But He Was Already Dead When I Got There (14 page)

“Four hundred thousand,” Lionel said.

“A goodly sum,” Malcolm nodded. “If we can deal exclusively with Dann, I think we'll be all right. He's not going to turn down four hundred thousand dollars.”

“Lionel,” said Dorrie, “wouldn't this be a good time to take Gretchen on a nice long trip somewhere? Like to China?”

“Don't you think she might be just a touch suspicious?” Lionel said sarcastically. “Right during the time the estate is being settled? Bad idea, Dorrie.”

“The less said to Gretchen at this point the better,” Nicole agreed. “She'll more than likely leave everything up to Mr. Dann. Gretchen doesn't go in for making big decisions—not her thing.”

“That goddamned loan!” Lionel exploded. “We should never, never,
never
have borrowed from Uncle Vincent!”

“Nobody else would let us have that much money,” Dorrie said pragmatically. “Malcolm, if the promissory note doesn't turn up among Uncle Vincent's papers, are you going to blow the whistle on us?”

“Ah … why shouldn't the note turn up?” Malcolm temporized.

Dorrie fluttered her hands in the air. “Stranger things have happened. Maybe the burglar took it.”

“If there was a burglar,” Malcolm said. The atmosphere instantly grew tense; they were on shaky ground. There was no need for anyone to put words to the obvious: that if there were no burglar, then Uncle Vincent had been murdered for the promissory note. Dorrie found herself looking suspiciously at Lionel, but he didn't notice because he was busy looking at Nicole the same way. Nicole, oddly, was looking at Dorrie. Nobody looked at Malcolm.

Then Lionel gave himself a little shake and said, “We're imagining things. Gretchen just told me Uncle Vincent had a wall safe in his bedroom. The promissory note's probably right there.”

“A wall safe!” the other three exclaimed.

“In his bedroom,” Lionel nodded.

The office door opened. “Ah, there you are!” said Simon Murdoch, striding into the room. “Huddled together like conspirators—I'm interrupting something, I hope? What nefarious intrigue are you plotting? Hello, darling,” kissing Dorrie, “I was hoping we could lunch.”

“Oh, what a lovely idea,” Dorrie beamed. “Malcolm, are we finished?”

“We are,” he said, standing up. “I have to be getting back to my office anyway.”

“How is everyone holding up?” Simon asked the room at large. “Terrible about Uncle Vincent.”

Lionel muttered something intelligible and bent down to rub his ankle; it was still hurting from the off-balance landing he'd made in his flying leap from Uncle Vincent's terrace wall. Nicole said, “The police were here.
Was
here—one man, a rotund, droopy-eyed little fellow named Toomey.”

“No one has been to see me yet,” Simon remarked. “I'm feeling slighted.”

“Give them time,” Lionel said. “Wait until they take your fingerprints. That's loads of fun.”

“Darling,” Dorrie said to Simon, “just give me a minute to freshen up. Oh—and I have to return some diamonds to the vault.”

“Aw, hell, Dorrie!” Lionel said testily. “You didn't leave stones in your office again, did you?”

“Calm yourself, O worrier,” Dorrie smiled, dangling a key under his nose. “I locked the door.”

“Why don't I return the diamonds for you,” Simon asked, “while you do whatever it is you think you have to do to improve your appearance? As if it needed improving.”

Dorrie pantomimed a kiss. “You're sweet. Come along, then.”

They all left to go their various ways. Preoccupied, Lionel was halfway through the door before he remembered it was his office they were in.

Sal Rizzuto brought in two Styrofoam cups of black coffee and put one on Lieutenant Toomey's desk. Toomey took a swallow and marveled over the variety of tastes that passed as coffee. “Tell me about the test firing first,” he said to the Sergeant.

“Okay,” said Rizzuto, sitting down. “I
could
hear the shot in Mrs. Polk's room. But to tell the truth, Lieutenant, it was so faint I don't think I'da noticed if I hadn't been listenin' for it. If Mrs. Polk was watchin' television or sleepin' when the gun got fired last night, she wouldna heard it. By the way, that's a whole suite she's got up there, not just a bedroom. Sittin' room, bath.”

Toomey nodded. “All right, she's telling the truth about the gunshot. What else?”

“Well, I looked for the rest of that insurance letter like you told me, but Lieutenant, it's the damnedest thing. Nothin' in that file cabinet is where it's supposed to be!
Nothin
'. IBM quarterly report in his medical expenses file, like that. Tax returns scattered through half a dozen different files, none of 'em marked ‘Taxes'. And the papers themselves is all messed up—folded and wrinkled and just shoved in any which way.”

Toomey tasted his tasteless coffee. “As if someone gathered them all up in a hurry to get them out of sight?”

“Yeah! That's just what it looked like.”

“And Lionel Knox took it for granted this morning that Mrs. Polk had cleaned the study.”

Rizzuto grinned. “Y'think that's what he was lookin' for? Papers scattered around?”

“Could be. Did you find the insurance letter?”

“Naw, I was still lookin' when you called.”

Toomey picked up a yellow pencil from his desk top and played with it. “If Lionel Knox expected to see papers on the floor, that means he was in the library and knew Vincent Farwell was dead before his wife called him. It also means he didn't pick the papers up.”

“Gretchen?”

“Must have been. But she missed one page of the insurance letter, under the sofa. And the Infralux—the desk drawers must have been emptied too. Mrs. Polk said the appliance belonged in the desk, didn't she? That looks as if the Knoxes were acting independently—remember they'd had a spat the night before. But by now they've had time to talk it over and get their stories straight.” He pointed his yellow pencil at the other man. “What else, Rizzuto?”

The Sergeant looked blank.

“The lawyer,” Toomey sighed.

“Oh yeah—Richard Dann. I called him and he does have the combination to the safe.”

“Good. Now maybe we can—”

The phone rang; it was Dr. Oringer of the medical examiner's office. “Autopsy report won't be ready until later,” he said, “but I thought you'd like to hear this. Post-mortem lividity indicates the body was moved.”

“
What?
” Toomey shouted.

Dr. Oringer enjoyed surprising people. “I'd say six or seven hours after death.”

“Six or … you mean the murderer didn't move him?”

“Not unless he waited six hours to do it.”

Toomey tossed his yellow pencil up in the air in exasperation. “
What
is going on?”

“You find out. That's your job. The broken statuette was the murder weapon, by the way—blood and tissue on it were the victim's. The deceased had a paper-thin skull—one of the thinnest I've seen. A blow with that little alabaster statuette would just give you or me a bad headache, but it was enough to kill the old man.”

“Whoo. Doc, what about the time of death?”

“Right now I'd say between ten-thirty and midnight—depending on the temperature of the room. Did you find out what time that fire in the fireplace went out?”

“Not definitely,” Toomey growled. “Anything else?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary so far. There's a small scratch on the back of his left hand. Fresh, not very deep.”

“Godfrey Daniel,” Toomey muttered.

“What?”

“Could it be a cat scratch?”

“Could be.”

“Okay, Doc, thanks.” He hung up. “The body was moved.”

Rizzuto nodded. “And both the Knoxes were surprised to learn Vincent Farwell was found at his desk.”

Toomey thought a moment and then said, “How does this sound? Lionel Knox killed Vincent Farwell, someplace in the library other than at his desk. Then Lionel went through the file cabinet looking for something, throwing papers every which way in the process. He must not have found what he was looking for—why else make such a mess? Anyway, he leaves,
she
comes in and cleans up the mess. Why?”

“To make it look like nobody
wasn't
lookin' for nothin'.”

“Congratulations, Rizzuto, a triple negative. Then she leaves, and somebody else comes in and moves the body over to the desk. Who and why?”

“
Who
, the manservant, Barney Peterson. Mrs. Polk ain't strong enough.
Why
… uh.”

“Damn—that won't work!” Toomey said. “Farwell was killed before midnight and Lionel Knox was at Ellandy Jewels until
after
midnight, both the women say so.”

“Maybe he slipped out for a while?”

Toomey reached for the phone. “What's the number?” Rizzuto read Ellandy's phone number from his notebook and Toomey started pressing buttons. Dorrie Murdoch was still out to lunch, but Nicole Lattimer swore all three of them had been there together from about ten to well after midnight.

“Unless those three are in collusion,” Toomey said, hanging up, “we've just eliminated half our suspects.”

“What about Mrs. Polk and Barney? And the burglar?”

“Okay, a third of them. But it's damned clear this was no simple burglary—there's more involved than a few knick-knacks picked up at random from Vincent Farwell's library.” He told Rizzuto what an upscale place Ellandy's was. “They're nervous there—about the loan. That Nicole Lattimer's a strange one. Nothing extravagant about her speech or her personal mannerisms—but her appearance, and the jewelry she designs?
Very
dramatic, extreme even. Still waters there.”

“So what do we do now?” Rizzuto asked. “Go after the Knoxes?”

“First we grab some lunch, and then we go talk to the other two who were at that meeting in the library last night.
Then
we go after the Knoxes.”

Paul Bernstein had the look and manner of a funeral director—which, considering the circumstances, wasn't all that inappropriate, Gretchen felt.

“I'm not sure I can help you, Mrs. Knox,” Bernstein said. “There might be a conflict of interest—you know I'm working for your uncle.”

“Uncle Vincent is dead,” Gretchen said bluntly. “Someone killed him last night.”

Bernstein was shocked. “How did it happen?”

“A burglar. The manservant forgot to turn on the alarm system.”

The private investigator shook his head disbelievingly. “I hope you gave him the sack this morning.” He let a small silence develop as he mourned the loss of a lucrative source of income. “Do the police have any leads? Who's in charge of the case?”

“A Lieutenant Toomey—spherical and droopy-eyed, do you know him? And some sergeant who tries to act like a television cop. I don't know whether they've got any leads or not.”

“I know Toomey,” Bernstein nodded. “The sergeant could be anybody.” Bernstein Investigative Services had recently moved to larger quarters and wasn't settled in yet. Bernstein had apologized mournfully as he led Gretchen past packing crates and huge spools of computer cable into his partially furnished office. He'd managed to come up with a cup of coffee for the niece of one of his most valued clients, but now he let his own coffee grow cold as he digested the news she'd brought him.

“Mrs. Knox,” he said, “what is it you want me to do? If the police are still investigating your uncle's death—”

“Oh no, it's not that,” Gretchen said. “It's just that I'd like you to consider me your client now instead of Uncle Vincent. That's no conflict of interest, is it?”

“No, it's not,” he said, still wondering what she wanted.

She told him. “I'd like you to go on doing for me what you were doing for my uncle.” When he nodded but said nothing, she asked, “Exactly what were you doing for my uncle?”

Bernstein regarded her somberly and tried to explain. “It's a matter of client confidentiality, Mrs. Knox—”

Gretchen lowered her eyes and raised the pitch of her voice. “But
I'm
youh client now, Mistuh Buhnstein,” she said softly. “I know you were watchin' mah husband, and I want you to go raht on doin' that.”

“Very well. Your uncle wanted weekly reports—would that be satisfactory?”

“Puhfectly. But I don't know what else you were doin'.”

Bernstein considered. “Since you're taking your uncle's place, I suppose you're entitled to know. At the moment I was waiting for instructions. Mr. Farwell had me run checks on the people at Ellandy Jewels, and on Malcolm Conner and Simon Murdoch as well. My instructions were to continue having Mr. Knox followed until your uncle decided what to do next.”

“I see. And I suppose you sent him written reports on those othuhs? I'd like copies, Mistuh Buhnstein.”

“Certainly. The computer isn't connected yet, but I can get them to you tomorrow.” Bernstein made a note to himself and asked pleasantly, “What part of the South are you from, Mrs. Knox?”

Gretchen ignored the question. “Then I'll hear from you tomorrow?”

“Before noon,” Bernstein promised, now completely recovered from his grief over Vincent Farwell's unexpected but nevertheless timely demise.

8

Dorrie Murdoch was working desultorily on a sketch, doing a somewhat less than satisfactory job of keeping her mind on her work, when her office door opened.

“Where's Lionel?” Nicole Lattimer asked.

“Gone home. He didn't want to leave Gretchen alone right now. And he said something about going back to Uncle Vincent's house. Mrs. Polk and Barney are probably wondering what's going to happen to them.”