I came to a standstill, frowning, and my mind began to crank out an idea. I did some careful checking then, and the idea took on more weight, and at the end of another couple of minutes I had convinced myself I was right.
I knew how Thomas Murray had been murdered in locked room.
Once I had that, the rest of it came together pretty quick. My mind works that way; when I have something solid to build on, a kind of chain reaction takes place. I put together things Eberhardt had told me and things I knew about Murray, and there it was in a nice ironic package: the significance of Private Detective and the name of Murray's killer.
When Eberhardt came back into the room I was going over it all for the third time, making sure of my logic. He still had the black briar clamped between his teeth and there were more scowl wrinkles in his forehead. He said, "My suspects are getting restless; if we don't come up with an answer pretty soon, I've got to let them go on their way. And you, too."
"I may have the answer for you right now," I said.
That brought him up short. He gave me a penetrating look, then said, "Give."
"All right. What Murray was trying to tell us, as best he could with the magazines close at hand, was how he was stabbed and who his murderer is. I think Keyhole Mystery Magazine indicates how and Private Detective indicates who. It's hardly conclusive proof in either case, but it might be enough for you to pry loose an admission of guilt."
"You just leave that part of it to me. Get on with your explanation."
"Well, let's take the 'how' first," I said. "The locked-room angle. I doubt if the murderer set out to create that kind of situation; his method was clever enough, but as you pointed out we're not dealing with a mastermind here. He probably didn't even know that Murray had taken to locking himself inside this room every day. I think he must have been as surprised as everyone else when the murder turned into a locked-room thing.
"So it was supposed to be a simple stabbing done by person or persons unknown while Murray was alone in the house. But it wasn't a stabbing at all, in the strict sense of the word; the killer wasn't anywhere near here when Murray died."
"He wasn't, huh?"
"No. That's why the adhesive tape on the murder weapon—misdirection, to make it look like Murray was stabbed with a homemade knife in a close confrontation. I'd say he worked it the way he did for two reasons: one, he didn't have enough courage to kill Murray face to face; and two, he wanted to establish an alibi for himself."
Eberhardt puffed up another great cloud of acrid smoke from his pipe. "So tell me how the hell you put a steel splinter into a man's stomach when you're miles away from the scene."
"You rig up a death trap," I said, "using a keyhole."
"Now, look, we went over all that before. The key was inside the keyhole when we broke in, I told you that, and I won't believe the killer used some kind of tricky gimmick that the lab crew overlooked."
"That's not what happened at all. What hung both of us up is a natural inclination to associate the word 'keyhole' with a keyhole in a door. But the fact is, there are five other keyholes in this room."
"What?"
"The desk, Eb. The roll top desk over there."
He swung his head around and looked at the desk beneath the window. It contained five keyholes, all right—one in the roll top, one in the center drawer and one each in the three side drawers. Like those on most antique roll top desks, they were meant to take large, old-fashioned keys and therefore had good-sized openings. But they were also half-hidden in scrolled brass frames with decorative handle pulls; and no one really notices them anyway, any more than you notice individual cubbyholes or the design of the brass trimming. When you look at a desk you see it as an entity: you see a desk.
Eberhardt put his eyes on me again. "Okay," he said, "I see what you mean. But I searched that desk myself, and so did the lab boys. There's nothing on it or in it that could be used to stab a man through a keyhole."
"Yes, there is." I led him over to the desk. "Only one of these keyholes could have been used, Eb. It isn't the one in the roll top because the top is pushed all the way up; it isn't any of the ones in the side drawers because of where Murray was stabbed—he would have had to lean over at an awkward angle, on his own initiative, in order to catch that steel splinter in the stomach. It has to be the center drawer then, because when a man sits down at a desk like this, that drawer—and that keyhole—are about on a level with the area under his breastbone."
He didn't argue with the logic of that. Instead, he reached out, jerked open the center drawer by its handle pull and stared inside at the pens and pencils, paper clips, rubber bands and other writing paraphernalia.
Then, after a moment, I saw his eyes change and understanding come into them.
"Rubber band," he said.
"Right." I picked up the largest one; it was about a quarter-inch wide, thick and strong—not unlike the kind kids use to make slingshots. "This one, no doubt."
"Keep talking."
"Take a look at the keyhole frame on the inside of the center drawer. The top doesn't quite fit snug with the wood; there's enough room to slip the edge of this band into the crack. All you'd have to do then is stretch the band out around the steel splinter, ease the point of the weapon through the keyhole and anchor it against the metal on the inside rim of the hole. It would take time to get the balance right and close the drawer without releasing the band, but it could be done by someone with patience and a steady hand. And what you'd have then is a death trap—a cocked and powerful slingshot."
Eberhardt nodded slowly.
"When Murray sat down at the desk," I said, "all it took was for him to pull open the drawer with the jerking motion people always use. The point of the weapon slipped free, the rubber band released like a spring, and the splinter shot through and sliced into Murray's stomach. The shock and impact drove him and the chair backward, and he must have stood up convulsively at the same time, knocking over the chair. That's when he staggered into those bookshelves. And meanwhile the rubber band flopped loose from around the keyhole frame, so that everything looked completely ordinary inside the drawer."
"I'll buy it," Eberhardt said. "It's just simple enough and logical enough to be the answer." He gave me a sidewise look. "You're pretty good at this kind of thing, once you get going."
"It's just that the pulp connection got my juices flowing."
"Yeah, the pulp connection. Now, what about Private Detective and the name of the killer?"
"The clue Murray left us there is a little more roundabout," I said. "But you've got to remember that he was dying and that he only had time to grab those magazines that were handy. He couldn't tell us more directly who he believed was responsible."
"Go on," he said, "I'm listening."
"Murray collected pulp magazines, and he obviously also read them. So he knew that private detectives as a group are known by all sorts of names—shamus, op, eye, snooper." I allowed myself a small, wry smile. "And one more, just as common."
"Which is?"
"Peeper," I said.
He considered that. "So?"
"Eb, Murray also collected every other kind of popular culture. One of those kinds is prints of old television shows. And one of your suspects is a small, mousy guy who wears thick glasses; you told me that yourself. I'd be willing to bet that some time ago Murray made a certain obvious comparison between this relative of his and an old TV show character from back in the fifties, and that he referred to the relative by that character's name."
"What character?"
"Mr. Peepers," I said. "And you remember who played Mr. Peepers, don't you?"
"Well, I'll be damned," he said. "Wally Cox."
"Sure. Mr. Peepers—the cousin, Walter Cox."
At eight o'clock that night, while I was working on a beer and reading a 1935 issue of Dime Detective, Eberhardt rang up my apartment. "Just thought you'd like to know," he said. "We got a full confession out of Walter Cox about an hour ago. I hat
e to admit it—I don't want you to get a swelled head—but you were right all the way down to the Mr. Peepers angle. I checked with the housekeeper and the niece before I talked to Cox, and they both told me Murray called him by that name all the time."
"What was Cox's motive?" I asked.
"Greed, what else? He had a chance to get in on a big investment deal in South America, and Murray wouldn't give him the cash. They argued about it in private for some time, and three days ago Cox threatened to kill him. Murray took the threat seriously, which is why he started locking himself in his Rooms while he tried to figure out what to do about it.
"Where did Cox get the piece of steel?"
"Friend of his has a basement workshop, builds things out of wood and metal. Cox borrowed the workshop on a pretext and used a grinder to hone the weapon. He rigged up the slingshot this morning—let himself into the house with his key while the others were out and Murray was locked in one of the Rooms."
"Well, I'm glad you got it wrapped up and glad I could help."
"You're to be even gladder when the niece talks to you tomorrow. She says she wants to give you some kind of reward."
"Hell, that's not necessary."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth—to coin a phrase. Listen, I owe you something myself. You want to come over tomorrow night for a home-cooked dinner and some beer?"
"As long as it's Dana who does the home cooking," I said.
After we rang off I thought about the reward from Murray's niece. Well, if she wanted to give me money I was hardly in a financial position to turn it down. But if she left it up to me to name my own reward, I decided I would not ask for money at all; I would ask for something a little more fitting instead.
What I really wanted was Thomas Murray's run of Private Detective.
WHERE HAVE YOU GONE, SAM SPADE?
I.
The Brinkman Company, Specialty Imports, was located just off the Embarcadero, across from Pier Twenty-six in the shadow of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. It was a good-sized building, made out of wood with a brick facade; it didn't look like much from the outside. I had no idea what was on the inside, because Arthur Brinkman, the owner, hadn't told me on the phone what sort of "specialty imports" he dealt in. He hadn't told me why he wanted to hire a private detective either. All he'd said was that the job would take a full week, my fee for which he would guarantee, and would I come over and talk to him? I would. I charged two hundred dollars a day, and when you multiplied that by seven it made for a nice piece of change.
It was a little after ten A.M. when I got there. The day-was misty and cold, whipped by a stiff wind that had the sharp smell of salt in it — typical early-March weather in San Francisco. Drawn up at the rear of the building were three big trucks from a waterfront drayage company, and several men were busily engaged in unloading crates and boxes and wheeling them inside the warehouse on dollies and hand trucks. I parked my car up toward the front, next to a new Plymouth station wagon, and went across to the office entrance.
Inside, there was a small anteroom with a desk along the left-hand wall and two closed doors along the right-hand wall. A glass-fronted cabinet stood between the doors, displaying the kinds of things you see on knick-knack shelves in some people's houses. Opposite the entrance, in the rear wall, was another closed door; that one led to the warehouse, because I could hear the sounds the workmen made filtering in through it. And behind the desk was a buxom redhead rattling away on an electric typewriter.
She gave me a bright professional smile, finished what she was typing and said, "Yes, may I help you?" in a bright professional voice as she rolled the sheet out.
Along with a professional smile of my own, I gave her my name.
"Oh, yes," she said, "Mr. Brinkman is expecting you." She stood and came around from behind the desk. She had nice hips and pretty good legs; chubby calves, though. "My name is Fran Robbins, by the way. I'm the receptionist, secretary and about six other things here. A Jill-of-all-trades, I guess you could say."
The last sentence was one she'd used before, probably to just about everyone who came in; you could tell that by the way she said it, the faint expectancy in her voice. She wanted me to appreciate both the line and her cleverness, so I said obligingly, "That's pretty good—Jill-of-all-trades. I like that."
She smiled again, much less impersonally this time; I'd made points with her, at least. "I'll tell Mr. Brinkman you're here," she said, and went over and knocked on one of the doors in the right-hand wall and then disappeared through it.
The anteroom was not all that warm, despite the fact that a wall heater glowed near Miss Robbins' desk. Instead of sitting in the one visitor's chair, I took a couple of turns around the room to keep my circulation going. I was just starting a third turn when the left-hand door opened and Miss Robbins came back out.
With her was a wiry little man in his mid-forties, with colorless hair and features so bland they would have, I thought, the odd reverse effect of making you remember him. He looked as if a good wind would blow him apart and away, like the fluff of a dandelion. But he had quick, canny eyes and restless hands that kept plucking at the air, as if he were creating invisible things with them.
He used one of the hands to pat Miss Robbins on the shoulder; the smile she gave him in return was anything but professional—doe-eyed and warm enough to melt butter. I wondered if maybe the two of them had something going and decided it was a pretty good bet that they had. My old private eyes were still good at detecting things like that, if not much else.
Brinkman came over to me, gave me his name and one of his nervous hands, and then ushered me into his office. It wasn't much of an office—desk, a couple of low metal file cabinets, some boxes stacked along one wall and an old wooden visitor's chair that looked as if it would collapse if you sat in it. That chair was what I got invited to occupy, and it didn't collapse when I lowered myself into it; but I was afraid to move around much, just the same.
Sitting in his own chair, Brinkman lit a cigarette and left it hanging from one corner of his mouth. "You saw the trucks outside when you got here?" he asked.
I nodded. "You must be busy these days."
"Very busy. They're bringing in a shipment of goods that arrived by freighter from Europe a few days ago. Murano glass from Italy, Hummel figurines from West Germany, items like that."
"Are they the sort of things you generally import?"
"Among a number of other items, yes. This particular shipment is the largest I've ever bought; I just couldn't pass it up at the bulk price that was offered to me. Deals like that only come along once in ten years."
"The shipment is valuable, then?"
"Extremely valuable," Brinkman said. "When those trucks deliver the last of it later today, I'll have more than three hundred thousand dollars' worth of goods in my warehouse."
"That's a lot of money, all right," I agreed.
He bobbed his head in a jerky way, crushed out his cigarette and promptly lit another one. Chain-smoker, I thought. Poor bastard. I'd been a heavy smoker myself up until a couple of years ago, when a lesion on one lung made me quit cold turkey. The lesion had been benign, but it could just as easily have gone the other way. For Brinkman's sake, I hoped he had the sense to quit one of these days, before it was too late.
"The goods will be here in about a week," he said. "It will take that long to inventory them and arrange for the bulk of the items to be shipped out to my customers."
"I see."
"That's where you come in. I want you to guard them for me during that time. At night, when no one else is around."
So that was it. He was afraid somebody might come skulking around after dark to steal or vandalize his merchandise, and what he wanted was a night watchman. Not that I minded; nobody had wanted me to do any private skulking of my own in recent days, and there was that guarantee of wages for a full week.
I said, "I'm your man, Mr. Brinkman."
"Good. You'll start right away,
tonight."
I nodded. "When should I be here?"
"Six o'clock. That's our closing time."
"What time do you open in the morning?"
"Eight-thirty. But I'm usually here by seven."
"So you want me on the job about thirteen hours."
"That's right," Brinkman said. "I realize that's a much longer day than you normally work; I'm willing to compensate you for the extra time. Would two hundred and fifty a day be all right?"
It was just fine, and I said so.
He put out his second cigarette. "I'll show you around now," he said, "get you familiarized with the building and where everything is. When you come back tonight I'll show you what I want you to do on your rounds -"
There was a knock on the door. Brinkman was half out of his chair already; he stood all the way up as the door opened and a heavyset guy around my age, early fifties, with a drinker's nose and the thick, gnarled hands of a longshoreman poked his head inside.
"See you a minute, Art?" the guy said.
"Sure. Come in, Orin; I want you to meet the man I've hired to guard the new shipment."
The heavyset guy came in, and we shook hands as Brinkman introduced us. His name was Orin McIntyre, and he was the firm's bookkeeper. Which was something of a small surprise; even though he was wearing a white shirt open at the throat and a pair of slacks, I had taken him, foolishly enough, for a warehouseman or a truck driver because of his physical appearance. He could have gone on the old "What's My Line?" television show and nobody would have guessed his occupation. So much for stereotypes.
"If you don't mind my saying so," McIntyre said to me, "I think Art is wasting his money hiring a night watchman. This place is built like a fortress; when it's locked up tight nobody can get in."
Brinkman gave him an irritated look. "You don't know that for certain, Orin. Neither do I."
Case File - a Collection of Nameless Detective Stories Page 11