by Jerry eBooks
Moving quietly down the hall, I turned the thing over in my mind. Either the girl had come in early, or she had not gone out at all. There was, of course, no reason why my housekeeper should not spend her evenings at Mauri Malcolm’s club. I knew Malcolm slightly. We had been business rivals before Malcolm sold a group of three restaurants to plunge more heavily on the nightclub.
Malcolm was as honest as any businessman, and there was no reason why the girl shouldn’t know him. There was also no reason, as far as I was concerned, why a model should not accept expensive clothing—if that was the life she wanted. But models who wanted that life did not take jobs as housekeepers. Not for two hundred a month.
Entering the library, I switched on the light and headed for the sideboard. Mixing a drink, I thought of Lola. I’d phone her early tomorrow and straighten everything out.
I turned, sipping from the tall glass, enjoying it and the soft play of light on the polished wood. The lighting was subdued, and that too added something to my feeling of quiet peace. This was the place to come back to, the house for a man who had everything. Here, in my own home, even the shadows were warm and friendly.
Except for the new shadow. It was one I had never noticed before. There was, in fact, no reason why it should be there behind the wing-backed chair.
I moved. The shadow did not. I took a long, deep pull on my drink and held the glass in my hand, as I knelt to inspect the body.
Then I stood up and switched on a floor lamp. The man on the floor was Mauri Malcolm. He had been shot in the head.
I listened, and there were no sounds. All through the house there was still the same silence that had, only a moment before, given a feeling of peace.
Then, very loud in the stillness, a phone dial whirred in another room. Walking softly, I followed the sound.
I went through the hall to my bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. Shoving gently, I opened it.
My housekeeper was sitting on my bed. She was wearing the same transparent nightgown I had seen when I came in. Over it she had donned an equally transparent wrapper.
“Yes!” she was saying. “It was Mr Roney! I was asleep and they awoke me up with their quarreling. Then I looked in and saw Mr Roney fire the gun, and—”
“Wait a minute!” I yelled. I crossed the room and snatched the phone from her hand. “Hello. Who am I talking to?”
“Sergeant Pound, Police. Who are you?”
“I’m Dick Roney. And I don’t know what ails this woman, but I certainly haven’t killed anybody.”
The sergeant said in a tired voice, “But somebody has been shot?”
“Yes, a man by the name of Malcolm. I just found him on the floor.”
“Dead?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t move him. We’ll be there right away.”
I put down the phone. The girl had moved to the other side of the room, and she was standing with her back to the dresser, watching me without fear.
I said, “I ought to slap you silly. What kind of a tale is that you just spouted into the phone?” I took a forward step.
She said, “Keep away, Mr Roney. If it wasn’t you, it looked like you.”
My mind spun back over the evening. Not anything I could think of helped me to add things up. “There are some things I’d like to know,” I said, “before the police get here. For example, what were you doing at Malcolm’s club earlier this evening? I seen you talking to him, and then I find him on my floor.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been out of the house.”
“We’ll skip the question of why a girl like you wanted to keep house for me. We’ll let that go for a moment. But tell me this: If you saw me murder a man, what made you stick around to use the phone? Why didn’t you run outside?”
“Why should I? I’m not afraid of you.”
I snorted. “You ought to be. If you’re framing me for one murder, you ought to know the price is the same for two.” I held my eyes on hers, and watched some trace of fear move like a small shadow over her face.
Someone said from the doorway, “A bargain, too.”
I spun to face the voice. I saw the gun, and the man behind it, the little man I’d met in my office. The man McGuire had sent. I glimpsed the quick show of pointed teeth, saw the flash of the gun, heard its sharp explosion.
It was a second before I realized that the bullet had been for the girl.
She went down with a throaty sigh, crumpling with soft grace. Filmy cloth fanned out around her as she lay motionless on the floor.
I waited for the slug to crash into my body, found myself wanting to close my eyes. I kept them open. The little man wiped the gun with his handkerchief, then tossed it on the floor.
I was calculating the distance, ready to try a quick dive for the weapon, when the man called Sampson drew another gun.
“Leave it there,” he said. The second gun looked enormous in his small hand.
“You use a different gun for each killing?” I asked. “It must run to a lot of expense.”
The little man ignored the crack. He was grinning, looking as happy as a man could look with so tiny and wizened a face. “You look good,” he said suddenly. “You look wonderful—all tacked up in a three-sided frame.”
“You’re crazy,” I said. “You think the police will buy this story?”
“They’ll buy it,” he said. “Only I won’t be here to tell it. They’ll get it straight from you.”
“You know what I’ll tell them, don’t you?” I moved slightly toward him, stopped when he jerked the gun.
“Keep back,” he said. “I don’t really want to shoot you before you have time to enjoy the frame. I’d rather have you fry for murder. That way you have plenty of time to remember who you slapped.”
“I should have slapped you harder,” I said. “How could the police think I killed these people? What motive would I have?”
“You knocked off the dame,” said Sampson, “because she saw you murder Malcolm. She said so on the phone.”
“And Malcolm?”
The little man shrugged easily. “You were business competitors,” he said. “You know how these things go.”
I glanced at the clock. The police ought to be arriving now. If I could keep Sampson here, keep him talking . . . I said. “All right. You’re sore at me because I kicked you out of my office. But Malcolm—what did you have against him?”
“He was another wise lad who didn’t want to do business. But, in a way, he got off easy, on account of—he had sense enough not to slap anybody around, like you did.”
I thought of Malcolm, dead in the library, Malcolm who had gotten off easy. I swung my eyes to the crumpled girl. “What about her?” I asked.
“What about her?” Sampson lifted his shoulders. “She was just a greedy gertie. She wasn’t nobody’s doll.” Sirens wailed in the distance. Sampson cocked an attentive ear. “Be seein’ you,” he said, “If you think it’ll do you any good, you can mention me and McGuire.” He backed out the door and was gone.
I jumped toward the gun on the floor, stopped myself when it was inches from my hand. If McGuire and this little hood had set out to frame me, it wouldn’t be a clumsy job. For one thing, Sampson had wiped the butt of the gun. If it was the same gun he’d brought to my office, then my fingerprints could still be on the barrel, McGuire and Sampson would be able to account for all of their movements this night. They would have the best alibis money could buy. And as my mind slipped desperately from point to point, I knew McGuire would have covered them, too.
The sound of sirens ceased. That meant the police were nearing the house. I looked once more at the girl on the floor, the girl who was nobody’s doll. With a little corner of my mind, I wondered what kind of a life she had wanted, what her ambitions had been. I moved quickly to the window, climbed through, and dropped into the garden at the rear of the house.
From somewhere across the lawn, someone said, “All right, Roney. Stick aroun
d.”
I hesitated, conscious that the upper half of my body was silhouetted neatly against the lighted window at my back. I stood frozen for just an instant. Then I dove over the hedge.
I went through it, feeling the tearing grip of the branches, and behind me I heard the light, quick thud of feet running on damp sod.
“Roney! You damn fool—hold it! Don’t make me plug you, boy!” Pug Lester’s exasperated plea turned into a string of curses as he crashed into the hedge.
Racing along the dark lane that flanked the rear of the garden, I was thankful for that hedge. I was also grateful to Lester, for I was aware that he could easily have shot me as I stood at the window, again as I ran across the lawn. I owed Lester a hearty thank you which I meant to deliver some time. Some time, but not just now.
CHAPTER III
The Slaughter Syndicate
The night went by in a series of terrifyingly close encounters—with prowl cars and policemen, individuals who came out of shadowy corners, asking me for matches. I walked until dawn. There wasn’t any place I dared go, and walking helped me think.
I didn’t like my thoughts. Walking lonely and afraid, I had time to remember what Lola had said about my smugness. I was a boy with a stranglehold on the world. Nothing could ever go wrong. She hadn’t wanted to marry a guy whose life ran on well-oiled wheels. I wondered, with some bitterness, if she’d like me better now that I faced two murder raps.
Then honesty forced me to admit it. I wouldn’t be walking alone right now if I hadn’t felt so secure. Any fool, after the first interview with the little gunman, would have gone to the police.
These were the things I was thinking as I slunk along the dismal streets.
In the morning, I bought a shave in a neighborhood barber shop. It made me feel better, but as I walked out into the sunlight, I still had not decided what to do.
I called police headquarters from a public phone and asked for Pug Lester.
The lieutenant said, “Lester speaking,” mechanically, as if he had many things on his mind.
“This is Roney, Lieutenant.”
“Ah!” said Pug Lester. “Where are you now?”
“In town. But I’m thinking of leaving. I phoned to tell you I’m sorry about last night.”
“No trouble at all,” Lester said grimly. “I need the exercise. May I suggest that you get the hell down here as fast as you can?”
“I’ll be in,” I said vaguely, “sooner or later. But I’ve got a few things to do.”
There was a silence. That would be Pug Lester’s hand clamping tight on the mouthpiece while he detailed someone in the office to trace the call.
I said sharply, “Don’t send anyone after me, Pug. I won’t be here when they come.”
There was a pause. “What else can I do?” Lester said. “Why don’t you come in? Isn’t that why you called?”
“No,” I said slowly. “I was hoping that you’d found out who killed those people. I had no reason to, you know.”
“Look,” Pug Lester said. “The dame said she saw you kill Malcolm. She said that over the phone.”
“But why should I kill Malcolm? I knew him only slightly.”
“That isn’t what the letters say.”
“What letters?” I asked blankly.
“Correspondence between you and Malcolm. We found a couple of his letters in your files—a couple of yours in his. If you kids were fond of each other, you were certainly talking tough.”
“But I never . . .” Then I realized the futility of denial. “Are you sure they’re genuine?”
Pug said, “Me? I’m sure of nothing. The boys in the lab are still working, but they seem to like the signatures well enough.”
I stared out through the glass door of the phone booth. The air seemed suddenly stifling. I was holding the phone like a man in a trance.
Pug Lester said sharply. “Roney! You still there? Don’t hang up on me, Roney! I want to talk to you!”
The urgency in the lieutenant’s voice brought me to my senses. I realized suddenly how long we had been talking. Lester would certainly have the call traced, and the police would arrive at any moment. Indeed, they might well be here right now. I hung up the phone and drifted out of the booth.
The ancient druggist eyed me without particular interest as I moved out into the street. At the corner I caught a streetcar, but I had no feeling of safety until, after a mile on the trolley, I changed to a cross-town bus.
The ride seemed to clear my head, and I found myself able to think. McGuire and Sampson had fitted me with a frame, which, if not perfect, was at least good enough to cause the public to hold and try me for murder. True, it might not stand up under careful investigation, but I disliked the idea of taking up residence in a death cell on the off chance that Pug Lester or some other enterprising detective would come along and kick me out.
Having rejected the services of the police, I felt the loneliness pressing in upon me. In a few short hours, I, Dick Roney, had become a furtive, frightened thing who dared not pause for rest.
I set out to find McGuire. It took longer than you’d think. It meant making discreet inquiries in several bookmaking establishments. It meant watching men’s eyes drift far off the moment I mentioned the name.
Finally, as I was leaving a south-side bar, a heavy-set man stepped out from the wall of the building. He looked so much like a detective, I was tempted to run. But the man was blocking the way. Neither of us said anything while the man thoughtfully brought out a match and bit off the end.
Then he said, “Understand you’re looking for McGuire?”
I said, “I was.” Then I remembered that the man had not been in the bar. “How did you know?” I added.
“We heard.” He moved toward a car at the curb. Opening one door for me, he circled lazily and climbed in under the wheel. “Let’s go,” he said.
I hesitated, then I realized that McGuire was my one wild chance. I climbed in and slammed the door. The car went forward in a sighing rush.
McGuire’s place ran to spacious, quiet reception rooms. The furniture in the offices ran into heavy dough. The receptionist looked like something in a social register, and McGuire looked like the most successful member of the bar association.
He didn’t rise when I came in, but a slight smile furnished the illusion of pleasantness, and a curt nod dismissed my escort. The heavy-set man nodded briskly and backed out through the door.
I stood easily on the soft, thick pile of the carpet, and when I saw Sampson watching from a corner of the room, I said, “Well! My little friend.”
Sampson let it pass. McGuire’s gray eyes rested on me thoughtfully. When he spoke, his deep, cultured voice went well with his surroundings. His face was handsome, almost noble. An international banker would have been proud to own his suit.
“Forgive me,” McGuire said, “if I seem to stare at you. When I heard you were trying to find me, I knew I was going to meet an unusual man.”
“That’s damned nice of you,” I said. “But I’m afraid you’ll find I’m a pretty standard guy, or I was until yesterday.”
“No,” McGuire corrected. “The average man would not have come here.”
“Would’ve had more sense,” said Sampson.
“Can’t you keep him quiet?” I asked.
“If you prefer. However, there is some truth in what he says.” McGuire stood up. “I’m afraid my schedule is pretty crowded. You’re here—now, what do you want?”
“A chair,” I said. I chose one fairly close to the desk, sat down with my legs sprawled out. “Tired,” I explained. “I’ve been walking.” I hoped they wouldn’t notice how nervous I was if I pretended to own the joint.
Sampson said, “You might as well walk while you can.”
I looked appealingly at McGuire. “He’s talking again,” I complained. “And every time he opens his mouth, one of us loses money.”
McGuire sat down. “Would it take you very long,” he asked, “to tell
up why you came?”
“I would have come when you first invited me,” I said, “if you’d sent anyone but this little clown.”
Sampson sprang up and moved to the desk “How about it, Mac?” he said. “How’s if I slap this loud-mouth around, then feed him to the cops?”
“You see what I mean?” I said mildly. “The boy has too much bounce.”
McGuire wasn’t looking at Sampson. He said. “Let’s get on with it, Roney.”
“All right. Put it this way. What do you hope to gain by having me take the rap for two murders?”
“Let’s assume,” said McGuire, “that I know what you’re talking about—which I don’t. Then the answer is, I gain nothing.”
“And you call yourself a businessman?”
“I am a businessman,” said McGuire. “I sent a man to you with a proposition which you refused. I have no further interest in you or your affairs.”
“Here’s a proposition for you,” I said.
“Go on.”
“Call off your dogs, and get what you wanted in the first place—a branch office for your syndicate in each of my restaurants.”
McGuire looked at me, cool and amused. “It’s likely I’ll get that anyway,” he said. “Not from you, but from your successor.”
I let my eyes move from one to the other—McGuire, suave and superior; Sampson’s pinched face full of hatred, but with something in it of smugness. That, I guessed, would be about as close to a happy expression as the little hood could manage. In Sampson’s mind, this meeting probably came under the heading of watching the sucker squirm.
I said, “You know who my successor is?”
McGuire shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I manage to do business with most people.”
“With the Paramount Insurance Company? If I’m out of the picture, management of the chain reverts to a holding company owned by them.”
Something flickered in McGuire’s eyes, but his face remained bland and smooth.
“You’re big, McGuire,” I said, “but I doubt if you’re big enough to tamper with Paramount Insurance. With their own investigators and the political pressure they could bring to bear, the outfit would run you silly.”