Elsie had admitted to killing Roscoe as well as Judy, but her written confession didn’t fully explain how Roscoe had become involved. So Dan had to come to me for the answers-which I painstakingly (okay, proudly) supplied. I told Dan everything Elsie had said about Roscoe-how he had let himself into Judy’s apartment the night of the murder, found Elsie searching for the diamonds, made himself a partner, etcetera, etcetera, and then pushed me in front of a train when he thought I was carting said diamonds around in a lunchbox.
I should have kept that last bit to myself. To say that Dan was upset is like calling an earthquake unsettling. I thought his skull would explode! I guess it should have made me feel good that he was so devastated by my close call in the subway, but the truth is it made me feel awful to cause him such pain. So I changed the subject as fast as I could and told him about Lillian Smythe.
After explaining that Judy’s aging sugar daddy was Lillian’s real daddy, I told Dan about the Christmas Eve party at the Smythe’s penthouse, relating the particulars of my chat with Augusta and describing how Lillian had reacted to seeing her mother’s antique diamond necklace clasped around my neck. Then I told Dan about the phone conversation I’d overheard at the Chelsea Realty office-when Roscoe was yelling his head off at somebody named Lily-and disclosed my belief that Roscoe and Lillian had been in cahoots for some time, scheming to steal back the Smythe family diamonds long before Judy was murdered.
And after I related how Roscoe had so often shown up at Judy’s apartment unannounced, always giving trumped-up, landlordly reasons why she should let him in, Dan came to accept my idea that Roscoe had in actuality been trying to sniff out the diamonds, and that Lillian had put him up to it. So, in the interest of bringing the Catcher case to a full and complete conclusion, Dan paid a little visit to a certain Park Avenue penthouse, and to the privileged, high-toned residents within.
Beyond admitting that he had “borrowed” a few of his wife’s baubles to “loan” to a friend, Gregory Smythe had nothing to add to the body of evidence in the case. According to Dan, he barely remembered a young woman named Judy Catcher, or that she’d been brutally killed. Augusta Smythe, on the other hand, was well-informed about the murder (she’d read all the papers), and well-aware of her “senile” husband’s “overly generous relationship” with the “poor dead girl.” She had read about the killing of Roscoe Swift as well, but failed to see how the death of that “lowly tenement landlord” could have anything whatsoever to do with her “reputable and prosperous family.”
Daughter Lillian, however, was a bit more candid on that subject. Yes, she had known Roscoe and he had been trying to help her retrieve her mother’s diamonds. What the hell was wrong with that? She had tracked “the little worm” down and enlisted his help the same day she found a Chelsea Realty rental receipt in her father’s desk at the office. So what of it? The jewelry was rightfully hers, you know-or would be as soon as her dear old mother “croaked.” So, could you give her one good reason why she should let her “filthy old goat” of a father give her priceless diamond heirlooms away to some “underage bottle-blonde girdle salesgirl at Macy’s?”
Dan could think of several good reasons to pronounce Lillian’s behavior devious and snaky, but not a single cause to call it illegal. She and Roscoe had hoped to steal the diamonds back from Judy, but had never actually attempted to do so. And there’s no crime in hoping. If Elsie hadn’t killed Judy and tried to grab the diamonds for herself, Roscoe and Lillian might never have made a move on their own. So, Dan had no right to make a move on Lillian. What was he supposed to do? Arrest her for being a prejudiced, greedy, conniving bitch?
Abby was disappointed that Dan couldn’t find anything to pin on Lillian. And she was more than a little annoyed to learn that Judy’s jewelry would be returned to Augusta Smythe when the case was officially closed. That meant all those “fabulous, glorious, eye-poppin’ sparklers” would eventually revert to her archenemy, “Chilly Lily,” and how in the world could justice be so unjust?
Terry’s feelings were the exact opposite. He was glad the gems would be turned over to their rightful owner, and he was very relieved to get them off his hands (and out of Abby’s sugar canister). His tampering-with-evidence days were over! He didn’t have to hide from Sweeny anymore. Or wear fake payos and an artificial beard.
As for me, I just wanted the damn diamonds to disappear off the face of the earth forever. They were a curse, a blight, an ex ecration. If Judy had never been given the so-called jewels, she would still be alive. And so would Roscoe. And Elsie would be playing canasta at Milly Esterbrook’s place instead of playing solitaire in the Women’s House of Detention. And I would be traipsing all over Manhattan, having Dan’s silver cigarette lighter engraved, getting a new lunchbox for Lenny, and buying champagne and noisemakers and funny hats for New Year’s Eve, instead of lying flat on my back in a horrid hospital crib, wondering how long it would take my blasted bones to heal. And if I’d still be a good dancer.
THE NEWSPAPERS HAD A FIELD DAY WITH THE story. Sex, diamonds, and murder (two of ’em!)-what could be better than that? Most of the articles focused on Elsie Londergan, sporting lurid titles like GRANNY GET YOUR GUN! or THE DIAMONDS OF DEATH or-my personal favorite-MURDER IS A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND. But a few of the papers, unfortunately, also ran stories about me.
Dan had done his best, at my request, to keep the facts of my involvement secret, but the word got out anyway-thanks to Harvey Crockett, my illustrious ex-newspaperman boss, who broke the story to some of his old newspaper pals. He even brought two of those old pals-one reporter and one photographer-along with him when he came to visit me in the hospital.
This was a damn lucky break for Daring Detective, Mr. Crockett insisted, and he wasn’t about to let my daffy desire to remain anonymous get in the way of a load of free publicity for the magazine. He told me to give the reporter the bare essentials of the story, but to keep all the dirty details to myself, for use in my own sensational, exclusive Daring Detective cover story-which would appear in the very next edition, at double the usual print run. Then he told me to sit up and look pretty for the camera. (Luckily, my hair dryer hood and curlers were in the nighttable drawer and not on my head.)
I hated performing like a seal for Mr. Crockett and his cronies, but I hated it even more when Pomeroy and Mike and Mario crept into my room and stood like mourners at a gravesite around the foot of my bed. They came to wish me a speedy recovery, Pomeroy said, looking both ashamed and annoyed that he had to be there at all (this was obviously another command performance), and then Mike and Mario each mumbled something about hoping I’d be back to work soon. (They weren’t lying. I could tell from their fidgiting fingers and jittery eyes they were suffering from severe caffeine withdrawal.) Lenny had wanted to come visit me, too, they said, but somebody had to stay at the office to answer the phone.
Fortunately, they didn’t hang around too long. Just long enough to pose for a few pictures, mutter a few more good wishes, and-miracle of miracles!-bear witness to Mr. Crockett’s announcement (sort of to me, but mostly to the press) that he was awarding me a five dollar raise. Then they all said goodbye, shuffled into line, and-walking in a body, like a single twelve-legged centipede-followed Mr. Crockett’s lead out of my room and off down the hall.