Лесли Чартерис - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 3, March, 1953

I had met her a year ago in Mexico, while her second husband, Charles Brownlee, was on a fishing trip. They had been secretly married, she confided, and were spending their honeymoon. When she called me this morning I had no idea what was on her mind.

She got me seated and came straight to the point. “You’re still practicing law, I suppose?”

“Vigorously.”

“Can you handle a problem for us?”

I shrugged noncommittally. “Depends on the problem.”

“Have you ever heard of Joyce Arnold?”

I thought and shook my head.

“Then let me enlighten you.” Eve put her fingertips together. “Joyce Arnold is a character. Good family and good background. Her father is in the diplomatic service, vice-consul somewhere in the Balkans. But the girl never settled down. She was briefly headed for a career. Studied law and even practiced for a time. She was married twice and divorced twice. About a month ago she came into the store and—”

Eve glanced up as the door opened.

A man’s voice spoke apologetically. “Didn’t know you had company, Eve. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, Charles. I want you to meet Scott Jordan, the attorney I told you about. This is my husband, Charles Brownlee.”

I saw a tall gent with an aristocratic air, straight and thin, with a touch of gray at the temples. He reached for my hand with a grip like a pipefitter in good shape.

Brownlee had been employed at Sutro’s for several years before marrying the boss. Marriage had moved him up the ladder. He was general manager now.

Eve said, “I was just telling Scott about Joyce Arnold.”

He looked at her with a pained expression, frowning. “You’re not really going to sue that girl, are you, Eve?”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not sure it’s the wise thing to do.”

“Look, Charles, we’ve got to run this firm on a business basis, not as a philanthropic institution.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “But there must be some other method.”

“What, for instance?”

“Give me time and I’ll think of one.”

“Time? Haven’t we waited long enough? Suppose we let Scott decide.” She appealed to me. “Here’s the situation. It’s simple enough. As I was saying, Joyce Arnold came into the store some time ago, six weeks to be exact. She was looking for a piece of jewelry. Nothing pleased her until she saw a certain pin, rather expensive, diamonds and emeralds, but she couldn’t make up her mind, so Charles let her take it home, sort of on consignment. We do that with certain customers. Gives them a chance to reach a definite decision. That was six weeks ago. The pin is worth ten thousand dollars. She has neither paid for it nor returned it.”

“Have you communicated with her?”

“By mail and telephone. She ignores the letters and acts evasive on the telephone. It’s a ridiculous situation and I can’t understand it at all,” Eve said indignantly.

“Did she sign a receipt?”

“Of course.”

I took it from her hand and looked it over. Everything was in order, ironclad and legal.

Brownlee cleared his throat. “What do you suggest, counselor?”

“You have one of two remedies. An action to make her pay or an action to recover the merchandise. Providing you want to sue.”

Eve looked first at her husband, then at me. “Is there any other way, Scott?”

“Maybe we can settle out of court. I usually try to do that first anyway.”

“You have our authorization.”

“That all right with you, Mr. Brownlee?”

“Er — yes,” he said absently. “Whatever you think best.”

“Then it’s settled.”

We exchanged some small talk, shook hands all around, and I left.

Joyce Arnold lived in Gracie Square. The building was old, but well-kept and respectable. I got her apartment from the row of mail boxes and took the self-service elevator to the fourth floor.

I had a hunch. My hunch said that Joyce Arnold no longer had the pin, that it was in hock, that she couldn’t raise the money to redeem it, and that she was stalling for time.

I found the number and rang the bell.

The door opened. She stood, blocking the threshold, not too tall, not too short, just right, gorgeously bunched and full of electricity. Her face was oval-shaped and olive-skinned, with large moist expressive eyes under flaring brows. Bronze-red hair lounged softly around her shoulders. Her lips were cherry-red, luscious and desirable. The rest of her looked damned good too.

On business calls, I’m usually immune. But this was too much for me. My chest was thumping.

“Miss Arnold?” I said.

“Yes.”

“The name is Jordan — Scott Jordan. I’d like to talk to you. I’m an attorney.”

“Attorney for whom?”

“Sutro’s.”

I had my foot wedged in to prevent the slamming door from flattening my nose. It didn’t slam and I got my first surprise of the afternoon. She smiled. It was a smile that promised a man the world, but he’d probably have to pay for it at current real estate values.

She stepped aside. “Come in, won’t you?”

I went through a foyer and down two steps into a sunken living room. Upholstery on the love seat had a busy circus design. The wingback chairs were peppermint-striped in green and red. Plaster of Paris animals stood, sat, and reclined from every horizontal shelf in the place.

Joyce Arnold sank back into a nest of pillows on the love seat and tucked her legs up under her. “I’ve read about you, Mr. Jordan. This is a pleasure, indeed. I’m delighted.” She patted the seat beside her. “Sit down.”

The space was just wide enough for a golf stick. I took a deep breath and squeezed in. It reminded me of the subway at rush hours. My pulse began to knock erratically.

First honors to Miss Arnold.

Her strategy was effective. How can you think straight against the pressure of molded thigh and the swirling fragrance of recently shampooed hair and sea-blue eyes deep enough to drown in?

“You say you’re from Sutro’s?” The diction was Knob Hill but the tone was Basin Street.

“That’s right,” I said.

“A lovely store.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I was real bright this afternoon. I shook my head. I avoided her eyes. I put some steel into my voice.

“I understand you were a lawyer once, Miss Arnold.”

“Still am. I’ve never been disbarred. Just inactive.”

It was a big mistake. She never should have given it up. Only a jury of blind octogenarians with muscular atrophy would decide a case against her.

“Then you must know something about the law,” I told her. “There are certain tenets concerning fraud, illegal possession, and unjust enrichment. You know why I’m here. About that pin you took from Sutro’s. It doesn’t belong to you. Not yet. Title remains vested in Sutro’s until it’s paid for. They are very adamant. They believe you’ve had enough time to decide. They want their money or their pin. The management has empowered me to take whatever steps I find necessary to accomplish that end.”

“Did Charles Brownlee send you here?”

“The idea was Mrs. Brownlee’s.”

“So they’re going to sue,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

“Come now, Miss Arnold,” I said. “Six weeks is a long time. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. A thing like this can’t go on indefinitely. They’re afraid you’ll get squatter’s rights. Certainly you’ve had enough time to make up your mind.”

“I have, Mr. Jordan.” She nodded decisively. “I’m going to keep the pin.”

“Good,” I said. “Suppose you make out a check and give it to me.”

She sniffed. “I’ll have to sell some stock and make a deposit. They’ll have a check in the mail not later than tomorrow afternoon.”