by Jerry eBooks
Duke launched himself at the other man as the gun jetted flame again. The shot went wild, missing Duke—but not Kyla Carroll, standing at one side of the door. It drilled her between the eyes and she was dead before she slumped to the floor.
But Duke didn’t see that happen. With a body scissors on his man. he was methodically slugging the handsome features of Phil Herndon.
Frankie McMichaels slid another Scotch highball across the bar. Duke Lafferty took a pull at it.
“Well,” he said, “to begin with, I first thought Herndon was crazy to be afraid that a mob of mere kids would take a crack at his place. But that kid mob interested me because of that disappearing angle. That’s new—although it wasn’t so hard to figure, once I considered the location of each place robbed.
“They were all on main intersections, business corners where there is a subway entrance and kiosk. Get it?
“Look. One kid stays downstairs in the subway station. Another is stationed on the sidewalk just outside the entrance. Two more go in the store they’re going to rob.
“When the guy down in the station hears an express coming in, he signals the one on the sidewalk. That one in turn signals those in the store. A subway takes a minute or less—just time enough for a fast holdup. The kids in the store take what they can get in a hurry—run out—and right into the subway entrance! Who notices anyone else hurrying for a subway?
“They just make the express, and in 30 seconds it has sped them blocks away. They’re absolutely unpursuable in a crowded city. And the two who gave the signals can stay behind, interfere with any possible pursuit and perhaps even swear they didn’t see anyone go into the subway. Simple—and fool-proof!”
Duke took another pull at the highball.
“I wondered why they pulled so many jobs in the short space of two weeks. Kids usually spend the proceeds of one robbery before staging another. It occurred to me it might be because someone was coaching these kids, using these lesser jobs as rehearsals for a really big one. Moreover, two invitations, absolutely necessary for anyone to get into the Herndon store, had disappeared. But there wasn’t yet any definite connection.
“However, when I spotted that subway kiosk not 20 feet from the store entrance, I realized there was a chance of the ‘little gang’ taking a hand in this after all.
“Now, someone who obviously had a key to the store went there and re-set the machine gun switch, almost putting me out of the play. Only a few people—Herndon, his two children and Sargent—would be likely to know I was going there. And only the Herndons or someone close to them could have a key to the store.
“Moreover, I saw old man Herndon leaving Kyla Carroll’s apartment this morning, and it seemed to me the only reason he would be visiting her would be to persuade her to leave young Phil alone. Which meant, knowing Kyla, that she had been trying to get some money—important money—out of Phil. And Phil couldn’t have much money. His father’s lost plenty, as you know. The thing began to add up.
THEN there was this clue. Working at a settlement, young Herndon had plenty of contact with the kind of tough kids who’d go for a racket like this.
Moreover, he was a football man, well able to coach the kids in the teamwork and coordination such a form of robbery demands. But it was all largely suspicion. What proof had I?
“So I just played along. Since the little trick with the machine gun switch failed, he came up on the balcony in the store this afternoon to make sure I didn’t gum up the works. A phoney police whistle was the signal to those in the store that the get-away express was coming in. I managed to plug both the robbers before Herndon could do anything about it. But he shot at me and the bullet skinned my head, dazing me for a few seconds.
“Meanwhile, he raced downstairs, grabbed the jewels from his pal—who was dying on his feet with that slug I put in his heart—and got away on the express.
“You see, he could always come back in a few minutes and ‘explain’ that he shot me while aiming at one of the thieves and that he had chased what he thought was a suspect onto the subway train.
“Actually, what he had to do was stack that bag of jewels some place fast. I figured—correctly—that he’d go right to his girl friend’s apartment. So I went there too.”
Duke drained his glass.
“Incidentally, the two guys who gave the signals on this job got away,” he said.
“But I expect some guy at headquarters can make young Herndon tell who they are.”
Frankie McMichaels chuckled.
“ ‘Some guy at headquarters’ will probably be you,” he chuckled. “Listen!”
From outside the bar came the shrill yell of a newsboy.
“Wextry! Read about it! Duke Lafferty reinstated! Hey, wextry!”
MURDER BY INSTALLMENT
Eric Preston
“The M.E. and the wagon,” would be Homicide’s verdict on this very dead housekeeper’s daughter, but not after this clue-crazy newshawk Martin Dering scooped the case!
THE sardonic gleam in Lieutenant Horne’s blue eyes told me the worst. Between him and Detective Sergeant Duffy, I was due for the cleaners on this hand. It wanted three minutes before eleven and I’d two saw-bucks in the pot. The phone on Horne’s desk rang while I considered throwing in my hand.
Laying his cards face down on the desk, Horne scooped up the receiver. “Police Headquarters, Lieutenant Horne speaking,” he growled under his beaked nose. “Be right over!” he promised gloomily seconds later and hung up.
He looked like a vulture balked of a feast when he unfolded his lean form. “Get moving!” he ordered Duffy. “Attempted murder at Ingleside, Cecil Winram’s place on Mount Durham!”
Duffy was a huge man with the face of a gargoyle. He sighed, stacked his cards on top of Horne’s pile and swore softly when I flipped my twenty bucks from the kitty.
I was still grinning when I parked on the back seat of Horne’s coupe downstairs. I ignored his scowl. They’d been willing to take my dough so I rated the story. I’m Martin Dering. You read my scoops in the Globe-Herald.
Horne twisted on the front seat and pushed a finger under my nose like it was a gun.
“Listen, louse,” he snorted. “The last two times you rode with us you stuck your long beak in an’ grabbed all the credit. This time, you’re a passenger, an’ a dumb one!”
I generously refrained from reminding him that on each occasion I had prevented him from arresting innocent parties. I’ve a big heart—and I wanted the story. Any kind of a story. A dearth of local news these last few days had brought dark hints from the chief’s desk.
“S’help’me!” I promised solemnly, “I’ll be good!”
Mount Durham is in the old residential district, peopled by wealthy folk who haven’t quite gone modern. Ingleside proved to be a rambling old mansion ablaze with lights at the far end of a long driveway. Duffy braked at the foot of stone steps and we spilled out of the jalopy.
The gloomy-eyed, horse-faced man who admitted us wore a faded dressing gown wrapped around his bony figure. He reminded me of a totem pole in a blanket. The hallway was big, so big I glanced around for the bell-hop line and elevator bank.
Gloomy-pan conducted us through the rotunda and up two flights of stairs to the third floor. We brushed past two girls wearing cheap kimonos and crying softly in a huddle near three men and followed our guide into a comfortably furnished room.
“The police, sir,” Gloomy-pan announced—quite unnecessary if you’ve seen Horne and Duffy as a team.
The girl at the foot of the bed wore dark blue slacks and a shirt to match. The statuesque type; black hair, dark eyes and features the color of old ivory. She studied us coldly without moving. Young, probably twenty-one or two, the lad who stepped out of Horne’s path looked like a stuffed owl behind his thick glasses. Tall, but not heavy. I noticed his hands, big, and covered with inkstains. He was fully dressed in a dark suit.
Horne rapped, “What’s this?” and a little fat guy bent over the
bed bounced around. He had a balloon stomach and wore a vividly-striped pyjama coat tucked inside light gray pants. A white muffler enveloped what little neck he had. He appeared in his late fifties.
He screwed up his moon face and gaped at Horne. “I’m Cecil Winram,” he whispered hoarsely. His little eyes, almost lost between bushy brows and plump cheeks, held a bewildered light.
“My housekeeper—Miss Hagen—I’m afraid she has committed suicide!”
Over Horne’s shoulder, I peered at the still figure on the bed. Middle-aged, the dead woman had been pretty once. Her features large and regular, she might have been asleep only her brown eyes were open wide and staring vacantly at the ceiling. One hand lay stretched along the coverlet.
“M.E. and the wagon,” Horne growled without looking around. Duffy legged out of the room to hunt a telephone.
AN alarm clock ticked loudly on the night table beside the bed. There was an empty water glass, too, and a bottle of sleeping tablets a quarter filled. Horne frowned at them, shrugged and wheeled to glare at Winram.
“You didn’t mention the suicide,” he accused, making it sound like a personal affront.
“But I didn’t know of it when I phoned,” Winram mumbled huskily. I figured he had a cold. “One of the maids discovered her like this while the household was being assembled for your arrival.”
“Know why she did it?” Horne inquired glumly.
“Of course not.” Winram frowned.
“She was quite happy.”
The dark-eyed girl sniffed audibly.
Horne’s moody eyes swung to her. “Well, wasn’t she?” he snapped. “Who are you?”
“Olivia Rance,” she replied and ignored the first question.
“My niece,” Winram added. “This—a fat finger indicated the youth hiding behind the glasses, “—is Barry Cort, my secretary.”
Horne’s eyes questioned Gloomy-pan.
“I’m Tompkins, the butler,” the man explained hastily.
While they were getting acquainted, I’d gone on a prowl for a picture of the late Miss Hagen. Unsuccessful, I paused at the dressing table. My fingers casually flipped open a large Bible lying there.
The smiling youth on the postcard-size photo tucked away in the middle of Psalms looked around seventeen. A neat inscription at the bottom read: To Mother, with all my love. July 1936.
I breathed easy when the picture reposed in my inside pocket.
Olivia Rance shivered abruptly. “Must we stay here?” she inquired.
Horne shook his head. “We’ll go into the other business below,” he informed Winram.
The group in the corridor trailed us downstairs. Duffy was already in the library.
Winram rolled onto a deep leather chair. He looked like Tweedledum—or maybe it was Tweedledee.
“Go ahead!” Horne grunted.
“Look!” Winram loosened the muffler covering his throat. “Someone tried to strangle me!”
Moodily, Horne studied the ugly purple patches blotching the flabby neck, then:
“Start at the beginning,” he said. He nodded when the little fat man touched his throat and winced, added, “The medical examiner can check you over when he arrives.”
“I retired to bed shortly before ten,” Winram began, “and fell asleep almost immediately. Hands gripping my throat awoke me. I struggled for perhaps a minute then had the presence of mind to go limp. The pressure relaxed just before I lost consciousness. When I could move again, I summoned Barry, then phoned you.”
“You didn’t get a glimpse of your assailant?”
“The room was utterly dark,” Winram explained. “I fought the hands at my throat, felt rubber gloves. It must have been around ten-thirty when I was awakened.”
Horne’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “Anything of value missing?”
“I made a close check, sir,” Tompkins volunteered, “and found everything correct. The doors and windows were all as I had left them.”
“I keep a small amount of cash in the safe in my bedroom,” Winram said. “But the safe had not been tampered with.”
“Who has the combination to the safe?” Horne wanted to know.
“Only Barry and myself.”
The lieutenant nodded, his lean face somber. He shot a keen glance at the other occupants of the room. “An inside job,” he grunted. “You—” he stabbed a long finger at Barry Cort “—is the whole household present?”
CORT’S eyelids fluttered. He nodded hastily. “Matt Adams, the gardener.” He pointed to a small wiry man with a weather-beaten face. “Beside him, the chauffeur, Roebuck. Ollie, behind Tompkins, acts as handyman. The two girls, Rose and Alice, are maids.”
I sensed a slight tension in the room when Horne shot the obvious question, “Where were you all at ten-thirty? We’ll start with you, Miss Rance.” She hesitated perceptibly, then demanded sharply, “Why pick on me?” Horne frowned. “Someone has to be first,” he snapped. “Answer, please!”
“In my room,” she replied sullenly. “I was reading when Rose knocked on the door.”
“But that was after eleven o’clock!” Barry Cort muttered, surprise on his face. He mopped a damp brow with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Miss Olivia,” he went on nervously, “but you’d been out before that. I saw you and Harvey Pitton beneath the trees near the garden a minute or so before Mr. Winram rang for me!”
I noticed ink smudges on the handkerchief from his plump fingers when he stuffed it back into his pocket.
“That settles it!” Winram’s hoarse voice broke the short silence that followed Cort’s statement. He glared at the girl, his moon face a brick red.
“So you defied me! Barry, make a note for my lawyer to draft a new will in the morning!”
The disgusted expression that flowed over Horne’s lean face tickled me. “You can have a lawyers’ convention in the morning,” he said sourly, “but right now I’m investigating an attempted murder and a suicide.”
“Wait!” Quick suspicion flamed Winram’s angry eyes. He bounced out of the chair like a rubber ball, grabbed Horne’s arm. “I’ve warned her about meeting Pitton. He’s a fortune hunter. This afternoon I threatened to cut her out of my will if she saw him again. She knew I meant it. She—she could have admitted him into the house and waited outside until he rejoined her.”
Two spots of color stained Olivia’s pale cheeks but her voice was cool when she addressed herself to Horne.
“All right, I’d promised to meet Harvey in the garden at ten. I slipped out through the side door after Uncle went to his room. You can guess now why I didn’t admit it. We sat talking a while in the arbor, discussing plans for getting married.” She threw Winram a scornful glance. “I’m tired of hearing Uncle’s threats. We don’t need his money. Harvey has a steady job, earns enough to keep us.”
Horne looked at her hard. “Then the side door was open for nearly an hour from ten,” he commented softly. “You saw no one?”
The girl shook her head. “Not even Barry spying.”
“You’re wrong, Miss Olivia!” Cort appeared greatly distressed. “I had just awakened from a light doze in my room and walked to the window. I—I had no alternative, but to tell that I I saw you.”
Horne gave me a complacent glance. I read his thoughts. Maybe he was right, and Olivia Rance and her sweetheart the guilty parties, but I kept an open mind—yet.
“You could have included the disposal of your uncle, before he changed his will, in your plans!” Horne’s voice held a steely edge now. “His threat to disinherit you provides a strong motive. Where does Pitton live?”
Olivia’s composure deserted her. Her dark eyes widened in swift fear. Her lips moved soundlessly. But it was all over in an instant and she had regained control. She eyed Horne defiantly and muttered an address across town.
Horne thumbed Duffy. “Have him picked up for questioning.”
THE girl’s eyes followed Duffy to the phone. She smiled mirthlessly. “If you’re looking for motives,”
she said softly, “you’ll find plenty, won’t he, Adams?”
The little gardener jiggled his Adam’s apple a couple of times. “Don’t know what you mean,” he murmured nervously.
“They all hate Uncle Cecil,” Olivia informed Horne in a brittle voice. “An autocrat with an inferiority complex, he bolsters his ego by bullying people who daren’t talk back. Today was a field day. Only Barry and the two maids escaped.”
I thought Winram was going to throw a fit. “My method of disciplining the servants isn’t under discussion,” he croaked.
Horne wagged a reproving finger. “We gotta figure every angle, Mr. Winram.” His blue eyes bored the girl again. “What happened today?”
She lit a cigarette with aggravating slowness, then:
“He started with Tomkins after breakfast,” she said. “Oh, it’s an everyday occurrence. He abuses them vilely and they take it because jobs are hard to find. Adams and Ollie came next before lunch. This afternoon I received an ultimatum. Roebuck’s on a week’s probation from today. And poor Miss Hagen—quite happy, he said. He forgot to mention he drove her upstairs early this evening in tears over some trivial matter. I guess she couldn’t take it any longer.” She pointed her cigarette at Adams. “Tell the police what I overheard you say to Roebuck tonight. ‘I’d like to choke the old devil!’ wasn’t it?”
The gardener wriggled uncomfortably. “Don’t always mean things we say when we’re mad,” he defended weakly.
Olivia’s answering laugh didn’t sound nice.
The medical examiner’s arrival brought an interlude. Sending Duffy upstairs with the doctor, Horne went to work again. The two frightened maids were quickly disposed of and dismissed. They slept in the same room, had played Chinese checkers before going to bed at ten.
Adams and the chauffeur, both fully dressed, claimed to have been in Roebuck’s room all evening discussing the war until Tompkins routed them out to come downstairs. According to his story, the butler had locked up and retired immediately after his master went upstairs. Barry Cort, engaged in checking accounts in his room, had fallen into a light sleep during the process.