12-Scam

by Parnell Hall

  “Good lord.”

  “Good lord is right. Now, just between you and me, I don’t know if it makes any difference. Too soon to tell. I mean, is she going to be personally involved in the business, or is she just going to go off and play golf? If she wants to just run around being a playgirl, fine. On the other hand, it’s like having an infant in charge. A superbaby with unlimited powers. I mean, if she wants to start firing people, changing things, making policy, she can. She’s the goddamn chairman of the board.”

  “What a mess.” I jerked my thumb. “Is she here now?”

  “No. Thank goodness for small favors. She breezed in first thing this morning, took a look around Philip’s office, and breezed out again, saying she’d be back next week with an interior decorator. As if all there was to running a business was how your office looked.”

  “That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

  “No kidding. So, if I seem a little indifferent to your problems, it happens I have problems of my own.” Jenkins picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “You know what I’ve been working on this morning? My resume. I don’t know which way the wind blows, but I’m not taking any chances. First sign of trouble, I’m bailing out.”

  I exhaled. “Jesus Christ. Look, I know this is a disaster, and it’s hard for you to think of anything else, but try this on for size. If this hadn’t happened—if the proxies hadn’t come in for Philip Greenberg …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who would have won?”

  “What?”

  “Look, Mr. Jenkins. Aside from thinkin I’m a murderer, you seem like a decent enough guy. So try this concept on. Say I didn’t kill Cranston Pritchert. Say he got killed because of the proxy fight, because someone was setting him up to lose. And say things didn’t work out the way they did—people sending in their proxies for Philip Greenberg. Which of the two would have won?”

  “Between Marty and Kevin?”

  “Right.”

  He frowned. “That’s hard to say. I mean, the people who gave proxies for Greenberg, who knows who they would have supported. There’s really no way to tell.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Never mind the Greenberg proxies. What about everything else?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way. Who came in second?”

  He cocked his head. “I’m not sure I should tell you that.”

  “Hey, I’m a stockholder. If I’d made the meeting, would I have known?”

  “It wasn’t a secret ballot.”

  “There you are.”

  Jenkins frowned. He thought a moment. “Marty Rothstein.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “Rothstein came in second. By a fairly wide margin. Miriam Pritchert went for him. Not that it made any difference, what with Amy having over fifty percent of the vote. But for what it’s worth, Rothstein was second.”

  “So Miriam Pritchert went for Rothstein, huh?”

  “Yes, she did. Why?”

  “I dunno.” I shrugged. “I just had a hunch she might.”

  42.

  “YOU GONNA CALL THE COPS again?”

  Marty Rothstein frowned. “What do you mean again?”

  “It wasn’t you who called them last time?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I dunno. But I find people who answer a question with a question are often attempting to evade.”

  Rothstein frowned again. “This is getting nowhere. I have little patience this morning, and I don’t really feel like talking.”

  “That’s understandable, after the stockholders meeting last night.”

  His head came up. “Who you been talking to?”

  “Hey, I’m a stockholder. These things affect me too.”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m a stockholder. I own stock. I was going to the meeting, but something came up. Cranston’s topless dancer turned up dead. Or hadn’t you heard?”

  “Yeah. I heard. I also heard you were involved.”

  I waved it away. “Oh, no. That’s the type of line the cops put out to keep the real killer from knowing what they’re doing.” I crossed my fingers, held them up. “Actually, the cops and me are like that.”

  He frowned, squinted at me. “You’re acting kind of strange.”

  “You know, you’re the third person today who’s told me that. I’m going to start to get a complex.”

  “Uh-huh,” Rothstein said. He stood up. “Would you excuse me a moment? If this is going to take time, I have some instructions for my secretary.”

  “Aw, sit down, Rothstein,” I said. “You wanna call the cops, call the cops. You don’t have to pussyfoot around about it. Just call the cops and say I’m here.” I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs. “They probably know I’m here anyway. They’re probably following me around. I seem to be the best source of information they’ve got. I led ’em to Cranston. I led ’em to the girl. Now I’m leadin’ ’em to you. Call ’em up and get ’em down here. Maybe we can all have a little chat.”

  Rothstein looked at me a moment. Blinked. Sat down.

  Well. There was something to be said for acting slightly manic.

  I smiled. “See? Much better, just you and me. Now, let’s talk about what happened last night. The way I hear it, a little girl comes in and steals your job.”

  Rothstein’s face darkened. “You don’t understand.”

  “I know. It’s a business matter, and business matters leave me cold. That’s why I need all the help I can get. So, you wanna explain it to me in simple, layman’s terms, well, maybe I got a chance. The way I see it, you bet on the wrong horse. You locked up the widow Pritchert, and the Greenberg girl did you in.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Wasn’t like what?”

  “The way you make it sound.”

  “Well, how was it then?”

  “She had to vote her stock for someone. I personally think I was the best choice.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said. “Were you having an affair with her before her husband died?”

  Rothstein came out of his chair again. “You son of a bitch!”

  I held up my hand. “I admit, a very rude thing to say. But being a murder suspect has robbed me of some of the social graces. If I go to trial, your relationship with the widow Pritchert may be material to my defense. Just thought you should be prepared.”

  Rothstein sat down again. When he stood up, his face had been flushed. Now it looked decidedly pale.

  “You’d go after me?” he said. “You’d actually go after me?”

  I shrugged. “A case like this, they look for reasonable doubt. You’re about as reasonable as they come.” I put up my hand again. “But I have no intention of letting this go to trial. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m asking questions. I didn’t do it, and I’m trying to find out who did. If I can, I’ll nail ’em. If I can’t, I might have to frame you.”

  Rothstein blinked. “What?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Someone framed me, I have to fight back. But, please don’t get upset. It’s not like I’d plant any clues, tell any lies. Still, your relationship with Miriam Pritchert could be misconstrued. You see what I mean?”

  He blinked again. “You’re threatening me?”

  “Heaven forbid. I’m asking for help. I’m telling you what I don’t want to do. So you can help me not to do it.”

  Rothstein couldn’t seem to think of a thing to say.

  “Let’s start over,” I said. “No threats one way or another. No one calling the cops, no one embarrassing you. Just you and me, a couple of stockholders, takin’ it easy and shootin’ the shit. So, what’d you think of the meeting last night?”

  Rothstein gulped. “Jesus Christ.”

  I nodded. “Good assessment. Now, here’s the thing. What do you think Amy Greenberg’s game is—she vote herself in for a lark, or does she mean to make trouble?”

  “I have no idea.”

 
“Me, either. As a stockholder, I’m rather concerned. But at least I don’t work here. You sending resumes out?”

  Rothstein looked guarded. “As you say, it’s too soon to know.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “A bit of a problem. A babe in charge who’s immune to your charms. I can’t think of anything worse. So, tell me something. Did it surprise you?”

  “What?”

  “The way the proxies went.”

  Rothstein exhaled. “I’ll say. It never occurred to me. And yet, it makes sense. People used to writing in Greenberg do it as a matter of course. Still, who would have thought that so many would.”

  “And there’s nothing to be done?” I said. “I mean, if these people really didn’t know. Assuming they wouldn’t have given her the vote—is there a way to let them vote again?”

  The guarded look came into Rothstein’s eyes again.

  “Oh,” I said. “Of course. There is, and you’ve considered it. You’re considering it now. But you don’t want anyone to know it.”

  Rothstein exhaled. “Jesus,” he said.

  I nodded. “Of course. Because you’re afraid Amy Greenberg might find out. And if she found out, she’d fire you. Which would be a pretty effective answer to your demand for a recount.”

  Rothstein said nothing.

  “On the other hand,” I went on, “if you just shut up, and work quietly behind her back, you can line up enough stockholders to take control of the next meeting and vote her out.” I looked at him. “How’m I doin’ so far?”

  Rothstein ran his hand through his hair. Somehow, it seemed thinner than when the conversation had started. “I thought you knew nothing about business.”

  “I don’t. I happen to know a little bit about human nature. Well, now. We’ve talked about everything else. Let’s try the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. You happen to shoot . Cranston Pritchert?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. I looked him up and down. Cocked, my head. “If that happens to be true, it might just be the only thing that you and I have in common.”

  43.

  I FOUND AMY GREENBERG LOUNGING in her front yard in a bikini bathing suit. She didn’t look bad.

  “So,” I said. “This is what being chairman of the board is like.”

  She sprang up when she saw me, took a few steps toward the front door. “You stay away from me,” she said. “You come any closer, I’ll call the cops.”

  “Sure, why should you be different?” I said. “Ask for Sergeant Belcher. He’s the one handling the case.”

  She crinkled up her nose. “What?”

  “I realize since the last time I talked to you I’ve become a bit of a persona non grata. That’s the problem with being a murder suspect. People snub you. Dinner invitations fall off. You just get no respect.”

  She cocked her head. “Are you all right? You’re acting kind of weird.”

  Well, that made it unanimous.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not having one of my better days. So let me tell you what I wanted to talk about. I happen to be a stockholder in Philip Greenberg Investments.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Yeah. I was going to the meeting last night, but I got held up. Too bad. I understand it was a honey.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. What is it you want? I mean, chairman of the board—why do you want to be chairman of the board? Do you want to run the company, or is it just for fun?”

  Her face darkened. “Why is it, when I want to do something, everyone’s all, Why do you want to do that? Grampa was the same way. I go to see him, I’m like, Tell me about your business. And he’s like, Why would you want to know that? It’s like, you’re a girl, you don’t need to know.”

  Oh, great. Here I was, once again, tiptoeing on dangerous sexist ground.

  “I admit that attitude is wrong,” I said. “But speaking of you, personally—do you have an interest in the company? Were you planning on running it yourself? I mean, what’s the deal?”

  “Why shouldn’t I run it myself?”

  “I didn’t say you shouldn’t. I was just asking if you intended to.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Oh, but it is. Like I said, I’m a stockholder. I’m deeply concerned in the interests of Philip Greenberg Investments.”

  Amy Greenberg didn’t seem convinced. “I’m warning you,” she said. “You get out of here.”

  I took a step backward, spread my arms. “I am unarmed and not dangerous. I am the least threatening person imaginable. I seek only conversation. If you want, I’ll go call you from a pay phone on the corner. Though I don’t happen to see one, and that would be rather stupid. Now, is it me you’re afraid of, or what I might say?”

  Her eyes flashed. “You want to tell me, like, I’m not smart enough to run the company, I don’t have to listen to that.”

  “That’s not what I want to tell you.”

  “Yeah? Well, what then?”

  “I understand Miriam Pritchert was at the meeting.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “What about Marty Rothstein?”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Don’t be silly. He works for the company.”

  “I thought you took no interest in the company until your grandfather died.”

  “Yeah, but I told you, they were all after me, trying to get me to vote my stock.”

  “Un-huh. And what did you think of Miriam Pritchert?”

  Amy made a face. “Are you kidding? She voted for Marty Rothstein. Like, we women ought to stick together. But no, she’s all, I think Cranston would have wanted it this way. Like hell. Like he would have liked what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not saying anything. But she shouldn’t have voted for Marty Rothstein.”

  “Uh-huh. You ticked off enough at Rothstein to fire him?”

  She frowned. “Who told you that?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Hey, like, where do you get these ideas?”

  “I’m trying to figure out the case.”

  “Case? What case?” Reminded, she backed away again. “That’s right. You’re a killer. I’m standing here, talking to a killer.”

  “Not at all.”

  She held up her hand. “You stay there. Stay right there. No, like, what am I saying? You don’t stay there. You get in your car and you go. Asking me questions. Saying you’re a stockholder. All, What are you going to do now, little girl. Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do now. I’m going to go inside my house. And I’m going to lock my door and I’m going to look out my window. And if you’re not gone, I’m going to call the police. Now, how do you like that?”

  I didn’t like that. I got the hell out of there.

  44.

  MARY MASON BEEPED ME ON my way back from Scarsdale, and when I called in she had a message from Sergeant MacAullif. That was a switch—the guy actually wanted to talk to me. I hung up on Mary, made the call.

  “Better get in here,” MacAullif said. “Shit’s hit the fan.”

  And hung up.

  Nice guy. I had to either call him back—and probably have him hang up again—or drive all the way to Manhattan to find out. Not that I really wanted to find out. I mean, I’m on the hook for three murders, now what’s the bad news?

  I drove downtown, got a meter in the municipal lot. My lucky day. I went up to MacAullif’s office to see just how lucky.

  MacAullif was seated at his desk looking gloomy. Actually, he was looking the way he always looked—it was just that today it translated as gloom.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  MacAullif looked at me, cocked his head. “You have a bad memory for faces, don’t you?”

  I gawked at him. “Hey, what is it, shit o
n Stanley Hastings day? I don’t have enough troubles, you gotta point out my shortcomings?”

  “That is your trouble,” MacAullif said. “Your eye’s none too good.”

  “Yeah? So what?”

  MacAullif picked up an eight by ten from his desk, passed it over to me. “You recognize this?”

  I turned the picture around, took a look.

  It was a head shot of a young woman. Black and white. High contrast. Dramatic. An attractive woman, with straight dark hair, high cheekbones, bright eyes. An excellent resume photo.

  “Well?” MacAullif said.

  I shook my head. “Can’t place it.”

  MacAullif exhaled disgustedly. “I’m not surprised. Well, the cops can. They can place it just fine. And just wait till you hear where they place it.”

  I grimaced, put up both hands. “MacAullif. Please. What the hell’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is you’re taking it on the chin again, and this time it’s partly your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “Yeah. For bein’ such an unobservant, dumb schmuck.” MacAullif pointed. “You know who this is? You might if the picture was full figure and you could see the boobs.”

  My eyes widened. “Are you telling me …”

  MacAullif grimaced. “Schmuck. What a schmuck. Yeah, it’s her. Who the hell would you think it would be? But, yes, that happens to be a resume photo of the late Laura Martin.”

  “Laura Martin?”

  “What, they didn’t get her right name at the arraignment? Gee, maybe you can get it thrown out for that. But, what, you think her real name was Marla Melons? Well, it ain’t. It ain’t the other name she gave you either—what was it?—Lucy Blaine? No, her name’s Laura Martin and, believe it or not, that is her.”

  “What’s the punch line, MacAullif? You said the shit hit the fan.”

  “It did. And this is it. This photo you didn’t recognize. But the fact is, you’ve seen it before.”

  “Where?”

  MacAullif held up one finger. “Ah. There’s the whole ball game. According to the cops, you saw it in her apartment about the same time you popped her.”

  “What!”

  “See the problem?” MacAullif said. “Let me show you how it is.” He picked up another picture from his desk. “Take a look at this.”