Harold Q. Masur - Send Another Hearse

A RAVEN HOUSE MYSTERY

Raven House edition published November 1980

Copyright (C by Harold Q. Masur. Philippine copyright 1980.

SHE WAS VOGUE On the outside and vague on the inside.

She was fashionable and meticulously put together, very chic,very soignee, with deep auburn hair and wide hazel eyes thatblinked at me with a bemused expression.

But despite her vague, uncertain manner, I knew instinctively thathere was no standard-type, showwindow mannequin, no paintedposturer. Beneath the cosmetic mask I sensed an elfin quality,something alive and vibrant, all under strict discipline at themoment.

Another time I might have enjoyed meeting her. Not now, however.Not this morning. Not under these circumstances. Now I wanted onlyone thing. I wanted her to go away-quickly, quietly and withoutfuss.

As a matter of fact, I should never have opened the door in thefirst place. I should have let her ring until she burned out agenerator at Consolidated Edison. But her finger on the bell,five minutes without respite, had been so persistent, soacoustically unbearable, that I finally answered, and there she was,regarding me with an odd little frown, almost as if she had forgottenthe reason for her visit.

"Yes," I prompted.

"Er... doesn't Mr. Varney live here?"

How could I deny it? A nameplate on the door clearly pronounced histenancy.

"He does," I said. "But he's not in at the moment."

"When do you expect him?"

"Sometime this evening."

"Oh." She peered at me uncertainly. "Are you a friendof his?"

"A relative," I lied again. What else could I say? She hadfound me in Varney's apartment and it was quite obvious that I hadmade myself at home.

She hesitated briefly, then said, "I'll phone him tomorrow,"and turning crisply, she marched toward the elevator.

She carried herself with fluid grace and for a moment I admiredthe view. Then I closed the door and went back to work.

My search of Varney's apartment had only aggravated the generaldisorder. Soiled dishes were scattered haphazardly and there wasa loaf of calcified bread next to a cup permanently bonded with theremains of a soft-boiled egg. In the bedroom I found too manyclothes, and that is what disturbed me most of all.

Why would Dan Varney leave a perfectly good wardrobe behind him? Itcould mean a hasty departure. Or it could mean no departure atall. At least not of his own volition.

Everywhere the lack of a woman's touch was apparent. A film ofdust had painted the furniture gray. Varney's wife, I'd been told,was in Reno getting a divorce. Obviously the lady had taste, for even in its present disreputable state the apartment expressed acertain style and warmth.

I returned to the desk and continued foraging. There was anaccumulation of statements and bills, none of them receipted, andseveral impolite letters caustically dunning him for payment. Of theman himself, no trace. Not a single clue..

I was rummaging in the bottom drawer when a cool breeze touched theback of my neck and gave me an odd, prickling sensation. Suddenly Ihad that sharp and very special awareness of not being alone. Awhispered footstep sounded on the carpet behind me and I whirledaround.

The muzzle of a .38-caliber revolver, large, lethal andunfriendly, was pointed unerringly at the center button of my jacket.

"Sit still, mister. Don't make a move."

I was staring at a uniformed cop, large, husky, grim, determined.And just behind him stood my recent visitor, the auburn-hairedmannequin, her eyes saucer-large and excited.

"That's the man!" Her voice was breathless. "He saidhe was a relative of Dan's, but he's lying. I never saw him before inmy life. He's a burglar."

The cop spoke menacingly. "On your feet, mister. Take it slowand clasp your hands behind your neck."

The Smith & Wesson service revolver is a highly efficient pieceof hardware and I had no intention of arguing with it. I could almostread his thoughts. This would be a good collar, fine for his career,worth a conunendation at least, and maybe a promotion.

I really hated to disappoint him.

I said, "Just a minute now, Officer. You're making amistake. I can explain all this-"

"Explain it to the sergeant."

"Now look, if you'll just-"

"Knock if off! Turn around and walk over to the wall. Put yourhands against it and lean on them."

I obeyed. It was standard operating procedure, taught to everyrookie at the Police Academy, designed to telegraph any suddenmove, giving him the safest margin to fan a suspect for hiddenweapons. Re ran a hand under my arms, over my pockets, my thighs andlegs, satisfying himself that I was unarmed.

"Where's the telephone?" he asked the girl.

"Over there on the desk."

I said, "Officer, you can save everybody a lot of trouble ifyou'll just listen to me."

"You live here, mister?"

"No, but-"

"You get permission to enter from the owner?"

"Not exactly, but-"

"How'd you get in?"

"With a key that-"

"The tenant give it to you?"

"Well, no, but-"

"That's all brother. Save yourexplanations for somebody else."

He played it safe and called the precinct. Why run the risk ofhauling me in by himself when a couple of stalwarts in a prowlcar would insure a trouble-free expedition? Leaning against thewall grew uncomfortable and I began to feel the strain in my arms. Ishifted slightly and got a warning bark to freeze.

It took no time at all. The control room at Communicationsbroadcast a squeal to a radio car cruising in the vicinity andin less than five minutes the bell rang and we had company. Two morecity employees, veterans this time, who handled the situation with abrisk economy of words and action. They hustled me down, bundled meunceremoniously into a car and roared off with only anoccasional wail of the siren.

A word of advice to the average citizen. Should you be unluckyenough to get arrested, follow this simple formula. Refuse to sayanything that may be used against you, sign no documents and insistupon the aid and advice of a lawyer.

This last is paramount.

Not only because lawyers have to make a living. Which of course theydo. But lawyers know the angles, the complexities, the hurdles. Theyare versed in constitutional guarantees and how to protect aman's rights under the law.

A man in trouble with the law needs a lawyer with the same urgencythat a man with an inflamed appendix needs a doctor.

I followed none of the rules. I was in trouble, but I did not call alawyer. After all, I had my own diploma from law school and acertificate of admission to the Bar from the Appellate Divisionof the State of New York. I had been in practice for ten years and ifI didn't know the ropes by now I might as well take down my shingle.I felt competent to handle this scrape myself.

There is an old adage: The lawyer who defends himself has a fool fora client.

Well... maybe:...

THEY TOOK ME to the interrogation room, where two inquisitors fromthe detective squad took over. They were named de Castro and Hahn. DeCastro was a tall, rangy specimen with a bony face and ravenous eyes.Hahn was heavy, shambling and deceptively benevolent. He had a habitof leaning on an elbow and fingering his left earlobe while hetalked.

"Well, well... " he said wonderingly, after examining myidentification papers. "Scott Jordan! I'll be damned! You're thelawyer who was involved in that Hammond case last year."

"The same," I said. "And before we go on, I believeI'm entitled to make one telephone call."

"Sure. After you're booked."

"Booked for what?"

"Breaking and entering."

"Now wait a minute. You want me to cooperate, stretch the rulea little. No answers from me until I make one call."