Red cent, p.16
Red Cent, page 16
part #2 of Jake Hatch Series
"It'll soon be a matter of public record and I see no reason why I shouldn't sit in as the representative of a possible litigant in some future action."
"How do you make that out?"
"If any or all of the family—mother, wife, daughter and/or son—brings suit against the Burlington Northern for the loss of support or comfort from son, husband, or father, I think it only fair and proper that the Burlington Northern should have an idea of how Harold Chaney distributed his estate, thereby assigning the measure of loss incurred by each of them."
"But, as you say, it's soon to be a matter of public record."
"I'd just like to get a head start. Show the front office Jake Hatch is not the sort of man to let any moss grow on him."
"I'm afraid I couldn't take it on myself to let you sit in."
I was looking for another way to make my case when Marcus Sears walked in, escorting a woman in a mink coat.
For a second I thought it was Marla Kassabian, and then I saw that the lady was twenty years younger.
Shanahan went over to kiss his daughter as Sears stepped away with the air of an aristocrat handing a princess over to a peasant.
"How are you, Jake?" he said.
"You get around, don't you, Marcus?"
"Well, I have a lot of friends."
Shanahan had taken his daughter into the office with his arm around her, his head in close to hers, conferring about something he didn't want anyone else to hear.
Nobody had introduced me to her.
I moved Sears farther away from the receptionist's desk, wanting a little privacy of my own.
"Is she the reason why you tipped me the question about the weeping redhead at the funeral parlor?"
"I was hoping you wouldn't find her and question her. She was taking the loss very badly."
"Loss of what?"
"That's unkind, Jake. It's not like you to be unkind."
"And it's not like you to give me half a loaf, Marcus. Every time I've come to you before, you've either told me everything you thought could be useful to me or refused to tell me anything at all. How come you didn't mention that Chaney was taking on another mistress?"
"He was taking on a whole new life. He was going to ask for a divorce as soon as the take-over was through. He was going to provide for Florence and the children. There was to be generous extra compensation for Marla Kassabian as well. Then he meant to marry Elizabeth Shanahan."
"Pip."
"Yes, Pip. That's what he called her."
"Because he called his dead first wife Pip?"
"Yes, he did, didn't he?"
"Jesus Christ, Marcus."
"A man's entitled to take what happiness when and when he finds it."
"So you were being a friend keeping it quiet?"
"I'd have done the same for any friend who asked for confidentiality."
"Was his intention to pretend to resist the take-over while surrendering to it confidential too?"
Sears drew himself up, dignified and only slightly offended, as only a man of his age and stature can do. "You can check the trades, Jake. I never used the information to benefit myself."
"Sorry. It was just a thought."
He forgave me as quick as he'd taken offense. He smiled.
"All's well. At my time of life, I can't afford to lose an old friend over so small a matter."
"At my time of life too," I said.
"We'd better get inside," he said, taking my arm.
Walking in with Marcus Sears that way, it seemed that everybody forgot I wasn't invited. Sears let go of me and went to sit in the client's chair on the right-hand side of Jack Hedrick's desk.
Hedrick half got up to shake his hand and then looked around to see if everyone was finally assembled as I quietly took a seat at the back of the room. Marla Kassabian was sitting in the first chair in front of Jack Hedrick's desk on the left, the right front being reserved for members of the family—old Mrs. Chaney, Florence Chaney, Mark, and Elizabeth—who were most likely to be the beneficiaries of the will that was about to be read.
Lewis Warden was sitting with them.
Shanahan was sitting with his daughter Elizabeth in a sort of never-never land midway between the mistress and the wife, but further back.
There were ten or twelve men and women sitting toward the back of the room. I assumed they were long-time associates and employees who were going to benefit.
Jack Hedrick picked up the will, which was stapled inside pale blue covers, cleared his throat, and asked for a stipulation, for reason of expediency, that the boiler plate—"being of sound mind and body, etc."—was properly drawn.
He smiled as though they'd given him a compliment for good work when everybody who thought they had a right to assent murmured that assent.
Just like I figured, the little crowd in the back were all named and rewarded for service to Chaney and the corporation in varying degrees.
Personal keepsakes were bestowed, Lewis Warden being rewarded with a matched set of silver-mounted shotguns, which he'd apparently admired and coveted.
Provision had already been made for old Mrs. Chaney and the children through trusts and endowments. There were additional gifts more sentimental than valuable.
Florence Chaney was left house and furnishings, cars and vacation homes, securities and cash, a care fully proportioned share of Chaney's wealth that would withstand any attempt she might make to claim undue influence on anyone's part or cruel prejudice on her husband's.
Everybody was holding their breath, because the two redheads, the old mistress and the new, had not yet been named.
The beneficiary of the residual of an estate—often the lion's share—is left for last.
Already I could see Florence Chaney struggling with the humiliation she might soon have to suffer when her husband's interest in other women, his preference for them over her, would finally be made public.
"To Marla Kassabian, loyal friend and associate, I leave the condominium in which she currently resides, free and clear."
I could see the color flood her face. It wasn't bad, a condominium worth maybe four hundred thousand, but it was easy to see it wasn't as much as she expected or thought she deserved. She made a move, as though she wanted to get up and get out of there, but there was one more player in the game and she had to hear it all.
"To Elizabeth Shanahan (no mention of their relationship), the residual of my estate."
There was a gasp from Florence Chaney, quickly suppressed.
Marla Kassabian turned her head sharply, seeking out somebody. Her eyes landed on Elizabeth Shanahan, then quickly moved to Phil Shanahan. There was a smile of triumph on her lips and a look in her eyes like she was saying, I did my part, now you do yours.
I finally knew who'd killed Harold Chaney.
THIRTY-FOUR
IT HAPPENS THAT WAY sometimes. You get a notion about a crime, or what could be a crime. You start looking over the cast of characters. Naturally the players at the front of the stage look clearest and best, the most likely suspects, the most probable thieves or killers.
Also, you take a look at the feature actors moving around right behind the principals.
While you're all wrapped up doing that, there are a couple of characters slipping around in the shadows at the back of the stage. A second cousin of the heroine, twice removed. An under-gardener. The butler. The family lawyer.
I sat there as Jack Hedrick wrapped up the proceedings, waiting for my chance.
When I was a youngster, I once worked a summer on an uncle's ranch up in the Dakotas, herding cattle, cutting the young ones out for branding. I couldn't figure out how those calves seemed to know what I was trying to do and how easy they slipped away from me. I was older than they were—though not by much—and I just couldn't figure out how they'd gotten so smart so young.
It was only later that I learned it was just the survival instinct of a hunted animal at work.
It operates with people too.
I don't know exactly the moment he knew that I knew, but right after Marla looked at him, Shanahan looked at her and then turned around and looked right at me, knowing I knew that he knew that I knew.
I hoped he wasn't going to run.
Everybody started leaving, going out in little groups, careful not to mix in with anyone from an unfriendly camp.
Marcus Sears, Phil Shanahan, and his daughter Elizabeth were last. At the elevators, Shanahan murmured into his daughter's ear, shook Sears's hand, and walked back to me.
"Suppose we get a glass of ale or a short whiskey?" he said.
"There's a place just around the corner," I said. "The closer the better. That was dry work."
I didn't say anything.
Sears and Elizabeth were gone. We waited for the next elevator.
A couple of minutes later we were in the cocktail lounge. Shanahan ordered his boilermaker. I had a beer.
"Your daughter's going to be a very rich woman," I said.
"Yes. Yes, she is." He acted kind of vague, as though his mind was going like hell working something over while his mouth was on automatic. I could see it was hard going. The man was tired, exhausted with life. He tossed back the whiskey and quickly took a swallow of beer.
"That why you killed Chaney, so she could get to the bulk of the money quicker?" I asked,
He stared at me as though I'd slipped the rails,
"Greed. Of course. That's always considered the most powerful motive for murder, isn't it?" he said. "I've always found that money usually figures into murder somewhere, somehow."
He drained what was left in his glass of beer, turned around, caught the waitress's eye, and, after he saw I'd had no more than a swallow of mine, ordered another boilermaker for himself.
"Elizabeth looks almost exactly like her mother did at that age," he said, in that funny voice people get when they start talking about the past and what might have been. "Beautiful girls, both of them. My wife was a lot smarter and more determined than Elizabeth, though.
"When she met and married me, she was the spoiled daughter of a well-off county family. They didn't approve her taking up with a common Irish man whose only interest and occupation was horses. She was determined to make something of me. She made me get an education and even chose my profession for me.
"Well, maybe you can make a lawyer out of an Irish horse trader, but you can't really make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. The day I got my wig should have proved something to her family, but they wouldn't even attend the ceremony.
"That was the bitter pill that spoiled it all. I didn't give a damn. She was enough for me. And after the baby came . . ." He downed the shot and almost lost it, choking and coughing for a minute, then recovering himself, wiping off his red face with a handkerchief. Swiping at his eyes, as well. "My wife couldn't manage it. She missed her family and her county friends. There were advantages she wanted for young Beth. Social advantages they wouldn't let me buy or earn. When she left me, it seemed only natural that she should take the child, though it tore my heart."
He fell into a melancholy silence. When it looked like he wasn't going to go on, I said, "Is that when you came to the States?"
"I think I had dreams of making a great success and sending for them, bringing them here where all that snobbery and tradition couldn't affect us anymore. Foolish."
"Well, you had to try."
"You shouldn't try when there's no good in trying. It just makes you miss other opportunities. As it was, after a while, I didn't think of England or my wife or my daughter very often."
A lot of what he was saying was the truth and a lot of the feelings genuine but, the way these stories go, a lot was nothing but crocodile tears and whiskey.
"How is it that Elizabeth's with you now?" I asked, trying to nudge him forward.
"Her mother died two years ago. Elizabeth wrote to me, saying she wanted to come to me. I was overwhelmed. When I met her at the airport, though I'd not seen her or had a photo of her in years, I could have picked her out of a crowd of ten million. She was exactly like her mother. For a moment, as she walked toward me, not recognizing me, of course—though I had sent a photo so she would know me—I was twenty again. Just like that." He was acting almost bashful about what he was saying. "The Irish have always believed in magic."
I wanted to get back on track, to pull Shanahan back from his dreaming.
"Being a member of the law firm that handled Chaney's affairs, you knew that he'd made a new will, leaving the bulk of his fortune to your daughter. You trying to tell me you didn't shoot Chaney to get your hands on the money?" I said, trying to make it as harsh and blunt as I knew how.
He finished off his second beer.
"I shot Chaney because he was stealing my Elizabeth away from me. He was stealing my chance at a new life from me. He was an old man, older than I, and he was stealing my youth."
The waitress had been keeping a close eye on our table—business at that hour being slow and knowing a drinker when she saw one—and was over asking if Shanahan wanted another the second he set down his empty beer glass.
"Yes, one more time, my dear. A beer and a whiskey. My friend's a bit slow, but bring him a fresh beer as well. That one's gone flat."
When the waitress went away I asked him if he knew why Marla Kassabian had been willing to let me think she was the one who killed Chaney.
"What could you have done about it if she had?"
"You trying to tell me she just thought she'd have a little fun with the old railroad bull? Let him think he'd figured out a murder just for the few giggles it might give her?"
"Perhaps it was because I offered her a share of Elizabeth's inheritance in the event that the bulk of Chaney's fortune was left to Elizabeth."
"Why would Elizabeth do that and why would Marla believe she'd do that?"
"I made the argument to my daughter that Mrs. Kassabian had given a good many years to Harold Chaney. Far more than she had. My daughter's not a greedy child. She wasn't with Chaney for the money in the first place."
"So what you did is practically admit to Marla Kassabian that you had a hand in Chaney's death."
"She'd come to see me after she'd found out about Elizabeth and Chaney. I don't know what she hoped to accomplish. Perhaps she thought I didn't know about the affair and would've done something to stop it. Distraught women—discarded women—do all sorts of things in hope and desperation. I explained to her that I didn't like the arrangement but, since I knew my daughter so little, I could scarcely play the disapproving father."
The waitress came back with his third boilermaker.
"But I offered her a way to do something about it. I told her how she could set up a scene that would scare the hell out of Chaney. Make him feel the cold hand of death brush by. Make him realize in a split second how much she meant to him and how foolish he'd be to give up his last few years in the comfortable arms of an old love for the doubtful pleasures of a young woman's arms. The day you realize you're close to it is the day you'll choose comfort over excitement every time."
"She didn't believe that fairy tale, did she?"
"Hell, no. She read my intention in my eyes, just like I was reading her willingness to help me kill him in hers."
"How'd she feel about setting up her little rodeo after I got onto her?"
"She came to me again. I told her you had no case. What was more important, you had no authority. I think she knew that all along. But she wanted something more from me. She said she'd even fortify your belief that she was the one who killed Chaney. For a price."
He smiled at me as though I was a schoolboy and he the teacher.
"You must've both been mighty sure I couldn't get the job done," I said.
"We were. What did you have against her? A bunch of wild surmises. A flimsy structure of speculations. And that's all you've got against me. You're just a railroad detective, Jake Hatch, and that's not important enough to bring down any indictments and open up any trials for murder." He downed the shot without difficulty and drank half the glass of beer.
"You've got me all wrong, Shanahan," I said. "I don't bring charges with nothing but wild surmises and flimsy speculations in my pocket. And when I make a claim about homicide there's any number of people who are ready to listen. When I go to the D.A. with what I've got, they'll be bringing down an indictment."
He was half-drunk and cocky. Or else he just didn't give a damn.
"What is it you've got?"
"Cupronickel."
"I beg your pardon."
"England's the only place where they plate bullets with cupronickel anymore."
"I never would have known that."
"Neither would I, except for a lady friend who knows all there is to know about guns and ammunition."
"Traces of cupronickel in the wound?"
"That's right."
"Shooting enthusiasts must trade ammunition all the time. A pocketful here, a pocketful there."
"We're talking about a pretty small group here, connected up one way or another."
"I grant you that, but the bullets could have come in from another source. A casual source. Couldn't they?"
I didn't say anything, just sat there looking at him as the waitress brought another boilermaker for him. On the house.
"Is that the way you're going to play it?" I finally asked.
"If any authority is foolish enough to act on such slender evidence, if any prosecutor is foolish enough to present such claptrap as cupronickel bullets in evidence, that's exactly the way I'm going to play it. You've got nothing, Jake. Not a trace of damning physical evidence. No chain of evidence linking me to the crime."
"I've got Marla Kassabian."
"And what would she testify to? That I convinced my daughter to give a little of a substantial fortune to an old, discarded mistress? That she read an intention in a drunk's eyes? That she went along with a silly charade? No, Jake, I'm afraid you'll get no help there. She won't link me to it. There's no way you can even place me close to the scene of the crime."
He smiled the way a man smiles when he knows he got away with something big, and saluted me, the man who lost the game, with his shot glass. So I smiled, and he saw something in my eyes. He hesitated half a beat, then downed the whiskey.
