Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #1: Books 1-4 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [classic children's novels txt] 📗

I held up a hand. “What did she tell you in the car?”

“Yeah, what she told me in the car was, this guy, she thought he was Spanish or Portuguese, something like that, was paying her a packet to go to a party at Hugh Duffy’s place. She said it was going to set her up for life. She was to play the part like her date had been delayed and she was waiting for him to arrive, but he never does. Meanwhile, she gets close to Duffy. Because Duffy is a widower, see? He is listed as the most eligible bachelor in San Francisco. Has been for a few years. But he never married again.”

Dehan was shaking her head. “So this Spanish/Portuguese guy, he never went to the party?”

“That’s what she said. She was supposed to make out like she was his plus one, but he was detained or something, and he never showed. So she could get close to Duffy.”

“So it was a scam.”

He looked at her with a sly grin. “Sure sounded that way to me.” He held up his hands, like Pontius Pilot waiting for a hand towel. “But I’m just the driver, know what I mean?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. And you never heard from her again after that?”

“Not a word.” He smiled fondly. “I look for her sometimes in the society papers, you know? To see if maybe she married some rich guy. I never saw her though.”

I scratched my chin. “I can see why she would want to do that. But what was in it for this Portuguese guy?”

He shrugged. “She never told me that.”

We thanked him and walked back to the car. Dehan was already on her phone looking for Hugh Duffy’s number.

Nine

The phone was answered by a man who sounded like he’d got his dignity stuck up his ass and couldn’t bend at the waist to pull it out again.

“The Duffy residence.”

“This is Detective John Stone of the New York Police Department. I need to speak to Mr. Duffy—urgently.”

He informed me with his prolonged silence that urgent needs were unseemly, then said, “One moment, please.”

It was more than one moment, and more than two, but he eventually returned and said, “Mr. Duffy will be free from twelve noon until half past twelve, if you would care to visit at that time.”

I told him we would care to do that and hung up.

Robert the chauffeur had not exaggerated. Duffy’s house was a palace. It looked like a medium-sized hotel. It wasn’t particularly elegant or beautiful, but it was big, and situated at the very top of Pierce Street, it had views directly onto the park. Its cash value must have been astronomical. We arrived at 11:50 and rang the bell. It was opened at 11:55 by a man for whom disdain was a way of life. He gazed down upon us, even though he was shorter than both of us, and waited.

We showed him our badges.

“Detectives Stone and Dehan to see Mr. Duffy.”

“You are a little early.” He said it as he might have said, ‘You are a little dirty.’ “Please follow me.”

We followed him across a vast, domed hall with a checkerboard floor and marble columns, down a gallery with portraits of men with ruthless eyes and big moustaches, to a huge set of walnut doors. He tapped on them and opened them with a certain amount of reverence. Then he turned to us and said, “Mr. Duffy will see you.”

We stepped into a library that would not have looked out of place at a respectable university. The carpet was burgundy, the furniture was all chesterfield, and the wood was all dark mahogany. Apart from a magnificent eighteenth-century fireplace and chimney breast, the walls were all lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling. A couple had glass doors protecting the volumes. There were also a couple of stands that held single books that I assumed were of exceptional value.

Duffy was standing by the window and turned as we came in. He beamed like we were long-lost friends and strode toward us with his hand held out.

“Detectives Stone and Dehan! In which order?” He grinned as though he had said something mischievous and glanced from me to Dehan and back again. I smiled.

“I am Detective John Stone. This is my partner, Detective Carmen Dehan. We are from New York, so we are out of our jurisdiction.”

“Oh, phooey! We don’t need to stand on formalities here! Come! Sit! What will you drink?” He shepherded us toward the chesterfields. We sat and he remained standing. “Some sherry before luncheon? A martini?”

I smiled at Dehan. “Well, I guess we are out of our jurisdiction, so this is not official police business… I’ll have a martini, thank you.”

Dehan blinked at me a few times, then said, “A beer, thank you.”

The small man with the big dignity was still at the door, waiting. Duffy turned on him with overwhelming enthusiasm and said, “Parks, two martinis, dry, and a Waldhaus for the lady.”

Parks left with his orders, and Duffy came and joined us as though he thought that was a really exciting thing to do.

“Now, tell me. I am fascinated. What does the NYPD want with me?”

I crossed my legs and studied his face for a moment.

“I know it’s a while back now, Mr. Duffy, but on May 29, 2015, you threw a party…”

“I’m certain I did. I throw a party on May 29 every year. You see, it’s the anniversary of my fiancée’s death.”

I was surprised. “Oh, I am sorry to hear that.”

“May 29, 2010. People wonder why I never married Sally Brown. She is the reason. I loved her to distraction. She