Ричард Деминг - Man-Trap

It was obvious from the inspector’s expression that he not only minded, but considered the suggestion preposterous. As chief of Homicide he was used to others waiting on his convenience, and reversal of the usual procedure caught him off center. But it was equally obvious Matilda Graves had no idea she was speaking to the chief of Homicide, and assumed he was merely a plainclothes policeman. Since he could hardly correct her impression without sounding pompous, he grunted something unintelligible, seated himself in the visitor’s chair farthest from Isobel Jones and glanced at Isobel obliquely. As usual he covered his unease at the presence of an attractive woman with a fierce scowl.

Isobel said, “Hello, Manny,” nodded at Fausta and favored the inspector with a dazzling smile.

With his eyes on Matilda Graves, who was too plain to upset him, Day muttered, “Morning, Mrs. Jones.”

I said, “Can’t even the wives of businessmen get in to see them when they’re in conference?”

“Not when they’re in conference with lawyers, apparently. This seems to have been a bad day to call for shopping money.”

Fausta had seated herself between Isobel and Day, which left me standing, as there were no more chairs.

“Why don’t you bring a chair from Mr. Knight’s office,” Isobel suggested. “I’ve had experience with Harlan’s ‘few minutes’ before, and sometimes they stretch.”

“I’ll stand,” I said, but when nearly ten minutes passed with no sign of life from Jones’s office, I changed my mind and crossed to the door of Knight’s office.

Apparently the partition between the two rooms was thin, for the moment I opened the door I could hear the murmur of conversation through the wall. Although muffled, I could make out the words without difficulty.

A husky voice I at first thought was that of a man, but almost immediately identified as that of Mrs. Knight, was saying, “I don’t see that Willard’s borrowing has any bearing on the subject, since he returned every cent. It was an equal partnership, wasn’t it? So why should I accept less than half the firm’s value as estimated by an independent appraiser?”

A suave voice I assumed belonged to the lawyer mentioned by Isobel began an explanation. “The total estimated worth of a business of this nature has to be based on two factors, Mrs. Knight. There is first the intrinsic value of office fixtures and equipment, monies and securities belonging to the firm. Things upon which an accurate monetary value may be fixed. But the other factor is intangible. It consists of customer lists, the firm’s reputation in financial circles, the sales ability of firm members and so on. In this case a large part of this intangible value rests on the last item, the sales ability of the members. Now your husband was an excellent salesman, but obviously this ceased to be an asset to the firm the moment he passed away.”

“How about the customer list?” Mrs. Knight asked sullenly. “Didn’t Willard build that up as much as you did?”

Apparently this was addressed to Harlan Jones, for after clearing his throat, Jones’s voice said, “Yes, of course. It’s only fair to concede that.”

“But on the other hand,” the lawyer smoothly interjected, “your husband’s... ah... borrowing firm funds undoubtedly will have some adverse effect on the firm’s business. Rumors certainly will spread, particularly since a rival investment house knows of the... ah... borrowing. And while to some extent these rumors may be offset by the general knowledge that the borrower is no longer active in the firm, you must concede this would not be the case were Mr. Knight still alive. Therefore I think it hardly would be fair to consider the firm’s reputation among the intangibles in arriving at an estimated value.”

Mrs. Knight sighed.

Obviously the man was Harlan Jones’s lawyer instead of Mrs. Knight’s, I thought. And he was good. But why was the division of the business being rushed, and who was doing the rushing, Jones or Mrs. Knight? Willard Knight had been dead less than forty-eight hours... as a matter of fact, due to the delay attendant on an autopsy, I imagined he had not yet even had a funeral.

Who was it that was so eager to divide up the business that the matter could not wait until Knight was buried?

I said to Isobel, “You didn’t mention Mrs. Knight was in there with your husband.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Should I have?” Then she asked curiously, “How did you know she was?”

“Thin walls,” I said.

Warren Day said restlessly, “How long are we going to have to wait, Miss?”

The question was addressed to Matilda, who said, “I’m sure it won’t be long, officer. I buzzed Mr. Jones that you were here.”

At that moment Harlan Jones opened his office door to glance out. His eyes widened when he spotted the inspector. He hurried over to him. “I had no idea it was you waiting, sir,” he said, nervously shaking Day’s hand. “Miss Graves merely announced a policeman.”

Jones smiled skittishly at Fausta, nodded to me and gave a preoccupied greeting to his wife. “I’m afraid I’ll be tied up for some time, Inspector,” he went on. “Suppose we step into my ex-partner’s office to go over what I’ve been able to unearth. My other visitors can wait in mine.”

Isobel said, “While you’re here, dear...”

“Oh yes,” Jones said. Self-consciously, while we all looked on, he extracted what looked like two fifties from his wallet and handed the bills to his wife.

Jones moved toward Knight’s office with the inspector following, but when I rose to trail along, Isobel said, “Can you spare a minute, Manny?”

Stopping, I said, “Sure.”

Fausta asked sweetly, “Want me to step outside?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Isobel said in an equally sweet tone. “Manny and I have already covered all we need to say to each other in private.”

Fausta’s eyes developed a glitter which decided me to move my good shin out of kicking range. I went back to my chair.

Isobel asked me, “Why did you think it funny I did not mention the grieving widow was closeted with my husband and his lawyer?”

“I didn’t think it funny. I merely commented.”

“You said thin walls. Do you know what they’re talking about?”

“Yes.”

She waited a moment, and when I failed to elaborate, asked, “Well, what?”

“Why?”

She bit her lip, glanced sidewise at Fausta and said, “Has it anything to do with what we were discussing the other day?”

Suddenly I saw the light. She was afraid Mrs. Knight and her husband were comparing notes about Willard Knight’s “board meetings”, and with her husband’s lawyer in on the conference, naturally she was upset.

Rising, I said, “Relax, Isobel. They’re discussing what Mrs. Knight should receive for her husband’s share of the business. Apparently your husband wants to buy her out.”

She looked surprised. “But the funeral hasn’t even been held yet! It’s not until tomorrow.” Then her expression turned scornful. “She was always an unfeeling woman. Not a drop of sympathy or understanding in her veins. No wonder Willard searched elsewhere...” Abruptly she stopped and glanced at Fausta again.

Rising, I said in a bored tone, “I know. His wife didn’t understand him.”

I was moving toward the room containing the inspector and Harlan Jones when Isobel said to my back, “Well, she didn’t. She didn’t even show sympathy when she learned Willard was facing ruin because of what that Mr. Lancaster had found out, and might even have to go to jail. She just berated him for borrowing the money.”

My hand was on the knob of Knight’s office door before Isobel’s remark completely penetrated.