Manhunt. Volume 6, Number 4, June, 1958
The Threat
by Max Franklin
The set-up smelled phony, but I took the job anyway. You don’t say no to multi-millionaires...
1
The voice on the phone was precise. “Mr. Harold Stander?”
“Speaking,” I said.
“This is Mr. George Harbor, personal secretary to Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Wolfendon. Mrs. Wolfendon has asked me to engage you on a confidential matter. Are you available at the moment?”
“I’m available,” I said laconically. I had been available for some time. The private detective business is never very good in Miami, and it’s worse when you have to be temporarily careful to stay strictly within the law. I’d had a blunt warning from the Miami chief of police that one more step outside of it would lose my license, and I was being temporarily careful.
“Then Mrs. Wolfendon would like you to call at her home at exactly three P.M. today. Is that time suitable?”
It was an hour off, and the Wolfendons’ Miami Beach mansion was a forty-five-minute drive from my office. But you don’t say no to multi-millionaires. Joshua Wolfendon was chairman of the board of Wolfendon Plastics, which grosses some four hundred million a year.
I said, “I’ll be there.”
The Wolfendon home was big even by Miami-Beach standards. A uniformed maid answered the front door, led me through a front room resembling a hotel lobby, through a couple of others resembling ballrooms, and finally to a small, neatly-furnished study. George Harbor and Mrs. Wolfendon were in the study.
When the maid had moved off, I studied the two. The woman was about twenty-five, a lovely, delicate-featured blonde with the kind of body which made most other women look like slobs. I knew from newspaper accounts at the time of her Cinderella marriage three years before that she had been a photographer’s model in New York when she ran into Wolfendon.
George Harbor was a good-looking, well-muscled man of about thirty with jet-black hair and eyes to match. He looked me up and down too.
“You seem to have the physical qualifications, Mr. Stander,” he said finally. “What are you? About six three and two twenty?”
“About,” I said. “Physical qualifications for what?”
“Acting as a bodyguard.” Then he remembered he hadn’t performed introductions. “Marie, this is Mr. Harold Stander. Mrs. Wolfendon, Mr. Stander.”
I wondered at his familiar use of his employer’s first name. Later, when he referred to Mr. Wolfendon as Josh, I wondered still more. Still later I learned he was a first cousin of Joshua Wolfendon, and had more of the status of a family member than of an employee.
When Marie Wolfendon and I had murmured polite things to each other, Harbor said, “Show Mr. Stander the letters, Marie.”
Rising, she crossed the small room to a desk and removed two envelopes from a drawer. I couldn’t help admiring the graceful sway of her hips as she crossed the room. I wasn’t alone. George Harbor couldn’t help it either.
Returning, she handed me only one of the envelopes first. It was postmarked St. Louis and was addressed in crabbed longhand to Miss Marie Carling at a New York City address. There was no return address. I frowned when I noted the postmark date was three years old, but I didn’t comment. I withdrew the single sheet inside.
The letter, in the same crabbed handwriting, read:
Dear Marie:
You must have known what the news of your intended marriage to that notorious and ancient playboy would do to me. How many times have I told you I won’t, repeat won’t, live without you? If you take this step, I swear I’ll take steps too. I haven’t yet decided whether I’ll kill you, or myself, or both of us. But, for God’s sake, change your mind before it’s too late.
With undying love and deadly seriousness,
I looked inquiringly at Marie Wolfendon.
“I got that just after Joshua’s and my engagement was announced in the newspapers,” she said. “It’s from a boy I used to go with in my home town of Washington, Missouri. His name is David Carr.”
“Show it to your future husband?” I asked.
She shook her blonde head. “I couldn’t. Not because I was afraid for him to know I’d had a high-school puppy-love affair, but because of the way David referred to him in the letter. I... I thought it might hurt his feelings.”
I knew what she meant. Josh Wolfendon had inherited his control of Wolfendon Plastics, and though he was chairman of the board, the only actual work he did was to preside at the annual stockholders’ meeting. Before his marriage, he’d spent most of his time in New York night clubs. The description was accurate enough to hurt, including the word “ancient.” He was double his wife’s age.
I grunted and looked pointedly at the second letter in her hand.
“Before I show you this other one, I want you to understand about David,” she said. “It wasn’t anything but a puppy-love affair. We broke up almost a year before I left Missouri for New York.”
When she paused, I asked, “Then why was he so upset about you marrying another man?”
“He never accepted the breakup. He made some awful scenes, including a suicide attempt on my front porch. He cut his wrists. He recovered and was committed to the state mental hospital. He was still there when I moved to New York. The next I heard from him was the letter you just read.”
“Do anything about the letter?” I asked.
“I didn’t report it to the police, if that’s what you mean. I wrote his folks in Washington, Missouri about it. They wrote back that he was just being dramatic, and to ignore it. They said that when he was released from the state mental hospital, his psychiatrist had told them he was emotionally immature, but perfectly sane and definitely not dangerous. I decided to take their advice and ignore the letter. I never heard from him again until this came in the morning mail.”
She handed me the second envelope, which was addressed, in the same crabbed handwriting as the first, to Mrs. Marie Wolfendon at her present address. The postmark was Miami and the date yesterday’s.
I slipped the letter from the envelope. It read:
Dear Marie:
After three years of trying to forget you, I’ve given up. Life without you is hopeless. I’ve finally come to a decision. I’m going to die, but I’m not leaving you behind. You’re going to die first.
Expect me,
Looking up from the letter, I said, “Have you reported this to the police yet?”
George Harbor said, “We don’t want any publicity, and if possible, we don’t want Josh disturbed by having to know about it. That’s why we called in a private detective.”
I looked at him so long, he reddened slightly. Then I said, “You have a slightly wrong slant on things. Private detectives are just supplements to the police, not substitutes. If I took this assignment without reporting the situation to the police, and Mrs. Wolfendon got killed despite my efforts, I’d lose my license before the funeral. Let’s get something straight right now. If I take this assignment, the police see those letters. I’d also suggest that you take Mr. Wolfendon into your confidence. He’s going to be a devil of a lot more upset if he learns about this from some cop who drops around to question him, instead of learning it from you.”
Marie Wolfendon said, “Oh,” and wrung her hands together.
George Harbor ruefully rubbed his nose. “I told you it would be best to tell Josh all about it, and call the police, Marie. Mr. Stander’s experienced in these things. We’d better take his advice.”