Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Mr Bogart”—Jeff smiled at the older man—“I’m afraid I can’t handle this. It’s entirely out of my line. I suggest the police. I’m sure—”

  “Humph! Pamela said you wouldn’t be interested unless there was a whopping big fee in it.”

  “Did she say that?” Jeff’s cheeks burned.

  “Yes.”

  “Then count me in. I’ll be here for dinner tonight.” He rose to his feet.

  “Eh? Here for dinner! That will never do, young man. The guests are all my friends. I . . . er . . . couldn’t ask them to mingle socially with an . . . er—employee!”

  Chairs scraped backward. Smitty snapped shut his notebook and collided with Jeff in the library doorway.

  “Wait! Just a minute!” Wendell Bogart’s voice sounded behind them.

  The big house rumbled from the slamming of the heavy front door.

  “Why did you lay yourself open, Jeff? I told you to turn it down cold.”

  “Shut up!” Jeff snapped, and concentrated on his driving.

  Smitty was not so easily squelched. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Jeff’s flaming cheeks and clamped jaw. Smitty grinned and cleared his throat.

  “I say, Jeff,” he drawled, “I . . . er . . . can’t have my employer driving me around like this. It just isn’t being done, old man. Suppose some of the boys down at the local saw me. I’d lose face—”

  Jeff Hunter’s big foot stamped down on the brake. The sudden stop lifted the light Smitty from his seat. Jeff snapped open the door and rolled the astonished little man into the bushes by the roadside. He slammed the door, dropped the car in gear and headed for town.

  A mile farther on, his irritation evaporated, and remorse set in. He grinned, swung the car in a sharp U-turn, and headed back to the spot where he had left Smitty. His assistant was nowhere to be seen.

  A worried frown furrowed his forehead. He U-turned again, drove back into town, and parked in the restricted space before police headquarters. Running lightly up the steps, he whirled through the revolving doors and barged into the office of the chief of detectives.

  Chief William Gaines was lifting the telephone to put through a call. He recradled the instrument and smiled at the intruder.

  “Bill”—Jeff shook his friend’s hand—“I hate to remind pals of past favors, but—”

  “OK, Jeff.” The chief grinned wryly. “I expected it when you tipped me off on those missing bonds. What do you want? You’re not usually bashful.”

  “What’s the story on the Corinne Bogart killing? I wasn’t around when it happened. I know Pamela, and I’ve just met her uncle, Wendell—”

  The chief grimaced in distaste. “The boss has an exaggerated view of his importance in the scheme of things. Did he tell you to use the tradesmen’s entrance?”

  “Not this time, but he left no doubt that we were to use it if we called again.” Briefly, Jeff outlined the events of the morning.

  “Off the record,” the chief said, “it would be a blessing to the community if Pamela were bumped. She is one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen, but strictly N.G.”

  “Didn’t I say I knew her?” Jeff reminded him. “The old man said the police had no idea who had killed Corinne. Is it the other way around? Are there so many suspects—”

  “Oh, no. It’s not like that at all. Corinne really was different. She wasn’t a bit like Pamela. The old man was telling the truth there. She was one swell person, so far as we’ve discovered.”

  “Then what happened to her?”

  “She died at her own engagement party. Her coming marriage to Professor Collins was announced at dinner. The party then retired to the back terrace, just off the living room, for highballs. They were talking idly. Mike, probably dreaming of earthquakes, was twisting the dials of a portable radio. Accidentally, he shot up the volume and a swing band blared out. Everybody sort of jumped at the sudden noise.”

  “Then?”

  “They sank back in their chairs, everyone but Corinne. She pitched forward to the terrace floor, shot through the heart by a silver bullet. The gun was never found, nor was a motive discovered. That is the official story.”

  “Humph!” Jeff leaned back in his chair. “I can imagine how the newspapers kicked that one around. ‘What are the police doing? Is Corinne Bogart a vampire?’ I can just see the headlines. I bet they gave the silver bullet a big play.”

  “That’s right. It was pretty grim. None of the papers went so far as to mention the word ‘vampire’, but it was broadly hinted. Remember that Bogart, though he is out of step with the times, is still a very influential person. Very influential! We put the best detectives in the country on the case. The investigation was a blank.”

  “Now”—Jeff grinned—“give me the low-down. Was the shot fired when the volume rose? How close was the killer? Who had the opportunity? Who gains?”

  “Whoa, Jeff! Whoa!” Chief Gaines held up his hand “We don’t know definitely when the shot was fired. We don’t know how close the killer was. As for opportunity, anyone there could have done it. It could even have been suicide, if the gun was taken from her hand before she fell. It’s possible, but highly improbable. As for who gains, her money was divided equally between Pamela and her uncle.”

  “Something’s rotten.” Jeff glared at the chief.

  “All right, Jeff, ask questions. I’ll answer those I can.”

  “Why wasn’t the shot heard?”

  “Because it was fired from one of those clever, powerful little air pistols. A scrape of a chair, anything, would have covered the small pop the gun made. The radio could have done it.”

  “You sure it was an air pistol?”

  “No question about it. We learned that from the bullet. The mark of the lands, absence of powder, smallness of caliber—All those things confirmed beyond doubt that it was fired from an air pistol.”

  “What about the bullet itself, Chief?”

  “Ah-h-h! The bullet was a long, pointed silver one, handmade.”

  “Why handmade? Why silver?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Probably a bit of sand-in-the-eye technique on the part of the murderer. So far as we know, the supernatural didn’t enter into the case, except to cloud the main issues and cause us to waste a lot of time. We searched everywhere for that gun. We fine-combed the house and grounds. We tried to trace it through dealers.”

  “Could an outsider have killed her?”

  “No. There’s a ten-foot wall around the back garden. There had been a shower at sunset and there were no footprints inside or outside the wall. The servants are in the clear, too. They were all in the kitchen together. Besides having alibis, they lack motive.”

  “Who served the drinks?” Jeff demanded.

  “Don’t think we overlooked that bet. We’re not exactly dumb.” The chief grinned. “The first round was served by the butler as soon as the party went out to the terrace. Wendell Bogart served the second, mixing them at a portable bar in the living room. The third round had not been served. Pamela was standing in the doorway with the tray in her hands when her sister slumped forward. Everyone else was on the terrace within ten feet of her.”

  “Could”—Jeff fixed his eyes on the chief—“could Pamela have fired that shot before she stepped into the doorway with the tray of drinks?”

  “Now, Jeff, you’re getting on dangerous ground. I’m going to tell you one more thing, then this conference ends. And, for cripes sake, keep it under your hat!”

  “I promise. Shoot!”

  “Pamela could have fired the gun if her sister happened to turn toward the room where she was, and if she was shot at least five seconds before she pitched forward. If Pamela wasn’t a Bogart, we’d have dragged her in and questioned her until we were satisfied she hadn’t done it. The consensus of the experts is that there is not enough evidence to warrant indicting her, much less making her stand trial. Now, beat it, Jeff, and take your grinning watchdog with you.”

  “My
watchdog?”

  Jeff turned and met the blank stare of his assistant. “How did you get here?”

  Smitty brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the sleeve of his seersucker suit, and looked dumbfounded at his employer. “Me? How did I get here?”

  “You heard me. You didn’t walk back that quick.”

  “Hardly. A very charming young lady drove me to town. A very, very charming girl. She was suffering under the misapprehension that you no longer cared for her, Jeff. Of course, I speedily corrected that impression. On the contrary, I assured her that you still cared very much.”

  “Smitty”—Jeff grabbed the little man, and his voice grated—“for your sake, I hope that what I’m thinking is true. Who was the charming young lady?”

  “Miss Pamela Bogart. What’s the matter, Jeff? She was very happy to learn you still cared for her. So much so that she said to tell you that, under the circumstances, she would not permit her engagement to be announced this evening. You all right, Jeff?”

  II

  “Where are we going?” Smitty asked when they were again in the convertible.

  “We’re going to call on Pamela Bogart and you’re going to tell her you had some other girl in mind. Understand?”

  “Me? Me, a self-confessed liar in the eyes of Pamela Bogart? Oh, no, Jeff!”

  “Oh, yes, you are!”

  Smitty reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He looked at his watch, noted the time and scribbled it, together with the date, at the top of the page. He handed the folded sheet to Jeff.

  “What’s this? Listen, Smitty,” Jeff said, after hurriedly scanning the paper, “you can’t resign! I’ve got your contract. You—”

  “There’s nothing in the contract that calls for me to be dumped, out of a moving car.”

  “The car wasn’t moving. It had stopped, and you fell out, with more or less urging.”

  “Ah-h-h! There is nothing about urging in the contract.”

  “OK. You win. I’ll see Pamela myself.”

  “She has an apartment in the Normandy.” Smitty grinned at his boss, took back his resignation, erased the date and time, and replaced it in his pocket. “I told her you’d probably come to see her right away. She said she’d be waiting for you. Will you need a bodyguard?”

  Jeff didn’t answer. He clamped his jaws, swung his big car into the traffic and pressed down the accelerator. Five minutes later, he parked it before the large apartment hotel.

  When a uniformed maid admitted them to Apartment 4C, Smitty was at his heels.

  Pamela Bogart laid aside the magazine she was reading, and jumped to her feet, silver bracelets jangling on her arms. Her smile died when she saw the expression on Jeff’s face. A puzzled frown replaced it.

  Jeff didn’t speak at first. He studied the diminutive brunette before him. His keen eyes took in her perfect form, the dark curls and wide gray eyes. They lingered on her mouth, beautifully shaped, but with a cruel curve at the corners. “She hasn’t changed a bit,” was his conclusion.

  “Hello, Jeff. I was under the impression that you were willing to let bygones be bygones. I understood from Mr Smith—”

  “Smitty was sore with me for dumping him out on the road. I’ll never change my opinion of you, Pam. Don’t ever forget it. I only came here to set you straight. You—”

  “All right! You’ve had your say. Now, get out.” She walked toward the door.

  “Why did you kill your sister, Pam?”

  Pamela Bogart spun on her heel and looked up at Jeff. Her eyes narrowed to slits, studying him.

  “What do you mean?” she snapped, between whitening lips.

  “You haven’t answered me.”

  “An answer isn’t necessary. I didn’t kill Corinne. She killed herself.”

  “How could she? What became of the gun?”

  “I don’t know what happened to the gun. But I do know she killed herself. Maybe uncle, or someone else, picked it up and hid it. I know I didn’t.”

  “It wasn’t your uncle, because he’s afraid you might be killed.”

  “I don’t think there’s any danger of that.”

  “About that I don’t know. Certainly, there must be a great many people who would like to kill you.”

  Jeff turned away from her and picked up an engraved silver cigarette box from the coffee table. Idly, he turned it around in his hand, examining the workmanship.

  Pamela Bogart watched him warily. When he set down the box, she spoke again:

  “Jeff, I’m going to tell you something. Something I was ashamed to tell even the police.”

  “From the things I’ve known you to do, I can’t imagine your being ashamed of anything.”

  “Yon didn’t let me finish. I was ashamed to tell the police that Corinne had been running around with a married man. She went with him on business trips, and visited him in a cabin in the hills. When he grew tired of her, she was heartbroken. The engagement to Mike was only a gesture. She couldn’t go through with it. That’s why she killed herself. Don’t you believe me?”

  “No. I don’t believe a word of truth ever crossed your lips. Come on, Smitty!” He moved toward the door.

  “Jeff! There was one night you believed me, loved me, even, a little. The night Myrna Dalton—”

  Jeff slammed the door behind him.

  “Jeff,” Smitty said, when they were again in the car, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you hated her.”

  “OK, Smitty. I asked for it.”

  “Jeff, will you tell me something?”

  “What?”

  “Why was Corinne shot with a silver bullet?”

  “To kill her.”

  “I know that, but why silver? Aren’t silver bullets used to kill vampires?”

  “She wasn’t a vampire. Now, be quiet. I want to think.”

  “Just one more question. Where are we going?”

  “To the bank, the National Trust.”

  Five minutes after their arrival, they were shown into the office of the president. He greeted them pleasantly, dismissed his secretary, and leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Mr Hunter?”

  “Do you know anything about the Bogarts’ financial setup?”

  The banker didn’t answer immediately. When he did speak, he talked slowly, as if he were carefully choosing each word.

  “Yes. But there are some things I am not at liberty to tell you without a court order or without my clients’ consent. The Bogarts have accounts here, and we have handled the various estates. I think we’d get along better if you asked me questions. I’ll answer those I can.”

  “Fair enough. Smitty, tell him what we know. He can confirm it for us.”

  “Herbert Bogart”—words rattled from Smitty’s lips—“father of Wendell and Herbert, Jr., left the vast war speculator’s fortune he accumulated in 1914-19, divided equally between his two sons and their heirs. Wendell Bogart received his half, is the administrator of the estate and is trustee for his niece’s share. The two orphan daughters of Herbert, Jr., inherited their father’s share. The principal was tied up until their thirtieth birthdays.”

  “That is substantially correct,” the banker agreed. “Miss Corinne Bogart died, leaving her share to be divided between her uncle and her sister. There was also a comparatively small bequest to Professor Collins whom she intended to marry, for earthquake research.”

  “Pamela’s trust is still handled by her uncle?” Jeff asked.

  “That’s right. She gets the interest. I can’t imagine how she manages to spend it.”

  “There is no question about the trust? Wendell Bogart couldn’t tamper with it?”

  “Oh, absolutely not.” The banker appeared horrified at the suggestion. “The bonding company and the courts see to that.”

  “Can you tell me how Wendell Bogart stands today, financially? I understand he’s shaky.”

  “I couldn’t do that, Mr Hunter, without Bogart’s permission. Naturally, he, like the rest of
us, was hit hard in ’29, and again during the recent war.”

  “I see. Then there is no question in your mind that if Pamela Bogart lives to reach her thirtieth birthday, she will be given every penny of her inheritance?”

  “If she lives until her thirthieth birthday, I have no doubt but that Pamela will receive her full inheritance, according to law.”

  “That’s good enough for me. Thanks. Now, one other thing. I understand you’re quite a collector of pewter and silver. Could you tell me which silversmith marks his work with a die shaped like a flying bat?”

  “Yes”—the banker spoke without hesitation—“a silversmith who calls himself John Stevens, at 72 Water Street. Personally, I’d steer clear of him.”

  “Why.”

  “He’s a gypsy from one of those Balkan countries. A very clever fellow. Unfortunately, ‘sterling’ has several meanings for him.”

  “Thanks. I don’t intend to buy anything from him.”

  “Why all the questions about silver?” Smitty demanded, when they were in the car heading for the water front.

  “You’ll find out.” Jeff grinned. “Here’s Water Street now. 72 is on the corner. Coming in?”

  A small, dark gypsy looked up from the spoon, set in a bowl of pitch, on which he was engraving an elaborate floral design. He set his work aside and stepped to the counter. “What can I do for you?”

  “Did you ever make anything like this?” Jeff sketched a long-nosed bullet, keeping his drawing to actual dimensions.

  “What is it? What is it supposed to be?” The man’s black eyes were filled with suspicion.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the tip of a hatpin, or maybe an ornament. I haven’t any idea. But it looks like a bullet to me Anyway, it was made of silver.”

  “I don’t remember ever making anything like that. Say, weren’t the police around asking the same question about a year ago?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were,” Jeff agreed. “My client is very interested in it now. He’d pay a lot of money to know who ordered it made.”