But He Was Already Dead When I Got There

by Barbara Paul

  “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 an
y 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.”

  Nicole grinned wryly. “I can’t work either.”

  Dorrie tossed her pencil away. “I’m about ready to give up.”

  “I think I’ll go home too. It’s impossible to concentrate. I keep thinking of Uncle Vincent slumped over his desk with his head bashed in.”

  Dorrie nodded. “It’s an ugly picture. And so unnecessary! Uncle Vincent was sure to keep his valuables upstairs in that safe—the burglar couldn’t have gotten anything of real value.”

  “Ah yes, the bedroom safe,” Nicole remarked grimly. “It’s just as well none of us tried to steal the promissory note after all.” She was watching Dorrie carefully.

  “I suppose,” Dorrie said faintly.

  “A safe!” Nicole tossed her head in disgust. “You know, we should have thought of that.”

  “Yes, we should have,” Dorrie said more firmly. “None of us was thinking straight last night. We should have known Uncle Vincent wouldn’t just leave the note lying about where anyone could get it.” Her face darkened. “You’d think he didn’t trust us! He was the one who was always pulling tricks. He—”

  “Dorrie,” Nicole said quickly, “don’t get angry. It won’t help.”

  Dorrie inhaled deeply, let it out. “I’m not angry—just exasperated. To think that note’s probably up in his bedroom right now!”

  “I wonder,” Nicole said carefully, “whether he had the combination written down somewhere. Do you think he’d depend on his memory for something as important as a safe combination?”

  “No-o-o-o, I don’t think he would,” Dorrie said just as carefully. “I wonder where he kept it.”

  “Right there in the bedroom with him, I should think.”

  “Like maybe taped to the inside of a drawer or like that?”

  “Or something fancier. Circles around dates on a calendar, perhaps?”

  “Do you think Gretchen knows?”

  “The combination? I doubt it.”

  After that, they seemed to have no more to say on the subject. Both women agreed there was no hope of getting any work done that day and they might as well go home.

  The law offices of Buhl, Fenning, and Conner had the look of a British gentlemen’s club—hushed, discreet, and solid as Gibraltar. It had to be a cultivated look instead of an evolved one, since the firm had been in existence only ten years. Lieutenant Toomey wondered idly if a lawyer might find it a disadvantage to have a name like “Conner.” A secretary wearing a no-nonsense gray suit ushered him and Sergeant Rizzuto into Malcolm’s office.

  Malcolm Conner was also wearing a gray suit, and a conservative haircut as well. His manner was courteous but restrained as he invited the two policemen to sit down. “I suppose you’re here about Uncle Vincent. I’m sorry he’s dead. What can I do to help?”

  Whether he meant it or not, Malcolm had been the first to express regret over the old man’s death, and Lieutenant Toomey didn’t overlook it. Nor did he miss the fact that the home address and telephone number Malcolm supplied were the same as those of Nicole Lattimer. So that made three ties Malcolm Conner had to Ellandy Jewels—as attorney, as brother, and as lover.

  Malcolm the attorney told Lieutenant Toomey the same story the others had told but in a more precise way. Malcolm the brother expressed concern for Dorrie Murdoch. Malcolm the lover had no comment.

  “Was the fire still going when you left?” Toomey asked.

  Malcolm frowned. “I think it was. I’m not sure.”

  “Nicole Lattimer says it was out.”

  “Then it probably was. I don’t really remember.”

  “Where did you go when you left, Mr. Conner?”

  “We all went to a bar—it’s called Danny’s Tavern, I believe. All of us except Gretchen Knox, that is. I hadn’t had dinner and wanted a sandwich.”

  Rizzuto shot Toomey a glance that the Lieutenant ignored; nobody had said anything about a bar before. “How long were you there?” Toomey asked.

  “About an hour. It was shortly after ten when we left.”

  Just long enough to talk things over, Toomey thought. “Then where did you go?”

  “Dorrie, Lionel, and Nicole went in to Ellandy’s—in Lionel’s car. I went home. I presume Simon Murdoch did the same.”

  Without changing his tone of voice Toomey asked, “What time did Ms. Lattimer get home?”

  Not even a flicker of expression passed over Malcolm’s face, but Sergeant Rizzuto looked surprised. “It was sometime after midnight,” the attorney said. “I’m sorry I can’t be more exact, Lieutenant, but I fell asleep watching television. Now may I ask you something? Why are you questioning our movements? Wasn’t it a burglar who killed Uncle Vincent?”

  “I thought so at first,” Toomey said honestly, “but now I’m not so sure. Too many incongruities. For instance, why would a burglar scatter Mr. Farwell’s papers all over the place?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “Looking for what he could find.”

/>   “In the file cabinet? Come now, Mr. Conner, ordinary burglars don’t search file cabinets. Only extraordinary ones do, burglars who are looking for something specific. By the way, how did you know there were papers scattered about?”

  Malcolm’s face gave nothing away. “You just told me.”

  “But you weren’t surprised.”

  “Should I have been? Lieutenant, a man has been killed—I’m supposed to be surprised because the murder room was in disarray? I don’t know what happened there last night. There could be any number of reasons why those papers were scattered about.”

  “Such as?”

  But Malcolm cautiously refused to speculate over the events that had transpired in the library during the night. When pressed to speculate about Vincent Farwell’s decision concerning the loan, however, Malcolm expressed full confidence that Uncle Vincent would have renewed once he’d had time to study the figures more thoroughly.

  When Toomey was convinced he was going to learn nothing more, he and Rizzuto left. In the elevator on the way down, Rizzuto asked, “Howja know Conner and the Lattimer woman was livin’ together?”

  “Same address and phone number. An odd pairing—they’re nothing alike. He’s so conservative and she’s so … not. But maybe he has a Bohemian streak in him that appeals to Nicole Lattimer, who knows?”

  “The bar,” Rizzuto said just as the elevator reached the ground floor. “None of ’em said nothin’ about a bar.”

  Toomey waited until they were in the car to answer. “It does help fill in the timetable, though. They all left Farwell’s house around nine, all except Gretchen Knox. They spent about an hour in Danny’s Tavern—plotting their next move? Rizzuto, I want you to check at that bar tonight. See if you can find their waitress and confirm the times.”

  “Okay,” said Rizzuto.

  “Then shortly after ten,” Toomey went on, “according to Conner, the three Ellandy people left together, Lionel driving. Those three stayed together until after midnight, past the time Farwell was killed. Conner and Simon Murdoch left separately, meaning—”

  “Meanin’ no alibi,” Rizzuto said.

  “Meaning no alibi,” Toomey agreed. “Let’s hear what Mr. Simon Murdoch has to say for himself.”