Murder Mistress

by Robert Colby

  In the beginning, eleven years ago when he was an assistant cashier, Mavis had presented quite a different picture. She was the daughter of Harvey Fitzgerald, now dead, but then the president of the bank. Which didn’t hurt her standing with him a bit.

  She was neither beautifully nor delicately put together. Today he would say she was a goddam gangling horse who would bite the hand that fed it sugar. But then he thought of her as handsome — a tall, bigboned girl with elegant bearing on fine legs, her features classic under an abundance of richly gold-blonde hair.

  Mavis Fitzgerald: Quick of mind and speech, a brittle dominant person, knowing exactly where she was going. If there was a bridge party, charity drive or egg roll, she was immediately elected queen, for she was a tireless organizer.

  Actually, as Clay discovered too late, she was a fraud. Her whole life was a pose. She covered a great void in areas of sensitivity and depth with much shouting and running about.

  She was a superb actress in the clinches, pretending to be violently sensual with little sobs and gasps, followed by reluctant breakdowns at crucial moments.

  But Clay was completely fooled before the marriage and, considering the position of her father, she seemed most impressive. It was not difficult to believe he was in love with her.

  Shortly after the ties were made, her acting performance rapidly lost enthusiasm. And he discovered that she was a zombie — cold in bed and out, inherently unable to express a single genuine emotion or affection, though intensely selfish and vain. Because she adored money and despised his lowly position, the only thing she ever did for him was to whip him forward, while urging her father to promote him at every opportunity.

  He soon became cashier and finally vice president, one of four in the department of personal loans. Meanwhile they had a child (to Clay, it seemed a wonder that a living thing could come out of that stone of a woman), and Mavis excused her inability to show affection by promptly spoiling the boy.

  He would have divorced her if it was not necessary to maintain the relationship in the eyes of her father, thus securing his position at the bank. When her father died, he began an open warfare, hoping that she would make the first move so he could gain his freedom at a bargain price. But nothing could reach a void, and all that developed between them was a growing silence.

  Then, through the swinging doors of the bank, walked Valerie McLean. And he no longer just wanted a divorce, he had to have it.

  He was, remembering that singular occasion, when Miss Folmer appeared at his elbow. “You have a customer waiting,” she said.

  “Who is it, Dorothy? Anyone I know?”

  “Just a man who wants to open a checking.”

  “Give him to Gossard, will you? I’m trying to get through on an important call.”

  “Yes, sir.” She went off.

  He picked up some letters that had been placed on his desk for signature and presented a picture of frowning concentration.

  It was a matter of luck that Valerie came to his desk. She might have been ushered to any of the loan officers fore and aft of him. But a customer had just departed and for the moment the chair by his desk was vacant.

  He watched her approach with immediate excitement. She was neatly and artfully dressed. Slightly haughty, but neither self-conscious nor austere, the expression on her pretty face was one of anticipation, as if she perpetually sought adventure from the smallest event.

  She sat down with her slow smile and announced that she would like to open a savings account and was quite flattered to have the personal attention of the vice president. He did not tell her that he was one of eight vice presidents throughout the bank. He merely assured her that opening an account was an important function.

  From the grandeur of her dress and manner, he expected that she would offer for deposit a sum anywhere between a thousand and ten thousand. Instead, she opened her purse and slowly counted a hundred dollars in small bills. He took the money blandly and filled out the card. When she had her bankbook and was ready to leave, she gave him the first small glimpse into her character.

  “Tell me, Mr. Scofield,” she said with apparent naïveté, “is it sometimes possible to obtain a loan for a depositor? I mean, without the usual red tape?”

  “Are you speaking of a signature loan? Unsecured?”

  “Yes.” Her whole face brightened.

  He looked at her card and saw no mention of employment. “Do you have income, Miss McLean? Are you employed?”

  “Neither,” she said. “Not at the moment, that is.”

  Ordinarily, he would immediately have given her the high-toned, short speech and executive brush. But across the desk her appeal was magnetic, he could look at her for hours without boredom. She was unmarried and possibly available.

  “Well,” he said, “of course there is always a little red tape. And generally if there is no income and no collateral, we don’t make loans. On the other hand,” he added heartily, “there are always exceptions. Why don’t you think over how much you would need and then come back and see me. I would be happy to discuss it with you.”

  “How very kind,” she said. “I certainly will, Mr. Scofield.”

  “Are you looking for work, Miss McLean?”

  “Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “There again,” he said. “I may be able to help. Why don’t you keep in touch?”

  She promised that she would and as she shook hands, the pressure was held that fraction of overtime which told its own story.

  She was back in three days asking for five hundred dollars, secured only by her smile. He told her that according to bank regulations this was impossible. But that if he knew her better as a person, something might be worked out. The matter could be discussed that evening over dinner.

  She was quite agreeable.

  After an evening in which he fell completely in love with her, embraced her passionately and at length in his car, collected promises that the affair would continue, he “loaned” her a hundred dollars out of his own pocket. And there it began.

  In the days that followed, he built a somewhat hazy and fragmentary picture of her background and make-up. Evidently she was the product of a completely undisciplined life.

  Valerie McLean: She came from Los Angeles where her father made a great deal of money in the black-marketing of overpriced new and used cars during the second war. Went to the best schools, lived on a lavish scale, traveled with a racy crowd. Always in trouble — just missed jail when she began to write large checks on an exhausted bank account.

  She couldn’t adjust when her father lost his money after the boom with some foolish and desperate speculations.

  Moved around from city to city in a world of borderline adventure, scheming more than earning her way.

  For men, her body was a promise which seldom paid off. She was particular and some of the worst slobs had the most money. She was not all black — she had charm and cleverness and she was able to give to a very few men, a reckless and inventive passion, affection and even love.

  Clay Scofield was one of those few men. And his need for her giving was so insatiable that he was glad to divorce his wife and marry her. She blessed him as a savior until he confessed that to be elected one of eight vice presidents in a bank did not carry with it a contract which said, “… and all the money you can use.”

  Vice presidents in the Second National were as common as tellers. He was a glorified flunky with a title to impress the public. The job, complete with swivel chair, was good for ten thousand five a year. The executive V.P. made fifteen thousand and that was a long jump with seven competitors. It would never be more than a comfortable living.

  And there was the problem of Mavis. The worst of all problems. He didn’t want to be tied by alimony to that bitch for endless years. He offered to try to raise ten thousand if she would give him a clean bill, no strings. She laughed in his face.

  “I can’t hold you,” she said, “and I don’t want you. You can take
the house and the car, I’ll take Jimmy” (he was nine now), “and forty thousand cash.”

  “Forty thousand! Where would I get that kind of money?”

  “I don’t give a damn how you get it. You’re a loan officer. Make yourself a loan!”

  And that’s what he did. Not the impossible way she meant it — the easy way. When Valerie understood his privileges, she suggested it. He could, using fictitious names, approve dummy loans on his signature and collect the cash. If the amounts weren’t too large and taken over a reasonable period of time, no one would question.

  He got the forty thousand together and sent Mavis packing with her spoiled brat. And while he was at it, he took thousands extra to provide Valerie with an apartment and the style she loved. His total embezzlement was sixty-two thousand.

  Stealing the money was nothing to keeping it covered. The notes were short term and were beginning to come due. He had to rob Peter to pay Paul — an endless cycle. It couldn’t go on. They would catch him sooner or later.

  He was in frantic search of a way out the day he and Valerie, Roy Whalen and Marty Bates became strange drinking partners. The result was the plan. It was an enormous decision and apparently sudden. Yet, it was one for which the evolutions of his subconscious had been preparing for years.

  A tortured seed had developed a dangerous fruit. And it was ripe.

  Now he lifted the receiver and again dialed Valerie. No answer. He cut the connection and angrily jiggled for the operator. He asked for the head teller.

  “Wilkins,” he said, in his most executive voice, “what’s the story on this man Daniels? Are we giving him carte blanche to take the bank apart? What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing much, sir. No more than I told you.”

  “Why is he looking for some woman named Valerie?”

  “He wouldn’t say, sir. But I gathered he suspects her of some connection with the robbery.”

  “Is that so? Well, he’s obviously an ass and a nuisance. If he comes back, tell him nothing, just send him to me. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hung up.

  He clenched the edge of the desk until his knuckles were white. Goddam, goddam! Roy Whalen and now this Daniels. He could handle Whalen because at least Whalen wouldn’t talk. But Daniels was another matter.

  Daniels would have to be taken care of. And it was going to have to be handled in some final way. That would be messy. He really hated violence. But once he was committed, no matter the direction or consequences, he plunged ahead in the most practical manner and never looked back.

  Just as soon as he could reach Valerie there would have to be another decision.

  TWELVE

  “They tell me,” said Scott to one of the elevator boys whose name was Sam, “that you were about the only one around here who knew Martin Bates very well.”

  Sam looked like he never had to shave, had the face of a teenager and the build of a jockey. But he must have been forty.

  “Nah,” he said. “Marty was no friend of mine, if that’s what ya mean. He used ta kid me a lot about when I was goin’ back ta school ‘cause I look so young, he says. Wouldn’t take it from nobody else. But he was a pretty good guy. We shot the breeze, that’s all. Why?”

  “It’s a legal matter,” said Scott. “We’re trying to locate some of his possessions that appear on an inventory list but can’t be found. Now, as I understand it, he used to ride your car a lot because it’s one out of the only two in his wing of the building.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said Sam, who that second got a call. “You’ll have ta hoist up with me, mister. If ya wanna go on talkin’.”

  Scott stepped on. The door closed and they ascended. “When Bates got off your car, Sam, did he ever have a suitcase? A big tan one?”

  Sam considered as he opened the door, passengers stepped in and they dropped below. He didn’t speak until they reached the main floor and the car was empty. “Big tan suitcase? No, sir. I never seen one. Before he went on vacation, though, he took down a whole bunch a packages. Every night a few. Clocks, watches, repair kit, stuff like that. He tole me he was gonna do some homework while he was visitin’ his brother. That’s what he says.”

  “I see,” said Scott, who really did see, very well. “Perhaps we could get more information if we could locate some close friend of his in the city. Did you ever notice any one particular person who hung around with him?”

  Sam took off his cap and smoothed wisps of hair over a nearly bald pate. He had aged in an instant. “Lemme see … well, there was one guy. Roy, I think he called him. They used ta go fishin’ together. This guy, Roy, he works for one of them charter boats down to the pier.”

  “You know the name of the boat, Sam?”

  “Nah. They was talkin about it but I didn’t pay no attention. Heard ‘em say it was one of them fancy four-chair jobs. Kind that costs seventy-five bucks a day. That’s not for me, brother. Not if it was seventy-five bucks a month.”

  “Did Bates have any girl friends?”

  “Wouldn’t know that. Never seen him with none.”

  “You can’t remember this Roy’s last name?”

  “Never heard it.”

  “Okay, Sam. And thanks a lot.”

  Scott gave him a dollar. Then headed for the pier to look for a nameless charter boat and a man called Roy.

  THIRTEEN

  Roy Whalen was still waiting, parked with his car just around the corner from Clay’s house, nosed forward enough so that he could see Valerie arrive. He had been disappointed when she drove off with Clay that morning. He had expected that she would remain home alone. It was now after one and the time was growing short. He would need a couple of hours with her before Clay came back from the bank.

  He knew that in time he could bring enough pressure to bear on Clay, threats of exposure or physical force, to make him talk. But the simple and fast route was by way of Valerie. And much more fun, too. From the very beginning she had been a thorn of irritation — needling an incessant lust which brought daydreams of her unclad image to mind for hours after every meeting with her. The stuff was there behind her eyes — but not for him. And now he would not leave her before that goddam sassy tail had a whipped-dog look and her snooty head hung with humility, acknowledging that he was more man than Clay Scofield — for all his pretty-boy manners and phony dignity.

  How he ever got mixed up with a pair like them was little short of miraculous, a goddam quirk of fate, as the man said.

  On a day when the sky was a blue gem without a carbon cloud. On a day when the sea was a green quilt along the shore, running to blue in the depths of the Gulf Stream. A day when the hard pull and the swift run of the rainbow dolphin, the jerk and silver flash of the ‘cuda, the leap of lancing sail, should all be known to a man in the sport chair of Buck Kingsley’s charter cruiser.

  Not so, on that day. Clayton Scofield and his babe had given up after a couple of no-fish hours and broken out the bottle. And there had begun the plot for the catching of a half million clams. Just a big joke at first. Until Marty had seen the speculation, the sneaking idea, forming behind Scofield’s mask of laughter.

  At the time, Roy had been a hook baiter, line setter, gaffer and deck swabber for Kingsley. Peanuts a week. He knew boats and fishing, Buck had lost his helper and needed a new boy. Roy didn’t know Kingsley but he walked out on the Municipal Pier and talked into the job.

  All his life he had walked around this world talking into jobs — usually hard physical work, anything skilled with the hands. Construction, oil drilling, engine repair, even farm labor. He never stayed long anywhere, because sooner or later someone gave him crap, someone had a big bossy mouth and his pride made him lash back with tongue or fist.

  For that reason, and for that reason alone, he was a failure. He was sharp in the head, quick to learn any stupid job. He could have gone high and fast in any line. But he never could suck around long enough to get on top where he could give the
orders.

  It was all logical and right that he was his own man. But still, he was a bust and in him there was always the sour, bitter taste of defeat. Something lay wounded inside, patching itself with self-pity, waiting to rise up and fly out at life in one bright moment of revenge. And thus, all of his existence had been undeclared patience for the moment of the plan.

  He had known Marty Bates since the one short year they shared in reform school. But while Roy had grown out of his teenage rebellion into more subtle and legal forms of resistance, Marty had shoved on, sometimes gun in hand, to take what was his. Marty was a shrewd operator, cautious and long scheming, and never again had they placed him behind bars.

  His father was a watchmaker and taught him the trade. Wherever he went, in the long spells between “jobs” or con games, he used the watch repair angle as a dodge. Marty was one who believed in making a big score, then coasting for long safe months or years.

  Marty would often stake Roy when he was broke, and for this reason alone, Roy kept in touch. Roy was very broke indeed when he hit Miami and, as usual, Marty took care of him, brought him into his own apartment. In return, on days when the charter boat put out to sea with an empty chair, Roy would urge Buck to give him the place. Marty was an incurable fisherman and would drop everything when they were biting for free.

  And on this clear blue day, with four chairs and only two in use by The Wheel and his classy dame, Marty had been on tap just like a paying customer.

  By mid-day a full quart was nearly half shot, the dame was giggling and The Wheel was loosening up around the spokes. Another hour and it was first names, the quart was being passed to all but Buck who didn’t drink and remained aloof on the flying bridge because he hated “puking drunks who fished out of a bottle.”

  A damn good thing Buck was out of earshot, too. Because some words were passed in jest that got serious in two days time and Buck might have put three and two together and come up with a half million.

  Roy could see Valerie now, standing there with legs spread against the gentle roll, wearing a tight jersey, pedal pushers and a vague hair-down smile. And saying, “Marty, did you know that you were in the presence of the vice president of the Second National Bank? Get a respectful tone on your mouth and salaam three times.”