But He Was Already Dead When I Got There (19 page)

Or that unknown visitor who—Barney Peterson miraculously happened to remember—had threatened Uncle Vincent only last Thursday. Just what the case had been needing—a Mysterious Stranger! Barney had claimed with a perfectly straight face that he'd heard this man (name unknown, detailed description willingly supplied) tell Mr. Vincent that he'd never let him get away with it, that he'd kill Mr. Vincent first. What the “it” was that Vincent Farwell was supposed to be trying to get away with, Barney didn't know. But he'd heard the threat, oh yes sir, indeed he had, sir.
Why didn't you mention this before
? Toomey had asked.
I didn't think of it, sir
, Barney had replied.

That
part Toomey believed.

Well, a Mysterious Stranger would certainly get everybody else off the hook—which was undoubtedly why Barney Peterson had come up with him in the first place. Had the manservant worked out some sort of deal with one of the others? Lionel Knox had been there talking to Barney that afternoon right before Toomey arrived. (And Dorrie Murdoch had been there hiding in a closet.) But on the slim chance that Barney might be telling the truth, Toomey had put out an APB on a silver-haired fat man with a deep voice. Rumpled white suit, expensive rings on both hands, imperious manner. Sydney Greenstreet?

Toomey looked at the photographs of the murder scene. Vincent Farwell lay spread out on his desk, the gun just beyond his fingertips. The photos showed the drinking glasses from the night before, the fingerprints from each telling Toomey where everyone had been sitting. No fingerprints on the murder weapon, the broken alabaster Hermes. But the fingerprint report did have one interesting tidbit: Dorrie Murdoch's prints had been found on the papers in Uncle Vincent's safe—there, he was doing it too!
Uncle
Vincent. But Dorrie hadn't taken the missing promissory note with her when she left, Toomey was sure of that. Was it still hidden in Uncle Vincent's house, somewhere his men hadn't been able to find it? The men
had
found the combination to the safe, taped under the narrow overhang of a window sill in the bedroom.

“Lieutenant!” A grinning Sal Rizzuto stood in the doorway of Toomey's office. “Look what I've got!” He stepped aside to let Dorrie and Simon Murdoch in. “I caught 'em throwin' somethin' into the river. Evidence, maybe? Twenty-second Street Bridge, right in the middle of rush hour.”

Both Murdochs looked more than a little put out. “If it is a crime, Lieutenant,” Simon drawled, “to dispose of old tax records by tossing them into a body of water, then we are indeed guilty and should be locked away where we will wreak no further havoc on the human race. But if it is not a crime, however, will you kindly instruct your minion here to
let us go
?”

Toomey pointed to a couple of chairs. “Have a seat, folks. Now what's this all about?”

“Minion?” said Rizzuto.

The Murdochs sat down. “As I said,” Simon went on, “we were merely disposing of some old tax records. Every year at about this time we get rid of those records that are seven years old.”

“By puttin' them in an airline bag?” Rizzuto snorted. “And throwin' the bag into the river?”

“We always make a little ceremony of it, you see,” Dorrie said helpfully. “We go out and have dinner at a nice restaurant afterward.” She laughed charmingly. “It's just an excuse for celebrating, but it's fun.
Did
we break a law, Lieutenant?”

“A light bag containing nothing but paper,” Toomey mused. “It sank all right, did it?”

“Like a stone,” Rizzuto said. “Whatever's in that bag, it ain't no buncha papers.”

“Oh, come now, Sergeant.” Simon raised an eyebrow at the man who'd brought them in. “Surely you know how heavy paper can be. Besides, we weighted it down.”

“With what?”

“A rock,” the Murdochs said simultaneously, and then glanced at each other with what looked suspiciously like relief.

Toomey got up and walked around his desk where he stood facing the Murdochs. “Vincent Farwell was murdered last night. A promissory note that most likely was the motive for the murder has been stolen. Both Ellandy Jewels and Simon Murdoch are having financial troubles.” He paused. “And this is the time you pick to clean out old tax records?”

Simon let loose a great sigh of exasperation. “The cleaning-out was already done, Lieutenant. We'd packed the bag several days ago—we just didn't get around to throwing it away until now.”

“Darling, are you having financial troubles?” Dorrie asked with concern.

“No, I am not. Wherever did you get an idea like that, Lieutenant Toomey?”

“From Paul Bernstein, as a matter of fact.”

“Ah, the detective. Yes. Remind me never to hire Mr. Bernstein. The man's obviously incompetent.”

“No, he ain't,” Rizzuto objected. “He usta be a cop.”

“And all police, whether former or present,” Simon remarked with a half-smile, “are infallible, of course.”

“Hey, don't get smart,” Rizzuto bristled.

“Take it easy, Rizzuto,” Toomey said. The Lieutenant started back to his chair but brushed against the side of the desk and was surprised to hear a metallic
clunk
sound. What the …? He put a hand into his jacket pocket—oh yes, it was that blasted can of Redi-Whip; he'd been carrying it around all day. Annoyed, he set the can down sharply on the desk top.

And heard Dorrie Murdoch gasp.

Quickly she rearranged her startled features into the nearest thing to a poker face she could manage. But it was too late; she'd given herself away.

Toomey leaned across the desk toward her. “What's the matter, Mrs. Murdoch? Frightened by Redi-Whip, are you? Whippingcreamphobia?”

“Why, I, ah, I was just surprised, that's all. I didn't expect a police lieutenant to carry something like that in his coat pocket.”

“That's your can of Redi-Whip, isn't it? You left it on the terrace outside the library, and you left it there last night.”

“Don't be absurd, Lieutenant,” Simon interrupted sharply. “Why would Dorrie take a can of Redi-Whip to a business meeting?”

“Not to the meeting. Later. When she went back.”

“Went back!” Dorrie cried. “Why would I go back?”

“Suppose you tell me.”

“You're making a mistake, Lieutenant,” she protested. “I didn't go … why would I … and the Redi-Whip …”

Simon stood up. “Lieutenant, this has gone far enough. Either charge us with, ah, littering, or let us go. Well, Lieutenant?”

“What was in the airline bag?” Toomey asked softly.

Simon threw up his hands. “Tee, ay, ex, pea, ay, pea, ee, are, ess. Tax papers!”

Dorrie stood up quickly and took his arm. “Darling, don't let him upset you. That's what he wants.”

Simon smiled at her reassuringly. “Don't worry, love, I'm not upset.” His smile disappeared as he turned to Lieutenant Toomey. “Are we under arrest?”

“No,” Toomey said blandly. “You're free to go.”

“Ah!” Dorrie beamed her pleasure at all three men.

“There, darling,” Simon said smoothly. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“Yes, I know. You were right, dear.”

“Then let us linger no longer in this bastion of law enforcement. Goodbye, Lieutenant … Sergeant. Come along, Dorrie-love.”

“Yes, darling, let's go.” She waved goodbye and the two of them left.

Rizzuto grunted. “I bet they don't talk like that when they're alone.”

“I'll bet they do.” Toomey sat down at his desk. “What do you think was in that bag?”

The Sergeant took the chair just vacated by Dorrie Murdoch. “The stuff that's missin' from Uncle Vincent's study? Maybe they
both
went back. Could be they're our burglars.”

Toomey picked up the can of Redi-Whip. “I wonder what this was for? Well, what've we got? Mrs. Murdoch snuck back into Uncle Vincent's house this afternoon and either opened the safe or found it open. She looked through the papers and then hid in the closet when she heard us coming. She lied about looking for a lost earring. Then she and her matching blond husband claim to be in such a rush to get rid of some useless papers that they can't wait until rush hour is over to go throw them off a bridge. And last but not least, the lovely Mrs. Murdoch all but claims ownership of a can of Redi-Whip that places her at the murder scene.”

“So what does it add up to?”

“What it adds up to,” Toomey smiled grimly, “is grounds for a search warrant. First thing tomorrow.”

10

The Knoxes' house, Lieutenant Toomey thought as he looked about him, was oddly impersonal. A blank-faced maid had let him in and left him standing in the entryway while she went to tell the Knoxes he was there.

Toomey wandered into the living room. It was modern and expensive-looking and in apple-pie order, a layout for a fancy-living magazine. But there was nothing of Lionel or Gretchen in it he could see at all; they'd probably just called in a decorator and said go to it. His and hers facing sofas, covered with some sort of butternut-colored leather. Toomey ran his hand across the back of one of them; soft as a baby's bottom. He was looking at some sort of Aztec plaque hanging over the surrealistic fireplace when the maid came back and led him to a cheerful, sunny breakfast room.

Lionel and Gretchen had just finished eating and were lingering over coffee and newspapers. Toomey turned down their offer of breakfast but accepted a cup of coffee. “Sorry to barge in on you so early,” he said, sitting down at the table, “but I have a full day ahead of me and I need to get going.”

Gretchen handed him his coffee. Lionel said, “Where's your shadow, Lieutenant?”

“Sergeant Rizzuto? He's got something to take care of this morning.” Rizzuto was, in fact, walking through the procedure needed to obtain a warrant to search the Murdochs' apartment.

Gretchen asked, “How is your investigation coming along, Lieutenant? Any, um, clues to Uncle Vincent's killer?”

Toomey wasted no time. “One or two interesting things have turned up. For instance, the housekeeper and the manservant moved your uncle's body before they called the police. Mrs. Polk admitted it.”

Two pairs of eyes blinked at him but both Knoxes managed to keep their faces straight. “How extraordinary,” Gretchen murmured. “Why did they do that?”

Instead of answering her, Toomey said: “That must be a relief to you two. Knowing how the body got over to the desk, I mean. You both expected him to be found in the middle of the floor.”

They both started protesting vociferously. “Why would we expect him to be found
anywhere
?” Lionel demanded. “We didn't know he was dead!”

“Yes, you did,” Toomey answered mildly. “You knew he was dead, and you knew he'd been murdered. You both went into the library long after that meeting was over and you found him there. You found him in the middle of the floor. Now I want you to tell me why you went back—although I think I know the answer to that one—and what you did when you got there.”

They both glared at him, said nothing.

Toomey sighed. “Look, you gave yourselves away yesterday morning. You were both surprised when I told you Uncle Vincent's body was found at his desk. You,” pointing to Lionel, “expected to find papers strewn all over the floor. Sergeant Rizzuto discovered that all the papers in the file had been jammed in every which way, without regard to what papers went in what folders.” He looked at Gretchen. “You did that? Mrs. Polk swears there were no papers on the floor when she found your uncle, and I believe her. So that sounds to me as if you two went into the library separately, Mr. Knox first and then Mrs. Knox. You both lied about that.”

Still they said nothing, but they'd stopped glaring at him. Lionel was concentrating on his coffee cup while Gretchen's eyes were taking on a glazed look.

“Also,” Toomey went on, “I know that Uncle Vincent refused to renew the Ellandy loan. He didn't just put you off, the way you said he did. He told you no. Unequivocally. That's something else you lied about.”

Gretchen's eyes were closed. Lionel had slumped down until his nose was only a few inches above his coffee cup.

Toomey played his last card. “There's still a question about the exact time of death, but it's pretty clear Uncle Vincent was killed sometime during the period you were taking inventory at Ellandy Jewels, Mr. Knox. That means you're in the clear. And if Mrs. Knox went into the study
after
you did, then she's in the clear too. Do you want me to find the killer? Then help me.”

Lionel lifted his eyes from the coffee cup. “Are you playing straight, Lieutenant? Or is this a trick?”

Toomey smiled. “Tricks can't substitute for evidence in the courts, Mr. Knox. That's straight.”

Lionel looked at Gretchen; she nodded. “I did go back, Lieutenant,” Lionel said, “and you must have guessed it, I was looking for that promissory note.”

“What time was this?”

“Oh, I got there around five, a little after. It was close to one-thirty when I went to bed, and I spent three hours tearing up the sheets. I couldn't sleep, thinking about that goddamned note. So I got to the point where I had to get up and
do
something.”

“So you went back to Uncle Vincent's house. And what did you find?”

“I didn't find the note, obviously. Uncle Vincent was sprawled out at his desk, and the room was a mess. I spent a lot of time looking at every piece of paper I could find.”

“Wait a minute—Uncle Vincent was at his
desk
?”

Lionel looked uncomfortable. “I moved him. I put him in the middle of the floor.”

The body was moved
twice?
“For god's sake
why
, man?”