The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

I’d seen him before, of course, in and out of court — a small terrier sort of man of about forty-five. This was the first time I’d seen him so near to, though; and as he looked at me, across his desk as big as a banquet table, I noticed the little bags under the eyes I’d missed before, and I figured Mr. Bond liked his liquor, and liked it long. He had a pleasant smile, though.

“Glad to know you, Mr. Warren,” he said in that easy drawl of his that made such a hit in court. He stretched out his hand. “I’ve got to admit that if the family here had consulted me,” he added as we shook, “I would have recommended a better known agency, but—”

“We’ve never had a failure yet,” I broke in.

His eyes twinkled at that.

“I figured as much,” he said. Harley Bond was nobody’s fool. “However,” he sat upright, becoming serious, “now you’re hired, let’s get down to business. First—”

“—the terms,” I finished for him.

His lips formed in a silent whistle at that.

“I see a successful future ahead of you, Mr. Warren,” he murmured. “The terms, however, have already been fixed by Mr. Carl Fuller, Mr. Henry’s eldest brother. Ten thousand dollars to whomever finds and successfully proves the guilt of the murderer. To be paid on the sentencing.”

I nodded shortly and mentally waved the lunchroom goodbye. Then I turned to minor details.

There was little known about the murder, it seems, other than what the papers had stated. Henry Fuller had gone to his apartment, 38 Bradford Street, at seven-thirty Monday evening, to dress for dinner. At eight-thirty his valet, who had been on an errand for him (he had a dozen alibi witnesses) returned, to find him dead, shot through the heart. A doctor was called, who put the time of death at eight o’clock. Henry Fuller was unmarried. So far as was known he had no enemies.

“And the will?”

Mr. Bond coughed.

“The will divided the property equally among his two sisters and two of his three brothers,” he replied. “The third — John — had not been on the best of terms with him. Mr. John is... er—” Again the lawyer coughed, “the father of Mr. Coleman here.”

I turned to our young student, who so far had said nothing. He nodded solemnly.

“Exactly,” he murmured. “But I, myself, have been on the best of terms with Uncle Henry for over a year now. I think, if he had lived a little longer, he would have — well, er—”

“I see,” I delicately finished for him. “But he didn’t, so you’re out of luck.” I stood up. “And now, Mr. Bond, I’ll take a look around. You might give me the names and addresses of a few bereaved friends and relatives before I go,” I added.

I looked them up that afternoon, all the unfortunate kinfolk who were going to divide twenty million among them following the unhappy death of old Fuller. I didn’t expect to find anything, and that’s what I found. It wasn’t till early the next afternoon that I got around to the valet.

Jobson was his name. He was still sticking around the old man’s apartment, with the consent of the relatives, squeezing the last hour out of free lodgings until the advanced rent was used up and he’d have to move into cheaper quarters.

The building itself was a dingy affair, the kind only a millionaire can afford to live in, long, four storied, on an old aristocratic street. I had a job routing out the elevator-boy-of-all-work from where he was sleeping in an alcove by the switchboard, but at last I found him, and after a ten-minute ride up three flights, I stumbled along the dark corridor, discovered the right door, and finally was standing in the presence of the formidable Mr. Jobson himself.

He sat me down very politely when he found what I wanted; sat my one hundred and seventy pounds on the flimsiest gilded chair in all that gilded drawing-room, so he had the drop on me from the start.

“Anything I can do to help solve this horrible affair, sir, I’ll be delighted to do,” he rumbled, standing over me. “But, unfortunately, I am completely in the dark—”

“It seems to have been a dark night all around,” I interrupted him.

He bridled at that.

“I have alibis, sir!” he declared; “at least a dozen people—”

I flapped my paw.

“Save your alibis until you’re accused of something,” I said. “I just dropped in for a pleasant little chat.”

Well, we talked about art and literature and one thing and another, but I wasn’t getting any news that I’d come for, and I was just about to let up on him and lift anchor — when I settled back again.

I’d caught him looking at the clock.

Now there are ways of looking at a clock, and then there are ways.

Well, I kept him there for another twenty minutes, and at the end of that time he was as nervous as a debuting opera singer with the hiccoughs. At last he couldn’t stand it any longer.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Warren,” he said, “but I must put off this pleasant conversation till another time. You see, I... I’ve an engagement with a—” he leered; “you understand, sir, don’t you!”