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

“Found it myself. I was there.”

“Why didn’t you keep it?”

“Because it was old stuff. Innocuous. What’s needling you, boy?”

“A letter from his uncle,” I said, hollow-voiced. “It’s gone. There was a clue in it somewhere.”

“Don’t guess, Scott. Be specific.”

“I can’t. I didn’t read the letter. You did. Dig in, Lieutenant, please, and try to recall. What did it say?”

We had a bad connection. Static crackled softly over the wire. Finally his voice came: “Listen, Scott, that letter was written a year ago. The guy was a windbag, full of fury, griping about his job and knocking European customs, their lack of efficiency. You know the type. A tongue-waver.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “I know the type. Talk to you, later, John. My head’s splitting.” I hung up.

Sure, I reflected grimly. The type is well known to me. Sometimes it’s only talk and sometimes it’s more than talk. They thought Hitler was nothing but a windbag too, until he gave the world twenty-four hours to get out.

People reveal themselves by what they say. A man’s true stripe rides close to the tip of his tongue. And clues in a murder case can be found in character.

I turned towards the door and winced with pain. I removed my hat, gingerly exploring the wound. It was open and moist and needed attention. So I descended to the fifth floor and knocked on Gladys Monroe’s door. She asked who it was. She opened at once when I identified myself, her face pleased and bright. One look was all she needed.

“Mr. Jordan!” she said in quickly rising alarm. “Are you ill?”

“Something fell on my head. Have you got any iodine and a band-aid?”

She ran to the bathroom cabinet and came back. “Let me see.” I turned and heard her gasp. “Something fell on your head? What was it, Rhode Island? You need a doctor, somebody with needle and thread. Look, Mr. Jordan—”

“Scott.”

“Look Scott, I’m going to call—”

“Later,” I said. “Emergency repairs will do for a while. I’ve got to see a man. It’s urgent.”

She said no more and went to work. Antiseptic was an applied flame. She pinched the wound together and covered it with a band-aid. “How do you feel?”

“Slightly used, but ready for action.”

The phone rang and she reached for it. “Yes,” she said, “this is Miss Monroe.” Her eyes widened. “You’re in the lobby now, Mr. Parish, and you’d like to see me?”

I caught her attention by chipping at the air. Tell him you’re alone, I signalled, and willing to receive him. She took the cue without faltering and told him to come ahead. Then she turned to me in puzzlement.

“What’s this all about, Scott?”

“No time for explanations now,” I told her swiftly. “Just listen. Listen carefully. I want you to stretch the truth. Tell him Eddie often spoke about his Uncle Victor. Tell him you have a snapshot somewhere.” I bent down and brushed her cheek lightly with my lips.

She blinked. “Who was that for?”

“Me.”

“Then it’s my turn now.”

I swallowed an impulse to give her the chance and ducked toward the closet.

“What are you going to do?” she called nervously.

“Hide. I want to observe his reactions. Slow down, Gladys, and look natural.” I left the closet door slightly ajar for visibility and ventilation.

Just in time. Almost at once there was a knock on the door. I was proud of Gladys. She handled the situation with bland innocence. “Mr. Parish, I’m delighted to meet you. Eddie mentioned your name only yesterday. Come in, please, won’t you?”

He accepted the invitation, courtly and urbane, lips smiling over the red-tinted imperial. His clothes were fashionable, a shade too meticulous, and he carried a silver-knobbed walking stick with quite a bit of dash. He tucked it under his elbow and bowed from the waist. “A pleasure, Miss Monroe; a pleasure indeed.”

The amenities over, he sat in the proffered chair and appraised her with a wandering and faintly lecherous eye. “Why, you’re quite lovely,” he remarked benignly.

“You sound surprised, Mr. Parish.”

“Not surprised. Pleased. In fact, overwhelmed. I consider myself something of a connoisseur. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Please do.”

He lit one of his fragrant cigars, savored it for a moment, and then inquired idly, “In what connection did Eddie mention my name, may I ask?”

“He read about your arrival in New York and he was very anxious to see you about his uncle.”

“Ah, yes.” The bearded face went long and solemn. “I feel badly about that. Can’t forgive myself. Should have broken the news to him more gently. Didn’t realize Victor was the only family Eddie had. The boy was badly shaken. I take it he’s in the morgue?”

“Yes.”

Parish nodded with sudden decision. “I’d like to do something in Victor’s memory. Give the boy a decent burial.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Parish.” Gladys was having a little trouble keeping her voice steady.

“My pleasure. He seemed a decent lad. Liked him on sight. Had he asked you to marry him?”

“We were friends, that’s all.”

“Too bad. He’d have made a fine husband. Did Eddie speak of his uncle often?”

A bull’s-eye for me, I thought, smiling tightly to myself in the closet.

“Oh, yes,” Gladys said. “He read me all of his uncle’s letters.” She frowned. “As a matter of fact, his uncle sent him a snapshot once. I think I have it. Eddie traveled light and I keep a lot of his personal papers in my wardrobe trunk.”

“Was there much resemblance?”

“A little, around the eyes. It’s hard to remember details like that.”

Parish sighed. “Victor was my right hand man for years, and I haven’t a single memento. Would the picture still be in your possession?”

“I think so. Shall I try to find it?”

His face brightened eagerly. “Why, yes. I’d appreciate that very much.”

She swung open her wardrobe trunk, removed one of the drawers, placed it on the bed, and bent over to sort through an accumulation of papers. The man behind her rose silently. His lips, I saw, were pulled back over his teeth. The whole cast of his face had changed, its features distorted. He raised the walking stick.

I kicked the door open and was on him like a cat, gripping his wrist. An enraged growl tore at his throat. He twisted violently, trying to break loose. I bulled him across the room and wrenched the weapon free.

He crouched back, panting, a bloated vein throbbing spasmodically in a blue diagonal across his temple.

Gladys had wheeled and was watching us, white-faced, stifling a cry.

I saw the red beard quivering with indignation as he tried to assume an air of outraged innocence. “What does this mean?”

“It means it’s all over, Victor,” I said.

“What?” His jaw hung askew.

“You heard me. The masquerade is over. You tried to pull a fast one and it almost worked. Malcolm Parish died in Italy last year and you took his place. No one knew him there and it was easy. You grew a beard like his and learned to forge his signature. You changed your appearance and your handwriting, but you couldn’t change your character. Parish was satisfied to live on his income, but you were more ambitious. You wanted the whole works.”

Victor Lang swallowed audibly. He was breathing hard through distended nostrils. “You’re crazy!”

“Not me,” I said. “You are. Crazy to think you could get away with killing Eddie because he recognized you. You couldn’t swear him to silence. The boy was too honest to go along with your stunt, and he threatened to upset your apple-cart. He’d seen my name in the papers connected with the Parish Lines and said he was going to see me right after the last show. But you got there first and nailed him when he came out of the elevator.”