Tweak the Devil's Nose

by Deming, Richard

  She entered the house without glancing back at us.

  Isobel continued to look thoughtful.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  “This won’t go beyond you?” she asked.

  “It won’t go to your husband. It may go to the police, but I’ll ask them to hold it in confidence. And if it ever gets back to your husband, you can simply say I’m a liar. I’m sure he’d believe you before he’d believe me.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I can handle Harlan.” She examined the swishing ice a moment longer, then said, “It’s true Willard stopped by Monday night. But it was only a social call.”

  “What time did he arrive?”

  “About six fifteen.”

  “A quarter hour after your husband’s plane left for Kansas City. How long did this social call last?”

  “Well, he stayed for dinner …”

  When her voice trailed off, I asked, “What time did he leave?”

  “Late, I guess. Rather late.”

  “His wife said he got home about one A.M. That when he left?”

  “Oh, no. Not that late.”

  “A quarter of one?”

  “I guess,” she said reluctantly. “Along in there somewhere.”

  “And you stayed here the whole time? You didn’t go out?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t spend an evening out with a man who was not my husband.”

  “I see,” I said. “Was Knight gone any of this time?”

  “Gone?”

  “From the house.” She shook her head.

  “You’re certain? Perhaps while you were washing dishes?”

  “He wiped,” Isobel said. “He wasn’t out of my sight all evening. Except …”

  She paused and I asked, “Except when?”

  “Well, a little after nine he went down the basement for more beer because the refrigerator was empty, and was gone nearly a half hour. He got interested in Harlan’s tool bench.”

  “A little after nine,” I repeated. “With perfect timing, he could have driven to El Patio, shot Lancaster and driven back again in a half hour. Could you hear him moving around in the basement?”

  “No. But I know he didn’t leave the house.”

  “How?”

  Suddenly she grinned a reckless grin straight at me. “He didn’t have any pants on. And the pants were draped over a chair within my sight all the time he was gone.”

  “That settles that,” I said. “One last question. Your meeting with Knight last night wasn’t accidental at all, was it?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Just trying to make all parts of the puzzle fit. Let me guess. He phoned you to arrange the meeting, and what he wanted was to work out some story which would get him off the hook for Lancaster’s murder, without disclosing he was over here with his pants off at the time Lancaster died.”

  “You put it rather crudely,” Isobel frowned.

  Her zany jiggling back and forth between candid admission and offended virtue began to irk me. “You mentioned his pants first,” I said. “Why, for cripes’ sake, do you balk at admitting a planned meeting with Knight in public, after admitting he spent a pantless six and a half hours with you in private?”

  “He didn’t have his pants off the whole time,” she said primly.

  I scowled at her and she said, “All right. He phoned me to meet him at the Sheridan and I sneaked out after Harlan went to sleep. We worked out a story that we had both gone to the auto races Monday night, only not together. I was going to tell the police I saw him in the crowd, but too far away to speak. The races last from eight thirty until ten thirty, so he would have been alibied for the time Mr. Lancaster was shot. After Willard died, there wasn’t any point in the story, of course, because it didn’t make any difference whether the police thought he killed Lancaster or not.”

  I examined her face, trying to decide whether this, finally, was the truth. It was, I decided, because the reasoning was so peculiarly her own. When she said it didn’t make any difference whether the police suspected a dead man of killing Lancaster or not, she meant simply that it didn’t make any difference to her. The fact that settling on Knight as Lancaster’s murderer would allow the real killer to go free, did not concern her. Nothing concerned her which did not directly affect herself.

  I climbed out of the swing. “Thanks, Isobel. I’ll keep our conversation as confidential as possible.”

  “I’m sure you will,” she said, smiling up at me. “Drop back again sometime. Without your lady friend.”

  The invitation did nothing to me. It didn’t flatter me, it didn’t excite me, it didn’t even bore me. It also hardly surprised me, for her lack of feeling over her lover’s death made me realize, at least subconsciously, she would be looking for another lover before the first turned cold. I just happened to be the first man handy.

  I gave her back a smile, but mine was merely polite instead of intimate. Then raising my voice, I called, “Fausta!”

  18

  It was nearly four thirty when we finally got back to headquarters. Day and Hannegan were awake by then, but only barely. We found them both in the inspector’s office, still rubbing sleep from their eyes.

  Warren Day greeted us glumly and made a vague gesture toward a couple of chairs. Hannegan, as usual, said nothing.

  When we were seated, I announced, “I’ve got a brand-new theory.”

  “Did you have an old one?” the inspector asked sourly.

  I said, “It’s a theory I don’t like very much.”

  “Then don’t bother me with it.”

  “I don’t mean it has flaws in it,” I explained. “I don’t like it for personal reasons.”

  Day’s expression turned faintly interested. “Personal reasons,” he repeated. “It can’t be you feel sorry for the killer, because you haven’t any heart to feel sorry with. It must be money. If your new theory is right, it’s going to cost you money.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that,” I said stiffly. “I just don’t like being taken for a sucker.”

  The inspector carefully chose a cigar stub from his ashtray, examined it for cleanliness and thrust it in his mouth. Around the stub he said, “Shoot.”

  “Let’s start back with the meeting between Lancaster and Knight,” I said. “According to the secretary at Jones and Knight, the two men were arguing over Lancaster’s determination to make a public announcement of some irregularity he had discovered in a company they both had large investments in. It seems that company was Ilco Utilities.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I told him of my visits to Harlan Jones and to the Mohl and Townsend Investment Company.

  “Ilco Utilities is almost certainly the company Lancaster referred to,” I went on. “In the first place, unless Willard Knight was doing his undercover speculation through more than one investment house, Ilco Utilities was the only stock he owned. In the second place, his hurry to unload it at the same price at which he had bought indicates a panicky desire to get out from under.”

  “I’ll accept your premise,” the inspector said impatiently. “You needn’t belabor the point.”

  “Then let’s jump to Mrs. Knight’s story of how her husband behaved when he saw the news of Lancaster’s murder. Remember she said first he seemed elated, then frightened, and when she questioned him, he made some remark to the effect that the news was a mixed blessing.”

  “She didn’t say it was Lancaster’s murder that set Knight off,” the inspector growled. “She just said it was something he saw in the paper. He never told her what.”

  “What else could it have been? He could hardly have missed it, since it was headlined on the front page. And his reaction was logical, since both his partner and his secretary were witnesses to the violent argument he had with Lancaster.”

  “Logical unless he actually shot Lancaster.”

  “He didn’t,” I assured him. “Look at it this way. The news of Lancaster’s murder was entirely
unexpected, and Knight’s first reaction was elation that Lancaster hadn’t lived long enough to make his public announcement, which gave Knight the twenty-four hours he needed to unload his stock. Then it occurred to him his argument with Lancaster made him a prime suspect and he had no alibi for the time of the murder, or at least none which would hold up under questioning. That dampened his elation, because he couldn’t afford to be detained by the police even for questioning until he sold out and replaced the money he had misappropriated from the company account. Therefore he disappeared long enough to transact his business.”

  The inspector chewed his cigar dubiously. “You put your own finger on the weak spot in your reasoning. Knight’s alibi doesn’t stand up. If he had no alibi, I might go along. But innocent people don’t fake alibis.”

  I said, “I don’t claim he was innocent of everything. Only of breaking the sixth commandment. Apparently he broke the seventh repeatedly.”

  The inspector looked at me blankly. Fausta, who had been sitting all this time with her hands demurely folded in her lap, interpreted for him.

  “Number six is, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Number seven, ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ Do you not read the Bible, Inspector?”

  “He reads the Police Gazette,” I told her, then turned back to the inspector. “Knight’s fake alibi was for his wife’s benefit, not an attempt to deceive the police. And I’m not spouting theory. Knight was with Isobel Jones on Monday evening from six fifteen until twelve forty-five. At her home.”

  Day’s eyebrows went up.

  “She admitted it,” I told him. “Of course it took me nearly ten minutes to break her down, whereas all you had was a night — ”

  “Get to the point, Moon!” Day roared, his nose beginning to whiten at the tip. “What did you get from the woman?”

  So I told him.

  The inspector’s scowl had faded by the time I had finished, to be replaced by a thoughtful look. “This time you think she told the truth?”

  “It fits the facts too well to be another of her fairy stories.”

  Removing the cigar from his mouth, the inspector absently tapped off nonexistent ash. “I don’t quite see how this theory costs you money, Moon.”

  “That wasn’t a theory,” I said. “Just some preliminary background. I’m coming to the theory now.”

  I paused long enough to light a cigar, Day’s fussing with his dead stub having suddenly made me tobacco hungry. “The odd thing in this case so far has been an apparent lack of motive. Of course there’s the remotely possible motive that Barney Seldon had Lancaster bumped as a roundabout method of avenging himself on Laurie Davis. But neither of us ever gave much credence to that, though Seldon must have some interest in the case, or he wouldn’t have sicked his hood on me. Incidentally, I figure the two mugs who grabbed me this morning must have been Seldon men too, though what Barney thinks he can accomplish by having me messed up, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t like your personality,” Day growled.

  Ignoring the comment, I went on, “Then we had Knight’s possible motive, but his getting killed pretty well eliminated him as a suspect even before we knew what we know now. Particularly since the attempt to poison Fausta came after Knight was dead. Only Lancaster’s killer would have any reason to pass at Fausta.”

  The inspector said impatiently, “You’ve been talking for ten minutes since you mentioned having a brand-new theory, and you still aren’t to the point. Stop acting like a senator.”

  “I’m there now, Inspector. Apparently Lancaster and Knight were the only ones who knew of the irregularities in Ilco Utilities. Both are dead. Apply the hoary old question. ‘Who profits most?’ and your answer is the person responsible for the irregularities. Could be the motive for both murders was simply to silence the only people who could send an embezzler to jail. Maybe if you had the Illinois police delve into Ilco Utilities, you’d find the person responsible for the irregularities and at the same time find a murderer.”

  Day was silent for a long time, his narrow nose pointed toward the cigar he had removed from his mouth and was now carefully shredding between his fingers. “I think I get what you mean about this theory costing you money,” he said finally. “Laurie Davis pay your fee in advance?”

  “Just half,” I said.

  “Hey!” Fausta put in. “Laurie Davis is a friend of mine, Manny Moon. And anyway, he would not be so stupid as to hire you to catch him.”

  “I’ve got a theory about that too,” I told her. “Maybe all he really wanted me to do was catch up with Willard Knight. Suppose Laurie knew Lancaster was going to talk things over with Knight and then blow the top off of Ilco Utilities? And suppose he also knew Knight had disappeared after the murder and would be a logical suspect? He wants Knight located fast, and what quicker way would there be than to hire a private investigator?

  He doesn’t have to say, ‘Find Willard Knight for me,’ because as the most logical suspect, he knows the investigator will go after Knight first. So he hires me ostensibly to find a killer, puts Farmer Cole on my tail, and when I locate Knight, the Farmer rubs him out.”

  “Wait a minute,” the inspector said. “We didn’t know Knight had disappeared even here at headquarters until you gave us the tip.”

  “But Laurie may have. He had been checking into the case before he came to see me, because he knew all about Barney Seldon being questioned and released. Why don’t you check Mrs. Knight, and Harlan Jones, and his secretary, Matilda Graves, to see if anyone made some inquiries before I did? And Laurie did put Farmer Cole on my tail. To protect me, according to the Farmer, which is a bit of thoughtfulness that seems out of character for Mr. Davis.”

  Fausta said, “No one was trailing us last night when Mr. Knight was killed.”

  I emitted an unamused laugh. “Farmer Cole knows how to stay invisible. He was on me a whole day, and the only two times I spotted him were the two times he wanted me to.”

  Day said, “I think I’m going to buy your new theory, Moon. But Davis isn’t the kind of guy you can pull in on suspicion. Before we go any further, I’m going to ask the Illinois police to look over Ilco Utilities.”

  He reached for his phone.

  I said, “I just had an idea which may tell us quicker if we’re on the right track. Let me make a call first.”

  The inspector took his hand away from the phone, leaned back in his chair and watched me while I looked up the number of the Mohl and Townsend Investment Company in the phone book. I gave it to the switchboard operator and a moment later was talking to old Mr. Mohl.

  After explaining I was in the office of the chief of Homicide, I asked if he had any information as to who were the directors of Ilco Utilities. He left me holding the phone nearly five minutes before he came back and began reeling off a list of a dozen names. One of the names was Laurence Davis.

  I said, “Thanks, Mr. Mohl,” and was about to hang up when he cleared his throat and said in his dried-up voice, “A person was in making inquiries about you shortly after you left here, Mr. Moon.”

  “A person?”

  “I didn’t see him myself. He talked only to our receptionist. He claimed he was a friend of yours, had seen you enter the building and was trying to find you. But the manner in which he asked questions convinced the girl he was trying to pump her about what your business had been.”

  “She tell him?”

  “No. She suggested he talk to me, but he said that wouldn’t be necessary and departed.”

  “Leave a name?” I asked.

  “No. But she describes him as tall and rather thin.”

  “She mention his teeth?”

  “His teeth?” Alfred Mohl paused in thought, then said, “She did, now that you remind me. Rather protruding, she said.”

  I said, “Thanks a lot, Mr. Mohl. I know the man.”

  I hung up and told Warren Day, “Farmer Cole is still on me. He walked into Mohl and Townsend right after we left and tried to find ou
t what I wanted there.”

  “That disproves your whole theory,” Fausta said. “If he was following you simply because he wanted to kill Mr. Knight, he would have stopped after accomplishing his mission. Probably Laurie Davis has him following you to make sure you do not loaf.”

  Ignoring her, I asked Day, “What do you make of that?”

  The inspector shook his head. “Nothing. It doesn’t make sense. Was Davis on the list of directors?”

  “Yeah. So maybe you better make that call to the Illinois police.”

  It was shortly after five when we left headquarters, and Fausta demanded a cocktail.

  “You have dragged me here, there and everywhere all afternoon,” she said. “But you have hardly even looked at me. Now it is time to forget work and concentrate on me.”

  I took her to the Jefferson because it was close to headquarters, found an empty booth and ordered a rum Coke and a rye and water. When the waiter brought them, he also brought a third glass which looked as if it contained Tom Collins.

  I said, “We ordered only two drinks.”

  “The gentleman at the cigarette machine,” he said, nodding toward a man who was in the act of dropping a quarter in the slot. “He said he was joining you and paid for all three drinks.”

  The man was Farmer Cole.

  He sauntered over tearing the red tab from his cigarette package, nodded to Fausta, looked at me without expression and slid into the booth on Fausta’s side.

  I asked, “Know the gentleman, Fausta?”

  “Oh, yes,” Fausta said. “Mr. Cole frequently dines at El Patio with Laurie Davis.”

  I raised my glass. “Thanks for the drink, Farmer.”

  “A pleasure.” Suddenly he pulled his cigarette trick again, popping a cigarette into his mouth and getting a lighted match under it in a blur of motion too fast to follow.

  I said, “Some day you’re going to scorch the end of your nose doing that.”

  “It’s my nose,” he said in a reasonable tone.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “But it seems to spend a lot of time in my business. Got a plausible explanation for keeping on my tail constantly?”

  “Not constantly,” he demurred. “Only periodically. And I told you why. Boss’s orders.”