The Case of the Turning Tide

Chapter 5

George V. Hazlit, who for years had been Addison Stearne’s lawyer, made it a point to cultivate an air of judicial dignity. With it, he was able to impress nearly all of his clients and many of his fellow members at the bar. He frequently served on committees of the Bar Association, impressing upon one and all that he was only too glad to donate his time for the betterment of the profession. These activities clothed him with an aura of professional respectability which was one of Hazlit’s most valuable assets. Things which an ordinary attorney might do at his peril could be carried off by such a prominent and influential member of the bar with impunity. The few persons who ever saw evidences of irregularities either dismissed their conclusions as being unworthy of belief, or else felt that they were not acquainted with the entire circumstances.

Neldon Tucker, the junior partner, was a quick-witted opportunist. His greatest asset was his voice. Nature had given him vocal cords which enabled him to put just the right amount of irony, of sarcasm, or of amazed incredulity into his voice — just enough so that the jury and courtroom spectators would consider it the spontaneous and unconscious reflex of a genuine emotion. Other attorneys over-acted. Neldon Tucker never even seemed to be acting.

Tucker breezed through the courtrooms, handling trial after trial with the rapidity of an omnivorous legal machine. He didn’t win all of his cases, but he won most of them. Those he didn’t win, he didn’t worry about. If he had paused to take stock of himself, he would have realized that he usually went into court only about half prepared, trusting to his ingenuity, his versatility, and his acting to make up for the lack of preparation.

George Hazlit, ensconced in his private office, frowned as he dialed the telephone. For more than an hour now, he had been fruitlessly spinning the dial of that telephone at frequent intervals. His face still wore its carefully cultivated expression of calm judicial impassivity, but there was a gathering frown on his forehead.

Outside, dusk settled on the street. Hazlit switched on the lights, dialed Exbrook 95621. After a few minutes, there came to his ears the faint sounds which indicated that the phone at the other end of the line was ringing steadily. If his party just happened to be returning home, fumbling perhaps with the door key, it would take some little time to reach the phone. So Hazlit waited for a good thirty seconds before dropping the receiver back into its cradle. Then he pushed back his chair, got up, and walked over to stare out into the gathering darkness. The office buildings in the downtown business section showed dark and gloomy. On a Sunday night there were hardly any lights showing in offices. There was, of course, plenty of traffic. It had been a fine day, and city dwellers had taken advantage of it. A steady stream of motorists flowed by beneath Hazlit’s window. Surely Neldon Tucker would be headed for home by this time, and Parker Gibbs, who did detective work for the firm, would certainly be in soon. His wife had said she expected him any minute.

Hazlit had left word at the apartment house where Ethel Dunn, his secretary, lived, that she was to call him just as soon as she got in. There was, therefore, nothing for Hazlit to do except wait — and that was hardest of all. He could feel his nerves cracking under the strain. So much to do, and he couldn’t even get started — just because Addison Stearne had seen fit to die on a Sunday.

Abruptly the phone rang. He snatched the receiver from the hook, but his eagerness automatically masked itself behind the dignity of his voice. “Good evening,” he proclaimed. “This is Mr. Hazlit speaking.”

It was Ethel Dunn. “You wanted me?” she asked, and there was just the trace of sullen defiance in her voice. Hazlit realized that what they were paying her was hardly commensurate with the long years she’d been with the firm. There had been only one raise during the entire period. He’d have to do something about that. No use in having a secretary who was dissatisfied. It might be dangerous. Into the telephone he said gravely, “Yes, Miss Dunn. A matter of the greatest importance makes it necessary for me to get in touch with Neldon Tucker. His residence doesn’t answer. I wonder if you know anything about his plans for the week end.”

“No. I haven’t any idea where he is.”

“You don’t know where he intended...”

“No.”

“Just a minute,” Hazlit said hastily, sensing she was in a hurry, probably dashing out on some date, and thinking only of a quick shower and change. “This is a matter of the greatest importance. Think carefully, Ethel. See if you can’t recall something he may have said.”

Her answer came back so quickly that he knew his admonition to think had been entirely wasted. “I don’t know a thing.”

“Do you know the names of any of his most intimate friends?”

“You might try the Mainwarings.”

“What’s the first name?”

“I don’t know. They live out on Buena Vista somewhere close to where Mr. Tucker lives. Those are the only ones I can think of. Good...”

“You haven’t heard him speak of going anywhere, of any dates or plans?”

“No. I’m quite positive. Good-by.”

Hazlit dropped the receiver into place, looked up the Mainwarings in the telephone book, dialed their number, and was rather surprised when he heard someone answer. He had been making so many fruitless calls this afternoon, it seemed odd when a voice actually responded.

“This is George V. Hazlit,” he said impressively. “I’m trying to locate my junior partner, Neldon Tucker, and...”

“Why, yes, he’s here,” the woman said.

Hazlit couldn’t keep gratified surprise from his voice. “He’s there?”

“Yes. Just a moment, I’ll call him.”

Hazlit, holding the telephone, could hear the sound of steps, then Tucker’s voice. He knew as soon as he heard Tucker say, “Hello, George,” that he’d been drinking.

“I’m up at the office, Neldon. There’s a matter of the greatest importance. You’ll have to come right away.”

“Oh, I say,” Tucker protested, “they’re going to have dinner in about fifteen minutes. We’re just having cocktails and...”

“Right away,” Hazlit interpolated. “It’s a large fee, a very large fee, which may slip through our fingers. It may amount to a cool hundred thousand.”

“My car’s outside. I’ll be right up,” Tucker promised. “I’ll...”

“Neldon.”

“Yes?”

“You’ve been drinking. We can’t afford to take any chances. Don’t drive. Take a taxi.”

Hazlit hung up, walked over to the window once more, and stood looking down at the restless traffic. He looked at his watch. It should take Tucker about five minutes to get a cab, then it would take twenty-five minutes to get to the office. That would make half an hour.

It was as though Hazlit’s luck had turned all at once. The telephone rang again. This time it was Parker Gibbs. Speaking with his characteristic rapidity, Gibbs said, “The wife tells me you’ve been calling.”

“Can you come up here right away?”

“How soon is right away?”

“Within half an hour.”

“Make it forty-five minutes,” Gibbs said. “I’ve just got back from deep-sea fishing, and I’m a mess. Going to be a big job?”

“I think so, yes. I’ll explain the details when you get here.”

“Okay, I’ll make it as soon as I can,” Gibbs said and hung up.

Hazlit walked over to his big easy chair, stretched out his legs, and lit a cigar. He was finishing the last of the cigar when he heard Tucker’s key in the lock.

Tucker was still flushed with drink, but he had himself well under control. He was, Hazlit reflected, drinking a bit too much lately — and getting a little careless about his appearance. Hazlit decided to speak to Tucker about it at a more propitious moment.

“Hello, George, what’s the rumpus?”

Hazlit said, “Close the door.”

When Neldon had closed and locked the door, Hazlit beckoned him closer. He said in a low voice, “Addison Stearne’s dead.”

Tucker raised his eyebrows. “When?”

“Apparently, last night sometime. The body was discovered this morning. He was murdered.”

“Murdered!”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Up at Santa Delbarra. He and C. Arthur Right. It was a double murder.”

“Any clues?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Any idea what it was all about?”

Hazlit said, “I don’t know. We’ll leave that to the authorities. You remember I drew a will for Stearne about two months ago. Under the terms of that will, he left most of his property to C. Arthur Right with some specific bequests for a Miss Nita Moline.”

Tucker said, “I wasn’t familiar with the will. You handled Stearne’s business. I only knew you’d drawn a will.”

Hazlit said, “It provided, among other things, that if C. Arthur Right should die first, all the property was to go to Nita Moline.”

“Rather prophetic, wasn’t it?” Tucker asked.

Hazlit said, “I’ve put similar provisions in a good many wills. I advise clients that the persons who are so close to them as to be objects of their bounty may well be riding in an automobile with the testators and be in an accident. One will survive the other only by a few hours.”

“I see. Where does that leave us in this case?”

“From all I can learn so far,” Hazlit said, “there’s no evidence to show which one of the men died first. We’ve simply got to handle that estate. We’re out of luck if Stearne died first. Right’s wife, Pearl Right, hates the very ground I walk on. I told Right I thought she’d bear watching. He mentioned to me that every time he went out on a trip, he could never get her on the phone when he called. I suggested he hire detectives to shadow her. The damn fool told her what I’d said. And, as if that weren’t bad enough, I’ve never met Miss Moline.”

Tucker showed that he understood by giving a low-pitched whistle.

“I have Miss Moline’s address,” Hazlit went on. “It’s the Maplehurst Apartments. She isn’t in. She left there very early this morning, and the young man at the desk said he under-stood she was joining some friends on a yachting party.”

“Oh-oh!” Tucker muttered. “How’d you get the tip-off on the deaths, George?”

“I happened to tune in on a news broadcast about an hour ago. This is a situation I hadn’t anticipated. I had... well, I’d purposely refrained from cultivating Miss Moline. I thought it was better that way.”

“You mean you expected a heart-balm suit?”

“Yes. Stearne suggested once that we should handle a matter on which she wanted legal advice. I discouraged him without telling him why. I’m afraid she may have gone to some other lawyer. If that’s the case...” Hazlit broke off and shrugged his shoulders.

“How about Gibbs?”

“I’ve finally located him. He’s been deep-sea fishing. He’s cleaning up and should be here at any moment. There’s another matter we have to consider.”

“What’s that?”

“Stearne had an option on some oil property. Under the terms of the agreement, yesterday was the last day in which he could take up that option.”

“Did he do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who owns the property?”

“Two men, doing business under the firm name of Elwell & Fielding. They have this property leased, and Stearne had an option to take over the leases. He was to pay one hundred thousand dollars.”

“Cash?”

“No. He’d obligate himself to pay the cash by the acceptance. Then he had thirty days in which to make the actual payment.”

“That expired yesterday?”

“According to the copy in our files, yesterday was absolutely the last day.”

“You don’t know whether he took it up or not?”

“I know he intended to. There’d been some activity on ad-joining property, and Stearne had become convinced they’d struck good showings and were covering up to freeze him out. He thinks another agreement had been reached, subject to Stearne not accepting his option.”

“Then Elwell & Fielding were trying to manipulate things so the option would expire?”

“Yes.”

Tucker knitted his brows. “If Stearne was murdered Saturday, there may be a tough legal proposition on that option.”

Hazlit said, “There must be some legal loophole. Stearne had until midnight to make his acceptance. Sunday is a legal holiday. So is Saturday afternoon, but the option specifically waived any right to delays or extensions because of holidays. Saturday at midnight was the deadline. Perhaps that provision about waiving extensions because of holidays would be void as against public policy.”

“Suppose this Moline woman has a lawyer of her own?”

“There isn’t time for her to consult anyone else. We’re ready to protect her interests.”

Tucker said, “I’ll get the papers ready. How about Ethel Dunn?”

Hazlit said, “She seemed sullen when I talked with her. I think she’s got a date.”

Tucker said, “I’D call her. She’ll come for me.”

Tucker crossed the private office, jerked open the door to the law library, and switched on the lights.

A few moments later, Hazlit heard steps in the corridor, the gentle tapping of knuckles on the door of his private office. He crossed over, opened the door, and said, “Come in, Gibbs.”

Parker Gibbs was a short, stocky man with a bony, deter-mined face. His skin was bronzed from outdoor activities. A casual observer would have said he was a building contractor or farmer.

He walked across to a chair, his short legs moving with quick competency. He sat down and looked at Hazlit, waiting, saying nothing.

Hazlit said, “Addison Stearne, who owns Gypsy Queen II, was murdered in Santa Delbarra sometime yesterday. A younger man by the name of C. Arthur Right was murdered at the same time.”

Gibbs pulled a notebook from his pocket, whipped out a pencil, made a quickly scribbled notation, and looked up, waiting.

Hazlit said, “If Stearne died first, most of the estate went to Arthur Right. When Arthur Right died, that half of the estate would have gone to his heirs, in this case, his wife. She hates me. If Arthur Right died first, all of Stearne’s estate went to a woman named Nita Moline.”

Gibbs nodded.

“Nita Moline resides at six-o-nine Maplehurst Apartments. She’s out, went out this morning early, driving her car. It’s a big, cream-colored sports coupe, license number 8P3036. The assumption is she went to Santa Delbarra to join the Gypsy Queen. She hasn’t been heard from since. At the time of his death, Stearne had some property matters under negotiation. To protect the estate, some action must be taken tomorrow morning. My partner, Mr. Tucker, is going to work all night tonight getting papers ready for Miss Moline to sign. We want you to find her and have her in our office by eight o’clock to-morrow morning.”

Gibbs made another note.

“After that,” Hazlit said, “find some evidence that will show C. Arthur Right died before Addison Stearne.”

“How long before?” Gibbs asked.

“It doesn’t make any difference. An interval of one second would be enough.”

“Suppose there isn’t any evidence?”

Hazlit said, “If you had been listening carefully, you would have noted that I said I wanted you to find some evidence indicating Right died first.”

“Come on out in the open,” Gibbs said. “I want to know how far to go.”

Hazlit frowned irritably. “Let me express it this way. In every business relationship, results are what count. When a person employs me to handle a lawsuit, I know he comes to me because he expects me to win that lawsuit. He doesn’t care what methods I use. He doesn’t care how many hours I work. He doesn’t care what I say to the witnesses. He comes to me because he wants results. Of course,” he added unctuously, “we want you to be entirely ethical.”

Gibbs pushed back his chair. “Okay, I just wanted to know. I’m to see that there’s evidence that Right died first?”

“Our client would be benefited by such proof.”