In the Death of a Man

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Jesse Falkenstein was just putting away his notes at the end of the day when he was visited by Mrs Lester, an acquaintance of his sister, who came to him claiming her husband, Glen, had been seen frequently dining with another woman. Jesse was loath to get involved, even though Mrs Lester was his sister's friend. That was, until he received a phone call from her at police headquarters. 'They say homicide, my darling Glen!' Murder was something Jesse did know about, if it was murder . . . 'My favourite American crime-writer' New York Herald Tribune

Release date: July 28, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

It was five minutes of six and Jesse, putting away his notes on the Brundage divorce, was in the act of rising from his desk when Miss Williams came in, shutting the door after
her with unnecessary discretion.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Falkenstein, it’s a Mrs. Lester. She says she’s a friend of your sister’s and will you see her even if she hasn’t an appointment. She looks as
if there might be money, only—” Miss Williams paused and added, “And I’m sorry, I haven’t quite finished typing Mr. Gardiner’s will, but—”

Really, some day, thought Jesse, he’d have to get up his courage to fire Miss Williams and acquire an efficient secretary. “Oh? Friend of Fran’s? I suppose I’ll have to
see her.”

Thirty seconds later his new client made an awkward entrance, bumping into the door frame, and said breathlessly, “Really, it’s awfully good of you to see me, Mr. Falkenstein—I
know it’s late—I’ve just been wandering around thinking about it and trying to make up my mind—Fran said you’d know—and I don’t want to, it’s
a horrible thing to do—suspecting my own husband—but—” She stopped for breath and Jesse seized his chance.

“Mrs. Lester? Sit down, won’t you? And if you’d just tell me what it’s about?”

“Oh, thank you. I know I’m an idiot at explaining things,” she said humbly. She sat down in the client’s chair. She’d be about Fran’s age, he thought, late
twenties, and she wasn’t a pretty or graceful young woman. She must be all of five foot nine, and built on generous lines, full-bosomed, wide-hipped. But if she wasn’t pretty, she
wasn’t exactly homely either: it was an individual face, a prominent but straight nose, wide jaw, high cheekbones, a somehow pleasant wide mouth. Magnificent teeth, he thought: even and very
white. She was a strawberry blonde, with a lot of rather untidy hair, wiry-curly, to her shoulders. And she did indeed have a vaguely opulent look about her: she wore her tailored navy-blue suit
badly, but it was an expensive one, and on her left hand was a good-sized diamond solitaire next to a wide gold wedding ring, on her right a large emerald-cut sapphire. Her hands weren’t
pretty either: square, capable-looking hands nearly as large as a man’s. She looked at him apologetically; her eyes were very blue. “Fran said you’d know. I just ran into her by
accident, in the restaurant at Bullocks’, this noon—I was so glad to see her—Fran’s always so practical. I just don’t know what I’d have done without Fran at
school. We were at Rossmore together.”

“Oh,” said Jesse. The rather expensive private academy where Fran had gone after elementary school. Somewhere in Mrs. Lester’s background was money. “What’s the
problem?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s awful even to think about,” she said distractedly. “Just awful. Glen. And the baby only a year old—but I thought, maybe that’s it. The baby.
I mean, he does take a lot of time, I don’t believe in nursemaids, Mr. Falkenstein, that is, not all the time. I mostly take all the care of him. Of course we send out the laundry, and I
don’t mean we never leave him with a nurse—but maybe I’ve been sort of neglecting Glen without realizing? Because Patty would know, of course—my goodness, she knows Glen,
they’re good friends of ours, we went to dinner there just last week—and she said it was Glen. With this blonde girl. Having lunch at this place downtown. And it was twice she
saw them, just this week. Patty’s a good friend of mine, she wasn’t being catty, she just thought I ought to know. And he’s been acting so funny—not like Glen—and if I
ask him if anything’s the matter, he just says nothing, he’s worried about the business. His agency. He owns—I mean he’s got the dealership, I think that’s how they
say it—that big Chevrolet agency on Wilshire. Lester’s Motors.” She stopped again.

Jesse felt faint surprise. A big agency like that wasn’t as a rule owned by a young man. He said, “But what exactly did you—”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just don’t know where I am,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a wrinkled handkerchief produced from her brassiere. “It’s a horrible
idea, to have your own husband shadowed by a detective, and anyway I don’t know any. Fran said you would. So I can find out if there is—I mean if he’s been—seeing
this other woman. Glen—it’s not like Glen, but they always say the wife’s the last to know, don’t they? And I knew it’d be no use to ask Daddy’s
lawyer, he just knows about mineral rights and land contracts and like that, and I never had any reason to go to a lawyer—and I don’t know a thing about private detectives, but when I
told Fran all about it at lunch and the queer way Glen’s been acting, she said—”

“Oh. You want—yes,” said Jesse. “And if you should find out you’ve cause for a divorce suit, would you—”

“Divorce?” she said, recoiling. “Oh, my goodness, no! Divorce Glen? Of course not. He’s Catholic anyway, he wouldn’t— Why, the baby’s only
a year old! I just want to find out. Because there’s something wrong. Glen’s been acting so—”

“Mmh,” said Jesse, sitting up. “I can recommend a good agency, Mrs. Lester. One you can trust to do an efficient job. But it wouldn’t be cheap,”

“That doesn’t matter. Daddy transferred a lot of money into my name when the Grandiflora started operating. The molybdenum one up in Oregon,” she said absently. “If Daddy
heard about all this he’d have a fit. Just a fit. He gets along with Glen all right mostly, but I don’t suppose he’d have really liked anybody I married.” She looked
at Jesse appealingly “C-Could you do all the arranging? With the private detective?”

“If you like. Call now,” said Jesse. “See if they can get right on it. They’re usually pretty busy.” He picked up the phone and asked Miss Williams to get him Tom
Garrett Associates. Within a minute he was talking to Garrett.

“I’m sorry as hell, we just haven’t a man free right now, Mr. Falkenstein. If you’d like to check back tomorrow—or Monday—we might be able to take it on
then.”

Jesse relayed that to Mrs. Lester, who chewed one thumbnail. Most of her lipstick had come off, and she needed a manicure; Jesse tried, and failed, to connect her with svelte smart Fran.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Don’t you know another one?”

“Sorry, I’m not a criminal lawyer. Do know these people are good—and discreet. And a couple of days’ delay—”

“Oh, I suppose so. All right. But you will let me know? Only don’t call after nine at night, he’s home then. Usually. It’s just so funny—Glen not like himself at
all.” She stood up, tugging at her skirt, tucking her untidy white blouse into the skirt band. “Oh, you haven’t even got our address—I am an idiot—it’s
Dorrington Avenue in West Hollywood.”

Money, all right. Glen, or Daddy, or both. A big agency like that would doubtless show a nice profit. Jesse wrote down the address and phone number, got the address of the agency on Wilshire.
“Now, just to—mmh—expedite this and help the detective spot him when we do get one on the job, Mrs. Lester, I’d better have a description of your husband. To pass
on.”

“Of Glen? Oh, dear, I feel so—yes, I suppose so—it’s just awful. Glen’s never—you know—been that kind of man. But I’d just like to
know. Well, he’s—he’s older than me, you know—than I, I mean—he’s nearly forty-four. He’s just six feet, and thin—only he’s built well,
and he’s got black hair parted on the left side and blue eyes and a nice straight nose and thick eyebrows—and he usually wears dark suits and—”

“All right, that’s fine,” said Jesse. “I’ll check back with Garrett and we’ll get it set up. I’ll be in touch with you, Mrs. Lester.”

“Th-thank you. I just—it’s just, I’d like to know. But it’s an awful thing to—but Patty said it was Glen, and he’s been acting
so—”

“Yes, we’ll find out,” said Jesse soothingly. “I’ll be in touch with you.”

Still dithering, she bumped into the door jamb again, thanked him four times over, and finally took herself out. Jesse shoved the notes he’d taken into one corner of the desk blotter and
went out himself. Miss Williams was just covering her typewriter.

“I’ll come in in the morning and finish that will, Mr. Falkenstein—I don’t mind the overtime, I just don’t know how I got so far behind.”

Jesse told her, with a mental sigh, that that’d be all right. He waited for the elevator, rode down, and sought the Ford in the parking lot up Vine Street. It was an overcast, gray
November Friday, rain threatening now, and he’d looked forward to a relatively peaceful weekend.

When he came in the back door of the house on Rockledge Road, Nell called to him from the living room. He walked down the hall and surveyed the scene sardonically. “Sybarites,” he
said.

Miss Frances Falkenstein, small, slim, dark, and svelte in an emerald knit sheath, was lying back in the largest armchair sipping a glass of sherry. Nell, who still looked beautiful to Jesse,
four months pregnant or not, his lovely Nell with her uncut hair in its usual big chignon, was ensconced in the chair opposite, also sipping sherry. Athelstane the mastiff leaned his bulk on her
legs, begging to have his stomach massaged. There was a roaring, crackling fire on the hearth. “Don’t tell me,” said Jesse, going across to kiss Nell, “you’ve quit
that job at last?”

“I’m still fond of eating,” said Fran shortly. “No, I haven’t. I’m entitled to some time off, after all. I’ve spent most of the day supervising
photographers taking shots of the window displays at Bullocks’, and I needed some common-sensible company. I think designers are all fags who hate women. Some of the new clothes—”
She shut her eyes and finished the sherry.

And Nell said, before he could ask, “I’m fine. Just fine. Having babies seems to agree with me.”

“All very well, but you lazing around over sherry—what about my dinner? You starting to neglect me?”

“It’s in the oven. Beef and mushroom casserole. Sit down and relax—have some sherry. It is,” said Nell, “a nice night to be in, with a fire.” It was beginning
to rain, the patter on the roof louder every moment.

“Sherry,” said Jesse with loathing, and drifted out to the kitchen to build himself a bourbon and water. Coming back, he said to Fran, “And thanks so much for the new client.
Where on earth did you pick up the Lester female?”

“Oh, did she come? Good,” said Fran, sitting up. “I wasn’t sure she’d dither away trying to make up her mind and never do anything at all. Poor Lynn—I really
thought she’d got lucky at last.”

“Said you were at school together.”

“That’s right. She—”

“Dithery female, all right. Country bumpkin female,” said Jesse, lowering his lank self to the raised hearth and sipping his drink. Athelstane abandoned Nell temporarily to wash
Jesse’s face; Jesse dodged him expertly.

“Poor Lynn,” said Fran again. “You know I always pick up the lame ducks. It was the same at school. I felt so sorry for the poor kid. She’d had no kind of bringing
up—her mother died when she was just a baby, and the father, I gather, is one of these diamonds in the rough. Which isn’t a bad simile—he’s in mining. Struck it rich and
never looked back. Which is how little Lynnette—of all names—happened to land at the Rossmore Academy, straight from a series of mining camps I think. Well, you’ve seen
her. She never could dress—there’s always the slip showing or her collar over her ear—you could put a Dior creation on her and she’d look like Little Orphan Annie,”
said Fran mournfully. “And she could be—mmh, handsome, in a way, if she’d try.”

“Brunhild,” said Jesse.

“The type. And she’s got lovely hair, that gorgeous color, if she’d do anything with it. Oh, I used to try with her. Get her interested, smarten her up—that last couple
of years at school. But she was terribly shy, too, which didn’t help. Not popular, of course—with girls or boys. I was never so surprised in my life when she called me up and
said she was getting married and would I be a bridesmaid. And,” said Fran darkly, stretching out her slim legs and observing her small, neatly shod feet in their black alligator pumps,
“I think that’s the fatal mistake I made. They do say, three times a bridesmaid, never a bride. And that was the third time round for me.”

Nell laughed. “Don’t be superstitious. I still say you ought to get Jesse to ask him if his intentions are honorable.”

Jesse grinned. “Shall I catch him between homicides and ask him, Fran? Bowl him over and let him know his career girl decided she’d prefer the domestic life?”

Fran snorted. “That—that cop!” she said with feeling.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” said Nell amusedly.

“But this ugly duckling,” said Jesse, “returning to our muttons—she did get herself a man? I gather Daddy’s loaded. That the reason?”

“Funnily enough,” said Fran slowly, “I didn’t think so. I’d run into them here and there—we still know some of the same people—if not very often. I
don’t really know the man, but I must say when she started weeping on my shoulder today I was surprised, Jesse, because he certainly never struck me as the philandering type. They’ve
been married, let’s see, about three or four years. He’s more the—oh, all-business and very upright type, and I always thought he seemed genuinely fond of her. Maybe no great
romance, but really fond of her.”

“He’s a good deal older.”

“Fifteen or sixteen years, I think. Maybe the only kind apt to go for her.” Fran looked at him directly. “She’s a very nice girl, Jesse. A good girl. Dithery maybe, but
something awfully nice about her. And not as weak as she sounds. She’s got a temper, I’ve seen it blow off. I just met her father once—she was Lynnette Gannon—and
she’s terribly like him. To look at, and maybe other ways. Daddy’s a tough old boy, I’d say. And Lynn so crazy about the baby—it’s a little boy—I really thought
she was having some luck at last. And now—” She shrugged. “But Glen Lester chasing the blondes—I wouldn’t have said he was the type.”

“Is there a type?” asked Nell cynically.

“Tempest in a teapot maybe.” Jesse rattled the ice cubes in his glass. It was now pouring a steady torrent outside, and the crackling of the fire sounded warm and cozy.
“She’ll spend a few hundred bucks to find out he’s worried about his income tax and the beautiful blonde’s his tax consultant’s secretary. She did say he’d told
her he’s worried about business.”

“And that could be,” agreed Fran. “I hope it is. What I’ve heard about him, he’s one of these men all wrapped up in business. And the reason I say I don’t
think it was entirely Daddy’s money that attracted him to Lynn, I gather he’s done right well for himself.”

“Yes. Money answereth all things—up to a point,” said Jesse.

“Stay for dinner, Fran?” asked Nell. “There’s plenty.” Lynnette Lester and her problems were tacitly dismissed.

“I’d love to but I can’t—you know how hectic the first of the month always is, and I’ve got a date with the layout staff.” Fran got up and stretched.
“And very fed up I am getting with the silly job.” As one of the editors of a West Coast fashion magazine, Fran might easily have doubled as one of the models; but since Sergeant Andrew
Clock had entered her life, the career had lost its appeal. “And I am not getting any younger,” she added plaintively.

The Falkensteins rocked with laughter. The spectacle of Fran, who had discovered at about the age of five that anything male was putty in her hands, coming up against the solid New England rock
of Andrew Clock was (as Nell had said privately to Jesse) gratifying.

“You’ll get soaked,” said Nell as Fran picked up her tweed coat.

“I was a Girl Scout,” said Fran gloomily, pulling a plastic hood from her coat pocket. “Be prepared. I’ll just make a dash for it. See you—take care,
Nell—mind the baby.”

“It’ll all come right,” said Nell as they watched her dash to her car parked in front. “Comedy of errors right now, with Andrew convinced she’s the dedicated career
girl.”

“Um,” said Jesse. “Hope so. Like to see her settled down with Andrew—a good man. You think so?”

“Bound to come out all right, darling. He’s crazy about her after all.”

“But—all wrapped up in his homicides. When is he going to wake up and realize she’s crazy about him?”

“Journeys end in lovers’ meeting,” said Nell vaguely. “I’ll start the salad. Everything else is ready.”

At the moment, Clock was indeed surrounded by homicides, and feeling harried. Besides a new anonymous corpse, a holdup over on First with a clerk shot dead, the latest suicide,
and a week-old rape-strangling of a teen-age girl in Pershing Square—and even a not-very-respectable teen-ager should have known better than to be wandering around there at ten o’clock
at night—he now had, this Saturday noon, another D.O.A., a traffic accident at the intersection of Hoover and Alvarado. Probably another fool drunk; at any rate, he’d rammed a new
Plymouth into the side of a building there. People! thought Clock savagely, reading the initial report of Patrolman Oliver Curry. He just hoped nothing else new would turn up today, but weekends
generally saw a certain amount of hell raised and something probably would. He initialed the report. There was also that three-week-old homicide, a very anonymous one, of the night watchman in the
warehouse over on Third Street. A homicide committed in the course of a burglary—not much of a haul the burglar had got, either. Furs mostly, and that and several other things said that it
had been a very pro job. A pro who had a pet fence. No latents at the scene, the watchman knocked on the head with a flashlight or a piece of pipe or something like that, and he’d had a thin
skull and died of it. Which had probably not been intended, but there it was. Not one single damn lead on that—it would probably end up in Pending.

And Clock would take no bets that something new wouldn’t be coming along.

“Pete,” he said, getting up, “I’m going over to see that witness in the liquor store holdup. You’d better see if you can pry anything else out of some pals of that
Sonia Bradley’s.”

“O.K.,” said Detective Petrovsky amiably.

Jesse duly checked back with the detective agency, and on Monday at noon was told they could start a tail on Glen Lester tomorrow. If that was still on the agenda. Thinking of
that dithery female—but a nice girl—Lynn Lester, Jesse sighed and said he’d better check back. He called Mrs. Lester.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, well, I think—Yes, I do want to. It’s not like Glen. He’s so queer and preoccupied. And he always seemed so absolutely crazy about
little Pat, but just lately— And I know Fran always says most psychiatrists need their heads read more than their patients, but I was reading this article the other day, it said about men in
their forties—and sometimes a woman pays so much attention to the children she—but Glen’s never been like that—you know—after other women! Three years and a month
we’ve been married and it’s perfectly horrible to suspect—but I—”

“Then you definitely want the detective put on him?” Jesse interrupted her of necessity.

A little breathy gasp. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do. I want to know.”

“All right. Shall we say for a week, to start with? Something should show in that time if there’s anything to show.”

“Yes,” she said faintly. “All right.”

“They’ll want a retainer. Say a hundred bucks.”

“All right,” she said more firmly. “I’ll—I’ll put it in the mail right away.”

As he put down the phone Miss Williams looked in. “Mr. Gardiner’s here to sign his will, Mr. Falkenstein. And—”

“Right—shove him in.” Jesse stood up. As she opened the door to usher the . . .