Richard Deming - Gallows in My Garden

The inspector nodded again. “About how I figured. Jason Henry, the gardener, has a fifteen-hundred-dollar savings account in the same bank. Also a safety-deposit box.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Which might contain his birth certificate,” I suggested, “or might hold the Aga Khan’s stolen jewels.”

He blew a thin stream of smoke, coughed, examined the lighted end of his cigar with astonishment and punched it out in the tray. “Right. But we can’t peek in without a court order. On Kate Malone, the maid, Karl Thomas, the kid who discovered the body, and Edmund, the houseboy, we drew a blank. No record of savings in any bank in town, and no transactions through investment houses. Edmund has a ‘prompt payment’ rating with the credit bureau, but the other two aren’t known. That winds up the servants.”

“Nothing much there,” I said. “How about the others?”

“With a couple of exceptions, the record reads like Dunn and Bradstreet. Gerald Cushing has about a hundred grand in liquid assets, and seems to be worth over a million altogether. That’s only a guess by Mr. Harvey at the clearing house, because Cushing’s holdings and investments are so complicated it would take a CPA a month to figure him out.

“Jonathan Mannering is worth about a quarter million, mostly in savings and gilt-edged securities. Seems he has the reputation of being a very cautious investor.”

I said, “Ann implied he was a little conservative.”

“Ann?” the inspector asked, frowning.

“Mrs. Lawson.”

He glared at me, then went on. “Doctor Douglas Lawson has a savings account at Riverside National of twenty thousand dollars, and a checking account of a few hundred at the same bank. Seems to have no other assets. That ends the rich kids and takes us to the average people.”

I elevated my eyebrows. “How about Grace? Isn’t she classed as a rich kid?”

Day frowned at the paper. “I guess in a way. But she’s underage and everything seems to be handled through the estate. All I got under her name is the statement, ‘No records.’ ”

“All right,” I said. “Get on to the average kids.”

“Abigail Stoltz has thirty-five hundred in savings, a five-hundred-dollar checking account and a collection of paintings that’s supposed to be worth over twenty thousand. Last year her deposits in her checking account came to about forty-five hundred, which probably indicates her income from her own art work.

“All Arnold Tate has is a checking account of seven hundred and fifty dollars. A year ago it was fifteen hundred and there have been no deposits since.” He raised his head to look at me. “The guy went to school and lived a whole year on seven hundred and fifty bucks.”

“Abe Lincoln did it on less,” I told him.

“Last of all is Mrs. Lawson.” He glared at me again when he emphasized the Mrs. “She used to have a few stocks a while back, but got rid of them. Now she has a savings account of two thousand dollars at Riverside National and a checking account at the same bank with about eleven hundred in it.”

He laid down the memo and I said, “Yes?”

“Yes what?”

“Get on with it.”

He peered over his glasses at me puzzledly. “That’s the works. Everything.”

I sat up straight. “You mean Ann Lawson’s total assets are only thirty-one hundred dollars?”

The inspector seemed surprised at my surprise. “Sure. So what?”

“If you remember the will,” I said, “Mrs. Lawson was left income from a half-million-dollar trust fund.” I did some mental computing. “Even at three percent interest, the income would be fifteen thousand a year, and if Mannering hasn’t been able to find at least three percent on a half-million-dollar investment, I wouldn’t want him investing my money.”

Day still looked puzzled. “Well?” he inquired.

“There was another interesting little item in the will.” I started ticking off on my fingers. “The house, maintenance, servants’ salaries, all were taken care of by another trust fund. Mrs. Lawson doesn’t have any living expenses. So why does she have only thirty-one hundred dollars?”

Day scratched the fuzz over one ear. “I’ll bite. Why does she?”

I leaned back in my chair again. “I’ve got a fair idea, but I want to sit on it awhile. Did your college boy get around to checking on the Lawson ex-chauffeur?”

“Vance Logan? Yeah. But it doesn’t make sense.”

He pushed the papers in his in box around some more until he found another blue memo slip.

“Logan had a checking account of two thousand dollars at First National. He opened it with ten thousand six months ago, ran it down to an overdraft before the end of the month, deposited five thousand more, ran through that, and has been making regular monthly deposits up to ten thousand ever since. Total deposits, including the first, came to seventy thousand dollars. First National has one of those check photostat machines that records every check clearing their bank. Most of his were cashed at North Shore Club and other gambling-dives. Seems the roulette tables got most of it.”

I asked, “Why do you say it doesn’t make sense?”

Day stared at me. “Does it make sense to you for an ex-chauffeur suddenly to start living like a millionaire?”

I nodded. “It’s the first thing in this case that does make sense. Usually you’re quicker on the uptake. Logan was blackmailing someone.”

The inspector slowly straightened in his chair. “Either I’m getting old, or this case has me going in circles,” he said disgustedly. “A rookie could see that, but I have to have it explained by a punch-drunk ex-stevedore.”

“And you can bet your pivot tooth that’s what got him killed,” I went on, ignoring the unnecessary insult. “I’m beginning to get a glimmer of light. What were the stocks you mentioned Mrs. Lawson disposed of?”

Warren Day looked at me strangely. “What you getting at?”

“A brand new theory. What were the stocks?”

Slowly he fished the original memo back out of the in box and studied it. “About a year ago — I haven’t got the exact date — she invested a hundred thousand dollars in Marsh Chemicals. The stock immediately rose and she sold a week later at a ten-percent profit. There’s no record of any other market transactions either before or since.”

“So she closed out with a hundred and ten thousand?” I asked softly. “Where is it?”

“Damn you, Moon!” the inspector said.

I looked at him in surprise and saw his nose was faintly white.

“Don’t blame me for your own evil thoughts,” I said. “It’s not my fault your criminal-investigator mind puts two and two together and makes your ladylove look like a four.”

“She’s not my ladylove!” Day yelled.

“I know it, Inspector,” I said soothingly. “You’re immune to love. In fact I can think of three reasons you’re immune.”

“Yeah?” he said suspiciously.

“Yeah,” I repeated. “You’re too sensible, too level-headed—”

“And?” he inquired when I paused. “Too old.”

“You should be in vaudeville,” he said sourly. “You slay me.”

“If it will make you feel better,” I said, “there’s one part of the puzzle I can’t fit to Ann Lawson.”

“You don’t have to make me feel better!” he yelled at me. “Mrs. Lawson’s nothing to me but another suspect!”

“I believe you,” I said placatingly. “But here’s how things stack up.” One by one I checked off items on my fingers. “One. She has the best motive of all eleven suspects. Two. Just offhand it looks like Logan’s blackmail money came from her — if it was blackmail. Maybe it was just Logan’s pay for bumping the old man off. That’s a possibility, but the best bet is the car was sabotaged in the same way Grace’s convertible was, and Logan somehow found out who did it. Three. She hasn’t an alibi either for the time of Don’s death, or for any of the attacks on Grace.”