THE SUPREME GETAWAY AND OTHER TALES FROM THE PULPS

by George Allan England

  He returned to the body, got a nightdress — a used one — from his wife’s closet, punched a hole in it with a pair of scissors at the spot corresponding to the wound on the body, and put the nightdress on the dead woman. He wet a towel, sopped her face and hair, washed the wound and dabbled the night­dress with blood. Then he laid the woman in her bed, which he opened and tossed about a little, to make it seem as if she had slept there that night.

  “Not quite enough blood,” he regretted, “but it’ll do. Now we’ll work in a bit of brandy. Mustn’t forget that!”

  He dropped the wet and ensanguined towel on the floor, then fetched a bottle of brandy from his little stock in a trunk that only the woman and he had known contained any. He spilled brandy on her lips and neck, and left the uncorked bottle on the bedside table.

  “Next,” said Brodbine. “We’ve got to have an alibi!”

  This was simple. He locked one of the bedroom windows, that looked out over the roof of the summer kitchen. Taking off his rubbers and shoes, he tossed them into his clothes closet, and — lighting a candle — went up into the attic. Here he found and put on an old pair of hunting-boots, with calked soles. Downstairs again, he blew out the candle and set it back on the shelf where he had got it. He went into the kitchen. From the drawer of the kitchen table he took a broad-bladed chisel.

  He left the house by the back door, climbed upon the summer kitchen, and with the chisel — working in dark and rain — “jimmied” the window in good, professional style. He now jumped down into a muddy flowerbed, and made deep tracks across a bit of soft lawn. These tracks led to the graveled driveway. Here he slipped off the hunting-boots, and in stocking-feet returned into the house, via the flagged back walk.

  He went down cellar, and opened the door of the furnace where a bright coal fire was glowing redly. He had left all the drafts open to permit of the fire burning out quickly after he and his wife had left, so his wife’s fur coat and the hunting boots which he had rapidly cut into strips, once tossed inside, were quickly consumed.

  “There!” he exclaimed. “They’ll have to go some to hook me up to it, now. Oh, damn it — those other clothes!”

  Yes, he had forgotten the blood-stained clothes. Another trip to his wife’s room and back to the furnace disposed of all these. He shut the furnace door with the satisfaction of an artist who has done a good, trustworthy piece of work.

  “Now,” said the banker, in a very happy frame of mind, “now for Abercrombie and Gilkey!”

  He undressed, in his own room, after having carefully washed his hands. He put on pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers, and tossed his own bed quite artfully, taking especial care to dent the pillow. Then, lighter-hearted than he had been in months, he went to the phone and called the doctor.

  A sleepy operator bothered him a little, so that by the time he had got Abercrombie out of the Land of Nod his voice really showed a good deal of nervousness.

  “You, doctor?” he ex­claimed. “This is Brodbine. My wife — she’s been shot! Burglar — and she’s dead! Yes, dead! Eh? In her bedroom. Just now. What? Yes, I’m alone, here. Mustn’t move her? My God, doctor, this is no time for your cold-blooded instructions. My wife — she’s dead, here! And you — all right, I get you! But hurry, hurry! What? Ten minutes? For God’s sake, doctor —!”

  Next he called the stuffy little police station, under the post office. Gilkey, of course, was sound asleep. The old man, however, woke up quick enough when he realized that murder — what he would have called “a genu-ine, first-class murder” — had been done in Rockville. Such occasions to shine were rare, for the local police. And Mrs. Brodbine, of all people!

  “I’ll be right up!” Gilkey promised. Brodbine could catch the quiver of anticipatory self-importance already puffing the good soul. “Yes, sir, I’ll send my men out — pick up any suspects. Lord, sir, I’m sorry to hear this. But I’ll do everything I can — the murderer, we’ll git him, all right. Be there jest as quick’s I can, sir. My God!”

  “Pretty smooth!” judged the banker, as he hung up. “Abercrombie will be here in ten or fifteen minutes. Gilkey can’t make it in less than twenty or maybe twenty-five. He’s ’way downtown, and the doc’s only four blocks from here. That’s all as it should be. Abercrombie is coroner. If I get his O. K. on the evidence, it’s all over but the funeral. And I’ll get it, all right. A country crocus like this one — nothing to it!”

  A few minutes now remained before Abercrombie should arrive. Minutes that the banker used for a complete review of the case. He weighed and tested everything, found no flaw. The more carefully he analyzed the evidence, the more iron-bound everything appeared. Only one weak link existed in the chain. That was old Spracklin. And Spracklin, being constrained by a very great fear, would certainly hold his tongue.

  “Nothing to it!” judged the banker, again, and felt at peace.

  Trrrrrrrrr!

  The electric bell in the front hallway startled him a little, in spite of all his assurance. He felt his nerves crisp, as he ran downstairs, flopping along in his slippers. He grew a little sick, and his heart began to cut capers. But this was all right, too. Quite as it should be. He was grateful for this agitation. What could be more natural? “Buck up!” he growled to his soul. “Buck up, and go through!”

  He hurried to the front door, and threw it open. The storm wind slapped the bathrobe about his legs.

  “Doctor! For God’s sake —!”

  “Where is she?” demanded Abercrombie. He came in, shaking the rain off, like a New­foundland. Brodbine shut out the blackness and the cold. A glimpse of himself, in the hat-rack mirror, showed him his mask of anguish was well-painted. “Where is she? Up there?”

  Brodbine nodded.

  “She — she’s dead!” he gulped, and caught the doctor’s arm. “Come up, quick!”

  Abercrombie shed hat and coat. With his little black bag — how useless now! — he tramped grimly upstairs.

  “Police notified?” he demanded, in the upper hall.

  “Yes. You’re the coroner, of course.”

  “Yes, but the police have got to come, too. What Rockville calls the police.” His tone held contempt.

  “Gilkey’ll be here, right away.”

  “Good! You haven’t moved her, I hope.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “That’s good! That simplifies matters!” He pulled down the nightdress, studied the wound. “Washed it, eh? No use, Mr. Brod­bine. No more than washing her face was, or trying to get brandy into her.” His tone was brutally professional. “Bullet must have penetrated the heart, laterally.” He replaced the nightdress. For a moment he studied the hole in it, thrusting a finger through. “Just what happened, eh?”

  “A burglar shot her.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A little while. Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “How do you know it was a burglar?”

  “Well, you see — the window’s jimmied. It’s open. Her fur coat, on that chair — I mean it was on that chair — it’s gone.”

  Abercrombie walked over to the window, adjusted his spectacles and studied the window. He felt of the marks left by the chisel, and grunted. Then he came back to the bed.

  “You called me right away?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Good God, doctor! I didn’t know she was dead! Couldn’t believe it I got brandy — water —! Only when I realized — then I ’phoned you.”

  “Yes, yes. Quite so. Very natural. Where were you, when it happened?”

  “In bed.”

  “Asleep?”

  “Yes. I was wakened by a noise. A shot. I sat up in bed, listened, called out. Got no answer. Jumped out of bed, and ran in her.”

  “I see. What then?”

  “Then I saw her — lying there.”

  “Just where?”

  “Why, in bed. There.”

  “Fallen back, just so?”

  “Yes.”

  “And sh
e was shot, you say, about twenty minutes ago?”

  “Half an hour, maybe.”

  “Shot in bed, there, and died there?”

  “Yes.”

  “By a man at that window?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmmm! Very odd, Mr. Brodbine!”

  “What’s odd?”

  “Well, the fact that there’s a little blood on the floor in the middle of the bedroom, for one thing. And then, the fact that the hole in her nightdress was pierced by some instrument, and not caused by a bullet. And thirdly, that the condition of the wound and of the coagulated blood shows she’s been dead certainly three-quarters of an hour or more. And lastly —”

  “You’re mistaken, doctor!” put in Brodbine, horribly sick at heart “I was here. I know!”

  “Yes, and I know, too!” the old doctor retorted. “Look a’ here, Brodbine! That window, where you claim the burglar stood, is at the right of the bed and somewhat above the head of it. The wound, you will observe, is on the left side of your wife’s chest.”

  “But —!”

  “Shhh! Don’t you think, just as a matter of common sense and wisdom — don’t you think you’d better give me the whole story? Don’t you think you’d better tell me just what happened?”

  V.

  THE SILENCE that hung between the two men weighted itself with so ponderable a tension that it fairly sagged. From the library, below-stairs, a single chime of the clock announced the half-hour after one o’ the morning. The ticking of that clock seemed measuring out heartbeats of destiny.

  “Old Gilkey,” said the doctor, with the gaslight making his ­wrinkles deeper, “will be here any time, now. You’ve got just one chance — the truth.”

  “The truth? But I’ve told you the —”

  “‘Milk for babes and sucklings; strong meat for men!’ Come clean!”

  “Eh? What?” The cant phrase sounded strange echoes in the mind of Brodbine the banker; echoes that reached into the soul of Tony the Scratcher. Brodbine’s eyes were strange, as he peered at the doctor.

  “I’m coroner,” said Abercrombie.

  “Yes?” Brodbine struggled to read the riddle. Was this threat, or was it offer?

  “My verdict will close all investigation.”

  “Well?” The banker’s heart was leaping.

  “Just why and how did this woman die? Just what is the exact truth?”

  Brodbine’s hand gripped the doctor’s arm till the flesh gave.

  “The — the truth?” he gulped. He felt dizzy. His pallor spread to the lips.

  “Yes. I’ve got to have it.”

  “I tell you I’ve given you the truth!”

  Abercrombie laughed.

  “What’s the use of stalling, any longer?” he demanded. “Why did you kill that woman?”

  Brodbine swallowed hard. His hands quivered out, to the doctor.

  “I — I — damn it all! It’s the truth I’m giving you! A burglar —”

  “Kick in, now! Kick in!”

  Brodbine stared. Not all his anguish of terror and defeat could stifle his astonishment. A voice seemed echoing to him from the shadows of the black past — a voice that spoke the language of the Underworld.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “I? Oh, just Dr. Abercrombie. Why?”

  “Say!” And Brodbine’s eyes grew nar­row, keen. “You can’t pull that on me! I know the lingo. What’s your moniker?”

  “I’ll swap for yours!”

  They eyed each other a tense moment, like wrestlers watching for an advantage, before the grapple.

  “I’ve got to know who you are, first,” demanded Brodbine. “I’m wise. You’ve hit the trail, sometime or other. Snap out of the bull, doc, and come through! Who are you?”

  “Ah, that,” smiled the doctor, “would be an interesting question for you — and Rockville — to determine. Some men are just one man. Some are two, or even three. I, perhaps, have been even more. Just now, I’m Dr. Edwin F. Abercrombie, a highly-respected citizen of this town.”

  “That won’t get across, with me!” ex­claimed the banker. “I’m no downy bird. Let’s have it!”

  “I perceive quite clearly,” answered the physician, “that the title of downy bird would be a misnomer, in your case. But that doesn’t invalidate my claim to being Dr. Abercrombie. This much, however, I’ll say — perhaps I haven’t always been a doctor. I may have had previous incarna­tions. Your trail and mine may have crossed, in previous spheres. I may very probably have known or heard of —”

  “Of me?” Brodbine demanded.

  “All things are possible.”

  “And you — you under cover —”

  “Why involve me?” asked the doctor. “I’m not under investigation, in this matter!”

  “You, under cover the same as I am — you’re going to blow me, after all these years?”

  “I didn’t say I was under cover,” Aber­crombie smiled. “I don’t admit I am. And I’m quite positive you don’t know me. I’m much older, for one thing. Any —”

  “Yes, but —”

  “Wait! Any previous incarnation I may have had, may have been when you were only a young fellow. And as for blowing you, to quote your own words, I haven’t made any such threat, either. But I will say this, that I knew a bit about you, prior to 1909. And I haven’t snitched a word of it. So I must be pretty close-mouthed, eh? Perhaps I had my reasons — good ones — for silence. So now, to get back to the main line of investigation and to resume my previous inquiry, why did you kill your wife?”

  For a moment, Brodbine could find no answer. Storm beat at the windows; man peered at man, with soul striv­ing to read soul; and on the bed, the murdered woman seemed to listen.

  “You’d better be quick,” warned the doctor. “Old Gilkey will be here, any minute now, and I’ve got to report what seems best for all concerned. Are you ready to come through?”

  “Yes. I killed her because I had to.”

  “To save yourself?”

  “Yes, and Rockville. And the county. Everybody!”

  “I see. She was forcing your hand, eh?”

  The banker nodded. Abercrombie laughed.

  “I thought rather she would, in the end,” said he. “It was a very pretty problem in psychology. I knew, or figured, you were making a play for big stakes. I was inter­ested to see how it all would come out.” He tugged his wet beard, and pondered. “A pretty problem in souls. Very, very pretty.”

  “You — you don’t mean you knew —?”

  “Well,” answered the doctor, dryly, “you’ll notice I never opened an account at your bank. Or rather, after you went to work there, I transferred my account to the Farmers’ Trust Co.”

  “What are you? A dick?”

  “No. Only an observer of the reactions of human chemistry. A laboratory worker in soul-stuff. Having been in the test tube, myself, I now enjoy seeing other souls under the influence of various re­agents. This is very pretty, indeed! I interpret this experi­ment as one in which the male element reversed its usual role, by becoming con­servative, while the female became radical. Correct, eh?”

  Brodbine nodded.

  “A man hates to accuse his wife,” said he, “especially when she’s dead and can’t defend herself — and when he’s killed her. But I had to do it. She was bound to go through. I got cold feet on cleaning out the bank, that’s all, and she wanted to go through. She put it up to me that if I quit she’d blow the game, anyhow. That was at the bank, tonight, and —”

  “And you figured there was only one way?”

  “Yes.”

  “You figured right, too. As the subject of previous laboratory tests, myself, I certify that your solution of the problem was 100% correct. Ethically wrong, but practically right. What was your motive for quitting?”

  “Pure folly, for a man in my line!”

  “Folly? When you’ve saved this whole town and county from ruin?”

  “The folly of a man who has no
real right to a home, and friends, and a legitimate business, trying to keep all those things! The folly of an Ishmael trying to appoint himself a watchman over society — trying to protect what is logically his prey! Motive? There’s no one motive — they’re mixed —”

  “Like all chemical reactions,” dryly re­marked Abercrombie. “I used to be an expert chemist, in a quiet way, and I know. I’m glad you’ve been so frank, Mr. Brodbine. If you hadn’t made it all quite clear, my experiment would have been spoiled and I always throw spoiled chemicals down the sink. As it is, you’ll have punishment enough without my taking any hand in it. The punishment of this community condoling with you over your wife’s unfortunate taking-off in her prime; and of living along in this same house; and of keeping on at the bank. If you’re wise, you’ll take a month or two’s vacation after you’ve dropped your dutiful tears on the grave. You’ll go away and ponder on the sublime super-morality of ‘the greatest good to the greatest number.’ And now —”

  Trrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  Again the bell summoned, in the lower hall.

  “Gilkey!” cried Brodbine.

  “Yes, there’s the power of the law,” smiled Abercrombie. “Well, I don’t im­agine either you or I — who’ve been in life’s crucible — feel any great uneasiness about so mild a Bunsen burner as old Gilkey. There’s one thing, though, we must attend to right away.”

  “What’s that?” asked Brodbine. His head felt light and strange. His world was spinning, his universe awhirl.

  “When’s your maid coming back?”

  “Day after tomorrow. We sent her away, so we could —”

  “Don’t expound the obvious. The main factor is that she’s gone, and won’t be back for forty-eight hours. Plenty of time to rearrange any furniture we change, now, without exciting comment or suspicion. So take hold here, Mr. Brodbine, and help me lift this bed round.”

  “The bed?”

  “Yes. That’s the one element necessary, now, to make this experiment a complete success. Remember, your wife was shot here, sitting up in bed. Her wound has got to be on the side toward the window. Help me turn the bed, man — turn the bed!”