“You’ve no idea who it was?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a good idea it was the mysterious Victor Jones. But at this point that doesn’t tell us much we didn’t already know.”
“You said a beard.”
“I’m not counting on its being real. There was something, though. Something familiar about him. Just the way he stood there. It reminded me of something, and I can’t remember what.”
“You really think he followed us from New York?”
“That’s the only explanation there is. And I think it’s time we got back to New York. Any more research on the past of Victor Jones will have to be conducted from there. Towns like June are just too dangerous.”
They flew back by way of Chicago on Saturday afternoon. The flight was smooth and uneventful, but by the time they had circled Kennedy Airport for an hour and finally landed, Barney was tired and depressed.
Sunday was a lost day. It was the first weekend in May, warm and promising, and everyone he tried to call seemed away somewhere.
On Monday he went down to MWA headquarters, where Betty Rafferty was busy at her typewriter. “Well, Barney, back from the great midwest?”
“I’m back. What’s been doing here?”
“I’ve got a load of messages for you. One from Skinny Simon. He wanted to know if he can have lunch with you today.”
Barney glanced at his watch. It was not yet eleven. “Sure, I could probably see Skinny. What else?”
She mentioned a few routine MWA matters. He listened restlessly and then said, “Betty, could you check on some people and find out just where they were last Friday when I was in the midwest? Max Winters, for instance. Has he gone back to California?”
She frowned at that “I … I don’t know, Barney. He was supposed to go back last week.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t want to say, Barney. After all, he is one of our Edgar winners.”
He studied her closely, watched while she reached for a cigarette and lit it. It was the same sort of motion that Susan Veldt sometimes used—a very feminine motion, which he’d never really noticed in Betty Rafferty.
He called Skinny and confirmed the luncheon date—at a French restaurant uptown, just off Madison. They would meet there at one. He turned to say a few words to Betty, but she had stepped into the washroom. There was no sense waiting for her. “Bye, Betty!” he yelled through the door. “I’ll be back this afternoon for the Board meeting.” Then he went quickly down the stairs to West 48th Street.
Skinny Simon was waiting for him when he arrived at the restaurant. They took a table in the rear and ordered more than Barney usually ate for lunch. Then, over a preliminary drink, Skinny leaned forward. “How are things going with the investigation, Barney?”
“As well as could be expected, I guess.”
“Word is you got shot at out in the midwest. They still carry guns and ride horses out that way?”
“No, it was just some foolishness on my part. No damage done, except to the car I’d rented.”
Again Skinny pulled back his lips and clicked his teeth together, in an annoying gesture Barney had noticed before. “We got pretty good ratings on the show last week. We might do another one. Same sort.”
“Fine.”
“Maybe we could do a show when you catch the murderer, huh?”
Barney shrugged. “Work it out with the cops.”
“Has that detective been around?”
“Not lately.” Barney lit a cigarette. “Where’d you hear I got shot at? I didn’t think it was common knowledge yet.”
“The girl mentioned it—Susan Veldt. I stopped by her apartment yesterday.”
“Oh? What for?”
“She impressed me. I wanted to line her up for a future show.”
“And pump her about the case,” Barney said. “The same as you’re trying with me.”
“Oh, I don’t do that sort of news. I’m just interested, that’s all.”
He remembered his request of Betty Rafferty to get information on people. He’d never gotten any further than Max Winters. “Skinny, have you seen any of the people who were on the show? Did you see any of them on Friday?”
“No. I’m seeing you now. Who else?”
“I was just wondering. Max Winters, especially. Has he been around town?”
“Thought he went back to California.”
“I thought he did too. I was just trying to make sure.” He had another thought “What do you do, a show every night?”
“Except for a few that we tape in advance occasionally, and the repeats. I work radio five nights a week, all but Friday and Saturday. Friday’s, the TV show. We all get sick occasionally, though.”
“Were you sick last week?” Barney asked.
“Last week? No. Nobody gets sick in May. Why are you asking?”
Barney sipped some more of his drink. It burned going down. “I think one of the people on your show the other night might have followed me out to Nebraska and taken those shots at me. I’m just trying to sort out where people were. I guess it certainly couldn’t have been you, could it? If you did your TV show.”
“Did you really think it was me?” Skinny asked, looking horrified. “Do you think I go around killing people now, in addition to everything else? What’s with you, Barney? You’re not even trusting old friends.”
Barney didn’t bother to point out that Skinny had never been an old friend of his. “Of course,” he said, “you might have taped your Friday TV show in advance, and had off the whole weekend.”
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you? Do you think that I killed Ross Craigthorn?”
Barney changed his tone to a laugh. “Not really, Skinny. Don’t worry. I am interested, though, in knowing where some people are in this town. You don’t know about Max Winters. How about Dick McMullen, the agent?”
“McMullen? Yeah, I saw him the other day.”
“I might take a run down to the Village and see him.”
Skinny’s eyes narrowed. “You know about McMullen, don’t you?”
“What’s there to know?”
Skinny shrugged. “If you don’t know, I guess there’s nothing to know.”
“Come on. Cut out the games! What should I know about McMullen?”
“Some people say he fools around with his authors. Not just the ladies, either.”
“Oh?”
“It’s talk. Just talk. Who knows?”
Barney had a sudden memory of McMullen with his arm around Max Winters’ shoulder that night at the dinner. “Look, Skinny, I’ve got to be getting along. Why don’t you get to the point, if there is one? Then I’ll be saying goodbye.”
“No point, Barney. It’s just that I’d like an inside track when this case breaks. I know you’re pretty friendly with that magazine gal, and I’d hate to think of her beating me to a scoop.”
“I’ll keep you in mind, Skinny,” Barney told him.
The food arrived then, and the talk shifted to casual pleasantries. In another half-hour, Barney excused himself and left Skinny at the table.
He called MWA headquarters, hoping that Betty had returned from lunch. She had. “Betty, this is Barney. You made a few hints about Max Winters and I want to get to the bottom of that. Is Max still in town?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Is he down at Dick McMullen’s apartment in the Village?”
“I’ve heard talk.”
“Okay. That’s all I wanted to know.”
He hung up and caught a cab. This was not the sort of thing he usually did. But if the talk had reached Betty Rafferty, it might have reached some columnists, too. It wouldn’t look good, not a week after Max won the Edgar. He knew Max had a wife and family somewhere out west and he was sorry now that he didn’t know more about them. More about Max’s particular problems, whatever they might be.
Dick McMullen answered the door on his second ring. It was a fancy apartment, very much in the Greenwich Village
style, with desk and filing cabinets and all the trappings of a literary agent’s office. McMullen was lounging in a short robe, holding an icy drink in his hand. “You’re just in time for afternoon cocktails, Barney. Good to see you again.”
“Thanks, Dick. I’ve come on business.”
“What kind of business would that be?”
“Max Winters. Have you seen him?”
“Max? Sure! He’s here now, in fact!” Dick smiled. “Max! Come out! A friend of yours to see you!”
Max Winters appeared from the kitchen, carrying his drink. “Hi, Barney. How was the trip?”
“It was a good trip, Max. I’m surprised to see you here, though. I thought you’d be heading back to California.”
“Dick and I had some business affairs to straighten out. He’s going to be handling my next novel.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
McMullen moved over to his desk, setting the drink on its edge. “Barney, something’s bugging you! What’s the trouble?”
“I’d like to talk to Max alone, if I could.”
“Sure, go ahead. Be my guest.”
Max downed his drink in two gulps that reddened his face. “I was about to leave anyway, Barney. I’ll go with you.”
Barney nodded. “Be seeing you around, Dick.”
McMullen sat down behind the desk, saying nothing. The mask of hospitality had slipped away.
In the street, Barney said to Max, “How long are you going to stick around here?”
Max looked sideways at him. “Is it really any business of yours, Barney?”
“I just thought we were friends, that’s all.”
“We are. This is a personal thing, though.”
“I know. But the word’s getting around town. You just won the Edgar last week, and I’d like to avoid any bad publicity if I could. We’ve got enough already with the murders.”
Max shrugged his weary shoulders; “Dick and I have been friends for years. He’s my agent. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, Max,” Barney said. “Nothing at all. I guess I shouldn’t have come down. Forgive me for sounding like a father, or uncle or something.”
Max’s old smile returned. “You’re forgiven, Barney. Don’t worry about it.”
21 Susan Veldt
SHE SAT IN HER usual chair opposite Arthur Rowe’s massive desk, long legs crossed, smoothing the nylon over her knees.
Arthur Rowe sat down, tossing a pile of new galleys onto the work table behind him, and faced her. “Tell me all about the trip.”
“There’s not much to tell that’s not in the rough draft, and that’s in the usual place.”
“You got shot at! My secretary told me that much!”
“Not me—Barney. This is getting to be more than I bargained for, Mr. Rowe. Frankly, I don’t know as I want to go on.”
“Are you scared?”
“No, not scared. I started out being some sort of spy for the magazine, gathering material for the great series on how MWA cracked, or didn’t crack, their own murder case. Now somewhere along the line I’ve gotten caught up in it I really do want Barney to find the killer. I want it for him, not for us, not for the magazine.”
He looked pained. “Is that the sort of girl I’ve trained?”
“I’m afraid so. Maybe it has something to do with being a woman.”
“Are you in love with the guy?”
“Nothing you could call by that name, no. But I think he trusts me, and somehow I should repay that trust.”
“What are you trying to tell me? That you want off the assignment?”
“You’ve got all week before your deadline,” she said. “He’s meeting with the board of directors this afternoon, and you’ll have a full report of it After that, I think you’d better get someone else.”
“All right. If that’s the way you want it.”
“I guess it is. If you want me to, I’ll submit my resignation.”
“No, no,” he said quickly, “You’re too good a girl to lose. I’ll put you on something else. The Pulitzer Prizes are being announced today. Maybe we can go back to the series idea that we originally planned. Actually, this murder is something of a nine-day wonder anyway. If there are no new developments by next week, it’ll be a dead issue like everything else. I thought it might be sort of fun to do these articles, but I guess the fun has gone out of it. For you, at least.”
“It has, Mr. Rowe.”
“Right.” He took out his pipe and carefully filled the bowl. “Then what else is there to say? If anything breaks at the directors’ meeting this afternoon, though, I’d still like first crack at it.”
“You’ll have that,” she said. “And thank you.”
She left him alone and went back to her own desk, scanning briefly over the morning mail. Yes, she’d done it, and she’d done it for Barney.
22 Barney Hamet
BARNEY FACED THE DIRECTORS of Mystery Writers of America at four o’clock that afternoon. He was aware, looking at them, at their drawn faces and not-so-casual joking, that this was indeed a crisis for the organisation. Perhaps they’d gotten into it too deeply by offering him the assignment in the first place.
He saw Susan Veldt enter late, just as the meeting was starting, and slip into a chair near the door, right next to Betty Rafferty. One or two of the directors eyed her unhappily, but no one made the move to oust her.
“All right,” he said, looking down the table, seeing Max Winters at the far end. “All right,” he repeated, “now it’s time to get down to business. A lot has happened this past week. Most of it, you know about. There’s been a second murder—a woman named Irma Black. And her killer has even taken a couple of pot shots at me out in Nebraska. I found out a great deal about him. I know the motive for the killing. For both killings. And I can name the murderer. However, naming him and finding him are not exactly the same thing. Ross Craigthorn, under the name of Craig, was brought up in the town of June, Nebraska. Irma Black also lived near June, though she worked across the state line, at a bank. Craig, or Craigthorn, attended the University of Texas after he got out of the army. At the end of his second year, in 1947, he travelled up to June with a friend, a fellow named Victor Jones.
“Jones apparently was a wild sort He and Ross Craigthorn adopted the names of Raven and Caesar, respectively, for reasons I haven’t yet determined. I suspect they engaged in some petty crimes, but the one crime that concerns us was in July 1947, when they robbed the bank where Irma Black worked. Victor Jones walked in with a shotgun, held up the bank, and took Irma along as a hostage, while Ross Craigthorn waited outside in the car. It’s not clear how much Craigthorn was actually involved in the planning, but he was certainly an accessory.
“They took Irma somewhere, held her prisoner for a week. I have a strong suspicion it was not entirely against her will. In any event, she was finally released, and claimed not to have been harmed. Sometime later, two brothers—the Clancy brothers—were killed at a police roadblock, and blamed for the robbery, partly on Irma Black’s testimony. She married a farmer, and led a fairly ordinary life for the next couple of decades, till just recently. Her husband died, and she came to New York to blackmail Ross Craigthorn. She asked for one hundred thousand dollars to keep quiet. Of course even for Craigthorn this was out of the question. And I suppose he felt he’d matured enough to think he could throw himself on the mercy of the public.
“He’d chosen the opportunity of the MWA dinner to reveal his connection with the bank robbery. He must have told Victor Jones what he had in mind. Jones could not, or would not, risk the revelation, perhaps because he could still be tried on the kidnapping charge. He killed Ross Craigthorn at the very moment he was about to tell his story. Why didn’t he kill him sooner? Well, I suppose murder comes hard to any man the first time. Jones probably waited until the last possible moment, until he was sure that Craigthorn was going to reveal it. That’s why he used that somewhat bizarre device to fire the bullet. After that, he tho
ught he was safe, but of course Irma Black was still in town, and she sent a telegram to Skinny Simon’s radio show, claiming to have information. I talked to her. Unfortunately, I left her alone. Jones showed up and killed her. Just as Jones followed Miss Veldt and I to Nebraska, and tried to kill me.”
“Who is this Jones?” Max Winters asked.
“Well, that’s the problem. He’s someone that was at the MWA dinner. He’s someone, I think, that was on Skinny Simon’s radio show.”
Harry Fox let out a short gasp. “One of us, you mean? Max—or me?”
“Not at all, Harry. There were a lot of other people involved in the show. I base that on the fact that the killer knew about Irma Black’s telegram. He couldn’t have found her any other way. I saw the letter that Irma wrote to Ross when she arrived in New York. She didn’t mention any address. Therefore he couldn’t have passed the knowledge on to Jones.”
“Could Jones be someone in broadcasting?” Harry asked.
“You mean like Skinny Simon? Sure, it’s a possibility. And it’s one that I haven’t neglected.”
“Then you really have nothing conclusive,” Harry Fox said, stating the obvious.
“I think we have enough so the police can get on it now. There might have been some other clues left in that bank robbery. Jones left a pretty broad trail in those days, and even though it ended in 1947, there must be some way of linking him with somebody in the present. That’s what we’ve got to do.”
“What about Raven?” Harry asked. “You called me on that from Nebraska. Anything new?”
Barney shook his head. “Raven is the biggest mystery of all. Craigthorn was obviously telling us, when he broke that statuette, that Raven was his killer. Victor Jones is Raven, we know that much. Just as Ross Craigthorn was Caesar in those days. They were names that young men chose, picked from somewhere.”
“Well,” Max Winters said, “I vote that we allow Barney to continue the investigation. I think he’s made great progress for just one week.”
“Sure,” Harry chimed in. “Even if we get no further, just this evidence you’ve gathered and this name of Victor Jones is enough to convince the public that we’ve been doing a job on it. You can stay on the case, Barney. But I agree now that it’s a matter for the regular authorities. We’ve come up with a lot more information than the police. Let them hunt out Victor Jones.”
The Shattered Raven Page 12
