Tall, Dark and Deadly, page 18
“But I’m innocent, Jordan. I swear it.”
“I know,” I said. “You were framed.”
“What?” His voice was incensed.
“By Arnold Parish and his wife. They cooked up that whole thing with Denise. It was Parish who wrote the letter. They know that Amy hasn’t got long to live and they’re trying to break up your marriage.”
He took a sharp breath and said harshly, “I’ve got to see her. Where are they holding Amy?”
“She’s incommunicado,” I said. “They won’t let anybody near her. Not even me and I’m her lawyer.”
He could hardly believe his ears. “Amy hired you?”
“Why not?”
“Listen.” He sounded desperate. “I’m coming down. I’ll drive in immediately. We’ll go over there together. You can get them to open the door. We’ll thrash this thing out, once and for all. Tonight.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
So it was coming to a boil right now. All the loose ends were funneling home. I began to perspire and I went to the window and opened it. The night sky was overcast and the air seemed charged with electricity.
I thought of Arnold Parish, gloating in his temporary triumph. I thought of Nicholas Strang and his untenable predicament. I thought of Vincent Mclver racing along the Hudson in his silver-gray Bentley.
Violence breeds violence. Three dead. Claire, Banton, and Milo. The first comes hard, but the rest follow easily.
The phone rang.
“Scott?” Hazel said. “I’ve been worried. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“The radio says tomorrow is going to be a nice day. I was wondering if we couldn’t drive out to the country for a picnic and—”
“A what?”
“A picnic. You know, caterpillars and sandwiches and poison ivy.”
“Maybe,” I said. “If things work out. The showdown is tonight.”
She took a sharp breath. “I’m coining over, Scott.”
“No, Hazel. You stay where—”
But it was no use. I was talking into an empty line. I called Lieutenant Nola and spoke to him briefly. Then I invited Bill Postilie who certainly deserved a complimentary ticket for the performance.
It began to rain outside and a clap of thunder rattled the windows.
Postilie lived close by and he was the first to arrive. He shook the water from his coat, looked at me curiously, and went straight to the bar for a shot of bourbon. A few minutes later the bell rang and it was Sergeant Wienick with Arnold Parish. There was a look of austere indignation on the man’s heavy face, and he began to bluster.
“Look here, Jordan, what’s this all about?”
“Patience,” I told him. “You’ll find out.”
The bell again. Nola this time, with Nicholas Strang in tow. I got a surly glare from the lawyer and herded them into the living room. Nola stiffened abruptly and headed for the table. He picked up the earrings and peered at them sharply.
“Where did you get these?”
I told him about Laura Banton’s visit.
He faced Strang. “Recognize them?”
“Yes. Claire was wearing them the night she was killed.” He moistened his lips. “Doesn’t this explain her death?”
“Hers maybe. Not Banton’s.”
I heard the bell again and went to the door. Vincent
McIver had changed. Grim lines etched his worry-clouded face and the suave manner was gone. His fingers dug into my arm. “We can’t delay, Jordan. Is Amy at the Parish apartment? Is that where they took her?”
“Slow down,” I said. “Amy’s safe. They won’t hurt her. Come on in.”
The company brought him up short.
Strang and Parish he knew, but the lieutenant and the assistant D.A. were strangers. I introduced them and he looked at me for an explanation.
“We found some of Claire’s jewels,” I said.
His startled gaze followed my finger.
“Recognize them?” Nola asked.
“Of course. The bracelet came from Cartier’s and the earrings I had made in Mexico. Where did you get them?”
“They were found in Steve Banton’s car.”
He was silent for a moment, then he shook his head slowly. “I—I can’t believe it. I knew Banton. The man was around me for years and—well, making a pitch for his employer’s wife, that I can understand. But murder…” He shook his head again. “It hardly seems possible.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Banton did not murder Claire.”
“Then—where did he get the jewels?”
“He never had them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple. They were planted in the car after he was killed—after it became known that Claire’s death was no accident.”
He gestured helplessly. “But why?”
“To mislead the police. To make it look as if Banton had run Claire down and stolen her jewels. Because now Banton was dead too and that would seal it off. There would be no point in pursuing it further.”
“What happened to the rest of her jewels?” Strang had asked the question, his eyebrows beetled together.
“Held back,” I said. “So we’d get the impression Banton had sold them. The man had no visible means of support, but he was living in high style. His money really came from extortion. He was blackmailing someone.”
The room was silent. Rain hammered against the windows.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Ask me who.”
Nobody spoke. Strang ran the tip of his tongue slowly across his upper lip. Arnold Parish was breathing audibly. I looked at Mclver and saw the dark pouches that had formed under his eyes, accentuating the ashen pallor of his rapidly aging face.
“It began with your divorce,” I told him. “Claire wanted it, not you. And it was Strang here who told her how it could be done and who made all the arrangements. It was Strang—”
The lawyer made a strangled noise and lunged at me.
XXVI
The blow never landed. Nola caught his wrist and applied leverage. The lieutenant was lighter by twenty pounds, but Strang grimaced in pain.
“Easy, counselor. Let him finish.”
I said, “All that stuff about collusion isn’t important anyway. But the date of the divorce is. I got it for Mclver two years ago and the interlocutory decree was signed in May. He was in California at the time and had met Amy Van Dorn. A romance blossomed and they were married. At least they went through a ceremony. Some obscure Justice of the Peace performed the ritual and signed the certificate. But he wasted his time and he wasted his ink. That certificate isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”
“Why?” The question was Nola’s.
I looked at Mclver. “Tell him.”
But he had no words. He kept staring at me, his face waxen.
“All right,” I said. “It takes ninety days for an interlocutory decree to become final. Until that time had elapsed he was still Claire’s husband. The rule is inflexible and there are no exceptions. But he married Amy on August 10th. The ninety days had not yet passed. So his second marriage was invalid, illegal, and made him guilty of bigamy.”
“Are you sure?” Nola demanded.
“I have the certificate here in my pocket.”
He confronted Strang. “Did you know this?”
“I did not.” The lawyer was emphatic.
“He’s probably telling the truth,” I said. “Only one other person knew about it.”
They all looked at me, waiting.
“His first wife, Claire,” I said. “She flew to California that summer after the divorce. Her aunt told me she hated California. Maybe Strang can tell us why she went.”
“Money,” he said woodenly. “Mclver had sold his book to the films for some heavy sugar. Claire’s settlement called for a cut of the proceeds. She didn’t trust his figures and flew down to check directly with the producer.”
“Settlement?” Nola’s eyebrow was up. “As the guilty party in a divorce suit was she entitled to any settlement?”
“No,” I said. “It was probably part of the deal Strang made privately with Mclver.”
“All right, counselor. Tie it in.”
“You can almost guess the rest. Claire was out there on the scene. She knew Mclver was running around with Amy Van Dorn. She probably suspected the marriage and realized it was illegal. So she made it her business to find out, recognizing the possibilities. Here was a gold mine waiting to be tapped. She had her beloved husband over a barrel. If she talked, he’d lose Amy Van Dorn and go to jail as a bigamist. So she made him pay and she continued to squeeze him even after they all came back to New York.”
Mclver looked numb, anesthetized by some giant needle. “He had no choice,” I said. “He kept paying until one day, inevitably, the load grew too heavy. His own money was gone, but Claire continued the pressure. There was no satisfying her, and Mclver realized in growing desperation that drastic measures would have to be taken. He took those measures when he arranged to meet her in Van Cortlandt Park.”
“Wasn’t that a strange meeting place?” Postilie demanded.
“Not so strange. He had warned her about Amy’s jealousy. He couldn’t afford to be seen in public with Claire and she played along. So he waited for her in the park and did what had to be done. I don’t know the precise mechanics of the act. He probably knocked her out and then ran over her. He let the air out of her tire to simulate a flat and stripped her jewels to convey an impression of robbery.”
Strang was crouching forward, staring at Mclver, a single blue vein swollen across his forehead. I could still hear Parish breathing through his open mouth.
I plunged on. “He drove home to Riverdale. It was Ban-ton’s day off and he was alone in the garage. He washed the car to remove all traces of his act. And the next morning when he read the papers he thought he was safe. And after a while he began to breathe easier. But not for long. He had eliminated one threat only to create another, even more dangerous.
“Because the following day, when Banton returned and saw a washed car, he grew suspicious. He grew even more suspicious when he saw the morning papers and read about Claire. So he examined the car minutely. He rolled underneath and found a swatch of cloth from Claire’s dress, snagged on the undercarriage. He recognized it from a picture in one of the tabloids.”
“Sounds logical.” Postilie was regarding me with fresh esteem.
“It is logical. Why else would he save a piece of incriminating evidence? Only because he himself had not committed the crime and it was material to the proof.”
Both Nola and Wienick kept their eyes glued to Mclver, watching him for any sudden move.
“Out of the frying pan into the fire,” I said. “Now it was Banton shaking him down. Only this time it was no bigamy rap. This time it was murder. He had taken the big gamble and lost. But he knew in his heart that he would have to take it again. And his chance came when I called at Banton’s hotel. Why did Banton fight to keep me out? Because he already had company. Mclver was there, worried about the D.A.’s investigation. He stood to inherit a lot of money from Amy and he didn’t want anything to upset the applecart. Isn’t that so, Mclver?”
I expected no answer and I got none. His eyes were bankrupt, staring at nothing.
“Mclver had no need to worry,” I said. “Banton wanted him to inherit Amy’s money. The more he had, the deeper he could be tapped. When I arrived, Banton held me back until Mclver could hide. He heard our conversation. He knew there were witnesses who’d testify I’d been there. He had his gun with him. The setup was perfect and he decided to strike. He did so, the moment I left, and he phoned down to the switchboard, gasping out my name. It was a perfect frame and it almost worked, especially after he planted the gun in my apartment.”
“Wasn’t he worried about the piece of cloth?” Postilie asked.
“Probably. But that was a calculated risk he had to take. It might never be found and if it were, who would remember what Claire had been wearing two years ago?”
“Why did he plant those jewels in the car?”
“That was an afterthought. He was trying to plug the loopholes, convince us Banton had killed Claire. But the cards were stacked against him. He did not know that Amy had hired a private detective to follow him. Benedict Milo saw him make the plant and he must have approached Mclver with a proposition. This time Mclver did not wait. He’d been through the wringer twice and his nerves were frayed and jittery. So he made a quick decision. Nobody was in sight and he dropped Milo on the spot. He had obtained another gun. It may still be in his possession and you can prove—”
Perhaps I had reminded him. I don’t know. But Vincent Mclver did a foolish and futile thing. The gun was in his pocket and he dragged it out. How could he hope to cope with professionals like Nola and Wienick?
And maybe it wasn’t so foolish after all.
Maybe his brain had painted a quick and ugly picture of himself in the dock. Maybe he dreaded the spectacle of a trial and the agonizing vigil before execution. Maybe he was hoping to stampede Nola into finishing it for him right then and there.
That would be the easy way out, and if Nola missed he could do it himself.
I saw Bill Postilie go tense, ready to leap. For a fractional instant I thought of jumping Mclver myself. But neither of us moved. We didn’t want to stop Nola’s bullet if it came. So the lieutenant had no choice.
He fired deliberately and unhurriedly.
I saw Mclver’s arm fly upward, his wrist beyond repair, and his face was the tortured face of a gargoyle. Reflexive action pulled the trigger of his own gun and a bullet bit viciously into the plaster of my ceiling. At the same instant a piercing shriek filled the hallway and my bell began to ring. I went to the door and opened it.
Hazel, her face white as a sheet of paper, looked me over for bullet holes or blood, and seeing none, she threw herself into my arms.
XXVII
The sky had emptied itself during the night and today the sun was shining. Bear Mountain loomed in the background and a single cloud floated lazily across the cobalt sky. I spread a car robe over the grass while Hazel opened the picnic sandwiches.
“Chicken or tongue?” she asked.
“Chicken,” I said absently.
“Mayonnaise or mustard?”
“Mayonnaise.”
“Ale or coke?”
“Ale.”
“Listen, loquacious, I went to a lot of trouble preparing this lunch. You can at least show some enthusiasm.”
“I was thinking.”
“About whom?”
“Irene and Arnold Parish. You should have seen their faces when Amy Van Dorn dictated her will in front of them last night, leaving all her money to a home for wayward girls.”
“It’s about time wayward girls got a break. How did she take the news about Vincent?”
“Wretchedly, of course. After all, she’d been living with the man for nearly two years. But she had already resigned herself to a divorce, so she managed to pull through.”
“Did she go back to Riverdale?”
“Yes. I drove her.”
Hazel handed me a paper cup and a bottle of ale.
“What will they do to Nicholas Strang?” she asked.
“They’ll give him a bad time,” I said. “He arranged a collusive divorce but I’m not sure they can prove it on him. The principal witnesses are dead, Claire, Banton, and Milo. McIver may talk, but that’s Lohman’s headache, not mine.”
“And Vincent—are they going to convict him of murder?”
“They can’t miss. He’s already confessed.”
“Then it’s all wound up.”
“Everything except that counterfeit business. However, they’ve got a pretty good lead. The syndicate sent their lawyer to represent Hugo Ritter, but he refused to see the man. Now the Secret Service is checking all the lawyer’s clients and they may narrow it down.”
I swallowed the last piece of chicken and licked my finger. Hazel looked at me across the blanket.
“And you, counselor, how do you feel?”
“Great.”
“Can I pass you some dessert?”
“Never mind, I’ll take it myself.”
I reached for her and Hazel gave a scream that could be heard a full two millimeters away.
FIN
About Harold Q. Masur
Harold Q Masur (1912-2005) was an American lawyer who created Scott Jordan, a crime-solving attorney. He was educated at Bordentown Military institute, New York University and New York School of Law. Masur has served as President of the Mystery Writers of America (1973-4) and as counsel to the organisation. Masur graduated from the New York University School of Law in 1934. He practiced law from 1935-1942 when he then served in the U.S. Air Force. Starting from the late 1930s, he honed his writing craft by publishing short stories in various pulp magazines like Argosy (1939), Popular Detective, (1941), and Detective Story Magazine (1949). His first novel Bury Me Deep (1947) introduced Jordan as hero and narrator, and went through at least five printings. It was reprinted in 1984 and was made into a movie and an episode of TV's Ellery Queen. Masur was General Counsel for the Mystery Writers of America for many years. Masur died on September 16, 2005, in Boca Raton, Florida.
Bibliography
Bury Me Deep (1948)
Suddenly a Corpse (1949)
You Can’t Live Forever (1951)
The Metropolitan Opera Murders (as ghost writer for Helen Traubel) (1951)
So Rich, So Lovely, and So Dead (1952)
The Big Money (1954)
Tall, Dark and Deadly (1956)
The Last Gamble (aka The Last Breath, Murder on Broadway) (1958)
Send Another Hearse (1960)
The Name Is Jordan (short stories) (1962)
Make a Killing (1964)
The Legacy Lenders (1967)
The Attorney (1973)
