Ellery Queen. The Best of Suspense

Harold Q. Masur One Thing Leads to Another

It was an elegant building, tall and exclusive. The doorman, a resplendently caparisoned goliath, stood guard at the entrance like Leonidas defending the pass at Thermopylae. If you live in the Big Apple and can afford the protection, why not?

I paused alongside the revolving doors and stooped over to tighten a shoelace just as a taxi pulled up at the curb. Its occupant, apparently a paraplegic, struggled heroically to alight with the aid of aluminum crutches. As the doorman hastened across the sidewalk to assist, I ducked into the lobby, sprinted for the elevator, and jabbed the ninth-floor button.

Just before the door closed, I witnessed a miracle. The passenger suddenly straightened, tucked the crutches under his arm, saluted, and marched jauntily down the street. The doorman scratched his head in astonishment and then the elevator was lofting me skyward.

I found Lily Olson’s door and rang the bell. It was opened by a spare, craggy-faced gent. “Mr. George Finney?” I asked.

“Who wants him?”

“This is for you, sir.” I handed him a paper. “Summons and complaint. Finney versus Finney. Nonpayment of alimony and child support. Have a pleasant day.”

There was a woman standing behind him, a striking blonde, thin-lipped now and furious. She ran to the house phone and as I walked back to the elevator I heard her chewing out the doorman, a venomous tirade in the lexicon of a mule-skinner.

On the way down I could not repress a smile of satisfaction. I had succeeded where two professional process servers had dismally failed to breach the building’s security. Ordinarily, a lawyer does not serve his own papers. It’s undignified. Nor do I generally handle cases of this kind. But Kate Finney had been recommended by an important client. She had a child from a previous marriage, legally adopted by Finney, and she desperately needed financial help.

She gave me the facts on the telephone. George Finney had walked out, left her and the child to shift for themselves, and had moved in with Lily Olson. She did not miss him, not on any emotional level. He drank excessively, worked sporadically, and could squeeze a dime until F.D.R.’s nose came out on the other side.

The elevator door opened on the lobby. The doorman was waiting. He towered over me, shoulders bunched, glowering and belligerent and spoiling for a fight. I handed him one of my cards.

“The name is Scott Jordan,” I said. “Counselor and attorney-at-law. So if you decide to use your hands it won’t cost me anything to sue the owners for aggravated assault. As a matter of fact, I’m perfectly willing to go a couple of rounds with you, but not at the moment. I’m due at my office for an appointment with the governor.”

It gave him pause. The owner’s wrath could be more catastrophic than Olson’s abuse. While he was considering it, I slipped past him to the street and caught a cab back to the office.

Ten minutes later Danny Karr showed up. Danny, my new assistant, put some bills on my desk. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I returned the crutches, boss. Here’s your change. How did you like my performance?”

“A bit gaudy,” I said. “But the timing was fine and it worked.”

“So how about a raise?”

“You had a raise last week.”

“Inflation is killing me.”

“You and everyone else. Learn to economize. Your time will come.” And I was sure it would. Danny, only eight months out of law school, was young, eager, and bright. I moved some papers around on my desk. “On that environment case, where are those precedents I asked for?”

“We don’t have the Minnesota Reports.”

“Naturally. There are fifty states. Who has the shelf space? Use the Bar Association library.”

“I’m not a member.”

“I’m a member and you’re my employee. Get over there tomorrow morning. Early, Counselor.” He left and I phoned Kate Finney, asking her to stop by for trial preparation.

At four o’clock she arrived accompanied by Sara. The child had enormous eyes and an adult air of gravity. Kate, a slender, somewhat faded woman in her mid-thirties, introduced us. “This is Mr. Jordan, Sara. He’s my lawyer.”

“I don’t like lawyers,” Sara said.

“Why don’t you like lawyers?” I asked.

“George says they’re not honest. He says if you don’t watch out, they’ll steal you blind.”

Her mother reprimanded her sharply. “Sara! Apologize at once.”

“Okay,” she said, not changing her opinion. “I apologize.”

Keeping a straight face, I buzzed for Danny Karr. “Danny,” I said, “this young lady is Sara Finney. Entertain her in your office while I talk to her mother.”

Sara looked him over. “Are you a lawyer too?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She handed her small plastic purse to her mother. “Then you’d better hold this for me.”

Danny rolled his eyes, beckoned, and she followed him out. Kate gestured helplessly. “I don’t know what to do with that child.”

“She’ll grow out of it. Is George attached to her?”

“Hah! There is no room in George’s emotional equipment for anyone but George. His ego is exceeded only by his selfishness and his penury. The man is incapable of sharing.”

“You mentioned that he’s a writer.”

“Well, he’s sold several short stories, but he drinks too much and he can’t discipline himself to a full-time schedule.”

“You said he has an independent income.”

“Yes. From a trust fund administered by an old fossil of a lawyer he inherited from his parents.”

“We’ll levy an attachment against it.”

She smiled. “I’d like to see his face.”

“Tell me about Lily Olson.”

“He met her through his literary agent, a man named Arnold Procter. She’s a writer too, and fairly successful. She writes those romantic Gothic novels. After our last fight George went to live with her. Maybe she’s more tolerant than I, or less sensitive.” She paused and looked thoughtful. “I — er — have a confession to make.” When I said nothing, she continued. “Last week a letter came for George from the editor of a magazine in Chicago. They used to correspond with each other and I guess he didn’t know George had moved out. Anyway, I steamed it open. He said he liked the new story Procter had submitted and he would be sending a check to the agent at the end of the month.”

“We’ll get a court order restraining Procter from turning the money over to George until the determination of your case against him. There’s really no way you can lose.”

I spent some time preparing her for the court hearing and then I buzzed for Danny Karr. Sara was holding his hand and apparently had changed her mind about lawyers.

He accompanied Kate and Sara to the elevator and then came back, smiling.

I said, “Let’s see how good you are, Danny.” I told him to get the form book and to prepare a restraining order against Arnold Procter. “Complete the papers and serve them before you go home this evening.”

Danny Karr spent the next morning at the Bar Association library. He checked into the office at noon and I saw at once that he was not himself. He seemed dreamy-eyed, dismantled. I had to snap my fingers to get his attention.

“Have you been smoking something, Lounselor?” I asked.

He blinked and shook his head.

“You’re in a trance, moonstruck. What gives?”

“I–I think I’m in love.”

I did a double-take. “With little Sara Finney, for God’s sake?”

“No, sir.” He smiled foolishly. “With Amy.”

“And who, pray, is Amy?”

He sighed. “Amy is a walking poem, a rainbow, a—”

“Whoa, boy! Settle down. Get your head together. Where did you meet this enchantress?”

“In Arnold Procter’s office.”

“Well, now, George Finney met a female in Procter’s office and it changed his whole way of life. Is Amy a writer too?”

He shook his head. “She works for him. She’s his secretary.”

“Are you telling me you walked in there to serve some legal papers and beheld this vision and bingo, you were hooked, just like that?”

“Almost, Mr. Jordan. You see, Procter was out when I got there. Amy said he’d be back in fifteen minutes. So I waited. And we talked. I liked her. I asked her to have dinner with me last night and she said yes. So we went out and then I took her home and we sat up and talked until three o’clock this morning.”

“You kissed her good night?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And bells began to ring?”

He nodded, looking rhapsodic.

“I hope you didn’t forget to serve that restraining order on her boss.”

“I didn’t forget. Business before pleasure.”

“An excellent maxim, Danny. Never lose sight of it while you’re employed in this office. Now go back to the library and finish your research.”

My phone rang and Kate Finney was on the line. “Mr. Jordan,” she said, sounding tense and subdued, “there’s a policeman here. He says George is dead. He wants me to come to the morgue to identify the body.”

“Let me talk to him.” She put him on and I said, “I’m the lady’s lawyer, officer. What happened?”

“Harbor Patrol fished a floater out of the East River early this morning. We got this address from his driver’s license. They need the widow downtown for identification.”

I spoke to Kate again. I told her to leave Sara with one of the neighbors and to cooperate. I promised to use my contacts at the Police Department for additional information.

My principal contact was Detective Lieutenant John Nola, Homicide, dark, lean, a resourceful and subtly intuitive cop. He sat behind his desk, a thin Dutch cigar smoking itself between his teeth, eyes unblinking, while I explained my connection with the deceased.

“Anything suspicious?” I asked finally.

“All we have now is that he was stoned. There was enough alcohol in his blood to float a rowboat.”

“Then it could have been an accident.”

“Or someone helped him over the edge. You know anything about his financial status?”

“He had an income from a trust fund.”

“Who inherits?”

“The widow, probably.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “And he’d strayed from the reservation, was living with another woman? He was tight and behind in his alimony?”

“No, Lieutenant. That’s a bad hand. Mrs. Finney is not the type.”

The eyebrow moved higher. “There are types of murderers, Counselor? Neatly pegged in categories? Make us a list, please. We can use it.” He shook his head. “Tell me about the Olson woman.”

I gave him what I had. He stood abruptly. “Let’s check her out.”

The taxpayers provided transport. At Lily Olson’s building the same doorman recognized me and blocked our way. “No, you don’t,” he growled. “Not this time, buster. You’re a cute one all right. You almost cost me my job. Now turn around and march, both of you.”

But his truculence quickly evaporated at the sight of Nola’s shield and was replaced by a lumpy smile of apology. He stepped aside. Nola pointed at the house phone. “Don’t use that thing.”

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

Lily Olson answered the doorbell. Nola identified himself. “And this one?” she demanded, indicating me with a thumb.

“His name is Jordan. He’s a lawyer.”

“A lawyer!” She snorted. “That explains the trickery. Do you know what he did, Lieutenant? He gained access to this building by subterfuge and served some legal papers on a guest of mine. Isn’t there a law against that — criminal trespass or something?”

“I’ll look it up,” Nola said. “In the meantime I need some information. I understand you had a house guest, a Mr. George Finney.”

“I still do.”

“Any idea where he is at the moment?”

“No, I don’t. He went for a walk the day before yesterday and hasn’t returned.”

“You’re not concerned about his whereabouts?”

She shrugged. “George is a grown man. But he has a problem — drinking. He probably stopped off at a bar and got plastered. He knows how I feel about that, so he probably took a room somewhere to dry out. It wouldn’t be the first time. Why are you asking these questions?”

“George Finney is dead.”

She gasped. “Oh, no. How — how did it happen?”

“His body was found in the East River early this morning.”

“Suicide?”

“We doubt it.”

“Had he been drinking?”

“Heavily.”

“Then it must have been an accident.”

“From the amount of alcohol in Finney’s blood we don’t see how he could have reached the river under his own power.”

“He liked to walk along the river. And he generally carried a flask in his pocket. Surely you don’t suspect foul play.”

“It’s a possibility we have to explore. Admittedly, he could have been the victim of a random mugging, or something more deliberate. Did Finney have any enemies?”

“Everyone liked George.”

“Including his wife?”

“There are always exceptions. They fought a great deal.”

“And he came to you for comfort?”

“Why not? Life is short.”

“It is indeed. We’d like to look at his papers, his correspondence, anything he kept here.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“You invited us in.”

“I’m inviting you out.”

“It’s too late, Miss Olson. Finney is dead. We don’t need a warrant to examine his property.”

“I think you do. This is my apartment. Ask your lawyer friend here.”

He shook his head. “One telephone call and I can have a warrant here within the hour.”

She frowned and bit her lip. She debated with herself and finally gestured ungraciously. “Go ahead.”

In the bedroom closet Finney’s clothes yielded nothing. There was a sunlit workroom at the end of the corridor. It contained a filing cabinet, a shelf of reference books, and a large desk with an electric typewriter. A bridge table in the corner held Finney’s portable and an untidy pile of papers. Nola gathered them into a bundle and we started to leave.

“How about his clothes?” Lily Olson called.

“Give them to the Salvation Army,” I said and followed Nola out to the elevator and down to the street.

We parted. He went back to the precinct and I returned to my office. My secretary had left for the day. Danny Karr was still at the Bar Association library. I was alone, correcting syntax on an appeals brief when I heard someone moving around in the outer office. I got up and walked to the door for a look.

A young girl smiled at me.

“I’m supposed to meet Mr. Karr here at six,” she said. “I’m Amy Barth.”

She was neither a rainbow nor a walking poem, but I could easily understand how the sturdy figure and the large eyes and the gamine grin could turn Danny Karr into a marshmallow.

I smiled back. “How do you do, Amy. I’m Danny’s boss. He should be back at any moment. You can wait for him in my office, unless you’d prefer to sit out here and read the Law Journal.”

“Oh, no,” she said. She perched herself on the red-leather chair, bouncing restlessly. “Danny says you’re probably the smartest lawyer in New York.”

“Danny will be sadly disillusioned after he’s been around for a while. Is there something wrong with that chair?”

She giggled. “Oh, no,” she said, “the chair is fine. It’s just that I’m in very high spirits. I work for a literary agency and such exciting things have been happening this week.”

“For example?”

“We’re handling a new book by Lily Olson. Do you know her work? This one is different than anything she’s ever written. It’s a political thriller called The Machiavelli Project. It’s about a millionaire vice-president who conspires to get rid of the president and take over the White House.”

“Sounds interesting,” I said.

“It’s a real cliffhanger. Readers won’t be able to put it down. Mr. Procter got an enormous advance from the hardcover publisher and last Wednesday the paperback rights sold for one million dollars. Three book clubs are taking it and all the major movie companies are bidding for the screen rights. Some of Hollywood’s biggest stars have called.” She looked awe-struck and said in a hushed voice, “I think I heard Gregory Peck’s voice on the phone this morning. I almost fainted.”

“Quite a blockbuster,” I said.

“Mr. Procter never had one like this before.”

Danny arrived. He saw Amy and his expression turned sappy. They smiled at each other. He approached and placed a sheaf of yellow legal cap on my desk. “Here are my notes on the Minnesota Reports.”

“No, Danny,” I said. “That’s not the way to do it. Who can translate your hieroglyphics? Type them out. Neatly.”

He looked stricken. “Now?”

“Tomorrow morning will do.”

“Yes, sir,” he said gratefully and propelled Amy out of the office before I could change my mind.

I sat back and thought about Lily Olson’s new novel. Perhaps it was time for me to seek out a few writers as clients. The paperback revolution and the money guarantees made the prospect extremely attractive. I glanced at my watch and dialed Kate Finney’s number.

“It was a dreadful ordeal,” she told me. “I could hardly recognize George.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Would you take care of the funeral arrangements?”

“Of course.”

“And George’s estate too?”

“If you wish.”

“Will the court hearing be postponed?”

“I’ll call the clerk and explain the situation.”

After we broke the connection, I locked the office and headed across town to see Nola. He seldom punched a clock when working on a case. He had been studying Finney’s papers. I told him about Lily Olson’s successful book.

He whistled. “At least two million in the till so far. I guess I’m in the wrong business.”

“Finney’s papers tell you anything?”

He shook his head. “Look for yourself.”

I pulled up a chair and started reading. There was some correspondence from the lawyer handling Finney’s trust fund, signed in a shaky hand; a note from a former army friend now living in Pocatello, Idaho; and a few letters from Kate complaining about support and threatening legal action. Finney’s notebooks interested me. And so did a letter from Arnold Procter expressing mild interest in the outline for a prospective novel titled The Long Night. The agent had reservations about Finney’s ability to complete a full-length work. He doubted that any publisher would commit himself to an advance. As an alternative, he suggested finding a collaborator.

I was distracted by the ringing of Nola’s phone. He spoke briefly and I sensed his eyes watching me as I looked up. He cradled the handset.

“The name Daniel Karr mean anything to you, Lounselor?”

“Yes. He’s my assistant.”

“He’s in the Emergency Room at Manhattan General.”

I sat erect. “What happened?”

“Automobile accident. Hit-and-run. Compound fracture of the right leg, plus assorted contusions and abrasions. He whispered your name several times before they put him under to set the bone.”

I was on my feet and moving. Nola came after me. I said, “There was a girl with him.”

“Amy Barth. Same accident.”

“Hurt badly?”

“She’s dead.”

Bile leaped into my throat. I took the stairs two at a time. In the street I started to flag a cab, but Nola shouldered me into a police car and snapped instructions at the driver. The siren opened traffic like a carving knife.

We found Danny Karr propped up in bed, his face drawn and white, right leg supported in traction, head in bandages, plaster criss-crossing a cheek. He said in a half-drugged voice, “They won’t tell me about Amy, boss. Can you find out how she is?”

“Later, Danny. How did it happen?”

“Amy wanted to go home first and freshen up before dinner. It’s a brownstone on West 26th. We came out and started to cross the street. I heard some lunatic gun his engine and I started to turn, but it was too late. He was right on top of us. And then I felt the impact and I guess I passed out. The next thing I knew I was in an ambulance. They brought me here. Did anything happen to Amy?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him. Not yet, anyway. I asked him if there was anything he needed, anything I could do, perhaps notify his parents. They were retired and living in Florida and he didn’t want to worry them.

Amy’s people, however, would have to be notified. I had no information for Nola except that she worked for Arnold Procter. “Then that’s the man we’ll have to see,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The telephone directory supplied his home address in the exclusive Beekman Place area. A townhouse, no less. Procter was a man who did not believe in economizing.

Nola banged the knocker and a man opened the door. My jaw fell. Spare and craggy-faced, he stared back. Lazarus rising from the grave. The same man I’d seen in Lily Olson’s apartment.

“Finney?” I said on a rising inflection.

“No, sir. The name is Procter — Arnold Procter.”

“But you’re the man I served with the summons.”

“You made an unwarranted assumption, sir. I was visiting Miss Olson on business. You simply handed me that paper and left. What is it now? What do you want?”

“He’s with me,” Nola said, again presenting his credentials and identifying himself. “His name is Jordan.”

“Scott Jordan? The lawyer?” Procter made a face. “I know the name. He dispatched one of his acolytes to my office yesterday with some kind of restraining order. A barrator, Lieutenant, this man is a compulsive barrator.”

Nola glanced at me.

“Someone who practices barratry,” I explained. “The excessive instigation and promotion of lawsuits.”

He turned back to Procter. “You have an employee named Amy Barth?”

“I do.”

“I have some sad news. She was struck by an automobile early this evening and killed.”

“What?” He stared. “Oh, my God! That lovely child.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem possible. Come in, please.” In the living room, his face grim, he shook a stem finger at Nola. “Those damned drunken drivers! Why do you grant them licenses to assassinate pedestrians? Amy Barth. What a dreadful waste!”

“Can you tell us how to reach her family?”

“I know only that she comes from the Midwest. Wichita, I believe. They gravitate here from the provinces, all the bright and eager youngsters, seeking adventure and opportunity.” He gestured. “And Jordan? Why is Jordan interested? Because of the accident? Is he chasing ambulances?”

“Jordan’s assistant was injured in the same accident.”

“The young man should be warned, Lieutenant. He’s courting eventual disbarment with his present affiliation.”

And Mr. Arnold Procter, I thought, was courting a fat lip.

Nola said, “How long had the girl been working for you?”

“About a month.”

“Did she ever discuss her personal affairs?”

“I do not encourage intimacies. We’re under constant pressure at the agency. I imagine you could find the necessary information at the girl’s apartment.” He glanced at his watch. “I really don’t have much time, Lieutenant. I’m due at an important meeting.”

“Sorry. You’ll have to resign yourself to being late.”

Procter lifted his chin superciliously. “This city is suffering from a serious fiscal crisis. I understand we’ve been compelled to reduce the number of law-enforcement officers. Shouldn’t you be out catching crooks?”

“That’s exactly what he’s doing right at this moment,” I said.

His head swiveled. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about embezzlement, Procter. I’m talking about murder. Where do you keep your car?”

“What car?”

“The car you parked near Amy’s apartment early this evening, waiting for her to come out so you could aim it and step on the gas and put her away. My assistant was with her at the time, so he too was expendable. But it was Amy who caught the full impact.”

“Me?” He flattened a palm against his chest. “Are you saying I killed Amy? I don’t even own a car.”

“Then you rented one. They’ll check the rental agencies, Procter. Think about it. Did you return a car with a smashed headlight or a dented fender? Wiped clean of fingerprints?”

“Why in God’s name would I want to hurt that girl?”

“Because she knew too much,” I said. “She knew about all the money involved in Lily Olson’s new book. Almost two million dollars or more. The first time your agency ever hit the jackpot. It might never happen again, either to you or to Lily Olson. Or to George Finney who conceived the idea and developed the plot and was entitled to half of the proceeds.”

“Who says so?”

“Finney’s notebooks. We have them in his own handwriting, elaborating on the same theme that appears in Olson’s book, The Machiavelli Project. And a letter you wrote suggesting that he collaborate with some other writer. You put him in touch with Lily Olson. Those papers should have been destroyed, Procter, only the lieutenant showed up unexpectedly and seized them before you had a chance.”

“I wrote him a letter, yes. But it referred to a different project.”

“It referred to an outline called The Long Night. And Olson’s book may even have been submitted under that title. Because at that time nobody anticipated this windfall. Shall we call the publishers and ask if they were involved in a change of title?”

It started a vein throbbing in his temple.

I said, “Finney’s name had no currency in the publishing world. So he willingly agreed to let Olson appear as the sole author. As a matter of fact, he insisted on it. Because if his wife learned about any new source of income, she had a legal right to demand an increase in alimony. He wanted to avoid that. He hoped to squirrel the money away, so his selfishness played into your hands.

“But then lightning struck. You found yourself in possession of a blockbuster worth millions. Greed obliterated your ethics. You had an idea. You went to Lily Olson and sounded her out. You told her she had written the book, slaved over it for months, bled her talent. Why split with Finney? You made her a proposition. If Finney could be eliminated, with no risk to her, would she split his share with you. And she was receptive. So you worked it out. They celebrated their success and she got him drunk. Then you coaxed him into a car and he kept lapping it up while you drove to an appropriate spot along the river. You got him out, stoned and helpless, and gave him a push.”

His mouth was open, breathing harshly, his face moist.

“It never ends,” I said. “One thing leads to another. I sent my assistant to your office and he met Amy Barth and they became friends. That posed an instant threat. Because Amy knew about the collaboration. And she could kick over the pail by mentioning it. So she had to be silenced without delay and you took care of it. Who else knew where she lived? Who else had a motive? You, Procter, only you.

“You’re finished, mister. They’ll put it all together and when they start leaning on Lily Olson she’ll come apart, trying to clear her own skirts. You haven’t a prayer.”

He sank into a chair and covered his face. Nola reached for the telephone and I heard him telling someone to pick up the Olson woman. I looked at Procter. All those snide comments about lawyers. And five will get you twenty, in about two minutes he’d be yelling his head off for one.