Ellery Queen. The Best of Suspense

Harold Q. Masur Murder Never Solves Anything

Albert Osborn was an ambitious young man, volatile, brash, self-confident. But all these characteristics quickly dissolved under the pressure of calamitous events. I found him sitting disconsolately in his cell at the 19th Precinct, subdued and chastened.

“Thank God,” he said fervently, clasping his hands in supplication. “Thank God you’re here, Mr. Jordan.”

“I heard the news, Albert. Did you kill her?”

He swallowed and shook his head.

I had first met Albert two years ago when he’d bought a junior partnership in a Wall Street brokerage firm, using money borrowed from a doting aunt, Mrs. Agnes Mahler, a fluttery, powder-haired lady, the childless widow of a wealthy scrap-metal dealer. Albert had retained me to handle the legal details. And until this morning, apparently, he’d had no further need for a lawyer.

Now Aunt Agnes was dead. Someone had banged an ancient Grecian urn against the base of her skull. And within twenty-four hours New York’s finest had put the arm on Albert Osborn, the victim’s only living relative and sole legatee under her last will and testament.

“How come they nominated you, Albert?” I asked.

“We had a terrible fight, Aunt Agnes and I,” he said miserably. “One of her neighbors heard us and told the police.”

“A fight about what?”

“I needed some money and Aunt Agnes lent it to me, but her check bounced.”

“How much money?”

“Eighty thousand dollars.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “I thought that all the partners in your firm, Zachary and Company, were making a bundle. What happened?”

He sighed. “Do you know about the two-thousand percent rule?”

“Vaguely. Refresh my recollection.”

“Brokers operate on borrowed money, mostly lent by banks. The Stock Exchange prohibits us from raising more than twenty times our net capital. Zachary and Company exceeded the limit.”

“Using what as collateral?”

“Unregistered stock.”

“That’s against the law, Albert.”

“I know. I know. And when the bank caught on, they called in the loan immediately and notified the Exchange. The Board of Governors gave us an ultimatum: raise enough cash within a week to take us out of violation or suffer a suspension. So Mr. Zachary laid an assessment on every partner for his proportionate share. My contribution was the smallest, eighty thousand dollars. I was strapped, Mr. Jordan. Like everyone else I’d taken a bath when the market got clobbered.”

“So you appealed to Aunt Agnes.”

“I had no choice. If I couldn’t raise the money, I’d lose my interest in the firm.”

“And your aunt agreed?”

“Willingly. She’d just returned from a long Caribbean cruise and was in a good mood. She drew a check to my order, I deposited it and gave one of my own to Mr. Zachary.”

“They bounced?”

“Like rubber balls. Both marked INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. Here.” He took Mrs. Mahler’s check from his pocket and proffered it. “Mr. Zachary,” he continued, “was very chilly. He gave me forty-eight hours to make good or clear out my desk.” Albert’s chin went out of control. “My future, everything, all down the drain.”

“Take it easy,” I said. “What happened next?”

“I was wild. I went storming over to my aunt’s apartment. I ranted and berated her and called her all sorts of names. I have a terrible temper, Mr. Jordan. I’m not proud of myself.”

“Did she offer an explanation?”

“She kept shaking her head. She said the bank must have made a mistake. But banks don’t make mistakes like that, Mr. Jordan.” He blinked. “I admit I made a lot of noise — but I didn’t kill her.”

“Did she have any enemies?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Close friends?”

“The lady next door. Mrs. Stewart — Claire Stewart. They visit back and forth all the time. It was Mrs. Stewart who told the cops about our fight. Listen, this is an awful place. Can’t you get me out of here on bail?”

“Not likely, if you’re indicted for homicide. But I’ll see what I can do.”

He sat, deflated and forlorn, watching dismally as the turnkey let me out. Over at Homicide the cops were disgorging information with all the prodigality of a slot machine. So I appealed to Detective Lieutenant John Nola and got little more than consideration.

“Counselor,” he told me, “this time you’ve got a loser. The accused needed money. He was slated to inherit the victim’s estate. He was angry at her and he threatened her. There was no sign of a forced entry. Nothing missing. His fingerprints were on the murder weapon. All of which gives us that unholy trinity — means, motive, and opportunity. The Grand Jury will vote a true bill and we’re going to process your client into the slammer for life plus forty. You’ll never prove him innocent.”

“I don’t have to, Lieutenant. That’s a legal presumption in his favor. You fellows have to prove him guilty.”

He simply smiled and shifted one of those thin Schimmelpenninck cigars to the other side of his mouth. I walked out, flagged a cab, and drove to the site of the crime — an old dowager of a building on Park Avenue operated now by an economy-minded landlord. Self-service elevator and no doorman. Claire Stewart’s apartment was listed on the directory. I identified myself and she buzzed me in.

I had been expecting one of the victim’s contemporaries, someone’s ancestor, shrunken, wrinkled, arthritic. Instead I was greeted by a tall abundant redhead in her early forties, vital and vivid, totally feminine, and given to bravura flourishes. I sat in her sumptuous living room and listened.

“I really don’t know whether Albert killed his aunt or not,” she said. “I merely told the police what I heard. This building is one of the old ones, you know, solid, with very thick walls, and we don’t usually hear our neighbors. But oh, my, Albert was in a state. Turned up to several hundred decibels. And the language! I haven’t heard words like that since I divorced my first husband.”

“For example?”

“I will not repeat such obscenities.”

“If it goes to trial the prosecutor may insist.”

“In open court? Why, that’s disgusting!”

“Did Albert threaten his aunt?”

“Not in so many words. He told her she was a deceitful, stingy old woman who had outlived her usefulness. I just hope he remembers those words when he’s in a wheel chair in some nursing home. Did you know they found his fingerprints on the murder weapon? A Sixteenth Century urn that Agnes’ dear departed husband had smuggled out of one of those Greek islands. It was Mr. Mahler’s most prized possession and after he was cremated, Agnes kept his ashes in it. Isn’t that touching? And then because it was used in such a terrible way all the ashes spilled out and were trampled into the carpet by the police. I think that’s sacrilegious. Agnes simply venerated those ashes.”

“Would Mrs. Mahler open the door for anyone who rang?”

“Are you kidding? This city is a jungle. People are being mugged and killed all over the place. Agnes was super-cautious. She would never have admitted a stranger. But she would certainly have opened the door for Albert, especially if she thought he had returned to apologize.”

“Did you speak to her after he left?”

“She came here straightaway and confided in me. She was terribly upset. She simply could not understand why the bank had refused to honor the check. And she used my phone to call the bank and tell them they had made a very costly error and that she was going to hold the bank responsible. She said she would be down there first thing in the morning for a full explanation. But of course she never did go. Poor dear.”

“Who found the body?”

“A cleaning lady who came every morning. When nobody answered her ring she called the super and he used his passkey.”

“I take it he notified the police, Mrs. Stewart.”

“Yes. And please, don’t be so formal. Call me Claire. Your first name is Scott, isn’t it? Do you like duck?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Duck is my favorite dish. I prepare it even better than Maxim’s in Paris. I’d like to invite you to dinner some evening this week.”

“I’ll have to check my appointment book and call you back.”

“My number is unlisted.” She scribbled it on a card and came over and tucked it into my breast pocket, smiling warmly. “Murray Hill 4-0040. Call soon.”

I promised and departed hastily.

Agnes Mahler’s bank was the Gotham Trust. I knew it well. The Madison Avenue branch has a most impressive facade. I headed for the desk of Mr. Harry Wharton, third vice-president, a neat compact man with a salesman’s smile and a tax collector’s eyes. The smile faded as I explained the situation.

“Mrs. Mahler,” he said, “was a valued depositor of this institution. A little vague and confused at times, but otherwise no problem. She traveled frequently and had a custodial account. We held her securities, clipped her coupons, collected her dividends, and I advised her on investments and made quarterly reports. Her death shocked us. Of course we stopped all activity in her account until the estate goes through probate. You say one of her checks bounced? Impossible. She was a wealthy woman. Let me check it with Martin Schorr, our assistant cashier.”

He dialed three digits on the intercom. “Schorr? Front and center. On the double. And bring the file on Mrs. Agnes Mahler.”

A moment later Schorr came trotting through the door, a slight clerical specimen with thick glasses. He was clutching a bulky folder.

“Just tell me,” Wharton demanded curtly, “why we refused to honor a check on Mrs. Mahler’s account?”

“Insufficient funds, sir.”

“Nonsense! Mrs. Mahler keeps much more than eighty thousand dollars in her savings account. We automatically transfer funds to cover her checks.”

“There have been heavy withdrawals over the past few weeks.”

“By whom?” I asked.

“The depositor, sir.” Schorr opened the folder and showed me a bunch of withdrawal slips.

I examined them. But I knew that Agnes Mahler had been out of the country during that time. She could not possibly have conducted these transactions. I had the check she’d given Albert in my pocket. I took it out and compared its signature with those on the withdrawal slips. They were not even remotely similar.

“Someone goofed,” I told Wharton. “The signatures on these withdrawal slips are forgeries.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

I showed him. He riffled the file for Agnes Mahler’s original signature card, then visibly relaxed. “You’re mistaken, Counselor. Here is the card Mrs. Mahler signed when she opened the account. The handwriting is identical with the withdrawal slips.”

“Then the card is also a forgery, Harry. I have the check Mrs. Mahler gave Albert Osborn. It was written in his presence, so the signature has to be genuine. Observe the capital ‘M’ in Mahler. A simple letter. Now look at the fancy loops and flourishes on the card and on the withdrawal slips. No similarity at all.”

Wharton frowned. “Perhaps Osborn is lying. Perhaps he wrote the check himself.”

“Then he would have done a much better imitation. He would have made at least a minimal attempt to copy her signature. But we have other ways to learn which signature is genuine. We can compare it with the handwriting on her will, which was attested by two witnesses. Easier still, go back four or five months and compare it with earlier withdrawal slips.”

He nodded and rummaged in the file. His face turned grim. He had to clear his throat twice, then he made a gesture of total resignation. “I’m afraid you’re right, Counselor. The handwriting is different. Somebody must have pulled the original signature card and substituted a forged one.”

“Clever,” I said. “Any withdrawals under the new signature would check with your records and be honored. Had to be one of your own people, Harry, fleecing the account. Probably with an outside confederate, a woman who pretended to be Mrs. Mahler. Better tag your employee before he guts the whole damn bank.”

Wharton made a face. “Counselor, almost every employee in this institution has access to the signature files. Tellers and cashiers are constantly comparing against those cards.”

“I take it you’re insured.”

“Of course we’re insured. But with every fraud and embezzlement our premiums soar.” He turned to the assistant cashier. “We’ll need a complete audit of Mrs. Mahler’s account, from the ground up. Start it rolling at once.” After Schorr had left, he appealed to me. “Where do we start? We bond all our people. We check their backgrounds. And still this sort of thing goes on. How can you keep people from stealing?”

“Easy,” I said. “Triple all employees’ salaries and remove the temptation or the need.”

That suggestion did not sit well. He gave me an aggrieved look. “Do me a favor, Jordan. Take your ideas and—”

“Don’t say it, Harry. Bankers are supposed to be dignified. You know you’ll have to replace all that money in Mrs. Mahler’s account. It may ultimately belong to my client.”

“Only if you prove him innocent.”

He was right. The law is clear. A legatee cannot profit by his own misdeeds. He may not accelerate his bequest by liquidating the testatrix.

But the picture was no longer entirely bleak. Back at my office I thought about it. I knew now that someone else may have had a motive to silence Mrs. Mahler. And I needed to know more about that someone else. The only source of information I could think of was Claire Stewart. I am not especially fond of duck, either roasted, stewed, or fricasseed. But a lawyer often makes sacrifices for the sake of his client. So I reached into my breast pocket for the card bearing her telephone number.

I stared at it, my eyes wide, my pulse quickening — stared at the “M” in Murray Hill with its fancy loops and flourishes. Calligraphy identical with the “M” in Mahler on the substituted signature card in the bank’s file. Identical with the handwriting on the recent withdrawal slips.

I did not phone her. Instead I rang Macbeth — Fitz Macbeth, that is — the private eye who practically has a monopoly on investigative work for lawyers. He has a large staff and a number of free-lance operatives on call, all ex-cops who had opted for early retirement.

He listened to me and said, “You want around-the-clock surveillance of Mrs. Claire Stewart. Starting when?”

“This minute.”

“For how long?”

“Until further notice.”

“And your description is adequate?”

“The lady is sui generis. Nobody around quite like her.”

“It’s going to cost, Counselor.”

“Fitz, have I ever skunked you on a bill?”

He laughed and broke the connection.

I finished the afternoon working on other matters, then took some papers home with me. I ate a solitary TV dinner and was correcting syntax on a pending appeal when the call came — from one of Macbeth’s men reporting that Claire Stewart had left her apartment at 9:42 P.M. to rendezvous with a man at a nearby cocktail lounge. Was I interested? I was. He gave me the address and I hurried out and flagged a cab.

I recognized the operative loafing against a light pole. “Still in there,” he told me.

I headed for the bar, chin tucked in, hat pulled down. I ordered intently. They seemed to be arguing. Martin Schorr looked nervous and Claire Stewart was grim. She had her bravura flourishes under control, trying not to attract attention.

This was neither the time nor the place for a confrontation. I ducked out quickly, face averted. “Okay,” I told the operative. “Stick with her until the next shift arrives. Can Fitz reach you if necessary?”

He showed me a small box. “Fitz gives me a beep, I call him back from the nearest booth.”

Several times in the past both the D.A. and the police have accused me of withholding evidence material to the solution of a felony. The felony here was top drawer. Homicide. So I decided to play this one according to the book. I found Lieutenant Nola at home, watching a televised ballet on NET, one of those thin Dutch cigars smoking itself between his teeth.

He shut off the set and listened while I dumped it in his lap — the bank swindle, the cast involved, the whole works. I said, “You spoke to Mrs. Stewart. You had a chance to size her up.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Exactly,” I agreed. “And a man like Schorr, a wallflower type, unprepossessing, deprived, he’d be an easy mark for Mrs. Stewart with all those obvious charms. She’d have no difficulty enlisting his cooperation. What I think happened, one of them panicked when Agnes Mahler blew the whistle and phoned the bank. They took advantage of the fight between Albert and his aunt to divert suspicion to Albert. Mrs. Stewart volunteered that information pretty quick.”

He studied the card with her telephone number. “You’re certain this handwriting matches those forged signatures?”

“Without question.”

“No shenanigans, Counselor?”

“My hand on the Bible, Lieutenant.”

“You’re saying that Schorr supplied a blank signature card and she filled it out and he substituted it for the original?”

“Yes.”

“And where would the Stewart woman get blank checks or a passbook for withdrawals?”

“She and the victim were always visiting back and forth. She could easily have lifted them while Mrs. Mahler was in the kitchen or the bathroom.”

“Wouldn’t Mrs. Mahler have noticed their absence?”

“Ordinarily, yes. But Mrs. Stewart probably waited until just before Agnes took off on a long cruise.”

He pursed his lips. “Damned careless of the Stewart dame to let you have a copy of her handwriting.”

“I never said she had a full deck, Lieutenant. She was probably trying to cultivate me, hoping to wheedle information or exert influence if I got too close.”

Nola stood up. “Schorr sounds like the weak partner in this conspiracy. Let’s sweat him first. If he cracks we should have no trouble with the lady.” He pointed to a telephone book. “Check the man’s address.”

He managed to commandeer a prowl car. It took us to a five-story walkup on Second Avenue. I anticipated little trouble with Martin Schorr. He possessed neither the Byzantine shrewdness nor the toughness of his accomplice. We found his door partly open — in that neighborhood a fearless act, or a careless one, or perhaps he was expecting someone.

But Schorr didn’t even know his door was open. A bullet hole in the left temple had stopped him from worrying about such matters. Or anything else.

Nola bent and touched the corpse. “Still warm,” he said harshly. “Dammit, we couldn’t have missed the perpetrator by more than minutes.” He used the dead man’s phone and called it in, then looked at me. “Off the top of my head. The obvious conclusion. A dead accomplice cannot share the loot or implicate his partner. I think we should brace the lady while her adrenalin is still pumping.”

“Let me make a call first,” I said. “It may save us time.” I got through to Macbeth. “Fitz, contact your man and get me a quick rundown on Mrs. Stewart’s activities during the past hour. Ring me at this number. It’s urgent.”

Nola’s technical support, with sirens, and Macbeth’s response arrived simultaneously. I picked up the handset. Fitz said, “Here it is, Counselor. The lady and her escort left the cocktail lounge about fifteen minutes after you did. They separated immediately. She walked home and he flagged a cab in the opposite direction. She hasn’t left her apartment since.”

“No other exit?”

“Only the service door, in clear view.”

I relayed the information to Nola. “It shoots down your theory, Lieutenant. Schorr was still alive when she left him.”

“Then the lady will keep for a while. Where can I get some background on Schorr?” Nola asked.

“From Mr. Harry Wharton, Schorr’s boss at the Gotham Trust.”

On our way Nola made only one comment, directed at his driver. “Shut off that damn siren.”

Wharton’s apartment was far more impressive than Schorr’s. He was, after all, in a higher bracket. I introduced Nola and gave Wharton the news about his cashier.

He gaped at us, incredulous. “Schorr an embezzler? Dead? I can’t believe it.”

“Did the man have any relatives?” Nola asked.

“I don’t think so.” Wharton shook his head. “Do you know the name of his accomplice?”

“Yes.”

“Did she kill him?”

“We have evidence to the contrary.”

“How did you manage to identify her?”

“The accomplice blundered and disclosed her identity to Jordan.”

“Is the accomplice in custody?”

“Not yet,” I interjected. “We had a theory, Harry, and then Schorr’s death put a different face on it. We had to scrub our inference that it was Schorr who devised the swindle and set it up. I don’t think he had anything at all to do with it. May I use your phone?”

I did not wait for permission. I dialed the Murray Hill number and when I had her voice on the line I said in a tense mimicking whisper, “Claire? Harry. No time to explain. Clear out. Fast.”

Sudden alarm strained her voice. “What is it, Harry? What happened?”

I hung up.

The color had run out of Wharton’s face. It was now stiff with restraint, tissue-gray, his eyes fixed on mine. I said, “That’s all the confirmation I need, Harry. It struck me less than a minute ago. You wanted to know if we had identified Schorr’s accomplice and then you asked if she killed him. We never told you it was a woman.”

He swallowed hugely. “My God, Jordan, that was a natural assumption. It was a woman who withdrew the money.”

“Yes. But your calling the accomplice ‘she’ and ‘her’ opened my eyes. Then I suddenly remembered your response at the bank — as if you knew nothing about Agnes Mahler’s call after her check bounced. Not likely, Harry. Who would she ask for? Only you, Harry. You handled her account. You gave her advice. You visited her apartment to discuss investments. And that’s where you met Claire Stewart. She’s hard to resist. She made a play for you and you tumbled. She’s a lady with expensive tastes and the liaison must have required a lot of money. Whose idea was it to plunder the Mahler account? Yours or hers?”

He made a desperate reach for words. “You’re mistaken, Jordan, terribly mistaken!”

“I don’t think so, Harry. Mrs. Mahler threatened to blow the whistle. It would start an investigation that could sink you. You needed time to cover yourself. And the old lady was expendable. So you paid her a visit. She would certainly open the door for her banker. You saw the urn and you used it. But murder never solves anything, Harry. It only creates new problems. And one of those problems was Martin Schorr.

“He was nosing around. He probably knew you had something going with Claire Stewart — she may have picked you up at the bank several times. I think he knew her name because she too was a depositor at the bank. She must have opened an account as an excuse to see you during the day.

“As soon as Schorr checked her signature he was in the picture. It gave him what he needed, a chance to cut himself in for a piece of the action. And he figured the lady would be easier to handle. A very risky undertaking, after what happened to Mrs. Mahler. So of course Schorr had to be eliminated, and quick. So you moved immediately, right after Claire phoned and told you what he wanted.”

Wharton appealed to the lieutenant. “Not true. Not a word of it.” But his voice lacked conviction.

I said coldly, “You shot him, Harry. Did you get rid of the gun? A professional would have dropped it off the Staten Island ferry or one of the bridges. But you’re not a professional. So it’s probably hidden right here in this apartment. The lieutenant’s men know how to search and when they find it, your goose is cooked. They’ll collar Mrs. Stewart and she’ll sing her lungs out, pinning it on you, trying to clear her skirts.”

Nola got to the phone and snapped out an All Points Bulletin on the lady. It sent Harry Wharton into a tailspin of despair. He sank into a chair and lowered his face into his hands.

“All right, Lieutenant,” I said. “This one is all yours. Now do me a favor, please. Call the D.A. and start the ball rolling so I can spring my client. I have to earn my fee.”

“You’ve already earned it. But how can Osborn afford your usual whopping fee if he’s broke?”

“You forget,” I said. “Albert is still Mrs. Mahler’s sole legatee. There’s a sizeable estate involved, especially after the bank replaces all that embezzled loot.”

Nola grinned. “Well, Counselor, he owes you more than a fee. If you ask me, he owes you his skin.”