The Big Money Read online

  HAROLD Q. MASUR

  THE BIG MONEY

  Copyright © 1954 by Harold Q. Masur

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Big Money

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About Harold Q. Masur

  Bibliography

  1

  For a moment it seemed as if I was talking to myself on the telephone. At first I couldn’t believe my own ears. I had just dialed my office and heard a man’s voice. That alone was enough to surprise me because only Cassidy, my secretary, who is unmistakably a soprano, has access to the phone. So naturally I thought I had the wrong number.

  “Circle 4-6400?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Who’s talking, please?”

  “This is Scott Jordan,” the man said, pronouncing my name as if he owned it, very smooth and very assured.

  I was flabbergasted. Finding yourself at both ends of the line simultaneously is a unique and somewhat unnerving experience. I felt my temperature begin to rise. If this was a gag, it failed to amuse me. A lawyer’s office during business hours is no place for practical jokes. And then I realized that Cassidy would never lend herself to this kind of antic, and that something off beat was in the wind.

  “May I talk to Miss Cassidy?” I asked.

  “Sorry. She’s out at the moment.”

  My hand was gripping the phone hard. Out where? I wondered. Only a critical emergency could induce Cassidy to leave the office unattended. With an effort I kept my voice normal. “Would you give her a message, please? Tell her that Uncle Robert called.”

  “Glad to. Goodbye, sir.”

  The line went dead as he broke the connection abruptly. I wasted no time getting out of the booth. I checked my Gladstone to get rid of excess freight and went highballing across the main concourse of Grand Central Station. I took the stairs three at a time, hit the street running, and tumbled into the first cab waiting at the curb. The driver caught my urgency and used a heavy foot on the accelerator.

  I had spent the last few days in Washington trying to convince the Supreme Court that a client of mine had been prejudiced by the hostility of a trial judge. The argument had gone well and I was back home ahead of schedule.

  But home to what?

  There was a man in my office, sitting behind my desk, talking into my telephone, saying he was me.

  From Forty-second Street north and west to Rockefeller Center is a short run, but the competition is rugged. Even so, the driver performed well under par, although it cost him a scraped fender and me a five-dollar tip.

  Going up in the elevator, I had an uncomfortable premonition. I left the car in a hurry, hoping I was on time, and strode rapidly down the corridor toward my office. Two paces short of the door it opened suddenly and a woman emerged.

  I clamped my brakes hard to keep from colliding, but her reflexes were slower than mine and she came up against me with a sharp gasp. I reached a hand out to steady her and she jerked away, glaring.

  She was attractive in an odd sort of way, small but adequately nourished, and no part of her called for a retooling job. While her taste in clothes seemed a little freakish, there was no question about quality or cost. The price of her ensemble would have outfitted me nicely for a year. Cosmetics had been applied heavily and the reason, up close, was apparent. She was by no means past the deadline, but the bloom of youth had faded and her attempt to conceal the fact had an air of desperation about it. Somewhere in the late thirties, she still had a lot of mileage left, providing you didn’t object to a used model.

  She tried to move around me and I blocked her way.

  “Excuse me, madam,” I said. “Would you mind—”

  “Step aside, please.” Her voice was tart and brittle. “I’d like to pass.”

  “In a moment.” I held my ground. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but that office you just came out of is—”

  Her ears were disconnected and she tried to shove me aside. But I was staying put. So she tightened her lips and backed off, which gave me a better view. More commanding features had distracted me at first, but now I saw her eyes. They were depthless, oddly pinpointed, with an unstill turbulent quality, like a volcano getting ready to erupt. Meeting them head-on gave me a slight chill. A couple of hundred years ago the Pilgrim Fathers would have tied her to a stake and struck a flint, no questions asked.

  Behind me, the elevator door opened to discharge a passenger. She called out, “Hold it, please!” and lunged.

  I could have detained her. But the stranger who had pulled abreast of us had the physique of a halfback and the air of a cavalier. He would most certainly lend a hand if I touched her, and that sort of thing might launch a beautiful Donnybrook. Unwilling to waste the time or the energy, I let her go.

  It increased my frustration as I turned into the office.

  The reception room was unoccupied. Cassidy’s typewriter wore its plastic cover. Beyond that, through an open door, my own desk was visible. So was the man who sat behind it, using my telephone. He had just finished dialing a number and was talking into the mouthpiece.

  “Okay, Billig,” he said in the same assured voice. “Mission accomplished. Bail out of there right away.”

  He saw me approaching and smiled. His right hand came down from his ear and cradled the handset. His left hand came up off the desk and slid an envelope under his lapel into a breast pocket.

  Guile, I thought, might extract more information than violence. So I did not open fire at once.

  “Mr. Jordan?” I inquired politely.

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “A friend recommended me,” I said. “I understand you’re a pretty good lawyer.”

  He shrugged modestly, still smiling. “Some people might be inclined to argue the point. I guess the record speaks for itself.”

  He started to rise, a slender article, medium-height, with a narrow wolfish face and three-dimensional eyes too large for their sockets. Thin hair was combed back over a bony skull in black pencil hues. About forty years old, he still seemed to have good springs in all his joints, for his movements were crisp and purposeful. He looked like a man who thought fast and acted faster.

  “What sort of cases do you specialize in?” I asked. “Civil or criminal?”

  “Both.” His mind seemed to be elsewhere as he darted a quick glance at his wrist watch. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, sir. Sorry, but you caught me at a bad time. I’m due at a client’s office in fifteen minutes. Suppose you see my secretary for an appointment. She’ll be here in a moment. Just sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

  How nice of him, inviting me to be comfortable in my own office.

  I knew what ailed him.

  When you find a man at home on certain premises, you normally assume he belongs there. He thought I had made that mistake. But any second now someon
e might walk in and upset the apple cart. Time was running short. In his anxiety to decamp, he was giving me a brushoff, which called for a change of strategy on my part.

  “Break your appointment,” I said.

  He paused and lifted an eyebrow. “Well, now, look here, my friend, you—”

  “It can’t wait,” I said. “This is an emergency. I need a lawyer to defend me on a charge of assault and battery.”

  “Then you’ll have to get someone else.” He was reaching for his hat.

  “I know,” I said. “There seems to be some misunderstanding here. It isn’t you I want for my lawyer. I’ve already got you signed up as the victim.”

  His hat was poised in midair. He turned and looked at me carefully. The smile slowly dissolved. He tried to build it up again, but the foundation was shaky. “I—I’m afraid I don’t get it, friend. What gives?”

  “Mayhem,” I said. “You are about to be assaulted and battered.” I made a fist and displayed it. “Start talking, mister. And make it good. I want to know what you’re doing in my office, behind my desk, telling people you’re me.”

  It took him by surprise. His jaw dropped and for a moment he looked disorganized. Then he raised a finger and leveled it in my direction. “You—are you—”

  “Right. I’m Scott Jordan. In person. And back here in town a little too soon for your convenience, I imagine. What your game is, I have no idea, but I mean to find out.” I opened my fist and wiggled the fingers grimly. “And I’ll trouble you for that envelope you just stuck in your pocket.”

  He got his jaw closed. “Now, counselor, I don’t think we—”

  “You’re not supposed to think. Fork it over.”

  He made a placating gesture. “Look, suppose we sit down and talk this thing—”

  “Quit stalling,” I said. “The envelope.”

  He looked at my eyes. He sighed and shrugged resignedly. His hand went under his coat lapel and came out holding a Colt Banker’s Special, caliber .32, small but lethal enough at this range. The draw was smooth and neatly executed. In the same motion his thumb released the safety catch.

  The muzzle was staring at me like a black unblinking eye.

  I deflated instantly. Nothing like this had been included in the curriculum at law school. The fault here was mine. I knew the guy was up to skullduggery of some kind and I should have anticipated that he’d be prepared for emergencies. His eyes were blank. I had the uncomfortable impression that he’d use the thing if necessary.

  “All right, counselor,” he said. “Move back and clasp your hands behind your neck.”

  He may have been a cop at one time. It’s a precaution they’re instructed to take.

  “I’m ready to sit down and talk things over,” I said.

  He almost laughed. “Too late.” He moved around behind me. I felt the gun in my back and his hand patting my pockets for a weapon. Then he faced me again, waving the gun. “Over to the closet,” he said. “Just open the door and step inside.”

  I gauged the distance between us, calculating the risk of a sudden lunge, and decided against anything brash. An intimate association with firearms during the recent international fracas had taught me a deep respect for them. Especially in the hand of a man who seemed to mean business.

  From the closet I complained, “There’s no air in here, I’ll suffocate.”

  “Hardly,” he smiled. “Not a specimen like you, with all that brawn, just itching for a little exercise. It should take you about ten minutes to kick that door down. Pull it shut, please.”

  I obeyed, backing into an old raincoat. Darkness engulfed me. As he turned the key in the lock, I had a tense moment. If I slammed into the door now, it might knock him off balance. Almost immediately I voted against it. No explanation he could make was worth the gamble, since the wood between us was by no means indestructibly bulletproof.

  Silence now, and darkness. Not even a pinpoint of light through the keyhole, which meant he’d left the key in the lock. I had a better plan than mutilating the real estate.

  Cassidy had tacked a piece of oilcloth to the hat shelf. I tore it off and slid it half under the door. I opened my penknife, squatted, inserted the blade, and began tickling. A burglar’s oustiti, one of those long-tonged pliers used to open locked doors from the opposite side, would have helped.

  The air was close and moisture threaded my spine. The key finally worked loose, hung for a moment, then dropped. I pulled the oilcloth carefully back into the closet. The key came with it. I groped in the darkness and found it. Less than five minutes had elapsed when I walked out of the office for a quick look down the hall.

  It was deserted. I came back and made a cursory inspection. Everything appeared to be in order.

  I sat behind my desk and speculated. But the cogs refused to catch. It didn’t make sense because—suddenly I sat erect. Of course. The impostor had been masquerading as me in order to deceive someone for the purpose of extracting that envelope he’d stuck in his pocket.

  I had another thought. Cassidy! It brought me out of the chair, worried. Where was she? What had happened to her? Cassidy, my good right hand ever since I’d hung out my shingle. Cassidy, plump, forty, worth her weight in Harvard law clerks, the best legal assistant this side of Blackstone. If anything had happened to her, then my wolf-faced impostor had better start applying for a passport to Siberia.

  I reached for the phone. My hand stopped halfway. A grin of relief spread over my face. The door had opened and there she was, bustling into the office. Marilyn Monroe, in a moth-eaten bikini swimsuit, with an invitation in her eyes, wouldn’t have looked any better to me at that moment. She saw me, stopped short, opened her mouth, swallowed, then came on through to touch my arm and confirm it was no mirage. She sank weakly into the red leather clients’ chair.

  Obviously, she was under a strain. I lifted an eyebrow at her. “Just getting in?” I said. “You keeping bankers’ hours these days?”

  She flushed angrily. “Bankers’ hours! Do you know where I’ve been all morning? Home. In my apartment. Detained. By a man.”

  “What kind of a man?”

  “How do I know? A man with a gun. A stranger. I never saw him before in my life. He rang the bell while I was eating breakfast and asked if I was Clarice Cassidy. I said yes and he took out a gun. I backed away and he followed me into the apartment. ‘Take it easy, lady,’ he said. ‘Don’t get excited. Just sit down and be quiet. If you behave yourself nothing will happen. Finish your breakfast.’” She snorted gustily. “As if I could, with that thing staring me in the face. It ruined my appetite, I can tell you.”

  “What happened?”

  “What happened?” she echoed. “Isn’t that enough? We sat there all morning. He didn’t say a word. Then the phone rang and he took it. He got a message and hung up. ‘All right, lady,’ he said, ‘I’m leaving. Keep your head away from the window and your trap shut. I haven’t got time to show you any medals, but take my word for it, I’m a crackerjack marksman. I can drop you from a block away. Just sit tight and thanks for the hospitality.’ Then he left.” Cassidy threw her hands out in bewildered frustration. “What’s it all about, Scott? Who was he?”

  “His name is Billig.”

  She stared at me.

  I said, “The whole thing is a mystery. I got back myself only a little while ago. Finished in Washington sooner than I expected. I phoned here from the station and a man answered and said he was me.”

  She listened in blank astonishment while I filled in the details. She was unable to identify the woman who had emerged when I arrived. Nor had anything happened in the past few days that might supply a clue. Her own visitor, as she described him, was a small nondescript gent with a thin mouth and a dark beard shadow. He’d kept wearing his coat, a checkered affair with a gray velvet collar, and had chain-smoked endlessly.

  I searched Cassidy’s face. To me, the business end of a gun is no novelty, although I’ll never get used to it. This was Cassidy’s first enc
ounter and everything considered, I thought she had endured the ordeal remarkably well. Two minutes after Billig was gone, she followed. A taxi had brought her straight to the office.

  “Well,” she exclaimed breathlessly, “what are you going to do?”

  I shrugged. “What can I do?”

  “You can notify the police.”

  “And submit to a test for inebriation? Both of us? We have no evidence that any crime was committed. The petty cash is intact, and so are we. How would it sound, a tale about a pair of phantom gunmen? No, ma’am. It won’t do. The local constabulary is busy, extremely so, with no time to waste on mysteries. I know that bunch. Very matter-of-fact, also cynical and skeptical. We might find ourselves in Bellevue under observation. For the time being I think we’d better sit on it.”

  Cassidy was thoughtful. “There’s something else.” She eyed me. “I’ve heard you say a hundred times that the compensation for a job depends upon the risk involved. How about me? Don’t you think I’m entitled to a raise?”

  “It’s a holdup,” I said. “Five dollars more a week. And a special bonus for any information leading to a solution of this jigsaw.”

  Her tongue became active, offering suggestions, but none of them had sufficient protein. No unusual developments in the last few days, nothing in the mail, no new clients or telephone calls. All we had was a pair of faces in a city of eight-and-a-half million people. Nevertheless, we kept it cooking until every conceivable aspect was boiled out, leaving nothing but exasperation.

  We abandoned it finally and I said, “No point in killing the whole day. Get your pad and let’s do some work.” Nothing helped. I dictated, I phoned a couple of clients, I corrected syntax on an affidavit, and I drew up a writ of certiorari. I kept myself busy.

  But I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

  I kept squirming around like an armless man with an inaccessible itch, baffled and curious and impotent.

  2

  My first stop, Wednesday morning, was the Hall of Records on Chambers Street, where I spent an hour checking the first mortgage on a piece of Manhattan real estate. Dust rose from the files and I had to sneeze to keep my sinuses clear. Outside, the day was crisp and cloudless. I thought of the ponies running at Jamaica that afternoon, always a stirring spectacle, even for a non-better like myself. I was tempted, but decided to call the office first.