He had her attention now. She forgot about her cigarette, and her stare was fixed and incredulous as he continued.
“You were posing for an artist named Hudson and you knew he was going out of town that particular day. That was a break you jumped at, because you wouldn’t have to bribe anybody. That was the day Miss Courtney posed almost exclusively with the bracelet so Franks could switch the stones in the necklace and brooch.”
He went on quickly, his voice intense but not loud as he explained his theory as to what had happened in Boston.
“That stick-up was stupid,” he said. “It fooled no one. ranks planned it and told your boss he hadn’t had me to change the stones in the bracelet. He figured at with the pieces stolen and in his possession, no one could prove he had the real emeralds. The trouble was the guy who hired you didn’t believe it. You know what happened to Franks, don’t you?” he said, and saw the answer in her eyes.
She knew, and now she was afraid. She leaned forward, the pillow dropping behind her. She held the cigarette butt until it burned her fingers and then swore and reached for an ash tray.
Nason kept his eyes fixed until she looked at him. He said, “Who hired you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her tone defiant. “And if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”
Nason had expected some such answer but he was not yet ready to accept it. He leaned back, crossing his legs, pretending he had all the time in the world. He kept his voice low and made it as pleasant as he could.
“What do you do besides pose in the nude?”
“I don’t always pose in the nude. I work in a dress shop,” she said. “I’ve got a little money in it.”
“You used to model for the Carson agency. His girls generally do all right for themselves.”
“I did all right.”
Nason nodded and took time to study her anew, disregarding her sullen, stare and the lines around her eyes, looking beyond the slackness of the skin, which molded the mouth and chin, and seeing instead the bone structure of the face and body. He had known others like her who, in the early thirties, had begun to fleshen up and lose color from too much liquor and not enough sleep, and it occurred to him now that she would be a good-looking woman if she would take care of herself. There was nothing wrong with her that exercise and rest and the proper diet could not cure, and he found himself wondering what had happened that she should so let herself go.
“What did you do before that?” he said.
“Modeled. For a dress manufacturer on Seventh Avenue.”
“And before that?”
“Clerked for the same company.”
“Married?”
“For a while.”
“That means you’ve been taking care of yourself for quite a few years—and doing all right, too, I guess.” “Since I was fifteen,” Irene Keith said.
“Then you should know your way around. You should know a lot of things. You should know what life is like, and how the odds are, and what happens when you start kidding yourself—whether it’s about a job or a man. Have you ever been in jail?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t like it. Breakfast at six-thirty, cornmeal mush. A gray dress, like all the other grifters and prostitutes and—”
“Go to hell!” Irene Keith’s mouth was pinched, and she folded her arms across her breasts and glared at him.
“You’re mixed up in a half-million-dollar job,” Nason said, still pleasant. “But so far you haven’t done anything you can’t talk your way out of. You tried a fast one and it didn’t come off, and you’ve got a chance—for a little while—to get out without getting hurt.”
“You’re wasting your breath.”
And Nason knew that this was so. He saw the stubborn set to her mouth, knew that he had failed in his argument, and suddenly, his patience exhausted, he realized he had only one threat left and decided to try it.
“I’ll waste a little more,” he said, his blue eyes hardening. “You won’t tell me who you’re working for, but we both know that he hired two people—and has already killed one. He killed Franks when he found out Franks double-crossed him and wouldn’t hand over the emeralds from the bracelet. You know what that means, don’t you?” He paused, then said, “It means you’re the only one who knows who the killer is. It means if you talk he’ll go to the chair. So what does that make you?”
He leaned forward and when the woman would no longer look at him, when she continued to stare sullenly at the floor, he stood up.
“Okay,” he said. “I figured you were smart enough to know what the score is. So we’ll play it your way. I used to be in the newspaper business. I have some reporter friends here in town and I’m going to hand out the story I’ve told you.” He took a breath, hoping his threat would sound convincing to one who did not think too deeply and did not know newspaper procedure.
“That story will be out tomorrow, and it will be the truth and you know it.” He laughed abruptly, a ragged sound. “You know what will happen? The boss is going to wonder who told that story. He’s going to think that somebody talked; he’s got to think that. And he’s going to think that someone is you because you’re the only one who knows enough. You know what will happen then? I’ll tell you,” he said. “The boss will come looking for you with a gun in his hand. The same way he came for Norman Franks.”
He put on his hat, knowing there was nothing more to say. But there was conviction in his words and a fair amount of logic. No one could talk that way and not make an impression, and he knew that, whether she talked to him now—and he did not think she would—she recognized the risk she took and would act accordingly.
“I’ll give you until midnight,” he said, and told her where he was staying. “Get in touch with me before that or take your chances.”
He went to the door, opened it, glanced back. Irene Keith sat with her head bent, a grayness in her cheeks. She looked up at him through her lashes with eyes that were dull with resentment and fear.
Sam Duble put his Racing Form away reluctantly and reached for the ignition key, then dropped his hand when Nason said, “Leave it. I want you to stick around.”
Duble cocked one eye and tipped his head. “You look a little worked up. Have any trouble?”
“No trouble,” Nason said. “I think I did all right. I think I threw a little fear into a woman, and if I did, she may come out after a while; she may try to get in touch with somebody; she may even move.”
Duble cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t want to tell me a little more about this, would you?” he asked dryly.
“I think she knows who killed Norman Franks. I’m just hoping she’ll give us some lead.”
Duble was not a man who needed a lot of information. “The cops know about her?”
“They know she worked with Franks but they don’t now where she is. Will you stay here and find out where she goes—if she goes?”
“Sure. What does she look like?” said Duble and then when he heard Nason’s description, he grinned. “You make her sound pretty good.”
“She is—if you like them busty and you’re not too particular.”
“Hah,” said Duble. “This may be all right. I’ll call you, huh?”
Nason nodded and turned away. He walked quickly to the corner, his back straight, his rugged face somber, and his gaze fixed and sightless. He walked two blocks before he remembered where he was and thought to signal a taxi.
Chapter Sixteen
PAUL SANFORD’S OFFICE in the Jewelers’ Guild suite was a large corner room next to Kate Harper’s, and when Linda Courtney arrived shortly after two that afternoon, he was poring over a huge, leather-covered reference volume, which was spread out on his desk. He rose at once, greeted her pleasantly, and fixed a chair for her. When she was seated, he went back to the desk, but not until he sat down did she get a good look at his face and realize that it carried no smile.
Instead, it seemed to her that his eyes were kind an
d he was working up to something that would be difficult to say. And, though this was nothing more than an intuitive impression, the more she looked at him, the more her spirits sank and the more uncertain she became.
“I found something on those pieces, Linda,” he said finally.
“Oh, good,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.
“There are three or four pages here on them.” He tapped the open volume and put on his shell-rimmed glasses. “It seems that they are rather famous, in an unpublicized sort of way, and I’m afraid the news is not too good.”
She took a breath to counteract the dread emptiness that had started at the pit of her stomach. “Tell me about them,” she said. “All about them, Paul.”
“Yes.” He pinched his lips, inhaled visibly. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I’d better. Well, in the first place they have a name. Elcazar—the Elcazar emeralds.” He turned the book and held it up so she could see the three line drawings that illustrated them. “So far as I know, they have never been photographed and, therefore, have never been copied commercially. But these illustrations would indicate that the costume pieces your mother had are the same ones.”
She sat very still, the numbness seeping through, not mentioning the three photographs that Jerry Nason had taken from Ned Gault’s office, because at the moment she had no capacity to think.
She heard Sanford say, “The early history is pretty vague. Apparently the settings, or parts of them, were fashioned by the Incas and were taken by Pizarro or some of his men to Spain. You understand this part is merely conjecture, but it does seem that a man named Elcazar picked up the three pieces around 1850 in Madrid. Now Elcazar was a South American, from Colombia, and it is doubtful if the emeralds described here are the ones he originally bought. More likely, those stones were of poor quality or possibly imitations.”
He glanced at the book and said, “But Elcazar liked the settings and he knew something about emeralds, and, to understand what he did, it might help if I told you something about the way emeralds are mined. I don’t know if you know this, but most of the world’s fine emeralds—not counting the Oriental emerald, which is a different breed—come from Colombia. There are two or three mines operating there but the largest of these is at Muzo, and it says here that probably more women wear emeralds mined in Muzo than all other mines combined because it has produced consistently for three hundred years.”
Still reading the book he said, “When the Spaniards conquered the Incas they didn’t have much luck locating the emerald mines. They did fairly well with the Chibcha Indians who had been working a mine at Chivor, forcing them to disclose its location, but the Muzo Indians were a different breed. Not until some years later, when the Muzos foolishly came out to fight a pitched battle, did the Spaniards conquer them, and even with torture they could not make the chief or his daughters tell where the mine was located.
“Actually, the Muzo mine was found by accident about ten years later. There are undoubtedly other mines that have never been found because they were in remote places where the jungle growth would quickly cover up the tunnels and trails, but the Muzo mine was discovered by a horseman who felt his horse go lame and got down to examine the hoof. In the frog of that hoof he found a stone of green beryl, identified it as such, and retraced the hoofprints to find that he had ridden right over a part of the old Muzo mine.”
He paused to glance at Linda and said, “The Spaniards began to work Muzo. They abandoned the mine at Chivor, and it was not rediscovered until the twentieth century. But Muzo kept producing. It became finally the property of the Colombian government and was operated by them until 1939. Then they sold it. Do you know why? Because the best stones never seemed to reach the government vaults. No matter what guards they assigned, no really fine stones were turned in. Since then, the private owners have done much better, but we are not concerned with that; we are concerned with what happened before that, and, according to this information, it would seem that the Elcazars found ways and means to get a look at those choice stones that never reached the government vaults. Naturally, there is no proof of this, but it seems reasonable to suppose that the Elcazar who originally bought the pieces, and who was an emerald collector and connoisseur, began to put the gems he collected into these pieces.”
He sighed and pushed the book away. “This account says that the stones are exquisitely colored and matched, and that probably means that Elcazar built up the pieces stone by stone as they became available. He may have supervised the cutting and polishing, and those that did not suit him were sold. He may, or may not, have finished the job. If not, it was carried on by his heirs, but at any rate, the first knowledge of the collection as a whole was in 1929, when a Ramon Elcazar appeared in Madrid and offered it for sale. The records say he did not sell it, however, but took it back to Bogotá, and, as far as is known, that is the last time it was offered.”
Sanford leaned back in his chair, his well-boned face grave and his glance averted. “Ten years ago,” he said quietly, “the Elcazar emeralds disappeared from the owner’s safe. They have not, insofar as these records are concerned, been seen since. And on the day they disappeared, Luis Elcazar, who then owned them, was found murdered.”
Sanford removed his glasses, tapped them against his palm. Linda watched him absently, the numbness holding her body immobile but gradually releasing its hold upon her brain. She heard it all; she understood it all without thinking. Now she came back to the one important thing she could not grasp.
“I still don’t see,” she said huskily, “how Mother got them.”
Sanford stood up. He walked to the window and back, his head inclined. He stopped beside her chair, and then, as though making up his mind to finish the job, he said, “You might as well know the rest of it. The facts are in that book, and I was in South America about that time—my second wife was filling a singing engagement—and I remember a little about it. You know your father was in the diplomatic service?”
“Yes.”
“He sent you and your mother on ahead because he was leaving the service. Well, he left Bogotá on his way to the States on the afternoon Luis Elcazar was murdered.” Sanford put his hand on her shoulder and pressed it. “I don’t see how there can be any other answer,” he said. “If your mother had those pieces, your father must have brought them here.”
“No!”
Linda turned in her chair. She could think now, and panic was upon her.
“No, Paul! It can’t be that way. That—that would mean my father was a murderer.”
She would have gone on but Sanford checked her. He leaned down, both hands on her shoulders now, holding her in the chair. “Listen! Linda! That isn’t what I said. You’re jumping at conclusions. That part—your father’s leaving—is probably nothing but coincidence.”
“Was anyone ever caught?”
“Not that I know of, but—”
“Then—”
“No.” Sanford shook her gently, forcing her to look at him. “No one knows who killed Elcazar. But, since your mother did have those pieces, it seems obvious now that your father brought them to New York, using his diplomatic immunity to get them into the country.”
He stepped back, and his voice was kind. “I’m sorry, child. But, from what you tell me, the police are in this now, and it’s only a question of time before they find out these things. I thought it would be easier if you heard it from me. Tell me, where are the pieces now?”
Linda rose slowly from her chair. “I don’t know,” she said, and told Sanford how they had disappeared, speaking automatically, her face white and shaken, hardly knowing what she was saying.
Inside her, the vast emptiness remained, and she moved without effort or feeling, a little surprised that she was on her feet and that she could move to the door. She heard Sanford speak to her and looked at him curiously.
“Wait,” he said again, and she saw he was reaching for his coat and hat. “I’ll go down with you.”
She real
ized he was afraid for her, and that helped her concentrate. She rearranged her face and lifted her chin. When she walked with him to the elevators, she gave no outward sign of the shapeless horror that rode with her thoughts.
Jerry Nason paid off his taxi driver shortly after six o’clock and walked with springy stride through the foyer of Linda Courtney’s apartment building. He whistled soundlessly to keep time with his steps, and he was still whistling when the elevator spilled him out at the proper floor. He was not, however, prepared for the vision who opened the door for him.
The vision was blond and fashioned with loving slenderness, and she wore a midnight-blue dinner dress with tiny sleeves and a sweetheart neckline and a slim, smooth-fitting skirt, somehow caught off-center and tacked over one hip with a bow. The vision’s face might have warned him, had he concentrated on it, but he was too impressed by the over-all picture to concentrate on anything.
“Wow!” he said enthusiastically and scaled his hat toward the sofa as he entered. He heard the door close, heard her say, “Hello, Jerry,” in a voice that was somewhat lacking in warmth.
But even then he was not warned, because he was not watching Linda’s face but lighting a cigarette and blowing out the match and thinking with justifiable exuberance about the things that had happened.
“I called on Irene Keith,” he said. “I threw a scare into her and Sam Duble is—”
“Did you?” said a voice he did not recognize.
He turned, staring, and she was not looking at him but moving easily about the room, straightening ash trays and lampshades with a nervous preoccupation he had never seen before.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
He put down his cigarette and crossed to her side, his grin fixed and a slow bewilderment growing in his eyes. He waited until she straightened a print on the wall, and, when she started to move away, he took her arm and tried to turn her toward him.
“Please, Jerry!”
Fashioned for Murder Page 14
