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THERE WAS A
CROOKED MAN



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“THERE WAS
A CROOKED MAN”
By GEORGE WORTHING YATES
The corpse lay huddled in the rain on a ter-
race outside the executive offices of the Chelsac
Theatre. The evening clothes were faultless, but
the body had been horribly mutilated-years be-
fore. Who was the crooked man? Christien, the
managing director of the theatre, had never seen
the man before.
Percy Tussard, of the police, set to work on the
case. And close on his heels came ancient and
autocratic Lord Broghville. He threw the weight
of his years, his influence, his impressive dignity
and his immense intelligence into the search for
the murderer.
“There Was a Crooked Man" adds to the
ranks of amateur detectives a new one you can-
not fail to take to your heart-the lonely and
tremendous, the ancient and august Lord Brogh-
ville. You will meet him again in other mysteries
by Mr. Yates-mysteries which, like this one,
combine rich characterization with surprise and
ingenuity of situation and unusual charm of style.





OTHERE WAS
CROOKED MAN"
By GEORGE WORTHING YATES
bystery
WILLIAM MORROW AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
1936


“THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN”
COPYRIGHT-1936
BY GEORGE WORTHING YATES
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
BY THE STRATFORD PRESS, INC., NEW YORK





“THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN"



SLOWREHIMESH
UN
RUNDLINE
In int
VESLALOM
DIE
JEDINI
STATISTIINE
koll
ni
MWEN
THE CHELSEA PROJECT


“THERE WAS A
"If you'd tell him not to, I'm sure it would help. He
really listens to you. I'm worried about him. You might
do something with him. I'd be terribly grateful.”
“Ah,” said his lordship, nodding his venerable head
in vague acquiescence and sucking the flame of a match
into his pipe and looking politely sleepy, all in one com-
plicated demonstration.
He sat sprawled on the sofa before the fire, and filled
most of the space about the hearth like a fallen oak tree.
He was the very ancient and benevolent Geoffrey Ben-
nett, Lord Broghville, as institutional to look at as a life
insurance company, but incognito, and choosing to call
himself simply Mr G. Bennett during this visit to
America. Frederick Christien was a friend. More than
that, Christien was the kind of friend that Bennett was
pleased to visit for a pleasantly swollen week-end, from
Friday to Wednesday. Christien had this comfortable
house in Southampton on Long Island, and Bennett
sprawled in it nursing his pipe to noisy health. Mrs
Christien fidgeted about the room again, until Bennett
was driven to complain, “Oh, my dear Paulal Clock is
three minutes fast. Fire does awfully well. Stop thrusting
things at it. Do sit down, ah, good girl, that's it! Drink
something or smoke something, relieve the anxiety. I
think I shall tell you a story."
“To take my mind off my troubles?"
“Precisely.”'
"I'll listen, if I can,” she said. She was quite obviously
listening to something else, the sound of the rain, and
for the expected swish of tires on the wet drive outside.
“No matter. Put away that wretched poker. As for the
story, deplorable silly thing, concerning the Great War.
And your husband. How I met him, you might say. This,
my dear Paula, occurs in Macedonia, horrid place. Dare
say I'm not at my best, telling stories, but I really can't
think of anything else to do under the circumstances.


CROOKED MAN”
Short of a game of draughts. Which would be intoler-
able. That is, you wouldn't concentrate properly."
Being talked to by Geoffrey Bennett in his gentler
aspects, was like giving up your tattered mind to the care
of some quietly omnipotent and benign celestial grand-
father. The voice did it. Low, precise, measured and
gruff; easy on vowels but crisp with the consonants;
authoritative, perfectly assured, parliamentary, military,
but restrained for the occasion; it suited the size of him,
and quite filled as much of the room as his body didn't.
It wasn't much of a story.
"Hum. Macedonia, wretched place, don't go there. Ah.
Night much like this one. Rain; rain and the most
frightful mud, and wind, and all the damn country quite
as black as your best hat. Even the sky may have been
mud, if nothing worse. Quite appalling. Silly, too, you
know. There we stood, some two or three hundred of us,
soldiers more or less, simply weak as garden slugs for
want of food, yet provided by the enemy with a great
store of it, more than we'd dreamed of for months. We
had grim little fires, which tried to put themselves out as
soon as we turned our backs. And we dared not think of
eating. Captured Bulgarian food depot. Poisoned, of
course. We'd tested a bit of tinned meat on one poor
devil, who went at once into quivering convulsions in a
most depressing way. There, as I say, we stood. Have
you any questions?”.
"No. Why?”
"To make sure you listen, my dear. Shall I go on?"
Paula Christien laughed a little, and nodded. She was
young, younger than her husband, and very attractive.
Ancient Mr Bennett was gratified by the company of


“THERE WAS A
attractive ladies, and the smell of good sherry, but sherry
was bad for his gout. Otherwise he probably wouldn't
have gone to all this bother.
“So, my dear, not having had food for three days, we
languished. Ştarvation, as they say, stared us in the face.
No railways. No roads. No people. Nothing, indeed, but
miles of discouraging mud. Nothing ahead, and no base
of supplies to retire upon. Dare say we would have
experimented with those poisoned stores soon, if a-
however, mustn't spoil my story, eh? As I think I men-
tioned, we were pottering about with our nasty little
fires, when my sentries brought in a fellow. Damn
civilian fellow. Like a conjuror's rabbit, popping out of
that empty rain and mud. Tell me, do you know who
it was?"
"No."
“Come, my dear! You'd anticipate more, if you were
paying close attention. It was your husband, Freddy
Christien.”
“Oh.”
"I'm boring you. It is a dismal story, isn't it? No mat-
ter. Christien was brought before me. He said, 'How
d'you do,' and shook hands, and referred to the weather,
and asked if I could let him have a horse. That wouldn't
do, you see, because we'd killed the horse and eaten him
several days earlier. Then he said, ‘My lorry seems to be
stuck fast in the mud about a mile down the hill. I saw
your fires.' I said, “Lorry? Astonishing. Incredible.' Some-
thing like that. And he said, 'One of these Fords, you
know.' Then, to keep the conversation going, I asked
him what he had in the lorry. “Tinned spaghetti with
tomato sauce,' he said. “Ten gross of it.' Tinned spa-
ghetti. Not that I have a taste for it myself, but oysters
and brown bread couldn't have cheered us more. Pre-
posterous, of course. The way he came out of the dark-
ness. Yet I admired him at once, thought him a singular


“THERE WAS A
Inaudible assurances.
“I must hang up, please. I'm coming at once. Tell him
I'm coming at once. Good-bye.”
Bennett stood beside her. A maidservant, listening, her
eyes frightened, hovered on the stairs. Paula's lips were
white. She said, “No, I'm all right. They won't tell me
the truth. I have to go to New York.”
Bennett steadied her nevertheless. Another maid ap-
peared, hovering uncertainly. Bennett put an end to the
stricken flutter above, boomed at one maid for her to
waken the chauffeur, at the other to come down for
Paula. To Paula he said, “Of course. Steady. Now get
your coat. Coming with you, my dear.”
She nodded her head, and climbed the stairs obedi-
ently. Halfway, she turned and asked, “I wonder if they
were afraid to tell me? I wonder if he's ?"
“Rot. Don't talk. Get your coat.”
She obeyed.
Now the telephone was ringing again. Paula stopped
as if to answer it, but Bennett forestalled her and an-
swered it himself. An imperative brassy voice cried in
his ear, “Hello? Hello? Morning Mail calling. Want to
talk to Mrs Frederick Christien. Make it quick."
Bennett lowered the telephone to smile reassuringly
at Paula, to shake his head and hurry her on up to her
room. She disappeared at the top of the stairs. Then Ben-
nett said, “You can't talk to Mrs Christien.”
“Well, who's this?"
"Shan't tell you.”
"We got a report here about Frederick Christien.
Supposed to have tried to commit suicide. Hello? Can't
I get Mrs Christien on the line? Case of murder and at-
tempted suicide, and we want--"
"Who was murdered?"
“Unidentified man. Hello? And we want to find out
who-"


CROOKED MAN”
"No doubt,” said Bennett, hanging up. He put aside
the telephone like an infected thing. He went to the
bottom of the stairs. He demanded Hope, his own serv-
ant. Hope's head immediately came into sight above.
“Hope, damn you? Ah, you're there! Get my coat.
Ah, you have it. Then get your own. We're going to the
city at once. Cigarettes, and a flask of brandy."
Paula Christien with the two maids hurried down the
stairs. The lights of the car, approaching hastily from
the garage, flared along the windows. Hope came down.
The telephone rang again.
Bennett ordered Hope, "Take Mrs Christien out to
the car.” Buttoning his coat about him, he turned to the
two astonished maids. “Damn the telephone! Don't an-
swer it! Understand? Keep away from it! Go away! Go
to sleep! Go to bed!”
Then he climbed into the car after Mrs Christien.
Hope sat with the chauffeur. The car sped down the wet
drive. Behind them, dwindling, Bennett could hear the
insistent crazy ringing of the telephone.
to sleer! Unded maids..coat aba
Between rural Southampton and The Chelsea Project
in New York City, lies almost the entire length of Long
Island. The chauffeur, wearing cap, overcoat and boots
over his rumpled hair and pyjamas, did his best. Roads
were slithery and obscure in the darkness, and the screen
of whitish rain was like a cloud about the car. The two
dark figures in the tonneau leaned and lurched and
bumped without complaint.
Only once did Mrs Christien refer to her calamity.
“I've been so worried. I knew he wasn't well. It's his
heart, it must be his heart. They'll call up his doctor,
won't they?”


10
“THERE WAS A
Bennett cried, “Of course. Dash it, of course they
will.”
Otherwise she talked for a time with ghastly cheerful-
ness and courage, to keep from showing her grievous
anxiety. Then at last she subsided into lethargy, and gave
up pretence. She cried a little, soundlessly, and clung
tightly to one of Bennett's great hands like a child be-
wildered in universal catastrophe.
Bennett, not very clever at comforting unhappy wom-
en, felt glad of the silence. He thought of the call from
the newspaper. He had no patience with vague alarm
and similar disorderly conditions of the mind. He
considered what he knew, therefore, and concluded
promptly that the sudden trouble looked like a very
nasty mess, with which, for Freddy Christien's sake, he
might be expected to cope. Though he hoped not. Some-
body (Mr Hugh Martinsop in his Biography of a Vice-
Regent) had once written of Broghville's particular vir-
tue that he "confronted the scholar's problems with the
forthrightness of a soldier, and the problems of govern-
ment or war with the penetration of a subtle scholar."
This august reputation let him in for a great many un-
pleasant things.
It is better, in fact, to explain his position completely,
and at once. Lord Broghville, or Mr Geoffrey Bennett
if you prefer, ruled during these years as a kind of king
(by special arrangement with the League of Nations)
over the contentious Pamin Island group, which rise
out of the Indian Ocean far east of the coast of Tangan-
yika, and some way north of Madagascar. He was prob-
ably the only indisputably absolute monarch in the
world. And this visit to America was his first relief from
the responsibility of government in eleven years.
Bennett was very old; in his seventies, at least. He
stood extremely tall and impressive to look upon,
though slightly stooped now with age. He seemed at


CROOKED MAN”
11
once both slender and powerful, active and mighty. He
comported himself in a manner curiously mixed-
brusque, commanding, courtly and fastidious together.
He had remarkably sharp eyes beneath white thickets of
hair. He affected a few mannerisms, one most notably:
he would confront you with a blank and ironic smile,
and perhaps trifling gossip about minor Edwardian
celebrities, as if he were dreaming to himself about a
glamorous past. Well he might, if he liked. But you
would be badly fooled if you were taken in by it.
Internationally distinguished and prominent as he
was, though, he had avoided (up till Tuesday night)
all extravagant publicity during his visit. This was less
because he liked to be haughty and aloof, more because
he found useless ceremony a bleeding bother. The State
Department had to have him in mind, of course. New
York's Civic Committee was stewing up something suit-
able for him. His Embassy had taken precautions, and
made the usual arrangements. A Secret Service man had
been attached to his retinue. But until this Tuesday
night, he had remained a dignitary almost in the ab-
stract, noted in the newspapers but not publicly cheered
or showered with ticker tape, and permitted a decent
amount of privacy.
These explanations are made in the hope that Brogh-
ville will be acquitted of being the irresponsible and
fatuous booby certain newspapers took vicious pleasure
in painting him.
Now the strange little bells that ring in the depths
of the Theological Seminary were sounding one o'clock,
and Mrs Christien (pathetically, it seemed to the uncom-
fortable Bennett) was putting on a brave face and fresh
powder as the limousine swerved south on Ninth Ave-
nue. Paula squared her shoulders. Bennett thought it a
ruddy shame, a ruddy shame, something must be done


12
“THERE WAS A
about it; because the sight of young women having to
be brave made his spine prickle.
wwe Nint at this in applable. in, and
They started down Ninth Avenue to Eighteenth
Street. The Chelsea Project at this hour stood ghostly
above them, dark and unsubstantial in appearance. The
steep Moore House looked wildly improbable. In the
street, a single furtive taxi slopped along in the rain, and
a single cheerless pedestrian crawled beneath his wet
umbrella. Above the El tracks and towards the North,
a gigantic ruddy glare, a steamy furnace glow, filled the
sky over distant Times Square. Chelsea Opera House
loomed to their left, with its dark and shapeless bulk
stained like satin in the storm.
Paula told the chauffeur, “Stop at the stage door on
Ninth Avenue. I think the door on Eighteenth Street
Nintha Yocked by nowould be. The car stofficial po
Nothing was as it should be. The car stopped. They
got a first sniff of the air of calamity and official power
that had intruded on the place; the smell of damp uni-
forms and cheerful policemen, wet rubbers and soggy
cigars. Bennett recognized it. A policeman, who had
lumbered out of the shelter of the dark doorway and
waved with his night-stick for them not to leave the
car, ducked his wet head into the tonneau through the
door the chauffeur had opened. The policeman waggled
his night-stick towards Eighteenth Street.
“No, ma'm, you can't get in this way now. I got to
send everybody around the corner. Yes ma'm, if you talk
to the sergeant around there he'll tell you anything you
want to know. I ain't supposed to say anything. Now
look out with your hand, ma'm, and I'll shut the
door...."
Mrs Christien bit her lips. The car swung in the


CROOKED MAN"
13
direction the policeman had pointed, then east along
the curbing of Eighteenth to a small door of stainless
steel, the entrance to the business offices of the Opera
House. Several nondescript men huddled here. They
turned white faces towards the car. Handmaidens of dis-
aster, they signified the worst. Reporters. Hunching their
shoulders against the rain, they descended on the car.
Like a gleaming sea lion among penguins, a large police-
man waddled after them and good-naturedly pushed
them aside. He took his turn at thrusting an inquiring
head into the tonneau.
“Yes, ma'm?"
"I'm Mrs Christien. 14"
“Christien? Yes, maʼm.” A stir. "You're to go right
up, Mrs Christien. Step back, boys. Mind the wet,
lady. ..."
Perhaps the sergeant had taken a drink to fortify him-
self against the weather, and as a result exuded respect-
ful amiability and the scent of cloves like some kind of
leaky balloon. He seemed to think Bennett was Mrs
Christien's father. “Going up with her, mister? Kind of
look after her, eh? Bad night for us old fellows to be
out, eh? Come along now, and I'll take you up.”
Through the reporters and past a battery of blank
staring eyes in a small lobby, they were led to an ele-
vator. This took them to an upper floor. They walked
down a silent corridor to the door of the theatre's in-
firmary. Here a solemn, friendly little doctor in dinner
dress met them. He warned them to be quiet.
“Mrs Christien, I'm very glad. He's awake now, for a
few moments. Come in quickly. Nothing to excite him,
and no talk. He may drop off again at once. Just ease
his mind as much as possible, and come away at once if
I tell you to.”
Doctor and wife went softly through an inner door,
and shut it after them. While it was open, Bennett had


14
“THERE WAS A
a glimpse of a man in a white bed, the white face mo-
tionless on a pillow. Christien in health looked some-
thing like Calvin Coolidge in a puckish, gleeful mood.
Now he looked like a hollow wax effigy.
Bennett waited. He saw that he was in the central
room of the infirmary, elaborately equipped for sur-
gery. An obvious policeman in plain clothes stood
against an opposite wall, watching the sick man's door
and smoking a cigarette. Bennett scowled, and thought.
The door opened again, and the doctor came out. He
answered Bennett's stare with a flickering grim smile.
Bennett attached the man by his arm, and drew him to
an end of the room, as far from the door and the police-
man as possible. He talked very softly.
“Very ill, I take it. How ill?"
The doctor shook his head and whispered, “Criti-
cally.”
“Will he live?"
"Live? We hope so, don't we? It's hard to say.”
“Conscious?”
“For a moment. Lucid enough, too. He's talking to
his wife.”
“You're Fawke, his usual man, I presume?”
“Yes. I've known him for ten years or more.”
“Quite so. What happened to him?"
The doctor shrugged. “A great many things. Mostly
what you'd call a weak heart, and strychnine. He used
strychnine to stimulate it. Not on my advice, believe
me!”
“No, of course not. Could it have been suicide?"
Fawke made a wry face, shrugged, and resorted to a
cigarette. Blowing out smoke, he confessed, “Damned
if I know. Who are you, by the way? Related?”.
Bennett said, “No. Not at all. A friend.”
"He'll need one,” murmured the doctor, after look-
ing shrewdly at Bennett from his boots to his white
• stimulate it ant, and strychnhings. Mostly


16
“THERE WAS A
morrow. I'm telling you this for a reason. A police in-
spector named Tussard believes Christien tried to kill
himself. He's been down here talking to me. I didn't
get anywhere with him.”
“What name?”
“Tussard.”
“Ah? Tussard. Where is he?"
"Down the hall a few doors, I suppose. Where the
trouble happened.”
"Indeed. If Christien lives how long will he be in-
capable?”
"I can't say. Weeks at least, I should guess, before he'll
be any use to himself. Possibly a month. When he drops
off now, he'll be unconscious for a very long time. These
few lucid moments are the result of the strychnine.”
Bennett was thoughtful. He stood looking down at
the doctor. The policeman had become absorbed in
whittling his finger-nails with a crude pocket knife. At
last Bennett said, "Christien must live, you know. Quite
competent, are you?”
The doctor bristled (unaccustomed, perhaps, to being
challenged like a new schoolboy by a gruff master) and
smiled uncomfortably, and at the same time, managed
to shrug his shoulders deprecatingly. “Come, come, no
offence! Dare say you are," Bennett told him. “How
am I to know you're competent if I don't ask you? No
occasion for huff. No. Ah, the door. Paula coming out.
Leave us, like a good chap, will you?"
Paula, with strained face and stricken eyes, looked
up at Bennett. The doctor disappeared into Christien's
room. The policeman grew uneasy, like a tethered horse.
Bennett awkwardly put out an arm to support the
woman, and made brusque, reassuring growls in his
throat.
She said, “He fell asleep. The nurse made me come
away."


CROOKED MAN”.
“Quite natural, my dear."
“Will you do something, Geoffrey? You've got to.
Somebody's got to.”
“My dear child, you must not let this,"
"You didn't see him, Geoffrey. You didn't hear him.
It's terrible!”
“Quite."
"Some man was killed.”
“Devilish.”
“They think he did it. Why should they think that?”
"I'm sure I don't know. Come, shall we walk a bit?"
Ignoring the policeman, they walked slowly back and
forth across the infirmary. Paula took a cigarette from
Bennett. He said, “Damn nice of you not to cry. Tell
me what he said.”
"He's dreadfully sick, Geoffrey. He couldn't say much.
He said he went out on the terrace. The terrace outside
his office, I suppose. He stumbled over a dead man in
the dark. He didn't know what it was at first, in the
dark, and then he felt-felt his heart going, and took
some of his strychnine tablets. That was all.”
“All?”
“He doesn't remember anything more. He closed his
eyes again. He doesn't know about-about him.” She
bent her head towards the policeman. “The nurse told
me they think Fred killed that man, and then tried to
commit suicide. Oh, Geoffrey, it's so horribly wrong!
He couldn't--"
"No, to be sure.”
“We've got to do something, Geoffrey.”
“We shall. His solicitors, first. Who are they?”.
"His lawyer? Asbach; it's a firm, Green, Asbach and
Croly. I could see him, I suppose, but ..." She hesi-
tated doubtfully.
“Ah, but! You don't think well of him?"
“I do. But I don't know, he'd be so slow—and we


18 “THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN”
ought to do something now, tonight, and- Oh, what
can I do, Geoffrey!”
“Stay at Freddy's side. The beaming eye, my dear.
The cheery smile. Your hat's awry, you know. Much
better. Go keep watch with the nurse, there's a good
girl.”
"You will do something for him, Geoffrey?"
"Quite."
"I'm glad you came with me, and—-"
"Rubbish. I want a word with the doctor. Go away.
And don't worry."
Paula was propelled smoothly into Christien's room,
and the doctor beckoned out. Bennett spoke briskly.
“This Tussard. How can I find him?”.
"I'm afraid I don't know how this place is laid out.”
“No matter. You will stay with Christien?”
“Yes.”
"Keep them-” he nodded towards the policeman
"-away from him. And from her, if possible. You un
derstand?"
“Yes. I'm going to move him to my hospital."
“Good.”
The doctor went back to his patient. The policeman,
even more like a cab-horse, turned suspicious and dis-
illusioned eyes on Bennett, then on the tips of his own
boots. Bennett saw dangers, and far implications, like a
countryside in a flash of lightning. Questions to be
asked, delicate steps to be taken. A dead man stumbled
on in the dark. The newspaper telephoning to South-
ampton.
He put on his hat, and mentally girded his loins, and
stalked off determinedly into the bright, new passages
of that exquisite white elephant of the theatrical world
-the great Chelsea Opera House and Academy of Music,
otherwise known as the Chelsac Theatre.


CHAPTER TWO
THE ART CENTRE OF THE NATION it is called, and the art
centre of the nation is what it is intended to be, though
the general idea may appear strained, self-conscious, and
a little silly at first glance. (The fact that the grandiose
Chelsea Opera House and Academy of Music had to be
converted, for financial reasons, into the Chelsac Cinema
Theatre helps not at all to make it more dignified.)
Simply, however, it is a group of new buildings co-ordi-
nated into an ingeniously planned community; and the
whole, covering an irregular space of ground between
Eighth and Tenth Avenues, and Twentieth and Seven-
teenth Streets in New York City, is known as the Chelsea
Project. It includes the Clarke Building, which contains
artists' studios, dwelling flats, and business offices, mostly
used for art galleries, the editorial offices of magazines,
and various altruistic societies, at the present time. South
of the Clarke Building is the Chelsac Theatre, facing
Ninth Avenue, and the Moore House tower, facing
Eighth. South of this, another block is divided between
the Chelsea Athletic Club and the newly founded De
Lancey College. De Lancey College contains the moder-
ately celebrated Bennett School of Political Adminis-
tration, an institution determined to develop political
leaders to rule these United States, or know the reason
why. On the west side of Ninth Avenue, and opposite
the Chelsac Theatre, rises the hardly completed mass of
the Livingston School of Architecture and Fine Art,
and its neighbour, the Livingston Art Library.
Ninth
South of tatic Club College Copolitica


20
“THERE WAS A
The offices of the Chelsac Theatre Corporation are on
the fourth floor of the building, and at the south side,
looking across Eighteenth Street at the windows of the
Chelsea Athletic Club. The infirmary is also on the
fourth floor, and at the east end of an enamelled passage.
The fourth floor of the Chelsac Theatre is notable, so far
as the Crooked Man affair involves it, for having only
two means of access to the street: by the elevators, and
by a steel fire escape descending through a kind of well
or chimney from the infirmary to Eighteenth Street
below.
At this late hour, the first flush of municipal pomp
and hubbub had subsided entirely on the fourth floor.
The Deputy Police Commissioner who had come be-
cause he hoped to get a kick out of it, had got his feet
wet and gone home again to bed. The routine of in-
vestigation (under way now, grimly and quietly) was in
the charge of a man from Centre Street-Tussard. In
appearance Percy Tussard was plain as a lamppost;
stouter, shorter and more agile, but quite as hard and
matter-of-fact. He had mouse-coloured hair combed flat.
He had grey jowled cheeks which looked greenish and
unnatural by sunlight, if they happened ever to be ex-
posed to it. He wore a plain grey suit, even on Sundays.
Tussard believed it to be to his advantage to know
practically everything; and when Mrs Christien arrived
at the infirmary, he knew that, too. He sent a policeman
for her, and this was because Tussard left nothing to
chance. Tussard, it may be deduced, was thoroughgoing.
Also, he had important questions in his mind. And it
was the policeman, on his errand, who encountered Mr
Geoffrey Bennett, unknown and unauthorized, prowling
the corridor. In an access of thoroughgoing zeal, the
policeman attached Bennett and brought him instead
of Mrs Christien.
At the moment, Tussard stood alone in the secretary's


CROOKED MAN”
21
office which separated Christien's private office (to the
left of the entrance from the passage) and that (to the
right) of Christien's assistant, a certain Lowes Levison.
He stood with arms folded, scowling, and looking down
at a motionless shape covered with a crisp, glaring white
sheet in the centre of a fine bright blue carpet. He
looked up at the policeman and Bennett without great
interest. He let his scowl flatten gradually away. He
asked, “Who's this?"
"He come in with Christien's wife. He says he was
looking for you.”
"All right. Now go back and see about Mrs Christien.
After she gets through in here, you can let them come
up and take this away." He indicated the body at his
feet.
The policeman went away, shutting the door.
Bennett looked at Tussard. Tussard looked at Ben-
nett, and finally said, “Well, mister? What's your name?"
“You're Tussard, I presume? I'm Bennett. A friend of
Mr Christien's. Where did it happen? Out there?” With
his umbrella, he pointed to a large French window be-
hind the secretary's desk, and directly opposite the door
from the passage. Many feet had tracked the wet into
the room from the darkness outside.
"Yes. Englishman, aren't you? You came here with
Mrs Christien, didn't you? Have a chair.” Tussard's
manner combined off-handed politeness, coldness, and
some indifference, as if he were thinking about more
important matters. “What do you know about this
business?"
"Nothing," said Bennett. He remained standing. He
touched the sheet with the end of his umbrella. "Who
is this fellow?"
Tussard usually kept a beautifully blank face, but the
question touched a very tender spot. He looked suddenly
weary. “Don't I wish I knew," he murmured. He re-


22
“THERE WAS A
captured the beautiful blankness, and went on. "All
right, Bennett, I'll ask you to take a look at him. Then
you can leave your name and address with the man at
the door, in case I have to get in touch with you tomor-
row. Then I want Mrs Christien to take a look, and
that'll be about all for tonight.”
“Does she have to see this?”
“Can't be helped. I got to clean him up tonight. Lot
easier on her seeing it here, anyhow, than down at the
morgue.”
"Quite. . . . Oh, I'm damned!”
Tussard had squatted on his haunches and flipped
back the sheet.
The victim was at first sight, hideous; then, on closer
inspection, merely pathetic. The body wore a rumpled
dinner jacket, finely tailored, but showing that it had
been put roughly in place again after the medical ex-
aminer's work. On the floor near the dead man's shoul-
der lay a tangled heap of gauze bandage and a stiff gauze
mask. Tussard, catching Bennett's glance of inquiry,
explained, “That was on his face when we found him.
So as to hide him, kind of, and still let him breathe.”
Bennett nodded. The reason for the mask was obvious.
"How was he killed?”
Tussard expressively put a hand to his throat, made a
motion of choking himself.
“Ah. Yes, I see.”
“He couldn't put up a fight. And he couldn't let out
a yell, because he was a mute. Nothing to yell with.”
Bennett stooped close. Faint marks on the throat were
still visible. In fact, it was only on the flesh of the throat
-or on the forehead-that a bruise would have shown,
since the rest of the man's face was a gap, a revolting
emptiness. There remained no jaw, cheeks, chin, mouth
or nose. The monstrous disfigurement had healed long
ago into red scar. This, undoubtedly, had been covered
He because he wasse. Faint markise flesh of the


CROOKED MAN”
23
by the mask. Above the wound, however, and in pitiable
contrast with it, were two clear and sensitive eyes;
and a broad forehead, handsome, covered with skin that
still, even in death, looked soft, fine and healthy. Ben-
nett shifted his position. He looked at the dead hand.
(There was only one.) That, too, like the forehead,
seemed exceptionally fine, soft, well cared-for.
The rest of it was a miserable half-of-a-man, a vestige,
a shocking parody. Not the fact of death appalled, but
the thought that this deformed creature had once con-
se the rest of it was a in the fact of death app once con-
trived to ght that . Not therable half cared-fo
Bennett said, “War injuries?"
"Looks like it,” said Tussard. “The doc figures the
wounds at fifteen or twenty years ago, seeing the way
muscles have developed. Tough, getting around every
day in that condition.”
Bennett nodded. The victim seemed to have had no
left arm and no left shoulder. The trunk itself looked
shortened, dwarfish, bulky, grotesque. The left leg was
very much shorter than the right.
“What do you say?” Tussard asked, looking up at Ben-
net. “Recognize him?”.
"No," said Bennett. "No, not at all.”
“Ever know a man who wore a bandage like that?"
"No."
"Ever hear of Christien knowing a cripple like--".
"No."
Tussard shrugged, and lowered his eyes, which had
found nothing in Bennett's face. He pulled back the
sheet, made it tidy, stood up and wiped the palms of his
hands on his trousers. He folded his arms again, and
looked blank. Bennett knew he was shrewd, and ex-
pectant. Bennett therefore leaned casually backwards
against his umbrella.
"Horrid,” he said. "I'm sure I don't know what to say.
Devilish mysterious. He was killed out there on the


24
“THERE WAS A
terrace, I believe? And Mr Christien discovered him?
Right?”
"That's right.”
"Had he been dead long, when Christien found him?"
Tussard said, "He was killed when Christien found
him. Christien says, just before he found him. I mean,
Christien said he was dead. Then Christien went a little
dead on us himself.”
"Really. Will you charge Christien with it?"
"Murder? No.”
“Ah, no?"
“Not yet.”
“Indeed! Most explicit!"
In other words, and in Bennett's opinion, Christien
would be safe until the police found out just a little
more of what it was all about. Not reassuring, by any
means; but very much worth knowing. Bennett smiled
gravely, like an elderly cat with a faint dream of cream.
Bennett took over with perfect assurance, without
qualm or hesitation, and Tussard fell for it before he
had time to notice an incongruity.
“What time did it happen, pray?"
“Quarter past eleven.”
“Was Christien alone?"
"No. Three or four others up here."
"Indeed? Quite late. Why?”
"Some kind of meeting.”
“Why did Christien leave it? Why did he go on the
terrace?"
"The meeting was just beginning, getting ready to
begin. They don't know why he went out. Getting a
breath of air, maybe, they say-only it was raining just


CROOKED MAN”
25
then. Anyhow, he went out. He came back in, all ex-
cited, talking about a body on the roof. The next min-
ute, he swallowed his pills, and faded out of the picture.”
“Graphic. Christien seems suspicious, then, because
he discovered the body, and in consequence took an un-
fortunate amount of heart stimulant?"
"Heart my eye. He took poison.”
“And these other gentlemen at the meeting? Are they
quite above suspicion?"
"Christien took poison. The others got a doctor and
called the police. I ask you."
“Indeed. Not implausible. And the victim. An utter
stranger to everybody, I presume?"
“Absolutely."
“Curious.”
“Worse than that.”
“I only suggest the obvious. Civil desire to assist, you
know. This poor chap" glancing at the sheet"—though
striking, will be devilish hard to identify. Because he is
striking.”
“How do you mean?"
"Horribly difficult for him to walk. Impossible for
him to talk. Inference, he kept in seclusion. His dress
indicates sensibility and refinement, yet his appearance
is shocking. Again, seclusion, as strict as possible. Would
he have acquaintances? Surely not. Friends? Hardly. A
wife, children? No, definitely no, unless he acquired
them before he was injured. He was injured, I think,
when a youngish man, and very possibly not married.
However, you doubtless think of these things yourself.
Do you wonder, as I do, why he came here? Extreme
difficulties, wretched weather, his face hid in that make-
shift mask. A letter in the post would not have served,
it seems. Do you wonder? I see you do. Some frightful,
urgent matter, oh, urgent until desperate, imperative,


26
“THERE WAS A
inevitablel No objection to my smoking my pipe? And
now. How did he get here?"
"Here?” .
“On the terrace, where Christien found him. Come,
my dear man! Dare say I confuse you, though. A match?"
“Lots of matches. He came through the main theatre
entrance. He came just about half past ten, he didn't
buy a ticket, he was all muffled up, he used a pass "
“Ah! Pass?"
"He had a regular company pass. The outfit that runs
the theatre gives away these passes to important people,
with their names written on them. Thing like an en-
graved invitation, only smaller. Good for a whole year.
You show the pass, they give you a ticket, and let you
in."
"Go on.”
“He didn't get a ticket. He flashed the pass on the
door man, and just walked in. He should have gone to
the ticket window and got a reserved seat. He didn't.
He had a kind of important air, he was in a hurry, he
was crippled, maybe he wanted to see the picture and
the last show was started-anyhow, the door man let him
go in. The door man looked at the pass but he didn't
get the name on it. And that's how he got in. Next thing,
he was dead up here."
"Is there some convenient passage between the theatre
and this terrace?"
"Sure. Convenient, like the inside of a cuckoo clock.
You need a map. Two maps and a guide.”
"Really?”
"Well, there's an elevator that comes up to these offi-
ces from the lobby. But he didn't take the elevator. So
he probably came back-stage and around and up and
through till he got here."
"Interesting.”
"In other words, he knew the place."


CROOKED MAN”
"To be sure. And the pass? He kept it, no doubt, in
a pocket. It had his name, or some name, inscribed on
it. Where is this pass?"
“Gone.”
“Of course.”
Tussard passed his hand over his eyes. “Gone,” he
said, “because somebody went through his pockets before
we got here. Stuff thrown all over the place out there.
What's left is on that desk in back of you. You might
take a look at it, just for luck. I'll be back in a minute.”
Tussard went into Levison's office and shut the door.
From there, he got out through the window to the ter-
race. Bennett listened, and heard him.
The portable property of the dead man had been
spread out neatly on the secretary's desk. It consisted of:
A gold ring, very old, heavy and handsome.
A watch in a hunting case, likewise old and handsome.
(Though uncommon enough, both watch and ring ap-
peared to be at least three generations in use. They
would be difficult to trace, Bennett appreciated, unless
they had lately been in pawn. And not a few indications
made the victim out to be anything but a haunter of
pawnbrokers.)
Three ordinary keys, of the Yale type, not on a ring.
A fine leather note-case, damp, but little used.
Two-hundred-seventy-two dollars-thirteen twenties,
one five, seven ones. Twenty-two cents-two dimes, two
coppers. (The paper money, like the note-case, was
damp. Bennett accounted for it thus: the murderer,
rifling the dead man's pockets for marks of identity and
working in utmost haste, had flung aside in the rain
these things that seemed unimportant.


28
“THERE WAS A
A neat leather memorandum book holding a metal
pencil; its pages scored so that they might easily be
torn out; and over half of them missing. (The dead
man, unable to talk, had obviously been forced to
carry on conversations in writing. Therefore, this book,
and the missing pages. That it was dry, suggested that
the murderer had not even bothered to take it out of
his victim's pocket, and perhaps, had known quite well
its innocent use. Indeed, very intimately acquainted, the
killer and the killed; so it seemed to Bennett.)
A typed message on a damp slip of paper. It read:
“The Executive Committee will hold its meet-
ing Tuesday, May 22, 11 P.M., in my office.
F. CHRISTIEN,
Controller."
A curious printed advertisement, which read:
"DEAR SIR OR MADAM,
"You can pay less for better honey. Rockland
County Apple Blossom Honey, direct from farm to
you, postpaid 10 cents per lb. in bulk, or 25 cents
per comb.
“Also fresh eggs by mail at less than city prices,
as advertised in American Lady, the Cultured
Periodical.
“Let me supply you. You will be delighted.
Reply card enclosed, or telephone orders or visit
‘THE BASQUE SHOP, Moore House Square,
Chelsea Buildings, New York.
EMMA WHITTACKER,
Editor of American Lady
Serving the Fastidious
American Household.”


CROOKED MAN”
29
(And marked in the margin of this, against the name
of Emma Whittacker, was an exaggerated exclamation
mark, a sign, Bennett thought, of astonished recogni-
tion.)
Bundled together at the far end of the desk were a
black overcoat, a black felt hat and a black silk scarf.
Beneath these lay a stout malacca walking stick with a
curved handle. The stick bore no mark; the hat had
been made for Brooks Brothers; the coat, on a small
white label inside the inner breast pocket, carried the
name, Plenderby & Co., Tailors.
Bennett stuck the bit of his pipe between his favourite
and most trustworthy teeth. Fortunately, he had kept
Tussard's matches.
He realized that the notice of the Executive Commit-
tee meeting, and the advertisement, were of greatest im-
portance. He realized that the murderer could have been
careless enough to leave them in the dead man's pockets,
only because he found himself in dreadful haste. He
also realized that Tussard had been standing in the
darkness outside the window looking in at him for the
past minute or so. This amused him a little. He took
pleasure in crooking a deliberate finger at the man.
Tussard came in again by the way he had gone out.
He was brisk and impatient. Perhaps it had worked in
his mind that Bennett, with nothing more than great
size and a manner of authority, had caught him in a
dejected and deeply thoughtful moment, and had man-
aged to give him a fairly thorough pumping. Nothing,
he consoled himself, that the papers wouldn't print to-
morrow. Just the same ...
"Well, make anything out of it?".
“A poor hotch-potch. It was culled, I think you said,
by the murderer."
“Maybe it was. Right now I got some other busi-
ness-


30
“THERE WAS A
“The matter of the pass, I hope.”
"Maybe it is, Mr. Bennett. I'm not saying. So if
you'll_-"
“Of course. Police never do say, do they? A pity, I
think.”
Tussard had gone to the other door, the one into
Christien's private office. He was getting rid of Bennett.
At the same time he, and Bennett too, were noticing a
puzzling distraction at the door to the passage. It had
been growing, working itself up. The door opened a
crack, let in sounds of whispering, shut again. It opened
again, revealed an eye, and then shut. It opened again
to let in a policeman's red face. The policeman evi-
dently had doubts about the merits of his interruption.
Gruff and plaintive, the policeman said, “Guy out here.
Says it's important."
"Who?" asked Tussard.
"Holcomb."
“Yes.”
Then Holcomb came in, breaking through the for-
malities. He came in glowing with controlled excite-
ment. Bennett stood his ground, blandly inquisitive.
Tussard seemed a little annoyed in passing, but the an-
noyance vanished when Holcomb spoke. Holcomb
spoke, in fact, as he brushed through the policeman and
the door.
“All bets are off. We can't find the night watchman.”
“What night watchman?"
"There's only one. Disappeared. Last seen about
eleven o'clock or a little after. He was coming up for
a look at the terrace. Now he's not in the building."
"What do you mean, not in the building?"
"He didn't go out in the regular way. He ought to
be here on duty. I just had a look for him. Can't find
him. Just not here, that's all.”
"What about it?"
I mean, not in not in the build up for


CROOKED MAN”
31
"I just found out,” said Holcomb, “that the watchman
was sent up here to have a look around at eleven o'clock,
because something funny was going on. He came up.
He never came down again. He isn't where he ought
to be. He didn't make his rounds. Something screwy
about it, isn't there. Because it looks to me he may have
been out there on the terrace just about the time this
guy was—_"
Tussard said, “Come in a minute," and took hold of
Holcomb's arm, and whisked him into the privacy of
Levison's office, and closed the door on Bennett.
Bennett lifted an eyebrow at the thud of the closing
door, found a comfortable chair, and philosophically
composed himself to wait.
4.
Holcomb, had it not been for the murder, would have
been out of his uniform by this time, and safely home
in Stapleton, Staten Island, where very probably he
would have been playing pinochle with two men from
next door. Louis Holcomb was one of the assistants to
John Boxworth, the House Director. He looked out-
standingly efficient. He happened (this Tuesday night)
to be at hand when he was needed. He thought this a
stroke of the worst luck, a sharp injustice, and thinking
so made him frown and hurry, and so in the end look
all the more clever, reliable, and outstandingly efficient.
He was a young man, sleek, smart and intelligent, and
ordinary. He wore a uniform, because his position was
approximately that of a colonel in command of the
ushers, as well as adjutant to Boxworth. The uniform
-grey striped trousers, black morning coat, stiff turn-
down collar and black tie-fitted him as smoothly as his
marvellously smooth black hair. He seemed faintly tired,


CROOKED MAN”
. 33
**. "My word!” said Bennett. "What is this bother about
the watchman?"
“I don't know. This is the damnedest night I ever
went through in my life. Are you a friend of that guy's?
Tussard's?”
“Not at all. A friend of Christien’s.”
"Oh,” said Holcomb, altering his attitude. "He didn't
do it.”
"Of course not.”
"It's damn funny about this watchman,” said Hol-
comb, assured of his ground. “If you look down that
way," he pointed towards Eighth Avenue and a set of
lighted windows gleaming on the terrace “—you can see
where the infirmary is."
"Quite. I came from there,” said Bennett.
... “As far as I can figure,” Holcomb continued, “the
night watchman must have come out of the hospital
window, too, just about ten or fifteen minutes past
eleven, just about when Tussard figures the murder
happened. And now the watchman has blown up in
smoke or something. He's gone, that's all. He can't be
found.”
"How extraordinary," murmured Bennett, encour-
agingly.
"It's absolutely crazy. There's only two nights a week,
Tuesdays and Fridays, when there isn't a nurse in the
hospital. Tonight's Tuesday, or was Tuesday before
midnight. Anyhow, tonight the hospital was empty, and
somebody entered it without any business being there.
The nurse, you see, has to be on duty down in the lower
lounge in place of the other nurse. Somebody opened
the door, and went through the hospital, and came out
on the terrace. We know that--"
"By the way,” Bennett interrupted, “how could you
know the hospital door and that window were opened,
if the hospital was unoccupied?”
hospricht. Anyhow, co without any busilown in the


34
“THERE WAS A
"By the lights on the control board."
"What lights, pray, on what control board?"
"The doors in the building, most of them, are wired
so that the stage manager when he's on stage, can tell
what rooms are being used. He can keep track of actors
in dressing rooms and that kind of thing. The hospital
is wired that way, and opening the door there makes
the light go on down below, on the control board where
the stage manager sits. This time of the night, or I
should say, that time of the night, when the feature
picture is on, the man on duty at the control board
hasn't much to do. Naturally, when somebody went in
the hospital about ten to eleven, the light for the hos-
pital lit up, and the man back-stage wondered about it.
He called up the Eighteenth Street stage door to ask
the door man to send somebody up to take a look at *
the hospital. The door man was talking to Lutz-he's
the night watchman and he happened to be in early
because he hadn't anything to keep him home. So Lutz
said he'd go up to the hospital and have a look, in case
somebody was breaking in to steal. Lutz went up. And
he never came down again. He left the stage door about
a minute or two before eleven. Say he got as far as the
hospital at ten after eleven, and say he found the terrace
door open and came here, which he'd naturally do. He'd
walk out here just about quarter past eleven. And that
was when they think the murder happened. What I'm
asking myself is, what happened to Lutz?”
“A proper question, I dare say. Perhaps he went down
the lift, and into the street, and away."
“He couldn't. The painters are using the elevators.
I asked them, and they didn't see him or anybody else
go down or up.”
"Perhaps he went down some other way?"
“I don't think so. He didn't go down the stairs on
this side, because they're painting, as I told you, and the


CROOKED MAN”
35
painters would have seen him. He didn't use the ele-
vator on this side of the building, because it isn't run-
ning, because the painters are using it. He didn't go
down the elevators on the other side, because the ele-
vator boy didn't take him down. He didn't go out the
Eighteenth Street stage door, because a man was at the
door all the time, and nobody gets in or out without
being checked. He didn't go down the fire escape, be-
cause that would ring a bell, and the bell didn't ring.
And I know Lutz. He's just a good, honest, simple, de-
cent watchman. What could he do, disguise himself?
He wouldn't know how to put on a disguise in a million
years. And he couldn't get out the theatre entrance with-
out being spotted in his uniform, and besides, why
should he want to get out? Anyhow, he must be around
here somewhere. Only he isn't.”
“I'm sure you must find it very perplexing," said Ben-
nett. “However, you may take comfort. A missing watch-
man may turn suspicion from Christien."
“But you can't tell me the watchman did it.”
“I shan't, I assure you.”
“And Tussard may get the idea Christien paid the
watchman to run away. He didn't. I know he didn't,
and I know Lutz didn't run away. I know these people,
and it's absolutely crazy to think of them being mixed
up in a murder. Just the same .."
“Ah. True. Policemen are appallingly cynical. Never-
theless, Holcomb, this watchman promises rare hunting
for an hour or two, and I'm sure we ought not envy
Tussard his pleasant distraction. Do him good. And
please don't go away. Stay with me. You see, I find I
want to talk with you. You might turn up the collar of
your coat against the weather, and smoke a cigarette
by all means, do, and tell me the answers to a few
questions.”
Holcomb obeyed.
for an holcomb, this watchrappallingly cynical N
by all meangainst the weau might turn au see, I find",


CHAPTER THREE
THESE TERRACES, FOUR STOREYS above the street, one
running along each corner of the bulk of the Chelsac
Theatre, are like narrow shoulders on a crouching beast,
or less fancifully, like decks on a high square ship. The
walls drop from them clean and perpendicular to the
pavement below, to Eighteenth and Nineteenth Streets.
And it was on the south terrace, above Eighteenth, that
Geoffrey Bennett stood moodily nursing his pipe, glanc-
ing up into the falling mist, and placing himself in the
geography of New York.
"Ah. What's that, Holcomb?”
“Greenwich Village.”
“Monstrous.”
Since the heavy rain had stopped, it was possible to
see vaguely up and down the terrace. The low clouds
reflected a murky light.
“And this poor devil, the dead man. Where was he
found?”
“Right about here, where we're standing."
“Oh.”
“The police think he was killed here, and left just
where he dropped. I guess they can tell by the clothes
and all that.'
Bennett nodded agreement. He rapped out the dottle
of his pipe against the heel of his hand. He looked about
the terrace, a clear space of stone tiles broken only by
the mouth of the fire escape, and bounded simply and


“THERE WAS A
cleanly by the high parapet above the street, and the
high walls of the fourth storey. He turned then so that
he faced the lighted windows of the three offices, one
animated by the collection of witnesses, one quiet with
a bored policeman standing watch over an unresponsive
corpse, and a third empty.
"For Christien's sake, i should like very much to dis-
cover the truth. Making it my affair to do so. You un-
derstand, I hope, that you can help, if you will?”
“That goes without saying."
“Right. Pledge of discretion for both of us, eh? Right.
I think we may safely get on with it, Holcomb. The
gathering in that office-Christien's private office, I be-
lieve-why are they there?”
Bennett led Holcomb closer to the window, until they
were able to look through into the room.
“Tussard's keeping them,” said Holcomb, “because
he isn't through with them, I suppose. They were
around when it happened. He's been questioning them.”
“Who are they?"
“Look over there. Stout man sitting in the arm chair.
That's John Boxworth. House Director. He's my boss.
He was up here for the Executive Committee meeting.”
John Boxworth promptly smiled for Bennett, and
lifted his face, though Bennett was far enough away in
the darkness to be invisible. Nevertheless, the effect was
that of a man cheerfully obliging the photographer. He
held the pose. As a matter of fact, he happened to be
listening to the conversation that was raging about him.
John Boxworth looked like Saint Nicholas with im-
proved thyroid functioning. He was short, round, bul-
bous, yet dapper. He had a small cheerful mouth, fat
pink cheeks, bright blue eyes. He had hair that was not
quite white, more iron grey, but that served the pur-
pose very well. He looked the personification of gener-
ous, amiable good-nature, kindly pleasantness, and he
“Tussard's keen through into the window, until they


CROOKED MAN”
39
may have been just so because of the necessity of living
up to his appearance.
His clothes were fastidiously cut. His manner, as he
sat there, seemed both vivacious and attentive. He
looked to be over fifty, yet under sixty, and as energetic,
sharp and alert as any younger man. A large, tall woman
sat on the arm of his chair, and smoked in violent
belches like a locomotive, and talked to him.
"Who is she?"
“That's Emma Whittacker.”
“The woman who sent out those advertisements?
Editor of the American Lady, or what's it called--?"
“That's right. Damned if I know what brought her
here tonight. Just the same, she was here when it hap-
pened.”
A tall, cheerful, elderly Amazon of a woman, this
Emma Whittacker. She wore a mussy apple-green eve-
ning gown, a wilted gauze scarf round her strong neck,
and over the whole an inappropriate tweed coat marked
like a horse-blanket. She was earnestly talking Box-
worth's ear off, with gestures. Bennett, who had daugh-
ters very much like her, and granddaughters, and great-
granddaughters, too, in all likelihood, recognized her
nature at once. She was a country woman.
Beyond Boxworth and Emma Whittacker, three
younger people lounged against the wall and talked
gravely, almost sadly.
"The girl with the two men. Dashed pretty. Who is
she?"
"That's Emma Whittacker's niece. Ann Crofts, her
name is. She's in business with her aunt. I don't know
why she's here, either.”
Ann Crofts was all that Bennett said-pretty, and
capable besides. Her eyes, the movement of her head
in the course of conversation, were as authoritative as
the men's. They seemed to listen to her with respect.


40
“THERE WAS A
The fact that she wore no evening dress, but a smart
tailored suit of dark stuff instead, and a burberry over
it, made her seem very businesslike. But more than she
was capable, Bennett admitted, she was pretty.
On her left stood a tall and extremely slender young
Jew, darkly handsome, quietly pessimistic, and probably
intellectual. Sharp as a razor, Bennett commented to
himself. A man whose wits would be accustomed to the
most involute subtlety.
“And he?"
“That's Lowes Levison, Assistant to Mr Christien."
“He attends meetings of this Executive Committee, I
presume?”
"All the men in there do, except Suttro. Boxworth and
Levison are on the Committee, and Christien's head of
it, and there's Mander, the Stage Director, who couldn't
get here because he broke his arm in an accident yes-
terday afternoon. Suttro must have come up to the
meeting on business, because I know he got here before
eleven."
"And is that chap Suttro?”
“That's Anthony Suttro. The writer. I guess you must
have heard of him.”.
Suttro, then, was the third of the three leaning against
the far wall, conferring with Levison and Ann Crofts.
Suttro had a perceptible air of importance and distinc-
tion about him, though his attitude was modest enough
and unassuming. A kind of smooth assurance, easily
identified but not very easily described, creeps over men
who reach eminent success. Suttro had this; and a vocal
halo of glory round his name when Holcomb pro-
nounced it. The name, indeed, was vaguely familiar to
Bennett, and he put to one side in his mind the inten-
tion of finding out why at a more convenient time.
Something, he was sure, to do with political essays.
Suttro, more than any other feature, had a strikingly


CROOKED MAN”
handsome head, heroic, classical, and much more ap-
propriate for a marble Apollo than for a man. Yet his
face, animated and expressive, contrived to keep his
head from appearing stupidly good-looking, and the
complete impression was exactly what Suttro must have
desired; that of a beautiful, mobile and powerful brain,
tucked into a suitable package.
As Bennett watched, he saw Ann Crofts turn from
Levison and Suttro towards her aunt, and beckon her.
Something she said also urged the stout Boxworth out
of his chair, and brought all five of them together in an
attentive huddle. However interesting their subject
might be, Bennett had no means of overhearing it. Hol-
comb threw away his cigarette, and fidgeted unhappily
in the strong drizzle that had succeeded the rain.
"I say, did you happen to be here when Christien
made his discovery?".
Holcomb said, "I was just coming in. I was late, held
up downstairs, and Mr Boxworth was waiting for me to
bring him the day's box-office figures. I got here right
at the minute Mr Christien came back in the window."
"And these people in the room were here?”.
"Boxworth, Suttro and Levison were in the offices.
Ann Crofts was sitting outside in the hall, waiting for
Suttro, or something like that. Emma Whittacker was
somewhere in the building, we don't know just where."
“These five were convenient to the crime, then?”
“Yes."
"Could anybody else get to this part of the building?"
“I went over every bit of that with Tussard, and I'm
damned if I see how anybody could. You notice we
traced the cripple, the guy who was killed. We traced
the watchman, too. If anybody else came up here, I'm
willing to swear we'd have known about it."
“Then one of these five people must have killed the
chap, if Christien didn't?"


"THERE WAS A
“In a way, I suppose that's right.”
“May I add you to them, to make six?”
"I've got an alibi, but I don't know how good it is.
I suppose I could have squeezed in time to choke the
guy on my way from my office down in the theatre, to
Christien's office here. That's the way these things are
always done, isn't it?”
"Six, then.”
“Add the watchman. He makes seven.”
“Very well, seven.”
"And there's Hobey Raymonds. He was somewhere
around up here, high as a kite."
“Who is Raymonds?”
“A young gent who used to work here. He's crazy
about Ann Crofts. He's drunk half the time. They
dragged him off to a cell tonight because he was too
drunk to talk straight.”
“With Raymonds, there's eight. Drunk or dry, I shall
include him. Eight, then, from whom to choose a guilty
person. Is that reasonable? I think so. Of the eight who
may have been in a position to commit murder, we shall
have to drop Suttro, Boxworth and Levison, I pre-
sume-'
"They're too big to do anything like this,” said Hol-
comb.
"Perhaps. I shall drop them, however, because they
were together waiting for the meeting to begin.”
"Together?”
"You imply they were.”
"They weren't, damned if they were. That's what
makes it bad for Mr Christien."
“Why?”
“They got together about eleven, they didn't have
Bome papers, I was supposed to bring them up, they had
to wait for me. Well, they didn't stay together. Suttro
sat in Christien's office, alone. Boxworth was in the sec-


CROOKED MAN"
43
.
retary's office looking through some papers at the desk
in there. Levison was in his office with Christien.”
“And?”
"Levison said he was so tired he had to snatch fifteen
minutes' sleep if he could. He's always sleeping that way,
and working all night. He fell asleep. And he doesn't
know what Christien did. After talking it over with
Mr Boxworth, I think it's pretty probable Mr Christien
opened his window for some air. He has a bad heart,
and he gets short of breath. When he opened the win-
dow, maybe he saw something out there in the rain, and
he slipped out the window to take a good look at it.
And found the dead man. But if it ever comes to saying
Christien didn't do it, then there's no reason why Suttro
and my boss Boxworth can't be suspected. And for that
matter, if Christien dies, nobody'll be able to prove
Levison didn't do it, because Christien's the only man
who can prove Levison did sit in a chair and fall asleep,
as he says. I don't think Christien, Suttro, Boxworth or
Levison had anything to do with it, any more than I'd
think President Roosevelt or the King of England or
the Premier of France would get tangled up in a thing
like that. People like that just don't, that's all, and you
couldn't ever convince me they did. But if Christien
and the watchman come out innocent, those others at
the meeting will be next on Tussard's list, because every-
thing that goes for Christien, except the suicide boloney,
goes for them, too.”
“Ann Crofts?"
“She was sitting in the hall. She didn't see anybody
come past her. She couldn't go through Christien's or
Levison's office or past Boxworth in the secretary's office
without being seen. And she'd have had to go down the
hall to the infirmary to get out on the terrace any other
way. And I just don't think she did.”
“This Emma Whittacker?"


44
“THERE WAS A
“They haven't got anything against her except that
Tussard doesn't know where she was when it happened.
You could say she came across from the north side of
the building and made her niece promise not to tell
when she went past to go out on the terrace-but that's
not so hot.”
"And Raymonds?”
"He wouldn't choke a man. He'd beat him up. Of
course, I suppose Ann Crofts likes him enough to keep
her mouth shut if she saw him going in or out, if that
makes any difference.”
“And you?”
"Ann Crofts didn't see me. And she's not in love with
me, anyhow.”
“The watchman, then?"
"I've known Lutz ever since he worked here. I don't
think so."
Bennett seemed to groan quietly. He fished out his
pipe again.
"Mr Christien came out upon this terrace at fifteen
minutes past eleven, and discovered a murdered man's
body. That much is definite, I assume. Now, what hap-
pened when Christien came back into his office? You
were here then, I believe.”
"I was up here by then,” said Holcomb. “There was a
lot of excitement. There would be. I don't remember
what Christien said, something about a dead man on
the roof. He was all in, all out of breath and white as
a sheet. He went to pieces on us, and Suttro called for
the nurse downstairs to come up. I think it was Mr
Boxworth who called up the police.”
"It was raining then?"


CROOKED MAN”
"Hard.”
“Christien's coat must have been wet.”
"It was.”
“And yours, and the others'?”
"We all got wet, because we all went out right away
to see the dead man.”
"You didn't observe anybody, Miss Crofts or Box-
worth or Levison or Suttro, who seemed wet before go-
ing out?"
“There was too much excitement to notice. Maybe
Miss Crofts had some rain on her coat, but she'd just
come in a few minutes before, and a rain-coat doesn't
soak up water like other coats."
"Quite."
"Raymonds was pretty wet. In fact, he was soaked. I
think he'd been walking around town for half an hour
before he came in here.”
“How uncomfortable," said Bennett. "Was there some
reason for holding this meeting of the Committee to
night?"
“I suppose there was.”
“What, pray?"
“I don't know. I suppose Christien knew, he sent out
word about it. Maybe Levison knows. Maybe Miss Ban-
nerman-she's the secretary-knows. I wouldn't be sur-
prised if it had something to do with Suttro, because
he came to it, and he doesn't belong to it. But when I
had a word with Mr Boxworth a little while ago, he said
he thought it was something very important, but not
connected with Suttro at all. Some kind of trouble that
had just come up in the last day or two. It isn't much
help, is it? In my job, I'm not supposed to know every-
thing."
"What is Suttro in the theatre?"
“Nothing. He's an outsider.”
“Oh?”


46
"THERE WAS A
"He's head of Suttro and Faunce, the public relations
people, and they're the representatives of the Chelsea
Project. In fact, Suttro's one of the trustees of the Proj-
ect. He started the whole idea. It'll be his job now to
keep the papers from being too rough with us."
“Indeed. Will he do that for Christien, too?"
“That's an idea. Somebody ought to see him about
that.”
"Exactly,” said Bennett, and fell silent, thinking.
3.
Outside the windows of the infirmary, a sudden blink-
ing of little lights appeared. Dark bodies moved, the
lights swept out in faint beams over the surface of the
terrace. Through the dazzling mist came an effect of
great industry.
“They haven't found the watchman,” said Holcomb.
"No."
“It's getting damn cold out here. I'm just about wet
through.”
“How uncomfortable. Dare say you're quite trust-
worthy?”
Holcomb was amazed; then he laughed a little and
said, “I won't sell out cheap, anyhow.
"Good. Holcomb. I must remember the name. I shall
depend on you, I think. No need for me to tell you how
devilish precarious this affair seems, both for Christien
and your Company. Two possible courses. To let the
police go about their business, and consequently to
trust Christien's eventual vindication to the awful proc-
esses of law-if it must come to that. Or to undertake a
private investigation at once, in a spirit of prejudice
against the theory of Christien's guilt. That is, to dis-
cover the real murderer. I prefer the second course. Do


CROOKED MAN”
47
you agree? I shall engage a private detective tomorrow."
“That's a good idea,” said Holcomb. “You can count
on me."
"In what way?"
“I know Mr Boxworth will start a little investigation
of his own, and that'll be my job. Anything I find out,
I'll tell you about, if Boxworth hasn't any objections.”
"You must investigate those theatre passes.”
"I have to get a list of owners,” said Holcomb, “first
thing in the morning. Tussard wants it.”
“This list, will it be extensive?"
“Just prominent people, the Governor, the Mayor,
movie stars, theatrical people, big executives, artists,
people like that.”
"Ah. Compare the names of the owners of those passes
with the names to which those Whittacker advertise-
ments were sent. Compare to the result, the names of the
men who received notices of this meeting of the Com-
mittee tonight. That should suggest the identity of the
murdered man."
"Not if he borrowed the pass, and happened to pick
up the ad somewhere, and sneaked the notice of the
meeting out of somebody's office.”
“Nevertheless.”
"I can tell you now, I don't know where Boxworth's
notice went to, and neither does he. Levison can't re-
member what he did with his, if he didn't throw it away.
And Suttro threw his away. I heard him say so. Tussard
asked them to find them.'
"I expect to meet difficulties, Holcomb."
“You will,” said Holcomb. Two policemen in uni-
form were working close to them along the terrace, flash-
ing torches and weaving back and forth in a vain and
dogged search for the absent watchman. “Well, I've got
to do a lot before I go home-before I go to a hotel, I
should say. I won't get home any more tonight, I guess.”


$8
“THERE WAS A
“Tomorrow morning? For a bit of a talk?”
“Any time you say.”
"Shortly before lunch. Here, in your office. Can you
suggest a capable enquiry agent?”
“That's out of my line. I never went in for getting a
divorce or anything. You might be able to find some-
body in the telephone book."
“Of course.”
“Where can I reach you, just in case?".
“The Ritz. Do you know my name? Geoffrey Bennett.
Assurance of perfect discretion, of course."
“Yes, sure," said Holcomb. He seemed to be having a
bit of trouble getting something out of his mind. He
smoothed his wet hair with great vehemence, as if he
had some hope of squeezing the thought into words by
sheer physical pressure on his skull. He brought himself
to the sticking-place at last, and blurted, “You know, I
wouldn't say too much to anybody. That is, I wouldn't
trust anybody too much. That is, you can't tell how
some people will take it if ...
“What, pray, does that mean?"
“I don't know. It's not my business to talk, anyhow.
Look here, I have to go now.” Abruptly, Holcomb
waved a hand and trotted briskly back across the tiles
to the offices. He had to see Tussard. He had to see Mr
Boxworth. He had to telephone his wife. He had to lock
something up in the office files. And he had to get some
sleep, God knew how. And there had to be a watchman
on duty. ...
The discouraged policemen brought their search close
at the end of the terrace, then struggled past Bennett
and went away. Bennett stood alone in the darkness and
mist. Death had become a matter of casual fact, accepted
and unsurprising. Tomorrow there was this and that to
be done. Most oppressing, at this late hour of the night,
were the cold, hollow, empty structures rising about


CROOKED MAN”
49
him, fantastic white monuments in the sky, dead as
tombs, great human schemes with the living humans
gone out of them, Chelsea Project asleep, sharply calm
and dead. An uneasy sensation along the spine.
Bennett, aware that his pipe had gone out and that
he was tired and that his feet were damp, turned un-
happily back, in the way Holcomb had gone. He saw
Vergil's horrid bird, the monster Scandal, wheeling on
strange wings across the heavens. He brushed the fancy
impatiently out of his mind. He said to himself,
"Wretched, blundering fools, and the devil take us all
for our incompetence.”
He found Tussard to be in much the same unsatis-
factory state.
It was so late, and people had become so vague, ill-
tempered and distracted for lack of sleep, that Tussard
could do little with them but let them go. He had not
found the watchman. He was sure the watchman had
not got away. The watchman was therefore in the upper
part of the building, but invisible. Tussard wanted a
little time to think out this intricate matter, and all its
implications.
"You can all beat it now," he said to the gathering
in Christien's office. “I'm not keeping you any longer.
Leave the addresses where I can get you when you go
past the man at the door. Don't take it into your heads
to go out of town without telling me first, because that
would put me in a position where I'd have to be hard
on you. I won't get tough, if you won't. Now go on, go
home and get some sleep.”
There was some pushing and talking in a confused
way. They were awkwardly bearing out the dead man


50
“THERE WAS A
on a stretcher, which gave some trouble at the door.
The police, most of them, were abandoning the scene,
now exhaustively photographed, examined, measured
and tested for finger-prints. There was weary obstinacy
in the congestion about the secretary's office. In the
midst of it, Christien's doctor came pushing his way
through to Bennett.
"I thought I'd better find you. Christien's been taken
to my hospital in a private ambulance, and Mrs Chris-
tien will stay in town tonight.”
“Quite."
“She looked at the body. Nasty shock. But she couldn't
recognize it, of course. Odd, isn't it, that nobody's seen
that fellow before?"
"Where is she?"
“This way."
Bennett had no trouble getting to the passage. The
few policemen who remained were waiting for Tussard
now, and gathering up the bits and pieces, the things on
the secretary's desk, the coats and hats. ... Paula
Christien looked suddenly grateful at the sight of Ben-
nett, stumbled against him and held fast with her hands
to his coat. She said, “Geoffrey, they've taken him. They
wouldn't let me go in the ambulance-because a police-
man--
"Not under arrest," the doctor explained. “You can
tell her not to worry about it. Just a formality, the cop
going along."
“Damned precious formality!"
"I arranged for her to have a room next to his at the
hospital,” said the doctor.
"Exactly. Come, Paula. Which way, doctor?"
They were last, excepting Tussard's men and Hol-
comb, to leave. They stood waiting for the elevator to
come for them, when Tussard charged down the pas-
sage. At his heels came another policeman, in uniform.


52
“THERE WAS A
"Those others who were in Christien's office? And
Holcomb? Dare say you'll search them, too?'
"They got away on me. Holcomb's being searched
right now.”
“Unfortunate. Holcomb won't have it. I saw him go
past the desk myself, and I'm quite sure he couldn't
reach it. Of course, we haven't it. I fancy it's destroyed
by now.”
'“We'll see.”
When Bennett, too, had been searched, and McGrath
had assured Tussard that Mrs Christien could scarcely
have hid it during the moments she and Bennett and
the doctor were together after coming away from the
office, Tussard's anger wilted into anticlimax and self-
reproach.
“After this, I'll know enough to treat decent people
like cheap crooks,” he said. "Where's Dillon, wasn't he
watching that room?"
“Ah, may we go?”
“Get the-go on, go anywhere you want to."
He turned his back on them, and charged back the
way he had come, with an eye out for the culpable
Dillon.
This was close to four o'clock on Wednesday morning.
Mrs Christien went to the hospital, and Bennett went to
his hotel to bed. The Christien chauffeur, luckless man,
had to go back to Southampton that night for Mrs
Christien's things, and Bennett's. Hope managed to
avoid this somehow.
By four o'clock the mechanical process of scandal was
almost complete. Within a few hours, the morning
papers would be propped against a million or so differ-
ent sugar bowls on as many breakfast tables. There
would be the customary hoarse shouts of murder and
foul suspicion rising on a thousand street corners. Noth-
ing could be done to prevent this. Therefore Bennett,


CHAPTER FOUR
distingur, then who suffered in the procexcomen; ' nof
A VERY LONG TIME AGO AND during the reckless days of
his youth, Bennett's personal servant had gone by the
proud name of Cedric Hoppflack. The Hoppflacks as a
family, even in these queasy times, are a proud lot of
sturdy and self-respecting East Anglian yeomen; no
mean people. Cedric, however, in the process of becom-
ing a gentleman's man, suffered Hoppflack to be reduced
first to Hopp, then when dignity required, to the mere
undistinguished Hope, and as Hope he was still catch-
ing up on his sleep in his cubicle on the top floor of
Bennett's hotel when the telephone rang in Bennett's
rooms. Bennett himself, therefore, woke cursing loudly
(this was at quarter to nine on Wednesday morning) and
climbed out of bed blinking to answer the thing himself.
When he said Hello into the receiver, it sounded
more like a sentence after court martial than a polite
greeting.
“Good morning. This is Louis Holcomb talking,” said
an undaunted voice, as efficient and as weary as during
the night before.
“Really? Well?”
"I just saw Tussard. You know a paper was picked up
last night? He's out for blood. And there's no trace of
the watchman.”
"Surely, Holcomb, you aren't fool or rascal enough to
wake me to tell me these cold comforts?”
"Sorry I woke you. I'd better call you later-_"
54


“THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN” 55
point at it would i "rightfullum
that is
“Carry on. Wait. Ruddy gale raging here. Ah, back in
bed now. Sorry. Are you there? Carry on.”
“Well, sir, I want to apologize in a way.”
“Do you? Apologize, then.'
"I didn't understand you were who you are when we
were talking last night, and I don't want you to think
I- "
“Ah! I feared it. Forget it. You Americans, Holcomb,
are the most damnable snobs. Frightfully inconvenient.
I think, Holcomb, it would be wise for us to be precise
upon the point at the very beginning; our shortcomings,
that is, my noble birth or what d'you call it, and your
bloated emphasis upon the matter, must never rise to
come between us again. Now, what the devil did Tus-
sard say to you?”
"He dropped a hint that somebody has been pulling
strings. Working the influential friends. Getting Tus-
sard worried. He's afraid, I have an idea, that he may
step on important toes if he isn't careful. Afraid he'll
make a bad mistake and find himself pounding the pave-
ments out in the wilds of Flatlands. I guess you under-
stand what I mean."
"Whose toes, pray?"
"I don't know. Maybe he doesn't either. He tried to
pump me about you."
“Ah! Why?"
“Because he found out you're Lord Broghville.”
“Ah! This is thick, Holcomb. May I ask, in an idle
way, who first came to you with this priceless discovery?”
"Everybody knows about it here. I think Mr Levison
figured it out first. He might have told Tussard this
morning, I don't know.”
“Levison. Of course. Damn. What else did Tussard
say?"
"Something you might be interested in, sir. You re-


56
“THERE WAS A
member I spoke of Hobey Raymonds, the boy who was
drunk last night?"
“Yes."
“They haven't very much against him. Anyhow, Tus-
sard wants to question him this morning. He's going to
bring him over at eleven o'clock. We're checking up on
what he says, so we can bring charges for illegal entry or
something like that, if it's necessary. I thought you might
like to be in on it. I fixed it for you to be here, if you
want to.”
"I do. At eleven. Right you are.”
“And I asked Mr Boxworth about a private detective.
He told me you could ring Murray Hill 2-0224. It's the
Meaghen Agency-M-e-a-g-h-e-n. All he knows is that
they keep in with the police pretty well, which might
help. That's all I could find for you, sir.”
"Good. Thank you. One word more. Has this Ray-
monds and his coming up for questioning implied a
change in the official attitude?"
"No.”
“I'll look in on you at eleven, then ..."
Bennett put aside the telephone. Very soon, Hope
brought the morning cup of tea to Bennett's bedside,
and pulled open the curtains to let in an exuberant
burst of robust spring sunshine. The old man drank the
tea, blinked like a bear at the sun, and relaxed in com-
plete tranquillity beneath the covers for his habitual pe-
riod of reflection. Hope was running water for the bath.
An orderly and reassuring sound.
As for this matter of the dead man's identity; some-
thing could be made of that without stirring a muscle.
Far from being the corpse of almost anybody at all, as
Tussard seemed to think, merely because it had no name
and telephone number attached to it, it was in Bennett's
opinion a most distinguished and unusual corpse, quite
out of the ordinary run of such things.


CROOKED MAN”.
57
The money: a wealthy man. The ring, the watch, the
note-case: a man of sober taste, with respect for the ac-
quisitions of his parents, and with no liking for cheap
and shoddy things. The three keys on a thong: a man
who seldom went abroad in the world, a man who lived
simply. This was inferred, since Bennett regarded the
accumulation of dozens, even hundreds of keys as one
career. The more one does in the world, the more keys
he must carry. The make-shift mask for the ruined face:
a sensitive concealment of a personal horror that would
have ceased to be a bother, in the case of an insensible
or superficial person, many years ago. (Bennett never
considered seriously the opinion, earnestly proposed in
several newspapers, that the bandage had been intended
as a kind of disguise.)
Even more revealing and insistent than any of these
details remained the vision of that singular forehead, so
clear, grave, intellectual, impressive, beautiful. Bennett
raked in his memory for some elusive association, and
recalled at last the poet Tennyson as he had seen him
once on the Isle of Wight. Although the generalization
ranged clear outside the farthest rules of logic, Bennett
nevertheless believed that the faces of great men took on
a perceptible nobility and refinement as they grew old.
The forehead of the dead man, considered this way,
would not let itself be reasoned quite into irrelevance.
Surely the murderer must have known very well
whom he had killed. Knowing it, he had found it very
necessary to suppress it; and he had made away with the
pass and, later, the notice of the committee meeting, in
spite of the greatest danger of discovery. It followed,
too, that the murder had been a hasty deed, not carefully
planned and prepared. Otherwise the clumsy and uncer-
tain method, choking, would have been improved upon.
With more time, and free from the pressure of circum-


58
“THERE WAS A
stances that had risen last night, the murderer might
have succeeded in concealing his crime and his victim
entirely, if the victim was as thorough a recluse as it
seemed now. Who would set up a cry for a missing man
without friends or family?
A man probably of distinction, wealth, culture, and
certainly of secluded habits, had been throttled in some
terrible emergency there on the terrace. But why had he
gone there? And why had he been killed? Bennett specu-
lated. The notice taken from under Tussard's nose, con-
nected the dead man even more closely to one of the
group of five-Ann Crofts and her aunt, Suttro, Levison
and Boxworth. Less and less, the sphere of interest was
proving unlimited. Progress, even in bed, was possible.
On this note of cheer and confidence, Bennett
stretched and got up for his bath.
2.
Bennett had Hope call the Meaghen Agency. The
operative (Francis X. Mapes, his card read) arrived in a
remarkably short time, like a doctor come to deliver a
baby. Bennett was still soaking his gaunt pink ancient
body in a tub of warm water.
He sloshed an enormous sponge about, and deplored
American plumbing as too dainty for his heroic tastes.
In England bath tubs were tubs, not basins, and taps ran
decent streams of water, not effeminate trickles. Hope
was making soft sounds with the Wednesday razor and a
strop.
"Mapes?” said Bennett, thoughtfully dipping the de-
tective's business card up and down in an island of suds.
“Mapes! My word, a name! Where is he?".
"In the sitting room, sir."
• “Yes, of course. Dare say he won't mind waiting. By


CROOKED MAN”
59
the way, Hope, what are the arrangements for the next
few days?"
As simple man grows to the glory of being a Person-
age, he loses a measure of control over his life. Bennett,
it must be explained, had to travel in America with a
retinue which included, besides Hope, two precious sec-
retaries whose viscera (Bennett's fancy, this) consisted
of parchment and blotting paper, nourished by veins
full of waterproof ink, for all the humanity to be found
in them; one attaché, named Podham-Jones, from the
Legation; and one sturdy fellow, Chas. D. Bauer, con-
tributed by the United States Department of Justice.
Some or all of these were occasionally being left about or
lost like rubbers in dry weather. All of them, however,
knew a great deal more about those things Bennett was
expected to do from day to day, than Bennett knew him-
self. That was the reason for Bennett's thoughtfulness as
he dipped Mapes's card in the bath water.
Hope said, “Washington tomorrow, sir. I believe you
will take the train tonight. You are to open the British
Water-Colour Loan Exhibition at the Balthurst Galleries
there. Tea with the President, sir. Dinner at the Em-
bassy, and a reception--"
"Oh, very well. I shan't evade that very easily. Thurs-
day in Washington, then. Friday?"
“The planting of a tree, sir. In the gardens on the roof
of De Lancey College, at Chelsea Building. Symbolic of
the flourishing trade relations between America and
Britain, I was told, sir.”
“Good God, Hope!”
"Assisted by the Mayor, and undergraduates of the
Stuyvesant School of International Economics, and a
chorus of mixed voices, and a guard of honour chosen
from the cadets of St. Charles's School. Then lunch, sir."
“We might wangle out of that, as the grandson puts
it, might we not? I mean, a tree can be planted quite as


CROOKED MAN”.
and effect, and ended to imprentive, gave the prete
Bennett said, "Sit down.”
Mapes sat. He looked slightly like an effigy made out
of watermelons, in his green suit stretching too tightly
over a plumpish body. His face would have passed, too,
for a small carved pumpkin. To help the illusion, the
smell of tobacco suggested decaying vegetable matter. In
his manner, Mapes combined equal parts of hearty cheer
and grim efficiency, both noticeably insincere, assumed
for effect, and probably part of a formula learned by
heart and intended to impress. Something about the
Mapes smile, so fixed and attentive, gave the man away.
He didn't really listen to what was said. He pretended
earnestly to listen, according to formula, but (Bennett
felt) really turned his mind to adding up tentative sums
in an account Bennett would be asked to settle.
At last Bennett said, “Do you know who I am?”.
Mapes heaved in his chair with pride. “Yes, I think I
do, sir. I ought to say, your lordship, maybe. You see, I
make it my business to--".
"Ah? Who told you?”
"I keep my ears open. If I'm going to be any use to
you, I got to know what's going on. I keep track of the
talk that goes around town while '
“Talk. Quite. Do you know what I engaged you to
do? Has there been talk about that?"
"Well, I suppose it must be in connection with the
Chelsea Project business, if what I heard is__"
“Ah. Talk again.”
"Yes, your lordship.”
Mapes was ill-at-ease. He was used to handling clients,
and not to being handled by them. Bennett's voice could
turn softly sweet, soothing, disarming, and very cold.
“The razor drags this morning, Hope. You, Mr Mapes,
have been grievously misled. Dare say you intended to
please me. Too bad. I wonder if you can understand? I
wish not to be known as Lord Broghville. Shall I say


62
“THERE WAS A
the formality is inconvenient, undesirable, and plain
damned annoying to me under the present circum-
stances? I am Bennett, Geoffrey Bennett, Mr Geoffrey
Bennett. You will remember to use that name in the
future, I'm sure. Not only in my presence, but where
you gather your harvests of information. Good.” The
sweetness soured, became a sharp bark. “Now, Mapes, I
want to know what you heard about this Chelsea affair."
Mapes squirmed. He thought it wise to dampen the
cheery, friendly note and play up the brisk efficiency.
"I got no opinion myself. I want you to know that.
Lots of clients get a little mad at me when I'm being
honest and telling them what's good for them only what
they don't want to hear. Now the general low-down
seems to be that this Mr Christien was probably paying
blackmail to the guy he killed, and maybe also to the
watchman who disappeared. That's why he killed the
guy. And that's why the watchman blew, not wanting to
get himself caught in the jam."
"Blackmail. How devilish ingenious. Blackmail for
what?"
"I don't know. Blackmail's got to be secret, or it's not
blackmail, is it? Only just take an ordinary case for ex-
ample. It happens every day. A man in business stays up
in the office late, and maybe a girl he knows drops up to
see him, and the watchman going around happens to
take a look in at the door, say—and there you got the
material for a blackmail job. If it's a big business man,
and he's got a wife that means something, you got black-
mail that mày run into lots of money. Take this case, for
instance. If the watchman had something on Mr Chris-
tien, and I'm just putting it with an 'if,' and the watch-
man turned it over to this cripple to work for him,
maybe by mail, and the price got too stiff, and they put
on the heat a little, you might get murder. It's an old
story, sir."


CROOKED MAN”
Deposterous explanor cowardice. Blackme include nei-
"But improbable."
“If you say it's improbable in this case, it's improbable
with me, Mr Bennett.”
This statement rang as hollow as an empty beer keg.
Bennett said, “Mr Christien is my respected friend. The
vices Mr Christien may choose to cultivate include nei-
ther secret lechery nor cowardice. Blackmail is the most
preposterous explanation I can imagine. Perhaps I
should be grateful to you, for telling me what I suppose
must be the crudest form of the case the police are form-
ing. However, if you abandon your mind to such stuff,
you will be useless to me. Even otherwise, I seriously
doubt-but no matter. We shan't discuss it further.
These are your orders.”
“Orders? Yes, sir.”
“Go to the morgue. The dead man's clothes will be
there, I presume, since they must identify them. Get the
shirtmaker's name. The tailor's name, I know, is Plen-
derby. Plenderby and Co. Very possibly Plenderby does
shirts, too. Tailors are frightfully enterprising. But you
must find out. Go to the tailor and shirtmaker, then; find
out the man's name and as much about him as you can.
You may find something in the shoes. The hat is from
Brooks. You understand? Never mind what the police
have done. You may do their work over again. It's im-
portant that your evidence should be independent. That
it may be exactly the same as police evidence doesn't
matter.”
“Yes, sir.”
-“Then telephone Mr Holcomb, assistant to Mr Box-
worth, at the Chelsac Theatre. Ask him to tell you the
address of the watchman named Lutz, who disappeared.
Find out as much as you can about the circumstances of
Lutz.”
“Yes, sir.”
"That will do. Bring your report to me this evening,


"THERE WAS A
at six o'clock. Be as unostentatious as possible. I want
the newspapers particularly to know nothing about you
or your commission. And I want you to say nothing to
anybody about me. Do you understand what I want you
to do? Good. Now go away.”
Mapes went away.
Hope snipped with the scissors at the edges of Ben-
nett's white hair, and frowned gravely. He murmured,
"Too bad, sir.”
Bennett clucked his tongue against his lips. “Yes. Alas.
How unpleasant it is to be reminded that one's fellow-
creatures stink. Very nasty. Yattering fat fool. And in-
competent.”
"May I suggest, sir, that there ought to be better de-
tectives in New York?”.
“There are, of course. However, I can't waste days dis-
covering them by a system of trial and error. However,
we shall see.”
“Yes, sir."
"I dare say I shall be my own detective in the end.
And not for the first time, either. Breakfast? Good. Do
stop pottering with my hair, Hope, and telephone that
hospital."
Bennett liked mornings to unfold in neo-classic calm,
and the breakfast of kidneys and bacon might have re-
stored this state, if the post office and the telephone com-
pany had been willing to co-operate. As he sat to table,
Bennett drove off one of the blotting-paper secretaries,
who had begun the sorting of his letters and cable mes-
sages.
There was an advertisement:


CROOKED MAN”
65
"DEAR SIR OR MADAM,
"You can pay less for better honey. Rockland
County Apple Blossom Honey, direct from farm to
you ..."
and so on. The secretary had opened it, and allowed it
to remain, perhaps because some words, difficult to puz-
zle out, had been scrawled in childish feminine writing
across a lower corner.
They said, I thought it would be nice-it had to be
nice or nift, and nift meant nothing to Bennett-in case
you wanted to take some back to your own country with
you. Resp’ly, E.W. Then fishing up the envelope, Ben-
nett found it had been addressed after a false start (labo-
riously inked over) to The Right Hon. The Earl of
Broghville. The writing, he supposed, was Emma Whit-
tacker's own. It suited her. The letter had been posted at
the Chelsea post office either very early that morning, or
immediately after she had left the theatre last night.
Meanwhile, the telephone had been ringing, and
Hope had been scuttling back and forth among the
pieces of furniture. With the advertisement crying for
consideration on the one hand, and Hope's capers on
the other, and the kidneys getting cold into the bargain,
it was becoming a horrible breakfast. The telephone
rang again almost before Hope could put it down after
hanging up on a previous call. Bennett sighed, gave up,
and went off to the bedroom to dress.
Hardly into his shirt, Bennett saw Hope at the door.
“What is it? Good God! What is it?".
“Very sorry, sir. I wanted to say that I got through to
the hospital, sir, and Mr Christien remains unconscious.
His condition is grave.”
"Too bad. Good. He has the grace to be consistent, if
no one else has. May I ask why the telephone requires
you to seize it and say ‘no' into it every minute or two?


66 “THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN”
Or do I intrude upon one of your affairs of sentiment?”
“Very sorry, sir. Newspapers they are, sir, asking for
an appointment to see you. Seven newspapers in fifteen
minutes, sir. Not including two persons who discon-
nected.”
The telephone was at it again. Bennett said, “There.
You might keep count, if you like. Think how interest-
ing the grand number will be to your nieces and
nephews in Norwich."
Hope remained in longer conversation this time. He
returned a little breathless to get Bennett's hat, stick and
gloves for him.
“Who, pray?"
"A Mr Tussard, sir. A Mr Percy Tussard, asking to
speak to you, sir. He will call this evening, and hopes
you will find it convenient to see him.”
“Tell them to stop these calls below, if you wish. By
what name did he ask for me?”
“Lord Broghville, sir."
“Very quick, these people. Last night I was the merest
Bennett, and rudely searched by a policeman looking
for stolen property. You might speculate upon it, Hope.
I shan't be here till tea, perhaps not then. Damn, that
telephone again!"
Bennett thrust the Whittacker advertisement in his
pocket and stalked out,


CHAPTER FIVE
THIS SUNNY WEDNESDAY MORNING, the Executive Offices at
the Chelsac Theatre looked like almost anything but the
scene of a mysterious murder. Business went on as usual
in its crisp routine, based on the ebb and flow of audi-
cnces in the theatre and on the necessary weekly change
of the entertainment. The new stage show, to begin Fri-
day, was to be an elaborate pageant of the spring season,
including a practical rain-storm (with thunder, light-
ning, and that sort of thing), a chorus of tap-dancers in
a London fog, two horses, the Aurora Borealis, and a
clever choral arrangement of the Dance of the Hours.
If Mr Christien had not been away, the place would
have been entirely normal; as it was, Miss Bannerman
typed her letters and answered the telephone as smartly
as usual, Mr Levison and Mr Boxworth got on with
some matter of importance in Mr Levison's office, and
Louis Holcomb took up the slack by sitting in Mr Chris-
tien's office where he could be at the convenience of the
police, who seemed to have a strong interest in the of-
fices and the terrace, even yet.
Miss Bannerman's typing and telephoning suffered a
little from her dismal compulsion to decide what she
would have done if she had stumbled on that corpse in
the darkness. Lowes Levison and John Boxworth fin-
ished up their important matter a bit sketchily, so that
they could have a word about the tragedy that really pre-
occupied them. But these lapses hardly ruffled the
smooth surface of business.
67


68
“THERE WAS A
Levison himself, tall, sleek, nervous and dark, sat in
angular repose behind the desk in his office. He piled
up more cigarette ends than usual in the ash tray before
him. John Boxworth, on the other hand, allowed him-
self to show downright agitation. He paced about the
window, from which he could look out on the fateful
terrace. His blue eyes were pinkish from lack of sleep,
and he rubbed his hands over them.
Levison said, “We don't know where we are.”
Boxworth said, “I ought to shut up and get out of
here."
“There's something on your mind, isn't there?”
“The Englishman hired a private detective this morn-
ing.”
“That's news. Why the detective?”
"To clear Christien, I suppose. I told Holcomb to
recommend an agency I once had experience with. Not
very good. I didn't know what else to do, before I heard
from Christien himself and found out what the com-
pany's attitude was going to be.”
"Was that wise?”
"Why?"
Levison said, “This agency you recommended won't
bother you, will they? I mean, they won't be inclined
to drag you into any of their reports? I thought not.
Damned if I ever know, Boxworth, how subtle other
people are. But this Englishman may be very smart.
He may ask himself, Why does Boxworth recommend
these mugs? And that would look very suspicious, John.”
"I wasn't thinking of immunity. I didn't think that
far at all.”
"No."
“And I don't see it's anything to worry about, look-
ing suspicious to a stray Englishman who hasn't any
authority.”
“No.”


CROOKED MAN”
69
"Thers for the Dirdal months. Wnk, maybe not
“Through no fault of our own, we're all in a bad
position. But we'll live it down if we keep our minds
on business."
"You hope. Wait a minute. Sorry.”
The telephone interrupted, and Levison listened to
a message. Putting the instrument down, he said, “Sut-
tro. He's coming over to talk about the newspapers."
Boxworth supported his weight on Levison's desk.
His cheerful pink face became grave. He said, “I called
up Christien's doctor this morning. He told me Chris-
tien might not be conscious for a week, maybe not able
to walk again for several months. Who will take over?”
“That's for the Directing Board to say, John.”
“They might pick you."
“They might.”
"They might pick Suttro.”
“They might.”
"It would be your big chance, and I don't think
Suttro would turn it down either. But I was thinking,
there's dynamite lying around. If the police decided
Christien had nothing to do with last night's excite-
ment, and began to put the screws on one or the other
of you, that one or the other would be out of luck.”
"I thought about that."
"I wonder if you know why Christien had us meet
last night at eleven o'clock, instead of the usual time.
What was that all about?"
"I don't suppose you'd think about it, John, if it
hadn't been for the murder. There's nothing like a mur-
der for making innocent meetings look suspicious."
“That's true. Yes, that's true. Everything looks queer
now. Even that Englishman. It looks as if he'd been right
here, waiting for something like this to happen.”
Levison smiled, and John Boxworth read the smile
as an indication of superior knowledge. He leaned his


70
“THERE WAS A
round body over the desk and thrust his puzzled round
face close to Levison's.
"Ten people at least have called me up today," he
said, “to spread a little gossip and find out what I knew.
I don't like it.”
“Calling up from the Lambs' or the Friars' or the
Astor?”
"It's serious, and you know it. What's the truth about
this Englishman? I heard he was-well, it's been men-
tioned that he's connected. ..." Boxworth completed
his meaning by curving a round shoulder towards the
window, and the bright cool stone masses of Chelsea
Project lying beyond it.
“I heard it, too."
“I'd like to know for a fact,” said Boxworth. “I don't
gossip. I don't believe it's right. It does you as much
harm as the one you're talking about. I want to know
for my own sake. If you can tell me, Levison, please be
honest with me. I'm at an age where,” he tried to
make it seem a little joke “—where I have to keep my
buttered side off the floor."
Levison lighted a cigarette, inhaled thoughtfully, be-
fore he spoke. His thin lips made his words seem sharp,
precise, judicial. “We'd be fools to believe all we heard,
John. I think we're fools to let any kind of information
affect us. I'm going to mind my business. By the way,
look out for that inkstand, compliments of the Dart-
mouth Bema Board. If I tell you, will you remember
that it's probably meaningless?”
"I want to know." ;
It was very difficult, in even the least ambiguous cir-
cumstances, to tell whether Levison meant what he said
literally or ironically. John Boxworth could never decide
how much to believe him, and indecision made the man
stare absurdly, as if he were watching a magician's trick.
And very much like a magician taking the pigeon from
literally of 10 believe him, anwatching a magiciceon from


CROOKED MAN"
71
a waistcoat pocket, Levison glanced out the window at
the high bulk of the Athletic Club and its higher
neighbour, De Lancey College. His fingers nervously
linked paper clips together into a chain. He said, “This
Chelsea Project, John, must run into a good many mil-
lions of dollars. The money, most of it anyhow, came
from the Westfalen estate. And after all, it's the West-
falen money and the Westfalen Foundation that makes
our jobs possible for us. Do you know anything about
old Westfalen?”
"But he's out of the picture. He's dead.”
“He's dead, but he isn't by any means out of the
picture. Do you happen to know how Westfalen made
his money?"
“Chemicals.”
“Munitions, if you want to be exact about it. It's my
own opinion that this Chelsea development is the result
of old Westfalen's conscience going sour on him. Any-
how, Westfalen and our Lord Broghville were very
closely connected in the years between 1908 and 1914.
Go to the Library if you don't believe me, and look
up the report of the Senate Investigation Committee that
investigated Westfalen.”
"You mean Broghville is the big shot on the West-
falen Foundation?'
“That's a long jump to a big conclusion. But I
wouldn't be surprised if we should hear a lot of talk
to that effect in the next few days."
"Are you trying to tell me that Broghville is the head
of the Project?"
"I'm trying to tell you, as far as I can see, that Lord
Broghville is a name to be respected until this affair
is straightened out."
"But does that mean-?"
"I don't know what it means. In my own opinion, if
we keep our mouths shut and our minds on our busi-
falen umean Bestfalen."ate Investigaelieve mes and 1916


72
“THERE WAS A
ness, we'll be a lot better off than we would be if we
wasted the rest of the morning guessing."
“It merely occurred to me that somebody donated
more than half a million dollars to found the Bennett
School of Political Administration across the street at
De Lancey College. Bennett is Broghville. The rest of
it, I found in the International Dictionary of Biog-
raphy.”
Boxworth shook his head. He mused sadly, “I don't
know. I suppose I ought to have let him get his own
detective. I wish I had known about this. What do you
think?”
“I think,” said Levison, “that if we take good care
of ourselves, we'll probably live to see how it all works
out.”
The telephone rang, and interrupted whatever re-
mark it was that John Boxworth had just decided to
make. As Levison began uttering staccato monosyllables
into the instrument, Boxworth buttoned his coat and
went reluctantly away to his own office.
Boxworth's office was on the ground floor, convenient
to the ticket windows in the lobby. He descended in the
elevator to the theatre, and left the cage free conven-
iently at the moment when Lord Broghville arrived, and
rang for it. To get from the street to the Administrative
offices of the Chelsac Theatre is difficult in some cases,
and impossible in most. You enter the building by a
small door on Eighteenth Street, not far from Ninth
Avenue. It was this door that Bennett had entered the
night before.
You enter the door, and confront a severe and dis-


74
“THERE WAS A
appearing two and three at a time, directors telephoning,
newspapers making plaintive appeals to authority, and
strange faces (Miss Bannerman abhorred them) popping
up all over the place. Bennett arrived. Miss Bannerman
pointed him into Christien's office. Holcomb, looking
apologetic about his presumption in sitting at Chris-
tien's desk, jumped respectfully to his feet.
"Peace, Holcomb, peace, for the love of God! Sit
down. Thanks for telephoning me. May I sit down? Now.
Splendid morning and all the rest of it, with the usual
civil observations on the weather. Tell me first about
the pass cards."
"I got the list. It's pretty long, sir.”
“Ah?”
"If you want, I can tell you what we got out of it.
I went over the whole thing with the police.”
“Very well, tell me.”
"In the first place, there aren't any passes absolutely
missing or unaccounted for."
"Go on.”
"All the passes that were used last night were regis-
tered at the ticket window. We called up every owner
here in the city, and got them to check up. No pass
owner gave his card to somebody else to use, unless the
user checked in at the window. That's definite. And
every pass owner we called said he could produce his
card right away-except a couple of cases where they'd
been reported lost months ago, and which the police
don't count.”
“Have any pass owners disappeared?"
“Not one."
"In short, every pass seems to have an owner, and
every owner a pass, with some exceptions that the police
conclude are irrelevant to the case.”
“That's right. That's what I should have said."


CROOKED MAN”
75
"Would a counterfeit pass be possible?"
Holcomb said, “I never heard of one. I should think
it would cost more to make than it would be worth, and
with the number and name it would have to have en-
graved on it, why, there'd be so much danger of dis-
covery that
“Quite. Have you a pass yourself?”
"No."
“Has Christien, or Levison, or any of those people?"
“Christien has one. He carries it in his wallet. Levi-
son has one, but his mother keeps it home. Boxworth
keeps his with him, and Suttro had his in his pocket last
night, as I happen to know, because I saw him show it
to Tussard. Ann Crofts and her aunt haven't got any.
Neither has this boy Raymonds, of course."
"All the men who owned passes, excepting Levison
of course, had them with them last night?"
“That's right.”
"Every pass has a name on it, and every name a liv-
ing person attached, a recognizable person who could
be brought into court today if necessary?"
“That's what we found. But it wouldn't be easy to
take them to court to--"
“Manner of speaking, I assure you. Take them to tea,
not to court, if you like. Pray don't expect me to take
them anywhere. What are the policemen doing out on
the terrace?"
"Looking to see what could have happened to the
watchman.”
“The pass that let in the murdered man hasn't been
found, of course?”
“How could it be, if there's no pass missing?”
“Stupid of me. I should say, has Tussard searched very
thoroughly?”
“We've swept the theatre and the halls and the rooms


76
"THERE WAS A
and the terrace and even the sidewalk down below this
morning, looking for anything the murdered man might
have dropped. Nothing to be found.”.
"Yet he had a pass, and it disappeared. Has it been
suggested that he ate it? Have they opened his stomach?
And does Tussard think the man removed all identify-
ing marks, then strangled himself on the terrace with
his one hand out of sheer overwhelming melancholy.
Come, Holcomb! Tell me about the announcements of
the meeting-how many were sent, to whom, that sort
of thing.”
"One each to Mr Levison, Mr Boxworth, and Mr
Suttro. They were only confirmation of a telephone call.
Miss Bannerman out in the other room typed them
and sent them around by messenger."
"Has Suttro an office in this building?"
“No. He's across the street in the College. You can
look up from this window and see his place."
“And all three lost their notices?"
"Levison threw his away, and it's a fairly sure thing
it couldn't be used again, because he remembers crum-
pling it up and dropping it into what was left of a cup of
coffee after his dinner last night. There were no coffee
stains on the notice that was found on the roof. Well,
Mr Suttro dug his notice out of the trash basket after
he left here last night. This—"he indicated a typewritten
notice, rather stained and battered on the desk before
him “—this was his. I got it from him to give to Tus-
sard. I can't see that it'll be much use to Tussard, be-
cause it was torn in half yesterday afternoon, when Mr
Suttro threw it away. Those stains are from the ends of
some flowers that went in on top of it.”
“And Boxworth’s?”
"Mr Boxworth has a Filipino valet. The boy empties
out Mr Boxworth's pockets, and he remembers throwing
Boxworth's notice away about dinner time last night,
sard. I can't was his. I got ibattered on the typewritten


CROOKED MAN”
77
when Mr Boxworth changed his clothes. Now unless
there's a fourth notice, and Miss Bannerman says she's
sure there wasn't, that cripple must have got hold of
Boxworth's, because that was the only one that wasn't
as good as destroyed.”
"We shan't quarrel,” said Bennett. "I admire your
facts and boggle at the conclusions you draw from them.
However. Has anything been made of the list to which
the Whittacker ads were sent?”
"She told me this morning when I called her up, that
she didn't use a list. She says she just took names at
random out of the telephone book.”
"Rot!”
“But that's what she says."
“My dear Holcomb! I'm not in the directory, I assure
you! Look there!” He took the ad from his pocket,
flipped it to Holcomb, who read it and returned it.
Bennett folded it back in his pocket again.
“Still, that's what she says, sir."
"Indeed.”
“I don't know what's keeping Tussard. I'm sorry you
have to wait, sir.”
“No matter."
“I don't know how good it is, but you can take a look
at it if you want to. It's a schedule I made out. And
there's a theatre schedule you can compare it to, if
you want to. The times are as exact as I could get
them. ..."
SCHEDULE FOR CHELSAC
FRIDAY TO THURSDAY
FEATURE: STUDY IN SCARLET
WEEK OF MAY 17


“THERE WAS A
Length
5th Show
Numbers
Organ
News Reel
Overture
Show
Feature
Cartoon (Short)
Monterey (Short)
9:20
9:25
9:35
9:50
10:22
None
None
Close 11:50
SCHEDULE OF MOVEMENTS ON SOUTH
TERRACE
TUESDAY NIGHT, MAY 22
10:30 P.M., APPR.–Unidentified man uses pass to
enter theatre.
10:50 P.M., APPR.–Light on control board shows
opening of hospital on fourth
floor.
10:58 P.M. -Watchman Emil Lutz, arrives
on duty early, sent up to in-
vestigate hospital.
11:00 P.M. -Mr Anthony Suttro arrives
Executive Floor with Miss
Ann Crofts. He enters Chris-
tien office for conference. Ann
Crofts sits outside in hall to
wait for him. Miss Emma
Whittacker (came with Suttro
and Crofts) sits in lower hall
at Nineteenth Street stage
door.
“Why,” asked Bennett, "did Emma Whittacker sit in
the lower hall at the Nineteenth Street stage door?”


CROOKED MAN”
79
“Oh, thatl" said Holcomb. “She stayed down there
because she doesn't like our building, and because she
doesn't like Anthony Suttro.”
“But how very silly!"
“Silly is right," said Holcomb, and dismissed the mat-
ter as if it were of no significance.
11:04 P.M. -Mr John Boxworth comes to
offices from Projection Room.
Speaks to Ann Crofts in hall,
and to Christien in Levison's
office. Sees Levison asleep
there, waits in Bannerman's
office so as not to disturb Levi-
son. Knows Holcomb will be
detained.
-Raymonds arrives at Nine-
teenth Street stage door, makes
disturbance, runs into build-
ing, about this time.
11:15 P.M., APPR.-Choking of unidentified man,
and death, between 11:00 and
11:15, according to Medical
Evidence.
11:15 P.M.
-Mr Christien discovers dead
man, gives alarm, collapses.
11:19 P.M. -Nurse arrives from down-
stairs.
11:24 P.M. --Patrolman arrives from theatre
lobby.
-Miss Emma Whittacker ar-
rives next, looking for Ray-
monds. Raymonds arrives five
minutes after.


80
“THERE WAS A
There was a knock on the office door. Not Tussard
and Raymonds, but Anthony Suttro appeared, most un-
expectedly. Tussard came up to the office a few minutes
later, and had to wait.
Bennett had been thinking, and regarding a distant
placid policeman in plain clothes, who moved about on
the terrace like a grazing cow in a pasture. The police-
man had been taking measurements along the parapet,
and Bennett had been sprawling comfortably in a leather
chair taking up a large part of the floor with his long
legs. Suttro looked at him, and at Holcomb, and wished
them good morning. Then he stopped before Bennett
to pay his respects to him.
Suttro, Bennett guessed, was between thirty-five and
forty. (He was, in fact, thirty-eight.) He stood a little
more than medium height. His large head, however,
and his muscular, stocky body, made him appear shorter
than he really was. Dark, thick, reddish hair, vivid fea-
tures, quick and incisive movements, emphasized his
look of strength and vitality. He had poise, but beneath
it a concentrated intensity, a burning impatience and
restlessness, revealed, it seemed, in spite of the smooth
and quiet polish of his manners. A schooled Arab stal-
lion of a man.
Introductions he waved aside, and talked to Bennett
as if their reputations were enough to make them known
to each other.
“Pretty grim, this business, Mr Bennett. Have you
heard how Christien is? Not a very nice affair for you
to walk into last night.”
“Quite so.”
"If Christien hadn't gone to pieces, you'd have been
my guest at lunch with him this week. Sounds a little


CROOKED MAN”
foolish now, I suppose. But if there's anything that I
can do, I'll do it, gladly. If I can help, you know. I'd
like to stand you a dinner and a quiet talk, but I know
you'll be in Washington tomorrow. Christien told me
that. Let's say that you can call me up, and I'll be at
your convenience any time. You'll take me up, I hope?
Glad to get the chance, believe me, sir. ..."
Deftly said, upon a perfect note of ease, without a
single dissonance of servility or condescension. Bennett
admired.
Then Suttro launched with Holcomb into matters
touching Christien's absence. Suttro took the centre
of the room, and clasped his hands behind his back, and
braced his feet apart. His chin was lifted when he
talked, his voice was exceptionally rich, yet unaffected.
And Bennett watched the man with pleasure, hardly
listening, until he heard the mention on police.
“You are in touch with them, aren't you, Holcomb?"
-"Well, Mr Boxworth left it up to me.”
“I'm afraid to tell them something, so I tell it to
you.”
“What's that, sir?".
“While I sat waiting here last night, before the row
began, I didn't see anything out the window. They
didn't ask me why. I didn't feel like running after them
today with my little excuse. When things get dull for
them, the point may come up, and then you'll have it
for them.”
“All right, sir.”
“I had my back to the window. I was sitting where
you're sitting. I was at the telephone."
Bennett stirred and murmured, “Dear chap, there's
a perfect alibi.”
"Don't I wish it was?"
“Why isn't it?"


82
“THERE WAS A
"Because I couldn't get my number. There wasn't
anybody home. I rang it three or four times.”
“What number, pray?”
“My own. My bachelor flat in Brooklyn.”
"I'll put it down,” said Holcomb, writing.
"You might as well,” said Suttro. “And another thing.
Call them off Miss Whittacker and her niece. That is,
if you ever get the chance. I hate to see them run those
ladies ragged.”
“I'll try,” said Holcomb, “but you know how Tus-
sard is.”
“I do. Have you heard how much the police are tell-
ing the reporters?"
“I'm afraid I don't get in on things like that."
"In case you do, you'd better know my slant. I want
to head off emphasis. The murder had nothing to do
with the Chelsac Theatre itself, or with Chelsea Project.
A crime that might have happened on the street, or in
the subway. A thing that can't be laid to us, any more
than a suicide at the foot of General Sherman's statue
could be laid to General Sherman. And let me know if
anything turns up. I want to see how the early after-
noon editions handle us."
“Dare say you don't believe all that,” said Bennett,
stirring once more.
"Let's say the watchman did it,” Suttro answered eas-
ily, and took his leave as quickly as he came.
Almost reproachfully, Bennett stared at the shutting
door, and murmured, “Oh, my word! Not guile, within
the Meaning of the Act, but leaning perilously far out
of the ivory tower this morning, eh? No, Holcomb, it
isn't worth explaining to you."
"Everything's upset, if that's what you mean.”
“Yes, of course. Come, Holcomb, where's this Ray-
monds fellow? We're both stagnating here. I dislike be-
ing spied upon."
stirrines say the Yeave as ginnett state Not By


CROOKED MAN”
"Who's spying on ".
“Policeman. Watching everything you do, poor chap.
I'm frightfully bored by the way he pretends he isn't
watching what goes on in here. Ah, there, I caught his
eye, and he's embarrassed. Very nice.”


CHAPTER SIX
TUSSARD WAS PERFECTLY UNCHANGED in appearance, even
to his collar. He said, "I got Raymonds outside. Ready
for me to bring him in? I mean, Lord Broghville won't
object if--"
"Bring him in,” said Holcomb.
He came when called, this Raymonds, pathetically
jaunty in a wrinkled dinner jacket. He smiled uneasily
at Holcomb, and said, “Here I am again, sober for a
change.” This damp squib of bravado fizzled out, and
left the young man nothing to do but dump himself
ignominiously in the farthest possible chair in the far
end of the room. He sat there trying to dispose of his
hands. Holcomb and Tussard put their heads together
over a piece of paper.
Bennett lurked in a haze of pipe smoke like some
charitable octopus, and looked at the boy, and decided
to like him.
Raymonds was large; not quite as heroically large as
Bennett himself, but something of the same sort. He
was not brilliant in appearance, but he was young, and
human. He had a slightly crooked nose.
It wasn't his size that Bennett liked particularly. What
is the quality in a stranger that arrests the eye, wakens
the interest, and releases an inward start of sympathy
or friendliness? Some subtle mixture, of course, not
quickly analysed. Bennett was reminded perhaps of his
own youth, and of men long dead, the bloods of his
84


“THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN” 85
own day at Cambridge; and perhaps of his first son, now
dead too; and of a favourite grandson. Simply, he liked
the look of this Raymonds, he liked such a clean and
sensitive look in any man, and that was an end to it.
He found he was unexpectedly sorry for him, too, now
He found he ni about it. finished their
Holcomb and Tussard finished their examination of
the paper, and Holcomb handed it over to Bennett to
read.
Having read it, Bennett returned it without comment.
Tussard folded it away into a pocket of his coat and
remarked, “Well, that's going to be looked into. Now
we want to hear what he's got to say. Anything you
want to ask him, Holcomb?".
Holcomb shook his head.
“All right, then," said Tussard. His voice grew flat
and harsh. “All right, Raymonds. Starting all over again.
You're getting a lot of consideration, seeing as how
you acted. Now I'm only human, and I know you had
a few drinks in you last night, and maybe you didn't
mean all you said. It's forgotten. Get what I mean?"
Raymonds said, “I'd like to know what I told you
last night.”
"You said you were Clark Gable, and you were in a
picture at the theatre here, and you thought you'd left
your new bicycle pump in the employees' lavatory. You
were trying pretty hard to be funny.”
“Good Lord!”
“You can help yourself a lot by not trying that again.
How long was it you worked here, Raymonds?"
“Two months.”
“What job?”
“Usher.”
"Fired, weren't you?”
Raymonds smiled at Holcomb as he admitted, “I was
fired, damn right.”


86
“THERE WAS A
Form CT-321-012
APPLICATION FOR EMPLOYMENT, CHELSAC THEATRE CORPORATION
Name :_Nobat Reymonds
Street Address 22 E! 28th Sr., NYS. TelephoneS: 7-24344
City or Post Office N.4. _State N.Y.
POSITION APPLIED FOR: _Vaher
Date of birth Jaw. 3,910 Place of birth Westford.com
Height 6'1"? Weight 188_ Physical diseases or
defects mone
Have you ever been discharged or forced to resign from any
position? MD. (If answer 18 "Yes" give name of employer and
reason for discharge or forced resignation ) -
Name
Do you use intoxieating 11quors ns To what extent
References: (Not the names of relatives.)
Present Address Business or
occupation
mantrony Sutho De Janeen building author
Mein E. Whiteles Hotel Playan businessursen
Record of Education: Elementary School, L yrs. Graduated?
High School, 4 yrs. Graduated? yes
Trade or technical school, or college: Name and location bake,
New laws; highest year completed --; Graduated yes
Kind of course pursued: Gemeek
RECORD OF PREVIOUS EMPLOYMENT
When employed Kind of work Salary Employer Reason fo
From TO
leaving
_


CROOKED MAN”
87
"Don't have to get tough about it, Raymonds. We're
all gentlemen here, trying to clear this up. Now, what
were you fired for?"
“Holcomb can tell you that. I didn't show up for
work for two days.”
“That's right.”
“And when you came back to work ?"
"I didn't. I came back and got fired.”
“Ever quarrel with anybody here, any of your bosses?"
"No."
“It seems to me you're an erratic kind of fellow,
aren't you? When this happen?"
"I was fired about two months ago, early in March.”
"I see.” Tussard nodded. His voice took on a con-
fidential tone. "What did you do in here last night?”
“Wandered around in a fog, I guess.”
“See anybody?”
“I remember you, mostly."
"What did you come here for? Didn't you know you
shouldn't come in here?”
"I'm damned if I know what I wanted to do.”
Tussard sighed. He stuck out an admonishing fore-
finger. He said, “I see. You know, Raymonds, it seems
to me you're kind of a funny young fellow to throw
away a good job these days. I was young once, myself,
but-
He paused, playing his fish, under the impression it
had bit.
“Now,” Tussard proposed, “let's say you think the
company isn't giving you a square deal. Say you're not
getting along in your work the way you ought to. You
get a grievance against the company. Isn't that so?”
“I wouldn't know."
"Well, let's say you work up a grievance--"
"I can tell you,” said Raymonds, “I went on a two-


CROOKED MAN”
89
If you want to know what I was doing, ask Aunt Emma
Whittacker. She knows me, she found where I was."
"I'm asking you. Why did you want to get in here
last night?"
"I can't tell you, that's all. What's the use, Tussard?
I've been asked that by a cop at least four times every
hour since you picked me up last night. I don't mean
to be stubborn about it, I merely can't tell you any
more than I have. I was being simple. Haven't you ever
been simple in your life? Anyhow, I had absolutely
nothing to do with that murder. You know it, everybody
knows it, and honestly, you can't do much more than
make faces at me, can you? Damn it, why don't you find
old Lutz? My horsing around with the man at the stage
door hasn't any more to do with this murder than--"
"Hasn't it? Suppose you didn't get out there on that
roof. Suppose you were kicking up a row to hide some-
thing else that you knew was coming off, just for in-
stance? Suppose you and this Ann Crofts were working
together on it? You mean to tell me you didn't have
anything to do with this? Suppose the girl says you're
a liar, and puts it all on--
“I'm going to get all upset if you don't leave her out
of this."
“Tell me what you came here for."
"You see right through me. What did I come here
for?"
“I'm asking you.”
“This is getting silly.”
“Tell me what you broke in here for, and I'll let
you go."
"Really, I don't know, Tussard. I was drunk. And you
have to let me go anyhow.”
“Do I? I'll have you put away where they make paper
flowers, if you keep talking like that. Suppose the com-
pany, suppose Mr Holcomb here, wants to bring charges


go
“THERE WAS A
against you. Illegal entry, my young friend. You went to
college, didn't you? Didn't they teach you anything
there? You're in a tough jam, young fellow. Didn't they
teach you any sense?".
“For God, for Country and for Yale. Maybe I did it
all for Yale."
Holcomb intervened. “We won't bring any charges,
Tussard. I talked it over with the boss. I don't see how
you can figure he had any grudge against the company,
and I don't think it was possible for him to get on the
terrace last night, even if he had a reason for killing
anybody. And this isn't getting us anywhere ...".
Tussard's coup had failed. Raymonds, in cooling anger
and scorn, got to his feet as he asked the policeman,
"How about it? Is my time my own? Am I out of
hock?”
Tussard was cheerful enough about it. “Yes, you're
out of hock-for the time being. I'm warning you, watch
your step. If you want to be frank with us and come
clean, you'll find the law can do you a lot more good
than harm. And it doesn't ever pay, young man, to get
too cocky.”
Raymonds marched triumphantly out the door.
"Well, thanks, Mr Holcomb. We got to try these
things, you know. And I hope I'll be seeing you later,
Lord Broghville ..."
Bennett waved adieu. The door closed on Tussard,
hurrying after Raymonds. Holcomb whistled a single
ambiguous little tweet, and drummed his fingers on his
sleek hair, and said, "Well, that kid's in for it.”
“Raymonds?”
“He'll be shadowed. Tussard isn't satisfied. He's
shooting wide, I think, in hopes of bringing down some-
thing. If they can find a good excuse, they'll pull him in
again. I know.”
Bennett said, “This has been very interesting, my
again. If they I thinked. Tusse


CROOKED MAN”
91
dear Holcomb. Glad I came to see you this morning.
Ah. What was the young chap's reason for forcing into
the place last night?”
"He's funny. Nice kid, but I'm damned if I can really
figure him out."
“No. I should like to meet Miss Crofts and her aunt.
The moral of that is, 'tis love, 'tis love! Eh?”
Bennett, putting his pipe in his pocket and rising,
asked, “Lunch?”
"No time,” Holcomb complained. “I'll have to get a
tray sent up."
"Beastly practice.” Bennett shuddered delicately.
"Can't help it."
"Perhaps not. I'm keeping you from your hell? Most
interesting, Holcomb. I must go. By the way, would
Miss Emma Whittacker be at her shop?”
“Look out for her, Bennett.”
"Ah? Why?”
"A nice old soul-but slightly cracked about some
things. This is one of the places she's cracked about.
Anyhow, she'll ask you to help finance her to open a
bridge club or a circulating library or a stray-kitten ex-
change or something in the first five minutes she talks
to you."
Bennett sighed. "My dear Holcomb!”.
"She thinks she's a businesswoman. She isn't. If what
Ann Crofts says is true, she's practically on the rocks.
Ann does what she can to keep things going.”
“Successfully?”
Holcomb stroked his hair and stared Bennett in the
eye, frank as any incorrigible diplomat. After thought,
he admitted, “She has her troubles. A tough racket, mak-


92
"THERE WAS A
ing money these days. I heard the aunt isn't above bor-
rowing a little dough where she can, here and there, and
not worrying much about how she's going to pay it back.
And I happened to think, you're the kind of meat she
likes. You're rich, sir, and you're too much of a gentle-
man to tell a lady to go to hell when she gets you in
a tight corner. Ann tries to keep her straight, and Aunt
Emma tries to go crooked. Gives them something to
do, anyhow.”
Bennett listened to this as he crossed the room to
the door. Holcomb, in a surge of politeness, jumped up
from the desk as he talked, and sprang to the door to
open it for Bennett. The door was opened. The com-
parative calm of Christien's private office promptly went
to shreds, like a bed-sheet in a typhoon.
Miss Bannerman was at the heart of the disturbance,
juggling a busy telephone over her typewriter.
“Oh, Mr Holcomb. I can't get Hopkins for you. Mr
Levison is taking care of Withers. Mr Suttro's office just
tried to leave a message, and we got cut off. Trying to
get him back. This phone is absolutely crazy. Is there
anybody called Lord Broghville here, do you know ?"
Holcomb said “What about him?"
“Calls for him. By the way, Ann Crofts came in a
minute ago, she wants to see you, she's sitting outside
in the hall. I was told not to disturb you till the police
were through in there."
“And Broghville?” said Bennett.
"A man named Hope called him from the Ritz, and
wants him to call back. Are you Lord Broghville? The
Civic Committee also called you, and wanted you to
get in touch with—_"


CROOKED MAN”.
93
“No matter. Others?”
"A Mr Podham-Jones asking if he could find you
here And?" the newspaalls were head in a Don't li
“Then the newspapers. Mr Levison had to talk to
them. Three of the calls were from downstairs--
Holcomb was pushing his head in at Levison's door.
“Hello? Spare a minute, Mr Levison? Don't like to dis-
turb you, but,” Levison came out. “This is Mr Ben-
nett. Or Lord Broghville. What about the newspapers?
Miss Bannerman told us--
Bennett by this time had got Hope on the telephone.
“Hello? Quite safe. . . . Ah, really? Nonsense. Keep
away from them. . . . Make those arrangements with
Podham-Jones. . . . No, not lunch with anybody, Civic,
rural or supernal. My excuses, I'm drunk as a don,
lewd as a tom cat, infected with the pox, can't, won't,
or I'm not here. Very annoying. ... Nothing else now.
I understand your warning. I shall be most careful.
Good-bye.”
Levison took over the difficulty, which was somewhat
beyond Holcomb's ability to cope.
"I just denied,” said Levison, “that you even existed,
sir. The newspaper men know you're here."
“Indeed.”
"I thought you'd probably feel like avoiding them.
You don't want to be interviewed on the street.”
“Precisely."
"We'll have to get you out without them seeing you.”
“Yes. They're everywhere. At my hotel, too. How
can I get away?”
“I'll take you, sir.”
“Why do they want me?”
"Somebody's been doing mental arithmetic. They're
figuring from the conjunction of two heavenly bodies,
yourself, that is, and this place. They know you didn't


94 “THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN"
come here to talk about architecture and the weather.”
“Quite. They want Startling Disclosures, I believe
they're called.”
“That's it.”
“Lunch, Levison? Or dare we go to lunch together?”
“Better not, sir.”
“I agree.”
“Too bad.”
“Much too bad. Now, if you please, take me away


CHAPTER SEVEN :
AUNT EMMA WHITTACKER, POOR woman, usually had on
her hands a few unrented or unrentable flats, and her
niece, Miss Ann Crofts, was consequently expected to
enjoy these uncomfortable lodgings because she lived
in them at no cost to herself. This about the flats was
one of the few advantageous aspects of the Whittacker
business enterprises.
Aunt Emma in these days lived at the Plaza. Ann
Crofts lived in a gloomy cave recently lathered with
fresh pink paint and full of its smell, in awkward nar-
row rooms with radiators that gave off steam and warmth
at unexpected intervals; and a fearful six steep flights
above Thirty-sixth Street near Park Avenue. These
wonders were tempered by horrible and momentarily
fashionable Victorian furniture. The furniture was sec-
ond-hand. It creaked and tapped and groaned to itself,
full of its memories, through the still hours of the night.
However, Ann was reasonably content with it all.
The Whittacker business affairs had long been hope-
lessly involved. Of late, they had grown strangely fickle
and upsetting, particularly when bank balances believed
to be running into adequate thousands came suddenly
grinning in the guise of overdraughts. Ann felt these
days that almost any fantastic misfortune might pop out
of the next letter she opened, or the next. Besides honey,
eggs, the American Lady, real estate, decorating, and an
abortive project for supplying children's parties with
95


96
“THERE WAS A
cakes baked in the shape of bears, camels, whales and
toads, there was the Basque Shop. This alone made a
profit. The profit was slight, and perhaps pitiful. Ann
herself managed this venture-and watched with despair
and vain struggles as the slight, pitiful profit trickled
away into the perdition of Aunt Emma's other schemes.
If any quality set Ann Crofts a notch above the other
young women not long out of Vassar, it was her stead-
fastness in the face of this adversity, and the fact that
she very seldom wrestled with her soul.
Now as she hurried across Chelsea Court from Moore
House to the theatre, she swung her legs in long strides
and squinted up at the bright noonday sun, indulging in
a slight mutiny of spirit and avoiding at the same time
a perambulator loaded with twins. The mutiny involved
a sudden wish to pack up for the Adirondacks and go
fishing. Ann was the sort who liked to fish.
The shadow of Moore House covered her path, her
complicated anxieties came trooping back to their
places. She had a bad habit of looking out for other
people, when she ought to be busy as the devil with
troubles of her own, and she wondered why. Then,
entering the Executive Office door, she wondered about
her nose. In New York, nothing is wondered through
to a conclusion. After a smile from the grizzled guard
in uniform, she stepped into the elevator, and put her
nose in shape on the way up, and thought of the words
she would use to get from Levison or Holcomb the in-
formation she so badly wanted.
In this way, it happened that Ann Crofts was waiting
in a leather chair in the passage outside the executive
offices (exactly where she had been sitting the night
before) and tapping a neat shoe on the carpet, and
thinking with faint indignation that in business it
seemed quite the proper thing to do, to keep a woman


CROOKED MAN”.
97
waiting. In truth, she was bothered by a fear she had
never confessed to herself, and she was working hard to
keep it out of her mind.
Tussard and Raymonds had gone away shortly be-
fore, by way of the Nineteenth Street stage door. She
didn't know this.
First to come stalking out of the office towards her
was that elderly, clean-shaven Jupiter in the Savile Row
furnishings—the great Lord Broghville. He was angry,
or amused on a celestial scale, or merely in a Jovian
hurry with his thunderbolts clutched in a strong gloved
hand. Behind him came the clerklike Holcomb, and
behind him, the unruffled Lowes Levison like a broad-
minded raven. Ann got up from her chair, confronted
them. Not one (as Bennett marked with an approving
eye) to slink or simper or sniff in girlish diffidence, Ann
went immediately for what she wanted.
Louis Holcomb said, “Hello! Gosh, I forgot you were
waiting, Miss Crofts. Awfully sorry to "
She waved aside his apologies. "Hello, Louis. Doesn't
matter. Hello, Lowes. Tell me, has Hobey Raymonds
been up here yet?”
"He just went out a few minutes ago.”
"I only ran over because” she frowned, then smiled
to cover up the implications of the frown "_because
Hobey's such an idiot. I was worried about how he'd
make out."
"I'm sure Hobey isn't mixed up in this."
"Everybody,” said Ann, "is sure of the same thing
about everybody who was up here last night. It's just
that-that Hobey's such an idiot. Tony Suttro promised
to put in a word for him. And I thought it wouldn't hurt
if I saw you. Thanks a lot, anyhow ..."
Geoffrey Bennett, mild as the morning now, had
stopped with Levison to wait. He observed the tailored


98
“THERE WAS A
suit, the small cleft in Ann's firmly graceful chin, her
brown eyes, aventurine, direct, soft, and unembarrassed.
When there was opportunity, he intruded with gentle
benevolence, surprising, like an old lion begging for
sugar. “Miss Crofts, I presume?"
Levison took on the responsibility of an introduction.
Ann said, “How do you do? I thought I saw you here
last night. I suppose you're the reason for those re-
porters downstairs?”.
“Alas, I am. Unfortunately."
Ann, wondering about Broghville, where he fitted,
what influence he had, how he was disposed, slipped into
an excellent Schiaparelli attitude with a hip slightly
canted, an elbow cocked. “Reporters and reporters. One
of them's an awful mess of a woman from the Mail, one
of these people you find brooding over kitchen sinks at
parties.”
Levison said, “That woman? We were taking Mr Ben-
nett to a taxi. Running the gauntlet with him.”
"Don't stop for me,” Ann said. “I have to run along
myself.”
Bennett had the most charming and innocent manner
in the world. He bowed, and with the greatest ease
and naturalness offered his arm. He said, "Dashed if I
mean to take lunch alone. Perhaps Miss Crofts would
care to join me?”
Smiling, she said, “At least I can save Lowes the
trouble of coming all the way down. There's no need
for them to see you out, because I can take you past
the reporters without a bit of trouble. I don't know
about lunch. I left Aunt Emma minding the shop, and
she gets frightfully sour if she has to wait for me very
long.”
"I'm sure,” said Bennett, "that Aunt Emma won't
mind at all. Where shall we go?"


CROOKED MAN”
2.
Because the enemy were massed about the office en-
trance on Eighteenth Street, Miss Crofts thought that
the coast along Nineteenth Street might be clear. It was.
They came out of the stage door and discovered Nine-
teenth to be empty except for a truck loaded with paper
boxes and a discouraged Italian selling bananas from a
push-cart. They made their way east to Moore Lane,
a narrow thoroughfare which separated Moore House
from the Theatre, and led to the quiet and serene quad-
rangle of Chelsea Court. In view of the conspicuous
bulk and dignity of the personage she had under her
wing, Ann Crofts was careful to keep an eye out for
reporters. Demure little shops, most of them not yet
occupied, lined the sides of Moore Lane. In Chelsea
Court there were much larger shops, and the windows
of these were filled with all manner of things, shoes
and shirts, silver and silk and sweets, in tasteful pro-
fusion. Chelsea Court divided Moore House into slen-
der twin towers, that on the north serving as a hotel,
and that on the south as an apartment house.
And this is the heart of the Chelsea Project. It is
much as if you said to yourself (Geoffrey Bennett did),
“Someday men will build wonderful cities such as we
scarcely have the audacity to dream about today; clean,
tall, compact, beautiful cities; not some mere modified
smoky hotch-potch of various buildings conforming to
the devil knows what mixture of frantic schemes and
swindles”; and saying this to yourself, you looked up
to the sky and saw just such a city confronting you and
glowing coolly above you in the confusing, noisy heart
of New York.
Highest in the Chelsea development are the central
forthright immaculate towers, the Moore House sky-
scraper, facing Eighth Avenue. Behind them stands the


100
“THERE WAS A
ART LIBRARY
LIVINGSTON
LIVINGSTON
SCHOOL OF
ARCHITECTURE
AND
FINE ART
7
NINTH
AVENUE
CHELSEA
ATHLETIC
CLUB
SEVENTEENTH
EIGHTEENTH
CHELSEA
OPERA
HOUSE
ANO
ACADEMY
OF MUSIC
NINETEENTH
TWENTIETH
CLARKE
HOUSE
PARTMENT
(CHEL SAC
THEATRE)
DE LANCEY
COLLEGE
MOORE LANE
CLARKE
BUILDING
COFFICE)
CHELSEA COURT
MOORE HOUSE HOTEL
MOORE HOUSE APTS.
STREET
STREET
STREET
STREET
EIGHTH
AVENUE
or
CHELSEA DEVELOPMENT
(CHELSEA ART PROJECT)
Built and owned by the estate of the late Dr Hugo Westfalen. De-
signed and operated for the public benefit by the Westfalen Founda-
tion, in conjunction with the Bennett Endowment Trust and the Liv-
ingston Art Memorial Committee. The Opera House is at present
under lease to the Chelsac Theatre Corporation.


CROOKED MAN”
101
bulk of the Chelsea Opera House and Academy of
Music, a squat structure, but not unpleasing. North of
this block is the high Clarke Building, divided equally
into large dwelling apartments on the west, and busi-
ness offices on the east. This flanks Moore House and the
theatre on the north, and in a like position on the south
rises De Lancey College and the Chelsea Athletic Club,
which, urbane, simple, sharp and clean like its twin, the
Clarke Building, establishes an architectural balance to
the west, and on the far side of Ninth Avenue, the Liv-
ingston School of Architecture and Fine Art, now barely
completed, completes the project. There are terraces
to catch the sun and deep subterranean garages for stor-
ing motor cars. The Project as a whole, a brave and ex-
citing reality, and, as Bennett thought, quite unmis-
takeably the fine vision you would dream.
Praise and misprision would be paltry, and quite be-
side the point. You might as well think good or evil of
the moon. Geoffrey Bennett, having travelled a great
distance (this makes for detachment) and being schol-
arly (this sharpens a sound critical attitude) and being
old enough to have a just sense of proportion as well,
came at once upon the very simple truth. To carp about
beauty or its lack in this seventh wonder, was a little
frivolous, like decrying railway engines because there
aren't flowers planted all over them. Bennett was used
during his not entirely colourless life, to appraising
the accomplishments of men; their bridges, that is, and
battles, their loves, monuments, parlour sofas and poems
and Sabbath social devices; and at the sight of the
Project in the golden May noon, the silver buildings
brilliantly sharp in a light blue sky, he was excited and
exalted. So much so, that he would have stumbled over
his own walking stick if Ann Crofts hadn't steadied him.
"Sorry, damn it! Clumsy of me!"
“Think no more of it."


102
“THERE WAS A
“Keep my arm, that's better, my dear. May I gape as
we go?"
These unembellished shining galleries in the air;
green terraces and gardens; unearthly huge halls
and concourses, pavilions, restaurants, and sunny
decks; all these lift themselves with amazing sanity
to the sky, and swim serenely there ...*
And on the ground there are shops, and hedges along
Moore Lane, and sounds of splashing water from the
bronze globe and the swivelled fountains in Chelsea
Court. In a room on the highest roof of Moore House
tower, you are assured, you may take tea.
Ann Crofts kept a lookout for reporters, in the droves
of bemused passers-by. Bennett sniffed at a tobacconist's
shop. She led him down the Court, where he boggled in
passing before the windows of an art importer, and then
past the freshness of the pouring arches of water in the
Fountain. Chelsea Project this noon purred like a drowsy
but well-functioning young tiger in a warm sun, and
moved suavely to its regular complex rhythm. Life ran
swiftly and conveniently, yet softly, without raucous
voices or sudden loud bangs. The whisper and click of
shoes inside the doors, the murmur along the stone
passages of the Lower Court, the low hum of their voices
(in the Public Library or Free Art Museum tradition)
resembled the whisper of a large and well-bred river
going unhurriedly in several directions at once.
The Lower Court was an underground square, lighted
from above through glass paving blocks in Chelsea
Court. In shape and general appearance it duplicated
Chelsea Court in a luminous cellar, but where sky-
scrapers slanted overhead in the upper quadrangle,
vague cloudy blobs of strollers wandered in the lower.
* A New World's City, by Anthony Suttro, pp. 87 et seq.


CROOKED MAN"
103
The shops, too, were less pretentious here. Bennett and
Miss Crofts descended to the Lower Court by a hand-
some marble stair, adorned with bright golden balus-
trades representing in enormous figures the Signs of the
Zodiac.
“Let's try it in here," said Ann Crofts. “There won't
be many people, I hope. I've never been here before.”
It was, according to a greenish Neon sign, the Lounge
Grill of the Moore House Hotel above. There were gold
chairs, and tables lacquered Chinese red, and orange
walls, and large mural dragons with chromium-plated
scales. Ann chose an inconspicuous corner. Bennett said,
“Ah, the tinsmith's delight!”
Ann said, “Do draw up a mechanistic chair," and they
sat down.
People in the streets looked into Lyon's window or
stared at the model of the Queen Mary; or poured by
the thousands into the cool Chelsac Theatre or swarmed
about their business in the offices or dreamed, a handful
of them, from the peak of Moore House over the flat
misty spread of the Five Boroughs and New Jersey, and
Miss Crofts said, “No soup. I'd rather have a dry
Martini.”
“Do have a dry Martini. I shall take one, too. Ask for
them, if you don't mind. Do you know, Miss Crofts,
this is the only country on earth, where I am even
slightly aware of my language. It is universal, English,
isn't it? Except in America, that is? Extraordinary ex-
ception, don't you think? Your people look at my mouth,
you know, almost as if it were a difficult trick and they
wished to see how it was done, or as if I might at any
moment imitate rare birds, or take out my teeth to
show to them. The Chinese and the French and the Pa-
mians and Arabs and Russians expect me to speak my
tongue. But Tussard, last night, seemed a little aston-
ished, and even annoyed. Disconcerting, I assure you.


104
“THERE WAS A
Perhaps you people are the only true foreigners left.
Ah, this is a Martini?”
“Yes."
They had the place entirely to themselves. Other than
waiters, there were only a formidable, hairy old man
and his wife, sitting over some long drinks and pink
canapés at the opposite wall.
J"
and childrenis. No vicrace-horse,
Looking over the edge of her cocktail glass, Ann
Crofts thought: shall I plunge right into it, or shall I
lead him on with preliminaries, like a horse to water?
He is like a horse. An elderly race-horse, or a battle-
charger, whatever that is. No vices, and can be trusted
with ladies and children. Sound of wind and limb. He's
far too big an animal to be sitting on such a little chair.
There isn't much use trying to make him think I'm not
inquisitive, when I am. And I've got to know.
"What in the world,” she asked, "were you doing with
Holcomb in Mr Christien's office today? If you don't
mind my asking?"
“Not at all. Visiting.”
"Oh?”
“Exactly."
“To tell the truth, I'm trying to get out of you what
happened to Hobey Raymonds."
“I feared so. Blunt.”
“What did they say to him?”
“They said he was a nice chap indeed, and then they
said he was an intolerable, ruddy young fool. They
seemed inquisitive about his coming into the theatre
at the time of the murder last night. And he seemed
reticent. I think that's all, really."
“He didn't have anything to do with it.”
time of the mout his coming ung fool. They


106
“THERE WAS A
"You went up to the offices with Mr Suttro?"
“He asked us to wait for him. He didn't know what
the meeting was about, but he thought it wouldn't last
very long. He asked us both to come up with him. My
aunt wanted to wait outside instead. She had to come in
out of the rain, though, so she sat just inside the door,
by the elevators.”
"Inside the stage door, I believe? Of course. Why
did you go up, and why did she remain below?”
“I went up because Tony asked me to, and it looked
silly to say no. My aunt had her own ideas.”
“Does she like Mr Suttro very much?”
“Not very much, I'm afraid.”
"Why?"
"He's done her favours. You know how it is. And
she has a foolish grievance against the Chelsea Project.”
"Did Mr Suttro seem so unimpressed by the gravity
of the meeting in Christien's office? You said, I think,
that he expected it to last only a short time.”
“He seemed to think it was a kind of bother to go
to it, that's all. He couldn't think of any reason why it
should keep him more than a few minutes.”
"Your aunt interests me very much. Enterprising sort
of lady, I should say. Why has she a grievance against
the Chelsea Project?”
“It's terribly silly.”
"No matter. I'm very discreet, Miss Crofts, really.”
“Oh, it isn't a secret. Aunt Emma tells everybody she
meets. She once had a scheme, you see, for making over
two of the old brownstone houses that used to stand
on these streets. These particular houses were on the
south side of Nineteenth. She wanted to put gardens in
the yards, and then furnish the rooms to match the
flowers in the garden and in the window boxes. Then,
of course, we'd rent the rooms. However, they tore
down the houses to build the Chelsea development. My


CROOKED MAN”
107
reasonable Jourt, and in this place
unless
aunt isn't very far-sighted; she'd paid for an option on
the furnishings before she found out whether or not
she could lease the houses. She paid a great deal of
money for the option, far too much money. She has
a very poor idea of how things are done. Naturally, she
couldn't go ahead with the scheme, and she lost her
option on the furnishings, and she tried to sue the
Project for the money she lost. Absolutely hopeless, of
course. Now she's very bitter about it. She doesn't like
to go inside the Theatre, particularly when she's feel-
ing grouchy. Of course, we have a shop in this place
now, right here in the Tower Court, and that makes it
very much more unreasonable. You can't understand it
very well unless you know my aunt. She's so-contra-
dictory. But there it is."
“She was, as you call it, grouchy? Last night, I mean?”
“Yes. In a way, it's excusable, Mr Bennett. The money
· meant a great deal to us, and when you try to laugh it
off, you can't help remembering how much you'd like
to have it back. It sticks in her crop, you know.”
“Dare say the police asked about the grievance?"
“Yes, they did. I know they think there's something
odd about us, about my aunt and me.”
"Why?”
“The questions they asked. They ask you things over
and over, and come back to them after you think they've
finished with you. They want to trap you.”
“They can't, I assure you.”
"It's a nasty feeling, really, being suspected. Neither
my aunt nor Hobey went through the hall to the ter-
race, Mr Bennett. Believe me, they didn't.”
“Is there some doubt, then?"
“Tussard doesn't believe me. He has a theory, you
assure you."" to trap you."
"It's a nasty
"What theory, pray?"
“He thinks I was covering my aunt. He said she went


108
“THERE WAS A
past me through the hall, and out on the terrace, to
spy in the window at the meeting. According to him,
she wanted to revenge herself on the Project, and find
out some secret if she could, and make them pay us
back the money we lost for keeping quiet about what
we had learned. And this crippled man found her there
at the window, and she killed him because she was
frightened at being caught--"
"Preposterous. That leaves the dead man's presence
unexplained.”
“It's so awfully ugly, to be told those things, just the
same.”
"Your aunt, however, was established at the stage
door."
"She was, but she ran after Hobey, and nobody knows
where she went. Hobey and my aunt were up in the
building somewhere, and they only can give their words
for it, that they didn't go to the terrace. And my word.
And that's not worth much, because there's nobody to
give his word for me. I might have gone out on the
terrace. Or I might be swearing to save my aunt, or
Hobey. That's why I asked you what they said to Hobey
this morning, and what he said-and you didn't want
to tell me. That's what makes it seem so "
"My dear Miss Crofts, I beg of you!"
“I- Oh, I'm so damned sorry--"
The past year of adversity, the past week or two of
indecision, the past sleepless night of calamity and its
present consequence, were mostly responsible. With
deepest horror, Bennett saw that Miss Crofts was about
to weep. Her eyes were growing dim and moist. Her
voice slipped awkwardly, her breath caught. She was
terribly embarrassed, and he was equally so. There had
been little warning for either of them. He said, “My
word! Here! Not that!” and presented her with a glass
• of water. She drank some, looked at him, choked, and


CROOKED MAN”
109
laughed. He was blushing, and his face looked like an
enormous white-topped beet.
It is doubtful that even the nearest waiter noticed
the disturbance. Ann recovered at once, murmured,
“Something I had for breakfast, no doubt. I've never
done that beforel"
Bennett wiped his forehead with the broad handker-
chief he pulled out of his cuff. He said, “How dread-
ful! Really!”
"Sorry."
“No. My dear, dear Miss Crofts, not you! Damn this
fellow Tussard!” He leaned over the table, like a kindly
statue about to topple, and told her, “It's rot, my dear.
Rot, nonsense, conjecture, insanity. Listen to me. They
believe Christien killed that poor chap. Well? He didn't,
and there's no evidence, and they know it. So they as-
sume Raymonds killed him. Well? He didn't, and
there's no evidence, and they know that. Well? So they
assume your aunt killed him. Again, well? No evidence,
and they know that. Ah, my dear Ann, men and women
aren't hanged on fancies! They will assume, and assume,
and you and others will suffer the torture of suspicion,
because the police must unsettle some one's confidence
and assurance before they can get to the truth. These
assumptions, and this torture, make up a system, prac-
tical, perhaps, if not admirable. Believe me, not one of
these assumptions of the police is worth tuppence in
itself. But they will turn more subtle and devilish, be-
fore they cease. Christien is in far greater danger than
the present suspicions of the police even suggest. And
you, too, will hear more than Tussard's trivial yatter-
ing about your aunt. I pray you, therefore, don't believe
such rot! Keep your head above it! Scorn these wretched
policemen's penny dreadfuls! And be confident that the
final outcome must be sane, or the silence of ignorance.
And now, perhaps, another dry Martini, and our
lunch ...?"


CHAPTER EIGHT
tha narro What againing else
THE LUNCH PULLED ITSELF together remarkably well.
Everybody, the astonished Miss Crofts, the hairy man
with the Planters' Punch, the hairy man's wife, the
waiters, the manager of the restaurant, and even Ben-
nett himself, had a feeling of pleasant surprise and of
warmth, as if it had turned out to be an unexpected
birthday, when Bennett demanded a cold bottle of
champagne.
“I say, does our unfortunate subject distress you?”
“No, not in the least."
"I mean, such a narrow squeak.”
"I'm not going to do that again.”
"I confess, I can't think of anything else to talk about.
The victim, particularly." ..
“Have they identified him?"
"I think not. No.”
"I saw him once before, you know."
"You saw him? Really?"
“Tussard thinks I ought to be able to tell him more
about him, but I can't.”
“Where did you see him?"
“Here, in the Lower Court. Outside our shop."
“When?"
"A week ago. The fifteenth. I'd just got a shipment
of dolls that came through Customs that afternoon, and
I stayed late to go over them. It was about ten o'clock
at night, or a little after, when I saw him.”
110


“THERE WAS A CROOKED. MAN” 111
my should, a very op: I heard my back to had to mact, I
"He came to your shop?"
“Yes. I don't mind admitting I was scared a pale
green. You know what he looked like, don't you? Dead,
that is. Alive, he gave you a shock. He wasn't-exactly
attractive.”
“No. You were alone?"
“Yes, alone in the shop. I had the door unlocked be-
hind me. I was unpacking the dolls and checking them
off on the list. I'm afraid my mind was way off; in fact, I
was thinking about the theatre party I had to miss. I
was kneeling on a rug, with my back to the Court and
the front of the shop. I heard a sort of rattle and scrape
at the door, a very peculiar kind of noise. I looked over
my shoulder. There he was, standing outside the door,
trying to open it. He had his cane in his hand, and it
was scraping on the glass and tapping against it when he
moved his hand. You know he had only one hand. The
door is just a long pane of glass, and I could see all of
him. I was-well, frightened out of my wits. I must have
gaped at him like an idiot. He looked at me for a sec-
ond, and then just turned and walked away. When I got
up and went to the door-when I pulled myself together,
you know-he was out of sight. There wasn't anybody in
the Lower Court at all.”
"Why did he go away?”.
“The look on my face, I think. He may have been
afraid I'd scream. Though I don't think I've ever
screamed in my life.”
“How was he dressed?"
"Just the same as last night. His face had the bandage
over it, and the black muffler partly around the bandage.
Horrible, isn't it?”
“Threatening, do you believe, or friendly?”
"His eyes were very bright. I don't think he was
threatening, really, though he frightened me.”
“You noticed his eyes particularly?"


112
“THERE WAS A
hat frighted. But his eye disappointe
“I think I'll dream about them in my dotage.”
“They frightened you?”
“No. Not his eyes. It's dreadfully mixed, really. The
way he stood there, the way he was crippled and-and
empty, like a broken dummy that they'd thrown out at
Macy's, that frightened me. Like a horror at the wax-
works, or something. But his eyes were nice, as I remem-
ber them. Rather hurt and disappointed, when he
looked in at me.”
“And when he turned away?"
“He looked like a dog being kicked out of the house
on a stormy night.”
“Ah. Graphic.”
"I couldn't help it. I was alone, Mr Bennett. I had a
little money in the till. The shops in the Lower Court
were all closed. It was a rainy night, and there weren't
any people coming down here. I couldn't help being
frightened. When he went away the first time, I thought
of telling the guard. Then I thought I'd been silly to be
so frightened. Just the same, I locked the door.”
“He returned?"
“Yes.”
“When?"
“Just before eleven. I was finishing up."
"He tried to enter again?”
“He came to the door while my back was turned, the
same as before, and I heard him knocking the glass with
his cane, making the same noise. He was trying the han-
dle again.”
“And?"
"I asked him what he wanted. I talked through the
door, without opening it. He frowned at me, and shook
his head. I don't suppose he could have done anything
else, could he? I spoke to him twice, and he kept shak-
ing his head and motioning for me to open the door. It
would have looked awfully silly if anybody had been


114
“THERE WAS A
The man may have seen Hobey coming from the end of
the Lower Court.”
“Could he have left without being seen by Hobey?”
“Yes. There's another stair."
"Quite so."
"I never saw the man again. I didn't work alone in the
shop evenings after that, till last night. And last night, I
wasn't bothered.”
“Extraordinary. I assume you aren't a vender of drugs,
or a spy with the stolen plans of a new submarine. Yet
he risked appearing, to see you.”
“Does it mean anything?”.
"It means that Tussard isn't a ruddy fool. I'm very
much afraid, Miss Crofts, you're more important than I
thought you were. I'm afraid I ought to be very polite
to Tussard. I shall, next opportunity. Coffee? Now tell
me what you know about Raymonds." o
“He's really very nice, Mr Bennett.”
“I agree.”
“I'm glad you like him.”
“Why are you glad I like him, pray?"
“Because very few people do. At least, nobody runs a
high fever trying to help him when he's in trouble.”
“Is he often in trouble?”
"Almost always.”
“Why?"
"He's so much of an idiot. So off-hand, and honest. He
doesn't care in the least what he says about-about the
people who would help him if he'd be more respectful
of them. He hasn't a cent. If he weren't so completely
broke, he wouldn't seem so silly. His family was very
wealthy at one time, and he's used to that sort of thing,


CROOKED MAN"
115
and now he has to make his own living, and he can't
take it seriously.”
"Incompetent?”
“Not in the least. Rags to riches, you know, doesn't
appeal to him. If he found himself in anything that in-
terested him, anything that had real work in it, not sim-
ply fussing and being polite and dim, he'd do wonder-
fully well. Hobey's one of the really swell people in this
world.”
Bennett looked at the diamond engagement ring on
Miss Crofts' finger. “Quite so. Admirably courageous
chap, an excellent arrangement. You must be very
happy.”
"Yes, I suppose I am.”
With patriarchal benevolence, Bennett added, “May
I propose the proper compliments, what does one say?”
Ann looked sternly at the ring. Bennett finished his
coffee.
"As for Raymonds being completely broke, as you put
it;" Bennett continued. "I dare say his poverty is rela-
tive. Please believe I'm not in the habit of putting a
price to the jewels of every passing lady. Nevertheless,
that is a remarkable diamond. Its value, í fancy, exceeds
your-_”
“Do you think Hobey paid for it?"
"Rude of me. Hire-purchase, or what's it called? Quite
usual these days. My word, you will think me a ruddy
bold scoundrel!”
Ann laughed suddenly and rather wetly into the re-
mains of her coffee, put down the cup with a clatter, and
sat back in her chair. “No," she said, “I don't mean that.
Not what you mean. I thought you knew, I suppose. It's
awfully hard to tell you now. You see, I'm not engaged
to Hobey at all. No. It's Tony Suttro. I-we had planned
on getting married this morning, but this—the trouble
at the Theatre, you see-we had to put it off. At least till


116
“THERE WAS A
Tony can get away for a few days afterward, and he
can't do it now, of course. It's quite different, isn't it?
Now I've got to go. I left Aunt Emma in the shop, and
she'll be hopping. If you don't mind—”.
That was the end of the lunch, for good and all.
Whereas Ann Crofts and Geoffrey Bennett had an ex-
cellent lunch and good wine inside them, Percy Tussard
came streaking out of the Westfalen Foundation offices
in the Clarke Building, painfully unfed. He moved at a
kind of official canter, and bumped out of his way any-
body who got in it, without pausing for apologies. His
mind seethed with small wars, and cooked up fresh cam-
paigns.
Just as Bennett and Ann came to the Basque Shop,
Tussard was descending from the heights of the Clarke
Building towards the same place, descending at the rate
of 1650 feet a minute in an elevator, and thinking al-
most precisely the same thought as Bennett.
Tussard's troubles had better be explained at once.
In the first place, Tussard was a sound Tammany Demo
crat groping a cautious way through the Fusion Admin-
istration blizzard. He had strong fears about this case. It
involved extremely prominent and dignified people,
powerful financial interests, an institution (the Project)
of incalculable importance in public matters. Tussard
recognized the need for delicacy. More than recognizing
it, he saw and feared sinister shapes looming beyond
every person involved. The littlest slip might lead to dis-
missal from a position he had won by long years of ef-
fort, persistence and personal expense.
With this troubling him, he had gone up for an inter-
ecognized the importansts, an institu
and feed for deli in publicution (the people


CROOKED MAN"
117
view with a man as nearly in ultimate authority as any
he could get an immediate appointment with. It was
from the interview that he descended in the elevator,
not entirely enlightened.
From an early hour this Wednesday morning, Tus-
sard had been enjoined from a dozen formidable sources
to lay off John Boxworth, to lay off the Whittacker and
Crofts women, to go easy on the eminent Anthony Sut-
tro and young Levison, to be sure of himself about
Frederick Christien, and to fear the great Lord Brogh-
ville, lest he put a foot in it. What the hell could a man
do? Sound at heart, Tussard had taken his troubles to
the man of authority in the Clarke Building, to find out
what toes might be stepped on with most impunity. He
had learned little enough. The management of the
premises had no authority, of course. They would like to
see an unprejudiced solution of the crime, but on the
other hand would deplore greatly any unnecessary badg-
ering of their people, any irresponsible publicity, or un-
considered accusations. Of course, they would co-operate
with the police enthusiastically. And so on. All garlic
salami to Tussard's blunt nose.
So, knowing Raymonds to be under control for the
present, and believing the two females to be good for a
little more squeezing before their howls of distress
would bring him more injunctions from high places, he
made up his mind where he would try his next step into
the general obscurity. He had an idea the old girl (Miss
Emma Whittacker) could give him a strong lead to the
identity of the dead man. And that would put him on to
Christien. Christien, or Raymonds. He was sure of it,
and he relit a cigar on the strength of it.
Bennett and Ann Crofts made their way across the
Tower Court, and stopped at the Basque Shop. In these
early days, before the completion of the underground


118
“THERE WAS A
passages to the Subway, some shops were unoccupied.
The feeling of the place was like that of a new and
quiet suburb on a Sunday.
“Forgive my wretched blunder," said Bennett.
“It doesn't matter, really.”
“Dinner with me?"
“Alone?"
"Your aunt, too. And Mr Suttro, of course."
“Thanks. When?”
“This evening, shall we say? Eight? My hotel?”
“I'd love to. Aunt Emma would give her fair name to
eat with a king. You're being awfully kind to us.”
The Basque Shop was bright. It had little wooden
dolls in the window, peasant costumes of red and blue
and green, samples of lace, an entirely undesirable yoke
for oxen, some small hams and an assortment of pieces
of modern glass and silver. Among a display of these
things, and at a finely carved desk in the middle of the
shop, sat the stern Emma Whittacker, unconsciously
making faces at an open ledger which lay before her.
She wore benign, glittering glasses, and a curious hat, a
miniature lobster-pot of straw and plush.
She scribbled vigorously with a pen. Then seeing
them looking at her through the window, she smiled
vaguely and invitingly and waved the pen in a reckless
swoop to encourage them to come in. She seemed to be
under the misapprehension that they were possible cus-
tomers.
Ann said, “I'm afraid she's wearing her reading glasses
again. You will come in, won't you?”
Bennett would. Among the wooden dolls and the
glassware he was introduced. Miss Whittacker took off
her glasses, rose from her chair, and stared at him. She
stood, it seemed to Bennett, a good six feet tall.
Despite efforts to correct it, she still looked fresh and
bucolic, a fine farmer woman. Her eyes looked vague


CROOKED MAN”.
119
and startled, and habitually bewildered; yet they had
some native shrewdness, some keen spirit in them. It
was evident that Aunt Emma was a great deal less of a
dithering fool than she tried to make herself appear.
Her voice quavered affectedly, fluted and trilled, and
seemed to be getting always out of control. Her long
pink good-natured face yielded not an inch nor a shade
to artifice. Her fine silver hair, poked up into a shock-
ingly inappropriate girlish stack on the top of her head,
was forever trying to get down where it should be. Her
overly cultivated manner persisted in turning direct,
natural, unworldly, and quite agreeable. Poor Aunt
Emma, all of her, like a clipper ship forced through in-
sane circumstances to sail inland canals; she stood al-
ways in mild conflict with her true self, always a little
ill-at-ease and agitated, always a bit preoccupied and in-
secure.
Tussard stepped out of his elevator, turned towards
the shop. Bennett listened apathetically to a whimsy
about the breath of spring, and how it seemed (said
Aunt Emma) to penetrate even underground to the
shop, though it came on wafts of air that had been
washed, dried, tempered and exposed to stimulating
rays before it reached their noses. She offered this (hav-
ing filched the germ of the idea from the New Yorker)
in the unhappy thought that it would make nice chat
for the sweet old gentleman. The old gentleman was
trying to get in a word of his own. Ann interrupted
bravely, saying, “Spring my eye. Dear Aunt, it's prob-
ably a cat with a batch of kittens in the ventilating
pipes."
“My dear little girl," protested Aunt Emma. “What a
thing to say! I call her my little girl, Mr Bennett, be-
cause she's the daughter of my younger sister, who died
(poor thing) before Ann could even know her. We've
been like mother and-” Emma Whittacker reminiscent,


120 “THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN"
seeing Tussard come into the shop, turned abruptly
into Emma Whittacker the Sharp Businesswoman
"_Good day, and what can I do for you, please?”
"Hello," said Tussard. He had one of the honey ads
in his hand. “Hello, Miss Crofts. How are you, Lord
Broghville? We kind of run into each other a lot today,
don't we? Well, you can get something straight for me,
Miss Whittacker. You know what I mean. How about
the names you sent these things to? And a little truth
won't hurt any of us. I'm getting sick of wasting time
today. What do you say?"


CHAPTER NINE
AUNT EMMA SAID A GREAT MANY things, some irrelevant
as Moses, some indignant, some incomplete and entirely
meaningless. The gist of all of them seemed to be: that
she had sent out her advertisements to unfamiliar names
taken at random from the telephone book, and that she
thought Tussard was going too far, taking such an atti-
tude with her.
"Yes, I know all that,” said Tussard, impervious to it
all. “Just the same, you sent that murdered guy one of
your ads. If you picked his name out of a hat, you can
make a fortune picking tickets for the Calcutta Sweep.
And that guy knew you, when he put a mark by your
name. You know him.”
She looked like an uncomfortable eagle and snapped,
“Who is he, then?”
"I'm asking you. And you know.”
"I don't know! And you can't prove I know!"
Tussard's ways worked best with criminals from bil-
liard parlours, dance halls and cheap hotels. They coped
not at all with Aunt Emma. With sympathy for him, and
tact for her, Bennett intervened. His intervention
moved her from bluster to apprehensive humility. Ben-
nett began gently, putting before her the copy of the ad
he had received that morning.
“Curious fact,” he said. "Forgive my mentioning it.
I'm not in the directory, I'm sure. I wondered.”
121


122
“THERE WAS A
Knowing the m pounce on ppose she dids
Her voice died. Her hands fluttered vaguely. Ann
picked up the ad, interrupted suddenly, “Oh, you did
what I told you not to do. Tell them the truth. Why
didn't you let me know what it was?”
Tussard demanded, "What's all this?"
"Nothing much,” said Ann. “My aunt has a queer
sense of proportion, that's all. I told her not to send out
those silly ads to people we knew. She said she wouldn't.
But she did. She must have. Otherwise Mr Bennett
wouldn't have got one. I suppose she didn't dare tell you
for fear you'd pounce on her and put her in jail for
knowing the murdered man. She's scared to death of the
police, you see. Or possibly because she was afraid I'd
find out and scold her. She hates being scolded, don't
you, Aunt Emma? Now tell them the truth, and don't
be silly. I'm going to the Upper Court for some stamps,
and you won't be embarrassed by having me around.'
Ann went. Aunt Emma was mute. Tussard said some-
thing, either, “Oh hell!” or, “Oh well!" with faint over-
tones of irony. Bennett solemnly examined a glass de-
canter until he saw Emma Whittacker draw a deep
breath and get her poise. Then he became crisp and
brisk, before Tussard got back from throwing his cigar
out the door.
"When did you send mine?"
“Last night. I saw you in the office, you know, and
Mr Suttro told us who you were, and I thought it would
be nice--"
“Quite so. When did you send the others?”
“Sunday evening. You see, I had Sunday to write the
addresses, and I thought Monday morning's mail is usu-
ally light--"
"Yes. You sent them all at once?"
“All at once. Yes.”
“How many were there?”.
"Let me see. I had seventy-five from the printers.


CROOKED MAN”
123
Ant soncurprisederer bad and ble supe may Priss
something for attracted hight have ta
I've got twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two-twenty-two left
here. And one to you last night. Twenty-three from sev-
enty-five makes how much?”
"Fifty-two," said Tussard grufily.
"I sent out fifty-two of these advertisements."
“I'm sure," said Bennett, "we agree that one of them
got to the victim, since one was found in his pockets.
Also we must agree that your name, my dear Miss Whit-
tacker, meant something to him, since he made a mark
against it as if it surprised or attracted him. Indeed. Any
suggestion that the murderer himself might have taken
precious minutes to mark the ad and put it in his vic-
tim's pocket, leads us into undesirable subtleties. It
would do the murderer no possible good. We may pre-
sume, then, that the victim knew you in some way, Miss
Whittacker. And you, if you sent these ads to your ac-
quaintances, knew him.”
Tussard said, “That's the idea," and Miss Whittacker
sat down in the pangs of mental indigestion.
“Do you know the fifty-two names to which you sent
those letters?”
“Yes.”
"Is one of them this crippled man?"
“No. No, that's the-
Tussard said, “There she goes again. Now we're right
back where we started. All right."
The ‘All right went with a short gesture of deference
to Bennett. Bennett said, “Do you know by sight each
of the fifty-two people to whom you sent these?"
“Yes."
“Yet the murdered man isn't known to you?"
Aunt Emma was without affectation now, and anxious
to make them believe her. She said, “I sent those things
to my friends, and I know them. You know your
friends, don't you? I don't know that-the man who was
killed. I never saw him in my life. I don't know how he


124
“THERE WAS A
r investigatighail undertakwood of you tourse
got my ad. I can't figure it out. I don't know how he
could know my name, either. I swear to you, I never
saw him before in my life.”
Tussard and Bennett exchanged glances, agreeing to
believe her this time, provisionally.
"If you have the fifty-two names, Miss Whittacker, in
some convenient form so that Mr Tussard can take them
with him for investigation ... Necessary enquiries, I'm
sure you'll agree ... I shall undertake to promise that
there'll be no embarrassment to you. Good of you to un-
derstand. Address book? Precisely the thing. Of course
Mr Tussard will return it as soon as possible. Believe
me, we're grateful for your frankness and your valuable
assistance ..."
Aunt Emma melted and smiled, thinking of the great
Mr Bennett as one of the most charming people in the
world. She wished he didn't have to hurry away with the
policeman.
As they left, Tussard flipped through the address
book. “Christien,” he said. “Holcomb, too. Levison. Sut-
tro. Well, that means fifty-two calls I'm going to make.”
They went along Moore Lane to Eighteenth Street.
Tussard gave in to ecstasies of admiration, compara-
tively, when he admitted to Bennett, “I tell you, sir,
that's a pretty nice line you got, if you ask me.”
Bennett said, “Ah!" He didn't know exactly what a
'line' was.
2.
They parted when Bennett could find a cab and fit
his bulk into it.
"I'll be seeing you, sir?"
“Yes. Dare say you'll have information about those
names this evening?"
“Hope to. Getting right at it. Maybe that cripple will


CROOKED MAN”
125
hook up with Emma Whittacker after all, with him car-
rying her ad around.”
"Perhaps.”
"Where you off to now, sir?”
"Ah? The park. Where there are birds.”
“That ought to be nice. Well, I'll be running along,
Mr Bennett. Thanks a lot for busting the old lady ..."
Tussard stepped into the stream of passers-by and lost
himself like one grey monkey among a cageful. Bennett
told the driver, "Go round the block. Stop when I rap
with my stick.” Bennett rapped when the cab had al-
most completed a circle. He descended at the door of
the Chelsac Theatre offices. The reporters had vanished.
Lowes Levison was alone in his office when the page
boy brought Bennett to him. Levison sat brooding at
his desk. Neither bright nor cynical now, but grave, and
curiously absent-minded and indifferent, he made a poor
forced show of welcoming Bennett. He said, “I really
didn't expect you today.”
“Dare say."
“Don't mind me if I'm pretty useless to you. I have
these occasional fits of indigestion.”
"Indeed?"
Levison's face had become solemn and haggard in the
hours since Bennett had last seen him. With some de-
termination that came into his mind after a brief stare
at Bennett, the dark face grew even more dark, as if a
perceptible shadow had fallen on it, and even more hag-
gard, sharp and bitter. Levison almost spat out the
words when he spoke. “Tussard's coming,” he said.
"Really? I just parted from him. Intended to pay a
few visits, I thought."
“I left word for him to come up here. I didn't really
speak to him."
"I shan't stay,” said Bennett. “I wanted to ask you,
what was the purpose of the meeting last night?".
Levison's face had had last seen him. w
brief stare


126
“THERE WAS A
Levison laughed, suddenly and sharply. Bennett raised
an eyebrow at the explosion. Levison suppressed the
laugh at once, and resumed an expression that was half
sardonic, half sick. He said finally, "It took me one hour
and fifty one minutes to make up my mind to call Tus-
sard. It took me three and one-half minutes, just, to
make up my mind to tell you what I decided to tell Tus-
sard. Very amusing. The question you just asked-it was
exactly the question I was going to answer. I hate such
coincidences, Mr Bennett. Irrational things. They knock
me off my mental feet.”
"Pray don't let my accidents of conversation take ad-
vantage of your indigestion.”
“I want to tell you."
“Very well.”
"I took it upon myself to look through Christien's pa-
pers while Miss Bannerman was out for lunch. Please
understand. Christien's personal things I put aside in an
envelope and mailed them to him, without looking at
them. I only looked at his business papers.”
“Of course."
"I found only one letter that was unusual. Everything
else I knew about. Here's the letter. I kept it out. Re-
member, I didn't know why Christien called the Execu-
tive Committee for eleven o'clock last night. I wasn't
looking for anything like this, to explain his reasons.
And I'm afraid I can't tell you one single fact about this
letter, beyond that I found it in his desk, and that Miss
Bannerman believes it came Tuesday morning, in the
first mail. She destroyed the envelope. It's her custom,
after opening all letters.”
Levison left his desk to give the letter to Bennett, then
returned to his chair and sat scowling blackly at the geo-
metrical pattern in silver running along the pale blue
walls. The pattern never completed itself, for each small
parallelogram was interrupted by another parallelo


CROOKED MAN"
127
gram, on and on to infinity. In Levison's head, each
small resolution was interrupted by another, despair-
ingly.
The letter had been typewritten on fine white paper,
and beneath the printed address of Suttro and Faunce,
Public Relations, De Lancey Building, Westfalen Chel-
sea Project, Eighth Avenue, New York City. The sheet
had been folded in the usual manner, and bore the date,
May 21.
Mr Frederick Christien,
Chairman, Directing Board,
Chelsac Theatre,
Chelsea Project, New York City.
MY DEAR MR CHRISTIEN,
I consider it vitally necessary that my name be
not included among those considered for the pres-
ent vacancy on your Directing Board.
There is grave danger of an injustice to me, and
to your company. May I urge with greatest empha-
sis that this matter be adjusted, for the safety of
both of us, at some immediate private conference?
May I ask further that you set an evening hour for
us to meet, and provide several discreet and respon-
sible witnesses? I shall put my explanations before
them and you, at that time.
I am, believe me,
Faithfully yours,
ANTH. SUTTRO.
"That,” said Levison, when he saw Bennett had fin-
ished reading, “is what gave me indigestion. And worse.


128
“THERE WAS A
I want your advice. Should I warn Suttro that I found
it? What's the right thing for me to do? Shall I give him
a chance to make some explanation to the police, before
I let them have this? There's still time.”
"Don't,” said Bennett.
"Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's," said
Levison, “and let hell pop if it wants to.”
“Exactly. You'd compromise yourself and the Com-
pany, I assure you, if you did otherwise."
"I thought so, too, but-I lean towards being too cold
and intellectual, I'm told, and so I lean towards giving
every man as much consideration as I can. Why the devil
didn't Suttro speak of that letter? He could have ex-
plained it, and covered himself, early this morning, or
even last night.”
"I don't know.”
“What do you think of it?"
"Curious. The signature was not written, but typed.
Very unusual. The letter was not done by a stenog-
rapher. Again unusual. The writer seems to have been
somewhat unaccustomed to a typewriting machine, for
there are clumsy breaks and corrections and uneven
spaces. For example, July 21 was first written July and
inverted commas and a dollar mark, then put right."
"Suttro may have pounded it out himself. Though I
don't see why, because he could have telephoned or
come over himself if he thought it such confidential
business. And Suttro isn't the kind of man to make up
mysteries."
"Tell me about him.”
“He writes, you know. Analysis of Experience and
that long thing, Spirit of Mankind. Philosophy for the
more literate of the Masses. Profitable stuff. Perhaps
you've read some of his things?”.
“History of Courage, was that his?”


CROOKED MAN”.
129
"An early work. Very ennobling. Damn it, I shouldn't
sneer. I'll never do anything as good."
"Fruity, as I remember it,” said Bennett, filling his
pipe and settling in his chair. "Shelley, and Cicero, and
Sir Thomas Browne. Do you write, Mr Levison?”
"I'm Frank Porch, if you ever read that kind of rub-
bish.”
"But I do, really! Most amusing. Frank Porch, and
this chap Wodehouse. You aren't Wodehouse, too, by
chance? No, of course not. The Bee in the Bishop's Bon-
net, you wrote that, didn't you?”
“During an attack of insomnia," said Levison. "It was
that or taking to drink. I started to tell you about Sut-
tro. He bought out Faunce after the war, and now it's
his own company entirely. Faunce is dead. Suttro is our
public relations counsel, which is merely nice words for
a publicity agent who's been to Harvard. Damn it, I
shouldn't say that. He does awfully well with us. We
are an institution. We have dignity, and a reputation.
Newspapers treat us with decent respect. And Suttro is
responsible for it, to a very great extent.”
“Really. By the way, your books must be very success-
ful, Levison. Frank Porch must be profitable."
"So they say. He is. My God, how the money rolls in;
and I hope you'll forget about Porch, Mr Bennett, be-
cause I'm a decent respectable business man here. Writ-
ing is my secret vice. Suttro, you know, is supposed to be
the god-father of Chelsea Project, and if you can find a
copy of a little book he wrote, A New World's City it's
called, you might read it. He advanced the idea of a
place like this over ten years ago. Interesting how that
little book was the germ of an actual development. Then
he was.close to the planning and the building, and nat-
urally, he took over the public relations account. A sen-
timental connection and a business deal together. You


130
“THERE WAS A
did say you'd read his History of Courage, didn't you?
Published first in 1914, I think; and in the last chapter
of that, where he suggests the future, you'll find a few
sentences which outline the idea he later developed into
a book, which later became the stone and steel of these
buildings. That's probably the greatest satisfaction a
man can have-to know that one thought in his mind
had grown like this into something beautiful, without
getting mucky and silly in the process, and to live to see
it standing ..."
Thinking Levison's envy for Anthony Suttro suffi-
ciently established, and not caring for further elabora-
tion, Bennett went away. Tussard telephoned before he
left. Levison seemed to suffer sudden pangs of remorse
momentarily, to be appalled at the thought of giving the
letter to the police. Levison would have liked Bennett
to stay ...
The commissionaire at the hotel opened the door of
Bennett's taxi, the driver thrust a slip at him for the
fare, and an undistinguished man scuttled up and took
a picture.
Surprised by the photographer, Bennett frowned and
stalked towards cover in his hotel. A man spoke to him,
and a woman with a dirty face crowded him and plucked
his sleeve insistently. He was jostled. This vexed him.
He cried sharply, "No. No. Go away. Damn it, madam,
NO!”
“Reporters, sir,” mourned the commissionaire.
“Really?” snorted Bennett, and vanished like an out-
raged god into the elevator.
He strode into his sitting room, where Hope, dis-
tracted, was answering the telephone. “It's for you, sir.
Will you speak to the gentleman? It's the Mayor, sir."


CROOKED MAN”
131
"Draw my bath. Yes, give me the telephone. Hello?
... No! Please go away! ... No, damn it! Sorry! Defi-
nitely no, and good-byel My dear Hope, the Mayor of
New York is not a woman, and you are a besotted fool.
Is that agreed? Now please tell them below that we wish
no more telephone calls put through to us. Reporters.
Oh, tell them quickly before the infernal ruddy object
rings again.”
Hope, obeying, coughed despairingly from the instru-
ment and said, "They tell me now, sir, there's a young
gentleman below wishes to know if he may see you
at--"
“Not mutual, no. Tell him to go away, too. The bath.
I shall want to think in it, therefore a spot warmer than
usual.”
"Yes, sir.”
The warmth of the bath did help to hatch out an en-
couraging egg. Bennett stood his secretaries against the
wall and fired instructions at them. Flowers and advice
to Paula Christien, a schedule of information for Chris-
tien's attorneys, a message to Holcomb about the miss-
ing watchman, who remained, it seemed, entirely miss-
ing and untraceable.
“The watchman did not leave the Chelsac Theatre.”
“No, sir.”
“He did not remain there.”
“No, sir.”
“Rot. Go away. Hope?"
“Yes, sir."
“About our train to Washington.”
“A private car, sir, will be ready at ten o'clock this
evening."
"It leaves?"


132
“THERE WAS A
"It leaves later, sir. At an early hour in the morning,
from the depot in New Jersey.”
“The door, Hope. I heard a knock.”
“Yes, sir."
Hope went to the bedroom door, where he got into
difficulties, a stubborn little maladjustment of inten-
tions. Bennett in his bath could hear snatches of squab-
bling.
"Don't stand mumbling about it! Devil's own draught
through here! What is it? Who is it?”
“A man from the police, sir. He says he knows--"
"Let the police come in. What's his name?”
“Tussard, sir."
“Tussard? The devil. I'm bathing, Tussard. Early,
aren't you? If it's so dashed important, and you don't
mind, you may come in here and tell me about it.”
Tussard stood in the bathroom door. He had gone to
the expense of buying a clean collar and a new tie, and
he had just had himself shaved. His face looked like a
fine pinkish-grey ham, on which his flinty beard had
been subdued to a mere sandy shadow. This flattered
Bennett.
“What, Tussard?”
“Came for a talk.”
“Then talk, my dear chap.”
“Last night I didn't know who you were."
"Really? Mind the splashing. By the way, who am I?"
"You know better than I do.”
Bennett sunk his sponge in the water and smiled at
the rising bubbles. “I shan't insist. Sit down, have a
drink, have a cigarette or something. I would like to
know what you're driving at.”
"You're important to me, and maybe I'm going to be
important to you."
"Am I important?"
"You know what I mean, sir. I'm not good at hints.


“THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN" 135
"I think so. He would have signed his name, wouldn't
he, if he'd written it himself? And he'd have typed it a
lot better, wouldn't he? He's an author, he types every
day of his life, he'd make a darn good stenographer in
fact. He showed me when we were taking samples of the
machines in his office.”
“What did you make of the machines?"
"None of them match that letter. I stopped in at a
typewriter store. The letter must have been done on a
portable called the Duplex, and that company's been
out of business twelve years. If you ask me, the letter's
a lousy fake.”
"Perhaps it is. But why?"
"I don't know. It's too damn bad that Christien's so
sick. I'd like to ask him a few questions, believe me.”
"So you shall, Tussard. I think it will make time pass
more quickly for you, if you look forward to the treat.
Do you suppose Christien wrote the letter to himself,
perhaps?”
"I just wondered, Mr Bennett, if he ever got that
letter."
“Oh?”
“The secretary, Miss Bannerman, opens his mail and
weeds out all the ads and stuff. She doesn't read every
letter. She opens maybe as many as fifty, and weeds out
the ads and junk. She doesn't remember any letter from
Suttro on Tuesday, but she says there may have been
one, though. In other words, she doesn't know. There's
nothing to say that Christien called his meeting because
of that letter, is there?”
"No."
"Why couldn't somebody have slipped the letter in
his desk today, then?”
“But why?”
“To cover up the real reason for the meeting, and to
start a fuss with Suttro.”
Do you suppose you, if you look for make time pass


136
“THERE WAS A
"Inference: Mr Levison contrived the letter and its
discovery.”
“I didn't say that, Mr Bennett.”
“However, you thought it, my dear Tussard. We'll
have tea. Do you take tea? Of course. Tea, Hope."
2.
Geoffrey Bennett swept his quilted gown about him
and lashed it fast at the middle. There had been swift
and steady sartorial progress, from the Roman Senator
in the Bath, through Bennett's bedroom and the busi-
ness of trousers, shoes and such, to the final march upon
the sitting room and tea. Stripped of the quilted gown
and fitted into his tails, Bennett would be ready now
for dinner.
“Sit down, Tussard,” said Bennett. "The corpse has
been giving you trouble, eh?"
"That reminds me, I got to do something. Tele-
phone?"
“On the table."
Tussard talked into it briefly, in monotone. He
sighed, put it down, went back to his place on a green
sofa.
“I got to let them know where I am," he said, and
picked up a petit four, which he popped negligently into
his mouth. “Um.” (He swallowed it whole, presumably.)
“The dead guy went to Boston a year ago. Conductor
on the train remembered him. We sent out a descrip
tion, you know."
“Not very interesting, Boston a year ago,” said Ben-
nett. “Laundry, that sort of thing? Even a recluse must
have his linen washed, I should think.”
"That'll come. Probably the washerwoman hasn't
read the papers yet.”


CROOKED MAN”
137
money in n t drink. 39 peopl
“Go on. Have some tea?"
“I will have a cup, if you don't mind. Excuse me.
That'll be me.”
The telephone was ringing. Bennett winced and
poured, while Tussard mumbled into distance.
“Lutz, the watchman," he said when he sat down
again, “never showed up. He's in uniform, you know,
and he ought to have been spotted by now.”
"Too bad.”
“Hasn't been home. Lives with his daughter and his
son-in-law. Son-in-law, he's on the Force. Never went
out, only with the young people to a movie once in a
while. Didn't drink. Didn't have any friends. Put his
money in a savings account. Seems like a nice, clean,
straight old man.”
Tussard drank his tea down scalding hot, and refused
more. “No, that's all. Just one cup of tea, I can stand it
once in a while. As far as the Chelsac Theatre goes, Mr
Bennett, we searched that place inch by inch today. I
can promise you, we'd have found a pin or a button or
a match-box if it was lost. Even if Lutz was dead and
stuck in a corner or a closet somewhere, we'd have found
him. We had a man from the architects' school go with
us.”
"Have some toast?”.
“Spoil my supper if I do.”
“During your search, Tussard, you looked for the
stolen announcement, I presume?"
"You don't have to bring that up against me, Mr
Bennett. That's gone for good. We all make mistakes,
I guess.”
“How very true. Is Mr Christien still guilty?”
Tussard took a piece of toast, spoiled supper or no
spoiled supper. When he had swallowed it, he said with
faintly perceptible overtones of apology in his voice,
"Well, you can't forget facts, can you, Mr Bennett? I


138
“THERE WAS A
got nothing against Christien. But I'd be crazy if I just
said good-bye, glad to’ve met you, and let him go. I ask
you. Wouldn't I?".
The telephone rang. “Excuse me,” said Tussard. He
listened. The message that trickled into his ear made
him snicker, and burst into little puffs of sarcastic
laughter. Tussard laughed almost never, it seemed; and
gaiety did striking violence to his face. It was sober when
he put the instrument down, but it remained slightly
sarcastic.
“You got a detective this morning," said Tussard, stat-
ing the simple fact.
“Yes. Not a very good one, I thought.”
"He passed out about half past one this afternoon in
a saloon up on Eighth Avenue. Couple of newspaper
boys put him in a Turkish Bath to sleep it off. He's just
waking up. He's trying to get some dope on the case
from one of my men, so he can tell you about it.”
"Ah!”
"I'm sorry you didn't feel like coming to me before
you got tangled up with a mug like that. He's stringing
you along, sir.”
Bennett raised his eyebrows above the far rim of his
tea cup.
“I'm on my way,” said Tussard. “I got a lot to do these
days. It's none of my business, if you want to keep him.
He'll soak you all the trade'll stand, and he'll sell you
out if he gets the chance, and he won't tell you anything
worth knowing, and he'll be tight for a week now he's
got a job. He doesn't get many. But it's your own affair,
sir.
“Ah?"
"You might ask him about the tailor. There's two
Plenderbys in the business. We got the wrong one first.
We got a lead to a man in Pelham, a man with a wooden
leg. Alive and kicking. Mapes doesn't know that's all


CROOKED MAN”
139
washed out, and he'll sell you second-hand gossip he
picked up from the reporter.”
"And the real Plenderby?” .
“The real one made the clothes, but he doesn't know
any name or address. Our cripple used to come at nights
for fittings, and he hasn't got any new clothes for three
years. He used to come in a taxi, and sometimes he had
another man with him, but I'm not expecting much out
of that line. Too far back.”
Bennett had risen from his place on the sofa, and he
stood looking out the window at the warm, hazy after-
noon.
"So long, sir. See you when you come back from
Washington."
Tussard opened the door. Bennett did not turn. Tus-
sard paused, repeated his adieu.
“Oh, and Tussard!” The giant back remained motion-
less and uncommunicative, and smoke from Bennett's
pipe tumbled above his head. Tussard waited.
"Yes, sir?”
“I'm much obliged to you, Tussard. Much. That's
all.”
Tussard departed.
The dismissal of Mapes was quick, clean and surgical,
like the removal of a diseased appendix. The only pity
was, the operation failed.
The private detective blew in on a gust of self-assur-
ance scented with whisky and sweetish peppermint. His
reddish little eyes were wary. He seemed to be saying,
"Here's an earful for you! Smart! You're sure to think
I'm smart! But not one to show off! Oh, you get your
money's worth with Mapes!” And from beneath this as-


Chu who as the bid you how, had abomina cola Holice,
141
CROOKED MAN'
guy who assists me sometimes, my assistant I call him-
only what the hell does it matter who went to see
Plenderby? I told you what he said. I don't see what
you're driving at. Anyhow, Plenderby wouldn't remem-
ber me, because, you see, I had_-"
Bennett murmured, “You lie abominably. You may
remember, if you cudgel your wits, that I told you to be
discreet. I particularly wished neither the police, nor
the newspapers, to know what you were doing.”.
"I don't see what you're driving at, Mr Bennett, be-
cause--"
“How much?”
"But this is a hell of a way to treat--".
“One hundred dollars. Here. Go away."
Mapes picked up the hundred-dollar note that Ben-
nett had placed on the tea table. He reddened, then, and
threw it contemptuously into the cold toast. He picked
it up again and put it angrily in his pocket. He com-
plained and explained, grumbled and implored, and
mistakenly allowed an increasing note of threat to creep
into his voice.
"If this ain't a hell of a way to do business,” he cried
to the crystal chandelier.
“Yes. Go away."
“All right. It's all right with me. Only you can't get
away with this, ask anybody if you can. You--"
"I'm not really too old," said Bennett gently, “to
pitch you with infinite pleasure down the nearest stair.”
“All right. Good-bye, Mr Bennett. When you get in a
jam and you wish you had protection, just you remem-
ber this. I ain't kidding, either. Well, I wish you luck,
Mr Bennett.”
The back of the Mapes neck burned with vengeful
determination. He slammed the door loudly after him-
self. Bennett sighed.


CHAPTER ELEVEN
IN A FEW MINUTES, THE DINNER guests would wander in.
Bennett happened to be alone in his sitting room. There
was a tap on the door, a sly and friendly tap. Bennett
opened.
"My dear Bauer! My dear Charles! Permit me to call
you Chas?"
“Good evening to you, sir. I brought up the news-
papers. I thought you might like to take a look at what's
in them.”
"No. Not before dinner. I say, I want to see you."
“Yes, sir."
“Must do a bit of prowling this evening. Will you
come?”
"It's my business to keep an eye on you, sir, if that's
what you mean.”
“Quite. But I don't want to force you into disreputa-
ble or dangerous schemes; I must give you over to your
Department of Justice undamaged.”
“Don't worry about me, sir. But I advise you to
be-_”
“No fear, Bauer. Had dinner?”
“Not yet, sir.”
"Have it, then. A good, stout dinner. I shall want you
at ten, perhaps earlier, say quarter to ten. Right?”
“Right, sir.”
Bauer departed.
Aunt Emma came early, and alone. She had, as she in-
stantly explained, a great deal of trouble keeping track
142


144
“THERE WAS A
ist it on himhe interruptionnn was fresh
"Really?"
"If I had something back of me, I'm sure I could make
my magazine pay. You have to push those things, you
know. I brought you a copy to look over ..."
She thrust it on him eagerly and breathlessly, only to
be disappointed by the interruption of the arrival of
Ann Crofts and Anthony Suttro. Ann was fresh and
lovely, Suttro dignified and adoring. His manner to-
wards Ann managed to be slightly possessive, but not
silly.
“A cocktail, thank you. The aunt,” said Ann, "has
been talking business. It shows on her like a rash. You
promised me you wouldn't, Aunt Emma.”
Aunt Emma sulked a little, like a scolded child, and
accepted another cocktail. Ann was relentless.
"You'll have your arthritis back, dear.”
“My dear girl," said Aunt Emma, “when you get to
be my age, you'll understand these things better. I'm
sure Lord Broghville and I are very good friends, aren't
we. Gin makes you thin. Sherry makes you nervous.
Look at Cousin Édna, from drinking port."
"But I thought that was a goitre?"
“What a dreadful thing to say!”
“Christien shows no improvement,” said Suttro. "I
called up about an hour ago. I'm afraid it means he's
worse.”
“Devilish,” said Bennett. He saw Hope flagging him
with an eye-brow, excused himself, and learned that
Tussard had got through on the telephone to leave a
message.
“What is it?"
“He asked particularly, sir, that I warn you to be very
careful. I believe this Mapes person approached him
with some tale or other. To make trouble, he said. Mr
Tussard assured me he 'took care of him,' sir. But he
repeated his warning, sir.”


CROOKED MAN'.
145
“Rot.”
“Dinner now, sir?”.
“Yes, Hope. We'll sit.”
Aunt Emma sat on Bennett's right, Ann at his left,
Suttro facing him. The table gleamed. Hope and a
waiter or two lurked in the shadows.
“Oh, turtle soup!” cried Aunt Emma gaily.
“Thin soup,” said Bennett. “Soup is either thick or
thin, hot or cold. What's all this nonsense about Epicu-
reanism? Silly affectation. Affectations can't afford to be
silly."
Suttro said, “Ann asked me to ask you to come to our
wedding, Mr Bennett. Informal invitation to an in-
formal ceremony. But will you?”
"Flattered. When?”
"I'm afraid we don't know. When circumstances per-
mit. Neither of us care to look back all our lives to a
holy moment that we have to recall as happening about
the time of the Chelsea murder."
"Quite."
Ann said, “I'm not sure, but I think we want a present
from you. Otherwise we wouldn't ask you.”
“To be sure. How rational! Candlesticks?”
“A clock. With chimes. I hate them. It may be next
mate them. It may be next
Aune. Emma
Aunt Emma lifted her head so suddenly, her glasses
almost fell. She breathed deeply through her nose. Then
relaxing with an effort and great sweetness she said,
“Are you really having tea with the President tomor-
row?"
“Indeed, though I'm sure he'd rather not. What is it,
Hope? You skulk about so."


146
“THERE WAS A
“Telegram, sir.”
This merely asked an interview with Bennett. It was
subscribed Joseph Marchus, Evening Express. Bennett
wadded it up and dropped it into his soup, which Hope
removed.
"Reporters,” said Aunt Emma, "are thicker than flies.
And so insistent. I read somewhere,” frowning at her
niece “—that champagne is very good for arthritis."
“What you'd call a Bad Press,” said Suttro. “They de-
light in a chance to throw darts at dignity. I can't
promise you much kindness in the morning papers.
They're making up for a lack of news with a rush of
inferences.”
“Newspapers are preposterous. Never read them, my-
self.”
“Have you read The Last Puritan, Mr Bennett?"
“After all,” said Ann, “newspapers have funnies in
them.”
It took a bottle-and-a-half of champagne and quite a
bit of time to get them through an adequate explana-
tion of funnies, which Bennett had never heard of, and
doubted at last if he could bear. Then, lifting a sticky
fork out of her bouchée, and taking advantage of Ann's
occupation with Tony Suttro, Aunt Emma said, “Oh, I
meant to ask you, will you do something for Hobey
Raymonds? Such a nice boy. It would be no trouble for
you, Mr Bennett, I'm sure ..."
“Do what for him?"
“Help him.”
"Indeed. How, pray, am I to help him?"
"I told him this afternoon to be sure and come and
see you and that I knew you'd fix something up for him.
Have a long talk with him, Mr Bennett. Give him ad-
vice, and make something of him."
• “Advice? No. Oh no!"
“Well, I told him to come anyhow and you can—_"
tro, Aung advantages de sticky


CROOKED MAN”
147
"Aunt Emma! Stop cadging favours. And put down
your fork. What does she want now, Mr Bennett?”
Aunt Emma drew herself back like a thwarted colt.
"I wish you'd be more respectful of your elders,” she
said plaintively. Then taking heart at Bennett's smile,
she destroyed the bouchée with a single chop of her
fork. “Besides,” she said, how do you know Mr Ben-
nett doesn't like to be told these things? I would, if I
were in his place, I'm sure I would."
Ann said, “The most curious thing about us all, Mr
Bennett, is our lack of shame. The first minute we
know you, we'll pop schemes at you. We'll try to sell
you things. We'll try to get your subscription to charity
funds. We'll try to get you to buy cars like ours. We'll
even try to borrow money from you outright, or get you
to back our crack pot inventions, before you're much
more than off the boat. Really, Aunt Emma doesn't--"
"I hoped you were going to make me an exception,”
said Aunt Emma.
“No. It's merely that you represent unlimited power
to her. A genie out of a bottle, with three wishes if she
rubs you the right way. You've dazzled her out of her
wits. Really, you ought to talk to her about cheese. She
knows a lot about cheese, but it's awfully hard to get her
started on the subject.”
They had got as far as coffee. Suttro suggested, “Why
don't we ask Mr Bennett to come to the Chelsea Roof
with us this evening? What do you think, Ann?”
"I'm sure he'd like it.”
"Ah? But what is it?"
"A place you dance,” said Ann, "and it's up in Moore
House--"
"And lovely music,” said Aunt Emma. “Do you like
to dance, Mr Bennett? Do you know, I like Cole Porter's
music ever so much, they say he's ever so well liked in
London, and I suppose you've heard Ray Noble in Eng-


148
“THERE WAS A
land many times. Do you know that thing dum-da-
dah ..."
Ann said, "Good Heavens, what if she should begin
to whistle? They'll think you aren't used to champagne,
Aunt Emma. You forget you're in the Haut Monde-
but you will come, won't you, Mr Bennett?”
“But I'm afraid I can't.”
“How rotten.”
Aunt Emma narrowed her eyes. “I'll bet my boots
you're going to look for the murderer.”
There was silence. Even the hardly perceptible rus-
tling of Hope in the background stopped.
Aunt Emma, miraculously clairvoyant, rushed on,
“Oh dear! It's another of those things a lady doesn't
talk about, I suppose. But I'm dying to know. Will you
act out the crime, and find out how the watchman got
away?"
Bennett said, “Poor chap!"
“And somebody will be killed,” said Aunt Emma,
“in exactly the same circumstances. Because the watch-
man had to come back and take away the incriminating
evidence. I know it sounds silly, but I can't help it. I
seem to be seeing it all plain as day.”
Suttro said, “But is the watchman still missing? I
haven't had any news since this afternoon."
“Chap's very much missing,” said Bennett. “Yes."
"Dead?”
“Why do you ask?”
“The way you said 'poor chap' just now.”
“I think we all ought to go to the Chelsea Roof,” said
Aunt Emma, “and forget about this.”
Bennett said, “Perhaps I could join you later?"
“Of course,” said Ann. “Why not? I've got to work
on Aunt Emma's books for last month. Certified Public
Accountant with an amateur standing. Things are a
mess.”


CROOKED MAN”
149
"And I,” said Suttro, “could put in two hours now
that my office is quiet. That is, if Mr Bennett doesn't
think he's being pressed to come with us when he
doesn't want to.”
“I'm sure he wants to,” said Aunt Emma. “It's early.
I don't know what time it is, but it feels early. Can't
you join us, Mr Bennett, after you find the you-know-
what? Mr Suttro can do his work, and Ann can do hers,
and I can go to the movies by myself, I suppose. I hope
I shan't be cheated out of this treat. Even though I'm
not used to High Life, as my niece tells me. We could
meet at the Chelsea Roof at eleven, or eleven thirty?
I'm sure Mr Bennett needs the outing as well as I
do ..."
The upshot was an elastic agreement to meet before
midnight in the Chelsea Roof, after Aunt Emma had
insisted enough, and Ann had exchanged a glance, the
sort affianced people exchange in these circumstances,
with Tony Suttro.
Thus the dinner ended.
sort affiance Suttroor ended.
The sky, this Wednesday evening, had clouded over,
and the city seemed covered by a dim and effulgent tent.
The air was still, and thickened with a curious haze.
Traffic along Madison moved as if it were drugged into
lethargy. Bennett turned away from the sitting room
window, looked at his watch, and asked Hope, “An elec-
tric torch. Have I one?"
“Here, sir.”
“How clever. Eavesdropping, or gossip with Bauer?
And my coat, please.”
“Yes, sir.”


CROOKED MAN”.
151
“Care to come with us? Trespassing, I dare say. Tak-
ing unwarranted liberties with the place. Eh?”
"Don't mind if I do.”
“Good. But gently. Reporters, you know. Bauer, will
you scout for us, there's a good chap? A cab.”
The three crammed themselves undiscovered into the
cab, and the cab rolled off in a devious loop towards
Eighth Avenue.
"I want to visit the Executive Offices at the Chelsac
Theatre. Can you take us to them?”
“Got a pass, sir?”
"No."
"Not through the stage door, then.”
“Secretly, if possible.”
"I think I can show you, if you'll treat to tickets to
the theatre. I haven't a cent on me, as it happens.
There's a little risk we'll get caught, but I think I can
work it if you're careful.”
“Good.”
Raymonds leaned forward and directed the driver
westward to Ninth Avenue, and thence down towards
the brilliant nimbus about the entrance to the Chelsac
Theatre, where a moderate belated crowd still moved
about, fumbling with purses, considering the entertain-
ment billed, buying tickets and going in, or inerely
looking vaguely up and down the vista of Ninth Avenue
as if hoping something unexpected would happen to
them.
The Chelsea Opera House and Academy of Music
had been designed originally to replace the old Metro-
politan and the barren Carnegie; and so to make the
Chelsea Project a centre of the city's musical life, as
well as its artistic carryings-on. The Foundation lacked


152
“THERE WAS A
funds to subsidize an opera season. Concert artists were
reluctant to try the huge new hall, in a strange part of
town. Inevitably, the Chelsea Opera House and Acad-
emy of Music became a cinema palace. A sore bruise to
pride, this, and the august governors of the Foundation,
if touched on the spot, wince and draw away.
In its assumed character, the theatre is like a grand
dame compelled to earn her living as a bum-boat wom-
an. There is something unsuitable in the air. The tiers
of boxes and loges are converted into ornamental banks
of artificial flowers; the dress circle is a place now where
smoking is permitted; the amazing facilities of the great
opera stage are put to ingenious service; but the general
effect is that of a monument to a mouse.
Even as a cinema theatre, it is barely profitable in its
efforts to compete with the more centrally established
houses, the larger Music Hall, the more ornate Para-
mount, the more stately Capitol, all in the proper thea-
tre district. The wonder is, that it can attract as many
patrons as it does to an uncustomary neighbourhood.
However, under the earnest and intelligent manage-
ment of Frederick Christien, it had begun to assume a
positive character, to draw a consistent and alert audi-
ence ...
Roughly, the theatre is in the shape of a scooped-out
half of a melon, placed upside down inside a shoe-box.
If you were under the inverted melon, you would be in-
side the theatre, with the great arching shell above you.
Above and outside this shell, yet within the shoe-box,
in the irregular space remaining, offices and dressing
rooms and audition rooms and the hospital and the rest
of it are ingeniously tucked away. The shoe-box repre-
sents the outer walls of the building. Expand this illus-
tration enormously, and take away any irrelevant quali-
ties of melon rind or shoe-box, and you might have some
idea of the place.


154
“THERE WAS A
the figures of a ballet wavered and spun in precision,
fixed to the movement of music from a symphony or-
chestra. It was Semana Santa in Spain-Seville or Gra-
nada or Malaga-and the space and colour of the setting
served as a frame for something that was part ballet, part
variety, part representation of the parade and the fiesta,
combined with the music of Albéniz.
Sloping down from Bennett towards the orchestra,
and over his head in the balconies, were the four thou-
sand or so humans who tasted the draughtless and tem-
pered air, bathed their senses in the soft darkness, and
absorbed at their perfect ease the ingenious diversion
before them. They paid their way, and rejoiced inwardly
in a delicate hush, a pleasing mechanical dream, a
smooth and caressing sensation of wonderful security.
All about, the vigilant and skilful small army of ushers
waited unseen, and watched over them.
Bennett couldn't smoke downstairs. He sucked on a
cold pipe. The curtains descended upon the stage, the
orchestra sank quietly into darkness below, as the stage
show ended. The audience began to thin out somewhat
when the feature picture began. The great cavern set-
tled under its spell. Then Raymonds touched their arms,
and rose quietly, and walked down the aisle in the dark-
ness, towards the stage.
They kept in the deepest shadow along the left wall
of the theatre. Raymonds whispered, “Go easy. If one of
the ushers starts for us, we grab the nearest seats. Pre-
tend we were just moving further front.”
"Right.”
"Keep close to me. Do what I do. Ought to be over
the other side. Call-board's on this side. Hard to get by
it. But we have to take a chance. There's an usher on
that side."
At the side of the stage beneath the overhanging
boxes, and at the bottom of the sloping aisle, there was


CROOKED MAN".
155
a patch of impenetrable shadow. Hobey led them into
it. He groped a moment. A door opened, and they filed
through. The door closed silently after them. They stood
in a bare, half-lighted passage leading ahead.
“Backstage,” Hobey told them.
In passing that hidden connecting door, they had
stepped beyond the spell of suave luxury and quiet.
Deep carpets, great spaces that hushed the sounds of hu-
man movement, had given place to stone floors on which
their shoes clicked harshly, and a complete lack of adorn-
ment.
"Wait a minute,” said Hobey. “We don't know who
may be up ahead. Stand here, and I'll take a look.”
He left them. Almost at once, he returned, buttoning
his black overcoat across his glaring white shirt.
“I guess you can smoke," he said. “It's against the law,
but we're not figuring on getting caught.”
“This, I presume, is the way the crippled man came,
on his way to the terrace last night?”
“Must have been.”
“Good. Go on.”
“Some carpenters are working on a stage set,” he
warned them. “Just walk by. Act as if you owned the
place. If anybody stops us, don't say anything. I'll talk.
You can back me up if you have to. All right.”
They came out at the edge of an open, deserted ex-
panse of twilit stage. Within a square cage, a room with
transparent walls of invisible glass, stood the gleaming
call board, a lighted panel of buttons, switches, dials
and telephones. From it could be operated with a mere
touch all the elaborate theatrical miracles of the house;
rising and revolving stages, fountains, curtains of mist,
showers of real water from above, clouds, shadows, illu-
sions of light, the wild magic for a Wagnerian poem of
visions.
It was on this panel, too, that the small round glass


CROOKED MAN”
157
shows. Somebody must be working in Levison's or Chris-
tien's office tonight. Make it as quiet as you can, going
out the window, if you don't want them to hear you ...
Hobey led the way out the window of Miss Banner-
man's office to the terrace. They found themselves in the
damp night air with a clouded sky over their heads.


CHAPTER TWELVE
ow liftedo Bentle with
BAUER SEEMED TO BE A LITTLE surprised at Hobey, who,
though elegant and apparently accustomed to the Ritz,
still had no money and was forced to ask for a cigarette
when he wanted one. Bauer contributed the cigarette.
If the Bauer eyebrow lifted, that gesture lost itself in the
darkness. Hobey turned to Bennett. He saw an uncom-
promising and inscrutable profile with a pipe sticking
out of it.
“What now, sir?"
“Find the corpse."
“Whose?”
“The watchman's. If it's here.”
“But they did look,” said Hobey. “The cops have been
at it all day."
“Precisely. We must look where they didn't look.
Only remains to be decided, where didn't they look?"
"And where's that, sir?”.
"I don't know. A watchman would have keys in his
pocket, keys to stores and cupboards and rooms. Surely
the police thought of that.”
"Probably did.”
“Ah. What would you do, pray, if you had a corpse
thrust upon you?”
“I'd be a dope if I didn't get rid of it. I mean, if I was
the murderer."
“Where?”
"Well, not right here, anyhow."
They both looked at the level terrace, and the only
158


160
“THERE WAS A
“Not till twelve. Cops quit this afternoon. Painters
can't work yet. Cops won't let them finish.”
"No one, then?”
"No. This part is all closed up. Nurse had to move out
of the hospital.”
“Quite sure, are you?”
“Nurse told Ann Crofts, Ann told me this afternoon.”
Bennett nodded, and moved forward. He descended
the steps of the fire escape. Bauer kept by his side, Ray-
monds close behind, stalking this unspecified turner-off-
of-lights among the high fire escapes of Manhattan. The
darkness was mottled with dim rays from the street be-
low, a deceptive and uneasy glow.
The two men in the lead came to the landing outside
the third floor, and immediately stopped. Hobey Ray-
monds felt his arm seized, recognized the signal as in-
tended to stop him, too. Still on the stairs, he could see
nothing of the door connecting with the third floor. He
could, however, look down the opening in the stairs
themselves, and make out that the bottom lights had
been left burning. Only the second floor, it seemed, and
the third, were dark. Then Bennett and Bauer turned,
and drove him ahead of them to the terrace above. They
stopped when they had got out of close ear-shot of the
third floor.
"That floor below," said Bennett softly, “is occupied.”
He put away his pipe and fixed his silk hat firmly on his
head. “A dim light inside; match, perhaps, or cigarette
lighter. Went out. No other light visible.”
"Nobody has any business there,” said Raymonds.
"Precisely. Afraid to try him?"
"No," said Raymonds.
“Can he be cut off?"
"He has to get out on the fire escape or down the
stairs we came up. Elevator isn't running. It was left just
where it was last night, down on the second floor."


CROOKED MAN”
161
On
“Good. If you and Bauer will come at him from-_"
“No good, sir,” said Bauer. “I'm not leaving you
alone."
“Damn you.”
“Go ahead. Just the same, I'm not leaving you alone.”
“Then Raymonds. If you will come at him from the
stairs inside, we'll take our post at the door to the fire
escape. He's inside the third floor door now. If we hurry,
he'll be there when we get back to him. Understand,
Raymonds? Above all, be careful."
"I know.”
“Good. Quickly, now.”
Raymonds slipped away to Miss Bannerman's win-
dow, through which they had come out on the terrace.
Beyond was the stair down, which would take him to the
third floor, immediately outside the fire escape window.
The third floor was dark. The fire escape door stared
utterly blank, a blackened mirror. Then, beyond its
glass, a point of light sprang up. It vanished at once.
Bennett, looking in, realized that a thin curtain on the
door obscured whatever the light might show. He
nudged Bauer.
Bauer, his lips at Bennett's ear, whispered, “Take it
easy. Let me get in front-” He pulled Bennett away
from the door. At the same time, it moved, silently, cau-
tiously, and quickly. It opened almost in their faces. Be-
yond it, the landing was black as the pit. They felt the
stirring of air in their faces. Bennett moved, but Bauer
sprang before him. All caution went by the board.
The open door on the fire escape made a vague, lumi-
nous blob which Hobey Raymonds could see. The fig-
ures of Bennett and Bauer, fleeting and indistinct,
crossed it.
"The lights!" barked Bennett. "Put on the lights!"
“Somebody here,” said Bauer, in an oddly flat voice.
“Keep back, sir."


162
“THERE WAS A
Hobey advanced, with his back prickling, in complete
blackness. He groped for the lights, found the switch,
flicked it on, off, on again. Nothing happened. Sounds
in the dark were deceptive. He reached out his arms as
he moved. They touched nothing.
“Keep the stair, Raymonds!" cried Bennett's voice.
Raymonds backed hastily. He had come too far into the
landing, he hadn't thought in time. “Keep back, Bauer,
keep at the fire escape.”
At once there came a whisk of movement, a thump
and a crash. Clear and commanding, Bennett's voice
said, “Don't mind it. We've got him.”
"Light a match,” said Bauer. The match never got lit.
The threat brought down a bedlam of confusion on
them. The trapped man seemed to be flinging every-
thing he could touch in every direction. He might have
been anywhere in the black landing.
“Stop him, Bauer!”.
“Stand still, sir! Don't move!"
A grunt, a scuffle. “Here he-” in Bennett's voice,
then “-don't!” and a decisive thump. The scrape of
shoes, the sound of running. A shape rushed past Hobey,
avoided his grasp. He spread his legs, determined to
hold the stair behind him against the prowler. Bauer
barked an order, the sound of running came again, came
close, close enough to reach, and Hobey tackled. He
caught an amazing burst of white light in his face.
Straight-armed! The legs kicked at him, and melted.
They ran away, behind him somewhere. He jumped to
his feet, and sprinted after the sounds.
He heard the crash of a shutting door ahead, almost
in his face. He, too, crashed in the darkness. His hand
was caught. Dazedly, he pulled it free. He felt the closed
door he had run into, and he heard, and felt with his
hands, a sarcastic swish and hum and vibration. His man
was in the elevator. The door had been closed in his


CROOKED MAN”
163
face. The hum grew more even, and the man moved
serenely away–which way?-down.
His face stung from the straight-arming. His left hand
throbbed from being pinched in the door. He was burn-
ing angry. He shook his head to clear it, snapped the
numb hand, and wheeled about towards the stairs. He
felt them with his feet. He faltered a few steps, felt the
wall beside him, got the banister rail. He raced down as
fast as he could. Below the second floor, the stairs were
lighted ...
Geoffrey Bennett, Lord Broghville, was wryly amused.
He found himself in the most ludicrous and undignified
posture conceivable. He could feel the rapid swell and
contraction of Mr Bauer's sturdy lungs. At length he
heard the somewhat anxious voice of young Raymonds
calling from the stair outside the landing. He seemed
desperately out of breath.
"Hey there!” he called. “Wrong floor?”
“Not at all,” said Bennett. “Are you safe?"
“Yes.” The panting came nearer in the darkness.
“What happened?"
"Chased that ... damn elevator ... Nobody in it ...
Too late ... At bottom when I... got there."
"Really? Dash the luck."
“Lights. You all right, sir?”
"Quite. Will they catch him, do you think?"
“Who was he?”
"I'm sure I don't know. I can't identify assailants by
their scent in the dark. Are they looking for him?"
“Don't know. Told the door man. Got a telephone
and called him. I hope they-_"
The light came on abruptly. Raymonds had merely
screwed a bulb tight in its socket. The scene was, as


CROOKED MAN”
165
After Holcomb came Levison. After them, several
blank, enquiring faces, and then a policeman. Very soon
the third floor landing was congested with rescuers, and
Bennett was disgusted. He had his pipe lighted. He tried
to keep out the fresh crowds, but in vain. By the time
a reasonable and responsible police officer had arrived,
every last inch of the place had been thoroughly
trampled and fingered.
Tussard came last, and brought with him order and
authority.
It was eleven when they took over Christien's office,
and put together the pieces. A large policeman named
Markey sat near the door. Bauer and Raymonds rested
in the leather chairs beyond the light of the desk lamp.
Tussard occupied the desk. He rubbed his tongue over
his teeth occasionally, in memory of a hurried late meal
he had left unfinished. Bennett paced up and down in
front of the desk, and smoked his pipe. His white hair
and evening clothes remained quite as exquisite as
before.
Tussard said, “You came here for a look around the
place, you found somebody prowling on the third floor,
and you tried to catch him and didn't. He got away. Is
that right?"
"Roughly.”
“All right, let's see what we can add to it.”
"In the first place,” said Bennett, "we came to find
the corpse for you.”
"And you didn't find it.”
“Quite the contrary, we did.”
"Where is it?”
"Our assailant took it away with him.”


166
“THERE WAS A
"How do you know?"
“I say, let's find out. Ask your man to examine the
top side of the lift. He ought to find marks of a body."
Tussard made a signal to Markey. Markey nodded
and left the room.
"Your idea is,” said Tussard, "that the watchman
was killed last night?".
"Yes. I was told he couldn't escape from the building.
I was told he hadn't come home. He hadn't come to
light in the building today. It seemed probable that he
was dead.”
“Why the top of the elevator?"
"Where else?"
“He could have left him laying out on the terrace,
same as he left the other fellow.”
“This murderer, I presume, wanted to dispose of
both bodies. He took the watchman first. He lugged him
to the readiest visible place of hiding, the fire escape.
Couldn't drop him there, no. Couldn't lug him to the
street, too far. The third floor he knew to be empty
at that hour. In there with the remains, then. Difficult,
you know, to drop a corpse in a bright place. Instinct is,
stuff it away. Where? Beyond the third floor landing
was the lift door. Convenient, ingenious, difficult to dis-
cover. Open the lift door, then, and pop him in. Very
clever. Even more fortunately, the murderer saw that
the lift had been stopped at the floor below, so that
the top of the lift stood on a level with the third floor.
No need to tumble the man down the shaft. The mur-
derer merely rested him on the roof of the lift, shut
the lift door, and returned to the terrace for his next
victim, with bright hopes of concealing both crimes. Un-
fortunately, Christien intervened.”
"Yes,” said Tussard, “that's a theory that fits what
we know."


CROOKED MAN”
167
“Pure conjecture, I assure you."
“I know that, sir. How about some conjecture on
what happened tonight?"
“With pleasure. Murderer suffers dreadfully. What
might happen to him, if you found the watchman's
body, thus eliminating watchman as second suspect, and
thus eliminating Mr Christien as first suspect? Horrid
thought. He can't sit idle, waiting. He must, he sup-
poses, remove the corpse of the watchman.”
“The watchman on top of the elevator doesn't clear
Christien," said Tussard.
“Not according to your evidence.”
“What other evidence is there?”
“The murderer's own. He may well have seen Mr
Christien through the window. He may suppose you
allow Christien three or four minutes for his crime.
In truth, you allow him more than ten minutes, pos-
sibly fifteen.”
“All right. I'll let it go for now.”
"Generous, my dear Tussard. Let's get on. The mur-
derer, in a fever of apprehension, realizes that the watch-
man may be discovered soon, and also that tonight is
an excellent time for preventing such a discovery. The
lift stands, as last night at the second. The corpse on its
roof, of course, can be reached from the third. The
murderer, we may be sure, has taken the watchman's
keys. With them, he can get about very conveniently. I
assume, not unreasonably, that he enters the building
in some way I shan't be precise about, and prepares
the scene by putting out the lights on the second floor,
and the third, where he intends to use the landing. The
lights are arranged. In the dark, he opens the door of
the shaft at the third floor, and removes the body to the
floor of the landing. Quickly as he can, he runs below to
the lift itself on the second, and raises it up to the


168
“THERE WAS A
third, where he next puts the corpse in the lift. He
returns to the third floor again for some obscure
reason__”
“I think I can tell you."
“Pray do.”
“If he was going to get rid of the body, he took the
clothes off it so it wouldn't be identified. He went back
to the third to get the clothes."
"Bauer? Raymonds? What do you say?"
"He was there too long just to be picking up some
clothes," said Bauer.
“Too long for that,” said Raymonds.
"Unless," said Bennett, “he stood in the dark in
dithering terror, waiting for courage to return."
"He was probably putting on the watchman's clothes,"
said Tussard, “so he wouldn't have to carry them in a
bundle. He could wear them under an overcoat.”
"Oh, excellent!” said Bennett. “He was dressing when
we trapped him. Dressing, I suggest, by the light of a
ten shilling petrol lighter. He forced our trap, sprang
into his lift, and vanished.”
"Vanished where?”.
"To the street. With the corpse? Yes. No doubt he
had a motor car waiting. The motor car, Tussard, is for
you to find.”
"I won't know whether I have to look for it or not,"
said Tussard, “till I find out if the watchman was really
dead and stuck on the top of the elevator, and if you
can play around with these elevators like that, and if
anybody used the stage door downstairs on Eighteenth
Street. Í got a man stationed at the corner of Ninth,
keeping an eye on anything that happens along the
street.”
When Markey came back, Tussard's doubts perished.
The top of the elevator cage, a flat and ample space,
had definite marks in the dust on it. These had more


CROOKED MAN”
169
than probably been caused by a human body. The ele-
vator doors, not at all usual, had locks that permitted
them to be opened by the watchman's key from the hall,
whether the cage itself was at that floor or not. As for
the policeman at the corner of Sixth:
"That's perfectly right, sir,” said Markey gravely.
“And it's just that he reported, at exactly seventeen
minutes to eleven when the cross-town traffic was going
through. A man with a very large object coming from
the theatre, sir. He had a little car waiting, and away
he went in it before the lights could change against
him.”
"That took guts,” said Bauer in the depths of his
chair.
"He had no choice then,” said Bennett. “Absolute
ruin raging at his back, a cold corpse in his arms, and
a city street before him.”
“It was McLellan saw it," said Markey. “Want him
up?"
"Later," said Tussard. "Not now.”
“How about the car?”
“McLellan see the numbers?"
“No lights on the car, he says.”
"Description?”
“Chevrolet coup', 1934."
“Get on to it, Markey."
Markey nodded. He went out to use the telephone
in the secretary's office.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BENNETT MADE A MOTION WITH his pipe-stem towards
Hobey Raymonds, who was staring up at the ceiling.
Tussard agreed, and called out, “Markey! Hey, Markey?”
Markey opened the door.
"Hey, Raymonds! Outside." Raymonds took up his
hat and coat, and departed. Tussard continued to
Markey, “All right. Let him go. And no visitors here
for a while. That's all.”
Bennett then composed himself comfortably in the
chair Raymonds had left. He blew out a fat cloud of
tobacco smoke, and watched it roll in the light on Tus-
sard's desk. He said, “Really, Tussard, do we agree?"
“Just about.”
“Um.”
"You can take one line, Mr Bennett, and build on it
and follow it up. You can say, this thing is more prob-
able than that thing, so I'll believe this. But I got to
take every damn line I get hold of, and follow it up as
if I believed it was the only one, and I got to believe
everything till my case breaks; this thing and that thing,
probable, improbable, and just plain no damn good
at all.”
"Therefore clinging to the theory that Christien is
the murderer; that the watchman is alive, and the mur-
derer; and, for all I know, that I am the murderer
myself.”
"I can agree with you on your theory," said Tus-
sard, “and keep all the other theories, too, can't I?”
170


“THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN” 171
“If you're clever."
"You see, Mr Bennett, I know something about Mr
. Christien that you don't know yet, and when you know
it, you may change your mind a little.”
"The devil. Really?”
“But I'm not telling you about it, Mr Bennett, be-
cause I don't know you won't go right to Christien's
lawyers with it, and I don't think that would be fair
to me. So we won't argue about it. I'll say frankly, Mr
Bennett, that my mind is open like a porch right now,
and just about as empty, and what you found out to-
night has changed everything around a whole lot, and
I'm not disagreeing with you at all."
"Good. Privately, you think Mr Christien has an ac-
complice?"
"Maybe.”
“Who?"
"He has a wife, hasn't he?”
Bennett said, “We may walk a long way, Tussard, and
stumble on each insufficient fact a hundred times over,
and grow old, and not get to the bottom of this crime.
It seems to me that all our little facts are no more use
to us than this, cumbrances to stumble over. Facts are
rot. The psychology of murder is rot. Indeed, all psy-
chology is pretentious rot, a cold puffing out of some
ancient commonplace. Let us both have the grace to
stop pretending we are logical and deductive. You think
Frederick Christien is the murderer; and you will find
your facts to satisfy the thought, and to hang Christien,
if the facts exist. No! And justly, too! I shan't complain
-if you discover facts. However, you and your opinion,
not facts from which you dispassionately deduce his


172
“THERE WAS A
guilt, will hang the man. I, of course, have another man
to hang."
Tussard said, “Who?"
“My mind, Tussard, is more doddering, and less im-
pulsive, than yours. I must wait. Perhaps the issue of
justice to a horrid murderer scarcely excites me, at my
age. But prejudice? My dear man, as you are prejudiced
in the opinion that Christien is guilty, I am equally
prejudiced for equally superficial and illogical reasons
in the opinion that Christien is innocent. Christien, you
know, is my friend.”
"I hope you get him off.”
"Generous hope. You likewise hope to get him on.
How it may turn as the murderer writhes and kicks the
dust about, I'm sure I don't know. Dare say, Tussard,
if I had an opinion, I could find the facts tonight in
what we both know. And dare say too, that if your
opinion were right enough, you, too, could find the facts
to put Christien in the dock.”
“Not yet."
"Who is the murdered man, eh?"
“That's right.”
"He came on his crippled legs last night, to the ter-
race outside. He was murdered. The watchman saw the
murder, and the murderer. The watchman flashed his
torch- Oh, Bauer! you know you sat on my torch, don't
you, at the proper moment? I had it in my hand-"
“Probably got shot if you'd lit it, sir.”
“However. The watchman last night flashed his torch.
Perhaps he was astonished, amazed. But he was killed
on the spot, before he could speak. Curiously, it was the
watchman whom the murderer concealed first. Do you
think the other man seemed less dangerous, less easily
identified? Do you think, perhaps, that the murderer
had brooded in his mind on killing the cripple one day,
so that the sight of his dead body frightened him less


CROOKED MAN”
173
than the sight of the dead watchman, whose death was
not premeditated?”
“That's pulling it fine, sir," said Tussard.
“It is, indeed."
“You say it's all a guess, who did it. I'd like to hear
your guess."
“Oh no! unjust!”
“Well, if justice is only a guess, the way you said
...?!
“Good God, I'm done!"
"You know mine, sir. I'd like to hear yours.”
"You'll hear it all, then. I made a frightful blunder.
I let the murderer know I would come here tonight.”
"How?"
"He came to dine with me. I told him, not explicitly,
but by inferences, that I would come. He knew, I'm
sure, that I meant to find what you, Tussard, had over-
looked. He may have thought me more astute than you.
At least, he got here before me. No coincidence, you
know, that I interrupted his arrangements to depart.
It was a kind of race. He won it.”
"Who was this you told?”.
"Three people-Ann Crofts, Miss Whittacker, and
Anthony Suttro.”
“Which is the one?”
“My guess? Suttro.”
"Suttro telephoned over here about ten o'clock or a
little earlier, and told Mr Levison you'd be coming
tonight to have a look for something."
“The devil.”
"Mr Levison was in his office, and he went across to


174
“THERE WAS A
Holcomb, who was sitting here in this office of Chris-
tien's and he told Holcomb you were coming."
"The devil.”
"Holcomb was alone in his office from that time, till
Raymonds called for help. Levison was alone in his
office.”
“Go on.”
“I'm just showing you what I have to do, Mr Ben-
nett. I check up on everybody. Ann Crofts was in her
little shop, alone. Emma Whittacker was down in the
theatre seeing the show, right here in this building.
You might have guessed her, and been nearer right."
“Go on.”
"Mr Christien was in the hospital, and dead to the
world. But Mrs Christien went out about nine o'clock.
The first time she left the hospital since last night. She
hasn't got back yet, because they got to ring me when
she shows up.”
“Go on."
"John Boxworth was up in Mr Suttro's office when I
rang him, and Boxworth says he was with Mr Suttro
from ten o'clock on."
“Tussard, my humiliation is abject, and profound.
May yours be so, too, when you find out the truth about
Christien. I withdraw my guess, if I may. I told you,
I think, I hadn't decided properly? Tonight's prowling
might be the work of the murderer's third cousin, who
heard him confessing the crime at family prayers, and
who chose to confuse the plot merely for a rag. Suttro!
I'll be dashed.”
“Going, sir?"
“Of course. Dare I stay? Get your coat, Bauer.”
Tussard said, “When will you be back?”
“Friday.”
"Anything I can do for you?"
“Forgive me."


CROOKED MAN"
175
"I mean, anything you want done?”
"Quite seriously, I shall start from abstractions and
work towards the prejudice this time. Could you give
me dossiers on Levison, Holcomb, Boxworth-and
Suttro?"
“Stuff I've looked up about their pasts, eh?”
“Precisely."
“Yes, I can. That's routine work. When do you want
it?”
“Tonight, before I go to Washington. Give it to
Hope.”
"I'll have it sent in a hurry. While you're in Wash-
ington, you can boot my man along. I sent him down
by 'plane this afternoon to look up the records on
cripples without faces. Disabled Veterans.”
"Good. Friday, then.”
"That's right, sir. I'll have the watchman for you by
then, dead or alive.”
"Dead. And Tussard!”
“Yes, sir?"
“Keep the dead watchman under your hat, as they
say.”
"I'll do that,” said Tussard.
Bennett and Bauer came out on Eighteenth in a thin
flush of late theatre-goers.
“Supper with Suttro,” murmured Bennett.
“What, sir?"
"Nothing."
The theatre-goers vanished as the two men strolled
towards Eighth. Bennett scowled at the empty street,
now glazed and cold in the light of the lamps. A few
parked cars made black shadows where they stood.


176 “THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN”
"What do you think of it, Bauer?"
Discreet and unobtrusive, Bauer said, “I don't know
as I think anything, sir. I haven't followed the trouble
very closely."
Bennett swung his stick at a crumpled cigarette pack-


CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE DISTINGUISHED OLD GENTLEMAN in the silk hat en-
countered the pretty girl with flowers in her hair, almost
directly beneath the great canvas representing the Civil
War draught riots, and he said, “I own twelve hundred
slaves in West Africa. Liberate them? Maudlin hysteri-
cal nonsense. Where is your aunt?"
"Late, it seems. Looking in the wrong places for me."
“And Mr Suttro?"
"Upstairs by now. Who is that man?"
"Bauer. He has me in charge."
“Shall we walk round the Moore House Lobby, Mr
Bennett? I've been standing here so long, my knees are
beginning to be afraid I'm an elephant.'
"Of course.”
“This is the Livingston School display, and these are
the New York History murals.”
“Art?"
“Yes, of course."
“You know, I think the Bovril posters are very cheer-
ful, and I seldom go higher."
"Let's not wait any longer. She's not here."
The Chelsea Roof has its own elevator in the eve-
ning. They ascended, and found Aunt Emma waiting
with Anthony Suttro at one of the little tables in the
Lounge.
“My dear child, I thought you said " .
"Not here,” said Ann. "Come argue with me while
I leave my coat."
177


178
"THERE WAS A.
Suttro said, “Nothing very serious seems to have hap-
pened to you, Mr Bennett. From the way Tussard spoke
to me on the telephone, I was afraid at first you'd been
really injured.”
“Silly misadventure."
“How about the newspapers?"
"I don't think so, really."
“Tussard may let them have the news.”
"I don't think so. Indeed, there was no news.”
“Good. Latest thing is, the dead man came from Bos-
ton. He was identified, possibly you heard-_?"
"No."
“By a train porter and a conductor. They'd seen him
a year ago. The hunt is on in Boston now. It's a reason-
able theory. If he'd lived in New York, he'd have been
reported missing by somebody, his family or friends or
his landlord by this time.”
"Very probably. Ah, there's Miss Crofts coming--"
They advanced into the Chelsea Roof, which is not a
roof at all. Suttro had managed to arrange a table on
the square raised terrace which surrounds the oval dance
floor, like the curb of a giant well. At the table sat a
beautiful and ineffectual blonde angel, who had the
very best manners and vaguely distressed eyes, as if she
were wondering what people thought of her. She came
from California. Her name was Cushman. Her father
made motion pictures. With her sat John Boxworth,
whose bright, polished red cheeks and fine white hair
looked especially grandfatherly. He had been asked,
it was eventually explained to Bennett, to take the
strange girl from California on a mild tour of the city
out of the kindness of his heart, and because nobody else
would do it, and because it was one of those things that
had to be done. Boxworth brightened with relief at the
sight of Suttro and his guests.
(The beautiful Miss Cushman danced beautifully
noor, like the currace which surrountange a table on


CROOKED MAN”
179
with Suttro once or twice, but confined her conversa-
tion to intense, empty stares, and nods and shakes of
her head, and was soon given up. She drank buttermilk.)
Boxworth, like Bennett, did not dance. They had
much time to themselves. Ann seemed to know several
formidably upright young men who dressed a great
deal like Hobey Raymonds, and several very fresh and
bright young ladies. Aunt Emma worked diligently to
catch the eye of an august and icy female novelist (tak-
ing her husband out for the evening) and thereafter
drank two cups of tea at the novelist's table while she
let it be known she was in the company of Lord Brogh-
ville. Bennett himself marvelled at the fluid gentle light
in the silver ceiling, and at the luminous dance floor
itself, and at the great windows which made the room
seem a fragile shell floating unsupported in a void of
night.
John Boxworth had an appearance of boisterous
cheer, of unrestrained good nature, of Christmas festiv-
ities and the comic spirit of Charles Dickens; he was
in fact, as Bennett discovered, a man of sound, sober
judgment and amiable quietness. The little blue eyes
were expressive. The small, amusing mouth gave out a
grave voice, thoughtful, mature, a little dry.
"Your first visit to this place, Mr Bennett?”
"Yes."
"Mine, too. I'm a poor roisterer. I'm afraid I only
do this,” a flicker of his eyes indicated the beautiful
Miss Cushman “—when necessary.”
He ate some of a dish of eggs before him. He sipped
sparingly at a whisky-and-soda.
"I was in Tony Suttro's office this evening," he con-
tinued, “when that fellow Tussard rang up. Something
about a row at the theatre, and you involved in it. I've
asked Mr Levison for more news, but I didn't get it.
What was it about?"


180
“THERE WAS A
“A prowler," said Bennett.
“Serious?"
"Not serious, no.”
"I ask because-well, naturally, I can't help wonder-
ing if it had a connection with the trouble last night.
Suttro talked with Tussard on the telephone, and he
seemed to think afterward that it was something very
different. A thief, perhaps, or just an inquisitive stray."
"Oh?”
"Naturally, it makes some difference to me. I'd very
much like to know."
Bennett considered Boxworth thoughtfully, as the
little man went on eating his eggs. Still considering him,
Bennett said, “It was the murderer.”
Boxworth's eyes widened. He started perceptibly. The
start he concealed somewhat by putting down his fork
and sipping his whisky. Then he said, “I suppose you're
sure of it, Mr Bennett. After all, you were there.”
“Yes. Fortunately, you and Mr Suttro can account for
yourselves. I fear the others are in jeopardy.”
Boxworth's eyes widened more, then came under con-
trol and were normal again. “Damn fortunate. I was-
by the way, what others? Who's in jeopardy?”
“Those who can't prove where they were, you know.
Those who happened to be involved last night. The
police are frightfully suspicious.”
"Then it wasn't the watchman?”
"Did you think it was?”
“Yes.
“The watchman,” said Bennett, "hasn't been dis-
covered. The police think he's quite innocent, I be-
lieve.”
"I can't follow the reasoning of that man Tussard,"
said Boxworth uneasily. “It's a nasty business. I can't
understand it, I can't even believe it really happened.
Tussard must be wrong."


CROOKED MAN".
181
“Why?"
“It would turn my whole mind upside down, to be-
lieve that anybody I knew committed such a crime. I
simply couldn't do it. I've known all of them for years.
Christien, Levison, Suttro, Ann Crofts, Miss Whit-
tacker, even Holcomb. There isn't one of them I could
believe guilty of murder. I'd have to believe myself
guilty first, and that would be a shock too great for me
to imagine. I'd resist it instinctively. I wouldn't be able
to help it. Possibly that's the real reason, Mr Bennett,
why I like to think the watchman's guilty.”
"Because he's quite impersonal?”
“That's it.”
Bennett shrugged. "Enough, isn't it, to be so fortu-
nate? You and Mr Suttro, I mean?"
John Boxworth said, “I don't know," and returned
to his eggs. If Bennett's intention had been to trouble
Boxworth deeply, he had carried it out very well.
Ann took Bennett to one of the windows, where they
could look into the hazy glimmering gulfs below, and to
the north to the bright mooring mast of the Empire
State Building, a pillar of cool fire against the feverish
clouds.
“Did you see Hobey Raymonds?"
"He called.”
“How did he look?"
"Quite well.”
"His clothes, I meant. I let him use my electric iron
this afternoon.”
A russet shadow streaked her hair, her cheek, her
smooth throat. The band had begun to play a tango,
A Media Luz. The dancers gave up a faint whispering


182
“THERE WAS A
sound as they slowly revolved. From Bennett's advan-
tage on the terrace, he could overlook the polite and
fashionable festivities, including the handsome Anthony
Suttro, who stood in an attitude of interest near the lip
of the floor, and John Boxworth, who stood beside him,
talking to him. Boxworth talked gravely, emphatically,
intensely. The round little man almost vibrated with
urgency, beneath a superficial appearance of calm.
Suttro was almost certainly being told what Boxworth
himself had lately been told; that the recent Chelsac
Theatre prowler had been the murderer. But Boxworth,
who had been profoundly agitated by the news, got little
more than polite interest from Suttro, it seemed.
“I must go soon,” said Bennett.
"Boxworth wants to go, too. He's talking Tony into
a coma.”
"Distressing.”
"Boxworth says everything on his mind before he
leaves a place, always. Everything has to be perfectly
arranged and understood. You expect to be back Fri-
day, don't you? I think our wedding is set for Sunday
morning. At Tony's church in Brooklyn. He sings in
the choir there, and-it would be nice. Of course, I have
to tell Aunt Emma.”
"She won't be pleased?”
"Not in the least. I think I shall let her enjoy tonight,
and tell her tomorrow. She takes those things better
at--"
Ann Crofts, too, had been watching the pantomime.
A solemn head-waiter or assistant-manager had skirted
the dancers and approached Suttro. Brief exchange of
statement, question and answer. A sweep of the arm,
indicating the entrance. There an uncomfortable man
carrying a brief case and wearing a grey suit stood look-
ing about him. Because their voices were inaudible,
indicatint question anached Suttro. bage


CROOKED MAN”
183
Suttro's little group appeared to stand out in noticeable
concentration. The movement of a finger or the shift
of an eye was distinct.
Suttro was startled. The answer to his question then,
left him blankly and openly horrified. Without a word,
with the utmost haste, he thrust his way through the
polite migration of dancers.
Ann said nothing. She touched Bennett's arm for
apology, and made off in the direction of Suttro, who
had joined the man with the brief case at the door.
Like a tide obliterating marks in the sand, the dancers
moved through the room to their tables, and when,
after some gentlemanly popping up and down, they were
mostly seated, Suttro, Ann and brief-case-bearer had
vanished. Boxworth was worriedly sipping the last of
the whisky. Aunt Emma was talking vivaciously to Miss
Cushman, the beautiful mummy. Bennett turned his
back to the room and stared out the window.
The case had readjusted itself for Tussard that night;
and now to the affecting melody of The Blue Danube,
the case readjusted itself for Bennett, though very dif-
ferently. It was scarcely a new suspicion, or a prejudice
against another man. It was a large alteration of the
design as it appeared to Bennett. It was a shift and un-
expected settling which allowed to fall into obviously
proper places, several of the puzzling and irrelevant
blocks. He was greatly, contentedly, pleased.
This readjustment had nothing to do with John Box-
worth's supposed guilt, and only a little to do with his
agitation. It had nothing to do with Suttro's astonish-
ment at the arrival of the insurance agent. It had noth-
ing to do with Ann Croft's coming marriage.
It had, possibly, a great deal to do with the identity
of the dead man, who had once used a train between
New York and Boston.


184
"THERE WAS A
3.
Ann Crofts touched his arm. Her chin had become
remarkably firm. She said, “This is going to be unforgiv-
able. I'm going to ask you to talk to Tony. He wants
to resign.
“Resign what?"
“Oh, he wants to resign from everything. You know,
don't you, about the Directing Board of the Theatre?"
“Mr Levison, I think, told me there was a vacancy
to be filled.”
“Tony expected to fill it. There was to have been a
meeting this afternoon. It was put off till tomorrow,
and tomorrow they'll put it off again, until this trouble
is straightened out. I'm terribly afraid Tony's going to
make a mistake.”
“What mistake?"
"You won't say I told you? I don't know if it's law-
ful to beat a girl before she's married to you, but Tony
would have a moral right. I'm interfering. But some-
body has to interfere."
"I shan't tell him.”
“It's very secret and rarefied, and everybody knows
about it. Tony expects to be put into the vacancy on the
Directing Board. He'd be a link, you know, between the
parent Foundation and the company that operates the
theatre. He has to pretend he doesn't know. It means
a great deal to him, to both of us, because he plans to
give up his writing soon and be more active in busi-
ness. And it's a terrific honour, the Directing Board,
even for him. The least word against Tony at a time
like this would ruin it all. He told me so while we
were dancing.”
"What sort of least word?”
"Anything that would mix him up in the case. Every-
body talks. A suspicion is as bad as an accusation. The
Directing Boardexpects to be ned, and everyh


CROOKED MAN”
185
Directing Board will be very touchy about anything or
anybody connected with the murder.
“You said at lunch that the police are going to work
up cases against everybody on the smallest grounds.
Tony's been walking a tight-rope today. Why should
the death of a man who's never been seen before, smash
everything to pieces?”
"It's quite unreasonable, my dear Ann. No doubt
Mrs Christien asks the same question.”
“I'm sorry for her.”
“Of course."
“The Directing Board is waiting to see what hap-
pens. Tussard seems to be waiting to pounce.'
“What has this to do with Mr Suttro's resigning?"
“He thinks he will have to, so that any scandal he
gets mixed up in, won't involve anybody else.”
“Scandal, my dear Ann?”
"Talk to him, before you go away. Somebody's trying
to implicate him, and he's discouraged. There was that
awful letter. You heard about it? And now there was a
fire."
“Fire?"
"A mysterious fire, if there's anything mysterious
about a house getting burned. He wants to resign from
Suttro and Faunce, and his directorships, and the
Museum, because he's afraid. His house caught fire, you
see, and the police won't even let the insurance people
go in, and Tussard will be told, and the newspapers, of
course ..."
“The police are enquiring, then?”
"Is a fire so suspicious?"
“I don't know. Talk to Tony. He wants to give up
everything and go away. He's merely angry and discour-
aged. And he can't explain how the house could have
caught. I think it's somebody trying to ruin Tony."
"Financially?”


186 “THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN”
“There's plenty of money."
“His reputation?"
"Yes. He has a reputation, Anthony Suttro, hasn't he?
He's in his office. It's in the College across the street.
I'll show you the way. You can tell him you're leaving,
and wanted to say good-bye, something like that.”
The floor was crowded with dancers again. Bennett
got his coat, hat and stick, and told Bauer to find a cab,
and wait for him inside it.


CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ANN HELD THE ELEVATOR AT Suttro's floor in the college.
They stood in a silent stone court shaped remotely like
a star. The stone floor had marked on it a great star in
gold and blue mosaic. A glass star lighted by glass tubes
gave a soft and shadowless glow in the centre of the
ceiling.
“That door,” said Ann, pointing. She vanished in the
elevator.
“What an extraordinary college!” said Bennett.
The door was polished wood. Like other doors open-
ing from the court, it stood at one of the truncated points
of the star. Bennett opened the door a little, looked
in upon a very dark and unresponsive room. Thinking
he might have mistaken the direction of Ann's point,
he tried the other doors, four of them, opening on
larger offices for clerks and writers, or on corridors filled
with small offices for assistants and various specialists.
All were dark and deserted. The business of brushing
up Dignity and pushing it out on a ribald world, was
entirely still for the night.
Bennett stood under the lighted star and got out his
pipe. He filled it. Before he put it in his mouth, he bel-
lowed, “Ho! Anybody here?” No immediate response.
He put the pipe in his mouth, then, and struck a match,
and sighed. The door he had first tried, opened briskly.
Suttro appeared in it.
“Hello," said Bennett.
187


188
“THERE WAS A
“Didn't know you were here. Sorry.”
"Came for a talk."
“Yes. Ann sent you, I suppose. No, I don't mind at
all. I'd be glad of the chance to talk. Come in. I shan't
put on the light, if you don't care. I've been sitting in
the dark, thinking, and ..."
"Quite," said Bennett. "Sorry to intrude. I shan't
stay very long."
The room was compact, beautifully furnished, and
lighted now by the glow from two large uncurtained
windows. Bennett's eyes quickly grew accustomed to
this. It was a deep glow, faintly orange, faintly blue and
yellow, a strange dust of illumination shed by the city
below and reflected from the clouds above.
"I'm afraid Ann,” said Mr Suttro, "took me too seri-
ously. I'm not giving up and running off in a corner
to sulk."
Suttro's voice was emphatic and passionate. Bennett
said, “Believe me, I scarcely thought you would.”
“I made up my mind this morning,” said Suttro, “to
resign my connections with everything, and retire, if I
were placed in a position like Christien's.”
“Are you being placed in one?"
“Yesterday I was above reproach. Today I was ques-
tioned by the police no less than twice. Damn it, Mr
Bennett, isn't that getting pretty hot?”
“The awkward letter?”
"Absolute moonshine. I'd like to get my hands on
the devil who wrote it.”
"The fire?"
“The same sort of thing. Who started it?"
“An accident, I presume.”


190
“THERE WAS A
Is there any intrigue among the officers of the Chelsac
Theatre Company that could account for this?"
“No. That is nonsense.”
“Remember that no advantage to any man, no direct
advantage, has shown itself. The murder, I presume,
brought about some advantage we have not been shown.
Its effects? It destroyed Christien's reputation. It may
destroy yours. Less obviously, it has brought suspicion
on Mr Levison and Mr Boxworth. More obviously, it
has brought about much of very undesirable publicity,
involving the Theatre and Chelsea Project itself. Would
anybody wish to damage the Theatre, or the Project?”
“No. Absolutely.”
“Or damage Mr Christien, or you?”
“No. I can't believe such a thing. Sounds like the
wildest yellow journalism."
"Mr Christien will resign. Honour much like yours,
or his illness, will make it necessary. Who will succeed
him?"
“Who will succeed Christien? I don't know."
“You?"
“Perhaps.”
“Mr. Levison?"
“Perhaps.”
“Mr Boxworth?”
"No. Not meaning to reflect on him, of course. But
it's impossible.”
“If you were made ineligible? If you retired? Would
Mr Levison succeed to--'
"There's no intrigue, Mr Bennett. Levison wouldn't
do such a thing. I wouldn't do such a thing. There's no
fighting over jobs, like school-boys. It's foolish to talk
about such things. We're grown men, with some dignity
and responsibility. It's laughable, even having to deny
such foolishness. For the love of Heaven, put Tussard
right before he--"


CROOKED MAN”
191
CHELSAC THEATRE CORPORATION
ADMINISTRATION
MAY TWENTY-SECOND, BEFORE 11 P.M.
DIRECTING BOARD
Frederick Christien
(Chairman, and Controlling Director)
Murray Fisher, III Vacancy
T. R. Colquhoun
Charles Frith
A. Marcus Haverman Magnus Wendham
EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE
F. Christien, Chair.
Lowes Levison,
Assistant to Frederick Christien
John Boxworth
H. K. M.
House Director
Stage Director
Louis Holcomb,
4 assistants,
ist Assistant
and,
3 more assistants,
Supervision of Stage
and,
Supervision of Theatre
“Quite.”
"And even from that point of view, it gets you no
where. We've all been tarred with the case, even Levi-
son.”
“Quite.”
“It was like a lightning bolt. Crazy. Irresponsible.
It struck us. It's unaccountable. You can't do anything
but take the consequences of it.”
“It will have to be explained, Mr Suttro."


192 “THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN”
“Let the police explain it."
"You believe the watchman was the murderer?"
“Of course I do. Any sane man would. This embroi-
dery is what is ruining us, Bennett. And I can't stop it,
I can't even protest against it.”
"You seem to protest almost volubly."
"Sorry,” said Suttro, wheeling and slumping into his
chair. “I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Bennett. You may as well
know why I'm bitter. If my life has any meaning now,
it's concerned with this place. These buildings, this
project. Lately I've put all my energy and imagination
into it. It's something to me like a fine dream, and an
art, and a practical business, all at the same time. I have
a right to be ambitious, I think. And every last drop
and fibre in me revolts against the rotten turn things
have taken. Today, Mr Bennett, has been the worst
day of my life.” He laughed.
“Ah?”
"When I think of going home to bed, I remember
that my home and my bed are gutted. I shan't keep
you, Mr Bennett. I'm off to the hotel. No, I shan't go
up to see those people at the Roof again. Ann knows
I'm going, and she'll sign the check for me. Have you
a taxi?”
"Thank you,” said Bennett. "I have."


CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"YOU'RE VERY LATE, SIR,” SAID Hope unnecessarily.
“Dash it, I know I'm late. Down with the luggage. I
shan't change, go just as I am.”
“Mrs Christien telephoned, sir. Very urgent, sir.”
“Damn. Go away. Her number?"
"It's written on the tablet, sir."
“Of course.”
Mrs Christien was at the hospital. The hospital found
Mrs Christien in. They put her on.
“Geoffrey? I was afraid you'd gone."
“Going now. Freddy?”
“Not badly off. Fawke seems more hopeful."
“I was afraid . . . Hope said 'urgent.' Hope, you
know, is a reincarnation of my dissolute father, and I
can't give him the sack. What is it, my dear Paula?”
“Something very dreadful. Our chauffeur telephoned
from Southampton. We've been sent a trunk.”
“Trunk?"
“Trunk. Box, luggage, steamer-trunk, you know. A
small one, with no name on it, I believe. It came by
“The police?"
“It had clothes in it, things that belonged to the dead
man.”
"It's horrible, Geoffrey."
193


194
“THERE WAS A
“Did you tell your lawyer?"
"I got him right away."
"Have the police asked questions?"
“They asked me, and they came to the house in
Southampton."
“Any theory?"
"They think that crippled man must have been com-
ing to stay with us. They think we know who he is.
The trunk came from Grand Central Station by ex-
press, and-they're trying to trace it, I suppose. They
think I should be able to tell them where he came
from."
“Don't say anything, will you?”
"No. But--
“I'm practically under arrest, Geoffrey. They have
another policeman here, watching me. I can't go out.”
“You were out between ten and eleven, weren't you?"
“I went for a walk at nine, but I was back by eleven.
I hadn't been out all day."
"Were you alone?"
“Yes.”
“Don't do it again.”
“You mean, don't go__".
"I mean, my dear, that things may come thick and
fast. Please remember. Have a friend with you. Keep
a nurse about. Sleep publicly, if you can. Beastly, but
quite necessary. I must go, Paula. Will you telephone
your lawyer in the morning, and ask him to meet my
train from Washington on Friday. I'd stay, believe me,
if it were advisable-but I think not. The police have
the trunk, you say?"
“Yes."
“Had your chauffeur opened it?”
“No. He was there when they did open it, though.”
"Anything found in it? Identification of any sort?”
"I don't think so. He didn't say."


CROOKED MAN”
195
“Of course not. Good. A few more days, Paula, of
this wretchedness. That's a good girl. Good-bye ..."
Bennett, followed by Hope, followed in turn by the
stolid Bauer, followed in his turn by one of the blotting-
paper secretaries, descended to the ground floor. There
Norman Podham-Jones, the polished and discreet young
man from the Embassy, fretted with an eye on his wrist-
watch.
“Will your lordship ”
"Bennett. If you please. Whatever it is, yes."
“We must hurry, sir. The bar entrance? The reporters
are looking for you, sir.”
“Do a bunk, as they say? Good. Pub-crawling along
the way."
Hope had whisked off with his own fish to fry, in-
structions for the hotel and such matters. He came back
with an envelope.
“For you, sir. Special delivery, sir.”
"Thank you. Go on, please. All of you. Don't like
being followed.”
The procession in dignified haste took the direction
of the bar. Bennett could see a few faces beyond the
commissionaire, outside the glass of the hotel door.
Reporters. Like thwarted fish in an aquarium, they
moved in a school, and stared after Bennett as he dis-
appeared.
The note said:
DEAR MR BENNETT,
I hope you will not think me forward in asking
you to tea at my apartment Sunday next, four


CROOKED MAN"
199
female reporter thrust itself towards Bennett. A voice
called out in surprise, a hand clutched at Bennett's
sleeve. The doors of the limousine slammed shut in
several faces, wheels moved. Hope and the secretary
in front with the chauffeur, Bauer on one of the occa-
sional seats, and Bennett, Raymonds and Podham-Jones
in the tonneau, all of them rolled smoothly away from
the slight disturbance in the street, and left it dwindling
and diminishing behind them.
Podham-Jones told the chauffeur the number of min-
utes he had for the trip, and prescribed the Twenty-
third Street Ferry.
"That's the sort of diversion I enjoy,” said Bennett.
“What happened to the policeman, Bauer?"
"He's at the hotel desk, putting in a telephone call,
and keeping an eye on the hall going to the bar."
“Telephoning? To whom?"
"I told buttons to mention Tussard's name. Gave him
a dollar.”
"The dollar, Bauer. Thank you. Tussard will find
out. He'll be angry with me.”
"Mr Raymonds," said Podham-Jones, “is asleep, or
very tight. Do you want me to book a place for him,
sir?"
"Yes, if necessary. He will travel in my carriage. You
know, he must not be arrested at the depot."
“That's in Jersey City," said Bauer. "Authority of the
New York Police doesn't go that far.”
"Droll,” said Bennett, “but convenient."
·
3
Secretary, guard, courier and manservant had gone
to bed. The train rocked gently across the State of New


CROOKED MAN”
201
ordinary sleeping arrangements, I presume, innocently
involved Miss Crofts.”
“If you're trying to say—-".
“No. Not at all, as you should know."
"She used to let me sleep in her front room on the
couch, because I didn't have anywhere else to go.”
"Exactly.”
“I wouldn't like you to tell that to anybody.”
“No. Thrashing deserved.”
“The Croftses used to be friends of my family. She's
always been very swell to me, since we were kids. She
was too damn decent to let me sleep out in the rain,
and I don't want Tony Suttro to hear about it. He
might not understand.”
“My interest is avuncular. Do you really want to go
to the Pamin Islands?”
“Yes."
“Aunt Emma's suggestion, eh? Miss Crofts won't be
there. Do you really want to go?"
He shuddered, and said, "No."
"You never saw the crippled man, while you stopped
at Miss Crofts's flat?”
"No."
“Truth won't hurt her, you know.”
"He never came near her.”
"A reference to him? Might she have known of him,
even remotely?”
"I've known her since we were kids. I know every-
body she knows. I never heard of him.”
Bennett smoked his pipe, and let Raymonds brood.
Raymonds said nothing, and the conversation seemed to
have been dropped. When the monotony of the train's
rumble was interrupted by sharp chattering as the
wheels swept over a series of switches, Raymonds at last
stirred, and rubbed his face, and looked at Bennett.
He said, “You know what's the matter with me. I


202 “THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN''
don't think I'm tight. I'm crazy about her. Crazy, crazy,
crazy. I'm a plain damn fool. You knew that this morn-
ing, when they had me up in Christien's office. I'm crazy.
Sometimes I wonder, Mr. Bennett, what the hell am I
going to do about it?"


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ustened to accepted ptied and
THE COFFEE, WHEN IT CAME, was hot and aromatic; the
eggs and fried ham, very beautiful. Raymonds ate
methodically, and his eyes watered.
Bennett leaned back reflectively in his armchair,
smoked and held his peace. He expected the food to do
much more than words. It did. When the cup and
plates had been emptied and taken back to the pantry,
Raymonds accepted the cigarette Bennett offered. He
listened to the gurgle of the old man's pipe for a while.
He began then of his own accord.
"I'm not feeble-minded about everything, or at least,
I didn't use to be. The only thing that's the matter with
me, is that I'm crazy about Ann.”
“Um."
“It's hard to explain, because it's so very nearly funny,
and it's so rotten, really. I can look at myself objectively.
I know I'm good for something, and still I know I'm
practically paralysed because of her. I can't see past it,
I can't get past it. It's an obsession."
"Ah?"
Suddenly the young man leaned forward in an access
of bitter earnestness. “I've got to have her, Mr Bennett.
I've got to be near her. I've got to think of her, every
minute. I can't help it, I can't do anything. Do you
know what that means? Do you know why I do crazy
things, run after her when she has dates with other
men? I can't help it, that's all.” He shook his head,
smiled apologetically at his own vehemence. He smoked
203


204
“THERE WAS A
his cigarette for a moment. He smiled, and continued
more quietly, “She isn't exactly the first girl in my life.
I'm not in my second year at New Haven, exactly. I
argue with myself, but I know it's final. I can't live with
my neck broken. I can't live without Ann. Quite hon-
estly, I think I'm insane.”
"Really?"
“Nothing I take," he said, “seems to do me any good.
Do you think I ought to have an operation?”
Bennett asked, “Has this been a permanent condi-
dition? Since childhood?".
"I've been half in love with her since we were kids.
But I've only been crazy for a year. I got a job so she'd
marry me, I gave it up when she was engaged to Suttro.
I've stayed sober for a couple months, I've got drunk
for a couple months. I've tried to go away, I've come
running back. I follow her like a starving dog, and I
hate myself for doing it.”
“What will you do when she marries?”
“I've wondered. I don't know. Just this, I suppose.”
“Unsatisfactory, isn't it?"
"What else? I wouldn't mind pulling Suttro to pieces,
but he's done nothing to me, and she likes him. Oh, I
could kill myself, but there are several old family
scruples in the way. God, it's in my arms and my legs
and my guts and my brains-and there it is. Sorry.
Wrestling with my soul in public."
“A drink?” said Bennett.
“Don't mind if I do."
He collapsed listlessly on the couch, with one bare
arm dangling towards the floor. Bennett rang for the
porter.
Bennett sipped his fresh drink, drew on his pipe, and
relapsed into the Court Martial or Old Warhorse voice.


CROOKED MAN”
205
"You are employed. What can you do?"
Raymonds said, “Bit of everything. Banking, chemis-
try, a nice lot of Latin. I'm pretty good around horses,
I'm young, healthy, and willing. Anything you say, sir.”
“Take hold of yourself?”.
“Make a decent try, sir.'
"Assume your duties tomorrow. Devilish little oppor-
tunity to see Miss Crofts.”
“All right.”
"A man's job, I warn you, Raymonds. Other clothes
to wear? You will get them tomorrow. Dare say you
understand my first requirement, perfect discretion?
Good. Now I shall ask you some questions. Be as pre-
cise as possible. First, is John Boxworth closely ac-
quainted with Christien?”
"No."
“With Suttro or Levison?”
“Not particularly.”
"Would he conceal information about one of them?"
"I don't know. He's the kindest and fairest man in
the theatre business. I'm sure of that, from things I
heard from the other ushers."
“Sorry, Raymonds. This chap Suttro. Is he deeply in
love with Ann?”
Raymonds admitted it, nodding his head.
“What evidence of it?”
“Evidence? She practically turned him upside down."
“Be precise."
“He got to know her really well a little less than a
year ago. He used to be very uppish. Nobody saw him
anywhere, theatres and that sort of thing, and nobody
knew him very well. He came out of his hole for im-
portant meetings, and that's about all. Then he began
taking Ann to dinner, and mixing a bit. Tonight he
went to the Chelsea Roof. That, for Suttro, is being


206
“THERE WAS A
Then he was extrenuse Ann ask, but I resp
turned upside down. He changed. I think he'd do any-
thing for her.”
"Murder, for example?”
"I couldn't give an--"
• “Come, Raymonds! You'd do murder for her, if it
came to it. Would he?"
"I think,” said Raymonds, deliberately, “that he
would do a hell of a lot to marry Ann. But I think
he's too big and prominent and fine a man to get mixed
up in a murder. It isn't probable. Read his books, sir,
and you'll see what I mean.”
"You admire him?"
Raymonds had to make sure of his own mind first.
Then he took a long drink from his glass. At last he
said, “He was extremely decent about helping me get a
job. He did it because Ann asked him to, but he did
it decently. I'm not fond of him, but I respect him."
"Now Holcomb, who dismissed you.”
"He had to do it.”
“What had you done?”
“Ann happened to get engaged to Mr Suttro. I knew
she couldn't marry me when I was so broke, but-well,
I hadn't got round to realizing it. I wasn't much use to
the company for a few days, and I didn't care about the
job after that anyhow.”
“Lowes Levison. Is he friendly with Ann?”
"He used to be. He used to like her, but Suttro edged
him out in a polite way, and now he's friendly, but
not too friendly. I think he asked her to marry him, and
she turned him down. Aunt Emma told me that bit.
I don't know, it may be true.”
“Good.” Bennett rose from his chair. “Reddish about
the eyes, Raymonds. Go to bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was over. Raymonds yawned, stripped off trousers,
shoes and socks, drained his glass, and slipped under the
shetki Be


CROOKED MAN”
209
Bennett left off reading this to purse his lips at an as-
tounding picture of his own tall shape stooping out of a
taxicab to the sidewalk on Madison Avenue. He swept
the tabloid aside, and glared at the next paper:
TALK OF CZAR FOR CHELSEA PROJECT
Broghville Suggested for Post
BRITISH LORD TO VISIT
WASHINGTON THURSDAY
Outcome of the discovery of a dead man on the
roof of the world's newest building development
will be a complete shake-up, according to reports
not yet confirmed by those ...
Bennet growled slightly, under his breath. He spilt
some tea, contracted his forehead, turned with a savage
movement to the third paper. Hope had placed it at the
bottom, perhaps with intentions of softening the shock
as much as possible.
KING FLEES CITY
AFTER THEATRE DEATH
ROYAL HIGHNESS WON'T TALK
Who is Chelsac Theatre's dead man? Predictions
of sensational disclosures and a major shake-up fol-
lowed yesterday's admission by police that they have
made no arrest in the mystery killing of ...
Bennett reddened ominously, flung the third paper to
the floor, and poured himself more tea with some inten-


210
“THERE WAS A
sity. After a time he looked at Hope, and said, “Naughty,
naughty newspapers. Take the damn things away.”
"Yes, sir."
“It's called a 'bad press, you know,” said Raymonds.
"We shan't speak of it, Raymonds."
"No, sir."
“Thank you."
Bennett's ripe opinion about the water colours at the
Balthurst Galleries was: that they might well have been
painted, for all he could make of them, with gravy soup.
Hope in the meantime saw to an outfit of new clothes
for Raymonds. Raymonds himself had to spend the aft-
ernoon in bed waiting for the new things, and reading
Martinsop's Biography of a Vice-Regent, or The Life
of Lord Broghville. Martinsop, unfortunately, demon-
strated a wit too dry and a penetration too involved to
keep any healthy male in bed all day; and particularly
to keep any active mind from reverting to the intoler-
able influence of love.
It was shortly before midnight on Thursday evening,
when Hope came out of the darkness to prowl on the
fringe of the disbanding reception at the Embassy. He
caught Bennett's eye. He said in Bennett's ear, “The
young man has returned to New York, sir.”
“Indeed. Rot. Devilish hot. What young man, Hope?”
"Mr Raymonds, sir. I believe he went away while you
were at dinner at the Georgian Society, sir."
Bennett said, “Indeed. Very foolish of him, don't you
think?"
“Yes, sir.”
"Just discovered his absence, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. I spent the evening at a cinema, sir. He left
word at the hotel that he was very sorry."


CROOKED MAN”
211
"I thought he had no money."
“I'm afraid he had, sir. He asked me for ten dollars
before I went out, sir. I gave it to him.”
"Ah? Silly thing for you to do, if I may say so. Doubt
if you can afford it, and I'm sure you won't get it again.
These women have voices like starving fox-terriers.
What time is it?”
“Three minutes to twelve, sir."
“Good. I shall be leaving soon. Stuffy. I see Lady Au-
gusta. Now go away. At the door, in ten minutes. Ah,
my dear Lady Augusta ..."
Bennett left on the night Express. The secretary
brought him some papers, which Bennett had asked for.
He smoked his pipe, drank his night-cap, and changed
into pyjamas. Then with several pillows at his back and
papers scattered about on the blanket covering his long
legs, he settled himself for the night.
“You may go, Hope.”
“Yes, sir. Very sorry, sir, about the ten dollars.”
“Are you? Young Raymonds is a damned fool, per-
haps pardonably. No fault of yours. You pray, don't
into pyjamttered about for the night
you?”
"Oh, yes, sir.”
“Then remember the idiot in your prayers, for there's
little more I can do for him. You may go. I shall read.”
Like many old men, Geoffrey Bennett needed little
sleep, and took that little where he liked.
He spent half an hour each with Levison, Boxworth
and Suttro, as the Police Department thought of them.
Levison lived uptown on the East Side of Manhattan
in a luxurious' apartment. He lived with his mother,


212
“THERE WAS A
ing abison's past held entered collegter during the waad
who was his only close relative. Ada Levison knew noth-
ing about a crippled man.
Levison's past held few secrets. He had been an in-
fant prodigy. He had entered college at the age of fif-
teen. He had been an army interpreter during the war,
and he had written a play about trench life. He had
been an actor, an actor-manager-author on tour, a man-
ager, an important theatre manager, the manager of a
chain of cinema houses in New England, and eventu-
ally, Assistant to Mr Christien.
He had been co-respondent in one moderately famous
divorce. He had been attacked in a hotel in Worcester,
Massachusetts, by an angry husband named Helbaugh.
He had become more adept, or more abstemious. The
attack in the hotel had occurred in 1927.
He wrote books, said the dossier. He went about with
writers. He lunched at the Algonquin and supped at
Tony's. It was not his custom to come home every night.
John Boxworth, in contrast, led a blameless life. He
lived in an old hotel, and kept a Filipino servant. He
liked to play the horses, and very seldom indulged.
Whereas Levison was but thirty-five, Boxworth was more
than sixty. (Between sixty and seventy, said the dossier.)
Boxworth had been an actor. At thirty he had retired
from acting, to managing a theatre. He had at the same
time married his leading lady, Miss Polly Mahoney. She
had drowned in the Titanic disaster. He had not remar-
ried.
During the war, Boxworth had been in California,
making pictures. After the war, he had produced a se-
ries of successful musical shows, and an unsuccessful and
spectacular review at the Century. He had turned then
to Chicago, where he managed the Million Dollar The-
atre. By way of the huge Orpheum on Forty-sixth Street
in New York, he had stepped to the Chelsac Theatre.
Boxworth was charitable and kindly. A clipping from


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FRIDAY MORNING WAS WET AND grey. The railway termi-
nal had a depressing, sulphurous smell. The lawyer,
awaiting Bennett on the platform, looked ghostly in that
early light, and disappointing.
“The trunk, or whatever you call it,” said Bennett,
tapping his beautifully rolled umbrella as he walked to
the car. "Have you seen it?”
"I managed to see it, yes."
“What did it contain?".
“Clothing, and toilet articles.”
“Property of the dead man?"
"Beyond doubt. The clothing was very fine, but little
worn, and not new. I talked with the tailor yesterday
evening. I'm afraid he can't ...
"Exactly. These toilet articles?"
“They weren't new. It's very difficult. No identifying
marks on such things as hair-brushes and shoe-horns. Í
have all my things marked, personally. There was no
toothbrush, of course.”
The ferry waddled its plump hips through the mist
and the screaming tugs. Bennett said, “Quite so. It was
expected that the box would indicate it had belonged to
the dead man. But not that the dead man was a certain
Mr Such-and-Such, of a definite street and city. The po-
lice?"
"Within their rights. Their investigation is incom-
plete.”
“Has this box been traced?”
215


216
“THERE WAS A
“To a certain extent, yes. The trunk itself was small,
and not remarkable. Many thousands of them were sold
in this country in the last ten years. There is nothing to
distinguish one from another.”
“To be sure.”
"It came by express, addressed directly to Mr Freder-
ick Christien, at Southampton. It had been expressed
from Grand Central by a porter. The police are inclined
to believe it came from Boston, but that is pure surmise.
They really lead the porter on to say it had been picked
up at the gate of one of the incoming Boston trains. If
they use his testimony, it will be easily broken down,
but I don't suppose they'll use it. I don't think the trunk
came from Boston at all.”
“It did not,” said Bennett.
"The porter was told to express the trunk, by a man
in a cheap raincoat and a brown hat. The trunk had
been traced to the station, tentatively and doubtfully,
from the Hotel Minter. At the Minter, it could not be
identified.”
"Chap may have moved it about as he pleased in
taxicabs, from one to another, asking for it to be put
down in plausible places. Impossible, I should say, to
follow it back, from Southampton to its original home.”
"I'm sure it is.”
“You might urge the police, if you can, to start at the
other end. The houses. Levison's place, Boxworth's ho-
tel, Miss Crofts's flat, Mr Suttro's house in Brooklyn.
Have them enquire for cabs that called at those doors
for luggage.”
“I shall.”
“Identification of the dead man?”
“The police are circulating a detailed description, a
man between fifty and sixty, face partially--"
“I saw him, you know.”
"Yes, I remember. At any rate, they have circularized


CROOKED MAN”
217
the New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad al-
most to a man. I don't think they've made any progress
there. I think it very possible the man may have been
making a vacation trip or a business trip on that occa-
sion. He might have gone north by road, and come back
for some reason by rail.”
The lawyer was something much less than diverting.
Bennett parted with him on Twenty-third Street. As
soon as he got to his hotel, he telephoned Paula Chris-
tien. She had reassurances for him, about Christien him-
self, but no other news. Thus Bennett began the long
and involved procedure of trying to telephone Tussard.
He got through eventually. He was pleased to hear Tus-
sard's voice, as mechanical as a music box. Tussard had
scarcely found time, he said, to snatch two hours' sleep.
“Look here, Mr Bennett. Do you want to meet me at
the corner of a Hundred-twenty-fifth and Broadway in
twenty minutes?”
"What shall I see there?”
“You'll see a lot. You'll hear what the watchman's
been doing while you were away.”
"In twenty minutes.”
The taxi hissed and slithered, and Bauer cautioned
the driver. Tussard stood on the corner, waiting for
them. He directed the taxi. He had them put down at
an undistinguished doorway, where he cheerfully bought
a newspaper and put it in his pocket. He was pleased as
Punch, and mysterious as the devil, and uncommunica-
tive.
He led Bennett and Bauer into a high, impersonal
room, pungent and antiquated. Half a dozen men sat in
it, smoking, talking, spitting, and teetering precariously


218
“THERE WAS A
on chairs with weak legs. The men grunted amiably at
Tussard. They all resembled each other, and Tussard,
remarkably. Over their heads, a bare electric bulb hung
in a haze of smoke, and shed yellow light on a cluster of
fly spots on the ceiling. The washy daylight at the win-
dow seemed inappropriate.
"Sit down here, Mr Bennett,” said Tussard. “That
chair all right, sir? All right, let's have him in, Joe.”
Joe went out. Chairs scraped, and the men came to
silent and unfriendly attention. Joe returned with a boy,
whom he stood against the wall confronting the seated
men. Joe softly slipped back to his own chair.
The boy was slender, dark, Latin. He nervously
brushed the faint moustache on his lip with a curved
forefinger. He wore high fantastic trousers, bright blue
braces, and a green silk shirt. His dark eyes were wide
and mobile, frightened, cunning, almost hypnotized.
Tussard growled, “What's his name?"
Joe pronounced slowly, "Johnnie Massopuso."
"All right, how about it, Johnnie.”
The boy cleared his throat, decided upon at least a
tentative nonchalance, laughed, and said loudly and
boldly, “Don't ask me. I don't know what I'm here for.”
"Where did you get that Chevrolet?"
“What Chevrolet? Who got any Chevvy? I didn't see
no Chevvy."
"Where did you get that car?"
Silence, exaggeratedly indignant.
Tussard said, “All right. You know what murder
means. You know what you get for a kill. All right,
Johnnie. You had your chance."
Tussard had calculated perfectly. The eyes rolled.
Johnnie dropped his voice to a childish whisper that
seemed ludicrous. “We found it. I don't know what was
in it. How was we to know what was in it? Jesus, we
didn't do anything!"


CROOKED MAN”.
219
He was not profane; he was praying.
"You took a good look at the stiff," said Tussard.
“I tell you. We didn't do nothing. Honest.”
“Left it in the car, huh?"
"Sure.”
"Who was with you?”
“Nobody.”
“Guy named Mike, wasn't he?".
"Sure. Mike Hapf. Ask him. He tells you the same
thing."
Joe unostentatiously got up from his chair, buttoned
his coat, went out of the room. The boy visibly reasoned
out the departure; he watched everything, with rolling
eyes.
Tussard said, “All right, Johnnie. I'm talking to you.
What was in that car?”
Johnnie shied at the question, scraped his feet, looked
desperately round the room..
"Stiff, wasn't it? A dead man?"
“Yes.”
"Who found it, you or Mike?”
"Mike, he opened the back. I was driving. He says
‘come and look,' and I comes and takes a look. We shut
up the back. Mike says we got to dump it somewheres.
I says let it alone.”
“All right. Where did you pick up the car?"
“It was—we found it.”
“Maybe somebody gave you fifty bucks to find it, and
dump it in the river? You were seen Wednesday night
by the watchman on the pier at Hundred-eighty-fifth,
and he scared you off from going out on the pier.”
"We just found it. We was walking by and we just
saw the key was in it.”
“Where?"
“Twenty-second near Sixth; north side of the street.”
"What kind of car was it, again?"


220
“THERE WAS A
“Chevrolet coup', a '34."
“Key in the lock. You got in?”
"I got in. Then Mike got in.”
“What time?"
“I don't know. Maybe quarter past eleven."
"Where did you go?”
"Just went for a drive around. Maybe looks to see if
we can pick up any girls.”
"Where did you go?"
"Up the Drive.”
“Stop anywhere?"
“We stopped by Grant's Tomb, and Mike got out and
opened up the back and he says to me, 'Come and look,'
and I-_"
“What then?”
“We was scared. We was going to take the car back,
but we was scared. We was scared to get out and leave it,
even. We was going to go out on the pier, but the watch-
man saw us. So we goes up along the railroad tracks and
leaves it and climbs up to the Drive and goes home.”
“What was in the back, Johnnie?”
“A stiff.”
“A young man?"
“Old man, in his underwear, wrapped up in a couple
blankets.”
"Was the car in a light place or a dark place, when
you found it?"
"It was a dark place. I can show you.”
“Don't worry, you're going to show me. What night
was this, Johnnie, Tuesday night?”
“No, it was Wednesday night, just after eleven ..."
Tussard, when he had finished, nodded to a man who
had been taking down the results of the questioning in
shorthand. They came to an unspoken understanding.
Joe, who stood inside the door, took Johnnie away. Tus-


CROOKED MAN”
221
sard led Bennett into the bare passage, with Bauer trail-
ing them.
“A coupé was stolen, Mr Bennett, about ten after ten
on Wednesday night, from West Seventeenth Street.
The man who stole it fitted a key right on the spot. He
dumped his key tools down a sewer on the corner, and
we found them. He ran that coupé up to the south door
of the Chelsac Theatre and left it there. He went inside.
This is how I reconstruct it, you understand.
"He came out with the body and put it in the back of
the coupé. Maybe he didn't have much time. Maybe he
was clever enough to figure he'd let somebody else get
rid of the body for him. Regular car thieves would have
dumped the body in the river, but we had some luck.
These kids were just going to strip the car and leave it.
Our man left the key in the lock, so it would be stolen.
It was.
“The watchman is at the morgue. Our man left the
car and the watchman up on Twenty-second and Sixth,
took his chances, and went home, or anywhere. That's
all.”
Bringing out his pipe, Bennett said, “Not quite all.
Fingerprints?"
"No. The owner, and these kids, but nobody else."
"Was your man seen by anybody?”
“By a newsboy. Dark hat and a raincoat. No good at
all.”
“The advantage remains yours, however.”
“How, sir?"
“The murderer won't know the watchman has been
found, unless you tell him.”
"I don't mean to tell him, believe me.”
"If he thinks he's disposed of the watchman, Tussard,
he may make some extraordinary errors. Hang himself,
in fact. Quite a turn it will give him, when he learns
you have the body of his second victim.”


222
“THERE WAS A
3.
Leaning on his umbrella in the doorway, looking out
into the rain and the wet street, Bennett waited for
Bauer to come back with the taxi he had gone to find.
“What do you think of it now, sir?”.
“Oh, delightful. Don't you think?”
“We're beginning to find out a few things."
"What, Tussard?”
"In case it should turn out to be blackmail, I happen
to know that Levison draws money out, a thousand at
a time, in cash. I know Suttro spent just forty-three dol-
lars more this month than he did the same month last
year. Outside of an engagement ring, he never spent a
thousand at one time in the whole last ten years. Box-
worth throws money away all over the place, lends a
couple hundred to every crook that comes along. Emma
Whittacker is just half a jump ahead of the sheriff. Louis
Holcomb applied for a loan of five thousand dollars,
just a week ago. He didn't get it.”
“And Mr Christien?”
“That's something I can't talk about."
“Why, pray?”
"The District Attorney's office.”
“Oh, come!”
"Suttro had a pretty nasty fire over at his house. It
started when the place was empty. It's an old house,
made over into a couple of flats, with Suttro downstairs,
and the upstairs empty. No servants. He looks after him-
self, lives like a hermit; so many of these brainy guys
do. We questioned the neighbours, but nobody saw any-
body enter or leave the house before the fire broke out.
In fact, the neighbours all thought the whole house was
vacant. But they mind their own business pretty well
in that part of Brooklyn. I'll have a report from the


CROOKED MAN”
223
Fire Department tomorrow, on how it started. By the
way, Suttro hasn't got a car, or a driver's licence.”
"Really?"
“Ann Crofts has got a driver's licence, and no car.
Boxworth never drove a car in his life, or he's an artistic
liar. Levison had his licence taken away from him, and
now he has a chauffeur. Holcomb is a bug on outboard
motor boats, but he hasn't got a car or a driver's licence.
Paula Christien has her own car and a driver's licence
both.”
“Amazing.”
"It may sound funny to you, Mr Bennett, but that's
what counts in the end. Detail.”
"Is your man in Washington as productive?"
“He's got nothing for us yet, Mr Bennett.”
“Give it up, Tussard.”
“Not yet, sir.”
"Thousand to a hundred against him.”
“You know, Mr Bennett, when you got a wife and a
family and a house to keep running, you can't risk hun-
dred dollar bills even on a sure thing." Seeing Bennett
ransacking his pockets, he said, “Here's a match.”
“Ah, thank you. Hope forgets. Hope is my natural
son by a gipsy. Murder seems to bruise the human mind,
and soften it, and make it unable to leave what's well
enough alone.”
“Got your prejudice yet, sir?”
“Yes."
“No, you have? Who is it this time?"
“I shan't tell you. Here's Bauer with a cab. No, Tus-
sard. My last expression of opinion, you may recall, was,
as you say, not so hot. I can't give you reasonable proof
as yet.”
“Everything kind of comes back to where you start,
doesn't it? Like that Whittacker list of names. No crip-
ples on it.”


224 “THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN”
- “Quite. I say, thank you! And good day, Tussard."
Bennett stooped fastidiously into the cab, waved a
glove, and drove off. Tussard opened his morning paper.
4.
Bauer opened the morning paper, folded it, and gave
it to Bennett.
"Want to look at this, sir?”
“Thank you. About me? Yes."
He read:
CHELSEA DENIES
CHANGES PLANNED
British Lord not
To Rule Project
Murder Supposed
Crank's Work
The rest of the article was a perfunctory journalistic
yawn, brief and unsurprising. Bennett shrugged and re-
turned the paper to Bauer without comment.
It was then, however, that he saw the beginning of
the end.


CHAPTER NINETEEN
BENNETT MADE UP HIS MIND to his duty, and sighed, and
sat to write a letter. He stared out through a rain-washed
window at a grey and liquid city while he cudgelled his
uneager wits. Gloom and restlessness worked on him,
both from without and from within. He forced himself
to pick up his pen:
MY DEAR Miss CROFTS,
I undertake this fatherly office with distaste. I
shall not draw the matter out with reasons and
causes, for they, such as they are, must be as ready
to your mind as to my own. Forgive me, I pray you.
It is imperative, I think, that you postpone your
marriage until this unfortunate 'affair will be con-
cluded. Your not inexplicable loyalty to Mr Suttro
may urge to put aside my advice. Indeed, I expect
it to do so. However, his present marriage would
prove a disservice to him, and to you. I hope you
will think of the possible consequences.
Be assured, Miss Crofts, of my lively sympathy,
and permit me to remain
Your admiring servant,
BROGHVILLE.
Far from pleased with this, he blotted, sealed and ad-
dressed it nevertheless, and sent it off to be delivered by
a secretary's hand. Then he smoked his pipe and paced
225


226
“THERE WAS A
the room. Smoking and pacing gave him no relief from
his uneasiness. He asked how much time remained be-
fore he would be expected to appear as a planter of plum
trees.
"Fifty minutes, sir."
“News of Raymonds?”
“None, sir."
“How disillusioned you seem! Your ten dollars, I sup-
pose? Stay here, Hope. He may telephone. He may call.
Keep him here, if you can.”
“Yes, sir."
"If he should be hanged, your hope of being repaid
would be hanged with him, you know.”
“Yes, sir."
“Other news?"
“Miss Whittacker asked about a tea, sir. The Secre-
tary of the League Club telephoned about your lunch
with them, a Mr Levison telephoned, a gentleman from
the Civic Committee, a Mr Heffinger, a Mr Rounce-
he asked if you smoked genuine Havana cigars, which
he can supply at an attractive price, a Miss Drivvell
wished an appointment for a newspaper interview, and
a fellow whose name I can't pronounce, sir, wanted to
know would you consent to speak over the wireless--"
“Go away.”
“Yes, sir."
Tussard telephoned shortly before Bennett left his
hotel. The voice was brusque and faintly minatory. The
conversation established two things; a certain forthright
fairness in Tussard's nature, and the advent of the
worst.
"I asked you once before, Mr Bennett. Just how much


CROOKED MAN”
233
Boxworth's hotel had an air of dignity, an appearance
of solid pride. Bennett asked at the desk, and learned
that Boxworth had gone out early in the day, leaving no
word; and had not returned. His valet had been given
the day to himself.
“Does Mr Boxworth disappear frequently?"
"He goes away for a week-end once in a while. But
not on Friday, usually.
"Luggage?”
"I'm not allowed to give out information ..." said
the clerk, looking regretfully into space.
“Good Heaven, man! I'assure you, it's frightfully
urgent. Mr Boxworth must be found at once. He's in
grave danger, and he knows nothing about it, do you
understand? Come now. Luggage?”
“I believe nothing was brought down, sir.”
“Visitors?"
“There have been calls for him during the day. But
since he wasn't in ..
“Quite. Has anybody gone up to his rooms?”
"The afternoon mail was put under his door. You see,
we don't enter his apartment as we would a transient's,
and so..."
“No visitors?"
“No, sir. Nobody like that would be taken up unless
he left instructions.”
"Thank you,” said Bennett, "and a very good day to
you.”
He strode away, spun the revolving doors, and stopped
abruptly on the wet pavement, where Bauer caught up
with him. His previous decisiveness had melted sud-
denly into a gentle, anxious melancholy. He looked at
the wet park, the wet street, the rain-soaked face of the
hotel, and woke a stir of vain hope in a rank of taxi
drivers.
“What now, sir?"


234
"THERE WAS A
"I don't know," said Bennett.
“Anything gone wrong?”
“Eh? Oh. Almost everything. I don't know."
Unenlightened, Bauer followed Bennett's slow saun-
ter westward. He followed Bennett's unexpected turn
eastward. They patrolled the front of the Burgundy in
this almost aimless fashion for fifteen minutes, back and
forth, without speaking. The Burgundy stood in a nar-
row space, between two vaster buildings. At its eastern
extremity was a modest service entrance, open, and show-
ing a lighted elevator at the end of a murky passage.
Bennett came to a stop at last, folded his umbrella, and
made an exploratory craning of his neck within. At the
service entrance, they could hear distant muffled noises,
but they could see no-one.
“Ah,” said Bennett.
“Phew,” said Bauer. “Cooking.”
- "Come,” said Bennett, and crooked a finger. There
were cases and a few large pieces of luggage in their way.
There was a time-clock, and a vacant chair beneath it.
The watchman, presumably, had left his post for the
moment. Bennett and Bauer went the length of the pas-
sage without being challenged, and entered the elevator,
a large, scarred and dented automatic, controlled by
push buttons.
"You want to go up to Mr Boxworth's, don't you, sir?"
“Yes.”
"Eight-o-one is the number. Eighth floor. Here we go.”
With a whirr, a click and a shudder, they went. The
cage came to a docile stop on the eighth. They left the
door open to prevent the elevator returning below, and
explored the corridor. The heavy door and wooden tran-
som of John Boxworth’s apartment were both closed.
Bennett knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Silence.
"Knock again, sir.”
Bennett did.


CROOKED MAN'
235
Bauer leaned forward with his ear close to the door,
satisfied himself on some point, then beckoned Bennett
a few steps down the corridor.
"Somebody's in there, sir. You can just hear a little
movement.”
Bennett nodded, took out his note case and a pencil,
and scribbled a message on a card. He said, “Put this un-
der his door. Asking him to come to my hotel at eight
this evening. Perhaps he will let himself be persuaded.
· We can do no more, Bauer.”
Bauer thrust the card under the door, and they de-
scended. It was Bauer's idea, for them to leave the ele-
vator on the second floor and go down by the stairs for
caution's sake, in case the watchman had returned to his
door. The watchman was sitting under the time-clock,
but he kept his post only a few minutes before he shuf-
fled down the passage to the kitchens in response to an
electric buzzer. Unseen, Bennett and Bauer slipped out
into the rain.
Bauer waited outside the Basque Shop, and Bennett
entered gingerly.
Ann Crofts, in a fresh grey smock, permitted Bennett
to stand about for a few minutes while she finished a
piece of small trading with two uneager customers.
When these had gone, she confronted him. She looked
nervous, weary, harassed; yet, at the same time, deter-
mined, and a little defiant. The case had worn her, ex-
hausted her. As much to conceal this weakness, as to ac-
complish any great deception, she allowed her voice to
become a little nonchalant and ironic when she said to
Bennett, “Thanks for your note. Very nice of you to be
interested in us."


236
“THERE WAS A
“How rude it was! Nevertheless, Miss Crofts, how ear-
nest!”
"You meant to be helpful, I suppose.”
“Come, not that bad? My dear Ann.”
She softened, and smiled. “I'm not really angry. Smoke
your pipe, if you want to. If Tony or I had any doubts
about each other, we might put it off; but we haven't.”
"No doubts about this murderer?"
"I know Tony Suttro didn't do it, and that's all that
matters, isn't it?”
“Ah!”
“I shan't ever forget the way you say ‘Ah,' it's the most
superior sound a man ever made. We're leaving for Chi-
cago Sunday afternoon. We're going to China."
“Dash it, Ann, you can't really--"
"Please. It's decided. We're going to be married Sun-
day morning at Tony's church. Clinton Street, Brook-
lyn. I very seriously want you to come to the wedding,
if you care to, and you said you did.”
"Of course."
"Then we're going on round the world, and maybe
this mess will be mopped up before we get back. We
hope so."
“Foolish, my dear. But I pay a compliment to your
spirit and pluck, when I withdraw my arguments against
it. Sunday morning, then, in Brooklyn.”
"I was afraid you wouldn't take it as nicely as that.”
"Thank you. Does Raymonds know?”
"Aunt Emma," said Ann, glaring at a knitted scarf,
“called him up in Washington to tell him. He came
rushing back here to get me to change my mind.”
“Of course. I wondered. So did Hope, for financial
reasons. Aunt Emma resists to the utmost, then?”
"She isn't speaking to me now.”
“Why does she dislike Mr Suttro?”
“There's no reason. She thinks Raymonds is the bet-


CROOKED MAN”.
237
ter man. She thinks Suttro is too old. She thinks her
niece is too young to marry. She's got some new explana-
tion every day. Of course, Hobey's penniless, and he
knows he can't get married; and Tony is hardly more
than ten years older than I am; but you can't reason
with Aunt Emma. Tony's only thirty-eight. And any-
how, if I married Hobey, I wouldn't have a cent to give
to her to straighten out her money troubles, but she
never thinks of those things. She's not at all practical."
“Quite. And you are?”
She became grave, frightened, perplexed again. The
change was startling and abrupt. Slowly she said, “Yes,
I'm practical. That's all I can be.”
“Ah," said Bennett. “I'm boring you. I shall go away."
"Day-after-tomorrow, at Tony's house in Brooklyn.
We'll meet there. You have his address.”
“Thank you. By the way, where is John Boxworth?”
“Mr Boxworth? I don't know. Isn't he in his office?"
"No."
“Doesn't Lowes Levison know?"
“Unfortunately, no.”
"Is it important? Tony might be able to find him for
you.”
"Rather important, yes. Indeed. You might tell him
I shall expect him at eight this evening. If you meet him,
that is. Good of you. And now, au revoir, my dear
Ann ..."
7.
Bennett made two more vain enquiries; both from a
telephone booth smelling of rubbers and damp clothing.
The first, of Anthony Suttro:
"Have you seen Hobey Raymonds?”
“He came up to see me half an hour ago. Drinking a


CROOKED MAN”
239
In the rainy streets once more, Bennett continued his
walking. This was treatment for his deep impatience
and unease. Through swishing motors and preoccupied
pedestrians, they pushed on with aimless speed. The
pace was formidable. Bauer's legs had grown wet and
aching with fatigue, yet Bennett raced as if the devil
were after them. Once Bennett paused to buy a paper at
a corner stand, to read it then in the light of the street
lamps, and to throw it with an exclamation into the
streaming gutter.
Crossing the street, and pausing in the path of a thun-
dering bus for the purpose, Bennett said bitterly, “I can
do nothing." The tone of Bennett's voice startled Bauer,
wakened him out of his discomfort. “You may remem-
ber, Bauer. I can do nothing. And I shall return to Eng-
land. I can do nothing, nothing."
They escaped the bus. They turned towards Bennett's
hotel at last. The old man seemed more cheerful, more
resigned, and he said no more.


“THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN” 241
“Very good, sir.”
"Have Podham-Jones explain it to the Embassy in the
morning. I shall see Mrs Christien and their lawyer to-
morrow. Ah. My compliments, Hope, to everybody else,
and may they all go straight to hell. Sorry, Bauer, but
you will forget my king, won't you? Stout's made you a
bit muzzy. However, will you join me in another game?"
At twenty to eight, the telephone rang. Hope, answer-
ing it, said, “Mr Boxworth, sir. Wishes to know if you
are in."
"I am.” Bennett interrupted the game, told Bauer,
“Go away now. Sleep. Read a book. Shan't go out to-
night.” Then he strode to the telephone-but Hope was
hanging up.
"I want to speak to him.”
“He rang off, sir."
“Damn.”
"He said you expected him at eight.”
"I do. Is he coming?”
“He implied he would, sir."
“Damn. But never mind.”
Bennett dressed, and with a complete return of his
earlier restlessness, paced the room while he waited for
Boxworth. Eight came. Boxworth did not. Five, seven,
ten, fifteen minutes slipped past. The sound of traffic
along Madison Avenue, hushed and filtered, seeped into
the room, accentuating the quiet. Twenty past eight,
twenty-five, twenty-eight. Bennett filled his pipe, lighted
it, puffed grimly on it.
At quarter to nine, Bennett telephoned. Boxworth's
room did not answer. At ten of nine, Bennett admitted
to himself the certainty of a growing conviction (grow-
ing, indeed, since afternoon) so violent and disturbing,
that no consideration could persuade him to ignore it.
Waiting longer had become intolerable.
“My hat, Hope,” he called. Hope appeared somewhat


242
“THERE WAS A
nervously from the bedroom. “Raining? My umbrella.
And a cab, if you please."
“Are you going out alone, sir?”
“Yes. Don't wait for me. May be very late. Stop look-
ing forlorn. Shan't be stoned by an aroused citizenry. At
least, not if I take the precaution to pull up my collar
well about my face. Thank you. Good night."
Bennett sucked on his cold pipe during the ride
through the rain. He still held it in his teeth, as he
stalked into the Burgundy. Beyond the dignified palms,
a flustered clerk told him he could not see John Box-
worth.
"Why not?"
"Orders, sir. I'm afraid I'm not permitted to explain.”
Bennett nodded, turned away from the desk, filled his
pipe again, and lighted it. He waited, leaning on his
folded umbrella. Then Lowes Levison, thin, dark and
grim, came in from the street. Bennett had expected
something of the sort.
“Hello there, Mr Bennett. Are you in on this?"
“They found him?"
By a brief, cynical smile and a movement of his eyes,
Levison showed that they had, upstairs.
"Dead?”
“Yes. They want me to identify him.”
“Ah.”
“Suicide,” said Levison. “Shot himself in his bath.”
“How dashed queer,” said Bennett.
“That at least. Tussard's waiting for me. Come along
up, Mr Bennett, if you don't mind the nasty details.”
Together, they went to the elevator.
Boxworth's rooms were solid, dignified and old-
fashioned, and inappropriately cheerful. In the large sit-


CROOKED MAN”
243
ting room there were a great many paintings and photo-
graphs of celebrated actors, actresses and horses.
The body was being removed from the bath. It had to
be carried through the bedroom and a small dressing
room. It went into a wicker basket, and it was stopped
on its way to the service elevator for Levison to look.
Levison gave the necessary identification. John Box-
worth had a great hole in his chest.
Tussard looked sharply at Bennett, when he first
caught sight of him; then nodded to him shortly, and
for the most part ignored his presence. Tussard had been
leaning over the tub of soapy water in the bath, dipping
an army revolver into it. He put the revolver aside on a
towel, and straightened up.
“Finger prints?” asked Levison.
Tussard shrugged, and dried his hands on a clean
towel. “Hot soapy water," he said. “Gun must have been
in half an hour or more. I was just seeing. I guess the
water would wash them off.”
"How odd,” said Bennett.
Levison asked, “What's odd?”.
“Dashed thorough ablutions, you know, for a chap in-
tending to kill himself the next minute.”
"Suicides,” said Tussard, “are pretty usually full of
inconsistencies. You get used to those things after a
while. Well, we're through in here. We'll go out in the
front room.”
There, among the amiable actors and horses, Tussard
lowered himself into a chair and shielded his eyes from
the lamp light with his hands. Levison looked at the pic-
tures on the walls, occasionally relieving his feelings
with a dark, sardonic smile at some friendly sentiment
written on them. Bennett leaned carelessly against the
end of a sofa, and smoked his pipe, and appeared now
to have lost all interest in the affair.


244
“THERE WAS A
“How about his family? Has he got any?" asked Tus-
sard.
“No family,” said Levison. “What time did it hap-
pen?”
“About eight, or a little before.”
"Was the shot heard?"
“No, but the water was running over, and leaking
through the ceiling, and one of the maids saw it and
came up. She found the body at seventeen after eight.”
"He'd been here all day long, I suppose?"
“Looks like it. Cigars he must have smoked, a couple
sandwiches and some tea he made himself. Just sat here
thinking, I guess, and not answering the door or the
phone, till he got ready to finish himself. He didn't go
in or out. Nobody came in to see him."
“Did he telephone at twenty to eight?" asked Bennett.
“He didn't use the telephone at all.”
“Indeed,” said Bennett.
"Was there a farewell letter, or a confession, or any-
thing of that sort?” Levison asked.
“Nothing. He just decided to finish himself off, while
he was sitting there in a hot bath.”
“With the water running," said Bennett.
“That's right.”
“How do you know," asked Levison, "he died at
eight?”
“Condition of the body," said Tussard.
“Was the gun his own"
“That's something we don't know yet. It's got to be
traced.”
Tussard yawned heartily, twice. He said, half to him-
self, “I could do with some sleep tonight.”
"It's all wound up, you think?"
"Sure it's all wound up."
“I'm glad of it. I don't believe it yet, but I'm glad of


CROOKED MAN"
245
it.” Levison put a cigarette between his lips, and forgot
to light it. “Where does the cripple fit in?"
“I don't know," said Tussard. “I'm going to let that
stuff go till the morning. I got to go over his papers and
letters and things first."
"I wish you luck,” said Levison. "If I've served my
purpose, I'll run along."
“Thanks a lot, Mr Levison, for coming up.”
“Quite all right."
"I'll drop in and see you tomorrow. I'll have to see
you tomorrow, too, Mr Bennett. I found a little note
about an appointment for eight o'clock, and I want to
talk it over with you. Just to get everything straight.”
"Indeed. Please do."
"Kind of a coincidence, his being dead at eight
o'clock, just the time you said in your note.”
“Yes. Extraordinary. There are too many extraordi-
nary coincidences altogether, aren't there? I'm coming
with you, Levison. By the way, Tussard, I came up here
this afternoon and put that message under the door..
And at twenty to eight this evening, Boxworth seems to
have telephoned me. Yet the clerk tells you Boxworth
had no visitors come up, and he didn't use the telephone.
Most extraordinary, eh? No, I must go. Really. Good-
night.”
“Wait a minute, Mr Bennett. Is this straight?"
"Quite. Until tomorrow. Good-night."
As Bennett went out, he saw Tussard grabbing sav-
agely for the telephone.
Levison flung his cigarette far out into the wet street,
climbed after Bennett into the taxi, and said at once,


248
“THERE WAS A
rooms at six o'clock. The murderer, of course, came and
went safely unobserved, as I did.”
“Pretty neat.”
“Oh, very. Both courage and execution improve, you
observe. Desperation makes our murderer more profi-
cient, though jumpy and undependable. He may be
comforting himself now with the assurance that he has
stopped a damning mouth, and ended pursuit by throw-
ing in Tussard's way a dead suspect who has tacitly con-
fessed.”
"Will Tussard fall for it?"
“I think not. No. I warned him, you know."
"He'll look up our alibis.”
“Quite.”
“For eight o'clock, or for six o'clock?"
“Tussard is not unintelligent. The murderer will
have an alibi for eight o'clock. Otherwise, I'm sure he
would not have taken the trouble to telephone me to in-
dicate that Boxworth was alive at twenty to eight; or to
run hot water into the bath, to delay the cooling of the
corpse. Rather ingenious, don't you think? Those sev-
eral hours in a hot bath confused the medical evidence,
and made death seem to have been later than it was.
Conjecture? I admit it. Reasonable conjecture, never-
theless. That Boxworth committed suicide, is both un-
reasonable and fantastic."
“One question, Mr Bennett."
"What is it?”
“Who is the murderer?"
"I shan't tell you.”
“You feel like letting him get away with it, and us go
to the devil, I suppose.
"I feel impotent, and unconcerned.”
“Is Tussard getting anywhere?”
“Tussard is thorough, and sound. He will come to an
end of these red herrings in time.”


CROOKED MAN”
249
“In time.”
“Ah. Quite."
Not yet disposed to sleep, and pressed by Levison,
Bennett rode down-town and stopped with him at the
Theatre. Holcomb, in the office that had once been
Christien's, sat working over a sheaf of papers. The sleek
head, the bland and weary face, looked up at them as
they stood in the doorway.
“Evening. Evening, Mr Bennett. Looking for me?"
“Good evening. No. Not at all,” said Bennett. “Your
soul is Tussard's now.”
“Is Suttro still here?" Levison asked.
“Looking at the show. He's in the projection room."
“Does he know? About Boxworth, I mean?"
"He knows."
The evening had been shattered by Boxworth's death.
These men seemed to be stumbling with oppressed
spirits among the fragments. Without any purpose be-
yond getting together (as it appeared to Bennett) and
sharing their feeling of unreality, they crossed the build-
ing towards the projection rooms and that curious cham-
ber of opaque glass, part of the projection rooms them-
selves and yet cut off from the machines by sound-proof
walls, a closet provided with every facility for giving
directions to actors and, indeed, controlling an entire
performance unseen, and from a distance. This was the
The evening had to be stumthout any purpos) and
Stage Mandled the way to doxically enough the dome of
Levison led the way towards this place through the
‘cellar.' The ‘cellars,' paradoxically enough, were at the
very top of the building, in the space above the dome of
the theatre itself. They constituted the gloomy and
weirdly irregular space between the upper surface of
the greenish-gold dome, and the roof and walls at the


250
“THERE WAS A
very top of the building. It is in the .cellars' that the
invisible lights which shine out brightly from the gold
frescoes of the ceiling, or darken away with smooth facil-
ity above the heads of the audience, are tended and from
time to time renewed. This space, this dark interval, is
in some places crowded close and narrow; and in others,
vastly empty and dark, due to the necessary awkward-
ness of fitting the boxlike exterior of the building above
the arched and curving surface.
"Mind your head, Mr Bennett,” said Levison. “You'll
have to stoop low."
Holcomb solicitously helped Bennett by means of a
hand on his elbow. Bennett shook his elbow free. There
was a bridge spanning this ceiling, an iron scaffold in-
tended for the use of agile electricians. From the bridge,
frail iron ladders descended into depths of blackness,
to give access to the clusters of lights. Endangering Ben-
nett's way as he crossed the bridge hung pipes in groups,
and great bulky metal ducts for air; wire cables, braces,
girders hanging in the gloom, or jutting at crazy tan-
gents. These loomed like the very disorder of Chaos and
interfered greatly with the light from the few naked
electric bulbs hanging in the disorder. Shadows
crouched, curved, encroached everywhere on their
quivering bridge. Below them, the rough plaster (on its
underside, this was the exquisitely tinted dome itself)
and the framework supporting the arches curved down
and away into deep and impenetrable pits of blackness.
There was everywhere a smell of dead air and dust.
A door opening from the ‘cellars' let them into a
stair, which descended to the projection rooms. In the
midst of the purring machines stood the Manager's
chamber. They entered, and found before them, visible
through a wall of plate glass, the entire theatre and the
distant stage. There were half a dozen armchairs, a
table, a control board exactly like that backstage, tele-
his was the exiing the arches.cof blackness


CROOKED MAN”
251
phones, loud speakers, and dials without number. The
booth was a paradise for the lover of instruments and
gadgets.
Suttro sat in a chair in a corner with his chin on his
chest. He had little to say to them. None of them, prob-
ably, saw the picture that was playing on the distant
screen below them. None of them listened to the re-
production of its sound. With a grunt, Levison flicked a
switch, and the sound ceased entirely. Conversation be-
gan, struggled weakly, and only succeeded in not quite
dying.
“It wasn't suicide, of course.”
"Poor John Boxworth.”
“How the devil did he get into it?”
"Hard to understand. He wasn't the kind to get mixed
in anything."
“Who do the police think did it?"
"What? Oh, I don't know.”
“They don't seem to get anywhere."
“Mr Bennett thinks Tussard will get it untangled
soon. Don't you, Mr Bennett?"
This was Bennett's last visit to the Chelsac Theatre
and to Chelsea Project before his departure. It is of
interest only because it was so thoroughly vague and
unsatisfactory.
"I'm sure Tussard will look further,” said Bennett.
"I must go. Perhaps the murderer will expose himself.
I'm sure I hope so. Ah. Now, gentlemen, a good night
to you all, and thank you ...


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BENNETT WAS IN HIS BED AND asleep by half past eleven.
At eleven-fifty on Friday night, May 25, the murderer
was seen on the stage of the Chelsac Theatre, by three
carpenters who were completing a piece of scenery.
What the carpenters saw, made as pretty a paradox
as you could find. When they were at last convinced by
the police that Emil Lutz, the missing night watchman,
was dead, and that his appearance in the flesh was quite
impossible, they showed a desire to attribute the whole
affair to ghosts. At any rate, one of the carpenters, John
McMahon, gave the following statement:
"Michael Madden, Fred Olsen and I were at work
upon the stage putting together a trellis which was to
be used in a scene, when at a little before twelve he
heard the sound of something falling, and then loud
steps at the back of the stage. It being dark there and
quiet before, the three of us went to look. I swear we
saw the shape of a man wearing a coat such as the
watchman's, and a hat. He was about that size also.
He stood to look at us. Where his face was, I could make
out nothing. My heart gave a turn. My hair stood high
on my head. Knowing about the murder on Tuesday
night, and the watchman's part in it as he was sup-
posed to be guilty, we all gave a shout, and Olsen went
fast to call the new watchman to our aid.
"Armed with a hammer, Michael Madden made a
dash at the spirit, but it disappeared in the shadow,
and Madden was unable to touch it. It gave no answer
when we called to it to stand.
252


“THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN” 253
“It was light enough where we worked, and we saw
it plainly. There was no imagination on our part. We
two carpenters got near the light and stood there until
Olsen came back with the watchman. Then we looked
about and saw that our coats and our lunches had been
trampled and disturbed. We looked in the space at the
back of the stage when we had light there to see by,
and also in the theatre itself, but we got no more sight
or trace of the thing which had visited us.” .
This manifestation seemed unaccountable enough by
itself. However, it was made even more obscure by the
prompt action of Mr Lowes Levison, who happened to
be still in the building at the time. He ordered a thor-
ough search of the place to be carried out at once. It
appeared to be physically impossible for the murderer,
if he were the missing watchman, or any other intruder,
to escape. The search took almost the whole night to
accomplish. It turned up absolutely nothing. Levison,
in conference with Anthony Suttro, decided to take the
attitude that the apparition was an employee's prank,
and mainly innocent. Which, though it served as a
feeble explanation, was utter nonsense.
The appearance, and news of the watchman's dis-
covered body, were kept out of the papers until Mon-
day afternoon.
When he found out about the ghost, Bennett showed
no surprise. He said he had been rather expecting
something of the sort.
Tussard, not boggling at paradoxes, came to the con-
clusion that the murderer, in a panic-stricken and the-
atric effort to send the police off on any false trail con-
venient, had been tricked into a tragic mistake. Tussard
kept his conclusions to himself.
A nasty few days for the murderer, these last, as he
writhed like a worm on hot coals, burned by alarms
and overwhelming, unreasoned fear.


254
“THERE WAS A
Saturday, May 26, was a fine day, clear and warm.
Hope brought Bennett's tea.
“Miss Emma Whittacker telephoned this morning,
sir.”
“Asking for what?”
“For Raymonds, sir.”
“Ah. How is he?”
"She seemed to think he was desperate, sir. Not well,
sir.” .
“Drunk?"
“Yes, sir.”
“Too bad.”
“He repaid the ten dollars, sir. He gave it to the
clerk to give me, sir. Last evening."
"Quixotic fool. Don't gloat, Hope."
The sun rose higher, grew hot and strong. The tele-
phone rang more and more often, new and more ap-
palling discomforts appeared, and the post was brought
up. Bennett looked at it while he munched his toast.
In it were four threatening letters, and one begging
demand for money.
Bauer arrived, displaying his freshly brushed teeth.
He said, “Good morning. What happened to you, Mr
Bennett?”
"Good morning. I don't know what you mean.”
“They've got a plain-clothes man down in the lobby,
keeping an eye on you.”
"Tussard's unkindest cut. Fears I'll spirit away his
Raymonds again, I dare say."
Then came one of the blotting-paper secretaries,
anxiously bearing a letter. The letter was from a firm
of lawyers, acting in behalf of their clients, Mr Francis
. Mapes, who (for damages endured by reason of his un-
just dismissal, false imputations of dishonesty, and slan-


256
“THERE WAS A
strode back and forth across the lawyer's office in down-
town New York.
He said, “You have enough, I think. The death of
Boxworth cannot be brought against Freddie or Paula.
Do you need more?”.
“I don't think so," said the lawyer. "Just the same,
it would be wise if you'd tell me all you can.”
“Very well. Last Tuesday night, the memorandum of
a committee meeting was taken almost under the eyes
of the police. Mrs Christien did not take it. Indeed, it
reappeared in the possession of one of the persons to
whom the notices had been first sent."
“It was stolen and returned?”
"Exactly."
“Do the police know about that?”
“They will, if they're told about it.”
"Is there anything else?”
“Nothing but the identity of the murderer. If abso
lutely necessary, I shall cable you. However, I don't
think it will be necessary. What do you plan to do?"
"Speak to the District Attorney. Under the circum-
stances, I think I can induce him to announce in the
newspapers that Mr Christien is entirely innocent of
connection with the crimes, and had never been sus-
pected. Perhaps a word of sympathy for Mr Christien's
illness.”
“That will be complete vindication?”
“Better, Mr Bennett, than I had hoped for earlier.
Of course if you could tell me what lies behind all
this-_”
"I shan't.”
"I realize your delicate position. So many people of
character and prominence, like Anthony Suttro. I sup-
pose I'm asking too much, in wanting you to accuse
one of them.”
"Rot.”


CROOKED MAN”
257
"Oh?”
“A man with the character and prominence of An-
thony Suttro does not commit crimes. Levison, Chris-
tien, Boxworth, my dear sir, it's absurd! If you expect
me to cry murder in these high places, pray undeceive
yourself. It should be obvious that they are quite
innocent."
“Why are you so reluctant, Mr Bennett, to tell me?
If, as you say, the guilty person is not prominent?”
“My dear chap, I have accomplished what I set out
to do. Mr Christien is no longer in danger. I refuse to
involve myself further. My privilege, I think. What evi-
dence I have, is also in the hands of the police. I can do
no more.”
“Of course, if you feel that way, it is your privilege.
But the danger of a murderer-_”
“I can do no more.”
The interview was closed. Bennett rode up-town in
the Christien limousine. Paula Christien said, “Freddie
asked about you this morning. He's getting better now.”
“May I look in at him?”.
"Of course. I'm afraid he won't be able to talk,
though.”
"Indeed. Then I shan't have to bore him with an
account of the case.”
“It's a shame," she said, “that this had to happen, the
first time you two could see each other in ten years.
I'm terribly sorry you were treated so badly.”
“Doesn't matter, my dear. Ah. Getting frightfully old,
softening, becoming more sensitive to trivial impres-
sions. My severity and precision are half legendary now,
the Broghville legend, and I think I have somewhat out-
lived it. Rather like having the world din your obituary
into your ears. Really, Paula, I'm a melancholy, senti-
mental old charwoman at heart. I mention this, my dear,
because I'm dashed unhappy about what I believe will


258
“THERE WAS A
happen. The case makes me sad. I loathe being made
unnecessarily sad.”
"Is that why you're hurrying back to England?”
"My reputation has been clawed and tattered until it
seems scarcely decent to walk about in. I must keep
what remains of it.”
Bennett told Paula Christien, as he took final leave
of her outside the door of Frederick Christien's room in
the hospital, that he had only three more things to do
before he left America: go to a wedding, go to a tea,
and visit the Museum of Natural History.
He went to the Museum on Saturday afternoon. Re-
turning to his hotel, with the problem of a wedding
present for Ann Crofts (portable, of course, in view of
the trip to China) filling his mind, he waved aside
Bauer's warning about the process-server. Something, he
thought, from the silversmith's ...
He stalked into the lobby. Bauer followed him. Ben-
nett scarcely noticed the dingy little man making con-
vulsive efforts to cram through the door with him. Ben-
nett merely brushed him aside.
He advanced towards the elevator, ignoring pursuit.
He scarcely heard the voice addressing him. When im-
portunate hands caught his arm, and dragged on him
with insistence that brought him to a halt, he looked
down with some displeasure at the annoyance. The
dingy man clung to him, and babbled. Bauer, the com-
missionaire, a clerk, all plunged to the rescue. Bennett,
however, dealt with the matter promptly and ade-
quately. He waved the besieged arm, and sent the little
man reeling backwards. The man reeled a surprising
distance, tottered, made protesting noises, and clutched


CROOKED MAN”.
259
as if it were some sort of patent life-belt, his weather-
beaten hat. He then encountered a chair, and toppled it
over, and fell with it to the floor.
Bennett stalked on, unruffled, to the elevator. Bauer
and the commissionaire dealt with the process-server by
pulling him roughly to his feet and shaking him thor-
oughly, so that his hat and the process fell to his feet.
It is doubtful that Bauer, as the man charged in swear-
ing out the warrant, punched his face. The process and
the hat were restored. The dingy man was expelled
firmly into the street. He stood on the sidewalk for
several minutes, fumbling with his hat and muttering
angrily, then went away.
By Sunday noon, and probably at the suggestion of
Mapes, a warrant for the arrest of Geoffrey Bennett on
a charge of assault, had been sworn out.
5.
Sunday morning, however, Bennett and Bauer were
driven in the limousine from a motor livery company to
Brooklyn, and Anthony Suttro's house.
The streets of Brooklyn Heights stretched in long and
quiet vistas. Houses were square and dignified, sober
and dignified church-goers promenaded in front of
them, and even little boys carrying Sunday papers car-
ried them with a dignity peculiar to Sunday, and to
that part of Brooklyn. Suttro's house, or what was left
of it, stood at the top of a rising terrace, behind a low
brownstone wall. A curving carriage drive led to the
front door. The door stood open. Stains of smoke and
water, and gaping panes in the windows, made the house
look peculiarly desolate. The top floor had been gutted.
Bennett skirted a pile of gleaming new luggage, Sut-
tro's presumably, ready for his departure at the door.


CROOKED MAN”
261
“It was marvellous of you to come at all. You're
awfully kind."
“Not kind, really. Quite otherwise! My dear Miss
Crofts, I came to implore you again, not to marry.”
“But why? Why?"
"Sorry. However, I must. Why? Not merely inadvis-
able, but downright dangerous."
Ann's face lost all its usual vivacity. A sudden and
bitter discouragement descended upon her. Brooklyn
grew cold and cheerless, and the sunlight seemed thin
and sour in the empty length of street.
Ann murmured, “You think that Tony did it, or you
think I did it. Which?"
“Do you really expect me to answer?"
"It isn't true, though. You've made a mistake.”
“You mean, you intend to marry Mr Suttro never-
theless?"
“Of course I do."
“Be assured, I shall do no more then. I shall, as the
cliché has it, wash my hands of the affair.”
"Thank you,” said Ann Crofts in a harsh, flat voice,
oddly unpleasant.
When Suttro and Levison came out to join them, they
had clutched for the commonplace, and just succeeded
in retrieving it. Ann was saying, perhaps a shade too
emphatically, that she had never been in Suttro's house
before the fire; and that she regretted not having seen
the lovely piano before.
“Does Mr Suttro play?”
“I don't know.”
“Time for us to go,” said Suttro, bearing his watch
before him. Across the street, the congregation had be-
gun flooding out upon the pavement. Ann lifted her
chin, and stepped forward at Suttro's side, and they
crossed silently to the Rectory.


262
“THERE WAS A
The wedding breakfast was an elaborate and joyless
lunch at a restaurant, and during it, Bennett presented
the bride with a silver travelling set, and a notably mor-
bid kiss. The celebration ended in haste, when the bride
and groom had to hurry to Grand Central to catch their
train for Chicago.
Ann said good-bye, with mixed melancholy, resolu-
tion, and defiance, in the corridor of the train. Bennett
was embarrassed.
“I wrote my aunt,” she said, extending an envelope
to him.
"Shall I post it?"
"Take it to her yourself, please."
“Cruel. To me, I mean.”
“But aren't you going to tea with her? I under-
stood ..."
“I'll take it.”
“And you'll say hello to Hobey for me, if you see
him?"
"Yes.”
“I shan't ever forget your kindness.”
“How tired you are! My dear, you must rest.”
“I'll be all right. Good-bye ..."
The train was about to pull out. Levison bought
newspapers and magazines, thrust them into Ann's arms.
Suttro stood on the platform with Bennett. Cheerfully,
Suttro said, “I hope that Chelsac Theatre business
straightens itself out. I hope nothing else happens.”
“Nothing will."
"You really believe that?"
“Definitely."
“If it does stop as soon as I go away, they'll think I
did it, won't they?".
“Probably,” said Bennett.


264
“THERE WAS A
to Bennett and a chair, and trying to disguise the fact
that she was wiping her eyes dry on the sleeve of her
dress.
Bennett said, "Sorry. Perhaps I'm too early.”
"No," she said, straightening. “No, why I've just been
sitting here, really! Tea will be up soon, I suppose. Oh,
have a drink! I was just going to have a drink myself,
really!"
She abandoned the papers on the floor. She dashed to
a cabinet and knocked over a glass. She poured two very
stiff pegs of gin, and added tonic water to them. She
upset the cigarettes. At last she sat down, panting some-
what, and blew her nose heartily.
“I was-I straighten my accounts on Sunday," she
said.
"Ah. To your advantage, I hope?"
“Yes. Oh, yes,” she said vaguely, and drank some gin.
This heartened her. "No," she said. “I'll tell you.
They've attached my bank account. Some mistake, it
must be. I was working it out-and just when you
knocked I was three thousand and seventy dollars in the
red-and that can't be right, can it? No. Ann usually
does the books for me. She's too bright.”
“Ah?”
“And she's leaving me now.”
Bennett gave up the letter from Ann. He had to do
it, and he braced his spirit against the consequences. A
long silence followed. Only the sound of Aunt Emma's
cigarette, burning out of balance and falling to the floor,
interrupted the peace. Bennett rescued the cigarette.
After a time, Aunt Emma threw the letter weakly in
the direction of the waste basket, and held out for Ben-
nett to look at, an enclosure, a cheque. Bennett saw
that it had been drawn by Anthony Suttro, to Emma
Whittacker, for the amount of five thousand dollars.
Bennett made a sound of polite interest, and returned
tte, burning out only the sound ofnsequences. A


CROOKED MAN”
265
it to her. She tore it in bits, and dropped the bits in an
ash tray. Then she wept convulsively. Bennett went to
the window and looked down on the Fifth Avenue buses
creeping in the wet.
"Rain,” said Aunt Emma, sadly and unexpectedly,
over his shoulder, “is Nature's blessing on the lovely
growing things.”
Tea arrived, and they took it gratefully. It put right
much of the hysterical unpleasantness.
“I got some of those nice sticky cinnamon buns from
Cushman's, and now I can't find them,” said Aunt
Emma. “So it's all over. Nothing I can do for her any
more. She's gone away. Poor Hobey Raymonds."
"Quite."
"I don't know how I'm ever going to tell him, Mr
Bennett.”
Dusk fell. Aunt Emma made no move to light the
lamps. They sat in partial darkness. Gruffly and mono-
syllabically, Bennett offered a dry kind of consolation.
They still sat talking over their tea when a loud knock
came at the door. A huge man stood outside. The huge
man laughed loudly, and lurched into the room, and
said confidentially,' “I'm the boy friend who didn't
make the grade.”
“Oh, Hobey!” said Aunt Emma, and shut the door
quickly.
Raymonds crossed the room, and leaned unsteadily
against the wall. He had no hat. His stained and shape-
less clothes were dripping, as if he had been walking
for hours in the rain. His shoes made a liquid squashing
sound on the floor. He seized several petit fours from a
plate, and crammed them into his mouth.
Suddenly Aunt Emma cried, “Hobey, you're hurt!”
She put her fingers gently to a thin smear of blood on
his forehead. Then she went to the bathroom for cloths.


266
“THERE WAS A
The left side of the boy's jaw had begun to swell and
grow purple.
“Doesn't hurt at all,” said Hobey, returning to the
cakes. “How do you know I don't like it? Anyhow, I'm
very sober now, and Mr Bennett won't go away mad."
Bennett poured himself another cup of tea. Aunt
Emma came back, washed the smear of blood and dried
it, and murmured benevolently, “You're bad, Hobey,
and I'm really angry at you this time.'
"I came to tea,” said Hobey. "I didn't know you had
company.”
"just look at your clothes!”
"I couldn't help it. There was a fellow with me who
wanted to come, and he changed his mind. I didn't
think you'd like having me bring a cop to tea.”
“You fought with a policeman?”
“I wouldn't call it a fight. More a loss of interest."
"Hobey, are you crazy?"
“I sure am, Auntie.”
He subsided in a chair and munched a sandwich,
while Aunt Emma grew increasingly alarmed. “But
what will they do to you, Hobey? The police will find
you here. They won't let you do such things.”
“Let's wait and see, shall we?"
"How did you get in the hotel?”
"I'm quality folks. The distinguished New Haven
manner. Make Mr Bennett stop looking at me, because
he's breaking my heart. I'm not drunk. Eyes may be a
bit screwy, but the head's straight as a bowling alley.
Figure of speech. Ever listen to a bowling alley? That's
what I sound like inside. Are there any more gâteaux,
my sweet? I ought to do something about my eyes. Make
artificial holly berries out of them. Now, please, some-
body else talk for a while.”
“Mr Bennett will think you're awful,” said Aunt
Emma, sotto voce.
what I solispeech. Perehead's "strane drunk at me, becauen


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AND GEOFFREY BENNETT, FULL of explicit forebodings
and bitterness and all but disillusion, washed his hands
of the affair of the Crooked Man. Only because he was
too old and too cynical to feel disillusion was he spared
that emotion.
The last moments before Bennett's departure had
little to do with the final, hopeless calamity of the case,
but they were hectic on their own account, and even a
little ridiculous. Hope had reached the summit of his
humiliation. Sadly and impatiently, with sidewise
glances of recurrent alarm, he paced up and down the
lobby of the Plaza while Bauer put in two corroborat-
ing telephone calls. Bennett found the two men waiting
for him when he came down.
"Sorry, sir,” said Hope fearfully. “I thought it best
to warn you at once, sir. I-I was afraid the tele-
phone--"
"Speak up!"
“The police want you, sir.”
“What?”
“They're at our hotel, sir. I felt you should know at
once. If you return, you'll encounter them.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
"I'm very sorry, sir. Mr Bauer can explain ..."
Bauer explained quite simply that the process-server
had gone to the police. He had sworn out a complaint
against Bennett.
268


270
“THERE WAS A
Then your responsibility, at least as far as I'm con-
cerned, will be permanently relieved."
At last Bennett, like an absconding company pro-
moter, crossed the city to the River, and embarked with
great precautions. Rain, darkness and an odorous fog
hid him. Bauer gave his charge over to the discreet
authorities on the liner, and departed. Bennett was left
alone in his cabin, behind locked doors. Two sharp
stewards had been posted to keep unauthorized persons
away.
Bennett smoked his pipe, and read a mystery story,
and brooded. Eventually, the ship's whistle rumbled,
the engines vibrated faintly, and the ship itself moved
out into the open darkness of the bay...
For five grim preceding nights, Louis Holcomb had
worked late. The five days, too, had been out of joint.
On Sunday evening, therefore; at ten minutes to eleven;
he was chewing his fifth aspirin tablet in his tiny office
opening on the rear of the theatre itself, and pressing his
temples to relieve a thundering headache. Everything
that happened seemed jerky and unreal through the
ragged fog of his weariness.
He had reached out a hand towards the telephone. He
had intended without thinking to call Mr Boxworth, his
superior. He had no superior, however. Unless he ap-
pealed all the way up to Mr Lowes Levison-and as his
hand touched it, the telephone rang.
“Hello. Holcomb talking."
"Yes, sir. Backstage just reported that the watchman
Lutz was seen again. Stage door talking, sir. I sent them
two police in.”
"You sent-yes, O.K. Nobody leaves the building, un-
und intend reached Weariness. ky and cadache. pressi


CROOKED MAN”
271
derstand? Has Mr Levison been told? Then call him.
When was it?"
"Wasn't half a minute ago.”
“Notify Police Headquarters, a man named Tussard,
as soon as you tell Mr Levison. Understand?"
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up. He stepped out of his office, snapped his
fingers to bring two ushers to his side, and sent them to
watch the doors connecting backstage with the audience.
The steps he took were prearranged, and precise. The
apparition, whatever it was, had been bottled.
Holcomb himself strode down the ramp towards back-
stage. He looked over the audience, huge and placid,
watching the last showing of the picture. They would
know nothing. Backstage, at the control board, the em-
ployé who had given the alarm sat calmly waiting at his
post.
"I could just make him out, Mr Holcomb. He moved
around kind of funny, and then when he saw I saw him,
he ducked away.”
"Has the stage been covered?”
"Sure, they've been over this ground already and
they're on their way up. He must have gone up. Couldn't
get downstairs anywhere. I called stage door the first
second I set eyes on him, so__"
“All right. Sure it was Lutz?”
"Looked like him. Uniform coat and hat. That's all I
could see.”
Holcomb looked into the depths of the vast stage, eery
in an unstable, liquid light from the picture screen.
Abruptly the metallic voice of the emergency communi-
cation system interrupted him, and filled the air with
sound. It was Levison, asking for Holcomb. Holcomb
took up the telephone, dialled Levison's office, and ex-
plained the direction of the search.
Levison said, “Good. Take the south side, will you?
looked into light from emergenche air with


272
“THERE WAS A
I've got a man looking after them on the north. Can't
get away."
"O.K. I'll keep in touch."
Holcomb climbed the stairs. He passed one police-
man, then another, then an usher, guarding against the
quarry doubling back. He caught up with the searchers.
There were passages, and room upon room, dressmak-
ers' rooms, wardrobe rooms, audition rooms, offices, re-
hearsal rooms ... The emergency speaking system talked
on. The words beat dully in the pounding of Holcomb's
headache. Of course, the guy they were hunting could
hear them, too. He'd know what they were doing. But
that didn't seem to matter.
He put another aspirin in his mouth, and went down
to take a look at the audience. Calm, unaware, they were
beginning to drift out. Arrangements had been made for
them to be watched carefully, in case their quarry tried
to sneak his way out among them.
He learned that Tussard had arrived. What crazy busi-
ness this was, anyhow! At quarter past eleven, he was
asked to call Levison. Levison's voice, sharp and strange,
said they'd found her. Her? The telephone went dead.
Holcomb stopped to smooth his hair thoughtfully and
catch his breath. Then he went to dismiss the searchers,
most of whom could go. He would want a few to inspect
the remainder of the building, as a precaution.
He asked, "Who'd they find?"
One of the squad said, “Don't know, sir."
"Where are they?”.
“Mr Levison's office, sir."
“All right. We'll start there. You come along with
me.”
The passage outside the executive offices had fallen
entirely into the hands of the police. Holcomb could
rouse no great interest in this official activity, this tri-
umphant coming and going on the outer fringe. He


CROOKED MAN”.
273
made his way through it, to the door of the secretary's of-
fice, where Lowes Levison stood scowling, with his arms
folded, looking both hurt and angry. Tussard, holding the
watchman's coat and hat in his thick hands, was trium-
phant at Levison's elbow. Beyond them, and momen-
tarily visible in Levison's office when somebody came
out through the intervening door, sat Ann Crofts, be-
tween two policemen. Her appearance startled Hol-
comb, shocked him. He had only a glimpse of her, and
the door was shut. Her face was white, hard, tense; her
lips were pressed in a thin line. She seemed dazed.
Levison at that moment made a move as if to go into
his own office, but Tussard blocked his way. “Oh, no
you don't,” he said gruffly. "You're not running this
show.”
Levison's face darkened angrily. Putting on a thin as-
sumption of bantering, he drawled, “I'd like to see you
burn in hell, Tussard," and flung into Christien's office,
banging the door after him. The bang made Holcomb
wince.
Chalky and mask-like, Tussard's face nevertheless
looked pleased. He said to Holcomb, “It's all over now."
“Yes. What's all over?”.
“There she is. We caught her hiding in there. We
found this stuff right in her hands.” “This stuff' was the
watchman's tunic and cap. “She tried to bluff it out, but
it didn't work.”
"She's the man you were looking for?"
"She's the man.
“Did she say so?”
"She will.”
Holcomb's eyes ached. He rubbed them. Everything
and everybody, Tussard and the policemen and the fa-
miliar offices and furniture, seemed a little garish and
unconvincing. He heard himself saying, “Somebody's


CROOKED MAN"
275
“They had something on her. I can't tell you about
the details. Just say to yourself, she wanted to marry Sut-
tro for his money, and she didn't want to let anything
stand in her way.”
“Is she strong enough for a job like that?”
“She's plenty strong. A pretty healthy kid.”
“It's all washed up, then? Everything's settled?”
“I'm satisfied, and so is the District Attorney. Any-
body who don't agree can always write letters about it
to the newspapers.”
Holcomb rubbed his eyes again. The police case, he
realized, was fixed and settled, permanently and unal-
terably. Discrepancies could not be pampered, but
merely forced to fit. It was done. The solid flesh of Percy
Tussard personified the system. Aspirin or the cigarette
had upset Holcomb's stomach, made his mouth taste
sour.
"I got to go on and give the rest of the place a look,”
said Holcomb. “Then I'm going home to get some
sleep. I won't be here early tomorrow, so if there's any-
thing you want, let's hear about it now."
"No, I won't want you. I'll be here a while longer,
maybe half an hour, so let's have a word from you if you
find anything.”
"Sure, I'll let you know."
It occurred to Holcomb to say something about get-
ting a doctor for Ann. She looked so strange, as if she
might go to pieces. Still, it was none of his business. He
had a job to keep. He turned away, gathered his squad,
and led them off into the silent building.
Between half past eleven and midnight, Holcomb
opened the door into the high ‘cellars,' which offered


270
“THERE WAS A
better opportunities for hiding than any other part of
the building. He would have expected Ann to know it.
He led his men across the iron bridge. They flashed
the beams of electric torches into the darkness. Hol-
comb's head roared like a blast furnace each time he
stooped to make his way under one of the pipes or flues
in his path.
“There's something. What is it?"
“Hat. A man's hat.”
“All right,” said Holcomb. “One of you climb down.”
One of the ushers descended to the arching plaster,
and crawled carefully and precariously along a thin steel
ladder. He swung his beam of light. He stopped, took up
the hat, and called, “Something else."
“What?”
"Looks like blood.”
“Go on down a bit.”
The usher made his way among tangled struts and
girders, down the steeper sides of the arch. These grew
perpendicular at the base, far below the bridge. The
man disappeared, his light lost itself in the depths. Hol-
comb held his head in his hands and waited, considering
the advisability of another aspirin.
Out of the darkness, the usher called up to them,
“Here it is."
“Mice,” said one of the ushers on the bridge.
"Shut up,” said Holcomb.
“Hey, somebody give me a hand,” called the voice.
“Go on, give him a hand,” said Holcomb.
The torch beams flickered crazily. There were sounds
of clambering. Slowly the men came up into sight.
"One slip down there, and you break your neck,” said
the first explorer, resting to get his wind.
"What'd you find?”
“Looks like a man. I didn't go close to it. Afraid we
couldn't get back. Got to get a rope.”


CROOKED MAN”
277
277
“Where is he?”
“At the bottom, in the narrow part.”
“Alive?”
"I don't know.”
Holcomb sent for Tussard.
It was Anthony Suttro. He was alive, but unconscious.
His left leg dangled from a broken thigh. Face and head
were badly lacerated. He had fallen from the steel bridge
near the north door of the 'cellars. Or, as Tussard
pointed out, he had been shoved. He had plunged down
in the steepest and darkest place, between the ceiling
and the outer wall.
The nurse had not yet gone home. She was sent into
the room where Suttro had been carried. When she
came out again, Holcomb asked her what had happened.
“They wanted me to bring him to, so he could talk.”
“Did he?"
“Just a few words. His mind isn't very clear.”
“What did he say?"
“They asked him if his wife had tried to kill him, and
he didn't say anything. They told him they'd caught her,
and he nodded. They said did he know she was a mur-
derer, and he said yes. Then they asked him again if his
wife had shoved him off the bridge, and he said yes.
Then he began to cry, and they let me give him a shot to
quiet him. I'm just waiting for the ambulance now. I'm
afraid he got a bad knock on the head.”
"All right,” said Tussard, coming to the door, “you
can all clear out of here now.”
Holcomb, suffering a dull nausea, went away. He let
his men go home. He wanted to go home too. He
thought it best to tell Mr Levison, and he found him
walking up and down the passage in front of his office.
“I wouldn't be surprised,” said Levison, "if somebody
came up to tell us we'd struck oil in the lobby, or a


278
“THERE WAS A
was the nurse crowded white, carryit
middle-aged whale had given birth to quintuplets in
one of the water tanks. I couldn't be surprised."
"I think I'll go home, if you don't mind.”
“Yes, go home, Holcomb. I think--"
Levison's door opened suddenly. A policeman ran out
through the secretary's office, vanished down the passage.
Through the open door, Holcomb could see the girl's
figure stretched out on the floor. Tussard kneeled beside
her, shaking her limp arm in his hand. The other
policeman clumsily patted water from a carafe on her
white, slack cheeks.
“Stay out of here," Tussard barked. Then the door
was kicked shut.
The nurse came. Two other men, vaguely official and
preoccupied, crowded into the office. Then three more
came, two of these in white, carrying a folded stretcher,
and the third in furious haste.
Holcomb pressed his temples, feeling that time had
jumped curiously, like a broken clock; slipping from
swift empty hours into long, heavy, thumping seconds.
He waited at Levison's side.
The door opened again, at last, and the stretcher, with
Ann Crofts on it, was carried out. A parade of frowning
men followed it. Tussard came last, and stopped to say
a word to Levison.
“Too bad,” he said.
"What's the matter with her?” Levison demanded.
"She just went to pieces. When I told her I'd found
her husband, and he was alive to accuse her, she just
passed out. Your nerve can't last forever.”
“Where is she being taken?"
"Hospital.”
“Under arrest?"
“For the attack on her husband. That ought to be
good enough to hold her for now. Well, I'll be leaving.


280 "THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN”.
"Where are you going?"
"Get some help."
He was gone, running down the corridor towards the
elevators. Ineffectually, poor Aunt Emma started after
him with his hat, but too late. She heard the elevator
doors open for him, and shut. She was left alone.


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BENNETT, HOLDING HIS COAT closed at his throat, leaning
on the rail, decided he could see no dawn in that black
and sullen fog. He heard somebody approaching him
along the deck, running towards him, calling his name.
He turned, and saw Hobey Raymonds. The boy's face,
white and set, glistened in the wet.
“Look here, sir. I've got to talk to you.”
“My word!
“Please listen to me. Something's happened. I'm ask-
ing you to—"
"I know,” said Bennett. Then he said, “Yes. Come to
my cabin. Tell me how it came about.”
Bennett let Raymonds follow him into the room. He
pointed to a chair, rang for the steward, and ordered
coffee. Then he listened to what Raymonds could tell
him. Coffee came. Raymonds finished his account, and
sat leaning forward in his chair with his cold hands
clenched round the cup, watching the old man. Bennett
smoked his pipe, and walked aimlessly and restlessly
about the cabin.
At last he asked, "Why did you come here?”
“You're the only man I know who can help. I came to
ask you to."
"Sorry. I can't.”
"There isn't any time to argue. God, sir, a lot of words
aren't going to make it stronger. You can't let us down.”
Raymonds's face looked haggard. Bennett said, “En-
tirely a matter of being unable."
281


282
“THERE WAS A
“If you want to help, you can do it, sir."
"A wireless message to Tussard? Quite useless. To the
girl's barristers? Doubtful. We're on a ship bound for
England, you know.”
"You can get off with the pilot.”
"Perhaps.”
“That's why I'm here. To get you off, if I can. I'm
getting off. I don't care what happens, I'm getting off.
Even if I have to swim back from Sandy Hook. After the
way you were treated, you don't owe anybody a damn
thing. All right, if you won't do it, tell me what I have
to do.”
“You wouldn't be believed, Raymonds."
"Maybe not."
"Nor would I.”
"You can pull strings, and make them believe you."
Bennett shook his head doubtfully. Raymonds put his
cup on the floor, drummed his fingers on his knuckles.
Abruptly he jumped up. “Getting late. I don't want to
take a chance on missing the pilot. Will you come with
me?"
Bennett strode back and forth, trailing eddies of
smoke. He said nothing. Raymonds stared at him. Then
thumping his fists together, and in a sudden fire of
anguish, he flung himself at the door.
"No," said Bennett sharply. “Wait, please.” He took
up the telephone, clicked it impatiently. He said into it,
“Broghville's compliments to the officer on the bridge. I
wish to be put off the ship. Coming up to arrange it.
Good. Thank you.”
As he pulled on his mackintosh, the old man said,
“Drink another cup of coffee, there's a good chap. Do
our best, shan't we? Right. We shall try Broghville tac-
tics on heaven and hell. Wait here."
He closed the cabin door after him.


CROOKED MAN”
283
2.
They sat together in the pilot's boat, Bennett with a
rug over his knees, Raymonds wrapped in a heavy coat
of Bennett's.
"Most extraordinary part of it,” said Bennett, “is your
getting to me on the ship.”
“I tried to do it before she sailed, but they put me off
three times.”
"Yes. I told them to."
"I couldn't stand on the dock and let you sail right
under my nose. I was afraid they'd arrest me if I tried
the way into First any more. They're sharp as the devil
about keeping people off those boats. Anyhow, just be-
fore she sailed, I got hold of a woman going Tourist
Third with two little kids. She had a lot of junk to carry.
I told her I was sailing too. I carried one of the kids and
most of the baggage for her, and they let me on. Mostly
because the kids kept kissing me all the time. Anyhow, I
got away with it.”
"And?”
“The boat sailed. I had to work my way up through
Second. They spotted me there, and sent me back. I
went away below and went through the crew's quarters.
I never had to open so many doors in my life. I saw you
sending those stewards away and walking down the deck.
As soon as they got out of sight, I went up to you."
Moving through a vague universe of grey water and
luminous murk, they could do nothing but wait for
their arrival on shore. Bennett said little. Raymonds
hopped up every third minute to stare into the wet
morning for the sight of some part of the land.
"What's the first thing we ought to do?"
“Shave," said Bennett.
The old man contracted then, huddled his chin over


284
“THERE WAS A
his huge chest, and dozed serenely for the rest of the
voyage up the bay.
Bennett chose an obscure and unfashionable hotel,
where he cautiously took rooms in the name of Mr Lyt-
ton Browne and secretary. He plunged at once into a se-
ries of telephone conversations (one of these was long
distance to London) which had for one tangible result
the engagement of a criminal lawyer for the defence of
Ann Crofts—a somewhat famous and very costly lawyer
After this, Bennett disappeared. Raymonds, left alone
in the hotel, paced the floor of his room, and occasion-
ally varied the monotony when it became insupportable,
by ordering himself a meal or another packet of ciga-
rettes.
Once, shortly after dark, a crisp stranger's voice from
the office of Brian McMullen called up to tell Hobey
that he, as well as Bennett and Aunt Emma, was in dan-
ger of being arrested as a material witness. He was not to
show himself under any circumstances to anybody.
Then Raymonds paced back and forth until his legs
ached. He took a hot bath at last, and hung up his damp
clothes for them to dry, and waited in bed for Bennett
to come back. It began to seem very improbable that the
man would ever come back at all.
Bennett came in at half past ten.
“Miss Whittacker was arrested an hour ago," he said.
“As a witness?"


CROOKED MAN”
285
“Of course. We can't stop here, Raymonds. Come, get
up, dress yourself.”
"Where do we go?”
"We move up to the trenches. Brooklyn. Be quick. Or
join Miss Whittacker."
Hobey thrust his legs into damp trousers, while Ben-
nett demanded of him, "Where is Albemarle Road?”
"Good Lord, I don't know.”
“Is there a place called Midwood in Brooklyn?"
“There could be.”
“We must find it.”
“Why, sir?"
"Percy Tussard.”
"You're not going to let him get hold of us, just when
we're trying to duck the cops over here?”
“Put your boots on, please. This case is going to be
tried in the newspapers. Indeed, it's being tried in them
now. I abhor newspapers. However, I bought an interest
in one of them. The Mail. We shall be represented in
this court of journalists.”
"What did the lawyer say?"
"He advised against the case being allowed to come to
trial.”
“But you can't get Ann out of jail just by printing
things in a--
“Put your boots on.”
5.
Albemarle Road stretches for miles. Undistinguish-
able little suburban houses of wood, and undistinguish-
able trees, crowd each other down the whole length of it.
Tussard lived in one little house that had a very small
hedge in front, and a very large piano lamp in its par-
lour window. This time of night, Tussard in shirt-


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NO MAN COULD SAY WHAT WAS going on in Bennett's
head, what doubts afflicted him or what assurances gave
him courage. He was, as always, serene and austere. He
and Raymonds arrived at the hospital in a cab, and
asked to be directed to the room where Miss Crofts lay
waiting for her ultimate removal to the Tombs. They
were taken to a small white cubicle, very crowded.
It was, in a way, the old gentleman's final betrayal.
Raymonds had kept his hope alive, feeding it on the
greatness of Bennett, but as they stood in the doorway,
he saw Bennett taken into custody like any mere man in
the street; and he felt an official hand take hold of his
own arm. A belligerent and impersonal voice said qui-
etly, “I arrest you in the name of the law."
The face of Ann Crofts turned towards the door for
an instant, then was hidden at once by the movement
of someone beside the bed. The last of his confidence
deserted him, and Raymonds felt cold, sick, and empty.
Bennett looked across the room at Tussard, and merely
said, “Well?”
The room was grim, curiously hostile. When Tussard
spoke, his voice broke out far too loud. He indicated
with a jerk of his head the heavy, shrewd, grey-haired
man who leaned with a thigh cocked on the telephone
stand beside him. There was gruff deference in the ges-
ture, and Tussard said, “This is the District Attorney,”
and he dropped his eyes as if surrendering all responsi-
bility.
289


290
“THERE WAS A
Mary disle non door
Bennett turned his gaze towards the District Attorney
then, and once again, a little more sharply, said, “Well?”
The District Attorney considered, and at last nodded
his head. The two policemen in the doorway released
Bennett and Raymonds. Bennett shrugged his shoulders
to put right an imaginary disorder in the set of his coat,
and with the most remarkable nonchalance, stepped to
the centre of the little room. The door to the corridor
was shut. Bennett stared round him at the faces of the
strange gathering. Beside the District Attorney, a police-
man-stenographer possessed the only chair in the room.
Two policemen flanked the door. A self-conscious nurse,
preventing herself from wringing her fingers by an effort
of control, sat next to Ann Crofts on the edge of her bed.
No meeting of the Inquisition in a gloomy castle in
Toledo could have appeared more unrelenting or severe.
Bennett said, “Where is Mr Hackmann?"
The District Attorney, warily watching Bennett, made
a brusque gesture with his arm, as if brushing all non-
sense aside. He announced flatly, “That's out. We're not
going to have any newspaper men in here.”
"Really? Then I shall telephone your State Depart-
ment in Washington.”
Bennett in two paces of his long legs reached the tele-
phone. He put it to his mouth. In the momentary pause
while he waited for a response from the operator, the
District Attorney put out a restraining hand and barked,
“Wait a minute!”
Bennett waited. He reluctantly put the earpiece of the
instrument on its hook, and stared at the District Attor-
ney with bland enquiry. The District Attorney glanced
at Tussard, who shrugged; glanced at the two policemen
at the door; glanced out the window at the midnight
darkness; and decided, almost visibly, that his trap had
caught too large a specimen. This Mr Bennett had be-
come the great Lord Broghville, invoking the powers of


CROOKED MAN”
291
Washington and various international considerations.
The District Attorney withdrew from his awkward posi-
tion with all the grace available.
“I think we ought to talk it over first, Mr Bennett.
Let's just find out where we stand, shall we?”
“If Hackmann is present, yes.”
“But Hackmann's the City Editor of the Mail, and
that's impossible. If you want to call up your lawyer, I
won't object. You see, it's particularly important, Mr
Bennett, that the newspapers shouldn't get hold of this
yet.”
Breathing the faintest of sighs, Bennett said, “I'm
afraid that's my point. I want the newspapers to get
hold of it. Sorry," and he addressed himself to the tele-
phone again.
“Wait a minute,” said the District Attorney. He
turned his face towards the two policemen at the door,
and told them, "Hackmann's waiting downstairs. Get
him in here.'
Mr William Hackmann, City Editor of the Mail,
made himself as comfortable as he could on the narrow
window sill. Hobey Raymonds had joined the nurse at
the side of Ann's bed, and Geoffrey Bennett occupied
the centre of the floor, where he confronted the District
Attorney.
"I think,” said Bennett suavely, “that it must be obvi-
ous by now to each of us that Miss Crofts is quite inno-
cent of the murder of the man who died last Tuesday
evening on--"
The District Attorney snorted, and cried, “Wait a
minute! If you're going to start off by assuming that
she's not guilty, I can't--
Bennett said, icily, “Please don't interrupt me!”


292
“THERE WAS A
The District Attorney lamely remembered his man-
ners, and continued with less spirit, “Well, I don't mean
to- ”
“Please!"
"All right,” said the District Attorney, almost meekly.
“Go ahead.”
As suave as custard again, Bennett resumed:
“It must be obvious that the murderer of the poor
creature on the terrace saw him coming through the
windows of one of the three executive offices. Miss Crofts
could not have seen him coming. Simply because there's
no window in the passage where she sat. The murderer,
then, ought logically to be one of the men in those three
offices—I mean, Christien, Levison, Boxworth, or Suttro.
I dare say that interpretation popped into your head al-
most at once, Tussard.”
The District Attorney permitted himself a sidelong
questioning glance at Tussard, and Tussard replied to
the room at large, "She could have gone out through the
hospital. We figured that as soon as we got there.”
“Oh, quite true. If she knew the precise moment
when she could find her victim ready to her hand, she
might have done. The possibility will always remain,
and I shall never contradict it. However, the possibility
-think of it; could she speak to Boxworth as he came to
the offices that evening, then run to the terrace and find
the poor wretch on the very tick of arriving, accomplish
her murder, then avoid Christien and return to the pas-
sage in time to be found there by Holcomb?—is as re-
mote as our chances of dealing four perfect bridge hands,
in the rather improbable case of our sitting down to-
gether now for a game."
“She might have done it just the same," said Tussard.
"Rubbish,” said Bennett. “Remember the watch-
man."


CROOKED MAN”
293
“What has the watchman got to do with it?” said Tus-
sard.
“You will pardon my saying so," said the District At-
torney, “but this doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere.
We've been over these things a dozen times.'
“Ah, but how blindly!”
The District Attorney sighed and murmured, "It's get-
ting late. Let's get along with it, if we're ever going to
finish.”
“I shall ask you to be very patient, if possible. The
murdered man has not yet been identified, I assume. I
shall identify him for you. Meanwhile, I shall call him-
let us say X, for the unknown.”
Though Bennett uttered this as calmly as you please,
he might have been announcing for the response he got,
that they all had snakes in their pockets. It was the first
effective shock against the official case. Tussard's eyes
bulged. He muttered, and took a step towards Bennett.
Even the District Attorney's reserve cracked. A kind of
rustle and murmur filled the room, and it was the Dis-
trict Attorney, leaning tensely forward, who cut through
the thick whispering with a question:
"You can identify the body?”
“Quite so.”
“Who was he?”
Bennett smiled placidly and extended a hand, like the
conductor of an orchestra reproving undue exuberance
among the wood-winds. When the room had again grown
quiet and expectant, he said, “May I again ask you to be
patient? As I say, I shall identify this X for you. No,
please! The identification will be final and irrefutable,
late, and that we should get on with it, and I agree. Let
us be orderly about it. I go back again to Tuesday night,
and the watchman, who was also murdered. We all ad-
mit, I think, that the murderer throttled X. Having ac-


CROOKED MAN”
295
es, he same body oficken with
man, I think, lay nearest the empty infirmary, and the
murderer lifted this body first and carried it through to
the lifts-elevators, that is-beyond. Hiding Lutz on the
roof of a lift cage may have been a clever trick; but I
prefer to believe the man sought any dark hiding place
to be rid of his gruesome burden at once, and he opened
the door of the shaft with the watchman's key, and bun-
dled the dead man within, and only then discovered that
luck had helped him. The lift stood at the floor below.
The roof of the cage made the most convenient hiding
place one could fancy. Beginning to see an escape from
his horrid predicament, the murderer shut the door to
the lift shaft, and returned for the cadaver of Mr X. To
his consternation, however, as he approached the lighted
windows of the offices, he saw Frederick Christien
emerge. Christien discovered the body of X under the
murderer's very eyes. But Christien was stricken with a
heart seizure, and staggered back to his office for assist-
ance. No time remained for concealing X. The mur-
derer slipped into another office, where he had been
waiting when X first appeared. Comparatively safe there,
he protested his entire ignorance of the affair. Reason-
able? I think so. But my point is this: Miss Crofts had
neither time nor opportunity to do these things, particu-
larly to conceal the watchman, and return to the passage
where Holcomb saw her at the very moment Christien
raised the alarm. On that point, with the proper use of
witnesses, I'm confident I can shake your present case.
Believe me, if it is necessary, I shall do so. But I pray that
it may never be necessary.”
The District Attorney sat in a brown study and fin-
gered a Phi Beta Kappa key on the end of his watch
chain. Bennett looked at him, as if waiting for an an-
swer. The District Attorney roused himself, cleared his
throat, and said in a surprisingly mild voice, “Why
not?"


CROOKED MAN"
299
a soldier during the last war. In the Canadian army,
wasn't it, Tussard? No great matter, of course, ex-
cept that records of his injuries would not be kept in
Washington. Anthony Suttro, however, was hideously
wounded. Indeed, it's most remarkable that he lived
after such damage. He had no face, as we know, and
hardly more than half a body. A revolting creature in
appearance, but a courageous one, and, moreover, noble.
He returned, I presume, to his home in Brooklyn, and
lived in seclusion and wrote, and through his writings
became quite famous. This consists, Tussard, of those
facts you gave me yourself, even to the wounding of the
man. Of course, the extent of his wounds was not in-
cluded in the record, since Suttro himself, naturally con-
cealing his frightful tragedy, would have kept it out of
his biography.
“When Suttro became more successful, and his com-
pany of Suttro and Faunce expanded to the extent that
he could no longer administer its affairs by letter, he
was perplexed by the necessity of appearing in public.
How repugnant to him! Pitying glances, half-concealed
expressions of revulsion, all the rest of it! Anthony Sut-
tro, not incomprehensibly, fell back on the help of a
young secretary, a handsome, vivid and attractive fel-
low, who appeared in public in his place. The result is
a situation most tempting for the secretary. As years
passed, the world knew Suttro as a great man, a bit of a
genius, and they accepted the young secretary in his
place. With the crooked and crippled Mr Suttro out of
the way, the secretary could with almost no difficulty at
all, assume a position of great prominence and wealth.
With Anthony Suttro remaining his master, the ambi-
tious young fellow was a mere paid secretary, a clerk,
serving for a few pounds a week. As we know, the temp-
tation was too strong, and the clerk succumbed. What is
it, Tussard?"


302
“THERE WAS A
postor had stolen the notice to corroborate his inno-
cence, and to conceal the existence of his employer,
didn't occur to me, to be frank with you, until last Fri.
day. I suppose you notice how neatly the pieces fall into
place?"
Tussard said, “Can I ask you one question?"
“Oh, do, by all means!”
"What put you on to this in the first place?”
“My dear chap, when a man as young as the osten-
sible Suttro, a man perhaps thirty-five years old, and at
the very most forty, claims to have written a very success-
ful and rather serious book in 1914, at the age of fif-
teen, perhaps, or twelve or so, it must put you on to
something. Don't you think?”
The District Attorney remarked, “In my opinion,
though you'd better see that I'm not quoted, Hack-
mann!-the police have been too matter-of-fact from be-
ginning to end. It's not that they've been careless about
collecting the evidence, as I see it, but that they've been
damned slack in their interpretation of it. Now, there's
one thing—-"
Bennett took a turn at interrupting on his own be-
half, and observed, “After all, Tussard arranged this
meeting. I assure you, I have considerable respect for
the imagination and the tolerance of a chap who would
leave his home tonight, with nothing more to go upon
than my all too nebulous assurances. But, pray, you were
about to ask me?”
“I was merely going to remind you that we have on
file in our office some testimony that Boxworth gave the
police before he died. He said, you may remember, that
he and Suttro were together in Suttro's office at the time
the body of the watchman was removed from the The-
atre. Do you account for that in any reasonable way? Or
was Boxworth unreliable?”
“I'm afraid I don't know. Very probably, Boxworth


CROOKED MAN”
303
had no alibi for that hour, and Suttro convinced him of
the need for manufacturing a mutual alibi, to prevent
further embarrassment for both. But Boxworth sus-
pected, though reluctantly and only after I had influ-
enced him a bit. Boxworth, indeed, went on to suspect
the entire truth and I think in his generosity, he may
have given the Suttro impostor an opportunity for flight.
Flight, however, wasn't what he desired. And the unfor-
tunate result of Boxworth's extreme kindness was his
death."
Tussard drew a cigar from his pocket, lighted it,
stretched, nodded to himself, and said, “I was pretty sure
you knew what you were talking about.”
“Ah?"
“I mean," said Tussard, blowing out a great cloud of
smoke, "when you wanted the watchman's body kept
out of the papers.”
"I can't pretend,” said Bennett, “to have expected the
murderer to impersonate the watchman in an effort to
throw suspicion there. No. I'm afraid fear impelled the
fellow into fantastic impersonations. He interrupted his
honeymoon for a last attempt at that old game. Though
I fancy you know more than I about his return from his
journey to Chicago. Miss Crofts will have told you that.
You see, I guess far more than I know. I console myself
with the opinion that I guess, for the most part, quite
well.”
Hackmann from the window said, “I might as well
have the Crofts story, too. How did Suttro get thrown
down from the bridge in that place?”.
"Oh, he tried to pull a fast one,” said Tussard. "He
had an idea I'd think he was in Chicago, and I'd forget
all about him after the watchman showed up once
more. He was trying to hide, according to this girl, and
he fell off one of those steel ladders.”
“And the girl?”


304
“THERE WAS A
“She came back when he did, to warn Mr Levison at
the Theatre.”
Tussard had crossed to the door, and he stood there
with his hand on the knob drawing thoughtfully on his
cigar. The District Attorney returned his watch chain to
its proper slope from pocket to pocket, slapped his
thighs, and stood erect. He said to Tussard, “Where are
you going? After Suttro? I mean-by the way, what is his
name?"
"I'm sure I don't know,” said Bennett. “Perhaps, since
we have the quantity left over after our evening's la-
bours, we might call him X.”
It rained-how it rained!-the day Miss Crofts came
out of the hospital. There was a party for her, and for
Bennett, who was about to sail openly, honestly (for the
malignant Mapes had been disposed of) and finally for
England. Tussard, and even the District Attorney, man-
aged to be at the lunch in the Moore House restaurant.
There was abundant champagne for Aunt Emma to
drink, and there was no end of felicitations and hearty
handshaking.
The reporters descended on them like a plague of
flies; and particularly on Miss Crofts, in view of the fact
that the man she had lately married had been, on the
afternoon before, indicted for murder.
"When did you first find out he was the killer?"
"I started repacking his bags after we had pulled out
of the station. I found the watchman's coat and hat and
keys, and he came into the compartment while I still
had them out. He went to pieces.”
“Did he confess?”
“As good as.”


306
"THERE WAS A
flush of a rapturous enthusiasm, fitted herself by main
force in the seat of the hired limousine, next to his lord-
ship, where she devoted ten minutes to the exposition of
a vital cause-the Union for Promotion of Prison Re-
form-and solicited, successfully, a fat endowment for
her new magazine, to be called, Prison Cry! As she
stuffed Bennett's contribution into her bag, she con-
fessed with a sigh, “Never, in all my born days, have I
seen such primitive and unsanitary little cells as there
are in the City Prison. And the matrons, how terribly
crude and disrespectful!”
Bennett remained beneficently disposed, and before
the ship sailed, he kissed Miss Crofts solemnly on her
forehead, and took young Raymonds aside, and led him
to the privacy of the purser's office.
"A match?"
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. Um. Have you asked her?"
“Asked her?”
“Come, come, Raymonds!"
“No, I haven't. As soon as I land a job, I'm going to.”
“A job?" demanded Bennett, raising an overwhelm-
ing eyebrow.
“Don't worry. I'm not going to ask you for one. If
there's anything I'm thoroughly sick of, it's weeping at
all my friends for help. You've never had to do it.
There's a very nasty look of I-smell-dead-fish that comes
over their faces, and they say they'll let you know, and
they ask you to drop in again in a couple of weeks.”
"Ah, but what are friends for?”
“They're not for sponging on.”
"Rot!”
“What do you mean, rot?”
"Rot. I say, do you go to the cinema?"
"Once in a while."
“Do you find it very dull? No matter. Do you know