Liquid Death And Other Stories

by John Russell Fearn

  "Your name, madam?" the taller one enquired respectfully, and showed me his official card.

  Scotland Yard! So they had found out already! Well, I was safe enough.

  "Dorothy Eaton," I answered calmly.

  "You are sure of that?"

  "Why, certainly. I have one of my cards here—"

  I rummaged in Dorothy's bag and handed out one of her visiting cards. The Yard man studied it and then nodded.

  "Very good… Did you ever know a man by the name of David Lacy?"

  For the first time I felt a horrible qualm. What on Earth had Dave got to do with things?

  "Why—yes," I assented slowly. "I know him…"

  "You are under arrest, Miss Eaton, for his murder! He was shot and killed by you in a violent quarrel before you left to catch the London train this evening. Three witnesses can prove it. If you will come this way, please…"

  I could not speak, or even think. Now I knew where the second bullet had gone! If I denied my identity I would be accused of the murder of Dorothy Eaton—and rightly. Yet if I didn't—?

  Boomerang!

  LAST EXTRA

  by John Russell Fearn and Sydney J. Bounds

  AT FIVE THIRTY on a drizzling November Saturday afternoon, a police car sped out of Scotland Yard. At the wheel, skimming through the traffic with his usual nonchalance, sat Sergeant Jim Brown.

  Beside him, hat tilted forward over pale blue eyes, Chief Inspector Duxbury chewed on a dead match. Known as 'Old Ironsides' to his intimates because he pursued criminals with iron resolution, he picked up used matches and kept them in an empty box.

  "Whoever dialed nine-nine-nine will have vanished into the woodwork," Duxbury said: "You can bet on it."

  "We'll find him if we have to, sir."

  "Some hope! Tracing a call from a public box is damned near impossible."

  He became silent, watching the traffic and the wet roads as the car hurtled forward. Brown turned into a narrow back street named Garden Terrace. In the light from street lamps and shop windows, the curious had gathered around the doorway of a pawnshop. The blinds were drawn and a constable stood on duty.

  As Duxbury and the sergeant arrived, the constable saluted.

  "Get these people moving on," the Chief Inspector said curtly. "This isn't an exhibition. And show in the doctor and the crime squad when they get here."

  "Right, sir."

  Duxbury walked into the shop and Brown closed the door.

  Silent, peering from under the brim of his hat, Old Ironsides summed up the shop. It was identical to any other pawnbroker's in London—a sales counter, a pledge counter with a steel grille, glass cases filled with watches and jewelry. There were shelves of clothing and blankets—and on the counter, a solitary ox-hide suitcase.

  "Ten to one that suitcase isn't part of the stock," Duxbury said.

  Still nibbling on a dead match, he moved behind the counter and looked down at the sprawled body of a middle-aged man. Blood seeped from a crushing blow at the back of the head. Beside him lay a heavy copper candlestick with a blood-spattered newspaper wrapped around the top.

  "The body our unknown telephone informant saw," Duxbury said. "But he used a public call box."

  "Looks like robbery with violence, sir."

  The Chief Inspector looked at the till. The drawer had been opened and only the coins left. On a shelf below, a metal cash-box had been forced. That was empty, and a heavy poker lay beside it

  "Take a look around," Duxbury instructed Brown. "Keep your fingers off everything until the experts have finished. We might say the chap who telephoned did this—but I don't go for the idea that a murderer rings up the Yard. He gets out quickly, and silently."

  He began a careful examination of the shop and had got half way through when the doorbell rang and the Divisional surgeon and the crime squad came in.

  Old Ironsides nodded to them and continued his search. Photographers' flash-bulbs blazed; fingerprint men dusted. Duxbury contemplated the oxhide suitcase on the counter, chewing on a match.

  He motioned to one of the experts. "Give this a dusting. I want to take a look at it, and I don't want my dabs on it. While you're going over it, I'll be outside."

  He strolled out into the drizzle, hands in the pockets of his raincoat, and stood beside the caped policeman. Men and women passed, glancing curiously at the shop. A car drove past with a swish of tires on wet tarmac. At the end of the street, beneath a lamp post, a newspaper seller shouted:

  "Extra, extra! All the football results. Extra!"

  Old Ironsides threw away his chewed match and stepped out to look at the pawnbroker's window. In gilt letters under three brass balls, a sign read:

  DAVID RUBENSTONE

  JEWELERS AND LICENSED PAWNBROKER

  Duxbury gestured at the constable.

  "Find out Rubenstone's address. If he has relatives, tell them to go to the East Aldgate mortuary. By that time the body will be there."

  He turned away and strolled down the street to where the newspaperman was still shouting.

  "Paper, sir?"

  "No, thanks. Just a few words…"

  Duxbury showed his warrant card in the light of the gas lamp, and the newspaper seller shrugged.

  "Ain't much of a surprise, Inspector. I saw the police car come—some bloke do for Ruby?"

  Old Ironsides put his card back in his wallet and sized up the newspaperman. He was tall and wiry, with a cap pulled low over a thin face; he wore a sodden overcoat with baggy flannel trousers.

  "By Ruby I suppose you mean Rubenstone. So you knew him?"

  "'Course I knew 'im. I know everybody in this street. 'Ad many a yarn with the old twister. Why?"

  Pale unblinking eyes gave nothing away. "I'll ask the questions. What's your name?"

  "Billy. Billy Horsfall."

  Old Ironsides looked thoughtfully along the street. The door of the pawnbroker's shop was plainly visible.

  "Where's the nearest public telephone box?"

  "Other end of the street. Someone tipped you off, did they?"

  "I'm interested in a suitcase. A man taking a suitcase into Rubenstone's. Did you see anyone like that?"

  "'Course I did. I ain't blind, you know."

  "Describe him."

  "A little man in a threadbare overcoat and greasy bowler 'at. I noticed him particular like 'cause he had this expensive-looking suitcase."

  "Interesting. Now I want you to come back to the shop and look at something."

  "What, now? I've got me job to do."

  "Now," Duxbury said flatly. "This is a murder case."

  Grumbling, Horsfall collected his unsold newspapers from under a tarpaulin and tucked them under his arm.

  "Can't trust nobody these days. Won't take long, will it?

  "No time at all."

  Back at the shop, Duxbury nodded towards the suitcase on the counter. "Is this the case you saw?"

  "That's it, Inspector. No mistake about it."

  Duxbury opened it and studied the inside. It was empty and obviously brand new. He called the constable.

  "From the description, and this suitcase, it sounds like the Ferret. Check with C.R.O at the Yard and get his address. Then bring him here."

  The constable saluted and went out in a flurry of raindrops.

  "All right, you can go, Horsfall—after you've given the sergeant your address."

  When the newspaperman had left, Old Ironsides went behind the counter and looked down at the body. He stooped and slowly unwrapped the blood-speckled paper from around the top of the candlestick. Putting the newspaper on the counter, he flattened it out.

  "Last extra edition of the Evening News, sir," Sergeant Brown commented. "Today's date, too."

  "The idea being, of course, to prevent fingerprints getting on the weapon."

  "And this poor devil's been dead for an hour—"

  "About an hour," Duxbury corrected. "You can't tell to a minute."

  "Anyway, sir, it's not unlikely that
the bloke who phoned us did the murder."

  Duxbury raised an eyebrow. "Go on. Let's have your theory."

  "Take this suitcase," Brown said. "I suggest he came to steal stuff and put it in the case. He probably intended to pinch jewelry—then changed his mind and took money instead. So he didn't need the case. Maybe he got scared after killing the old man and didn't want to hang around. So he grabbed the cash and ran."

  "Stopping to ring the Yard and say there was a dead body here?" Duxbury asked dryly. "Well, it has possibilities, but if the man we want is the Ferret, it doesn't fit. He never murdered anybody in his life—he isn't the type."

  He turned to consider the newspaper again, then folded it carefully in a cellophane bag. He indicated the poker and the candlestick.

  "Wrap those up, Jim. We'll need them as evidence after the lab's had them."

  Old Ironsides went back to studying the cash register and the tin box.

  "Only money taken apparently," he murmured. "That suggests there was enough money to make it worth while. Easier to carry than jewelry, too…"

  He watched two ambulance men carry the body out on a stretcher.

  To Brown, he said: "Be with you in a moment."

  He went outside and strolled down the street towards the newspaper stand. There were more people about now—some of them taking a short cut to the cinema in the High Street.

  "Something happened?" Billy Horsfall asked.

  "I've been thinking," Duxbury said. "You saw the man with the suitcase—did you see anyone else?"

  "Depends about what time?"

  "Say four-thirty to five."

  "Four thirty to five? That's about the time the van left my last extras. Yeah, I remember now. Course, quite a few people been in and out of Ruby's today—but this one bloke. He bought an Evening News about four o'clock—said he wanted the half-time football results. About an hour later he came back and went into Ruby's."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Bit of a toff for this part of town. Tall, well dressed, with fair hair. About thirty-five, I'd say."

  "And you didn't see anyone else go in?"

  "Not between him and the bloke with the suitcase."

  Duxbury considered the pile of newspapers under the tarpaulin. "Okay—thanks."

  He returned to the pawnbroker's and went to the counter to examine the records. He ran a finger along the last entry in the ledger. It read:

  November 2.

  Kenneth Clive, 27 Hilton Street, W.C.7

  Cigarette case. Price paid: 20 pounds sterling. Time: 4.58 p.m.

  "Today's date," Brown observed. "He could be the Johnny we want."

  Duxbury made a note of the address.

  "Except that I wonder why he permitted his name to be recorded before he committed murder. You'd think he'd have killed Rubenstone first. Anyway, we'd better see what he has to say… you got the address of Horsfall?"

  "Yes sir."

  "We'll have someone keep an eye on him. He's proving useful in this business—and we can't afford to lose a witness. Let's get along and hear what Mr.Clive can tell us."

  As they moved towards the door, it opened and a constable pushed a small man inside. He wore a threadbare overcoat and a greasy bowler hat; he had a fox-like face and blue eyes.

  Duxbury gave a slow, cold smile. "Well, here's the Ferret!"

  "He's admitted it, sir," the constable said. "That he telephoned the Yard, I mean. C.R.O. had his address and I picked him up."

  "Which I greatly resent," the little man objected, his face taking on an expression of superiority. "I helped you, didn't I, by tipping you off to this murder?"

  "Where did the suitcase come from?" Duxbury demanded.

  The Ferret shrugged. "If I thought you were going to pick me up, I'd never have tipped you off. Only I can't stand murder—that's why I did it. And what do you do? Insult me by asking about a suitcase…"

  He drew himself erect. "I stole it, of course. Nothing easier. It was on show downtown—you know I can't keep my fingers off the leather stuff. So when the bloke's back was turned, I walked off with it. You know my technique."

  "After twenty-seven convictions, I ought to," Old Ironsides answered. "And you came here to sell it; I suppose?"

  "Naturally. "When I couldn't get service, I looked behind the counter, saw the body, and panicked. Murder upsets me. Besides, I thought I might get the blame. So I got out fast—forgetting the case—and got to thinking. Was he dead? I'd only seen him lying there with his head battered. Help might save his life, that's why I rang up the Yard. And this is what I get!"

  "Did you see anything? Hear anyone?" Duxbury asked.

  "No, and that's the truth, Inspector.

  Old Ironsides gave a slow nod. "Yes, Ferret, I'm inclined to believe you. What can you tell me about Rubenstone? Was he a fence?"

  "Er—yes," the Ferret admitted.

  "I guessed as much, or else you wouldn't have risked dealing with him. Been dealing with him long?"

  "For years—on and off. He was a good man." The Ferret looked mournful. "Pity someone wiped him out. Always cash on the nail. Did you know he carried a float of two thousand pounds for hot stuff? He told me about it once. Course, he knew he was safe telling me—I only take leather. Leather! That's what I can't resist. Just can't help it."

  "A two thousand cash float for hot stuff," Duxhury murmured. "Jewels, I suppose… that's interesting. Looks like he told a wrong 'un."

  The Chief Inspector reflected for a moment, then turned to the constable.

  "All right, lock him up. That'll make the twenty-eighth conviction for leather theft."

  He watched as, with serio-comic dignity, the little man was ushered out. The door closed behind the constable's swishing cape.

  "You believe him?" Sergeant Brown asked doubtfully.

  "I do, Jim. I'd trust the Ferret with my life. He doesn't lie or kill or touch drugs—doesn't even steal jewels. He has this strange urge to steal leather. The psychiatrists get gray hairs trying to figure him out. Yes, I think he told the truth—and if he didn't, he'll be in custody if we want him."

  "You're convinced he didn't kill Rubenstone?"

  "Use your head, man. Why should he? The fence was the goose that lays the golden eggs as far as the Ferret's concerned. Why should he want to cut off his source of income? What interests me is that Rubenstone kept a two thousand pound float, almost certainly in notes—fives, tens and twenties perhaps. Wouldn't be difficult to hide that. And someone knew he had that float…"

  There was silence for a moment, then Sergeant Brown cleared his throat.

  "We might find out how much this Kenneth Clive knows about it, sir."

  Old Ironsides nodded and looked at the clock on the wall above the door. He checked it against his watch.

  "Only a minute or two out," he murmured, as they left the pawnbroker's shop.

  It was nearly seven o'clock when they reached Kenneth Clive's address. It was a classy street—a bit too classy for a man who had sold a cigarette case for twenty pounds. The mystery was partly explained when they learnt that Clive had only one room in the house.

  He ushered the Chief Inspector and Sergeant into his bed-sitter with a troubled solemnity. As the newspaper seller had said, Clive was tall with fair hair, and good-looking with a nervous manner.

  "I don't know what this is about, gentlemen," he said, motioning them to chairs, "and I'm not sure that I like it either."

  "Unfortunately, Mr. Clive, the law is not concerned whether you like it or not," Duxbury said dryly. "I want to know if you visited Rubenstone's, a pawnbroker in Garden Terrace, this evening around five o'clock."

  Surprise showed in Clive's face. "Why… yes, I did as a matter of fact. But what on earth has that to do with you?"

  "And you sold a silver cigarette case for twenty pounds?"

  The young man colored slightly. "Suppose I did? It was my own property. Are you suggesting it was stolen?"

  "I'm suggesting, Mr. Clive, that you be caref
ul how you answer my questions," Duxbury said, pale eyes unblinking. "For your information, Rubenstone was murdered tonight at approximately five o'clock and, naturally, we're checking up. We got your name from the ledger—you were his last customer."

  "Murdered!" Kenneth Clive gave a little gasp and sat down heavily. He stared blankly at the detectives. "But—but surely you don't think that I—"

  "Why did you choose a pawnbroker so far from your room?"

  "So I wouldn't be recognized, of course." From looking angry, Clive had become uncomfortable. He gestured at the barely furnished room. "As you can see, I'm down on my luck. I lost my job, and I'm in debt. I need that twenty pounds to help buy necessities."

  "Before you entered Rubenstone's, you bought a newspaper."

  "That's not a crime, is it?"

  "What did you do with it?"

  "I gave it away."

  "Really?"

  "Do you doubt my word?" Clive snapped.

  "I didn't say that. Bit generous of you, in the circumstances."

  "I suppose it's your job which makes you suspicious of the simplest action," Clive said bitterly. "I knew when I saw the half-time scores that the teams I'd bet on couldn't possibly win. The paper was no use to me after that. I gave it to a chap at the end of the street who asked me what had won the two-thirty race."

  "What sort of chap? Did he wear a bowler hat?"

  "I don't think so. Some sort of flat cap. He looked down and out."

  "I see. You gave the paper away at the end of the street. Which end? Where the newspaper man has his stand?"

  "No. The other end."

  "And you're certain," Duxbury asked, "that you hadn't turned the corner into the main road?"

  "Quite sure—if it matters."

  "Did you notice anyone else about? Hear anything suspicious?"

  "No."

  "When Rubenstone filled in the ledger, did he refer to a watch for the time?"

  "No, he looked at the clock on the wall. It was two minutes fast by my watch."

  "All right Mr. Clive, that'll be all for now. I may want to see you again."

  Old Ironsides and Sergeant Brown left the house and sat in the car.

  "So what's your theory, sergeant?"