Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“That, I think, will be our first line of attack,” he finally said. “Someone remembered that he’d worked for the Cranford Endowment for Peace. Called late yesterday afternoon. One of the secretaries on the thirty-eighth floor. Also, see what you can find on Joan Chandler. I suspect there’s more there than meets the eye, I’ve already put through a request for clearance, on both Chandler and Draftsman.”

Meaning the usual: New York Police Department, FBI and Interpol. I nodded, finished my tea and headed back to my cubicle. I had a feeling this was going to be a tougher case than we’d figured. Regardless of how it finally turned out.

Though I had to admit it was looking more and more like Mrs. Draftsman would not have jumped. Joan Chandler, maybe. But Eleanor Draftsman was something else again. The UN had quite a few staffers like that — totally dedicated to the idea and the organization. They had plenty to live for.

I put through a call to Cranford Endowment. Personnel there tried to be helpful but all they could tell me was that Noel Draftsman had left them three years earlier.

They didn’t know where he’d gone. No one had called for references on him. This was all memory work because the personnel record had been destroyed a year after Draftsman’s exit. Company policy, because of space limitations.

He’d been with them maybe five years. They had no recollection of where he’d come from, but seemed to remember that he’d been in the military sometime after World War II. They promised to call if they came up with anything else. I thanked them and rang off.

Next I called Joe Benares of Ajax Probes, a company which specializes in credit investigation. Joe was an old buddy of mine from the days when we ran divisional security in Korea. I told him what I wanted and he promised to run a fast check.

In the meantime I called UN Amici, the outfit Mrs. Draftsman worked for after hours.

I played this one off the top of my head when a gushing society type answered the phone and asked if she could help me. She had a curiously split voice: one half contralto, the other half soprano, as though her voice had just broken, though it was hard to tell in which direction it was heading. She introduced herself as Mrs. Brownell.

I said, “We’d like to get hold of Eleanor Draftsman—”

“Who is this?” Her voice dropped several octaves. It was now cautious, hedging.

“This is Mr. Random,” I said.

“Yes?”

“From the Wayfarers—”

“I don’t believe I am familiar—”

“Excuse me. I thought everyone was familiar with the Wayfarers, Mrs. Brownell.”

“It does sound vaguely familiar—” Her voice trailed off.

“Yes, we’re a club devoted to world travel. A private dub, yon understand.” I waited for her to say yes, then continued: “We understand that your Mrs. Draftman provides informative talks on the UN—”

“Yes, indeed she does.” Now she was gushing again. “She’s one of our most talented speakers. Always in such constant demand. I only wish she were able to give more than two talks a month.”

I said: “Is she available?”

“I shall have to find that out for you, Mr. Random. If you’ll just hold the phone for a moment.”

“Thank you.” I heard her riffling through some papers.

She came back on: “I’m afraid she’s already given two talks for this month. I don’t believe—”

“Well,” I interrupted, “maybe next month.”

“Yes, well, we do have other speakers...”

“We want Mrs. Draftsman,” I said, then added, “unless of course you’re available, Mrs. Brownell.”

“Oh.” Her voice had risen. “No, I’m afraid I don’t accept speaking engagements. I—”

I told her that was a pity because she had such a fine voice. I promised to call next month, then cut the connection.

Joe Benares of Ajax Probes called back soon afterwards. Mrs. Draftsman, it seemed, had a lousy credit record. She owed around three thousand dollars to three major stores in the metropolitan area and a thousand more to assorted smaller concerns. At least one company was considering legal action. Her bank balance was in the upper three digits.

As for Joan Chandler, she was a big spender but met all her bills on time. She was presently working for International Acoustics on Forty-second and Lexington. Secretary to the president, George King. She’d been with them since nineteen fifty-eight, following her graduation from college and separation from the U.S. Army.

I asked Joe about International Acoustics. He said they made hi-fi components and bugging devices. They’d been in business since the early fifties.

He had very little on George King, the president: sole owner, AA Dun and Bradstreet rating, widower, lived at three hundred fifty East Thirty-sixth Street, a cooperative deal.

I asked Joe to find out more about King. He wasn’t happy about it because it would mean digging. Digging meant spending time. Time was money. I told him to bill us and he said he’d think about it.

I reminded him that the UN was the world’s best hope for the peaceful settlement of disputes, hung up before he could think up a smart answer, and hotfooted it into Akutagawa’s office.