Postmark Murder Read online

  It was a typical December day, cold, with an overcast sky which seemed to press close above them and a few sparse snowflakes drifting down. They turned on Wacker Drive and then again west.

  Peabody sat beside Laura in the back seat. A policeman drove and the other policeman sat in front, beside the driver. As they went west and farther west, all at once they seemed to enter a city within a city; the signs on the shop windows were again in a strange and incomprehensible language. The Polish neighborhood, the taxi driver had called it. There was the drug store where she and Jonny had gone the night before. Peabody eyed it but said nothing. They turned into Koska Street.

  The street looked different by daylight; there was nothing shadowy or ominous about it. It was instead a remarkably neat and clean street, lined with substantial, well-cared-for houses. Lieutenant Peabody said suddenly, eyeing the houses, “There is a large Polish settlement here. There is in any big city. I should say Polish-Americans. They’ve made good citizens, reliable, thrifty, honest. It’s a sturdy blood.”

  They stopped at 3936 Koska Street. There were the white steps, there was the door with the transom above it. A passer-by, a woman with a market basket, looked at them curiously as they went up the stairs. Lieutenant Peabody opened the door and this time a woman came out from the back of the hall.

  Peabody introduced them briefly. “This is Mrs. Radinsky, the landlady. This is Miss March.”

  The landlady, neat in a blue print dress, her dark hair tight under a net, gave Laura a sharp glance, nodded and said, “Good morning.” Her dark eyes shifted to Peabody. “You’ll want to see that room again. I hope you will be through with it soon. I’ll have to have it all cleaned and painted. This is a bad thing to happen in a rooming house.”

  “I want Miss March to take a look at it.”

  Mrs. Radinsky shrugged in a fatalistic way. “You have the key.”

  Again Laura went up the creaking stairs, this time with Lieutenant Peabody and the policeman following her. They emerged into the narrow brown-painted hall. Lieutenant Peabody took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door which Laura had opened in the silence and dusk to find Conrad Stanislowski.

  It was dark in the room, shadowed as it was by the yellowish brick wall of the flat building next door. Snowflakes drifted in a desultory way beyond the window, looking large and white against the wall. Objects in the room, the bed, the shape of a chair, loomed up dimly. Then Lieutenant Peabody snapped a light switch and instantly the room sprang into being. There was the writing table. There was the armchair. Peabody said, “We’ve taken his suitcase and his coat and hat. We took the glasses which were on the writing table and, of course, the handkerchief we found. But will you look closely around the room—aside from his suitcase and his clothes, and the two glasses, is there anything at all different?”

  Chalk marks made the irregular outline of a man’s body on the floor. This time Laura saw, too, a brownish smear on the cretonne-covered armchair.

  “I didn’t see that.”

  Lieutenant Peabody understood her. “There’s a couple of smears on the floor, too.”

  “I didn’t see them. But otherwise I can’t see that anything is different.”

  “And you’re sure you didn’t see a knife anywhere?”

  “I’m sure of that. I’d have remembered that.”

  “All right. Sit down, Miss March.”

  She hesitated, feeling that nothing in the room, no small detail should be disturbed. He understood her hesitation. “Oh, it’s all right. We’ve gone over everything. Fingerprints, photographs, everything. Found the fingerprints of your right hand on the door, as a matter of fact,” he said and pulled a straight chair forward for her. He then went to lean against the writing table, and said, on an unexpected tangent, “After Conrad Stanley’s death, what was done about his estate?”

  “That was all settled in the will. He knew that his wife, Mrs. Stanley, could not run the business. He advised that it be sold immediately and his patent rights retained. It was a good business and Charlie and Matt, we all, agreed that that was the thing to do. It was essentially a one-man business. There was nobody in the company who could take over. It was sold, oh—perhaps four or five months after Conrad Stanley’s death.”

  There was a short silence. Almost certainly Laura thought, he had asked Matt Cosden that question; he had asked Doris and Charles Stedman. But then perhaps he only wanted to know whether all four of them told exactly the same story. Yet how could there by any inconsistencies in the account of so open and frank a transaction! Presently the Lieutenant nodded and with what seemed to be habitual abruptness, rose. “All right,” he said briskly. “We’ll go.”

  As they went single file down the stairs, their footsteps echoing through a house which again seemed to be empty of tenants, the landlady came to wait for them in the hall below. Peabody said, “All right, Mrs. Radinsky, we can turn over the room to you now. I left the key in the door.”

  He added casually, as if merely as an afterthought, “You are sure, Mrs. Radinsky, that you did not see Miss March when she came yesterday afternoon?”

  Mrs. Radinsky shook her head. “No, I told you, Lieutenant, that I was at the delicatessen and then at the butcher store, at exactly that time. I’ve talked to the butcher. He says your policeman questioned him, too. I was there!”

  Peabody said pleasantly, “We had to check on your story, but it’s only a matter of form.”

  A little flush rose in the woman’s broad face. “I understand that, Lieutenant. But I am a good citizen, I have always been a good citizen. I hold my head up among my neighbors. They will tell you, all of them, anything you want to know. I’ve never had anything like this happen in my rooming house before. I keep a good rooming house.”

  “Yes, we know that, Mrs. Radinsky. This is only part of an investigation. Have you ever seen Miss March anywhere before?”

  THIRTEEN

  IT WAS SAID AGAIN so casually and so quietly that for a second Laura did not quite take in its significance. But then she realized that Peabody wanted to find out whether or not Laura had known of the rooming house, had visited it at any time—whether, in short, she had come there in order to investigate it, to send Stanislowski there—to plan a murder. Mrs. Radinsky gave her a slow, painstaking look. “Many people come here. Many people inquire for rooms, I don’t take everybody, you understand. But, no”—her bright dark eyes searched Laura’s face—“no, I don’t remember Miss March.”

  “Ah,” the Lieutenant said. “All right, Mrs. Radinsky. Thanks. I’ll have to ask you to attend the inquest—merely to answer a few questions. But that will not take place until—well, I’ll let you know. And when we find Maria Brown we’ll want you to identify her.”

  The landlady nodded. They went down the steps and got into the police car. The murder, of course, had attracted a certain amount of interest and observation on the part of the neighbors. A woman and a man were standing across the street, watching them with frank interest. The lace curtain of a window in a neighboring house moved surreptitiously. “We’ll go back to Miss March’s apartment,” Peabody told the policeman who was driving the car.

  It seemed a long way back. Snow was still falling but in a half-hearted, indecisive way, so the flakes slid from the shining black hood of the car and melted as soon as they touched the pavement. Lights were on everywhere, that dark day, making gleaming tiers of amber and gold high into the gray sky.

  At the entrance of the apartment house, Peabody got out, opened the car door politely for her, said, “Thank you, Miss March,” and got back into the car again.

  Laura took a long breath of the crisp, cold air. The police car started out into the traffic again and she entered the foyer. Curiously, her knees were shaking as she entered the elevator and pressed the button for the ninth floor. The visit to Koska Street had not been difficult really; it was in no sense what could be called police grilling. Yet she felt obscurely frightened and she didn’t like Peabody’s attempt to discover
from the landlady, Mrs. Radinsky, whether or not Laura had ever visited the rooming house before. The elevator stopped.

  Charlie and Jonny were in the living room. He rose as she came in. “Well, how was it?”

  “Not too bad. They only wanted to know whether anything about the room was different. I suppose they wanted to know whether anyone had entered the room after I left it last night.”

  “And was there any difference?”

  “No, nothing that I could see.”

  “There were a couple of telephone calls while you were gone, Laura. One was a wrong number, I suppose. At least I answered it and nobody replied. It was—rather odd though because I felt sure somebody was on the line. But then later there was another telephone call. I think I’d better have Jonny stay with me for a while.”

  “Jonny! What do you mean?”

  “The second time the phone rang somebody asked for you, very distinctly, Laura March, and then said something in Polish. I couldn’t understand it. But I’m sure two words came out of it. Jonny’s name. Jonny Stanislowski. I said, ‘Who is it? Speak English,’ but whoever it was hung up.”

  Laura’s throat tightened. “But what did he mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said slowly. “But I’m inclined to think it was either a threat or a warning.”

  “A threat—” The tightness in her throat made it difficult to speak. “To Jonny?”

  “Or a warning,” Charlie said. “I don’t want to alarm you, Laura, but it did seem to me that there was something threatening about it. In any event, it occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea for you and Jonny to be here alone. Until this thing is settled, at any rate. You see, Jonny might be—another target.”

  Laura’s thoughts raced. “Was it a woman’s voice? Was it Maria Brown?”

  “Yes, I thought of her, too. But unless she’s got a very flat masculine voice—”

  “It is flat! Toneless. Low—”

  Charlie debated and shook his head. “No, I think it was a man. It wasn’t a good connection. But Jonny—Doris could see to her. Or I can take her. I’ll go to the Drake, take a suite and get somebody in to see to Jonny.”

  Another person, a stranger, an outsider. Charlie would be away at his office; Jonny left alone with a complete stranger. “No,” Laura said. “I’d rather have her here.”

  “As you like, Laura. But I didn’t like that telephone call.”

  Laura didn’t like it either. “What did you mean, Charlie, by saying that Jonny might be another target?”

  Charlie rose. “I don’t know what I meant exactly. Except if this man was her father and—oh, I suppose some thought of vengeance or a blood feud or something like that struck me. I’m an old maid. Don’t pay any attention to me. I’ll tell Peabody about it.” He went to the door and picked up his hat and coat. “You’re sure, Laura, that you really feel that this man was Stanislowski?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to tell me your reasons?”

  “No, I—” There were no real and sound reasons.

  Charlie said, “All right. I can see you don’t want to talk. If you do decide to send Jonny to me, only let me know and we’ll fix it up.” He gave her an absent smile which she felt was meant to be cheering and went away. But, she thought, Jonny: another target. Why?

  Only then she remembered that the night before the telephone had rung and when she answered there had been no reply. A wrong number, she had thought, as Charlie had thought. But it was curious that that should happen twice within so short a space of time.

  Perhaps it was the same person who, at last grown bold, spoke to Charlie. A threat—or a warning.

  Suddenly her small apartment, so gay, so warm and charming and up to then so safe, was like an island besieged by an invisible, ominous force.

  Matt still did not telephone. The sparse snowflakes diminished and stopped. Heavy gray clouds, tinged with yellow, lowered inexorably down over the city. Again a fog began to come in from the lake.

  In the end, when it was nearly time for Jonny to wake from her nap, Laura telephoned herself to Matt’s office. His secretary answered. “Oh, Miss March. You’re back. Mr. Cosden told me to tell you that he’d like to stop in and see you later this evening. Is that all right?”

  “Yes,” Laura said. “Thank you.”

  It was about three when Laura and Jonny went for their usual outing, a walk this time along the lake. They were followed probably from the moment they left the apartment house.

  Laura was not aware of the pursuit for some time. They turned north along Lake Shore Drive, Jonny, a bright and happy figure in her little red coat and hat, trudging along beside Laura. It was foggy and cold. Laura turned up the collar of her coat, and the scarf Matt had given her seemed to provide a particularly gentle warmth around her throat.

  The sidewalk was damp from the fog. At that time in the afternoon traffic was slower but still cars swished constantly over the wet pavements. Off at the right, across the Drive, the lake was only a blank gray, almost hidden in fog. They passed various pedestrians, the women bundled in furs, walking briskly along. Jonny stopped to speak to a black French poodle scampering gaily at the end of a yellow leash, and his owner smiled and talked to Jonny as Jonny fondled the dog.

  Frequently they took one of the several subway passages, long tunnels for pedestrians, which went under Lake Shore Drive and its thudding traffic, and came out at the short strip of park and Oak Street Beach. This time, however, the steps going down into the crossing at Division Street looked dark and rather forbidding. Somehow. Laura did not wish to enter the long tunnel with its echoes, its damp concrete walls, its few lights. They went on toward North Avenue, and the entrance to the park. It was as they stopped for a traffic light at Scott Street that she first saw a man trudging along through the fog about two blocks behind them. She glanced idly at him and away as the traffic light changed and they crossed the street. Perhaps halfway down the next block Laura thought suddenly, why, he reminded me of Conrad Stanislowski!

  That was odd. In spite of herself she glanced back. The figure was still there, strolling along behind them, still about two blocks away, apparently paying no attention to them! But she then knew why he had reminded her of Conrad Stanislowski for, even at that distance, there was something vaguely foreign in his appearance. Perhaps it was his bulky black overcoat, or his wide-brimmed hat pulled in a straight line over his face. He was hunched up, his hands in his coat pockets. She couldn’t see his face.

  But of course, that was it; merely a chance resemblance of clothing had reminded her of the murdered man. They went on, crossed North Avenue and entered the park.

  The benches were damp with fog and it was too cold to sit for long, anyway. They took a brisk pace along the winding pathways. Here, perhaps because of the foggy weather, there were not as many pedestrians as usual, fewer people exercising capering dogs, no neatly uniformed nursemaids pushing huge perambulators. Indeed the park itself began to seem oddly unpopulated. Unexpectedly, for no reason, Laura glanced back along the sloping, winding path. The man in the bulky overcoat had entered the park, too. She caught the barest glimpse of him through some bare, brown shrubbery.

  And suddenly she thought, Jonny, another target!

  They would go over to Lake Shore Drive. They would take a taxi home. She hastened her footsteps and Jonny’s. They reached Lake Shore Drive again. A taxi was drifting along the street. Laura signaled it. As she got in she glanced back through the glass. There was no sight of the curiously persistent, curiously ubiquitous walker in the fog.

  Had he in fact followed them? They had met other people along the streets, but they passed and went on; they turned and took different ways. The figure in the dark coat had trudged on through the fog, going where they went, pausing apparently when they paused, always just far enough away so she could not see his face. Yet he had not approached them. He had not spoken to them.

  It was a short ride back to her apartment house. As they drew up
at the entrance, another taxi went slowly past them. Its single passenger was only a dark blur in the shadow of the back seat.

  FOURTEEN

  PROBABLY IT WAS NOT the man in the park. Perhaps the man in the park was a policeman in plain clothes, set to watch her. Yet that, too, was rather frightening.

  Suki came to greet them, complaining bitterly of their absence and consequent dire neglect of a small, long-legged Siamese kitten. But even with his reproachful welcome and with lights turned on all over the apartment, it did not seem as cheerful and safe as usual. Laura went back to the kitchen and made sure that the kitchen door was bolted. Then, to cheer herself more than anything, to rout a persistent chill little fear that was as vaguely threatening as a man’s figure trudging stubbornly behind them, she lighted the wood fire already laid in the tiny fireplace. As the kindling crackled and sparkled, the door buzzer sounded. It was Doris Stanley.

  “Laura!” she said. “What a dreadful thing! How could you have let it happen!”

  “I don’t see how I could have stopped it!” Laura said and heard the snap in her own voice. There was something between her and Doris which from the beginning would have made it fatally easy to quarrel.

  Doris was already in the hall and sliding out of her long fur coat, a new coat and a new rosy beige shade of mink; my little Christmas present to myself, Doris had said that fall.

  Doris was as always lovely. She was small and slender with a delicate face and pansy brown eyes. Her nose tilted upward delightfully; she had a charming, gentle smile. Her cheeks were now lightly pink from the cold. She wore a black dress so extravagantly simple in the lines and the way it clung to Doris’ lovely figure that Laura knew it was a very expensive dress indeed; she wore a small, chic and very expensive black hat over her blond hair. Altogether, Laura thought with mingled admiration and an obscure irritation, Doris could have appeared then and there in any fashion show as a shining example of what the perfectly dressed city woman might wear.