by Unknown
“That you, Howe?” Lennox demanded, as a sleepy voice asked what the hell he wanted. The voice protested that it wasn’t Howe, that he had never heard of Howe, and that if he did now, it would be too soon. Lennox paid no attention.
“Listen, boy!” he said, making his voice sound serious. “That money I gave you, you know, those ——”
He picked up the inkwell and half turned so that he could see both French and Toni. “What’ll I have him do with them?” he asked the gambler.
Toni’s eyes switched from Lennox to his chief’s face for an instant and in that instant, Lennox dropped the phone and threw the glass inkwell. He threw it underhanded, threw it with all the force that he had.
It caught the gunman just above the temple and he went over onto the rug without a sound. Lennox sprang at French. The gambler was tugging at his coat pocket. He had his gun half free as Lennox’s fingers closed about his wrist. French tried to jerk free, couldn’t and struck Lennox in the face with his free hand. Lennox grabbed his throat and tried to force the gambler’s head back. French was too strong.
Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand came from the pocket, bringing his gun with it. Desperately, Lennox clung to the man. French hit him again, squarely on the nose. Tears started from Lennox’s eyes; his fingers sank deeper into French’s throat. The gambler swung about, carrying Lennox with him, and then across French’s shoulder, Bill saw something which almost caused him to relax his grip.
The door into the other room had opened. Girkin, on hands and knees, was crawling towards the gun which lay on the carpet at Toni’s side. Even as Lennox saw him, Girkin’s hand reached the gun, closed over it, and he reeled to his feet, his eyes burning with hate, staring at French.
The gun came up slowly. Lennox cried out. He was never sure afterwards exactly what he said.
“French!” Girkin’s voice cut across the room.
Lennox’s fingers slipped from the gambler’s throat. Girkin’s gun flamed and French stiffened. Lennox threw himself sidewise, out of the line of fire. French paid no attention to him. It was as if the gambler had forgotten his existence. He turned slowly and, as he turned, Girkin fired again. French staggered, went to his knees.
His gun came up, and Lennox saw a hole suddenly appear between Girkin’s eyes. The gunman pitched forward without a sound.
French stared at him, coughed twice, bent over on his hands, and then settled to the floor. For a minute there was silence in the room, then Lennox bent above Toni, and noted that he was still breathing, but unconscious.
Lennox rose, found a handkerchief, and dabbed at his bleeding nose; then he looked around the room. Behind the desk, a wall safe, its door half open, attracted him. He crossed to the safe and drew out bundles of currency. In all, there were thirty-five thousand dollars. He found a newspaper, wrapped up the money and moved towards the door. Everything was quiet. Evidently there was no one in the house. He wondered vaguely why the shots had not attracted attention.
Outside, it was broad daylight. The house, he saw, was set far up on one of the hillsides north of Beverly. He walked down the long, curving roadway without seeing anyone. He walked for a long time, his head aching dully, the sun growing warmer on his back. Finally he reached a drug-store and called a cab.
11
he shine-boy looked up as Lennox came through the General gate.
“Morning, Mr. Lennox.”
“Hello, Sam.” He went on across the lot towards the executive offices. Steps sounded on the concrete behind him. Nancy Hobbs’ voice called.
“Oh, Bill!”
He turned and managed a grin. “How ’r’ you, Nance?”
She said: “I’ve been hunting for you since I heard you were out of here, looking every— Your face! What’s the matter? What happened?”
“I’ve been playing house with the boys.” He grinned. “Come in while I see Sol, if you want some fun. Then you can drive me to the station.”
She followed him towards Spurck’s office. “So you’re really going to pull out?”
“You said it. Just as soon as I see Sol.”
“I’ll wait out here,” she said, stopping in the reception room. “And, Bill, don’t let him talk you into anything.”
He stopped also, and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweet, I’m washed up.” He went through into Spurck’s office. Spurck’s secretary was beside the big desk taking dictation. Spurck came to his feet.
“Bill?”
“Mr. Lennox to you,” Bill told him. “Get Elva Meyer and that precious nephew of yours in here. I want to see them.”
Spurck said, “But—your nose!”
“Never mind my nose. Get them.”
Spurck swung on the secretary. “What is it you’re standing there for? Get them—can’t you? Must I do everything about this plant yet?”
“Yes, Mr. Spurck.” The secretary bobbed, and disappeared.
Spurck said: “Where have you been? All night, I don’t sleep, wondering.”
Lennox clipped: “Save it until Braun gets here.” He helped himself to a cigarette from the box on Spurck’s desk and stood, rolling it between his fingers so that the tobacco spilled out a little at each end. The door opened and Elva Meyer came in. “You wanted—” She stopped when she saw Lennox.
Bill said: “Sit down.”
“I—er—”
His voice snapped: “Sit down!”
She sank into a chair. Spurck looked at her, then at Lennox, started to speak, then changed his mind. Again the door came open and Braun entered the room. His face changed when he saw Lennox, losing its color; his lips grew almost pallid. “Hello, Bill?” he managed.
Lennox nodded. He crossed to the desk and tore the newspaper wrapping from the package. Money spilled out upon the desk. Spurck made a glad sound, deep in his throat. Braun and the girl exchanged quick, startled glances.
Lennox said: “There’s thirty-five grand there, Sol. You’ll have to take the rest out of Braun’s salary.”
Spurck, who had been fingering the money, looked up quickly. Braun made a strangled noise. “You can’t—”
Lennox said: “Shut up! Listen, Sol! This relative of yours has been bucking the wheel. He dropped plenty to French. French had his paper for fifty grand and was threatening to come to you. Someone got the bright idea of snatching Wayborn and soaking you fifty grand to get him back. They figured that you’d call Braun in and let him handle it, but you didn’t. You showed the letter to me.” He stopped and lit the cigarette.
“Meyer here has been playing around with Braun when people weren’t watching. He told her about his jam and the Wayborn idea and she put him in touch with Girkin. Girkin and Charley did the dirty work—”
“It’s a lie!” Braun was on his feet.
Lennox said, coldly: “See this nose?” He touched it with his finger. “The man that gave me that is dead. Shut up!”
Braun sank back in his chair with a sick look.
Lennox went on:
“Girkin thought that Meyer was still his moll. He didn’t know that he was washed up there. When he found out, he held up ten grand. I don’t know where it is. Neither did French. They grabbed Girkin and tried to make him talk. They searched his apartment and stuck a chiv into Charley’s ribs when he walked in on them. That’s about all.”
Braun said: “You can’t prove it, you can’t prove it.”
Lennox looked at him. “For the first time in your life, you’re right. French and Girkin are dead, but I don’t have to prove it. Sol knows.”
Spurck was looking at his nephew. “Loafer!” he shouted. “Loafer! Get out!” He waved his arms wildly. Braun tried to say something. Spurck moved around the desk towards him. Braun went out fast.
Lennox said: “That will be about all, Sol. I’m washed up here. It’s New York and some rest for me.”
Spurck said: “But listen once, will you? I—”
Nancy Hobbs had been waiting a long time. She looked at her watch again, just as the door ope
ned and Lennox came out. She told him: “You’ll have to hurry. There isn’t much time.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “I’m not going today, Nance.”
“Bill!” She was facing him, her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. “You’ve let Spurck—”
He shrugged wearily. “Sol’s got a new idea for a picture. All about an actress who has her leading man kidnaped to raise money for her boy-friend so that he won’t have to go to the big-house. Sol says that it’s the best idea in years. That it is ‘superb, stupendous, colossal.’ That’s just the usual bunk talk, of course, but I think that I’ll hang around and see how it turns out. A few weeks won’t matter, and this picture may be a little different.”
The Shrieking Skeleton
Charles M. Green
CHARLES M. GREEN was one of the pseudonyms of Erle Stanley Gardner. While most pulp writers struggled to earn a living, Gardner managed to leap into the big time very quickly. His first two fictional works were sold in 1921 to Breezy Stories. His third story, “The Shrieking Skeleton,” was sold to Black Mask in 1923 under the pen name Charles M. Green. He continued to use this byline to sell stories and articles to such publications as Life, Droll Stories, Mystery Magazine, Chicago Ledger, The Smart Set, Triple-X, and, of course, Black Mask, for the next year.
Among the other Gardner pseudonyms are A. A. Fair, his most well-known, under which he wrote a long series of novels about Bertha Cool and Donald Lam; Carleton Kendrake, for a single novel, The Clew of the Forgotten Murder (1935), which has been frequently reprinted under Gardner’s own name as The Clue of the Forgotten Murder; and Charles Kenny, also with a single novel, This Is Murder (1935), also reissued under Gardner’s own name.
While Perry Mason is nearly a household name, Gardner created numerous other series characters for the pulps, including Ed Jenkins, known variously as “the Phantom Crook” and “the Gentleman Rogue”; Sidney Zoom, the master of disguise; Soo Hoo Duck, the “King of Chinatown”; Speed Dash, the “Human Fly”; Lester Leith, con man extraordinaire; Ken Corning, a lawyer in the Mason mold; Paul Pry, the brilliant grifter; and the Patent Leather Kid.
“The Shrieking Skeleton” was published in the issue of December 1923.
The Shrieking Skeleton
Charles M. Green
(A COMPLETE FAST-MOVING MYSTERY NOVELETTE)
When a man buys the body of his greatest enemy and makes a skeleton out of it, there are almost sure to be rare doings—not all of them easily explainable by human motives. You’ll get a thrill when the skeleton and the detectives get to work.
I HAVE HEARD MUCH ABOUT THE POWER of money, but the greatest surprise of my life came when I learned that my friend Dr. Alfred Potter had purchased the body of his old-time enemy, Elbert Crothers, “for scientific purposes.”
A long acquaintance with the numerous vagaries of my rich medical friend had so inured me to his eccentricities that I felt nothing from that quarter could surprise me. His long-standing antagonism to Elbert Crothers had furnished many spectacular quarrels, until Crothers had lost his fortune in one grand smash, after which I had heard but little of the feud.
I knew, it is true, that Dr. Potter employed detectives to keep him advised of the location and activities of his old enemy, who had become a common hobo; but I was at a loss to account for the motive which prompted the Doctor to obtain Crothers’ body after the latter’s death, or the means employed to secure such an unusual result.
The confidential note in which my friend gave me the information was typical of the man:
My dear Walter:
You will doubtless be somewhat surprised to learn that Elbert Crothers is dead. You will probably be more surprised to learn that I have obtained the body from the public institution where he passed away. (He was a penniless hobo at the time of his death, left no relatives, and would have been interred in the Potters’ Field, or turned over to some university for dissection.)
I am in need of a skeleton for my residence, and it flatters my fancy to think that I can have the bones of the man who hated me more than anything or anybody on earth, hanging in my den.
I know you are in need of a vacation, and there are some legal formalities in connection with the matter upon which I desire your professional advice. If you can arrange to leave your law practice for a few weeks and come up for a visit, I will guarantee some pleasant golf, and you may have your fill of boating in the Santa Delbara Channel.
Sincerely yours,
Alfred Potter.
To say that I was puzzled to account for this latest eccentricity on the part of the wealthy doctor would be to put it mildly; but I was under sufficient obligations to him to make me feel anxious to comply with his request. A man much my senior, he had been responsible for putting me through law school, and had seen me started in the practice which was now bringing me in a very comfortable income. Each year he extended me an invitation to visit his Santa Delbara home for a week or two, and I eagerly looked forward to these trips.
Dr. Potter lived alone, except for his servants, in a magnificent house built on the hills nearly a mile from the city of Santa Delbara. He had long since retired from general practice, and devoted his attention to investigations along the line of scientific research. Of great wealth, and a recluse by nature, he was free to devote his entire time to experiments which were not only highly original, but which, rumor had it, were sometimes a trifle weird in their nature.
In due course I arrived at Santa Delbara, and was met at the train by the Doctor’s chauffeur, John Dawley, a young man whom I had met on my previous visits.
I had never fully approved of Dawley. He had seemed a trifle “fresh,” and I greeted him with what I was convinced was formal dignity. It took more than a formal greeting to repress the young scamp, and he addressed me with that free and easy manner which was so distasteful.
“H’llo Guv’ner. See you’re back with us again. The Boss’ll be glad to see you, but it’ll make a lot more work for me with no extra pay. That is, unless the tips is good. Ha, ha! Nothin’ like askin’ for what a feller wants these days.”
I made some reply, and, ignoring the hint, entered the car. I never could understand why Dr. Potter, with his quiet refinement, keen mind and unfailing courtesy, permitted a man like John Dawley to remain in his employ. I remembered hearing some gossip about his being the relative of Dr. Potter’s dead brother. Rumor said he was an illegitimate son of the dead brother, who had requested Dr. Potter to look after the boy.
Although I had eagerly looked forward to meeting my friend again, yet it was with grave misgivings that I approached the large, white mansion perched on the hill. Intuition told me Dr. Potter had something more in mind than the mere selection of a skeleton for his den, when he had arranged for the purchase of the body of his dead enemy.
I was met at the door by the Doctor’s confidential manservant, “Kimi.” I believe that originally Kimi’s name was Kukui Shinahara, but the Doctor had always referred to him as “Kimi” (meaning “you” in the Japanese language), and “Kimi” he had become.
There is perhaps nothing more flattering on earth than the smile of a Japanese friend, it is so expansive and enthusiastic. Even when one doubts the absolute sincerity behind it, it is flattering.
In the case of Kimi I really numbered him as a friend following the custom of the Doctor, who treated Kimi with every consideration, and more as a friend than a servant. He had been with the Doctor for years, a trusted and loyal employee. He knew all of the Doctor’s friends, and the manner in which he greeted them was a pretty good indication of just where they stood in the favor of his employer.
It was partly a knowledge of this custom on the part of the grinning servant which made me feel such pleasure at the sincerity of his greeting and the expansive smile with which he greeted me. He told me the “master” was awaiting me in the study, and I lost no time in following him to that portion of the house.
Dr. Potter really was glad to see me; of that I
am positive, and subsequent developments proved it; but, to one who did not know his peculiar character, it would have been hard to believe, from anything in his greeting, that he had not seen me for nearly a year, or that he cared anything about me. His greeting was as casual and matter-of-fact as though I had just returned from an hour’s absence.
Lest I give you a wrong impression of my friend, I must mention something of his wonderful control of his emotions, and his philosophy of life. A deep student of the “mystic,” he believed both pleasure and pain were merely relative mental states, and had nothing whatever to do with the real facts of life. A rigorous schooling had taught him to absolutely control his emotions, and I doubt if I have ever heard him laugh; and certain I am that he has never given way to any expression or ejaculation of surprise or dismay in my presence.
Tall, thin, yet filled with a supple grace of movement, and with muscles like whipcords, in spite of his sixty years; by far the most striking thing about him was his face, calm, serene, immobile, almost expressionless, it furnished a setting for a pair of deep blue eyes from which seemed to emerge a species of violet ray, playing over one like a searchlight peering into the mind.
“Well, well, Pearce,” he greeted in his crisp, well-modulated tone, “it is indeed a pleasure to see you once more, and a double pleasure to think that you responded so promptly to my note.”
“And it’s mighty good to see you!” I exclaimed, grasping him by the hand, with an eager enthusiasm I made no effort to control. “I should indeed be a sorry friend, to say nothing about being an ungrateful one, if I failed to accept an invitation to spend a week or two with you, when my presence might be of some benefit to you.”
A flash of gratification momentarily played over his features. It was merely an emotional flicker which would have meant nothing in another man; but, in the case of Dr. Potter, it showed how deep and sincere was his pleasure and gratification, and was another indication of the fact that something was in the wind—a something which had not been so fully disclosed but which made him anxious to have me with him.