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The Girl Who Kept Knocking Them Dead
Hampton Stone
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION
IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM
© 1957 BY HAMPTON STONE
For Berenice and Helena
one
She was pretty, prettier than average. She was young. Estimates put her age at about twenty. Eventually we did get the exact figure. It was twenty-two. She lived alone. There were indications that we’d been expected to think that she died alone, but we never thought that. By the time we came into it, that much was already known, the way the girl had died. It was manual strangulation, and that’s a field of endeavor that the do-it-yourself fad is just never going to reach. A girl simply can’t put her own two hands around her own lovely throat and choke the life out of herself. It’s like wrestling or making love, something that can’t be done with less than two people.
Her name was Sydney Bell, except that it wasn’t; but we’ll come to that later. Let’s start with the simple and easy things like who I am and how I got into this business of the girl who kept knocking them dead. That was the way Gibby came to describe it and I’ll tell you about Gibby. I can’t get far telling you about me without telling you about him.
I am an assistant on the staff of the New York County District Attorney and so is Gibby. You can call me Mac, which is what everybody calls me except in court where things go too formal for that. Since this is anything but a formal report, Mac will do for me. Gibby is Assistant District Attorney Jeremiah X. Gibson, who had once been Patrolman Gibson and later Detective Gibson. That’s the way he worked his way through law school. He was on the cops. I didn’t know him in those days, but I can tell you he was a good cop. Though I can’t speak for the patrolman part of it, on the detective bit nobody knows better. It’s in the boy’s blood.
Brilliant is the word for Gibby. Sober is the word for me. That’s why the DA has set us up as a team. If Gibby has a fault, it’s enthusiasm. He’ll go out on limbs. I try to see he doesn’t go too far out or doesn’t get sawed off; but let’s face it. He does better than I do. I swear he won’t do it to me, but every time it happens. He gets me out on that limb with him. One of these days we’ll both be sawed off.
Murder is Gibby’s specialty—on the detection end, of course. There aren’t many murders happening in our jurisdiction that Gibby doesn’t get to work on and, when Gibby’s on it, I’m on it with him. The Sydney Bell bit was murder and it happened in New York County. That made it our baby.
It happened in a nice little flat in the West Fifties. One room and bath and kitchenette, but the room was big and bright. It was pleasantly furnished, not spectacularly lush, not austere, but comfortably cheerful. The house had a decent look to it, but in a big city, of course, one never knows. There is nothing anywhere quite so impersonal as one of these apartment buildings. It happens again and again that the people who live in them go on for years without knowing the first thing about their neighbors and it’s not until something happens that they even begin to wonder whether the tenant in 5F had been exactly what she seemed to be.
Even then this thing that happens has to be something pretty big. What did happen to the tenant of 5F was quite big enough, of course, since it was murder; but it was evident that it was only when the police started asking questions that any of Sydney Bell’s neighbors gave her more than the most passing of thoughts. This one remembered her from meetings in the self-service elevator. Another remembered visitors who came and went. She had many friends, but nobody could describe them closely or tell us anything much about them.
Among the neighbors a rather tart young woman who taught school and lived in 5E, which put her next door to Sydney Bell, came closest to telling us something we could use. Her name was Nora McGuire. Gibby questioned her. It wasn’t easy. She went all out to impress us with how broad-minded she was and what a high value she placed on privacy, both her own and that of her neighbors. She didn’t want to answer questions. She wanted to mind her own business.
It didn’t take Gibby long to break that down. A girl had been murdered in her bed and there was only the apartment wall between that bed and Nora McGuire’s place. She could hardly call anything that had come as close as that none of her business. Nora McGuire conceded the point but she argued that she hadn’t known that her neighbor was going to be murdered. If she had known, she might have taken a greater interest in her and in the comings and goings of her visitors.
Even without taking any interest, however, she had noticed a few items and, after he’d worked at it awhile, Gibby drew those out of her. She had noticed a woman who had visited Sydney Bell at least twice. She might have seen this woman oftener but of the two occasions she was certain. The reason she was so certain was the fact that this woman owned two mink coats. She had worn a mink of one color on one visit and a mink of quite a different color on a second visit.
“I am that feminine,” Nora McGuire said. “I would remember that. I shall probably never even have one mink coat. I could hardly help noticing a woman who had them in assorted colors.”
While she was talking to us about mink, a radio was turned on in one of the other apartments in the building. It had come on loud but had quickly been turned down to a civilized volume. Even then, however, it was faintly audible. Gibby waited a bit, listening to the murmur of the radio.
“It’s a limited sort of privacy any of us has living in an apartment,” he said, after he had given it time to register. “Ever hear anything through the wall?”
“I might have if I had thought to stand with my ear against it or if I’d been equipped with listening devices. Must we go on with this, Mr. Gibson?”
“No ear to the wall, no listening devices. I hear a radio. Don’t you?”
“I hear a radio.”
She crossed the room, going toward the wall beyond which lay 5F. For a moment I thought she was going to put her ear against the wall, but she didn’t. She went to her record player and started some music going. It was Chopin, not notably loud. She walked away from it.
“What’s that for?” Gibby asked.
“I don’t hear the radio any more,” she said. “I like music and when I’m here alone I have it going practically all my waking time. Even when I have visitors there’s likely to be music, and if there isn’t, it’s because I’m that much interested in my guest’s talk. Either way I’m not hearing sounds from next door. They’re blotted out by the sounds I have right here or possibly I blot them out because I am more interested in these sounds than in those. In any case I don’t hear them.”
“The volume of that radio when it first came on, you would have heard that.”
“I have normal hearing. The point is that there never were any loud sounds from 5F.”
Gibby smiled at her. “See,” he said. “You can be helpful when you try.”
“Is that helpful?”
“It gives us something. We know now that if there ever was a wild party the other side of that wall or a screaming quarrel, it happened when you weren’t home. In other
