Mike Quinn leaned back against the wall, grinning. He opened his mouth to say something, and Davis snapped, “Shut up, Mike.”
Sergeant Quinn looked aggrieved.
“You didn’t bother to listen to what I had to say yesterday, eh?” Davis growled at me. He wasn’t looking for an answer yet, so I kept quiet.
“You left here and, like a wise guy, shook your tail. If he hadn’t been as much of an amateur as you are, you couldn’t have done it, but you did. You shook him and then spent the day messing in police affairs.”
I started to say something then, but he held up a thin, bony hand. “First of all, what was the big idea telling that Zimmer kid not to tell us you’d been there, eh?”
I lifted my right shoulder and let it drop. “Listen, Lieutenant, you told me you didn’t want me to interfere in your murder case. All right. It’s not my fault if Les Zimmer phones me before he does you. As soon as I found out what he had called me for, I told him to get in touch with your office. No use getting you upset, so I told him not to mention I’d been there.”
“What did you foul up before I arrived?” he growled.
“Not a thing. We went into the kitchen and chewed the rag a while about visitors from space.…”
“Oh, brother,” Quinn laughed.
“Shut up, Mike,” Davis snapped, shooting him an irritated glance. “So you’re still sounding off about that, eh?” he went on to me.
“Listen,” I said, complaint in my voice. “I told you what the deal was. As a matter of fact, this is my last day on it; Maddigan and Roget have decided to call my investigation off.”
“It’d better be,” Davis snapped. “What else did you do yesterday?”
“Crying out loud, do you want it all? I got up in the morning with a hangover and had corn flakes and milk for breakfast. Then I — ”
“Don’t get smart with me, wise guy.” His colorless eyes narrowed and he drummed his thin fingers on the desk in irritation. “Who else did you see, eh?”
I said patiently, “I keep telling you this is another matter. I talked with Sandra and Ross Maddigan.”
“About men from Mars, eh?”
“About extra-terrestrials — mostly.”
Davis grunted with impatience and seemed to be considering inwardly whether or not to ask this next question. Finally he said, “When you were at the Shulman house, day before yesterday, did you take anything? Were you in the cellar?”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“Forget it,” Davis said. He sat there in silence; his eyes left me to go to the dirty window and off into the distance as he thought his thoughts. Finally he shifted in his chair and said, “What d’ya think happened over there at Zimmer’s? That burn in the wall.”
I took a deep breath and said deliberately, “It looks as though some extra-terrestrial took a shot at him with a heat ray.”
Davis remained silent for at least thirty seconds; then he snapped, “You get the hell out of here, Knight.” There were spots of red in his shrunken cheeks.
I came to my feet. “All right,” I said mildly. “I didn’t want to come in the first place.”
“You’re a little bit too snotty for your own good,” he growled. “We’ll see where it gets you, wise guy.”
I turned and walked out, closing the door behind me. They watched silently as I went, anger on Davis’s face, amusement on Quinn’s.
Instead of turning to the right to leave the building I crossed the corridor and took my time getting a drink from the battered water cooler there. No one had followed me, so I turned left and walked quickly thirty or forty feet to another door lettered simply, Homicide.
I opened the door and stuck my head in. Hermie Cain was sitting alone at a desk, reading a true detective magazine, and radiating boredom. He looked up at my entrance.
“Hi, Jeb,” he said. “Come on in; how’re ya?”
I told him all right and he tossed his magazine to the desk and leaned back to gab.
“Listen,” I said, “I’d like to chew the rag a while but I’m in kind of a hurry. I wanted to ask you something.”
“Good enough; ask me,” he yawned. Momentarily, I could see him the way he’d been four years ago in a khaki instead of a blue uniform; indolent except for those times when temper would boil over and he’d spend twenty minutes roaring about the army’s way of operating. Usually Hermie could be found goofing off somewhere, yawning and complaining that he didn’t get enough sleep. He slept more than any other three men in the company.
“Hermie,” I asked him, “what turned up missing at the Shulman house?”
He scowled. “Shulman house?”
“You know, that killing Davis is on. Harry Shulman.”
“Oh,” he was still scowling, “dammit, Jeb, you know I’m not supposed — ” He broke off and scratched his chin in irritation. “The old lady phoned in and said that burglars had swiped something or other.”
I leaned forward, resting my hands on the desk before him. “What?”
“I’ll be hanged if I remember. It was some magazines or something.”
I growled, “A lot of good you do me.” I straightened up. “Well, thanks anyway. See you later, Hermie.”
He yawned and picked up his magazine again when he saw I was about to go. “Good enough, Jeb.” He sneered at the magazine. “If this isn’t the damnedest tripe,” he complained. But his head was buried in it as I left.
There was a pay booth at the end of the corridor. I walked down to it, fishing in my pocket for a nickel. The phone book hung outside and I opened it, located the S section and ran my finger down to the Shulmans. There it was, listed under his name, Harold Shulman.
I went into the booth, closing the door carefully, dropped my nickel and dialed the number.
I could see her in my mind’s eye coming down the hall from the kitchen, wiping her thin hands on her apron.
Her voice said, “Hello.”
I said, “Mrs. Shulman, this is Jeb Knight. You’ll remember that I was at your home the other day talking about Harry.”
She didn’t answer for a moment; then she said hesitatingly, “Yes, yes, I remember. Later, the police officers told me that you weren’t a real policeman at all.”
“I didn’t tell you that I was, Mrs. Shulman. I told you that I was a detective. I’m a private detective.”
“I don’t know about such things. The officers said I didn’t really have to talk to you at all.”
“Of course not, Mrs. Shulman.” I tried to keep impatience from my voice. “But I am trying to help, to find some reason for this tragedy.”
There was weariness in her voice. “Why did you call, Mr. Knight?”
I got to the point. “I understand that something of Harry’s has been taken from the house.”
“Oh.” She hesitated again. “The officers said — ”
“Certainly, Mrs. Shulman. If you don’t wish to tell me about it, you don’t have to.”
“Well, I can’t see that it could do any harm. Harry’s magazines are gone.”
I scowled. “What magazines?”
“The little magazine he mimeographed. He used to distribute it to the other science fiction fans, you know. He called it, let me see — ”
“Off-Trail Fantasy?” I suggested, feeling a tightening in my throat.
“That’s right. He was very serious about it, you know. He had the latest issue — he brought them out irregularly, not on time every month — all ready to mail, down there in his little space in the cellar. Now they’re all gone. I don’t see …”
I didn’t get this at all.
“How do you mean, gone? You mean they’ve been stolen?”
“I was about to say that I can’t understand how they could be gone.”
“Mrs. Shulman, are you sure he didn’t mail them before the tragedy?”
“Yes, I’m sure. He had just finished stapling them together that day, before he went to the party. I think he took just one copy with hi
m.”
“Yes, I know,” I said softly. My lips were dry; I wet them with my tongue. “Mrs. Shulman, is anything else gone? Is it possible that a burglar — ” The question sounded silly to me, even as I asked it.
“No — nothing else.”
I talked to her for a few more minutes, getting nothing. She always locked her door when she left the house. No, none of the other fans had a key. No, she hadn’t read the issue. No, she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want it.
I thanked her and hung up.
I looked at my watch. It still wasn’t quite noon. I had plenty of time to get over to Sherman Halls and the convention.
I walked back to the office of Lee and Knight, Private Investigations, trying to make sense out of somebody stealing Harry Shulman’s latest issue of Off-Trail Fantasy.
The elevator growled me up to my floor and I unlocked the office door and, not taking time to close it after me, strode over to the desk. There was only one way that the theft made sense. Harry had evidently run something in that issue that somebody was keen on keeping quiet. Keen enough to kill the boy, keen enough to burgle his house of the copies he’d been on the verge of mailing.
I opened the top desk drawer and flicked through the odds and ends of papers there. It wasn’t there. I hurriedly went through the other drawers, trying to remember which one I’d tossed it into. It made no difference; it wasn’t in any of them.
I slumped down into my chair and stared at the worn green blotter on the desk surface, and pictured the scene in my mind. I’d come to the office that morning after the Scylla Club party with a sizzling hangover and a bottle to help kill it. The magazine had been uncomfortably bulky in my pocket so I’d thrown it into — yes, into the second drawer. Shortly after, I’d been visited in turn by Ross Maddigan, Sandra Maddigan, then Art Roget and James Maddigan.
I tried to remember whether or not the drawer had been open while any of them had been present. No, it hadn’t been. I was sure of that. I tried to remember whether or not I’d mentioned having the magazine to any of them. I was sure I hadn’t.
To my knowledge, no one knew I had a copy of the latest issue of Off-Trail Fantasy. No one at all. When Harry Shulman had taken me to the side at the party and told me about it, asking me to read it, no one had seen it change hands.
In short, as far as I knew, no one had been aware that I had the copy. But it was gone. Just as gone as the Stack in his cellar.
I got up from the swivel chair, walked up and down the tiny room twice, and stared out from the window for a full ten minutes. The dismal view must have been the same as ever, but I didn’t notice it. I turned back to the desk and opened the drawer for a pipe. I filled it from the pound tin and sat down again.
For the past few days I’d been chasing around talking to people, talking and talking, and learning nothing of value. Now here was something I should be able to tie into.
I picked up the phone and dialed Maddigan’s business number. A feminine voice answered, “Maddigan and Maddigan.”
I said, “Is James Maddigan there?”
“One moment, please.”
I waited my moment, and then an impatient voice rumbled, “Yes. This is Maddigan.”
“Jeb Knight,” I said.
“Yes? I thought you were to attend the convention.”
“Something came up. Listen, did you get that little magazine that Harry Shulman used to put out?”
“I was unaware he printed one. You mean a fanzine?” His voice had a far away sound, as though he weren’t particularly concentrating on what I was saying.
“That’s right,” I told him. “It was called Off-Trail Fantasy.”
“Oh, yes. I do recall now. No, I didn’t subscribe. As a matter of fact, I didn’t really know Harry very well, you realize. Until we were both elected to the convention entertainment committee I hardly knew him more than to exchange greetings. Why do you ask?”
“The whole issue has disappeared.”
His voice was puzzled. “I don’t believe I understand you.”
“It looks as though somebody has stolen the current issue of Off-Trail Fantasy.”
“Why?” I had his attention now, but his voice was still puzzled.
“I don’t know why. I was at Lieutenant Davis’s office a short time ago and he let drop a hint. I checked with a friend of mine at headquarters and finally wiggled it out.”
Maddigan said, “It doesn’t seem to make sense. At any rate, write it up in your report tonight. I’m exceedingly busy now, Knight. But tell me, do the police seem to be achieving progress in their endeavors? Have they as yet found their motive for Harry’s death?”
“I don’t think so. Nor for the attempt on Zimmer, either. I suppose you read about Les Zimmer and his heat ray in the report I sent you last night.”
“Yes, I did. Quite fantastic. Well, Knight, suppose you cover the convention today and see if you can come upon anything there. Your employment, of course, will expire tonight. Let me see, we shall still owe you something for expenses.”
“A few dollars for taxis is all. I’ll bill you for it.”
“Very well, Mr. Knight. Good day.”
We hung up and I sat there staring at the phone. Finally I picked up the phone book from its spot on the left corner of the desk and looked up Ross Maddigan’s number. I dialed him, but there was no answer. He was probably either already at the Sherman Halls auditorium, or on his way.
Just for luck, I searched through the desk again, particularly the second drawer. It wasn’t there.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was high time that I get over to the convention, but I’d had only coffee for breakfast and I needed something on my stomach before undergoing that ordeal, something hot and something substantial. I left the office and walked over to the corner of Marion and Herkimer to the Acme Lunch, the neighborhood dirty spoon. I got a large bowl of beef stew and approximately half a pound of semi-stale white bread.
The first few mouthfuls were hard getting down, but from there on it wasn’t too bad. I finished with more of an appetite than when I’d started. I told myself it was going to be a long time before I had another drink.
I sat at the table picking my teeth and messing with a second cup of coffee until the waitress started hovering over me. Well, it couldn’t be put off indefinitely. I got to my feet, slipped a fifteen-cent tip under a saucer, paid the bill, and returned to the street. The summer heat was with us in earnest; I squinted against the sun and felt my shirt stick to my back. I squared my shoulders and bravely set off for the AnnCon, the tenth anniversary of the World Science Fiction Convention.
I walked over to city center and got a Stark Avenue bus running south. Sherman Halls and the Bigelow Hotel were located at Morgan Avenue and East Tenth; I got off at Morgan and Eighth and walked over to Tenth. I stood there for a moment, looking up at the building. I’d never been inside, but I knew they had at least a half-dozen halls of various sizes, from an auditorium which would seat hundreds to smaller rooms for twenty persons and up. According to Maddigan, the science fiction fans had the main auditorium for the next four days.
I crossed the street and entered the foyer. A directory, right opposite the entrance, listed those events scheduled for the day.
Assembly Hall: Socialist Labor Party; speaker, Damon Long; subject: “Capitalism Means War.” 8 P.M.
South Hall: Church of the Advent; speaker, Reverend Joseph David; subject: “Has Jesus Already Returned?” 7:30 P.M.
Washington Hall: United Vegetarians; speaker, Claude Morowitz; subject: “Is Mankind Omnivorous?” 8 P.M.
Auditorium: World Science Fiction Convention. Noon.
I looked around to spot someone who could tell me where the auditorium was. It wasn’t necessary. In the door came a grown man dressed like Flash Gordon, with a transparent plastic helmet over his head and a child’s rocket pistol at his belt.
“Oh, no,” I groaned inaudibly.
Flash Gordon turned to the right and ascende
d the staircase there. I followed him. If he didn’t belong to the science fiction convention, then I didn’t belong to the human race.
There they were, all right. The auditorium’s entrance was on the second floor of the Sherman Halls. The doors opened on the back of the hall, which slanted forward gently to a comfortable-sized stage. Even from the entrance, I could see that the local members had gone to considerable trouble decorating the place for their convention. I shuddered.
Flash Gordon marched on inside and I began to follow, but a bright young thing in sweater, skirt and bobby sox, sitting at a desk at the door, asked smilingly, “Have you registered yet?”
I looked down at her. “No. Where do I register?”
She said, “Here,” looking as though I wasn’t very bright. “That will be one dollar.”
“All right,” I told her. I paid the dollar, signed a book, gave her my name and address and watched as she typed up that vital information on a registration card. The registration card I put in a pocket; the pin she gave me went on my coat. I was now evidently eligible to enter.
First she said, “Are you acquainted? Would you like one of the local fans to take you around? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before — ”
“I’ll make out,” I told her. “Is Ross Maddigan about?”
“He was here a minute ago. Ross is on the committee.”
“How about Les Zimmer or Art Roget?”
“Well, Les is supposed to be ill at home, but I imagine he’ll be down later anyway.” She smiled, as though we had a secret between us. “You know Les; he couldn’t be kept away by a spaceship full of Aldeberans.”
I shot her a quick glance, but she hadn’t meant anything by it; evidently what had happened to Les Zimmer hadn’t made the rounds as yet. I felt like telling her, “That’s what you think,” but I kept it to myself.
She said, “I think I saw Art around a few minutes ago. Are you a pro?” She arched an eyebrow.
I blinked at her. “Come again?”
“You aren’t a professional — a writer, or editor, or maybe an illustrator?” She was shaking her head slightly as though she already knew the answer.
The Case of the Little Green Men Page 11
