But He Was Already Dead When I Got There

by Barbara Paul

  Rizzuto snorted.

  “That taken care of,” Toomey continued, “they proceed to steal the jade horse and other undoubtedly overpriced small items scattered hither and yon about the room. Their next move is to gather up other expensive items from other rooms in the house and substitute them for the ones they’ve stolen—hoping the original set would not be missed, no doubt.”

  “Aw, Lieutenant.”

  “They ignore the Degas because they don’t care for the impressionist school. They take Vincent Farwell’s watch, money, and credit cards. They drop the empty billfold on the floor and kick it under the desk. Then one of them goes out to the hall and sends the elevator up to the second floor. Finished at last, they turn out the lights in order to save on electricity. They go out through the double doors, avoiding the broken glass in the dark as best they can. Out on the terrace once again, they decide to leave their can of Redi-Whip as a thank-you present. They put down their loot long enough to move the wrought-iron table over against the wall. At that point they part company, one using the table to climb over the wall, the other walking out through the terrace gate. And that’s the end of it. As you said, Rizzuto, cut and dried.”

  “Who, me?” Rizzuto said. “Never.”

  “‘The Case of the Body in the Library’,” Toomey sighed. “Too bad the library door wasn’t locked from the inside—that’s all that’s missing. I’m going to pay a visit to Ellandy Jewels, but I want you to stay here, Rizzuto. There are some things that need doing. First, that one page of a letter from Farwell’s insurance agent—I want you to look in the file cabinet and find the rest of the letter. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but we ought to check it out.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then I want you to call Farwell’s attorney, ah—Dann, Richard Dann—and ask him if he has the combination to the wall safe upstairs. Then get somebody from headquarters over here with a thirty-eight and a box of sand to fire it into. I want you to find out if the shot can be heard in Mrs. Polk’s room or not. Got all that?”

  “Yep. Where’ll you be when you finish at Ellandy Jewels?”

  “Depends on what I find out there. I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll be here,” Rizzuto said.

  Lionel Knox pulled the car over to the side of the street long enough to give Gretchen a big hug and a kiss. “You were terrific back there!” he laughed happily. “Saying Uncle Vincent hadn’t made up his mind about the loan! How can I ever thank you?”

  “Oh, I’ll think of a way,” she smiled coyly.

  “If that sleepy-eyed police lieutenant and his subliterate sergeant find out that Uncle Vincent turned us down—you know what that means, don’t you? That means we’d all be suspects.”

  “I thought of that,” she said.

  Lionel pulled back out into the line of traffic. “I’ve got to make some phone calls from home. I’ll have to let the others know what happened to Uncle Vincent and say we’re telling the police he didn’t give us an answer on the loan.”

  “Do you think they’ll go along?”

  Lionel considered. “I think so. Malcolm might take some persuading.”

  Gretchen cleared her throat. “Lionel. There’s something we’ve got to talk about. You were surprised when the Lieutenant told us Uncle Vincent’s body was found at his desk.”

  “So were you!” he shot back. When she didn’t say anything, Lionel sighed. “I guess I’d better tell you. I was there last night—or early this morning, rather. And no, I didn’t kill him. After the meeting, the five of us were talking about what we should do, and someone suggested stealing Uncle Vincent’s copy of the promissory note. We sort of dismissed the idea as impractical, but after I got home I started thinking about it. I couldn’t sleep, and the more I thought about stealing the note, the more it seemed as if that was the only possible solution to our problems. So I went back to the house.”

  “And found Uncle Vincent.”

  “And found Uncle Vincent—at his desk. But Gretchen, I moved him! He was in the middle of the floor when I left! How’d he get back to the desk?”

  “Why did you move him?”

  “Well, the study was in a terrible mess—that’s another thing, there were papers all over the place! The file cabinet had been completely emptied, and Uncle Vincent’s papers were scattered everywhere. But they were gone when I came back just now, and Lieutenant Toomey said Mrs. Polk hadn’t cleaned in there. Do you suppose the police took all those papers?”

  “No,” Gretchen said in a small voice. “I picked up the papers. I put them back in the file.”

  “You! Then you were—”

  “You first. Finish telling me what you did.”

  “Well, you know what a mess the library was in, then. I couldn’t find the promissory note—I looked at every piece of paper in that room. So it seemed to me that whoever had killed Uncle Vincent had come there for the same reason I had, and had found the note. So who was it? I felt sure it had to be either Dorrie or Nicole. Which one would you pick?”

  “Not Dorrie.”

  “Definitely not Dorrie. And if Nicole had turned herself into a killer to help Ellandy’s, I’d be damned if I was going to give her away. She probably didn’t mean to kill him at all—he must have surprised her.”

  “But why’d you move Uncle Vincent?”

  “Oh, that was one of those brilliant ideas that seem a lot less brilliant in the clear light of day. The scene just didn’t look right, you know? There was that broken glass that made it appear as if a burglar had broken in—”

  “How did you get in?” Gretchen asked suddenly.

  “I just took your spare set of keys and unlocked the front door. Anyway, if a burglar did break in, Uncle Vincent wouldn’t just sit there calmly at his desk and watch, would he? He’d be roaring out in his wheelchair and waving his gun and yelling for Barney—but he wouldn’t just sit there. So I moved him out to the middle of the floor to make it look as if that was what happened.”

  “And that’s where he was when I went in—in the middle of the floor. But go on.”

  “Well, the blotter was all bloody. And since it might be kind of hard to explain how a man who died in the middle of the floor managed to bleed all over his desk, I burned the blotter in the fireplace.”

  “Ugh,” said Gretchen.

  Lionel thought it best not to mention burning the private investigator’s report as well. “Then I took Uncle Vincent’s gun and tucked it under him, and—Christ!”

  Gretchen jumped. “What?”

  “I just remembered what else I should have done. I meant to take away the two pieces of the Hermes—the, er, murder weapon. In case Nicole left her fingerprints. But then I stepped on Godfrey Daniel’s tail—that’s why he was giving me the hate treatment this morning. But last night he let out such a yowl that I got rattled and took off.”

  Gretchen nodded. “I heard him. I went downstairs to find out what was wrong.”

  “All right—why did you pick up the papers?”

  Gretchen was silent a moment, and then said in a shaky voice, “I’m not too proud of this, Lionel. When I saw the room, it seemed to me that someone had tried to make it look as if a burglary had taken place—all those papers on the floor! Ordinary burglars don’t go through file cabinets, for heaven’s sake. And even the things that were taken—the jade horse and the like. They’re all small things, things you can slip into a pocket or carry easily. The Degas and Uncle Vincent’s six-thousand-dollar Georgian clock—they weren’t touched. No real burglar would have left them behind.”

  “So you concluded one of us had done it?” Lionel asked. She nodded. “You thought I had done it?” he persisted.

  “You or Nicole or possibly Simon.”

  “Simon! Why Simon?”

  “Because I couldn’t see Dorrie doing it, but it’s the sort of gesture Simon might make—you know, taking drastic action to rescue his lady fair. A romantic kind of gesture.”

  “You’ve got a strange idea of romance,
Gretchen my love. But go on.”

  “This is the part I’m not too proud of,” Gretchen said. “You’ve got to remember I’d just found out about you and Nicole, and I was hurt and confused and … and I wanted to make trouble for you. Yes, I did! So I decided to make it look as if a burglary had not taken place. Then when the police found out about the loan … well, I put all the papers back in the file and brought in the ivory owl from the dining room and a few other things to make it look as if nothing had been taken.”

  “I see,” Lionel said, taken aback.

  “But then this morning Lieutenant Toomey told me that Uncle Vincent’s watch and money had been taken too—and Lionel, it hit me for the first time that it might really have been a burglar after all! So that’s why I said Uncle Vincent hadn’t decided about the loan. To try to undo any damage I might have done. I’m truly sorry, Lionel. I should have left things alone.”

  “It might not matter in the long run,” Lionel said, thinking. “If our burglar was indeed Nicole Lattimer, I’m sure she’s had the sense to destroy the promissory note by now. Then we’ll all be in the clear.”

  “If she found it,” Gretchen said. “It might be upstairs in the wall safe.”

  “Wall safe?” Lionel yelled, and had to swerve to avoid hitting another car. “What wall safe?”

  “There’s one in Uncle Vincent’s bedroom. I’d forgotten all about it until Lieutenant Toomey asked me if I knew the combination.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course not. Uncle Vincent never told me things like that.”

  Lionel thought about it. “Wait a minute, now—it won’t make any difference. So long as we all stick to the story that Uncle Vincent postponed making a decision about extending the loan, it won’t matter whether the promissory note is found in the safe or not. So that’s all right. The only question left is—how did Uncle Vincent get back to his desk?”

  “Yeah,” said Gretchen. “That’s weird.”

  They drove in silence for a few minutes. “He was dead,” Lionel said worriedly. “I know he was dead. I felt for a pulse.” He pulled into the driveway of their house and cut the engine. “I’ll make a few fast phone calls and then be on my way.”

  “Lionel?”

  “Hm?”

  “If it had been Dorrie—would you have covered up for her the way you did for Nicole?”

  “I’d have covered up better if it had been Dorrie,” Lionel said grimly. “Dorrie’s my partner—what happens to her, happens to me. Don’t think what you’re thinking, Gretchen. There is absolutely nothing between Nicole and me. Nothing. You’re the only woman in my life.”

  That helped a great deal; Gretchen smiled and decided to say no more about it.

  For the time being.

  7

  Dorrie Murdoch put down the telephone and sat thinking for a few minutes. Then she left her office and walked down the hall to Nicole Lattimer’s office. She went in, shut the door behind her, and told Nicole that Uncle Vincent had been murdered.

  The two women stared at each other a long time, both of them trying hard to look surprised and shocked. Finally Nicole remembered to ask questions. “How? When? Who? Why?”

  “In the library,” Dorrie said, answering the unasked Where? “Lionel just called and told me. Someone broke in last night and hit him over the head and killed him. They don’t know who.”

  “A burglar?”

  “Sounds like it. Lionel didn’t give me many details—he just said the police would be here soon to talk to us. But there’s something else. Evidently Lionel and Gretchen have made up their differences, because she told the police that Uncle Vincent simply delayed giving us an answer on the extension of the loan. She said he hadn’t decided yet!”

  A smile started slowly and then spread all over Nicole’s face. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  Dorrie smiled back. “The least it means is that we’ll have a little time. Lionel says we all have to tell the same story. If the police find out Uncle Vincent refused to grant us an extension, they’re going to suspect one of us of killing him!”

  “But I thought it was a burglar.”

  “I’m sure it was—but why take chances? Just say Uncle Vincent postponed giving us an answer and we’ll be all right.”

  “What about Malcolm and Simon?”

  “Lionel’s calling them. Simon’s no problem, but Malcolm might balk. He’s always been such a stickler for doing things the proper way—even when he was a little boy, he was like that.”

  “I don’t think Malcolm will object this time,” Nicole said evenly. She looked questioningly at Dorrie. “It’s all right, then? It really is all right? We’re not going out of business in two weeks?”

  Dorrie laughed. “We are not going out of business in two weeks!” she sang, and Nicole laughed with her. On impulse the two women joined hands and did an impromptu little dance. Dorrie was the first to realize that their behavior might be interpreted as a tad unseemly. “Poor Uncle Vincent,” she said soberly.

  “I’d better practice saying that,” Nicole remarked dryly. “I should be sorry he’s dead, but I’m not. Uncle Vincent was a troublemaker, and I’m not going to miss him one little bit.”

  “Nicole,” Dorrie said reprovingly, mostly because she felt she was supposed to. “We’ll have to find out from Malcolm just where we stand now on the loan.”

  “Well, let’s see. We’ll have to pay the estate—unless that promissory note magically disappears.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t that be nice!” Dorrie sighed. “I don’t like being a deadbeat … but a million and a half? Well.”

  “Maybe we should have stolen the note after all,” Nicole said slyly.

  Dorrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “I’m beginning to wish someone had.”

  “Yes, that would solve the problem, wouldn’t it? Especially now that Gretchen seems to be on our side again.”

  It hit them both at the same time. “Gretchen!” Dorrie cried, appalled. “She inherits!”

  “Everything,” Nicole gasped. “Including debts owed to Uncle Vincent!”

  “That means—”

  “It means that Ellandy Jewels owes one and a half million dollars to Gretchen Knox! Plus interest!”

  “Aaaaaooooowwww!” Dorrie wailed.

  “Ditto,” Nicole said grimly.

  “I hate owing Gretchen Knox money!”

  “And Gretchen hates me,” Nicole muttered. “Oh my.”

  The two women stared at each other aghast, their earlier ebullient mood completely shattered.

  Simon Murdoch’s left eyebrow climbed higher and higher as he listened to what Lionel Knox was telling him over the telephone.

  There was a silence. “Simon?” Lionel asked. “Are you still there?”

  “Still here, and trying to absorb everything. So was it a burglar or not?”

  “It must have been, but the police aren’t saying definitely. They’re going in to Ellandy’s to ask questions—which means they’ll get around to you eventually. Just remember to say Uncle Vincent wouldn’t give us an answer on the loan extension.”

  “Right, no problem. Do the police actually suspect one of us?” Simon asked.

  Lionel hesitated. “I think they’re just tying up loose ends. The man in charge is a Lieutenant Toomey—he seems reasonable enough, but he keeps asking questions. If he finds out Uncle Vincent refused to renew the loan, though, then he will suspect one of us.”

  “And we can’t have that, can we?” Simon murmured smoothly. “Don’t worry about me, Lionel—I won’t give anything away. But what about good old straight-arrow Malcolm? Are you saying he’s actually agreed to tell a falsehood to legally appointed enforcers of the law? Incredible.”

  “I haven’t talked to Malcolm yet,” Lionel admitted. “I was putting him off ’til last.”

  Simon chuckled. “Good luck.”

  “I’ll need it,” Lionel said glumly. He hung up and sat marshaling his arguments for a minute before he pu
nched out the number of Malcolm Conner’s law office.

  A secretary passed his call on to Malcolm, and Lionel began his spiel. “Hold on to your hat, Malcolm, I’ve got something big to tell you. Uncle Vincent was murdered last night. He—”

  “I know. Nicole just called me.”

  “Oh.” Lionel felt deflated. “Well, then, did she tell you we’ve all agreed to say that Uncle Vincent hadn’t yet decided about extending Ellandy’s loan?”

  “Yes, and I agreed too.”

  “Because if we don’t, the police are going to start thinking that—”

  “Lionel, you’re not listening. I said I agreed. I’ll tell the same story.”

  “Oh. Well, uh, thanks, Malcolm.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Uh, no.” There was a click on the line. Lionel replaced the receiver and sat staring at the telephone, somewhat puzzled.

  “Dorothea Conner Murdoch,” Dorrie said, and gave Lieutenant Toomey her home address and phone number.

  The Lieutenant did not like Ellandy Jewels; the place threw him off stride. The showroom, instead of being one nice even floor with ordinary display cases arranged in nice even rows, was instead divided into different levels. Each level had its own lighting scheme, its own décor. The jewelry itself was displayed with more pomp and circumstance than the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London. And with about the same amount of security, both human and electronic.

  Even when he’d finally gotten himself oriented, Lieutenant Toomey still didn’t like the place. It made him feel like a peasant. Not one of the pieces of jewelry he’d looked at had had anything as crass as a price tag attached to it. And he’d bet that any one of the chairs placed on the various levels for the customers to sit on cost more than all the furniture in his living room put together. Ellandy Jewels was definitely not a place for dropping in and doing a little comparison shopping for a bargain bracelet for Aunt Sophie’s birthday.