Send Another Hearse, page 16
“How do you do, Peter,” I said. “Good to see you again.”
He was dressed for the occasion, wearing a suit and striped tie, knotted slightly off center. He took my proffered hand with an air of grave dignity.
“Peter,” his mother reminded him gently.
“Thank you for the candy,” he said.
“You’re quite welcome.”
“I have one piece after lunch and one piece after supper. Linda, too.”
“I left Linda with a neighbor,” Ruth Duncan explained. “I wanted Peter to tell you something.”
I looked at him with interest.
“He’s an imaginative boy,” she said, “but he never makes up stories. It’s something he heard. Something his grandfather said. I’m not sure if it means anything but it may be helpful.” She turned and smiled at him encouragingly. “Peter, you remember that last evening you were playing with grandpa?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Would you tell Mr. Jordan what happened?”
The large solemn eyes met mine. “Grandpa didn’t stay long. He had to leave. He was going to see his daddy.”
I frowned and glanced at Ruth Duncan. She shrugged helplessly, looking bewildered.
“Well, now, Peter,” I said. “Did grandpa tell you he was going to see his daddy?”
“No. But he spoke to him on the telephone.”
“You heard him?”
“Yes. We were playing with my coloring set and grandpa kept looking at his watch. Then he said he had to call somebody and he went to the telephone and took a piece of paper out of his pocket and he dialed a number.”
“You told me you want to be a policeman, Peter, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, policemen have to remember things. Try hard, Peter, and see if you can remember everything grandpa said.”
He looked intent and very serious. His thin face squinched up in an agony of concentration. “Did he say hello?” I prompted.
“Everybody says hello on the telephone.”
“And what did he say next?”
“Well, I don’t remember the zact words. Grandpa spoke a little funny, you know.”
“Try, Peter. As near as you can remember.”
He fidgeted, scuffing a shoe at the leg of a chair. “Grandpa told his daddy he had to see him, it was important. And then he said, ‘All right, I’ll be there.”
“Did he say where, Peter?”
“I don’t remember.”
“And then what happened?”
“Then he hung up.”
“Did he leave right away?”
“No,” Ruth Duncan volunteered. “He wouldn’t leave Peter alone. He waited until I came back and then he said he had to get washed and change his clothes.”
I felt a surge of excitement, an acceleration of my pulse. But I kept my voice level and my face blank and I looked at Ruth Duncan. “Where did Fred live?”
“Three blocks from where I do.” She gave me an address.
“Do you have a key?”
“Oh, yes. I used to go there several times a week to tidy up.”
“Would you mind if I had a look at the place?”
“Not at all.” She opened her purse and began rummaging. She found a key and held it out.
I was writing Duncan’s address on a piece of paper when the phone rang and I picked it up.
“Mr. Jordan?” The voice was breathless.
“Speaking.”
“This is Mrs. Wallace—Lorna Wallace, remember?”
“Of course. Kate’s mother.”
“Yes. I promised to call you if I heard from Kate. Well, I got a telegram just a little while ago. Kate says she’s fine and I’m not to worry and she’s writing me along letter to tell me all about it.”
“That’s fine, Mrs. Wallace. I said you’d hear from her.”
“Yes you did. And you were right.”
“Where did the wire originate from, Mrs. Wallace?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Where is Kate now.”
“Oh! Just a moment.” I could hear the faint rustle of paper and then her voice again. “Kate’s in Mexico… Acapulco.” She paused. “I hope I’m doing the right thing. Nothing’s going to happen to Kate, is it, Mr. Jordan?”
Kate would suffer a little. That couldn’t be helped. But the human spirit is resilient and a broken heart readily heals.
“Kate’s going to be fine,” I said. “You did the right thing, Mrs. Wallace. And thank you for calling.” We hung up.
So Dan Varney was in Mexico.
No wonder Max Turner had found no record of any passport. None is needed to cross the border.
I felt that familiar sense of excitement, the visceral tremor, the sudden tension. I was approaching a precipice in uncharted territory, and over its edge were revelations that could break this case wide open. Already it was straining at the seams.
I thanked Ruth Duncan and shook hands soberly with Peter. I took them down to the street and put them in a cab and gave the driver a bill. Then I went back to the office and went to work on the telephone. I got through to Max Turner at the hospital.
He was irritated and resentful at his enforced confinement. “How do you feel, Max?” I asked him.
“Well enough,” he grumbled. “Except for a headache. If I could find my clothes I’d sneak out of here.”
“They’re discharging you tomorrow. Think you can travel?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Mexico.”
“Well, now. Mexico. What’s up, Counselor?”
“There a good chance we’ve located Varney. I think he’s holed up in Acapulco. I want you to fly down there first thing in the morning.”
“And if I find him?”
“Let me know at once. I’ll start the wheels rolling on extradition proceedings at this end. Have you got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll call Aeromexico and make a reservation. A ticket will be waiting for you at Kennedy. I’ll have them notify you of the exact time and flight number.”
“They can reach me here all night.”
“Take care, Max. And don’t stop any bullets.”
I hung up and reached for the telephone directory. I found the LeMar Studios and dialed their number. They were still working, a voice told me, and Barbara Coleman was on camera at the moment, would I care to wait. I said no, and please give her a message—Mr. Jordan would pick her up there within the hour.
I left the office and headed uptown.
Fred Duncan had lived in a modest walk-up on the third floor. The key Ruth Duncan had given me opened his door. Naturally, the police had been there before me. But they were shooting in the dark, not sure what to look for.
Duncan, apparently, had been a neat, methodical man. No clothes were strewn haphazardly about. So I checked the garments in his closet. In a pair of serge trousers I found a penknife, a cigar trimmer, a clipping from one of the newspapers about Zenith Films’ tentative plans for the casting of The Kingpins and a sip of paper with two telephone numbers—555-0010 and 555-8024. The first looked vaguely familiar, the second I recognized at once.
It was my own.
The room was close and musty. I opened one of the windows and sat on a hard-backed chair to concentrate. The naked globe overhead cast its niggardly illumination over a round cloth-covered table. Ideas digested in my head, disconnected theories. I nourished them with fresh revelations, and out of the jigsaw a picture began to focus. A picture I did not like. And I liked it even less on closer inspection.
The LeMar Studios were located in a barnlike structure converted from an old carriage house. They were still working. Barbara, caparisoned in yards of textured silk, sat on a stone bench in front of an ancient Greek column. A battery of floodlights glared down at her mercilessly. A slight chap flitted about her with hummingbird gestures, tilting her chin at various angles and backing off to survey the effect.
“That’s it, darling,” he suddenly chirped. “Hold it now.”
He pranced behind his camera and got under the hood. An assistant held the tripping mechanism high in his hand. When he got the signal he triumphantly clicked the button.
The little man emerged from under the hood, beaming. “You were fine, Barbi, fine. I guess that’s it for today.”
She got up, stretched, saw me waiting, and came over, greeting me with both hands. “What an afternoon! Four straight hours of posing. I’m dead.”
“You need a drink.”
“Yes, doctor. I’ll get it at Vickie’s. We’re invited there for dinner. What time is it?”
I glanced at my watch and told her.
“We can just make it. Let me get out of this costume and I’ll join you in a moment.”
28
THE NIGHT had turned murky. Clouds moved in, darkening the sky. There was moisture in the air. And electricity. A deep-throated ominous rumble of thunder brought Barbara closer to my side in the cab.
By the time we got out, it was raining.
Victoria opened the door. “I was getting worried. Come on in.”
She took our coats.
Gil Dodd was at the cellaret mixing martinis. Apparently he’d been testing the concoction. There was a rosy flush to his square brown face. He filled some glasses and dropped in a twist of lemon peel.
Victoria refused a drink. She wanted an immediate council of war, asking about Adam.
“He’s bearing up,” I told her.
“Do they treat him decently?”
“Well, it’s not the Waldorf. Neither is it a concentration camp.”
“How about bail?”
“I spoke to the District Attorney. He refused to cooperate. But the picture isn’t all black. There’s good news, too.”
Barbara stirred, suddenly alert. “Well, tell us.”
“I think we’ve found Dan Varney.”
Questions flew. They all jabbered simultaneously. I told them about Kate Wallace, and about my upstate visit to her mother. I told them about the telegram and my assumption that Kate had gone to join Varney in Mexico.
“What do we do now?” Barbara demanded.
“It’s already done,” I said. “I have a man flying down there tomorrow morning. We’ll haul Varney back on extradition proceedings. I doubt if he’s spent too much of that two hundred thousand dollars. We’re nailing him too soon. So most of the loot will be recovered. Enough, anyway to clean up the Duncan lawsuit.”
Barbara clapped her hands rhapsodically.
Gil Dodd glowed. “That’s capital news. I’m delighted, Jordan.”
But Victoria brought them down to earth. “What are we crowing about? It doesn’t help Adam on that murder charge, does it?”
“No,” I said. “But there’s other evidence piling up all the time. New elements have come to light. I think we can offer the District Attorney a much better candidate than Adam.”
“Who?” demanded Dodd. “That police sergeant? Ernie Strobe?”
I shook my head. “Not him.”
“Weil, who then?” Barbara’s voice rose impatiently.
“The same person who shot Cassidy.”
“But I thought you were sure Strobe did it, that he meant you to be the victim, that he shot Cassidy by mistake.”
“The mistake was mine,” I said. “I was never the intended victim. That bullet was meant for Cassidy and she died as planned.”
Victoria was frowning. “I don’t understand. An ordinary secretary. What possible motive could anyone have?”
“Far from ordinary,” I said. “And the motive was substantial. Close to one million dollars.”
Three pairs of eyes stared at me in silence. Then Gil Dodd gave a short, skeptical laugh.
“You mean Cassidy had a million dollars?”
“No. But she was the key that meant a million dollars to someone else.”
“How do you mean?” Barbara asked quietly.
“It all turned on your father’s will. Oliver Wendell Rogers drew the document. Cassidy was his secretary and she typed it. So she knew what it said and could testify to its contents. I told you that a missing will could be probated by the testimony of two witnesses.”
“Of course. Rogers was one and Cassidy would be the other.”
“Correct. But the law makes a further provision. A correct copy can replace one of the witnesses. So in order to nullify your father’s will, to prevent its probate under any circumstances, two measures were essential. All copies had to be destroyed and one of the witnesses had to be killed.”
A faint tremor ran through Victoria’s long, austere body and she stood watching me in a kind of hypnotic trance.
Barbara had grown a little formal. “There’s an unpleasant implication here, Scott. You say Cassidy was murdered to prevent the probate of dad’s will.”
“Correct.”
“But only his children would benefit by that— Adam and Vickie and me.”
“That’s right.” I met her lofty stare without budging.
“And you say Adam is innocent. That leaves only Vickie and me. Which one of us are you accusing?”
Gil Dodd tried to break the tension with a feeble laugh. “Come now, Barbara. He doesn’t mean anything of the kind.”
She ignored him. “I want an answer, Scott.”
“And you’re entitled to one. But it needs a little background. Please indulge me.” I drew a long breath. “You all know about an ex-cop, Fred Duncan, who desperately needed money. Fortunately— or unfortunately, depending on your point of view— he knew of a way to get it. He had information that would make a fascinating story. So he wrote a book. For a nonprofessional it must have been a backbreaking chore. But there were obstacles and Duncan was a practical man. He realized it would be suicide to market the book while Albert Jaekel was alive. So he waited. And in due time, Jaekel, who lived by violence, died by violence. With the danger gone, Duncan took his manuscript to Adam. And a movie sale was made which exceeded his wildest expectations. Two hundred thousand dollars would fulfill a dream to make a better life for his two grandchildren.
“And then disaster struck. Dan Varney absconded with the money. You can imagine Duncan’s reaction. Frenzied and desperate, he went to a lawyer. The lawyer told him that Adam, as Varney’s partner, was legally responsible and would have to make good. So there was a ray of light and he sued. Only to face another disappointment. Adam was broke, unable to satisfy a judgment of two hundred thousand dollars if Duncan won.”
“We know all this,” Dodd said. “I don’t see—”
“You will.” I held up my hand. “Let me get on with it. So here was Duncan, facing defeat even if he won. But suddenly the picture brightened. Along came someone with a solution to his problem. Adam needed money to cover the debt. Duncan could help him get that money.”
“How?” Barbara demanded.
“Easy. Adam’s father was dying. He would leave a large estate. By the terms of his will, Adam got nothing. If he died without a will, Adam would inherit close to a million dollars. But a will did exist. And it was locked away in your father’s safe-deposit box. That will had to be removed and destroyed.”
Barbara shook her head. “I don’t understand. It isn’t possible to rob a man’s safe-deposit box.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “It not only is possible, but it has been done. And it was done to your father. The records at his bank show that he went to his box only a week ago.”
It took a moment to register and then she blurted, “But dad was in the hospital then.”
“Precisely.”
She was staring at me, lips parted. Victoria, fists clenched at her sides, looked ill. Dodd threw his hands out.
“Good Lord! I’m an accountant. I never heard of such a thing.”
“All it needed,” I said, “was a duplicate key and the cooperation of the custodian. He would accept a forged signature slip and open the box. Duncan may have had scruples. I don’t know. If he did, they were easily overcome.”
“But the key. How could anyone get possession of a man’s key?”
“Would that be so difficult? Where does a man generally keep his safe-deposit key? In a desk at his office or a chest at home. Available to a business associate or any member of his family who suspected that it might come in handy some day. You, for example, Dodd. You, as chief auditor of the chain, might have picked up that key and struck a duplicate.”
Victoria managed to speak. Her voice was harsh and strangled. “Is this the man we hired as our lawyer? I think he’s a little insane. Do we have to listen to him?”
I felt sorry for her. But not sorry enough to back down.
“There’s insanity here all right,” I said. “On Duncan’s part for accepting the proposition. For thinking he could pull it off safely. For not destroying the record of that visit to the bank. Habit, I suppose, prevailed. He followed the same procedure he’d used hundreds of times in the past. He filed the signature slip along with the others.”
Victoria said grittily. “I don’t believe it.”
“That may be. Nevertheless it exists and is available. Proof that the box was opened and the will destroyed. But the conspirators were not yet clear. A copy of the will was on file in my office. And that copy, if corroborated by only one witness, would admit the will to probate. So it, too, had to be destroyed. Cassidy was lured out of the office and the copy stolen. Now no documentary trace existed.”
“Then why kill Cassidy?” Barbara asked.
“Because there were two witnesses alive who could testify to the will’s provisions. Rogers, who was unavailable, and Cassidy, who was here in New York.”
There were wrinkles in Barbara’s brow. “If Duncan was so cooperative, why did he have to die, too?”
“Because he posed a constant threat of exposure. Then, too, he might become unmanageable after Cassidy was murdered. Robbing a safe-deposit box was one thing. Murder was something else. His reaction when that happened could not be assessed. And I suspect he made demands. Maybe he wanted a substantial donation at once. No. Duncan had served his purpose. Alive, he was trouble. Dead, he would never be a problem.”
