I broke away from Powers and Fenner after a time and, because by now it was after twelve, drove to a restaurant for lunch. After lunch I checked the restaurant’s phone book for the address of the Schroeder-Moore Electronics Company. It was on Spring, north of Chouteau.
The place turned out to be a one-story brick building a half block long. A girl at an information desk just inside the main door directed me along a hall to the Schroeder-Moore executive offices.
The office I was looking for had lettered on its door in gold leaf: Walter Schroeder, Jacob Moore. Inside, I found a large reception room where a striking redhead of about thirty sat behind a desk on which there was a phone with a number of push buttons. On either side of the room were closed doors. The one to the left was lettered: Walter Schroeder. The one to the right read: Jacob Moore. Apparently the redhead was the joint secretary of both partners. “Hi,” I said. “Mr. Moore in?”
She gave me a polite smile. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”
Taking out my wallet, I showed her my badge. “Sergeant Sod Harris, Homicide.”
“Oh,” she said. “You must be here about Mr. Schroeder. We heard it on the air just before noon. It’s simply terrible.”
“It is that,” I agreed.
“Have you arrested him yet?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Clayton.”
I regarded her curiously. “You think Sam Clayton killed him?”
“Well, it was the same way Mr. Schroeder was left before. With a flower clasped in his hands, I mean. And he had an appointment with Mr. Schroeder last night.”
“Clayton had an appointment?”
She nodded. “Mr. Schroeder had me phone the message to Mr. Clayton. He said to tell him to stop by his apartment at nine p.m. and they would work out the details of the settlement.”
“The settlement for the Clayton Cutting Torch?”
She nodded again. “I assume so, although Mr. Schroeder didn’t say. He simply gave me the message and I phoned Mr. Clayton to pass it on.”
“When was this?”
“Just as he was leaving the office at four-thirty yesterday.”
I raised my brows. “He didn’t wait to find out whether or not Clayton could make it?”
“Oh, he knew he would be available, because he had talked to his wife earlier in the day — about noon. Mr. Schroeder had moved out and Mr. Clayton was staying with her, you know.”
I grunted acknowledgment.
“Mrs. Schroeder was insisting that Mr. Schroeder had to make a financial settlement with Mr. Clayton over his invention before she would consider reconciliation. Mr. Schroeder said he would think it over, and asked when Mr. Clayton would be available to discuss it. She said any time at all, including that evening.”
“You listened in on the conversation they had, huh?” I asked.
“It was an accident,” she said defensively. “Mr. Schroeder had me get his wife on the phone, and I just forgot to hang up.”
I grunted again. At that moment the door to the right opened and a tall, well-built blond man of about forty looked out.
“Marybell, will you get me that audit report?” he asked. Then he looked at me.
“This is Sergeant Harris of the police, Jake,” she said. “He’s here about Mr. Schroeder.”
“Oh. Come on in, Sergeant.”
He stepped aside to let me enter his private office. Closing the door behind me, he offered me a chair before his desk and went around to seat himself behind it.
“It was quite a shock to hear of Walt’s murder on the radio,” he said. “I had been phoning his apartment all morning to find out why he hadn’t showed for work, but there was no answer, of course. Have you made an arrest yet, Sergeant?”
“Not yet. When did you last see your partner, Mr. Moore?”
“When we both left work at four-thirty yesterday afternoon. We walked out to the parking lot together.”
“Then you overheard him tell your secretary to phone Sam Clayton?”
He nodded. “I guess Walt was offering him some kind of settlement for an invention of Clayton’s on which we hold the patent. I don’t know what kind of settlement he planned, because Walt always handled business details and I run the plant.”
“You weren’t interested enough to inquire?” I asked quizzically.
“Of course I was interested,” he said, flushing slightly. “But Sam Clayton was an embarrassing subject I preferred to avoid. He was the first husband of Walt’s wife, you know, and Janet recently kicked Walt out and took Clayton back. When Walt asked Marybell to phone Clayton, he told her to call him at his own home. Wouldn’t that have left you too embarrassed to ask questions?”
Not if my business partner was going to make a financial commitment that was going to cost both of us, I mused; but I merely emitted a noncommittal grunt.
The door opened and the redheaded secretary came in. She laid a bound document about a quarter-inch thick on Jacob Moore’s desk. Reading upside down, I saw that the cover page bore the letterhead: Austin-Hubbard, Inc., Certified Public Accountants, and an address on Lindell Boulevard. Centered in the page was typed: Annual Audit of the Financial Records of the Schroeder-Moore Electronics Company, a Partnership.
“Thank you, Marybell,” Moore said.
“Okay, honey.”
I cocked a quizzical eyebrow at her back as she went out the door. When I turned back to Moore, I saw he had turned somewhat red.
“We’re engaged,” he explained. “She’s really not supposed to do that around the office, though.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “She’s a very attractive girl.”
“Thank you.”
“Your fiancée mentioned something about the flower clasped in Schroeder’s hands being the same way he was left before. You interrupted us by coming from your office just then, so I didn’t have a chance to ask what she meant. Do you know?”
“Oh, sure. I assume you know Sam Clayton spent time in the State Penitentiary at Jefferson City for beating Walt up.”
“Uh-huh. He’s been out only a couple of weeks.”
“Well, what Clayton did was catch Walt alone on the sixth tee of the Forest Park Golf Course while Walt was playing a solo round. He beat poor Walt unmercifully. Broke his nose, both cheekbones and several ribs. Then he stretched him out on his back, unconscious, folded his hands in the center of his chest and clasped a flower in them. Only that time it was a daisy instead of a dandelion. Walt might have died if a foursome playing through hadn’t spotted him lying there and called an ambulance.”
“That puts a different complexion on things,” I said. “I think I’ll go back to headquarters and pull the case file on that assault.”
The case was in the Homicide files, because assaults are investigated by Homicide. Cliff Marks, who was no longer with us, had made the investigation. The circumstances had been essentially its Jacob Moore had described them, and Clayton had been convicted of assault with intent to kill in the Circuit Court for Criminal Causes.
I phoned Communications and had the nearest squad car to the house on Russell Boulevard sent to pick up Sam Clayton. When he was brought in a half hour later, I told him he was under arrest for investigation, suspicion of homicide. Then I started to read him his constitutional rights.
“I know all that,” he interrupted impatiently. “This is my second time here, remember. I want to make a statement. I know nothing at all about Walt’s murder.”