Man-Trap

VI

I was rather surprised at the lower middle-class neighborhood Willard Knight had picked for his home, for while it was not exactly a slum area, it hardly seemed the proper environment for an investment broker. The little frame cottage had no bell, so I pounded on the screen door. The inner door was open because of the heat, and when no one answered my knock, I peered through the screen door just in time to catch a woman peering at me also. She stood in a doorway across the small living room, and the moment my face neared the screen, she faded back out of sight.

Twice more I rapped, and when nothing happened, I tested the screen and found it unlatched. I brought the woman out of her hiding place by slamming it back and forth until it shook the house.

Before she could open her mouth to deliver the verbal blast I could feel coming, I said rapidly, “I’m investigating a murder. If you’re Mrs. Knight, I’m looking for your husband.”

Her lower lip remained outthrust, but all expression faded from her eyes and her face paled. After a moment of mental adjustment, she stepped aside and opened the door without saying a word. In her living room I picked a hard sofa as probably the most comfortable of an assortment of cheap furniture and settled myself at one end. Slowly lowering herself to the edge of a straight-backed chair, the woman clasped hands in her lap. Still she did not speak.

“You are Mrs. Knight, aren’t you?” I asked.

Her head gave a quick, frightened bob.

“Where is your husband, Mrs. Knight?” Instead of answering, she said in a scared voice, “What’s he done?” Her voice surprised me. It was more than merely husky. It was deep as a man’s.

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “Nothing I know of. What do you think he did?”

She said, “Tell me. You can tell me. I’ll have to know anyway. What’s he done?” She clasped and unclasped her hands nervously.

“Don’t get excited,” I said soothingly. “A man your husband knew was killed. I’m just making a routine check.”

Her eyes searched mine with suspicion, then hope. “You’re not after him?”

I shook my head. “I think I’ve given you the wrong impression. I’m not from the police. I’m a private investigator.” Fishing my license from my wallet, I handed it to her. “I just want to talk to your husband.”

As she examined the license, some confidence returned to her bearing. “Moon,” she said, still looking at the license. Then she handed it back to me. “He’s out of town, Mr. Moon. On business.”

“What’s his out-of-town address?”

“I don’t know.”

I kept my eyes on her face until she flushed and looked at her hands. Then I said, “The information I have which connects your husband with the dead man, I got from his secretary. She hasn’t told the police. If I can talk to your husband and get a reasonable explanation, maybe the police will never have to know Mr. Knight threatened the murdered man a few hours before the murder. But if I can’t, I’ll have to give what I know to them and let them pick him up. Do you have a phone?”

Her hands began to work together. “I really don’t know Willard’s address. He said he’d send it.”

“Why’d he leave?”

“I don’t know. Something he saw in the papers, I think. He was all right till breakfast. Well, maybe a little grumpy, but not excited like he was after he saw the paper. At first he seemed elated, like the stock market had boomed or something, but when I asked him what the good news was, he looked kind of thoughtful and told me maybe it was a mixed blessing. Then the more he thought about it, the more upset and less glad he seemed. He never did tell me what it was he saw in the paper, just told me to shut up when I asked a second time. Then he packed a suitcase and told me to phone the office; he had a prospect who would keep him out of town a few days. He phoned a taxi, and when it came he said he’d write me.” Her voice turned faintly bitter. “I knew he wouldn’t tell me any more if I asked, so I never asked.”

“What taxi did he call?”

She thought a moment, then shook her head. “I didn’t pay any attention.”

“And you never found out what it was in the paper that upset him?”

She shook her head again. “I thought maybe it was something he saw in the financial section, because sometimes he gets upset over stock market reports. I read over the market list after he left, but I couldn’t find anything about any sensational rises or drops in prices.” Her eyes widened at a sudden idea. “You said a murder. You don’t mean the one...”

Her voice faded out.

I nodded. “Yes I do. Where was your husband last night?”

“At a company board meeting. Jones and Knight Investment Company.”

“How long did the meeting last?”

“I don’t know. He was gone from six till after one in the morning.”

“Your husband’s partner, Jones. What’s his first name?”

“Harlan.”

I rose. “I guess that covers things. Mind if I use your phone?”

She caught her breath. “You’re not... not going to phone the police?”

“I’m going to phone your husband’s partner.” Casually I added, “Jones flew to Kansas City last night. Seems funny he’d do that on the night of a board meeting, doesn’t it?”

Her face went pale. Without a word she rose and led me through a narrow dining room into a back hall where a phone sat on a table.

In the telephone book I found a residence listing for Harlan Jones and dialed the number. A female with an interestingly throaty voice answered.

When I asked for Jones, she said, “Just a moment, please.”

A pompous voice said in my ear, “Jones speaking.”

“Manville Moon,” I said. “I’m trying to locate your partner.”

“Sorry, Mr. Moon. Knight is out of town. May I help you?”

“Out of town?” I repeated. “Did he present my proposition at your board meeting last night?”

“Board meeting?” He sounded puzzled.

“Didn’t you have a board meeting last night?”

“No...” slowly. “I wasn’t even in town last night, Mr. Moon. But I don’t quite understand what you mean anyway. We have no board of directors. We’re not incorporated. Knight and I are sole owners. What was your proposition?”

I hung up quietly.

Mrs. Knight’s squat figure was centered in the dining room door. Her hands rigidly clasped each other and fright peered from the back of her eyes. All I did was look at her without any expression on my face, but she backed into the dining room as though terrified.

I followed her without hurry. “Where is he?” I asked in an easy voice.

“I don’t know! Honest I don’t!” Then words tumbled from her in an hysterical stream. “I don’t know where he goes. He says board meetings and comes in at all hours, and I know it’s not board meetings because his company has no board. But it isn’t drinking either. I’ve smelled his breath after he’s asleep. I don’t know where he goes or what he does.”

She stopped with fat shoulders pressed against a wall. Her frightened face tilted upward and she licked trembling lips.

I said, “Don’t you ask where he goes?”

“I couldn’t. If you knew his temper, you’d see I couldn’t. All I know is he makes good money, but we never have anything. If I said right out I didn’t believe his board meetings, he’d... he’d kill me, like as not.”

Then her eyes grew even wider and the back of one hand pressed against her mouth. “He wouldn’t really,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t kill anybody.”

I looked down at her thoughtfully until two tears seeped from the corners of her eyes and dribbled across her cheeks. Then, suddenly, I felt infinitely sorry for her and a little ashamed of myself.

I said, “Take it easy, Mrs. Knight. Your husband may be able to explain the whole thing.”

She shook her head. “You’ll tell the police. I know you will. And they’ll arrest him for something he didn’t do.”

Her shoulders hunched and she bowed her head into upturned palms as sobs began to shake her body. As quietly as I could, I got my hat from the front room and left, feeling somewhat like a heel.

From a drug store booth I phoned Warren Day at his home.

“How does this sound?” I asked. “Three hours before Lancaster got it, a guy threatened to fix him. The guy’s wife says he has a temper and he wasn’t where he told his wife he was at the time of the murder. Also, he’s taken a powder.”

Day said, “Who’s the guy?”

“Willard Knight. Jones and Knight Investments.” I told him the same story the secretary-bookkeeper had told me. “He’s the kind of guy who invests all his money in stocks and lives in a five-thousand-dollar shack.”

“Where’s the shack?”

I told him the address.

“I’ll have Hannegan get a picture from his wife and we’ll send out the word.”

Harlan Jones’ house was on Park Lane over on the West Side. It was a modest but substantial place, along in the fifteen-thousand-dollar class. It was just eight P.M. when I pushed the button next to the front door.

The woman who answered my ring was as much a contrast to Mrs. Knight as her home was to the Knight home. Sleek and serene, she escaped thinness by that slight margin stylists call willowy, which is between slender and skinny. Golden hair pushed back from a broad unlined brow in careful waves. Her eyes were wide-spaced and green, and her nose arched slightly but delicately over a soft, humorous mouth. She looked thirty, but by the barely discernible crows-feet at her eye corners, I judged her a well-preserved thirty-five.

I said, “Mrs. Jones?”

“Yes.” It was the same throaty voice I had heard over the phone.

“Mr. Jones in?”

“Not at the moment. He just stepped down to the drug store, but he’ll be right back. Will you come in?”

I said, “Thanks,” and let her lead me into a tastefully furnished living room.

“I’m Manville Moon,” I explained when we were settled in easy chairs with a knee-high glass-topped table between us. “I phoned earlier.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I answered the phone.” She laughed lightly. “Harlan will be glad to see you. He was upset when you hung up on him.” Her tone grew an edge of tolerant cynicism. “Harlan is always upset when he thinks he’s lost a chance to make a nickle.”

Then, apparently realizing her flippancy was not exactly diplomatic with one of her husband’s prospects, she looked contrite. “I shouldn’t say that. I’m always saying things I shouldn’t.”

“It won’t hurt your husband’s business,” I said dryly. “I’m afraid I left a wrong impression with Mr. Jones. I’m not in the market for stocks and bonds.”

Fishing out my wallet, I handed my license over for examination for the third time that day. She read it carefully, then looked at me with an amused quirk lifting the corners of her mouth.

“A detective! How dramatic! Don’t tell me Harlan is secretly a criminal.”

I shook my head. “My interest isn’t in your husband.”

“Neither is mine,” she said frankly, then colored to the roots of her hair and emitted a throaty little laugh. “Don’t I say the damnedest things?”

I let a grin form on what I use for a face.

“You’re nice when you grin,” she said. “Sort of like a friendly Saint Bernard whose face has been chewed by a bulldog. Do you mind my saying that? You must know you’re not exactly handsome. But of course with those shoulders, you don’t have to be.”

As she seemed to require only occasional answers when carrying on a conversation, I contented myself with merely continuing to grin.

“Are you interested in me?” she asked suddenly.

“How do you mean? As a detective?”

“How else?” Then her eyes widened and she let out a healthy, spontaneous laugh. “Are you interested some other way? That might be fun.”

“I came to see your husband about his partner,” I explained.

All laughter faded from her eyes. “Willard?”

I nodded, mildly intrigued by her use of Knight’s first name.

“What’s he done?” Her tone was intently serious.

I shrugged. “Nothing I know of. Except disappear.”

She studied me estimatingly and a faint trace of amusement reappeared in her eyes. “Going out of town on business is hardly disappearing.” Then she frowned. “At least Harlan said he was away on business.”

I remained silent.

“Harlan never lies. To me, anyway. I’d catch him in a minute.” Continuing to eye me, her tone gathered impatience. “What do you want to know about Willard?”

“Where he is.”

“Why?”

“Want to talk to him.”

She gripped one side of her lower lip between even teeth and watched me vexedly. “Is it a secret?” she asked finally.

“No, but I’d just as soon hold it till your husband comes home and not have to repeat myself.”

She fell silent and thought wrinkles momentarily marred the smoothness of her brow. Then, lifting her shoulders deprecatingly, she said, “Will you have a drink?”

I nodded assent. “Been waiting for an offer.”

Her good humor returned at once. “You should have asked.” She rose and moved toward the hall. She had been gone about two minutes when I heard the front door open and close again.

A round little fat man carrying a carton of cigarettes came in from the hall. He stopped short when he saw me, then advanced diffidently.

“Good evening, sir.”

I got out of my chair. “You Mr. Jones?”

“Yes.”

“Manville Moon,” I said, sticking out my hand. “I phoned earlier. I took advantage of you over the phone,” I said. “I’m not in the market for stocks. I just wanted some fast information about Willard Knight.”

Mrs. Knight came back into the room, bearing a tray with two glasses. “Are you back, Harlan? This is Mr. Moon. He’s a private eye. Isn’t that exciting?”

I winced, as I always do when anyone calls me a private eye.

“Yes,” Jones started to say. “We’ve...”

“We’re having a new drink,” she interrupted. “Scotch and bourbon mixed. Mr. Moon’s admirable suggestion. Go make yourself one.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Jones said petulantly.

“Suit yourself.” She handed me one of the glasses, took the other herself and curled up in a chair with her legs under her.

Easing myself back into my own chair, I said, “Luck,” and tried a sip of the drink.

It did not taste like it had overseas. In fact it tasted lousy.

“That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Jones thrilled after her first sip. “Wherever did you discover it?”

“It was invented on the continent,” I said with a straight face.

“See here,” Jones put in suddenly. “What’s all this about?”

I said, “I’m here about the murder that took place last night, Mr. Jones.”

“Isn’t he dramatic?” his wife asked. Then her face stiffened and she said in a strangely hushed voice, “Not Willard?”

“He means Walter Lancaster, I presume,” Jones told her with mild impatience. To me he said, “I’ve already told the police everything I know about the man. What is it you want with me?”

“I want you to tell me where Willard Knight is.”

He looked surprised and a little relieved. “I don’t know. Our secretary phoned his wife this morning when he didn’t come in, and Mrs. Knight said he left town to see a prospect. She didn’t seem to know where he went Why don’t you ask her?”

“I did. She doesn’t know either.”

Mrs. Jones said, “No doubt he will wire in tomorrow. Can’t you wait?”

“No, he won’t wire,” I said. “He’s run.”

Nervously Jones punched out his cigarette. “I don’t understand this, Mr. Moon. Is Knight suspected of the crime?”

I shrugged. “Not exactly. But a few hours before the murder he threatened Lancaster, and now he’s dropped out of sight. When his wife last saw him, he was in a peculiar hurry. And he definitely was not where he told his wife he was last night. You established that on the phone.”

Mrs. Jones said, “Willard couldn’t have. Why he was...” Her voice trailed off and she finished lamely, “You have mentioned he has a temper though, haven’t you, Harlan?”

Abruptly she rose, pardoned herself and left the room.

Jones said, “This is all a great shock to me, Mr. Moon. But I’m sure my partner wouldn’t kill anyone. There must be some other explanation for his absence.”

“I haven’t accused him of murder,” I said. “I merely want to find him. And since you know his habits, maybe you can give me a lead. Where would he go to hide out?”

“Hide out? I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“He have a summer camp or cottage anywhere?”

He moved his head back and forth slowly. “No. I’m sure he hasn’t.”

“Have friends in other cities?”

He screwed up his forehead and thought for a while. “No one special I can think of,” he said finally. “But I suppose he has some out-of-town friends.”

Mrs. Jones came back into the room carrying a single drink. “I fixed you one of the new drinks,” she told her husband, handing him the glass.

He accepted it as though he didn’t want it, but didn’t know how to refuse before company.

As Mrs. Jones passed between us on the way back to her chair, she casually dropped a note in my lap, her body hiding the movement from her husband. Without looking down, I let one palm fall across it. I got out of my chair, slipping the note in my pocket as I rose. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for the drink.” The drink stood, practically untouched, on the little cocktail table.

Jones said, “I’m afraid we haven’t helped much.”

“You’ve been fine,” I said politely, and bowed my way out.