by Jerry eBooks
“Sure it wasn’t you, John?” asked Blake gravely.
WITH the Berkshire skies constantly overcast, and frequent drizzles, the camp colony was pretty well deserted those fall days. Blake had stayed in town the last three nights, since the murder of Sam Murtha, and John was more or less alone. John called him on the telephone in Blake’s cabin.
“Anything new, Chief?”
“No—unless it’s new that the devil takes care of his own,” growled Blake. “A dozen nuts with a dozen phony clues—we get that all the time. Oh yes, there is one thing new: The heel in the mayor’s office has given me until Monday to solve the case and make an arrest—or hand in my resignation! Can you tie that?”
John strolled over to Bill Bowen’s bungalow, driven by a vague desire to do what he could to help his friend. Perhaps during the course of a conversation, Bill might remember who the “short, dark guy” was.
The early fall night had settled down, made more gloomy by the clouds which had not permitted a glimpse of blue sky for days. A fine rain was falling, but it seemed to presage a heavier downpour. When he reached Bowen’s bungalow, he saw a light on in the living room. He walked up on the porch and knocked, and almost immediately Bill opened the door. He did not at once recognize John.
“Chief Blake’s friend—I was with him the other day.”
“Oh yes—now I remember! Come on in.”
It was a good-sized room, and it had a fireplace in which dry wood was crackling cheerfully. They sat and talked for some time.
“I feel like a dope,” Bowen admitted. “I’ve seen that guy before, I know damn well I have! If I could only remember . . .”
“Quite important that you should,” John pointed out soberly. “The fact that he was near the store just about the time the murder took place makes him a likely suspect—whoever he is.”
Bowen sighed despairingly. “Yes—whoever he is. Say, I hear you’ve got phenomenal hearing, John!”
“Nothing really phenomenal about it!” John rose and stretched. “It’s just an inheritance in my case—but it can be cultivated in almost anybody with normal hearing. We cultivate it in dogs—sense of hearing, sense of smell. You can stimulate it with drugs, or hypnotism—in certain types of sickness, like what they call hyperaesthesis, the people afflicted have unusual hearing. Well—time to turn in, I guess.”
Bowen accompanied him to the door and went out with him on the porch. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with moisture.
A car shot past, and Bowen said interestedly, “Hey, that’s Lenz’s boat! What’s he doing going to the kids’ camp?”
“You mean the children’s summer camp down there? How do you know that’s where he’s going?”
“That’s the dead end of the road!” Bowen grinned. “Nobody at the camp now but the caretaker, Carl—and that good-lookin’ housekeeper, Juanita. Maybe he’s got a date with her, the old sonuvagun!”
“Well,” said John, “he’s welcome. Me—I’m sleepy!”
But after Bowen had gone inside, he turned about and started rapidly in the direction of the camp. It was only a quarter of a mile from Bowen’s place.
When he went in under the rustic arch at the entrance to the camp, the lawns and buildings lay dark and still. Even the caretaker’s cottage on the shore of the lake below showed no light. Keeping on the grass and off the road, John came to the gravel path that led to the administration house, a white and green building that stood on a small rise. That building, too, was dark, silent.
But he saw Lenz’s car under the trees that lined the path ten or fifteen feet to the left of the house.
IN THE darkness, he picked his way across the front lawn, then circled the building, passing the car, which was empty.
When he came to the rear of the building, he saw a light and heard voices. They came from the corner room on the ground floor, but the ground sloped downward and the window was more than seven feet high.
With a light, noiseless spring, John managed to get his hands on the windowsill, and peered in. There was a curtain, but he got a glimpse of a man and a woman. The man’s back was turned. He sat on a chair. The woman lay on a cot.
Lenz and his sweetheart, thought John disgustedly, and was about to turn away, when the man’s voice reached him—he heard the words clearly.
“For the love of Pete, Juanita, don’t you trust anybody? Would I take a chance at trying to double-cross you or Vic? Am I crazy?”
The girl replied, quite coolly: “You give me my ten grand and I’ll hand over the stuff—not before! I’m looking out for number one—not trusting anybody! I’ve been around, pal!”
There was a silence then. Once more Lenz spoke, this time in a far more menacing tone.
“If I put a slug into you, you slut, I’d get a medal for it! Does that occur to you? They’d find those diamonds in your possession, and they’d know who killed my watchman!”
“Oh, they’d find the diamonds, would they? Where would they find them? What kind of a sap do you take me for? I’ve met your kind before, and I don’t take no chances. You put the dough on the line—otherwise no diamonds. And get this through your nut: Nobody’s going to find them! Not where I put them!”
“Didn’t we agree you and Vic were to get fifty-fifty with me after I sold them?” In his anger, Lenz raised his voice so that even a person with normal hearing might have heard him.
“Ten grand on the line,” replied the cool, implacable female voice.
Instantly afterward a muffled scream sounded, quickly smothered. John pulled himself high enough to look into the room again. The girl lay on the bed, and Lenz was kneeling on her, holding her down by the throat, while he beat her about the face and head with the butt of a pistol.
There was murder in his face.
John dropped to the ground. He did not wish to disclose his presence, and he was unarmed, whereas Lenz had a gun.
Suddenly Lenz spoke again, his voice hoarse with rage. “Ready to talk? Because if you don’t, by God I’ll finish you right now!”
She gasped, “I’ll talk—I’ll talk!”
“Then—where is it?”
“Checked—in the—railroad station.”
“You dope! Don’t you know that’s just where they’ll be looking for it pretty soon? Where’s the check?”
“In—in the dresser—upper drawer—right-hand side!”
In the darkness John grinned exultantly. He shot across the path toward the car—then decided against trying to use it. If they found it missing, they would be on guard. There was a better way—the telephone in Bill Bowen’s bungalow!
He heard the swift rush of feet behind him, from under the shadow of the trees, and whirled about. Vic Terris!
THE wrestler dived at John and slammed him against a tree with a force that knocked the breath out of him.
Terris shouted, “Hey, Lenz, a snooper,” and his hands groped for a hold as John dodged backward across the path, fending him off and trying to get his wind back.
The window opened, and there was Lenz, gun in one hand, the girl held close to his side with the other.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“Snooper!” yelled Vic. “Peekin’ in at the winder!” He threw a glance at Lenz and shouted, “Don’t shoot—you’ll hit me!”
John let him have it. He smashed him between chin and collarbone, and Vic dropped like a smitten bull.
Lenz’s gun barked as John shot under the shadowy trees. It missed, and John thought he was safe. But the next bullet struck him above the left ankle, and he sprawled forward at full length.
He tried to rise again—and almost lost consciousness from the pain. He lay there a moment, hearing Lenz’s repeated calls to Vic, then the sound of feet. From where he lay, he could not see Lenz and the girl when they reached Vic’s side, but he could hear them quite plainly.
“Who was it?” asked Lenz. He repeated, “Who was it, Vic?”
Vic’s voice answered feebly, “I dunno. I
seen him hangin’ around your winder, and I waited to see what he was gonna do. Then he ran for your car, and I thought he was gonna get into it. Then he ducks right to where I was watchin’—like you told me—and I tried to jump him. He—he hit me wid a club or I’d ‘a’ had him.”
“I thought I hit him,” said Lenz. “Got a flashlight, Juanita?”
“Inside—in my room!” Her tone was sullen.
Vic remonstrated, “Aw, he’s a mile away by now—no use lookin’ for him. Whoever he was, he didn’t hear nothin’—the winder was closed all the time. Let’s git out of here—you don’t wanna be seen out here wid me, do you?”
They got into the car and drove away.
Blood was pouring out of the wound in John’s leg. The bone above the ankle must be fractured—it wouldn’t bear his weight. He took off his shoe and stocking, and made a rough tourniquet above the wound.
The car whizzed out of sight, and he started hopping down the path on one foot. He couldn’t even put the other to the ground. He shouted repeatedly, but he found every time he did, he seemed to become weaker. Nobody answered.
It was a quarter of a mile to Bill Bowen’s bungalow. Part of the way he hopped, part of the way he crawled. It began to rain again, and he was saturated to the skin. He never knew how many times he had to stop until the dizziness passed off.
This was in his mind all the time: Lenz and the girl might get to the station and take out the suitcase, or whatever it was in which she had put the jewels, before he could get word to Blake.
When he did finally reach Bowen’s cottage, he had to pound and yell before Bowen came to the door.
Bowen stared at him. John was standing on one leg, wet to the skin, his face a greenish tint.
“What’s the matter, John? Are you hurt? What happened?”
“Get me to your telephone—quick!” gritted John.
He rested a hand on Bowen’s shoulder and hopped inside wearily.
Luck did not seem to be with him. Blake was not at headquarters, and he was not at home. The maid told John he was at the moving-picture show.
When John finally got the manager of the theater, the fellow had to indulge a sense of humor. He said, “Aw, why don’t you let the Chief have an evening off! If you want someone arrested, I’ll come over and oblige you.”
John said tiredly, “It’s a matter of life and death, Mister—and I’m not fooling.”
And so at last Blake’s voice sounded over the telephone.
John said, “Listen—no time to lose. I know who the murderer is.”
“Who is this?”
“John. Listen—”
Blake’s voice came excitedly. “Who is he?”
“It’s a she, Chief—Juanita—the girl at the summer camp. She and Lenz are on their way to the railroad station—with Vic Terris. She checked the diamonds there. Maybe they got there already, but—”
“That’s her,” yelled Bowen excitedly. “She was the short, dark guy! Now I remember! She was dressed like a man. Shirt and slacks! Here, lemme talk to the Chief!” He grabbed the ‘phone from John’s hand, but dropped it to catch John as he slumped sideways.
BLAKE sat beside John’s bed at the hospital in Sandboro. He said, “We got them coming out—they’d already been there and taken out Juanita’s suitcase. Abrams’ case was inside it, with the diamonds. Lenz’s alibi is that he was there to stop her—got suspicious of her somehow, and went there to nab her. All alone—didn’t trust the police! But Vic and Juanita have both made statements implicating him—and with your testimony, he hasn’t got a chance.”
“How’d she get the jewels in the first place?” asked John. In white pajamas, shaved, with his black hair and black eyes, he was a striking figure.
His pallor lent additional distinction.
Blake explained, “Foxy Lenz told Murtha she was a friend of his . . . that she was getting up a tax report for him . . . might come down some night to finish it. So when she did come down, Murtha wasn’t surprised. Only it seemed late for her to work on the books—so he went in with her, and started to telephone Lenz, just to make sure. Bowen saw her before she met Murtha. Well—while he was telephoning, she let him have it. I don’t know whether Lenz figured on her killing Sam Murtha or not—probably not. He might have thought Sam would go away and leave her in there to work on the books. Lenz had given her the combination to the safe—Vic was waiting for her in Lenz’s car across the street—got away from the Pleasure Palace for an hour, and came back without anybody even knowing he’d been gone.”
“She wore a man’s clothes—Bowen saw her in them. Didn’t that make Murtha suspicious?”
“Maybe—maybe not. She wore slacks and a brown shirt. They all dress that way at the camp—girls and counselors. Anyhow, I suppose Sam was telephoning Lenz just because he was suspicious.” The nurse entered. “We’re having distinguished company, John. The mayor is here to see you. I think he’s got some word about the reward. Mayor Saunders!”
Blake rose. “Mayor Rat!” he muttered. “Lenz nearly got him to fire me! You saved my job for me, John.”
A suave, smiling man entered with outstretched hand.
CRIME BY CHART
Harl Vincent
Jerry Cochran Traces a Sinister Murder Pattern and Spikes a Wily Killer’s Design for Dying!
JERRY COCHRAN never kidded himself about his dependence on the Hercules Life, Casualty and Indemnity Company. Without them for a meal ticket, he’d have to take down his private sleuthing sign and close his small office for keeps.
But, sometimes, they handed him the screwiest assignments you ever heard of. At least they’d look screwy in the beginning. Then, all of a sudden, you might find you really had something big on your hands. Ferd Dudley, the half-pint Hercules claim adjuster, had a nose that would smell fire when there wasn’t even any smoke. Only he never went near the fire himself; that was where Cochran came in.
Take this business of the Chauncey MacDermott policy. When he first heard about that, Cochran thought Dudley was having another of his titanic brain waves.
“I want you to grab the next train for Philly, Deacon,” Dudley’s thin squeak came over the wire.
“Philly!” yelped Cochran. He had planned going out that night.
“Yes, Philadelphia. Ever hear of it?”
“Sure, spent a week there one Sunday. But why Philly now?”
“Chauncey MacDermott died today.”
“So what?” Jerry snapped. “And who’s he?”
“He was General Super of the DeLacey Pump Works, just outside of Frankford. And he had a straight life coverage for fifty thousand bucks. For six months he held it, and now he’s supposed to be croaked by an accident in his own shop. Double indemnity, too.” Dudley’s voice became almost hysterical at the end.
“Don’t cry about it,” said Cochran, sighing. “So I suppose there’s a one-year suicide clause in the policy. And you want to prove he bumped himself off, is that it?”
“Anything you can learn, Deke,” Dudley said. “It’s fishy, somehow—a hunch of mine.”
“How’s he supposed to have been rubbed out?”
“A machine blew up in his face or something. I tell you, with a policy like that and the ink hardly dry on it, there’s—”
“Would a guy knock himself off by running into a machine? You’re nuts, Ferd.”
The claim man’s chirp became apologetic now.
“Well, that’s the way it is. So, get down there right away, will you?”
“Okay. Who’s the beneficiary?”
“His wife. Lives out on the Main Line, in Ardmore. That’s all I can tell you, Deacon.”
SO that’s how it happened that Jerry Cochran was on the six o’clock Philadelphia express out of Penn Station. Seeing him with his bony knees tucked almost under his chin where he’d doubled up in the parlor car seat, you’d never take him for a private investigator. With his long face, thin lips and solemn blue eyes, you’d be more likely to think him a mortician, which
is high-hat for undertaker. That’s why Fred Dudley and a privileged few called him “Deacon.” It was an advantage in this racket. Widows fell for it, especially.
And there were plenty of times he hobnobbed with honest-to-God morticians, at that. . . .
Sylvia MacDermott was a dream in chic black. She had an assortment of baby-stare eyes, full red lips, honey blond hair, and soft youthful curves that, item by individual item, might have been equaled elsewhere. All her features were assembled in a way that was far beyond anything Cochran had ever seen. The completed product was a knockout.
He was glad the corpse wasn’t here in this snooty suburban home. Chauncey MacDermott, he was told, lay stiff and cold in a closed casket in the best funeral parlor in the burg. And there wasn’t anything stiff and cold about his young widow.
“I represent the Hercules Insurance people,” Cochran told her.
“Oh,” said Sylvia MacDermott softly. “Oh.” She dabbed at her rosebud mouth with a ridiculous bit of black-edged lace. “Must such things as money be discussed at a time like this?”
Jerry put sympathy into his tones.
“No, Mrs. MacDermott. That can wait, if you like. The Company wants to express its condolences through me; that’s all. I’d like to ask a few questions about your late husband—if you don’t mind.”
The girl sighed feelingly.
“I suppose it must be done. Will you sit down?”
She led him into a rose and gold drawing room, where he sat on the edge of a spindle-legged chair that he was afraid would fold up under him. This Sylvia, on a thirty foot divan, crossed a pair of legs you could have insured for a warm—not cool—million. She looked at him sad-eyed now.
“Just a matter of routine,” Jerry said gently. “It’s tough having to question the bereaved ones so soon, I know. But it has to be done. Your husband was in good health and of sound mind?”
A pitiful little catch was in the girl’s voice.
“Oh, yes.”
“He hadn’t any important worries? Like money or anything?”
The girl’s eyes widened. Her forehead washboarded in thought.
“No-o,” she said, thinking hard. Of course, he’d lost some in the market. “But”—those screen-starry eyes swept the luxury around them—“we had everything we needed. Do you mean . . .?”
