Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Then no money changed hands?”

  “That’s what the detective asked. Not a dime.”

  “Parrish must have stashed the lifted dough. Not in the hotel safe—according to Bixby.” Royal spoke, half to himself. “There was seventy dollars in his leather. He might have had the coin cached out in his room.”

  “He—he wasn’t a bad little guy.” Sue Conway’s voice had a catch in it. “He did the caper for me! Because he was in love with me! Even if he was a crook I—”

  Royal nodded toward the bottle and the two glasses on the tray.

  “You expected him up to-night?”

  “No—”

  “Then who did you expect?”

  Her dark eyes fluttered up to meet his. A full minute ticked away before she answered.

  The police were still in 603. Royal didn’t stop there. He went on down to the lobby. A disturbed and apprehensive Bixby shook his head when Royal opened the door that led to his own retreat. “Murder!” Bixby bleated. “It’ll be all over the front pages. As if this hotel were a Bowery flophouse!”

  Royal didn’t say anything. There was a light in the row of offices to the left of where he stood. After a minute he saw Lieutenant Hartley come out of Kenyon’s private sanctum.

  Royal watched him go, his eyes narrowed and his face shadowed. He waited until Bixby turned back to his work, went down the short passage and up to the frosted glass door with Kenyon’s name gold-leafed on it. He pushed that open and looked in.

  Kenyon saw him and called out, “Come in, Royal. Got news for you.”

  He sat at his long, flat-topped desk. The worry had gone out of his joweled face. The close-clipped mustache seemed to have regained its lost jauntiness. He pointed to a chair with a spatulate finger. Royal shut the door, but didn’t sit down.

  “What news?”

  “About Wagstaff—or Arthur Parrish, to give him his right name. It wasn’t murder. It was suicide.”

  “Suicide?” Royal didn’t move.

  Kenyon nodded. “Doesn’t take the police long to find these things out. Right in the middle of their investigation a detective from upstate walked in. This Wagstaff—or Parrish—had embezzled funds from a bank where he worked. He knew the law was on his heels. He took the easy way out, the quick way. He shot himself!”

  Still Len Royal didn’t move. He said, “So that’s what happened?”

  “They found his prints on the gun. Faint, but his without question.”

  “But they didn’t find thirty thousand bucks?” Royal said.

  ALBERT KENYON looked surprised.

  “So you knew the amount?” He tipped back in his chair. “No, they haven’t found that as yet. But they will. Parrish probably has it in a bank under another phony name. They’ll dig it up in time. They never miss.”

  “They missed to-night.” A faint, sardonic smile twisted Royal’s mouth. “Parrish didn’t do the job on himself. He was murdered for the cash. The killer planted Parrish’s prints on the gun and left it on the floor beside his bed, making it look as if it had slipped out of a dead hand.”

  Kenyon’s chair clicked as he straightened up in it. His double chins shook with emotion. “What do you mean by making an absurd statement like that?”

  “Not so absurd.” Royal moved a step forward. “I’m interested in that ring you’re wearing. The one on your pinkie, with the red stone and the bird engraved on it. That ring belonged to Parrish.”

  Kenyon’s mouth opened. His eyes widened as he swallowed. But his expression remained unchanged.

  “That’s right. I love jewelry. I admired the ring when I first saw it. I bought it from Parrish, the second night he was here.”

  Royal shook his head. “No good, Kenyon. You didn’t buy anything from him. You helped yourself. You’ve got the thirty G’s. You were going to use them to do something for Miss Conway—out on the West Coast. You’ve had a yen for her for a long time. You’ve been letting her have a room here and you’ve been footing the bills. You’ve—”

  Kenyon’s hand came away from the top desk drawer. His fat fingers were clamped about an automatic. In one move he had the gun up and was out of the chair.

  “Smart dick! I didn’t give you credit for it, Royal. I thought you were just a lazy, redheaded, imitation gumheel who took this job because you didn’t have enough ambition, brains or guts to get with a private agency. Looks like I made a mistake, doesn’t it?”

  “Miss Conway gave me the tipoff,” Royal said quietly. “It was easy figuring after I had the word—and had seen the ring. By the way, did Bixby tell you I was in here a few minutes ago—tampering with that gun? I never take chances and—”

  Kenyon turned the automatic, his thumb on its safety, giving Royal the split-second he needed. He was across the desk and on the fat man before Kenyon could get the gun back in a firing line.

  Royal wrenched the rod out of Kenyon’s sausage-like fingers with one hand and smashed his free fist into the man’s soft face. It was like sitting on a box of marshmallows. But Royal wasn’t finished. He brought the gun down in a vicious butt-whip across Albert Kenyon’s skull. The man staggered back, over the swivel chair and into a steel filing cabinet. He clawed at it, his legs turning rubbery, his expression suddenly one of imbecilic blankness.

  Royal laughed as he grabbed him by the lapels and jerked him across to the flat-topped desk. He raised his voice, calling for Bixby. When the frosted glass door burst open, Royal said;

  “Buzz six-o-three, Georgie. Have a cop sent down. Tell him I’ve got a killer—on ice and ready for frying!”

  The glass door stayed open while Bixby disappeared. Kenyon panted like a porpoise out of water. He made sounds deep in his throat. Prodding him with the automatic, Royal said;

  “It was the red ring with the bird, Kenyon. You said you bought it the second evening Parrish was here. But I saw it last night on his finger, when he stopped for his key! Too bad you couldn’t resist wearing it. That ring tolls your death knell, Kenyon!”

  TOO OLD TO DIE

  Jack Gleoman

  Why would anyone want to murder a centenarian?

  THE two men parked the coupe in the driveway, got out of the car and went up on the porch of the old house. To Dan McHugh, photographer on the Bankford Morning Star it was just a routine assignment and he knew Vern Dillon had the same opinion of it.

  “Wonder how it feels to be a hundred and three years old,” Dillon said as he rang the bell. He was stout and bald and had been a newspaperman a long time. “That’s a lot of candles on a birthday cake.”

  “I’ll bet Farrell Norton doesn’t feel a bit older than I do now.” McHugh adjusted the strap of the bag hanging from his shoulder in which he carried his camera and the rest of his equipment. “I hate jobs like this.” McHugh was a thin, sandy haired man who always looked unhappy.

  “Me, too,” said Dillon. He went on as though reading “Today Mr. Farrell Norton one of Bankford’s oldest and most distinguished citizens—”

  “What did he do to make him distinguished?” interrupted McHugh.

  “How do I know,” said Dillon. “Just kept on living, I guess. Don’t interrupt—oldest and most distinguished citizen celebrated his hundred and third birthday in his home at Forty-Two Cedar Street.”

  “Never mind,” said McHugh hastily. “I know the rest of it. When asked what he considered had been most helpful to his longevity Mr. Norton said he thought it was due to fast horses and good liquor.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Dillon pushed the doorbell again. “That’s too easy. He’ll probably tell us he owes his long life to never having hunted elephants when the wind was blowing from the east. Doesn’t anybody live in this joint? We’ve been standing here for hours and no one has answered the doorbell.”

  “If not hours, at least three minutes anyway,” said McHugh. “And if you ask me, I’ve seen better porches than this.” He went to the front door and turned the knob. The door swung open revealing a wide hall with a staircase on the right. �
��Anyone home?” McHugh called so loudly that Dillon jumped.

  “My ears, my nerves, my gosh!” Dillon said.

  They listened but there was no answer to McHugh’s call. The old house was silent, and there was something about the hush that McHugh didn’t like.

  “Right now I’d welcome the prattle of childish voices and the patter of tiny feet,” said McHugh.

  “You leave your little green men at home,” Dillon said. “We don’t need them around here.” His tone changed—grew serious. “As an old newspaperman my instincts tell me we had better search this place, but as just a lug named Vern, my inclination is to go far, far away from here in a hurry.”

  “I knew it,” said McHugh. “The emotional type.”

  A DOOR opposite the foot of the stairs opened silently and a gray haired man stepped out into the hall and stood silently gazing at Dillon and McHugh. He wore a butler’s uniform that was too tight for him. The gap between the trouser ends and the man’s shoes revealed an expanse of bright red and green socks that fascinated McHugh for an instant. The man continued to stare at the two visitors.

  “Don’t just stand there, speak to me, Grandfather,” McHugh said. “It is your boy Danny come back from the Shores.” The gray haired man blinked. “I beg pardon, sir,” he said. “But I hardly think I could be your grandfather. May I ask who is calling?”

  “We’re from the Bankford Morning Star,” said Dillon. “Our city editor arranged for us to get a story and pictures of Mr. Farrell Norton on his hundred and third birthday. Who are you?”

  “Garrett is the name. I’m the butler.”

  “Good,” said Dillon. “Then please tell Mr. Norton we are here.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Garrett. “But I doubt that Mr. Norton would be interested. You see he is dead.”

  “Dead!” exclaimed McHugh. “When did it happen, Garrett?”

  “About an hour ago, I should say, sir.”

  “Natural causes, I suppose,” Dillon said. “After all, Mr. Norton was quite old.”

  “I’d hardly call his being murdered as dying from natural causes,” Garrett said. “Someone killed Mr. Norton with a knife.” Dan McHugh found he suddenly felt a bit sick. Even after fifteen years as a newspaper photographer, violent death affected him that way. He never liked photographing a corpse or someone who was badly hurt.

  “Murder, eh?” Dillon was suddenly all interest. “Do you suspect anyone, Garrett?”

  “No, sir.” Garrett shook his head. “I was out attending some business for Mr. Norton. So far as I know he was alone in the house. But when I returned I found him dead—murdered.”

  “Have you reported this to the police?” Dillon asked.

  “Yes sir,” said Garrett. “I was phoning them when you gentlemen rang the doorbell. That was why I didn’t answer the door. The police should be here shortly. I also phoned Mr. Ledford Cromer, Mr. Norton’s nephew. Mr. Cromer should be here shortly.”

  “Did Mr. Norton have any other close relatives?” McHugh asked. “Far as I know he never married.”

  “None living, save the nephew,” said Garrett. “Mr. Cromer’s mother was Mr. Norton’s only sister. She was twenty years younger than he was, and she died two years ago. Would you gentlemen like to see the, ah—deceased?”

  “We would,” Dillon said eagerly. McHugh merely sighed.

  Garrett led the way back into the room from which he had first appeared with Dillon and McHugh now following him.

  Farrell Norton was lying slumped back in an easy chair, a knife sticking in his chest. He was fully dressed save that he wore a smoking jacket instead of the coat of his suit. His hair was white and thick and he looked surprisingly young for a man who had been a hundred and three years old.

  McHugh swung his bag off his shoulder, opened it and took out his camera. His flash gun was attached to the camera so he produced a package of flash bulbs, snapped one of them into the gun and went to work. He used six bulbs making pictures of the corpse from different angles before he was satisfied. Just as he finished, a blond, good looking young man stepped into the room.

  “Mr. Cromer,” said Garrett as though announcing a new arrival at a formal party. “Mr. Ledford Cromer.”

  Cromer gazed at the body or his uncle for a moment and then shuddered. He glanced at Dillon.

  “Who are you?” Cromer asked.

  “Vern Dillon. I’m a reporter on the Bankford Morning Star Dillon said. “McHugh here also works on the paper. We came out here to get an interview with your uncle on his birthday—and found this.”

  “I see.” Cromer nodded as though it didn’t matter one way or the other. He glanced at the butler. “So you came back again Garrett.”

  “Naturally, sir,” said Garrett with a smile. “In the past five years Mr. Norton must have fired me at least ten times. I left each time, but always returned. We both knew that he couldn’t get along without me.”

  “I should say not,” Cromer said, careful not to look at the dead man. “Why you did everything around here including the cooking, Garrett. You stayed away a little longer than usual this time. I didn’t know you were back until you phoned me about—about what has happened.”

  McHUGH was busy packing his camera back into the carrying case. A piece of paper on the floor caught his glance. It was just a scrap—part of something that evidently had been torn up “And to my trusted—” was written on it with a pen. McHugh thrust the paper into his pocket. Apparently the other men had not seen him pick it up.

  The police arrived with Captain Small of the Bankford Detective Bureau in charge. The city was fairly small and had no Homicide Squad. Since it was afternoon and the next edition of the Star would not appear until the following morning, Dillon was in no hurry to report the murder to the City Desk.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” said Captain Small, as he talked to the men present. “Why would anyone want to murder a man as old as Mr. Norton. He was likely to die at any time from old age.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that, too,” said Dillon.

  The captain started questioning the butler and McHugh drew Cromer aside. “Do you happen to know whether your uncle had any intention of changing his will?” McHugh asked.

  “Why, yes, I believe he did,” said Cromer. “Of course I have always known that I would inherit most of Uncle Farrell’s money. He was a fairly rich man, you know. And Garrett was to get around twenty thousand I believe.” The nephew frowned. “Funny thing, but the last time I talked to my uncle he seemed quite angry at Garrett for having left him.”

  “How long was Garrett gone this time?” McHugh asked.

  “Over a month,” Cromer said. “Uncle a hired a woman to do the housework and cooking for him, and apparently found her quite satisfactory. This is her day off. I live here and usually stay home in the evenings. I’m a lawyer, and I was busy at the office when Garrett phoned me. He told me what had happened here. I dropped everything and got to this house as quickly as I could.”

  Captain Small finished questioning Garrett and came over to where Cromer and McHugh were standing. Small was not in uniform, and he looked like a tired middle-aged business man.

  “The butler tells me that just before he left a month ago that you quarreled with your uncle, Mr. Cromer,” Small said. “That Mr. Norton told you he was going to cut you off without a cent.”

  Cromer smiled. “Uncle Farrell was always saying things like that when he was angry. There were times when he acted like a child. He was angry that night because I had a date and got home rather late. He got over it soon enough though.”

  “You are Mr. Norton’s only heir?” Small asked.

  “I suppose so,” said Cromer. “At least I was according to his original will, but he talked of changing his will recently. When I asked him why he would only say it was because of a bitter disappointment.”

  “I see,” the captain of detectives casually changed the subject. “We might also consider robbery as a motive for Mr. Norton’s death. Did he keep mu
ch cash in the house, Mr. Cromer?”

  “He used to boast that he had a nice nest-egg hidden away for a rainy day, though he kept most of his money in the bank,” said Cromer. “I believe Uncle kept a fairly large amount of cash in the wall safe over there behind that picture.” Cromer nodded to a large framed picture at one side of the living room. “He never told me how much.”

  GARRETT had stepped casually over to the three men and was listening. The coroner was examining the body, and police were on guard inside and outside the house.

  “Beg pardon, Mr. Cromer,” said the butler. “Mr. Norton mentioned the amount to me once. It was five thousand dollars in cash.”

  “Do you know the combination of the safe, Mr. Cromer?” Captain Small asked.

  “No, I’m sorry.” Cromer moved over to the picture and the others followed. He reached up and the picture swung away from the wall on cleverly concealed hinges fastened to one side of the frame. A wall safe was visible. Cromer tried the knob of the safe and it opened. “Why, this isn’t even locked, Cromer said. “That’s strange.”

  “See what’s in the safe,” Small ordered.

  THE dead man’s nephew quickly searched through the safe and drew out a legal looking paper that was neatly folded. Cromer glanced at what was written on the outside.

  “This is my uncle’s original will,” Cromer said. “There is nothing else here. No sign of any money.”

  “What horse won the third race at Hillside yesterday?” McHugh said to no one in particular.

  “Wild Honey,” said Garrett.

  “Still playing the races, eh, Garrett?” Cromer said.

  “You must have picked a lot of wrong horses to have lost five thousand dollars in the last month, Garrett,” McHugh said.

  “What do you mean?” Garrett glared at him.

  “It looks like the last time you left here you took Mr. Norton’s five thousand in cash with you and I suspect you used it to play the races,” said McHugh. “You didn’t think Mr. Norton suspected you, so you came back here as you had often done before to get your job back.