Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Her death was from natural causes, but it was also the trigger which set this whole series of events off. Because when she died, she released Burnett from any promises he made, and forced the murderer’s hand. He had to get possession of that letter before I opened it.

  “The murderer knew of Mrs. Nast’s death long before anyone else did—except for a maid who worked at the Nast home. She was installed there by the killer to check on Mrs. Nast and to advise him at once if she was dead or in danger of dying. When he received the message of her death, he acted at once. He summoned me to the dinner party which, as luck had it, was already arranged for.”

  “But why?” Willis Lally asked. “Because he wanted to tell me, himself, that James Burnett had been murdered. He knew I’d go at once to whatever hiding place I kept the letter and he wanted to find it. By some trick or other he obtained a key to my office. He fixed the window shade so it could not be lowered and watched me take the letter from its place of safe keeping. He merely observed everything I did from an office across the court.

  “Later, he visited my office, fixed the shade so it would work again. He got the letter from an ordinary steel filing cabinet which could be opened without too much trouble. He had lots of time. He unlocked the steel box I kept the letter in too, removed it and steamed it open. Perhaps in the privacy of his own home. He had all night to do it.

  “Then he put into the envelope, so I’d never know just when it had been looted, some pages from a poultry catalogue. Very well. Before coming to the dinner, he killed Burnett and arranged to frame his wife for the killing. That would involve Tommy. Are you following me, Mr. Manning?”

  Manning nodded coldly. “I’m beginning to think I shall be accused of killing Burnett and robbing your strong box.

  “Yes, I’m accusing you now. The maid who tipped you off used to work at your factory and you brought her to Mrs. Nast. You did not receive a poultry catalogue, that’s true, but in your apartment house the mail boxes aren’t too big. Things like catalogues are merely stuffed into the slot of the mailboxes.”

  “Naturally,” Manning said with heavy sarcasm, “you will have to prove this.”

  “I intend to. Your alibi for the time prior to the murder of Burnett is wishywashy, but no more so than the alibis of Tommy and Willis. You claim to have been at your office. If you were, why are you afraid to show us that wire? It’s from one of your best customers and takes you to task for not being around when they telephoned. At eight-fifteen. About the time when Burnett was killed.”

  Manning tried to destroy the wire, but Willis and Tommy landed on him heavily. Reed took the telegram out of his hand.

  “It isn’t important anyway,” he chuckled, “because one of my clerks sent it. I wanted to find, out if Manning could or could not afford to show evidence he hadn’t been at the office. However, the main clue which impelled me to suspect Manning was this. The murderer must have been extremely busy after our dinner party broke up. For the time of the killing, he made as sure as he could of having an alibi, but for afterwards he never thought he’d have to account.”

  “Why did he kill Burnett?” Tommy asked. “Was it about that fight they had a couple of years ago? Aunt Martha had to enter the squabble. Burnett had developed something—a product which would make a lot of money after the war. Until restrictions were lifted, the stuff couldn’t be manufactured, but Burnett wanted rights to it. There was a grand blowup. Aunt Martha told Burnett to go into business for himself and leave Manning.”

  Reed sighed. “There is your motive, the one thing I lacked. I sensed it would be something like that. Burnett had a money-maker and Manning wanted it. Martha Nast knew he’d probably kill to get it and keep Burnett from manufacturing the stuff. Hence, her sealed orders to me which held Manning in check. Tommy, will you telephone the police!”

  WILL FOR A KILL

  Emil Petaja

  The three heirs knew there was something sinister about the midnight reading of Rocky Dewer’s testament. For besides being read in the presence of Rocky’s cadaver, that will held a secret codicil signed by the Grim Reaper.

  Jeff Conn didn’t think he liked Fitch. He didn’t care much for that twitchy little mustache, or the way his beady black eyes shifted when he presented Jeff with a clammy handshake. Maybe it was because Jeff was tired. Five hundred miles on a crowded wildcat bus doesn’t put a guy in the best of humor. Maybe that was it.

  “I’m Philip Fitch,” the little guy said when he opened the front door. “I’m your late great-uncle’s lawyer.”

  “Oh?” Jeff’s youthful face assumed the solemnity indicated by the mention of his uncle’s abrupt death.

  Outside, a boisterous March wind worried chimneys and shutters and trees; inside, it was warm, but somehow the night chill stuck to his veins. It was gloomy herein the big hall.

  Removing his overcoat, Jeff glanced into the library at the big, snapping fireplace. It looked more inviting. Also he noticed the tray on the table near it, on which were a brandy bottle and three glasses. Put him in mind of how much Rocky Dewer, his great-uncle, had liked brandy—especially good brandy.

  Jeff made a beeline for the table. Behind him Fitch was making some kind of a protest, but he paid no attention. He needed a nip to warm him up. He lifted the bottle and whistled. The dusty old label read Napoleon.

  Uncorking it, his eyes hit on something half-hidden behind the big couch in front of the fire. He forgot about the brandy for a minute, staring. It was a coffin, a beautiful, burnished oak casket. It was open, and a figure rested on the rich silk lining.

  “Old Rocky Dewer,” Jeff muttered. He held the bottle a little more tightly as he looked down at the old man. In the flickering light of the fire, Rocky Dewer might well have been merely asleep. He was wearing his dress suit, an antique, rusted around the elbows and collar. And a white shirt and string tie.

  No, Jeff decided. His beard was too neat, his eyes were meekly closed, and his gnarled hands were folded reverently across his lean chest. No. Rocky Dewer never looked so benignant and peaceful while there was still breath in his body!

  Nor did he acquire the nickname for nothing. It took spit and guts and a slice of the old nick to sashay out here into what was then a wilderness; to carve an empire out of it, then fight both man and the elements to hold it.

  Rocky Dewer had been little, but he made a big noise. Even in death, Jeff was thinking, he was capable of creating a middling tempest. Tonight, when his will was to be read. At midnight. In twenty minutes, to be exact.

  Jeff started pouring himself a drink, but Fitch pulled the bottle away nervously.

  “Not yet,” he twittered. “No? I need a drink. Why didn’t you tell me he was still in the house?”

  Fitch only gave him a quick stare. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Dewer left instructions as to how everything was to be handled tonight. He—he wanted to be here. The others will arrive at exactly midnight, on the midnight train. The will is to be read then.” He added complainingly, “I thought you would arrive with them. You’re early.”

  Jeff found a chair. He lit a cigarette and mulled the situation over in his mind.

  The others, Fitch had said. There were two of them. Lucy and Kent. The last time he’d seen either of them was eight—no, nine years ago. Lucy had red pigtails. Kent wore heavy glasses and spent all his time in the house, trailing after “Uncle Rocky”.

  Since Rocky’s wife died, in the Nineties, he had no near relatives. There were only Lucy Dean, his wife’s niece, Kent Forgey, and Jeff. Kent was a distant cousin. Jeff’s mother had been Rocky’s niece.

  When the three of them were kids it was a yearly ritual for them to spend two weeks of their summer vacation with “Uncle Rocky”, at his request. It went on like that for several years, then the invitations ceased.

  At the time it didn’t mean much to Jeff. Later he realized that having them visit him at the big lonely ranchhouse was not merely a polite gesture. Rocky knew he hadn’t long to live, and ha
d wanted to see something of his young relatives—find out who to leave his fortune to. Proud as he was of his Colorado empire, Rocky wouldn’t want it sold and divided. He wanted his mines and lands kept and managed the way he had managed them all these years. One of the three was to inherit. And when the invitations ceased, that meant Rocky had made his decision.

  Jeff glanced at the table, where Fitch was fussing with papers in his brief case. Except for the snapping of the fire, the room was deathly still. The brandy bottle tantalized Jeff. He wriggled in his chair, sighed.

  “He died rather suddenly, didn’t he?” Jeff remarked to break the unendurable silence.

  Fitch’s black eyes leaped to him. “What makes you say that?”

  “Saw Doctor Reck at the bus depot. He told me the old man had been very sick, but seemed to be improving. Then, suddenly it was over.”

  Fitch cleared his throat. “He was eighty,” he reminded Jeff. “And he never would behave himself. Doctor Reck told him he ought to stop drinking, but Rocky always said that was the only thing he had left, that he’d lived his life out anyway.”

  “Where’d he get hold of that Napoleon brandy?” Jeff inquired.

  The lawyer’s sharp eyes studied him. “Somebody sent it to him the day he died. I thought maybe you—”

  “Me!” Jeff laughed. “Where would I get a bottle of that stuff?”

  “You were in Europe over two years,” the lawyer said flatly. “In the army of occupation and before. You were wounded. Spent several months in an Amiens hospital. When you came home you went back to college. Architectural engineering, I believe.”

  Jeff grinned, “So Uncle Rocky has kept an eye on me!”

  “On all three of you,” Fitch said. “You’d be surprised how much data I could tell you about yourself.”

  Jeff shrugged. “I already know about myself. Tell me about Lucy.”

  “Lucy Dean?” Fitch consulted a folder in his brief case. “Lucy Dean. Age 22. Won a minor beauty contest in her home town, which entitled her to a screen test in Hollywood. Played extra parts, then left the studios and opened a small hat shop on Wilshire Boulevard. Unfortunately, she is on the verge of bankruptcy, due to inexperience and—”

  “And bad breaks,” Jeff finished dryly. So that was Lucy! He grinned, remembering how the two of them used to tear around Uncle Rocky’s ranch, riding horses, swimming, scrapping. While Kent spent his time showing Uncle Rocky his stamp collection and impressing him with the weighty books he had read.

  “How about Kent?”

  “Kenton J, Forgey is in banking. For some time he did very well, but—”

  The raucous ringing of the front doorbell sent him scuttling to answer it. Out in the hall Jeff heard the big Seth Thomas clock boom twelve times.

  “Hi, Jeff! Want a fight?” Jeff stared at Lucy and couldn’t believe her. Those carroty pigtails were bronze ringlets now. Her jade-green eyes laughed at him impishly, but there was a hidden something in them that he failed to recognize. She had changed. She was beautiful. She wasn’t wearing a plaid shirt and boyish denims now. She wore a long, sequinned gown, and over it a mink wrap that looked like the real McCoy.

  “How about that!” he grinned. “So you remember the last time we saw each other—the time you bounced a rock off my head.”

  Lucy let him take her wrap and lit a long cigarette. “Only after you pulled that cheap trick with my saddle and landed me in a cactus, Jeffie.”

  Jeff looked at Kent, and decided that he hadn’t changed much. He still wore those heavy glasses, walked with a stoop as if he was constantly looking for dropped pennies, and darted a suspicious glance at Lucy and Jeff before be hurried into the library.

  Lucy’s eyebrow tilted. Her eyes met his, and she took his arm, “Shall we dance?” she quipped.

  Seated, they watched Fitch fidget with a large sealed envelope which he took from his brief case, clear his throat, then say, “It’s past midnight. Guess we can safely begin the reading.”

  “Let’s get it over,” Kent rasped, mopping his forehead.

  Jeff thought there was fear in his eyes. He guessed why. Kent wouldn’t be able to take it if he wasn’t the one Rocky Dewer had chosen.

  Fitch shot a glance at the coffin, then unsealed the envelope. “Just a word before I begin,” Fitch said. “As you know, Rocky Dewer had a will of his own.” He tittered at his unintentional pun. “He wanted things done a certain way. I hope that tonight you will all respect his last wishes.”

  “The will,” Lucy hinted. Jeff noticed that the slim hand holding the cigarette trembled a little. Maybe she needed that money. Maybe she needed it—badly.

  Fitch nodded nervously. He began to read:

  “Since I have never been formal in my whole life, now’s not the time to start. There are a few minor bequests which will be written up later. Meanwhile, I’ll get to the big news, which I know you’re all waiting to hear.

  “There were three possible heirs to my little kingdom. These were Jeff Conn, Lucy Dean, and Kenton Forgey. Now, my property is so mixed up in itself that the only way it can be divided is to sell it. That I am not willing to let happen. I want my heir to take care of my lands and my workers just as I would do, if I were alive. Somebody with brains, but also with guts. Which one should it be? That was my problem.

  “I decided to study the three possible heirs, find out the stuff they were made of. So I had them come and spend two weeks at my ranch during their summer vacations, it being my belief that a man’s character is inherent and that he will behave at twelve the same as he will at thirty.

  “So I did it, and this is what happened. Lucy and Jeff spent all their time gallivanting around the ranch, paying no more attention to me than they did to my Chinese cook—if as much!

  “Kent was different. He spent his time with me, showing me his collections, bringing me my breakfast tray, going to the bank with me, and telling me how he thought money ought to be invested.”

  Fitch paused to turn back a page and clear his throat. Jeff took note of the fatuous expression that moved across Kent’s face. He grinned wryly.

  “Here’s what I decided,” the lawyer read on. “The two runners-up are to get fifty thousand dollars apiece, and the third one gets the bulk of all my properties, as specified below.”

  Fitch stopped again and coughed nervously. Jeff stiffened in his chair, then lit a cigarette and grinned at Kent, whose eye bulged toward the will the lawyer was holding, his lips tight against his protruding teeth.

  “All right,” Lucy broke the silence with a nervous laugh. “Go ahead. Tell Kent he gets it and put him out of his misery!”

  Kent gave her a quick look of malice, then his eyes swiveled back to the lawyer, demandingly. The lawyer bobbed his head solemnly.

  “You’re right, Miss Dean. The will reads, ‘Aside from otherwise specified bequests, the total sum of all my lands and properties goes to Kenton J. Forgey!’ ”

  The feeling of tautness left Jeff at the pronouncement of Kent’s name. He relaxed and lit a cigarette now. After all, it was logical. While Lucy and he were having a good time those summers, Kent had spent his hours buttering up the old man, convincing him how smart he was, how proficient he would be at controlling the Dewer estates.

  He glanced at Lucy. A smile tugged at her lips. It broke into a merry little laugh. But Kent’s face was pale and beaded with perspiration. He clung to his chair arms, tittering. So it meant that much to him. Everything.

  Jeff grinned at Lucy, who bobbed out of her chair. “Well, that’s that. I’m glad I asked my cabby to wait. Can I give you a lift to town, Jeff?”

  “Fine,” he grinned. “No, no, no!” Lawyer Fitch became very excited when they started out. “We’re not through yet!”

  Lucy slipped on her gloves. “Details? Write us a letter.”

  “It won’t do,” Fitch said firmly. “Mr. Dewer wanted things done a certain way. He wanted you all to do him a favor. A small, but very special favor.”

  Jeff met her eyes.
“Might as well, eh?” Lucy shrugged. They waited. Fitch cleared his throat and read on. “I realize that my will is likely to cause hard feelings among my three heirs. I’m sorry. Just to assure myself that you are parting company in a spirit of friendship, I would like you all to drink a little toast. A toast to each other’s good health. I have provided a gift bottle of rare Napoleon brandy for the purpose.”

  Fitch poured out three generous glasses of the old vintage, and handed one to each of them, Kent set his hastily down on his chair arm.

  “Never drink,” he said primly. “Aw come on!” Lucy said. “A wee drink won’t kill you!”

  Jeff noticed the panic that leaped suddenly in Kent’s eyes. He frowned thoughtfully.

  “No,” Kent said: “I refuse to drink it. “I never drink.”

  “You’d better drink this once,” Fitch said softly. “It’s written in the will. Unless all the conditions of the will are adhered to, the property goes to charity.”

  Kent gave a long trembling sigh. He stared down at the drink, whimpering in his throat, then he picked it up. When the others raised the glasses to their lips, he did, too. Then, with an abrupt gesture, he flung the glass on the floor.

  “I—I can’t do it!”

  “Why not?” Jeff asked. “I detest brandy!”

  “This is very exceptional brandy,” Fitch said, oddly. “Whoever sent it to Mr. Dewer must have gone to a lot of trouble.”

  “Well then, bottoms up!”

  Sudden fear shot through Jeff when he saw that Lucy had downed her brandy with a sudden movement. Something was nipping at Jeff’s mind, something that was a clue and a warning. Small things he’d noticed since his arrival began to have meaning.

  “Lucy!” he cried.

  Without a word Fitch moved swiftly to the table and dug inside his brief case, his eyes on Kent. Kent was staring in horror at the crumpled girl.