The Green-Eyed Monster

by Patrick Quentin

  Lieutenant Mooney answered almost immediately. Phlegmatically calm as ever, he listened, and said, “Okay, Mr. Jordan, I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  Mrs. Thatcher said, “It’s all right? He’s coming?”

  “In about fifteen minutes, he said.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Thatcher. His smile was encouraging and paternal. “Let’s hope this is what you’ve been waiting for.” He moved to his wife and slipped his arm around her waist. “Well, dear, I think we’d better wake Rosemary up, don’t you? She’s hardly going to want to sleep through this.”

  The Thatchers moved together toward the door. Then Mrs. Thatcher turned back.

  “Andrew, you haven’t got a drink. Do make yourself one.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I want one.”

  “You’ll let your brother in, won’t you?” said Mr. Thatcher. “You’ll probably want a few minutes alone together anyway.”

  When the Thatchers left, Andrew started walking aimlessly up and down. If ever there was a time for hope it was now, but he no longer possessed any ability to hope. Ned with a solution? Ned out all evening—tracking down the murderer? He tried to believe it, but it didn’t work. He was too far gone into despair. The only image that remained was the earlier image of Ned, the monster, Ned, who even now was merely embarking upon yet another devious campaign of trickery and deceit.

  Almost immediately, it seemed, the low, mooing sound of the front-door bell came. Andrew went out into the hall and opened the door. Hatless, beaming, his brother hurried in.

  “Has Mooney arrived?”

  “Not yet.”

  Ned saw the light in the study and went toward it. Andrew followed him. In the study Ned said, “But where’s everyone?”

  “They’re waking Rosemary.”

  “Oh, well, they don’t matter anyway.” Ned spun around to him and grabbed his arms. “Boy,” he said. “Wait till you hear. Just wait. Want a little action? Okay, call on Ned Jordan, private eye, crook catcher, second-story man …”

  TWENTY

  “Gosh, Drew, don’t you want a drink?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I do.”

  Although he’d never been in the Thatcher house before, Ned was completely at home. Without taking off his raincoat, he went to a table in a corner and made himself a drink. He came back to Andrew with it. He was smiling a smile of unabashed self-congratulation.

  “Okay, Drew, just sit there, stand there, do whatever the hell you want to do—and listen. The whole idea only came to me two hours ago. You’d gone home. Rosemary left soon after. I was just sitting there in the apartment, beating my brains out trying to think of some way to help you. Then for no particular reason I remembered this thing that happened a couple of months ago. You’ve got to believe me. Until that moment I’d forgotten everything about it. It had seemed so unimportant, nothing to do with any of us. Then, suddenly, while I was sitting there, I saw exactly what it could have meant.”

  Andrew sat down again. Ned was walking back and forth.

  “It was before I went to Florida, about three months ago, I guess. It was in the afternoon. I’d been walking down Fifth Avenue and I’d turned east on 38th Street. As I was passing one of the houses, I just happened to look up and there was Maureen letting herself in the front door with a key. I called up to her, ‘Hi, Maureen.’ She turned, and when she saw me she smiled and said, ‘Hello, Ned. Come and help me. I’m on an errand of mercy.’ I hadn’t seen either of you for quite a while and, well, I was kind of curious too. So I went up the steps and joined her. She said, ‘It’s nothing very exciting, I’m afraid. A girl friend’s gone off on a cruise and she asked me to water her plants.’ We went up three flights and she let us into the apartment at the rear. It was a perfectly ordinary apartment and there were a few philodendrons standing around. She said, ‘Let’s have a drink. At least she owes us that.’ She made us Rob Roys and we just sat talking, about you mostly. There was nothing in it. That’s why I never gave it a thought at the time.”

  Ned came back to Andrew and stood in front of him. “We’d only been there a few minutes when the door opened and a girl came in—a big, tall, thin girl with black hair. Maureen didn’t introduce her. She just yanked her off into the bedroom. They were there a couple of minutes, and when they came out again, the girl was carrying an iron. She left right away. I asked Maureen about her and she just laughed and said her girl friend was lavish at handing out keys. Apparently she’d given another key to this other girl friend and had told her she could borrow her electric iron if ever she needed it. I was late for a date, anyway, but before I left I went in the bathroom. Hanging on the door was a man’s robe, a real fancy gold brocade robe. There were male hairbrushes on the shelf and after-shave lotion and a lot of other male junk too. I did think it was a bit odd, but I just figured this girl friend of Maureen’s must have a steady boy friend and that was that. When I left, Maureen stayed behind because she still hadn’t gotten around to watering the philodendrons.”

  Ned took a swig of his drink. “Well, you see now, don’t you, Drew? You see what a jerk I was not to have been suspicious at the time. Two girls with keys—just to water a couple of philodendrons? A man’s robe in the bathroom when no man was supposed to be in the setup. Just a couple of hours ago, when it was so desperately important to think of something, it came to me. Of course, I’d caught Maureen sneaking into her lovenest, and she’d been quick enough to cover by inviting me in and playing it smooth. This was it. It not only proved she did have a lover. I knew exactly where they’d been meeting.”

  Andrew sat looking at his brother, feeling the hope which only a few moments before he thought had abandoned him forever.

  “East 38th Street,” he said. “Apartment 3b—Mary Cross.”

  The blue eyes widened. “You know about it?”

  “I was there this evening.”

  “Not in the apartment?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I was.” Ned’s face was glowing with triumph. “When I’d doped it out, boy, was I excited. I called you but you weren’t there. In a way I was glad. It put it all up to me. Okay, I said, enter Nick Jordan the second-story man. You’ll think I’m crazy but I’ve still got a couple of skeleton keys and a lot of gadgets left over from when we were kids. Me and never throwing things away—you know how I am. Well, it was a cinch. When I got there, I rang the buzzer although I was sure no one would be there. Nobody answered, of course, so I just wangled the front-door lock, went upstairs and wangled the apartment lock. I was inside in under five minutes and—boy, everything was there. I mean, the robe, men’s pajamas, all kinds of junk. I guess he either hadn’t had a chance to clear the place out or he was so confident no one would find out about it that he’d figured it would be safe to leave it for a while. But, Drew, when the cops get there, God knows what they’ll turn up. Almost the first thing I hit when I started searching the drawers of the dressing table was a red-leather jewel box, a dead ringer for Maureen’s other one. I opened it and …”

  Ned felt in the pocket of his raincoat and came out with a thick bundle of letters tied together with string. He tossed the bundle to Andrew.

  “Just take a look at them, Drew. A bunch of letters the guy wrote to her, love letters, letters giving a blow-by-blow description of the affair. I guess he didn’t have the faintest idea she was keeping them, but she was, of course. There she was, providing herself with a brand-new victim for a brand-new blackmail setup. Don’t you see? By that time she was through or practically through with the Jordan family. We had been Operation Number One. This was Operation Number Two, and she died of it.”

  Andrew had untied the string from the letters. He glanced through them, reading at random sentences written in a bold, heavy scrawl: “If you knew the agony of having you so close and yet so inaccessible … Maureen, my love, when I think of yesterday … One day we’ll decide or perhaps it will decide itself for us. You’ll leave your husband and … ”

&
nbsp; “You see?” Ned’s voice came through to him. “She had him so hot for her he was all set to leave his family—and yet not quite. Read ’em and you’ll see how he was torn two ways. He wanted her; he didn’t want to break up his home. Boy, she had him on the rack. And that’s not all. There’s a photograph too.”

  “A photograph?” Andrew looked up sharply.

  “It was in the jewel box with the letters. Maureen and this guy—whoever he is. I don’t know, but the cops will be able to trace him. Here—take a look at May and December.”

  Ned brought a postcard-size, unframed photograph out of his pocket.

  “Not only the letters—a photograph too. She was really piling up evidence in that jewel box. Just let that lieutenant try to arrest you now.”

  As he spoke, the front-door bell rang. Andrew jumped up. Ned was holding the photograph out to him. He heard footsteps on the stairs and voices. The Thatchers were coming down. The Thatchers would let the lieutenant in.

  He took the photograph and looked at it. It had been taken in some night club. Maureen and a man were dancing. Maureen was wearing the gold evening dress which he knew so well and which had been sprawled over the living-room carpet when he’d come home from the office—had it been only last night? She was smiling her dazzling smile, looking up into the eyes of the man who was looking down at her with an expression of obsessed devotion.

  He heard the front door open. He heard Lieutenant Mooney’s gruff voice. He heard the sound of multiple footsteps coming toward them. He looked at the picture dazedly, thinking: “Of course, Ned doesn’t realize because he’s never met Rosemary’s parents.”

  The man with his arms around Maureen, gazing at her with such worshipful intensity, was Mr. Thatcher.

  Mr. Thatcher! Andrew was staggered when he thought of Mr. Thatcher’s show of majestic imperturbability only a few minutes ago. But now that he knew, it seemed inevitable. For her second victim, with Rodney Miller no longer available, Maureen hadn’t picked just any millionaire. With fiendish malice, she had chosen to allure the husband of the woman she had hated so bitterly for ruining her attempt to become Mrs. Rodney Miller. No wonder she’d been so eager to effect a reconciliation with Mrs. Thatcher. Operation Number Two hadn’t merely involved blackmail. It had involved revenge.

  The study door opened. Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher and Rosemary came in, with Lieutenant Mooney moving ponderously behind them.

  “Neddy!”

  Rosemary was running toward Ned. He paid her no attention. He was gazing at Mr. Thatcher with a look of astonished horror.

  “But—but …”

  “Good evening, Mr. Jordan.” Lieutenant Mooney had come to rest in front of Andrew and was watching him from small, bright eyes. “I hope what you’ve got to tell me is something worth dragging me out of bed for.”

  Mr. Thatcher infatuated with Maureen—Mr. Thatcher “torn two ways” whether to leave his wife or not! In the confusion of his thoughts, Andrew remembered something Rosemary had told him the very first time he had met her. She was only a stepdaughter. The one thing in the world Mr. Thatcher had wanted was an heir. Of course, here was the truth behind the pregnancy. It had been Maureen’s final, most potent weapon in her bid for Mr. Thatcher. You’ve got to leave them now. I’m carrying your baby. I’m providing you with an heir. That was why Maureen had refused to come to Scandinavia. She had wanted to be certain she could prove to Mr. Thatcher that the child must be his. That was the explanation, too, for her desperate need to have no one suspect what was going on. Mr. Thatcher “torn two ways” had been terribly difficult to hook as a husband. If the trap had been sprung too early, she would have lost him. Her only hope had been to wait until she was absolutely sure of the pregnancy.

  Lieutenant Mooney’s quick, professional glance had flicked to the letters strewn on Andrew’s chair. Now he moved it back to the photograph in Andrew’s hand. Without saying anything, he took it, turned it around and studied it.

  “Lieutenant!” Ned ran to him and clutched his arm. “It wasn’t Drew, it was me. I was the one who made him call you, because I’d found out the truth and I wanted you to know so—so you wouldn’t arrest Drew. Maureen had a lover, a lover who killed her. I found out the place where they met. I broke in and there was a lot of love letters, all those letters, and the photograph too.”

  He turned back to gaze despairingly at Rosemary. “My God, this is awful. I’m terribly sorry, Rosemary. I never knew, I never had the faintest idea it was your father who …”

  “My father!”

  Rosemary ran to the lieutenant too. She stood beside him, peering at the photograph.

  “My God,” she cried. “My God.”

  Andrew was looking at Mr. Thatcher. So Maureen had told him about the pregnancy? And the final coup intended to bind him to her forever had boomeranged? Was that how it had happened? Mr. Thatcher had learned Maureen was bearing his child—and had killed her? Because an illegitimate heir was more horrible to him than no heir? Yes, that must have been how he felt, or otherwise, why would he have been so eager for Ned to change his name and become a substitute heir?

  Mr. Thatcher, quite inscrutable now, was standing beside his wife. He had never glanced at the letters on the chair. He hadn’t even glanced at the photograph. His face was as handsome and controlled as ever, although it was very pale. For a moment he returned Andrew’s gaze. Then he took his wife’s hand. Together they moved to a red-leather couch and sat down.

  For a moment Lieutenant Mooney stood gazing at the photograph. Then he looked up.

  “Okay, Mr. Thatcher, this is kind of embarrassing for all parties concerned, but I guess you admit that you and Mrs. Jordan …”

  “I can hardly deny it, can I?” Mr. Thatcher’s voice was very quiet and it was his wife he was addressing rather than the lieutenant. “I’ve been a fool, Margaret. The classic old fool of bedroom farce. And my most magnificent piece of folly, it seems, was not to go to that apartment and remove the evidence. But so far as I knew, all that was there were a few clothes which could have belonged to anyone. I had no idea she had any photograph, certainly I had no idea she was keeping my letters. To make my position even more ridiculous, I must confess that, until the moment she was murdered, I was completely convinced she was sincerely in love with me. So, Margaret, all I can say is that I deserve this public humiliation. I could only have wished that for your sake …”

  He turned to Andrew, his lips drooping at the corners. “And as for you, Andrew. When I think of myself a few minutes ago sitting here, pretending to be your friend and adviser, I realize I merit not only your hatred but your contempt.”

  The silence, when he stopped speaking, was painful to Andrew. He went back to his chair, gathered up the letters and sat down with them in his lap. Automatically, to screen his embarrassment, he picked one up. It was dated four days before. That would be the day before Bill Stanton’s party. It was short, only a couple of paragraphs.

  Darling, something rather alarming has happened. You know I’m always scrupulous about destroying your letters the moment I’ve read them, but your letter of yesterday was so sweet, so moving, I took it with me to the office …

  “Mr. Jordan.”

  He heard the lieutenant’s voice and glanced up. The lieutenant had put the photograph down on a table and was looking straight at it, ignoring Ned, who stood at his side with his arm around Rosemary.

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “I think I should tell you that I have a warrant for your arrest in my pocket.”

  “I know.”

  “You do? Then maybe you’ve figured out my reasons for swearing out the warrant. Your wife was shot by your gun in your apartment at a time when you could have been there. She’d lied to you about not being able to have babies and yet she was pregnant.”

  “Pregnant!” Mr. Thatcher had jumped to his feet. His face had suddenly collapsed; it was gray, creased, an old man’s face. “Maureen was pregnant!”

  No one could look like that and
be lying, thought Andrew. So Mr. Thatcher hadn’t known Maureen was bearing his child. That was why he’d been so eager to adopt Ned. Then … then … He felt a sharp stab of excited understanding. Yes, of course …

  The lieutenant was paying no attention to Mr. Thatcher. His gaze was still fixed on Andrew.

  “So that’s the setup, isn’t it, Mr. Jordan? And I think you’ll agree that once you’d found out your wife was a tramp who’d married you for your money, cheated you with another man and was pregnant by him …”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” said Ned. “Drew didn’t kill her.”

  Slowly Lieutenant Mooney rotated so that he was facing Ned.

  “So you think it was Mr. Thatcher, do you? Well, sure, that’s one way of doping it out, yes. It’s logical enough to suppose that a married man who found out he was having a baby by another man’s wife might have killed her. But it so happens there’s something that kind of busts that theory wide apart. Mr. Thatcher didn’t kill her. He knows it and I know it. All yesterday afternoon, from noon until six-thirty, he was in a board meeting. He never left that board room. I’ve gone into that. There’s a dozen, in fact, fourteen, witnesses prepared to give Mr. Thatcher an alibi.”

  He swung around to Andrew again, the lids half closing over the blue, bright eyes.

  “Looks like we’re back where we started from, don’t it, Mr. Jordan? I’m sorry for you and all that. You had a raw deal, sure. I’m the first to admit that. But I’ve got the warrant right here in my pocket and, so far as I can see, that warrant holds just as good now as it did before you dragged me out of bed.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Andrew sat looking back into the lieutenant’s small, obstinate eyes. He was perfectly conscious of his danger, but only part of his mind was concerned with it because he knew now, he was absolutely sure. He knew who had killed Maureen.

  “Well, Mr. Jordan, have you got anything to say to me?”