Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 12, December, 1953

Richest Man in the Morgue by Harold Q. Masur

The man in the Oriental costume was going to talk to Jordan. He reached Jordan’s door — but he never got inside.

It started with a Hindu dancer and a lawyer. When they met, the Hindu dancer’s heartbeat stopped permanently and the lawyer’s temporarily. I did not know the Hindu dancer at all, but I knew the lawyer well enough. He’s me, Scott Jordan.

The event was a memorable one. It led to a small brunette and a large swindle. Both were beauties. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It was Thursday morning, 2:30 a.m., when I came awake sharply and irritably at the insistent ringing of my doorbell. I muttered thickly into the pillow and tried to ignore it, but the bell kept going, so I got up and shuffled blindly into the foyer. A summons at that hour usually means trouble. Still, I couldn’t help myself. In some ways a lawyer is like a doctor. Sickness and crime work on a twenty-four hour shift right around the clock.

I opened the door and there he was, brightly festooned in the costume of an Oriental potentate, with a jeweled turban wrapped around his head. At first I didn’t see him. He was on his knees, bent over, his forehead touching the floor in an attitude of prayer.

I knew if I touched him he would topple sideways. I knew it because the knife sticking out of his back had been planted in exactly the right spot. But he toppled anyway, listing to port slowly and then rolling over with a soft thud.

I stood in the doorway, impaled, heartbeat suspended.

His lips were frozen in a twisted grimace, and lidless eyes stared upward in a kind of perpetual astonishment. He was young, about twenty-five, his face darkly smeared with theatrical makeup. I didn’t know the fellow from a hitching post.

Good-bye rest. No more sleep for me tonight. I could, of course, haul him down the corridor and deposit him in front of somebody else’s door. But I’m in the business. I know better. Transporting a homicide victim carries stiff penalties, and besides, this chap had been scratched out on his way to see me and I wanted to know the reason why.

I sighed with resignation and headed for the telephone.

I can recall the next two hours as a montage of frenetic activity. City employees came, performed their chores with calculated efficiency and departed. Homicide detectives of all shapes and sizes kept firing questions at me, but through it all I maintained complete innocence. The corpse was finally removed and at last I stood alone with Lieutenant John Nola.

The lieutenant was a neat, dark, sober, slender man, with brooding eyes and a searching brain, tough but human, and absolutely incorruptible. He was studying me carefully. “Hope you’re not trying to promote something, counselor,” he said.

I gave him an aggrieved look. “Haven’t I always been on the level with you, John?”

“Up to a point, yes. But I’d hate to think you were pulling a fast one now.”

If he ever did it would be curtains. Five years of friendship would go out the window. He lit one of his thin, dappled cigars and inhaled thoughtfully. I knew that he had established the victim’s identity and asked him about it.

He said, “The boy’s name was Eddie Lang. Made his living as a Hindu dancer in night clubs and television spots. Current booking at The Kismet, 52nd Street. According to the M.E. he was ambushed as he stepped out of the elevator and barely made it to your door.” Nola searched for an ash tray. His habits were meticulous. “Know many people in show business?” he asked me offhandedly.

“A few. Eddie Lang wasn’t one of them. Why?”

“Because he was on his way to see you. Probably recommended. We’d like to know what he wanted.”

I shrugged helplessly. “Have you checked his living quarters?”

“The boys are there now.”

“How about the knife?”

“Not even fingerprints. You saw the type. Cutlery stores all over the city sell them in sets.” He rubbed his forehead. “Eddie Lang knew something and that knowledge killed him. Somebody had to put him in cold storage before he could talk.”

He stopped as the telephone rang and got the handset to his ear. He grunted into the mouthpiece and gave a nod of satisfaction.

“Hold her there,” he said crisply. “I’ll be right down.” He hung up and regained his feet. His eyes met mine. “Gladys Monroe — ever hear the name?”

I thought and shook my head. “Who is she?”

“Eddie Lang’s dancing partner. Sergeant Wienick just picked her up at the Hotel Buxton. She’s down at Headquarters now. Like to sit in?” The idea appealed to me, but I shook my head. “Got a case on the calendar tomorrow morning at ten. I won’t be able to think straight if I don’t get some sleep. Suppose I contact you later?”

He nodded and left.

I saw no profit in a safari to Headquarters at this hour. I didn’t even have a client, but the city was paying Nola. I went back to bed, but I didn’t get any sleep. The event was too recent, the memory too fresh. I couldn’t relax. How insensitive would a man have to be to accept the fact of homicide at his doorstep with equanimity? So I sat up and smoked and rummaged through my memory. Eddie Lang rang no bell.

Dawn was a soiled gray smudge when I wandered swollen-eyed into the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee that was blacker than sin and thick enough to walk on. When the pot was empty I got dressed and went down and headed, without conscious volition, to the Buxton.

It was an ancient hotel, clinging to its air of reserve and quiet respectability. The lobby was deserted. I sat down at a writing desk and scribbled Gladys Monroe across an envelope. I took it over to the desk and handed it to the clerk. He glanced at the name and shoved the envelope into Box 520.

I was on my way to the elevator before he turned around. The operator was half asleep and manipulated the contraption by instinct. I debarked on the fifth floor, found the girl’s door, and knocked.

Apparently she was awake, for she answered at once. “Who is it?” But the voice was small and unsteady.

“A friend of Eddie’s,” I said.

The door opened and I saw a girl who would have rated high on anybody’s list of prospective brides. Small and trim, with luminous eyes in a pale oval face. Right now the eyes were miserable and the face woebegone, yet a wistful, appealing quality came right out at you. The high cheekbones were streaked with moisture, and she wrinkled up her forehead, trying to remember me.

“May I come in, Gladys?” I said.

“But I...”

“The name is Jordan — Scott Jordan.”

Slim articulate fingers flashed to her mouth. She spoke breathlessly between them. “You’re the lawyer Eddie went to see. Where he died. The police told me.”

I nodded gravely.

She sized me up, relying on her intuition, then stepped aside. The room was small, its dominant feature a gorgeously spangled Oriental costume hanging from a hinge on the closet door. She let me have the single straight-backed chair and perched herself on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry to bother you like this,” I said. “The police give you a rough time?”

She managed a tremulous smile. “Not too bad.”

“I imagine you’re weary of questions about Eddie,” I said. “So I won’t keep you long. He was on his way to see me and killed before he could talk. It’s been on my mind. I haven’t been able to sleep. Clues in a murder case cool off fast and I didn’t want to waste time. Will you tell me about Eddie? Some seemingly unimportant detail may have more significance for me than it did for the police.”

She nodded. “I don’t mind. I met Eddie several years ago at a rehearsal hall. I liked his style of dancing and his ideas and I decided to team up with him. We got along fine. He was clever and he taught me a lot. He designed the choreography for our act and handled the business too. Got us most of the bookings. I... I’ll be lost without him.”

“Were you very close?”

“He wasn’t my boy friend, if that’s what you mean.”

Glad to hear it, I almost said, but held my tongue. “Ever hear him mention my name?”

“No. Not that I can recall.”

“Enemies?”

“Not one. Everybody liked him.”

“How about his Emily, his background?”

“I don’t think — wait a minute.” Her expression changed. “I remember something. Eddie was sitting in my dressing room between numbers yesterday, reading a newspaper, the Herald Tribune, I think, and suddenly he gave an exclamation. ‘Look who’s in town!’ He seemed excited. I asked who and he said, ‘Malcolm Parish of the Parish Shipping Lines.’ ” She stopped short. “What is it, Mr. Jordan? Is something wrong?”

“No,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“I’d never heard Eddie mention the man and I asked about him. He said his uncle Victor had met Mr. Parish in Switzerland about fifteen years ago and had become his traveling companion and secretary. They went all over Europe. Eddie said his uncle used to write once in a while, but he hadn’t heard from him in over a year. According to the paper, Mr. Parish was staying at the Waldorf, and Eddie said he was going to call him and find out if his uncle had come back too.”

“Had he?”

“I don’t know. Eddie left and after that we had to do our number.”

“But you saw him later. What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything, only that he was going over to the Waldorf. We usually stop off for coffee after the last show, but Eddie excused himself and went out alone. That was the last time I saw him.” Her mouth was thin and hurt.

I was silent for a moment. “Can you do the act alone?”

“With changes perhaps. I’ll try it tonight.”

“May I come and watch?”

She looked at me seriously. “I think I’d like that.”

I had my link now, though I didn’t know what it meant. I had recently handled a matter for the Parish Shipping Lines that had received considerable publicity. The company’s chief stockholder, inactive in the business, was something of an enigma. On my way to the Waldorf I mulled over some of the facts and rumors Ed heard about him.

Malcolm Parish had inherited his interest from his grandfather, the company’s founder, twenty years ago. At that time, Malcolm was forty years of age, and the older man had had ample opportunity to evaluate his grandson’s business acumen and administrative ability. Having reached the conclusion that these qualities were non-existent he prudently arranged to put his holdings into a trust and leave the firm’s management in more capable hands. These measures proved to be both timely and expedient. He passed on soon afterward and Malcolm wasted no time in confirming his grandfather’s judgment.

He took his insensitive soul to Europe and devoted himself to the nomadic life of a luxurious wanderer. Europe and the Far East had traditions and culture which he felt were sadly lacking in his native America. But never once, during twenty years of expatriation, did he fail to cash those nasty materialistic checks supplied by American enterprise.

Now, apparently, travel had lost its allure. He was back home — if the impersonal accommodations of a hotel can be called home.

His suite was in the tower, sufficiently opulent but lacking warmth. I had identified myself on the house phone and he consented to see me. He came affably to the door, a slightly built man with mild eyes and a firm handshake. He had reddish hair and a neatly trimmed imperial of the same color.

“Glad to meet you, counselor,” he said, convoying me to a chair with a companionable hand on my shoulder. “Read about you in the morning paper. Frightful experience, I gather. Gave me something of a shock, too. Why, I spoke to that man myself only yesterday. Liked him on sight. Very decent sort. Good manners, forthright. Came to inquire about his uncle who used to work for me. What do you drink? Brandy? Scotch? Absinthe? Call down for anything you like. Take only a moment.”

“Nothing, thank you,” I said.

“Smoke? Here, try one of these. Made especially for me in Cuba.” He shoved a box of long Havana fillers under my nose. They were fragrant and fresh. “Take a couple, counselor. Go ahead. Help yourself.”

I selected one and put it in my pocket. He took one for himself, trimmed the end, and got it ignited. Smoke poured luxuriously from his nostrils.

I said, “The police are checking Eddie Lang’s movements. Have you notified them he was here?”

Expensive dental work appeared in a lame smile. “Quite frankly, I did not. I saw no connection between the two events.” A slight frown drew his eyebrows together. “Incidentally, Mr. Jordan, what brought you to me? How did you know Eddie Lang was here?”

I told him and asked, “What news did you give him about his uncle?”

The bearded face went long and solemn. “I told him that Victor was dead.”

“Dead?”

“Quite.” Malcolm Parish nodded sadly. “Victor died about a year ago. We had just taken a trip to Italy, flew over the Alps. It may have been the altitude, I don’t know. Victor’s heart was never strong. He suffered a severe thrombosis shortly after we reached a small villa I had rented for the season, and he was gone in a matter of minutes. In the twinkling of an eye, you might say. Before I could summon a doctor.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you notify anybody?”

“Of course, the local consul. Victor was buried in the town cemetery.”

“I mean relatives.”

“Well, now, the fact is I didn’t even know Victor had relatives. He never mentioned his nephew and I didn’t even know Eddie Lang existed. I was under the impression Victor was alone in the world.” Parish shook his head mournfully. “Missed the man dreadfully at first. He ran my household efficiently and played chess like a master. Absolutely irreplaceable.”

“How did Eddie take the news?”

“Rather badly, I’m afraid. He seemed genuinely affected. But he shook it off nicely and after a while we had a fine chat. He told me all about his work and that little girl, Gladys Monroe. Meant to catch his act this evening and take them out afterwards. I’d like to know who killed him. Any ideas?”

“Not yet. We’re working on it.”

He blew smoke at the ceiling. It hung over his head in a disembodied cloud. “I understand you did some work recently for the Parish Lines, Mr. Jordan.”

“It was more in the nature of an investigation,” I told him.

“Investigation? Are you a detective, too?”

“Not officially, but I’ve had some luck in the field.”

He sat up. “Well, now, I’m interested, counselor. What sort of an investigation?”

“Sorry. It was confidential.”

He smiled patronizingly. “Come now. In a manner of speaking, you might say that I am the company, since I hold the largest block of stock.”

“True.” I smiled back. “But I was hired by the Board of Directors.”

“Who, in the last analysis, represent me.”

“Unquestionably. So I imagine they’d be glad to show you the files.”

He coughed up smoke in a hearty laugh and slapped his knee. “I like that. I do indeed. It isn’t often one meets a man of prudence and discretion. I like you, counselor. I like you very much.” He closed his mouth and stared at me intently for a moment. “Are you still under retainer to the company?”

I shook my head.

“Would you care to represent me, personally?”

“To do what?”

“To help me accomplish what I came back to the States for.”

“Which is?”

“Namely, to vacate the trust set up by my grandfather and have it declared a nullity.” He struck his knee with a clenched fist. His lips were grim and his eyes glowing. “To wrest control of my own company from its present Board of Directors. To manage and pilot the destinies of the Parish Shipping Lines. I’m not at all pleased with the way things are going. We live in an expanding economy, Mr. Jordan, and the Parish Lines should have grown to twice its present size. Instead, the company is virtually at a standstill.” His beard quivered with indignation. “The directors have been sitting on their rumps, riding the crest.” The fist landed on his knee again. “I’m not going to stand by as an idle spectator and watch the company become atrophied. I’m going to take a hand.”

He bounced out of his chair and went to a desk. He turned holding a checkbook in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. His jaw was set with determination.

“I need the services of a fighting lawyer, Jordan. I like the cut of your cloth. You look like a scrapper. Name your retainer. Go ahead. I won’t haggle about the fee.”

I sat blinking. His enthusiasm and eloquence surprised me. At last I said, “Ten thousand dollars,” just to test his sincerity.

He wrote without batting a lash. He folded the check and tucked it into my pocket behind the display handkerchief.

I said cautiously, “Your grandfather’s trust may be irrevocable. I can’t promise a thing.”

He waved it aside, his mouth obstinate. “Win or lose, my mind is made up. I’m going to the mat with those boys and I want you in my corner. What’s ten thousand dollars? Peanuts, counselor. The company is worth millions.”

This was the first time my services had been courted with such enthusiasm. “I’ll be in touch with you, Mr. Parish,” I said, rising. “As soon as I can read through the trust documents.”

“Fine. Just remember, time is of the essence. We’ve got to start rolling.”

After twenty years of indolence he was suddenly in a hurry.

I stopped off at a phone booth and arranged an adjournment of the case on this morning’s calendar.

I placed Malcolm Parish’s cigar on the desk in front of Lieutenant John Nola. He sniffed at it and raised an eyebrow at me. “What’s this, a bribe?”

“Yes, sir. I’d like to know if you’ve made any progress.”

His face was lined and tired. “Very little.”

“How about Gladys Monroe?”

“Business associate, that’s all.”

“I saw her this morning.” He stared at me, and I went on telling him about Malcolm Parish.

He mulled it over. “What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Yet. Did you check Eddie Lang’s room?”

“With a magnifying glass. Combed the place thoroughly. No clues.”

“Mind if I go over and take a look?”

“Why?” His inspection was critical. “You got better eyesight than we have?”

“No, John, I don’t mean that at all, but I’ve been mixed up in a lot of matters and there’s always a chance something may click. It can’t hurt and it may do some good.”

He deliberated briefly and then reached for an envelope, extracting a key which he tossed across the desk. “Here. Got it from the manager. It’s a duplicate. Couldn’t find Lang’s key in his pocket.” He paused and leveled a finger. “Report in full, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

I could feel his eyes following me through the door. The name stamped on the key was Hotel Buxton. I hailed a cab and sat back. I had a feeling that something was going to happen and as it turned out I was right.

When I crossed the Buxton’s antique lobby I thought of Gladys sitting alone in her room. I controlled an impulse to visit her again and went on up to the seventh floor. I found Eddie Lang’s room and used the key. I took one step and froze in the doorway, whistling.

It seemed, from the room’s appearance, that the Police Academy had omitted a course in neatness from its curriculum. The place was a mess. Drawers had been emptied out on the floor and Eddie’s suits lay askew across the bed.

I started with the suits, turning all the pockets inside out. Nothing. Then I got down on my hands and knees and went poking through the piles of stuff on the floor. My fingers encountered something and pulled it clear. One of those correspondence portfolios in imitation leather, with compartments for stamps, paper, and envelopes. It contained several old letters, one from an agent offering a San Francisco booking, one from a high school girl who’d caught his act on TV and thought he was the best thing since Fred Astaire, and one postmarked Switzerland about a year ago and signed Uncle Victor.

I read the salutation and that’s when I got it. His footsteps were silent coming up behind me. I never heard him. But I felt him all right. The blow landed with a shattering impact and what probably saved my life was the hat on my head. A streak of lightning seemed to explode through my brain. I grabbed for my head and the next blow almost broke my thumb. The sap was poised for its final benediction when I rolled over and it caught me on the shoulder, paralyzing my arm.

I was dimly conscious of harsh breathing and a flurry of activity. Then the door slammed. I tried to rise and was engulfed by a wave of nauseating dizziness. I lay still until it passed. Then I struggled upright and steadied myself against a chair. The closet door stood open. Three short steps had brought him close enough to strike. The letter I had started to read was gone.

I reached for the phone and called Nola. When he heard my voice he knew something was wrong and demanded sharply, “What’s up, Scott?”

“Somebody conked me,” I said shakily. “Damn near fractured my skull.”

“Where are you?”

“In Eddie Lang’s room.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. He was hiding in the closet and came up behind me.”

Nola muffled an oath. “Are you all right?”

“I think so. Listen, John, didn’t your boys find a portfolio of letters belonging to Lang?”

“Found it myself. I was there.”

“Why didn’t you keep it?”

“Because it was old stuff. Innocuous. What’s needling you, boy?”

“A letter from his uncle,” I said, hollow-voiced. “It’s gone. There was a clue in it somewhere.”

“Don’t guess, Scott. Be specific.”

“I can’t. I didn’t read the letter. You did. Dig in, Lieutenant, please, and try to recall. What did it say?”

We had a bad connection. Static crackled softly over the wire. Finally his voice came: “Listen, Scott, that letter was written a year ago. The guy was a windbag, full of fury, griping about his job and knocking European customs, their lack of efficiency. You know the type. A tongue-waver.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “I know the type. Talk to you, later, John. My head’s splitting.” I hung up.

Sure, I reflected grimly. The type is well known to me. Sometimes it’s only talk and sometimes it’s more than talk. They thought Hitler was nothing but a windbag too, until he gave the world twenty-four hours to get out.

People reveal themselves by what they say. A man’s true stripe rides close to the tip of his tongue. And clues in a murder case can be found in character.

I turned towards the door and winced with pain. I removed my hat, gingerly exploring the wound. It was open and moist and needed attention. So I descended to the fifth floor and knocked on Gladys Monroe’s door. She asked who it was. She opened at once when I identified myself, her face pleased and bright. One look was all she needed.

“Mr. Jordan!” she said in quickly rising alarm. “Are you ill?”

“Something fell on my head. Have you got any iodine and a band-aid?”

She ran to the bathroom cabinet and came back. “Let me see.” I turned and heard her gasp. “Something fell on your head? What was it, Rhode Island? You need a doctor, somebody with needle and thread. Look, Mr. Jordan—”

“Scott.”

“Look Scott, I’m going to call—”

“Later,” I said. “Emergency repairs will do for a while. I’ve got to see a man. It’s urgent.”

She said no more and went to work. Antiseptic was an applied flame. She pinched the wound together and covered it with a band-aid. “How do you feel?”

“Slightly used, but ready for action.”

The phone rang and she reached for it. “Yes,” she said, “this is Miss Monroe.” Her eyes widened. “You’re in the lobby now, Mr. Parish, and you’d like to see me?”

I caught her attention by chipping at the air. Tell him you’re alone, I signalled, and willing to receive him. She took the cue without faltering and told him to come ahead. Then she turned to me in puzzlement.

“What’s this all about, Scott?”

“No time for explanations now,” I told her swiftly. “Just listen. Listen carefully. I want you to stretch the truth. Tell him Eddie often spoke about his Uncle Victor. Tell him you have a snapshot somewhere.” I bent down and brushed her cheek lightly with my lips.

She blinked. “Who was that for?”

“Me.”

“Then it’s my turn now.”

I swallowed an impulse to give her the chance and ducked toward the closet.

“What are you going to do?” she called nervously.

“Hide. I want to observe his reactions. Slow down, Gladys, and look natural.” I left the closet door slightly ajar for visibility and ventilation.

Just in time. Almost at once there was a knock on the door. I was proud of Gladys. She handled the situation with bland innocence. “Mr. Parish, I’m delighted to meet you. Eddie mentioned your name only yesterday. Come in, please, won’t you?”

He accepted the invitation, courtly and urbane, lips smiling over the red-tinted imperial. His clothes were fashionable, a shade too meticulous, and he carried a silver-knobbed walking stick with quite a bit of dash. He tucked it under his elbow and bowed from the waist. “A pleasure, Miss Monroe; a pleasure indeed.”

The amenities over, he sat in the proffered chair and appraised her with a wandering and faintly lecherous eye. “Why, you’re quite lovely,” he remarked benignly.

“You sound surprised, Mr. Parish.”

“Not surprised. Pleased. In fact, overwhelmed. I consider myself something of a connoisseur. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Please do.”

He lit one of his fragrant cigars, savored it for a moment, and then inquired idly, “In what connection did Eddie mention my name, may I ask?”

“He read about your arrival in New York and he was very anxious to see you about his uncle.”

“Ah, yes.” The bearded face went long and solemn. “I feel badly about that. Can’t forgive myself. Should have broken the news to him more gently. Didn’t realize Victor was the only family Eddie had. The boy was badly shaken. I take it he’s in the morgue?”

“Yes.”

Parish nodded with sudden decision. “I’d like to do something in Victor’s memory. Give the boy a decent burial.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Parish.” Gladys was having a little trouble keeping her voice steady.

“My pleasure. He seemed a decent lad. Liked him on sight. Had he asked you to marry him?”

“We were friends, that’s all.”

“Too bad. He’d have made a fine husband. Did Eddie speak of his uncle often?”

A bull’s-eye for me, I thought, smiling tightly to myself in the closet.

“Oh, yes,” Gladys said. “He read me all of his uncle’s letters.” She frowned. “As a matter of fact, his uncle sent him a snapshot once. I think I have it. Eddie traveled light and I keep a lot of his personal papers in my wardrobe trunk.”

“Was there much resemblance?”

“A little, around the eyes. It’s hard to remember details like that.”

Parish sighed. “Victor was my right hand man for years, and I haven’t a single memento. Would the picture still be in your possession?”

“I think so. Shall I try to find it?”

His face brightened eagerly. “Why, yes. I’d appreciate that very much.”

She swung open her wardrobe trunk, removed one of the drawers, placed it on the bed, and bent over to sort through an accumulation of papers. The man behind her rose silently. His lips, I saw, were pulled back over his teeth. The whole cast of his face had changed, its features distorted. He raised the walking stick.

I kicked the door open and was on him like a cat, gripping his wrist. An enraged growl tore at his throat. He twisted violently, trying to break loose. I bulled him across the room and wrenched the weapon free.

He crouched back, panting, a bloated vein throbbing spasmodically in a blue diagonal across his temple.

Gladys had wheeled and was watching us, white-faced, stifling a cry.

I saw the red beard quivering with indignation as he tried to assume an air of outraged innocence. “What does this mean?”

“It means it’s all over, Victor,” I said.

“What?” His jaw hung askew.

“You heard me. The masquerade is over. You tried to pull a fast one and it almost worked. Malcolm Parish died in Italy last year and you took his place. No one knew him there and it was easy. You grew a beard like his and learned to forge his signature. You changed your appearance and your handwriting, but you couldn’t change your character. Parish was satisfied to live on his income, but you were more ambitious. You wanted the whole works.”

Victor Lang swallowed audibly. He was breathing hard through distended nostrils. “You’re crazy!”

“Not me,” I said. “You are. Crazy to think you could get away with killing Eddie because he recognized you. You couldn’t swear him to silence. The boy was too honest to go along with your stunt, and he threatened to upset your apple-cart. He’d seen my name in the papers connected with the Parish Lines and said he was going to see me right after the last show. But you got there first and nailed him when he came out of the elevator.”

Victor Lang was shaking and trying to control it. His nose and mouth were pinched and gray. “You have no proof, Jordan.”

“All the proof we need,” I said. “You think we can’t wash that red dye out of your beard and hair? And how about the key you took from Eddie’s pocket so you could search his room in case he left some memento to link you with the crime? You were there when I arrived and you hid in the closet. I owe you one for that clout you gave me.”

He stepped back, his lips working.

“You were in a sweat,” I said, “and that’s why you came back here to the hotel again. You had to be sure Eddie hadn’t left anything with Gladys. When you learned she had a picture you were scared she might recognize you. So you decided to swing the stick again. And it was all for nothing, Lang. She had no picture. It was a plant. You think we have no proof, mister? We have enough proof to strap you in the chair.”

He broke. His eyes raced wildly around the room and he lunged at the door. I caught him behind the ear with his own walking stick and knocked him sprawling against the wall. I was ready to deliver an encore when Gladys cried out: “No, Scott, please...”

She was right, of course. I was neither his jury nor his executioner. The tightness ebbed out of me.

“Okay,” I said. “Call Headquarters, will you, honey?”

Victor Lang was watching me with bankrupt eyes as I took out his ten thousand dollar check and tore it up. I felt very sad. And then I saw Gladys. I saw the admiration and the promise in her face.

I didn’t feel sad any more.