The Big Book of Female Detectives

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

  “The police,” interrupted Sarah, hoarsely, “can question me at my office. I’m Sarah Watson, private detective. This is my assistant. We came here to offer you our services in connection with the recovery of the Barnes stamp….”

  “Ah!” gasped Theodore Barnes, grasping Sarah’s arm. “The Barnes stamp! Don’t go. We must discuss this….”

  “Mr. Barnes,” countered Sarah, “there is a dead man here—a dead man who came to discuss the Barnes stamp….”

  Sarah broke off, shook Mr. Theodore Barnes’s thin fingers from her arm and pointed a stubby finger at the desk.

  “There, Mr. Barnes,” she said, “is something I should like to discuss—that little piece of white cloth caught on the side of the desk there. Somebody caught a garment there on that splinter recently, Mr. Barnes, while leaning over that desk. There’s a piece like that torn from the hem of your step-sister’s apron, Mr. Barnes.”

  Mr. Barnes bent over the small fragment of white cloth, his face ashen. He said: “Lily! Poor Lily! But, of course, she caught it there when she discovered the body, when she leaned over the desk and looked…”

  “That,” said Sarah grimly, “is what she will tell the police, at least. Drat it! I’d forgot the police. Come on, Ben Todd. We’re going.”

  * * *

  —

  Sarah stalked out the front door of the ivy-covered Barnes mansion and surveyed the road from beneath grizzled brows.

  “No cops yet,” she sighed. “You find Lily, Ben Todd. I’m going around back….”

  Sarah clattered down the steps with undignified speed and rounded the house. Three minutes later, she came back, breathing rather heavily, to find Ben Todd lounging in the front seat of her car. Ben Todd said: “Lily’s disappeared. There’s a squad car coming down the road, fast. I’ll bet my nonexistent salary that our friend, Sergeant O’Reilly, is in it. If he spots this heap…”

  Sarah charged into the heap like a battering ram. The heap swept down the right curve of the drive as the police car swept up the left. Ben Todd said: “Well, there goes your last chance to turn over those beads. You never had a case yet, you old harridan, that you didn’t double-cross somebody, but when you begin double-crossing the cops, old girl, you’re in danger.”

  “At the present moment,” growled Sarah, “we’re both in danger. Shut up, Let me think!”

  Ben Todd subsided. The old car rattled on, one block, two blocks, making audible speed. Ben Todd sat stiffly, his eyes on Sarah. Sarah’s driving technique was growing momentarily more erratic. Sarah’s eyes seemed more interested in the reflector above her than the road ahead.

  The car hurtled a corner, narrowly missed a curb. “Bennie!” screamed Sarah, above the rattle of speed. “I’ve made up my mind. The thing to do is take the passenger we got in the back seat straight to the police….”

  A figure rose up from the dimness of the car’s rear. A knife flashed in that dimness, flashed in a swooping arc toward Sarah’s broad back.

  Ben Todd twisted, flung himself. Sarah yelled: “Ouch!” Ben Todd’s fingers closed over the thin hand holding the knife point between Sarah’s shoulder blades.

  Sarah said: “Relax, Lily Devlin, and rest yourself. Bennie, don’t hurt her. I’ve changed my mind. We ain’t taking her to the cops. Not yet.”

  Lily Devlin collapsed soundlessly in a corner of the rear seat. Ben Todd remained rigid, half over the back of his seat, staring down at the brown wooden handle of the knife he had taken from Lily Devlin’s hand.

  Sarah said: “Lily, where did you get that knife?”

  “In the kitchen,” answered Lily Devlin, and sobbed.

  “How many knives like that did you have in your kitchen, Lily?”

  “Three. We had four once, all alike, a set, but I gave one to Sylvester’s housekeeper….”

  “Three?” said Sarah, putting on speed. “One in the dead man. One almost in me. That leaves one—”

  “No,” Lily Devlin objected. “The third is gone. It was gone when I ran into the kitchen to get one before I hid in your car. I didn’t mean to kill you, Mrs. Watson. Mrs. Watson, the police mustn’t get me. The police will believe I killed that awful man. They’ll believe—Mrs. Watson, I didn’t tear that piece out of my apron when I looked at the dead man. I tore it in the kitchen early this morning. But the police will hear all about me and the stamp and the money Theodore owes me for the stamp…”

  “Lily,” said Sarah, grimly, “you’re talking too much. You must never talk too much to the driver of a speeding car.”

  Ten minutes later, Sarah Watson sailed into her office with Ben Todd and Lily Devlin in her wake.

  “Lily,” said Sarah, pointing, “sit there. Bennie, stand behind her. Now, Lily. This money you say Theodore owes you—how much?”

  “Thirty thousand,” moaned Lily Devlin, twisting her hands. “Thirty thousand—all I had. He borrowed it years ago, when he bought the stamp they call the Barnes stamp now. Since then, everything has gone so he could keep that stamp. The house is mortgaged. The servants are gone. And no money for me—only worry and work. I threatened to sue Theodore. He wrote out a paper, promising to sell the Barnes stamp and give me the money. I knew it was a trick to stave me off. I refused to accept the paper until he’d signed it before witnesses. I called in his brother, Sylvester, and Sylvester’s housekeeper, and Theodore signed and I knew as he signed that he still thought the paper would do me no good. But I took the paper to a lawyer and the lawyer swore it would stand in court and I went back and told Theodore the paper was legal and he’d have to sell the Barnes stamp and—”

  “And,” interrupted Sarah, “the next day, the Barnes stamp was stolen out of your step-brother’s safe?”

  “Yes!” gasped Lily Devlin. “How could you know?”

  “I know lots,” claimed Sarah, emphatically. “And I guess more. Now, when you told Theodore he’d signed away his precious stamp, he raged, of course, and tore his hair. Wait! That reminds me. Tell me, does your step-brother always sleep in his hair?”

  “His—?”

  “His toupee,” insisted Sarah, firmly. “He had it on when he appeared in his nightshirt at the top of the stairs. I wondered if he slept in it?”

  Lily Devlin looked up at Ben Todd as though for help. Ben Todd returned the look coldly. He said: “I’d advise you to answer. I’d advise you to answer all questions, Miss Devlin—even embarrassing questions.”

  “Lily,” rasped Sarah, leaning forward and rapping Lily Devlin’s whitened knuckles with stubby finger tips, “Lily, we’ll forget the toupee. Just tell me this, Lily—how did the dead man happen to have a hank of black beads off your dress clutched in his dead hand? There, there! Put your head down on your chest, Lily, way down. Bennie, get her some water.”

  Lily Devlin opened her sharp, black eyes. Sarah wiped trickles of water from Lily’s chin. Sarah said: “Lily, you’re in a bad fix. You need the services of a first-rate, intelligent, energetic private detective….”

  “Sarah,” said Ben Todd. “Listen. This dame—”

  “Quiet!” barked Sarah. “A client is never a dame.”

  “Client! By hell, Sarah, you can’t take this woman’s case! She’s guilty!”

  “Maybe,” said Sarah. “But she means money to us. You hustle her out of here and around to the hotel, young feller, before the cops get any smart ideas about coming here to find her. Move, you long-legged imbecile! Move!”

  * * *

  —

  Sarah Watson sat alone in her dusty office, the roll top desk open before her. The door flew wide. Ben Todd charged in. “Mrs. Watson,” he began, belligerently, “I—”

  “I know,” replied Sarah, grimly. “You quit. We never had a case yet that you didn’t quit.”

  Ben Tod shuffled his feet. He said: “But look, old girl! You’ve already offered your services to Theodore Barnes. Now,
even if this Devlin dame ain’t guilty, how in hell can you reconcile working for Theodore and at the same time giving your services to Theodore’s step-sister?”

  “Giving!” barked Sarah. “I ain’t giving my services to anybody. As for offering our services to Theodore—” Sarah picked up the phone and jiggled the hook.

  A few moments later, Sarah hung up her receiver and banged down the phone.

  “Well,” she said, peering under knotted brows at Ben Todd, “That’s that. Theodore is willing to pay a thousand for his stamp, over and above what the insurance company will give. Ben Todd, put on your hat. We’ve got two clients now, but we could use a third. There’s still Sylvester….”

  Ben Todd took his head in his hands and groaned.

  Sarah said: “Sylvester is mixed up in the Barnes stamp case, somehow, Ben Todd, and I mean to know how. Sylvester Barnes has been hankering after that stamp for years. Sylvester Barnes has one of those brown, wooden-handled knives. We’re going to see Sylvester, Bennie, before some insurance company bloodhound gets the same sniff I’ve got.”

  Sarah’s car rattled once more down elegant Fairview Drive. It chugged past the sagging gates of Theodore Barnes’ estate and went on.

  “Bennie,” explained Sarah, “while you were putting Lily Devlin to bed at the hotel, O’Reilly barged into the office. O’Reilly wanted information. I found out that the corpse in Theodore’s study was a gent known in certain circles as Slick Johnny Johns. Slick Johnny was a second-story man out of work. He had a sizable bump on his head, O’Reilly said—a bump the cops are sure knocked him unconscious before he got the knife. O’Reilly also told me that—”

  “Wait!” said Ben Todd. “What did you tell O’Reilly?”

  “Nothing,” snapped Sarah. “Do you think I’m a fool?”

  Sarah swept the car into the well-kept grounds of Sylvester Barnes. She drove in under an imposing porte-cochère and slowed and suddenly stepped on the gas and sent the car charging toward the rear, and braked.

  The back door opened. A buxom Negress stood framed in light. Sarah jumped out of the car. She stalked slowly toward the door, playing the light of a flash on the ground before her as she went.

  “Good evening,” she said to the woman in the door, and drew from her capacious purse a shining, wooden-handled knife.

  The black woman’s eyes rolled down toward the knife. Sarah said:

  “I’m representing the Acme Cutlery Company. I understand you have in your kitchen a knife just like this, one of a set of four…?”

  “Ain’t got it in my kitchen now,” said the Negress, backing a little. “Somebody took that knife clean away.”

  “When?” demanded Sarah. “When did they take it?”

  “Dunno,” replied the servant. “Missed it tonight.”

  “Good evening,” said Sarah. “And thanks.”

  Thirty seconds later, Sarah’s car shot under the porte-cochère again and braked at the front door of the same house. Sarah mounted the steps and placed an invincible finger upon the bell. The door opened. A massive butler stood in the light.

  Sarah said: “Good evening. We represent Mr. Theodore Barnes. We want to see Sylvester Barnes and we want to see him damn’ quick.”

  The butler’s eyes goggled at the gun in Sarah’s hand. He made a feeble motion with his thick arm.

  Sarah said: “Come on in, Bennie. We’re invited,” and stalked down the wide hall toward an open door from which voices came.

  A replica of Mr. Theodore Barnes rose from behind a desk as Sarah entered. The replica was in much better condition than Theodore. The network of wrinkles was absent and the black hair looked real.

  “Mr. Sylvester Barnes?” said Sarah “I’m Sarah Watson. This is my assistant, Ben Todd. Your brother, Theodore, has engaged us to find his stamp. We’ve come to find it….”

  Sarah stopped abruptly, her grizzled brows knotted as she peered down at the figure of another man, lounging in a chair in the shadows beyond the desk. As Sarah stared, the figure rose and waved a half-empty glass.

  “Madam!” exclaimed the figure, “Madam Watson! A pleasure!”

  “Humph!” snorted Sarah. “A bloodhound! You’re here on insurance company business, of course, John Rankin? You’re here with your nose to the Barnes stamp scent?”

  John Rankin waved his glass vaguely, and sat down. He said: “The only scent in my nostrils at the moment is the scent of good liquor. I’ve been enjoying said scent for the past two hours. Mr. Sylvester Barnes and I are old cronies.”

  Sarah grunted. She took a chair uninvited. “John Rankin,” she said. “How many times during those two hours has your old crony left you, and how long each time?”

  John Rankin looked toward Sylvester Barnes and closed an eye. He said: “Crazy! Crazy as a bat out of hell!”

  “Maybe,” agreed Sarah ominously, shaking a stubby finger under John Rankin’s nose. “Suppose you answer my question, bloodhound, before I get violent.”

  John Rankin put down his glass. He said: “Mr. Barnes has been in this room with me every minute for the last two hours—well, practically every minute. Say, what is this, anyway, you old amateur dick?”

  “This, Mr. Sylvester Barnes,” explained Sarah, “needs an alibi. There’s a dead man right next door, at Theodore’s house, a dead man with a knife in his heart, a dead man who called on Theodore to talk to him about the stolen Barnes stamp….”

  * * *

  —

  John Rankin lunged out of his chair. He charged for the door. Sarah chuckled dryly as the door banged. She swung around and pierced Sylvester Barnes with her gaze.

  “Mr. Barnes,” she called, grimly, opening her black handbag, “Mr. Barnes, look at this!”

  Sylvester Barnes made a strange sound. He put his palms on the desk and hoisted himself up out of his chair. He said: “That—that knife!”

  “Exactly,” agreed Sarah, drawing the wooden-handled knife out of her bag and holding it up. “Sylvester Barnes,” she said, “where is the Barnes stamp?”

  Sylvester Barnes sat down, suddenly. He sat down with a thump, and he clenched his hands before him.

  “It’s preposterous!” he said, in a shaking voice. “My brother knows better than to try to intimidate me.”

  “Your brother may know better,” said Sarah, “but we don’t. Ben Todd, you got your gun covering Sylvester?”

  Ben Todd did not answer. Sarah turned in her chair, her hand grasping the knife. Ben Todd was struggling in the grip of the gargantuan butler. Ben Todd’s mouth was covered by one of the butler’s expansive palms.

  Sarah rose, took a step forward. At the same moment, Sylvester Barnes flung himself over the desk, gripped Sarah’s right wrist and twisted. The knife clattered to the desk. Sarah wrenched the hurt wrist free and used it to propel a fist at Sylvester Barnes’s jaw. Barnes dodged. The force of the blow carried Sarah sprawling half over the desk, hat askew, arms flailing.

  Sarah made a wild dive at Sylvester. Sarah’s fingers contacted Sylvester’s throat, slipped down, scratching, and closed.

  Sarah hoisted Sylvester’s meager person half over the desk, got back on her own feet and yanked her prey the balance of the way. Still gripping him, she wheeled and surveyed the butler and Ben Todd, and an unholy, totally unfeminine light of glee danced in her gray eyes as she looked.

  Ben Todd’s mouth was no longer gagged by the butler’s broad palm. Ben Todd’s mouth was open and grinning the insane grin of battling youth. Ben was battling with a mountain, but even a mountain will collapse if enough dynamite is exploded at strategic points. Ben Todd was intensely and joyously engaged in exploding that dynamite.

  As Sarah watched, the last charge of explosive went off against the butler’s jaw. The butler fell down. He exhibited no inclination to rise. Sarah sighed gustily. She took a firmer grip on Mr. Sylvester Barnes’s throat.
>
  “Good work, Bennie!” she cried. “I’ll hold Sylvester. You go out to the black woman in the kitchen. Tell her you represent the Ajax Rope Company….”

  Ben Todd was on his way. Sarah turned to Sylvester Barnes and stared into his popping black eyes.

  “Sylvester,” she said, “I know things. I know that you and Theodore cooked up the theft of the Barnes stamp so that Theodore would have the insurance money to pay off his step-sister and still have the stamp….”

  Sylvester Barnes made noises in his throat. The noises were unintelligible but the expression in Sylvester’s rather slippery black eyes seemed to satisfy Sarah.

  “Yes,” she continued, complacently, “I know things. I know about Slick Johnny Johns, the crooked gent your brother hired to come over here and steal back the Barnes stamp after you’d refused to return it. I know about Slick Johnny and I know about the knife in Slick Johnny’s chest. I know it’s the same knife that you took out of your kitchen before you went after Slick Johnny….”

  Sarah released some of the pressure of her fingers from Sylvester Barnes’s throat. She waited for him to speak.

  “S’help me!” gulped Mr. Barnes. “I never used that knife. I’ve got it yet. It’s in my safe. I hid it there…!”

  Ben Todd loped into the room with loops of rope over his arm. He said: “Black gal’s safe in the kitchen closet. Nobody else in the house.”

  “Good,” said Sarah, complacently, without taking her eyes from Sylvester Barnes. “You tie up the butler, Bennie. Sylvester is going to open his safe for me now,” and Sarah cast the wooden-handled knife she had been holding to the desk and placed the business end of her gun against Sylvester’s shrinking middle.

  * * *

  —

  Sylvester opened the safe. He pointed a shaking finger at a wooden-handled knife which lay on the shelf. He said: “There! If the man who came here and stole that stamp has a knife in him, I didn’t put it there. That’s the knife I took with me….”

  “Maybe,” admitted Sarah, thoughtfully. “On the other hand, that’s only the third knife accounted for, Mr. Barnes, and there were four to the set….”