“I quite understand your problem, Peter. But Mr. Julio obviously feels that someone who can afford to underwrite a TV show is made of money.”
“That is not true. Mr. Kent is paying for the show. I am paying out only the prize money. But now I wish I had not agreed to do that. Mr. Monty did not explain how the prizes would double and how they would – what is the word?”
“Accumulate?”
“Yes – get bigger and bigger! In real life there is a limit to how much people will pay, and when you reach that point you cannot make a profit if you double your expenses.”
“Unless you also double your sales,” I suggested.
“That is not always possible. If you own a plot with twenty cabins, twenty cabins is all you can sell.”
“Unless you double your prices!”
“But then people go someplace else. People will drive twenty miles to avoid paying an extra ten dollars! Even an extra five. I know!”
“A businessman is always under pressure,” I suggested. “His solution is to expand – and keep on expanding – or die!”
“Buona notte, Signor Fabbro.”
“Buona notte, Maria.”
The girl went out, leaving the door to the landing open. We heard the sound of the elevator.
“One of my best girls,” said Peter. “It is time to close up.”
“Are you married, Peter?”
“A wife? Who would marry Peter? His face is not his fortune. Besides, I am too busy for a wife.”
“You’re married to Total Service?” I suggested.
“No. Total Service is my child. And that is why I will protect him.”
His guard was as down as it would ever be, “How well did you know Kathie Williams?” I shot at him.
But he was unfazed. “As well as I know all my girls. I am like a father to them.”
I couldn’t help smiling. He saw me. “I know what you think,” he said. “But it is not like that. It is not like that at all.”
“Where do you live, Peter?”
He misunderstood me. “I had my mother. She is one of the first I bring out from the old country. Now she is dead. My brothers, they stay in the old country. They are farmers. They love to watch things grow. I cannot see such things. They are not interested in Total Service, but they do not return any of the gifts I send them.”
He had ushered me out into the corridor, where I waited while he locked up Total Service for the night.
I pressed the button to summon the ancient elevator.
Nothing happened!
“Maria must left the door open,” I said. “The elevator’s not coming.”
He grabbed my shoulder. “Shhh! You hear something?”
“That’s just what I’m telling you. I hear nothing.”
Quick as a flash, a stiletto literally jumped into Peter’s right hand.
“What are you playing at?”
“I have enemies,” he whispered. “Speak out loud.” Then raising his voice: “You have a pistol, Mr. Manning? You are a policeman?”
I caught on. “Yes, I’ve got my pistol right here,” I shouted. “Never go home without it!”
“Try the lift now,” he whispered.
I assumed he meant the elevator. I pressed the button. To my relief, there was an answering rattle from the bottom of the shaft. The elevator was on its way up.
“What was all that about?”
“Thieves! There are many thieves who gather around the markets downstairs. They are not still trading but they are open all night for deliveries. The thieves see Total Service is still open too. So they wait in the shadows. But they are frightened now. They will run away.”
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Peter. You sure believe in living dangerously.”
“It does not happen often.” Peter smiled grimly. “But I am always prepared.”
22
The days have long gone when a lawyer’s office looked like something out of Charles Dickens. Winninghan, Bryde and Wingate occupied a large and airy suite in the heart of the city’s legal district. Normally, the ceiling to floor windows would offer dizzying views of the city and other contiguous skyscrapers, but the vertical shades in the head partner’s office had been drawn against the mid-day sun.
Mr. Winninghan chose not to use a desk. Nor did he force his clients to relate to the usual sterile office furnishings. Receptive sofas aligned against three of the walls, plus a generous assortment of poufs, cushions and padded stools, provided enough seating for twenty people. A few low tables discreetly supported pens and paper, while framed prints by the likes of Streeton, McCubbin and Fox lent the high-ceilinged room a further atmosphere of tone and class. The implication was plain but circumspect. Winninghan, Bryde and Wingate were most assuredly gentlemen of culture and discretion, fit custodians of scarcely breathed scandals and family secrets, silent keepers of a thousand keys and confidences, trusted, unimpeachable counselors in all matters of legal binding and loosening.
Mr. Winninghan was conscious of his responsibilities. His sallow face was rendered less solemn by his quick tendency to smile; his large, prying nose turned sympathetic when part of its curve was hidden by owlish spectacles; his bland, unlined forehead became wise as serpents with the frequent arching of his manicured eyebrows.
Unfortunately, Sergeant Michaelson rather spoiled the initial effect, so far as I was concerned, by handing me a summons as soon as I set foot in the room.
“What the hell is this all about?” I asked.
“Breaking and entering,” he explained. “We’ll want you as a witness. Don’t want the defense to holler we’re doing you any favors, do we?”
Angrily, I stuffed the summons into my pocket, nodded to Peter Tunning who was already seated in the darkest corner of the suite, shook the limp wrist of Mr. Winninghan, and took a seat near the window where I could marvel at part of the view through the slats in the vertical blinds.
Monty Fairmont and Ace Jellis came in next, followed by Trevor Holden and Art Kent, a dark-haired young woman I’d never seen before (I assumed she was a Winninghan steno), a couple of very obvious plainclothes policemen, and finally, Inspector Borne himself.
Borne nodded to Winninghan, handed him the court order to release the will, and then squeezed himself on to the sofa right next to Monty Fairmont. Sergeant Michaelson then sat himself down on the other side of Monty so that the suspect would have no avenue of possible escape. But just to make sure, the plainclothes officers took up their station right against the main door.
Winninghan sat on a pouf in the center of the room and commenced to read the will in an appropriately sonorous voice: “I, Everett Carmichael Dune-Harrigan, being of sound mind…”
“What’s all this?” Monty Fairmont cut in. “I thought we came here to hear Spookie’s…”
“Shut up, or I’ll close your stupid mouth for you!” snarled Inspector Borne.
“Shall I cuff him, chief?” asked Sergeant Michaelson.
“No, he’s not going to give us any more trouble, are you, Mr. Monty Fairmont?”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
“You heard what the chief said. Give us any more trouble and we’ll cuff you so quick, you’ll think the sky’s fallen in.”
“Shall I start again? I, Everett Carmichael Dune-Harrigan, being of sound mind, … do leave and bequeath all I possess, including the royalties from my books (which now being out of print, are virtually worthless), my Suez Canal shares (which, although worth less than the paper they are printed on, have a certain historical and sentimental value), my savings amounting to around $30,000 in various bank accounts, and last, but by no means least, my house, “Ittfadal”, which is free and clear of any mortgage or debt, its parcel of land and the entire contents thereof, to the following sole beneficiary, my longtime friend and compatriot, Merryll Mycroft Manning. Witnessed this – ”
“What the bloody hell is this? Who the hell do you think you’re messing around with here?” His composur
e now completely shattered, Inspector Borne had jumped to his feet and was shouting at the top of his voice.
“I don’t understand, chief. The copy we found in Dune-Harrigan’s safe left everything to this Monty Fairmont!”
Borne paced over to Winninghan and for one moment, I thought he would strike him down. Not that I was paying too much attention. The room’s artistic landscapes were spinning into whirls of pastel colors.
But Winninghan was unperturbed. Irate policeman were a dime a dozen in his profession. “Do you wish me to have a copy of the will made for your records, inspector?”
“Yes! No, wait! When was it executed?”
“The will is properly witnessed by myself and Mr. Bryde. The will was drawn up by Mr. Bryde and I believe it will stand up to any court examination.”
“I asked you when it was executed?”
“Let me see. Here’s the date. That would be last Friday week.”
“So what I have here is a previous will?”
“There were at least three previous wills, to my knowledge.”
“And who were the beneficiaries?”
“As you know, I’m not obliged to give you that information without a court order.”
Inspector Borne swallowed hard. “If you’ll kindly supply me with that information, I’ll not be forgetting the favor, Mr. Winninghan.”
“The university at which he was employed – right up to his death as far as I know. Yet about two or three months ago – I can get you the exact date if it’s important – Professor Dune-Harrigan changed that will. The new beneficiary was Mr. Monty Fairmont there.”
“Me! I don’t even know the guy!”
“He was on your TV program,” I reminded him. “Same night as me!”
“Hell! Neither me nor Ace had anything to do with that! Dune-Harrigan was Mr. Kent’s suggestion!”
“Suggestion be damned! We had no choice. No choice at all. He was foisted on us. Mr. Kent insisted on it!”
Ace Jellis had obviously forgotten one important thing: Arthur Boss Kent was actually in our midst. He immediately stepped forward: “I don’t know what these two shysters seek to gain by these lies, inspector, but I suspect they have received an offer from a major television network and are now anxious to break their contract with Kenovarnie’s. But their little ploy will not succeed. I will not break their contract, no matter what ridiculous accusations they make. They will be telling you next that I had an affair with Miss Williams. That at least is correct. They will tell you also that she broke off the relationship. That, too, is correct. I would like to place in your safe hands, Mr, Winninghan, this letter I received from Miss Williams’ hands on that very day, the day she was killed – and so dated!”
“Hold on there!” Borne shouted out. But Kent was too quick for him, thrusting the letter into Winninghan’s hand before either Borne or Michaelson could reach him.
“I suppose it’s no use asking you to hand it over, Mr. Winninghan?”
“You have a court order, inspector?”
“I could get one.”
“Please do.”
“Would it be possible for me to see the letter?”
“If you have a court order.”
“Hang it all, you know I can get one! That letter is valuable evidence in a murder investigation.”
“I don’t object if Borne hears the contents of the letter – but I want him to keep his filthy hands off it!”
“Shall I read it, Mr. Kent?”
Kent nodded.
“Dear killer – ”
“She called me, ‘Killer’, Kent explained. A love term – which is one reason I never surrendered the letter to the police. They all have small minds and an even more limited vocabulary.”
Dear killer, Another night without you in my arms. It is too much to bear. You said I would come crawling back, and I, so stupid, laughed at you. Well, I’m not laughing. Not any more. I almost melted away when I saw you this morning. I wanted to run back and throw myself into your arms and feel your kisses on my cheeks and the warmth of your hands. Yes, I wanted to sit down on you and feel the beat of your heart.
I wanted you to hold me in a loving embrace. Why are women so stupid? Why do we antagonize those who love us? Why do we feel so uncomfortable if we don’t hold the whip hand? Forgive me, darling, forgive me. Please forgive me! Please!
Yours forever.
Your one and only Spookie.
23
“What a mess!” There was no rancor in Inspector Borne’s tone. Once more he was mournfully resigned to Fate’s sleights of hand, the well-made plans that are forever ganging agley, and the never-ending stupidity of subordinates. We had adjourned, he, Art Kent and I, to his bleak, cramped office at police headquarters – but not before I had taken Sergeant Michaelson’s ridiculous summons and torn it to shreds in front of his face. A man can’t be charged with breaking and entering his own property!
“We’re still stuck with how Dune-Harrigan got on the program,” Borne asked.
“You’re walking up a totally blind alley,” I suggested. “It’s irrelevant, but if it will make you any happier, I’d nominate Spookie herself. She once told me how she selected contestants, and Dune-Harrigan would have passed all her tests.”
Mr. Kent gave me a stony glance. “I agree.”
“You’re quite sure that Fairmont was with you all day at the Hilton? He couldn’t have slipped out for a couple of hours?”
“I’ve told you twice already. I sat next to the guy, morning and afternoon. Only time I lost sight of him was for an hour or so at lunch. I dined with the vice-president of CBS.” Kent’s tone implied that Monty had sandwiches with the hoi polloi.
“For an hour only?”
“It could have been ten or twenty minutes longer. But that still wouldn’t have given Monty time to race out to Dune-Harrigan’s place, do what had to be done, and then come back.”
“Blast!”
Mr. Kent stood up. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have an appointment with the Assistant Commissioner. Where’s his office?”
“Upstairs,” Borne sighed. “Top floor.”
“Thanks a lot, inspector. We’ll keep in touch.”
“That blows the Fairmont theory sky high,” I remarked as soon as Kent had taken his royal presence off.
“Pity,” observed Borne. “Such a lot going for it too. Including Fairmont’s bank statement.” Borne picked up a photocopy from his desk. “He needs the money. In hock up to his ears and the bank’s pressing him to reduce his overdraft.”
“How much?” I asked.
“He’s in hock for over two million.”
I whistled. “Dune-Harrigan’s house wouldn’t fetch even half that.”
“He does have some assets, but the bank wants the overdraft cut down to a million. If he had the Dune-Harrigan property to sell…”
I shook my head. “Dune-Harrigan was one crazy old bastard. The university people imagined they were first on Dune-Harrigan’s gift list. Just like him to spite the uni. He must have had some arrangement with Monty Fairmont about the quiz and when that didn’t work out – when I spiked his whole scheme – just like him to leave it to me, the person he hated most in the whole world. Just think! I’m almost a millionaire – and I was worried about a paltry eighty thousand!”
“You’ll have probate to pay.”
“I know, but I don’t owe any banks any money – so the line-up of aggressive lenders will start on my left.”
“You won’t be able to give up your present job.”
“I wouldn’t want to. Thrills aside, I’m enjoying it. It’s like a welcome to Home Town Week.”
“You wouldn’t be quite so chirpy if you were sitting on my side of this desk.”
“I wouldn’t want to.”
“You’ve no doubt written me down as an old-fashioned policeman.”
“Old-fashioned, yes! But a policeman, no!”
He was obviously getting mighty angry, so I added hastily, “Yo
u’re too up-market for your present job. You belong upstairs.” I pointed up!
“I agree! But what I was actually thinking about are dead ends like ‘laboratory clues’ and a killer’s possible ‘psychology’ – catchwords which actually rule the waves in our present administration. But as for me, I still look at a case from the old tried and true: I look for the motive. Who benefits?”
“I’m with you!”
“I’m real glad we see eye to eye on this. Who benefits most from Dune-Harrigan’s death?”
I answered him quick as a flash: “Los Angeles University.”
“What?” Inspector Borne practically fell off his chair.
“You were thinking of me, weren’t you? You’re a bloody idiot, Borne! You yourself just told me that the utmost Dune-Harrigan’s house is worth is a million dollars. On the other hand, the university will gain from Dune-Harrigan’s death at least a hundred thousand million dollars. Maybe even five hundred thousand million dollars. And what have you done about it? Zip all. As far as I’m aware you haven’t even interviewed the vice chancellor. On the other hand, you know that Dune-Harrigan and I have been mutual enemies for the past thirty years or so, and that we could have killed each other any time within that period had we so wished. I could have killed him in Egypt easy – and no-one any the wiser. He tried to kill me at least ten ot twenty times.
“Ever been to the Valley of the Kings? No! Let me tell you, it’s a rocky place, full of precipitous cliffs and shifting sand. We lost two of our bearers on our last expedition. We couldn’t dig them out in time. Ever try to shovel sand? Dry sand?”
Borne jumped out of his chair and started pacing up and down: “Disregarding Los Angeles University, which despite your prompting, would hardly contemplate the murder of one of its own professors, who else mostly benefits from Dune-Harrigan’s death – besides yourself?”
“That’s easy! In order of importance: The network and their affiliate TV stations; Kenovarnie’s; Tunning’s Travel Tickets; and Monty Fairmont Productions. That’s just for starters. As for me, I’m actually way down the list with all the hundreds of thousands of enemies that Dune-Harrigan went out of his way to make during his lifetime. Making enemies was his hobby. To paraphrase Will Rogers: He never met a man he didn’t hate!”
Merryll Manning Is Dead Lucky Page 12