“Plenty of time to get a tooth pulled at ten-thirty and bump your father at eleven-forty,” Jelcoe snarled.
“But I stayed until after twelve. His wife and daughter and son-in-law were there—waiting to see Dr. Fenimore off on a twelve-fifteen train.”
I’ll be damned if there wasn’t the ring of truth in the fellow’s voice. I glanced at Burke and saw he had caught it, too. He got up and walked to the door with me as Jelcoe went on trying to tear a confession out of Arthur Malvern.
“Know anything about this Dr. Fenimore?” he asked me.
“One of the best-known professional men in the city. Listen, Jerry. If he was at Dr. Fenimore’s at the time he says—”
“Let’s go see. Know the address?” He was striding ahead of me.
I stopped long enough to get the address from the phone book and hurried to the car. He went like a bat out of hell. The house was an old-fashioned two-story brick dwelling well out on Yandell. A white-aproned maid answered Burke’s ring. She said the doctor was in and to follow her. We went through a high-ceilinged hall to an extra wing in the rear. There was a regular dentist’s reception room with the smell, old magazines, and everything.
A pretty girl in a nurse’s uniform presided over a desk in one corner. She said Dr. Fenimore was busy with a patient and would see us in a moment. Then she wanted a case history of our dentistry, but Burke told her it was a personal visit and very important. While we waited for the doctor he asked her if Arthur Malvern was a patient of Dr. Fenimore’s.
She said he was and took a card from her filing-case. Burke wrinkled his brow over it. There were numerous notations. The last one on the card was in different writing from the others and said: Extraction. 11:00 p.m. April 15th.
Burke took a long breath and asked her about it. She said she didn’t stay at night, and that it must have been entered on the card by the doctor himself.
A white door swung open and a lady came out holding her hand to her jaw. Behind her, wearing a white jacket, was a tall man with a kind, ruddy face.
Burke went to him with Malvern’s card in his hand, and introduced himself. Before he could state what he had come for, the doctor said, “This is a remarkable coincidence, Mr. Burke. I returned from a short trip this morning and meant to call you immediately, but I’ve been so swamped with patients I haven’t had the opportunity.”
Burke tapped the case card on his knuckles. “You mean—about young Malvern?”
“Yes. Yes, indeed. I didn’t learn until my return of the preposterous theory that Arthur Malvern killed his father. As a matter of fact, the young man was in the chair and later a guest in my home when you police state the crime was Committed.”
“You’re positive, Doctor?”
“Absolutely positive. He came to my door at a quarter of eleven with a badly ulcerated tooth calling for immediate treatment. I performed the extraction at eleven and jotted the notation down on that card you hold in your hand. I then invited him into the parlor for a visit while my family waited to take me to the train. My son-in-law drove me down and we took Malvern with us as far as the corner of San Francisco and El Paso at a few minutes after midnight.”
“How can you be sure of the time?” Burke asked him sharply.
“I caught my train with a few minutes to spare. It left the depot at twelve-fifteen.”
“Are you prepared to swear to these facts, Doctor? Remember—a man’s life may hang in the balance.”
“Of course. I’m prepared to make a sworn statement. Not only myself, but my wife, daughter, and son-in-law will sign the statement. He came into the parlor and talked with them before I brought him back to the office.”
Burke thanked him and told him the authorities would probably require an affidavit signed by the entire group. Doctor Fenimore assured him he was wholly at their service in the matter. When we got out to the car, I took a deep breath and exclaimed, “That seems to let Arthur out.”
Burke started his car and drove back toward the city. “He couldn’t very well have shot his father while he was having a tooth pulled,” he agreed.
I didn’t ask him how he felt about it. I was glad all over. All I could think about was that Arthur would be released and his family would be waiting for him.
When we reached the downtown section, newsboys were scurrying about the streets with copies of the Free Press. There was such a hubbub I couldn’t understand what they were shouting. Burke drew up to the curb and bought a paper. News of Arthur Malvern’s capture occupied half the headlines. The other half was taken up by the screaming announcement of another murder advertisement in the personal column.
Burke turned to the personal column and spread it out so we could read it together. There it was:
YOU DIDN’T DO SO WELL ON THE MALVERN CASE, MR. BURKE. HERE’S A HOT TIP FOR YOU. NUMBER TWO IS A WOMAN SLATED TO GET HERS IN JUAREZ ABOUT MIDNIGHT. LET’S SEE YOU CRACK DOWN.
MUM.
I choked back an excited “Good God!” while Burke stared at the ominous words. A muscle twitched on the side of his jaw, and his eyes were bleak. He didn’t say anything.
Then I thought about what this meant to Arthur Malvern, and I couldn’t keep still.
“This will certainly clear Arthur,” I burst out. “He couldn’t have put this ad in the paper. Even Jelcoe will have to admit he can’t be Mum.”
Burke nodded soberly. “It clears Arthur, all right. Almost as though it was timed perfectly to accomplish just that.”
“You don’t mean you think it’s a fake?”
“It could be,” he said. “But—no, I’m afraid I don’t believe it is, Asa.” He folded the paper and put the car in gear, drove on toward headquarters.
Chapter Nine
JELCOE WAS STILL HAMMERING AWAY on Arthur Malvern when Burke and I got back. Young Malvern was beginning to come out of his dope a little and get tough. They hadn’t seen the latest Free Press.
Jelcoe’s jaw fell open when Burke spread the paper out in front of him and pointed to the murder advertisement. His eyelids began jumping up and down as he read it. He sputtered two or three “I’ll be damneds” and looked at young Malvern as though he wished he were in the bottom of the Rio Grande.
Burke sat down and loaded his pipe in the middle of a sort of anticlimax of silence. The other dicks passed the paper around and read it. Malvern didn’t know what it was all about. Burke said, “You’d better let this man go, Jelcoe. On top of this new advertisement, we’ve been out to Dr. Fenimore’s, and his entire family is prepared to give Arthur Malvern an unshakable alibi from ten-thirty to midnight on the important date.”
Arthur sat up straighter at that and Jelcoe sputtered some more. He was feeling pretty ineffectual right about then. But he tried to bluff it out. “I’ll release him on your order,” he snarled. “But that doesn’t change my mind! Anybody could have stuck this new ad in the paper to throw suspicion off him—and I’ll check that alibi myself!”
“Take the bracelets off him,” Burke said.
They did. Arthur looked bewildered and asked if he could go now. Burke nodded absently, but Jelcoe walked up close and stuck his chin into the man’s face. “Yeh. Get out! But I’m putting a man on your trail, see? I’m going to know where you are if a dame gets bumped in Juarez tonight.”
That was all. As melodrama it fell flat. Malvern started to walk out, and Burke told a detective to drive him home. Jelcoe stalked out after them, leaving Burke and me together in the office.
“How about it?” I asked.
Burke puffed on his pipe and studied the advertisement. He shook his head, and I had a strong hunch this wasn’t at all unexpected. He heaved up from his chair and got his hat. “Let’s go over to the Free Press and take a look at the original of this ad.”
We went down the street to the newspaper office, and I noticed people turning to look at Burke and point him out. Practically every pedestrian had a copy of the Free Press folded back at the advertising section. Burke’s face was placid and he
didn’t pay any attention to the people who pointed him out.
“It’s a field day for the Free Press,” I muttered. “I bet their circulation has jumped fifty per cent on this murder advertising stunt.”
Burke just threw me a queer look and grunted. We were at the newspaper office, and he went straight to the managing editor’s private office.
The editor’s name was J. P. Graves. Burke introduced me to him. He had a swarthy face that you wouldn’t trust very far, and black eyes that wouldn’t stay put. He was pleasant enough, but it was easy to see that he was enjoying the situation plenty.
“This is terrible, Mr. Burke,” he said as we sat down. “I want you to understand that my paper stands prepared to offer you the fullest co-operation in tracking down this fiend. What’s your theory now?”
“I didn’t come down for publicity,” Burke told him. “Have you got this second advertisement?”
“I certainly have. They didn’t catch us napping this time.” The editor opened a drawer of his desk importantly and drew out an envelope. “I, personally, took care that it wasn’t destroyed or lost this time.”
Burke opened the envelope and shook out a smaller envelope and a plain white card like the one that had been found in Malvern’s study. The envelope was one of the stamped kind issued by the local post office. The address was typewritten and it was postmarked 11:40 a.m. from the main office. A dollar bill was still inside the envelope.
The advertisement was typed on one side of the card. Burke picked it up carefully and studied it. “How many people have handled it?”
“Only the clerk who opened it,” Graves told him. “And he says he realized what it was immediately and didn’t handle it enough to spoil any fingerprints.”
“And the bill?” Burke held the envelope up to the light and looked at the outline of the folded bill.
“It’s untouched. Hasn’t been taken from the envelope. Realizing the importance of fingerprints, I had previously given strict orders to the entire advertising department that another advertisement of this sort should be handled with care.”
“Very good.” Burke slipped the card back into its envelope and put it in his pocket. “If you’ll trust me with this dollar, I’ll see what our experts can make out of it.”
“Of course, Mr. Burke.” Graves laughed with superfluous good-fellowship. “Now, if you’d give us a word as to your plans—”
Burke stood up. “I haven’t any.” He sucked on his pipe and lounged out of the office. I followed him and Graves watched us go with the veneer of good-fellowship wiped from his face.
It was getting late, but Jerry Burke went back to headquarters and turned the envelope over to the identification division. Then he went into his office to wait for their report.
“Will they get any prints that are any good?” I asked as he settled down behind his desk.
“It’s improbable,” he admitted. “They’ll check the typing for similarity with the murderer’s calling card. If any clear prints come out, we’ll check our local files and then send them to the Department of Justice in Washington for possible identification. That’s all we can do.”
“Except wait until midnight.”
Burke looked at me queerly. “That’s right.” He spoke with a brooding sort of heaviness.
I began to see that we were in for a tough evening. That other time of waiting for murder had been bad enough. This was going to be a thousand times worse. The period had been much shorter the other time, and in the back of our thoughts had been the feeling that it was too fantastic to be true. Neither one of us had actually expected murder the other time.
It was still fantastic, but this time there wasn’t an iota of uncertainty in our minds. We had until midnight—and this time the victim would be a woman.
That made it a little more horrible. I don’t know why. I suppose, in the final analysis, it’s just as tough on a man to get killed as a woman. But there’s something about the idea that gets your goat. Know what I mean? I’m not sure that I do, but I felt it.
I sat there and wondered what sort of woman was slated to die in Juarez at midnight. The Lord knows there are plenty of Juarez women whose death wouldn’t be any great loss to the world. I hoped it would be one of those drabs. Even that didn’t give me a good feeling about it. I suppose those poor souls cling to life as tightly as any of the rest of us. Just because life has handed them a dirty deal is no reason for them to give up hope for the break that might lurk just around the corner.
That sort of thinking didn’t do me any good. I was getting morbid. After a while I couldn’t stand the silence any longer. I asked Burke, “Couldn’t you put the pressure on the Free Press, somehow, to keep them from printing those damnable advertisements?”
“I suppose I could. Why should I?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a funny feeling that the ads are tied up directly with murder—if they weren’t published, murder mightn’t be done.”
He shook his head slowly. “It isn’t logical. It looks as though the plans are all made beforehand. I don’t see that suppressing the advertisements would halt the murderer.”
“Maybe not. But I’ve got a hunch,” I argued. “And if nothing else, it would stop all the publicity and all the slams at you for not being able to stop the tiring after being notified.”
He took his pipe out of his mouth and laughed. “You don’t know much about the tactics of sensational newspapers. It would make a bigger story if I made them suppress the ads. Can’t you see the headlines? I’d be accused of being afraid of publicity. You can’t keep a paper from printing the news, Asa.”
A detective came in just then with the report from the identification experts. There were no good prints on the card or the bill. Nothing whatever to hang an identification on. The typing on the card and the card itself corresponded with the one found in the Malvern murder. There was every indication that both had been typed at about the same time on the same machine.
Burke nodded as though he hadn’t expected anything else and dismissed the detective. He turned to me and said, “Want to put me up this evening? I’ll have to disconnect my phone if I go home.”
I told him I had every intention of sticking to him as close as a leech until midnight and to come out to my place where I would cook up something to eat and we could be quiet.
He was glad enough to come along. He stayed in the office long enough to put through a call to the Juarez authorities and explain the situation to them briefly. They promised all possible co-operation and he arranged to go over about ten o’clock to confer with them about taking every precaution to prevent the scheduled crime.
That was all we could do until ten o’clock, so we went out to my bungalow to sit out one of the longest evenings I ever experienced.
Chapter Ten
IT WASN’T a particularly cheery téte à téte. We had completely talked ourselves out by nine o’clock. Every line of discussion brought us back to the fact that we didn’t have a single damned clue to the mystery—and another murder was brewing for tonight.
Arthur Malvern’s alibi and this second advertisement seemed to wash him up completely as a suspect. I wasn’t sorry and I’m sure Burke wasn’t surprised. Looking back over the case I could see that Jerry had purposely refrained from taking the initiative in the hue and cry for Arthur Malvern. He had let Jelcoe push on and make an ass of himself—and now Jelcoe was left holding the bag.
Burke admitted this when I pressed him. He couldn’t or wouldn’t say exactly why he hadn’t thought Arthur guilty in the face of pretty strong evidence—except that he had felt all along that the case wasn’t due to be solved so simply.
He admitted too (under pressure) that he was pretty well convinced we were facing one of the “series” type of murder cases. It was as hard to drag a theory out of him as it is to drag a fighting steer out of a Pecos River bog, but he finally said that he thought we were up against either a homicidal maniac who was killing without reason, or a cold-blooded mu
rderer who had a list of victims for whose death there was either a real or fancied motive.
By nine-thirty I was jittery, and took Nip and Tuck out for a run. They were extraordinarily cheerful for a couple of baleful-eyed Scotties and seemed bent on convincing me that this was the best of all possible worlds. I was chuckling when we went back in the house, and even Burke’s grim face couldn’t bring back the mood of earlier evening.
Suppose a woman was due to get bumped. What of it, after all. No doubt she richly deserved it. Look at Malvern, I told myself. His death was a fine thing for a lot of people.
Then I began to get the wild idea that perhaps this killer fancied himself as a sort of Robin Hood who assumed the spectral garb of Death to do in the people who needed doing in. It was an intriguing idea. I blabbed it to Burke and was surprised to have that sanest of men agree with unexpected gravity that the idea was entirely plausible. We could tell more about it, he suggested, after we checked up on the character of tonight’s victim.
That brought us back to reality. It was time to gird up our loins and hie ourselves across the Border to prepare for the grim event as best we could.
Burke drove his car to the bridge and left it on the American side as before. We walked across and found a Mexican police car waiting to take us to the police station.
Circulars published by the Juarez Chamber of Commerce describe the Border city as having a “delightfully quaint, old-world charm.”
Juarez is different from an American city, of course, though I wouldn’t choose just those words to describe the difference. The streets are narrow and the pavement is in poor condition. Business houses and homes are of adobe or flimsy frame construction, and are either incredibly old and weathered or flamboyantly flaunt new paint.
Ragged children crowd the streets, ganging up on American tourists to beg for centavos or furtively offering to guide the males to the infamous Calle de Diablo where women in cribs sell their services for practically whatever one wishes to pay.
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