Meyer nodded, not particularly impressed, and went back to his typing. Carella waited. In a few moments, a man’s voice came onto the line. “Mr. Kapistan, may I help you?”
“Mr. Kapistan, this is Detective Carella of the 87th Detective Squad. We’re investigating a suicide and are making a routine check of insurance companies in the city.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I wonder if you could tell me whether your firm had ever issued policies for either of the two victims.”
“What are their names, sir?”
Carella was instantly taken with Kapistan. There was a no-nonsense attitude in the man’s voice. He could visualize him immediately understanding everything that was said, could see Kapistan’s pencil poised over his pad waiting for the victim’s names to be spoken.
“Irene Thayer and Thomas Barlow,” Carella said.
“Miss Irene Thayer?” Kapistan asked.
“No, that’s Mrs. In fact, it’s Mrs. Michael Thayer. But you might check under her maiden name as well. She was only married for a short time.”
“And the maiden name, sir?”
“Irene Tomlinson.”
“Can you hold on a moment, Detective Carella?”
“Certainly,” Carella said, his respect for Kapistan soaring. He had met too many people who, confronted with any name that ended in a vowel, automatically stumbled over the pronunciation. There was something psychologically sinister about it, he was sure. The name could be a very simple one, like Bruno, or Di Luca, but the presence of that final vowel always introduced confusion bordering on panic. He had had people call the squadroom and, in desperation, finally say, “Oh, let me talk to the Italian cop.” Kapistan had only heard the name once, and over a telephone, but he had repeated it accurately, even giving it a distinctive Florentine twist. Good man, Kapistan. Carella waited.
“Mr. Carella?” Kapistan said.
“Yes?”
“I’ve checked both those names. I have nothing for Thomas Barlow and nothing for Irene Thayer or Mrs. Michael Thayer.”
“What about Irene Tomlinson?”
“Is that the exact name? We do have a policy owned by Mrs. Charles Tomlinson for her daughter Margaret Irene Tomlinson, but…”
“That’s the one. Margaret Irene. Who did you say owned the policy?”
“Mrs. Charles Tomlinson.”
“Do you have her first name there?”
“Just a moment.” Kapistan checked his records. “Yes, here it is. Mary Tomlinson.”
“What sort of a policy is it?”
“A twenty-year endowment,” Kapistan said.
“In the name of Margaret Irene Tomlinson?”
“That’s right. With Mary Tomlinson as payor and beneficiary.”
“How much?” Carella asked.
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“That’s not very high.”
“Well, that’s the cash surrender value of the policy. In addition, there would he about fifteen hundred dollars in accumulated dividends. Just a moment.” There was another pause. When he came back onto the line, Kapistan said, “Actually, it’s fifteen hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Then, if the policy were held to maturity, the company would give eleven thousand five hundred and fifty dollars to the insured.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And if the insured died before the policy matured, that money would be paid to the beneficiary, is that right?”
“That’s right. Well, not that much money. Only the face value of the policy. Ten thousand dollars.”
“To whom?”
“In this case, to the payor, Mary Tomlinson. You know, of course, that when a child reaches the age of fifteen, ownership of the policy can be transferred to the child. But that wasn’t the case here. No one applied for transfer. That’s usually best, anyway. The way some kids behave today…” Kapistan let the sentence trail.
“Mr. Kapistan, as I understand it then, Margaret Irene Tomlinson-Mrs. Michael Thayer-was the insured person in a ten-thousand-dollar endowment policy which would have paid her eleven thousand five hundred and fifty dollars upon its maturity, or which will, now that she’s dead, pay her mother ten thousand dollars as beneficiary.”
“That is right, sir.” Kapistan paused. “Detective Carella, I don’t mean to impose…”
“Go ahead, Mr. Kapistan.”
“You are aware, of course, that there isn’t a state in the Union where an insurance company will pay a cent in the event the insured was killed by the beneficiary.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“I thought I might mention it. Please forgive me.”
“That’s quite all right. Can you tell me when this policy would have reached maturity, Mr. Kapistan?”
“Just a moment, please.”
There was another pause.
“Mr. Carella?”
“Yes, Mr. Kapistan?”
“The child was insured on her first birthday. The policy would have matured on her twenty-first birthday.”
“Which is next month some time, right?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“When next month?”
“The policy matures on May thirteenth.”
Carella had already opened his wallet and pulled out his celluloid calendar. “That’s a Saturday,” he said.
“That’s right, sir.”
“Mmm,” Carella said. He paused, and then asked, “How does the insured usually collect on an endowment policy when it matures?”
“Usually, they’ll write to the company, enclosing the policy, and enclosing some form of identification-usually a photostated birth certificate.”
“How long would it take before the company issued a check?”
“Oh, a week, ten days. It’s simply a matter of paperwork, provided the proof of identity is satisfactory.”
“Suppose the insured were in a hurry? Could it be done sooner?”
“I imagine so.”
“How?”
“Well, I suppose the insured could come directly to our office, with the necessary proof of identity, and with the policy. I suppose that would expedite matters.”
“Would the company give her a check that very same day?”
“Presumably, yes. If everything were in order.”
“Are you open on Saturdays, Mr. Kapistan?”
“No sir.”
“Then, if a policy matured on a Saturday, the insured would have to wait until at least Monday-that would be the fifteenth in this case-before she could come to the office to ask for her check.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“That explains the weekend interfering,” Carella said, almost to himself.
“Sir?”