Payoff for the Banker (32 page)

“According to the receptionist, Gladys Quin, 23, of—East 180th Street, the Bronx, Mott, who was about 37 and lived at—Park Avenue, had entered his office some time after 10 o'clock this morning. So far as she knew, he had had no visitors until Maillaux entered his office shortly after noon. According to the police, however, there are two other exits from Mott's private office, both leading to corridors from which either the street or the main dining-room of the restaurant can be reached. It is assumed that the assailant used one of these methods to enter and leave the office.

“Similar exits exist from Maillaux's office, giving any assailant a wide choice of avenues, the police say.

“Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus J. O'Malley, in charge of Manhattan detectives, is in personal charge of the investigation. He is being assisted by precinct detectives and detectives of the Homicide Squad under Acting Captain William Weigand. Inspector O'Malley said—”

Pam stopped at that point, because one of the cats, presumably Gin, who had been on top, had removed the rest of the column, together with several adjacent columns. So far as Pam could tell, after a search of the bedroom, Gin had then eaten it.

Thus prevented from sharing Inspector O'Malley's thoughts, Pam North looked to see which kitten she had scooped and, finding it Gin, told the little cat that it should be ashamed to eat Inspector O'Malley. “Indigestible,” Pam told the small cat, which looked at her in surprise and then began to purr loudly. It then looked around, found that it had been deserted by its mother and sister, and began to wail, also loudly. “Funny little thing,” Pam said, letting it go. “I—”

And then, belatedly, it struck her. Mott. Anthony J. Mott, II—but that would be
Tony
Mott!
The
Tony Mott! The night club Tony Mott, the play backer, the marrying Tony Mott—in short, the entirely fabulous Tony Mott. No wonder he required an eight-column line to do justice to this last, still fabulous, front-page appearance. Well, Pam thought inadequately, well, for heaven's sake! I was thinking about him only—when was it? Something reminded me of Tony Mott only the other—And then, for the second time, she was struck, remembering. And she reached for the telephone.

The telephone on Jerry North's desk rang. He said, “Sorry,” to an author important enough to bring him back to the office after lunch on Saturday, and “Yes?” into the telephone. He said, “Put him on” and heard the modulated, slightly professional voice of Professor John Leonard. The modulation seemed a little hurried and Leonard said, “North! It's gone. Out of my office.”

Jerry North, who was used to having things come at him suddenly, said, “What?” only once. Then he said, “You mean the paper the girl wrote? The thing we were talking about?”

“Of course,” Leonard said. “The blue book. It was on my desk, I went to lunch, it was gone. Just like that.”

“You've looked?” Jerry said.

“I've looked. It's gone.” Leonard gave that a moment to sink in. “It's the damnedest thing,” he said. “Have you got the copy I made? Did you show it to this Weigand?”

“I did,” Jerry said. “He kept it, I think.”

“How did he feel about it?”

“About as I thought he would,” Jerry said. “That it was—funny. Disturbing. That he couldn't do anything. Do you think the girl took it?”

Leonard said that anybody might have taken it. Registration for the spring term had begun, the Extension offices were crowded. It was impossible to tell where everybody went; impossible to lock up the offices of individual faculty members since most of the offices were shared by several professors and so constantly in use. “And crowded,” Leonard said. “Several people standing around in each office, rushing in and out. You know.”

“Was the girl there?” Jerry asked.

“Probably,” Leonard said. “The girl, her boyfriend—anybody. Anybody could have walked in, student or not. It's—it's like the concourse of Grand Central, for all the check there is. What do we do now?”

“I don't know,” Jerry said. “I'll tell Weigand. But I don't know what we do. Was it by itself?”

“The blue book? Yes. I'd held it out. I was going to talk to her about it, you know. When I got a chance.” He sighed. “If ever,” he added.

“I'll tell Weigand,” Jerry repeated. “I don't know what he can do.”

“It's a funny thing,” Leonard said. “Disturbing.”

“Yes,” Jerry said. There was a short pause.

“Well, all right,” Leonard said. “I don't know what we can do, either. But it's a funny thing.”

Jerry let Leonard repeat himself, promised to let him know what Weigand said, hung up. I don't know if it's as funny as all that, he thought, and turned to the writer, who leaned forward and gave full attention.

“As I said,” Jerry told him, “we like it. We want to bring it out. There are one or two points—”

The telephone rang again.

“Damn,” Jerry said. “Sorry.” He picked up the telephone and said, “Miss Nelson! Please don't put anybody on for—oh.” He waited a second and said, “Hello, Pam?”

“Jerry!” Pam North said. “Did you see it? But I can tell you didn't or you wouldn't just be sitting there.”

“I'm—” Jerry said. “What?”

“It happened,” Pam said. “It's in the papers. She did do something.”

Jerry ran the fingers of one hand through his hair.

“Pam,” he said. “Look, darling. I'm talking to a writer about a—”

“With a steak knife, apparently,” Pam said. “The one in the professor's class.”

“Look,” Jerry said. “What steak knife? In what professor's class? You mean Leonard's?”

“Of course,” Pam said. “Not the steak knife. That was in—well, that was in Mr. Mott. Her husband. Don't you see? The one she hated.” Pam sighed. “Jerry,” she said. “Don't you
ever
read the papers?”

“Mott?” Jerry said. “Look, Pam—what are you talking about. Forget the papers a minute.”

“Mott,” Pam said, very carefully. “Tony Mott.
The
Tony Mott. You know. He was killed in a restaurant he owned. Somebody stuck a steak knife in him. Don't you remember the name of the girl?”

“Good God!” Jerry said.

“Of course,” Pam said. “What do we do?”

“Look,” Jerry said. “Bill won't miss it. Only—I was just talking to Leonard. The paper she wrote. He says it's gone. Apparently somebody took it—stole it, really, from his desk. He wanted me to tell Bill.”

“Did you?”

“Look,” Jerry said. “I haven't had a chance yet. I just finished talking to him and you—”

“Anyway, he's out on it,” Pam said. “I tried to get him, to be sure he saw it was the same Mrs. Mott. He and Mullins both. Jerry, we've got to
do
something. I mean, Professor Leonard won't tell Bill about the paper's being stolen. He'll leave it to you. And she did it so that it wouldn't be evidence of—of her state of mind. Because now she can deny that she ever hated Mr. Mott and—”

“Pam,” Jerry said. “Pam! Wait a minute! To start with, we don't even know there's any connection. Suppose her name is Mrs. Mott. Suppose Tony Mott is killed. We don't know—”

“Maybe you don't,” Pam said. “I do. Of course it is. She is
the
Mrs. Mott. And so she hated him and—at least, I should think anybody married to Tony Mott would have hated him, from the things he did—”

“Pam,” Jerry said. “You don't know this.”

“It's obvious.”

Jerry hesitated a moment.

“It's likely,” he said. “I'll admit that.”

“And we have to find Bill and be sure he hasn't forgotten the girl's name and tell him about the blue book. You see that?”

Jerry paused a little longer. Before him he could see it all again—the nervous strain, the dashing about, the probability that somebody would get hurt in the end.

“I'm afraid so,” he said. “All right—I'll try to get in touch with Bill. But Pam—you stay home. Don't—”

“Oh,” Pam said. “I'm not home, Jerry. I'm downstairs, in a booth.”

Jerry North said, “Oh.”

“Will you come down?” Pam said. “Or shall I come up? Because I think we ought to
go
to Bill's office. You know how they are on the telephone. Because if we don't say it's important, they don't pay any attention, and if we say it is, there's always—well, do you want to explain it to the inspector? From the beginning?”

“I—” Jerry began, and gave it up. “I'll be down,” he said. “I suppose we have to. Only—” He let that hang; the string of hesitation, of hope, frayed and broke. “I'll be down,” he said.

He cradled the telephone and looked at the waiting writer without seeing him. Then he did see him.

“Look, Ken,” said Jerry to the author, “I guess we've about finished, haven't we? That was an urgent call and—”

Buy
Murder Is Served
Now!

About the Authors

Frances and Richard Lockridge were some of the most popular names in mystery during the forties and fifties. Having written numerous novels and stories, the husband-and-wife team was most famous for their Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries. What started in 1936 as a series of stories written for the
New Yorker
turned into twenty-six novels, including adaptions for Broadway, film, television, and radio. The Lockridges continued writing together until Frances's death in 1963, after which Richard discontinued the Mr. and Mrs. North series and wrote other works until his own death in 1982.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1945 by Frances and Richard Lockridge

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3127-1

This 2016 edition published by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com

THE MR. AND MRS. NORTH MYSTERIES

FROM
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA