by Barbara Paul
“What is all this?” Lionel complained. “Who said anything about changing the name?”
“I just wanted to change one letter,” Nicole sighed heavily. “I didn’t know it would be such a big deal.”
“Which letter?” Dorrie asked, curious. “What do you want the name to be?”
“Ellendy Jewels, instead of Ellandy—e in place of the a. That way instead of standing for L and D, Lionel and Dorrie, it would be L, N, D—the N for Nicole.”
Lionel rolled his eyes heavenward. “Jeez.”
But Dorrie inclined to agree with Nicole. “It seems only fair, Lionel. There are three of us now—”
“I do not agree to a name change,” Lionel said flatly. “Especially not if it’s going to cost us more money.”
“And it would,” Malcolm nodded. “In addition to being a questionable business practice, you’d have to change all your legal papers—your lease, your insurance, your tax reports.…”
“All right, all right!” Nicole said testily. “You said all that last night, at extraordinary length and in excruciating detail! Let’s just drop it, shall we?”
“Perhaps it would be better to wait,” Dorrie said in a conciliatory tone.
“For god’s sake, let’s get on with it!” Lionel snapped, not in the best of moods for the legal forming of a new partnership.
Malcolm showed them where to sign, and the three new partners sat at Lionel’s desk in turn and affixed their signatures. Nicole was the last. “That’s it?” she asked. “It’s legal now?”
“I have to file an amendment to the original registry statement,” Malcolm said, “but we don’t have to go through Common Pleas court again—that’s the slow part. The amendment will take care of everything.”
“This amendment,” Nicole said, “what does it involve?”
Malcolm slipped one set of the papers they’d signed into a mailing envelope and held it up. “It involves my dropping this envelope into the mail. Approval is virtually automatic. Don’t worry, Nicole,” he smiled, “you are a legal partner, as of this moment.”
Nicole smiled back, decided that wasn’t enough, and gave him a kiss. “Thank you, Malcolm.”
“Hey—how about the rest of us?” Lionel grinned, belatedly determining to be a good sport about the sword’s-point partnership.
Nicole kissed him lightly, exchanged hugs with Dorrie, and turned back to Malcolm. “Now it’s time to celebrate! Didn’t somebody say something about champagne?”
“I wish I could join you,” Malcolm said, “but I have an appointment I can’t break. Have a good time.”
Nicole’s face fell. “You aren’t staying? I thought you’d be staying.”
“Sorry, I can’t. I have a case going to court tomorrow morning, and this is my last chance to consult with my client. He’s suing his insurance company and I have to be sure he understands our strategy. You three celebrate.”
“But—”
Dorrie laid a hand on Nicole’s arm. “If he can’t stay, he can’t stay. Thanks for your help, Malcolm, and for getting it done so fast.”
“Yeah, we appreciate it, Malcolm,” Lionel said, opening the office door for him. Malcolm waved goodbye and left.
The minute Malcolm was gone, Dorrie and Lionel pounced on their new partner. “Where is it? Do you have it with you?”
“Whoa, wait a minute,” Nicole laughed artificially, “what’s the rush?”
“Nicole,” Dorrie said in a no-nonsense voice, “where is the note for the loan?”
Nicole licked her lips and swallowed. “I, I don’t have it.” The other two stared at her. “I never had it. I lied.” The others kept on staring at her, open-mouthed. “Somebody say something,” she finished nervously.
“You don’t have the note,” Lionel repeated dully. He looked at Dorrie, then back at Nicole, and then roared: “You don’t have the goddamned promissory note!”
“Let’s make sure we’ve got this right,” Dorrie said. “Nicole, are you saying you didn’t take the note from Uncle Vincent’s bedroom safe?”
“I’ve never even been in Uncle Vincent’s bedroom,” she said apologetically. “I have no idea where the note is. I just made that story up.”
Dorrie smiled absently, patted her curls once or twice—and blew up. She started screaming at Nicole until Ellandy’s new partner was cringing against the wall. Lionel made no move to quell the outburst, thinking Nicole deserved every word of it. Eventually Dorrie ran out of steam and stopped yelling. She paused to get her breath and asked the world at large, “Then who did take the note?”
Nicole lifted her shoulders. “I can’t see why anyone would need to steal it, other than the three of us. All I know is I didn’t take it.”
Lionel was frowning. “But … but you knew where the combination was kept,” he objected. “When we were talking about it, right after the safe had been opened, you knew the combination was written on a piece of tape stuck under the window sill. If you’ve never been in Uncle Vincent’s bedroom, how did you know that?”
“I knew because you told me, Lionel,” Nicole explained patiently. “You and Dorrie both jumped to the conclusion that I had taken the note from the safe—and I thought I’d never see another opportunity like that one. When you asked me, all I said was that I got lucky and found the combination fast. And then you mentioned it had been under the window sill, so I just embroidered on that a little. I took my cues from you.”
Lionel sank slowly into his desk chair and buried his head in his hands. “My god. God, god, god! We still owe that million and a half. One and a half million dollars!”
“About that,” Nicole said uncomfortably. “Malcolm told me we’re still liable whether the note turns up or not. Too many people know about the loan. Gretchen can take some sort of legal action, if she thinks of it. It all depends on Gretchen.”
Lionel lifted his head and stared at Nicole, blood in his eye. “Strangling. Poison. Evisceration.”
“Oh, I know how you feel,” Nicole cried. “What I did was wrong, and I feel terrible about it! But I’ll make it up to you—you’ll see! It’ll take a while, but I am determined to convince you you aren’t making a mistake taking me in.” When neither of them answered her, Nicole’s lower lip began to tremble. “Do you hate me?”
“Yes,” said Dorrie and Lionel in unison.
Nicole sighed. “Well, I can’t really blame you.”
“That’s understanding of you,” Dorrie said sarcastically. “Nicole, I was sure you were going to try to get into Uncle Vincent’s safe.”
“And I was! But you got there first, Dorrie. I drove over to Uncle Vincent’s house, but I spotted Lionel’s car parked around the corner. And right in front was another car—I guess it was Lieutenant Toomey’s. So I was sitting there in my own car wondering what to do when all these other people drove up—”
“What other people?” Lionel asked.
“I think they were more police.”
Dorrie said, “They were. Toomey sent for help to search the house, to look for the note—remember?” Lionel nodded.
“Anyway,” Nicole finished, “I got out of there as fast as I could, and the next thing I knew you two were asking me if I had the note.”
“So of course you said yes,” Lionel growled. “It didn’t occur to you simply to tell the truth.”
But Nicole had had enough of being meek and apologetic. “I do think you’re overreacting, both of you. It’s done. I’m a partner. Now we ought to be thinking about what we do next.”
“But is it done?” The beginnings of a smile appeared on Lionel’s face. “That amendment or whatever it was. Until that’s filed—”
“Malcolm’s already mailed it by now,” Nicole said quickly.
Dorrie sighed. “She’s right. Malcolm never puts things off. It’s one of his more annoying habits.” She walked over to her new partner. “Nicole, I was always in favor of taking you into the partnership—but I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for the way you made it
happen. You’re right about one thing, though. We ought to be thinking of our next move. Lionel, do you suppose you could sound Gretchen out? Find out what she plans to do about the loan?”
“That might be a mistake,” Nicole interjected before Lionel could answer. “Why plant the idea? Gretchen would never think of it on her own—she’s never shown the least interest in the business. I think our best bet is just to keep our mouths shut.”
In the end, that’s what they agreed to do.
At 9:15 the following morning, the defense in the case of Morrow vs. Springfield Mutual Life Insurance was granted a continuance, much to Malcolm Conner’s irritation. The plaintiff’s case was ready, and so, Malcolm suspected, was the defense. Just one more stall. He spent a few minutes reassuring his client before leaving the courthouse.
Back at his law offices, he was surprised to find Bjarne Pedersen waiting in the reception area. Since Malcolm now had some unexpected free time, he told Bjarne to come on into his private office.
The manservant had never been in a lawyer’s office before and was feeling a little intimidated. Malcolm noticed and tried to put him at ease by offering him a drink. “No, thank you, sir,” Bjarne said. “I don’t drink any more. Not after … not after that night.”
Malcolm understood. “A bit early in the day anyway.” Bjarne turned down coffee too; Malcolm poured himself a cup. “Now. What can I do for you, Barney?”
Bjarne hesitated, wishing Malcolm looked more like Raymond Burr. “I’m sorry to take up your time, Mr. Malcolm, but I can’t go to that Mr. Dann. He thinks I should be fired, because I … you know.”
Malcolm decided Bjarne needed a good talking to. “You mustn’t let yourself dwell on that night, Barney. It’s not healthy. What’s done is done. Vincent Farwell is dead because someone wanted him dead. All you did—”
“But he wouldn’t be dead now if I’d stayed sober and done my job!”
“You don’t know that. A man desperate enough to kill isn’t going to be stopped by a burglar alarm. If Uncle Vincent hadn’t died that night, he would have the next. Or the day after. You were negligent, that’s true. But you couldn’t have kept the old man alive if someone was determined to kill him. And someone was, obviously. The most you did was make the killer’s entrance easy for him that particular night. Don’t dwell on it, Barney. I want you to put the whole thing out of your mind.”
“But that’s just what I can’t do!” the manservant wailed. “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Malcolm. It’s the inheritance. I don’t want that money Mr. Vincent left me. It’s like getting a reward for letting him be killed! It’s not right.”
“Oh Barney, I’m sure nobody thinks of it that way,” Malcolm sighed. “You’re overwrought—understandable, given the circumstances. My own experience has been it’s better never to make any decisions at all when one is caught up in emotional turmoil of any kind. It’s always better to wait, no matter how urgent you think the matter might be. We’re all upset right now, not knowing who killed Uncle Vincent or why. And seeing the police casting a suspicious eye on us all doesn’t precisely help matters. It’s difficult to make a reasoned judgment under such conditions, and—”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Bjarne interrupted as soon as Malcolm paused for breath. “I don’t deserve that money and I can’t take it. It keeps me awake at night, worrying about it.”
Malcolm frowned. “Barney, I’m not going to do anything about this right now. I refuse to. At least wait until the police catch the killer. We’ll all have cooler heads then.”
“Do you think they will? Catch him?”
“I think they’d better. Things are getting a bit tense. But wait before you make any decision. I insist you wait.”
Bjarne looked dubious. “Well, I suppose a little longer wouldn’t make any difference.”
“Good. Things will look different once the police have made an arrest—you’ll see. Then the pressure will be off all of us. Remember, Uncle Vincent wouldn’t have left you that money if he didn’t want you to have it—”
“But he didn’t know I was going to—”
“—and I think you should honor his wishes,” Malcolm went on, interrupting the interruption. “Don’t do anything right now.”
At that moment Malcolm’s secretary buzzed to say Mr. So-and-So had just arrived and insisted on seeing Mr. Conner immediately, and Bjarne found himself being ushered out of the office with a friendly clap on the shoulder.
Right across the street from Ellandy Jewels was a minipark carved out of one city block, part of the neighborhood rejuvenation process then in full swing. The park was equipped with benches and a small fountain that worked, and had become a favorite lunchtime basking place once the weather had turned warm. The pigeons had moved in long ago.
One of the birds pecked suspiciously at the sandwich crust Lieutenant Toomey had put down for it. “Pigeons don’t like mustard,” Sal Rizzuto said knowingly.
Toomey turned his attention back to the entrance of Ellandy’s. The clientele coming and going were all well-heeled, self-confident people; you could tell that just from the way they walked. “Who turned off the lights in Uncle Vincent’s library?” he mused out loud. “The lights were on when the meddling Murdochs left at three-thirty, and Lionel Knox didn’t get there until five, at which time they were off. An hour and a half.”
“A long time,” Rizzuto said unhelpfully.
“Who was in there during that hour and a half? What did he do?”
“Or she.”
“Or she,” Toomey acknowledged. “The Murdochs messed the place up, Lionel moved the body, Gretchen cleaned the place up, and the servants moved the body back. What’s left?”
“Maybe the Murdochs went back a second time. Maybe they remembered somethin’ they shoulda done the first time.”
“Then why didn’t they say so? They admitted everything else. No, I think we’ve got the truth about the Murdochs’ felonious little expedition. Somebody else went into that library, and I think we can safely discount Barney Peterson’s mythical Mysterious Stranger.” He paused. “Malcolm or Nicole. Malcolm and Nicole? Those who prey together stay together? What were they, she, he, after?”
“Nicole coulda gone lookin’ for the promissory note,” Rizzuto said. “Malcolm coulda too, I s’pose.”
“Or Paul Bernstein’s report?”
“Naw, Lionel took that,” Rizzuto said with a certainty that made Toomey raise an eyebrow. “He was the only one still hidin’ somethin’—ever’thin’ else was out in the open. He was still keepin’ that visit to the diamond people in London a secret, right? Lionel took Bernstein’s report—or burned it, mebbe, the same time he burned that desk blotter. There warn’t no reason for those others to take it.”
Rizzuto’s laboriously fractured English was getting to Toomey again. “Nobody says warn’t,” he snapped. “‘Warn’t’ is just a funny sound invented by Charles Dickens. Nobody says it!”
“Well, excuse me,” Rizzuto huffed.
I’ll try, Toomey thought, and felt his irritation pass. Rizzuto was right about one thing: Lionel was the only one with a reason to take the private investigator’s report. “So it must have been the note they were looking for,” Toomey murmured. “Nicole and Malcolm.”
They sat staring at the entrance to Ellandy Jewels a little longer. People were beginning to leave the small park; the lunch hour was over. The pigeons stayed.
Finally Rizzuto stirred. “Bring ’er in?” he asked.
Toomey nodded. “Bring her in.”
Gretchen Knox had stopped in at Paul Bernstein’s office on her way home from lunch with Simon. Simon had been charming and attentive and obviously puzzled. Gretchen grinned; he probably didn’t know what to make of the new Gretchen.
Bernstein had been consulting with a client when Gretchen arrived, a client he speedily abandoned once he was told Mrs. Moneybags Knox was waiting to see him. Gretchen’s newfound power was still enough of a novelty for her to gloat a little over Be
rnstein’s kowtowing. Gretchen said she wanted the London detective to try again to find out what happened between Lionel and De Beers. Bernstein expressed the opinion that it would be a waste of money but agreed to make the arrangements when she insisted.
So that was two people she had digging into Lionel’s little trip to London—Bernstein with his overseas colleague and Simon Murdoch with his contacts. One way or the other, she was determined to find out what Lionel was up to.
She left her Saab in the driveway and hurried into the house. Once she’d made up her mind to move into Uncle Vincent’s house, Gretchen wanted it done fast. So she’d put the maid to packing. Most of her clothes were already over at the other house, but there were always a million things that couldn’t be left to the movers.
She’d just thrown out six pink lipsticks she was sure she’d never want to wear again when the doorbell rang. The maid was busy placing perfume bottles in a box filled with styrofoam packing material, so Gretchen ran downstairs to see who it was. “Polka Dot!” she exclaimed to the familiar figure at the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you, Miss Gretchen,” Mrs. Polk said apologetically. “I thought we’d have time after Mr. Dann finished reading the will, but you left right away and …”
Gretchen slapped a hand lightly against her cheek. “Oh, that’s right! I’m sorry, Polka Dot—I just plain forgot. Come on in. We can talk now.” She led the housekeeper into the living room where they sat on one of the lambskin-covered sofas.
Mrs. Polk opened the huge black purse she was carrying and took out a paper, which she promptly handed over to Gretchen. “I wanted to be sure you had that.”
“What is it?” Gretchen asked, unfolding the paper.
“It’s the promissory note for that loan everybody was arguing about the night Mr. Vincent got killed,” Mrs. Polk said complacently. “I was afraid somebody would try to steal it. And I was right—Miss Dorrie did try,” she finished disapprovingly.