George Harmon Coxe Page 11

  “I suppose it was the way the father felt about Donald. I didn’t know him then but from what I understand he was a moody, difficult child and the more his father tried to remake him in his image, the more Donald rebelled. He had some trouble in two prep schools. I guess he was what you’d call a loner.”

  She settled herself more comfortably and said, not looking at him now: “As I understand it, he didn’t want anything to do with team activities and whatever disciplinary action had to be taken seemed to make him just that much more stubborn. He barely squeaked through college. He was drafted and served two years in the army but I don’t know anything about that phase of his life. I do know that when he came back he would have nothing to do with the family business. So when Mr. Tremaine drew up his will he took all that into consideration. Robert was six years older and Robert had conformed. He did well both in prep school and in college and earned letters in football in both schools. He seemed to like the family business and his father had confidence in him. He even approved of me, the father I mean.

  “He was not a wealthy man but he was reasonably well off and the business was doing all right. He had too much conscience to cut Donald off completely, so he made Robert executor and trustee. When he died and the estate was settled Robert took his half and acted as trustee for Donald’s share until Donald’s thirty-fifth birthday.”

  “When will that be?” Standish asked.

  “In about two years, I think. Robert was pretty conservative with the investments he made but I think Donald’s share has increased a few thousand even so. Something over a hundred thousand all told.”

  “And upon your husband’s death, the trust was terminated and the funds paid to Donald?”

  She did not answer this but she was looking at him now, eyes narrowing and her lips compressed.

  “I suppose this bolsters your conviction that the accident was a good thing for all of us except Robert.”

  Standish ducked that one and said: “When I talked to you yesterday afternoon the police were looking for Ralph Estey. A few hours later they found him.”

  “I know. I saw the morning paper. It says he committed suicide.”

  “I don’t think it said that in so many words. Newspapers have to be careful. I think what you read said that according to the police the fatal wound may have been self-inflicted.”

  “And you disagree?”

  “For now, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “For several reasons. One is that I knew Estey pretty well.”

  Her smile was fixed now, the dark gaze hostile. “What was your medical specialty, Doctor?”

  “Why—internal medicine.”

  “Then you had no advanced training in psychology or psychiatry or the reading of men’s minds? And yet on the basis of some acquaintanceship with a man you can state categorically that he did not commit suicide?”

  “If Ralph Estey committed suicide,” Standish said evenly, “there could only be one reason, under the circumstances.”

  “And that is?”

  “That he murdered Jess Flemming the night before. If he murdered Flemming then I’ll admit he could have committed suicide.”

  “I thought the official view was that he did murder Flemming.”

  “It is the official view.”

  “And you think you can change it?”

  “Until I’m convinced that they’re right I have to try.”

  “Nonsense.” Her voice was clipped, irritable. “That Flemming man and Ralph Estey had a fight on the sidewalk outside Hennessey’s Friday night.”

  “How do you know?”

  The red mouth opened instantly and she closed it. It was the first time Standish had ever seen her disconcerted. “Well—Donald happened to see part of it.”

  “And you and Warren Choate had been there all evening and Donald came in and told you.”

  “Well—yes. He said Estey had said something about a gun and made a threat. What possible reason is there for believing that he didn’t walk in on Flemming Monday night and carry out the threat?”

  “A little pinch of chloral hydrate.”

  “A pinch of what?” she said, a deep frown marring the smoothness of her complexion.

  Standish told her about chloral hydrate and what it could do. He added a few explanatory words to his hypothesis.

  “If the police are right,” he added, “then there’s no way it can ever be proved that Ralph Estey did not commit suicide. But until I get some reasonable explanation for the presence of chloral hydrate in Jess Flemming’s body—”

  “But why should you care?” she said, her voice harsh. “Because”—Standish took a second to be sure of his answer—“I don’t like to see anyone get away with murder. Someone gave Flemming that drug and I say it wasn’t Estey. Then who did? Why?”

  Expecting no answer, he said: “So far I’ve only been able to come up with one possibility I can accept. Which could very well go back to the accident that killed your husband last December. Vehicular homicide is hard to prove. I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure of anything—yet. But when you get your thoughts in the right channel it’s not too difficult to understand how that accident could have been planned.” She came to her feet in one abrupt, jerky motion, fists at her sides and the dark eyes curious and, perhaps, a little scared.

  “I don’t have to listen to this.”

  “No, you don’t. But since I’m almost through, why not give me another minute? If someone did deliberately kill your husband, wouldn’t you like to know about it?”

  “Flemming killed him.”

  “Exactly. But with his record—you can look it up—you can understand that he’s the type who could be hired for the job. Your husband’s drinking habits were no secret,” he went on quickly before she could interrupt. “He was a Saturday-night drunk and very often at Hennessey’s. Was it coincidence that a man like Flemming was conveniently parked down the street just far enough to fake such an accident? Or was he waiting there deliberately, having been tipped off that you and your husband were always the last to leave. He was sitting in his car at the right time, having a little trouble getting it started, so he said. It wouldn’t take much of a signal to alert him. As a matter of fact he wouldn’t even need a signal. All he had to do was keep his eyes open. Your husband comes staggering out into the middle of the street. You saw the car, the headlights.”

  “Of course I saw them.”

  “Sometimes,” Standish said, his voice more considerate, “a long time after a thing like that has happened, a person will remember a detail or an impression that escaped him earlier. Is there anything more you can tell me about it?”

  He watched her shake her head, saw her gaze drop. After a moment she took a deep breath.

  “No,” she said, her anger gone. “Frankly, I’ve been trying my best to forget it.”

  “At the hearing it seemed like a miracle that you escaped uninjured. As I recall it,” he added, “you fell, but the car did not actually touch you.”

  “I still don’t know why,” she said. “I think it was Robert. I think that somehow, drunk as he was, he must have realized what was happening. He could have pushed me just enough to get me out of the way but I could never be sure. All I’ll ever remember is the lights of that car and the sound of the motor and the scream of the brakes and that awful crash.”

  Standish nodded and let his breath ease out. There was, he knew, nothing more that could be added now. In his own mind nothing changed. Having brought up again the subject of the accident he could not bully this woman in her present distressed condition. He had added a little to his growing fund of information and now, as politely and considerately as he could, he thanked her for her time and apologized for bothering her. She was still watching him, not moving or giving any sign that she had heard, as he backed into the hall and started for the front door.

  13

  MARY HAYWARD had changed to a street dress and seemed about to leave when Paul Standish returned to his office. H
e still wanted to see Donald Tremaine and possibly Warren Choate, but he did not think they would be home from the office at this hour so he decided to wait until later before he tried to see them.

  “Only two calls, Doctor,” Mary said, and mentioned the names of the patients and the nature of the ailments. “They wanted to see you this afternoon but both decided they could wait. I told them that you would stop in as soon as you could in the morning.”

  Standish, glancing in his appointment book, nodded. “Good enough.” He sat down, aware now of a certain weariness as he let his body relax. He wondered if he should suggest dinner. Before he could make up his mind the telephone rang and Mary reached for it.

  “Dr. Standish’s office. Yes. . . . Who? Well—just a minute, please,” she added doubtfully, and looked at Standish. “It’s Lou Cheney.”

  Standish held out his hand and she surrendered the instrument. “Yes, Lou.”

  “I’m in the neighborhood. I thought I’d stop by. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Five minutes.”

  Mary accepted the telephone, cradled it, her gray eyes mirroring her surprise before the disapproval began to show.

  “Lou Cheney,” she said, knowing the nature of the man’s work and accepting him no more than she did Lieutenant Ballard. “What does he want?”

  “He’s been checking out a couple of things for me.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since last evening.”

  “Officially?” she said, persisting. “I mean for the city? Or will you have to pay him out of your own pocket?”

  “It’s hard to tell at this point. Don’t you think my personal budget will stand it?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will. It’s just that I don’t understand you.” She paused, no longer smiling and some inner disturbance apparent in her inflection. “I don’t mean that literally,” she said, trying again. “It’s just that ever since Monday you seemed more interested in being a medical examiner—or even some kind of detective—than you have in being a doctor.”

  “I made my house calls this morning, didn’t I?” Standish said patiently.

  “Yes.”

  “I saw everyone who had an appointment during office hours. You’ve already said that the two calls that came later can just as well be taken care of in the morning.”

  She seemed about to reply and then something happened to make her change her mind.

  “Whatever you say, Doctor.” Her small smile was professional and polite. “Will that be all for now?”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to stay and listen in to what Cheney has to say?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “We might even work in the dinner we missed last night,” Standish said, not really caring at the moment but feeling that he should make the offer.

  “No thank you.” She made a point of glancing at her wristwatch. “I have other plans this evening.”

  She was gone then and a minute or so later Lou Cheney came in shaking his head.

  “I just passed that good-looking nurse of yours down on the sidewalk,” he complained. “I gave her one of my best ‘Good afternoon, Miss Haywards/ and all I got was a frosty nod. I don’t think she likes me.”

  Standish grinned and said it was nothing personal. He said it was just Mary’s reaction to her disapproval of other things, specifically his medical-examiner duties. He watched Cheney get rid of his hat and coat and slouch in the patient’s chair opposite the desk while he reached for a cigarette.

  He was, Standish realized, a very average-looking individual—in height, weight, build, and appearance. He wore a brown suit, brown oxfords, a white shirt, a plain-colored tie. In almost any gathering Cheney would be unnoticeable. Passing in the street he would seldom rate more than a glance, which was part of his stock in trade and added greatly to his effectiveness. He had eight years of big-city police training and five with a national agency before striking out on his own. He was the part-time representative of the same agency but he had his own office and at forty-five he was married, owned his own home, had three children, and rarely carried a gun. Now, having lighted his cigarette and inhaled, he produced a small notebook and opened it on the desk.

  “What do you want first?”

  “Suit yourself,” Standish said.

  “The social business with Warren Choate was not too difficult. Like I told you over the phone yesterday afternoon, sometimes one job rubs against another in this business. We’d already done some research. I can’t tell you why or for whom but Choate has been having dinner once a week or so with a real good-looking brunette.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t be sure because I haven’t been on this other job too long. In fact I haven’t been handling it personally. The woman always wears dark glasses and usually a scarf on her hair, but it’s black. Very simply dressed, inconspicuous, quiet. They eat in obscure places. They go for drives.” He glanced up. “Any of this help?”

  “It’s a start. What about Mrs. Choate?”

  “All I can tell you there is that she sees no one in particular in town. She goes to New York once a week—we haven’t had time to check her out at that end—sometimes for the day. Sometimes she stays overnight. Sometimes she drives; other times she parks her car at the station and takes the train.”

  “That fits,” Standish said. “She told me this afternoon that she has a man in the city. She said she’d probably marry him when she gets the divorce. . . . Anything on Evelyn Tremaine?”

  “Nothing specific. I haven’t had enough time to get much there but we did have a little luck with the brother— Donald.”

  Standish nodded and Cheney said: “You know the place he lives?”

  Standish said no, and Cheney, consulting his notebook, mentioned an address. “One of those narrow-front brick houses that have been remodeled. Four apartments, one to the floor. The owner has the ground-floor apartment and he’s not only nosy, he has some trouble with insomnia. For a ten-dollar bill he’s not against a little gossip.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “One of my men did.” Cheney leaned back, looking a little pleased with himself. “It seems,” he said, “that Donald has a lady friend who calls on him once a week on the average. After dark. Usually around nine or ten. The landlord figures she must leave plenty late, because he never sees her go.”

  Standish waited while a spark of excitement began to glow inside him. “A brunette, by any chance?”

  “Yep.”

  “Any other description?”

  “Not much. The place is in the middle of the block and there isn’t much light. Every time he’s seen her she’s been wearing dark glasses. He seems to think she has a nice figure but since she’s always wearing a coat he can’t be sure.”

  “Does he remember the last time she was there?”

  “Sunday.” Cheney crossed his legs and made a comment not in his notes. “It sort of looks,” he said, “like our brunette with the dark glasses could be giving both boys a play, hunh?”

  Standish nodded absently. It took a while to digest what he had heard and to finish with his speculation. Only then was he ready for further information.

  “What about the banks?”

  “There too,” Cheney said, “I got a break. I started at the City National on Elm Street because Choate has his offices in the building. Luckily, all four of them have accounts there. I’ve done some work for the City National in the past and I know an assistant cashier pretty well. He was willing to talk a little, off the record and without being too specific, so long as I tell him it’s confidential and a personal favor.”

  He consulted his notes and said: “With Choate we’re nowhere. His account is too healthy and too active to show anything special around the date you’re interested in.”

  “You mean in December?”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Choate has had an account there for some years, never very large. Recently she’s been making a monthly deposit of her separation payments. The cashier w
on’t say how much.”

  He glanced again at his notebook. “About the same thing with Mrs. Tremaine. Had a modest account for years. A three-figure—those are the cashiers words not mine—average monthly balance. Until about a month after the accident. Some insurance payment, according to the cashier, brought it up to six figures.”

  Standish said he knew about the insurance payment. “There wasn’t any sizable deposit or withdrawal before that? . . . Okay,” he added when Cheney shook his head. “How about Donald Tremaine?”

  “Until after the accident he kept just about enough in his account to keep from paying the monthly service charge. Then the insurance company kicks in. About the same amount as the woman got.”

  “How about now?”

  “For who?”

  “Well—Mrs. Tremaine.”

  “She still has a healthy balance but she’s been investing it in stocks and bonds over the past couple of months, probably through Warren Choate’s brokerage office. The same with Donald. I’m only guessing about where he’s investing his money but I’d assume he’d do it through the family firm. He also had one big withdrawal.”

  “For a hundred thousand,” Standish said, remembering that Tremaine had bought himself a partnership in the firm of Certified Public Accountants he had been working for on salary.

  “I don’t know about the amount,” Cheney said, “but the cashier did mention some big payment to a firm of C.P.A.’s.”

  “But nothing around the time of the accident? Say a week before or a week after?”

  “Nothing that I could get.” Cheney started to close his notebook and Standish thought of something else.

  “What about Jess Flemming? Did you get any line on him?”

  “Hahh!” Cheney grunted softly. “Hoods like Flemming don’t have bank accounts. Maybe a safe-deposit box if they have any loot. Most of them, all they’ve got is front and what dough they have is in their pants pocket. But I did ask around about him. I got a little here, a little there.”

  He pocketed his notebook and said: “Flemming was never big-time. You wanted a muscle job done he’d do it. The word is that in the past he’s taken a contract or two to put a guy away. Well, a couple of weeks after the hearing he blows town. One of my contacts said he thought Flemming went to Las Vegas so I telephoned a guy I know that has a little business there. He called me back. From what he could get Flemming had been on the West Coast and stopped in Vegas on the way East. He wasn’t working. At least not at any job my friend knew about. He stayed at a motel and took it easy. Played around with a broad or two from time to time, showed up for a little play at the tables some nights. He turned up here a couple of weeks ago with a big car. A Lincoln. Not new but not one you could pick up for twelve or fifteen hundred bucks either. Since then he’s just been around.” He stood up. “I guess that’s about it, Doc.”