Death of the Detective by Mark Smith

Author:Mark Smith [Smith, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brash Books
Published: 2015-02-02T05:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-ONE

MOTIVES

Then Magnuson remembered Solomon Chandler, Farquarson’s lawyer. He lived in Kenilworth, a suburb Magnuson had to pass through if on his aimless drive he headed home. Wasn’t it possible that Farquarson in his last days had contacted Chandler on the same matter that he had contacted Magnuson on, giving Chandler more information than the nothing he had given him? Chandler would also have knowledge of Farquarson’s will, and in the provisions of that will might lie the motive for the murder, or murders, and the identity of the murderer. But in order to learn of the will Magnuson would have to take a chance and acquaint Chandler with the fact of Farquarson’s death. Despite the lateness of the hour—what hour exactly, he could not say—he was resolved to call on Chandler. It was possible that Chandler was now his only hope for further clues.

A winding, wooded residential road and a brown rustic shingle with the name of Chandler carved in it nailed to a tree. An asphalt drive that curved and turned to cobblestones not much beyond the small iron gate, and he was before the darkened house of red bricks between imitation half-timbering, and narrow gables, resembling an illustration of a castle, in miniature, out of Ivanhoe. No lawn here, only shrubs and trees, all evergreen. Evergreen needles lay in mats around the trees, were strewn across the cobblestones and steps, were even on the window sills; they came down with the rain that dripped from bough to bough.

He hammered the brass knocker against the door, put his fists to the panels. Finally the leaded coach lights came on beside the door, along with a dim light inside the house that revealed the crinkly window panes. For a moment he could believe that this was not Chicago and America, but Scotland or England, and the time a century in the past.

“Who is it? What do you want?” From behind the still closed door. Chandler’s voice. Frightened, too.

“Arnold Magnuson—you know me. I’ve got to see you, Chandler. I’ve important news, important business—.”

Then the open door and a wide-awake Chandler in bathrobe and pajamas. He was short and portly, with a round, red face, and although of an old Chicago family that had migrated from New England, he resembled a German Wisconsin dairy farmer more than he did any Brahmin of Beacon Hill. Recently he had all but retired from his law practice. In the hallway he said, “What on earth is it?” Magnuson’s excitement had become his own.

“I’ve just come from Frazer Farquarson’s house,” Magnuson said. “He’s dead—he died tonight.”

Chandler laid his hand on Magnuson’s arm, and squeezed it. He said, “It’s a shock to me, Magnuson. I know it was expected, that it’s the best thing for the poor fellow, since it was hopeless, and he must have been in awful pain…But we grew up together, went to school together.” He could not look Magnuson in the face. Considering the fees he would receive as the executor of Farquarson’s estate, Magnuson could not believe that he received this news as being entirely bad.

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