Sarah’s voice trailed off. She poked her gun a little deeper into Mr. Barnes and pointed at a large tin box which stood on the top shelf of Mr. Barnes’s safe.
“That?” she said. “Is there cash in there?”
Sylvester Barnes gulped. He nodded assent.
“How much?” demanded Sarah.
“Forty thousand. I had it ready to pay Theodore for the stamp. I was willing to pay forty. I never wanted to get involved in this crooked deal….”
“You are involved in it,” reminded Sarah. “Deep. Forty thousand, eh? I’ll take your case, Mr. Barnes. I’ll take your case.”
“What?”
“I’ll take your case,” said Sarah, firmly. “I’ll also take the cash, Mr. Barnes—all the cash.”
“You can’t! This is blackmail! This is robbery! This is a hold-up, a hold-up with weapons. I’ll have the police on you! I’ll have—”
“You’ll carry that tin box to the desk,” said Sarah, “and I’ll take the cash. After I take the cash, I’ll take the stamp, the Barnes stamp, which you took back from Slick Johnny Johns after your brother had hired him to take it away from you….”
Sylvester Barnes cried out in agony, his sliding eyes moving from Sarah’s gun to Sarah’s implacable face.
“No!” he screamed. “Take the money! Take all of it! But you can’t have the stamp. No! You can’t have it. I—I haven’t got it! I haven’t got the Barnes stamp, I tell you….”
“You’ve got the Barnes stamp,” insisted Sarah, “somewhere in that desk. I saw your eyes slide there when I mentioned the stamp. March! I wouldn’t like to shoot you dead, Mr. Barnes, but after all, you may go to the chair, anyway, for Slick Johnny Johns’s murder, you know.”
Sylvester Barnes moved slowly to the desk. He opened the top drawer of the desk. He lifted with trembling fingers a small, transparent envelope. He held the envelope for a moment, gazing down at the grimy blue stamp it covered….
“Thanks,” said Sarah, hoarsely, and plucked the Barnes stamp from his hands.
Sarah dropped the glassine-covered stamp into her bag. She said: “Get busy, Ben Todd, and tie up Sylvester. I need my hands free to take the forty thousand dollars out of the box.”
Ben Todd got busy. He was breathing heavily and his eyes were grim as they darted from the ropes he was knotting to the soiled bills Sarah was cramming from the tin box into her purse.
Ben Todd knotted the last knot. He dragged Sylvester Barnes, not too gently, toward the spot on the carpet where the butler lay. Sarah Watson clicked shut the maw of her black purse. She said, briskly: “Handle Mr. Sylvester Barnes nice, Bennie. He’s a client, you know.”
Ben Todd dropped Mr. Barnes with a thud. He strode toward the desk and regarded Sarah with baleful eyes.
“Sarah,” he said, through thinned lips. “Put that money back where you got it and put it back quick. I’ll stand for assorted murderers for clients but I’ll be damned if I’ll stand for blackmail and downright theft—”
“You’ll stand what I tell you to stand,” growled Sarah grimly, “until this case is closed.” She put her hand purposefully upon the gun which she had laid on the desk.
Ben Todd stepped back. Sarah took the gun in her left hand and held it there. She used her right hand to lift the French phone from Sylvester Barnes’s desk.
“Gotham Hotel?” she barked, a few moments later. “Give me room 301. Lily? Don’t be scared. It’s me. I want you to meet me at Theodore’s house, Lily, in ten minutes. Take a cab and stop at the corner. I’ll be waiting for you….”
Sarah hung up. She stared for a moment at the freckles which stood out very clearly on the unwonted pallor of Ben Todd’s face. Ben Todd’s mouth worked. He said:
“You! You damned old— You’re going to round out your double-crossing now by selling Lily Devlin to the cops? You’re going to lead her into that house next door—that house you know is full of cops! Listen to me. I didn’t want you to take that woman’s case, but you took it. You took it and I’m not going to see you double-cross her now….”
“You’re not going to see me do anything,” said Sarah, placidly. “You’re going to stay right here, young feller, and keep an eye on Sylvester, while I give O’Reilly the goods on the murderer of Slick Johnny Johns.”
* * *
—
Ten minutes later, Sarah Watson threw open the front door of the Theodore Barnes residence and stalked in, dragging with her a white-faced, shrinking woman as she went.
A cop stopped leaning against the wall and started forward. Sarah said:
“ ’Lo, Tim! O’Reilly here?”
The cop jerked a fat thumb toward the rear.
Sarah asked: “John Rankin, the insurance dick, with him?”
Tim nodded.
Sarah snapped: “Good!”
Tim said: “Mr. Theodore Barnes is in there, too,” and his eyes played speculatively over the woman Sarah was gripping by the arm.
Sarah ordered: “Get O’Reilly out here. Whisper I’ve got the killer for him and he’ll come fast.”
The cop sprinted. Lily Devlin sagged against Sarah. Sarah muttered something to her and straightened her hat. O’Reilly appeared, big arms swinging.
Sarah said, curtly: “Good! Stay here, O’Reilly. I’m going in with John Rankin and Theodore Barnes.”
O’Reilly gasped. “But—but, by thunder, woman, you’ve got her!”
Sarah said: “Maybe you’d better send a cop around to the back of the house and have him parked near the study window. He can hide in the ivy vines that cover the house back there. Maybe you’d better be ready yourself, O’Reilly, outside the study door. There were four wooden-handled knives in that set, and I’ve only accounted for three….”
O’Reilly stepped back, jaw slack, at this cryptic utterance. Sarah smiled grimly and swept by him and down the hall to the study door.
Theodore Barnes sat in an easy chair with his back to the desk where the dead man had sat not so long before. Theodore Barnes was smoking a cigarette in a long, amber holder. He took the holder out of his mouth and dropped it as Sarah entered with Lily Devlin in tow.
The other man in the room rose from his seat as she entered, and sat down again, reaching for his half-empty glass as he sat.
Sarah swept past them both. She placed Lily Devlin on a divan near a window. She took her own post behind the divan and focused her piercing gaze on Theodore Barnes.
“Theodore Barnes,” she began, “I’m glad the insurance bloodhound is here. He’ll make a good witness to the fact that I’ve recovered the Barnes stamp.”
Theodore Barnes sprang from his chair. He slipped on the cigarette-holder which lay in his path and brought up leaning against the desk.
Sarah said complacently: “Yes, Mr. Rankin will make a good witness that I’ve returned the Barnes stamp to you and that I’m entitled to the insurance company’s reward….”
“It’s impossible!” shouted Theodore Barnes. “She hasn’t got it! She can’t have it!”
“I have it,” insisted Sarah. “Here it is!”
“Glory!” shouted John Rankin, handing over the stamp Sarah held extended. “Glory! She’s done it. The Barnes stamp. She’s got it!”
“I’ve got a good nose, too,” said Sarah, complacently, “and I don’t spoil it with the fumes of liquor. Show the stamp to Mr. Theodore Barnes, John Rankin.”
“The Barnes stamp!” breathed Theodore Barnes. “It is! Let me have it. It’s mine. Give it to me. Give…!”
Sarah reached out a firm hand, laid it on Theodore’s wrist and extracted from his clutching fingers the Barnes stamp.
“Mr. Barnes,” she ordered: “Sit down! There, behind the desk. Don’t hesitate, Mr. Barnes. The dead man who sat there is gone. Now, Mr. Barnes! I have with me thirty thousand dollars cash. When you have made out a receipt
for that sum in favor of your brother, Sylvester, in exchange for the Barnes stamp, I’ll hand you—”
“You’ll hand me my stamp!” screeched Theodore Barnes. “I won’t sell my stamp. Give it to me. It’s mine. I’ll have you ejected for your presumption. I’ll have you ejected for your high-handed methods….”
“My high-handed methods recovered the stamp,” purred Sarah, calmly.
“I won’t sell it!” shouted Theodore Barnes. “It’s mine. I never meant to sell it. Give it to me.”
“Lily,” said Sarah, without taking her eyes from Theodore Barnes, “Lily, hand over to me the paper your step-brother signed, the paper promising to sell the Barnes stamp, the very legal paper, Lily….”
Sarah broke off, snatched the paper which Lily extended and waved it under Theodore’s nose.
“You’ll be getting off easy,” said Sarah. “There might be certain facts I could reveal, Theodore—facts the insurance company would be intensely interested in—facts about certain little plans made by you and your brother?”
* * *
—
Theodore Barnes reached for a pen. Sarah opened her handbag and began to count soiled bills. As she counted, her eyes darted from the bills to Theodore Barnes, hunched over his writing.
Theodore Barnes laid down his pen. Sarah grasped the paper he had written, read it carefully, waved it in the air to dry. She picked up the thick wad of bills she had counted out.
Theodore reached for the bills. Sarah said:
“Come get your money, Lily. I usually charge ten percent for my services, but I’ve only taken a grand off the thirty thousand in your case, Lily, because I like to see justice done. And now, I’ll just step over to Sylvester’s and deliver the receipt for the money and the Barnes stamp….”
Theodore Barnes sprang. Something shining flashed in his rising hand. Sarah fell sidewise against him, her stubby fingers clutching. Lily Devlin uttered a little cry and slid down to the floor. The knife flashed through the spot where Lily had stood a moment before. Sarah’s hands reached after the knife.
“Help me, Rankin, you boozy bloodhound,” shouted Sarah, and managed to deliver a wallop to the struggling Theodore. “Help!”
The door burst open. The window swung in. Sarah fell back as O’Reilly’s big paw wrenched the knife from Theodore’s hand and flung it far. Theodore Barnes collapsed, suddenly, in the chair, his face ashen.
“I don’t know what possessed me,” he muttered, his quick, dark eyes darting from O’Reilly to Sarah to the cop who had come through the window. “Just for a moment, I went wild—seeing the stamp go out of my possession drove me frantic. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I apologize, humbly. I apologize to you, Mrs. Watson. I apologize to everyone. I’ll be myself in a minute. I—”
There was silence for a moment, except for the heavy breathing of O’Reilly. Theodore Barnes lifted his head. He said: “You all understand, I’m sure. The strain of all of this. Ah, Mrs. Watson, of course I must reimburse you for recovering the Barnes stamp. The special thousand dollar reward I offered still holds, of course—”
“Keep it,” said Sarah hoarsely. “You’ll need it—for lawyers. I don’t take fees from murderers….”
O’Reilly yelped. He pounced on the cringing figure behind the desk. Sarah said, thoughtfully: “Of course, I might have taken your thousand, Theodore, if you hadn’t been such a damn mean murderer—a murderer that put a knife into a man already unconscious….Yes, Theodore, your brother Sylvester knocked him unconscious when he took the Barnes stamp away….”
“Stop her!” shouted Theodore Barnes. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She can’t prove it. Nobody can prove it. Nobody saw me!”
“I saw you,” roared Sarah, “in my mind’s eye.”
“She’s crazy,” screamed Theodore Barnes. “John Rankin, say she’s crazy! How could I have killed that man? My sister knows I never came down the stairs from my room. My sister knows I was sleeping.”
“Theodore,” said Sarah, “do you usually sleep with your toupee on straight?”
“Toupee? Madam, what do you mean? You’re mad, woman, mad! I couldn’t have killed him. I never left my room.”
Sarah stooped. Her square-tipped fingers slid into the cuff of Theodore Barnes’ dressing gown sleeve. She held up a leaf. She said: “This is the season when the ivy falls, Theodore. You should have remembered that when you climbed down the back of the house.”
Theodore Barnes stared at the leaf. He said: “I’m not guilty. The police know I’m not guilty. The police know the corpse had a strand of black beads in its hand, black beads that came from my sister’s gown.”
“Thank you, Theodore,” said Sarah, mildly. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for. The police didn’t find the black beads, Theodore, because I found them first. Only two people knew that those black beads were there. Me—and the murderer. Take him, O’Reilly. He has confessed.”
* * *
—
The Watson antique chugged down elegant Fairview Drive. Sarah said: “Well, Bennie, a good night’s work, if I say so myself. Everybody pleased. Sylvester pleased, because he’s got the Barnes stamp, and it only cost him the forty grand he was willing to pay, plus a little discomfort. Sylvester’s black housekeeper pleased because you let her out of her closet and I slipped her five. Lily Devlin pleased because she’s got back her thirty thousand and nobody thinks she did murder to get it. O’Reilly pleased because he’s got the murderer and the murderer has confessed. Ben Todd pleased because he’s proved again that Sarah Watson is a double-crossing, thieving old—”
“Reprobate,” supplied Ben Todd and laughed. “You, Sarah, how about you? You pleased, too, old girl?”
“Um,” said Sarah, stepping on the gas. “Let’s see. Ten thousand from Sylvester, as commission for negotiating the difficult and delicate transfer of the Barnes stamp. One thousand from Lily for getting her money from Theodore. Three thousand from the insurance company for recovering the stolen stamp. Ten and one and three is fourteen, and fourteen divided by two is seven. Well, yes, Bennie, I am pleased. Moderately pleased!”
DETECTIVES: MARGE CHALMERS AND PAT MCCARTHY
RAT RUNAROUND
Roger Torrey
SINCE REPUTATIONS AND LINGERING literary fame usually depend on the publication of novels, not short stories, it is perhaps understandable that Roger Torrey (1901–1946) has been largely forgotten, though he was one of the most prolific, gifted, and popular pulp writers of his era. In a career that lasted only a little more than thirteen years, he produced about 280 stories and novellas, mainly for the best magazines of the time, including Black Mask, which published his first story, “Police Business,” in its January 1933 issue, and 49 others.
As prodigious as his written output was, his alcoholic intake dwarfed it, becoming legendary even in the hard-drinking world of pulp writers. He met Helen, his second wife, also an alcoholic, in a bar, and she quickly moved into his hotel room, where they established a system of producing fiction that worked for them. He sat at one desk, she at another, with a bottle of booze nearby. The first person to finish the story on which they were working was permitted to drink while the other had to finish the story before being allowed to have a nip. He was only forty-five when he died of alcohol poisoning.
His only novel, 42 Days for Murder, was published by the un-prestigious house of Hillman-Curl in 1938. Torrey wrote fourteen stories featuring Marge Chalmers and Pat McCarthy, all of which were published in Black Mask. McCarthy is an ex-cop who opens his own detective agency, and Chalmers, his sidekick, more often than not keeps him out of trouble while helping to solve the case.
“Rat Runaround” was originally published in the May 1937 issue of Black Mask.
Rat Runaround
ROGER TORREY
MCCARTHY WAS BEHIND HIS DESK and Marge Chalmers sat at the side. Cantwell st
ood in front of the desk. He was tall and thin and his long face showed dull pallor. His skin wasn’t white but seemed to have no color at all. His hair was a dull mousy brown and it straggled over his eyes, giving him a worried look that his whiny voice upheld.
He said, “Now Mr. McCarthy. It’s like I’m telling you. I’m scared. I’m plain scared.”
He sounded as though this were the truth. McCarthy leaned comfortably back in his chair and said, “I’ve heard stories and stories. You got one. One pip. If I ever heard a dirty double-crossing tramp talk, I’ve heard one now. You get the hell out of this office and be thankful I don’t throw you out. Scram, boy, scram.”
Marge looked sorrowful and shook her blond head. She said, “Now, Pat! Please!” in a low, sad voice.
Cantwell looked hopeless. “I want to hire a body-guard. You got an agency, ain’t you? I’ve—I can get money. I’m scared, I tell you.”
McCarthy winked at Marge. He did it openly, making no attempt at concealing it from the long, lean Cantwell. He yawned, said, “I do all my body-guard work for money.” He changed his voice, snapped out:
“Listen, Cantwell. I’ll bet you put in five years in the pen and you should have got fifty and done every minute of it. You’re out, as far as I’m concerned. Out cold, like last January. You smell like stir to me and I don’t like the smell. Now scram, boy. I’m losing my patience.”
Cantwell didn’t move from the desk. He twisted a very new, very cheap cap in his hands, said, “Listen! I can get money. Lots of money.” He spoke slowly, distinctly, and his eyes pleaded for belief. “I’ll be paid for every day I put in stir. I need help but I’ll pay for it and pay big.”
McCarthy said, “I tell you to get out,” and got up from his chair. But he leaned across the desk and said very softly and smoothly:
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 48
