Banking on Death Page 16

  “What about Grace ... Mrs. Walworth?”

  “We know all about where she was, and what she was doing,” Self said with a flicker of what might have been amusement. “She’s clear too.” He paused for a moment, and then continued, choosing his words with care. “You know, Mr. Thatcher, when they said you wanted to talk to me I thought it was going to be to ask for special treatment for these people. Or Mrs. Schneider. Now it sounds more as if you’re trying to make a case against these people.”

  Thatcher nodded and smiled wryly; his first impression that Self was no fool was indeed correct.

  “I suppose that to a policeman, this sounds incorrigibly foolish,” he said. “But I just have so many doubts about the whole business that I don’t trust anybody. I suppose that what I really want to do is to be convinced that none of them had the remotest possibility of killing this Robert Schneider before I can be easy in my mind.”

  With more animation than was usual to him, Self again nodded. “Yes,” he said, “yes, it’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it?”

  Thatcher raised an interrogative eyebrow. Self went on: “The feeling—the hunch—the smell that something is wrong. I get it and it drives me crazy; because unless you have proof, it doesn’t do you any good at all. But I know what you mean. You get a kind of a ...”

  “Presentiment,” supplied Thatcher.

  “Hunch,” Self said firmly. Both men smiled. Self went on in what Thatcher was quick to sense was a more relaxed and friendly tone of voice. “I’m not going to be able to help you much in clearing any of these people. We’ve ruled out your Arthur and Grace on the grounds that they were a long way away from Edward Street, and this Martin Henderson because it’s not really likely.”

  “He’s in very serious trouble about money,” Thatcher said.

  Self put his glass down with a decided gesture. “Well, I’m going to look into his comings and goings again, then, but the trouble is that all we’re going to have is another loose end. So far it looks as if nothing is impossible. We can’t rule anybody out.”

  “Take the wife,” Self said. “I don’t really think that she drove a ten-year-old car through the worst snowstorm of the winter to come in from Batavia, bash her husband’s head in, then turn around, and drive home. But I have to keep her in mind because it is remotely possible. It isn’t turning into ...” he thought a moment for the phrase, “into a neat case.”

  Thatcher studied the menu with care trying to think of the areas where he could get useful information from Self.

  “Is this love nest angle really true or is it a creation of the press?” he inquired.

  Self gave an eloquent grunt of disgust; “Love nest! He was sleeping with another man’s wife ....”

  “The mystery woman?”

  “She’s no mystery,” Self said sourly. “We know all about her. And her husband. She’s the woman who was there that evening—the one who brought the wreath, the one who fits the nightgowns. We know that.” The distaste in Self’s voice for some reason reminded Thatcher of Tom Robichaux; he must remember to point out to him that sleeping with another man’s wife constituted a love nest. Aloud, he said, “Do you think she did it?”

  Self stirred his coffee in an absent-minded way. “It’s like this Mrs. Schneider—only in reverse. I sort of think that she might have killed Schneider, but I can’t prove that she was there. I can’t prove that she’s the mystery woman. And I don’t see any reason for her killing him.” He frowned in concentration. “I’m going to keep after her, but I don’t think I’ll find anything. They were careful. Had good reason to be.”

  Thatcher drank his coffee and considered Self’s statement. “I suppose the husband is in the clear.”

  “He was in Montreal, at a dinner given in honor of the Governor General of Canada,” Self said bitterly.

  “My Lord!” Thatcher responded.

  “And after dinner he played poker with six security analysts,” Self added without sarcasm. “I think we can assume that they were not all covering for him.”

  Thatcher began to see more clearly what Self meant when he said that the case was not neat. “Do you think he knew about his wife and Schneider?”

  “You know, I just don’t know. They’re ...” Self apparently thought better of what he was going to say. He stopped abruptly. “The whole thing is crazy,” he said finally. “Then there’s this mystery object. That’s what the papers called it. A blood-crusted mystery object.”

  “What was it?” Thatcher asked, remembering vaguely some reference to it in the press.

  “I wish to Lord I knew,” Self said. “You know there wasn’t much blood, no more than a small thin pool which had dried and crusted by the time we were called in.”

  Thatcher continued eating his apple pie. Somehow a small thin pool of dried and crusted blood had become a matter of only academic interest. Captain Self continued eating too, then said, “Well, our lab men pointed out that something small—about one and a half inches by two and three-quarter inches—had been lying in the blood for several hours, then removed. They could tell by the coagulation—sort of saw the outline. Nothing you could see with the naked eye, but it’s definite enough. And they found paper fibers.”

  Self glared at his coffee. “And of course that’s really torn it.”

  “It means ...” Thatcher began.

  “That the murderer hung around the apartment for several hours after he—or she—brained Schneider with a bookend. Or came back to take this mystery object. Or maybe somebody else came. It must have been something important.”

  “Doesn’t that make it easier to check on your other suspects?” Thatcher asked.

  “Hell, no!” Self said, with a sort of suppressed vehemence. “That night was a blinding blizzard and nobody can prove where they were for the whole night. The wife, the people he worked with ...”

  “What about them?” Thatcher interrupted. “I mean how did they feel about him?”

  “Old man Michaels didn’t like him. Nobody did, as far as I can see. But I guess they all needed him.”

  “He wasn’t trying to move in on the company, was he?”

  Self put his fork down, and looked up cautiously. “It’s possible,” he said. “But not likely.”

  “He had 10 per cent of the stock already, as part of an option plan,” Thatcher commented. “The rest of the stock is in the hands of the Michaels family, isn’t it?”

  Self was still unimpressed. Somewhat ruefully, he said, “We all ride our own hobby horses. You think of that sort of thing. I think of sleeping with other men’s wives. But it’s possible that they’re connected.” He held his coffee cup out for the passing waiter to refill. “It could all fit in. Stan and his daughter own the rest, with Roy Novak—the son-in-law—holding 20 per cent in his own right.”

  Thatcher watched the waiter refill his own cup. “This Novak is in charge of the financial side of the business, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Self.

  “And he’s just gone to Montreal, hasn’t he, to see about licensing arrangements.”

  Self sat expressionless, not because he did not want to discuss this aspect of the case, Thatcher guessed, but because he was old-fashioned enough to dislike talking about a cuckold. He did not press him, but turned the conversation from the Schneider case to Buffalo weather. It lasted them through the coffee.

  As he waited for his change, Thatcher reviewed what he had learned from the big man sitting opposite him. It had been a useful evening, certainly preferable to dining with that fool Cottrell. But it was not so useful as it might have been.

  Grace apparently was definitely cleared, John Thatcher mused. Too bad. She would have made a fine murderess, unregretted, he guessed, by most people. What was it that caused the intensely serious Captain Self to smile at the recollection of her alibi? He made a mental note to find out.

  It occurred to him that it would be courteous to inform Self of his plans. “I’m going out to visit Mrs. Schneider tomorrow,” he said
. “I’ll be interested to meet the woman who married this man.”

  “Now there’s a woman I can’t help feeling sorry for,” Self said readily. “She seems to have gotten stuck with a prime bastard.” There was no doubt that the warmth in his voice was not elicited by his pity for Kathryn Schneider but by his disapproval of Robert Schneider.

  “Yes, that’s the key to the whole thing, isn’t it,” Thatcher replied. “The kind of man that Robert Schneider was. His family—back East—doesn’t have a good word for him. But it’s a little difficult to pin them down—to find out exactly what there was about him that made so many people loathe him.”

  “And made somebody murder him,” Self added. He had started to rise, but sat back again. “I can tell you a little about him. One way or another, I’ve talked to almost all the people who had anything to do with him. He had a lot of faults—but most people do. His wife complained that he neglected her—but hell, so does mine. He wasn’t easy to get on with at the shop, but a lot of people have trouble at work. No, these aren’t the things that made people hate him. They’re just the things people talk about.”

  Thatcher again revised his opinion of Self upward. “What was it that was so wrong about him?” he asked.

  Self glanced at him, suspicious of mockery, and then deciding that Thatcher’s interest was sincere, answered, “Well, the way I see it he was just like a smart little kid. He was so conceited that he couldn’t think about anything but himself. That’s bad enough but—again just like a little kid—he liked to do little things to show off. He did little things to show people like Stan Michaels ...”

  “And Roy Novak?”

  “And everybody,” Self amended firmly. “To show them he was smarter than they were. He liked to get people upset. It made him feel big. His wife told me he was the kind of man who never had time to think about his own son—he was so wrapped up in his work. I don’t believe that,” Self stopped again in search of the precise way to explain what he meant. “You know, there aren’t many people like that in this world.”

  “Damn few,” Thatcher agreed. “You mean the kind of people who live and die for what they’re doing at the office and don’t care about anything else.”

  “Well, Schneider wasn’t one of them,” Self said. “Don’t get me wrong. He was a hard worker, all right. But you just take a look at that Edward Street apartment. Built-in furniture, hi-fi—all of it taking a lot of time and money. No, he noticed a lot of things, all right. He just was playing a game—showing off to that poor stupid woman that he was an important man.”

  Thatcher thought for a moment; this was a new view of Schneider. It sounded reasonable. “The same way that he had an affair with the boss’s daughter and his partner’s wife ....”

  Self hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Sure. To show them how clever he was. How much smarter he was. He liked to remind old Stan Michaels how much they needed him. That’s it, he was conceited and selfish.”

  “And you think he pushed somebody too far? By showing off?”

  “Hell, I wish I knew,” Self said heavily. “It’s possible, you know. He showed off once too often, and somebody just exploded.” He looked at Thatcher, almost with shyness. “You know,” he said, “people get fooled pretty easily. Just because this guy didn’t talk much, a lot of people didn’t see that he was showing off. We see a lot of that kind, you know. Only it’s mostly murderers, not victims. But if this Schneider goaded someone into killing him, it comes out to about the same thing. Funny, isn’t it?”

  Thatcher nodded somberly.

  “I’ve really made a speech, haven’t I?” Self said as he heaved himself out of the booth.

  “A pretty good one, I think.”

  Chapter 16

  Closed Account

  The First National, inspired by its eagerness to please, provided Thatcher with a car and driver for his trip to Batavia the next morning. Thatcher had ample time to review his evening with Captain Self in the light of his approaching interview with Kathryn Schneider.

  He was by no means dissatisfied at the result of his dinner with the phlegmatic policeman, although any tangible benefits were difficult to isolate. He had achieved his visible purpose, of course; he had wrapped around Kathryn Schneider the mantle of power and money, and he could rest assured that she would now be treated with impeccable consideration and impartiality. But five minutes with Peter Self had convinced him that this would have been the ultimate issue in any event. The great danger had been a premature arrest and Self was not the man to be premature in anything. His cases would never go to the District Attorney until they were watertight and foolproof despite the tactics of any defending counsel. A good deal more heartening, however, was Thatcher’s conviction that no hysterical and ladylike schoolteacher could have sustained repeated questioning by Captain Self if she were guilty. He was now fully confident of Kathryn Schneider’s innocence, and he strongly suspected that Self was too. Self’s interest in the ramifications of the Schneider clan had seemed a little too genuine to be entirely attributable to civility. Self had even reciprocated with a little information of his own, an action obviously not characteristic. A good man, thought Thatcher approvingly.

  The car suddenly decelerated as it swung into a side street and the driver leaned forward to study the house numbers. Thatcher remembered that Kathryn Schneider had sounded reassuringly calm when he had spoken to her on the phone after breakfast. They should be able to get through their business quite rapidly if she could concentrate and supply him with necessary details.

  “Here we are, Mr. Thatcher,” said the driver, pulling into the curb before a small shabby house. As Thatcher emerged from the car, the door of the house opened and a woman came out onto the porch. She had obviously been watching the traffic, waiting for his arrival.

  “Oh, it’s so kind of you to come, Mr. Thatcher.”

  “Nonsense,” lied Thatcher bracingly, “I had some business in Buffalo and this trip is no trouble at all.”

  She ushered him into the tiny living room, installed him in the largest chair, and offered him a variety of refreshments. He accepted a cup of coffee as the easiest way to stem the tide of hospitality, knowing that she would not be comfortable unless she had something to fuss with. She returned almost immediately with a tray and seated herself on the couch. As she poured, he noticed the thinness of her wrists and the raised veins in her hands. A woman old before her time—these were not the signs of her recent worries but of years of strain and anxiety.

  “I realize that you must be having a good deal of trouble planning your future, Mrs. Schneider. You should know that I spoke with Mrs. Henderson’s physician before I left New York, and she is sinking rapidly. It can only be a matter of a few weeks at the most.”

  “Mrs. Henderson?”

  “Mrs. Henderson is your husband’s aunt. When she dies the trust funds will be distributed. It is now reasonable to assume that this will happen within the next three weeks.”

  “Then the boys will be all right, no matter what happens to me.” She spoke wonderingly, as if it were impossible to contemplate a situation in which her first concern must not be directed to the vulnerability of her sons.

  “Financially, yes.” Thatcher spoke with intentional crispness. It was his experience that dealing with the details of adversity was not only necessary but also helpful in reducing adversity to manageable proportions. “But there are still a good many other problems. Have you engaged a lawyer?

  “No. Fred—my brother-in-law—tried to persuade me, but I don’t like his lawyer and I don’t know any others, so—”

  “Very well then,” Thatcher interrupted ruthlessly. “If you approve, I have undertaken to arrange something for you. Captain Self and I had a talk yesterday night before I came out here. It’s clear to me that he has no immediate plans for an arrest. Speaking quite personally I doubt if you head his list of suspects, but that’s beside the point. In my opinion, matters have not reached the stage where you need a criminal
lawyer. But you do need legal services for handling your husband’s estate and your sons’ inheritance. The First National Bank has spoken with their outside counsel—Gray, Bettinger, and Linkworth—and Mr. Linkworth has agreed to handle your affairs upon your request. He will be in a position to obtain any additional legal services if the need should arise. What do you think?”

  “That’s wonderful. But Mr. Linkworth’s charges? I don’t think I can afford ...”

  “You can now. The charges will come out of the estate and the trust. I am leaving you Linkworth’s address and phone number. If you will call him as soon as I leave, he will inform Self that he is acting for you. Self will then notify him if he wants to question you further or anything of that sort. If there is any suggestion of an arrest, and let me emphasize that that is an extremely remote possibility, Linkworth will employ someone who specializes in criminal matters. To be precise, he will hire William Denton, who is the most prominent criminal lawyer in Erie County. You understand?”

  Kathryn Schneider nodded dumbly. She was feeling somewhat breathless. After years and years of carrying her burdens herself and having only her brother-in-law to criticize, nag and suggest, it was extraordinarily soothing to have this strange decisive man come in and briskly bark out plans to her, pausing only for formal signs of agreement. It was overwhelmingly simple to allow herself to be swept along and relieved of all necessity for decision.

  “Now, the best thing you can do after you have called Linkworth is to forget completely about the possibility of arrest. There is nothing more you can do in that direction and you have a good many other problems that require attention. It is wise,” he added pontifically, “to direct your energies where they will do the most good.”

  Kathryn was moved to protest at this suggestion that she simply shrug off the threat of being charged with murder and turn her mind to really important problems. “But what about the boys? I know they’ll have money, but they’re only seven and nine. Who will take care of them? I can’t just forget about them!”