I could guess, but I didn't tell her. I had a feeling she would insult at the drop of a hat.
"Tell me," I said.
"I'd go downstairs and see the janitor. He's a very helpful man." Then she spoilt it by adding, "Are you sure you won't have a plum?"
"Yeah, I'm quite sure. Well, thanks, I'll see the janitor like you said. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time."
"Oh, you're welcome," she said, and smiled.
I backed away, and as she closed the door she put another plum into the maw she called her mouth.
I rode down the elevator to the lobby and walked down a flight of dark, dusty stairs to the basement. At the bottom of the stairs a door faced me. It bore a solitary legend: Janitor.
I raised my hand and rapped. A lean old man with a long, stringy neck, dressed in faded dungarees, appeared. He was old and bored and smelt faintly of creosote and whisky.
He squinted at me without interest, said one word out of a phlegmy old throat, "Yes?"
I had a feeling I wasn't going to get much help out of him unless I shook him out of his lethargy. From the look of him he seldom came up out of the darkness, and his contacts with human beings were rare. He and Rip Van Winkle would have made a fine business team, providing Winkle took charge of things; not otherwise; decidedly not otherwise.
I leaned forward and hooked a finger in his pocket.
"Listen, pally," I said, as tough as an Orchid City cop. "Shake the hay out of your hair. I want a little co-operation from you." While I talked I rocked him to and fro. "Apartment 246—what gives?"
He swallowed his Adam's apple twice. The second time I didn't think it would come to the surface again, but eventually it did—but only just.
"What's up?" he said, blinking. "What's the matter with Apartment 246?"
"I'm asking you. Front door's open; no one's there. That's where you come in, pally. You should know when a front door's been left open."
"She's up there," he said owlishly. "She's always up there at this time."
"Only this time she's not. Come on, pally, you and me are going up there to take a look around."
He went with me as meek as a lamb. As we rode in the elevator, he said feebly, "She's always been a nice girl. What do the police want with her?"
"Did I say the police want anything with her?" I asked, and scowled at him. "All I want to know is why the front door's open when she isn't there."
"Maybe she went out and forgot to shut it," he said after turning the matter over in his mind. I could see he was pleased with this idea.
"Now you're getting cute," I said as the elevator came to a creaking standstill. I was glad to get out of it. It didn't seem strong enough to haul one, let alone two people. "Did you see her go out?"
He said he hadn't seen her go out.
"Would you have seen her if she went?"
"Yes." He blinked, and his Adam's apple jumped a couple of notches. "My room overlooks the front entrance."
"Are you sure she didn't come out during the past ten minutes?"
No, he couldn't be sure about that. He had been cooking his lunch.
We went down the long corridor into the cul-de-sac and into Nurse Gurney's apartment. We went into each room, but she still wasn't in any of them.
"Not there," I said. "How else could she have left the building without using the front entrance?"
After staring blankly at the wall, he said there was no other way out.
I poked a finger towards the opposite apartment.
"Who's the fat woman who eats plums?"
This time his Adam's apple went for good.
"Plums?" he repeated and backed away. I guess he thought I was crazy.
"Yeah. Who is she?"
He looked at the door of Apartment 244, blinked, turned scared old eyes on me.
"In there, mister?"
"Yeah."
He shook his head.
"No one's in there. That apartment's to rent."
I felt a sudden chill run up my spine. I shoved past him and sank .my thumb into the bellpush. I could hear the bell ringing, but nothing happened; nobody came to the door.
"Got a pass key?"
He fumbled in his pocket, dragged out a key and handed it over.
"Ain't nobody in there, mister," he said. "Been empty for weeks."
I turned the lock, pushed open the door and went into a lobby just like Nurse Gurney's lobby. I went quickly from room to room. The place was as empty and as bare as Mrs. Hubbard's cupboard.
The bathroom window looked on to a fire-escape. I pushed up the window and leaned out. Below was an alley that led into Skyline Avenue. It would have been easy for a strong man to have carried a girl down the escape to a waiting car below.
Leaning far out I saw a plum stone on one of the iron steps. Pity she hadn't swallowed it. It might have choked her.
Chapter III
I
There was a time when I proudly imagined I had a well-furnished, impressive, non-gaudy, super-de-luxe office to work in. Between us, Paula and I had spent a lot of hard-earned money on the desk, the carpet, the drapes and the book-cases. We had even run to a couple of original water colours by a local artist who, to judge by his prices, considered himself in the Old Master class: probably he was, although it was a pretty close-kept secret. But all this was before I had a chance of seeing the other offices in Orchid Buildings. Some of them were smarter than mine, some were not, but those I had seen didn't make me wish to change mine until I walked into the office of Manfred Willet, the President of Glynn & Coppley, Attorneys at Law. Then I saw at a glance I would have to save many more dollars before I could hope to get anywhere near the super-de-luxe class. His office made mine look like an Eastside slum.
It was a big room, high ceilinged and oak panelled. A desk, big enough to play billiards on, stood at the far end of the room before three immense windows, stretching up to the ceiling. There were four or five lounging chairs and a big chesterfield grouped around a fireplace that could have been used as a hidey-hole for a small-sized elephant. The fitted carpet was thick enough to be cut with a lawn mower.
On the over-mantel and scattered around the room on tricky little tables were choice pieces of jade carvings. The desk furniture was of solid silver that glittered with loving care and constant polishing. Off-white Venetian blinds kept out the sun. A silent air-conditioning plant controlled the temperature. Double windows, sound-proof walls and a rubber-lined door insisted on complete silence. A stomach rumble in this office would sound like a ton of gravel going down a shoot.
Manfred Willet sat in a padded, swivelled chair behind the immense desk, smoking a fat oval cigarette fitted with a gold-tipped mouthpiece. He was tall and solid, around forty-five. His dark hair was flecked with grey, his clean-shaven, strikingly-handsome face matched the colour of his mahogany desk. His London-cut suit would have made any movie star green with envy, and his linen was as immaculate and as white as the first snowdrop of spring.
He let me talk. His grey-green eyes didn't shift from the elaborate silver pen set on his desk. His big frame didn't move. His mahogany-coloured face was as expressionless and as empty as a hole in a wall.
I began by showing him Janet Crosby's letter, then told him about my visit to Crestways, the state of the place, that Maureen was supposed to be ill, that Janet had been playing tennis two days before she died of endocarditis. I mentioned Dr. Bewley, and that Benny Dwan, who worked for Dr. Salzer, had tailed me. I told him briefly of my visit to Eudora Drew, how Dwan had arrived and had strangled her. I dwelt on my interview with Captain of Police Brandon, and how he had warned me to lay off Salzer and Maureen Crosby. I mentioned casually that Brandon was prejudiced in their favour and why. I went on to describe how Dwan had tried to shoot me, and how he had been knocked off by someone who drove a car with diamond-tread tyres. I mentioned that Sergeants MacGraw and Hartsell had driven a car fitted with such tyres. I concluded by telling him of my visit to Nurse Gurney's apartment, and of
the fat woman who ate plums and how Nurse Gurney had vanished. It was a long story, and it took time to tell, but he didn't hurry me or interrupt me or suggest I should cut out the details. He sat staring at his pen set, as still as the Graven Image, and I had an idea he wasn't missing anything, that every little detail registered, and behind that blank, empty mahogany face, his brain was very, very much awake.
"Well, that's the story," I concluded, and reached forward to knock my cigarette ash into the ash-tray on his desk. "I thought that you, as the Trustee of the estate, should know about it. I have been told by Brandon to return the five hundred dollars." I took out my wallet and laid the money on the desk, put my finger on it and without any show of reluctance, pushed it towards him. "Strictly speaking that lets me out. On the other hand you may think there should be an investigation, and if that's what you think I would be glad to carry on. Frankly, Mr. Willet, the set-up interests me."
He turned his eyes on me and stared. Seconds ticked by. I had the idea he wasn't seeing me. He was certainly thinking.
"This is an extraordinary story," he said suddenly. "I don't think I would have believed it if I didn't know your organization by reputation. You have handled several tricky jobs for clients of mine, and they have spoken very highly of you. From what you have told me I think we have grounds to begin an investigation, and I should be glad if you would handle it." He pushed back his chair and stood up. "But it must be understood that such an investigation must be secret, and my firm must not be associated with it in any way. We will be prepared to pay your fee, but you must keep us covered. Our position is a difficult one. We have no business to pry into Miss Crosby's affairs unless we are certain there is something wrong, and we are not certain of that, although it looks like it. If you uncover any tangible evidence that definitely connects Miss Crosby with these extraordinary happenings, then, of course, we can come out into the open. But not before."
"That makes it awkward for me," I pointed out. "I was relying on you to keep Brandon from bothering me."
There was a twinkle in his eyes as he said, "I'm sure you will be able to handle Brandon without my help. But if the going happens to become difficult you can always quote me as your lawyer. If there was an assault I should be happy to represent you in court without charge."
"That's swell," I said sarcastically. "But in the meantime I have been assaulted."
He didn't seem to think that was anything to worry about.
"No doubt you will adjust your fee to cover personal risks," he said lightly. "After all, I suppose a job like yours does involve risks."
I shrugged. The fee, I told myself, would certainly be jacked up to the ceiling.
"All right," I said. "Then I can go ahead?"
He began to pace about the room, his hands behind him, his head bent, frowning at the carpet.
"Oh, yes. I want you to go ahead."
"There are some questions I'd like to ask," I said, lighting another cigarette. "When did you last see Maureen Crosby?"
"At Janet's funeral. I haven't seen her since. Her affairs are quite straightforward. Any papers that need her signature are sent to her through the mail. I have had no occasion to see her."
"You haven't heard she is ill?"
He shook his head. No, he had no idea she was ill.
"Are you satisfied Macdonald Crosby's death was an accident?" I shot at him.
He wasn't expecting this, and looked up sharply.
"What do you mean? Of course it was an accident."
"Couldn't it have been suicide?"
"There was no reason why Crosby should have committed suicide."
"As far as you know."
"A man doesn't usually kill himself with a shot-gun if he owns a revolver, and Crosby owned a revolver. A shot-gun is liable to be messy."
"If he had committed suicide would it have affected his estate?"
"Why, yes." A startled look came into his eyes. "His life was insured for a million and a half dollars. The policy carried a non-payment suicide clause."
"Who received the insurance money?"
"I don't quite see where all this is leading to," he said, returning to his desk and sitting down. "Perhaps you will explain."
"It seems odd to me that Salzer, who is not a qualified doctor, should have signed the death certificate. The coroner and Brandon must have agreed to this. I'm trying to convince myself there was nothing sinister in Crosby's death. Suppose he did commit suicide. According to you the estate would have lost a million and a half dollars. But if a nice, willing quack and a grafting coroner and Captain of Police got together it could be arranged to look like an accident, couldn't it?"
"That's a pretty dangerous thing to say. Isn't Salzer qualified?"
"No. Who received the insurance money?"
"It was left to Janet, and at her death to Maureen."
"So Maureen now has a million and a half in cash; is that right?"
"Yes. I tried to persuade Janet to invest the money, but she preferred to leave it in the bank. It passed in cash to Maureen."
"What's happened to it? Is it still in the bank?"
"As far as I know. I have no access to her account."
"Couldn't you have?"
He regarded me steadily for a moment or so.
"I might. I don't know whether I'd care to."
"It would be helpful to find out just how much is left." I nodded towards Janet's letter lying on the desk. "There's this business of blackmail. And if Franklin Lessways, the coroner, and Brandon had to be squared it is possible not a great deal of it remains. I'd be glad if you could find out."
"All right. I'll see what can be done." He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I suppose I could take action against Salzer if what you say is true. He had no right to sign the certificate, but I'm not anxious to come out into the open just yet. There seems to be no doubt the shooting was accidental. The insurance company was satisfied."
"They would be if Brandon and the coroner passed the certificate. It looks to me as if Salzer is financing Lessways as well as Brandon. What do you know about Lessways?"
Willet grimaced.
"Oh, he could be bought. He has a pretty rotten reputation."
"Did you know Janet Crosby well?"
He shook his head.
"I met her two or three times. No more."
"Did she strike you as having a bad heart?"
"No; but that doesn't mean anything. Lots of people have bad hearts. It doesn't always show."
"But they don't play tennis two days before they die as Janet did."
I could see he was beginning to get worried.
"What are you hinting at?"
"Nothing. I'm just stating a fact. I'm not sold on the idea she died of heart failure."
While he stared at me the silence in the room was heavy enough to sink a battleship.
"You're not suggesting . . ." he began and broke off.
"Not yet," I said. "But it's something we should keep in mind."
I could see he didn't like this at all. "Suppose we leave that for the moment?" I went on. "Let's concentrate on Maureen Crosby. From the look of the house and from what Nurse Gurney tells me it is possible Maureen isn't living at Crestways. If she isn't there— where is she?"
"Yes," he said. "There's that."
"Is she in Salzer's sanatorium? Has it occurred to you she may be a prisoner there?"
That brought him bolt upright in his chair. "Aren't you letting your imagination run away with you? I had a letter from her only last week."
"That doesn't mean much. Why did she write?"
"I asked her to sign some papers. She returned them signed, with a covering note thanking me for sending them."
"From Crestways?"
"The address on the note-paper was Crestways."
"That still doesn't prove she isn't a prisoner, does it? I'm not saying she is, but that's another thing we shall have to keep in mind."
"We can find out about that right away," he said briskly.
"I'll write to her and ask her to call on me. I can find some business excuse for an interview."
"Yeah. That's an idea. Will you let me know what happens? It might be an idea to follow her when she leaves you and find out where she goes."
"I'll let you know."
I stood up.
"I think that's about all. You'll remember to check on her bank statement?"
Lay Her Among The Lilies Page 9