Hard Case Crime: Blackmailer

by George Axelrod

  I was speechless.

  “But this is all quite beside the point,” Walter said. “You were asking about the unfortunate Miss Dahl. I did not find out that Miss Dahl had been a witness to Anstruther’s accident until last night. She appeared at my cocktail party and insisted on speaking to me privately.”

  Walter paused and sighed. It was a deep sigh, from the depths of his small heart.

  “If what Jean Dahl told me was true,” Walter said, “and I have every reason to believe it was, I can only conclude that mankind is sick unto death with greed and dishonesty. It proves that a man can trust no one. I am shocked to say that her story cast aspersions on the good faith of my two partners.”

  “Walter,” I said, “stop beating around the bush. What did she tell you?”

  Walter grinned.

  He reached to the panel beside him and pushed a button. There was a brief whirring sound from the loudspeaker.

  “It will take just a moment to change the spools,” he said. “I naturally have to unwind this present conversation. It will take only a moment.”

  “You mean you recorded what Jean Dahl said?”

  “Naturally,” Walter said. “Naturally.

  “Now,” Walter said, “I think we are ready. I was not able to turn the machine on until a moment or two after the conversation had started.”

  It was a very clear recording.

  Jean: ...going to kill me. Max Shriber is going to kill me!

  Walter: My dear girl, you are either drunk or hysterical, or both. Why is Max going to kill you?

  Jean: Because I know he killed Anstruther.

  Walter: You are drunk. Definitely...

  Jean: Listen, baby, I’m in trouble. I was with Anstruther when they killed him.

  Walter: When they killed him? What are you talking about?

  Jean: I was with Anstruther that night. When the doorbell rang I picked up my stuff and went into the kitchen. While I was getting dressed in there I heard them talking. She came in first. There was an argument. Then he came in too. I’d recognize his voice anywhere. Max’s voice. She came first. And then in a few minutes Max came in and killed him.

  Walter: Who is she?

  Jean: You know damn wel...

  Walter: I assure you I have no idea what you are talking about.

  Jean: Whitney. Janis Whitney. I’d know her voice too. Whitney came into Anstruther’s room. Andy was very drunk. They argued about the book. Then Max came in and Max killed him.

  Walter: Max came in and killed him?

  Jean: In the middle of the argument the doorbell rang again and then Max came in and killed him. He shot him. He shot him with the rifle. Andy had been playing with the damn rifle all night. I couldn’t get it away from him. He was a crazy son of a bitch.

  Walter: You are absolutely sure Max killed him?

  Jean: I heard him. He said to give them the book or he would kill him. It was terrible. Andy was very drunk. He’d been swearing at Whitney. She kept asking him for the book and he kept telling her to go —— herself.

  Walter: How picturesque.

  Jean: She wanted him to give her the money and he said he’d spent it all. He was very drunk and laughing and swearing. Then she found the money. He’d been throwing it around and laughing and tearing some of it up. He was crazy. He’d spent only a few hundred dollars. Then the doorbell rang again, and Whitney let Max in and Max killed him. I ran out the back door. I shoved the rest of my clothes in my case and ran out the back way.

  Walter: You got away? They didn’t see you?

  Jean: No. I mean, yes. I know damn well they didn’t see me. Or he’d have killed me too.

  Walter: And you’re sure it was Max who killed him?

  Jean: Yes. Max threatened him with the gun. Then Whitney began to scream. She kept screaming, “Don’t do it, Max. Don’t do it! You can’t risk it.” But he did it. He killed him. And now he’s going to kill me.

  Walter: I don’t understand. What makes you think that at this late date Max knows you were there listening to them? What makes you think he knows?

  Jean: I must have been crazy. I needed money. I was crazy. I went to Max and told him I knew all about it. I told him if he didn’t pay me I’d go to the police.

  Walter: How long ago was this?

  Jean: Two months ago. He said he’d give me ten thousand dollars. He gave me a thousand and he said he’d give me the rest in ten days. He gave me another thousand. And he kept stalling. He only gave me two thousand altogether. I should have gone to the police. He’s here now, and he’s going to kill me.

  The sobbing voice record ended and we sat listening to the sound of the spool.

  Walter raised his eyebrows. “You can see why such a story shakes my faith in my two partners. And the mystery of what Anstruther managed to do with one hundred thousand dollars in so short a time is rather neatly solved. The police verdict was that Anstruther had killed himself accidentally while cleaning his gun under the influence of alcohol. I’m sure it was not difficult for them to create such an impression.”

  I felt sick and dizzy. “You really think Max killed Anstruther, and that Janis was a witness?”

  “Of course I do. What else am I to think?” Walter snapped.

  “For God’s sake,” I said, “let’s call the police. Let’s call the police right now.”

  “Now, now, Richard. You mustn’t allow yourself to become all unstrung.”

  “Unstrung!” Suddenly I heard myself shouting, “How can you sit there so calmly after hearing a thing like that?”

  “My dear boy,” Walter said, “you forget that this is my third hearing. Once when the hysterical Miss Dahl was here to play the scene in person. Once, later in the evening, when I played the record back to set the details of the conversation well in my mind. And now, this is the third time. I assure you, the emotional impact decreases on frequent hearing.”

  “Walter,” I said, “how could you let this happen? How could you let the police go out of here last night thinking she’d fallen down a flight of stairs?”

  “Now, now,” Walter said again. “We must move cautiously, Richard. First and foremost we must think of our investment. The bringing to light of all these sordid details could only have a deleterious effect on the value of our property. Really, when you come to think of it, emotion and hysteria to one side, what actual harm has been done?”

  “What harm has been done?” I was still yelling. “Two people have been murdered. Somebody, I’ll be goddamned if I can figure out who, has been swindled out of one hundred thousand dollars, and you don’t want to do anything because it might interfere with the biggest literary hoax in history.”

  “Richard, I must ask you to lower your voice and try to consider this whole problem with calmness and logic. You say two people have been killed. Well, this is certainly true. But can you imagine two less valuable people? Speaking from a broad social point of view, I mean. A blackmailing call girl, and a once great author who would clearly have killed himself one way or another in the near future. The police are perfectly satisfied. They believe both Anstruther and Miss Dahl were victims of unfortunate accidents. Why should we create any further unpleasantness? I have thought it all over and have decided to take the broad view. Supposing my partner did kill Anstruther. If he were alive he would certainly make strenuous objections to the publication of his new book on the fairly reasonable grounds that it was a fraud. But he is not alive. So we can go ahead with the project.

  “As for the balance of the hundred thousand dollars—after all, the money did in a sense belong to my two partners. They were only claiming what was rightly theirs. We are all back where we started from. With a million dollar property ready to be launched. Except we are five partners now. You and Jimmie have joined us.”

  I still couldn’t grasp the situation.

  “You mean you think Max Shriber killed Anstruther. And that Janis was a witness?”

  “There is evidence to that effect.”

  “A
nd you plan to go on doing business with them?”

  “Certainly.”

  I sat down on the chair.

  It couldn’t be. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Let’s talk to Janis. Let’s talk to Max. The least you could do is hear what they’ve got to say. Where was Janis going this afternoon? After she had lunch with me?”

  “I have no idea where she is. She might be almost anywhere.”

  “Walter, we’ve got to talk to those two.”

  Walter sighed. “Now I do believe you’re going to get yourself all worked up again. If I had realized that you were such an excitable person, I’m not at all sure, in spite of our long friendship, that I wouldn’t have taken The Winding Road to the Hills to another publisher.”

  At this point something snapped.

  I didn’t think. I didn’t say anything. I walked close to the chair where Walter was sitting and with a short, ferocious jerk, I threw my drink into his face.

  One of the ice cubes cut his lip.

  I turned rapidly and walked out, slamming the door behind me.

  Jimmie was racing up the corridor toward me. As he reached me I hit him hard, knocking him to the floor.

  Evidently Walter had pushed one of his bells. The heavy, sinister-looking butler followed Jimmie up the hall. He was breathing heavily. I got into the elevator and pushed a button as the butler started to follow me in. I shoved him out of the elevator and the door closed. I rode to the ground floor.

  I did not run across the hall. I walked. I walked to the front door, opened it, walked down the marble steps. Then, on the curb, I turned back to look at the house. The front door was still ajar.

  I hailed a cab and stepped into it.

  “The Carlyle Hotel,” I said.

  It seemed like the time had finally come to pay a call on Max Shriber.

  Chapter Ten

  Max Shriber’s apartment was in the tower.

  I didn’t use the house phone. I thought it might be better if I went up unannounced.

  I got in the elevator and said, “Max Shriber.”

  Up on Max’s floor there were only two apartments, A and B. Max was A.

  I rang the bell and fiddled with the gun in my pocket. I wanted it to come out easily.

  I rang the bell and nothing happened. I could hear it buzzing faintly inside the apartment. But nobody answered the door.

  I felt a wave of relief sweep over me. The hell with it. Nobody home. O.K., too bad. I’ll call some other time. I had been brave enough when I started out. But now that it looked like I would not have to meet the man with the nasty voice I could feel my knees shaking with relief.

  I turned the doorknob and pushed. It was just a casual gesture to show I wasn’t really afraid. I almost fainted when the door opened easily.

  Well, a man’s got to live with himself. I opened the door wider, stepped inside and very quietly closed the door behind me again.

  I was in a small, beautifully furnished foyer. The foyer opened into a living room that obviously was used as an office. There was a big desk. Some wood-covered filing cabinets. And the walls were decorated with big, framed autographed pictures of some of the big people that Max Shriber, big agent, handled.

  Holding the gun in front of me as I had seen them do in the movies, I advanced into the room.

  “Anybody home?” I said. I was surprised. My voice was a hoarse, rather dismal croak. I tried it again. “Anybody home?”

  Still no answer.

  “Hey, Maxie,” I called in a loud, courageous voice. “Where are you? Hey, big agent. What’s the matter? Where are you?”

  I walked over to the desk. There was nothing very special on it.

  I thought about the two men who had wrecked my apartment. Max Shriber’s chauffeur and the smaller one. I wondered who the smaller one was. His valet, probably.

  I pulled out the top drawer of the desk and dumped the contents onto the floor. I opened the files and began throwing handfuls of papers on the floor. It was a wonderful feeling.

  I started to pull the books out of the bookcase. But I couldn’t do it. I’m a book publisher. I hate to see anybody mishandle books. Break their bindings or even turn down corners of a page.

  I suddenly felt very foolish. I bent down and started to put the stuff back into the desk drawer. But I felt even more foolish doing that. I straightened up.

  “Hey, Maxie,” I said once again. “Where the hell are you, Maxie?”

  I walked across the living room to the bedroom. And then I saw Maxie.

  He was lying very still on the unmade bed. The blood had stained the pillowcase and the blankets and sheets.

  A gun was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  Sick with shock, I reached down and picked up the gun. I sniffed it. It smelled as if it had been fired.

  I held the gun gingerly, dazed for a moment or two. But I came out of it with a shudder. I threw the gun back down on the floor where it had been and started out of the room.

  Fingerprints, I thought belatedly, and came back and picked up the gun with my handkerchief. I was wiping off my fingerprints when I suddenly remembered my prints must be all over the desk and the filing cabinet. I was still wiping the gun and had started walking into the living room, when the front door opened. “Maid?” a woman’s voice said.

  I was too startled to speak. I thought of telling her to come back later but I was too frightened to force the words out.

  The maid came into the room. A round, smiling, cheerful woman. “Good afternoon,” she said.

  Then she saw the gun in my hand.

  “My God!” she gasped. “Is that a gun?”

  I laughed nervously. “A gun?” I said and laughed again. I put a cigarette in my mouth and held the gun up to it and pretended to click the trigger.

  “Darn it,” I said. “These fancy cigarette lighters never work. Must be out of fluid. Ha, ha,” I added. “Guess I’d better use a match.”

  The maid was eying me with suspicion.

  I laughed foolishly. “Did you think that was a real gun?” I said.

  “Who are you?” the maid said. “What are you doing here?” Then she saw the overturned file drawer. “What are you doing in here? Where’s Mr. Shriber?”

  “So you really thought that was a gun,” I said, smiling idiotically. “That certainly is a good one.”

  The maid looked around uncertainly. “Mr. Shriber!” she called. “Mr. Shriber!”

  Then she started for the bedroom.

  “Keep out of there!” I said. “Get out of there!”

  But I was too late.

  She saw his body and began to scream. She was reaching for the phone before I got to the door.

  The human brain is an amazing instrument. Sometimes it’s hard to believe how quickly and apparently without conscious direction it can act.

  On my way out the door, without hesitating, without thinking what I was doing, without even breaking my stride as I ran, I jerked the maid’s passkey out of the door lock.

  I hardly realized what it was but I knew I had to hang on to it. By the time I had hit the fire stairs the maid was finished phoning. At least I figured she was because she’d started to scream again.

  I took the stairs about five at a time. I pounded down six or seven flights and then, still not really thinking, just acting on instinct, I stopped and pushed open the exit door. I was standing in a corridor. There were more apartments to a floor now. Eight or ten.

  I stood by the stairway door listening. I must have stayed there five minutes. Then I heard the voices from above. And I could hear footsteps racing down the stairs.

  Very gently I closed the stairwell door and moved along the corridor.

  That was when it first dawned on me why I needed the passkey.

  I paused in front of an apartment door. Inside I could hear a radio. I moved on. I could hear voices in the next two apartments. But the fourth one was quiet.

  From the stairwell I could hear the sound of voices an
d footsteps growing louder.

  I decided to take a chance. I put the passkey into the lock. The door opened easily and I stepped quickly inside.

  The apartment was pitch black. The blinds and curtains were drawn. I closed the door behind me very softly, and slipped the catch. I stood by the door in the dark for a moment or two breathing heavily.

  I was moving my hand carefully along the wall hunting for the light switch when the voice said, “Is that you, darling?”

  It was a soft, melting feminine voice. I grunted an affirmative sound.

  “I’m glad you came back so soon. Wasn’t Mr. Pearson there?”

  I made a negative grunt.

  “I’m so glad. The hell with Mr. Pearson, darling. It’s perfectly stinking to have to see a man on business on your honeymoon. I’m glad he was out.”

  There was a long pause.

  I had my hand on the doorknob. But the voice stopped me.

  “Darling?”

  “Huh?”

  “I did just what I promised. I said I wouldn’t move out of bed till you got back. And I haven’t.”

  I made what was supposed to be a small sound of ecstasy.

  “I haven’t even opened the blinds or turned on the lights. I’ve just been lying here thinking about...”

  And for several paragraphs she told me, quite explicitly, what she had been lying there in the dark thinking about.