Tall, Dark and Deadly, page 8
No more fatigue. My brain was suddenly activated, racing ahead of the event, searching for a loophole. None appeared. The escape hatch was closed, battened down by an ambitious young cop with a dream of promotion in his eyes.
The manager watched me anxiously. Nobody knows what a desperate criminal will do when cornered. This was an eating place, and any kind of excitement would spoil his customers’ appetites. He was relieved when I stood up meekly.
We filed to the rear and went through a door to the manager’s office. A rolltop desk was piled high with invoices. The cop faced me, holding up a twenty-dollar bill.
“This your money?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know. You gave it to the waiter.”
“If it’s the same bill, it must be mine.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From a client.”
“Client?”
“Yes, I’m a lawyer.”
The instant the word left my tongue I realized I’d made a mistake. Nobody had recognized me. The trouble here was something else. But with half the force on the lookout, there was no point in identifying myself further. The manager began to look nervous.
“What’s your name?” demanded the cop.
I improvised quickly. “Einhorn—Bernard Einhorn.” At least it had the ring of a lawyer’s name.
“Got any identification?”
I swallowed. One look at my papers and I was finished.
“One minute, officer.” I pulled myself up indignantly. “Suppose you tell me what this is all about.”
His hand came toward me, palm up. “Let’s see your wallet.”
“No, sir.” I kept my fingers crossed. “Not until I know the nature of the complaint. As a citizen I’m entitled to a certain privacy. If I’ve done something wrong, then take me in and book me.” I turned and stared hard at the manager. “Only be mighty careful you don’t expose yourself to a suit for false arrest.”
The manager winced. “That twenty-dollar bill you gave us is a counterfeit.”
I stood very still. Then I looked at the cop. “May I see the bill?”
“No.” He was adamant, pulling his hand back as if he feared I might grab the evidence and swallow it.
“How do you know the bill is counterfeit?”
There was moisture on the manager’s forehead. “I used to work in a bank. The printing looks okay, but the texture of the paper is off. And that isn’t all. The serial number is a giveaway. We’ve been warned by the Treasury Department to watch for bills in this series. A number of them have been appearing around town, several in this area.”
I said reasonably, “All right, but you can’t accuse me of trying to palm it off. I took the bill in good faith. I had no idea it was queer. If you say it’s bad, okay, tear it up, and I’ll give you another one.” I took out my wallet.
Even the cop was beginning to look a bit dubious. “You say you’re a lawyer.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see one of your cards.”
I opened the wallet and pretended to search. “Can’t seem to find one.”
He was craning his neck, eyes peering. “I see some more twenties in there. Pass them over.”
There was no way out. He took the bills and relayed them to the manager. “How do these look?”
The manager fingered the bills expertly. He riffled them and listened to the sound. He held one against the light, squinting at it closely. I saw his mouth grow small and prim. “They’re bad. All of them. I can almost smell the ink.”
My heart stalled. These were the twenties Laura Banton had given me. Had she done so deliberately? Was she unconvinced about my innocence in her brother’s death?
The cop clicked his jaw. “That does it. I’ll have to take you in, mister.”
I felt a moment of panic. If he put the collar on me now, the masquerade would collapse. I’d be forced to identify myself and Lohman would be notified and a cell door would clank shut behind me.
I said, on a rising note of desperation, “Listen, everybody knows that a pusher of counterfeit money never carries more than one bill at a time, precisely because of emergencies like this. And if he does, he keeps them hidden, not in his wallet, where they’d be found at the first sign of trouble.”
“Maybe you didn’t expect to get caught,” the cop said. He reached under his tunic and brought out a pair of handcuffs.
“Are those necessary?”
“I’m not taking any chances. How do I know you’re a lawyer? I never saw one who didn’t carry a pocketful of cards.”
“But look, officer—”
“Ring off, mister. You got an explanation, make it to the sergeant.”
I threw in my last card. “He hasn’t even got jurisdiction. This is a federal offense.”
He eyed me scornfully. “Do I look green, mister? Stick your hands out.”
XI
For ten minutes the Rt. Hon. Phillip Lohman had been reading the riot act in a blistering voice. Near the window Bill Postilie stood expressionless while the harangue grew more abrasive.
“What kind of a lawyer are you, Jordan? No. Don’t bother to answer. I’ll tell you.” His palm struck the desk. “You knew we wanted you for questioning. It was in the newspapers; it was on the radio. You should have come in of your own accord. You elected instead to obstruct justice, to suppress evidence, to elude the law—”
“I stayed right here in Manhattan.”
“But not in your apartment. I had men covering the place all night. You did not go home. And you deliberately stayed away from your office. If that isn’t obstructing justice—”
“I was helping justice.”
“Helping?” Sarcasm accompanied the extravagant arch of his eyebrows.
“Yes, sir. By trying to solve this case. By—”
“Please.” He threw his hands up. “Are you smarter than the New York City Police Department? Are you more efficient than a staff of trained investigators?”
“No, sir. But I happen to be involved. It’s my neck that’s at stake. You were preparing to indict me. That means you were satisfied with my guilt. Under the circumstances I didn’t think you’d bother to look elsewhere.”
“How about the police? Were they satisfied, too?”
“All the evidence seemed to point in my direction.”
“Ah, so you admit that, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then your good friend Lieutenant Nola is guilty of malfeasance in office. He aided and abetted a wanted man to escape.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? If you looked guilty, then his duty was clear and inescapable. But he turned his back and let you walk out of his office. I intend to see that he’s held strictly accountable for that piece of business.”
“The lieutenant never thought I was guilty. He believes me innocent.”
“Does he? In the face of what practically amounts to conclusive evidence?”
“All of it circumstantial.”
“A .32-caliber handarm is hardly circumstantial, especially when it’s found in your apartment and happens to be the murder weapon. Men have been convicted on a lot less.”
“The lieutenant was aware of that. It probably influenced his decision.”
“The decision was not his to make.”
“He’s known me a long time and he thought it was.”
“We’ll let the commissioner decide that.”
The outlook was bleak. I had sold John Nola a bill of goods and I felt responsible. If the brass clamped down it was my fault. What made Lohman so vengeful? I wondered. What ailed the man anyway? Poor digestion? Incipient ulcers? A dominating wife?
I said, “Don’t take your frustrations out on the lieutenant. The department is lucky to have a man like Nola on its roster. Aren’t you satisfied with me? Isn’t one victim enough?”
He smiled acidly. He pulled open a drawer, found a tissue, wiped his glasses, and clamped them back on his nose. Then he turned to Postilie with quiet deliberation.
“All right, Bill. Prepare your case for the grand jury tomorrow morning. Everything else takes a back seat. We want an indictment against Jordan for murder one. Subpoena all witnesses, the hotel clerk, the woman in the corridor, the switchboard operator, the detective who found the murder weapon. That should do it.”
He switched back to me with a sardonic twist on his mouth. “Saves you a job, doesn’t it, Jordan? There’s our case. You won’t have to inspect the grand jury minutes. So far as motive is concerned, we can prove that in court. I doubt if---”
The intercom buzzed and he flipped a switch. The mechanical voice said, “Mr. Kilbourne is here.”
“Send him in.”
I recognized Peter Kilbourne the moment he entered the room. Kilbourne was an agent for the Treasury Department. We had worked together in the Mathew Tallant case, when I stumbled over a tax fraud and was able to give him an important lead. He looked like a rising young businessman on his way up the ladder into the executive suite. His face was scrubbed, his hair cropped. He moved briskly, his alert eyes encompassing the room in one quick circular sweep. When he advanced to shake my hand, Lohman could not resist a comment.
“Strange companions the government keeps.”
“Matter of policy,” Kilbourne said easily. “Jordan saved us a lot of money last year.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow in my direction. “What gives, counselor? Not enough money in the law? I hear you have a new sideline, pushing phony twenty-dollar bills.” He looked around. “Who has them?”
“Right here,” Lohman said, pushing them across his desk. “Jordan claims he got them from a client and he refuses to elucidate. Privileged communication—he thinks.”
Kilbourne examined the twenties with a clinical eye. “Yep.” He nodded. “Same lot that’s been flooding this area for several months.” He winced. “And what a headache! That engraver must have been trained by the mint. Best specimens we’ve seen in years.” He paused, eyes straight at me, the line of his mouth grim and sober. “We’ve been stymied, Jordan, blocked at every turn. You’re the first decent break we’ve had. What’s the story?”
“I got them from a client.”
“You see?” Lohman said.
“For what purpose?” Kilbourne ignored the comment.
“Part of a fee.”
“And the client’s name?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’d like to discuss it with him first.” I did not bother to enlighten Kilbourne about Laura Banton’s sex.
He stretched his eyes, incredulous. “Are you serious? A thing like this is vital. It can’t be delayed. Those boys are printing and distributing that paper on a full-time schedule.” He tried an appeal to my patriotism. “Good Lord, Jordan, do you want to be responsible for debasing the currency of the United States beyond recognition?”
I said nothing.
He wiped his right palm along his trouser seam, as if he were trying to erase my handshake.
Lohman seemed half-amused. “Don’t waste time trying to reason with Jordan. He’s not a reasonable man.”
Kilbourne clamped his jaw. “Then I’m taking him into custody. Possession and passing of counterfeit money.”
“After us, my friend. The State of New York has a prior claim. We’re holding him on a charge of first-degree homicide. You can have him when we’re finished—if there’s anything left.”
I said, “Don’t fight over me, boys. This is no time for a jurisdictional dispute.”
Kilbourne regarded me, his features narrowed into a set expression. “Do I understand you correctly, Jordan? You absolutely refuse to co-operate with the government, is that it?”
“Not at all. Just give me a chance to find out more about it. I promise I’ll have some information for you by tonight.”
“Don’t believe him,” Lohman said. “He’ll be in a cell and we haven’t installed telephones there yet.”
“You know where I can be reached?” Kilbourne asked me. “Yes.”
“I’ll be waiting.” He was starved for information, but he didn’t want to crowd me. He shoved the counterfeit bills into his pocket. “These belong to the government.”
When he left, Lohman spoke to the intercom and a city detective poked his head through the door. “We’re finished with Jordan. See that he’s properly booked and held on suspicion of homicide.”
I said, “I’m entitled to make one phone call, am I not?”
“After you’re booked.”
It took thirty minutes to complete the formalities and get my hands on a telephone. I called the office. No answer; Cassidy had already left. I dialed her apartment. No answer there either. I tried Hazel and got a cheery voice after a single ring.
“Ace Typing Service.”
“Hazel, this is—”
“Scott! Where have you been all day? I tried to reach you at the office, but your secretary didn’t know where you were. Will you be staying at my place tonight?”
“I don’t think so. Look, Hazel—”
“You can come for dinner anyway. I’ve already made the preparations. Braised oxtails and kidney brochettes, two of my specialties, for a hungry fugitive.” Her voice turned wistful. “And Scott, I was thinking about that terribly uncomfortable sofa in the living room. It seems a shame with such a nice big bed and me so small—”
I cut her short. “Behave yourself and listen to me.”
She caught the urgency in my voice and subsided instantly. “What is it, Scott?”
“I need your help.”
“Of course.”
“I want you to get in touch with Mr. Oliver Wendell Rogers and—”
“Your old boss?”
“That’s right. He’s retired now and he lives at Fifteen Park. Go to see him personally. He’s probably read about the spot I’m in. Tell him they booked me on suspicion of homicide. I want to see him as soon as possible. Then call my secretary. Tell her to get in touch with Mr. Rogers. He’ll need her to draw some papers. Have you got that?”
“Yes.” She was very businesslike.
“Repeat it.”
She did so, verbatim.
“Good girl. If Rogers isn’t home, find him. Turn the town upside down. Am I clear?”
“Very.”
“Okay. Get rolling.”
She hung up and I hung up and a cop took my arm and escorted me upstairs and delivered me to a turnkey.
XII
Usually a lawyer is on the outside looking in, listening to the agitated protestations of a distraught client, trying to separate fact from fiction. Now the tables were reversed. I was on the inside looking out, glum and dejected.
The inside of a cell is no place for a lawyer.
I didn’t like it one little bit. A whole cabal of plotters, it seemed, had been working overtime to tighten the case against me. I sat alone on the edge of the cot, jittery and perspiring. I felt small and insignificant, like a crippled ant watching the inexorable approach of a steam-roller. The vast machinery of organized society, relentless and impersonal, was beginning to roll in my direction.
Waning fight came through a high small window and the pattern of bars threw a slanted shadow across the wall. I stretched out horizontally, with my hands under my head. This couldn’t happen, not to me. It seemed like a nightmare. But it had happened, and here I was, boxed up, caught in a beautiful frame.
And all because I had handled a simple divorce action two years ago.
I closed my eyes and thought about it. What had really started this disastrous chain of events? Was it the divorce? Had there actually been collusion?
I felt certain there had been. It helped explain Strang’s visit to Benedict Milo. He was worried and trying to clear his skirts. He had been Claire’s lawyer. And her boyfriend.
Claire, apparently, had decided on a divorce. When she broke the news to Mclver, he agreed. He told her to go ahead, providing she took the rap. Which meant that Strang was called upon to make all the arrangements.
He had recommended a private detective to Mclver. He had arranged for Banton and Claire to be found in a hotel room. Then, with the evidence complete, he had suggested that Mclver retain counsel, someone of his own choosing. Thus bringing me into the case.
Nobody was willing to admit the collusion. Least of all, Vincent Mclver. The divorce might be set aside, and he wanted to protect Amy Van Dorn. Neither Strang nor Milo would talk. Strang could be disciplined by the Bar Association, and Milo might lose his license.
None of this would have come to light, had Milo not taken that picture. Which made me think of Arnold Parish, and wonder again where he got the print.
My head began to throb. Too many enigmas. And how could they be solved from a horizontal position in a locked cell? Ritter, Ritter, Ritter. The name kept pulsing like a neon bulb. Hugo Ritter, who’d given Steve Banton an I.O.U. for ten thousand dollars. The thought of money reminded me of Laura’s counterfeit twenties, and I pushed upright and began to pace around the cell.
I took hold of the bars and squeezed them. Caged! Like an animal in the zoo. But an animal cannot think. He’s satisfied if they feed him. He doesn’t fret and stew over the circumstances that put him there, or worry about the future. In my case, somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to get me out of the way. I ran an exasperated hand through my hair.
But why? What did I know? Whose safety did I threaten?
Footsteps echoed along the corridor. A guard peered in and said, “Visitor.” He turned a key. “This way.”
A tall man sat waiting for me in the counsel room. Tall, with beetling brows on a protruding forehead, and white fringe around his ears. He had a curved nose and two sets of false teeth. His jaws had contracted since the teeth were made and they clicked when he spoke. He was seventy years old, with springy joints, and the rose-high complexion of a dedicated brandy drinker. He wore no glasses and needed none; his eyes were a startling blue, direct and penetrating. His palm, when he offered it, was dry and brittle.
He faced me with a wide porcelain grin. “Well, well, my boy, I’ve been reading about you. You certainly have the gift. I trust you haven’t stepped in over your head this time. Sit down and tell me about it.”
