“Well, why can’t you answer the question?”
“Because there are certain legal matters involved, and in my status as an officer of the corporation I might bind the corporation in some pending litigation.” His voice got more friendly and he said, “If you can tell me what you want, I can give you more information, but the lawyer has cautioned me not to speak out of turn because anything I say would be binding on the company, and there are a lot of legal technicalities that—”
“Forget it,” the cop told him. “Ringold was murdered. Do you know anything about that?”
“Murdered!”
“That’s right.”
“Good Heavens, who killed him?”
“We don’t know.”
“When was he killed?”
“Right around eleven o’clock tonight.”
Bob said, “This is a terrible shock to me. I didn’t know the man intimately, but he was a business associate. Parker Stold and I were talking about him—it must have been right around the time he was killed.”
“Who’s Parker Stold?”
“One of my associates.”
“Where were you when you were doing this talking?”
“At our office. Stold and I were there chatting and making some sales plans.”
“All right, what enemies did this man have?”
“I’m sure I know but very little about him,” Tindle said. “My work deals mostly with matters of policy. The personnel is handled by Mr. Bernard Carter.”
They fooled around and asked a few more questions, then left. I saw that Alta was tiptoeing out of her room. I pushed her back in. “It’s okay,” I said. “Go to sleep. They wanted to see Bob.”
“What about?”
“Seems Ringold was working for Bob.”
“But why did they want to see Bob about that?”
I figured it was time to hand it to her. I said, “Somebody killed Ringold.”
She stood staring at me without speech, without expression, almost without breath. She had removed her makeup, and I saw her lips grow pale.
“You!” she said. “Good God, Donald, not you! You didn’t-”
I shook my head.
“You must have. Otherwise, you couldn’t have got that—”
“Shut up,” I said.
She came walking toward me as though she had been walking in her sleep. Her fingers touched the back of my hand. They were cold. “What did you think he was to me?” she asked.
“I didn’t think.”
“But why did you—why did you—”
I said, “Listen, dopey, I kept your name out of it. Do you get me? Where would you have been if that had been found?”
I could see she was thinking that over.
“Go back to bed,” I said. “No, wait a minute. Go on downstairs. Ask what’s happened, and what all the noise is about. They’ll tell you. They’re pretty much up in the air now. They won’t notice your expressions, what you say, or what you do. Tomorrow, they’ll be more alert. Does anyone know that you knew him?”
“No.”
“Anyone know that you were seeing him?”
“No.”
“If they ask you,” I said, “avoid the question. Understand? Don’t lie—not yet.”
“But how can I avoid it—if they ask me?”
I said, “Keep asking questions. That’s the best way to avoid answering them. Ask your stepbrother why they were calling on him at this hour of the night. Ask anybody anything, but don’t put your neck in a noose. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
I pushed her toward the stairs. “Go on down and don’t let anyone know you’ve seen me. I’m going back to bed.” I went back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I heard people talking downstairs, heard steps on the stairs, low voices in the corridor. Someone walked down the corridor to the door of my room, paused there, tense and listening. I didn’t know who it was. I hadn’t locked the door. There was just enough vague light in the room so I could make out the door. I waited for it to open.
It didn’t.
After a while it got daylight. Then, for the first time, I felt sleepy. I wanted to relax. My feet had been cold ever since I’d walked out into the corridor. Now they got warm, and a heavy drowsiness came over me.
The butler knocked on my door. It was time for me to go and give Henry C. Ashbury his physical culture lesson.
Down in the gymnasium Ashbury didn’t even take off his heavy woolen bathrobe. “Hear the commotion last night?” he asked.
“What commotion?”
“One of the men who’s been working for Robert’s company was killed.”
“Killed?”
“Yes.”
“Auto accident or what?”
“Or what,” he said, and then after a moment added, “Three shots with a thirty-eight-caliber revolver.”
I looked at him steadily. “Where was Robert?” I asked. His eyes held mine. He didn’t answer the question. He said instead, “Where were you?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
“On my job.”
He pulled a cigar out of the pocket of his robe, bit off the end, lit it, and started smoking. “Getting anywhere?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’m making progress.”
“Find out who’s been blackmailing her?”
“I’m not certain she’s being blackmailed.”
“She isn’t throwing checks around like confetti for nothing.”
“No.”
“I want you to stop it.”
“I think I can.”
“Think there’s any chance she’ll make any further payments?”
“I don’t know.”
“It takes you a long time to make progress,” he said. “Remember I’m paying for results.”
I waited until the silence had made its own punctuation mark, and then said, “Bertha Cool handles all the business affairs.”
He laughed then. “I’ll say one thing for you, Donald. You’re a little guy, but I never saw a big one who had more guts. Let’s go up and dress.”
He didn’t say anything about the reason for his inquiries about where I’d been or what progress I was making with his daughter. I didn’t ask for any explanations. I went up and took my bath and came down to breakfast.
Mrs. Ashbury was all upset. Maids were running in and out of her room. Her doctor had been called. Ashbury explained she’d had a bad night. Robert Tindle looked as though someone had put him through a wringing machine. Ashbury didn’t say much. I studied him covertly and came to the conclusion that the guys in this world who have money and keep it are the men who can dish it out and take it.
After breakfast Ashbury went to his office as though nothing had happened. Tindle rode up with him in his car. I waited until they’d cleared out. Then I called a taxi and said I wanted to go to the Fidelity Building.
C. Layton Crumweather had a law office on the twenty-ninth floor. A secretary tried to find out something about me and about my business. I told her I had some money I wanted to pay Mr. Crumweather. That got me in.
Crumweather was a gaunt, bony-faced individual with a narrow, sloping nose down which his spectacles kept sliding. He was big-boned and under-fleshed. His cheeks looked as though they’d sunken in, and that emphasized the big gash that was his mouth.
“What’s your name?”
“Lam.”
“You said you had some money to pay me?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“I haven’t got it yet.”
Two deep furrows creased the center of his forehead, and emphasized the length of his nose. “Who’s paying it?” he asked.
“Suckers,” I said.
The secretary had left the door open a crack. Crumweather looked me over with little black eyes which seemed unusually small for the size of his face. Then he got up, walked across the office, carefully closed the door, c
ame back, and sat down.
“Tell me about it.”
I said, “I am a promoter.”
“You don’t look like one.”
“That’s what makes me a good one.”
He chuckled, and I saw his teeth were long and yellow. He seemed to like that crack. “Go on,” he said.
“An oil proposition,” I told him.
“What’s the nature of it?”
“There’s a lot of nice oil land.”
He nodded.
“I don’t have title to it—yet.”
“How do you intend to get title?”
“With the money that’s paid in for stock.”
He looked me over, and said, “Don’t you know you can’t sell stock in this state unless you get permission from the Commissioner of Corporations?”
I said, “Why did you think I took the trouble to come here?”
He chuckled again, and teetered back and forth in the squeaky swivel chair back of his desk. “You’re a card, Lam,” he said. “You really are.”
“Let’s call me the joker,” I suggested.
“Are you fond of jokes?”
“No. I’m usually wild.”
He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. He interlaced his long, bony fingers, and cracked his knuckles. He did it mechanically as though it was a gesture he used a lot. “Exactly what do you want?”
I said, “I want to beat the Blue Sky Act and sell securities without getting an okay from the Commissioner of Corporations.”
“It’s impossible. There are no legal loopholes.”
I said, “You’re attorney for the Foreclosed Farms Underwriters Company.”
He looked at me then as though he was studying something under a microscope. “Go ahead.”
“That’s all.”
He unlaced his fingers and drummed with them on the edge of the desk. “What’s your plan of operation?”
“I’m going to put some good salesmen in the field. I’m going to arouse interest in the oil possibilities of this land.”
“You don’t own it?”
“No.”
“Even if I could beat the Blue Sky Act and get you the chance to sell the securities, I couldn’t keep you out of jail on a charge of getting money under false representations.”
“I’ll take care of that end.”
“How?”
“That’s my secret. I want you to beat the Blue Sky Law so I can have something to deliver when I call for the dough. That’s all you need to do.”
“You’d have to own the land.”
“I’ll have an oil lease on it.”
He chuckled again. “Well,” he said, “I don’t make a practice of handling such things.”
“I know.”
“When would you want to start operations?”
“Within thirty days.”
He dropped the mask. His eyes were hard and avaricious. He said, “My fee is ten per cent of the take.”
I thought that over a while. “Seven and a half,” I suggested.
“Don’t make me laugh. It’s ten.”
“All right.”
“What’s your first name?”
“Donald.”
He pressed a buzzer on the side of his desk. After a moment the secretary came in. She had a notebook with her. He said, “Take a letter, Miss Sykes, to Mr. Donald Lam. Dear Sir: With reference to your suggestion that you wish to reorganize a corporation which has forfeited its charter to the State of California, it will be necessary for you to give me more specific data as to the name of the corporation, and the purpose for which you wish it revived. My fee in such a matter will be fifty dollars in addition to whatever expenses are necessary. That’s all, Miss Sykes.” She got up without a word and left the office.
When the door had closed, Crumweather said, “I suppose you know how it’s done.”
“The same way you did it for the Foreclosed Farms Underwriters Company?”
He said, “Let’s not talk about my other clients.”
“All right. What do you want to talk about?”
Crumweather said, “You have to take all the risks. I’ll write letters confirming every conversation I have with you. I’ll give you letters which you are to sign. I have a list of certain old corporations which forfeited their charters to the State of California for failure to pay franchise taxes. I’ve carefully checked those old corporations. Naturally, you want one which didn’t do any business, against which there aren’t any outstanding legal obligations, and where the entire treasury stock—or a large part of the treasury stock—was issued.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” I asked.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “The Blue Sky Act prevents a corporation from issuing its capital stock until it has permission from the Commissioner of Corporations. After stock has once been issued, it becomes private property the same as anything else a man owns.”
“Well?” I asked.
He said, “And the state taxes corporations. Whenever they don’t pay their taxes, their franchise is forfeited to the state, and they can’t do business any more, but those corporations can be revived if they pay their back taxes and penalties.”
“Pretty slick,” I said.
He grinned—an oily, foxy grin. “You see,” he said, “those corporations are just the dead shells of former businesses. We pay the license, taxes, and revive the corporation. We buy up the outstanding stock which has been issued. Never have to pay more than half a cent or a cent a share. Of course, there are only a few corporations which answer our purpose. I’ve made all the preliminary investigation. I know the corporations. No one else does.”
“Then why do you say in your letter that I’ll have to give you the name of the corporation?”
“To keep my hands clean,” he said. “You’ll write me a letter giving me the name of the corporation. I’ll simply act as your attorney, following your instructions. Understand, Mr. Lam, I’m going to keep in the clear—at all times.”
“When do you give me the name of the corporation?”
“When you have paid me one thousand dollars.”
“Your letter says fifty.”
He beamed at me through his glasses. “It does, doesn’t it? Makes it sound so much better, too. Your receipt will he for fifty, young man. Your payment will be one thousand bucks.”
“And after that?”
“After that,” he said, “you’ll pay me ten per cent of the take.”
“How will you be protected on that?”
“Never fear.” He chuckled. “I’ll be protected.”
The secretary came in with the letter. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose with the tip of his forefinger, and his glittering black eyes read the letter carefully. He took a fountain pen, signed the letter, and handed it to the secretary. “Give it to Mr. Lam,” he said. “Do you have the fee available, Mr. Lam?”
“Not right at the present moment—not the amount you mentioned.”
“When will you have it?”
“Probably within a day or two.”
“Come in any time. I’ll be glad to see you.”
He got up and wrapped long, cold fingers around my hand. “I thought,” he said, “you were more familiar with the routine procedure in such cases. You seemed to be when you came to the office.”
“I was,” I told him, “but I always hate to tell a lawyer the law. I’d rather have him tell me the law.”
He nodded and grinned. “A very smart young man, Mr. Lam. Now, Miss Sykes, if you’ll bring in that file in the Case of Helman versus Helman, I’ll dictate an answer and cross-complaint. When Mr. Lam comes in to pay his fee, I’ll see him personally, and give him a receipt. Good morning, Mr. Lam.”
“Good-by,” I said, and walked out. The secretary waited until I had gone through the door before going after the file of Helman versus Helman.
I went down to the agency office. Bertha Cool was in. Elsie Brand was at her secretarial desk, hammering away at
the typewriter.
“Anybody in with the boss?” I asked.
She shook her head.
I walked across to the door that was marked Private and pushed it open.
Bertha Cool shoved an account book hurriedly into the cash drawer of the desk, slammed the drawer shut, and locked it. “Where did you go?” she asked.
“I tailed along for a while, saw her into a movie, and came back to look for you.”
“A movie?”
I nodded.
Bertha Cool’s little glittering eyes surveyed me thoughtfully. “How’s the job?” she asked.
“Still going.”
“You’ve managed to keep her from saying anything?”
I nodded, and she asked, “How did you do it?”
“Just kidding her along,” I said. “I think she likes to have me around.”
Bertha Cool sighed. “Donald, you have the damnedest way with women. What do you do to make them fall for you?”
“Nothing,” I said.
She looked me over again and said, “It may be at that. All the competition is trying to appear big and masculine, and you sit back as though you weren’t interested. Sometimes I think you bring out the mother complex in us.”
I said, “Nix on that us stuff. This is business.”
She gave a throaty chuckle, and said, “Whenever you try to get hard with me, lover, I know that you’re after money.”
“And whenever you start handing me the soft soap, I know you’re trying to kid me out of it.”
“How much do you want?”
“Plenty.”
“I haven’t got it.”
“You’d better have it, then.”
“Donald, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you fifty times that you can’t just come in here and hold me up for a lot of expense money. You’re careless, Donald. You’re extravagant. Mind you, I don’t think you pad the swindle sheet, but you just don’t have any perspective in money matters. All you can see is what you want to accomplish.”
I said, casually, “It’s a nice piece of business. I’d hate to see you lose it.”
“She knows you’re a detective now?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t lose it, then.”
“No?” I asked.
“Not if you play your part.”
“I can’t play my part unless I have a roll.”
“Good heavens, listen to the man. What do you think I his agency is, made of money?”
Gold Comes in Bricks Page 5
