Sigmon accepted the drink his daughter offered. “Now that you’ve drawn me out on the subject of Ginny Jameson,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll excuse me. It’s still Gasparilla time, you know. I have to dress for a cocktail party.”
“It wasn’t Ginny Jameson that brought me here,” I said.
“Then what?”
“The old lady’s brief case.”
“Come again?” he said.
“Your mother-in-law, Señora Isabella Sorolla y Batione, deceased, owned an old leather portfolio. Jean Putnam reported it missing after the old lady died.”
“So what?”
“Have you recovered it?”
“I don’t think it’s any of your business, Rivers.”
“I do,” I said. “It may be the right tag end.”
“You’re losing me on the curve again,” he said.
“And I think it would be pretty hard to lose you on any curve, any crooked twist. But I’ll explain, Mr. Sigmon, Mr. Lord High Big Cheese of this palatial estate. Jean Putnam remained here for a few days after the old lady died to clear up tag ends. Somewhere in those tag ends was the one that caused Jean Putnam to want the services of a private detective. A tag end that got her killed.”
“Ridiculous!”
“Want to tell me about that portfolio?”
“There’s nothing to tell! It was simply an old catchall for an old woman’s mementoes.” He killed most of his drink at a gulp. “Try another tree, Rivers. You’re barking up the wrong one here.”
He stormed to the front door and held it open for me.
I flicked the door knocker with my finger. “Keep it polished.”
“If you come back, you’d better have a good reason.”
“I will,” I said.
It was growing dark by the time I reached my apartment. I let the plumbing gargle, running the huge, old-fashioned tub almost to the brim. I stripped and soaked some of the mush out of my muscles in cool water.
I went out to dinner and got back about eight. I called police headquarters while I sipped a beer. Zero. Blank. The city-wide had failed as yet to net Ben McJunkin. I stood at the window while I finished the beer and thought of Ben McJunkin and the twists and turns his life had taken. It was hard to think of a scarred old panther like him as ever having been a chubby baby in a loving mother’s arms.
Returning to the phone, I tried one or two numbers. Nobody was home. Everybody was out having a Gasparilla gas.
I watched my secondhand TV set for a while, one of the rare occasions when it was turned on, and there was snow in the picture.
The day had been endless. The previous night, with the varied experiences running the gamut from murderous McJunkin to merrymaking Myrtle, had taken a lot out of me. But my fatigue was due to something more than the physical. The apartment felt empty, as if no one at all lived here. A yawning emptiness seemed to be at my feet.
I made sure the windows and doors were locked. I turned in early. I slept with the .38 near my right hand.
When I reached my office the next morning, the telephone-answering service reported a call from Fred Eppling, the attorney. He’d left a number for me to call back. I called, and he answered the phone himself. He said he wanted to see me and gave me an address in a staid bank building a few blocks away.
I walked over. Eppling’s suite of offices was on the second floor, quietly sumptuous, a layout of satin-sheened walnut paneling, leather furniture, draperies of raw silk, and diffused indirect lighting.
His neat, smallish, sandy presence was clad in a three-hundred-dollar suit as if it was his work clothes — which it was.
His slightly sallow face had a few lines of strain. He smiled vaguely. “Seems we have another thing in common, Rivers — both working on a Gasparilla play-day.”
“The costumed señoritas in Ybor City will just have to get along without us.”
He glanced at his wrist watch. “I’m due at police headquarters at eleven o’clock to go over some details relating to Señora Isabella’s estate.”
“Anything to do with Jean Putnam’s death?”
“Who can say? Frightening... If a girl like Jean is subject to murder, none of us is safe.”
“I get the same sentiment on every hand,” I said. “But the least likely victim is nevertheless stone-cold dead in the morgue.”
He nodded, almost casually. He was making no display. Neither does a man who feels a thing deep down, where it will stay with him a long time...
“Any men in her life?” I suggested.
“Jean’s? Wrong street, Rivers. Several young men, all of good character. But no deep entanglements. No wild-eyed rejected suitor who’d hire a professional killer.”
“You never know what goes on behind a man’s eyes.”
The corner of Eppling’s mouth quirked. He made a gesture encompassing the office. “It wasn’t always like this, Rivers. I worked my way through law school and started from scratch in criminal law. I took any cases I could get, working and driving for opportunity. I haven’t always been the sheltered corporation lawyer. I know what the human brain can harbor.”
“Then we come back to Señora Isabella,” I said. “An old woman dies of natural causes, nothing shady, nothing haywire. But a girl apparently as noble as Joan of Arc is subsequently marked for murder. Something Jean did for the old Señora?”
“Impossible! Jean’s duties were wholly innocent. She screened the continual charity seekers, oversaw household expenditures, made out checks for the old lady’s personal charge accounts, handled personal correspondence, kept the señora’s social appointment book straight. That sort of thing.”
His voice shaded off. He was in a funk for a second. “Those were pleasant days for Jean Putnam, Rivers. Gracious living, genteel environment. The old lady was really fond of her.”
“Maybe Jean Putnam filled a gap left by a dead daughter.”
“No,” Eppling said slowly. “It wasn’t that, at least not bascially. The señora was tough, the way a queen could be tough when monarchies were for real. She was hard to get close to. She talked little of the past. She had plenty of emotional control. She was kind and patient, but she didn’t go in for deep friendships. And she permitted herself to despise only two things in life — Venezuelan terrorists and her rotten son-in-law.”
Nine
With a conscious effort, Eppling snapped the morbid train of thought. An attitude of briskness returned to his body. “I had several reasons for wanting to see you,” he said. “Shall we get started on them?”
“Fine.”
“The first has to do with Señora Isabella’s will,” Eppling said. “To lead up to Jean Putnam, I suppose I should acquaint you with the old lady’s wishes in general terms.
“She had two heirs apparent, her granddaughter Elena and the despised son-in-law, Keith Sigmon. Frankly, the old woman was happy with neither prospect. But she was dead set against Keith Sigmon ever coming into control of the estate.
“Cutting through the legalistic language and complicated technicalities, the old lady earmarked the bulk of the estate to Elena, thence eventually upon Elena’s demise to several charities and foundations.
“Now in an estate of such awesome proportions, a few thousand here and there is chicken feed. This is where Jean Putnam fits in. The old señora left little bequests to everyone around her, including the grocery delivery man. The largest went to Jean Putnam, ten thousand dollars in cash. She didn’t live to spend a penny of it. Somewhere, Jean must have a blood relation, if simply a distant cousin. This person, or persons, is now her heir. I want your assistance in finding him, her, or them.”