The Edgar Award Book by Martin H Greenberg

Author:Martin H Greenberg [Greenberg, Martin H]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

It took Leopold and Fletcher the better part of two weeks to assemble a file on Mr. Jules Dermain of New York City. When they’d completed their task, Leopold looked over the typewritten sheets and wondered just what it was they had.

Jules Dermain was 63 years old, a native of France who’d come to America after World War II and achieved a somewhat surprising success as a creator and manufacturer of games and puzzles. One of them, Melrose, had captured the public fancy in the mid-1960s and made Dermain a millionaire. As far as could be determined the man had no link with organized crime, and he certainly didn’t need the money.

Had Forsyth lied to them?

That was what Leopold intended to find out.

New York was familiar territory to him. He’d spent his first years as a police officer and detective there, before returning home. He knew Manhattan especially well, and the little East Side neighborhoods like Gramercy Park brought back fond memories of younger days. Stuyvesant Park was one of these, a few blocks south of Gramercy. It was surrounded by brownstone townhouses dating back to the mid-19th century, and it was in one of these that Jules Dermain resided.

Dermain saw Leopold in an upstairs office lined with books and samples of the games he’d manufactured. There were a dozen different versions of Melrose alone, including foreign language and Braille editions and even a magnetized game to play while traveling. Dermain was slender and white-haired, with the appearance of a professor. A tiny smile played about his lips as he spoke, but his eyes seemed always alert and serious.

“What can I do for you, Captain Leopold? As I understand it, you’re not connected with the New York Police Department?”

“That’s correct. I spent some years in New York, but at present I’m up in Connecticut. I’m head of our Violent Crimes Squad, and I’m down here investigating a recent crime.” Briefly he outlined the circumstances of Abby Tenyon’s mysterious beating, omitting the fact that Carl Forsyth was in custody and had supplied Jules Dermain’s name.

The Frenchman listened to all this with the slight smile still on his lips, as if awaiting the punch line of a lengthy shaggy-dog story. When Leopold finished he asked, “But how could this possibly concern me? I have never heard of Mr. Ron Tenyon or his wife Abby.”

“You must understand that I’m here unofficially, Mr. Dermain. But your name has been mentioned in the course of the investigation. I felt a personal interview with you might be the best way to clear the air.”

“So? My name has been mentioned. By whom, may I ask?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Dermain leaned back in his chair, unconcerned. “Oh, I suppose it was that fool who was hired to do the job.”

Leopold sat as if stunned by an ax. He would have been less startled if the Frenchman had drawn a pistol from his desk drawer and started shooting. “You’re admitting it?”

“Why not? You’re here unofficially, out of your jurisdiction.

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