by Jerry eBooks
“No. Just—just a friend. His name is—was—Bob Clark. We were going to New York. I’m to be married tomorrow and Bob was to have been a wedding guest, at my invitation.” Martha Lawrence shuddered. “Perhaps you were mistaken and, he isn’t—”
Dr. Mathew stood up, and there was something quite final in the gesture.
“This man is dead,” he announced. “As far as I can judge he has been poisoned, apparently by a hypo injected into the back of his neck.”
“Then it’s murder!” murmured Martha dazedly.
No one else spoke, and the rain pattering on the roof seemed like the drumming of ghost fingers. A police siren was like the wailing of a banshee somewhere out in the darkness of the night. It grew louder, finally to blend with the squealing of brakes as the police arrived. Two carloads of them. And they went to work quickly.
The bus passengers were ordered back into the refreshment room. Detectives barked questions at them, jotted down names and addresses. They had all been in the refreshment room or nearby when the murder had occurred.
Austin Tyler expected trouble, because he had been alone when he had found the body. But his credentials as one of the operatives for one of the biggest private detective agencies in Washington carried weight. The southern New Jersey police willingly accepted his story. They did not even hint that he might have murdered Bob Clark.
But the bus driver, whose name proved to be Grogan, caused plenty of trouble.
“Get this over with, will you, guys?” he kept repeating. “I got to get goin’ to finish the run on time. Hurry up!”
Finally the body had been removed, and Washington had been notified. The passengers had been told they could continue their journey, but the murderer had not been found.
“Anything unusual about the corpse?” Tyler asked the captain of detectives who was in charge of the police. “Reason for the murder, I mean.”
“Might have been robbery,” answered the captain. “His wallet is missing—and there are no papers in his inside coat pocket.”
“Thanks,” said Tyler. “That means something all right.”
As he turned away John Haynes came waddling up to him. The fat man placed his hand on Tyler’s wrist. His fingers were moist and flabby, his shirt cuff sticky.
“I don’t like this,” Haynes said nervously. “Whoever did it might strike again! Anyone of us could be murdered and robbed.”
The stout man was in a pitiful state of terror, Tyler saw. The inclination to act swept over the ex-juvenile. His expression grew sinister, and when he spoke he sounded like the menace in a horror picture.
“You’re right,” he said grimly. “It might happen to any of us!”
HAYNES gave him a startled look and moved hastily away. Tyler climbed into the bus with the other passengers as the coach continued on its journey. He took the seat next to Martha Lawrence and discovered that the girl was anxious to talk.
“I feel so terrible about the whole thing,” she said. “Yet I guess this isn’t anything compared to what Basil has been going through.”
“Basil?” asked Tyler. “Who is he?”
“Sir Basil Martin—the man I’m going to marry,” said Martha. “He just arrived in New York from England yesterday on the Clipper. He came over on a special mission and we decided that we would get married while he was here. He has to go back in a few days. I expect to go with him.”
“I see,” said Tyler as the bus roared through the night. “Did Bob Clark know Sir Basil?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Martha. “But he seemed quite anxious to meet the man I was going to marry.” She sighed. “Poor Bob! We quarreled just before I went into the lunch room at the bus stop. He thought he was in love with me—and tried to persuade me not to marry Basil. He was peeved—that was why he didn’t come into the refreshment room with me. I—I wish he had.”
“So do I,” said Tyler. “But of course, that really didn’t make any difference. Whoever killed him would probably have tried to find some other opportunity to do it.” Tyler’s tone grew hard. “I’m a private detective, as you know, Miss Lawrence, and I want you to let me guard you until after your wedding.”
“Why?” she asked, looking at him anxiously.
“Because I’m afraid that your life is in danger,” Tyler said grimly. “Apparently Clark was killed because the murderer wanted something he had in his possession—”
“Maybe that’s why he gave me that envelope to keep for him!” Martha said softly.
Austin Tyler’s eyes narrowed as he heard the girl’s words. He glanced at Dr. Mathew, seated up the aisle ahead of them on the left. The physician was reading a magazine and appeared oblivious of his surroundings. Tyler had not forgotten that Clark had been killed by poison injected by a hypodermic needle—the sort of murder weapon that a doctor might use.
John Haynes was also up ahead, slumped down in his seat like a mountain of jelly. The two school teachers sat in front of the fat man, and they were obviously frightened. Tyler was sure that the others were too far away to be able to overhear the girl and himself as they talked the matter over.
“What was in the envelope?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” said Martha, fumbling with her purse. “I’ll show it to you. I have it here in my bag.”
“No, don’t!” said Tyler quickly. “Not now. The murderer may not know you have it, if that is what he is after—though he may guess. Don’t give him a chance to be sure. It’s too dangerous! Remember we’re dealing with a killer.’ ”
Martha Lawrence was far from a fool. She evidently realized that any of the other passengers might be watching her. Casually she opened her purse, took out her vanity case, then snapped the bag shut again. She looked at her pretty face in the mirror of the vanity and quickly powdered her nose.
“You will take Bob Clark’s place as one of the guests at my wedding, Mr. Tyler,” she said. “It is to be a noon wedding, and so please dress formally.”
“Very good, Miss,” said Tyler, with a mocking light in his eyes. “And now suppose we change the subject . . . Have you read any good books lately?”
MARTHA managed to laugh a little, in spite of her distress, and they chatted casually until the bus finally arrived at the bus depot in New York. Here Tyler gathered up the girl’s luggage and his own and they took a taxi to the hotel where a she planned to stay. Tyler turned the girl over to a tall; good-looking young Englishman who was waiting in the lobby with Martha’s aunt. Tyler decided he liked Sir Basil as soon as they had met, and the young attaché was suave and gracious.
Austin Tyler learned that the wedding was to take place in the hotel and that most of the wedding party were staying there. He registered, then turned in for the night. He slept well and was up early in the morning. As soon as he had breakfasted he put in a long distance call to the detective agency in Washington which employed him.
Swiftly he told his boss what had occurred on the bus.
“Robert Clark!” exclaimed Kenneth Small, the head of the agency as he heard Tyler’s story. “Of course I want you to stay with the case. We’ve already heard about the murder here—it’s big stuff. Clark was on some sort of important Government job. If you can do anything toward clearing up this business it will be a feather in the agency’s cap. Go to it, boy.”
Tyler talked a little longer and then hung up. He bought a morning paper and glanced over the war news on the front page. Then skimmed through the rest by the paper. An item on Page Three caught his eye. It was an account of a. bus driver being killed in a hit-and-run auto accident during the night—and the bus driver had been named Tim Grogan.
“Grogan!” exclaimed Tyler. “That was the name of the man who drove our bus last night: He was outside when Clark was killed. Maybe the murderer felt that Grogan knew too much.” Tyler frowned. “Still it may have been just an accident.”
He grew conscious that a page boy was calling out his name as the bellhop made his way swiftly through the ornate lobby of th
e big hotel. Tyler beckoned the boy to him.
“Mr. Austin Tyler?” asked the boy, and, as Tyler nodded, “You’re wanted on the telephone, sir. This way, please.”
The boy led Tyler to a booth. The tall, red-headed detective tipped the boy and picked up the phone.
“This is Mr. Tyler,” he said to the hotel operator.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Tyler, I have a call for you. Just a moment and I’ll connect you.”
“Hello, Tyler?” demanded a masculine voice over the wire. “This is John Haynes, your recent bus companion. It’s vital that I see you at once.”
“Why?” demanded Tyler shortly.
“It’s a matter of life and death,” declared Haynes.
“What do you mean—life and death?” asked Tyler.
“My life is in danger,” said Haynes. “I’m sure of it. I’m at the Skyscraper Hotel. Won’t you please come over here at once? I’m in Room Eighteen-forty-seven.”
“Why should I come over there?” demanded Tyler.
“Because I’ve learned something important regarding that murder on the bus!” said Haynes hastily. “I can’t talk now. I—”
He broke off abruptly, and what sounded like a heavy thud came over the wire.
Tyler scowled as he hung up hastily. It sounded as if the fat man actually was in trouble. Austin Tyler decided he had better investigate. This might prove interesting.
TWENTY minutes later he was at the Skyscraper Hotel and in an elevator being taken up to the eighteenth floor. He had announced that Mr. Haynes was expecting him. He walked down the heavily carpeted corridor and found Room 1847. Quickly he assured himself that his gun was in his shoulder holster as he discovered the door of the room was standing half open, for he sensed danger.
Pushing the door open, he glanced into the room. It appeared empty but the low window was wide open and a man’s coat was lying on the floor as though someone had hastily discarded the garment before jumping out of that open window.
“Good Lord!” muttered Tyler.
He dashed toward the window, and had almost reached it when his ankle struck against something that tripped him. As he fell he just managed to grab the lower sill of the window in time from keeping himself from being hurled out into space.
Cold sweat beaded his forehead as he scrambled back to safety. Death had been horribly close. He glanced down and saw the thin but strong strand of copper wire that was stretched across the room.
He went to the window and peered out. It was a sheer eighteen-story drop to the street below. Traffic was moving along the street, and pedestrians crossed the sidewalks. There was no sign that John Haynes had jumped from the window.
Austin Tyler stepped back from the window, and as he did, a crumpled square of paper on the floor caught his eye. He picked up the paper and smoothed it out. It was a printed blank such as doctors use to write out prescriptions. Across the top was printed “Henry Mathew, M.D.”, and a New York address.
Tyler whirled as he heard a slight sound near the door. John Haynes stood there. The stout man glared at Tyler wideeyed. Haynes wore no coat and one of his wrists was bleeding from a small cut.
“That doctor!” he muttered. “He’s a devil.”
“What happened?” demanded Tyler tersely.
“Dr. Mathew came here a little while ago,” said Haynes. “He pointed a gun at me, and forced me to phone you and ask you to come here to my room. I was going to try and warn you over the phone when you started questioning me, but Mathew hit me over the head with the gun and knocked me out.”
“Go on,” said Tyler, as Haynes paused.
“When I regained consciousness I found myself tied up in another room on this floor of the hotel. My hands and feet were tied and I was gagged—but I managed to break the ropes that bound my arms. Cut my wrist doing it. Then I came back here, and found you.”
“The murderer planned it well,” Tyler said. “We’d better report this to the police.”
“All right,” said Haynes doubtfully. “But I’m afraid that while the police are questioning us something may happen to that pretty girl—that Miss Lawrence who is to be married today.”
“You’re right,” exclaimed Tyler. “I’m going back to her hotel and make sure she is safe until the wedding takes place.”
As he hurried out of the room, he heard Haynes close the door softly from inside. Tyler rang for the elevator and quickly descended when a car stopped for him.
AUSTIN TYLER was quite busy during the remainder of the morning. He first got in touch with the bride and groom and assured himself they were quite safe, then he phoned an inspector he knew in the New York Police Department and had a talk with the man.
Shortly before noon, Tyler appeared among the wedding guests who had gathered in the Regal Suite which had been engaged for the wedding. All of the wedding gifts were piled on a long table at one end of the room which had not yet been opened to the guests. Here Tyler found Martha Lawrence in her bridal gown, examining the presents.
“Oh, I’ve been wondering if you were here, Mr. Tyler,” she said. “I just received a package that hasn’t been opened yet. I wonder who it is from? There’s no card with it.”
“Let me open it for you,” said Tyler.
He unwrapped the square box and lifted the cover. The girl raised her hands in horror as she saw what was inside the box. An alarm clock attached to storage batteries had been rigged up to sticks of dynamite so that it formed a time bomb.
“Look out!” shouted Tyler as he caught a glimpse of a hand holding a gun that appeared around the edge of the half open door.
He fired the automatic that swiftly appeared in his own right hand, while his left reached for the second gun in the shoulder holster beneath his right arm-pit.
The gun in the doorway roared at the same instant, but the bullet that had been aimed at the bride went wild as the slug from Tyler’s automatic plowed into the killer’s hand. The door swung open completely and John Haynes stood there with blood dripping from his shattered wrist.
Men came running with Sir Basil Martin and grabbed Haynes—plainclothes men who had been placed among the wedding guests by the police inspector at Tyler’s suggestion.
“We’ve got him!” Tyler said. “There’s the man who murdered Bob Clark, and tried to kill me in his hotel room. He must have been desperate, or he would never have sent the bomb to—”
Tyler broke off abruptly and hastily disconnected the wires attached to the dynamite and the clock.
“That was close,” he muttered. “This thing was set to go off at twelve o’clock and it is three minutes of twelve now.”
“But what on earth was the reason for it all?” demanded Sir Basil. “I don’t understand quite.”
“You came over here on a special mission, didn’t you, Sir Basil?” demanded Tyler. “You were to take some important papers back with you, I believe?”
“Quite so.” Sir Basil nodded.
“Clark was carrying those papers. Haynes here apparently is a Fifth Columnist of some sort. He killed Clark in order to keep those papers from reaching you. After he had committed the murder he found that the papers weren’t on the dead man.”
“That was because Bob gave me the envelope containing the papers to keep for him,” said Martha quickly.
“Right.” Tyler nodded. “I suspected Haynes when I discovered that what I thought was blood on the neck of the murdered man was actually ketchup. Haynes had been eating hamburgers in the refreshment room and putting ketchup on them. When he went out into the washroom—he must have climbed out through a window, murdered Clark, and come back into the washroom through the window, and casually back into the lunch room.”
“What made you so sure about the ketchup?” demanded the inspector who was present with his men.
“Haynes put his hand on my wrist at the bus station and I noticed that the shirt cuff was sticky,” said Tyler. “Evidently there was still ketchup on the inside of the sleeve. That was when I really started suspect
ing him.”
TYLER explained how Haynes had phoned him and asked him to come to his hotel room, and told what had happened there.
“Leaving a prescription blank that he must have stolen from Dr. Mathew in order to make the doctor a suspect if I was found dead beneath the window was smart,” said Tyler. “But not quite smart enough. I didn’t believe it. Doctors don’t usually toss away prescription blanks like that unless they change their mind about what they have written on the paper. That one was blank.”
“But Haynes story of having been tied up might have sounded convincing,” said the inspector.
“It did until he told me that he had cut his wrist on the rope. It wasn’t the sort of a wound a rope would make—looked more like it had been done with a safety razor blade.” Tyler smiled. “I guess you can go on with the wedding now, folks. I’m sure there won’t be any more trouble. The murderer used too much ketchup in seasoning his own crime.”
SUICIDE HOOK-UP
Albert G. Robinson
When Barnaby Bliss, detective de luxe, took a job as bodyguard to a radio commentator, he found himself tuned in on a . . .
“WELLINGTON,” said Barnaby Bliss, removing a cigar from his firm mouth and lowering his six-foot-four frame into a protesting chair, “tell that new Chinese cook there’ll be a guest for dinner tonight. By the way, what’s the bloke’s name?”
“Gin Gob, boss,” said Wellington gravely.
Barnaby looked at him sharply. In the old days of silent pictures, Wellington would have been a casting director’s ideal for the part of an English butler and valet, but with the advent of the sound track, he would have been retired. His Brooklyn accent was to Barnaby, who had been educated at Oxford, as thick and unpleasant as a San Francisco fog.
“That’s no Chinese name,” said Barnaby.
“He was named for his old man, boss,” said Wellington. “Dat’s all de American his old lady could remember . . . Who’s de guest, boss?”
“A penpusher by the name of Arnold Danvers. R. G. Salston, the cereal king, is sponsoring him on a broadcast tonight, and R. G. offered me a thousand to see that the Danvers chap makes the broadcast tonight.”