by Frances
It was dark in the car, and the men who sat on either side of Webb had snap brim hats pulled rather low. The man on Webb’s left, canted his hat to the right; the man on the other side preferred a leftward cant. When Webb had started to light a cigarette, the man on his left, who was the more loquacious of the two, had requested him not to. He had said it was bad for his laryngitis. At this, the other man, who previously had said only, “Fella would like to see you, Mr. Webb,” said, “Yeah, and light hurts my eyes.”
“Don’t try to be funny,” the other man said. “At being funny, you’re no good.”
The man who was no good at being funny had made his other remark when Webb, coming from the office building, had hesitated near the curb, hoping for a cab. The man had come up beside Webb and said that a fella would like to see him, and had said it, out of a small tight mouth, in the voice of a man who has a gun in his coat pocket. There was no real evidence of this, although the man did keep his right hand in a pocket. Webb had walked with the man for perhaps fifty feet to a parked car, and the man had taken his hand from his pocket and opened the door. The man already sitting inside had said, “Good evening, Mr. Webb. Won’t keep you a minute.” Webb had not got a good view of the man then, or since.
“Sorry to hear about Ingraham,” the man had said. “That was tough luck.” He paused. “For him,” he added.
“Very,” Webb said. He was not particularly frightened, although he would have preferred to be elsewhere. “What’s the idea?” he said, then.
“Too bad about your partner,” the fella who had wanted to see Webb said. “Shows a man’s got to be careful, don’t it?” He paused a moment. “Don’t it, Mr. Webb?”
“I don’t know what it shows,” Webb said. “What’s the idea of this?”
“People get careless,” the man said. “Even lawyers—they get careless like anybody else. Pick the wrong clients, things like that. Did you ever think of that, counsellor?”
“If you’ve got a point—” Webb said. He moved forward in his seat. The man who had first accosted him moved forward also, moving closer to Webb.
“Don’t bump the counsellor,” the other man said “Everything nice and friendly. The point is Halpern, counsellor. Matt Halpern? You’ve heard of Matt?”
“Obviously,” Webb said. “He’s a client. The client you mean?”
“Ingraham’s client,” the man said. “Hear Ingraham more or less went after him. Thought that wasn’t ethical, counsellor. What they call a shyster trick.”
“Get to the point,” Webb said. “I’ve got an engagement.”
“Now you,” the man said. “I’d figure you’re ethical, Mr. Webb. High class type lawyer. Wouldn’t want to get mixed up in anything. See what I mean?”
“Well,” Webb said. “Thanks. Have you got a name?”
“That’s what I mean,” the talkative man said, across Webb, to the other. “Mr. Webb knows how to be funny. Sure I’ve got a name, counsellor. Ever know a man without a name? Getting back to Matt Halpern. Not the right type client for an ethical man like you, counsellor. Careful man. Not a careless man. Like Mr. Ingraham turned out to be.”
“Suppose you come to the point?”
“That’s right. You got a date. Keep forgetting that. All right, counsellor—let Matt Halpern find another lawyer. See what I mean? Ingraham’s dead. Way I figure, you might keep Halpern on. Use any—well, say any dope Ingraham might have got together. That would be sort of careless of you, Mr. Webb.”
“Who represents him is up to Mr. Halpern,” Webb said.
“Is that right?” the man said. “You know what I’d think? I’d think Mr. Ingraham dying that way would sort of mess things up in an office. For awhile, anyway. Maybe have more clients than you could handle. See what I mean?”
“Halpern would merely get another lawyer,” Webb said. “Better one, maybe, for what he wants. Somebody in criminal practice.”
“Sure,” the man said. “That’s what I call ethical, Mr. Webb. Gets himself another lawyer. Starts fresh. Better for everybody. Shouldn’t wonder if Halpern hasn’t already thought of that. Maybe thought of the man he wants.”
“Look,” Webb said, “are you supposed to be speaking for Halpern? You expect me to believe that?”
“Just for myself,” the man said. “Matt speaks for himself. I speak for myself.”
“And tell me to lay off Halpern. Threaten me if I don’t.”
“Threatening you? Don’t know what you mean by that. Know what he means by that?”
“No,” the other man said. “Nobody’s pushed him around.”
“Like he says,” the talkative man said. “No pushing around. Just don’t like to see a man get careless—ethical type man like you. That’s all it is.”
“It’s up to Halpern.”
“Tell you,” the man said. “You think about it, counsellor. Just think about it. That’s friendly advice. Get out of Mr. Webb’s way, huh? He’s got an engagement, like he said.”
The man on Webb’s right opened the car door, and got out of it. He held it open for Webb. Webb got out. “Nice talking to you,” the man who had remained in the back seat said. The other man got back in the car. Webb began to walk away, and felt his back muscles tightening. But nothing happened.
It was a few minutes after eight when Reginald Webb walked past the statuary in the front yard of “21” and through the door opened for him. He checked his hat and coat and responded to several “Good evening, Mr. Webb” greetings, and was aware that he was looked at with more than usual interest—with a kind of sympathy, held in reserve if asked for. He did not ask for it. He went into the lounge, where Milton Berle was just beginning to convulse on the television screen. It appeared that, although late, Webb was earlier than she was. He sat on a sofa and looked absently at the screen, and was not convulsed. After a time he ordered a drink.
It was almost eight-thirty when Nan Schaeffer came into the lounge. She wore a dark silk suit under her mink coat. She came around the sofa in front of him, and he stood up.
“I’m sorry, Reg,” she said. “I got held up. Have you been waiting a long time?”
“It’s all right,” he said and then, looking at her, “You all right, Nan?”
“I know,” she said. “I don’t look it. Yes, I’m all right. I won’t say I feel like dancing in the streets. Do you?”
“No,” he said. “You want a drink here?”
She did not, if a table was ready. A table was, and they went up the wide stairs to it. She moved, he thought, as if she were tired; sitting beside her at the table, he noticed again the pallor of her face, and the strain in it. She pulled the mink coat over her shoulders as if, in the warm restaurant, she still were cold.
“I was talking to Mr. and Mrs. North,” she said. “Phoebe wanted to—wanted me to. She’s taking it very hard, Reg. It doesn’t show, but she is. Or—I guess it does show.”
“It’s tough on her,” he said. “Tough on everybody. Why the Norths?”
“She thinks the police won’t try. If it’s all mixed up with a racket. She thinks the Norths might help. I don’t see how they can, do you?”
He said he didn’t.
“Would the police try to cover up for people like that? Racketeers?”
“I don’t know,” Webb said. “I doubt it. Not murder. Not murder of a man like Forbes.”
“They might try to make it seem it was somebody else? To protect these people?”
“I don’t know. Why did Phoebe want you to talk to the Norths?”
“Because of something Forbes said yesterday. And the way he acted.”
She told him what she had told Pam and Jerry North.
He nodded his head when she had finished. He said it fitted.
“I ran into a couple of men after I left the office,” he said. “They tried to scare me off.”
He told her the rest of it. When he had told it, she leaned toward him and put a hand briefly on one of his. She was less pale, then; there was less wearin
ess in her face. But she said, “Darling. I’m afraid. Will you do what they want?”
“Not unless Halpern wants it that way. Maybe he will.” He paused and drank. “I’m not saying I want to be mixed up in it.”
“Have you told the police?”
“Not yet.”
“Reg! You must.”
“Oh, I’ll tell them. But I can’t describe the men, except that one of them—the one who took me to the car—had a small mouth. I can’t say they threatened me. They didn’t, directly. And—it will sound pretty pat, Nan.”
She shook her head, raised her eyebrows in question.
“They look for the one who profits,” he told her. “I do.”
“No,” she said. “Oh no! They couldn’t think that.”
He said he hoped not.
“It’s so obvious,” she said. “The way Forbes acted. Almost as if he expected something—something like what happened. And then these men threatening you. What else could it be?”
The waiter captain waited, expectant, detached. They ordered.
“You remember Sam’s gold key,” he said, as a statement, and to the statement she nodded her head. “It’s turned up,” he said, and told her where. She shook her head to that.
“You sent it back, didn’t you?”
“Of course. With the others.”
“For some reason,” he said, “Forbes seems to have taken it. I suppose to give it to someone. So whoever it was could go into his office without being seen. And—then took it back. Just before he was killed, probably.”
He looked at her and waited.
“Phoebe,” she said. “It would almost have to be Phoebe, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s an idea,” he agreed. “Only—”
But a waiter brought them fresh drinks, then, and, very promptly, another brought oysters, which are so admirable with martinis which are very dry and very, very cold.
Dr. Aaron Arn sat in a deep chair and sipped scotch and plain water, since alcohol should be drunk in dilute form and charged water irritates the digestive tract, which Dr. Arn thought of more simply as the gut. Gin, which all reasonable people prefer before meals, merges discontentedly with tap water. He smoked a cigarette, which he presumed would eventually lead to cancer of the lung, and read an evening newspaper which, if taken seriously, would inevitably lead to psychic trauma. Dr. Arn did not pay particular attention to what he read.
This slow sipping of a diluted drink, this half-attentive consideration of the evening paper, this inhalation of smoke which might (but on the other hand might not; people jumped wildly to conclusions) damage his lungs, was a ritual of relaxation. Some minutes before he had, finally, seen his last patient of the day. He had walked from the office through a corridor and into the apartment. Mrs. Arn had had the drink ready and the paper neatly to hand, and she had said, “Tired, dear?”
“A little,” he said, and sat down, and Mrs. Arn withdrew, on the unspoken pretext that she must see how dinner was coming. In half an hour he would join her, and this time they would have a drink together, and talk. It was pleasant that they still had so much to say, after so long a time. But this interval was prescribed; now Dr. Aaron Arn merely sat, and pretended to read.
There was a headline across the first page, beyond which Dr. Arn had not got. It read: “Lawyer Found Slain at Desk.” Dr. Arn read this, since it was inescapable. It made little impression on him. In one fashion or another, all men died. All hearts stopped, on one pretext or another, however one sought to keep them beating. This was obvious, although understandably difficult to explain to patients.
Nevertheless, for want of other interest—in a kind of inertia—Dr. Arn read further in the inverted pyramids of type which were below the headline. He came upon a name and blinked at it. Forbes Ingraham. It was somewhat familiar. A patient? Dr. Arn considered. If so, a new one. He would have to ask Florence about it in the—
Dr. Arn blinked again, remembering. He put down the newspaper and remembered further. Not a patient. The man who—
It was only twenty-five minutes after he had sat down in the living room that Dr. Arn left it and joined his wife in the library. Mrs. Arn looked up in some surprise. Her husband was carrying The World Telegram and Sun with him, and her surprise was enhanced. It was not, ordinarily, allowed in the library.
“This man—” Dr. Arn said, and pointed at the headline. “This morning he—”
VI
Tuesday, 8:50 P.M. to Wednesday, 12:30 A.M.
For those who go two by two, in proper fashion, the Algonquin’s Oak Room is a restaurant of many charms, and provides such isolation as is appropriate, and all that is generally desired. Parties of four are less secluded; such confidential matters as murder are less conveniently discussed. After dinner, therefore, the Norths, Weigand and Mullins, went to the Norths’ apartment to exchange notes on progress. They were greeted by the cats, who were disappointed to find them so many, and audible in disapproval. The Norths, in what amounted to responsive readings, told of their tea with Phoebe James and Nan Schaeffer.
“Is she a good author, Jerry?” Pam said, of Mrs. James, and Jerry said she sold extremely well, was told not to avoid the issue.
“Because,” Pam said, “she seems apologetic about what she does.”
Many writers were, or allowed that inference to be drawn, Jerry told her. Mrs. James was good; on occasion she was very good. She wrote for a large audience, and Jerry, morosely, wished more did. Some years before a writer of magazine fiction, she had more recently been writing historical novels—“and very good ones.” Her plots were particularly expert.
“Hm-m,” said Pam North, with meaning. Jerry and Bill Weigand looked at each other; they shared their look with Mullins. They shook heads.
“Hm-m what?” Jerry said.
“Just hm-m. Of course, it could all be, because otherwise it’s a little thin. Anybody can see that.”
“No,” Jerry said, as spokesman. “What is, Pam?”
“Having us there,” Pam said. “Wanting us to help. Bringing poor Mrs. Schaeffer in.”
“Why,” Jerry said, carefully, “why ‘poor’ Mrs. Schaeffer?”
“Because her husband’s dead, of course,” Pam said. “You’re not very perceptive, Jerry. And all this nonsense about the police protecting the ones who did it. I smell a red herring.”
“You mean,” Jerry began, and decided against continuing. Undoubtedly, red herrings were as olfactorily detectable as rats. “Is it nonsense, Bill? I don’t mean as far as you’re concerned, of course.”
“Do hoods get protection?” Bill said. “Yes, sometimes. Under some circumstances. From some men. You want a lecture on it? During prohibition—remember prohibition?—sure. Nobody wanted prohibition. Bookmaking—yes, some of the boys play ball. It’s a ridiculous law. There are twenty thousand policemen in the department. Among twenty thousand men you can find any kind you’re looking for—twenty thousand cops or business men or union men or bankers. If the commissioner found anybody covering up murder the man would never stop bouncing. End lecture.”
“Why,” Pam said, “would a woman like Mrs. James not realize that? Because she believes what she reads in the papers? Before elections?”
“Perhaps.”
“I didn’t think so,” Pam said. “Anyway, I don’t think gangsters—hoods. Because they kill themselves and Forbes wasn’t one.” She looked at the others. “Kill each other,” she said, cleaning matters up.
Bill shook his head at that. Attorneys with racketeering clients had been killed before now. Giving Matthew Halpern the benefit of the doubt; assuming—as Forbes Ingraham evidently had—that Halpern opposed rackets rather than joined them, there remained some support for Mrs. James’s theory. Particularly since what Mrs. Schaeffer said supported it, the attack on Halpern supported it, the evidently cautious meeting between Ingraham and Halpern at the restaurant supported it.
“Enough,” he said, “for us to put a couple of men on Halpern. Which reminds me—
mind calling in, sergeant?”
Mullins called in. He reported. Halpern had had dinner at a lunch counter. He had gone, unmolested, to his room in an inexpensive West Side hotel. He apparently remained there. Nothing else had developed.
“Oh yeah,” Mullins said. “Somebody wanted you, Loot.” He shook his head. “Captain,” he said, with emphasis. “Woman. Didn’t give her name. Started to and stopped. Missis somebody. She’ll call back tomorrow.”
“Right,” Bill said. “Now, among the things that don’t support the theory you don’t like, Pam: Webb stands to gain a hundred thousand dollars from his partner’s death. And somebody left a gold key.”
He told them of the insurance arrangement, and of the key. As he told of the latter, Pamela North began to nod her head.
“That,” she said, as he finished, “explains everything, doesn’t it?”
She waited for response with the air of one who expects it to be instantaneous. She did not receive it, and seemed surprised.
“I’d think you’d see how it all fits together,” she said. “Forbes gave Mrs. James the key, of course. Who else would he give a gold key to? A regular key, to anybody. But to her, a gold key. As a symbol. But then he falls in love with this girl at the office—this—”
“Phyllis Moore,” Bill told her.
“This Phyllis. Not the other way around, as Mrs. James said. And that was why she wanted us—not the gangster things from Mrs. Schaeffer. So she could plant it upside down.”
“Wait,” Jerry said.
“Not the girl in love with him, and he paternal about it. He with her—maybe both with each other. And Mrs. James finds out and—” She stopped. “Well?” she said. “Of course, it’s a triangle, but it’s better than gangsters. And poor Mrs. Schaeffer’s just being used.”
There was something in what she said, Bill agreed, and spoke slowly. When you got it untangled, Jerry North added, and he was looked at. What Pam called the symbolic nature of the gold key—that was a point. Of course, the key originally—