Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

“I wouldn’t know anything about it.” Stevens’ teeth flashed.

  “Sure? It might have been an umbrella ferule or a swagger stick tip. Sure you’ve never made anything like it?”

  The gypsy’s eyes narrowed. “Positive.”

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Jeff said. “You look back over your old records and see if you can’t find the name of the person for whom you made something similar to this. Not a bullet, of course, but something like it. Then give me a ring.” Jeff slid one of his cards into the outstretched palm. “If your records tell you anything, we’ll talk price later. Right?”

  “I’m positive I’ve never made anything like it, but I’ll look through my records to make sure. One’s memory sometimes plays odd tricks.”

  “Isn’t it the truth?” Jeff said grimly. “Come on, Smitty.”

  Jeff circled the block. A policeman eyed the yellow convertible suspiciously when Jeff slid to a stop beside a fire plug. The car was markedly out of place among the rumbling trucks and horse-drawn drays of the water front.

  “Smitty, I want you to hang around a while. Unless I’m badly mistaken, Stevens is the man who made that bullet. I think he’s going to have a caller very soon.”

  “Right. There was a bar across the street from 72. I’ll wait there. What do you want me to do?”

  “Just keep your eyes open. Notice who goes in. If you don’t know them, get the license number of the car or the cab they arrive in. If you can’t do that, get a good look at them.”

  “OK. I’ll call in when something happens.”

  Back in his office, Jefferson Hunter relaxed in his chair, running over in his mind the salient points concerning the death of Corinne Bogart. Acting on impulse, he picked up the telephone and dialed the medical examiner’s number.

  “Dr Marshall, this is Jeff Hunter. Could you tell me who performed the autopsy on Corinne Bogart? She was shot with a silver bullet about a—”

  “I remember it very well, Mr Hunter. I did the p. m. myself. What did you want to know?”

  “I have an investigation on hand that indirectly ties in with Corinne Bogart’s death. I’ve heard various rumors about her running around with a married man, going away with him on business trips, that sort of thing.”

  “Absolutely untrue. The police were given the same story in an anonymous letter. I believe someone advanced the theory that the girl committed suicide. There was absolutely nothing to it. The girl was straight as a die. She led a normal, wholesome life.”

  “I see. Thanks, doctor.”

  The phone rang as soon as it was hung up.

  “Jeff, this is Smitty. Guess who just walked into Stevens’ shop?”

  “Pamela Bogart.”

  “Aw-w! How did you know?”

  “A little bird told me. Is she still in the shop?”

  “Yes.”

  “She and Stevens will have a lot to discuss. Grab a cab and come back here.”

  “Jeff,” Smitty demanded, when he entered the office ten minutes later, “do you really think she killed her sister?”

  “I’m practically sure of it. The suicide story is an out-and-out fake. I don’t believe anyone on the terrace could have shot Corinne without someone seeing them. I’m betting she was shot from inside the house, probably by Pamela when she was getting the drinks. It has to be that way.”

  Smitty shook his head. “I can’t believe a girl like Pamela Bogart would kill anyone, much less her own sister. She’s so little and pretty. I’m sure you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong, Smitty. Try to figure out what she could have done with the gun. Say she shot Corinne from the living room, picked up the tray of drinks, and stepped to the door just as her sister fell. That’s not impossible. What could she have done with the gun in the meantime?”

  “There wouldn’t be much time. The only thing she could have done with it,” the practical Smitty said, “was to hide it on herself, or drop it in a chair seat—something like that. But she never killed anybody, Jeff.”

  “Don’t bet on it. I wonder how long it was between the time of the actual shooting and the time the police began their search for the gun. I should have asked Bill Gaines. Call the chief and ask him, Smitty.”

  The door of the office swung inward and Chief Gaines stepped into the room. Jeff and Smitty gasped at the sudden appearance of the man they were about to call. The chief’s face wore a look of grim determination. Without speaking, he walked to the center of the office.

  “Speak of the devil!” Jeff recovered himself. “Smitty was just going to phone you, Bill. What’s the matter?”

  “Get your hat, Jeff. You, too, Smitty. We’re going downtown. We’ve a few questions for you boys to answer.”

  “About what?”

  “About murder, Jeff,” the chief answered gravely.

  “Whose?”

  “John Stevens, a silversmith. You attracted the attention of one of my men when you stopped your yellow car near a fire plug. In criminal investigations, Jeff, never make yourself conspicuous.”

  “But—”

  “That isn’t all. Stevens was clutching one of your business cards in his hand when he was shot.”

  An assistant from the DA’s office waved Jeff and Smitty to chairs, and concluded his conversation with Mike Collins. After the seismologist left, he turned to Jeff.

  “You know why you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like an account of your visit to Stevens.”

  Quickly, Jeff outlined his call, omitting only the mention of the bullet.

  “As I see it,” the assistant summed up, “you called on Stevens in an effort to trace the manufacturer of an article for one of your clients. You admit giving him the card he was holding. The name of your client, and the nature of the article, you refuse to tell me on ethical grounds. Is that your story?”

  “That’s it.” Jeff nodded.

  “Then why,” the assistant asked him, “did you station your watchdog in a saloon across the street?”

  With apparent candor, Jeff answered quickly, “To check on Stevens’ visitors.”

  The young man’s eyebrows shot upward. “Were there visitors between the time you two left and the time the body was found?”

  Jeff nodded to Smitty. “Tell him, chum.”

  “One,” Smitty said reluctantly.

  “Who?”

  “I’d rather not say. I’m sure she had nothing to do with the killing of Stevens.”

  “She? Uh-huh! It’s up to the police to decide whether or not she had anything to do with the killing. Who was it, Mr Smith?”

  “I . . . I refuse to say! Ladies’ names—”

  The DA’s man smiled grimly. “Maybe you’ll think differently after a stay in jail.”

  The little man turned hopeful eyes to his boss. “He can’t do that to me, can he, Jeff? You could get me out on a habeas corpus writ? Won’t I have to be charged with something?”

  Jeff grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ll be charged. Probably with being an accessory after the fact, and held without bail. The weather is getting warmer, and I haven’t heard that the jail is air-conditioned.”

  Smitty gulped and looked at the assistant. The DA’s man nodded in agreement.

  “Don’t be a fool, Smitty,” Jeff warned. “Tell him. It will only be a matter of time before someone else comes forward. She’s too much woman to pass the whole street unnoticed.”

  The ringing of the telephone interrupted them. The young assistant picked up the instrument and listened intently. Then he spoke:

  “Who? You’d better come right to headquarters, miss. It’s fortunate you called when you did. I have a man in my office now”—he glanced at Smitty—“who saw you enter the shop, and who can identify you.” He hung up the receiver.

  “That was Pamela Bogart?” Smitty’s eyes flew open. “She’s coming down here?”

  Jeff and the DA’s man exchanged amused glances.

  “Mr Smith”—the assistant leaned forward�
�“was there anyone with Miss Bogart? I should have asked her. What time did she enter the shop? When did she leave?”

  “There was no one with her.” Smitty shook his head sadly. “She entered at a minute or two before noon. The whistles were blowing when I left the saloon. I didn’t wait until she came out.”

  “Thanks. You two can go, now, Mr Hunter, I’m asking for a ruling on your so-called ethical grounds in refusing to answer. Don’t leave town. I may need to get in touch with you.”

  Jeff nodded. “I wouldn’t mind telling you,” he said. “In fact, I’d like to. It’s just a matter of principle. I’ll be glad to hear the result of the ruling, win or lose.”

  “You’ll hear. Don’t worry.”

  “Another thing, will you tell me what Professor Collins was doing here? I mean, assuming his presence was connected with this case?”

  “Yes. Though if you waited, you could read it in the evening papers. Professor Collins found Stevens. The silversmith does quite a bit of work for him, making and repairing scientific instruments.”

  “Thanks. Come on, Smitty.”

  “Now, where?” Smitty demanded, when they were again in the yellow car.

  “To see Professor Collins. Don’t take it so hard, little man. Reconcile yourself to the fact that Pamela killed Stevens. If you didn’t have a closed mind, you’d have realized it long ago.”

  “Says you!” Smitty snapped. “If you didn’t have a closed mind, you’d see Collins killed him, and then pretended that he was already dead. It adds up—”

  “To zero! Smitty, you’re a darn good accountant. You can always tell me who swiped the stamp when a corporation’s ten-million-dollar balance sheet is three cents out, but murder investigations are different. You don’t understand them. Look what you did back there.”

  “What did I do?” demanded Smitty belligerently.

  “Nothing very important. They would have found out it was Pamela Bogart, sooner or later. Your handing it to them on a platter just made it easier.”

  “Jeff!” Smitty grabbed his boss’ arm. “Wasn’t that call on the level?”

  “Of course it wasn’t. If you’d been paying attention, you’d have seen the DA’s man press a button under the edge of the desk. It rang a telephone bell.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Jeff?”

  “Because I like you, Smitty. Besides, I need you in my work, other work than this sort of thing, which, incidentally, I am indulging in only because I’d like to see Pamela Bogart get a little of the punishment that’s due her. Here’s the college.”

  The car coasted to a stop before the science building. Jeff and Smitty followed an attendant who led them down into the subbasement where the seismograph recording instruments were located. Professor Michael Collins rose from behind a desk and came to meet them, with hand outstretched.

  “Sorry I wasn’t introduced by Mr Bogart this morning.” The professor smiled. “He’s funny that way. My first name is Mike.”

  “Hello, Mike.” Jeff shook hands. “This is Smitty. Mr Z. Z. Smith, my assistant.”

  “Hello, Smitty,” Mike said. “Are you the Z. Z. Smith who worked out the simplified percentage tables?”

  “Why, yes. Yes, I am. You know, I haven’t thought of those for years. Where did you learn about them?”

  “I’m naturally interested in anything mathematical. A friend of mine tipped me off to them. I’ve found the tables useful in long-distance earthquake computations. Just a minute, I have one here. I—”

  “If you’ll forgive me, Mike,” Jeff said, “you and Smitty can carry it on later. I’ve an investigation on my hands that has to be made fast.”

  “Sorry. I let my enthusiasm run away with me. We’ll get together later, Smitty. What can I do for you, Jeff?”

  “They tell me you were engaged to Corinne Bogart, and were present the night she was murdered. Would you mind giving me your story of that evening?”

  Mike Collins told the same story they had heard from Chief Gaines.

  When he finished, Jeff asked, “How much time would you say elapsed between the actual shooting and the search for the gun?”

  “I don’t know exactly. An hour, or an hour and a half. After Corinne was shot, we were pretty excited. I carried her upstairs to her bedroom.”

  “You mean, you actually moved the body?” Smitty asked, aghast. “Even I know better than to do that.”

  “Yes, I knew better, too. But Mr Bogart had already lifted her from the floor. I couldn’t see where moving her again would make any difference.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Someone called the doctor. He didn’t arrive until fifteen or twenty minutes later. He pronounced her dead, then he came down to the library and had a drink. Finally, he asked what was keeping the police.”

  “And what was detaining the police?”

  “No one had called them. Everyone thought someone else had done it. They were called then, but I guess it was at least an hour after the shooting before they got there. First a radio car, and eventually the men from homicide.”

  “So anyone could have disposed of the gun in the meantime.”

  “Yes.” Mike nodded. “Anyone could. The case was badly handled. Of course, losing Corinne had stunned me. I guess, among us all, we messed it up.”

  “Where was everyone before the search began?”

  “I haven’t any idea. I can only answer for myself. I carried Corinne upstairs and stayed with her until the doctor threw a sheet over her face. Then I came down to the library and waited until the police came. Everyone was moving around.”

  “I see. Mike, what is your candid opinion of Wendell Bogart?”

  Mike grinned sheepishly, and began polishing his glasses. “He’s all right, I guess. Though he is apt to forget he lives in a democracy.”

  Jeff watched the seismologist closely. “Was Bogart ever poor?”

  “No, I don’t believe he was. His father patented a number of appliances for use in filling stations—self-coiling hoses, automatic dispensers, fire extinguishers and things like that. I don’t mean to imply that Mr Bogart isn’t smart. He is. He has his own personal workshop and laboratory in the basement of his home. He’s made improved working models of all the patented devices upon which the original Bogart fortune was founded.”

  “I see. Mike, how are you fixed financially?”

  Mike Collins’s eyes widened. “Why, I’m very well off, Jeff. I have about ten thousand dollars set aside and my job. My work is well endowed, thanks to Corinne. I should say I’m very well off indeed.”

  “What is your salary?” Jeff asked. “You don’t have to answer that one, Mike. You can tell me where to go.”

  “I don’t mind telling you. Three thousand a year. Out of that, I save three or four hundred.”

  “Thank you very much, Mike. Come along, Smitty.”

  “What do you think of him, Jeff?” Smitty asked, when they were back in the office.

  “He’s A-1 in my book. I hope you appreciate your salary now!”

  “Yes, Jeff, I do appreciate it. Why else do you think I work for you?” Smitty grinned.

  “I’ll be damned! You’re certainly frank! I’d hope you liked me. Do you still think Mike killed Corinne Bogart or John Stevens?”

  “Oh, he couldn’t have done it, Jeff. He’s much too honest.”

  “Yes, he’s honest. He’s also read your simplified interest table.”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” Smitty snapped.

  The ringing of the telephone interrupted their conversation. Automatically, Smitty answered, and shoved the extension to Jeff.

  “This is Pamela Bogart, Jeff. I must see you, alone. It’s important! Jeff, I’m afraid. I’m in the bar at the Normandy. Please come!”

  “You’ve nothing to be afraid of, beautiful,” Jeff taunted. “Gals like you seldom burn for murder. The gallant juries always compromise on life imprisonment. You’ll be out in about twelve years, if you ever go in.”

  �
��Don’t be so hateful, Jeff. Please come. If it’s a fee you want, I’ll buy your time.”

  Jeff slammed down the phone.

  Smitty smiled. “You’ve got a blind spot about her, Jeff.”

  “Who else could have committed the murders?”

  “There were about eight people at the dinner. Why pick on her?”

  “Listen, Smitty. The police aren’t stupid. They handle hundreds of murder investigations. They know what they’re doing. Occasionally, they louse up a case, but you can bet they didn’t louse up this one. It’s too important. They’ve eliminated all suspects but Pamela.”

  “And the possibility of suicide,” Smitty reminded him. “You have to consider that.”

  “Nuts! The police don’t seriously consider it. They don’t actually say Pamela’s the murderer, but they don’t offer any other solution. I have no doubt that the police consider this an unproved murder rather than an unsolved one.”

  “Jeff, do me a favor. Please!” Smitty looked at his boss with pleading eyes that reminded Jeff of a faithful hound.

  “Here’s where I become a sucker again. What is it, Smitty?”

  “Go see Pamela. Try to keep an open mind like you do when we make a commercial investigation. Just this once, Jeff. You listened to me on the Wagner oil deal and I was right.”

  “You win, Smitty. I’ll see her. Stick around until I get back.”

  III

  Pamela Bogart looked up and smiled when Jeff entered the Normandy bar. She slid closer to the inside of the bench in the booth she was occupying alone. Jeff ignored the invitation and sat opposite her.

  “You don’t look like a person who has just shot and killed a man,” he opened the conversation curtly. “How did you get out so soon?”

  “I haven’t killed anybody. Why shouldn’t they release me? Why should I kill a man I buy my jewelry from? My lawyer explained all that to—”

  “So you took your lawyer down with you?”

  “Naturally. Jeff, why must you be so hateful?”

  “Because I don’t like murderers. You saw me examine that silver box. You knew I was looking for the maker’s mark. When Stevens called you and told you I had offered to buy information about the bullet, you lost no time in putting him out of the way. Probably he had been blackmailing you, anyway. Did you drop the gun you used into the harbor?”