Lieutenant Lamport shook his head. “We figure the killer stood back in the trees in that wood, bushwhacked Marshall, and then beat it back through the woods. They aren’t too deep, and on the far side there’s a little creek—small enough to be jumped—and then a wide field, and then the main highway. Anyone could have parked a car off the road there, crossed the field, shot Marshall and returned.”
Ross said, “That sounds like someone from around here?”
“Or who once was from around here,” Lieutenant Lamport said. His eyes were expressionless.
Gunnerson said, “Have you determined what kind of a gun it was?”
“The bullet was sent to the lab, but I had a chance to see it first. It wasn’t fired from a hand gun. It was a thirty caliber, would be my guess; a rifle.”
“Did you find the empty cartridge shell?”
“No, but we really haven’t had a chance to look yet. Or the killer might have taken it with him, if he was lucky enough to find it in the dark. I took a quick look over there, but I didn’t see it.”
“See any footprints?”
Lieutenant Lamport shook his head. “It’s too matted with pine needles. Springy. Doesn’t show a thing.”
“Would you mind if my man, Evans, took a look?”
Lieutenant Lamport smiled at him enigmatically.
“I’m afraid I would, Mr. Gunnerson. I have men coming who will be more than capable of doing a search. Actually, what I suggest is that your man Evans get into your car and sit there, while you and Mr. Ross join me in my car. I’d like to ask you a few questions, too, and we might as well do it in relative comfort.”
The three men crossed the crushed rock driveway as Evans retreated to the rented car and climbed in. Ross opened the back door of the trooper’s car and climbed in; Gunnerson walked around and got in the front beside Lamport. There was a constant chatter from the radio; Lamport turned it down, but, keeping it slightly audible, started the motor and put on the heater, loosened his overcoat, and looked from Gunnerson to Ross in friendly fashion.
“All right, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly, “I’ve been more than cooperative because I know both you and Mr. Gunnerson by reputation. Now I’d like to ask a few questions. Mr. Ross, why your interest in an obscure shooting way up here out of your bailiwick?”
“Lieutenant,” Ross said, “James Marshall was scheduled to be a witness in a case I’m defending beginning in two short days. It was my hope that he would give testimony that would be useful to my client.” He shrugged. “Naturally his death came as a shock, and was of more than passing interest.”
“Exactly what useful testimony did you hope to get from him, Mr. Ross?”
There was an odd note in the lieutenant’s voice, but his face was still merely mildly curious. Ross plowed on.
“James Marshall was my client’s best friend. They were rooming together in New York City some time ago when a crime occurred for which my client is now being charged. I thought it was possible that Marshall might have some recollection of the period that might possibly help my client’s cause. When I heard of his death, therefore—”
Lieutenant Lamport held up one of his small hands, interrupting.
“Mr. Ross,” he said in a gentle voice, “please remember that you are speaking to the State Police. If I wished to be unfriendly, I could point out to you that I am engaged in a murder investigation, and every question I ask, whether to a suspect or not, is still official. And that untruthful answers are poor policy. But you know that as well as I do, and as I said before, I’ve heard of you, so I’ll start over. What was your interest in Marshall’s killing?”
“But, I told you—”
The lieutenant sighed, as if disappointed in the other man.
“Mr. Ross, we are all quite familiar with the Dupaul case up here. After all, Billy Dupaul came from Queensbury, just down the road, and we were all very proud of Billy when he was picked by the Mets. We don’t have many local heroes and we tend to overadulate the few we have, I suppose. And we were all shocked when Billy got into trouble; we also don’t have too many villains. So the spotlight was on Billy Dupaul, especially among the police. We also know, Mr. Ross, that Billy Dupaul and Jim Marshall had a big fight in New York eight years ago. Marshall never made any bones about it. If you wish, I can introduce you to at least ten people who will swear on a witness stand that Marshall told them Billy Dupaul threatened his life before he left New York eight years ago.”
Ross was listening, his face a mask. It was an odd feeling to be on the other side of an interrogation where he was at a disadvantage. Lieutenant Lamport smiled faintly, as if he could read the other man’s mind. Mike Gunnerson, his eyes twinkling, bit back a grin and listened.
“Now, Mr. Ross, let me suggest that you came to Glens Falls because you are not certain in your own mind if Billy Dupaul was involved in this killing or not. Billy was out of his hotel room—the Marlborough—last night. He left the hotel at three-thirty yesterday afternoon and returned at five-fifteen this morning, an absence of nearly thirteen hours—”
“Nearly fourteen hours,” Ross said woodenly.
“I’m sorry. I’m terrible in math. Where was I? Oh, yes. By plane it takes exactly forty-five minutes to get here from New York; by bus approximately four hours. You can also drive it easily in four hours, and if you wish to take a chance with our highway boys, it has been done in less than three. Considerably less.”
He smiled at Ross. Ross returned his smile. It was time to take the offensive.
“To rent a private car, Lieutenant, one needs a current driver’s license. They don’t issue them at Attica.”
“In New York City,” the lieutenant replied, “there are between two hundred and two hundred and fifty automobiles stolen each day. One thing I’m sure they issue at Attica State Prison is instructions on how to jump an ignition.”
Ross sighed. This was a hard man! Unfortunately, he was also right.
“Are you saying, Lieutenant, that anyone in New York City who was out of his or her lodgings for fourteen hours last night is a suspect in the murder of Jim Marshall?”
Lieutenant Lamport’s smile this time was genuine. He seemed to enjoy the verbal contest, as one would a game of chess.
“Mr. Ross, your very presence here leads me to suspect Billy might have been involved. Otherwise, why are you here?”
“I happen to have other reasons for being here,” Ross said. “Also in connection with the case.”
“Such as?”
“I’m afraid those are confidential.”
“Ah!”
“It happens to be the truth.” Ross studied the lieutenant’s benign face. “It bothers me a bit, Lieutenant, to see the police build a case against a person on such flimsy evidence. The fact that Billy could have gotten here; the fact that between two hundred and two hundred and fifty cars are stolen each day in the city and Billy could have stolen one; the fact that the two men had an argument eight years ago, as if Marshall couldn’t have made other enemies in the intervening years!”
“We don’t railroad people, if that’s what you’re talking about,” Lamport said quietly. “We do look at possibilities.” His voice became gently sardonic. “Tell me, Mr. Ross, how much do you believe in coincidence? Marshall lives quietly and unobtrusively in a small town like Lake George Village, without any trouble that has come to our attention, for many years—and then the day a man is released from prison, a man who has threatened his life, he is shot. Don’t you believe we should consider the possibility of Dupaul being involved?”
Ross sighed.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “Of course you should.”
“Thank you.” It was a sincere statement. “We haven’t any intention of hounding Billy Dupaul. We know he’s in trouble and we don’t believe in adding to the clamor. On the other hand, we intend to continue our investigation, naturally, and it would be foolish not to realize that Dupaul is a suspect.”
“But, I hope, not the only susp
ect.”
“Nobody is ever the only suspect until someone is arrested, charged, tried, and found guilty.” Lieutenant Lamport looked at his watch. “I’ve got things to do, as I imagine you do.”
The two men got down from the car, their breaths steaming in the cold air. They closed the doors behind them. Lieutenant Lamport rolled his window down and put his hand out. Ross took it and shook it.
“I knew Billy Dupaul as a kid,” Lamport said. “I coached him in Little League. I liked him. Still—” the steady eyes came up “—if, by any chance, you get him off that murder charge, Counselor, I wouldn’t want him leaving the state without notice.”
He rolled the window back up, gave a small wave from behind it, and drove off in a spurt of dust. Gunnerson and Ross walked back to their car and climbed in. Don Evans, Gunner-son’s operative on the spot, had the engine running and the heater on. Ross sighed.
“Quite a guy, that Lieutenant.”
“Too true,” Gunnerson said a bit glumly. “Now, add that to the murder charge in New York, plus the riot, and what do you have?”
“A lot of work to do,” Ross said. He straightened up in his seat. “I think you should keep Evans up here, checking out Marshall. Maybe he told somebody what the fight with Billy was all about; a relative, or a friend.”
“Good enough,” Gunnerson said. “Don, if you need more people, bring in some of the Quigley Agency men from Albany. I know the cops are going to check the airport and the bus depot to see if maybe Dupaul came in here last night, but it wouldn’t hurt to double check. Keep next to Lamport, if he doesn’t throw you out of his office, you know what we need.”
“Sure,” Evans said. He was young, blond, and brash. He was also good. “A miracle.”
“Right!” Gunnerson said. “Well, you might as well take us to the bus station. We might as well take a run down to Albany and check out this Anne Melisi while we’re up in this neck of the woods.”
“You check her out alone,” Ross said. “And I hope to God you come up with something. We’re running out of places to look, not to mention time.” He looked at his watch and made a rough calculation. “Let Don drive you down there to save you time. There’s a plane from here to the city at three forty-five; it stops in Albany. That should give you enough time there to get the Quigley Agency on Melisi’s trail. Try to catch the plane. Okay?”
“Sure,” Gunnerson said, mystified. “But what are you going to be doing between now and plane time?”
“You forgot my infernal curiosity,” Ross said. “I’m going to the Queensbury Central Bank. I still want to discuss old John Emerich’s finances—”
CHAPTER
13
A new chrome-and-glass-and-ample-parking-space shopping center adorned the corner of Lakeland Avenue and Edwards Boulevard on the town line of Glens Falls; across the highway in the adjoining township of Queensbury—and a hundred or more years distant in time—stood the Queensbury Central Bank. Spurning all exterior modernity, it was housed in a grey fieldstone converted post-Revolutionary residence, and the officers would not have had it otherwise. Nor would the depositors. It gave a sense of permanence. No one would dare embezzle from this place, its appearance seemed to say; if they haven’t since the War of 1812, why should they start now?
Mr. Norwood Howard, president emeritus of the bank, was still permitted an office, albeit small—it had been the pantry of the original dwelling—and Mr. Howard fitted into the decor perfectly. Hank Ross, entering the tiny room which the president emeritus shared with several wooden filing cabinets, looked about admiringly. Obviously, no computer in this establishment would be given the opportunity to multiply a deposit by a million, or delay a customer’s statement an extra week.
Mr. Howard was a very old, round-cheeked little man with twinkling hazel eyes, snow-white hair cut very short, and a surprising bounce for his age. He greeted Hank with old-world courtesy, offered first tea and then bourbon, both refused, and only reseated himself after his guest had made himself comfortable.
“Mr. Ross,” he said with obvious sincerity. “I’m a great admirer of yours.”
He saw the look of surprise that crossed Hank’s face and smiled. When he spoke there was a touch of irony in the gentle voice.
“Don’t let the decorations fool you,” he said in his quiet voice. “We have all the accoutrements of any modern bank in the country. We have electricity and our janitors gave up green sweeping compound at the same time our bookkeepers gave up green eyeshades, and that was at least a month ago. And our town has radio and television, and even an occasional copy of The New York Times finds its way here in the luggage of some stranger passing through on the stage. We’re quite up to date, Mr. Ross, and I’ve followed your cases with interest.”
He smiled across the pristine blotter on his desk benignly.
“Now, Mr. Ross—what can I do for you?”
Ross laughed. “You might stop making me feel so foolish, although I suppose I deserve it. It’s true, I suppose I expected to see little men with arm garters perched on high wooden stools writing in ledgers with quill pens. I apologize.” He became serious. “Actually, Mr. Howard, you can help me a great deal on a case involving a local resident.”
“Billy Dupaul, of course,” Howard said calmly. “I read you’d taken on the case. But how can I help?”
“You were acquainted with Billy’s grandfather, John Emerich?”
“Very well. From boyhood, to be exact. Why?”
“Did John Emerich bank here?”
“Of course.” There was a touch of disdain in the reedy voice, hinting that only infants under fifty, or idiots, banked at one of the newer banks in Glens Falls. “Why?”
Ross hesitated.
“I’m afraid I’m looking for information that might be considered confidential.” Howard’s hazel eyes were unwavering, his pink-white face expressionless. He made no comment, merely waiting. Ross pushed on. “Well, frankly, what was the state of John Emerich’s finances?”
A frown appeared on the round face. “May I ask what you know of his finances?”
Ross said frankly, “Nothing.”
“Then, could you tell me why you want to know?”
“I’m not sure myself. A hunch.” The lawyer frowned. “For example, Billy’s folks—Old John’s daughter and her husband—were killed in an accident, as I recall. Did they leave any insurance?”
“Pierre? No. He never carried any. Never had enough money for premiums.”
“Did the railroad make any settlement?”
“The railroad was without fault, and their lawyers were quite adequate. No, there was no settlement.”
“That’s what I gathered from the little I knew,” Ross said. “Yet Billy says that his grandfather, while having no money, gave Billy anything he wanted. In fact, he gave him enough, apparently, to allow him to indulge in hospitality to his friends—hospitality that cost money. It seems to me to be a contradiction, and I like everything clear. I hate surprises.” He smiled. “Especially surprises from the prosecution.”
“I see.” Howard stared down at his desk gravely. At last he looked up. “Suppose that any information I gave you proved—as I am sure it would prove—to be utterly useless to your case?”
“Then it would remain completely confidential.”
“Even from your client? Billy, I mean?”
“Especially from Billy.”
“Well,” Howard said, almost to himself, “John’s been dead a long time, and the checks stopped even before then—” He didn’t wait for Ross’s question. “Mr. Ross, John Emerich received a check every month from the time Billy was born until Billy was eighteen years old.”
Ross felt that familiar tingle that told him that he was onto something. How that something could help him in his case he didn’t know at the moment, but at the moment it didn’t matter.
“Where did the checks come from?”
“They were drawn on a New York bank—the Hudson River Bank.”
“And who signed them?”
“They were cashier’s checks.”
Ross felt a sudden pang of disappointment. Was he going to get so close to something he was now sure was important, only to lose it?
“Didn’t John Emerich ever tell you who was sending them?”
“No, he never did.”
“Were these checks always for the same amount of money?”
“They were for five hundred dollars each. They always arrived on the fifth of the month, or the nearest Friday, if the fifth fell on a weekend.” Howard considered Hank Ross. “That may not be a lot of money in New York City, Mr. Ross, but as supplemental income up here, especially in those days, it was quite a bit.”
“I believe it,” Ross said sincerely. “What else can you tell me about them?”
“Not much. John Emerich came into the bank with the first check, handed it to me, and asked me to deposit it to his account. I was a vice-president then, but John always worked directly with me. He endorsed it and I personally entered the amount in his passbook and put the check through. John told me there would be a check every month, but that in the future they would be sent directly to the bank to my attention, and they were. For eighteen years.”
“Who were they made out to?”
“They were all made out to ‘William Dupaul or John Emerich,’ for deposit only. They didn’t require any endorsement after the first. That hadn’t been marked for deposit.”
“When did Emerich die? Before or after Billy’s eighteenth birthday?”
“John died about a month after Billy graduated from high school, but the checks had stopped a month before then. As I said, on Billy’s eighteenth birthday.”
“Was any of this public knowledge here in town?”
Norwood Howard shrugged. “Mr. Ross, people are always curious about other people’s affairs. I imagine some wondered how John Emerich could raise Billy the way he did, but up here people tend to mind their own business.” He shook his head. “If anyone knew of it, or suspected it, nobody said anything, and that’s the important thing.”
“I see,” Ross said. He sighed. “And John Emerich never gave you any idea of who was sending those checks?”
A Handy Death Page 14
