The Anonymous Client

8

Mark Taylor slumped into the overstuffed chair, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and said, “O.K., Steve, I’ve got the dope.”

Steve Winslow, sitting at his desk, looked over to where Tracy Garvin sat with her shorthand book.

“O.K., shoot,” he said.

Taylor flipped open his notebook. “The girl is Marilyn Harding. She’s the daughter of Phillip T. Harding, the petroleum king. Harding passed away last month at the age of sixty-three. Harding married late. Marilyn is the daughter of his first wife, Martha. She died when Marilyn was born, twenty-five years ago. Ten years ago Harding remarried. His second wife was a woman named Gloria Conners. Rumor has it she married him for his money. She died three years ago. Gloria had a daughter by a previous marriage named Phyllis. Two years ago Phyllis married a young real estate broker named Douglas Kemper. Harding liked Kemper, wanted to take him into the business, but Kemper wanted to make it on his own, so he stuck with real estate. The Kempers have an apartment in Manhattan, but they also have a suite of rooms in the Harding mansion. They’re your couple, by the way. Last night all three of them left together and stayed in the mansion, which is a big estate out in Glen Cove. Harding’s will is yet to be probated, but the bulk of the estate should go to the natural daughter. She’s an independent sort, never done a stick of work in her life, doesn’t have to. She hangs around with the fast crowd, likes riding, swimming, tennis, golf, all that goes with being rich. She graduated from college three years ago, has several men on the line, nothing serious.”

“What the hell would a girl like that want with the likes of Bradshaw?” Winslow said.

“What indeed?” Taylor said. “Our friend, Bradshaw, is the other side of the coin. David C. Bradshaw is actually Donald Blake, arrested three times on burglary, twice on extortion, served two years on one of the burglary counts. He just got out two months ago, which is when he came here. His background is all in Chicago. I’ve been tracing his movements, trying to find a tie-in with Marilyn Harding, and haven’t come up with anything. Of course, she traveled with the jet-set crowd, so she may have run into him in Chicago. Still, I can’t imagine what the connection is unless he’s putting the bite on her.”

Steve sighed and rubbed his head. “All right, Mark, I guess that does it. It’s time Bradshaw and I had a showdown.”

“You going to go see him?”

“If he’s home.”

“He’s home. My men are watching the apartment. He was back by nine last night and he hasn’t been out since.”

“Any callers?”

“Not a peep. By the way, I got the report from the handwriting expert. The note was typed on a Smith Corona portable typewriter by someone using the hunt-and-peck method.”

“That’s fine, Mark, but I think we’ve pretty well established that Bradshaw’s our man. However, I’ll look around his apartment and see if he has a typewriter.”

Steve walked over to the safe.

Tracy’s face fell. “You taking the money?”

“Sorry,” Steve said, spinning the combination. “I know it’s going to break your heart, but I want nothing to do with this bird. I’m going to put it to him point blank and make him admit he sent me the money. Then I’m going to shove it in his face, walk out, and absorb the loss. If it’s the kind of deal I think it is, I don’t want any part of it.”

Steve swung the safe door open. “What the hell!” he exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?” Tracy said.

“It’s gone!”

“What?” Mark Taylor exclaimed.

Steve swung the safe door wide open so they could see. “The ten thousand dollars is gone. Look. It’s empty.”

Tracy and Mark crowded around the safe to look. Of course, there was nothing to see. The safe was empty.

“Son of a bitch!” Taylor said.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Mark, look. Run down and get your fingerprint kit, will you?”

Taylor looked at him. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

“Yeah. Go on. Get the stuff.”

Taylor returned with the kit and dusted powder on the combination of the safe.

“Christ, Steve, its lousy with prints.”

“Most of them will be mine. You want to take my prints so you can eliminate them?”

“I don’t think I need to. I’ve got Bradshaw’s prints here. I figure one match is all we need.”

Taylor busied himself with his work. Tracy stuck like glue, looking over his shoulder. Steve sat at his desk and buried his face in the drama section of the New York Times. As he read, he could hear Mark Taylor giving an impromptu lecture on the art of matching fingerprints.

Five minutes stretched to ten. Steve moved on to the Sports section. In the background, Tracy was now throwing around terms like “whorl” and “tented arch.”

“Got it, Steve!”

Winslow folded the paper and stood up. “You sure?”

“Eighteen points of similarity. That’s a positive identification. It’s Bradshaw’s right thumb.”

“Well, thank god for that,” Steve said. “I was certain it was Bradshaw, but the way this case has been breaking, I wouldn’t have been that surprised if it wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but what’s up?” Taylor said. “Why would Bradshaw send you a retainer and then steal it back?”

“Beats me.” Steve got up and started pacing. “Christ, what a goofy case. Yesterday I had a retainer and no client, and today I have a client and no retainer.”

“Personally, I liked it better the first way,” Taylor said.

Steve sighed. “All right, Mark. Call off your men. Bradshaw’s given us a retainer and now he’s taken it back. I don’t know why he did it, but I don’t care. The hell with him.”

Mark Taylor nodded. He couldn’t have agreed more.

But Tracy Garvin couldn’t have agreed less.