Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  He was unhappy. Things were going on that he didn’t know about and he didn’t like it.

  I was sorry that the old lady had acted so fast, giving the boot to the blonde. Now I’d have to use up precious time locating her maybe.

  “Darden, how long did Mr. Dyess hang around after I went upstairs this afternoon?” I wanted to know.

  He thought and made careful answer. “I should say perhaps ten minutes, sir. Then Miss Kirk came downstairs, quite disturbed, I thought, and they talked briefly in the drawing room. Then Mr. Dyess departed in a great hurry, and apparently very angry.”

  “He did, huh? What did Miss Kirk do then, if you noticed?”

  “She used the telephone in the closet under the stairs. Afterwards she told me I might take the poodle for an airing, and that she would let you out when you finished your business with Mrs. Dahlson.”

  It didn’t add up to anything too understandable just then. I asked him if he had the blonde’s address and he said he did. I told him to write it down for me and I’d pick it up later. I went up to see the old lady then.

  She took what I had to tell her stoutly. Murder entering into the business shocked her, of course. She was sharp enough to smell the danger in other quarters.

  “Now I am convinced that I do have a grandson, and that someone very desperately does not want me to find him! You must do that quickly, Mr. Riddle, before harm comes to him!” She bored me with those jet eyes. “Have you any suspicion about the identity of the murderer?”

  “Well, somebody working for the boy’s mother might have been on the Trask woman’s trail, with orders to shut her up,” I said, and hesitated. “Or it could be someone at this end doesn’t like the idea of a grandson turning up. Your nephew, for instance.”

  “Buford Dyess? Nonsense! He knew nothing about the letters, or the woman at the hotel.”

  “He was downstairs when I first got here this afternoon,” I said bluntly, “and he was still there when we caught your secretary listening in and chased her. Your butler tells me she had a short chat with your at nephew and that Dyess left then in a terrific hurry. Would a grandson turning up make any big difference in your nephew’s future prospects, Mrs. Dahlson?”

  HER mouth dropped open and her eyes went round, considering that. Then she said, “I think not, Mr. Riddle. Buford knows that he will receive only a modest bequest at my death. He is aware of my plans for The Danton Foundation. My nephew is a little stupid, but he is not a criminally violent schemer.”

  “Tell me something about the Foundation thing,” I jumped on that quickly.

  “It is to be a memorial to my husband, Mr. Riddle. Farmers made his fortune. I have plans almost completed to establish the foundation. My stock in the implement company and the bulk of the income-producing properties will go into it. The income will be used to maintain laboratories and finance scientific experiments to benefit all farmers. I will retain only this house and sufficient funds to permit me to live my few remaining years in comfort.”

  “That’s a swell plan, Mrs. Dahlson,” I said respectfully. “Your nephew knows about it, hunh?”

  “Oh, yes. He has even contributed helpful suggestions, some of them Eustic Wharton did not think practical. Eustic looks after money matters for me, and is planning the details and the financial setup for the foundation, to be established the coming year. My nephew doesn’t like Eustic very well.

  “He is a trifle jealous of the reliance I put on my lawyer, I think.”

  She was giving the flabby chap a clean bill of health but I still thought a check on him a good idea. I didn’t say so, though.

  “I think I’d better get down to Memphis quick, and ask some questions at that Pine Castle place,” I said. “I’ve got a hunch the Trask woman picked up her dope on your grandson there, and maybe I can do the same thing.”

  “By all means, if you think that the best course!” she said huskily. “You have my full confidence, Mr. Riddle.”

  She gave me a dreamy look then, and said wistfully, “So many times I have said that I wished there were a male Dahlson to head and carry on the foundation. Now I am happy that there may be one. My grandson can be trained for that responsibility!”

  I thought, “But we’ve got to find him first, and whole!”

  I picked up the telephone from her table and dialed an airline office. There was a direct flight south that made a stop at Memphis, departing at 6:40. I booked a reservation to pick up a ticket at the airport before deadline.

  There were things to be done and not a whole lot of time for doing them. I promised the old lady that I’d call her as soon as I knew anything, and left the house after picking up the blonde’s address from the butler. I drove to my apartment to pack a bag, figuring that I’d try catching a chat with Rita Kirk before time to start for the airport.

  I’d just finished throwing a few things into a small zipper bag when my telephone rang. When I answered, the woman’s voice that vibrated in my ear sounded panicky.

  “This is Rita Kirk, Riddle! Could you come to my apartment right away? I’ve got to talk to you!”

  “I’m a pretty busy man, but I might make it for maybe ten minutes,” I said, tickled to know she was home. “What’s bothering you, sweetheart?”

  “Riddle, I’m scared! I just heard on the radio about that woman being found murdered in the Majestic Hotel. I’m afraid I’ve gotten mixed up in something that might kick back on me. I know too much, and the man I’ve been working with might . . .”

  She screamed then, and right on top of it there was a crashing sound in my ear that sounded like a shot. Then a thump, like maybe the instrument had dropped from a hand that couldn’t hold it any more.

  I kept listening, swearing under my breath. For twenty seconds I couldn’t hear anything but a phone hum. Then excited voices, several of them. A woman’s voice squalled, “She’s dead! Somebody call the police!”

  APARTMENT neighbors hearing the shot were on the job. I cradled my phone then, so they could use Rita’s line. I swore grimly. Whatever it was that the blonde had been scared of had caught up with her. She wouldn’t snoop any more.

  I looked up The Dahlson Company general office number and dialed it. I asked the girl answering to connect me with Mr. Buford Dyess. She said, “Mr. Dyess took the afternoon off. You might try his apartment. The number is 9-4472.”

  I tried that number, and didn’t get an answer after ten rings and gave it up. Buford Dyess wasn’t there, either.

  Pouring myself a stiff jolt of bourbon, I gulped it neat. Somehow I didn’t want to go out to Rita’s apartment. I’d rather remember her just as I saw her last. I fidgeted through twenty minutes and two more short drinks, figuring that by then Tim Sorrels would be covering the latest murder rumble.

  He was. A jittery switchboard girl at the Rushmore Apartments got him on the line for me with little delay. I said, “Rob Riddle, Inspector. I hear you’ve been busy.”

  “I’m too damned busy to chatter with you, shamus!” he snapped. “I got a dead blonde on my hands out here. And it looks like another killer made a clean getaway.”

  “I know about the blonde,” I said. “I was talking to her on the phone when she got it.”

  “The hell you were! Where are you now, Riddle?”

  “Now, now, Inspector!” I chuckled. “If I told you, you’d send a couple of your pussslapping dicks around to haul me in for a bull session. But I’ll make a bargain with you.”

  “You—damn you, Riddle! I’ll bet you were the guy that phoned me the tip on the hotel kill! What’s your in on these jobs?”

  “Look, Inspector. I’m working on a case where I have to move fast, or maybe somebody else gets hurt. I can’t afford to be tied up by the cops, even for a few hours. If you’ll lay off me, I’ll give you a tip that might help. And in twenty-four hours I’ll put the whole story in your lap. What do you say?”

  “I’m not promising anything except to bat your ears off when I get my hands on you!” he yelped. And then,
in milder tones. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Robbie. I’ll be reasonable.”

  I grinned. He wasn’t a bad turk. I said, “Check on Buford Dyess. He works for The Dahlson Company. Make him show what he’s been doing since 2:45 this afternoon. He knew the blonde pretty well, and I think he knew about the Trask woman being at the hotel. I’ll maybe call you again late tonight. G’bye now!”

  He was sputtering when I cradled the phone. I took my bag down to my car and got out of the neighborhood. It was just possible that Tim Sorrels might send visitors both to my office and the apartment.

  I got out to the airport twenty-five minutes before departure time for my flight. I spotted a couple of holes in one of the parking ranks and pulled into one. A car coming along after me waited until I locked up my job, and I appreciated the headlights, because it was pretty dark out there. The car was easing into the space beside mine when I started for the Administration Building waiting-room.

  I claimed my ticket and turned over my bag, and ducked into the restaurant. There would be a meal served on the plane, but I craved coffee and a cut of pie for an appetizer. I was on the last of the coffee when the public address speaker in the restaurant announced that Flight Nine from Detroit would arrive in five minutes. That was the plane I was due to ride south, after a twelve-minute layover.

  The speaker rattled again, right away. “Mr. Robert Riddle, come to the information desk, please!” with a repeat on it.

  I grabbed up my check and dropped the change on the cashier’s desk on the way out to the information desk. “What’s the message for Robert Riddle?” I asked the girl there.

  She looked at a slip. “You’ll have to move your car, Mr. Riddle. It’s reported parked in a reserved space.”

  I looked at the big clock on the wall. I’d have time, but not too much. I ducked out of the waiting-room and hurried out to the parking rank. My mind was cluttered with thoughts about my job and it didn’t occur to me just then to wonder how anybody knew that it was my car parked wrong.

  I found my car in the dark, and had my hand in my pocket for my keys, making it easier for the clever party who was laying for me. I never got a glimpse of him. Something exploded on my skull just over my left ear. . . . It was twenty minutes later when I figured it must have been the butt of a revolver.

  When I drifted out of the dream fog my head ached like the devil and there was a lump over my car that felt like an egg. The tip of my ear had been cut and was sticky with blood. I’d been shoved into the back of a car that wasn’t mine. Somebody had been thoughtful enough to toss my hat in after me.

  I crawled out of the car, hanging onto the door handle until things stopped spinning. I made a quick inventory of personal effects. I seemed to have everything; my wallet, my .38, transportation and those two long envelopes the Trask woman had mailed Mrs. Dahlson. I hadn’t been rolled after I’d been conked cold.

  I doped out part of the play then. Somebody in that car that had waited for me to park knew me, and had spotted me when I was pinned in the headlight glare. He had maybe watched me claim my ticket and figured I was booked for the trip south. Whoever it was hadn’t wanted me on that flight, and had worked a neat gag to make sure I wouldn’t be.

  There was a vacant space between the car I’d waked up in and my own bus. The clever chap had either lammed or found a new parking space.

  I WEAVED to the waiting-room, getting steadier as I made it. A big plane thundered overhead as I reached the door. It was gaining altitude fast and heading south. The clock inside said 6:45 and I didn’t bother to ask anybody if my plane was gone. I went into the men’s room and cleaned up my ear as fast as I could.

  Maybe that clip on the skull had jarred up some dead brain cells that should have been working an hour or so back. A lot of things flashed through my mind while I was at the wash basin. Up until then I’d had Buford Dyess pegged as the heavy man in the business.

  It was dawning on me that somebody a lot smarter than Mrs. Dahlson’s flabby nephew was throwing in the complications!

  I dried my ear and footed it fast to the nearest vacant telephone booth and called the Dahlson residence. The butler answered the phone. I told him who I was and to get Mrs. Dahlson on as quick as he could. The old lady’s sharp “Hello” came in five seconds.

  “This is Rob Riddle, Mrs. Dahlson. I’m out at the airport. There’s one thing I forgot to ask this afternoon. Who did you have picked out to head The Dahlson Foundation when it got to operating?”

  “Why, Eustic Wharton consented to take on the post, when I suggested a salary that would be much more than his average yearly earnings practising law.” The old lady sounded puzzled. “Why did you want that information, Mr. Riddle?”

  “I haven’t time to explain now, but don’t worry about it,” I said. “It may be pretty late tonight when I call you long distance, but I will. Goodbye again!”

  I hung up then, cursing myself for playing things as dumb as Eustic Wharton had maybe figured I was when he steered me onto the job.

  I hustled out to the American Airlines desk and showed my credentials and special officer’s buzzer to the bright chap on duty there. I asked to see the passenger lists on the afternoon Washington flight, and on Flight Nine. He goggled at the lump on my bean, getting the lists for me.

  There wasn’t any Eustic Wharton on the Washington flight list, and the only familiar name on the Flight Nine list was mine. But anyone of the other names on that list could be bogus.

  I thanked the desk chap and went over to stand in a window draft and get my head organized. Little pieces clicking around began to fall into place, making a picture.

  Eustic Wharton had planted Rita Kirk with the old lady to keep him posted on what she was up to at all times. The blonde had tipped him by telephone about the Trask woman. Wharton knew that if a grandson turned up, the old lady would change her plans about who would head The Dahlson Foundation.

  He’d acted quickly to head off the Trask woman and find out what she had. Then, fearful that Rita might put the finger on him, knowing what she knew, he’d rubbed her out. That’s the way the picture looked now.

  I knew that I had to get down to Memphis, and fast. If possible, before Flight Nine set down there. Because I was pretty sure that a desperate schemer with murder as his mission was a passenger on that plane!

  A nerveless killer who had already struck twice and wouldn’t hesitate to kill again, to keep from losing a sugary plum like the job of heading The Dahlson Foundation. With twenty million bucks to play with!

  I popped into the phone booth again and called the Acme Flying Service, an outfit with a hangar at the airport and planes for charter.

  The man I’d hoped to contact, Skip Turner, answered the call.

  “Rob Riddle, Skip!” I clipped. “Think and talk fast. Eastern Airline’s Flight Nine took off about twenty minutes back. Have you got anything for charter that could get in the air in a hurry and maybe beat Flight Nine into Memphis?”

  He said, “I’ve got a fast twin-engine cabin job that’s full of gas and ready to wind up. If I took off in twenty minutes I might not beat Flight Nine in, but I wouldn’t be far behind it.”

  “Roll the job out and get it warmed up!” I said. “You got a charter. Send a car over to the Administration Building waiting-room to pick me up.”

  “Wilco! I’ll send a jeep for you. Be watching out for it.” He hung up then. Skip Turner is a nice fly-boy and bright. We’d done business together before.

  The jeep wasn’t long getting around and delivering me at the Acme hangar. Skip took a look at my face and at the lump and didn’t ask foolish questions. He poured out a stiff one from a bottle he had in his desk, and then bundled me into the cabin job he had warming up on the apron. He got his radio clearance pretty quick and we took off.

  IV

  I DOZED through most of the three and a half hours it took Skip Turner to push that sweet flying job to Memphis. I woke up the last time when the tires squealed, touching the runway at des
tination. My head felt a lot better.

  “What’s the score, Skip?” I yelled at him. “Did we make it?”

  “Sorry, Bob, but I’m afraid we didn’t!” he yelled back. “Unless something delayed flight Nine, it was due in here fifteen minutes back.” I fidgeted in my seat while he taxied up and wheeled into the spot an airport attendant with a flashlight indicated. There was an Eastern ship on the apron buttoning up to take the runway.

  “What do you want me to do, Rob, after I sign in?” Skip scrambled back to open the door.

  “Gas up and stick around close to a phone,” I told him. “Thanks for the try, fellow!”

  I dropped to the ground and legged it for the gates. I asked an attendant there if that was Flight Nine pulling out, and he said it was. I hustled on through the waiting-room to the baggage dock. A man there told me all baggage of Flight Nine had been claimed and passengers had taken off for uptown.

  I didn’t figure there was any point to looking for my killer around the terminal. I signaled a taxi driver who was watching me hopefully from across the drive. He brought his cab over fast and I popped into it.

  “The Pine Castle, buddy!” I said. “The change from a twenty is all yours if you make it fast.”

  “Brother, you’re going to ride a fast twelve miles!” he said, sounding pleased. “Hang on to the hand straps!”

  He snapped the flag down and gears screamed when the cab jerked out of there. I caught a flash of my watch dial passing an arc lamp. It was 10:58. The dine-and-dance spot would likely be open and operating for two-three hours yet.

  The cabby went after that change promise. The cab rocketed over a couple of miles of blacktop and then turned left onto a four-lane highway marked U. S. 51. It seemed to develop a jet then. The four lanes narrowed to two pretty soon, and I caught a flash of a sign that read ‘Welcome to Mississippi’ when we crossed a state line. Another five miles clicked off and the cabbie braked sharply and turned in at a graveled drive.