Man-Trap

XIII

With Fausta in tow, I arrived at Warren Day’s office about nine o’clock the next morning. The inspector looked up in simulated astonishment when we walked in.

“Still up from last night?” he asked.

“You may scratch Barney Seldon off your list of suspects,” I retorted.

The abrupt way in which I made this announcement made Day blink. “What?”

“Barney Seldon.” I gave him a brief rundown of my previous evening’s activities. “So you may as well tear up that assault complaint against Percy Sweet and Seldon,” I concluded. “You only wanted it as an excuse to hold Seldon when you got your hands on him anyway. And since both Barney and Percy Sweet are clear on the Lancaster and Knight killings, I’m not interested in pressing charges.”

The inspector scratched his long nose. “Suppose Barney was selling you a bill of goods?”

“He wasn’t,” I assured him. “Aside from the fact that our killer tried to poison Fausta, which Barney would certainly never do, his hoods dumping me and scurrying to Fausta’s rescue the minute they learned she was in danger, cinches it that Seldon was merely behaving like a jealous juvenile delinquent. And don’t tell me his actions were too childish to be plausible. You have to possess sub-normal intelligence to be a hood in the first place.”

Rising from behind his desk, Day reached for his flat straw hat.

“Where you bound?”

“Over to Jones and Knight Company,” he said without enthusiasm. “Come along if you want.”

The very fact that he issued an invitation convinced me he considered the visit unimportant. I asked, “What’s up?”

The inspector grimaced. “Jones phoned he’s completed examination of his books. He has all the data concerning Knight’s borrowings listed.”

His indifferent tone told me he had decided everything connecting Knight’s death to Lancaster’s had been uncovered when we ran into Ilco Utilities, but he could not pass up the remote chance of finding something which might point toward a less troublesome suspect than Laurie Davis, the political boss of Illinois.

When we arrived at the Jones and Knight Investment Company, Matilda Graves was not crying. She was filing letters, and she was being very brisk and businesslike for the benefit of the remaining partner’s wife. Isobel Jones sat in one of the three visitor’s chairs, watching her with amused disinterest.

The secretary-bookkeeper greeted Fausta and me, then looked inquiringly at Warren Day.

“Day of Homicide,” the inspector growled at her.

“Oh, yes, officer. Mr. Jones was expecting someone from the police, but he is in conference at the moment. I’m sure he’ll be through in a matter of minutes now. Do you mind waiting?”

It was obvious from the inspector’s expression that he not only minded, but considered the suggestion preposterous. As chief of Homicide he was used to others waiting on his convenience, and reversal of the usual procedure caught him off center. But it was equally obvious Matilda Graves had no idea she was speaking to the chief of Homicide, and assumed he was merely a plainclothes policeman. Since he could hardly correct her impression without sounding pompous, he grunted something unintelligible, seated himself in the visitor’s chair farthest from Isobel Jones and glanced at Isobel obliquely. As usual he covered his unease at the presence of an attractive woman with a fierce scowl.

Isobel said, “Hello, Manny,” nodded at Fausta and favored the inspector with a dazzling smile.

With his eyes on Matilda Graves, who was too plain to upset him, Day muttered, “Morning, Mrs. Jones.”

I said, “Can’t even the wives of businessmen get in to see them when they’re in conference?”

“Not when they’re in conference with lawyers, apparently. This seems to have been a bad day to call for shopping money.”

Fausta had seated herself between Isobel and Day, which left me standing, as there were no more chairs.

“Why don’t you bring a chair from Mr. Knight’s office,” Isobel suggested. “I’ve had experience with Harlan’s ‘few minutes’ before, and sometimes they stretch.”

“I’ll stand,” I said, but when nearly ten minutes passed with no sign of life from Jones’s office, I changed my mind and crossed to the door of Knight’s office.

Apparently the partition between the two rooms was thin, for the moment I opened the door I could hear the murmur of conversation through the wall. Although muffled, I could make out the words without difficulty.

A husky voice I at first thought was that of a man, but almost immediately identified as that of Mrs. Knight, was saying, “I don’t see that Willard’s borrowing has any bearing on the subject, since he returned every cent. It was an equal partnership, wasn’t it? So why should I accept less than half the firm’s value as estimated by an independent appraiser?”

A suave voice I assumed belonged to the lawyer mentioned by Isobel began an explanation. “The total estimated worth of a business of this nature has to be based on two factors, Mrs. Knight. There is first the intrinsic value of office fixtures and equipment, monies and securities belonging to the firm. Things upon which an accurate monetary value may be fixed. But the other factor is intangible. It consists of customer lists, the firm’s reputation in financial circles, the sales ability of firm members and so on. In this case a large part of this intangible value rests on the last item, the sales ability of the members. Now your husband was an excellent salesman, but obviously this ceased to be an asset to the firm the moment he passed away.”

“How about the customer list?” Mrs. Knight asked sullenly. “Didn’t Willard build that up as much as you did?”

Apparently this was addressed to Harlan Jones, for after clearing his throat, Jones’s voice said, “Yes, of course. It’s only fair to concede that.”

“But on the other hand,” the lawyer smoothly interjected, “your husband’s... ah... borrowing firm funds undoubtedly will have some adverse effect on the firm’s business. Rumors certainly will spread, particularly since a rival investment house knows of the... ah... borrowing. And while to some extent these rumors may be offset by the general knowledge that the borrower is no longer active in the firm, you must concede this would not be the case were Mr. Knight still alive. Therefore I think it hardly would be fair to consider the firm’s reputation among the intangibles in arriving at an estimated value.”

Mrs. Knight sighed.

Obviously the man was Harlan Jones’s lawyer instead of Mrs. Knight’s, I thought. And he was good. But why was the division of the business being rushed, and who was doing the rushing, Jones or Mrs. Knight? Willard Knight had been dead less than forty-eight hours... as a matter of fact, due to the delay attendant on an autopsy, I imagined he had not yet even had a funeral.

Who was it that was so eager to divide up the business that the matter could not wait until Knight was buried?

I said to Isobel, “You didn’t mention Mrs. Knight was in there with your husband.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Should I have?” Then she asked curiously, “How did you know she was?”

“Thin walls,” I said.

Warren Day said restlessly, “How long are we going to have to wait, Miss?”

The question was addressed to Matilda, who said, “I’m sure it won’t be long, officer. I buzzed Mr. Jones that you were here.”

At that moment Harlan Jones opened his office door to glance out. His eyes widened when he spotted the inspector. He hurried over to him. “I had no idea it was you waiting, sir,” he said, nervously shaking Day’s hand. “Miss Graves merely announced a policeman.”

Jones smiled skittishly at Fausta, nodded to me and gave a preoccupied greeting to his wife. “I’m afraid I’ll be tied up for some time, Inspector,” he went on. “Suppose we step into my ex-partner’s office to go over what I’ve been able to unearth. My other visitors can wait in mine.”

Isobel said, “While you’re here, dear...”

“Oh yes,” Jones said. Self-consciously, while we all looked on, he extracted what looked like two fifties from his wallet and handed the bills to his wife.

Jones moved toward Knight’s office with the inspector following, but when I rose to trail along, Isobel said, “Can you spare a minute, Manny?”

Stopping, I said, “Sure.”

Fausta asked sweetly, “Want me to step outside?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Isobel said in an equally sweet tone. “Manny and I have already covered all we need to say to each other in private.”

Fausta’s eyes developed a glitter which decided me to move my good shin out of kicking range. I went back to my chair.

Isobel asked me, “Why did you think it funny I did not mention the grieving widow was closeted with my husband and his lawyer?”

“I didn’t think it funny. I merely commented.”

“You said thin walls. Do you know what they’re talking about?”

“Yes.”

She waited a moment, and when I failed to elaborate, asked, “Well, what?”

“Why?”

She bit her lip, glanced sidewise at Fausta and said, “Has it anything to do with what we were discussing the other day?”

Suddenly I saw the light. She was afraid Mrs. Knight and her husband were comparing notes about Willard Knight’s “board meetings”, and with her husband’s lawyer in on the conference, naturally she was upset.

Rising, I said, “Relax, Isobel. They’re discussing what Mrs. Knight should receive for her husband’s share of the business. Apparently your husband wants to buy her out.”

She looked surprised. “But the funeral hasn’t even been held yet! It’s not until tomorrow.” Then her expression turned scornful. “She was always an unfeeling woman. Not a drop of sympathy or understanding in her veins. No wonder Willard searched elsewhere...” Abruptly she stopped and glanced at Fausta again.

Rising, I said in a bored tone, “I know. His wife didn’t understand him.”

I was moving toward the room containing the inspector and Harlan Jones when Isobel said to my back, “Well, she didn’t. She didn’t even show sympathy when she learned Willard was facing ruin because of what that Mr. Lancaster had found out, and might even have to go to jail. She just berated him for borrowing the money.”

My hand was on the knob of Knight’s office door before Isobel’s remark completely penetrated.

Releasing the knob, I retraced my steps and sat down again.

To Fausta I said, “Isobel and I have some more confidential things to say to each other. Go talk to Miss Graves.”

Curiously Fausta examined the expression on my face, decided it was no time for games, and followed orders without even her usual pretense of jealousy.

When she was out of earshot, I said, “Now just repeat that last remark, Isobel.”

“About Willard’s wife bawling him out?”

I nodded.

Isobel looked puzzled. “She just bawled him out, that’s all.”

“For borrowing money to speculate?”

“Well, for getting caught at it. Personally I think she wouldn’t even have objected if Willard had made a killing. She was just mad over the jam he was in, not about the moral issue.”

“I see,” I said. “And when did this bawling out take place?”

“The evening he was at my house. That is, just before he got to my house. Willard told me he made a clean breast of everything when he got home from work, and she raised so much cain, he told her he had a board meeting and walked out without even eating dinner.”

“He told her everything?” I asked carefully. “About borrowing seventy thousand dollars to buy Ilco Utilities. About Lancaster threatening to knock the props from under Ilco with his public announcement. And about his argument with Lancaster?”

“Well,” she hedged, “he told her all about the jam he was in. He didn’t tell me the details. I learned them since from Harlan and you. Willard just told me he was in a stock market jam, had told his wife the whole story, and instead of trying to be helpful, she jumped all over him. You can see from that what kind of woman she is. Had she been a halfway adequate wife she would never have driven her husband to seek sympathy and understanding from another woman.”

Had Isobel’s revelation not opened an entirely new avenue of exploration, I might have been amused by tire self-righteous manner in which she criticized another woman’s marital efficiency. But my mind was too busy to linger over pot and kettle philosophy.

I said, “Pardon me,” rose and went into Willard Knight’s office.

I found the Inspector and Jones craning over a typed sheet lying on the desk between them. The inspector was listening without much interest as Jones explained each item listed on the sheet. I gathered it was a complete list of Knight’s borrowings, with dates of both the borrowings and returns, and amounts involved.

I interrupted to say, “Let that ride awhile, Inspector. I just uncovered something more urgent.”

Day looked up at me with a scowl.

Conscious of the thin partition, which would allow Mrs. Knight in the other office to hear every word I said in a normal tone, I moved close to the inspector and dropped my voice to a near whisper. “Remember what a point Mrs. Knight made of not knowing what her husband saw in the paper? I just learned she knew all about Knight’s jam, including his argument with Lancaster.”

The inspector’s scowl faded to a blank look.

“How’d you find that out?”

I opened my mouth to explain, then suddenly realized I could not in front of Jones without disclosing Isobel and Knight had spent the evening together while he was in Kansas City.

“Something Fausta happened to say,” I improvised. “I’ll explain it later. Since Mrs. Knight is right next door, suppose we ask her a few questions.”

Jones said, “You mean interrupt our conference?” and when the inspector merely gave him an irritated look, hastily added, “Not that I mind for myself. But my lawyer is a busy man and...”

“So am I,” Day said bluntly. “Moon, bring that woman in here.”

“Sure, Inspector.” I started for the door, stopped again and asked Jones, “Whose idea was this conference between you and Mrs. Knight?”

Jones looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

I said, “A little while ago I stepped in here to borrow a chair. Your walls aren’t very thick and I couldn’t help overhearing the discussion next door. It struck me the division of the business was being somewhat rushed inasmuch as your partner hasn’t even been buried yet. I just wondered who was doing the rushing.”

“I see,” Jones said slowly. “It is a trifle untimely, isn’t it? But Mrs. Knight insisted. I certainly am in no hurry. As a matter of fact I would prefer some delay, as I am going to have to borrow a good portion of what it will take to buy her out. I understand she is in a hurry because she plans to leave town immediately after the funeral. She mentioned something about living with a sister in California.”