Crows Can't Count

by A. A. Fair

  He gave me the works as I sat down across the desk from him.

  I let him give me the old gimlet eye long enough to convince him it wasn’t going to work. Then I said, “What gave you the idea of pulling Phyllis Fabens on me?”

  The hypnotic eyes suddenly wavered in an unconscious slip. Then by a determined effort he brought them back to mine. “Occasionally I do some business in antique jewelry. It’s a sideline with me. I happened to remember Miss Fabens and a pendant I got from her.”

  “Do much of that sort of thing?” I asked.

  “You mean the antique jewelry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite a bit. Not as much now as I did at one time. There isn’t the demand for it.”

  “How do you dispose of that stuff? In quantity, I mean.”

  He ran one hand over his head and said, “If I told you that, you’d know as much as I do.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, “We’ll let it go at that. You didn’t tell Sergeant Buda about this little sideline of yours?”

  “I wasn’t asked—specifically.”

  “You didn’t volunteer any information.”

  “You weren’t particularly loquacious yourself.”

  “Was Cameron one of your outlets for antique jewelry?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Let us suppose, then, that Phyllis Fabens is telling the truth. Let us suppose that she sold you a garnet pendant. What did you do with it?”

  “I disposed of it through certain trade channels.”

  “Not to Mr. Cameron?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Then it shows up in Cameron’s possession and all of a sudden has emeralds in it.”

  Jarratt’s hand got busy on the top of his head again. “Of course,” he said, “it might not have been the same pendant. I didn’t remember definitely about the garnets.”

  “I see. You had a hazy recollection of the pendant and thought you’d like to have it investigated. Is that it?” His eyes lit up. “That’s it. That’s exactly it.”

  “You just couldn’t be sure whether it had emeralds or garnets in it when you bought it?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  I said, “A man in your position, carrying on a business as a sideline in antique jewelry, is apt to forget having bought a really valuable pendant for ten dollars. Is that right?”

  “The pendant didn’t have emeralds in it when I saw it.”

  “And you don’t know it was the same pendant?”

  “Definitely not. I only remember that there was a pendant of similar design in the jewelry I bought from this Phyllis Fabens. And I didn’t even remember her name until I consulted my daybook. I was trying to do you a favor, Mr. Lam—not laying myself open to a lot of abuse.”

  “In this game things don’t always turn out the way you want them to.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Phyllis Fabens looked very much like a red herring to me.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought I was helping you.”

  “She was calm, self-possessed, easy to meet, and quick to tell her story. In fact, she was so eager to co-operate that I came to the conclusion she might have been planted.”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Lam, there was definitely nothing of that sort.”

  “Now then, do you have any theory which could account for the fact that a pendant was purchased from Phyllis Fabens, that it was sold by you in trade channels that you don’t care to disclose, that the pendant then found its way into the possession of Robert Cameron, that Robert Cameron removed the garnets and synthetic ruby which had been in the pendant and substituted very fine emeralds, that Cameron subsequently brought that pendant with the emeralds to you to be appraised, that you took it to Nuttall’s for an appraisal, got it back, gave it to Cameron, and Cameron promptly proceeded to take the emeralds out of it again—perhaps for the purpose of substituting garnets and a synthetic ruby after the appraisal had been made.”

  “When you express it that way, it doesn’t make sense at all.”

  “Can you find any way of expressing it so it does make sense?” I asked.

  “No,” he admitted, tugging at the lobe of his left ear.

  “You seem to have figured in the thing pretty prominently,” I said. “First you get the pendant, then you sell it, then a man buys it and puts emeralds in it, then he brings it to you to take to Nuttall to have appraised. For a man who’s carrying on a business of that sort only as a sideline in a big city, you seem to be like Rome.”

  “What do you mean—like Rome?”

  “All roads lead to you,” I said.

  He kept tugging at the lobe of his ear. “I guess,” he said, “there’s only one explanation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That the pendant I purchased from Phyllis Fabens wasn’t the same pendant that Cameron brought in to me, and yet—well, I could have sworn they were the same.”

  “You didn’t notice the resemblance at the time?” “No. Because I didn’t attach so much importance to the pendant—that is—well, you know.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Well, of course, that purchase from Phyllis Fabens was very casual. It wasn’t until I began to think about the significance of the pendant that I remembered having made the purchase from her.”

  I said, “That pendant is representative of an old type of jewelry. Isn’t it quite possible there were a large number of identical pendants made?”

  “I suppose so—yes.”

  “And that one pendant could have been set with emeralds and one with garnets?”

  “I suppose that must be the explanation, and yet—Frankly, Lam, I still think that pendant in Cameron’s possession was the one I bought from Phyllis Fabens.”

  “Then it becomes vitally important to know where Cameron got it.”

  Jarratt said, “The problem becomes complicated when you put it in that light.”

  “How come?”

  “Because I can’t disclose to you the marketing outlet I have for these pieces of antique jewelry. In the first place, it would be betraying the interests of a client. In the second place, it would probably destroy a profitable market for me. But I can say this: It might be Mr. Cameron was doing a little detective work when he was killed. Mr. Cameron might have been interested in finding out how this pendant came to be set with emeralds and where the emeralds came from.”

  “In other words, the person who buys this antique jewelry from you is in some sort of a racket?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then Cameron, being friendly with the South American government, which really controls the emerald business, might have been trying to do some detective work as a personal favor for a friend?”

  “I think I can suggest that possibility to your mind without violating professional ethics,” Jarratt said.

  “Thanks,” I told him. “It’s something I’ll think over. I’m sorry about my reaction to your tip on Phyllis Fabens. I’m beginning to think you’re a smarter man than I thought you were.”

  “Thank you, I am,” Jarratt said, and wished me good night.

  I went down to the street, started to climb into the car, then looked around just to make sure.

  Two cars were parked within a hundred feet of me. Each of the cars held two persons. They were the same two cars I had played tag with a short time earlier.

  I got in my car and drove away.

  Neither of the cars made the slightest effort to follow. I had an uneasy, cold feeling around the pit of my stomach. If those boys had followed me to Jarratt’s office, they must have done it by mental telepathy. They didn’t look to be overly intelligent. I’d given them a beautiful run-around and ditched them cold. And there they were, parked outside Peter Jarratt’s office, waiting: for me to come out.

  Chapter Fifteen:—SOME FANCY WRECKAGE

  IT WAS WELL AFTER DARK when I entered our office building. Not until I had signed my name on the register kept by the elevator man
did I see the peculiar look on his face.

  He said in an undertone, “Someone waiting for you.”

  I turned and looked at the man who had moved out from an alcove behind the doorway. He had “plainclothes” stamped all over him. He leaned over my shoulder, looked at the name I had just written, and said, “Oh, oh!”

  “What’s the trouble?” I asked.

  “We want you.”

  “Is it a pinch?”

  “What makes you think it’s a pinch?”

  I said, “You have ‘law’ stamped all over you.”

  That bothered him. He probably thought he looked like a $50,000-a-year corporation executive on a vacation. “Wise guy, huh?” he said sarcastically.

  “That’s right,” I told him. “I graduated from St. Vincent’s Kindergarten with the class of 1921. I think I was valedictorian or something, which is pretty good for a four-year-old kid.”

  “Oh, nuts!” he said disgustedly. “Come on—the Sergeant wants to see you.”

  “Which sergeant?”

  “Buda.”

  “He must know where my office is, or he wouldn’t have sent you.”

  “Don’t you want to come?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “We could make it official.”

  “With a warrant?”

  “Well, maybe with a subpoena.”

  “What about?”

  “The Sergeant will tell you.”

  I said, “Look, I don’t want to be uncooperative but I’ve seen the Sergeant. I’ve told him all I know.”

  “Not about this, you haven’t.”

  Back of the heavy, sullen obstinacy of the man’s face, he had a one-track mind.

  I said, “You mean Buda is going to get tough if I don’t come?”

  “He sent me to get you, either to come or to refuse to come—that’s all I know.”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  “You can ride with me.”

  “Nope, I have my own car. I follow you.”

  “Why not ride with me?” he asked, suspiciously.

  “You might not be coming back when I want to come.” He thought that over for a minute and said, “All right, my car’s across the street.”

  “Mine’s in the agency parking-place.”

  We walked out through the lobby. Plain-clothes got his car from the parking-place and moved over to block the exit of the parking-station where we kept the agency car. As soon as I showed up he gave me the nod and started driving, keeping his gaze centered on the rear-view mirror.

  We headed west on Seventh Street, cut over at Figueroa to Wilshire, rode out Wilshire Boulevard to Hollywood.

  Plain-clothes hadn’t said how far we were going. He was driving with a slow, steady rhythm. It looked as though he might be heading for the beach. Every once in a while he’d miss a traffic signal on. purpose so I could close up the gap and be right behind him. He wanted to reassure himself that the headlights behind him were the ones he wanted. He was a suspicious cop. He didn’t believe in taking chances on anything.

  Then abruptly he gave a left signal and we were running south again along a street given over to the mansion type of houses built in the latter part of the twenties, when a man could spend $20,000 a year on house upkeep without using up everything left over from the income tax.

  The neighborhood radiated an atmosphere of conservative prosperity—white stucco houses, red tile roofs, palm trees, lawns, balconies, driveways leading back to three-car garages with apartments for chauffeurs over the car stalls.

  My man swung in close to the curb.

  I looked ahead and knew where he was going. A police car was parked in front of the place.

  I pulled over to the curb, stopped the motor, and switched out the lights. My guide drove up to the front of the house, double parked, said something to a man who was on duty in front of the place, and settled down to wait.

  The man went in, came out, said something to my guide and went back to take up his station in front of the place. The plain-clothes man heaved his big bulk out of the car, came back to where I was parked, and said, “Okay, we go in.”

  We walked past the guard and up the boardwalk which led to the front porch. The door opened. Sergeant Sam Buda came out and walked down to meet us. “Know who’s place this is, Lam?”

  “I do now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “From the address. It’s the one that Harry Sharples gave us.”

  “Ever been here before?”

  “No.”

  “What do you know about Sharples?”

  “Not much.”

  “Anything about his business affairs?”

  “Nothing worthwhile. Remember you asked that question before.”

  “I know,” he said. “Things have changed a lot since then.”

  “What’s happened to him?” I asked.

  He didn’t say anything but just looked at me with a gimlet-eyed expression of silent accusation.

  After the silence had lasted several seconds, he said, “How did you know something has happened to him?”

  I said, with exasperation, “Do we have to go into all that hooey? A plain-clothes man comes and picks me up. We drive to this address. A police car is parked in front. There’s a guard outside. You come to the door and start questioning me about Sharples. If I didn’t think something has happened to him, I’d be the biggest dope in the detective business. And that’s saying a lot.”

  “Sharples wanted you to be his bodyguard, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he afraid of?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you think he was afraid of?”

  I said, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “When a man wants to hire you as a bodyguard, don’t you usually want to find out what it is he’s afraid of?”

  “If I take the job, I do.”

  “You didn’t take this job?”

  “It doesn’t look like it, does it?”

  “Why wouldn’t you take it?”

  “You really want to know the answer to that?”

  “Yes.”

  I said, “Perhaps Sharples wasn’t afraid.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  I said, “Perhaps Sharples started me working on a setup which was a cinch to lead to Robert Cameron. He came to our office and waited so Bertha Cool and the office girl would both remember he was there. As soon as I’d given him the tip on Cameron, Sharples decided we’d go see Cameron. We went out together and found Cameron croaked.”

  Buda’s eyes were sparkling now. “You didn’t tell me this before.”

  “As you said,” I told him, “the situation is changed.”

  “Then you think Sharples killed Cameron, then dashed to your office and—”

  I said, “Don’t be silly. You asked me why I didn’t want to work for Sharples. I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Well?”

  I said, “Just suppose when I went out to Cameron’s place, I saw something that made me become suspicious, of Sharples.”

  “What was it?” he snapped at me.

  I said wearily, “There you go again. I’m building up what a lawyer would call a hypothetical case. I might not have seen anything, but Sharples might have thought I did. He may have thought I knew something I wasn’t supposed to know. So he hires me to work for him as a bodyguard. He complains to the police that he thinks he’s in danger. I’m with him twenty-four hours a day. I have to go wherever he wants to go. Suppose he wants to go out to some nice deserted piece of woodland, and suppose I don’t come back any more.”

  “You mean murder?”

  “Nothing crude like that. People overpower us and tie us up and take us away somewhere. Sharples escapes. He leads the police back to this place. They find my dead body—a brave detective who gave his life in the line of duty.”

  “That sounds like a pipe dream to me,” Buda snorted.

  “It sounds like a nightma
re to me.”

  “And that’s the reason you didn’t work for him?”

  “I’m not saying it is. I’m giving you a hypothetical case. I’m saying suppose that was the reason.”

  “Well, was it?”

  I looked him in the eyes. “I don’t know, Sergeant.”

  “The hell you don’t.”

  “I’m handing it to you straight. I don’t know. Sharples wanted me to work for him and I had just the biggest, plainest hunch I ever had in my life that I didn’t want to work for the man. I don’t know why it was.”

  “I see. Sort of psychic, eh?” Buda said sarcastically.

  “Call it that if you want to.”

  “Did someone tip you off?”

  “No. I tell you it was just a hunch.”

  Buda looked his disgust. “That’s a swell story. We can’t subpoena a hunch to come before the grand jury and be cross-examined. We can’t separate your subconscious mind, wrap it up in cellophane, and introduce it in a case as Exhibit A.”

  “What’s all the shooting about?” I asked.

  He hesitated a moment, then said, “Come in here.”

  We climbed cement steps, crossed a wide porch, opened a front door, and entered a hall where hardwood waxed floors and rich Oriental rugs were illuminated by lights hung in crystal chandeliers.

  Sergeant Buda led me through a door at the left and into a room which was a combination library and office.

  That room was a wreck.

  Chairs were overturned and broken. A table lay on one side. An overturned ink bottle had spilled its contents over the hardwood floor. Rugs had been rumpled into a confused tangle, apparently kicked about by persons engaged in a struggle. A sectional bookcase had been upset and lay on the floor on its side. Sliding glass doors of the overturned sections canted at various angles. Books spilled out had evidently been kicked around by the feet of persons engaged in a life-and-death struggle: Sections had come apart and were deposited at varying angles, looking somewhat like the boxcars of a freight train in a bad wreck. The safe door was wide open and papers from the safe lay strewn on the floor, as though they had been hurriedly dumped out from various pigeonholes.