“Freeze said you identified him by papers found in his wallet.”
“Then had his secretary come in.”
It hadn’t occurred to me to talk to someone at Draper’s office. Then again, I hadn’t even worked my way through the list of names I’d been given before he was inconsiderate enough to turn up dead. I picked at a morsel of crust and made a decision.
“There’s one thing I didn’t tell Freeze this morning. One of the people I talked to said he had a partner.”
“Draper had?” Connelly frowned. He gave it some thought. “Why would only one person mention it?”
I wondered too.
Rachel Minsky didn’t have any reason I could think of to help me. She could have plenty of reasons to hinder me.
Twelve
It irked me that I hadn’t so much as thought of talking to Draper’s secretary. When Wildman had told me the man had disappeared months earlier, I’d assumed Draper’s office had been locked up, and that anyone who might have worked with him had moved on. That was sloppy on my part, and I didn’t like it. Right after my oatmeal next morning, I set out to correct my mistake.
The frosted glass on the door to the office said Draper Development. When I tapped, the voice that invited me in sounded startled.
Draper’s secretary was a circumspect looking blonde in her mid-thirties. The eyes that sized me up were tired and slightly apprehensive.
“I’m Maggie Sullivan,” I said handing her a card. “I’m very sorry about your employer.”
“Oh, mercy,” she said, looking from the card to me. “Now what?”
Her manner was that of someone absolutely wretched. I smiled to reassure her.
“I know this must be awfully tough. Mr. Draper disappearing, and the scandal–”
“There wasn’t any....” she began loyally, but she couldn’t finish.
“– and then him drowning. Worse, with you having to deal with it all yourself, I expect.” With the cops asking her to identify the body, I had a good guess the last part was true. She didn’t contradict me. “I won’t bother you much,” I assured. “It’s just that before Mr. Draper died, someone hired me to find him. Since I couldn’t do that, I thought maybe I could at least learn a little more about him disappearing.”
She shook her head curtly, not to dismiss me, but because she was fighting tears. Fumbling in her pocket she brought out a hanky. It had a violet embroidered on one corner. She dabbed at her eyes.
“One of the men he owed money.” Her voice was tight. “That’s who wanted to find him, I suppose. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can tell you. He always treated me very well....” Her voice cracked. “He – people liked him. No one ever appeared dissatisfied with any of their business dealings. And then one day he – he just didn’t come in–”
The crack in her voice became a break and she sobbed. She hadn’t offered me a chair, but I sat down anyway. I’d been softening her up when I offered sympathy about her being left on her own to deal with Draper’s mess. Now I saw the strain she’d been under and figured she deserved a shoulder to cry on. I guessed that yesterday had been a nightmare for her, but as her sobs wound down and she rested her elbows on the desk as if exhausted, I recognized the entire interval since Draper took off had taken a toll.
“I’m so sorry,” she said at last. “I managed to hold myself together yesterday when the police were here asking questions. Even when they asked me to – to look at the body. I’d never had to do something like that. Well, when my husband died, of course, and that was awful, too, but he’d been ill....” A few remaining tears welled up. She was too tired to fight them.
“You’re not exactly needed to type any letters or take dictation,” I said, getting up. “Why don’t we go somewhere and get a cup of tea?”
“Oh.... Yes. I could do with that. But there’s a hotplate in that little closet. I can make–”
“You sit still. I’ll do it.” I patted her shoulder.
It took a while for the water to heat, but I figured she could do with some time to compose herself. When I brought out the tea she was powdering her nose.
“I think everything must have caught up with me,” she apologized. “The – the enormity of it. I’m sorry Mr. Draper’s dead, of course I am. But I’m afraid I was having a wallow in self-pity, too. With him gone, with it definite now, I-I’m out of a job. And it’s not just me to think of. I have a son.”
Setting her tea down, she dabbed at her eyes again. This handkerchief was fresh, with no embroidery.
“How long had you worked for Draper?” I asked.
“Ten years. Almost since he started his business.” She managed a smile. “I’m Cecilia, by the way. Cecilia Perkins.”
“You were pretty loyal, sticking around for going on four months after your boss went missing.” Something nudged me. “How’d you manage to keep this office open? Who paid the rent and such?”
“Oh.... Mr. Draper. He’d paid ahead.”
Cecilia Perkins studied her teacup. For the first time I suspected she was lying to me.
“Three months in advance?” I said slowly.
She bit her lip.
“Doesn’t seem like much of a way to run a business, tying up that much money when it could be invested – or might even be needed.”
When she raised her eyes, they were pleading.
“Mr. Draper had paid in advance, but only for two months. I thought – hoped, really – that it meant he’d be coming back. When men started showing up demanding to see him – angry men – I knew there was some kind of mess. I thought maybe he’d just gone somewhere until he could straighten it out.”
It seemed optimistic, but when you’re desperate you can believe a lot of things.
“And after two months?” I asked.
She picked her hanky up again, but instead of dabbing her eyes she held it tightly.
“I paid it. I used one of his checks. I know it was wrong, but I’d started to realize I’d have to find a new job. I wanted to buy some time.”
“So you forged his signature on blank checks he kept on hand to pay bills?”
“No!” For the first time since I’d come in, a touch of color reached her cheeks. “I didn’t forge anything! See? Look.” With jerky movements she opened a drawer and took out a checkbook and pushed it toward me. The top three checks in the pad held Draper’s signature.
“Mr. Draper didn’t like having to sign things. Actually, it was having to undo his cufflink that he didn’t like. He was always fretting he’d get ink on his cuff. He liked to sign all his correspondence at once, every morning. And every few weeks he’d sign a batch of checks for me to fill in for the usual expenses. Supplies, donations to charity, dues for this and that, even cash when he didn’t want to go to the bank.”
The fact that Draper had paid in advance did suggest he’d intended on coming back. Or maybe he’d only wanted to make it appear that way while the trail grew cold. Either way, for the first time I was actually getting some cards to shuffle to find an answer to this case.
“What about your salary?” I asked. “Did you write checks for that too?”
She nodded miserably.
“Two rather large ones. But only for what I’d be owed. You can check the ledger. I suppose – I suppose it was stealing all the same. But please, please don’t tell the police! My little boy is ... he’s not right. He’ll never learn like other children, or-or talk very well. I pay a woman to stay with him, and she’s wonderful, but if I don’t have a job ... and if I went to jail–”
“I’m not looking to get you in any trouble with the police. As far as I’m concerned, you were a loyal secretary, keeping things going.”
I heard her sigh of relief. She took a sip of tea. The cup rattled.
“I have been looking,” she said. “For a job, I mean. Answering advertisements. Sending out letters. I started as soon as I realized it was ridiculous to think things would change. But you know what times are like. So many need jobs. And without an employer I hav
e no letter of reference, and when someone who might hire me realizes I worked for a crook–”
“No one’s likely to know that unless you tell them. No one knows but the men your boss swindled, and none of them want it known they fell for his bait.”
She digested it for a moment.
“Are you saying the police don’t know what he did?”
“They know, but since no one lodged a complaint, they can’t do anything. Did he have any relatives?”
“A sister in Cleveland. They weren’t very close.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m sure he didn’t.” She smiled sadly. “I had hopes last spring. A woman called him here several times. She never gave her name, but he always seemed happy after they talked.”
“You’ve no idea who she was?”
“I’m afraid not. She had the loveliest voice, though. So soft. I didn’t even notice when the calls stopped. They just did, at some point.”
I had more questions she might have answers to, but I’d already put her through plenty. She’d been scared to death about what she’d done, left in a rotten spot and toughing it out on her own. Right now she was probably feeling the utter exhaustion that hits after you’ve survived an ordeal and can finally let down. I’d get more from her in the long run if I went easy now.
“You going to be okay?” I asked. “Here by yourself?”
She nodded, looking grateful.
“I’ll start closing things down here as best I can, I guess. Call the firm that owns the building and tell them we won’t be needing the space. Things like that.”
“Okay if I stop by tomorrow to see how you’re doing? I know a couple of people who can use a good secretary now and again. I’ll ask around.”
“That’s awfully kind. Thank you.”
Liking somebody’s not the same as trusting them. Not when I’m working at least. I went down the hall and around a corner to where I had a view of Draper’s office as well as the elevator. I’d give it half an hour, just in case Cecilia Perkins came tearing out to report to someone, or someone, alerted by a frantic phone call, stepped off the elevator and went in to see her.
Thirteen
No one came or went to cast any doubts on Cecilia Perkins’ innocence in the con game that had mucked up her life. As far as I could tell it had hurt her more than the men who’d been swindled, except for maybe the one who’d killed himself. Heading outside, I decided to walk along the river while I thought over what I’d learned these last few days.
The Great Miami had brought the first settlers straggling up from Cincinnati, and like most river towns, the city had gown up along it. Most of downtown nestled cozily in the crook of its arm. Small tributaries went south and sharply north. It always seemed peaceful to me, but the year before I was born a flood had gobbled along it swallowing buildings and people and horses.
It wasn’t a big enough river to carry barge traffic. No landings or warehouses lined its shores. Instead, a grassy verge lined both sides. This time of year the grass wasn’t green, but it was peaceful for walking and thinking all the same, with the grand Masonic Hall and the Art Institute rearing up on their respective corners across the way, and Deeds Park whispering of summertime pleasures.
Unfortunately, it proved cold as the dickens today. Away from the shelter of buildings the wind was damp and raw. In about five minutes I abandoned my stroll in favor of hot-footing it to the library. I wanted to do some digging there anyway. I could think without freezing.
Once I’d settled myself and my fingers had thawed, I got out my steno pad and tapped my teeth with a pencil. Then I started to list all the people who might have been motivated to kill Harold Draper. All the men he’d swindled, obviously. Scratch off the one who had hung himself. Check that one really had been out of town as his office said. Add Cecilia Perkins? I didn’t think so, but I listed her anyway. Rachel Minsky? She’d gotten her money back, but she might hold a grudge. And Draper’s partner. If he existed.
Which ones were capable of bashing a man on the back of the head and throwing him in the river?
I thought about it and pecked out a little tune on the table until a man the next table over cleared his throat and glared.
Ferris Wildman, the man who’d hired me, could most likely kill someone. He planned and was sure of himself and there were traces of ruthlessness in him. But I didn’t figure him for the kind who’d bash his victim in the back of the head. He’d want them facing him, knowing he did it. Frank Keefe had made no bones about wanting to get his hands on Draper. His breezy openness might be a mask. Ulysses Smith? I didn’t think so, although he alone showed moral outrage at Draper’s greed leading to another man’s suicide. Arthur Buckingham might bore someone to death, but I couldn’t imagine anything beyond that. Rachel Minsky? Yes, I thought, remembering the impenetrable black pools that were her eyes. She probably had it in her to kill.
That left Cecilia Perkins, faithful secretary. Maybe she’d had an affair with Draper and things had gone sour, but I couldn’t see her killing him, even in a moment of passion. Last of all, there was Draper’s mythical partner. If he – or she – was real, that’s where I’d put my money.
The truth was, just about anyone might be capable of murder, given the right circumstances. Even a nun or two I’d known. Since I was making no progress in that direction, I turned toward the task that had brought me here.
An hour or so later, skimming particular columns and pages in the city’s various newspapers, I’d unearthed information I thought might help me. Wildman’s sister, Dorothy Tarkington, had gotten her name in the paper twice in the last six months for drunken driving. That suggested she might have gotten off a few other times because of her brother’s pull. She’d also been photographed at a society shindig along with her husband. His name was Vern and he owned an auto dealership on North Main. I looked at my watch. Time to pay them a visit.
* * *
Dorothy Tarkington lived far enough from downtown for her address to be ritzy, but probably not as ritzy as she’d like, given the things she’d shouted the night I’d met her. A driveway on one side led to a three-car garage in back. I parked on the street instead. My breath made puffs in the air as I went up the walk. It was lunchtime, a highly improper time for someone to show up uninvited, but I figured women like Wildman’s sister slept late and lunched late. With someone who’d waved a gun in my face and been falling-down drunk, I wasn’t too concerned about social niceties.
A dark-skinned maid in a starched apron opened the door.
“Tell Mrs. Tarkington I’ve come to see her,” I said offering my card.
She told me to step in and hurried upstairs. I heard voices, one of them raised. The maid hurried back.
“Miz Tarkington says she doesn’t have time and would you please leave.”
I doubted Dorothy Tarkington had said ‘please’. I smiled.
“Perhaps she’ll find a minute or two if you tell her she can talk to me or the cops.”
The maid’s eyes wearied with the dread of one who knew her own fate hinged on her employer’s. She turned and started up again, but before she’d climbed half a dozen stairs, Dorothy herself came storming down.
“What the hell do you mean, the police? How dare you threaten me? Who the hell are you?”
“Hello, Mrs. Tarkington.” I gave her a big smile. “How nice to see you again.”
She came to a halt one step up from me, staring blankly. She pushed back a wave of blonde hair. The maid retreated.
Attempting nonchalance, Dorothy came down the last step and brushed past me.
“You were at my brother’s.” She spoke tersely, moving toward a room on the right. “If you’re here after money – thinking of suing – the joke’s on you.”
She had some recollection what had happened, then. The state she’d been in, it surprised me. I followed her into a sitting room, cream walls enclosing royal blue upholstered pieces with modern lines.
“
I’m not after money.”
Dipping into a silver cigarette box, she lighted up and turned to face me, arms crossed defiantly.
“I get it now. The bastard’s hired a private detective to spy on me.”
“Wrong. It has nothing to do with you. I just want to ask you some questions.”
“About what?” She tossed her head.
“Your brother.”
She snorted. “You heard what I said the other night. You know what I think of him.”
Dorothy looked better sober. Her makeup was fresh and her face was made interesting by a trace of her brother’s self-certainty. I wondered how late in the day her good looks lasted.
Tough Cookie (Maggie Sullivan mysteries) Page 7
