Susan knew Sid had heard all that before. There was nothing new to be had from these priests. “All right,” he said grimly. “I want to move on to the second possibility. I have information that Father Ullman purchased a sport shirt at the Mayfield’s shop shortly after we sailed on Monday afternoon. He needed a larger size, and the shop’s manager brought him one when she closed up at ten o’clock. There’s a possibility that something happened between them in the cabin and Lisa Mandrake stabbed—”
“No!” Lisa shouted, springing away from Susan’s side. “You’re not pinning this on me! He had a visitor with him when I brought the shirt and I know who it was!”
“Then please tell me,” Cromwell said, “and we can put an end to this business.”
“I’ll tell the FBI tomorrow, and no one else.”
“Miss Mandrake, I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.”
She ignored him and started out of the room. “Hold her!” Sid yelled.
Susan grabbed her arm and pulled her around. Lisa aimed a punch at her but missed. She was in tears, half hysterical now, and Susan held her until Sid reached them with a pair of handcuffs.
“I’ll have to hold you, Miss Mandrake,” he said. “Maybe a night in our cell will shake some sense into you.”
Susan accompanied Sid and Lisa to the cell on the lower deck. “I’d better tell the other clerks they’ll have to cover your shift,” she told the girl. “I’ll be back to see you later.”
Father Broderick was waiting near the shop when Susan returned. “Do you think she did it?” he asked. “We don’t need any sort of scandal before we see the Pope.”
“We should know tomorrow when the federal agent comes on board. If she has anything to say, she’ll say it to him.”
The lower deck where the ship’s holding cell was located was a dreary place, lit only by dim ceiling bulbs along the corridor. Past midnight there was no one on duty and the prisoner was left alone on the cell’s single cot, up against the white bars that made up two of the cell’s four walls. Susan had visited Lisa earlier, but now, in the post-midnight hours, all was quiet.
It was sometime after one when the elevator down the corridor descended to that level and the doors glided open silently. The visitor moved softly, barely breathing, until he reached the cell with its dimly seen shape wrapped in blankets on the cot. For a moment he merely stared at the shape, then he took out a five-inch knife that flicked open at the touch of a button. He reached through the bars and drove it into the blanketed shape, once, twice— Suddenly the corridor was bright as day and Sid Cromwell dove across the room at the intruder. They rolled over on the floor and Sid knocked the knife free. “I’ve got him,” he said.
Susan and Lisa came out of the storeroom where they’d been hiding. “You can be thankful you weren’t under those blankets,” Susan told the girl.
Sid snapped the cuffs on Father Dempsey and raised the stout man to his feet. “I’ll clear those life jackets off the cot and you can take their place till morning.”
“Not a shred of evidence,” Susan said a little later, “but it worked.”
“You suspected it was Dempsey. How’d you know?” Sid Cromwell was sitting with Susan and Lisa in his office, drinking coffee till five o’clock, when he knew the captain would be up and eager to hear the good news.
She laughed. “I should say it was a woman’s intuition. The only priest who insisted on wearing his black suit and collar all the time was the one who wasn’t a priest at all. But there were a few facts, too. There were no fingerprints on that envelope containing the clergy retirement forms. That told me two things—that the forms were important enough for the killer to have wiped his prints off the envelope before abandoning it, and that they belonged to neither the dead man nor his roommate. Certainly Father Stillwell’s prints on an envelope in their drawer wouldn’t have been suspicious. No, the killer came on board to swindle the priests, posing as a priest himself. It was his bad luck to start with Father Ullman.”
“Why was that?” Lisa wondered.
“Because the fax Sid showed me about Ullman said he was originally from Little Rock, the same city Dempsey claimed to be from. Somewhere during their conversation Ullman tripped him up and realized he wasn’t from Little Rock, maybe wasn’t a priest at all. That was when Dempsey killed him. He had to abandon his con scheme after that, of course, so he left those forms in Ullman’s room rather than be caught with them. It might have been better to throw them overboard, but at that point he was afraid even to leave the cabin with them. He had to be very careful after that. He even faked an illness to
avoid being photographed with Captain Mason and having his picture on file. That was how I knew he couldn’t risk letting Lisa talk to the FBI after what she said this afternoon. He was there when she brought the shirt to Ullman’s room, and maybe she’d caught a glimpse of him.”
“You thought up this whole scheme to force his hand?” Sid marveled.
“How did you know she could bring it off?”
Susan smiled and hugged Lisa Mandrake. “I remembered she came to New York to be an actress. This afternoon was her first starring role.”
A GATEWAY TO HEAVEN
It had been a long time since Susan Holt had thought of Mike Brentnor, who used to work with her in the promotions section of Mayfield’s Department Store. Susan was director of promotions now and Mike had fallen off her radar years ago. That was why it was such a surprise hearing his voice on the phone that balmy May evening. “Susan? How are you? It’s Mike.”
She hesitated, thumbing through the index of her memory before asking, “Mike who?”
“Mike Brentnor! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me!”
“Of course not, Mike. But it’s been a lot of years. What are you doing now?”
“This and that. Right now I’m promoting the new racetrack they’re building near the Catskills. I was wondering if I could buy you a drink.”
There was a time when they’d been friends, but that was long over. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Mike. I’m pretty tired after a day at work.”
“It’s nothing personal. I want to talk about a business deal.”
“Mike—”
“How about lunch tomorrow? At that place across from Mayfield’s?”
She smiled into the phone. “You’ve been away too long, Mike. That place, Sandra’s, is long gone. It’s a drugstore now.”
“Where do you eat lunch?”
“Most days I skip it, or send out for a sandwich.”
“You’re missing a good opportunity, Susan.”
“For what?” she wondered. “A roll in the hay?” But she relented and said, “I could meet you for a quick drink tomorrow after work, but I’d have to leave by six-thirty.”
“Fine! Whereabouts?”
“Nathan’s is as good as any place. Five-thirty?”
“Swell! I’ll see you then.”
The following day was filled with the usual Wednesday staff meetings, plus a brief office party for one of Susan’s assistants who was leaving. By the time five o’clock rolled around she still hadn’t caught up with the work she’d planned. For a moment she considered skipping the drink with Mike Brentnor, but then decided she had to show up. She was not one to break her promises.
Nathan’s was crowded with the usual five-o’clock faces and she noticed a couple of young administrative assistants looking surprised to see her there. She almost regretted her choice of meeting places, but then she spotted Mike holding down a booth in the far corner. It took her an instant to recognize his face behind the dark moustache and neatly trimmed beard, but the familiar lopsided grin was still there.
“What’s with all the hair?” she asked, giving him a formal handshake in greeting.
“It’s my new, more mature self. How’ve you been, Susan?”
“Fine. I had a nice cruise on the Dawn Neptune awhile back. We opened a Mayfield’s branch on board.”
“Hey, I read about that!” He si
gnaled to the waitress. “What are you drinking?”
“Just a Corona for me. It’s a bit early in the evening.”
He ordered the same, and when the beers arrived he ceased the casual chatter and came to the point. “It’s about this new racetrack near the Catskills. It’s going to be a really class place, with Gateway resort hotel and casino already open. They were forever trying to get state approval. You know how those things are, owned by Native Americans but operated by professionals.” He took a sip of beer, collecting foam on his moustache. “I have two things I wanted to ask you about. First, might Mayfield’s be interested in opening a branch in the hotel? They’re developing a little street of luxury shops.”
Susan smiled and shook her head. “That’s out of my hands. New branches are a top management decision. It took them months of meetings to approve the Dawn Neptune branch.”
“All right,” he said. “It was worth a try. Here’s the second thing. I don’t know how you’re fixed financially, but there’s a great opportunity for new investors in this place.”
She simply stared at him. “You’re asking me to invest my money in it?”
“Look, Susan, you’ve got a top job at Mayfield’s now, earning big bucks.
You get in on the ground floor here and you’ll be set for life.”
“Sorry, Mike, I can’t do it.”
He lowered his voice a notch. “I’ve got the inside dope on this track. I can’t go into detail, but once this place is up and running it’ll be a gold mine for bettors with the right information.”
“And when will that be?”
“The hotel is open now, and they’re putting the finishing touches on the track and grandstand. We hope to have racing by the end of next month. The track itself was designed by a Chinese expert, Lam Kow Loon. He’s done a number of tracks in China and one in Hong Kong.”
Somehow the entire thing struck her as funny. He wasn’t trying to seduce her after all, just persuade her to invest in a racetrack. Susan downed the rest of her beer. “I’m sorry Mike, but I’m not the person you want. I’ve no loose change for investments of that sort.”
He wasn’t quite ready to give up. “Look, the Memorial Day weekend is coming. Can I drive you up there to look the place over? We could stay at the new hotel. Separate rooms, of course.”
Then she had to laugh. “I can’t. You’re a nice guy, but I guess we’re on different wavelengths. Have a good holiday.”
“I have to get going now.”
“Susan—”
She stood up. “Thanks for the beer. Good seeing you again, Mike.”
The Memorial Day weekend started out on the cool side, but Susan didn’t care. Her closest friend was out of town and she looked forward to just relaxing. She went for a run in Central Park on Saturday morning and returned to her apartment invigorated just after noon. The phone was ringing as she walked in the door. She recognized Mike Brentnor’s voice at once.
“Susan, I need help! I’m in big trouble up here.” She could hear noise in the background, perhaps a television.
“What’s going on? Where are you?”
”I’m with some people. They left me alone for a minute so I’m taking a chance and calling you. They’re dangerous. They’ve got guns.”
“You should call the police instead of me.”
“No! Listen, Susan, you have to come up here today.”
“I can’t—”
“Please, I’m begging you. I have no one else to ask. I’m staying at the Big Bear Inn near Middletown on route 86, but I’m not there now.”
“What do you want of me, Mike?” she asked.
“It’s that racetrack thing I was telling you about. These people need some plans that I have. I want you to get them for me.”
“Mike, this is crazy. I’m calling the police.”
“If you do that, they might kill me. Listen, all you have to do is go to the Big Bear Inn and pick up a portfolio being held for me at the front desk.”
“Why can’t you do it yourself?”
“They won’t let me go. I’ll explain later, but right now I need your help. You can drive up here in a couple of hours and it’ll all be over.”
For anyone else it would have been an easy decision to hang up the phone and call the police. Or else simply forget the whole thing. If Mike Brentnor had gotten himself into a jam he’d have to get himself out or suffer the consequences. She couldn’t imagine why he would reappear in her life now, with this crazy story about a racetrack.
And then something clicked in her memory. Mike knew that she’d been involved in several crime investigations in the past, and thought of herself as something of a detective. Maybe that’s why he’d turned to her for help.
“All right,” she heard herself say. “I’ll do it. I’ll just ask for your portfolio at the desk?”
“That’s right. I’ll call them and describe you, tell them it’s all right.”
“Look, Mike, why couldn’t one of these people you’re involved with do the same thing?”
“I can’t let them get the portfolio. It’s the only evidence I have against them.”
“If I get this thing, where’ll I bring it?”
“I’m at One Twenty-Four Summit Street, but keep the portfolio hidden after you get it. Someone at the hotel can give you directions here. I’m hoping they’ll let me go without having the portfolio, but I’ll trade it for my life if I have to.”
“All right,” she told him, hoping she wouldn’t regret her decision. “I can start out in about a half-hour.”
“They’re coming back!” he said quickly, breaking the connection.
Susan expected the traffic to be fierce on Saturday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend, but most travelers must have gotten a Friday head start. Once she crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge things moved right along and she found the Big Bear Inn along the new route 86 without difficulty. The room clerk was an attractive brunette woman with pale skin and a nametag that read Rita.
“I’m here to pick up a portfolio for Mike Brentnor,” she said.
“What’s your name?”
“Susan Holt.”
Rita nodded. “He called to say you’d be coming by.” Reaching under the desk she produced a brown leatherette case of the sort artists or architects might carry.
“Thanks,” Susan said. “Can you give me directions to Summit Street?”
“Turn right at the next stoplight. That’s Summit.”
She put the portfolio in the trunk of her car, under a blanket, and tried calling Mike, but there was no answer. The address was easy to find, a gray two-story house in need of repair. She pulled in the driveway and rang the doorbell. From somewhere inside she heard Mike yelling. She tried the door and it was unlocked. Carefully opening it, she found a sparsely furnished living room. Mike was seated on the floor, handcuffed to a radiator pipe.
“My God, Mike! What happened?”
“I think someone’s been shot. The killer might still be here. Do you have your phone?”
“Right there.”
“Call nine-one-one and get the police here.”
She called as instructed and then turned to Mike. “Tell me what happened.”
“Do you have the portfolio?”
“In my car trunk.”
“Don’t mention that to the police.”
“Where’s the key to these cuffs?”
“Lam Kow has it. I came here to meet him, but there was someone in the kitchen that I never saw. Lam Kow caught me phoning you, took my cell phone, and handcuffed me to this radiator. Then he went back in the kitchen and seemed to be arguing with someone. I heard a shot, then nothing. I thought I’d be a dead man any minute, but no one came back through the kitchen door. After a few minutes I heard a thumping, as if a body was being dragged downstairs.”
Already two state police cars were pulling up in front of the house. She opened the door for them. “Are you the one who called?” a trooper asked.
“That’s me, Susan
Holt.” She told them what she knew, omitting mention of the portfolio. “The killer might still be here.”
They quickly searched the house, guns drawn, and reported finding a body at the foot of the basement stairs. “I’m Corporal DeGeorgio,” one trooper said. “We found this key in the dead man’s pocket. It might fit those cuffs. The rest of the place is empty, but a back door is unlocked. This cell phone was on the kitchen table. Is it yours?”
“Yeah,” Mike told him. “He took it from me when he handcuffed me.”
The key unlocked the cuffs and Mike relaxed a little, happy to be free. His familiar lopsided grin returned. “I really got myself into a mess this time,” he told Susan. “I think you saved my life.”
Another police vehicle arrived, and two more troopers entered with cameras and crime-scene equipment. DeGeorgio directed them to the basement, then said, “We’ll need a preliminary statement from you, Mr. Brentnor.”
Mike repeated his story. “I’ve been doing some promotion work for the new racetrack and Gateway casino up here. This Chinese architect, Lam Kow Loon, is designing the racetrack part. He’s done some tracks in China and Hong Kong. Anyway, he was looking for investors to help pay for some additional features not covered in the original budget.”
“What sort of features?” DeGeorgio asked, making notes.
“I don’t know exactly. He never told me.” Mike avoided Susan’s eyes as he spoke.
“Go on. What happened here today?”
“He asked me to come up and talk over my promotion plans for the track.”
“Was he alone?”
“There was someone else in the kitchen that I didn’t see.”
“How did you happen to phone Miss Holt here?”
“He wanted me to suggest investors. I’d spoken to Susan about it earlier so I called her. Lam Kow thought I was trying to make trouble for him. He took out a gun and searched me for a weapon. Then he handcuffed my wrist to that pipe.”
She noticed he’d been careful not to mention the portfolio, which was what Lam Kow Loon must have been after. “Did you witness the shooting?” DeGeorgio asked.
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