“Well,” Nason said. “That’s swell.”
“He talked,” Treynor said. “A little. He said he’d been hired by Norman Franks and told where to come and what to do.”
He waited again.
Nason wanted to sit down, but the lieutenant’s steady gaze held him.
“He gave the three pieces to Franks,” Treynor said, “and was paid off. Franks was murdered. We didn’t find anything on him or in his office.” Treynor smiled thinly; then he lowered the boom. “So, how about me having a look at that stuff you had in your pocket the other night?”
Nason could not speak in that first moment, but he glanced at Linda, who was standing by the secretary, her young face crumbling. Then, as though a silent signal passed between them, making it clear to both that any further delay would simply be a waste of time, she put her chin up and said, “Certainly, Lieutenant. I’ll get them.”
Nason sat down on the arm of a chair because he no longer trusted himself to stand. He got out a cigarette, seeing now a certain grim humor in the situation. He had been skating on thin ice, and it had cracked wide open, and he found himself wondering what sort of a cell they would give him and if any of his old friends on the Bulletin would send him cigarettes. He was all set to take it when Linda came back; then he got a look at her face as she stopped in the doorway and jumped to his feet.
She seemed to be bracing herself, one hand on the casing. She looked wide-eyed from him to Treynor and back again, her face bewildered, her lips parted.
“What is it, honey?” Nason said.
“They’re gone,” she said. “They’re not here any more.”
Treynor was already moving, the color rising in his neck and his gaze narrow, exasperated. It was obvious that he did not believe her, that he suspected a trick, but he still had control of his voice.
“Mind if I have a look?”
“No,” Linda said. “Go ahead.”
She started to move into the room so Treynor could pass, but he stopped abruptly and jerked his head at Nason. “We’ll all look,” he said, “and then there won’t be any complaints. When did you see them last?” he demanded. “Where’d you put them?”
Linda told him, and then they were in the bedroom, Linda sagging down on the bed and Nason dropping beside her while Treynor got to work on the vanity table.
Nason watched, fascinated, feeling all weak inside because he still did not believe it, and neither, he felt, did Treynor. But at least Linda had not lied about the vanity. It yielded nothing, and when Treynor was sure, he went expertly through the chest and bedside table. He asked them to get up while he examined the bedclothes and mattress and pillows, his face pink now and tight all over as he straightened and opened the closet door.
The bathroom was next, but three minutes were all he needed here, and then he was going into the kitchen, Nason and the girl trailing him and saying nothing. Still in something of a trance, they watched him go over the room, opening drawers and cabinets and poking into the containers for coffee and sugar and tea and spices. He opened the window and glanced out on the fire escape, and finally, when there was nowhere left to look, he went back to the living-room and repeated the performance.
When, fifteen minutes later, he finally gave up, his face was red and moist and his gaze was bright and unpleasant. His voice was different, too, and was no longer quiet, but terse and abrupt.
“You took them somewhere outside,” he said, his thin mouth barely moving.
“We did not,” said Linda spunkily. “I told you the truth and—”
“It’s not the first time it happened,” Nason said, and explained how the apartment had been ransacked the day Linda was in Boston.
Treynor pounced on that, too. “Why didn’t you report it?”
“Well—nothing was missing.”
“But when you came in last night, you didn’t notice anything wrong, huh?”
“No,” said Linda. “I didn’t. It was late and I went right to bed and—” She broke off, a sudden whiteness suffusing her cheeks and terror growing in her gaze.
For Treynor, standing by the table, was picking up the little package of emeralds, turning it over, idly balancing it in his palm to estimate its weight. Without moving his head, he angled his eyes up, and now his voice was quiet again.
“What’s this?”
Nason was whipped. The strain finally got him, and, because he could think of no other answer, he wanted to shout, “Emeralds, damn you! Six of them!” He had it on the tip of his tongue to say so when Linda spoke up, and she was magnificent.
“A pair of earrings,” she said with measured coolness. “A gift for a friend of mine.”
Nason stared at her, amazed at her assurance, wanting to hug her, afraid of what came next—but not for long.
“I’m afraid the box isn’t quite large enough to hold the bracelet or the necklace,” she said, her voice still cool and mildly disdainful, “if that’s what you have in mind. But I imagine one could cram the brooch in there. Why don’t you look, Lieutenant? Then you’ll be sure we’re not lying.” She gave him a smile that was as superior as her voice. “You won’t mind doing it up again, will you?”
Treynor bunched his lips, and, though he seemed ready to explode, it never came off. For he knew when he was being needled—or so he thought—and he had no intention of being played for a fool. There was only one way to cope with such an attitude, and he was unwilling to take the risk. So, while Nason stood there holding his breath, Treynor tossed the box aside.
As though to demonstrate an unruffled assurance of his own, he said, “If it was just a little larger—and heavier—I’d take you up on that, Miss Courtney.” He swept up his hat, clapping it on as he stepped to the door. He looked them over once more. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Nason heard the steps in the hall and then the hum of the elevator. He had a hard time holding himself back. He wanted to shout for joy and tell Linda how wonderful she was; instead he did something that was even more effective. One stride took him close to her, and an instant later he as hugging her hard and kissing her emphatically, not the kiss of a lover, with tenderness or passion, but exuberantly and impulsively, so that there was no mistaking how he felt.
In a way he was as surprised as she was and, because he wanted no reaction, he gave her no time to show how she felt. Turning her as he released her, he gave her a shove toward the bedroom.
“I love you,” he said. “Get your coat, baby. We’ve got things to do.”
Albert Wylie lived in a narrow-front house in the Sixties, and when Linda and Jerry rang shortly before ten-thirty, the door was opened by a pleasant-faced colored man in a white jacket, who, upon looking them over, told them they could go upstairs.
“I’ll tell Mr. Wylie you’re here,” he said, motioning them toward the gracefully curving staircase. “You can wait in the library. It’s the room at the front.”
Nason unrolled the three photographs he had taken from Ned Gault’s office as they climbed the stairs. Like that excursion, he had no definite idea of just what he wanted to do here, and the only thing he could tell Linda was that he wanted to look around. He did not believe the things Wylie had said, and, since he was like a man grabbing at straws, all he hoped to do now was find some confirmation for his hunch. These photographs would be excuse enough for the call, and now, stepping into the dark-walled library, he began at once to examine the volumes stacked the length of one side.
He saw that the books were arranged alphabetically, and walked swiftly along, his eyes busy until he spotted one which said: South America on its back. He stopped, finding several volumes so designated; he saw one that said: South American Gems, and then, hearing footsteps on the stairs, he turned quickly to Linda and handed her the photographs.
“Get him out of here,” he whispered. “Tell him you’d like to speak to him alone and then show him these pictures. Ask him if he can tell whether the stones in them are real.”
Albert Wyl
ie entered a moment later, dressed for the street. His round face was smooth and pink from shave and lotion, and he rubbed his well-kept hands together as he advanced. He said good morning, but his pale eyes did not join in his smile of greeting, remaining wary as they moved from one to the other and he waited for them to speak.
“We phoned your office,” Nason said. “They told us you hadn’t come in yet so we took a chance of finding you here. Miss Courtney has something she wants to show you.”
“Yes,” Linda said, and with the proper hesitation added, “You’ll excuse us, Jerry?”
She was walking toward Wylie as she spoke, unrolling the photographs, taking it for granted that he would go with her. With such a performance, Wylie had no choice but to follow, and, to make it quite perfect, Linda reached behind her and closed the door.
Nason listened a moment, but there was no sound now, so he stepped to the volume on South American gems, remembering the name Elcazar and starting to search for the index. As he did so, the book opened slightly, and he saw then that a sheet of paper had been inserted there.
When he spread the book wide, the sheet became a folded page from a magazine, but even then Nason was ill-prepared for what he saw. For, when he opened the page, it became the photograph of Linda, which had been neatly cut from Fashion Parade, and he wasted a few seconds staring at it and examining the clean-cut edge. Then, remembering other things, he glanced down at the book, and there on the page before him was a subhead which read: The Elcazar Emeralds.
He did not get much farther. It was nothing that he heard, but rather something that he felt, an instinctive warning that someone was near. It was well that he obeyed the impulse, that he dropped the folded sheet into its place and replaced the book; for, as he put it back on the shelf, the doorknob turned, and he was barely able to get his back to the wall and assume an innocent expression when the door swung open.
Linda came in first. “He can’t tell,” she said, indicating the photographs.
“It’s very difficult, you know,” Wylie said. “The one way to be sure about emeralds is to see and feel them.”
“I was afraid it would be like that,” Nason said, as though it did not matter. He walked toward the door, stopped. “Did you ever hear of the Elcazar collection?”
He was watching Wylie closely as he spoke, but if anything happened in those pale eyes it was so well hidden as to be unnoticeable. “Yes,” the jeweler said.
“Did you ever see it?”
“No.” Wylie tipped one hand in mid-air. “Unfortunately that was one collection so closely held I could never manage to examine it.”
“Ever see pictures of it?”
Wylie smiled, and Nason realized it was a silly question. He had a feeling, too, that this was the same evasive Wylie who had talked to them the day before.
“You’re referring, of course, to those photographs.” Wylie indicated the prints in Linda’s hand. “And under the circumstances I can only say no—never authentic pictures. I’ve read descriptions of the collection,” he said in the patient manner of an expert talking to a layman, “but the only way anyone could be sure would be to examine the actual pieces.”
“But there is a similarity between the description and those photographs.”
“Some,” said Wylie. “Yes.”
Nason thanked him for his trouble. Linda thanked him and he said it was no trouble at all. Then, as they turned to go, he said, “Would you mind telling me where you got them?”
“The pictures?” Nason said, sparring for time. “I took them,” he said as a crazy idea came to him, “from the pieces Linda showed you yesterday.”
Wylie remained politely interested. He nodded. He said that was what he thought. What he did not say was, “Well, if that is true, why did you bother me with photographs of something I had already examined?”
Nason thought of this after he spoke, and he touched Linda’s arm and started her down the stairs, because he knew Wylie was not fooled and did not want to give him a chance to say so. They went out on the sidewalk and turned toward the Avenue, not saying a word until they reached the corner. Here Linda stopped.
“What should we do?” she said. “He was lying.”
“Sure, he was lying,” Nason said, and told her of the Fashion Parade page he had found in the book, though he made no mention of the Elcazar emeralds.
“Should we tell the police?” Linda asked. “I guess we can’t,” she said, answering herself. “We don’t know anything, do we? Actually, that is?” She smiled to herself, a little grimly. “We haven’t exactly told the truth ourselves, have we?”
Chapter Fifteen
THE STREET WHERE IRENE KEITH LIVED was between Second and Third Avenues—a block of brownstones, which for the most part had deteriorated into rooming-houses. There were a few areaway shops and neighborhood stores with apartments above, but mostly the high, steep stairs mounted to painted wooden doors, many of which stood open, for the day was warm and bright.
Sam Duble braked his car near the corner while Jerry Nason checked the numbers with the slip of paper Linda had given him. When he saw that the house he sought was in the middle of the block on the opposite side, he told Duble to turn off the motor. Then, instead of getting out, he sat there and took time to review the things he had done that morning and to wonder just what he was going to say to Irene Keith—assuming that he found her home.
From Albert Wylie’s house he had gone with Linda to the Carson Agency while Linda told Mr. Carson she would not be available for the rest of the day. From there they went to his hotel and marked the package of emeralds with his name and hers, leaving instructions that would enable either of them to claim the package by signing for it. Then, though it was early, they had lunch and talked things over, Linda deciding that she would go to the Jewelers’ Guild later and talk to Paul Sanford, and Nason saying he wanted to call on Sam Duble.
He telephoned first, and when Duble said he would be in, he went down to the shabby office and made the detective stop studying the Racing Form while he asked if there was any word on Raoul Julian. Duble said no. He said he had a man working on it but it was too early to tell much. And also, with Irene Keith in mind, Nason pressed the little detective and his ancient car into service, and now it was time for the next step.
He told Duble to wait, and got out, crossing over and walking along the quiet street until he came to the proper address. The front door stood open and he climbed to the vestibule, examined the mailboxes briefly, then moved through a narrow hall and up the stairs, his hand riding the wide banister.
There were two doors in the second-floor hall and the one he wanted was at the rear. There was no bell, so he knocked, listened, knocked again. When he heard some sound of movement beyond, he moved close, his shoulder against the panel so that he could lean a little as it opened and be in a position to keep it from closing in his face.
Presently a key clicked, and the knob turned. When the door opened, he was ready, but his precaution was unnecessary. He saw the woman he had known as Irma Heath, and she saw him and, recognizing him, was so startled that she stepped back quickly, the door moving with her.
“Hello, Miss Keith,” he said, stepping across the threshold and taking off his hat.
Her auburn hair was down now, and swept back so that it was shoulder-length. She wore a long green robe or hostess gown, firmly belted at the waist so that her full hips and breasts were properly outlined. Her mouth was red but she wore no other make-up, and that left her face white, the skin no longer slack as he remembered it, but stiff, like her eyes.
He knew at once that she recognized him; and, since she knew that he knew, there was no point in denying it. “Why, Mr. Nason,” she said, and did the best she could. “Did you say Keith?” She got a smile started. “It’s Heath, you know. Won’t you come in?”
Nason was already in, and he let her close the door. “It says Keith on the mailbox downstairs,” he said. “The Heath is just for special occasions, isn’t it?
”
She turned her back before he finished and walked over to an end table, which held an empty glass, an ash tray filled to overflowing, and a pack of cigarettes. While she lit one, Nason glanced about, finding the room large and gloomy and not very neat.
From the looks of the day bed he guessed that this was a combination living-room-bedroom, and he saw then the wardrobe stand and other clothes behind a curtained alcove. A doorway revealed part of a kitchen—the sink part—and the dirty dishes on the drainboard. He noticed this much before she turned toward him, and he could tell that she was ready now, for her face was composed and her gaze was hostile and suspicious.
“What do you want?” she asked flatly.
“I want to talk to you.”
She shrugged and gave a tug on her belt. She walked over to the day bed, straightened the cover, and sat down, punching a pillow and putting it behind her neck as she leaned back.
“All right,” she said. “Sit down.”
Nason sat down, still wondering how he should start and then plunging ahead because it did not seem to make much difference where he began. He had one main purpose—to frighten her, to make her talk, if possible, but at least to throw a scare into her.
“You and Norman Franks had a pretty good idea,” he said, “and, just so you’ll know I’m not kidding, I’ll tell you how it worked.”
And then he was telling her about the picture in Fashion Parade and his theory about how someone recognized the jewels, knew they had real emeralds in them, and went about getting them. He said it was a clever idea and that both she and Norman Franks played their parts well, principally because Linda Courtney did not know the pieces had any value and therefore was not suspicious.
“The first day, when you went to that Eighth Avenue place where you’d bribed the janitor, you played the fashion expert while Miss Courtney wore one piece after the other and Franks stayed in the dressing-room to measure them and find out what size stones he was going to need. The next day you couldn’t work because Franks was molding his glass imitations and enameling them, but the following day you were ready to make the switch.”
Fashioned for Murder Page 13