The Judge Is Reversed (14 page)

One Floyd Ackerman had left his downtown, walk-up apartment at eight in the morning and had had breakfast in a nearby drugstore. He had then gone into the Independent subway station below Eighth Street on Sixth Avenue and disappeared from view. No great effort had been made to keep him in view. It did not appear that, at the moment, he was worth that many men.

Robert Sandys was being of what help he could to two detectives who, in the cavernous apartment on Riverside Drive, were going through papers, and Mrs. Sandys had made them coffee. Sandys had obligingly found a discarded tennis racket of his late employer's and one of the detectives—the taller of the two—had swung it in a service motion, and reported that the ceiling was high enough.

Captain Weigand would come this way, please. Captain Weigand went that way—went into a large corner office, with leather-covered furniture and a large desk. The man behind the desk, who stood up and came around it when Bill entered, was also large; he was white-haired, deeply tanned. He held out a brown hand. There was an outward innocence about Stuart Notson. He had, however, extremely shrewd blue eyes.

It was a hell of a thing about John Blanchard. It was a thing which was hard to believe. That good old John—And he—all of them—certainly wanted to do anything they could to help.

He sat down solidly behind the desk and Weigand sat in a client's comfortable chair, facing him.

Bill told Notson, in general, the provisions of the will they had found in Blanchard's apartment. Notson nodded. That, so far as he knew, was the last will. Only—

“Gave me a ring Friday,” Notson said. “Made an appointment to come down today—would have been here about now—” He paused and shook his head, in recognition of this sad coincidence of timing. He had said he wanted to make a few changes in his will.

Bill Weigand raised his eyebrows.

“Old story, isn't it?” Notson said.

“Right,” Bill said. “Cut somebody out? Or don't you know?”

“I don't know,” Notson said. “Somehow, I doubt it.” He put the first two fingers of either hand against firm cheeks and looked at Weigand. “This isn't evidence,” he said. “My guess was—just a guess, mind you—that all he wanted to do was to change a little wording. Now it reads something like, ‘To Hilda Latham, of Southampton, Long Island.' Maybe he wanted to change it to read, ‘To my wife, Hilda.' See what I mean?”

“But—”

“Foresighted,” Notson said. “I'm guessing. He'd been seeing a lot of the girl. Turned out to be a damned pretty thing, didn't she? Have the will got ready. Wouldn't need to sign it unless and until. Earnest of good faith, eh? And not any piddling little half million. The works, eh? Not that I say the girl's for sale. Still—with poor old Graham on the rocks the way he is. And John—well, John was quite a man. Older than I am, by a little. But—what's that, eh?”

Bill Weigand blinked slightly—and inwardly. He said he gathered that Mr. Notson had known John Blanchard rather well.

“John was a partner here, you know,” Notson said, speaking to a man who hadn't known at all. “Cameron, Notson and Blanchard, it was. Left us about fifteen years ago, and we kept the style for a while and then Abe came in. And poor Joe Cameron died—This hasn't anything to do with what you want, has it?”

Anything might have. Bill Weigand couldn't know in advance. Had Blanchard, since, been practicing law? On his own? With another firm?

He had not. Oh—now and then something came along. He was, for example—had been until the day before, anyway—the court-appointed administrator of the estate of an old friend of his. “Of mine, too. And that's a funny thing. You'd think—”

What Bill Weigand would think was that a man like Alex Somers, who had had brains enough to earn himself a fortune, would have had sense enough, too, to leave his affairs in order when he died. Which had been about two years ago. “Particularly when he spent most of his time flying around in company planes,” Stuart Notson said. He shook his rather distinguished head. “Didn't even make a will,” he said, in despondent disbelief. “Trouble for everybody. And some relative he'd probably never heard of—” The big man shrugged heavy shoulders. He looked sharply at Bill Weigand. “You made your will, captain?”

“Yes,” Bill said. Something tugged at his memory. Nothing in his memory gave.

“Good,” Notson said. “Aside from things like that—the surrogate's a friend of his, but everything was according to Hoyle—John didn't work at the law. Didn't need to, obviously. Spent a lot of time on tennis committees, things like that. Played a bit of bridge. Wrote a bit, just for the fun of it. Crazy about cats. Funny thing for a man to be crazy about, isn't it?”

“I don't know,” Bill said. “A good many men are, apparently. A friend of mine—”

He found he was in danger of being diverted. He put himself back on the track. He said Mr. Notson had mentioned bridge.

“Very good at it, John was,” Notson said. “Tournament caliber. Could have been top flight if—I suppose if the cats, and tennis, hadn't taken so much of his time.”

Notson had played with John Blanchard frequently. Usually at Blanchard's apartment, sometimes elsewhere. Often with Graham Latham as one of the four. Latham was good, too. If he had as much savvy about other things as he had about bridge, poor old Graham would be a lot better off.

“Tell me about Graham,” Bill said. “I gather you know him fairly well?”

“Classmates,” Notson said. “He and poor old John and I—all the same class at Princeton. After that, John went to Columbia Law and I went to Virginia and Graham—well, Graham began to make those investments of his. Poor guy.”

“Poor?” Bill repeated. “Is he?”

“Comparatively,” Notson said. “I feel as if I were gossiping over the back fence, captain. Not supposed to blab in my trade.” He paused. “Of course,” he said, “Graham isn't one of our clients.”

“Mr. Notson,” Bill said, “in my trade we listen to a lot of gossip. If it hasn't any bearing—”

The captain was not to think that Stuart Notson didn't realize what he was driving at. So—all right—

Graham Latham had been born to a lot of it—and to a big house in Southampton and things that went with a lot of it, and big houses anywhere. If he had been brighter, or more indolent, he would have let it go at that. But—

His father had been a—call it a financier. He had made most of what he left Graham Latham in the market. “Easier in those days,” Notson said. “Before SEC. Easier to lose it too, of course.” Graham Latham had decided to show everybody—“to show himself, I guess”—that he was as good a man as his father had been.

“And,” Notson said, “he wasn't. A thoroughly good Joe. But didn't have the knack. And wouldn't admit it. So now—well, now he's got a big house and a lot of grounds and—you live in the city, captain?”

“Yes.”

“Then you don't know what it runs to, keeping a place up,” Notson said. “We've got a place up in Connecticut. Not a patch on Graham's. Keeps us broke keeping the grass cut.” He paused. “In a manner of speaking,” he added.

As to what, in detail, Graham Latham had left of what he once had had, Notson didn't know. It wasn't one of the things, obviously, you asked about. And people could be “poor” on a variety of incomes. He didn't for a moment suppose that the Grahams went hungry. But—

“It's very relative, of course,” he said, and now seemed more thoughtful than before. The legal mind was there, Bill decided. “And to a degree it's—well, the entire shape of a man's life. If you're brought up one way—the way I was. Perhaps the way you were, captain—it's one thing. If you grow up as Latham did, it's quite another. And—you get saddled with things. Like that place of his. Theoretically, it's worth a lot of money. But—to whom? That's the question. Hundred thousand. Hundred and fifty thousand. Hell, I don't know. Cut the land up in one-acre plots—fine. The money rolls in. And the zoning board lands on you. Offer it whole, as an estate—I suspect Graham has, although he's never said so to me—and—” He shrugged. “Like having a yacht for sale,” he said. “When all anybody wants to buy is a cabin cruiser. Meanwhile—taxes and keeping the grass cut. We're getting a long way from John Blanchard, aren't we? And who killed him?”

“Miss Latham is—close to her parents? Would want to help? If, by the standards she's been brought up with, she thought help was needed?”

He was, Stuart Notson said, being asked to be a mind-reader.

“Not,” he said, “that I can't read yours, captain. On this point, anyway. About the girl—she's a nice girl, captain. From all I've ever seen. Probably, a responsible girl. As I said, I can't picture her marrying anybody—I know what you're getting at—just for the money. But, John was quite a guy. I said that, too. Good looking, vigorous—hell. A good many women have found it easy enough to fall for John.”

“Oh?”

“His wife died a good many years ago. Just before he left the firm, as a matter of fact. What would you expect, captain? John was no plaster saint.”

“Right,” Bill said. “I get your point. A very understandable—compromise—it might have been. All around. Only—”

“Only,” Stuart Notson said, “John got killed.”

“Right,” Bill said. “However, I was thinking more of something else, Mr. Notson.”

This time Notson said, “Oh?”

“I'm afraid,” Bill Weigand said, “that Miss Latham fell in love.”

Notson said “oh” again. He said it flatly, this time. He said, “Afraid, captain?”

“As you said,” Bill said, “Mr. Blanchard probably wasn't a saint. It would be very generous of him, wouldn't it, to leave half a million dollars to a girl who'd dropped him to marry somebody else? Saintly, you could almost call it, couldn't you?”

11

Sergeant Mullins drove the police car, which was not marked as such, along a narrow blacktop road, as he had been told to by a man at a filling station, and kept his eyes open. The sign was of wrought iron and read “Graham Latham.” He turned on the driveway, through the gap in the stone wall. Iron gates which might have stopped him stood open. The drive wound through lawns, among trees. The drive, Mullins thought, could use a few loads of gravel. The grass could stand cutting. Nevertheless, all very plush.

When the drive made its last turn but one, Mullins could see the house. A large house—in fact, a tremendous house. A brown shingle house, in front of which the drive circled. There was a porte-cochère and Mullins stopped the car in it, and walked up two wooden steps—which could have done with a coat of paint—to a white door. He pressed the button and, distantly, inside, a bell rang. He waited, briefly, and a man answered the door. The man said, “Morning?”

He was a wiry man of medium height, with gray hair in a brush cut and a crisp gray mustache. He was deeply tanned. He had unexpectedly full red lips and the faint, conceivably encouraging, smile behind which he waited showed very even, very white, teeth.

“Miss Latham?” Mullins said. “If she's in? My name is Mullins. Called earlier—”

“Right you are,” the wiry man said, and pushed the screen door toward Mullins. “Anything we can do.” He shuttered the faint smile. “About poor Johnny, of course.” He shook his head slowly. “Bad thing,” he said. “Damn bad thing. Come along in, eh?”

Sergeant Mullins went along in—went into a large, square hall, walked on a worn carpet.

“I'm Latham,” the wiry man said. “Hilda's father, y'know. Tells me you and some captain gave her a bit of a going over.”

His tone made light of this.

“Walked into a bit, didn't she?” he said. “Not that I mean into it, of course. In here, if you don't mind. She'll be along any minute.”

They went into a room off the hall. It was a large room, with a large fireplace at the far end, with french doors along one side. Two of the doors were open, behind screens; they opened onto a terrace. A rather weedy terrace.

“Too early to offer you anything, I expect,” Graham Latham said and then, his voice raised, “Hildy? Your visitor's here.” He directed this information through the open french doors. Apparently from some distance, a girl said, “Coming.”

“Cigar?” Latham said, and Mullins said “No thanks.” Latham moved—moved well, moved quickly—to a table and opened a box and took a cigar out of it, bit off the end, lighted the cigar. The cigar was appropriate to his face, Mullins thought. Cigars aren't to many faces. Latham wore a blue polo shirt and walking shorts and blue stockings which stopped just below his knees, and the clothes, too, were appropriate, although the man probably was nearing sixty. He didn't look it, Mullins thought. He'd kept himself in good shape.

Hilda Graham came from the terrace into the room. Yellow gladioli trailed from her left hand. She wore slacks and a loosely fitting sweater, and was a girl who could wear slacks. She said, “Good morning, sergeant. With you in a minute,” and to her father, “Last of them, I'm afraid,” and then she went on across the room and out of it on the other side, into the hall. She came back quickly, without flowers. “Had to put them in water,” she said. “Now, sergeant?”

Mullins looked at Graham Latham, briefly. “Don't mind if I sit in,” Latham told him, did not ask him. But he was pleasant about it. “Watching brief,” he said, and added, “as they call it. Eh?”

“Why not?” Mullins said, assuming there was nothing, in any case, to be done about it. Mullins had worn a blue business suit. It felt a little stiff on him. “Won't take long,” Mullins said.

“Sit down, sergeant,” Hilda Latham said, and herself moved to a chair. The deep red hair swayed as she moved. Quite something, she is, Mullins thought. And knows it. And why not? She sat down and leaned a little forward in the deep chair. The chair's dark slip cover was somewhat worn. “That's right,” Latham said. “Take your choice, sergeant.” Mullins took his choice. He chose a straight chair, and sat squarely in it.