The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  “Attaboy, Boss! What a punch! How about lettin’ me have him? I gotta crack someone before I feel right again.”

  “I’ll give him to you in a minute if he won’t talk.”

  “This is a case for the police!” Bitters moaned.

  “Cops, huh? Well, I’m a copper myself! Who’s your friend at the Atlantic Hotel?”

  “D-do you know about that?”

  “What d’you think?”

  “Oh, my soul!” Bitters exclaimed wildly. “What will happen to my references? Let me explain, sir. It’s this way, sir. Indeed it is, sir. I didn’t know you were a detective. And I happened to mention to a friend I met that you were wealthy. One thing led to another. He asked me questions—”

  “What’s his name?”

  “A Mr. Cushman, sir.”

  “So that’s the nigger in the weeds, eh? You’ve been fingering wealthy suckers for Bernie Cushman and getting a split afterwards?”

  Bitters’ silence verified it.

  “Where’s Cushman now?”

  Bitters said nervously: “He—he telephoned about two hours ago and said you wouldn’t be back for several days. I—I was to wait here for further word.”

  I grabbed the telephone and called the Atlantic Hotel. Cushman had checked out. Next I telephoned our branch office. Bradley answered. When he recognized my voice, he yelled:

  “So you’re finally back? And if you give me a wise-cracking excuse, I won’t be responsible! Where have you been? Where is Miss Meehan?”

  “Calm down,” I suggested.

  “Calm down?” Bradley bellowed. “I am calm! What have you been doing? Blowing yourself to a good time, I suppose, on that expense money I was fool enough to give you! Do you know what’s happened in the meantime?”

  “You tell me,” I said.

  “Colonel Wedgewood,” Bradley roared, “called me about two hours ago and fired the Blaine Agency off the case! He says you’ve bungled everything! He demands an immediate accounting of the expense money! He swore he’d get my job and yours!”

  “I can explain—”

  “Explain?” Bradley yelled. “Can you explain me back into my job? Can you explain why this case has suddenly gone to pieces in our hands? You know the Blaine Agency policy! Results and no excuses! All you need to explain now is that expense account you blackjacked out of me! And you’d damned well better account for every penny that’s been spent!” Bradley warned ominously. He slammed up the receiver.

  CHAPTER X

  Doubling for Trouble

  Sweet welcome home! Bradley’s job gone—my job and Trixie Meehan’s job probably gone—and an expense account that never could be explained, now that I’d failed. And Colonel Wedgewood due to be nicked for his half million after all….

  I called Trixie’s room. “Be ready to leave in ten minutes,” I told her.

  “Who gave you a whip? Simon Legree?”

  “This is business and never mind the wisecracks!” I yelped

  “If I minded you,” says Trixie, “I’d have been plucking at a straitjacket long ago. What’s behind this sudden itch?”

  “The sky’s just fallen in on our heads! We’re going to Palm Beach!”

  Trixie, in a pinch, was a trouper. “I’ll be ready,” she promised instantly.

  Joe Jacobs rubbed the livid scar on his jaw. “Palm Beach, hey? We goin’ too?”

  “You are! Bitters, if we’re both not ready in ten minutes, Heaven help you! Joe, tell the desk to get a big car for me to drive to Palm Beach.”

  I was tying my necktie as I made for the elevator. Bitters hurried between Gus and Joe like a prisoner heading for the guillotine. A minute after we hit the lobby, Trixie joined us.

  The car was waiting. Trixie rode beside me, the others in the back. While we raced northward, I told Trixie of my talk with Bradley. She was floored.

  “Mike, what can we do now? Colonel Wedgewood may have paid his money by now. They’ve had time to get to him.”

  “We’ll soon see!” I said savagely, and sent the speedometer crawling higher.

  It was after ten-thirty when we rolled across the Lake Worth bridge into Palm Beach. It took me another quarter of an hour to locate and reach the Italian-style villa of Colonel Wedgewood. The house and the high-fenced tropical garden at one side were a riot of light, color, and sound. An Oriental garden party was in progress. They were dancing on a temporary floor out in the scented, swanky garden.

  “This looks like Wedgewood is worried,” I remarked disgustedly.

  Trixie said, “You can lay this on his wife. Going in?”

  “Come along,” says I. “Gus, you and Joe watch that rat.”

  A doorman in baggy trousers, silk jacket, and turban out of the Arabian Nights answered my ring. He looked down his nose at us. “Only guests in costume are admitted tonight, sir.”

  “Tell Colonel Wedgewood I want to see him on important business.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Never mind my name.”

  His eyebrows lifted in understanding. “This way, please.”

  He led us to the right, along a narrow, tiled hall, and left us in a tiny corner room which was dim and quiet.

  “Well,” says Trixie. “That was easy.”

  “Too easy,” I said. “I don’t like the looks of it.”

  Some minutes later the door opened and the Sultan Shahriyar himself slipped into the room and closed the door. He was about my size. His gorgeous costume and turban flamed with phony jewels. A black, curly beard covered his face. He carried a package under his arm. And his beard was phony, too.

  “Did you bring them?” he demanded in a rasping, querulous voice.

  “Bring what?”

  “Those letters. Who is this young woman?”

  I almost yelled with relief. He thought we represented Wetzlaff or La Palmer.

  “Have you got the money in that package?” I asked.

  “There is two hundred thousand in bills and a certified check for the rest,” he said waspishly. “I had the bank manager go down and certify the check. Where—where are the letters?” He was frantic with anxiety.

  I sneered, “No backbone left, eh? We’re the detectives who’ve been working on your case. Hide that money. We’ll get your letters back. D’you mean to tell me they’ve got nerve enough to come here and collect?”

  He reacted in a frenzy of rage.

  “Yes, you fool! I’m paying to protect myself! I was promised results and all I got was excuses! Tonight I was called to the telephone by a strange man and informed the time was up, and it was going to cost me half a million now for delaying! Your useless delays cost me that much extra! Get out of here before I have you thrown out!” He turned to the door to make good the threat.

  “It’s sink or swim now,” says I to Trixie. “Here we go off the end of the dock!”

  * * *

  —

  My arm was around Colonel Wedgewood’s neck as I finished. I yanked the spluttering old idiot back on the floor and stopped his mouth by shoving his turban down over his face.

  “Hey!” says Trixie. “It’s all off now!”

  “It’s all coming off,” I panted. “Look the other way if you’re embarrassed.”

  Five minutes later I was wearing Colonel Wedgewood’s costume, including the false beard. The colonel was gagged, tied hand and foot with a light cord and parked behind the sofa.

  “I suppose we needed something like this to polish off the day,” Trixie said faintly. “Do they hang people here in Florida?”

  “Why bring that up?” I said. “It will come soon enough. Keep an eye on that old Romeo and his half million. I’m going hunting.”

  “For what?”

  “That’s the hell of it,” I confe
ssed. “I don’t know. You might try prayer while I’m gone.”

  The doorman spoke to me deferentially. “Will the gentleman and lady be leaving, sir?”

  I shook my head and walked back to the garden party. I felt as insane as this play I was making. What chance did Trixie and I have with the Blaine Agency now?

  But this much I knew. Wetzlaff was striking hard and quick for the money. He was sending someone here for it tonight. The doorman evidently had his instructions. Colonel Wedgewood would be notified. That meant me now. They’d bring the letters, of course. And I now had a gun under my left arm.

  Meanwhile—what a party!

  The tropical garden was hung with colored lanterns. Sultan Shahriyar’s court had come to life and was dancing under the moon and stars.

  A gay young slave girl in pearls, gauze, and little else but a mask tapped me on the arm and quirked luscious lips.

  “Aren’t you dancing at all tonight, Colonel Wedgewood?”

  They say the flesh is weak. How true!

  “Colonel Wedgewood!” my partner reproved with a giggle, after we had made half a round of the floor. “I didn’t know you were so—so impetuous!”

  “Ah-h-h!” I sighed, and risked being a little more impetuous.

  A moment later she said warningly, “Oh-h-h—!”

  A hand caught my shoulder. A strong hand. A formidable hand. And a man-sized voice said icily, “Eustace, have you lost your mind?”

  CHAPTER XI

  The Credit and the Cash

  It was the Sultana Scheherazade—veiled, jeweled, bangled, and authoritative. No doubt about the authority. She outweighed two of my little slave girl. She was broad in the beam and giving off sparks as she took me off that dance floor like a snowplow going through a drift.

  “Eustace, you’re a fool! An outrageous, scandalous old fool! Haven’t you any respect for me, capering around with that brazen young thing like an old billy-goat! I’ve a good mind to lock you in your room!”

  Through her veil I could see a noticeable mustache over a hard, mean mouth. I forgave that wizened, trussed-up old fossil right there. A woman like this would drive any man to flesh and zip.

  The dim light saved my disguise. “Bah!” I growled in my throat and stalked away before she could get set for another wave of abuse.

  Not until then did I discover I was sweating again. That had been a close shave. But it was nothing to the shock I got not two minutes later.

  An arm slipped through mine out under the palms. A smooth voice said sarcastically, “Has my sweet old daddy got the money ready?”

  You’re right. It was Lucille Palmer, costumed and veiled also. “Ah—ah—gggg!” I gulped in my throat.

  She warned me with an edge to her voice, “I haven’t got the letters on me, so don’t try to pull any fancy tricks!”

  “Where are they?” I said, rasping and querulous.

  “Give me the money and the certified check and you’ll get the letters immediately.”

  “This way.”

  “Your voice sounds queer. This isn’t too much of a shock to you, is it, Daddy?”

  “Grnthh…”

  “Love,” Lucille informed me cheerfully, “comes high. But you had your money’s worth, didn’t you, Daddy? And you won’t need that money much longer anyway.”

  The nerve of her. I almost forgot I wasn’t Colonel Wedgewood and bit back a blistering retort just in time. All the while I was wondering where the devil she had those letters.

  “How’d you get in here?” I growled.

  She chuckled.

  “After I decided to attend your garden party I just had time to get a costume in Miami. I’d have been here sooner but the costumer delayed me.”

  The doorman had left his post. I stopped her in the hall near the room where Trixie waited, and went in alone. Trixie was gone. Colonel Wedgewood was still behind the couch out of sight. The packet of money was lying on the couch.

  I beckoned Lucille in and handed her the package in silence.

  She broke the string, opened the paper, looked at the bundles of large-denomination bills and the certified check on top.

  “You just couldn’t take it, could you, Daddy?” she said sarcastically. “Well, thanks for the sentiment. I’ll send flowers when your arteries give way.”

  “The letters!” I reminded her as she opened the door with that half-million cuddled in her arms.

  “They’re coming!”

  A man in costume, turban, and mask shouldered into the room. A second one stopped me in the doorway.

  “You got it?” the first one demanded.

  He was Wetzlaff. His companion was Bernie Cushman. Lucille Palmer said sharply, “It’s all here. Give the old fool his letters and let’s scram out of here.”

  Wetzlaff laughed unpleasantly.

  “Give ’em up until that certified check’s been cashed? Hell, no! He’ll get ’em later on—if he toes the line to suit me!”

  That was the gag I’d been looking for all along. Why should they give up the letters if they had a chance to hang onto them for a further club? But at least I now knew where they were. Wetzlaff had them.

  He was the nearest to me. La Palmer was beyond him. Bernie Cushman was in the doorway. Wetzlaff was sneering as he turned away—and I slugged him right on the button. He went down cold and I grabbed for my gun.

  “It’s a plant!” Lucille squawked. “Lam for the car, Bernie!” She slammed the door as she went out, and Cushman faded with her.

  I stayed with Wetzlaff. The letters were more important at the moment. It took me half a minute to locate them and get the packet out from under his costume. And his gun. He wore a business suit underneath, ready for a quick getaway.

  “I’ve got your letters, Grandpop!” I called to the figure behind the sofa. “Now I’ll try to get your money!”

  * * *

  —

  But I knew the money was gone. They had a start on me. Their getaway was planned. Bernie Cushman had had time to collect his wits and go for a gun.

  The front door was ajar. They’d gone out that way. I followed—and ran smack into a fight out in the street. An automobile was half pulled out from the curb, its motor running. Trixie had Lucille Palmer in the gutter, helpless with a jujutsu armhold. The bundles of bills were around their feet. Gus and Joe were just subduing Bernie Cushman and the driver of the car.

  “She almost bumped me as she ran out!” Trixie gasped. “I recognized her and got your men to stop them!”

  Gus Wayland knocked Bernie Cushman cold and turned to me uncertainly. “Holy cow, Boss! What happened to you?”

  “Never mind!” I panted, grabbing up the bundles of bills and re-wrapping them in the paper. “Hold everything here! I’ll be back in a minute!” Chauffeurs from the other cars were gathering around as I started back toward the house. “It’s a joke,” I called to them. “Don’t get excited.”

  They probably didn’t believe me. It didn’t matter at the moment. I found Wetzlaff groggily crawling to his feet and feeling for his gun. I held a gun on him while I untied Colonel Wedgewood.

  “Here’s your letters,” I said, cramming them into his hand. “And there’s your money. Do you want me to call the cops?”

  “Merciful heavens, no!” he gasped, staggering to a chair. He was suddenly only a tired, frightened old man. “I heard him refuse to give the letters to you,” he said. “You were right. I shouldn’t have tried to deal with them. But let them go. You understand I simply can’t afford any publicity.”

  “This kills me!” I groaned. “It’s the first time I ever let a crook go when I had him cold. But here goes. Outside, Wetzlaff!”

  He went like a shorn lamb.

  Gus and Joe threw the lot of them into their car. Bitters had made
his escape. “Let’s get going,” I said. “A fadeout is the quickest way to hush it up.”

  Not until I was driving across the Lake Worth bridge did Trixie sigh contentedly.

  “Mike, are we lucky, or aren’t we? Everything fixed up—and both of us here safe and sound?”

  “Not bad,” says I.

  “You said some sweet things on that island, Mike. I’ve been thinking about them ever since.”

  “Did I?” says I. “I had to think fast to break this case, didn’t I? But I told you if you followed my orders we’d get somewhere.”

  Trixie moved away from me and blazed, “The next time I stroke a nitwit’s ego I hope I’m caught dead! Listen to me, Mike Harris! Of all the conceited—”

  Well, I had to drive and listen. It was the same old story. Trixie on my neck with her razor tongue for no reason at all. What a life! What a woman! I ask you.

  DETECTIVE: KATIE BLAYNE

  THE OLD MAIDS DIE

  Whitman Chambers

  ALTHOUGH ONCE A POPULAR AND PROLIFIC PULP WRITER, Elwyn Whitman Chambers (1896–1968) is most remembered today for the many motion pictures for which he wrote screenplays and for which his novels and stories served as the basis. His pulp fiction fell into the familiar wisecracking hard-boiled school and many of his characters, of whatever name, sounded similar.

  One of his many detectives is a little different. Katie Blayne, a police reporter for the Sun in an unnamed city, does have snappy dialogue, but it would be a stretch to call her hard-boiled. Among the rivals who work for several newspapers, each trying to get stories before the others, Katie is known as the Duchess, though this is not fully explained. It may have a little to do with her imperious manner, well-earned since she appears to beat the others to the story while helping the police, with whom she has a warm relationship, solve crimes. The Duchess, who could “produce hunches faster than a cigarette machine turns out coffin nails,” is Chambers’s most enduring character, although he produced twenty novels and scores of short stories.