12
Somewhere in Westchester County a telephone rang. It was not clear where in Westchester; the address listed in the directory was cryptic—as cryptic, almost, as the entries on Jo-An Lacey’s calendar pad. The address was “Cres Ct.” Shapiro let the telephone ring. He was not especially hopeful; Norman Littlejohn probably was not at home this warm Sunday afternoon. Probably he was at a country club. But he might be merely outside on a shady terrace, with a long drink on a table beside him.
When the answer came it was “Yes?” in a woman’s voice. And yes, this was the Littlejohns’. Then, “This is Lois Littlejohn.”
“Mr. Littlejohn?”
“I’m afraid not. And won’t be—oh, for hours, probably.”
“Have you any idea where I can reach him, Mrs. Littlejohn?”
The last was a guess. Lois Littlejohn might, of course, be a daughter. But there was maturity in the soft voice.
“I can take a message,” Lois Littlejohn said. “Give it to him when he gets home, as he will sometime. As I guess he will sometime.”
“I’m a police lieutenant,” Shapiro said. “Point or two we think Mr. Littlejohn might help us with.”
“About that poor girl,” Lois said. “But how could he help, Lieutenant?”
“Shapiro.”
She repeated his name, again with a question in her voice.
“It is in relation to Miss Lacey,” Shapiro said. “And I don’t know that he can help. We’re just—call it casting around.”
“We only just met her,” Mrs. Littlejohn said. “Oss had us in for a drink when she was up here. Us and quite a few people. Of course, it was very interesting to meet someone like her. But it was only to—well, say hello. And how much we’d enjoyed her books. The sort of thing people say, you know. As a matter of fact, it was true enough. About enjoying her books, I mean. But that was all either of us knew about her, Lieutenant. So I don’t see how—”
She let it hang for him to reach out for.
“I’m not at all sure I do,” Shapiro said. “Just an outside chance. We have to take outside chances quite a lot.”
She was sure he did. She was also sure Norm would want to help in any way he could.
“The thing is,” she said, “he’s gone into town. To his office. On such a lovely day. But it’s the way he is. He won’t bring his work home over weekends. He thinks it’s a bad thing to do and so do I. So he goes in where his work is. And leaves me to my own devices, which I’m afraid aren’t many. Is this help he might give you urgent, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t know that, either,” Shapiro told her. “Do you suppose I could call him at his office? I wouldn’t need to interrupt him for more than a few minutes.”
“You can try,” she said. “It’s just possible he may have had the phone plugged through. But probably you’ll just get the answering service. And the news that the office will be open after nine-thirty tomorrow.”
She had no idea when her husband might be home. It might be for dinner; she hoped it would be for dinner. It might be “all hours.” Of course she would tell him that Lieutenant Shapiro had called and would like to be called back and where could Lieutenant Shapiro be reached? At police headquarters?
Shapiro gave the telephone number of his apartment and waited while she wrote it down. And, as she carried friendly cooperation further, wrote down the telephone number of the offices of Littlejohn & Williams when she gave it to him—gave it with the regretful assurance that it probably wouldn’t do him any good. He thanked her for being so helpful and hung up.
“Your drink’s getting warm,” Rose said. “No luck, I take it?”
“Not much,” Nathan told her and went back and drank from his glass. It wasn’t urgent, obviously. It could just as well go over until tomorrow. Only, when you’ve got hold of an end of a string which, pulled on, might do something about a knot you felt like going on pulling it.
He did get halfway down his drink before he went back to the telephone. Rose sighed at his back. It was a sigh of resignation. Probably, Nathan thought as he spun the dial, Mrs. Lois Littlejohn had sighed so when her husband had said he had to leave “Cres Ct,” wherever it might be, and go to his office in the city.
Shapiro waited for four rings. He got, “Littlejohn and Williams, good afternoon.”
The voice was professional. It was also a little weary. It was the voice of a young woman stuck with a Sunday duty watch.
Shapiro knew it wouldn’t do him any good, but he asked to speak to Mr. Littlejohn.
“The office will be closed until nine-thirty tomorrow morning, sir. This is the answering service.”
All right. There wasn’t any urgency. Tomorrow would do as well. He went back and sat again beside Rose on the sofa. He drank from his glass. He got the Manhattan directory again. The offices of Littlejohn & Williams, “lwyrs,” were in the East Forties; just from the number, beyond Fifth.
Nathan finished his drink and looked up at the portrait of his father and the dark eyes of the portrait seemed to look back at him.
Rose looked at him. Rose said, “Damn it, Nathan.” And Nathan Shapiro shook his head and said, “I know, dear,” and got up to buckle on his gun.
Rose Shapiro again said, “Damn.” She said it with defeat in her voice. She said, “At least take a cab, dear.”
Nathan promised he would take a cab if he could find one.
He did find one. It was not air-conditioned, but lightning cannot be expected to strike twice on the same afternoon. There was little traffic on the Brooklyn streets and not much more in Manhattan. There were not even many cars parked along the curbs in East Forty-first Street between Fifth and Madison. The cabbie knocked his flag down in front of a tall office building and Nathan paid the fare and the tip.
There was a uniformed guard in the lobby of the building. He got up from his chair when Shapiro went in. He said, “Sir?” politely but with doubt. Shapiro showed him his shield, to save time. The guard said, “O.K. But I’ll have to ask you to sign in, anyway. It’s the rule nowadays, Lieutenant.”
Shapiro signed in. There was a place marked “Purpose.” In it Shapiro wrote, “Littlejohn & Williams.” The guard looked over his shoulder. He said, “I think Mr. Littlejohn is in his office, sir. Maybe I’d better call up?”
“By all means,” Nathan told him. “And if you get Mr. Littlejohn tell him I won’t bother him for more than a few minutes.”
The guard used a telephone. He came back. He said, “He says O.K. What he said was, ‘O.K., for God’s sake.’ It’s on the eighth floor. Damn near all of the eighth floor. Take that one.”
He pointed toward an elevator. Shapiro went to it and into it and pushed the button numbered 8. The elevator closed its door and shot upward. It stopped suddenly and opened its door. Across from the elevator was a door with LITTLEJOHN & WILLIAMS, ATTORNEYS AT LAW on it. There was a button in the doorjamb and Shapiro pushed it. Almost at once there was a shadow on the glass, and then the door opened.
The man who opened it was tall and gray-haired and in his shirt sleeves. He looked at Shapiro for a moment, thoughtfully. He said, “You’re the one had Fred call up?”
“Yes. Police lieutenant. Shouldn’t have to bother you for more than a few minutes, Mr. Littlejohn.”
“Police lieutenant?” Littlejohn said. “Name of?”
Nathan gave his name. He also showed his shield.
“Have to be careful nowadays,” Littlejohn said. “Planting bombs all over the place, they are. You people ought to do something about it.”
“We try,” Shapiro said. “Now and then we do. Any outfits here anybody’d want to bomb?”
“God knows,” Littlejohn said. “Lawyers mostly, but God knows. Come on in, Lieutenant.”
Littlejohn led the way through a general office, with chairs and sofas for waiting clients. He led the way along a corridor and into a large office with windows on two sides of it and a big desk half covered with legal-size papers, most of them in neat piles. Littlejo
hn went behind the desk and shuffled loose papers in front of him into a pile. He said, “So, Lieutenant?”
“A month or so ago,” Shapiro said, “did a Miss Jo-An Lacey come to your office? At, perhaps, the suggestion of Mr. Oscar Karn? And did she come to have you draw up a will?”
Littlejohn said, “Oh, that’s what it’s about.”
“Yes,” Shapiro said. “That’s what it’s about, sir. And it’s only fair to tell you we’re more or less just guessing.”
“You’re in charge of the investigation of Miss Lacey’s death, Lieutenant?”
“The chief of detectives is in charge of it, Mr. Littlejohn. It comes on down the line. Through the officer commanding Homicide South. To me, among others. Among a lot of others. Yours isn’t a criminal practice, I take it?”
“Good God, no,” Littlejohn said. “You smoke cigars, Lieutenant?” He got a box of cigars out of a desk drawer before Nathan had a chance to say no thanks, he didn’t smoke cigars. Littlejohn took a cigar from the box and clipped the end off it and lighted it. He took his time about it. He was taking time, Shapiro decided, to think.
Littlejohn blew smoke toward the ceiling. He said, “I suppose you understand about privileged communications, Lieutenant?”
“Yes. And that Miss Lacey is dead, Counselor.”
“And that, in due course, any will she may have made will be filed for probate? And that when probate is granted, the will will be available to interested parties?”
“Yes, Counselor.”
“But you’re trying a short-cut?”
There was no testiness in the gray-haired man’s voice; no annoyance in his deeply tanned face. He spoke as one merely seeking to satisfy curiosity.
“Yes, Counselor. Just trying to get on with the investigation. To—well, to keep things from dragging out.”
“Shapiro,” Littlejohn said. “Haven’t I heard of you?”
“Possibly. Sometimes names get into the newspapers.”
“There was an actress killed down in the Village a while back,” Littlejohn said. “Someone I knew slightly years ago. Your name was in the newspapers in connection with that case, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And a painter—a fairly famous one—killed in his studio? Also downtown?”
“Yes, Counselor. And the painter named Shackleford Jones.”
“You seem to have got your man both times,” Littlejohn said, and blew smoke at the ceiling. The smoke was fragrant.
Shapiro got a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighted a cigarette. He said, “Yes, Counselor. One time it was a woman, but yes.”
“Miss Jo-An Lacey came to the office late in May,” Littlejohn said. “I’ve forgotten the exact date.”
“The twenty-third, we think,” Shapiro said.
“Oss Karn had suggested us,” Littlejohn said. “We’re general counsel for Oscar Karn, Incorporated. Natural he’d suggest us, of course. She wanted to make out a will. You were right about that. It was a very simple will. It revoked any previous will. We drew it up. She signed it before witnesses. ‘In her presence and the presence of each other,’ according to the formula.”
“You have it here, Mr. Littlejohn?”
“In the vault. With a time lock on it. It won’t be available until nine-thirty tomorrow morning.”
“You drew it up yourself, Mr. Littlejohn. Or was it somebody else in the firm?”
“Oss is an old friend of mine,” Littlejohn said. “He suggested my name, specifically. Yes, I drew it up.”
Shapiro didn’t say anything. He drew on his cigarette and blew smoke ceilingward to join the fragrant cigar smoke.
“Very simple,” Littlejohn said. “Not more than a page, in spite of all the verbiage required. Being of sound mind. Revoking all other wills. That sort of thing. Everything to her brother. And he the executor.”
“Have you any idea what the ‘everything’ would add up to, Counselor?”
“No. None of our concern. Could be a dime. Could be a million. Whatever it is, this brother of hers—I’m not sure I remember his name. John something.”
“John Henry Lacey,” Shapiro said. “And he’s the executor?”
“Yes.”
“By himself? I mean, sometimes there are several executors. Isn’t that right?”
“Sometimes. Depends on the wishes of the testator.”
“And her brother was the only executor?”
“Oh, Oss Karn is in as her literary executor. More or less a formality. Knows his way around in the field. After all, it’s his field. Has been for years. Miss Lacey thought he might advise her brother about her—” He paused and drew on his cigar and let the smoke out. “Literary remains,” he said.
“So Mr. Karn would have a say in the disposition of any writing she—left behind.”
“That’ll be up to Lacey,” Littlejohn said. “Karn’s role would be merely advisory. Lacey will be quite free to disregard it.”
“Pending probate,” Shapiro said, “what can Lacey do about whatever literary property his sister left him?”
“Strictly, not much. Oh, he can negotiate, of course. Sign some contingent agreement, if he wants to. If you mean a formal contract for publication, not until the will goes through.”
Shapiro said he saw. He said that Mr. Littlejohn had made things entirely clear. He ground his cigarette out and stood up. Littlejohn said, “All you want, Lieutenant?”
“All you can give me, Counselor,” Shapiro said. “Damn good of you to spare me so much time.”
“I’m an officer of the court,” Littlejohn said.
“You could have held out,” Shapiro said. “Not that there’s much to hold out on, of course. But we appreciate it that you didn’t.”
“What you expected, Lieutenant?”
“Pretty much,” Shapiro said and then, much to his own surprise, added: “Your wife hopes you’ll get home for dinner.”
Littlejohn laughed. There was a sudden gaiety in his laughter.
“And so do I, Lieutenant,” Littlejohn said. “So very much do I.”
He went with Shapiro to the door of the outer office. When Shapiro was outside it, he heard the lock click behind him. On the street, a cruising cab tempted him. He resisted the temptation. He walked to Grand Central and waited, on a sparsely populated platform, for an express to Brooklyn. Two young men, both with long hair and both wearing blue jeans, were among the others waiting for a train. When Shapiro came down the stairs to the express platform, they looked at him and then, a little abruptly, walked away. They walked up the stairs Shapiro had come down. Nathan Shapiro had no memory of having seen either of them before. They, he thought, had better memories. Or perhaps it was merely that he looked like a policeman.
The express he wanted came, finally. It was hot, but it had been hot on the platform. There were, however, seats in the car. And, finally, the train took him to Brooklyn; finally he climbed the stairs to his apartment. It was cool in the apartment, and Rose put her book opened on a table. The book still was Snake Country by Jo-An Lacey. Rose seemed to be almost halfway through it.
“You weren’t as long as I thought you’d be, dear,” Rose said. “Which is a nice change. Did the Lacey girl make a will?”
Nathan took his jacket off and unbuckled his gun. Rose said, “Good. At last.”
Nathan said that the Lacey girl had made a will, and that Norman Littlejohn had been very accommodating, as lawyers went. Rose said she would get them something cold. Iced tea? Or iced coffee? Or, of course—
The telephone rang and Rose said, “Damn,” and went toward the kitchen. Nathan picked the telephone up and said, “Shapiro,” and in his own ears his voice sounded limp and tired.
“I’m sorry to keep breaking in on you,” Tony Cook said. “And probably it doesn’t get us anywhere. Only, I’m at Rachel’s apartment and I was—well, I guess I was talking too much. About the Lacey case.”
“We all do,” Nathan said. “To people we trust. So?”
“I described this John Henry Lacey to her,” Tony said. “Laid it on a little, I suppose. The Old South, down to the accent—the wispy blond beard and the seersucker suit. And that he was looking for grits. Oh, the works. Of course, verbal descriptions—well, they aren’t really much good, as we both know too damn well. But—”
He paused. Nathan thought that, probably, he had looked at Rachel Farmer and been momentarily distracted. After a second or so, Nathan said, “Yes, Tony?”
“Rachel thinks he sounds like a man she saw. Walking through Gay Street, when she was going the other way—coming home, actually. Tall and thin and light-colored hair and a little chin beard. And, wearing a seersucker suit. A sort of scraggly beard, as she remembers it. A sort of weedy man, she says he was. It probably doesn’t get us anywhere, but for what it’s worth. The thing is,” Tony said, “Rachel saw this man, who just could be our Southern gendeman, in Gay Street a week ago. A week ago, or perhaps a little longer ago. And he only got into town yesterday, according to what he says.”
Shapiro hesitated. He said, “Just from your description, Tony?” and got “Yes” for an answer; got also, “I know it’s damn vague, Nate. Only—well, Rachel looks at people. Remembers people. I thought—”
“Yes,” Shapiro said. “It would be interesting if Lacey was in town a week or so ago. He inherits all his sister’s money, as it turns out. A good deal of money, probably. It’s too bad Lacey’s up in the country, because—”
He said, “Wait a minute, Tony. Or—say I’ll call you back. You and Miss Farmer going to be in her place for a while?”
“We’re having a drink,” Tony Cook said. “Eventually, we’ll go out to dinner. Not—right away.”
“I’ll check on something,” Shapiro said. “Call you back. Oh, and give our best to Miss Farmer.”
Cook said, “Sure,” and hung up. Shapiro dialed the office. He got, “Homicide South, Detective Farwell.” Farwell would certainly see, Lieutenant.
He was gone a few minutes. He came back. He said, “Nothing too hot, far’s I can tell. The precinct people have pretty much covered Gay Street. Forty-seventh Street’s pretty much covered the Algonquin. Nothing much seems to be turning up.”
Write Murder Down Page 15