The Frightened Fianc?e

by George Harmon Coxe

  She gave Holland a sample of her smile as he stopped at the opening; when he told her his name she was quickly attentive.

  “Yes,” she said. “Mr. Crombie’s expecting you.” She pressed a button and a door latch clicked beside the panel. “The first office on the right,” she said.

  Sam Crombie’s desk was angled across the far corner of his office so that he could look out the lone window at the walls of two near-by buildings and, by craning his neck, see a piece of the sky and a ventilator shaft. Now he was leaning back in his desk chair, clasped hands cradling his thick neck, one heel hooked in an open drawer. He nodded without shifting his position and said he was glad Holland came right over in answer to his call.

  “I’ve got a couple of things that might interest you,” he said, “but first did you find out anything up at Allenbys’ after I left?”

  “I found a gun.”

  Crombie’s shrewd little eyes opened a fraction of an inch and dropped back, busy now and bright with interest. “Tell me about it.”

  Holland told him. He also told him about the landing-float that had crashed down on him.

  Crombie said, “Hmm,” thoughtfully. After a moment he unhooked his foot and swiveled his chair so he could look out the window. “How much did you tell the lieutenant after you gave him the gun?”

  “I didn’t tell him about the float.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I thought it might confuse the issue. The only important thing is who tried to get rid of the gun.”

  “Okay. Now what about this Nadine Winsor? Did you talk to her again?”

  “No,” Holland said, and then he remembered something Crombie had told him Saturday afternoon. “You said you’d found out some things about her before you came up that first morning.”

  Crombie said that was right. He added that he had also been busy yesterday and this morning, and the things he had to say made Holland very glad that Crombie was working for him.

  “I told you I got that call from Pilgrim around five-thirty Saturday morning,” the detective said. “I told you I didn’t leave town until six-thirty. For that one hour I’m a very busy man. You know why? Because the whole thing stinks.”

  He swiveled back, his gaze intent. “Drake’s up there with respectable people, supposedly minding his own business. But somebody shoots him. Because he made some enemies since he’s up there and somebody takes it out on him? Maybe. But I have to remember the guy’s a detective, a peeper. I have to think maybe he ran across something that somebody’s ashamed of and is trying to hide, that maybe he’s tried to put the bite on somebody who wouldn’t stand still for him.”

  He said, “I don’t know anything yet but I do know Drake’s working for me. I’ve got a business here, a respectable one so far. I got to protect myself. So I throw on some clothes and run over here to have a look.” He paused while he took a cigar out of a humidor. “Each of my men has a two-by-four cubby down the hall and I give Drake’s a fast check to see if he’s got anything in his desk or files that could possibly tie in with anybody up there. I don’t find anything that rings any bell—Tracy Lawrence told me who was staying there when we had our first talk—so I grab a transcript of our interview and beat it uptown to Drake’s apartment.”

  He bit the end off the cigar and flicked the tip from his tongue. He let one lid come down and there was a note of sardonic humor in his hoarse voice as he continued.

  “Also I remember to take a bunch of keys that I keep around for special occasions, knowing that if I ever get caught using them I’ll lose my license, but keeping them on hand for emergencies. Well this looks like one. At six in the morning it looks safe enough. Anyway I crash Drake’s place and sure enough I find some folders in his desk file. I get ’em out of there so the cops won’t find them when they case the place later, knowing if I have to produce them I can always say I found them here in this office.”

  He set his bicuspids solidly on the cigar, opened a drawer, and took out two Manila folders. “One of these is on Nadine Winsor,” he said. “The other has to do with Keith Erskine. I’ll take the Winsor dame first and give it to you fast. She got a divorce from Charlie Winsor, the song writer. It becomes final next month. The trouble is the evidence is fraudulent and Drake could prove it. If he wanted to he might be able to get the whole damn case tossed out.”

  Holland had a little trouble keeping up with Crombie. “Then Nadine couldn’t marry Arthur Baldwin.”

  “Not until she got another divorce.”

  Holland chewed on that, but he wasn’t convinced. “But if Drake was the one who got the evidence Nadine would have recognized him when he went to Hawk’s Point. She would have known he was a private detective and—”

  “Whoa!” Crombie cut in. “Back up. I didn’t say Drake got the evidence. Drake was in with another guy before he came here. The other guy worked for a divorce lawyer who’s in a jam now on a wire-tapping rap. That’s the lawyer that got Nadine her divorce, and Drake’s partner was the guy who fixed the plant, furnished the hired corespondent, and later crashed this hotel room. It’s done all the time in this state. Awhile back there was some publicity, and a few arrests were made when one of the corespondents squawked, and the D.A.’s office made an investigation. But it still goes on. What I’m getting at is this.

  “Nadine did not know Drake. Drake posed as a lawyer. All he had to say to Nadine was that through a friend of his he had certain information—and proof to back it up—that would disclose her divorce as a fraud. We don’t know for sure that he braced her or if he talked about money, but this folder proves he was working on the idea.”

  He took the cigar from his mouth, replaced it. “Anyway this gives us a motive to go along with the fact that you saw her undressing about the time Drake was shot, that her prints were in the guesthouse bathroom. I think it would be a good idea if you looked her up and had a little talk. Maybe this afternoon. I’ve got a hunch she knows a damn sight more than she says she does.”

  He pushed the folder aside and opened the second one. “What do you know about Keith Erskine—and his wife?”

  Holland considered the things Frances had told him that night in the Allenby kitchen and explained as best he could the status of the Erskine marriage and the proposed divorce.

  “It ties in,” Crombie said. “And this time I think Drake did his snooping in his spare time after he’d figured out a few things for himself at the Allenby place.” He sighed audibly, twisting his heavy body deeper into his chair. “I might as well admit it; I made one hell of a mistake in letting Drake take that assignment. If I had anyone else who might possibly have handled the job—Oh, well,” he said, and turned again to the folder.

  “However he found out,” he said, “Drake knew that Erskine had a girl friend here in town. He thought there might be a chance of collecting something.”

  Holland found he was confused. “Drake couldn’t blackmail Erskine for much; he didn’t have much. And besides Drake was up there pretending to be Tracy’s fiancé. He wouldn’t risk exposing the engagement by trying to blackmail anyone.”

  “That’s what you say,” Crombie replied. “And I’m not sure that he actually did. What I’m saying is that he was setting up the groundwork for future business. Yesterday was the day Miss Lawrence was to expose this phony engagement. Drake played his part. The minute the assignment was over he became a private detective again and today he could start collecting—if he was smart enough and still alive. Look.”

  He held up a carbon copy of a letter. “Drake started his play without tipping anything. This letter was written last week. It was in his desk. It was addressed to Keith Erskine and it says the writer has information of great value concerning the occupant of such and such apartment on East Ninetieth Street. He goes on to say he is willing to discuss the matter with either Mr. Erskine or his wife, whichever seems most interested. If Mr. Erskine is interested he should put an ad in the personal column of the Morning Bulletin to appear on Friday. Then h
e goes on to tell how to word the ad.”

  Holland said, “Oh,” as he exhaled.

  “Yeah,” Crombie said. “Not bad, huh? The occupant of that apartment is probably the doll Erskine is going to marry when he gets the divorce. Meanwhile Drake tips nothing; he’s only looking for some kind of reaction. Then, for another angle, he writes the same kind of letter with different wording to Mrs. Erskine. Get it?” he said. “Figured to play one against the other. A cutie, hunh?”

  Holland sat right where he was, finding nothing at all to say as he watched the detective push a newspaper clipping across the desk. When he picked it up he saw it was a column of personal advertisements. The one opposite the pencil mark read:

  George: Am most interested in the proposition outlined in your letter. Please advise as to next step. Jane.

  “To put in an ad like that,” Crombie said, “you’ve got to come in and write it out and pay for it—unless they know you.”

  As he spoke he produced a Photostatic copy of the form used by the Bulletin for its classified advertisements. There in someone’s handwriting were the same words used in the printed announcement.

  Holland tossed the Photostat back. He gave Crombie a twisted grin and spread both hands in a gesture of admiration. “All right,” he said. “How did you get it?”

  “You can’t be in this business as long as I have without having some friends around. However I got it, there sit is, and I say it’s a woman’s handwriting—Yes,” he said when the interoffice communicator buzzed.

  “Mr. Erskine is here,” a filtered voice said.

  “Send him in.” Crombie winked at Holland. “Sit tight,” he said. “I told you I’d been busy.”

  He was on his feet when the door opened, straightening his seersucker jacket, his beefy face creased in a smile.

  “Good morning, Mr. Erskine,” he said affably. “You know John Holland. Very good of you to come in. Sit here. This will only take a minute.”

  Erskine seemed a little overwhelmed by his reception. He wore a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of double-breasted tropical worsted, a yellow figured tie of unassessable value, thirty dollars’ worth of brown-and-white shoes. His mustache was neatly trimmed and his wavy brown hair was immaculately groomed. He sat down, said hello to Holland, and brought forth a gold cigarette case which he offered with a flourish.

  “I just wanted to ask you if you recognized this handwriting,” Crombie said in the same hearty tones.

  Erskine accepted the Photostat, his eyes moving swiftly up and down its surface. He forgot to take a cigarette and his little mustache twitched once as he glanced up.

  “No,” he said flatly. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Umm.” Crombie took back the Photostat and sat down. “But you did receive a letter last week from a person signing himself George and concerning an apartment on East Ninetieth Street.”

  Erskine gave this one some thought. He found his cigarette. He tapped it elegantly, placed it lightly between his lips after wetting the end. When he was ready he looked back at Crombie and said, “Yes. Why?”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I tore it up.”

  “You didn’t put an ad in the Bulletin?”

  “Certainly not. I didn’t know anyone by the name of George or—”

  “You didn’t know—or guess—that George was Roger Drake?”

  Erskine spun flame from a gold lighter, watched it, put it to his cigarette. “To me it was the same thing as an anonymous letter, the sort of thing one never pays any attention to.”

  “And you didn’t care much whether your wife knew you were seeing someone on East Ninetieth Street.”

  “Not particularly. We’ve been separated to all intents and purposes for some time. I had done nothing wrong and even if I had I’m quite sure no one could prove it.”

  “Drake could—or thought he could.” Crombie leaned back and when he spoke again his hoarse voice was casually matter-of-fact. “By the way, Mr. Erskine, was it you that threw the gun off the pier at the Allenby place Saturday night?”

  Erskine had leaned forward, his cigarette poised as if he was about to knock off the ashes. He stayed that way for two seconds, his face averted; then he went on with the movement, tapping the cigarette with his index finger three times. When he straightened he gave Crombie a level stare.

  “My dear man,” he said stiffly, “I’m afraid I haven’t the remotest idea of what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah?” Crombie grunted softly. “Well, forget it, then. It’s just a question I sometimes ask.” He stood up, moved ponderously over to open the door. “Thanks a lot for coming in.”

  Erskine stood up. To show that he was in complete command of the situation he shot his cuff, raised his arm with a studied gesture, and turned the wrist so he could inspect the watch fastened there. When he was satisfied, he dropped his arm, adjusted his cuff, and left them without a word. Crombie grinned and eased the door shut.

  “What did all that prove?” Holland asked dryly.

  “I don’t know,” Crombie said. “I can tell you more about it when we find out where Erskine was Saturday morning when Lieutenant Pilgrim tried to get in touch with him.”

  “Oh.” Holland tipped his head back and examined the ceiling as his mind went back. “I’d forgotten about that. I wondered why the police didn’t get him back to the house until after two o’clock.”

  “Pilgrim phoned him at eight, long-distance. No answer. At nine two men from the East Fifty-First Street station called at his apartment. He wasn’t there and they waited until he came back just before eleven. He wouldn’t say where he’d been, or for how long. Where you going?” he asked when he saw Holland looking at his watch.

  “I thought I’d get back to the office for a while and then call on Nadine like you suggested.”

  “Stick around. Your girl is coming in on the noon train.”

  “What?”

  Crombie winked. “Didn’t I tell you I’d been busy? I called her this morning and she promised to stop in. Ought to be here any minute.”

  Tracy Lawrence wore a gabardine suit and a tailored blouse. She looked very cool, poised, and successful, but not at all like a woman in love. Except for one fleeting uncertain moment when she first saw Holland there seemed to be no break in assurance. When she sat down she might have been any young businesswoman about to join a conference of her associates.

  “I hope you didn’t come to town just for this,” Crombie said.

  “Oh, no,” she said calmly. “There were some things I’d been putting off for quite a while and this seemed as good a day as any.”

  Holland watched her, saying nothing after his first polite good morning. He tried not to think about how things used to be. He made up his mind that he was not going to ask her to lunch when she left, to do anything at all that she could resent. For a few seconds when he saw how reserved she was toward him he tried to tell himself that he wasn’t in love with her at all. The trouble was it didn’t work so he sat there miserably and watched Crombie show her the Photostat, which had been so folded that Tracy could see nothing but the handwriting.

  “Recognize the writing?”

  “Why—it’s my sister’s, isn’t it? Frances’s.”

  “That’s what we thought,” Crombie said, “but we weren’t sure.” He put the Photostats aside and leaned his massive forearms on the desk. “That was one reason why I wanted you to come in,” he said. “The other is to ask your indulgence while you listen to me for maybe five minutes. You don’t have to say anything.”

  He gave her a chance to reply, but when she crossed her knees and settled back he said, “I’ve got a daughter about your age. She was engaged to a sergeant like you were once to that flyer. The sergeant got killed in Germany and it took my girl a long time to get over it. Before that I’d been pretty critical of the young men who came around. I wasn’t too happy about her getting married at all. But after Ben—that was his name—got killed and I saw wha
t it was doing to my girl I—well, I guess I almost tried to play cupid. I got scared she wouldn’t marry anyone—ever. I took her out and encouraged any decent-appearing boy that came around.

  “Because, you see, it wasn’t right or good for her to sit around and turn down dates. She was a pretty girl, normal, healthy, full of life. It wasn’t natural for her to stay single and get older alone. Well, it took about two years, but finally a young fellow got under her shell and she began to open up and act like the girl she’d always been. To make a long story short she married him and they moved off to Detroit and you’ve never seen a happier family. There’re three of them—I’m a grandfather now,” he said, a little embarrassed but looking very proud.

  Nothing changed in Tracy’s face. When he finished she said, “Why are you telling me this, Mr. Crombie?”

  “Why”—Crombie blinked—”I guess I wanted to show you that you can’t set your mind on a thing that’s not proper or right. You got over your other bad times just like my girl did and if it hadn’t been for Drake—Well, what I mean is you can’t blame yourself for that. I’ve been finding out some things since you fired me—”

  “I didn’t fire you, Mr. Crombie.”

  “I found out,” he said, paying no attention, “that Drake had quite a bit of rat in him. I feel it’s my fault that I let him go up there on that job with you and I want to do what I can to make up for my mistake. What I mean is, we’ve already found out two or three suspects that had motives for wanting Drake out of the way. I want you to believe that you had nothing to do with it and I hope to prove that he would have been killed anyway.”

  Tracy stood up and straightened her jacket. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate very much what you’re trying to do, but the fact remains that Roger Drake was killed at Hawk’s Point and if I hadn’t hired him he would never have gone there. I really must go now,” she said. “I’m sorry. Good-by, John.”