The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Deming, Richard

  The Pomeranian was still barking furiously when Josephine finally got to the door, indicating that the caller had not given up and gone away. Josephine said, “Hush! It’s only the lady from the doggie parlor, come to get you for your bath and trim.”

  But it wasn’t, she saw when she peeped through the viewing hole. It was a man in a blue serge suit. She scooped up the little dog in her arms before opening the door.

  Coco Joe, as always when a man came to the door, went into an absolute fit. Growling and snarling, he did his best to struggle from his mistress’s arms and fling himself at the intruder’s throat.

  The man stood there examining the dog warily as Josephine repeatedly but lightly slapped his muzzle and said. “Stop it! He’s a nice man. Stop it now!”

  When Coco Joe finally stopped struggling, and his performance tapered off to mere low, threatening growls, Josephine said. “I’m sorry. He thinks he’s a mastiff.”

  The visitor, a stocky man of about forty, gave her a pleasant smile. Producing a wallet, he displayed a police badge pinned inside of it.

  “Sergeant Dennis Cord, ma’am. Are you Miss Henry?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I have a few words with you?”

  “Certain—” Josephine started to say, then Coco Joe suddenly went into another frenzy when he detected the presence of another man alongside the door.

  The second man loomed into view, smiling apologetically. He was young, large, blond, and wore a blue police uniform.

  When Josephine had quieted the dog for a second time, Sergeant Cord introduced the uniformed man as Officer Harry Dewey. He told Dewey to wait outside and stepped into the apartment with Josephine.

  His entrance into the apartment brought on another display of ferocity from Coco Joe. Again Josephine had to slap his muzzle and say, “Stop it! He’s a friend. Be nice, now!”

  When for a third time the dog’s performance had finally tapered off to occasional low-throated growls, Josephine said, “He’ll be all right in a minute. He doesn’t bite anyway. He just puts on a fierce show.”

  Kneeling, she held the Pomeranian so that he could sniff the sergeant’s shoes. “Make friends now,” she ordered. “He’s a nice man.”

  Sergeant Cord stood perfectly still while the little dog sniffed at his feet and trouser legs. When the growling finally stopped, Josephine cautiously released her grip. Coco Joe took a final sniff, then turned his back and trotted over to leap into his favorite chair. His tail had not wagged even once, but the sergeant had his permission to stay on a probationary basis.

  Rising to her feet, Josephine said, “He’ll be all right now, Sergeant. Will you have a seat?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  He took the chair farthest from Coco Joe. Seating herself on the sofa, Josephine looked at him expectantly.

  “I’m afraid I have some rather disquieting news for you, Miss Henry,” the detective said.

  “Oh, my. Has someone I know been hurt?”

  “Oh, no, it’s not that—well, as a matter of fact someone you know has been hurt, but you didn’t know her well. Mrs. Ann Sommerfield.”

  Josephine gazed at him blankly.

  “One of your fellow jurors on the Pitton case,” the sergeant prompted.

  “Oh, of course,” Josephine said. “That thin, rather humorless woman.” Then she looked puzzled. “I’m sorry to hear she’s been hurt, but I don’t understand—“

  When she let it trail off, the sergeant said, “She was a little more than just hurt, I’m afraid. She’s been murdered.”

  Josephine could feel herself turning pale. After a moment she said, “By James Clayton?”

  “We think so.”

  Josephine felt a cold, invisible hand squeeze her spine. James Clayton was the Clyde in the Bonnie-and-Clyde relationship between himself and Delores Pitton. Six months back, Josephine, along with eleven other jurors, had found Delores Pitton guilty of first-degree murder in the bank-robbery death of a bank teller. Because the jury had refused to recommend leniency, the woman had received the maximum sentence of life imprisonment.

  James Clayton, who was still at large, mailed a letter postmarked the same date as the sentencing to the presiding judge. In it he threatened to kill the judge, the prosecutor and every member of the jury if his girlfriend was not given her freedom.

  All fourteen of those threatened had immediately been placed under heavy police guard. But after six weeks with no attempts on the lives of any of the fourteen, no further threats and no reported sightings of the notorious bandit that could be authenticated, the guard had been relieved. Nothing had been heard of James Clayton since, and it was now months since he had even been mentioned in the news.

  Josephine said, in a tone she tried to keep steady, “He was just lying low until he was sure security measures had been relaxed, then?”

  “Apparently. I thought at the time that the publicity given his threat, and particularly the publicity given to the security measures taken to protect all of you, was a mistake. I wasn’t on the case at that time, but I recall there were even photographs in the paper of some of the threatened jurors with their police bodyguards.”

  Josephine nodded. “There was one of me and Mrs. Murphy, seated together in this room, on the front page. Mrs. Murphy was the policewoman who stayed here nights after the threat.”

  “Oh, yes, Connie Murphy. She’s currently on leave to have a baby.”

  “Well, how nice!” Then Josephine pulled herself from this pleasant distraction back to the unpleasant reality of murder. “When did it happen? Mrs. Sommerfield, I mean.”

  “Apparently last night, but it wasn’t discovered until this morning, when a friend dropped by to see her. She was a widow and lived alone, you know. It will be in tonight’s paper, although we are not at this time releasing that we think the killer was Clayton. We don’t intend to make the same mistake we did after his threatening letter.”

  “I see. How—how was it done?”

  “With a knife. No weapon was found at the scene, but we guess it was a switchblade, since he’s known to carry one with a seven-inch blade. There was only a single stab wound, through the heart, and apparently she was killed in her sleep, because she was in bed and there was no sign of a struggle.”

  Josephine shivered. “How did he get in?”

  “We don’t know. There was no sign of forced entry. The front door was off the latch, which is how the friend got in when she discovered the body, but we think he left it that way on the way out. The friend says it’s inconceivable that Mrs. Sommerfield would have left any door or window unlocked, because she was almost neurotically afraid of burglars. James Clayton is an expert burglar, though, in addition to being a heist artist. As a matter of fact, he has numerous criminal talents. He’s really quite a clever man, even if he is psychotic. And he’s slippery as an eel. As you know, we’ve never even come close to laying a hand on him. If he hadn’t been off somewhere when his girlfriend was taken, I rather suspect he might have slid her out of that.”

  After a period of silence, Josephine asked, “If there was no sign of forced entry, and no weapon left behind, how do you know it was James Clayton?”

  “He inadvertently left behind a clue. A list containing the names of all twelve jurors in the Pitton case, the judge and the prosecutor. Mrs. Sommerfield’s name was first on the list, and a line in red ink was drawn through it. We think that what happened was that he took out the list to draw a line through her name immediately after killing her, then for some reason got rattled and left it lying on her dresser instead of putting it back in his pocket. The woman kept a cat, and maybe it came into the bedroom and distracted him just then. The paper had some fingerprints on it, but we can’t check them against Clayton’s because his aren’t on file. He’s never been in custody.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, I recall that from the time of the trial. Do you think he still plans to carry out his two-victims-at-a-time threat?”

  “There is no reason to believe he has changed his plan. If he manages to kill a second victim, we anticipate that the judge will get another letter demanding Delores Pitton’s release, or he will kill another two.”

  After considering this, Josephine said, “Then we will all be placed under guard again for awhile. The police can hardly afford to keep around-the-clock bodyguards on twelve people indefinitely, so when they are eventually withdrawn, he will come back and kill two more.”

  “We plan to prevent him from killing his second victim. We hope to catch him.”

  Josephine said dryly, “Neither the police from coast-to-coast nor the FBI has had much success at that endeavor up to now.”

  “No,” the sergeant admitted. “But do you suggest we release Delores Pitton from prison?”

  “Of course not. Every thug in the country with a girlfriend or partner in jail would immediately try the same stunt.”

  “Exactly,” Sergeant Cord agreed.

  “Nevertheless it leaves us survivors in a rather uncomfortable position. Do you recall where I was on that list you mentioned, Sergeant?”

  “Second, Miss Henry.”

  Josephine blinked.

  “There is nothing to worry about, though,” he assured her. “You are already under around-the-clock guard. The officer in the hallway I introduced you to will remain there after I leave, and will be relieved by another guard when his trick is up. There is also an officer stationed behind the apartment building at the back door to check everyone who goes in that way.”

  “Last time a policewoman stayed with me nights.”

  “One will this time also. I am assigning to you the women’s pistol champ of the force.”

  “Well, that’s somewhat reassuring,” Josephine said.

  The detective stood up. “I guess that about covers it, Miss Henry. Officer Phelps—that’s the policewoman I’m sending over, Gladys Phelps—will be along well before dark. Meantime, if you wish to go out anywhere, Officer Dewey out in the hallway will accompany you.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Would you like a cookie before you go? I was just taking them from the oven when you rang the bell.”

  “I can smell them,” he said, sitting down again. “Thank you, I would love one.”

  As Josephine rose from the sofa, the door chimes sounded, again sending Coco Joe to the door, barking furiously. Josephine gave Sergeant Cord an inquiring look.

  “Your caller had to be passed by Officer Dewey,” he said reassuringly. “But just to make sure, I’ll check.”

  Rising, he went over to the door and peered through the peephole. At his feet the Pomeranian continued his furious barking.

  “Someone in orange coveralls,” he announced. “A woman, I think.”

  “Oh, that’s the Canine Beauty Care Center, come to take Coco for his weekly bath and trim.”

  The police officer stepped back and Josephine opened the door. Coco Joe rushed out, snarling, then stopped and began to wag his tail after a sniff at the messenger’s legs.

  The woman was tall and rather masculine looking, with short-cropped black hair and a lean, not very curvaceous body. She wore one-piece coveralls of bright orange with Canine Beauty Care Center embroidered in small black letters over her heart. Josephine had never seen her before.

  “You’re new, aren’t you?” she said. “What happened to Stella?”

  “She’s on vacation. I’m Margie.” She glanced at Sergeant Cord behind Josephine, at Officer Dewey alongside the door, then stooped to pick up the little dog. “I guess this is Coco Joe, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s Coco,” Josephine said. “You’re going with the nice lady, Coco Joe. You be good now.”

  “Oh, he’ll be good,” the woman said, stroking the dog’s neck. “He’s a little darling. Will you be home about six, Miss Henry?”

  “Yes, I plan to be.”

  “Then I’ll drop him off on my way home, instead of making a special trip. I go within a few blocks of here.”

  “All right, that will be fine.”

  Coco Joe made no objection to the woman carrying him over to the elevator. He gave Officer Dewey a warning growl, though, when he went over to push the elevator signal button for the messenger, but made no attempt to attack the policeman. Coco only had conniption fits when men tried to enter the apartment.

  When Josephine closed the door, Sergeant Cord asked, “How come your dog didn’t devour her?”

  “He only attacks men,” Josephine told him. “He loves women. I think he regards them as sex objects.”

  The sergeant murmured, “How could he tell in this case?” then looked as though he wished he hadn’t.

  “She was a bit boyish, wasn’t she?” Josephine said with a grin, and went on into the kitchen for the cookies. From there she called, “Would you like some tea also, Sergeant? Or a glass of milk?”

  After a short delay, during which the detective considered these two choices, he called back, “Milk would be fine, ma’am.”

  When she returned with a plate of cookies, a glass of milk and a napkin, he had reseated himself. Josephine set everything on the end table next to his chair, took a single cookie from the plate and returned to the sofa.

  “I seldom nibble between meals,” she explained. “So I’ll just taste one to see how they came out. But you have all you wish, Sergeant. There are plenty more.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He helped himself to a cookie and tasted it. “Umm, delicious. You bake like my mother used to.”

  “Why, thank you, Sergeant.”

  Both nibbled for a few minutes. Presently she said, “It would be helpful to have a picture of James Clayton, in case he tried coming around as a door-to-door salesman or something.”

  “Sorry, but there are no mug shots, because he’s never been arrested. We do have what we believe is a pretty good description, though. He is thirty-two years old, but looks younger because he has a smooth complexion and a rather boyish face. He has blue eyes and straw-colored hair that he wore in a crewcut on his last bank job, but that was more than seven months ago, so it may be longer now. He is five-feet-six to five-feet-seven-inches tall, and weighs an estimated hundred and thirty-five pounds.”

  “I am already familiar with his description,” Josephine said. “It was printed at the time of his threatening letter just after the trial. It always surprised me that such a violent man was so small.”

  “They often are,” the sergeant said. “From Billy the Kid right up through James Clayton the most vicious killers in this country have generally been relatively small men. Psychologists say that’s one of the things that turns them vicious. They’re compensating for getting pushed around as kids.”

  “I suppose there’s at least a germ of truth in that,” Josephine said reflectively. “Before I retired from school-teaching, I often wondered when I saw some bully picking on a smaller boy, how the victim would be affected later in life by his recollection of the unpleasant experience. Perhaps the bullies he encountered as a child are more responsible for James Clayton’s career in crime than anything basically evil in the man.”

  “Don’t start feeling sorry for him,” the detective advised her. “He is known to have killed at least five people prior to Mrs. Sommerfield, and at least three of the killings were deliberate acts of viciousness which were entirely unnecessary. One was an old man, a customer at one of the banks he and Delores knocked over, who simply failed to move as fast as Clayton wanted him to. Turned out later he couldn’t, because he was arthritic.”

  “I know he’s a terrible man,” Josephine conceded. “And I am hardly inclined to sympathize with anyone whose goal is to kill me. But I can still regret the traumat
ic experiences he must have had as a child to make him into such a monster.”

  Sergeant Cord, obviously unconvinced that factors other than innate evilness turned people to crime, merely grunted. By now having consumed three cookies and his glass of milk, he rose to his feet.

  “Well, I’ll be running along now, Miss Henry,” he said. “Thank you for the delicious cookies and for the milk.”

  “You’re welcome, Sergeant.”

  She accompanied him to the door. Standing in the open doorway, he beckoned to Officer Dewey, who was seated on a small wooden bench directly across from the elevator.

  When the young policeman came over, Sergeant Cord said, “You’re to accompany Miss Henry if she decides to go our anywhere, Harry. But phone in where you’re going, and be sure to give the apartment a thorough check when you come back.”

  “Sure, Sarge.”

  “I’m sending over a policewoman named Gladys Phelps early this evening,” the sergeant said. “When do you go off duty?”

  “Six p.m.”

  “Well, you’ll be gone before she gets here, so tell your relief to expect her. She will spend the night in the apartment.” He turned to Josephine to append reassuringly, “The guard out here and the one out back will still be on duty around the clock, Miss Henry. A policewoman on the premises is merely extra precaution.”

  “Yes, I understand, Sergeant.”

  “What time do you actually have dinner?”

  “About five-thirty.”

  “Then if Officer Phelps got here at six-thirty, you should be all through?”

  “Yes, but she can come for dinner, if she would like,” Josephine offered.

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

  “I know it isn’t necessary,” Josephine said. “But I often had Mrs. Murphy for dinner when she was guarding me six months ago, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I assure you she’s quite welcome.”

  “Well, I’ll pass on your invitation and see what she says.”