The Ring of Truth

by George Harmon Coxe

  “A what?” The inflection was incredulous. “You mean like on somebody’s head?”

  “From Mrs. Tremaine’s head.”

  “How do you propose to get it? Stop her on the street and—”

  Standish interrupted. “You go up to her bedroom and look around the vanity or her dressing table. You look at her hairbrush. How can you miss?”

  “First tell me how you get in.”

  “Have you seen the house?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s got high hedges on each side. There’s no driveway from the street, which means that there must be an alley in the back leading to the garage. You put a man in a car down the street. When Mrs. Tremaine goes out—as she’s bound to sometime—you go in the back way and in two minutes you’re out again.”

  “I don’t think so, Doc. Breaking and entering is a tough rap.”

  Standish had expected a refusal but he was determined now to get another specimen for Clem Jones and he suggested an alternative.

  “Then do this, will you? Let me borrow your keys.” There was silence then and Standish let it go. He could hear, faintly, the sound of Cheney’s breathing. After five seconds of this the detective answered.

  “This must be awful important to you.”

  “It could be.”

  “Suppose,” Cheney said, sounding very thoughtful, “that I case the joint and see what I can come up with.”

  “All you have to do is park down the street from the house. When Mrs. Tremaine goes out call my office. If I’m not there Mary 11 know how to reach me. If I can get there before Mrs. Tremaine comes back, I’m willing to take a chance.”

  There was another pause but not quite so long as the first. Then Cheney said: “All right.”

  “You mean you’ll let me have the keys?”

  “No. If you’re that determined I’ll do it myself. But I’m going to throw a stipulation at you and you better think it over.”

  “What is it?”

  “If I get caught, and I don’t intend to, if they haul me in and ask me who I’m working for, I’m going to tell them. That means we’re both up the creek.”

  “It’s a deal,” Standish said. “I’m not going to give it another thought because you’re too good to get caught. When you get the hair take it down to Clem Jones at the morgue. He’ll be in the second-floor laboratory. He expects it and he knows what to do. I’ll be in touch later, Lou, and thanks.”

  Lieutenant Ballard met Paul Standish by appointment in front of his apartment house twenty minutes later. The phone call he had made from the morgue had been cryptic but insistent, and the idea behind his demand that this meeting take place here instead of in his office was due to the fact that he was not yet ready to have Mary Hayward worrying about what had happened the night before.

  Ballard was using his own car as he moved into the curb in front of the apartment entrance and parked illegally. He looked very neat in his gray suit and light-colored raincoat, and his solid, good-looking face showed no traces of irritation as he asked what this was all about. Standish, who had already surveyed the scene, moved to the brick front of the building and pointed to a deep gouge where the surface had been chipped away. He let the lieutenant take a good look at the head-high mark, then indicated another similar pockmark lower down which apparently had been made when he had tried to throw himself flat.

  “What do you think made these?” he asked.

  Ballard’s face grew somber and the gray eyes had a puzzled, watchful expression. “I might be able to guess if I knew why we were here. But you tell me if you know. What did make them?”

  “Bullets,” Standish said, and pointed at the sidewalk which showed an angular scar. “Three all told.”

  “When?”

  “Last night,” Standish said, and gave a detailed account of just what had happened after he had put his car in the garage. Ballard listened intently without interruption, his frown deepening. Once he re-examined the head-high scar on the wall and then he hunkered down to look at the other one. He dusted his palms, started to say something, and then waited until a woman wheeling a baby carriage had passed before he spoke.

  “And you have no idea at all who fired the shots?”

  “None.”

  “No license number.”

  “The car lights were out when I first noticed it.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Smallish, medium price, dark. Black or dark-gray or green.”

  “I mean what make?”

  “I can’t tell them apart any more unless I see the name or some emblem.” Standish flipped one hand toward the sidewalk. “It was raining. I was flat, trying to hide behind my bag. I didn’t stick my head out until I heard the car take off.”

  Ballard kicked at a cigarette butt on the sidewalk and seemed at a loss for words. A dispassionate appraisal of his attitude should have told Standish that the lieutenant was troubled by what had happened, that his glumness arose from his inability to explain the incident, that he was all too aware that it was no longer possible to brush aside the doctor’s theory.

  When he neglected to say so, Standish crowded him: “This one you can’t hang on Ralph Estey.”

  Ballard eyed him fretfully. “Okay. So maybe you’ve got an idea who we can hang it on.”

  Standish shrugged. “I tried to tell you what I thought once before.”

  “I remember. You wanted to explain the whys and wherefores of vehicular homicide. You had some idea that maybe Flemming was hired to run down Robert Tremaine. Flemming got away with it and you think he got greedy and wanted a second payment and this somebody fed him chloral hydrate and then shot him.”

  “Someone,” Standish said, “who knew about that fight Friday night and the threats that Estey had made about the gun. By setting up Estey as a suicide he figured you might wrap it up that way and you did.”

  “On the face of it we had no choice.” Ballard tipped his head, gray eyes half closed now and his suspicion showing. “Maybe you have got something we haven’t. Have you been talking to the widow and the ex-partner and—”

  “I’ve been doing a little talking, yes. I might be able to give you a motive or two. If they make any sense you can do some checking of your own.”

  “Good enough. Suppose you come down to Headquarters. We’ll go over this thing again, bit by bit and piece by piece.”

  “That’s a fine idea now that you’ve got an open mind.” Standish grinned to take the sting out of his words and said: “But it will have to wait a while, Tom. I’ve got to get to the office and I have some house calls to make. It may be around noon but I’ll do the best I can.”

  The offices of Choate & Tremaine occupied part of the mezzanine floor of the City National Bank. Two glass doors bearing the firm’s name gave on a large reception room with a counter at one end. The area beyond was cut into offices by wood-and-glass partitions but there were none of the usual trappings one expected to find in a brokerage house—no wall-to-wall quotation board, no illuminated Translux tape, no rows of customers’ chairs. This was no place for the day trader because the firm had a rather specialized clientele.

  Choate did not have a seat on the New York Stock Exchange. He operated through a correspondent and could buy and sell for clients in the customary way. It took longer to get quotes over the telephone but this was no great drawback since the bulk of the business was in new issues or secondary distributions, and in municipal bonds. Paul Standish, arriving at eleven-thirty with his house calls taken care of, stepped to the counter, gave his name, and said he would like to see Warren Choate on a personal matter. The girl at the small switchboard flipped a key, spoke briefly, glanced up, and gestured to a closed door on the right.

  Warren Choate’s private office was smallish and comfortable but more utilitarian than luxurious. He did not rise from behind his desk when Standish entered and closed the door, and his tan, muscular face was hostile, his manner abrupt.

  “This is one of my busy days, Doctor,”
he said. “What is it this time?”

  “It won’t take long,” Standish said. “Does Donald Tremaine have an account with you?”

  “He does.”

  “I’d like to know if you made a transaction for him in December.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Because he could say anything he wanted to. To be sure I’d have to consult the records. You have them.”

  “They are also confidential. You ought to know that. Without Donald’s consent I couldn’t give you that information. If you want to see the records you’d better get yourself a subpoena, Doctor.”

  Standish met the rebuff without rancor. His voice remained calm, confident, and explicit, even though what he said was mostly bluff.

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Choate.” He sat on the arm of the chair and took his time. “You may have heard that I talked to your wife and Mrs. Tremaine yesterday afternoon.”

  “I heard all right. They resented it and so do I. In fact I think Mrs. Tremaine is consulting her attorney now.”

  “That’s all right,” Standish said. “That’s her privilege. But I can tell you now that something happened last night that knocked a hole in the police theory that Ralph Estey killed Flemming and then committed suicide. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a call from Lieutenant Ballard later in the day and I don’t think he’ll have any trouble getting a subpoena. Of course, the minute he does, the newspapers will have it. If you’d rather have that publicity than tell me in private—well, that’s up to you.” He rose, straightened his jacket, and was almost to the door before Choate stopped him.

  “Just a minute.”

  Standish waited, hopes rising but trying to keep his face expressionless. For another second or two the man eyed him with cold distaste but when he spoke there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

  “What, exactly, is it that you want to know?”

  Standish considered the date of the accident and said: “I want to know what, if anything, you bought or sold for Donald Tremaine between December fifth and December nineteenth.”

  Choate hesitated, glanced away. Finally he put both palms flat on the desk and stood up. Fie straightened his shoulders and then started round the desk, saying that he would see what he could find. Standish walked over to the window, aware now of the strain he felt and grinning a little in his relief. He wiped his palms with his handkerchief and was waiting with cigarette in hand when Choate returned, a worried look on his face and a manila folder in his hand. He opened the folder on his desk and selected an oblong printed form. He looked at it once more, put it back.

  “We sold a hundred shares of American Factories for Donald on December ninth at fifty-one and a quarter.”

  “That would amount to around five thousand,” Standish said.

  “A little over, net.”

  “Did you credit his account or give him a check or cash or what?”

  Choate sat down again, his gaze fixed on the window. “I remember now,” he said. “He wanted cash. It wasn’t actually due because the settlement date is not the day of the sale, but there was no reason why we shouldn’t accommodate him. We wrote out a check for the records and he sat right there while I sent a boy downstairs to get the cash.”

  Standish said “Ah-h!” silently as a surge of satisfaction came over him. Aloud he said: “Thank you very much, Mr. Choate.”

  Again he was nearly to the door when Choate stopped him.

  “Were you serious about the police?”

  “I’m afraid I was,” Standish said. “I have an idea someone may stop by before the day is over. They’ll probably ask a lot more questions than I did.”

  17

  THE DOOR of Ballard’s little office stood open and there was no one in the outer room when Paul Standish walked in just after twelve to find the lieutenant at his desk, chin down and a brooding look in his gray eyes. He let Standish sit down without comment and his opening remark was gruffly critical but not unfriendly.

  “You took your time getting here.”

  “People get sick.” Standish grinned. “They need my expert and kindly attention.”

  Ballard’s grunt was noncommittal but he finally pushed erect in his chair and reached for a cigarette. “Okay,” he said when he had a light, “tell me about your theory on vehicular homicide.”

  Standish understood that this was just Ballard’s way of getting to more important things, but he complied with the request, quoting past examples in which an automobile had been used as an instrument of death, not only with homicidal intent but as a vehicle of suicide.

  “We’ve been able to prove it on one or two occasions. We suspect it in many others but it still goes on the books as another traffic accident.”

  Ballard listened without comment and his brooding look became less noticeable. “So,” he said finally, “let’s assume you’re right about Flemming and Robert Tremaine. Who do you think stood to gain the most by his death?”

  Standish spoke of the insurance policies and how they were payable. When Ballard began to take notes he mentioned Robert Tremaine’s personal estate and the trust fund which he controlled for Donald Tremaine.

  “In other words,” Ballard said, “our friend Donald would have had to wait nearly two years to collect if his brother hadn’t been killed. So what have we got in the money way?” He consulted his figures. “The widow got a hundred grand from the company insurance, eighty more from the doubleindemnity personal policies, and something like a hundred from her husband’s personal estate. . . . Choate owns the business. . . . Donald, assuming the trust fund is about the same size as his brother’s personal estate, got about the same as the widow—say two hundred and eighty thousand. . . . Hmmm,” he added, sounding impressed. “That’s a lot of scratch.”

  “Also,” Standish said, “there’s a more personal element that could shape up as a possible motive. The Choates are divorcing. Apparently they had already decided to call it quits before the accident. Mrs. Choate has a prospective husband in New York all ready and waiting for the final decree. Choate seems to have a thing going with Evelyn Tremaine. That also could have started sometime before the accident.”

  “Yeah. Well.” Ballard stopped and his eyes opened. “How the hell do you know all that? Where’d you get it?”

  Standish gave a small shrug and considered his reply. He was not ready yet to speak of Lou Cheney and his activities because this, as Mary Hayward had pointed out, was in the realm of extracurricular activity that might be a little hard to justify. On the other hand he was more than willing to pass along the information he had because this was something that could have been done by the police.

  “I talked to people,” he said.

  “What people?”

  “The people we’ve just mentioned. You could have done the same thing if you hadn’t been so sold on the murder-suicide idea. I couldn’t buy it, so I decided to do a little snooping on my own. You can double-check it—”

  “And don’t think we won’t,” Ballard said. “You got anything else that might help?”

  “Well—Jess Flemming seemed a little more prosperous right after that accident.”

  “We know about that.”

  “And you might want to ask Donald Tremaine why he sold five thousand dollars’ worth of stock on December ninth. And what he did with the money.”

  Ballard made another note and Standish said: “You brushed aside the chloral hydrate finding—”

  “I didn’t brush it aside,” Ballard said with some indignation. “I merely said there were other ways to figure it.”

  “The paraffin test was negative.”

  “And don’t think that didn’t bother me,” Ballard said. “I still say the test itself is not conclusive and wouldn’t stand up in court, but I kept asking myself the same question you did—how could Estey fire that gun without having some powder traces on his hand? But I’m not the boss around here. Cavanaugh was ready to buy the obvious and the State’s Attorney’s office wasn’t r
eady to make a move without additional evidence. Now maybe we can get some.” While Ballard had been talking Standish stood up to put out his cigarette. There was an oblong table which stood along the wall behind Ballard’s chair and when Standish used the ashtray he noticed a wire basket containing a large manila envelope. Beneath this and partly hidden was a short-barreled revolver and he leaned closer to read the name that had been typed on the envelope.

  “Is this Estey’s stuff?”

  “In the envelope, yes.”

  “Is this the gun? All right to look at it?”

  Ballard said yes and Standish picked up the gun, noting the tag which had been attached to the trigger guard. He flipped out the cylinder, flipped it back. He balanced it in his palm and as he did so he saw the manufacturer’s trademark imprinted on the black composition stock. The two initials in the circle were a capital S and a capital W.

  His glance started to move on and something pulled it back. An instant later the dark-blue eyes were brightly intent as his mind reversed itself. He retreated to his chair with the gun still in his palm and suddenly he was back in Hennessey’s and it was Friday night and he was seated across the table from Ralph Estey talking about jazz and musicians, trumpet players in particular. Afterward he had spoken of Estey’s threat. He remembered distinctly what the man had said. Now, glancing up, he saw that Ballard was watching him narrowly and there must have been something showing in his face because the lieutenant said: “What’s the matter?”

  “Is this the gun you found in the musicians’ room?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “It wasn’t there when I came in,” Standish said slowly in his concentration. “I asked you about it and you said it was a .32 and you had dug the bullet out of the wall. You had an idea it was the same gun he used on Flemming.”

  “And it was,” Ballard said. “Ballistics proved it.”

  “A Smith and Wesson.”

  “Right.”

  “I talked some with Ralph Estey Friday night after the fight,” Standish said, and repeated the pertinent sentences. “I heard the threat and I asked Ralph if he really had a gun. He said he did. He said it was an old H&R.”