Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 6, April 16, 1938
- Автор: Трит Лоуренс, Вулрич Корнелл
- Год: 1938
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 6, April 16, 1938». Краткое содержание книги:
I looked at Millie. Her eyes were wide and frightened. The man with the greasy apron set two bowls of chili in front of us and went back for water.
“Did you know about this?” I asked.
She shook her head. “They acted strange,” she said, “but I didn’t—”
“One circumstance,” the radio voice went on, “is being given careful attention by the authorities. It will be remembered that the Randall boy was kidnaped from the walled-in yard in back of his home. His nurse had left him playing in his sandbox while she went indoors a moment.”
“It just goes to show,” I said, “a guy should always read the newspapers. I didn’t even know there’d been a kidnaping. I—”
“Be quiet,” she whispered.
“—the boy was gone” the announcer was saying. “Police found one end of a dollar bill in the sandbox. They assumed the kidnapers planned to use the remainder of the bill to identify themselves when they tried to collect ransom.”
“This guy Grant,” I said, “seems to enjoy tearing up money.”
“The envelope given the pawnbroker,” the voice continued, “did not contain the entire remaining part of the bill. The piece of money in the envelope matched that left in the sandbox, but police believe the fact that the kidnapers retained part of the bill shows they will try to collect additional ransom.”
“They would,” I said.
“Mr. Randall has announced,” she speaker went on, “that he will make no further effort to contact the kidnapers. They have broken their agreement, he declares, and now there is nothing to do but give the authorities a free hand. One official asserted his belief that the kidnaped boy has been killed. Otherwise—”
Millie grabbed my hand. “He’s all right,” she whispered. “He had an awful fever, but he’s alive. He—”
“Shut up.”
“Keep this station tuned in for further developments in the Randall kidnaping—”
Millie was looking at her bowl of chili. There were sandwiches and pie on the table now.
“Let’s eat,” I said. “It looks like I collected some money for a couple rats, but there’s nothing to do about it. You can bet they’ve made tracks.”
We piled into the food. Between mouthfuls I asked her if she’d really told me everything she knew. She swore she had.
“Don’t you think we should go to the police?”
I took a big bite of a sandwich and chewed a bit. “Guess we should,” I said at last. “You can if you want to, but I won’t.”
Her eyes got wider. “You won’t? Why?”
“I have reasons. And besides don’t forget I’m the guy that collected the ransom. Maybe they wouldn’t believe me.”
“That’s right.” She started in on the pie.
We were all finished and I had fished a five from the packet to pay the bill when the band stopped in the middle of a hot number and the silky voiced announcer came on again.
“The following news bulletin has just been received from headquarters,” he said. “The man who collected the Randall ransom money early this evening has just been identified through department of justice files at Washington as Robert D. Ellison, who was released six weeks ago from the Allenwood penitentiary, where he served an eighteen-month term for grand larceny. Ellison was identified by means of fingerprints found on the envelope which he gave the pawnbroker in exchange for the ransom. The prints were sent to Washington by wirephoto and the identification followed quickly.”
Millie was staring at me. “Is that you?” she whispered.
I tried to smile. “How’d you guess it?”
“You were in jail?”
“You heard what the man said.”
“Did you — I mean, were you guilty?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t think I was but the jury had other ideas. But that’s a long story. The point is it looks like I’m going to be put back on ice again pretty quick if I don’t watch out.”
The announcer was still talking. “The numbers of the ransom bills are known to the authorities. As soon as it can be compiled a key will be broadcast by which the money can be identified quickly. The bills were in denominations of fives, tens, twenties and fifties. Meanwhile, everyone is requested to watch for a 1932 coupé bearing license number RA 364. I’ll repeat that. License...”
“Let’s get out of here,” I said and hurried up to the cash register and paid the bill. Millie followed me out to the car and we climbed in.
“What are you going to do?” she asked as I started the motor.
“I’m going to drop you off somewhere,” I said. “You’re in the clear and you better stay that way. As for me — well, I’m going back to that house.”
She grabbed me by the arm. “You’re not going to drop me off,” she said. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with this and I’m going to help you prove it.”
I laughed. “You think they’d believe you?”
“I don’t know. All I can do is tell the truth. And I’m staying with you.”
“Okay. But don’t get in the road.”
III
There wasn’t any car in front of the house when we got there. We went up to the front door. It was locked.
“Stay here,” I said, “while I look around. I should be good at breaking and entering.”
Around in the back I found a cellar window that wasn’t locked. I pushed it open and slid through. It was black as the inside of a safe and I struck a match, found the stairs and went up to the first floor. By the light of another match I made my way to the front door, opened it and let Millie in. Then I located the switch and turned on the lights.
“Keep your eyes and ears open,” I told her. “I’m going upstairs and look around.”
I didn’t find anything. A double bed in one room and a little cot in another showed signs of having been slept in, but there wasn’t any luggage or anything else that might give a lead. Of course, they’d rented the place furnished. When I got downstairs, Millie was standing by the telephone.
“Find anything?”
I shook my head.
“We’d better call the police,” she said. “Maybe they won’t believe us, but it won’t be as bad that way as it would if we were picked up.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I grabbed the phone book and looked at the front where police headquarters is generally listed. There was a phone number on it, written lightly in pencil. It was MA 6754.
I showed it to her. She shook her head. “That might have been there for months.”
“Sure. But it’s a hunch.”
I sat down and dialed MA 6754. A woman’s voice answered. “Hobson’s residence.”
“Mrs. Hobson?”
“Yes.”
“This is Homer Grant talking.”
“Why yes, Mr. Grant. What’s the matter? Isn’t everything satisfactory?”
I stalled. “Well, I don’t exactly know for sure yet.”
“Where are you now?” She sounded annoyed. “At the cottage?”
I hesitated. “Why no. You see, I... that is, we got kind of mixed up on directions. So I thought I’d call you to make sure we got the right place.”
“The right place,” she repeated, her voice getting shriller. “Why you told me you’d been to Riverside and knew just where the cottage was.”
“I must have been mistaken. If you could just tell me exactly...”
“Certainly I can. Only I don’t understand. Well, anyway, you know where Highway No. 68 intersects with Riverside Trail?”