Джонатан Крейг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 12, December, 1953

Apparently she was awake, for she answered at once. “Who is it?” But the voice was small and unsteady.

“A friend of Eddie’s,” I said.

The door opened and I saw a girl who would have rated high on anybody’s list of prospective brides. Small and trim, with luminous eyes in a pale oval face. Right now the eyes were miserable and the face woebegone, yet a wistful, appealing quality came right out at you. The high cheekbones were streaked with moisture, and she wrinkled up her forehead, trying to remember me.

“May I come in, Gladys?” I said.

“But I...”

“The name is Jordan — Scott Jordan.”

Slim articulate fingers flashed to her mouth. She spoke breathlessly between them. “You’re the lawyer Eddie went to see. Where he died. The police told me.”

I nodded gravely.

She sized me up, relying on her intuition, then stepped aside. The room was small, its dominant feature a gorgeously spangled Oriental costume hanging from a hinge on the closet door. She let me have the single straight-backed chair and perched herself on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry to bother you like this,” I said. “The police give you a rough time?”

She managed a tremulous smile. “Not too bad.”

“I imagine you’re weary of questions about Eddie,” I said. “So I won’t keep you long. He was on his way to see me and killed before he could talk. It’s been on my mind. I haven’t been able to sleep. Clues in a murder case cool off fast and I didn’t want to waste time. Will you tell me about Eddie? Some seemingly unimportant detail may have more significance for me than it did for the police.”

She nodded. “I don’t mind. I met Eddie several years ago at a rehearsal hall. I liked his style of dancing and his ideas and I decided to team up with him. We got along fine. He was clever and he taught me a lot. He designed the choreography for our act and handled the business too. Got us most of the bookings. I... I’ll be lost without him.”

“Were you very close?”

“He wasn’t my boy friend, if that’s what you mean.”

Glad to hear it, I almost said, but held my tongue. “Ever hear him mention my name?”

“No. Not that I can recall.”

“Enemies?”

“Not one. Everybody liked him.”

“How about his Emily, his background?”

“I don’t think — wait a minute.” Her expression changed. “I remember something. Eddie was sitting in my dressing room between numbers yesterday, reading a newspaper, the Herald Tribune, I think, and suddenly he gave an exclamation. ‘Look who’s in town!’ He seemed excited. I asked who and he said, ‘Malcolm Parish of the Parish Shipping Lines.’ ” She stopped short. “What is it, Mr. Jordan? Is something wrong?”

“No,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“I’d never heard Eddie mention the man and I asked about him. He said his uncle Victor had met Mr. Parish in Switzerland about fifteen years ago and had become his traveling companion and secretary. They went all over Europe. Eddie said his uncle used to write once in a while, but he hadn’t heard from him in over a year. According to the paper, Mr. Parish was staying at the Waldorf, and Eddie said he was going to call him and find out if his uncle had come back too.”

“Had he?”

“I don’t know. Eddie left and after that we had to do our number.”

“But you saw him later. What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything, only that he was going over to the Waldorf. We usually stop off for coffee after the last show, but Eddie excused himself and went out alone. That was the last time I saw him.” Her mouth was thin and hurt.

I was silent for a moment. “Can you do the act alone?”

“With changes perhaps. I’ll try it tonight.”

“May I come and watch?”

She looked at me seriously. “I think I’d like that.”

I had my link now, though I didn’t know what it meant. I had recently handled a matter for the Parish Shipping Lines that had received considerable publicity. The company’s chief stockholder, inactive in the business, was something of an enigma. On my way to the Waldorf I mulled over some of the facts and rumors Ed heard about him.

Malcolm Parish had inherited his interest from his grandfather, the company’s founder, twenty years ago. At that time, Malcolm was forty years of age, and the older man had had ample opportunity to evaluate his grandson’s business acumen and administrative ability. Having reached the conclusion that these qualities were non-existent he prudently arranged to put his holdings into a trust and leave the firm’s management in more capable hands. These measures proved to be both timely and expedient. He passed on soon afterward and Malcolm wasted no time in confirming his grandfather’s judgment.

He took his insensitive soul to Europe and devoted himself to the nomadic life of a luxurious wanderer. Europe and the Far East had traditions and culture which he felt were sadly lacking in his native America. But never once, during twenty years of expatriation, did he fail to cash those nasty materialistic checks supplied by American enterprise.

Now, apparently, travel had lost its allure. He was back home — if the impersonal accommodations of a hotel can be called home.

His suite was in the tower, sufficiently opulent but lacking warmth. I had identified myself on the house phone and he consented to see me. He came affably to the door, a slightly built man with mild eyes and a firm handshake. He had reddish hair and a neatly trimmed imperial of the same color.

“Glad to meet you, counselor,” he said, convoying me to a chair with a companionable hand on my shoulder. “Read about you in the morning paper. Frightful experience, I gather. Gave me something of a shock, too. Why, I spoke to that man myself only yesterday. Liked him on sight. Very decent sort. Good manners, forthright. Came to inquire about his uncle who used to work for me. What do you drink? Brandy? Scotch? Absinthe? Call down for anything you like. Take only a moment.”

“Nothing, thank you,” I said.

“Smoke? Here, try one of these. Made especially for me in Cuba.” He shoved a box of long Havana fillers under my nose. They were fragrant and fresh. “Take a couple, counselor. Go ahead. Help yourself.”

I selected one and put it in my pocket. He took one for himself, trimmed the end, and got it ignited. Smoke poured luxuriously from his nostrils.

I said, “The police are checking Eddie Lang’s movements. Have you notified them he was here?”

Expensive dental work appeared in a lame smile. “Quite frankly, I did not. I saw no connection between the two events.” A slight frown drew his eyebrows together. “Incidentally, Mr. Jordan, what brought you to me? How did you know Eddie Lang was here?”

I told him and asked, “What news did you give him about his uncle?”

The bearded face went long and solemn. “I told him that Victor was dead.”

“Dead?”

“Quite.” Malcolm Parish nodded sadly. “Victor died about a year ago. We had just taken a trip to Italy, flew over the Alps. It may have been the altitude, I don’t know. Victor’s heart was never strong. He suffered a severe thrombosis shortly after we reached a small villa I had rented for the season, and he was gone in a matter of minutes. In the twinkling of an eye, you might say. Before I could summon a doctor.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you notify anybody?”

“Of course, the local consul. Victor was buried in the town cemetery.”

“I mean relatives.”

“Well, now, the fact is I didn’t even know Victor had relatives. He never mentioned his nephew and I didn’t even know Eddie Lang existed. I was under the impression Victor was alone in the world.” Parish shook his head mournfully. “Missed the man dreadfully at first. He ran my household efficiently and played chess like a master. Absolutely irreplaceable.”