Tall, Dark and Deadly, page 16
“That’s right.”
“Wouldn’t he be entitled to part of her estate?”
So that’s what’s eating you, is it, lady? Amy’s money. All that wonderful loot, solidly invested in real estate and blue chip securities. The prospect of seeing it pass out of the family into Vincent Mclver’s pocket was eating her alive. And eating her husband, too.
“That would depend on the separation agreement,” I said. “Amy,” Irene snapped, “get rid of him. Completely and finally.”
Amy agreed. “That’s the only way. I’ve made up my mind.” I spread my hands. “You realize that I’m tied up on other matters. Can I have a day or two to think about it?”
Irene started a protest, but Amy stopped her.
“That will be satisfactory, Mr. Jordan. You can reach me at the Parish apartment.”
We said goodbye. Irene got behind the wheel chair and steered it through the door. I walked to the window and looked out over the city. The Third Avenue El had always been an eyesore. Now for some reason I missed it. Below me were rooftops without symmetry, a crazy patchwork of TV antennas, an occasional penthouse with boxed hedges and transplanted saplings. The streets crawled with human insects and four-wheeled bugs honking at each other, jockeying for position.
Irene Parish had done a good job. With the help of her husband she had poisoned Amy’s mind. Vincent Mclver was in the doghouse, and I wondered how they had pushed Denise into his life.
I turned back to the desk and saw Amy’s marriage certificate. My thoughts bridged a two-year gap, conjuring a mental picture of Vincent Mclver, handsome and debonair, behind the wheel of a car, with Amy Van Dorn at his side, a radiant Amy directing him to Azusa, California, and a Justice of the Peace who would keep their secret.
I brought out the papers on Mclver’s divorce from Claire and read them through with a probing eye from the complaint to the interlocutory decree granted early in May. The papers were in order, but something else disturbed me.
I shuffled through the papers again and saw Benedict Milo’s report. So the Parish family knew Milo after all. Was that how Arnold Parish got the picture Milo took of the divorce raid?
I reached for the telephone and dialed Milo’s number. When I heard his voice I broke the connection and got out of the office fast.
XXIII
Benedict Milo was sitting behind his desk when I walked through the door. A faint glimmer of apprehension touched his eyes and he half rose out of his chair. But there was nothing warlike in my manner and he saw the amiable smile on my face.
“Relax,” I told him. “Glad I found you in. I promised Amy Van Dorn I’d come by to see you.”
It took a moment to register. Then he sat up straight. “Amy Van Dorn?”
“Mrs. Vincent Mclver, our client.” I sat down and crossed my knees, crisp and businesslike. “Don’t you remember? You gave her a report this morning on her husband. She wants to divorce him and we’ve got a lot of work to do. First we’ve got to line up—”
“Hold on.” His eyes were stretched wide with incredulity. “You’re not her lawyer?”
“Didn’t she tell you? Well, I guess she was upset.” I paused. “You look skeptical, Milo, and in a way I don’t blame you. Seems odd, doesn’t it? Two years ago I appeared for the husband and now I’m appearing against him. Times change, don’t they? Look at yourself. You spied on his wife two years ago and now you’re spying on him.”
He was shaking his head, mouth open.
“You’re still doubtful?” I reached into my pocket. “Here’s the report you submitted. She was in my office a little while ago and gave it to me.”
He glanced at it uncertainly.
“All right,” I said, waving at the telephone. “Call her and check. She’s staying with the people who recommended you, her niece, Mrs. Irene Parish. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
He reached for the handset and dialed. He spoke to Irene Parish and listened briefly. Then he hung up and dipped his chin.
“First,” I said, “I want to congratulate you. Your performance in shadowing Mclver last night was very capable, extremely so. You saw me doing the same thing and managed to keep out of sight. I had no inkling you were on the job.” He acknowledged the compliment with another dip of his chin.
I said, “Well, here we are again, Milo. Working together on another divorce case. Only this time I want it clearly understood, everything has to be on the level. I don’t want it backing up to haunt me two years from now. You’ll have to catch Mclver with the goods or not at all. Absolutely no collusion. I don’t care how long it takes.” I smiled meaningfully. “Nor should you, I imagine. After all, you get paid by the day. But if it works out soon, you can expect a bonus.”
“Good enough.”
“Have you any idea what happened in the Gracie Park last night during Mclver’s visit?”
Milo looked down his nose. “I waited for him in the lobby.”
“It would have been a good chance to eavesdrop.”
He shook his head. “Not with you in the picture. I didn’t know where you fitted and I couldn’t take the chance. I was afraid you might return.”
“And he went straight home after that?”
“Just like it says in the report.”
I lighted a cigarette and puffed thoughtfully. “Mrs. Mclver tells me you were recommended by Arnold Parish.”
“That’s right.”
“Best damned investment adviser in town. I’m doing business with him myself.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Didn’t know young lawyers made enough money to invest.”
“They don’t. I inherited it from an uncle in Des Moines.”
“Best way to make it.”
“I agree. How did you meet Parish?”
“Through Strang. Parish wanted a—” He caught himself, realizing his error.
It was the opening I wanted. I stood over him, gripping the edge of his desk. “So you did know Strang after all. You knew him well enough to get a recommendation. It was Strang who sent you over to Mclver two years ago and arranged the whole setup, wasn’t it?”
Benedict Milo had fumbled the ball and he knew it. He stared at me in sullen-faced deliberation.
“All of a sudden you’re tongue-tied,” I said. “Okay, Milo, try to sit on it and see how long you last. Just remember, you told the district attorney you didn’t know Strang and he has your sworn statement. You held out on him, obstructing justice. I wouldn’t give you a plugged nickel for your license now.”
Nothing came out of him. Not a word.
“Strang might have been involved in the Banton killing, but you held your tongue. Suppressing evidence helpful to the solution of a homicide. And you’re still holding it. Don’t think the boys on Centre Street can’t shake you loose. They’re experts.”
He sat there, hating me with his eyes.
“Where did Parish get that picture you took of the divorce raid? Did you sell it to him? No matter, Milo. We’ll find out.” I saluted coldly. “I have what I want. You’re no use to me now.”
I toned and started for the door. I thought he’d call me, try to compromise, switch his story. I was wrong. He let me go. Not that I cared especially. Nola could handle his kind better than I.
I was certain now that Lohman was right. The Mclver divorce was collusive, only he was blaming the wrong man. Nicholas Strang should have been his target.
How far would the lawyer go to protect himself? Would he eliminate Banton? I remembered the strained look in his eyes when we discovered the truth about Claire’s death. And thinking of Claire, I remembered asking him about her estate. I groped in my memory and it came back readily enough. The estate had been inherited by Claire’s aunt, a woman named Theresa Gould.
She was listed in the Manhattan directory, an address on East 74th. I phoned first and got permission to visit her. The building had once been a private residence, now converted into small apartments.
She must have been waiting at the door because it opened the moment I touched the bell. She was very small, with delicate bone structure and milk-blue veins in a serene face. With the white hair atop her head and the lace collar around her neck she looked like a portrait of someone’s ancestor.
She smiled and held the door wide. “You’re Mr. Jordan. Come in, please. Come right in.”
The moment I crossed the threshold a pocket-sized terrier started yapping and scampering frantically around my feet.
She admonished him gently. “Quiet, Leo. Leave the man alone and behave yourself. Down, I say.”
Leo subsided, all except his tail which kept functioning as a carpet beater. Except that no dust floated up from the spotless carpet.
“He’s so little compared to other dogs,” she said. “That’s why I call him Leo, the name they give lions. It’s good for him psychologically, otherwise he might get an inferiority complex.”
I gave her a quick sharp look to see if she was pulling my leg, but no, she was dead serious.
“I prepared some tea, Mr. Jordan. Do you drink tea?”
“Like an Englishman.”
It raised me several notches in her estimation. The tea service was already laid out, antique sterling, wrought by an underpriced silversmith. The furnishings in her living room went back two generations. I sat politely in a formal straight-backed needlepoint chair, and watched her pour. “Sugar?”
“One lump.”
“Milk or lemon?”
“Lemon.”
We sat and sipped in silence. After a while Mrs. Gould put her cup down and regarded me tranquilly.
“You said you wanted to talk about my niece. Were you a friend of Claire’s?”
“I knew her husband.”
“Vincent?” She smiled fondly. “Such a dear man, and so distinguished-looking. I have autographed copies of all his books. So talented. Claire made a big mistake. She never should have divorced him.”
“Did she discuss it with you?”
“She seldom discussed anything with me. Not even as a child. I brought her up, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Her father and mother died when she was nine. Oh, my, what readjustments we had to make. She was a headstrong little girl, totally undisciplined. I simply could not cope with her. And as soon as she was old enough she took an apartment of her own.”
She reached for a cookie, broke off a molecule, and permitted Leo to lick it off her finger. His tail went crazy with ecstasy.
“Don’t be a glutton, Leo,” she chided him affectionately. “He forgets he has a small stomach. Will you have a cookie, Mr. Jordan?”
I took one and munched. “Delicious.”
“Baked them myself.”
A moment went by. Sitting in that high-ceilinged room, insulated from the street noises, sipping tea, I felt like a scene in a Victorian play.
“Have you seen the papers?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“Then you know the latest theory.”
“About Claire’s death?” She shook her head tolerantly. “Those newspapers! They’ll print anything to increase circulation.”
“Not this time, Mrs. Gould. The conclusion was not theirs. They got it from the police.”
“Perhaps.” She accepted the statement with equanimity. “I just can’t seem to feel any emotion, though. I cried when Claire died seven months ago. There was nothing I could do about it then and I can’t do anything about it now.”
“Yes, you can, Mrs. Gould.”
She looked at me calmly, one eyebrow slightly elevated.
“This whole case is obscured by vagueness and doubt,” I said. “If we could find out why she drove up to the Bronx that night, where she was headed. If we could—”
Veined hands fluttered helplessly. “But why come to me? I haven’t the faintest notion.”
“Let me put it this way, Mrs. Gould. You were the sole legatee of Claire’s estate. All her possessions, her papers, everything, must have been turned over to you.”
“Yes, they were.” She seemed faintly puzzled. “I went through Claire’s apartment with her lawyer, Nicholas Strang. We gave her clothes to charity and sold the furniture. I kept only some letters and pictures and intimate mementoes.”
“You saved them?”
“Yes, I did.”
“May I have a look?”
She looked dubious and then shrugged. “If you like. I don’t suppose it could harm anyone.”
She went into the adjoining room, with Leo frisking joyfully at her heels. He was the happiest dog I ever saw. Looking for an ash tray and finding none I decided not to smoke. Mrs. Gould joined me carrying a shoebox tied with a ribbon. She placed it alongside the tea service and removed the lid. A mélange of papers, envelopes and old snapshots came into view.
My hostess placidly continued to sip tea while I combed through the contents. Many of the letters were girlhood keepsakes and I passed them by. There were some bank statements and insurance receipts. I found a certified copy of her divorce decree from Vincent Mclver. The snapshots showed her at various ages in various poses with various males. One of the males was a resplendently attired cowboy and the picture had been snapped in front of Harold’s Club in Las Vegas. In another she was standing at the corner of Hollywood and Vine with a towering specimen wearing an implausible sports shirt and a vacuous smile.
According to the last census there are more women in the world than men, but Claire had never suffered any shortage. There was a kind of tantalizing sensuality about her that magnetized them, pulled them to her.
“I see that Claire spent some time on the west coast,” I said. “When was this?”
“Right after the divorce trial. Vincent was there doing a scenario. I don’t know why she went. She hated California. If she—” Mrs. Gould paused and looked at me curiously. “Is something wrong?”
I took a pair of long gaudy earrings out of the shoebox. “Are these diamonds?”
“Yes. Three carats apiece. Pretty, aren’t they?”
“They must be valuable. Why don’t you keep them in a safe deposit box?”
She shook her head firmly. “Oh, no. I couldn’t consider it. Just think of all the lovely things locked away in bank vaults, with nobody able to enjoy them.”
She had a point there, I had to admit. “But what if they’re stolen?”
The prospect failed to distress her. “Then some poor thief would have the money,” she said, “and the insurance company would reimburse me. Nobody loses.”
“Nobody but the insurance company.”
“Pooh!” She dismissed it as inconsequential. “They have plenty of money.”
And not only ingenuous old ladies have that line of reasoning, I thought. I gathered up the snapshots and paused again to stare at the one of Claire on Hollywood and Vine. After a moment I roused myself.
“May I borrow this, Mrs. Gould?”
She looked doubtful. “Well…”
“I promise to return it. We can have another chat and some more tea.”
That sold her. “Then take it. And come again soon.”
I stood up and she took me to the door. Leo yapped ineffectually at my heels. When I got to the street it was growing dark. Another day had petered out. I was sharply aware of the passing time.
I thought of Hugo Ritter. About him I wasn’t worried. Uncle Sam had him under control, digging into his past, examining his present, and arranging for his future.
What worried me was his associates. It kept me away from home and I wound up at Hazel’s instead.
No greeting from her until she had poured me a drink.
“Scotch,” she said. “Twelve years old. Recommended for frayed nerves. Maybe it will help.”
“I’d need the whole bottle.”
“Stop boasting. The whole bottle would put you to sleep.”
“Is that bad?”
“For you, yes. You can’t afford to rest. You have work to do.”
“A mind-reader. Only tonight we combine work and relaxation. There’s a night spot I’ve got to visit and I need company. You’re elected.”
She was pleased. “I’ll wear my new dress. And I think you ought to shave. Your beard is showing. I’ll lend you a razor.”
“Razor?” I pulled my chin in and looked at her. “Who else uses—”
“No innuendoes, please. The razor is mine. And stop peering to see if I have a mustache. It’s for my legs.”
“Legs?”
“Yes. Girls have them you know, and sometimes they get a little fuzzy and—”
“Cut it out. You’re ruining my illusions.”
When I came out of the bathroom, Hazel pirouetted in a shimmering dress of silk organdy. I stood very still and admired my girl with the dark hair and the Oriental eyes and the warm glowing olive skin.
“Hey!” She snapped her fingers. “You’re off in the wild blue yonder again. Come back to earth. Would you care to unburden yourself, Scott? I have a lovely bosom for a confession. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“How could I help noticing?”
She colored faintly. “At least there’s hope. Come along.”
XXIV
In the taxi I settled back, trying to get organized. Each idea was a pebble that started a fresh avalanche.
I had the solution—almost.
If only my brain would function with the implacable logic of Univac, if only I could feed it the necessary data and wait for the circuits to pop out an answer.
Univac must tip the scales at over a ton. In contrast the gray mechanism in a man’s head weighs only fifty ounces. While it lacks the speed it is decidedly more versatile, with its ability to store and record a million impressions. The big hurdle was my inability to search the files and collate the data. To sort and winnow and balance the results.
Hazel, sensing my preoccupation, sat quietly, avoiding any intrusion.
The taxi pulled up on Grove Street before a flickering neon sign that said: Club Maracas. A doorman broke the good news. We were just in time, the floor show hadn’t started. Inside, a captain of waiters led us to a table.
Once settled, we looked the place over. The area was limited, the decor garish. A tinsel and papier-maché effect. On the bandstand five diminutive Latins were playing mambo music. Lack of space on the dance floor precluded any freewheeling antics, but the patrons were getting a workout nonetheless.
