Richard Deming - Tweak the Devil’s Nose

It was the largest transaction on the list — thirty-five thousand shares of Ilco Utilities at two dollars a share. And Ilco Utilities was one of the companies in which Walter Lancaster had also been a large stockholder.

I thanked Mr. Mohl for his co-operation, collected Fausta and departed. She and the front-office blonde failed to exchange farewells, but the blonde signified her awareness of my departure with a dazzling good-bye smile. Ordinarily this would have brought a caustic remark from Fausta the moment we were outside, but apparently she was still acting the role of the skittish maiden pursued by a wolf.

When she made no comment whatever on the blonde, I couldn’t resist saying, “Good-looking girl, that secretary.”

“Yes,” Fausta agreed sweetly. “I think she liked you too. She would be a nice girl for you, because she is just your type.”

“My type?”

“Earthy. Very physical. Probably she would admire a man who chased women about the house trying to tear their clothes off.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “When did I ever...?”

“Also you could catch her easy because she could not run very fast,” Fausta interrupted. “Naturally she would have to lean backward when she ran, on account of being so top-heavy in front. The girl has a wonderful build, has she not? Like a show girl, almost.”

She paused a moment, then added, “A dairy show.”

Glancing at my watch, I diplomatically changed the subject by muttering that it was only a little after three. “Day and Hannegan don’t want their sleep disturbed until four,” I said. “Let’s go interrupt Isobel Jones’s nap.”

Fausta raised one eyebrow. “Isobel? I did not know you and the lady were on a first-name basis.”

“I’m an informal guy,” I growled. “I call all my mistresses by their first names, Miss Moreni.”

We did not succeed in interrupting Isobel’s nap, because she wasn’t asleep when we arrived. Attired in a scanty sun suit, she was seated on the front porch sipping a highball, the color of which led me to believe it was the usual mixture of Scotch and bourbon. Fausta eyed the narrow halter and brief shorts of our hostess dubiously, unsuccessfully searched for boniness in Isobel’s soft shoulders, or the faint indication of wrinkles in her smooth throat, then greeted her with a sisterly smile in which there was only the barest suggestion of sororicide.

Before returning the greeting with an identically sweet smile, Isobel subjected Fausta to an equally quick but thorough examination. I never fail to be fascinated by the coldly calculating way in which beautiful women study each other whenever they encounter, and momentarily it always sends a chill along my spine. If anyone ever looked me over with the expression used by the gentler sex in examining each other, I would back into a corner with a gun in my hand.

I said, “We thought we’d have to wake you up, Mrs. Jones. Your husband told us you meant to take a nap.”

“I planned to,” she said. “I hardly got two hours’ sleep last night, but the excitement and the ordeal of being questioned by the police has me so on edge, I doubt I’ll ever sleep again. Will you people have a drink?”

Both Fausta and I shook our heads. Fausta seated herself in a canvas chair similar to the one Isobel occupied, and I sat in the green porch swing.

I said, “I know you were answering questions all night, Mrs. Jones. But would it upset you to answer one or two more?”

“Why, no. But I told Inspector Day everything I knew about poor Willard. I couldn’t sleep, you see, so I took a little walk and dropped in at the Sheridan merely because it was handy—”

“I heard that story,” I interrupted. “Let’s work on a different one. Let’s go back to the night Walter Lancaster was murdered.”

She looked surprised. “Mr. Lancaster? But obviously Willard had nothing to do with that. You don’t think I did, do you?”

“No. You know you rather amaze me, Isobel. You don’t seem in the least grief-stricken over Knight.”

This got me two reactions: a smoldering look from Fausta for switching to Isobel’s first name, and a deprecating shrug from Isobel.

“Of course I feel terrible about it,” the latter said in a tone lacking the slightest evidence of grief. “But after all I didn’t know Willard very well. He was my husband’s partner and all, but we didn’t move in the same social group, and actually he was more of a friend of my husband than of me.”

I shook my head at her wonderingly. “Isobel, you’re one of the best actresses I ever encountered. In the face of all the evidence, do you really expect to convince either me or the cops you weren’t carrying on an affair with Knight?”

She straightened her back indignantly. “Why, Manny Moon! To say a thing like that in my own house! Or on the porch of my house anyway. When I tell my husband...”

“The cops already told him,” I said. “He doesn’t believe them, and after witnessing your convincing performance, I understand why. But I’m not your husband, and personally I don’t care how many lovers you have. I also have no intention of spoiling your husband’s beautiful faith in you. All I want is verification of some things I’ve already figured out, and only oral verification. You don’t have to sign anything, and if you object to a witness, Fausta can go inside while we talk.”

Isobel said primly, “There is nothing I have to say I can’t say in front of a witness.”

“All right,” I said resignedly. “Let’s start with the morning after Lancaster’s death. Willard Knight’s wife says that when Willard saw the morning paper, at first he acted elated, then upset, and when she questioned him, he refused to tell what it was in the news that affected him, but he did remark it was a mixed blessing. Obviously what he saw was the news of Lancaster’s death.”

Isobel looked politely interested, but offered no comment.

“What elated him,” I went on, “was the realization that Lancaster had not had time before he died to make public certain irregularities he had uncovered in a firm both Knight and Lancaster held large interest in.”

Isobel said, “I know nothing of Mr. Knight’s business affairs. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know anything about my husband’s.”

“Then I’ll bring you up to date. Knight had misappropriated seventy thousand dollars of the company’s money in order to speculate, and stood to lose it if Lancaster made his announcement. Lancaster’s sudden death gave him time to dispose of the stock and return the money to the company account.” I examined her for a trace of surprise, found none and asked, “Doesn’t it even worry you that Knight nearly bankrupted your husband?”

“Harlan told me about it over the phone,” she said serenely. “Since Willard managed to return everything before he died, I can’t see any cause for worry.”

I conceded that hole. “Then we come to Knight’s second reaction. When the first wave of elation passed, he became upset. And the more he thought about it, the more upset he became. Finally he grew so upset, he decided to run and hide. Know why?”

“I assume because he thought he might be suspected of the murder. I seem to recall your mentioning he had threatened Mr. Lancaster.”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t only that. Innocent people don’t run, even when they know they’ll be suspected. Knight had two other reasons for running. First, because he couldn’t afford to be delayed even for questioning until he unloaded that stock, and second because he didn’t want it known where he had actually been when Lancaster was shot.”

Isobel’s bored attention settled on her drink. “He was with you, of course,” I said. “As he probably always was when he told his wife he had a board meeting. I imagine if we got Mrs. Knight and your husband to compare notes, we’d find Willard’s board meetings always coincided with your husband’s trips out of town.”