by Parnell Hall
“They didn’t. She went to them.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Here’s how I got the story. After the murder, after Marilyn had been arrested and charged, a woman named Pauline Keeling shows up at headquarters claiming to be Bradshaw’s common-law wife. She read there was money found on the body. She wants the money. She claims she was his common-law wife, and if Bradshaw left no will, the money should go to her.”
Steve was excited. “When did she show up? How long has she been in town? Has she been to his apartment?”
“That’s the whole thing,” Mark said. “The way I got it, she hit town two weeks before the murder. She didn’t move in with Bradshaw, she was living somewhere else. Naturally, that weakens her claim. But as I understand it, she had called on Bradshaw at his apartment.”
“Then her fingerprints would be there.”
Taylor nodded gloomily. “Yeah.”
“And might even be the unidentified ones currently on display in court.”
“That’s right.”
“Jesus Christ. Where is she now?”
“Same place she’s been staying since she hit town. In a furnished room in Queens. Astoria.”
“She under police guard?”
“Not that I know.”
“Got the address?”
“Yeah.” Taylor sighed. “Look, Steve, that’s everything I know. How are you gonna play it?”
Steve gave him a look. “How do you think I’m going to play it, Mark?”
Steve pressed the intercom. “Tracy.”
Tracy’s voice showed she was still angry about being excluded from the interview. “Yes.”
“Grab your steno pad and get in here.” Steve looked at Mark, then back to the intercom. “We’re going to make out a subpoena.”
41.
IT WAS A SECOND FLOOR walk-up on Astoria Boulevard. The foyer door was open. Steve stopped Mark Taylor on the stairs.
“Now look. We don’t say we’re cops. We just walk in and start talking.”
“You don’t look like a cop,” Taylor said.
“How would she know? I’m an undercover detective, for Christ’s sake. If we can make her think we’re cops, that’s fine. Otherwise, we just play it the best we can.”
“Right.”
“Keep the subpoena in your pocket. Don’t show it. Don’t serve it until I give the signal.”
“Right.”
“You go first. You’re big and beefy, you look more like a cop.”
“Thanks a lot. What should I say?”
“I don’t know. We’re here to talk to her about the trial. Just wing it.”
“Great.”
They went up the stairs, found the door, and knocked. There was the sound of footsteps and then a woman opened the door. She had dark, teased hair. She was about forty, but had sought to disguise the fact by the use of too much makeup. The end result, Steve thought, was to make her look closer to fifty.
“Yes?” she said.
“Miss Keeling,” Taylor said. “We’re sorry to disturb you, but it’s about the trial.”
Pauline Keeling frowned. “What about it?”
Steve pushed forward. “That’s just it. We want to keep you out of it if that’s at all possible. It may not be possible.”
The woman’s face fell. “But ... but the District Attorney said—”
“Yeah, I know what he said. Look, we shouldn’t be discussing this in the hall.”
“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. Won’t you come in?”
Mark Taylor and Steve Winslow stepped into a small, poorly furnished room, which appeared to have no kitchen facilities. All in all, Steve figured, it must be a depressing place to live.
Pauline Keeling looked around helplessly, feeling impelled to ask her visitors to sit down, but not knowing where to suggest.
“Well, what’s this all about?” she said.
Mark looked at Steve to take the initiative.
He did. “I’m sorry, Miss Keeling, but we have to go over your story one more time. I know Mr. Dirkson doesn’t want you to appear in court, but it may be unavoidable. What it boils down to is, can you answer our questions well enough here, or do we have to put you on the stand?”
“No, no,” she said, quickly. “I don’t want to go on the stand.”
“I know,” Steve said. “And I realize this is going to be a hardship for you, but we have to take it from the beginning.”
“The beginning?”
“Yeah,” Taylor said. “You come to town and looked up Bradshaw?”
She looked at him. “Blake,” she said. “Donald Blake.”
“Sorry,” Taylor said. “Yes. Donald Blake.”
She smiled sadly. “Yeah. That was the whole problem. Bradshaw. I looked for Donald Blake, and he was David C. Bradshaw. The man never learned, you know. Some men are like that. They just never learn.”
“Go on,” Steve said.
She fixed him with a hard eye. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t come with him. He came out here, I came and found him. But that doesn’t make any difference. I lived with him for eight years as his wife. Whether he left me or not, that still makes me his common-law wife, and I’m entitled to what he had.”
“No one’s trying to prove you’re not,” Taylor said.
She fixed him with that look again. “That’s not the way Dirkson was talking.”
“Of course not,” Steve said. “You can’t expect him to hand over the money to the first person who comes and asks for it. You have a claim, and it would appear to be a legitimate claim. But it has to be checked out, and the final determination isn’t up to us. You just have to be patient.”
She exhaled heavily. “Yeah. Patient.”
“So let’s get on with it. You came out here and you looked up Donald Blake. How long ago was that?”
“About two weeks ago.”
“And what happened?”
“The usual. He was glad to see me, but he wasn’t glad to see me. At least, he wasn’t glad to see me right then. The timing was bad, that’s the way he put it.” She shook her head. “The big jerk. I was all set to move in with him, but he wouldn’t have it. Said he was on to something. My being around would mess it up.”
“Did he tell you what it was?”
“No, he never did. Secretive, that was him, you know? Always concocting the wild schemes, never letting me in on them.
“Unless they paid off, of course. If they paid off, he’d strut around like a rooster, crowing about how smart he was. But not this time. I mean, I come all the way out from Chicago, and it’s ‘Hi, hello, good to see you, now get out of here.’ He fixed me up with this room.” She looked around. Shrugged. “Great, huh?”
“This conversation you’re talking about,” Taylor said. “When you looked him up—that was in his apartment, right?”
She looked at him. “Of course it was in his apartment. Where else would it be? Not that we were there long. He got me out of there fast. Stashed me here.”
“He come to see you?” Steve asked.
“Oh, sure. Whenever he had the time. Big, busy man. Once or twice a week, if I was lucky.”
“But you never went back there?”
“No. Not with this big, heavy scheme he was setting up.”
“You didn’t know it was blackmail?” Steve said.
Now she gave him the cold stare. “Blackmail? Who said anything about blackmail? That D.A. can have any damn theories he wants, but nobody’s proven any blackmail. No charge has even been brought. As far as I’m concerned, that money was Donald Blake’s, and now that money is rightfully mine.”
“I understand your contention,” Steve said. “Personally, I’m not challenging it. I’m just trying to discuss what happened. Now, as I understand it, after that first time, when you looked Donald Blake up, you’ve never been back to his apartment?”
“That’s right. But I tell you, that’s got nothing to do with whether or not I was his common-law wife, and—”
&nbs
p; “I’m sure it doesn’t,” Steve said. “And I’m not trying to contest your claim. Now, those times Donald Blake called on you—did he ever say anything about what he was doing?”
She shook her head. “No. I told you. Not a word.”
“Never mentioned Marilyn Harding?”
“No.”
“Or Douglas Kemper?”
“No.”
“Or the Harding family at all?”
“No.”
Steve frowned. “O.K. Let’s get to the day of the murder. If the defense should put you on the stand and try to make a case for the fact that you killed Donald Blake, what would happen then?”
“They’d have a hard time,” she said. “At five o’clock that afternoon, I had an appointment with my hairdresser.”
“Where?”
She jerked her thumb. “Here. Right down the street.” She frowned. “You guys checked this all out already.”
“I know,” Steve said. “But I told you. We have to go over it one more time.”
“Why?” she said. “I’m telling the truth. You think I can’t tell the same story straight twice?”
“Not at all,” Steve said. “And I think that will do it.”
Mark Taylor looked at Steve inquiringly. Steve shook his head.
“Sorry we bothered you, Miss Keeling. But that’s our job.”
She ushered them to the door. “But you’ll keep in touch,’ she said.
“Don’t worry.”
“And no one else touches that money?”
“You can bank on it.”
They came out the front door onto the street.
Taylor stopped, said, “Thanks, Steve.”
Steve sighed. “Don’t thank me. She’s got an unimpeachable alibi. If she was in Queens getting her hair done at five o’clock, there’s no way she gets to Bradshaw’s in time.”
“We could have got the name of the place and checked it out.”
“She says the cops have checked it out, and I’ll bet they have, too. There’s no way she could have done it.
“But don’t be too hasty with your thanks. Even so, she’s a beautiful red herring, and if worst comes to worst, I just might have to use her. But for the time being, we let her go.”
“Fine by me,” Taylor said. “So what do we do now?”
Steve rubbed his head. “God, I’m tired,” he said. “I’ll tell you. Now we beat it back to the office, put our heads together and try to figure what the fuck all this means.”
42.
“ASK ME QUESTIONS.”
Steve Winslow was sprawled out in Mark Taylor’s overstuffed clients’ chair.
“What kind of questions?” Taylor said.
Taylor was seated at his desk.
Tracy Garvin was seated in a straight chair and was holding her shorthand notebook.
Steve Winslow had just finished going over the entire facts of the case as he knew them. He figured just talking it out would do some good. Mark and Tracy had listened without interruption while Steve rambled on. It was a confused stream of consciousness jumble of facts and theories, and when he finished, Steve Winslow was exhausted.
“Any questions. Anything you can think of. Anything you’d like to know, no matter how trivial. Just ask ’em.”
“Me too?” Tracy said.
“Damn right,” Steve said. “You think of something, fire away.”
“O.K.,” Tracy said. “Why didn’t Bradshaw want Pauline Keeling around?”
Steve chuckled. “Too easy. You didn’t meet the woman. You wouldn’t want her around, either.”
“Who killed Bradshaw?” Taylor said.
“Come on, Mark,” Steve said. “If we could answer that, we wouldn’t be doing this.”
“All right, then,” Taylor said, “who got there first, Marilyn or Kemper?”
“Gotta be Marilyn,” Steve said. “That’s the only way it makes any sense. Kemper missed her at the coffee shop. By the time he got downtown, Marilyn had been in and out.”
“But if that’s true,” Tracy said, “when Kemper got there he found Bradshaw dead.”
“Right,” Steve said.
“Then who was the man the witness heard arguing with Bradshaw?”
“That’s the key question,” Steve said. “Everything points to Kemper. Except he had to come second. Marilyn had already been in and out. Bradshaw was already dead. You can’t argue with a dead man.”
“What if there were two men?” Tracy said.
Steve frowned. “What?”
“Well, you say Bradshaw was already dead. The witness heard an argument. She couldn’t identify the voices. Everyone’s assuming one of them was Bradshaw, but what if it wasn’t? What if he’s already dead and the argument is between two other men?”
“One of whom is Kemper?”
“Not necessarily,” Tracy said.
Taylor grinned. “You pull this out of one of those mysteries you read?”
Tracy gave him a dirty look.
“No, no. Go on,” Steve said. “I like this. This is just what I need. Tell me about the two men.”
Tracy warmed right up to it. “The two men killed Bradshaw. I don’t know who, I don’t know why, but say they do. They just killed him, and they’re about to leave when Marilyn Harding arrives. They’re trapped in the apartment. They hide in the bedroom. The door is open. Marilyn Harding walks in and finds Bradshaw dead. As you say, she immediately assumes Kemper did it. She’s in an absolute panic, and she gets out of there.
“The two men come out of the bedroom and they have an argument. About what, I don’t know. Maybe one of them thought the girl saw them and he wanted to kill her too. The other one didn’t. Whatever. Anyway, they fight. At any rate, the witness hears the argument and calls the cops. While she’s calling them, the two men leave. Douglas Kemper arrives right on their heels, finds the dead body, assumes Marilyn killed him, and makes up the bullshit story he told you.”
Steve leaned back in the chair and frowned. “I like it. It takes everything into account and gets our clients off the hook—that’s mainly why I like it. But Jesus Christ.”
“What?” Tracy said.
“Well, look at the schedule. You got two unidentified men, Marilyn Harding, Douglas Kemper, me, and the cops all arriving at Bradshaw’s apartment in the space of about a half hour. I mean, hell, the schedule was damn tight without throwing in two unidentified men.”
“It’s damn tight, but it happened,” Tracy said.
“It did for a fact,” Steve said. He leaned back in the chair. “Go on. Ask me more questions.”
“What happened to the twelve grand?” Taylor said.
“Now there is a damn good question,” Steve said. “Ten grand found in the hallway. Ten grand found on the body. Twelve grand disappeared. So where the hell did it go? Obviously, someone took it. The question is who?”
“The two men who killed Bradshaw,” Tracy said, excitedly. “They killed him and took the money.”
“Then they’re mighty selective,” Steve said, “if they took that twelve grand and left the other twenty grand there.”
“Ten grand was in a money belt. They wouldn’t know he had it.”
“And the other ten grand. Who took it and hid it in the upstairs hallway? If you’re telling me they did that, then the question is why?”
“Yeah, but maybe they didn’t,” Tracy said. “Maybe someone else put the money there.”
“Who?”
Tracy shrugged. “Bradshaw.”
“Bradshaw?”
“Sure,” Tracy said. “He knew they were coming and he didn’t want to have the money on him.”
“But he didn’t care about the other money?” Steve said. “You see, it just doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe it does,” Mark Taylor said. “The ten grand hidden in the hallway was the ten grand stolen from you. Bradshaw had to know you had the numbers on those bills. He didn’t want to be found with them in his possession. So he hid ’em outside his apartment. The
other ten grand’s in his money belt. He’s got it, and he doesn’t care who knows it. He particularly wants Marilyn to know it.”
“And Kemper’s twelve grand?”
“That was in small bills, wasn’t going to do Bradshaw any good, except as cash. So maybe he put it in the bank.”
Steve shook his head. “You checked out his bank account with the teller. If there’d been a twelve grand deposit, wouldn’t he have told you?”
“That’s right, he would,” Taylor said. “But that might not be his only account. Or he might have a safe deposit box somewhere.”
“That’s an idea,” Steve said. “And we can check into it. Make a note to see if David C. Bradshaw or Donald Blake had any other bank accounts or safe deposit boxes. O.K. More questions.”
“O.K.,” Tracy said. “Why did Bradshaw come to your office?”
“What?”
“Why did Bradshaw come to your office? That was the original question, right? Way back when we started. That was why you thought he had to be your client. Because as soon as he realized he was being followed, he came right to your office. You said the only way that made sense was if he’d sent the money.
“But he wasn’t your client. Douglas Kemper is. Douglas Kemper sent the money. So why did Bradshaw come to your office?”
“I know the answer,” Steve said. “Kemper told me. When he paid off Bradshaw, he threatened him with me. Told him I was his lawyer. That’s how Bradshaw knew.”
Tracy shook her head. “Not good enough.”
“Why not?”
“Come on,” Tracy said. “Bradshaw was a blackmailer. You know damn well Marilyn Harding wasn’t the only person in the world he was putting the bite on. Or Douglas Kemper for that matter. He was bound to have had lots of irons in the fire.
“So what happens? He walks out of his apartment. He sees he’s being followed. He immediately says, ‘Steve Winslow,’ and comes right to your office just because Kemper told him you’re his lawyer. I don’t care how smart Bradshaw is, that was a hell of a leap of logic, don’t you think?”
“It was, but it happened. The guy came here.”
“Yeah, but I still say why? I mean, look what happened. Marilyn Harding calls on Bradshaw. She leaves. Bradshaw leaves. He makes a phone call. He walks a block. He makes another phone call. Next thing you know, he’s ditched his shadows and he’s in your office demanding to know why you’re having him followed.”