by Jerry eBooks
Now he shook our hands warmly and invited us to drink his whiskey, but Raymond said awkwardly: “Some other time, Matt. We got important things on our minds. Margot Graham has been murdered.”
Matt sat down, squinting his blue eyes, running his hand through his shock of wild red hair. “You think I had something to do with it?”
Nord took a long, deep breath. I wished I was out of here, wished I’d never heard of Margot Graham. I knew Jerry and Dan felt the same way. Willie was all ears, literally and figuratively. Raymond Nord said finally: “I know you knew her, Matt. I know she was trying to shake you down for fifty thousand dollars.”
Matt looked from one to the other of us. His eyes were grave, even alarmed, but he managed a chuckle. “A pack of old fools!” he said, shaking his head. “She wasn’t trying to shake me down. She did it! I guess I just love Irish whiskey too much. Hell, I even promised her in writing that I’d marry her!”
“And she got the fifty thousand?” Raymond asked. “Got it two days ago,” Matt said.
“But you didn’t kill her?”
“No,” Matt said, “I didn’t kill her. I just looked things flat in the face, realized I’d been an old fool in a . . .
“. . . Hypnotic trance,” Raymond supplied dourly. “That’s right,” Matt said. “She did sort of hypnotize me. You never knew her well, Raymond? She was an angel, with a core right out of Satan’s heart. She was a lady, and a black hearted schemer. She was a princess, and a ruthless guttersnipe.”
Raymond looked at us and said, “None of you did anything wrong, actually. But, you know, one of you is a murderer.”
We looked at each other then, and the room grew cold. I sat down. Raymond walked over to the phone, called the coroner. He talked a few moments, then came back to face us. “She was killed between six and nine tonight. You, Jerry, where were you?”
“Home,” Jerry said. “I’d had a hard day at the office.”
“Can you prove it?”
“My wife was there, and the maid.”
Raymond turned to Dan. “And you?”
“I was at the hospital,” Dan said. “I called my house at five-thirty, then went directly up to my surgery. I left there at about eight, went down to consult with Dr. Lamb until after nine. I’d got home just before you came. Three or four doctors and half a dozen nurses can prove I never left the hospital between six and nine.”
“And you, Matt?”
“At the plant,” Matt said decisively, “having a little conference with a superintendent and a couple of foremen.”
Raymond turned to me and my mouth got dry and I felt empty right down to my toes. Between six and nine I’d been alone. Until I’d found her body right about nine o’clock.
I hunched down in my chair listening to the silence in the room, feeling their eyes on me. I pushed my hands down hard in my coat pockets; then I came out of the chair with a jump that startled them all.
“Where was Willie?” I demanded.
Willie jerked so hard the pencils fell from behind his ears. “What do you mean, Cass Bailey?” he shouted.
I grabbed him by the collar, shook him. “You killed her, you little rat. Matt O’Toole put you in college and you were too rotten to stay there. Tonight you slipped into her house and killed her! We’ve been thinking of the shakedown angle as a motive—but what about the fifty thousand Matt gave her? She knew you, maybe recognized in you a rat she could use! And you slunk around until you’d learned of the fifty thousand. You tore her bedroom to pieces hunting for it, found it in the strongbox hidden in the wall behind the picture! She came in, surprised you, and you caught her in the living room and killed her.
“If Matt wasn’t in her house tonight, the band from his cigar must have been planted. You took the band with you to plant, Willie. You intended to drop it in the bedroom where she’d find it. She’d recognize it as Matt’s, and since she and Matt were supposed to be the only ones who knew he had actually given her fifty thousand dollars, you were banking on her jumping to the conclusion that he’d been there, got his money back. But it didn’t work out that way. She came home earlier than you’d thought she would. And you killed her. Then you decided still to use the band, but for a different plant, a murder plant.” He jerked out of my grip, moved back. “You’re crazy, Cass Bailey. Any of you could have planted the cigar band!”
“Yes, Willie,” I said, “but you did. You knew she was mixed with important men. You wanted to get enough of the important men involved to make the investigation a hush-hush affair, so in a few days you could skip out with the money. To keep the affair as squelched as possible you wanted all of us in as bad a light as possible; that’s why you left the cigar band on me, in my pocket! Isn’t that the truth Willie?”
“You’re crazy!” Willie shouted again. “I didn’t touch the band!”
“I can prove you did, Willie. You were the only person who had access to my coat—while it was hanging over my desk when I went back to the washroom just after I’d come in the office. You went through my pockets, found the band. But you made the mistake of putting the band back in the wrong pocket. The band was in the left pocket of my coat when I entered the office, but it was in the right pocket of my coat when I reached for it to hand it to Sheriff Nord!
“If you’re in the clear, Willie, why did you go in my pockets in the first place. You were hoping the sheriff would find the band on me or that I’d have to hand it over. Every little item to make it look blacker played in your favor . . . but, Willie, you know some place in her house you must have left fingerprints. Even after she’s gone, she and her house will finger you and . . .”
With a sharp cry Willie lunged back, his hand diving under his coat toward a gun. He brought the gun up, fired, hit the wall. He steadied himself in a split instant, while we were trying to get in motion. He’d not miss this time.
But another gun spoke, Raymond Nord’s, and a tiny black hole jumped into being in the bridge of Willie’s long nose. The hole disappeared in a flood of crimson, and somewhere in his short fall to the floor Willie Lance died.
We stood looking at his crumpled heap, wiping our faces and shivering a little. Nobody spoke for a few moments; then Raymond Nord said: “Funny how a man can think a million thoughts between two ticks of a watch, while Willie was getting set to pull the trigger again.” He looked from one to the other of us dourly. “Thoughts about a nice town filled with swell people and the old fools who have made it. Thoughts about kids in playgrounds, people in white, airy clinic and modern hospital, about a newspaper that’s never let a city official get out of line, about the red-headed ruffian behind it all.” He sighed heavily. “I even thought about Jerry’s wife and kid, Cass’ two offspring, Dan’s wife and her faith in him that he’ll justify one of these days. So . . .” he shrugged his lean shoulders. “If Willie hadn’t made the break he’d have got a trial. Trials bring to light a lot of things, innocent things, but things that would haw enabled Margot Graham to drag everything I was thinking about right down into the grave with her. But since Willie did make the break . . .
Matt said, “It was your life or his.”
Matt turned then and began pouring whiskey. We needed it. Jerry looked at his jigger. “To Margot Graham,” he said.
Dan added: “May she rest in peace.”
“She won’t,” I said.
“No,” Matt O’Toole said, “she wasn’t that kind.”
“And,” Raymond Nord muttered, “neither was Willie.”
ODDS ARE ON DEATH
Ashley Calhoun
Corcoran looked like a sucker in the gambling joint, but he was really a private dick, and a tough one at that!
Corcoran threw snake-eyes. An audible gasp went up from the well-dressed crowd around the crap-table. They had seen Corcoran make six straight passes; watched him run a ten-spot up to six hundred and forty bucks. Then, since there was no limit in Spot Shelton’s ultra-select gambling establishment, Corcoran had shot the works.
And los
t. Loudly the girl alongside him said: “You were foolish, honey. You should have dragged down.” Her name was Margie Zaine. She wore her blue-black hair sleekly coiffed; she had a Madonna face. Her figure was a poem of curves sheathed in a crimson satin evening-gown. Men had a hard time keeping their eyes away from her.
She was a capper for Spot Shelton’s place. Sucker-bait. But Corcoran was no sucker. He was a private dick. He grinned down into her dark eyes. She was playing her part to perfection. Nobody on Spot Shelton’s staff would possibly suspect her of disloyalty to Shelton tonight . . .
Nor could anybody guess what Corcoran was really up to. Thus far he’d played his part of a reckless sap to the hilt. But it had been a tough job trying to make the dice obey orders. Luck’s a fickle jade; when a man wants to lose, he almost invariably wins. It had taken him more than ten minutes to go broke.
The tuxedoed croupier said: “Still your dice if you want them, Mister.” Margie Zaine pressed herself closer to Corcoran. She was trembling a little.
At the far end of the table a tall, nervous young man flashed a veiled glance at the private dick; flicked his eyebrows. Corcoran took his cue. He said to the croupier: “I’d like to keep on shooting, but I’m cleaned.” He passed the cubes to the player on his right. Then he said: “Could I get a check cashed?”
Up at the end of the table, the tall young man was listening to a willowy blonde in daring décolletage. He seemed annoyed. The blonde looked sore. The croupier beckoned an attendant. The attendant came up to Corcoran and said: “How large a check, sir?”
“Oh, about five hundred.” Corcoran drew a check-book from his dinnerjacket pocket. He didn’t produce the flat .25 automatic which also reposed in that pocket. The attendant frowned dubiously. “I’m afraid I’ll have to let Mr. Shelton pass on that, sir. It’s more than I’m authorized to cash. I’ll take you to his office.”
Margie Zaine said: “Never mind. I’ll show the way.” She looked archly at Corcoran. “I know Spot Shelton. I’ll introduce you. Come along, honey.”
That was a chuckle, of course, Margie knew Shelton. She worked for him! But she wouldn’t be working for him after tonight. Corcoran slipped an arm around her waist. She led him out of the casino-room and down a long, carpeted corridor. She knocked on a closed door.
A voice said: “Come in.” It was Spot Shelton’s voice, sleek and purring.
They entered. Margie said: “Hello, Spot. This is my friend, Mr. Jones. He wants a check cashed.”
Shelton’s eyes were heavy-lidded and crafty to match the thin gash of his avaricious mouth. “Glad to accommodate you,” he said affably. “How much will you need?” Corcoran raised his ante. “A thousand will do.”
Like a light turned off, Shelton’s smile faded abruptly, “A thousand?” he said sharply.
“Sure,” Corcoran said, “I’ve got plenty in the bank. Want proof?”
“What kind of proof?” Shelton purred.
Corcoran nodded. “Send for Harry Greer. He’s out at the dice-table. I just saw him. He’s a teller at my bank. He knows the balance I carry. Call him in. Ask him.” Shelton spoke into a house-phone.
In a moment the door opened. A tall, nervous young man came in, the one who had flicked his eyebrow at Corcoran a while ago.
He said: “Why, hello, Margie. Good evening, Mr. Jones,” he added politely to Corcoran. Then he looked at Shelton. “You want me?”
Corcoran said: “He wants to know how much money I’ve got on deposit in your bank, Harry. Tell him.”
Greer cleared his throat; it was his only sign of uneasiness. “Why, more than thirty thousand dollars, roughly speaking.”
“Ah,” Shelton smiled apologetically to Corcoran. “In that case I’ll be delighted to cash your check, Mr. Jones.” He went to the wall behind his elaborate desk, shoved aside an etching, and toyed with the dial of a counter-sunk safe. A big yellow solitaire diamond glittered on the ring finger of his right hand as he opened the safe’s circular door.
Corcoran pulled out his .25 automatic and said: “Thanks, Shelton. Now step back and sit down before I blast you.”
The gambler whirled, his sallow cheeks pale. “What is this?”
“You might call it a stick-up,” Corcoran said. “But I’d sooner say it’s a bit of justice outside the law. I’m not a hood. Just a private shamus working for Harry Greer and Miss Zaine.”
“Why, you dirty—!”
Corcoran said: “Tie him to the chair, Harry. And Margie, you grab the dough out of the box. Just thirty grand.”
“Thirty grand—?” Shelton snarled an oath at the girl. “You double-crossing vixen!”
Greer slugged him in the teeth. The gambler sagged into his chair. Greer produced a skein of picture-wire, and bound Shelton’s wrists and ankles, saying: “Maybe Margie used to be a double-crosser. But not any more. She’s all through capping for you, Shelton.”
Margie was pulling packets of currency out of the safe, stuffing them into her beaded purse.
Greer went on: “She got me to play your crooked games, Shelton. But you didn’t count on her falling for me, did you? Well, that’s what happened.”
“Falling for you? That’s a laugh, you dirty—”
Greer said: “I’m marrying Margie, see? That’s why I hired this detective to help me get back the thirty thousand dollars you took away from me with your loaded dice. Now I can put back what I took from the bank—before the auditors catch up with me. And from now on, Margie and I are going straight.”
The gambler squirmed helplessly. To Margie he snarled: “Don’t be a sap, kid! Greer’s playing you for a sucker. He won’t marry you. Look what he did to Jackie Allan. Made her fall for him, too, then handed her the air. He’ll treat you the same way! Put that dough back, baby—and I’ll forget the whole thing.” He added: “You can keep out five hundred if you want to. That’s all Greer ever lost to me, the lousy liar. He never dropped any thirty grand!”
“I don’t believe you, Spot,” Margie said quietly. She snapped her purse shut. It bulged with the currency.
Shelton raged: “You put that dough back in the safe or I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I ever do!”
Greer hit him on the jaw again. The gambler sagged against his bonds, unconscious. Greer went over to him to make sure the wires were tightly knotted. He said: “Okay. He won’t get loose for a while.”
The door opened. A feminine voice said: “That’s what you think.” It was the willowy blonde who had approached Greer at the crap-table. Greer said: “Jackie Allan—!” in a scared whisper.
In spite of her heavy make-up she was gorgeous. Her hair was spun gold. She said: “I told you I’d get even with you for handing me the gate, Harry. I warned you I’d get something on you.”
Greer sputtered: “You—you—!”
“Take it easy, Harry,” she said frigidly. “And put that money back where it belongs. Spot Shelton was plenty decent to me after you walked out on me. This is my chance to make it up to him. You put that money back, or I’ll scream the place down.”
Corcoran went into action. He jumped at the blonde and slapped a muffling hand over her mouth. He looked at Greer. “What about this, Harry?”
“A pack of lies!” the bank-teller said harshly, indignantly. “It’s true I was nuts about her for a while. She was the one who first got me into playing Shelton’s crooked games. When I found out she was one of his come-ons, I ditched her. Then I fell in love with Margie, here. Margie came clean with me; promised to help me get my money back from Shelton . . .
“Okay. Hand me that picture-wire,” Corcoran snapped. He took the skein, tripped Jackie Allan to the floor, tied her. When he got through, she was gagged with a handkerchief and trussed like a turkey.
Corcoran got up. To Greer he said: “Get your coat and hat and go home. Margie and I will phone you from her apartment, later. We’ll leave shortly. It wouldn’t look good for all of us to be seen pulling out of this joint together.”
When Corcoran and Marg
ie strolled casually back into the gaming-room a little later, Greer was gone. Corcoran stopped at the roulette-table long enough to lose the fifty that Margie had slipped him. That was to make everything look okay. After all, he was supposed to have cashed a check . . .
After four wrong guesses at the wheel, he yawned. “Let’s beat it, Margie. I’m tired,” he said loudly.
She fastened herself to his arm. They went out; found a taxi. They headed for her apartment.
“You were swell,” she said. “Now Harry and I can be married, and—”
“Could I kiss the bride?”
She gave him her lips in gratitude.
The cab stopped in front of her apartment building. They went into the lobby. It was deserted and dimly lighted at this late hour. They made for the automatic elevator.
From a curtained alcove to the left, a hand appeared. It was a white, soft-looking hand wearing a yellow diamond solitaire and holding a revolver.
As the gun crashed, Margie Zaine screamed and clutched at her breast. Blood spurted through her fingers. She dropped her handbag and fell.
Corcoran made a grab for his automatic. He fired at the drapes. He knew he must have missed, because there was no answering fire.
Bellowing, the private dick smashed toward the curtained alcove. As he hit the drapes, something thunked down on his head. He was stunned. Fireworks exploded inside his brain. He reeled drunkenly; pitched to his knees.