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Forty-three minutes after Luncardy's call, and feeling much better, I was in her office in the precinct headquarters. Not an interview room, her actual office: she was not treating me as a suspect in the case. I wondered just what it was I had done to engender this kind of trust from somebody who was, by all accounts, an altogether prickly character. Harriet Luncardy's office was a model of restrained functional elegance. Unlike Wester's office, which was filled with sporting memorabilia overlaid with a patina of dust and partially concealed by stacks of files, hers was almost clinically neat and tidy. No dust or dirt, no pictures on the desk, no flower vase on the windowsill, no clutter of folders heaped on chairs or floor. The desk itself was set carefully in the centre of the room, the polished wooden expanse unbroken except by a lamp, two phones, a tidy for pens and pencils, and a desk blotter which looked unsullied by any actual ink. The blotter framed a single manila folder containing a thick wad of papers that Luncardy was poring over. The copper escorting me knocked once on the open door and entered immediately. I followed. Luncardy looked up, closed the folder on her desk, jerked her head to beckon me inside. The uniformed type that had brought me up quietly closed the door behind me. "Take a seat, Gask," she said, waving a hand at the two visitors' chairs, "Glad you could make it eventually." Well, maybe she did have a sense of humour carefully concealed about her person. Very carefully concealed. Luncardy opened the folder again, took out two bundles of papers. "So, I've got the coroner's report," she said, indicating one of the bundles, "Which we'll come to later. And a report from forensics." She picked up the second bundle, turned over a few pages. "They went through his pockets," she went on, "Found all the usual things you might expect for the well-heeled mobster: a case of large and expensive cigars, accompanied by a chunky metal lighter and a large pocket-knife which was undoubtedly intended for trimming the ends of the cigars, and not by any means a murderous weapon." She raised her eyes to the ceiling momentarily, as if to indicate distaste with the arguments of overpaid lawyers. "Also a pocket-book in fine leather, containing cash and a collection of receipts for expensive goods from up-market shops and emporia." Her eyes focussed on mine across the desk. "But there was one thing in his pockets that looked out of place, even though it was from his own nightclub." She held up a sealed plastic bag, of the kind that are used everywhere to contain items that might be evidence. She was watching my reaction like a hawk. The bag contained a part-used match-book from the Starfield Club. "Your fingerprints were found on this." My prints are on file with various authorities, of course. It's a pre-requisite to getting a PI's licence in all underground jurisdictions. "Sure," I said levelly, "I told you I went to the Starfield Club. Took away the freebie matches. Who wouldn't? Taken from my pockets when I was turned over on the way out of Garrick's place. I'd been wondering what happened to them." She twirled the transparent bag around, then put in down carefully on the desk right in front of me. I leaned forward to get a good look. There was a scribbled note inside, on the cheap cardboard of the cover: "My place, 7pm. Come alone." "Is this your writing, Gask?" I looked more closely. I guess some people might have remarked on the resemblance, but it wasn't my hand, just an uninspired attempt to imitate it. "No," I said firmly, "It's not. Looks a bit like it, though." "Hmmm," she said, "It's just as well for you that the handwriting department agrees with that statement." I nearly suppressed a sigh of relief. Luncardy pretended not to notice. "Look," I began, "It was a clumsy and heavy-handed attempt to frame me. Somebody wants me out of the way. No doubt Hosh's body was supposed to have been found unwrapped and bloody in my living room, with incriminating evidence in his pockets." "I know," Luncardy acknowledged wearily, "That's why you're still here, rather than being asked a long series of hard questions in one of the rooms downstairs." I went on to tell her about my stealthy approach to arriving home, and how it must have surprised Drummond. He must have been in my apartment only minutes before I got there myself, and presumably warned off by Clathy. The one thing I didn't say was: I wasn't supposed to get back home as early as I did. Everyone had been trying to detain me, one way or another. But who was doing it deliberately?
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Part 70