Читать книгу The Case of the Backward Mule - Erle Stanley Gardner - Страница 6

A TAXI deposited Terry Clane in front of a down-town office building, for the most part dark and silent now, only an occasional lighted window marking the late labors of some harassed executive trying to catch up in his business affairs by working long after the staff had gone home.

A call-bell summoned the janitor, who brought the elevator up from the basement.

“Who do you want to see?”

“Stacey Nevis.”

“Six hundred and two. He expecting you?”

“Yes.”

The janitor indicated the night register. “Sign here. Your name, the office you’re going to, the name of the man you’re going to see.”

Terry Clane filled in the record. The janitor shot the elevator up to the sixth floor.

“Do you know if he’s still in?” Clane asked as he left the elevator.

“Think he is. Think he’s got another man with him. You the man they’re waiting for?”

“I believe so.”

“Okay.”

The door clanged and the cage slid down into the silence, leaving Terry Clane standing in the dimly-lit corridor down which the echoes of his steps seemed to precede him until he came to the lighted oblong of ground glass which bore the legend in gilt letters “STACEY NEVIS, Investments. ENTER.”

Terry Clane tried the door. It was unlocked and he entered the outer office, its stale aftermath of the day’s business contrasting with the fresh night air on the outside.

The door of the private office was propped open and two men facing each other were seated in chairs that had been drawn close together. They were smoking and there was that about their posture which indicated a low-voiced exchange of confidences.

The man who was facing the door jumped up as Clane entered. He was smiling affably with his hand outstretched. “Well, well, at last,” he said. “We’d about given you up.”

“I was detained,” Clane said, shaking hands.

Nevis, a tall loose-jointed man in the late thirties, managed somehow to keep himself clothed with an air of rustic simplicity despite the expensively-tailored garments which he wore.

George Gloster, the other man in the room, some seven or eight years older than Nevis, stocky, quick, intense, nervous in his motions, rose from his chair, crossed the office with quick strides, pushed out his hand, but his smile was perfunctory. The dark glittering eyes seemed to be taking a cautious inventory. He said, “I’m afraid I haven’t much time left.”

“That’s all right,” Clane said, “it won’t take long for me to say what I have to say.”

“Have a nice trip?” Nevis asked.

“So-so.”

“Boats pretty crowded, I presume?”

“Very.”

“All right, let’s sit down and get going,” Gloster said, and dragged his chair over the office carpet so that it was at the far corner of Stacey Nevis’s desk, which left Nevis virtually no alternative but to seat himself somewhat formally in the swivel chair behind the desk, leaving Terry Clane to take the chair in which Nevis had been sitting when Terry Clane had opened the door.

That left the men seated in a triangle, grouped about the desk, and there was that in Gloster’s manner which invested the gathering with all the formality of a directors meeting. Clane, who had wished for an informal visit, found himself out-maneuvered by Gloster’s trick with the chairs.

“Where is Ricardo Taonon?” Clane asked.

“He had other plans for the evening,” Nevis said.

Clane said, “Well, we can get along without him. As I understand it, Farnsworth was trustee for Cynthia Renton. He was her investment manager and I believe he had about 10,000 dollars of her money.”

“I believe that’s right,” Nevis said.

“I am wondering if some of that money didn’t go into the Eastern Art Import and Trading Company, a partnership composed, as I understand it, of Farnsworth, you two, and Ricardo Taonon.”

“I don’t think it did,” Nevis said.

“I’m wondering. I’m going to try to unscramble some of Farnsworth’s financial affairs, which, I understand, were pretty badly mixed up.”

Nevis ran a big clumsy hand over the top of his head, scratched the hair at the base of his neck. “Hang it, Clane,” he said, “there’s something strange about Farnsworth’s financial affairs. He put 10,000 dollars into the Eastern Art Import and Trading Company all right. He always insisted that was his own. Cynthia Renton’s money went into an oil deal that didn’t pan out. But he offered to take that off her hands any time she wanted to handle it that way.

“Shortly before his death he told us all about it and asked us to let him have 10,000 bucks out of the partnership and charge it to his account.

“We understood how it was and Ricardo told him he could have it any old time he needed it.”

“He had some gold-mining stuff up around Baguio in the Philippines,” Clane said.

“We sent him over there,” Gloster said. “The partnership.”

“I heard that was on his own,” Clane said.

Gloster shook his head. “Ricardo engineered that whole deal. He wanted to keep it under cover and it was given out at the time over there that it was Farnsworth who was making the mining investments. It was all partnership. Farnsworth’s signature’s on the agreement, all signed before a notary.”

“That’s right,” Nevis said. “The trust stuff for Miss Renton is another story. That went into the oil stock. He was willing to take that off her hands. He knew you were coming back, and Ed Harold had been asking questions, so Horace arranged for me 10,000 dollars to pay Miss Renton back her money in cash if she wanted. I guess the oil stuff is worth maybe six or seven thousand, but it’s apt to go up. Horace left twenty thousand in insurance, payable to his estate, so nobody’s going to lose anything. And, as I say, he’d arranged to draw ten thousand from the partnership any time he needed it for Miss Renton.”

“Leave a will?” Clane asked.

“No will. No near relatives. There’s a half-sister in the East somewhere. I guess she’ll take the estate.”

“Who’s handling the estate?” Clane asked. “The Public Administrator.”

“Did Horace leave any detailed account of the trust investment?”

“Yes. He left a statement of trusteeship and a statement that his investments with the trust funds were in this oil business, and that he felt he was partially to blame the stock wasn’t worth more. Therefore he said that if anything happened to him he was giving the beneficiary the option either to take over that investment or to take the cash.”

“Signed by him?”

“Signed before a notary.”

“Rather strange a man would make a statement like that unless he anticipated he wouldn’t live long. He didn’t have any premonition, did he?”

“Not that we knew about, Clane. He was peculiar, given to morose periods of silence. That oil investment worried him. He thought when he went into it he was going to make a million for Cynthia Renton.”

Clane said, “Well, I’m here. I’m going to look into a lot of things. I wanted you to know. You can either co-operate or not. It’ll make a difference whether you want to...in the way I play things.”

“We want to,” Nevis said.

Gloster was silent for a moment, then blurted I don t see just where it’s...well, any of your business.”

“I’m making it my business,” Clane said. “Is that plain?”

“Plain enough,” Gloster said. “Go right ahead. I’ll be in favor of giving you what information you’re entitled to, but I’m not going to open any partnership books to you. And you can bet Ricardo won’t either.”

Nevis said, “After all, we have to account to the Public Administrator, George. Why couldn’t we...?”

“Because we aren’t going to and we don’t have to,” Oloster said, interrupting. “Business is business. Clane comes barging back like the knight in shining armor and sends us a wireless telling us to meet him here on a matter of great importance. Shucks! I’m busy. I don’t intend to be pushed around. Facts are facts, and the facts are there in writing. As far as Horace is concerned, the killing wasn’t over money. It was just plain damn jealousy. Ed Harold thought he was sort of a guardian for Cynthia Renton, and he resented Horace having anything to do with her. And Horace wasn’t at all certain but that Ed Harold was taking altogether too keen an interest in Cynthia Renton’s money rather than in Cynthia herself. And that’s your murder, right there in a nutshell.”

Nevis nodded. “George is right, Clane.”

“And the documents showing this partnership gold deal in the Philippines are all signed by Farnsworth?” Clane asked. “Before a notary,” Nevis said.

“Look here,” Gloster said. “I don’t give a damn about Cynthia Renton’s money or about Horace Farnsworth. If Horace used part of Cynthia’s money to put into this partnership, then she’s entitled to his share, and that’s a nice little melon. If he didn’t, she can get her 10,000 bucks back. Farnsworth told me Cynthia’s money went into the oil, and it worried him. He also put that in writing. I guess that’s enough. If you don’t like it, go talk with the Public Administrator. If you don’t like that, Cynthia Renton can get herself a lawyer. And if you’ll take my advice, don’t go messing around in something that’s none of your business. Edward Harold did that, and where is he now?”

“I guess that’s what the police want to know,” Clane said.

“That’s right. He escaped last night,” Nevis said. “It was a fool move. He can’t get away with it. They’ll nab him sooner or later and any chance of a commutation of sentence from the governor’s office is out of the window now. It’s a shame. He isn’t a bad sort, but he’s hot-headed and he’s bull-headed. Not a good combination.”

Gloster said, “I’ve got things to do. I’m going home.”

He moved over to the coat closet, put on his hat and coat, casually opened the door of the private office, called back over his shoulder “Good night,” and went out.

Nevis made an awkward attempt to be friendly. “George never liked Harold,” he said, “and...well, you know how it is. He’s just, also he’s dour and crabby. Everyone who knows George knows he’s honest as the day is long.”

Clane nodded, said after a moment, “I’d like to talk with Ricardo.”

“He’d have been here if he could,” Nevis assured him. “I guess he knew what you wanted. Guess we all did as far as that’s concerned. If I can help you any, why, let me know. If Cynthia Renton can show any of her dough went into this partnership, she’s certainly welcome as far as I’m concerned. It would be a nice piece of cash.”

“What is Farnsworth’s share worth?” Clane asked.

“You could guess it as around 100,000 bucks,” Nevis said. “And his investment was exactly ten grand. That, of course, is a coincidence. It might be a good one for you. But Horace told me that Cynthia’s money went into the oil deal. He told George the same thing, and it’s in writing. I don’t think you can beat that. We don’t care who gets his share.”

“Thank you,” Clane said, shaking hands. “I wanted to get the facts first-hand. If Horace signed those statements, I guess that’s all there is to it. Cynthia wants cash to pay for Harold’s lawyers and to finance his appeal. I wanted to get the low-down here.”

Nevis said, “I, for one, am mighty glad you’re back, Clane. Anything I can do to help you get settled?”

“Not a thing,” Clane told him.

“Well, if I can...You know, anything, just let me know.”

Clane thanked him and walked out.