by Parnell Hall
“Yeah. This guy Greely. The guy you don’t know. The dead guy. Well, it happens the police don’t know him either. He has no criminal record. His prints are not on file. That’s the good news.”
“Why is that good news?”
“Wake up. The theory is the guy was blackmailing you so you killed him. If the guy had a police record as a blackmailer that would just about sew it up.”
“Oh. But he doesn’t?”
“No. And that’s gotta be worrying the police some. And at this point, keeping the police worried is about the best we can hope for.”
Sheila looked at him. “Why do you say that?”
Steve shrugged. “Well, that’s the bad news. The cops have located Greely’s address. It’s a dive in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. But here’s the thing. The cops have sewed it up tight. There’s no information coming out whatsoever. I’ve got detectives crawling all over the place and they can’t find out a thing. And that’s strange, ’cause we got a pipeline into police headquarters— that’s how we know the cops I.D.’d Greely and found his address—and we still can’t get anything. Once the cops got the lead to Greely’s apartment, they clamped the lid on tight. And that can mean only one thing. They found something.”
“What?”
“Best guess is something that proves Greely wrote the blackmail letter.”
“Like what?”
“Newspapers with words cut out would do it. I don’t know. That’s just the best guess, but it’s not really a good one.”
“Why?”
“’Cause you’re here. The cops haven’t picked you up yet. And if they had solid evidence that Greely wrote that letter, you would think that they would.”
Sheila frowned. “So you don’t think that’s it?”
He shrugged again. “Maybe, maybe not. There’s another factor to consider. The D.A. had a visit from Mr. Marston, of Marston, Marston, and Cramden yesterday.”
“Who?”
“The attorneys for your Uncle Max.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Luckily I got that bit of information before the pipeline shut down. Anyway, that’s the other explanation. If Uncle Max is throwing his weight around and leaning on the D.A. to keep you out of this, well, then it’s possible the cops have linked the letter to Greely, but they’re not going to make a move on you till they have an airtight case.”
Sheila bit her lip. “I see. But if Uncle Max has hired attorneys—”
“Don’t worry about it. Uncle Max can hire anybody he wants. As far as I’m concerned, I’m working for you.”
She looked at him. “Wait a minute. Uncle Max didn’t give you a retainer?”
“That’s neither here nor there.”
“But he didn’t?”
“No.”
“But I can’t pay you. I have no money.”
“Don’t worry about it. If you want me, I’m your lawyer. That’s all you have to consider. Uncle Max is going to pay me. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
She frowned.
“Unless you’d like me to bow out of the case. Which you have a perfect right to do. In which case, Uncle Max would be delighted to retain Marston, Marston, and Cramden to represent you.”
“No.”
“Okay. I’m your lawyer till you fire me. So, as they say in the singles bar, let’s talk about you.”
“What?”
“Let’s assume the cops linked the letter to Greely. That makes him a blackmailer. You have a trust fund that you lose if your name is connected with any scandal. So all the cops would need to give them an airtight case would be to find out what he could have been blackmailing you about.”
Her eyes faltered. “I see.”
“Well? What could it be?”
She looked at him defiantly. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Steve sighed. “You sure know how to boost a guy’s confidence. All right. So tell me. Where are you going?”
“To the airport.”
He smiled. “Flight is an indication of guilt,” he said lightly.
“I’m meeting someone.”
“Oh? Who?”
“John Dutton.”
“Who’s John Dutton?”
“A friend.”
“That narrows the field. Now I know you’re not going to meet an enemy. Is this John Dutton anyone special?”
“He’s my boyfriend, if you must know.”
“That’s nice. Does he live with you?”
“He has his own apartment.”
“He ever sleep over?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“As a matter of fact, it is my business. Any hint of scandal, remember?”
Sheila pouted, said nothing.
“Where’s he coming from?”
“Reno.”
“When’d he go there?”
“Two days ago.”
“The same day you got the letter?”
Sheila bristled. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Just trying to get the time straight.”
“Yeah, it was the same day. I dropped him at the airport. When I got home the letter was in my mailbox.”
“And then you got the phone call?”
“Yes.”
“Was his plane in the air at the time?”
Sheila glared at him. “Are you trying to imply—”
“Yes, I am. Did you think it was him?”
“Now look here—”
Steve cut her off sharply. “No. You look here. I’m going to give you a little bit of advice, first of all because you need it, and second of all because that’s what a lawyer’s supposed to do. And it’s this—stop being so outraged all over the place. This is just a sample of the type of questions the DA.’s going to be throwing at you, and let me tell you, if you’re going to react like this you’re a dead duck. And this is nothing. These are pretty innocuous questions. Wait’ll you get cross-examined by someone who isn’t on your side.
“Now, stop being so hotheaded and emotional, and think rationally for a minute. You’re just a normal, ordinary person going about your business, living your life. One day, as a bolt out of the blue, you get that letter. If, as you say, there is no reason for anyone to blackmail you, then your first reaction would be what any normal person’s reaction would be under those circumstances—you would think it was a joke.”
Steve paused and let that sink in. “Now, wasn’t that your first reaction? Didn’t you think it was a joke?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“Of course you did. And your next reaction would be to think who could have played this joke. Right?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, it’s only logical, isn’t it? Wouldn’t that be your next reaction?”
“Yes. I guess it was.”
“This what’s-his-name, this John Dutton—is he a funny guy? He like to kid around?”
“Yes. He’s very funny.”
“So you immediately thought it might be him.”
“Well—”
“Of course you did. It’s a completely natural reaction. You don’t think it was him any more, not now, not after everything that’s happened, not now that you know it’s not a joke.
“But you did at the time. You thought it might be him. And that’s why when I suggest it might have been him, you’re outraged, you get angry, you fly off the handle. If you’d really never thought it might be him, when I asked you that you’d laugh and say, ‘John Dutton? Don’t be silly.’
“Instead you get angry. Which happens to be a guilty reaction. I know it, and the district attorney knows it. It’s what we look for on cross-examination. Any time we can get the witness angry, we know we’ve got something, we know we’ve hit a nerve. And then we bear down.”
Steve stopped and looked at Sheila. Her eyes blinked. She looked slightly pale.
“Hey, nothing to worry about,” Steve said. “Don’t let it bother you. You’ll get better.”
/> “Better?”
“Yeah. At lying.”
Sheila’s head snapped up. She opened her mouth for a terrible rejoinder.
“Ah,” said Steve. “An outraged reaction.”
Sheila wilted.
“Well,” he said casually. “How you getting to the airport?”
She pointed to the MG.
Steve looked at her in surprise. “You own an MG?”
“Of course not. It’s Johnny’s.”
He looked at the car and nodded thoughtfully. “All right. You wait here. I’ll go pick up Johnny at the airport.”
“Why?”
“Frankly, I’d like to talk to him before you do.”
She frowned.
He looked at her and grinned. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to drive an MG.”
19.
DISTRICT ATTORNEY HARRY DIRKSON RUBBED his eyes as he walked down the hall to his office. He had not slept well. In fact, he had hardly slept at all. The Sheila Benton case wouldn’t let him. Damn. That one, silly, snip of a girl should cause so much trouble.
He’d had trouble falling asleep to begin with, just worrying about the damn case. And then there’d been the phone call at three-thirty in the morning, telling him the dead man was Robert Greely. And then the call at four-thirty, telling him the police had located Greely’s apartment.
So it had been quite a night.
Dirkson shoved open the door of his outer office and walked in.
“Morning, Reese.”
“Morning, sir.”
“What’s up?”
“Lieutenant Farron’s been looking for you. He’s been in three times already.”
Dirkson detected a note of reproach behind Reese’s nerd-like features. “I overslept,” he said. He was surprised to find he said it somewhat defensively. Christ, this case had him balled up.
“Yes, sir. And about Farron?”
“Call him. Tell him I’m in.”
Dirkson went into his inner office and shut the door. There was a pot of coffee waiting on the warmer. Dirkson needed coffee. He poured himself a cup, splashed in cream.
He had just sat down and taken a sip when the phone buzzed. He picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Lieutenant Farron to see you.”
“Send him in.”
Dirkson rubbed his head and took another sip of coffee. Jesus. Let it be good news. Something that wrapped up the case. Something that cleared the girl.
Something that got him off the hook.
Lieutenant Farron came in.
“Good morning, Farron. What you got?”
“Morning, sir,” Farron said. “Well, to begin with, the lid’s on tight. Greely’s apartment’s sealed up, just like you said, and no information is leaking out.”
“Good. And the press?”
“We’ve released the fact that the dead man’s name is Robert Greely, and that’s it.”
“Fine,” Dirkson said. “Is that all you came to tell me?” He hoped it was.
“No, sir. I got the dope on the Benton girl.”
Dirkson tensed. God, he hoped it cleared her. Though in his heart he knew it wouldn’t. “What have you got?”
“Well, she has this trust fund of close to twenty million dollars that she loses if she’s involved in any scandal that would reflect on the family name.”
Dirkson waved his hand irritably. “Yesterday’s news, Farron. You don’t have to recap for me. What have you got?”
“Well, it seems that she is having an affair with a young man. A Mr. John Dutton.”
Dirkson nodded. “She’s twenty-four. I’m not terribly shocked. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. John Dutton is married.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He seems to be in the process of getting a divorce, but at the moment he is definitely married.”
Dirkson frowned. “I see.”
Lieutenant Farron stood expectantly. But Dirkson said nothing. After a few moments, Farron went on. He did so somewhat hesitantly, as he was not sure why Dirkson was being so reticent.
“Yes,” Farron said. “And of course, the thing now is motive. I mean, opportunity is tied up—according to the coroner she could have killed him just fine. And means is there—her knife. So, with Greely presumably blackmailing her, and her having a trust fund to lose, then the only thing left is a reason for her to be blackmailed, and now we’ve got it. She was having an affair with a married man. That would have been sufficient grounds under the terms of her trust for her to lose everything. Twenty million dollars. If there was ever a more convincing motive for murder, I never heard it.”
Dirkson took a sip of his coffee. He rubbed his head. Damn. It was all coming down on him, wasn’t it? The last thing he wanted. And there was Lieutenant Farron, standing there like an expectant dog who’s just brought his master back his ball, waiting for the praise, the “Good job,” the “Well done,” or at least the acknowledgment of the effort.
Or for instructions.
What could he tell him? That he didn’t want to find evidence against the girl? That he wished the whole Sheila Benton case would dry up and blow away? He couldn’t tell him that.
So what could he do in the face of this new, damning evidence?
There was only one thing he could do. And much as he hated to admit it, Dirkson knew what it was.
Dirkson sighed. “All right,” he said. “Pick her up.”
20.
JOHN DUTTON STOOD IN THE ARRIVALS building at JFK Airport and looked around. Where the hell was Sheila? This wasn’t like her. She had his flight number. She knew his arrival time. So where the hell was she? Sheila was dependable. She’d be here come hell or high water.
Unless ...
There was a newsstand at the far end of the terminal. Dutton walked over to it.
There was nothing on the front page of the Post or the Daily News. That seemed odd. Dutton didn’t know it, but Sheila had Marston, Marston, and Cramden to thank for that.
Dutton bought the Daily News. He stood in the terminal and riffled through it.
It was on page eight.
The body of a man had been discovered yesterday afternoon in an apartment on the Upper West Side. The man was identified as Robert Greely, fifty-two, of Brooklyn. The apartment was rented by a young woman identified as Sheila Benton.
Sheila Benton was described simply as an aspiring actress. There was no mention of any trust fund, no mention of any connection to Maxwell Baxter.
The police were investigating.
Dutton read the article twice. His mind was reeling. Yes, Sheila would be here to pick him up, unless ...
Could the police have established a connection? Could they have tied this in to Sheila?
Could Sheila be under arrest?
As if in a daze, Dutton plodded mechanically down to the baggage claim. He was so distracted his suitcase went by him twice on the carousel before he recognized it and picked it up.
“John Dutton to the information desk, please,” came the voice over the loudspeaker. “John Dutton to the information desk, please.”
A chill ran down his spine. His first thought was, “Christ, the cops.” Then he realized that was just paranoia. Sheila was late, so she’d paged him.
But that wasn’t like Sheila, either. For all her kookiness, she was quite practical. If she were late, she’d go right to baggage claim.
But she hadn’t done that.
Dutton hefted his suitcase, trudged toward the information desk.
He saw at once that Sheila wasn’t there. On the other hand, neither were the cops, not even anyone who looked like a plainclothes cop. He walked up to the desk.
“You paged John Dutton?” he asked.
A man stepped up to him. “John Dutton.”
Dutton turned, and his first thought was plainclothes cop. The thought was immediately dispelled. No cop would dress like that.
“Yes?”
“Steve Winslow,” said the man. “I’m Sheil
a Benton’s attorney.”
Dutton stared at him. Sheila had told him on the phone she’d hired an attorney, but really. This slovenly dressed young man with bloodshot eyes looked more like a Bowery bum than a lawyer.
“Sheila couldn’t make it,” Steve said. “So I came to pick you up. I’ve got your car. It’s in the short-term parking lot.”
Steve clapped him on the shoulder and guided him toward the door. Dutton walked along beside him as if in a daze.
“So,” Steve said. “You’ve been in Reno the past two days?”
“That’s right.”
“And you called Sheila last night?”
“Yes.”
“And she told you about the murder?”
“Of course.”
“What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know what to make of it. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yes. Everyone seems to agree on that. What about the blackmail letter?”
“What about it?”
“Who could blackmail Sheila?”
“No one.”
“No one?”
“No one at all. Sheila’s not that type of girl.”
“What type of girl is she?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Whatever you take it to mean. What’s she like?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I know what I think. What do you think?”
“She’s a very straightforward girl. No one could blackmail Sheila. She’d laugh in their face.”
“Spoken like a gentleman.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s what I expected you to say.”
Dutton gave him a look. Dutton instinctively disliked Winslow, and would have even if Winslow’d been properly dressed. Winslow was the type of guy that irritated the hell out of him. Because Dutton saw himself as a winner. And even in that innocuous little conversation, Dutton was left with the feeling he’d lost the exchange.
For his part, Steve didn’t like Dutton much either. Dutton was too much of a pretty boy. And the thing was, Dutton knew it. He had that certain something in his manner that many pretty boys have, that attitude of I’m-god’s-gift-to-women-so-the-world-is-my-oyster. He was the type of guy men hated, and women loved. In Steve’s estimation, Sheila couldn’t have done much worse.
They reached the car. Steve unlocked the trunk, and Dutton put the suitcase in.