic disorder plus a doctor’s warning.
“I’m from the police,” Stenn said at the door. “About that business at the station today.”
“Come on in. I didn’t think you’d be around so fast. Terrible thing. Terrible. I told the policeman that I wasn’t a well man and I shouldn’t be bothered with this thing but somebody else pointed me out as having been standing close to her when she fell and he made me tell my name and everything.”
Stenn sat down in the small living room, put his hat on the floor and took out his notebook. “Just routine questions,” he said.
“Well, make it fast. My wife took the kids to the movies and she gets excited about things like this. I didn’t tell her and I don’t want her finding you here, Officer.”
“Your name is Frank J. Kelleher. I suppose you were on your way home?”
“From Shallon Photo on Broad. I bought a paper outside the station like I always do. I stood on the platform reading and waiting.”
“You saw the deceased?”
“She died? Well, I guess that was best all around. Sure, I saw her. You notice a dish like that, a blondie like that. I saw her from the back and then edged around so I could see the front elevation. She was out of my class so I went back to the paper.”
“How far from you was she?”
“Four feet, maybe five. I think a little to my left.”
“Did you look up when the train backed down to the platform?”
“No. It’s something I see every day. But I heard this scream. Horrible. I’m a man with a terrible heart. They keep warning me all the time and—”
“What did you see?”
“Her falling, naturally. Both arms waving like she wanted to claw her way across the open space. Then all I see is the high heels and legs up in the air and then the train sliding by and I can’t see anything any more. Look, it gives me heart flutters to talk about it.”
“Did you notice anyone else near her?”
“At that hour there’s a jam on that platform. You got to be fast on your feet to get a seat. I can’t run. Lots of times I got to stand up the whole way. There were people all around us.”
“Could somebody have pushed her?”
“Who’d do a terrible thing like that? But I don’t know. Maybe. Right then I was on the comics. I guess I was reading Dagwood when she screamed. Sure she could have been pushed without me seeing it. Anything could have happened. I wouldn’t know.”
“Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Kelleher. We’ll call on you again if we need anything more.”
“Next time, please, get me at the office. Shallon Photo on Broad.”
“Okay.” Stenn walked to the front door. He turned. “What’d you do after she fell?”
“Me? Nothing. My heart was going fast. The train was open. I got in. It was easy to get a seat. So many people watching everything.”
“You went back to Dagwood, I suppose?” Stenn asked.
Kelleher shrugged. “And why not? It takes my mind off things. The doctors all say that I’m a man whose got to have his mind taken off—”
“Good-night,” Stenn said abruptly.
It was a three-block walk to the next address. The house was a duplex in Spanish-style stucco. 518 Catherina Street. He looked at the name again under the street light. Miss Della Clove. It was a quarter after ten, and the downstairs lights were still on.
He pressed his thumb on the bell for a long time. Seconds after he removed it the door was yanked open and a heavy-set man with a bullfrog face said, “Okay, okay. Push a hole in the door, why don’t you?”
Stenn sighed and flashed the gold and blue badge. “I want to talk to Della Clove. You her father?”
“Step-father,” the man muttered. “Wait here in the hall.”