Crows Can't Count Read online

  “Frankly, hell!” Buda shouted at me. “You’re telling me that because you know I know. Now how did it happen that Cameron had that pendant?”

  “I’ve told you repeatedly, Sergeant, that’s something I just can’t tell you. But I can tell you that in view of the fact this pendant was located, my client had an opportunity to talk frankly with the woman in the case and found out that she had disposed of it because she wanted some other jewelry, and that she had sold it months ago. That’s all there was to that. As you can readily see, in the event this man had gone frankly to his—to the young woman in the case and asked her—”

  “Young woman?” Sergeant Buda interrupted.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Oh, so it’s one of those things, is it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You betrayed yourself, and I’m saying it.”

  I said, “Of course, I can’t control any conclusions you arrive at.”

  “Oh, heck!” Buda said disgustedly. “It’s one of those things. Sugar-daddy business. And he thought she was hocking his presents—when, by heaven, she was.”

  “He doesn’t think so now.”

  Buda’s laugh was harsh. “Sure not, because she had a chance to think up a good run-around for him. So she looked in his eyes and told him all about how it happened and the old fool fell for it lock, stock, and barrel. Now then, there’s only one thing I want to know. Is Cameron the sugar daddy?”

  “I don’t think Cameron was a sugar daddy to anyone.”

  “That checks,” Buda said. “One other question. Was he the rival who cut in and—”

  “I don’t think Cameron’s interest in that pendant had anything to do with romance,” I said.

  “I tell you,” Jarratt insisted, “it was simply because he knew emeralds. The emeralds in there were unusual. I think Mr. Nuttall appraised it far too low. And I think he did that because he was prejudiced against it on account of that obsolete, old-fashioned setting. It made it seem these emeralds had been batting around for a long time, and if they’d been anything too unusual they’d have been reset and sold long ago. Frankly, my advice to Mr. Cameron was that these emeralds were really wonders, that if he only had them in another, more modern setting they’d be worth a small fortune—not so damned small either. I think that’s the reason he was removing them from their setting when—well, something happened.”

  Nuttall cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll be frank. I gave that pendant rather a hurried appraisal. I was prejudiced against it because of that setting. Perhaps I did overlook something about those emeralds. Emeralds are tricky. Come to think of it, those were really of unusual color. I thought at the time—well, I just didn’t think at the time. I let something slip through my fingers.”

  Buda got to his feet. “I guess that’s it.” And then added almost defiantly, “It has to be it.”

  Jarratt nodded soothing acquiescence. “That has to be it, Sergeant,” he said. “Cameron was going to change the setting just as I advised him to.”

  Nuttall reached into his desk and brought out a bottle of twelve-year-old whisky. “Under the circumstances, gentlemen, there seems to be no reason why we shouldn’t have a drink,” he said.

  Chapter Nine:—RED-HOT TIP

  I MADE CERTAIN NO ONE WAS FOLLOWING ME. Then I ducked into a pay station and called Sharples.

  Sharples’s voice came over the wire, quick and eager. “Hello. Yes, this is Sharples talking.”

  “Donald Lam, Sharples.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. The eager enthusiasm was no longer in his voice. Whatever telephone call he’d been expecting meant a good deal to him. Hearing my voice was apparently quite a let-down.

  “Got a lawyer?” I asked.

  “Why—why, yes. I have an attorney who handles our trust affairs—the accountings and all that.”

  I said, “Is he any good?”

  “One of the best.”

  “Would he be any good for rough-and-tumble stuff—not the swivel-chair, corporation-and-estate type of practice, but the slam-bang, knock-’em-down business?”

  “I feel certain he would. He’s very clever.”

  I said, “Get him.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  I said, “Get him. Talk to him. You’re going to need him.”

  “Why?”

  I said, “Sergeant Sam Buda is going to be looking for you.”

  “Again?”

  “Again. And again, and again.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t get what you’re driving at, Lam.”

  I said, “Buda has come to the conclusion that that emerald pendant means something.”

  “Some of the emeralds are missing?”

  “They’ve found them all now.”

  “Where?”

  “Two were on the table, six were in the crow’s cage, and five were down the drainpipe in the washstand.”

  “Down the drainpipe in the washstand?” Sharples repeated almost incredulously. “Good heavens, what were they doing there?”

  “Reposing there, trapped in the gooseneck under the washbowl. Someone tried to throw them away, wash them down the sewer, and the gooseneck trapped them.”

  “But I can’t understand it.”

  “Neither can Buda.”

  “But what possible train of reasoning would make him connect that with me?”

  I said, “You’ll be surprised what he connects with you as time goes on. He’ll start trying to connect that emerald pendant with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was making inquiries about it and then I showed up with you to interview Cameron. Cameron had the pendant. You don’t have to be much of a detective to put two and two together on that.”

  Sharples said, “I’m sorry you made inquiries about that pendant, Lam.”

  I said, “You were the one who told me to.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. That, of course, was before—well, before I had any intimation who owned it.”

  I said, “Don’t do any sloppy thinking about this, Sharples. You knew who owned it. You were trying to find out why the owner had parted with it.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “And for some reason you didn’t want to go to the owner and ask her.”

  “I was trying to find out—whether or not—”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And you hired me to find out, and I found out. Now then, you can’t turn back the hands of the clock.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  I said, “This morning I was making inquiries about that pendant. Shortly after noon we showed up for a call on Cameron. Cameron was dead. The pendant in which we were showing such an interest was lying on the table. The emeralds had been ripped from the settings. It isn’t going to take long before Buda thinks that pendant is probably the key clue to the whole business.”

  “And then he’ll question you?”

  “He’s already questioned me.”

  “When?”

  “Just now.”

  “Where?”

  “At Nuttall’s jewelry store. Nuttall was there and Jarratt was there.”

  “What did they tell him?”

  “Not much of anything.”

  “So you think he’ll come to see me next?”

  “I’m virtually certain of it.”

  “What will I tell him?”

  I said, “Let your conscience be your guide.”

  “But I want some advice.”

  “That’s why I suggested you get in touch with your lawyer.”

  “But why can’t you tell me?”

  “Any communication you make to a lawyer will be confidential. A lawyer can talk for you and, if the going gets too rough, advise you not to answer questions. Nobody can do anything to a lawyer. I’m a private detective. I’m supposed to co-operate with the police. If they can hook me for unprofessional conduct, they’d have my license. Now do you understand?”

  “Yes, I believe I do.”
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br />   I said, “You have two alternatives. You can either tell them Shirley Bruce owned that pendant, or you can tell them that you don’t know a thing about it.”

  “I’ve already told them I don’t know a thing about it.” I said, “That’s why I’m advising you to get in touch with a lawyer.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t get what you’re driving at.”

  I said, “What you told them may not have been the right thing to have told them. I’ve backed you up as much as I can. But before you get in so deep you can’t get out, it might be better for you to change your position, tell the police you didn’t recognize the pendant when you saw it with the stones removed from it. But now that you’ve had a chance to think it over, you remember having seen it—”

  “No,” Sharples said with dignity, “I’m going to leave Miss Bruce out of it. I have definitely determined she will not be dragged into this mess.”

  “If she told Buda the story she told me, that would about finish it.”

  “So far as the pendant is concerned perhaps, but there would be a lot of disagreeable notoriety once she was known as the owner of that pendant.”

  “The former owner,” I said.

  “Have it any way you want.”

  “Not the way I want,” I told him. “Have it any way you want.”

  “Well,” he said, “thank you very much, Mr. Lam. I can appreciate this service to a client.”

  “A former client,” I corrected.

  “How’s that?” he demanded.

  I said, “You hired us to do something. We’ve done it. The slate’s wiped clean. We don’t owe you anything, you don’t owe us anything. We’re both free as air.”

  He said, “I’m not certain I like that attitude, Lam.” “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I think you should continue to stand back of me in this thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “This whole business.”

  I said, “As far as the agency is concerned, you hired us to find out about a pendant. We found out about it.”

  “But other things have developed.”

  “You had better drop in and talk with Bertha about them,” I said. “Incidentally, detectives are going to call on Shirley Bruce and Robert Hockley.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a routine check-up to find out what they know, if anything.”

  “Thank you for telling me that,” Sharples said, suddenly anxious to get off the line.

  “You’re entirely welcome,” I told him and hung up.

  I drove the agency car back to the office.

  The first editions of the morning papers were already on the streets with an account of the murder, pictures of the crow, of the place where the body had been found, and of the emerald pendant. As was usual, there were plenty of wild theories and some of the reporters had really let their imaginations go to town.

  I was reading an article by some crime reporter in which it was claimed, “on excellent authority,” that Sergeant Buda was cross-examining the crow, that by taking down every word the crow said Buda hoped to get some clue as to the mysterious assailant who had slapped the knife in Cameron’s back apparently while he was talking over the telephone.

  Buda, it seemed, had asked the newspapers to make a public request that all persons who had had any telephone conversations with Robert Cameron that day communicate with the police.

  The .22 automatic on the table also furnished material for speculation. The weapon had been fired at approximately the same time the murder had been committed. Yet no bullet was found anywhere in the penthouse, giving rise to the belief that Cameron had fired a shot at the murderer and that there was a strong probability the assailant was wounded.

  There was some conjecture that the murderer might be forced to consult a doctor for treatment and in that way betray himself to the police.

  Abruptly the telephone rang.

  I hesitated, wondering whether to answer or not, then picked up the receiver, disguised my voice, and said, “Hello, this is the janitor. Could I take a message?”

  I’d heard the voice before. For a moment I couldn’t place it. It was smooth, affable, and had a certain pleasing articulation. “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, I’m sure, but I’m very anxious indeed to talk with Mr. Donald Lam of the firm of Cool and Lam. Now, if you’re the janitor there, perhaps you’ll know where you could reach him.”

  “Who is it talking?” I asked.

  “I dislike to leave my name—if you could just let me know where I could reach him—”

  “You’ll have to leave your name,” I interrupted.

  “But look here, my man, I can’t do that. This is a confidential matter and—”

  I got the voice then. It was Peter Jarratt. I said, “Just a minute. Somebody’s coming in. That may be Mr. Lam now—Good evening, Mr. Lam. There’s some man here on the telephone wants to talk with you. Says it’s important.”

  Into the telephone I said, “Okay, here’s Mr. Lam. He’ll talk with you.”

  I put down the receiver, walked around the office so my footfalls would register on the telephone, picked up the receiver, resumed my natural voice, and said, “Hello. Who is it?”

  “This is Peter Jarratt, Mr. Lam.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I liked the way you handled yourself when Buda was questioning you. It was very skilful.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ve seen the papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have located the person who, at one time, owned this emerald pendant. I don’t know whether you want to follow it up or not.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Phyllis Fabens.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “The Crestwell Apartments out on Ninth Street. I haven’t the number offhand but you can look it up.”

  “I know where it is,” I told him.

  “I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Does it mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing,” I told him cheerfully. “I was hired to do a job. I’ve done it and been paid for it. That’s all. But thanks for your confidence.”

  “Oh, I say,” Jarratt said, “it seems to me this should be investigated.”

  “Better get in touch with Buda then.”

  “No, no, I can’t do that. Don’t you understand—after what happened—well, it seems to me the police are the last persons to be notified.”

  “Why?”

  “It might confuse the issues. Look here, Lam,” Jarratt went on rapidly, “you have a client in this matter.”

  “I did have.”

  “I feel quite certain your client would want you to investigate this thing—it’s a hot tip. Something I think you should know about.”

  I said, “Thanks for telling me.”

  He hesitated a moment, then said, “Don’t mention it,” and hung up.

  I dashed down to the elevator, got out the agency car, and drove fast to the Crestwell Apartments. The directory on the front showed that Phyllis Fabens was in 328. I jabbed the bell and almost instantly an electric buzzer threw the latch on the door.

  I pushed open the door and went in.

  The automatic elevator took me to the third floor. I found Phyllis Fabens’s apartment and tapped on the door.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  I said, “Mr. Lam. I’m a stranger to you.”

  She opened the door a crack and I saw a safety chain holding it in place. Evidently she didn’t take chances on young men who casually gave her apartment a buzz in the evening.

  I handed it to her straight from the shoulder. “My name is Lam,” I said. “I’m a private detective. I’m trying to trace an article of jewelry. I think you know something about it. May I come in?”

  She regarded me intently through the crack in the door, suddenly laughed and snapped back the safety chain.

  “Of course you may,” she said. “A man who shoots as straight and
as fast as that should be—”

  Apparently it occurred to her that the word she had intended to use might not seem as appropriate’ to me as it did to her, so she let her voice trail away in silence and tried to cover up with a laugh.

  “Safe?” I asked, finishing the sentence.

  She kept laughing. “No, I’d be the one that was safe. Come in.”

  It was a pleasant little apartment—well kept, neat and clean. It gave the impression of having been lived in, yet it was spick and span.

  “Sit down, please,” she said, indicating a chair.

  I waited for her, then sat down.

  “Have you by any chance seen the late evening papers?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I said, “I’m trying to trace a certain pendant. I had a tip that you might know something about it.”

  She asked curiously, “Who gave you that tip?”

  “That’s one of the things a detective can’t ever afford to divulge.”

  She thought that over a minute, then said, “Yes, I guess so.”

  I took the late newspaper from my pocket. I had carefully folded it so she could see the artist’s sketch of the pendant and nothing else. I handed it to her and said, “This is the pendant. Could you tell me anything about it?”

  She looked at the picture a moment, then deliberately unfolded the paper so she could see the caption of the picture. The caption said it was the pendant found on the desk near the murdered man, that the settings had been pried open and the thirteen emeralds removed.

  Then she turned the newspaper so she could read the headlines and learn the identity of the murdered man.

  All this time her face was completely expressionless, her hands perfectly steady. There were no gaspings or exclamations, no expression of surprise. She was just as cool as a windowpane.

  Watching her, I judged she was somewhere around twenty-four. Her blond, wavy hair was about the color of good old molasses taffy. She had a nice clean-cut forehead and her eyebrows were straight enough to give her face an appearance of thoughtful concentration. Her lips weren’t thin enough to make the face seem austere but the mouth was sensitive—a mouth that would smile easily, yet could be firm and determined if occasion required.

  She looked up from the paper. “What is it you wish to know?” she asked.

  “That pendant,” I said. “Does it look familiar to you?”