by Kane, Henry
“Okay, okay,” I said.
“Her Texas prospect had suddenly fallen in on her. I played it to the hilt—bluff, hearty, and somewhat drunk—with a bottle of bourbon right there on the table. She had told her Texas prospect that she had a date, but that was all right with old Texas, he joined right in. I insisted upon buying supper for them, told them stories, told them jokes, played it wide open and roaringly good-natured drunk. I imagine that by now you can tell that I can play the part.”
“Absolutely perfect,” said Surf. “Marvelous. Unbelievable.”
He returned to his normal manner of speech. “She started to introduce us but when she came to my name, I interrupted. ‘Tom,’ I said. ‘Call me Tom. All my friends call me Tom. And any friend of Miss Nigle is a friend of mine.’ He never got my last name, I didn’t want him to get my last name—I didn’t want him to have anything against which to check. He wasn’t hungry, but I poured plenty of whiskey into him, and at about twelve o’clock midnight, accidentally on purpose, I began to talk business to Miss Frankie Nigle. We warmed to our subject beautifully—we had rehearsed it all well in advance—and then, and this was timed, I looked at my watch. It was twenty after twelve. ‘All right, Miss Nigle,’ I said, ‘you have the contracts which I’ve already read. I’ve checked you and you’re the lady for me. But in Texas we like people who can jump to emergencies. Can you jump to an emergency?’ ‘What sort of emergency?’ she said. ‘In Texas money talks,’ I said. ‘A money emergency. Suppose you had to come up, sudden-like, with a hundred thousand in cash. Could you do it? Could you handle that?’ ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Very well, ma’am,’ I said. ‘It’s now twenty after twelve at night. I’ll be in your office at twenty after twelve in the afternoon. You show me a hundred thousand bucks in cash, and I sign that contract spang on the barrel-head. By twelve-thirty I’m out of your office and you’ve got yourself a contract for ten years. That’s the way we do business in Texas, ma’am. You put your money where your mouth is. You pony up when you call a bluff. You’re okay in my book, ma’am. Ill see you tomorrow at twelve-twenty sharp. They call me a crazy Texan. I don’t think I’m crazy at all. I think I make a hell of a lot of sense.’ And I called for the check and I paid it and I left them there with the bottle of bourbon and I hear that Mr. Medford did it full justice.”
“He was wearing the same clothes …” I began.
“He slept over at the Waldorf with the lady, a skillful lady, I must say. The rest worked as we had expected—better than we had expected. No coaxing was needed on her part and of course she never mentioned the Texan’s name. In bed, he was high, and she was worried. A hundred thousand to convince the crazy Texan was no problem—but it would take her at least a day to get it together and he wanted it by twenty after twelve that next afternoon. It meant a contract for ten years with commissions of fifty thousand dollars a year. Bourbon-soaked and love-happy he rose to the bait like a hungry fish, poor fish. He would bring it over from the bank. It was just across the street. It was nothing, no trouble, no inconvenience, and why shouldn’t he help, since it was so simple, and he was in a position to help. She actually had to remonstrate with him.”
“Yeah. I bet.”
“Of course she did. She’s clever and can perform to all the nuances. She remonstrated—would it create any difficulty for him? Oh, she didn’t want him to do anything that was in the least out of order; after all he worked for a bank, and banks could be awfully persnickety. He had to reassure her. Remember always the Big Store, the complete confidence, his trust in her, and, in this case, his infatuation with her. It was nothing, he told her. It was a small favor, the very least he could do, and he was delighted that he was in a position to do so. It was not as though he were using the bank’s money for any risk-purpose. The money would be no more than a prop to satisfy the whim of a rich and crazy Texan, and it would close an excellent deal for her. As a matter of fact, he was doing the bank a favor. He was soliciting business for the bank. This gave him a rationale, made him chuckle. He was soliciting business for the bank. He hoped, that after this favor from the bank, Nigle Realty would become a client of the bank. Ah, the marvelous convolutions of the human mind; the justifications once the mind is set on a certain course. He was hooked, the poor guy, so strongly he would have been insulted had she refused him. We had prepared long and carefully, and it paid off. It worked. Perfectly.”
“Holy cow!” said Alfred Surf.
“Mr. Surf,” said Howard, “it could have happened to you, were you properly prepared and, I venture to say, even to the experienced Mr. Chambers, were he properly prepared. Small fish are not involved in big swindles; always the victims are rich, resourceful, bright, alert, intelligent. None of any of this can be considered a reflection upon Mr. Medford.”
“No reflection,” I said. “Only he’s dead.”
“Unfortunate. Extremely unfortunate, for everybody concerned. Were he alive, I wouldn’t be here, and you wouldn’t be there, pointing a gun at me.”
“Where would you be, Mr. Howard?”
“In Paris by now. Free and clear, richer, and unsullied. We had plane tickets for an 8 P.M. takeoff on Thursday, yesterday. All of our bags—except one of hers—were already at the airport.”
“So what happened?”
“Thursday morning I called her and she reported that everything was fine. She called him at the bank, and all was in order. Then she checked out of the hotel, took her bag, and came to the office. He arrived a bit early, at five after twelve. He had the money. She shot him. She owned a gun, properly registered in her name, of which I had no knowledge.”
Surf stirred. “But you’re supposed to be against violence.”
“This was not part of the plan, Mr. Surf, I hasten to assure you.”
“According to Mr. Surf,” I said, “you’re a pacificist.”
“Rather a realist,” said Howard. “Follow me, if you will. My sort of peculation is not armed robbery. It is larceny which, actually, is a lesser offense carrying lesser penalty. In my sort of operation, if you are caught, you are caught quickly, or you are not caught at all. Caught quickly, you still have the money. Still having the money—and with a great show of effort—you can make restitution. Restitution always mitigates toward a reduction of penalty.”
“But not armed robbery …?” said Surf.
“Especially if someone is badly injured. And if somebody is killed”—he shrugged—“that’s murder, and for murder, the risk is the forfeiture of your life. I prize my life too highly.”
“So she killed him on her own?” I said.
“Exactly. The plan was this. I was to arrive, strike him on the head with a sandbag—an old-fashioned weapon but one which renders an individual unconscious without undue injury. It was, as a matter of fact, Mr. Chambers, the weapon with which I struck you. There were no undue side-effects, were there?”
That brought a laugh, all around. In his own way the guy was a comic. In his own way, the guy was a pleasant provocative man. A cog had slipped and the machinery was now churning him toward the chair but I had a feeling that all along the way people were going to feel sorry for him, including the electrician who would pull the final switch. “No,” I said. “No undue side-effects.”
“So? What was the plan?” said Surf.
“I would render him unconscious, tie him up with a length of rope already prepared—”
“Yes, I found that,” I said.
“Then we would transfer his attache case to her bag, lock the office, go to the airport, and, in time, take our plane. Once in Paris, we would divide the spoils—less my ten thousand dollar investment —and go our separate ways.”
“Suppose somebody found him, tied up in the office?” I said.
“Mr. Chambers, I’m an expert. Every part of this operation was duly considered in advance. Yes. Suppose he was found—and let us put it the worst way—he was found rather early. So? The police would be seeking a Frankie Nigle and a Texan named Tom. So what? Miss Nigle
was a resident of the Waldorf and was no longer a resident. There was no link to Miss Frances Elgin. There was no link to me. Even her reference to Silverman from my friend in Rome—phoney. The friend had used an assumed name and fraudulent business stationery. They would run up against one dead end after another. There was no possible link to either of us. It would end up as another unsolved crime.”
“Why should his murder have changed any of that?” said Surf.
I said, “Why did she kill him?”
“One question at a time, if you please,” said Howard. “I’ll take yours first, Mr. Chambers. She killed him—as she explained to me —because then he could never identify her. That way—if it worked —there could never be any possibility of apprehending her.”
“A good enough reason,” I said. “And she was right. If it worked, she was out, free and clear. There was only one witness to the swindle, the sucker himself, and he would be dead.”
“She didn’t consult with me because she knew of my prohibition against that sort of violence. She did it on her own and, of course, she botched it.”
“That should bring you around to answering my question,” said Surf.
“Yes. Miss Elgin is a bright young woman but as a criminal, of course, she is an amateur. Only professional criminals are successful criminals—Mr. Chambers, I’m certain, can bear me out on that. Amateurs simply don’t know enough: they haven’t devoted their life, their time, their brain-power exclusively to their profession. Anyway, at five minutes after twelve, Miss Elgin shot him. Then she acted quickly and in a manner which you, Mr. Surf, were you on her side, would approve. She was cognizant of the fact that one gets rid of a murder weapon as quickly as possible. In her suitcase, there was a paper bag. She wrapped the gun in the paper bag, went out into the street, threw the bag into a sewer on the corner, returned to the office, and waited for me. As I said, you might approve of that, Mr. Surf. I’m certain that Mr. Chambers wouldn’t approve.”
“I wouldn’t?” I said and with my free hand I scratched at my head. “Why?”
“Because that gun was registered in her name.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said.
Surf scratched his head. “Why not?”
“Sewers have grates,” said Howard. “An object like that does not pass directly into the sewage system. There could be no telling how soon it would be discovered nor by what means. Once a gun is discovered it is turned over to the police. A check on that gun would produce the name and address of the owner. This, of course, would not be fatal to us. The person’s name would be revealed as Frances Elgin. Her address would be somewhere in East Ninety-first Street. She hasn’t lived there for more than a year. So it would be merely the finding of a lost gun with no idea as to its owner. To us, it could only prove fatal if linked to a dead man, to a murdered man, to Charles R. Medford.”
“Why?” said Alfred Surf.
“A lost gun is a lost gun and if the owner can’t be discovered it’s still part of ordinary routine. But if that gun is connected to a murder, the police are galvanized into action. All ships, trains, planes are checked for reservations—for a possible escaping murderer. The alias of Frankie Nigle served our purpose perfectly. As Frankie Nigle, she was part of a swindle scheme. As Frances Elgin she was a free agent. But as Frances Elgin she had a reservation on an 8 o’clock plane for Paris. And if the body were discovered, the police would be seeking Frances Elgin as a murderess. It complicated matters dreadfully. I couldn’t go poking around in a sewer looking for a gun. On the other hand, I couldn’t have the police seeking Frances Elgin as a murderess. Swindlers must stick together. One can always implicate the other. I had to go along with her, back her up, get clear of the murder. There was only one method. There had to be a delay in the discovery of the body.”
“Now wait a minute,” said Surf. “Then why couldn’t you just stay there in the office until plane-time, and then take off?”
“The charwomen,” said Howard.
“Always the charwomen,” I said.
“The charwomen?” said Surf.
“It was an eight o’clock plane,” said Howard. “We’d have to quit that office by about seven. If the cleaning women then discovered the body and reported it to the police, and they did have the gun, we could still be headed off, and if not headed off—the gendarmes would be waiting for us in Paris.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” said Surf. “So what did you do?”
“Oh, there were so many things to do. First I called the airline for a change in our reservations. The best they could do for us was for midnight tonight, and we accepted. Then I took all of his—Medford’s—effects from his pockets, and his attache case, and packed them into Miss Elgin’s suitcase. Then I left her—there always had to be somebody left there with the body, just in case—and took a new hotel room at the Roosevelt where I left the suitcase. I paid for a week in advance and kept the key. I registered as Mr. and Mrs. Barry Howard of Baltimore and said my wife was due some time during the day. Then I went out and purchased a new attache case and a hunting knife. I transferred the money to the new attache case and checked that as containing valuables with the desk clerk. Then I went back to the room and used the knife to cut up Medford’s attache case obliterating his initials which were on it. Then I checked the phone book for a nearby delicatessen store and called for sandwiches and coffee and cake but each in a separate bag. When they were delivered, I ate some, but not all, there was too much. Then into each bag with the leftover food I inserted the pieces of the cut up attache case and the knife. I made separate trips with each bag to different trash baskets, getting rid of the attache case and the knife. Then I went back to the office of Nigle Realty.”
“Christ,” said Surf. “All of that must have taken a hell of a long time.”
“Too much time, but all necessary.”
“And all the while,” I said, “that chick was in the office alone with the body?”
“She was sick when I got back. I gave her the key to the hotel room, told her she was Mrs. Howard, told her to get some food, a couple of drinks, and then freshen up and rest up, and then come back to me in the office. While she was gone, I made my plans for the disposition of the body—which would give us time. She returned at four-thirty, damned late. I went over to Abercrombie & Fitch for a steamer trunk. They promised to deliver it to the office early today. I couldn’t take a steamer trunk with me at that time —rush hour beginning, trouble with cabs, and I couldn’t delay it because the store would close. I came back to the office. We stayed there all night, keeping the lights on, staving off the cleaning women by telling them we were working.”
“Holy cow!” said Surf.
“And in the morning?” I said.
“I went out for the purchase of those stacks of newspapers. After they were delivered, I went back to the hotel, showered, shaved, had my clothes pressed, and came back to the office. I sent her back to the hotel for sleep and rest. I called Railway Express to pick up a steamer trunk. I made it for five o’clock, the later the better—our plane was for midnight. I called Abercrombie & Fitch, and they told me the trunk was in delivery. That damned thing didn’t show up until three-thirty. I had nothing to do but sit around. I called Surf and told him I’d attend his party. Why not? Once that trunk was en route, what better did I have to do? That damned trunk arrived at three-thirty. Then Mr. Chambers arrived. You know the rest.”
“Holy cow!” said Alfred Surf. Expletives, even in the best of us, stay in monotonous pattern. Alfred was bovine-blessed by sacred cows.
“We don’t know all the rest, Mr. Howard,” I said.
“I went back to the hotel. I told her of the new developments. Her amateur meddling had stacked our troubles real high now. I was hoping against hope that that gun wasn’t found—but we couldn’t risk making that plane at midnight. We abandoned that, together with our bags. I called an individual in Chicago, an expert in the forging of passports. I ordered a new passport for her under the name of Florence Esmond
, a brunette, her photo to be taken when we got there. She made an appointment for tomorrow morning with a beauty parlor to have her hair dyed. I made train reservations for tomorrow for Chicago. Once there and with the new passport, we’d fly to the West Coast, from there take off for Honolulu, and from there work our way to Europe. Once there, she’d stay with her new name, build a background on it, get married, go to hell, whatever. Once there, I’d get rid of her. Once there, perhaps, even, I’d have her liquidated. Violence breeds violence: she could be a threat to my very existence. I don’t know. I’m not sure. I cannot, in all candor, predict my course. In the meantime I wanted her close by me. I wanted no more of her free-lance meddling. We came here to this party. Why not? What safer place than a mad literary party—and I did want to meet you, Mr. Chambers. So—a woman is a woman, an amateur an amateur—I’m about to introduce her to Mr. Surf as Mrs. Howard, and I just get to saying, ‘Mr. Surf, I want you to meet—’ when she sticks out her lily-white paw and says, ‘I’m Frances Elgin. How do you do? I’ve heard so much about you.’ ”
“She did at that, didn’t she?” said Surf. And to me he said, “I was with Topsy Twits at the moment. I said, ‘Topsy Twits, Mr. Barry Howard, Miss Frances Elgin.’ ”
“A most strikingly beautiful woman, that Miss Twits,” said Howard.
“You noticed?” I said.
“Who could help but notice?” he said. “However, that was that. An amateur is an amateur. I suppose my dear partner, under prior instruction, was so intent upon forgetting that she was ever Frankie Nigle, that her real name, under unconscious impetus, just shot out of her. I had told her, time and again, that once our work was accomplished, she must forever forget the Frankie Nigle—that Frances Elgin, as a name, was a part of her defense. Our swindle was old. Her murder was new. She fell back on her defense—Frances Elgin. Damn all amateurs. What could I do? Scream? We were at a literary party, and names do get lost, and I was hoping against hope that the name meant nothing yet, that that gun hadn’t yet been found …”
