Читать книгу Murder Applied For - Lloyd Biggle jr. - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

Webber got up and walked over to the window. He stood looking down at the parking lot as the Old Man strode briskly over to his car, got in, and drove away.

Hendricks said quietly, “You two ought to bury the hatchet. You always used to be great pals.”

Webber shrugged wearily, and returned to his chair. “The girl at the hospital,” he said.

“Yes. The girl at the hospital was Betty Parnet. Now how do you interpret Frank’s notes?”

“There’s only one possible way to interpret them. Someone applied for an insurance policy on the life of Betty Parnet without her knowing about it.”

“Is that possible?”

“It’s possible to try. Obviously. I don’t think it would be possible to get a policy issued. Certainly not one that large, with the investigating we do. In some circumstances I suppose a small one might slip through.”

“I see.”

Webber realized suddenly that Hendricks was an angry man. Fury throbbed in the scowl that twisted his lean face, and flashed dangerously in his dark eyes.

“How was Betty Parnet killed?” Webber asked.

“Automobile accident.”

“Sure. Now I want you to draw me a nice, pretty picture, and don’t spare the gruesome details.”

“What sort of picture?”

“We have two people killed in two separate automobile accidents. You’re behaving as if they’re both murder cases. Start drawing.”

Hendricks lit a cigarette, and tossed the match at an ash tray. He missed, and perched on the edge of the desk shaking his head. “Nerves. You and Frank were close friends, I suppose.”

“He was like a big brother to me. A darned close big brother.”

“He was a wonderful guy. I always wondered why he didn’t marry. Some woman missed getting a first rate husband.

“Some woman missed being a young widow. Let’s have it.”

“We don’t have any answers, yet,” Hendricks said. “But I think I know what the questions are.” He sent a smoke ring whirling across the room. “I have it figured out something like this. Frank had this Parnet investigation to do, and sometime this morning he went to the Ronson and Wilcox offices looking for her. She wasn’t in. He tried to get some information from the receptionist, and she wouldn’t talk. Is that unusual?”

“It happens,” Webber said.

“Then Frank called on Betty Parnet at her home address, which is 974 Sunset Boulevard. He wrote up a summary of what happened and let the matter drop. I suppose he figured if Betty Parnet didn’t apply for any insurance, of course the company wouldn’t issue the policy, and he’d have been wasting time and money to go into it any further. He had plenty of other work to do, se he went ahead with his other investigations. Three of them concern people living in Rossville. Sometime late this afternoon he drove to Rossville, and when he’d finished he came back to Carter City on Ridge Road.

“From this point I’m guessing, but I think it happened this way. Earlier in the day, Frank noticed that he was being tailed. He wrote down the car’s license number on his memo pad, probably meaning to ask me to check it out for him. Maybe he was just curious, or maybe he had a better reason. Whether or not he connected it with the Parnet case, we’ll never know. But he did write it down.

“He drove back to Carter City, and just as he got to suicide curve he witnessed a peach of an accident. Or maybe he came along just after it happened. Anyway, it was a peculiar accident. According to witnesses, the car made no attempt to go around the curve. It went straight ahead, crashed through the guard railing, rolled down the embankment, and wrapped itself around a tree. The driver had her chest crushed and was probably killed instantly. Her face wasn’t injured, and when Frank stopped and went over to the wreck, he recognized her as Betty Parnet.

“He knew something was wrong. The girl claimed she hadn’t applied for any insurance, but somebody had, thirty-five thousand dollars’ worth on her life, and she was dead. He drove a quarter of a mile toward town, and stopped at Bill’s Place. Know it? Combination gas station and hamburger joint. Frank didn’t drive into the station. He parked along the highway, and went in to make a phone call.

“Now get this. I’ve known Frank Milford all my life. We went through school together, and he went to work for National Credit about the same time I joined the force. We haven’t been in close contact the past few years, but several times Frank has run into things he thought peculiar, and given me leads on them. His leads were always good.

“He had a lead for me today, Ron. As soon as he recognized Betty Parnet, he stopped at the first public telephone he saw and called me. Maybe he knew more about the case than what he wrote down. I think so—but unfortunately I was out. He left word that he was on his way down to see me, and then he ran out to get into his car. Just as he got the door open, a car veered off the road, ran him down, and kept on going. Witnesses said it had been parked up the road waiting. And they got the license number.”

Hendricks paused, and puffed nervously on his cigarette. “We found the hit-and-run car abandoned. It was a stolen car, and the plates had been switched. Odd, the number of stolen cars we’ve had all of a sudden.”

“You found the report on Betty Parnet in Frank’s briefcase, and started to add one and one,” Webber suggested.

“Yes. We couldn’t read Frank’s shorthand, but of course the girl’s name and address, and the information about the insurance policy, were typewritten at the top of the sheet. The fact that he stopped to call just after he passed the scene of the Parnet accident, and the fact that thirty-five grand is a fair amount of money, made us look into the Parnet death very carefully. The steering mechanism on her car had been tampered with. The poor kid didn’t have a chance on that curve. She was murdered just as certainly as if someone had pointed a gun and pulled the trigger.”

“Then there was that license number on Frank’s memo pad. We already had the number of the hit-and-run car from witnesses, and they matched. When you find a hit-and-run victim who has already taken down the number of the car that killed him, you stop calling it an accident. Did Frank say anything at lunch about being tailed?”

“Not a thing.”

“Either those men—there were two of them in the car—were following Parnet to see how things went, or they were still tailing Frank. They knew he’d talked to Parnet this morning, and the moment he walked over to the wreck to see the girl’s body, he knew too much. Or maybe he knew too much anyway. They killed him the first chance they got. Total score: Two damned clever murders. If luck hadn’t been on our side, both of them could have slipped through as accidents. Is that enough gruesome detail?”

“Plenty,” Webber said.

“We have one more piece of highly interesting information. The car Betty Parnet was driving—that was a stolen car, too.”

“You’re kidding!”

Hendricks raised his right hand. “Fact.”

“I’ve never seen a more unlikely-looking car thief.”

“The whole situation is unlikely. The car she was driving was reported stolen at one-thirty this afternoon. The owner is one William J. Howard, who just happens to be Betty Parnet’s uncle—and the man named as beneficiary on that insurance application. Before you start working that one over, I need some help. Betty Parnet said she didn’t apply for an insurance policy. I have to know whether she was telling the truth, and if she was, the key problem is this investigation will be to find out who did. I’ve been trying to get in touch with the Star Mutual manager for the last two hours. No luck. How can I get ahold of that insurance agent tonight?”

“Just a moment,” Webber said. “Can I have Frank’s reports? I might as well type them up. If I don’t, someone will have to go over the same ground again.”

“Eventually they’ll be evidence—I hope. I’ve already had them duplicated. Will the copies do?”

“I suppose.”

“Take the copies, then. What about the insurance agent?”

“Your boys brought me down here,” Webber said. “Will you drive?”

* * * *

There was no moving traffic on Front Street, and few parked cars. Webber directed Hendricks into a parking place, they jumped out and quickly climbed a flight of stairs to the National Credit Company office.

Webber produced a key, fumbled, turned it over, fumbled again, and got the door open. “First time I’ve ever had to use it,” he said.

Hendricks was studying the row of desks. “Did Frank have a desk here?”

Webber had a filing drawer open, fingering the contents. “Over there,” he said, nodding. “The second one.”

“Any chance that he got back here during the day, and left something in his desk?”

“No chance at all. He typed all of his reports at the apartment. Brought them in every morning, picked up his new assignments, and left for the day. If anything came up—here it is, Jones.”

“Jones? Any first name?”

“No. Probably not necessary. Star Mutual probably has only one Jones.”

“Carter City has more than one,” Hendricks said. He flipped open a telephone book, and shook his head. “Carter City has about four columns of them. Can I make an outside call on this phone?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Put a man to work on the City Directory.”

“We have six copies of it here.”

Well down the list of Joneses, they located Raymond F., insurance agent. Hendricks telephoned, found him home, and promised to call on him within the next twenty minutes. He kept his voice down and spoke politely and somehow conveyed the impression that the consequences would be dire indeed if Mr. Jones did not see fit to wait.

He slammed the phone down. “Want to come along?”

“No,” Webber said. Funeral arrangements, relatives—he wondered if Frank had left a will.

“I’m not just asking to be sociable. I might need you again.”

Insurance policies. Bank accounts. Gloria. “All right. How could the police get along without conscientious citizens like me?”

When they reached the street they found a patrol car double-parked by Hendricks’s car. “Any trouble?” the officer asked Hendricks. Hendricks told him no, no trouble, borrowed the use of his radio, and then sent him on his way. A moment later they were driving quickly through the near-deserted streets.

Hendricks drove staring moodily straight ahead. Webber leaned back and closed his eyes, and did his thinking aloud.

“There are other angles to this thing,” he said. “You have an insurance application for a thirty-five thousand dollar policy, and there’s only one person on this planet who could possibly benefit from such a policy. The beneficiary. William J. Howard, wasn’t it? The girl’s uncle? And if she was driving his car, and the steering mechanism had been tampered with—”

Hendricks made no comment.

“Wonder if there was a double indemnity clause,” Webber mused. “That would double the amount of insurance in event of accidental death, which would make the policy worth seventy thousand. Few uncles have nieces who do as well for them. Have you done any checking on the beneficiary?”

Hendricks did not answer.

“Who is this guy Howard?”

“Like you say, there are other angles. Some of them are peculiar. How will the insurance company handle it?”

“That’s hard to say. If no money was paid with the application, they’ll just forget about it. But if money was paid, most companies consider the insurance in force when the examining doctor approves the applicant, if it’s a large policy. Whether the company could legally avoid a payment on the basis of Frank’s notes, I couldn’t say, but you can count on a thorough investigation before Mr. Howard gets his thirty-five thousand dollars. Or his seventy thousand dollars.”

“Was money paid with this application?”

“You’ll have to ask agent Jones about that. Anyway, if Betty Parnet didn’t apply for this insurance, she certainly didn’t have a medical examination.”

“But whoever did apply might have had an examination.”

Webber whistled. “That wouldn’t have occurred to my innocent mind. It takes a policeman to think up angles like that.”

Hendricks spoke savagely. “A policeman—or a crook.”

They had reached the outskirts of town, and Hendricks started checking the names of streets in a new subdivision. He found the one he wanted, and turned. He flashed his spotlight on a couple of house numbers, and drove slowly.

Webber made out outlines of a few of the houses and said dryly, “Insurance agents must do pretty well.”

“This one seems to, if he can sell insurance to people without their knowing about it.”

Hendricks checked again with his spotlight and parked. Webber followed him up the walk to a sprawling brick house. Chimes sounded as Hendricks raised the door knocker, and the door swung open immediately. The short, stocky insurance agent greeted them with a grin. It was a broad grin, a permanently-installed grin, a typical salesman grin. Webber had the feeling that he could meet such a grin on the street in Carter City, or in Moscow, or Timbuktu, and know a sales pitch was moving right behind it.

“Raymond F. Jones?” Hendricks said. “Hendricks is my name. I talked to you on the telephone. This is Ron Webber.”

Webber handed him a card, and he glanced at it, and nodded. “Oh, yes. You do our inspection reports. Come in, won’t you?”

They followed him into the living room, and caught a fleeting glimpse of Mrs. Jones disappearing into the kitchen. Jones flipped off the television set, and they arranged themselves on sleek, modernistic chairs that looked and felt as if they were folded for storage.

“What can I do for you?” Jones asked. He held onto the grin, but his feet were shifting at much too frequent intervals, and beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead. His thick glasses gave his eyes a comically-bulging appearance. Webber felt sorry for him. He hoped that the agent hadn’t already spent his commission on Betty Parnet’s application.

“We’d like some information,” Hendricks said. “Recently you sold some insurance to a Miss Betty Parnet. Do you remember her?”

Jones relaxed visibly. He guffawed, and slapped his leg. “Remember her? I won’t forget her in a hurry. I don’t write a thirty-five thousand dollar case every day. In fact, that’s the biggest one in a couple of months.”

“An investigator talked with Miss Parnet this morning,” Hendricks said. “She told him she hadn’t applied for any insurance.”

That wiped away the grin. “Hadn’t applied—is this a gag?”

Hendricks shook his head slowly. Jones turned appealingly to Webber, who also shook his head slowly.

“The gal gave me an annual premium in advance,” Jones said. “One thousand, five hundred and fifty-seven dollars and eighty-five cents. I won’t forget that right away, either. You must have talked to the wrong person.”

“Are you personally acquainted with her?” Hendricks asked.

“Never saw her before in my life. Some of us insurance agents have coffee together at the Carter Restaurant every morning at ten-thirty. I got there early, last Saturday, and the others hadn’t come in yet. The waitress said to me, “How’s the insurance business?’ and I said, ‘Fine’ and then this gal came over to my table and said she wanted some insurance.”

Webber glanced at Hendricks, and found him studying the polished brass trim around the fireplace.

“What’s wrong with that?” Jones demanded. “There’s no law against selling insurance to strangers.”

“There doesn’t have to be,” Webber told him, “as long as we investigators do our job. What did she look like?”

“Blonde, average height, not bad looking.”

Webber and Hendricks exchanged puzzled glances. It sounded like Betty Parnet.

“She didn’t look particularly wealthy,” Jones went on. “I thought she probably wanted a thousand dollars or two at the most. She said she wanted a savings plan, so I told her what five thousand would cost—just to sound her out, you know. Darned if she didn’t ask me what thirty-five thousand would come to, and ten minutes later I had the application. Retirement plan at age sixty, with an annual premium.”

“Was she carrying all that money around with her?” Hendricks asked.

“No. We went over to the First National Bank. I waited while she drew out the money, and she paid me, and I gave her a receipt.”

“What about the medical examination?” Webber asked.

“The company requires two examinations for that much insurance, and they have to be on different days. I made an appointment for her for two o’clock Saturday, and another for nine o’clock Monday. Yesterday.”

“Did she keep them?”

“I don’t know. I suppose she did. Neither of the doctors has said anything. I offered to chauffeur her around, but she said she could manage all right by herself. Wait.”

He bounded across the room to the telephone. It took him some time to locate both of his doctors, but he had recovered at least the front edge of his grin by the time he got back to his chair. “She kept them,” he said. “She saw both doctors. I guess you must have talked to the wrong person.”

Webber looked at Hendricks. “He wrote the application Saturday morning, and the first examination was Saturday afternoon. Remember Frank’s notes? Betty Parnet wasn’t working today because she’d worked last Saturday.”

Hendricks face was grim. “That slipped my mind. Thanks.”

“Look,” Jones said. He got to his feet and stood with his hands on his hips. Anger colored his face. “No woman would pay that much money and take two examinations, and then say she’d never applied for any insurance. Women change their minds, sure, but I’ve never known one to forget a fifteen hundred dollar deposit. I’ll see this Betty Parnet tomorrow, and prove you’re wrong.”

“You’ll see her tonight,” Hendricks said. “And so will your two doctors. And I hope you’ll be able to prove something.” He moved toward the telephone bench, and added, over his shoulder, “You’ll have to see her at Municipal Hospital. I want to know if you can identify the body.”

Looking at the insurance agent’s stricken face, Webber pondered the mysteries of a police investigation. Hendricks attempted to hide his objective and spring it as a surprise—which was absurd, because the guilty party was forewarned anyway, and the innocent party not infrequently was able to perform simple arithmetic.

Webber wondered that the police ever got any information at all. They treated all their informants as suspects, and perhaps they treated their suspects as informants—never having been one, he didn’t know.

But it was certain that few policemen would make good insurance investigators.

Jones meekly gave Hendricks the telephone numbers where the doctors could be located, and Hendricks sat down at the telephone bench, tried to get his long legs arranged, and finally stood up to dial. He did not treat the doctors as suspects. He gave them a terse, professional statement of his problem, and then he called headquarters and arranged to have a stenographer at the hospital.

“There may be two Betty Parnets involved in this,” he said, as he hung up. “We’re not going to make much progress until we know which one was killed.”

Jones got his grin adjusted while Hendricks was telephoning, and he began to cast glances of wistful speculation in Webber’s direction.

“Been with National Credit long?” he asked, as they started for the door.

“Not long,” Webber said.

“Are you married?”

“Not to my recollection.”

At any moment Webber expected to hear him break out with that fatal line, “Mr. Webber, at what age do you plan to retire?” But the problem of transportation intervened. Jones insisted on driving himself, so that no one would have to be imposed upon to take him home.

“He’s worried about the impression on the neighbors,” Webber said, as he climbed into Hendricks’s car.

“How’s that?”

“He’s afraid you might send him home in a patrol car, with siren screaming and a couple of uniformed officers as duo-chauffeurs. Speaking of home, would you drop me off at mine?”

“Sure. But I thought you’d want to find out what happens, for that report on Betty Parnet.”

“You can telephone me, can’t you?”

“Yes—”

“Do that,” Webber said. “I’ll be home. And awake.

Will, insurance policies, relatives, the funeral—he’d have to pick out an undertaker—and Gloria. Someone would have to tell Gloria.

Already the night seemed endlessly long, and he felt exhausted. And it was only the beginning.