She leaned an elbow on Robert’s desk. “And you said Herbert Nussbaum wasn’t a viable suspect!”
“Okay, so he was there,” he admitted grudgingly. “But what’s his motive?”
“Are you kidding? Herbert openly admitted that he hated his father. Nussbaum never appreciated the boy and his-what did he call it?-‘superior intellect’ Add to that the fact that Nussbaum betrayed Herbert’s mother and hurt his sister, and the kid has a list of motives a mile long. Not to mention he also has the disposition needed to pull off the crime. You heard how Maxwell described him-that’s exactly the type of person who would kill another human being. Cold, calculating … yet inside, almost simmering over with anger.”
“I agree with you, honey. Herbert Nussbaum is definitely one strange kid. But just because he was running away from the scene, doesn’t mean he committed murder.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Marjorie conceded. “But it does make you wonder if Herbert was one of the people Nussbaum was on his way to see.
“If so, Alfred would have said he was meeting his son. He wouldn’t have said he had two `appointments’ to keep.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Nussbaum was living a double life. He wouldn’t have told the cabbie anything that would incite a bunch of questions about his personal life. You know how those conversations go. Alfred mentions he’s seeing his son, the cabbie asks him how many children he has and how long he’s been married. I admit I don’t know Nussbaum-I never will-but he doesn’t strike me as the type who would have readily offered up that kind of information.”
Jameson nodded. “You’re probably right. But what reason would Nussbaum have had for meeting Herbert at the fair?”
Marjorie shook her head. “I don’t know. But we can’t ask Nussbaum.”
He sighed. “No, we can’t. We’ll have to ask Herbert.”
“You do that. I’ll be at home listening to Buck Rogers” She rose from her chair and started to walk toward the door.
“Oh no you don’t!” Jameson bellowed from his desk. “You wanted in on this investigation. Well, you’re `in’ and that means talking to Herbert.”
Marjorie pulled a face and moped back to her seat. “I know. I was joking … somewhat. That boy really gives me the creeps.”
“Trust me, I’d rather be having a root canal than facing him again, but-” Before the detective could complete his thought, the phone positioned in the corner of the desk began to sound. He answered it on the second ring. “Jameson here … Oh hiya Mike. What’s new? … Oh yeah? … Really? … Hmmm … Yeah, we had a lead here too-Nussbaum’s kid was at the fair. Cabbie saw him … Yeah … uh huh … Yeah, if you could bring them downtown that would be great … I’ll be there in a couple of hours … See ya then. Thanks.” He replaced the receiver in the cradle with a loud click.
“What was that about?” Marjorie inquired.
“Mike Logan, the friend of mine with the Boston Police Department, questioned the parking garage attendant where Mateo Saporito keeps his car. Seems `Mattie’ was out early Saturday morning and didn’t return home until the wee hours of Sunday morning, when he had Josie in tow.”
Marjorie arched a finely tweezed eyebrow. “He could have been in Ridgebury.”
“Hmm mmm. Mike is picking up Mattie and Herbert, and bringing them to his station. I said we’d meet him there to do the questioning.”
“Back to Boston!” Marjorie declared and then realized the significance of her words. “Oh, before we leave, could I stop at home for a minute? Just to freshen up. Vanessa has different coloring than I do and her lipstick just doesn’t go well with fair skin.”
“You look fine to me, sweetheart. But we can stop-so long as it’s quick.”
“Oh, it will be,” Marjorie assured as she grabbed her pocketbook and left the station. “Or at least I hope so.”
SIXTEEN
CREIGHTON PACED BACK IN forth in the tiled lobby of the fourteenth district station of the Boston Police Department, pondering the telephone call he had received from Marjorie just hours before. What was the purpose of her call? Why did she ask him to come here? Now that she was engaged to Jameson she had all she wanted, hadn’t she? Why rope him into her schemes? And yet, here he was, once again at her beck and call, awaiting her arrival.
Damnit, man, he thought to himself. What in God’s name are you doing here? She’s set to marry another man! He drew a deep breath and swung open the glass and metal police station door, only to find Detective Robert Jameson waiting on the other side.
“Creighton, what are you doing here?” Jameson asked in surprise.
The Englishman couldn’t help but grin. True, he had relinquished all claims to Marjorie McClelland, but the expression of surprise and shock on the detective’s normally sanguine counte nance was still cause for celebration. “Marjorie called me. She said I should meet you here.”
Jameson turned his narrowed eyes toward his fiancee.
Marjorie, looking radiant, as well as defiant, in a green crepe dress that was a favorite of Creighton’s, was prepared for the challenge. “I thought he should be here in case I forget anything. After all, I do intend on converting this into a true crime book, and Creighton, despite all arguments to the contrary, is still my editor.” Her eyes sparkled with an electricity he had never before seen, “You are still my editor, aren’t you, Creighton?”
He stared at her, unsure how to react. There was something different about her-that was for certain-but he had been led down this road before, only to meet with disappointment and frustration. “I’m your editor so long as you and the good detective wish me to be,” he replied diplomatically.
Marjorie’s lovely face was illuminated with a broad grin. “Of course I want you as my editor, Mr. Ashcroft. And so does Detective Jameson.” She turned to her escort, “Don’t you, Robert?”
Creighton grinned. When Marjorie was excited about something, when she had an objective to achieve, it was as if someone flipped a switch and every cell in her body was pulsing with life, her magnetism overshadowing every other being in the room. Detective Jameson didn’t stand a chance.
“Ummm … yeah, yeah, I guess so,” Robert answered. Creighton imagined he heard the sound of the detective’s spine cracking under the steamroller force of Marjorie’s vitality.
Marjorie smiled and smoothed the skirt of her dress-Creighton couldn’t help but admire her curves. “Good. Now that that’s settled,” she proclaimed, “let’s go see our suspects.”
Detective Mike Logan was a giant of a man. Nearly six-feet-fourinches tall, barrel chested and broad shouldered, he met Detective Jameson at the front desk and offered a beefy hand in greeting. “Hey Bob. How are ya?”
Jameson shook his hand vigorously. “Good. Very good. Mike, I’d like you to meet my fiancee, Miss Marjorie McClelland.”
Logan bowed slightly; that the younger detective had brought his bride-to-be with him on an interrogation gave him pause, but he offered a warm welcome. “Fiancee? You’re finally getting hitched, huh? That’s fantastic! When’s the lucky day?”
“Oh, we haven’t set a date yet,” Marjorie responded.
“You haven’t? Are you crazy, Bob? You don’t want a pretty thing like this to get away.” He gave Marjorie a playful wink before extending his hand to Creighton. “Is this your partner?”
The Englishman shook Logan’s hand and immediately understood how and where the term “meat hooks” had originated.
“Yeah,” Jameson replied half-heartedly. “Yeah, I guess you can say Creighton’s my partner.”
“Well, glad to meet ya!” Logan pumped Creighton’s arm up and down enthusiastically.
“Likewise” So spirited was the detective’s pumping, that Creighton wondered if he should shoot water out of his mouth.
As if sensing the Englishman’s pain, Logan dropped his hand and his smile ran away from his face. “Say, Bob, I rounded up those two like you asked. Saporito didn’t give us much trouble, but that Herb kid and his mother? What a
scene that was! The kid’s busy quoting the Massachusetts state penal code while the mother’s clinging onto my leg, begging me to let go of her baby.” He shook his head. “Some baby! When we went into his room, he was working on these.” Logan held out a handkerchief containing two small brass objects.
“Darts!” Marjorie exclaimed.
“Yeah, he was making them from pen nibs he flattened out with a ball-peen hammer.”
“Talk about incriminating,” Marjorie observed.
“You’d better mind that leg of yours, Logan,” Creighton quipped. “Because if we have to arrest this kid, his mother will do a lot more than cling to it.”
“Yeah, don’t I know it,” Logan chuckled.
“Did you find out anything else on Saporito?” Jameson inquired.
“Oh yeah. He and Josie definitely have criminal records. I don’t have the details, but New York’s sending the files-I should have them tomorrow.”
Jameson nodded. “Thanks, Bob. I appreciate your help.” He motioned to the back of the station. “Where are our suspects?”
“The kid’s in room `A’ and Saporito is in room `B”’ He patted Jameson on the back. “If you need my help, let me know.”
Herbert Nussbaum sat, perfectly erect and completely composed, at a small, rectangular table. His mother, Bernice, sat beside him, her face pinched with worry and indignation. She stood up as Marjorie, Creighton, and Jameson entered the room. “What is this about? You can’t keep my son here. He knows nothing about his father’s death. I told you he was home that morning.”
Jameson placed Raymond Maxwell’s statement on the table before Bernice and then sat down at the head of the table; Marjorie and Creighton sat opposite Bernice and Herbert, respectively.
“We have a witness who says otherwise,” the detective countered.
Bernice read the statement, and slowly sat back down. “What? What is this?” She turned her gaze toward her son. “I didn’t know you were… ” Her voice trailed off, but within seconds she stood up again. “Who is this cab driver person? And why are you taking his word over mine?”
“Mr. Maxwell was the cab driver who took your husband to the fair the day he was killed,” Jameson replied. “He claims that, as he drove out of the fair parking area, he had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting Herbert, who was running away from the fairgrounds just as the police were arriving.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Your son looked right at him as he hit the brakes. He has no reason to lie, Mrs. Nussbaum.”
She threw her hands in the air. “No reason to lie? He was Alfred’s driver. Alfred’s driver! Do I have to spell it out for you? He picked Alfred up at that dumpy hotel he lived in and, while he waited for Alfred to get ready-Alfred was never on time-Josie got to him and paid him to say he saw Herbert at the fair. It’s obvious!”
Marjorie was incredulous. “What? Why would she do that?”
“Because she murdered Alfred and wants to pin the blame on someone else! I told you my son was at home that day. Weren’t you Herbert?”
The spectacled young man squirmed in his seat.
“Mommy’s defending you, Herbert. Now, tell these people you weren’t at the fair,” Bernice demanded.
“I wasn’t at the fair,” the boy replied mechanically.
Mrs. Nussbaum smiled beatifically.
“It doesn’t much matter what either of you say when I have these,” Jameson presented the handkerchief-wrapped darts.
Bernice’s smile turned into a scowl. “Where on earth did you get those?”
“Your son was working on them when Detective Logan went to collect him for this evening’s interrogation.”
“T-Those were for my work,” Herbert stammered. “I was recreating my father’s murder. To prove that I’m the world’s greatest criminologist!”
“World’s greatest criminologist, huh?” Jameson jeered. “Your father had arranged to meet two people at the fair that day. I say one of them was you, Herbert. Being well educated in the art of murder, you hatched the poisoned dart scheme, making the darts just as you did these and securing the curare from the dispensary where your sister works. While your father was waiting for you-or the other person he was meeting-you shot him with the poisoned dart and then faded into the crowd to watch the drama unfold. You enjoyed it at first, too, didn’t you? Until you heard the sirens. Then you got nervous and ran.”
Herbert grinned. “That’s an interesting theory detective, but first, why would I have met my father at the fair? I barely spoke to the man. Second, how did I fire the darts? And, finally, why, after having successfully killed my father, did I feel compelled to make more?”
“That’s right, Herbert,” Bernice exulted. “Oh, my brilliant boy!”
Jameson took a deep breath. “I must admit, I don’t know the answers to those questions. But, mark my words, I will. And when I do, you’ll be hammering license plates instead of pen nibs. Unless…”
Herbert’s eyes widened.
“Unless you tell me what you know now. `Hot tempered young man kills philandering father out of loyalty to beloved mother.’ A jury is sure to look kindly upon you-if you turn yourself in.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’m afraid it makes you look like just another Nathan Leopold or Richard Loeb. Another coldhearted killer trying to prove he’s a genius.
At the mention of the infamous Leopold and Loeb, Herbert cracked a bit of a smile. “I have nothing to confess, Detective.”
“Of course you don’t, Herbert” Bernice rose from her seat for the third time. “And without more evidence, they have no reason to keep us here any longer. So if you’re finished with your questions, Detective-”
Creighton, who had heretofore been silent, spoke up. “I have a question, Mrs. Nussbaum. Yesterday, you said you knew your husband lived in Hartford with Josie, but you didn’t have an exact address. If that’s true, how did you know the cab driver picked your husband up at a-what was the phrase you used?-a `dumpy hotel’?”
Herbert and Bernice stared blankly at the Englishman, yet said nothing.
“No answer for that either?” Jameson remarked. “You Nussbaums can be a tight-lipped bunch when you want to be. But, have no fear, we’ll get to the bottom of that, too. Until then, there’s no reason for you to stay here. Good night, Herbert. Good night, Mrs. Nussbaum”
“Yes, good night.” Creighton added, “And do have a restful sleep. I think you’ll both be needing your energy-particularly you, Mrs. Nussbaum. You’re looking a bit peaked.”
Interrogation room `B’ was the mirror image of room `A’: a small rectangular table, five chairs, and a small desk lamp. Mateo Saporito sat in the spot that corresponded to the one Herbert had assumed in the previous interview. But that’s where the similarities between the two suspects ended. Whereas the young Nussbaum was a picture of poise and careful good manners, Saporito was abrasively crude.
Slumped in his seat, his arm draped over the chair beside him, Saporito was clad in black pants and a sleeveless white undershirt stained with bits of orange and red.
“Hey, angel,” he greeted as Marjorie entered the room. “You know, you really oughta start hanging around a different class of people. These two monkeys give you a bad name.”
“Not as bad as yours,” she replied.
“Oh, yeah? What have they been saying about me now?”
Marjorie sat across from Saporito, flanked on her left by Creighton and on her right, at the head of the table, Detective Jameson who nodded his consent for her to continue the questioning. “Only that you weren’t where you claimed to be on Saturday,” Marjorie replied.
He smirked. “Oh? Where was I?”
“We hoped you’d be able to tell us. But we know you weren’t at home, since the garage attendant says your car was out all day.”
Saporito chuckled and shook his head. “Son of a … yeah, I went out. I went out for some air. Is that a crime?”
“Depends on where you got
that air. If it was in the vicinity of ” Ridgebury, Connecticut, it could be.”
I didn’t go to Ridgebury. I went to Hartford. I saw Josie while the old man was out.”
“You were with Josie?” Jameson stepped in. “If so, perhaps you know why she packed her bags and checked out of her hotel room before she even knew of Alfred’s death.”
“Easy. We were running away together. Josie never loved that Alfred chump. It was me she really wanted. We decided then and there to go back to Boston together.”
“How romantic,” Creighton commented. “I always do enjoy a good love story. However, I somehow doubt you’d let Josie walk away from what you Americans would call her `meal ticket.’ You both had a nice racket going with Nussbaum. Why would you upset the apple cart? Unless, of course, Nussbaum found out about you.”
Saporito scowled. “Find out about us? That guy? Ah, he was as dumb as a brick. All Josie had to do was bat her eyelashes in his direction and he’d give her anything she wanted.”
“Handy,” Marjorie remarked. “Hard to believe she’d let that slip through her fingers. Or, more precisely, that you’d let Josie let that slip through her fingers. I’m all for hearts and flowers, Mr. Saporito, but Josie’s the type of girl who likes silk stockings, perfume, and nice clothes, and I don’t think you have either the means or the wherewithal to give them to her.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that with Nussbaum around, you could have your cake and eat it too. He footed the bills and you could have Josie without having to pay for her maintenance. I’d go so far as to say that you probably profited from the arrangement too. After all, any extra money Josie may have acquired, she’d most certainly share with her `Mattie”’
“You’re a good-looking woman. Smart too. But don’t think you can ride too far on that ticket. I don’t like mouthy dames.” “
I don’t think you like dames in general, Mr. Saporito;’ Creighton spat back vehemently. “Anyone who’d send his wife out to marry and fleece another man can’t have much respect for the fairer sex. And for him to do it more than once-”
Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance Page 12
