The Charlatan Murders

by Jennifer Berg

  Rosemary shrugged. “Under the circumstances, I think I’m doing as well as can be expected. I’m trying to put Mrs. Abbott’s business affairs in order so that everything will be ready when I move on.”

  “That’s part of the reason why I asked you here,” Walter explained. “As you know, our mother was a busy woman, we will need that work to continue, and you are by far the best person to do it. I think the rest of the family will agree that we’d like to keep you on for the time being.” Walter glanced at his siblings, who all agreed. “Excellent. I’ll arrange the details with our lawyer. But I’d like you to stay on for at least six months, with a ten percent raise for the additional work. Will that be acceptable?”

  “With a raise?” Rosemary said. “Of course I will. It will be a relief not to have the pressure of having to get everything in order so quickly.”

  “So that’s settled.” Paul sipped his drink and asked, “Rosemary, has that police fellow given you any idea of what he’s up to? I mean, he must be forming an opinion by now.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know any more than the rest of you,” she assured him. “The inspector was very interested in the house keys, but that’s to be expected. And he came back and examined the doors after Mrs. Peabody said she found the dining-room door unlocked.”

  Julia frowned. “Yes. That is very curious.”

  “I still want to know the story behind the missing file,” Marcus insisted pointedly. “Rosemary, are you sure that they weren’t accidentally misfiled? I know you’re extremely careful, but nobody’s infallible.”

  Rosemary shook her head. “No, I’m sure. I’ve checked and rechecked the office thoroughly. Every drawer, every shelf, and every file. The file Walter left for Mrs. Abbott has completely disappeared.”

  “Then there really was a robbery!” Marcus exclaimed. “And I saw a man’s shadow!”

  “Not only was there a robbery,” Camille agreed, “but the police already have an idea about who did it.” Everyone turned to stare at her. Camille plucked the olive from her martini and popped it into her mouth.

  “They know who stole the file?” Walter asked.

  “I didn’t say they know,” she corrected him, “but they have a suspect.” She looked around at her captivated audience.

  “How do you know?” Julia asked.

  “Inspector Riggs visited me this morning,” Camille said nonchalantly.

  Paul jumped to his feet. “What, he came by the apartment again? You didn’t say anything about it!”

  She simpered. “Apparently, the inspector found a platinum blonde hair in Mrs. Abbott’s office, and he’s pressing me to confess that it’s mine and to tell him exactly what I was doing in her office on Saturday night.”

  The room was silent for several moments until Walter asked, “Were you in her office Saturday night?”

  Camille grinned like a cat with a mouse trapped under its paw. She looked around at their worried, confused faces. “I told him I’m innocent,” she explained carefully. “But that policeman is an intelligent man and very persistent. It’s hard to know what he’s thinking behind that attractive mustache of his. Personally, if I were trying to hide something from Inspector Riggs,” she looked down at her empty glass and raised an eyebrow, “I, for one, would be extremely careful.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Chief Goes Off the Record

  Riggs stared at the slip of paper. He had never seen the chief’s secretary’s handwriting before, but this couldn’t be a joke.

  Pier 59 at lunchtime.

  Riggs walked at a good stride when he wasn’t anxious. He reached the boardwalk in record time. When he approached the pier, he had no trouble spotting the chief. The tall, broad man always wore a black hat with a notably large brim. He was behind the fish stand, eating his lunch at one of the rustic wooden tables and watching the seagulls flying around the pilings. Riggs ordered fish and chips, a cup of clam nectar, and headed the same way.

  The chief was an imposing figure even when he was seated, and when he saw Riggs, he frowned. “I want to talk to you, Riggs. Sit down.”

  Michael Riggs sat down and had a few of his chips to settle his stomach. “The seagulls sure are busy, aren’t they?” he remarked. “I guess that’s because the low tide exposes the rocks.”

  The police chief swallowed his bite of fish. “I can watch seagulls without you, Riggs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The chief kept eating his lunch, and after a few minutes, he said, “Your brother was the best investigator the department ever had. That was talent. You’re not him, but you’ve been around long enough to get promoted. That’s predictable. And you got this case because it’s a hot potato and I won’t let any of my good investigators get burned. That’s politics.”

  Riggs frowned. “So I’m the stooge.”

  The chief had a gulp of coffee. “Let’s just say, I don’t like our odds. The Abbotts are too wealthy and too well-connected.”

  “But I’m making progress,” Riggs said, “and I think I’m going to solve the case.”

  “I hope you do,” the chief said. “Not that it will mean anything without the proof to convict. It’s your hide, either way. And if you don’t make an arrest soon, I’m putting Cheshire in charge.”

  Riggs felt warm and tense. A group of tourists sat down at the neighboring table. They were laughing and joking, and one of the women was tossing chips over the pier for the birds.

  “You have to give me time,” Riggs insisted.

  “No, I have to show the city that I’m taking this crime seriously. That’s my hide. If my first man doesn’t make an arrest, I call in someone with more experience. Cheshire’s young and eager and he’ll make us look busy.” The chief lowered his voice. “And there’s one more thing.”

  Riggs turned to look at the other man. “Sir?”

  The brim of the chief’s hat cast a shadow over his face, but Riggs could see his profile clearly. Two seagulls landed on the railing, and the chief watched them battle over a pale pink starfish. The bigger bird won and it gulped down the prize in gag-like spasms. The chief smiled and went back to his lunch.

  “That numbskull, Fisher, tells me that you’re looking into that woman from city hall,” the chief said. “You think Bell’s mixed up with this Abbott murder?”

  “Yes, sir,” Riggs repeated. “She’s my top suspect.”

  The chief ate another chip and kept looking out at the bay. “Why?”

  “She’s married to the victim’s eldest son,” Riggs explained, “and they’re on the brink of divorce. With Mrs. Abbott dead, Bell is a wealthy woman with or without a divorce.”

  The chief nodded and sprinkled more malt vinegar on his lunch. Riggs waited while the chief ate a few more chips and finished his fish. When he was done eating, he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and dropped it on the pier. “Bell is a closed book. That’s not my order. It came from a certain agency.”

  Riggs’ brow furrowed. “But Bell could be the murderer.”

  The chief stood up and walked away from the picnic tables. He stopped several yards down the pier and watched a long streamline ferry that was slowing approaching Coleman dock. Riggs grabbed his lunch and followed. There was no one around them, and the chief kept his gaze out over the water.

  “You know, since the War, a lot of folks have settled in the Northwest,” the chief said as he watched the ferry. “Imagine a man from the Persian Peninsula immigrating to Prussia at the turn of the century. He could have become a professor who specialized in Germanic dialects. He married a local girl, and they have a daughter.”

  “You mean Bell?”

  “Whatever the name was, it wasn’t that,” the chief said. “After the First War, this family comes to America. The daughter grows up. She goes back to the old country to study. Do you know what happened to Poland in 1939?”

  “They were invaded.”

  The chief nodded. “A language expert would have been invaluable, especially if his daughter was still attending a
university there.” A seagull swooped low and landed on the railing beside the chief. He stopped talking and watched it for a while. The bird shuffled back and forth, occasionally opening its beak to squawk. “All those borders have changed,” the chief went on. “Parts of Prussia are now part of Poland. And the political power is in the east now. If that family still had any relatives there, they wouldn’t want any attention from Moscow. Uncle Sam would have to arrange for some new identities.”

  “So Bell was a spy, and my hands are tied?” Riggs frowned.

  “Baloney,” the chief objected. “I’m talking fairy tales, and you know it.”

  “But you are saying I have to let her go?”

  “Not at all,” the chief said. “If you want to keep your promotion, you need a murderer. Personally, I think Bell’s a smart piece of work, and I like seeing her legs around the department. But if you can prove she’s a killer, be my guest.” The chief adjusted his large black hat. “If you draw any attention to Bell’s past, even a hint of it, I’ll have your pension and your badge.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five: A Playboy in Distress

  As the sun set, Paul was sitting alone at one of the nicer cocktail lounges on Third Avenue. He was absorbed in his own miserable thoughts, and except for the occasional remarks to the barman, he was completely unaware of his surroundings. It was eight o’clock before he noticed a couple seated at a candle-lit table by the window. The man was tall, well-dressed, and pushing sixty. The woman was about the same, with a curvaceous figure and a black dress to flatter it. When the woman excused herself to go to the powder room, Paul polished off his whiskey and headed over to the table.

  “Good evening, Mayor McCready. You don’t mind if I join you for a minute?”

  The mayor scowled. “I do mind, Paul. I’m here with my wife.”

  “And I wouldn’t dream of intruding,” Paul assured him as he pulled up a chair and snapped for the waiter to bring him another drink. “But I’m sure you’ve noticed the newspapers this week.”

  “Look, Paul, I was sorry to hear about your mother. That’s rotten luck. She was a good woman and a generous citizen. This town doesn’t have many old families, and your parents were an institution. What else can I say? I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks, George. It means a lot to me to know that you feel that way.”

  The mayor nodded. “Well, she was always a big supporter of the Art Institute, the symphony, and a pack of other worthy charities.”

  “Yeah, she did a lot of good around here,” Paul emphasized. “And it’s got me thinking: isn’t there some way we could convince these newspaper boys to show a little more respect? I mean, have you seen the headlines?” Paul pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket and laid it on the table. The mayor didn’t bother to look. Yesterday’s paper had read Abbott Heirs Inherit Huge Fortune and today’s paper read Murder Investigation Strains Abbott Family.”

  “You know I never tell the newspapers what to print,” the mayor grumbled, pushing the newspaper back to Paul. “Freedom of the press. News is their business, and your mother’s death is news.”

  “Oh, come on, George. A man in your position could ask them to soften their tune a little,” Paul suggested. “Last spring, they managed to ease up on all those corruption allegations, and I’m sure that helped you sleep a little easier before the election. We all know they won’t do it just to be good scouts. Somebody important has to ask them the right way.”

  Now the older man huffed and shook his head. “I know what you’re getting at, Paul, but news is news. And frankly, your mother’s death wouldn’t be half the sensation it is if her son, president of the great Abbott Enterprises, wasn’t regularly landing himself in the newspapers with his boneheaded shenanigans!”

  Paul frowned. “So you won’t do anything to help an old friend?”

  “Are we friends?” the mayor asked coldly. “Look, Paul, I’ve already done what I can. I might as well tell you that I talked to the police chief on Sunday morning, probably before you were finished sleeping off your hangover, and I asked him to have his boys go easy and to keep it above board. But I won’t risk giving anyone the notion that I’m interfering in a murder investigation. Your mother was an established do-gooder who liked to show off her generosity. But her son is a cheap gambler, prankster, and drinker with too many women and too many shady business dealings. And as if that isn’t bad enough, half the city knows that you’ve got gambling debts you can’t pay. Your mother’s murder is a hot topic in this town because everyone thinks you did it. And if you’re not the murderer, I don’t intend to get burned.”

  “Mr. Mayor, you make it sound like a scandal!”

  “Murder is a scandal, Paul, and I hope for your sake, you had nothing to do with it! Because if you think these headlines are ugly now, you’d better believe me when I say it’s only going to get worse. Even if the murderer confessed today, the story will dominate the front page for several weeks, maybe a couple of months. Double that if it takes longer to arrest someone.”

  “But surely—” Paul interrupted but stopped when the waiter came with his drink. He waited until they were alone again, but the mayor kept talking.

  “Now, I already know that you were mixed up with that gambling ring we shut down last month on the island.” The mayor held up his hand to prevent Paul from denying it. “Don’t bother. There’s not enough evidence to convict you. And I’m prepared to let it rest. But the point is, if you can’t keep your own nose clean, you can’t expect anyone else to clean it for you.”

  The mayor glanced up to see his wife returning to the table. “Now scram. My wife’s coming back, and she doesn’t approve of low-lifes.”

  Paul stayed long enough to greet the mayor’s wife politely. He accepted her condolences, complimented her appearance, and finished his drink. It took him less than ten minutes to walk home, and in that time, he had decided upon his next course of action.

  Camille wasn’t back from the theater yet, so he went straight to his study. It was just after twilight, and the room was nearly dark. Like every other room in the penthouse, Paul’s office had a wall of windows with an inspiring view. He switched on the bronze desk lamp, and the light transformed the room, filling it with a warm glow and casting Paul’s reflection onto the dark window as though it were a mirror. His illuminated form overpowered the darkening city skyline, and Paul stood there staring at his own reflection.

  He closed the drapes.

  Sitting on his desk, Paul grabbed the telephone receiver and dialed the home telephone number of the editor of The Times.

  “Lester Freeman? Hello, Les. This is Paul Abbott. How are you?”

  After a pause, a wary voice replied, “I’m doing well, Mr. Abbott. And my condolences on your loss.”

  “Thank you, Les. My mother’s sudden passing has been painful for my whole family. Actually, I was hoping you might be willing to meet me for a drink. Perhaps we could discuss the situation.”

  “I’m always in favor of a drink, but I’m never in favor of wasting time: yours or mine,” the editor replied. “So, before I get out of bed and take off my jammies, why don’t you tell me exactly what you want to confess.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Besides, you boys know more about the crime than I do. But my family is grieving, and I’d like a chance to persuade you to go a little softer on the headlines, for their sakes.”

  The newsman chuckled. “I print the news, Mr. Abbott. Not sensationalism, not fantasy, not fiction. Now, if you’ve got another story or a fresh angle that might be interesting, that could change the focus. I could write a softer piece if it had your personal perspective.”

  “I’m not prepared to give interviews,” Paul said. “But if you promise to go easy, I am prepared to make it worth your while.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that you liked to cozy up to my predecessor when things were getting a little too hot for you. But he’s gone, and I’m here now, and I’ve got my own little fetish for sticking to the truth.”


  “And I respect you for that, Les. But surely, you’re not opposed to showing a little compassion for a grieving family?”

  “Are you grieving?” the editor asked. “After the years you spent butting heads with your mother? Now, you’re appealing to me as a loyal, heartbroken son? No, I’m much better at sticking to the facts. Besides, the way I figure it, this tragedy has happened in the nick of time.”

  “What’s that crack supposed to mean?” Paul demanded.

  “Maybe nothing, but if I were to read between the lines, for a guy who’s in money trouble—bad money trouble—a massive inheritance could be just the thing to save his neck.”

  “I don’t like your tone, Mr. Freeman. Don’t forget that I can sue you for slander.”

  The newsman laughed. “How about this, Mr. Abbott. When you decide to give me an interview, I’ll meet you for that drink, and I’ll make sure it’s accurate and written from your perspective. Until then, good night.”

  The line went dead.

  Paul sat and drummed his fingers on the telephone. After some minutes, he realized that he heard voices in the living room, and wondered how long Camille had been home. He pulled out the newspapers and read the headlines again. Damn those nosey reporters, dragging the Abbott family through the mud just to sell more copies. It was humiliating, but the real problem was that the cops read newspapers, too. Of course the reporters didn’t know anything, but they could guess just as well as the next man, and if Inspector Riggs read those guesses, it could give him ideas.

  The telephone rang, and Paul picked it up without thinking.

  “Hello… This is Paul…” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Look, haven’t I told you… well, have you read the newspapers? Of course, of course, but it doesn’t happen overnight…just be patient and I’ll telephone you soon as I can.” He rested the receiver on the cradle. Then he took a deep breath, collapsed in his chair, and buried his face in his hands. There was a tap on the door, and Camille popped her head in. She was wearing a black and brown stole and a black turban with strands of pearls.