Pandora by Holly Hollander

“That I be retained as a consultant by the Hollander Safe and Lock Company Incorporated, and not by you as an individual. You understand, I’m sure, that the association with your company may be professionally advantageous to me.”

“I was about to suggest it myself. This way we can write it off as a business expense. How much?” My father was getting a pad of Hollander Safe & Lock checks out of his desk.

“Five thousand,” Blue said. “That will get us started.”

My father paused. He always did, whether it was sixty-five bucks for a shirt or sixty-five thousand for a new bracelet for Elaine. “All right,” he said. “It will be worth it if you can clear this thing up.” And there was no way to tell whether he would have called it off at six or gone into five figures.

As he passed the check over, there was a familiar tap on the door. I sang out, “What is it, Mrs. Maas?” and she said, “Tell Mr. Hollander there are some policemen here looking for Mrs. Hollander.”

How Lieutenant Sandoz Named the killer

Okay, it’s time to come clean—I’m psychic. You remember when I watched my father firing up his cigar, and it reminded me of Lieutenant Sandoz of the Pool County Cops? Well, at that very moment the real Sandoz must have been on his way to our house. Makes you think, doesn’t it? Astral bodies, life after death, and all that stuff. There are people selling articles to the supermarket tabloids on the strength of a lot less.

And just in case you’re still not convinced, when Sandoz introduced himself and sat down in my father’s study —taking the last chair, I might add, so that the benighted shlepper with him had to stand—he turned down my father’s offer of a good cigar and lit one of his own, a stogie made in New Jersey by refugees from Appalachia, by the smell of it.

“My housekeeper says you’re looking for my wife,” my father said. “She’s out shopping, I think.”

Sandoz nodded. “We’d like to speak with Mrs. Hollander, yes.”

“I certainly hope you’re not such a fool as to think that Mrs. Hollander has …” My father let it hang there.

“Killed somebody?” Sandoz didn’t smile—not even the tiny turning of his mouth that he probably called a smile. He wasn’t being funny and he wasn’t being cute, or at least he didn’t want us to think he was.

“I wasn’t going to go nearly that far. Been involved in any serious illegality.”

“No,” Sandoz said. Then, “Maybe you might want to get your daughter and your man Blue out of here.”

“You wish to speak to me in confidence?”

Sandoz shook his head. “Maybe you want to speak to me in confidence.”

“If this concerns the murder of my brother, I’d like his niece, and Mr. Blue, to hear whatever is said.”

“No, this concerns the death of Lawrence L. Lief of Barton. There are two others involved, too. Mr. Drexel K. Munroe and Mrs. Edith A. Simmons—”

(So one of us wounded had finally died.)

“—but specifically and particularly Mr. Lawrence L. Lief.”

“In that case, it doesn’t concern me or my family, as I was just explaining to Mr. Blue. I don’t want to discuss it, except over a dinner table.”

There was a long pause. Then Sandoz said, “Mr. Hollander, I would like your permission to search this house.”

Blue put in, “Have you got a warrant?”

Lieutenant Sandoz swung his wooden puss toward him. “If I had a warrant, I wouldn’t have to ask permission; you know that. I’m asking Mr. Hollander to permit a search of these premises, to show that he’s dealing in good faith with the police.”

My father said, “I’m not anxious to show any kind of faith to the police—good or bad. At this point, I owe nothing to the police, and I suggest to you that if the police were to spend half the energy they put into molesting reputable people into searching for the radicals who killed Larry Lief and the thug who murdered my brother, nothing more would be required.”

Sandoz lifted his shoulders. “You refuse.”

“Absolutely.”

“All right. We’ll have to go to a judge for a warrant now, and it’s better if we can tell the judge we asked and permission was denied. I’d like to use your phone, but if you want to be a bastard about it, Jake will go out to the car and radio someone, and they’ll phone. You want to be a bastard?”

“There’s a telephone in the hall,” my father said. “You can use that.”

“There’s one here, too. It’s closer.”

If I’d had my brain going, I would have reached over and grabbed the phone cord and pulled the phone off the desk so he’d have had to get up and bend over to get it. It wouldn’t have accomplished anything, but it would have made me feel better. Only I didn’t. I got caught flat-footed (if you can get caught flat-footed when your feet aren’t in working order) and Sandoz had the phone before I thought of it. He pushed buttons for a number that must have rung three or four times. Then he said, “He’s here … . Yeah, back from New York. Tell them … . He won’t do it … . That’s right, tell Dugan we asked, and he says no dice … .” He listened for a while longer, then grunted and hung up. “We’ll have a man out here with a warrant in about an hour.”

My father said, “I doubt that. But whether it’s true or not, in the meantime you can leave my house. I believe I’m within my rights in ordering the police off private property.”

Sandoz nodded. “If we don’t have a warrant, that’s right. But, Mr. Hollander, I have a good deal to say that you might find interesting.”