“How did you know?”
“I saw Louis this morning. He was here for the nine o’clock class.”
“How on earth does he do it? I didn’t get to sleep until eight and he was still going strong when I left him.”
“Where were you?”
“In Harlem.”
“Then I suppose he came straight to the class instead of going to bed … he often does that when he’s been drinking, to sober up.”
“Iron man,” I said, with real admiration. “Is he still here?”
“He’s rehearsing with the rest of the company. How is Jane?”
“She doesn’t suspect anything.”
“Well, try and keep the papers away from her today. One of them says right out that she’s guilty, for personal as well as professional motives.”
“They don’t mention her name, do they?”
“No, but they make it clear.”
“I suppose somebody tipped them off about Jane and Ella.”
Mr. Washburn looked solemn but I could see he was pleased. “So you’ve found out about that.”
“Yes … have the police?”
“Of course. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”
“Very thoughtful.”
“Yes, I think it was thoughtful of me. There was no use in upsetting you with gossip like that. Now that you know, however, I may as well tell you that we’re going to have a hard time keeping it out of the trial … the state will build its case on that affair, so Bush tells me.”
“When are they going to arrest her?”
“Today, I think; Gleason is in that classroom having a conference. I’ve told our lawyer to stand by. He’s at the office now, waiting. It’s terrible, I know, but there’s nothing left for us to do but live through it.”
“Have you found someone to take Jane’s place in Eclipse?”
“No,” said Mr. Washburn emphatically; I knew he was lying.
“Well, don’t hire anybody yet … don’t even write one of those letters of yours.”
He winced slightly at this reference. “Why not?”
“Because I know who really did the murder.”
He looked like one of those heifers which Alma Shellabarger’s old man used to hit over the head with a mallet in the Chicago stockyards. “How … I mean what makes you think you know?”
“Because I have proof.”
“Be very careful,” said Mr. Washburn harshly. “You can get into serious trouble if you start making accusations you can’t back up.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, more coolly than I felt. “I’ll be back in an hour.” I was gone before he could stop me.
At the office I ran into Elmer Bush who had somehow got his signals mixed and had expected to meet Mr. Washburn here. “See the old rag this morning?” he asked brightly, referring to that newspaper which had once given me a berth.
“Too busy,” I said, pushing by him into my office; he followed me.
“Happen to have a copy of it right here,” he said. “I say in it that there will be an arrest by noon today.”
“Do you say whether the right person will be arrested or not?”
“No, I leave it up in the air,” said Elmer, chuckling.
“You’ll find Mr. Washburn over at the studio,” I said coldly, going quickly through the heap of mail on my desk.
“I’ve got some advice for you, boy,” said Bush, in a serious voice.
“I’m listening.” I didn’t look at him; I was busy with the mail.
“Keep out of this. That girl of yours is in big trouble. There’re a lot of things you don’t know … just take my word for it. I’ve been around a long time. I’ve had a lot more experience dealing with the police … I know what they’re up to. They never act in a big case like this unless they got all the dope, unless they’re sure they got their suspect signed, sealed and delivered. I like you, Pete; I don’t want to see you get torn apart by these wolves. I know you like the girl but there’s more in all this than meets the eye … more than most people, even real friends like Washburn, are willing to tell you.”
I looked up. “Do you mean to say that I have body odor, Mr. Bush?”
“I was only trying to do you a good turn,” said Elmer Bush, very hurt. He left me alone with my ingratitude.
I looked at my watch; I had less than an hour before the rehearsal broke up, at which time I was fairly sure the arrest would take place. I took out my sheet of paper and went over it carefully: all the mysteries had been solved and the answer to the puzzle was perfectly clear. Short of a confession on the part of the guilty party, however, I was not going to have an easy time proving my case. If worst came to worst, though, I could always announce my theory, get the police to hold up the arrest and then let them do the proving, which they could do, in time … I was sure of that.
I got on the telephone and called an acquaintance of mine at the rival ballet company’s office … he’s been the press agent over there for years. Since we’ve always been friendly, he told me what I wanted to know … it helped a little.
It was not until I was out in the street that I recalled I had not shaved or changed my clothes in two days and that I looked incredibly seedy, according to the plate-glass window in which I caught an unflattering glimpse of myself. I had not been to my own apartment in several days, not since the afternoon when I had packed my clothes and stormed out of Jane’s place.
I let myself in and picked up the suitcase which still lay in the middle of the living-room floor. Then I opened it.
At first I thought someone was playing a joke on me. The bag contained a woman’s nightgown, nylon stockings, brassière, panties … I examined them all with growing bewilderment. It was not until I discovered the sealed envelope that I realized what had happened, that this was Magda’s suitcase.
I had a long talk with Gleason. It lasted for forty minutes and ended just as the rehearsal did, which was good timing for the company was at least able to get through its rehearsal before the killer was arrested.
I purposely held the final bit of evidence back until I had explained, to Gleason’s annoyance, how I had put the puzzle together. I’m afraid I was a little smug in my hour of triumph.
“You see,” I said in the same quiet, somewhat bored tone a professor of English I had had at Harvard was accustomed to use with his students, “we all were led astray by the later deaths; we didn’t concentrate on the first murder enough, on the character of the murdered woman which was, naturally, the key to the whole business.” I paused in the middle of this ponderous and obvious statement to fix the Inspector with my level gaze, as though I expected him to question what I had said. He didn’t. He just looked at me, waiting. His secretary’s pencil was poised above his shorthand pad. After a suitable pause, I continued.
“Curiously enough, what I considered to be your somewhat morbid interest in the shears, The Murder Weapon as they are officially called, turned out to be, finally, the first clue I had to the killer’s identity; in my pocket I have the final evidence. Between the first clue and the last, however, there is an extremely complex story which I am sure that you never suspected, in its entirety at least … I didn’t either, I must admit.” I am not sure but I think that at this point, I put the tips of my fingers together.
“Ella Sutton was an ambitious girl, as we all know, and an excellent artist. Her tragedy began (and I think it has all the elements of a classic tragedy: a beautiful, clever, gifted woman rising to glory only to be struck down because of one fatal flaw in her temperament … greed).” I was having a very good time; I had shifted now from the slightly bored professor of English to the more suitable role of classic moralist, a Sophocles sitting in judgment. “Her tragedy, then, began in 1937 when she joined the North American Ballet Company where she met Jed Wilbur, an eager young choreographer, and Alyosha Rudin who, though he was with the present company, was more active in the whole ballet world in those days than he is now. She made, as I construct the case, two friends at that time: Jed, who was not only her choreographer but her political mentor as well, and Alyosha who fell in love with her and, when the North American Ballet folded, was able to take her into this company. Both men had a great influence on her. With Wilbur, she joined the Communist Party …”