Odor of Violets, Baynard Kendrick [best short novels .txt] 📗

do.” The Captain tempered his admonition with a smile. He turned his head in the direction of Sergeant Archer. “Speaking of smelling Shaugnessy—it’s not impossible. There’s a distinctly spicy odor to you. Shaving cream, unless I’m wrong.”

The Sergeant grunted, and Davis laughed. “What about Shaugnessy at the door?”

“Spud can tell you that,” said Maclain.

“Shaugnessy was wounded in a gun fight,” said Spud. “That’s why you have him working in your office. He limps. Dunc heard his step outside the door, that’s all.”

“Oh. And you tasted his promotion, I suppose—or felt the stripes on his arm.”

“Hearing again, Inspector. As Spud and I came through the outer office, somebody asked where Sergeant Shaugnessy was. He was Patrolman Shaugnessy—not Sergeant—the many times we’ve been here before.” The Captain’s head moved slightly up and sideways. “I hear him coming now with the girl.”

“I’d like you to listen to Archer’s belly when you get a chance,” said Davis. “I’ve been suspicious for some time that there was more in there than beer.”

Archer’s protest was cut off by the opening and closing of the office door.

“You can wait outside, Shaugnessy,” Maclain heard Davis say. “Sit down, Miss Lestrade.”

There was a rustle of silk, then the sound of Shaugnessy’s departure, and the creak of an occupied chair.

A room was always audibly alive to Duncan Maclain. People about him breathed in different tempos; marked themselves by tiny coughs and unnoticed sniffles. Some of them clicked their teeth. Others had bones which cracked sharply when they moved.

Even when people thought themselves in utter repose, they were inclined to shift in unconscious embarrassment before Maclain’s blindness. Inevitably, their presence was betrayed by a dozen or more lifetime habits of movement, which couldn’t be controlled in a single day.

“This is Captain Duncan Maclain, and Mr. Savage,” Inspector Davis told the Lestrade girl. “Captain Maclain’s blind.”

“So are the police,” said Hilda Lestrade. “I’m being held for something I know nothing about. At least I can refuse to be questioned by everybody in New York every hour of the day.”

“We all make mistakes,” Spud remarked in his friendly disarming way. “If you’re being detained in error—certainly you can’t be harmed, Miss Lestrade, by anything you might say.”

“Unless,” Maclain added, “you insist on saying something which is untrue.”

“And where do you fit into the picture?” Hilda demanded frostily. “So far, the police, and that louse, Cameron, are the only ones who have said anything untrue.”

“That’s what I’m trying to prove, Miss Lestrade. I’m a private investigator, who happens to believe that somebody has taken out a private grudge on you.”

“Now, hold on, Maclain,” the Inspector interrupted. He stared from Maclain’s bland face to the troubled features of the girl, who glared back at him defiantly. “There’s a little matter of some fingerprints on highball glasses in Gerente’s apartment which needs some explaining away.”

“Were there any teeth marks on the dead man’s neck?” Spud wanted to know.

“This is a hell of a time for cheap humor, Spud,” Archer whispered loudly.

“Excuse me.” Spud looked contrite. “It was just a passing idea of Captain Maclain’s.”

“Well, let it pass.” Davis searched for a toothpick and failed to find one. “Cameron claims Miss Lestrade was in the apartment when this fellow was murdered.”

“And I say he’s a liar!” exclaimed the girl.

“That’s your privilege,” Davis continued with his cold eyes fixed on Hilda. “We work on proof. If either you or Captain Maclain can tell me how your fingerprints—”

“Obviously we can’t,” Maclain broke in, raising his hand. “Still, I’d like to hear what Miss Lestrade has to say.”

“I’ve plenty to say, mister.” Hilda’s voice had a slightly hopeful ring. “I’ve known Arnold Cameron for two or three months—that’s all. He’s a phoney and a four-flusher, if you’re asking me—an egg importer.”

“A what?” asked Archer.

“Eggs,” said Hilda, giving him a disdainful glance. “Eggs.” She held her thumb and forefinger up in the shape of one.

“Get it, Sergeant?” Spud asked eagerly. “The things that roosters don’t lay.”

“From Australia,” the girl went on. “At least that’s what he told me. We had dinner together last night and—”

“Where?” asked Maclain.

“In Cameron’s apartment. I cooked it for him—”

“What?” The Captain stopped her again.

“Blini,” she said. “That’s pancakes served with caviar and sour cream. I’ve told them to check the garbage if they don’t believe me. They’ll find the empty glass caviar jar I threw away.”

“We found it.” Davis was impatient. “That part of your story is probably true.”

“Blini.” The Captain pursed his lips and meditatively scratched a place over his right eye. “That’s a Russian dish, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hilda answered promptly. “And I think that Cameron’s a Russian, too. He took me to a Russian café on Second Avenue several weeks ago. I got the recipe for the blini there. The place is full of long-haired reds. They knew him, too.”

“And after dinner last night?” Maclain persisted.

“We had a few drinks when the dishes were cleared away. Then he got a phone call from some girl and told me I had to go.”

“And you left without going to Gerente’s apartment upstairs?” asked Maclain.

“I’ve told the police, and I’m telling you, I’ve never seen this man Paul Gerente, dead or alive, nor have I ever heard his name before.”

“And suppose your fingerprints weren’t only on the highball glasses?” the Inspector asked smugly. “Suppose we found some on the grand piano, too?”

“I don’t give a damn if you found them all over the bathtub and the john,” the girl declared hysterically. “I didn’t put them there.”

The Captain took out a fountain pen and removed the cap. A leather-bound notebook followed from his side coat pocket. He flipped the notebook open in his left hand and braced it on his knee. Guiding his right hand with outstretched little finger, he scribbled hastily.

Conscious that the occupants of the room were watching him, he deliberately recapped the pen and put it away. “Inspector. Do you mind if I show Miss Lestrade what I’ve written here without revealing it to you?”

Davis indulged in an official frown. “She’s a witness, not a