The Museum Murder

By John T. MacIntyre

Duddington Pell Chalmers is a young man of taste, class, and girth. As trustee for a local art museum, he is called in by police when the troublesome curator is murdered and soon finds himself at odds with the official enquiry. There is no shortage of suspects among local artists, art dealers, and collectors, while motives become muddled when it is discovered that murder was not the only crime. Chalmers knows that time is of the essence, or the police will arrest his artist friend, bringing ruin to a bright career, but can he follow the clues to unmask the murderer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muriwai Books
• Release date: Apr 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787204379

John T. MacIntyre

John Thomas McIntyre (26 November 1871 - 21 May 1951) was an American novelist. McIntyre was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, son of Patrick and Sarah (Walker) McIntyre. He grew up in the Northern Liberties district and attended St. Michael’s School and then the Harrison Grammar School. He left school early and was working full-time by the age of eleven. He worked for the stock company of the South Street Standard Theatre, writing a new play each week based on a set of posters produced for the theater’s entrance. He also worked as a freelance journalist for Philadelphia newspapers such as the Philadelphia Press. In 1898, he started writing his first novel, a political drama set in the wards along the Schuylkill River and Philadelphia waterfront, titled The Ragged Edge. The only copy of his manuscript was stolen during an express company robbery and it took him nearly a year to rewrite the book from memory. The book was published by McClure, Phillips in 1902 and is widely considered an early example of the urban Irish-American political novel. He subsequently wrote short stories, detective mysteries and juvenile fiction. He invented Ashton-Kirk, a scientific-minded criminologist, and published several books featuring his cases. He also wrote serials for newspapers about a freelance detective named Jerry Mooney. McIntyre’s greatest success and fame came from his 1936 novel, Steps Going Down, which was selected as the United States entry in the All-Nations Prize Novel Competition. Although it did not win the full competition, its selection won McIntyre an award of $4,000 in cash and gained prominent notices for the book in most of the major literary magazines. He died in 1951 at the age of 79.

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Text originally published in 1929 under the same title.

© Muriwai Books 2017, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE MUSEUM MURDER

BY

JOHN T. MCINTYRE

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

I 4

II 8

III 13

IV 19

V 23

VI 33

VII 43

VIII 47

IX 54

X 58

XI 64

XII 72

XIII 76

XIV 80

XV 83

XVI 88

XVII 94

XVIII 99

XIX 102

XX 108

XXI 113

XXII 118

XXIII 121

XXIV 126

XXV 130

XXVI 136

XXVII 141

XXVIII 144

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 151

I

IT WAS an August morning. Duddington Pell Chalmers, when he thought about it afterward, and he did think of it with a deal of intentness more than once, recalled that it was a hot morning. As he sat at breakfast he could see a haze over the trees in the park; the sun, hung about quarter way in the sky, was quite red. The air, as it stirred in the streets and came in at the windows, was heavy and moist.

Now fat people do not prosper in the city on hot days; but Duddington was quite good-humored. His cold tub and the splash of the shower had his blood moving briskly; he felt invigorated. He ate his breakfast with many evidences of appreciation, for Turvy was an excellent cook and could do little saddles of fish in a way that was very attractive.

You got an excellent color this morning, Turvy, said Duddington as he ate; the white flows into the brown and the brown into the darker edges; it’s very appetizing.

Thank you, sir, said Turvy.

Your coffee is ripening, said Duddington as he looked at the dark, mahogany-colored fluid steaming in a broad-topped cup. It’s really growing quite expert. I shall have old Tom Macey in to breakfast some morning, and he shall check up on you. Tom knows a lot about coffee. But for my own drinking you’re making splendid progress, Turvy. Usually, Englishmen never make good coffee. They have the tea complex, as I might say, and the bean is never quite understood by them.

He ate some delicately done toast and a little marmalade which Turvy placed before him in a small silver dish; he sipped his coffee and looked with much satisfaction at a Roman vase in the center of the table. Duddington liked a little sherry of a morning; its bright touch upon the palate, its lifting quality, its brown, cheery color pleased him. When Turvy poured it into a tall goblet, Duddington lighted a cigarette and whistled a few bars of "Le Cœur de ma vie." He felt very contented.

Let me have that catalogue, said he. He’d left the city in mid-July to be gone until October; then Custis wrote asking him to return; but this catalogue of MacQuarrie’s was really what brought him back. The moment he’d seen the Spanish glass item he’d packed a bag and returned. Forty pieces, he said to Turvy, reading the description once more. Forty pieces of South Spanish.

It seems a wonderful chance, sir, said the man, who was thin and wiry and had sparse sandy hair and a quick eye.

There are two tall tankards, said Duddington, and quite a number of bottles and tavern glasses. Eight Almeria goblets, out of the old Moorish furnace of the Thirteenth Century.

You could do with those, sir, said Turvy. They have quite a splendid sound.

Duddington approved of MacQuarrie’s place. They seldom made a noise about a thing there; you never heard any yelping through the mail; there were no outcries in the newspapers. If they had a rare item they told you of it, gravely, as became an important matter; there was never a crush of people who came merely out of curiosity. You sat leisurely, and talked, and bid. You had an excellent time. Duddington thought of this, smoked the cigarette, and drank a little of the sherry. Then he arose and began to dress.

It’s going to be a warm day, Turvy, he said. Warm days always begin like this. Mist and a red sun. I think I shall wear a soft collar.

Turvy had a bothered look.

I’m very sorry, Mr. Chalmers, he said, but you have no soft collars, sir.

No soft collars! said Duddington. He paused in the act of fastening his sleeve links. Why not?

The laundry has made a mistake of some kind, sir. All your soft collars—two dozen of them, sir—have gone astray.

Duddington went on with the sleeve links. He felt quite cool and at ease, and he desired to keep so. What were a few dozen collars!

Very well, he said. We’ll not get into a state of mind about it. Have someone go out immediately and get some others.

I’ve already sent out, Mr. Chalmers, the man said. And I’ve gone myself—to all the good places near at hand. And I’ve telephoned others. But I haven’t been able to get you any collars, sir.

Duddington whistled more bars of "Le Cœur de ma vie," and looked at a water color hanging over his writing desk. It had been done by Alma Rogers, and showed a green lane in Brittany; there were some cows in it, a spot of broken hedge, and a yellow path. A man could wear a stiffly starched collar down a lane like that without discomfort. But New York streets at high noon of an August day were something else.

Turvy, he said, why can you not get me any soft collars?

Turvy hesitated. He was a man of good sense and did not care to touch his employer upon a tender spot. For Duddington Pell Chalmers was a person of size; he was more than merely fat: he was ponderous. Being above six feet in height he weighed two hundred and eighty pounds. His limbs were mighty; his torso was colossal; his smooth, pink face was vast and round.

There were none of your size, sir, said Turvy. You take a size twenty, Mr. Chalmers; and, if you’ll remember, the last you had were made to order.

Duddington remembered. So they were. He’d given the order himself. He recalled that the man at the shop where he’d gone—one of the pointed-moustached, purple-shirted sort—had smiled when the size was mentioned. Also Duddington suspected him of winking at another man—a narrow-shouldered youth with plastered-down hair. They’d thought it diverting, but Duddington had not. He’d never fancied the little jokes of tailors or glovers or shirt makers about his size. He knew he was of a comfortable shape, but did not care to have the matter too sharply observed by others. Couldn’t man be fat if he had a mind to? And what the devil did they mean by their chuckles!

He gazed out over the park with its haze above the trees and its dim red sun, and he saw the scorching drives and the flurries of dust lifting in the trails of motor cars. He felt himself gradually coming to a glow; there were small globules of moisture upon the backs of his hands.

I hope, Turvy, you spoke sharply to the laundry people when they reported their error, he said.

Yes, said Turvy, firmly, I did, Mr. Chalmers; I told them their carelessness wasn’t to be tolerated, sir. That was after I’d discovered your collars had been sent to another person.

Oh! said Duddington, they were sent to another person!

He buttoned on the stiff collar reluctantly, finished his dressing, and descended in the elevator. The stiff linen band was uncomfortable; he put a finger down behind it and tugged at it.

Hot day, suh, said the elevator operator. It’ll sta’t singin’ befo’ night.

Duddington felt this was true. And MacQuarrie’s might be stuffy; the forty pieces of Spanish glass after all might draw a huge crowd; he might have a most uncomfortable day. And then he visioned the man who had his soft collars: he was a smug and uninteresting-looking person, and decidedly the sort that would take an advantage.

I’m sure Turvy did not say enough to those people, he told himself, exasperated. I shall speak to them myself.

He paused in the corridor to get a newspaper and ask the telephone operator to call him a cab; and as he talked to the boy at the telephone desk he felt the starched collar catching him expertly under his Adam’s apple. He turned to go into a room where there were some public telephones and collided with a man who’d been standing just behind him. He was an extremely tall man—extremely was the word Duddington found fixed in his mind later on when he had occasion to review the incident—and he apologized at once.

Not at all, said Duddington. My fault entirely. I beg yours.

The fat young man went into the room where the telephones were; this was also, so it seemed, the objective of the tall man, for he followed at once and began searching through a directory at one side. Duddington got the laundry branch and put an unaccustomed rasp into his voice as he spoke. They said they were sorry; it would not happen again. However, Duddington noted that these protestations were made in an exceedingly cheerful voice; he frowned as he listened to it and put no faith in it. He called their attention to the sort of day it was and the way he’d been inconvenienced; he told them he was completely dissatisfied with their way of doing things. But then, just as he was adding to the displeasure already in his voice, they told him the collars had been located; they were in the office and ready to deliver.

We’ll send them up to you at once, Mr. Chalmers, said the clerk. And I’d like to call your attention to an enclosure in the package. Kindly look for it.

An enclosure in my package of collars! said Duddington. He grew very red; the perspiration started upon him. What do you mean? He saw a bill being sent him in this unusual way; and his attention was being called to it as though he were a person who did not pay promptly. This is an impertinence. The clerk began an explanation, but Duddington would not listen. Send the parcel to my apartment at once, he said. At once! I shall make settlement with you immediately!

He went out to his cab, which stood at the curb, and told the man to drive to MacQuarrie’s. He was very angry. The insolence of them! The starched collar gripped him tightly, and he felt it wilting. In a half hour it would be an unsightly, pulpy mass. And they were sending him an enclosure, were they? He rapped upon the glass, and the driver of the cab slowed down and turned to see what was wanted. Duddington desired him to drive to the laundry and gave him the street and number.

The clerk at the laundry branch was a blonde girl with bright blue eyes and rouged lips. The idea of a bill in Mr. Chalmers package of collars was rejected by her at once. Oh, no! They never did things like that! It was not to be thought of. She produced the package; upon the regulation list fastened to it was written the word enclosure in red ink. She did not know what it was; in mentioning it over the telephone she’d merely desired to call his attention to it.

Duddington said he’d take the collars himself. He hooked his stick over his left arm and cleared his throat. He said he supposed the incident was closed. He’d been rather put out, and quite likely lost his temper. He’d meant to withdraw his patronage, but if they saw to it that the matter wasn’t repeated he was willing to say no more about it.

Mr. Chalmers, said the clerk, cheerfully, "it never shall be repeated. We shall take great care of that. Good-day, sir."

And so Duddington, with his collars under his arm, got into the cab and was driven away.

II

DUDDINGTON PELL CHALMERS got out at MacQuarrie’s and went up the broad flight of steps. MacQuarrie had taken great pains with those steps; they intimately approached his galleries, and they must be right. There was a heavy balustrade taken from a Florentine palace; from the ceiling hung an immense chandelier of Viennese make imported by Maximilian and placed by him in his audience room at the Castle of Chapultepec. The walls were paneled in ivory and dark brown and sheathed with paintings and prints; upon each of the two landings were copies of Florentine bronzes, bits of armor, and Japanese vases.

Duddington put his hat and stick and parcel in the care of the boy in the check room, and almost at once MacQuarrie had him by the hand.

My dear sir! said MacQuarrie. My dear sir! It’s a real gratification to see you here. It is, indeed.

Duddington looked about. The place was full of sunlight; there were rich rugs upon the floor; old silver and brasses and glass were everywhere; books in magnificent bindings were in locked cases; collections of antique coins were in cabinets at one side; etchings covered one whole wall; another was devoted to some Belgian water colorists. But the gallery was hot, and the fat young man fumbled with his starched collar.

What’s the idea of the hurry, MacQuarrie? he said to the man. Forty pieces of South Spanish glass on a day like this! You’ll not have more than a handful to bid.

MacQuarrie’s voice sank to a whisper.

Mr. Chalmers, he said, as is usually the case, the owner is pressed for money. It is a lady, and she is quite anxious to have the matter put through as quickly as possible. She is Mexican. Her ancestors were Spanish crown officers in the old times. One of them, who was made governor of a province in 1592 by King Philip, filled a ship with his personal property and family and sailed from Spain to take up his duties. The glass, and MacQuarrie’s voice sank even lower, was in that ship. Genuine Almeria! A beautiful apple green, and unfractured throughout the whole lot. One of the rarest lots I have put up for sale in years.

MacQuarrie was a short man and quite bald; he had a rounded stomach and a big, white, heavy face. He’d been, some ten years before, bookkeeper to an auctioneer who specialized in art objects; acquiring an extensive knowledge of the art-buying public and the sources of supply, MacQuarrie began business for himself on a side street. From the first he’d been careful. He built up a reputation for wide learning in the matter of paintings and etchings by a few phrases and a set of gestures; people journeyed from far and near for opinions on pottery, silver, rugs, and old jewelry. He came along rapidly; as his means grew he moved into Fifth Avenue and established exclusive contacts; each room was set like a stage; his lighting was spoken of as being perfect.

While the proprietor of the place was talking to Duddington, a small stoop-shouldered man with peculiarly light eyes approached; his mouth drooped at the corners, and he had a habit of pulling his coat about him as though it were a cloak.

I knew I should see you, sir, he said to Duddington, with a wave of the hand and a smile that showed a row of too-perfect teeth. As soon as I opened my catalogue the other morning I said to myself: ‘Mr. Chalmers will be there. He finds it hard to resist glass of any kind; but Spanish glass and such a rich item of it will make it impossible for him to stay away.’

I think you’re right, Marsh, said Duddington. Of course, I fancy good pottery and some kinds of silver; and I have a decided weakness for lithographs and water colors. But glass fills my eye when it’s good and of the proper sort; and the South Spanish make, after the Moorish design, does more with me than any other.

Marsh said he thought the Moors splendid fellows, and that they had a wonderful sense of form and color. Their carved leather was magnificent; so were their inlaid armor and their brasses. Of course, their glass furnaces were crude, but what else could be said of any primitive art or handicraft? Duddington mopped his face with a large handkerchief; Marsh’s talk pictured deserts and Arab towns, brown artificers and caravans laden with the rich product of their factories. MacQuarrie had gone to meet some new arrivals, and Duddington sat down in a red Chinese chair and fanned himself with a catalogue. He said the Moors had their influences and had been guided by them just as the Venetians, or Flemings, or Bohemians, had been. Byzantium was the Arab’s near neighbor, and her designs and colors had their effect; and Byzantium had inherited from the older Greek-Roman source, which, in its turn, had been enriched by the spoil of Egypt.

The Venetian glass maker, said Duddington, really had much the same influences as the Arab, but as her geographical contacts were not the same, her growth in this art came by another route, and with a different result. And though the Venetian product is magnificent it lacks something which the cruder Moor possessed. I think, said Duddington, the difference had its beginning in the attitude of mind. The Arab received the gift humbly; and the Venetian took it with a good deal of arrogance, as he was apt to do.

The pieces of Spanish glass were set out upon a table; they were the product of the old furnaces of Almeria, beyond a doubt; rather thick and clumsy and having a solidity of metal which other European glass had not. There were goblets and tankards and bottles and bowls and vases, all of a lovely pale green, translucent, shining, generous.

Almost perfect! said Duddington. Splendid specimens! I never saw better, he said to MacQuarrie, who was at the table with a man who had just come in. Take this flagon, holding up a tall piece and allowing the light to fall through it: It almost shows the dark hand of its maker; the sun of the South is in it in spite of its coloring; the shape of it at once suggests the black tents of the horse breeders, or the inns beside the water holes where the caravans came to rest.

MacQuarrie’s second