Grave Error

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “Oh, he’s back now. Perfectly fine as far as I can tell. But for one week, beginning on the Fourth of July, Roland Nelson disappeared. No one knew where he was. Not me. Not his staff. No one.”

  “Have you asked him about it?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. He won’t talk about it.”

  “You said several things had happened. What else?”

  “Well, he’s been very nervous. It’s difficult to explain, but he’s started smoking again, for example. After quitting for more than two years. And he’s not sleeping well. I hear him wandering around the house at all hours of the night, mumbling to himself.”

  “Anything else?”

  She hesitated and reached up to smooth her hair. “I suppose I might as well tell you everything,” she said, more to herself than to me.

  I tried to look encouraging.

  “I think Roland’s paying money to someone.”

  She had to force the words out, and when they came she didn’t like them. Neither did I. “You mean blackmail?” I asked.

  “Yes. I can’t be sure because we keep separate accounts and Roland handles all the finances, but some things other people have said make me suspicious.”

  “Such as?”

  She was silent for a minute. “I hate to say this,” she said at last. “It’s probably nothing. But Bill Freedman’s my husband’s chief aide. He’s been with Roland almost from the beginning, but lately they’ve been quarreling. The other night Bill and some other staff people were at the house. Everyone had a bit too much wine and toward the end of the evening Bill said something to Roland that indicated very strongly, at least to me, that Bill thought Roland was taking too much money out of the Institute for his personal use. Bill was upset, and so was Roland. And it definitely had something to do with money.”

  “What exactly did they say?”

  “I can’t remember. I had too much wine, too. But I’m sure Bill accused Roland of making excessive withdrawals from the Institute account.”

  “Have you got any other evidence?”

  “Not really.”

  “Have you talked with anyone else about this?”

  “No,” she said quickly.

  “Why did you come to me?”

  “I heard Andy Potter talking about you one night. He’s Roland’s lawyer. You know Andy, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “He has a high opinion of you, Mr. Tanner. He made you sound like someone I could trust.”

  Her eyes became cool and soothing compresses, and I let them wash over me for a few seconds. Then I asked her if she had any idea who the blackmailer might be.

  “No,” she replied. “The natural suspicion is that it’s a woman, of course,” she added primly.

  Instinctively I raised my hand. “Just a minute, Mrs. Nelson. I don’t do divorce work. I gave it up when I was spending more buying enough booze to forget how I earned my living than I made from photographing people in motel lobbies. You don’t need to prove infidelity anyway. All you do is march up and say you and your husband have irreconcilable differences which have caused the irremediable breakdown of your marriage. Civil Code Section Forty-five-o-six. Quick and simple. No questions asked, if you get the right judge.”

  Her smile was indulgent, but just barely. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mr. Tanner,” she declared. “I have no desire to divorce Roland. Whether or not he’s having an affair is not the problem. I’m worried about blackmail, not sex.”

  I apologized and watched her enjoy it.

  “My husband’s position—his work—is important to me, Mr. Tanner,” she went on. “As important as it is to him. Roland has been very successful, of course, and I like to think I’ve been of some help in achieving that success.”

  I knew Mrs. Nelson was active in one of the Institute’s new projects—the treatment of the mentally ill. I remembered seeing a picture of her in the violent ward of some mental hospital back east, looking like an angel in an abattoir.

  “I believe,” she went on, “that the reason Roland is effective when so many are not is because he is looked upon by many as a saint. I mean that literally, Mr. Tanner. I’m sure you are familiar with the rather bizarre religious experiences some young people are drawn to these days. Jesus Freaks. Moonies. Krishnas. Well, Roland is a religious figure to many of his people. You should see the apostles gather at his feet when he calls a staff meeting.”

  I nodded, to keep her going. There was a slight edge to her voice. It could have been sarcasm or it could have been reverence—I couldn’t tell. I asked if she wanted another drink and she shook her head.

  “So far,” she went on, “Roland has conducted himself impeccably. There has been no scandal, no seamy innuendo, even though many of his enemies would love to smear him in that way. But now I’m afraid Roland has taken a lover. If he has, it wouldn’t shock me. Roland is a vibrant man. A man of enormous energies. For many years those energies were completely absorbed by his work. But the Institute has grown tremendously, and Roland no longer has to do everything himself. For the first time he has time to think, to reflect on his past and on his future. That’s dangerous in a man nearing forty. Moreover, he is surrounded by women. All of them intelligent, many attractive.

  “Roland is a good man but he is not a saint, Mr. Tanner. I can understand how he might become entangled in an affair, and as I said, that doesn’t bother me. What does bother me is the power, the leverage, that Roland will place in the hands of any mistress he takes. By disclosing their relationship she could absolutely destroy Roland and his work. The basest sinner is vilified less cruelly than a fallen priest, Mr. Tanner. I want to be sure that both my husband and his work survive. That’s why I came to you.”

  Her eyes measured me as carefully as a coin collector’s at an estate sale. I asked her what made her think her husband was having an affair.

  “My senses are acute,” she answered. “I know when a man is content and when he’s not.”

  That didn’t quite answer the question, but I didn’t pursue it. “Do you have any suspects for the role of the other woman?” I asked.

  “None I want to mention.”

  “Is there any reason your husband might need a lot of money, other than to pay off a blackmailer?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Is there anything he could be blackmailed over besides his sex life?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Okay, let’s get back to the disappearance. Exactly when did it happen?”

  “Tuesday. July fourth.”

  “And he didn’t show up for a week?”

  “That’s right. Everyone was frantic. Then, last Monday he walked into the house as though he had just been out to Swensen’s for a quart of French vanilla.”

  “And he won’t tell you where he went?”

  “No. Not me and not anyone else.”

  “Have you come across anything that might indicate where he went? A plane ticket or a hotel bill or something?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Has he done this kind of thing before?”

  “Well, he travels a lot, of course, but this was different.”

  I leaned back in my chair. It didn’t sound like much to me. Nelson was probably on the trail of a fresh political scandal and didn’t want to break it until the time was right. It would probably clear itself up in a couple of days, at least if Mrs. Nelson’s suspicions about a love affair were groundless. If they weren’t, and Nelson was sharing all those energies with some lowly apostle, it would be the kind of job that’s never fun, the kind that makes you look to see if scales have formed on your belly. But maybe this time I could convince myself that someone would be better off for my labors.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You want me to find out if your husband is being blackmailed. That’s your primary concern.”

  “Right.”

  “And you think it might be some woman he’s slee
ping with but you’re not sure. Do you want to know who he’s messing around with, even if he’s not being hit for money?”

  “I guess so. Just to make sure there’s no danger of her harming Roland.”

  “And if he’s not being blackmailed but is taking money out of the Institute for some other reason. Do you want to know what he’s doing with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to know where he went and why when he dropped out of sight?”

  “Right.”

  “How about the police?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If it looks like someone is putting the arm on your husband, do you want me to bring the police into it?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “Definitely not. Report only to me. I expect you to be absolutely discreet about this, Mr. Tanner. I want no one to know what you’re doing. No one.”

  “I’ve had a lot of experience in not talking to people, Mrs. Nelson. It’s one of the things I do best.”

  “I suppose it is. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll check it out. But I’m going to need some kind of cover that will let me talk to people at the Institute and meet your husband without arousing suspicion.”

  “Is that necessary? I’d prefer no one knew I’ve hired you.”

  “I doubt if I can detect a blackmail attempt just by tailing your husband when he goes out for ice cream.”

  Mrs. Nelson smiled. “Very well. Is it possible my husband or someone at the Institute will know you’re a detective?”

  “It’s possible. I show up in the papers from time to time. Is there some reason you might need an investigator? Something routine? Maybe something having to do with the Institute?”

  “Let’s see.” She paused. “I know. Roland has been quite concerned about our daughter lately. She’s just become engaged and Roland doesn’t care for her fiancé at all. It’s all nonsense, of course, but Roland’s stubborn. Claire is crippled and the man is much older than she, and Roland is afraid she’s being taken advantage of. Perhaps we could say I hired you to investigate her fiancé, to make sure he’s worthy of being Roland’s son-in-law.”

  This time the tilt to her voice was definitely sarcastic. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said. “It may take quite a while to find out everything you want to know. In the meantime, your husband’s going to want a report on this. If he doesn’t get it he’ll become suspicious, and I don’t want to give the fiancé a clean bill of health if he doesn’t deserve it. What we need is a problem that primarily involves you.”

  “Then how about this? I’ve been doing some work in the mental health field. When they cut way back on the budget and most of the state institutions closed down, a lot of local treatment centers were established to take up the slack. They’re privately owned but they get a lot of federal money. Well, we have reason to believe one particular chain of these centers, the Langdale clinics, is a fraud. There are three of them here in town. They spend almost nothing on the patients, keep them doped to the gills, and pocket most of the money they get from Washington. I could hire you to look into it.”

  “What if someone asks why you aren’t using the Institute staff?”

  “Couldn’t I say that I’m afraid of violence? There’s some suspicion that organized crime has moved into the health care field, you know.”

  I shrugged. “It’s a little more complicated than I usually like to get, but it’ll have to do. Tell you what. Give me a few days to tail your husband and check the airlines and travel agencies and whatnot before we put the cover into operation. If I can’t turn up anything working blind I’ll give you a call and we’ll start phase two.”

  “Whatever you think is best.”

  “Do you know your husband’s schedule tonight?”

  “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “Does he usually come home after work?”

  “It varies. As far as I know he’ll be home for dinner.”

  “Then I’ll try to pick him up at your place this evening. Can you tell me some of his closest friends? Business associates? People he commonly sees?”

  “There’s Bill Freedman at the Institute. And Sara Brooke. They’re his right-hand people. Then there’s Andy Potter.”

  “Does Andy know you came to see me?”

  “Yes, but not why. We can use our cover story on him, can’t we?”

  “I guess we’ll have to.”

  “I can’t think of any other special friends. Roland doesn’t have much time for friendship. No one is really close to him. Except Claire.”

  Her eyes slid away from mine and strayed to the window. Shadows masked her face, emphasizing her strength. She was a woman determined to stand beside her man, whatever the cost, and something about the way her jaw was set made me think the cost of standing beside Roland Nelson had already been high.

  We covered a few more details and agreed that I would call her in a few days. She asked me if I needed a retainer and I said I didn’t, which wasn’t the most precise statement I’ve ever made.

  “I guess that’s it,” I said, and pushed my chair away from the desk.

  “By the way, Mr. Tanner,” Mrs. Nelson added quickly. “Andy said you used to be a lawyer. A good one. Then you got in some kind of trouble and were disbarred. What was that all about?”

  “I wasn’t disbarred. I was suspended. The trouble was a conviction for contempt of court. It’s a long story, and one I’ve told too many times. Besides, the manual of detective etiquette says you shouldn’t bore clients during the first interview. Maybe some other time.”

  “If you insist,” she replied. “But I want to hear all about it one of these days. I’ve always been fascinated by contemptuous behavior.” Flirtation skated briefly across her face and then was gone.

  I watched her float out of the room and listened to her chat briefly with Peggy about a sale at Magnin’s. Then the outer door squeaked shut and I thought a little about Mrs. Roland Nelson.

  A strong woman. Intelligent. Determined. Loyal and devoted to her mate. But I was uneasy and I knew why. I’m from the old school, the one where jealousy is the most powerful emotion in any relationship, which means I never trust anyone who claims to love someone regardless of his sexual fidelity. In my book either Jacqueline Nelson didn’t love her husband or she was frantic over the possibility that he was doing some extramarital prancing. In either case I was going to be careful about the kind of information I handed over to my client. If Mrs. Nelson had evidence that her husband was mired in a seamy affair, she could destroy him as rapidly as any mistress could. If Roland Nelson was shot down, I didn’t want the ammunition traced to me.

  FOUR

  I never eat breakfast in my apartment. A little beanery on Columbus makes scrambled eggs and fried potatoes the way I like them and the owner lets me run a tab. The place is called Zorba’s. The boss is Romanian, not Greek, but after seeing the Anthony Quinn movie some years back he renamed his restaurant, began serving stuffed grape leaves every Thursday night, and pestered his customers until they got up and danced to the music he piped in.

  My standard order was on the grill before I got to my regular stool at the end of the counter. Zorba and a customer were arguing about the Giants, who were fielding a team of unknowns and leading their division in spite of it. I pulled a newspaper out from under the counter and glanced at the headlines. The President’s drug counselor had been caught sniffing cocaine at a Washington party and Congress was trying to take away valuable mineral rights we had given the Indians by treaty a hundred years ago. The rest of the paper was full of articles about what Proposition 13 would do, and to whom, and when. I knew what it would do—make life tougher for people who already had it tough and easier for people who already had it easy. I didn’t vote for it, but then I haven’t had anything to vote for since Adlai Stevenson was on the ballot.

  After a bite of egg and a bite of toast I did what I do every day: I looked at the sign Zorba had hung on the wall abov
e the coffee machine. It was hand lettered on the back of a shirtboard and read like this:

  So they about the body gripping their headed spears kept inexorably close together, and slaughtered on both sides. And such would be the saying of some bronze-armored Achaean: “Friends, there is no glory for us if we go back again to our hollow ships; but here and now let the black earth open gaping for all; this would soon be far better for us if we give up this man to the Trojans, breaker of horses, to take away to their own city, and win glory from him.”

  The sign changed every other day, and only professors of ancient history and Zorba’s regular customers knew what was going on: Zorba was printing up the entire Iliad in daily installments. He’s been making the signs for five years and is up to Book Seventeen. After the Iliad will come the Odyssey. After that he’s not sure, probably Aeschylus. One day I asked Zorba if anyone besides him had read every installment. He said he didn’t know and didn’t care.

  By the time I finished the sports page the eggs and potatoes were a smear of grease on the plate. I finished off the coffee, overtipped my favorite waitress, waved to Zorba, and drifted downtown with the fog.

  I had followed Roland Nelson for five nights and four days, and it had been a merry chase: a speech to some high school kids in San Rafael and another to a Kiwanis club in Menlo Park; meetings at an automobile plant in Fremont and a bank in San Jose; a court appearance in San Francisco and testimony before a legislative committee in Sacramento. I suppose the schedule was routine for Nelson; I don’t see that many people in a year.

  Most of the time Nelson traveled alone in a green Gremlin that hadn’t been washed since the last rain. On the trip to Sacramento he’d taken along a corpulent young man who toted a briefcase the size of a bureau drawer and scurried behind Nelson like a hungry puppy.

  Nelson’s other companion was much more interesting. The day he went to court he was accompanied by a woman beautiful enough to be a prime candidate for the title of Nelson’s mistress, if he had one. I perked up when I saw her, and even more when they went to a late lunch at Doros, but the only thing I learned for certain was that the bartender there makes a good gimlet and my Buick needs a new set of plugs.