Fashioned for Murder

by George Harmon Coxe

  “They weren’t among Mother’s things,” Linda said. “I thought I told you they were in my trunk and that I found them when I got back.”

  “Yes—I believe you did. I’d forgotten.” Sanford leaned back, his face wrinkled in thought. “It’s beyond me,” he, said. “If what you say is true, it would look as though someone recognized those pieces from that advertisement in Fashion Parade—I wish I’d seen it—and hired Franks and the Keith woman to employ you as a model and keep you busy while Franks substituted green glass for the emeralds. And in that they certainly were successful, because you never knew the difference. But that holdup in Boston—” He paused to regard Nason narrowly. “You were there, Nason. What do you think?”

  Jerry Nason put into words what he had thought for some time. “I think Franks tried to double-cross someone. I think Franks hired that guy with the idea of stealing some of the emeralds and pulling a fast one, and whoever was behind him found out about it and came with a gun to collect the rest of the stones.”

  “It must have been something like that,” Sanford said, and lapsed into silence.

  Nason glanced at Linda and found her watching him, her eyes concerned. When she made no effort to speak, he said, “What about Wylie?”

  Sanford scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s an expert, isn’t he? Could he be mistaken?”

  “It’s possible, certainly.”

  “Suppose he wasn’t mistaken. If those pieces were as valuable as he led us to believe, they must have had some history. Pieces like those just don’t happen. He knows about such things. If this was an important collection of some sort, why wouldn’t he recognize it—even without real stones? He’s been everywhere and seen nearly everything; he’s made a study of jewels—”

  “Are you suggesting that he might be the man behind this plot—if that’s what it is?”

  “It was just an idea,” Nason said. He hesitated, considered a moment, and found he rather liked the idea. “What do you think?”

  Sanford was clearing things on his desk and, in doing so, discovered the Scotch an soda. He picked it up, drained the glass, and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief from his breast pocket.

  “No,” he said and shook his head. “My first reaction would be that he is not your man.”

  “He seemed awfully evasive,” Linda said. “When we first went in he was pleasant and cheerful, but afterward—”

  “Did you ask him if he’d ever seen the pieces?”

  “Yes. He said he hadn’t.”

  “Hmm,” said Sanford. “I’d still say no. I’m not a close personal friend of his, but I know a lot about him through the Guild and people I’ve met. I’ll admit he doesn’t talk much and works in devious and mysterious ways to get the jewels he handles, but I’ve never heard him accused of any crime.”

  He sat up. “Suppose you let me have a look at those pieces tomorrow. If Wylie doesn’t know their history, it’s not likely I can help you but—”

  “I can do better than that,” Nason said. “Wait until I get my coat.” He left the room and when he came back a minute later he was taking a rolled photograph from an inside pocket. “This is a print of a shot I took of Linda in Boston. It only shows the necklace and brooch, but I’ve blown it up so you can get a pretty good idea of what they were like.”

  Sanford studied the glossy print and, when he finally spoke up, his tone was still grave. “We have some records at the Guild that may help,” he said. “Descriptions of most of the well-known pieces. I’ll keep this picture; it should be all I’ll need. I won’t be in in the morning, but, if you want to stop in after lunch, Linda, we’ll see what we can find.”

  When Jerry Nason walked into the hotel lobby, the clock over the desk pointed to one-twenty, and the only occupant of the chairs and divans, so often filled with people waiting for rooms, was a chunky, weary-eyed man named Sam Duble. Nason spotted him at once and angled toward him.

  “Been waiting long?” he said, dropping down on the divan.

  “Quite a while,” Duble said. “But it’s okay. I know the house dick. Also,” he said, “I know your friend in the gray coupé.”

  “Hah,” said Nason.

  “I picked him up outside the girl’s-house, tailed him to the restaurant on Fifty-Second, and then followed him when he tailed you to Sanford’s place. Name of Ned Gault.”

  Nason repeated the name, finding it familiar but unable at the moment to catalogue it accurately.

  “He’s in the same racket I’m in,” Duble said. “Only he does better—a hell of a lot better because he’s an expert. A jewel expert.”

  “Ahh—” said Nason, and now he knew why the name had registered in some remote recess of his memory. Ned Gault had been in the news from time to time when he was working for the Bulletin and always in relation to some page-one jewel case—in conjunction with some insurance company generally, since Gault was associated, not with robbery but with the recovery of stolen gems. “I remember him. I didn’t know he was still around.”

  “Oh, he’s around,” Duble said. “He had to stand trial three or four times for conspiracy or perjury or one thing or another, but he always came out all right. He turned up with Rosenson loot from that Long Island break last year, and a few months back he cracked that $220,000 Gates job that happened last spring in Palm Beach.”

  Nason added other things to what Duble had said. Ned Gault, he realized, would be well acquainted in the criminal world. He, like Albert Wylie, was an expert in the field of jewelry, though in a slightly different way. He might well have recognized the pieces Linda wore, assuming he had seen the picture in Fashion Parade, and certainly no one would be more interested in getting his hands on such a collection. Then, considering all this, an idea came to him and suddenly he knew what he wanted to do.

  “You got keys?” he said.

  “What kind of keys?” said Duble cagily.

  “To unlock doors and cabinets and desks—that aren’t yours.”

  “No.”

  Nason scoffed. He said he knew a private detective in Boston. “He’s got keys.”

  “What do you want ’em for?”

  “To get inside Ned Gault’s office. Do you know where it is?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Then come on.”

  He stood up, and Duble rose with him. “Wait a minute.” The detective gave him a droop-lidded scrutiny. “I got a license, you know. I want to keep it. You get caught snooping around Ned Gault’s office—or anybody else’s—and you’ll wind up in the pokey.”

  “Okay,” said Nason impatiently. “Just give me the keys and the address, and then go home and get a shot of whisky and go to bed.”

  Duble straightened his battered hat and shrugged his worn trench coat around his shoulders. He glanced at the clock and then at Nason. “I got my car,” he said, and grinned. “I guess I can drive you over without compounding a felony.” He fell in step with Nason and as they marched through the entrance he said, “I’ll probably regret it, but I’m beginning to like you.”

  The side street was practically deserted when Sam Duble turned off Sixth Avenue and let his ancient sedan roll slowly toward the middle of the block. A half-dozen cars were parked between them and the corner. Up ahead a mixed quartet of revelers was getting into a taxi, and one of the police department’s two-toned coupés rolled quietly past as Duble turned off the ignition. He jerked a thumb at it.

  “Those guys’ll be back after a while,” he said. “They may decide to ask me some questions if I’m still parked here.”

  “You don’t have to wait,” Nason said.

  “Go ahead, but make it snappy. Here are your keys.”

  Nason got out and looked at the five-story brick building where Ned Gault had offices on the third floor. “Do you think there’ll be a watchman?”

  “Naw,” said Duble, glancing over the neighborhood, which was not of the highest caliber. “I doubt if the lower door will even be locked.” He pointed to the ligh
ts on the top floor. “Somebody’s still doing business up there, and that’ll be a help.”

  A noticeable feeling of excitement began to course through Nason’s veins as he hesitated. It acted as a stimulant and counteracted somewhat the tension that had come over him, so that he felt no misgivings over the venture and was, in fact, eager to be off.

  “Okay, Sam,” he said and grinned. “How much do you figure they’ll give me if I’m caught?”

  “A nice, clean-cut guy like you with a war record?” said Sam. “About two years the hard way. Good luck!”

  Nason was on his way before the detective finished, glancing up and down the street as he crossed the sidewalk but not hesitating until he was in the doorway. Here he found that Sam had been right about the door, which opened easily and let him into a narrow hall, lighted from above.

  There was a single elevator in a grilled-iron cage, and he walked past this and started up the stairs, which angled up just beyond the shaft. His excitement climbed with him, but there was no stiffness in him now and his muscles felt loose and well-toned as he mounted swiftly upward, meeting no one on the stairs or in the third-floor hall.

  Sam Duble’s second key opened the door near the back, and he left it open to take advantage of the light from the hall until he could orient himself. He was in an outer office that looked neat, businesslike, and considerably more prosperous than the one Sam Duble maintained. There were two leather chairs and a divan for the customers, and a railing, beyond which were two desks—one with a typewriter—and a filing-cabinet.

  Listening a moment before he moved, he walked to another door on the left, which, when opened, gave into a private office somewhat more impressive than the first one. Enough light spilled in behind him so he could make out the desk lamp, and when he had turned this on, he went back through the outer office and closed the door to the hall.

  Ned Gault had a rug in his office. He had a studio couch and a nice flat-topped desk with an executive’s high-backed chair. He had two other upholstered chairs and a carafe set; he also had two filing-cabinets, and when Nason saw them, he realized for the first time just what he was up against and felt the bottom drop out of his hopes.

  Viewed reasonably, the whole business was silly. He did not know what he hoped to find, or even what he was looking for. Only his stubbornness made him reach for Sam Duble’s keys and see if he had any small ones. Sam had small ones—he had all sorts. And one of these fitted the lock on the first filing-cabinet, releasing the drawers.

  Nason opened one and found it full of folders and papers; he opened a second and third, and they were just the same. He was sweating now, and nervous, and all that stimulating excitement was gone. For he knew that to examine even briefly the contents of these cabinets, the desk, and the cabinet outside would take all night.

  And he didn’t even know what he was looking for. In desperation he opened the drawer with the E folders. He could think of nothing but emeralds, and that in itself was silly, and there was nothing about emeralds. Then, because he was stubborn and because the fates sometimes have a way of helping those who will not admit defeat, Jerry Nason got a break.

  Fortunately for him the letter L in our alphabet has a close affinity for the letter M. Nason was looking for E-m, and in doing so passed E-l; and while there was no E-m folder in Ned Gault’s file there was one whose tab was lettered E-l-c-a-z-a-r. In passing over it, looking for he knew not what, Jerry Nason caught sight of a photograph in that folder and stopped to look again, finding not one picture but three.

  He pulled them out with shaking fingers, the excitement flooding back. He took them over to the desk lamp, though he knew now what they were, and stared down at three eight-by-ten glossy prints of a necklace, bracelet, and brooch that were identical with the ones Linda Courtney had. In sharp focus and well lighted against a black background, the pieces stood out in each detail, and when he could think again, he turned them over.

  There was no notation on the back, but in his examination he noticed an odd watermarklike design, which, while noticeable from the back, did not go clear through the paper and spoil the picture. Now, holding the three photographs up to the light, he made sure of the design, his eyes in shadow and his mouth tight.

  Then, abruptly, he straightened. Stepping to the filing-cabinet, he closed it and made sure it was locked. He rolled the three photographs carefully, snapped off the light, felt his way to the connecting door, and got out fast.

  Over a cup of coffee in an all-night lunchroom, Jerry Nason showed Sam Duble the three photographs. Sam was relaxed now. He had his keys back and his license was safe—for a while—and he had absorbed a little of the infectious intensity that was now so apparent in Nason’s manner.

  “Are those the things you’re looking for?” he said, with more than usual interest.

  “In a way.”

  “That why you wanted to case Gault’s place? To get those pictures?”

  “I didn’t know what I was looking for,” Nason said. Sam sipped coffee, spilling a little on his stubble-covered chin. “What makes ’em important? The pictures, I mean?”

  “The paper they’re printed on makes them important.” Nason rolled the prints up and put them away. “That particular kind of paper was made only for export—to South America. I was down there for a couple of weeks when I was with the Bulletin, in ’40. I had to use some of it then, and asked about it.”

  “Oh,” said Sam noncommittally.

  “And so far as I know it hasn’t been exported since the war.”

  Sam said, “Oh,” again and nodded, the wrinkles digging in around his eyes. “So you figure the pictures were taken in South America before the war. That’s important, hunh?”

  “To me, it is,” Nason said. “To you, it means another job. I want you to find out everything you can, and as soon as you can—and don’t worry about cable expense —about a guy named Raoul Julian.” He described Julian; he remembered the address of the apartment hotel where Julian was staying, though he could not remember whether it was Kate or Linda who had told him, and gave it to Sam.

  Sam wrote it down and reached for his hat. “I had two winners today, kid,” he said, and winked. “I sort of like working for you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  LINDA COURTNEY CAME into the living-room of her apartment the next morning with some tissue paper in one hand and a small cardboard box, measuring about two inches by three by one, in the other. She put box and paper down beside the six green stones they had removed from the top of the lamp, and which now lay side by side on the table, and began to wrap them and pack them in the box.

  Jerry Nason sat on a chair arm watching her with troubled eyes. It was only nine-thirty, and he had phoned her from the hotel so she would be up when he came. He was not worried by the emeralds, but by the effect they had on the girl. She had been cheerful enough when she opened the door, and her smile had done some queer and wonderful things to him, but when he mentioned the emeralds, when he said he wished she would get them out of the apartment and into a safer place, her eyes had clouded and her cheerfulness evaporated.

  She had become increasingly more subdued as they talked things over. She agreed that they could no longer ignore the assumption that the green stones were emeralds and of great value. Since her place had been searched at least once, she agreed that his hotel safe might be a good place for them for the time being. Now, unable quite to understand her mood and thinking that perhaps she was not convinced, he said, “Unless you’d rather do something else with them.”

  She shook her head violently, her blond hair flying. She forced the cover on the box and began to wrap it in brown paper. “No,” she said. “I don’t care what happens to them, just so they’re out of here.”

  He got it then. “It’s your mother, isn’t it?”

  “How could she have had them?” she asked, her eyes tortured. “She didn’t have any money. She couldn’t possibly have bought them. But she did have them, Jerry. Oh, don’t you see
?”

  He knew what she meant. To her, the fact that her mother had the pieces could only mean that she had come by them dishonestly, and she was not equipped to cope with this premise.

  “You’re jumping at conclusions,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be that way.” He went to her and put his arms around her, and she did not resist but leaned against him, head down, her hair soft and fragrant against his chin. He wanted to say something else, to comfort her, but he was so moved by her distress that his throat was thick, and no words came.

  They were standing that way when someone pushed the buzzer, and he said, “Now what?” and for once was glad of the interruption.

  He went over and opened the door, and Lieutenant Treynor walked in, taking off his hat when he saw Linda. He said good morning, and his eyes were busy photographing Nason and the girl and the room.

  “Make any progress?” Nason asked.

  “Some.” Treynor put his hat on the table, the brim three inches from the package Linda had wrapped up. He studied this a moment, walked two steps past the table and turned to face them. “We got word from Boston on a holdup that happened in your studio.”

  Nason recoiled inwardly and felt the blood drain slowly from his face. He concentrated on keeping his gaze from the package on the table; he saw Linda start to turn and then continue straightening up the secretary.

  “You didn’t tell me about that,” Treynor said.

  “Didn’t I?” Nason tried to look surprised and wondered if his grin looked as stiff as it felt on his face. “Then I guess I was too worried about what happened here.”

  “The loot was three pieces of costume jewelry.” “That’s right.”

  “We picked up the holdup man last night.” Treynor’s voice remained quiet, but it could have held no more emphasis had he shouted. “An odd-job thug that could be hired for peanuts. Name of Vanada.”

  Nason swallowed and found his throat was dry. Treynor was watching him, his sandy hair neatly combed, his lean face impassive—except for the eyes. The silence expanded between them, and still Treynor waited.