Lay Her Among The Lilies

Paula studied me.

“You think Janet was murdered, don’t you?”

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I lit a cigarette and put the match carefully in the ashtray before replying.

“I think it’s possible. The motive’s there: all that money. She certainly didn’t die of heart

failure. Arsenic poisoning, among other poisons, produces heart failure. An old goat like

Bewley might easily have been deceived.”

“But you don’t know! “Paula said. “Surely you don’t think Maureen murdered her sister?”

“The incentive is pretty strong. Besides collecting a fortune of two million dollars there’s

also the little insurance item. I don’t say she did it, but that kind of money is a big temptation,

especially if you are in the hands of a blackmailer. And another thing, I’m not entirely

satisfied that Crosby himself wasn’t murdered. If there had been nothing wrong about the

shooting why didn’t Salzer call in someone like Bewley to sign the death certificate? Why

sign it himself? He had to square Lessways, the coroner, and probably Brandon. It was either

suicide or murder. I’m willing to bet it wasn’t an accident. And as Willet pointed out, if a

man owns a revolver he isn’t likely to shoot himself with a shot-gun: so that leaves murder.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Paula said sharply. “That’s your big failing, Vic. You’re

always making wild guesses.”

I winked at her.

“But how I do enjoy myself.”

III

As a form of relaxation I do jig-saw puzzles. Paula gets them for me from a legless hero she

goes along and talks to on her afternoon off. This guy spends all his time cutting jig-saws

from railway posters Paula gets for him. They make terrific puzzles and one takes me about a

month to do. Then I pass it on to a hospital and get another off Paula’s pal.

From long experience in doing these puzzles I have found the apparently small and

unimportant-looking piece is very often the key to the whole picture, and I’m always on the

look-out for such a piece. In the same way, when I’m on a job I’m always on the look-out for

some insignificant trifle that appears to have no bearing on the case, but very often has.

I had been sitting in my office for the past hour, brooding. The time was a few minutes past

seven. The office was closed for the night. Only the whisky bottle remained.

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I had jotted down a number of notes that looked impressive, but didn’t add up to much.

And on reading through the list of likely clues I paused at Douglas Sherrill’s name. Why, I

asked myself, had Janet suddenly broken off the engagement a week before Macdonald

Crosby’s death? This fact didn’t appear to have any bearing on the case, but it might have. I

couldn’t be sure until I found out just why the engagement had been broken off. Who could

tell me? Douglas Sherrill, obviously, but I couldn’t go to him without tipping my hand, and I

wasn’t ready to do that at the moment. Then who else was there? I consulted my notes. John

Stevens, Crosby’s butler, was a possibility. I decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to see what

kind of a guy Stevens was. If he looked as if he could be trusted it might pay me to take him

into my confidence. Martha Bendix had said he now worked for Gregory Wainwright.

No time like the present, I thought, and turned Wainwright up in the book. I put through the

call, and after the second or third ring a stately voice said, “This is Mr. Wainwright’s

residence.”

“Is that Mr. John Stevens?” I asked.

There was a pause, the voice said cautiously, “Stevens speaking. Who is that, please?”

“My name is Malloy. Mr. Stevens, I would like to talk to you about an important and

private matter. It has to do with the Crosbys. Can you meet me some time tonight?”

Again that pause.

“I don’t understand.” It was an old man’s voice, gentle, and perhaps a little dull-witted.

“I’m afraid I don’t know you.”

“Maybe you have heard of Universal Services.”

Yes, he had heard of Universal Services.

“I run it,” I said. “It is important to me to talk to you about the Crosbys.”

“I don’t think I have any right to discuss my last employer with you,” he said distantly.

“I’m sorry.”

“It won’t hurt you to hear what I have to say. After I have explained the position you may

feel inclined to tell me what I want to know. If you don’t there’re no bones broken.”

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The pause was longer this time.

“Well, I might meet you, but I can’t promise …”

“That’s all right, Mr. Stevens. At the corner of Jefferson and Felman there’s a cafe. We

might meet there. What time would suit you?”

He said he would be there at nine.

“I’ll be the guy wearing a hat and reading the Evening Herald,” I told him.

He said he would look out for me and hung up.

I had nearly two hours to wait before I met him, and decided to pass the time at Finnegan’s.

It took me a few minutes to lock up the office. While I was turning keys, closing the safe, and

shutting the windows, I thought about Nurse Gurney. Who had kidnapped her? Why had she

been kidnapped? Was she still alive? Thoughts that got me nowhere, but worried me. Still

thinking, I went into the outer office, looked around to make sure the place was bedded down

for the night, crossed the room, stepped into the passage and locked the outer door behind me.

At the end of the corridor I noticed a short, stockily-built man lolling against the wall by

the elevator doors, and reading a newspaper. He didn’t look up as I paused near him to thumb

the bell-push calling the elevator attendant. I gave him a casual glance. He was dark skinned,

and his blunt-featured face was pock-marked. He looked like an Italian; could have been

Spanish. His navy-blue serge suit was shiny at the elbows and his white shirt dirty at the

cuffs.

The elevator attendant threw open the doors, and the Wop and I entered. On the third floor,

the elevator paused to pick up Manfred Willet who stared through me with blank eyes and

then interested himself in the headlines of the evening paper. He had said he wanted secrecy,

but I thought it was carrying it a little far not to know me in the elevator. Still, he was paying

my fee, so he could call the tune.

I bought an Evening Herald at the bookstall, giving Willet a chance to leave the building

without falling over me. I watched him drive away in an Oldsmobile the size of a

dreadnought. The Wop with the dirty shirt cuffs had collapsed into one of the armchairs in the

lobby and was reading his newspaper. I walked down the corridor to the back exit and across

the alley to Finnegan’s bar.

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The saloon was full of smoke, hard characters and loud voices. I had only taken a couple of

steps towards my favourite table when Olaf Kruger, who runs a boxing academy on Princess

Street, clutched hold of me.

Olaf was not much bigger than a jockey, bald as an egg and as smart as they come.

“Hello, Vic,” he said, shaking hands. “Come on over and get drunk. Haven’t seen you for

weeks. What have I done?”

I pushed my way towards the bar and winked at Mike Finnegan as he toiled under the