by Jerry eBooks
ARNOLD glanced at his watch as he arose.
“This is a funny time for a new client to contact a publicity agent. It’s almost midnight. But—I wish you luck, Hal. Hate to see a nice lad like you thrown out on your ear. Make Cumming come through with enough advance to put old Angus off for another month.”
“I’ll get enough to pay for this layout for a year, Hollister gloated. “Man alive, this is just what I’ve been waiting for. The one break a man needs and it came at my darkest moment. From here on, I go places. Tony—got five? I’m plenty flat.”
Arnold smiled and dug a hand into his pocket.
“Well, if you’ve a client like Cumming, I guess I can risk it. Good luck, Hal.”
Half an hour later, while he tang the bell of Clark Cumming’s suburban mansion, Hal Hollister still thought it was all part of some beautiful dream. It was Cumming himself who answered the door. He was a white-haired, austere man with a reputation for generosity and self-isolation. His picture had been in the papers about as many times as Hollister had thumbs on both hands. Cumming hated publicity.
“I’m Hollister,” Hal said. “You sent for me. Remember?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Hollister. I’m glad you were so prompt. My business with you is vitally important and demands speed as well. Come in. This way—to my library.”
A good part of the crowd at Grand Central Terminal would have fitted comfortably into the room Cumming called his library. It was lined with books and filled with deep, luxurious chairs. A pair of antique lamps were lit and they threw a feeble glow over only part of the room. Hollister wondered if it was his imagination or the top of a man’s head which rested against the high back of one chair.
At any rate, he figured this was none of his business. If Cumming wanted someone present, he was at liberty to arrange that. Hollister sat down and accepted a cigarette from Cumming.
“My qualifications,” Hollister opened proceedings, “can be checked with any movie company, stage producer, columnist or newspaper. I get results. Guarantee ’em, sir.”
“I’m not interested in that,” Cumming smiled wanly. “You see. I hired you to do things in reverse. I want my name kept out of the papers.”
“Out of the papers,” Hollister said with a sinking heart. “You mean—out?”
“Precisely. I’m on the way toward getting some publicity which I hate. This will be adverse and therefore even more detestable. I thought a good publicity agent might be able to help me. You should know ways to keep my name out of the papers.”
“Perhaps I can.” Hollister was grasping at straws and he knew it. When he met a reporter, he couldn’t hold his tongue if he had anything in the way of news and the mere mention of Clark Cumming could be front page stuff.
“The terms,” Cumming said, “will be generous. A thousand dollars now—before you even know about the case. Four thousand more if my name isn’t in the papers by day after tomorrow. If it doesn’t get in by then, it never will.”
A thousand dollars. Men had been killed for less. Hollister grabbed the straw with both hands this time. He almost grabbed the single one-thousand-dollar bill that Cumming proffered. Yes, within himself, something warned Hollister to be careful. Taking on an assignment, the nature of which he hadn’t the remotest idea, was dangerous. Cumming might ask the impossible.
“I’m ready, sir,” Hollister said weakly. “Tell me the details.”
Cumming arose.
“Come over here and I’ll show you the details,” he said grimly. He walked to the high-backed chair in which Hollister thought he’d seen someone sitting. Now he knew he wasn’t wrong.
The chair was occupied.
By a man with a hole through his vest, shirt—and heart. He was very dead and very chalky looking.
Hollister gulped. His stomach was doing a flip-flop. He wasn’t used to this sort of thing. Without a word he turned to Cumming and extended his right hand. The fingers still gripped the thousand dollars.
“Nonsense, man,” Cumming snorted. “Put the money in your pocket and then listen to me. I didn’t kill this man. He committed suicide.”
Hollister felt the first glow of hope. He automatically pocketed the bill, but turned away from the grisly spectacle at the same time. So long as Cumming hadn’t murdered the man, there might be a way out. At the same time he need retain no more than an uneasy conscience.
“Here are the facts,” Cumming said. “You’re entitled to them. This man—frankly, I don’t even know who he is—came to see me about an hour and a half ago. Unfortunately, all my servants are off this evening and I let him in. He wanted money.”
“A stickup?” Hollister gasped.
“Oh no—hardly that. The poor fellow was entitled to a hearing, I suppose. You know that I am accustomed to help my fellow men.
I frequently provide money, In worthy cases, for medical treatment, college training and things of such nature. Well, this man claimed he was very ill. Something about his stomach. He needed fifteen hundred dollars. Now I’m not a fool. I demanded time to investigate his statements.”
“Naturally.” Hollister was beginning to feel more at ease. He almost summoned the nerve to turn around and look at the dead man.
“Naturally,” Cumming repeated. “The man told me there wasn’t time for him to be investigated so, because I didn’t like his attitude, I told him to leave. Instead, he pulled out a gun, placed the muzzle against his heart and pulled the trigger.”
Hollister retained some measure of suspicion.
“So then you decided you required a publicity agent to keep your name and all of this out of the papers. How did you happen to pick on me, Mr. Cumming?”
The white-haired philanthropist smiled wryly.
“I’d just been glancing through a legal newspaper and saw that you were in some financial trouble. I thought—frankly, that you’d need money badly enough to help me.”
HOLLISTER screwed up his courage, turned and took a good look at the corpse. After it stopped swaying—in Hollister’s eyes and brain—he realized that the most outstanding thing about the dead man was his shock of coal-black hair. It stood up on his head like the quills on a porcupine’s back. It rose up like wire. Otherwise, the man was of dark complexion. He had a thin mouth and coal black eyes that were now filming over.
Hollister’s mind began working.
“It’s quite clear,” he said slowly, “that if we follow the usual procedure and report this to the police, nobody could keep your name out of the papers. Therefore, we can do but one thing. Put the body somewhere else.”
Cumming sighed.
“The very thing. Ever since it happened, I’ve tried to figure out some way, but I must have been stunned by this ghastly thing. Thank you, Mr. Hollister. You are earning your fee. But how can we dispose of the corpse?”
“Easy.” Hollister was remembering some crime movies. “We’ll cart the body to some other place, arrange it to look like suicide and then let the cops follow their usual routine. They’ll identify the man, of course. They always do. They’ll discover he was incurably ill and had no money.
“That ought to explain it. Suicide—and we don’t know the vaguest thing about it. No one knew he was coming here. If anyone did, you could tell the truth. Say you refused to help the man until you had investigated his statements.”
Cumming nodded.
“All right. I agree to that. Now—how do we get the body out of my home? Obviously, I can’t do it. If anything happened—if we were stopped for instance, the whole game would be up. It’s your job, young man. Tell you what—I’ll double that fee.”
“Thanks,” Hollister gulped. “Can I borrow your car? And something to—to wrap the corpse in. Can’t spill any blood or leave fingerprints. Gosh—no fingerprints.”
“I’ll arrange it,” Cumming said. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He was gone five hours—in Hollister’s estimation—not the actual five minutes it took him to fetch an old blanket. Hollister took it
and started for the corpse like a toreador goes toward the bull. The blanket shook badly. Cumming touched his arm and extended a glass.
“Brandy,” he said, “I thought we’d both need some.”
Hollister drank it at a gulp, nearly blowing his head off as the powerful stuff lined his throat. At the time he thought he could write publicity about the soul-saving properties of brandy, better than anything he could write on any other subject.
He got the blanket around the man, picked up the gun at his feet and took care to use a handkerchief and handle the weapon very lightly. He stuffed this into his pocket. With Cumming’s help he carried the corpse through the house, across the dark rear yard and put it into the back seat of a car.
Two minutes later, he was driving off and wondering what in blazes he’d do with the body. A nice, dark, public park, a bench on which to seat the corpse and arrange things. That was it. Hollister wished he had another drink of brandy.
Headlights swept the deserted street. He turned a comer and the lights seemed to fasten upon a sign below a large mail box. The sign read: ANGUS McVICKER. At first, the name meant nothing and then Hollister automatically put his foot on the brake.
Angus McVicker. Old Scrooge I Perhaps it was the brandy, perhaps just a whimsical wave of sadism, but Hollister suddenly made up his mind. He stopped the car just beyond the house and looked back. The house was entirely dark. He backed up, turned into the driveway and throttling the engine very low, he rolled up to the spacious front porch.
There was no time to waste. He opened the car door, hauled out the body and found that he was so accustomed to it by now that he felt no more pangs of anguish than a slightly nervous embalmer. He carried the body onto the porch and carefully propped it into a large rocker. He let the right hand dangle limply and put the gun on the porch floor just below the hand. He flipped away the handkerchief, stepped back and regarded his handiwork.
Then he groaned and moved back further. Something was happening to the corpse. His skull was coming off! That shock of wild, wiry hair was actually moving. It slid slowly down the side of his head and fell completely off.
If the corpse had risen and pointed an accusing finger at Hollister, he couldn’t have felt more alarmed. For a moment he was on the verge of rout. Only the soft impact of the wig on the porch floor brought back his senses.
He picked up the thing and tried to put it back on the dead man’s head. It wouldn’t stay there.
Hollister stuck the thing into his pocket and decided he’d better get going before he was seen. The wig didn’t matter.
He was afraid to start the car motor so he twisted the wheel to conform with the turning drive, got behind and pushed. When the car was rolling, he jumped in. There was a slight grade and he sailed through the gate, onto the street and took his foot off the clutch. The engine grabbed and he was traveling under power.
He took the car back to Cumming. The philanthropist was waiting for him.
“It’s taken care of,” Hollister said. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
CUMMING extended his hand. It held another thousand dollar bill. “Yours,” he said. “We agreed to double the fee, remember? If the body is found and there is no possibility of tying up the man’s death with me, then I shall forward you eight thousand more. Thank you, Mr. Hollister.”
Hollister made his way to a corner several blocks distant, suddenly recalled that he was comparatively rich and hailed a taxi. He had himself driven all the way to the medium-priced hotel where he lived and only owed six weeks rent.
On his way in he stopped at the desk and paid up his account. He needed some smaller bills anyway. He whistled softly as the elevator whisked him up to his floor. Then he grinned. Somebody was going to be mightily surprised and he hoped it would cost him money. Hollister meant no one but Angus McVicker.
Safe in his own room, the full impact of what he’d done came back to him. Of course he had committed a crime but then he felt it was in a good cause. The dead man had spitefully killed himself. Cumming didn’t deserve such treatment.
No, indeed. Cumming was the type of man who deserved a break. Hollister buoyed up his spirits with such thoughts. They needed buoying up. So much so, that he called the bar and ordered some drinks sent up.
These helped too and when he started for bed, his brain was reeling slightly. Until he thrust a hand into his coat pocket and hauled out the dead man’s wig. His mind cleared like magic. He let go of it as if the thing was red hot. It hit the floor. Hollister frowned and picked it up. The thing was stiff.
Wholly taken by curiosity, he examined the wig closer. It seemed to be composed of two parts. There was a slit through the substance that lay close to the head. Hollister pried this apart a little. Then he sat down with a thump. His fingers removed two bills. One was for ten thousand, while the other was a five-thousand-dollar bill.
Now he couldn’t sleep at all. At first, he contemplated calling Cumming and telling him about it, but gave up the idea. It was better to wait and see what developed. Something told Hal Hollister it wouldn’t be good.
In the early dawn he went out and bought all the newspapers on the stands so far. Nary a one contained a word about the finding of a strange corpse on Angus McVicker’s front porch.
At noon, he ventured out again. Hollister gave no thought about going to his office. Financial troubles were over, but what took their place was a thousandfold worse. The noon papers, facetiously labelled as early evening editions, carried a small item. The corpse of a man, shot through the heart, had been discovered on the shore of the East River. The police stated that it was hardly suicide because the man had been shot through the heart and was dead before being dumped near the water.
Hollister wondered just how much a man could perspire and still live. He thought he’d about reached his capacity. Very resolutely, he told himself that life must go on. If he didn’t show up at the office, someone might ask questions.
He took a taxi, traveling in style. The meter ticked comfortably for the first time in Hollister’s career. He had money. Plenty of it, but what in the world he’d do with that fifteen thousand—and the wig it came in—he didn’t know. He smiled somewhat complacently though. Old Angus wouldn’t ride a cab like this.
“Angus!” he shot the word out of his mouth. Old Angus had carried the body to the shore and merely dumped it down. Why? Why in the name of every green moulded nickel he nursed, would McVicker do such a thing.
And why would the dead man have appealed to Cumming for help if he carried fifteen grand in his hair? Hollister’s life was suddenly a confused jumble again.
Half an hour after he reached his office, a messenger delivered a plain envelope and took his receipt. Automatically, Hollister ripped it open. Money fell out. Eight bills! It was coming at him from every direction. This was Cumming’s final payment. All eight thousand dollars were there as well as a typed, unsigned note, stating, neatly, that the writer was well satisfied with Hollister’s services, appreciated same and payment was enclosed. Hollister burned that note.
Tony Arnold came in soon after and Hollister forced himself to straighten out. Arnold took one look at him, sighed and sat down.
“You’re taking it tough, Hal. I wish there was something I could do. Cumming didn’t come through. I can tell by just looking at you.”
Hollister passed over some money. “He came through handsomely only the old boy kept me up all night with his plans. How that man hates publicity. He’s paying me to see that his name stays out of the papers. On a yearly basis too. What a client!
Arnold folded the money and wrote out a receipt for it. He passed over the slip of paper. “I wish Angus was in today,” he said. “I’d like to see his face when I hand him this dough and tell him it’s from you. Ever see him? No, I doubt it. Angus never sees anyone. Even has a private elevator and entrance. He’s sour-faced. Why that man would curdle potted cheese. Well, I’m glad you’re on the beam again, Hal. May your good luck keep up.”
“No,” Hollister shouted. Then he realized what he’d said. “I mean yes, of course. Thanks, Tony. I’m grateful. Maybe you brought me luck.”
UNCOMFORTABLY Hollister shivered as Arnold went out. He locked the door, went back to his desk and sat there for two hours. His mind was full of strange ideas. Men who begged for money and carried a small fortune in their wigs. Tight-fisted millionaires who found corpses on their front porches and promptly dumped them down by the river. It was all very confusing.
But something had to be done. Hollister was, oddly enough, honest. That fifteen grand belonged to someone else. He had to find out who the dead man was, first of all. That was essential. But if the cops couldn’t identify him, how could he?
More and more, he thought about McVicker. Perhaps the old scrooge knew the man. Perhaps he’d come to Angus and tried to beg and McVicker believed he’d taken questionable revenge by knocking himself off on the front porch. Cumming had experienced that feeling. It was natural that McVicker would too. And he was too tight to hire someone to ditch the corpse. The answer seemed to lie with Angus McVicker. Perhaps he could furnish the identification, if he was sure he wouldn’t be involved with the police.
Certainly, the old tightwad was under some mental anguish. Little short of a fatal illness would have kept him away from his office for even one day. Hollister made up his mind. He seized the telephone, shoved it back and reached for the phone book until he had the number of Angus McVicker’s residence. He dialed it.
“I wish to talk to Mr. McVicker about something vitally important,” Hollister told the woman who answered. She was obviously a maid because she called him “sir.”
A harsh, half whining voice came on. Hollister said, “Mr. McVicker, I must see you very soon. Don’t ask who I am, but it is in connection with what happened last night.”
“Another one!” Angus’ voice became completely a whine. “Well, I can’t refuse, and listen to me, I didn’t kill Dupree. I swear I didn’t. He was dead when I found him. No one knows—”