Write Murder Down by RICHARD LOCKRIDGE

Author:RICHARD LOCKRIDGE
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Media
Published: 2018-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

11

In Shapiro’s small, and increasingly hot, office they agreed that they came up with questions, not answers—particularly not with the big answer. They had a fact—somebody had put Nembutal in Jo-An Lacey’s coffee and, when it had taken effect, had cut her wrists and put her in a bathtub to die. Drunk coffee with her and washed one of the cups and not the other? Why not the other?

“To make it look like suicide,” Tony suggested and got “Mmmm” for an answer. Shapiro was flipping through papers he had taken out of his In basket.

The State Police reported that John Henry Lacey III—or a man answering his description—had been brought to Oscar Karn’s house near Mount Kisco the night before and had been brought in Karn’s Cadillac, driven by Kenneth Stokes, half of the couple who took care of the Karn house and of the Karns. State troopers get to know the people of their territory. Lacey apparently had spent the night with the Karns. At least, when a police cruiser had happened to be in the vicinity that morning—time 10:17—the Cadillac, still driven by Stokes, had come down the driveway with Oscar Karn and the subject in the back seat. The cruiser had happened to be going in the same direction as the Cadillac, and behind it. The Cadillac had gone to a country club, and when it was parked there, Stokes had taken golf clubs out of the trunk. Two sets of clubs. Karn, who was dressed for golf, and the presumptive Lacey, who was not, had waited their turn and teed off.

So—Karn was a considerate host and John Henry Lacey III was a golfer.

Shapiro lighted a cigarette. He said, “Yes, Tony, to make it look like suicide. Did Shepley make a mistake in dialing? Or was there really a man in the girl’s apartment? Or is Shepley just feeding us a story?”

“And,” Tony Cook said, “why would anybody want to steal an unsigned contract from an agent’s office? If, of course, Morton didn’t just walk into a door and bang his own jaw, to make things come out even. And—”

He stopped because Nathan Shapiro was looking at the ceiling. Involuntarily, Tony looked at the ceiling too. There was a fly walking on it. The fly didn’t seem to be going any place in particular. Tony felt a measure of kinship with the fly.

“It’s too bad most people don’t keep diaries any more,” Shapiro said. “At least I suppose the girl—”

He did not finish. Instead he reached for the telephone. He had to wait for a couple of minutes. He said, “Lieutenant Shapiro, Homicide South. Sergeant O’Rourke happen to be around?”

“Day off, Lieutenant. Sergeant Proskowitz speaking. Something I can do?”

“Effects of Miss Jo-An Lacey,” Shapiro said. “Got a list handy, Sergeant?”

“Take a minute,” Proskowitz said. “Yeah. Something special you want?”

“They include a desk calendar? Memo pad sort of thing? Or a diary?”

“Hold it,” Proskowitz said and, almost at once, “Yeah. Calendar pad we’ve got. No diary.”

Yes, he would send it up.

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