Return of the Thin Man Read online

  Lois: “Oh, he wasn’t!”

  Mrs. Bellam, calmly nodding: “I’m only telling you that because I imagine it will come to light anyhow. Dudley Horn would most surely have taken the precaution of leaving a statement somewhere to be published in case he was killed. He would have thought that would tie Colonel MacFay’s hands.”

  Lois: “But then why should Dudley have tried to kill Mr. Charles?”

  Mrs. Bellam: “If Mr. Charles had discovered his losses in going over the accounts yesterday, the estate would have had to make them good, my dear.”

  Lois: “Go away, please, Mrs. Bellam.” She turns over, burying her head in the pillow. “Go away.”

  Mrs. Bellam: “Try to rest, my dear.” She gathers up her knitting, rises, and goes quietly out.

  Freddie, listening outside the door, jumps back in confusion as Mrs. Bellam comes out of the room.

  Mrs. Bellam smiles tranquilly at Freddie, shuts the door behind her, and goes upstairs.

  Freddie stares after Mrs. Bellam for a moment, biting a fingernail, then looks at Lois’s door in indecision, hears footsteps coming up the stairs from the ground floor, and goes off to his own room.

  The man coming up the stairs is a detective. He goes into Nora’s room, where she is being questioned by two detectives. Nick Jr. has gone to sleep holding Asta’s tail. Asta is very uncomfortable, but afraid to try to pull away.

  Detective: “One o’clock in the morning’s a funny time to have a alibi down here in the country—unless you were expecting something to happen. Were you?”

  Nora: “Of course not.”

  The Detective: “Nobody else had a alibi—just you and your husband and this Lois.”

  Nora: “It’s a habit with Nick. He’s had an alibi for everything that’s happened since I married him.”

  Detective: “And a lot of things happen every place he goes, don’t they?”

  Nora: “Never a dull moment is what all our friends say.”

  Detective: “Wasn’t there a killing in your family that he was mixed up in out on the Coast a year or two ago?”

  Nora: “Do you mean wasn’t there a killing that he solved while policemen were suspecting the wrong people?”

  Detective: “You can put it any way you want, but he was mixed up in it; and there was another woman mixed up in it, too, wasn’t there?”

  Nora: “My cousin.”

  Detective: “I don’t know anything about that. I just remember seeing her picture in the papers, and she was kind of young and pretty. Then he was mixed up in that Wynant murder last time he was in New York, and there was some women in that that he used to know before he was married, wasn’t there?”

  Nora: “Just what are you getting at?”

  Detective: “Looks to me like every time he gets in with a gal the insurance companies take an awful beating. Say, that guy’s deadlier than the Bourbon plague.”

  Nora: “But what has that got to do with Colonel MacFay’s murder?”

  Detective: “Lois. It’s nice for a wife to trust her husband—in ­reason—but don’t you ever get to wondering about him sometimes?”

  Nora: “Sometimes?”

  Detective: “We’re not just dishing the dirt on your husband for the fun of it. We’re trying to show you what you’re up against. It ain’t in the book that any man that’s had that many numbers would settle down to one, and you are too fine a lady to get that kind of runaround.”

  Nora: “Was he really like that? I thought he was just bragging.”

  Detective: “I suppose you never heard about the coalman’s widow in Cleveland that wanted to set him up in a detective agency of his own.”

  Nora, leading him on: “Was that Louella?”

  Detective: “No, her name was Belle Spruce.”

  Nora, delighted: “I mustn’t forget that one. Tell me more.”

  Detective: “Well, then there was a lighthouse keeper’s daughter in—”

  Nora: “A what?”

  Detective: “A lighthouse keeper’s daughter.”

  Nora: “What was her name?”

  Detective, exasperated by her facetiousness: “What it all comes down to is this Lois. You’re wrong to think there couldn’t be anything between them. They’re just making a monkey of you covering up for them.”

  A New Arrival: “Hey.” The second detective turns to him. “Are you getting anywhere?”

  Detective: “Naw, she’s bats.”

  Second Detective: “I wouldn’t mind my old lady being bats that way.”

  New Arrival to Nora: “There’s a telephone call for you.” He winks at the others.

  First Detective to Nora: “Go ahead, take it. We’re through with you.”

  Nora: “I’m sorry. You’ve no idea how interesting this sort of thing can be to a wife. Please tell me the lighthouse keeper’s daughter’s name.”

  As the three men go out, the Detective says, “Letty Finhaden,” and slams the door.

  Nora, happily, to the sleeping baby: “And Letty Finhaden. Isn’t your papa going to be surprised at the things your mama knows?” She goes to the telephone.

  In New York City Nick and VanSlack buy morning papers with screaming headlines—ANOTHER THIN MAN MURDER MYSTERY—LONG ISLAND MILLIONAIRE KILLED—NICK CHARLES GUEST OF SLAIN ­CAPITALIST—EX-CONVICT AND NEGRO SOUGHT BY POLICE, etc. Nick’s photograph occupies the chief position on most front pages, with MacFay’s and Church’s (a rogues’ gallery photograph) flanking it.

  As Nick and VanSlack prepare to drive on, a bundle of extras is thrown to the newsdealer from a passing truck. They buy copies of the extras, whose headlines say—SECOND SLAYING IN LONG ISLAND THIN MAN MYSTERY—ENGINEER KILLED IN ATTACK ON NICK CHARLES, etc. There are more pictures of Nick, and one of Nora.

  As they get out of their car in front of Smitty’s apartment, they are joined by Lieutenant John Guild.

  Nick: “Hello, Guild.”

  Guild, shaking Nick’s hand warmly: “I’m glad to see you back with us. Say, things sure pop when you’re in town, don’t they? Remember last time when folks were being killed all over the—”

  Nick: “Don’t say that! I’m having enough trouble with VanSlack now. I’ve been on the wrong end of a third degree all morning.”

  VanSlack looks reproachfully at Nick.

  Guild: “How are you, Mr. VanSlack? I came over as soon as I heard you were trying to get a line on Smitty. But if your killing was at one o’clock this morning, she’s in the clear. We had a plant on this joint from before midnight till way after three and we know she was in it all the time.”

  VanSlack: “Are you sure she couldn’t—”

  Guild: “Dead sure. I saw her two-three times myself between twelve and three and it would take her easy an hour or an hour and a half each way to get down to MacFay’s and back.”

  Nick, beginning to grin: “How did it happen you were watching her place?”

  Guild: “It turned out to be a false alarm, but she phoned me ­yesterday—” He breaks off as Nick’s grin widens. “Could she have been stringing me—using me to give her an alibi?”

  Nick nods.

  Guild, indignantly: “She can’t do that to me!” He leads the way into the apartment building.

  They go up to Smitty’s apartment and knock on the door. After a little while it is opened by Smitty in pajamas and robe.

  Smitty, yawning: “Good morning, Nick; good morning again, Lieutenant.” Then to VanSlack: “Pleased to meet you.” She yawns again. “Come on in and have some coffee before you tell me what Tip’s been doing now.”

  Guild: “So you pick me to give you an alibi, huh? I’ve got to lose a night’s sleep so you can duck a murder rap. Well, you’re not ducking it. There’s such a thing as complicity and—”

  Smitty: �
�Murder?”

  Guild: “What did you think was going to happen down at MacFay’s after midnight?”

  Smitty, holding up her right hand: “I never thought it was going to be murder.”

  VanSlack, edging in between her and the angry lieutenant: “But you did expect something to happen down there.” Then, when she does not reply: “Where is Church?”

  Smitty: “I don’t know.”

  VanSlack: “When is he coming back?”

  Smitty: “He isn’t coming back. He said he was going to Cuba.”

  Guild, who has been looking in the closet, turns with a man’s overcoat in his hand. “Who does this belong to?”

  Smitty: “Sam.”

  Guild empties the contents of its pockets on the table. They are a handkerchief, a pair of gloves, crumpled package of cigarettes, and a book of paper matches. “What is his coat doing here if he ain’t coming back?”

  Smitty: “It’s been here two or three weeks.”

  Guild, indicating the things he’s taken from the coat pocket to Nick and VanSlack: “There’s nothing else in it.”

  VanSlack to Smitty: “Where is his servant, Dum-Dum?”

  Guild continues to look around the apartment, opening drawers, looking under cushions, etc.

  Smitty: “I don’t know. They went out of here around ten o’clock last night and that’s the last I’ve seen or heard of them.”

  VanSlack: “Where were they going?”

  Smitty: “I don’t know.”

  VanSlack: “But they left together.”

  Smitty: “No. Dum-Dum left first, and Sam went out maybe ten or fifteen minutes afterwards.” She turns to Nick. “Please tell me on the level—was MacFay murdered?”

  VanSlack, before Nick can reply: “Why do you think MacFay was murdered?”

  Smitty, holding up her right hand again. “I knew Sam was trying to get dough out of MacFay, but I never knew he meant to kill him.”

  VanSlack: “But you know it now, don’t you?”

  Smitty: “I don’t know anything that’s got anything to do with murders.”

  VanSlack: “Murders! Who else’s murder was planned besides MacFay’s?”

  Smitty: “I don’t know about anybody’s murder being planned.”

  Guild: “You’re psychic, huh? You get yourself alibis for murders you don’t know are going to happen.”

  Smitty: “I’ll never need an alibi for murder because I’ll never have anything to do with any murder.”

  VanSlack: “You know Mr. Charles, don’t you?”

  Smitty: “Sure.”

  VanSlack: “Were you present at a meeting between Church and Mr. Charles yesterday morning?”

  Smitty: “That’s right.”

  VanSlack: “Exactly what happened at that meeting?”

  Smitty looks at Nick in bewilderment.

  Nick, cheerfully: “I’m a suspect, too. We must get together sometime and swap experiences.”

  Smitty: “What do you know about that? You cops don’t even trust yourselves.”

  VanSlack: “What happened at that meeting?”

  Smitty: “They didn’t get along very well. There was a lot of talk about who ought to give Sam some money and about Nick’s father-in-law, who’s dead as far as I could make out, and it wound up with Nick slugging Sam.”

  VanSlack: “Why did he slug him?”

  Smitty: “You know how men are.”

  VanSlack: “Did Church threaten Nick—and Nick’s wife and kid?”

  Smitty: “Nick seemed to think so—and I guess he was right. Sam’s likely to say anything when he gets going: he’s the loosest-talking man.”

  VanSlack: “How long have you known Church?”

  Smitty: “Just since they sprung him. He was Tip’s cellmate.”

  VanSlack: “It didn’t take you long to tie up with him, did it?”

  Smitty: “We weren’t playing for keeps. He said he needed a girl to stooge for him. I’m small-time stuff and it wasn’t costing him much, but I’m not fronting for murder. If he’s innocent, he can come clean, and if he’s guilty I’m getting out from under.”

  VanSlack: “Just what do you mean by stooging for him?”

  Smitty: “There’s a lot of rackets where it’s handy to have a girl around.”

  VanSlack: “You mean in various blackmail rackets, for instance?”

  Smitty: “I mean in a lot of kinds of rackets—except murder.”

  As VanSlack starts to ask his next question, the doorbell rings. Guild goes to the door and opens it.

  Vogel, coming in: “What are you doing here, Guild?” He looks at Nick and VanSlack.

  Guild: “Diamond-Back, I want you to meet Mr. Nick Charles and Mr. VanSlack, an assistant district attorney from the Island. This is Mr. Vogel.” His manner toward Vogel is that of a policeman toward an influential politician whom he doesn’t trust too much. “We were asking Smitty some questions.”

  Vogel: “About Church, huh? I always figured he was a wrong gee.”

  VanSlack: “What do you know about him?”

  Vogel: “Me? Nothing except he was spending too much time hanging around Smitty.” He scowls at the woman. “You haven’t been unloading to these people yet, have you?”

  Smitty, touching her knee: “Only from here up.”

  Vogel: “I ought to take a smack at you.”

  Smitty: “But I’ll not be the goat for any—”

  Vogel: “Shut up. Didn’t you ever hear about talking through a lawyer? That’s why mugs have got a slang name for them!”

  VanSlack: “I may as well tell you, Mr. Vogel, that the lady has told enough to justify us holding her as a material witness at the very least.”

  Vogel: “Okay, hold her as long as you want, ask her all the questions you want, but let’s have her lawyer there; and if you want to let her out on bail afterwards, make it any amount you want, but let’s do it regular.”

  VanSlack: “Just what is your relationship to the people involved?”

  Vogel: “None. Call me a friend of the family.”

  VanSlack, to Nick: “Is this the man you saw watching Church’s house?”

  Nick: “Yes.”

  Smitty to Vogel: “Why, you big ape!”

  VanSlack: “Well, what’s the matter?”

  Vogel: “It won’t get you very far. Tip’s married to this baby and you know how it is when a guy’s hanging on the wall upstate—he gets to worrying about things. So I been kind of keeping an eye on her for him. Well, I hear Church is going away and for all I know this cluck might think she’s going away with him.”

  VanSlack: “Suppose she had gone away with Church.”

  Vogel: “That’s supposing too much.”

  VanSlack: “You mean you would have stopped her? But just as a friend of the family.”

  Vogel: “Listen, chum. So Tip’s a crummy little coffee-and-­doughnut crook, but when I hit this town strickly on my insteps ten years ago he was the only guy in it that would give me a stake. Well, that boy can call on me for anything I got—money, time, or the gun.” He jerks a thumb at Guild. “He can tell you I got a permit to carry that.”

  VanSlack clears his throat and begins to slip back into his former vagueness: “I think I can understand your feelings. Now in the course of—uh—watching over Mrs. Smith, just what did you learn about Church that might help us?”

  Vogel: “Just nothing. You can get whatever you want to know out of Smitty—as soon as she gets her lawyer.”

  Smitty to Vogel: “So that’s the way it’s been.”

  Vogel: “What did you think was going on? Did you think I was hanging around because I was nuts about you?”

  Nick: “Don’t let’s quarrel with one another. The police are our n
atural enemies.”

  VanSlack looks reproachfully at him again.

  There is a noise from the direction of the kitchen. Guild dashes toward the kitchen, with the others following him, except for Nick, who stands looking after them. Through the open door Dum-Dum can be seen running down the service entrance. Guild and VanSlack dash out in pursuit of him with Smitty and Vogel following them more slowly.

  Nick walks over to the table where Guild put the articles taken from Church’s coat pocket, pokes at them with a finger, picks up the paper of matches, reads the advertisement on it—“West Indies Club”—tosses it back on the table, picks up his hat, and goes out.

  He pauses at the top of the back stairs, looks down the well at a landing several floors below where Guild and VanSlack have caught Dum-Dum and are searching him. Guild finds the wooden-handled knife in his waistband.

  VanSlack, staring at it in amazement, says: “This is the knife MacFay was killed with, dog’s tooth prints and all. It can’t be.”

  Nick smiles and turns away to descend by the other staircase.

  Nick walks up a street in the Latin American section of Harlem. It is now broad daylight and the street is almost empty except for eight or ten men planted in doorways watching the West Indies Club. These men are obviously detectives, but Nick gives no sign that he notices them.

  Nick goes into the West Indies Club, a not too Broadwayish establishment fairly full at this hour; its patrons are chiefly Latin American, with a sprinkling of New York underworld characters. On the small dance floor a West Indian boy and girl are singing and dancing a beguine to the music of a noisy native orchestra. Many of the customers are reading the newspaper accounts of MacFay’s murder and discussing them: Church and Dum-Dum are well-known habitués of the place. At a large table a group of men is extremely interested in something that is hidden from us and from Nick by their backs.

  As Nick appears in the doorway, one of the men looking at the newspapers sees him, nudges his neighbor, points to Nick’s picture in the paper, then at Nick. Others recognize him by the same means.

  The proprietor goes over to Nick, bowing, saying: “Ah, Mr. Nick Charles, is it not? And you are alone?”

  Nick, accepting recognition as his due: “The good are often alone.”