Headed for a Hearse

by Jonathan Latimer

  “Then you haven’t been very active in your firm?”

  “No. I’ve kept some of my accounts, but I have been half retired.”

  Abruptly the lawyer pushed back his chair, stood up. “Either you were unlucky or you were framed.” He snapped his thumb nail on his teeth. “My guess is you were framed.” He bent over Westland and said, “Look, legal advice won’t be any good.”

  Westland said, “Then you won’t assist…”

  “Sure I will. You’ve got me convinced. But there is only one way to get a reprieve now. The Governor ain’t goin’ to listen to a lot of rumors about new evidence.” The attorney shook a finger at Westland. “We have to get the real murderer.”

  The room was cooler now. Light slithered through the crack under the warden’s door.

  Finklestein continued, “Only four days left, so we’ll have to hump.” With short nervous steps, he paced the floor. “I’ll send to New York for the smartest detective in America. And in the morning, as you suggested, we’ll have a meeting here of everybody connected with the case: your partners and Miss—” he consulted his notebook, still on the desk—“Martin.”

  Westland objected. “Why bring her here?”

  Finklestein held up his hand. “I want to see her. Besides, she can be of help. I may send her after that M. G. who wrote the letter. A lady can always get in touch with a man quicker than another man, particularly if she is pretty.”

  Westland said, “She’s pretty all right.”

  “Another thing,” the lawyer said: “I’ll be your outside commander, but I think you had better hear all the reports.” A thought shadowed his face. “The only trouble will be the warden.”

  “I’ve got him fixed.”

  “Fine. Fine. Then I’ll see you first thing in the morning. I’ll get the others.” Finklestein picked up his notebook and opened the door to the warden’s office. Squeezed into a swivel chair, Warden Buckholtz was apparently asleep. His face hung in peaceful folds, and a ribbon of smoke rose from his cigar on the edge of his golden oak desk. Finklestein paused at the door, looked back at Westland. He seemed embarrassed. “Naturally I expect some … emolument for this.…” His voice died away.

  “Of course,” said Westland. “You name the fee.”

  Finklestein’s eyes sparkled back of the glasses. He rubbed his hands. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I always was a gambling man. I’ll take fifty thousand if we set you free and nothing but expenses if we don’t.” He left the door, moved to wake the warden, saying: “That’s sporting, ain’t it? Fifty grand or nothing…”

  “… but expenses,” said Robert Westland smiling. He stood up, brushing the seat of his trousers with his hands. His head felt much better.

  CHAPTER III

  Monday Morning

  In jail they make you get up early. It was absurd. Time would pass much faster if they would let you sleep until noon, but instead they ring an electric bell at 6 A. M. This means breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes. But today Robert Westland was glad, for once, of this bell. He was glad not because of breakfast but because it made the day longer.

  After he had washed in cold water, he pulled on his trousers and thrust his arms in his shirt and lit a cigarette. The smoke was warm and fragrant in his throat. His hands were cold, and he put them in his trousers’ pockets. The part of the jail reserved for the solitary death cells was clammy, like a mausoleum, and always the strange damp current of air passed along the hall. He lifted the basket of fruit which Emily Lou had sent him, carried it to the front of his cell and peered in at Isadore Varecha.

  “Hi,” he said, holding out the basket. “Have some fruit?”

  Varecha was sitting on his bed, his legs crossed under him, tailor fashion. The swollen flesh around his neck was navy blue. His small eyes gleamed suspicion.

  “What’s d’ matter with it?”

  “Nothing. I have just got too much.” Varecha considered this reason for a moment: its logic appealed to him, and he came to the front of his cell. “T’anks,” he said. His hand was chapped rawly under an encrustation of dirt and soot. He took a russet pear. “Have some more,” urged Westland. He handed the little man a cluster of velvety hothouse grapes. “T’anks,” repeated Varecha. He regarded the grapes with awe.

  Connors had been watching them from the other side. He selected a pear and a tangerine. “Much obliged,” he said. In the half light of early morning his face looked as though it had been hacked out of Indiana limestone. “These’ll make the Java taste better.”

  Robert Westland took a peach and put down the basket. The sour-sweet juice made his teeth feel clean. “Breakfast ought to be along any time,” he observed between bites.

  Connors said, “Yeah, and that lug of a guard.” His jaw muscles were like piano wire. “I’ll get my hands on him one of these days.”

  “Don’t let him bother you,” said Westland.

  They ate thoughtfully for a time.

  “Where’d you go last night?” Connors asked.

  Westland told him about the letter and about Finklestein and his plan to save himself.

  “Joe Petro?” Connors wrinkled his forehead. “I think I know the guy. He’s a fence. He runs a restaurant just to fox the coppers. I never bothered with that sort of stuff myself.”

  “We’re going to try to find this M. G. in the morning.”

  “I hope you get a break.” Connors spoke sincerely. “This is no way for a guy to die.”

  A few minutes later Percival Galt, the guard, appeared with breakfast. He spoke with the aggravating cheerfulness of a radio announcer. “Good-morning, everybody.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Beard grew in patches on his long horsey face. His dirty thumb was in the oatmeal and milk when he handed Westland his dish, but he slid Connors’ food to him with his foot along the wall, carefully keeping out of the gangster’s reach.

  “Looks like you’re holding a convention,” Warden Buckholtz declared between gasps as he led Robert Westland to the Assistant Matron’s office. He paused, one hand on the doorknob, his fat face coquettish. “You won’t forget me?”

  Westland placed his hand over the warden’s and pulled open the door. There were a number of people in the room. He saw Richard Bolston’s blond head. “Dick, will you come here a minute?” he called.

  Bolston walked over to the door. His brown Harris tweed suit fitted smoothly across his broad shoulders, and an Irish linen handkerchief with a brown edge peeked negligently out of his breast pocket. He was a big man, half a head taller than Westland, and handsome. He was about thirty-five. Westland whispered in his ear, and Bolston drew a pigskin-covered check book from his hip pocket.

  Warden Buckholtz lifted a pudgy hand. “Cash.”

  Bolston’s blue eyes were inquiring. He looked at Westland, who said, “I guess you’ll have to send it over this afternoon.”

  Warden Buckholtz bowed, cheeks hanging away from his jaw bone. “I ain’t worried about you gentlemen,” he asserted. He waved them into the room.

  In the solemn light of the November morning the room seemed packed with indistinct figures. Westland hesitated at the door, blinking his eyes. Someone had raised a window, and the air was new and damp and faintly textured with an odor of fish, brought west by a wind from Lake Michigan.

  Ignoring the others, Westland crossed directly to the table on which Emily Lou Martin was perched, her silken legs crossed. She was wearing a swagger coat of honey-colored summer ermine over a red wool sports dress. A yellow feather nodded jauntily from her brown felt hat. She slid from the table, ran to Westland and threw her arms about his neck. “It’s so sweet to see you,” she said. “So sweet.” She kissed him on the lips.

  Westland put an arm about her waist, swung to face the others. There were two strange men standing by the windows. He looked inquiringly at Attorney Finklestein.

  “This is William Crane, an investigator,” the lawyer said. “And his assistant, Mr. Williams.” He coughed behind his hand. “
They flew from New York this morning.”

  Westland shook hands with them. Crane said: “How d’you do?” He was a tanned, youthful man, and he wore a brown tweed suit like Bolston’s, but his was lighter and looked as though he had slept in it. Williams was a dapper man with bright black eyes and a black mustache. He announced: “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Westland.” There was a dead white streak in his hair, over his right temple.

  Finklestein said, “I have some bad news for you, Mr. Westland.” His voice was oily. “Colonel Black, who heads the agency these men work for, is searching for a missing Shakespeare folio in England and can’t help us. Mr. Crane is his second in command, but I had hoped Colonel Black…”

  “I am sure Mr. Crane is equally capable,” Westland said.

  Crane nodded in humorous agreement.

  Over in the corner, talking in undertones, was Westland’s other partner, sleek Ronald Woodbury, and Westland’s cousin, Lawrence Wharton.

  “Hello!” Westland exclaimed. “Look who’s here.”

  Wharton was thick and middle-aged. His face was red from wind and whiskey. He played polo and golf. “By gad, Bob!” he said. “What’s this all about?”

  Woodbury said, “Glad to see you looking so fit, Bob.” He was handsome in a Latin way: dark, slender, and sophisticated.

  Westland answered Wharton, “I don’t know myself.” He glanced around at the others. “Attorney Finklestein has the key.”

  Someone pounded heavily on the door. Bolston, who had been standing beside it, turned the knob. Warden Buckholtz’ purple face loomed in the opening. “Two more,” he said heartily.

  A young woman and a gray-haired man squeezed past him into the room. The woman was slender and tall, much taller than Miss Martin, and her hair was dark. She was exotically beautiful in the South American manner. Her skin was pale and lovely; her eyes were sultry behind blue mascara; her scarlet lips promised passion and scorn. She was Westland’s former secretary, and her name was Margot Brentino, and her father was a vice president of the Bank of Naples, Chicago branch.

  The man was the chief clerk in Westland’s brokerage office. He was a bent, unassertive old man, and people rarely remembered his name, which was Amos Sprague.

  Westland shook hands with both of them and introduced the detectives. Miss Martin nodded coldly to Miss Brentino.

  “That’s everybody.” Finklestein slammed the door to the warden’s office. “Now, if you will all please sit down…”

  Crane helped Miss Brentino to a chair. She used Caron’s Sweet Pea perfume. He sat down on the sill of one of the open windows with Williams.

  Finklestein said, “This seems queer to have everybody come here, but Mr. Westland and I need your help.”

  Everyone except Williams looked at Westland, who was seated beside Miss Martin on the table. Williams’ glossy eyes were fastened upon Miss Martin’s seductively rounded knees.

  Finklestein continued. “Mr. Westland has received a letter which makes us believe that we can still prove his innocence.” He produced the letter. “I’d like to have everybody read it.”

  He gave the letter to Woodbury, who handed it to Miss Martin. She read it, trembled with delight. “Why, honey,” she said, “this means they will have to free you.” She squeezed Westland’s arm.

  “We’ll have to find M. G. first,” said Westland.

  Bolston took the letter from Emily Lou Martin. Wharton looked over his shoulder as he read it. Finished, Bolston grasped Westland’s hand. “That’s great news,” he said. His hair was the color of sawdust. “It’s the first break you have had since this thing started.”

  “By gad, Dick!” Wharton’s voice shook the windows. “I never was quite sure you were guilty.” Conscious of the others’ startled glances: “I mean, dammit, that all that evidence didn’t convince me.” He shook a finger at Finklestein. “A man who sits a horse the way he does, sir, doesn’t kill his wife.”

  The letter, passed to the others, was finally returned to Finklestein by old Mr. Sprague. Westland was silent amid the hubbub of congratulations. As the noise waned, Finklestein said, “Please.” He waved the letter in the air. “We have some work to do.”

  Miss Brentino pressed a slender finger against her lower lip. The red polish on her nail was lighter than the pomegranate shade of her lips. “I think I know the man mentioned in the letter,” she said. “He runs an Italian restaurant on Halstead Street. He used to be a friend of the Capones before repeal.” Her lovely mouth curved downward at the corners. “He is not a nice man.”

  “Nice or not, we will have to see him,” Finkelstein said. “But before we decide how, I want to tell you why you’re all here.” He spoke toward Lawrence Wharton. “I think Mr. Westland has a chance of freeing himself, a thousand-to-one chance, of course, and I’m sure you will all want to help him.”

  Wharton, under the attorney’s eye, blew out his red cheeks irritably, said, “Of course, man. Get on with it.”

  Finklestein continued, “This is an extraordinary case. A detective would have a hard time solving it in the limited time we have left.” He bowed to William Crane. “No offense, Mr. Crane?”

  “No offense,” said Crane.

  “But there is another way of going at this case.” Finklestein paused importantly. “It’s unorthodox; it’s wild; but I’m going to try it. I’m going to ask you to be the detectives.”

  “Us!” Wharton’s rough voice was incredulous. “What’s a gentleman know about Sherlocking?” He glared at the attorney through bloodshot eyes.

  “It would take a detective several days to get the background of Mrs. Westland’s murder. By that time, just as he was ready to begin work on the case, Mr. Westland would be…”

  “In his grave,” said Westland.

  “Honey!” Emily Lou Martin exclaimed reprovingly. She slipped her arm under Westland’s, pressed her smooth cheek against his shoulder.

  “Cut it out, you dope,” Crane whispered fiercely to Williams, who reluctantly removed his eyes from Miss Martin’s knees.

  A pair of hand-stitched gray suède gloves dangled from Ronald Woodbury’s hand on his gold-headed cane. “You mean, Mr. Finklestein, that we might be able to catch the actual murderer?”

  “Exactly.” The attorney polished his glasses with a silk handkerchief. “Every one of you knows every detail of the crime. We have here one of those who found the body.” He aimed a finger at Bolston’s blond head. “You, Mr. Woodbury, have an automatic pistol like the one used to kill Mrs. Westland. You, Miss Martin, can help us find who telephoned Mr. Westland and posed as you on the night of the crime.” Finklestein paced up and down the small room, hands clasped behind his back. “But most of all, one of you should be able to tell us what the motive for the lady’s murder was. Was it to get rid of her? Was Mr. Westland accidentally involved in the affair?” He paused dramatically in the corner by the door. “Or was the murder of Mrs. Westland deliberately planned to put Westland out of the way?”

  Finklestein was presenting a good performance. He rumpled his sparse hair with both hands, then shook his finger at his rapt audience.

  “If the object was to get Westland out of the way,” he asked, “why didn’t the murderer just kill him?” He held out both hands as though he was appealing either to Jehovah or to a jury of twelve citizens. “One of you has the answer to that question.”

  After thirty seconds of silence, Woodbury demanded, “You mean you think one of us is—the guilty party?”

  “No, no! Nothing of the sort.” The attorney warded off the question with the palms of his hands. “I mean that you people are closest to Mr. Westland, his friends and his employees, and if the murder was planned to entangle him (I think it was) then you should have some clue as to why it was done.” He halted his pacing in front of Westland. “You don’t think a stranger would go to all the trouble to murder this man’s wife to frame him, do you?”

  Woodbury shook his sleek black head. “Not if we accept your major premise that Mrs. Westl
and was murdered to get rid of Bob.”

  Emily Lou Martin’s trim body jiggled on the table. Her aquamarine eyes were roundly wide. “What are we to do?” She crossed her knees and pulled her red skirt down over them.

  Crane cast a warning glance at Mr. Williams.

  “Let me go over the evidence which incriminated Mr. Westland,” Finklestein said. He produced his notebook. “There are four particular things we have to investigate.

  “First, there’s the keys. There are only two keys. Mrs. Westland’s was found inside her apartment, and Mr. Westland had his. Yet, the apartment was locked either from the inside or from the outside after the murder was committed. We have to find out how the murderer got in and out.

  “Second, somebody should try to find out what’s become of Westland’s pistol and who could have stolen it to shoot Mrs. Westland. That’ll give us a clue if we do.

  “Third, we should look into that telephone call purporting to be from Miss Martin. If someone imitated Miss Martin’s voice well enough to fool Mr. Westland, she must know Miss Martin pretty well.

  “Lastly, there’s the shot. The man in the apartment below said he heard the report of a shot at twelve-twenty that night and Westland admits he was in the apartment with his wife then. We have to look into that.”

  Richard Bolston squared his broad shoulders under the brown tweed coat. “This is getting interesting. Why didn’t we start after these things long ago?”

  “That’s my fault, Dick,” Westland said. “I’ve been taking this thing lying down until yesterday.”

  Wharton said, “By gad! There’s somebody you overlooked, Mr. Attorney.”

  “Who?”

  “Westland’s man, Simmons.” The effort of speech made Wharton’s face turkey-red. “He ought to be able to tell us something about that shootin’ iron.” He heaved his bulk savagely back and forth in his chair until he had swung about to face William Crane. “Not bad for an amateur, hey?”

  “We’ll go after Simmons,” said Finklestein. “Glad you thought of him.” Miss Martin asked, “But what are we to do?” Finklestein said, “First we should find that M. G. in the letter. We better get hold of him before we alarm the real criminal by our investigation.”