In spite of himself Home seemed impressed. He walked over to take another look at the body, muttered something about it being up to the coroner, not up to him, and cast a mildly irritated glance back at Sedalia.
I am afraid I experienced vindictive pleasure at the inspector’s expression. After all, it was his fault we were not at a concert instead of in the same room as a corpse.
When a plainclothesman began looking through the dead man’s single suitcase, Sedalia said, “Turn your photographic memory on that, Hank.”
Obediently, I walked over and watched the man empty the suitcase of clothing, then return it again and latch the case. I saw nothing which seemed as though it could have any possible bearing on the killing, but what there was I filed away in my mind. Without further direction from Sedalia, I followed the plainclothesman around as he made a thorough examination of the rest of the room.
The inspector gleaned very little information from either the hotel personnel or nearby residents. No one had heard a thing, and aside from the desk clerk and the bellhop who had carried Adrian Thorpe’s luggage up, no one even remembered seeing the man. Until Sedalia broke in with a question, the bellhop was able to offer no information other than that he had left Thorpe alone in his room.
“How many bags he have?” Sedalia asked.
“Two,” the bellhop said promptly. “A suitcase and a small traveling bag.”
This naturally instituted a complete researching of the room, but no traveling bag was found.
When we finally got away Sedalia did not mention the case until we got all the way home, knowing I like to concentrate my whole mind on driving when I am behind the wheel. Following our usual ritual, she waited until I had prepared myself a nightcap and poured her a beer before speaking of the evening at all.
Then she asked, “What was in Thorpe’s suitcase?”
“Two shirts,” I said promptly. “Two sets of underwear and socks. Two handkerchiefs, one cravat, one pair of pajamas and a dressing gown. One small linen laundry bag for dirty clothes.”
“Any dirty clothes in it?”
I shook my head.
“No razor or toilet supplies?”
Again I shook my head, this time in a somewhat startled manner. “Those must have been in the missing traveling bag.”
“Yes,” she mused, “but he wouldn’t have put dirty clothes in it when he had a laundry bag for them.”
For a moment I puzzled over this remark, then caught up with her reasoning.
“That fixes the time as almost immediately after he arrived, doesn’t it?” I said. “After a thirty-four hour train ride, the first thing he would do when he finally got to his hotel room would be to take a shower and change clothes. Yet he was fully dressed except for overcoat and hat. And not having changed linen means he had not showered and redressed.”
Sedalia smiled indulgently. “You’re developing a logical mind, Hank. Now apply it to these three mysteries: what was he doing from the time he arrived on the noon train until he reached the hotel at seven-fifteen, why is his traveling bag missing, and why was there no luggage check stub tied to the suitcase which was left?”
One at a time I turned these questions over in my mind. For the first I arrived at a reasonable but improvable answer, but on the last two nothing even resembling an answer developed. By summoning up a photographic image of the suitcase the plainclothesman had examined, I did recall no stub was tied to the handle, but the information meant nothing to me.
I said, “If Thorpe actually was the killer of Mrs. Chambers, he must have gone straight to the house from the station. Afterward perhaps he simply wandered around in remorse for a few hours.”
“Lugging two bags with him?”
I thought this over. “Perhaps he checked them at the station when he arrived, then returned for them just before going to the hotel.”
She nodded. “Possible. Now the second question.”
I shook my head.
Sedalia looked surprised. “A simple one like that, Hank? Obviously the killer wanted something in the bag, but it was either too large to carry without awkwardness, or so distinctive it would have attracted attention. So he simply took bag and all. No one notices a person leaving a hotel with a traveling bag.”
“All right,” I conceded. “Now why was no luggage check tied to the suitcase?”
“That I don’t know the answer to either,” she admitted. She rose abruptly. “Get me up at eight, Hank. I want to be at headquarters at nine. And set the night lock on your way out.”
She disappeared into her bedroom and left me to finish my drink alone. A few moments later I set her apartment night lock as directed, crossed our private hall to my own room and went to bed myself.
In the morning Sedalia went off to headquarters alone, taking a taxi, and left me to catch up on her correspondence, write checks and supervise the cleaning maid who was due that morning. She returned shortly after the maid left at two, dragged me from the study and had me pour her a beer.
“Just to bring you up to date,” she informed me, “Steve Home contacted the main office of the railroad by phone, and the railway stubs Irene Chambers and Monica Madigan had seem to let them out. At least someone used the tickets originally attached to them on the runs they say they were on, and possession of the stubs seems to indicate they were the users. Gerald Rawlins is out too. Not only does his stub match the airline ticket for the flight he says he was on, — his name was on the passenger list.”
I said, “All this is assuming Mrs. Chambers died at one PM?”
“It’s more definite now. They found a neighborhoom tea-room where she had lunch at twelve. An autopsy showed she died about an, hour later. Something to do with the rate of digestion.”
I thought this over. “That seems to leave only Jerome Straight as a suspect.”
“The old lawyer? Not necessarily. There’s young Alvin Christopher.”
“The assistant district attorney?” I said in surprise. “You certainly don’t suspect him!”
“I suspect everybody. It might even be someone we don’t even know about as yet. Possibly even that old standby, the tramp prowler.”
The way she expressed the last remark, I knew she actually gave it no credence at all, and her next comment proved I was right.
“The second murder pretty well knocks out the possibility of a prowler, though. I’m pretty sure the killer is one of the people we met last night.” Then she looked at me curiously for a moment and said, “I’ve got some chores for you, Hank.”
I braced myself for the worst. Whenever Sedalia’s plans for me are exceedingly unreasonable, she refers to them as “chores.”
“Mrs. Monica Madigan is staying in room seven-twelve at the Sheridan. Coincidently, it’s immediately above the room in which Adrian Thorpe was murdered. Irene Chambers is at the Statler in room thirteen-twenty-seven. Gerald Rawlins is there too, in room three-sixteen. Jerome Straight lives in apartment C of the Midway Apartments at Eight and Laurel. Alvin Christopher lives with his mother and a sister at 1712 Brigham Road. I want you to search all those places.”
I sighed, went to my room and slipped my wallet-sized burglar kit into my pocket. I knew there was no use arguing, because I had argued too many times in the past. The fact that entering other people’s homes without permission terrified me, and I had given up a successful career as a burglar nearly twenty years before in order to avoid a nervous breakdown, failed to touch Sedalia. She would have made the searches herself if she knew how, and she had no patience with timidity in others.