by Unknown
“What killer are you talking about?” asked Cellini with irritation. “Murph accidentally killed Bly’s sister when he just wanted to clip her slightly, but he certainly didn’t kill Wheaton or Jerry Lake.”
“That’s so,” considered Ira Haenigson. “I guess he wouldn’t kill his own boss.”
“There’s only one possible answer,” said Cellini. “After the girl was run over, Bly quizzed Forsythe Worden on what the driver of the car looked like and he figured out it must have been Murph, acting on orders from Lake and Wheaton. But Bly didn’t let anyone know he had figured it out. He was crazy about his sister, so he got hold of a gun and decided to take care of matters himself. The one that Bly figured was most guilty was Hank Wheaton. He chopped him down quickly in the ring and later in the corridor he found his chance when Juno left him alone to go to the powder room. Maybe Bly suggested that her slip was showing or something like that to get her out of there. What was it, Juno?”
The Blond Bomber sat on the floor stroking Eddy Bly’s hair. In a low voice she said: “He told me my nose was shiny and to go and fix it.”
“Then it was nicely premeditated,” Cellini went on. “Bly simply went into one of the dressing rooms, climbed out of the window into the alley, shot Wheaton and returned to the corridor the same way without having to go out one of the stadium’s exits.”
The detective-sergeant held up a hand. “Wait a second, Smith. What you forget is that Lake said he was talking with Bly in the corridor when the shot was fired.”
“If you remember, Haenigson, that was Bly’s suggestion and Lake simply backed up Bly’s alibi.”
“Why should he back him up?”
“When Wheaton was murdered, Lake knew it was Bly’s job because Wheaton had threatened Bly on the score of his sister. Lake knew Bly had murdered Hank Wheaton in revenge for the death of his sister, so he had to back up Bly’s alibi. Lake could have sent Bly to the chair but, on the other hand, Bly would then have spilled about Lake and Wheaton having Murph run over his sister. So if Lake had refused to back up Bly’s alibi it would have been a case of cutting his own throat to fit the collar.”
“That makes sense,” Haenigson admitted.
“And the rest of it is obvious. Lake chose to alibi Bly and to have Murph guard him night and day. It was a case of two killers knowing the other knew. Today, when Turner mentioned that Lake was coming over here, Bly decided he had to do something. He knew Lake would bring his bodyguard Murph, and that Worden would recognize Murph as the one who had run over his sister. That of course would bust the case wide open and nail him, Bly, on the murder of Wheaton.
“So Bly figured out a way that Forsythe Worden would never recognize anybody. It was his custom to empty a pitcherful on Worden after hitting him, so he thought it safe to fill it with acid. Everybody naturally thought it was a plant by someone trying to frame Bly. When I took Worden up to the showers, Jerry Lake arrived. He went to the telephone closet to make a call and Bly seized the opportunity to put him out of the way. That’s about the whole thing.”
Prunella Wheaton said: “Thanks, Smith. Hank and me were no longer really married but I’m glad you made it right with him.”
“Sure, sure,” said Haenigson impatiently. “But what about that letter with your name forged on it, Smith?”
“How should I know?” Cellini suddenly yelled. “I’m no mind-reader. Lake or Bly wrote it thinking they could louse up the case. What’s the matter, Haenigson? Aren’t you satisfied? Do you want me to go down to the precinct and write it all out for you? I suppose you think five hundred bucks is a lot of money. I take the lumps and the insults and you do all in your power to block me—and then you want to know about a letter.” The veins stood out on Cellini’s forehead as his fury mounted. “You know where you can stick that letter!” he shouted.
Without another word, Cellini stalked out. As he left, he smiled to himself. He had put on a good act, he thought.
Duck-Eye Ryan caught up with him on the driveway. “Gee, Cellini, you shouldn’t get so mad. He just wanted to know about the letter.”
“I couldn’t tell him,” said Cellini Smith, “that I typed the thing out in a telegraph office and then traced my own name because I wanted a job to pay for your wild oats.”
The Black Bottle
Whitman Chambers
(ELWYN) WHITMAN CHAMBERS (1896–1968) was born in Stockton, California, and went on to become a prolific pulp story writer, mystery novelist, and screenwriter. Chambers is a member of the hard-boiled, wisecracking school of fiction, and his tone lacked sufficient originality to withstand the passage of time; he is seldom read today, though he is the stylistic equal of some writers whose works have sporadically been reprinted. It is his work as a screenwriter, and the mysteries that served as the source for still other films, for which Chambers will undoubtedly be best remembered. Among his chief works for motion pictures are The Come On (1956), based on his 1953 novel, which starred Anne Baxter as a manipulative woman who tries to convince a drifter (Sterling Hayden) to murder her husband. Chambers also wrote the screenplay for Manhandled (1949), another film noir starring Sterling Hayden, in which small-time hood Dan Duryea victimizes Dorothy Lamour; in 1960, Chambers wrote the novelization. Also his 1949 screenplay Special Agent features William Eythe as an agent for the railroads who goes after two brothers, played by George Reeves (later famous as TV’s Superman) and Paul Valentine, who pull a huge payroll heist. His The Campanile Murders (1933) was filmed as Murder on the Campus (1933); Murder for a Wanton (1934) was filmed as Sinner Take All (1936); and Once Too Often (1938) was filmed as Blonde Ice (1948).
“The Black Bottle,” his only Black Mask story, was published in the April 1936 issue.
The Black Bottle
Whitman Chambers
Three men, a girl, and—the black bottle.
IEUTENANT LARRY McMain came into the wardroom at nine. He dropped wearily into a chair, stretched his long legs with a sigh and sat watching Doc Lucas, who was practicing alone at the billiard table. There was no other person in the room.
It was one of those oppressively humid nights at the beginning of the rainy season, when a man’s nerves are raw and there is no relief in sight from the maddening monotony of heat and dampness and deadly routine. It was a night when one thinks anything may happen, and yet knows that nothing will. Larry’s face reflected the mood.
“Been dining out?” Doc Lucas asked, swabbing his shining bald head with a handkerchief.
“With the Murdocks … Everybody gone to the dance in Colón?”
“Yes.” Doc Lucas squinted down his cue, chuckling. “You should be there, Larry. You’re not going to let Tommy Glade beat your time with the little Southern girl, are you?”
McMain shrugged broad shoulders. “It’s Tommy’s last night in Panama. I hope he makes the most of it. He’s going north on the S-96, with the Fourth Division, you know.”
The pink-cheeked, round little doctor raised his cue and cocked a mild blue eye at the three balls. “Well, that’s a break for you, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say so. Not so long as Benson Clark is on deck.”
“Benson Clark. He’s the etymologist chap, isn’t he? The one who’s studying the San Blas Indians.”
“He hasn’t shown much interest in Indians lately,” McMain said irritably. “He’s dragging Billie Dean tonight.”
“Tommy Glade won’t think much of that.”
“I don’t think much of it myself,” the lieutenant growled. “Clark’s just a poser with money to spend, and why a girl like Billie Dean should fall for his line of—”
He broke off as a crash of thunder shook the thin walls of the bachelor quarters. Rain pattered briefly on the roof. The moan of the surf, pounding on the other side of the submarine base, came whispering into the room.
“I only hope,” McMain muttered, “that Tommy Glade doesn’t take it into his head to tangle with Clark. That kid is too damned quick-tempered.”
“Yes,�
�� Doc agreed. “I heard him having it out with Pete Adams tonight.”
“With Pete!” McMain sat erect, eying the pudgy little man at the billiard table. “Good Lord, why did he jump on that inoffensive old fellow?”
“Don’t know, I’m sure. He had a hot argument with Pete in the pantry and then hustled off ashore.”
McMain frowned. “Odd thing for him to do. He’s quick on the trigger, all right, but I never knew him to quarrel with a servant. And speaking of servants, how about joining me in a drink?”
“An excellent idea.” Doc Lucas racked his cue and waddled around the table. “I’ll ring for Pete.”
He touched the button on the wall and then came over and sat down beside McMain. Short and pot-bellied, the sixty-year-old medical officer was a sharp contrast to the tall vigorous submarine commander who sat beside him.
McMain leaned back in his chair and tried to relax. A long day in the sub’s engine room had left him exhausted, his nerves on edge.
He thought of Billie Dean, cool, fresh and youthful, dancing the night away at the Strangers’ Club.
He thought of Benson Clark, handsome, wealthy, dangerous enough to be enchanting to a kid like Billie Dean.
And he thought of Tommy Glade. It wasn’t like Tommy to jump on poor Pete Adams, the old wardroom steward.
Again thunder rolled, banging across the sub base. McMain’s head jerked.
“You’re the last man in the world,” Doc remarked very casually, “I’d expect to develop nerves.”
McMain shrugged, grunted: “Until tonight I never knew the meaning of nerves. But tonight— Well, it’s something I can’t put a name to. A tension in the air. But where the devil is Pete?”
“I’ll ring again.”
Doc Lucas rose and stepped to the button. McMain glanced irritably towards the pantry, and felt his hair stand on end. He was out of his chair in a flash. He caught Doc’s arm, whirled him around. He pointed to a shining dark stain on the bare floor next to the pantry door.
“Doc!” he gasped. “That’s blood!”
The doctor took a slow deep breath and said calmly: “It certainly looks like blood, Larry.”
McMain strode to the pantry and pushed the door. It jammed against something. He threw his shoulder against it and hurled it wide.
“Good Lord, Doc! Look!”
Old Pete Adams lay sprawled face downward on the floor of the little cubby. The negro’s white uniform was soaked with blood, which had spread in a wide pool across the floor and under the wardroom door.
Doc Lucas, business-like and outwardly unmoved, bent down and turned the old man on his back. The eyes were wide open, the pupils rolled back until only the whites were visible. Set deeply in the black, contorted face, they were awesome and horrible. The throat had been slit from ear to ear by a long butcher knife which lay beside the body.
Doc Lucas slowly backed from the pantry and stood for a moment looking down at the lifeless old steward.
“I’ve seen him slice bread with that knife. It has an edge like a razor. Well, Larry”—the doctor’s voice became brisker—“this is a matter for the commandant. Close the pantry, will you?”
McMain pulled the door shut and, turning, saw that Doc Lucas had sat down at the telephone stand.
“Wait a minute, Doc!” he blurted. “Look here! You mentioned an argument between Pete and Tommy Glade.”
Doc Lucas nodded placidly.
“When was it?” McMain demanded.
“Oh, perhaps half an hour ago.”
“What were they quarreling about?”
“I don’t know. I was on the other side of the room here, practicing billiards.”
McMain’s dark eyes were bleak. “Doc, have you got the idea that Tommy Glade killed that poor devil?”
“It looks that way,” the doctor calmly admitted.
McMain, glaring, took a step towards the round little man. “Doc, you’re crazy!” he snapped. “Tommy Glade has been under my command for six years. I never knew a finer—”
“Now see here, Larry,” Doc Lucas interrupted. “I haven’t been out of this room for two hours. The last person to go into the pantry was Tommy Glade, and I tell you frankly he had blood in his eye. The last person to see Pete Adams alive was, so far as I know, Tommy Glade.
“Stop and think a minute. The lone window in the pantry is screened and perhaps you noticed that the screen hasn’t been cut or tampered with. There is no other entrance but that door. Now! If Tommy Glade didn’t kill old Pete—” Doc Lucas paused pointedly.… “Well?”
“Pete killed himself.”
“Exactly. One or the other. Now I’ll have to phone the commandant.”
The doctor picked up the telephone. McMain stood indecisively for a moment. Then he turned and hurried into the passageway and down it to his own quarters. Feverishly throwing off his clothes, he took a quick shower. Within five minutes, dressed now in neat and freshly pressed linen cits, he was back in the wardroom.
“I’m going ashore,” he said crisply.
The doctor shrugged. “Suit yourself. Personally, I think you ought to keep out of it. There is something, Larry, damned peculiar about this whole affair. I sensed it first tonight when we were talking about Tommy Glade, and this Benson Clark fellow and Billie Dean.”
“Oh, yes? Why drag Billie into it? Or Clark, for that matter?”
Doc Lucas smiled gently. “Or Tommy. Well, call it a hunch.”
McMain turned towards the outer door. Then he stopped and again faced the doctor. “What did you tell the Old Man?”
“I didn’t get him. He’s at some affair in Balboa. I notified the executive officer and he’s on his way over here. We’ll take care of the body.”
“Chuck Dean is acting exec.”
“I know. Billie’s brother. What of it?”
“Look here!” McMain took a nervous step or two towards the doctor. “How about soft-pedaling this quarrel between Tommy Glade and Pete? Why spill it to Chuck? Why not wait till the skipper gets back? Better yet, wait till tomorrow. You can’t do much tonight, anyway. And maybe after I’ve seen Tommy, we’ll have some sort of a lead.” McMain paused, breathless. “Well, how about it?”
Doc Lucas, his eyes half closed, asked slowly: “Are you taking the responsibility for investigating this murder?”
“Isn’t it my duty, as senior line officer quartered in the wardroom?”
“I imagine it is,” Doc Lucas said thoughtfully. “I imagine, in a case of this sort, a line officer ranks a staff officer.”
“Do you want the job?” McMain asked flatly.
“I do not.”
“Very well. Then leave it in my hands.”
McMain strode out of the wardroom into the humid, oppressive night. Walking around the building to the officers’ garage, where he kept his car, he regretted that he had been so downright short to Doc Lucas. He was too keyed up, however, to worry about it.
Where would this thing lead? Tommy Glade implicated in the murder of an obscure wardroom servant? That was nonsense!
Billie Dean involved? And Benson Clark? Absurd! The only possible connection was in his own mind, in associating Glade with Billie and Clark.
II
cMain parked his car in the driveway in front of the Strangers’ Club and climbed the stairs to the hall on the second floor. A dance had just ended. He singled out Billie Dean and Benson Clark almost immediately. They were walking towards a table in the dimness of the far corner. Tommy Glade, the lieutenant reflected, would not be far away.
McMain strolled over to their table. There were three empty glasses on it. Three! Where was Tommy Glade?
“Good evening, Billie,” he said. “How are you, Clark?”
Billie’s eyes lighted as she smiled at him. “Hello, Larry. You’re lookin’ warm. Been dancin’?”
Her low-pitched, lazy Southern drawl was as calming and caressing as a cool breeze.
“No, I just got here.”
Clark had risen, but he did
not offer his hand. He was a tall, muscular man of thirty-five; he carried himself, he moved, with a studied grace and poise. His blond hair was brushed back from his high forehead in a nice wave. With his strong, cleft chin, his regular features, he was just a bit too handsome to be human.
“Good evening, McMain,” he said crisply, and sat down again.
Where, the lieutenant asked himself, was Clark’s usual, well-known courtesy? Even in the dim light McMain could see that the man’s face was sharply drawn, his eyes restless. Had he, too, developed nerves on this hot and humid night? … Where was Tommy Glade?
“Are you with a party?” Billie asked.
“No. I’m on my own tonight.”
Billie looked at Clark and the latter, with an almost imperceptible shrug, said gracelessly:
“Sit down and have a drink with us, McMain.”
“Thanks, I will. Beer for me.”
He sat down, feeling uncomfortable over the way he had forced himself on them. Clark gave an order to the waiter.
“Has Tommy Glade been around?” McMain asked casually.
“Tommy was here when we got up to dance,” Billie said. “I reckon he’s around some place. Down at the bar, perhaps.”
McMain turned to Clark. “How are the Indian studies coming along?”
Clark stirred himself with an effort. “Not so well,” he said, and blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling. “I’ve been pretty busy here in Colón.”
McMain looked at Billie Dean and saw that her eyes, usually placid, were dancing with excitement.
“Are you holding something out on me, Billie?”
The girl asked breathlessly, “Haven’t you heard the rumors about Mr. Clark?”
“Rumors about Mr. Clark?” McMain repeated. He had heard rumors, but they were hardly the kind to be discussed in mixed company.
Billie leaned across the table. “Mr. Clark isn’t an etymologist at all,” she whispered. “He doesn’t really give a darn about those Indians he visits down there in his yawl. Actually, he’s a Secret Service operative.”