Ed McBain’s Mystery Book, No. 1, 1960
- Автор: Бучер Энтони, Хантер Эван
- Год: 1960
- Язык: английский
- Год: Pocket Books
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ed McBain’s Mystery Book, No. 1, 1960». Краткое содержание книги:
Malone nodded.
“They should kill every last one of them,” von Flanagan said. “I mean it, Malone. Anybody kills a magazine salesman he deserves a medal.”
Malone sighed. “The case,” he reminded von Flanagan. “Let’s talk about the case. Tell me all about it. Everything.”
“There’s not much to tell,” von Flanagan said, relaxing into a chair. “This Littleton is thirty-three years old, has a wife and two kids. One is a boy and the other—”
“—is a girl,” Malone guessed.
“You know the story? Then why bother me?”
“I’m sorry,” Malone said, sorry. “Please go on.”
“He’s a hustler,” said von Flanagan. “Holds down two jobs at once. Works real hard. Sells magazines evenings for this Gunderson character and works nine to five in a garage. Hasn’t got any money, though. He’s had a tough run of luck lately. Doctor bills, things going wrong with the kids, you know. But he’s not in debt either. A good, steady guy. A guy you might like if he wasn’t a magazine salesman.”
“The crime,” Malone said gently.
“Murder,” von Flanagan said. “Not by the wife, either. I thought of that, Malone. I didn’t want to because she’s such a sweet little woman. A doll. But she was upstairs with the kids at the time. The kids said so. They wouldn’t lie. Too young to lie.”
Malone lit a cigar. “He was shot by somebody inside the house?”
Von Flanagan nodded. “At close range,” he said. “It almost looked as though the killer wanted to make it look like suicide. But he didn’t try very hard. No powder burns, for one thing, and the gun was lying near Littleton’s left hand. And he was right-handed. We checked.”
“Clever of you,” the lawyer said. “So it was murder, and not by the wife. How about the other salesmen? Tallmer and Prince and Kirkenberger?”
“Kirschmeyer,” von Flanagan corrected. “That’s the funny part of it. Tallmer was a typical hit-and-run. Prince and Kirschmeyer look more like accidents than most accidents. But with them all coming together like this—”
“I know,” Malone said gloomily. “Did Littleton have any insurance?”
“Insurance?” von Flanagan looked lost. “Oh,” he said. “Littleton, insurance. Yeah. A big policy. But that’s out, Malone. The wife is the only beneficiary and she’s clear. So that’s out.”
“Thanks,” Malone said. “So am I.”
“So are you what?”
“Out,” Malone said. “For a drink.”
With two double ryes under his belt and a pair of beer chasers keeping them company, Malone felt in condition to use the phone. He called Charlie Stein, a useful little man who served as Dun and Bradstreet for a world far removed from Wall Street, running credit checks for gamblers and similarly unsavory elements.
“Take your time on this one,” he told Stein. “Nothing urgent. I want to find out if there’s anything around on a man named Henry Littleton. And,” he added sadly, “there probably isn’t.”
“You’re wrong,” Stein said. “There is.”
Malone came back to life. “Go on,” he said. “Talk to me.”
“Henry Littleton,” Stein said. “He’s into Max Hook for seventy-five grand. That all you want to know?”
“That’s impossible,” Malone said. “I mean—”
“Impossible but true.”
“Oh,” Malone said. “Well, you better cross him off, Charlie. Somebody shot him in the head.”
Malone hung up quickly, then lifted the receiver again and put through a call to Max Hook. The gambler picked up the phone almost at once. “Malone, Max,” Malone said cheerfully. “You didn’t order a hit for a guy named Henry Littleton, did you?”
“Littleton? That’s the fink who owes me seventy-five grand. Seventy-five grand he owes me and a nickel at a time he pays me. That guy.” There was a pause. Then, with the air of someone just now hearing what Malone said in the first place, Hook said: “You saying somebody chilled him?”
“This morning. It wasn’t you, was it?”
“Of course not,” Hook said. “Why kill somebody who owes me money? That doesn’t make sense, Malone.”
“I didn’t think it did,” Malone said pleasantly. “Just checking, Max.” He put the receiver on the hook and made his way back to the bar.
“You don’t look so hot,” Joe the Angel said thoughtfully. “You want me to leave the bottle?”
Malone sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Then I wouldn’t have anybody to talk to.” He closed his eyes and tried to think. This Littleton had been hard-working, honest, and seventy-five thousand dollars in debt. Hook hadn’t killed him, and Cowperthwaite hadn’t killed him, and his wife hadn’t killed him, and he hadn’t committed suicide. The whole thing was terrifying.
“I’m glad I found you,” von Flanagan was saying. “You’re drunk, but I’m still glad I found you. I want to tell you you’ve been wasting your time. We thought there was a connection between the salesmen. But there isn’t.”
“You’re wrong,” Malone said magnificently. “But go on anyway.”
“Tallmer,” von Flanagan said, ignoring the interruption. “The first one. A guy walked into the station-house and said he was the hitter-and-runner. Conscience was bothering him. And there was no connection between him and the rest. Accidents. Like we figured.”
“Wrong,” said Malone sadly. “Completely wrong.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll explain,” said Malone. “I will tell all. I sort of thought something like this would happen.” He sighed. “Tallmer was a typical hit-and-run. That much you know.”
“That much I just told you.”
Malone nodded. “Prince and Kirschenblum—”
“Kirschmeyer.”
“To hell with it,” said Malone. “Anyway, the two of them were murdered. By the same person who killed Littleton.”
“If you’re so smart,” said von Flanagan, “then you can tell me that person’s name. The one who killed them all.”
“Simple,” said Malone. “The name is Littleton.”
He explained while von Flanagan sat there gaping. “Littleton was in debt,” he said. “Seventy-five grand in debt. With no way out. Then Tallmer got hit by a car.”
“Precisely,” said von Flanagan.
“And Littleton got an idea,” he said. “He wanted to kill himself but he didn’t want his wife to lose the insurance. So he killed himself and made it look like murder.”
Malone lit a fresh cigar. “He set up a chain,” he went on. “Chucked Prince down an elevator shaft and heaved Kirschengruber in front of the elevated.”
“Kirschmeyer.”
“You know who I mean. Anyway, Littleton did this, and set up a chain. A subtle chain. Then he shot himself.”
“Left-handed? From a distance?”
“Of course,” Malone said. “If you wanted to make it look like murder, would you use your right hand and put the gun in your mouth? See?”
Von Flanagan thought it over. “So it’s suicide,” he said. “And we write it off as murder and suicide, with Littleton the murderer. Right?”
“Wrong,” Malone said. “You write Prince and Kicklebutton off as accidents and Littleton as murder by person or persons unknown. If he went to all that trouble there’s no sense in conning the wife and kids out of the insurance. Besides, you’d never get a suicide verdict. Not unless I persuaded the coroner’s inquest. And I won’t.”
Von Flanagan shrugged. “How are you going to collect your fee?”
“I’ll tell Gunderson his salesmen are safe,” Malone said. “I’ll offer to repay the fee in full if another one gets murdered. And if that’s not enough for him, he can keep the twenty-five hundred he owes me. Remember, I didn’t want this case in the first place.”
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