He was a widower and had only one child, his daughter Elsa. He was prominent in civic affairs and charity drives, but had never entered politics, though he probably wielded more behind-the-scenes influence on Dade County politics than any other single individual.
Michael Shayne sighed deeply and finished off his coffee royal. He did not look forward to meeting Eli Armbruster this morning. The memory of the twisted body and contorted features of the old man’s daughter was still vivid in Shayne’s mind. What do you do, what can you say, to comfort a father who has lost his child under these circumstances?
Shayne shaved and dressed swiftly, and entered his office fifteen minutes after Lucy’s telephone call. She was typing at her desk beyond the low railing across the reception room, and she looked fresh and young and vital as she smiled at him and said demurely, “Mr. Armbruster is waiting in your office, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne nodded and dropped his hat on a hook near the door, and crossed to the open door of his private office.
A tall, slender, elderly man sat stiffly erect in a leather chair at one corner of the wide, bare desk. His feet were planted firmly together on the floor in front of him, blue-veined hands were placed precisely on his knees. He had scanty, white hair and a bristling, white military mustache, and a pair of the clearest, most penetrating blue eyes that Shayne had ever encountered.
He didn’t rise as Shayne came in and closed the door behind him, but inclined his head slightly and said, “Mr. Shayne,” and lifted his right hand to offer it to the detective. “I am Eli Armbruster,” he said precisely, “and I am pleased to meet you, although I could wish the circumstances of our meeting were different.”
Shayne took his hand and felt his own gripped in a surprisingly firm grasp. He looked down into the bright, blue eyes and said, “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Armbruster.” He hesitated, but looking down into those blue eyes, knew this was not a man with whom to mince words, “Suicides are hell,” he said flatly, “for those who remain behind. One can never understand…”
“Nonsense, Mr. Shayne,” snapped Armbruster. “This isn’t suicide we’re faced with. It is murder.”
Shayne released his hand and walked around the desk to seat himself in the swivel chair. He got out a cigarette and lit it thoughtfully. He said, “I realize that’s a natural reaction from a father. But I’m afraid we have to face the facts in this case.”
“That’s what I suggest you do, Sir.” His visitor’s voice was firm and placid. “The simple fact is that my daughter, Elsa, did not take her own life. It is unthinkable… impossible. I know my daughter, Mr. Shayne. She could no more take her own life than… than I could. She was a strong woman. Headstrong and willful. She might, now I grant you, she might decide to have an affair with another man. If she did so decide, she would have entered into the arrangement in a calm and practical manner. Elsa was not one to throw her cap over the windmill, to lose her head over any man. I know that girl, Mr. Shayne. It would have been utterly impossible for her to commit suicide. She carried my blood in her veins. An Armbruster could never take that way out.” He spoke with quiet, unshakable conviction which was very impressive.
Shayne tugged at his left earlobe and asked, “Have you talked to the police, Mr. Armbruster?”
“I came directly here from Chief Gentry’s office. I know Will Gentry, Mr. Shayne. I respect him as a conscientious and fairly efficient public servant. On the other hand, he is a dolt. Two and two always make four to Will Gentry. He does not possess a mind capable of conceiving that two and two may sometimes add up to three or to five.”
Shayne tried not to smile at this characterization of Chief Will Gentry. It was a perfect summing up of Will’s character, but the hell of it was that two and two did add up to four.
He said mildly, “There were the suicide notes, Mr. Armbruster. Did you read those?”
“Gentry showed them to me. Written by whom? Signed by whom, Shayne? Not by my daughter. You will observe that she left no notes behind her.”
“Not in that apartment,” Shayne agreed. “Possibly she left one at home for her husband.”
“He says not.”
“In cases like this,” Shayne argued, “a husband often denies the existence of such a note. It’s a defensive reaction… a refusal to wash dirty linen in public.”
“If there were such a note from Elsa, Mr. Shayne, I assure you that Paul Nathan would be the first to offer it as evidence. Don’t make the mistake of looking upon him as a grieving and bitter husband. I tell you, Sir, he is laughing at all of us behind our backs this morning. He has committed the perfect crime. He has rid himself of an unwanted wife and become heir to a multi-million-dollar estate in one stroke.”
The vehemence of his assertion shook Shayne a trifle, but he countered doggedly, “I’m afraid you are attributing superhuman powers to Paul Nathan. I don’t know anything about his relationship with his wife or how much he may have desired her death, but the fact remains that I have never in my life seen a more positively cut-and-dried double suicide set-up than the one I crashed into last night.”
“That is it exactly.” The ramrod-stiff old man leaped on Shayne’s statement avidly. “That is precisely the point I made to Will Gentry. Positively cut-and-dried. No possible question about it. A two and a two as plain as the nose on your face which must add up to four. So there is no real investigation. Naturally. What is there to investigate? Play it down and hush it up to save old Eli Armbruster’s feelings. Now tell me, Mr. Shayne. I understand you were there on the scene? How much painstaking and real investigation was there? What sort of search was made for clues that might possibly… just possibly… prove it to be something different from the cut-and-dried appearance of double suicide on the surface?
“Come now,” he demanded urgently as Shayne hesitated, marshalling his thoughts. “You’ve been in the middle of plenty of homicide investigations in the past. Just let your imagination have a little bit of freedom. Allow yourself to assume… just for instance… that there hadn’t been those two suicide notes in evidence. Then it wouldn’t have been cut-and-dried. There would have been certain questions for which the police would have sought the answers. I know Gentry has an efficient police laboratory. Were those technicians called in to subject that apartment to the sort of painstaking analysis it would have received under less cut-and-dried circumstances?”
Shayne had to say thoughtfully, “No. Under the circumstances that sort of procedure didn’t seem called for.”
“Exactly. Under the circumstances. Now… who is this man who signed his name Robert Lambert?”
“I don’t know what success the police have had in tracing him.”
“None,” said Armbruster triumphantly, pointing a lean forefinger at Shayne. “Up to this point they have not discovered one single clue leading to his identity. Why not? I’ll tell you why not. Because they don’t really care. What difference does it make after all? The case is closed. A man named Robert Lambert is dead and my daughter is dead. Do they know it was Lambert himself who wrote those notes? Suppose they were clever forgeries? Do they know my daughter had been meeting him there frequently? Perhaps she was just lured there last night.”