Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Perfect. A perfect little scheme. It would have worked, except that I was where I was, when I was.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Mr. Sterling said thinly. “I simply cannot—”

  “You’re crazy!” Jerry said in a strangled tone. “You’re out of your mind. Hide the jewels and gun? Where?”

  “Here!” said Charles and went to the table where the packages were. “In one of them we will find the jewels, money, and the gun.” He shuffled through the packages. “Perhaps this one, addressed to Mr. Gerald Spears, care of the General Post Office.”

  He threw the package to Casey, who quickly unwrapped it. He proved to be right.

  “I can’t believe it!” Mr. Sterling said quickly. “I can’t believe Miss Seery would do a thing like that.”

  “That’s good,” said Charles, “because she didn’t do anything of the kind.”

  There was a heavy silence.

  “IT WAS you who killed your wife, Mr. Sterling. You devised a rather simple little scheme in order to implicate your secretary. By the clues in this case, the clues of the bloodstains, we were meant to believe that you were shot in your bedroom at the same time your wife was shot, but that’s not what happened.

  “You shot your wife, rifled your own safe, hid what you had taken, in one of the packages along with the gun after you shot yourself in the shoulder. You did not lose consciousness, but came right down here, called the police. After all this you permitted yourself to lose consciousness, if you did. I can prove all this.

  “First of all, Mr. Sterling, you are familiar with your house, I am not, neither is Miss Seery. When I came into your bedroom, I slipped and fell on a scatter rug. This fictitious burglar of yours, according to your own words, came close to you to shoot you. If he did that, he had to step across those scattered rugs and surely would have slipped, as I and Jerry did. But that is not conclusive, he may not have fallen.

  “That brings us to point two. Mrs. Sterling was shot facing the mirror. She shouldn’t have been. If a burglar had entered that room, she could have seen him in the mirror, should have at least turned around or sprung from her chair, and would have fallen face away from the vanity.

  “The position of your wife’s body told me that the person who came in the room was someone known to her. However, she might not have seen the person, might have been too stunned to move, so this also may not be conclusive proof. There is one remaining clue, which told me that Miss Seery didn’t do it, that no intruder was in the house, and your story is a lie.

  “If it had been a burglar, if your story were true, as I was walking home tonight I would have heard two shots. One fired shortly after the other. As it was, I waited, listened, and heard only one shot.

  “That was the shot that you fired into your shoulder. Man that gag’s so old, it creaks! And the motive for the murder is obvious. Money? Tiring of your wife? Insurance? We’ll find out. We’re booking you for murder, sucker! Take him down and lock him up, Casey.”

  Outside, Jerry hurried away. Charles caught hold of her arm and pulled her to him with a rough, “Commeer!” And he did what he felt he should have done in the first place.

  ACTION AT HOME

  Benjamin Pool

  An unwelcome Nazi visitor kept Bill Wright and his wife imprisoned in their own dwelling until Policeman Gibbs entered the scene!

  THERE was something decidedly urgent in the light rapid knock at the door. Almost instantly it was repeated.

  The man glanced up from his work and the woman lowered her magazine. They looked at each other, then at the clock over the living room mantel. It was ten o’clock.

  “Rather late,” said the man, turning in his chair to face the front door.

  “It is late,” agreed the woman 1ightly. “I’ll see.”

  She laid aside her magazine, smiling indulgently at her husband pillowed in an easy-chair. He had a thick ledger open across his knees. Rising to her feet, she gave her hair a few quick touches before the mirror, and then moved briskly to answer the knock.

  The woman switched on the porch light, unlocked and opened the door slightly, peering out.

  “Who is it?” she asked cheerfully.

  Abruptly the door was pushed all the way open. A young man stepped boldly into the room. He quickly closed the door behind him with the heel of his shoe. His hat brim was pulled low over his forehead. He was breathing heavily as if he had been running. He held a gun in his hand.

  The woman shrank back.

  “Who—who are you?” she gasped.

  “Take it easy,” the young man snapped. He leveled the gun at the man in the easy-chair. “Just keep your seat,” he ordered truculently, as the man moved as if to rise.

  The stranger turned the key in the door, found the porch switch and snapped off the outside light.

  “What is it?” the woman half sobbed. “Dry up,” the gunman told her sharply, “and sit down.”

  The woman nervously complied.

  “What do you want?” demanded the man in the easy-chair.

  HIS question was ignored. The young man stood before the couple, the gun held alertly, and regarded them in a speculative fashion. At intervals he glanced apprehensively toward the front door. He appeared to be keenly attentive to any outside sound.

  “You two alone?” he asked suddenly. “We are,” the seated man replied. His voice was testy. “What do you want here?”

  “Don’t ask questions,” warned the gunman, “and maybe nobody will get hurt. Now listen,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’m in a tight spot for the moment—the law has trailed me to this neighborhood. Luckily, they haven’t much of a description. That’s where you two come in.”

  The young stranger grinned maliciously, rocking the gun in his hand. The man and the woman exchanged questioning glances.

  “They’re searching every house,” the intruder went on, “and I’m expecting them here any minute. When they come I want you to pretend that I’m a friend—an old friend. They’ll be looking for someone on the run, not somebody idly chatting. You got it straight?” He asked the question impudently.

  The couple stared, bewildered, as if not sure they had heard aright.

  “Well?” The intruder stepped nearer, his eyes flashing, the gun almost in their faces.

  “We understand, all right.” The man in the easy-chair spoke in grim tones. “But what if it doesn’t work?”

  The young man scowled. His face reddened with quick anger.

  “Your lives depend on it working,” he snarled.

  With that he crossed the living room, opened a door and sailed his hat in, closed the door, and ran his hand over his short blond hair. Then he studied the couple.

  “My name is Thomas Jackson—from Baystown,” he said with a twisted grin. “That’s about ninety miles from here, north, in case you don’t know.”

  He dropped the gun into his coat pocket and took a chair facing the man and woman.

  “What have you done?” The man leaned forward in the easy-chair.

  “My business,” replied the stranger, his eyes hard. “But I’ll tell you this: I haven’t done all I’m going to do—not by a long shot!”

  The woman held a hand to her mouth and stared as if petrified at the stranger. Her husband gripped the arms of the easy-chair and glared.

  “You two have got to act natural,” the gunman told them calmly, his lips tight. “If anything goes wrong, if either of you makes one false move—well, I don’t mind murder.” There was something horrible in the stranger’s calmness.

  He lighted a cigarette, inhaled, and looked at the man.

  “Now, what’s your name?”

  “Wright.”

  “All of it.”

  “William James Wright.”

  “What’s your business?”

  “I’m a bookkeeper.”

  “How old are you—about forty-five?”

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at,” snapped Mr. Wright, impatiently, “but I’m thirty-six years
old.”

  “I thought I could make a closer guess,” said Thomas Jackson, shaking his head. “I guess your hair fooled me.”

  He looked at Mrs. Wright.

  “I’d say you are around twenty-four.”

  NOW the woman realized that the gunman was merely trying to get their nerves calmed down. He wanted them to be perfectly at ease when the law arrived.

  “How far did I miss it?” he coaxed.

  The woman looked at him, her brows lifted in an expression of contempt.

  “I am twenty-nine,” she said, “if it will help you any.”

  Approaching footsteps outside brought the young man instantly alert.

  “Remember,” he cautioned hissingly. “Be careful.”

  The three stared intently toward the front door. A woman’s laugh and a man’s voice came to them. The footsteps receded.

  “Only some people passing,” said Thomas Jackson. His voice sounded slightly strained, belying the calmness of his face.

  A tense silence followed. The young gunman got up and examined a row of silver trophies upon the mantel. He picked up a large one and read the words engraved on it.

  “Golf, eh?” he observed with interest, turning to appraise the man. Mr. Wright nodded gravely.

  “Golf is a rich man’s hobby, I’ve heard,” said Jackson. “Figuring on taking up the game myself, some day.” He grinned and returned to his chair.

  “You play much, Mr. Wright?”

  Mr. Wright looked solemnly at the numerous trophies.

  “I used to play a great deal,” he answered, and glanced at his wife, who attempted bravely to smile.

  All at once the three became aware of a stir outside near the front door. The porch bell rang as someone outside pressed the button. The woman gave a nervous start. Mr. Wright gripped hard on the arms of his chair.

  The young man stared at the door, his hand near the gun in his coat.

  “Remember,” he cautioned quietly. “Don’t make a false move.”

  The ring was repeated, longer, impatiently.

  It was the woman who rose.

  “Is it all right to answer it?” she asked.

  The gunman’s eyes narrowed questioningly at the man who sat gripping the arms of the easy-chair. Then he nodded to the woman.

  “Act natural,” he told her quietly. “I’ll be watching every move.”

  The woman gave her husband a fleeting, helpless look, and walked woodenly to the door. Somehow, to her, that short distance seemed a long journey.

  She began to fumble with the key, and Mr. Wright, no doubt realizing the state of her nerves, spoke to her softly, reassuringly.

  “Open it, dear,” he said.

  She unlocked the door then, opened it, and spoke in tones of genuine surprise.

  “Officer Gibbs!”

  A heavy-set policeman with a rubicund face stood in the doorway. His small eyes casually surveyed the occupants of the room.

  “Sorry to disturb you folks, Mrs. Wright,” he boomed, panting audibly. “I stopped by to tell you that a Nazi spy is hiding somewhere in our neighborhood. I’m searching the houses in my beat. Not that I intend to search your house,” he chuckled, bobbing the brass buttons down the front of his coat. “Haven’t seen a suspicious-looking stranger tonight, have you, Mr. Wright?”

  Perspiration stood out on Mr. Wright’s face.

  “Not tonight, Officer. A spy, you say?”

  “Yep. Tried to blow up the munitions factory a little while ago. The guards over there were plenty wide awake and spotted him planting dynamite. He got away. But he’s on foot and we believe we have him surrounded in this neighborhood. So keep your doors locked.” The officer coughed importantly.

  “A Nazi!” the woman told herself.

  OFFICER GIBBS’ small keen eyes swept the young man with the careful scrutiny a policeman always gives a stranger. The German was a remarkable actor, Mrs. Wright noted. He appeared perfectly at ease, his brows raised slightly in an expression of mild curiosity. His hand hovered cautiously near his coat pocket.

  Mr. Wright stirred in his easy-chair. “Officer Gibbs,” he said, “meet Mr. Jackson—from Baystown. An old friend of ours.”

  The corpulent, uniformed man nodded amiably, still standing in the doorway. The German pleasantly returned the nod. “Glad to meet you, Officer.”

  Gibbs appeared to lose interest in the stranger and began to mop his face with a large handkerchief.

  The German smiled.

  “What sort of looking fellow is this spy, Officer?” he asked.

  The big man continued to run the handkerchief over his ruddy features.

  “We don’t know,” he said. “He skipped into the dark too fast, after planting the dynamite, for the guards to catch more than a glimpse of him.”

  The young Nazi glanced covertly at Mrs. Wright and grinned smugly.

  The woman’s face went white. She realized with growing alarm that unless the policeman were warned immediately, somehow he’d be on his way, probably after killing them both. Then this unsuspected German spy would be free to escape, and carry out his daring plan to destroy the munitions plant. First murder—then sabotage! That’s what this Nazi had planned!

  She looked frantically at her husband. His face was turning gray. He, too, fully realized their danger. He sat rigid, clutching the arms of his chair, staring at the Nazi agent.

  Poor man. There was nothing he could do. She thought of the many times he had wanted to help in the war.

  She knew that one false move, one false word, would mean certain death for Gibbs, then Bill, and herself.

  Policeman Gibbs announced he must be off. The woman steeled herself to smother a sob.

  Then her husband spoke lightly, jocularly.

  “If you catch that spy, Officer Gibbs,” he laughed, “you should take the day off tomorrow and celebrate by playing golf with Mr. Jackson and me.”

  The woman’s head began to ring. An awful tightness seized her throat. She looked, her eyes bleary, at the German.

  To her stunned relief he was smiling knowingly.

  “That would really be fine,” he spoke up. “We’ll be looking for you tomorrow, Officer Gibbs.”

  The policeman, his beady eyes peculiarly bright, began to fold his large handkerchief.

  “Been some time since I’ve handled a golf club, Mr. Wright,” he chuckled. “But thanks for the invitation.” He began to glance about the living room. “Let’s see,” he went on. “There’s a big snapshot of me around here somewhere, showing me doing my stuff. That’s it,” he said, pointing at the wall directly behind the young man.

  Instinctively, the Nazi turned in his chair to see the picture. There was no picture and he realized too late his mistake.

  He whirled around, fishing desperately for the gun in his coat pocket.

  The officer’s steady voice stopped him.

  “You’ll die if you try it! Put up your hands quick.”

  The young German gaped with frightened respect at the large Police Special leveled on him. He slowly raised his arms.

  “That was clever about the golf game, Mr. Wright,” the officer said, panting.

  HANDCUFFS were snapped deftly over the Nazi’s wrists.

  “Wasn’t it!” The woman wiped her eyes.

  “What do you mean?” fumed the spy.

  The officer smiled.

  “I know you were not an old friend,” he said, pulling the gun from the bewildered spy’s coat. “I knowed it the instant Mr. Wright spoke of his playing golf tomorrow.”

  The fat policeman began to search his prize captive, emitting grunts at the damning articles which he exposed. Finally he stood erect and looked down at the cringing would-be saboteur.

  “You see, Mr. Wright knew that I’d know he couldn’t possibly play golf tomorrow,” said Officer Gibbs. “If you were an old friend, you’d have been well aware Mr. Wright hasn’t walked in five years!”

  “Well, it seems that even my kind can help to win this war,�
� said Mr. Wright. There was a proud note in his voice now.

  “Bill,” said Mrs. Wright, “you are simply wonderful!” Just as any American woman would have expressed it.

  DEATH HAS A C-BOOK

  Hal K. Wells

  When Nora Malloy, red-headed lady taxi-driver, has death for a passenger, mystery burns the road!

  THE trouble with me is that I cannot think of two things at the same time. My supervisor has told me that he seriously doubts whether I can even think of one thing at a time, but he is merely an old sourpuss who believes that a woman’s place is in the home, or anywhere else except behind the wheel of a taxicab.

  It was about eleven o’clock last night when the little incident happened on Sunset Boulevard. A traffic light suddenly went red on me just as I was practically in the intersection. I slammed on my brakes without thinking to first look and see if there was anything close behind me.

  Approximately one-tenth of a second later, something came crashing into my rear bumper with sound effects like a large skeleton doing a swan dive on a tin roof. I sighed resignedly, and got out to survey the damage.

  My heart did a flip-flop when I saw that the car that had rammed me was a black-and-white radio cruiser of the Los Angeles Police Department. Same heart did another flip and a couple of dips when I saw the large figure of Officer O’Conner clamber ungracefully out of the cruiser.

  He surveyed me with a cold and fishy eye that was quite undiluted with any trace of the milk of human kindness.

  “The Yellow Peril rides again!” he commented.

  “I might have known it would be you,” I said bitterly. “Every time something happens to me all I have to do is look around and find your ugly mug breathing on the back of my neck.”

  O’Conner snorted.

  “Being around every time something happens to you, shrimp, would be a fulltime job for a dozen prowl cars. You can’t make a complete circuit of the block without denting seven fenders, breaking five traffic regulations, and scaring the pants off of any pedestrians foolish enough not to climb trees when they see you coming.”