The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  Lynch had apparently recovered from his physical shock; at least his original cockiness was beginning to show through.

  “I told you last night. I’m working for the F.B.I. A special assignment to look for secret documents. Are you a subversive, Mac?”

  In spite of himself Rick felt his anger drain away. Something about Lynch’s attitude and his outward indifference to his present situation was basically humorous and Rick found himself responding to it.

  “I’m surprised,” he said, “that a smart aleck with a nose as long as yours never had it busted.”

  “It’s been tried, Mac. But you know what? It don’t break; it bends.”

  Rick began to toss Lynch’s possessions back to him and as he did so an idea came to him which he embraced immediately. Taking out his own wallet, he found Sam Crombie’s card and memorized his home telephone number; then he moved sidewise to the hall telephone so he could still keep an eye on Lynch. There was no trouble with the connection and when he had explained what had happened he got a quick reaction from Crombie.

  “Eddie Lynch?” he said. “Oh, sure, I know the bum. Has a partner named Deegan. Deegan and Lynch, a couple of crumbs.”

  He described Deegan and Rick said it fitted the other man who had searched his place the night before.

  “I still don’t know what they wanted,” he added, “but maybe there’s a chance we can find out who hired them.… What I mean is, would you have a man you could send down to Lynch’s office? Would he have a skeleton key or something so he could get in?”

  “You mean now?”

  “Sure. The office should be empty. If he could look around, maybe at the files, maybe we could—”

  “You’ll get in trouble, Mac,” Lynch called.

  “Shut up!” Rick said. “No, not you, Sam. I was talking to Lynch.… You shouldn’t have any trouble,” he went on as his enthusiasm mounted. “And if you do and there’s any beef I can make a countercomplaint against Lynch. So can Nancy.”

  “Sure you can,” Crombie said. “Yeah.… You’re thinking pretty good tonight. At least it’s worth a try. I’ve got a good man for a job like that and it shouldn’t take more than an hour. You want to sit tight, Mr. Sheridan? I’ll call you back.”

  Chapter 15

  The next hour moved slowly for Rick Sheridan. He sat down opposite Lynch but for a long time nobody said anything. From time to time they would look at each other and then, like subway riders, they would shift their gazes to the walls, the pictures, the pieces of furniture. Finally, as he ground out his second cigarette, Lynch said:

  “Hey, Mac! How’s chances for a drink? You’re not on the wagon, are you?”

  Rick eyed him wearily, inspecting again the long thin nose, the prominent ears, the sallow skin.

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “Whatever you say. I’m only a guest here.”

  “Would you settle for a beer?”

  “If that’s the best you can do.”

  Rick stood up and pulled out the revolver. He was no longer annoyed by Lynch but neither did he trust him and he did not want to get jumped when he wasn’t looking. He pointed the gun.

  “In the kitchen,” he said, and followed the man to the refrigerator. He stood aside while Lynch brought forth two cans, told him where the opener was.

  Back in the living room they resumed their seats and the silence began to build again. From time to time a match would scratch, there would be a sound of drinking and the rap of a can being replaced. After a particularly long silence Lynch sighed.

  “How come no television?” he said. “You know something, Mac? You’re a pretty dull guy. How much longer do I have to park here?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got plans for you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like calling the state police.”

  “Wait a minute.” Lynch sat up, his face sagging. “You wouldn’t do that. I said you were a dull guy, not a rat.”

  This time the bell saved him and when Rick picked up the telephone Sam Crombie’s low hoarse voice gave forth with information.

  “No trouble, Mr. Sheridan. A quick once-over of their files didn’t turn up anything on any of the names we’re interested in but we did find one thing that looks like a lead.”

  “Good.”

  “In the center drawer of a desk we found a receipt book. You know, the kind a man would use to have a record of his retainers or payments. The client gets the original, the carbon stays in the book. Well, the top carbon is a receipt for two hundred bucks. It’s dated Tuesday, the 6th. It’s marked: Retainer from A. Farrell and is signed by Lynch.”

  “Ahh—” said Rick.

  “Yeah. We’d better step up the work on Farrell tomorrow. Did you talk to Ashley yet?”

  “I’m going to later. What do I do with Lynch?”

  Crombie chuckled. “That’s up to you, Mr. Sheridan. He’s your boy. Maybe, since we’ve got what we want and no harm was done—or unless you’re sore at him—you could just tell him to beat it.”

  Rick thanked him and hung up. Lynch was still sitting erect and his eyes were anxious. “What did he say?”

  “He said you were working for Austin Farrell.”

  “What did he say about me?”

  “He said you were a bum and I could use my own judgment. Now what did Farrell want with you? What did he ask you to get?”

  Lynch took a deep breath and held it. He leaned back on the cushion and folded his arms in an attitude of utter resignation.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Call the cops if you want.”

  Rick hesitated, but not for long. Somehow he seemed to know he would get no answers from Lynch and that threats would be useless. Under the circumstances he did not think the police could do much better, so he said:

  “Okay, tough boy. Take a walk.”

  He watched the sallow face break into a relieved grin. Then, as though afraid Rick would change his mind, Lynch jumped to his feet, let out a groan as he clutched the small of his back, and straightened with an effort.

  “You know something,” he said, still grimacing. “You damn near broke my back.”

  But he kept moving and he was halfway to the door when he turned, his eyes again crafty.

  “How about the gun, Mac?”

  Rick glanced down at it. “I guess you wouldn’t be much good without it, would you?”

  “It sometimes helps scare people.”

  Rick flipped out the cylinder and dumped the shells into his palm. He tossed the revolver and Lynch caught it expertly, saluted with it, and opened the door. When the telephone began to ring again, he went out fast.

  This time the voice was a man’s but Rick did not recognize it. “Yes,” he said. “This is Mr. Sheridan.”

  “I’m Bob Johnson.”

  “Who?”

  “Bob Johnson.” There was a pause. “Neil Tyler called me this morning and said you might need a lawyer in—”

  “Oh, yes,” Rick said. “Sure. I’m sorry. I meant to get in touch with you but—”

  “That’s okay. I’ve been doing a little spadework and I came up with something I thought you’d like to know. Frederick Brainard’s been exerting a lot of pressure here and there and I heard that Alan Oakes, he’s the state’s attorney, is going before Judge Sitwell tomorrow to ask that a grand jury be impaneled and try to get an indictment.”

  “Oh—oh,” Rick said. “Does that mean the police have got some new evidence against me?”

  “Not necessarily. The way I get it Oakes would rather wait. But with Brainard on his neck he probably figures he can make the move and leave it up to the grand jury. Then, whether they return a true bill or not, he’ll be in the clear. Temporarily, at least.”

  Rick was not sure what all this meant but it sounded bad and as he hesitated all the old worries and pressures came back to assail him.

  “What happens with a grand jury anyway?”

  “Well, in this state a grand jury is only called—I’m not
speaking of federal grand juries now—when the case involves a man’s life or life imprisonment. That means first or second degree murder, plus a new bill dealing with certain narcotic cases. If the grand jury indicts you, you’ll go to jail to await trial, probably without bail.”

  “What happens if they don’t indict?”

  “Nothing much. You can still be arrested when and if the police think they have a better case. With new evidence, whenever it comes to light, another grand jury will be impaneled. They can indict if they think there is probable cause.”

  “But—don’t I have to be notified? I mean, can they just go ahead and indict me without—”

  “In this state the accused is usually present, but in an old case—the State against Wolcott—it was held that a grand jury need give no notice of proceedings to the accused and that it could originate charges without notice to offender.”

  “That’s great,” Rick said dejectedly. “Then there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Just hope the police turn up the actual killer.”

  “How long will it take to call a grand jury and get it working?”

  “I’d say you shouldn’t make any plans after the day after tomorrow. But there’s no point in worrying about it now. You can get me any time either at the office or here at home. Meanwhile I’ll keep in touch with things,”

  Rick thanked him and cradled the telephone. He pushed away from the wall and started for the door, knowing that he might already have waited too long before talking with Tom Ashley.

  The night was still and starlit as Rick walked along the edge of the road, wondering what he was going to say to Ashley and how he was going to start. For he and Ashley had been pretty good friends since that night Rick had come here as a guest. Their backgrounds and interests were dissimilar but they had the war in common—Ashley had been a Marine corporal in the Pacific—and as neighbors they were on the best of terms.

  The story-and-a-half house stood rather close to the road and in modernizing it Ashley had knocked out some partitions and added others. One front corner held the kitchen and a dining nook; across the narrow front hall and the stairs that led to the two bedrooms above was the study, leaving the entire rear of the house as one big living room. Now, seeing a light in the study, Rick knocked at the front door. It stood open and presently Ashley came to hold the screen door.

  “Hi, Rick,” he said. “I’ve been wondering about you. Tried to get you a couple of times—”

  “I was in the city most of the day.”

  Rick followed Ashley into the study which was pine paneled, squarish, and had a small fireplace. Except for this and the two multiple-paned windows the rest of the walls were bookshelves, well filled now. There was a small antique desk, its chair, and two leather chairs. On the dropleaf table was a bottle of bourbon, a thermos jug, and a pitcher of water. One oversized Old Fashioned glass, nearly empty now, stood at one side and Ashley drained it.

  “I’ll get another glass,” he said.

  When he came back and put some ice cubes in both glasses, Rick decided he might as well make his position clear. He started by asking if the police had been around.

  “Hah! They’ve been around. I was down there with ’em four hours this afternoon.”

  “Did they say why?”

  “They said they’d got some new information.”

  “They got the idea from me,” Rick said. “I told the coroner this morning and I guess he passed the word around.”

  Ashley had been pouring whisky. Now, still holding the bottle and glass up in front of him, he turned his head.

  “So you’re the one that blew the whistle on me?” He finished his pouring and if he was annoyed he gave no sign. “Why?”

  “I was their number-one boy. But I didn’t kill her. I told the coroner there were some other guys around with motives.”

  “Including me.”

  He handed Rick the drink and made a fresh one for himself. When he had tasted it he took a straight-stemmed pipe from a rack and began to fill it from a humidor. His hair looked dark and thick in the lamplight and the deep tan of his powerful neck contrasted sharply with the white T-shirt which was tight across the chest and shoulders. When he had his pipe drawing well he sat down and crossed his knees, his broad face impassive, his dark eyes intent.

  “How do you figure it?” he asked finally.

  “There are several things,” Rick said. “What did you clip me with last night down in the Eighth Street place, a right or a left?”

  Ashley took four tiny puffs in the center of his lips and shook his head. “You must be on another wave length, kid. I don’t get your signal.”

  “That apartment has front windows,” Rick said. “I saw you flag the cab.… With that laundry box under your arm.”

  “Okay.” Ashley waved the pipe in the air. “I had to be sure. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “I guess you figured someone would eventually get around to checking that apartment. If they did they’d find the shirts and trace the laundry mark to you.”

  “Something like that. Suppose you lay it on the line. All of it.”

  Rick took a swallow of his drink and reached for a cigarette. “Okay, Tom. Let’s start with your affair with Frieda. You don’t deny that, do you?”

  “No. And if it’s all right with you I’ll tell you about it.” He settled deeper in his chair and put his head back, his gaze on the ceiling and one hand cuddling the pipe. “I never had much of a family and none of ’em had a dime. At that I got through high school and the hitch in the Marines taught me the value of an education. I did a lot of reading when I could and a spell in a hospital gave me the time.

  “I started to write a little. You know, experiences, things I heard, sketches of some of the guys I knew. When I got out I kicked around the Midwest working at this and that. I also went to night school and a teacher I had liked the way I wrote and gave me some help. Later when I came to New York I got a job as a counterman and took some more courses and kept writing. Finally I had a book, or what I thought was a book. Somebody sent me to Austin Farrell and he said he couldn’t handle it as it was but he told me to go see Frieda.”

  He blew smoke at the ceiling and said: “The firm had only been going for a couple of years and they were looking for new writers and I guess Frieda thought I had something. She gave me a lot of criticism. She made me rewrite and rewrite and when I got discouraged she’d needle me. Anyway she finally decided to publish it but she made me promise I’d do another one. I didn’t have to hurry. I had to get the right idea first, but I had to stick with it. I discussed a lot of ideas with her before we decided I had the right one and I started in all over again.… About that time she got that apartment on Eighth Street and I was only working about two blocks from there so she let me use it—”

  He broke off and reached for his glass. “But you don’t care about details. Let’s say we worked together so often that we sort of fell for each other, but I can tell you this: Frieda was not a promiscuous woman. She told me—and I believed her—mat until we had this affair there had never been any other man but you.”

  He hesitated, glance averted and searching for some words. “I have an idea there hasn’t been anyone since until Austin Farrell came into the picture. I know neither Gorton nor Eastman could get to first base that way and I doubt if anyone else did. She just wasn’t that kind.… And this I can say: I owed her plenty. Not just for making a writer out of me five years earlier than I could ever have made it without her but by teaching me manners and smoothing off the rough edges and giving me a chance to be somebody. On the other hand she was the most selfish, opinionated, critical, and hard-to-get-along-with woman I’ve ever known. That was all to the good when she was making me write, but how can you love a dame who is always cracking a whip?

  “The second book did well. When we were out together—she always had to have somebody drag her around—she sort of put me on display with her friends, but it was always do this, do that. I
f I forgot to light her cigarette or didn’t respond to her mood the way she thought I should she’d sulk for three days. Then I’d get sore and not see her for a while and then she’d call me up again. All the time I was trying to work on the new book and I couldn’t concentrate because I was always on edge about her. Well, we’d been having these little fights and finally we had the big one and I knew this was no good. I couldn’t take it any longer so I holed up in a West Side hotel room and started to work. I didn’t see her, or hardly anyone else for three or four months—until I got a rough draft done. I showed it to my agent—”

  “Farrell?” Rick asked.

  “No, not Farrell. I never went back to him. He only plays at the job anyway.… Where was I? Oh, yeah. Well, while I’m rewriting, the word gets out I’ve got another good story and one day Frieda calls me and asks when she’s going to get the manuscript. Now, in the first place I didn’t have a contract with her for that book; in the second, she’d got that tone of voice that burns a guy because it sounds as if you’d better get it over there on the double or she won’t take it at all. So I said I didn’t have a contract, and she said what difference did that make, she discovered me, didn’t she?”

  He grunted shortly and glanced at his pipe. When he found it was out he put it aside.

  “The hell of it is,” he said honestly, “she was right. If she’d just been nice about it and maybe let me think I was doing her a favor I might have gone along with her. But a guy doesn’t always want his nose rubbed in the truth, does he? Especially if maybe he’s got a little guilty conscience. Well, this time she snapped at me in that demanding way of hers and I snapped back and the first thing I knew we were both yelling and I never could talk her down. I made up my mind she wasn’t going to get that book and hung up on her.

  “By that time I’d met Helen and was halfway in love. Later when I realized she was in love with me—well, it was just one of those wonderful things you never think can happen to you. Her folks liked me and her friends liked me and for the first time in my life I felt at ease with people I wanted to be with. Everything was perfect. We’re going to get married next month. And then a week ago Frieda lays it on the line. She’s like an elephant with a grudge. She wants to publish this new book. The firm needs it and either I deliver or she lowers the boom.”