I said, “Who put the extra weight on the garage door, Bayley?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think you’d better find out?”
“Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I just thought it might be a good idea.” Bayley said, “Listen, buddy. Don’t get me wrong. You’re where you can push me around right now, but you can only push me so hard, and you can only push me so far. One of these days I’ll be the boss here.” I laughed at him, and my laughter intensified the glint of hatred in his eyes. “What’s funny about that?” he demanded. “You are.”
“Why me?”
“Overlooking what’s happening right under your nose.”
“All right, wise guy, what’s happening under my nose?”
“Corbin Harmley.” It took a minute for the impact of the remark to smack home in his brain, then when the full import of what I had said registered with him, I saw the anger in his eyes give place to startled apprehension. His self-assurance dropped from him, leaving him the overgrown boy, a big hunk of masculine immaturity, sitting there staring at me with comprehension of what was happening knocking the props out from under his self-esteem.
It was almost thirty seconds before he said, with a slow deliberation which gave emphasis to his words, “By—God!” I followed up. “You may have thought Mrs. Devarest was pretty strong for you, and that you could strut all over the place, posing in front of her to let her see how big and strong you were. What you overlooked was the fact that Harmley has all you’ve got and a lot more. He has an education, culture, and a profile. Mrs. Devarest is flattered and interested.” Bayley said with feeling, “Why, the dirty skunk! If he tries any of that –”
“Yes, go on, Bayley. What will you do?” He let his head sway sullenly from side to side in a surly gesture. “No, you don’t,” he said. “You don’t trap me.” I watched him shifting uneasily in the chair. “I was just wondering,” I said.
“Well, go ahead and wonder.”
“What makes you think Mrs. Devarest would have stood up in front of a minister with you? Usually widows like to fluff their feathers for a while just to see if they have wings and can really fly.” He said, “Nuts, I can get any dame I really want to.”
“That takes in a lot of territory.” His thick lips broke into a sneer. “Doesn’t it?” he asked, and then after a moment added, “I know what I’m talking about. You try to hand a woman a line, and make her, and sometimes you get to first base, and then get thrown out trying to steal second. But get a woman interested in you, and then just don’t do a damn thing about it, and you got her worried. After a while, she starts making little advances. You don’t pay any attention to them. Then she comes all the way. And once a woman has gone all the way with me, I can make her do anything. She’s mine from then on.” I said, “I think Harmley will ask her to marry him tonight.” I saw his eyes widen as he thought that over. It was my chance. I got up and walked on past him out of the door.
Chapter XIV
THE clerk in the Probate Department looked at me dubiously. “What did you say your name was?”
“Lam—Donald Lam.”
“You’re not a lawyer?”
“No.”
“What is your occupation, Mr. Lam?” I gave her one of my cards. She studied it and seemed dubious about what to do with it, then she said, “Just what is it you want?” I said, “I’d like a list of cases which are in probate where a man died leaving a good-sized estate, but no business associates.”
“I don’t think I understand. We don’t keep files listed in a way to get that information.” I said, “A man such as a doctor practising medicine by himself, being fairly well-to-do, and leaving quite a chunk of property.” She shook her head. “We can’t handle things that way. You’ll have to tell me what specific estate you want to find out about.” I went into the telephone booth, called the secretary of the Medical Association, and asked him to read me obituary notices of the most prominent and successful doctors who had died during the past year. I got half a dozen names, among them that of Dr. Devarest. Then I went back to the girl at the desk. Within ten minutes I had the files of half a dozen estates.
I went to work on the telephone, in the booth at the corner of the probate clerk’s office.
With the first woman, I drew a blank. With the second, I started the same line. “Excuse me please, but I’m telephoning from the probate clerk’s office at the courthouse. I want to find out something about your husband’s estate.”
“Yes. What was it you wanted to know?”
“During your husband’s lifetime, did he have some dealings with a chap in the early thirties who has dark, wavy hair, a long, straight nose, a clean-cut profile, a habit of holding his chin high, who has nice eyes, that are capable of expressing sympathy, humour, and ”
“Why, yes,” she interrupted. “Mr. Harmley.”
“Did that deal involve South American properties?”
“No, it didn’t. The only business connection my husband had with him was to lend him money. He lent him a small sum, and Mr. Harmley was very grateful.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Harmley returned from South America and repaid the money?” She said, “He arrived in town, as it happened, the day my husband died. He read the notice in the paper, and got in touch with me, sending me a little note of condolence and a cheque for the two hundred and fifty dollars together with six months’ interest. He said he hoped it would help to defray the expenses.”
“And your husband didn’t have any interest in the oil properties?”
“My husband didn’t, no.” There was just a faint accent on the word husband. “You have acquired some interest yourself?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it. Who is this talking, please, and what did you want to know?” I said patiently, “Madam, we’re simply trying to find out whether those oil securities were your own investment, or were acquired by your husband as the result of a previous loan. In the latter event, it makes a difference about the inventory and the inheritance tax.”
“Oh,” she said, mollified. “No. My husband had nothing to do with them. They’re purely my own individual property.”
“Thank you,” I said and hung up.
I climbed the three flights of stairs at 681 East Bendon Street. It was about eleven-thirty in the morning. The odds were greatly in my favour that neither Dorothy Grail nor Nollie Starr would be in, but I went through the motions of knocking on the door. No one answered. The lock was a cinch. Probably the apartment had maid service once a week, and the lock was a type which a simple passkey would operate.
I closed the door behind me. The spring lock clicked into place. I went to work methodically, starting first with the living room, and particularly interesting myself in the books.
There were plenty of books. About ninety per cent. of them were detective stories by the most popular authors, picked with shrewd judgment. Evidently this was where Dr. Devarest disposed of his surplus mystery books.
There was a wall bed. I swung it out to inspect the counterpane, and the wrinkles in the pillowslips. It looked as though the bed was just about due for a change. The closet in the space surrounding the wall bed was fairly well filled with a woman’s clothes. I looked them over and decided they were Dorothy Grail’s clothes. She evidently used this bed. Nollie Starr, then, would use the bedroom.
I gently pushed open the bedroom door, stepped inside. I noticed that the shades were drawn. The possibility that Nollie Starr, early morning tennis enthusiast, cyclist and pep exponent, would lower the shades and sleep until almost noon hadn’t occurred to me. When the idea did strike me, I turned to the bed apprehensively.
The woman lay stretched out on the counterpane, her left hand thrown upward over her eyes, her hair streaming out to fall in confusion against the counterpane. She was wearing a very thin peach-coloured nightgown which was pulled up from shapely legs.
I
stood for a moment, motionless.
Slowly, I began tiptoeing toward the door, careful lest I should disturb the late sleeper. I glanced over my shoulder to see if some restless motion, some long, tremulous sigh would presage wakefulness.
There was no motion.
I was almost at the door when the white silence of the figure impressed me more than the dangerous predicament in which I found myself. There was just enough light to show a peculiar colour to the skin.
I walked back to touch the bare flesh of the ankle. The skin was warm to the touch, but I knew it was inanimate as soon as my fingers felt it. I picked up the left arm—a pink cord had been wound tightly around the neck. In the back of this cord the handle of a potato masher had been inserted and twisted, drawing the cord fiendishly tight.
I untwisted the cord, loosened it from where it had bit into the swollen flesh. I felt the pulse, leaned over to listen for a heartbeat.
There was perhaps one chance in ten thousand that a pulmotor could do some good. I went to the telephone, dialled the emergency number, and explained to the operator what I wanted.
The gems which had been taken from Dr. Devarest’s safe were in a belt next to my skin. The police would naturally want to know how I happened to get in. They’d want to know what I had intended to do when I went there. They’d search me. When they searched me, they’d find the gems. The police mind would put two and two together, and it would make a quick four. Nollie Starr had either taken the gems from the safe, or had taken them from Dr. Devarest. I had gone to recover them. Nollie Starr had been asleep in the bedroom. She’d wakened and started to scream. I’d silenced her—perhaps not intending to kill her, but had held the cord a little too tight and a little too long. The pulmotor squad was on its way. There was nothing I could gain by staying.
I wiped the telephone with my handkerchief, polished off the door-knobs, and walked boldly out into the hall.
A woman of about forty-five, heavy set, muscular, and capable, was walking toward me, carrying a vacuum cleaner. She regarded me casually at first, then with sudden interest.
I walked down the stairs to the street. A siren was screaming for the right of way at the intersection. I stood gawking just as the rest of the pedestrians were doing, watching men pull out a pulmotor, and dash across the sidewalk to the entrance of the building.
Most of the crowd dispersed, but a few remained to stare at the building entrance, apparently expecting the walls of the masonry to give some answer to their morbid curiosity.
I walked over to where I had parked the agency car, climbed in and drove down to the parking lot where we kept the bus. The attendant gave me a nod. I made my greeting casual and went up to the office.
Elsie Brand looked up from her typing as I opened the door.
“How’s the high-priced secretary getting along?” I asked. “Thanks to you,” she said, “the high-priced secretary is doing very nicely.”
“Bertha in?” Elsie Brand swung away from her typewriter, lowered her voice. “She’s in and on the warpath.”
“What about?”
“You.”
“What have I done now?”
“Something with the police. You’re in hot water.”
“Know what it’s about?”
“You tried to hold out something on Lieutenant Lisman, and he’s putting Bertha on the pan.”
“Hold out on him!” I exclaimed. “I dropped a bouquet in his lap when I let him find that Starr girl.”
“It’s a bouquet all right,” she said, smiling. “But he doesn’t like the smell of it.”
“Well, to hell with him. I ” The door of the private office burst open explosively. Bertha Cool stood glaring at me.
“Now, what the hell are you doing?” she asked.
“Talking.”
“Raising Elsie’s wages again, I suppose.” I said, “That might be a good idea. The cost of living is going up.”
“Some day I’m going to skin you alive, you damn little runt.”
“What have I been doing now?” I asked.
“Plenty. Come in here.”
“I’ll be in as soon as I’ve finished my conversation with Elsie.” Bertha’s face got white with rage. “You come in here or I’ll—I’ll ”
“Do what?” I asked quietly.
Bertha Cool slammed the door.
Elsie Brand said, “She’ll have a fit, Donald. I never saw her that mad before.” I said, “I think she’s getting more emotional now that she’s taken off weight.”
“Aren’t you afraid of her?”
“Why should I be?”
“I don’t know. She’s ruthless. When she gets it in for anyone, she never gets over it.”
“Do you think she’s getting it in for you?” I asked. “She didn’t like the way you raised my wages.”
“But you’re getting the raise all right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. See that you keep on getting it. Well, I’ll go and relieve the old girl’s blood pressure.” I crossed the office and opened the door. Bertha was sitting at her big desk, her lips clamped tight, her eyes cold and sparkling.
“Shut the door,” she said.
The rapid beat of Elsie Brand’s fingers on the keyboard of the typewriter sent a machine-gun clatter pouring through the doorway before the latch clicked it shut.
“All right, what’s the trouble?”
“What did you mean, holding out on Lieutenant Lisman?”
“I didn’t hold out on him.”
“He thinks you did.”
“I told him where the Starr girl could be found.”
“Yes. He fell for that. It was a nice sop.”
“What do you mean, a sop?”
“You’re a smart little bastard, aren’t you?”
“Never mind the affection. What are you getting at?”
“Why didn’t you tell Lisman about that chauffeur being a convict?”
“He didn’t ask me.”
“No. But you used him to get the dope—made him a cat’s-paw.”
“I asked him a question. He gave me the information. What’s wrong with that?”
“You know what’s wrong with it. You slipped one over on him.”
“He knows now?”
“Of course he knows now.” I sat on the edge of Bertha Cool’s desk and lit a cigarette. “That doesn’t look so good.”
“I’ll tell the world it doesn’t look so good. He thinks the agency is refusing to co-operate with him. He’s sore, and I mean really sore.”
“That isn’t bothering me,” I said. “The question is, what’s he doing with Rufus Bayley?” She said, “He’s got Rufus Bayley down at headquarters, and he’s doing plenty to him.” I spilled ashes off the end of my cigarette on Bertha’s desk. She indignantly shoved an ash-tray across and said, “Watch what you’re doing.” I left my hat on the corner of the desk, said, “Hold everything for a minute. I left the car parked in front of a fire hydrant. There was no other place.” She said, “You sit right there, and tell me what you’re trying to put across with Lisman. I’ve told you repeatedly not to leave the car in front of the fire plug. It will serve you right to pay a fine.”
“It’s the agency car,” I said.
“Well, what of it?” I said, “The fine would go on the expense account—now that I’m a partner.” She pushed back her chair, started to get up, then settled back. “Get down and get that car moved! Don’t stick around here all day. Get going ! ” I walked out of the door, crossed the office, and paused by Elsie Brand’s desk.
She looked up. I said, “Elsie, I’m in a jam. What can you do about it?”
“What’s the matter?” I said, “I’ve got Mrs. Devarest’s jewellery on me. I wanted a chance to return it when I wanted and in the way I wanted. I had the cards turn against me. I’m hot as a stove lid.”
“Want me to take the jewellery?”
“It’d be dangerous.”
“Okay, give.” I said, “There’s another
way out.”
“What?”
“I still may have a chance to put that jewellery where I want it.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve got to have a hideout, a place where they won’t look for me.” She was opening her purse, almost before I’d finished speaking. “Here’s the key,” she said, “and for God’s sake, Donald, don’t judge me by that apartment. I got up late this morning. The bed isn’t made—the place is a sight. I just jumped into my shoes and walked out.”
“Okay, be seeing you.”
“Does Bertha know?”
“No one knows. Bertha thinks I’ve gone down to move the agency car.” Elsie Brand closed her purse matter-of-factly, swung back to the keyboard, and exploded the typewriter into noise.
I went down to the parking lot, picked up the agency car, drove it across the street, parked it in front of a fire plug where the police would be sure to tag it, hopped aboard a streetcar, rode for half a dozen blocks, took a taxi to Elsie Brand’s apartment house, used her key, and went in.
There were dirty dishes in the sink. The bed was just the way it had been thrown back when the alarm went off. Silk pyjamas were thrown across the back of a chair. There was a line stretched across the bathroom over the tub, and a couple of pairs of stockings and some silk panties were drying on the line.
I pulled the covers back up on the bed, and started prowling the apartment, looking for something to read. I found a book, read awhile, then turned on the radio. With the radio on, I dozed off to a warm lethargy of half-asleep.
The mention of my own name caused me to snap wide awake, listening to the voice of the news broadcaster, speaking with a rapid-fire, crisp delivery. “… Donald Lam, a private detective, is being hunted by police in connection with the theft of some twenty thousand dollars in jewellery belonging to Mrs. Colette Devarest. Rufus Bayley, an ex-convict, stated to Lieutenant Lisman that Lam had approached him with a scheme. According to Bayley, Lam actually found the body of Dr. Devarest nearly an hour before, and, accompanied by the doctor’s niece, led the way to the garage to investigate the sound of a running motor. On his first discovery of the body, Lam had found the jewel cases in the glove compartment of Dr. Devarest’s car, so the chauffeur swore to police. According to Bayley’s statement, Lam had appropriated the gems, switched on the ignition again, started the motor, and more than an hour later instituted the investigation which led to a discovery of the physician’s body. Bayley insists Lam approached him with a scheme to dispose of the gems. Bayley, who says he is now going straight, claims to have refused, and swears he was on his way to police headquarters when detectives picked him up. Because the autopsy indicates that Dr. Devarest may have been unconscious for an hour before his body was found, but had probably not been dead that long, police point out that the action of the private investigator in turning on the engine, after once shutting it off, may have amounted to at least a technical murder. … Washington: President Roosevelt branded as utterly false rumours that he intended to—” I shut off the radio, reached for the telephone, then changed my mind. There was a switchboard operator on duty at the desk. If she saw a light flash on in Elsie Brand’s apartment during the hours Elsie was at work, she might get suspicious and listen in on the conversation.
Double or Quits Page 15
