“I see. And what is the nature of the expenses?”
“Little things that come up here and there. You never know.”
“I should prefer to know,” she said acidly.
“You’ll know,” I said. “You’ll get it all down in black and white. You’ll have a chance to object, if you don’t like it.”
“And how much retainer would you expect?”
“A hundred dollars would hold me,” I said.
“I should hope it would,” she said and finished her port and poured the glass full again without even waiting to wipe her lips.
“From people in your position, Mrs. Murdock, I don’t necessarily have to have a retainer.”
“Mr. Marlowe,” she said, “I’m a strong-minded woman. But don’t let me scare you. Because if you can be scared by me, you won’t be much use to me.”
I nodded and let that one drift with the tide.
She laughed suddenly and then she belched. It was a nice light belch, nothing showy, and performed with easy unconcern. “My asthma,” she said carelessly. “I drink this wine as medicine. That’s why I’m not offering you any.”
I swung a leg over my knee. I hoped that wouldn’t hurt her asthma.
“Money,” she said, “is not really important. A woman in my position is always overcharged and gets to expect it. I hope you will be worth your fee. Here is the situation. Something of considerable value has been stolen from me. I want it back, but I want more than that. I don’t want anybody arrested. The thief happens to be a member of my family—by marriage.”
She turned the wine glass with her thick fingers and smiled faintly in the dim light of the shadowed room. “My daughter-in-law,” she said. “A charming girl—and tough as an oak board.”
She looked at me with a sudden gleam in her eyes.
“I have a damn fool of a son,” she said. “But I’m very fond of him. About a year ago he made an idiotic marriage, without my consent. This was foolish of him because he is quite incapable of earning a living and he has no money except what I give him, and I am not generous with money. The lady he chose, or who chose him, was a nightclub singer. Her name, appropriately enough, was Linda Conquest. They have lived here in this house. We didn’t quarrel because I don’t allow people to quarrel with me in my own house, but there has not been good feeling between us. I have paid their expenses, given each of them a car, made the lady a sufficient but not gaudy allowance for clothes and so on. No doubt she found the life rather dull. No doubt she found my son dull. I find him dull myself. At any rate she moved out, very abruptly, a week or so ago, without leaving a forwarding address or saying goodbye.”
She coughed, fumbled for a handkerchief, and blew her nose.
“What was taken,” she went on, “was a coin. A rare gold coin called a Brasher Doubloon. It was the pride of my husband’s collection. I care nothing for such things, but he did. I have kept the collection intact since he died four years ago. It is upstairs, in a locked fireproof room, in a set of fireproof cases. It is insured, but I have not reported the loss yet. I don’t want to, if I can help it. I’m quite sure Linda took it. The coin is said to be worth over ten thousand dollars. It’s a mint specimen.”
“But pretty hard to sell,” I said.
“Perhaps. I don’t know. I didn’t miss the coin until yesterday. I should not have missed it then, as I never go near the collection, except that a man in Los Angeles named Morningstar called up, said he was a dealer, and was the Murdock Brasher, as he called it, for sale? My son happened to take the call. He said he didn’t believe it was for sale, it never had been, but that if Mr. Morningstar would call some other time, he could probably talk to me. It was not convenient then, as I was resting. The man said he would do that. My son reported the conversation to Miss Davis, who reported it to me. I had her call the man back. I was faintly curious.”
She sipped some more port, flopped her handkerchief about and grunted.
“Why were you curious, Mrs. Murdock?” I asked, just to be saying something.
“If the man was a dealer of any repute, he would know that the coin was not for sale. My husband, Jasper Murdock, provided in his will that no part of his collection might be sold, loaned or hypothecated during my lifetime. Nor removed from this house, except in case of damage to the house necessitating removal, and then only by action of the trustees. My husband—” she smiled grimly—”seemed to feel that I ought to have taken more interest in his little pieces of metal while he was alive.”
It was a nice day outside, the sun shining, the flowers blooming, the birds singing. Cars went by on the street with a distant comfortable sound. In the dim room with the hard-faced woman and the winy smell everything seemed a little unreal. I tossed my foot up and down over my knee and waited.
“I spoke to Mr. Morningstar. His full name is Elisha Morningstar and he has offices in the Belfont Building on Ninth Street in downtown Los Angeles. I told him the Murdock collection was not for sale, never had been, and, so far as I was concerned, never would be, and that I was surprised that he didn’t know that. He hemmed and hawed and then asked me if he might examine the coin. I said certainly not. He thanked me rather dryly and hung up. He sounded like an old man. So I went upstairs to examine the coin myself, something I had not done in a year. It was gone from its place in one of the locked fireproof cases.”
I said nothing. She refilled her glass and played a tattoo with her thick fingers on the arm of the chaise lounge. “What I thought then you can probably guess.”
I said: “The part about Mr. Morningstar, maybe. Somebody had offered the coin to him for sale and he had known or suspected where it came from. The coin must be very rare.”
“What they call a mint specimen is very rare indeed. Yes, I had the same idea.”
“How would it be stolen?” I asked.
“By anyone in this house, very easily. The keys are in my bag, and my bag lies around here and there. It would be a very simple matter to get hold of the keys long enough to unlock a door and a cabinet and then return the
