Never Bet Your Life

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Liza?”

  “Me?” Liza sat up while an expression of bewilderment began to work on her features. “Me?” she said again.

  “It was the name,” Dave said. “Liza—Elise. Plus the fact that your father and mother had separated when you were young and you didn’t know where your father was or anything about him. So I decided to see if I could check on Albert Colby’s will.” He looked at Workman.

  “Somehow I had an idea that maybe this search of yours tied in, in some way, with the murder of John Gannon. I remembered I had a friend practicing in Los Angeles, a boy I’d gone to law school with. It was too late to call him yesterday when I first thought of it, but I got hold of him today. I told him what I wanted and he called me back tonight.”

  When no one spoke he said: “Elise is a form of Elizabeth.” He looked at Betty, disturbed because he had to question her in front of the others but knowing no other way now. “Your name is Elise, isn’t it?”

  “I—I was christened Elise but”—she hesitated, the wonderment growing in her hazel eyes—“I’ve never used it. I’ve always been Betty as long as I can remember. My mother’s name was Elizabeth and—”

  Her voice trailed off as Dave turned back to Workman.

  “Betty’s right name is Elise Nelson Colby, isn’t it?”

  “No!” the girl protested. “Mother’s name was Nelson.”

  “Yes,” Dave said patiently. “Her maiden name. My guess—and that’s all it is—is that she dropped the Colby and told you your father’s name was Nelson. I think your father hired Workman before he died.”

  “No.” She had her chin up now, her color rising. She looked quickly about the room as though in some plea for support from those who were listening. “My father died in a hotel fire when I was seven.”

  Dave saw her distress. He wanted to tell her he was sorry and ask for her understanding. Workman paid no attention to her denial. It was as if she were no longer in the room, for now he was watching Dave, leaning forward slightly, half-closing one eye.

  “How did you tumble?” he asked quietly.

  Dave took a small breath and the strain which had been growing inside him eased slightly. Somewhere in the room there was a stifled exclamation but he did not glance round.

  “Betty told me she was born in Jamaica Plain, Massa-chusetts, on April 19th, 1930. I remembered because I’m from Boston and I know it’s a local holiday. My lawyer friend told me that the missing daughter identified in Colby’s will was born in the same place and on the same date.”

  He swallowed and said: “Now it might be coincidence that two girls could have the same birthplace and date and not be the same person. But it’s asking too much of coincidence to have you down here looking for such a girl, and finding one that qualified by birth, and then have her turn out to be someone else.”

  Workman grunted softly and there was a suggestion of admiration in the sound. He seemed not at all perturbed and said: “That’s nice figuring and I hope you’re right. I’ll know for sure in a day or so.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Betty shook her head, her brown hair flying. “My father is dead.”

  Workman looked at her. He took his time answering and now his tone was blunt and impatient.

  “Sure,” he said, “but he didn’t die when you were seven and he didn’t die in any hotel fire. That’s what your mother told you but I know different because I worked for him. I can give you the other side. It’ll take a while but now that we’re started you might as well have it…. Okay with you, Captain? … Who’s got a cigarette?”

  Vaughn nodded. There was a lot of thought in his eyes but he had leaned back comfortably in his chair. For a little while be was not a policeman pressing a murder investigation; he was an interested listener and his attitude suggested he had all the time in the world.

  Dave supplied the cigarette and a light. Now Workman leaned back and drew smoke into his lungs. When he was ready he spoke slowly and with conviction.

  “Some of this I got from your father,” he said to the girl. “Some of it I dug up later, but this much is certain. Albert Colby’s wife, Elizabeth, left him when their daughter Elise was seven years old. Colby was a salesman and he was away a lot and he and his wife didn’t get along. The reason doesn’t matter, and anyway all I know is his side. What does matter is that he came back from a ten-day trip one afternoon to find his wife and daughter gone.”

  He hesitated and said: “He never knew where they went or what happened. He knew your mother had an uncle out in Wisconsin but he didn’t bother to check because he didn’t particularly care at the time. There was only this rented house and the furniture and a car, which he used on his trips. He sold the furniture, packed his personal things, and moved out. Later he drifted out to the West Coast and he did pretty well financially. Five years ago he married a young divorcée. Last year he found out he was going to die. The doctors told him it was only a matter of months and that’s where I came into the picture. He didn’t know whether you or your mother were alive but he wanted to find out before he died. He especially wanted to find you. The trouble was he started too late and time ran out on him.”

  He reached over and jabbed the cigarette out. For another moment the room was still. Vaughn had not moved, nor had Resnik. Liza was sitting up attentively, a look of fascination on her face and her painted lips parted. Betty sat immobile and bewildered and Dave waited, wanting the rest of the story but afraid to interrupt.

  “Before your father died he changed his will,” Workman said. “That made it important for the lawyers handling the estate to find you if they could, and since I’d already started they kept me on. I’ve been on it altogether ten months,” he said, “and it took me a long time to get a lead. If I had known in the beginning that your mother was a dressmaker it would have helped. She took you to New York, didn’t she? And got a job in the garment industry.”

  “Yes.”

  “And they have strong unions and that’s how I got my lead. I was looking for an Elizabeth Colby or Elizabeth Nelson—I knew that was your mother’s maiden name—and I found three or four. One of them had studied stenography nights and got a job as a secretary, still in the garment business. Later she went to this college town while her daughter finished high school. Am I right so far?”

  The girl nodded, saying nothing.

  Workman glanced at Vaughn, his eyes intent. “The only thing that Albert Colby kept were two baby pictures, a snapshot taken when his daughter was six, and a water color she had made for him one birthday. On the back of that sheet were three very clear prints from her right hand, made when she had a bit of paint on her fingers. Colby still had the pictures and the drawing.”

  He looked back at the girl. “I know I’m right,” he said. “A comparison of fingerprints will prove it to the lawyers even though one set was taken fifteen years ago.” He paused and said: “I told you I’d worked on this for ten months. I’ve got some dough tied up in it. If I take you back with me I’ll collect a nice bonus.”

  “But—I don’t want to go back.”

  Workman brushed aside the remark. He said she did not have to stay. All she had to do was prove her identity and she could do as she liked.

  Vaughn cleared his throat. He said it was quite a story.

  “It’s easy enough to check if you don’t think it’s the truth,” Workman said.

  Vaughn was watching Dave. “How does this tie in with the two murders, or doesn’t it?”

  “That’s what had me licked,” Dave said. “I thought it had to in some way but I couldn’t figure how. I thought I knew who had killed Gannon and—”

  “Oh, you did, hunh?” This time Vaughn was quickly sarcastic. “Maybe you’ve known it right along.”

  “No,” Dave said patiently, “I didn’t get the idea until early this evening. But I still couldn’t get any answer until I got this call from my friend. I told you he checked the will.”

  Vaughn nodded, still suspicious.

  “Betty
’s father left an estate of nearly six hundred thousand dollars. He left a third of that outright to his widow, a thirty-four-year-old divorcée. He left two-thirds to Betty, payable any time within ten years if she could be located. If Betty could not be found the widow would get that two-thirds in ten years. If proof could be furnished that Betty was no longer living the widow would get that, two-thirds at once.”

  He hesitated, measuring his words so there would be no mistake.

  “I think Workman wanted Betty out of the way,” he said. “I think he was afraid to do the job deliberately because a check-back with the lawyers who hired him would turn up the will and maybe supply a motive.”

  Workman cut him off before he could finish.

  “Are you nuts?” he said, his mouth suddenly mean and hard. “What the hell reason would I have for killing her?”

  “So Colby’s widow could collect without waiting that ten years. I think you made a deal with her.”

  “Wait a minute!”

  This time it was Vaughn who interrupted. He sat up, looking from Dave to Workman, his dark eyes busy but still puzzled.

  “You’re saying Workman’s the one who tried to force Miss Nelson’s car off the road last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “No.”

  “This thing tonight on the beach—”

  “Workman missed last night,” Dave cut in. “He tried again tonight when no one would have expected it. But for a bit of luck he would have managed it.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Maybe.” Dave looked back at Workman and saw nothing but hate and defiance in the amber eyes. Then because he had to take a chance, he mentally crossed his fingers and went ahead. “Betty broke a fingernail on the man who grabbed her,” he said. “She was trying to claw his hand from her mouth. There’s a good chance she scratched him; if so there’ll be traces of blood and skin under her cuticle.”

  “You’re guessing now,” Vaughn said.

  “Workman had a motive,” Dave argued, “and until now I’ve never seen him wear anything but short-sleeved shirts.” Still looking at Workman he said: “How come you’re wearing an Oxford shirt with long sleeves now? Roll up your cuffs!”

  “Captain.” Workman appealed to Vaughn with a gesture that suggested the whole thing was ridiculous. “This guy is off his rocker. Do we have to sit here and listen to this sort of crap?”

  “Watch your language…. Go ahead,” he said, “roll up your sleeves! You’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Steve!”

  The young officer by the door started for Workman. Vaughn got ready to rise. Dave stayed where he was, suddenly anxious because Workman made no move.

  “Which arm would you say, Miss?” Vaughn asked.

  Betty shook her head as though to clear it. At that moment she seemed to understand no part of what was going on but she finally managed an answer.

  “The left, I think. Yes, the left.”

  Workman sat unmoving. He let Steve unbutton his cuff. When the sleeve was pulled up a three-inch scratch showed just above the wrist, the line of it red and raw-looking.

  “Ahh—” said Vaughn with a grunt of satisfaction. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He looked at Dave. “And you’re saying Workman wanted the girl out of the way because he made a deal with the widow. That makes sense but is it anything more than a hunch?”

  “If it isn’t,” Dave said, “why would Albert Colby’s widow arrive here yesterday and register under the name of Thelma Collins?”

  “What?” Vaughn’s face dissolved into a network of humps and wrinkles. “Here?”

  “Nurnber 3,” Dave said.

  “Are you sure?”

  Dave said he was. He explained how he had been looking at Stinson’s car that morning. He said he had looked at Thelma Collins’s car and noticed that it was hired.

  “Rented in Tampa,” he said. “I phoned the place before you came…. To rent a car,” he said, “you have to show your license, which has your name and home address on it. There’s a record of it. The woman who rented that car and registered here as Thelma Collins had a California license bearing the name of Thelma Colby.”

  Captain Vaughn had heard enough. He looked real pleased. He asked Workman what he had to say and when there was no reply he turned to Steve.

  “Number 3, Steve,” he said. “Give her time to get some clothes on but that don’t mean time to fix her hair and paint her mouth. Get her over here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  STEVE HAD MANAGED VERY WELL with Thelma Collins because he ushered her into the bungalow no more than five minutes later. She was wearing a gray slack-suit and she had a scarf bound round her auburn hair, but the lipstick she had applied so hurriedly gave her mouth a lopsided look and her face seemed strangely naked without its customary arc of eyebrow pencil.

  She gave a very good performance of a highly indignant and outraged woman. Her glance slid to Workman as she entered but it moved on almost at once, as though looking for some victim. When she did not find one she said:

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  Vaughn bowed from the neck up. “I am, Ma’am.”

  “Well, let me tell you something. I’m going to report this to your superiors. The idea of sending a policeman to my room at this hour and—and—”

  She stalled, her momentum failing.

  Vaughn said: “I don’t have any superiors, except the mayor. I’m the acting boss…. Sit down, please, Ma’am.”

  Thelma decided to follow the suggestion. She found a place at the end of the settee. She looked again at Workman and now her green eyes said she was worried.

  “First,” Vaughn said, “I’d like to ask you why you registered here under a false name?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You signed the register as Thelma Collins.”

  “That’s my name.”

  “Not according to your driving license.” Vaughn had the range now and he was taking over. “We,” he said, using the editorial form, “checked with the people you rented that car from over in Tampa.”

  He explained how he knew these things and offered her a chance to produce the license and prove him wrong. When her glance flicked to Workman once again, Vaughn continued.

  “We’d like the truth out of you, Ma’am. For all we know you may be innocently involved in this thing and we want to give you every chance.”

  “What thing?” Thelma swallowed, her nervousness increasing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mr. Workman’s in trouble.”

  “Not much,” Workman said nastily. “Tell them nothing,” he said to the woman. “They can’t do a thing to you if you clam up.”

  Vaughn ignored the remarks. “I’ll tell you how much trouble Mr. Workman is in—just trouble that we know of. He’ll be arrested for assault for one thing. The way he did it, in this state, would warrant a charge of attempted rape, not to mention assault with intent to kill. Now just how you make out depends on a lot of things.”

  “But”—the woman looked frantically about and her voice broke—“but I don’t know what you mean.”

  Vaughn studied her, as though trying to discover how much of this demonstration he could believe. So did Dave. With no idea how deeply Thelma Collins—or Colby—was involved, he got the impression she really meant what she said. He found himself hoping this was so.

  “Did you know,” Vaughn said, “that this young lady you know as Miss Nelson is actually Miss Colby, your late husband’s daughter?”

  Thelma went white. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Just take my word for it,” Vaughn said. “She’s Mr. Colby’s daughter and Mr. Workman twice tried to kill her.” He leaned forward, his tone suddenly brusque. “Why did you come to Florida, Mrs. Colby?”

  “Why”—she glanced uncertainly at Workman—“he asked me to come.”

  “From California? How? Phone you? Wir
e?”

  “He telephoned me the first of the week.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “He said I was to fly here as soon as I could, and go to some hotel in St. Petersburg or Tampa and to wire him from there.”

  “What reason did he give you for all that?”

  “He said it was about the estate.”

  Vaughn nodded. “All right. You got over there in Tampa and you wired him where you were. Then what?”

  “He called me. He said to rent a car and drive over here and register under an assumed name. He said it was important that no one know who I was and that he’d explain when he saw me.”

  “What was the explanation he gave you?” Vaughn asked. When she hesitated he said: “Did he make you some sort of proposition regarding your share of the estate?”

  “Don’t be a fool!” It was Workman, his tone clipped and commanding. “They can’t make you talk.”

  “He’s right,” Vaughn said, holding the woman’s attention with his dark gaze. “In this country nobody can make anybody talk if he don’t want to. But this I can tell you, Mrs. Colby. Workman’s going to jail. Tonight. Whether you go with him—”

  “They can’t hold you,” Workman said, still appealing to the woman.

  “I don’t say we can,” Vaughn said, answering, but to her. “But you’ll spend the night in a cell so you’ll have a chance to think things over. If yon want to stay here tonight you’d better keep on talking…. Now, did Workman make you a proposition?”

  Thelma was holding her hands breast high, twisting her fingers unconsciously. She began to chew the red paint off her lips.

  “Yes,” she said in a voice of desperation.

  Vaughn glanced at Dave and gave him a small nod of confirmation. He leaned back again and his tone moderated.

  “All right, Mrs. Colby. Now just tell us what it was Workman proposed to do. Take your time. Tell it in your own words.”

  Thelma made up her mind. Dave could see it from the way she set her jaw and put her head up. From now on she would be thinking of Thelma and what was good for Thelma.

  “He said he had a line on Mr. Colby’s daughter. He said there was a chance that she was dead but that it would take a lot of work for him to prove it. He said it might be expensive. He said he felt he was entitled to a share of the rest of the estate if he could get it for me soon.”