by Otto Penzler
“I have thought it all out, Mr. Shay. There is absolutely no way to prove who killed that girl. Nor who took my money.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I told her. “The cops could take the whole bunch down to the station, and they’d have a confession in twenty-four hours. You know that.”
“It wouldn’t be fair to the ones that didn’t do it,” she said stubbornly. “I have a deep feeling about such things. Now I have worked out a plan and I’m sure it will be successful. But I need your help.”
I said I was still working for her, as far as I knew.
So then she told me what she wanted—and I finally said I’d do it. I’d argued two hours and hadn’t won a point, before I caved.
“Then I’ll depend on you,” she finished. “I’m supposed to be playing bridge this afternoon, and I’m not expected back until around eight. As I told you, I told George and Toomey that I knew who’d killed Mary Morse and that I intended to tell the police about it tomorrow. I can depend on Toomey telling the others about it.”
“They’d think it was funny you not telling the police right then,” I said.
“Oh no! I told them I was waiting for certain proof,” she said. “And that I’d find that out tomorrow. But that there was no doubt in my mind right then. So you see I’ve thought of everything.”
“I’m beginning to think you have,” I said.
I got into the house easily enough…. She’d given me the key to a side door that opened into the library, and it was just a question of making sure no one was in the room and then walking in. I moved a couch, at the corner of the room, far enough out to climb behind it, then got it back in place. It made a snug little nest. If I sat down naturally, the thing was just low enough for me to see over, and if I ducked my head a little, I was entirely out of sight.
And then I waited.
Miss Conklin came in a little after nine and never even looked toward where I was. She had that much will power. She was humming to herself, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. She got a book from a shelf and sat down in a big chair that almost hid her. Her back was to the door. I could hear pages rustle as she turned them…. Then there was a knock on the door, and she called “Come in!” without looking around.
It was young Georgie. And he looked bad with the black eye I’d given him. I slid my gun out of its clip and got ready to go into action. He passed around in front of her and stood.
“Aunt Alice,” he said, “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Go ahead, George.”
And then I got a shock. “I heard what you told Frances,” he said, “and she told me you’d told Toomey the same thing. That you knew who killed Mary.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I intend to notify the police tomorrow. As I told Frances, there’s one little detail I want cleared up and I can’t do that until tomorrow.”
Then came the pay-off. The kid said: “I’m going to stay right here with you, Aunt Alice. Don’t you realize that you’re in danger? The same person who killed Mary knows by now that you know who he is. He’s liable to try to silence you. I’m going to stay right here with you.”
Miss Conklin said: “No, George. I’m perfectly all right. But I thank you for the thought. Now run along—don’t waste your time talking to an old lady.”
“I’m going to stay, Aunt Alice.”
The old lady didn’t raise her voice, but it now had a snap in it. She just said: “George!”
“All right, Aunt Alice, you know best.”
He marched out of the room, just barely giving me time to duck out of sight. Then the old lady said, as if she were talking to herself:
“Nice boy, George.”
So there was my number one suspect cleared…. I was just getting over the shock of that when there was another knock and the niece came in. Looking like a million dollars! She bounced over in front of her auntie and knelt down and said:
“Oh, Aunt Alice! Aren’t you afraid? You know this is Toomey’s night off.”
Miss Conklin said: “Yes, I’ve thought of that.”
“But aren’t you frightened, Aunt Alice?”
I didn’t hear what Aunt Alice said because I was too busy ducking back out of sight. The hall door was opening—very quietly and softly—and I wanted to be out of sight until whoever it was had passed me.
And he did. It was young Franks, the girl’s fiance. He was walking on his toes and he was swinging a sap in his left hand. The girl looked over her aunt’s head at him and said to the aunt:
“I just thought I’d better stay with you, Aunt Alice. Just in case of—”
I shot young Franks then, taking him just below the knee, where I had a lot of brittle shin bone to aim at. A slug from the kind of gun I shoot will wreck bone structure of that kind and leave a man crippled for life … and I was thinking of that. The girl stood and screamed. It cut through the roaring thunder the big gun made in the room. And Miss Conklin got up from her big chair and peered down at Franks, who was rolling around on the floor and making a lot of noise.
“It’s as I thought,” Miss Conklin said calmly. “Mr. Shay, will you telephone for the police. I’m going to be very busy for a few minutes.”
She didn’t pay any more attention to me, but went over to a drawer built in the bookcase. She pulled out a heavy riding whip. And then she went back to the girl and said:
“Now, you little sneak! I’m going to take the hide right off your damned back. You ungrateful little—!”
And then, by heaven, she did. She had a nice command of language and every time she gave the girl a new title she came down with the whip.
I didn’t want to interfere, but finally I had to.
“You don’t want to kill her, do you?” I said.
She stopped then.
“Did you call the police?” she asked.
I said I hadn’t but would right away. And then somebody said, from the door doorway: “I did, ma’am!”
We turned and looked that way. And here was the cook, the chauffeur, and the two maids staring in. The chauffeur said:
“I called when I heard the shot, ma’am. Then I came in to help.”
I said to Miss Conklin: “You going to turn the girl over to the cops?”
“Certainly not,” she snapped. “I can take care of her very well. The man, the sneak, he will certainly go to prison, if he doesn’t hang.”
“He’ll limp when he goes down that hall to the scaffold,” I told her. “Did you think it was him all the time?”
“Of course,” she said.
And then the cops came.
She came down to see me the next afternoon again. Just as nice as though nothing had happened. She even blushed a little when she asked me how much money I wanted. And I blushed even more when I told her—because all I’d done was what she’d told me to do. She’d supposedly hired a detective and then she’d done all the detective work. She gave me a check.
“Miss Conklin,” I said, “I don’t like to appear too dumb, but what made you think it was young Franks who’d killed the maid? You told me you had that idea right along. Of course we know now why he did it—she’d seen him swipe the dough from your desk. She started to blackmail him, the same as she was already blackmailing your nephew. Of course not for the same reason. But I’d like to know why you picked him as the guilty one, instead of George, or Preacher Toomey, or that thug chauffeur or those gardeners?”
She twinkled her eyes at me and said: “Why it just had to be him, Mr. Shay. I knew that none of my people would steal—and of course I knew my nephew wouldn’t. Not that I’d put it past the boy, but there was no need for him to steal; all he had to do was ask me for the money and I’d have given it to him. So that left only Frances and her friend. And do you know, I’ve never trusted that young man since the first time I met him.”
“But you’d trust that collection of jailbirds you’ve got?”
“Why, of course,” she said pensively. “You see, I know their peculiar psychology
. And then I had another reason for thinking young Mr. Franks the murderer. You see, poor Mary had been struck on the right temple—that showed me a left-handed man had struck the blow. Just try it—you’re right-handed, and you’ll notice if you strike another person on the temple it will invariably be on the left side. This was just reversed. And, of course, my nephew, and all the others in the house, happen to be right-handed. Young Mr. Franks is the only left-handed one. But I really didn’t need that proof—and it isn’t the sort of thing that would stand up in court.”
She went out then and left me trying to figure things out. Not the left-handed angle—that’s one of the simple things you overlook because it is so simple.
It was the old gal herself. Here she’d acted like one of the nicest ladies I’d ever met—up to the time she’d found out for sure her niece was in the plot to kill her. And even then she didn’t turn the girl over to the police. Instead she gave her a beating, and kept her where she could keep an eye on her.
And then the language she’d used was hardly the thing a lady knows.
And to top the whole thing off—having that collection of thugs around her and actually protecting them from the police.
It was all by me.
It stayed that way until I met Chick Williams, the police captain, who’d been in charge of the case. I ran into him on the street and he laughed and said:
“You still working for the Conklin woman?” I told him I’d like to have her for a partner … that she’d shown more brains in the thing than either he or I had. He didn’t like this so well and told me that if he’d had his way, and taken the whole bunch down to the station and sweated them, that he’d have had the answer before the old lady had it.
I agreed. And then he laughed again and poked me with a finger and said: “You know who that old gal is? I just happened to mention her to one of the old-timers, who dropped in the office … and he remembered her.”
I said I didn’t know who she was, other than she seemed like a nice, old gal with a lot of money. Then he poked me again and winked and said:
“She’s the Miss Conklin. The one that scragged her sweetie, over forty years ago, and did sixteen years in the pen for it. Cold-blooded murder it was, according to the old boy. He said it was a wonder they ever let her out. She’d fell into a bunch of dough while she was doing time, and that probably had something to do with that angle. Ain’t that a kick, Shay?”
I said it was very funny and felt a lot better. It solved the puzzle. Here I’d been wondering why she’d looked after her convict help and claimed to understand ‘em. Why shouldn’t she?
And it explained the language she’d used to the girl and the whip act. They talk rough and they handle their own problems in the women’s wards in jails.
I left Williams. I was thinking that it would be a good bet the jail was glad to see her go. I’m willing to bet the warden slept better.
Because I had the notion that Miss Conklin would be top dog wherever she was…. She was one client of mine that had been right on every count.
Concealed Weapon
Roger Torrey
McCarthy hits and runs after a hit and run driver
HE MAN CAME weaving down the hall of the office building and McCarthy said to Marge Chalmers: “Jeez! That guy’s got seven dollars’ worth of start. What a -load!”
McCarthy turned and slammed his office door and the spring lock took hold with a click. The stranger in the hall lurched into Marge and would have fallen if she hadn’t held him up with a short but sturdy arm. McCarthy said pleasantly enough:
“Hey, guy! Take it some place else. You better go some place and sleep it off.”
The man’s face was a dingy white. Even with Marge’s support he was standing bent and twisted. He muttered something and McCarthy said tolerantly:
“All right, guy! I didn’t hear you. But you ain’t the first to get this way.”
Marge said, not tolerantly: “ You should tell him that! You, of all people!” And then, with a total change in tone: “Pat! The man’s hurt!”
The man proved it by quietly falling on the floor in spite of Marge’s attempt at holding him erect. He went down in a loose and sodden pile, and Marge looked up from him and snapped: “Pat!”
McCarthy was already in action. He was stooping and tearing the man’s coat open, and when he saw the blood mottling the white shirt he said:
“Oke, kitten! We won’t move him. Call the ambulance and the cops. Quick! If we move him, it might make it worse.”
“What is it, Pat?”
McCarthy pointed out a half-dozen holes in the bloody shirt. “Maybe an ice pick, I don’t know. But they’re in his belly, and that means he shouldn’t be moved. Get going.”
Marge took his keys and opened the office.
The police came, after a little while, cars full of them, as did the ambulance. McCarthy watched Doctor Solari straighten up from the wounded man, and that smart young man said to him:
“Maybe we’re in time. Unless the fellow gets a transfusion inside the next few minutes he’ll be shaking hands with Saint Peter.”
“How bad, Doc?” McCarthy asked.
Solari had a smooth and unlined face. He looked to be about twenty—but he had ten years and a reputation of being an authority on the sort of violence police are faced with added to the innocent look. He stared up at the ceiling, as though looking at something new and different, and said:
“Well, he’s been pierced, through and through, with something. I’m not prepared to say exactly just what, but if this had happened down in colored town I’d say the weapon was an ice pick. They favor that down there; ice picks don’t come under the head of concealed weapons. Now this man has twelve wounds in his abdomen and has lost some blood. The shock was slight, owing to the nature of the wound. He will most certainly have peritonitis as his intestines are most certainly pierced through and through. He may get through it if he isn’t too far along to react to a transfusion. Now does that answer you, Mr. McCarthy?”
McCarthy said, “In a big way, Doc. It means the guy’s got a chance, don’t it?”
“If he gets a transfusion immediately. I’m having him removed to the hospital at once.”
Two husky white-coated men came in with a stretcher. They lifted the now unconscious man on this with Dr. Solari assisting, and then there came an outraged bellow from the outer office. A voice came out distinctly with:
“Hey! Miss Marge! I got to see the Chief.”
McCarthy muttered, “That damn Benny!” and went through the knot of policemen and into the outer office.
Benny Cohn, McCarthy’s pet cabbie, was at the door. He apparently didn’t want to stay there but two policemen, who had him by the arms, were winning the argument about just where Benny was going. Or staying. Benny saw McCarthy and stopped struggling and said:
“Hey, Chief! I come up to see you and it seems I can’t. They tell me I got to stay outside, they do, Chief.”
McCarthy said, “Let him go.”
Marge, who’d been awaiting the doctor’s report, said, “Personally, I think one of us ought to see about a transfusion for this man. He fell into our arms in front of your office. How is he?”
“He might make it…. What d’ya want, Benny? I’m busy.”
Benny said, “And so am I busy, Chief. Like I say, these cops won’t let me in and see you. I got to see you, Chief. No fooling, I got to see you.”
“What about?”
Marge broke in with: “Does the doctor think he’ll live if he gets a transfusion?”
Benny brightened and broke away from the two policemen. He said to McCarthy, “Hey now, Chief! If it maybe is the guy needs the same kind of blood that I got, maybe you can fix it for me. I took the test—they give you thirty-five bucks for it and I got my name on the list for giving it. Maybe you can fix it for me, Chief; I got to have the dough.”
“What d’ya want to see me about?”
“That’s it, Chief. Dough.”
&
nbsp; McCarthy said, “Then I certainly will try to fix it. If you can earn it, it’s better than me having to give it to you.”
Marge said, “But, Lord, what will the harvest be? With the man full of Benny’s blood!”
cCARTHY fixed it with no trouble. The wounded man’s blood was typed, in a hurry, and found to match that of Benny’s. McCarthy and Marge left the hospital, McCarthy grinning, and he said: “That’s the easiest thirty-five bucks I ever made in my life. I’d have had to give it to him if he hadn’t made it this way.” “Why?”
McCarthy said uncomfortably, “Well, you know how Benny is. He never makes any dough out of his hack and now he’s jammed.” “How?”
McCarthy sounded even more uncomfortable. “Well, he’s been running around with some gal. He got in a little argument with her and slapped her. And she says unless he pays for the three teeth he knocked out she’ll have him thrown in the sneezer.” “Swell kid, Benny is.”
“Hell, baby, if Benny thought I wanted somebody’s teeth knocked out he’d do it for me just as quick as he would for himself. He’s that way.”
“That’s just it,” Marge said warmly. “He’s always getting you in trouble over things like that. You know he is.”
McCarthy led the way into a Bar and Grill and changed the subject quite effectually. He fanned out five brand new hundred dollar bills and said nothing. Neither did Marge for a moment. Her blue eyes bulged and she finally gasped:
“Pat! Where did you get that?”
McCarthy said, in a complacent voice, “From the guy, kitten. Before the cops came—before they took him into my office. He had five hundred and forty bucks in his wallet, beside a few cards, and I left him the forty bucks and the wallet. I told the hospital I’d guarantee his bill, though, so it won’t be all clear profit.”
“But, Pat! It isn’t your money?”
McCarthy looked injured and dragged out some cards. He held one out to her and she took it and read: Billy Tucker’s Roadhouse. She said:
“What has a man named Billy Tucker got to do with you taking the stabbed man’s money?”