Buyer beware

18

Elizabeth Manners lived in a sun-faded but stately neo-Spanish home not far off the Ventura Freeway. Azaleas were thriving along the wide front of the pastel yellow house, and as I rang the doorbell I could see a curved garden path flanked by rhododendrons, some of them still displaying rosy-purple blooms.

Mrs. Manners answered the door almost immediately. When I identified myself, she smiled at me and held the door open wider. She was a very thin, graceful woman, somewhere in her sixties, with the sort of beauty that retains its gentle magnetism far into old age. Her face was lined but taut, and her thin frame was draped in a simple but expensive purple dress. If one word were needed to describe her, it would be "gracious."

She endured my clumsy expressions of sympathy, then led me to a room of pinks and blues that had been blessed by a decorator's touch. After I'd declined her offer of something to drink, we sat to talk.

"Have you any idea what was bothering your husband?" I asked her.

Her folded hands, strangely older than the rest of her, lay, withered yet elegant, in her lap. "No, Mr. Nudger, Robert didn't share that problem with me, which was uncharacteristic."

"Why do you think he chose not to confide in you?"

"I don't know. One of the reasons I agreed to talk to you and the young lady is my curiosity about that matter. Robert and I were close; we worked together for his career."

"But you agree with the consensus that he was depressed."

"I would describe it more as anxious, apprehensive." She frowned as she sifted for explanations. "Perhaps he was afraid for me to know why."

"Do you think it was something connected with his work?"

"I doubt it. As I said, we worked together for his career." The withered hands in her lap shifted, briefly separated, as if seeking some purpose, then folded back into each other.

"Do you think, in the week or so before your husband's death, that his apprehension grew, reached a peak?"

"To the point of driving him to suicide?"

She was trying to make my tact unnecessary. "Well, yes."

"I think that's apparent, Mr. Nudger."

"Then you believe it was suicide?"

"I know it." Something in her pale eyes turned inward for a second, surveying her thoughts. "I'm going to tell you something I chose not to tell the young lady and I'd like you to keep it confidential unless you absolutely must reveal it. Only under those terms will I tell you, and then I'll tell you only because you are the only representative of the law still investigating my husband's death, and I'd like to know why he elected to die. Miss Day is a magazine writer, and I do not want my husband to become a case in point in some article, an example."

"I can understand that," I told her, "and I can promise you."

She looked at me for a long moment, her hands still. Then she stood and walked to a dainty walnut secretary desk near the white-curtained window. She drew an envelope from one of the flat drawers and handed it tome.

"My husband's suicide note," she said in a voice detached from emotion. "It was delivered in the mail the day after he died."

I accepted the white envelope, examined the postmark. "Do the police know about this?"

"No one has known about it but me, and now you."

Elizabeth Manners sat back down as I drew the neatly typed, folded paper from the envelope arid read.

Dearest Elizabeth:

I die by my own hand because I know this to be my wisest alternative-indeed my duty. I have never balked at responsibility, nor would you want me to even now if you could know the circumstances.

I am grateful for all that you have been to me, saddened to cause you this necessary pain.

Your loving husband forever, Robert The letter was signed beneath a typed signature, a distinctive black-inked scrawl.

"Is this your husband's signature?" I asked.

Elizabeth Manners nodded. "I have no doubt of that, Mr. Nudger."

I replaced the letter in its envelope and handed it back to her. "Why haven't you given this to the police?"

She leaned forward in her chair with a strangely graceful, compelling intensity. "I knew if the police learned my husband had definitely killed himself they would stop investigating his death. And I wanted to know why he committed suicide." She leaned back, smiled a sadly resigned smile. "I see now that it made no difference; the police are no longer concerned with the case anyway. They've accepted the theory of Robert's suicide, like everyone else."

"And it would be pointless to tell them about the letter now," I said.

"Exactly. You are a private detective, Mr. Nudger. Would you consider undertaking to find the reason for my husband's death? Obviously you already have some interest in doing this or you wouldn't have talked to Brian Cheevers and Alice. So I would like to hire you."

I shook my head. "That won't be necessary, Mrs. Manners. What you want coincides with what I'm presently investigating, and if I find out anything I'll be glad to let you know."

"I insist on paying."

"We'll talk about that if the time comes," I told her. "In the meantime, maybe you can help. Did your husband ever mention the Gratuity Insurance Company?"

"No, I never heard of them."

"The names Jerry Congram or Victor Talbert?"

"Neither of them are familiar."

An evenly spaced, relentless thudding and scraping sound came from outside the window, a sound that seemed to violate the quietly tasteful and orderly room.

"My gardener," Mrs. Manners explained.

I recognized then the sound of a hoe being worked in soft earth. "Do you know who, at Witlow Cable, profited the most from your husband's death?"

"Brian Cheevers, although I doubt that at the time he knew he would profit."

Unless he'd known something Mrs. Manners hadn't. Cheevers was definitely the close-to-the-vest type. I didn't want to think that Manners' death might be unrelated to whatever his connection was with Gratuity Insurance, but it was a possibility. The problem was that there were a number of unrelated possibilities.

"Who was your husband's doctor, Mrs. Manners?"

"Steiner, on Hobart Avenue. I asked him about my husband. He said Robert had been in perfect health except for high blood pressure that could easily have been remedied."

I sat back, crossed my outstretched legs at the ankles and thought about Robert Manners-a man in good health, near the top of his profession, and with a dedicated wife whom he obviously loved. When a man like that committed suicide, it was usually brought on by something outside his normal sphere of existence, something often impossible to discover. I didn't envy Elizabeth Manners her quest, and I couldn't look with optimism on my own task.

Outside the gardener continued his toil, each chunk of the hoe like something breaking off and lost forever. Elizabeth Manners seemed impervious to the sound.

I assured her I could find my own way out and left her there.

From the Manners home I went to see Dr. Steiner, on Hobart Avenue.

His office was in one of those quasi-hospital medical centers equipped to do everything but bury the patient. It was a white-brick building with few windows and an arrowed sign explaining that the emergency entrance was around the back.

Happy to use the front entrance, I walked across a large reception area lined with red-vinyl sofas and low tables spread with dog-eared magazines. Everything but the magazines seemed new, slickly and professionally done, and there was a toy-and-game-equipped alcove off the reception area for the children to play in as they waited.

Half a dozen people were seated about the room, ignoring each other-two elderly men and four women. One of the women had on a low-cut dress she could have worn anywhere, another a heavy, jeweled necklace that soaked up most of the light in the room.

Behind a long, curved counter several white-uniformed women were moving about with smooth efficiency, and as I approached, one of them, a severe-looking young darkhaired girl, asked if she could help me.

I told her I'd like to talk to Dr. Steiner.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No," I said, "it has to do with one of his patients."

"The doctor's very busy right now."

"I can wait for a while."

"He has a full schedule today."

The nurse, or whatever her title was, was beginning to annoy me. No doubt part of her job was to protect Dr. Steiner from pesty private detectives and medical supply salesmen, but I did wish she'd let him know I was there.

"I only need a few minutes of the doctor's time," I told her, careful to hide my growing irritation. "My name is Nudger, Alo Nudger. Would you tell him I'm here?"

She neither moved nor dropped her professionally detached manner. "If you'd tell me the nature of your business…"

"It's private."

"Concerning which patient?"

"Mr. Robert Manners."

She pardoned herself and turned her back on me to riffle through a long, slender drawer of indexed three-by-five cards. There was something about her squarish hips and broad waist. Even from behind she looked intractable.

"I can find no Robert Manners," she said, sliding the long file drawer shut as she turned again to face me.

"Who am I talking to?" I asked.

"Nurse Malloy."

"Nurse Malloy, will you do me a favor and tell Dr. Steiner I'm here, and that it concerns Robert Manners and that it's important."

She glared at me with cool disinterest, as if she'd tired of toying with me and had more important things to do. "I checked. I'm sure the doctor has no such patient, Mr. Nudger."

"Manners is dead," I told her, my voice taking on ice. "And I'm sure Dr. Steiner wouldn't like it if he knew you were preventing me from talking to him about that unpleasant fact."

She stared at me as I were inanimate yet thought-provoking. "I'll inform the doctor," she said with distaste. "You should realize I'm only performing my duties. If everyone who came in here wanting to see one of the doctors was allowed to go in without first establishing a good reason, there'd be little time to care for the patients."

I didn't like the implication that I and people like me were somehow a threat to the proper medical care of the ill, but I said nothing as Nurse Malloy turned and disappeared through a doorway behind the curved counter. The two other women behind the counter continued their work and ignored me.

Almost five minutes passed before the nurse returned.

"Dr. Steiner can give you a few minutes," she said. Then her face brightened as if the sun had struck it, and she looked past me. "Mrs. Nesmith!" she said in a pleased voice. "You're here to pick up your medicine." The very old woman who was Mrs. Nesmith shuffled forward and basked in Nurse Malloy's good cheer. I saw that it helped to be a paying customer.

Dr. Steiner invited me into a small, antiseptic room with a sterile white washbasin and a leather-upholstered table covered with something resembling butcher paper.

Steiner looked like an expensive doctor-stocky, middle-aged, with heavy-lidded, serious eyes and a brush mustache. It was easy to imagine him in a laboratory somewhere, a microscope-glance away from some major medical breakthrough.

"Nurse Malloy tells me you're interested in Robert Manners," he said. "I am busy, Mr. Nudger…"

"What I'm interested in, Doctor, is the state of Manners' health preceding his suicide."

"I see." A cautious note had entered his voice. "Who do you represent?

"No one directly connected with Robert Manners. The information I'm seeking is only incidental to the case I'm on."

I could see he didn't believe me. "I'm sorry," he said with a smile. "Professional ethics forbid me to divulge a patient's medical history without permission."

"I'm not exactly asking you to do that, Doctor. Can you just tell me if Manners' medical state prior to his death might have caused him to commit suicide?"

Dr. Steiner gave my question a lot of thought, thick eyebrows lowered in a superb bedside frown. Maybe he was worried about a malpractice suit.

"I've already talked to Mrs. Manners," was all he said.

"So have I."

"Then I assume you know the answer to your question." He gave me a good-bye smile. "As you saw in the reception area, we have several patients to be served."

And in the income bracket not to be kept waiting, I thought as he stepped smoothly aside to let me exit first.

I left Dr. Steiner's hoping my health would last forever.

Outside the medical center I made a few phone calls from a public booth, trying to get in touch with an old friend of mine, Lieutenant Sam Hiller, of the Los Angeles police.

Hiller was off duty, but I contacted him at his home, and he told me to drive in to see him and gave me directions.

It would be good to see Hiller, I thought, getting back into my car. We'd worked together for a while, until he decided to go with the Los Angeles Police Department because it had the reputation of being the best and most demanding of its officers. That was the sort of situation Hiller craved.

Then, six years ago, Hiller was shot while attempting to quiet a family disturbance, and five months of hospitalization and three operations changed him. He eased up somewhat, on himself and everyone around him. I'd gotten along with the old Hiller, but the new Hiller was much more pleasant company.

He lived in a condominium unit in one of those sprawling low projects that look like luxury military barracks. The slant-roofed two-story buildings were lined along a wide cement walkway punctuated by potted trees and ornate lampposts. A young boy was repeatedly running at one of the metal posts, gripping it and letting his momentum swing him in circles.

My knock on Killer's door was answered by a call to come in.

The room was neatly and symmetrically arranged, clean, without clutter-books lined precisely on their shelves, lamp shades and pictures as straight as if they'd been adjusted with levels. Hiller himself was sitting with his stockinged feet propped on a hassock, watching the Dodger game on television. I was struck, as I had been before, by how he maintained his uncompromising perfectionist's attitude toward things but not toward people.

He stood and shook my hand, got us each a beer and told me to have a seat on the couch.

"They don't bunt," he said, settling back into his chair. "Ballplayers nowadays can't bunt." He looked older than when I'd last seen him, had less hair and more loose flesh beneath his jutting jaw.

Together we watched an attempted sacrifice bunt result in a sickly pop fly to the third baseman. Hiller shook his head in disgust.

"What are you onto, Nudger?" he asked.

"I need to know something about a suicide here," I said without directly answering his question, knowing he wouldn't push. "A big businessman named Robert Manners."

Hiller sat still for a while, eyes fixed on the TV. "I recall it, but I don't know much about it."

I sipped my cold beer. "There probably isn't much to know, but Manners' doctor was no help. I thought I might be able to check the autopsy report and whatever else is available through you."

"Sure."

The third out was a near home run. Hiller groaned, excused himself and left the room. I heard him talking on the telephone in the hall. He was on the phone for a long time. When he came back to the living room, he was carrying two more cans of the very cold beer.

"What happened, Nudger?"

"Strikeout, walk, double play," I said, accepting the chilled wet can. "What happened where you were?"

"Probably a strikeout there, too. The autopsy report on Manners says he was in good health until he hit the sidewalk. And a subsequent investigation turned up nothing to suggest his death was anything but suicide."

I nodded, took a pull on my beer in disappointment.

"There is one thing, though," Hiller said. "I talked to the officer who handled the investigation. For what it's worth, he says a suicide finding didn't sit quite right with him, but it was only a feeling. The facts said suicide."

I understood what Hiller was saying, but I also knew how often hunches were wrong. "Is the case still being actively investigated?"

Hiller stared at me "You know better than that. Time, money and manpower come into it. They don't let us go looking for crime when there's no live victim and there are far to many live victims walking around out there today."

Hiller had a point I couldn't contradict.

"Stick around for a while," he invited. "Watch the ball game. It's a genuine pitchers' duel."

"For an inning or so," I said. "I've got an appointment later at a hotel with a beautiful girl."

Hiller laughed. "As long as no money changes hands." He propped his feet on the hassock again.

When I left him to drive to the Clairbank, the Dodgers had just scored three runs on a triple, and he was happy.

The Clairbank was one of L.A.'s older hotels, spacious and accommodating, the sort that still offers top service at moderate rates. I crossed the carpeted lobby, took a smooth but slow elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on the door of 407.

"You're late," Alison said as she opened the door.

"And hungry," I told her, glancing at my watch to see that it was five after seven. "Why don't we talk things over while we're having dinner downstairs?"

Alison must not have eaten, either, because she agreed, stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. She was wearing a pale-green outfit with a loose-fitting skirt and chunky, thick-soled shoes, which, despite the work of a deranged fashion designer, failed to rob her ankles of their grace.

The Clairbank had a comfortable restaurant with good food and a varied menu. Over chicken oreganata specials, we discussed.

"What did Elizabeth Manners tell you?" Alison asked, sipping her wine.

"That her husband committed suicide," I said truthfully, but stopped short of mentioning the letter. "He'd been apprehensive for some time, then especially so just before his death."

"Do you think she really believes it was suicide?"

"I'm sure she does. And I'm sure she'll never get over it."

"You might be right. This sauce is terrific."

I watched her use her knife and fork enthusiastically on her chicken breast. She bothered me. She was one of the few women whom I felt I should dislike but who greatly appealed to me. I considered trying to work out a way to spend the night in the Clairbank, in room 407. Maybe it was something in the sauce.

"Okay," she said, "let's compare notes on Mr. Brian Cheevers."

Cheevers had told her, almost word for word, what he'd told me. Alison had also gotten a duplicate story from Manners' secretary, Alice Kramer. Not much on the West Coast had panned out.

"So we learned nothing," Alison said, with some dejection, to her half-consumed chicken breast. "There was nothing unusual or business-related about Manners' suicide."

For some reason I felt I had to console her. "Either that or everyone has his story memorized to perfection."

She looked up at me. "Do you suppose that's possible, some sort of conspiracy?"

I understood why she was a reporter. Some of the juiciest news is wished into being.

"You know anything's possible," I told her.

Alison waited until we'd got to the rice pudding before saying, "Oh, incidentally, I found something on your Gratuity Insurance. I phoned the secretary of Craig Blount, a high-level executive killed in a hit-and-run accident a few weeks ago in Seattle. She told me she remembered that some time ago a man from Gratuity had called at the office and seemed to upset her boss tremendously."

"Upset him how?"

"Made him edgy and bad-tempered," Alison said, "which wasn't like him."

Good as the food was, my fluttering stomach would accept no more. I set my fork down and sat back in my chair.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"The thing about Gratuity Insurance," I told Alison, "is that there is no such company."