A Common Death

I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mr. Thornton.

Emily Rider looked directly at the young man who lolled against his desk. Her clear skin was tinted with the faintest pink, and in the somber depths of her gray eyes there was a light that would have warned away a man less satisfied with his own brilliance and powers of persuasion.

But he was not looking at her eyes. His eyes were roaming approvingly over her perfect figure, noting the straightness of her back, the fullness of her breasts, the shapeliness of her slender legs.

He pushed back his long black hair from his forehead and smiled. It pleased him to believe that his face was cast in an intellectual mold, and that the somewhat unhealthy shade of his skin was more the pallor brought on by profound contemplation than the pastiness resulting from the lack of physical fitness.

He looked away from her and through the big bay window overlooking the crowded floor of Thornton’s Emporium. He had built his office in the mezzanine and the big windows were installed so that he might at any time overlook the most important department under his control. Now and again a head would turn in his direction, and he knew that the attention of all the female employees was concentrated upon the little scene, plainly visible from the floor below, in which an unwilling employee was playing a starring role.

She, too, was conscious of this spectacle, and her discomfort and dismay increased. She made a gesture to leave the office, but he stopped her.

You don’t understand, Emily, he said. His voice was soft and melodious and held the hint of a caress. He wondered what it would be like to unbutton her blouse. Did you read my little book? he asked suddenly.

She nodded.

Yes, I read some of it, she said, and the color deepened on her face as she recalled the thin volume of erotica he had written and given to her.

He chuckled.

I suppose you thought it curious that a man in my position would write such poetry, huh? he asked. Most of it was written before I came into this position, of course, before I became the chief executive officer of Thornton’s Emporium.

She made no reply, and he looked at her curiously.

What did you think of them? he asked.

Her lips were trembling, and again he mistook the signs.

I thought they were perfectly horrible, she said in a low voice. Horrible!

He raised his eyebrows. How very middle-class you are, Ms. Rider, he scoffed. Those verses have been acclaimed by some of the best critics as reproducing all the beauties of the Kama Sutra.

She started to speak, but stopped herself and stood with her lips compressed in a thin line.

Ronald Thornton shrugged his shoulders and strode to the other end of his luxuriously furnished office.

But poetry is like scotch, an acquired taste, he said after a while. You have to be educated in literature to appreciate it. I think there will come a time when you will be grateful I gave you an introduction to exotic impressions dressed in beautiful language. With the proper exposure, which I am offering to provide you, I am sure you would come to understand and enjoy my little poems.

She looked up at this.

May I go now, Mr. Thornton? she asked.

Not yet, he replied coolly. You said just now that you didn’t understand what I was talking about. I’ll make it simpler this time. You’re a very beautiful girl, as you are no doubt aware. Continue as you are and you are destined, in all probability, to become the wife of a very average middle class-minded person, who will give you a life tantamount to slavery. That’s the life of the average middle-class woman, as I’m sure you know. Why would you submit to this bondage, when I can offer you so much more? You will do it simply because a person in a clerical collar mumbles certain words, passages that have neither meaning nor, to an intelligent person, significance. I will not bother going through such a foolish ceremony, but I do have a great deal to offer you that make you happy. Think of it; beautiful homes, generous allowance, servants, cars. Your every wish would be satisfied, if you will agree to satisfy my wishes. Those wishes, I believe are adequately described in my little book of poems.

He walked towards her slowly and laid his hand upon her shoulder. Instinctively she flinched at his touch and he laughed.

What do you say to my proposition?

She swung round on him, her eyes blazing but her voice under control.

I happen to be one of those foolish, middle-class minded people, she said, who believe in the significance to those mumbled words you spoke of. At the same time, I am broad-minded enough to believe that a marriage ceremony would not make someone any more happy or less unhappy, regardless of whether it is performed or omitted. But, whether it was marriage or any other kind of union, I would at least require a man.

He frowned at her.

What do you mean? he asked, and the soft quality of his voice underwent a change.

Her voice was full of angry tears when she answered him.

I would not want an erratic creature who puts obscene fantasies into indifferent verse. I repeat; I would want a man.

His face went livid.

Do you know to whom you are talking? he asked, raising his voice.

I am talking to Ronald Thornton, said she, breathing quickly, the proprietor of Thornton’s Emporium, the employer of Emily Rider, who is paid five hundred dollars every week by him for her services as an employee.

He was breathless with anger.

Be careful! he gasped. Be very careful!

I am speaking to a man whose whole life is a reproach to the very definition of a man! she went on speaking rapidly. A man who is sincere in nothing, who is living on the brains and reputation of his father and the money that was acquired through the hard work of better men.

You can’t scare me, she said scornfully, as he took a step toward her. Oh, yes, I know you’re going to fire me, and you don’t have to say anything more. I’m leaving right now!

The man was hurt, humiliated, almost crushed by her scorn. As soon as she realized this, her natural goodness and empathy stilled all further reproach.

I’m sorry I’ve been so unkind, she said gently. But you provoked me, Mr. Thornton.

He was incapable of speech and could only shake his head and point with an unsteady finger to the door.

Get out, he whispered.

Emily Rider walked out of the room, but the man did not move. Then he slowly crossed to the window and looked down at the floor, seeing her exquisitely shaped body move slowly through the crowd of customers and clerks and mount the three steps leading to the chief cashier’s office.

You shall pay for this, bitch! he muttered.

He was wounded beyond forgiveness. He was a rich man’s son and had lived a sheltered life. He had enjoyed the advantage a private school brought to him and had gone to college surrounded by sycophants and narcissists as blatant as himself, and never once had the cold breath of criticism been directed at him, except by what he described as the ‘reptile Press.’

He licked his dry lips, and, walking to his desk, pressed the intercom buzzer. After a short wait, for he had purposely sent his secretary away from her desk, a young woman came in.

Has Mr. Jamieson come? he asked.

Yes, sir, he’s in the boardroom. He has been waiting fifteen minutes.

He nodded.

Thank you, he said.

Shall I send him in?

No, I will go to him, said Thornton.

He took a cigarette out of his gold case, struck a match and lit it. His nerves were shaken and his hands were trembling, but the storm in his heart was calming down under the influence of a great new scheme. Jamieson! What an idea! Jamieson, with his reputation for ingenuity, his cleverness. What could be more fortuitous than this coincidence?

His mind spinning with ideas and revived confidence, he walked quickly along the corridor that connected his private office with the boardroom and entered the spacious room with an outstretched hand.

The man who turned to greet him was somewhere in his fifties. He was tall, but lithe rather than broad, well muscled, with black hair turning to gray. He was dressed casually but very well in a wool blazer, black tee shirt, and black chinos. His face was well tanned, and the black hooded eyes that turned to Thornton were unwinking and expressionless.

He took Thornton's hand in his, noticing that it was as soft as a woman's. As they shook hands Thornton noticed a third person in the room. He was about middle height and sat in the shadow thrown by a wall pillar. He too rose, but only nodded his head in greeting.

Won’t you sit down?" asked Thornton as he threw himself into a chair and offered his cigarette case, which was declined.

The investigation I planned to retain you to perform will be put on the back burner for now, he said. Let me begin by saying that I was attracted to your agency after I read that you were instrumental in the resolution of the Traders Bank embezzlement case and the murder at Daybreak House, up in Maine. You’re no longer with the Boston Police, I understand?

Dan shook his head.

No, I’m not, he said quietly. I was in the Homicide Division; however, I retired a few years ago. Several things happened that made me open my own detective agency, the most important being that virtually every police department refuses to give me the free hand that I require.

The other man nodded quickly. Thornton judged all people by his own standard, and he saw in this unemotional man a possible tool, and perhaps a likely accomplice. He had no capacity to see others except through the prism of his own self-deception.

The police force in Boston is indeed much like all police departments. They know the rules but they are not overly scrupulous in keeping within the strictest letter of the law if they know they won’t be caught bending it. But the law could not operate the same way a private detective could. There were rumors that Jamieson was not above clandestinely digging up a grave, if by so doing he could get to the truth and implicate a greater criminal. Thornton did not know all the legends that had grown up around Dan Jamieson nor could he be expected to differentiate between those that were true and the false. He believed the stories that he had heard and he believed that he had found in Jamieson a kindred spirit, despite any evidence to support his belief.

I pretty well know why you’ve sent for me, Dan went on. He spoke slowly and had a decidedly clear voice. You gave me a rough outline in your letter. You suspect a member of your staff of having consistently robbed the firm for many years. A Mr. John Millbury, your chief financial officer.

Thornton stopped him with a gesture and lowered his voice.

Yes, but I would like to forget that for now, Mr. Jamieson, he said. In fact, I’m going to introduce you to Millbury, and maybe he can help in my scheme. I don’t say that Millbury is honest, or that my suspicions are unfounded. But for the moment I have a greater problem, and you will oblige me if you forget all about Millbury. Let me send for him now.

He walked to a long table that ran half the length of the room and picked up a telephone that sat at one end.

Tell Mr. Millbury to come to me in the board room, please, he said.

Then he went back to his visitor.

The matter of Millbury can wait, he said. I’m not even sure that I’ll proceed any farther with it. Did you make inquiries at all? If so, you had better give me the gist of them before Millbury arrives.

Dan took a small white card from his pocket and glanced at it.

What salary are you paying Millbury?

A hundred thousand a year, replied Thornton.

He is living as if he had an income of five hundred thousand, said Dan. I may even discover that he’s living on a much larger scale. He has a house in Lincoln, entertains very lavishly…

But Thornton brushed aside the report impatiently.

No, that can wait, he said dismissively. I have much more important business. Millbury may be a thief….

Did you send for me, sir?

He turned around quickly. The door had opened without a sound and a man stood on the threshold of the room, an ingratiating smile on his face, his hands twining and intertwining ceaselessly as though he was washing them with invisible soap.

CHAPTER II

This is Mr. John Millbury, said Thornton awkwardly.

If John Millbury had overheard his employer, his face did not betray the fact. His smile was set, not only in the curve of his lips, but it filtered into his large, lusterless eyes. Dan gave him a rapid survey and drew his own conclusions. The man was a born lackey, plump of face, bald of head, and bent of shoulder, as though he lived in a perpetual state of abasement.

Please, shut the door, Millbury, and sit down. This is Mr. Daniel Jamieson. Mr. Jamieson is a private investigator.

Indeed, sir?

Millbury bent a deferential head in the direction of Dan, and the detective watched for some change in color, some tic in his face, any of the signs that so often betrayed the typical criminal to him. But he looked in vain. This is a dangerous man who hides his true self, he thought.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see what impression the man had made upon Charlie Waterson. To the ordinary eye, Charlie remained an impassive observer. But Dan saw that faint curl of his lip, an almost imperceptible twitch of his nostrils, signs that invariably showed on the face of his operative whenever he ‘smelled’ a criminal.

Mr. Jamieson is a detective, repeated Thornton. He is a gentleman I heard about when I was in San Francisco last summer. You knew I was there for three months before I assumed my late father’s position here at Thornton’s, didn’t you? he asked Dan.

Dan nodded. He was a man of few words, and nodding was often the only response he made when he determined no words were necessary.

Oh yes, I know all about your vacation, he said. You stayed at the Rand Hotel. You spent a great deal of time down by the docks, and you had rather an unpleasant experience as the result an experiment in opium smoking.

Thornton’s face went red, and then he laughed.

You know more about me than I know about you, Jamieson, he said with a curtness that suggested he did not care to be investigated by his hired investigator, and then he turned back to his manager.

I have reason to believe that money has been stolen from this business by one of my employees, he said.

Impossible, sir! said the shocked Millbury. Completely impossible! Who could have done it? And how clever of you to discover it, sir! I always say that you can see what we old timers overlook, even when it’s right under our noses!

Thornton smiled complacently.

It may interest you to know, Mr. Jamieson, he said, that I myself have some knowledge of and acquaintance with the criminal classes. I try to do what I can to aid the rehabilitation of worthy felons, to lend guidance in turning their life around, so to speak. In fact, there is one whom I have tried very hard to reform over the past four years. He’s being released from prison in a couple of days. I took up this work, he proclaimed modestly, because I feel it is the duty of we who are in a more fortunate position to help those who have not had better opportunities in the cruel competition of the world.

Dan was not impressed.

Do you know the person who has been robbing you? he asked.

I have reason to believe it is the woman I dismissed today, and who I wish you to watch.

The detective nodded.

That’s rather small potatoes, he said with the first faint hint of a smile he had shown. Don’t you have in-house security to handle this kind of situation? Petty larceny is hardly in my line. I understood this was a bigger job.

He stopped, because it was obviously impossible to explain just why he had thought it was a bigger job in the presence of the man originally intended to be the subject of his inquiries.

To you, it may seem like a small matter, but to me, it is very important, said Mr. Thornton profoundly. There is a woman, highly respected by all her co-workers and consequently a great influence on their behaviors, and who, I have reason to believe, has steadily and persistently falsified my books, taken money from the firm, and at the same time secured the goodwill of her fellow employees. Obviously, she is more dangerous than an individual who succumbs to a sudden temptation. I think it’s necessary to make an example of this woman, but I want you clearly to understand, Mr. Jamieson, that I don’t sufficient evidence to convict her; otherwise I would not have called you in.

You want me to gather the evidence, is that right? said Dan curiously.

Who is the lady, may I venture to ask, sir?

It was Millbury who interposed the question.

Emily Rider, replied Thornton.

Emily Rider! Millbury’s face took on a look of blank surprise as he gasped the words. Oh, no, that’s not possible!

And why is it not possible? demanded Thornton sharply.

Well, sir, I mean, stammered the manager, it’s just so unlikely. She is such a nice girl.

Ronald Thornton shot a suspicious glance at him.

You have no particular reason for wishing to shield her, do you? he asked coldly.

No, sir, not at all. I beg of you not to think that, appealed the agitated Millbury. Only it seems so extraordinary.

All things are extraordinary if they are not common, snapped Thornton. It would be extraordinary if you were accused of stealing, Millbury. It would be very extraordinary indeed, for example, if we were to discover that you are living a five hundred thousand dollar lifestyle on a hundred thousand dollar salary, wouldn’t it?

Only for a fraction of a second did Millbury lose his self-possession. The hand that went to his mouth shook, and Dan, whose eyes had never left the man’s face, saw the tremendous effort he was making to recover his composure.

Yes, sir, that would be extraordinary, said Millbury steadily.

Thornton had worked himself into a grand fury, but if his vitriolic tongue was directed at Millbury, his thoughts instead were centered upon that beautiful, proud and scornful face that had so thoroughly rejected him in his office a short time ago.

And it would be extraordinary if you were sent to prison as the result of my discovery that you have been robbing the firm for years, he growled. Then I suppose everybody else in the firm would say the same about you - how extraordinary!

I imagine they would, sir, said Millbury, his old smile back, the twinkle again returning to his eyes, and his hands rubbing together in their ceaseless ablutions. It would sound extraordinary, and nobody here would be more surprised than me. Ha! Ha!

Perhaps not, said Thornton coldly. I want to say a few words, and I would like you to pay close attention to them. You have been complaining to me for the past month, he said speaking with deliberation, about small sums of money missing from the cashier’s office.

It was a bold thing to state, and in many ways rash. Thornton’s hastily formed plan was totally dependent for its success not only upon Millbury’s guilt but also upon Millbury’s willingness to tacitly confess his guilt.

If the manager