No Stone Unturned

by James W. Ziskin

  “Did he have anything on him?” I asked, peering past the deputy at the youth in the cruiser.

  “Naw. Just his keys.”

  “Nothing else?”

  Halvey shrugged. “Seventy-five cents.”

  “Can I see the keys?” I asked.

  “Have a look,” he said, pulling a key ring out of his pocket. “Two for his car, and this other one.” He showed me a long, thin, silver key unlike any one I’d ever seen. “I don’t know what it fits.”

  “Obviously not any of these doors,” I said, handing the keys back to Halvey. “You radio Frank?”

  “He’s on his way. He wanted you to wait here for him; says that guy he went to pick up checked out of the motel. He ain’t found him yet.”

  Frank Olney arrived a few minutes later with two county cruisers on his tail. He climbed out of his car, hitched up his belt, and sauntered over to Halvey and me.

  “What do you say, now, Ellie?” he asked. “Maybe the DA was a little too quick to spring Julio? Good thing we held Jean Trent on the obstruction charge. Course that won’t stick, but she busted my chops a little too hard and deserved it.”

  “He was looking for something, Frank,” I said. “That doesn’t mean he’s guilty of murder.”

  The sheriff waved a dismissive hand at me. “Halvey tell you that Indian guy checked out? I talked to the manager, and he told me what his car looks like. We’ll find him.”

  Frank Olney questioned Julio for the next hour, trying to grill a confession out of him, while his deputies went through every room of the motel looking for evidence of tampering. The DA arrived a little later, interrogated the suspect, then held a private powwow with the sheriff.

  “What do you think, Ellie?” asked the Thin Man, once he and the sheriff had finished. “You saw him tear out of here, right?”

  “He couldn’t have been here for more than thirty, forty-five seconds, Don. I was off in the woods, over there,” I pointed for their benefit. “Then I heard a car, so I ran back. By the time I got to the parking lot, he was pulling out onto Route Forty.”

  “Your boys find anything on him or in the car?” the DA asked Frank.

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t think we can hold him, Frank,” said the DA. “In fact, I’d advise you to let him go and put a tail on him. He seems nervous about something. Maybe Ellie’s right; maybe he came up here to find something of value.”

  “Pictures?” asked the sheriff. “Come off it, Don. There’s no pictures. Besides, we know he didn’t go inside. Maybe he was pining for the old days with Jean Trent.”

  “I advise you not to arrest him, Frank. Take him in for questioning, but face it: he didn’t break the law here. He didn’t even break the seal on the door.”

  The DA offered me a ride back to town, and I accepted without volunteering to return the motel keys to Frank Olney or Pat Halvey. No one asked. The Thin Man dropped me off at Ornuti’s, where my car was up on the lift.

  “How does it look?” I asked. “Brakes still work?”

  Vinnie Donati pulled his black hands from underneath the Dodge and wiped his sweaty brow.

  “It ain’t your brakes, Ellie,” he said. “Alternator’s busted. I’m waiting for a rebuilt one from Freeman’s Auto Supply, so I don’t know if I’ll finish this today.”

  I have the worst luck with cars.

  “Don’t you have a new alternator you can put in there?” I asked.

  “Nope. But keep your shirt on; I’ll give you a loaner in the meantime. Give me a couple of minutes.”

  While Vinnie disappeared inside, I phoned Benny Arnold again from the phone booth outside.

  “What’s this all about, Ellie?” he asked eagerly. “Some kind of international intrigue? The car is registered to the Indian consulate,” he explained. “I made some calls to a guy I know in the lower Manhattan DMV, and he helped me out. Said the car is assigned to the New York Consul General—a guy named P. V. Singh. Ring a bell?”

  “Loud and clear,” I said, sure it was Roy’s father.

  “So do you still find me too unattractive for a date?”

  A few minutes later, Vinnie handed me a set of keys and pointed to an old, green Studebaker across the lot. It started, and I drove away happily. I stopped by Fiorello’s and found Fadge gazing up at the television. The after-school run on penny candy had subsided, and business was in its usual late-afternoon lull. I asked for an aspirin and washed it down with some carbonated water.

  “At least your black eyes are fading,” he said.

  “Makeup,” I explained.

  He asked me how the investigation was going, and I described the day’s events: Roy and Julio.

  “I thought you promised to take it easy.”

  “I lied.”

  “So who do you think did it? My vote’s for the Indian guy.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But if it is Roy, how do I prove it?”

  When Roy disappeared from the Leatherstocking, I could only hope he would fall for my bluff, that he believed I had what he was looking for. I spent Wednesday evening at home. Nothing to drink. Something about the concussion had put a damper on my thirst. Instead, I hand washed some unmentionables, polished off several crossword puzzles, and waited for a phone call. Roy knew where to find me.

  Charlie Reese called a little past eight to see how I was feeling. It was plain by his tone that there was something else on his mind, and I pinned him down on it.

  “It’s Artie Short,” he said finally. “He wants to know when you’re coming back to work.”

  “I was hoping to finish up this Shaw murder first.”

  “Artie says it’s George’s story now. He got a big scoop the other night, you know. Someone called and gave him that big tip about missing evidence and pictures of the murder. You had a hunch about that, but he broke the story. He’s the golden boy again.”

  I kept my mouth shut; despite my friendship with Charlie Reese, I couldn’t admit that I was the source of George Walsh’s phony information.

  “Then why does Artie care if I come back tomorrow or next Monday?” I asked.

  “Because we’ve got other news to cover, Ellie. He gave me an ultimatum. He said either you’re in the saddle Friday morning or you’re fired.”

  “Doesn’t he know I just fell down a hill?” I asked, ashamed of myself, but in for a penny . . .

  “He doesn’t know and wouldn’t care if he did.”

  “Can’t you fix it for me, Charlie? Just a couple of days more.”

  “Not this time. He means it.”

  “I don’t have much of anything else besides this job, and I want to keep it. I like it. But I’ve got to see this Shaw story through to the end.”

  “So what do I tell him?”

  I thought a moment. “Tell him he’ll have his answer Friday morning.”

  There was no time to wait around for a phone call from Roy. If he was still in the area, I would have to find him in one of the twenty or so motels in the valley. I grabbed the Yellow Pages and headed out into the cool, December night.

  The AAA Motor Lodge, the Valley View, and the Sleepy Dutchman were inside city limits. The Pale Moon, the Half Moon, the Traveler’s Inn, and Georgette’s Lodge were west of town. The most fertile area was north and east of New Holland, where I quizzed a dozen innkeepers at such establishments as the Hayseed, the Route 5 Motel, the Adirondack Inn, and the Poole Hotel and Grill. No foreigners, no diplomatic plates.

  It was after ten thirty when I threw the Studebaker into park in front of Fiorello’s. Fadge was alone inside, broom in hand, sitting on a stool and watching a werewolf movie on television.

  “Say, Ellie, what am I, your social secretary?” he asked. “Your editor leaves messages, your boyfriends, the sheriff . . . And now some guy was looking for you about an hour ago.”

  “An Indian guy?” I asked. “Beard and turban?”

  “No, he sounded English, I think. I asked if he wanted to leave a message, but he said he’d find you later.
”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. Slim, about forty, forty-five. He was driving a light-colored car.”

  “Is this him?” I asked, producing the photo of Jordan in India.

  “How did you manage that?” he asked in wonder. “You’re like a magician.”

  At eleven, the phone rang. It was not the eerie whisper I expected, but David Jerrold in normal tones.

  “I’m ready to do business with you, Miss Stone,” he said. “Can we meet tonight?”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I’m interested in buying some film.”

  “Planning a vacation?” I asked.

  “Funny. How does five hundred dollars tickle you? Meet me in thirty minutes at the Mohawk Motel. Come alone.” And the line went dead.

  I questioned the wisdom of driving out to the Mohawk Motel by myself at such a late hour, but what else could I do? Artie Short’s ultimatum might have had something to do with my reckless decision, but deep down I knew that my desire to solve the case and show up George Walsh was too strong to resist. And there was my car—I had really liked that yellow Belvedere—my ransacked apartment, and the assault I’d suffered at the hands of a brute. I wanted to get to the bottom of the whole mess and put it behind me.

  Route 40 was deathly still on that December night. The stars sparkled in an icy black sky. My borrowed Studebaker rumbled north, its bouncy tires holding onto the asphalt for dear life, and I didn’t pass a single motorist on the way. Then the huge, wooden Indian rose from the dark landscape like a sentry. I slowed to a stop and looked up at him, his painted face blistered by years of weather and neglect. Last chance to turn around. I released the brake, and the car lurched forward.

  The parking lot was empty and dark. I stopped in front of the registration office, my headlights shining on the Dr Pepper machine and the pay phone. I climbed out of the car and looked around. The night was still, as if holding its breath, and the only sound was the clicking growl of the Studebaker’s engine.

  “Are you alone?” Jerrold’s voice called out from somewhere in the dark trees.

  “Yes,” I answered, trembling from the cold and my nerves. “Why don’t you show yourself?”

  A moment passed, then he stepped from the woods and into my sight.

  “There is no film, is there?” he asked.

  The abrupt change in subject took me aback. Jerrold came toward me, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. “Prakash is looking for film,” he said. “He had no reason to suspect that it existed until you planted that phony story in your paper. And now I’ve come here to tell you to stop this game.”

  “But you said you wanted to buy . . .”

  “How else was I to convince you to meet me?”

  “And the five hundred dollars?”

  “It’s yours,” he lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it. “Provided you quit this investigation and stop calling my home.”

  “What makes you believe there is no film?”

  Jerrold laughed, albeit on edge. “I’ve played some poker in my day. It doesn’t exist.”

  I thought a moment, watching him in the dark. He just stood there with a small parcel under his arm.

  “So what happened that night in number four?” I asked.

  “What do you suppose?” he said. “We had a roll, and that was it. Jolly good one, too. If you’re game sometime, I’d be happy to show you how it’s done.”

  “That’s it?” I asked, ignoring his remark.

  “How was I to know Prakash would show up afterward and kill her?”

  “Do you know that for sure?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “So he’s blackmailing you?” I asked.

  I thought he fidgeted, but I couldn’t be sure in the dark. “Do you want the money or don’t you?”

  “You’re a coward,” I said. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself. Including the beautiful young girl who loved you.”

  “You paint such a wretched picture of me. I loved her, you know. I never dreamed any harm would come to her.” He stopped short, perhaps because he was afraid to say too much. Then he began again. “It was Prakash who dragged her into this. God, I nearly died myself when I heard he’d killed her.”

  “Who visited her after you that night?”

  “Well, Sardarji, for one—Prakash. And after him, I don’t know. When I left her room, she was alone and preparing to leave.”

  “What time was that?” I asked, hoping perhaps to catch him in a lie.

  “About eleven, a few minutes past. I’m not sure. I felt vile as it was, sneaking around, cheating on my wife, leading on a wonderful girl like Jordan. But I couldn’t easily resist her, you know. She was a jewel—warm, sincere, loving. And as a man, I can tell you she was a champion in bed. Raw spirit and physicality.”

  “She was in love with you,” I said to accuse.

  “As was I with her! I was powerless to resist her, don’t you see?”

  “Powerless but not impotent.”

  “For God’s sake, just take the money, Miss Stone. I didn’t kill Jordan, and if you persist, you’ll only ruin my marriage. Diana is ready to leave me as it is, and she’ll take my son with her. She’s had it with police and reporters calling. She’s only stood by me this long for our son.”

  “Roy’s in town,” I said. “Why don’t you offer him the five hundred dollars in addition to the good notices in his academic file?”

  Jerrold perked up at the mention of Roy’s name. “You’ve seen him?” he asked. “Prakash is here?”

  “He’s been following me for a couple of days. I’m fairly certain he’s the one who ransacked my apartment and cut the brakes on my car.”

  “Following you?” he stammered. “Good God, he may have followed you here! He’ll kill us both.”

  “He doesn’t know you’re here,” I said, afraid he was about to run for the woods.

  Jerrold wasn’t listening. He charged for the end of the concrete walkway and the path to the rear of the motel. And I remembered his car: the cream-colored Bonneville, not the Jaguar. It was the only car I hadn’t checked for oil leaks. It had to be the one.

  Jerrold was a pathetic coward, incapable of any decisive action, let alone murder. But I sensed that the car he was running to was the one that had leaked the oil. As I chased after him through the bushes, an image flashed through my head: Diana Jerrold cracking Jordan’s neck in a jealous fit. I saw it well. The deranged wife, driven to a blind rage against the girl who threatened to destroy her family by stealing her man, the father of her child. It seemed perfect. She had learned of the tryst, raced to New Holland for the confrontation, then killed her once her husband had pulled up his trousers and slithered away.

  Jerrold scrambled through the brittle sprigs of the thicket, and I followed close behind. Breaking into the clearing, he made a dash for the car, parked next to the trash enclosure, where I had first spied Jean Trent’s green Pontiac woody. I called to him to wait, but he had tucked back both ears and wasn’t about to stop. He gunned the engine and threw the car into reverse just as I reached him. Holding onto the door, I appealed to him to stop, but once he’d wheeled the Bonneville around, he was gone. I let go and watched the tail lights recede down the dark back road.

  “Damn!” I said, though not too disappointed. If there was oil in the dirt, Diana Jerrold would be easy to find.

  I hurried back to the trash enclosure and bent down where Jerrold’s car had been, my fingers almost too impatient to strike the match. One, two strokes, then a spark. The match flared, and I could see the colors of the ground. I inspected the dirt with my light until it burned my fingers. A second and third match yielded no better results. There was nothing but dirt.

  I shuffled back to my car on the other side of the motel, dejected, pondering the baffling absence of oil drops. It had been folly to think Diana Jerrold had murdered Jordan Shaw; I doubted she had the requisite strength to snap a neck, and, besides, no one had men
tioned a woman in Jordan’s room that night.

  By the time I’d reached the registration office, I was laughing at myself. After nearly two weeks of snooping, bumps, and bruises, I was losing my good sense. Diana Jerrold, murderess? If so, how did Ginny figure into the equation? I had been hoping for a simple way out before 9:00 a.m. Friday morning, when I’d have to give up my self-esteem or my job. I shook the last of the ridiculous notion from my head and drew a restorative breath of resolve.

  The tension of the meeting with Jerrold and the exertion of the chase had left me a little dizzy. My headache throbbed less with every passing hour, but my pounding heart intensified the pain. I wanted a cool drink. I fished through my purse for some change, and produced a quarter. Reaching to deposit the money in the Dr Pepper machine, I noticed the little, illuminated message next to the coin slot: EXACT CHANGE ONLY. Fine by me; I could spare a dime. I dropped the coin in and pulled out an ice-cold bottle. But then I stopped. Strange that the machine had no change; I myself had pumped six nickels into it that very afternoon. And Don Czerulniak had deposited three as well on Monday morning. Jean Trent had said that the man from Gloversville came down every Thursday to collect the empties and cash from the soda machine. Maybe the indicator was broken.

  I took a healthy gulp of Dr Pepper, wiped my lips in the cold air, then pulled the motel keys from my purse. I examined them in the night, thinking what a dullard Pat Halvey was to have left them with me. He probably hadn’t even realized they were missing yet. I took another sip, then figured I might as well make use of the keys while I had them. The crime-scene seal would have to be broken, but I reasoned that I had tacit permission, since Frank had told Halvey to give me the keys.

  The registration office was cold and dark. The lights worked when I flicked the switch, but there had been no heat since Jean Trent’s arrest. I looked around the room, unsure where to start, wondering if it would do any good anyhow; the sheriff and his men had been through the office at least a dozen times since the murder. And then there was the burglary.