Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Betty said nothing. “Suppose these men are older?” Marge demanded. “At least they’re able to pay for a good sized meal. Chances are your partner will waltz himself into a state of exhaustion in about five minutes and then spend the rest of the evening telling you what a big shot he is. All you have to do is act starry-eyed and admiring and you’ll probably rate a fat tip besides the regular ten dollar fee.”

  Betty grimaced. “That’s just it! It’s so false and cheap! Pretending to admire a man for the sake of a tip!”

  Marge looked alarmed. “Gee, you can’t back out now! When Ethel told me she was sick, she meant for me to call the agency and have them send out another girl. Instead, I tried to give you a break. If there are only eleven girls here, the agency finds out, they’ll fire me.”

  “All right—I’ll go through with it,” Betty managed.

  “Oke, come on.” And Marge opened the door of B-16.

  It was an anteroom into which they entered. Betty, slipping out of the borrowed fur jacket, looked apprehensively at herself in the tall mirror. The evening gown, borrowed from Marge’s wardrobe, was a bit too long, and its bodice a bit too tight. Betty shyly wondered if it was too immodest.

  “No, honey,” Marge turned as they were entering the next room, “give the men a big smile as we come in—”

  Both girls stopped and gasped. There weren’t any men!

  Ahead of them, in the room they faced, stretched a long table, glistening with cut glass and silverware. Ten Escortettes, every one of them a blonde, lined both sides. And at the far end sat a frail, black-clad, white-haired old lady.

  “Welcome, young ladies. Now, if you’ll be seated with the others, I shall try to explain what this is all about.”

  Betty Lorell darted a puzzled, inquiring look at Marge, then sank into her chair. But Marge looked just as inquiring and twice as dazed.

  The old lady’s knife blade tinkled against her crystal goblet, demanding attention.

  “I’m Mrs. Amy Stafford, and this is my birthday—my seventy-first, I don’t mind telling you. I won’t have many more, naturally, which is why I want this one to be an event. And by an event I mean something so extraordinary that it couldn’t possibly happen if it wasn’t my birthday.”

  Her voice didn’t crack or seem shrill. It was gentle, almost pleading.

  “It isn’t easy to think of something that’s really extraordinary and still be something that a woman my age can do. Some weeks ago, however, I chanced upon a card—an Escortette Agency card. ‘Guaranteed Glamor Girls,’ it said. It made me wonder what it must be like to be a ‘guaranteed’ glamor girl. I should think you’d get very tired of it, my dears—tired of always looking your best, smiling your prettiest, gayly pretending to have the time of your lives all the time. And I should think you’d get heartily sick and tired of amusing a lot of silly, bored, boring men—men you wouldn’t look at twice if you weren’t paid to.”

  Betty’s heart leaped toward the old lady. It was so exactly the way she felt herself!

  But from mid-table, a platinum beauty leaned forward.

  “Meaning you felt sorry for us? This is a charity stunt?”

  Betty’s heart sank.

  Amy Stafford’s eyes still remained warm. “Not at all. No woman my age could possibly feel sorry for any of you. I merely thought it might be fun to have a party where there wasn’t a single man in sight; where you wouldn’t have to smile your prettiest, or pretend to be having a gay time; where you could relax and be yourselves.

  “And so—” she looked around the table, “I decided that would be my birthday party this year. You’ll find your usual fee in the envelopes beside your plates, and all I ask in return is that you twelve girls go ahead and enjoy yourselves in your own way.” She sat down.

  The Escortettes stared at each other in a silence that made Betty shiver. Nobody looked happy. Nobody looked very much of anything—except stunned. Poor Mrs. Stafford, Betty thought. Her party was going to be a frosty, dismal flop.

  Then, amazingly, the platinum beauty broke the spell again. Broke it audibly, with the snapping open of her handbag. Out came a pair of unhandsome tortoise shell glasses that transformed her into the image of a stenographer any business executive would be glad to avoid.

  “There, by Joe! This is the first party in months I’ve been able to really see the food on my plate!”

  Suddenly the tension snapped, the girls were laughing, and then losing no time eating, eating food so excellent that many asked for second helpings.

  Marge Dean nudged her roommate. “Don’t wake me up—let me dream on.”

  It was dreamlike. Crazy, but nice. It made up for a lot of empty, despairing evenings.

  Bridge tables appeared, a portable bar was wheeled into the room. There were magazines, if a girl would rather pore over a magazine than play cards. Characteristically, Marge Dean got into a bridge game; just as characteristically, Betty picked up a magazine.

  Suddenly, softly, fingers pressed Betty’s shoulder.

  “Please,” Amy Stafford whispered. “May I speak to you? Alone?”

  “Why, of course.”

  “I don’t want the others to know, I don’t want to spoil my own birthday party, but I’m very tired. My head aches. Perhaps it’s the excitement.” Her voice fluttered. “If you’d help me downstairs, put me into a cab—”

  “Why, I’d love to help, Mrs. Stafford.” Downstairs, on the sidewalk, however, the old lady’s fingers clung tight to the girl’s wrist, with surprising, steely strength.

  “My dear—my head—it’s worse. I do hope I don’t faint in the cab. Sometimes jolting makes it worse. My child, would it be too much to ask if you’d come along, see me safely home?”

  CHAPTER II

  The Trap

  Ed Harnock stood at the window watching the headlights glide into the driveway.

  “The huntress returns, Kisley,” he said, turning.

  A big, paunchy, talc-cheeked man across the room tossed his cigar into the fire.

  “It’s criminal, Harnock. If we get found out I might jolly well get kicked out of the Bar Association.”

  “What about me?” Harnock replied. “You don’t get an agency permit by planking a hundred dollars on the counter. You have to be investigated by the State Board of Control, then the Metropolitan Police Bureau has to recommend you, and your fingerprints have to clear through the F.B.I.”

  “Amy doesn’t give a damn what happens to us,” Kisley remarked. “She rides roughshod over everybody. She always has.”

  “Except Danny,” Harnock’s voice cut in. Kisley sighed, “I suppose even the stone sphinx has its favorite pyramid.”

  Voices were murmuring in the hallway. “That door, my dear. Just help me inside.”

  Ed Harnock walked forward and released the catch. Mrs. Stafford had brought Betty Lorell in through a side door of the big house.

  “I see you got her,” he said.

  Kisley, just behind him, gestured with a plump, protesting hand. “Mrs. Stafford, as your legal adviser, I beg you to go no farther. Get rid of that young lady, I implore you.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Albert!” the white-haired lady snapped. “It’s turning out beautifully. She’s even better than I’d expected.”

  Betty looked at them in surprise and confusion. What did they mean? What was this talk, anyway? One thing was quite clear, however. Mrs. Stafford wasn’t ill—not a bit of it. She marched vigorously to a chair, sat down erectly, and looked at Betty with cold appraisal.

  Harnock was studying the girl, too. Blonde, lovely, but young, terribly young. Just a kid in spite of the sophisticated evening gown. Ed Harnock stared at her eyes. Ed could tell a lot by a person’s eyes. Hers were the softest, most utterly innocent shade of blue.

  “She’s better?” Harnock rebelled. “Good Lord, she’s not the type at all! You’ve been robbing the cradle, Mrs. Stafford!”

  The girl resented that. “I’m nineteen. What do you mean, ‘not the type’? What di
fference can it make to any of you what type I am? Mrs. Stafford said she was ill—I brought her home—and now I’m going.”

  “Wait!” Amy Stafford’s voice was shrill now. “Just a minute, young lady. Harnock, don’t let her go!”

  He made no move to stop the girl. His wide shoulders shrugged, his gray eyes were indifferent to what she did—maybe even hopeful that she would go. But Betty didn’t. Curiosity held her, made her say:

  “Well?”

  “You need money,” the old lady said. “Oh, don’t deny it. I knew it the minute you stepped into my sight. That dress, it’s borrowed. It doesn’t even fit you. No jewelry—nothing but a ten cent store necklace. And the way you ate I’d say you hadn’t seen a square meal in a week.”

  Color flamed into Betty’s cheeks. She started to walk toward the door.

  “Wait one more minute,” the old lady continued. “I’m going to give you a chance to earn a lot of money—a hundred dollars for a few hours easy work. A thousand dollars, if you’re successful.”

  Betty just stared. Harnock watched her with the feeling that she was more stunned by the proposal than attracted by the lure of money. He hoped she’d have the good sense to refuse, flatly.

  Amy Stafford looked at Kisley. “You explain, Albert. You know it’s painful for me to discuss these details.”

  The attorney’s round features sagged as if in pain. “This fantastic affair is none of my contriving. I frankly cannot approve of it. I must begin by asking you to reconsider—”

  “Rubbish! You’re wasting time! Come to the point, man.”

  Kisley came to it. “Young lady—”

  “Her name’s Betty Lorell. Go on.”

  “Miss Lorell,” Kisley said, “you’ve probably heard of the Danny Mitchell case?”

  “The murder?” Betty whispered. “Danny Mitchell was Mrs. Stafford’s grandson,” Kisley told her.

  Harnock watched the girl turn to Amy Stafford. There was quick sympathy in her blue eyes—sympathy that helped her see what no one else fully understood. What strain that frail, aged figure must be under. Even Mrs. Stafford’s glittering eyes and stern lips could not hide the inner grief.

  “I’m sorry,” Betty sympathized.

  And Harnock, listening, knew then and there that she was in for it.

  Kisley’s voice droned on. “The police haven’t made any headway, as you’ve probably seen in the papers. Several private agencies have worked without any more success, Ed Harnock here being the latest investigator. The known facts remain just about what they were originally. Young Mitchell went to his apartment that night, accompanied by an exceptionally attractive blonde. I quote the elevator operator’s description—‘a lulu of a blonde.’ The time was early, approximately eight o’clock, fixed by the fact that the operator went on duty at eight. Danny and this girl were his first passengers.

  “Fifteen minutes later Ken Mitchell came to this apartment. He is er, was, Danny’s cousin. He is also a grandson of Mrs. Stafford. He found the door unlocked, ajar. Danny’s body lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. The assailant had used the heavy, antique poker. The blow was struck with such force that it bent the poker out of shape.”

  “Yes,” Betty recalled, “I read about it in the newspapers at the time. The police didn’t think the girl did it—didn’t think a woman could have struck such a blow.”

  Kisley shrugged. “Anyway, she disappeared and hasn’t been heard of since. The police paraded all of Danny’s known blonde feminine acquaintances in front of the elevator chap, but he couldn’t give an identification. It’s supposed she was an accomplice, that the motive was robbery, for Danny’s wallet was taken.”

  “Who supposes it?” cried Amy Stafford. “I don’t! Not for a moment!”

  “I’ve been discussing the official theory,” Kisley said, bridging his plump fingers together. “Mr. Harnock has a different idea. Let him tell it.”

  Harnock chose his words carefully. “I wasn’t on the case originally. I’ve seen official police photographs since, never mind how. They found a lipstick tinted cigarette in an ashtray on the terrace outside the apartment. They regard it as evidence against the girl. I doubt it, though. The cigarette was smoked down to a stub—and smoked by someone who kept flicking off the ash. There wasn’t the long ash there’d have been had the cigarette burned itself out. Do you know how long it takes to smoke a cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke,” Betty said. “It takes eight to ten minutes. I’ve timed a dozen different people, using that brand of cigarette.”

  “Subtracted from fifteen,” Amy Stafford said harshly.

  Harnock nodded. “Yes, the girl got away before Ken arrived there. It’s fair to suppose Danny and this girl used up a minute or so going out to the terrace, then he probably excused himself to mix a drink. The girl, alone, sat down with her cigarette. She had finished it when she heard a commotion, possibly the thud of a falling body. Going in, she probably saw the body on the floor, ducked out and down the stairs, and got away before an investigation could be started.”

  Harnock was careful in adding: “That’s only my theory. If the cops could lay their hands on the girl, no doubt they’d indict her for having a share in the killing itself.”

  “That’s because they’re fools!” Amy Stafford said in a choked voice. “It wasn’t any girl, someone nobody ever saw before. Danny was my favorite. He’d been handling more and more of my affairs. Other people were jealous, afraid he’d inherit more than his share, maybe get all it.”

  “Mrs. Stafford believes that it was one of the family,” the lawyer told Betty.

  “And the killer is right here under my roof tonight!” the white-haired lady added.

  She hunched her shoulders, darted a stare grimly toward the wall opposite. “They’re all here, gathered to celebrate my birthday. I invited them. They think I’m upstairs resting in my room. They don’t know I’ve set a trap for one of them.”

  Harnock looked at Betty Lorell steadily. “If I’m right, the murderer must not have known she was on the terrace at all. In fact he can’t be sure of it even now.”

  Betty’s brain whirled. “You mean the killer might think the girl saw or knows who did it?”

  “She’s smart as a whippet,” Amy Stafford crooned. “She’ll do it, I tell you. I know how to pick a girl out of a dozen!”

  “I hope she’s smart,” Harnock suggested. “I hope she can figure out what’s likely to happen should the killer see a mysterious blonde walk in on the party tonight.”

  “You—you want me to pretend to be the blonde girl who . . .?”

  “Wait,” Ed Harnock gestured. “In the first place, I don’t want you to do anything of the sort. I agree with Kisley. I think it’s a crazy stunt.” He ignored the dowager’s glare of reprimand. “It isn’t so simple as all that, anyway. You can’t openly profess to be the blonde. If you did that, you’d have to point out the killer. Which you can’t.”

  “This is the part I object to,” Kisley said worriedly. “I understand all these people have received threatening letters, notes, hints of blackmail.”

  “I wrote ’em,” Mrs. Stafford snapped. “And I didn’t hint. I simply said in so many words: At last I’ve traced you. This is going to cost you plenty. And I signed them, Blondie.”

  Her eyes glittered. “You see, the guilty one knows what that means. So now, when a mysterious blonde girl appears and begins dropping meaningful remarks and mentions money—well, the guilty one is going to betray himself by giving you the money.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll be well paid. I said a thousand, but I’ll go higher. Five thousand. Name your own figure!” Amy Stafford shuddered. “If you knew what it means to me! The thought that one of them—that boy’s murderer—is here in my house, laughing at me, preparing to inherit my money, makes me willing to pay any price.”

  Betty closed her fingers over the old lady’s cold, thin hand.

  “I don’t care about the money, really. I know how yo
u feel. I honestly want to help!” She shook her blonde head, “But how can I? I’m not an actress. I’m not even the professional party girl you think. How could I do it—walk in there, a perfect stranger at a family reunion? I’d be scared. They’d see through my bluff. I wouldn’t last two minutes.”

  Ed Harnock’s eyes met hers with almost bruising impact.

  “If you want to take the chance, Mrs. Stafford has got the angle all nicely taken care of. You’d walk in as my wife.”

  CHAPTER III

  Scream in the Night

  Betty lowered the phone into its cradle. “I’ve just called my roommate so she wouldn’t worry about my disappearance from the hotel.”

  “Then you are all set?” Harnock asked. “Yes, Mr. Harnock.”

  Ed lifted his eyebrows at her. The girl colored faintly.

  “I meant . . . Yes, Ed. You want me to call you that, of course?”

  He nodded. “I’ll do my best,” Betty said nervously. “I’m still pretty bewildered. A few hours ago I was a penniless voice student facing a solitary evening in a Girls’ Club bedroom. Then I turned into a paid party girl. Now I’m a married woman and a blackmaileress. It’s quite a strain.”

  “Don’t be too good an actress,” Harnock advised. “A few slips won’t hurt. We want it to be fairly easy for these people to figure out that we’re not really man and wife at all.

  “There’s only one way this can be worked, Betty. The family already knows I’m a detective. I’ve got to make them suspect I’m a crooked one—make them believe I’ve found the blonde in the case, but instead of turning her in decided to make a quick, illegal profit. In other words, you and I have made a deal. I’m shielding you, giving you a chance to work a shakedown racket, after which we’re splitting the take.”

  “Do you really think one of them is guilty?” Betty asked.