by Kane, Henry
“You’ll go up to the twenty-third floor and ring the bell of 23 BB. Mr. Surf himself will open the door for you. That’s the top floor of the triplex and there’s no party going on there except our party. And you needn’t rush, Tony. The guy isn’t going anywhere. Mr. Nigle is guaranteed trussed, you can invest your negotiable instrument on that.”
“Stay with it, Pete.”
“Wild hearses couldn’t drag me away, old mustang.”
Tony Generoso was right there on the ball. “Don’t catch colt while waiting and don’t get the works foaled up. See you soon. Bye, Pete.”
Generoso hung up, Surf hung up, I hung up. Surf came back wearing an expression of bafflement. “Murder?” he said.
I glanced at Barry Howard. His eyes were still closed. He was taking his time. He was overdue for a return to the fold. I had not hit him that hard. He was probably awake, hot under the drops of the eaves, playing it cool. Let him. Anything I had to say, he could hear.
“Murder,” I said.
“But throughout his entire autobiography, he stressed the fact that he was against murder, against mayhem, against any form of violence.”
“That was the autobiography of Barry Howard, not the autobiography of Frankie Nigle. A guy with all the names he’s got—there’s probably more than one autobiography in him.”
The grey eyes opened. The handsome mouth smiled. “There is but one autobiography, my dear sir. Every word I dictated was gospel.”
“Well, maybe it was gospel before you murdered Charlie Medford, Mr. Nigle.”
“I didn’t murder anyone and I’m not Mr. Nigle.”
“Aren’t you. pal?”
“There is no Mr. Nigle.”
“You wish there weren’t, I’m sure.”
“There’s a Miss Nigle.”
“Beg pardon?”
“There’s a Miss Nigle,” he said. “Frankie Nigle is not a man. Frankie Nigle is a woman.”
SEVENTEEN
“NOW JUST a minute, you two,” said Alfred Surf. “I don’t care if this Frankie Nigle is man, woman, or child. I’m hung up in the middle here, cops have been invited to my party, and I haven’t the least idea of what any of this is all about. Will somebody, please, damn, tell me?”
I told him. I gave him my version. I told him everything I knew as pertained to Charles R. Medford. “So you see,” I said, “that’s what I meant when I said I had met Frankie Nigle—I mean Barry Howard—and he didn’t meet me.”
“According to Mr. Surf,” said Barry Howard, “you’ve also met Frankie Nigle.”
“According to me?” said Surf. “But I don’t know a Frankie Nigle.”
“You told me that Mr. Chambers had been talking to the lady whom I escorted here.”
“That’s Frances Elgin.”
“Frankie Nigle.”
“Oh brother,” I said, “would I love that if it’s true.”
“It’s true,” said Howard. “Easily provable, as a matter of fact.” He squirmed. “I do wish you’d release me, Mr. Chambers.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Not till we get cops. Now how—easily provable?”
“Frances—a woman’s name frequently corrupted to Frankie. Nigle—simply spell Elgin backwards.”
“Holy cow!” said Surf.
“And she’s the dame,” I said, “that Charlie Medford happened to meet at Penelope Arlington’s party?”
“Precisely—except that he didn’t happen to meet her. It was carefully arranged that he meet her.”
“By whom?”
“By me.”
“Mr. Howard,” I said, “you’ve denied that you murdered Charlie Medford. Yet you were there with Charlie’s corpse in the office of Nigle Realty Company. Now if you didn’t, who …?”
“Who—if I didn’t?”
“Frankie Nigle?”
“Who else?”
“Look, Mr. Howard, did you ever hear of a felony-murder?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“What I mean is this. Your laying it onto Frankie Nigle won’t do you a bit of good. If you two were involved in some sort of swindle perpetrated on Charlie Medford, and she killed him during the perpetration of this swindle, you are just as guilty of the murder as she. That’s the law.”
“Nevertheless, she killed him. I admit that I tried to clean up after her, but she killed him. Also, according to the letter of the law, I do not believe that I’m guilty of murder. This murder was done after the felony, the swindle, was completed.” He sighed. “All of this could have been academic except that you blundered into the office of Nigle Realty.”
That cut to the quick, the quick being the profession I profess. “That was no blunder, Mr. Howard. That was acute detection by an acute detective, your humble collaborator.”
“Barry,” said Surf, “you’d better spill it right now before the police clamp down on you. Two reasons. One altruistic, one selfish. Altruistic—as Mr. Chambers has already demonstrated, he’s quite an expert in the field, and after he hears your story, he may be able to render some of his expert advice. Selfish—because if this does turn out to be the last chapter of your career, it will also turn out to be the last chapter of the book—and, Christ, what a last chapter this will make!”
Whatever else the man had, he had poise. The fine grey eyes smiled at me. “Each to his own, eh?” he said.
“You’ve got nothing to lose, Mr. Howard,” I said.
“To gain,” said Surf, “the possibility of slipping out from under a murder rap. And if not—immortality.”
“You mean if I get the electric chair, you get a bestseller.”
Glowingly Surf said, “But a runaway bestseller without a doubt and on that I’m an expert.”
Ah, each to his own.
“I’ll begin at the beginning and tell it as quickly as possible,” said Howard, “and for my sake, although not yours, Mr. Surf, I hope my collaborator agrees with me that I have a loophole, although I admit mine is a biased view.”
“Okay,” I said. “Talk it up, Mr. Howard.”
“It began in London, this past February, where I was vacationing, taking my ease as Count Philip Maroufke of the Belgian aristocracy. It was there that I met Frances Elgin. She had been living in London for about a year as the … er … houseguest of a British photographer who had done rather well for himself. At the time I met her she had been … er … kicked out, dispossessed. She was a native New Yorker and, as you gentlemen have seen, a very beautiful girl. She was an orphan whose father, once, had been in the real estate business and she had a passing knowledge of the jargon of that business. She was short of funds and long on brains—cold, clever, educated, unscrupulous, wayward—perfect for my purposes. As it turned out, she was too wayward.” He sighed. “We all make our mistakes, I guess. Miss Elgin turned out to be one of my few mistakes.” He sighed again. “Mr. Chambers, if you please, would you adjust my bonds?”
I made the adjustment, apologized for the continuing necessity, offered to hold a cigarette for him, but he refused. I held a cigarette for myself and I said, “So you began to set her up as an accomplice?”
“Yes. I gave her money, supported her, began to tell her a bit about myself, found her eager and interested in being a partner in a well-paying well-conceived venture.”
“Had this well-conceived venture already been conceived?”
“Partially.”
“For here in New York?”
“Yes. I had frequently visited New York, but never professionally. Now certain circumstances had begun to dovetail and I’m a great believer in striking while the circumstances are hot.”
“And these hot circumstances involved Charlie Medford?”
“Yes. I had heard about him, some time in January as a matter of fact, from a wealthy old lady, one Mrs. Celia Krause, who was visiting in London and who was being charming to the charming nobleman, Count Philip Maroufke. Somehow, during some of her rambling tales, Mr. Medford’s name came up. I heard that he was the Head of the Loan D
epartment of the New York National Bank, that he was a widower, that he was somewhat of a playboy, that he was susceptible to beautiful women, and that he was a dear friend of Penelope Arlington and a frequenter of her myriad parties. Of course, Penelope Arlington is an international name. At that time it occurred to me that Mr. Medford would be an excellent subject for my ministrations, but it was merely a fleeting thought. After I met Miss Elgin, the thought reoccurred.”
“But no longer fleeting.”
“It jelled, as a matter of fact. The entire concept of a really beautiful swindle fairly sprang into being. In February, I flew in to New York.”
“As Count Maroufke?”
“No. Under the name on my passport, Barry Howard.”
“With Miss Elgin?”
“No. Alone. Actually it was a scouting expedition. I was prepared to invest a good sum of money in my venture. I wanted to protect any such investment in advance. I wanted to be certain that Medford was my man.”
“Did he pass your test?”
“With flying colors. I made discreet inquiries about him. I learned that he was an officer of the bank, that he had authority, that he frequently dealt in large sums of money and often in cash transactions. Unobserved, I observed him in various play-spots. He loved life and he loved women. I also learned that he was unattached, that he was a good friend of Miss Arlington, and that he was a regular at all of her parties. I flew back to England, coached Miss Elgin on all the salient points, and on March 12th we arrived here in New York.”
“Under your passport names?”
“Yes. Mine, Barry Howard. Hers, her real name, Frances Elgin. But at once, for our purposes, she assumed the name of Frankie Nigle.” He wriggled, unhappily. “Mr. Chambers,” he said, “I’m beginning to go numb. Is there no other method of assuring yourself that I’ll remain docile until the police come?”
Somehow, I felt sorry for the old guy. I said to Surf, “Do you have a gun, Alfred?”
Surf was lost in his last chapter. He blinked his eyes, fighting off, for a moment, the rosy dreams of a cozy bestseller. “What?” he said. “Beg pardon?”
“Do you have a gun?”
“Yes. Yes I do.” He took a packet of keys from his pocket, unlocked a drawer, and handed me a huge .45 Colt revolver.
“What do you do with this?” I said. “Hunt elephants?”
“It was recommended as a very serviceable weapon.”
“Yeah. But serviceable.” I broke it, examined it, was satisfied with it. I laid it on the desk went to Barry Howard, tapped him very thoroughly for any concealed weapon. He had no concealed weapon but he sure as hell enjoyed my feeling him.
“Mr. Howard,” I said, “I’m no quidnunc …”
Surf beamed at me as a teacher beams upon a backward pupil who has suddenly gone frontward. He had taught me a word.
“Mr. Howard,” I said, “I’m no quidnunc, but off the record, just for our personal record, may I diverge for one question?”
“Sure.”
“Are you a pansy?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.” I went back to the desk and picked up the gun. “Mr. Howard,” I said, “we now diverge from the divergence and get back on the ball. Only because I am what is known in the parlance as a softboiled richard, I’m going to ask Mr. Surf to untie you. But before I do, I should like to make this plain, on the record. You have stolen a hundred thousand dollars from the New York National Bank. You are involved in the murder of a good friend of mine, Mr. Charles R. Medford. If I kill you, I’ll receive praise from the public, the police, and all the constituted authorities, aside from a natural if cruel personal satisfaction. I shall therefore say this once—if for any reason whatsoever you get up from that chair, I’ll shoot you. If the first bullet from this elephant-gun doesn’t kill you, it’ll break enough bones to maim you for life. Is that clear, Mr. Howard?”
“Perfectly clear, Mr. Chambers.”
“Would you untie him, please, Alfred?”
Surf untied him.
Howard said, “Thank you.”
I said, “You’re welcome.”
“May I smoke now?”
“Do whatever the hell you like but don’t get off that chair.”
He lit a cigarette, stretched his arms, stretched his legs.
“Let’s get back on the ball,” I said.
“As I have stated in my autobiography,” he said, “there are three necessary elements for a successful swindle. They are—the Big Store, confidence, and surprise.”
Surf said, “What’s the Big Store?”
“It is the background, the snare, the trap. In what is known in America as the bucket shop—an entire massive busy office is set up as a stockbroker’s enterprise, all to capture one sucker, but the sucker must be worth the while and the expense. There are other types of Big Stores.”
“Tell us about yours,” I said.
“At once upon our arrival here, Frances Elgin became Frankie Nigle. I receded into a small inconspicuous hotel here on the East Side, but Miss Nigle spread out into the Big Store.”
“Like?” I said.
“First she took a suite in the Waldorf Astoria at fifty dollars a day. Then I added to her already expansive wardrobe. Then we found an office for her, not too far away from the New York National.”
“Across the street in point of fact,” I said.
“Yes. At 515 Fifth Avenue.”
“Sam Silverman of Universal Import Limited.”
“Ah, you’re a good man, Mr. Chambers.” He extinguished his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. “We saw this ad in the New York Times. It was a perfect location. Mr. Silverman, with his secretary, was going to Europe on the first of April for a six-months’ trip and wished to sublet his office. Frankie took it at three hundred dollars a month, payment for the entire six months made in advance. She told him she was a real-estate woman from Rome, here in America for the transaction of some business. I arranged references and recommendations for her from a friend in Rome. On April first, she moved in. In the meantime, she had become acquainted with Mrs. Celia Krause, but by April first, our Big Store was complete.”
“Spell it out, won’t you, Mr. Howard?” I said.
“Certainly. She was Frankie Nigle, of Nigle Realty Company, 515 Fifth Avenue, a rich and beautiful woman in the real estate business residing in a fifty-dollar-a-day suite at the Waldorf Astoria. I figured this for a three-month operation. My investment would be approximately ten thousand dollars. Three months at fifty dollars a day at the Waldorf would be approximately forty-five hundred dollars. The office rental was eighteen hundred dollars. Approximately four thousand dollars to refurbish her wardrobe. Total—approximately ten thousand. Not too bad when you are shooting for a hundred thousand, to be consummated within three months.”
Surf said, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“What did she tell Mrs. Krause?” I said.
“That was easy. She called the old lady, told her that on a vacation to Rome she had met one Count Maroufke, that Maroufke had insisted that when she get back to New York she look up the delightful Mrs. Krause. The rich Miss Nigle met the rich Mrs. Krause and, by dint of a bit of subtle suggestion, met, in turn, the rich Miss Arlington. Miss Arlington, always on the hunt for beautiful, respectable, unattached young ladies for her parties, was, of course, taken by the redoubtable Miss Nigle, and so, at one of the parties, Miss Nigle met Mr. Medford, and the trap was snapped. The Big Store worked. Miss Nigle, always beautifully clothed, lived in a fine suite at the Waldorf, where Mr. Medford visited; had a beautiful office right across the street from the bank where Mr. Medford was employed; was herself charming and beautiful and susceptible to Mr. Medford’s advances; and had business interests in common with him. But they transacted no business together: theirs was a blossoming social relationship. And so the first element took hold—the Big Store was in operation.”
“Did Miss Nigle have a secretary there at the office?” I said.
“Of
course not. What sense?”
“But didn’t Medford visit at the office?”
“Yes. Occasionally during his lunch hour. But that would also be a secretary’s lunch hour too, wouldn’t it? Sometimes he called for her after business hours, but by then a secretary would be gone, wouldn’t she? Oh, the Big Store was in perfect operation.”
“The next element,” I said. “Confidence.”
“Simple. Resisting mightily, Miss Nigle finally succumbed to Mr. Medford’s male persuasions. They became lovers. He often slept over with her at her lovely suite at the Waldorf. He was mad about her—which is excellent for confidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“And now the third element—surprise.”
“Ah, here we tread upon delicate ground. They were lovers, they slept together, they went out about the town together, and he was crazy about her, even began to hint about marriage. She played it perfectly as I, from the background, advised. She never accepted a gift from him; on the contrary, she bought him gifts. She never talked any serious business with him, just a smattering here and there, nothing that actually could concern him. On occasion she mentioned a Texan, a man with vast real estate holding here in New York; she mentioned that she was angling for his business; she mentioned that if she could manage his holdings here in New York, her commissions could amount to fifty thousand dollars a year; she was careful never to mention his name. On Wednesday night, we worked the surprise.”
“At the Waldorf?” I said.
“That is correct. He was to see his son earlier that evening, and then he was to meet her, at eleven o’clock, at The Persian Room of the Waldorf. When he arrived, the Texan was there, at the table with her.”
“Who was the Texan?”
“I was, of course.” Suddenly, wondrously, he was speaking with a perfect Texas accent: his baritone voice went a shade deeper, his vowels grew rounder, his consonants sharper. Surf had told me that the man was a linguist. He had not told me—he had not known—that the man was a consummate mimic. Nobody climbs to the top of a profession without gifts of great talent. Barry Howard was a talented man. “Remember,” he said in the marvelous Texas drawl, “the Big Store was in perfect operation, and Miss Nigle had the full confidence of our sucker. Often people wonder how shrewd, intelligent, above-average individuals can fall prey in a con-game. Easy. If the Big Store is in proper operation—but proper, mind you—and full confidence has been established, there is nobody—nobody—who isn’t vulnerable. Remember that it was firmly established in Charles Medford’s mind that Miss Nigle was a rich and successful business woman, and there was more than full confidence here—there was a hot and heavy love affair in full blast.”
