Discovery on the Stairs

Sitting in a taxi bound for a mansion on East 73^rd Street, Dick Van Dorn looked at the letter in his hand, dated January 10. Scented paper, a sprawling, decorative hand. The address at the top was that of the mansion belonging to Randolph Swift, one of the city’s wealthiest financiers. Dick had already read it several times but read it again, trying to absorb all its secrets.

“Dearest T.,

How I ache for you. Would that you were with me. Soon we will be free!

Meet me at our ‘dovecote’ at 3pm.

Yours, V.”

He tucked the letter into the inner breast pocket of his jacket and gave the driver his fare. The building didn’t look like anything special. The signs of wealth were subtle but evident: the doorman in his livery, the carpet outside the door, the flower arrangement in the lobby diffusing the scent of Japanese lilies.

“I’ve an appointment with Miss Valerie Swift. Name of Dick Van Dorn,” he murmured to the aristocratic porter, who was seated at a little table.

“One moment, sir,” said the man.

He telephoned and it seemed to be all right.

“Jim will show you up,” he said and nodded peremptorily to a teenaged boy dressed in livery to match the doorman.

The boy showed him up to the fourth floor and led him to a corridor with a swell view of Central Park.

“This is the floor, sir,” said the boy.

“Thanks son,” said Dick. He got out and walked over to the door.

He rang the bell and heard laughter inside.

The door opened and revealed a young blonde in a sky-blue dress and matching shoes. Her smile was broad and she looked like she was lit from within somehow. As she looked at Dick her smile faded.

“Good morning. So. You’re the detective.”

“Good morning. Dick Van Dorn. May I come in?”

“Please,” she stood aside to let him in.

He saw that she wasn’t alone. The person she’d been laughing with was a young man—beautifully dressed, with a studied attitude and a pencil moustache.

“Good morning,” said Dick, holding his hat.

“Well,” smirked the man. “How thrilling, I’ve never met a real life detective before.” He didn’t sound thrilled, he sounded contemptuous.

Dick decided he disliked this man.

“This is my brother,” said Valerie. “Don’t mind him. He was tired of life at the age of three. Would you like a drink? Or a smoke? We have some excellent cigars.”

“Thanks, no. I won’t stay long. I just need to ask you some questions.”

“Oh yes! You were rather mysterious about it on the phone. What’s it about? Vivian and I have been racking our brains.”

“Vivian?”

“My brother.”

The man smirked at him again.

“The questions I am going to ask you are of a personal nature,” said Dick staring pointedly at Vivian.

“Oh, we don’t have any secrets from each other, do we Valerie?” The man drawled, gently shaking the ice in his glass.

“No. Like I said, don’t mind him. Please go ahead,” said the woman, sitting lightly down on an expensive looking chair. Her skirts floofed, petal like, as she sank into it.

“All right. Well,” Dick reached into his breast pocket and extracted the letter. “What can you tell me about this?”

Vivan took it, read it, her admirable eyebrows lifting in surprise. She took a little too long in reading it, then handed it straight back.

“Well, it’s pretty self-explanatory, don’t you think?” she said, a little too brightly.

“I’d like to hear your version, all the same,” Dick countered. “Who did you write it to?”

“I’d rather not say,” she hedged.

“Can you tell me the location of the ‘dovecote’?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

She stood up and went to pour herself a drink. Dick noticed that her hand was shaking.

“All right.”

Dick felt in his pocket again and showed her the picture of Brian O’Malley.

“Ever seen this man before?”

She took the photo and gazed at it for a few seconds.

“Never,” she said, with such certainty that Dick was convinced.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Listen, what’s this all about?” she asked with a voice that had a tremor in it.

“It’s about murder, Miss Swift, plain and simple. This man in the photo was found dead and your letter was in his pocket.”

She sat down again and took a long sip of something clear.

“All right. Yes, I was seeing someone. Father disapproved of him so I had to sneak around behind his back. We had a place in the city we’d meet—anonymously. Someone intercepted the letter and started blackmailing me. I’d get phone calls…it was a man. He said I had to pay up or he’d tell father. Of course, I paid.”

“How?”

“I went downstairs with a packet of cash. He’d be waiting at the corner.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was all bundled up. Hat pulled down over his eyes and scarf around his face.”

“Height?”

“Maybe 5’6”.”

“Did he talk to you?”

“No. He just took the envelope.”

“Must have made you sore,” Dick observed wryly.

“I was scared, of course I was!”

“And you never thought to tell the police?”

“You don’t know father.”

“So you decided to take matters into your own hands?”

Vivian started giggling.

“What’s so funny, you?” Dick snarled.

“You tough guys are so quaint. The idea of sweet, dainty Valerie taking an axe to her blackmailer! It’s too funny.”

“Swell joke,” muttered Dick.

He looked at Valerie, who was taking another sip of liquor. Her eyes avoided his. He felt a rising sense of suspicion and disgust.

“This man was married. He had infant twins.”

“What a shame,” said Valerie evenly.

“It’s a shame all right. The only thing he had on him when he was found was a letter written by you. And you tell me you were being blackmailed. In a court of law that would pass pretty well for a motive. Yes, it’s a mighty shame…for you.”

“A court! But he was just a hobo!” Valerie exclaimed.

Dick saw the mouse had left its hole. He pounced.

“Now who,” he mulled, “Told you that, I wonder?”

She glared at him, the color rising in her cheeks.

“No one told me. Why, it was obvious. Only a bum would stoop to blackmail. Besides, he was ragged and dirty and he smelled to high heaven.”

“You didn’t paint such a vivid portrait before.”

“I just remembered it now,” she retorted. “He smelled just like rotten meat.”

“You’re prepared to make a statement about all this?”

“Yes,” she said primly, “But when my lawyer is present.”

“Very good. Let me know. Here’s the station number.” He handed her a card, which she refused to take. He laid it on the table in front of her.

He then put his hat on and tipped the brim.

“Sayonara.”

Turning his back to them, he moved toward the door and caught sight of the two siblings in the mirror in front of him. They were exchanging a worried glance.

***

Peter was puffing, unused to walking so much in one morning. The O’Malley broad had led him what is generally known as ‘a merry chase’. Sans kids, she’d stepped out in the early morning and high-stepped it all over the city until finally disappearing into Thomson’s Secretarial Employment Agency.

Pete collapsed onto a park bench, took a notebook out of his coat pocket, and made a note of the morning’s hectic itinerary.

8.00: Left apartment building, took tram to Ming Lee laundry in Chinatown

8.15-8.30 talked to Ming Lee. Looked het up.

8.30 took subway to Inches Insurance.

8.40-9.10 talked to insurance agent

9.10-10.40 walked along Bowery, stopped at 3 women’s clothing stores, leaving a piece of paper at each establishment (resumé?)

10.40 stopped for coffee at a diner. Reappplied make up.

10.55 Thomson’s Recruitment

Peter had no sooner finished making notes and mopping his brow than Rosie emerged from the building, as fresh and springy as ever, and clearly on her way to somewhere else.

He groaned and cursed the woman.

“Can’t you let a man have a moment’s rest?”

No she could not. She was already hailing a taxi and he had to look sharp or she’d slip out of his reach.

“Taxi!” he yelled and rushed pell-mell to one that had stopped for a lady overburdened with shopping bags. “Police!” he yelled to her by way of apology.

Bustling into the back, he pointed to the taxi in front of them, which was already pulling away.

“Follow that car! Police.” He pulled the door shut.

“I’ve heard that one before,” chuckled the amiable driver. “It’s a good one. It ain’t none of my business. ‘If you pay the fare, Raymond don’t care’—that’s my motto.”

Raymond looked pleased at his little rhyme.

Pete slumped back in the seat, just glad not to be on his feet again for the moment.

The taxi was going north, towards Central Park.

He wondered what business Rosie O’Malley had had at Ming Lee’s Laundry, without any laundry. It was common knowledge among detectives that the laundry was managed by a fabulously rich Chinese man and that, aside from cleaning clothes, they did a roaring trade in receiving stolen goods and preparing them for resale. No one knew who the tycoon was, not even Ming Lee, who moonlighted as a police informant. Yes, the fact that Rosie went there was definitely interesting. Had Brian had dealings there perhaps?

“Here we are officer,” the driver winked at him. “Your ladyfriend went into that building.”

Pete threw a dollar bill at him and jumped out. The building in question was none other than Park Place, residence of Valerie Swift.