The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  She didn’t know anything, including the combination of the safe. She had left for lunch at eleven-thirty and had missed Peterson.

  “I just can’t understand who could do such a thing to Mr. Waxman!” she cooed. “He was so nice—such a perfect gentleman.”

  She crossed her legs and exhibited hosiery that sells for half a secretary’s salary. Appreciating the hosiery, Keever furrowed his brows in a shrewd manner and asked: “Then Waxman had no enemies?”

  I laughed impolitely. “He was a lawyer, wasn’t he?”

  Keever reddened. “Ben, I’ve learned to overlook your not very subtle sarcasm. You are no doubt referring to the fact that lawyers, who of necessity handle the troubles of others, accumulate the enemies of others. But such enemies rarely murder. If they did there wouldn’t be enough lawyers left to—to—”

  “To fill an ambulance!” I cracked. Keever looked apologetically to Mickey O’Hara.

  “You’re sure then that Mr. Waxman hadn’t received any threats of any kind?”

  “Yes, Mr. Keever, I’m sure he hadn’t.”

  It went on for about fifteen minutes, and I decided Keever was prolonging the interview only because he appreciated Miss O’Hara’s hosiery. I liked it, too, but I still had a mild curiosity about who killed Waxman. I walked out of the library.

  “You’ll have to hire a locksmith,” I told Carrothers. “The Petty girl doesn’t know the combination.”

  “We may find it somewhere,” Carrothers said hopefully.

  I shook my head. “Five will get you ten that you don’t.” I went out.

  he elevators were close by, but I used the stairway at the back of the building. I walked down two flights and found Jimmie Harmon’s office. His secretary informed me that he was in but very, very busy.

  “I’m the law,” I said, showing my badge. “I think he’ll see me.”

  He did. He came to the door and ushered me inside in a very cordial way. He even flattered me by remembering my name, though I had hardly more than met him at the time of Peterson’s trial. He seemed a nice enough guy in spite of the million bucks he and his sister had inherited from James D. Harmon Sr., who had made his dough in the real estate business. This had been the old man’s office. Jimmie pretended to be following in his father’s footsteps, but he used the place mainly to recuperate from hangovers. As for selling real estate, he couldn’t have sold a hideout to Hitler.

  “I thought you’d like to know,” I opened, “that I went out and picked up Peterson. He’ll be on ice for a nice long time.”

  Harmon gave me a startled, then quizzical look.

  “It’s all right,” I assured him. “Keever told me all about it.”

  Harmon looked a little hurt. “Damn it! I told Keever not to tell anyone.”

  I smiled. “But I’m his right-hand man. It was natural for him to tell me who’d tipped him to Peterson’s record.”

  “I suppose it was.” Harmon was studying me. “You didn’t come here just to tell me you’d nailed Peterson.”

  “No, I didn’t. I thought you’d like to know that Peterson got away. He’s still at large.”

  Harmon got up and began to pace back and forth behind his desk.

  “Thanks, Corbett. I appreciate your warning me. But I’m sure Peterson will never guess that I turned him in. Unless, of course, Keever’s really started broadcasting it.” He looked alarmed. “Do you think Keever’s told anyone else besides you?”

  “I’m sure he hasn’t. Besides, it looks as if you’re quite safe. There’s a pretty generally accepted theory that Peterson put the blame on his lawyer. Anyway, Shorty Waxman’s up in his office dead, and Peterson’s been identified as a visitor. When they catch him a life stretch will be the least of his worries.”

  Harmon had stopped short.

  “Waxman dead! Do you really think Peterson—”

  “Maybe. By the way, do you have an alibi for this noon?”

  “Me? Are you crazy? You can’t—” Harmon glared. “But of course, you can! You cops can suspect anybody, for any reason, no matter how trivial. I suppose you think I might have murdered him merely because he tried to make a monkey out of me during Peterson’s trial.”

  I had to laugh at the memory of it. Waxman hadn’t merely tried to make a monkey out of Harmon—he couldn’t have succeeded much better if he had had Harmon scratching for lice. Waxman had gone into the matter of this phony real estate layout, and a jury consisting of working folk had laughed their glee. But Waxman’s jibes hadn’t helped Peterson.

  “I was just kidding about your alibi,” I told Harmon, to cover up my laughter. “Of course we don’t suspect you of bumping Waxman. You had no motive whatever. And the fact that your office is in the same building doesn’t mean anything either. By the way, I’m curious about how you tumbled to Peterson’s record. That’s something Keever didn’t tell me.”

  “That’s because I didn’t tell him,” Harmon said sullenly. “I don’t see that it makes any difference how I got the information, so long as it was right.”

  “Right. Well, I’ll be getting along.”

  Harmon looked agitated as I left. I went back upstairs and found that even Keever had had enough of the eye-filling O’Hara and had sent her home.

  “I don’t know that there’s anything to do,” he was telling Carrothers, “until Peterson’s picked up.” He cast a side look in my direction. “If he’d never got away, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Pretending not to hear, I said: “I’m driving back to the office. Want to come with me?”

  “Driving? You mean they’ve found your car?”

  “No. I found it myself. Peterson didn’t get very far.”

  “Where did he—”

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime. Are you coming with me?”

  “No. I drove my own car.”

  The parking lot at the Criminal Courts Building was in back, and I entered by the back entrance. A figure startled me as it detached itself from a shadow.

  “Hello, Mr. Corbett.”

  It was Peterson.

  “Well, well. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “I’m giving myself up. I’ve been waiting to see you. I wanted you to be the one to turn me in. I hate it about that break. I hope you won’t do anything to my mother. She didn’t know what she was doing.”

  “Forget it. I forgot to tell Keever about her, anyway.”

  Peterson’s eyes brightened.

  “Thanks a million! When the radio news didn’t mention her, I wondered if you’d left her out of it. But I didn’t dare hope.”

  “Well, let’s get going.”

  I walked down the gloomy corridor beside Peterson. I asked casually: “Did you have a nice talk with Waxman?”

  Peterson started. “How did you know about that?”

  “Well, you left my car right outside his office building.”

  “I did at that. I guess it doesn’t make any difference whether you know about my seeing Waxman. I did see him. He told me to turn myself in.”

  “Oh, he did, did he? I suppose he told you he could beat the rap, that he’d take your case?”

  “He told me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “It was pretty good advice. I’ll have to warn you that anything you may say will be held against you.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Waxman’s dead.”

  Peterson stopped short. He was pale.

  “Murdered?” I nodded. He started on again with exaggerated casualness: “Well, that makes me no difference. Nobody can hang that one on me.”

  This time I stopped. “Look here, Peterson, you’re very inconsistent. A moment ago you indicated that Waxman was taking your case. It was plain from your manner that you had high hopes he would beat it for you, that Waxman was indeed your lifesaver. Now you’re very indifferent about his murder. His murder means he wouldn’t be in there to beat that habitual criminal charge for you. So either you’re lying about Waxman helping you or you’re lying about
his death making no difference. Which is it?”

  Peterson eyed me coolly. “I’m taking Waxman’s advice. I’m keeping my mouth shut.”

  We were within ten feet of the elevator bank, and plenty of cops were coming in and out. They all knew about Peterson, but they never dreamed he could be the man talking with me. I took Peterson’s arm and stopped him.

  “You’re not being very bright about this thing. I heard you make a threat about getting your hands on the guy who turned you in. It might interest you to know that the D.A. has a theory you did get your hands on the guy—Waxman.”

  Peterson made a wry face. “Then he’s nuts; Waxman never turned me in.”

  “But he did know about your record?”

  “Of course. I leveled with him. And he’s always played straight with me.” An idea came to Peterson. “Besides, why should he turn me in when he’d never been paid for defending me in that last case? I’d just started to pay him every week out of my wages. Going up for life would mean I’d never pay him another dime.”

  “So he took your case that other time without advance payment? That’s not like Waxman. He always has to have it on the line.”

  “Well, he went to bat for me. I didn’t have a dime, and he knew it. Even the money I’d stolen from Harmon’s safe—he made me turn that over to him so he could turn it in. He did that. Every cent of it. And the other paper, too.”

  “What other paper? You weren’t charged with stealing anything but the money.”

  “Oh, the other paper didn’t amount to anything. Waxman said he’d give it back to Harmon personally. It was Harmon’s will. I guess Waxman thought he wouldn’t want it aired in public. It wasn’t worth anything to anybody but Harmon, and he could easily have made a new one if he never got it back.”

  “That’s very interesting. I’m sure even Keever didn’t know about that angle. You didn’t happen to read the will?”

  Peterson looked a little shamefaced. “As a matter of fact I did. It was short. Harmon just left everything to Louise.”

  Louise was Harmon’s sister. I regarded Peterson curiously. “Why in the world did you steal a will?”

  “I didn’t know it was a will. It was in an envelope, like the money. I just grabbed both envelopes and ran when I heard someone coming.”

  That sounded plausible. A servant had surprised Peterson at his thievery and he had fled in haste, but not effectively enough to prevent his identification.

  “Well, if Waxman didn’t turn you in, who did?”

  “You’re asking me!” Peterson’s manner changed. He regarded me hostilely. “I don’t like it a bit. You know damned well it wasn’t Waxman, yet you’re trying to make out that I killed him for revenge.”

  “All right, granting that Waxman wasn’t the one who turned you in, you had no way of knowing that. He would be the logical man for you to suspect. Right now you can’t think of anyone else who could have turned you in!”

  Peterson’s face flushed. I was right. He couldn’t think of anyone else. He muttered: “Damn you! You made me talk! From now on I’m keeping my mouth shut!”

  And he did. Keever conducted a cross-examination that lasted till five in the afternoon. By that time he was trembling with anger. His face stayed red five minutes after Peterson had been taken away.

  “The rat!” he growled. “He got Waxman all right! It couldn’t have been anybody else. He killed Waxman because he thought Waxman squealed on him.”

  “You seem pretty sure. By the way, was it Waxman?”

  “The rat!” Keever muttered. “Well, I’ll break him down tomorrow if I have to grill him all day!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  PICTURES CAN LIE

  o Keever was holding out on me, as usual. He meant to let me think that Waxman had turned in Peterson’s record. He would probably let the jury think that, too, for it would point the finger of guilt more steadily at Peterson. Don’t misunderstand Keever—he wasn’t trying to railroad the youth. But years in the D.A.’s office had slightly warped his sense of ethics. He had fought so many legal battles with unscrupulous shysters like the late Shorty Waxman that he had himself picked up a few low punches.

  He was morally certain that Peterson was guilty of Waxman’s murder, and he meant to convict him by any means, fair or foul. But I couldn’t quite accept the case as open and shut. There was something rank in Rotterdam, my nose told me, and I wanted to find out what it was. I lingered in the office long enough to phone Homicide and learn that there had been no prints on the knife that had stabbed Waxman. I hadn’t hoped there would be. I got my car and headed out to Riverside Road.

  Riverside Road is the swank highway that runs along the Silver River bank north of town. Everybody who is anybody has a big estate up there, and Old Man Harmon had been somebody. The Harmon place was one of the biggest. It was here that Jimmie Harmon and his sister, Louise, had lived since their father’s death. No will had turned up, so the pair had inherited the place equally as heirs at law.

  It was the wall safe in the wing occupied by Jimmie that Peterson had broken into. Peterson’s job as gardener there had been full-time, but he had lived at his mother’s apartment, commuting in an old flivver. Turning into the drive, I could easily see why it had been necessary to have a full-time man. The grounds were really magnificent. The house was something, too—not quite a mansion but almost large enough.

  A maid answered my ring. I flashed my badge.

  “I’m from the D.A.’s office. I want to see Miss Harmon.”

  A little gleam of satisfaction came into the maid’s eyes. Evidently she enjoyed a hope that her mistress was in trouble. She let me in and went eagerly to report my visit. But I had to wait ten minutes before Louise Harmon showed up.

  “I’m sorry. I was finishing dressing.”

  “That’s all right. It was worth waiting for.”

  It was. This Harmon was a sloe-eyed brunette with a milky-white complexion that rocked you on your heels. It was plain she had devoted a lot of time to making the best of her natural assets—those last ten minutes had been well spent.

  I introduced myself and said: “I’m just doing a little informal checking up. Please don’t get excited about it. I only want to have your corroboration of your brother’s statement that you were with him at the time of Shorty Waxman’s murder.”

  Louise Harmon didn’t look at all as if she intended to get excited. She looked at me as if trying to decide whether I had all my marbles.

  “I don’t understand. Why would my brother need an alibi for Waxman’s murder? He certainly couldn’t have had any reason to kill Waxman!”

  I said lamely: “He couldn’t have had any love for Waxman after the way Waxman treated him at Peterson’s trial.”

  Louise Harmon now eyed me as if she had made up her mind about whether I had all my marbles. Her decision was plainly in the negative.

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Well, you haven’t answered my question. Were you with Jimmie this noon?”

  “No, and you know I wasn’t. He never told you that I was.”

  “All right, if you weren’t with Jimmie, will you tell me where you were then?”

  Louise Harmon’s eyes widened. For a split second they became angry; then they mocked me. “So I’m a suspect! Well, this is precious—little Louise has finally amounted to something! A murder suspect at last after twenty-two years of a drab, dreary existence! Are you going to take me down to headquarters for a third degree?”

  “I hope not. It’ll help if you just tell me where you were.”

  Her eyes gleamed with mock mystery.

  “Everything’s against me. I was in the Mercury Tower at noon! I can’t deny it—the elevator starter would remember me. It’s the curse of being so beautiful that every old man ogles you. Little did I dream—well, to go on with my confession, I dropped in to see Jimmie. He wasn’t there. His office was deserted, and I waited maybe ten minutes in his reception room. Then I went out for lunch.”

&n
bsp; “So you don’t have any alibi for ten minutes?”

  Louise Harmon hung her head.

  “No! It was careless of me, but then I didn’t know that Shorty Waxman was being murdered!”

  She laughed in my face. My face was very red. Then I heard a noise and turned. Keever had come into the room. I recalled Louise Harmon’s ten-minute delay. So she had called my boss.

  “What’s going on here, Ben?” Keever’s face was like a thundercloud.

  Louise Harmon answered for me: “Oh, we’re having a wonderful time! Isn’t it marvelous—I’m getting the third degree as a suspect in the Waxman murder case!”

  Keever slowly faced me. “Go outside, Ben. Wait for me. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  I went outside. I leaned dejectedly on a fender of my car and lighted a cigarette. I wasn’t half finished with it when Keever appeared. He hadn’t cooled off a bit.

  “A fine spot you put me in! I had to apologize all over the place. Imagine treating Louise Harmon as a murder suspect!”

  “I didn’t. That was her idea. I was merely curious as to where her brother had been while Waxman was getting himself murdered. I found out one thing, at least. Harmon wasn’t in his office—his sister just told me so.”

  Keever started to speak, then eyed me carefully. His anger subsided in favor of curiosity.

  “Come on, Ben, give out. Why are you pointing your finger at Harmon?”

  “Well, there was a will. It was in the safe Peterson robbed. Peterson says it was Harmon’s will, and he gave everything to Louise. Somehow the will was never mentioned at the trial. Jimmie Harmon said nothing about it being stolen, and Peterson says he turned it over to Waxman. Supposing Waxman decided not to give Harmon the will. Maybe Harmon wanted it bad enough to kill him for it.”

  Keever looked at me with horror.