Send Another Hearse, page 11
“But there was a soft side to him, too. He loved the kids, Peter and Linda. And he was determined to make a life for them. I’m not sure he would ever have written the book if not for them. He didn’t want the money for himself. His salary and pension more than covered his personal needs. But he felt the kids ought to have an education and a decent start. He was going to invest the two hundred thousand dollars in a trust for them.”
Tears stung her eyes and she shook her head violently.
“No one knew Fred better than I. We were both lonely and he spent a lot of time here, talking. If he made up that story about Keller, I’d know it. Every word he wrote was true. Why do you think he never got any of that bribery money? Because they knew he wouldn’t take it.”
“You never met Strobe?”
“No.” She swallowed and bit her lip, holding back.
“What is it, Mrs. Duncan? I think you’d better tell me.”
She hungered for a sympathetic ear and the words came swiftly. “It—it may have been Strobe who called yesterday.”
“About what?”
“About the kids. He said if I loved them, if I didn’t want anything to happen to them, and if I had any influence with Fred, I’d make him back down on all that stuff he wrote in his book.”
“You didn’t recognize the voice?”
“No. I’d never heard it before.”
“What time?”
“Around three in the afternoon.”
“Did you tell Fred?”
“Yes. He was here for dinner last night. He said it was a bluff, but I could see he was worried. And he didn’t want to take any chances. He had some money saved up and he wanted to send me and the kids away until this whole thing blew over. We were going to leave tomorrow. Fred said he knew a place upstate where we could rent a bungalow at this time of year for practically nothing. And he thought it would be good for the kids to get away from the city. But then…” Her voice dribbled away.
“What time did Fred leave here last night?”
“About nine. I had gone upstairs to borrow a valise from one of the neighbors and when I came down he was waiting with his hat on. He seemed to be in a hurry.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No. But he seemed a little excited. Linda was in bed, sleeping. He rubbed Peter’s head and left.”
I stood up. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Duncan. I don’t want to make any promises about that money but, well, let’s wait and see.”
She managed a small smile.
“Say goodbye to Peter for me.”
I stopped off at Schrafft’s and sent the kids a five-pound box of candy. An occasional luxury is good for the soul. As it turned out, it was one of the best investments I ever made.
19
THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE occupied four floors in the Criminal Courts Building, with the Homicide Bureau on the sixth. Up here the windows can be raised only three inches, on the principle that people charged with murder would rather take their chances on a six-floor jump than face a jury of their peers.
Assistant District Attorney Ed Magowan had consented to see me, but there was no pleasure in his greeting. Magowan had come a long way since we first crossed swords. He knew the ropes now. Seven years of practical experience had given him an air of competent assurance. He’d learned how to keep his voice and temper under control.
But he still had the manner of a junior-type executive. And he looked the part, too, with his neatly styled hair, his Brooks Brothers suit, and his bench-made mahogany-colored shoes. He kept his desk as neat as his person, clear of accumulated files and reference books.
“I suppose you’re here about Adam Coleman,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“You’ve got a tough one this time, Jordan.”
“It looks worse than it is.”
He smiled thinly. “Which makes it easier to get a conviction.”
“We’re a long way from any trial. When do you expect the Grand Jury to consider his case?”
“That’s up to the Indictment Bureau. They’re collecting evidence for presentation now.” He regarded me shrewdly. “What’s on your mind, Jordan?”
“I’d like to make an application for Coleman’s release on bail.”
“Go ahead,” he said with casual unconcern.
“Will you oppose it?”
“Hell, yes.”
“But you haven’t got enough evidence.”
“Perhaps not enough to convict at this time. Certainly enough to hold him. And we’ll collect more.”
I said, “Two weeks ago you made a speech at the Bar Association dinner.”
“You heard me?”
“I was there. And I remember your words. You said the job of the District Attorney was to prosecute, not to persecute. You said the present administration was interested more in justice than a good record of convictions. Was that pure rhetoric, Magowan? For newspaper consumption? Or did you mean it?”
He gave me a politician’s answer that committed him to nothing. “Look at the record. It speaks for itself.”
“All right. Then we’re both interested in the same thing. Justice. If you don’t argue against bail, if Coleman is released, whoever killed Fred Duncan will think you have a weak case. He may be tempted to strengthen it. Every move he makes gives me an opportunity to nose him out.”
“You?”
“The police,” I amended.
He wore a set smile. “Your reasoning is based on a premise of innocence. I’m not convinced of that by any means. And in the meantime we have to hold him. The purpose of imprisonment is not to punish but to insure attendance at the trial.”
“Exactly. Adam Coleman won’t take a powder. He’s no Bowery drifter. His home is here. He operates a business in this city.”
“I’m aware of all that.”
“And you’re aware of the law, too. The power to grant bail by a Supreme Court justice, even in homicide cases, is discretionary.”
His forensic skill had improved and he enjoyed displaying it.
“ ‘Unless the presumption is evident or the proof is great.’ People v. Perry. There may not be an evident presumption here, but there certainly is considerable proof.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Quite frankly, Jordan, I discussed this with the D.A. himself and he made the ruling. He wants Coleman in custody until we know what happened to the accused’s partner.”
“Dan Varney?”
“Yes.”
“That’s simple enough. Varney absconded with two hundred thousand dollars of Fred Duncan’s money.”
“So Coleman says. We have only his unsupported story.”
I sat up. “What does that mean?” I said, knowing perfectly well what it meant.
“Can’t you guess?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Coleman may have stolen the money himself and done away with Varney as a blind.”
“My God! You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“The possibility exists and we haven’t eliminated it.”
“But he’d still be responsible to Duncan for the money.”
“He didn’t know that at the time. He’s not a lawyer.”
I shrugged. “If your thinking runs along those lines, I guess there’s no point in discussing it.”
“No point at all.”
“Suppose I make an application for bail anyway.”
“That’s your privilege. We’ll fight it out right down the line.”
I could expect no leniency here and I rose to leave. Ed Magowan was still smiling as I went through the door. I stayed in the building and headed for the detention cells.
On the application of his attorney, they brought Adam out to the counsel room. He was nervous and rumpled, with a dark beard shadow on his face. He clutched at my sleeve.
“Get me out of here, Scott.”
“I’m trying,” I said. “It’s not easy.”
“Why? Don’t we have a right to bail?”
“Not where a capital offense is involved.”
“Even if I’m innocent?”
“We have to prove that first.”
His mouth was pulled down at the corners. “Have you seen the family?”
“This morning.”
“What does Barbara think?”
“She’s in a fighting mood. And so is Victoria.”
He nodded dismally. “Well, there goes the agency. With nobody at the office it can’t last.”
“How about Dodd? Doesn’t he know anything about the business?”
“Gil is our accountant.”
“Why not let him go through the mail? He can handle routine matters and let me know about emergencies.”
Adam perked up a little. “Good idea. But they took my keys away.”
“We’ll get them back.”
He searched my face. “I know you’re not a magician, Scott. This thing only happened last night. But I… have you done anything yet?”
“Several things. I spoke to Fred Duncan’s daughter-in-law this morning. She says he had an appointment last night. She doesn’t know with whom, but I’m hoping to find out. I spoke to Lieutenant Nola and he’s keeping an open mind. I have Max Turner checking on Ernie Strobe. You’ve got a lot of people in your corner, Adam. Everything possible is being done and will continue to be done. Just be patient.”
We arranged to get his keys from the property clerk and they returned Adam to his cell. When I left the property clerk’s office I went down to the lobby and used a telephone booth to call the office.
“High time you phoned,” Cassidy said. “There’s an envelope here from the Bar Association, delivered by hand!”
“Open it.”
I heard the rustle of paper, silence for a moment, and then Cassidy’s voice, subdued.
“Do you know a Mr. Alfred Seward?”
“Not offhand.”
“He represents the Grievance Committee. A complaint has been filed against you by Mrs. Lorraine Coleman, charging unethical conduct in the suppression of a testamentary document. He would like you to phone him at your earliest convenience.”
My blood pressure skyrocketed. Angry words rushed to the tip of my tongue, most of them attacking Mrs. Coleman, attacking her ancestry and her lawyer, too.
“Are you there, Scott?”
“Yes. Seward, did you say?”
“Alfred Seward.”
“Look, Cassidy. Two can play at this game. The lady wants trouble, we’ll give it to her. Meet me at my apartment and bring some legal cap. About seven.”
20
LORRAINE COLEMAN undoubtedly knew of Adam’s plight. It was in all the newspapers. She knew, too, that I was defending him. But how could I concentrate with this added load? And just what did she hope to accomplish by a personal attack on my professional conduct?
A complaint to the Grievance Committee was unnerving. If I could not satisfy Seward of my innocence, if formal charges were filed with the Executive Committee, I might ultimately wind up before the Appellate Division with my career at stake. This thing had to be nipped in the bud.
The Bar Association was housed in a building on West Fifty-fourth Street. I had called Alfred Seward and arranged for an appointment. Then I made a few other calls and got a line on the man. He was a permanent member of the staff, a little starchy perhaps, but fair and impartial.
A secretary showed me into his office.
He sat behind his desk, tall and angular, with a brushcut mustache and direct blue eyes. He wore a high, stiff collar and an undertaker’s suit. He offered me a formal handshake, a hard-backed chair and a cigarette. Then he settled back, carefully hiked up a trouser leg and crossed his knees and studied me carefully.
“You understand, Jordan, this is not a formal hearing. As counsel for the committee my job is to process the complaint and decide what further measures should be taken. I am merely asking you at this time to explain the charges.”
We were two gentlemen politely discussing a problem. No inquisitorial aspect. Nobody’s professional ethics in question. If a lawyer had to be crucified, Seward would officiate with elegance and finesse.
“What, precisely, are the charges?” I asked.
He outlined them in a matter-of-fact tone. “Mrs. Coleman claims that you had a copy of her husband’s will in your office, that she asked you to file it with the surrogate, that you not only neglected to do so, but instead destroyed the document or disposed of it in some other manner.”
“And my reasons for doing this?”
“Twofold. To deprive her of the full estate and for your own personal gain.”
“Just how would I stand to gain, Mr. Seward?”
“Through your clients. Adam Coleman, Barbara Coleman and Victoria Dodd. Between them, if no will were found, they may inherit close to three million dollars. Your fee for handling an estate of that size would be quite substantial.”
“May I talk off the record, sir?”
“If you wish.”
“All right. The complainant first. Lorraine Coleman is a greedy, acquisitive woman. Her marriage to M. Parker Coleman, a man thirty years her senior, not in good health even then, was coldly and calculatingly manipulated. She married the man for his money. She influenced him in a decision to disinherit his own children. All she had to do was wait.
“Her husband, however, refused to cooperate. Dying was a slow process and she squandered a good portion of her youth. Last week, Mr. Coleman finally obliged. At last his money came within reach. But suddenly she is faced with a new hazard. She can’t find the will. So she comes to me for a copy. That, too, appears to be missing. Imagine her frustration, the paranoiac delusion that she’s being cheated, her blind, unreasoning anger.”
“So she strikes out wildly at the nearest target, the man she believes is scheming against her. She selects me as the villain because offhand she has no one else. And her distorted brain must have some victim.”
Seward’s bottom lip bulged thoughtfully behind his tongue.
“A rather merciless indictment, Counselor.”
“It has validity. Something her charges lack.”
“Who drew the will?”
“Oliver Wended Rogers.”
“Ah, yes. A decided asset to the Bar. He’s retired now, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. I was his junior for several years.”
“Where can he be reached?”
“I don’t know. He’s traveling around Europe on a vacation.”
“Who were the attesting witnesses?”
“His former secretary, now employed by me, and myself.”
“Did your files ever contain a copy of the will?”
“I don’t know. I never saw one.”
“And you deny any knowledge of such a copy.”
“I deny it categorically and unequivocally. May I suggest another approach to this problem?”
He dipped his chin one millimeter.
I said, “Why is Mrs. Coleman concentrating exclusively on a copy of the will? The answer is obvious. Because the original is missing. Well, sir, no one suggests that I had any control over that particular document. Nevertheless it cannot be found. Under the circumstances, what is the normal assumption? That Mr. Coleman himself destroyed it. That he had second thoughts about disinheriting his children. That he had feelings of guilt and revoked his will without telling his wife. That he contacted Rogers with instructions to destroy the copy.”
“Mrs. Coleman refuses to believe that.”
“Mrs. Coleman believes only what she wants to believe—whatever serves her own self-interest.”
“You’re a persuasive young man.”
“No, sir. My arguments are persuasive because they’re logical.”
He leaned forward, pinching his lower lip reflectively. “Is there any way we can test or nourish your hypothesis by getting in touch with Rogers?”
“I’m afraid not. He has no particular itinerary.”
“How long will he be gone?”
“I’m not sure. Mrs. Coleman would have to wait his return in any event.”
“What do you mean?”
“The precedent is established, sir. A lost will may be probated if its provisions are clearly and distinctly proved by two credible witnesses.”
“Or one witness and a copy, I believe.”
“Yes, sir. But there is no copy.”
“I see your point.” He stroked his mustache. “How does Mrs. Coleman get along with her stepchildren?”
“They abominate her and the feeling is mutual. They know why she married their father, and they watched her reduce him to a simpering adolescence. They felt she had alienated his affections and was trying to deprive them of their inheritance. And she in turn believes they’re trying to bilk her out of the estate.”
“Are they?”
“No, sir. Emphatically not.”
“But they want their share.”
“They’re entitled to it, Mr. Seward. But they never came to me and suggested that I act unethically or illegally in their behalf. Nor would I have done so. My record as a member of the Bar proves that.”
He pursed his lips noncommittally. He was squaring some papers on his desk and sliding them back into a folder.
He said, “There are several items I want to run down before making any recommendation to the Executive Committee. Thank you for coming, Counselor. You’ll hear from us.”
So the interview was over and I had no hint where I stood. Seward did not rise to offer his hand when I left. Perhaps I had pushed too hard. Or perhaps he’d found my explanation not quite satisfactory enough.
Going down in the elevator, I thought of Lorraine Coleman with a sharpened barometric sensitivity. I itched to feel the lady’s neck between my fingers. And I had a sense of identity with Barbara in her aversion for Lorraine.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost six, too late to go back to the office. I caught a cab home and sank wearily into a chair. The light was fading and shadows lengthened across the room. I let this moment of calm engulf me and then I remembered that Cassidy was due.
I took a quick shower and was in a robe when the bell rang. I let her in. She surveyed me with a lifted eyebrow.
