“Martha hired me to look after her interests—and those of her sister,” I said. “I’m trying to do just that— I also think something’s happened to Philip. The way you react I can’t figure out whether you just don’t care, or
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maybe you already know what happened to him because you caused it?”
This time the mustache bristled along with the eyebrows. I waited for him to explode—to see the little coiled springs come pouring out of him when he did rip himself apart.But he made an immense effort, and when he spoke, his voice was almost mild.
“I guess I should try to see things your way for a moment, Boyd,” he said evenly. “Martha hired you to protect herself against me, you say? All right, what did she tell you? That she was the victim of a conspiracy? That I have taken money fraudulently from her mother’s trust fund? That she and Clemmie are in fear of their lives?” “It could be true,” I said. “You haven’t said anything to disprove it yet.”
“A trust fund the size of the one my wife left, with its varied and multiple investments, would take two skilled accountants a month to check thoroughly,” he said. “If you care to provide two accountants, Boyd, I’ll give them access to all the books.”
“What about Clemmie and the farm?” I said. “That bodyguard who says no visitors allowed—and the house-keeper-companion who says she’s a nurse? You keep them up there to make sure the com grows or something?”
“Sit down,” he said abruptly.
So I sat down, and he sat opposite, taking a cigar from the box on the small table beside his chair and lighting it carefully.
“I’m going to be frank with you, Boyd,” he said. “I ask you to respect my confidence.”
“No guarantees,” I told him.
“There is a history of insanity in the family,” he said carefully. “My wife killed herself because of it. It goes back four, five generations. Sometimes it misses a generation—I’ve prayed it would miss my children’s generation.”
“Are you trying to tell me it hasn’t?” I said. “That your children are nuts—all of them?”
Hazelton studied the glowing end of his cigar for a few seconds. “Philip is a perfectly normal boy—and always has been,” he said quietly. “The two girls seemed to be the same through their childhood, adolescence—it’s only recently that they’ve become . . . eccentric.”
“Are they having medical treatment—you’ve got a psychiatrist who can confirm this?” I asked him.
“No,” he shook his head. “Not yet. Don’t you see, if I take them to a psychiatrist, the family history has to be made known. It would be halfway toward condemning an innocent person—halfway toward having them committed! I won’t do that until I’m sure there is no other way.” “So Martha imagines you’ve embezzled money from the trust fund, huh?” I said. “She imagines you keep Clemmie a prisoner on the farm—she imagines she hasn’t seen Philip during the last several days? She didn’t imagine she was being followed when she met me in that bar.” “Harris overheard her calling you the first time,” he said heavily. “He thought I should know. I called Houston and asked him to find out what Martha was up to. Don’t you see, Boyd? She’s developing a persecution complex. She’s imagining people are conspiring against her—even me, her own father!”
“Yeah,” I said bleakly. “How about Clemmie—what kind of complex has she got?”
“It started with Clemmie about three months ago,” he said. “She seemed to alternate between moods of black depression and almost violent ecstasy. One day she’d stay in her room the whole time and refuse to speak to anyone in the house. The next day she’d be laughing and talking the whole time, and you couldn’t get her to stop. That was why I sent her up to the farm. It’s peaceful there, quiet, restful. I put Pete in to keep curious people away, and the nurse—who’s both discreet and highly trained—to watch her. What more could I do?”
“That brings us back to Philip again,” I said. “What's happened to him?”
“I don’t know where he is at the moment,” he said tersely. “As far as I know, he was still at the farm when I left with Martha on Monday morning. He could be anywhere—on his yacht, staying with friends—anything at all. He’s of age and he pleases himself where he goes and what he does. I don’t interfere—in a few months* time I expect him to come into my office and start work —learn the investment business thoroughly, and I know he will—I have his promise. Until then, his life is his own affair.*’
“Whose idea was Tolvar?”
“Tolvar?” he repeated blankly.
“The private eye Houston brought along with him last night when he picked up Clemmie from my apartment.” “That would be Houston’s affair,” he said stiffly. “I’ve been entirely frank with you, Boyd. Now you can see why you must stop interfering—for the sake of both my girls.”
“Where is Martha now?” I asked him.
“I sent her up to the farm with Clemmie this morning. Do I have your word you’ll forget all about them now?” He flicked an inch of ash from his cigar, and I could see the wheels were still churning, so I didn't answer.
“You’ve been put to some trouble, Boyd,” he added, at length. “It’s only fair you should be compensated. I’ll see a check is mailed to you today.”
I got to my feet. “No dice,” I told him. “I think you’re a liar, Hazelton, a lousy liar at that! I’m sticking my nose into this deal until I find out the truth.”
“Boyd!” He spread his hands wide in a pleading gesture. “You don’t know what you’re doing—believe me! Clemmie was bad enough last night after the day’s excitement—but if you keep on causing trouble it could be enough to send both girls over the edge. I’m asking you to forget it—for their sake, not mine!”
“It’s still no dice,” I said. “And I just might take you
up on that offer of checking over the trust fund accounts.” “What is it you want?” he said flatly. “More money? How much is enough?”
“Most times it would be the answer,” I admitted, “and I’d have a nice round figure all ready to quote. But not this time—you don’t have enough money to buy me off, Hazelton, not even in that trust fund.”
I’d nearly reached the door that led into the hall before he spoke again.
“You won’t listen to reason,” he said in a low voice. “You won’t be bought off. . . . I’ll protect my family, Boyd, under any circumstances. This means I shall have to take other steps to deal with you.”
“I figure the steps you’ve taken already will lead straight into the deathhouse in Sing Sing,” I told him. “I’ll dance at your funeral, Hazelton, and so will your daughters!”
The manservant wasn’t anywhere in sight, so I had to open the front door for myself—life can be tough here and there. I got back into the car and drove across town to my office.
Fran Jordan smiled sweetly when I walked into the office.
“Where was my wandering boy this morning?” she said. “And no prize if you guess it was the same place as last night and who was she, not that it’s any of my business.”
“If I told you you were wrong, you wouldn’t believe me,” I grinned at her. “How’s the Midwestern investment project coming along?”
“Slowly,” she said in a serene voice, “but surely. He has a little trouble seeing the obvious. You know, like stocks are only pieces of paper, but a mink is a mink?” “It must be lunchtime,” I said. “Why don’t you have lunch with me and this time I might even pay for it. You know I’ve usually got nothing left after I pay your salary!”
“That’s a charming invitation,” she said. “But I ac-48
cept. By the way—that man, Tolvar, left a package for you this morning. I put it on your desk.”
“I'll take a look, then be right with you.” I said.