Lawrence Block - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 2. Whole No. 834, February 2011

Propped up in bed on some pillows, Henry Culver was a sorry sight. His face was heavily bruised and two bloodshot eyes stared out from beneath the bandaging around his head. He had sustained cuts, abrasions, and a cracked rib. The fingers on his left hand had been broken by a blow from the cudgel. His lips were swollen, and some of his teeth had been dislodged. He was evidently in great pain, but had refused to go to the hospital.

Left alone with him, Lyman expressed his sympathy and asked him to recount what had happened. What he heard was substantially the version given to him by the wife but there were additional details. The banker remembered that his attacker had an Irish accent and had said, “That’ll teach you, Mr. Culver!” before he fled.

“It was no random assault, then,” noted Lyman. “He knew exactly who you were and when you were likely to return.”

Culver was alarmed. “Does that mean I was watched?”

“It’s more than likely, sir.”

“Why?”

“Only you can answer that. Do you have many enemies?”

“None at all that I know of,” said Culver, proudly. “Oh, I have business rivals, of course, and some of them stoop to disgraceful tactics from time to time, but they’d never be involved in anything like this. It’s unthinkable.”

“Could it be that you’ve upset someone recently?”

Culver’s eyes flashed. “There’s no question of that, Mr. Lyman,” he snapped, “and I’ll thank you not to make such suggestions. I’m a highly respected banker with years of service behind me. I didn’t get to such an eminent position by upsetting people.”

Lyman suspected that that was exactly what he’d done. Culver had the peremptory tone of a man who expects to be obeyed and who can’t conceive that he’s causing offense when he throws his weight around. The detective became less sympathetic towards him. On the other hand, Culver was retaining his services, so a degree of politeness was obligatory.

“From all that I’ve heard so far,” said Lyman, “it sounds to me as if someone was issuing a warning. Who might that be, sir?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“I believe that you do, Mr. Culver, and that you’re deliberately holding something back.”

“Damn your impertinence!”

“I’m only being practical,” insisted Lyman. “Since I have so little to go on, I need every scrap of information I can gather. You, for whatever reason, are concealing something important. I can sense it. You obviously don’t trust me, and I, as a consequence, have lost trust in you. Goodbye, Mr. Culver,” he added, moving towards the door. “I think you need to find someone else to handle this case.”

“Wait!”

It was a howl of pain. Lyman turned to look at him. Squirming in his bed, Culver wrestled with his thoughts for several minutes. When he eventually spoke, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “My wife must know nothing of this,” he emphasized. “Maria is hurt enough as it is. I want her spared any more suffering.”

“I understand, sir.”

“There is something you should know. The reason I didn’t tell you about it before is that I’m rather ashamed. It shows me in a foolish light.”

“Go on,” invited Lyman.

The banker sighed. “I received a letter,” he admitted.

“A threatening letter, I daresay.”

“It didn’t seem so at the time, Mr. Lyman. That’s why I didn’t take it seriously. It simply informed me that I should be very careful from now on. That’s all. I thought it was some silly joke designed to give me a scare, so I decided to ignore it — how stupid of me!”

“Did you keep the letter?”

“No, I tore it up and threw it away.”

“That was unfortunate.”

“I thought no more of it until this arrived today.” Reaching under the pillow, he extracted an envelope and handed it over. “Like the other one, it’s unsigned.”

Lyman took out the letter and read it aloud. “Does that change your mind, Mr. Culver?” He looked up at the banker. “It couldn’t be more explicit than that, sir. Was this written by the same hand as the first letter?”

“Yes, Mr. Lyman — I’m certain of it.”

“Then I’ll hang on to it, if I may.”

“Please do. I’d hate my wife to find it.” Culver shook his head. “I’ve never had trouble of this kind before. I know that the city is a dangerous place, but I keep well clear of bad neighborhoods. I’ve always felt perfectly safe walking down my own street at night. That’s why I was completely off guard.” He heaved another sigh. “I’m beginning to think that Hazelhurst may be right.”

“Hazelhurst?”

“He’s an acquaintance of mine — William Hazelhurst. When I met him recently, he told me that he employed a bodyguard to drive him home after dark and to keep an eye on the house.”

“Where does this gentleman live?”

“Four blocks away from here, Mr. Lyman.”

“I would’ve thought this was a relatively safe neighborhood.”

“That’s what I believed — until last night.”

“I think I’d like to speak to Mr. Hazelhurst,” Lyman decided.

“Then you’ll have to go to his office on Fifth Avenue. He’s a lawyer who deals with criminal cases all the time so he’s well aware of what really goes on in this city.”

“Did he mention that he’d had letters like yours?”

“No, Mr. Lyman. He simply said that he was taking wise precautions. I wish I’d done the same.”

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me his address,” said Lyman, taking out a pencil and pad. “I’ll call on Mr. Hazelhurst this very morning. Meanwhile, get as much rest as you can, sir, and tell your wife not to worry. I’m sure that this crime can be solved.”

When Lyman arrived at the office, the lawyer was busy with a client, so the detective was forced to wait. It gave him the opportunity to talk to the secretary in the outer office and gather a lot of information about the firm of Hazelhurst and Orme. The premises were well appointed and there was an air of prosperity about the whole enterprise. Lyman watched a number of clients come and go. He was eventually shown into a large office whose walls were lined with bookshelves filled with massive legal tomes. Behind the leather-topped oak desk sat William Hazelhurst. He rose to exchange a handshake with Lyman, then resumed his seat. The detective was waved to a chair opposite him.

Hazelhurst was a tall, thin, angular man in his forties with dark brown hair and muttonchop whiskers. Impeccably dressed, he peered over eyeglasses perched on the end of his nose. Lyman explained the purpose of his visit and the lawyer was appalled.

“Attacked outside his own home?” he said. “That’s dreadful.”

“I understand that you live nearby, Mr. Hazelhurst, and have thought it necessary to engage a bodyguard on occasion.”

“Only when I’m returning home late at night — one can never be too careful.”

“How long has this been going on, sir?”

“For a few months now,” replied Hazelhurst. “Early in January, I had the feeling that I was being followed and that my house was being kept under observation. I never actually saw anyone, mark you, but I was nevertheless unsettled. Whenever she ventured out, my wife had the same sensation.”

“Did you get in touch with the police?”

“Yes — they agreed to increase patrols in the neighbourhood but saw nothing untoward. Our sense of unease continued. Then one of the servants did see someone — a brawny individual, watching the house one evening. When he realized he’d been spotted, he vanished into the shadows. That settled it,” said Hazelhurst. “I went in search of a bodyguard.”

“Where did you find one?” asked Lyman.