“Frederick Clemens?” Al asked.
“Yes.”
“I am Sergeant Rogoff of the Palm Beach Police Department.” He held out his ID but Clemens didn’t so much as glance at it.
“And?” he inquired.
“These premises are your residence?”
“They are.”
“And your place of business?”
“Correct.”
“Are these premises also the residence of Felix Katz?”
“Yes.”
“Is Mr. Katz here at the moment?”
“No, he is not.”
There was a brief pause in the questioning. Clemens did not look at me. I think he was uncertain if I was cooperating with the police or if I was present under duress.
“You’re here for what reason?” Fred finally asked. “Am I to be arrested?”
“I hope it won’t be necessary, sir,” said the sergeant—a beautifully noncommittal statement. “But I have a legal document authorizing a search of these premises. Do you wish to examine it?”
“No, I do not,” Clemens said tartly. “If it is not a legal search then it’s useless, isn’t it?”
Rogoff’s smile was cold. “You know the laws of evidence, Mr. Clemens, and you’re right.”
“What are you looking for?” Fred demanded. “All my records, correspondence, licenses, and legal documents are in unlocked file drawers. It would save time and trouble if you will specify exactly what you hope to find.”
Al stared at him. “Not your business records, sir,” he said grimly. “We hope to find a pair of pigskin gloves.”
F
INALLY, FINALLY FRED CLEMENS
was shaken. Instead of growing pale his face suddenly flushed, shoulders slumped, fists were clenched to conceal the tremor of his fingers. He seemed to me more deflated than defeated but it was obvious he had been rattled, Rogoff noted it; his questions became more rapid.
“Is the name Frank Clement familiar to you?” he asked.
“No,” Clemens said.
“Floyd Clifford?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions.”
“That’s right; you don’t,” Al said reasonably. “But you’re not under oath so what harm can it do?”
“Well, I never heard of Floyd Clifford.”
“Do you know Mrs. Edythe Westmore of Palm Beach?”
Then Clemens glanced at me before replying. “Yes, I know Mrs. Westmore. She is a client of mine.”
“And you’re trying to sell her a Fabergé egg?”
“I’m not trying to sell her anything. I’m merely advising her to purchase a Fabergé egg from a French seller as an investment with a large profit potential.”
“Uh-huh. Is this a picture of the egg in question?”
The sergeant opened the art book and held it out. Clemens looked down at the color photo of the Coronation Egg.
Then
he paled.
“It appears to be the egg, yes,” Fred said in a voice now flat and toneless, totally lacking resonance.
“You gave an identical photo to Mrs. Westmore?”
Clemens hesitated just long enough to realize he could not deny it. “I did,” he said. “The photo I gave Mrs. Westmore was sent to me by the egg’s present owner in Paris.”
“This particular egg is part of the Forbes Magazine Collection in New York,” Al said. “I verified it by phone this morning.”
Clemens gave an excellent imitation of horrified amazement. “You mean I’ve been duped?” he gasped.
Rogoff laughed. “You’re good,” he said. “Really good. This page of this book was cut out and later taped back in place after it had been copied at a local photo shop. It was the copy you gave Mrs. Westmore as part of an intended swindle.”
“Ridiculous,” Clemens said. “I did no such thing.”
Al addressed one of the cops: “Tom, how long did it take you? An hour?”
“Less than that, Sarge.”
Rogoff turned back to Clemens. “Tom here went out this morning to find the photo shop which made the copy. It didn’t take him long because he started with the place nearest this address. The clerk in the photo shop recognized me shot of the Coronation Egg and remembers the customer who brought it in to have it copied. He remembers because me customer was missing the trigger finger of his right hand. Felix Katz has an index finger gone, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” Clemens said tightly. “So do a lot of other men.”
“Oh sure. But this man paid for the copying job with a Clemens Investments credit card. Smart, huh?”
“Our corporate credit card was stolen several weeks ago,” Fred said quickly.
Rogoff’s smile was bleak. “That’s the first dumb thing you’ve said. The credit charge was signed by Felix Katz. The photo shop has a copy of the bill and so does the credit card company. That partner of yours may be a muscle but it’s mostly between his ears.”
Clemens’s face had become increasingly stricken as he heard the sergeant detail the evidence of his culpability. But then I saw him recover. His spine stiffened, chin lifted. No pushover he.
“Katz is merely an employee,” he said. “He is not my partner.”
“No?” Al said. “Glad to hear it. Because if he was you’d be in the pasta fazool as deep as he is, wouldn’t you? Mr. Clemens, I’m going to ask you to do something that’ll benefit you as much as me.”
“What?”
“Come with me to headquarters voluntarily. I would prefer not to arrest you. If you come in voluntarily it will count in your favor. I just want to talk with you while a rep from the State Attorney is there. And you can call in your own lawyer if you like. All I want to do is discuss the situation with you and see if we can work something out. What do you say? Will you come in voluntarily?”
Clemens didn’t reply.
“Save yourself,” Rogoff said softly. “Save yourself.”
There was a long quiet while we all just stood there awaiting the decision. I could guess what was going through Fred’s mind: a hurried weighing of pros and cons, knowledge of the evidence against him and fear of more he hadn’t been told of. And there was his relationship with Katz to consider. What bargaining chips did he have? None but the fate of his ally. And his own future depended on that.
Finally Clemens drew a deep breath, adjusted his cuffs, made certain the knot of his cravat was in place. “All right,” he said.
The sergeant moved swiftly. Two officers were detailed to search the apartment. Clemens, Rogoff, his driver, and I descended to the street. Fred was conducted to a police car but not before he looked at me sadly and said, “I’m disappointed in you, Archy.” I could live with that.
Rogoff took me aside before we went our separate ways. “I’d like to keep the art book till tomorrow,” he said. “I want to show it to the legal eagles.”
“Only until tomorrow,” I agreed. “Then I’ve got to play Mr. Fix-It. Al, why did you ask him if Katz was there? I thought you had a tail on the guy.”
“We did but we lost him last night. Who knows where he is now or what he’s up to.”
“Well, their maroon Bentley is parked over there next to my buggy. If Katz is wheeling around it’s probably in Helen Westmore’s lavender Riviera.”
“Could be. Keep watching your back, kiddo.”
“I will,” I said. “One more thing: Did you have a warrant for Clemens’s arrest?”
“Nope,” he said, grinning cheerfully. “But he thought I did. I conned the con man.”
I watched the police car pull away and then I swung aboard my own scooter and drove to the Pelican Club for lunch. The joint was wall-to-wall celebrants since two companies were having early Christmas parties. McNally & Son was planning a brief and sober gathering in our cafeteria on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. All employees would be certain to attend, not for the cherry Kool-Aid and oatmeal cookies but because it was the occasion when annual bonuses were distributed.
I had a hasty burger and then fled the noise and confusion for the quiet serenity of my own miniature hideaway. I settled down with an English Oval and thought of how Rogoff had manipulated Clemens, massaging the man’s ego, being stern and unforgiving when he had to be, and concluding by appealing to the swindler’s instinct for self-preservation and deep-seated desire to avoid a stay at the resort community of Durance Vile.
I had little doubt Clemens-Clement-Clifford would eventually be allowed to walk with perhaps a slap on the wrist. But in return for his freedom he would condemn Felix Katz for the murder of Sydney Smythe and provide enough hard evidence to convict the thug and guarantee his long incarceration. I didn’t think the prosecutor would seek the death penalty; it was an iffy proposition when the main witness (Clemens) was something less than an upright citizen.
I could accept it. It wasn’t perfect but since when has justice been perfect? As for Clemens’s perfidy in ratting on his associate—pooh! We all know there is as much honor amongst thieves as honesty amongst politicians.
My ruminations were reaved by a phone call from Mrs. Trelawney informing me the seignior demanded my presence forthwith. Miffed at having my reverie shattered and wondering why I was being so imperiously summoned, I climbed the back stairs to my father’s archaic throne room. I found him standing erect at his antique desk, frowning with what I initially thought was anger but turned out to be puzzlement and concern.
“Mrs. Edythe Westmore phoned a few moments ago,” he said, forgoing a greeting. “She sounded hysterical and it was only after a rather disjointed conversation that I was able to grasp what she was saying. She believes her son Walter has been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?!” I said. “Walter? What details did she give?”
“Apparently he has not been seen since late yesterday afternoon. He didn’t appear for dinner and his bed was not slept in last night. Mrs. Westmore claims she received a ransom demand by telephone about an hour ago. A woman with what Mrs. Westmore described as a foreign accent insisted on a payment of five hundred thousand dollars if Walter is to be released unharmed. And that,
in toto,
is all I was able to learn of the matter.”
“Bewildering,” I commented.
“It is indeed,” he agreed. “Mrs. Westmore called to request counsel and assistance. I suggest you proceed at once to the Westmore home and determine exactly what is happening.”
“Of course, father,” I said. “I’ll leave at once. If I feel it necessary, I’ll phone you from the Westmores’. If not, I’ll report to you this evening at home.”
“Satisfactory,” he said, nodding. “If you believe a kidnapping is actually in progress—and Edythe Westmore acquiesces—the proper law enforcement agencies should be notified.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and departed hurriedly.
Minutes later I found myself zipping along Ocean Boulevard at an illegal rate. I slowed when I realized there was little point in rushing. And being stopped and ticketed by a trooper would be even more unnecessary. So I continued at a more sedate speed and eventually pulled into the Westmores’ driveway and parked behind Natalie’s battered Corolla, the first time I had seen that heap out of the garage.
The drive southward had given me time to reflect on what my father had told me. If it was true Walter had been kidnapped, who might be responsible for such a heinous crime? My first candidate was the “mean and dangerous punk” Felix Katz. Perhaps he, having learned of Clemens being taken into custody and the collapse of their larcenous scheme, had resolved to recoup by abducting Walter and demanding ransom. It was certainly a remarkable coincidence the kidnappers wanted half a million dollars—the identical sum Clemens and Katz had planned to mulct from Edythe.
But the bracing December air cooled my perverted imagination; I realized my scenario was ridiculous. Clemens had been led away only a few hours previously. Katz could surely not be aware of it so soon. In any event, Walter apparently disappeared late Monday afternoon. No, Katz in all likelihood had not been involved in the snatch. Then who was next in line as a suspect? I simply didn’t know, and recalling the kidnapping of the Franklin boy, wondered if it might be the work of visiting hoodlums.
My ring at the Westmores’ door was answered by the lugubrious houseman Algernon Canfield, who obviously had not yet obtained the new job he sought. It seemed to me there was a hint of glee in his expression when he said, “They’re in the sitting room, sir.” I thought it was possible he was relishing the tribulations of the woman he called Madam Nag.
I found Natalie and Edythe Westmore huddling close on a wicker couch. I noted the missing man’s wife was not present. Both mother and daughter appeared agitated and teary, which was understandable. Nettie rose swiftly’ and rushed to clutch me.
“Walter is gone, Archy!” she wailed. “He’s been kidnapped!”
“And they’re demanding half a million dollars,” Edythe added indignantly. “Oh dear, oh dear, whatever shall we do?”
The first thing, I wanted to say, is to lower your voice, for despite her anxiety she was still braying. I sat down unbidden in an armchair, mostly to escape from Natalie’s embrace, and faced the two women with sympathetic interest in their plight.
“Now tell me precisely what has happened,” I said. “My father could provide only a few details.”
They both began speaking at once and I was forced to shush Natalie and let Edythe relate the sequence of events. She added very little to what
mein papa
had already told me. She did amend her first account by saying the woman who phoned with news of Walter’s abduction and demanded ransom had spoken with a southern, not a foreign accent. Whatever additional information I gleaned was elicited from questions answered by both women.
“His bed was not slept in last night?”
Edythe: “No, and his shaving brush was dry. Walter shaves every morning without fail.”
“Can you be more specific about the last time he was seen?”
Natalie: “Three o’clock yesterday afternoon. I remember because he came over to the studio to see what I was working on and I asked him the time.”
“How was he dressed?”
Natalie: “He was wearing his khaki safari suit with a light sweater under the jacket.”
“Edythe, were you at home at three o’clock yesterday afternoon?”
“No, I was at my bridge club. The games were at the home of Mrs. Louis Fortuna on Sea Breeze Avenue.”
“Did your houseman or cook see Walter yesterday after three?”
Natalie: “They say no. They say they were both in me kitchen around that time and didn’t see him.”