by Unknown
He heard her slow, dragging footsteps come from the rear of her flat. The slippers! With a whispered curse, he bent and snatched them from the hallway floor. With one swift jerk of his arm he tossed them up the stairs. What if he hadn’t remembered them? What if Mrs. Pettigrew had seen them? He shivered at the thought, and, when old Mrs. Pettigrew opened her door, he looked exactly like a man who’d tramped several blocks through freezing weather.
“Hello!” he said, smiling cheerily into the aged woman’s face. “Cold, isn’t it? Did my groceries arrive?”
“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Ebbett. Winter’s here, all right!” The old woman nodded her head and peered at him over her spectacles. “Thought you’d forgotten the groceries, Mr. Ebbett, when I saw that friend of yours come and go right up. Thought you’d come home without my noticing and—”
“Friend?” Henry’s face as he stood in the cold, drafty hallway was a masterpiece of puzzlement. “You say one of my friends came—and is upstairs?”
“Sure is. The tall, thin one. Works the same place you do, I believe.”
“Joe Carson?” Henry shook his head. “Didn’t know he was coming.” Bending quickly, he picked up the large bag of groceries sitting just inside the door. He grunted as he lifted the bag. The flour was heavier than he’d expected. “Well, thanks for taking care of these for me, Mrs. Pettigrew. I’ll go right up. Perhaps Bertha returned, and—”
“No, she ain’t been back,” the old lady assured him. “I been watching for her.”
“Oh.” He mumbled a few words, then shook his head worriedly and started up the stairs like a weary little man whose wife had unaccountably left him and who now had to cook his own dinner. When he heard her door close, he sighed with relief.
At the top of the stairs, he shifted the weight of the bag onto his left arm and put his right hand into his coat pocket. A curious thrill trembled the length of his arm as his fingers closed about the hard steel of the revolver, and he stood there a moment, breathing heavily.
This was power. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. Death for Joe—but freedom and ease for him …
When he pushed the door open, Joe was sprawled comfortably in the chair with a half-finished cigarette drooping between his lips. He straightened sluggishly as Henry came into the room.
Henry said, “Take this bag a minute, will you, Joe?”
Joe was almost on his feet when the gun in Henry’s hand exploded. A surprised expression crossed his face. The gun crashed again, and, without a sound, Joe collapsed.
Swiftly, Henry set the bag on a chair, crossed the room, got the automatic out of his pocket and pressed it into Joe’s right hand. He grunted, straining mightily, as he forced Joe’s body and arm up to the correct height.
With his finger over Joe’s he pointed the automatic at the bag and pumped two bullets into it—and then, for good measure, another one into the wall, toward the bedroom doorway and at about the level of his own head. That done, he pushed Joe away, recovered his slippers from the hallway, and deliberately sent a lamp crashing to the floor.
Everything was crystal-clear in his mind. He moved swiftly and surely, setting the stage. First, the groceries. He lifted the bag, from which a trickle of flour was already coming, and let some of the flour stream onto his coat. Then he dropped the bag onto the floor.
The bag burst and a can of corn fell to the floor, to be followed an instant later by a bottle of catsup. The bullet hole in the flour sack tore wide and a white Niagara of flour cascaded onto the carpet. He overturned the chair on which the bag had rested.
Next, the bedroom—he made it in a single stride, jerked open the top drawer, rumpled its contents. He tossed the slippers under the bed. Was that all?
He scanned the room quickly. The ticket! Frantically, he got the envelope from his pocket, making certain that only his gloved hand touched it. Carefully, he slid it into Joe’s breast pocket. As a final touch, he got one of the extra door keys from Bertha’s dresser and laid it on the table beside Joe’s highball glass.
The whole thing, from the first crash of the revolver to the final planting of the key, had taken merely seconds, yet already Mrs. Pettigrew was screaming in the hallway. “Mr. Ebbett! Mr. Ebbett!”
He’d done it!
Henry sucked his lungs full of air and walked to the telephone. He dialed a number and stood there, a slight smile on his round face as he waited for the connection to be made.
A metallic voice came over the wire: “Police headquarters.”
Henry swallowed carefully and stared owlishly at the wall through his horn-rimmed glasses. Making his voice tremble, he said:
“Please come to 107 Pinegrove Avenue. I’ve shot a man.… He tried to kill me.…”
The police lieutenant was a heavy-set, dour-faced man in a rumpled blue serge suit. He eyed the body unhappily, almost as though he resented its presence, then looked at Henry. “Well, let’s hear the story,” he said heavily.
“He was here, waiting for me,” Henry told him, remembering to shiver realistically. “I picked up a bag of groceries downstairs, then came right up. He was sorta crouched there in front of the chair, as though he’d heard me and was getting up, and as soon as I stepped into the room, he began shooting. I guess I reacted automatically, because as soon as I saw him with the gun in his hand, I dropped the groceries and ran for the bedroom. I got my gun out of the dresser drawer and I fired back at him—twice, I think.” He shook his head dazedly. “I got him, thank God, before he got me!”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Joe Carson. He works the same place I do.”
“Any idea why he wanted to kill you?”
“I’m not sure, but I think perhaps—well, I was sitting here, thinking, after I phoned police headquarters, and a lot of things I couldn’t understand before began to make sense. My wife didn’t come home last night, and now with Joe trying to kill me, it seems as if maybe—”
“Triangle, eh?”
Henry nodded weakly and bent his head. The lieutenant shook his head sympathetically and gestured to the other officers in the doorway.
“Well, get to work, boys,” he said gruffly. “The usual photos, diagram, and so on. Keep a sharp eye out for prints.” He walked over to the body, glanced shrewdly at Henry. “You touch anything?”
“No, sir.” Henry’s face became a picture of horror at the thought. “I called you, then sat down, right here in this chair, until you came. I was completely stunned, I guess, but the—well, you know.”
A young man with a black bag strode in, his thin face flushed from hurrying. He nodded to the lieutenant and bent over the body.
“Dead,” he said promptly. “One bullet passed between fourth and fifth ribs. Not long ago, either.” As he got up, he loosened his heavy overcoat and added: “Lord, it’s hot in here!”
The lieutenant grunted. “We called you ten minutes ago. Where do you docs hide during the day? You must have been holding a full house.”
The coroner’s physician smiled good-naturedly. “No game today, darn it. I was taking a shower and O’Brien wasn’t available.” He nodded toward the body. “It’s okay for you to proceed. I’ll have him picked up. Suppose you want the autopsy rushed through?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Be seeing you.” He picked up his bag, winked at one of the other officers, and went out. His feet clattered loudly as he descended the stairs.
“How are you coming?” the lieutenant asked, breaking the silence.
“Not bad, sir,” one of the men replied. He paused to wipe his perspiring face. “A few more pictures, then I’ll start in on the sketch. Would it be okay to turn off the radiator?”
“Leave everything as is,” the lieutenant said shortly.
Walking slowly about the room, he peered at the bottle of bourbon, the highball glass, the ashtray, and the key on the table. Turning, he pushed his hands in his pockets and stared at the opposite wall. His eyes found the bullet hole and, evincing no surprise, h
e went over and examined it casually.
“Bullet in here,” he announced. Swinging toward Henry, he said: “So you think he and your wife were trying to deal you out, eh?”
Henry wet his dry lips. “Yes, sir.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m a bookkeeper at the Safeway Loan Company.”
“He a bookkeeper there, too?” The lieutenant nodded toward the body.
“No, he was a cashier.”
The lieutenant shrugged and walked over to the bookcase in the corner. He scanned the titles, peered at the dust on top of the case, came back. As though he had all the time in the world, he stood and watched one of the officers pick the two guns up upon rods which he inserted down their barrels. “Might have a look in his pockets, Pete,” he suggested mildly.
“Sure, Lieutenant.” The officer deposited the guns in a cardboard box and carefully set the box on the couch. He knelt beside Joe’s body then and slid his fingers into the pockets, expertly removing the contents.
“Coat, right pocket—nothing,” he droned mechanically. “Left pocket—two theatre ticket stubs dated November 7th. Outside pocket—one clean white handkerchief, no initial. Inside pocket—a notebook, a bank book, an envelope, and—”
“Anything in the envelope?” the lieutenant asked.
Silence for a moment. “Yes, sir. There’s a one-way ticket to Hot Springs, Arkansas.”
The lieutenant’s eyebrows flicked upward. He extended his hand. “Let’s see.” Frowning, he examined the ticket, then handed it back. “Be careful of that envelope,” he warned. “There may be some prints on it.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer nodded and went back to his search. “Trousers, right pocket—a dollar and thirty cents in change. Left pocket—$46 in bills.” With a soft grunt, he rolled the body over. “Right, rear—a soiled white handkerchief and a key ring with six keys. Left, rear—a card case containing a few receipts for payments on a suit and several identification cards.”
The lieutenant pursed his lips, nodded, and studied the neat piles of objects on the floor. He picked up the notebook, turned its pages carelessly, dropped it on the floor again.
“Make a list, Pete,” he said.
He started pacing around the room again, stopped at the table, picked up the key which lay there. He walked to the door with it, pushed it into the keyhole, turned it. The lock snapped back. With a pleased expression on his face, he tossed the key to the officer named Pete.
“Be sure to label this. No prints, of course.” More to himself than anyone in the room, he added: “They shouldn’t be allowed to put that fancy engraving on keys.” He looked at Henry suddenly. “Know anybody in Hot Springs?”
“No, sir.”
“Your wife got friends or relatives there?”
“Well, I don’t really know, sir. I don’t think so. She did mention it once, but only to say that it’d be a nice place to go to for a vacation someday.”
“Where was Carson from?”
“Some town in Wisconsin, I think.”
Apparently satisfied, the lieutenant turned away. “How’re you coming?” he asked. “Any prints?”
“Yeah, quite a few.” The officer with the short curly brown hair stood up and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “There’s a good set on the glass and the bottle.”
“Hey, what do you know!” another officer exclaimed suddenly. “Look at this!” He held up a lead slug. “It was in the flour, Lieutenant! Why, if it hadn’t been for that bag, it’d have killed him sure!”
Henry’s eyes widened. “Good Lord!” he gasped. “Why, he—almost—!” He quivered so realistically that his glasses came very near to sliding off his nose.
“Very nice,” the lieutenant commented. “In which arm were you carrying the bag?”
“My left. Like this.” Henry bent his arm so the lieutenant could see how he’d carried the heavy bag of groceries.
The lieutenant nodded, studied the pile of spilled cans and flour, then announced: “I’m going down to talk to the old lady. Wait here until I get back.” At the door, he added: “Give the bathroom and bedroom a going-over, too, boys.”
He was gone fifteen minutes, during which time an ambulance arrived, two men climbed the stairs with a wicker basket, and the body of Joe Carson was removed, leaving only a chalked outline to show where his corpse had lain.
Henry sat hunched in his chair through all this, his eyes following the careful, methodical work of the officers as they took measurements, labeled and packed items in boxes, and dusted powder over various surfaces. From time to time the faintest suggestion of a smile touched his lips fleetingly as he saw them checking the details which he had anticipated. He had nothing to worry about. He’d read and studied dozens of detective stories and he knew what they were looking for. But let them look. He had thought of everything.
When the lieutenant returned, he glanced around the room and gestured impatiently. “Hurry it up, boys. I’m taking Mr. Ebbett to the station. When you finish, seal the door and report to my office.”
Riding downtown in the squad car, the lieutenant explained: “It looks open-and-shut to me, Mr. Ebbett, but we have a certain routine we have to go through. I’m taking you to the station, where you’ll be formally booked on a charge of murder. There’ll be a coroner’s inquest tomorrow morning, and then, following that, a hearing in Felony Court. If your story checks, you’ll be released by the court. But first, of course, I have to get a detailed, signed statement from you.”
Henry hadn’t expected to be charged with murder. Somehow, he’d thought the police, knowing he was innocent, would simply take his statement and let him go.
But he didn’t protest. He nodded quietly and looked sad, like a man utterly crushed by the fact that his wife had deserted him and that his best friend had plotted his murder.
At police headquarters, he was most cooperative. He gave the lieutenant a detailed statement, signed it, and let them take his fingerprints.
The coroner’s inquest was called the following morning at nine o’clock, but, at Lieutenant Barr’s request, it was adjourned for two days to permit the police time to locate Bertha Ebbett.
In the meantime, a score of detectives attached to the homicide detail began checking Henry Ebbett’s statement. They found it to be surprisingly exact; in fact, in combing the city they learned details which Henry, though he had planned them, had not been able to mention.
They learned, for instance, that Joe Carson’s accounts at the Safeway Loan Company were short. A hasty audit, made overnight by a crew of accountants, established that, over a period of months, a sum exceeding $20,000 had been cleverly embezzled. Many of the records were in the neat handwriting of Henry Ebbett, but that was to be expected. Ebbett was only a bookkeeper. Joe Carson, on the other hand, had been a cashier and had had direct charge of the money.
What had happened to the money? The Safeway Loan Company, fortunately, was protected by insurance. Insurance investigators pored over the records and delved into Carson’s habits, hobbies, and bank account, but there was nothing to suggest that Carson had ever possessed more than $450 at one time.
One of the investigators, a radical, thought of Ebbett and made a thorough inquiry regarding him. But Ebbett, it developed, was even more spotless than Carson. Ebbett didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t gamble, and had never been known to pause to look at a well-turned ankle. His bank account was small, he possessed no jewelry, had indulged in no luxuries of any kind. Obviously, Carson had stolen the money as well as poor Mr. Henry Ebbett’s wife.
The investigators were helped to that conclusion by the discovery that a man resembling Carson had, a week earlier, purchased two tickets to Hot Springs, Arkansas. On learning this, Lieutenant Barr wired the Hot Springs, Arkansas, authorities to locate and hold Bertha Ebbett—age 26, height 5-8, weight 120, dark hair, brown eyes, regular features, probably registered at a local hotel.
That done, the lieutenant sighed, rubbed his brow, and san
k back in his swivel chair. He raised his eyes wearily when the door of his office opened. “Well, Sergeant?”
“The ballistic reports are in, Lieutenant,” his aide reported. “They check with Ebbett’s statement. Carson’s prints—and only his—were on the glass and liquor bottle. He evidently opened the door with the key we found, threw his hat and coat on the couch, and made himself at home. Ebbett can thank his lucky stars that he was carrying that sack of flour. They found a second slug in it, which accounts for all the empty cartridges.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Well, Peterson checked those theatre ticket stubs we found in his pocket. They were to a neighborhood movie. The cashier recognized Carson’s photo. Said he came there often, sometimes with a woman who wore a cheap silver fox jacket. There was that sort of a jacket in Ebbett’s wife’s closet.”
“Uh-huh. Go on.”
“That’s about it. The revolver was Ebbett’s. Bought it several years ago. The automatic was Carson’s. His landlady saw it in his closet once when she was cleaning.”
“How is Ebbett doing?”
“About the same. He keeps asking how long he’s to be kept locked up.”
“Asked for a lawyer yet?”
“No.”
“Funny.” The lieutenant rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You’d think he’d be hollering habeas corpus, or something, at the top of his lungs.”
“Huh! That guy, he’s too tight! Says he can’t afford to waste money on a lawyer where there’s no doubt of his innocence.”
“Well, maybe he’s right, at that.” The lieutenant, in dismissal, swung his chair so he could gaze out the window. “Let me know if anything comes through from Hot Springs.”
“Yes, sir.” And the sergeant, knowing Lieutenant Barr’s mood, closed the door gently.
An hour later the phone in Barr’s office rang. The operator announced that a long-distance call from Hot Springs was waiting, charges to be reversed. Growling his acceptance, Barr waited expectantly.
