Lively Game of Death (19 page)

“That’s the date ending the previous fiscal year for Goetz Sales.”

“Exactly! So—since you told me that Mr. X, the silent partner, took deferred profits, having them paid out at a slower rate to benefit the business—the ‘Y’ entry can only indicate our silent partner. ‘Y’ equals Mr. X. Or maybe we should just call him Mr. Y from now on. Now note a similar outlay of five hundred dollars on January thirty-first and February third—the purpose of such expenses being coded in Goetz’s book as ‘T-numeral four-X.’ Suppose the ‘X’ were to stand for Tom Lasker.” Hilary ran her finger down the second page of notations. “Here we are. On February eighth, another five hundred dollars is in the outlay column, but this time it is noted as ‘T-numeral four-Y’ and the payment is ‘DEF’—in other words, it is deferred. What can we gather from that?”

Scott nodded, a pleased look on his face. “Beautiful, Hilary! It means Y, the partner, took over for Lasker, and, as usual, deferred his payment.”

“But what the hell is ‘T-numeral four’ supposed to tell me?” Betterman interrupted. Hilary said nothing; instead, she stared at Scott.

Passing a bony hand through his hair and rumpling it, the Trim-Tram president pondered it briefly. Then a smile lit up his angular face. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “T-numeral four—four T’s! Trim-Tram’s Tricky Tires!”

Harrison clapped enthusiastically, but he cooled it when Saxon prodded him ungently in the ribs.

“Now we not only have two spies,” Hilary remarked, “but we even know the changeover took place sometime between February third and eighth—”

“But why have
two?”
Saxon asked. “Why not stick with Mr. Y in the first place, since he’s already there?”

“Good question,” Hilary responded. “The answer is that Mr. Y didn’t have the access to the plans that Lasker had. His role, prior to Lasker’s last-minute defection, was to tell Goetz who might be potentially disloyal to Trim-Tram. But—and this is important—once Lasker let Goetz down, it’s evident from the books that Mr. Y had to finish up. Ignoring what we know from what Mr. Frost said, we still can see that if Mr. Y couldn’t open the drawer to get at the plans, then first, Lasker had passed on all but final design details, things that could be reported through simple inspection of the Tricky Tires prototype, and second, Mr. Y therefore had legitimate access to the prototype. Does that make sense, Scott?”

He nodded. “The important thing about our toy is the mechanism. Another knock-off artist would’ve come up with his own paint and contour scheme, enough to make small differences in the design. But Sid must have wanted to cause maximum confusion on the counters. Or, at least, he wanted us to think so, which we did. And, of course, I’d have had no alternative but to settle with him out of court.”

Frost laughed at that, but his female companion angrily shushed him.

Scott continued. “As far as the prototype is concerned, every Trim-Tram officer has had plenty of chances to look it over.”

“But would a glance be enough to copy the total design-paint plot?” Hilary asked.

“I doubt it,” he replied to her.

“Then,” said Hilary, “we are about to introduce Mr. Y.”

That was the cue for everyone to talk at once, but Betterman, wiping a hand across his mouth and putting down the unfinished portion of his sandwich, called for order. He told Hilary to proceed.

“The changeover in ‘double agents’ took place about six weeks ago,” she told us, “or just after Lasker was promoted. Of course, when I was prying into things earlier today, I didn’t know that. But I did hit on one important clue—the deliberate imperfection in the head of the miniature driver of Tricky Tires. Nobody but Lasker and Scott knew about it, yet Goetz had not copied it. It was possible, of course, that Lasker told Goetz about it early on, but I didn’t think so. Assuming he hadn’t, what could I infer?”

“Hold on,” the inspector said. “You can’t gloss over that point. How can you be sure Lasker didn’t tell Goetz about this imperfection?”

“Well,” she answered, “I don’t know it for a fact. But you didn’t see Tom Lasker this morning. Before he left the conference room, he inspected the photos of the Goetz knock-off very carefully. Then he took off for the city in a hurry. It looked like he’d spotted something in the pictures, though I couldn’t see what at first. But later, when I found out about the imperfection, I realized its absence was what Lasker had noted. And he must have known immediately who Mr. Y was.”

Scott made appreciative sounds, but Hilary wouldn’t accept them.

“I don’t deserve praise for this one, Scott. I was too obtuse. All I could see at first was that Lasker must be the spy because he was the only suspect to know of the imperfection. But, you see, there was an entirely different way of explaining its absence ...”

She paused, probably for effect. It worked; no one said a word, but there was a hushed expectancy in the room; even Betterman sat up straight.

“The imperfection, you see,” said Hilary, “was marked with a dot of green coloration. Which, of course, never would have shown up on a
black-and-white
glossy photograph.”

Letting the implication hang, Hilary swung her attention to the table on our left, where the three Trim-Tram officials were sitting. Scott and I did the same, and in their seats, Harrison and Saxon pivoted to look at the man on their left. Soon, every eye in the room was on Mr. Y.

“Now wait a damn minute!” Dean Wallis said, lifting his ponderous butt from his seat, “you don’t hope to—”

Hilary, paying no attention, overrode him. “You were the one man, Mr. Wallis, authorized to take photos of the prototype. And, by your own admission, you were the only person to handle the development of the film and take it to the trade magazines. And—”

“You
bastard!”
Saxon interrupted. “And you had the guts to accuse
me?!”

“She’s out of her mind, Chuck!” Wallis assured him. Then the accused turned to ask Frost for advice, but Hilary was in high gear now and told him to shut up, which he did.

“I’ve wondered,” she said to him, “just what
you
were doing at Trim-Tram on the Sunday you saw Saxon. Were you smuggling out the film? No, I guess you were authorized to remove the photos from the building. Never mind, we have enough without that.”

“Such as what!?” the pudgy adman demanded.

“Such as the fact that you were present at the interview between Lasker and Scott when Tom asked for a promotion. You knew of his monetary needs. So you must have suggested his name to Goetz.”

Scott nodded. “I remember now ... Tom approached me while I was having an informal discussion on advertising in Dean’s office!”

“That
still
doesn’t prove anything!” Wallis shouted, his double chins trembling with rage.

“Then what about the detail of your once having worked for Goetz?”

“Everyone knew that!”

“Yes,” she persisted, “but how convenient! You and your partner must have discussed the wisdom of your going underground by taking a job with some competitor. Of course, you couldn’t betray Trim-Tram immediately, you had to build up confidence—”

“Prove it!” he jeered. “If you can’t come up with anything but unfounded accusations to connect me with Sid, you’ll be saying your piece in court!”

Scott, staring hard at Wallis, rose, and the fat little executive, withering before the gaze of his principal, slumped far down into his chair.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Scott said crisply, “Hilary has proved her case. You are finished with Trim-Tram.
And
this industry, if I have anything to do with it.” He sat once more.

Hilary was shaking her head. “That’s not good enough, Scott. I want no doubts whatsoever about Wallis’ complicity in the Goetz theft. I’d like to ask Mr. Wallis how—if he had no recent connection with Goetz Sales—
how he managed to enter this showroom today when the door was locked?”

I was torn between studying Wallis’ reaction and looking at Betterman. The former blanched, and seemed to run out of guff. But Hilary’s remark was a dangerous slip; it didn’t jibe with the story she’d told the police inspector. I eyed him anxiously to see how he would react.

The burly cop, leaning once more against the wall, began to study the ceiling with furious indifference.

“Well,” said Wallis, a stammer starting to affect his speech, “what if I
was
responsible for the things you accuse me of? I’m not admitting them, but just suppose I was—they’d still hardly be of interest to the police.”

“I was coming to that,” Hilary retorted. “I said the Trim-Tram spy killed Lasker. I haven’t retracted that statement.”

Wallis turned so white I thought he’d faint again. But he was mute.

“When Lasker recognized the evidence of the photos,” Hilary continued, “his first idea must have been to talk to Goetz, then to Wallis, who’d already gone to The Toy Center. But when he found Goetz dead, Lasker must have surmised that Wallis was the killer. ...”

Betterman started to ask her to prove a few assumptions, but she raised a hand to stave off his impatience. “One more theory,” she said. “After Lasker saw the body and talked with Frost, he waited for Wallis outside the Trim-Tram showroom, near the fatal stairwell. When Wallis emerged from the showroom, Lasker must have grabbed him and started to warn him not to betray his secret. They must have struggled, and Lasker got shoved down the stairs—”

The adman interrupted, ranting. Betterman told him to shut up.

“Next point,” said Hilary. “Wallis has no alibi for lunch today. He says he ate alone, which is ridiculous. No adman takes a private lunch during Toy Fair. Next time I saw him, he was so upset he collapsed.”

“Because I saw Sid lying there!” Wallis yowled. She ignored him.

Turning to the inspector, Hilary asked whether the rubble and splinters at the scene of Lasker’s death had been picked up and filed. He said yes.

“Then,” she asserted, “you will find a particularly thick piece of glass among the debris. It has sharp, jagged edges and was resting next to the body. It probably made that gash in Lasker’s hand.”

“I know which one you mean,” Betterman remarked. “It’s a piece that broke out of Lasker’s eyeglasses.”

“No, Inspector,” Hilary said, shaking her head, “the glass frames and the rest of the splintered lenses were on the steps much higher up than the body. The shard I’m referring to was near Lasker—how could it be so far away from the rest of the shattered spectacles?”

“It must have broken off—”

“Compare it with his prescription, if you can get hold of Lasker’s oculist. I’ll bet it’s much too thick for glasses.”

“Then what do you think it is?” the policeman asked.

“Part of a camera lens.”

“A lie!” Wallis squealed. “It’s no such thing!”

“Wallis had to have a camera for a photo session he was covering for me this afternoon. But he must have broken his in the fight with Lasker—”

“Look!” the other screamed, holding up the camera I’d seen him with earlier that day. “Do you see anything wrong with this instrument? There’s not a scratch on the lens.”

“Of course not,” Hilary agreed. “But that’s not the one you left the Trim-Tram factory with this morning!”

I remembered what Hilary’d said about a contradiction in three dimensions, and I recalled that I’d wondered why Wallis didn’t own a camera with through-the-lens focus.

Subconsciously, of course, I must have realized that he
did
have such a camera: the beautiful Mamiya I’d seen over his shoulder at Trim-Tram.

The similar-looking instrument he was holding out for inspection was a Minolta.

Either he realized it was hopeless to continue, or his nerve just gave out. Suddenly the adman swung the camera at the nearest policeman’s midriff. For all his excess weight, Wallis moved swiftly; before anyone knew what was happening, he was halfway to the showroom door.

“Grab him!” Betterman shouted.

The patrolman at the front door braced himself for the onslaught, but he never had to face it. As Wallis charged by Willie Frost, the lawyer stuck out a foot and sent the other sailing. It was the most impressive belly flop I’d ever seen.

Two of the patrolmen rushed over and, each taking an arm, helped the adman to his feet. Betterman ordered them to search his pockets for weapons, but Wallis was clean of hardware.

However, they found two far more interesting objects on him: a key to Goetz’s showroom—and a receipt, made out earlier the same day by a camera repair shop on Twenty-third Street opposite FAB, for repairs to be made on a damaged Mamiya 35-mm.

“It was an accident!” Wallis whined to Betterman. “Tom jumped out at me, threatened to expose me if I didn’t keep quiet about him. I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he became violent. He pushed me, then I shoved back at him, and he lost his balance. I grabbed for him, but only got hold of the cord of his glasses; they broke off into my hands. Lasker snatched at me, grabbed my camera, but that cord snapped, too, and he fell with the camera in his hands. They both smashed against the bottom step!”

“And his glasses?” the inspector asked, his notebook out.

“I was scared no one would believe it was an accident, and I was afraid my fingerprints’d be on them, so—well, I crushed them underfoot. I dropped them on the stairs, then rushed down and grabbed my camera and ran ... but it really
was
an accident! I had no intention of killing Tom!”

“And Goetz?” Betterman asked.

“I had nothing to do with that!”

“All right,” the inspector said, motioning for the patrolmen to remove Wallis, “that’s good enough for now.” He asked Hilary whether she had anything else to say.

Sitting down for the first time since she’d begun, and sounding tired, Hilary answered, “Only one other thing, Lou. There
is
a motive to connect Wallis with Goetz’s murder.”

“Which is?”

She nodded to Frost.

“Oh, yes,” the lawyer said to Betterman, “since Wallis is the silent partner in Goetz Sales, you ought to know: he stood to inherit almost all of Sid’s estate.”

“Well,” the officer smiled, rubbing his hands briskly together, “we certainly can take it from
there!”