Caught Red-Handed: The Killer Was An Actor All Along!

Caught Red-Handed: The Killer Was An Actor All Along!

On Tuesday evening, October second, promptly at 11:30 p.m., a tall man wearing a soft black hat and a black overcoat, the collar pulled up around his face to keep out the raw night-air, sauntered out of the lobby of a small hotel on 53rd Street near Seventh Avenue and proceeded at a sharp pace up Seventh Avenue toward Central Park.

Arrived at 59th Street he turned to the east and made his way along the deserted thoroughfare in the direction of Fifth Avenue. When he reached the Fifth Avenue entrance to Central Park, off the Plaza circle, he stopped in the shadow of one of the big concrete corner-posts and leaned back idly. As he lit a cigarette the flare from the match illumined his face. It was that of an elderly man, a trifle lined. A grizzled mustache drooped in a straggling line from his upper lip. Under his hat a grey patch of hair was visible. Then the light from the match flickered out.

He stood quietly against the concrete post, hands jammed into his overcoat pockets, puffing away at his cigarette. An observer would have noticed, had he been keen, that the man’s fingers trembled slightly and that his black-shod feet tapped the sidewalk in an unsteady tattoo.

When his cigarette burned down, he threw it away and glanced at a watch on his wrist. The hands stood at 11:50. He swore impatiently and stepped past the portals of the Park entrance.

T291he light from the overhead arcs bordering the Plaza dimmed as he walked up the stone lane. Hesitating, as if he were undecided as to his course of action, he looked about him, considered for a moment, then crossed over to the first bench and sat down heavily — like a man tired from his day’s work and contemplating a restful quarter of an hour in the silence and darkness of the Park.

Slowly his head drooped; slowly his figure grew slack. He seemed to have fallen into a doze.

The minutes ticked away. No one passed the quiet figure of the black-clad man as he sat on his bench. On Fifth Avenue the motors roared past. The shrill whistle of the traffic officer in the Plaza pierced the chill air periodically. A cold wind soughed through the trees. From somewhere in the Stygian recesses of the Park came a girl’s clear laugh — soft and far-off, but startlingly distinct. The minutes drowsed on; the man was falling into a deeper sleep.

And yet, just as the bells of the neighborhood churches began to toll the hour of twelve, the figure tensed, waited an instant and then rose determinedly.

Instead of heading toward the entrance he turned and plodded farther up the walk, his eyes bright and inquisitive in the gloomy depths created by his hat-brim and coat-collar. He seemed to be counting the benches as he proceeded in a steady, unhurried gait. Two — three — four — five — He stopped. In the semi-darkness ahead he could barely make out a still grey figure seated on a bench.

The man walked slowly on. Six — seven — He did not pause, but went straight ahead. Eight — nine — ten…. Only then did he wheel and retrace his steps. This time his gait was brisker, more definite. He approached the seventh bench rapidly, then stopped short. Suddenly, as if he had made up his mind, he crossed over to the spot where the indistinctly looming figure rested quietly and 292sat down. The figure grunted and moved over a trifle to give the newcomer more room.

The two men sat in silence. After a time the black-garbed man dipped into the folds of his coat and produced a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and held the match for a moment after the tip of the cigarette glowed red. In the ray of the match-light he covertly examined the quiet man at his side. The brief moment told him little — the occupant of the bench was as well-muffled and concealed as himself. Then the light puffed out and they were in darkness once more.

The black-coated man seemed to come to a decision. He leaned forward, tapped the other man sharply on the knee and said in a low, husky voice the one word:

“Papers!”

The second man came to life immediately. He half-shifted his position, scrutinized his companion and grunted as if in satisfaction. He carefully leaned away from the other man on the bench and with his right gloved hand dug into his right overcoat pocket. The first man bent eagerly forward, his eyes bright. The gloved hand of his companion came out of the pocket, holding something tightly.

Then the owner of the hand did a surprising thing. With a fierce bunching of muscles he sprang from the bench and leaped backward, away from the first man. At the same time he leveled his right hand straight at the crouched frozen figure. And a fragmentary gleam of light from an arc-lamp far off revealed the thing he held in his hand — a revolver.

Crying out hoarsely, the first man sprang to his feet with the agility of a cat. His hand plunged with a lightning-like movement into his overcoat pocket. He darted, reckless of the weapon pointed at his heart, straight forward at the tense figure before him.

293But things were happening. The peaceful tableau, so suggestive a bare instant before of open spaces and dark country silence, was transformed magically into a scene of intense activity — a writhing, yelling pandemonium. From a cluster of bushes a few feet behind the bench a swiftly moving group of men with drawn guns materialized. At the same time, from the farther side of the walk, a similar group appeared, running toward the pair. And from both ends of the walk — from the entrance about a hundred feet away and from the opposite direction, in the blackness of the Park — came several uniformed policemen, brandishing revolvers. The four groups converged almost as one.

The man who had drawn his gun and leaped from the bench did not await the arrival of reënforcements. As his companion of a moment before plunged his hand into his coat pocket the gun-wielder took careful aim and fired. The weapon roared, awakening echoes in the Park. An orange flame streaked into the body of the black-coated man. He lurched forward, clutching his shoulder spasmodically. His knees buckled and he fell to the stone walk. His hand still fumbled in his coat.

But an avalanche of men’s bodies kept him from whatever furious purpose was in his mind. Ungentle fingers gripped his arms and pinned them down, so that he could not withdraw his hand from his pocket. They held him in this way, silently, until a crisp voice behind them said, “Careful, boys — watch his hands!”

Inspector Richard Queen wriggled into the hard-breathing group and stood contemplatively above the writhing figure on the pavement.

“Take his hand out, Velie — easy, now! Hold it stiff, and — stiff, man, stiff! He’d jab you in a flash!”

Sergeant Thomas Velie, who was straining at the arm, gingerly pulled it from the pocket despite the violent 294flounderings of the man’s body. The hand appeared — empty, muscles loosened at the last moment. Two men promptly fastened it in a vise.

Velie made a movement as if to explore the pocket. The Inspector stopped him with a sharp word and himself bent over the threshing man on the walk.

Carefully, delicately, as if his life depended upon caution, the old man lowered his hand into the pocket and felt about its exterior. He gripped something and just as cautiously withdrew it, holding it up to the light.

It was a hypodermic needle. The light of the arc-lamp made its pale limpid contents sparkle.

Inspector Queen grinned as he knelt by the wounded man’s side. He jerked off the black felt hat.

“Disguised and everything,” he murmured.

He snatched at the grey mustache, passed his hand rapidly over the man’s lined face. A smudge immediately appeared on the skin.

“Well, well!” said the Inspector softly, as the man’s feverish eyes glared up at him. “Happy to meet you again, Mr. Stephen Barry, and your good friend, Mr. Tetra Ethyl Lead!” AND EXPLAINS Inspector Queen sat at the writing-desk in his living-room scribbling industriously on a long narrow sheet of note-paper headed the queens.

It was Wednesday morning — a fair Wednesday morning, with the sun streaming into the room through the dormer windows and the cheerful noises of 87th Street faintly audible from the pavements below. The Inspector wore his dressing-gown and slippers. Djuna was busy at the table clearing away the breakfast dishes.

The old man had written:

Dear Son: As I wired you late last night, the case is finished. We got Stephen Barry very nicely by using Michaels’ name and handwriting as bait. I really ought to congratulate myself on the psychological soundness of the plan. Barry was desperate and like so many other criminals thought he could duplicate his crime without being caught.

I hate to tell you how tired I am and how unsatisfying spiritually the job of man-hunter is sometimes. When I think of that poor lovely little girl Frances, having to face the world as the sweetheart of a murderer…. Well, El, there’s little justice and certainly no mercy in this world. And, of course, I’m more or less responsible for her shame…. Yet Ives-Pope himself was quite decent a while ago when he telephoned me on hearing the news. I suppose in one way I did him and Frances a service. We —

The doorbell rang and Djuna, drying his hands hastily on a kitchen towel, ran to the door. District Attorney 296Sampson and Timothy Cronin walked in — excited, happy, both talking at once. Queen rose, covering the sheet of paper with a blotter.

“Q, old man!” cried Sampson, extending both hands. “My congratulations! Have you seen the papers this morning?”

“Glory to Columbus!” grinned Cronin, holding up a newspaper on which in screaming head-lines New York was apprised of the capture of Stephen Barry. The Inspector’s photograph was displayed prominently and a rhapsodic story captioned “Queen Adds Another Laurel” ran two full columns of type down the sheet.

The Inspector, however, seemed singularly unimpressed. He waved his visitors to chairs, and called for coffee, and began to talk about a projected change in the personnel of one of the city departments as if the Field case interested him not at all.

“Here, here!” growled Sampson. “What’s the matter with you? You ought to be throwing out your chest, Q. You act as if you’d pulled a dud rather than succeeded.”