by Jerry eBooks
Royce stole back to the door of the library where Blake’s body had been found, bent to the floor. He had noted the slight stain on the boards here, similar to the stain on the rug inside. Farther back there was another stain.
With his gun in his hand he crept noiselessly toward the back, where it was dark. He could now hear conversation from above, could hear Gloria Blake saying: “Savini is in his room, Ross.”
Lewis answered: “Damn it, why does he take so long?”
Royce kept working back along the hall until he came to a door which must lead to the cellar. He was tense now, for there was another stain on the floor here. Royce tried the cellar door, found it open. He took out his flashlight, snapped it on, and descended the short flight of wooden stairs.
The floor of the cellar was of concrete, and there was no hiding place except the coal bin. This was the middle of the summer, and there was no coal in the bin; but there was a pile of rags in one corner. Royce pushed them aside with his foot, drew in his breath sharply as he stared down at the stiff, bloody body of a man that lay underneath. The front of the dead man’s clothing was seeped in blood, and there was a rope around his neck. The rope was about a foot long.
Royce flashed his light into every corner of the cellar, found nothing. He left the body uncovered, and started upstairs again. Before he reached the top, a high-pitched, terrified shriek filled the house. It was the voice of Gloria Blake, and the scream was repeated again and again.
Royce sprinted to the top, swung down toward the front of the hall. The screams suddenly ceased. Lewis’ excited voice now came down to him:
“Gloria! Open the door!”
Royce leaped up the stairs to the upper floor, taking them three at a time.
On the upper landing he saw Lewis and Basilio pounding at the door of one of the rooms on the left side of the corridor. Basilio had a long knife in his hand, that glittered under the electric lights.
Lewis continued shouting: “Gloria!
Open the door! Can you hear me?” His voice was frantic, almost hysterical.
When he saw Royce, he swung on him, seized him by the arm. “Gloria’s in there,” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Something has happened. She went in to call Savini, and suddenly she screamed. We just got a glimpse in through the open door, and there was Savini, hanging by his neck from a rope in the middle of the room! Basilio was nearest the door, and he started to go in, but just then Gloria must have fainted or something, and fallen against the door. It swung shut. Now we can’t open it.”
ROYCE’S eyes were on the knife in Basilio’s hand. The Filipino saw him looking at it, and hastily put it away.
Royce pushed him aside, leveled his gun at the lock, fired once. He aimed upward so as not to hit Gloria Blake if she were slumped just inside the door.
The cheap lock shattered under the impact of the bullet, and the door gave a little. Royce pushed it, stuck his head through, and peered inside. Mrs. Blake was lying on the floor, keeping the door from opening further. But there was no body hanging in the room.
In fact, there was no sign of Mr. Savini at all. The bed was neatly made, and in one corner, beside it, stood a large trunk, open, full of currency. This much Royce saw in his quick glance into the room, and two things more—the window was raised, the shutters thrown wide open; and a length of rope hung from one of the rafters in the ceiling—a length of rope that had been cut off just like the one in the library below.
Mrs. Blake stirred and moaned, opened her eyes. All natural color had fled from her face, leaving the rouge on her cheeks and lips to stand out in startling contrast.
Royce eased in through the opening, helped her to her feet. Lewis and Basilio came in after him, stood gaping at the room.
Lewis said in a hushed voice: “I could have sworn I saw Savini hanging from the ceiling!”
Royce felt Mrs. Blake shudder violently in his arms; she raised her head, stared out of frightened eyes at the rope hanging from the rafter. A scream gurgled in her throat, died as Royce gripped her arm, said:
“Take it easy, Mrs. Blake. Tell me what you saw. Was it Savini?”
She nodded, gulping. “The—the room was dark. I switched on the light, wondering where he was. And then I saw him—h-hanging there—” She buried her face in her hands. “I can’t stand it!”
Royce led her to the bed, set her on it, motioned to Lewis to take care of her. Then he went to the window, looked out into the night.
The ground outside rose here, so that there was hardly any difficulty presented to anybody who wanted to get in or out of the window. The shutters had not been forced open.
Royce frowned, started to turn away, when from outside, not far away, came the explosion of a revolver.
Instinctively, Royce ducked. The shot was high, anyway, and the glass of the window was shattered, crashing into the room, littering the floor and the bed.
Mrs. Blake screamed. Lewis swore. Basilio dropped to his knees. Royce crouched near the window, shouted, “Get to the floor!” just as another slug tore into the room, this time lower.
Royce fired at the flash out there in the darkness, and as the roar of his explosion died away he heard a gurgling sound from behind him. He turned, saw Lewis sprawled on the floor, with Mrs. Blake staring at him in horror.
The second shot had caught the big man in the throat, and he was not a pretty sight. He writhed a moment, tried to utter something, and failed. A shudder ran through his frame, and he lay still.
Royce sprang across the room, snapped the electric light switch. The room was thrown into darkness. He could hear Mrs. Blake moaning softly, could hear Basilio’s noisy, frightened breathing.
There were no more shots from outside.
Royce stole across the room, said softly: “I’m going out through the window. You, Basilio, close the shutters after me.”
Basilio stuttered: “Y-yes, s-sir.”
Royce swung a leg over the sill, dropped to the ground. It was rocky here, and the going was hard, but he made little noise, working over in the direction from which the shots had been fired.
There was no sign of movement anywhere.
Suddenly Royce’s foot touched something soft. He jumped to one side, holding his gun straight out in front of him. But there was no movement from the thing he had touched.
He set his lips grimly, held the flashlight out at arm’s length, clicked it on, held it there for a second, then clicked it off and quickly changed his position. No shots greeted him.
He put his flashlight and gun away, stooped grimly in the darkness and raised the body of the man whom his light had revealed. In the second that he had kept his light on, he had seen who it was. It was the body of Savini, and he was quite dead—with the rope still around his neck.
Royce heaved the dead man over his shoulder, stumbled back toward the house.
Under the window of the bedroom he called out softly: “Basilio.”
“Y-yes sir.”
“Open the shutters.”
The shutters were pushed open from within, and Royce swung Savini over the sill. “Drag him in, Basilio,” he ordered in the darkness.
Basilio helped him get the body, then Royce climbed over, swung the shutters to, and switched on the light. Mrs. Blake stood in the center of the room, her hand at her throat, staring down at Savini’s body. “He—he’s dead!” she said, very low. “The—the note said he was next, and then Ross, and then—”
Royce stooped beside Savini. He had a hole in his forehead. The rope around his neck was drawn tight, but his face was not blue.
ROYCE looked up at Basilio, and the woman. “I don’t think you need to worry any more, Mrs. Blake,” he said. “You’re safe.”
“W-what do you mean?” she asked. She put out a hand, steadied herself against the bed.
For answer, Royce reached down and opened Savini’s coat, tore away his shirt. A strange contraption was revealed. It consisted of a kind of chain mail shirt that rose in a high collar around the neck. It had been tinted fl
esh color, so that it was almost indistinguishable to the casual or excited glance. It was around this steel collar that the noose of the rope as had been drawn.
Mrs. Blake said weakly: “I—I don’t understand.”
“It’s easy,” Royce told her, grinning. “You saw Savini hanging here all right, but he wasn’t dead. He hung himself up here, then when you fainted he cut himself down and scrammed out through the window. That hole in the head is what killed him—my shot from the window.”
“B-but why—”
“Because he wanted to do away with all of you, and take all those pesos in the trunk for himself. He figured if we thought he was dead we’d surely blame the two Filipino partners. The note would be found later, the police would figure he’d been killed off along with you, and his body taken away, and they wouldn’t even look for him. He could go to South America.”
Mrs. Blake shuddered. “And—Henry?” Royce lowered his eyes. “He’s dead. His body is downstairs.”
The Filipino had been listening intently to Royce’s explanation. Now he said: “Mis’ Blake, ma’am. I so sorry about you’ husband.” He glanced sorrowfully at the body of Lewis, which lay alongside the bed. “I no got boss now. Maybe I can work for you?”
She said absently: “I’ll see, Basilio.” Royce got up from beside Savini’s body, stared down at the trunkful of money. “I guess you’re broke?” he asked her.
She sank back on the bed, nodded listlessly. “I—I don’t suppose it matters,” she said. “I have a couple of hundred dollars—was going to use it to pay you with.”
Royce grinned. “You won’t have to. In fact, I think you won’t be so broke from now on.”
She looked up at him inquiringly.
He pointed to the trunkful of money. “Don’t you think I read the papers? The minute I walked in here I knew who Lewis and Savini were. But I didn’t let on. It never pays to show your hand.”
She still didn’t seem to understand.
He explained: “Don’t you know that the Philippine Government has offered a reward of fifty thousand pesos for the return of this money, and the capture of the absconders? Well, you and I are going to share it!”
SUICIDE SOUVENIR
Dennis Layton
Detective Perry’s eyes rested expectantly on the frosted-glass panel in the door to his office. A grotesque shadow was plastered there, cast on the glass like a picture by a motion picture projector. It moved around in indecision and groped for the knob of the door.
Matt Perry half rose from his chair, pulling open the top drawer of his desk and exposing an ugly Mauser pistol which rested there, primed, loaded and ready for trouble.
The door burst open without warning. A girl plunged into the office wildly. Astonished, Perry stared at her.
Her blonde hair was blowing around crazily without a hat covering it. She was small and chic. She ran right up to the desk.
“What can I—” Perry began. “Can’t explain!” she interrupted rudely. She thrust her right hand forward and deposited something on the desk. “Hold it until you hear from me,” she said swiftly. “And don’t let it get out of your hands.”
“Hey,” Perry exclaimed. “What in hell is this? Just a second, lady, I want to—”
He was talking to air. She turned around and was out of the office like a wraith. Perry bit his lip. But stunned as he was by the sudden procession of events, he made up his mind in a split second. His hand dove into the desk, came up with the Mauser which he jammed deep in his coat pocket.
Then he lanced away from behind his desk and went out after her. He scuttled to the elevator bank. But he was too late.
Just as he got there, the sliding door of the shaft slammed shut. Through the small glass window in the door, he could see the cage close and the car zoom down towards the street.
“Damn!” Perry muttered.
It would be senseless to try and beat the girl down by taking the stairway. It was seven flights to the street floor of the Lanin Building. She would beat him easily.
He pressed the down button. Luckily, another car was just on its way to the main floor. It opened up. He rushed in, watched the gates close and felt his stomach rise queerly as the car sped down like a plummet.
“Hey, Joe,” Perry called to the elevator starter on the main floor as he leaped out. “Didja see a blonde? Small, no hat?”
“Yeah, Mr. Perry,” said the starter. “She went out the Fifth Avenue way. I remember her. She was a stunner.”
“How long ago?”
“Half a minute or so.”
Perry tore along the main floor to the Fifth Avenue exit. Out in the street, he searched frantically for some sign of that brilliant yellow hair. But he could find nothing like it. A line of taxicabs caught his gaze. He snapped his fingers knowingly. The girl had lammed in a cab. She wouldn’t take any chances on his catching up with her.
Disappointed, Matt Perry returned to the elevator bank. He stepped into one of the elevators and was whisked up to the seventh floor where his office was. He got out, feeling sorry for himself because he hadn’t caught the girl. As he walked down the marblelike corridor of the floor, he noticed that the door at the end of his quarters was open. He had left it closed.
The Mauser appeared in his hand like magic. He stole agilely down the remainder of the hall to his office. Silently, he peered in. There was a dead man on the floor.
“What the hell!” Perry whistled. He entered, closing the door behind him and putting the big pistol away. Then he stooped down over the man.
“Toby Beck!” Perry breathed, recognizing the dead man as one of the most elusive professionals of the city. It didn’t jell at all. First the girl who had left something on his desk. And now Toby Beck, gunman and chiseler, a cooling corpse on his floor.
Beck was dead. But he wasn’t stiff. Rigor mortis had not begun to set in. And the flesh was warm. Perry realized that Beck had died here in the few minutes that Perry had spent below, in pursuit of the blonde. But how had he died?
Perry examined Beck, frankly baffled. There wasn’t a bullet wound anywhere on Beck’s body. Nor a sign of blood either. Perry turned over Beck’s right hand.
In the center of the dead man’s thumb there was a tiny, almost invisible drop of blood. Just that. Nothing else.
Perry got to his feet and lifted his telephone from its pedestal. He called the elevator starter in the hall below.
“Listen, Joe,” he said, “did anyone come down from the seventh while I was out?”
There was a long pause while the starter made inquiries. “No, Mr. Perry,” Joe replied finally. “You weren’t out long enough. No one came down.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Perry. He hung up.
For the first time, he noticed the thing that the frantic blonde had left on his desk. It was a bronze casket, beautifully hammered. It was about four inches long and two inches wide. The sort of thing a rich girl would put her jewels in.
Perry picked it up and looked at it. There was a little catch on the front of it where you opened the thing. Perry ran his fingers along it to open it.
Simultaneously, the telephone rang. “Hello,” said Perry, putting the casket down for a second. “Matt Perry speaking.”
“Mr. Perry,” came a breathless feminine voice at the other end of the wire, “whatever you do—don’t open that bronze casket. I forgot to tell you when I left it—but don’t open it. It’ll kill you in a second if you do!”
“Say, what is all this?” Perry asked sharply.
“I can’t explain now,” the girl replied. “I haven’t time. They’re following me. Just hang onto that casket and don’t try to open it. And if a man named Toby Beck comes looking for it or—”
“Beck’s dead,” said Perry. “Right here in my office.”
“Oh!” he heard her cry. “He tried to cross them, the fool!” She was silent for a second. “Lock it up,” she said then. “Lock it up, Perry. Hide it!”
“Okay,” Perry replied. “But who i
n hell are you?”
“Call me Lois,” she answered. “Lois Ward. That’ll do until I get in touch with you.”
“But—” Perry began.
He heard a sharp click and he knew that the connection had been severed. She was gone again. And there was no use tracing the call. If she were in flight as she had said, then the call had come from a public booth. He had the bronze casket. She said she would come for it. He had to be satisfied with that.
Perry put the casket in the top drawer of his desk and locked the drawer, placing the key in his pocket.
The corpse of Beck loomed up again. Perry realized that he’d have to report this to the homicide bureau. Otherwise, Inspector Lowery would raise the roof.
There was a knock at the door of the office.
It startled Perry only because he had not expected it. He glanced warily at the frosted glass. He could see it was a man.
“Come in,” he said, patting the bulk of the pistol in his pocket.
He was right. It was a man—a huge giant of a man, uncouth and bestial. He wore a slouchy topcoat, a faded gray fedora and dirty brown shoes. A ragged cigar perched in the corner of his mouth as he eyed the corpse of Toby Beck on the floor and grunted.
“You saved me the trouble,” he said gruffly. “I was after Beck. How’d you put him away?”
“I tied him to a buzz saw,” replied Terry sarcastically. “Who in hell are you?”
The man flashed a golden badge with a spread eagle on it. “Twenty-two,” he said. “Name’s Rick McKenzie.”
“Let me see that badge,” Perry said suspiciously.
McKenzie shrugged, smiling, and handed his badge to Perry, who examined it carefully. It was the original all right. No fake. The number twenty-two was emblazoned on the shield.
“Federal operative, eh?” Perry said, handing the badge back to McKenzie. “Well, what’s in your craw?”
McKenzie pointed to the corpse. “How’d you get Beck?”
“I didn’t get him,” said Perry. “He—”
There was a pause. Perry remembered the secret the girl had left with him.
“I get it, I get it,” remarked the Federal man. “He tried to open the casket, eh?”