Scam

in the present case, have the proxies all been sent in?”
    “The majority have been.”
    “When you say the majority, do you mean fifty-one percent?”
    “No. I mean most of them. They’re almost all in. There may be one or two stragglers. And, of course, there are some stockholders who never bother to turn in proxies. But of those we’re going to get, they’re almost all in.”
    “Uh-huh. And who holds the majority of the proxies?”
    “That I can’t tell you.”
    “Because it’s confidential?”
    “Because I don’t know. And I won’t know until the stockholders meeting, when the proxies are counted up.”
    “I would have thought that would have been your job.”
    “It is. And when they are counted, I will do the accounting. Until then, I merely assemble and compile them. But how they add up, frankly I don’t want to know. You see, working here as I do, it would be very uncomfortable for me to know.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said. “You have the proxies here in your office?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “What’s to stop one of the candidates from coming in and sneaking a peek?”
    He shrugged, “Ethics, I guess. That and the fact I work long hours. I’m usually the last to leave.”
    “What about the night Cranston was killed?”
    “What about it?”
    “Were you the last to leave then?”
    “Yes, I was.”
    “So what happened?”
    He shrugged. “He must have come back.”
    “He had a key?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “What about the other vice-presidents?”
    “What about them?”
    “Do they have keys?”
    “I would imagine.”
    “You would imagine?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why is that?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “With Cranston, it’s, Yes, of course. With them, it’s, I would imagine.”
    “In Cranston’s case, I know he had a key because he got in. The night he was killed. If it weren’t for that, I would assume he had a key, just like the other two.”
    “You’re assuming now.”
    “What?”
    “That Cranston had a key. You’re assuming he had a key because he got in. But what if someone else let him in? Then he wouldn’t necessarily have to have a key.”
    “Who would have let him in?”
    “Whoever was here.”
    “But there was no one here.”
    “Someone was here.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because someone killed him.”
    “Yes, but that someone came later.”
    “How do you know?”
    Jenkins smiled. “Because you don’t have a key.”
    I nodded. “Nice shot.”
    “Thank you,” Jenkins said. “See, if you are the killer, as the police contend, the theory is Cranston was here alone and let you in. Either that or the two of you arrived together. In either case, it’s Cranston who had the key.”
    “I see you’ve worked this out.”
    “That’s what I do.” Jenkins shrugged. “Usually it’s only money.”
    “I don’t suppose you’d happen to know why I would have killed Cranston Pritchert?”
    “Sorry,” Jenkins said. “I deal in facts, not theories.”
    “Well, you could have fooled me.”
    “Why? I think everything I said about the key is totally logical.”
    “Maybe so,” I said. “But—”
    I broke off as Jenkins’s eyes widened and I realized he was looking over my left shoulder.
    I turned around.
    The cops were there.

36.
    “C LOSE THE DOOR.”
    Uh-oh. Sergeant Belcher had dismissed the cops from his office. Without summoning a stenographer. That left me alone with the gentleman. And now he was closing the door. This did not bode well.
    Belcher got up from his chair, walked around, and sat on the front of his desk. I was seated in front of it in a folding chair. Belcher towered over me, while appearing completely at ease. The effect was chilling.
    Belcher tapped his fingers together, pursed his lips. “So,” he said. “What am I going to do with you? Here you are, prime suspect in a murder case. Arraigned, on bail, and whaddya do? You return to the murder scene, start interviewing everyone in sight. Now, what is a poor policeman to think?”
    I had no idea. When he’d closed the door, I’d expected Belcher to beat me up. The fact he wasn’t was somewhat unsettling.
    Don’t get me wrong—I didn’t want to get beaten up. Still, I would have liked to have had some idea what the guy was doing. In light of what I knew about Belcher, his casual routine was somewhat nerve-wracking.
    At any rate, I could think of nothing to say. I sat there, held my tongue, waiting for a question that wasn’t rhetorical.
    I got one. “Would you mind telling