Worst Fears Realized

him.”
     
    Daniel O’Sullivan was a big, bluff Irish-American in his late seventies, with snow-white hair and a florid complexion, who still wore his weight well. He seemed glad to have visitors. He showed them into a spacious, beautifully furnished apartment that took up a whole floor of a brownstone, offered them a drink, and, when they declined, fixed one for himself.
    “It’s not often I get visited by the police,” he said, settling in a big armchair. “What can I do for you?”
    “Mr. O’Sullivan,” Dino said, “do you remember Herbert Mitteldorfer?”
    “Herbie? How could I forget him? He was the only one of my employees—that I know of—who ever murdered somebody.”
    “Can you tell us what Mitteldorfer’s job was in your firm?”
    “Sure; he was my top accountant.”
    “Could you describe his duties? Did he do corporate work?”
    O’Sullivan shook his big head. “No, no; we weren’t an ordinary accounting firm. We were personal managers to theater people—actors, producers, set designers—people at the top of their fields. We paid their bills, invested their money, got them bank loans and mortgages, sometimes loaned them money, when they had lean years.”
    “And what part did Mitteldorfer take in the business?”

    “Herbie did a little of everything. He started with us as a simple bookkeeper; but he was so good, so bright, that soon he was taking an active part in managing our clients’ accounts. By the time of the, ah, unfortunate incident, he was practically running the firm. My partner and I were thinking of retirement by then, and we’d expected to sell out to him. As it was, after he was arrested, we had to put our plans on hold. It took several years before we got two other men trained to do what Herbie did, and, finally, we sold out to them.”
    Stone spoke up. “Did Mitteldorfer have any personal wealth?”
    “His wife did,” O’Sullivan replied. “She was from a meat-packing family out of Chicago—not filthy rich, but she had some assets, which Herbie managed brilliantly. At the time of her death, I believe, together they may have had two, three million in assets, or so Herbie told me. The lawyers would have made a pretty good dent in that, but I’m sure that when he went to jail, he still had some money put away. Plus, there was a very nice apartment on lower Park Avenue that her family gave them as a wedding present. I believe that was sold.”
    “But,” Stone said, “having murdered his wife, he wouldn’t have been able to inherit her wealth.”
    “It had all been in Herbie’s name for years,” O’Sullivan said. “He made sure of that.”
    “Do you remember another employee named Eloise Enzberg?”
    “Sure, I do. Eloise was with us for better than twenty years, longer than Herbie. She was our office manager, the best-organized person you ever saw. Day in, day out, she made the place work. If you gaveher a job to do, she’d handle it better than anybody, and shenever dropped the ball, not once in all the years I knew her. I mean, if you said to Eloise, ‘I’m going to London for a week,’ inside an hour she’d made hotel and restaurant reservations and booked a car and driver to meet you at the airport. When you got to your hotel, you were in your usual suite, with extra towels and a bottle of wine waiting.”
    “Do you know what sort of relationship Mitteldorfer and Enzberg had?” Stone asked.
    “Well,” O’Sullivan said, smiling, “she was sweet on Herbie, she really was. When he was charged with his wife’s murder, she refused to believe it. She was in court every day, took him things in jail—books, fruit. But you have to understand, womenloved Herbie Mitteldorfer. I mean, he wasn’t good-looking, but he was a snappy dresser, had charm and wit, never forgot any woman’s birthday. He had quite a beautiful wife. I was astonished when he killed her; we all were.”
    “Mitteldorfer was released from prison a few days ago,” Dino said, “and this morning, Eloise Enzberg’s body was found in the East River, her throat cut.”
    O’Sullivan’s face fell. “Well, I’m really sorry to hear that. She was a very nice lady.” He thought for a moment. “And Herbie’s out? Do you think there’s a connection?”
    “Do you think Herbert Mitteldorfer could have killed Eloise Enzberg, Mr. O’Sullivan?” Stone asked.
    “Of course not,” O’Sullivan scoffed. “That could never have happened. Herbie wouldn’t have done that.” He