The Anonymous Client sw-2

by Parnell Hall

  “Probably right,” Taylor said, He stood up. “Excuse me a minute. One of my men’s heading for the bathroom. Time for me to slip him the car keys.”

  Taylor went out the door and down the stairs.

  Left alone, Steve Winslow took the chance to size up the occupants of the far table. The girl who had called on Bradshaw was younger and prettier than the other woman. Steve placed her age at around twenty-three or twenty-four. The fact that she had called on Bradshaw in the afternoon, and then spent a leisurely day shopping, indicated that she was obviously not a working girl, but a woman of independent means.

  The couple was different. The man was a nine-to-fiver. His suit, slightly wilted from a long day’s work, indicated that he had come to dinner straight from the office. The purposeful aggressiveness in the man’s demeanor led Steve to speculate that his occupation was insurance, advertising, or real estate.

  His wife seemed older than the other girl. She was thinner, more angular, and seemed more sophisticated. Her makeup, though impeccable, seemed severe. The general impression Steve got was cold and catty.

  Mark Taylor came back, sat down and took a slug of bourbon. “No food yet?” he said. “I’m starving.”

  “I think this is it coming now,” Steve said.

  The waiter stopped at their table and put the huge hamburgers in front of them. “You Mr. Taylor?” he said.

  Taylor groaned. “Oh shit. That’s timing. Phone call, right?”

  “At the desk.”

  Taylor glanced ruefully at the basket of burger and fries, then pushed back his chair, got up and went to the cashier’s booth, and took the phone.

  He was back in a minute. He sat down, picked up his burger, and took a huge bite.

  “What’s up?” Steve said.

  “Bradshaw went out.”

  “How?”

  “In a taxi.”

  “Got him covered?”

  “I’ll say. I’ve got two cars on him this time. We’ve got him bracketed, one car in front of the taxi, and one car behind. He may know he’s being followed, but there won’t be anything he can do about it.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Mark. Bradshaw’s tricky.”

  “Sure he’s tricky, but this time we know it. He ditched my shadows this afternoon because it seemed like a routine job and no one suspected he was wise. My men are onto him now. They’ll stick like glue.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll bet you dinner Bradshaw walks away from your men again.”

  Taylor rubbed his hands together. “You’re on, Steve. Shit, if I’d known that I’d have ordered steak.”

  “I thought you liked the burgers here.”

  “I do. But I love to gamble.”

  “Big deal. All we’re really betting is whose expense account it goes on. So it’ll come back to me anyway.”

  “I know, but what the hell. You want a side bet?”

  “No. It’s a bad bet for me anyway. If I win, I lose. But-” Steve broke off. “Son of a bitch!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t look around, but there’s a girl with blonde hair and big round glasses sitting at the end of the bar.”

  Taylor grinned. “No shit? Your secretary? Why don’t you ask her to join us?”

  “It’s not funny, Mark. She’s playing detective. I don’t like it.”

  “She know you saw her?”

  “I don’t think so. Stay here and don’t look at her. I’m gonna head for the men’s room.”

  Steve got up, went out the door and down the stairs. Instead of continuing down to the men’s room, he went up the stairs on the other side. He circled around the bar, came up on Tracy Garvin from the other side, and slid onto the bar stool next to her.

  “You come here often?” he said.

  Tracy turned to give him an exasperated are-you-really-trying-that-old-line look. Then she recognized him. For a second her eyes flashed embarrassment, then anger. Then she smiled and said, calmly, “No. First time. And you?”

  Steve frowned. “Look. You’re playing detective, and I don’t like it.”

  Tracy’s eyes flashed. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “What are you gonna do, fire me? I already gave notice. And it’s after hours, and what business is it of yours where I eat?”

  Steve took a breath. “Look. This isn’t a game. If the girl spotted you watching her, it could be serious.”

  “She won’t.”

  “I spotted you.”

  “Bullshit. You know me. The girl doesn’t.”

  Steve frowned again. She was right. Women who were right exasperated him. “All right.” he said. “Since you’re here, you might as well join us.”

  “Thanks for the invitation,” Tracy said, pointedly.

  They got up and went back to the table.

  “Look what I found, Mark,” Steve said.

  Mark Taylor actually stood up, which Steve thought was overdoing it. “Hi, Tracy. Sit down. Join the fun.”

  “Go ahead and fill her in, Mark,” Steve said. “She’s gonna pump you for the information anyway.”

  “O.K.,” Taylor said. “Now, if you promise not to turn and stare, I’ll tell you who everyone is.”

  “I know that,” Tracy said. “I just don’t know who is who.”

  Taylor frowned. “What?”

  “There’s the two guys over by the wall, and the nitwits entertaining the blonde. I just don’t know which pair is yours.”

  Taylor looked at her. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “The nitwits happen to be mine. But how the hell’d you spot them?”

  “The blonde pretending to be a pickup is one of their wives. She’s wearing her wedding ring. If she were a real pickup, and she were married, she’d leave her ring off as a matter of course.”

  Mark Taylor stared at her.

  Steve shook his head. Jesus Christ. A ridiculous, farfetched piece of deduction, that absurdly happened to be true. It was a little much.

  The waiter came back. “You got another phone call.”

  Mark Taylor pushed his chair back. “Our bird must have lit somewhere. I’ll find out where he went.”

  He went over to the cashier and took the phone.

  “What’s that all about?” Tracy asked.

  “Bradshaw went out. We’re tailing him.”

  “And Mark just got a report?”

  “Maybe. I just bet Mark dinner Bradshaw’s gonna ditch his men again.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “’Cause I think he will.”

  She stared at him. “Don’t you care?”

  “Sure, but there’s nothing I can do about it. But I’m betting he will.”

  Tracy was interested. “Why do you think so?”

  “Because he gave up trying to talk me into calling them off. That must mean he thinks he can handle them.”

  “Or that his heart is pure,” Tracy said.

  Steve grinned, in spite of himself. “Now there’s a thought,” he said.

  Mark Taylor came back from the phone. He slumped into his chair, drained the last swallow from his drink, and sighed.

  Steve Winslow shot Tracy Garvin a look. “What’s the scoop, Mark?”

  “You win, Steve.”

  “He lost ’em?”

  “He sure did.”

  “How did he do it?”

  Mark Taylor shook his head. “He did it so easy it makes me sick just to think about it.”

  “Gonna tell us how?”

  “Yeah. Now get this, Steve, ’cause it’s a new one on me. Bradshaw hails a taxi and my men pick him up. They’ve got him boxed in, with one car in front of the cab and one car behind. They’ve got the number of the cab and everything. O.K. They’re going up Park Avenue, right? They hit 42nd Street, they go around the Pan Am building, you know? They continue up Park Avenue, and you know what it’s like-a two-way street with a median strip in the middl
e. So what happens? They come to 48th Street. That’s a one-way street going east, a right-hand turn if you’re going uptown. Now the cab slows down and gets in the right lane, but he doesn’t signal, so the lead car has to play it by ear. He goes straight through, which turns out to be the right thing to do, because the cab goes through the intersection and pulls up at the far corner. Bradshaw gets out, pays off the cab, and starts across Park Avenue. The lead car sees this, so he beats it down to the end of the block and pulls a U-turn at 49th. The second car can’t turn left because 48th is a one-way street, so he pulls up next to the cab to see what Bradshaw’s gonna do. Bradshaw reaches the other side of Park Avenue, and starts trying to hail a cab going back downtown. When he sees this, the second car runs up to 49th Street and pulls a U-turn too. By this time, Bradshaw has walked halfway up the block toward 49th Street, still looking for a cab. So when the second car pulls up, the first car passes Bradshaw and waits on the corner of 48th, so when he gets a cab they’ll have him bracketed again.

  “O.K. A cab comes along. Bradshaw gets in. The first car pulls out ahead of the cab. He’s right at the corner of 48th, so that takes him through the intersection. The cab cuts into the left hand lane and hangs a left onto 48th Street. That takes the first car out of the picture. His best bet is to beat it down to 46th, hang a left, run parallel, and try to spot the cab from two blocks away going through an intersection. That’s what he does.

  “Meanwhile, the second car is right on Bradshaw’s tail. He makes the left hand turn onto 48th right behind the cab. Now get this. The cab goes twenty yards down 48th and stops dead in the middle of the street. He’s blocking the whole street, there’s no room to get by, and two cars have followed my man into the turn so he can’t back up.”

  “So?”

  “So,” Taylor said, “Bradshaw gets out of the cab, walks calmly to the corner, hops back into the first cab that he’s left waiting there, and goes off free as air, leaving my man caught in a traffic jam.

  “I told you he was smart, Mark.”

  “Yeah.”

  Mark Taylor took a futile swig at his empty bourbon glass and lapsed into a moody silence.

  The waiter reappeared. “Everything all right?”

  “Just fine,” Steve told him.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Just the check,” Steve said. “And you can give it to the gentleman who’s been getting the phone calls.”

  8

  Mark Taylor slumped into the overstuffed chair, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and said, “O.K., Steve, I’ve got the dope.”

  Steve Winslow, sitting at his desk, looked over to where Tracy Garvin sat with her shorthand book.

  “O.K., shoot,” he said.

  Taylor flipped open his notebook. “The girl is Marilyn Harding. She’s the daughter of Phillip T. Harding, the petroleum king. Harding passed away last month at the age of sixty-three. Harding married late. Marilyn is the daughter of his first wife, Martha. She died when Marilyn was born, twenty-five years ago. Ten years ago Harding remarried. His second wife was a woman named Gloria Conners. Rumor has it she married him for his money. She died three years ago. Gloria had a daughter by a previous marriage named Phyllis. Two years ago Phyllis married a young real estate broker named Douglas Kemper. Harding liked Kemper, wanted to take him into the business, but Kemper wanted to make it on his own, so he stuck with real estate. The Kempers have an apartment in Manhattan, but they also have a suite of rooms in the Harding mansion. They’re your couple, by the way. Last night all three of them left together and stayed in the mansion, which is a big estate out in Glen Cove. Harding’s will is yet to be probated, but the bulk of the estate should go to the natural daughter. She’s an independent sort, never done a stick of work in her life, doesn’t have to. She hangs around with the fast crowd, likes riding, swimming, tennis, golf, all that goes with being rich. She graduated from college three years ago, has several men on the line, nothing serious.”

  “What the hell would a girl like that want with the likes of Bradshaw?” Winslow said.

  “What indeed?” Taylor said. “Our friend, Bradshaw, is the other side of the coin. David C. Bradshaw is actually Donald Blake, arrested three times on burglary, twice on extortion, served two years on one of the burglary counts. He just got out two months ago, which is when he came here. His background is all in Chicago. I’ve been tracing his movements, trying to find a tie-in with Marilyn Harding, and haven’t come up with anything. Of course, she traveled with the jet-set crowd, so she may have run into him in Chicago. Still, I can’t imagine what the connection is unless he’s putting the bite on her.”

  Steve sighed and rubbed his head. “All right, Mark, I guess that does it. It’s time Bradshaw and I had a showdown.”

  “You going to go see him?”

  “If he’s home.”

  “He’s home. My men are watching the apartment. He was back by nine last night and he hasn’t been out since.”

  “Any callers?”

  “Not a peep. By the way, I got the report from the handwriting expert. The note was typed on a Smith Corona portable typewriter by someone using the hunt-and-peck method.”

  “That’s fine, Mark, but I think we’ve pretty well established that Bradshaw’s our man. However, I’ll look around his apartment and see if he has a typewriter.”

  Steve walked over to the safe.

  Tracy’s face fell. “You taking the money?”

  “Sorry,” Steve said, spinning the combination. “I know it’s going to break your heart, but I want nothing to do with this bird. I’m going to put it to him point blank and make him admit he sent me the money. Then I’m going to shove it in his face, walk out, and absorb the loss. If it’s the kind of deal I think it is, I don’t want any part of it.”

  Steve swung the safe door open. “What the hell!” he exclaimed.

  “What’s the matter?” Tracy said.

  “It’s gone!”

  “What?” Mark Taylor exclaimed.

  Steve swung the safe door wide open so they could see. “The ten thousand dollars is gone. Look. It’s empty.”

  Tracy and Mark crowded around the safe to look. Of course, there was nothing to see. The safe was empty.

  “Son of a bitch!” Taylor said.

  “Yeah,” Steve said. “Mark, look. Run down and get your fingerprint kit, will you?”

  Taylor looked at him. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

  “Yeah. Go on. Get the stuff.”

  Taylor returned with the kit and dusted powder on the combination of the safe.

  “Christ, Steve, its lousy with prints.”

  “Most of them will be mine. You want to take my prints so you can eliminate them?”

  “I don’t think I need to. I’ve got Bradshaw’s prints here. I figure one match is all we need.”

  Taylor busied himself with his work. Tracy stuck like glue, looking over his shoulder. Steve sat at his desk and buried his face in the drama section of the New York Times. As he read, he could hear Mark Taylor giving an impromptu lecture on the art of matching fingerprints.

  Five minutes stretched to ten. Steve moved on to the Sports section. In the background, Tracy was now throwing around terms like “whorl” and “tented arch.”

  “Got it, Steve!”

  Winslow folded the paper and stood up. “You sure?”

  “Eighteen points of similarity. That’s a positive identification. It’s Bradshaw’s right thumb.”

  “Well, thank god for that,” Steve said. “I was certain it was Bradshaw, but the way this case has been breaking, I wouldn’t have been that surprised if it wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, but what’s up?” Taylor said. “Why would Bradshaw send you a retainer and then steal it back?”

  “Beats me.” Steve got up and started pacing. “Christ, what a goofy case. Yesterday I had a retainer and no client, and today I have a client and no retainer.”

  “Personally, I liked it better the first way,” Taylor s
aid.

  Steve sighed. “All right, Mark. Call off your men. Bradshaw’s given us a retainer and now he’s taken it back. I don’t know why he did it, but I don’t care. The hell with him.”

  Mark Taylor nodded. He couldn’t have agreed more.

  But Tracy Garvin couldn’t have agreed less.

  9

  Tracy Garvin sat and stewed. Wasn’t that just her luck. The whole thing had been too good to be true. It figured that just when things got to be interesting, something would come up to spoil it. And didn’t it just figure that that something would be named Steve Winslow?

  Tracy could understand why he’d done it. It was frustrating that Bradshaw had taken his money back. And Tracy could understand Steve not wanting to work for nothing.

  But still.

  As she sat at her desk with nothing to do, Tracy’s mind wandered away from Winslow and Bradshaw and her job, and back to the problems that had been obsessing her before the whole Bradshaw thing started. What to do now? She’d given notice, and she needed a job. When was she going to look, on her lunch hour? Damn. Why the hell’d she thrown out the Sunday Times. That was stupid. Didn’t she want to get a job?

  She realized, of course, the answer was no. Who likes looking for work? Getting a job was one of the worst experiences in the world.

  But it was more than that. She didn’t really want this job to end. She didn’t really want to quit, to give up, to admit it was hopeless.

  But there was no help for it. Two more weeks. She’d have to find something fast. Her lease was up in three months, which meant a rent increase. And she was just getting by now. She couldn’t afford to miss even a week of work. Then she’d really be in trouble. She might even have to take in a roommate. In a one-bedroom apartment, that meant giving up the living room. And sharing the bath. And the bathroom was off her bedroom, not off the hall. Which meant her roommate would have to come tromping through her room every time she wanted to use it. Jesus, what a nightmare. What a hell of a-

  Tracy’s thoughts were interrupted by the plop of the mail falling through the slot. She looked up. Two letters were lying on the floor by the door. Two. Wow. Big day. Tracy got up from her desk and plodded mechanically over to pick up the mail.