You Can't Live Forever Read online

  A light glinted in Magowan’s eye. “I’d like one of your men to give Jordan the nitrate test. Let’s see if he fired a gun recently.”

  “Me?” I spread my fingers across my chest. “Why would I kill Varney? I didn’t even know the guy. How would you establish motive?”

  A smile pinched his mouth. “Varney might have walked in here and caught you ransacking the place. Perhaps you’d already found the gun. Afraid of exposure, you let him have one and returned the gun to its drawer.”

  “Sure,” I said sarcastically. “But didn’t you hear Dr. Pike? Varney’s been dead for two hours. Why would I hang around so long waiting to be caught? Okay, give me the test. But give it to Creel too.”

  I knew I was innocent. I wasn’t so sure about Creel. As matters now stood he couldn’t very well refuse. One of the technical boys had a kit with him.

  It took twenty minutes after they peeled hot paraffin off our hands before the chemical reaction showed up. No nitrates had been blown back into our skins by the backfire of a gun. Which really proved nothing. A smart man would have worn gloves, or at least wrapped a handkerchief around his hand before pulling the trigger.

  Soon after, Sergeant Wienick came back with Creel’s secretary. She was an intense little number, wary-eyed and earnest, with brittle carrot-colored hair, and a faintly distrustful manner. Her name was Gladys Okin and she paused to blink at me rapidly, recognition dawning in her eyes.

  Magowan pounced. “Do you know this man?”

  “Why, yes.” She hesitated. “He was hanging around the office all day yesterday.”

  They all looked at me.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I was waiting for Creel. I wanted to serve the summons. But he wouldn’t see anybody. He must have been afraid of Varney, and he sneaked out the back way.”

  Nola turned to Wienick. “Where’s Cassidy?”

  Cassidy was my secretary; fat and forty, but worth double her weight in Harvard law clerks, one of my most prized possessions.

  “Not in, lieutenant. She left a note, saying she’d gone down to City Court to file some papers.”

  Nola looked at Gladys Okin. “Was Mr. Creel in his office this afternoon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When did he leave?”

  She considered it frowningly, puzzled by all this activity. “About an hour and a half ago,” she said finally.

  “There you are,” Creel said. “That clears me by half an hour.”

  “Rubbish,” I said. “A half hour either way is inconclusive. Nobody had a stop watch on Varney’s death.”

  Magowan glanced at the Deputy Medical Examiner. “How about that, doctor?”

  Pike shrugged. “He’s right, of course. My calculation was only a guess.”

  Creel smiled tightly. “I’m still covered. Ask Mr. St. George. He met me when I left the office and we’ve been together ever since, walking around and talking business.”

  Without hesitation, the older man nodded smoothly. “Quite true, lieutenant. He hasn’t been out of my sight since he left the office.”

  I said, “You can check my whereabouts as soon as my secretary gets back to the office.”

  Magowan ignored me. “Lieutenant, I want Jordan booked on a charge of illegal entry. The statue and the tool kit go along as evidence. I want to refer this matter to the District Attorney himself.”

  I needed no crystal ball to foretell what course the Rt. Hon. Philip Lohman would pursue. For him, my personality had all the abrasive quality of emery board. He would relish an attempt to pillory me.

  Nola avoided my eyes. He seemed uncomfortable. “All right, Scott. Let’s go downtown.”

  I felt as if somebody had tied a stick of dynamite to my career and lit the fuse.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Inspector Elmo Boyce sat behind his desk, a grim old wheelhorse grown too heavy for his uniform, with a face that looked as if he’d found it in a snowdrift. He was listening to Nola’s summary with mounting irritation, and at its conclusion he skewered me with bitter eyes.

  “What makes with you, counselor? You need a guardian or something? Can’t you stay out of trouble?”

  I kept my voice mild. “I’m a lawyer, Inspector. In twenty years maybe I’ll be able to select my cases. I’d like nothing better than to reorganize corporations and draw wills for old ladies. Right now I take what comes. If it means trouble, I can’t help it.”

  “How did you know about Varney?”

  “My client told me.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  “Joshua Wilde.”

  “The theatrical producer?”

  “Yes, sir. He used to be Creel’s partner.”

  Boyce looked impressed. “Does he have a piece of Creel’s big hit Laughing Widows?”

  “No, sir. That’s what we’re suing for.”

  “Your case have any connection with Varney’s death?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Suppose you let us be the judge of that,” Nola said.

  He was sitting in a chair, propped against the wall. His voice was calm and unhurried. Smoke from a thin dappled cigar swirled up past his squinting eyes.

  “Now, lieutenant—”

  The Inspector’s broad hand cracked the desk like a gunshot. “Dammit, Jordan, open up! Privileges are wiped out in a homicide case, canceled.”

  I didn’t have to give it much thought. This was a time when I needed friends. And anyway, once the summons and complaint were filed in the Supreme Court, all the facts would be open to official scrutiny. So I opened the bag and dumped the story in their laps…

  Creel & Wilde had been a play producing firm. Two flops and one small success. Creel I didn’t know at all, but Josh Wilde had been a friend of mine for years. I told them how I hadn’t seen him for months and then suddenly he’d popped into my office about a week ago.

  Joshua Wilde, fifteen years out of college and still the perennial undergraduate, lean and brown, with an infectious smile, close-cropped hair, and a jaunty bowtie. A congenital optimist driven by boundless energy.

  “Josh,” I said, pumping his hand. “Good to see you.”

  Teeth flashed brilliantly in a white smile. “How’s the rising young lawyer these days?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Haven’t seen you since that last preview. What’s on the fire?”

  “Got a new play, son. Something really good. The Maxwell Anderson touch, very human. Hits you here.” He showed me where with a hand over his heart. “If you’ve got any loose capital lying around I’ll run it into six figures. Put you right up there with Andrew Mellon—”

  “Save it,” I grinned. “I don’t want to be right up there with Andrew Mellon.”

  Josh effervesced with enthusiasm. “Don’t hoard your money, son. Make it work for you. This is a sure thing. It can’t miss. I feel it in my bones.”

  “When do you go into production?”

  “Soon as I get the backing. That’s why I’m here.”

  I shook my head. “You came to the wrong place, Josh.”

  He waved it away. “Don’t anticipate me. You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

  “There’s my certificate on the wall.”

  “Well, counselor, I’ve got a case for you. We stand a chance to make some real money. All I want is a quick settlement, one lump sum.”

  “Let’s hear about it.”

  “Remember my ex-partner, Nicholas Creel?”

  I nodded. Creel was the producer and director of Laughing Widows, one of the top Broadway smashes, playing to standing room only and sold out solid for months ahead.

  “Sure,” I said. “You dissolved your partnership just before he got hold of that gold mine that had the critics cheering.”

  He was suddenly very serious. He leaned forward, his eyes simmering. “Wrong on both counts, Scott. I didn’t dissolve the firm. He did. And not before he got hold of the play. After.”

  “Take it slow, Josh,” I frowned. “What are you driving at?”

  “Just this. That play came into the office while Creel and I were still partners. He never showed it to me.”

  I sat up. “What?”

  “Don’t you see? He read the manuscript, realized its potentialities, decided to split the firm, and produce it on his own. That way he could keep all the profits for himself. The bastard double-crossed me.”

  I understood what Josh meant by real money.

  Laughing Widows might run for another two years. Road shows could keep it going five more. It had been sold to a major Hollywood studio for an undisclosed price with a percentage of the gross. It was one of those fabulous properties that roll out of an author’s typewriter once in a lifetime.

  “If you can prove that, Josh,” I said, “you’ve got a case.”

  “I can prove it all right”

  “How?”

  “Ever hear of Neil Asher?”

  I nodded. Neil Asher, the Broadway Angel, backer of more successful plays and musicals than any man in town. Formerly known as The Wall Street Eagle, a name pinned to him in the Twenties, not only because of his marauding expeditions on the stock market, but because he actually looked like one.

  I said, “Untangle it for me, Josh.”

  He relaxed, leaning back comfortably, and crossed his knees. “I went to see Asher last night. I wanted him to help finance my new play. His attitude was very strange. At first he wouldn’t even listen to me. He seemed to doubt the soundness of my judgment. When I pressed him on it he said I’d been shortsighted in letting Creel get Laughing Widows away from me. I explained that I’d never even seen the manuscript. He didn’t believe me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he had met Creel at a literary gathering about six months ago. Creel was a little drunk that night
and he outlined the plot to Asher. Six months ago. Get it, Scott? Isn’t it obvious? The play must have been submitted to him while the firm still existed. Until last night I could never understand why Creel had suddenly become so set on splitting the partnership. That explained it.”

  “Will Asher testify in court?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll be a rich man, Josh.”

  His eyes glowed. “Is it in the bag?”

  “Listen. The law exacts the highest degree of good faith from one partner to another. No officer can seize a business deal that has been offered to the firm for his own personal profit. If he does he can be held accountable.”

  “That’s the law?”

  “Article 4 of the Uniform Partnership Act. A section specifically designed to prevent secret profits by an individual at the expense of the company.”

  He was gripping the edge of the desk. “And our remedy?”

  “We sue for a formal accounting and compel Creel to cough up your share of the loot.”

  Josh surged to his feet, unable to contain himself. He came around and began to pummel my shoulder. He was percolating with exuberance. A smile stretched from ear to ear.

  “You know how much that will amount to, Scott?”

  “Settle down,” I said. “Juries are highly unpredictable. Let’s not celebrate too soon. I need some information.”

  “Shoot.”

  I waited until he was parked. “First, a brief profile on Creel.”

  It came out quickly. “Nick is a tough customer. He’s calculating and ruthless. He’s been around the theatrical game for some time. Used to be an agent, booking club dates. I never liked him, but I tied up with him because he knew the angles. Knew how to pare expenses, how to deal with unions, how to avoid Equity regulations. No small talent in these days.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, he’s a bear with the ladies. He has an arrogance and a kind of hard masculinity that appeals to them. He skated around a lot, but managed to remain single until one of the girls in our last play caught his fancy. Hildegarde Molloy. Something really special. Creel unlimbered his big guns and went after her. But he couldn’t get her, not without a minister’s blessing, so he married her the day the show closed.” He paused and a shadow darkened his face. “Hildy’s too good for Nick. I don’t see how it can last.”

  I detected the pain in his voice. “You liked her too, didn’t you, Josh?”

  “Everybody liked her.”

  I looked down, embarrassed. “Where did Creel get the money to produce Laughing Widows?”

  “From Hildy’s uncle. A man named Julian St. George, married to her mother’s sister. St. George backed the whole production, not a piece of it went to anyone else.”

  “Will Creel settle out of court?”

  Josh shrugged. “He might. If you convince him he’s up against a wall.”

  I deliberated for a moment, then said, “I think this bird call for different treatment. We’ll skip preliminary negotiations. I’ll draw a summons and complaint and sock him without warning. Show him we mean business. If he wants to settle, let him come to us.”

  “You’re the doctor.”

  “Okay. Get Neil Asher down here tomorrow. I’d like him to sign an affidavit before we start.”

  “He’ll be here.”

  “Another thing. We could wrap this case up if we had the author on our side. He certainly knows when and to whom he submitted his play. By providing testimony similar to Asher’s, a victory would be clinched.”

  Josh showed me his palms. “There’s the hitch. We’d have to find him first. Nobody I know ever met the guy. He seems to hate the limelight, one of those birds with a passion for anonymity.”

  “I believe his name is Willard Thorne?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This his first play?”

  “So far as I know.”

  “We may have to put a private investigator on him. I think this case warrants the investment.”

  “I’ll go along, Scott.”

  “Then we’ll start the ball rolling at once.”

  Josh rubbed his hands. “How long will it take? Can we get some money soon?”

  “Patience, my lad. The machinery of justice moves slowly. As usual the Supreme Court calendar is cluttered.”

  Josh frowned. “I need dough, son. All I have on this play is an option and I wouldn’t want it to lapse.”

  “Don’t ride your hopes on a fast settlement, Josh. Why not try Asher again?”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea. I’ll do that now.” He stood up and reached for my hand. “Well, here’s luck, counselor.”

  He waved airily from the doorway.

  Lieutenant John Nola stirred out of his chair and rested a hip on the window sill. He shook his head. “Can’t see any connection so far.”

  I shrugged. “Neither can I.”

  “Who gave you the dope on Varney?” Boyce demanded.

  “Joshua Wilde. He told me that Varney was a hot-tempered, volcanic chap, of Turkish extraction, who’d Americanized his name. He said he thought Varney was innocent of that embezzlement rap and he believed the money actually found its way into Creel’s pocket, that Varney was framed. You ought to be sweating Creel, not me. He had the motive.”

  “He also has an alibi.”

  “So have I. The lieutenant spoke to my secretary on the telephone and she cleared me.”

  The Inspector made an unpleasant noise, then looked up at Nola. “What do you want to do with him?”

  Nola moved his shoulders. “Have I any choice? Unless we book him for breaking and entering the D.A. will start complaining about police laxity again.”

  Boyce made a grimace of disgust. He shook his head at me in profound sympathy. “You sure stuck your neck out this time, counselor.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  All men are created equal. The Declaration of Independence says so. This noble postulate, however fine it sounds in forensic oratory, blandly ignores the facts. All men are not created equal. Some are born rich, some poor. Some smart, some chuckleheaded. Others, when accused of breaking the law, are hauled off to the bastille and dragooned into spending the night with vagrants, panhandlers, and procurers while awaiting arraignment before a Felony Court Magistrate.

  Not me. I had connections and I knew the ropes. In less than an hour I was out on bail.

  I was sitting in my office now, high up in Rockefeller Center, waiting for Max Turner. Max was the investigator I’d hired to find the playwright, Willard Thorne.

  Right now I had a more urgent job for him.

  Across the room, looking at me out of a picture frame, stood the nine eminent Justices of the United States Supreme Court. It was probably my imagination, but I seemed to detect faintly reproving expressions on their faces.

  Then the intercom buzzed. I picked it up and Max had arrived.

  He was a spare man, unhurried, with an anonymous face and sleepy eyes. His nondescript appearance disguised an ability to meet emergencies with trigger-quick reactions. He had a card index memory that seldom forgot a face or a fact.

  He slumped into a chair and closed his eyes. “New client, counselor?”

  “Yes, Max.”

  “Generous?”

  “Not especially. But very important.”

  “Who?”

  “Me,” I said.

  His eyes jumped open.

  “I’m in a jam, Max. I need your help. Most of all I need it right away. Results must be in no later than tomorrow morning. Drop the Willard Thorne chase and get your shoulder behind this without delay.”

  He stared at me, waiting. Loquacity was never one of Max’s characteristics. His face remained blank but both eyebrows began a gradual ascent to the top of his head as I spilled the story.

  “I’m out on bail right now,” I finished. “The preliminary hearing is set for tomorrow morning. An adjournment would put the tabloids on notice and increase publicity. So I’m not going to ask for one. This kind of publicity I don’t need. As matters now stand they have enough to hold me for the Grand Jury. You know where I stand with Lohman. He’ll probably assign one of his top men to the case.”

  Turner’s lips formed a soundless whistle.

  “Fine fix for a lawyer,” he said dryly.

  I nodded gloomily. “Isn’t it though? I’ve got to squash this thing before it picks up momentum. A General Sessions trial on a felony rap can’t do me any good. To say nothing about landing in jail and getting disbarred.”