The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  “She also had a nurse for the baby, and a maid. It was her money and I couldn’t very well tell her how to spend it,” he said. “So we had a fine apartment, with me making seventy-five bucks a week and going to art school three nights a week. She had about a year of chasing around with her cafe friends, staying up most of the night and sleeping all morning.”

  “But you still got along,” Crombie said. “You were still sleeping together.”

  “Oh, sure,” Rick said. “I was busy, and so was she in her way. I was crazy about the boy and it didn’t matter then whether she was too busy to give him any time. Then she got bored and decided she wanted to work. She got a job as a reader with a publishing house and we didn’t do too badly together until Korea came along and the army decided I was indispensable. I was away nearly a year and a half and when I got back things were different.”

  “In what way?”

  “In every way. She was thinner and edgy and businesslike and efficient. The warmth I remembered was gone. She was just starting this publishing house with a guy named Eastman who had been a sales manager for another firm. We had a bigger apartment and Ricky was in day school and she said it was time we had our own rooms. I don’t mean mere was no more sex but it only happened once in a while, maybe when we’d been out together and had a few drinks and she forgot her business ambitions long enough to remember that she was still a woman.

  “By that time,” he said, “I’d started to freelance and I was working like a dog because my rates were low and I had to scratch and take what my agent lined up for me. As a matter of fact I was lucky to get a good agent as soon as I did.” He put his cigarette out and tipped his hand in an empty gesture.

  “That’s about it. Two years ago we just decided what we had was no good for either of us. She didn’t have any marriage plans and neither did I, so we decided a separation would be the best thing.”

  “Umm.” Crombie picked up a pad and a pencil, his chair creaking as he let his weight come forward. “She sounds like a woman who’d want a man around just the same. If she wants to be a big shot like you say and likes to get around the right places she’d need someone, wouldn’t she? A woman like that wouldn’t want to go alone.”

  Rick cocked his head as his respect for the detective began to mount. Because Frieda did need men, but on her terms. She hated to be alone. She wanted company and attention quite aside from any physical need she may have felt, and Rick was no longer sure about this aspect of her character. He said as much to Crombie and the detective came directly to the point.

  “Do you think she was a nymph?”

  Rick considered the question and shook his head. “No.”

  “Promiscuous?”

  “No. I think she had too much pride and integrity for that sort of thing. I think—” He paused to ask himself exactly what he did think. He tried to compare the fun-loving and passionate girl he had married with the woman he had talked with last night. “I think, if she liked a man real well, she might fall for him on a temporary basis. She might have an affair if she was sure of the man and it suited her.”

  “What I’m trying to do,” Crombie said, “is find out if there’s anyone who might have had an affair with her, or any reason to hate her. You got any ideas who she might have played around with?”

  With his thoughts channeled into proper perspective, Rick remembered Tom Ashley. Ashley had seen a lot of Frieda at one period; he had admitted this to Rick at the time and asked if he minded. He wondered now if the relationship had been limited to the work they had done on his books. He spoke of this now and Crombie nodded without looking, up.

  He was busy with his pad and pencil and Rick thought he was making notes until he gave a closer look and realized the man was doodling. Now, when the detective glanced up and found Rick watching him, he grinned crookedly.

  “A habit,” he said. “Seems to help me think.… Who else besides this Ashley?”

  Rick mentioned Austin Farrell but admitted that here his knowledge was mostly hearsay. He had heard that Austin and Frieda had been together often in various night clubs and eating places, but that was the extent of his information.

  “What’s he do?” Crombie asked.

  “Runs a small literary agency but he’s got a rich wife.” Rick went on to speak of the accident which had invalided Elinor Farrell permanently, and having seen them together on occasion he added that Farrell seemed very devoted to his wife, at least when he was with her.

  “Does he impress you as the type your wife might go for?”

  Recalling Farrell’s manners, good looks, and impeccable grooming, Rick said: “Yes.”

  Crombie had gone back to his doodling. “Who else?”

  “I don’t know any other man except Clyde Eastman.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Her partner in the publishing business.”

  “He might know quite a lot.”

  “I guess that’s about all,” Rick said and pushed back in his chair.

  “Not quite all.” Crombie glanced up, his gray gaze speculative. “You wanted a divorce. What about the girl you wanted it for?”

  “Oh.… Her name’s Nancy Heath,” Rick said, and then he was telling how Nancy did layout and copy for a small advertising agency that specialized in publishing accounts.

  The rest of it came easily as he told about meeting her one afternoon several months ago when he had stopped in Brainard & Eastman’s to see Frieda, and Nancy had been there to get an okay on some copy. They had left together and it had been raining at the time and he had given her a lift in his taxi. A couple of weeks later she had called to ask if he would be interested in doing an illustration for a dust jacket wanted by another publisher. Working together on this had given him a chance to understand how attractive and desirable she was, how easy to talk to. They’d had drinks together when he delivered his work and that was all until another job renewed the association. This time the drinks carried over to dinner.

  Without thinking too much about it he found himself wanting to see her with increasing frequency. He had driven her up to the camp to see Ricky and when he saw what a hit she made with his son it finally dawned on him that he was in love with her. He said nothing about this until they had gone to the camp a second time, and it was on the way back when they stopped for dinner that he knew for certain how she felt about him. Only then did it become important for him to have a divorce, to know that for them it was the only solution.

  “Yeah,” said Crombie, “and thanks for spelling it out. I don’t want to sound like a marriage counselor but the more I can get from you about the background of this business the less waste motion we’ll have later on. If your girl has been working with your wife’s outfit she might know a few things that could help.… Okay.”

  He threw aside his pencil and leaned back again. His broad, hard jaw moved as he flexed his lips, and his eyes were thoughtful.

  “Maybe we can help,” he said, “but if time’s important—and it looks like it is—it’s not a one-man job and it won’t be cheap.”

  “I don’t care—”

  “But you ought to know how it works. I’ve got three good men here with me and I can always get more. For them it costs thirty bucks a day, for eight hours. If they’re working ten or twelve that goes down as two days; I mean that’s what you’re charged for. And, of course, always expenses.”

  “All right,” Rick said. “But I want you on this.”

  “I come higher. I get double. Sixty bucks a day.”

  “Well, will you do it? Can you start now?”

  “I’ll have to rearrange some things—” He paused and then nodded as his decision was made. “Yes. I don’t see why not.

  Rick gave a small sigh of relief when the answer came because it had suddenly become tremendously important that he have Sam Crombie’s help. This talk, the opportunity to speak of things too long bottled up inside him, had done him a lot of good, having somehow a therapeutic effect that bolstered his courage and gave
him new confidence. This, he knew, was not only a shrewd and experienced detective but one he could trust without reservation.

  “Good,” he said, and stood up, his problem solved until he glanced at his watch and saw that it was five minutes after twelve. That made him think of his son and the call he had made to the camp director from his lawyer’s office. This was the time. Noon hour. Somehow, he was not sure just how, he must talk to the boy and hope he said the right things. When he told Crombie what he had to do the detective nodded and said to tell his operator what he wanted.

  He pushed the telephone across the desk and started to stand up and Rick motioned him back. Somehow Crombie’s presence seemed to bolster his resolve and lend the moral support that he so badly needed. He gave the operator the number and said to make the call person-to-person.

  “I want to speak to Richard Sheridan.”

  He sat hunched in his chair, head down, holding the telephone loosely and feeling the moisture start to accumulate on his palm. But the call came through surprisingly quick and when he heard the small uncertain voice of his son he said:

  “Ricky.… Did Pop Wayne tell you about your mother?”

  “Yes.… Are you all right, Dad?”

  The unexpectedness of the question jolted him and the concern in the boy’s voice was so genuine that he felt a sudden weakness come over him.

  “Me?. Of course.”

  “But Pop said it happened at your house—”

  “Yes, Ricky. But I wasn’t there. She was alone.”

  “Oh.” A long pause. “Do they think—was it a burglar, Dad?”

  “It could have been. The police aren’t sure.”

  Rick swallowed, his scalp prickling as the perspiration began to come. What should he say? What could one say to a twelve-year-old boy when you didn’t know how he felt about death or even how he felt about his mother?

  “I don’t know just what to tell you, Ricky. It happened. It happens every day to other people and this time it happened to us. We don’t know how but we have to accept it, both of us. We have to take it. I wish I could be with you now but maybe it’s better that you’re up there with your friends.”

  There was no reply to this and he knew he must speak about the funeral. But here, too, he felt helpless and ineffective. Should he insist that the boy come or should he insist that he stay?

  “I don’t know when the funeral will be; probably not for two or three days. I’d like you to think about whether you feel you want to come or stay in camp.

  “I’ll do whatever you say, Dad.”

  “Suppose you think about it before you decide, Son. When did you see your mother last?”

  “I think it was in June. She had me come in town and we had lunch.”

  “Did you have a good time? Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Then maybe you’d rather remember her as she was then. You know—how she looked and what she said. Maybe you’d like to think that she’s just gone on a long trip and may never come back.… You think about it, Ricky.”

  He had to stop again. His throat seemed stuck and he had to clear it and he could feel the sting of tears in his eyes.

  “You’re a young man now and you’ll have to start making up your own mind.… Will you do that, Ricky? Will you think about it? Or maybe you want to talk to Pop Wayne. I’ll call you again when; I know more about it and you can tell me then.… Okay?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  He waited, listening, and there was nothing more but the distant breaking of the connection. He put the telephone back, his fingers unsteady and his face wet. He swallowed again and reached for his handkerchief and when he glanced up Crombie’s gaze was sympathetic. He had been obviously touched by what he had heard and the hoarseness of his voice was more pronounced.

  “Yeah,” he said. “A man doesn’t know what to say at a time like that.”

  “I did the best I could,” Rick said simply.

  “You did all right.” He pushed back his chair, his tone abruptly businesslike. “If you want to wait in the anteroom I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”

  When Crombie appeared five minutes later he had his jacket on; the Panama hat rode on the center of his head.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that it might be a good idea to have a look at your wife’s apartment—if you think we can get in.”

  Rick said the superintendent knew him and there should be no trouble and Crombie said: “But first let’s have a talk with this partner of hers. He should be able to give us some angles that might be worth while.”

  Chapter 6

  The offices of Brainard & Eastman were on the seventh floor of a Forty-Sixth Street building close by Fifth Avenue. The receptionist recognized Rick at once and when he told her what he wanted she relayed his request.

  “You can go right in, Mr. Sheridan,” she said.

  Rick led the way down the hall to a door at the end, knocked once and walked into a squarish, well-appointed office that had green wall-to-wall carpeting, an impressive-looking desk, a wall full of books, and an air-conditioning unit in one of the two windows. At one side of the desk a cellarette stood open. There was a whisky bottle and a thermos jug on top and a partly filled glass was in plain sight on the desk.

  Clyde Eastman stood up as the door closed and shook hands. “Hello, Rick.” He indicated a folded newspaper on a corner of the desk. “I didn’t know a thing about it until I read the paper coming in on the train. What the hell can I say? I never thought things like that happened to people you knew. Why?” he demanded. “Do you know who did it yet?”

  Rick said not yet and introduced Crombie, waiting until they had shaken hands before he added: “Mr. Crombie’s a detective.”

  Eastman’s pale-blue eyes opened wide. “A cop?”

  “Private, Mr. Eastman,” Crombie said.

  Eastman turned his still wide-open gaze at Rick. “What do you need a detective for?”

  “I’m in a jam,” Rick said. “The police seem to think I might be the one that killed Frieda.”

  “They must be nuts.”

  Eastman picked up his glass, studied it morosely. When he had drained the drink he looked at Rick.

  “I don’t suppose you want a touch?… No? Well, it’s a little early for me, too, but this morning I needed something. Christ, I can’t get that other thing out of my head.”

  He waved them to chairs and poured another small drink, added water. He put it on the desk and sat down behind it, a plump, pink-faced man with thinning brown hair and a small, neatly kept mustache. The knot of his tie had been loosened and his shirt was open at the top, the sleeves turned back to reveal a wrist watch with a gold strap. As he slumped in the chair he put one heel on the corner of his desk and eyed it glumly for a silent moment.

  “I guess you’ll want to know about the business,” he said. “Her lawyer called me this morning and said he’d like his accountant to go over the books. He said you’d inherit it under her will.”

  Such thoughts were farthest from Rick’s mind at the moment, but before he could interrupt Eastman continued in the same brooding manner.

  “Yesterday I would have told you you could have the business with my compliments because I doubt like hell whether there’d be enough assets to cover the liabilities.”

  “You mean you’re bankrupt?” Rick asked.

  “Not yet, but, brother, have we been skating on thin ice. If you want to know the truth, I’ve been looking around for a job. And you know why? Because of Frieda’s big ideas. You know how she was—nothing but the best big deals, a quality product, and a name for herself.”

  He took some of his drink and touched his mustache with one knuckle.

  “Oh, she was smart enough in most ways. When we started we each put in fifty grand—which really wasn’t enough capital but it was every nickel I had in the world. A couple of times her old man had to extend us some credit, but we survived and we agreed that I’d handle the business end
and she’d be the editorial boss. No sticking your nose into the other guy’s department. We knew we’d never have the biggest publishing house in town but we’d have one of the best. Anything that went out under our imprint had to be good—of its class. And that’s where she began to go a little crazy.

  “It was all well enough to print popular fiction and juveniles, and a few mysteries and good fact pieces when we could get them, but that didn’t give her the prestige she wanted. So she decided to look for new material abroad. That part was okay. Plenty of publishers go to Europe to sign up promising writers; if they don’t go they send someone. And they get some good ones. Some I know have turned out to be Nobel Prize winners and a lot of them have made money for the house. Sure we need those writers when we can find them, but that wasn’t the kind that Frieda seemed to sign. Maybe she wasn’t looking hard enough or maybe she was just horsing around. Anyway, with one or two exceptions that made a few bucks for us you know what we got?

  “I’ll tell you. Little items that laid a bomb. If we were lucky, we maybe sold eighteen hundred copies. We lost money by the barrel on those babies because no paperback house would touch them on a reprint.”

  He took another swallow and said: “The first couple of years we had our feet on the ground and we broke even, which was damn good for a shoestring operation like ours. Maybe we were lucky but we got a few writers who could produce regularly and netted a little profit on each book. We’d get a book-club choice now and then. We stayed in the black until two years ago and then she got this foreign itch and when she traveled she traveled on company money and not cabin class either.

  “‘It’s a legitimate deduction,’ she’d say. ‘Take it off the income tax.’ But Goddammit you have to have the money the tax comes out of first, don’t you? If we’d kept the dough she spent making those trips we wouldn’t have done too bad.”

  “Couldn’t you do something about it?” Rick said. “I mean, get her to cut down a bit or prove that her idea wasn’t profitable.”

  “Hah!” said Eastman. “You were married to her quite a while, what do you think? She was doing what she wanted to do because she had her own income.”