The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  “Colby,” said Wolley suddenly. “Where the devil is he?”

  “Don’t bother about him,” said Sackler. “We don’t need him until later.”

  Benny Bagel screwed up his brow and shot a puzzled glance at Sackler. Wolley banged the table impatiently with his fist and said: “All right. Get on with it.”

  “Well,” went on Sackler, “Capek wouldn’t sign. This guy Smith got pretty sore about it. He knew Capek was a pretty stubborn guy. Torture, ordinary physical torture, was rather out of this Smith’s line. So he hit on what he thought was a brilliant idea. He thought of a torture which was bloodless, horrible and very effective.”

  y this time Sackler had me as bewildered as anyone in the room. Usually, I could follow his reasoning at least halfway. But for a guy who apparently had nothing to work on he was delivering one hell of a lot of detail.

  “So,” said Wolley, “what was this unusual torture?”

  “Water,” said Sackler, “or rather, lack of it.”

  Benny Bagel uttered a little sigh and sat down. I said: “Now how can you figure a thing like that?”

  “It’s not too hard, Joey. First those smashed faucets. If they’d been smashed in rage or blind fury, it’s quite probable that something else, the furniture, the light bulbs, would also have been wrecked. But it was only the water faucets. Smashed by a man who is dying of thirst, who turns on the tap to get nothing but emptiness for perhaps the hundredth time. Then he did go nuts. He took the stove lid and crashed it down on the taps.”

  I thought that over and conceded to myself there might be something in it. Wolley scratched his graying head in silence. Crosher opened his mouth for the first time.

  “It’s impossible,” he said. “What about the medical examiner? He would have noticed dehydration. If Cousin Karl had been on the verge of death from thirst, the medical examiner couldn’t have failed to notice it.”

  “Right,” said Wolley emphatically. “Absolutely right. You’re screwy, Rex.”

  “You all forget,” said Sackler, “that Capek was in that lodge for fourteen days. He had been dead three when he was found. Suppose he’d been deprived of water for a week. That’s enough to drive a man mad. But after he was mad there was no point in dealing with him. This Smith decided to kill him then. But he waited some four days before he did so. During those four days he gave Capek water and food. He did that so that the medical examiner wouldn’t know just what had happened.”

  “If this Smith guy was so smart,” I said, “couldn’t he figure Capek might go nuts from lack of water?”

  Sackler shook his head. “No. He thought Capek would give in to his demands before then. Besides, when Capek proved adamant, Smith got himself another idea. He figured out how to get the money even after Capek was dead.”

  Wolley shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Rex,” he said, “it won’t do. First, Capek had one hell of a lot of money. It seems reasonable to me that he’d be quite willing to surrender any amount of it to save his life, particularly if he was going mad for water.”

  “Besides,” said Crosher, “how could he obtain a signed ransom note if Cousin Karl was dead?”

  “I’ll answer the second question first,” said Sackler. “That’s where Benny Bagel came in. Faced with Capek’s point-blank refusal, our friend Smith cooked up a second idea. He decided, since Capek was going nuts, he’d have to kill him anyway. So he brought in Benny here.”

  “Why?” said Wolley.

  “My God,” said Sackler wearily, “are you that stupid? I told you Benny is a forger. The best in the business. Benny was going to sign Capek’s name to the note.”

  “All right, then,” snapped Wolley. “So why didn’t he?”

  “Because,” said Sackler slowly, “they couldn’t find anything to copy.”

  “Couldn’t find what to copy?” shouted Wolley impatiently. “Rex, what the devil are you talking about?”

  “To forge a signature, you must have an original to copy from. It’s a prime rule of the profession, isn’t it, Benny?”

  “Listen,” said Benny Bagel in a low hoarse voice, “I want to see a lawyer. Where’s Colby?”

  “Well, why couldn’t they find a signature of Capek’s to copy from? There must be plenty of them around the house somewhere,” Wolley stated.

  “That,” said Sackler, “is where you’re wrong. There’s not a single signature of Karl Capek in existence.”

  Wolley and Crosher gaped at him. But at this point something lit up in my brain.

  “You mean he couldn’t write?”

  “I’m glad someone got it at last,” said Sackler. “Capek couldn’t write. He was a proud man, a strong character and a man whose success had made him ashamed of his lack of education. Capek couldn’t write and there was only one person in all the world who shared his secret. That was Rawson.”

  olley was half convinced. His brow was corrugated, his eyes shaded with deep thought. “How can you arrive at that conclusion, Rex?”

  “Consider the circumstances. Capek never held a driver’s license. He never made a will. All his business, even his income-tax returns, was handled through Rawson’s power-of-attorney. In Capek’s desk I found a hundred documents, all in the same handwriting. That handwriting was Rawson’s. Consider again. Capek had no friends, no acquaintances, save Rawson. We know he came here from Middle Europe as a lad of seven. We know he never went to school. We know, further, that he was generous with his money. He’d made munificent endowments and donations, yet he wouldn’t spend any of it to save his life.”

  “You mean,” I said, “that he died rather than admit he couldn’t write?”

  “That’s my theory,” said Sackler. “Of all the statements I’m making this afternoon, that one will always have to remain a theory. But nothing else fits. It’s quite logical. It was Capek’s secret. No one knew it. He intended no one ever should. He wouldn’t admit it to Smith until thirst had driven him mad, probably too mad to know what the hell was going on. So Smith called in his forger and killed him.”

  “Then,” I said, “he killed his own scheme because he couldn’t find any signature of Capek’s to copy.”

  “True,” said Sackler, “but he did salvage a little from the wreck, didn’t he, Benny?”

  Benny stared at Sackler in horror but he didn’t answer.

  “Seeing all was lost,” continued Sackler, “our pal Smith embarked on a new plan. After Capek’s body and phony suicide note which Smith had typed with the dead man’s fingers, Smith was told by Rawson that Capek couldn’t write. Told today, in fact. That fact, once known, was dangerous. So Smith planned to murder Rawson, too. The afternoon before he killed him, he had Benny here forge his name to a check for a hundred thousand dollars. That cleaned out Rawson’s bank account.”

  I might have known that Sackler would find out why he hadn’t got his twenty-five hundred and fifty bucks. Undoubtedly, he’d checked on that before anything else.

  “Wait a minute,” croaked Benny Bagel, “you can’t prove that.”

  Sackler smiled at him benignly. “The hell I can’t,” he said. “I called the bank. The last check that was presented was for something in excess of a hundred grand. That check is down at Wolley’s fingerprint bureau right now.”

  “So what?” said Benny. “There’ll be a dozen sets of prints on it by now.”

  “True,” said Sackler. “One of those sets will be yours, and what is equally important, none of them will be Rawson’s. Even you can’t forge a check with gloves on, Benny. And it’ll be conclusive proof of forgery if Rawson—the supposed maker of the check—hasn’t left his own fingerprint on it.”

  “Well,” said Wolley grudgingly, “at last we’ve got some evidence instead of theory.”

  Crosher coughed nervously. “Who is this Smith?” he said suddenly. “Why have you deliberately concealed the name of the killer? Who is it?”

  Wolley spun around on his heel. He had been so engaged in trying to figure how Sackler could be w
rong, he’d completely overlooked the minor fact of the killer’s identity.

  “Of course,” he snapped. “Who did it? Who’s the mastermind? Who was working with Benny, here?”

  Sackler suddenly looked acutely uncomfortable. He stared at the clock. I followed his gaze and noted it was exactly twelve minutes past three.

  “Well,” said Wolley again. “Who is it? Is this whole thing a fairy story or do you know who it was?”

  Sackler appeared more upset than he had a moment ago. In inverse ratio, Benny seemed to perk up a bit.

  “Well,” said Sackler with obvious reluctance, “maybe it was Crosher, here. It’s quite possible that—”

  Crosher’s mouth twisted suddenly. His eyes shone like pale blue ice. He took a step forward toward Sackler and his voice trembled as he spoke.

  “Damn you!” he screamed. “Are you accusing me of killing my own flesh and blood? Are you saying that—”

  “Pay no attention to him,” said Benny, and there was relief in his tone. “He knows nothing. It’s all wild guesswork. He can’t check anything he says. He—”

  The doorbell sounded imperiously. Sackler took a deep breath. He lifted his head to heaven and said fervently: “Thank God! Joey, open the door!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BLOOD FROM A TURNIP

  went out, opened the door and returned with the Postal Union boy Sackler had sent out three-quarters of an hour before. I led him into the living-room. He stood before Sackler, thrust his hand into his hip pocket and pulled out a thick roll of bills.

  The boy began to count aloud. I was seized with a sudden cold suspicion that Sackler had somehow contrived to get his twenty-five hundred bucks after all. I remembered, abruptly and without satisfaction, that I still hadn’t retrieved my thirty-three.

  Wolley gaped at the mounting money on the desk. Envy, frank and hostile, was in his gaze.

  “Great God,” he said, “is this a murder case or a private business deal?”

  Sackler didn’t answer him. He was gazing at the stack of bills with an ethereal light in his eyes. The Postal Union lad laid a final fifty on top of the pile, announced: “Twenty-five hundred and fifty. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  That, as I knew too well, was absolutely right. To the penny. Sackler took a worn leather change purse from his pocket and handed the boy a dime. He was impervious to the look of scorn he received in exchange. The messenger left the room and Sackler stood up, stowing the bills away in his pocket like a hophead who has just come upon a mountain of cocaine.

  He walked into the foyer and called back over his shoulder: “Hey, Joey.”

  I went along, not having the slightest idea what he wanted. I could almost feel Wolley’s outraged glare on my back.

  “Joey,” said Sackler in a whisper, “within the next three minutes sneak out of the room on some pretext. Go upstairs to the attic. The third door on the right at the head of the stairway. There’s a transom there. Half open. Throw this over it into the room.”

  He handed me a sealed envelope. There was something small, hard and heavy inside it. I put it in my pocket without asking questions. By the time I returned to the living-room, I began to have vague visions of getting back my thirty-three bucks.

  “Do you mind telling me,” said Wolley, restraining his wrath with a noticeable effort, “what the hell is going on here? Damn it, Rex, in the name of the law, I demand to know who your murderer is. You’re obstructing justice.”

  Sackler nodded frantically to me. I murmured something about going to the bathroom and slid out of the room. I raced upstairs to the attic. I stood for a moment before the door Sackler had designated, listening. Then I tossed the envelope over the transom. I heard the metallic click as it hit the floor within; then I heard a sigh and a shuffling footstep. I scooted back down the stairs.

  When I got back to the living-room, Wolley was pounding the table savagely. His voice roared against the tapestried walls and reverberated back again. He threatened Sackler with decades of imprisonment for obstructing justice. He accused him of being an accessory after the fact of murder for withholding evidence. Sackler sat there in uncomfortable silence till he saw me. Then he brightened.

  “All right, Joey?” he shouted above the noise of Wolley’s voice.

  I nodded my head. “Shut up, Inspector,” said Sackler. “I’ll give you your killer.”

  Wolley shut up for a moment, breathless. He inhaled quickly and said: “Who is it?”

  “Colby,” said Sackler. “Granville S. Colby. Embezzler of his clients’ trust funds. Murderer. Kidnaper and a consorter with a forger. There’s your man.”

  “Colby!” yelled Wolley. “Where is he? He was here this morning. Search the house. My God, perhaps he got away. Perhaps he—”

  The shot sounded through the house like a fragment of thunder. Benny sat up in his chair. Wolley froze where he stood and Crosher looked more afraid than ever. Sackler stood up. He pointed at the clock.

  “The time,” he yelled. “Note the time. I want witnesses. It’s exactly three twenty-eight. Look!”

  We all looked at the clock.

  “Come on,” yelled Wolley. “Let’s investigate that shot. It was upstairs.”

  I caught Sackler’s eye. “It seemed to me to come from the attic,” I said.

  Wolley grabbed Benny before he raced up the stairs. He was taking no chances on losing one of his prisoners. The rest of us followed him to the attic.

  here was a smell of cordite coming over the transom through which I had thrown Sackler’s envelope. Wolley tried the door. It had a mortised lock which had been secured. He handed Benny over to me, and smashed his broad shoulder against the door. At the second thrust, the lock gave.

  The five of us catapulted into the room. “My God,” said Wolley. “I bet you were right, Rex. Look at that!”

  I didn’t have to look. I knew quite well what was there on the floor. It was Colby. Colby with a revolver in his hand, a bullet in his brain. A trickle of blood stained the dusty boards at our feet. Crumpled and lying across the room was the envelope I had brought upstairs a moment before.

  Wolley looked at the body closely, then turned around and examined the door.

  “Say,” he said. “There’s no key here. If he locked himself in here where’s the key? Say, don’t tell me this isn’t a suicide either.”

  Rex Sackler heaved a profound sigh.

  “This one’s a suicide,” he said. “I personally guarantee it.”

  Wolley went pounding down the stairs again to the telephone. Crosher, Sackler and I followed leisurely. I was holding on to Benny’s arm and I could feel him trembling. We arrived on the ground floor as Wolley completed his call to headquarters.

  “Rex,” he said, “there’s still some things I don’t understand. First about Rawson. Are you sure Colby killed him, too?”

  “That’s the first thing I was sure of,” said Sackler. “That’s what started my whole train of thought. Once I decided Colby had killed Rawson, it was easy to figure the rest.”

  “But how, Rex? How?”

  Wolley was almost respectful now.

  “Colby was a chain smoker. Do you remember? He’d light one butt from the end of the other. Last night when I asked him for a cigarette he patted his coat pockets and told me his case was in his overcoat. It was. I got it out myself.”

  “So?”

  “Yet Colby swore he wasn’t out of the house last night. A chain smoker like that doesn’t keep butts in his overcoat so he’s got to go out to the hall closet every time he wants a smoke. But if he went outside, he would put them in his overcoat. That’s just what Colby did. He undoubtedly lit a cigarette after he killed Rawson and he hadn’t finished smoking it when I borrowed one from him.”

  “Borrowed,” I said. “Very funny.”

  But Sackler was so pleased with himself he didn’t even glare at me. However, I didn’t much care. Sackler’s play was over. I still had a little something up my sleeve.

  “Well
,” asked Wolley, “why the hell didn’t he get Benny out of here when the job was done?”

  “He didn’t know Rawson had called me in. He didn’t expect the police to question the suicide theory. But the servants may have mentioned Benny and it’d look funny if he wasn’t on the spot, since he’d been staying here for three weeks as Colby’s clerk. You see how simple they made it? Living here in Capek’s house, holding him a prisoner on his own estate, who’d ever suspect them?”

  “And the dough?” said Wolley. “What about the dough that boy brought you?”

  “Oh, that,” said Sackler, as if he’d never given it a second thought. “Just a little personal matter.”

  drove the coupe for a good five miles before I opened up. Then I said, very casually: “It’d be a good idea if you got rid of that key before we got back to town. Wolley might start thinking and figure out the whole deal.”

  Sackler raised his eyebrows. “Deal?” he said. “Key?”

  “Key,” I said. “Deal. Maybe I’m not quite as dumb as you think I am.”

  He looked at me for a long time. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out a key. He said: “I imagine it’s safe to throw this out the window here.”

  I said that I guessed it was. He flung it into the ditch.

  I drove another five miles. Then I said: “There’s a couple of minor items I’d like to discuss with you.”

  He nodded a trifle grimly. “I was afraid of that, Joey.”

  “First,” I said, “I’d like a bonus.”

  “A bonus, Joey? How much?”

  “Thirty-three bucks,” I told him. “Cash money.”

  For once he was very quiet at the mention of money. Finally he said, in the tone of a man suffering great physical pain: “I think that can be arranged, Joey.”

  “Good,” I said. “Then there’s the matter of a ten-dollar-a-week raise.”

  Now he looked like a man with the black cholera. “Joey,” he exclaimed. “That’s over five hundred a year. That’s a lot of money, my boy.”