The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  Crombie cleared his throat. “Will her death make any difference to your business?”

  Eastman looked at the detective, head cocking as he considered the question.

  “Yes,” he said frankly. “Because now I’ve got a choice. We had a partnership insurance to this extent: we each took out a policy for the fifty thousand we’d put in and paid the premiums out of the firm.”

  He switched his attention to Rick. “You’re entitled to half of the business and you can have it all, and I’ll clean out my desk when you say so and look for a job. Or, with that fifty of new capital, I can stay on as boss, hire an editor, and probably make out all right in the end. Why don’t you talk to your lawyer. No hurry but—”

  “All right,” Rick said. “But that’s not why we came. What we hoped to get from you was a little help.”

  Eastman scowled at Rick and then at Crombie. “In what way?”

  Crombie took his Panama from his knee and placed it on the floor beside his chair.

  “We’re going to dig into her private life, Mr. Eastman. We’re going to try to find out who might have had reason to kill her. We want to know who might have been in love with her, who she might have had affairs with—if any—who might have been afraid of her. It may take some doing but I can get plenty of men to help dig. You happen to be the first stop, Mr. Eastman, because you’ve been associated with her for several years and we figured you’d know as much about her as anyone.”

  He paused, his gaze intent. “It would help—unless you’re in some way involved in what happened last night—if you’d tell us about your own relations with her. Were they always strictly business?”

  Eastman swung his foot down from the desk and passed one palm along the side of his head. He glanced out the window and then back at Crombie. Finally he made up his mind.

  “No. I was never in bed with her but I’ve got to admit I tried. Not in the beginning. We were pretty busy the first couple of years but being around her all the time—I don’t know. She was damned attractive and when she wanted to she could charm an Eskimo. You could tell she liked men and not just for sex. She wanted attention; maybe it flattered her. I don’t know how it happened but I fell for her. I’m not saying she sucked me into it, but pretty soon I was taking her everywhere and neglecting my family and thinking about marrying her.”

  He grunted softly, a bitter sound. “She never said no but she’d stall with that business of how could we talk about marriage when we were both married to someone else. Well, I knew there was nothing between you,” he said to Rick, “and I was willing to ask my wife for a divorce. It went on like that for quite a while. I knew she was seeing a lot of Tom Ashley when she was helping him with his book. But she’d still go out with me, and be affectionate when it suited her, and stall me with half promises.”

  He waved one hand disgustedly. “But what the hell. You don’t care about details. I fell for her, and my wife, who is no dummy, knew what was happening. She packed up with the two kids and took off for Boston. She’s been with her family for the last six months or so and now maybe I can get her back.”

  Rick considered the information as Eastman fell silent. Nothing that had been said came as any great surprise to him. He did not know if what he had heard shaped up as a sufficient motive for murder but he knew that disgruntled and jealous suitors had killed women in the past and he found himself wondering where Eastman was around nine o’clock the night before. Now, remembering Ashley and his recently announced engagement, he said:

  “If she did have an affair with Tom Ashley, how long has it been over?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that Ashley worked out this last book by himself. We didn’t have a contract for it and a few days ago he told us he was giving it to another publisher. That burned Frieda plenty. She was raving around here about his ingratitude and making threats about this and that, none of which made much sense.”

  “I’ve heard she’s been seen around quite a lot with Austin Farrell lately.”

  “I’ve heard it, too,” Eastman said. “They’d make a good pair because they both want to be known as big shots. Only Frieda had some of the equipment and Farrell didn’t.” He shook his head. “But I can’t see him chucking his wife—even if she is an invalid—for Frieda. She’s got too much dough.”

  “Frieda would have had a nice chunk when she was forty.”

  “Sure, but that’s over six years from now.”

  “Who else was she seeing regularly?” Crombie asked.

  “Nobody that I know of,” Eastman said. “For a while there Stuart Gorton was following her around.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Another of our writers.”

  “Do you have his address?”

  Eastman picked up the telephone and asked a question. A moment later he read off a Westside address and Rick made a note of it; so did Crombie.

  “What do you mean, following her around?” the detective asked.

  “I mean he was sending her flowers and presents and hanging around the office so he could take her to lunch or out for a drink.” He grunted again. “But I don’t think he got any farther than I did. He was with another publisher when she met him and I think she strung him along until he signed with us for two books.”

  “Can you think of anyone else?” Crombie asked.

  “Not right now.” He stood up and put the whisky bottle back inside the cellarette. “And remember, Rick,” he said, “I’m not trying to prove anything about Frieda. She wasn’t any bitchier than a lot of other dames; she was just too ambitious and selfish and self-centered for her own good. You asked the questions and you’ve got my answers. If you think of any others, come back again.… Glad to have met you, Mr. Crombie. Good luck, Rick,” he added dryly. “I still think the cops are nuts and if you need a character witness, call on me.”

  Going along the hall seconds later, Crombie spoke to Rick. “That’s a bitter guy,” he said. “Either that or he had too much of that whisky before we came in.”

  Rick had no trouble with the apartment house superintendent, who had read the morning paper and expressed appropriate sentiments as he rode up in the elevator with them. Having unlocked the door for them he withdrew and Rick led Crombie through the foyer into a long living room that overlooked the East River and Long Island City. It was a handsomely furnished room, but it was the oil painting over the fireplace that held Rick’s attention.

  As he stopped in front of it he heard Crombie ask if it was all right to look around. He said yes and heard the detective move away and then he was studying this picture, which showed an old weatherbeaten house that stood on the bank of a small, still river. The sight of it here in a place of honor touched him deeply because, though he had quite forgotten that he had ever done such a scene, the remembered circumstances returned at once. For of all his work this had been Frieda’s favorite and when they separated she asked if she could have it.

  Now, as his thoughts turned back, he experienced again in fancy the week they had spent at this small Connecticut inn soon after he had come back from Korea, the sketches he had made, the preliminary work he had done on this particular picture. He was still standing there when Crombie returned muttering under his breath.

  “Two bedrooms and two baths, a maid’s room and bath; kitchen, dining room, study, and this.” He waved a thick arm to indicate the room. “Your wife didn’t fool, did she?” He looked up at the painting. “One of yours? It’s nice.”

  He coughed and said: “It would take too long to go over the whole place so let’s just have a look at the study. Things you find in a man’s desk are sometimes pretty revealing. Okay?”

  Rick followed him into the study and over to the desk which stood between the windows, a walnut, kneehole desk with an inlaid leather top. Then, as if by mutual consent, he began to inspect one tier of drawers while Crombie set to work on the other.

  Without looking for anything in particular Rick soon discovered that there were no handwritten persona
l letters or notes and he decided that it was Frieda’s habit to destroy such things after she’d read, or answered, them. The top drawer held two checkbooks, an address book, which he put on top of the desk, some personal bills, charge-account statements, receipts. The middle drawer was filled with manila folders and he saw that the tab on each was marked.

  One said: Spain-Portugal, and when he opened it he found carbon copies of letters she had written to the office while traveling. This particular period covered the month of April 1956 and he went on to the next which said: France-Italy. Here the trip had apparently lasted from mid-July to mid-August of the same year.

  The first letter he scanned was addressed to Eastman and was strictly business as she wrote of arrangements with an agent and of a new French writer she had just signed. The second letter was written from Geneva and what struck him about this one was the date, which was exactly a year ago that day. In this she said she was resting for a few days and would go to Como for a few more. There were two writers in Milan that she wanted to see, and another in Genoa about whom she had heard wonderful things. The next letter was dated the 14th and had been sent from Genoa saying she had two manuscripts about which she was enthusiastic, adding that she would be sailing the following day.

  Except for the few words of enthusiasm the letters were strictly business and reminded Rick of the cards she sent him from time to time. Whenever she went on a trip he could count on one card containing some factual material and the style was more masculine than feminine. They began, “Dear Rick,” and usually ended, “Best regards.” Now, as he started to put the folder aside, Crombie touched his arm.

  “This,” he indicated the document he held in one hand, “is a lease for this apartment. This other one”—he offered it to Rick—“is another lease. Was your wife’s maiden name Brainard? What’s the rest of it?”

  “Frieda Elizabeth.”

  “It’s signed F. E. Brainard.”

  Rick skipped the printed wording and read the information that had been inserted in the blank spaces. From this he could see that Frieda had signed a lease for an apartment on Eighth Street, a two-year lease which had about six months to run.

  “Do you know anything about it?” Crombie asked.

  “No.”

  “She’s had it a year and a half.”

  “I never knew she had it.”

  Crombie, who had been resting on one knee, pushed erect with a grunt. “Stick it in your pocket,” he said. “Maybe we ought to go and talk to the landlord. It might save some time.”

  Rick put the folders back in the drawer and closed it. He picked up the address book, turned it over, put it into his pocket. He stood a moment, staring sightlessly out the window, his bony face somber and slack at the mouth. The fact that the existence of this Eighth Street apartment seemed to corroborate the things he had heard earlier served only to depress him. He did not want to go there, nor find out how Frieda had lived the past two years, nor delve into the past. He wanted to drop the matter, to erase it from his thoughts, but the all-night session he had had with the police was still fresh in his mind and he knew he had no choice.

  Now, with his mind made up, they left at once, and in doing so escaped what might have been an embarrassing session with the law. For as Rick started to enter a taxi a hundred feet beyond the apartment entrance, Crombie clamped a hand on his arm and said something under his breath.

  Following the big man’s gaze, he saw the two men swing purposefully beneath the marquee and into the doorway.

  “Town cop,” Crombie said.

  “Those two?”

  “The tall one.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s probably working with some guy they sent down from the state police.” Crombie grunted softly. “They could have cramped us a bit.”

  “But the superintendent will tell them we were there.”

  “So what? You had a right to look the place over.” He moved into the cab behind Rick. “The thing is, we’ve got that lease for the Eighth Street place, and without it I doubt if they’ll uncover it at all until you’re ready to tell them. That means we’re not going to be bothered for a while.”

  Chapter 7

  The Eighth Street address proved to be a narrow-front structure with a grimy brick facade. Narrow stone steps flanked by wrought-iron railings led to a dim vestibule, the door of which stood open. Four metal mailboxes were recessed into the right wall with push buttons beneath them. A fifth button had the word: janitor under it, and some seconds after Rick pushed it a man came round from a basement apartment and up the steps.

  A thin, balding fellow who looked to be about fifty, he was clad in faded khaki slacks, slippers, and a T-shirt that showed sweat stains down his breastbone. He came to a puffing stop, mopped his face with a bandanna, and eyed his visitors with a minimum of interest.

  “Did you push the button?”

  “Yes,” Rick said. “Does F. E. Brainard have an apartment here?”

  “Who wants to know?” the man said without hostility.

  “We do,” Crombie said, while Rick brought forth the lease and shoved it under the man’s nose. “Come on,” Crombie added and now his hoarse voice carried a brisk, no-nonsense inflection that Rick had not heard before. “We haven’t got all day. Which floor?”

  “The third.”

  “Let’s have a key.”

  “Now wait a minute,” the janitor said, beginning to bluster.

  Crombie stepped forward. He did not move his hands but his paunch forced the smaller man to the wall, anchoring him there.

  “F. E. Brainard was this gentleman’s, wife,” Crombie said with a nod toward Rick. “Last night she got herself killed up in Connecticut—you can find it in the morning paper if you can read—so now he’s taking over the apartment. Is the rent paid?”

  “To the first, yeah.”

  “Then come on, open it up.”

  “Okay. Quit leaning on me.”

  Crombie backed off and the janitor led the way into a dim and musty hall and up two flights of stairs to the single door on the third floor. He pulled a bunch of keys off his hip pocket, selected one, fitted it into the lock. When the door swung open Crombie put out his hand.

  “The key,” he said. “Take it off the ring. We may want to keep it a while.”

  The man hesitated but finally snapped the key loose. “They don’t give these away, you know.”

  Crombie produced a half dollar and handed it over. “Go buy yourself a new one.… Wait a minute,” he said as the fellow started to turn away. “What’s your name?”

  “Tony Pelucci.”

  “Okay, Tony.” Crombie pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to give Pelucci a glimpse of the identification but not enough time to read it. “We’re going to want to talk to you after we go over the place and I don’t think Mr. Sheridan—”

  “Sheridan?”

  “That’s your tenant’s married name.”

  “Aye.” Pelucci clapped one hand to his head. “Sheridan. Sure. I read about that. Somebody strangled her.”

  “And what I was going to say is that I have an idea Mr. Sheridan will pay for your time if you want to cooperate. So stick around until we give you a buzz.”

  It may have been the suggestion of a fee that changed the other’s attitude; it may have been the shock of realizing he might be remotely involved in a murder case. Whatever the reason, Pelucci was instantly cooperative.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll be around. Any time you say.”

  When the door closed, Rick snapped on the light switch to get a better perspective of the room whose only natural illumination came from the two front windows overlooking the street. The rest of the layout was of the railroad type, with a narrow hall that led past a small kitchen and a bath to the bedroom at the end. Here an enormous bed stood in the center of the floor with a candlewick spread and a headboard wide enough to take two box springs and mattresses. The dresser, the chest, and the vanity were either antique pieces or excell
ent imitations, and as he glanced about Crombie said:

  “Why don’t you start in the front room while I take a look around here?”

  Rick went back down the hall, considering the furniture, the scatter rugs, and the bookcase in one corner before he went to the desk, which was similar to the one in Frieda’s apartment but less expensive. A hooded typewriter stood in the center of this. On one side was a leather-covered letter tray and on the other a manuscript box. When he leaned closer to read the label that had been pasted on the top he saw that it said: Troubled Seas by Stuart Gorton.

  The center drawer apparently was used as a catchall and as he pawed idly over its contents he found pencils, ball point pens, paper clips, tissues, erasers, a lipstick, and a stick of gum. The right-hand drawer held some carbon paper and stationery bearing the imprint of Brainard & Eastman. The deep drawer was half-full of manuscript pages, apparently first draft material, since much editing had been done. Other than this the desk was empty. Uncovering the manuscript box, Rick saw that the top sheet was a carbon copy of a note written to Stuart Gorton on business stationery, apparently a letter that had been written here by Frieda. It was dated the previous Saturday and read:

  Dear Stuart:

  This is to inform you that we are accepting Troubled Seas as the option book under the terms of your contract. If all goes well we plan to publish it in January of next year.

  Sincerely

  Out of curiosity to see what sort of thing Stuart Gorton wrote, Rick inspected the title page of the manuscript, but before he could read more than a sentence or two Crombie called to him from the hall. When he joined him in the bedroom the detective pointed to the open drawer of the chest.

  A clean white broadcloth shirt with French cuffs lay neatly folded inside. Next to it was a leather toilet kit which was obviously a man’s. Without a word Crombie led Rick back to the bathroom and the open medicine cabinet, pointing now to the razor, shaving cream, face lotion, and deodorant.

  “It looks like Eastman had it figured right,” he said, “and it looks like there was at least one more before this guy. Come here. I’ll show you what I mean.”