Corpus Delectable

Ten

Back in my office, I put an overseas phone call to Caracas, Venezuela, on the agency bill. The member of the Caracas policía who put me on his switchboard spoke badly fractured English. My Spanish was little better. He got the drift of what I was after finally and connected me with a higher-up who spoke better English than I did.

Carrying an honorary membership card in the Florida Sheriff’s Association and being on the rolls of the Tampa auxiliary police force, I stretched a point and told the capitán in Caracas that I was a Tampa cop.

“What may we do for you, Señor Rivers?”

“We are investigating a murder,” I said. “The victim was one Jean Putnam, formerly employed by the Señora Isabella Sorolla y Batione.”

“Ah, yes. A fine old lady. We were sorry to hear of her death.”

“We are interested in her son-in-law, Keith Sigmon,” I said.

“I’m acquainted with the name only through the investigation of the bombing that took the life of his wife and father-in-law.”

“Was he clean on that score?”

“Señor! You suspect... but no! The bombing was most definitely the work of terrorists. Keith Sigmon has a vile reputation, but he has taken care not to fall into our official records.”

“He was not in Caracas when word was received there of the old señora’s death,” I said. “He was at a mountain cottage with a girl named Ginny Jameson. The girl was killed while driving from the cottage toward Caracas.”

“One moment, please. I will have to consult the record.”

The phone company rang up a little more profit while the capitán barked orders in Spanish and apologized to me for the brief delay.

I heard him murmur, “Gracias, Luis,” heard the rustle of paper. Then: “I have it, Señor Rivers. The matter was mainly handled by the constabulary of the mountain village of Eminencia. We entered the investigation at Keith Sigmon’s request.”

“His request?”

“He was anxious to make his departure for Tampa, in view of the death of his mother-in-law. The accident, while unfortunate, had no suspicious aspects. The girl, Ginny Jameson, was a known prostitute. She came to Caracas from the United States with a company of entertainers. When the others returned, Ginny Jameson remained. As a dancer she had little talent, but she found other employment pleasurable and reasonably profitable. Had she lived, I’m sure we would have eventually deported her.”

“But she saved you the trouble,” I said.

“Well... since you put it that way.”

“Keith Sigmon says she left the mountain cottage alone,” I said.

“We are certain of it. No one could have been in the car with her and escaped serious injury. The vehicle overturned on her, pinning her inside, and caught fire. That stretch of road is desolate, Señor Rivers. Had it not been for the flames, she might have lain undiscovered in the ravine for days. As it was, Sigmon saw the wreckage and reported it immediately... not the action of a man who is hiding anything, I might reflect. He might have conveniently had a lapse of memory and boarded his plane the next day.”

“Then his skirts are clean,” I said.

“On that score, absolutely. Our experts examined the scene, the wreckage. Ginny Jameson was driving at a high rate of speed, as the skid marks showed. She simply went off the sharp curve to her death. We — how do you put it in your idiom? — shoveled up the remains of her and interred her without mourners. At the state’s expense, I might add.”

“At least you were rid of her.”

“Be it so,” he said. “We welcome Americans almost without exception. This one was an exception.”

“As well as Keith Sigmon.”

“Well, we do hope he remains with you. A questionable man — but in the matter of Ginny Jameson the evidence made Keith Sigmon’s word indisputable.”

I thanked him and hung up the phone. I sat cracking brain cells for a few minutes. Then I got up and started to leave the office, but I didn’t. Natalie Clavery was coming in.

In a crisp linen suit, she looked as cool and endurable as polished marble. Her eyes were clear, slightly aloof. Her black hair was a glistening frame for the perfection of her face.

Without preamble, she said, “Was confession good for my husband’s soul, Mr. Rivers?”

“Probably.”

“Then he did talk to you?”

“Yes, if you’re referring to forty thousand dollars that stuck to his fingers,” I said.

“That’s one way of putting it. I hope the information isn’t in the wrong hands.”

“Tit for tat,” I said. “Look, why don’t we start over? Have a chair, call me Ed, and we’ll try to bridge this gulf our instincts has built between us.”

She thought about it. The shield of haughtiness slipped slightly from her eyes. “Which chair may I take, Ed?”

I got out a handkerchief, dusted off a chair, and she smiled at the gesture. “If Señora Isabella had lived, my husband was legally clear — provided he made the payments stipulated by his promissory note. The old lady had refused to press charges, and the matter was settled.”

“So I’ve been told,” I said.

“Now, however, if Elena Sigmon has the note and that very incriminating statement in Van’s handwriting, she’s in a position to do more than make mere trouble.”

“What makes you think Elena—”

“Who else, Ed? When Fred Eppling told Elena that her grandmother’s old portfolio was missing, Elena passed it off lightly. Quite casually she said the brief case would probably turn up.”

I gave Natalie Clavery an intent look. “You don’t like Elena at all.”

“Frankly, I have an instinctive abhorrence of her. We were all strangers here. We expected a bereaved girl. Instead, we were treated to a misbegotten brat!”

“Strong words.”

“Wait until you’ve known Elena better,” Natalie Clavery said. “I think her father’s influence has destroyed any good qualities that might have been in Elena. At any rate I’ve got to get that handwritten statement of Van’s back.” She looked at me obliquely. “Do you know what it will do to a man of my husband’s temperament to be publicly branded a thief?”

I remembered the way Clavery’s nerve-wracked body had twitched on the carpeting in Fred Eppling’s office. “I’ve an idea.”

“He would kill himself,” she said simply. The polished surface didn’t crack, but I glimpsed the things that lived in her eyes. My very first impression of her returned stronger than ever. Underneath the gloss there was plenty of woman. The man to whom she gave herself would never need or even want another woman.

“Van Clavery, in one respect at least, is a very lucky man,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “He happens to be my husband.”

“If he filched that portfolio himself,” I pointed out, “it would save him forty thousand dollars, not to mention the pleasure of destroying a statement of guilt.”

“And I’m not above wishing he had done so,” she said candidly.

“He could then have rung in Fred Eppling to throw suspicion from himself.”

“But he didn’t, Ed.”

“Would you tell me if he had?”

“No,” she said. “But I’d have no reason for being here right now if he had.”

“Maybe he glommed onto the brief case and didn’t tell you.”

She shook her head, gave me a patient look. “He would have told me. He knows he can trust me. He would have been considerate, sparing me unnecessary worry and anxiety. No, you know the truth of it — the brief case has fallen into unknown hands.”

“And Jean Putnam knew whose hands?”

“Isn’t it possible?” she asked. “People have been killed for less value than a promissory note in amount of forty thousand dollars, not to mention evidence of embezzlement that someone might regard as of equal value.”

“If I happen to turn up the brief case, do you want me to bring it to you?”

“Oh, no,” she said with a motion of her hand. “Deliver it to Fred Eppling. Van made one mistake, Ed. The single mistake he’s made in his life. Later he faced it, squared it. We want the old señora’s wishes carried out, that’s all.”

“Since you put it that way,” I said, “I’ll do my best for you.”

“We will pay a reasonable fee, of course.”

“I’ll charge you one, of course.”

A faint laugh came from her. “I feel a little better now. You — big, ruffian-looking man that you are... You have revised my first impression of you. You are a paradox.”

“Most of us are. Just two-legged bundles of contrasts.”

She rose gracefully and moved toward the door. She paused and said casually, “Van didn’t want me to see you, but I had to satisfy myself. Now I’m glad. I’m also glad I don’t have to fight you, Ed. For Van I should fight in any way, with any means at my disposal.”

“Okay,” I said, “and I’m one of the means.”

“I hadn’t quite thought of it that way. Do you resent it?”

“A little,” I said honestly. “But I haven’t been given many choices since Jean Putnam picked up a phone and called my number.”

When Natalie Clavery was gone, I ankled over to police headquarters. They didn’t know a damn thing I didn’t know. They’d picked up no trace of Ben McJunkin, and I had a moment filled with the illogical premonition that they never would.

They’d talked with Jean Putnam’s roommate, Lura Thackery, getting no more from her than I had. Jean Putnam’s nearest and dearest friend was certainly keeping her skirts clean.

Back in the office, I picked up the phone and draped a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.

I hesitated. Then I reached forward and dialed Lura Thackery’s number, and the swing of the dial reminded me of a screw tightening.