“Yes, sir.”
“How long you worked here?”
“Three years.”
“Tell me everything you know about this Garson girl.”
“She phoned for an appointment and I made her one,” he said. “I don’t know what her business was.”
“Didn’t you normally know what business your boss’ clients had with him?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”
“And this was one of the not times?”
“That’s right.”
“Then how’d you happen to have a file marked ‘Garson’ in your desk?”
He didn’t even blink. “Mr. Randall usually kept it in the safe. This morning while getting something else from the safe, he kept out the Garson file and told me to hold it until he needed it later in the day. I never saw it before.”
“Didn’t you ever see it in the safe?”
“I never saw anything in the safe. Mr. Randall never gave me the combination.” He added with a tinge of resentment, “Being private secretary to Mr. Randall was sort of an office boy job.”
“What was in the file?”
“Just some checks. Four, I believe.”
“To whom, by whom, and for how much?” I said.
“They were for a thousand dollars each, made out to cash and signed by Judith Garson.”
“Judith? I thought her name was Joan.”
He let his eyes shift from me to Randall’s body without saying anything. “Well?”
“Her name is Joan,” he said. “I don’t know who Judith is.”
I changed direction. “Why did Randall want to hire me?”
“I don’t know.”
“For a private secretary you knew very little about your boss’ business. Why do you think he wanted me?”
“I don’t know.”
I tried another switch. “What’s Joan Garson’s address?”
“Six-one-o-one Pershing.”
“How do you know that?”
A sullen look began to creep into his eyes.
“I was in school with her. I don’t have to answer your questions, you know. You’re not a policeman.”
I heard the outer office door slam.
“Tell the cops they can reach me at my apartment,” I said.
As the police entered the front door, I went out the back and caught a down elevator. Running out was pure impulse. I knew the police would foam, and I had no good reason for skipping. For that matter I had no good reason for examining the murder room and questioning Alvin Christopher. It was not my case.
My connection was only that of a witness, yet I was acting exactly as though I had been employed to solve the crime.
I think I must have wanted an excuse to see Joan Garson again before the police caught her. Or maybe it was venom at having a thousand-dollar retainer and a five-hundred-dollar fee snatched from under my nose. I am not given to analyzing my impulses. All I know is that I broke my rule about working only with cash on the line and took a taxi to 6101 Pershing.…
The house on Pershing was a rambling stone building surrounded by a low rock wall. It looked like money and I expected a butler, or at least a maid to answer the door. Instead a middle-aged, expensively dressed, too-powdered woman opened to my ring. She was the same woman who had stepped into the center elevator at the University Building just before I questioned the operator, but there was no recognition in her eyes.
“Is Joan in?” I asked.
“No.”
I sensed her running a cataloging eye over the cut of my clothes. Her glance touched the hundred-and-fifty-dollar wrist watch I affect and sudden friendliness showed in her smile. “I’m Joan’s mother. I expect her shortly. Won’t you come in?”
I told her my name and followed her along an expensive but worn carpet to an enormous living room. She motioned to a sideboard and told me to mix myself a drink. Two decanters, respectively labeled Scotch and Bourbon, mingled with a siphon and glasses on the sideboard. Lacking rye, I am not particular what I drink. I chose the bourbon at random and mixed one for myself and another for Mrs. Garson.
The living room was beautifully furnished to a point, but the point was beginning to dull. I noticed that a silver vase on one side of the mantle threw the fireplace out of balance because the other side was bare. I got an impression of similar lack of balance from the oils on the walls, until I detected faint markings on the paper where two paintings had once hung.
“Broke,” I thought. “No servants, and selling the heirlooms.”
Mrs. Garson set down her glass after a preliminary sip.
“Have you known Joan long?” she asked.
“Not long,” I said, and set my glass down also. The bourbon was vile.
“I suppose you and Joan have specials plans for this evening,” she said brightly.
Apparently she assumed I had an engagement with Joan. I saw no point in correcting her.
“No. Nothing special.”
She sighed. “I didn’t know Joan was intending to go out this evening and had planned for us to have dinner together at El Patio. Not,” she added hastily, “that I’m in the least put out.” She smiled her bright company smile at me and I smiled back just as brightly.
“I can easily cancel one of the reservations,” she went on. “I don’t mind dining alone.”
I contributed another bright smile and began to feel like a Cheshire cat.
“You get used to being alone a lot when you have a pretty daughter,” she said.
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“Of course I could add a reservation as easily as cancel one, and you children could have dinner with me. That is, if you don’t mind dragging along an old lady.”
“Not at all.”
“Joan loves the El Patio band, and they have the best drinks in town.”
“Gambling, too,” I remarked.
“Well, yes. If you care for that sort of thing.”
The conversation lapsed. Mrs. Garson puzzled me. She seemed eagerly friendly, even fawning, yet all the time I was conscious of her guarded appraisal. Adroitly working herself into what she thought was a dinner party, and even picking the place, El Patio, where the food was as famous as the gaming, looked like petty angling for a free meal. And though I was convinced the family was broke, I could not reconcile Mrs. Garson with this apparent high school type of gold-digging. I gave it up.
“You expect Joan soon?” I asked, looking at my watch.
“She should be here any minute. She had a hairdresser appointment at two. She phoned not five minutes before you arrived and said she was all through at the hairdresser and would be home shortly. What time is it now?”
“Four.”
“She won’t be long then. She goes to Russard’s, downtown, you know. She’s probably taking a bus home.”
CHAPTER III
Up to Your Neck In Murder
This bit of conversation left me as puzzled about the daughter as I was about the mother. Normally, amateur murderers either jump town or turn themselves in immediately after the crime. I never before heard of a murderess calmly keeping a beauty appointment after making a corpse.
For a moment I entertained a faint notion that Joan might be innocent, after all, but only for a moment. I had all but seen the crime committed. Then a shrill whine in the distance turned my thoughts in another direction.
I stood up. “Think I’ll walk down to meet Joan at the bus stop. Which way is it?”
“Three blocks east. The Lindell bus.”
As the siren grew louder I said something polite about the horrible drink I was leaving unfinished and abruptly made for the hall. At the door I broke into her chattering reminder about the three of us having dinner at El Patio—“And I insist that it be all on me, simply insist”—by handing her one of my cards.
Before she could read it I said rapidly:
“The police are on their way to arrest Joan for murder. I may be able to help her. Don’t tell them where she is, and especially don’t tell them she’s getting off that bus. I’ll head her off.”
Her mouth was still open when I went down the steps. I was a block from the house when a police car slammed to a stop in front of it.
Two buses passing at five-minute intervals gave me time to organize what thoughts I had. I was still not sure why I concerned myself in a case which was none of my business. Joan Garson was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, but that was no explanation. I am notorious for charging fees, and my regard for cash on the barrel head far outweighs my chivalry.
I think I was as much fascinated by the thought of a lovely murderess having her hair set immediately after her crime as I was by the murderess’ loveliness. It made me want to delve into her personality and find what made her click.
It also suggested a chance that by some incredible circumstance she was entangled in a tight web of evidence over a crime she had not committed. In either event the situation promised an unusual problem, psychological on the one hand or material on the other, and I am a sucker for problems.
When the third bus stopped Joan Garson alighted. I stepped in front of her, blocking the way.
“Miss Garson, I’ve been waiting at your home and your mother told me I could catch you here. May I have a moment?”
She looked up puzzledly. “I don’t believe I know you.”
“You ran into me at Lawrence Randall’s office. I’m Manville Moon.”
She looked again and recognition came into her eyes, quickly followed by disdain.
“Collision is not introduction.” She started to walk around me.
“I’m not trying to pick you up,” I said. “Randall has been murdered.”
She stopped and turned her head toward me. If the startled expression on her face was assumed, the screen had missed a great actress.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Randall has been murdered,” I repeated, “and police are waiting at your home to arrest you for it. You can go home and meet them, or you can talk things over with me. Take your choice.”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
I handed her one of my cards and waited while she studied it. When she looked up again, in her eyes was a curious, startled look.
“I’ve heard of you,” she said. “I thought you were killed in the war.”
“You read the papers carelessly. I lost a leg.”
“Oh!” Her glance involuntarily dropped to my feet.
“The right one.”
She flushed. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Why do the police want me?”
“They think you killed Randall,” I said dryly. “Did you?”
Her eyes widened indignantly. “Of course not!”
It is poor policy in my business to have convictions about character. You suspect everyone, even your grandmother, if the evidence points that way.
Yet, gazing down into Joan’s tense, indignant face, I knew she was no murderess. “Let’s go for a long bus ride and talk things over,” I said.
We could see Joan’s bus two blocks farther on at the end of its circuit, swing about for the return trip. I took her arm and piloted her across the street. When the bus stopped I helped her on and we climbed to the nearly deserted upper deck, where we were able to find places ten feet from the nearest passenger. Joan turned sideward in her seat so that her back rested against the window, and stared directly into my face.
I started the conversation.
“Where did you go from Randall’s office?” I asked.
“To Russard’s. I had an appointment with my hairdresser for two-thirty. I left the University Building about two, took an Olive car downtown and arrived at Russard’s about two-twenty. At least I think it was about then. I had to wait ten minutes, and they’re always so prompt.”
“Where have you been since?” I looked at my watch. “It’s four-thirty now.”
“Russard’s finished me at a quarter to four. I phoned Mother from the shop to say I’d be home, then walked over to Washington Avenue for a bus. I imagine it was about four by the time I got a bus. But why all these questions? I don’t even know what’s happened except that Mr. Randall was killed and you say the police are after me.”
I brought her up to date with a running account of everything that had happened after she left Randall’s office.
“Which leaves me out fifteen hundred dollars and a client,” I concluded. “And you up to your neck in murder. I saw the police arrive at your house just after I left. Your warrant may be for homicide, or merely as a material witness. But regardless of how your warrant reads, the cops will think you killed Randall and will hound you right into the gas chamber unless we work out something fast.”
She paled, which made her dark eyes even darker and more luminous.
“What do you want with me?” she asked. “And why don’t you think I committed the murder?”
I answered her questions in reverse order.
“I can visualize you sticking a knife in someone, but I can’t see you doing it virtually in front of two witnesses and then casually keeping a beauty appointment. You’d be in the next state by now. What I want from you is lots of information. It may occur to the police that I had a wonderful opportunity to stick the guy myself. Besides, I don’t like clients, or even almost clients, to be bumped off under my nose. I don’t like to lose fifteen hundred dollars. I don’t like to see beautiful girls executed. For those and a couple of other reasons I’ve decided to follow through on the case.”
“I couldn’t pay you much for helping me,” she said. “I haven’t much money.”
“I know. Don’t worry. I have a knack of finding someone to foot bills before I’m through with things. Until I do I’ll consider you my client.”
“All right. What do you want to know from me?”
“Everything. Why you went to see Randall and exactly what happened in his office.”
She moved her back from the window to the rear of her seat and lowered her gaze to gloved hands.
“I can’t tell you what my business was with Mr. Randall.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m not a cop. I’m a private operator. What you tell me never gets any further unless you authorize it. Also, I don’t go in for blackmail. If you want to beat this, you’ll have to unload everything. I can’t get you out of trouble working in the dark.”
She pulled off one glove and began twisting the fingers together.
“My business couldn’t have anything to do with the murder.”
I took a shot in the dark.
“Your mother’s first name is Judith, isn’t it?”
She said, “Yes,” without looking up from her hands.
“She worked for Randall, didn’t she?”
That staggered her. Her shoulders hunched and she looked at me sideways. “How do you know?”
“Your mother mistakenly sized me up as a heavy money man and tried to steer me to that clip house, El Patio. She must be getting a percentage for luring suckers there. I know Randall had some kind of connection with El Patio and also that he held some checks against your mother. It requires little deduction to guess that she uses her social position to pressure rich friends into patronizing El Patio, and that she probably started her pressuring at the instigation of Randall.”
She had her back to the window again and was staring at me with wide, embarrassed eyes. I judged it was time to use forcing tactics. I stood up.
“But you want to keep secrets, so I can’t help you.”
I reached across toward the signal button, but she caught my wrist. “Wait!”
“Why?” I said.
“I’ll tell you about it. You know the worst part
anyway. Please sit down.”
I pulled back my hand, acting reluctant, and reseated myself. She required no more prodding, but of her own volition unloaded everything.
As I had guessed, the Garsons were broke. Joan’s father had been chairman of the board of directors for a match corporation. When he died, the same year Joan had been presented to society, his death disclosed a state of mismanagement in the corporation which had nearly caused an economic scandal.
Mrs. Garson had averted scandal by covering some of the corporation’s bad investments with the personal fortune her husband left. The whole affair had been kept from the public, but left the supposedly wealthy Garsons flat except for a tax-heavy home and a lot of expensive, but rapidly wearing-out clothes.
Having preserved the family honor, Mrs. Garson suddenly indulged in a spree of gambling at El Patio. And when her feet hit the ground a month later, the casino’s proprietor, Louis Bagnell, held eight one-thousand dollar checks signed by her and not worth the paper they were written on. Bagnell had known they were no good when he accepted them, but had insisted on undated checks instead of I.O.U.’s.
Suddenly Mrs. Garson’s credit at El Patio stopped and Louis Bagnell politely suggested that she call on Lawrence Randall. At Randall’s office Mrs. Garson discovered that he now held the checks. Randall offered her a proposition. If she would use her social influence to direct wealthy acquaintances to El Patio, she would receive ten percent of the amount each one lost at the casino, all her earnings to be deducted from the amount she owed.
When Mrs. Garson indignantly refused, Randall coldly informed her that he would present the checks at her bank the following morning, and if they were not honored, she would be in jail by afternoon. Mrs. Garson dropped her scruples and yielded.
For the past year she had been taking friends and acquaintances to El Patio. In exchange for her services she had received back four of the checks. Then Joan had learned what was going on.
“I have a job starting next Monday,” Joan said. “I majored in business administration and am really an accomplished secretary. Mother always insisted that it wasn’t decent for a girl to work, or I would have started right after Dad died. When I found what she was doing to earn money, we had a terrible scene and immediately afterward I went down and got a job with Interstate Shoe Company for a hundred and fifty dollars a month. That’s why I went to see Mr. Randall. I thought that if I agreed to pay a hundred dollars a month against the debt, he might let Mother off her agreement.”
The Juarez Knife Page 2
