Send Another Hearse

  It was a very simple case-just a matter of missing money

  But it soon became more… a lot more.

  First there was a young widow whose lust for wealth was insatiable; then there was a half-crazed ex-cop who decided to take the law into his own hands. Add to that a stunningly beautiful model.

  Soon it was a lot more than just some missing money. Soon it was a web of intrigue and danger.

  And murder!

  HAROLD Q. MASUR

  SEND ANOTHER HEARSE

  Copyright © 1960 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.

  Send Another Hearse

  1

  SHE WAS VOGUE on the outside and vague on the inside.

  She was fashionable and meticulously put together, very chic, very soignée, with deep auburn hair and wide hazel eyes that blinked at me with a bemused expression.

  But despite her vague, uncertain manner, I knew instinctively that here was no standard-type, show-window mannequin, no painted posturer. Beneath the cosmetic mask I sensed an elfin quality, something alive and vibrant, all under strict discipline at the moment.

  Another time I might have enjoyed meeting her. Not now, however. Not this morning. Not under these circumstances. Now I wanted only one thing. I wanted her to go away—quickly, quietly and without fuss.

  As a matter of fact, I should never have opened the door in the first place. I should have let her ring until she burned out a generator at Consolidated Edison. But her finger on the bell, five minutes without respite, had been so persistent, so acoustically unbearable, that I finally answered, and there she was, regarding me with an odd little frown, almost as if she had forgotten the reason for her visit.

  “Yes,” I prompted.

  “Er… doesn’t Mr. Varney live here?”

  How could I deny it? A nameplate on the door clearly pronounced his tenancy.

  “He does,” I said. “But he’s not in at the moment.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “Sometime this evening.”

  “Oh.” She peered at me uncertainly. “Are you a friend of his?”

  “A relative,” I lied again. What else could I say? She had found me in Varney’s apartment and it was quite obvious that I had made myself at home.

  She hesitated briefly, then said, “I’ll phone him tomorrow,” and turning crisply, she marched toward the elevator.

  She carried herself with fluid grace and for a moment I admired the view. Then I closed the door and went back to work.

  My search of Varney’s apartment had only aggravated the general disorder. Soiled dishes were scattered haphazardly and there was a loaf of calcified bread next to a cup permanently bonded with the remains of a soft-boiled egg. In the bedroom I found too many clothes, and that is what disturbed me most of all.

  Why would Dan Varney leave a perfectly good wardrobe behind him? It could mean a hasty departure. Or it could mean no departure at all. At least not of his own volition.

  Everywhere the lack of a woman’s touch was apparent. A film of dust had painted the furniture gray. Varney’s wife, I’d been told, was in Reno getting a divorce. Obviously the lady had taste, for even in its present disreputable state the apartment expressed a certain style and warmth.

  I returned to the desk and continued foraging. There was an accumulation of statements and bills, none of them receipted, and several impolite letters caustically dunning him for payment. Of the man himself, no trace. Not a single clue.

  I was rummaging in the bottom drawer when a cool breeze touched the back of my neck and gave me an odd, prickling sensation. Suddenly I had that sharp and very special awareness of not being alone. A whispered footstep sounded on the carpet behind me and I whirled around.

  The muzzle of a .38-caliber revolver, large, lethal and unfriendly, was pointed unerringly at the center button of my jacket.

  “Sit still, mister. Don’t make a move.”

  I was staring at a uniformed cop, large, husky, grim, determined. And just behind him stood my recent visitor, the auburn-haired mannequin, her eyes saucer-large and excited.

  “That’s the man!” Her voice was breathless. “He said he was a relative of Dan’s, but he’s lying. I never saw him before in my life. He’s a burglar.”

  The cop spoke menacingly. “On your feet, mister. Take it slow and clasp your hands behind your neck.”

  The Smith & Wesson service revolver is a highly efficient piece of hardware and I had no intention of arguing with it. I could almost read his thoughts. This would be a good collar, fine for his career, worth a commendation at least, and maybe a promotion.

  I really hated to disappoint him.

  I said, “Just a minute now, Officer. You’re making a mistake. I can explain all this—”

  “Explain it to the sergeant.”

  “Now look, if you’ll just—”

  “Knock it off! Turn around and walk over to the wall. Put your hands against it and lean on them.”

  I obeyed. It was standard operating procedure, taught to every rookie at the Police Academy, designed to telegraph any sudden move, giving him the safest margin to fan a suspect for hidden weapons. He ran a hand under my arms, over my pockets, my thighs and legs, satisfying himself that I was unarmed.

  “Where’s the telephone?” he asked the girl.

  “Over there on the desk.”

  I said, “Officer, you can save everybody a lot of trouble if you’ll just listen to me.”

  “You live here, mister?”

  “No, but—”

  “You get permission to enter from the owner?”

  “Not exactly, but—”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “With a key that—”

  “The tenant give it to you?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “That’s all brother. Save your explanations for somebody else.”

  He played it safe and called the precinct. Why run the risk of hauling me in by himself when a couple of stalwarts in a prowl car would insure a trouble-free expedition? Leaning against the wall grew uncomfortable and I began to feel the strain in my arms. I shifted slightly and got a warning bark to freeze.

  It took no time at all. The control room at Communications broadcast a squeal to a radio car cruising in the vicinity and in less than five minutes the bell rang and we had company. Two more city employees, veterans this time, who handled the situation with a brisk economy of words and action. They hustled me down, bundled me unceremoniously into a car and roared off with only an occasional wail of the siren.

  A word of advice to the average citizen. Should you be unlucky enough to get arrested, follow this simple formula. Refuse to say anything that may be used against you, sign no documents and insist upon the aid and advice of a lawyer.

  This last is paramount.

  Not only because lawyers have to make a living. Which of course they do. But lawyers know the angles, the complexities, the hurdles. They are versed in constitutional guarantees and how to protect a man’s rights under the law.

  A man in trouble with the law needs a lawyer with the same urgency that a man with an inflamed appendix needs a doctor.

  I followed none of the rules. I was in trouble, but I did not call a lawyer. After all, I had my own diploma from law school and a certificate of admission to the Bar from the Appellate Division of the State of New York. I had been in practice for ten years and if I didn’t know the ropes by now I might as well take down my shingle. I felt competent to handle this scrape myself.

  There
is an old adage: The lawyer who defends himself has a fool for a client.

  Well… maybe…

  They took me to the interrogation room, where two inquisitors from the detective squad took over. They were named de Castro and Hahn. De Castro was a tall, rangy specimen with a bony face and ravenous eyes. Hahn was heavy, shambling and deceptively benevolent. He had a habit of leaning on an elbow and fingering his left earlobe while he talked.

  “Well, well…” he said wonderingly, after examining my identification papers. “Scott Jordan! I’ll be damned! You’re the lawyer who was involved in that Hammond case last year.”

  “The same,” I said. “And before we go on, I believe I’m entitled to make one telephone call.”

  “Sure. After you’re booked.”

  “Booked for what?”

  “Breaking and entering.”

  “Now wait a minute. You want me to cooperate, stretch the rule a little. No answers from me until I make one call.”

  “Don’t tell us you want a lawyer.”

  “Not yet. I’d like to phone my office.”

  He shoved the instrument in my direction. “All right, go ahead.”

  I dialed a familiar number and got through to Cassidy. Cassidy is fat, forty and worth her weight in Harvard law clerks. She answered on the second ring.

  “This is your boss,” I told her. “Everything under control?”

  “So far. Adam Coleman phoned about five minutes ago.”

  “Just the man I want. Call him back and tell him to get over to the Seventeenth Precinct on Fifty-first Street right away. On the double. It’s an emergency.”

  “Somebody in trouble?”

  “Me. I’ve been arrested. Tell you about it later.” I hung up.

  “Now,” Hahn said. “Everything squared away, Counselor? Good. Let’s get down to facts. You were found in the apartment of a man named Dan Varney, apparently sacking the joint.”

  “No, sir.”

  “What do you mean, no, sir. You were caught with the meat in your hands.”

  “Was I? You searched me, Hahn. Did you find any evidence of larceny?”

  “We found a letter in your pocket addressed to Varney.”

  “It had been shoved under the door. I picked it up with the intention of leaving it on his desk.”

  “And absentmindedly dropped it in your pocket, I suppose.”

  “That’s right.”

  He smiled with tolerant skepticism. “You said you got into the apartment with a key. Is this it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “From Varney’s partner, Adam Coleman.”

  “But Varney did not give you permission to use it.”

  “How could he? He’s been missing for weeks. That’s why I went to his apartment. I was looking for a clue to his whereabouts.”

  De Castro spoke up, the hungry eyes slitted. “You picked a good time for it, Counselor. Daytime, nobody home, no possession of a dangerous weapon. That limits the charge to burglary in the third degree.”

  “He studies the penal law,” Hahn explained.

  “He doesn’t study it hard enough,” I said. “An essential ingredient of burglary is missing.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes, sir. Intent to commit a crime. Paragraph four-oh-four. I did not go there to steal.”

  “Don’t forget the letter we found in your pocket, Jordan. That puts it in a different category. Tampering with the U.S. mail.”

  Letting them find that envelope in my possession was a mistake. I should have gotten rid of it, but things had happened too fast and it never occurred to me.

  I looked at him mildly. “There was an address on the back flap. I merely wanted to copy it and question the sender. I thought she might know where Varney is hiding.”

  “Hiding?” Hahn raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think he’s hiding? Maybe he took a trip somewhere.”

  “He took a trip all right,” I said. “And he took something else too. Two hundred thousand dollars that didn’t belong to him.”

  Silence. Both men suddenly alert, eyeing me sharply. A shaft of sunlight on which dust motes floated weightlessly slanted through the window. The squad room had a musty odor. Ironic, I thought. Me, Scott Jordan, attorney-at-law, on the griddle, here in this room with its memories of thieves, muggers, hustlers, dope peddlers, and all the sharpshooters who felt the world owed them a living.

  Hahn’s chin was up. “Repeat that, please.”

  “Certainly. Dan Varney disappeared with two hundred thousand dollars that didn’t belong to him, money stolen from a client.”

  “You represent this client?”

  “No, sir. I represent Varney’s partner.”

  “His name?”

  “Adam Coleman.”

  “Partner in what kind of business?”

  “Literary agency. Coleman and Varney.”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars.” Hahn pursed his lips. “How come we have no record of it?”

  “Because it hasn’t been reported.”

  “Not to the D.A. either?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then suppose you report it right now, Counselor, and—” The phone rang and he reached for it. “Detective Hahn… Yeah, he’s here. What about it?” He listened and looked over at me. “It’s your secretary. She says she can’t find Coleman.”

  I bounced a hand off my temple. “I forgot. Tell her he’s in the visiting room at St. John’s Hospital. She can reach him there.”

  But Hahn did not relay the message. Instead, he told Cassidy it would be attended to and issued orders to have a radio car pick up Adam Coleman and bring him in at once. Then he leaned back and said, “We’re listening, Counselor.”

  So I told him, starting with Adam bursting into my office early that morning…

  2

  ADAM WAS WAVING a paper in the air. “Look at this,” he said a little wildly. “I’ve been served with a summons. I’m being sued. Two hundred thousand dollars.” He repeated the sum. “Two hundred thousand and I never even saw the money.” He was breathing like a fire horse.

  “Sit down, Adam,” I told him. “Relax.”

  “Relax! That’s easy for you to say. You lawyers thrive on litigation. Every time somebody’s in trouble it…” He swallowed apologetically. “I’m sorry, Scott.” He tossed the papers on my desk. “What am I going to do about this?”

  “I don’t know. Let me read the complaint first. Pull up a chair, Adam, please.”

  But he preferred to stand and pace while I read, skimming, the legal terminology to extract the essence. It was simple enough. The plaintiff was a man named Fred Duncan. He was suing Adam Coleman and Dan Varney, both as individuals and as members of a firm, for two hundred thousand dollars received by them for the sale of his book, The Kingpins, to Zenith Films, a Hollywood producing outfit.

  Coleman & Varney, Literary Agents. Not a large nor an especially outstanding firm. I had known Adam for some years, had performed a few legal chores for him in the past. One of them being the partnership agreement between the two men when they started the agency.

  I had met Varney on that occasion and I remembered him as a large man, engaging, forceful, energetic, with an easy smile, a glib and articulate tongue and ruggedly carved features. He had quit his career as a moderately successful writer to enter the agency business, where he hoped to capitalize on a drinking acquaintance with a number of editors.

  Adam, ordinarily mild and clerical-looking behind shell-rimmed glasses, had other qualities. An orderly brain, for one thing, and a sharp eye for literary properties. A talent for nursing temperamental authors, and an instinct for applying the proper amalgam of sympathy and coercion.

  His agitation had eased a little now. He stood over my desk, shoulders sagging, face perpendicular with gloom. The summons explained his mood and now I wanted him to explain the summons.

  “This Fred Duncan, I assume he’s a client of yours.”

  “Yes
.”

  “And he wrote a book called The Kingpins.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which you sold to Zenith Films.”

  “From manuscript. We haven’t been able to find a trade publisher.”

  “How come?”

  “Duncan’s a neophyte, a rank amateur. The writing is lousy. But what a story he tells! Based on fact, too. It’s a blockbuster, Scott. That’s what Zenith bought, and with a good scenario they can’t miss.”

  “Couldn’t you get a pro to rewrite and polish?”

  “We’re still dickering.”

  “But it’s all wrapped up with Zenith? Contracts signed and the money paid.”

  “I—I guess so.”

  “What do you mean, you guess. Don’t you know?”

  He nodded unhappily. “I was out of town when the check arrived. Varney deposited it in our special account at the Merchant’s Trust and when it cleared he simply withdrew the cash and… disappeared.”

  “You mean absconded?”

  Adam groaned from the heart. “There’s no other explanation. I can’t find him, he hasn’t shown up at the office, he doesn’t answer his phone, nobody’s seen him, and the money is gone.”

  “Varney’s married, isn’t he?”

  “To my sister. Barbara. Didn’t you know?”

  I shook my head. “When did that happen?”

  “About a year ago. She’d just returned from Europe and met me at the office one day. I introduced them. Barbara’s a stunner. One look and Varney zeroed in. Don’t you read the newspapers?”

  “Only international news and comics, not wedding announcements. As a matter of fact, I never met Barbara. Doesn’t she know where he is?”

  He gestured helplessly. “Barbara’s in Reno getting a divorce. That marriage was on the rocks from the beginning. God knows, she tried to make it work, but… well, anyway the money’s gone and so is Dan. And now I’ve got Fred Duncan on my neck.”

  “Tell me about him.”