Sed Another Hearse Read online

  “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.”

  Adam took off his glasses and wiped them. “Duncan is an ex-cop. A Scotsman with an accent thick enough to sit on. He was wounded during a holdup some years ago, shot in the knee and partially crippled. They pensioned him off the force and he got a job at the Merchant’s Trust, custodian in the safe-deposit vault. That’s where I met him. He knew I was a literary agent, and one day he handed me a manuscript and asked me to read it. He’d been working on it for a long time, he said. I wasn’t sanguine over the prospect. Everybody wants to write a book, it seems, and I’ve read some dillies.

  “Anyway, I took it back to the office and left it on my desk. Varney found it and started reading. He got interested and thought it had possibilities. So we started sending it around. Well, that sort of thing takes time, and Duncan was a nuisance. He never stopped pestering us. He’d phone almost every day, grumbling and griping, until I got so fed up I wanted to chuck the whole thing. But then Dan had a bright idea and he sent the story over to Zenith Films. It’s an independent outfit with a lot of imagination.”

  He paused and I nodded to show that he had my full attention.

  “The first nibble came with a request for information about the author. And when they learned his background and realized how much of the story was authentic biography, they began to negotiate in earnest. We settled on two hundred thousand and notified Duncan. He had to sign the contract, of course. Then I flew out to the coast and only got back last week. Varney wasn’t around. At first I had no reason to be suspicious—he’d often take off for a day or two. And then Duncan started calling, wanting to know about his money. That’s when I began to have misgivings. I got in touch with Zenith Films and they told me the check had been mailed. So I went over to the bank and got the shock of my life. The check had been deposited and the money withdrawn.”

  “So they gave Varney two hundred thousand in cash?”

  “Yes. He handed them some cock-and-bull story about a nutty client who didn’t believe in banks.”

  “Varney’s checks didn’t have to be countersigned?”

  “No. Either one of us has authority to withdraw money.”

  “Isn’t that a little risky?”

  “On hindsight, yes. But someone has to sign checks when the other is out of town. Besides, who expected anything like this? My God, you don’t go into business with a man suspecting he’s a crook. You have to trust him.”

  “You told Duncan about the money?”

  “I had no alternative. I stalled him as long as I could and then… well, you can imagine. I thought he’d have a seizure, apoplexy or something.”

  “And this morning you were served with a summons.”

  “Yes.”

  I turned it over and glanced at the name of Duncan’s lawyer. Irving Birnbaum, with an office on Lower Broadway. It seemed vaguely familiar.

  Adam said querulously, “They can’t hold me responsible, can they?”

  “Oh, yes they can. For every last penny.”

  “But why?” His voice rose a full octave. “Varney stole the money, not me.”

  “That doesn’t make one particle of difference,” I said. “Each partner is personally responsible for the acts and omissions of his associates. Varney can be made to share the burden, if you find him. If not, the law insists that you shoulder the whole load yourself.”

  Adam looked stupefied. For a moment I thought I had lost him. He shook his head in a dazed way and as my words penetrated they wrung a groan of anguish from his throat.

  “How can I find him?” he said. “I’m no detective.”

  “You’ll have to hire one.”

  “That’s expensive and may take months.”

  “True. I’ll make a suggestion.”

  He looked at me hopefully. “Yes?”

  “We can notify the District Attorney. After all, Varney’s a thief. The authorities have money and manpower. Finding Varney is really their job anyway.”

  “No.” Adam was surprisingly emphatic. “I—I’d rather not involve the police.”

  “Why not?”

  He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “We can’t stand the publicity. How do you think our other clients would react if they thought their money wasn’t safe? They’d all pull out. It would wreck the firm.”

  “I see what you mean. Then we’ll have to find Varney ourselves.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  “Then you’re in trouble, Adam.”

  He chopped the air with his hand. “But I haven’t got two hundred thousand dollars—or anything like it.”

  “Not now, perhaps. But you may have some day. And the minute you do, Duncan will levy execution on his judgment.”

  His eyes brightened foxily. “I’ll go into bankruptcy.”

  “And wreck your credit rating for the future?”

  He thought about it. “All right. What do you suggest?”

  “I suggest we file an answer to the summons. We’ll enter a general denial, delay the proceedings and in the meantime try to locate Varney. Have you any idea what made him do this?”

  “Sure. Debts, high living, expensive habits. Dan was a compulsive spender. He always needed money. He was in debt to half a dozen loan sharks and half a year behind in alimony payments to his first wife. Her lawyers were beginning to apply pressure and making threats. I guess the load just got too much, so he decided to grab a stake and bail out.”

  “Any idea where he might have gone?”

  “Not a glimmer.”

  “Would your sister have any ideas?

  “Barbara? I doubt it. They weren’t even talking to each other when she left.”

  “Have you searched his desk?”

  “At the office, yes. Nothing there.”

  “How about his apartment?”

  Adam brightened momentarily. “No, but I have a key. Dan let me sleep there a couple of weeks ago while my own place was being painted.”

  “I suggest you go over there and shake it down. Look for cards or folders from a travel agency, receipts from an airline, the name of a shipping company, anything.”

  It was a project that gave Adam no pleasure. He stood still, looking glum and pitiably harassed. “What’s the trouble?” I asked.

  “I can’t go,” he said. “Not now. I haven’t got the time.”

  “What’s more important?”

  “The hospital. I have to go to the hospital.”

  I looked at him sharply. “Are you sick?”

  “Not me.” His hands were clenched at his sides. “It’s my father. He had another heart attack.”

  “Serious?”

  “He’s on the critical list.” Adam’s mouth twisted bitterly. “And that woman he married never even let me know. I had to get the news indirectly.”

  “You haven’t seen him for some time, have you, Adam?”

  “I can’t see him now, either. He’s in a coma, under oxygen. They won’t let anybody into his room.” He looked up, tight-lipped. “But I want to be there anyway. What the hell! I’m still his son, even if he did disown me. Look, Scott, I’ll give you the key. You know better than I what to look for and I’d consider it a great favor.”

  How could I refuse? Too much time had been wasted already. So I took the key and made a note of Varney’s address.

  “You’ll need a private detective,” I said.

  “I’m in your hands, Scott. You make t
he arrangements.”

  I told Cassidy my destination and accompanied Adam to the street. We separated. He took a cab to St. John’s Hospital and I cut east toward Varney’s apartment.

  3

  Detective Hahn leaned over and held a whispered conference with de Castro. The latter nodded and left the room. Hahn lit a cigarette, eyes squinting at me through upward-curling smoke.

  “Not very bright, Counselor—entering a strange apartment like that.”

  “Only because that girl came along at a highly inopportune moment. Who is she?”

  “Mrs. Dan Varney.”

  “The ex-Mrs. Varney, you mean.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Number one or two?”

  “Two probably. This one just back from Reno. Claims she went to the apartment to pick up some clothes.”

  Adam’s sister. Barbara. No wonder she’d been suspicious. Finding me there in the apartment, a total stranger, a man she’d never seen, acting as if I owned the place, claiming to be a relative of Varney’s. I smiled to myself.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Hahn said. “That she won’t press charges. Forget it, Counselor. She no longer has any rights in the matter.”

  “Maybe not. But Adam Coleman got that key in a lawful manner and he had every right to enter the apartment. I was merely acting as his agent. Why dawdle with me? If you boys really want to earn your salary, start searching for Dan Varney. There’s your real criminal. Against him you’d have no trouble proving a case. The D.A. could—”

  I stopped because the door had opened. De Castro was ushering Barbara into the room. I gathered that the situation had been explained. She advanced toward me with her gloved hand extended, apologetic and slightly embarrassed.

  “So you’re Scott Jordan. Adam has mentioned your name several times. I’m dreadfully sorry about all this. My behavior was impulsive and perhaps a little foolish.”

  “Not at all foolish,” I said. “Under the circumstances, you couldn’t help being suspicious.”

  “Am I forgiven?”

  “Of course.”

  Suddenly she smiled. It warmed and animated her face, softening the sculptured lines. The vague and bemused look was gone. She turned to Hahn with composure and assurance.

  “Naturally I won’t sign a complaint against Mr. Jordan. It was all a mistake. Can he leave now?”

  “Not yet,” Hahn said dryly. “We want to check his story about the key first.”

  Barbara looked at me again. “I tried to reach Dan on the phone. Someone picked up the receiver but wouldn’t answer.”

  “That was me,” I said.

  “And I thought it was Dan being obstinate. That’s why I came over and kept ringing the bell. I understand he’s missing. Is it really true?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  She listened in shocked disbelief while I explained. “I suspected a lot of things about Dan,” she said, “but not that he was a thief.” She shook her head. “And to make Adam responsible…”

  As if mentioning his name had served as a cue, the door opened and there stood Adam in the custody of a uniformed policeman. From his worried and perplexed expression, I knew that he was all at sea. He had no idea why he’d been plucked out of the hospital and hauled down to a police station. His eyes, circling the room, brightened a little when he saw me and then widened in astonishment as Barbara ran forward. He let her kiss him and then held her out at arm’s length.

  “Barbara! When did you get back?”

  “Last night, too late to call. And when I tried your office this morning, nobody answered.”

  He looked around, bewildered. “Will somebody please tell me what the devil this is all about? Why my sister is here? Why I’m here? And my lawyer? What happened?”

  “Sit down, Mr. Coleman,” Hahn said. “We want some information about your partner, Dan Varney. We’re told the man is missing.”

  “There’s been some trouble,” I volunteered. “Would you kindly tell these gentlemen how—”

  “Quiet!” De Castro stopped me with a hard stare. “Another chirp out of you, Counselor, and you’ll wait outside.”

  I subsided. Hahn waited until he had Adam’s attention. Then he said, “How long has Varney been gone?”

  “Something over a week. I don’t know the precise date. I was out of town.”

  “Why weren’t the police notified?”

  “I assumed he was visiting some author.”

  “And you kept that assumption even after you knew that two hundred thousand dollars had left with him?”

  Adam darted me a hurt look, as if I had betrayed him.

  Hahn said, “A man can disappear any time he likes, Mr. Coleman. We have no control over the movements of any citizen. Not unless he commits a crime. Larceny, for example. Stealing your client’s money.”

  “We have other clients, ” Adam said lamely. “Knowledge of Varney’s dishonesty would have thrown them into a panic. Our agency is small and we can hardly afford…” He let it hang, gesturing vaguely.

  “You have a key to Varney’s apartment. May I see it?” Hahn’s palm was out, waiting.

  “I’m sorry, I gave—” Adam caught himself and threw me a questioning glance.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Tell him the truth.”

  “I gave the key to Mr. Jordan. I asked him to search Varney’s apartment for a clue as to his whereabouts.” Adam’s jaw clamped stubbornly. He stood abruptly, pushing his chair back.

  “Dammit! What happened? What gives here? I have a right to know.”

  The flood of words came from Barbara. She could hold back no longer and neither detective tried to plug the dike. Comprehension dawned on Adam’s face and he looked at me with a wry grin.

  “So she thought you were a burglar and they pulled you in. My God, that’s rich!” He turned to Hahn. “I’m afraid you boys made a mistake.”

  “The mistake was Jordan’s. If Varney turns up and files a complaint, we’ll have to book Jordan for illegal entry.”

  “If Varney turns up,” I said, “he’ll be too busy defending himself on a charge of grand larceny to file a complaint against anyone.”

  Hahn smiled grudgingly. “All right, Counselor. I suggest you notify the Complaint Bureau at the D.A.’s office. If Varney left the state we may need extradition papers.”

  I offered him my hand. He gave it a single insincere pump. De Castro was at the back of the squad room, gazing through the steel-meshed window. He was not a handshaker. I beckoned and Adam followed me out, holding Barbara’s arm.

  I said, “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mrs. Varney.”

  “The name is Barbara. Barbara Coleman. I’m dropping the Varney completely.”

  “An excellent idea,” Adam said. “Welcome back to the clan.” He stepped back to study her appraisingly. “That’s a might fancy outfit for this time of day. Hattie Carnegie? Balenciaga?”

  “These are working clothes,” Barbara said. “They were shooting pictures for Harper’s Bazaar this morning.”

  “I guess you didn’t know,” Adam explained to me. “Barbara’s a top-flight fashion model.”

  She certainly has the equipment for it, I thought.

  “Your friend is staring,” she told her brother. “Why not? He’s young and vigorous and I doubt if there’s any better scenery within a radius of a hundred miles.”

  “A thousand,” I said gallantly.

  She dropped her eyes demurely. “Will you take the man’s advice?” she asked. “You know, about going down to the D, A.’s office.”

  “Not now,” Adam said. “I want to get back to the hospital and—” He stopped, suddenly sober. “You haven’t heard about dad.”

  “What happened?”

  “Another heart attack.”

  She paled visibly under the makeup. “Is it…is it…?”

  He nodded, speaking frankly. “Yes, Barbara, it’s serious. They’ve got him under oxygen. At dad’s age, anything can happen.”
No soft soap, no punches pulled.

  “Where?”

  “St. John’s.”

  I caught a flash of distress and then she was gone, racing down the precinct stairs. Adam and I followed. The desk sergeant looked up, startled. For a moment he thought Barbara was trying to escape from custody. She was headed for the door, heels clicking in high gear, when she spotted two people sitting on a bench. She applied her brakes and the newcomers rose to meet her.

  Barbara kissed the woman and shook hands with the man. They looked vaguely familiar, and then I remembered. Gilbert and Victoria Dodd. I had met them casually at one of Adam’s cocktail parties. Victoria was Adam’s older sister. Gil Dodd her husband. Questions flew, with everybody jabbering at once.

  The Dodds, I gathered, had been at the hospital with Adam. When the two cops had appeared and carted him away, they were naturally perturbed and had followed along to the precinct. Adam eased their fears with a quick explanation and then indicated me.

  “You remember Scott Jordan. My sister and brother-in-law.”

  Victoria smiled toothily. She was a tall, horsey woman with harlequin glasses over slightly protuberant eyes. She had about ten years on Adam, but her hair was jet black, worn in a tight knot at the back of her neck. Her figure was long and straight, without embellishments, nothing more than a serviceable package for the necessary plumbing. Nature, as if suffering from a guilty conscience for shortchanging one member of the family, had compensated by its generosity to Barbara.

  “Of course,” Gil Dodd said. “Scott Jordan. You’re Adam’s lawyer.”

  He smiled, proud of his square white teeth. He was in his middle forties, medium height, solid and compact, with a brown face and receding hairline that increased the dimensions of his forehead. It gave him a brainy, intelligent appearance. He was well preserved, well dressed, with fastidious haberdashery and a freshly barbered look.

  He relinquished my hand and raised his own to squeeze Adam’s shoulder. “Well, old boy, I’m glad it’s nothing serious. The way they grabbed you at the hospital, we thought you were involved in nothing less than a mass murder. Scared the life out of Vickie.”

  She exhaled to show her relief.

  “Look,” Barbara said impatiently, “can’t we discuss all this later. I want to see dad.”