by Barbara Paul
“All night, as a matter of fact,” Malcolm muttered. “That and the new Articles of Partnership.”
“Ah, yes, the new partnership—Nicole’s not wasting any time, is she?”
“You don’t approve?”
“Frankly, no. It seems to me Dorrie and Lionel ought to wait until Ellandy’s financial picture is clearer before making a change as significant as that. But Dorrie is determined, and I suppose Lionel must be too.”
“Nicole’s waited a long time, Simon,” Malcolm said with a hint of reprimand in his voice.
“So she has,” Simon smiled, and changed the subject.
Lieutenant Toomey nodded vacantly at no one in particular.
Bjarne and Mrs. Polk left in the Rolls. Then everyone was piling into cars, engines were started, the exodus was under way. Sal Rizzuto slid into the passenger seat next to Toomey.
“Well?” Toomey asked. “Who is she—the lady in the hat?”
“The undertaker’s wife,” Rizzuto said in annoyance. “She goes to alla funerals of their ‘more important clients’, she says.”
Toomey laughed, glad not to have another Mysterious Stranger to worry about. He told Rizzuto that as of one-thirty that afternoon, Nicole Lattimer would be a partner in Ellandy Jewels.
Rizzuto whistled. “A full partner?”
“Sounded like it, from what I was able to hear.”
“Why now?” the Sergeant puzzled. “How was she able to convince ’em to take her in now, with that loan business still hangin’ over their heads?”
“That is something we’re going to have to find out,” Toomey said, and started the car.
The Knoxes, Mr. Dann, and the two servants were already at Uncle Vincent’s house by the time the policemen got there. Bjarne let them in. Mrs. Polk had set up a buffet in the dining room, but no one was in there. Mr. Dann was in the living room with Lionel; Gretchen had thought using the library for reading the will would have verged on the ghoulish. The heiress herself was nowhere in sight. Godfrey Daniel came over and greeted Lieutenant Toomey, the only one in the house who seemed glad to see him.
Gretchen kept them all waiting while she changed her clothes. She came into the living room wearing white trousers and a bright yellow top. Short mourning period. “Did he make one of those video wills?” she asked Mr. Dann. The lawyer looked pained and said no.
The two Knoxes, the two servants, and the two policemen settled down to hear Mr. Dann read the will. The reading took all of two minutes. Two hefty bequests to Bjarne Pedersen and Dorothy Polk, slightly more to the latter because she’d been with the old man longer. A small legacy for the ASPCA—Godfrey Daniel’s influence, no doubt, Toomey thought. The rest of the estate went to Gretchen Knox, as expected. Total amount for Gretchen estimated in the neighborhood of twenty-two million, dependent upon a final accounting. Not sufficient to take over an airline, but enough to render the saving of grocery coupons unnecessary.
Toomey was eyeing the manservant curiously. “Bjarne Pedersen?” he asked, stumbling over the pronunciation.
“Too hard for most people,” Bjarne explained. “Just call me Barney.”
Rizzuto sniggered. “Good honest American name, huh?”
“Do I have to sign anything, Mr. Dann?” Gretchen asked. “No? Well, in that case, I have something I need to do.” And without even saying goodbye, she hurried out of the house. They heard her car start and drive away.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Polk. “I wanted to talk to her.”
Toomey said, “Mrs. Polk, does she always keep a change of clothing here?”
But it was Lionel who answered. “She’s started bringing her clothes over. Since we’ll be living here.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Mr. Dann said. “I’d hate to think of this good old house being sold and divided into apartments. Now I must go. Barney, if you would call me a cab …?”
The lawyer and the manservant went out. Mrs. Polk invited the others to help themselves from the buffet and led the way into the dining room. Sergeant Rizzuto piled a plate high with cold cuts and retired to the library. Toomey had given him two instructions. First, don’t come out until those files have been restored to order; and second, find the original report Paul Bernstein had given to Uncle Vincent.
Toomey nibbled a bit of cheese. “Are you going to mind living here?” he asked Lionel.
“No, I like the place. It’s much grander than the house we’re living in now. I simply didn’t like the way Gretchen decided we were moving without asking me what I wanted. I just got the new satellite dish up, for crying out loud.”
“Maybe that’s what inheriting twenty-two million dollars does to you. It won’t bother you, living in the house where Uncle Vincent was murdered?”
“I’m hoping it won’t bother me,” Lionel said.
Toomey picked up another wedge of cheese from the dining table. “This is good stuff—lots of bite. Let’s go out on the terrace. There’s something I want to ask you about.”
“Oh-oh,” Lionel grinned wryly, opening the dining room door that led to the terrace. “Mind the cat.”
Toomey glanced down to see Godfrey Daniel winding around his legs. Stepping carefully, the Lieutenant led the way outdoors and chose a chair for himself in the sunlight. Godfrey jumped up on his lap and started sniffing at the wedge of cheese Toomey still carried in his hand.
“He loves cheese,” Lionel said, sitting down opposite the Lieutenant. “Cheese and goose liver and fresh salmon. Hates cat food.”
“I’ve got one at home like that.” Toomey took a bite of his cheese and put the rest down on the terrace floor; Godfrey Daniel jumped down to enjoy his snack. The Lieutenant said to Lionel, “Well, now. Tell me about your visit to the De Beers people in London.”
Lionel’s mouth dropped open. “How in the hell did you know about that?”
“Uncle Vincent knew. His detective hired a London detective and you were followed. It was all in Bernstein’s report, of which I now have a copy.”
Lionel looked dazed. “Jesus. You can’t keep anything secret any more.”
“You didn’t know you were followed in London?”
“I found out about it later—I meant I couldn’t keep anything secret from you. Look, Lieutenant, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread this around. That trip to London wasn’t one of my more shining moments.”
“What happened?”
Lionel thought a moment, trying to come up with the best way of putting it. “Do you know anything about the buying and selling of diamonds?”
“Simon Murdoch told me about De Beers’ control of the market, and how only the relatively few ‘chosen’ become sight-holders.”
“Ah, that makes things easier, then,” Lionel said. “I was trying to persuade De Beers to make me a sightholder. I’ve been trying for almost two years now. It was Simon Murdoch’s idea. You see, Simon was never made a sightholder because he doesn’t process his own diamonds. The idea was for Ellandy Jewels to buy the necessary equipment and prove to the De Beers people we were serious about diamond-processing. Once I was made a sightholder, Simon would act as my representative and buy the rough diamonds, I’d finish the stones, and we’d both make a nice profit.”
“What about Dorrie Murdoch? Were you planning to squeeze her out?”
“Hell, no! When I say ‘I’, I mean Ellandy’s.”
“But you lied to her about your reason for going to England, Bernstein’s report says.”
Lionel made a face. “Hedging my bets, Lieutenant. It was a gamble, investing all that money in diamond-finishing equipment in the hopes that De Beers would smile on us. Frankly, I didn’t want Dorrie to know what I was up to. I’d already had one business failure, and I was afraid she might start having second thoughts. So it just seemed better to keep her in the dark. Simon went along—he agreed not to tell her either.”
“But when you started buying the new equipment, didn’t she—”
“She was all for it. Designers love seeing the
ir work all the way through the process, Lieutenant, and that includes finishing the stones as well as constructing the mountings. Both my ‘creative’ partners were in favor of buying the equipment.” Lionel grinned wryly. “We’re making Nicole a partner.”
Toomey nodded. “Why now?”
“Oh, she threatened to leave if we didn’t.”
Toomey was sure Nicole had threatened something. Godfrey Daniel finished his cheese and leaped back up to the Lieutenant’s lap, sniffing for more. “That’s all there is, kitty.” Godfrey lay down, stretching out the length of Toomey’s thighs to stare at Lionel. “So what happened in London?”
Lionel groaned. “It was a fiasco. They said Ellandy’s wasn’t financially stable enough. And the way they said it—they made it painfully clear I was out of my league. Hell. I felt like a country singer auditioning at the Metropolitan Opera. The whole thing was a mistake—we should never have done it.”
“So is this a setback for Simon Murdoch as well as for you?”
“It’s not really a setback for Ellandy’s—more like a failed opportunity. We still have the equipment and that’s worth a lot, whether we sell it or use it. As for Simon—I can’t tell about Simon. He’s hard to figure sometimes.”
“In what way?”
“Well, he’s not like most of the men in the business I’ve met. Diamond merchants are a queer breed, Lieutenant. They’re all intense, competitive men whose whole life is made up of the buying and selling of diamonds. They’re not interested in anything at all except trading those stones … and maybe sex. But they don’t do anything else—they don’t read, they don’t go to the theater, nothing. The only thing in life that matters to them is diamonds. But Simon’s not like that. He’s not obsessed the way the rest of them are; his life is more balanced. He has other interests.”
“Like buying real estate.”
“Yeah, like that. And like leaving himself time to have some fun. He and Dorrie play a lot. But the successful men in the business are diamond merchants twenty-four hours a day. No time off, for anything.”
“Do you think that could be part of the reason De Beers turned you down?” Toomey asked. “Maybe they sensed that same lack of obsession in you.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Lionel grinned wryly. “They know I’m not one of the clan.”
Just then Mrs. Polk appeared at the terrace door. “Mr. Lionel—telephone. It’s Miss Dorrie.”
“Probably wants to know when I’m going to get back to work,” Lionel sighed. “Excuse me, Lieutenant.”
Toomey watched him go indoors. According to what the Murdochs told him yesterday about Uncle Vincent’s body, rigor mortis had already started by the time they returned to the library. By five o’clock, when Lionel got there, it was well advanced. That put the time of death back to ten-thirty or eleven, just as the medical examiner had estimated. That meant Lionel Knox had to be innocent.
Toomey was glad. All six of his suspects were attractive people who were very much products of their times: they were over-kempt, they drove BMWs or Saabs or Mercedeses (what an awkward word in the plural) and they had the kind of energy successful people of the eighties were supposed to have. Too, they were all narcissistic to some degree. But Lionel … Lionel was a little less beautiful than the other five. He worked harder, he worried more. And he sweat. Not fashionable workout sweat, but sweat sweat. Lionel was the one Toomey could feel a kinship to.
Godfrey Daniel was purring contentedly in his lap. Toomey closed his eyes and tilted his head back, enjoying the warm sun on his face. Lionel and Nicole and Dorrie had alibis. Mrs. Polk and Barney had no motive. The field was definitely down to three. Sergeant Rizzuto still suspected Gretchen, but Toomey thought it had to be one of the two men.
“There you are, Lieutenant—I been lookin’ ever’where for you.” Toomey opened his eyes to see Rizzuto looming over him. “I finished puttin’ the file back in order, like you said,” the Sergeant told him, “but there ain’t no private investigator’s report in those papers. Not a sign of it.”
Toomey sat up straight, unbalancing Godfrey Daniel, who dropped complaining to the terrace floor. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I checked twice. There’s a letter from Paul Bernstein confirmin’ financial details of their arrangement, but no report on what he found out.”
“Hm. Since Uncle Vincent had it earlier in the evening—”
“That means one of ’em took it. One of the Knoxes or the Murdochs, when they went back and messed things up.”
“Or Mrs. Polk,” Toomey sighed, “who doesn’t seem to balk at tampering with evidence either.”
“Naw, not Mrs. Polk. There wasn’t nothin’ about her in that report. And ever’body knew about Nicole and Lionel’s affair, ’cause Uncle Vincent told ’em about it. So why would anybody bother stealin’ Bernstein’s report? What was in there that they didn’t all know about anyway?”
Lionel’s surreptitious visit to De Beers, Toomey thought immediately. Only Simon Murdoch had known about that, and he and Lionel had agreed to keep quiet about it.
And Simon was the one who didn’t have an alibi.
12
Oh gawd, Simon Murdoch moaned inwardly when he saw Gretchen Knox standing in the doorway. He’d thought he was safe in his own office.
But it seemed Gretchen hadn’t come to flirt or suggest lunch or anything potentially awkward like that. She had a sporty look, white trousers and yellow top, but somehow she didn’t seem out of place in Simon’s rather formal office. “I want to know,” she said, sitting down in the chair Simon offered her, “whether Ellandy’s buys diamonds from De Beers in London.”
Simon wondered why she hadn’t asked her husband. “Not directly, no. I sometimes buy De Beers diamonds from other merchants and resell them to Ellandy’s. The stones may have changed hands a dozen times before they get to me.”
Gretchen thought a minute. “And every time the diamonds change hands, the price goes up?”
Simon smiled at her sudden interest in business. “That’s the way it works.”
“Then wouldn’t it make more sense to buy directly from De Beers?”
“A great deal more sense.” Simon explained to her why that wasn’t possible, why only sightholders were permitted to buy directly from De Beers. “That’s why I make so many trips to Antwerp,” he finished. “To get hold of as many diamonds as I can that De Beers doesn’t control.”
“I see.” Gretchen asked a few more questions, until she had at least a good surface understanding of how the traffic in diamonds flowed.
All the time he was answering her, Simon kept thinking there was something different about Gretchen, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She’d never shown any concern for business affairs before, so her visit caught him by surprise. “Why this extraordinary interest in diamonds, Gretchen?” he asked.
“Lionel went to the De Beers place in London,” she said. “That time he told everybody he wanted to check on some relative or other. Now why would he do that if he’s not a sightholder?”
Simon’s face darkened. After a moment, he said, “Because he has aspirations toward becoming a sightholder, obviously. Well, well … isn’t this an interesting development? Our Lionel, a De Beers sightholder. Who’d have thought an ex-florist would set his sights so high?”
There was no missing the sarcasm in his voice. “It would be good for Ellandy’s, though, wouldn’t it?” Gretchen asked.
“It would be a disaster for Ellandy’s, and almost a disaster for me. Lionel doesn’t know doodleysquat about diamonds—I always deal directly with Dorrie or Nicole. Lionel’s forte is juggling debits and credits and getting loans and finding tax write-offs and other undoubtedly fascinating endeavors in a similar vein. But he’s no expert in diamonds.”
“Why would it be almost a disaster for you?”
“Ellandy’s is one of my biggest customers, remember. Your dearly beloved husband is doing his damnedest to cut me out.”
“W
ell, that answers one question,” Gretchen said matter-of-factly. “Why he lied to everybody about his reason for going to England.”
“Just a moment—how do you know Lionel visited De Beers? Did he tell you?”
“No, Paul Bernstein told me.” She explained about the private investigator’s report and how he’d provided her with a copy—at her request. “He’ll be reporting to me from now on.”
Simon suddenly realized what it was about Gretchen that seemed different; she was sounding more and more like dear dead Uncle Vincent. “Have you confronted Lionel with it yet?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Don’t, then—not for a while. Let me ask around first, see if my contacts know anything.”
“Why? What good will that do?”
Simon spread his hands. “All we know for certain is that Lionel called on De Beers. We don’t know whether De Beers said yes or no.”
“It must have been no. It’s been four months—”
“Means nothing, Gretchen. De Beers thrives on keeping its supplicants waiting. They may still be considering his application. Let me see what I can find out.”
Gretchen thought about it a minute, and then agreed. She stood up. “I don’t know what all this means, but the underhanded way Lionel’s gone about it makes me suspect he’s up to no good. I’ll leave it in your hands for the time being. Right now, you may take me to lunch.” She walked out of the office.
Startled, Simon had no choice but to follow.
Malcolm Conner was placing papers neatly across Lionel Knox’s desk. “These are the same Articles of Partnership I drew up the first time,” Malcolm explained, “except that now three partners are listed instead of two. Concomitant changes have been implemented throughout, such as three-way liability and tax responsibility, and of course the division of profits into thirds. Everything else remains the same,” he glanced at Nicole, “including the fictitious name of the business.”
“One letter,” Nicole grumbled.
“One letter or a dozen, the cost of changing the name is the same,” Malcolm said, “and it’s exorbitant. I advised Nicole and I advise you two,” looking at Dorrie and Lionel, “to wait until you are free of debt before indulging in luxuries such as name-changing. Also, I question the wisdom of changing an established name at all. Besides which, the consent of all three partners is—”