Fashioned for Murder

by George Harmon Coxe

  “I should know them well.” Sanford perched on a chair arm so that he could keep all three of them in front of him “I nearly bought them twice.”

  “Did you know Father brought them to New York?” Linda asked stonily.

  “I considered it.” Sanford said. “I knew he left Bogotá the day the emeralds disappeared.”

  “The day you killed my uncle,” Julian said.

  “And when I came to New York,” Sanford said as though he had not heard, “I looked your father up and arranged to meet your mother. I had a few weeks to make them like me, and I succeeded; well enough, at least, to comfort your mother when he was killed and to give advice about his estate and look around for the pieces.” He laughed shortly, an unpleasant sound.

  “Apparently I did not look well enough. Your mother was friendly and seemed to like me, but I could learn nothing. Even when she died and named me as executor, I could not find them—damn id—because she had hidden them in your trunk at the old address, and I knew nothing about it. If it hadn’t been for that picture—”

  He let the sentence dangle, and his lids were half closed as he continued. “I saw those three pieces first in 1929 when I was in Spain with my first wife. Ramon Elcazar, an old man at the time, brought them from Colombia with the idea of selling them if he could get the right price. He was your grandfather, wasn’t he?” he said to Julian. “And he would have taken $350,000 for them, and I had it—on paper.”

  He hesitated, his narrowed gaze still bright and a new bitterness in his voice, which gave it a strange, faraway quality.

  “September, 1929,” he said. “And before I could close the deal, the market crash wiped out most of my holdings, and I could not buy the pieces or even get an option on them. But I was not the only one. In those days people were selling jewelry, not buying it, and old Elcazar went back to Colombia with the collection. He died two years later,” he said, directing his words to Julian once more.

  “Your uncle, Luis, became the owner, and I did not have enough money to approach him. But I never forgot the fiery brilliance of those stones or their exquisite dark-green coloring. I collected garnets,” he said, “because it was all I could afford. And then in 1936 I got the chance I had waited so long for. The market was up again and I was in South America. When we came to Bogotá—my wife and I—I got in touch with Luis Elcazar and asked to see the collection. It was the proper moment because things were bad with him and he needed money. He tentatively accepted an offer of $300,000. He said he would let me know in a day or two.”

  “And when the time came,” Nason said, “the news was bad, hunk? He got the idea of asking Linda’s father to bring them here, knowing he’d get a better price.”

  “He telephoned me,” said Sanford, his voice tight with suppressed hatred. “He said he’d changed his mind. He was going to sell them to someone else. So I went there that afternoon, not knowing that he had given them to Linda’s father. I argued with Luis, I raised my offer. I threatened him when he insisted he no longer had the pieces. I was furious because I thought he was lying, and finally he opened the safe to prove that he no longer had them.”

  He stopped, and the room was strangely quiet. The four of them sat perfectly still, and there was not even the sound of breathing until Sanford exhaled loudly and seemed somehow to shake himself, as though to wipe the memory from his mind.

  “I struck him,” he said. “I had come so close after all those years and I had lost them and my temper snapped. I do not remember much but I know that he struck back and then that heavy vase was in my hand and Luis Elcazar was on the floor with blood on his head.”

  He rose slowly. “For ten years more I looked for those pieces, and then I saw that portrait of Linda and realized how close I had been to them without knowing it. I did not know about you then,” he said to Julian, “and I was lucky that Albert Wylie did not see the picture until much later. I was quite sure that Linda did not know their value and, though I might have tried to steal them outright, it seemed best to find some means of replacing the emeralds with imitations.”

  “And you might have made it,” Nason said, “if it hadn’t been for Norman Franks.”

  “Franks was a clever workman,” Sanford said, and now there was an odd, unnatural brightness in his eyes that was frightening to behold. “But Franks was greedy, and he was a fool—like you. He tried to tell me the pieces had been stolen before he had taken the emeralds from the bracelet. Even when I caught him with the six stones, he tried to run for it. The woman was all right but—”

  “But she knew too much,” Nason said, watching the feverish glints in Sanford’s gaze as the tentacles of a new fear closed about his heart. There was something here he did not understand, the threat of it beginning to show in the eyes, in the tight lines of the face. “She made a mistake,” he said, wanting time. “She came to you instead of telling me the truth.”

  “Yes,” Sanford said. “She was panicky. There was nothing else I could do.”

  He hesitated, and Nason, still held by that unspoken threat, saw the jaw tighten. Then Sanford moved, his right hand whipping sideways and down, his body weight behind it.

  He did not have far to reach. Before Nason could speak, before Julian, warned now by what he saw in the photographer’s face, could move, Sanford struck.

  Julian’s head jerked with the force of the blow, and with the ugly sound of it still in his ears, Nason saw the big man’s neck go slack. He made a sigh as the strength went out of his body, his head rolling limply forward until the chin touched his chest.

  Sanford stepped back from the table the instant after he struck, and the gun was pointed right at Nason, who was on his feet without knowing how he got there. Sanford spoke sharply.

  “Don’t scream, Linda!” he said. “I’m warning you.”

  The girl’s voice answered, choked with scorn and loathing. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said. “Oh—why don’t you—”

  “Take it easy!” Nason cut in, not looking at her but afraid of what she might do. He took a step to one side, away from her. “What do you want, Sanford?” he said. “You’ve got your emeralds.”

  “I’d like a chance to enjoy them,” Sanford said, and then, for the first time, Nason knew what he meant, what he intended to do.

  For another moment he fought the idea, finding it ridiculous and fantastic—until he examined the tight gray mask of Sanford’s face and noticed the moisture gathering on his forehead and the thin, twisted line of his mouth. Then, as he stood there, shocked and sick inside, Sanford verified his hunch.

  “You were right about this gun,” he said. “I did use it before. And until tonight you thought Julian was the man behind this. You told others that you thought so. Now it will be easy to put this gun to his right temple and afterward put his fingerprints on the gun to give the police a suicide victim.”

  “After you shoot us?” Nason said. “Nuts! The police will never go for that.”

  “I think they might.” Sanford pocketed the emeralds and stood back from the table as Nason took a slow step forward. “They may think you trapped Julian and he had to kill you. Then, realizing that he could not get away with it—”

  “You haven’t a chance,” Nason said, and wished he thought so.

  “It isn’t anything I want to do,” Sanford said. “But, since I have nothing left to lose, I might as well try. At least, I’ll have the emeralds for a little while.”

  Nason knew he hadn’t much time left. It was coming —and soon. He saw it all in the man’s face; every little line of it said so. So he accepted the verdict, scared but not too scared to think, knowing he had to move first or not at all, a little surprised that he could feel so poised and ready.

  He found himself two feet from the gate-leg table, with Sanford five feet beyond. He saw the hand tighten on the gun. Then, knowing time had run out on him and intent upon making himself a moving target, he waited no more but dropped to one knee behind the table, ducking low, getting his hand
s on the legs and heaving up and away from him.

  In that next instant time stood still.

  The gun exploded as the table fell. He heard Linda’s scream and it was a long way off. He saw the edge of the table glance from Sanford’s shins, staggering him, spoiling his aim, but not knocking him down. Then Nason came up from one knee, knowing a step and a dive would do the trick.

  But it was too far, much too far.

  He saw the gun angle down. He dropped his head as he took his step. Then, as he lunged those last few feet, a shot hammered through the room and he was moving in, feeling no shock or pain and wondering why.

  His shoulder hit Sanford’s knees and the man went over backward and something dropped hard on Nason’s back and clattered to the floor. Somehow he was on his knees, hardly knowing how he got there, reaching for the gun that had hit him in the back, seeing Sanford roll over and drag himself to a sitting position. Then, watching the other hold his shoulder and seeing finally the crimson-stained fingers, Nason knew what must have happened, but he did not know how until he glanced around.

  Sam Duble stood in the hall doorway, a gun in his hand. He was intent upon Sanford, and, as Nason watched, the little detective came up, hoisted Sanford to a chair, and took the other gun from his pocket.

  Nason stood up, feeling frightened and shaky, a little amazed that Duble should be here, that his chubby face could remain so deceptively mild. Then he remembered something and felt a little foolish because he had not thought of it before.

  “When you watch a house you really watch it, don’t you?” he said. “I’d forgotten you were supposed to be outside. What the hell took you so long?”

  “I had a little trouble getting up the fire escape,” Duble said. “I’m not quite as tall as Sanford.”

  Nason felt the perspiration oozing down his back, and his hands trembled as he reached for a cigarette. He glanced at Linda, and she was still in her chair, leaning forward, hands clamped on each side of the seat, the rising color in her cheeks showing that the shock of what she had seen was passing.

  “I got here just before you made your move,” Duble said. “I was afraid if I yelled at him he might start blasting, and I didn’t want to shoot him in the back. That’s the kind of thing that gives a private dick a bad name,” he said. “So then you started, and I did the best I could.”

  Nason said Duble had done very well indeed and watched him move over to Sanford, open his vest and shirt, and examine the wound, which was just under the right shoulder.

  “We’ll get a doctor up here,” Duble said. “You’ll be all right, I’m afraid.”

  If Sanford heard this, he gave no sign. His slack, gray face was expressionless, and he followed Duble with dull eyes as the detective stepped to Raoul Julian, who had begun to stir in his chair.

  “Good thing his hair is thick,” Duble said, and then Linda was on her feet, making contrite and sympathetic sounds and Nason, wanting to give her something to do, asked her if she could get a little water and some cotton.

  “Why didn’t you stop us when we came up?” he said to Duble. “You knew Sanford was here, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t get a chance. I see him drive up and start to get out and then get back in and drive around the corner. So I walk down that way and he’s not in sight, so I sneak into the alley, and pretty soon I see he’s carried a crate under the fire escape and is going up.”

  “Oh,” Nason said.

  “I don’t know what the score is. I figure I better wait by the corner so I can watch the alley and the front door, too. About three minutes later, you and Julian drive up and you duck inside before I can get near you. I still don’t know the score,” he said, “but it looks bad, so I decide to try Sanford’s way. Only I haven’t got his height and I can’t reach the bottom rung from that crate, so I have to go looking for something to make it higher. You want to call the cops, or shall I?”

  Nason said he would, and, as he started for the telephone, it rang. “Hello,” he said, and then Kate Harper’s voice came to him. When she asked anxiously if Linda was all right, he said she was. He said Kate could come over, if she wanted to, because they were having a little excitement, and to bring a bottle if she could possibly find one. When he hung up he dialed the operator, told her he wanted police headquarters, and asked for Lieutenant Treynor.

  Lieutenant Treynor had a lot to say, and it took him quite a while. But he was a fair-minded man, and when e had rid himself of his justifiable complaints, his anger was reduced to a mild burn. He forgave Sam Duble and sent him down to make a report, and in the end, he grudgingly admitted that maybe it was just as well the case had ended as it had.

  “Because I drew a blank with Ned Gault,” he said. “What happened was that Sanford got the Keith dame to make an appointment with Gault for that night. He knew Gault was getting too close to the truth, and after he poisoned the woman, he took her keys. He was waiting for Gault, and Gault walked into a darkened room and still doesn’t know for sure who shot him.”

  He glanced at Raoul Julian, who sat on the sofa with a small patch on his head and Kate Harper at his side.

  “You get a break,” Treynor said. “I wish I had your kind of luck. This guy Wylie refuses to sign a complaint for that Mickey you slipped him. All he wants is a look at these,” Treynor said, and, stepping to the table, picked up the box and handkerchief containing the emeralds. He put these in one topcoat pocket, the brooch, necklace, and bracelet with their imitation stones in the other.

  “Just to make sure I’m not being kidded along,” he said, “I’m going to take this loot with me. We’re going to keep it until we look up the records; we’re going to check back until we’re sure you own it.”

  Julian smiled and put his glass aside. “Splendid,” he said. “I can’t think of a safer place for them.”

  “I guess you’ll be glad to be rid of them, too, Miss Courtney.”

  “You’ll never know how glad,” Linda said.

  “Well—” Treynor put on his hat.

  When he started for the door, Nason said, “All through?”

  “All through.”

  “Then how about that drink?”

  Treynor shook his head, making his third refusal. “Thanks just the same,” he said. “I’ll wait till I get home.”

  Then he was gone, and Kate Harper was sitting up and yawning. She glanced at Linda and at Nason, who sat on the arm of her chair. She cocked an eye at Julian. “Help me up,” she said.

  Julian obeyed. He got her coat and held it, put on his own and picked up his hat.

  Kate was still watching him, speculatively, her eyes amused. “What about that girl in Bogotá you had to clear your name for?”

  “She married someone else.”

  “Then, come on,” Kate said and linked her arm with his. “Let’s give these kids a chance. If you’re a good boy,” she said, “I might give you a nightcap.”

  Linda went to the door with them, and when she closed it, Nason was waiting in the center of the room. “Come here,” he said, knowing she was tired and emotionally bruised, but seeing also the makings of a smile in the soft curve of her mouth.

  She came right up to him, her resiliency making her smile secure and the warm tenderness in her eyes a fine thing to see. He put his arms about her and held her close, feeling the weariness come, but feeling also a strange contentment he had not known before, knowing that he must not leave her yet, but wanting to get out of this room.

  “Fix your hair,” he said, “and let’s get out of here.”

  She glanced up, surprised. “Out, Jerry?”

  He nodded. The things he wanted to say were crowding his throat, but he could find no words for them now and knew they could wait.

  “We need a change. You stay around here and you’ll keep thinking of things you’d like to forget, and I’d like to get back to where we were that first night when we went dancing.” He glanced at his watch. “I guess it’s a little late for that, but we could go to Rubin’s f
or a drink and a sandwich. Are you hungry?”

  The corners of her eyes were crinkling with her smile now, and the gray lights in them were dancing. “Starved,” she said, and would have gone into the bedroom had he not stopped her.

  He held her briefly, kissed her quickly, then kissed her again. He turned her toward the hall and gave a gentle shove, and suddenly he felt good all over. He nearly gave the roundness of her hips an affectionate slap from behind, but caught himself in time and filed the impulse away for future reference.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1947 by George Harmon Coxe

  cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

  This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Head of Zeus

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781784083786

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  Clerkenwell House

  45-47 Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.headofzeus.com

  EBOOKS BY GEORGE HARMON COXE

  FROM HEAD OF ZEUS

  Available wherever ebooks are sold