Death of Cecilia

By Hartley Howard

First published in 1952, Death of Cecilia begins with a telephone conversation, started with a conventional greeting, but to Glenn Bowman the voice seemed to carry a note of cold menace. It went on to warn him not to take a personal interest in a certain dead woman unless he wanted a lethal dose of lead poisoning.

This was a challenge no self-respecting crime investigator could ignore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Nov 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781448211043

Hartley Howard

Leo Ognall (1908-1979), who wrote several novels under the pseudonyms Harry Carmichael and Hartley Howard, was born in Montreal and worked as a journalist before starting his fiction career. He wrote over ninety novels before his death in 1979.Harry Carmichael's primary series, written from 1952-1978, The Piper and Quinn series included characters such as John Piper (an insurance assessor) and Quinn, a crime reporter.His other works include: The Glenn Bowman series, 1951-1979; The Philip Scott series, 1964-1967.

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Chapter One

When it snows in New York, sometimes it forgets to stop. This was one of those times. For the past three days the whole length of the eastern seaboard had been swept by an arctic blizzard; drifts ten and twelve feet deep blocked the highways, tied up railroad traffic, and made nonsense out of transport schedules. Trains and buses were running hours late; the harbours were crammed with shipping waiting for the gale to slacken before venturing away from shelter.

The city had had its share, too—telegraph lines were either blown down by the wind or broken by the weight of snow; the streets were choked with frozen slush on which anything on wheels bumped and slithered wildly; the sidewalks were banked high at the kerb with dirty-white walls that grew steadily higher as the footpaths were scraped clear by relays of shovel gangs, fighting a losing battle against the swirling endless snow.

And it was cold. The wind came straight off the northern ice-floes and forced its way into every nook and cranny. It sucked out life and warmth and left a chill numbness in their place. The temperature was still dropping on the morning of the fourth day.

I had stopped outside Hymie’s barber saloon, next door to the dump where my office is, before I went upstairs, and I was studying the thermometer at the side of his window. He came out, blowing on his clenched fingers and stamping his feet. Hi-ya, Mr. Bowman. Still got ten toes?

What have you been doing with the mercury in this thing? I asked.

He screwed up his dark face against the driving snow, and took a quick look. Low as that, eh? It’ll soon push the bottom out, trying to find a place to hide. I guess it wishes it was a goofah bird—you know the gink?

I told him there was a suspicion of vulgarity about the reference, and he grinned. Just a suspicion. Want I should tell you what the snowball said to the brass monkey?

Some other time, maybe, I said. Right now I’m going up to see if there’s any mail for me. Get one of your chairs nice and warm—I’ll be down later for a shave.

On the way upstairs I kept asking myself what I was doing out on a day like that. There were better things to do than sitting in a frowsy office, listening to the hiss and clank of the ancient steam-pipes, and waiting for a possible client who might be mad enough to risk frost-bite for the sake of hiring a private detective.

But business had been kind of slow for some time. By slow, I mean it was stagnant. The look on my bank manager’s face showed that he could smell it. For nigh on three months, man and boy, I had sat watching the office door, five days per week, nine to four-thirty, waiting for the King of Ruritania to walk in and engage me to guard the crown jewels; or a two-legged dollar mine offering a fat fee if I’d find his runaway daughter; or a Fifth Avenue store magnate troubled by petty pilfering; or maybe even a guy willing to pay me a few bucks to find his wife’s lap-dog.

All that had come through the door in that time had been the rent demand every twenty-eighth—that and the daily-papers. I got so as I could’ve taken a degree in American journalism.

Trouble with me is the same as the trouble with most people; whether my revenue is up or down, my expenditure is like old man river—it just keeps rollin’ along. I still want to smoke and drink and entertain the ladies. The skinnier my bill-fold, the more temptation seems to beckon. And one thing I’ll never understand: whenever I’m in the money, any dame I want to wine and dine is on a diet; when my bank book is beginning to look like a study in scarlet, they all behave as though they’ve just finished a hunger-strike.

The office smelt of dust and stale tobacco smoke. Condensation had trickled down the window and was dripping off a pool on the window-ledge. The ashtray on the old, scarred desk was piled high with stubs and scraps of paper. Beside it stood a sticky tumbler with a few drops of bourbon in the bottom.

I closed the door. Then I shook the snow off my hat and coat and hung them in the ten-by-six ante-room adjoining. It had once housed a charming young lady, but it had been empty for a long time now. All that was left to remind me of her was the lingering trace of the perfume she had used, and the typewriter under the cracked and faded cover.

The steam heat was dry and rank; it put a tingle at the back of my nose and a harshness in my throat that even the bourbon couldn’t shift. I had a couple of shots by way of medicinal treatment, and then I stuck my feet up on the desk and brooded.

Through the narrow window, that faced on to a blank wall across the alley, I could see a segment of grey sky. It was heavy with snow that was still to come. And the swirling white flakes were piling up on the sill and clinging to the glass.

My paper said there were only seven more shopping days to Christmas. The big stores were campaigning hysterically with full-page displays—"Give the kids the treat of their young lives … Visit the Fairy Grotto … Santa Claus has gifts for young and old … Just what she wants … He’ll love you for ever when you give him … Make this a real old-fashioned Christmas …"

I sat and dreamed about once-upon-a-time; carol singers and paper hats and the twinkling lights on the laden tree in the hall; the silver dollar in the pudding; the rustle of paper parcels and the sweet, breathless excitement before the packages came open.

Visions of way-back-when crowded in on me, and I slid lower in my chair in an orgy of memories—school days, college days, long dead and almost forgotten days; war and women; good times, bad times. …

And then the phone rang. I took my feet off the desk, almost resentfully, and pushed the jumbled newspapers out of my way. With the glass in one hand and the receiver in the other, I said, Bowman—Private Enquiries.

The voice in my ear was thick and muffled, as though the guy at the other end had a nasty head cold. He sounded nasty in other ways, too. Without any preamble, he said, How’d you like to have a merry Christmas?—just like that.

I finished the remains of the bourbon and put down the glass. Then I hitched my chair closer to the desk. What is this—an advertising stunt?

No stunt, pal, no stunt at all. He wasn’t very distinct, and I got the idea that maybe he hadn’t catarrh after all. A handkerchief plugged in the mouthpiece has a similar effect.

This is the season of goodwill, ain’t it?

So what?

So I’m full of the Christmas spirit, he went on, and I’m hoping you’ll have a good time—mince pies and turkey, lots of presents, fun and games—and no indigestion.

Never mind my indigestion, and cut out the malarky. What do you want? I asked.

Don’t get me wrong, pal. He made a noise that could have been a laugh. But I gathered from his tone that he wasn’t amused. This ain’t a touch. Just a friendly tip-off. Why not spend your Christmas outa town?

Meaning what?

Meaning you’ve been working too hard. You’ve earned a break. Why bother your head with another case right now? You don’t want to worry about a dead dame at a time like this. Enjoy yourself, pal, with the live ones—they’re much better fun.

If you know what the hell you’re talking about, I said, how about letting me in on it?

O.K. O.K. His voice went up a tone, and it had gone hard. Play it your own way. There’s a sucker born every minute. Remember what I said about indigestion. A lump of lead in the belly ain’t no Christmas pudding.

You wouldn’t be threatening me, would you?

What—me? His laugh was as cold as the wind whistling through the alley. Think it over, pal, while there’s time. So long. He laughed again. Merry Christmas.

The line went dead and I sat staring at the tasty dish posing on my new calendar. Then I cradled the receiver and pondered for a while.

Someone I already knew or might get to know in the near future was anxious to steer me away from a job, a job that had to do with a dead female. If I didn’t take his advice, he was going to get unfriendly. A guy in my line of business doesn’t need to be a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that much. But it didn’t take me very far. I wasn’t on a case—and I didn’t know any dead dames. The only thing that was dead around my office was business.

So I stopped thinking about Christmas and thought instead of the guy with the phony head cold who wanted to get me out of town. Maybe he was one of the boys in the pool-room working a hoax? Maybe he’d got a wrong number? But I’d given my name before he began to speak. Unless he’d plugged his ears as well as the mouthpiece, he had known who I was when he started saying his little piece.

Then there was the woman he had talked about. I hadn’t seen a mention in the scare sheets of any homicide featuring a dame in the title role for quite a time. I have a professional interest in death by violence—and a personal one in the female of the species.

The combination was too strong for me to have overlooked the inevitable headlines in the tabloids. Yet if this woman had died respectably in bed according to the established tradition—why the fuss?

Mentally chasing my own tail tends to give me a thirst. So I uncorked the bourbon and prepared to drown the whole business. I would have done, too, if someone hadn’t knocked at the door right then.

Through the frosted glass panel I could see the shadow of two figures, silhouetted by the passage light. One was taller than the other, but both were on the short side and slightly built. They were waiting for me to answer, in spite of the invitation on the door. I sat watching, with an uneasy feeling that made me irritable. If my callers had meant trouble they wouldn’t have stood on ceremony. I’ve never heard of anyone asking, Please may I come in? before letting loose with a gun. Yet I couldn’t get out of my mind the cold threat in the voice on the telephone.

After a few moments, the one nearer the door knocked again —a soft, hesitant knock that conveyed doubt and a touch of nervousness. Then the two heads merged and I heard the murmur of voices. I stuck the bottle at the back of the bottom drawer, upended the glass over the neck of the water carafe on the desk, and said, Come in.

When the door opened, I saw two of the nicest old ladies that ever looked under the bed before turning out the light—not that I go much for old ladies; my taste ranges from the early twenties to the middle thirties. But these two looked like late Victorian cameo pieces brought to life and sprayed with the fresh fragrance of lavender water.

Both of them had shining white hair, lined, restful features, and gentle blue eyes. They were wearing pony-skin coats over black dresses, with white lace frills at the throat. Everything about them was immaculate; even their flat-heeled, one-bar shoes seemed to have escaped the slush on the sidewalk. Their simple black hats were dusted with snow, and a few flakes still clung to their shoulders. They could’ve walked straight out of a Brontë novel.

The taller one closed the door very carefully and very quietly behind her, and the other took a few hesitant steps towards me. She stared placidly at me, and her smile lit up her whole face. Are you Mr. Bowman—Mr. Glenn Bowman? Her voice was soft, and her accent came from the South.

I got to my feet and smiled back at her. My name is Bowman. What may I do for you, ladies?

She tucked her brown crocodile handbag more securely under her arm, and folded her hands comfortably. I am Mary Parsons. With a quick little turn of the head that set her side-pieces bobbing, she nodded to her companion. This is my younger sister, Harriet. We wish to engage your services, Mr. Bowman.

There’s only one visitor’s seat in my office, so I brought the typist chair from the ante-room and invited them to sit down. They thanked me with shy dignity, and when Harriet spoke it was like listening to the echo of her sister’s voice. She didn’t say any more—just sat looking from me to Mary with a far-away smile on her face and her faded eyes faintly inquiring.

I gave them time to settle, while I cleared the newspapers off the desk, and then I went and sat down. Now, Miss Parsons, I said, in what way can I serve you and your sister?

When you hear what I want you to do, Mr. Bowman, you may not wish to serve us at all. Her lips trembled, and she leaned forward appealingly. "Oh, but I do hope you will. Nobody else will listen to us here. We’ve told them all that we know Cecilia could never have done such a thing, but they just shrug their shoulders and say they’re very sorry. It’s infuriating," she said, and her eyes tried to look angry. All they managed to do was to make her appear pathetic.

Harriet patted her sister’s hand and murmured, You had better tell Mr. Bowman first what has happened. Perhaps he’ll understand.

I’ll try, I assured them. To start with—who is Cecilia?

She was our niece, Mary said, our youngest brother’s only child. He died when Cecilia was five years old, not long after his poor wife passed away. The two old dames looked into each other’s eyes and smiled fondly. We brought her up, Mary added.

I see. I scribbled a couple of details on my desk pad, and then asked, And what has Cecilia been up to, Miss Parsons?

Mary said, She’s dead. Her mouth was quivering, and tears were not far away. She was a good girl, Mr. Bowman, in spite of what we’ve been told since we came to New York. My sister and I know more about her than any parcel of strangers. Don’t we, dear?

Harriet was crying quietly into her handkerchief, and all she could manage was a muffled, Yes, Mary.

Who are the people who have been saying unpleasant things about your niece? I asked.

Mary dabbed at her eyes and sat up straight. Her face was almost grim as she said, The police. It was they who sent for us when Cecilia—died. We had to attend the inquest. And now they say we should go back home to Hopeville; we can do no good here and we’re only distressing ourselves. As though our feelings matter, she went on bitterly. "All we’re thinking about is Cecilia. If only she had told us—we wouldn’t have cared even if she was having a baby. Anything would have been better than—this."

I was beginning to wonder where I featured in the kind of affair that was a dime a dozen in the bright lights. Time was when the river patrol were fishing out betrayed girls on an average of two or three nights a week. The Vice Squad put a stop to a lot of monkey business, but I have yet to see the day when the fall from grace of a country girl raises even half an eyebrow in the island city.

I shall never believe that she committed suicide, Harriet said in a surprisingly strong voice. The letter we received from her the day after she died was bright and cheerful—and it must have been written not long before— She stopped, and I sat scratching my chin and trying to think up something to say.

How did she die? I asked.

She was shot. Mary had taken over from her sister, and she was composed again. At first, one of the policemen thought it could have been an accident, and then they said they’d found evidence to show it was suicide. And that was the verdict at the inquest. She smiled trustingly at me, and I didn’t feel so good. What we want you to do, she added, is to prove that they’re all wrong.

You may be throwing away your money, I said, for lack of anything better. If the police with all their facilities have evidence to prove suicide, it’s going to be darn hard for a one-man inquiry to make them change their minds and agree that it was an accident.

A faint frown darkened Harriet’s eyes. She wet her lips and looked worriedly at Mary. He doesn’t understand, dear. Shall I tell him?

Just a moment, I interrupted. If you don’t accept that it could have been an accident, and you object to the finding of the inquest that it was suicide, then—

Mary exchanged a quick glance with her sister. In a small clear voice she said, We knew Cecilia better than anyone else in the world, and we say that she was—murdered.

Chapter Two

The elevator girl slid open the doors and said, Fourth Floor—Records, Missing Persons Bureau, District Attorney’s Office. I got out, went along the tiled corridor, and through the door at the end. Behind a little wicket fence sat a trim-looking girl in a blouse and skirt. She had the kind of hair I like—and a face and figure to match.

I took off my hat and said, Good morning.

She smiled, and let her hands rest on the keyboard of her typewriter. Her eyes travelled over me and then she looked up into my face while she tucked away a stray bit of her nice hair. Have you an appointment with Mr. Webster?

Uh, uh. I parked myself on the top rail of the fence. Name’s Bowman. He knows me pretty well. Ask him if I can have a few minutes of his official time.

He’s very busy, Mr. Bowman, and he told me to see that he wasn’t disturbed. She fussed with some papers and produced a little book. Would you like me to arrange an appointment for to-morrow?

I’d like you to arrange one for this morning. And you’ll have to work fast—it’s a quarter off twelve now.

That’s impossible. She closed the little book with a snap. I’ll ask Mr. Webster if he can fit you in to-morrow.

I’ll make a deal with you, I said.

What kind of a— When I leaned over the rail and propped my elbow on her machine she coloured slightly and drew back. I’m afraid I can’t waste any more time. Leave your telephone number and I’ll call you.

Not interested in a little proposition? I asked.

Not interested in big or little propositions. She stuck a sheet of paper behind the roller and began typing with a fixed concentration that was intended as my dismissal.

I made myself comfortable, and said, You’re good on that thing.

Thank you. She didn’t look up but she was knocking the daylight out of the keyboard.

Unusual to see such a pretty girl so efficient, I went on.

She stopped abruptly and pressed her lips firmly together. Just what do you want? She was even more attractive when she tried to look angry.

Look, honey, I said, if you let me talk to the D.A. on your inter-com., in return I’ll—

You’ll what?

I’ll take you out to lunch, I said.

Some sort of struggle seemed to be going on inside her. I didn’t know whether she intended to hit me with a chair or ring for the bouncer. So I sat and grinned at her, and wondered why I hadn’t seen her when I had last called on Webster.

After a moment she began to smile—the kind of smile a woman wears when her best friend says, That hat is very becoming, dear. It makes you look quite young. Then she leaned back and clasped her hands round a very fetching knee. Mr. Bowman, there are one or two things you ought to know. Her voice was dripping with molasses. In the first place, if I told the District Attorney that you had tried to bribe your way in, he’d have you thrown out—

Maybe you’ve got something there, I admitted.

And secondly, I have absolutely no intention of going out to lunch with a perfect stranger on any conditions.

You flatter me, I said. No one is perfect.

Very clever. She looked at me engagingly. You’re what’s called a brash young man.

More flattery. I’m thirty-seven.

She took a deep breath and half opened her mouth. I’ll never know how far the conversation would have taken me, because just then a light glowed on her desk-set and the buzzer sounded twice. Without removing her eyes from mine, she flipped a switch and murmured, Yes, Mr. Webster?

The D.A.’s voice said, Fetch your notebook, Miss Colman.

Very good, Mr. Webster. She got up and went towards the inner door. I sat and admired the straight lines of her back and the carriage of her head. She had smooth, stream lined hips and small-boned ankles. Some dames look all right front view, others are better when they’re going away—a long way. This one had almost everything, coming and going.

Over her shoulder she said, Thank you for the lunch invitation, Mr. Bowman. Only two things stop me accepting.

Such as?

My boy-friend has a jealous disposition. She paused with her hand on the door-knob.

And the other thing?

I like to be asked for the sake of my company and not as a reward for services rendered.

Hold it, I said, and she half-turned towards me. "If you have a boy-friend, he should have sense enough to