Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “The rest you know. She doped the switched wallet and papers. The poison, by the way, was the same as that in wood alcohol, administered after a number of friendly cocktails in her room.”

  “But why wait until collapse to switch papers?” I asked.

  “Because,” Dot explained, “though drunk, when a man suddenly feels sick he might stagger into a drug store or doctor’s office and talk before he died. He might give names, facts, that could be checked. He might mention her. She took no chances. She sent the victim on an errand that would take him to a deserted part of town and followed along behind.”

  “Then she suspected I’d seen Crowley’s name—as I had?”

  “Right. That meant she had to get rid of you—as well as victim number two—so she framed you for murder, knowing you’d take it on the lam. Even if you were caught, who’d believe you?” That seemed to clean it up—except my dumb play in trying to slug it out with a G-man. They could see how embarrassed I was and they all stood around grinning.

  “The way he fought for the gal, you’d think he loved her,” one of them said. “We might send him along next time we call Dot in for a special job.”

  “He found this place by himself,” another said more seriously. “We should laugh! With a little training . . .” Dorothy was blushing now, too, and that helped some. When she raised her eyebrows, silently questioning about the possible job, I nodded my head emphatically yes. In wartime, I knew—overtaxed as they were—the G-men sometimes called in qualified civilians to aid in certain cases. And working with Dorothy. . . .

  After all, I’d come North to get into war work, hadn’t I? Well, I’d found it—and something more. A world more.

  A SLIP IN CRIME

  Greta Bardet

  When Detective Charles Weber slipped on the rug in the murder room, the thud of his fall was also the slam of the death house door for a murderer.

  SHARP blasts of the winter wind cut like razors across Charles Weber’s face, roared like thunder passed his ears. It tore like a demented thing at his coat, wildly flapped trousers against his long legs.

  A shot rang out, close but muffled; Weber slid to a dead halt. Motionless, all senses keenly alert, he tried to ascertain from which direction the shot had come. He peered through the dark deserted street. It was a moonless night; except for a smudge of light here and there, everything was inky shadows against a deep purple sky.

  The sound was not repeated, and Charles began to wonder if perhaps he had been mistaken. Yet something told him he was not. He remained standing where he was for quite some time, until the icy wind seemed to blast itself right through to his bones. He began to walk again, slowly at first, then faster to start circulation against the cold.

  From where had that shot been fired?

  He continued up Placard Avenue until he came to the comer of Brand Street, there he turned and hurried on.

  “What the hell! Probably a backfire.” He walked several more streets. “But that sound was close, and there were no cars in sight.”

  Curiosity finally got the better of him; he turned back. He hurried back to Placard again. There he slowed his pace, carefully peering at every house on each side of the street as he passed.

  Suddenly out of the blackness there came a click of footsteps and a slim soft body slammed against him with a choked cry of astonishment. Charles’ arms shot out, trying to maintain his balance. His hands clutched air, he lost his footing, and fell flat on his back. The slim body came down with him.

  There was a second during which the unknown body seemed to recover from the fall. There followed a high thin squeal, then a hand braced itself against Charles’ chin, pushing away, trying to get on its feet. Weber reached out with powerful arms, opened them. He swept them around and found himself encircling an incredibly tiny waist.

  “Just a minute!” he said, and was instantly the recipient of a storm of things. Fists beat against his face, and pumped him on the chest, while legs kicked frantically. And through the frightened squeals from what was evidently a woman in his arms, he heard the banshee wail of a police siren.

  The female heard it too, for she froze, holding her breath to listen. “Oooh,” she gasped a moment later. “It’s the cops! Lemme go! Lemme go!”

  Charles Weber did no such thing for two reasons. First, he was also a member of the body of law enforcement, and second, he liked it this way. She wore a nice brand of perfume. It made his duty a pleasure.

  It was obvious she was not of the same mind, for she kicked again, squealed with suppressed passion. Her fists though they did no more damage than a slightly enraged mosquito, did sting.

  The police siren was closing in. He told her to behave herself.

  “Please, please let me go,” she pleaded in desperation. “It’s the police! They’ll catch me!”

  “They already have. The arms of the law are around you. What did you do?”

  “Mr. Sterling called the police.”

  Just then the patrol car careened around the corner. Charles packed his hand about the woman’s arm, scrambled to his feet, and managed to pull her up and hold her with one hand in spite of her frantic yanks.

  WITH a screech of brakes, the patrol car came to a halt; the patrolmen jumped out. One of them flashed his light in Charles’ face.

  “Oh, it’s you Weber,” said Casey, and flashed the light over the girl. “Friend or foe?”

  “Not sure. Found her running out of this house. What’s up?”

  “Received a call from Gregory Sterling. Robbery. He’s been shot.” He started after Hinkle, who was entering the house, but turned back to say, “We’re to be on the lookout for a masked, armed gunman.”

  “I didn’t do it!” cried the female and started to fight in earnest. “I didn’t!”

  “Oh shut up!” Charles said softly and followed the two uniformed men up the flagstone path. The woman did not care to return to the house, but Weber pulled. A glow of light from the house lit up her features. Charles saw a heart-shaped face; a black fedora hat crushed and askew, was pulled low over red hair.

  “Who are you?” he asked as they entered the house.

  “I’m Jerry Seery,” she answered somewhat sullenly. “I’m Mr. Sterling’s secretary. All I did was come for the packages Mrs. Sterling wants me to mail in the morning. I came in the house to find Mr. Sterling screaming over the telephone that a robber had shot him. I ran, that’s all.”

  “Why did you run?”

  “Why?” She gave him the full impact of a pair of wide-set grey-green eyes, which branded him a moron. “Why? Goodness sakes, how should I know? I just did, that’s all.”

  She might just as well have said “because,” and saved all that breath, Weber reasoned to himself.

  Casey and Hinkle were in the foyer, standing over a man. He lay sprawled on his back near the telephone table, the receiver still clutched in his fist. He was unconscious. His face was chalk white. From his parted mouth came heavy breathing. His pajamas and bathrobe were bright with blood. Drops of blood led from the table up the stairs. There were smudges of blood on the wall paper. Gregory Sterling had been shot upstairs and had come down here to the telephone.

  “Is he dead?” Jerry Seery squeaked like a mouse at Charles’ side.

  “No,” Weber answered. “Can’t you see he’s breathing?”

  “Oh I’m not looking at him,” she told him. And she wasn’t, she had her eyes squeezed shut.

  “Guilty conscience, huh?”

  Her eyes snapped open. “How dare you” was written on her face, but she was too frightened to say it.

  Through an alcove, Charles could see into a spacious living room. As he turned to lead Jerry to this room, her mouth fell, her eyes went wide with consternation.

  “Oh, my goodness, where’s Mrs. Sterling? Where’s—!” Her eyes went to the top of the stairs.

  Charles was on the stairs, his long legs taking them three at a time. Jerry stumped after him at the more conventional one step at a time.r />
  At the top of the stairs he followed the irregular drips of blood down the hallway. The blood stains ended before a closed door. “What room is this?” he asked her.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “I’ve never been up here before.”

  He knocked on the door, calling out to Mrs. Sterling. When he received no answer, he turned the knob. Throwing the door open, he took two steps into the room.

  A moment later he jigged, teetered, his legs seemed to be treading air. His arms flung out, tried to reach out to stay his balance. Then, with a dull thud that seemed to mash his teeth to the gums, he was sitting on the floor. Jerry with her hat over one eye, lay right across his knees.

  “What’s the big idea, pushing me like this!” he growled, his eyes ablaze.

  She slapped her hat from her eyes, her chin was belligerent. “What’s the matter with your mother?” she blazed back at him. “Didn’t she teach you how to walk?”

  A little shamefacedly, he realized that his feet were wound up in a scatter rug, that he had slipped on the highly polished floor.

  He got to his feet, helped Jerry to hers, while she muttered darkly under her breath. He was about to make apologies, when the words gagged in his mouth. He saw Mrs. Sterling from where he was standing. She was dead. She lay in a heap before the vanity about twenty feet from them. The mirror of which reflected him with Jerry, wide-eyed and frightened, close beside him.

  CAUTIONING Jerry not to move a step further into the room, he strode slowly over to the body of Mrs. Sterling. She lay, a crumpled, lifeless heap before the vanity. She had evidently toppled face forward from the vanity bench. Her head, twisted to the left lay on the bottom shelf of the vanity.

  She was clad in a negligee. There was a bullet hole in the back of her head. A long finger of blood had traced a line down her spine.

  Her right cheek and chin were covered with an oily green substance—a beauty clay. The jar from which she had taken the preparation was on the top of her vanity. Her right hand lay twisted back, a scoop of the clay still in her fingers.

  Charles bent over to examine the wound. No powder burns. He straightened, turned to look about the room. On a table near the bed were four packages, neatly addressed, and wrapped in brown paper.

  Jerry still standing obediently near the door, ventured an almost inaudible, “Is she . . .?” She swallowed, unable to continue.

  Detective Charles Weber nodded grimly.

  On the floor by the twin beds was another patch of bloodstains. That was probably where Gregory Sterling had been shot, for the trail of blood that led all the way down to the telephone table, began here. So if, Gregory Sterling had been shot here, he had made his way from this room, along the hall, and down the stairs to the telephone.

  Then Charles saw the safe. A small wall safe between the beds. The door was open. He went over to it. “You know the combination to this safe?” he asked Jerry Seery.

  “Oh, yes,” she answered. “Mr. Sterling keeps it in his office safe. I have to know it in case he forgets it or something happens. But you don’t need the combination,” she pointed out, “the safe is open.”

  “Bright little girl,” he said sarcastically, as he bent down and looked into the safe. “Empty. Know what they kept in it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Casey pushed his head in around the door, telling them that the ambulance surgeon had brought Mr. Sterling around.

  “Mr. Stoiling,” said Casey, “can describe his assailant for us.”

  “Oh?” said Jerry in a tiny voice.

  They went downstairs. Detective Weber dumped the packages from the bedroom on the long mahogany table in the living room. Sterling was on the settee. His handsome face was drawn and pale; his shoulder was bandaged.

  He handed a paper cup back to the interne. Settling back, he winced with pain. He was tall, a good-looking man in his forties. His hair was attractively peppered with silver, his nose long and well-shaped. It all tended to give him an air of refinement.

  HE SPOKE with an effort. “My wife and I were just making ourselves comfortable for the evening, waiting for Miss Seery. I was standing near the bed, my wife was at the vanity doing things to her face, when the doorbell rang.

  “Thinking it was Miss Seery, I opened the bedroom window, called down that I had left the door open for her. I couldn’t make out who was standing at the door, since it was pitch black out there. I didn’t wait for an answer, it was too cold. I shut the window.

  “I then went over to the bed for my dressing gown, put it on, then—all at once, it happened. The bedroom door opened and I saw this—this—person standing there.” He smiled apologetically over at Jerry.

  “At first I thought it was you Miss Seery; it was dark in the room. My wife had the light over the vanity. There was no other light except in the hall, and so, I . . .”

  He stopped. His eyes took in Jerry, down to her feet. He frowned, eyeing Jerry’s slacks. A tight look flitted across his face. “Well . . .” he cleared his throat. “I then noticed that the man had a gun in his hand.”

  “What,” interrupted Charles, “did he look like?”

  “Why—er—he was short, dressed in dark clothes, a black hat pulled over his eyes. He wore a black mask.”

  Jerry shifted uneasily, conscious of her black fuzzy polo coat, her black slacks, and black fedora hat.

  “Did he wear gloves?” the detective asked.

  “I couldn’t tell, it was all so sudden, so unexpected. I’m afraid I did nothing more than just gape at the gun in his hands. I do remember saying something like, “I say, what is this?” For a moment, I thought it might be someone playing a prank. Then the voice—it was a cold, unemotional voice—it said, “Hands up! This is a stick-up!”

  “My wife started, I don’t think she had seen him until he spoke. She screamed and I saw the gun whip around. I heard the shot, and my wife—she—she just fell forward.

  “I stepped toward her, but the gunman was suddenly at my side. I saw that gun in his hands. I couldn’t say anything or even move. All I have is a vivid picture of that gun, close to me. I remember seeing the trigger finger tighten—ah, yes, I remember now, he did wear gloves. I felt the impact of the bullet on my shoulder. Everything seemed to heave and spin . . .” He touched his shoulder.

  “I must have fallen, for when I came to, I was on the floor. I looked up, saw my wife was still where she had fallen. I had to call the police, get an ambulance for my wife and myself. Somehow, I managed to get to my feet. I made my way down to the bottom of the stairs, called the police, then I must have passed out again.”

  He turned stricken eyes to the ambulance surgeon who came back into the room. “My wife—she’s all right, isn’t she?”

  WHEN he was told she was dead, he stared dumbly for a moment, his face working. “Oh, no,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s all so . . . so . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Sterling, but we must continue,” Charles said. “Now about your safe; it’s open. What did you keep there? It’s empty now.”

  “Safe?” Sterling made an effort to adjust his thoughts on the question, but his face reddened with anger. “Why! Good heavens, why did he have to do this to us? Why didn’t he just—I’d have given him anything I had. He needn’t have shot—shot my wife. Only my wife’s jewels were in there and a small amount of cash, that’s all.”

  “Jewels?”

  “I don’t know which ones. Miss Seery, you spoke to my wife in the office this afternoon; what was she wearing then, you remember?”

  “Oh, yes. She was wearing the diamond and sapphire bracelet with the earrings and clip to match.”

  “Well, whatever she wore she’d have put in the safe. The rest of her things are in the bank vault.”

  Charles Weber turned to Jerry Seery. “You spoke to Mrs. Sterling this afternoon?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said meekly. “She asked me to be sure to come tonight for the packages, and to mail them in the morning. She wanted them in the mai
l quickly, so she asked me to call for them and take care of them for her.”

  “Mr. Sterling,” Charles Weber said, “the person who entered your bedroom and shot you—do you have any suspicion in your mind that he looked like Miss Seery?”

  Jerry paled, while Mr. Sterling’s eyes went sick.

  “I—I just can’t believe it. Miss Seery couldn’t—”

  “But that murderer did look a lot like Miss Seery. You said he was short, wore dark clothes.”

  “It was a man, I tell you. The voice, it was deep—like a man.”

  “Voices can be changed. And you thought it was Miss Seery at first, didn’t you?” Detective Weber persisted.

  “Yes, but I was expecting Miss Seery. I’ll admit, not upstairs in the bedroom, but—no! I’ll be damned if it could have been Miss Seery!”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Charles continued, facing a pale and shaken woman. “Loads of things seem to point to Miss Seery. She has a cute little innocent pose and no doubt is a very clever actress. So you saw Mrs. Sterling in the office this afternoon wearing her jewels. You hated Mrs. Sterling, didn’t you?”

  Jerry Seery compressed her lips.

  “That’s not so!”

  “You hated her,” Charles continued, “because you’re in love with Mr. Sterling.”

  She gasped, as if he had struck her.

  “You’re in love with Mr. Sterling,” the detective continued. “He’s a rich man. Secretaries have set their caps for their bosses before. Clever little scheme. Mrs. Sterling asks you down to this house, you’re to take packages away. You hate Mrs. Sterling, you are in love with Mr. Sterling. You come here, get into the house without trouble, go upstairs to the bedroom.

  “Masked, you shoot Mrs. Sterling dead, you shoot Mr. Sterling in the shoulder, coming close to him to make sure you only wound him. You go to the safe, help yourself. You hide the gun and the jewels.

  “In the meantime, Mr. Sterling regains consciousness, goes to the phone. When he passes out again, you run out of the house knowing someone will come to his aid.