by Jerry eBooks
Abruptly Carter lunged across the desk. With his right hand he caught Holmes’ left arm, while his left hand grabbed the bald-headed man’s right wrist. This was the hand that held the revolver.
A quick twist and Carter forced Holmes to drop the gun.
“Let me go,” Holmes snarled. “I suppose you will murder me now to keep me from talking.”
SUDDENLY Carter released him and stepped quickly around the desk and grabbed up the gun. Holmes shuddered and walked over and dropped into a chair.
“You realize that I could turn you over to the police on a charge of attempted murder,” Carter said coldly.
“I know,” Holmes answered bleakly. “I must have been mad—insane. But this thing has been on my mind for the past two months. I live alone in a little house in a small town called Springview out West.”
“Springview,” exclaimed Carter. “Go on.”
“My writing means everything to me,” Holmes went on. “I have sold some short stuff, but the book was my best work. It took me two years to write it. When I had it nearly finished, I wrote you asking if you would handle it for me. I didn’t even have a title for it then. You wrote and said you would be glad to look the book over. When it was finished I sent it to you.”
“I don’t remember ever having received a manuscript from you,” Carter said. He was puzzled. While Holmes’ attempt to kill him could only be considered the action of a crazy man, Holmes now sounded like he was telling the truth. “Tell me what happened after that?”
“Nothing,” said Holmes. “I was quite sure you had received the manuscript since it was not returned to me. I waited to hear from you, and then read about ‘Tomorrows Sorrows’ in the paper as I told you before. Then I decided I would come to New York. By this time I was sure you had tricked me and I got the crazy idea of killing you.”
“Under the circumstances you were quite justified in feeling there was some crooked work upon my part, Mr. Holmes,” Carter said, picking up the chair and again seating himself at the desk. He dropped the gun into the side pocket of his coat. “I received the manuscript of ‘Tomorrow’s Sorrows’ from Howard Allen in Springview, Texas.”
“But it is a very small place and I know everyone there,” said Holmes. “There is no one by the name of Howard Allen in the whole town.”
“My secretary is home ill with a cold,” Carter said. “So I am working alone today.
I’ve an idea though. Suppose that I call Springview long distance and try to talk to Howard Allen there? You listen on the phone in the outer office and see if you recognize the voice. There’s a chance you might be able to do so.”
“Splendid!” said Holmes. “I’ll do that.”
Holmes went into the outer office as Carter picked up the phone and put through a person-to-person long distance call to Howard Allen in Springview.
“Please hold the wire,” said the long distance operator.
Carter frowned as the door of his office swung silently shut. There was no reason for Holmes closing that door if he was listening on the other phone. But while Carter was holding the wire, he did not want to put down his phone and investigate now.
He heard his operator tell the operator in the nearest big town in Texas that she was calling Springview. Heard the Texas operator say, “Are you paid?”
Then when the New York operator said it was a paid call, the Springview operator was given the number and started ringing it.
After what seemed a long time to Carter, the New York operator told him there was no answer. She asked if he wanted her to try again later. He told her never mind and hung up.
Carter went to the door of his office and opened it. He stood there staring into the outer office and feeling strangely weak and sick. Russell Holmes was sprawled face downward on the floor, a knife sticking out of his back. His overcoat and hat that he had taken off when he first arrived at the literary agency, were placed neatly on a chair. There was no one else around.
The door of the outer office opened and a short, stocky man stepped in. He looked at the still figure on the floor and then blinked. He glanced at Carter.
“Now what?” Jim Lang asked. He wrote humorous books and was always in character. “I know authors bother you at times, but don’t tell me you have started murdering them.”
“Very funny!” Carter said bitterly. “But this happens to be a real murder, providing Holmes is dead. I fail to see anything funny about the situation.”
Lang frowned. In his earlier days he had been a newspaperman. He had covered a few murders and knew what to do. He knelt down and checked for pulse and heartbeat but there was none. It was obvious that the man on the floor was dead.
Carter moved closer and stood watching Lang. He noticed that Holmes was tightly clutching a crumpled envelope in his right hand.
“He’s dead,” Lang said, getting to his feet. “Better phone the police and report a murder. How did it happen, Will?”
Carter glanced at the glass paneling of the outer door. The transom above the door was half open and he thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadowy figure moving outside. It looked like there was someone out there listening.
“I’ll phone the police in a few minutes,” Carter said, raising his voice a little. “Holmes was alone here as far as I knew when it happened, but I think I know who killed him.”
“How do you know?” Lang asked.
“Because Holmes left a clue as he was dying,” said Carter. “He still has it clutched in his right hand. Come on into my office and I’ll tell you about it, Jim. Staying here with the corpse gives me the creeps.”
LANG stepped into the private office. Carter followed him and closed the door. The literary agent swiftly told the writer about Russell Holmes’ visit, his attempting to use the gun, and the story of the apparently stolen manuscript.
“This is Holmes’ gun.” Carter said, drawing it out of his pocket and moving to the door with the revolver in his hand. “He was going to kill me with it.”
Carter suddenly drew the door open. A small gray-haired man dressed in a dark overcoat and dark hat was bending over the body of the dead man and tugging the crumpled envelope out of Holmes’ hand. He quickly stood erect and thrust the envelope into his pocket.
“Who are you?” Carter demanded, covering the gray-haired man with the revolver.
“Why I’m Howard Allen,” said the stranger. “If you are Willard Carter you certainly have a strange way of greeting your authors.”
“Sorry, Mr. Allen,” said Carter, but he did not lower the gun. Lang stood behind him in the doorway watching and listening. “But since there has just been a murder here, as you see, we have to be a bit careful. Doubtless, you know the deceased, since you and Russell Holmes both came from Springview.”
“I knew him by sight,” Allen said. “He lived at four-twenty-six River Avenue, a mile and three-quarters south of the post office.” The gray-haired man frowned. “Who killed him?”
“You did,” Carter said quietly.
“I did?” Howard Allen stared at the literary agent in amazement. “You’re crazy! Why should you suspect me?”
“Because you stole the manuscript of Holmes’ book, ‘Tomorrow’s Sorrows’ and sent it to me to be sold under your name,” said Carter.
“I don’t see how he could possibly have done that,” Lang said as he listened. “He didn’t sneak into Holmes’ house and steal the manuscript of the book. If he had, Holmes would have mentioned it to you, Will.”
“Who was the one man who was in a position to grab that manuscript when Holmes sent it out and place the Howard Allen name on it?” Carter demanded. “I’ll tell you. The local mail carrier who only knew Holmes by sight, and yet knew his address was four-twenty-six River Avenue and a mile and three quarters south of the post office. Only a postman who had that route would be so sure of the exact distance from Holmes’ house to the post office.”
“But I still don’t quite see how it was done,” Lang said.
“Ho
lmes told me he lived alone,” Carter continued. “The man he was most likely to talk to was the postman, and yet he might not even know the mail carrier’s name. He probably was all excited over finishing the book and told the postman he expected to make thousands of dollars out of it when it was published. The temptation was too much for this mail carrier.”
“I get it now,” Jim Lang said. “Probably Holmes was tired and didn’t want to walk nearly three miles to the post office and back again. So when Allen, the postman, came around, Holmes gave him the book manuscript all ready for mailing.”
“Exactly,” said Carter. “But Allen didn’t mail the manuscript right away. He changed the name and address on the manuscript and envelope to his own and then sent the book on to me. I knew only Allen’s handwriting. As far as I was concerned, Russell Holmes had nothing to do with ‘Tomorrow’s Sorrows.’ I was working only with Howard Allen.”
Allen suddenly turned and darted for the outer door. Carter raised the revolver and shot the gray-haired man in the right arm. Allen howled in pain.
“Don’t shoot again!” he wailed. “I’ll admit everything. It happened just the way you said. But when Holmes told me he was coming to New York to see you, I followed him. I knew you had never seen him or knew his signature. I hoped that you would think Holmes was crazy and not believe the story about the book having been written by him. I thought my signature would clinch it.”
“But when you learned that I was beginning to believe Holmes you got frightened and killed him,” Carter said. “I suspected the killer might be listening outside so I mentioned Holmes having left a clue that told me the identity of his murderer.”
“The crumpled envelope, you mean?” Lang asked.
“In a way it is a clue,” Carter said. “Holmes may have been trying to tell us it was a postman who killed him by that envelope, but it meant nothing to me. I was just bluffing. I was right about the postman angle though.”
“You sure were,” Lang said.
“Phone the police while I keep Allen covered, Jim,” Carter said. “Tell them we have had a murder here and the killer is waiting for them.” He smiled grimly. “Maybe they won’t believe the story of the crime. It’s too much like fiction!”
LADY IN RED
Alan Ritner Anderson
Sibyl came all outfitted for her tryst with Carlos, with rings on her fingers—and a gun in her bag. . . .
THE RED DRESS was better than a brass band. It called for a girdle, but she wore no girdle. The neckline, originally censorable, she’d lowered an inch. Both her wrists were heavy with bracelets, and if the diamonds were phony they at least sparkled brilliantly in the hot sunshine of mid-afternoon. Her high-heeled slippers were red, her hat an absurd scarlet creation that visored her eyes and shadowed her face.
Her name was Sibyl Van Arsdale. She was twenty-eight, exactly forty years younger than her immensely rich husband. The garish red dress was a ticket to murder. The wherewithal was in the big black purse tucked under her left arm—a .22 with a silencer. She was setting the stage for a kill and the flashy red outfit was her first-act costume. Men on the sidewalk gave her the eye but didn’t try to pick her up. Somehow, despite the too revealing dress, she managed to radiate icy hostility. The wolf stares didn’t bother her in the slightest. Before her marriage, she had stripped to zero at stag smokers.
She was in the heart of the store district. Now and then she stopped to window shop. It always took her a while to spot the detective who’d been shadowing her for two weeks. Sibyl had been wise from the start. Her husband was snobbish, prideful and secretive. She was positive that he wouldn’t wash his dirty linen at the office. Unknown to him, she had had the. phone company install an extension to the unlisted phone in the library. She spotted the detective when she was looking at a radio display. He was a dapper little man who always wore a blue serge suit. Any moron could shadow a Junoesque blonde in a wicked red dress. But she had to be sure.
HER AFFAIR with Carlos Tuparo had been a calculated risk. The gossip columnist had mentioned no names, yet tagged her neatly. She’d dropped Carlos like a hot potato. The affair had backfired. Carlos Tuparo turned out not to be a rich Cuban plantation owner but a grade A blackmailer He had her cold. With pictures. He’d mailed her a few copies, then phoned and made his pitch. Fifty thousand. cash on the barrelhead. Sibyl hated herself. It had shaken her confidence. She prided herself of her ability to evaluate men—but that was down in the beer-and-pretzel set. Her husband’s money made her a prime target for the high-class heels, rats with elegance, and the species was new to her. Looking back, she now saw how adroitly Carlos had led her into the trap. She hated his guts.
She glanced at the clock on the Union Terminal ahead. Carlos was going to pick her up at the Cherry Street taxi ramp at four. She had better than half an hour. Time was important, but didn’t have to be reduced to split-second reckoning. She’d spent a hectic week prowling from bar to bar during the cocktail hour searching for a passable double. As far as size and figure went, Gloria Hays was made to order. She was a hat-check girl at a third-rate clip joint. And she was dumb and money hungry. They’d sewed up the deal while the detective had stood out on the sidewalk reading a magazine.
Sibyl entered the waiting room of the terminal and made a beeline for the ladies lounge. It was an elaborate affair with a lobby and beauty parlor. Because the city was a switchover point where many passengers had to change railroads, the management had thoughtfully provided bathrooms to rent to women travelers who wanted a bath during their layover.
Gloria Hays, looking chic and well groomed in a black suit, sat in an armchair smoking a cigarette. The women ignored each other. Sibyl walked into the private bathroom section of the washrooms. The attendant, an elderly Negress, took the five spot, made change, and unlocked the door to the third bathroom from the lobby. Sibyl, who’d previously studied the setup, handed the woman a quarter.
“Will you get me an extra bar of soap?” she asked.
The woman’s smile was a study in black and white. “Yes ma’am!” she cried. “Right away quick.”
As soon as the attendant turned and started toward the storage locker at the far end of the corridor, Gloria Hays tiptoed in from the lobby and slipped into the bathroom. Sibyl waited for the soap. Then she went into the bathroom and closed the door. Water gushed noisily into the tub.
Gloria Hays was unfastening her skirt. “Gee!” she said. “Am I excited!”
Sibyl didn’t reply. Because their shoe sizes were different, Gloria Hays wore her own red slippers and her purse was identical to the one Sibyl laid on the washbowl. Their hairdos were duplicates, and if Gloria’s hair was a shade yellower, it was not noticeable. Their faces were at sharp variance. Gloria’s face was round, her nose upturned, and she had cheek dimples. Sibyl had a long oval face dominated by a large red mouth and huge blue eyes.
THEY changed without fuss or hurry.
Gloria glanced down at her low neckline and patted her hips. “Gee, it’s—well, you know,” she said, voice soft.
“That’s the idea,” Sibyl pointed out. “In that red eye-catcher, no man with a drop of blood in his veins will look above the neckline. The dizzy hat shades your face. Keep your chin tucked in to lengthen the shadow. Did you practice walking like I do? Short, choppy steps.”
Gloria nodded. A hard glint came to her eyes as she fastened the bracelets around her wrists. “I got it down pat,” she said. “I wouldn’t dare take big steps in this dress.” The bracelets fascinated her.
Sibyl said pointedly and emphatically, “Those bracelets are phony. They’res not much better than dime-store junk. Think I want to risk a stickup?”
“Guess not,” said Gloria Hays, her mouth sullen.
Sibyl took an envelope from her purse, opened it and slipped out the corners of a five-hundred-dollar bill and an airline ticket. “A reservation on the night plane to Los Angeles,” she said. “Hollywood! The big time. Five hundred will set you up in style until you connect wi
th something worthwhile.”
Gloria’s blue eyes glittered and her cheeks went feverish. A dream come true! Hollywood! The movies! She nodded furiously. “I go to the Strand,” she recited. “I sit in back. It’s a double feature. I see it all. Then I come back here.”
“A cinch,” said Sibyl. She took a deep breath and crossed her fingers. The motive for the impersonation was the shakiest part of the whole plan, and she had to sell Gloria a convincing bill of goods. “This is what will happen,” she explained. “The detective will phone my husband. He knows I’m nuts about movies. So he’ll phone my best girl friend to come up to his studio. I want to catch them redhanded. It’ll give me a decent alimony break at the divorce. Understand?”
Gloria frowned, asked, “But what if you left the show early? I mean because of a fire or something.”
Sibyl sighed in relief. “Why, honey,” she said, “the detective would phone my husband and tip him off, It would take me half an hour to get home.”
“Married men are heels,” said Gloria angrily. “I know. They cheat. They’re always on the make. And they don’t tell a girl they’re married until—”
“I know, I know,” said Sibyl soothingly. “You didn’t tell anybody about our deal, did you?”
“No. I said an aunt gave me some money. I quit my job. My bags are at the Airline Terminal.”
Sibyl studied her double. The hat had been a brilliant inspiration. She’d simply told a milliner that her eyes were sensitive to light and to make her a hat that would shade her face and still be in style. For eighty dollars he had done nobly.
Gloria Hays confessed, “I’m sort of nervous.”
Sibyl went to the door and cracked it open. The attendant Vcas at the far end of the corridor sorting towels. She opened the door and signaled Gloria Hays with a jerk of the thumb. The blonde in the red dress tiptoed out. Sibyl watched the attendant. She did not turn around. Sibyl closed the door, turned off the water and tripped the release to the drain. She stood there a moment, then tucked the purse under her arm and left the room without any attempt at secretiveness.’ The purse was large enough to contain the black suit.
