Parnell Hall: The Baxter Trust

Farron shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“There you are.”

Farron reached into his briefcase, pulled out a thick manila file, and threw it on Dirkson’s desk.

Dirkson eyed it suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“Glad you asked. That’s our file for the last thirty days. Blackmail letters, threats of bodily harm, crank phone calls. I don’t run ’em all down. If I had a hundred more men I would. I don’t, so I don’t.”

Dirkson shook his head, condescendingly. “Lieutenant. It’s not a question of what’s fair.” He pointed to the file. “These letters are trash. You could take ’em out and burn ’em. I wouldn’t say a word.” He picked up the blackmail letter. “This letter is important. And you should have done something about it.”

Farron sighed. “In hindsight, even I know that.”

Dirkson frowned. “I’m not talking hindsight. You knew who the girl was, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You knew she was Maxwell Baxter’s niece?”

“Everyone’s related to someone.”

“Everyone is not related to Maxwell Baxter.”

“I know.”

Dirkson sighed and settled back in his chair. “Well,” he said. “There’s nothing to be gained by going into all that now.”

Farron’s smile was somewhat strained. What the hell did Dirkson think they’d been doing?

“No, sir.”

Dirkson pressed the intercom. “Send her in.”

An officer ushered Sheila into the office. A stenographer entered with them and began setting up a small table.

Dirkson immediately reverted to his constituent face. “Sit down, Miss Benton,” he said, smiling graciously, as if it were a social occasion. “Now, I just need to ask you a few questions.”

Sheila smiled back, but her attention was diverted by the stenographer, who had opened his notebook.

Dirkson, noticing this, said, “Just routine. In a murder case we never trust to memory. We take down the statements of all the witnesses.”

Sheila fidgeted, nervously. “I really don’t know what I’m a witness to.”

Dirkson smiled, reassuringly. He picked up the letter. “Well, let’s start at the beginning. Yesterday, you received this letter.”

“Yes. Also a phone call with exactly the same message.”

“Did you recognize the voice?”

“No. I’d never heard it before. It was a man’s voice, but that’s all I could tell.”

“Could it have been the voice of the dead man?”

“It’s possible. I have no way of knowing.”

“You never saw him before?”

“No. I came back to my apartment, and there he was.”

“Where had you been?”

“What?”

“Before you discovered the body. Where had you been? What had you been doing?”

Sheila’s eyes flicked for just a second. “Window-shopping.”

Dirkson noticed. A veteran interrogator, he knew he’d hit something. He didn’t know what, but something about her answer had made her uneasy. It could have been a lie, an evasion, or simply an incomplete answer, but it was something.

“Window-shopping?” he said. “Where?”

Sheila smiled at him. “In windows.”

Dirkson smiled too, but it was a forced smile, and in that moment he felt more sympathetic toward Lieutenant Farron. Jesus. Another of these nitwits who are so young and cute and pretty that they think that’s all they ever have to be.

“What windows?” he asked.

“On Fifth Avenue.”

“What stores?”

“I can’t recall offhand. Stores in the fifties.”

“How long were you window-shopping?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m very poor about time.”

Dirkson would have been willing to bet she considered it an adorable habit, too. “More than an hour?”

“It’s possible.”

“Why were you window-shopping? Were you looking for anything in particular?”

“No. You see, I’d been to my uncle’s on Park Avenue. I thought since I was in the neighborhood, I’d browse.”

“Your uncle?”

“Yes. Uncle Max. Uh, Maxwell Baxter.”

Dirkson shot a glance at Farron. “Ah, yes. Maxwell Baxter. You called on him this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Sheila smiled. “He’s my uncle. And my trustee and guardian. I call on him all the time.”

“You had no particular reason for calling on him this morning?”

“No.”

“It was purely a social call?”

“Yes.”

“And what time did you get to his apartment?”

“I have no idea. Uncle Max could probably tell you.”

“Was anyone else there at the time?”

“Yes. Uncle Teddy and Phillip. That’s Teddy and Phillip Baxter. Teddy is Max’s brother. Phillip is my cousin. Teddy’s son.”

“I see. And were they there when you left?”

“No. They had to run. Phillip was on his way to Boston. He’s going to summer school at Harvard. Teddy was taking him to the bus.”

“So they left first?”

“Yes.”

“And what time did you leave the apartment?”

“There again, you would have to ask Uncle Max.”

“Well, how long were you there?”

She shook her head. “I tell you, I’m terrible with time.”

“At any rate, you left his apartment, you went window-shopping, and then you went home?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get home?”

“By taxi.”

“And what time did-” Dirkson broke off. Smiled. “Never mind. What happened after you got there?”

“I walked in and found the body.”

“So what did you do?”

“I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I ran out and called the police.”

“You didn’t call from the apartment?”

“No. It was awful. He was lying there, with the blood and everything, and- No. I ran out and called from the corner.”

“You didn’t touch anything in the apartment?”

“Are you kidding? I got out of there fast.”

“You didn’t touch the body?”

Sheila looked at him in surprise. “God, no. Why would I do that?”

Dirkson shrugged. “I don’t know. Feel for a pulse? See if he was dead?”

“Oh. I see.” Sheila considered this. “That’s funny. I never thought of it. I just assumed he was dead. I mean, he looked dead, you know.” A thought struck her. “Was he alive? I mean then?”

“He was dead when the police got there,” Dirkson said. “That’s the best we can do.”

“You mean he might have been alive when I found him, and then died? Oh.”

“And you have no idea who he was?”

“No. Who was he?”

Dirkson shook his head. “We don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. He had no identification on him.”

“Oh. Isn’t that a little strange?”

“Yes, it is. But he had nothing in his pockets.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Oh.”

Farron stole a glance at Dirkson. Nothing but the key, he thought. He saw the way Dirkson’s mind was running.

“You have any idea how this man got into your apartment?” Dirkson asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“You keep your apartment locked?”

She gave him a look. “In New York City? Of course I do.”

“Then how could he have gotten in?”

“I have no idea.”

“Anyone else have a key to your apartment?” Dirkson asked casually.

Sheila’s eyes flickered. Johnny had a key. But that was none of their business.

“No,” she said.

Dirkson caught it again. But he didn’t press the point. He just made a mental note to find out to whom she’d given a key.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get back to the letter. Can you think of any reason why this man would have sent you the letter?”

“I can’t think of any reason why anyone would have sent me that letter.”

The phone rang. Dirkson picked it up, listened and said, “Okay. Thanks. Send in Tucker.”