The Shattered Raven (16 page)

“Who is this Jones?” Max Winters asked.

“Well, that’s the problem. He’s someone that was at the MWA dinner. He’s someone, I think, that was on Skinny Simon’s radio show.”

Harry Fox let out a short gasp. “One of us, you mean? Max—or me?”

“Not at all, Harry. There were a lot of other people involved in the show. I base that on the fact that the killer knew about Irma Black’s telegram. He couldn’t have found her any other way. I saw the letter that Irma wrote to Ross when she arrived in New York. She didn’t mention any address. Therefore he couldn’t have passed the knowledge on to Jones.”

“Could Jones be someone in broadcasting?” Harry asked.

“You mean like Skinny Simon? Sure, it’s a possibility. And it’s one that I haven’t neglected.”

“Then you really have nothing conclusive,” Harry Fox said, stating the obvious.

“I think we have enough so the police can get on it now. There might have been some other clues left in that bank robbery. Jones left a pretty broad trail in those days, and even though it ended in 1947, there must be some way of linking him with somebody in the present. That’s what we’ve got to do.”

“What about Raven?” Harry asked. “You called me on that from Nebraska. Anything new?”

Barney shook his head. “Raven is the biggest mystery of all. Craigthorn was obviously telling us, when he broke that statuette, that Raven was his killer. Victor Jones is Raven, we know that much. Just as Ross Craigthorn was Caesar in those days. They were names that young men chose, picked from somewhere.”

“Well,” Max Winters said, “I vote that we allow Barney to continue the investigation. I think he’s made great progress for just one week.”

“Sure,” Harry chimed in. “Even if we get no further, just this evidence you’ve gathered and this name of Victor Jones is enough to convince the public that we’ve been doing a job on it. You can stay on the case, Barney. But I agree now that it’s a matter for the regular authorities. We’ve come up with a lot more information than the police. Let them hunt out Victor Jones.”

“Except,” Barney reminded them, “that if he is a member of our group, if he is one of those people that was on Skinny Simon’s radio show last week, I feel we have to get to the bottom of it ourselves.”

The office door opened hesitantly, and they saw Detective George peeking around the corner.

“Come in,” Barney said. “We’re just finishing up here. I was giving the fellows a report on our progress so far, and I’ll give the same report to you.”

“Good. Glad to hear it,” George told him.

The meeting broke up, and the members of the board drifted into small, chatty groups. Barney took George aside and spent the next twenty minutes filling him in on what he’d learned. The detective was interested, but beneath his interest, there seemed to be a twinge of annoyance at Barney’s efforts.

“We could have found this all out,” George said, when he’d finished. “It might have taken us a little time, but we are equipped for investigations outside the city, you know.”

“I know. Sometimes you get lucky in these things.”

“Like back in the old private detective days, huh?”

He left the detective and walked over to Susan. “How’s it going today?”

“Fine. I told my boss that this was my last week on the big MWA murder case.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“I guess I’ve gotten too close to the thing. Something like that. I can’t look at it objectively any more. I guess I see you, and some of these other people I’ve gotten to know, and I wish you luck. I don’t just hang around for a story any more, like I did in those first days.”

“Glad to hear that,” he said, leaning down to squeeze her hand. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

“Barney, could I see you a minute?”

He turned at Harry Fox’s voice, and walked over to the bookcase. Most of the others were drifting out He waved to Max Winters and called to Betty Rafferty. “I’ll lock up, Betty. You can take off for dinner if you want.”

“Thanks, Barney.”

“How’s it going?” Harry asked.

“Good, good. Like I said before, we don’t have anything on the Raven business yet. We’re still hoping.”

As he talked, his eyes were scanning the titles behind Harry’s head. They were in more or less alphabetical order, but occasionally one slipped out.
The Complete Sherlock Holmes
by Arthur Conan Doyle.
The Eighth Circle
by Stanley Ellin. A few Ian Fleming books, although he’d never been a member. Lots of Erie Stanley Gardner. Seconds by David Ely, badly out of order. He flipped it off the shelf and stuck it up above.

“What was it, Harry? What did you want to see me about?”

“I thought I should tell you before you found out somewhere else. I’m a graduate of the University of Texas.”

Dusty jackets and shelves. He’d have to speak to Betty about it

“Oh?”

“I went there after the war. Just about the period you would have been talking about.”

Barney blinked. “Ever know a fellow named Victor Jones?”

“No. Never did. Of course, we had a big enrolment.”

“Or Ross Craig?”

“No. Didn’t know him, either.”

“Coincidence, I guess,” Barney said. “I’m glad you told me about it, though. I might have gotten a little suspicious if I’d come across it somewhere.”

He glanced across the room, toward where Susan was still waiting, then back at the books. Anthony Gilbert, Michael Gilbert, Winston Graham. All English authors.

“Did you get much of a look at the fellow who shot at you?” Harry asked.

“Just someone with a beard … Funny …”

“What?”

“Funny. I just happened to think who he reminded me of.”

“Who was that?”

“At the dinner, I was up on the speakers’ rostrum, getting ready to introduce Craigthorn, and there was a fellow with a beard near the back of the room. I remember noticing him, not thinking much about it. I really think it might have been the same person.”

Barney’s eyes stopped at another title.
The Third Man
by Graham Greene. A slim book. It had originally been a short story and was expanded to novella length to tie in with the motion picture version. A very popular movie in its day. It had been a television series, too. Barney reached out and touched the shelf. “My God! The third man! The third man!”

“What … what is it, Barney? What third man? I thought you just got through telling us there were only two of them.”

“What do you know about Graham Greene?” Barney asked. “About the names of his characters?”

Harry scratched his greying temple. “Well, I’m not much on modern authors.”

Barney checked the copyright date of the book. “But it wasn’t published, even in its short version, till 1949. I need something earlier …”

“What’s all this thing with names?”

Barney was pawing through the bookcase, but the volume he wanted was not there. He was almost certain—almost—that his memory wasn’t playing tricks on him. He looked around for George, but the detective had already gone.

“Susan, are you waiting for me?”

“I was, Barney.”

“Come with me, then. I have to make a stop at the public library.”

“What is it?”

“I have to check on something. Something I should have seen a long time ago.”

“But what?”

“Craigthorn’s dying message. We were fooling around with ravens—Poe’s raven and Dickens’ raven. But all the time we had the wrong raven.” It didn’t take him long at the library. The book he wanted was in, and he only had to glance at page one to know the answer. It could have been one of the other books, but his memory had served him well. He’d reread them not too long ago, and he’d always been a fan of Graham Greene. “Come on,” he said to Susan. “I think I’ve got it. It’s fantastic and improbable, but I think I’ve got it.”

“You know who the killer is?”

“I know,” he said. “I know the identity of Victor Jones. I know all there is to know.”

“Barney …” She stood very close to him. “Barney, I promised Mr. Rowe something. I promised that he could have the information if I learned anything today. I’d like to keep that promise if I could.”

Barney thought about it “This thing belongs to the police. But if you want your boss in on it, I won’t stop you. I’d like to meet him, in fact.”

He went to a pay phone and called Detective George. “Look, I hate to get you out again. I know you’re probably going home.”

“Right. Home to supper.”

“Give me an hour, and I think I can wrap this thing up. It’s not quite five yet. We’re on our way down to the offices of
Manhattan
magazine. Susan promised her boss a news break on the story.”

“We don’t give breaks to anyone. Not till the murderer is apprehended,” George barked over the telephone. “If you’ve got something, you tell me first!”

“Play along with me. You won’t be sorry.”

“You mystery writers! You think this is all a game, don’t you? Two people have been killed. You were shot at, yourself.”

Barney sighed, and spoke a few words into the telephone. He didn’t know if they were convincing words, but at least they quieted the detective down. He agreed to meet them.

“Do you really think you’ve got it, Barney?” Susan asked in the cab. “Who is Victor Jones?”

“I think I’ve got it. The more I think about it, the surer I am. The pieces all fit together, like a neat, neat jigsaw puzzle, and there’s no other answer for it. The rest of it is just up to the police. I’m not apprehending anybody. Not these days.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What?”

“Who is it? Who is Victor Jones? I’ll admit I have my own ideas.”

“Oh? Let’s hear them.”

“I know you’re not going to like this, Barney, but I think it’s Harry. Harry Fox.”

“Oh?” he said again.

“I heard him tell you he attended the University of Texas. And the rest of it just fits in too well. Victor Jones made his appearance out in June the night after you phoned Harry. It was Harry who was at all the Board meetings, knew what was going on every minute. And even his name—Fox. The only animal name, the only name anything like Raven.”

Barney only stared out the window, saying nothing.

“Well? Am I right?”

He smiled at her. “You’ll know soon enough. Here’s your office.”

Detective George was waiting for them in the downstairs lobby. They fought the tide of five o’clock traffic and caught an elevator to the
Manhattan
offices.

“This way,” Susan said as they left the elevator. Barney and the detective followed her through the plain brown reception area, then back along a lengthy corridor.

Arthur Rowe looked up as they entered, then set his pipe down carefully in the ash tray. “Susan! What’s this?”

“I promised you a story, Chief. Here it is. Barney Hamet, Detective George, this is Arthur Rowe, editor and publisher of
Manhattan
magazine.”

They shook hands all around. “Does this mean a break in the case?” Rowe asked.

“The last break,” Barney told him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you after all this time. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Rowe nodded. “And I about you. We seem to share the affections of this young lady, in a purely literary sense of course.”

They settled into chairs in a semi-circle around the desk, and Barney began. Three pairs of eyes were on him, but he couldn’t meet any of them. He looked out the window at the side of Rowe’s desk, studying the view up Fifth Avenue.

“This won’t take too long,” he said.

Rowe thumbed through some galleys. “I have the rough copy for next week’s article here, based mainly on the things that Miss Veldt wrote. We’d like a nice lead, naming the murderer.”

“And I’ll oblige,” Barney told him. “The murderer is a man named Victor Jones, who was known to himself, and one or two others, as Raven. This was during a short period of his career, when he robbed a bank.”

“And?” Arthur Rowe said. “That much I gather from Susan’s reports. Are you prepared now to put a name to this Victor Jones or Raven character?”

“I am,” Barney said. “For you, and for Miss Veldt, and for Detective George here.”

The detective stirred in his chair, and Susan’s eyes widened, as if at last sensing the final act.

Barney cleared his throat, and continued. “Victor Jones became Raven, and after that, he came to New York. He was quite successful there, under the name he uses now. Under the name of Arthur Rowe.”

There was a gasp of disbelief from Susan, and Barney hurried on. “No fast moves please, Mr. Rowe. I think Detective George has a gun on you.”

H
E HAD NOT MOVED
his hand toward the drawer, because he kept no gun there. He had not moved toward anything, really. It was just a start. A startled, sudden beating of his heart. They were here, facing him with the truth. A truth they could not possibly know. And yet, they had named him, and it had all been for nothing. He heard his voice answering. “That’s the most fantastic thing I’ve ever heard!” he said. “You two gentlemen had better get out of my office at once. And, Sue, if you value your job, you’ll see that they leave right away!”

“We have evidence,” Barney Hamet said. “And we can get a great deal more. It’s one thing trying to trace some three hundred-odd people back to Victor Jones and June, Nebraska. But it’ll be a lot easier digging into
your
past.”

“You are really serious about this?”

“I’m really serious,” Barney said. He sat there across the desk, intense, sure of himself, and Victor Jones knew he should have killed him that night in the parking lot in June. “If you don’t think so, just listen. Once I got onto it, everything fell in place. It was just like a row of dominoes toppling over. You see, one of the things that bothered me all along was Irma Black’s murder. I was convinced one of the people on the programme must have done it. Skinny Simon, or one of us panelists. Because who else would have known that she sent me the telegram? And asked me to come see her? But then I began to puzzle about that, too, and it didn’t make sense. Because certainly anybody in the studio, fearing Irma Black would tell all, would not have waited until after the noon appointment that I had with her. They would have gone to her place at once that morning, or certainly before noon. They would have made some effort to contact her—to kill her, to buy her off, to silence her in some manner.