Murder of Geraldine Foster

Chapter 1 THE disappearance of Geraldine Foster was first reported to the authorities on the third day after Christmas, several years ago. Only a desk lamp was burning in the famous private office at the north end of the second floor of Police Headquarters at 240 Centre Street, New York City. The rest of the commissioner's room was darkened with the premature shadows of a raw and gusty winter afternoon. Brooding over a shuffle of blue prints, Thatcher Colt sat at his desk, enchanted with the traffic puzzle of a great city. Finally he glanced up at me quizzically. "You can go. Tony," he said. "You've done enough work for one secretary today." "Captain Henry wants to see you, but I told him you didn't wish to be disturbed," I replied. "Oh, well― send him right in." Captain― now Deputy-Inspector― Israel Henry was in charge of the cluster of offices surrounding the private room of the Police Commissioner of New York City. In this capacity he was the guardian of Thatcher Colt's privacy and all visitors had to see him first. Responding to my call, Henry marched Into the office, a heavy-set, silver-haired police captain, and, saluting, laid an opened envelope before Thatcher Colt. "Young lady brought this in. Been waiting an hour. Says she won't go away until you've looked at it yourself." Thatcher Colt read the letter with deep attention. Under the lamplight the commissioner was a striking figure, with his huge and powerful frame and soldier's face. He was the best dressed man in public life, and regarded by the more frivolous newspapers as a flaneur or, at best, a dilettante in crime, yet not since the days of Theodore Roosevelt had the department known a chief of such strength, courage and decision. His black hair was crisp and closely cut, his brown eyes sombre and resolved and in his firm features lived action and authority. Having read the letter, Thatcher Colt picked up the telephone. "Is Captain Laird still in the building?... Hello, Captain... Young lady in my office― sent to me by one of my oldest friends. Mind if we talk with her together? Come right up." Meanwhile, Captain Henry had led in the girl, whom he introduced as Miss Betty Canfield. She had an attractive and piquant face and exceedingly large brown eyes, and she was becomingly dressed in a squirrel coat, saucy blue hat, and the smallest snakeskin shoes I had ever seen. As I brought forward a chair, Thatcher Colt greeted her pleasantly. "So you are the niece of Frank Canfield," he began. "It will be a pleasure to do anything I can for you. Do I understand one of your friends is missing?" "My room-mate," said Betty Canfield, with a catch in her voice. The door opened then to admit Captain Laird, a tall, slender, keen-eyed officer in middle years. Laird was one of the first University men to choose a career in the Police Department. At Dartmouth he had been a track star and now the thirty-four detective sergeants under his command were all athletes. Addressing Betty Canfield, Thatcher Colt explained: "Captain Laird is the chief of our Missing Persons Bureau. More than three thousand disappearance cases are reported to his office every year, and he manages to account for an average of 98 per cent, of them― so you've come to the right place." Betty Canfield's glance toward Captain Laird was full of appeal. "However, our most difficult cases." admonished Thatcher Colt, "are those in which the family or friends give only a part of the truth, and not all. So tell us everything." With admirable directness, Betty Canfield related a curious story. For three years she had been sharing a small apartment on Morningside Heights with Geraldine Foster, a girl of about her own age, who worked in a doctor's office in Washington Square. Recently the two girls had agreed to separate, because Geraldine was planning to be married, the date having been set for January 2. The last time the two had been together was around noon on the previous Saturday, which was Christmas Eve, when they lunched at the Hotel Brevoort and then looked at a oneroom apartment in East Tenth Street which Betty had decided to lease. "I said good-bye to Geraldine at the south-east corner of Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street. Suddenly she leaned forward and kissed me and she said, 'If I don't come home for supper, Betty, don't be worried― I'll be doing my Christmas shopping.' And before I could answer she had crossed the avenue and was walking down toward Washington Square." "And you haven't heard from her since?" asked Thatcher Colt, filling his pipe. "I talked with her later that afternoon over the telephone and, Mr. Colt, it was that last conversation which makes me feel so frightened." "Why, how is that?" "I called Geraldine to tell her about a Christmas bonus that our firm had given to the employees. I waited for an hour, because Geraldine had said the doctor would be out at that time. I could tell by her voice that she had been crying, and I asked her what was the matter. She admitted that she and Doctor Maskell had quarrelled. But she wouldn't tell me why." ' "Doctor Maskell!" reflected Colt aloud. "Is he related to George Maskell, the criminal lawyer?" "I understand they are brothers," said Betty. "A VERY distinguished family," interposed Captain Laird. "And a queer one. George Maskell is the Robin Hood of the radicals― he and his wife, who is his law partner, represent rich clients at enormous fees, and then work for radicals for nothing. They were also associated with Clarence Darrow and Arthur Garfield Hays, in the Grecco-Carillo murder case." "I remember," nodded Colt. "Doctor Maskell must be a rich man." "Geraldine told me he will be rich when his father dies," explained Betty Canfield. "The two sons will inherit millions then. But neither of them has much now, I understand." "About what time was it when you had this telephone conversation with your room-mate." "It was exactly three o'clock." "What makes you so precise on that point?" "I waited until that exact time to telephone, so that I could avoid talking to Doctor Maskell― I have never liked the man." "Still, you haven't told me how you knew when it got to be three." "Oh! There is a little clock on my desk― Geraldine gave it to me last Christmas. I was looking at the dial all the time I was waiting for the number to answer." "I see. Now tell me what was said further between yourself and Geraldine, over the telephone." "After Geraldine said she had been quarrelling. I didn't have the heart to talk about the bonus, but I told her if she would come home to supper I would go out shopping with her. But all she answered was, 'Christmas doesn't hold anything for me now. Betty. I wish to God I was dead. And I guess I soon will be. Betty, you may never see me again as long as you live.' And then she burst out laughing and said she knew she was acting like a fool and promised to be home early." "BUT she did not come home?" Betty Canfield shook her head and swallowed hard. "No! But I wasn't much worried because she often stayed away from the apartment for weekends and holidays without telling me in advance. I supposed she had gone over to her folks in New Jersey." "What time did you leave your office on Christmas Eve?" asked Colt. "About four o'clock." "And where did you go then?" "Prom one shop to another— why?" "It is possible then that Geraldine might have tried to telephone you later and failed to connect— isn't it?" "Yes. I figured just that way. But when Monday came and I hadn't heard from her, I telephoned her mother in Millbrink, New Jersey. Mrs. Foster told me she had expected her for Christmas dinner, and was surprised when she did not even telephone. A week before they had arranged the plan for her to spend the holiday with the family. But they weren't really worried, either. She was an impulsive creature and had often disappointed them. They supposed she went to Boston to spend Christmas with the family of her fiance, Harry Armstrong. Well, I telephoned Harry, only to find out that he hadn't heard from her, either, not since Friday night when he said good-bye to her in Grand Central Station and took the train for Boston. Then I called up Doctor Maskell. He says that when he returned to his office on Christmas Eve he found the rooms locked up. Geraldine had left without any note or message of explanation to him and without waiting for her salary." "What did her parents say about that?" asked Thatcher Colt, with an intent glance. "They kept expecting to hear from her in every mail. But old Mr. Foster began to feel upset when I called again yesterday, and this afternoon, when there was still no word, he became really alarmed. He is on his way to New York now, and will be at my apartment tonight. I told him I was coming down here and he asked me to tell you that he would offer a thousand dollars reward if you thought that would help." Thatcher Colt lit his pipe and sat back In his chair. "We have many cases where nice and sensible girls act queerly just before their marriage," he mused. "How old is Geraldine?" "Twenty-two." "Have you a picture of her?" Opening her purse. Betty laid before the Police Commissioner a cabinet photograph in a decorative folder. Captain Laird and my chief studied it intently, and from my chair beside the desk I also could see it easily— the face of a good-humored, intelligent, and quite lovely girl. Still studying the portrait attentively, Thatcher Colt asked for a detailed description, always a difficult thing to obtain. Geraldine Foster was five feet five inches tall and weighed 130 pounds. She had light brown hair, running to reddish, and blue-grey eyes. One of her notable characteristics were long, slender, and beautifully-kept hands. On the fourth finger of her left hand she wore a diamond engagement ring. When last seen by Miss Canfield, she was wearing a brown beaver coat, a close-fitting orange-and-brown toque, flesh-colored stockings, brown shoes, brown gloves and bag. Having jotted down these data, Thatcher Colt asked: "Were any of Miss Foster's clothes, suitcases, or other effects missing from your apartment?" "No, slr. Wherever Geraldine went, she took nothing with her. As a matter of fact―" Betty stood up and came nearer to Thatcher Colt. "It may not have any significance," she said, "but it struck me as awfully queer. The night before Christmas Eve― Friday night― Geraldine had gone to the theatre with Harry Armstrong, the young man she is going to marry. After the show she came home very low in spirits, and sat down on her trunk and suddenly she said to me that she was sick of the sight of her honeymoon clothes." "That was odd! Do you think she was the sort of a girl who might get despondent and―" "Never, Mr. Colt. Geraldine had a peculiar horror of death. She would cross the street rather than walk by an undertaker's. I think her mother had something to do with that. The old lady considers herself a spirit medium. She spends hours in the dark making the parlor table bounce around." Captain Laird looked at his watch. "It is now 5.30," he said. "I shall get started on this at once." "Please tell me what you are going to do," asked Betty earnestly. "We will check up on all the current reports in the Bureau of Information downstairs. In that way we can see if any unidentified girls have met with accidents since Christmas Eve. Also whether any girl was arrested and gave a fake name and address. Then we will also check up on the hospitals for reports of amnesia and aphasia cases." But Captain Laird refrained from telling Betty Canfield that his men would also be peering down through the icy shelves of the morgue. "Thanks, Captain Laird," said the girl gratefully, as the tall officer bowed and left the room. THATCHER COLT was reloading his pipe. "What time do you expect Geraldine's parents at your apartment?" he asked. "Around nine o'clock. I can bring them here if― " "No. Instead, I would like to pay a visit to your apartment tonight, if you don't mind. You see, I take a more personal interest in this case because of my long friendship with your uncle. If you don't object, I'd like to look over your premises a bit. Mind?" "Not at all," answered Betty. "I am happy that―" "Now, this doctor that Geraldine worked for. What was his full name and address?" "Doctor Humphrey Maskell. His office is at 186 Washington Square, North, but he lives at an hotel on lower Fifth Avenue." "What did Geraldine do in Dr. Maskell's office? Was she a nurse?" "No. She was a reception clerk for his patients, kept his account books, mailed out his bills―" "I see. One more question. Mind?" "I'll tell you everything I can." "Who was Geraldine's dentist?" Betty Canfield's face was full of bewilderment as she replied that Geraldine's teeth were cared for by a certain Doctor Morton, in West End Avenue. I could see that she had no inkling as to the purpose of Thatcher Colt's question. Dead bodies, so decomposed as to be unrecognisable, are often identified by dental signs and tokens. "WHY didn't you like Geraldine's employer?" asked Thatcher Colt, suddenly. Betty's dark eyes flashed. "The reason why I cannot tell," she quoted from the old rune about Doctor Fell. "I mean I dislike him instinctively― without any real reason whatever. But there must be something wrong with a man whose own father and brother won't have anything to do with him.'' "Thanks, Miss Canfield. Stop worrying and we'll try to find your friend. Give my best to your uncle― and expect us about eight tonight. The address?" She gave the number of the esplanade, an apartment house on Morningside Drive, and had reached the door when Thatcher Colt called out: "Miss Canfield, would you mind telling me what you and Geraldine had for lunch on Christmas Eve at the Brevoort?" The girl's eyes held a startled gleam as she considered for a moment. Had she possibly divined the gruesome import of the commissioner's question? Then she answered: "We had snails, Mr. Colt. Why do you ask." "Thanks, and au revoir," and Thatcher Colt picked up his desk telephone. Betty Canfield gave me an inquiring glance, for which I was deeply grateful. It was the first time she had looked in my direction. Then she turned and the door of Thatcher Colt's office closed behind her. The commissioner was talking on the telephone. "Doctor Humphrey Maskell? This is the Police Commissioner speaking. Could you arrange to be in your office if I dropped in around ten o'clock tonight? Mind? Thank you." Turning from the telephone, Thatcher Colt said to me: "Pretty little thing, that Betty Canfield, eh, Tony?" "Looks like a little beaver with those bright eyes." "But she didn't tell us all she knows, Tony," added the commissioner with a sigh. "Nice, sweet girl, from a good family, but she comes down here and tells me lies. That's too bad." "But, chief, how did she―" Thatcher Colt waved my question aside. Bending again over his traffic blue-prints, he added: "Get your dinner, Tony, and meet me at the garage in an hour. I noticed how you admired my friend's niece, so I am taking you up there with me tonight." What had made Thatcher Colt believe that Betty Canfield had lied to him?