by Chris Wiltz
“How did you figure you could get away with it?” I asked Carter.
“I don't know. I really don't know.” He was exasperated. Now that Lise had started the explanation, he couldn't resist a go at convincing himself and maybe me that foolish as it all was it had been necessary. He leaned in my direction. “Look, what Lise told you is true. I admit the whole thing was hare-brained, but my old man is being a real pig about everything. I was even sorry I ever told him where I was living. He sends men over to spy on me all the time and comes up here to bribe me into going back home with him. All I wanted was some time to get away from his dominance. He won't believe that I am a person with feelings and that I want to do something that isn't under his control. He has to control everything around him or he isn't happy. I guess I wanted to see him squirm for once and not be able to get something he had his mind set on, like the books. So I took them. Do you realize what a hypocrite he is? If I wasn't his son, he'd be buying my paintings, supporting me like he supports a bunch of no-talent idiots so he can see his name in the paper once a week. He can't stand to be out of the public eye any longer than that.” He spoke with a bitterness that could only have been acquired over many years.
“I get the picture,” I said. I got it all too well. Carter the Third and I had more in common than met the eye. The old man had his methods of control, too. It's just that he doesn't quiver quite like Fleming. “What did Robert André have to do with it?”
Lise opened her mouth to speak, but Carter wasn't to be stopped now. “Nothing. He had absolutely nothing at all to do with any of it except that I caused him a lot of pain by telling him what I'd done.”
“Why did you give his name to Garber, then?”
“That was stupid. Complete stupidity. I called Garber to find out if the books had gotten to New Orleans. I told him that I was acting in behalf of someone who was interested in buying them. I was scared and nervous, so when he asked me who, instead of saying something intelligent, like my guy didn't want his name brought into it until he knew for sure that the books were for sale, I gave him the first name that popped into my head. Unfortunately, it was Robert's.”
I bet he'd gone over that twenty times a day since he'd made the blunder
“How did you know about that? Robert didn't tell you, did he?”
“Garber wrote André's name down before he died, probably while he was talking to you. Your name, too, only I thought at first it was your father the note referred to.”
“Does my father know? God, what am I saying? Do the police know?” He looked frantic.
“No, not yet ...”
Chase pointed at me. “You found the body and you took the note.” He was gleeful.
I gave him a sly glance and he laughed. Carter attempted a smile which I supposed was relief.
“Then that means the police don't have to know about Carter at all, right?” Chase asked me.
“If, a chancy if and only if, I can find the murderer before they figure out it was Carter at the store. Those books arrived on the scene at the most inopportune time. So, Carter, let's have the rest of it. You left out a big chunk of explanation.” He looked puzzled so I spelled it out. “Why would Garber let you walk out of his shop with those books?” Carter and Lise exchanged the furtive glances this time.
“That was between Garber and me,” Carter said.
“And it will be between you and the police, and your father, if you don't give it to me straight.” I disliked using scare tactics on him, but this kid was stubborn.
He stomped his foot on the floor and stood up. “No. That's it. That's all I'm saying. There's no reason for anyone to know anything more about it.” He did a younger version of his father's angry quiver.
Lise smiled sadly at him. “I'll tell this part of it, Carter. If I'd never told you the story, all this wouldn't have happened.” She looked back at me. “Stanley Garber is -- was -- my real father. I found out about a year or so ago, but I never let on to Robert. He may know it. I don't know, but I love him too much to hurt him by letting him know that I found out the truth. Carter is the only person I've ever told and he used it on Garber to let him have the books.” She started to cry and Chase moved fast on the opportunity to comfort her.
Carter tried to look hurt but his anxiousness was too apparent. “It was a rotten thing to do,” he acknowledged. “And it was stupid, too.” He looked at Lise. Once he got a glance back, he continued. “I told Garber that I would tell all the wrong people if he didn't let me have the books. All he had to do was claim they had never reached him and my father would have picked up the insurance money. Then I could sell the books and everyone would be even except that my old man wouldn't have his books -- “ he really liked that part of it “ -- only once I got the books I got really scared because I didn't know what to do with them. How do you go about selling hot books?”
Chase started to say something but I shut him up with a sharp glance.
“Lise,” I said, “tell me how you found out about Garber.”
“I overheard it actually. Not too long before Lemmy left us I heard her telling her boyfriend about it. They were in the kitchen. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop; I just happened to be in the next room.”
“What did she say?”
“She said I was Stanley Garber's daughter She said that my mother had told her about it before I was born, that she had been having an affair with him. I don't know what was said after that. I got so upset that I left the house to think it over I told Carter about it when he mentioned that the books were going to Stanley Garber's store. I didn't even know who Stanley Garber was. Carter didn't tell me he was going to do anything before he did it. I stayed here in the city with Chase while he was in New Orleans and he told me after he got back.” She started to cry again.
“But I didn't tell Robert the deal with Garber, Lise. I sweat” Carter said in a begging tone.
“Is that true, Chase, that she was with you?”
“The gospel,” he said.
“Okay, Lise, take it easy. Who is Lemmy?”
“Oh Lemmy. That's what I had called her as a child because I couldn't pronounce her name, and I guess it just stuck. Her real name is Lucy McDermott. She stayed with us after my mother died to take care of me.”
My head started to swim. So Miss McDermott's game was blackmail after all. “Why did she leave, Lise?”
“Robert couldn't afford to have anybody. We've been kind of broke.”
“Have you heard from her since then?”
“Only once right after she left.” She seemed hurt.
I established from Carter the exact time he had left Garber's store, him swearing every other sentence that he had left him alive. He said he had left the store by ten-thirty, probably a little before. He had the books with him at the farmhouse.
“Carter, I'm going to take the books back to New Orleans and give them to your father. If you're lucky, the only trouble you'll get will be from him. The police won't want to believe that the books didn't have anything to do with Garber's murder. So just sit tight. If they show up to question you, tell them the truth.”
“But,” he protested, “that will make me a blackmailer.”
“Better that than a murderer,” I said.
“Can't they just hide out here until we hear from you that all's clear?” Chase's devious mind was taking over the protection racket once again.
“I don't know anything about it,” I answered. We took the booty and left.
16
* * *
What Was Stanley Garber Thinking?
Chase didn't have much to say until he did his navigation bit and made sure he'd got us heading in the right direction this time. I had insisted on driving. After the scene with the kid I needed something to hold on to, like the steering wheel.
But once we were off the gravel and back on asphalt, he started. “Okay, Neal, give. Who saw Carter at the store that morning?”
“Nobody really saw him, not to identify him, anyway. The w
oman next door said she'd seen a young man with long brown hair with Garber. Simple matter of putting two and two together after I heard the story about his problems over money with Fleming. Elementary, so to speak.”
“You mean that what went on back there was a ruse? Nothing but a cheap trick?”
“The cheapest in the business and the most often used. You stick your neck out as far as it will go, camouflage it with a lot of gab, some tricks, scare tactics when necessary, and hope your hunch doesn't bite your head off.”
“What would you have done if they had let you walk out?”
“Told you to faint when we got to the door.”
“That would have been some show, old buddy,” he chuckled. “Think Lise would have gone mad with concern? She is some knockout.”
“It runs in the family. You ought to see her half sister.” And, of course, that got me thinking about Catherine. I got her off my mind wondering why Garber would have let the kid walk out with those books. It would have been so easy to say that Fleming already knew they were there. Not only that, Garber would have had to sign for them when they arrived at the store. He must have known how easy they would be to trace. I didn't understand it. Unless he saw his chance to get even with Fleming for double-crossing him. And maybe he knew that the kid wouldn't know how to get rid of them and would eventually bring them back to save his skin with his old man. Either way, Fleming would worry over his deprivaton, at least for a while. Only Fleming didn't know how lucky he'd been that the boy hadn't confided in Chase Manhattan Jones. I snickered out loud at the thought.
“You getting punchy thinking about the sister?” he asked.
“I could, but no, I'm thinking about what you'd have done if you'd known William Blake was sitting under your nose.”
“Shoot, man, those books would be halfway to Turkey by now.”
“Bull,” I said laughing.
“Well, I would have thought about it. And I would have stormed around cooking up a dozen ways to unload them. But,” he sighed, “in the end I would have told Carter to give them back. Hell, a man shouldn't have to pay for a sin twenty-one years old.”
Chase sat back and opened the bottle of bourbon. “How about a little nip to oil the hinges, Neal? Get the load off your chest and let Chase Manhattan Johes, that well-known armchair detective, figure out who done it.”
I accepted the bottle. “How could I earn my fee in good conscience if I let you figure it all out for me? What do you think I am, a dishonest detective?”
“Yeah, I guess you wouldn't be holding out on the cops if you needed any help,” he taunted and began to entertain me with the different ways he'd made his living in the past, digressing frequently on Lise André and wondering if there was a woman alive who could adjust to all of his lifestyles. He offered to bring the car to the rental agency so I dropped myself off at the airport. He told me he may have spotted his next slot and gave me a phone number where I could reach him or leave a message about the outcome of the case. I thanked him for the company, and he thanked me for the adventure and drove off to the next one, waving the empty bourbon bottle out of the window until I lost sight of him.
17
* * *
Still on My Case
It was close to 1:00 A.M. when I pulled into my space at the Euclid. I told myself that I was too tired to call Fleming, that it was too late. Of course it wasn't too late and Fleming would have been glad to get out of bed to be handed his books. The truth of the matter was that I didn't mind the thought of his having one more restless night. One Carter Fleming a day is enough.
Now that I was in the privacy of home, I wanted to take a good look at the reason Fleming was in a tizzy and at what I had been dashing around the country for. Not to mention what seemed to be a motive for murder. I opened the box and pulled out a volume containing Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. My hand glided over the satiny finish of the deep red calfskin cover It was in good condition. I lifted the other six volumes which matched it in size and colon The bindings on a couple felt a little loose; one had a tear in the leather about an eighth of an inch long positioned so that it wouldn't show once the book was on the shelf. An outsized thinner book, Illustrations on the Book of Job, lay at the bottom of the box. I scanned the bumpy Moroccan finish and couldn't see anything wrong with it at all. I opened the book and began perusing the drawings. I was about halfway through when I was interrupted by a knock on the door.
I didn't have to be psychic to figure out who it was -- the knuckles gave it away. I shoved the box of books under the bed and took my time getting to the front door.
“Good evening, Lieutenant,” I said, counting on him not being asleep in a standing position. Fonte sneered at me over Rankin's left shoulder. “I hope this isn't your usual visiting hour, Lieutenant. I like to get some sleep every once in a while.” I went on not inviting them in. They came in anyway and sat down.
“Sit down,” I said to myself.
“You know, Neal,” Rankin said, tipping his chair to a dangerously acute angle, “since you're John's son I really thought you were the different one in a breed of shysters pretending they're on the side of the law. I listened to your line about us leveling with each other --” that had been his line, not mine “ -- and I let myself believe that you were going to be the one in a million who would actually try to cooperate with the police. Instead, I find out that while you're handing me that line you're holding out on me. I find out that you're just like the rest of a bunch of no-good bums that call themselves private cops. To think I believed you might even try to make things a little easier, that at least you'd keep out of the way so I could do my job. No, instead you hold out on me while I got to tiptoe around so I don't make waves in the wrong direction. I got to play politics with the politicians, eat humble pie in front of the rich folks, watch out for the likes of you, and try to convince the taxpayer he's getting what he pays for. It's hard, Neal, it's hard and it's disappointing to have to face the fact that you are wrong in your judgment of a fellow human being.”
“I guess it would be harder yet for you to believe that I don't know what you're talking about.”
“I'll tell you what I'm talking about, Neal,” he said, bringing his chair in for a landing and leaning across the table so he was in my face. “I'm talking about you not telling me about the McDermott woman. I'm talking about you going to her apartment knowing that I didn't have the information yet because I couldn't talk to Garber's wife and daughter. And I'm also talking about how you broke into that apartment and knocked a man out to do it. That's what I'm talking about,” he yelled at me.
“Do you mean to tell me, Lieutenant, that I should have been so presumptuous as to give you information that was sitting clear as day under your nose in Garber's ledger book? I guess I do owe you an apology,” I conceded.
“I thought you didn't touch anything.”
I didn't have an answer to that so I got up and put a bottle of whiskey and three glasses on the table.
“This isn't a social visit,” he said. I started to remove the bottle, but he caught it in mid-air and poured himself a drink. Fonte the faithful follower followed suit.
He tapped his glass against his front teeth. “I'm going to let your illegal entry into that apartment and search of it go by this time, Neal.”
“One second, Lieutenant. Since you don't mind my being presumptuous. Do you make it a habit to get your information from old busy bodies who weren't even at the scene? She told me just like she told you that McDermott had left the day before Garber's murder And that's where it ended. What she heard upstairs, heard, mind you, was Miss McDermott's drunk friend falling flat on his face with no help from me.” I poured myself a drink and tried to look hurt.
He blew a lot of air at the ceiling. “Okay, Neal, we'll let bygones be bygones. I've got an APB out on her, but no dice so fat Also, there was a man with Garber that morning. You know anything about that?”
I shook my head. “Have you established a time of
death?”
“The closest we can get is sometime around or before noon Monday. What went in New York?”
“We're minus a motive for murder. Fleming's son took the books.”
“Jesus. What'd he go and do that for?”
“Near as I can tell, he intercepted them because he was mad at his old man. Rather childish, but that's what he did. I brought them back with me.” I hoped he jumped to the wrong conclusion -- that the books had been intercepted in New York.
He poured himself another drink and slugged it down in one movement. “I was counting on the broad killing Garber for the books. I guess that would have been too simple.” He would think about where the books had been intercepted if the McDermott woman didn't surface soon.
“Maybe she killed him for another reason. But what do you make of her exit the day before?”
“Cover up. I think she wanted it to look like she was leaving. Then she stays overnight, kills Garber the next morning, and skips town then. Unless whoever it was in there with Garber that morning did it. But I've got my money on the broad. It all looks a little too convenient to me.”
I nodded agreement. “Could be. Leads are getting slim, aren't they?”
“I guess your involvement in this case is over with, now that you've recovered the books.”
“I've earned my fee, if that's what you mean. I'm still interested, though.” I think I heard him groan. Poor Uncle Roddy.
18
* * *
Another Try with the Old Man
The next morning I decided to run over and see the old man before going downtown. I felt this urgent need that things improve between us. I'm sure it had to do with listening to Fleming's son the day before. I didn't like the idea that my relationship with my old man in any way resembled that situation. I had the Blake books with me. I thought he might like to hear about the case.