Send Another Hearse, page 12
“Aren’t we supposed to work this evening?”
“Yes.”
“Do you always greet female employees in a robe?”
“What’s the matter? Worried about your reputation?”
“At my age? Ha! Where’s the portable?”
I went to the hall closet, got the typewriter and set it up on the living-room desk. “Hope you brought a new ribbon.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” She fussed over the machine. “The hours I work. And no overtime.”
“Think of your Christmas bonus. If this case pans out I’ll buy you a vacation at Miami Beach.”
“I wouldn’t be found there dead.”
“Pick your own spot.”
“Bermuda.”
“It’s a deal.”
She turned from the typewriter, opened a large manila envelope, withdrew some legal cap and a steno pad. “How did you make out with Seward at the Bar Association?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Coleman accused us of conspiracy. I denied the charge and he’s taking it under advisement. That’s why you’re here. We’ll give the widow something to worry about. We’re going to draw papers tonight, an application for letters of administration in her husband’s estate. We’ll ask to have the children appointed. Naturally she’ll hit the ceiling. And immediately she’ll file a cross-application.”
“She’s the widow. She has a right to be administrator.”
“True. But I want to get her started. Let her produce a will for probate or proceed under the rules of intestacy.”
I started to dictate and the phone rang. Cassidy reached for it out of habit and said, “Hello,” then handed it to me.
It was Barbara, coolly aloof. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” I said. “I am not a philanderer. That female voice you just heard was my secretary. We’re working. On Coleman family business, as a matter of fact.”
She was mollified and hurt at the same time. “You promised to call me.”
“Sorry. Things have been popping all day. Your lovely stepmother filed a complaint against me with the Bar Association.”
“Oh, Scott! Is it serious?”
“I’m not sure. Expressions of sympathy are welcome.”
“I have an oversupply. Take me to dinner.”
“Soon as I finish with Cassidy. I want to serve these papers first thing in the morning. I’ll call you before I leave.”
“I’m at Vickie’s,” she said. “The phone number’s 555-0010. Did you see Adam?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you about it later.” I had a second thought. “Look, this won’t take long. Cassidy knows the forms pretty well. Let’s save time. Meet me at Larue’s in half an hour.”
“I’ll be at the bar,” she said and hung up.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cassidy asked. “I could have brought a set of blank forms from the office.
“Because I forgot. And besides, I keep a fairly complete set here at the apartment. Let’s go to work.” I dictated the essential points and outlined the rest.
The phone rang again. I took it myself and heard John Nola’s voice. “They’re moving fast, Scott. Just got a notification to appear before the Grand Jury tomorrow afternoon.”
“The Duncan case?”
“Yes. They’re asking for a murder one indictment.”
“That’s what I expected, but it’s a far cry from an indictment to a conviction.”
“Just thought I’d let you know.”
“I appreciate it, John. Thanks.” We broke the connection.
“What is it now?” Cassidy asked.
“The District Attorney is wasting no time. I wonder if they found any additional evidence.”
“You look worried.’”
“I am. Adam may not have told me the whole truth.”
“You’ll find out after the Grand Jury meets.”
“Provided I get my hands on a copy of the minutes, which is highly improbable.”
“How about those surrogate forms? Where are they?”
It took me about ten minutes to find them and then I stood over Cassidy, watching her fill in the title. She pointed at the clock. “Half an hour, did you say? It’s after that now. Your date will be fuming.”
“My God!” I said. “You’re right. I have to dash.”
“Not in that robe. Put some clothes on first. And I think you need a shave.”
I rubbed my jaw and felt the rasp of a beard stubble. Heading for the bathroom, I said over my shoulder, “Call the restaurant and tell Miss Barbara Coleman that I’ll be delayed a short while.”
I worked up a lather and put a fresh blade into the razor. I had finished scraping and was in the bedroom selecting haberdashery when the doorbell rang.
I looked out. “Answer that, will you, Cassidy?” She stopped typing. I went to the rack and found a tie, dark maroon, and slipped it under my shirt collar, carefully knotting it.
I heard a heavy thump.
“Who is it, Cassidy?”
No answer. Not a sound.
I frowned in puzzlement and went to the living room. She was not there.
“Cassidy?”
No response.
I crossed to the foyer and stopped rigidly. Cassidy lay, face down, in a grotesque position on the floor. My scalp tightened and I dropped to one knee beside her. A burnt powder smell hung in the air. I touched her arm. It was inert, motionless. I turned her over and saw the bullet hole.
I thought I was going to be sick, but shock froze my stomach and my reflexes. I kneeled there, numb and paralyzed. It was a ghastly sight. She had opened the peephole for a look at the visitor. There had been no warning. The gun was in position, waiting, silenced and lethal, and a bullet had exploded through Cassidy’s brain.
My eyes were burning and my throat ached and I cried her name in a lost and stricken voice.
21
I HAVE ONLY A DAZED recollection of the next few hours, a stunned awareness of kaleidoscopic activity. Sirens in the night, the arrival of John Nola, a parade of technicians, flashbulbs and fingerprint powder, the medical examiner, stretcher bearers from the morgue, neighbors being questioned, reporters clamoring.
Why? I kept asking myself. Why?
This was a macabre jest, some monstrous hoax. Part of me refused to accept the fact, and yet I knew it had to be so. There had been a war in my time. I had seen death in many and various forms. But Cassidy had been a part of my life, a part of my everyday existence.
Everyone had left now. Only Nola remained. He went to the bar, poured a double shot of brandy, and put it in my hand. “Drink that.”
I put it down in a single gulp.
He stood over me, eyes leveled at mine. “I understand your feelings, Scott, and I sympathize with them. I know what Cassidy meant to you. All right. Mourn for her. But right now pull yourself together. I need your help.”
“She was here working,” I said heavily.
“We saw the copy in your typewriter.”
“Somebody rang the bell and she went to answer. She caught it when she looked through the peephole.”
“Where were you when it happened?”
“In the bedroom getting dressed—” I stopped, remembering my appointment with Barbara.
Nola read my thought. “Miss Coleman phoned and I explained the situation. She wanted to come right over, but I told her to go home, you’d be in touch with her.”
I looked up at him. “Cassidy never had a chance.”
“How long did it take you to get to the door?”
“Two, three minutes.
“Didn’t you hear the shot?”
“No.”
“Neither did the neighbors. The gun had a silencer.”
“Why, John? What did anybody have against Cassidy?”
“Nothing probably.” He stared at me. “Don’t you see the implication, Scott?”
I shook my head.
“That packet carried your name. It was delivered to the wrong party. The killer didn’t know he was firing at Cassidy. He couldn’t see her face through the peephole.”
Nola was right, of course. The killer had expected me to be alone, had been certain there was no margin for error. And hardly any risk. Who else but the tenant would answer a bell. A quick twitch of the trigger and the job is done. So Cassidy, an innocent bystander, had died. Bitter saliva threaded its way down my throat.
“Any ideas, Counselor?”
“It’s tied up with the Duncan case.”
“Fill me in.”
“I had a threatening call, John, warning me to keep my nose out of it. And to forget the Keller business. Somebody has an idea I’m getting too close for comfort.”
“Where do you keep your gun?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Your gun. Three years ago I got you a license to carry a firearm. I know it’s been renewed. Where do you keep the piece?”
“In a shoebag compartment.”
“See if it’s still there.”
I found it, a Colt Banker’s Special, caliber .32, small but lethal enough at close range.
“Keep it handy,” Nola said. “I want you to carry it around until this case is settled one way or another.”
“I’m a lawyer, John, not a perambulating arsenal.”
“You used similar words once before, but it saved your life. There’s a killer abroad, remember?” His voice hardened. “I suggest that gun because your life is in danger. As an instrument of self-defense, not revenge. Am I clear?”
“Would you deny me the pleasure, John?”
“Yes. Punishment is not your job, nor mine either.”
I committed myself to nothing by changing the subject. “What about Ernie Strobe?”
“We’re still checking. He’s well fixed financially. So far we’ve uncovered about eighty thousand in securities.”
“Pretty good on a sergeant’s salary. How long before you clamp down?”
“The decision is not mine to make.” He regarded me speculatively. “Did you know you had a visitor this evening?”
“Who?”
“Mrs. M. Parker Coleman.”
I gaped at him. “Where was I?”
“In the bedroom being questioned. She figured something had happened from all the activity but insisted on seeing you anyway, so we let her in.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the body was still here. She took one look and passed out. When she came to she was on the verge of hysterics. The medical examiner had just arrived and he put her under sedation. I had one of the boys drive her home.”
“I wonder what she wanted,” I mused.
“The doc said to give her a couple of hours.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s about time that shot wore off. Would you like to come along?”
“Try to stop me.”
Before relinquishing control of the Coleman Hotels, M. Parker Coleman had signed over to himself a long-term lease for a duplex in the Marlborough—at a bargain rental, no doubt. It had been furnished in Danish modern and carried the earmarks of liberal spending. Masons had broken through the living-room wall to create a twenty-foot picture window that commanded a view of Central Park with its constantly changing panorama.
A middle-aged housekeeper with a knotty face seemed shocked at our late visit. She had a devout impression the Coleman privacy was inviolable, but Lieutenant Nola’s curt air of authority put her straight and she retired, grumbling audibly, to rouse her mistress.
Lorraine Coleman looked drawn, her eyes slightly drugged. She greeted us stiffly in a hostess gown of whispering taffeta.
“Sorry to disturb you at this hour,” Nola said. “But we have to move fast in a homicide investigation.”
“I understand.” She gestured in my direction. “Is he part of the investigation?”
“Jordan is involved. The victim was his secretary.”
No expression on her face, nor any comment.
“We believe she was killed by mistake. The bullet was intended for Jordan.”
“What has all this to do with me?”
“You arrived at the scene not long after it happened, Mrs. Coleman. The possibility exists that you went there earlier and were undecided about entering.”
“The possibility is a fact,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I walked away twice before making up my mind.”
The admission was not surprising. Lorraine Coleman was no fool. She realized someone might have seen her in the vicinity.
“Then you may be able to help us,” Nola said. “Did you notice anyone loitering about the building?”
“No.”
“Going in or coming out?”
“No.”
“What brought you to Jordan’s apartment?”
“I think he knows.”
“Suppose you tell us, Mrs. Coleman.”
“I went there with a request and an offer. I believe Jordan knows where a copy of my husband’s will can be found. I had spoken to him about it once before, but my approach was wrong. I thought if we discussed it reasonably he’d come over to my side.”
“That was your request. What was your offer?”
“If he produced the will, I was ready to drop my complaint to the Bar Association.”
“Plus how much money?” I asked.
“Money?” One eyebrow arched questioningly.
“Sure. Weren’t you prepared to offer me more than I could make as a legitimate fee from my clients?”
“Not at all. I considered my original offer fair.”
“And your lawyer,” I said. “Did he know about this?”
“It was my own idea.”
“Naturally. He knows my office is on the tenth floor. That’s a lot of stairs to be kicked down.”
It didn’t touch her at all. Lorraine Coleman operated in a sphere of her own. She turned back to Nola. “Am I a suspect, Lieutenant?”
“Everyone is a suspect.”
She encompassed her apartment with a regal wave. “Would you like to search for a gun?”
“A gun may be discarded. It’s not permanently attached to your person.”
“But my hand is.” She held it out. “Isn’t there some sort of test you make to determine if a gun has been fired?”
He smiled dryly. “Knowing about the test you would have worn gloves.”
“Like any normally intelligent murderer—is that what you mean, Lieutenant?”
“In a way. I’m curious. How do you happen to know about such things?”
“I’m incurably addicted to mystery stories.” Her eyes veered across the room to one of those handsome perpetual clocks that are powered by a two-degree change in temperature. “This has been a trying experience, Lieutenant. I’m very tired.”
“Of course. We may have to question you again.”
“You know my address. Good night.” She retired peremptorily from the scene, leaving her housekeeper to perform the amenities.
Downstairs, Nola shook his head. “That’s a tough combination to solve.”
“She operates on the profit motive,” I said. “The lady has a slide-rule personality with a money fixation. Everything she does can be figured in terms of the dollar gain on her side of the ledger.”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You may be right at that. Can I give you a lift?”
“No, John. Thanks anyway. I feel like walking.”
Mostly, I didn’t want to go back to the apartment. The night was crisp and clear, with an indigo sky and a sprinkling of stars. A view denied now to Cassidy. A view she would never see again.
I don’t know how long I trudged the streets—two hours, three hours until, inevitably, I found myself in front of Barbara’s apartment. I went in and rang her bell. The buzzer answered at once and I took the elevator up.
She was waiting at the door, her eyes searching my face with concern. “I knew you’d come,” she said simply.
I nodded, wordless, and sank into a chair.
She stood in front of me. “Where is it all going to end, Scott?”
“I don’t know.”
“But why Cassidy? Why your secretary?”
“Her death was a mistake. The killer was after me.”
“Oh, no!” She went rigid, fighting panic. Her fists were clenched in front of her. “Is it… is it because of Adam’s case?”
I shrugged.
“Then drop it, Scott. We’ll get someone else.”
“No, Barbara. A man can’t surrender to intimidation.”
“But this is more than intimidation. These people are vicious killers. Two murders have been committed already.” She looked at me beseechingly. “Leave town, Scott. Go away.”
“And desert Adam?”
“But you’re not the only lawyer in New York.”
“Nor the best,” I said. “But I know this case and I’m the one he wants.”
After a moment, she nodded, looking miserable; “You’re right, of course, I’m sorry.” And added defensively, “But I’m frightened, too.”
So was I, as a matter of fact, but I didn’t put it into words. Merely considering the possible means of ambush was enough to chill my spine.
“Is there a connection between the two murders?” she asked.
“I’m sure of it.”
Her fingers caught my arm. “Don’t you see what that means?” she said excitedly. “Adam was in jail when Cassidy was shot. He was behind bars. He couldn’t have been involved. And he had no motive for hurting you.”
“Yes,” I said. “I see what it means. But I don’t think the District Attorney will see it. Not yet anyway. He’d want proof.”
“Can we find any?”
“I have a private detective working on it.”
“The same man who’s trying to find Dan?”
“Yes, with the help of assistants.”
She looked woebegone. “We Colemans are a headache. Are you sorry to be involved with us?”
“You have legal problems. That’s my trade.”
“But what if you’re disbarred?”
“Then you can support me. How many productive years does a model have?”
She caught my bantering tone. “Quite a few. Later on I can pose for gray-hair rinses, dental-plate cleansers, concealed hearing aids and—”
“That’s enough,” I interrupted. “None of this may be necessary. As things now stand, you’re in line to inherit quite a chunk of your father’s estate.”
“Yes.”
“Do you always greet female employees in a robe?”
“What’s the matter? Worried about your reputation?”
“At my age? Ha! Where’s the portable?”
I went to the hall closet, got the typewriter and set it up on the living-room desk. “Hope you brought a new ribbon.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” She fussed over the machine. “The hours I work. And no overtime.”
“Think of your Christmas bonus. If this case pans out I’ll buy you a vacation at Miami Beach.”
“I wouldn’t be found there dead.”
“Pick your own spot.”
“Bermuda.”
“It’s a deal.”
She turned from the typewriter, opened a large manila envelope, withdrew some legal cap and a steno pad. “How did you make out with Seward at the Bar Association?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Coleman accused us of conspiracy. I denied the charge and he’s taking it under advisement. That’s why you’re here. We’ll give the widow something to worry about. We’re going to draw papers tonight, an application for letters of administration in her husband’s estate. We’ll ask to have the children appointed. Naturally she’ll hit the ceiling. And immediately she’ll file a cross-application.”
“She’s the widow. She has a right to be administrator.”
“True. But I want to get her started. Let her produce a will for probate or proceed under the rules of intestacy.”
I started to dictate and the phone rang. Cassidy reached for it out of habit and said, “Hello,” then handed it to me.
It was Barbara, coolly aloof. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” I said. “I am not a philanderer. That female voice you just heard was my secretary. We’re working. On Coleman family business, as a matter of fact.”
She was mollified and hurt at the same time. “You promised to call me.”
“Sorry. Things have been popping all day. Your lovely stepmother filed a complaint against me with the Bar Association.”
“Oh, Scott! Is it serious?”
“I’m not sure. Expressions of sympathy are welcome.”
“I have an oversupply. Take me to dinner.”
“Soon as I finish with Cassidy. I want to serve these papers first thing in the morning. I’ll call you before I leave.”
“I’m at Vickie’s,” she said. “The phone number’s 555-0010. Did you see Adam?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you about it later.” I had a second thought. “Look, this won’t take long. Cassidy knows the forms pretty well. Let’s save time. Meet me at Larue’s in half an hour.”
“I’ll be at the bar,” she said and hung up.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cassidy asked. “I could have brought a set of blank forms from the office.
“Because I forgot. And besides, I keep a fairly complete set here at the apartment. Let’s go to work.” I dictated the essential points and outlined the rest.
The phone rang again. I took it myself and heard John Nola’s voice. “They’re moving fast, Scott. Just got a notification to appear before the Grand Jury tomorrow afternoon.”
“The Duncan case?”
“Yes. They’re asking for a murder one indictment.”
“That’s what I expected, but it’s a far cry from an indictment to a conviction.”
“Just thought I’d let you know.”
“I appreciate it, John. Thanks.” We broke the connection.
“What is it now?” Cassidy asked.
“The District Attorney is wasting no time. I wonder if they found any additional evidence.”
“You look worried.’”
“I am. Adam may not have told me the whole truth.”
“You’ll find out after the Grand Jury meets.”
“Provided I get my hands on a copy of the minutes, which is highly improbable.”
“How about those surrogate forms? Where are they?”
It took me about ten minutes to find them and then I stood over Cassidy, watching her fill in the title. She pointed at the clock. “Half an hour, did you say? It’s after that now. Your date will be fuming.”
“My God!” I said. “You’re right. I have to dash.”
“Not in that robe. Put some clothes on first. And I think you need a shave.”
I rubbed my jaw and felt the rasp of a beard stubble. Heading for the bathroom, I said over my shoulder, “Call the restaurant and tell Miss Barbara Coleman that I’ll be delayed a short while.”
I worked up a lather and put a fresh blade into the razor. I had finished scraping and was in the bedroom selecting haberdashery when the doorbell rang.
I looked out. “Answer that, will you, Cassidy?” She stopped typing. I went to the rack and found a tie, dark maroon, and slipped it under my shirt collar, carefully knotting it.
I heard a heavy thump.
“Who is it, Cassidy?”
No answer. Not a sound.
I frowned in puzzlement and went to the living room. She was not there.
“Cassidy?”
No response.
I crossed to the foyer and stopped rigidly. Cassidy lay, face down, in a grotesque position on the floor. My scalp tightened and I dropped to one knee beside her. A burnt powder smell hung in the air. I touched her arm. It was inert, motionless. I turned her over and saw the bullet hole.
I thought I was going to be sick, but shock froze my stomach and my reflexes. I kneeled there, numb and paralyzed. It was a ghastly sight. She had opened the peephole for a look at the visitor. There had been no warning. The gun was in position, waiting, silenced and lethal, and a bullet had exploded through Cassidy’s brain.
My eyes were burning and my throat ached and I cried her name in a lost and stricken voice.
21
I HAVE ONLY A DAZED recollection of the next few hours, a stunned awareness of kaleidoscopic activity. Sirens in the night, the arrival of John Nola, a parade of technicians, flashbulbs and fingerprint powder, the medical examiner, stretcher bearers from the morgue, neighbors being questioned, reporters clamoring.
Why? I kept asking myself. Why?
This was a macabre jest, some monstrous hoax. Part of me refused to accept the fact, and yet I knew it had to be so. There had been a war in my time. I had seen death in many and various forms. But Cassidy had been a part of my life, a part of my everyday existence.
Everyone had left now. Only Nola remained. He went to the bar, poured a double shot of brandy, and put it in my hand. “Drink that.”
I put it down in a single gulp.
He stood over me, eyes leveled at mine. “I understand your feelings, Scott, and I sympathize with them. I know what Cassidy meant to you. All right. Mourn for her. But right now pull yourself together. I need your help.”
“She was here working,” I said heavily.
“We saw the copy in your typewriter.”
“Somebody rang the bell and she went to answer. She caught it when she looked through the peephole.”
“Where were you when it happened?”
“In the bedroom getting dressed—” I stopped, remembering my appointment with Barbara.
Nola read my thought. “Miss Coleman phoned and I explained the situation. She wanted to come right over, but I told her to go home, you’d be in touch with her.”
I looked up at him. “Cassidy never had a chance.”
“How long did it take you to get to the door?”
“Two, three minutes.
“Didn’t you hear the shot?”
“No.”
“Neither did the neighbors. The gun had a silencer.”
“Why, John? What did anybody have against Cassidy?”
“Nothing probably.” He stared at me. “Don’t you see the implication, Scott?”
I shook my head.
“That packet carried your name. It was delivered to the wrong party. The killer didn’t know he was firing at Cassidy. He couldn’t see her face through the peephole.”
Nola was right, of course. The killer had expected me to be alone, had been certain there was no margin for error. And hardly any risk. Who else but the tenant would answer a bell. A quick twitch of the trigger and the job is done. So Cassidy, an innocent bystander, had died. Bitter saliva threaded its way down my throat.
“Any ideas, Counselor?”
“It’s tied up with the Duncan case.”
“Fill me in.”
“I had a threatening call, John, warning me to keep my nose out of it. And to forget the Keller business. Somebody has an idea I’m getting too close for comfort.”
“Where do you keep your gun?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Your gun. Three years ago I got you a license to carry a firearm. I know it’s been renewed. Where do you keep the piece?”
“In a shoebag compartment.”
“See if it’s still there.”
I found it, a Colt Banker’s Special, caliber .32, small but lethal enough at close range.
“Keep it handy,” Nola said. “I want you to carry it around until this case is settled one way or another.”
“I’m a lawyer, John, not a perambulating arsenal.”
“You used similar words once before, but it saved your life. There’s a killer abroad, remember?” His voice hardened. “I suggest that gun because your life is in danger. As an instrument of self-defense, not revenge. Am I clear?”
“Would you deny me the pleasure, John?”
“Yes. Punishment is not your job, nor mine either.”
I committed myself to nothing by changing the subject. “What about Ernie Strobe?”
“We’re still checking. He’s well fixed financially. So far we’ve uncovered about eighty thousand in securities.”
“Pretty good on a sergeant’s salary. How long before you clamp down?”
“The decision is not mine to make.” He regarded me speculatively. “Did you know you had a visitor this evening?”
“Who?”
“Mrs. M. Parker Coleman.”
I gaped at him. “Where was I?”
“In the bedroom being questioned. She figured something had happened from all the activity but insisted on seeing you anyway, so we let her in.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the body was still here. She took one look and passed out. When she came to she was on the verge of hysterics. The medical examiner had just arrived and he put her under sedation. I had one of the boys drive her home.”
“I wonder what she wanted,” I mused.
“The doc said to give her a couple of hours.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s about time that shot wore off. Would you like to come along?”
“Try to stop me.”
Before relinquishing control of the Coleman Hotels, M. Parker Coleman had signed over to himself a long-term lease for a duplex in the Marlborough—at a bargain rental, no doubt. It had been furnished in Danish modern and carried the earmarks of liberal spending. Masons had broken through the living-room wall to create a twenty-foot picture window that commanded a view of Central Park with its constantly changing panorama.
A middle-aged housekeeper with a knotty face seemed shocked at our late visit. She had a devout impression the Coleman privacy was inviolable, but Lieutenant Nola’s curt air of authority put her straight and she retired, grumbling audibly, to rouse her mistress.
Lorraine Coleman looked drawn, her eyes slightly drugged. She greeted us stiffly in a hostess gown of whispering taffeta.
“Sorry to disturb you at this hour,” Nola said. “But we have to move fast in a homicide investigation.”
“I understand.” She gestured in my direction. “Is he part of the investigation?”
“Jordan is involved. The victim was his secretary.”
No expression on her face, nor any comment.
“We believe she was killed by mistake. The bullet was intended for Jordan.”
“What has all this to do with me?”
“You arrived at the scene not long after it happened, Mrs. Coleman. The possibility exists that you went there earlier and were undecided about entering.”
“The possibility is a fact,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I walked away twice before making up my mind.”
The admission was not surprising. Lorraine Coleman was no fool. She realized someone might have seen her in the vicinity.
“Then you may be able to help us,” Nola said. “Did you notice anyone loitering about the building?”
“No.”
“Going in or coming out?”
“No.”
“What brought you to Jordan’s apartment?”
“I think he knows.”
“Suppose you tell us, Mrs. Coleman.”
“I went there with a request and an offer. I believe Jordan knows where a copy of my husband’s will can be found. I had spoken to him about it once before, but my approach was wrong. I thought if we discussed it reasonably he’d come over to my side.”
“That was your request. What was your offer?”
“If he produced the will, I was ready to drop my complaint to the Bar Association.”
“Plus how much money?” I asked.
“Money?” One eyebrow arched questioningly.
“Sure. Weren’t you prepared to offer me more than I could make as a legitimate fee from my clients?”
“Not at all. I considered my original offer fair.”
“And your lawyer,” I said. “Did he know about this?”
“It was my own idea.”
“Naturally. He knows my office is on the tenth floor. That’s a lot of stairs to be kicked down.”
It didn’t touch her at all. Lorraine Coleman operated in a sphere of her own. She turned back to Nola. “Am I a suspect, Lieutenant?”
“Everyone is a suspect.”
She encompassed her apartment with a regal wave. “Would you like to search for a gun?”
“A gun may be discarded. It’s not permanently attached to your person.”
“But my hand is.” She held it out. “Isn’t there some sort of test you make to determine if a gun has been fired?”
He smiled dryly. “Knowing about the test you would have worn gloves.”
“Like any normally intelligent murderer—is that what you mean, Lieutenant?”
“In a way. I’m curious. How do you happen to know about such things?”
“I’m incurably addicted to mystery stories.” Her eyes veered across the room to one of those handsome perpetual clocks that are powered by a two-degree change in temperature. “This has been a trying experience, Lieutenant. I’m very tired.”
“Of course. We may have to question you again.”
“You know my address. Good night.” She retired peremptorily from the scene, leaving her housekeeper to perform the amenities.
Downstairs, Nola shook his head. “That’s a tough combination to solve.”
“She operates on the profit motive,” I said. “The lady has a slide-rule personality with a money fixation. Everything she does can be figured in terms of the dollar gain on her side of the ledger.”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You may be right at that. Can I give you a lift?”
“No, John. Thanks anyway. I feel like walking.”
Mostly, I didn’t want to go back to the apartment. The night was crisp and clear, with an indigo sky and a sprinkling of stars. A view denied now to Cassidy. A view she would never see again.
I don’t know how long I trudged the streets—two hours, three hours until, inevitably, I found myself in front of Barbara’s apartment. I went in and rang her bell. The buzzer answered at once and I took the elevator up.
She was waiting at the door, her eyes searching my face with concern. “I knew you’d come,” she said simply.
I nodded, wordless, and sank into a chair.
She stood in front of me. “Where is it all going to end, Scott?”
“I don’t know.”
“But why Cassidy? Why your secretary?”
“Her death was a mistake. The killer was after me.”
“Oh, no!” She went rigid, fighting panic. Her fists were clenched in front of her. “Is it… is it because of Adam’s case?”
I shrugged.
“Then drop it, Scott. We’ll get someone else.”
“No, Barbara. A man can’t surrender to intimidation.”
“But this is more than intimidation. These people are vicious killers. Two murders have been committed already.” She looked at me beseechingly. “Leave town, Scott. Go away.”
“And desert Adam?”
“But you’re not the only lawyer in New York.”
“Nor the best,” I said. “But I know this case and I’m the one he wants.”
After a moment, she nodded, looking miserable; “You’re right, of course, I’m sorry.” And added defensively, “But I’m frightened, too.”
So was I, as a matter of fact, but I didn’t put it into words. Merely considering the possible means of ambush was enough to chill my spine.
“Is there a connection between the two murders?” she asked.
“I’m sure of it.”
Her fingers caught my arm. “Don’t you see what that means?” she said excitedly. “Adam was in jail when Cassidy was shot. He was behind bars. He couldn’t have been involved. And he had no motive for hurting you.”
“Yes,” I said. “I see what it means. But I don’t think the District Attorney will see it. Not yet anyway. He’d want proof.”
“Can we find any?”
“I have a private detective working on it.”
“The same man who’s trying to find Dan?”
“Yes, with the help of assistants.”
She looked woebegone. “We Colemans are a headache. Are you sorry to be involved with us?”
“You have legal problems. That’s my trade.”
“But what if you’re disbarred?”
“Then you can support me. How many productive years does a model have?”
She caught my bantering tone. “Quite a few. Later on I can pose for gray-hair rinses, dental-plate cleansers, concealed hearing aids and—”
“That’s enough,” I interrupted. “None of this may be necessary. As things now stand, you’re in line to inherit quite a chunk of your father’s estate.”
