by M. K. Wren
There wasn’t a crack in Dix’s adamantine facade.
“If that information,” he pronounced, “proves necessary to the prosecution of the case, it will be made available through proper legal channels.”
Conan was silenced; he recognized a stone wall when he met it. He took time to light a cigarette before he conceded, “All right, Mr. Dix. This round is yours.”
Dix hesitated at that capitulation, apparently a little surprised, then shifted to a conciliatory stance.
“Surely we shouldn’t be contenders in that sense, Mr. Flagg. I must, of course, adhere to certain principles and rules which aren’t of my making, but I assure you—”
“No. You can’t. At any rate, you obviously didn’t come here to answer questions, so why are you here?”
“Oh. Well…” He didn’t seem quite ready for that, but made the best of it. “As I said, I’m deeply involved in Eliot’s death as a friend and as an official of the IRS. I am, of course, anxious to see this case brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and I’m happy to say that the police, both local and state, have been very sympathetic in offering their cooperation and in assuring me that I’ll be kept up to date on the progress of the investigation.”
Conan waited for Dix to come to the point, but when he stopped and simply smiled expectantly, he realized the point had been reached. Dix expected him to follow the sterling example of the police.
He took a drag on his cigarette and smiled coolly into the smoke.
“Don’t count on that kind of sympathy from me.”
Dix stiffened into pink stoniness again.
“I’m sorry you’re taking that attitude, Mr. Flagg.”
“I’m sorry about your attitude, Mr. Dix.”
Stalemate. Meanwhile, Meg had concluded her repast and sought a comfortable spot to carry out the ablutions repletion demanded. It was almost inevitable that she chose Luther Dix’s lap, despite the fact that it was occupied with his hat. The choice was predicated on feline perversity. Dix didn’t like cats; at least not cats who put themselves in his way and nearly piled him on the floor. If Dix didn’t like her, then it followed automatically that Meg loved him.
She hopped into his lap, purring audibly.
Dix responded with a startled shout and a flailing of arms, and Meg made a yowling retreat to the top of Conan’s desk, landing in an explosion of papers and ashes; her trajectory was on a direct line with the ashtray.
“My God!” Dix breathed, aghast, then when Griswold hastily retrieved his hat and tried to brush the debris of ashes and cat hair off his suit, “Never mind, Russell.”
Conan got Meg under control along with his cigarette and the hot coals smoldering among the scattered papers, and said—sympathetically—“Mr. Dix, I’m…sorry about that.”
“It’s quite all right,” he sniffed, recovering his equilibrium as he restored the crown of his hat to its proper shape. “Has the cat had rabies shots?”
Even Griswold had a hard time keeping a straight face, and Conan found it necessary to lean down to pick up the ashtray from the floor before he answered.
“Yes, she’s thoroughly inoculated.” He rubbed the potential health hazard behind her ears, offering words of soothing comfort, which she accepted ungraciously, tail twitching, but she consented to stay on his lap.
Dix made a point of checking his watch.
“Before I go, there’s another matter I’d like to discuss with you, Mr. Flagg, and that is the missing Surf House records. Since they were in the possession of an IRS agent at the time of their disappearance…well, I’m sure you understand our concern about them.”
Conan said casually, “Well, it might be a little difficult to substantiate the deficiency claim without them.”
“Uh…yes, I suppose it would. Mr. Flagg, I’m sure you have no idea what happened to those records.”
“I do not.”
Dix was already nodding before the words were out. “Well, I just wanted you to know that the IRS is very anxious to recover those records. So anxious we wouldn’t be at all inclined to ask questions if they should be returned to us by any means whatever, even mailed in the proverbial plain brown wrapper”—he paused to chuckle at his little joke—“with no return address.”
Conan felt a chill in his cheeks and clamped his teeth on his anger. Behind that oblique offer was the assumption that Brian Tally had stolen the records—and killed Nye—and that Conan, by virtue of his close relationship with him, was in a position to expedite their return.
Dix was getting uncomfortable with the silence.
“Of course, we realize the records may have been destroyed, but in the hope that they haven’t been…”
Conan said levelly, “This is a criminal case, Mr. Dix, and the rules are a little different from those you’ve become accustomed to in the IRS. In a criminal case, a man is presumed innocent until proven guilty.”
Dix’s face reddened again, and that, at least, Conan thought, was to his credit.
“Yes. Of course.” He inspected the brim of his hat—for stray cat hairs, perhaps—then rose. “Well, we must be on our way. Russell?”
He was already on his feet. “Yes, sir.”
Conan didn’t rise, and Meg, from the sanctuary of his lap, offered only a strabismic glare and a twitch of her tail in recognition of their leave-taking.
*
Conan started the coffee pot on its volcanic cycle and smoked a cigarette down to the filter while he paced the small room like a cage. When he reached the point where he could tell himself—and believe it—that Luther Dix was only doing his duty as he saw it, he moved Meg from his chair to the top of the desk and sat down to make a phone call. Again he found Steve Travers at the police station.
“I told you I’d call anyway, Steve.”
“Sure. Well, you must’ve at least found out why Dix wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh, yes, he made that clear enough.” He related Dix’s offer concerning the Surf House records, and Steve’s colorful response took him back to his youth and some of the rawhide-tongued buckaroos who rode for the Ten-Mile.
In conclusion Steve sputtered, “No questions asked! Damn it, didn’t he think the police might have some questions if those records turned up?”
“He only speaks for the IRS, Steve. Anyway, the interview wasn’t a total loss, but what I learned was mostly from what he didn’t say. Except he admitted that Nye asked to do the second audit, and since he was so tenacious and conscientious—Dix didn’t hold back there—maybe it was because something bothered him about the first; something that changed the picture. Also, I think we can safely assume that the first audit was prompted by an informer’s tip.”
“That must’ve been one of the things he didn’t say.”
“Yes, and he was so careful about not saying it, I believe it.”
“Conan, sometimes—never mind. You can enlighten me later. Right now, you might get some enlightenment if you get down here fast. Kleber’s out, so you’re safe.”
“What kind of enlightenment are you offering?”
“You getting picky so early in the game? I’m offering Lorna Moody Nye and Luke Kautsky, present owner of a red Ferrari. They’re here.”
Conan jerked upright. “Where? At the station?”
“In person. She came to make arrangements about her husband’s body, and I suggested maybe they should answer a few questions about the late unlamented.”
Conan was on his feet. “I’ll be there in ten—no, five minutes.”
Chapter 10
Lorna Nye and Luke Kautsky were waiting in Kleber’s office, which Steve had commandeered in his absence. Steve entered first and seated himself behind Kleber’s desk.
“Sorry for the delay. Oh”—as if it were an afterthought—“this is Conan Flagg. He’s working on the case, too. Mrs. Lorna Nye…Mr. Luke Kautsky.”
Mrs. Lorna Nye said coolly, “I don’t use that name anymore. I use my maiden name. Moody.”
She was seated in front
of the desk, her back straight, not touching the chair; in fact, she was so daintily petite, it seemed doubtful that she exerted any weight on the chair at all. Her hands were folded in her lap, gloved in blue-gray kid exactly the same shade as the suede coat with the clever gold buckles, which was open to reveal one of those chic little dresses of French wool whose subtleties only money could buy.
It was very becoming; anything she chose to wear would be becoming. This was the pretty girl in the graduation picture in Eliot Nye’s wallet, and she had graduated into an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Here was a face to launch a flotilla or two; fair, flawless skin contrasting nicely with black hair in which blue highlights reflected the color of her eyes, and those eyes, large in her exquisitely modeled face, shadowed by dark lashes under finely arched brows, were mesmerizing in their living perfection.
Conan could understand Luke Kautsky’s protective, even possessive, attitude. He had taken a stand at her side, and a sporty-looking feller he was, with curling jet hair and mustache complementing his saturnine features. There was something about him that suggested a Renaissance lord; beneath the handsome, even elegant facade, the quiescent street-fighter lurked.
He studied Conan with dark, skeptical eyes.
“Are you with the police?”
“No. I’m a private investigator.”
“Who hired you?”
“Why do you ask?”
He hesitated, then when he couldn’t come up with an answer, said nothing at all, to Conan’s amazement.
Steve began in his lulling drawl, “Well, I’m glad the two of you came down to Holliday Beach today, although I’m sorry about the circumstances, Mrs.—uh, Ms. Moody.”
She said, “So am I, Mr. Travers.”
Kautsky asked, “Why are you glad we came here today?”
“Because I wanted to talk to both of you.”
“About what?”
Steve gave him his long-distance squint.
“Ms. Moody’s husband was murdered Monday night. I can’t really believe you’re surprised the police would want to talk to her. Or to you.”
Kautsky considered that, then went directly to the heart of the matter.
“Are Lorna and I under suspicion?”
“At this point, half a dozen people are under suspicion just because we don’t have enough information yet to mark any of them off the list.”
“If that list includes Lorna and me, I think we should have our lawyer here before we answer any questions.”
Steve sighed. “You’re not under arrest. Right now I’d just like to ask a few questions, although I will want a statement later.”
“And I’ll give you one—in my lawyer’s presence.”
Lorna reached into the blue leather purse by her chair, extricated a compact, and gilded the lily of her perfect nose with a pat of powder.
“Oh, really, Luke, we have nothing to hide. If they must have a statement, let’s get it over with.”
“No, Lorna, I don’t think so.”
She snapped the compact shut and put it away.
“You’ll only make them more suspicious, you know. After all, I talked to the man at the motel; I gave him my name. They know we were there, so why try to hide it? We didn’t kill Eliot.”
Conan wondered who she was trying to convince, and he had the uneasy feeling this dialogue had been rehearsed.
She turned to Steve. “Isn’t that what you wanted to ask us about? Luke and I going to Eliot’s motel?”
“Yes. Why did you go there?”
Kautsky was on the verge of protesting again, but when he looked at Lorna the very sight of her seemed to rob him of resolve; he lapsed into dubious silence.
“Oh, it was stupid, really,” she admitted, her Botticelli mouth almost less than beautiful for a moment. “I mean, even if nothing had…happened to Eliot. I’m sure you know that I left my husband a year ago. Our marriage was hopeless, but he refused to agree to a divorce.”
Steve asked baldly, “Why?”
“Religion,” she pronounced sacrilegiously. “He believed in that till death do us…oh—” The color rushing to her cheeks was incredibly fetching. “I didn’t mean…”
Kautsky had stiffened, but Steve only assured her amiably, “I’m sure you didn’t, Ms. Moody, and not many people, or the law, take that part of the marriage vow literally.”
She smiled gratefully and pulled in a quick breath.
“But Eliot did, and I was helpless against that as long as he was determined to contest any complaint I filed. You see, I—well, I’m afraid most judges wouldn’t understand my situation.”
“You mean in regard to Mr. Kautsky?”
The dark lashes swept down demurely. “Yes.”
Kautsky said coldly, “Lorna and I aren’t married at this moment only because of Eliot’s medieval morals.”
Steve replied indifferently, “Mr. Kautsky, I’m sure your intentions are honorable, I just—”
“You’re just looking for a motive against Eliot in our relationship, aren’t you?”
“Is there one?”
The Medici eyes flashed, then abruptly hooded themselves.
“No.”
“What I’m trying to find out”—Conan turned to Lorna—“is why you came to see Nye Monday night. Anything incriminating in that?”
“Of course not,” she replied, as if to a patent absurdity. “Actually, it was just—well, a whim. I’d filed another complaint, but Eliot hadn’t made any response at all. I thought if I could—if Luke and I could talk to him face to face, maybe he’d finally understand.…”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know. I mean, we didn’t get a chance to talk to him. Actually, I was a little relieved. It seemed like a good idea when we left Portland, but by the time we got to Holliday Beach…well, I wasn’t so sure.”
Steve tilted back his chair to cross his legs.
“You didn’t talk to him?”
“No. He wasn’t in his room. I knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. And it was so late—after midnight. The curtains were drawn and there weren’t any lights, but his car was there, one of the government cars he uses when he’s on a field audit.”
“Was he a heavy sleeper?”
“No. In fact, he was always a very light sleeper.”
“Do you think maybe he just decided he didn’t want to open the door for you and Mr. Kautsky?”
She pondered that briefly, then shrugged.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“What did you do when you didn’t get any response from him?”
“We went back to Portland. What else was there to do?”
Steve let that pass. “What time was it when you left the motel?”
“Oh…” She looked up at Kautsky, but seemed oblivious to his growing restiveness. “It was about twelve-thirty. No later than that, I’m sure.”
“When did you get back to Portland?”
“Well, about two-thirty. It’s a two-hour drive.”
“Do both of you live alone?”
Her piquant chin came up. “Yes. And separately. I’ve worked and paid my own way since I left Eliot.”
Conan wondered who paid for that chic outfit, and a flickering movement in Steve’s eyes suggested he was wondering the same thing.
“The reason I asked if both of you live alone is that I was hoping somebody could verify your arrival in Portland at two-thirty.”
“Oh. Well, no, there wouldn’t be anybody…but we can both testify to that.”
Steve didn’t comment on the value of that testimony. “How did you know your husband was here working on the Surf House Restaurant audit? Did he tell you?”
She didn’t even blink at that barbed query.
“I haven’t seen Eliot for six months, but when I decided to talk to him Monday night, I called our—his house. I got no answer, so I called an old friend, another IRS auditor. He told me Eliot was here and staying at the Seafarer, but he didn’t know
which room. That’s why I had to ask the man at the motel.”
“And your friend told you about the Surf House audit?”
She hesitated, then answered cautiously, “Well, he said Eliot was here to do an audit.”
“Of the Surf House?”
“What? Well, I don’t…remember…”
Steve frowned slightly. “But you said—”
“Oh, all right. Yes, I knew he was auditing the Surf House, but I won’t give you the name of the person who told me. That would only get him in trouble with Daddy Di—I mean, Mr. Dix.”
Steve laughed. “I, uh, met Mister Dix.”
She laughed, too, with a shared understanding, but Luke Kautsky wasn’t amused.
“Lorna, you’ve said enough.” His lordly displeasure was focused on Steve, but at his sharp tone, Loma looked up at him like a child who had just been slapped.
“But, Luke, what did I say?”
“Nothing, darling.” Even a condottiere lord wasn’t proof against those eyes. “I just think Jacobs should be here before we answer any more questions.”
Steve made a palm-up gesture toward the phone.
“You can use this one, or I’ll try to find you a more private one.”
“You want me to call my lawyer now?”
“I need your statements, Mr. Kautsky.”
He frowned irritably. “You mean he has to come here?”
“Considering it’s a murder case, he should be willing to make the trip for his clients.”