The Fourth Deadly Sin (11 page)

The detective they called Daddy Warbucks was wearing a black bowler with a rolled brim, and a double-breasted topcoat THE Fourth DEAMY Sin 77 of taupe gabardine. He carried an attache case of polished calfskin.

Seeing Delaney blink, Pamell grinned. “It’s my uniform,” he explained. “I work with bankers and stockbrokers. It helps if I look like I belong to the club. Off duty, I wear cord jeans and a ratty sweatshirt.”

“Haven’t seen a derby in years,” Delaney said admiringly.

“On you it looks good.”

After his hat and coat had been hung away in the hall closet, the detective was revealed in all his conservative elegance: a threepiece suit of navy flannel with muted pin-stripe, light blue shirt with starched white collar and cuffs, a richly tapestried cravat, and black shoes with a dull gloss-wingtips, of course.

“Sometimes I feel like a clown in this getup,” he said, following Delaney back to the study, “but it seems to impress the people I deal with. Beautiful home you’ve got here.”

:”Thank you.”

“You own the whole house?”

That’s right.”

If you ever want to rent out a floor, let me know. The wife and I and two kids are jammed into a West Side walk-up.”

But his comments were without bitterness, and Delaney pegged him for a cheerful, good-natured man.

” Tell me something,” he asked Pamell, “that suit fits so snugly, where do you carry your piece?”

“Here,” Daddy Warbucks said. He turned, lifted the tail of his jacket, and revealed a snub-nosed revolver in a belt holster at the small of his back. “Not so great for a quick draw, but it’s a security blanket. Do you carry?”

“Only on special occasions,” Delaney said. “Listen, can I get you anything -coffee, a cola?”

“No, but thanks. I’m up to my eyeballs in coffee this morning.”

“Well, then,” Delaney said, “why don’t you sit in that armchair and make yourself comfortable.”

“I smell cigar smoke,” Parnell said, “so I guess it’s okay if I light a cigarette.”

“Of course.”

While the detective lit up, Delaney studied the man.

Crew-cut pepper-and-salt hair. A horsey face with deep furrows and laugh crinkles at the corners of the eyes. A good set of strong choppers. A blandly innocent expression. A rugged ugliness there, but not without charm. He looked like a good man to invite to a party.

“Well …” Parnell said, leaning over to snap open his attachd case, “how do you want to do this? Want to read the stuff first or should I give you the gist of it?”

“Suppose you summarize first,” Delaney said. “Then I’ll ask questions if I’ve got any.”

“Okay,” Parnell said. “We’ll start with Doctor Julius K. Samuelson. His net worth is about one mil, give or take.

Moneywise, he’s a very cautious gentleman. CDS, Treasury nds d tax-free municipals. He owns his co-op apartment. checking account, but like I said financewise. No stocks, no tax shelters. He’s made three irrevocable charitable trustsall to hospitals with major psychiatric research departments.

Nothing unusual. Nothing exciting. Any questions?”

“I guess not,” Delaney said. “I don’t suppose you got a look at his will?”

“No, I can’t do that. I was lucky to learn about those charitable trusts. I really don’t think there’s anything in Samuelson for you, sir-lootwise. I mean, he’s not rich-rich, but he’s not hurting either.”

“You’re probably right,” Delaney said, sighing. “What about the Ellerbees?”

“Ah,” Charles Parnell said, “now it gets mildly interesting.

If you were thinking maybe the wife knocked off the husband for his assets, it just doesn’t work. He was doing okay, but she’s got megabucks of her own.”

“No kidding?” Delaney said, surprised. “How did she do that?”

“Her father died, leaving a modest pile to her mother. Two years later, her mother died. She had some money of her own as well. Diane Ellerbee inherited the whole bundle. Then, a year after that, a spinster aunt conked, and Diane really hit the jackpot-almost three mil from the aunt alone.”

“Diane was an only child?”

“She had a younger brother who got scragged in Vietnam.

He had no family of his own-no wife or kids, I mean-so she picked up all the marbles.”

“How many marbles?” Delaney asked.

“Her husband’s will hasn’t been filed for probate yet, but even without her take from him, I estimate the lady tips the scales at close to five mil.”

“Wow!” Delaney said. “Beautiful and rich.”

“Yeah,” Parnell said, “and she handles it all herself. No business manager or investment counselor for her. She’s been doing great, too. She’s smart enough to diversify, so she’s into everything: stocks, bonds, real estate, tax shelters, mutual funds, municipals, commercial paper-you name it.”

Delaney shook his head in wonder. “Beautiful and rich and shrewd.”

“You better believe it, And she’s got nerve. Some of her investments are chancy stuff, but I’ve got to admit she’s had more winners than losers.”

“What about the victim?” Delaney asked. “How was he fixed?”

“Like Samuelson, he wasn’t hurting. But nothing like his wife. I’d guess his estate at maybe a half-mil, after taxes.

Here’s something interesting: She handled his investments for him.”

“Really?” Delaney said thoughtfully. “Yes, that is interesting.”

“Maybe he didn’t have the time, or just had no great desire to pile it up buckwise. Anyway, she did as well for him as she did for herself. They have no joint accounts. Everything is separate. They don’t even file a joint return.”

“What about his father?” Delaney asked. “Was he giving Simon anything?”

Daddy Warbucks smiled. “Henry Ellerbee, the great real estate tycoon?

That’s a laugh. I had to do a money profile on the guy about six months ago.

He’s a real cowboy. Got a million deals working and he hasn’t got two nickels to rub together. He lost control of Ellerbee Towers and he’s mortgaged to the hilt. If everyone calls in his paper at once, the only place he’ll be sleeping will be in bankruptcy court. I’ll bet you and I have more hard cash than he does. Help out Simon? No way! More likely he was leaning on his son. Well, that’s about all I’ve got. Do you have any more questions?”

Delaney pondered a moment. “I don’t think so. Not right now. If you’ll leave me your typed reports, I’ll go over them.

Then I may need your help on some details.”

“Sure,” Parnell said. “Anytime. When Simon Ellerbee’s will is filed for probate, I’ll be able to get the details for you.”

“Good,” Delaney said. “I’d appreciate that.” He looked at the detective narrowly. “You like this kind of work?” he asked.

“Love it,” the other man said immediately. “You know what I drag down per year. Snooping into other people’s private money affairs is a kind of fantasy life for me. I’m fascinated by their wealth, and I imagine how I’d handle it-if I had it!”

“You working on anything interesting right now?”

“Oh, yeah,” Daddy Warbucks said. “It’s lovely-a computerized writing scam. This guy worked in the computer section of a big Manhattan bank. He knows banking and he knows computers -right? So he starts out writing checks, opening accounts at three or four New York City banks under phony names with fake ID he bought on the street. He started out small with a ten-G investment. Within six months, taking advantage of the float, he’s shuffling deposits and transfers up to a quarter of a mil.”

“Good God!” Delaney said. “I thought there were safeguards against that.”

“It’s the float!” Pamell cried. “That wonderful, marvelous, goddamned float! You can’t safeguard against that. Anyway, like most check-writers, this guy couldn’t stop. He could have cashed in, grabbed his profits, and taken off for Brazil. But the scam was working so well, he decided to go for broke. He starts opening accounts in New Jersey, Connecticut, and so forth. longer float, more profits. Then he realizes that if he had accounts in California, he’ll have maybe a ten-day or two-week float. So, on his vacation, he flies out to the West Coast and opens a dozen accounts, using the same phony names as in New York and giving the New York banks as references! How do you like that?”

“As you said, it’s lovely.”

“The kicker is this,” the detective said. “By this time the nut has got so many accounts and so many names, with checks flying all over the country, that he can’t keep track of it all. So he writes his own program and fits it into one of the computers at the bank where he works. His personal program that can only be tapped by a code word, and he’s the only one who knows that.

So now his bank’s computer is running this guy’s writing con. Can you believe that he had run his total up to more than two mil before the roof fell in?”

“How did they catch up with him?”

“It was an accident. Some smart lady in an Arizona bank was supposed to monitor heavy out-of-state deposits and transfers. She was out sick for a week, and when she got back to work, she found her desk piled high. She began to wade through the stuff, dividing it up by account numbers. She spotted all these deposits and transfers made by the same person, gradually increasing in size. She knew what that probably meant, and blew the whistle. It’ll take at least a year to straighten out the mess. Meanwhile the guy is languishing in durance vile because he can’t make bail. And a few months ago he could have cashed in and skipped with two mil. I figure it wasn’t just greed that kept him going. I think he was absolutely mesmerized by the game. He just wanted to see how far he could go.”

“A fascinating case,” Delaney agreed.

“Yeah, but right now it’s a mess. I mean, every state where he operated wants a piece of this guy, plus the Feds, plus the banks, and God knows who else. The funniest thing is that nobody lost any money. In fact, practically everyone made money because they were putting his fake deposits to work until he transferred the funds. The only one who lost was the perp. And all he lost was his original ten grand. There’s a moral there somewhere, but I don’t know what it is.”

Delaney offered Parnell a beer, but the detective reluctantly declined, saying he had to get down to Wall Street for lunch with two hotshot arbitragers.

He handed over three typewritten reports and his card in case more information was needed. They went out into the hallway and Delaney helped Daddy Warbucks on with his natty coat.

“Really a great home,” Parnell said, looking around. “I’d like one exactly like it. Well, maybe someday.”

“Just don’t start writing checks,” Delaney warned.

“Not me,” the detective said, laughing. “I haven’t got the chutzpah. Besides, I can’t work a computer.”

They shook hands and Delaney thanked the other man for his help. Parnell departed, bowler cocked at a jaunty angle, attache case swinging.

Delaney went back to the kitchen, smiling. He had enjoyed the company of Daddy Warbucks. He was always interested in other dicks’ cases-especially new scams and innovative criminal techniques.

He made a “wet” sandwich, leaning over the sink to eat it.

Slices of canned Argentine corned beef with a layer of sauerkraut and a few potato chips for crunch. And Dijon mustard.

All on thick slabs of sour rye. Washed down with dark Heineken.

Finished, he cleaned up the kitchen and returned to the study. He put on his reading glasses and went over the three financial statements Parnell had given him. He saw nothing of importance that Daddy Warbucks hadn’t covered in his oral report.

The detective was right: The idea that Diane Ellerbee might have chilled her husband for his gelt just didn’t wash; she had ten times his wealth and Delaney couldn’t see her as an inordinately avaricious woman.

So that, he supposed, was that. Unless Jason T. Jason came up with something in the biographies, the only way to go was investigation of Simon Ellerbee’s patients.

And right on cue, the telephone rang. This time it was Abner Boone. He said Dr. Diane Ellerbee would see them that evening at nine o’clock.

“Suppose I pick you up about fifteen minutes early,” Boone suggested.

“Make it a half-hour early,” Delaney said. “Charlie Parnell stopped by, and I want to bring you up to date on what he found out.”

Delaney turned sideways on the front passenger seat, looking at Abner Boone as he filled him in on Charlie Parnell’s report.

They were parked near the East 84th Street townhouse.

Boone was a tall, gawky man who walked with a shambling lope, wrists and ankles protruding a little too far from his cuffs. He had short, gingery hair, lightly freckled complexion, big, horsey teeth. There was a lot of “country boy” in his appearance and manner, but Delaney knew that masked a sharp mind and occasionally painful sensitivity.

“Well, sir,” the Sergeant said when Delaney had finished, “The lady sure sounds like a powerhouse. All that money to manage, two houses, and a successful career. But you know who interests me most in this thing?”

“The victim?” Delaney guessed.

“That’s right. I can’t get a handle on him. Everyone says how brilliant he was. Maybe that’s so, but I can’t get a mental picture of him-how he dressed, talked, what he did on his time off. From what-Doctor Diane and Samuelson told us, he seems almost too good to be true.”

“Well, you can’t expect his widow and best friend to put him down. I’m hoping his patients will open up and tell us a little more about him. I guess it’s about time; we don’t want to keep the doctor waiting.”

On the lobby intercom, Dr. Diane Ellerbee told them to come up to the third floor, then buzzed them in. They tramped up the stairway, carrying their hats. She met them in the hallway and shook hands firmly with both of them.

“This may take a little time,” she said briskly, “so I thought we’d be more comfortable in the sitting room.”

She was wearing a long-sleeved jumpsuit of black silk, zipped from high collar to shirred waist. Her wheaten hair was down, splaying about her shoulders in a silken skein. As she led the way toward the rear of the house, Delaney admired again her erect carriage and the flowing grace of her movements.

She ushered them into a brightly lighted chamber, comfortably cluttered with bibelots, framed photos, bric-a-brac. One wall was a ceiling-high bookcase jammed with leather-bound sets, paperbacks, magazines.