Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

“Of course.”

“It was a Wednesday. Last month. After lunch my father felt queasy and lay down to rest. No one thought much of it. He’d had stomach trouble for years. Then he got worse. Started complaining of pains in his chest. So I called Dr. Westfield to come at once. By the time he got there, Dad was gone.”

“Dr. Westfield was your father’s regular physician?”

“Yes.”

“And he diagnosed the cause of death as coronary thrombosis?”

“Yes. Dad had a history of heart trouble, and Dr. Westfield was not at all surprised. In fact, that’s why Dad happened to be at home. Dr. Westfield had persuaded him to take a week off from the business to recuperate. He had always warned Dad something would happen if he didn’t take it easy.”

“Who was in the house at the time?”

“Just myself and my father.”

“From lunchtime on?”

“Yes. My stepsister, Phyllis, was here in the morning, but she left just before lunch.”

“No one else in the house.”

“No, except for John. The butler.”

Steve had an absurd flash. The butler did it. Christ, this case was getting to him.

“Who served your father lunch?”

“I did.”

“What did you serve him?”

“Soup, a sandwich, and coffee.”

“Did he take cream and sugar in the coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Did he put it in, or did you?”

“He did. You see, he liked a lot of coffee. I gave him a pot of coffee, a cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar, and a pitcher of cream. I put all those on his tray with the soup and sandwich and served it to him out on the terrace.”

“What became of the sugar bowl?”

“I put it back in the kitchen.”

“Have you used it since?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t done any cooking since Dad died.”

“Where is the sugar bowl now?”

“The police have it.”

“When were they here?”

“This afternoon.”

“What did they do?”

“They searched the place from top to bottom.”

“What did they find?”

“Nothing.”

“But they took the sugar bowl?”

“Yes.”

“Was it right where you left it?”

“It must have been.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Well, not really. I was out on the terrace. They brought out the sugar bowl and asked me if it was the one I’d put on the tray for my father.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them it was.”

“Did they ask you questions?”

“Yes.”

“About the same questions I asked?”

“Yes.”

“Who inherits under your father’s will?”

“I don’t know the exact terms of the will. The bulk of the estate goes to me.”

“And your stepsister?”

“A specified sum. I don’t know the exact amount.”

“The police ask you those questions?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a wonder you’re still here.”

Marilyn just looked at him with a dull stare.

“Now then, we have another matter to discuss, and there isn’t much time.”

“You keep saying that. Why isn’t there much time?”

“Because, unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re about to have company.”

“Who?”

“The police.”

Marilyn frowned. “I don’t think so. The police were quite thorough. The officer in charge said he was sure they wouldn’t have to disturb me again.”

“I assume he was polite and sympathetic and courteous?”

“He certainly was. He kept apologizing for the inconvenience he was putting me through.”

“That’s because they didn’t have enough on you to charge you. When they come back tonight you’ll find they’ve changed their tune.”

“And why would the police come back tonight?”

“They’ll want to question you about another matter.”

“What other matter?”

“David C. Bradshaw.”

Marilyn recoiled as if she’d been slapped. For a second sheer surprise contorted her face. Then she controlled herself. “Who?”

“David C. Bradshaw,” Steve repeated.

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.”

“Then you couldn’t know he was dead.”

“What!”

Steve looked at her closely. The shock at his name had been genuine, he was sure of it. But her shock at hearing he was dead-Steve just didn’t know. It could have been real, or she could have been acting.

“Then you couldn’t know he was dead. For your information, Donald Blake, alias David C. Bradshaw, was murdered this evening, sometime between five and six. His apartment had been ransacked. A large carving knife had been stuck in his back.”

Marilyn Harding had gone white as a sheet. “That can’t be true.”

“Why not? You don’t know him.”

Marilyn bit her lip.

“Beginning to place the name now?” Steve said, dryly.

“No. The name means nothing to me.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s no good, Marilyn. You can’t get away with it. You called on Bradshaw Tuesday afternoon. You were shadowed by private detectives. Those detectives have a license to protect. As soon as they find out about the murder, they’ll report to the police. I don’t know how many other visits you made to Bradshaw’s apartment, and I don’t know if you were there today, but if you were it’s ten to one the detectives know it and will so inform the police.

“You see where that leaves you. The cops will figure you poisoned your father-that Bradshaw found out about it and tried to blackmail you-that when you realized that this was only the first bite and you would have to keep on paying forever, you killed him.

“Now then, before the police get here, why don’t you come down to earth and start talking sense?”

For a long moment, Marilyn just stared at him. Steve sat calmly, waiting for her to talk. He knew she would now. He had her boxed in a corner, and there was nothing else she could do.

She didn’t. Instead she got up, walked over to the telephone, and dialed an number.

“Hello,” she said. “Mr. Fitzpatrick? … This is Marilyn Harding … I’m sorry to call you at home, but I have a problem … There’s a lawyer here, a Mr. Steve Winslow … That’s right. He feels I’m going to be interrogated by the police concerning the murder of a blackmailer named David C. Bradshaw … No, I haven’t … That’s what I thought you’d say … That’s fine. Goodbye.”

Marilyn hung up the phone. “That was my lawyer, Harold Fitzpatrick. He’s on his way over. He lives right up the road. He says I should have nothing to do with you and I should ask you to leave.”

Steve looked at her for a moment. Then he laughed sardonically and shook his head. “Well, that’s just fine. I should have known. Why the devil didn’t you tell me you’d consulted a lawyer?’

“You didn’t ask me.”

“No, I don’t suppose I did. Well, if that don’t beat all.”

Steve got to his feet. “All right. You have the information I wanted you to have. The only ethical thing for me to do at the moment is to wish you a good evening.”

Steve turned to leave just as Phyllis Kemper swept into the room, followed by her husband.

“Marilyn,” Phyllis said. “Why, I didn’t know you had company.”

Marilyn turned, saw them, and Steve saw a momentary flash of panic in her eyes. It’s all too much for her, Steve thought. Her mind’s going to give way.

“Oh. Oh,” she said. “Phyllis. Doug. Oh dear. This is Mr. Winslow. he’s leaving.”

“I should hope so,” Phyllis said. “I thought we left orders to let no one in. No offense,’ she added, with a glance at Steve, “but our family’s had a bit of a shock.”

Steve pounced on the opening. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. My name is Steve Winslow and I’m an attorney.”