Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 20, No. 1, January 1975

Pocket Evidence by Harold Q. Masur

Many a fowl is ambushed via a concealed blind.

There is a cynical little caveat which says: If you can’t stand the time, don’t commit the crime.

U.S. District Judge Edward Marcus Bolt failed to heed this in junction. He had committed a crime and when he was found out, the prospect of serving time in a federal penitentiary unhinged him completely. Tossed off the bench, disbarred, disgraced, disavowed by his colleagues, ego mutilated, deprived of his sumptuous young bride, all this was more than he could stomach — so the judge put the muzzle of a gun against his temple and squeezed one off.

It ended the judge’s problems, but created some new ones for his widow, Laura Bolt. Tall, blonde, with innocent blue eyes and teeth perfectly capped for her career as a fashion model, she suspended her work when she married the judge but resumed it after his death. Now she sat alongside my desk, pale, apprehensive, tremulous.

“The man wants his money back,” she told me.

“What money?”

“The money he claims he gave my husband.”

“The fifty thousand dollar bribe?”

“I guess so. He called me on the telephone and said he’d paid Edward fifty thousand dollars to perform certain services and Edward failed to deliver.” She gave me a look of forlorn appeal. “I came to you, Mr. Jordan, because you were Edward’s lawyer and you were very helpful after his... er... accident.”

I let the euphemism pass. I had indeed been Judge Bolt’s lawyer — for maybe like about thirty minutes. At the time he retained me, he’d been presiding over the trial of Ira Madden, president of Amalgamated Mechanics. Madden was charged by the government with embezzling one million dollars from the union treasury and although the indictment failed to state as much, they suspected he had squirreled it away under a numbered account in a Swiss bank.

Then, while still presenting its case, the Justice Department started an investigation of rumors that one of Madden’s lackeys, a man named Floyd Oster, had reached the judge with a fifty thousand dollar bribe — and that exact sum was found taped under a fender of his Honor’s car and identified by serial numbers as a recent withdrawal from one of Madden’s accounts. In a panic, the judge got through to me with an SOS, summoning me to his home, but he must have been very close to the brink because he surrendered to impulse before I got there and finished himself off.

It resulted in a mistrial. Now the government was preparing to bring Ira Madden back into court again. Floyd Oster, the bagman, was himself under indictment for bribery. There had been sundry other complications which I managed to straighten out for the widow. Now, apparently, she needed my help again.

I said, “Tell me exactly what happened, Mrs. Bolt.”

She swallowed and drew a breath. “I got the call late last night. A man phoned and said, ‘Listen to me, lady. I’m only going to say this once. We paid the judge fifty grand. He promised to help us on something, but he chickened out and shelved himself before he could deliver. We want our money back. Do you read me, Mrs. Bolt? Fifty grand. Have the cash ready day after tomorrow and we’ll be in touch. Just stay away from the law or you’ll wish you’d never been born.’ ”

“Bluster,” I said. “Empty threats.”

“No.” Her voice rose on a hysterical note and she leaned forward, gripping the edge of my desk. “Something terrible happened on my way here to see you. I left my apartment and when I stepped off the curb to cross the street, a car suddenly started and came racing straight at me. I thought, this is it! They know I called you and they’re punishing me. I’m going to be killed or maimed. I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move. And then, at the very last instant, the car swerved and roared past me.” Recollection drained her face, leaving it bone-white.

“Could you identify the driver?”

“I don’t know; it happened so fast.”

I brought her a newspaper clipping from one of my files. “Look at this picture. Does it resemble the man you saw?”

She studied it, brow crimped. “I... I’m not sure. Is it that man Floyd Oster?”

“The same. From what I know of this particular insect, he’s our most logical target.”

“Doesn’t he know I haven’t got the money, that the police are holding it as evidence?”

“He couldn’t care less. He knows you have the judge’s insurance.”

She was on the verge of tears. “But they’re not entitled to that. It’s my only security.”

She seemed unaware of her assets. With that superbly extravagant figure, she had all the security she would need for a long time to come. “Relax, Mrs. Bolt,” I said. “It’s in my hands now.”

She managed a weak smile. “Would you need a retainer?”

I never refuse payment. She seemed eager to write a check, as though the transfer of money would guarantee success. After she left, I sat back and gave it some thought.

Floyd Oster, presently under indictment, was out on bail. His defense attorney, Edward Colson, was general counsel for Amalgamated Mechanics. Ordinarily, a man like Oster would never be able to afford the ticket for such high-priced legal talent. I could make a fair assumption that the union, under pressure from Ira Madden, was paying Colson’s fee.

Coincidentally, Colson’s office was three floors above my own, here at Rockefeller Center. I dialed his number and was told that he was at an arbitration hearing and would not be available until tomorrow. I saw no impropriety in bypassing Colson for a direct approach to Oster himself. Undoubtedly, Oster had instructions to keep his mouth zippered, but I was not interested in any dialogue with the man. I just wanted him to listen; admittedly, a quixotic approach.

The building was a converted brownstone, indistinguishable from its neighbors on Manhattan’s west side. When I rang the bell, he called out guardedly for identification. Then he opened the door as far as the protective chain would allow. Floyd Oster, a carp-faced and sulfurous little brute, with a smile like a curved scimitar and just as lethal, was Ira Madden’s right hand. He remembered me without pleasure from our last meeting.

“May I come in, Floyd?”

“No.”

“I have something I want to say.”

“Say it to my lawyer.”

“If Ed Colson knew what you’re up to, he’d walk away and you’d need a new attorney.”

“Ed Colson works for the union. He does what he’s told.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Say your piece and bug off.”

“You never learn, do you, Floyd? Right now you’re in a sling with the U.S. Attorney on a bribery charge. But that isn’t enough. You’re chasing after more grief, adding a count of extortion to your indictment. I’m telling you to stay away from Laura Bolt. One more threatening telephone call, another attempt at intimidation like that automobile caper this morning, and I promise you I’ll blow the lid.”

“You’re talking Greek.”

“That’s a bad hand, Floyd. Throw it in. You know exactly what I mean. And I don’t think you’re acting on instructions from Ira Madden. With what he has stashed away, fifty grand would be peanuts. So this is your own private little operation. I’m telling you to drop it. Get off the lady’s back. Because if anything happens to Mrs. Bolt, the roof will fall in.”

It bothered him a lot. He called me a name and slammed the door.

So maybe he needed money. Maybe his common sense was canceled by greed. Whatever, the judge’s widow was back on the phone late the next morning, agitated and close to panic. She’d had another call. The banks would be closed over the weekend, so Monday was her deadline, the voice asking her how she would like to attend my funeral just before her own, and reminding her of the automobile that almost sent her flying through the air like a rag doll.

I calmed her, broke the connection, marched out to the elevator, and rode it up three floors to Edward Colson’s office. Oster’s lawyer would have to read the riot act to him. Colson’s secretary told me that he would be leaving for lunch in a few minutes, and without an appointment...

“Just tell him that Scott Jordan is here.”

She looked doubtful, but spoke into her phone. In ten seconds Colson emerged, a tall, shambling pipe-smoking man with blunt features and a shock of brown hair. Edward Colson was a courtroom orator of the old school, somewhat flamboyant but tough, shrewd and knowledgeable.

“Counselor,” he said, voice resonant, both hands employed for the shake, “you promised to call me for lunch one day. Must have been a year ago at least. Come in.” He took my elbow and steered me into his private office.

He had company — a spinster-type, thin and flat, early thirties, with mousy hair and soft spaniel eyes that seemed to spend most of their time worshiping at Colson’s shrine.

He introduced us. “My fiancée, Lily Madden.”

“Ira Madden’s daughter?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Do you know my father?”

“Not personally.”

“Lily and I became engaged last week,” Colson said.

She raised a hand, proudly displaying a blue-white rock about five carats in size. It caught the midday light and sparkled. No financial burden on Colson, I thought. Easily affordable, considering the annual retainer he got from Amalgamated Mechanics. Still, Lily Madden was so obviously enamored she probably would have been satisfied with a zircon from the five-and-dime.

From time to time I had seen Colson squiring a few lovelies around town. He was a connoisseur. So why settle for someone as plain as Lily Madden? Insurance, probably; Colson relished the good life, and as Ira Madden’s son-in-law, his position as general counsel for the union would be secure.

“Shot of brandy?” he asked.

“No, thanks. Could I talk to you in private for a moment?”

“We have a table reserved for lunch. How long do you need?”

“Ten minutes should do it.”

“Lily, please. There are magazines in the reception room.”

She smiled at him, eyes fingering on his face, and stepped, out.

“Marvelous girl,” he said.

“All these years a bachelor, Ed. And now you’re taking the plunge?”

“It’s time, isn’t it? I’m not getting any younger.” He settled behind his desk and folded his hands. “What’s on your mind, Counselor?”

“One of your clients. Floyd Oster.”

He made a face. “I take the good with the bad. As a union official, I have to go to bat for him.”

“Naturally. But you must be soaking the man unmercifully.”

“How do you mean?”

“Oster got his neck way out, trying to raise some heavy sugar.”

“Impossible. This defense isn’t costing Oster dime-one. Amalgamated Mechanics is picking up the tab.”

“Then he’s involved in a little private enterprise, highly illegal. Or perhaps your future father-in-law is prodding him.”

Colson’s head snapped up. His smile vanished. “What are you driving at, Jordan? Let’s have it.”

I recited for him, chapter and verse. “You’re Oster’s lawyer. You know the background. That fifty grand he gave Judge Bolt—”

“Correction. One adverb short. Allegedly gave...”

“Do you doubt his guilt?”

“He carries a presumption of innocence.”

“An eloquent phrase, Edward. But for Oster, a mere technicality. If Judge Bolt were still alive and testifying, the government would have no problem clapping your boy into the slammer for a couple of years.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Nevertheless, somebody handed his Honor fifty grand cash money while Ira Madden was on trial for embezzling union funds. It was not a charitable donation. And who else needed favors from the judge, preferential treatment, a biased charge to the jury? Whatever, Floyd Oster is now trying to get his hands on it.”

“What makes you so sure it’s Oster?”

“Come off it, Ed. Everything points to the man. And the U.S. Attorney would dearly love to nail him. None of this is likely to help Ira Madden when he goes back into court.”

Colson shook his head. “I can’t believe Oster would be that stupid.”

“If he had anything but a vacuum north of his sinuses he wouldn’t be in all this trouble.”

“You think he’ll listen to me?”

“You’re his lawyer.”

“Where’s my leverage?”

“He knows the value of your services. You can threaten to dump him.”

“No, sir. That’s exactly what I cannot do. But I’ll bend the rules a little. I’ll talk to him. Just remember, these union people sometimes ask my advice. They don’t always take it.”

“Maybe they’ve learned a lesson. Both Madden and Oster are facing a serious prosecution.”

“Madden feels he can beat the rap.”

“How? By bribing judges?”

“That was a piece of damned foolishness. I had no part in it.”

“So they keep piling it on, adding extra counts to the indictment. On the next round, you’re going to have one very careful jurist up there on the bench. Seems your clients are hell-bent on shooting down your record of acquittals.”

Colson got to his feet. He walked over to the window and stood looking at me, his jaw set. “All right, Jordan. I’ll have a session with Oster. I’ll lay it out for him. I give you my solemn pledge that if—”

The buzzer stopped him. He went back to his desk and picked up the phone. “Who? Who? Yes, put him on.” He listened and I saw him go tense, sudden shock in his face. “Oh, no!” he said in a hushed whisper. “When did it happen? Yes, of course, I’ll come right over.” He rang off and looked up, his mouth stiff with restraint. “Ira Madden is dead.”

I whistled softly. “How did it happen?”

“Car accident. Madden was behind the wheel, heading north on the FDR Drive. Lost control at the Forty-second Street exit and slammed into a concrete abutment. Too damned lazy to attach his seat belt and damned near impaled on the steering wheel.”

“Driving alone?”

“No. Floyd Oster was with him.”

“Hm. What were his injuries?”

“Broken wrist. Seems he threw his hand up to keep his face out of the windshield.” Colson shook his head. “How am I going to break this to Lily? She loved the old tyrant.”

What they needed was privacy. He was brooding uncertainly at the door as I walked through it, his face half-past-six on a stopped clock. I thought I knew what ailed him. There always are dissident factions within a union, angling to take over top management. A new team might sweep out all of Ira Madden’s old henchmen, including union counsel Edward Colson.

Madden was given a splendid send-off: bronze casket, a cortege of retainers one-eighth of a mile long, and floral offerings more suitable for a wedding. I attended the last rites out of curiosity but derived no pleasure from the proceedings. Funerals are a pagan ritual relished only by morticians and enemies and possibly a few heirs of the deceased.

Lily Madden, chief mourner, sole surviving relative, shoulders stooped, face hidden behind a black veil, was managing to stay upright with the help of Ed Colson’s strong right arm. Floyd Oster was not one of the pallbearers. His left wing, in a cast, was cradled by a sling around his neck, no identifiable expression on the carp face.

In unctuous tones, the presiding cleric chanted a litany of Ira Madden’s sterling characteristics and accomplishments that would have astonished the deceased. The words brought convulsive sobs from Lily.

Mourners departed from graveside just before the final planting. I watched Ed Colson hand Lily into a limousine and then drop back for a brief colloquy with Floyd Oster. There was a snarl on Oster’s face. Ultimately, Colson threw up his hands in frustration and joined his fiancée. Oster climbed into the following car.

When I got back to my apartment, I phoned Laura Bolt. Her answering service said she had gone away for the weekend. I thought, why not? Manhattan is not unalloyed bliss during the furnace summers. I longed for a touch of respite myself. Two days fishing on a quiet mountain lake seemed like a good idea. So I packed essentials and ordered my car.

Then, heading toward the Henry Hudson Parkway, partly on impulse and partly because it was on my way, I decided to stop off for another crack at Floyd Oster.

I parked in front of the brownstone and rang his bell. No response. I kept my finger on the button and finally gave up. As I left the building, there he was, sauntering toward me, lugging a six-pack of beer. I blocked his path at the entrance. He fixed me with a cold, reptilian stare.

“Move it, Jordan. Get out of my way.”

“Ah, Floyd,” I said, “you don’t listen. Not to me, not to your own lawyer. Stupid, greedy, bullheaded. Words can’t penetrate that skull of yours, so I’ll have to try something else.”

“Yeah?” A twisted sneer. “Like what?”

“Like putting you behind bars. My personal project, Floyd. I’m going to bring you down. Ira Madden is no longer around to provide protection. Some new boys are going to take over the union. Colson will dump you, too. So you’re all alone, Floyd. And if—”

I stopped, clued by a sudden flicker in his eyes, a slight shifting of weight. As the tip of Oster’s heavy shoe shot upward, I swiveled, grabbing his ankle, and twisting his leg through a ninety-degree turn. It lifted him off the ground and when I let go, he fell heavily to the pavement, arms flailing. Oster landed on the poor broken wing and he whinnied like a horse in a burning barn.

I bent contritely to lend him a hand. He pulled away, frothing obscenities. He had the lexicon of a mule skinner.

“Now you just leave that poor injured man alone,” a high-pitched voice snapped at me from behind.

She was small and wrinkled, frumpily dressed, with flour-white hair, stern-visaged, brandishing an umbrella. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, a big man like you? Attacking Mr. Oster, him wounded and helpless.” Her lips were so tightly compressed they were invisible. She threatened me with the umbrella. “Get away from him. Shoo! If you don’t leave this instant, I’m going to make a citizen’s arrest. Felonious assault.”

I repressed a smile. This feisty little specimen would barely tip the scale at eighty pounds, and I didn’t for a moment doubt that she was ready to put the arm on me and hustle me down to the local precinct.

I looked down at Oster. “Sorry about your wrist, Floyd. It was unavoidable. But from here on, no more dialogue.” Then I turned quickly and went to my car and drove off. I stopped thinking about Oster when I crossed the George Washington Bridge and headed north on Route 17.

It turned out to be a profitable weekend. I caught six medium-sized trout. I skinned, boned, sautéed, and consumed them with vast relish. I went to bed early and got up early and I thought how pleasant it would be to spend one whole month engaged in these wholesome endeavors. On Monday morning, I drove back to the city.

A visitor was waiting for me in the lobby of my apartment building — Detective-Sergeant Wienick, unsmiling, barrel-shaped and balding. “Have a nice weekend, Counselor?” he inquired politely.

“A reception committee from the New York Police Department,” I said. “Well, Sergeant, what cooks?”

“What cooks is a drive in a city-owned vehicle. The lieutenant is waiting for you.”

He meant Lt. John Nola of Homicide. The lieutenant sat in his office, swarthy, trim, precise, abrupt to the point of discourtesy, probably the best cop on the force. Although I had not been in touch with him recently, he dispensed with all amenities.

“You go away for the weekend, Counselor, how come you don’t let your secretary know where you can be reached?”

“And be at the mercy of the telephone? No, sir.”

“Maybe there’s an emergency.”

“Emergencies are for doctors, not lawyers.” I lifted an eyebrow. “What’s your problem, Lieutenant?”

“We both have a problem. Yours may be more serious than mine. All right, Wienick, let the lady have a look at him.”

The sergeant stepped out and returned a moment later, ushering a woman through the door, the little old lady with the umbrella. She stopped short, staring at me. She pointed a quivering finger and announced in a shrill voice, “That’s him! That’s the man! I saw him attack poor Mr. Oster. I saw him with my own eyes.” She fell back a step. “He’s dangerous. Don’t let him get close to me. He shouldn’t be allowed on the street.”

“No doubt in your mind?” Nola asked.

“I have 20–20 vision, Lieutenant. They oughta bring back capital punishment. Prison is too good for—”

Nola cut her off. “See that the lady gets home, Sergeant.”

Wienick took her arm and firmly nudged her through the door. Nola sat back and shook his head sadly.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Let me guess. Something happened to Floyd Oster.”

“It did, indeed.”

“The works?”

“Enough to put him in cold storage down at the old morgue.”

“I can’t say I’m grief-stricken, Lieutenant. Society will survive the loss. When did it happen?”

“Sunday afternoon.”

“While I was up in the hills, fishing.”

“Proof?”

“If necessary.”

“Routine, Counselor. I insist.”

“Then you’ll have it. Fill me in, please. Who found the body?”

“Mrs. Scrimshaw.”

“Who?”

“The old lady. Holly Scrimshaw.”

“You’re kidding.”

“That’s her name, Counselor.” A smile flickered, meager and brief. “She thought she heard a shot and went down to investigate. Oster’s door was open. He was slumped in a chair, one bullet in his left temple; about 2:00 p.m. Mrs. Scrimshaw ran back to her room and phoned. We caught the squeal and were there in minutes. She told us about that fracas you had with Oster on Friday. She said you got into your car and she remembered the registration.”

“Remarkable.”

“She is, indeed. We couldn’t reach you and figured you were away for the weekend. Enough. Let’s bring it home. What happened between you and Oster?”

“It’s a long story, Lieutenant.”

“I’ll make time for it. Talk.”

I sighed and sat back and told him about Oster’s attempt to extort money from the widow Bolt. He listened, eyes narrowed.

“Would that be the fifty thousand dollars allegedly paid to Judge Bolt for favorable rulings in the Madden embezzlement case?”

“The same.”

“You’re certain it was Oster?”

“Everything points to him.”

“Why you? Why didn’t she come to the police?”

“Because he warned her to stay away from the law, and the lady was terrified.”

“So you saw Oster on Friday for the last time.”

“Yes.”

“You couldn’t budge him and you decided to use a little muscle.”

“You know better, Lieutenant. Violence is not my style. Oster ignored my first visit, and when I asked Ed Colson to intervene, Oster continued intractable. So on Friday I decided to give him one last chance.”

“And then?”

“I intended to turn it over to the law.”

“You’re a big man, Counselor. Are you telling me that Oster tackled you with one arm in a sling?”

“Lieutenant, Floyd Oster was a savage little fiend. If his dropkick had landed I would have been out of business for weeks. Dumping him was purely defensive. He seldom lost an argument. Look what happened in that accident. It killed Madden and only fractured Oster’s wrist.”

Nola studied me for a long moment. Finally he reached a decision and said, “The accident did not kill Ira Madden.”

I sat erect. “What?”

“Madden was dead when his car hit the abutment. As a DOA, he was taken to the morgue. An attendant found medication in his pocket. Nitroglycerin tablets. You know what they’re for?”

“Hardening of the arteries. Generally prescribed for arteriosclerosis.”

“Correct. They also found an anticoagulant. Obviously Ira Madden had been a candidate for a heart attack. He was autopsied and the M.E. found a massive clot blocking one of the major heart arteries. The M.E. says it finished him off in the blink of an eyelash and that’s why he lost control of the car.”

“And Madden kept his condition a secret.”

“Naturally. He didn’t want his enemies at the union to know.”

“Those vials containing his medication, was there a doctor’s name on them?”

“A Dr. Lewis Bukantz.”

“You questioned him?”

“He was reluctant to talk, but we got enough out of him to clear the picture. Madden had a history of hypertension, high blood pressure. He suffered his first attack a year ago. He refused hospitalization. Bukantz advised him to ask the government for a delay in bringing him to trial, claiming that stress and anxiety might exacerbate his condition.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Exacerbate?”

“Nice word, no? I learned it from the doctor. It means to exaggerate or intensify the disease. Madden turned thumbs down.”

“Of course. It would have required a motion by Madden’s attorney, stating a reason for the application.”

“So the doctor washed his hands of responsibility. What else could he do?”

I shook my head. “Seems the law is a little screwy on this. Cardiac failure is presumably a private matter, not affecting the public. Except they ought to revoke the patient’s license to drive a car. Because if a seizure hits the man on a crowded street, he might start mowing down innocent pedestrians.”

“You got a point, Counselor. And it’s happened in the past.” He regarded me narrowly. “How are you on history?”

“Now, there’s a staggering non sequitur, if I ever heard one. What history are you talking about? Modern? Medieval? Ancient?”

“Ancient.”

“How far back?”

“896 B.C.”

“Nine centuries before the birth of Christ. Not my specialty. I’m a Civil War buff. Why do you ask?”

“Here. Take a look.” He handed me a small square of paper with fold creases. “We found this in Oster’s wallet.”

I saw, written in pencil: #1 — 896 BC. It rang no bell. It stirred no recollection. I looked up. “Why don’t you check with some historian who specializes in the era?”

“I did. Professor Bernard Buchwald at Columbia. He tried to come up with something.” Nola made a helpless gesture. “But who kept records in those days? A few hieroglyphics in caves, maybe. Nothing we could use.”

“You think the date is significant?”

“Counselor, that paper was in Oster’s wallet. The man was murdered. Can we afford to ignore it? All right. Now, let me test you again. Here’s another.” He produced a second slip of paper. “Also from Oster’s wallet. The name of a man. Ever heard of him?”

I studied it intently, like one of Dr. Hermann Rorschach’s inkblots. It read: C H George, NAS. No periods between the initials. I dug deep, but the name triggered no response.

“He’s a stranger to me,” I said. “I see the handwriting on this slip of paper is different from the other.”

“Correct. The date is in Oster’s hand; the name was written by Ira Madden. We compared them both with known specimens.”

“C. H. George. Have you checked him out?”

“He’s not listed in the telephone directory, all five boroughs. Query, Counselor: Do you know of any degree or title or government agency carrying the initials NAS?”

“None I can recall. But the pension fund of Amalgamated Mechanics, the alleged source of Ira Madden’s loot, was heavily invested in the stock market. Some of those securities are probably unlisted and traded over the counter. Madden was in charge. So NAS could be an abbreviation for National Association of Security Dealers.”

“If C. H. George was in business, wouldn’t he list his name in the telephone book?”

“Of course. But which one? Suppose he has an office in Newark or Passaic or Jersey City or Hoboken or — take it from there.”

Nola looked sour. “Or maybe one of a thousand other cities. Madden would have dealt with any clown who’d kick back a piece of the commissions.”

“Suggestion: Why not call the NASD itself and ask if C. H. George is a member?”

Nola thumped his forehead and quickly reached for the phone and barked an order. As he hung up, the door opened and Wienick was back. “Keep your hat on,” Nola snapped. “Pick up Laura Bolt and bring her in.”

“Now, wait just one little minute,” I said. “Why bother the lady? Can’t you leave her in peace?”

“Your fault, Counselor. You tell me Oster was trying to extort money from Mrs. Bolt. Oster suddenly becomes a corpse, so we have to sweat the lady to find out if she’s clean.”

“Then you’ll do it in my presence. I’m her lawyer.”

“And you’ll advise her not to talk.”

“Come off it, Lieutenant. Mrs. Bolt has nothing to hide. She was out of town when it happened.”

“Convenient. All interested parties manage to leave town while a murder takes place.”

“Not all, Lieutenant. Just Laura Bolt and myself. Somebody apparently stayed here to do the job.”

“Yeah, I know. Or maybe somebody sneaked back long enough to point a gun.”

“Laura Bolt never fired a gun in her life. She couldn’t hit one of the walls from inside a room.”

“You know that for a fact, Counselor?”

I grinned. “No. May I have five minutes with the lady before you put her on the grill?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Lieutenant, the U.S. Supreme Court gives every accused the right to remain silent until he consults with an attorney. You’ve heard of privileged communications. Where’s the privilege if I can’t see her in private?”

“Aagh! Who the hell can argue with a lawyer? You may consult right here in my office.”

“Is it bugged?”

“Do me a favor, Counselor. Kiss—”

“Don’t say it, Lieutenant. It’s not dignified. If—”

The buzzer signaled. He put the phone to his ear and listened, one eyebrow arching. “The man can’t wait? All right, send him in.” He hung up and looked at me. “Stay put. This should be interesting.”

Nola’s visitor was a thin, humorless, balding primate with computer eyes and a razor-slit mouth. He introduced himself in a flat, uninflected voice and presented credentials: Mr. Harry Prime, Frauds Division, Internal Revenue Service. What he wanted was a line on Floyd Oster. He’d been told that Lieutenant Nola was in charge of the homicide investigation.

“Was Oster due for a tax audit?” Nola asked.

“Nothing like that, Lieutenant. Oster contacted my department several days ago and started preliminary negotiations. He wanted information about an informer’s fee.”

Nola frowned. “Informer’s fee?”

“Squealer’s reward,” I volunteered. “A tip to the gentlemen at IRS about someone’s tax evasion and the government rewards the squealer with a percentage of the recovery, if any.”

Mr. Harry Prime regarded me with distaste. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Scott Jordan.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you. Well, for your information, sir, we prefer not to call it a ‘squealer’s reward.’ ‘Informer’s fee’ would be more appropriate. An individual who assists us in tracking down money that rightfully belongs to the government is a patriot performing his civic duty.”

“Mr. Prime, any time Floyd Oster performed a civic duty for patriotic reasons should be declared a national holiday.”

Nola spread his hands. “What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Prime?”

“Perhaps I’d better give you a little background, Lieutenant. When Floyd Oster got in touch with us, he said that he had valuable information about a tax evader. He did not identify the man, nor supply any information about where the illegal funds could be found. He did say the sum was considerable, in excess of one million dollars. He wanted to know what percentage of the recovery he could expect. At the conclusion of our talk he made an appointment to see me later this week. Well, you know what happened. Oster was killed, foreclosing further disclosures. The Internal Revenue Service would like to know whether your investigation has turned up anything that might help us.”

“Not yet. We haven’t been in the picture long enough.”

“Can you tell us anything about his associates?”

“The only name that comes to mind is Ira Madden. But there is nothing in the record to indicate that he would double-cross his former employer. May I make a suggestion?”

“Please do.”

“Oster was under indictment by the Justice Department. They’ve been investigating him for months. It seems likely that the U.S. Attorney for this district would have considerably more information about the man than I do.”

“He’s next on my list.” Prime snapped his head around to eye me with sudden recollection. “Scott Jordan... Weren’t you supposed to represent Judge Bolt on that bribery charge for which Oster was under indictment?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know anything about this matter?”

“Not at the moment,” I said. “But I have a client who’s being questioned about the Oster homicide, so I have a special reason for digging around. If I come up with anything involving this tax evasion, would I not be in line for an informer’s fee?”

He wore a look of pain. “Each case must stand on its own merits. You are an attorney, sir. An officer of the court.”

“Except that I’m not on salary. I’m just a citizen trying to perform a civic duty. I’ve been shelling out to the government all my life. I wouldn’t mind getting some of it back. Strictly legal, of course, according to your own rules. Now, don’t con me, Mr. Prime. Will I be entitled to a cut?”

He had to clear an obstruction out of his throat. He spoke with difficulty, as though any payment would be coming out of his own pocket. “Mr. Jordan, if you provide us with information that materially assists the government in making a recovery, yes, you would be entitled to a fee.”

“How much?”

“I do not think you would be disappointed.”

“Ten percent?”

“In that neighborhood.”

Ten percent of one million was a good neighborhood. I said, “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

He produced a card. “Call me at this number.” He stood and shook hands with Nola. With me, he skipped the amenities. After he left, Nola gave me a searching look. “I know that expression, Counselor. It troubles me. You’re onto something.”

“Only a vague notion, Lieutenant. An unleavened theory.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“Later, maybe. After I work it out.”

He nodded in resignation, knowing it would be futile to insist. The door opened and Sgt. Wienick was back again with an outraged Laura Bolt, bitterly complaining. I silenced her with an upraised palm.

“This handsome gentleman,” I said, “is Lt. John Nola. He will allow us to use his office and he assures me the room is not bugged.”

Nola stifled a comment and stalked out, tugging Wienick behind him. I asked Laura Bolt many questions and was not especially charmed by any of her answers. She had driven out to Montauk, the weekend guest of friends. They had also invited another guest, male, a bachelor, hopefully suitable as a companion for Laura. A doomed pairing; ten minutes after the introduction she loathed him. Early the next morning, apologizing to her friends, she drove back to the city.

So she was right here in town when Floyd Oster had bought it.

Yes, she’d heard about his death. No, she had not been near his apartment. Her reaction? No trace of grief; in fact, some elation. She had finished the weekend watching television. No calls from anyone.

Nola is going to love this, I realized. With the Anglo-Saxon presumption of innocence, he would need more than coincidence before he could even hold her as a material witness.

Finally I opened the door and beckoned. “She’s all yours, Lieutenant.”

His attitude during thirty minutes of probing was one of polite skepticism. In the end, he dismissed us, still dissatisfied. I knew that within the hour he would have a crew on the job, scouring Oster’s neighborhood, displaying pictures of the shapely Mrs. Bolt. I put her into a cab.

Theories need a maturation period, time to ripen; so I eschewed taxis and walked, pondering all the way. Destination: main branch of the public library, second floor, a room devoted exclusively to finance and economics. Most of the room’s inhabitants were bent over long tables, intently studying stock market reports, seeking that elusive opportunity to corral the easy buck with neither sweat nor toil.

I checked out a fat manual on foreign banks and offshore tax shelters. I dug deep and long, straining my eyesight, flipping pages, and eventually felt a stir of excitement. Something had caught my attention. I ran it down, checking and cross-checking until one logical assumption followed another.

Lt. Nola and I had been hasty and arbitrary in drawing conclusions. We had been dead wrong on two counts: 896 B.C. was not a date; and C H George was not a man.

My initial lead came from Mr. Harry Prime himself, informing us that Floyd Oster had queried Internal Revenue about an informer’s fee. Why would Oster do that? Simple. He knew that someone had perpetrated a tax fraud. Who? Who else but Ira Madden, suspected of squirreling away embezzled union funds in Switzerland? Oster had been close to Madden, a loyal lackey; but Madden had died, and there is no profit in being loyal to a corpse. Such niceties would have been alien to Floyd Oster.

Now he was dead, and the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York probably felt no pain. He had enough current cases to keep him occupied well into the next millennium. Consequently, he was not sorry to wipe the slate clean on the indictments of Ira Madden for embezzlement and Floyd Oster for bribing a federal judge, consigning his files to dead storage.

Not so, Lt. John Nola; a homicide had been committed in his bailiwick. Murder is murder, even the liquidation of so rank a specimen as Floyd Oster.

The files also remained open for Mr. Harry Prime of Internal Revenue. So long as he could see any possibility for nourishing the government’s exchequer, he intended to hang right in there, proceeding against Madden’s estate, if necessary. He’d learned that Ed Colson had been named in Madden’s will as executor.

After leaving the library, I tried a form of mental isometrics, drawing on random fragments of memory, and I now felt that certain conclusions should be passed along to the authorities. Nola was not available, and when I called Harry Prime, he asked me to attend a conference at his office the next morning with Ed Colson and the lieutenant.

The Manhattan District Office of the IRS on Church Street is a building that never failed to make me uncomfortable. Prime sat behind his desk and fixed us each in turn with his vigilant tax-collector’s eyes. “A preliminary statement,” he said, “just to get the record straight. There are four men in this room. Each of us has a different goal. Lt. Nola wants to catch a murderer. I want the government to collect every penny that’s coming to us from Ira Madden’s estate. You, Mr. Colson, as Madden’s executor, would like to preserve that estate intact. And Mr. Jordan is after a piece of the action.”

“Correction,” I said. “The money would be a peripheral bonus, welcome but not essential. My chief goal is to clear Laura Bolt of any suspicion of homicide.”

Prime was skeptical. “But you would not refuse an informer’s fee.”

“Would you?”

He looked startled and changed the subject. “Mr. Colson, you were Madden’s defense attorney. You were also Floyd Oster’s lawyer. Did you know that Floyd Oster had been in touch with my office before he died, informing us that he had information about a tax fraud involving over one million dollars?”

Colson shook his head. “I had no knowledge of that, Mr. Prime. Floyd Oster was into many things of which I was not aware.”

“Well, sir, if a tax fraud had indeed been committed, and Oster was aware of it, can you guess the perpetrator’s identity?”

“I am a lawyer. I prefer facts to guesses.”

“Isn’t it a fact that Ira Madden had been charged with embezzling funds from the Amalgamated pension fund?”

“He had been charged, yes. An indictment is not proof. He was a far distance from being convicted.”

“Only his death prevented that.”

“No, sir. A lack of evidence would have accomplished the same purpose.”

“Well, Mr. Colson, we at Internal Revenue are convinced that Oster was referring to Ira Madden. Would you care to comment?”

“Not especially, Mr. Prime, but I will. Supposing for the sake of argument that Ira Madden had lived, that he’d been tried and convicted, that embezzled money was located, just where would Internal Revenue fit into the picture?”

“Madden failed to pay taxes on that money.”

“You’re way off base, Mr. Prime. Again, conceding nothing, what taxes are you talking about? That money, if stolen from the pension fund, belongs to the union, and as general counsel for Amalgamated Mechanics, I intend to see that any recovery goes right back into the union treasury. Internal Revenue is not entitled to one red cent.”

Prime sat blinking, his jaw slack. Generally, in the presence of tax officials, most citizens are apprehensive, humble, apologetic, so any change in the pattern comes as a jolt. Harry Prime was suddenly at a loss for words, but Lt. Nola had a few.

“As Floyd Oster’s attorney, Mr. Colson, you must have spoken to him on numerous occasions.”

“In preparation for his bribery trial, yes. I’d like to make one thing clear, Lieutenant: I think Floyd Oster was a moral leper. Ordinarily I wouldn’t permit an insect like Oster through the door of my office. The only reason I took his case was because he was employed by the union and Ira Madden requested it.”

“We found a slip of paper on Oster’s corpse, bearing the name C. H. George. Did he ever mention anyone by that name to you?”

Colson frowned. “I have no such recollection.”

“The name was written in Ira Madden’s hand. Did Madden ever mention a C. H. George?”

“No, sir. Who is he?”

“We don’t know. It had the letters NAS after it.”

“C. H. George is not the name of a man,” I said.

Sudden silence; all eyes swiveling and focusing. Nola dipped his chin and said in a very soft voice, “Would you fill that in, if you please, Counselor.”

“It’s an address in the Bahamas, Lieutenant. Specifically on New Providence Island.”

“Keep talking.”

“As written, ‘C H George’ is a form of speedwriting. It means Caribe House, George Street, and the NAS stands for Nassau.”

“Who lives there?”

“Nobody. It’s the branch office of a Swiss bank with headquarters in Zurich.”

“Now how in hell did you find that out?”

“You remember you also found a number in Floyd Oster’s pocket: 896 B.C. At first we thought it was a date. Then, in the light of Mr. Prime’s information about Oster’s inquiry, it occurred to me that it might refer to a secret numbered account in a Swiss bank. So I checked a source book at the library, and among the banks listed was one with headquarters in Zurich — Banque Credit.”

Nola caught it instantly. “Banque Credit. Initials, B.C.”

“Precisely. 896 B.C. The number of an account at the Banque Credit. I chased it down and discovered that the bank had a branch office in Caribe House on George Street in Nassau. That tied it. The connection was too obvious to be considered a coincidence.”

“And the number one before the 896, where does that fit?”

“It fits the number-one man at Amalgamated Mechanics, Ira Madden.”

“And Oster dug it up?”

“You found the evidence in his pocket.”

Prime snapped, “Nobody ever mentioned this to me.”

“You’re hearing it now,” I told him. “And it would not surprise me if that account had only recently been transferred from the Zurich headquarters to an offshore branch in the Bahamas to make it more quickly and easily accessible.”

“Why didn’t Madden close it out altogether?” Prime demanded. “He must have known the government recently negotiated a treaty with Switzerland regarding information about illegal funds.”

“My guess is that he was preparing to do that, and would have, if a heart attack hadn’t finished him first.”

Nola brooded at me. “So Madden was dead. Who else had a motive to kill Oster?”

“Seems to me you were all primed to nominate Laura Bolt.”

“That’s past history.”

“Good. Because she wasn’t the only victim. Floyd Oster was also putting the squeeze on someone else.”

“Who?”

I pointed. “Our lawyer friend. Mr. Edward Colson.”

Colson’s chair skidded back and toppled over as he came to his feet. “What the hell are you talking about, Jordan?”

“I’m talking about blackmail. Extortion. Floyd Oster may have been an insect, but his brain was working just fine. He knew what you were after. He spotted your game before anyone else and he braced you for a cut of the profits.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not trying. I’m saying it. Right out in front of witnesses. You were Ira Madden’s personal attorney. You had drawn his will. You were the executor. You knew that he had left everything to his daughter Lily, and you knew about Madden’s heart attack and that he might kick off at any time.”

Colson’s jaw ripped. “So?”

“So you went to work on the girl. You zeroed in. She never had a prayer. All that high-pressure, virile charm beamed at the poor, sad little pigeon. And she fell. Oh, how she fell! I saw her in your office, mesmerized and moonstruck. You planned on marrying the girl, and after that it would be a breeze conning her out of the estate. Especially that money in the Bahamas. One million tax-free dollars.”

“Why in hell would I need Lily’s money? I’m a successful lawyer.”

“Try another hole, Colson. That one doesn’t fit. You’ve limited yourself to one client for ten years — Amalgamated Mechanics, Madden’s private fief. Now Madden is dead and when the opposition takes over you’ll probably get axed. It’s too late to start a new practice. So you were desperate. Everyone knows you’re a big spender and couldn’t stomach a change in style. So you were itching to get your hands on Madden’s loot in that numbered account.”

Perspiration bathed his face. “How would I know where he kept that money?”

“You knew because Madden told you — an essential step in passing the money on to his daughter. That’s the drill, a fixed procedure in transferring secret accounts. The bank has been told the name of the depositor’s beneficiary. When he dies, his lawyer must notify them and furnish an official death certificate, which allows them to transfer the account. In this case, to Lily Madden. But only for a short time, because ultimately you’d take control. Not a cent to Amalgamated Mechanics. And knowing all that, Oster wanted in, so he put the bite on you.”

White lines framed Colson’s mouth. “If he was blackmailing me, why would he go to the IRS?”

“To pressure you. So you would deal with him. That’s why he had to be put on ice.”

Colson flattened a hand against his chest. “Are you intimating that I killed Floyd Oster?”

“Not intimating. Accusing you outright. You knew Oster. You knew he would bleed you dry. There was no other way out. I called on the man myself. I know that he doesn’t open his door for visitors. But he’d open the door for you, especially if he thought you were ready to talk business.”

Colson turned away, facing Nola and Prime, arms spread wide in appeal, voice charged with sincerity. “Something’s happened to Jordan. He’s gone soft between the ears. I’m a respected member of the bar. It’s absurd to think I would kill a man for money.”

“Money,” I said. “The usual motive. In this case, one million bucks. Men have plundered and slaughtered for less. But you had still another motive, Colson. I think you were the moving force behind Oster’s attempt to bribe Judge Bolt. You set it up. You’ve been around the courts a long time and you knew that Judge Bolt was vulnerable. And you were terrified that if Oster ever came to trial he might break and implicate you. That would be the end; complicity, conspiracy, disbarment, disgrace, prison. How does that grab you for motive?”

A dark vein bulged in a blue diagonal over his left eye. “You haven’t got a shred of evidence.”

“Maybe not. But you have, Colson. You’re holding it now in your sweaty right hand. Oster was killed by a bullet through the head. So the killer fired a gun. The police will perform a nitrate test to determine if any gunpowder particles were blown back into the skin of your palm. And if the test is positive, how will you explain it? Target practice in your office?”

He lifted his hand and stared at it.

“And that isn’t all,” I said. “I don’t think you had the time or the foresight to drop your weapon off the Staten Island ferry. They know how to look. They’ll find it and make a ballistics check.”

He transferred his gaze to me, his tongue rimming his mouth.

“You want more, Colson? Here it is. Lt. Nola will put an army into the field, locating witnesses to prove you were in Oster’s neighborhood at the critical time. That’s a heavily populated area. Somebody must have seen you coming or going.”

He found his voice. It was gravelly and hoarse. “I’m leaving. I don’t have to stand here and listen to this ranting maniac.”

As he headed for the door at an awkward trot, Nola came up fast and blocked his way. “Not so fast, Counselor. We have a little business to transact at headquarters.”

Ed Colson blinked, his eyes lost. Then he doubled over and got sick, right there in the Manhattan office of the Internal Revenue Service.