Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 3, March, 1953

The Mourning After by Harold Q. Masur

The store had given the redhead ten thousand dollars worth of jewelry, and now they wanted it returned, Scott Jordan had to take it from there.

On Fifth Avenue it’s Tiffany’s or Cartier’s. But they haven’t got all the carriage trade sewed up. There’s Sutro’s on Madison. Not quite as large, but just as elegant, with a liveried doorman at the entrance.

He bowed and smiled and pulled the heavy plate-glass door wide open.

A floorwalker in morning coat and oxford trousers showed me his teeth. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Mrs. Brownlee,” I said.

His deference expanded. You might think I had asked for the Duchess of Luxemburg. “The elevator on your left, sir. Third floor.”

He gave me a personal convoy past the blond wood display counters in front of which set gracefully carved chairs with black patent leather seats. The rose-colored broad-loom underfoot was soft as grass. The indirect lighting was subdued and easy on the eyes.

The sales personnel were distinguished-looking and impeccably garbed, supplied with smooth-writing fountain pens to facilitate the writing of checks, on the theory that few people carried enough cash to pay for the original designs executed by Sutro’s own artisans.

An angular female sat at a reception desk on the third floor. She raised an inquiring eyebrow as I approached.

“Mrs. Brownlee,” I said,

“Have you an appointment?”

“At two o’clock.”

She checked her wrist watch and looked up disapprovingly. “It’s five after.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s that Turkish ambassador. He always dawdles over his schnapps.”

She glared at me. “Your name, please.”

“Jordan,” I said. “Scott Jordan.”

She plugged into a small PBX and spoke my name, listened, got me the green light, and pointed to a door against the far wall.

It was quite an office, very sumptuous, with a wide expanse of desk fashioned out of English walnut and polished like a mirror. A woman stood up from behind the desk. “Scott Jordan,” she said warmly, and came around to greet me. “Hello, Eve.”

At forty, Eve Brownlee was a tall, sinewy, well-nourished woman with dark hair pulled severely back from a pale forehead. In a tailored suit, with the bloom of youth gone, she could still activate the hormones, and there was no doubt that she had a lot of enthusiastic mileage left.

She owned Sutro’s. She inherited the establishment when her first husband, Jacques Sutro, carelessly stepped out into the path of a Fifth Avenue bus. She had mourned briefly and then gone to work learning the business.

I had met her a year ago in Mexico, while her second husband, Charles Brownlee, was on a fishing trip. They had been secretly married, she confided, and were spending their honeymoon. When she called me this morning I had no idea what was on her mind.

She got me seated and came straight to the point. “You’re still practicing law, I suppose?”

“Vigorously.”

“Can you handle a problem for us?”

I shrugged noncommittally. “Depends on the problem.”

“Have you ever heard of Joyce Arnold?”

I thought and shook my head.

“Then let me enlighten you.” Eve put her fingertips together. “Joyce Arnold is a character. Good family and good background. Her father is in the diplomatic service, vice-consul somewhere in the Balkans. But the girl never settled down. She was briefly headed for a career. Studied law and even practiced for a time. She was married twice and divorced twice. About a month ago she came into the store and—”

Eve glanced up as the door opened.

A man’s voice spoke apologetically. “Didn’t know you had company, Eve. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, Charles. I want you to meet Scott Jordan, the attorney I told you about. This is my husband, Charles Brownlee.”

I saw a tall gent with an aristocratic air, straight and thin, with a touch of gray at the temples. He reached for my hand with a grip like a pipefitter in good shape.

Brownlee had been employed at Sutro’s for several years before marrying the boss. Marriage had moved him up the ladder. He was general manager now.

Eve said, “I was just telling Scott about Joyce Arnold.”

He looked at her with a pained expression, frowning. “You’re not really going to sue that girl, are you, Eve?”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not sure it’s the wise thing to do.”

“Look, Charles, we’ve got to run this firm on a business basis, not as a philanthropic institution.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “But there must be some other method.”

“What, for instance?”

“Give me time and I’ll think of one.”

“Time? Haven’t we waited long enough? Suppose we let Scott decide.” She appealed to me. “Here’s the situation. It’s simple enough. As I was saying, Joyce Arnold came into the store some time ago, six weeks to be exact. She was looking for a piece of jewelry. Nothing pleased her until she saw a certain pin, rather expensive, diamonds and emeralds, but she couldn’t make up her mind, so Charles let her take it home, sort of on consignment. We do that with certain customers. Gives them a chance to reach a definite decision. That was six weeks ago. The pin is worth ten thousand dollars. She has neither paid for it nor returned it.”

“Have you communicated with her?”

“By mail and telephone. She ignores the letters and acts evasive on the telephone. It’s a ridiculous situation and I can’t understand it at all,” Eve said indignantly.

“Did she sign a receipt?”

“Of course.”

I took it from her hand and looked it over. Everything was in order, ironclad and legal.

Brownlee cleared his throat. “What do you suggest, counselor?”

“You have one of two remedies. An action to make her pay or an action to recover the merchandise. Providing you want to sue.”

Eve looked first at her husband, then at me. “Is there any other way, Scott?”

“Maybe we can settle out of court. I usually try to do that first anyway.”

“You have our authorization.”

“That all right with you, Mr. Brownlee?”

“Er — yes,” he said absently. “Whatever you think best.”

“Then it’s settled.”

We exchanged some small talk, shook hands all around, and I left.

Joyce Arnold lived in Gracie Square. The building was old, but well-kept and respectable. I got her apartment from the row of mail boxes and took the self-service elevator to the fourth floor.

I had a hunch. My hunch said that Joyce Arnold no longer had the pin, that it was in hock, that she couldn’t raise the money to redeem it, and that she was stalling for time.

I found the number and rang the bell.

The door opened. She stood, blocking the threshold, not too tall, not too short, just right, gorgeously bunched and full of electricity. Her face was oval-shaped and olive-skinned, with large moist expressive eyes under flaring brows. Bronze-red hair lounged softly around her shoulders. Her lips were cherry-red, luscious and desirable. The rest of her looked damned good too.

On business calls, I’m usually immune. But this was too much for me. My chest was thumping.

“Miss Arnold?” I said.

“Yes.”

“The name is Jordan — Scott Jordan. I’d like to talk to you. I’m an attorney.”

“Attorney for whom?”

“Sutro’s.”

I had my foot wedged in to prevent the slamming door from flattening my nose. It didn’t slam and I got my first surprise of the afternoon. She smiled. It was a smile that promised a man the world, but he’d probably have to pay for it at current real estate values.

She stepped aside. “Come in, won’t you?”

I went through a foyer and down two steps into a sunken living room. Upholstery on the love seat had a busy circus design. The wingback chairs were peppermint-striped in green and red. Plaster of Paris animals stood, sat, and reclined from every horizontal shelf in the place.

Joyce Arnold sank back into a nest of pillows on the love seat and tucked her legs up under her. “I’ve read about you, Mr. Jordan. This is a pleasure, indeed. I’m delighted.” She patted the seat beside her. “Sit down.”

The space was just wide enough for a golf stick. I took a deep breath and squeezed in. It reminded me of the subway at rush hours. My pulse began to knock erratically.

First honors to Miss Arnold.

Her strategy was effective. How can you think straight against the pressure of molded thigh and the swirling fragrance of recently shampooed hair and sea-blue eyes deep enough to drown in?

“You say you’re from Sutro’s?” The diction was Knob Hill but the tone was Basin Street.

“That’s right,” I said.

“A lovely store.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I was real bright this afternoon. I shook my head. I avoided her eyes. I put some steel into my voice.

“I understand you were a lawyer once, Miss Arnold.”

“Still am. I’ve never been disbarred. Just inactive.”

It was a big mistake. She never should have given it up. Only a jury of blind octogenarians with muscular atrophy would decide a case against her.

“Then you must know something about the law,” I told her. “There are certain tenets concerning fraud, illegal possession, and unjust enrichment. You know why I’m here. About that pin you took from Sutro’s. It doesn’t belong to you. Not yet. Title remains vested in Sutro’s until it’s paid for. They are very adamant. They believe you’ve had enough time to decide. They want their money or their pin. The management has empowered me to take whatever steps I find necessary to accomplish that end.”

“Did Charles Brownlee send you here?”

“The idea was Mrs. Brownlee’s.”

“So they’re going to sue,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

“Come now, Miss Arnold,” I said. “Six weeks is a long time. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. A thing like this can’t go on indefinitely. They’re afraid you’ll get squatter’s rights. Certainly you’ve had enough time to make up your mind.”

“I have, Mr. Jordan.” She nodded decisively. “I’m going to keep the pin.”

“Good,” I said. “Suppose you make out a check and give it to me.”

She sniffed. “I’ll have to sell some stock and make a deposit. They’ll have a check in the mail not later than tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s a promise?”

“Yes.”

I held out my hand. “Shall we seal it?”

It wasn’t her way of closing a deal. She had other ideas. She turned sideways and tilted back into my arms. Her fingers squirmed along the back of my neck, pulling me close. Her lips were cushion-soft and pouting. I didn’t have to move more than half a millimeter to make contact.

I held back a moment. Nothing here seemed disloyal to my clients. She had promised to pay. The case was closed. Ostensibly, I was on my own.

I moved the half a millimeter. It was something. Have you ever been caught in the propwash of a B-29? Her mouth opened on mine, hungry and lingering. Her fingernails gouged into the nape of my neck. She made a small whimpering savage noise and the thing got out of hand. I felt myself spinning and whirling into a vortex that left me dizzy and breathless.

The spinning stopped, and only a white heat remained, and it tried to burn a hole in the pit of my stomach. The heat moved to her mouth then, and her lips were on fire, and she squirmed closer in my arms, pressing the length of her body against mine. In less than ten seconds, the whole room was a blazing holocaust and we were in the middle of it, and we didn’t give one little damn.

We rested for a while after that and we didn’t say much. There wasn’t much else we could say. And then that hungry look came into her eyes again, and she moved closer to me again, and I was getting ready for another three-alarmer, because these were fires I liked.

So the damn doorbell picked that precise moment to start ringing.

At first, she ignored it. But an insistent finger kept the button depressed. It took will-power, but I finally got her disengaged. She moved away from me and stood up, straightening her dress. Her eyes were muddy and her lipstick smeared. When her breathing slowed down she said, “Don’t go way now,” and disappeared into the foyer.

I heard the door open. I heard her gasp of surprise. “Gladys!”

The visitor’s voice was harsh and strained. “I must speak to you, Joyce.”

“Some other time, Gladys. I’m very busy. Can we have cocktails tomorrow at—”

“No. It won’t wait. I have to see you now.”

The voice had resolution and inflexibility. I knew the visitor was coming in. I felt foolish sitting there with lip-rouge all over my face. I got out of the love seat and through a swinging door into a tiny kitchen just as Joyce Arnold backed up into the living room. I kept the door open a quarter of an inch.

No wonder Joyce had backed up. Gladys had both the vigor and the physique. She was built like one of those showgirls Ziegfeld used to hire in the old days to stand around in a tassle and smile for the stimulation of jaded executives and visiting firemen. A tall, statuesque, peroxide blonde, full blown, pneumatic and boiling mad.

She put her hands on her hips and made her lips thin. Her eyes were ominous. “You listen to me, Joyce, and get this straight. I’m warning you. Stay away from Matt. Understand? Stay away from Matt.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“He’s my husband and he’s going to stay my husband.”

“Who wants him?”

“You do. You’ve been seeing him.”

Joyce managed a laugh. “You’ve got the wrong number, Gladys. I wouldn’t take Matt on a silver platter.”

“Then why have you seen him?”

“Business. Strictly business. Matt Frost and I were once associated, weren’t we?”

“You mean you worked for him.”

I thought, Matt Frost. That would be Mathew B. (for Blackstone) Frost. A well-known legal-beagle with offices on Foley Square. A short bald pudgy specimen with a devious brain and an active practice in matrimonial actions.

I saw the peroxide blonde take a threatening step. “This is my last warning, Joyce. If you don’t leave him alone, so help me, I’ll kill you.”

Joyce Arnold held her ground. “He’s all yours. I never wanted him and I don’t want him now. Will you please leave?”

Gladys concentrated a glare of pure unadulterated hatred. If looks could kill, Joyce would have been horizontal on the carpet, stone cold dead. The blonde turned suddenly and marched through the foyer. The whole apartment trembled with the impact of the door when it slammed shut.

I stepped out of the kitchen.

Joyce heard me. “Oh, there you are.” She dropped onto the love seat, sighing. “Come over and sit down.”

Damned if she didn’t want to resume where we’d left off as if nothing had happened.

I lit a cigarette. “That blonde,” I said, “was really sore.”

“You got an earful, didn’t you?”

“How could I help it?”

“Well, she was mistaken.”

I shook my head. “First time I ever heard of two women fighting over Mathew Blackstone Frost.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You know Matt Frost?”

“Business-wise, not socially.”

Joyce bent over and reached for a box of cigarettes on the coffee table. I struck a match and brought the flame close. She filled her lungs with smoke and kept it there. Then she leaned back and half closed her eyes. “Know who Gladys used to be?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The first Mrs. Charles Brownlee.”

I almost dropped my cigarette. “You don’t say.”

“We got her the divorce. I was associated with Matt when he handled the case.”

“So the lawyer married his client,” I said.

“It’s not the first time.”

“She had blood in her eyes. Better watch out, Joyce.”

She shrugged indifferently. Twin streams of smoke leaked through her nostrils. “I’m not worried. Come over here and sit down.”

I looked at my watch and started to get up. “By God, it’s late,” I said, “and I’ve got an appointment with a judge.”

She was pouting. “You really have to go?”

“It’s very important.”

“Will I see you again?”

“Sure.”

“Tonight?”

“Why not.”

“Come for supper,” she said. “You’d be surprised. I can cook.”

You’re always cooking, I thought. “It’s a date,” I said.

She got up and moved to a liquor cabinet. “One for the road?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Thanks just the same.”

She was trying her luck on a shot of Black Horse when I left. Halfway down the hall I thought of something and tiptoed back. Her voice came through in a monologue. She was talking to someone on the telephone.

“... it’s Eve Brownlee, I tell you. She’s impatient. I promised the lawyer I’d send a check. We’ll have to figure something, Matt. Can I see you?” A pause. “Yes, I’ll be here all afternoon if you call back.”

I didn’t hear the handset click into its cradle. But the monologue was suspended. I hurried to the elevator.

I called Sutro’s from my office. “Eve,” I said, “I spoke to Joyce Arnold. She promised to mail us a check tomorrow afternoon.”

“Scott, you’re a genius.”

“Hold on,” I said. “She made the promise, not me. I don’t know if she’ll keep her word.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll sue.”

“It’s in your hands, Scott.”

“Good enough.”

I stayed at my desk and worked all afternoon, correcting syntax on a brief for the Appellate Division. Then I went home for a shave, a shower, and a complete change. At seven o’clock I headed for Gracie Square.

The self-service elevator took me up.

I put my finger on the buzzer. She was probably in the tiny kitchen. Those pressure cookers usually make a lot of noise. Nobody answered. I rattled the knob and the door swung open easily.

I went in and I saw her.

No wonder she couldn’t hear me. She was through hearing anything, ever again. The one bullet was enough. It had knocked in the left temple and she sat sprawled awkwardly in the peppermint-striped chair. Her wide open eyes were fixed on the high ceiling, blank and glassy.

Her body looked unreal. Too theatrical. As if it were planned for effect.

I stood there, rooted, impaled to the floor. For once I was really shocked.

Eight thousand homicides every year. You read about them in the papers. But you feel nothing, neither pity nor shock. The victims are merely names, unfamiliar ciphers. It’s different when you’ve known a girl, held her in your arms, felt her heart beating.

Joyce Arnold had come a long way. I knew she’d hurried getting there. Was it worth the effort?

What had she done? Taken another woman’s husband? Tried to make an easy buck? Maybe it was a combination of both.

My lips were cotton dry as I reached for the phone and called Headquarters. Detective-lieutenant John Nola was the man I wanted. Sometimes he knew just what to do.

“Stay there,” he told me grimly. “You know the procedure.”

I knew what he meant. He meant: Hands off. This is murder and out of your jurisdiction. Keep your nose clean. Don’t get a finger caught.

I knew what he meant all right. So I started to search. I wanted to be sure we got a receipt for a diamond pin if it was here anywhere. Not that I didn’t trust the cops. But there’s bound to be one rotten apple in a whole barrel. One cop with an itchy palm. I looked in the kneehole desk, in the closets, in the bureau drawers. For a while I thought it was gone.

I found the envelope hidden under a tangle of nylon hosiery and undergarments. The flap was open and I looked inside.

It held some newsprint and a photostat.

The newsprint was a page torn out of the Law Journal and dated April 1st. A pencil mark encircled an item. It stated that an interlocutory decree had been entered in the divorce action of Brownlee vs Brownlee. The article went on in dry legal phraseology.

That was the split, I guessed, between Gladys and Charles.

The photostat was a copy of the marriage certificate issued to Charles Brownlee and Eve Sutro on June 20th in Gretna Green. It showed that a ceremony had been performed by a Justice of the Peace the same day.

I looked them over, thinking hard. The answers hit me like a Mack truck. I got out of there as fast as I could.

A police siren came wailing through the night as I reached the corner. Brakes squealed in protest. I didn’t wait around.

I stepped hurriedly into the drug store and thumbed through the telephone directory. It supplied the home address of Gladys and Mathew B. Frost.

They lived on Park Avenue, only five blocks away. I went up there and I pushed the button. A tiny French maid with a capricious smile opened the door and twinkled. “Yes, m’sieu?”

“Mrs. Frost, please.”

“She ees not home.”

“Mr. Frost?”

“He ees with her. Can I so something for you, m’sieu?”

She sure could, but not now. Not if she was going to do it right.

I headed over to the West Side. To Riverside Drive and one of those concrete monoliths with an acre of window panes facing the Hudson. Charles and Eve Brownlee had a terrace apartment high up in the north tower.

They were home, dining at opposite ends of a long table under a glittering chandelier. Everything had been cleared away except a silver coffee service.

Eve delicately touched a napkin to a corner of her mouth. “Cup of coffee, Scott? Sorry we can’t offer you any dessert. Charles and I are on a diet.”

“Nothing, thanks,” I said.

Charles Brownlee patted his satisfied stomach. “Eve tells me you’ve settled the case, counselor. Extraordinary. With a talent like that you ought to run a collection agency.” He took a sip of coffee. “You say we can expect our money tomorrow or the day after?”

“Not any more,” I said. “You’ll have to wait.”

“But I thought...” He looked at his wife with a puzzled expression and then came back to me. “Wait for what?”

“For her estate to be settled.”

“Estate?”

“That’s right. She’s dead.”

They goggled at me, their eyes round and stunned. Eve gasped. “What...”

“Shot,” I said, “in the head. And very very dead.”

Charles Brownlee got his mouth closed.

“When?”

I stood up and looked down at him. “You tell me.”

“I... what’s that?”

“You tell me,” I said. “When was she killed?”

A muscle jumped in his throat. The iron gray brows came together in a wavering line over the bridge of his jutting nose.

He said hoarsely, “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you don’t!” I said. “Maybe you didn’t check the time on your watch, but you can make a pretty good guess. Go ahead and try.”

He didn’t say a word. His throat seemed stuck. There was a sudden withdrawal reflected in the opaque shine of his eyes. They seemed to go dead and dull.

“Go on, Brownlee,” I said. “Tell us. When did you put that bullet through her head?”

“No!” Eve half screamed. She was out of her chair, fingers clutching her throat, pop-eyed with fear. “What in the world are you trying to say?”

I spoke to her, but my eyes stayed on him.

“It was I who found her, Eve. Dead in her own apartment. I disobeyed police orders, searching for the pin. I found something else instead. A clipping from the Law Journal with the date of his interlocutory decree from Gladys. April 1st.”

Brownlee found his tongue. “So what?”

“There was another paper,” I told him. “It showed that you were married to Eve on June 15th.”

He snorted. “Everybody knows that.”

“I’m afraid not. The fact is you kept your marriage secret. I met Eve in Mexico and she told me. A good thing, too, or you might have landed in jail.”

“Jail?” Eve’s voice was a shredded whisper, barely audible. Her face was drawn.

“Exactly. It takes ninety days for an interlocutory decree to become final in this state. But our friend here couldn’t wait. He was taking no chances. You were ready to marry him and he struck while the iron was hot. He took you off to Maryland and an obscure Justice of the Peace. It was his idea to keep it a secret, wasn’t it, Eve?”

I could tell from her expression it was true. Her face was lined and old. Her usual poise was completely gone.

“He failed to comply with the law,” I said. “A man is not fully divorced until his decree is final. That made his second marriage illegal and exposed him to a charge of bigamy.”

Eve steadied herself against a chair. She could barely get the words out. “You say he killed Joyce. Why would he do that?”

“Because she suspected and made it her business to collect the evidence. Brownlee was a director of Sutro’s now and ripe for a showdown. She had some help, I’ll bet, from Mathew Frost. I think Frost suggested the jewelry angle. It was a little neater than outright blackmail. They were sure Brownlee would never really go after the money. Joyce Arnold had braced him and showed him her ace in the hole. That’s why he was so reluctant to sue. They felt he’d pay the bill himself first.”

Eve looked as if she were bleeding to death inside. “I... I can’t believe it...”

“Look at him,” I said. “The guilt is there in his face, written for anyone to see. My guess is he just didn’t have enough cash on hand to pay the tab. I’m sorry, Eve, but it was you who brought matters to a head by calling me in on the case. Charles couldn’t pay and Joyce wouldn’t. He knew she’d spill the story if we pressed her. There was only one way out. Joyce had to die. That’s why he went to see her this afternoon. To eliminate a threat that could topple him from his nice new position. After all, he might inherit the store someday.”

Brownlee’s temples were shining, wet with moisture.

“You’ll never be able to prove it,” he said hoarsely.

“Maybe not,” I said. “Providing nobody knows you left the store. Providing nobody saw you in the vicinity of Miss Arnold’s apartment. Although the cops are pretty thorough. They’ll check and recheck for witnesses. And how about the gun? Did you get rid of it, Brownlee? If it’s hidden here in the apartment, they’ll find it. They know how to take a place apart piece by piece. You won’t—”

That tore it. He knew when the game was lost. He heaved from the table, moving with incredible speed, and lunged frantically through the door.

I took after him. He raced down the corridor and whirled into another room. The door slammed shut as I landed against it. A key turned in the lock.

“Brownlee!” I yelled, banging against it with my fist. Inside a drawer pulled open. I backed up and lunged, striking hard with my shoulder. The wood held, but it sprang the lock.

I tumbled through as the door flew back.

He had the gun out now. I stopped short when I saw it and tried to reverse my field. But it wasn’t revenge he was after. It was escape.

His wild eyes covered the room frantically, like a cornered animal looking for a hole in the woodwork. In just a few seconds he would begin to realize where his escape lay, and then the gun would begin blasting at me.

I didn’t care to wait that long. I threw a long flying tackle at him that brought him down like a broken stick. He tried to bring the gun up, but his jaw collided with my bunched fist, and his hand opened, dropping the gun onto the floor.

His mouth opened, too, wide, and he lay stretched out like a Maltese Cross, as silent as a snuffed out candle.

I stood up, and then looked down at him, relaxed now in unconsciousness. I thought briefly of the agony a trial would cause Eve, and I almost wanted to pick up the gun and save the state an expense.

It took a lot of effort to turn away.