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  TALL,

  Dark and Deadly

  BY

  HAROLD Q. MASUR

  An Inner Sanctum Mystery Published by

  SIMON AND SCHUSTER

  New York

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION

  IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM

  © 1956 BY HAROLD Q. MASUR

  PUBLISHED BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER, INC.

  ROCKEFELLER CENTER, 630 FIFTH AVENUE

  NEW YORK 20, N. Y.

  MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Tall, Dark and Deadly

  I

  It never pays to resist arrest.

  Some policemen carry night sticks and all policemen carry .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolvers. They are physically fit and trained to handle recalcitrant prisoners. You just can’t win against odds like that.

  Still, when Detective Sergeant Wienick put the collar on me in front of my apartment that Wednesday evening I balked and demanded, “What’s the charge, sergeant?”

  Knowing my aversion to being touched he merely said, “Sorry, counselor. You’ll find out at the station house.”

  I started to file a demurrer, which was immediately overruled by Wienick’s sidekick, a muscular young halfback, who closed his fingers over my arm.

  I looked down at the fingers and said quietly, “Sergeant, would you kindly instruct your zealous colleague here to keep his paws to himself.”

  The cop tightened his grip. “Look, mister, I’ve heard all about you, a wise-aleck lawyer who—”

  “Let him go,” Wienick said. “The lieutenant wouldn’t like it if you marked him up.”

  I got my arm back, bruised but intact. They had a squad car parked at the curb. I sat in the rear, with Wienick at my side, while the truculent cop handled the wheel. Speed, apparently, was essential. His performance through Manhattan traffic, aided by an occasional blast of the siren to clear the path, was flashy but impressive.

  “He’s too reckless,” I told Wienick. “He’ll get a ticket.”

  The sergeant was not amused and I got no response.

  I added plaintively, “Why all the secrecy, sergeant? Loosen up a little. What goes here?”

  He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Knock it off, counselor.” I gave him an offended look. “That’s no way to talk. Don’t you read the papers? Only last week the mayor instructed all policemen to be courteous and polite.”

  No comment. I should have known from past experience that no lever or irritant would get results. Sergeant Wienick had his instructions and nothing could jostle him loose. He sat next to me, a bulky and silent sphinx in a ready-made suit.

  When we pulled up at the Tenth Precinct on West 20th Street I knew who wanted to see me.

  In this unlovely structure, Detective Lieutenant John Nola was quartered. I had an odd foreboding as I debarked and climbed the stairs ahead of Wienick. The layout here was familiar and I needed no directions. I went past the desk sergeant and up a flight of stairs. The door to his office was open and Nola sat behind his desk. He looked up, grave and unsmiling.

  Strange behavior for the lieutenant. I had known him a good many years and he was usually pleased to see me. No handshake this time, however. No greeting at all. Just a sharp flick of the deepset eyes and he addressed the sergeant. “What took you so long?”

  “Checked all his usual haunts, lieutenant. Couldn’t locate him anywhere, so we staked out at his apartment. He came home a few minutes ago and we picked him up.”

  “All right. Get a stenographer in here. I want everything down on paper.” He gave me a brusque nod. “Sit down, counselor.”

  For a moment we were alone. I searched his face, but it gave me no clue. John Nola was a neat, sober man, precise in manner, a career cop who danced at the end of nobody’s string. His wife had died two years after their marriage and he had no family. He was dedicated to his job, working at it twenty-four hours a day. He was judicious and scrupulously fair. I had seen him work just as hard to prove a man innocent as he would to prove him guilty.

  “For the love of Mike, lieutenant,” I said, “would you kindly enlighten me? What is this all about? What gives? Why am I—”

  The door opened and we had company. A police stenographer perched himself on a hard chair, pencil poised over his notebook, ready for hieroglyphics. Wienick rested his hip against the window sill, regarding me with a jaundiced eye.

  “Where were you at three o’clock this afternoon?” Nola asked.

  “Sorry, lieutenant.” I shook my head, polite but firm. “I can’t answer that until I know why I’m here. First, a couple of Cossacks on the city payroll haul me in. Then you start firing questions before apprising me of the charge. What happened? Have you torn up the rule book?”

  “There is no charge. Yet.”

  That was a comfortable thought. “And with what crime am I not being charged? Yet?”

  “What office is this?”

  “Homicide West.”

  “What kind of cases do we handle?”

  “Murder.”

  “That’s it.”

  I looked at him and saw he was serious. “Whose?”

  “A man named Steve Banton.”

  “What?” Now I was gaping foolishly.

  “Killed at the precise time you were there in his hotel room.”

  I shook my head. Only a few hours ago I had seen Banton. I had spoken to him. The fact of death was too final, too irrevocable, for immediate acceptance. I tried to speak, but there was an obstruction in my throat. I cleared it out and said, “How did it happen?”

  “Thirty-two-caliber bullet. Fired at point-blank range. Would you care to make a statement?”

  “About what? For Pete’s sake, lieutenant, you don’t think that I—”

  He cut me short. “Do you deny you were there?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “That’s an equivocal answer. What does it mean?”

  “It means I was there, but not when he was shot.”

  “What was your purpose in visiting him?”

  I sat still, choosing my words carefully. “Apparently I’m under suspicion. Why, I don’t know. But if I had a client, under circumstances similar to these, I would say to him, ‘You’re in a spot. Button up. Let them play out their lines and see what they’ve hooked.’ That would be sound advice. Anything less would be a dereliction of my duty as a lawyer. I certainly owe myself the same degree of vigilance I would give a stranger.”

  For a moment Nola was cold-eyed and unmoving. Then he turned to Wienick. “All right, sergeant. He wants proof. Let’s give it to him. Get the desk clerk in here.”

  Wienick went out and came back, ushering in a slender man with blond hair and a blond mustache. He paused just inside the door, fumbling nervously with his hat, licking his lips.

  Nola said, “Where do you work, Mr. Corliss?”

  “At the Wickford Arms.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m the desk clerk.”

  “Take a good look at this man. Have you ever seen him before?”

  “Yes, sir. This afternoon in the lobby of the hotel.”

  “Do you remember the time?”

  “Two forty-five, sir, exactly.”

  “What makes you so positive?”

  “He gave me an envelope addressed to Mr. Banton. We always stamp the time on all incoming messages. I put the envelope in Mr. Banton’s box and when I turned around he was walking to the elevators.”

  “Is this the envelope?” Nola held it up.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That will be all, Corliss. You can leave now.”

  When the door closed, Nola tapped the envelope. “Here it is, Jordan. Steve Banton’s name written in your h
andwriting. Do you deny it?”

  I said nothing.

  “No comment at all, counselor?”

  “There’s a time for speech and a time for listening.”

  “Then listen good. That was number one. Bring in number two, Wienick.”

  This time the sergeant produced a small woman. She bustled in, saw me, stopped short and reversed her gears, colliding with the solid bulk of Wienick. No woman has ever swooned at the sight of me, but a few have remarked on a slight resemblance to Gregory Peck. If such a resemblance existed, this woman was impervious. Her face lost color and her eyes protruded as if I had suddenly sprouted a pair of horns. She stood rooted, with a tremulous hand clasped tightly to her breast.

  Nola’s tone was calm and reassuring. “Now, Mrs. Worden, you’re quite safe here. This is a police station. We have him under control. From your reaction I take it you recognize this man.”

  “Oh, yes!” Her voice was squeak-edged and breathless. “That’s him—the man I saw—the one who was fighting with Mr. Banton. He—”

  “If you please, Mrs. Worden. Take it slow and start from the beginning.”

  She drew a quivering breath and the words came.

  “I was out shopping this afternoon, looking for gloves to match my new coat, but I was expecting a telephone call at three o’clock, so I had to be home, and just as I got out of the elevator I heard all this commotion down the hall. A man was trying to force his way into Room 705.”

  She paused for another breath and aimed a finger in my direction.

  “Him. He had his shoulder against the door and his face was very grim and mean and nasty. I just can’t stand violence, lieutenant. It frightens me. I never watch those dreadful crime stories on television. They give me nightmares and the next morning I’m completely—”

  Nola said, “I understand, Mrs. Worden. About what you saw…”

  She was slightly offended. “Oh, all right. I hurried past him to my own apartment. After all, it was none of my business, but I did look back and I saw that the door was open and he was going into Mr. Banton’s room.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Two forty-five. I remember looking at the clock to make sure I wasn’t late.” She gave me a quick glance and shuddered. “May I go home now, lieutenant?”

  “Yes. Thank you very much, Mrs. Worden. We’ll call you if we need you. All right, Wienick, number three.”

  He shuffled some papers on his desk until the door opened again. Number three was another female. This one I did not recognize at all. She had more poise and self-confidence than her predecessors. It had probably been born into her, together with an immoderate appetite. The appetite added to her horizontal dimensions and gave her the build of a Wagnerian soprano. Never having seen a murderer before, she marched right up close, almost within touching distance, and stood there, inspecting me like something under glass. “This the man?” she demanded.

  “Yes, Miss Price.”

  “Humph! He doesn’t look so dangerous.”

  “Looks are deceiving. Tell him where you work.”

  “At the Wickford Arms.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “Switchboard operator.”

  “Were you on duty at three o’clock this afternoon?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Did you get a call from Room 705?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  She was relishing her moment in the spotlight. “The board is never busy in the afternoon, so when the flash came I plugged right in. I asked for Banton’s order, but he didn’t answer. Instead I heard a strange sound, like someone choking, fighting to catch his breath. I said, ‘Hello—hello—what’s wrong up there?’ Mr. Banton was groaning. He seemed in great pain. Then he gasped out, ‘Get a doctor. I—I’m shot. Scott Jordan just—he just…’ And then I heard a terrible gurgling noise and a loud thump and—”

  She gave a gasp of her own and fell back a step as I landed on my feet in front of her. “Wait a minute! What are you trying to pull here? This is ridic—”

  “Sit down!” It was a bark from Nola, with plenty of muscle behind it. “You had your chance to speak. You’ll get another when I’m ready for you. Back in that chair.” He turned to the woman. “Pardon the interruption, Miss Price. Finish your story.”

  She swallowed, regaining her poise. After all, I was under custody and this was a police station.

  “I was terribly frightened, lieutenant.” She gave a delicious shudder. “I rang the manager immediately and he told me to call the house doctor at once and then he went right to Room 705 himself. He opened the door with a passkey and he went in and found Mr. Banton lying on the floor, dead, bleeding all over a brand-new—”

  “Thank you, Miss Price. That will be all. You can leave now.”

  She hated to relinquish the floor, but Wienick managed to nudge her out. The police stenographer was massaging his fingers. Nola regarded me without pleasure.

  “You heard the evidence, Scott. You’re a lawyer. How does it sound?”

  At least he hadn’t forgotten my first name. “Not good,” I admitted. “But you’ve been in the trade a long time, John, and you know how it is with circumstantial evidence.”

  “Three witnesses, Scott. And a district attorney in New York County who would love to stick the gaff in. Like that, my friend, you can wind up in the armchair, waiting for some electricity. All he needs is motive.”

  “He doesn’t need it,” I groaned. “He’s already got motive.”

  Nola sat up and looked at me sharply. “Maybe you’d better talk.”

  “Get rid of the pencil-pusher,” I said.

  Nola jerked his head toward the door and the stenographer got up and left. I leaned back and rubbed my forehead. I took a long unhappy breath and started talking.

  “Late yesterday I was served with a paper. It requested my presence before the district attorney this morning…”

  II

  Naturally I was surprised. I had no idea why the district attorney wanted to see me. But a subpoena from the Rt. Hon. Phillip Lohman could not be lightly ignored. As I waited in the anteroom of his office at the appointed time I could hear him cracking down on one of his subordinates.

  “You’re the chief assistant, Bill. You assigned the man to the case and he’s your responsibility. Two weeks shot to hell and still no indictment. If he can’t handle it, say so, and I’ll make the necessary changes. That’s final. Now get Scott Jordan in here.”

  Bill Postilie poked his head through the door and crooked a finger at me. Postilie had been appointed to the D.A.’s office during the last administration and was one of the holdovers who kept the wheels running smoothly. We’d been through law school together and when I got this subpoena directing me to appear on the eighth floor of the County Courthouse I had tried to reach him for an explanation, but he hadn’t been available.

  Phillip Lohman stood near the window, a tall man, erect and unsmiling, his face stern, with a pair of pince-nez glasses clamped to the bridge of a high-boned nose. He eyed me coldly and motioned brusquely to a chair.

  “Sit down, counselor.”

  If I am ever called upon to recommend some human guinea pigs to test the effects of an atomic fallout, Lohman would probably head my list. We hadn’t crossed each other’s path since the Mathew Tallant case, but he knew my sentiments and they were cordially reciprocated.

  “Don’t leave, Bill,” he said to Postilie. “I want you to hear this.”

  Postilie nodded, blank-faced.

  Lohman moved to his desk and sat down. He had been a corporation lawyer on Wall Street, a lobbyist in Washington, and a politician at Tammany. Now, as prosecutor of New York County, with his sights trained on the governor’s mansion in Albany, he was given to periodic crusades, especially near election time.

  During the past week the papers had been filled with his current campaign against divorce lawyers. He was digging up the records, checking decrees, and contesting
their validity on the grounds of collusion. A lot of Manhattan lawyers were walking around with worried faces, tossing sleeplessly at night.

  He made a pyramid with his fingers and leaned his elbows on the desk, meeting my eyes straight on. “I take it you don’t like the laws of this state, Jordan.”

  “There’s room for improvement.”

  “Not by you.” His voice had the resonant ring of an accomplished public speaker. “Nor by any other private individual. Any change in the statutes is a job for the legislature. Exclusively.”

  I turned my palms up. “Look, Mr. Lohman, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What am I supposed to have done wrong?”

  “Plenty. This office is going to charge you with subomation of perjury and manufacturing evidence in a trumped-up divorce case.”

  “Me?” I goggled at him, fingers taut-spread across my chest. “I seldom handle divorce matters at all.”

  “You handled one too many. Perhaps you don’t remember. Mclver vs. Mclver.”

  “That was two years ago.”

  “Exactly.” He smiled with heavy irony. “So you do remember.”

  I remembered all right. I had represented the author, Vincent Mclver, whose novel Manhattan Affair was the current rage that year. I had been recommended to him when he wanted to sue his wife, Claire, for divorce, and it was the only legal work I ever did for the man. So far as I knew, that case was on the level. I glanced at Bill Postilie, but his continuing blank expression gave me no clue.

  “What do you mean, suborning perjury?” I said to Lohman. “The woman was guilty of infidelity. We had incontrovertible proof and two disinterested witnesses. I knew one of them personally.”

  “Hazel Adams?”

  “Yes, sir. She was Vincent Mclver’s secretary at the time and she suggested my name as a lawyer. She was present at the raid and I can vouch for her probity.”

  “No doubt,” he said dryly. “But who can vouch for yours?”

  “A lot of people. My kindergarten teacher, my scoutmaster, anybody who ever did business with me.”

  He was not amused. “You’re in a bad spot, Jordan, and levity won’t improve the situation. That divorce was collusive, the raid contrived, nothing more than a stage setting, and I believe we can prove it.”