The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (19 page)

“But Benny showed us Pierce Armstrong’s name in the log book for that morning,” I reminded him.

Jack nodded. “Since Pierce was already in custody, I’m sure it was Hedda who signed his name, just to make sure she wasn’t listed on any written record. Don’t you remember what those two signatures looked like? The first one was done in big, bold block letters, but the second one—”

“—was in small fluid script, just like Hedda’s signature at my bookstore signing,” I finished for him. Then I took a breath, trying to add it all up. “So if Hedda was in league with Wilma, then she would have known when Nathan Burwell was taking her to the Porterhouse.”

Jack nodded. “And she could have arranged to have the crime happen right in front of the DA.”

I met Jack’s stare. “So Pierce Armstrong was in on it all, too? Even Vreen’s murder?”

“He must have been, doll. The whole scene that night played out like a B-movie script, with Pierce loudly announcing he had no beef with Irving. The guy was obviously trying to set up the accidental defense. Pierce was playing a part for Hedda. And the DA was his audience.”

“If all that’s true, Jack, then Hedda’s actions that night at the Porter house
were
premeditated. She killed Irving Vreen in cold blood.”

“Yeah, baby.”

“But why?” I threw up my hands. “What could Hedda and Pierce, and Wilma, for that matter, have possibly
gained
? What was the conspiracy all about? When they killed Vreen, all they ended up doing was destroying the studio that employed them!”

“I can’t answer that question for you, doll. Not without more pieces to this puzzle. I think, for the moment, we’ve reached a dead end.”

I fell back against the lumpy sofa and sighed.

Jack sat down next to me again, draped a muscular arm across the sofa back. “Tired?”

“No,” I said. “What I am is frustrated.”

“Oh?” the PI arched an eyebrow. Then he gave me a little smile. “
That
I can take care of.” He leaned closer.

“Jaaack... I’m not frustrated that way!”

My pathetic push against his rock- solid chest was enough to make him pause. “Then what
did
you mean, baby?” he asked with a sigh.

“I don’t know . . . I guess I mean I just need more info, too. What ever happened to your own case back here? I mean after you caught that private eye tailing you. Was he working for Hedda Geist?”

“No.”

“Who then? Did you ever find out?”

Jack sighed again, leaned back a little. “You really want to know?”

“Sure.”

“Then close your eyes.”

“Jaaack...”

“No funny business. I promise. So close ’em . . .”

I did.

***

JACK KEPT HIS
promise. There was no funny business next. Just business. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself standing in front of a polished oak apartment door in the hall of a grand Park Avenue building.

Jack was looking spiffy in his brand- new blue suit, his face freshly shaved. He rang the apartment’s bell and waited.

“Where are we?” I whispered.

“Nathan Burwell’s pent house.”

“What? You’re bracing the district attorney?!”

Jack smirked. “I can be wild, baby. But I’m not crazy. Nathan’s not home at the moment.”

The door opened. A young maid greeted us and showed us inside. “I’ll get Mrs. Burwell,” she said and disappeared.

The entryway where we were standing was brightly lit and stacked with trunks and suitcases. I could see a luxurious living room beyond a short hallway. Half of the room appeared to be packed up in boxes.

“Mr. Shepard, thank you for coming.”

Jack gave a curt nod to the tall, slender woman. She was middle- aged, dressed in a beautifully tailored wool suit with stylishly padded shoulders, but her bobbed black hairdo looked more like it belonged in the 1920s than the late 1940s.

“I got your message,” Jack said.

“Yes, well, let’s not prolong this. Here you are.” Mrs. Burwell held out a thick envelope. “This should end our contract.”

Jack hesitated before taking the pay. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Burwell, I’d like to know why?”

“Why?”

“Why you suddenly changed your mind about having your husband investigated,” Jack said stiffly. “Why you expressed no interest in seeing my report or my photographs or anything in my files.”

“Well, I, just . . . don’t need to...”

Jack glanced at the trunks and suitcases. “So you’re leaving?”

Mrs. Burwell nodded. “Nathan’s letting me go. There’s no problem anymore. He won’t fight my request for a divorce, won’t fight for custody of our daughters, won’t even fight me on taking my money with me. So, you see, it’s all worked out.”

“And what changed his mind? Did you tell him you hired me?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Well, Mrs. Burwell, I’ve got news for you: A scumbag shamus tried to get the drop on me last night. Only I got the drop on him. The man’s name was Egbert P. King. I called around and found out he works for Dibell Investigations. You know who they are?”

Mrs. Burwell blanched. “Yes,” she admitted. “I do.”

“So do I. They do the dirty digging for Marigold and Webster, the law firm where your husband worked before he became a public prosecutor.”

The woman’s eyes were wide, her expression clearly distressed. “I never once mentioned you to Nathan, Mr. Shepard. You have to believe me. The reason I’m letting you go has nothing to do with Nathan. I mean... it does, actually, just not in the way you think. Can’t that be enough for you? Won’t you go now and let things be?”

Mrs. Burwell stared at Jack. He stared back. His large form seemed to fill the hallway, and it was clear that he had no intention of moving it until the woman told him what he wanted to know. She seemed to figure that out, too, because she finally cleared her throat and admitted—

“Nathan’s being blackmailed.”

“By who?”

“Someone. He won’t tell me; not even whether it’s a man or woman. He said his hand is being forced in an official capacity. If he doesn’t comply with the demands of this person, then Nathan’s . . . well, his
indiscretions
will be exposed. It would ruin him. Ruin me, too. The scandal would destroy our standing completely.”

“Why don’t you let me uncover this blackmailing rat? You’ve already paid me an awful lot of dough, Mrs. Burwell. Let me find out who’s blackmailing your husband.”

“My husband knows very well who’s blackmailing him, Mr. Shepard. And apparently Nathan has already decided to

give in to this person.”

“So what’s the payoff?” Jack asked.

“No payoff. There’s no demand for money.”

“Then what does the blackmailer want?”

“A reprieve, Mr. Shepard.”

“From what?”

“Apparently from being accused of murder. This blackmailer planned a murder with an accomplice. The blackmailer demand ed Nathan let them both off, clearing them of any crime, but Nathan’s made the blackmailer see that the public needs a fall guy. So in a few months, he’ll put the accomplice on trial—for manslaughter. The blackmailer will betray the accomplice and provide testimony to help with the conviction. Nathan gets a conviction, and the blackmailer goes free.”

Jack’s jaw worked for a moment. “If you don’t want my help, then why are you telling me this?”

“So you’ll take the money and
go
. Nathan doesn’t know about you, Mr. Shepard, and I want to keep it that way. When he found out he was being blackmailed, he told me everything. I told him I wanted a divorce, and that if he gave it to me I’d go away quietly instead of making things worse for him. He has enough trouble, so he’s letting me go. But if he found out I hired a private eye, that you were collecting hard evidence against him to be used in court, well . . . I don’t know what he’d say or do then. So please just take the money and leave.”

Jack rubbed his chin, took the envelope. “All right . . . if that’s what you want.”

“It is. I’m flying to Miami tomorrow with my girls. I hear life’s good down there. Sunny. I like the sunlight. Clears out the cobwebs . . . I’ve lived enough years in Nathan’s shadow.”

WE LEFT THE
pent house and headed outside. It was late afternoon; the sun was going down and the streets were getting dark. Commuters filled the sidewalks, flooding out of office buildings, flowing down to subways, rushing into train stations. Jack flagged a cab and we rode downtown toward his office.

“It had to be Hedda,” I said in the back of the cab. “You know that now, right? The blackmailer was Hedda and her accomplice was Pierce Armstrong.”

“Yeah, baby. It only took me sixty years—and a little snooping redhead—to break the case.”

“Little snooping redhead?” My eyes widened. “You mean
me
?”

“Who do you think I mean, baby? Little Red Riding Hood? I was never able to ID Wilma Brody as the chippy at the Hotel Chester and I never came up with any leads connecting her to the starlet Hedda Geist. Now that you’ve done both, the pieces have fallen into place.”

I stared at Jack, a little stunned. He wasn’t the sort to dish out compliments when it came to gumshoeing—yet here he was telling me I’d actually helped him crack one of his own cold cases. I couldn’t help grinning.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Yeah, well . . . you did good, kid.” Jack chucked my chin. “But don’t let it go to your head or anything. You’re still green as a broken traffic light.”

“I may be green, but I’m far from done.” I folded my arms. “And you’re not off the hook, either. There’s a pretty heavy situation still going on in my time.”

“I know, baby. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good,” I said, then admitted something that was still bothering me. “There’s still one thing about your case I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

“Why didn’t Mrs. Burwell take you up on your offer to help nail the blackmailer?”

“The lady just wanted out. And that’s what she got.”

“But her husband admitted to her that he was going to let a murderer walk free! How can she live with that?”

“You don’t understand these cliff dwellers, baby. The threat of scandal might sound like a punch line to some floozy in the Bowery, but women with Mrs. Burwell’s address would never survive the shame of a tabloid blitz. Society’s circle would close her out. She’d be shunned by friends, family... ruined. It’s a long way down from a Manhattan DA’s wife to an object of pity. Alcohol and pills is the typical end for dames in that situation. I’ve seen it before. They’re lucky if they don’t get a trip to Bellevue and a nice long stay at a cackle factory.”

“But Jack... she’s buying her freedom with a man’s life.”

“Mrs. Burwell didn’t stab Irving Vreen, sweetheart. Hedda Geist did.”

“With the help of Pierce Armstrong,” I pointed out. “And Wilma Brody.”

“Well, Wilma’s dead,” Jack reminded me. “You told me that yourself. She died in 1966 in a horse back riding accident—the same year some journalist tried to open a can of worms on the Vreen murder.”

“But Pierce is still alive,” I noted. “And so is Hedda.”

“And that’s why you’ve got to be careful,” Jack warned. “You’re in the middle of a kettle that’s been boiling for de cades. And it just might explode in your face. Keeping watching your back, honey.”

“I will. As long as you keep watching it, too.”

“I always do.”

“Not my back
side
, Jack. My back.”

He laughed.

A few minutes later, our cab pulled over and Jack paid the fare. As we climbed onto the sidewalk, Jack touched my arm.

“Be a doll, okay?” He took a bill from his pocket and handed it to me. “Take that sweet back
side
of yours into the drugstore on the corner. Buy me a deck of Luckies and meet me upstairs in my office.”

“What am I? Your secretary?”

“For the moment?
Yea
h
, you are. My old one quit last week to get hitched. Just be grateful I haven’t put you to work yet typing and filing.”

“Ha! From the complete lack of orga ni za tion in those dusty files of yours that Kenneth Franken sent over, I’d say you needed to hire a new secretary
badly
.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

We parted ways on the sidewalk. As Jack took his building’s elevator up, I ducked into the corner drugstore. I bought the cigarettes for him, a candy bar for me, and took the same elevator north to his office. The clanging lift may have been new in Jack Shepard’s day but to me it felt like an ancient relic. It had a hard- to- close cage and it squealed and squeaked and seemed to take forever to climb the few flights up. Finally, I arrived.

I pulled back the cage and stepped onto green linoleum. When I found Jack’s office, the door was wide open.

“Jack?”

No lights were on. I glanced around the dim room.

“My god!”

The place was in chaos! Files were strewn everywhere! Chairs were overturned! I flipped on the light.

“Jack!”

I found him slumped on the floor in the corner. His head was bleeding. “Jack, can you hear me? Jack!”

He groaned, his eyelids fluttered and he slowly sat up. “Oh, my head. Those SOBs . . . they didn’t give me a chance . . .”

“What happened?”

“I got jumped. A couple of goons were in here riffling through my files. I’m pretty sure one of them was our old friend Egbert. They must have heard me coming because they were hiding when I opened the door. Then
wham
!” He gingerly touched the lump swelling on his forehead.

“What did they want, Jack?”

The PI slowly rose from the floor. I helped him get to his feet. Once he was steady, he walked over to his secretary’s desk.

“It’s gone,” he said with a disgusted exhale. “I figured it would be. Everything was right here and they took it. The reports, the photos . . .”

“Nathan Burwell’s file?”

“Yeah, baby. Even if I’d wanted to turn him into the feds or the state bar, I’d have no evidence to back my story. They took it all.”

“So that’s why you told me what you did the other day—not to bother looking for the file.”

“Yeah.” He patted the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Mrs. Burwell’s envelope’s gone, too. The DA’s hired goons took it all.”

“All that money? Oh, Jack...”