The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  “Fran—”

  The girl ignored what was meant to be a warning. “We had a wonderful ride, didn’t we, Stuie?”

  “Where’d you have dinner?”

  “At the Blue Shutters. Do you know it?”

  “Fran!”

  Gorton was a little desperate in his effort to silence her, but by then she was too wound up and interested in Rick’s obvious enchantment to stop. And Rick, knowing an opportunity when he saw one, said:

  “The Blue Shutters? Sure I know it… Why don’t you get the lady her beer, Stuie?”

  “Yes, for heaven’s sake, Stuie. I’m parched.”

  Gorton gave Rick a final frustrated and outraged look as he continued to compliment the cuisine at the Blue Shutters and then, abandoning the job of silencing his girl as already lost, he uttered a small moan and started for the kitchen.

  “What did you have to eat?” Rick asked.

  “A steak that thick.” She made a space between her thumb and forefinger. “It was yummy.”

  “Was Stuie with you all the time?”

  “Certainly.” She broke her smile for a thoughtful instant. “Except for a few minutes. He had to go see a fellow that lived out that way.” She giggled again.

  “Stuie wasn’t very hungry and I was,” she said. “And he was through before I was and he wanted to know if I was going to have dessert and I said of course I was, so he said for me to go ahead and he’d be back pretty soon, that he had to see this fellow.”

  “And was he? Back soon, I mean?”

  “Oh—it wasn’t too long. I had my dessert and a brandy and a second cup of coffee. Maybe thirty or forty minutes. I didn’t mind. I like to watch people.”

  Rick pushed for one more question, hoping to get a reply before she began to wonder why he was so persistent.

  “What time did he leave, Fran?”

  “Around a quarter of nine; ten of, maybe.… Ahh,” she said and her eyes lit up as Gorton approached with her beer. “Thanks, Stuie. You’re sweet.” She drank greedily and licked her lip. “What’s so important about it, anything?”

  “Sit down, will you, Fran?” Gorton said. “And for God’s sake shut up a minute.”

  The girl recoiled as if she’d been slapped. She sucked in her breath and said: “Well!” with an indignant blast. But when Gorton just stood there eyeing her disgustedly she flounced over to a chair and sat down so hard she bounced.

  “Who was the man you had to see, Stuie?” Rick said.

  “Don’t call me Stuie, you nosy bastard!” Gorton went back to the divan and scowled down at his slipper. “Eastman.”

  “Why?”

  “You know everything; you should know that.”

  “You were still scared your novel might get published the way you wrote it, so you went to see if you could get him to call it off.”

  “He only lived about five miles from the Blue Shutters so I figured I might as well while Fran stuffed herself.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say. He wasn’t home. That was about nine o’clock and there was a light on and I thought maybe he’d just gone out for some cigarettes or something. I waited fifteen or twenty minutes and then said, the hell with it, and came back for Fran.”

  “Thanks.” Rick moved over to the door knowing he had done about all he could here. Whether Gorton was telling the truth did not matter at the moment. What was important was that it was about the same distance from the Blue Shutters to his house as it was to Eastman’s place. “Now when the police check you out you’ll know what to tell them.”

  “Police?” the girl yelped. “Say, what’s this all about? Who are you?”

  Rick grinned down at her. “Right now I’m a good friend of yours, Fran.… Richard Sheridan,” he said. “I’m in the phonebook. If you have trouble with Stuie, give me a ring.”

  As he rode down in the elevator and went back over the information he had pried out of Gorton by persistence and good fortune in the form of Frances Keenan, Rick understood that there was one point about which some knowledge was needed. Did Gorton know, could he have known, that Frieda was coming to see him, Rick, on Monday night?

  Chapter 14

  Rick Sheridan barely made it to the offices of Brainard & Eastman in time. It was just five o’clock when he walked into Eastman’s inner sanctum to find the publisher on his feet, his jacket on, his Leghorn on the back of his head.

  “What’s on your mind, Rick? I’ve got a train I’d like to make.”

  “We can talk on the way to the station if you like.”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “I found out some things since I talked to you yesterday,” Rick said, “but first I’m going to ask you a simple question: Where were you Monday night between—say nine and nine thirty?”

  Eastman, who had been brushing ashes from his desk, stopped brushing and his eyes came up. His round, pinkish face was still expressionless but his voice was oddly quiet.

  “Why should I tell you where I was?”

  “Because Frieda was killed somewhere around that time and you had a motive, a couple of motives.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “I don’t think so. You must have carried quite a torch for Frieda to break up your home on her account; in spite of this she wouldn’t go to bed with you. But she did with Ashley and probably with Austin Farrell. It burned you, didn’t it?”

  “You’re damn well right it did,” Eastman said with surprising candor. “But that—”

  “And you admitted she had about pushed the firm into bankruptcy,” Rick cut in. “What you forgot to say yesterday is that she also stole three of your best writers. She was going to run out and take those writers to some other house and leave you holding the bag. I guess she’d be liable for her share of any debts, but where would you be?”

  Eastman began to swear. He did not raise his voice above a low monotone but he knew a lot of words. He walked over to snap off the air conditioner, a well-dressed and prosperous-looking man in a gabardine suit that had an expensive sheen. When he shot his cuff to get a look at his wrist watch Rick wondered how far the man would go to preserve his standard of living.

  “Yes, she stole those writers,” he said. “I don’t know how the hell you found out about it but it’s true enough. And now that she’s dead maybe I can get them back. Is that your other motive?”

  Rick had not thought of it that way but he admitted the possibility. “Stuart Gorton says he came to see you Monday night between nine and nine thirty. He said he waited a while but you didn’t show. Did you know about the trick he tried to pull with his latest book?”

  “I didn’t read it, but after he got Frieda’s acceptance note I knew because he came in here and started screaming.”

  “When?”

  “Monday afternoon. Frieda wasn’t here and I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. When I got him calmed down—that was a stupid idea of his if I ever heard one—I told him I’d talk to Frieda about it.”

  “Did you?”

  He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “She didn’t come in. If he came to my place that night he probably wanted to find out what she said.”

  “So where were you?”

  “Can you give me one good reason why I should tell you?”

  “No,” Rick said. “But since you’re going to have to tell the police some story, why hold out on me?”

  He went on quickly, using the same threat he had used on Gorton and quoting his conversation with the coroner.

  “They’ve got a smart county detective up there named Manning,” he said. “I’ll lay you even money he or a state cop will be waiting for you tonight when you get off the train.”

  Eastman considered this a silent moment, his pale-blue eyes busy. He stroked his little mustache, put on his hat again and gave the brim a tug. Then he sighed audibly.

  “I drove over to see Tom Ashley. I knew by then that Frieda was going to pull out and I kn
ew that unless a miracle happened the firm would crash and I’d be up the creek. But there was a chance Ashley might be that miracle. His last book made a lot of dough—for him and for us. I’d heard his new one should do even better and I knew he hadn’t actually signed with anyone.

  “With Frieda here we couldn’t get the book because Ashley was sore at her. But with Frieda out, there was a chance I might sign him because he and I always got along. He knew I did a good job selling his second book and I was going to put it to him frankly. I figured if I could get him and keep above water until that book hit the stands I had a chance to put this shop on its feet. And if I did, this time it would be all mine.”

  “Tom’s place was dark at five minutes of nine,” Rick said quietly. “It was dark about ten minutes after. It was still dark about nine thirty.”

  “It was dark when I got there around nine twenty, too.” Eastman paused, his round face grim around the mouth. “You’re not kidding about what you told the police?”

  “Why should I kid? I’m in a spot and I’m grabbing at straws.”

  “Then I might as well tell you something else. Tom’s car was parked out back of the house.”

  “His house?”

  “His house. And if you want to know how I know I’ll tell you. Like I said, the place was dark but I went up and knocked anyway. No answer. I don’t know why I didn’t let it go at that, but I didn’t. I’d driven all the way over there and maybe I thought he might not have heard me and was sitting out back cooling off. I don’t know what I thought but I went round there anyway to knock at the back door and I saw the car.

  “That stopped me for a minute because I didn’t want to be caught snooping, so I called out. When there was no answer I walked up—it was dark then—and saw it was Tom’s car. It was empty and that was all right because I figured somebody—maybe the girl friend—had stopped by and picked him up.… You think it’s important?”

  A lot of things had been happening in Rick’s mind as he followed Eastman’s words and visualized that scene. When he tried to fit it into the things Nancy had told him he got no immediate answer but he knew that some time soon he would have to talk with Tom Ashley.

  “It could be,” he said. “I guess I’d better ask Tom about that and a few other things.” Then, because he had run out of questions, he added: “Are you still taking that train?”

  Eastman gave his watch another glance. “I don’t know. You sort of scared me with that police routine of yours.” He managed a grin but his voice had the ring of truth. “I think I’ll knock off a couple of drinks first and think things over. If there’s a cop waiting, let him wait a little longer.”

  He walked over to the door and opened it for Rick. He followed him down the hall. When the receptionist called to say something about a message, Rick kept on going. When he stepped into the elevator Eastman was still at the reception desk.

  The dusk was thickening fast when Rick Sheridan left the train at Stamford, and after he got his car he stopped at a diner on the way home for a bowl of soup and a sandwich. When, a half hour later, he made the final turn which opened the straightaway on which his house faced, his mind was still cluttered with odds and ends of fact and speculation that seemed to clarify nothing and bring only more confusion. Even so his eyes were watchful as he drove. That is how he happened to notice the flicker of light in the big studio window.

  It was gone almost as he focused on it and if there had been no tension in his mind he might have ignored it completely and put it down to imagination or some trick of reflected light from Tom Ashley’s house.

  He was vaguely aware that the windows were aglow here and that Ashley’s car was in the garage, but his gaze remained riveted on his own place as he took his foot from the accelerator and the car slowed. Once again he thought he saw that flicker of brightness but he still could not be sure. There was no car parked in his drive or in front of the house, none in the little opening he called Lover’s Lane.

  And suddenly he realized that if anyone were in his place the worst thing he could do would be to turn into the drive and announce his arrival. He kept going very slowly, thinking, wondering, trying to make up his mind. Then something took shape in his headlights and he saw the car parked about a hundred and fifty yards ahead.

  It was pulled well over to one side of the road and its lights out. More young lovers? Probably, but this time he intended to make sure.

  As he neared it, he saw it was a small sedan and at least four or five years old. Without actually stopping as he drew even with it, he still had time to be sure that the sedan was empty. Ahead of him there was no house for another quarter of a mile and as he accelerated slightly a plan began to take shape.

  He drove on to the next driveway, turned quickly and started back. When his headlights again picked up the rear of the sedan he pulled over as far as he could and stopped. Turning out his lights, he stepped to the ground and began to walk.

  Another car sped by a moment later giving him a good look at the sedan and he knew he had about a hundred yards to cover. Not hurrying but alert for any sign of movement up ahead, he came up behind the sedan and noted its New York license number. It had been parked with its right two wheels nearly in a shallow ditch, beyond which was a grassy bank. He moved over to it and sat down so his view of the road ahead and his house was unobstructed.

  He was not sure how long he waited because time was of no importance. He wanted a cigarette but was afraid to light one. He kept watching his house but from this angle the windows remained dark. When he finally realized that someone was on the road it was his ears rather than his eyes that warned him.

  At the first suggestion of sound he slid from the bank to crouch behind the rear bumper. An instant later he could hear the rhythmic beat of footsteps on the macadam that grew quickly more distinct. Up ahead a soft but tuneless whistling kept time to the steps, and still not seeing anything, Rick waited, breathing shallowly now, his nerves tightly tuned.

  He was ready when the steps stopped but still he waited. He heard the door open, felt the car rock slightly with the added weight of the driver.

  Still crouching he moved round the left fender, his muscles loose and ready now but wanting the proper moment before he made his move. He heard the door slam. Only a step from the handle now, he waited until the lights clicked on and then he lunged forward, grabbed the door handle and yanked with his left hand. In a continuation of the same movement he reached into the opening with his right.

  The rest of it was comparatively easy, partly because he had surprise in his favor and partly because the man’s weight had been tipped against the door.

  Rick caught a glimpse of a thin, long-nosed face beneath the turned-down hat brim. He had time to think that it somehow seemed familiar; then his finger fastened in a coat collar and he heaved.

  The man tumbled head first off the seat and when Rick let go of the collar he hit the macadam on the back of his neck. A startled curse was jarred out of him as he struck. His hat flew off and when he rolled over on his stomach Rick dropped on him with both knees.

  He hit the small of the man’s back with all his weight and the man groaned as the breath was crushed out of him. He struggled feebly a moment and then lay still and now Rick came to one knee and began to search him. He found a flashlight in one pocket and when he slapped aside the coattails he felt the bulge on one hip. The bulge was a revolver and Rick tugged at it. When he had it in his hand he stood up and stepped back.

  “Get up!”

  The man was still groaning but he could move. He rolled slowly over and pushed himself to a sitting position with an obvious effort.

  “For Christ’s sake!” he said. “What’s the idea? You damn near broke my neck you crazy—”

  “Get up!” Rick said. “Get your hat and let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  The man thought it over from a sitting position. Finally he reached for his hat and put it on.

&n
bsp; “Why the hell should I?” he demanded sourly. “You won’t pull that trigger.”

  “Probably not,” Rick said. “But I’d just as soon belt you across the mouth with it.” He reached into the sedan and turned off the lights as he watched the man come to his feet. “This way,” he said. “We’ll use my car. You can drive.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Back where you just came from.”

  The man said: “Ahh—” but he kept moving, with Rick one pace behind.

  He sat in the back seat while the other drove into his driveway and then, still holding the gun in readiness, he unlocked the front door, snapped on a light, and ordered the man inside. Now, with a good look at his captive, he was certain this was the man who had held the same gun on him the night before.

  “Where are your dark glasses?”

  “Nuts to you, Jack:”

  “Empty your pockets.”

  “You empty ’em.”

  Reaction was working on Rick now and with it came a rising anger. It showed in the tight dun line of his mouth, the bleak and narrowed eyes. He took his finger from the trigger and fitted the revolver flat against his palm as his temper frayed.

  “Okay tough boy,” he said and took a step forward; with that something happened to the man’s thin face and the fight went out of him.

  Apparently no longer liking the odds or the look on Rick’s face, he retreated a step to keep his distance and began to reach into his pocket.

  There was a small table near by and, still muttering under his breath as his last show of defiance, he put his wallet down, added cigarettes, matches, keys, a small notebook and automatic pencil, a pile of change. Rick waved him over to the divan and told him to sit down. He shoved the gun into the waistband of his trousers and picked up the wallet.

  The identification card said it belonged to Edward Lynch. A photostat of a private detective’s license said he could work in the State of New York and that he had an office on West Forty-Eighth Street.

  “So—” he said and put the wallet back. “Who hired you, Lynch? And what are you looking for?”