The Last Vanity

By Hartley Howard

Edwin Newsome was pretty worried about his brother's health - so worried that he hired Glenn Bowman to work his way into Harold Newsome's household to do some unofficial sleuthing.

Harold was suffering from an obscure sickness, and though he's recently married a pretty girl much younger than him, Edwin didn't think it was just blonde fever!In fact, he suspects that the lovely Moira is taking a short-cut to wealthy widowhood by putting poison in her husband's food.

Bowman's first step forward brings him up against a corpse, and even he can't make a dead man talk.This is only the beginning of a dramatic case that takes Bowman down a dark and slippery road to a startling denoument.There are some mysterious undercurrents beneath the surface involving family and staff alike, leading to a conclusion much more sinister than a scheming wife after her husband's money...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781448204922

Hartley Howard

Leo Ognall (1908-1979), who wrote several novels under the pseudonyms Harry Carmichael and Hartley Howard, was born in Montreal and worked as a journalist before starting his fiction career. He wrote over ninety novels before his death in 1979.Harry Carmichael's primary series, written from 1952-1978, The Piper and Quinn series included characters such as John Piper (an insurance assessor) and Quinn, a crime reporter.His other works include: The Glenn Bowman series, 1951-1979; The Philip Scott series, 1964-1967.

Book preview

The

Last Vanity

HARTLEY HOWARD

Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter I

The road was white and dusty. It stretched in a thin, curving line along the water’s edge like a chalk-mark drawn between the bleached grass of Riverside Drive and the sparkling Hudson. A heat haze shimmered over the flat countryside as far as the eye could see, and the sun was climbing into a cloudless vault of dazzling blue sky. It was ten o’clock on a June morning, and it was hot.

I leaned against the garden wall of the big house, and lit a cigarette. Far out on the river a tiny tramp steamer beat its way sluggishly against the current, with a long plume of dirty smoke tanning out behind it. The sound of a ship’s bell came faintly across the water.

Beyond the chest-high wall stretched well-kept lawns, broken here and there by flower-beds rioting in a blaze of mingled colours. Behind the house, a clump of beech trees showed above the chimney-tops. The green and gold leaves framed the red roofs and the cool grey of the Portland stone walls. On the drive that ran past the house stood a Delahaye that spelled money. I scuffed some more road dust over my shoes and pushed open the gate.

A man with grey hair, that shone like silver in the sun, came round the side of the house and shaded his eyes to watch me as I went towards him. He had good features and a well-preserved figure, and he looked the kind who took care of himself. His grooming was that of a man of fifty trying to look like forty. When I got close to him, I guessed he was nearer sixty.

I took off my hat and asked, Want anyone to cut your lawn?

He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at me reflectively. I waited while he eyed me down and up—from my three-day growth to the cracked shoes thick with the grime of my walk from 152nd Street.

When his eyes had travelled back up to my face again, he pulled down the corners of his mouth and shook his head gently. I already employ a good gardener. I’m sorry. His voice was courteous, and his manner friendly. A very good gardener, he added, and he never cuts the grass while it is so hot—he tells me it dries up the roots.

All the time he was talking, he was studying my face and my hands and my old grey suit. I said, Every man to his own job. I wouldn’t know.

I didn’t think you would know, he murmured. His eyes crinkled in a smile. You haven’t got the hands of a man who grows things. Ever pushed a mower?

No. Where I come from, there weren’t many outdoor activities.

I see. He took one hand from his pocket and plucked at his lower lip. What exactly do you mean by ’ where I come from? ’

It’s a polite way of saying that I’ve just come out of prison, I said. I thought if I asked for an outside job, people might not be too worried about my record—unless they were afraid I’d steal the flowers.

He stopped smiling and said coldly, You sound rather bitter. Were you an unfortunate victim of circumstances, perhaps?

Nothing like that, I told him. The only unfortunate thing about me was that I broke the Eleventh Commandment—‘ Thou shalt not be caught.’

M-m-m. His eyes twinkled. Whatever your past sins, your manner is refreshingly honest. Have you made up your mind to go straight now?

That was the idea. Not because I’ve suddenly become a reformed character, but just that I’ve got some sense now. You’ve got to have either brains or luck to be a successful crook—I’ve got neither. So it’s the honest dollar from now on for me.

Did you pick on this house by chance? he asked. Or did you know whose it was? He seemed a nice guy, and it was a shame to deceive him. I consoled myself that it was all for his own good.

No, I said, I just played a game of eeny, meeny, miney, mo—and this was it.

He rubbed his hand up and down his cheek, and thought for a while. Then he said abruptly, I’d like to give you a break. Can you drive a car? Like the one over there, for instance?

I can drive anything on two, four or six wheels, I answered, "except a motor mower. You’ve got to show a set of green fingers before they give you a licence for one of those!"

His grin became a laugh. "I like you and I will give you a break. I run two cars, and the second chauffeur is off ill at the present time. According to his doctor, it’s likely to be a long business. Want to take on the job until the other man comes back?"

I’ll take anything that’ll let me eat, I said. When do I start?

He took his other hand from his pocket and peeled off a five from a roll of bills. Get yourself a meal, a shave and a shoe-shine. When you’ve spruced up a bit, come back. Ask for me. My name is Newsome, Harold New-some. I’ll give you thirty per week and all meals found. His voice grew hard. And if you don’t behave yourself, I’ll spend a damn sight more than that to put you where you’ve just come from. Understand?

Very good, Mr. Newsome, I said. What if I don’t come back?

Then I’ll have dropped five dollars in an unworthy cause. He gave me a sour grin. If you’re as cheap as that, I’ll be well rid of you. But I think you’ll be back.

I stuffed the bill into my pocket. As I turned away from him, I hesitated. Don’t you want to know anything more about me?

No. Whatever I need to know, I’ll find out, except for your name—that would be useful. . . . He was going to say something else, but he stopped abruptly and his face went white. His eyes screwed up in pain, and he bent forward and held his hands to his stomach. I took a step towards him and caught him by the elbow. What’s the matter? Can I help you?

He straightened up slowly and shook his head. There was sweat on his forehead, and the corners of his nose were drawn in. No, it’s all right, he said faintly. I’m getting used to it by now. It’s gone—until the next time.

Sure you’re all right? I insisted.

Yes, thank you. Quite all right now. He smiled with an effort, and pushed me away. What did you say your name was?

I didn’t say—but it’s Cliff Wylie.

O.K., Wylie. Go and do as I said. The job will be here when you get back.

It’s no use trying to make pretty speeches, I told him ; but—thanks a lot.

A woman looked out of the side door and called, Harold! I thought you had gone to the office. Catching sight of me, she exclaimed, Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t know you were with someone.

Newsome said, That’s all right, Moira. I’m not going into town until after lunch. In a low voice he added, Don’t let her see you with all that undergrowth. You’d frighten any woman to death. Start moving before she gets a good look at you.

I could have said that she’d already had more than a good look at me. She was still standing on the door-step, and she was wearing a puzzled expression. When her eyes met mine, she glanced quickly away and I thought she seemed uneasy. I stared over Newsome’s head and I watched her loiter uncertainly as though she couldn’t decide whether to join us or to go back into the house.

She was blonde and dainty, and she had the pretty features of a cupid doll—with as much character. Her china-blue eyes looked as though they could open a rich man’s cheque-book with no more help than the use of a few tears. Her thin summery frock was all frills and flounces. It made her appear pink-and-white and soft. She was the kind of dame that business men in their late fifties describe as cuddlesome. If there were fewer Moira Newsomes in the world, places like Reno could shut up shop.

When the gate clanged behind me, I turned and looked back up the drive. Mr. and Mrs. were close together and they had their arms round each other. They were enjoying the sort of lingering kiss that used to make screen fortunes in the old silent-film days.

I hadn’t time to wait and see who ran out of breath first. They were still in a tight clinch when I reached the end of the wall bounding the grounds.

As I walked along the parched, dusty road, I wondered if little blonde Moira had been putting on an act for my benefit. It wouldn’t be the first time that an unscrupulous dame had let the neighbours see her petting with her husband that way, no one suspects her later when he dies from eating or drinking something lethal.

Chapter II

I dropped a nickel in the slot, and held the door open with my foot while I waited. The glass-walled booth was a good imitation of an oven. I felt like a chicken in a pressure-cooker.

Then the line clicked remotely, and a strawberries-and-cream voice said, Newsome Textiles. Who’s calling, please?

Put me through to Mr. Edwin Newsome. I took a fresh grip on the slippery phone. The name is John K. Wurtemberger.

John K——? She sounded cool and smooth like a dame who’s just had a cold shower and powdered herself all over with Twilight in Paris. The query in her tone was aloof from any personal interest.

Wurtemberger, I repeated. Think of hamburger with a W. Or don’t you eat hamburgers until there’s an R in the month?

I’m not fond of anything with ham in it, she told me, and her voice was even colder. Hold the line, please. I’m ringing Mr. Edwin now.

Judging by her silky accent, she was entitled to be tall and slim and to have a face that any short-haired female novelist would describe as a picture of breath-taking loveliness. I never go by voices on telephones. Nature has the unhappy knack of dishing out her favours sparingly. This dame probably looked like Bela Lugosi.

I used up my only dry handkerchief to wipe the sweat off the earpiece, and loosened my shoe-strings. In the mirror above the coin-box, the face that looked back at me was red and streaked with grime. The stubble on my chin was thriving on a mixed diet of perspiration and road grit.

When I listened to the phone again, it was saying irritably, This is Edwin Newsome. Who are you? Speak up, please.

Bowman here, I said.

Who?

Bowman—Glenn Bowman. But for the benefit of your office staff, the name is Wurtemberger.

Oh, I see. He hesitated. Hold the line, Mr. Wurtemberger, while I close the door.

I heard the phone being laid down, and the squeak of chair legs on a polished floor. Sweat ran down my nose and dripped into the mouthpiece. I slouched against the wall and dreamed of a needle-shower and beer off the ice.

The phone made clinking noises, and Newsome said, O.K. now. You can go ahead. What’s the news?

I’ve got me a job with your brother Harold, I told him. When you come visiting, you don’t know me. He thinks I’m an ex-con working a pan-handle.

What are you calling yourself?

You’d better let him tell you—or aren’t you worried any more about letting the family get suspicious?

That’s just what I don’t want them to do, he said anxiously. There would be hell to pay if Harold got to know that I’d hired you to find out what Moira’s up to. He’d never believe she could do such a thing.

"Do you still believe it?"

I honestly don’t know. He sucked at his teeth, and I had a picture of his plump, good-natured face wrinkled in a worried frown. I never was in favour of Harold marrying a woman so much younger than he was, but he had his mind set on it and there was no shifting him He even laughed when I pointed out that he’d be a secondhand father to her first husband’s child.

You said they were happy together. Is she as keen on him as he is on her? I couldn’t forget her smooth plump arms round Harold Newsome’s neck and her dainty figure curving against him. For all I knew, every young wife treats her elderly husband like he was her everlasting Big Moment. But I didn’t think so.

She behaves as though she is. I thought at first that she was just stringing him along, but after eighteen months they’re more engrossed in each other than ever. Doesn’t matter who’s with him, they keep on billing and cooing like twenty-year-olds. You’d never believe there was nearly thirty years’ difference in their ages. Edwin sounded annoyed. I don’t blame you if you’ve got the idea I’m biased against Moira. And I don’t expect you to believe that I’m not. I certainly fee) that she’s too young for Harold, but his wife’s age is none of my business. In any case, they’re married. And he’s as happy as a sand-boy with her and the little girl. I keep telling myself that I’m crazy, that there can’t possibly be anything in the world against her.

Except that she’s poisoning your brother, I put in softly.

It’s only a hunch, he said violently. She bought the mushrooms that they said must have upset him the first time he took ill. Six weeks ago it was Moira who served him with cold canned tongue that the doctor said must have been affected by the heat or something. Talked about a puncture in the can, and how he’d had a lot of similar cases during the hot weather.

What else does the doctor say? I asked. You didn’t mention him before. What kind of guy is he?

He’s a gawdamned fool, Edwin said bitterly. Puffed up like a balloon with his own importance. But he’s a first-class bridge player and he and Harold play a lot together. Harold wouldn’t dream of consulting any other opinion. I once told him that I wouldn’t let his pet doctor treat a sick dog, and he was very annoyed.

Yes, I said patiently. But what does he diagnose as the cause of your brother’s mysterious illness?

He insists that there’s nothing mysterious about it—says that Harold’s been overworking and that he’s got a nervous stomach, and has to be careful what he eats.

Did you tell him what you suspected?

The phone made a noise of disgust. Sure! At least, I tried to—but without mentioning Moira, of course.

What then?

He went up in the air, and his silly cod eyes nearly pushed his glasses off his nose. Told me I should be very careful before I talked about things I didn’t understand.

And Harold? Does he think that the trouble is just because his stomach is acting up on him?

Edwin took his time before answering. He sucked his teeth again and made one or two false starts. Then he said hesitantly, Harold’s been very strange about the whole thing. Gets irritable when anyone mentions it. And he keeps insisting that he’s not as bad as we think he is. You’d almost imagine that . . . He tailed off, and the phone hummed quietly while he thought some more.

Imagine what? I prompted.

Well . . . He paused again and then brought it all out in a rush. I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, because it sounds crazy, even to me.

Never mind how it sounds. Let’s have all of it.

There isn’t any ‘ all ’ to it. His voice was morose. It’s like everything else in this damn business—a bit of a hunch here, an odd impression there. I tried to convey that to you the other day.

We’ll skip the other day, I said. It’s to-day and to-morrow we’ve got to worry about. What does your brother’s behaviour make you imagine?

Once or twice I’ve caught him glancing at Moira when she didn’t know he was watching her. And he had a queer look in his eyes—a darn queer look. Edwin took a fresh breath. "When the doctor blamed the cold tongue for his second serious attack, Harold put up a lot of argument—said he’d felt ill before eating it—that the same thing had happened to him years ago. And then he added something that stuck in my mind, something that grew bigger the more I thought about it."

Go on.

He gave Moira another quick look, and this time I got a glimpse of the expression in his eyes : and what I saw was fear, real honest-to-God fear. Ever seen a woman’s face when her kid darts suddenly off the sidewalk? That’s what his face reminded me of. And he said, ‘ I’ve had these bouts before—a long time ago—long before I got married.’

I’m beginning to get your drift, I said, and I didn’t need reminding that the biggest suckers are the old suckers. You think he knew that Moira was doing a Borgia on him, and he was trying to cover up for her?

Maybe. Edwin was a helluva guy for fair play. From the moment he started talking to me the day he called at my office, he’d gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that everyone concerned got a break. I wouldn’t go as far as that, he went on. Just as likely he got scared she’d be blamed for whatever monkey business was going on.

Could be, I agreed ; but even at that, it means that he’s wise to the fact that someone’s trying to rub him out.

"That’s exactly what I thought, Edwin said sharply, and I got the idea he sounded relieved. If you think so too, then I’m not crazy, after all."

No, you’re not crazy, I told him. It all adds up, and the score isn’t nice. I’ve a feeling you’re going to get your money’s worth out of my services. Maybe you weren’t suffering from a pipe-dream when you hired me.

What you call a pipe-dream is a nightmare to me—and it didn’t start only recently. I’ve been worried sick about Harold for weeks. He had gone flat and morose. For God’s sake, Bowman, watch him—and watch everybody who comes in contact with him from now on. Maybe it isn’t Moira. But it’s somebody, whatever that jackass of a doctor may say.

I’ll do my best, I promised. Apart from the line of duty, he seemed a nice guy to me.

He’s more than a nice guy to me, Edwin exclaimed in a high-pitched tone. He’s the only relation I have.

You’re forgetting your sister-in-law, I pointed out, just to see what he’d say.

Yes, I’d forgotten Moira was my sister-in-law, he murmured. Then his voice grew thick. I hope to God I’m wrong about her. She could be as innocent as she looks.

That’s a whale of a thought. If Moira Newsome had an innocent look, then I’m Peter Pan.

What do you mean by that? All his old defence mechanism was on the alert again.

Nothing. What should I mean?

"I just imagined you were jumping to hasty conclusions, that’s all. And what I want you to do is to keep a perfectly open mind—and see that nobody does harm to Harold. If you do that, you’ll earn your money."

Talking of money, I said, who benefits under your brother’s will?

He didn’t hesitate for a second. I don’t know.

Has he ever discussed a will with you?

The subject’s never come up for discussion. I know what you’re after, but I’m afraid I can’t help you, short of asking him point-blank.

One thing more. My hair was sticky with sweat, and my shirt felt like an anti-phlog plaster. Is your brother worth a lot of money?

He’s a wealthy man, Edwin said promptly. We’re joint partners in this company and it pays pretty good dividends. Apart from that, he’s made some very sound investments. I’m not exactly poor, but at a guess I’d say he could drop all I possess and still live handsomely.

I gathered that the brothers Newsome weren’t likely to be reduced to thumbing a ride. And that was that.

O.K., Mr. Newsome. I’ll get started on my chores, now.

All right. And if you want to contact me after business hours, you’ve got my apartment number.

Sure, I said. ’Bye.

Good-bye. The chair legs squeaked again, and his voice receded and grew faint. I just caught the words, . . . and good luck before the line went dead.

While 1 lay back in the barber’s chair with a hot towel softening my beard, I did some heavy thinking. Unless Harold Newsome had some undisclosed enemies, it looked like the finger was on cute little Moira, in spite of brother Edwin’s doubts. I couldn’t afford to leave out the possibility, however, that the whole thing was a false alarm—maybe Harold’s doctor did know his business. Yet from what Edwin had told me, the patient himself had other ideas. And Harold evidently wasn’t worrying about enemies outside his own household.

Assuming that Moira wanted to rid herself of a wealthy encumbrance, the question arose—what was she putting in his food? It might be any of a dozen poisons, but a dame can’t just walk into a drugstore and ask the clerk for something to dispose of her husband. And that gave me another thought to chew over. Unless she was a fool, she must have realised that the moment any suspicion was aroused, it must fall on her. Then again, she might feel pretty sure that there wouldn’t be any suspicions. And from there to