Hot Red Money

by Baynard Kendrick

  “On the rocks?”

  “A double. You’re already a couple up on me. I’m on the rocks, myself. What a day!”

  “You shock me, darling.” Lycoming busied himself with the drinks. “You’re the great advocate of shedding all anxieties. Don’t tell me any events could be serious enough to bring the Goddess of Reason down from Parnassus and toss her into our human ulcer ring.” He took the two drinks over and sat down facing her.

  “Just a suicide.” She took a greedy swallow, and put the oversize glass on the black onyx table. “And a murder. Isn’t that enough to upset me?”

  “It’s in the papers, Marian. Nothing about the suicide. Were they connected in any way?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Too bad you couldn’t keep it quiet.”

  “How could I? The police have been swarming all over the place. Last night and today. It’s not my fault.” She emptied her glass and held it out, then lit a cigarette from the big silver Ronson.

  Lycoming took her glass to the bar. With the gin bottle in his hand, he said, “Whose fault was it?”

  “What do you mean by that crack, Henry?”

  For a moment as he poured and stirred his mild eyes narrowed and the real Lycoming answered her. “My opinion is that it’s a damn careless way to run an institution—”

  “To have a murder committed that I couldn’t possibly help or foresee?”

  “Yes. A little foresight, just a slight check on character references, and you might have avoided all this unfavorable publicity.” The real Lycoming was frightening. Frosty as the drink he was mixing. Boring straight at her. Pitiless, and hard as the onyx top of the bar. Then suddenly the mask was back on and he was amiableness itself—the sweet-tempered, kind-hearted, good naturedly complaisant publisher of Lycoming’s Leads once more.

  He took her drink back and handed it to her with a smile which she didn’t return. “Character references,” she repeated thoughtfully. “It’s a new conception, Henry. One-hundred-per-cent American—almost. Don’t treat any juveniles if they’re mentally ill—they may be delinquents. So many are. And they might be murdered by members of a rival gang. All foreigners are absolutely taboo, until you check with the police of the country they came from and verify their political leanings.” Over her glass her pale blue eyes were unreadable. “What do you happen to know about Igor Sandor, Henry? His murder seems to have upset you unduly.”

  “Nonsense, darling. You know perfectly well why I’m worried. You may be a doctor, but I know better than anyone else how high strung you are. It’s the effect it may have on you. I was just trying to point out—”

  “That the murdered man was a Hungarian. A refugee. In the United States legally perhaps, but using an assumed name—Aaron Turlock. His real name is Igor Sandor. Also he was an ex-employee of father’s precious Crescent Valves, Inc. I know what you were trying to point out. Nothing is so sensitive as stock, and nothing is so important. Well, it was damn careless of me to admit him into Amity Rest Home, and very thoughtless of him to get himself killed. Crescent Valve stocks may go down.”

  The front door bell chimed in the kitchen.

  “You expecting anyone?” Lycoming made a gesture of rising.

  “Max.”

  “Oh. That’s nice. I’ll mix him a drink. Old-fashioned, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t try to sound so surprised, Henry. You knew he’d be here.”

  “Did I?” He found a lump of sugar and unstoppered the small bottle of Angostura bitters.

  Carry came through to answer the door.

  “He’s just as concerned as you are about the frightful mess I’ve made and my delicate nervous condition. He phoned as soon as he read the papers.”

  There were voices in the foyer. Two men. A moment later Max Rheinemann came in briskly, his ferret features set in a bland smile.

  Marian Rheinemann forced herself to her feet and stared incredulously. Following on the heels of her dapper gray-flanneled husband came the last person on earth she expected or wanted to see.

  Max pecked at her cheek. “This is Maury Morel, Marian. Staff writer for the Globe-Star.” He seemed unaware of the sparks of distaste in Dr. Rheinemann’s eyes. “Mr. Morel caught me at my office just as I was leaving. We had a nice chat, but short. He said that you two had met before and that, er—”

  “She knew me better as Fink Morel, the Party traitor.” Maury gave his irritating grin. “I tried to date her and got thrown out on my ear.”

  “Nevertheless,” Max said, “I persuaded Mr. Morel to drive up here with me.” Max turned. “That’s our very good friend, Henry Lycoming, tending bar. Perhaps you’d care for a cocktail, Mr. Morel. I see he’s already mixed an Old-fashioned for me.”

  Maury gave Lycoming a friendly nod, got one in return, and said, “I could go for a Martini.”

  “Fine.” Lycoming caught a half-gesture from Marian. He said, “I’m joining the press. Shall I make the two Martinis three?”

  “Make it four, Henry.” Marian sat down stiffly. “Another double for me.” She looked up at Maury. “What phony series of stories did you tell Max you were working on now in order to get him to bring you up here? As I recall, you were writing up ‘Rest Homes, Their Care and Feeding’ when you tricked Miss Flynn and Miss Carse, and got into my office to annoy me.”

  “I was, and am writing about Rest Homes. It takes a lot of leg work to get up such a series, doctor, and a lot of night work to write it. Meantime, I’m on a payroll and have other assignments to cover. This happens to be one.”

  Lycoming brought the drinks. The three men sat down.

  “What title did you tell Max you had for this story?” she asked him with cloying sweetness. “This new piece of Morel fantasy?”

  “I might have called it ‘Murder in a Madhouse’—except the title was used by Jack Latimer years ago.” Maury took a generous sip of his cocktail and held the glass on his knee. “Also I might print that the murder was preventable—”

  “Now see here, Morel,” Lycoming broke in. “That’s a pretty highhanded statement. Dr. Rheinemann uses every caution to protect her patients. You’d be—”

  “Every caution except getting character references,” Marian Rheinemann interrupted coolly. “Just before you came, Max, Henry went to some length to point that out to me. Suppose we let Mr. Morel hang himself. How could this murder last night have been prevented? What could possibly have stopped it?”

  Maury looked at his drink with his sleepy gray eyes, then downed it all approvingly. “Courtesy might have prevented it, doctor. Just a little less chip on the beautiful shoulder. A touch of sympathy for the hard working leg man. A very slight knowledge of public relations with the press, plus a dash of natural cordiality.”

  “Are you talking about that interview I had with you a week ago?”

  “Very definitely. Except it wasn’t an interview. You acted like you had a baby’s mutilated body in the bottom desk drawer. So you finished up with a dead body on your hands—Igor Sandor in Room 22.”

  “It seems to me if you held anything back from Marian,” Max said with some acerbity, “the blame must lie with you.”

  “You didn’t happen to be there, Mr. Rheinemann. This is strictly between the doctor and me, and it’s short and simple. I went out to the Amity Rest Home for one purpose only—to talk to a man named Aaron Turlock. He was the key figure in a story I’m working on for my paper. What the story is, and how I heard of Turlock is irrelevant. The point—”

  “I think I’m entitled to know who told you he was in my Rest Home.”

  “I don’t, doctor. The point is that it wasn’t you who told me, that’s for sure, and it should have been.”

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  Maury gave a cynical laugh. “May I have another Martini?” He went to the bar to mix it, not waiting for anyone’s assent. “I started to ask you about Turlock, and quit before the question came out. Be honest; you wouldn’t have told me if I’d asked if you had a patient nam
ed Turlock in the home. Now, would you?”

  She thought while he mixed his drink and sat down on a bar stool.

  “No, I wouldn’t have. I was irritated. You had—”

  “Yet you knew.”

  “He was entered as Igor Sandor.”

  “Who entered him? He didn’t come alone.”

  “His wife. Opal.” She hesitated, looking first at Max and then at Lycoming, seeking quick advice from either.

  “Opal Turlock,” Maury said, not unkindly, leaning back against the bar. “You knew all the details before he got in—name, address, everything. I went through the wringer with your Miss Flynn.”

  “I’ve suggested many times that you get a competent public relations man to advise you, Marian. You’re brash—high tempered. In the brokerage business—”

  “I’m not a broker or an investment counselor, Max, nor do I make suggestions to you or Henry about running your business.”

  “Just to your father,” Lycoming said.

  “I have an interest, personal and monetary, in Crescent Valves.” She turned to Maury. “What good would it have done if I’d told you that Aaron Turlock was one of my patients? Was Igor Sandor?”

  “Put the police on guard at any rate,” Maury said. “I’d have gone to them.”

  “Why?”

  “Turlock knew some facts about a murder. Too many facts, obviously.”

  “What could the police have done?”

  “Protected him. Searched his background. Put him in some place where he’d have been safer than he was there.”

  “In a jail, I suppose,” she said bitterly. “He was a very sick man.”

  “They’d have seen that he had medical attention—also security. Look, doctor,” Maury gestured with his glass, “don’t misunderstand me. I’m not sore at you, not even irritated. I’m a newspaper reporter. As I told Mr. Rheinemann, I get worse receptions than you gave me every day. It was mostly my fault for coming in with a beard on and not asking about Turlock right away. Miss Flynn got my back up, so let’s skip it. Okay?” He took a swallow. “I’ll tell you what I want right now, if you’re interested.”

  “Didn’t the papers do enough to me today?”

  “They haven’t done anything yet, compared to what’s coming,” Maury said earnestly. “Dykes, our headquarters man, was out at Amityville today. The police have a muzzle on. They’re just not putting out before they get ready. I want some facts on Turlock and I want them right away. I can print a story that will be fair to you and that won’t hurt your business. We’ll get the jump on the other papers. Keep everything you’ve told the police to yourself and when the truth comes out—well, you’ll be crucified if the news stories are slanted the wrong way.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Morel? It certainly sounds like it.”

  “There you go again!” Maury tossed off his drink and put the empty glass on the bar. “You’d be suspicious if a reporter pulled you from in front of a truck. I went to Mr. Rheinemann, didn’t I? Got him to bring me here, knowing just how happy I’d be. Suppose when Dykes went out on that story, I’d told him what I told you just now—that there was a chance Turlock could have been saved if you hadn’t acted up with me last Tuesday. The Globe-Star could have fixed your wagon today.”

  “What has the Globe-Star got against me?”

  “Your unkind remarks, maybe.” Maury gave her a sinister leer. “Or a mutual hatred that you started. ‘Pseudo-liberal scandal-sheet. Muckraking lies by Morel. Red baiters lacking in principles.’ Remember? Those are dirty words you threw at me, doctor. Start a fight anywhere. Also they might, in lots of papers, get you tabbed as a loyal member of the Communist Party. Now, do you want to fight, or answer some questions for Papa Morel?”

  “I think he’s perfectly right, Marian,” Lycoming said sincerely. “You must have given him a rough time. He’s entitled to a break for even talking with you again. What about it, Max?”

  “It’s up to Marian, of course. But I certainly agree.”

  “Go ahead. Ask your questions,” Marian said resignedly.

  “What name was Igor Sandor using according to his wife?” Maury put flimsy on the bar to make his notes.

  “Aaron Turlock. Her name was Opal—Opal. They have a three-year-old son named Nikki.” She spelled it. “They’re Hungarian refugees in this country legally. Their real name is Sandor.”

  “What address did they give you?”

  “I think it’s 34-69 37th Road, Deer Lawn Park. That’s a subdivision on the edge of Garden City, Long Island.”

  “Did they have a phone?”

  “I don’t think so. If they have it’s unlisted. I looked in the telephone directory to see.”

  Maury nodded. He’d looked there, too, a week before.

  “Who was his personal physician? I mean, who sent him to your home?”

  “My father’s personal physician, Dr. Howard Lancaster. You see, Turlock was Assistant Production Manager of my father’s company, Crescent Valves, Inc.”

  “I believe you told me your father is Jason Philips. Great pal of the Old Man—Franklin Jeffers, who owns the Globe-Star,” Maury said drily.

  “I thought we’d quit fighting.” The tip of her red tongue darted out for an instant as she studied Maury speculatively. “Yes, Jason Philips is my father.”

  “Did he employ Turlock?”

  “No, but he employed Bruno Vogl, the production manager. Vogl hired Turlock.”

  “Was Turlock a competent workman?”

  “Brilliant. For over a year, until he had a breakdown.”

  “When was that?”

  “Four or five weeks ago. He’d been in Amity three weeks when—last night.”

  “Continuously?”

  “What do you mean by continuously?”

  “Just that. Was he out at any time during that three weeks? Off the grounds, with anyone, or alone?”

  “I don’t see that it makes any difference.”

  “It might make a lot of difference if he was out and you keep it quiet. What do you think the authorities and the papers will say if you don’t come clean? ‘Loose Nut Roams at Will from Amity Rest Home!’ ”

  “I think you’d better tell him, Marian,” Max said pleadingly.

  “All right. He was out. Home with his wife and child over the weekend last week. It’s not irregular, and I consulted with Dr. Lancaster about it before I consented. He’d had four shock treatments. It’s almost impossible to judge the results in the environment of an institution. So his wife agreed to take him home from Saturday afternoon to Monday.”

  “And he came back Monday morning okay?”

  “No, he didn’t!” She was angrily defiant. “He disappeared Monday morning driving their car. Opal was frightened to death. She called me, but merely said that Aaron was all right and wanted to stay home one more night. She told me the truth when she brought him back Tuesday. That’s why I was so upset when you came in that day.”

  “What was the truth?”

  “He got home at five a.m. Monday morning. Another man was following him in an old gray car, but he didn’t stop, just drove away. Aaron was soaked with rain and there was blood on his clothes. Opal thought he was injured, but he wasn’t. Just dazed and wouldn’t talk.”

  “And what did you think, Doctor?”

  “That he’d been in a fight.”

  “And maybe killed someone—and that it wouldn’t do the home any good if the fact leaked out.”

  “I didn’t think he’d killed anyone.” She was suddenly crumpled and hopeless. “I thought he’d bloodied somebody’s nose. That was all. You have to believe me. He was abnormally strong and quick to take offense. He’d been through hell and back again. Then a month ago someone tried to kill him in front of his house, tried to run him down with a car. Or that’s what Opal said. Anyhow, he had a nervous collapse, and she put him in the Home. He had delusions of persecution that might have ended in paranoia—”

  “Only last night they weren’t delusions,�
� Maury said. “Where’s Opal and the boy now?”

  “I have no idea.” She brushed back her wealth of hair with a tired stroke. “I haven’t seen or heard of her since last Tuesday when she brought Aaron back to the Home. I’ve driven out to their house twice since then. It’s closed up tight. I don’t know what to think, now. The police found a knife concealed in Aaron’s room. The patients are always snitching things from the dining room and hiding them, just to get away with it. It’s part of the pattern.”

  Maury slid to his feet from the bar stool. “How much of this have you told the police?”

  “Everything—with the exception of Aaron’s running away from home. I said he’d been out from Saturday to Tuesday, though.”

  “Not Monday? You’re sure you told them Tuesday?”

  “Positive.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you a break. I’ll run the story just as you gave it, pointing up that it’s the regular procedure of the Home and that Dr. Lancaster was consulted. Let them get the rest of the details about Aaron’s side trip from Opal when they find her. Now, of course—”

  “What?” She stood up anxiously.

  “My private advice would be to call the police and spill it all.”

  “I thought you just said I didn’t need to.”

  “You may want to when I tell you you’re in one hell of a jam, Red.”

  “How can I be in a jam?”

  “I don’t know what your private life is,” Maury said, “but for a week there’s been an FBI agent posing as a patient in Amity Rest. Now, if you’ll give me my hat and coat, I tank I go home!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The FBI Laboratory, started in 1932 under supervision of Special Agent Charles A. Appel, Jr., with some ultraviolet light equipment, a borrowed microscope, and a few ballistic gadgets, had grown into a million dollar institution offering its services in scientific crime detection free to all law enforcement agencies throughout the nation.

  The Metallurgical Unit was only one of many units under Physics and Chemistry. Daily the highly specialized scientists—who in spite of their many degrees had all passed through the rigorous boot training and become qualified special agents before entering the laboratory, were called upon to answer multiple questions: Is an invisible blood stain present? Is a visible stain blood—and is it human or animal? It it’s animal, what species? If it’s human, to what group does the blood belong?