But He Was Already Dead When I Got There (16 page)

“He was not what you would call ‘beloved',” Simon answered indifferently.

Toomey asked if he thought Vincent Farwell would have renewed the loan.

“Probably. Once he'd gotten all the fun out of it he could.”

“There must have been a penalty clause for late payment, wasn't there?”

“That I don't know. Lionel Knox could tell you—or Malcolm Conner. Malcolm drew up the contract or promissory note or whatever you want to call it. You might want to ask him about the loan when you talk to him.”

“I've already talked to him, and he didn't have much to say. A very tight-lipped man, Mr. Conner.”

“Tight-lipped? Malcolm?” Simon's half-smile spread into a full-blown grin. “You must have intimidated him, Lieutenant. Usually he takes ninety words to say what could be said in seventeen.”

Toomey had no comment on that; and after a few more questions that revealed nothing more, he and Rizzuto left. “I'm thinkin' about drawin' up one of those family trees,” Rizzuto muttered as soon as they were alone.

“Why?”

“They're all so damned interconnected,” Rizzuto complained. “It's hard to keep 'em straight! Ellandy's borrowed money from Vincent Farwell, who was the uncle of the wife of one of Ellandy's owners. The other owner's husband sells them diamonds and her brother is also Ellandy's lawyer as well as the lover of one of Ellandy's employees, who wants to be an owner her own self and who once had a fling-a-ding with Owner Number One. Sheesh. D'you think Malcolm Conner knew about Nicole and Lionel before Uncle Vincent sprung it on 'em last night?”

“You're doing it too,” Toomey laughed. “Calling him ‘Uncle Vincent'. Farwell had them all crying
Uncle!
—in more ways than one. I'm finding it harder and harder to believe in our anonymous burglars who just happened along on the one night Barney Peterson got so roaring drunk he forgot to set the burglar alarm.”

“The Knoxes next?”

“I want to talk to Paul Bernstein first, and I think we'd better get Farwell's attorney to open that bedroom safe before we do any confronting of anybody. I wonder why Farwell hired Bernstein in the first place? Just because he suspected some extramarital hanky-panky? I can't see him being that concerned about Gretchen's happiness.”

Rizzuto said, “Well, if Simon's right, he coulda done it to embarrass Gretchen. D'you think he was really that mean? Gretchen dint like him much, and Lionel sure wasn't grievin' none. What about the other two women?”

“Nicole and Dorrie? Politely startled, I'd say. More interested in getting on with business than in mourning. Malcolm was the only one even to express any regret.”

“Simon sure dint give a damn.”

“What names these people have!” Toomey exclaimed out of the blue. “Simon and Lionel and Malcolm! Whatever happened to plain, simple names like Ed or Henry or Ralph? And Gretchen and Nicole—both foreign names, aren't they? And what about the oh-so-fancy Dorothea/Dorrie Murdoch?” Toomey suddenly smiled. “Ah, but we musn't forget Dorothy/Dot Polk! That's more like it. And Barney Peterson—now there's a good honest American name for you!”

“So what's so great about that?” muttered Sergeant Salvatore Rizzuto.

Mrs. Polk had been no problem. She'd calmed visibly under Lionel's reassurances that she'd always have a place with the Knoxes, regardless of whether Uncle Vincent's house was sold or not. Lionel felt a brief flash of resentment at having to do the job alone; after all, the housekeeper was not
his
“Polka Dot.” Gretchen should have been there.

But Gretchen had been out when he reached home, so Lionel had first made a visit to a mortuary to arrange for Uncle Vincent's burial and had then gone back to the old man's house.
Carry on for now
was his message to Mrs. Polk. But Barney Peterson was another matter.

Lionel was of two minds about Barney. Barney should be fired; no question of that. But Lionel found himself reluctant to give the manservant the gate. He'd always liked Barney; the man was the one person in Uncle Vincent's house he'd felt comfortable talking to. And Barney had done them all a favor, in a shameful sort of way; it seemed a pity to punish him for that. Lionel climbed the stairs, the habit of not using Uncle Vincent's elevator still with him, and knocked on Barney's door.

“It's open,” came a muffled voice.

Lionel went in. The manservant was standing looking out the window, his back to the door. Godfrey Daniel lay sprawled out on the bed, lazily washing his face; when he saw the visitor was the one who'd stepped on his tail the night before, he ceased his ablutions and gave Lionel his full attention.

Lionel cleared his throat. “Barney, we have to talk.”

Bjarne Pedersen turned from the window, his face a perfect tragic mask. “Nine years,” he said. “The first time in nine years I failed to turn on the alarm. And look what happened.”

Lionel made up his mind right then. “It may not have been a burglar, you know. It may have been … someone who knew him.”

Bjarne was puzzled. “Not a burglar?”

Lionel sat down on the side of the bed, trying to think of the best way to put it. Godfrey decided that to forgive was divine and draped himself gracefully over one of Lionel's thighs. “It makes a difference,” Lionel said cautiously, stroking the cat. “If someone was determined to kill Uncle Vincent, then the alarm wouldn't have stopped him. Or her. The killer would have broken in anyway. And if not last night, then some other time.”

“Someone who knew him?” Bjarne repeated, dumbfounded.

Lionel took a deep breath, let it out. “I think the police suspect one of us, one of the six who were here last night.”

“Oh, Mr. Lionel!” Bjarne cried. “They couldn't think that!”

Lionel ran his free hand through his hair. “To tell you the truth, I don't really know what the police think. But they've started investigating us. I'm sure Uncle Vincent made a lot of enemies in his younger days, but since he retired … well, there just don't seem to be a whole lot of suspects around. Except us.”

Bjarne was alarmed. He didn't have too much faith in the police to begin with; that Lieutenant Toomey's investigative techniques weren't anything at all like Basil Rathbone's. No other suspects, Mr. Lionel had said. The manservant thought rapidly. Should he …? “Well, there was that man who came here last week.”

“What man?”

“Fat man, gray hair, had a deep voice,” Bjarne said, inventing freely. “I didn't get his name. But he and Mr. Vincent had an awful quarrel,” he improvised. “I could hear them yelling at each other right through the library door.”

“This was last week, you say?”

“Wednesday or Thursday,” Bjarne lied. “Mrs. Polk was out.”

Lionel fought down the urge to grin; he'd always looked on the manservant as an ally and it seemed he'd not been mistaken. “Have you told the police?”

“No sir, I didn't think of it until now,” Bjarne said truthfully. “Do you think I should?”

“Oh, I do, definitely I do, indeed, yes.” Lionel gave Godfrey Daniel one final pat and stood up. “And don't worry about your future, Barney. Gretchen and I still have some decisions to make, but you'll have a job with us as long as you want. Don't worry about a thing.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bjarne said with immense relief.

Lionel felt a lift of the spirits as he went out of Bjarne's room and started back down the stairs. With the manservant's mysterious caller to chase after, the police might ease up on Ellandy's. It had been a fruitful little chat—
and just in time
, Lionel thought, as he saw Mrs. Polk open the door to admit Lieutenant Toomey and his sergeant. And a dignified, briefcase-toting elderly man with thin white hair, a man Lionel didn't know.

“I see you and Godfrey have made up,” were the Lieutenant's first words.

Lionel glanced over his shoulder to see Godfrey Daniel bouncing down the stairs behind him. “This afternoon he loves me,” Lionel smiled. “He has a mercurial temperament, that cat. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“You might like to witness the opening of Mr. Farwell's safe. Do you and Mr. Dann know each other?” He introduced Richard Dann, Vincent Farwell's attorney. “Mr. Dann has the combination to the safe.”

“My condolences on your recent loss,” Mr. Dann said—a bit coolly, Lionel thought.

“Thank you. Do you want to go straight up?”

They did. “Rizzuto, you might as well get started,” Toomey said. The Sergeant nodded and moved off toward the library. “He's going to try to restore order to Mr. Farwell's files,” the Lieutenant explained.

“Restore order?” Mr. Dann frowned. “I don't understand.”

“His papers were all misfiled,” Toomey said. “And not very neatly at that. As if the file cabinet had been emptied and then everything just shoved back in any old way.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Dann, while Lionel concentrated on looking amazed.

“Well, we might as well get to it.” Toomey started up the stairs.

“Do you suppose we might use the elevator?” Mr. Dann asked. “I'm not supposed to climb stairs.”

Godfrey Daniel watched Sergeant Rizzuto go into the library and leave the door open. Then he watched Mrs. Polk disappear in the direction of the kitchen. Then at the last second he darted into the elevator with the three men who were going upstairs.

They passed Bjarne Pedersen's room on the way to the master bedroom, which was almost twice the size of the manservant's. “I've been in this room only once,” Mr. Dann told the others, “but as I recall, the safe should be right over … oh, good heavens!”

They all saw it at the same time: the framed picture that normally covered the safe had been removed and was on the floor, leaning against the wall. The safe door gaped open.

“Damnation!” Lionel muttered.

“The same burglars who were here before, no doubt,” Toomey said dryly. “Don't touch anything,” he cautioned Mr. Dann, who was hurrying toward the safe. The Lieutenant trotted to the head of the stairs and bellowed, “Rizzuto!” He went back to the bedroom.

“There are papers still in there, Lieutenant,” Mr. Dann said anxiously. “I'll need to check to see if anything's missing.”

Toomey went over to the safe and, using his handkerchief, carefully lifted the papers out of the safe and spread them out on the bed. “Don't touch them,” he warned Mr. Dann.

“No,” the elderly lawyer agreed. “I'll just get my list—shoo, kitty.” Godfrey Daniel had jumped up on the bed and was trying to help. Lionel lifted him off the bed and dropped him on a chair as Mr. Dann opened his briefcase and took out a file folder.

“Well?” Toomey asked impatiently.

“Just a moment, please.” Mr. Dann wouldn't be rushed.

Sergeant Rizzuto appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Yeah, Lieutenant?”

“We've had a break-in,” Toomey told him. “And a burglary?” He looked at Mr. Dann.

“Everything seems to be here except a promissory note for one and a half million dollars,” Mr. Dann said, studying his list. “For a loan to Ellandy Jewels.”

“Uh-
huh
,” Toomey grunted. “Call in a burglary, Rizzuto. And get a fingerprint man over here. That safe, the picture leaning against the wall, and those papers on the bed.”

“Right.” Rizzuto turned and was gone.

“Jeez,” Lionel breathed heavily. “Our note! Lieutenant, before you say anything—I didn't take it. I don't know anything about this.”

“What were you doing upstairs?” Toomey asked.

“Talking to Barney! Right next door! Ask him!”

“I'll do that. How long have you been here?”

“Not more than twenty minutes, half an hour. I stopped in to tell Mrs. Polk and Barney not to worry about their jobs.”

“You're not discharging the manservant?” Mr. Dann asked in tones of disapproval.

“Lieutenant, this could have been done last night,” Lionel said, ignoring Mr. Dann. “I didn't even know Uncle Vincent had a safe until Gretchen told me this morning. And she doesn't know the combination—I
couldn't
have opened it!”

“Could the safe have been forced open?” Mr. Dann murmured.

“No signs of it,” Toomey said. “Whoever opened it either had the combination or the right instruments for activating the combination. Mr. Knox, I can't search you without your permission until I get a warrant, but—”

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Lionel growled, jerking his suit jacket open. “Go ahead! Search!”

Toomey quickly assured himself that Lionel was not carrying the purloined promissory note. “I'm going to have to ask you not to leave until we've had time to search the house.” He stepped briskly to the adjoining bedroom and told a startled Bjarne Pedersen not to leave his room until further notice. When Toomey got back to the master bedroom, he found Lionel down on his knees peering under the bed, Mr. Dann watching him with bemusement.

Lionel got back to his feet. “Lieutenant,” he said excitedly, “what if the note wasn't taken last night? There were police in this house all morning, and—”

“And so it must have been taken this afternoon?” Toomey smiled. “Recently, in fact?”

“Yes! Maybe just now—maybe we interrupted the burglar!” Lionel pulled back a heavy window drape and looked behind it. “He could be anywhere!” He strode into a small dressing alcove and pulled open the closet door.

And found Dorrie Murdoch standing there. Her eyes were enormous, her lips stretched back over clenched teeth, the palms of her hands pressed together in a gesture of supplication.

Lionel quickly closed the door. “He could be in any room on this floor!” he said to Toomey. “Why don't we look before—”

“Mr. Knox,” Toomey sighed, “just leave the searching to us, will you? But until Sergeant Rizzuto gets back, I think we'll stay right where we are.”