Tall, Dark and Deadly, page 10
She looked numb and her voice was toneless. She described Steve’s visit, how he’d left his brief case with a warning to guard it carefully, how she’d opened it after his death, found the money and given me some of the bills as a retainer, how she’d found the fat man in the apartment and his demand for the note.
“He may have been looking for the money too,” I said.
Kilbourne pushed his lips out thoughtfully. “Hugo Ritter. The name is unfamiliar. He may have signed the note with an alias.”
“That’s why I asked you to bring a fingerprint outfit,” I said. “If Ritter left his digit signatures and they’re on record with the FBI in Washington, you’ll have a lead.”
“You’re clicking, counselor.”
I asked Laura for a telephone directory and checked the names. No Hugo Ritter was listed, but he might have been staying at a hotel, with most of his calls made through a switchboard.
Kilbourne was on his knees, breathing against a doorknob to produce a vapor and examining it from an oblique angle. There were latent prints because he reached for his kit and used some dusting powder. The drawer pulls got a similar treatment and he photographed everything with a miniature camera.
Finally he straightened and glanced at Laura. “You live here, Miss Banton. Some of these prints will be yours. I’d like a set, so we don’t wind up in a blind alley.”
She submitted without protest. I had an idea that he wanted to check the girl too, find out if the Department of Justice had anything on her. She was wiping her fingertips with a tissue when Kilbourne packed away his equipment.
He had some blank sheets of paper and he prepared a statement which he asked her to sign. She did so, and he stood up, taking possession of the counterfeit bills. He grimaced ruefully and sighed. “There goes my night’s sleep. Back to the office.” He glanced at me. “Can I give you a lift?”
“Yes. Home.”
He shifted to Laura. “I think you’ll be safe, Miss Banton. We’ll send a man over to keep an eye on this apartment. If Ritter shows up again, we’ll nab him.”
She nodded thankfully. Kilbourne waited until we were in his car before speaking again. “You’ve been accused of shelving her brother. Can you add anything to his background?”
“Very little. Until six months ago he was Vincent Mclver’s chauffeur. And he may have been skirmishing around with his employer’s wife. Not the present Mrs. Mclver. The one before.”
“Would she know anything about him?”
“She’s dead.”
He threw me a quick glance. “How?”
I told him and added, “Since Banton quit his job he’s been flying high, living in style.”
“Could be he found a more profitable line—like the printing business. We’ll have to dig into his background.”
“Glad to have you aboard,” I said fervently. “I’m tired of working alone.”
He pulled the car over and clamped the brakes. “Here you are, counselor.”
I thanked him and got out. My mind was on a hot tub and the yawning expanse of a new Beautyrest mattress when I opened the door. But I did not get to sleep, at least not right away. A light was burning in my living room and the picture tube was burning in my television set. Hazel was curled up on my sofa, shoes off, watching the Late Late Show.
“Surprised?”
“Pleasantly. Who let you in?”
“The super.” She made a rabbit’s nose. “Does he always open the door for girls?”
“Only when they’re pretty and he thinks he’s doing me a favor.”
“You’re not angry?”
“Not at you. And you deserve a reward for calling my boss and getting that message straight.”
“What kind of a reward?”
“Stand up and find out.”
She uncoiled herself and stalked toward me. I opened my arms. I smelled her hair and I could feel its texture. “Scott,” she whispered against my lips. “Oh, Scott, I was so worried.” Her mouth was sweet and charged with electricity. I broke it off with great reluctance.
“Act One,” I said. “Second act to be continued in a moment.” I reached for the telephone and dialed Max Turner. Max is a private detective who has helped me out on a number of occasions. The bell rang nine times before I heard his voice, thick with sleep.
“You must five a clean life,” I told him. “Any man who can sleep as soundly as that has nothing on his conscience.”
“Or a man with no conscience at all. This sounds like my lawyer friend, Scott Jordan.”
“It is.”
“Been expecting a call from you all day.”
“Get out of bed, Max. There’s work to be done.”
He groaned. “Tonight?”
“Hazards of the trade. And no arguments please. Do I ever argue about your bills?”
“Not lately.”
“Okay. Now listen, I want some information about a man named Hugo Ritter. It may be an alias. He’s fat and no pleasure to look at. He’s mixed up in some way with Steve Ban-ton. He gave the deceased an I.O.U. for ten thousand dollars. I’d like to know where he lives.”
“That’s all you know?”
“That’s all.”
“It’s not much.”
“Granted. But I have confidence in you, Max. Put as many men on the job as you wish. Spare no expense. I want feelers out all over town. Use every contact you have. Work around the clock. Am I clear?”
“Yes.”
“Then start rolling. And contact me the minute you have anything.”
“Will do.” He broke the connection.
I hung up and looked at Hazel.
“Act Two?” she asked hopefully.
“In jail,” I said, “a man is forced to suppress all his normal impulses. Come here.”
She accepted the invitation with alacrity…
XIV
There was plenty of sting in Cassidy’s voice the next morning. She opened fire the minute I walked into the office. I stood meekly enough and took it.
“There are some things I’d like to get off my chest,” she said. “I worked for Oliver Wendell Rogers fifteen years and it was a pleasure. Why I put up with you I will never know. I am not a lawyer. I have never taken the Bar exam. I am not equipped to handle your clients or your practice, especially when I have to cope with journalists at the same time. Even at midnight I have to draw papers. I am not young any more. I just can’t take it.” She paused and peered at me closely. “My God, you look half-dead. What did those cops do to you last night?”
“It wasn’t the cops.” I headed for my desk in the other room. Cassidy was entitled to let off steam once in a while. “Bring your pad and let’s make up for lost time.”
Cassidy took my dictation, the only shorthand expert who could change pencils without losing a single word. I was winding it up when the telephone rang. It was Amy Van Dorn, sounding breathless and agitated.
“I’m glad you’re in, Mr. Jordan. I must see you.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. It’s very important. Can you drive out here right away?”
“Is your husband there?”
“He’s in Philadelphia, seeing his publisher.”
“I’ll leave at once.”
My sudden departure precipitated a few trenchant remarks from Cassidy. I took a cab up to the garage and got my car. Traffic was light on the West Side Highway and I breezed along, using the overpass at Riverdale. The house looked isolated against a backdrop of sky and river. A sprinkler system kept tossing water across the emerald lawn, the droplets glittering jewel-like against the bright sun.
A heavy woman in black bombazine opened the door. She waited under the portico, her broad Slavic face imperturbable. “You are Mr. Jordan?”
I nodded.
“Follow me, please.”
Amy Van Dorn sat propped up against crisp pillows in a huge bed. She gave me a wan smile. “Would you care for anything? Coffee, or perhaps something stronger?”
“Thank you, no.”
“Sit down, please.”
I pulled a chair close to the bed, my attention drawn to her eyes. Always expressive they now had a haunted quality, pathetically tragic and pained. Her mouth, in contrast, looked thin and stubborn, as if she were inflexibly aware that an unpleasant decision had to be made, with no possible alternative.
“I read the papers,” she said. “I know how busy you must be. It was kind of you to drop everything and come.”
“You made it sound urgent.”
“It is—at least to me.” She looked tired and vulnerable. “I need help, Mr. Jordan. I called you because I know that you’re not Vincent’s lawyer, not at the present time.”
“He told you that?”
Color briefly touched her face. “I have a confession to make. I eavesdropped on your conversation with Vincent yesterday. I rolled my chair across the terrace and sat near the window, listening. Much of it confused me, but I heard enough to know that you do not represent him.”
I kept a polite mask on my face and said nothing.
“Your talk was confidential and I’m not asking you to fill me in. But I don’t want you to condemn me. I don’t have very much left except Vincent and I like to know everything he’s doing.”
“Doesn’t he tell you?”
She shrugged faintly. “Even married men demand a certain amount of privacy. And I don’t like to keep prying and nagging.” Her chin came up, suddenly square and determined. “I’m quite aware of my position, Mr. Jordan. Living here with me, in my condition, must be very difficult for a man of Vincent’s temperament. He may not be young, but he’s still vigorous, and if he tried to break loose once in a while… well, I’m an intensely jealous woman.”
“Just what is it you want me to do?”
“I need your help.”
“In what way?”
“I would like to know where Vincent goes and what he does when he’s away from home.”
I spread my hands and said, “I’m a lawyer, Mrs. Mclver, not a private detective. I have neither the time nor the inclination for that kind of work. Why come to me?”
Her eyes were down on their hands and knees, pleading. “You don’t have to do it personally, Mr. Jordan. You can hire someone. It would be highly impractical for me to start interviewing private detectives. All I ask is that you act as intermediary. I know how simple this would be for you.” Her fingers were clasped together in a kind of pathetic supplication. “My niece and her husband recognized your name when Vincent introduced you, and Arnold Parish told me some things about you. I’m out of touch with the world and I don’t know where else to turn.”
I probably knew from the beginning that my protests were merely technical, that I was going to help her. After all, Steve Banton had been employed by the Mclvers and I could not afford to turn my back on any opportunity to learn more about his background. And if Vincent Mclver had sucked me into a collusive divorce, I felt I owed him no obligation.
“Do you have any reason to distrust your husband?”
She clenched her fists tightly. “Yes.”
“Is this just a suspicion or is it based on fact?”
“Fact, Mr. Jordan. God, how I wish it weren’t.” Pain shadowed her eyes. “I don’t know when it started, but I first learned about it a week ago. I was here, resting, and Vincent was in his study, when the phone rang. Both rooms have extensions and we must have picked up the receivers simultaneously. I heard him say hello, and then a woman’s voice, ‘Is that you, Vinnie darling? This is Denise.’ ”
White lines framed Amy Van Dorn’s mouth and her eyes were tortured. She took a breath and went on in a strained voice.
“For a moment, Vincent did not answer. And then he said harshly, ‘I told you not to call me here,’ and he hung up. The woman called his name once and then she hung up too.” Telling the story, getting it off her chest, had afforded Amy Van Dorn no therapy. Her blurred gaze was staring into the distance.
“That small piece of dialogue isn’t conclusive,” I said. “It doesn’t prove anything.”
But I really knew better. Vincent Mclver was neither a monk nor a misogynist. With all glands and hormones functioning properly, it was inevitable that he would occasionally stray from the fireside in search of extracurricular diversion.
Amy Van Dorn shook her head. “There’s more. That’s why I called you. A letter came in today’s mail. A letter addressed to Vincent. I knew it was from a woman.”
“How did you know?”
“By the color and scent of the envelope. I had no right to open it, but I did. I couldn’t help myself. I had to know the truth.”
“And this letter confirmed your suspicions?”
“Yes.” She got her chin firmly set. “I’d like you to read it.” The envelope was under her pillow.
It was addressed to Vincent Mclver in a small, sharply slanted handwriting. Pale blue vellum, squarely shaped and lightly perfumed. Feeling slightly like a Peeping Tom, I opened the flap and took out a sheet of paper.
VINCE DARLING,
Have I done anything to offend you? It’s been over a week since you called. I’m really quite desolate.
Longingly,
DENISE
The paper did not match the envelope. It was white, with the words Gracie Park Hotel imprinted on top. I looked up at Amy Van Dorn.
“What if you learn the worst?”
She closed her eyes and swallowed hugely. “Then I’ll need your advice about many things. I’ve got to be realistic, Mr. Jordan. I’d hate to leave my money to Vincent, knowing that he was going to spend it on the same woman with whom he betrayed me while I was still alive.”
“Would you divorce him?”
“If necessary.” She managed a bleak smile. “The human spirit is extremely resilient, Mr. Jordan. I’m not going to die of a broken heart. From some other malady, yes. I’m not fooling myself. I know how ill I am. It’s just a matter of time.”
“As it is with all of us.”
“In varying degrees, Mr. Jordan, depending on one’s age and state of health. My time is short and I’m quite resigned. In any event, I have to know the truth about Vincent.”
I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“About expenses…”
“We can discuss that later.”
“Spend whatever is necessary.”
“I’ll use my discretion. Would you answer one question for me?”
She looked up. “Of course.”
“Steve Banton was your chauffeur. Why did he quit his job?”
“He didn’t quit, really. I fired him. The man had become quite impossible. He was both lazy and arrogant. He stopped washing the cars and he was very condescending about taking us for a drive. Vincent was inclined to be tolerant, but I saw no reason to put up with it. I told him he’d have to leave.”
“How did Steve take it?”
“He seemed quite unconcerned. Apparently he didn’t need the job.”
“This letter from Denise…”
“Keep it. I don’t want it around. Besides, you may need it for evidence.”
I stood up. “That’s all then. You’ll be hearing from me.” I took one last look when I reached the door. She was lying very still, her face motionless, a brooding mask gazing into eternity. It was evident she did not like what she saw.
XV
The Buick was growing thirsty and I stopped off at a gas station. While an attendant filled my tank I used the telephone and dialed Max Turner.
“Well,” I said, when his voice was in my ear, “what kind of a private detective are you? Loafing around in your office. Aren’t you supposed to be out getting a line on Hugo Ritter for me?”
“Just got in,” he said calmly. “Tried to reach you a little while ago.”
“Any results?”
“Not yet. Feelers are out all over town. Got half a dozen men working. Every contact and stool pigeon has been promised a bonus. Wait till you get the bill.”
“Stick with it. And I have another one for you, Max. Female, surname unknown, first name Denise, living at the Gracie Park Hotel. I want a fine on her.”
“Easy,” he said.
“You sound smug.”
“Happens I know the house dick in that trap. What kind of a line?”
“Everything you can get. Background, what she does for a living, for diversion, whom she sees. Hop up there now. I’ll be in my office in about an hour and I’d like a report.”
“You’ll have one.” A click and he was gone.
Good driving requires concentration and a simple brain. One eye on the road and one eye on the cars around you. The thinker, absorbed in weightier matters, is apt to be accident-prone. I was preoccupied and barely conscious of the wheel. Kaleidoscopic flashes of the past two days kept passing in quick review.
I thought of Laura Banton and the fat man searching her apartment. Hugo Ritter was on edge, anxious to destroy any evidence that might link him to Steve Banton.
A horn blasted beside me and the Buick rocked as I swung back sharply into my own lane. A car shot past, almost peeling my paint. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver, white-lipped and angry. I moved cautiously into the far right lane.
Careful, Jordan. You’re in trouble enough. Don’t add vehicular homicide to your headaches.
I had another moment of uneasiness, remembering that I had not kept my promise to Lieutenant Nola. I had failed to report in periodically as pledged.
I decided to call him the moment I reached the office, which I did, but he was out, and I got Sergeant Wienick instead. His voice was bitter. “He’s up with the inspector. They almost put him back in harness for letting you go. You’re a jinx, counselor.”
“I feel like one. Tell him I phoned. Nothing new to report.”
“Tell him yourself. In person. He wants to see you.”
“I’ll drop by this afternoon.”
“Call first. He’s looking for evidence. So far you’re still the number one suspect.” He rang off.
