by Marvin Kaye
“Or Provincetown?”
“Brilliant! He’s really going to put his factory on the end of a strip of land that’s going to get cut off every time there’s a storm? If you looked in the Toy Fair directory, you’d see Goetz Sales has its manufacturing plant in Phillipstown and a couple of warehouses stationed along the East Coast.”
“All right,” I said, “so I’m stupid. I suppose ADV is an advertising expense?”
“If you worked with Dean Wallis, you’d know that TTBG is the Toy Trade Buying Guide, a twice-yearly directory listing printed by the Garrity-Allen group. Anything else you see now?”
I shook my head. “Unless HW is ‘Harry Whelan,’ I can’t see anything else.”
“That,” said Hilary, “is probably what it does mean. It must be his salary.”
I shrugged. “So? Does that tell us anything?”
“Possibly. But never mind. If nothing else suggests anything, maybe we’d better forget about it for now. Let’s get back to what I was saying a moment ago. Look up Mrs. Goetz in the phone book, go see her, find out, first, where she was last night ... next, what reason she might have to wish her husband dead ... third, what her connection was and/or is with Pete Jensen. And anything else important you can uncover. I’ll stop in next door and see whether I can find out what Jensen was doing last night.”
“How will you manage that?”
“I’ll think of something,” she said confidently.
“I’m sure you will. I thought you might be able to give me an idea of how I’m supposed to approach Mrs. Goetz.”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to use your ingenuity.”
“Really?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you credited me with any.”
“Oh, be still!” she ordered, leaning against the vacant desk, thinking intently. Shaking her head at last, she murmured, “If only you had a detective’s license, it’d be so much easier—”
I didn’t comment on that notion. But I could well imagine the bizarre working relationship between Hilary and me under the sort of arrangement she was daydreaming about.
Standing up straight, Hilary patted me on the shoulder a little patronizingly and said, “Well, I’m not going to waste time worrying about it. Play it by ear with Mrs. Goetz. You’ll think of something.”
It irked the hell out of me. One minute Hilary was ready to label me witless; the next, I was reliable enough to send forth on my own native resources.
She continued to speak. “What we’d better do now is get the keys off Goetz, so I can lock up the room while I’m out.” But she didn’t move—and it hit me that Hilary expected me to filch them off the body in the other room.
I was touched by it. Was it possible Hilary was a little squeamish? It was the last characteristic I would have expected to find in her, but I’ve learned that differential unpredictability is the only predictable constant of many women, so ...
So I was the one who stooped and rummaged through the dead man’s pockets. As I did, a second thought occurred to me: maybe Hilary wanted me to do it to prevent her own fingerprints from being discovered anywhere on, or near, the corpse.
I found a brown leather key case with five keys in it; we tried them all and zeroed in on the one that fit the front door.
About five minutes later, as I was stepping off the bridge onto the ninth floor of FAB, I realized two things almost at the same time: first, that Hilary had specified we try to discover the whereabouts of all suspects on the preceding evening. Yet we had no particular reason for assuming that the murder took place then.
The other item that popped into my head was something that had been niggling away at the back of my mind ever since I’d kneeled by the body a second time.
The hand that held the Scrabble tiles had changed position.
12
I WAS SORRY I DIDN’T know more about rigor mortis. For all I could tell, the movement of Goetz’s hand may have been nothing more than a natural phenomenon. But if it was not natural, and Hilary was responsible, what could it mean?
While I pondered this latest problem, I walked down the corridor of the ninth floor of FAB. Just before I came to the elevators, a man leaving an office bumped into me. Without apologizing, he rushed to a waiting down car. I was too preoccupied to pay much attention at first; then, all at once, I realized the guy who jostled me was wearing a pair of glasses with a black cord attached. ...
I shouted at Lasker’s retreating back, but he ignored me, stepping into the elevator. I ran after him—and nearly got my nose pinched off for my trouble, as the door closed on me.
The ninth floor was teeming with businessmen, as well as showgirls circulating with buttons bearing slogans like “The House That Staples Built,” referring to the Milton Bradley game company. (Staples: year-in-and-out best sellers like Bradley’s Game of Life, as opposed to “fad” items, such as Wham-O’s hula hoops.) The reason for the ninth level being so jammed is that it serves as a double juncture point: to 1111 via the bridge, and it is also the changeover floor for the two elevator banks, local floors one to nine and express floors nine to fifteen.
Because of the crowds, it took me a moment to extricate myself from the press of people that, like me, had tried to shove into the lately departed car. Managing to pull free, I retraced my steps back along the hall; I stopped and checked the name on the door of the office Lasker’d emerged from.
It read: ALEMARC & FROST. The second deck of the inscription consisted of the sole world COUNSEL.
This was an interesting development—Tom Lasker’s pell-mell rush to The Toy Center was not to choke the life out of Sid Goetz, as he’d threatened, but to visit Goetz’s attorney, Willie Frost. Or, on the other hand, had he gone to the showroom first, discovered the body and panicked? If so, what could he hope to gain by going to see Frost?
I didn’t know what to make of it, but I decided to postpone interviewing Mrs. Goetz long enough to make Frost’s acquaintance.
Opening the door, I entered a small receptionist’s chamber, an oak-paneled cubbyhole consisting of desk, chair, and typewriter table. There was nobody in sight. After waiting a few seconds, during which time I planned my approach, I called out for the attorney.
A voice from the back room answered me, telling me to wait. It was a hearty, ringing tone, and it caused the ashtray to rattle on the glass top of the reception desk.
A man entered, munching on a prune danish; when I asked him whether he was Alemarc or Frost, he laughed, spewing crumbs. “No such beast as Alemarc,” he told me. “That’s just to impress you enough to walk in; you ever see a law office with only one name on the door?”
I said I never had, then introduced myself and asked if I could speak with him. Frost gestured casually in greeting, then waved me to follow him back into the room from which he’d just issued forth. As he returned to his office, he spoke through a mouthful of pastry.
“Have to excuse the informality, I don’t have a receptionist just now, trying to cut budgetary corners, you know. But the desk makes people think she just ran out for a few minutes. In fact, sometimes I even put a steaming cup of coffee next to the typewriter—but that’s only when another attorney has to see me on a case. ... Uh, have some coffee? Can’t offer you any pastry, this is my last piece, but you’re welcome to some Decaf, or maybe there’s a little Taster’s Choice left ... I’ll see. ...”
He began to rummage through an old file cabinet standing behind the chief article of furniture, a massive oak desk, which dominated the cramped, hospital-green cubicle he called his headquarters. I declined the coffee, then began to tell him the story about my being an independent PR man looking over the Goetz Sales account, but I could see it wasn’t taking, so I let it peter out halfway through.
Frost was a squat man, very neatly dressed in a dark brown suit with high-cut vest; his chief memorable features were crew cut brown hair and a thick-lipped wide mouth. Folding his hands over his little paunch, he leaned back in his chair and grinned at me.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a drink,” he said, irrelevantly, “but I’ve been off the sauce for some time now, and I can’t keep away from it if it’s in the office, so I avoid the temptation altogether.” The grin broadened. “Don’t smoke, either, anymore. And not too much recreation, if you know what I mean. So, can you guess what I do for entertainment?”
I was going to cut in and change the subject, but he barreled on ahead. “My hobby,” said Frost, “is the telephone company.”
I blinked, shook my head slightly to see if I’d heard right.
“It’s the last battle of the sexes,” Frost explained. “The American male in business and the professions pitched against the American woman in the lower levels of labor. Try to make a call from midtown Manhattan during the business hours. Local or long distance, it doesn’t matter-the dumb-ass phone company turns it into science-fiction, you know what I mean?”
I assured him I did.
“So I find out ways to get back at it—and them, the operators, the broads trying to make it hot for us! I call long-distance collect to fictitious people, just to give them something to do. Or I fight with the business office, tell them I never made certain calls that show up on my bill. They never argue in the end. You know what I do with the money I save? Charity!”
I tried to butt in, but he was really wound up. Pulling open a drawer in his desk, Frost pointed down at a batch of round perforated objects. “You see there? That’s my collection.”
“Of what?”
“Transmitter discs! Unscrew the mouthpiece of a phone, you find these floating free inside. I collect them.” He beamed at me, expecting approval.
I would have pointed out that his little campaign against Ma Bell was only helping to perpetuate the very inefficiency he deplored. But arguing with him on this point would be playing to his long suit, so I decided to skip it.
Frost polished off the rest of his prune danish, swilled some coffee, then sat forward, eyeing me in the same friendly fashion. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know who you are, but you look like a nice guy. Forget about that con job about PR for Sid, because I know everything Sid is into, and he never said anything about PR. And anybody in this industry knows that trying to build an image for Goetz Sales would be like selling perfume named ‘Augean Stables!’ So what do you really want to see me for?”
“I want to know what you were doing last night.” I figured a non sequitur frontal attack might just work.
Frost looked amazed, laughed. “What the hell? You a detective?”
I shrugged, volunteering nothing.
“Well, I don’t know what good it’ll do you,” he answered, still looking amused, “but I spent most of the evening with a friend.”
“Who?”
He shook his head. “Privileged information. Now maybe if you tell me who you are, I’ll consider answering.”
What could I lose? I said I was with Trim-Tram Toys. His mouth opened in appreciation and he exhaled an inaudible “Ah” as he nodded his head.
“So that’s what’s up!” the attorney said. “You’re looking for some extra pressure to put on Sid when you bargain, and you want me to provide it, right?”
I didn’t want to tell him I hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was getting at, so I just grunted a noncommittal “Maybe.”
“At least,” Frost continued, “that’s more original than simply offering to buy me off. But it’s still blackmail, my friend.”
Then I began to get an idea of which way the wind was sitting. Could it be the “friend” Frost was with the night before was Goetz’s wife?
Deciding to lead Frost along the inference he was making, I avoided commenting on his allegation. “Look,” I told the lawyer, “all I want to do is find out a few things—”
“It won’t do you any good,” said Frost, still amiable as hell. “There’s no pressure you can put on me that’ll worry me enough to side with you against Sid. Still,” he added, raising a hand to stifle any objections, “if it’ll save time and get Trim-Tram corporately off my individual neck, maybe I can cooperate a little. I don’t feel like being badgered and bugged! Now what is it you’re after?”
I told him that I was not at liberty to discuss my affiliation with Trim-Tram at the moment, but if he could wait till the end of the day, I probably could fill him in at that time.
He looked puzzled and more than a little worried. It was apparent he didn’t know quite what to make of me. “A guy comes in here,” he said to the ceiling in wry, declamatory tones, “and starts by telling me a phony story about himself. Then he vaguely threatens to blackmail me ... only he wants neither my money nor my support for Trim-Tram against Sid Goetz, my client. All he wants is information. ...” He stared upward for a few seconds in silence, then lowered his gaze and grinned at me. “All right, I’m just stupid enough to go along with this idiocy, because curiosity has got the best of me. Just what do you want to know, anyway?”
“Who’s been doing Sid Goetz’s spying at Trim-Tram?”
“Uh-uh,” he chuckled, waggling his finger at me. “Now that is classified information. And I’m beginning to see why you’re really here!”
“Then you admit there is a spy!”
“None of those cheap shyster tricks! I just said it’s classified, that’s all.” He nodded his head, grinning his copyrighted grin. “But I appreciate the ploy.”
“May I assume you know whether there is a spy or not, and if there is, that you also know his identity?”
“All you can assume is that I know practically everything Sid Goetz does which could land him in a legal mess.”
“Which is practically everything, right?”
He guffawed, but didn’t answer.
“Does Goetz keep a gun?”
He stopped guffawing. It was the first time he’d shown me a serious face. “My God, what’s this all about?” Frost asked, half-rising out of his seat.
“Well, does he keep a gun?”
“Probably. I don’t know. He might.”
“Where does he keep it?”
“I just told you I don’t know! What the hell kind of questions are these? What’s happened to Sid?!”
I asked him why he assumed something had happened to his client.
“Because he hasn’t answered his phone all morning. And Ruth—Mrs. Goetz—says he hasn’t been home since last night.”
I told him the only thing I knew was that Goetz was missing. Then I quickly changed the subject. “How about Goetz’s partner?”
Frost again looked startled. “How about him? How did you—” He paused, took a deep breath. “All I know about Pete Jensen is that Sid screwed him pretty badly quite a while ago, last year, as I remember it. But that’s ancient history.”
“Did Mrs. Goetz have a thing going with Jensen at one time?”
Frost nodded. “But that’s past news. Besides, Sid knew all about it.”
“He what?”
“He put his wife onto Jensen in the first place. It’s not the first time he’s used her for business purposes.” The lawyer smiled ruefully. “In case you haven’t heard, Sid is one sweet little man.”
I told him I’d heard some rumors of that stamp. Then I asked him if she had ever “met” Tom Lasker.
“Jesus Christ,” Frost swore, “what the hell else do you have up your sleeve? No, no, I don’t admit anything!”
“Not even that Lasker just left your office a few minutes ago?”
“If you know, why do you have to ask?”
“Because,” I told him, “I want to find out what he came to talk about.”
“Them’s mighty deep waters, podner ... professional ethics and all that.”
“It strikes me you’re supplying precious little information.”
For a change, Frost looked unhappy. “Look, I really have no objection to the kind of things you want to know about Sid, the bastard, but leave Tom Lasker out of this. He’s reasonably decent. Some warped values, maybe—but he’s getting straig
ht. So leave him alone.”
“He’s the spy, isn’t he?”
“I really don’t want to go into it,” Frost repeated. “I made a pact with him, so I can’t tell you anything.”
“Lasker’s the spy. Isn’t he?”
The lawyer got out of his chair, looked at me with annoyance as he rounded the desk and perched on the edge nearest me. “Look, if I tell you the truth in one word, will you believe me?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay. The word is no. Lasker is not the spy.”
I shrugged. “If you say so.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Lawyers have been known to stretch the truth occasionally.”
“Well, I never said I wouldn’t stretch it. But I’m not lying,” Frost asserted. “Now—is there anything else you want to know?”
“Where you and Ruth—Mrs. Goetz—went last night.”
He laughed heartily, enjoying the way his earlier slip was being parroted. No mockery, or ill will—just good-natured mirth. Then he beamed down on me. “Do me two favors, will you?”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll do them?”
“Maybe.”
“No,” Frost said, “you’ve got to promise.”
He was starting to get on my nerves. Nobody could stay as unruffled as he pretended to be. But I agreed to do whatever he wanted.
“First of all, I want you to promise that you’ll really get in touch with me later today and tell me what the hell this is all about.”
“I already said I would. Now,” I repeated, “where did you and Ruth Goetz go last night?”
“The second thing I want from you, ...” he continued, undeterred, “is ...”
“Yes?” I interrupted impatiently, “what is it?”
“I want you not to slam the door on your way out.”
13
YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT Ruth Goetz looked like. I didn’t.
Perched on an upholstered high chair in her Tudor City apartment, the late businessman’s widow tried valiantly not to burst through her tortured clothing. Her orange wool sweater, four sizes too small (two apiece), should have contrasted pleasantly with the green beach slacks with laces in back, but the wildly tossed salad that was her red hair declared everlasting war with the rest of the ensemble. Her skin, pale white, was covered with myriads of tiny freckles; mercifully, she didn’t go in for makeup.