“Do you mean do I have any money, or do you mean do I have anything to hide?”
“Either.”
“As to money, I have none. I’m an actress. All I’ve been able to get lately is some extra work. I have a trust fund that doles me out just enough money to get by.”
A light went on. “A trust fund?”
“Yes. And you can stop thinking what you’re thinking, because my dear departed grandfather fixed it so that I can’t touch the money until I’m thirty-five. I’m twenty-four now.”
“That’s very interesting. Tell me about the trust fund.”
“Why? I told you, I can’t touch the money-”
“Nonetheless, tell me about it.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“You also don’t see why anyone would want to send you that letter.”
“Oh…”
Lieutenant Farron smiled, which didn’t come easy for him. “Humor me.”
Sheila brushed the hair out of her eyes and frowned. She was no more used to men like Lieutenant Farron than he was to her. Like many pretty girls her age, she wasn’t used to doing what men wanted. She was used to smiling sweetly, and having men do what she wanted. Still, she was scared, and she wanted help.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m an orphan. My father died before I was born. My mother was killed in a car accident when I was four. My Uncle Max brought me up. My grandfather, that’s my mother’s and Uncle Max’s father, died shortly after my mother was killed. In his will, he set up a trust fund for me. But I tell you, there’s no way I can touch it until I’m thirty-five.”
Farron pursed his lips. “Is it a large trust?”
“Yes.”
“Could you be more explicit?”
“What?”
“How large?”
“What does it matter? I tell you-”
“Miss…” Farron had a moment of panic, as he realized he had no idea who he was talking to, not the best of procedures for a veteran police officer. He glanced at the address on the envelope the letter had come in. “Miss Benton. I’m a police officer. It’s my job to determine what is and what isn’t important. I take all the facts and sift through them. If I let someone else decide for me what’s important and what’s not, then I’m a lousy police officer and I’m not doing my job. Now, I just want to know the relative size of your trust fund. In my mind it’s important. So tell me. Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
Sheila smiled. “All right. My grandfather was very wealthy. The trust is quite large. I have no idea how much is actually in it. The only one who would know is Uncle Max. But I know it’s several millions.”
Lieutenant Farron raised his eyebrows. “Several millions?”
“Yes,” Sheila said, somewhat impatiently. “But I can’t touch it. You know what I get? Two hundred a week. That’s eight hundred a month, ten thousand, four hundred a year. Try and live on that in New York. The only reason I get by is I have a dingy, one-room apartment on the Upper West Side that’s rent-controlled and costs me three hundred a month. Which I know I shouldn’t complain about, because there are people who would kill for it. But that’s it. I have nothing. I own nothing. I have no money.”
“Except for the trust.”
“Which I can’t touch.”
“Who is your trustee?”
“Uncle Max.”
“And who is Uncle Max?”
“Uncle Max. Maxwell Baxter.”
And suddenly Lieutenant Farron understood. Maxwell Baxter. One of the richest men in New York, in the United States for that matter. A wealthy man. A powerful man. A man with political connections. A man, perhaps, with connections to the commissioner.
Farron looked at Stams. Without changing expression, Stams seemed to be saying, “I told you so.”
So he had. Stams’ judgment was vindicated. This was why he’d brought him the girl. This was why he’d brought him this unlikely and unimportant case. The girl was Maxwell Baxter’s niece, and therefore merited attention. There was no way to fault Stams on it. He’d done right.
But he’d done more than that. And both he and Farron knew it. Yes, he’d informed Farron, so Farron wouldn’t be caught flat-footed if this developed into something. But more important, he’d covered his ass. He protected himself, by not turning the girl down. By not taking the responsibility. By leaving it up to Lieutenant Farron to turn the girl down.
He’d passed the buck.
“So,” Farron said. “Maxwell Baxter is your trustee?”
“Yes.”
“Is he your sole trustee?”
“That’s right.”
“And he gives you two hundred dollars a week?”
“Actually I get a check once a month. Sometimes it’s eight hundred, sometimes it’s a thousand, depending on how the weeks fall. It all adds up to ten thousand, four hundred a year.”
“What about inflation?”
Sheila made a face. “What about it? That’s with inflation. I started at fifty a week. It’s up to two hundred.”
“Is the amount a provision of the trust?”
“Yes. Carefully worked out by Grandpa to keep me poor for as long as possible.”
“And your uncle can’t increase that amount.”
She hesitated. “No.”
“You hesitated.”
“Did I? The answer is no, he can’t.”
“But he can give you money at his discretion?”
“In an emergency, yes.”
“And blackmail would be considered an emergency.”
Sheila was getting annoyed. This was not going the way she had hoped. “Look, let’s get something straight. If someone were blackmailing me, the threat would be that if I didn’t pay them, they would tell my uncle. Can you really see me going to my uncle to get money to pay to a blackmailer to keep him from telling my uncle something?”
Farron smiled. “No. Which brings me to the second part of my question. What would this man tell your uncle? What is it you have to hide?”
Sheila looked at him with wide-eyed innocence. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing that I’d pay a dime for, even if I had it.”
“Publish and be damned, eh?” Farron nodded. “Quite proper attitude.”
Farron had had enough. He got up to indicate the interview was over.
“Well, Miss Benton, we’ll do what we can.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“If you get any more calls or letters, get in touch with us immediately.”
Sheila stood up. “You sound as if you’re washing your hands of the whole thing.”
Lieutenant Farron came around the desk. He smiled at her, but he also took her arm and guided her to the door.
“Well, Miss Benton,” he said. “You must admit it sounds rather unpromising. You have no money to pay blackmail. You’ve done nothing to be blackmailed about. And so far, no one’s made any demands on you.”
“Some people want other things besides money,” Sheila protested.
“That they do, Miss Benton. That they do.”
Farron opened the door. She gave him a look, then stalked out of the office.
Farron closed the door, went back, and sat at his desk.
“Well,” Stams said. “What do you think?”
Lieutenant Farron thought Sergeant Stams had successfully passed the buck. But he wasn’t going to acknowledge that to him.
Farron shrugged. “Could be nothing. Practical joke. Could be something else. What I don’t like is the fact the phone call came as soon as she got home. It could mean our man’s watching the house.”
Stams nodded. “So what do we do?”
Lieutenant Farron knew that sarcasm would be lost on Sergeant Stams, but he couldn’t help himself.
“What do we do?” he said. “We put three bodyguards on her at all times, assign five squad cars to the area, and tap her phone.”
He looked up to see Sergeant Stams looking at him, impassive as always.
“What do you think we do?” Farron said. He snorted and handed him the letter. “File it.”
3
Sheila Benton spent a restless night.
Johnny called around seven o’clock to tell her he’d arrived safely and everything was going fine. Sheila would have loved to have told him all about what was happening, but she didn’t have the heart. He had his wife’s attorneys to deal with, and he didn’t need the added distraction. Besides, he’d kidded her on the way to the airport that she wouldn’t be able to get along for two days without him, that she’d be calling him up for advice. Well, she’d handled this herself, hadn’t she? She’d reported it to the police. She’d done everything she could do. And what the hell could he do, a million miles away?