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"He didn't say. He was always a very generous man, and of course very wealthy, so I assumed that he wanted to include a few charities in a new will. I think what you want to know is whether the will, made out at the time of his second marriage, left his entire fortune to his wife. It did, yes."

  "I see," murmured Pruden.

  "However," continued Harbinger, "shortly after making that Friday appointment he asked to see me privately to discuss the changes he'd considered. He came alone, explaining that he preferred to come alone because after much thought he'd reached the decision that he wanted very major changes made, wanted his money divided in half. Half to his wife, and half to the Trafton Home for Disabled Children. Does this surprise you?"

  Pruden didn't answer that but said, "Just how would that change in his will break down, moneywise?"

  "Fifteen million to his wife, fifteen million to the home, which had become much more than a hobby for him. He seemed truly committed to helping them. Gave me the impression that he felt it was very creative and meaningful for him; the home was sadly underfunded and its buildings rundown. He spoke of the need for more hearing aids, a teacher to teach sign language, he wanted to see the playground expanded, more wheelchairs added, and he wanted the money placed in a fund to be drawn on year by year."

  "And did his wife agree to this?" asked Pruden. "He'd talked about it with her?"

  Harbinger's eyes narrowed. "I had the impression that he'd tried to talk about it with her, but she was—or so I gathered—quite upset about it, and this troubled him. I think it troubled him very much. She knew, of course, of the appointment he'd made for them both this Friday and she had assumed the changes to be minor; she'd had no idea that he'd suddenly decided on such a drastic change." He paused, and then, "This interests you?"

  "Very much," said Pruden. "You know it does. But he never changed the will, then; he deferred to his wife's anger?"

  "Which is why you're here, of course," said Harbinger. "But if it's a matter of justice ... Actually when he came to see me that day, without his wife, he changed his will, and that will is now in my safe-deposit box. He also wanted to keep tomorrow's appointment on my calendar, from which I deduced that he'd not told his wife what he'd done, but preferred to tell her of the change—to avoid a scene, perhaps—when they arrived here on Friday. He said it meant a great deal to him to use the money he'd made as he chose, and for something useful."

  "He didn't like scenes," murmured Swope.

  "No man does."

  "And now he's dead," said Pruden. "Did you entertain no .., shall we say, no suspicions?"

  "Under different circumstances, yes," said Harbinger. "One would have to admit that his death arrived at a most convenient time for Joanna, but there was so much evidence, and every indication . . , that angry child leaving her fingerprints all over the apartment and fleeing, and surely you have no evidence otherwise?" He frowned. "I've been frank with you, at the risk of my integrity; now it's time you level with me. Have you evidence to suggest otherwise?"

  "Yes and no," Pruden told him with a frown. "That is to say, any evidence we have would never stand up in court."

  Harbinger's eyes probed them both. "Provocative but inconclusive. Do you mind telling me what you think might have happened?"

  Pruden exchanged doubtful glances with Swope, but Harbinger, without waiting for a reply, turned to his intercom. "Miss Dotson," he said, "no calls for the next forty minutes, if you please. I am in conference."

  The next morning Pruden and Swope were told that Mrs. Epworth could at last be interviewed. For days their approach had met with rebuffs from her doctor, but now, although she was grief-stricken, the doctor said she was no longer under sedation and could describe for them the harrowing events of the week before, and answer any questions they had about the child Jenny. She was, however, very fragile still.

  Pruden said smoothly, "Of course. So far we have only the police report given on the night of the murder. If she could fill in some details we'd appreciate it. What hour would be convenient?"

  It was agreed that at two o'clock that afternoon they could meet with her at her apartment, and Pruden at once put in a call to Everett Harbinger at Benson and Harbinger, and alerted Swope, who would meet him there. Pruden preferred to walk, and on his way to Sixty-ninth Street

  he found himself increasingly curious about this Joanna Warren Epworth. In his early days on the force, when on patrol duty and assigned to crowd control, he'd frequently seen John Epworth, and he'd liked the look of him. He'd been told that since the accident that claimed the life of his wife and child years ago, he'd given himself entirely to business and civic matters, but, as Pruden saw it, a man like that might keep hoping to find a woman to match the wife he'd lost so tragically. As the years passed and he realized the impossibleness of this, and feeling his mortality, he could easily be drawn to someone twenty years younger who flattered him, made him feel younger, and revived the nurturing qualities that he'd buried. He wondered if this second Mrs. Epworth would be what he called the second-marriage sort: flawlessly attractive—his wealth would assure that—and the type who would, as Abby Jacobs had suggested, look good at board meetings, and efficiently build a social life for him. Now Pruden would finally meet her, this woman who might just have efficiently arranged what she would believe the perfect crime.

  Swope was silent when they met; he didn't like this any more than Pruden. They rang the bell, and a maid in uniform escorted them into a living room full of antiques. They gingerly chose two elegant chairs and sat, waiting.

  Mrs. Epworth entered the room wearing black silk slacks and a black silk shirt, her face very pale, and Pruden noted with professional interest that she wore no makeup, and wondered if she'd sacrificed vanity to emphasize her mourning. She chose a very straight chair and smiled wanly. "I believe you want more .. , details?"

  Pruden said, "We've taken the liberty of asking your lawyer to join us. He should be here at any moment."

  He had startled her. "Whatever for?" she said lightly. "Surely not some Victorian idea that I'd need protection."

  Lying through his teeth, Pruden said, "It's regulations, our policy at headquarters, Mrs. Epworth, that in every criminal case a lawyer must be present to protect the interest of anyone interviewed."

  But the maid was already ushering in Mr. Harbinger, and rising to greet him she lifted both arms in a dramatic and helpless gesture. "What a waste of your time, Everett," she told him. "They think I need protection."

  Harbinger smiled. 'Ah, but this also gives me the opportunity to later go over John's will with you before it's filed with probate."

  She brightened. "Oh, how very efficient of you. Do sit down, all of you," and to Harbinger, "You have the will with you?"

  Harbinger smiled charmingly. "Yes, indeed, making you a very wealthy woman ..." Which, thought Pruden, was true enough, finding fifteen million a ven nice fortune. Fumbling with his attaché case Harbinger said with sympathy, 'And what are your plans now?"

  Both were ignoring Pruden and Swope. Speaking directly to Harbinger she said with passion, "Oh, to get away." They'd not noticed the handkerchief crumpled in one hand; she lifted it now to dab at each eye. "I can't tell you how terrible it's been, Everett. I'm worn out; I need a rest badly."

  He nodded understandingly. "A spa, perhaps?" he suggested, still groping in his attaché case.

  She shook her head. "The south of France might be restful—perhaps I'll buy a villa there. I could afford that. My nerves ... I've been under sedation for days, you know, and the doctor urges a complete change of scene, it's been such a terrible shock." Again she dabbed at her eyes. "It's been heartrending."

  Harbinger nodded sympathetically. "You'll sell this apartment?"

  She nodded, and touched her eyes again, very delicately, with the handkerchief. "It would be unbearable now."

  "Trafton will miss you," he said politely.

  "I'd keep the condominium in Manhattan, of course." She was thoughtful a moment, and then, "How m
uch estate tax will there be on thirty million, Everett?"

  Harbinger said smoothly, "You will have to consult your accountant about that, but you mistake the amount that you'll inherit; it will be fifteen million, not thirty million."

  "Fifteen!" she said sharply, too sharply, and covered this with a quick smile. "You have to be mistaken, the will that we made eight years ago left me thirty million."

  "The will of eight years ago, yes," said Harbinger, "but that has been changed, you see."

  "Changed! Changed?" She stared at him incredulously. "I don't believe it; how can you say that? John couldn't— There were to be some adjustments made, yes, and we were to see you—tomorrow, wouldn't it be?"

  "True." Harbinger nodded. "But ten days ago your husband came alone to my office to make those so-called adjustments, to make them himself. A matter of conscience, no doubt. I believe he'd already discussed it with you, dividing his estate."

  "What?" She gasped. "But I told him no—absolutely not, that it wouldn't be fair. You're saying that he did that in spite of— No, John would never do that to me, it's impossible."

  "I'm sure you recall what he discussed with you," Harbinger pointed out. "He leaves fifteen million to you, fifteen to the Trafton Home for Disabled Children."

  "But that's cruel1." she cried. "It's not fair. That awful place with those depressing cripples?" Too angry to notice their shocked faces she said, "It's Jenny—retarded, surely—who murdered him. It's insane, she killed him, she drove that terrible dagger into him with such force, and to leave his money—"

  Pruden interrupted to say politely, "I believe you told the police that night that you were in the kitchen; you couldn't possibly have learned with what force—"

  "I mean I heard it," she said, momentarily confused but defiant. "I heard it," and turning to Harbinger, "How could you let my husband do this to me, change the will like that, without me there. How could you! I'm his wife."

  'As I said before, a matter of conscience?" suggested Harbinger.

  "I'll sue," she flung at him angrily, eyes glittering, no longer a bereaved widow now.

  Harbinger said dryly, "I really doubt that any judge or jury would find you deprived when he'd left you fifteen million."

  She stared at him in shock, and then at Pruden and Swope. If she had expected sympathy she found none, and there was the faintest hint of her beginning to unravel. "But you can't do this," she protested, and there were tears in her eyes.

  The shock of her husband's betrayal was obviously a blow but Pruden wondered what dreams and plans for that thirty million had driven her; whatever it was, it was shattering that masklike poise and confidence. Fifteen million wasn't enough; she'd unwittingly made it obvious that she'd never shared her husband's interest in his charities, and possibly not even in her husband, John Epworth. She's a hard woman under that facade, he realized, but not hard enough, and he shrank at what lay ahead.

  "You can't do this," she repeated, tears staining her cheeks. "John would never have done such a thing. If he was alive—"

  "But he isn't alive," said Pruden, "and Jenny didn't kill him."

  "Are you mad?" she said wonderingly. "Of course she did, she was there, I told you so. Who else could have killed him?"

  "You," said Pruden.

  "What?" she gasped. "How dare you! Everett, are you going to allow him to say such a thing to me? There can't be any such evidence."

  "Why not?" asked Harbinger pleasantly.

  "Why not?" she echoed. "Because Jenny's a mute, she can't talk, she can't hear, I made sure of—" She stopped, appalled, and pressed a fist to her mouth. "You weren't there; how could you think—"

  "You removed the dagger from your husband's body," said Pruden steadily, "and you made sure that Jenny's bloodied fingerprints were placed on it. A helpless child who could never deny your accusation."

  "No!" she shouted, "how can you know that? You can't say such a thing, I won't let you, I won't listen, I have plans and you've no right—"

  "Enough evidence," continued Pruden, hating himself for this, "to convict you of very cleverly using Jenny to conceal that it was you who killed your husband."

  "I'm not listening," she told him furiously. "What evidence could you possibly have? I won't listen."

  "Enough evidence," lied Pruden.

  "No," she cried. "Impossible! Jenny can't talk; Jenny's a mute. Everett—" She turned to him, but seeing his impassive face she burst into tears. "I can't bear this; it wasn't supposed to be like this. Everett, it has to be Jenny; don't you see?" she pleaded. "Tell them it's Jenny; tell them I have plans."

  "What plans?" Harbinger asked gently.

  "I wanted ... I wanted—" She stopped, confused and dazed, her lips trembling. "I had plans," she repeated, and Harbinger, a look of pity on his face, went to the telephone and put in a call to her doctor.

  'And that's how it ended," Pruden told Madame Karitska that night. "Not a pretty story." "Where is she now?"

  He sighed. "In a psychiatric hospital. She insists that she's Joanna Warren and never knew a John Epworth; she seems to have completely blotted out the last eight years. Strange, isn't it?"

  Madame Karitska shook her head. "Not so strange," she said. "From what her friend Abby told you she was very likable in those days, ambitious but likable. 1 would guess that she can't face what she's become and what she did."

  He nodded. "She must have felt like Cinderella when John Epworth proposed marriage to her." He stopped and then added sadly, "My guess is that she learned money was no substitute for love, and with no grounds for divorce she began dreaming of being a rich young widow in the south of France, and finding love at last with a husband her own age." He shrugged. "But we'll never know."

  He suddenly smiled. "Ironically, there's one happy note to add to this story of vanity and greed. . . . John Epworth had at last found a teacher of sign language shortly before his death. She arrived at the home yesterday, and it's hoped that in a few weeks, a month at most, Jenny will have learned enough to verify our evidence.

  "That evidence," he added dryly, "that we only hoped we had, but could never have proved in court."

  5

  The next morning Madame Karitska saw three clients in succession and then, with Georges Verlag still on her mind, she made a brief phone call to a man by the name of Amos Herzog.

  "My dear Countess," he said, "come at once. I have just completed writing my chapter on Earnestine Boulanger, who poisoned three husbands, and she has proved the most boring woman I've spent a week with. It would be a pleasure to see you, but not," he added dryly, "with that policeman friend of yours. I remain, still, allergic to the police."

  She laughed. "No, I'm still saving you for a surprise. This concerns diamonds, and I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  Leaving a sign on her door, BACK AT 2 PM, she walked to the subway and was soon strolling down Cavendish Square

  with its stately homes and gardens. Number 46, however, housed elegant apartments where Amos occupied the first ñoor It amused her very much that decades ago Amos Herzog had been the country's most outrageously successful jewel thief, moving in the best of circles—as he still did—and had been famous for never carrying a gun during his robberies. Very sensibly he had retired after two stints in jail, and for years had been writing a series of books on—of all things—famous crimes in history. If there were some who wondered how his modest book sales supported a luxurious apartment on Cavendish Square, if they perhaps wondered if he had stashed away many of his ill-gotten gains in Switzerland, he was so charming, and so often of help to the FBI—he had even taught a class for them on picking locks—that no one cared enough to explore the source of his income .., so long as he remained retired.

  That he had actually been a client oí hers a few months after she'd hung out her sign still amused her. Not many Mercedeses were to be seen on Eighth Street

  , and his astonishment when she'd opened her door had been palpable. "Good God," he'd said.

 
Out of desperation, irritation, and condescension he'd either heard of her or seen her sign, and apparently had decided that she was his last but no doubt vain hope. He had lost or mislaid a coin in his apartment.

  "Not a valuable one," he'd explained. "Worth no more than two hundred dollars, but it's been my lucky charm. I count on it, depend on it, and I can't tell you how unlucky I've been since it disappeared."

  "Stolen?" she'd suggested. "Surely stolen?"

  He had vigorously shaken his head. "Impossible. It has to be in my apartment, which I've ransacked, trying to find it. Too stupid of me—and certainly not a police matter. I simply wondered—"

  "Tell me about it," she'd said. "Or better still, draw me a sketch of it."

  He'd drawn a picture of it for her: a real, one of the coins commonly known as "pieces of eight," salvaged by divers from pirate ships. "Of value only to me, always I carried it on my person. Jacket or trouser pockets."

  She nodded. "Then may I first hold something of yours, worn on your person for a number of years?"

  He had never heard of psychometry, and with a laugh he'd handed her his gold signet ring.

  She held it for quite a while, increasingly amused. "You have a strong sense of mischief," she told him. 'And have at one time been famous—or perhaps infamous?"

  "All this you pick up from a mere ring?"

  "Emanations," she'd explained. "Thoughts. Moods, feelings. So much is invisible. . . . We all possess a magnetic field, a current that runs through us and that can be detected . . , when you leave that chair, for instance, yours will remain behind you for some moments." She added politely, "I have the impression that you've spent some time in ... ¡ail, dare I say?"

  "You unman me," he'd said. "Yes, there was a time when I divested a number of wealthy matrons of their jewelry. Without violence, I can assure you."

  "Ah—a jewel thief!"

  'A distinguished jewel thief," he emphasized.

  "About your missing good-luck charm ..." She picked up his sketch to concentrate on it. "How many rooms in your house?"

  "Apartment. Five."