The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Deming, Richard

  “You would be equally welcome, Sergeant, if you want to come back when she does.”

  “Why, thank you,” Sergeant Cord said in a slightly startled voice. “But unfortunately I have other plans. Thanks again for the cookies and milk.”

  “Again you’re quite welcome, Sergeant.”

  She and the young patrolman watched the detective cross to the elevator, press the call button and get on when the car came to the fourth floor.

  As soon as the elevator door closed, Josephine said, “Would you like some cookies, Officer Dewey?”

  The odor of the cookies had crept into the hallway through the open door. He said in a grateful tone, “Why that would be very kind of you, ma’am.”

  “All right, come on in,” she said, stepping aside.

  When he looked doubtful, she said, “You’ll hardly be deserting your post, young man. It seems to me you’ll be much better protection inside the apartment than out here in the hallway. Suppose this Clayton man got past your guard out back and picked the lock of my back door?”

  “That makes sense, ma’am,” Harry Dewey said with a grin.

  He went over to lift his visored cap from where he had laid it on the wooden bench where he had been seated, and followed her into the front room. He laid his cap on the end table nearest the door.

  “You may sit right over there where the sergeant was,” Josephine said, pointing. “Would you like tea or milk with your cookies?”

  It took the young patrolman as long to think over these choices as it had the sergeant. Eventually he opted for milk. There was still a dozen cookies on the plate, so Josephine didn’t bother to replenish it. But she carried the sergeant’s empty glass into the kitchen and returned with another filled with milk.

  Harry Dewey gratified Josephine by eating eight of her cookies. When he finished the last one and had drained his milk glass, he stood up and said, “Thank you very much, ma’am. They were delicious. I guess I had better get back to my post.”

  “Why?” she inquired. “You’re not in my way. I’m going to be in the kitchen for a time, preparing dinner, then I plan to nap while it’s baking in the oven. At my age I start yawning about seven if I don’t have an afternoon nap. You’re welcome to sit here and watch television, if you wish. As a matter of fact you’re welcome to stay for dinner.”

  “Thank you, but my wife will be expecting me.” Then, beginning to realize that the hospitable ex-schoolteacher tossed out dinner invitations to anyone who happened to be nearby, he forestalled her possible later disappointment by saying, “The man who relieves me will already have eaten.”

  “Oh?” she said, mildly surprised by this gratuitous information. “Well, you’re still welcome to watch TV in here, if you wish.”

  “I guess I could do that,” the young policeman said, going over to peer at the set. “There’s a ball game on channel four.”

  “Would you like some more milk? Or a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you,” he said politely. Then, after a pause, he asked tentatively, “Do you happen to have any coffee?”

  “Oh, of course. I never think of coffee, because I never drink it. I’ll make some.”

  She made a pot of coffee, replenished the plate of cookies, and left Harry Dewey to his own devices as she prepared dinner. She fixed stuffed pork chops, wrapped some potatoes in foil for baking, and made a salad. She put the first two items in the oven and the third in the refrigerator. At four-thirty she turned on the oven, set the timer to go off in an hour, then went into her bedroom for an hour’s nap.

  When the bell ringing in the kitchen awakened her at five-thirty, she found the patrolman still seated before the television and the cookie plate nearly empty. In the kitchen she checked the chops and potatoes, found both done, and turned the oven down to 150 to keep them warm. For a vegetable she started heating frozen peas in a pot.

  At a quarter of six she was ready to serve dinner, but the policewoman had not yet showed up. She had about decided she wasn’t coming until after dinner, and had resigned herself to dining alone, when the door chimes sounded. She looked out from the kitchen door as Officer Dewey peered through the spy-hole, then opened the door into the hall.

  “Hi,” a pleasantly husky voice said from beyond Josephine’s range of vision. “I’m Gladys Phelps.”

  “Harry Dewey,” the young man said. “Come on in.”

  A tall strawberry blonde with a slender figure entered. She carried a small overnight bag in her left hand, and had a shoulder bag slung from her right shoulder. She wore a blue police uniform with a knee-length skirt, sensible low-heeled black shoes, and had a blue overseas-type hat perched at an angle on her head, Josephine guessed her to be somewhere in her mid-twenties.

  “This is Miss Henry, Gladys,” Dewey said. “Officer Phelps, Miss Henry.”

  The policewoman smiled acknowledgment. Josephine said, “I’m glad you could make it in time for dinner. You haven’t had dinner, have you?”

  Shaking her head, the strawberry blonde said in her pleasantly husky voice, “No.”

  Harry Dewey said, “I go off duty in fifteen minutes, Gladys, but another guard will be stationed out in the hall all night. There’s also one out back, checking everyone who enters by the back entrance.”

  The policewoman nodded understanding.

  “I’d better get out in the hall to wait for my relief. Thanks for the refreshments, Miss Henry.”

  “You’re quite welcome, young man.”

  Picking up his visored cap, the patrolman went out. Eyeing the newcomer’s left hand and spotting no rings, Josephine said, “It’s Miss Phelps, not Mrs. Phelps, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Or Gladys, if you like.”

  “All right, Gladys,” Josephine said, smiling. “I have only one bedroom, but the sofa makes up into a quite comfortable double bed. There’s a dressing room off the bedroom where you can leave your overnight bag.” She gestured in the direction of the central hall.

  “Thanks,” the policewoman said, carrying the bag down the hallway and disappearing into the dressing room.

  The door chimes sounded. The policewoman immediately reappeared in the central hall doorway.

  Josephine said, “That must be my little dog. He’s due back from the doggie beauty parlor about now.”

  She went over to peer through the viewing hole. It was the same messenger who had picked up the dog, now wearing a suit of mannish cut in place of the orange coveralls. She had Coco Joe cradled in her arms. The Pomeranian was growling in the direction of the bench alongside the door, presumably at Officer Dewey.

  Opening the door, Josephine took the little dog from the messenger’s arms. His coat was shiny clean, he was freshly trimmed, and a little purple bow had been pinned to the top of his head with a hairpin.

  “Hi, you fierce beast,” Josephine said. “Was he good?”

  “Just darling. See you next week, Miss Henry.”

  “All right, dear. Good night.”

  Closing the door, she set Coco Joe on the floor. Instantly the dog whipped across the room, snarling and snapping at the policewoman’s ankles. A defensive kick sent him rolling head-over-heels, squealing, toward Josephine, who scooped him up in her arms.

  Apparently the kick had hurt only his dignity, because he immediately began to struggle to get out of her grip, snarling and growling at the policewoman all the time.

  “What’s the matter with you, you silly little dog?” Josephine scolded him, slapping lightly at his muzzle. “Stop it now! She’s a friend.”

  When the dog finally quieted to the point of merely emitting low-toned growls, Josephine said apologetically, “I’m sorry. I don’t know wha t’s gotten into him. I’d better lock him in the bedroom until he quiets down.”

  The policewoman stepped out of the way to allo
w her to carry the dog down the hallway to the bedroom. As she closed the bedroom door behind her, Josephine started to say, “You bad little—” then suddenly cut it off and stood stock still.

  Coco Joe never made a mistake about the sex of visitors to the apartment. The masculine attire, masculine figure and masculine hairdo of the Canine Beauty Care Center messenger had not fooled him for an instant. He had known she was female anyway.

  Just as the policewoman’s garb had not fooled him. He had known the intruder was male.

  Josephine’s skin turned cold. The person who claimed to be Gladys Phelps was about five-feet-six or seven, probably weighed around 135 pounds, had blue eyes and a rather boyish face.

  But hadn’t the voice been feminine? Not markedly, she answered herself, just not obviously masculine. And the supposed Gladys Phelps had said very few words, now that she thought of it, had so far been almost monosyllabic in fact—perhaps because it was a strain to assume that husky, almost feminine voice.

  But what about the strawberry blonde hair?

  The answer to that was simple. Every department store in town sold women’s wigs. You could get a quite natural-looking one for as little as twenty-five dollars.

  But that would involve advance planning on James Clayton’s part. How could he possibly have guessed that a policewoman would be heading for her apartment in time to go buy a wig before intercepting her? And how did he know her name?

  Setting Coco Joe on the bed, she went over to gaze out the window at the street four stories below while she sought answers to those two questions.

  They came disturbingly quickly. He had seen the front-page photograph, six months before, of Josephine and her policewoman bodyguard seated in the apartment. The police, like criminals, tended to follow a certain modus operandi. James Clayton could be reasonably certain they would assign another policewoman guard to Josephine if they suspected he was the killer of Mrs. Sommerfield. Perhaps the list of potential victims had not been left behind on that poor woman’s dresser by accident after all. Perhaps it had been deliberately planted in order to make sure another policewoman guard was assigned to Josephine.

  The answer to the second question was even easier. The killer had gotten Gladys Phelps’ name from her identification card after he killed her.

  If she had not been so frightened. Josephine might have felt admiration for the deviousness of the man’s plot. It would have been considerably easier and less dangerous for him to have come direct from Mrs. Sommerfield’s murder last night to Josephine’s apartment. But this way he could demonstrate to the whole world, and specifically to the remaining twelve potential victims, that police protection meant nothing once James Clayton singled you out. Despite Sergeant Cord’s assertion that his demand for the release of Dolores Pitton from prison could not even be considered, and her agreement with the assertion, there undoubtedly would be strong pressure from at least some of the survivors to do just that, if he succeeded in murdering Josephine under the very noses of the police.

  Josephine resolved to do everything in her power to prevent him from succeeding.

  Unfortunately none of her apartment windows overlooked the back, or she might have dropped a note to the guard back there. She contemplated, then discarded, simply casually walking to the front door, suddenly darting out into the hall and calling to Officer Dewey that the policewoman was James Clayton in disguise. That probably would only get the young policeman killed too, because it was too much to expect for him to react quickly enough to do anything as unnatural to his instincts as shooting what seemed to be a policewoman before the bandit got in the first shot.

  All at once it occurred to her that Officer Dewey had already been remarkably lucky in not being personally acquainted with Gladys Phelps. The killer must have simply taken a brazen chance on that, planning to draw the gun that undoubtedly was in that shoulder bag and start shooting if anyone accused him of being an imposter.

  Realizing the fake policewoman would probably become suspicious and come looking for her if she didn’t reappear soon, she decided she had better come up with a plan of defense at once. But any defensive action necessarily depended on the killer’s plan of attack. Did he mean to dispose of her quickly, or to wait until she was asleep, as Mrs. Sommerfield had been?

  Putting herself in the killer’s place, she decided the problem of getting by the guard in the outer hall threw the odds with him waiting until she was asleep. In the morning the policewoman guard was expected to leave, because she only stayed in the apartment nights. The killer could simply tell the outside guard that Josephine was still sleeping, walk past him and get on the elevator.

  Then it occurred to her it would be just as simple for him to walk out five minutes from now on the pretense of going downstairs to get some cigarettes from the machine in the lobby.

  Glancing at her watch, she saw it was five of six. She was reasonably certain James Clayton would not time the murder within the next few minutes, because he knew the changeover of hallway guards was due to take place at six. There would be no point in timing the killing when there might be two policemen outside the door. Logically he would wait until at least a few minutes after six, so that in case anything went wrong, he would have to contend with only one police guard.

  Looking into her dresser mirror, she realized she was too pale to fool anyone into believing she wasn’t frightened half out of her wits. Deliberately she held her breath until her face became beet red. When she finally let it out, her color gradually faded, but only back to its normal tint.

  Ordering Coco Joe to stay on the bed, she went out into the hallway and shut the door behind her to keep the dog in the bedroom. Squaring her shoulders and sternly reminding herself that her life depended on her acting perfectly natural, she marched up the hallway to the front room.

  The pseudo-policewoman had one ear to the front door, trying to hear what went on in the front hall. The shoulder bag still hung from the imposter’s shoulder.

  Josephine’s resolve shattered, and she became absolutely terrified.

  Yet when the man in policewoman’s uniform turned to give her a sharp look, she found herself saying in a natural tone, despite her screaming nerves, “Why don’t you take off your cap, dear?”

  Summoning a smile, the imposter removed the little blue cap and laid it on the same table where Officer Dewey had put his. Josephine breathed a sigh of relief, because that put her over the first hurdle of her plan.

  “Dinner is all ready,” she said. “You don’t mind eating in the kitchen, do you?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she walked into the kitchen, stiff-legged to keep her body from shaking with terror. The pseudo-policewoman followed.

  Pausing next to the electric stove to give the simmering peas a stir, Josephine pointed to the chair whose back was to the stove and said, “Sit there, please, Gladys.”

  Hanging the shoulder bag over the back of the chair, the imposter sat. Josephine stooped as though to open the oven door, but instead drew out the drawer beneath it and quietly lifted out the largest of her iron skillets.

  With her right hand she raised the skillet high overhead. With her left she suddenly plunked off the wig. She had a double motive for doing the latter. She was afraid the wig would cushion the blow, and she wanted to make absolutely sure the person she was braining was not a policewoman after all.

  The hair beneath the wig was straw-colored and crewcut. Josephine smashed the iron skillet down on top of it with all her might. The imposter half rose from his chair, glanced around with glazing eyes, and pitched sideways onto the floor.

  Setting the skillet on the stove, Josephine grabbed up the shoulder bag and raced to the front door. When she flung it open, she found two policemen in the hallway. Officer Dewey was in the act of punching the elevator button. Standing with him was an equally large, but middle-aged policeman.
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  “Come quick!” Josephine gasped. “I just captured James Clayton!”

  The bandit was still unconscious when the two policemen got to the kitchen. As a matter of fact he was still unconscious when the ambulance got there, although the intern who came with it told Josephine he thought the man had only a severe concussion instead of a fracture, and no doubt would live.

  While awaiting the ambulance, the middle-aged officer had gone searching for the real Gladys Phelps, leaving Officer Dewey with Josephine and the prisoner. He found her on the roof, not dead as Josephine had feared, but obviously left for dead. She had been knocked unconscious by some kind of blunt instrument, then, after removing her uniform, her assailant had slipped his knife into her back.

  The intern who had declared James Clayton in no real danger of dying seemed to think the policewoman had every chance of surviving too. He said that the very fact she was still alive indicated that knife blade had neither penetrated the heart nor any other vital spot, and that a few stitches and some blood transfusions ought to pull her through.

  Josephine resolved that as soon as Gladys Phelps recovered, she would have the policewoman over to make up for the dinner she had missed.

  It was nearly eight p.m. by the time everyone, including the police, had left, and Josephine could have dinner. By then the baked chops were a little dried out, but they were still good. She shared them with Coco Joe.

  Customarily he ate dog food, but she felt he deserved the special treat. After all, he’d saved her life.

  THE EVILS OF DRINK

  Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, April 1980.

  When she retired at sixty-three Loretta Beam wanted to stay in Los Angeles, but she didn’t want to risk being murdered in her bed. And after thirty years as a welfare worker she knew there were sections of the city where a 103-pound spinster lady wouldn’t be safe in her own home.