Crows Can't Count Read online

  She thought the question over for a while, then said, “I think perhaps it does. Can you tell me just what the connection is?”

  “All I know is what you see in the paper.”

  “I haven’t read the papers. Just glanced at the headlines of this one. I gather the pendant was found on a table in a room where a man had been murdered.”

  “Yes.”

  She said, “Frankly, Mr. Lam, I can’t identify that pendant. I can tell you this much. I had some antique jewelry which had been in the family for a while. Mostly it was junk stuff—that is, the stones didn’t have any great value. There was a pendant which looked very much like the pendant pictured there but I don’t suppose that means anything. There must be hundreds of pendants just like that.”

  “And what about this particular pendant of yours?”

  “Well, that’s all. It was a pendant. It doesn’t answer the description of this pendant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She said, “I certainly didn’t have any pendant with thirteen emeralds in it. I had a pendant. As nearly as I can remember it was almost an exact replica of the one shown in the artist’s sketch here in this paper. But this pendant of mine had one synthetic ruby and the rest were garnets.”

  “What became of the pendant?”

  “I sold it.”

  “To whom?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  I laughed and said, “I don’t know. Probably because I’m a detective and I have to ask questions. I’m here to investigate something, so I may as well investigate every angle of it.”

  She handed me back the newspaper. Her silver-gray eyes regarded me thoughtfully. She said, “As a matter of fact, I sold it to a man by the name of Jarratt—some sort of broker who occasionally handles stuff of that nature. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “How did you happen to get in touch with Mr. Jarratt?”

  “I didn’t happen to. I hunted him down.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  She laughed lightly and said, “I took the jewelry in to a firm that I thought might be interested.”

  “Nuttall’s?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no! Nuttall’s is high-class. This was a little jewelry store, almost a neighborhood jewelry store. I had quite a lot of this jewelry. A ring was the most valuable thing in the lot. That ring had a fairly good-sized diamond. But there was, I believe, something about the cutting—something old-fashioned about it. And there were a couple of watches—you know the sort ladies used to pin on their—bosoms, I believe they were called in those days.”

  I smiled with her. “Go on.”

  “And this pendant and a bracelet—I took them in mostly for their old-gold value.”

  “And how did you meet Jarratt?”

  “The proprietor of the jewelry store weighed the stuff, tested it for gold content, and made me an offer. I thought it was low. He explained to me that all he could offer was the value of the gold plus the value of the diamond, that the rest of the stuff was virtually valueless, that it would have to be melted. Then he went on to say that there was a man with whom he could get in touch who might be able to make a little better offer, that this man had some sort of a demand for the better pieces of antique jewelry for costume purposes.”

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  “Not then.”

  “So what happened?”

  “So,” she said, “the jeweler got in touch with this man and then made me another offer—an offer considerably higher than the one he’d made the first time—almost twice as much.”

  “And of course you accepted?”

  She said, “Of course I did nothing of the sort. The sudden increase in the size of the offer and the amount of that increase made me think that perhaps there was something a little—well, you know—they were trying to take advantage of me. So I told him I’d decided not to sell, and took the jewelry back.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I took it to another jeweler.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He offered me almost exactly what the other man had offered the first time, giving me the same story about having to handle it for just the gold value that was in it.”

  “And then what did you do?”

  “I asked him if there wasn’t some market for the better pieces of antique jewelry with some broker who perhaps had a demand for antique pieces. He said he’d never heard of any such broker. So I took the jewelry back to the first jeweler and told him frankly that I didn’t like to be stuck, that if he was making a legitimate profit, that was all right but I didn’t like to have someone make an excessive profit. And when a man made an offer and then doubled it, I became suspicious.”

  “And what did the jeweler do?”

  “The jeweler laughed and told me he knew exactly how I felt. He went over to the cash register and took out Mr. Jarratt’s card and said. ‘Suppose you deal with him direct, get the best price you can, and give me fifteen percent of it. That’s what I was figuring on making as a profit.’”

  “So you went to Jarratt?”

  “So I went to Jarratt,” she said. “Jarratt finally made me an offer that enabled me to pay the jeweler and still be about forty dollars ahead of what I would have been if I hadn’t gone to all that trouble.”

  “Now this pendant that was in that collection—by the way, I take it that Jarratt bought the whole collection?”

  “The whole assortment—lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “And this pendant—did he seem particularly interested in that?”

  “He didn’t seem particularly interested in anything,” she said. “He had a business relating to investments, but sometimes he ran across a client who wanted some choice piece of antique jewelry—I suppose on the same theory that people like to collect antique furniture. He said that he occasionally could place some such piece of the better class of old jewelry. But he seemed more interested in the watches than in anything else. He told me that the watches could be fixed up and would keep pretty good time.”

  I said, “Rather a peculiar business for a man of that caliber, isn’t it?”

  “What caliber is he?” she asked.

  I said, “Darned if I know, but he’s a man who dresses well, drives a good car, evidently makes money, and maintains an office which quite probably costs him something.”

  She said, “I gathered this jewelry business was just a sideline with him. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Jarratt is a man who goes after big things but never neglects a sideline which might bring in a profit.”

  “I guess you’ve got something there.”

  “I suppose you have to size up people in your business?”

  “I try to.”

  She said, “I like to size people up. After all, I guess I depend more on personality and the impression people make on me than anything else. Anyhow, whenever I talk with a person, I’m always trying to find out about his character.”

  “How long ago did you meet Peter Jarratt?”

  “Three or four months.”

  “You didn’t know Robert Cameron?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Were there any emeralds in the jewelry you had?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “Ever been in South America?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m a working girl.”

  “What do you do, may I ask?”

  “Secretary to an insurance executive.”

  “Any particular reason you needed the money when you were selling this jewelry?”

  She laughed and said, “You do lead with your chin, don’t you?”

  “Not always my chin. I have to stick my neck out sometimes. Asking questions is part of the business.”

  She said, “I think I’ve told you enough, haven’t I?”

  “I suppose so. I’m just playing around now, trying to uncover some lead that may amount to something.”

  “Why is the pendant important?” />
  “I don’t know. It figures in a murder case.”

  “Didn’t the pendant belong to Mr. Cameron?”

  “I suppose so.”

  She said, “Look, I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. Lam. That is not my pendant. The pendant you are interested in is quite evidently an emerald pendant. Mine was similar in design, but you know as well as I do that that design was part of a period. There must have been hundreds of pendants of similar design sold on the market. Most of them have probably been melted up. But it certainly shouldn’t be too difficult to get hold of a pendant in case a person wanted to—”

  “To what?” I asked, as she quit talking.

  “To duplicate a piece of jewelry.”

  “And you think that’s what Jarratt wanted?”

  She said, “I didn’t say that.”

  “I’m asking you what you think.”

  She said, “After all, you’re the detective. Suppose you do the thinking.”

  I said, “Okay, I will. Thanks.”

  She promptly got to her feet—calm, self-possessed, but nevertheless definite in her gesture of dismissal.

  “Well, thanks a lot,” I said. “There’s nothing else that you know?”

  “Not a thing.”

  I thanked her again and went down to a public telephone. I called Peter Jarratt. He was in his office, waiting.

  “Find anything?” he asked, as soon as he learned who I was.

  I said, “Yes. I found out quite a bit.”

  “Could she identify the pendant?”

  I said, “Her pendant had a synthetic ruby and garnets.”

  He said, “Oh.”

  “What made you think of Miss Fabens?” I asked.

  He said, “To tell you the truth, Lam, it was one of those things. It just popped into my mind. I remembered making a deal in some antique jewelry with a young woman and looked back in my daybook and found I had the name and address.”

  “And what did you do with the jewelry?”

  “I disposed of it in various places. There were a couple of watches I sold at quite a profit. The rest of it was more or less junk.”

  “You didn’t give the pendant to Robert Cameron?”

  “Heavens, no! I don’t give jewelry away to clients.”

  “And he didn’t buy it from you?”

  “No.”

  I said, “Well, thanks a lot for the tip.”

  “Are you going to do anything with it?”

  I said, “No, sweetheart, I’m not going to do anything with it. I don’t know what your connection with that girl is. I don’t know whether the police will go very far, trying to trace the ownership of that pendant. But I do know that if I should go running to Sergeant Buda with a ‘red-hot tip,’ and have it afterward turn out to be an attempt to get the police off the trail of something, Sergeant Buda wouldn’t like it, and I wouldn’t like it. So, good night and good-by.”

  And I hung up before Peter Jarratt could frame any retort.

  Chapter Ten:—YOUNG MAN TALKS TOO MUCH

  I WAS RELIEVED TO FIND there were no police cars in front of Robert Hockley’s place. It was an apartment house of the better class. The man at the desk announced me and Hockley opened the door when I pushed the bell.

  He was a dapper individual with mocking eyes. His right leg was noticeably shorter than the left. He stood in the doorway until I’d told him my occupation and that I wanted to talk with him. Then he invited me in.

  The apartment probably rented for a couple of hundred a month. A substantial business desk stood in the living-room, littered with papers. The floor lamp flooding those papers showed me Hockley had been seated there when I had been announced.

  I noticed some stationary imprinted with the name of Acme Welding and Fender Works, and also a racing form sheet.

  Hockley saw the way I looked over at the desk and didn’t like it. “All right,” he said crisply, “what is it?”

  I said, “I wanted to talk with you about the Cora Hendricks trust.”

  His eyes instantly drew a veil of cold suspicion over whatever was going on behind them.

  “What do you know about that trust?” he asked.

  “I’ve given it a quick once-over.”

  He laughed sardonically. “And think you know all about it, eh?”

  “I know something about it.”

  He said, “Look, some of the best lawyers in the country have taken that thing to pieces under a magnifying glass. Don’t kid yourself about it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk with you.”

  “What about?”

  “How much do you get out of it?”

  “That’s none of your damn business.”

  “Would you like to get more out of it?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  I said, “I’m a detective. I used to be a lawyer.”

  “I’ve got a lawyer.”

  “What’s he doing for you?”

  “Everything he can.”

  “And what does that amount to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  He said, “Cora Hendricks was a she-devil.”

  “She seems to have done all right by you.”

  “Baloney! I have to kiss the boots of a couple of old bastards every time I want to get a dime. To hell with them! I’ll wait them out.”

  “Then they may get you an annuity.”

  “They may.”

  “What does your lawyer say about the legality of that trust?”

  “He thinks there’s nothing to it. He can break it.”

  “Well?”

  “Did you read the will?”

  “I glanced through the trust.”

  “But not the will?”

  “No.”

  “She provided in the will that if the trust became invalid in whole or in part, in such event the trustees became the residuary legatees, taking all the property as their sole and separate estate to do with it as they wished. She also provided that anyone who questioned the will, sought to have it declared invalid, went to court over it, or over the trust, was to forfeit all interest in the estate, in the trust funds, and in the entire property. Try to get around that bunch of legal fortifications. It’s stumped the best lawyers in the country—that and other things.”

  “You get five hundred a month out of it?”

  “I pay my own lawyer fees out of that.”

  “How come? You get advice, and that’s that. Why keep a lawyer?”

  “Checking over their accounts, seeing they don’t go overboard with expenses, extraordinary compensation, and all that. As it is, they manage to fly around back and forth to South America, and you ought to see the expense accounts they turn in.”

  “Big?”

  “Everything except the kitchen sink.”

  “So far they haven’t upset the balance? Shirley gets the same as you?”

  “Say, what the hell business of yours is all this?”

  “I thought I might be able to swap a little information with you. It might do us both some good.”

  “Start showing what information you have to swap.”

  “Have you seen the late papers?”

  “No.”

  I said, “Police are going to be here pretty soon.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes were steady and hot. “What’s the idea?”

  I said, “Robert Cameron, one of the trustees, was murdered this afternoon.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Is this on the level?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled a cigarette case from his pocket and lit a cigarette. “Any motive?”

  “Not that anyone knows.”

  “Why are you telling me?”

  “I’m darned if I know. I did some work for a man who was connected with the trust and became interested in it.

>   I met Shirley Bruce, and thought I’d like to meet you.”

  “For why?”

  “I tell you I don’t know.”

  He smoked silently for a second or two. Then he began talking rapidly and nervously, the cigarette jumping on his lips as he talked, little puffs of smoke punctuating his words. “There’s no reason why I should be a damn hypocrite just because the guy’s dead. I hated his guts. I haven’t any use for him or for Harry Sharples—a couple of stuffed shirts, if you ask me.

  “They’re trustees. They’ve got everything sewed up. Cora Hendricks certainly had confidence in them. As nearly as I can find out, she’s the only one who ever did. But don’t ever kid yourself. That trust is airtight and bombproof. Under the terms of that trust they can deprive me of every damn cent, and they’re going to do it before they get done. So far, they’ve done the best they could.

  “My lawyer tells me not to lead with my chin, to keep in the middle of the road, that if they suddenly ladle out all the gravy to Shirley I can claim collusion and bad faith, if my own life has been pure like the driven snow. So I have to run a dirty auto business while these bastards flit around in airplanes. You see my position? I can’t attack the trust. But if they use collusion with the other beneficiary, then I can perhaps have them removed—get the property back into the trust and remove the trustees for incompetency.”

  “But so far there’s been no collusion? Shirley Bruce gets the same amount you do?” I asked.

  “Now, dear little Shirley. That’s another one,” he said, his voice quivering with anger. “That’s the sweet little teacher’s pet for you. Every time she sees her quote uncles unquote, she goes to work on them with a kissing technique that would make a gold-digger blush. A sweet little girl. She wouldn’t think of getting a cent that I didn’t get. But she’s living in a swank apartment. She has clothes that are tailored right up to the minute. She spends half her time in the beauty parlors. Where the hell does the money come from?”

  “That,” I said, “was one of the things I wanted to ask you.”

  “Ask her,” he said. “Ask Sharples. Ask Cameron. According to the way the trust is administered, she doesn’t get anything I don’t get. But where does the money come from? That’s what I want to know.”

  “She has an independent income, I understand.”