by Jerry eBooks
Mr. Peck nodded and smacked his lips thoughtfully. He removed his glasses and wiped them slowly and carefully, polishing each lens with meticulous care.
“You of course have a coroner or medical examiner of some kind,” he finally said.
“Oh, sure. Old Doc Kraus handles the cases for the whole county when they come up. There ain’t enough to keep him on full time, but we send for him whenever we need him. He makes the examination and runs the inquest.”
“What did he think about the red blotches on the faces of the nine corpses?”
“Nothing. To tell you the truth I never thought enough about them to bring it up. “And he’s never mentioned it to you.”
“No.”
“I can’t possibly conceive of anyone missing them.”
“The Doc’s getting pretty old,” Ward explained. “He don’t see so good. We been trying to get a younger saw-bones for a long time, but nobody had the guts to tell him he was fired, I guess. He was born here; lived here for seventy-two years. He’s a nice enough old guy. Matter of fact, everybody sort of looks up to him as the town granddad. He’s a kindly old duffer; always doing things for folks and going out of his way to help a neighbor and things like that. I’ll send for him and ask him if he noticed the marks and what he thinks about them.”
“No, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. For the present, let’s work quietly. As far as I’m concerned, everybody’s under suspicion and any word getting out that we’re working on the case might spoil things.”
“Old Doc Kraus under suspicion!” Ward scoffed with a loud guffaw. “Say, that’s rich. Why, I’d trust him ahead of my own Dad and that’s saying a lot. Why he brought me into this world forty-two years ago. Used to spank me when I was a kid and needed one. Why . . .”
“I did not say I suspected Doctor Kraus, Mr. Peck interrupted. “I merely inferred that everybody was under suspicion until we begin to find something definite to go on. The reasons, I believe, are obvious.”
“I get you Mr. Peck.”
“Now then, the inquest has been per formed in this last case?”
“Yes; early this morning; just before you got here. They handed down a verdict of accidental death.”
“Have you made any attempts to identify the corpse?”
“Certainly. We figured it was you on account of the papers. We been trying to trace you through the Frisco police. So far no information has come in.”
“That’s quite possible. I lead a very quiet life; live at a bachelor club and am not listed either in the phone book or the City Directory.”
“I sent finger prints to the Frisco Police. If this guy’s got a record, we’ll know who he is pretty quick.”
“That’s fine.”
Mr. Peck stood for a moment with a thoughtful finger to his lips.
“I think we’ll visit the spot where the body was discovered,” he decided abruptly. “We can go in my car.”
TEN minutes later, J. Peter Peck, accompanied by Charlie Ward and followed by Christian, stepped from the machine at a point opposite the spot where the body had been found.
“A machine has stopped here at the side of the road quite recently,” Mr. Peck offered, pointing to the tire marks in the dust. “The occupant, as is indicated by those very clear foot prints, stepped from the car, crossed the ditch and walked to the railroad tracks. He was a heavy man, at that, or at least he has big feet. And they turn out more than the feet of the average person.”
Charlie Ward nodded agreement.
“Now if you’ll look closely,” Mr. Peck went on, “you will observe that there are two sets of foot prints; one coming and one going. The return prints, significantly, are not as clear as those that go to the tracks, indicating that he was carrying a load to the tracks, but did not return with it.” He glanced at Ward for a moment, then added, “It is pretty obvious what that load was. All of which gives us practically undeniable proof that a murder was committed. The deceased died of poison. We have definitely established that point. And his body was placed upon the tracks to conceal the fact; or to attempt to do so. If the deceased had walked to the tracks himself, which of course he didn’t because these are not his foot prints, there obviously would be no return prints. Dead men, especially decapitated dead men, seldom, if ever, retrace their steps.” He paused for a moment of conjecture. “We’ll take plaster casts of the foot prints as well as the tire marks. Will you attend to that Christian? I believe you’ll find sufficient plaster of Paris in the tool compartment.”
Christian set to work and Mr. Peck and Ward retreated to the machine. When Christian had completed his work, the trio returned to headquarters, Mr. Peck leaving again to “do a little thinking.”
Two hours later, Mr. Peck entered Charlie Ward’s office again and eased himself into a chair.
“I have an idea,” he informed Ward, “that the apprehension of the murderer is but a matter of moments. As a matter of fact, I can put my finger on him in ten minutes should I care to.”
“You can put your finger on him right this minute if you want to,” Ward supplemented, taking his feet off the desk and flipping a cigarette butt through the window.
“How so?”
Ward unlocked a drawer in his desk and drew out a tin box from which he produced a thickly padded envelope.
“I been doing a little scientific snooping myself,” he announced with a proud ear to ear grin.
“That’s extremely gratifying.”
Ward thumbed toward a cigar butt in an ash tray.
“That,” he said, “is what’s left of a cigar you give me this morning. It gives off a pretty thick aroma.”
“It ought to. They cost me a dollar each.”
“Just take a whiff of this,” Ward said, handing the envelope to Mr. Peck.
The latter smelled cautiously. “Why, it smells like my cigars.”
“Exactly. Now take a squint in the envelope.”
Mr. Peck opened the envelope and extracted a sheaf of currency.
“There’s about twenty-four grand there,” Ward offered.
“All of which is mine. It’s the money that was taken from me when I was held up. I had the wallet and several of the cigars in the same pocket. The currency evidently became impregnated with the odor of the cigars. Where did you get it?”
Ward shuffled leisurely through some papers, finally producing a telegram.
“This wire,” he said, flourishing the message with an extravagant gesture, “come in from the Frisco police while you were out. It says the guy downstairs on ice is Dominic Diaz. He was a guest at San Quentin up to four days ago where he was serving ten to fifty years for some mistakes he made when he was younger.” Mr. Peck nodded interestedly. “It also says that when he so rudely walked off the premises without stopping to say goodbye, he was with a red headed monkey, minus one ear, that answers to the name of Mike McSweeney.”
“I see.”
“Mr. McSweeney had the bad taste to try to stick up our local drug emporium about half an hour ago.”
“And he is now incarcerated in your bastille.”
“Right. And he had your dough on him.”
WARD sat back in his swivel chair, hooked his thumbs into the arm holes of his vest and beamed. “Well, I guess that makes it pretty clear. Eh, Mr. Peck? Diaz, the dead pigeon, and this guy McSweeney take it on the lam from the big house. They sticks you up, then blow North and land here. They’re going to split, but McSweeney’s a pig. He wants the works. So what does he do? He croaks his pal.” Ward cocked his head and extended his hands, palms outward. “Okay?”
Mr. Peck scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Well, fairly so,” he answered without enthusiasm. “But before I say how clear, I’d like to see this McSweeney person.”
A moment later a very sullen and defiant Mike McSweeney was ushered into the room.
“Turn around slowly,” Mr. Peck ordered. The man sulked, but with a little persuasion, he finally did as he was told.
“Now take your sho
es off.”
“Say, what is this, a racket?” the prisoner snarled.
“That will be all,” Mr. Peck murmured after a hasty inspection of McSweeney’s feet. “You may return him to his cell. And unless you care to have him prosecuted for his attempted robbery of the drug store, you may just as well notify the Warden at San Quentin to come up and get him. His list of crimes, I am sorry to say, Ward, does not include the murder of Dominic Diaz.”
“Why—why it’s as plain as the nose on your face,” Ward spluttered as McSweeney was led from the room. “The cigar smelling currency . . .”
“You’ve tried hard,” Mr. Peck interrupted, “very hard, in fact. Your efforts are indeed commendable and I do say that your deductions are plausible, but the fact remains that McSweeney is not the man we are looking for.”
“Well, couldn’t have McSweeney poisoned him and then thrown his body on the tracks?”
“He could have,” Mr. Peck conceded, “but there would be no object in attempting to conceal his method of killing his confederate. Besides he is not mentally equipped to think of such things. Offhand, I’d say that his I.Q. is that of an eight year old boy. Remember also, that we are looking for a man—or possibly a woman—who has killed several persons within the past thirty days, using the same method; that of the injection of xetholine caniopus. McSweeney couldn’t have killed any of the others, for the very simple reason that he has been behind bars up to four days ago.
Mr. Peck raised his hand to silence Ward. “In addition, Mr. Ward, please remember that I have a motor car full of foot print casts. Even in his bare feet, which you saw with your own eyes, he’d overlap those prints a half inch all around. That’s why I had his shoes removed. Also, you recall that the man who carried Diaz’s body to the railroad tracks possessed feet that pointed outward. McSweeney is decidedly pigeon toed.” Mr. Peck raised his hands, palms upward, and then dropped them to his chubby knees with a sharp slap. “Now how clear does your case appear?”
Ward grunted and stared out of the window.
“On the other hand, Mr. Ward, as I before stated and now repeat, I can put my finger on the murderer within ten minutes, should I care to.”
“Who is it?”
“I’ll tell you later. There are one or two points I must clear up before I order the arrest. I’d like to drop in and have a talk with Doctor Kraus first. I believe he can furnish what little information I require.”
“THIS is Mr. Peck, Doctor Kraus,” JB. Ward said as the pair entered the doctor’s study ten minutes later.
“It’s a pleasure,” Mr. Peck conceded coolly. He drew a newspaper clipping from his pocket and handed it to Doctor Kraus. “To settle an argument, would you read this and give me your opinion?”
The doctor read the clipping through hastily.
“Why trepanning is nothing new,” he scoffed. “The ancient Egyptians practiced it successfully five thousand years ago. They . . .”
“Never mind,” Mr. Peck interrupted sharply. “I don’t care a rap if the practice is new or old.” He glanced sharply at Ward, who stood gaping in astonishment, then back at the doctor. “The point is, Doctor Kraus, how does it happen that you are able to read fine news print and yet, while performing autopsies on nine different corpses, you missed the fact that each of those persons had died from a shot of xetholine caniopus as was clearly indicated by the red blotches on the face of each individual victim?”
Doctor Kraus stiffened and stared at his inquisitor with cold precision.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, Mr. Peck,” he said smoothly.
“That likewise makes little difference. I also note that your toes point out considerably more than the toes of the average person.”
“Your remark, Mr. Peck, is not alone vague, but makes no sense; at least not to me.”
Ward intervened with a snort.
“You’re crazy, Peck,” he asserted heatedly. “I tell you I’ve known Doctor Kraus all my life. I’ll vouch for him. I . . .”
Mr. Peck silenced Ward with an impatient gesture. Then turning again to Doctor Kraus, he said slowly and clearly, enunciating each word with care and precision. “There has been a murder committed, Doctor Kraus. As a matter of fact, there have been several murders, but I refer to one in particular; that of one Dominic Diaz, an escaped convict. Diaz died from xetholine caniopus poisoning. Later, his body was placed on the railroad tracks to make it appear that he had been killed by a train and to conceal the fact that he had been poisoned.”
“Yes, I am aware of the incident,” Doctor Kraus answered evenly. “I performed the autopsy. But . . .”
“And you also murdered this man, Doctor Kraus!” Mr. Peck glared into the doctor’s eyes as he shot the accusation.
The old man sucked in a great breath and fell back a step and Ward saw, to his deep consternation, that the kindly light that had shown in Doctor Kraus’s eyes for many a year, was no longer there.
“The tire marks that we found on the road near the scene of the train accident, Doctor Kraus,” Mr. Peck continued, “were made by your car. In addition, Doctor Kraus, the poison was administered most carefully and professionally with a hypodermic needle. Only a physician, or one skilled in the use of such an instrument could so inject a poison as delicate and as deadly as xetholine caniopus. Obviously, because of the fact that you yourself were the autopsy surgeon, and because no other person in the County is familiar with such matters, you estimated your chances of detection as being extremely small. But . . .” Mr. Peck hesitated for a split fraction of a second. “Drop that!” he shouted, pouncing upon the aged physician and slapping a small glass vial from his hand.
But his action was just an instant too late, for the next moment, the old man slumped to the floor. Through eyes already dimmed by the instant action of the deadly poison, he peered up at Ward.
“I—I’m sorry, Charlie,” he breathed softly as Ward dropped to his side. “After all these years, I—I’ve brought disgrace to—to our midst.”
Ward, panic stricken and terrified, looked up at Mr. Peck, who stood frowning down at the pair.
“There’s nothing we can do, Ward,” he said quietly. “Look closely. The red blotches are already forming on his cheeks. Just hold him another ten seconds.”
Presently Ward settled the body of the old man back to the floor. Then he rose and faced Mr. Peck.
“I can’t believe it,” he murmured, looking away. “I just can’t believe it. I can’t see why he should have done it. There wasn’t any reason for it.”
“Ah, but there was a reason for it,” Mr. Peck asserted confidently. “Through various channels, I discovered this morning that Doctor Kraus was deeply involved financially. His circumstances were desperate. It was vitally important that he raise two thousand dollars at once.”
“But I can’t see how his killing anybody could have brought him any money. He . . .”
“You forget, Mr. Ward,” Mr. Pack elucidated with a wry smile, “that Doctor Kraus was not a permanent employee of the County. He was retained, as needed, to perform an autopsy and preside at the inquest. For these services, he was paid at the rate of one hundred dollars a case. Twelve inquests at one hundred each, comes to twelve hundred dollars; or at least it did when I studied mathematics as a small boy. Now, Mr. Ward, is the motive clear?”
Ward nodded.
“The doctor needed eight hundred dollars more,” Mr. Peck concluded. “But for a strange set of circumstances which brought me here, you, Mr. Ward, might have been his next victim.”
DEATH IS TOO EASY
Arthur J. Burks
Officer Truce Didn’t Like to Kill—But He Forgot His Squeamishness When His Partner Was Trapped!
“CALLING Car Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen! Go to Ninth and Harvard!
Ninth and Harvard! Burglary! See the woman! See the woman! That is all!”
The voice came droning over the radio. John Loess, driving the car, snorted with disgust.
“That’s us,
” he said. “Probably a cat got into the window box and made a noise, and the woman’s out on the sidewalk in her nighty waiting for the coppers to hold her hand for her until she gets over being scared.”
“It’s a yell for help, Jack,” said Martin Truce, his co-prowler. “It’s our job to answer ’em. And maybe there is a robber, and you can kill somebody!”
Thus Martin Truce effectually shut the mouth of complaining John Loess, who had just made headlines in all California newspapers by killing his third criminal in a gunfight. They were beginning to say that he was a modern Wyatt Earp, a streamlined Wild Bill Hickok, and he was rather liking it—or so Martin Truce thought.
John Loess snorted and gave the car the gun. It jumped under them both. Loess was a perfect driver, could handle any car, even in the Los Angeles traffic, probably the world’s toughest. That traffic, according to Los Angeles coppers, would whiten the hair of the best New York drivers with its speed.
John Loess knew every shortcut, every rule of the road. What he didn’t know he could guess at. He never grazed anybody’s fenders, never hit a pedestrian, but he scared plenty, and he came entirely too close to many cars for the comfort of their drivers.
John Loess, at twenty-four, was a hard, disillusioned young man who found little good in anybody, and none at all even in petty criminals. He liked Martin Truce, however, mostly because Truce, an older man, with vaster experience behind him, didn’t hesitate to express his thoughts about Loess or anybody else. Martin Truce was a straight shooter with guns and words.
The scream of rubber matched the wail of the siren. The prowl car took the turn into Harvard on two wheels. It just missed an old man who discovered, at the last moment, that he, who hadn’t walked without a cane for years, could still jump for his life. Martin Truce clucked disapproval.
“Well, I didn’t hit him, did I?” said Loess.
There wasn’t a “woman” to see, but there was trouble on the corner. Two men were fighting with one man. The one man was in pajamas, the two men in rough clothes. It was a commentary on the speed of the police that Loess and Truce had arrived so hard upon the heels of the robbery, whatever it had been. The car swung in to the curb. The man in pajamas went down. The two men whirled toward the back of the house before which the fight was taking place.
