The Anonymous Client

14

Marilyn Harding had been crying. That was the first thing Steve Winslow noticed. She had combed her hair and put on makeup and composed her face, but nothing she could do was going to disguise the fact that she was distraught.

Of course, she had every right to be. After all, she’d just discovered that her father had been murdered. A tremendous shock for anyone, let alone a young girl.

But was that all?

They were in the library of the Harding mansion. Steve Winslow had taken a cab out to Glen Cove (“It’s your money, buddy”), bullied his way past the Harding butler (Christ, did butlers really exist outside of British drama?), and been consigned to the library while the butler reluctantly delivered the message.

A few minutes later Marilyn Harding entered the room. She walked slowly, mechanically, and her eyes were dull and glassy. To Steve she looked stunned, as if she’d just been hit over the head with a hammer.

“Who are you?” she said.

“Didn’t the butler tell you?”

“Yes, but I’m somewhat rattled. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

“Steve Winslow.”

If the name meant anything to her, she didn’t show it. “I’m Marilyn Harding. What is it you want?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Oh?”

Steve looked closely at her. If she was bluffing, she was damn good. She wasn’t giving anything away.

“I have something to tell you. It’s important, and there isn’t much time. Can you give me a few minutes?”

Marilyn rubbed her head. “Yes, I guess so. I’m just so confused. I’ve had a shock, you see, and-”

“I know. About your father. I hate to put you through it, but I have to have the details.”

“Why?”

“So I can help you. Please.”

She looked at him as if in a fog. Steve got the impression that it was all too much for her, that she wasn’t really reluctant, just overwhelmed.

He was right.

“What do you want to know?” she said.

“Just tell me how it happened.”

Marilyn walked over and settled into a chair. Steve pulled up a chair beside her.

“Well, there’s not that much to tell. It’s all such a shock, and I don’t know anything.”

“Of course.”

“It was a Wednesday. Last month. After lunch my father felt queasy and lay down to rest. No one thought much of it. He’d had stomach trouble for years. Then he got worse. Started complaining of pains in his chest. So I called Dr. Westfield to come at once. By the time he got there, Dad was gone.”

“Dr. Westfield was your father’s regular physician?”

“Yes.”

“And he diagnosed the cause of death as coronary thrombosis?”

“Yes. Dad had a history of heart trouble, and Dr. Westfield was not at all surprised. In fact, that’s why Dad happened to be at home. Dr. Westfield had persuaded him to take a week off from the business to recuperate. He had always warned Dad something would happen if he didn’t take it easy.”

“Who was in the house at the time?”

“Just myself and my father.”

“From lunchtime on?”

“Yes. My stepsister, Phyllis, was here in the morning, but she left just before lunch.”

“No one else in the house.”

“No, except for John. The butler.”

Steve had an absurd flash. The butler did it. Christ, this case was getting to him.

“Who served your father lunch?”

“I did.”

“What did you serve him?”

“Soup, a sandwich, and coffee.”

“Did he take cream and sugar in the coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Did he put it in, or did you?”

“He did. You see, he liked a lot of coffee. I gave him a pot of coffee, a cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar, and a pitcher of cream. I put all those on his tray with the soup and sandwich and served it to him out on the terrace.”

“What became of the sugar bowl?”

“I put it back in the kitchen.”

“Have you used it since?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t done any cooking since Dad died.”

“Where is the sugar bowl now?”

“The police have it.”

“When were they here?”

“This afternoon.”

“What did they do?”

“They searched the place from top to bottom.”

“What did they find?”

“Nothing.”

“But they took the sugar bowl?”

“Yes.”

“Was it right where you left it?”

“It must have been.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Well, not really. I was out on the terrace. They brought out the sugar bowl and asked me if it was the one I’d put on the tray for my father.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them it was.”

“Did they ask you questions?”

“Yes.”

“About the same questions I asked?”

“Yes.”

“Who inherits under your father’s will?”

“I don’t know the exact terms of the will. The bulk of the estate goes to me.”

“And your stepsister?”

“A specified sum. I don’t know the exact amount.”

“The police ask you those questions?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a wonder you’re still here.”

Marilyn just looked at him with a dull stare.

“Now then, we have another matter to discuss, and there isn’t much time.”

“You keep saying that. Why isn’t there much time?”

“Because, unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re about to have company.”

“Who?”

“The police.”

Marilyn frowned. “I don’t think so. The police were quite thorough. The officer in charge said he was sure they wouldn’t have to disturb me again.”

“I assume he was polite and sympathetic and courteous?”

“He certainly was. He kept apologizing for the inconvenience he was putting me through.”

“That’s because they didn’t have enough on you to charge you. When they come back tonight you’ll find they’ve changed their tune.”

“And why would the police come back tonight?”

“They’ll want to question you about another matter.”

“What other matter?”

“David C. Bradshaw.”

Marilyn recoiled as if she’d been slapped. For a second sheer surprise contorted her face. Then she controlled herself. “Who?”

“David C. Bradshaw,” Steve repeated.

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.”

“Then you couldn’t know he was dead.”

“What!”

Steve looked at her closely. The shock at his name had been genuine, he was sure of it. But her shock at hearing he was dead-Steve just didn’t know. It could have been real, or she could have been acting.

“Then you couldn’t know he was dead. For your information, Donald Blake, alias David C. Bradshaw, was murdered this evening, sometime between five and six. His apartment had been ransacked. A large carving knife had been stuck in his back.”

Marilyn Harding had gone white as a sheet. “That can’t be true.”

“Why not? You don’t know him.”

Marilyn bit her lip.

“Beginning to place the name now?” Steve said, dryly.

“No. The name means nothing to me.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s no good, Marilyn. You can’t get away with it. You called on Bradshaw Tuesday afternoon. You were shadowed by private detectives. Those detectives have a license to protect. As soon as they find out about the murder, they’ll report to the police. I don’t know how many other visits you made to Bradshaw’s apartment, and I don’t know if you were there today, but if you were it’s ten to one the detectives know it and will so inform the police.

“You see where that leaves you. The cops will figure you poisoned your father-that Bradshaw found out about it and tried to blackmail you-that when you realized that this was only the first bite and you would have to keep on paying forever, you killed him.

“Now then, before the police get here, why don’t you come down to earth and start talking sense?”

For a long moment, Marilyn just stared at him. Steve sat calmly, waiting for her to talk. He knew she would now. He had her boxed in a corner, and there was nothing else she could do.

She didn’t. Instead she got up, walked over to the telephone, and dialed an number.

“Hello,” she said. “Mr. Fitzpatrick? … This is Marilyn Harding … I’m sorry to call you at home, but I have a problem … There’s a lawyer here, a Mr. Steve Winslow … That’s right. He feels I’m going to be interrogated by the police concerning the murder of a blackmailer named David C. Bradshaw … No, I haven’t … That’s what I thought you’d say … That’s fine. Goodbye.”

Marilyn hung up the phone. “That was my lawyer, Harold Fitzpatrick. He’s on his way over. He lives right up the road. He says I should have nothing to do with you and I should ask you to leave.”

Steve looked at her for a moment. Then he laughed sardonically and shook his head. “Well, that’s just fine. I should have known. Why the devil didn’t you tell me you’d consulted a lawyer?’

“You didn’t ask me.”

“No, I don’t suppose I did. Well, if that don’t beat all.”

Steve got to his feet. “All right. You have the information I wanted you to have. The only ethical thing for me to do at the moment is to wish you a good evening.”

Steve turned to leave just as Phyllis Kemper swept into the room, followed by her husband.

“Marilyn,” Phyllis said. “Why, I didn’t know you had company.”

Marilyn turned, saw them, and Steve saw a momentary flash of panic in her eyes. It’s all too much for her, Steve thought. Her mind’s going to give way.

“Oh. Oh,” she said. “Phyllis. Doug. Oh dear. This is Mr. Winslow. he’s leaving.”

“I should hope so,” Phyllis said. “I thought we left orders to let no one in. No offense,’ she added, with a glance at Steve, “but our family’s had a bit of a shock.”

Steve pounced on the opening. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. My name is Steve Winslow and I’m an attorney.”

“Oh?”

Up close, Steve revised his initial impression of the Kempers. Phyllis Kemper was a catty woman, yes, but it was a curious mixture of cat and mouse. Underneath the eyebrows that were plucked a little too fine and the lips painted a little too thin, was a rather plain, mousey face. A mouse dressed up as a cat.

But it was a good act. There was an almost feline, predatory quality to her. Steve actually felt uncomfortable under her gaze.

Her husband was the opposite. Douglas Kemper was a broad-faced, open, friendly sort of man. He had a young, puppyish quality about him, which, though necessarily subdued, under the circumstances of the tragedy, was nonetheless there.

In his wife’s presence, though, he seemed to take on a secondary role. As if she were the master. As if she might have had a leash on him.

The cat walking the dog.

“Yes,” Steve said. “But I have no wish to intrude on you at this time, and I really must be going.”

“A lawyer?” Phyllis said. “But we have a lawyer. Did Marilyn consult you, Mr. Winslow?”

“No.”

“Don’t tell me you’re suing us?”

“No, he’s not,” Marilyn interrupted irritably. “And he really had to go. Mr. Fitzpatrick is on his way over, and I’m going to have to talk to him alone.”

“Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Phyllis said. “But he was just here this afternoon.”

“Phyllis,” Douglas Kemper said, “I don’t think Marilyn wants to talk about it.”

Marilyn Harding seemed on the verge of hysteria. “I don’t,” she said. “And I just heard a car in the driveway. That will be Fitzpatrick. I don’t want him to find Mr. Winslow here, so would you please-”

She was interrupted by the entrance of the butler. “Excuse me, Miss Harding,” he said, “but the police are here again and-Oh!”

The butler broke off as Sergeant Stams pushed by him into the room.

“All right,” Stams said. “Which one is Marilyn Harding?”

Steve Winslow, who had been watching Marilyn’s face, turned to face Stams.

Stams saw him. Blinked. “Winslow!” he said. His usually impassive face broke into a grin. “Well, well, well. Isn’t that interesting. You know, I was hoping to find you here, but I didn’t think you’d be that dumb.”

“Apparently I’m that dumb,” Steve said.

“Apparently you are. So,” Stams said sarcastically. “You didn’t have a client who tipped you off to the murder. Oh no. You didn’t go to the apartment to get any evidence. Not you. Why, you didn’t even know he was dead, did you? And yet, when we follow the clues out here, who do we find but poor, innocent Steve Winslow, closeted with his client. Now isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Steve said, “but Miss Harding is not my client. Her attorney is a Mr. Harold Fitzpatrick, who is probably in the car I hear coming up the driveway now. It’s been a wonderful evening, but unless you’d like to have me searched again, I really must be going.”

With that, Steve nodded to the astonished Sergeant, and walked out.