by Goulart, Ron
"Second largest advertising agency in the Boston area—in the whole blooming state, for that matter," he amplified. "We rushed over here from Boston—this is Miss Mavity, my personal secretary—to contact your—"
"She's quite pretty."
"Thank you," said H. J.
"We'd like to contact your—"
"Bad boy. Mustn't do that, Kafka." She reached down and caught a pudgy black cat by the scruff of his neck and thwarted his attempt to escape out into the afternoon. "You're very naughty!'
"What Mr. Choate is trying to explain," put in H. J., "is that we have a very important advertising assignment for your brother. Is he at home?"
"Go sit by Dos Passos." She set the cat on the hallway floor, propelling him toward the living room with a pat on the backside. "Scoot now, you hear?"
"Your brother," said Ben, "is he here?"
"No, I'm sorry, he isn't."
"Can you tell us where to reach him?"
She hesitated before answering, "I can't really."
H. J. said, "We understood that he lives with you."
"Quite a lot of the time he does. Just now, though, he's off on a job someplace or other."
"Where exactly?"
"I'm not really certain, Mr. Choate," she admitted. "I know he told me he was going out of town for a few days to shoot some pictures, but I'm nearly sure he didn't say where."
H. J. said, "How much did you say you were prepared to pay him, Mr. Choate?"
"In the neighborhood of fifty thousand dollars, Miss Mavity."
"Fifty thousand dollars?" asked Linda Albright. "Mark could actually earn that much on one assignment?"
"Only if we can find the man at once," explained Ben. "Otherwise, because of a very tight deadline, we'll have to use our second choice. That would mean no fifty thousand for your brother and, probably, no future assignments from Healy and Associates."
"What account is it for?"
"Sunskin Swimwear."
"That's a very good company. Some years ago I bought myself a Sunskin—"
"Is your brother likely to phone you while he's away?" asked H. J.
"Sometimes he does, there's no way of telling. Mark has always been extremely independent."
"Well, should he phone, please tell him that Mr. Choate of Healy and Associates is extremely anxious to get in touch with him. Get a number where we can reach him."
"Where can he contact you?" asked his sister.
"We won't be back at the Boston office until quite late this evening probably," Ben told her. "You'd better give me your number here, and I'll call you later on to see if you've heard from him."
She provided the phone number, adding, "I'm certain Mark will do a better job for you than your second choice."
From her shoulder bag H. J. extracted the drawing. "We're also anxious to contact this model," she said. "Do you know who she is?"
The woman looked at the picture, then brightened. "Oh, yes, of course. That's Mardy Cranford."
Chapter 21
The Rohmer Realty offices were housed in a vinecovered cottage with strawberry-colored shutters. The tiny parking lot was bordered with a profusion of bright multi colored flowers, and a small, flat wooden pig had been set up on the square of grass beside the path leading to the red-painted door.
"I wonder if all seven of the dwarfs are home." Ben slid out of the car.
H. J. said, "I think it's a very cute little office."
"For somebody who's lying in wait for Hansel and Gretel maybe."
Walking beside him, she asked, "'Are you really going to be Prentiss Choate again?"
"Not if Mardy Cranford herself is here. Then we'll just try a sanitized version of the truth."
"That Buckley voice of yours gives me the willies."
"It's more a Kennedy voice, with a touch of Jim Backus." Taking hold of the gold doorknob, he opened the door of the real estate office and they walked in.
"I think I have just what you're looking for." A heavyset blonde woman in a somewhat Hawaiian dress popped up from behind one of the three small desks.
There was no one else in the office.
H. J. explained, "We're looking for Mardy Cranford."
"Then you're not the Kupperbergs?"
"Haven't been for ages," H. J. assured her. "Is Mardy around?"
"Isn't that funny," observed the plump realtor, shaking her head. "That young lady is certainly getting popular."
"Has someone else been asking after her?" Ben inquired in his Choate voice. "It looks as though we might have competition, eh, Ms. Mavity?"
"My, yes, doesn't it." Smiling at the woman, H. J. asked her, "Who else is interested in her?"
"An attorney, he said he was."
"Attorney?" Ben took a few steps toward her desk. "What'd he look like?"
"Very Nordic."
"We're most anxious to talk to Mardy about some photographs her friend Mark Juster took of her," H. J. said. "Do you happen to know where we might find her?"
"Isn't that, now, a coincidence? The lawyer showed me a photo of Mardy. Well, not a complete photo, only her head snipped from a larger picture."
"The file," murmured H. J., nudging Ben.
"How long ago was this attorney here?"
"Oh, not more than a half hour ago. I'd just come back to the office after showing the Nolan House to a lovely young couple who're relocating from Nesbit Ferry, Georgia, and he was—"
"Did you send the guy to where Mardy is?"
The realtor nodded. "Yes, he had a check for her for the settlement of a claim she—"
"Where is she?" asked H. J.
"Oh, at the Shatsworth mansion. We've been asked by the owners to supervise some renovations, and Mardy is spending the afternoon there taking notes and measuring—"
"Where is this place?"
"I'll draw you a detailed map."
"A quick sketch will do," said H. J.
As he backed the car out of the real estate parking lot, Ben said, "Who's the lad pretending to be a lawyer?"
"Could Don T. Timberlake pass for a Scandinavian?" She was holding the penciled map on her knee.
"No, there aren't too many short, dark Nordics."
"Well, it can't be Mark Juster. Turn left at this next corner," she instructed. "Juster is allegedly Lincolnesque."
"I don't think there's a real attorney involved in this yet."
"Seems unlikely," H. J. agreed. "'Although it's just possible the Timberlakes have dispatched somebody to check out Mardy."
He made the left turn. "We're not certain they know how to contact her directly."
"Take a right at the antique shop. Juster could've told them."
"He'd be more likely to hold out that information."
"But maybe he phoned them, after he found out that Lloyd had been killed. You know, offered to sell them news of a possible Timberlake heiress."
"You're assuming the guy is a scoundrel and a cad."
"Fellows who snap pictures of their girlfriends jaybird naked are most usually schmucks and not especially trustworthy," she observed. "So I don't believe he called the Timberlakes in Manhattan simply to pass on the glad news that their missing cousin was still alive."
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he's sold her out. He could just be trying to negotiate with them on her behalf."
"Naw, he hasn't even told her that she's a potential heiress."
"How do you know that?"
"Okay, he has to have a pretty clear idea who she is, because we know he's read a copy of Lloyd's book," she said, tapping her forefinger on the map. "But she doesn't know she's a Timberlake, because she's still working for that real estate outfit."
"Some people don't quit their jobs even after inheriting millions or hitting the lottery or—"
"Hooey. Go around this upcoming circle and take the street that goes by that quaint ice-cream parlor. Wingert Road."
Ben did. "I was thinking," he said. "This 'attorney' must have the Timberlake file that Larry Dahlman swipe
d from you."
"I already told you that, ninny."
"When?"
"Back there."
"I didn't hear you. The point is, the lad who has that folder and the pictures of Mardy—he's a strong contender for the part of Larry's murderer."
"And right now he's probably with Mardy, alone in an old dark house," she said. "That must be the reservoir over there."
"That big hole with the water in it, you mean?"
"All right, take the first left after we pass it."
"I'm still not crystal clear about who's doing what to whom," Ben admitted.
"Larry Dahlman killed Lloyd Dobkin. That much we know for sure."
"Yeah, but after that it gets mighty fuzzy."
"There's the stone wall. Boy, spikes along the top and all," she said, pointing. "The gate should be right along—yes, there it is."
Ben drove onto the overgrown grounds of the Shatsworth estate. There were several acres of woods and brush surrounding the house. It rose up at the end of a long, curving drive, a three-story Victorian mansion. Pale gray, all its windows were shuttered, and its vast lawn was rich with high weeds and wildflowers.
A blue station wagon was parked in front of the rickety multicar garage. And close behind it a dusty black Fiero.
"Ben, hey, that's the car that followed me the other day." H. J. hopped out of the car as he stopped.
"You sure?"
"Of course, because I recognize the—"
From inside the house came a scream and then a shot.
Chapter 22
The carved wooden front door of the mansion had been wedged open with a doorstop. Voices were drifting out of the old house into the gray afternoon as H. J. and Ben cautiously climbed the front steps.
"I didn't mean for that to happen, Miss Cranford," a man was apologizing.
"I am going to call the police."
"No, I can't let you do that."
H. J. whispered, "I know who that is."
"The guy, you mean?"
Nodding, she replied, "Yes, that's Bjornsen."
"Who's Bjornsen?"
"You know, old Mr. Dahlman's driver."
"What's he doing here in the wilds of Massachusetts?"
"We'd better find out."
"I don't imagine the venerable old gent is with him," said Ben. "Wait here."
"Don't get too tricky," she warned.
Ben went doddering, loudly, up the remaining steps. There was no one visible in the long, musty hallway. He grabbed the brass knocker, whapped the open door with it several times. "Bjornsen, you idiot!" he yelled into the house in his old man Dahlman voice. "I want you to drop that gun at once. Drop it, do you hear me?"
Five seconds passed.
Then came a thunk.
It sounded very much like a gun hitting the hardwood floor Ben hurried into the house.
The thud had come from the first room on the left. He looked in through the beaded curtain.
A .38 revolver lay near the empty stone fireplace. A large blond man in a too-tight blue suit was standing wide-legged in front of the candy-striped love seat, facing a slim, blonde young woman, pale, one hand touching her throat.
Ben went diving into the room. He scooped up the gun and turned to point it at the big chauffeur. "What the hell is going on?"
"Where's Mr. Dahlman?" inquired the perplexed Bjornsen. "I didn't think he even knew where I was."
"You're Mardy Cranford?" Ben asked the young woman without glancing at her.
"Yes," she said, nodding. "Do you have any notion of what this is all about?"
"Some, yeah."
"Well, good afternoon, Bjornsen." Smiling, H. J. entered the parlor.
"Miss Mavity?" He blinked. "Did you bring Mr. Dahlman with you?"
"Actually we hoaxed you." She walked over to the love seat to pick up the briefcase that was lying there.
"My husband is a voice man."
"A what, miss?"
"An actor," amplified Ben. "Sit yourself down on that seat, Bjornsen."
"Mr. Dahlman's not out in the hall then?" He sat, sagging some. "For all he knows I really am off visiting my sick sister over in Long Island?"
"Quite probably." H. J. was poking around in the briefcase. "Here's the Timberlake folder, Ben."
Mardy cleared her throat. "Would you people mind if I asked who you were?"'
"I'm Ben Spanner. This is H. J. Mavity."
The blonde didn't lose her frown. "Somehow I don't feel any further along than I was."
"First fill us in on what Bjornsen was up to."
"Well, he told me he was an attorney named Wolverton and that he wanted me to come and talk with his client about a matter of great importance to me," she explained. "I don't know—he didn't look like either a lawyer or a Wolverton. So I suggested that he please leave. When he refused, I started for the phone over there to call the police. That's when he pulled the gun out of his briefcase."
"I didn't mean for it to go off," insisted the chauffeur. "But she pushed me, and I pulled the trigger by mistake. My orders are not to hurt anyone—not seriously anyway."
H. J. was leafing through the contents of the folder. "Orders from who?"
"I'd rather not say, Miss."
"C'mon, say." Ben gestured at him with the .38.
Bjornsen twisted the suit fabric at his knee with blunt fingers and studied the floor. "Well, it's Eva."
"Eva Dahlman Dobkin?" H. J. looked up from the folder. "Lloyd Dobkin's widow, huh."
"She and I," explained Bjornsen, blushing, "are . . . well, you know, friends."
"Where is she?"
"At the General Willmur Inn here in town, waiting for me to bring the young lady to her."
"What's Eva want with her?"
He fiddled with the fabric of his suit again. "Book rights, magazine serial rights, possibly a finder's fee. Things of that sort, miss."
H. J. smiled. "Eva wants to take over where Lloyd left off."
"Book rights, magazine rights," said the perplexed Mardy. "What does any of that have to do with me?"
"You don't know, do you?" said H. J.
"No, I don't have any idea of what you people are talking about."
Ben made a wait-a-minute gesture at her. To Bjornsen he said, "You're working for Eva, you say."
"Yes, I'm helping her, sir."
"That means she had you kill her own brother."
The driver jumped to his feet, shaking his head vigorously. "No, no," he told them. "I took that file, surely. But I never killed Larry Dahlman."
Chapter 23
They'd persuaded the big chauffeur to reseat himself. Ben was sitting in a rickety straight-back chair facing him. "You'd better explain a bit more," he suggested, the revolver resting on his knee.
"Eva came up with the idea, oh, a week or more ago, that her husband was up to something," Bjornsen began. "Not another woman thing—she was used to those. 'That little prick'—you'll pardon my language, ladies—'That little prick is up to something, Dean.' That's my first name. Dean. She suggested I start tailing him to—"
"Did you try to kill him?" H. J. was standing, arms folded, in front of the dead fireplace. "By draining the fluid out of—"
"We never tried to kill anyone, miss. You have to believe that."
"Go on," urged Ben.
"After Mr. Dobkin was run down, Eva was more certain than ever that he'd been on to something lucrative," Bjornsen continued. "She had me follow various people, to see if they knew anything or if he'd left any notes or other material with them."
"You followed me," said H. J.
"A couple of times, miss, yes, but then she told me to stick with Larry. Somehow, she'd begun to suspect that he knew something."
"You were following him the night he slugged me."
"I was, miss, and I'm very sorry I couldn't stop to help out. My orders, though, were to stay with him."
Ben said, "You followed him home, took the file."
"Yes, I did," admitted Bjornsen.
"I knew it must be important or he wouldn't have hurt Miss Mavity in order to obtain it."
"Did you and Larry fight over possession?"
"That wasn't necessary. I was able to sneak up on him, tap him twice on the skull. He never even saw me."
"This all took place at Larry's house?"
"That's right. I left him lying in his living room unconscious and took the folder back to Eva."
From the armchair where she was restlessly listening, Mardy asked, "Is this all going to have something to do with me eventually?"
"Very much so," promised H. J.
"When Eva went through the notes and the photographs," Bjornsen said, "she put it all together. 'The little prick was on to a million-dollar yarn here, Dean.' We tried to phone Juster, but weren't able to contact him directly. Then we decided we better drive up here."
"Did you ever find Juster?"
"No, sir. So we took her photos—just the head, since you can't flash nudes around—and showed them at the library, churches, and the post office. That, eventually, got us an identification."
"Told you that would work," H. J. said to Ben.
Slowly Mardy stood. "This has something to do with those stupid pictures that Mark talked me into posing for, doesn't it?"
"It surely does," H. J. assured her.
The chauffeur said, "You have to understand that Eva and I haven't really done anything seriously wrong. There's really no need to take any legal action against us."
"Breaking and entering, assault," listed Ben, "threatening people with a gun. Bjornsen, I'm really going to have to turn you over to the cops."
"That would ruin Miss Mavity's chances of ever selling anything to Dahlman's publications again."
H. J. laughed. "I'll risk that."
"No!" Suddenly Bjornsen lunged at Ben, shoving at him with both hands.
The ancient chair toppled over backward and Ben went falling. He smacked the stones of the fireplace with the side of his head.
There was a brief show of jagged specks of colored light. Profound darkness followed.
Ben produced a grunting sound.
He became aware that the right side of his face was considerably colder than the left. Furthermore, his right knee and his right elbow felt funny.