by Unknown
“What wouldn’t?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing to do with the murder.”
I let my eyes harden over. “Listen, sister. If you know something, loosen up fast.”
“It’s nothing,” she insisted. “It would only start gossip.”
I said: “I don’t spread gossip. Let’s have it.”
Reluctantly, she said: “It’s Mrs. Swope. I think she and Carmichael were carrying on.” She paused, then rushed on, apparently wanting to unload it fast once she had started. “The other night I forgot my purse and came back for it after closing. They were in Mr. Carmichael’s office and didn’t hear me come in. I heard him say: ‘It’s got to stop, Isobel. Suppose Marden found out?’ Mrs. Swope said, ‘Suppose he does? I really think he’d be glad.’ Then after a while Mr. Carmichael said: ‘I won’t be party to breaking up a home. Especially that of my own partner. It’s got to stop.’ I heard Mrs. Swope begin to cry, and she said: ‘You’re tired of me, that’s all.’ I left then and didn’t hear any more.”
I said thoughtfully: “The spurned-mistress motive, eh? Worth checking.” Then I had an inspiration. “That switchboard operator you mentioned. Remember her voice?”
The secretary looked doubtful. “You mean could I identify it?”
“I mean do you remember it? How it sounded? Whether you’d ever heard it before?”
Her head moved back and forth slowly. “You don’t remember switchboard operators’ voices. It was just a voice.”
“Could it have been Mrs. Swope?”
Her eyes went wide. “Mrs. Swope! Why ever would she pretend to be a switchboard operator?”
“Maybe she had a code arrangement with Carmichael,” I said. “With her husband in the same office, she’d hardly phone and give her own name.”
She looked doubtful. “But suppose Mr. Longstreet had been here when she called? She’d have felt kind of silly.”
“Who knew Longstreet was gone?” I asked.
She looked less doubtful. “Everyone. He’d been talking about going up to his summer camp for weeks. Mrs. Swope would have known that he left at noon yesterday.” She looked down at the tiny watch on her wrist. “Eight o’clock. Time I got back to work.”
She turned and went back to her desk. I moved back into the reception room just as the outer door opened and Marty O’Brien came in. Marty had been a muscle man back in the days of the now defunct extortion ring, but I hadn’t seen him around in recent years. Probably he had been in jail.
He said: “Hi, Marie. Boss in yet?” And then he saw me.
He didn’t say anything. Just looked.
“Hello, Marty,” I said.
He nodded.
Marie said: “You’re the first one here,” and went on with her typing.
Marty threw me another deadpan look and drifted out again.
“That one of your salesmen?” I asked Marie.
She said: “Our best.”
The door opened again and a smooth-cheeked, middle-aged man entered. In a sleek, pointed-nose and thin-lipped sort of way he was handsome. He wore expensive clothes and rimless eyeglasses with an air of needing both.
His face was all set in a big smile for Marie, but it faded when he saw she had company.
“Good morning, Mr. Swope,” Marie said in a prim, secretarial voice.
Swope doled her out an adulterated version of the original smile and gave me an inquiring glance.
“Manville Moon,” I said, showing him my license card. “Retained by Longstreet.”
His brows knit. “I see.”
He failed to offer his hand, but stood chewing his lip while he thought me over. Finally he seemed to come to a decision.
“Come in,” he said, and preceded me to his office.
When we were seated and he had offered me a cigar, which I politely refused after noting the brand, he leaned back and crossed hands over his stomach.
“I’ve told the police everything I know about this terrible affair,” he said. “But of course I’ll be glad to give any further help I can.”
“Fine. Will you just run over what you told the police?”
He raised his shoulders and let them fall again. “It wasn’t much, I’m afraid. I knew nothing about the two phone calls until Marie told of them when the police were here. I left at four-thirty yesterday, and didn’t know anything had happened until a policeman came to my home about six.”
“Know what Carmichael and Longstreet could have been arguing about over the phone? That is, if it was Longstreet.”
He shook his head. “They always got along. We all did. Why, we grew up together, the three of us. We were playmates in grammar school.” A reminiscent smile spread across his face. “We even chased the same girl. In high school Mrs. Swope went with all three of us before she finally settled on me.”
“Could your wife have been the cause of the argument?”
He frowned. “Of course not! They sometimes joked about both remaining bachelors because of Mrs. Swope, but purely in fun. She hadn’t gone with either of them for five years before our marriage. And we’ve been married twenty-two years.”
I said: “Do you think it actually was Longstreet who phoned yesterday?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Marie is sure of it. And I can think of no reason she would lie.”
“How do you account for his being able to phone at three-thirty and again at five, when he was locked in a cell from three on?”
He shrugged. “I make no attempt to account for it. The police are paid to unravel such questions.” His fingers drummed on the desk top. “I don’t understand how he got in jail in the first place. When he left at noon yesterday, he was intending to drive up for a week at his camp on the river. He’d planned it for weeks, and I know he intended to start at one o’clock. By two-thirty he should have been there, so what was he doing in a bar in town?”
Suddenly an expression of amazed inspiration crossed his face. “I just thought of a possible explanation!”
“Yeah?”
“I haven’t been down to the jail yet. How do we know the man in jail is Longstreet?”
That jolted me. Thinking back, I couldn’t remember anyone identifying Longstreet, and no one who knew him had looked over the prisoner.
I said: “About two-forty pounds, grizzled hair, false teeth, hairy eyebrows that curve upward like horns, and an expression like a kid getting ready to heave a snowball at a high hat.”
The enthusiasm faded from Swope’s face. “That’s Willard to a T.”
“It’s still a straw,” I said. “How about dropping down and looking him over?”
He glanced at his watch. “Can’t this morning. Be glad to this afternoon. Is that all you want of me?” He glanced at his watch again.
“Not quite. Assuming Longstreet did commit the murder, what motive could he have?”
His lips curled in a faint smile. “We have a business contract leaving our stock to the surviving partners. Half of Carmichael’s interest in this business is motive enough. And in addition, Longstreet is primary beneficiary to a fifty-thousand-dollar insurance policy on Carmichael.”
“How’d Carmichael happen to carry a policy like that?” I asked.
“We all did. If I died, the money went to Carmichael, with Longstreet as secondary beneficiary. Longstreet’s policy named me, with Carmichael as secondary beneficiary. I was secondary on Carmichael’s policy. It’s not an unusual business arrangement. Quite common in partnerships.”
I said: “How did the murderer get in and out of here without being seen? Don’t you have a watchman?”
“No. We have adequate locks, a burglar alarm system and are protected by Burns.”
“About Carmichael,” I said. “What kind of guy was he?”
He frowned down at his hand, which beat a swift march on the desk top. “George was a good businessman and an excellent partner.” The sentence ended on a slightly raised note, as though an unspoken phrase beginning with “but” should have been attac
hed to it.
I said: “But what?”
He glanced at me, startled. “What are you? A mind reader?”
“Just a guesser. What was wrong?”
His expression was reluctant, as one unwilling to speak ill of the dead. “I suppose it was more virtue than fault. He was too strait-laced.”
After Marie Kincaid’s evaluation of Carmichael as a wolf, the answer amused me. Fleetingly a quotation passed through my mind. Something like: “Women and men see friends through different eyes.”
I said: “About women?”
“No. He was human enough, I suppose. Perhaps strait-laced isn’t the right word. Unforgiving would be better. He gave absolute loyalty to his friends and demanded the same of them.”
“Hardly sounds like a fault.”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “Except he carried it too far. As an example, we used to retain a lawyer named Howard Tattersall. He’s an excellent lawyer and has saved the firm considerable money in lawsuits. He also happens to be a minor stockholder in the company, owns about five per cent of the common stock. About a month ago we were preparing to offer a few new shares for sale on the open market to help finance opening a branch in another city. Tattersall, of course, had advance information and a few hours before our release, he dumped his entire holdings on the market. The sudden dumping of such a large block caused a temporary drop in price, and before it could recover, Tattersall rebought his own stock plus part of the new issue without it costing him a cent. His total gain was about twenty thousand dollars, and George was furious. He insisted that Tattersall be kicked off the payroll immediately.”
I said: “I think I’d agree with him about that.”
Swope shook his head impatiently. “You misunderstand. What I gave was merely the bare outline of the transaction, and actually there were several ramifications. One was that a speculating broker took a flyer and bore the brunt of the loss. It didn’t cost our firm a cent. But George remained adamant, so we switched lawyers, thereby losing the best corporate legal advice in town.” He studied his tapping fingers glumly, still vexed by his late partner’s stubbornness.
“Was Tattersall sore?” I asked.
He looked up again. “Naturally. We’re a fat account.”
I kept my tone casual. “Sore enough to do anything about it?”
“Do anything?” He frowned. “You mean like shoot Carmichael?”
“Yeah?”
For a minute he brooded over the question, not liking it too much. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said finally. “My only relations with Tattersall were business ones and I don’t know what kind of person he is otherwise.”
CHAPTER FOUR
GANG-UP
Then the door began to open slowly, as though the person on the other side were hesitant to disturb us. Swope watched it expectantly; then his expression soured to a frown as the door finally swung fully open. Our interruptor was a short woman, this side of forty-five and beginning to spread. Probably she had once been beautiful, but corsets and cosmetics no longer could hide middle age. She wore expensive clothes that looked altogether much too young for her.
Swope said: “Didn’t Miss Kincaid say I was busy, Isobel?”
I guessed that this was Mrs. Swope, and didn’t miss that while Swope familiarly referred to the secretary as “Marie” in conversation, she was “Miss Kincaid” to his wife.
Isobel said: “I’m sorry. I have to see you. Will you be long?” Her tone was a curious mixture of embarrassed apology and determination.
Swope looked at his watch. “We’re nearly finished. You may as well stay, now you’re here.” He performed belated introductions. “This is Mr. Moon, Isobel. Mr. Moon, my wife.”
I asked her how she did and offered the chair I had left when she entered.
She said: “No. Keep it,” and took another in the corner.
I said: “I was just leaving, Mrs. Swope.” Then to her husband: “One more question and I won’t bother you any more. Are you familiar with a locket Longstreet has?”
The color drained from Mrs. Swope’s face, leaving it stark white behind its oversupply of rouge.
Swope said: “I’ve seen it. Why?”
“Know the story connected with it?”
He knit his brows thoughtfully. “Some silly sentimental thing, as I remember. Left to him by his mother or someone. He takes oaths on it. I always thought he was a little hipped on the subject. What about it?”
“Nothing. Just curious.”
I was watching Mrs. Swope. Her color began to come back, but she was still obviously shaken. With a sudden flash of inspiration I combined Longstreet’s mention of the locket as a gift from a girl when he was seventeen, with Swope’s casual reference to his wife’s high school romances, coming out with the interesting answer that Mrs. Swope could be the locket’s donor.
I said: “I’ve got to go. Glad to have met you, Mrs. Swope.”
She dipped her head in my direction without meeting my eyes.
Three men had come into the reception room while I was closeted with Swope. Two I recognized as compatriots of Marty O’Brien in bygone extortion ring days, but could not recall their names. The third was Tiny Sartt, a flat-headed, bow-legged killer with a criminal record longer than MacArthur’s war record.
I said: “Hello, Tiny. You a star salesman here, too?”
His constantly darting eyes touched my face and moved away. “Hello, Moon.”
“Hello, what?”
“Mister Moon,” he corrected. His eyes darted back at me and down again.
I said to Marie: “What’s the name of the outfit over you?”
“Riverside Seed Company.”
“How do you get there?”
“You have to go outside and use the main building entrance.”
A visit to the Riverside Seed Company got me nothing that I hadn’t already learned from Warren Day. The Rex Amusement Corporation closed at five, but the seed company stayed open an hour later. At about five-thirty the whole office force had been startled by what my informant described as a “terrific blam,” and one of the clerks said: “That’s a shot!”
Nearly everyone in the office, about twelve people, had gone to investigate. They found the entrance to the place downstairs unlocked, entered in a group and found the body. No one had seen the murderer leave.
The Drake Hotel is as expensive as the Jefferson, but in a quieter, more snobbish way. While not exclusively an apartment hotel, it caters to permanent residents and makes no effort to attract the tourist trade through decorative cocktail lounges and elaborate dance floors. The only entertainment facility offered its guests is a small, clean dining room which closes at eight nightly.
At the desk I asked for Howard Tattersall’s room number.
“Suite four-seventeen,” the room clerk said. “I’ll ring to see if he’s in.”
I said: “Never mind. He’s expecting me.”
The elevator surged upward like the smooth stroke of a piston and eased to a cushioned halt. Silent doors parted in the middle, disappearing into the walls, and when I stepped out into the deeply carpeted hall, they slid soundlessly together again.
The silence was almost reverent. As I started down the hall the leather straps of my false leg squeaked and I felt guiltily self-conscious—as though violating the sanctity of a cathedral.
The man who answered my knock at the door of suite four-seventeen was of medium height and beginning to put on weight. Dark hair, parted in the middle, was brushed straight back from a wide, short forehead. Heavy black brows surmounted a strong nose and hard but wide lips clamped around a short briar. He wore a lounging robe.
“Mr. Tattersall?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I’m Manville Moon. Your office told me I’d find you home today.”
Removing his pipe from his mouth with his right hand, which conveniently prevented him from offering a handshake, he said: “If it’s business, I’m sorry, but this is my day off.”
“It’s business about a murder,” I said. “May I come in?”
“Are you police?” he asked sharply.
“Private.” I watched his face for a minute, saw no invitation there, and said: “I’m coming in.”
He stepped back, swung the door wide and let me go past him into the room. It was a large room, much better furnished than my walkup parlor. Doors on either side of it leading to other rooms made it at least a three-unit apartment. I wondered how many hundred more a month he paid than I did for my three-room flat.
I tried an easy chair, liked it and settled back with a cigar in my mouth. The lawyer remained standing, frowning down at me while I applied flame to the cigar end.
“You’ve heard of George Carmichael’s death,” I said finally, making it a statement instead of a question.
“On the radio,” he said shortly. “I don’t get a morning paper.”
“Used to work for him, didn’t you?”
He looked displeased and faintly insulted. “I was retained by his firm as legal counsel. They weren’t my only account.”
“Why’d they drop you?”
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” he said testily. “Mind telling me what you want?”
“Not at all. Know Willard Longstreet?”
“Of course. One of the company directors. Sales manager, I believe he calls himself. He also happens to be a neighbor of mine. Lives down the hall.”
“Yes, I know. Longstreet retained me to solve the crime. You wouldn’t have heard it on the radio, but he’s the prime suspect. Matter of fact, he’s in jail.”
His eyes showed mild surprise, but no particular concern. “So?”
“His gun was found at the murder scene. Longstreet claims it was kidnapped from his room.”
“So?”
“So you and Carmichael had a falling-out. So you live within crawling distance of Longstreet’s door. So where were you yesterday about five-thirty in the afternoon?”
His eyes narrowed. “Pardon me a moment.”
Abruptly he did an about-face and passed through one of the doors into another room. I heard the click of a phone being raised, got out of my chair quietly and circled toward the door. As I reached it and got my ear near the jamb, I heard him say, “Right away,” and drop the phone back in its cradle.
