She had been reading a magazine when I entered the office. It was a magazine that was concealed in a desk drawer which she closed, and when I announced I would wait for Mr. Channing, she wearily opened another drawer, pulled out paper, which she ratcheted in the machine, and started a laborious job of copy work, clacking the keys of the typewriter with mechanical precision but without any particular enthusiasm.
It had been five minutes past nine when I entered the place and the girl typed steadily for fifteen minutes.
Hartley Channing came in promptly at nine-twenty.
“Hello,” he said to me. “What can I do for you?”
“My name’s Lam. I want to talk about some tax work.”
“Very well. Come on in.”
He ushered me into his private office.
The clacking of the typewriter stopped as soon as I had crossed the threshold.
“Sit down, Lam. What can I do for you?”
He was a breezy individual, well dressed, well groomed, with fingernails that had been manicured within the last couple of days, an expensive hand-painted cravat, a fine tailor-made suit of imported worsted, and shoes that looked as though they could have been custom-made.
I said, “You handled Mr. Bishop’s work, didn’t you?”
His eyes instantly slipped colorless curtains between us. “Yes,” he said, and volunteered no more information.
“Too bad about him.”
“I understand there’s some mystery.”
“Seen the morning papers?”
“No,” he said, and I knew right then he was lying. “I’ve been busy on another matter and—”
“There isn’t any mystery about him any more.”
“What do you mean?”
“The body was found aboard a yacht in one of the yacht clubs.”
“He’s dead, then?”
“Yes.”
“His death is definitely established?”
“Yes.”
“How did he die?”
“Two bullet wounds. One bullet in the body and one bullet which went entirely through the head.”
“Too bad. I’m very sorry to hear it. However, you had some matters you wanted to consult me about?”
“A tax matter.”
“What’s the nature of it, Mr. Lam?”
“I want to know how much you know about the flimflam that Bishop was running.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“If you kept his books and tax affairs you know exactly what I mean.”
“I don’t like your attitude, Mr. Lam. May I ask if this is official?”
“It’s not official. It’s personal and friendly.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a detective from Los Angeles, a private detective.”
“I don’t think I have anything to discuss with you, Lam.”
I said, “Look, buddy, the chips are down. Now let’s quit fooling around with this thing. You’re mixed up in it. I want to know how deep.”
“I am quite certain I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lam, and I don’t like the way you talk. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I said, “Bishop had a lot of activities. He was smart. He decided he’d report the income but he wouldn’t divulge the
“Bishop never swindled a man in his life.”
“Of course he didn’t. He was too careful for that. If he’d done that he’d have been arrested, complaint would have been made to the corporation commissioner, and he’d have been out of business. He didn’t swindle anyone. He simply swapped dollars with himself. He had a lot of companies and he reported income to those companies and then he juggled funds and stock around so that nobody could tell just who was doing what. However, he was very careful to keep his nose clean on actually reporting the income. The thing he didn’t want to report was the
Channing picked up a pencil and began to fiddle with it nervously. “I am quite certain that I don’t care to discuss Mr. Bishop’s affairs with anyone who isn’t directly interested, or fully authorized.”
I said, “You’re going to discuss them with me and then you’re going to discuss them with the police. You may not know it, buddy, but you’re in a jam.”
“You’ve intimated that several times, Lam, and I’ve told you that I don’t like it. I keep liking it less all the time.” He pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
He was a big, athletic-looking chap, a little heavy around the waist, but there was also a lot of weight in his shoulders.
“Get out,” he said, “and stay out.”
I said, “Bishop was planning a fast move. He wouldn’t have planned it without consulting with you, and as I size you up you wouldn’t have gone along on a business of this sort on a salary basis. I think you have a finger in the pie.”
“All right,” he said, “here’s the end of the line for you. You’re going to get hurt now.”
He came round the desk.
I sat perfectly still.
“Get going,” he said, and grabbed me by the coat collar with his left hand.
“Up.”
He jabbed a thumb under my chin.
He’d been around, that boy. He knew the exact nerve centers where a jabbing thumb would bring a man up out of a chair.
I got up out of the chair fast. He spun me around toward the door.
“You’ve asked for this,” he said. “Now you’re going to take your medicine like a little man.”
He swung me out at arm’s length and reached for the knob of the entrance door.
The knob made noise, and immediately on the other side of the door I heard the keys start rattling once more on the typewriter.
I said, “You may have an alibi on Bishop’s murder. You may not. But that doesn’t mean you have one on Maurine Auburn, and Gabby Garvanza isn’t going to be easy. When I tell him—”
The hand dropped away from the doorknob as though the arm had wilted.
For a long moment he stood there, absolutely motionless, watching me with cold, blue eyes that held no more emotion than the keys on an adding-machine. Then he let go of me, walked completely around the desk, settled himself, picked up the pencil again, and said, “Sit down,
I said, “If you want to save yourself a lot of trouble, start talking.”
“You can tell Gabby that I don’t know a thing about Maurine, and that’s the honest truth.”
I said, “It isn’t healthy to get in Gabby’s way.”
“I’m not in his way.”
He shot out his cuff nervously, picked up the pencil, twisted it in his fingers, then reached for his handkerchief, blew his nose, wiped his forehead, put his handkerchief back in his pocket, and cleared his throat.
I said, “Start talking.”
