SW02 - The Anonymous Client Read online

  “If Bradshaw was the client, privileged information isn’t going to help him now that he’s dead.”

  “On the contrary,” Steve said. “Many clients wish to have their rights protected even after they are dead. I believe that’s the principle on which wills are drawn.”

  Stams pounced on the false scent. “Did Bradshaw consult you about a will?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I know you didn’t say that. I asked you if he did.”

  “My business with Bradshaw is confidential. I can’t tell you about it.”

  “Do you deny it was about a will?”

  “I don’t deny it and I won’t confirm it.”

  Stams changed his tack. “When you got there, where was Bradshaw?”

  “Right where he is now.”

  “Did you move the body?”

  “I felt for a pulse.”

  “So you did move the body.”

  “No. I just touched the wrist.”

  “Was there a pulse?”

  “There was none.”

  “What time was it when you got here?”

  “I didn’t look at my watch.”

  “Approximately what time was it when you got here?”

  “Somewhere around six. I tell you I didn’t look at my watch.”

  “How long were you in the apartment before the police arrived?”

  “Not more than a minute.”

  “And you claim he was dead when you got there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you only touched the body to feel his pulse?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t remove anything from the body?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “You didn’t take anything out of the apartment?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “And the police arrived a minute after you did?”

  “Within approximately one minute.”

  “And yet you have no idea what time it was when you got to Bradshaw’s apartment?”

  “No.”

  “Then you didn’t have a specific appointment with Bradshaw?”

  “Congratulations, Sergeant.”

  “What for?”

  “That’s the first deduction you’ve made from my statements. I was beginning to think you were asking me questions just to keep in practice.”

  “So you had no appointment with Bradshaw?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You just decided to call on him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ever call on him before?”

  “No.”

  “That right, lady?” Stams asked Miss Dobson.

  “I think so. At least, I’ve never seen him. If you want my opinion—”

  “I don’t,” Stams said. “So, Winslow, out of the clear blue sky you call on Bradshaw for the first time, and he just happens to be dead.”

  “I am rather unlucky,” Steve said.

  “It was just a coincidence?”

  “Well, I would certainly hope that my calling on people had no effect on their longevity. Otherwise, I imagine my dinner invitations would be rather infrequent.”

  “You know what I’m getting at. You knew Bradshaw was dead before you got here, didn’t you?”

  “I did not.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Of course not.”

  Stams blinked. “What?”

  “Of course I can’t prove it,” Steve said. “I would have to prove a negative, which is next to impossible. If I knew he was dead, I could prove that I knew by divulging the source of information. To prove I didn’t know he was dead, I would have to prove that I had no access to all sources of information. Since I don’t know what the sources are, I obviously can’t prove I didn’t have access to them. It’s an impossibility.”

  “Then you can’t prove it?”

  “No, I can’t,” Steve said, sarcastically. “Well, Sergeant, you’ve done it. Your skillful cross-examination has tripped me up, trapped me, backed me into a corner, and forced me into an admission. Now, are you ready to arrest me?”

  Stams’s face darkened. “I may at that. You’re talking a lot, but you’re not saying anything.”

  “Did it ever occur to you I might not know anything? You’re wasting a lot of time down here, while there’s a corpse upstairs screaming for attention.”

  “Bradshaw won’t mind waiting a few minutes. I’m not done with you yet. I think you’re hiding something.”

  “Think what you like.”

  “I will. You know what I think? I think a client called you and told you Bradshaw was dead. I think the client told you there was some incriminating bit of evidence in the apartment. I think you rushed up here and got the evidence.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Sergeant. I was afraid you were about to charge me with the murder.”

  “Don’t think that isn’t a possibility. But for now, tell me about my theory.”

  “It’s a fine theory, Sergeant. It’s got class. I like it.”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “I’ve already denied it several times. As I said, you’re free to think what you like.”

  “Don’t think I won’t,” Stams said. “I only put these questions to you so you could deny them. Now, if I can prove any part of my theory true, I can get you for obstructing justice, compounding a felony, and being an accessory after the fact to murder.” Stams grinned. “And now, I think I’ll go take a look at the corpse.”

  “I take it I’m free to go?” Steve said.

  “Sure you are. Except before you do, you’re going back in the bedroom and be searched again. And this time I mean searched. Search him good, Frank, and I want a complete inventory of everything he’s got on him, no matter how trivial. I think he took something.”

  Stams started for the door.

  “The murderer must have been really smart,” Steve said. “I wonder how he knew.”

  Stams stopped in the doorway. “Knew what?”

  “That Farron was on vacation.”

  12.

  STEVE WINSLOW DROPPED A QUARTER in the pay phone on the corner and punched in the number.

  A feminine voice at the end of the line said, “Taylor Detective Agency.”

  “This is Steve Winslow. Get me Taylor.”

  “He just left for dinner. If it’s important, I might be able to catch him.”

  “Catch him.”

  There was no answer, but the rattle of the receiver and the clack of high heels told Steve the receptionist was doing her best. A minute later Mark Taylor’s voice came on the line.

  “Steve. Lucky you caught me. I was just going to dinner.”

  “Forget it. It’s soggy hamburger time. I need information and I need it fast. Did you hear the evening news about Harding?”

  “No, but my pipeline into police headquarters reported that they exhumed the body and found arsenic. I tried to call you but you’d left the office. But don’t worry. I got men working on it. It’s covered.”

  “Fine. Now you can cover something else. Our friend Bradshaw just became a corpse.”

  “What!”

  “That’s right. Someone stuck a large carving knife between his shoulder blades somewhere between five and six this evening.”

  “No shit!”

  “None. So pull your men off Harding and get on it.”

  “Jesus Christ. How the hell’d you find out?”

  “I heard the news on the radio about Harding. I went to see Bradshaw, walked in and found the body.”

  “You’re kidding. You mean you’re the one who called the cops?”

  “It’s worse than that. Someone else called the cops. They found me in the apartment.”

  “They what?”

  “That’s right. And here’s the kicker. Lieutenant Farron’s on vacation and Sergeant Stams is in charge.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Yeah. Stams is ready to throw the book at me. He’s so pissed off about the Sheila Bento
n case I think he’d frame me if he thought he could get away with it. Anyway, he’s convinced some client called me, told me Bradshaw was dead, told me about some incriminating evidence in the apartment, and had me rush up there and pinch it just before the cops got there.”

  “Did you?”

  “Fuck you, Mark. The thing is, if it sounds that good to you, think how it sounds to Stams. As a result, the murder has paled into insignificance. Stams is out to get me for tampering with evidence, obstructing justice, and being an accessory after the fact.”

  “Has he got anything?”

  “No, he hasn’t. Just the fact that he found me in the apartment. But his theory’s so damn logical I’ll have a devil of a time disproving it.”

  “Shit.”

  “So, get everything you can on the murder. Some woman, probably the one in the apartment across the hall, heard something she didn’t like and called the cops. Get the dope on her, find out what she heard and what she knows. For the time being, forget the Harding thing and concentrate on Bradshaw. You won’t be able to call me, so I’ll call you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “You don’t want to know that. But give me Marilyn Harding’s address, will you?”

  Taylor read out the address. Steve jotted it into his notebook.

  “O.K.,” Steve said. “I’ll call you back.”

  “Just one thing, Steve.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Who’s your client now?”

  “I don’t know. And I just got through telling Stams I couldn’t answer questions because I was protecting his interests.”

  Steve hung up the phone, stepped out in the street, and hailed a cab.

  13.

  TRACY GARVIN COULDN’T CONCENTRATE ON her book. And it wasn’t that bad a book, either. It was a murder mystery, of course, and it was actually pretty exciting. There’d just been a second murder, and everything pointed to the client, and the detective was withholding evidence, and if the police found out there’d be hell to pay, and ordinarily Tracy would have been really into it.

  But not tonight.

  Tracy was stretched out on her living room couch, her shoes off, her feet up, a position in which she often read. She squirmed uncomfortably, scrunched up to a sitting position, pushed the hair back off her face, and adjusted her glasses.

  The detective found a broken matchstick.

  Tracy frowned. Shit. She knew that. She’d read the page twice.

  Damn. She never should have come home. Never should have let Mark Taylor talk her into it. When he’d called to tell Steve about Philip Harding, she’d wanted to stay and keep the office open, but he’d convinced her there was nothing she could do. And he’d promised to call her at home if anything broke. And, of course, nothing had, and there was no point in her hanging out in an empty office.

  But still.

  Tracy sighed and returned to her book. The matchstick. What was it about the matchstick? Probably something important, or it wouldn’t be in the book. What did the detective think? Had she read that far?

  One of the reasons Tracy couldn’t concentrate was that she had the radio on. She’d been listening to 1010 WINS, hoping to get an update on the Phillip Harding murder. And, of course, there’d been none. And, she realized, realistically, there wasn’t apt to be at that time of night. Every twenty minutes there was another report, but they were all the same. The body’d been exhumed, arsenic had been found, and the police were investigating. The end.

  The news report came on again. Tracy put down her book and listened. Same thing. Exhumed, arsenic, investigating. The announcer moved on to the latest local political scandal.

  Tracy picked up her book again and began reading.

  The detective found a broken matchstick.

  Shit.

  The political corruption story ended. The newscaster then said, “The body of a man was discovered early this evening in his East Village apartment. He had been stabbed to death with a knife. The man has tentatively been identified as David C. Bradshaw, of 249 East 3rd Street. The motive for the crime is as yet unknown. Police are investigating.”

  Tracy sprang to her feet. Holy shit! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! Her mind was racing. Jesus Christ. How did this happen? What was going on? What should she do?

  The announcer’d moved on to the weather. The radio was too loud. She couldn’t hear herself think. She went over to the radio, clicked it off. There. That’s better. Now ...

  Steve Winslow. Did she have Steve Winslow’s home number? No. Would he be listed? And where did he live? Manhattan. Somewhere in the West Village. Or was it SoHo? Shit, what does it matter?

  Tracy raced to the phone and dialed 411.

  “May I help you?” the operator said.

  “In Manhattan—a listing for Steve Winslow.”

  “One moment, please.”

  There was a click, and then the recorded message started giving the number. Tracy grabbed a pencil from her desk, jotted it down. She jiggled the receiver, breaking the connection, and punched Steve Winslow’s number in.

  No answer. She must have let it ring a dozen times.

  Tracy slammed down the phone. She was really angry. Of course he wasn’t there. Mark Taylor had a pipeline into police headquarters. He’d have gotten the news about Bradshaw way ahead of the media. He’d gotten it, and he’d called Steve Winslow, and that’s why Steve wasn’t there.

  Tracy thought of calling Mark Taylor, but she didn’t. In the first place, she was pissed off. In the second place, he wouldn’t be there either. He’d have called Steve, and the two of them would be out there investigating the case, doing god knows what, and with never a thought of her. Son of a bitch! Son of a fucking bitch!

  Tracy snatched up her apartment keys and slammed out the door.

  14.

  MARILYN HARDING HAD BEEN CRYING. That was the first thing Steve Winslow noticed. She had combed her hair and put on makeup and composed her face, but nothing she could do was going to disguise the fact that she was distraught.

  Of course, she had every right to be. After all, she’d just discovered that her father had been murdered. A tremendous shock for anyone, let alone a young girl.

  But was that all?

  They were in the library of the Harding mansion. Steve Winslow had taken a cab out to Glen Cove (“It’s your money, buddy”), bullied his way past the Harding butler (Christ, did butlers really exist outside of British drama?), and been consigned to the library while the butler reluctantly delivered the message.

  A few minutes later Marilyn Harding entered the room. She walked slowly, mechanically, and her eyes were dull and glassy. To Steve she looked stunned, as if she’d just been hit over the head with a hammer.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “Didn’t the butler tell you?”

  “Yes, but I’m somewhat rattled. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

  “Steve Winslow.”

  If the name meant anything to her, she didn’t show it. “I’m Marilyn Harding. What is it you want?”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Oh?”

  Steve looked closely at her. If she was bluffing, she was damn good. She wasn’t giving anything away.

  “I have something to tell you. It’s important, and there isn’t much time. Can you give me a few minutes?”

  Marilyn rubbed her head. “Yes, I guess so. I’m just so confused. I’ve had a shock, you see, and—”

  “I know. About your father. I hate to put you through it, but I have to have the details.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can help you. Please.”

  She looked at him as if in a fog. Steve got the impression that it was all too much for her, that she wasn’t really reluctant, just overwhelmed.

  He was right.

  “What do you want to know?” she said.

  “Just tell me how it happened.”

  Marilyn walked over and settled into a chair. Steve pulled up a chair beside her
.

  “Well, there’s not that much to tell. It’s all such a shock, and I don’t know anything.”

  “Of course.”

  “It was a Wednesday. Last month. After lunch my father felt queasy and lay down to rest. No one thought much of it. He’d had stomach trouble for years. Then he got worse. Started complaining of pains in his chest. So I called Dr. Westfield to come at once. By the time he got there, Dad was gone.”

  “Dr. Westfield was your father’s regular physician?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he diagnosed the cause of death as coronary thrombosis?”

  “Yes. Dad had a history of heart trouble, and Dr. Westfield was not at all surprised. In fact, that’s why Dad happened to be at home. Dr. Westfield had persuaded him to take a week off from the business to recuperate. He had always warned Dad something would happen if he didn’t take it easy.”

  “Who was in the house at the time?”

  “Just myself and my father.”

  “From lunchtime on?”

  “Yes. My stepsister, Phyllis, was here in the morning, but she left just before lunch.”

  “No one else in the house.”

  “No, except for John. The butler.”

  Steve had an absurd flash. The butler did it. Christ, this case was getting to him.

  “Who served your father lunch?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you serve him?”

  “Soup, a sandwich, and coffee.”

  “Did he take cream and sugar in the coffee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he put it in, or did you?”

  “He did. You see, he liked a lot of coffee. I gave him a pot of coffee, a cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar, and a pitcher of cream. I put all those on his tray with the soup and sandwich and served it to him out on the terrace.”

  “What became of the sugar bowl?”

  “I put it back in the kitchen.”

  “Have you used it since?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I haven’t done any cooking since Dad died.”

  “Where is the sugar bowl now?”

  “The police have it.”

  “When were they here?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They searched the place from top to bottom.”