Wanted: Dead Men Read online

  A MILO MARCH MYSTERY

  WANTED:

  DEAD MEN

  M. E. CHABER

  PAPERBACK LIBRARY New York

  PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION First Printing: November, 1970

  Copyright €) 1965 by JCendell Foster Crossen

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 65-14448

  FOR LISA

  “And I will make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies.”

  —Marlowe

  This Paperback Library Edition is published by arrangement with Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc.

  Paperback Library is a division of Coronet Communications, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words ' ‘‘Paperback Library” accompanied by an open book, is registered in the United States Patent Office. Coronet Communications, Inc,, 315 Park Avenue South, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  1

  Milo March Insurance Investigator—that’s what it said on the door of my office on Madison Avenue in New York City. That’s what it also said on the rent bill I’d just received. I looked in my checkbook. I had the rent all right, but not much over it. The rest of the mail was advertising pieces. So I picked up the New York Times and tried to forget the whole thing. It was going to be one of those days.

  The phone rang. I picked up the receiver and said hello.

  “Milo, my boy, how are you?” a masculine voice asked. It belonged to Martin Raymond, a vice-president for Intercontinental Insurance. Maybe it wasn’t going to be a lost day after all. I do most of my work for Intercontinental.

  “I was fine until the phone rang,” I said. “Then I got a sudden attack of vice-presidentitis.”

  He chuckled. “That’s my boy, always making with the fun lines. Got a minute?”

  “Wait until I look at my watch,” I said. “Yes, I think I have a minute.”

  “How about running over here? I think we have a small job for you.”

  “Is it all right if I stroll? I’m getting too old for running. But I’ll be there as soon as I can reach my cane.” I hung up.

  Good old Martin Raymond. I was going to be back in the money again. I took a final, loving drink from the bottle of brandy in my desk drawer, called my phone-answering service and told them I’d be in touch, and then took off. It was a short walk up Madison Avenue to the Intercontinental building, a neat little skyscraper of stone and glass looking as if it had been constructed so that people who lived in glass buildings could throw their own sculptured stones.

  I stepped out of the elevator on the executive floor and stopped to appreciate the scenery—a redheaded receptionist who looked as if she’d taken a deep breath and held it.

  “Hello, Mr. March,” she said.

  “Hold it, honey,” I said. “Don’t say another word. I want to remember you just as you are.”

  “Oh, you,” she said, which was her idea of a witty remark. But then she didn’t have to be witty. “Did you want to see Mr. Raymond?”

  “No,” I said truthfully, “but he wants to see me.” “His secretary said for you to come on back as soon as you arrived.”

  “He doesn’t like me to stay out here and dally with the hired help,” I said. “It just proves that he’s going to grow up to be a dirty old man. See you later.”

  I went through the door on the left and down the corridor to Raymond’s office. His secretary nodded for me to go in, and I entered the inner sanctum.

  Martin Raymond has a passion for antique furniture, a fact which is impressed on anyone entering his office. Only none of it looks quite like it did in the early days of America. Just as two examples, there is a cobbler’s bench which now supports ash trays and an old cuckoo clock with a wooden bird that pops out on the hour and says “Intercontinental.” Then there is an Early American sideboard which has been converted into a bar. Some Puritan cabinetmaker must be spinning in his grave.

  “Milo, boy,” he said, as I came in, “how are you. Help yourself to a drink. You know where the bar is.”

  I knew where the bar was, but it was so seldom that he suggested that I help myself I knew it must be a case which had him nervous. Still, I’m not one to pass up an opportunity, so I went over and poured myself a brandy.

  I went back to the chair in front of his desk and lifted the glass.

  “To higher premiums and fewer cases,” I said solemnly. “Still the jokes,” he said with a laugh, but his heart wasn’t in it. He swiveled his chair so he could look out the window in the direction of the East River. There wasn’t anything to see there except a few garbage scows, but he ignored that. “We have a bit of a problem, Milo.” “No,” I said in mock astonishment. “Not Intercontinental with its billions of dollars and a folder full of competent vice-presidents!”

  He gave me a fleeting, pained look. “This is not a time for levity,” he said. “Do you know anything about industrial spying?”

  “Sure,” I said promptly. “It’s known as business ethics. If your competitor builds a better mousetrap, you hire someone to steal it before the world beats a path to his door. In the meantime, you hire other thugs to keep them from stealing your version of the mousetrap.”

  “Brutally put,” he said, “but more or less accurate. For some time, we have been issuing policies insuring companies against such thefts. It goes along with the policies on their executives, theft, and so forth. It’s a fairly lucrative business, but somewhat risky.”

  “And you’ve finally been nipped?”

  He ignored the question, staring out at the garbage scows. “There are three very large companies concerned in the case at hand. Santee Chemical Corporation, Cros-sen Plastics, Inc., and The Palmieri-Foster Research Corporation. All three companies have offices here in New York; the first two have factories in Pennsylvania and the third has a factory in Connecticut.”

  “It hardly sounds like the beginning of a serial by Mickey Spillane, but I’ll go along to the next installment.” “In the last year,” he continued, “Santee developed a new cleansing formula and a new deodorant, both of which were stolen and are now being manufactured in Europe. Crossen Plastics had developed, at great cost, a plastic that could be used in construction and which was at least as strong as steel, and another plastic, produced very cheaply, which could resist any degree of heat. These, too, were stolen and are now being produced in Europe.” He stopped and lit a cigarette.

  “And the third company?” I asked gently.

  “We’ll come to that in a minute,” he said grimly. “There were also some employees involved. Robert Halsey and Dan Frame worked as chemists for Santee and both were involved with the new products. They both committed suicide just before it was discovered that their work had been stolen.”

  “Joint suicide?”

  “No. Two weeks apart.”

  “And I suppose they were also insured?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said bitterly, “two hundred thousand on each.”

  “Suicide clause?”

  He made a face. “We waived it. They worked under extreme pressure so ordinary policies didn’t apply.” “And the premiums were higher?”

  “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “There were also two men who were important in developing the advances in plastics. Richard Matson and Carl Kelly. Good men. Shortly before those two inventions showed up in Europe, Matson was killed in a hit-and-run accident. A week later Kelly was the victim of a hit-and-run driver.”

  I was beginning to get the picture. “Both had insurance policies?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred thousand each.”

  “Double indemnity?”


  “Yes.” It was like a mournful cry in the streets.

  “All right,” I said. “What about the third company?” “No one died there,” he said. He was grabbing at straws.

  “Well, that’s a certain amount of progress. What did happen?”

  “I can’t tell you,” he said glumly.

  “Is that my job?” I asked. “To start guessing what the job is? This is a new type of insurance investigation.” “Maybe,” he said. “I don’t like it any better than you do. Milo, we have about three million dollars at stake. We can’t save all of it. A large part will have to be paid, no matter what you turn up. But your work may help to stop further cases like this.”

  “And the third situation?” I asked.

  “There is someone waiting to discuss it with you in our conference room. It’s classified. I’m afraid that I know nothing about it except that we insured it.”

  “You mean you’ve given me the whole case?”

  He sighed. “Pretty much, Milo. I can tell you that the four men I mentioned all answered help wanted advertisements between two or three months before the secrets were stolen. We don’t know what the ads were, where they appeared, or who placed them. But we did learn that much from their wives. Apparently the ads were such that the men thought they might get much better jobs than they had. There must be some connection.”

  “Possibly,” I said. “That’s all?”

  “That’s all. I know it’s a tough assignment, Milo. If you can solve it, we’ll give you a good bonus in addition to your regular fees.”

  “Uh-uh,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m not sure it’s a proper word, but it is in common usage. It means no.”

  “No what?”

  “Maybe you haven’t heard,” I said, “but the cost of living is going up year by year. I haven’t raised my prices in a long time. From now on, it’s one hundred and fifty dollars a day and expenses.”

  “All right,” he said, giving in so easily it surprised me. “You’ll probably have to go to Europe on this case, so we’ll give you five thousand advance expense money. If you need more, let»us know.”

  Then I knew it was a serious case. Martin Raymond parted with a dollar as easily as he’d give up a lung.

  “No file on the cases?” I asked.

  “There’s a file and it contains exactly what I’ve told you, but you can have it. My secretary will give it to you with the expense money and then take you to the conference room. I know you’ll do a good job, Milo.”

  This certainly wasn’t the Martin Raymond I knew, but then I guess we all crack up once in a while. I nodded gravely and left the office without saying anything more. The secretary handed me a manila folder and a fat white envelope. I peeked inside and it was stuffed with hundred dollar bills.

  “You hit the jackpot this time, buster,” she said. “Come along.”

  “Why not?” I muttered. “I’ve already seen everything.”

  I was wrong. I followed her down the corridor and she finally opened a door and motioned me inside. I entered and then stopped when I saw him sitting alone at the conference table.

  His name was Sam Roberts and I’d known him for a long, long time. When I first knew him he was a colonel in the Army. Now he was a three-star general attached to CIA, and every once in a while he would yank me out of the Reserves into active duty so I could pull some chestnuts out of the fire for him.

  “Oh, no!” I said.

  “Hello, Milo,” he said mildly—too mildly.

  “I won’t do it,” I said. “Whatever it is. I’ll appeal to my Congressman. It’s a free country and I’m not going back into the Army—even for you.”

  “Who asked you to?” he said.

  “And I’m not going to volunteer for the CIA,” I said flady.

  “Civilian life is softening you up,” he said sadly. “I didn’t hear any mention of such an organization.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “You taking the job for Intercontinental?” he countered.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m here to tell you about the third plant.”

  “The Palmieri-Foster Research Corporation?”

  “The same,” he said.

  “Something is missing from their company, too?” “Something is missing all right,” he said grimly, “two somethings.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t give you complete details,” he said. “You have a very high security rating, Milo, but everything that Palmieri-Foster does is about as top secret as it’s possible to get. All I can tell you is that they have developed an electronic device about the size of a walnut that will make a missile or a rocket do everything except play tennis, and I’m not sure it couldn’t do that. I can’t emphasize how important it is.”

  “It’s missing,” I guessed.

  “One model is. So is the man who invented it—Angus Watson.”

  “You think he went over to the other side?”

  “I’d gamble my life he didn’t. At least, not voluntarily.” I made another guess. “He answered an ad?”

  He nodded. “But at our request. We are well aware of the industrial • espionage which goes on, but most of the time it has nothing to do with us. We do, however, check all such ads automatically, especially when it seems an infringement on products related to national security. Palmieri-Foster Research is located in a small town in Connecticut. About six weeks ago an ad appeared in the local paper to set up interviews with electronic engineers. It sounded as if it were aimed at that one particular company. Those ads are fishing expeditions, so we sent the biggest fish in the company, thinking he would spot anything that was wrong.”

  “And?”

  “That was the last time Angus Watson was seen. He never returned to his home or office and there is no record that he was ever seen again after entering the Concord Hotel where the interview was to be held.”

  “He wasn’t covered?”

  “Oh, yes, he was covered. Three of our best men. He entered the hotel and vanished.”

  “Maybe he vanished voluntarily?”

  “No,” he said strongly. “We’re positive that he didn’t.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I think you mentioned that a model of his invention also disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I suppose,” I said dryly, “that you also suggested that Angus Watson take along a model of this valuable and secret invention in order to make his interview more realistic?”

  He looked embarrassed, an unusual expression for General Roberts. “I’d better explain something about Watson . .

  “It might help,” I said gently.

  “Angus Watson is—or was—one of the most valuable men we had in electronics. He was something of a genius. This was not the first breakthrough he accomplished for us. He also had peculiar methods of operating and quite often did his most important work in his own home in the middle of the night. For several years he has been permitted to take work home with him. I think you are aware of how unusual this is.”

  “Unusual is a kind word.”

  “I know, I know,” he said with irritation. “It took a special order to give him permission to take work home. He was probably checked more often than any individual in the country, and was completely cleared every time.

  I am personally convinced that these clearances were all correct.”

  “All right,” I said. I was familiar with Intercontinental conference rooms so I went over and slid back a panel door in the wall to reveal a well-equipped bar. I made myself a drink and walked back to the table. “So he had a model of the invention in his home and in some way he managed to leave the hotel, go to his home and get it without your three men seeing him.”

  He shook his head. “That is impossible. We also had men watching his house. In fact, we’ve had men stationed there for months and he never went near his home the day he vanished. Nor did anyone else.”

  “I suppose
there is another explanation?”

  He was still embarrassed and I soon found out the reason. “There is one thing we didn’t know,” he admitted. “I told you this electronic device was about the size of a walnut. Watson apparently felt that he could still make improvements in it, and he was in the habit of carrying the model in his pocket. He liked to take long walks when he was working on a problem and he carried the model with him.”

  “Including to the interview?”

  “Yes,” he said gloomily. “The Old Man is raising hell.” “I wonder why?” I murmured. “General, you have a lot of bright young bloodhounds working for you. They must have turned up something—at least one little clue.”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. The advertisement was placed by a man who gave the name of C. Jackson. He rented three adjoining rooms in the Concord Hotel for the purpose of holding interviews. When he registered, he gave his home address, which turned out to be false. The description of him we got from various people in Connecticut is very superficial. He is about five feet eight, on the heavy side, dark hair parted on the left side, ruddy complexion. That’s about it. It could fit several thousand people.”

  “You went over the rooms?”

  “Yes. There were no prints in the rooms. Everything had been wiped clean. Not even any evidence that anyone had been there. We vacuumed the rooms, naturally, and we have a few samples of dark hair, a small amount of dandruff, and some cigarette ashes—and a few small tufts from a brown suit which was probably made in England. That’s it.”

  “Was Watson the only man interviewed?”

  “No. Four men were interviewed before Watson arrived. Their interviews were very short and they had the distinct impression that Mr. Jackson was not interested in them. Watson was the fifth—and last—one to enter the suite.” -

  “No one saw him leave?”

  “No.”

  “What about this Jackson? Anyone see him leave?” “No.”

  “Did he have much luggage?”

  “One small suitcase.”

  “Car?”

  “No. He arrived in a taxi when he checked in.”

  “I presume you looked into possible means of leaving the town?”