Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

Nash’s eyes flicked from Ruth Tenney to Cliff Logan and back again. The payout had been raised from three million to four million.

The double shuffle had just become a triple shuffle.

“It’s murder,” Sam Spear said flatly. “I can smell it. A big shuffle. Three policies, four million payoff. Coincidences like that don’t happen in the insurance business. The pilot and the wife killed that poor son of a bitch just as sure as God made little green apples. And you and I, Jack my boy, are going to nail them for it.” Spear cocked his basketball-shaped head, squinting across the desk at Nash. “You agree with me, don’t you?”

“I agree that something’s wrong,” said Nash. “I’m not sure it’s murder.”

“What else could it be?” Spear demanded. “You said yourself that they exchanged ‘knowing’ and ‘suggestive’ glances when you were with them in that hospital room. You said that in your opinion she didn’t look or act like a new widow. Now look, nobody was with Tenney when he bought that vending-machine policy at the Reno airport except the pilot. The same pilot who got out a window of the sinking plane while the victim couldn’t get out the cabin door! They’re in it together, I tell you.”

“Maybe they are,” Nash allowed. “But it still could have been an accident, Sam. A very lucky accident for them — but still an accident. Maybe the cabin door really did jam on impact—”

“Bullshit!” Spear declared. “Tenney didn’t get out the cabin door because Cliff Logan hit him in the head with something and knocked him unconscious. Why the hell do you think Logan flew over two other lakes to land on that one? Because they planned it that way. They knew that lake was a spreader. They knew the physical evidence of their crime would disappear forever. But, by God,” he slammed a fat fist down on his desk, “we’re going to get them anyway, Jack! We’re going to get them on circumstantial evidence!” Spear leaped from his chair with surprising dexterity for his size, snatched up the Tenney file, and growled, “Come on!”

“Where to?” asked Nash.

“Herman Golden’s office. After you told me about this on the phone yesterday, I set up a meeting with him.”

“Herman Golden? I thought you said his fees were too high.” Golden was a private detective who specialized in fraudulent insurance claims.

“They are too high,” said Spear, “but so is a four-million-dollar payoff.”

Golden’s office was in a modest but respectable building on the Westwood edge of Santa Monica. It was furnished in California-tacky. Golden himself was somewhere near Sam Spear’s age and had been a private detective for twenty years, since retiring from the L. A. County sheriff’s office where he’d spent the preceding twenty years. In neither job had he ever been required to raise his hand in anger, even while working the street. A devoutly religious man, he believed in calm reasoning, polite behavior, and fairness. He closed his offices on every Jewish holiday, for himself, and every Catholic holiday, for his wife of forty-two years.

“My, my, my, the things that some people do for money,” the detective commented after Sam Spear had outlined the facts of the claim for him. “All people have to do in life is work hard and save diligently, and they’ll end up just as well-off. Don’t you agree, Sam?”

“Herman, at your exorbitant hourly rate, I don’t want to listen to any personal philosophical theories,” Spear carped. “Let’s stick to business. I’ll tell you how I want this handled. I want around-the-clock surveillance on both Cliff Logan and Ruth Tenney. I want deep background checks on both of them. I want discreet, off-the-record interviews with superiors, peers, and subordinates at Eureka Petroleum, as well as neighbors around both residences. And I want everything you do to be coordinated with Jack here; he’s to work right along with you so that I can be kept up to speed on everything.”

“No problem,” said Golden. “Jack and I have worked together before.”

“All right, then,” said Spear, getting up to leave. “I’m putting it in your hands. I’ve got forty-five days before the claim has to be paid or formally denied. There’s a board of directors meeting in four weeks. I want to be able to go in there and recommend a denial of the claim and have it approved. I’m counting on you two to make that happen.” He patted Nash on the shoulder. “Jack, my boy, you know what’s in it for you if we pull this one off.”

After Spear left, Nash and Golden looked at each other knowingly. “Same old Sam,” said the private detective. “Still holding out the carrot. He’ll probably be in that claims-director job until he drops dead.”

“You just might be right,” Nash agreed.

He was surprised to find that the thought of Sam Spear dropping dead was not unpleasant to him.