by Deaver Brown
Miss Hazen’s back-up glasses were hexagonal and studded with small pieces of reflecting metal. They were, if anything, more opaque than the first pair.
“Passed the hat,” she said. “Friends and relatives—that sort of thing. Valenti’s father-in-law is a dentist—and you know what that means.”
Thatcher knew this suggested money, but he was not altogether sure he accepted Miss Hazen’s certainty on the point.
“Anyway, they parlayed it with those apartments in Boston. Then they sank everything into the New Hampshire deal.”
“And they have enough capital?” Thatcher asked.
Miss Hazen was offhand. “None of these vacation-home babies ever have enough capital. Everything they do eats up money. So it all boils down to the big question—are they selling lots? If they are—they’re in gravy. If not, they’re in big, big trouble. Feast or famine—that’s about it.”
“And since Fiord Haven is not a publicly held corporation, we have no information about their sales?” Thatcher suggested.
Sylvia Hazen weighed his comment. “Right. You’ve got it in one. But there is something we’ve heard in their favor. When they bought the property, they took an option on another four hundred acres—in case they want to expand. That’s a pretty smart move, and it should keep them from hitting the wall the way a lot of the other boys have.”
“You know,” Thatcher said, “the frenzy of their selling efforts suggested to me that they might be in difficulties.”
Only after the words were out of his mouth did he realize that he might have been tactless. Miss Hazen, and by extension, Fontana, Goldsmith & Hazen, obviously were not above forceful techniques. But in this instance the lady identified with tradition. She abandoned the prosciutto.
“That’s how it grabs a lot of people,” she told him kindly. “But they all operate as if there was no tomorrow. I just came back from an operation in Puerto Rico that charters jet planes from Cleveland and Chicago, and takes hundreds of prospects out to this thing called Paradise Island. And Ed and Larry Fish out in Nevada offer you a weekend in Las Vegas, complete with stake. They’ve got about five thousand acres of desert to peddle.”
With the end of lunch, Miss Hazen unfurled another cigar. Thatcher was thanking her for her cooperation when she suddenly dropped her businesslike manner. She removed her glasses to reveal wide-spaced green eyes.
“Yes, yes, I’ll keep an eye peeled for whatever turns up about Fiord Haven,” she said. “Of course, this murder business won’t help . . .”
Thatcher’s look of inquiry drew forth information.
“The Daily News,” said Miss Hazen. “In this business, you’ve got to watch them like hawks. Well, anything that passes my desk, I’ll shoot over.”
“Thank you,” said Thatcher.
“And Mr. Thatcher,” Miss Hazen added when they were ready to part at her Vespa. “Tell Charlie I’ll keep in touch, won’t you?”
Thatcher denied himself this pleasure. Who was he to chaff Charlie on unorthodox methods?
Instead, he consulted another member of the Sloan. Answell Briggs, of the real estate department, had no Sylvia Hazens up his sleeve.
“Say,” he said boyishly, “I thought you were on vacation.”
With asperity, Thatcher explained his pro-tem status to the phone. He then repeated his request for information.
“Oh sure,” said Briggs. “James Joel Finley. He’s one of the big names in architecture these days, you know.”
“It’s not a field I keep up with,” Thatcher admitted.
“Lucky devil,” said Briggs. “Finley’s had a lot of publicity about some library he built in Hawaii—a big play in Time. You know the sort of thing. But he hasn’t designed any buildings here in New York.”
“So at the moment, he’s more famous than rich?”
“Put it this way,” Briggs explained. “He can make it big, but he hasn’t so far. Is that the sort of thing you want to know?”
“In part,” said Thatcher. He went on to explain James Joel Finley’s association with Fiord Haven and asked for comment.
“We-ell,” said Briggs, “it could be almost anything. They could be giving him a straight fee for designing this lodge, and maybe one or two model homes.”
“What are the other possibilities?” Thatcher asked.
Briggs thought for a moment.
“He could be profit sharing, John. But to tell you the truth, I’d bet that they’ve worked out some deal where Finley lets them use his name and farms out the work to somebody else. That way he gets the publicity he wants, and it doesn’t cost them so much.”
Here was another line of inquiry to hand Henry, if he needed one, thought Thatcher. Aloud he said:
“Tell me, Answell, just how good an architect is James Joel Finley?”
“Good?” the phone repeated. “John, I can see you don’t keep up with the field. If, by good, you mean inventive or even proficient, you’re fifty years behind the times. The big names in architecture are comparable—oh, say, to dress designers. It’s all a matter of line and looks. You make a name by designing an all glass house, or a house that’s built under a highway. Or a house that revolves—”
He had, Thatcher saw, struck a vein.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “But tell me, Answell, what makes it safe for us to go into the buildings these distinguished architects design?”
“In many cases,” said Briggs firmly, “it is not safe. But if it is, it’s because of some engineer—possibly an engineer employed by the Sloan. Or by the labor unions . . .”
This alliance lost Thatcher.
“Nobody else may give a damn,” Answell explained, “but the people who put up the money—like us. And the construction gangs are interested, too. When they see something that’s likely to collapse on them—well, they look out for their own necks. Between the two of us, we introduce some elementary safety.”
There is such a thing, thought Thatcher, as too cold a critical eye. Answell, he knew, had been involved in financing some of the more extraordinary edifices now disfiguring Manhattan. Perhaps he was constantly frustrated by the triumph of profit motives over loftier values.
But suddenly Thatcher was reminded of James Joel Finley—and Alec Prohack.
What is true in Manhattan may well hold true elsewhere. Another point to keep Henry busy.
Or, as Henry put it, more loose ends. As if there were not enough already.
Thatcher being as much of a perfectionist in his way as Henry Morland, he persevered. His last query required only one brief telephone call. An hour later Miss Corsa, who had taken down the telephoned reply, deposited the findings on Thatcher’s desk.
“Thank you, Miss Corsa,” he murmured.
“Not at all, Mr. Thatcher,” said Miss Corsa, eyes averted.
He understood. As far as Rose Teresa Corsa was concerned, Mr. Thatcher was still away.
Amused, Thatcher stuffed the report into his briefcase, to be studied in other surroundings. But not before he absorbed its gist. The credit rating of almost everybody connected with Fiord Haven and the two murders was excellent, from Stephen Lester to Eunice, from Eunice’s fiancé, Peter Vernon, to Eddie Quinlan and Ralph Valenti. Even Alan and Sukey Davidson were no threat to a potential extender of credit.
There was only one man whose personal financial position was precarious enough to merit warnings to the world at large. That was the distinguished architect, James Joel Finley.
Chapter 18
FRAMEWORK
WHEN THATCHER returned to Boston late that evening, it was to discover a downcast Henry awaiting him.
“The police weren’t really interested in what I had to say,” he announced self-pityingly.
“For your sake, Henry, I wish you were on death row,” Thatcher replied. “It’s only because of Ruth that I can’t really sympathize.”
Henry was impervious to such shafts. “So far as I can see, nobody’s making any progress at all.”
The pile of
newspapers at his feet bore him out. Thatcher glanced idly over them. The police were withholding comment. The principals were in seclusion. Inquiries were proceeding.
“Although why you expected to learn anything from the Christian Science Monitor eludes me,” Thatcher commented.
Absently, Henry replied that he had just ordered all available papers. Mary Baker Eddy, complete with a Polish editorial, had been scooped up in the newsie’s net.
Thatcher was relieved to discover that the strain had not caused Henry to forget everything he ever knew.
“I tell you, John,” he said, waking from a brown study, “I don’t have a lot of confidence in the Boston police. I don’t think they’ll ever find out who killed Valenti.”
Thatcher resisted the temptation to point out that New Hampshire was not making stunning progress in the matter of Stephen Lester. He realized that these words really meant that the local police had not evinced deep interest in Henry’s implausible hypotheses. And on balance, he preferred not to contemplate what they might have been.
“Tell me,” he said instead. “Did anything ever come to light about that invitation list?”
“What? Oh, you mean getting Eunice and Amanda Lester to the Pru? No. Everybody’s sticking to their story. Including Finley, who denies everything.”
“How do you know, Henry?” asked Thatcher, beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel.
Henry was restrained. “After I finished with the police—and let me tell you, John, I could put my opinion of them in much stronger terms—I naturally made a few calls.”
“Oh, naturally,” said Thatcher, to whom all was now clear. Henry had gone haring out of the police station full of frisk and eager to pursue his own investigation. He had been surprised, and possibly hurt, to discover that not everybody shared his innocent taste for drama. Perhaps someone had even told him that he was intruding.
“I think, John,” said Henry, confirming this reading in every wounded syllable, “I think now is the time for us to go home.”
Home was not what it had been.
“Well, so here you are. Fresh from another murder,” said Ruth Morland with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
Thatcher was fond of his hostess, but not fond enough to let this pass.
“You recall, Ruth,” he replied coldly, “whose idea this trip to Boston was. I think we all agree it was not an unqualified success.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Henry intervened. “After all, we did find out there’s nothing sinister in Lester’s background. He was just another one of those loudmouths, full of his own moral superiority.”
Henry’s jauntiness had revived the minute he set foot over his own threshold, where he was monarch of all he surveyed, including 3.6 miles of the Appalachian Trail.
Ruth ignored him. “There have been quite a few phone calls this morning,” she went on implacably. “The State Police want to see both of you again. And a Miss Corsa called, from the Sloan.”
Thatcher felt a momentary qualm. Was this what had ruffled the usually placid Ruth?
“What did she want?” he asked cautiously.
“She was just making sure she could keep in contact with you. She seems to be a very sensible young woman,” said Ruth, like Queen Victoria bestowing tempered praise on a sister sovereign.
Henry had no difficulty hacking his way to the nub of the problem. “I suppose Duncan has been on your neck.”
Ruth’s voice was hollow. “He wants to come up for the weekend. Bringing a lawyer with him.”
“All right,” Henry barked, suddenly going on the offensive. “Tell him it’ll be a great help having him here for a couple of days. Say the Trail needs a lot of work, and I haven’t been able to get round to it. That’ll fix his wagon,” he chuckled at high glee. “And when do the police want to see us?”
“At one-thirty. Oh, dear,” she sighed in uncharacteristic despair. “I suppose you have to go.”
Henry stared at her. “Of course, we’ve got to go. Anyway, why shouldn’t we?”
“Because,” his wife said with returning tartness, “on the basis of past performance, the minute you step inside the station the desk sergeant will slump forward, riddled with machine-gun bullets.”
The desk sergeant did no such thing. The personnel of the station remained in robust good health throughout their visit. What’s more, the general air of camaraderie and the casual treatment of their formal affidavits suggested that Henry’s status had dwindled to that of a potential prosecution witness. A very minor witness.
“The Boston police seem to think they’ll be ready for a warrant in a couple of days,” was the genial parting. “Guess they want to show us hicks how you do things.”
Henry’s excitement bubbled over as they returned to their car. “They must be planning an arrest on the basis of Lester’s murder,” he speculated, prepared to revise his opinion of Boston officials.
“Yes.” Thatcher, too, had noticed that their affidavits covered the discovery of Lester’s body and only one other point. “All they wanted from me was testimony to the effect that Finley was prominent in the cocktail lounge the evening of the murder.”
“It’s easy enough to see what they’re heading for. Finley killed Lester, then Finley rushed back to give himself an alibi. You and Ralph Valenti both talked about something like that when we couldn’t figure out why the murderer didn’t simply tip Lester’s corpse off a cliff somewhere.”
Thatcher nodded slowly as he recalled earlier conversations. “The official theory must be that Finley intended to go back after dinner. Then his plans were frustrated by your premature discovery of the body.”
“Fine. But what difference does it make what Finley intended to do and then didn’t?” Henry bounced impatiently in his seat as they waited out the town’s only red light. “What I want to know is why he did it. Why bash Lester in the first place?”
“For that matter,” said Thatcher, falling prey to a habit of orderly thought, “why then go on to stab Valenti? The police aren’t thinking in terms of two different murderers.”
Henry’s eyes were gleaming. “I’ll tell you what. We could stop by at Fiord Haven. Ruth said Alec Prohack has finally got his crew back on the job. They’ll know all the dirt.”
Thatcher agreed at once. Experience had taught him that it was useless to deny Henry his excitements. One should remain by his side, eyewitness to his non-homicidal conduct, and let the bodies fall where they might.
Meanwhile Henry had turned into a wily D.A. “If that fight between Lester and Finley about a roof is our motive, then Alec is bound to be one of the prosecution’s star witnesses. A lot would depend on how he saw things. That kind of fight, whatever it was about, can cover anything from a mild difference of opinion to a murderous rage.”
Whether Henry’s reading of the situation was right or wrong, it became apparent, as soon as they pulled into the construction lot, that it was shared by at least one other person. The police had already had their innings with Alec Prohack. Now James Joel Finley was having his.
The architect and the builder were standing apart from the activity swirling around the unfinished lodge. Neither of them acknowledged the arrival of the Morland car.
“I’ve got to tell it the way it happened, Mr. Finley,” Prohack was saying. “You know that.”
Finley no longer looked like the great man of modern architecture. When he had been riding high, his flowing white locks, his mannered stateliness, his immense assurance had made him seem an exceptionally vigorous sixty. Curiously enough, his troubles had taken years off his apparent age, but not for the better. Now he looked a bewildered and ineffective fifty. His clothes hung limply from his shoulders as if they were a size too large. He was having difficulty with his voice.
“I’m not asking you to do anything else, Prohack. I just want to make sure you keep things in proportion.”
Prohack’s eyes focused on some distant horizon. “I wouldn’t know about that. They asked me i
f you had a fight with Lester. You did, and I told them so.”
“I’ve already admitted I had words with him.” Finley ground the sentence out. “That doesn’t make it a fight, not in their sense. Every architect has trouble with clients at some stage of the game.”
“I guess that’s right. So there’s nothing to worry about.” Prohack looked hopefully at the lodge where a gang of men had swarmed onto the roof. “If that’s all, I could go check—”
“No, it isn’t!” Finley tried for a more placatory tone. “For God’s sake, man, you’re a contractor. You’ve been around building sites all your life. How many times have you known an architect to murder someone who didn’t approve of what he was building?”
“Well, if you put it like that—never,” Prohack conceded. “But that isn’t what the cops are asking me.”
“You know what cops are like. They’ll make a mountain out of any molehill.” Finley brandished the roll of drawings he was clutching. “After all, what is there to say? Lester and I had a difference of professional opinion, that’s all. Anyway, I was being professional. God knows what he thought he was being.”
“Look, Mr. Finley. I’m not out to get you. But you’ve been down at the station too. You know that isn’t good enough for the cops. They want to know everything that happened, everything that was said. And that’s what they’re getting. What else can I do?”
Finley’s hand crushed the drawings into an hourglass. “You can make it plain to them that Lester was simply another nut!”
“You can’t very well expect me to do that.” The builder looked at the architect with open dislike. “I told you that roof wasn’t safe long before Lester did. You know we were right. That’s why you’re changing it.”
Finley slid away from the subject of the roof. “All right, so you told me. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” Prohack suggested softly, “that’s because I didn’t threaten to make it public. I didn’t say I was going to write to the Architectural Society. I didn’t threaten to make a stink from here to California.”