The Second Pulp Crime

by Mack Reynolds

  “Here?”

  “Right here. You are always in your shop during banking hours, are you not?”

  “Of course. I carry my lunch, so I’m not even away at lunch time.”

  “Good. With your penchant for doing exactly what is needed at exactly the right time, I am certain that our alarm buzzer, although placing a new responsibility on your shoulders in the unlikely event of a bank robbery, will in no way discommode or harm you. And I might add that the bank will naturally expect to pay you a small stipend for your cooperation.”

  She flushed with pleasure. “What would I have to do?” she asked.

  “If the alarm buzzer should ever ring, you merely go at once to your telephone there, Miss Coe…” I indicated her telephone on a counter at the back of the shop “…and place an emergency call to the police, giving them a prearranged signal. That is all. Your responsibility then ceases. You see, it’s very simple.”

  “I’m sure I could do that, if that’s all there is to it,” Miss Coe said, glancing at her wall clock a little guiltily, as though she feared she were three stitches late on a hat promised a customer one minute from then. “And I won’t say that a bit of extra income won’t be more than welcome.”

  By the end of the week the buzzer was installed in her shop. The system was thoroughly tested, and it worked perfectly. On our first “dry run”, the squad of police arrived at the bank just four minutes from the time they received their telephone call from Miss Coe. The insurance people, satisfied with their inspection of the system and my recommendation of Miss Coe, granted us the lower insurance rate forthwith.

  Since a daily test of the wiring circuit, to assure its constant readiness, was specified in our insurance agreement, I arranged with Miss Coe that at exactly three o’clock each day, I would press the button under my desk at the bank and ring the buzzer in her shop. That was as far as the daily test needed to go; it was expected that Miss Coe’s telephone would always be operative but if, in the event it were out of order or in use when the buzzer should ring, Miss Coe could merely nip into the shop next door and telephone the police from there.

  For two years it seemed that Miss Coe would never be called upon to display her reliability in behalf of the bank’s depositors. We had no bank robbery, nor even an attempted one. I tested the alarm buzzer each day at three; Miss Coe continued to make fetching hats for Robbsville’s ladies undisturbed; and each month I mailed her a small check for her participation in the bank’s alarm system.

  You can readily see now, I am sure, why I had no qualms whatever when our bank robbery finally did occur. This was the event for which the police, Miss Coe, and I had so carefully prepared. This was the actual happening that our rehearsals had merely simulated. I knew that our outside robbery alarm was in perfect working order. I knew that Miss Coe was in her shop, ready to act, as dependable and unfailing as the stars in the heavens.

  So, far from being startled or apprehensive, I really felt a certain pleasurable excitement when I looked up from my desk, just before closing time that afternoon, and saw the three masked bandits presenting their weapons to our staff and terrified patrons. In common with the other occupants of the banking room, I slowly raised my hands over my head at the robbers’ command. Simultaneously and unnoticed, however, I also pressed my knee against the alarm button under my desk.

  I could picture clearly the exact sequence of events that would be set in train by that movement of my knee. Miss Coe’s buzzer would sound. She would perhaps sit immobile for a shocked second at her work table. She would drop the hat she was working on and cross speedily to her telephone. She would place her emergency call to the police with splendid calm. And then she would wait confidently for the news from me that our bank robbers had been circumvented or captured.

  Unfortunately, as I found out later, Miss Coe did none of these things.

  What she did do, when the alarm buzzer sounded in her shop, was merely to glance at the clock on her wall, rise impatiently from her sewing stool and cross the room, and there (bless her methodical heart!) push the minute hand of the wall clock ahead ten minutes so that it pointed to exactly three o’clock.

  THE CRIMSON COMPLEX, by G. T. Fleming-Roberts

  Originally published in Ten Detective Aces, September 1933.

  It was not impulse that made Dorothy Faine bring her roadster to a sliding stop at the corner of Eighth Street. Dorothy Faine never acted on impulse. Being beautiful, she had no motive for developing the vivacity that is supposed to attract men. She thought and moved slowly and accurately. Her emotions were as enduring as a Sunday in July—and as warm. Only Dorothy Faine knew why she tooted her horn invitingly as Detective Sergeant Kerry stepped from the curb at Eighth Street corner. And Dorothy never told.

  “I’m going out to Banmar—if you are, Mr. Kerry,” she called. Then, she smiled enticingly. She always smiled that way.

  Jim Kerry was of one color—red-brown hair and eyes. He always wore red-brown clothes and polished red-brown shoes. He approached the car cautiously—for he was always cautious.

  “It’s Miss Faine?” He lifted his red-brown hat—a thing almost unheard of among the men of the homicide squad. But then Kerry had not served his apprenticeship on the traffic force. “Of course, I’d be delighted for the lift. I wanted to get out to the hospital as soon as possible.”

  He sat there, stiffly on the edge of the cushions. A red-brown cigar, unlighted, was fastened between his clean, white teeth.

  The girl meshed the gears and raced a Mack truck for the inner traffic belt. “Terrible, isn’t it—Mr. Appleard’s death?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Kerry, then, with his usual caution, “murder is always terrible.”

  “And when I think that he was a patient! It may ruin the future of the hospital. A patient murdered in his bed!” A little shudder passed over the girl.

  “Yes,” Kerry said again. “You have every interest in the hospital, haven’t you, Miss Faine? Not only as chief of nurses, but also because of the young research sensation, Dr. Trenton—”

  “No, you have me confused with Nurse Daniels. She is Dr. Trenton’s fiancée.”

  She ran a red traffic signal.

  Kerry apologized for his blunder. “It is unfortunate, too. I mean, that Miss Daniels is under considerable suspicion.” It was more than suspicion, but Kerry was cautious.

  “No!” exclaimed the girl.

  Kerry nodded. “You see, she administered the hypodermic that killed Appleard. She used something that caused the old man’s blood to clot in his blood vessels—internal suffocation, I suppose you’d say.

  “Intravascular clotting,” the nurse corrected. “Yes, I heard that Dr. Trenton’s new blood-clotting substance—‘synthetic cephalin,’ he calls it—had been substituted. But I can’t conceive of Miss Daniels—”

  “You see,” Kerry explained, “someone entered Dr. Trenton’s lab and took enough of that synthetic stuff from the vial on his desk to make the injection. It was deliberately substituted for the hypodermic prescribed by Dr. Allen. I have not established a motive as yet. It might be that Miss Daniels wanted to prove the worth of her affianced’s discovery. Then there is one more—” Kerry was about to say that he had made one more important discovery, but the nurse interrupted.

  “But surely, it is an awful fuss to make over an old man who would have died in a few years anyway?” It was the first time Dorothy had said this. She had thought of it several times before. Now that she had said it, she was glad. It sounded like a sort of defense for Margaret Daniels. It was always humane to defend the guilty—even though she hated Margaret Daniels as passionately as she loved Dr. Ralph Trenton.

  “The law never considers whether or not a person is too old to live,” said Kerry.

  A siren screamed at the rear wheel of Dorothy’s flying car. A motorcycle drove her to the curb. She pulled up sharply.

  �
�Say, young woman, who do you think you are? That’s the third time this week you’ve run through that traffic light. Think they’re put there—” He saw Kerry. He saluted stiffly. “Sorry, sergeant. I didn’t recognize you. I’ll be more careful after this.”

  “I would,” said Kerry sternly. “You may go on, Miss Faine. Some of these traffic officers are half blind, I believe.”

  Dorothy hurried her car forward. “That one especially has it in for me,” she laughed. “He will have it that my meager earnings are consumed in paying fines for passing red lights. But, you were saying—”

  Kerry opened his mouth and shut it quickly. “Some other time, Miss Faine,” he said. “Here’s the hospital. If you’ll just let me out in front. I’ve a few things to do, but I’ll see you later.”

  “That will be nice,” said the girl. She offered one of her lovely smiles. Kerry’s cheeks were susceptible. He crimsoned to the eyes.

  * * * *

  Dorothy Faine would have given a good deal to know just what Kerry had discovered. As the chief nurse, she felt that she had a right to know everything that went on at the hospital. It was with the idea of pumping Ralph Trenton that she went to the laboratory before going to her desk.

  Softly, on her rubber-heeled shoes, she entered the lab. Ralph was at his desk. His hands covered his face. His curly hair straggled over his fingers.

  “Ralph, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all this.”

  Ralph started at the sound of her voice. He looked up. His eyes were haggard and sleepless.

  “It’s all right, Dorothy,” he said weakly. “We all know that Margaret is incapable of such a thing. We simply have to prove that to our thick-headed Irishman.”

  “You know, Ralph, I’ll do anything I can.” Dorothy seated herself on the corner of Trenton’s desk. She placed a cool, white hand over his hot, moist fist. It seemed but a friendly gesture.

  Trenton noticed the coolness and whiteness of her hand. He looked into her face. “Of course, you will. You’re a real friend, Dorothy.”

  More than that. She would have been much more than that. Her blood raced madly. Her eyes entrapped Ralph’s eyes and bathed them in dark blue depths…

  Phantom wires that enmeshed the nurse and doctor were broken by the sound of shoes clicking in the corridor. Sergeant Kerry entered wrapped in a cloud of cigar smoke.

  “I’ve made a very important discovery, Dr. Trenton.” He paused in the doorway.

  Dorothy slipped from the desk.

  Trenton collected his wits.

  “You seem to be full of important discoveries today,” said the doctor, sarcastically.

  Kerry crossed the room and seated himself uninvited at Trenton’s desk. He brought a small vial sealed with crimson wax from his pocket. He tapped the vial with his pencil.

  “I’m returning your stuff that causes blood clotting in the veins—and kills. I haven’t been able to discover why the murderer sealed this vial with red wax when you, Dr. Trenton, say that you left it sealed with green wax.”

  Trenton shrugged his shoulders. Carelessly, he said, “It is all simple enough. A mere oversight. There were sticks of red, blue, and green wax on my desk. The murderer simply picked up the wrong one.”

  Kerry was drawing triangles on the desk pad.

  Suddenly, his eyes jabbed at Trenton.

  “Or perhaps it was only a neat bit of fabrication designed to draw my attention from you, Dr. Trenton.”

  The doctor flushed angrily. He wanted to say something brilliant and biting, but his lips became dry.

  “I’d like to speak to you in private, doctor,” Kerry dropped his pencil on the desk and got up.

  Dorothy started to leave the room, but Kerry stopped her.

  “You remain here, Miss Faine. I’ll just step into the hall with Dr. Trenton.”

  Once in the hall, Kerry seized Trenton by the arm.

  “The discovery that I’ve just made, Dr. Trenton, is that you are sole beneficiary by Mr. Appleard’s will. He was your uncle.”

  Trenton shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve been aware of that for some time.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me?” Kerry snapped. “But don’t answer. It was because someone who loves you had a motive for killing Appleard in order to marry you. You are now a very rich man, you know.”

  Ralph flamed. “That isn’t true. Why are you so persistent? Margaret couldn’t do such a thing… Why, haven’t I a stronger motive?”

  Kerry nodded shortly. “You have indeed. I’ll just make note—” His hand went to his pocket. “My pencil… I left it on your desk. Wait here, doctor.” Kerry turned on his polished heels and reentered the laboratory.

  “Nurse Faine,” he called from the door, “will you please bring me my pencil—the green one on the desk in front of you?”

  “Certainly, sergeant.” The girl smiled as she extended the pencil to him.

  “Isn’t that a pretty shade of green, Miss Faine?” he held the pencil almost lovingly in his hand.

  The girl smiled again—still her enticing smile.

  Kerry stepped suddenly forward. His eyes sparkled with strange red lights. His two hands closed over the girl’s shoulders. His lips came so close to her ear that they brushed on a wisp of her hair. He whispered, “Miss Faine, you were the one who substituted the poison for the hypodermic before Miss Daniels administered it. I arrest you for the murder of Gregory Appleard. You killed him because you hated Margaret Daniels, because you wanted Dr. Trenton for yourself; because you wanted to marry into the Appleard fortune! And I have the proof!”

  The nurse stepped quickly backward. Still, Kerry held her by the shoulders.

  “Wh-what do you mean—”

  “Simply that my pencil isn’t green, it’s red. The traffic light this morning was also red. The wax you resealed Dr. Trenton’s little bottle with was also red. I mean that you are red and green colorblind, Miss Faine!”

  The girl sank limply onto a laboratory stool. A sudden change came over her face. She had become so hideous in those few seconds that, passing her hand across her face, she could feel her ugliness.

  ACTOR’S SHOWCASE, by Bryce Walton

  Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, March 1966.

  When I got to my bungalow-office that morning in the deep hand-sprinkled, artificial green of Beverly Hills, Wade was already there waiting for me, just sitting there waiting on the steps with a horrible kind of patience. Yes, I mean the Wade Manvell. The sight of him there in the sun like a gloomy clot made a warning ting-a-ling of nerves in my stomach. An egocentric actor, faced with the threat of not making it up the glory road, is liable to do anything.

  He had a beard stubble this morning and his long blond hair hadn’t been washed. That bony, off-center face had a pale wild look, and I had to tell him that as far as I was concerned he had rung up no-sale.

  “Well, you’re out early,” I said. It was ten-thirty a.m.

  “Skip the formalities, please, Max,” Wade said and stood up like he had the old man of the mountain on his back. “I’m beat and need a drink of your whiskey. I had to walk darn near all the way before some nut gave me a lift. Wasn’t going to let me out of the car unless I promised to pray three times a day.”

  “Where’s your cycle?” I asked as I unlocked the door and motioned Wade in.

  “Had to hock it.”

  He was so flat he hadn’t even been able to afford bus fare. I sat him down and poured him a drink, then I began fussing around with this and that, stalling, adjusting the Venetian blind and then the air conditioner.

  Finally Wade spoke. “Stop suffering, Max. I’ll make it easier for you. You don’t have anything for me. You asked me out here to tell me goodbye.”

  I had to admit it. He had made it easier, a little, but not much. I really liked the guy and wouldn’t have taken him
on as a client unless I’d thought he had some real good stuff. I’d seen him doing those free Shakespeare-in-the-park things in New York and he had a real artist’s core of talent. I’d told him that. Now I told him again.

  “I can’t sell you, Wade. No one will buy.”

  His face was pale as he nodded, then looked at the rug.

  “Go back to New York,” I said. “You’re wasting time and a fine talent here. It’s different here right now. For commercial TV and most movies, they’re looking for a certain kind of balanced homespun face everybody can identify with. You’re too far out, Wade. Too unique. I mean it. Has nothing to do with talent. A very talented guy can be saleable but it doesn’t necessarily work the other way. And I can’t sell you.”

  He looked up at me suddenly and startled me. His eyes had taken on the wild glow of some obsessed anarchist. “Not me, Max. You can’t go back anywhere as a failure.” He rubbed his stubbly jaw. “Go back as a failure and you’re dead all round. I’m staying here until I make it, or you get 17% of a corpse.”

  “Well I’ve done all I know how to do,” I said.

  “I know that, Max. But now I’m going to make myself saleable. I’m going to be sold. I’m going to get a lot of publicity, I’m going to become known. I’m going to get a big pad with a pool up in the hills and entertain the right people and open the right doors. But I need loot, Max. Lots and lots of loot. I need a pile of green up to here. Enough to pay for that pad for a year, at least, in advance, enough for all the publicity and pictures and steady mention in the right places. I need enough loot to put myself up in a perfect package, Max. A package that’ll make me as saleable as Coca Cola.”

  “You need bread,” I agreed, “or you’re like Samson without hair.”

  “With that approach, Max, I know I can make it another year.”

  “Wishing is for kids,” I said.

  “I’m not wishing,” Wade said with a shivery intensity. “I’m getting it, and I’m getting it this afternoon. All of it. I can’t take bits or walk-ons or dubbing jobs, Max. I can’t wash dishes and like that. I’m not going down; I’m going on up in the prettiest most saleable package you ever saw. All I need is a sudden small fortune.”