The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  He growled under his breath and said: “Two shots in the chest. Pretty close up.”

  “There were three shots,” Rick said.

  “So you say. There are two slugs in him; that’s all we know for sure.”

  “There were powder burns on his hand,” Legett said. “As if he tried to grab the gun. Maybe on the second shot, maybe on the third—if there was a third.”

  Rick had been watching Manning and now he spoke off the top of his mind. “You’d better tell your boss to call off the grand jury.”

  Manning tipped his head. He looked at Rick with one eye and then with both. “You knew about that, huh? So why should he call it off?”

  “Because no matter what you think about my wife, you can’t tag me for this one. I was home when I heard the shots.”

  “It would help if you could prove it.”

  “But I told you,” Rick began, not aware that he was shouting and red in the face until Manning cut him off.

  “Take it easy, Mr. Sheridan. We’re not wearing hearing aids.”

  Rick swallowed his resentment and tried again. “A car came up behind me just as I ran out of the house. Whoever was in it saw Tom lying there. I thought it was going to stop.” He glared at Legett. “I gave you the three numbers and one of the two letters. —A—710. There are only twenty-six letters that could come before the A.”

  His voice was rising again, not so much from anger as from the lingering shock that had come from finding Ashley’s body and the accompanying tension that had become almost too much to bear.

  “Find the car and see if I’m not telling the truth,” he said. “You want to get the killer, don’t you? You don’t get a bonus or something for pinning this on me, do you?”

  “Bonus?” Legett’s reaction was immediate. His mouth tightened and his eyes were cold and hostile. “Who’s going to pay us this bonus?… Mr. Brainard?”

  The blunt rebuttal made Rick realize that his reactions had bordered on the edge of hysteria. He got himself in hand.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  Manning was unimpressed. “We’ll find the car,” he said. “But even if you’re right about this it don’t have to follow that Ashley and your wife were killed by the same guy. The odds say yes, and they’re big odds, but you run into funny things in this business.”

  He stood up and put on his hat. “We’d better get along and take some more statements. We can stop at your place while you get the rest of your clothes. If you want a drink you can get it then; it may be your last chance for a while.”

  When they went outside the ambulance had gone. Headlights from two cars sprayed the roadway and lawn and three uniformed men with flashlights were making a minute inspection of the immediate area.

  Chapter 17

  The session with Manning, Legett, and assorted assistants was similar to the one Rick had experienced on Monday night but less protracted. He was home and in bed by three and this time he fell asleep instantly. It was not until he was having coffee at nine thirty the next morning that he came up with a plan of action and knew what he wanted to do.

  Heretofore he had been running scared. He had been concerned only with his own problems while unnamed fears pursued him and drove him on. The constant threat of indictment and arrest for a murder he did not commit hovered over him like a bad dream from which there was no solution but complete vindication, not only for himself but for Nancy and his son.

  The need for this vindication remained but the threat of indictment had faded somewhat and his own self-interest was mitigated by his thoughts of Tom Ashley. Ashley had made a mistake but his death was cold-blooded and deliberate. Rick could not get the awful picture from his mind and it seemed now that he had a twofold purpose in running down the guilty one. Ashley had given him the gold atomizer and it finally occurred to him that it was this that the two detectives, Deegan and Lynch, had been after when they searched his apartment and house.

  He did not know why, but he understood that he needed help badly and now he thought of Sam Crombie. When he had talked to the detective and made an appointment with him at a small restaurant he knew on East Fifty-Third Street, he telephoned Nancy to tell her what had happened the night before. After nearly ten minutes of discussion and argument he gave in to her insistence that she also be allowed to join them.

  Rick was the first to arrive and at a quarter of twelve the restaurant was quiet. The hat-check woman had not put in an appearance, the waiters were moving efficiently about the dining room to make sure everything was in order, and the bartender looked a little surprised when Rick slid up on a stool. Not wanting a drink, he ordered a bottle of beer and had just begun to sip it when Nancy came in.

  She wore a tailored, tropical-worsted suit that was basically beige and her blond head was bare. She looked very smart and efficient and, to Rick, very lovely. Only the green eyes showed concern as she took the stool next to him and slid her hand along the front of the bar until it found his. She took time to study his face in some effort to assess his mood before she squeezed his hand and spoke.

  “You poor darling.”

  “I’m all right, baby,” Rick said. “I’m not so scared any more. I’m just mad.”

  The barman, who had been watching them, leaned forward. “Can I get you anything, miss?”

  “I don’t want a drink,” Nancy said. “But—a ginger ale might be nice.”

  The barman went away and the outer door opened again and this time it was Crombie, who doffed his Panama and came puffing to the bar. He asked if he was late and Rick said no.

  “Let’s get a table,” he said. “Do you want a drink?”

  Crombie said no and they took their glasses to a table in the corner. Nancy said she wasn’t hungry but Rick said they had to eat sometime so how about a sandwich? When they had given their order, he put the atomizer in the center of the table.

  Nancy picked it up. She snapped up the top and gave a tentative squeeze to the plunger. Then she gave three or four small sniffs.

  “Mean anything to you?” Rick asked.

  “Only that the perfume is expensive,” she said and passed the atomizer to the detective.

  Crombie closed the top and turned it over in his big hand and now Rick was telling his story and explaining where Tom Ashley had found it.

  “I saw the bag and the things on the floor,” Nancy said, “but I didn’t see—” She stopped as the answer came to her. “Oh! But I couldn’t have, could I? Tom had been there first.”

  “You got any ideas, Mr. Sheridan?” Crombie said. “About who might have given this to your wife?”

  “One,” Rick said and spoke his thoughts about Deegan and Lynch. “Austin Farrell hired them for something. It could have been to look for this.”

  “Why?”

  “The police could trace it, couldn’t they? If they found out Farrell had given it to her they’d ask a lot of questions. A thing like this must be pretty expensive. It might be hard to explain.”

  Crombie nodded to show that he approved of Rick’s reasoning. “And the date? 8—9—56… August 9, 1956. Mean anything? Not your wife’s birthday, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it’s some anniversary,” Nancy said.

  “Could be.” Crombie leaned forward, his gray eyes busy and one brow warped. “But not necessarily an anniversary we’d think important. A man who’s in love with a woman doesn’t need much of an excuse to give her a present. He can think of a dozen reasons. Like maybe that date’s the anniversary of the first time he met her or the first time they went out together, or the first time for anything. If he wants to give something he’ll find a nice way of doing it.”

  Rick, watching the broad face, was again impressed by the big man’s understanding. So was Nancy. Her young mouth curved in a smile and her voice was soft.

  “You must have been in love yourself once, Mr. Crombie.”

  “Call me Sam,” Crombie said and g
rinned. “Yeah,” he said. “Still am, Miss Heath. For thirty-one years. And to the same girl.”

  “So let’s forget the date,” Rick said.

  “Right,” Crombie said. “What we want first is to know who bought it. It looks like solid gold to me and if it is it shouldn’t be too hard to trace. Not too many jewelry stores would stock a thing like this. I’ll get at it as soon as I leave. Where’ll you be later this afternoon?”

  “At my apartment,” Rick said. “I have to see my agent and after Farrell gets back from lunch I’m going to see him.”

  “What about me?” Nancy said.

  “You go back to work like a good girl,” Rick said. “And when you think of it, cross your fingers.”

  Austin Farrell’s offices were in a modest-sized building in the forties that stood between Madison and Fifth. The layout was a little plush for the amount of business he did, but it was the sort of background that Farrell wanted, and his staff included a bright young woman who, it was said, did most of the work; a secretary, a bookkeeper, a switchboard operator-mail girl, and an office boy. Farrell, himself, was very comfortable in the private office that had been done by a high-priced decorator.

  The carpet was thick and spotless, the broad desk looked expensive, the deeply padded chair the latest thing in office furniture. His leather client’s chair had a cushion that was practically pneumatic, there was an air-conditioning unit in one window and a wall full of books behind the desk. A leather-framed photograph of his wife stood near by and on the broad sill of the other window was a silver tea service. For in the Farrell agency there was no afternoon coffee-break; instead tea was served as a ritual every afternoon at four.

  It was early for tea when Rick went in but Farrell was cordial enough and impeccable as ever. His long graying hair lay neatly on his well-shaped skull, a half inch of French cuff showed beneath the sleeves of his dark-blue gabardine suit, and his maroon tie had probably been fashioned by Sulka. He showed perfect teeth as he motioned Rick to the leather chair and asked what he could do for him.

  “I wanted to talk to you yesterday,” Rick said, “but I didn’t want to embarrass Elinor. I think she’s suffered enough as it is.”

  “Embarrass her?” Farrell’s smile went away. “How?”

  “By telling her about you and Frieda and that Eighth Street hide-out.”

  Farrell blinked but his voice remained as resonant as ever.

  “Eighth Street? I’m afraid I—”

  “I’m not guessing about this; I know.”

  He began to explain how he and Sam Crombie had found the shirt and toilet accessories and relayed the description the janitor had given them about his tenant’s latest companion. He could see the change come over Farrell’s face and as he continued he recalled some of the things he knew about the man.

  At Yale Austin Farrell had been socially active and he made it a point to cultivate only those classmates who might prove helpful to him in later years. He “heeled” for the News, and the job he finally got was good enough to get him into a senior society. He had been trading on this ever since and whenever he was out of work he hung around the Yale Club until he had another offer.

  Not that he did not offer something in return. He had the personality of an actor bucking for an important part and his manners were the delight of all women, regardless of age. He danced beautifully, he was a considerate escort, and by remaining a bachelor for so many years he was in constant demand as an odd man.

  He had worked first for a book publisher as a reader and from there he had caught on with a general circulation magazine as an assistant editor. He had spent the war doing publicity as a Navy officer, most of the time in Washington, and after his discharge he had spent a couple of years as a writer for one of the news magazines. He had come into the agency business as a junior partner of a man named Tate, who for many years had run the small but respected office. For a while the agency was called Tate & Farrell, but soon after he had married and learned that money would no longer be a problem so long as he behaved himself, he bought out Tate, who was at the point of retiring and was glad to take the step.

  “I don’t get it,” Farrell said when Rick had finished. “What is this, some sort of blackmail?”

  “Do you deny having an affair with Frieda? Because if you do, let’s run down and see if the janitor remembers you.”

  Farrell compressed his lips and his gaze was both frustrated and resentful. Finally he chose to ignore Rick’s suggestion.

  “I don’t deny that I saw quite a lot of her,” he said. “You might say there was a little mutual infatuation but we both understood it was only temporary.”

  “Maybe Frieda didn’t understand it that way. She had one of those mutual-infatuation arrangements with Tom Ashley once. Do you know what happened?”

  He waited and when Farrell made no reply he said: “I think Frieda had a tiny streak of cruelty in her that was usually pretty deep down and seldom showed. I don’t mean in a physical sense and I think it was something that only developed in the past few years. She was so concerned with her own self-importance—perhaps a little afraid that she would lose it—that when someone hurt her or threatened this illusion she had created and fed on, she struck back with any weapon she could get her hands on.”

  He spoke of the things Ashley had told him and the threats Frieda had made. “When Tom walked out on her she never forgave him. She threatened to break up his engagement unless she got his next book and I have an idea that under the same circumstances she might have threatened to go to Elinor and quote times and places and chapter and verse. I say, to a guy like you, that could be one hell of a threat.”

  Farrell had his hands on the desk and suddenly his face was mean and his mouth twisted. He lifted himself two inches out of the chair.

  “Just what do you mean, a guy like me? Watch yourself, Sheridan, or I’ll toss you out of here on the back of your neck, and don’t think I can’t do it.”

  Rick eyed him steadily. He waited until Farrell let his weight back down in the chair.

  “You can try if you want to,” he said, “but why kid yourself about what I mean? Do you make enough out of this business to live the way you live? All I’m saying is that money is important to you. You’ve got a rich wife. Behave yourself and you keep her. From what I hear she’s going to die long before you do because of her injuries and then she does you’ll be fixed. Or am I wrong?”

  Rick did not raise his voice or lose his temper but he spoke with a curt succinctness that held attention. He was not impressed by Farrell’s display of wrath and the man seemed to know this. He leaned back, his lip twisting with disdain.

  “No, you’re not wrong,” he said. “But I’ll tell you something—not that I have to but just to set you straight. I’m devoted to Elinor and if you ask her I think she’ll agree. More than ever since the accident. It wasn’t my fault but I was driving and I’m not likely to forget it.”

  He reached into an inlaid, oriental box and removed a cigarette. He tapped it on his thumbnail before he continued.

  “But Elinor happens to be a pretty understanding woman. She doesn’t expect me to live like a monk. She knows I’m out with some woman now and then. What the hell, have you been one hundred percent pure since Frieda left you?”

  Rick watched flame flare from the gold desk-lighter. He watched Farrell inhale and snap out the flame.

  “As a matter of fact I have, but not because my conscience would bother me any. Let’s just say I didn’t get a proper invitation from a woman I happened to like.”

  Austin paid little attention to the explanation. He examined his cigarette and said: “The only thing I had to do was to be discreet about it—”

  “That’s exactly my point,” Rick cut in. “You might have been discreet with Frieda but it went too far and you couldn’t get out. Frieda wouldn’t worry about being discreet once you walked out on her. She could be a pretty impetuous mistress; the kind who would make damn sure that Elinor knew the score
.”

  “To stop Frieda, I killed her. Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “I’m going to prove it if I can.”

  Farrell laughed aloud, a harsh contemptuous sound. “That’ll take some doing. What have you got besides your theory about Frieda?”

  “For one thing I know you hired a couple of private detectives named Deegan and Lynch and I think I know why. Before the day’s out I’ll be sure.”

  Farrell’s glance wavered and he no longer seemed so cocky. He wet his lips and ground out his cigarette.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Then start working on my alibi. Elinor and I had dinner at home that night. We were together all evening.”

  Rick could not argue the point. He did understand that if Elinor loved her husband enough she might lie for him.

  “You know about Tom Ashley?”

  “I read about it,” Farrell said.

  “Well, I called Elinor less that fifteen minutes after Tom was shot. She said you weren’t home. You were staying in town and she expected you any minute but you hadn’t arrived. Where were you?”

  Austin pushed back his chair, his glance evasive. “I can prove where I was if I have to,” he said, but to Rick it seemed there was more bluster in the tone than conviction.

  “Okay,” he said as he stood up. “You’re going to have to do just that before you’re through.… I’ll see you later, Austin.”

  Chapter 18

  Once Rick Sheridan was back in his apartment he had a hard time to keep from calling Sam Crombie. He knew the detective would get in touch with him as soon as he had some information and to occupy his mind he went over the things he had learned from Farrell.

  From there it was easy to go back to the night before, to remember his talk with Tom Ashley, to hear in fancy the three shots, and to live again those horrible moments when he raced down the road in the darkness. That brought him to the car that had passed him and now he went to the telephone and put in a person-to-person call to Manning. The operator had to try twice and when she finally reached the county detective, Rick asked if the police had found the car with the license number —A—710.