Inspector Queen’s Own Case

It was a gay room in a theatrical way. The furniture was nondescript modern, but the upholstery was brightly colored and there was a striking batik throw over the back of the sofa. An ivory-and-gilt Steinway stood to one side of a big studio window. She had thrown the window wide open to the humid night, and through it Jessie could see the starlit roofline of an apartment building on the other side of a narrow inner court, no more than twenty feet away. The window hangings were of dramatic red velvet. The walls were covered with inscribed theatrical photographs, mostly of jazz musicians, but there were several Degas reproductions of ballet dancers, an airy Dufy, and two small Japanese prints of subtle coloring that looked old. From an Egyptian copper vase on the mantelpiece over the false fireplace drooped some dead red roses. Half of one wall held floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books and recordings. There was a hi-fi player, a television set, a tiny bar.

“I’d offer you folks a drink,” Connie Coy said with a strained smile, “but I’m out of everything and I only just got back tonight from out of town. Please sit down.”

Jessie seated herself on the sofa near an iron-and-glass end table. A book lay open on the table. She wondered what it was.

The girl sat down in a wing chair, stiffly.

“Well?” she said. “I’m ready.”

Inspector Queen went over to the fireplace, fingered a dry rose petal that lay on the brass knob of the andiron, suddenly whirled.

“Miss Coy, when did you see your baby last?”

The brutality of his question struck Jessie like a blow. She gave him an angry glance, but he was looking at the blonde girl. Jessie looked at her, too.

She was pale, but under control. She’s been expecting it, Jessie thought. She took it better than I did.

“Baby? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Miss Coy.” His voice was perfectly flat. “Seven or eight months ago you leased this apartment under the name of Mrs. Arthur Dimmesdale. There is no Arthur Dimmesdale. Some time between then and May of this year you were approached by a lawyer named Finner. You were pregnant, and he offered to see you through in safety to yourself providing you turned the baby over to him. He was in the adoption business, he told you, and he would see to it that your child was placed in a very good home with foster-parents who couldn’t have children of their own and wanted to adopt one. All expenses would be paid; you would receive a large sum of money; Finner would take care of all the ‘legal’ details. You were desperate, and you agreed. Finner sent you to a reputable gynecologist who knew you only as ‘Mrs. Willis P. Exeter,’ a name Finner provided, and when your time came you entered the hospital Finner designated under that name. The date was May 26th. On May 27th you gave birth to a male child. He weighed six pounds thirteen ounces, was nineteen centimeters long, had blue eyes and blond hair. On June 3rd you and your baby were discharged from the hospital and you turned him over to Finner. He paid you the promised fee and took the baby away. Are you ready to answer my questions now?”

“I threw the money in his fat face!”

The girl was trembling violently. She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

Jessie made an instinctive move toward her. But the Inspector shook his head emphatically, and she sank back.

“I’m sorry.” The Coy girl stopped crying as suddenly as she had begun. “Yes, I was desperate, all right. That slug Finner hung around a club I was singing at. I don’t know how he knew I was pregnant. I suppose one of the girls suspected and sold him the information. What do you want to know?”

“Was that morning — June 3rd — the last time you saw your baby?”

“Yes.”

She was twisting her hands in her lap, biting her lip.

“Now tell me this. Where were you on the afternoon of August 20th? That would be Saturday a week ago.”

“I was in Chicago,” she said dully. “That’s where I just got back from. I did a three-week singing engagement at the Club Intime.”

“Do you remember what you were doing that Saturday afternoon?”

“Sure. I was working a TV show. The club press agent arranged it.”

“You were in a TV studio in Chicago all afternoon?”

“All day. We went on the air at 4.30.”

For the first time his face softened. “That’s an alibi nobody can improve on. I’m glad for your sake.”

The girl was staring at him. “What do you mean, Inspector? Alibi for what?”

“On Saturday mid-afternoon, August 20th, A. Burt Finner was murdered in his office on East 49th Street in New York.”

“Finner... murdered?”

“Didn’t you know that, Miss Coy?”

“No! Finner murdered... Who did it?”

“That,” the old man said gently, “is why we’re here.”

“I see,” she said. “You thought I murdered him... I hope you never get the one who did! She ought to get a medal. Maybe you didn’t know Finner the way I got to. He was the lowest thing that crawled. He was a creep, a fat creep. This baby racket wasn’t just business with him. He got kicks out of it. The filthy bastard.”