12-Scam

by Parnell Hall

  “Why of course not?”

  “Why would they?”

  “I take it you made these calls before the murder?”

  “Of course.”

  “Because after the murder it would have been a topic of conversation.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  “No.”

  “No one mentioned Cranston Pritchert at all?”

  Rothstein hesitated.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  Rothstein made a face. “Nothing. It’s just when you say at all … well, one of the stockholders I called was voting for Pritchert.”

  “Oh?”

  “Which is not what you were asking. Has nothing to do with the incident. It’s just his name did come up.”

  “Did he say why?”

  Rothstein hesitated again.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just ...well, actually, it’s a she.”

  “Oh. Did she say why?”

  “No. She didn’t.”

  “Is this someone you know personally?”

  “Not at all,” Rothstein said. “Just a stockholder. A rather large one. Not as large as any of us, but a substantial stockholder.”

  “And the fact is, she said she was voting for Pritchert. That must have been rather upsetting. One of your clients, voting for Pritchert.”

  Again, Rothstein’s eyes betrayed him. Finally, it dawned on me why.

  What a dope. I’d been attributing his embarrassment to the fact he must have a personal relationship with the woman. When actually it was the other way around. He had no relationship with the woman at all.

  The woman was one of Cranston Pritchert’s clients.

  Aha, Rothstein.

  So that’s the way the wind blows.

  35.

  JACK JENKINS LOOKED LIKE A bookkeeper. I know that’s a horrible thing to say, but that’s how he struck me. A little man with a bald head and wire-rimmed glasses, he looked as if he spent all his time staring at books and adding up long columns of figures. Which makes no sense at all, since modern-day bookkeepers use calculators and. computers and what have you, and probably don’t even need to know how to add.

  Anyway, Jack Jenkins, who was indeed a bookkeeper, crinkled up his nose and peered at me through his glasses. “And just what is it that you want?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me about the company stock.”

  “Such matters are confidential.”

  “I’m sure they are. I wasn’t referring to any particular stockholder. I meant in general.”

  “In general?”

  “Yes. Say I was interested in buying stock in your company. What would I be buying?”

  Jenkins cleared his throat. “I don’t sell stock.”

  “I understand. But you’re the bookkeeper. You keep track of it.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So what’s a share worth? How many shares are there?”

  Again Jenkins cleared his throat. “As to the worth of a share, that would fluctuate with the stock market. As to how many shares in all, I’d have to ask you what’s your interest?”

  “There’s a stockholders meeting coming up.”

  “Yes. Tomorrow night.”

  “To elect a new chairman of the board.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “I’m wondering how many shares it would take.”

  “To get elected?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would take a majority.”

  “A majority?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “What could be more specific than that?”

  “Do you mean fifty-one percent?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What if the winner got forty-nine percent?”

  “Then he wouldn’t be the winner.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He would have a plurality, not a majority. Which would not be enough to win.”

  “What would happen then?”

  “There’d be another vote.”

  “You mean a runoff?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Between the top two candidates?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What would happen with the proxies?”

  “Proxies?”

  “Yes. Would new proxies have to be sent in?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Why not? What about all the proxies sent in for people who weren’t in the runoff?”

  Jenkins shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

  “Probably not. Why don’t you explain.”

  “A proxy isn’t a vote—it delegates the power to vote. Say you have shares in the company. You want to see me chairman of the board. You give me your proxy to vote your shares. So I vote for me. But suppose I don’t win. Suppose there’s a runoff and I’m not in it. I still have your proxy and I can vote your shares for either candidate I wish.”

  “What if I didn’t like that?”

  “You could send in another proxy. Any new proxy supersedes an old one.”

  “That’s what I thought. Now, in the present case, have the proxies all been sent in?”

  “The majority have been.”

  “When you say the majority, do you mean fifty-one percent?”

  “No. I mean most of them. They’re almost all in. There may be one or two stragglers. And, of course, there are some stockholders who never bother to turn in proxies. But of those we’re going to get, they’re almost all in.”

  “Uh-huh. And who holds the majority of the proxies?”

  “That I can’t tell you.”

  “Because it’s confidential?”

  “Because I don’t know. And I won’t know until the stockholders meeting, when the proxies are counted up.”

  “I would have thought that would have been your job.”

  “It is. And when they are counted, I will do the accounting. Until then, I merely assemble and compile them. But how they add up, frankly I don’t want to know. You see, working here as I do, it would be very uncomfortable for me to know.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “You have the proxies here in your office?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What’s to stop one of the candidates from coming in and sneaking a peek?”

  He shrugged, “Ethics, I guess. That and the fact I work long hours. I’m usually the last to leave.”

  “What about the night Cranston was killed?”

  “What about it?”

  “Were you the last to leave then?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “So what happened?”

  He shrugged. “He must have come back.”

  “He had a key?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What about the other vice-presidents?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do they have keys?”

  “I would imagine.”

  “You would imagine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With Cranston, it’s, Yes, of course. With them, it’s, I would imagine.”

  “In Cranston’s case, I know he had a key because he got in. The night he was killed. If it weren’t for that, I would assume he had a key, just like the other two.”

  “You’re assuming now.”

  “What?”

  “That Cranston had a key. You’re assuming he had a key because he got in. But what if someone else let him in? Then he wouldn’t necessarily have to have a key.”

  “Who would have let him in?”

  “Whoever was here.”

  “But there was no one here.”

  “Someone was here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because someone killed him.”

  “Yes, but that someone came later.”

  “How do you know?”

  Jenkins smiled. “Because
you don’t have a key.”

  I nodded. “Nice shot.”

  “Thank you,” Jenkins said. “See, if you are the killer, as the police contend, the theory is Cranston was here alone and let you in. Either that or the two of you arrived together. In either case, it’s Cranston who had the key.”

  “I see you’ve worked this out.”

  “That’s what I do.” Jenkins shrugged. “Usually it’s only money.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d happen to know why I would have killed Cranston Pritchert?”

  “Sorry,” Jenkins said. “I deal in facts, not theories.”

  “Well, you could have fooled me.”

  “Why? I think everything I said about the key is totally logical.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “But—”

  I broke off as Jenkins’s eyes widened and I realized he was looking over my left shoulder.

  I turned around.

  The cops were there.

  36.

  “CLOSE THE DOOR.”

  Uh-oh. Sergeant Belcher had dismissed the cops from his office. Without summoning a stenographer. That left me alone with the gentleman. And now he was closing the door. This did not bode well.

  Belcher got up from his chair, walked around, and sat on the front of his desk. I was seated in front of it in a folding chair. Belcher towered over me, while appearing completely at ease. The effect was chilling.

  Belcher tapped his fingers together, pursed his lips. “So,” he said. “What am I going to do with you? Here you are, prime suspect in a murder case. Arraigned, on bail, and whaddya do? You return to the murder scene, start interviewing everyone in sight. Now, what is a poor policeman to think?”

  I had no idea. When he’d closed the door, I’d expected Belcher to beat me up. The fact he wasn’t was somewhat unsettling.

  Don’t get me wrong—I didn’t want to get beaten up. Still, I would have liked to have had some idea what the guy was doing. In light of what I knew about Belcher, his casual routine was somewhat nerve-wracking.

  At any rate, I could think of nothing to say. I sat there, held my tongue, waiting for a question that wasn’t rhetorical.

  I got one. “Would you mind telling me what you were doing at the murder scene?”

  “I was talking to the suspects.”

  Belcher held up his hand. “Oh, no. Sorry. That won’t do. You see,you’re the suspect. These other people are witnesses at best.”

  I shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “Oh, but I do. We have a very simple situation here. You’ve been arraigned for murder. You’re lucky to be out walking around. Toward that end, I have brought you in here to offer you a bit of friendly advice.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Since obviously you need it. Let me explain the situation. You are out on bail. You know what bail is? I’ll tell you. For a policeman, it is a frustrating thing. You work up a case, arrest a suspect, and what happens? The suspect is allowed to walk around free. After a while, you start saying to yourself, why did I bother? That’s one reason why cops get jaded, sour on the system, you know what I mean?”

  No, I didn’t. And I was getting sicker by the moment. The guy was playing with me, knowing I was a friend of MacAullif. Only I didn’t know what the game was. So all I could do was sit and listen.

  Belcher held up his finger. “There’s one saving grace. About bail, I mean. You know what that is? It’s not irrevocable. A judge sets bail, a suspect walks. But ...Something happens to alter the situation, bail can be revoked. And the suspect returned to jail. See what I mean?”

  Yes, I did. The picture was finally clear. There was no need for Belcher to elaborate.

  He did anyway. “So here’s you. Out on bail, and what do you do but go prowling around the murder scene. Talking to the witnesses. Stirring things up. Makes you stop and think. Hey, maybe this guy shouldn’t be on bail after all.” Belcher stopped, looked at me. “But that’s just my opinion. What do you think?”

  Well, that was certainly a direct question. Not one I particularly wanted to answer. Still, there was no avoiding it.

  I took a breath. “I’m afraid you’ve got it backward. The fact is, I didn’t kill Pritchert, and I’m trying to find out who did.”

  Belcher shook his head. “Oh, no. Sorry. Faulty premise. You killed him, all right. Just like you killed the talent agent. The only real question is, which one is it easier to prove? I thought maybe you could help me out here, analyzing this evidence. I just have to tell you, it is so rare when we get so much evidence in one particular case. Or here, in two particular cases. The only real question is, which one is stronger?

  “Now, what’s-his-name—your client—Cranston Pritchert—we got a lot there. We got the gun, but we got the gun in either case. It’s unregistered—what a surprise—so we can’t trace it to you that way, but it happened to be in your car.

  “Aside from that, well, we got you on the scene. You discovered the body, or so you say. A convenient ruse, and not a particularly original one. Hell, practically every wife kills her husband says to the cops, Well, I came home and found him dead.”

  Belcher shrugged his shoulders. “Then there’s the stormy relationship. The guy owed you money, tried to stiff you out of it. Of course, he lied to you up and down the line. First about the blackmail note, then about hiring the talent agent. Enough to drive anyone around the bend.”

  Belcher chuckled. “And that’s just your story. That’s assuming what you say is true. And who’s assuming that? More than likely you and Pritchert are involved in some scam. And doing it together for the cash, which he is attempting to do you out of. It’s not surprising you might shoot him.”

  Belcher clapped his hands together, spread them wide. “But, hey,” he said. “That’s just Pritchert. The way I understand it, there’s a much better case for you doing in the talent agent.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  Belcher smiled. “So? Finally got a rise out of you? Good. I’m glad to see you’re at least paying attention. Now, the point I’m trying to make is as the evidence mounts, if you keep messing around, there is reason for revoking bail. See that? That’s my thesis. That’s what I’m trying to sell to the ADA. To get the ADA to sell to the judge. Let’s lock the guy up before he destroys all the evidence, so we aren’t able to make a case.”

  Belcher shoved off the edge of the desk, stood there, towering over me. I wondered if he was going to haul off and slug me. If his whole conversational routine had been to lull me into a sense of false security, before cold-cocking me right in the chair. But no, after a moment or two he turned and walked around behind the desk.

  “Now, where was I?” Belcher said. “Oh, yeah. The evidence. We were looking at the evidence. The evidence that you killed this Shelly Daniels. Granted, the motive here is not clear. But so far we have only the fairy story you’ve chosen to tell. Who knows what the actual scam was, and how you fit in. The way it plays best, the three of you were in it together, the other two were crossing you so you rubbed them out.” He shrugged. “Too simplistic? Hey, these crimes often are.”

  Belcher picked up a folder from his desk. “Anyway, I pulled some cases for you, just to give you a thrill.”

  “Cases?”

  “Yeah,” Belcher said. He flipped the folder open, took out a paper. “People vs. Parker. John Parker, accused of killing Nancy Fleckstein. Both employees of the same bank. No romantic attachment. Not known to have any personal relationship. Parker clammed up, wouldn’t talk. Case went to trial. No motive proven. Only real evidence against him, fact he was stupid enough to hang on to murder weapon, a bloodstained knife. Convicted of murder, sentenced to twenty-five years to life.”

  Belcher put down the paper, grabbed another. “People vs. Graham. Charlie Graham, accused of killing his neighbor. Again, no motive ever showed, again a conviction in the case.”

  Belcher grabbed another paper. “People vs. Bright. That’s Judy Bright, a hooker killed her john. Why, who knows? To rob him, becaus
e he got too rough, because he tried stuff she didn’t like, because she didn’t like his face, your guess is as good as mine. Lady took the fall, and she’s doin’ the time.”

  Belcher flipped the folder down on the desk. “Am I makin’ my point? Am I gettin’ through to you?”

  “I seem to catch the gist.”

  “Do you? Good. Then you can actually go, ’cause I got no reason to hold you. I just wanted to point out why messing around in this case was probably not an aces move.” He held up one finger. “But since you’re here—since you took the time to drop by—I suppose I should show you something to make the trip worthwhile.”

  Belcher picked up another folder, flipped it open. Inside was a stack of eight by tens. He pulled one off the top of the pile, turned it around, held it up for me. “You recognize this?”

  I sure did. It was a picture of the upstairs office where Shelly Daniels’ body had been found.

  I said nothing, sat there, wondering what he was getting at.

  “Not talkin’, eh?” Belcher said. “Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a crime-scene photo. Oh, it’s not one of the crime-scene photos. They’re evidence, I wouldn’t have that. But it’s a copy of it. A duplicate.” He pointed to the stack. “So are these. And they’re pretty good pictures. It’s amazing what they show.”

  Belcher picked up another one, held it up. “For instance, here’s the body. Does that refresh your memory? That’s the woman you’re charged with killing. Here’s a closeup of the wound.” He winced. “Ugly wound. And what have we here? Oh, yes. The woman’s desk. Surely you recognize it. Seems to me you sat there going through several hundred resume photos.”

  Belcher took another photo from the stack. “What’s this? Oh, it’s a closeup on the desk. And why is that? Oh, I see they’ve dusted for fingerprints. And there’s some right there. And what’s this? It’s a closeup of the fingerprint. Taken by the crime scene unit, to see if they get a match. And guess what?” Belcher positively beamed. “They got one.” He pointed. “That fingerprint right there.”

  Belcher spread his hands. “And you know what’s so significant about that? You claim you’ve never been to this woman’s house before. And yet you left your fingerprint at the crime scene, right in the middle of her desk.”

  37.