Beware the Curves

Chapter 10

The morning newspapers had headlines: “MURDER SUSPECT ENTERS POLICE TRAP.”

There was quite a story. The six-year-old murder mystery of Karl Carver Endicott, a multimillionaire, who had extensive oil interests throughout the country as well as a substantial acreage in citrus lands, and had been mysteriously slain in his home, was on the point of being solved, according to police.

Police had long had a good description of the killer. A man who at that time was driving a taxicab, but who had since become prosperous through real estate and other investments, had furnished a most detailed description of the last man who had seen Endicott alive.

Police had long acted on the theory that the killer, whoever he might have been, had been actuated by romantic motives. They also knew that the fatal weakness of their case was that Drude Nickerson, the former taxi driver, was the only person who could furnish eyewitness identification.

Therefore, as a last desperate resort, police baited a trap with the co-operation of the press.

When an unidentified hitchhiker had been killed near Susanville, police had arranged for Drude Nickerson to keep out of circulation for a few days. They had made a tentative identification of the body of the traffic victim as that of Drude Nickerson and, thanks to co-operation on the part of the press, had lulled the suspect into a false sense of security.

Having kept under cover for years, John Dittmar Ansel, who was himself supposed to have perished in the Amazon years before, had come into the open. Almost within a matter of hours of the announcement that police were closing their files in the Endicott murder case because of the death of the only witness who could make an identification, John Dittmar Ansel and Elizabeth Endicott, the wealthy widow of Karl Carver Endicott, had appeared in Yuma, Arizona, had taken out a marriage license and were on the point of becoming man and wife when police, who had been waiting in the wings, so to speak, had swooped down upon the pair, whisking Ansel off to jail.

No charges had as yet been made against Elizabeth Endicott, but the district attorney of Orange County announced that he wanted to question her as a material witness and intended to do so. His questioning, he indicated, would seek to determine whether Mrs. Endicott had known that Ansel was alive and where he had been concealing himself during the past six years, the number of times Mrs. Endicott had seen Ansel, what steps if any she had taken to assist in his concealment, and whether she knew anything concerning the murder of her husband which had not previously been disclosed to authorities.

The newspapers pointed out that it was to be remembered Mrs. Endicott had left the house shortly before the murder. The time of the murder had been accurately fixed and Mrs. Endicott had an alibi of sorts in that apparently she had been purchasing gasoline for her automobile at a point some two miles from the house at the exact time the murder had been committed.

The district attorney stated, however, that a new and searching inquiry into this time element was going to be launched, that the entire case was going to be given a thorough and exhaustive investigation.

We had breakfast and drove back to Los Angeles. I went to a barber shop, had a shave, a massage and a lot of hot towels.

When I reached the office, Elsie Brand, my secretary, handed me a note with a number I was to call.

“Any name?” I asked.

“No name, just a seductive voice. She said she had met you in Reno, and would you care to call?”

I called.

Stella Karis said, “I wondered if you’d like to have breakfast with me?”

“I’m a working man,” I told her. “I had breakfast a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Hours.”

“Then you could have a second breakfast.”

“Where are you?”

“In my apartment.”

“How did you get back?” I asked.

“I drove.”

“When did you get in?”

“About eleven o’clock last night.”

“Read the papers?”

“No.”

“Some news in connection with Citrus Grove,” I said. “You might like to take a look.”

“I’ll read them. The point is, do you come for breakfast?”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Where?”

“The Monaster Apartments.”

“I’ll be up,” I told her.

Elsie Brand, who had been listening to the conversation, had a poker face. “Do you want to dictate this correspondence now, Donald?” she asked.

“Not now,” I said. “I’m busy.”

“So I gathered.”

“Now look, Elsie, if Bertha wants me, I’ve been in and now I’ve gone out again. You don’t know where. You know Bertha well enough so you can tell whether it’s something important or whether she’s just checking up.

“If it’s something really important, call me at this number, but don’t let anyone have that number, and don’t call unless it’s something really important. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Good girl,” I told her and patted her shoulders as I went out.

The Monaster apartment house was a swank little place and Stella Karis had a nice apartment with sunlight pouring in eastern windows.

She had on some sort of a fluffy creation which kept popping open around the throat, and long bell-shaped sleeves that would have trailed in the coffee, across the fried eggs and into the toast if she hadn’t been some kind of an indoor acrobat and managed to grab the trailing cloth just in time.

I watched her with fascination.

It was a nice breakfast. I didn’t particularly need it, but it tasted good.

“Donald,” she said after I had cleaned up my plate. “You know something?”

“What?”

“I told you about this Nickerson.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He isn’t dead.”

“I told you to read the papers.”

“I didn’t need to. He called me at seven o’clock this morning.”

“Surprised to hear his voice?”

“I was terribly shocked. I — well, I had hoped I wasn’t going to have anything more to do with him.”

“You hate to come out and say you hoped he was dead, don’t you?”

“All right, I hoped he was dead.”

“That’s better.”

“He called and told me that he needed ten thousand dollars more. He said that the members of the city council had been a little more obstinate than he had expected, that there were five of them and it was going to take five thousand apiece. He said at that price it wouldn’t leave a cent for him, that he was embarrassed because he hadn’t been able to deliver the goods as promised, so he’d simply act as middleman and go between. He said he’d make me a present of his services and he wouldn’t take a cent.”

“Philanthropist, eh?” I asked.

“That’s what he said.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him I’d have to think it over.”

I grinned. “So then you cooked breakfast and baited me over here?”

She waited for a moment, then smiled and said, “All right, then I cooked breakfast and baited you over here.”

“I’m a professional man,” I said. “I have a partner. We have to sell our services.”

“I’m willing to buy your services.”

“I can’t sell them in this case. I can’t have you for a client.”

“Why not?”

“There might be a conflict in interests.”

“And I can’t become your client — no matter what I pay?”

“Not in regard to Nickerson.”

“As a friend, could you make a suggestion?”

“As a friend, yes.”

“What?”

“Tell him to go to hell,” I said. “Tell him you want your fifteen grand back.”

“That I want money back from a man like Nickerson?” she asked. “Are you crazy?”

“I’m not telling you you’re going to get anything back,” I said. “Tell him you want your money back.”

“Then what?”

“Then he’ll ask you what you’re going to do.”

“Then what?”

“Tell him that you have plans that will rip Citrus Grove wide open.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Hang up.”

“Then what happens?”

“The zoning ordinance gets passed and you can complete the deal with your factory.”

“You’re sure?”

“Hell, no, I’m not sure. It depends on how deeply the council members are mixed into the thing. It depends on how much Nickerson has been pulling your leg. It depends on whether he’s ever given a dime of the fifteen grand to anyone else.”

“Of course,” she said, “I don’t have a thing on him.”

“You paid the fifteen thousand in cash?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“In three installments of five thousand each.”

“Where did you get the money?”

“From the bank, of course.”

“How?”

“I drew out checks payable to cash.”

“Five grand at a time?”

“That’s right.”

“Why the three installments?”

“That’s the way Nickerson wanted it.”

“How long an interval between the three installments?”

“One day each. He wanted five thousand on a Monday, five thousand on a Tuesday and five thousand on a Wednesday.”

“Where did you pay him the money?”

“Here.”

“In this apartment?”

“Yes.”

I said, “Tell me about this factory.”

She hesitated.

“Or don’t. Just as you see fit,” I told her. “And don’t tell me anything in confidence. I’m working on another matter. As long as it becomes advisable to play your case as a trump card in this case I’ll do it.”

“You mean the Endicott murder case?”

“I could mean that.”

“After all, I don’t know but what I’ve kept some things to myself that I should have publicized.”

I looked at my watch.

“All right, I’m going to tell you,” she said.

“The factory is a novelty company. It wants to make citrus candies out of some sort of gumdrop material, oranges that look like the real thing only on a miniature scale, shipped in little packing boxes. Lemons, the same way. It wants to make a lot of Southern California souvenirs, catering to the gift trade and stuff that can be sent back East. Souvenirs from California. It wants the Citrus Grove address on its stationery and printed on the boxes. The management feels that the words ‘Citrus Grove, California’ will be a good trademark.”

“They’re going at it on a big scale?”

“On a big scale. They’re going to sell direct by mail. They’re going to place their products all around at various places where people buy gifts. At the airports, in railroad stations, at scenic points.”

“How much land do they want?”

“Ten acres.”

“Ten acres!”

“That’s right.”

“What in the world do they want with ten acres?”

“Because this plot of ten acres has facilities for a railroad siding, and—”

“A railroad siding!”

She nodded.

I thought things over. “Are you dealing direct with the company, or with a real estate broker of some sort?”

“I’m dealing direct with the company. The president of the company is a man by the name of Seward, Jed C. Seward.”

I gave the matter a lot of thought. “Look,” I said. “All of this ten acres isn’t zoned.”

“Part of it is zoned as residential property. Part of it is in a limited business district.”

“How come there are ten acres without buildings that—”

“Oh, there are buildings on it,” she said. “The buildings are little, cheap cracker-box affairs.”

“How come you own them all then? How does it happen that the ownership isn’t scattered around?”

“Because my aunt was shrewd. She said this piece of property would be exceedingly valuable as the town grew, and she worked very quietly over a period of years buying up pieces of property as they came on the market. Then finally she went in with a whirlwind finish and paid some very, very fancy prices for some of the holdouts.”

“And now you have it all?”

She nodded. “I was the only relative. I’ve got property I don’t know what to do with. I don’t like managing property. I’m an artist. I like to draw and paint. Now I’m stinking rich.”

She looked at me speculatively. “I need a manager, some shrewd man who can understand me—”

“Want some advice?” I interrupted.

“From you, yes.”

“Go to your bank,” I said. “Turn everything over to their trust department. Tell them you want income and let them turn your holdings into blue chip securities and pay you the income.”

“I wouldn’t like that. Banks are too impersonal. It would be like declaring myself incompetent and having the bank as a guardian.”

“You’ll need a guardian if you start looking around for congenial property managers.”

“I can trust my instincts.”

“That’s proof you need a guardian.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“All right. Skip it. When’s Nickerson going to get in touch with you?”

“Sometime this afternoon.”

“Tell him to go to hell,” I said.

“Donald, it’s a nice deal. The— Well, if I could get that ordinance through, I could—”

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

“You won’t get it through.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a babe in the woods,” I told her. “A novelty company doesn’t want ten acres with railroad siding facilities.”

“But they do! They’ve put up a big cash deposit.”

“And,” I went on, “Nickerson is playing things smart. The fifteen grand was just the entering wedge.”

“But I’ve got so much invested now that I—”

“That’s the way Nickerson figures,” I said. “And after you’ve put in twenty-five, you’ll have that much more invested. Then you’ll have to put in another twenty. And after you’ve got that much in, you can’t afford to back out. You’ll take him into partnership.”

“But, Donald, it... it means so much and it seems so foolish to—”

“Look,” I said, “you’re dealing with a crooked city government. You’re dealing with a crooked guy. He has now become the main witness in a murder case. He’s going to get ripped apart when he gets on the witness stand. Get out from under. Tell him to go to hell. You asked my advice, and you’ve got it. It may or may not be worth much, but it’s at least worth two fried eggs and a cup of coffee.”

Her face colored. “I wasn’t trying to— Well, it’s not that way. I wanted to make you an offer. I like you. I need someone to—”

“Forget it!” I told her. “Go to your bank. Do what I said.”

She got mad. “You think my instincts aren’t to be trusted, don’t you? You think I’d pick someone who was dishonest. Are you dishonest? I give you a chance to rook me and do you take it? Not you! You tell me to go to a bank, and then you say I can’t pick men who—”

The phone rang and kept on ringing. She gave an exclamation of disgust, picked up the receiver, said, “Hello,” and then frowned.

“It’s for you, Donald,” she said.

I took the telephone.

Elsie Brand’s voice said, “The case has blown wide open, Donald. Barney Quinn has made some sort of an announcement from Santa Ana. We’re in the case up to our necks, and Bertha Cool is having hysterics. A couple of newspaper reporters are in the office.”

“Hold them there. I’ll be right over,” I said.

“What do you mean, right over?” she asked skeptically.”

“I mean right over.”

I grabbed my hat, said, “Thanks for the breakfast, sweetheart,” and made a bolt for the door.