“Yes?”
“There was a reason for my coming and a reason for his refusal. You see, my editor had a tip that several valuable vases recognized as part of the Petroff collection had been offered for sale at private auction. Get it?
“Petroff was already raising money by illegally disposing of art treasures belonging to the estate. Kelring must have just discovered this and demanded his cut. Otherwise, he would squeal about the fake death certificate. So Petroff had to kill him. Just as an added touch, he left a little souvenir after strangling him in his office.”
I handed King his spectacle case.
“You nearly had credit for that piece of work,” I said. “I’m sure he would have threatened to turn you in had you refused him money when he demanded it this evening. So it’s lucky I had you on the phone and can support an alibi.”
King blinked.
“After killing Dr Kelring he scooted out here to wait for you. He knew you’d be out to check up. He hadn’t counted on Lorna and me arriving, but when we showed up first, he was ready. After that you dashed in, made your bang-bang with the silver bullets, and passed out. You aren’t a good shot, King. Those bullets are in the walls, not in his body. But it wouldn’t have mattered much. He wore a bullet-proof vest under the cloak. Felt it when I tackled him.”
Lorna looked at me.
“You tackled him,” she whispered. “That was wonderful. Even if he might be a vampire, you took the chance.”
“But he wasn’t a vampire. I knew that.”
“Didn’t you find him with holes in his throat?”
“Right. But he made them himself. Shallow cuts with a paper-knife, no doubt. You see, a vampire’s bite will drain all blood. And there was blood. I know something about superstitions myself, Lorna.”
Sirens punctuated my sentence. The law was arriving in full force.
Suddenly I was very tired and very contented. Lenehan would get a story after all. And I’d get some sleep.
Lorna kissed me.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“For being brave. I don’t care what you say, he might have been a vampire.”
“Not a chance.” I grinned. “I knew that from the beginning. When I looked at him on the floor this afternoon, his mouth was open. That was the tip-off.”
“What do you mean?”
“He couldn’t be a vampire because he couldn’t bite anyone. After all, darling, who ever heard of a big, bad vampire with false teeth?”
THE BLUE STEEL SQUIRREL
Frank R. Read
Prologue
In a silver flood of moonlight, a group of people laughed and talked together on a terrace in a high-walled garden. The occasion was a happy one – a betrothal party. The soft June air, still fresh from a sundown shower, was heavy with the scent of roses. A mockingbird, perched high atop a chimney, trilled a liquid melody.
The bride-to-be, radiant with happiness, sat in a cane garden chair, watching the familiar scene. Her eyes lingered over each precious beauty, the playing fountain, the full moon. They rested on the face of the man she loved, Michael Collins.
Mike, toying with the dials of a portable radio, paused as the familiar hum of a station fried in the loud-speaker. He smiled at his fiancée, and absent-mindedly turned up the volume.
A mighty roar rolled over the terrace as a brassy swing band crashed into a hot tune. Guests and host, jolted by the discordant notes, stiffened and glared at the young man. Mike mumbled apologies, and snapped off the radio.
The guests sank back in their chairs with a sigh of relief, all but the bride-to-be. She stiffened, slumped forward in her chair, and tumbled forward to the flagstone flooring.
A silver bullet had pierced her heart.
There had been no sound, no outcry, no flash of gunfire. Stupidly, the members of the party looked from one to the other. The spell of inactivity was broken only when one of the woman screamed.
A year later, there was a bulging file at police headquarters, titled:
“Corinne Bogart – Homicide (Unsolved)”
I
The long, sun-bronzed young man, wearing an impeccable dark-blue tropical worsted suit, leaned back in his swivel chair and studied his name lettered in reverse on the ground-glass door of his office – Jefferson Hunter. Just that, nothing more.
There is no trade term, unless, perhaps, “Confidential Commercial Agent”, that could be applied to him. That, too, would be a misnomer, for Jefferson Hunter, home again after solving a foreign reconstruction problem, looked into anything that intrigued him, with or without permission. The fees he demanded and received from corporations were known to have made boards of directors shudder. Yet his services were in immediate demand as soon as he reopened his office.
“Anything exciting in the morning mail, Smitty?” he asked Z. Z. Smith, his small, wiry assistant.
“Yes.” Smitty slid a small pile of letters across his boss’s desk. “The top note has me stumped.”
Jeff’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting?”
“Could be. It’s from a guy named Bogart.”
“What?” Jeff sat up. “What did you say?”
“I said it’s from a guy named Bogart. Wendell A. Best clubs and so on. Director of this and that. Smells of do-re-mi. He wants you to come to see him about something personal and confidential. He says Wagner, the man you helped on the oil deal in Iran, recommended you.”
Jeff leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes hardening. “It’s foolish,” he told himself, “to keep avoiding Pamela Bogart.” Sooner or later, he was bound to meet her. Why postpone the inevitable?
“OK, Smitty, make an appointment.”
“I have. Bogart is waiting for us at his home.”
“Um-m-m! Didn’t give me a chance to refuse, did you?”
Smitty, like all valuable assistants, knew his boss like a book. He anticipated his wishes, needled him into action, and restrained his enthusiasms. Smitty, in short, was invaluable.
The sleek yellow convertible, carrying Jeff and his Man Friday, purred into the Valley, the town’s exclusive suburb.
“There’s the house, Jeff!” Smitty pointed. “Nice dive! There’s a ten-foot brick wall around the back garden. Cripes, the house is built of white marble.”
“I hate to disillusion you, Smitty,” Jeff said, as they stopped under an ornate porte-cochere, “but this pile has only a one-inch marble face, probably over cinder block or tile. It’s typical of the late twenties. Built for show. Two bits says Bogart’s a pain in the neck.”
“No takers, Jeff. You’re too often right.”
Wendell Bogart did not look up when the butler showed them into the library. He was examining six gayly feathered darts spread out on the desk before him. He gathered them into his hands, turned in his chair and smiled at the thin, bespectacled young man standing beside him. Effortlessly, one of the darts flew from his hand and thudded into a target across the room. The other five followed in rapid succession.
Jeff’s eyes widened when the darts came to rest. One, double one, triple one. Two, double two, triple two.
“I wouldn’t want to play you for more than a beer,” Jeff said.
Wendell Bogart didn’t answer. The studious-looking young man beside him smiled, nodded to Jeff and left the room. Bogart spun in his chair, raising his dark-brown eyes to meet Jeff’s level gray ones. For a moment, neither spoke, each studying, measuring the other. It was the older man who broke the silence.
“My only niece, Pamela Bogart, must not die.”
The words, spoken flatly and matter-of-factly, startled the visitors.
Jeff looked narrowly at the man. “Why? What’s the story?”
“Story?” Bogart rose to his feet, shook his shaggy white head and glared at Jeff. “Surely, you must have heard of the tragic death, last June, of Pamela’s sister, Corinne?”
“No, I didn’t. I was in China at the time. I’ve been home less than a week. What happened to Corinne?”
“Corinne was shot thr
ough the heart.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Bogart” – Jeff rose to his feet – “this is out of my line. If Miss Bogart were being held for ransom by Mexican bandits, or Argentine insurrectionists, I might be able to do something. Murder, per se, is police business and I leave it to them. Come along, Smitty.”
“Wait!” Bogart slapped the desk top. “Wait until you hear what I have to say.”
“There is nothing—”
“Corinne was shot with a silver bullet, in the close company of seven friends and relatives. The case has never been solved. The only clue is the bullet that killed her.”
Jefferson Hunter sat down again. He nodded to Smitty, who flipped open his notebook on the corner of the desk.
“Mr Bogart,” Jeff spoke slowly, “why are you apprehensive about Pamela? Skip the details about Corinne.”
Bogart sank back in his chair and looked questioningly at the younger man. He opened a mahogany humidor, extracted a cigar and jammed it into his mouth. He glanced annoyedly at Smitty and dropped the cigar back in the humidor. Reaching into the ash tray, he picked up a large butt and clamped it between his teeth.
Jeff rose, flipped his lighter and held its flame to the end of the cigar.
“Pamela” – Bogart drew contentedly – “is about to announce her engagement. It is customary in our family for the oldest member to give the dinner at which an engagement is to be announced. It doesn’t mean much any more. The family is reduced to Pam and me. However, she has set her heart on following the tradition.”
“Why shouldn’t she?”
“Because, at a similar dinner I gave for Corinne and Professor Collins last year, Corinne died. I don’t want to risk a repetition of that. Incidentally, that was Professor Michael Collins, the seismologist, who just left.”
“Why should there be a repetition?”
“No reason at all, except that Corinne’s death has never been cleared up.”
“What do you expect me to do? Clear it up?”
“No. I just want you to see that murder doesn’t happen again. Pam is obstinate and insists that I have the dinner. She is very headstrong, very willful. Er . . . I believe, Hunter, that you are acquainted with Pam?”
“I— Yes, I’ve met her. When do you plan to have the dinner, Mr Bogart?”
“Tonight”
“That doesn’t give me much time to take precautionary steps.”
Jeff stooped over and picked up the slip of paper that had fluttered to the floor from Smitty’s notebook. He glanced at the hurriedly scrawled message advising him not to get involved, and handed the sheet back to his assistant.
“Mr Bogart” – Jeff smiled at the older man – “I’m afraid I can’t handle this. It’s entirely out of my line. I suggest the police. I’m sure—”
“Humph! Pamela said you wouldn’t be interested unless there was a whopping big fee in it.”
“Did she say that?” Jeff’s cheeks burned.
“Yes.”
“Then count me in. I’ll be here for dinner tonight.” He rose to his feet.
“Eh? Here for dinner! That will never do, young man. The guests are all my friends. I . . . er . . . couldn’t ask them to mingle socially with an . . . er – employee!”
Chairs scraped backward. Smitty snapped shut his notebook and collided with Jeff in the library doorway.
“Wait! Just a minute!” Wendell Bogart’s voice sounded behind them.
The big house rumbled from the slamming of the heavy front door.
“Why did you lay yourself open, Jeff? I told you to turn it down cold.”
“Shut up!” Jeff snapped, and concentrated on his driving.
Smitty was not so easily squelched. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Jeff’s flaming cheeks and clamped jaw. Smitty grinned and cleared his throat.
“I say, Jeff,” he drawled, “I . . . er . . . can’t have my employer driving me around like this. It just isn’t being done, old man. Suppose some of the boys down at the local saw me. I’d lose face—”
Jeff Hunter’s big foot stamped down on the brake. The sudden stop lifted the light Smitty from his seat. Jeff snapped open the door and rolled the astonished little man into the bushes by the roadside. He slammed the door, dropped the car in gear and headed for town.
A mile farther on, his irritation evaporated, and remorse set in. He grinned, swung the car in a sharp U-turn, and headed back to the spot where he had left Smitty. His assistant was nowhere to be seen.
A worried frown furrowed his forehead. He U-turned again, drove back into town, and parked in the restricted space before police headquarters. Running lightly up the steps, he whirled through the revolving doors and barged into the office of the chief of detectives.
Chief William Gaines was lifting the telephone to put through a call. He recradled the instrument and smiled at the intruder.
“Bill” – Jeff shook his friend’s hand – “I hate to remind pals of past favors, but—”
“OK, Jeff.” The chief grinned wryly. “I expected it when you tipped me off on those missing bonds. What do you want? You’re not usually bashful.”
“What’s the story on the Corinne Bogart killing? I wasn’t around when it happened. I know Pamela, and I’ve just met her uncle, Wendell—”
The chief grimaced in distaste. “The boss has an exaggerated view of his importance in the scheme of things. Did he tell you to use the tradesmen’s entrance?”
“Not this time, but he left no doubt that we were to use it if we called again.” Briefly, Jeff outlined the events of the morning.
“Off the record,” the chief said, “it would be a blessing to the community if Pamela were bumped. She is one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen, but strictly N.G.”
“Didn’t I say I knew her?” Jeff reminded him. “The old man said the police had no idea who had killed Corinne. Is it the other way around? Are there so many suspects—”
“Oh, no. It’s not like that at all. Corinne really was different. She wasn’t a bit like Pamela. The old man was telling the truth there. She was one swell person, so far as we’ve discovered.”
“Then what happened to her?”
“She died at her own engagement party. Her coming marriage to Professor Collins was announced at dinner. The party then retired to the back terrace, just off the living room, for highballs. They were talking idly. Mike, probably dreaming of earthquakes, was twisting the dials of a portable radio. Accidentally, he shot up the volume and a swing band blared out. Everybody sort of jumped at the sudden noise.”
“Then?”
“They sank back in their chairs, everyone but Corinne. She pitched forward to the terrace floor, shot through the heart by a silver bullet. The gun was never found, nor was a motive discovered. That is the official story.”
“Humph!” Jeff leaned back in his chair. “I can imagine how the newspapers kicked that one around. ‘What are the police doing? Is Corinne Bogart a vampire?’ I can just see the headlines. I bet they gave the silver bullet a big play.”
“That’s right. It was pretty grim. None of the papers went so far as to mention the word ‘vampire’, but it was broadly hinted. Remember that Bogart, though he is out of step with the times, is still a very influential person. Very influential! We put the best detectives in the country on the case. The investigation was a blank.”
“Now” – Jeff grinned – “give me the low-down. Was the shot fired when the volume rose? How close was the killer? Who had the opportunity? Who gains?”
“Whoa, Jeff! Whoa!” Chief Gaines held up his hand “We don’t know definitely when the shot was fired. We don’t know how close the killer was. As for opportunity, anyone there could have done it. It could even have been suicide, if the gun was taken from her hand before she fell. It’s possible, but highly improbable. As for who gains, her money was divided equally between Pamela and her uncle.”
“Something’s rotten.” Jeff glared at the chief.
“All right, Jeff, ask ques
tions. I’ll answer those I can.”
“Why wasn’t the shot heard?”
“Because it was fired from one of those clever, powerful little air pistols. A scrape of a chair, anything, would have covered the small pop the gun made. The radio could have done it.”
“You sure it was an air pistol?”
“No question about it. We learned that from the bullet. The mark of the lands, absence of powder, smallness of caliber – All those things confirmed beyond doubt that it was fired from an air pistol.”
“What about the bullet itself, Chief?”
“Ah-h-h! The bullet was a long, pointed silver one, handmade.”
“Why handmade? Why silver?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Probably a bit of sand-in-the-eye technique on the part of the murderer. So far as we know, the supernatural didn’t enter into the case, except to cloud the main issues and cause us to waste a lot of time. We searched everywhere for that gun. We fine-combed the house and grounds. We tried to trace it through dealers.”
“Could an outsider have killed her?”
“No. There’s a ten-foot wall around the back garden. There had been a shower at sunset and there were no footprints inside or outside the wall. The servants are in the clear, too. They were all in the kitchen together. Besides having alibis, they lack motive.”
“Who served the drinks?” Jeff demanded.
“Don’t think we overlooked that bet. We’re not exactly dumb.” The chief grinned. “The first round was served by the butler as soon as the party went out to the terrace. Wendell Bogart served the second, mixing them at a portable bar in the living room. The third round had not been served. Pamela was standing in the doorway with the tray in her hands when her sister slumped forward. Everyone else was on the terrace within ten feet of her.”
“Could” – Jeff fixed his eyes on the chief – “could Pamela have fired that shot before she stepped into the doorway with the tray of drinks?”
“Now, Jeff, you’re getting on dangerous ground. I’m going to tell you one more thing, then this conference ends. And, for cripes sake, keep it under your hat!”
The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction Page 68