But He Was Already Dead When I Got There

by Barbara Paul

  “Malcolm,” Dorrie interrupted. “I get the picture.”

  “And for god’s sake, forget about finding that promissory note. Don’t you see, whoever has that note is going to be the police’s number one suspect? Now that they know about the note, they’re not going to keep on looking for nonexistent burglars. They have to know that the killer was one of the six of us there at the meeting. The last thing in the world you want is to be found with that note, Dorrie.”

  She agreed. “I guess that lets out Lionel, too. He doesn’t have the note.” She hesitated, and then went on, “We think Nicole has it. Somebody took it out of Uncle Vincent’s safe, and it wasn’t either Lionel or I.”

  Malcolm was shocked. “Dorrie, you don’t know what you’re saying! Nicole might talk about stealing the note, but she’d never actually do it. She doesn’t share your larcenous impulses.” Like hell she doesn’t, he thought to himself. Malcolm didn’t like lying to his sister, but he couldn’t see any way around it. “Besides, she would have told me if she had it.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course I’m sure! You know what you’re saying, don’t you? You’re saying Nicole is the killer! That’s absurd. Personally, I’d be more inclined to suspect Lionel.”

  “He was my first choice, too,” Dorrie said, “but now I’m not so sure. If the person who has the note is also the killer—”

  “Now wait a minute—I said that’s what the police would think. It doesn’t necessarily follow that whoever took the promissory note also killed Uncle Vincent. There could have been any number of people looking for that note. That doesn’t make them murderers.” He was beginning to get upset; Nicole suspected Dorrie, and had in fact tampered with the evidence to protect her. And now Dorrie was shifting her suspicions from Lionel to Nicole. Malcolm was as sure as he could be that neither woman was guilty. It had to be Lionel. He attempted a laugh. “The only happy solution I can see is for one of the servants to turn out to be guilty.”

  “Or Gretchen,” Dorrie smiled wickedly. “None of us would mind that, particularly. I’m going to ask Nicole straight out if she has the note. I tried to get hold of her yesterday—and you too. But you both seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.”

  “We were out all last evening. Dinner and theater—we both felt in need of distraction. But you are not going to ask her about the note, Dorrie. You are going to do nothing out of the ordinary, remember?”

  “But who would know—”

  “Nothing whatsoever, is that understood? I don’t think you realize how much you have to live down, Dorrie. You broke into somebody else’s house, you discovered a dead body, you failed to notify the police, you tampered with the evidence—”

  “I know, I know,” she said with irritation. “You would never do anything that dumb—do you have to rub it in?”

  Malcolm shifted his weight uneasily. “Well, what’s done is done. Just forget about the note. Be completely passive. Don’t even get a traffic ticket.”

  She sighed. “All right.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting a client in an hour and I still have to shower. Shall I drop you off at Ellandy’s?”

  “Make it the BMW garage. They said my car is ready.”

  “Drive very carefully,” Malcolm cautioned.

  Lieutenant Toomey sat in his office reading the copies of Paul Bernstein’s reports while he waited for Rizzuto to get back with the search warrant. Bernstein had sent over the reports early that morning, just as he’d promised.

  They bore out the detective’s brief summary the day before. Vincent Farwell had not requested twenty-four hour surveillance on anyone, not even Lionel Knox. Lionel had been watched during the day, and only once in a while all night as an occasional spot test. Toomey read about Lionel’s first marriage, the failure of his nationwide chain of flower shops, his present indebtedness. He read about his brief fling with Nicole Lattimer, which ended as abruptly as it started and evidently had never resumed.

  The report did offer one interesting new bit of information about Lionel. Four months earlier he’d flown to England; he’d told his wife and his partner he had an elderly relative living in Somerset he wanted to check up on. But Lionel had never gone near Somerset; he’d stayed in London the whole time. The English private investigator Bernstein had hired to shadow Lionel—called an “inquiry agent” over there—reported that his subject had had two meetings with representatives of the De Beers organization and then had flown back home. What they’d talked about in the meetings was unknown; the English investigator reported the De Beers people were more tight-lipped than MI5.

  Toomey thought back to what Simon Murdoch had told him earlier. Simon had said the De Beers Corporation controlled eighty percent of the world’s diamonds; and they would sell to only a certain number of approved merchants—what were they called? Sightholders, that was it. Lionel Knox was not a sight-holder; he wasn’t any kind of diamond merchant—Ellandy’s bought from merchants, like Simon Murdoch. So what was Lionel doing talking to the De Beers people, and behind his partner’s back? Did he have aspirations toward being his own merchant? Toomey couldn’t see what it meant, and filed the information away in his mind to be mulled over later.

  For the other four—Nicole, the Murdochs, Malcolm Conner—Uncle Vincent had wanted only background reports. Three of the four came out smelling like a rose; only Simon Murdoch and his finances had a faint taint to them. Simon owed enormous amounts of money, but he was owed a number of large sums as well. Bernstein had added a note that in the diamond business, the constant granting and getting of credit were part and parcel of the industry and essential for the survival of all participants.

  Simon. He had the opportunity to commit the murder; there was a gap of about three hours between the time Simon said goodbye to the others when they left the bar and the time Dorrie got home from Ellandy’s. But how would killing Uncle Vincent and stealing the promissory note solve Simon’s particular financial problems? Perhaps he was counting on his wife to bail him out in a pinch and was taking steps to protect her money?

  Toomey’s other main suspect was Malcolm Conner—an honest, upright, conscientious type, according to Bernstein. An earnest sort who belonged to another era. Too good to be true, Toomey suspected. Conservative as all get-out, with one glaring exception: he was living in glorious sin with the very nonconservative Nicole Lattimer. Toomey wondered again whether Malcolm had a well-hidden wild streak in him that Nicole found attractive; he still had trouble reconciling those two. Malcolm had had the same opportunity to commit the murder as Simon, that three-hour gap when both men were alone. Motive? Both his sister and his lover were being threatened by the same man, mean old Uncle Vincent. Could Malcolm’s hypothetical wild streak have broken through long enough to make the lawyer take the law into his own hands?

  Uncle Vincent had not asked Bernstein to investigate his niece.

  Toomey paused; perhaps they’d all been taking Gretchen Knox too lightly. True, she presented a helpless-little-girl persona to the world, but that could be just an act. She had more opportunity than any of them, since she was right there in the house with Uncle Vincent all night long. And lord knows she had the best motive, Toomey thought; she benefited more from Vincent Farwell’s death than all the other five put together. So why was it so hard to take her seriously as a suspect?

  Mrs. Polk and Barney Peterson? Possible, but unlikely. And where did Dorrie Murdoch fit into this mess? At that very moment divers were poking through the murky river bottom in search of the airline bag that Simon Murdoch had so glibly announced contained tax records. Toomey had the use of only two divers, and for only four hours; that was all the strain the budget could take, his captain had told him. So if they didn’t find anything by noon.…

  Toomey had put out an APB on Barney Peterson’s Mysterious Stranger, but so far no police patrol had spotted a Sydney Green-street type wandering about looking suspicious. What a surprise, Toomey smiled to himself,
wondering if Barney watched a lot of television. What liars these people were! Barney, Mrs. Polk, the two Knoxes, the Murdochs—they’d all lied to the police without a second thought. Even Malcolm and Nicole, come to think of it; they’d told the same lie about the loan as the others, saying Uncle Vincent was thinking it over when he’d already said no. Toomey wondered if they all lied to one another as easily as they lied to him.

  He made a note for Rizzuto. Finish straightening up Uncle Vincent’s files and keep an eye peeled for the original report Paul Bernstein had submitted to the old man. There was always the chance that the detective might have thought it prudent to hold something back from the police.

  He was reading through the report on Lionel Knox a second time when Sal Rizzuto came in, waving the search warrant over his head. “I hadda little trouble trackin’ Judge Humphries down,” said the Sergeant, “but it’s all set now. Which one do we pick up—Dorrie or Simon?”

  “Neither,” said Toomey. “We get the apartment manager to let us in. Let’s go.”

  When Nicole Lattimer got in to Ellandy Jewels that morning, she found Lionel Knox and Dorrie Murdoch waiting in her office—arms folded, grim looks on their faces. Nicole posed dramatically, using the doorway as a frame. “Close the door,” Lionel said.

  Nicole closed the door and stood looking at them.

  Dorrie couldn’t stand it. “Well?” she burst out. “Do you have it?”

  Nicole took her time. She walked over to her desk and put her purse in the bottom drawer. Then her face broke into a big smile. “I’ve got it.”

  The craftsmen and the sales personnel wondered what the outburst of cheering from the offices was all about.

  “Oh, Nicole—you’re wonderful!” Dorrie burbled. “I tried to get it and nearly got myself arrested instead! How did you manage it?”

  “I was lucky—I found the combination to the safe right off.”

  Lionel said, “Lieutenant Toomey’s men found it too. What made you look under the window sill?”

  “Oh,” Nicole waved a hand vaguely, “I thought in a drawer or behind a picture was too obvious. But it had to be somewhere that Uncle Vincent could get to easily—so I looked under the edges of things. The window sill seemed likely.”

  Dorrie gave her a big hug. “Well, I’m glad one of us is an efficient burglar. God, what a relief! It’s over at last!”

  “Where’s the note now?” Lionel asked.

  “In a safe place,” Nicole smiled.

  “You didn’t destroy it?”

  Nicole’s smile grew brighter. “I think,” she said slowly, “that now would be a good time to talk about my partnership. Don’t you?”

  Dead silence.

  The two partners stared open-mouthed at Nicole, then glanced at each other, then went back to staring at Nicole. Finally Lionel burst out, “For Pete’s sake, Nicole—you don’t have to blackmail your way into the business!”

  “Not blackmail. Buy.”

  “Oh, Nicole!” Dorrie said in the tone of a parent reproving a naughty child. “You wouldn’t really hold that over our heads, would you? We told you we were going to take you in as soon as we could.”

  “Yeah,” Lionel added, sounding hurt. “You know it was just a question of money. We were going to make you a partner just as soon as … as soon as …”

  “As soon as Uncle Vincent’s loan was paid off?” Nicole was still smiling. “But that’s no longer a problem, is it? Lionel, you told me you and Dorrie would have made me a partner long ago if I’d had enough capital to buy in. Well, now I’ve got a piece of paper that’s worth one and a half million dollars to Ellandy Jewels. To my way of thinking, that’s more than enough capital. So now I’m ready to buy. Are you ready to sell?”

  “Aw, hell, Nicole!” Lionel protested. “You didn’t have to do it this way! You—”

  “Lionel.” Nicole’s smile was suddenly gone. “Put yourself in my place. If you were the one on the outside, would you meekly hand over the promissory note and then just stand back and hope to be noticed? Would you?”

  That brought a wry grin. “No, I guess not,” he said.

  “And another thing,” Nicole went on. “Without that loan to repay, Ellandy’s is going to have a greater profit margin. Even that four hundred thousand you earmarked for a partial payment—that can go straight back into the business. I think you’ll find your third of the profits will total as much or more than the half you’re each getting now—if not this year, then next, at least.”

  “Gee, thanks for explaining my business to me, Nicole,” Lionel said, feeling understandably tetchy. “I can add and subtract too, you know. You don’t—”

  “Lionel.” This time it was Dorrie who interrupted him. “You’re not going to argue with her, are you? She has the note, Lionel.”

  “She has the note,” he nodded. “That says it all, doesn’t it?” He and Dorrie looked at each other ruefully for a moment; then they both shrugged and smiled. “Welcome to Ellandy Jewels,” Lionel said heartily to Nicole, extending a hand in congratulations and trying to sound sincerely pleased rather than the way good losers usually sounded.

  “I have to say this, Nicole,” Dorrie laughed, “you have nerves of steel. Maybe we need you more than we realized.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re taking it this way,” Nicole sighed in relief. “I would have been furious if either of you had pulled that on me. Thanks for being so nice.”

  “Well, maybe we’re a little bit furious,” Lionel grinned, without rancor. “Shall we make a ceremony of destroying the note?”

  “Oh, yes!” Dorrie liked that idea. “With champagne and music! How shall we do it? Burn it? Pour acid on it?”

  “When shall we do it?” Lionel asked Nicole.

  “As soon as the new partnership papers are signed.”

  “I’ll call Malcolm,” he said, and did.

  At first, the apartment manager had flatly refused to let the police into the Murdochs’ apartment. It was only when Lieutenant Toomey explained in detail the penalties for defying a search warrant that the man gave in. He was afraid of losing his job, he said; it turned out the Murdochs owned the building and paid his salary.

  More real estate, Toomey mused. Simon’s idea, no doubt, not Dorrie’s. Toomey and Rizzuto and the two men they’d brought with them rode up in the elevator with the worried-looking apartment manager. No one spoke.

  The manager unlocked the Murdochs’ door and left without a word. Going to call Simon, thought Toomey. The two extra men had been armed with copies of Mrs. Polk’s list of the items missing from Uncle Vincent’s study. If the airline bag the Murdochs had tossed into the river the night before did indeed contain those items, then it was all so much wasted effort. But it had to be done. Toomey and Rizzuto would concentrate on looking for the promissory note.

  Toomey had expected to find an opulent apartment and he was not disappointed. The Georgian-paneled walls of the north-facing living room had been painted a soft rust tinted with blue so that natural light cast a dusky haze around the room. Tall, curved windows clad in patterned balloon shades. A variety of furniture spanning centuries, from Regency chairs to Victorian needlepoint to a modern upholstered sofa. In the bedroom, the Murdochs had turned three walls into one big mirror, a little bit of interior decorating that didn’t surprise Toomey at all. Sheepishly he leaned over their bed and looked up at the underside of the canopy. No mirror.

  The Murdochs used the smallest room of the apartment as a home office. Two desks, a computer, shelves of storage boxes, a file cabinet. Toomey took the file cabinet while Rizzuto started opening the storage boxes. Cancelled checks, receipts for household expenses, insurance policies, warranties, maps of Paris and Vienna, correspondence, catalogues, airline flight schedules, papers, papers, papers. No stock certificates or bonds, but a receipt for a bank safe deposit box.

  Four bank accounts—his, hers, theirs, and savings. The “theirs” was the most active, paying out all the Murdochs’ living expenses. All Simon
’s ventures in real estate were handled through his own account. The savings account was surprisingly small; the Murdochs preferred to invest their money whenever they got a little ahead.

  They live well, our Dorrie and our Simon, Toomey thought with a touch of envy. They spent more on clothing than the Lieutenant earned. “Any luck?” he asked Rizzuto.

  “Old tax records,” the Sergeant said. “Goin’ back fifteen years for him, eleven for her. Back to before they was married.”

  “Every year accounted for?”

  “Ever’ one. They weren’t no tax records in that airline bag.”

  Toomey picked a floppy disc at random and slipped it into the computer. He was staring at the Murdochs’ budget when Simon walked in. The apartment manager had wasted no time.

  “Well, Lieutenant, I see you’ve made yourself at home,” Simon said archly. “Do you need anything? Shall I send out for pizza?”

  Toomey held out the search warrant without taking his eyes off the computer screen.

  Simon glanced at the warrant and drawled, “How very official-looking. Whatever do you expect to find? A signed confession tucked away amidst old telephone bills? Ah, I have it! You’re looking for the Ellandy promissory note! Look as much as you like, Lieutenant. You won’t find it here.”

  “You have a safe deposit box.”

  “Doesn’t everybody? Ours contains stock certificates and some of Dorrie’s jewelry. And deeds to some property. But I don’t think your search warrant covers safe deposit boxes.”

  “I can get another one.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Simon half-smiled. “Very well, I’ll open the box for you if you insist.” He peered over Toomey’s shoulder at the computer screen. “Tell me, Lieutenant—how is knowing how much we anticipate spending on dry-cleaning this year going to help you catch Uncle Vincent’s killer?”

  Just then one of the men searching the rest of the apartment came in. “Lieutenant, I got something that looks like one of the items on the list. I found it in Mrs. Murdoch’s bureau—wrapped in a nightgown.” Using his handkerchief, he placed a small jade horse on the desk nearest Toomey.