Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “What are you getting at?” the Captain growled.

  “Listen,” I said. “Hall was bumped off on the deck of a yacht that was running through a midnight storm. He was on deck, alone, fussing with a light cable and waiting for Crasby to bring the tools up from below.”

  I stood up and actually stabbed my finger at the Captain.

  “How’s this for a hunch?” I asked. “The killer thought it was Crasby working on that cable!”

  There were some grunts from the people around me.

  “Sure,” I said. “The killer knew Hall had ordered Crasby up on deck to repair the running light cable and stowaway the sun deck furniture. The killer waited awhile after Crasby and Hall had gone above and then got that wrench, crept up on deck, saw the big target fussing with the cable and let ‘er go. Wouldn’t the killer be expected to find a deck hand, rather than the owner, up there, in the rain?”

  I looked around the circle of faces. They were beginning to show some interest, and I continued.

  “Two big men dressed alike, or near enough alike in that darkness—it would be a natural mistake. Crasby, remember, went below for the tools and passed the master’s suite on his way to the tool locker. The killer caught a glimpse of Crasby, took him for Hall going to his rooms, and made for the deck and what was supposed to be Crasby. After the wrench landed, it was too late. The killer couldn’t tell everybody that it was all a mistake, that it was Crasby who was supposed to be killed. The killer had to get rid of Hall.”

  “But who—” the Captain began.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Suppose Crasby was the one slated to be killed. Who would want to kill a deck hand and why? But our Jupiter had led a varied life. He’d been all over and he’d seen a lot. He served time in California. California! Does that ring a bell?”

  “Miss Madison hails from California,” somebody said, “but what does that prove?”

  “Miss Madison,” I said, “claims to be a descendant of a president. Lance Hall was nuts about family. He wouldn’t marry a girl without a spreading family tree, all good, without one rotten limb. Now suppose—”

  “Suppose that family was the bunk,” the Captain interrupted. “Suppose Miss Madison made it up as she went along. Suppose she had a California background that wasn’t so hot. And suppose Crasby had known her, recognized her, met up with her by accident or design and put the screws to her with a little blackmail.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “When Hall was killed, Crasby must have guessed that he was the one intended to go over the side. That’s why he called me at Headquarters; that and maybe with the purpose of applying a little more pressure to Thyra, getting more dough by threatening to tell the cops what he knew and what he suspected.”

  I SETTLED back in my chair. I felt pretty good, for a change.

  “And it was raining cats and dogs when Lance Hall was killed,” I said. “The killer couldn’t help but get wet. And only one person aboard the Serpentine changed her clothes during that lull in the poker party—Thyra Madison, or whatever her name is.”

  “Let’s go, boys,” the Captain said.

  Well, it turned out the way I theorized it, after Thyra finally broke down. She’d been a B-girl on the gambling barge Crasby worked on. She had another name then. She hit it lucky one night in Las Vegas and cleaned up at craps, decided to make a new start, came East, took on her new name. She was an intelligent gal and she made her way. She met Lance Hall and decided he was for her.

  Then, when everything seemed to be turning out just dandy, who should show up as a deck hand for her fiancée but Jupiter Crasby. Jupiter didn’t waste any time putting the bee on her for dough. He had clippings, including photographs, that would have ruined Thyra. She paid but Crasby got more and more demanding. She decided to kill him and she waited for her chance.

  She heard Hall order Crasby to stow the deck furniture against the approaching storm. She waited until Crasby had done the job, then disarranged the furniture again. It was she who told Hall his orders hadn’t been carried out and she watched Crasby go on deck with Hall. She saw Crasby near the master’s bedroom and thought it was Hall, come below to get into something dry, leaving Crasby above. She’d already stashed the wrench, and she slipped up on deck, banged the big target across the back of the head and slid him over the rail. She said she didn’t know her mistake until the last second when, horrified, she watched her fiancée, the man who spelled security for her, plunge down into the water. Then she went below, changed into dry clothes and walked back to the saloon.

  Thyra had to play out her hand, wrecked as it was. She watched Crasby like a hawk, knowing he suspected. When Crasby and I went below to the tool locker, she got her gun and followed us, crouched at the head of the companionway. She heard Crasby start to spill, snapped off the lights and shot him.

  About the Bensons, Griff Benson had a suspicion that his wife was carrying on with Lance and he knew, too, that Lance didn’t love Alice and never had. When Lance turned up missing, Griff was afraid Alice had something to do with his disappearance. He tried to protect her by the story of Lance drinking heavily.

  By the same token, Alice knew of her husband’s difficulties with Lance. She thought Griff might have had something to do with Hall going overboard, and that’s why she sounded off about the yacht “rolling horribly,” to make an accident more logical.

  The others, Allen and Miss Turgeon, didn’t have anything to do with it at all, even if they did make pretty fair suspects there for awhile.

  Thyra Madison, or whatever her name really is? She’s still awaiting trial. She’ll probably ask for a jury trial. With that beautiful face, she just might get off with something less than first degree murder, too.

  COMPLICATION MURDER!

  Charles Molyneux Brown

  Killers Are Always Underestimating Cops. Or Maybe It’s the Other Way Around

  IT WAS a swanky, impressive setup, that reception office of Wharton, Bond, Allan and Wharton’s. The firm was just about the most important legal outfit in town. They specialized in representing corporations and top bracket individualists.

  They handled no divorces and no criminal practice.

  Ever since I had gotten the phone call asking me to drop over and see the junior partner, Mr. Eustic Wharton, I’d been wondering what they could want with a small-fry private eye like Rob Riddle. I’d been waiting five minutes now to find out.

  Eustic Wharton’s secretary came out of his private office and nodded at me. “Mr. Wharton will see you now, Mr. Riddle,” she said, and shut the door behind me when I went in there.

  The man at the broad desk glanced up at me and put down some papers. He was maybe thirty-five, a little silver at his temples and a pair of cool eyes in a sharply chiseled face. He had a nice shoulder build and was wearing a coat that set it off.

  He said, “Sit down, Riddle. I’ll have to be brief, because I’m due in a conference shortly. Just so there will be no time wasted, are you in position to give your full time to a matter for a few days?”

  I relaxed in his leather-padded visitors’ chair. The chilly eyes were running over me appraisingly. “I could,” I said, “if it was worth while and a job I could risk handling.”

  “Inspector Sorrels mentioned you when I asked him to recommend a private detective. He said you were bright enough to be fairly competent, and reasonably honest. He added that you protected your clients’ interests and that you were also cooperative with the police. In your business I imagine that last could sometimes prove difficult.”

  “I got along with the cops,” I said. “I’m a little flattered, though, to hear that Tim Sorrels thinks well of me. He’s never let me know that.”

  He smiled a thin smile. “I think you’ll find the job something your conscience will permit you to take on, Riddle, and the compensation satisfactory. Does the name Dahl son sound solid and respectable?”

  The Dahlson Company was a name known wherever farm implements could be peddled. The main plant and executive
offices were here in Center City, where the founder had been born. His widow still lived in the big mansion he had built forty years back.

  “I’ve noticed the name on a few acres of plants, and over branches in a lot of towns I’ve been in,” I admitted. “It’s a solid name, all right.”

  “Exactly. Our firm has represented The Dahlson Company for years. I personally look after legal and many other matters for Mrs. Christina Dahlson, who owns eighty per cent of the implement company stock and other valuable properties that make her worth twenty million dollars at a conservative estimate. Mrs. Dahlson is the party requiring your services.”

  That needled me, but I kept my face smooth and didn’t say anything. I’d never worked for a client worth twenty million bucks. But I thought I’d like the experience.

  “You know the location of the Dahlson residence, of course,” he went on briskly. Mrs. Dahlson lives there with an efficient household staff. Physically she is an invalid, badly crippled by arthritis. Mentally she is extraordinarily competent. She will explain to you just what she wants done. She wouldn’t intimate to me what it was when she asked me to send her a reliable private detective.”

  HE FROWNED on that last, and sounded like maybe he didn’t exactly approve of his client not letting him in on the business.

  “When can I see the party?” I asked, keeping the eagerness out of my tones.

  “This afternoon. I suggest your going right out there. I will telephone Mrs. Dahlson’s secretary that you are coming.”

  “Anything else I should know, Mr. Wharton, before I get on the job?”

  “Be discreet and close-mouthed, Riddle. I’m sorry I can’t give you more detailed information about the job. I imagine it will be a fairly simple matter, but if it should become complicated, don’t hesitate to call on me for advice. I would also suggest that you be careful with your tongue if you meet a chap named Dyess, and he becomes curious about things.”

  “How about giving me a slight line on this Dyess party?” I hinted.

  “Buford Dyess is a son of Mrs. Dahlson’s deceased husband’s sister, and a bachelor. He hovers about the old lady a lot. He has a well paid job with the implement company, but actually he’s a lightweight.” His lip curled a little. “He’s slightly on the nosey side, if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded. “Thanks. I know how to deal with the type.”

  He glanced at his watch then. “Excuse me now. That conference is coming up. You’re on your own, Riddle. Good luck!”

  He was reaching for a telephone when I left the private office. When I got down to the building lobby the clock there registered 2:10. It took me about fifteen minutes to wheel my car out to the Dahlson place on Cypress Drive.

  SET back on a wide; deep lot studded with oaks and cedars, it was a nice pile of red brick, with colonial pillars in front like a state house. There was a shiny blue Buick convertible parked in the driveway circle before the porch. I anchored my heap behind it and trotted up to the door.

  I thumbed a push-button and pretty quick a character who looked like a cartoon drawing of an undertaker opened up a crack. He was the first butler I’d ever seen working and I didn’t like the way he looked down his nose at me. I wasn’t peddling brushes.

  “Surely someone told you I was coming out to see Mrs. Dahlson, didn’t they, Jeeves?” I cracked. “Open wider. I’m coming in.”

  I did just that, shouldering past him pretty rough. My mother taught me manners but they’d gotten rusty following my trade.

  “But you can’t see Mrs. Dahlson!” he squawked. “She never sees strangers. I must ask you to leave immediately!”

  I poked my overcoat and hat into his arms. “Dump the wraps somewhere and take me to Mrs. Dahlson,” I clipped. “She’s expecting me.”

  Somewhere from behind me a man’s voice cracked sharply. “I’ll take care of this, Rita! What’s going on here, Darden?”

  I pivoted quick. A chap who was big in his clothes but on the flabby side was footing it across what I took to be a drawing room in a house like this. A young woman was hurrying after him.

  “This person, Mr. Dyess, forced himself into the house!” the butler sputtered. “He insists on seeing your aunt!”

  The chap bellied up to me, bristling. “You can’t pull a cheap trick like that here, fellow,” he rumbled. “Get out!”

  “Buford, wait!” The young woman caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “Mrs. Dahlson is expecting a caller. I forgot to tell Darden.”

  She was quite a dish. Blonde, curvy and with cover-girl features. I noticed that her lip makeup was smeary, and lamping the flabby guy’s mouth I saw where she’d lost some of it. They hadn’t been discussing the weather in the drawing room.

  “Are you Mr. Robert Riddle?” she popped at me, and when I nodded: “Oh, I’m sorry! Mrs. Dahlson seldom has visitors, and then only old friends. You must excuse Darden!” Buford Dyess backed off from me and scowled at her. “Why didn’t you tell me this man was coming here, Miss Kirk? What business could he have with my aunt? She doesn’t know the fellow.”

  “I just didn’t think to mention it, Mr. Dyess.” They were getting formal, either for my benefit or the butler’s. “Mr. Eustis J. Wharton telephoned and asked me to inform your aunt that he was sending Mr. Riddle out to see her. He didn’t say, but I suppose it’s about legal business.”

  Dyess looked at me and sniffed. I got the idea that mention of the Wharton name irritated him. “Are you from that law office?” he demanded nastily.

  “I just came from there about fifteen minutes back,” I said. “When do I see Mrs. Dahlson?”

  Dyess glowered and looked as if he’d like to take a sock at me. I’d have returned it happily if he’d tried it. The blonde gave me a wide smile.

  “If you’ll come with me, Mr. Riddle, there will be no further delays,” she said, honey-toned. “This way, please.”

  She started up the broad stairs to upper floors. I grinned at Dyess and followed six treads behind her. From that angle I could see that she had very nice legs, right up to nylon tops.

  She stopped at a door on the second-floor hallway. “This is Mrs. Dahlson’s sitting-room. Excuse me while I find out if she is prepared to receive you.”

  She tapped at the door, took a peek in and then opened up wide, nodding for me to follow her inside. I stepped into a bright, pleasant room that smelled a little like a greenhouse. Over before wide windows crowded with potted plants was a little old lady seated in a small wheel chair by a table.

  She was boring me with the brightest pair of jet black eyes I’d ever seen in a person of her age, which I put at seventy or better. She had a black lace cap over wispy gray curls. Her face was a wrinkled russet, and her knees made knobby lumps under her rusty black skirt. The knuckles of her hands, on the arms of the chair, were knotted and swollen.

  “This is Me. Riddle, Mrs. Dahlson. The gentleman Mr. Wharton phoned about,” the blonde presented me.

  I made a bow I hoped showed respect for twenty million bucks.

  “How do you do, Mr. Riddle?” the old lady greeted me, nodding toward a chair. “Sit down, please. Smoke if you like, but do deposit your ashes in the tray. . . . Miss Kirk, will you close the bedroom door? And then you may leave us.”

  I THOUGHT the blonde looked disappointed. I watched her cross over and softly close a door opening off a bedroom. She hesitated then, and the old lady jerked her head impatiently at the hallway door. The blonde left us, her mouth sulky, and that door jarred a little closing behind her.

  I settled in the chair. The old lady ran those bright eyes over me. “I like your appearance, young man. You look competent. I fancy obstacles wouldn’t stop you, accomplishing a mission.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dahlson. I generally manage to muddle through to a finish,” I said. “I hope I can do a job for you.”

  “I sincerely trust that you will, Me. Riddle. You see, it is a matter of tremendous importance to me. I want you to find my grandson!”

  I felt
a mental sag. There never was much excitement about running down a relation who for some screwy reason pulled a fadeout on the family. I like spice in my jobs and this one sounded strictly routine.

  I asked, “How long has your grandson been missing, Mrs. Dahlson? When did you see him last?”

  “I have never seen him, Mr. Riddle. Until six days ago”—her voice cracked a little there—“I did not even suspect that there was a grandson. I am not sure about it now, but I fervently hope that he does exist.”

  I sat up in my chair. That sounded like there were angles that might make this one different, and maybe interesting.

  “What happened to make you think there might be a grandson?” I asked.

  “Some pretty strong evidence contained in two anonymous communications I received, Mr. Riddle, and the verbal statements of the sender of those communications, over the telephone this morning.” Her voice was firm again, and sharp. “This person proposed to give me information about the present whereabouts of a young man she says is my grandson—in exchange for five thousand dollars.”

  This one was different. “Did the party who called you mention a name and say where she could be contacted?” I prodded.

  “The person who called me was a young woman, I think, and hard. She did not give a name. She told me that if I wished to ‘make a deal’ as she put it, I must come alone to room 416, Majestic Hotel, before six this evening. She disconnected then.”

  I hadn’t missed a word of what she said, I but my eyes hadn’t been on her face. I’d noticed something I was trying to dope out. The dangling end of a runner on an end table near that bedroom door was swaying gently, like maybe a draft was blowing it.

  I slid off my chair and took six long steps on my toes to get to the door. It wasn’t tightly closed. There was a tiny crack at the jamb. I grabbed the knob and jerked hard.

  The blonde had been leaning with her ear pressed to the crack. She all but fell on her pretty face when I yanked the door open that way.