The Collection

by Fredric Brown

  He dropped it into his coat pocket before he went out into the living room. As he walked through the door, the revolver in his pocket hit the wooden door frame with a metallic clunk that the cloth of his coat muffled. He straightened up and buttoned his coat shut. He'd have to watch that. Good thing it happened the first time where it didn't matter.

  Ma came in out of the kitchen. She smiled at him and he grinned back. “Hiya, Ma. Didn't think I'd drop off. Should have told you to wake me, but 'sall right. I got time.”

  Ma's smile faded. “Time for what, Eddie?”

  He grinned at her. “Heavy date.” The grin faded a bit.

  “What's the matter, Ma?”

  It was her tone of voice that made him notice her face. It came to him, quite suddenly, that Ma looked old. He said, “Gee, Ma, I wish I could, but—” Gram's rocker creaked across the silence.

  “Johnny was here, Eddie,” said Gram's voice. “He said—”

  Ma cut in quickly. She'd seen the puzzled look on Eddie's face at the name “Johnny.” He didn't know who Johnny was; and Gram thought Butch Everard was still little Johnny, who'd played out front in a red wagon—

  “Johnny Murphy,” said Ma, blanketing out whatever Gram was going to say. “He's — you don't know him, I guess.

  Just here on an errand.” She tried to make it sound casual. She managed a smile again. “How about that double solitaire, Eddie boy? Just a game or two.”

  He shook his head. “Heavy date, Ma,” he said again.

  He really felt sorry he couldn't. Well, maybe from now on he'd be able to make it up to Ma. He could buy her things, and — well, if he really got up there he could buy a place out at the edge of town and put her and Gram in it, in style.

  Bigshots did things like that for their folks, didn't they?

  Gram was walking out to the kitchen. Eddie's eyes followed her because they didn't quite want to meet Ma's eyes, and then Eddie remembered what Gram had started to say about some Johnny.

  “Say,” he said, “Johnny — Gram didn't mean Butch, did she? Was Butch here for me?”

  Ma's eyes were on him squarely now, and he forced himself to meet them. She said, “Is your 'heavy date' with Butch, Eddie? Oh, Eddie, he's—” Her voice sounded a little choked.

  “Butch is all right, Ma,” he said with a touch of defiance.

  “He's a good guy, Butch is. He's—”

  He broke off. Damn. He hated scenes.

  “Eddie boy,” Gram spoke from the kitchen doorway.

  It was a welcome interruption. But she had a tablespoon of that awful sulphur and molasses of hers. Oh, well, good old Gram's goofy ideas were saving him from a scene this time.

  He crossed over and took the vile stuff off the spoon.

  “Thanks, Gram. 'Night, Ma. Don't wait up.” He started for the door. But it wasn't that easy. She caught at his sleeve. “Eddie, please. Listen—”

  Hell, it would be worse if he hung around and argued. He jerked his sleeve free and was out of the door before she could stop him again. He could have hung around for half an hour almost, but not if Ma was going to take on like that. He could sit in the jalop' till it was time to go meet the bunch.

  Ma started for the door and then stopped. She put her hands up to her eyes, but she couldn't cry. If she could only bawl or— But she couldn't talk to Gram. She couldn't share her troubles, even.

  “You take your tonic, Elsie?”

  “Yeah,” said Ma dully. Slowly she went to the table and sat down before it. She took a deck of cards from its drawer and began to pile them for a game of solitaire. She knew there was no use her even thinking about trying to go to bed until Eddie came home. No matter how late it was.

  Gram came back and went over to the window.

  Sometimes she'd look out of that window for an hour at a time. When you're old it doesn't take much to fill in your time.

  Ma looked at Gram and envied her. When you were old you didn't mind things, because you lived mostly in the past, and the present went over and around you like water off a duck's back.

  Almost desperately, Ma tried to keep her mind on beating the solitaire game. There were other games you didn't know how to try to beat.

  She failed. Then she played out a game. Then she was stuck without even an ace up. She dealt them out again.

  She was putting a black ten on a red jack, and then her hand jerked as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Was Eddie coming back?

  But no, not Eddie's footsteps. Ma glanced up at the clock before she turned back to the game. Ten-thirty. It was about Gram's bedtime.

  The footsteps that weren't Eddie's were coming toward the door. They stopped outside. There was a heavy knock.

  Ma's hand went to her heart. She didn't trust her legs to stand on. She said, “Come in.”

  A policeman came in and closed the door behind him.

  Ma saw only that uniform, but she heard Gram's voice:

  “It's Dickie Wheeler. How are you, Dickie?”

  The policeman smiled briefly at Gram. “Captain Wheeler now, Gram,” he said, “but I'm glad it's still Dickie to you.”

  Then his face changed as he turned to Ma. “Is Eddie here, Mrs. Murdock?”

  Ma stood up slowly. “No — he—” But there wasn't any answer she could make that was as important as knowing.

  “Tell me! What?”

  “Half hour ago,” said Captain Wheeler, “four men held up the Bijou box office, just as it was closing. Squad car was going by, and — well, there was shooting. Two of the men were killed, and a third is dying. The other got away.”

  “Eddie-”

  He shook his head. “We know the three. Butch Everard, Slim Ragoni, a guy named Walters. The fourth one— They were wearing masks. I hoped I'd find Eddie was home. We know he's been running with those men.”

  Ma stood up. “He was here at ten. He left just a few minutes ago. He—”

  Wheeler put a hand on her shoulder. “Don't say that, Ma.” He didn't call her Mrs. Murdock now, but neither of them noticed. “The man who got away was wounded, in the arm. If Eddie comes home sound, he won't need any alibi.”

  “Dickie,” Gram said, and the rocker stopped creaking.

  “Eddie — he's a good boy. After tonight he'll be all right.”

  Captain Wheeler couldn't meet her eyes. After tonight— well, he hadn't told them quite all of it. One of the squad-car cops had been killed too. The man who got away would burn for that.

  But Gram's voice prattled on. “He's just a little boy, Dickie. A little boy lost. You take him down to headquarters and he'll get a scare. Show him the men who were killed. He needs a lesson, Dickie.”

  Ma looked at her. “Hush, Gram. Don't you see, it's—

  Why didn't I stop him tonight, somehow?”

  “He had a gun in his pocket tonight, Elsie,” said Gram.

  “When he came out of his room I heard it hit the door. And with what you said about Johnny Everard—”

  “Gram,” said Ma wearily, “go to bed.” There wasn't any room left in Ma for anger. “You're just making it worse.”

  “But, Elsie. Eddie didn't go. I'm trying to tell you. He's in his car, right across the street, right now. He's been there.”

  Wheeler looked at her sharply. Ma wasn't quite breathing.

  Gram nodded. There were tears in her eyes now. “I knew we had to stop him,” she said. “Those sleeping powders you have, Elsie. I put four of them in that sulphur 'n' molasses I gave him. I knew they'd work quick, and I watched out the window. He stumbled going across the street, and he got in his car, but he never started it. Go down and get him, Dickie Wheeler, and when you get him awake enough you do like I told you to.”

  WHISTLER’S MURDER

  The ancient but highly polished automobile turned in at the driveway of the big country house. It came to a stop exactly opposite the flagged walk that led to the porch of the house.

  Mr. Henry Smith stepped from the car. He took a few steps toward the house and then paused
at the sight of a wreath on the front door. He murmured something to himself that sounded suspiciously like, “Dear me,” and stood for a moment. He took off his gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses and polished them carefully.

  He replaced the glasses and looked at the house again.

  This time his gaze went higher. The house had a flat roof surmounted by a three-foot parapet. Standing on the roof behind the parapet, looking down at Mr. Smith, was a big man in a blue serge suit. A gust of wind blew back the big man's coat and Mr. Smith saw that he wore a revolver in a shoulder holster. The big man pulled his coat together, buttoned it shut, and stepped back out of sight. This time, quite unmistakably, Mr. Smith said, “Dear me!”

  He squared his gray derby hat, went up onto the porch, and rang the doorbell. After about a minute, the door opened.

  The big man who had been on the roof opened it, and frowned clown at Mr. Smith. He was well over six feet tall, and Mr. Smith was a scant five-six.

  “Yeah?” said the big man.

  “My name is Henry Smith,” answered Mr. Smith. “I would like to see Mr. Walter Perry. Is he home?”

  “No.”

  “Is he expected back soon?” asked Mr. Smith. “I ... ah . . . have an appointment with him. That is, not exactly an appointment. I mean, not for a specific hour. But I talked to him on the telephone yesterday and he suggested that I call sometime this afternoon.” Mr. Smith's eyes flickered to the funeral wreath on the open door. “He isn't. . . ah—”

  “No,” said the big man. “His uncle's dead, not him.”

  “Ah, murdered?”

  The big man's eyes opened a little more widely. “How did you know that? The papers haven't—”

  “It was just a guess,” Mr. Smith said. “Your coat blew back when you were on the roof and I saw you were wearing a gun. From that and your ... ah ... general appearance, I surmise that you are an officer of the law, possibly the sheriff of this county. At least, if my guess of murder is correct, I hope that you are an officer of the law and not.. . ah—”

  The big man chuckled. “I'm Sheriff Osburne, not the murderer.” He pushed his hat back farther on his head. “And what was your business with Walter Perry, Mr. . . . uh-?”

  “Smith,” said Mr. Smith. “Henry Smith, of the Phalanx Insurance Company. My business with Walter Perry concerned life insurance. My company, however, also handles fire, theft, and casualty insurance. We're one of the oldest and strongest companies in the country.”

  “Yeah, I've heard of the Phalanx. Just what did Walter Perry want to see you about? Wait, come on in. No use talking in the doorway. There's nobody here.”

  He led the way across the hall, into a large, luxuriously furnished room in one corner of which stood a mahogany Steinway grand. He waved Mr. Smith to an overstaffed sofa and perched himself on the bench of the piano.

  Mr. Smith sat down on the plush sofa and placed his gray derby carefully beside him. “The crime,” he said, “I take it, would have occurred last night. And you suspect Walter Perry, are holding him?”

  The sheriff's head tilted slightly to one side. “And from what,” he wanted to know, “do you take all that?”

  “Obviously,” said Mr. Smith, “it had not occurred when I talked to Walter Perry late yesterday, or he would certainly have mentioned it. Then, if the crime had occurred today, I would expect more activity about, coroners, undertakers, deputies, photographers. The discovery must have occurred no later than early this morning for all that to be over with, and the ... ah ... remains taken away. I take it that they are, because of the wreath. That would indicate that a mortician has been here. Did you say we had the house to ourselves?

  Wouldn't an estate of this size require servants?”

  “Yeah,” answered the sheriff. “There's a gardener somewhere around and a groom who takes care of the horses— Carlos Perry's hobby was raising and breeding horses. But they aren't in the house — the gardener and the groom, I mean. There were two inside servants, a housekeeper and a cook. The housekeeper quit two days ago and they hadn't hired a new one yet, and the cook— Say, who's questioning who? How did you know we were holding Walter on suspicion?”

  “A not illogical inference, Sheriff,” said Mr. Smith. “His absence, your manner, and your interest in what he wanted to see me about. How and when was Mr. Carlos Perry killed?”

  “A little after two o'clock, or a little before, the coroner says. With a knife, while he was in bed asleep. And nobody in the house.”

  “Except Mr. Walter Perry?”

  The sheriff frowned. “Not even him, unless I can figure out how— Say, who's questioning who, Mr. Smith? Just what was your business with Walter?”

  “I sold him a policy — not a large one, it was for three thousand dollars — a few years ago while he was attending college in the city. Yesterday, I received a notice from the main office that his current premium had not been paid and that the grace period had expired. That would mean loss of the policy, except for a cash surrender value, very small, considering that the policy was less than three years old.

  However, the policy can be reinstated within twenty-four hours after expiration of the grace period, if I can collect his premium and have him sign a statement that he is in good health and has had no serious illness since the policy date.

  Also, I hoped to get him to increase the amount... ah —Sheriff, how can you possibly be certain that there was no one else in the house at the time Mr. Perry was killed?”

  “Because,” said the big man, “there were two men on the house.”

  “On the house? You mean, on the roof?”

  The sheriff nodded glumly. “Yeah,” he answered. “Two private detectives from the city, and they not only alibi each other — they alibi everybody else, including Mr. Addison Simms of Seattle.” He grunted. “Well, I hoped your reason for seeing Walter would tie in somewhere, but I guess it doesn't.

  If anything comes up, I can reach you through your company, can't I?”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Smith. He made no move to go.

  The sheriff had turned around to the keyboard of the Steinway grand. With a morose finger, he picked out the notes of “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater.”

  Mr. Smith waited patiently until the concert was finished.

  Then he asked, “Why were two detectives on the roof, Sheriff? Had there been a warning message or a threat of some sort?”

  Sheriff Osburne turned around on the piano bench and regarded the little insurance agent glumly.

  Mr. Smith smiled deprecatingly. He said, “I hope you don't think I'm interfering, but can't you see that it's part of my job, part of my duty to my company, to solve this crime, if I can?”

  “Huh? You didn't have insurance on the old guy, did you?”

  “No, just on young Walter. But the question arises — is Walter Perry guilty of murder? If he is, I would be doing my employer a disservice to go out of my way to renew his policy. If he is innocent, and I do not remind him that his policy is about to lapse, I am doing a disservice to a client. So I hope you see that my curiosity is not merely ... ah ... curiosity.”

  The sheriff grunted.

  “There was a threat, a warning?” Mr. Smith asked.

  The sheriff sighed deeply. “Yeah,” he said. “Came in the mail three days ago. Letter saying he'd be murdered unless he made restitution to all the people he'd gypped out of money on songs he'd stolen — pirated, I think they call it in that game— from them. He was a song publisher, you know.”

  “I recall his nephew having mentioned it. Whistler and Company, isn't it? Who is Mr. Whistler?”

  “There ain't any,” replied the sheriff. “It's a long— All right, I might as well tell you. Carlos Perry used to be in vaudeville, a solo act, whistling. Way back when, when there was vaudeville. When he took on a girl assistant, he billed himself as Whistler and Company, instead of using his name.

  See?”

  “And then he got into song publishing, and used the same name for a company name.
I see. And did he really cheat his clients?”

  The sheriff said, “I guess he did, all right. He wrote a couple songs himself that went fairly well, and used the money he got from 'em to set himself up in publishing. And I guess his methods were crooked, all right. He was sued about a dozen times, but usually came out on top and kept right on making hay. He had plenty. I wouldn't say he was a millionaire, but he must have been half of one, anyway.

  “So three days ago, this threatening letter comes in the mail, and he showed it to us and wanted protection. Well, I told him we'd work on finding out who sent the letter, but that the county couldn't afford to assign anybody to permanent protection duty at his place and if he wanted that, he'd have to hire it done. So he went to the city and hired two men from an agency.”

  “A reputable one?”

  “Yeah, the International. They sent Krauss and Roberts, two of their best men.”

  The sheriff's hand, resting on the keyboard, struck what he probably intended as a chord. It wasn't. Mr. Smith winced slightly.

  “Last night,” the sheriff went on, “as it happened, nobody was in or around the place here except the boss — I mean, Carlos Perry — and the two International ops. Walter was staying overnight in the city, went to see a show and stayed at a hotel, he says. We've checked. He went to the hotel all right, but we can't prove he stayed in his room, or that he didn't. Checked in about midnight, and left a call for eight. He could've made it here and back, easy.

  “And the servants — well, I'd told you the housekeeper had quit and not been replaced yet. Just coincidence the other three all happened to be away. The cook's mother's critically sick; she's still away. It was the gardener's night off; he spent it with his sister and her husband in Dartown, like he always does. The other guy, the horse trainer or groom or whatever the devil you'd call him, went to town to see a doctor about an infected foot he'd got from stepping on a nail. Drove in in Perry's truck and the truck broke down. He phoned and Perry told him to have it fixed at an all-night garage, sleep in town, and bring it back in the morning. So, outside of horses and a couple cats, the only people around last night were Perry and the two private ops.”