by Jerry eBooks
They went careening down the other side of the tree-and-rock-covered hill and for a while the convertible rocked dangerously on its springs. Once the dented rear mudguard scraped rasping warning on the tire beneath it. Then, suddenly, they were on a paved surface again.
In a surprisingly short time they pulled up in front of a pleasant-looking if small white house backing a small patch of lawn with low privet hedge in front of it. A driveway ran alongside it to a garage in back.
“Take the car down the street and park it,” said Jimmy to Dawn. “On the other side. And for Pete’s sake, keep your lights off, emergency brake light and all. Got it?”
“Got it,” said Dawn. “And, honey, please be careful. After two years of worrying about you in the Army, I don’t want anything to happen to you now.”
“We made it at that,” said Potter, who had jumped out and was peering around for evidence of the other car. “Nice going, Miss Barton.”
Jimmy slipped out then with a farewell squeeze of Dawn’s hand to join the chief. The girl drove on as ordered for a hundred yards or so, pulled in under a towering elm on the other side.
Chief Potter walked directly toward the front door, but Jimmy laid a restraining hand on his arm.
“Over here,” he whispered, nodding to a spot beside the door where a lighted window showed.
Potter hesitated briefly, then joined him. Both men melted into the shrubbery that rose close to the foundations.
Through the window they could see Rick Carden. He was no longer a suave article. His coat was off, his evening waistcoat unbuttoned, his wing collar and tie removed. Deep in an armchair, with a glass in his hand, his face was a mask of enraged frustration. His well-cut nose was red from sneezing.
“He don’t look happy,” whispered the chief. “But then I never saw a killer who did.”
“Shhhhh!” said Jimmy, as a car with lights on appeared down the street. It drew to a halt, still bucking.
“She’s got trouble with her gears,” muttered the chief.
“No,” whispered Jimmy. “I jammed her emergency brake before I came into the house.”
The look Potter threw him was eloquent. Then both men ceased to converse and concentrated utterly on the movements of the two they were watching.
MRS. WADE moved rapidly up the walk. She did not pause to ring the doorbell, but opened the door with her own key. A moment later they saw Carden jump to his feet as she came into the room where he sat.
“Marian!” he said. “Are you crazy?”
To their surprise, the listeners could hear. Looking up, Jimmy saw that the window under which they crouched was open at the top.
“You’re jolly well right I’m crazy!” cried the millionaire’s wife. “So you knew Olin wouldn’t crack down on you because of me, and figured you’d run out on me!”
“For heaven’s sake, Marian, I covered you up when you lost your head tonight—and stuck my own neck out with the police.”
“You were planning to leave me married to that old bag of tired flesh!” cried the ex-actress.
Even in anger the beauty of her trained British enunciation did not fail her. She was lovely, standing there in the green and silver evening dress, with a sable cloak tossed carelessly across her shoulders—lovely and utterly, dangerously mad.
“You didn’t have to kill Anne,” said Carden. “What harm had she done you?”
“Stop spoofing, Rick,” said Marian. “I told the little tramp I’d have her run out of town if she didn’t let you go. And then she tried to blackmail me on the tourist camp business. She knew all right.”
“She and the rest of Laketown,” said Carden coolly. “I was merely trying to spare your feelings.”
“Rick!” The woman’s cry was anguished. “And I thought you were merely waiting until I could get a divorce. That was our agreement, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” said Carden, lifting his glass to look at it against the light, “until I found I didn’t need the money any more. I’m doing all right—or I was, until tonight.”
“Rick, then you don’t love me?” The voice was low and heavy with anguish.
“Are—you—kidding?” was the brutal response.
Marian Wade drew the pistol from the silver mesh bag in her hands, drew it and pointed it at Rick Carden’s chest. He didn’t see it for a moment. When he did, he dropped his glass. “Marian, for—”
The rest was drowned in the heavy bark of the service gun in Potter’s hand. Jimmy struck at the chief’s hand before he could fire again, but it was too late. Potter’s aim had been too good.
Marian Wade lay dead on the carpet, her silver-red hair slowly turning a darker hue . . .
* * * * *
“There’s one thing you’ve got to tell me,” said Dawn when, with the first streaks of morning with its earliest yellow-gray tints in the eastern sky, Jimmy climbed wearily into the car beside her in front of the town’s one police station.
“I don’t have to tell you a thing,” he replied, and stifled a yawn.
“None of that,” said Dawn. “You knew it was Marian, right after we left the charming Mr. Phelps.”
“I was pretty sure it had to be,” said Jimmy.
“But how? I still can’t believe it. I knew poor Marian was high-strung, but a killer!”
“Poor Marian was an actress,” said Jimmy. “She was playing her biggest role right here—how to be lady of the manor until she could get away with a sizable chunk of the Wade exchequer. It takes a type of madness to conceive of such a role. And when she found her fellow player was not only laughing at her but was planning to ring in a new lead in her place, she blew up.”
“But how did you know?”
“There were a number of indications. First, I doubt if a man present, even including the unestimable Rick Carden, would stab his worst enemy with a pie knife. And at a party. That was an act of hysterical, feminine passion if ever I saw one.”
“Don’t go superior male on me,” warned Dawn.
“I’m not, honey, but a woman like Marian Wade is an inferior being—just as a man who is trained to win his way by conniving and trickery is. But you gave me the second clue.”
DAWN’S eyes opened wide.
“I did?” she asked in astonishment.
“You did, honey, while we were driving to see our friend, Mr. Phelps. I’ve always been suspicious of this elderly-husband-beautiful-young-wife-devoted-swain setup.”
“That’s because you have a nasty mind, Jimmy.”
“It was just as well that I did tonight,” he replied. “I kept turning it over, and one of the possibilities I thought of was the one which turned out to be true. And then, when Marian tried to run me down, I was sure.”
“Do you have to mention that?”
“I do if you want to know how I spotted her. In the first place, it was a stupid stunt—the same sort of stupid stunt the murder itself was. There were too many possibilities of being seen, too many of failure. It showed a hysterical person gone over the edge of sanity.”
“But I don’t at all see how that spelled Marian.”
“If you’ll remember,” Jimmy went on, “that it is highly improbable she saw me until she switched her lights on, you should get it. You don’t? Okay, Watson, remember which side of the alley it was that she was driving on?”
“Oh, Jimmy—it was the wrong side!”
“Yes, because we were parked on the wrong side the other way, and there was plenty of room for three cars to pass us. But it was the right side for an Englishwoman. And an English driver, under the stress of great emotion or fear is apt to revert, no matter how many years he has been over here. I’ve seen enough of our boys in England smashed up just that way.”
“And I never thought of it,” said Dawn.
“And that’s why Brother Phelps was afraid to talk, even under duress. Marian had paid him to keep quiet and he was afraid of the Wade influence. He wanted to stay in business. Then when we got back to your house and the other ca
r was still hot, I was sure. So I jammed the emergency brake with cardboard and had you lock your car.”
“But, Jimmy,” said Dawn, looked at him with almost frightened eyes, “that means you were expecting her to listen in and do what she did.”
“She had to listen in. Her life was at stake. I couldn’t be sure whether she would crash in on us and try to frame Carden, or would go and try to kill him. So I arranged it for either break. And your uncle fixed that by his amazing frankness. It told her Carden had been playing her for a prize sap. She couldn’t take that. Not tonight.”
“Jimmy, that’s Machiavellian!” Dawn wailed. “I’ll never be able to get away with anything.”
“Anything but murder,” said Jimmy, gathering her into his arms.
They kissed, but not for long. It was broken as if by mutual consent.
“Jimmy,” said Dawn, “I feel like a heel. There’s Uncle Olin—he’s lost a lot tonight. His wife and the man whom he relied on most at the plant. He’s going to be an awfully lonely man.”
“It is probable,” said Jimmy, “that his amazing philosophy can stand even this double shock. But in case he finds it difficult, maybe you and I can help him out.”
MORGUE REUNION
Norman A. Daniels
There were four at the corner table of the exclusive restaurant. Four men ranging in years from Tommy Nast’s twenty-five to Walter Manning’s forty-seven.
Of them, the outstanding one, as far as looks were concerned, was Pete Reed, an attorney. Reed was the tallest, the most carefully dressed—and the most puzzled.
“Now, listen,” he said slowly, “I insist that someone did phone me and invite me to this little affair. I didn’t just walk in, see you three and join you. The man who phoned didn’t give a name. I did not recognize his voice, although I assumed that he expected I did.”
“What difference does it make, Peter?” Tommy Nast queried. “You’re welcome anyway.”
“Certainly you are.” Thirty-year-old Willis Lally beamed over his cocktail glass. “We’re all friends.”
Walter Manning, the eldest, had a few fringes of hair left at the sides of his head. He had a nervous habit of brushing them back, as if they were thick, curly tresses. He was a manufacturer, successful and poised.
“Just the same,” he added his bit, “it’s odd that whoever of us invited you could have forgotten doing so, Peter. We three alone knew about this little dinner. In fact, the dinner has no real meaning at all. Just a friendly get-together of Martha Nast’s grandnephew, her prospective grandson-inlaw—if you ever get the nerve to ask Nancy, Willis.”
Willis Lally laughed and called for more drinks.
Manning went on, “And lastly, myself. All three of us owe a great deal to Martha Nast. Without her help, I could never have got my start in business. And you are her attorney, Peter, so you’re in the family too, practically.”
“Well,” Peter Reed chuckled, “it doesn’t make any difference how I got here. I’m here and I intend to enjoy myself. First evening off I’ve had in weeks. Incidentally, how is your great-aunt or grandaunt, or whatever she is, Tommy?”
Tommy Nast nodded and waved his upraised glass. “She’s a tough old lady, Pete. Two weeks ago she reached eighty-eight and said she felt fifty. She acts fifty too. It’s a lucky thing I’m not the kind that sits and broods waiting for her to die so that I’ll get my half of her money. The fact is, I wish she’d live forever. Even if it meant that I had to go to work.”
They laughed at that. Peter glanced up at a clock on the further wall. It was nine-twenty, and he remembered to set his watch which had run down. A waiter was approaching the table. He bowed slightly.
“Mr. Manning, you are wanted on the telephone, sir. The first booth from the checkroom, sir.”
Manning arose. “Excuse me, fellows. Be right back. Business follows a man wherever he goes.”
They talked about Manning while he was gone. About his struggles for success as a manufacturing chemist. Of his products which were good, but needed expensive promotion and how Martha Nast had furnished the necessary money. The biggest break a man ever got, they all agreed.
Manning returned, frowning slightly. “That was one of my employees. He tells me that James Burnett is dead. They found his body a short time ago. He was murdered.”
Peter Reed stood up instantly. “I’m sorry, boys. I’ve got to go. Oh, Manning, is the James Burnett you mentioned, the man who is your friendly business rival?”
“Why, yes. I don’t know any other James Burnett.”
“And he was murdered?”
“That’s what Ed—the fellow who called me—said. He got it over the radio a few moments ago on a news broadcast. What’s wrong Peter? You seem upset. Naturally, we all are because we all knew him. He was a friend of Martha Nast just as we are, but I didn’t think he was close enough to cause that expression I see in your face now.”
“I’m very sorry,” Peter Reed said again. Then he turned and walked abruptly away. After a few more minutes, Tommy Nast called for the check, paid it, and the other three men left.
Peter Reed hailed a taxi and had himself driven straight to the building where he maintained his offices. They were on the seventeenth floor and spoke in silent eloquence of success. He unlocked the door, for it was long after regular business hours, stepped in and closed the door behind him. Then, on a hunch, he double-locked the door.
In his private office he dropped hat and topcoat on a chair, walked purposefully to a large steel cabinet and unlocked this with a key from his pocket. He took out a metal fireproof box which had been tucked far back in the steel locker.
Peter Reed sat down behind his desk, reached for the box and then hesitated. He got up again, went to the window and started to draw the shade. It was stuck. He yanked impatiently at it because the shade was new and should have worked. Still it wouldn’t so he finally gave up and wondered why he’d ever spent the money for it anyhow. Shades on the windows of an office building of this modern type were not exactly usual.
He unlocked the steel box. It contained a single long, legal-sized and sealed envelope. He leaned back, holding the envelope up before his eyes. It was inscribed in a woman’s handwriting. The script was that of someone educated many years ago. It was almost Spencerian.
OPEN ONLY IN THE EVENT OF THE VIOLENT DEATH OF JAMES BURNETT AND IF ANY PERSON IS DIRECTLY ACCUSED OF JAMES BURNETT’S MURDER.
Peter laid the envelope down. As an attorney, his duties were plain. Mrs. Martha Nast had sent him this envelope almost ten months ago. The instructions were plain. He could not open it yet. Only one part of the conditions had been fulfilled. James Burnett had died violently, but as yet no one had been directly accused of his murder. Until that happened, the envelope must remain sealed.
Very reluctantly, he put it back in the tin box and reflected that his hunch about it was being fulfilled. He’d deemed the envelope so unusual and perhaps important, that he hadn’t placed it in the office safe to which his employees had access. He’d selected the steel locker in which only his own things were kept and to which only he had a key.
“But maybe someone has been arrested for his murder,” Reed mused aloud.
He lifted the phone and called Police Headquarters, He was told that an investigation was being made, but that so far no one had been arrested. So the envelope could not be opened. He put the steel box back in the locker. For a moment he was tempted to phone Martha Nast about it, but decided against that. Mrs. Nast had issued strict instructions. She’d expect them to be carried out.
Peter Reed drifted into a movie later on. He wanted to get rid of the morbid feeling that had taken possession of his brain. The movie, light as it was, didn’t provide the cure. He bought a newspaper and read the article on Burnett’s murder for the first time.
There wasn’t much, so far. Burnett had been alone at his home. His wife had been out for a short time. When she returned, she found him sprawled on the living-room floor. He had been shot
through the back of the head and probably never knew what hit him or who had used the gun. The police stated that they expected to make an arrest soon. A picture of Burnett’s wife was included in the article. She seemed young and very attractive.
Reed crumpled the newspaper and dropped it into the next refuse can. He went straight home to his apartment and tried to get a good night’s sleep.
He had only moderate success in that endeavor for he was possessed of an ominous foreboding. As Martha Nast had prophesied that James Burnett would be murdered—and that prophecy came true—probably the rest of her forecast would be true also. Someone was going to be arrested for the murder.
The morning papers had it. Burnett’s wife had been locked up and formally charged with the murder of her husband. Police stated that she had been seen near the house, acting in a suspicious manner just before the time of the killing. She maintained she had been far from the house at that time.
Furthermore, the police claimed, Mrs. Burnett was much younger than her husband, very attractive. She admitted she had taken steps to obtain a divorce only a matter of days ago, and the dead man had warned her he’d fight the action bitterly.
But what really made Reed gasp was the identity of the man with whom Mrs. Burnett said she was in love. It was Tommy Nast! Instantly Reed’s mind began to click. That strange phone call inviting him to the dinner. Tommy could have made it to establish an airtight alibi for the time of the killing. He wasn’t a particularly strong character, inclined toward laziness and probably not above guarding himself while his intended bride-to-be murdered her husband.
Reed didn’t finish breakfast. He rushed back to the office. For a moment or two he held his breath as he went in. He was quite calm as he took the steel box from the locker, placed it on his desk and used his key again.
The envelope was still there. He didn’t hesitate now. With a letter opener he slit the flap, pulled out the contents and muttered a curse.
The fairly thick envelope was filled with nothing but some sheets torn from a catalogue. A poultry catalogue, if the pictures meant anything.