Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “What happened after the houseman left?” O’Hara asked.

  “Uncle was laughing at a funny little toy I had bought him as a gift. Suddenly he dropped it, tried to get out of the chair and to his feet. A horrible expression came into his face, and he dropped to the floor.”

  “Who was with him at the time?”

  “I was alone with him,” Penny said, “The door bell had rung, and we guessed Dr. Stampf had arrived, and Bob hurried to let him in, knowing Denshaw was busy in the kitchen. I screamed when Uncle fell, and they came running.”

  “All that correct, Blodger?” O’Hara asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  O’Hara eyed him. Bob Blodger was about twenty-eight, the son of a good family. He had won a reputation in football in his college days. He had been in the Marines, had seen some hard fighting and had been invalided home. O’Hara knew young Blodger was working now for a bond company, though his family had plenty of money and he really did not have to work.

  THAT Bob Blodger and Penny Fargall were in love with each other, there could be no doubt. The way they looked at each other, the way they acted told that. But O’Hara, who read the newspapers religiously, even to the want ads and society news, for professional reasons, had not noticed a report of an actual engagement.

  Doc Layne came to the door and called O’Hara, and he excused himself and went to talk to the medical examiner.

  “He got it in his right hand,” Layne reported. “Must have been a hypo needle. There’s a puncture, and burn.”

  “You mean somebody gave it to him?”

  “We searched around, and didn’t find any needle. Searched his clothing and all over the room.”

  “How long did it take the stuff to work, Doc?”

  “Hard to say. It’d depend on the strength of the solution, the condition of the victim, and all that. It was a few minutes after nine when we got the call. I’d say he died about that time. Can’t be sure, but it’s close enough.”

  “Somebody must have jabbed him,” O’Hara mused. “Far as we know now, Dr. Stampf wasn’t here. According to all stories, he rang the door bell a moment before Fargall dropped. That leaves Penny Fargall and young Blodger—and the houseman. Umm! I’ve got an idea.”

  He hurried back to the living room and sat down, a picture of poise. He spoke in a voice which did not betray excitement.

  “Miss Fargall, did anything unusual happen while the presents were being distributed? Did your uncle act normally?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “He was joking and laughing. He was always like a boy on Christmas Eve. It was one redeeming trait—” She stopped abruptly.

  “Redeeming trait? Am I to gather that you didn’t exactly like your uncle?”

  “He was both my uncle and guardian,” she replied. “He and a bank were to handle my fortune until I was twenty-five, which will be in seven months. We—we didn’t see alike about some things.”

  “Romantic affairs, for instance?’ O’Hara asked.

  “Mr. Fargall didn’t want Penny to marry me,” Bob Blodger cut in. “Penny and I really love each other. I have plenty of money, and so has my family, though not as much as Mr. Fargall, of course.”

  “What was his objection to you, Blodger?” O’Hara wanted to know. “I happen to know your fine family, and if you could support her, and she was in love with you, why should there be an objection?”

  “My uncle was a tyrant,” Penny Fargall broke in this time. “He was a man who wanted to order the lives of all around him. I never actually quarreled with him, but I did demand that he let me marry Bob. The other day, I threatened to marry Bob anyhow, without uncle’s consent.”

  “Any idea why he didn’t want you to marry Blodger?”

  “He said he wanted me to marry an older man, an established man who had attained prominence. Such a man, he held, should always marry a young woman of good family and estate, so she could preside like a queen over his household, and give him strong, healthy children to carry on the line. That sort of thing was a mania with him.”

  “I see.”

  O’Hara got up and paced around the room for a moment, while the others watched. Doc Layne was standing in the doorway, and Dr. Stampf was sitting off to one side saying nothing. O’Hara stopped pacing and faced them.

  “Mr. Fargall was murdered!” he snapped.

  “Murdered?” Penny cried, as she gripped Bob Blodger’s arm. “But—he just collapsed. Nobody touched him!”

  “You said he was laughing and joking while the presents were being distributed. Think, now! Did anything at all unusual happen?”

  “It may not amount to much—” Blodger began.

  “I’ll decide that,” O’Hara snapped at him. “What was it?”

  “Well, when Santa Claus handed him one of the packages—the very last, if I’m not mistaken—Mr. Fargall cried ‘Ouch!’ and shook his right hand. An instant later, he said a pin in the ribbon around the package had stuck him.”

  “Santa Claus handed him the package?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Fargall unwrapped it, and Santa Claus—that is Denshaw, left to get rid of his costume and make coffee. A little later, the door bell rang, and Penny asked me to answer it because Denshaw was busy. I let in Dr. Stampf, as you know.”

  “Where is Denshaw, the houseman, now?” O’Hara asked. “I think I’ll have a little talk with him.”

  “Probably in the kitchen,” Penny replied. Straight back to the cross hall, then to the right. Denshaw’s living room is just off the kitchen, too.”

  “Get him, Ed!” O’Hara snapped at Rassman.

  AS RASSMAN hurried away, O’Hara looked at the others again.

  “As I said,” he told them, “Mr. Fargall was murdered. Prussic acid killed him. It was injected in the right hand. When he said a pin had stuck him, he got the poison.”

  “Then Denshaw did it!” Blodger cried. “But why should he?”

  O’Hara signaled for him to be silent, and faced the girl again. “Miss Fargall, how long have you lived here?” he asked.

  “My mother, who was my last surviving relative except Uncle Cecil, died when I was ten. Uncle Cecil brought me here. Almost immediately, I was sent away to school, and that kept up until schooling was over. Then I had a debut, and since that have lived on here, with frequent trips abroad—before the war.”

  “How long has Fred Denshaw been houseman here?”

  “He was here for some years before I came. He really was butler, when Uncle Cecil had a big house staff. He’s been a sort of general handy man since Uncle cut down the staff because of the war. He thought it was the patriotic thing to do. My uncle had his faults, but he was a real patriotic American. I’ll say that for him.”

  “Did he ever have any trouble with Denshaw?” O’Hara asked.

  “I can answer that,” Penny replied. “I’ve heard them several times recently when they seemed to be quarreling, and it surprised me that Uncle Cecil, so proud and arrogant, would tolerate it. I expected him to discharge Denshaw, but he didn’t.”

  “Know what they were quarreling about?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t hear actual words, just their angry voices. And once I saw Denshaw come from the library, and his eyes were blazing and his fists were clenched.”

  Rassman came to the door, and called, and O’Hara hurried out to him. Rassman called to Doc Layne, too.

  “I found the houseman, Denshaw,” Rassman whispered. “He’s on the floor in his own room—dead.”

  “Put the photographer in front of the library door,” O’Hara snapped. “Put the fingerprint man on guard at this door. Call in one of the men outside—Carlson will do—and tell him to stand by here in the hall, Quick!”

  Rassman hurried down the hall toward the door, barking orders.

  “So we’ve got a twister, maybe,” O’Hara said to Doc Layne.

  The men were stationed quickly, then Rassman took O’Hara and Doc down the hall, through the enormous kitchen and to the houseman’s room.

&n
bsp; Denshaw was stretched on the floor, face upward. On the floor beside him was a tumbled Santa Claus costume, as if he had just cast it off. Doc Layne made a swift examination.

  “Same stuff,” he reported. “Puncture and burn in the left hand.”

  Layne went on with his examination while O’Hara and Rassman searched the room.

  “So Fargall and this man had been quarrelin’ about somethin’,” Rassman summed up. “He jabs Fargall and kills him, then comes back to his own room and jabs himself.”

  “With what?” O’Hara said, “We haven’t found a needle.”

  “This man got a heavy shot [al]most instantly,” Layne reported.

  “Would he have had time to [hide a] needle?”

  “I’d say not. He probably dropped a second after he was jabbed. Somebody could have held him, jabbed, waited until the stuff did its work and then dropped him on the floor.”

  O’Hara looked at Rassman. “Ed, let’s assume that Denshaw decided to kill his employer and then commit suicide. If so, why the trickery? Why didn’t he just kill Fargall with a gun or some other weapon and then make away with himself? Why the jab in the hand while playing Santa Claus? And housemen, as a rule, don’t go packing prussic acid and hypo needles. Prussic isn’t easy to get.”

  “I’ve guessed it, Mike—somebody else killed them both,” Rassman decided. “Tried to make it look like Denshaw had killed Fargall and then himself. It’d look good, specially since Fargall and Denshaw had been quarrelin’ about somethin’.”

  “So it seems, Mike,” O’Hara picked up the discarded Santa Claus costume. It was of ordinary red flannel, trimmed in white, and the mask had been tossed down near it. O’Hara sniffed at the costume, then held it for Rassman to sniff.

  “Moth balls,” Rassman said.

  “Right! And why not? They’ve been using this costume each Christmas Eve, and packing it away meanwhile.”

  O’Hara went over to Denshaw’s body, knelt beside it, bent forward and sniffed and sniffed. He motioned for Rassman to do the same.

  “No moth ball smell,” Rassman said.

  “Right again,” O’Hara declared. “Which means that poor Denshaw didn’t have on that Santa Claus costume tonight. Somebody killed him in here as he was preparing to put the costume on. That somebody played Santa Claus in Denshaw’s place—and killed Fargall.”

  “So it’s a twister,” Rassman said.

  “And we’re goin’ to crack it quick,” O’Hara declared. “I’m not going to spend Christmas Day away from my family working on a case. Get out your flashlight and come with me.”

  THEY went out the kitchen door and flashed their lights. There was an inch or more snow on the ground, and tracks were in the snow. They led around the side of to the driveway. The tracks were all alike. Somebody had come around the house and entered, then had gone back the same way.

  “Let’s get inside,” O’Hara said. “Things are commencing to shape up. We’ll get some facts, now, maybe. Keep your mouth shut about things.”

  They went back to the living room. Penny Fargall was sitting on the divan beside Bob Blodger again. Dr. Morgan Stampf was still in his chair, puffing languidly at a cigarette.

  “The houseman, Denshaw, is dead,” O’Hara announced bluntly. “In the same manner. The first reaction was that he killed Mr. Fargall because of their quarrel, and then committed suicide. But certain things now lead us to believe that somebody else killed them both.”

  “Killed them both?” Dr. Stampf cried. “Who could have done it? How—and why?”

  “There is no indication of any stranger being in the house tonight, though such a thing is possible,” O’Hara told them, standing beside Dr. Stampf’s chair. “So . . . well, look at yourselves. Who had the opportunity? Miss Fargall did. Mr. Blodger did. Denshaw did, but he was a victim himself so is out of it.”

  “How dare you suggest such a thing?” Blodger began indignantly.

  “Tut, tut!” O’Hara interrupted, shaking a finger at him. “To me, everybody is guilty until proved innocent. By the way, do any of you happen to know who benefits by Mr. Fargall’s will?”

  “I can tell you something of that,” Dr. Stampf replied. “Mr. Fargall made a new will about a year ago, and consulted me regarding one part of it. And he happened to tell me what he intended doing with the estate.”

  “What?”

  “Large amounts for various charities, of course. A fortune for Penny, his only surviving relative. Denshaw was down for ten thousand dollars for long and faithful service.”

  “And you—?” O’Hara questioned.

  “Mr. Fargall’s wife died of cancer. He spoke to me some years ago about leaving an amount to be used as a special fund for the study of cancer. I was to use the money to found a clinic and build a sanitarium, of which I was to be the supervising director. A splendid idea!”

  “I agree with you,” O’Hara said. “Have you had any recent disagreements with Mr. Fargall?”

  “I? Only because he disregarded my instructions about his diet. He had grown subject to fits of irascibility and was rather difficult at times, as Penny can tell you.”

  “Disagree about anything else?”

  Dr. Morgan Stampf hesitated a moment, puffed his cigarette, took it from his mouth.

  “It must come out, I suppose,” he replied.

  “Mr. Fargall had an idea—and he was a man always fixed in his ideas—that I could make myself famous as director of the cancer clinic. I suggested he found it at once and not wait until after his death and settlement of his estate. He disagreed with me on that. And there was another matter.”

  “What was it?” O’Hara asked.

  “Well—he had ideas about family. He wanted his fortune to remain in the family to a degree, same as many men do. He wanted his niece to be connected in some manner with whatever his money accomplished. That is why he did not want her to marry Mr. Blodger. In fact, he desired a marriage between Penny and myself.”

  “What?” Penny and Blodger cried together. Dr. Stampf smiled slightly. “Yes, Penny, I was the man he meant when he said he wanted you married to an older man with an established reputation. I have never married, you know. I told him the idea was ridiculous, and he grew angry. Not that any man in his right mind would refuse such a bride as you, my dear”—he bowed to Penny—“but my heart interest is elsewhere. I had a college sweetheart. We quarreled and she married another man. Two years ago, she became a widow. We have met and renewed our attachment.”

  “I understand,” O’Hara broke in. “Let’s get back on the beam. You and Fargall fussed about it?”

  “To such an extent that he told me, recently, that if I didn’t agree to a marriage with Penny he would change his will and name another physician to head the clinic.”

  “Well, let’s check on everything,” O’Hara said. “You told me, Dr. Stampf, that you were late for the party here because you had to call on a patient.”

  “Yes. Henry Zeller, who lives in the Royal Arms apartment house a block down the street. He’s rather old and getting almost helpless. Has a nurse continually.”

  “Did he have a bad attack tonight?”

  “Oh, nothing like that!” Dr. Stampf replied. “The nurse wanted to get off to go to a Christmas Eve party. So I called and let her go, then I sat with Mr. Zeller and gave him a sedative that would put him to sleep for hours, so the nurse wouldn’t have to hurry back. When he dozed off and I was sure he was all right, I hurried here.”

  “Remember what time you got here?”

  “A little before nine.”

  “When did you go to visit Zeller?”

  “About eight or a little before. The nurse possibly can verify the time.”

  O’HARA gave Rassman a direct look, and the detective sergeant slipped into the hall quickly. The Squad man, Carlson, appeared to take his place.

  “Dr. Stampf, in fairness to you, I’m having your story checked,” O’Hara told him. “If you people will excuse me for a few minutes, I’ll attend t
o matters and then come back.”

  Doc Layne had made arrangements for the removal of the bodies. The police photographer had flashed bulbs and exposed films. The fingerprints man had searched everywhere for prints. Reporters had got word of Fargall’s death and were waiting outside the front door, held there by O’Hara’s guard.

  O’Hara hurried back to the living room, got from Penny the name of her uncle’s attorney, and went to the library to telephone him and apprise him of Fargall’s death. Then he went out and faced the reporters.

  “Bear with me a little longer, boys, and I’ll give you the whole thing,” he said. “It’ll be a clean-up of the case, I hope. Mr. Fargall was murdered, and so was his old houseman, Fred Denshaw. That’s all for now.”

  He got away from them, slammed the door shut in their faces, and went back along the hall, his head bent, thinking.

  In the living room, he sat down on the end of a couch, lit a cigarette and glanced at the others.

  “Miss Fargall, and you, Blodger, think carefully now before you answer. When did you see Denshaw last?”

  “If he wasn’t the Santa Claus, it was just a little before Santa Claus came to the library,” Penny replied. “Uncle told him it was time for Santa Claus to appear. Denshaw was putting food on the buffet table.”

  “This Santa Claus—did he resemble Denshaw?”

  “Well, we supposed he was Denshaw,” Penny said. “Seemed the same size.”

  “How about his voice?”

  “He never spoke. Uncle never allowed that. Said it broke the illusion to have Santa Claus speak. He just gave us the presents and bowed.”

  “Notice his hands?”

  “He was wearing big fur gloves,” Bob Blodger put in.

  “And very handy when it came to concealing a stubby hypo needle,” O’Hara remarked. “Just before your uncle collapsed, Miss Fargall, did you touch him?”