“Sure,” he said.
In the apartment house hallway several tenants were standing around discussing the explosion. When I stepped from Amhurst’s door, they all looked at me.
“Somebody dropped a light bulb,” I explained.
One or two looked dubious, but they all started to drift back toward their own apartments.
The gray coupé containing Friday’s bodyguard was parked almost squarely in front of the building at a point where its occupant could not see the side lawn. Recalling that Friday had addressed the man as Max, I called him by name.
He was leaning back with his eyes closed listening to the car radio, and when I spoke through the open window, he merely opened his eyes and rolled his head sidewise.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“You see anyone come from the side of the building there in the last few minutes?” I pointed toward the corner of the building behind him.
Straightening, he peered over his shoulder. “I ain’t got eyes in the back of my head, mister. What’s up? Anything the matter with Mr. Friday?”
“No, but you’re wanted inside.”
When we entered the apartment together, Max looked at his employer inquiringly.
“Take your hat off,” Friday said.
Without changing expression the bodyguard hung his hat on the back of a chair, leaned against the wall next to the door and waited.
The first police to arrive were a couple of radio-car patrolmen. The elder of the pair glanced into the room containing the dead man, asked if anyone had left since the killing occurred, and when we told him no, advised us to relax until someone from Homicide got there. Then he picked an easy chair to relax in himself and simply waited, leaving his younger companion standing with his back to the door.
A few minutes later I was surprised when the chief of Homicide himself arrived. Usually Inspector Warren Day likes to forget his work after five P.M., and unless special circumstances or important people are involved, he leaves night calls to subordinates.
Day was trailed by his perennial shadow, Lieutenant Hannegan, who, as always, wore a plain blue serge suit which looked like a police uniform without brass buttons.
When Day was sure he had everyone’s undivided attention, he swept off his straw hat, baring a totally bald scalp, and announced in the tone heralds customarily employ following a flurry of trumpets, “I’m Inspector Warren Day of Homicide.”
Then, before the company fully recovered from this impressive performance, he swung his gaze at me. “What are you doing here, Moon?”
“I was invited, Inspector. I was about to ask you the same thing. Doesn’t Homicide have a night shift any more?”
“The chief was holding a department-head meeting, and it broke up just as your call came in.” He peered at me owlishly. “When Blake told me you made the call, I decided to come over and see who you bumped this time.”
I said regretfully, “Sorry, Inspector. Somebody else did the bumping.”
I led him into the combination workroom-study while Lieutenant Hannegan kept a watchful eye on the other occupants of the apartment. After kneeling beside the corpse for a moment, Day rose, glanced at the jagged hole the murder bullet had made in the plaster in the far corner of the room after it removed the top of Walter Ford’s head, then turned his eyes toward the broken pane of the French doors.
“Walter Ford … that’s the dead man … and Barney Amhurst … he’s the slim, curly-haired guy with dimples … were in here alone when it happened,” I explained. “According to Amhurst, someone outside smashed the pane and then fired.”
The inspector walked over to stare dissatisfiedly at the small pile of broken glass lying on the floor beneath the broken pane. “Kind of silly stunt, busting the glass first, wasn’t it? You don’t have to break the glass before you shoot through a closed window.”
“Murderers are silly people,” I told him. “It happened the way Amhurst said all right. The door into the front room was slightly ajar, and I distinctly heard the tinkle of broken glass before the gun went off.”
“Why were the two men in here alone?”
“They were getting ready to demonstrate an invention.” I started to. explain what the Gimmick was, and how Fausta and I happened to become involved in the celebration of the newly formed Huntsafe Company, then decided he would understand the contraption better if he got the explanation firsthand from its inventor.
Leading him back into the front room, I said, “Amhurst better tell you about his invention. I’m a little vague on the details.”
“It’s a portable warning device for hunters, Inspector,” Amhurst said. From the mantel he removed the transmitter he had placed there a short time before, moved a small catch and showed that it opened like a box. Compactly arranged inside the case was a small square battery, a few things which looked like minute radio tubes, and a horseshoe-shaped coil wound with fine wire.
“This straps to your waist over the left hip,” he explained. “About where G.I.'s carry their first-aid packs.” He indicated the square battery. “This is the crux of the whole thing. It’s a battery of my own design and it develops seventy-five volts. Briefly, what the transmitter does is set up a huge electromagnetic field about itself. When another hunter enters this field equipped with a Huntsafe, the receivers of both hunters are activated. You wear the receiver on your wrist.”
In illustration he held out his left wrist, looked surprised to discover a compasslike object strapped to it, and said, “I forgot I still had a receiver on. I slipped it on just as Walt was shot.”
Snapping shut the case of the transmitter, he flicked a tiny switch, set the case on the mantel again and walked across the room away from it. When he was about ten feet away his wrist receiver began to emit a soft ticking sound. He stopped, held his wrist in a horizontal position and the compass needle pointed straight at the transmitter.
“In the core of its own field the receiver doesn’t work,” Amhurst said. “If it did, its own transmitter would make it click constantly and the needle would spin in a circle. You have to be at least three yards from the transmitter, and it will work up to four hundred yards.”
“Hmph,” Day commented. He looked at Hannegan and ordered, “Take a look around in there.”
While the lieutenant was carrying out this duty, Warren Day acquainted himself with Barney Amhurst’s guests.
The inspector got no help whatever from either Ed Friday or his bodyguard, Max, both disclaiming any knowledge whatever of Walter Ford’s private life. He did learn from Max that his last name was Furtell, but aside from that his questioning of the two men was a waste of time.
From Amhurst himself Day gleaned only the negative information that he would be unable to identify the murderer if he saw him again. Amhurst said he saw only a dim figure the other side of the glass and could not even be certain whether it was a man or a woman. This was not surprising since it was pitch dark outside.
Reluctantly the inspector turned to the women.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE RED-HAIRED Madeline Strong and the lacquered Evelyn Karnes were able to contribute nothing which interested Day either, but his expression grew alert when he learned Bubbles Duval had not been in the front room with the rest of us when the shot sounded.
“The dead man was your escort, wasn’t he?” the inspector asked Bubbles.
“Yes, sir.”
Day walked into the bedroom where Bubbles had spent so much time. Through the open door I could see him cross to the French windows, unlatch them and stick out his head to peer toward the similar French windows letting into the study.
When he returned, he said, “It would have been a simple matter to step outdoors from the bedroom, fire through the study window and step back into the bedroom again.”
Bubbles shook her head. “It couldn’t have happened that way, Inspector. I was in the bedroom the whole time, and nobody went in or out by the French doors.”
Day scowled past her at the usual for
ty-five-degree angle. “How long did you know the dead man, Miss Duval?”
“Oh, ages,” Bubbles said. “At least six weeks.”
“I don’t think you can make anything out of that line of reasoning, Inspector,” Ed Friday put in. “Ford hadn’t been out with Bubbles more than a few times, and it looked to me like a casual affair for both of them.” He looked at Evelyn and said with a faint sneer, “Ford was a great guy for casual affairs.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about Ford’s private life,” the inspector shot at him.
Friday shrugged. “There wasn’t anything private about his relations with Bubbles. She’s just a good-looking doll he dated when he. had to appear somewhere in public with a date.” He stared at Bubbles with an expression which approached contempt. “Besides, Bubbles won’t fit for another reason. It takes at least a minimum amount of brains to squeeze a trigger.”
Bubbles giggled.
Hannegan came out of the study, looked at Day and shook his head.
“Nothing at all?” the inspector asked. The lieutenant shook his head again.
“Well, speak up!” Day blazed at him. “Was the blasted room empty?”
Hannegan looked surprised. “No, sir. You want a list?” “I want a list.”
“Desk and chair,” Hannegan intoned. “Pencils, stamps and stationery supplies in desk. A couple of file folders of business stuff and a few personal letters. None from the dead man, or mentioning the dead man. One waste can, empty except for a sliver of glass from the broken window. Two leather chairs. Nothing under the cushions. A workbench and cabinet with tools and electrical equipment. A rug. Nothing under it. Broken glass on floor.” He paused, stared at the inspector a moment and then concluded, “One corpse on the floor.”
“That’s better,” Day growled. “I didn’t send you in there to gather material for your personal diary.”
A medical examiner arrived at that moment, and following in rapid order came a combination fingerprint man and photographer, two morgue attendants and three newspaper reporters. Before turning to deal with this influx, Day told Hannegan to take a look around outside.
I tailed along after Hannegan.
The lawn outside the study window was close-cropped and thick as a carpet, an impossible surface on which to leave footprints. Nevertheless Hannegan carefully shined his flash over an area several yards square around the French doors. When the light caught a shiny object just outside the doors, I stooped to pick it up.
Together we examined it under Hannegan’s light. It was the casing of a twenty-five-caliber shell. I sniffed at it.
“Recently fired,” I said. “It’s the one that killed Ford all right. Must have been an automatic, since the casing was ejected.”
As usual, Hannegan said nothing. Taking a small envelope from his pocket, he held it toward me with the flap open. I dropped the shell casing inside.
Once more Hannegan methodically went over the area outside the French doors with his light, this time sweeping it in wider and wider circles. A good ten yards away from the doors the flash picked up a black object about six inches long. It turned out to be a short, curved pipe whose bowl was carved into the shape of a lion’s head.
As the lieutenant dropped it into his pocket, I remarked, “This killer left everything but an engraved calling card.”
There was nothing more to be found outside. We got back to the front room just in time to hear Day tell the reporters, “I see this as premeditated murder. And once we’ve delved into the murdered man’s past life, we won’t have any trouble finding the motive. You can quote me as saying no stone will be left unturned …"
Jerry Thompson, the Morning Blade reporter, interrupted to say to me, “You in on this case, Manny?”
“Just a guest at the party,” I told him. “I don’t know any more than you do.”
Day looked from the reporter to me and back again. “As I was saying …"
“I think I’ve got everything I need, Inspector,” Jerry interrupted again. “My deadline’s in seven minutes. Thanks a lot for your co-operation.” And he quickly left the apartment.
The other two reporters slid out after him, leaving Day scowling after them.
Silently the lieutenant handed him the envelope containing the shell casing and the pipe. After examining the former, Day handed it back. The pipe he retained.
Turning to the group still gathered in the front room, he held up the pipe and asked, “Any of you recognize this?”
He got blank looks from everyone but Barney Amhurst and Madeline Strong. Both of them looked faintly startled.
“Well?” the inspector demanded.
“I’m … I’m not sure,” the redhead said hesitantly. “Where did you find it?”
In a more assured tone Amhurst said, “Of course you recognize it, Madeline. It’s one of Tom Henry’s pipes. He’s a neighbor of mine, Inspector. Lives just two doors from here.”
“Does he now?” Day asked grimly. “He in the habit of leaving his pipes on the lawn outside your study window?”
Madeline looked stricken. “You must be mistaken, Inspector. Tom wouldn’t … Tom couldn’t …”
“Take it easy, Madeline,” Amhurst soothed. “The inspector hasn’t accused Tom of anything. And maybe it’s just a pipe that looks like Tom’s, and not really his at all.” In a candid tone he said to Day, “I hardly think Tom Henry could be your killer, Inspector. I don’t think he even knew Walt Ford.”
He looked inquiringly at Madeline, who said reluctantly, “He only knew him slightly. Tom met him at my place once or twice.”
Amhurst favored the inspector with a winning smile. “At most they were casual acquaintances then. And murderers don’t go around killing casual acquaintances, do they? Now if it was me who had stopped the bullet, maybe you’d have a motive, since we’re rival inventors.”
“Let me get this straight,” the inspector said. “You and this Henry fellow don’t get along?”
“No, no, I didn’t mean to imply that. We’re friendly enough. At least we were once.” He glanced at Madeline with a discomfited expression. “We did have a mild ruckus recently, but it didn’t amount to anything.”
“Tell me about it anyway,” Day suggested.
Reluctantly Amhurst said, “A while back Tom claimed my partner had stolen the original idea for the Gimmick from him. But after we talked it over, he realized the claim was silly. Inventors often find they have been wasting time working on some idea another inventor has already perfected but not yet announced. I guess Tom Henry actually had been experimenting with a device similar to the Huntsafe, but it was based on a different principle and it was too big and heavy to be practical. He finally admitted he didn’t have any claim on my patent. I’ve been kind of cool to him since, but I don’t think he was particularly sore at me. He certainly wasn’t sore enough to shoot anyone. And even if he had been, I should think I would have been the target instead of Walt.”
“Maybe he was just a lousy shot,” the inspector said.
As the implication of this remark sank home, Amhurst’s eyes grew wide. He continued staring at Day until the inspector asked, “Who is this partner you mentioned?”
“Lloyd Strong, Madeline’s brother. He’s been dead about eight months, but we started working on the Gimmick together. Lloyd died before we reached the answer. I only perfected the thing a month ago. But the original idea was his. It wasn’t until after I applied for a patent that Henry dropped over and claimed Lloyd had stolen his idea.”
Madeline Strong’s brother having been co-inventor of the Gimmick explained the puzzle of her interest in the Huntsafe Company. Presumably she had inherited the interest from her brother. However, nothing Amhurst had said explained the redhead’s odd hesitancy in admitting she recognized the pipe. I got the impression she would not have admitted ever seeing it before had she not been certain Amhurst would disclose its ownership anyway.
Warren Day said, “I think we’d better make a call on this Hen
ry fellow. Just give the address to Lieutenant Hannegan here, Mr. Amhurst.”
As Madeline watched Hannegan write down the address, her expression was a mixture of uncertainty and anxiety. Twice she seemed on the verge of saying something, but both times bit it off. Finally she drew Fausta to one side and began to talk to her in a low voice.
The medical examiner came from the study and asked Day, “What is it you want to know about this guy? Time of death?”
“We already know that,” the inspector said.
“Then why’d you drag me away from a poker game? Any moron could determine cause of death. Somebody shot off the top of his head.”
“I know any moron could determine the cause of death,” the inspector said in a silky voice. “That’s why I called in a moron.”
The medic looked at him blankly for a moment, started to open his mouth. “I’ll send you a report in the morning,” he said Cautiously, and went out.
A moment later the two morgue attendants and the lab man lugged the body away in a basket. They skirted the inspector widely as they passed.
“Doesn’t it disturb your sleep to know you’re such an ogre?” I asked him.
He peered at me over his glasses, started to snarl something, and then decided to ignore me.
“Just to eliminate remote possibilities, I want all of you people to submit to a search,” he announced generally. “Hannegan and I will take the men, and if Miss Moreni is willing, she can search the women in the bedroom.” He looked at Fausta. “I don’t expect you to find one, but what we’re looking for is a gun.”
No one objected to the search. While Fausta and the other three women were in the bedroom, Hannegan shook down Ed Friday and Max Furtell. Day went over me and Barney Amhurst. Aside from a small pocketknife in Friday’s coat pocket, the only weapon turned up was a .38 revolver under Max’s arm. It had not been fired, and when the bodyguard produced a permit for it, Hannegan told him he could have it back the next day when Ballistics finished looking it over.
Bubbles and Evelyn came from the bedroom, smiled around brightly and resumed their seats. Madeline Strong came next, and finally Fausta. She was carrying a small ivory-handled automatic in either hand.
Give the Girl a Gun Page 3
