Fashioned for Murder

by George Harmon Coxe

  Nason saw all this through the glass door of the lunchroom; then he had it open and was sprinting for the gate. He started to call out, changed his mind when he realized it would do no good, that he could not reach the gate in time.

  Linda was fifty feet beyond it now, still hurrying. The man with the paper squeezed past the gateman as that worthy signaled ahead and slid the barrier closed. Nason kept going. He stopped at the gate, and the attendant shook his head and said, “Sorry, mister. You’re too late.”

  Nason looked through the uprights, watching Linda get on the third coach from the rear as conductor and trainmen chorused, “All aboard.” The man with the paper stopped at the second coach, and just before he swung up the steps he glanced back. He had a broad, blunt face, a stocky body, and even at that distance his mustache looked thick and bushy.

  Nason turned away. He jay-walked across Dewey Square, heading for his studio, a sort of nameless fear growing in his mind when he reviewed what had happened and remembered what Linda Courtney had told him about the gray coupé and the man with the bushy mustache.

  Chapter Four

  LINDA COURTNEY’S TRAIN was on time and when she came up the ramp at the west side of Grand Central at 12:15 she saw Paul Sanford standing behind the line that had been strung there. He saw her when she waved and ducked under the line to meet her, a slender, good-looking man in his late forties in a dark-gray coat and black Homburg, which he doffed as he reached for her hatbox.

  “Linda,” he said, taking her arm. “What were you doing in Boston?”

  “I was on a job,” Linda said. “I was afraid you might not get my wire.” She squeezed his arm. “You were sweet to meet me.”

  She let herself be led through the corner of the waiting-room to the taxi tunnel. While they waited their turn she felt Paul Sanford inspecting her and turned to smile at him.

  “You look tired,” he said. “Did you go up this morning? Well, no wonder. Would you like a drink or a sandwich before you go home?”

  “A drink would be wonderful,” Linda said. “I ate on the train.”

  A cab stopped for them, and she sank gratefully back on the cushions, aware of her weariness now but not minding it because it was so wonderful to feel safe again. For the first time that day she really felt relaxed and secure against the world, and it occurred to her that she would always feel this way with Paul Sanford, not only because he had been a friend of her mother’s and acted as executor of her will, but because she, Linda, could talk to him and know that he understood.

  It was a feeling that had its roots in the past, and as her mind went back she remembered how, as a girl, she had called him Uncle Paul. She never knew quite why, except that he used to stop at the apartment now and then, always with some little present for her. He was not, she knew, a suitor for her mother’s hand; there had been no suitors since her father died more than ten years ago. But Sanford had come to talk with her mother and advise her and to ask, she remembered, for advice about his own affairs of heart. He had been married to some actress and was in the process of a divorce when she first knew him, and after that there had been a singer, a union which had lasted three or four years.

  In those days Sanford had traveled a lot, which was perhaps why she had remembered the presents he had brought. But during the war and for a year or two before that he had come less frequently to the house and busied, himself with his law business, which dealt chiefly with real estate and theater contracts, possibly because the theater was a hobby of his—an expensive one sometimes when he backed a play that flopped. In any case he knew a lot of people and he had seen to it that she met those who might be of help. As attorney for the Jewelers’ Guild he had introduced her to Kate Harper, and though he had never said so, she knew he had been instrumental in getting her work with that organization.

  The last job had, in fact, been the one that Jerry Nason had worked on, and now her mind sliding off on a tangent, she recalled what had happened that afternoon. Able now in the semidarkness of the taxi to consider things honestly, she found herself wondering if Nason had been sincere when he said he had not received the message she had left at his hotel.

  Such things happened in these days of limited reservations and inexperienced help, and though it had not occurred to her before, she saw that, if true, Nason did indeed have good reason to be hurt and angry. She could understand his checking out without leaving any word, and thinking back she was bothered by this because she remembered their evening together and had thought of it so many times during the past week.

  Never had she had a more pleasant time or been with a man she more admired. She had liked his rugged good looks, the line of his mouth and jaw, the way his smoky-blue eyes looked at you. He knew how to do the little things that women liked—to order properly, to get along with waiters, to tip generously but not foolishly. He was a good listener. He had the gift of making it appear that what you said was important, and above all he did not paw you—intentionally or accidentally—nor expect to be paid off by taxi wrestling or doorway necking. But—

  Unconsciously her chin came up and her mouth tightened, for she was thinking now about the way he had treated her that afternoon and the way he had laughed, not trying to understand but being smug and superior, deliberately not believing her story because—

  “I’m sorry, Paul,” she said. “I wasn’t listening.”

  “I said, how did it go today?”

  “All right—for a while.”

  “Who were you working with?”

  “Jerry Nason,” Linda said. “He was the one Kate Harper had down from Boston.”

  “I remember him,” Sanford said.

  “I went up with a couple from here,” Linda said. “I’ll tell you about it when we get our drink.”

  At twelve-thirty the main room at Twenty-One was noisy and fairly well crowded. The line at the bar was solid and unbroken, stags mostly, but there were some vacant tables. Where Linda and Paul Sanford sat along the wall it was more quiet, and she was able to talk without raising her voice.

  The Scotch and water had helped, but the weariness had started to come back, and she made her story brief, giving no background but relating simply the physical facts of the holdup and what had followed.

  When she finished, Paul Sanford continued to stare at her for several seconds.

  “That’s the damnedest thing I ever heard of.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “But I don’t. undertand it.” Sanford’s brows bunched, and his brown eyes were perplexed. “What were these costume pieces, Lin?”

  “Just heavy-looking, ornate things with big green stones.”

  “But, I mean—” Sanford hesitated, put his thoughts in order, and tried again—“I mean why haven’t I seen them?”

  “I never wore them but once—when I did an ad for Benson’s Satins.”

  “But you said they were your mother’s. I listed everything I found in her effects. Everything. And I didn’t see any costume pieces like those.”

  “No,” Linda said. “They weren’t among her things. They were in my trunk. She put them there while I was away.”

  Sanford took a breath, expelled it noisily. “And they had no value,” he said, half to himself.

  “According to Mother, none. Or at least very little.”

  Sanford finished his drink and put the glass down. After a moment a smile erased the puzzled lines in his face. “It doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  Linda started to say no. She started to say she had been thinking the same thing for hours; that before that Jerry Nason and a certain Boston sergeant had indicated exactly the same conclusion. But before she could make up her mind a shadow appeared before her, and she glanced up as two men stopped in front of the table.

  The younger of the two, a man of thirty or so, was tall, handsome, and well built. His face was smoothly dark, and so was his neat and well-kept mustache. His eyes were black and deep-set and at the moment they were smiling down at Linda.


  “Where have you been?” he said, as though he had every right to ask. “I tried to get you all day.”

  Linda smiled back at him, a little tiredly and without enthusiasm. “Hello, Raoul,” she said. “I was in Boston. Hello, Mr. Wylie.”

  Albert Wylie bowed and shook hands with her and with Paul Sanford. He was a round-faced man with thinning hair, pale, bright eyes, and expressive hands, one of which waved a long black cigarette holder.

  “When are you going to work for me?” he said to Linda. His voice was soft but somewhat thick, though not with any accent. “To pose with some of my pieces.”

  “Whenever you like,” Linda said.

  Paul Sanford cleared his throat. “Linda has been telling me the most amazing story,” he said. “I think you would be interested, Albert.”

  He got that far before Wylie’s younger companion took over. His name was Raoul Julian, and he was still watching Linda. When he spoke he ignored the others and what Sanford was about to say, his manner suggesting it was a habit of his and based upon a self-assurance and ready charm that he was fully aware of.

  “We had a date for lunch,” he, said to Linda.

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “On Wednesday,” Julian said, as though he had not heard, “I am fortunate to meet you, and there is a little time to get acquainted. But on Thursday,” he added smoothly, in a voice that was precise, well trained, and more noticeable for its old-world choice of words than for its accent, “you are unavailable. On Friday you are busy, and Saturday night you have a previous engagement. On Sunday when I telephoned, you said we could have lunch on Monday.”

  “On Tuesday,” said Linda, and smiled in spite of herself because she knew there was no misunderstanding on Julian’s part but only his desire to make it appear so. “Tuesday, and you know it,” she said.

  Then, as some movement caught her eye, she saw Albert Wylie wave to a couple at another table. “Excuse me,” he said and backed away. He said good night to Sanford and told Linda he would get in touch with her soon.

  Julian did not glance round. His black eyes were still merrily busy with the girl, and now he said, “Tomorrow is fine. I’ll call for you at twelve-thirty.” He leaned stiff-armed on the table. “Now, what about tonight? It is still early. If you can get rid of this man, Sanford, we can go somewhere and—”

  Linda’s laugh cut him off and he joined with her, because he was not really serious and knew that she knew it. He cocked an eye at Sanford. “I’m sure you would not object to this,” he said in his precise, polite-sounding way.

  Linda saw that Paul Sanford was not amused. His smile was halfhearted, and she decided he resented the interruption, which prevented him from telling Albert Wylie her story.

  “Go away,” he said to Julian. “Linda’s had a long day and she’s going home right now—with me.”

  Julian straightened and shrugged expressively. “It is a pity,” he said with exaggerated sadness. “But if that is your last word, I will leave.” He winked at Linda. “Tomorrow noon,” he said and went away.

  Riding uptown in the taxi, Paul Sanford was unusually silent, and after a few blocks Linda said, “What is it, Paul? Still thinking about my holdup?”

  “What?” Sanford had been staring out the windows, and now he turned to her. “As a matter of fact, I was. I suppose it could have been a coincidence, the thief coming in just when he did, but—”

  He did not finish his thought, and Linda did not prompt him, because something made her think of Albert Wylie and Raoul Julian and how little she really knew about either of them.

  “What do you know about Mr. Wylie?” she asked presently.

  “Wylie?” Sanford thought it over. “Not much. I heard about him when I was in Paris in ’29. I don’t know where he came from originally, but he was an expert long before that. I think he worked for Cartier in Paris for a while before he started out for himself.”

  He hesitated a moment and said, “I understand he did business out of his pocket at first. You know, with a few stones or pieces, selling one and buying a bigger one until finally his pockets weren’t big enough and he had to open a small shop. He came over here in ’34 or ’35, I think, when everyone was selling jewels for what they would bring, and what made him a success was not only his knowledge of gem stones and the history of most collections, but that he knew the right people.”

  “He’s not a collector, is he?”

  “No. He knows values and he buys when the price is right, but not to collect for himself—to sell at a fat profit. You know how it is. The Duke of So-and-So has a piece worth a hundred and fifty thousand that he wants to sell; he comes to Wylie. If Lady Highhat—or her husband—has eighty thousand to put into something good, he calls up Wylie, and if Wylie hasn’t got it, he knows where he can get it. That’s where chaps like Raoul Julian come in.”

  “Really?” said Linda, not understanding but still curious. “Have you known him long?”

  “He was here in New York last year,” Sanford said. “I met him then. I haven’t seen him in months. Forgot all about him, to tell the truth, until I ran into him last week.”

  “And he’s a customer of Mr. Wylie’s.”

  “Hah!” said Sanford, pouncing verbally upon the remark. “Decidedly not. He’s a playboy from all I can gather. If you don’t find him here you’ll find him in Miami Beach or Havana or Hollywood, playing bridge for high stakes and picking up fast money wherever he can. The point is, he knows people who have money to spend in sufficient amounts to interest Albert Wylie. He’s a bird dog, a contact man. He finds out who wants to buy or sell an important bracelet or ring or brooch, and if Wylie makes the deal Julian gets his cut.”

  “Oh,” said Linda. “He sounds sort of foreign, doesn’t he? The way he talks—so correct and sort of stilted, though you never think of him that way. I rather like him,” she added thoughtfully.

  “That’s his business. Making women like him. The personification of manly charm,” Sanford said and reached for the door handle as the cab stopped.

  He got out and handed out Linda’s bag. He would have carried it for her if she had let him.

  “No,” she said. “Really, Paul. I carry it all the time. I’ll see you soon,” she said when she had convinced him. “And thanks for meeting me—and the drink.”

  She heard the cab start off as she entered the foyer, and while she waited for the automatic elevator to carry her to the third floor, she realized again how very tired she was. The things that had happened and the things that had been said were not important now, and she made up her mind as she unlocked the door that she would think no more about them until morning.

  She got the door open, picked up her hatbox, and trudged into the darkened living-room. She put the hatbox down with a sigh and slipped out of her coat before she bothered with the door or the light. She took off the beanie and tossed it on the coat; then she switched on the floor lamp by the secretary and looked about her, eyes slowly widening and her breath held.

  She noticed the secretary first, the mess of papers in the desk part, the open lower drawers, which had been ransacked until some of her things had spilled over on the floor. She turned, jaw sagging now and unable yet to think, seeing the scattered cushions of the sofa, the upholstered chair that had been upended.

  With a stifled cry she ran along the short inner hall connecting the living-room and kitchen and turned into the bedroom. When she snapped on the light, the opened drawers and scattered clothes and disordered confusion of the bed and vanity told her that here, too, the room had been completely and thoroughly searched.

  Then, not entering, but remembering the open door, she walked slowly back along the hall and across the living room. She closed the door, making sure it was locked and then, because she was so tired and so many things had happened that she did not understand, she covered her face and began to cry, quietly and without knowing what she was doing.

  Chapter Five

  LINDA COURTNEY DREAMED she was in a C
-47 flying over Luzon. She had started with a load of ambulatory patients and fallen asleep and now, waking up, she was alone and something had gone wrong with one of the motors so that instead of its even, full-throated roar there was only a high, frightening whine. When she tried to get into the pilot’s compartment she found it locked and the whine was louder; the ship was falling off on one wing—

  She was sitting bolt upright in bed when she opened her eyes, and in that first second she did not know they were open because it was still dark and the whine was real and insistent. Only when it stopped did she remember where she was and identify the sound as the door buzzer, and, knowing it was no dream, an odd sense of fear took hold of her.

  All the memories of the past twenty-four hours came flooding back. She pulled up her knees and hugged them, shivering a little as she glanced about. The curtains bellied gently in the night air where the window was open, and in the sky the first faint traces of gray were appearing.

  Then the buzzer droned away the silence, and she glanced at the clock.

  It was 4:25, and she was still scared. She promised herself she would not go to the door. Something told her the buzzer had been ringing quite a while before she awoke, and now, when it stopped, she told herself it would not sound again. She willed whoever it was to go away and waited, taut-nerved and motionless. She remained obdurate when the sound came again, but this time it did not stop. She could not fight back or silence it, and presently she could stand it no longer.

  Angrily now, wanting to scream if only to drown out the monotony of that noise, she swung her feet to the floor and groped for her mules. She rose and grabbed her robe, slipping her arms into the sleeves as she clopped down the hall and into the living-room. The buzzing was louder here, and when she reached the door she pounded on it.

  “Stop that” she said. “Stop it!”

  The buzzing stopped and a muffled but familiar voice called, “Linda—It’s me, Linda—Jerry Nason.”

  “Go away.” said Linda, her fears gone and resentment rising.