Fashioned for Murder

by George Harmon Coxe

  The gun slammed, twice in quick succession.

  Julian passed him, knocking over a chair in his rush, and Nason was on his feet, seeing now the two holes in the glass of one door, and finding the other empty, with nothing but blackness beyond as Julian barged through the opening, heels pounding across the porch.

  Nason followed automatically, three strides behind. He reached the porch and crossed it, and there he stopped, staring through the darkness, hearing someone crash through the bushes farther out but remembering something else.

  Turning, he could see Linda sitting on the divan, watching him with wide, frightened eyes, her clenched hands braced on the cushions beside her.

  “It’s all right, Jerry,” she said when he turned and stepped back into the room. “You can go if you want to. I’ll be all right.”

  He put on a grin, but his throat was hard because she was so brave and young and lovely. He shook his head. He said it wouldn’t do any good. He said they would wait for Julian, and while they waited maybe they could find some more emeralds.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THEY HAD POURED the rest of the gin into a basin that Linda found in the kitchen, and when Julian came back, out of breath from his futile chase, they started to clean the other emeralds which had been colored to simulate garnets.

  “He was too fast for me,” Julian said.

  “He got the jump because he knew what to expect,” Nason said. “You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault,” he said sheepishly. “I should have been ready.”

  “He had the door open before I knew it.” Julian grunted softly and tipped his head toward Linda. “But I think I could have hit him if you hadn’t been in my way.”

  “I’m sorry,” Linda said. “I’m afraid I was too petrified to do anything just then.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Julian said. “He has no gun. I made sure of that when I came. I think we will let the police worry about Paul Sanford.”

  “What about his car?” Nason asked.

  “It is in the garage, but I now have the key.”

  Linda had brought some dishcloths from the kitchen along with the basin, and she polished the stones after the alcohol in the gin had dissolved the enamel Paul Sanford had applied to the emeralds.

  “I still can’t believe it,” she said. “This proves it, of course. He must have hired Irene Keith and Norman Franks. He must have figured out the plan in the first place and killed them when things went wrong but—” she took a quick breath, expelled it—“Paul Sanford! Of all people!”

  Nason picked over the garnets, looking for one that might turn out to be an emerald. “I did a lot of talking,” he said. “Isn’t it about your turn, Julian?”

  “You talked very well, too,” Julian said. “You were quite good, and you were very close to the truth, except that you had the wrong man.” His black eyes smiled thoughtfully. “And you are right about it being my turn. I suppose I should start on the day that I came to my uncle’s house and found him murdered and the safe open,” he said.

  “I was in school at the time, and, as you pointed out, coffee was a drug on the market and my uncle was hard-pressed for money. He had told me once that he would sell the Elcazar collection if he could get his price, but I had argued with him because these pieces had been in our family so long. You see my father was dead, and, as his brother, Luis was the present owner and, though they would one day be mine since he had never married, he had the right to sell them if he wished.”

  He hesitated and said, “Well, we had talked the matter over before, and then one day I got a long-distance call at the school—this was in the country some miles from Bogotá—in which my uncle told me he had made up his mind. He had found a way to get the collection to New York and intended to follow shortly and dispose of them here. I got home as soon as I could,” he said. “It was late afternoon.” He paused again, black eyes brooding now, his face darkly set.

  “I must have missed the murderer by minutes. Half an hour earlier I might have prevented it and perhaps saved the collection. The pieces were gone when I got there. My uncle was dead, his skull fractured by a heavy bronze vase. The police found fingerprints on that vase, but they were not mine, and that, I think, is what saved me.”

  “They didn’t arrest you?” Nason asked.

  “No. The time of death made things bad for me, and it was known I had quarreled with my uncle and I had been heard to say I would never let him sell the collection.” He shrugged expressively. “Things like that are bad when you are suspected of murder. That was the trouble,” he added bitterly.

  “I was not arrested. Neither was anyone else. And so there were many in Bogotá, some of them my friends, who believed that I killed my uncle and hid the collection. There are still some who believe me guilty. There was a girl,” he said after a pause, “whom I loved. After that, she could not make up her mind. And so I promised myself something else; I promised that I would not rest until I found the one who had murdered my uncle.”

  He selected another stone, tried to clean it, and found that this was a real garnet. He put it aside and said, “I had given up hope of finding the pieces, but I had never given up hope of finding my man. I suspected Sanford a couple of days ago when I discovered he was in Bogotá the day my uncle was murdered. I had Ned Gault enter his apartment and get fingerprints from bathroom glasses. Photographs of these have been sent to Bogotá. There can be no doubt of his guilt now, but the prints will be the legal evidence I have been looking for.”

  Linda reached behind her, found a chair, and sank into it with a sigh that came from deep inside her. There was color in her cheeks now, and her gray eyes were big with happiness and relief.

  “Yes,” she said fervently, “now I can believe it.”

  Nason was a little slow, his glance puzzled, until he remembered there had been no real expression of thankfulness and gratitude from this girl since she had first read the letter. Then, aware that the thought of her father had been with her every minute of that time, he realized what she meant. She had read the letter and discovered that Sanford was the one who had stolen the emeralds, yet, even then, she had not been completely convinced. Because it was so terribly important to her, she had been afraid lest something happen to refute the testimony of that letter and only now was she willing to accept the fact and give expression to her emotions.

  “Don’t you see, Jerry?” she said, looking to him for corroboration. “Now I can be sure—about my father.”

  Nason squeezed her arm, and his throat was thick because he knew how deeply she had suffered. He was grateful that he could have a share in her happiness, but he had no words to say to her now, and forced his mind on until he thought of something else.

  “What about Albert Wylie?” he said to Julian. “How does he fit?”

  The big man wiped his hands and began to count the emeralds they had cleaned, arranging them in two piles.

  “You were nearly right about Wylie, too,” he said.

  “He must have suspected something,” Linda said, dismissing her own concern as her attention quickly shifted to the point Nason was making. “Or he wouldn’t have acted so suspicious when he appraised the pieces.”

  “There was a copy of the Fashion Parade ad in one of the books in his library,” Nason said.

  “No doubt.” Julian’s brief laugh was sardonic. “You see, Albert Wylie had never seen the original pieces—my family was always most reluctant to display them —and when you brought them in for appraisal, with glass stones instead of emeralds, he did not know what to make of it. He was stunned. That is exactly what he told me.”

  “I guess he was,” Nason said.

  “For though he had never seen the pieces, his knowledge of gems and his jeweler’s instinct told him the settings must be the Elcazar collection, but he could not understand what had happened to the emeralds. He could not understand how Linda got possession of them, for he knew the history and how the owner had been killed when they disappeared. So he made up his
mind to do some investigating of his own and say nothing, not for money but to satisfy this thing in his blood that had made him so expert. He found out about the page in Fashion Parade, and, though I had worked for him, he did not know I was Eduardo Elcazar until, the other day. Then, this afternoon, he came to me and demanded the truth. They are all here,” he said, and Nason saw that he was talking about the pile of emeralds on the table. “We have done a good job.”

  Nason waited, and, when Julian did not continue, he said, “What about the truth?”

  “Oh?” Julian smiled. “Yes—well, you see, I did not know all the truth, and when I told Wylie what had happened, he wanted me to go immediately to the police. He said I was crazy to take things into my own hands, and when I argued, he remained adamant. He said if I did not go to them he would, and this I did not want. Because, having come this far, the emeralds weren’t enough. There was the murder of my uncle and these others, and I had to make sure of Sanford first.”

  “So you gave him a Mickey,” Nason said.

  “I think I know what you mean,” Julian nodded. “Yes. I pretended to agreed. I ordered ice. I said we must go over each detail before phoning the police, and there was whisky in the bedroom and sleeping-powders I sometimes use. I asked him to get me some water from the bathroom while I mixed the drinks, and it was a simple matter to fix his. He will be all right.”

  “He’ll be plenty sore, too.”

  “That,” said Julian, “I have to expect.” He was wrapping the emeralds in his handkerchief and packing others in the box. Then, abruptly, he glanced up, his eyes speculative. “You did not suspect Sanford?”

  “Not until the end.”

  “You must have known or you would not have thought of the trick with the gin.”

  “Wylie told us that chloroform or alcohol would remove the enamel from the glass imitations Linda had, so I thought I’d try it.”

  “But you knew—before that?”

  “About two minutes before. I knew when I opened this.” Nason picked up the copy of Fashion Parade and his voice grew mildly bitter. “I should have known before—when I first saw it in the magazine rack. At least, I should have been suspicious enough to open it. If I had, we’d have saved a lot of time, but I didn’t. I thought you were my boy—until I saw this,” he said and folded the cover back, placing the magazine on the table so they could see it.

  The picture they saw facing the inside front cover was a girl in a white evening dress and long gloves, a dark-haired girl who looked very smart—if you liked your women skinny—but without the slightest resemblance to Linda Courtney. For, though it faced the inside front cover, it was not page one, but page three.

  Linda’s “Oh” was a sucking sound.

  Julian muttered something under his breath and was a little slow in his perception. “This is not the right copy,” he said.

  “It’s the right one, all right,” Nason said. “The thing is there’s no page one.” He pointed to the jagged edge close to the binding. He took from his pocket the folded page he had taken from Irene Keith’s desk and fitted it in place. He told them where he had found that page.

  “Sanford said he’d never seen the ad, and I should have doubted that the moment I saw the copy here because no one could help seeing it if he opened the magazine.” He sighed, his voice chagrined. “But I wasn’t thinking very good. I didn’t start thinking until I remembered to pick it up, and even then I didn’t open it because—well, because as a detective I’m a bust, I guess. I had to find out about you, and the way I felt, it seemed silly to worry about Sanford. I just couldn’t figure him—until I got to thinking about what you said about hiring Ned Gault. So I opened the magazine and there it was. No matter what Sanford said, the only way Irene Keith could get a page from this particular copy—and you see how it fits?—was from Paul Sanford either direct or through Norman Franks. Either way it meant that Sanford had hired them—and very likely killed them!”

  “You’re right, of course,” Julian said after a moment. “It was quick thinking on your part, asking for a drink and using that gin.”

  Linda stepped back from the table and shook out her hair, her back arched, elbows high. “It’s still hard to believe,” she said. “About Paul, I mean. To think that he could do such frightful things and all the time pretend to be my friend.” She shivered at the thought, and her voice was hushed. “There must be an awful lot behind this that we don’t know about.”

  “Probably,” Julian said. “And we won’t know until he’s caught.” He indicated the magazine and the page which Nason still held. “I imagine you’ll want to bring those along. For Lieutenant Treynor. There’s no telephone here, and we might just as well wait until we’re in town.”

  Nason agreed. He said Treynor wasn’t going to like it much, no matter what they did. “But we might just as well go in and get it over with.”

  “I’ll take these,” Julian said, stuffing the box and the handkerchief-wrapped emeralds in his pockets. “I rather think I can make better time in my car, and I’ll take Linda and stop by my hotel and get the settings. We’ll bring the whole thing to her apartment, and then we can get the police and give them the story.”

  Nason eyed him aslant, a half-smile warping his mouth. He winked at Linda, and she was smiling, too, as though she knew what he was going to say.

  “That sounds all right,” he said, “but I want to make one small change—Linda will ride with me, I think.”

  Julian considered this, frowning as he smoothed his mustache. Then he grinned. “All right,” he said. “I was afraid you’d think of that. Well”—he hunched one shoulder—“I must admit you’ve earned the privilege.”

  He went into the hall and got Linda’s coat, holding it for her while Nason went to the back steps and retrieved his. Three minutes later they were on their way.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  JERRY NASON ANGLED Sam Duble’s sedan down the ramp from the West Side Highway at twenty minutes of ten and drove straight across town until he reached Madison. Here, waiting for the light to change, they saw Julian’s convertible going north, and when he pulled up in front of Linda’s apartment, they were only a block behind. Waiting when Nason blew the horn, Julian opened the door for Linda and they entered the building together.

  “Who’s going to telephone the lieutenant?” Linda asked when they were inside and getting rid of their coats. “Jerry?”

  “I might as well,” Nason said. “I’m the one who’ll have to take most of the rap.”

  Julian chuckled. “Treynor should be grateful. He should—”

  Nason was looking right at him when he spoke. He saw Julian stiffen and stare, his mouth still open though no words came out. He heard Linda catch her breath, and some atavistic reaction awakened in him, and a chill ran swiftly up his spine. Not understanding, but knowing now that something was terribly wrong, he started to turn.

  That was when the voice behind him said, “There will be no phoning.”

  Nason stopped, his body half turned, his neck twisted. Paul Sanford stood in the doorway to the inner hall. He had a blue-steel revolver in his hand, and his voice was no longer smooth and worldly but impatient and hard.

  “You will sit down,” he said. “That chair by the door, Linda. You here, Julian. Nason, you will sit on the sofa.”

  The sound of that voice enabled Nason to think again. He felt his heart resume its steady beat. He found that he could move without conscious effort, and he realized also that he was scared, though he was determined not to show it.

  “Why don’t you go away,” he said coldly, “before the odds catch up with you?”

  Sanford ignored him, but his brown eyes were busy, and nothing escaped him. He still looked passably neat in his dark suit and coat, but he was bareheaded now, his tie was askew, and there was dirt on his hands and the cuffs of his shirt.

  “You’re a fool, Julian,” he said. “You thought by taking the key to my car you could stop me. Hah! There was a duplicate in my
desk—also this gun. I was outside the window while you talked. I knew you planned to meet here, and I got here first.”

  “By the fire escape,” Nason said, the explanation for the dirty hands now clear. “That means you didn’t have a key; it means you never did get in here the night you, shot Franks.”

  “But I heard someone trying to unlock the door,” Linda said. “That’s why I—”

  “I tried,” Sanford said. “Unfortunately, I had no key that would fit.”

  “Is that the gun you used on Franks? And Ned Gault?” Nason pointed. “From here it looks like the right caliber.”

  Sanford ignored this, too. “I’ll take those emeralds,” he said to Julian, and moved behind his chair, holding the gun an inch from the big man’s nape. “Also I’ll take your automatic.”

  Julian said the automatic was in his topcoat, and Sanford backed to it and found it without shifting his gaze.

  When he discovered the settings for the costume pieces, he brought them to the table beside Julian’s chair and put them down next to the handkerchief bundle the other had placed there.

  “The box, too,” Sanford said. “You may have the settings.”

  Nason glanced at Linda and found her sitting bolt upright on the ladder-back chair, her hands twisted in her lap. She was watching Sanford, and when Nason glanced again at the man’s cold, bright eyes, he did not like what he saw. The mouth was thin and cruel now, and the skin was taut across the cheekbones.

  He said, wanting to get Sanford’s attention and keep his mind busy, “You must have been plenty hard up to try a stunt like this.” He grunted disdainfully. “I don’t imagine that flop play helped, either, did it?”

  “Yes, I was hard up,” Sanford said. “But there’s a lot more to it than that.”

  “I imagine so.” Julian leaned back in his chair and ignored the gun, which was pointed a foot from his neck. “You must have known those pieces well to have recognized them from that portrait of Linda.”