My Business is Murder

by Kane, Henry

  The last name brought him up rigid. “Moore?” he said.

  “Yeah. Henry Moore’s son. Guy was supposed to be dead. Figures. You do a perfect murder, double-header, and a guy comes back from the dead to mess it up. A year later. Perfect murder, Mr. Adams … it doesn’t happen, not when there’s motive, not when it has a basis. You come close, sometimes, real close. Tell you something Mr. Adams, you came the closest I ever heard of.”

  He was an old man and he was beaten before I started. His face was ashen, the circles beneath his eyes deep and black and quivering. There was a constant, restrained twitching at one corner of his mouth. His voice was toneless and resigned. But there was a dignity about him. This was a strong man and an intelligent one going down and knowing, now, in advance, that there could be no hope of succor. He parried like a boxer unconscious on his feet, but going through the motions. Eddie Adams knew it was over, all of it, but he said, “Speak your piece, Mr. Chambers. Never mind the flourishes.”

  “Perfect murder.” I shook my head. “There’s always a loose end. Took a boy who came back from the dead—a year later—to shake it up.”

  “Speak your piece, Mr. Chambers.”

  I rubbed one palm against the other as I walked his coral carpet. I said, “You’re Eddie Adams. Your Diamond Circle has collapsed. You’re a guy with a hundred thousand dollars to his name, cash that is, and you’re a guy who’s used to a lot more than that. You’re in a funk. You’re down deep, and you’re almost out. And then you pop a proposition to Jack Rawlings, a millionaire and the guy’s listening. You want him to back you, and he sounds like he’s willing.”

  “No crime,” Eddie Adams said. “No crime in that.”

  “Only it gets to a point where Rawlings wants you as a partner—with you to invest half. Half means two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and all you’ve got is a hundred, and that’s dwindling. But you’re a fighter, Mr. Adams. Here’s a chance to come up swinging—but who’s got two hundred and fifty thousand, who’s got a quarter of a million bucks?”

  “No crime yet, Mr. Chambers.”

  “No crime’s been committed yet. But the groundwork is there, the spur, the reason, the motive. You’re Eddie Adams, a playboy from way back. You’re married to an elderly lady and there’s a policy for a hundred thousand dollars, double indemnity for accidental death. You play around with that, it tickles in back of your mind, but you’re Eddie Adams, you don’t fiddle around with planned murder, not when it can kick and blow up in your face. So—just like the devil sent him—a guy comes to you out of left field.”

  “Who?” Eddie Adams said.

  “Henry Moore.”

  “For what?”

  “For fifteen thousand dollars. For a loan.”

  “How do you know this? How the devil do you know?”

  “We’ll come to that.” I stopped at his desk and hitched up on a corner of it. “Fifteen thousand dollars. A guy crazy in need of fifteen thousand dollars. An old-timer, a man whose only child is dead, a man whose wife is dead, a man alone, no family, a man desperately pleading for fifteen thousand dollars. An idea begins to glimmer in your brain.”

  His head tilted up. “Idea? Why?”

  “Because you remember the guy.”

  “Henry Moore? I deny that.”

  “Deny, Mr. Adams. See what good it will do you. You denied it to the police, too.” I shifted my position on the desk. “You want me to stop? You want to hear it from me or would you rather hear it from cops?”

  “Please go on.”

  “Henry Moore. A guy you used to know many, many years ago. A guy who was a bank guard when you were a small depositor. A guy who used to trade philosophy with you when you were a little man who ran a little club. Henry Moore. A guy that had a bug on a subject. Euthanasia. You remembered that.”

  “Remembered what?”

  “What he was bugged on. Mercy killing. All of a sudden it began to shoot sparks in your brain. The devil had sent him and you were going to use him. Perfect murder with no kick back. You had it. You had it fine. You had it cold and clear and workable.”

  “How?” Now he seemed disinterested, a third party fascinated by a story. “How did I have it? What did I have?”

  “You had your out. You had your recovery. Had your partnership in what turned out to be the Stardust Room. And you had a guy just desperate enough, just crazy enough, to make it work.”

  Eddie Adams leaned back against the cushioned brocade of his chair. He waved his left hand toward the others. He said, “You may be impressing that segment of your audience. You’re not impressing me.” But Eddie Adams was mouthing words. Eddie Adams didn’t mean it. Eddie Adams was a tired old man. But tired or old, curiosity is a prod that pricks even when you’re dying. Eddie Adams was dying but he lifted his lips in a grimace that was meant to be a smile. He said, “Go on. I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

  “You know,” I said, “in a cockeyed kind of way, you’ve got class.”

  “Thank you. Let’s get on with the story.”

  I moved off the desk and began to walk again. I looked toward Herb, and Herb winked and nodded his head. I said, “From here, I’ll do it chronologically. Let’s begin with the morning of May 10th. You’re in your office, and upstairs walkup. Henry Moore had phoned you and you had told him to come over that morning, May 10th, nine o’clock. You didn’t know yet that you could use him. You knew nothing. An old-timer was bothering you. You had your own troubles. You figured on having him over early, getting his story, and giving him a fast brush. Nine o’clock. He shows up. A crazy man presents his problem. He needs fifteen thousand dollars as a loan. You remember him, and all of a sudden the gears shift in your head and you’re rolling. You tell him to come back at noon.”

  His voice was a sick man’s exhalation. “Why?”

  “Because you needed props. You wanted to get this guy properly squared away.”

  There was unashamed perplexity on his face. “How do you know this? In the event it were factual—how could you possibly know any of this?”

  “Let’s skip that. You want me to tell you where you went?”

  “I’d like to hear where you say I went.”

  “Dr. Fletcher Lewis.”

  It threw him. Sweat broke out on his face like a valve had opened and he made choking sounds in his throat. I had him reeling and I kept punching. I said:

  “Dr. Fletcher Lewis. You were there at ten-thirty on some kind of trumped-up complaint. He keeps his stationery on his desk. You grabbed a hunk of that, swiped it, and you had what you came for. Back in your office, you wrote out a deal about how your wife was incurably ill and now you had your prop. At noon time, you went to work on Henry Moore.”

  Herb Wiley stood up. “Frame-job?” he said.

  “The weirdest.” I talked to Herb now. Eddie Adams was sunk in his chair. The only thing alive about him was the light in his eyes. “He made Henry Moore a proposition. He told Moore he himself was stuck for dough. He gave him the whole megilla. Then he told him about his wife, ill, incurably ill, showed him a letter from a specialist which coincided with reports from other doctors: his wife had no more than two months to live. He told Henry Moore about the insurance policy, double indemnity for accidental death. And then he came up with the snapper.”

  “Snapper?” Herb Wiley said.

  “He made Henry Moore this fantastic proposition. He said, in substance: ‘Henry, I’ve got a wife who is dead but not quite dead yet and who is suffering terribly. If she dies by a bullet, in a sense we’d be doing her a favor, plus I’d get two hundred thousand dollars instead of one hundred thousand, and I need that extra money. We’re both in a spot, Henry. You can help me, and you can have your fifteen thousand free for nothing.’ And the desperate man, the crazily desperate man, listened to him.”

  Herb Wiley said, “What about that prop he had prepared? Did he use it?”

  “Of course. Moore wanted some sort of proof, and Adams gave him proof. There’s a little guesswork
involved here but we’ve got more than a sufficiency of foursquare facts to fit this guy’s behind in the hot seat … so I believe I’m entitled to the luxury of a bit of guesswork.”

  “Entitled, indeed,” Herb Wiley said.

  “All right, let me give you the picture. Eddie Adams did a deal and did it thoroughly. He arranged to have it look like a burglary up there in Mamaroneck. He wanted Henry to be there at about two in the morning. He’d leave the door open for him. Henry would make a noise, Adams would send his wife out for a look-see, Henry would shoot and leave the premises unhampered. Adams would cover for him and it would be over. A killing during the committing of a burglary. Certainly the insurance company would pay for accidental death on that. Henry Moore would be paid by Adams later on in town. As for Moore, his conscience … he had killed a woman who was already dead, a woman who was suffering, he had put a human being out of her misery and Adams’ soft palaver was a constant salve.”

  Said Herb Wiley. “Where did it go wrong?”

  “It didn’t go wrong. Adams is a fox. He wouldn’t leave it wide open like that. He wouldn’t put himself in a spot where someone alive could point the finger at him for murder. Not Eddie Adams. So … when it was done as he’d wanted it done … he appeared with his own heater and he killed the intruder. Big hero and perfect murder. Doubleheader, and double indemnity. Two people dead and he’s the hero. He had even provided a witness, and an honest witness for the first time in his life—Matt Bennett.”

  There was no more fight in Eddie Adams. He was an old man, terrified, haggard eyes looking upward, left hand clasped about his mouth to hold back the twitching. “How …? How …?” He talked through his fingers. “Loose end? How …? Please …?”

  I thought about taking the Luger away from him. I changed my mind. I said, “A little of it is guesswork, most of it isn’t. In your office when you laid it out for him, Henry probably wanted that supposed letter from Dr. Lewis. For himself. For proof if anything went wrong. And you were in no position to argue. You gave it to him, but you had it worked in your mind as to how you’d get it back.”

  “How …?” he said. “How …?”

  “You wanted to keep him in line. You sent him home for his gun, and he was to wait there for you, at home; you’d pick him up at five o’clock. You did pick him up at five—and you were seen.” I turned to Simon Gordon. “Is this the man that picked up Henry Moore outside his house at 116 Whitehall Place at five o’clock on May 10th a year ago?”

  “That’s him,” Simon said. “That’s the man.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely positive.”

  To Adams I said, “You told the police you’d never known a Henry Moore. We can prove you did. We can prove you picked him up at his home at five that afternoon.”

  Herb Wiley said, “Then …?”

  “Then he delivered him up at that motel in Mamaroneck. Got there at about six o’clock. That put Moore at the scene of the crime. Adams then doubled back to New York. He was worried about the phony letter he had given Moore. It was in his own handwriting, strictly a prop. But he even had that figured down to a tee. He had seen Moore’s ramshackle wooden house. The letter was either there in the house or had remained on Moore’s person. Couldn’t be anywhere else. So, at about eleven o’clock that night he was at Whitehall Place, a dead spot in Flushing, Queens. He did a real job there, gasoline, the works. Completely incendiary. As Captain Weaver of the New York Police said, ‘Anything that was burnable—burned.’ ”

  “Then?” said Herb Wiley.

  “He went home. He got there about one o’clock. He left the door open, and went up to his bedroom. Then the thing played out like he had planned it. After he killed Henry Moore, he looked through his pockets—the one other place the letter could be—and it wasn’t there. He was certain it no longer existed.”

  “Did it,” Wiley said, “exist?”

  “And how. Loose end, like I told Mr. Adams. Great big loose end. And right now it’s looped around his neck and it’s going to tighten until it kills him.”

  Now Wiley was spluttering. “But … but … he couldn’t have been more thorough …”

  “You can’t figure everything,” I said. “How was he going to know that Moore wasn’t going directly home?”

  Eddie Adams straightened in his chair. His glazed eyes twisted toward me. “Didn’t … go directly home …?”

  “No. He went to the Bronx where he changed his clothes. And the letter remained in the clothes that he left up there. I had occasion to see a specimen of your handwriting out here on your terrace, a letter you had sent your wife … and when I saw that purported doctor’s letter … I’m not an expert … but there are experts to testify about handwriting.”

  Wearily, Eddie Adams said, “There’ll be no need for experts. You’re expert enough, Mr. Chambers.”

  Herbert Langhorn Wiley was suddenly the complete vice-president. He disdained the Luger. He marched up to Adams, pointed a finger, intoned: “Mr. Adams, do you admit that you perpetrated a fraud on the Coronet Insurance Company? Do you so admit before these witnesses? Do you admit that two hundred thousand dollars were paid to you under fraudulent circumstances which together with fifty thousand dollars of your own money, purchased for you an interest in the Stardust Room, presently a going concern?”

  Eddie Adams nodded, his head hanging weakly. “I admit all of it, and I congratulate you. I congratulate you, especially, on Mr. Chambers. I had underestimated him. It happens. Sometimes it’s meaningless to underestimate an adversary. Sometimes it’s fatal. I’m afraid in this case, the latter is true.” His mouth was working as he smiled toward me. Then he looked to his wife, looked back to me, wrinkled his nose cutely, half waved the fingers of his left hand, raised the Luger to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  Pandemonium burst in all directions. A window was shattered and cops poured in. There was the sound of gunshot in the tomb-like outer lobby, and then the oak door banged open, and Paul was hustled in, bleeding from the neck. Outside, I could see Mike with his hands in the air, pinned at pistol point against a wall. I turned to Casey but he was bent over Simon Gordon who had fainted. Then Olga Adams was near me, sobbing, and I moved with her to a remote corner of the room. Her forehead was against my chest and my arms were around her, as she shook, convulsively. Then her head came up, and her wet eyes clutched at mine.

  “Now you know,” I said, “what I was pitching for.”

  “I … I …” She was whispering. “This is the first time I heard any of it.”

  “Sure. It was before your time. And even if it weren’t, Eddie wouldn’t let you in on that kind of stuff. That’s not for dolls.”

  Her eyes stayed on mine. “I … I … apologize.”

  “Skip it. For a high-class chiseler, you’re going to do pretty good. I happen to know.”

  “No, no, please don’t talk like that, not now, please.”

  “Okay. One hunk of advice. You’re not a bad kid. It’s a real world, and it’s a pretty tough one. Snap out of it. Maybe today you got a couple of years of experience all clumped together, concentrated. Maybe it’ll do you good.”

  “Yes. Yes, Mr. Chambers. Yes, sir.” She was like a little girl, clinging, listening to Papa. I was beginning to enjoy the clinging, so I pushed her off.

  “Get yourself a good lawyer, get your assets in order, and blow the whole deal. Simmer down, forget the movies, and stop playing small-time big shot. And about that thing in the Bronx … it never happened as far as you’re concerned. You’re out of it.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, sir.”

  “The Stardust Room, that’ll probably change a lot of hands now, but if you get a smart lawyer, a big hunk of that will fall into your lap in cash. Take it. Don’t try to operate that room. It’s not for you. You … you’re retiring at an early age … with plenty of moolah.”

  “Whatever you say. Thank you. Thank you, sir.”

  Herb Wiley took her away. Weaver was stooped over Edd
ie Adams, retrieving the Luger, when I said, “Don’t mess with tht Luger, Captain. It figures in another homicide.”

  He had a fountain pen thrust through the trigger guard and he came up with it. “Another homicide? Whose?”

  “Frankie Gold.”

  His forehead creased as his eyebrows hoisted. He brought the gun to a cop, came back to me, called Herb to us, said, “We gotta talk, fellas.”

  We talked. For a long time. Then Captain Weaver said, “I’m going to need statements and stuff from you. And don’t worry about that Frankie Gold. That certainly was self-defense. In the circumstances, they ought to strike a medal for you.”

  “Thanks. How about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow? For what?”

  “The statements and stuff.”

  “Fine. Tomorrow’s fine.”

  Herb said, “I’ve got to get back to town.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  Weaver was talking to Casey Moore. Weaver said, “Would you stick around, kid? I wish you would.”

  Casey looked toward me. “All right?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about your car?”

  “Hang on to it. Call me tomorrow. Herb’ll drive me back.”

  Herb looked about. “Who’s coming with me?”

  “I’m coming with you,” I said.

  We used the Triboro driving back to town. It was a beautiful starlit night, cool and brisk. Herb said, “Do you have that doctor’s letter. I mean the one that’s supposed to be the doctor’s letter?”

  “I’ve got everything, Herb.”

  “I’m going to need all the physical evidence and, like Weaver, I’m going to need statements, from everybody.”

  “You’ll get the works, pal. How’s it look?”

  “Can’t miss. You can be paid tomorrow, if you want it.”

  “I want it cut up a little, Herb.”

  “Cut up? How?”

  I opened the butterfly window and let the breeze whisk in. I said, “You folks got a branch in Miami?”

  “Of course.”

  “This is what I want you to do, Herb Tomorrow. And it’s important.”