“Criminology books.”
As they watched, the paper slowly took on a faintly bluish cast and as the cooling progressed, the indentations turned a slightly darker blue. When the process was complete, the writing was clearly legible. It was in a feminine hand and said, “Jean Sherman, 402 Westville Street, Bridgeport, Connecticut.”
“Voilà,” said Fellows. “The missing girl.”
“Nice of her to leave her name and address.”
“Right nice.” The chief folded the paper carefully and tucked it in the bulging wallet he took from his hip pocket.
Wilks said, “I wonder if she knew what was going to happen to her.”
“I don’t think she’d wait. More to the point, though, is what actually did happen.” The chief went to the phone and called Dr. MacFarlane.
The doctor didn’t have much to report. “This isn’t easy,” he said. “I can’t tell you how she died yet. Some of the vital organs are missing, so I can’t rule out poison. It could be a blow on the head or strangulation, but I can’t tell that without seeing her head and neck.”
“Was she pregnant, Jim?”
“No. That much I have been able to make sure of. The girl wasn’t pregnant.”
“When did she die?”
MacFarlane was hard put. “I can’t pin that down too closely yet. She’d been in that trunk in below-freezing temperatures for some time and parts of the body were frozen. I’d say at least four days and no more than eight.”
“Probably last weekend sometime?”
“Between Wednesday and Sunday. I don’t want to say any more than that. I should be able to cut it closer tomorrow.”
When Fellows hung up, he and Wilks turned out the lights, locked up the house again, and left, taking with them the two green initialed suitcases. A new policeman was on watch, pacing and stamping in the bitter cold. He had the six-to-eight shift, for Fellows was changing the lonely guard duty every two hours. The patrolman had seen no one and the reporter’s car was gone.
The two detectives drove back to headquarters, and Fellows briefed the sergeant on the next day’s activities. “Get these suitcases open, Sid, and inventory their contents. And when that picture of Campbell comes in, show it to Watly. I’m sure it’s not the same Campbell, we wouldn’t be that lucky, but we’ve got to make it official.”
“And I’ll keep the men on the grocery-store detail.”
“Yeah. I want the boy who made the delivery. Of course, you know what to do about the trunk.”
“I’ll set Ed on that.” Wilks got out his tobacco. “I suppose you’re going to Bridgeport?”
Fellows sighed unhappily. “Somebody has to.”
CHAPTER VII
Friday, February 27
Fred Fellows had a session with the newspaper reporters Friday morning before he left. He told them the victim had not been pregnant and that they hoped to identify her soon. They did not know anything about the man. Yes, he said, they were checking out some clues, but he refused to say what they were. As he told Wilks in his office after the interview, “I don’t want those guys muscling in and messing things up. Mention that trunk and they’d be quizzing the stationmaster before Ed Lewis could get his car started.”
“You didn’t tell them we know who the girl is.”
“They don’t get that information until after her nearest relatives. I’m not having them phone her parents until after I’ve talked to them. When I get back, we’ll see.”
It was a sunny clear day and traffic was light on the Merritt Parkway that morning, but the drive to Bridgeport wasn’t a pleasant one for Fellows. He had delivered the news of death many times in his career as Chief of Police, but he had never been able to develop sufficient callousness to inure him to the pain such a duty inevitably brought. Much as he hated ringing strange doorbells, bearing ill news, however, it was a task he never assigned to anyone else. Perhaps it was because it did pain him more than others, or perhaps it was a natural reluctance to assign to another a task he hated himself, but as always the trip was a torment. It was more so than usual this time, because he had not only to deliver the sad tidings to an innocent parent, but because he also had to question that parent afterwards to learn the identity of the man the girl had run off with. It was his private opinion that people in grief shouldn’t be subjected to questions but, in his professional capacity, he recognized the need for speed in gaining information, even at the cost of people’s feelings.
The house at 402 Westville Street was a one-family dwelling much like all the others on the block. The color was different and there was a wall holding up the embankment of lawn, but the size and shape was the same, a small two-story house with six or seven rooms.
He parked the black police station wagon in front of the walk and climbed the steps. Dressed in his leather jacket, mittens and cap, with no insignia showing, he could have been anything from a house painter to the gasman. The temperature was higher this morning, but still below freezing and Fellows dressed himself and his force for comfort rather than looks.
He rang the bell and turned his back to the door, studying the neighborhood. It was a quiet street in a quiet suburb, inhabited by quiet people who led quiet lives. But one of those inhabitants had broken out of the bonds of conformity that the identical houses spelled, had, as one of his daughters put it at dinner, “transgressed,” and that one had lost her life.
The door was opened by an attractive young brunette in her late twenties, a quite pretty girl, yet stamped
