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

Her body looked unreal. Too theatrical. As if it were planned for effect.

I stood there, rooted, impaled to the floor. For once I was really shocked.

Eight thousand homicides every year. You read about them in the papers. But you feel nothing, neither pity nor shock. The victims are merely names, unfamiliar ciphers. It’s different when you’ve known a girl, held her in your arms, felt her heart beating.

Joyce Arnold had come a long way. I knew she’d hurried getting there. Was it worth the effort?

What had she done? Taken another woman’s husband? Tried to make an easy buck? Maybe it was a combination of both.

My lips were cotton dry as I reached for the phone and called Headquarters. Detective-lieutenant John Nola was the man I wanted. Sometimes he knew just what to do.

“Stay there,” he told me grimly. “You know the procedure.”

I knew what he meant. He meant: Hands off. This is murder and out of your jurisdiction. Keep your nose clean. Don’t get a finger caught.

I knew what he meant all right. So I started to search. I wanted to be sure we got a receipt for a diamond pin if it was here anywhere. Not that I didn’t trust the cops. But there’s bound to be one rotten apple in a whole barrel. One cop with an itchy palm. I looked in the kneehole desk, in the closets, in the bureau drawers. For a while I thought it was gone.

I found the envelope hidden under a tangle of nylon hosiery and undergarments. The flap was open and I looked inside.

It held some newsprint and a photostat.

The newsprint was a page torn out of the Law Journal and dated April 1st. A pencil mark encircled an item. It stated that an interlocutory decree had been entered in the divorce action of Brownlee vs Brownlee. The article went on in dry legal phraseology.

That was the split, I guessed, between Gladys and Charles.

The photostat was a copy of the marriage certificate issued to Charles Brownlee and Eve Sutro on June 20th in Gretna Green. It showed that a ceremony had been performed by a Justice of the Peace the same day.

I looked them over, thinking hard. The answers hit me like a Mack truck. I got out of there as fast as I could.

A police siren came wailing through the night as I reached the corner. Brakes squealed in protest. I didn’t wait around.

I stepped hurriedly into the drug store and thumbed through the telephone directory. It supplied the home address of Gladys and Mathew B. Frost.

They lived on Park Avenue, only five blocks away. I went up there and I pushed the button. A tiny French maid with a capricious smile opened the door and twinkled. “Yes, m’sieu?”

“Mrs. Frost, please.”

“She ees not home.”

“Mr. Frost?”

“He ees with her. Can I so something for you, m’sieu?”

She sure could, but not now. Not if she was going to do it right.

I headed over to the West Side. To Riverside Drive and one of those concrete monoliths with an acre of window panes facing the Hudson. Charles and Eve Brownlee had a terrace apartment high up in the north tower.

They were home, dining at opposite ends of a long table under a glittering chandelier. Everything had been cleared away except a silver coffee service.

Eve delicately touched a napkin to a corner of her mouth. “Cup of coffee, Scott? Sorry we can’t offer you any dessert. Charles and I are on a diet.”

“Nothing, thanks,” I said.

Charles Brownlee patted his satisfied stomach. “Eve tells me you’ve settled the case, counselor. Extraordinary. With a talent like that you ought to run a collection agency.” He took a sip of coffee. “You say we can expect our money tomorrow or the day after?”

“Not any more,” I said. “You’ll have to wait.”

“But I thought...” He looked at his wife with a puzzled expression and then came back to me. “Wait for what?”

“For her estate to be settled.”

“Estate?”

“That’s right. She’s dead.”

They goggled at me, their eyes round and stunned. Eve gasped. “What...”

“Shot,” I said, “in the head. And very very dead.”

Charles Brownlee got his mouth closed.

“When?”

I stood up and looked down at him. “You tell me.”

“I... what’s that? ”

“You tell me,” I said. “When was she killed?”

A muscle jumped in his throat. The iron gray brows came together in a wavering line over the bridge of his jutting nose.

He said hoarsely, “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you don’t!” I said. “Maybe you didn’t check the time on your watch, but you can make a pretty good guess. Go ahead and try.”

He didn’t say a word. His throat seemed stuck. There was a sudden withdrawal reflected in the opaque shine of his eyes. They seemed to go dead and dull.

“Go on, Brownlee,” I said. “Tell us. When did you put that bullet through her head?”

“No!” Eve half screamed. She was out of her chair, fingers clutching her throat, pop-eyed with fear. “What in the world are you trying to say?”

I spoke to her, but my eyes stayed on him.

“It was I who found her, Eve. Dead in her own apartment. I disobeyed police orders, searching for the pin. I found something else instead. A clipping from the Law Journal with the date of his interlocutory decree from Gladys. April 1st.”

Brownlee found his tongue. “So what?”

“There was another paper,” I told him. “It showed that you were married to Eve on June 15th.”

He snorted. “Everybody knows that.”

“I’m afraid not. The fact is you kept your marriage secret. I met Eve in Mexico and she told me. A good thing, too, or you might have landed in jail.”

“Jail?” Eve’s voice was a shredded whisper, barely audible. Her face was drawn.

“Exactly. It takes ninety days for an interlocutory decree to become final in this state. But our friend here couldn’t wait. He was taking no chances. You were ready to marry him and he struck while the iron was hot. He took you off to Maryland and an obscure Justice of the Peace. It was his idea to keep it a secret, wasn’t it, Eve?”

I could tell from her expression it was true. Her face was lined and old. Her usual poise was completely gone.

“He failed to comply with the law,” I said. “A man is not fully divorced until his decree is final. That made his second marriage illegal and exposed him to a charge of bigamy.”

Eve steadied herself against a chair. She could barely get the words out. “You say he killed Joyce. Why would he do that?”

“Because she suspected and made it her business to collect the evidence. Brownlee was a director of Sutro’s now and ripe for a showdown. She had some help, I’ll bet, from Mathew Frost. I think Frost suggested the jewelry angle. It was a little neater than outright blackmail. They were sure Brownlee would never really go after the money. Joyce Arnold had braced him and showed him her ace in the hole. That’s why he was so reluctant to sue. They felt he’d pay the bill himself first.”

Eve looked as if she were bleeding to death inside. “I... I can’t believe it...”

“Look at him,” I said. “The guilt is there in his face, written for anyone to see. My guess is he just didn’t have enough cash on hand to pay the tab. I’m sorry, Eve, but it was you who brought matters to a head by calling me in on the case. Charles couldn’t pay and Joyce wouldn’t. He knew she’d spill the story if we pressed her. There was only one way out. Joyce had to die. That’s why he went to see her this afternoon. To eliminate a threat that could topple him from his nice new position. After all, he might inherit the store someday.”

Brownlee’s temples were shining, wet with moisture.