Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

No Apparent Malice by Terry Mullins

When the murder victim is the life of every party, a hail-fellow everyone appears to like, the problem, series sleuth Denver Styx discovers, may be not too many suspects, but none at all...

The night before the murder there had been a party. As Denver Styx tried to remember details of it, Lieutenant Horn prodded him from time to time— Which guests were there when he arrived; how did new guests act when they arrived; what gestures did they make? Denver was not sure the prodding was helpful. He preferred to present the facts in his own way, but the detective had something special on his mind and Denver was forced to go along with him.

He looked around the lieutenant’s utilitarian office and found little in it to stimulate him, few touches of civilization. Horn’s assistant sat writing down every word that was said, like a studious but unimaginative undergraduate taking notes on his lectures.

“Sam Tarn crashed the party at about ten o’clock,” he reported. “He and his wife had obviously been drinking and they just barged right past Fine.”

“He didn’t invite them in, then?”

“On the contrary, when he answered the door he said, ‘I’m sorry, Sam, but I have a few friends over tonight. Come back another time.’ ”

“And what happened then?”

“Tarn gave a sort of happy whoop and shouted, ‘A party! We’re in luck, Dolly. There’s a party.’ And the two of them swept in past Fine and into the living room. They knew more than half the guests and went about hugging and kissing them as if they hadn’t seen them for years.”

“One of the other guests said they added life to the party,” Horn suggested.

“You could put it that way. We had been having an animated conversation about trends in modern art. Tarn and his wife put a stop to that. The whole affair became a lot more boisterous than it had been before.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I guess in a way I did. I would have preferred to go on with the discussion we had been having. There were some very intelligent people there, some of whom I’d met for the first time. They had provocative and well-informed views. The evening had been turning into one of those rare stimulating exchanges of ideas.”

“Highbrow?”

“I suppose so.”

“And Sam Tarn wrecked it.”

“He didn’t exactly wreck it. He interrupted it. He changed the whole tenor of the evening.”

“Had you met him before?”

“I had met both of them on a few social occasions informally, not to speak with at any length. I also dealt with Sam in a business way. I’d never met either at a party before. It was a revelation.”

“Did you like him?”

“I liked him the way one likes a large friendly dog with muddy paws.”

The detective laughed. “So you enjoyed the party even after Sam Tarn interrupted it.”

“He was entertaining. At one point he lined up twelve wineglasses on the table and poured different levels of wine into them. Then he played tunes on them with a spoon. He pulled it off quite well at first, clowning around to get just the right level in each glass, filling the glass to the full and drinking off the excess. He played ‘Mona Lisa’ on the glasses. Then he and his wife sang while he played. They spoiled the whole thing by putting some very objectionable lyrics to the song. He wound up with a flourish that cracked two of the glasses and shattered a third. His wife thought it was hilarious.”

“But Fine did not.”

“No, he certainly didn’t. He apparently had been anticipating something like that. His wife mopped up the mess while he restrained Tarn, who wanted to snatch the tablecloth off with one quick flip and leave everything on the table as it was. He claimed to have performed that trick successfully on stage at a children’s program. Fine wasn’t about to let him try it with a wine-drenched tablecloth and a table full of fine china and crystal.”

The detective looked over his notes and made a brief addition. When he resumed, it was with a definite objective. “Did you see any conflict between Fine and Tarn?” he asked.

“As I said, he tried to keep Tarn from coming in and he restrained him from pulling off the tablecloth.”

Horn waited.

“I suppose,” Denver continued, “that you are referring to what he said about his wife?”

“That’s it. What did you hear?”

“Others were closer than I was. What I heard from halfway across the room was Fine saying, ‘Keep your hands off my wife.’ ”

“Were those his exact words?”

“Yes.”

“But that didn’t break up the party?”

“No. It continued for more than an hour after that with Tarn clowning around as before.”

“You were the last to leave the party. Any special reason?”

“When the other guests began to leave, Fine asked me to stay until he got rid of Sam and Dolly Tarn.”

“Did he say why he picked you?”

“He didn’t have to. I’m young and athletic. Most of the rest of the guests were middle-aged and sedentary. Dr. Bell must be in his late sixties. Also, some of the others were friends of Sam Tarn.”

“Did you have any trouble getting rid of him?”

“Not real trouble. Sam was still rarin’ to go. As Thackeray put it:

No, he and Dolly didn’t want to leave, but Fine told them to go, that he and I had things to talk over.”

“Did you?”

“We talked for a while about the way Tarn changed the whole tenor of the party. Fine promised that sometime we would pick up the discussion where it had been interrupted.”

“Thank you, Professor Styx. You have been most helpful. You may go now.”

The detective rose and shook hands. Denver paused before leaving. “Do I gather that you suspect Fine of murdering Sam Tarn?”

“I would if he didn’t have an alibi. He seems to be the only person with a reason for killing Tarn. Everyone else liked him.”

“Yes, he had a way with him.”

Some events, even important or delightful events, pass quickly from our consciousness. Other events, even trivial ones, prey on our minds. We turn from them to other things. Then, during a lull in activity, we find we are thinking about them. Thus it was that two hours after his interview with Lieutenant Horn, Denver laid aside a text on humanism in the fourteenth century and found his mind pondering his half hour of questioning.

It wasn’t worry that brought the matter to his mind. He and his friends, the Fines, seemed in the clear. But the question remained: Who would kill such a hail-fellow well met as Sam Tarn — and why? He reached for the morning paper to study its account of the murder with some care. It read:

Denver recalled the Tarn home, a house surrounded by bushes, several of them eight feet tall. Neighboring houses were evenly spaced three hundred feet from it.

The same pattern held for other houses in the block. It would be easy for someone to sneak up unobserved. Only the people directly across the street could have seen anything. At three in the morning, they were probably asleep.

Police had found no sign that the man had tried to break in. Their theory was that he had planned all along to kill Sam Tarn and was waiting for them. Denver agreed. And that meant that the killer was someone who knew Sam Tarn’s habits very well indeed.

Denver decided that he wanted a firsthand account of the events. A condolence call on Dolly Tarn seemed the best way to proceed. He put aside his work and started out.

Their place was within walking distance and friends’ cars would doubtless be cluttering up the street, so he decided to go on foot. That way he could get a better idea of the murderer’s possible escape route.

As he walked, his mind reviewed what he knew about the couple. Sam Tarn was a stockbroker, extremely wealthy and popular. Genial and handsome, he seemed the average man’s image of a successful young tycoon and the average woman’s image of a rich and dashing Prince Charming. He drove a Mercedes and Dolly drove a Volvo. They bought new care every two years. Sam made money easily and spent it freely. His better half helped him spend.

Dolly was a roly-poly woman with wonderfully round face, breasts, and hips. In another ten or fifteen years she would be fat, but now she was cute and cuddly, very cuddly. The middle-aged couples who formed the Tarns’ inner circle found them both irresistible.

Denver had liked them, but had limited contact with either; he was not a middle-aged millionaire.

When he reached their block, he found the area jammed with automobiles, as he had expected. He tried to picture the place at three in the morning. The newspaper account said the murderer had escaped on foot. No sensible person would go through this wealthy suburban neighborhood on foot very far. He would be much too conspicuous. Even in broad daylight, Denver felt out of place walking. In places like this, one’s feet only took one from garage to front door and back again. Where the garage was part of the house, there wasn’t even that exercise.

So the killer either lived nearby or had a car parked at no great distance.

As he turned into the path leading to the house, a small mob of visitors poured out of the front door. He knew most of them and exchanged greetings and conventional expressions of outrage at the murder.

A few visitors had remained, and he was greeted at the door by the cultured and stately Mrs. King, wife of a bank vice president. “I’m so glad you came,” she said. “Poor Dolly needs all the support she can get.”

She led him into a reception room where the bereaved widow rushed up to him as if he were a long-absent relative instead of a casual acquaintance. He found himself giving support in a literal sense, for she threw her arms around him, buried her head on his collarbone, and burst into tears. He was disconcerted, but not displeased, to be holding in his arms an extremely attractive woman with whom he had only shaken hands before. He patted her shoulder tenderly and she responded by squeezing her arms even tighter around him and letting her weeping subside into great slow sobs. No one paid any attention. It appeared to be her usual way of responding to sympathy.

Denver looked down and addressed appropriate expressions of condolence toward a small ear which was wedged against his neck. She responded with several quivers and an attempt to control her sobbing. There was, however, no relaxation of her embrace, and Denver began to feel embarrassed. He looked about for help but found none. He made the mistake of patting her shoulder again and she snuggled even closer, a thing Denver would have thought impossible.

Finally, he caught the eye of the bank vice president’s wife. Mrs. King regarded him with amusement for a moment and then responded to his silent appeal for help.

She came over and babbled a bit, addressing first Denver and then Dolly, saying how nice it was that friends came to comfort her. In order to reply, Dolly had to remove her face from Denver’s jacket and her head from his shoulder. Gradually they became disentangled and he was able to breathe again. The three of them joined two other couples who had come to comfort the widow but who were currently denouncing the police for not doing anything and for subjecting them to several hours of questioning.

Denver knew all four. The elderly man and woman were the Bells, who lived across the street from Dolly Tarn. He was a retired surgeon and she was a dress designer. The middle-aged man and his young wife were Cob and Farah Puckett. He was a computer programmer. Denver listened to them intently.

While demanding that the police find Sam’s killer, they were systematically planning to subvert all their efforts. Denver found that amusing. He was sure that Horn came up against such people all the time and knew how to handle them. But then the conversation took an ugly turn.

Cob Puckett began it by saying with a note of satisfaction, “I understand that they are concentrating on Buck Fine.”

Tod Bell said, “Yes. All of us who were at Fine’s party have been grilled especially hard by the police. Denver here is the latest. How did they treat you?”

Denver replied that Horn had wanted to know about the party but it had seemed fairly routine to him.

“Don’t you believe it, Denver,” Cob replied. “Buck is their best suspect and they are out after him. The rest of us liked Sam. Buck didn’t. You saw the way he tried to keep him out. And he practically accused him of having an affair with his wife.”

Farah Puckett was uncharacteristically silent, but Louise Bell dismissed the suggestion that the police had any one person targeted. “I think it was a burglar who was surprised by Sam and Dolly. He panicked, shot Sam, and ran away. I just wish we had seen him. We didn’t wake up until the police came. All those flashing lights and noise scared us out of our wits.”

“But he didn’t take anything. Sam had a couple thousand dollars on him. He always did. And nothing was taken: no jewelry, no money, nothing! I don’t think robbery was the motive. Someone was out to get Sam and got him.”

“But Sam had no enemies.”

“Except Buck Fine.”

At this point Dolly presented a halfhearted protest. “I don’t think Buck hated Sam, certainly not enough to kill him. I think he was jealous of Sam.”

There followed an awkward pause. Denver took it as an opportunity to tell Dolly to be brave and call on him if she needed anything. The combination of injunctions didn’t come out quite as he had intended them to, but she took his meaning. She responded with a tearful hug and kiss, telling him how considerate he was. He got away quickly and decided to speak with Buck or Patricia as soon as possible. They had to be warned.

Before he could reach either of them, Horn reached him. As he entered his home, the telephone was ringing. Horn wanted to know if it would be convenient if he came over. He had a few more questions to ask. Denver had no objection to further interrogation. In fact, he hoped to get a bit of information from the detective.

Once again Horn’s line of questioning took Denver by surprise. “You said that you had business dealings with Sam Tarn. Was he your broker?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Were you satisfied with his performance?”

“Very much so. Mine is a small account. I’m not one of his millionaire clients, but he increased the value of my portfolio by some very sound suggestions. Why do you ask?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. First, did he ever give you any hot tips?”

“He didn’t use that language, but a couple of times he recommended stocks that increased in price soon after I bought them. I don’t do much trading. Mostly I invest for the long haul. But on those two occasions, I bought when he said I should and sold when the price went up. There’s nothing unusual in that, is there? Isn’t that what stockbrokers are for?”

Horn gave him a pitying look and went on to his next question. “Were the stocks he recommended blue chip stocks like Du Pont and Merck or were they unknowns?”

“I had never heard of either of them, though one was listed on the New York Stock Exchange. I think the other was over the counter.”

Denver waited for the promised explanation. Horn gave it grudgingly. “We haven’t found a convincing motive for his murder in his personal life, so we are going into his professional relationships. He was remarkably successful, had over six million dollars in his personal account. So far, all of his clients have reported that he made money for them, too.”

“You don’t kill a man because he does you favors.”

“You wouldn’t think so, would you? By the way, the murderer kept the gun; at least, we haven’t found it.”

Denver didn’t like the sound of that in the least. After Horn had gone, Denver reached Patricia Fine and arranged to stop in that evening after supper.

As it turned out, he learned more during his visit to the Fines than they did. Buck was aware of the net of suspicion closing around him. He wasn’t worried by it. “Pat and I were at home all that night. Early in the evening we got a couple of phone calls. Our car was parked in the driveway all night, as our neighbors can certify. Even the police can’t imagine that I would sneak out of my home in the middle of the night and walk four miles to kill Sam Tarn. I didn’t hate him; I merely did not like having him always trying to take advantage of me. He was one of those mean people who get pleasure from doing damage to others under the appearance of bumbling joviality.

“He liked to go into people’s houses and spill things on their rugs, trip over lamp cords, drop gravy boats, sit down heavily on fragile chairs so that they would break and his host would have to apologize to him. He did all that while being the life of the party. Since his hosts were wealthy, they didn’t mind the cost and they enjoyed the frolicking. I saw no reason to let him expand his reputation as a good-time Charlie at my expense and I told him so.”

“Neither of you ever saw him at his worst,” Patricia added. “I’ve seen him put on his magic show for children. He’d start out by changing handkerchiefs into different colors. The kids love that. Then he’d do tricks with large steel rings, joining them together and taking them apart. By that time, he’d become everyone’s hero. He could do no wrong. So he’d follow that with coin tricks.

“That’s when he’d get children to come up on stage. He’d vanish coins and pull them out of a child’s ear — that sort of thing. If the children enjoyed being on stage, he’d do one or two feats, send them back, and call for others to come up. Eventually he’d find a child who got embarrassed being tricked in public. He’d keep that one on stage as his stooge. He’d vanish a coin and ask the child where it had gone. The other children would be shouting and calling to their friend to find it, but the poor kid on stage would be confused and humiliated. He’d keep that up for a while and then make the coin reappear in the child’s mouth. He’d accuse the child of stealing the coin. I’ve seen him keep it up until the poor victim, still trying to be a good sport before the rest of the audience, was on the verge of tears. That was Sam Tarn at his worst.”

“And,” said Buck, “I’ll bet everyone loved him for it.”

“I didn’t. And the poor child didn’t. But, yes, everyone else thought it was great fun.”

It was a side of Sam Tarn that Denver had never suspected, yet he had to admit that it fit. “Do you suppose that the parents of such a child might have hated him?”

“I doubt it,” Patricia replied. “There weren’t many parents who came to those shows. Mostly they were during school, a special treat for younger pupils. And I don’t think a child would be likely to tell parents about it, more likely to want to forget it as quickly as possible.”

Buck Fine cleared his throat and spoke slowly, as if thinking while talking. “Perhaps the whole notion of finding someone who hated Sam is on the wrong track. Maybe the police should be looking for someone Sam hated.”

“Anyone special in mind?” Denver asked.

“Actually, there was one man Sam couldn’t stand. It was Mulligan.”

“Marvin Mulligan, the lawyer?”

“The same.”

“But wouldn’t hatred be mutual?”

“No. That’s the whole point. Marvin never took Sam seriously enough to care what he thought. Marvin has a quick mind and a sharp tongue. When Sam would say something silly, Marv would top him with something truly witty. When Sam did imitations, Marv would add just a word or two and get all the laughs. When Sam would roll up his pants legs and walk around like a woman, Marv would say something that made Sam look like a fool rather than a jester. Sam hated him.”

“That’s a thought,” said Denver, “but it was Sam who was killed, not Marvin.”

On his way home, Denver thought over the new picture of Sam Tarn that had emerged in his talk with the Fines. He was surprised that he had never suspected that sort of thing. There was, however, nothing in it that he could not accept. It was consistent with the Sam Tarn he knew.

Equally revealing were the insights Denver found into his own part in the social drama. He had been like the children in Sam’s audience, ready to be amused as the performer played tricks on others. He had not seen behind the mask of good humor. Like others, he had enjoyed being deceived, had encouraged it.

Once home, he did not feel like going to bed. His mind was awake and meant to stay awake. Somewhere during the past two hours, he felt, he had hit on the solution to the problem of Sam Tarn’s murder. Now it eluded him.

Finally, he sat down at his desk and tried to work at his article on sixteenth-century humanism. He settled down to write on Aretino’s relationship with Clement VII. Instead, he found himself comparing Pietro Aretino, the most infamous writer of that century, with the murdered Sam Tarn. Aretino, shameless in his effusive flattery of Charles V and merciless in his slander of those who refused to pay for his support, had died of natural causes — quite natural in his case, since he died of apoplexy. Poor Sam Tarn had met the fate the poet Berni had prophesied for Aretino.

Which was worse: to be the “scourge of princes,” an absolute scoundrel with the world trembling in rage at your libels, or to be a mountebank hiding your spite and sadism behind a facade of hijinx with the world laughing at your antics? Sam Tarn had at least given some pleasure to the world. His mask was a comic mask. In embarrassing one child, he had made a hundred laugh. Was it worth the price? On the other hand, the barefaced viciousness of Aretino had no redeeming qualities at all.

Denver lost himself for an hour in the strife and invective of the sixteenth century, especially the works of Franco Sacchetti. When he finished his writing, he knew who had killed Sam Tarn.

The next morning he called Lieutenant Horn. The detective would be in that afternoon. Denver, who had two classes to teach that morning, was satisfied to meet with him at one o’clock.

Seated again in Horn’s office, Denver related his conversation with Buck and Patricia Fine and how he discovered the killer. “Buck was right,” he said. “We would never find anyone who hated Sam Tarn. But if no one hated him enough to kill him, what happened? Sam’s own character gave me the answer.”

Horn listened patiently. “I think you’re right,” he said at last. “I’ll get a search warrant at once.”

Later, Denver explained to Buck and Patricia, “The warrant would have got results but it proved unnecessary. He got a confession instead.”

“How did it happen?”

“As usual, Tarn and Dolly returned home in the small hours of the morning. Since Dolly had been reading about all the crime and violence going on, they were constantly on edge when coming in late. They had bought special alarms, safety locks for the windows, a device that would turn on lights if anything moved in certain areas, all that sort of thing. So Sam let Dolly out of the car as soon as the garage door opened with the electronic opener. She went to open the front door while he parked the car.

“He parked it quickly and put on a ski mask. As she stood putting the keys back in her bag, he jumped out of the bushes to scare her. She had a pistol in her handbag and shot him twice. Then she screamed and ran indoors to call the police. Still screaming, she went back to the front door to call for Sam. And she recognized him lying there.

“She pulled off the ski mask and then hid it and the gun in a drawer. The story she told the police followed what happened except that she invented the intruder and had him do the shooting. Horn found the gun and the ski mask right where she had put them. She hadn’t opened the drawer since she put them there. She couldn’t bear to look at them.”

“Was she arrested?”

“She was taken to the station to make a sworn statement. Then she was released. I don’t know how the law will look at what happened. I certainly wouldn’t charge her.”

“Poor Sam. He played one trick too many.”

“And he wore one mask too many.”