“I know,” said Elmer Bush smoothly; he had sat down next to me without my knowing it … what a break this was for him: witness, or near-witness to a murder, a flashy, glamorous murder. He could hardly keep a straight face, hardly disguise his delight at what had happened. “A terrible tragedy,” he said in a low voice, the one used to announce the death of forty passengers on a transatlantic airliner, or corruption in Washington. “How did it happen?”
“She was pushed through the window … one minute after four o’clock,” said Elmer and the tip of his tongue, quick as a lizard’s, moistened his lips.
“By party or parties unknown,” I said.
“Exactly. Her purse was found on the floor; her body on the sidewalk seven stories below.”
“The purse …”
He finished my sentence: “Had been searched. Its contents were scattered over the floor. Whoever did it must’ve grabbed the purse away from her and then, quick as a flash, shoved her through the window and searched the handbag for something …”
“Robbery?” suggested Jane weakly.
We both ignored her. “I wonder what they were looking for?”
“When we know that,” said Elmer slowly, in his best doom voice, “we will know who killed Ella and Miles Sutton.”
I remember hoping at the time that the three murders were totally unconnected, just to prove this unctuous vulture wrong.
“Tell me,” said Elmer gently, turning to Jane, “did she seem at all odd to you when you went into that room together?”
“Sweet Jesus!” I cried softly, turning to Jane. “You weren’t with her, were you? You weren’t there, too?”
“Always on the spot,” said Jane with a faint attempt at lightness.
“Does Gleason know this?”
“I plan to tell him … honest I will, Peter.”
“He knows anyway,” said omniscient Elmer. “Did she say something which might throw any light on what happened?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Why did you go in there with her?”
“Now listen, Bush,” I snapped, “stop playing Mr. District Attorney. She’s gone through enough.”
“That’s all right, Peter.” She rallied a bit. “Magda wasn’t feeling well. She’s going … she was going to have a baby and she suddenly felt sick. I took her in there when the rehearsal was over … it was the only place on the floor where she wouldn’t be crowded. Then I left her and talked to you … Maybe she fell. She could have, you know. Those windows … well, look over there: they almost go down to the floor.”
“Fell? After first emptying her purse over the studio floor?” Elmer shook his head. “Somebody shoved her. Was there anybody else in the room?”
Jane shook her head wearily. “I said it was empty.”
“Anybody could have gone in there,” said Elmer Bush, staring at the door at the far end of the room, behind which we could hear the distant rumble of Gleason’s voice as he questioned Mr. Washburn.
The interviews went fairly fast. Eglanova, Alyosha, Wilbur, Louis, Madame Aloin, the pianist, Jane, myself. By the time my turn came around, it was already dark outside and the overhead fluorescent lights had been turned on, a ghastly blue light, reflected by tall mirrors.
The first thing I noticed was the window. For some reason I had supposed that it had been open when she fell out. It hadn’t occurred to me that she would have been pushed through a pane of glass … which is what had happened.
Gleason looked much as ever and I noticed the same pale secretary was on hand taking notes; otherwise, the room was empty … no police, no furniture, no rifled handbag.
We got through the preliminaries quickly. I could see that he was not very much interested in me … possibly because Elmer had already told him that I was with him in the hall when the murder took place … what was that wonderful word they use to describe someone being pushed through a window: defenestration?
He wanted to know what, if anything, Magda had said to me that morning.
“She didn’t talk much to me … I know she told Jane about her abortion. She was going to have it tomorrow; that was her plan.”
“In the meantime she was going to live with Miss Garden?”
“That’s right.”
“Ordinarily you live in Miss Garden’s apartment?”
I blushed. “For the last week or so,” I said. “Do you plan to book me for lewdness?”
Gleason showed his teeth in a friendly snarl. “This is homicide, Sargeant, not the vice squad.” He enjoyed saying my last name; he made it sound like a police rank, a subordinate rank. “We have reason to think the deaths of Ella Sutton and Magda Foote were the work of the same person.”
“I think so, too.”
“Why?”
“Because a few days ago at the theater, Magda told us, Jane and me, that she knew Miles was innocent and that he knew who had killed Ella. I asked her then if he’d told her and she said no he hadn’t but I thought she was lying … I’m positive she was lying. I’ll bet anything Magda knew.”
“If she knew why didn’t she come to us?”
“I don’t know why. For one thing, she probably didn’t care whether you ever caught Ella’s murderer or not … after all she hated Ella and Miles’ death was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“As far as we know. Why wouldn’t Miles Sutton have told us who killed Ella when he knew he was our number one suspect, that we were going to arrest him the second we could break his alibi … and we broke it, finally.”
“According to Magda, he wasn’t going to say anything until the trial … or until you arrested him. I think he hoped you wouldn’t be able to pin it on anybody.”
“That wasn’t very realistic.”
“I’d hardly call a man as far gone on drugs as Miles realistic … remember that whoever killed Ella was doing him a service. He wouldn’t turn the murderer in … unless it was to save his own neck.”
Gleason asked me some more questions, about members of the company, about Magda, pointless questions, or so they seemed to me … and probably were in fact because it was quite obvious that the police were completely at sea. I was then told to come back the next day for questioning, to stay in New York City at an address where I could be reached at a moment’s notice … I gave him Jane’s address.
She was waiting for me in the reception hall. Everyone had gone except Louis and herself and Wilbur. Louis had apparently just come from the shower room for his hair was gleaming with water, the celebrated black curls damp and straggly. Jane was also in her street clothes, looking very pale, her face not made up. Wilbur was talking excitedly, “As if I didn’t have enough trouble without all this. A major investigation hanging over my head … I was supposed to go to Washington tomorrow … and a half-finished ballet and now one of those god-damned murder investigations this company seems to specialize in. I wish to hell I’d stayed in musical comedy. Nothing like this ever happened there.”
“Shows we were just waiting for you, Jed,” said Louis amiably. “It was all Mr. Washburn’s idea to knock you off so Alyosha would remain the greatest living choreographer.”
“Much help you’ve been through all this,” said Jed spitefully. Jane and I got out before the lovers quarreled.
We both took it for granted that I was not going to go to my place after what had happened. Jane was terrified at the thought of being alone.
“I’m sure it’s a lunatic,” she said, when we were back at the apartment, eating cold cuts and drinking beer from the near-by delicatessen. “How do we know he isn’t going to murder everybody in the company while the police sit by and let him kill us, one by one?”
“Come on, kid,” I said, as calmly as possible. “Get a grip on yourself. Your old buddy is right here with you.”