by A. A. Fair
“And all of the red tape,” I asked, “all of the preliminaries which enabled you to come to Colombia at such short notice?”
“They had been taken care of earlier,” Bertha said with dignity.
“And what do you suppose Sharples really wanted?” I asked.
Bertha said, “One thing he most certainly wanted was to have someone go to the consul in case he had disappeared. In case he hadn’t, I think he wanted me to pick up the trail of this man Hockley and see what he was doing here.”
“Sharples enclosed a check?” I asked.
“I have his promise to pay,” Bertha said angrily.
I laughed.
Bertha’s eyes blazed at me. “For a man that has been in partnership with me as long as you have, you don’t know much about my character. Why, I’ll collect from that toad if I have to put him through a wringing machine and squeeze out every drop of blood he’s got.”
Chapter Twenty-Three:—A CROW CAN’T COUNT
AT MEXICO CITY I RECEIVED A WIRE from Ramon Jurado. The wire read: Señora Lerida, followed by a street number in Los Angeles.
“What’s that?” Bertha asked.
“Evidently the address of Señora Lerida in Los Angeles.”
“Damn it,” Bertha flared at me, “don’t give me a runaround. I’m not so dumb but what I can read. Who the hell do you think you’re kidding?”
“No one.”
“Well, don’t try it, then. What is it?”
I said, “Apparently it is an attempt on the part of Ramon Jurado to be diplomatic.”
“About what?”
“About something that is, after all, slightly out of his field of jurisdiction.”
Bertha said, “Sometimes, you little devil, I could yank your heart out by the roots.”
I said, “Doubtless that’s the subconscious influence.”
“Of what?”
“Of the ancient human sacrifices made here. Suppose we investigate some of the excellent restaurants here and forget business for the moment.”
“I suppose,” she said angrily, “you think you’re being diplomatic.”
“You’ve guessed it.”
“You and Ramon Jurado and your diplomacy!” Bertha snorted.
But she went out to Sanborne’s.
Next morning we took off in the thin bracing air of the high plateau country and headed toward the United States.
All during the trip I could see that Bertha was thinking. But it wasn’t until after we had left Mazatlan and were winging our way over the west coast, with the blue waters of the Gulf of California catching the glint of the sun, that Bertha leaned over to me and said in a conciliatory voice, “Donald, who killed Cameron?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“Because, as yet, I’m not certain why Cameron was killed.”
“When you find out why, you think you’ll know who did it?”
“It will help.”
Bertha’s face flushed. “Go on,” she said, “play them close to your chest if you want to and see who the hell cares.”
She jerked her head around and gave her attention to the scenery.
I adjusted the reclining chair and let the dull drone of the motors, the soft foam-rubber cushions, lull me to sleep and didn’t waken until Mexicali.
By the time we reached Los Angeles, Bertha had been doing some mental arithmetic. “Donald,” she said, “just how much are we going to make out of this case?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you’d better find out,” she snapped. “To date we haven’t made a thing. By the time we deduct traveling-expenses and all that—good grief, what a mess!”
I said, “I can’t help it.”
“Don’t tell me you can’t help it. You turn down cold hard cash that Sharples wanted to give us simply because you thought he was a crook.”
“Do you know where we’d be now if we’d tied up with Sharples?”
“Where?”
I said, “If you were lucky, you might be in Medellín. If you weren’t lucky, you’d be in jail down in that jungle climate along the river.”
“Jail, pooh!” Bertha said. “Sharples didn’t stay there long.”
I said, “Sharples speaks the language and he knows the people. Also it cost him quite a bribe to get out. Perhaps if you’d added a bribe to your expense account, it wouldn’t have been so good.”
“I’d have got out,” Bertha said.
“Ever try making a bribe offer through an interpreter?”
“Shut up.”
We rode up to town in the airport limousine. “Coming up to the office?” Bertha asked.
“No.”
“Don’t, then.”
“Thanks, I won’t.”
Bertha flounced away and left me. I picked up the agency car and drove down to the place where Dona Grafton maintained her little bungalow studio.
Dona answered my ring. “Hello,” she said, her eyes lighting up as she gave me her hand. “Won’t you come in?”
I went in and sat down. She said, “I want to thank you. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. Your secretary said you were out of town.”
“What did you want specifically?”
“Just to thank you for being so—so darn nice and considerate and everything, and helping out the way you did. I think it was wonderful.”
I said, “I wasn’t even aware I had done anything.”
“Silly. Don’t be so modest. Where have you been?”
“Colombia.”
“In South America, you mean?”
“That’s right.”
Her face lit up. “It must be wonderful to travel like that—to go places when you want to go. You made a quick trip.”
“I did. I think I found out something.”
“What?”
“Do you know a man by the name of Felipe Murindo?”
She laughed. “But of course. That is, I don’t know him personally, but I have heard Mr. Cameron speak about him. He’s the mine manager down there.”
“What did Cameron say about him?”
“Why, just that he was a nice, steady, dependable man. I don’t think he reads or writes. But he’s honest, and that’s the main thing.”
I said, “He’s dead.”
“He is? How did it happen?”
“An accidental explosion of some dynamite.”
“Oh.”
I said, “You can put the accidental in quotes.”
“You mean it was—”
“Murder.”
“But who—why was he killed? What was the reason?”
I said, “If I knew that, I might know the reason Robert Cameron was killed.”
“You mean their deaths were linked together?”
“I think so.”
“But I can’t understand how two murders so many miles apart—”
She laughed nervously and said, “I’m getting rather mixed up. What I mean is, the victims were separated by such a great distance I just don’t see how the two murders could be—well, how they could have anything in common.”
I said, “Why are you stammering around that way, Dona?”
“I’m not stammering,” she said indignantly.
“Well, you’re nervous and talking rather rapidly.”
“What if I am? I guess I have a right to talk any way I want to. After all, you don’t discuss murders as casually as you discuss what you’re going to have for breakfast.”
I said, “When did you first think your mother killed Robert Cameron?”
Her make-up flared into brilliance as her face blanched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Try again.”
She said, “Mr. Lam, I liked you so much and I thought—well, that you were nice, very nice. And now—”
“Never mind what you thought about me,” I said. “When did you first realize that your mother killed Robert Cameron?”
“She didn’t kill hi
m.”
“You’re whistling to keep your courage up. When did you first come to the conclusion she had killed him?”
“I’m not going to talk about it.”
I said, “There must be something you knew, something you didn’t tell anyone. But it was something that has always been in the back of your mind. Suppose you tell me what it was.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess we’re not going to be friends after all.”
I said, “Of course, I could telephone Sam Buda and let him do the questioning. After all, you know, I’m trying to help you.”
“By pinning a murder on my mother?”
“By uncovering the facts. They’re going to come out anyway.”
She sat silent, saying nothing. I said, “Well, Dona, I’m sorry. I hoped you’d confide in me and I hoped I could help you. As it is, I’ll have to let the law do the questioning.”
“How did you mean you could help me?”
“I don’t know. I’m not too certain that anyone has the right answer. We have to know the facts before we can find out. But I do know that when your mother pulled a knife to throw at you, you managed to switch that knife for another one when you thought I wasn’t looking. So now suppose you tell me the truth.”
“My mother had an appointment with him that morning,” she blurted.
“Did anyone tell you not to say anything about that?”
“My mother.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she had to cancel her appointment, that she didn’t see him.”
“You believed her?”
“No. I knew that wasn’t the truth.”
“You know that she saw him?”
“Yes, I think she did.”
I said, “Suppose I tell you some of the facts as I have figured them out. Perhaps, then, you’ll talk more frankly with me.”
“Go ahead.”
I said, “Harry Sharples and Robert Cameron started in as trustees under the estate of Cora Hendricks. The estate consisted of some mining property that was worked more or less haphazardly for a while. Then the two trustees put in more modern machinery and made a good thing out of the property. They acquired more property. There were two beneficiaries. They tried to be fair, impartial, and honest. But one of these beneficiaries grew up into a high-voltage young woman who completely hypnotized both the men. These men were getting to that age in life when their heads were more or less easily turned.”
Dona simply sat there, watching me, saying nothing.
I said, “Felipe Murindo became manager of all those mining properties. He drew a pretty good salary, all things considered. He must have been saving. After his death it was discovered that he left a substantial bank account in Medellín. Pretty good for a boy who never had a day of schooling in his life.”
“What are you getting at?” she asked.
I said, “About three years ago Cameron discovered a rock formation high up above the river which looked good to him. He did a little prospecting and then quietly secured title to the property. A shaft was sunk and a drift was started. Then ostensibly the property was abandoned. All work came to a stop.”
“Well?” she asked.
I said, “That was ostensibly. Actually, Felipe Murindo went on with the mine, it was an emerald mine. They brought out large quantities of emeralds. Robert Cameron would fly down to South America at regular intervals. He was a widely known figure, a reputable, trusted businessman. There were, of course, customs inspections but they were the routine examinations given tourists who had received a clean bill of health by the government. You probably know that by the time a returning tourist gets to customs, the customs have had a fairly complete report on him. If there’s anything suspicious about his background or his activities, the customs men know all about that.”
“Yes, I suppose so. That is, I’ve always assumed that must be the case.
I said, “Cameron smuggled in large quantities of uncut emeralds to this country. The emeralds were cut and polished here by someone who hasn’t appeared in the picture yet.”
“What became of the emeralds?” she asked.
I said, “Sharples and Cameron specialized on picking up antique jewelry. The man who did the cutting and polishing of the stones was probably the one who took the diamonds out of the antique setting and substituted emeralds. They may have had some other marketing outlet. I don’t know. But they managed to dispose of quite a few emeralds in this manner without attracting any attention. And that’s quite a job, because jewelry circles are particularly sensitive to whispers and rumors and the emerald market is controlled with an iron hand by the Colombian government.
“Sharples and Cameron were in something of a predicament. They couldn’t declare the income from these emeralds in their own income-tax returns or put it in as part of the trust without betraying what they were doing. They evidently discussed the matter with Shirley Bruce and decided on a three-way division with nothing said to anyone.
“Then one day Cameron got a little careless. He forgot about his pet crow. He was working with some emeralds and for some reason he had to go out. He left the emeralds on his table. When he returned, all of the emeralds weren’t there. For a minute he couldn’t understand it. Then he looked up and saw Pancho, the crow, perched on the chandelier with an emerald in his beak.
“In all probability, if Cameron had been diplomatic about it, he could have coaxed the crow down and taken the emerald. But Pancho knew he was in mischief. He also knew he was likely to be punished. He started to fly out of his hole in the gable with the emerald in his beak. Cameron couldn’t stand for that. He snatched up the .22 automatic and took a hurried shot, just as the crow scuttled through the little opening under the eaves. He almost hit him, but not quite.
“Then he was in a quandary. He knew the crow had been stealing emeralds. He felt certain the crow was going to fly over to you with an emerald in his beak. An inventory showed he was five emeralds short. He knew it would be necessary to make explanations. There was no way of telling where Pancho had scattered those stones. For a moment he didn’t know what to do.
“Then a bright idea occurred to him. He took the last piece of antique jewelry he’d been offering on the market, pried the stones from the setting, and put the setting on the corner of the table. He left two of the emeralds on the desk and planted six in the crow’s cage. Then he prepared to go out, probably to come and call on you. In the event you had discovered the emeralds or the crow had been seen by anyone. Cameron could have said. ‘Oh, my heavens! I was working with some emeralds, taking them out of an antique setting so that a jeweler could reset them. I left them on the table and the crow must have picked them up.’ Then he’d have taken you back to his place and there you would have found the whole story—the piece of antique jewelry with the thirteen settings, two stones lying on the table, six in the crow’s nest, and five emeralds missing.”
She was watching me now with wide, startled eyes. “Go on,” she said in a whisper. “Then what happened?”
I said, “But before Cameron started over here to find out what had happened to the crow, he telephoned someone. And while he was telephoning, the door opened and someone entered. That someone was a person whom Cameron trusted—a person with whom he had a certain degree of informal intimacy. He waved that person to a seat and went on with his telephone conversation.”
“And then?” she asked.
I said, “And then about the time he was ready to hang up the telephone, that person quietly, skilfully walked up behind him and slipped a knife between his ribs.”
“And the emeralds? What happened to them?”
I said, “There were eight emeralds at Cameron’s. The other five emeralds I found in the cage out here in your woodshed. And the police found five in the drainpipe.”
“But that’s too many emeralds,” she said. “Didn’t you say there were only thirteen in the pendant?”
“That’s right,” I told her. “But the crow did
n’t know he was supposed to add up the emeralds and make them balance. He couldn’t count, you see.”
“But what about the murder? Why was he killed? Who killed him?”
I said, “To answer that question we first have to answer the question of why Felipe Murindo was selected as mine manager. We also have to find out what connection there is between Murindo’s death and that of Robert Cameron. And we have to find out why Sharples turned against Cameron.”
She said, “I can tell you one thing which may help.”
“What is it?”
She said, “Shirley Bruce was not as close to Robert Cameron as she was to Harry Sharples.”
“How do you know?”
“Nothing definite,” she said. “Intangible things. I think perhaps all you say is true, yet I know there was some barrier between Cameron and Shirley—a feeling on Robert Cameron’s part that Sharples and Shirley ‘ were—well, close.”
“Intimate?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I did.”
“I don’t know. Robert Cameron didn’t know. But there was always that feeling.”
“Go on. Tell me more.”
“Cameron and Sharples were friends, not close friends, but they got along all right. Mr. Cameron was something of a recluse. Sharples was anything but that. Then something happened. I don’t know what. Mr. Cameron sent for my mother to come to see him.”
“When?”
“The morning of the day he died.”
“Your mother did see him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About half-past nine.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. It couldn’t have happened then, could it, Donald?”
“Not if she saw him at nine-thirty. Did she?”
“She told me that was when it was.”
“When did she tell you that?”
“That afternoon. She was hysterical, all unstrung. I knew something terrible had happened. She kept calling Mr. Sharples, but she couldn’t get him. And she called Shirley Bruce and tried to get to see her, but Shirley wouldn’t let her come until the next day.”