by Jerry eBooks
Benny saw who it was, now—Doc Kunz. His long, cadaverous frame blended into the shadow behind a tree. He waved Benny toward the bench where Falik sat.
Benny stumbled forward, walked up to Falik. “H-here I am,” he stuttered.
The black eyes impaled him. In the night they seemed deeper, darker, yet more fiery, too.
Falik’s lips and mustache didn’t move, but his words were clear. “Go across the street to the Grayson Hotel. Room 317. The door is open. Don’t talk to anybody.
I’ll follow you. I’ve got the money,” Falik added quickly.
Benny didn’t bother to nod. He made a beeline for the hotel, a third-rate place with a shabby, deserted lobby. The desk clerk glanced carelessly at Benny, then away. Benny skittered toward the stairs. He didn’t know why he avoided the elevator, but had he seen the pleased light in the black eyes behind him when the desk a clerk paid him no attention, he would have stopped dead.
Benny climbed to the third floor. Room 317 was unlocked, as Falik had said it would be. Benny went in, switched on the lights. In a second, Falik came in. He looked Benny coldly up and down, then he looked away. For once, those black eyes stopped boring into Benny’s soul.
Benny held his breath. What was Falik waiting for? Why didn’t he say something, do something?
Benny got his answer when the door opened again and Doc Kunz came in.
Doc Kunz came in!
Doc nodded to Falik. Doc took a little phial from his pocket. Doc said, “Ready, Falik?”
That was when the blinding truth flooded through Benny Kerr. Not all the truth, just the most important part for him. Doc wasn’t on his side, he was on Falik’s side!
Benny charged for the door. Falik caught him from behind. Doc’s long stringy arms shot out in front. Falik dragged Benny back to the bed, forced him down on it, pinned him with a knee, used those steel fingers again on Benny’s mouth.
But this time to force Benny’s mouth open, not shut. For Doc Kunz had uncorked the phial and was ready to force the contents down Benny’s throat.
He did it. He jammed the neck of the phial between Benny’s lips as Falik’s fingers forced open Benny’s mouth. Benny felt bitter liquid trickling over his tongue, down his throat.
He knew it was poison. He knew Falik and Doc Kunz were murdering him. He felt the poison hit his stomach. He felt himself grow weak. He thought, They’ll cut me up and wrap me in packages.
Falik’s knee came off Benny’s chest. Benny tried to rise, couldn’t. A heavy lethargy was upon him. He could see dimly, hear vaguely, but he couldn’t speak or move.
As in a dream, he saw Falik go to the closet, pull out paper-wrapped packages. There was the package Benny had discovered, he could never mistake that. There was another package like it. There were two more like those, only larger. Then there was a fifth package, larger. But Falik handled it easily. Jennifer Devers hadn’t been heavy.
“You don’t have to drag them out,” Doc Kunz said thickly. “Don’t you think the cops will search the place?”
“Do you think they’ll believe it’s suicide?” Falik asked uncertainly.
Doc Kunz cackled. “What else? Don’t worry about that. I’ve already talked to a cop, suggested that Benny was a little nutty. I talked to Matt Hurley about ten minutes before Benny was due to leave for the park. Hurley went over to question him, so he’s looking for him right now.”
Falik nodded. Benny saw him only as a blur. Benny was realizing that he had fled from Hurley, not Falik. If only he hadn’t, he thought. If only he hadn’t.
It was too late, though, and dying wasn’t so hard after all. It was pleasant, really. Like going to sleep, positive that you will sleep sound, without dreaming.
Falik’s words drifted to him dimly. “You fool! Do you think I’m going to let you live to blackmail me?”
Benny heard a faint little popping somewhere. It didn’t sound loud enough to be a gun. But a second later, there was the bam of a Police Positive. Benny knew that was a gun all right. The first one must have had a silencer on it, he thought. He drifted off . . .
CLEARLY it was much harder getting awake than it had been going to sleep. Sleeping had been peaceful. Getting awake again brought with it pain and nausea. The thick, rubbery thing in his mouth, Benny learned later, was a stomach pump.
“You’re tougher than you look, Benny boy,” said a voice.
Benny saw Matt Hurley’s red face beaming at him. “How did you—”
“Take it easy, kid,” Hurley said. “You’re a good little runner, but I’m not so bad myself. I chased after you to the park, caught up just in time to see you go across to that hotel. Falik followed you, and Doc Kunz followed Falik. I strung along and listened outside the hotel room door. I didn’t know they were going to feed you poison and leave you there with the Devers girl’s body. But when Falik took a shot at Doc Kunz, I jumped in and took a shot at him. Doc Kunz is dead but he talked. I only winged Falik; he’ll go to the chair.”
Benny gagged a little. “They were going to kill me, leave me there with Jennifer Devers’ body so you’d think I was the maniac killer.”
Hurley nodded. “But there was no maniac after all. Doc Kunz cut up the first two bodies to cover himself. What happened, Benny, was that Doc gave Rosa Scalise, the first girl to be found, some of his home-made medicine and it killed her. To cover himself, he cut her up like that, figuring the public would think a maniac was loose. Tessie Famette, the second victim, was Rosa Scalise’s friend who knew Rosa had been going to Doc Kunz. She got suspicious so Doc killed her too.”
Benny burst, “And when Falik killed the third girl, Jennifer Devers, he tried to take advantage—” Benny stopped, recalling Doc Kunz’s mutterings that afternoon. “That’s what Doc Kunz meant when he said Falik was trying to take advantage of him!”
“Right,” Hurley agreed. “Falik got the story of a secret marriage out of Jennifer Devers when he was treating her. He blackmailed her for months. Then she said she was going to the cops, and Falik killed her. He figured if he cut her up and planted packages around the neighborhood where two other torso murders had already been done, the same man would be blamed for everything.”
“Only I caught him planting the very first package,” Benny shuddered.
“Well, you’re always hanging around the park,” Hurley shrugged. “It wasn’t so funny that it was you who saw him. The thing was you should have told me right away instead of Doc Kunz. The minute Kunz knew you’d found another package, he knew somebody else had committed murder. Even if he hadn’t seen Falik in your room, he could easily have searched the paper for missing people and figured out who had killed who. He saw a chance to frame it all on the dumb bunny who had blundered into it—you, Benny; so he went to Falik. They worked together until they thought everything was set.”
Hurley shook his head reprovingly. “You should’ve told me, Benny. You should’ve told me right off. Why didn’t you?”
Benny shivered all over. “Because you said it—might even be me!”
DEATH PLAYS SANTA CLAUS
Johnston McCulley
Lieutenant Mike O’Hara of homicide makes short work of a murder case—so that he can spend his Christmas at home!
DEEP disgust formed a picture in the face of Detective-Lieutenant Mike O’Hara as he sat before his desk in the Homicide Squad’s room at Police Headquarters. It was nine by the clock on Christmas Eve.
O’Hara had anticipated a Christmas Eve at home with his wife and their two young children, for it was his regular time off duty. He had intended donning a Santa Claus costume and giving the kids the time of their young lives. A Christmas tree had been prepared, and a closet was filled with presents.
But lots had been drawn to decide which members of the Squad would spend Christmas Eve on duty and which would serve through Christmas Day, and O’Hara had drawn a Christmas Eve position.
So had Detective Sergeant Ed Rassman, who was busy now with the radio in a corner of the room, and bringing in
Christmas music. In deference to O’Hara’s fit of gloom, he kept the radio turned low.
“So it’s Christmas Eve,” O’Hara growled. “When a man should be at home, if he’s got kids. The only homicides we ever have on Christmas Eve are simple killings, the result of fights which are the result of too much Christmas firewater. There’s never any question about ’em. No mysteries to solve. The patrolmen on the beats could handle ’em and make a report. Right?”
“Right!” Rassman agreed. “But you never can tell. And by workin’ tonight, Mike, we get tomorrow off. We can eat Christmas dinner with our folks.”
The telephone bell on O’Hara’s desk gave three quick jangles, the alert signal. O’Hara’s face grew stern, and he reached for the phone. Those three jerky rings meant business.
“O’Hara at this end!” the lieutenant barked into the mouthpiece.
“Maybe you’d better take that call, lieutenant,” the telephone desk sergeant answered. “Sounds important.”
“Switch ’em on.”
The desk sergeant made the switchboard connection.
“Homicide Squad!” O’Hara barked. “Lieutenant O’Hara speaking.”
A cultured, well-modulated masculine voice came to him over the wire.
“This is Dr. Morgan Stampf. I am at the residence of Cecil Fargall on Empire Boulevard. I regret to report that Mr. Fargall passed away a few minutes ago under circumstances that appear suspicious to me. Though I have been his personal physician for several years, I thought it best to notify the police and have an investigation made.”
“Quite right, sir!” O’Hara replied. “We’ll be right there.” He cradled the phone and got out of his chair. “Punch the button, Ed,” he ordered Rassman.
“We roll?” Rassman asked.
O’HARA nodded assent as he reached for his hat and overcoat. Rassman pressed a button and started things moving. The Homicide Squad was going out!
The speedy sedan with daring chauffeur would be waiting for them when they hurried into the basement garage of Headquarters. The police photographer and the fingerprint expert would follow in a car always ready and carrying their equipment, and two minor Squad men would be with them. “Doc” Layne, the medical examiner on duty, would be notified promptly and chase them to the address.
With its siren wailing a warning to traffic, the sedan rushed and skidded through the streets, with red lights burning. It cut across a corner of the busy retail business district where throngs were making the usual last-minute purchases.
It turned into broad Empire Boulevard and sped along that toward an old residential part of the city where imposing mansions sat far back from the street in groves of trees, and expressed the grandeur of an earlier era.
About an inch of snow was on the ground, and fine snow was drifting through the air. Perfect Christmas Eve weather, O’Hara thought.
“And I should be home playing Santa Claus for my two kids,” he growled at Rassman.
“If this turns out to be a twister case—” Rassman began.
To the sergeant, a “twister” case was one involving a mystery to be solved and calling for clever work on the part of the Squad, instead of routine stuff.
“Don’t even think that!” O’Hara barked at him, as the police chauffeur, who was listening, grinned into the rear vision mirror. “A twister, with us opening it up, means we’d have to stay with it until the end. Then where’d our Christmas Day at home be? If it’s a twister case, we’ve got to crack it wide open before morning, even if we have to beat the truth out of somebody. I’m going to spend Christmas at home! Let’s hope this Cecil Fargall died of a heart attack caused by indigestion.”
“I know, Mike, but there’s small chance of that,” Rassman warned. “Dr. Morgan Stampf is one wise medic, I’ve heard. He wouldn’t have called us for an ordinary heart attack.”
“Stampf is a fashionable society doctor,” O’Hara explained. “I’ve met him a few times. He reminds me of a human icicle. But some doctors and surgeons get like that, seeing so much misery and pain. They harden themselves against it, same as we do.”
“This Cecil Fargall has a lot of moola, huh?”
“According to common report, he has money stacked up in about a dozen banks,” O’Hara replied. “He’s about seventy. The family has been here since the town was only a wide place in the trail. Almost died out now. He has only one relative as far as I know—a niece named Penelope. Everybody calls her Penny. Sensible girl of about twenty-three.”
Behind their sedan, a siren wailed and indicated that the second Squad car was on their heels. O’Hara relaxed in the seat, lit a cigarette and took a few puffs. The sedan was making good speed on the wide boulevard which traffic seemed to have deserted at that hour.
Finally, the car turned into a driveway and ran up to the front of a huge, old-fashioned mansion and stopped. The second car was there by the time O’Hara and Rassman got out of the first. As O’Hara and the others started up the steps to the front porch, a third car whizzed up and skidded to a stop, and Doc Layne got out of it and hurried to them.
O’Hara called a couple of men to him. “When this gets out, the news hawks will flock here,” he said. “I don’t want reporters messing around until I know what’s what. You two stand guard and keep ’em out. I’ll tell ’em everything later.”
O’Hara went up to the front door with the others of the Homicide Squad behind him, but before he could ring, the door was opened by a tall, distinguished-appearing man in evening attire.
“I am Dr. Morgan Stampf,” he announced. “Thank you for being so prompt. Please come in, and I’ll give you the scant details, so you can get at your work.”
Dr. Stampf ushered O’Hara and the others into an elegantly furnished anteroom and waved them toward chairs. He looked what O’Hara had called him—a human icicle.
“This is a tragic occurrence,” Dr. Stampf said, when they were seated. “I have been Cecil Fargall’s personal physician for years. He was a splendid cultured gentleman.”
“I know all that, Dr. Stampf,” O’Hara cut in. “Just tell us what’s happened here, and please make it as short as possible. It’s Christmas Eve, and we’re short-handed.”
“Very well. It was Mr. Fargall’s custom to have a sort of private family party on Christmas Eve. He always had a tree with presents heaped beneath it, and his old houseman, Fred Denshaw, always put on a costume and false face and acted as Santa Claus. His guests this evening were only three—his niece and ward, Miss Penelope Fargall; Mr. Bob Blodger, her present romantic attachment; and myself.”
“You’ve been here all evening?” O’Hara asked.
DR. STAMPF shook his head. “Oh, no!” he said. “I had a call to make on a patient, and telephoned that I’d be in a little late to partake of Christmas cheer, and for them to go ahead with their Santa Claus show and not wait for me. I arrived only a few minutes before I called you.”
“Where are the others?” O’Hara asked.
“In the living room. Mr. Fargall died in the library, where he had the Christmas tree. I left the body there and asked Miss Fargall and Mr. Blodger to retire to the living room and remain there.”
“Just what happened?”
“When I came to the house and rang, the door was opened by Bob Blodger. He said Santa Claus had just done his stuff—Santa being Fred Denshaw, the old houseman—and had gone to prepare the buffet lunch. In addition to Denshaw, there are only two servants, a cook and maid. Mr. Fargall felt that, in war time, he should get along with a small staff.”
“After you came in?” O’Hara hinted.
“I removed my hat and overcoat and started for the library with Bob Blodger, saying I’d be glad to have a drink and toast myself before the fireplace. As we went along the hall, we heard Miss Fargall scream, and ran to her at once. Her uncle had collapsed and dropped upon the floor.
“I asked Blodger to aid me, and we put him upon a couch. I expected the usual heart attack. Mr. Fargall was past seventy and has had rep
eated attacks of acute indigestion.”
“But it wasn’t an ordinary heart attack?” O’Hara asked.
“In my judgment, no. Your medical examiner—Doctor Layne, here—can make his own investigation. I think he will detect at once a scent of bitter almonds.”
“Prussic acid?” Doc Layne snapped.
Dr. Stampf nodded his head in assent. They went into the library. Layne went to the couch and made an immediate examination. O’Hara looked around the room, while Rassman began his usual prowling. The photographer and fingerprint men stood aside, waiting to be called to do their work if they were needed.
There was the Christmas tree in a corner. Wrappings from packages were scattered around the room. Opened and unopened boxes of presents were on the tables and chairs. A portable bar had been set up in one corner, and beside it was a table covered with luncheon foods.
Doc Layne concluded his examination.
“Prussic acid, hydrocyanic, I’d say,” he reported to O’Hara. “Every symptom. And no indication it was taken through the mouth.”
“He didn’t drink the stuff, you mean?” O’Hara asked.
Doc Layne shook his head negatively.
“How’d he get it, then?”
“I’ll continue my examination,” Layne said, giving O’Hara a level look.
“All right, Doc. Rassman, come with me. Dr. Stampf, we’ll join the others, please. You other boys stay with Layne.”
They went to the big living room. Penny Fargall and Bob Blodger were sitting on a divan. The girl was sobbing softly, and Blodger had an arm around her, trying to comfort her.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” O’Hara instructed the girl.
“We had been having a happy time,” she replied. “Dr. Stampf phoned and said he’d be delayed, so my uncle told Denshaw to get into his costume and play Santa Claus.”
“Usual sort of costume?” O’Hara asked.
“The same one Denshaw has used for years. Red flannel trimmed with white, and he always wore a Santa Claus mask and heavy fur gloves. He came in and got the presents from beneath the tree and handed them to us and bowed, as always before. He left Dr. Stampf’s gifts in a little pile under the tree. Then Uncle Cecil remarked about the buffet supper, which was a hint for Denshaw to retire, take off the costume, and make hot coffee. Uncle had told the cook and maid they could have the evening off. He always did that on Christmas Eve.”