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

“How did Eddie take the news?”

“Rather badly, I’m afraid. He seemed genuinely affected. But he shook it off nicely and after a while we had a fine chat. He told me all about his work and that little girl, Gladys Monroe. Meant to catch his act this evening and take them out afterwards. I’d like to know who killed him. Any ideas?”

“Not yet. We’re working on it.”

He blew smoke at the ceiling. It hung over his head in a disembodied cloud. “I understand you did some work recently for the Parish Lines, Mr. Jordan.”

“It was more in the nature of an investigation,” I told him.

“Investigation? Are you a detective, too?”

“Not officially, but I’ve had some luck in the field.”

He sat up. “Well, now, I’m interested, counselor. What sort of an investigation?”

“Sorry. It was confidential.”

He smiled patronizingly. “Come now. In a manner of speaking, you might say that I am the company, since I hold the largest block of stock.”

“True.” I smiled back. “But I was hired by the Board of Directors.”

“Who, in the last analysis, represent me.”

“Unquestionably. So I imagine they’d be glad to show you the files.”

He coughed up smoke in a hearty laugh and slapped his knee. “I like that. I do indeed. It isn’t often one meets a man of prudence and discretion. I like you, counselor. I like you very much.” He closed his mouth and stared at me intently for a moment. “Are you still under retainer to the company?”

I shook my head.

“Would you care to represent me, personally?”

“To do what?”

“To help me accomplish what I came back to the States for.”

“Which is?”

“Namely, to vacate the trust set up by my grandfather and have it declared a nullity.” He struck his knee with a clenched fist. His lips were grim and his eyes glowing. “To wrest control of my own company from its present Board of Directors. To manage and pilot the destinies of the Parish Shipping Lines. I’m not at all pleased with the way things are going. We live in an expanding economy, Mr. Jordan, and the Parish Lines should have grown to twice its present size. Instead, the company is virtually at a standstill.” His beard quivered with indignation. “The directors have been sitting on their rumps, riding the crest.” The fist landed on his knee again. “I’m not going to stand by as an idle spectator and watch the company become atrophied. I’m going to take a hand.”

He bounced out of his chair and went to a desk. He turned holding a checkbook in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. His jaw was set with determination.

“I need the services of a fighting lawyer, Jordan. I like the cut of your cloth. You look like a scrapper. Name your retainer. Go ahead. I won’t haggle about the fee.”

I sat blinking. His enthusiasm and eloquence surprised me. At last I said, “Ten thousand dollars,” just to test his sincerity.

He wrote without batting a lash. He folded the check and tucked it into my pocket behind the display handkerchief.

I said cautiously, “Your grandfather’s trust may be irrevocable. I can’t promise a thing.”

He waved it aside, his mouth obstinate. “Win or lose, my mind is made up. I’m going to the mat with those boys and I want you in my corner. What’s ten thousand dollars? Peanuts, counselor. The company is worth millions.”

This was the first time my services had been courted with such enthusiasm. “I’ll be in touch with you, Mr. Parish,” I said, rising. “As soon as I can read through the trust documents.”

“Fine. Just remember, time is of the essence. We’ve got to start rolling.”

After twenty years of indolence he was suddenly in a hurry.

I stopped off at a phone booth and arranged an adjournment of the case on this morning’s calendar.

I placed Malcolm Parish’s cigar on the desk in front of Lieutenant John Nola. He sniffed at it and raised an eyebrow at me. “What’s this, a bribe?”

“Yes, sir. I’d like to know if you’ve made any progress.”

His face was lined and tired. “Very little.”

“How about Gladys Monroe?”

“Business associate, that’s all.”

“I saw her this morning.” He stared at me, and I went on telling him about Malcolm Parish.

He mulled it over. “What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Yet. Did you check Eddie Lang’s room?”

“With a magnifying glass. Combed the place thoroughly. No clues.”

“Mind if I go over and take a look?”

“Why?” His inspection was critical. “You got better eyesight than we have?”

“No, John, I don’t mean that at all, but I’ve been mixed up in a lot of matters and there’s always a chance something may click. It can’t hurt and it may do some good.”

He deliberated briefly and then reached for an envelope, extracting a key which he tossed across the desk. “Here. Got it from the manager. It’s a duplicate. Couldn’t find Lang’s key in his pocket.” He paused and leveled a finger. “Report in full, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

I could feel his eyes following me through the door. The name stamped on the key was Hotel Buxton. I hailed a cab and sat back. I had a feeling that something was going to happen and as it turned out I was right.

When I crossed the Buxton’s antique lobby I thought of Gladys sitting alone in her room. I controlled an impulse to visit her again and went on up to the seventh floor. I found Eddie Lang’s room and used the key. I took one step and froze in the doorway, whistling.

It seemed, from the room’s appearance, that the Police Academy had omitted a course in neatness from its curriculum. The place was a mess. Drawers had been emptied out on the floor and Eddie’s suits lay askew across the bed.

I started with the suits, turning all the pockets inside out. Nothing. Then I got down on my hands and knees and went poking through the piles of stuff on the floor. My fingers encountered something and pulled it clear. One of those correspondence portfolios in imitation leather, with compartments for stamps, paper, and envelopes. It contained several old letters, one from an agent offering a San Francisco booking, one from a high school girl who’d caught his act on TV and thought he was the best thing since Fred Astaire, and one postmarked Switzerland about a year ago and signed Uncle Victor.

I read the salutation and that’s when I got it. His footsteps were silent coming up behind me. I never heard him. But I felt him all right. The blow landed with a shattering impact and what probably saved my life was the hat on my head. A streak of lightning seemed to explode through my brain. I grabbed for my head and the next blow almost broke my thumb. The sap was poised for its final benediction when I rolled over and it caught me on the shoulder, paralyzing my arm.

I was dimly conscious of harsh breathing and a flurry of activity. Then the door slammed. I tried to rise and was engulfed by a wave of nauseating dizziness. I lay still until it passed. Then I struggled upright and steadied myself against a chair. The closet door stood open. Three short steps had brought him close enough to strike. The letter I had started to read was gone.

I reached for the phone and called Nola. When he heard my voice he knew something was wrong and demanded sharply, “What’s up, Scott?”

“Somebody conked me,” I said shakily. “Damn near fractured my skull.”

“Where are you?”

“In Eddie Lang’s room.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. He was hiding in the closet and came up behind me.”

Nola muffled an oath. “Are you all right?”

“I think so. Listen, John, didn’t your boys find a portfolio of letters belonging to Lang?”