Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931
- Автор: Энгланд Джордж Аллан, Philips Judson P.
- Год: 1931
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931». Краткое содержание книги:
“Yes. Francine was in it with us. She liked nice things and I wanted to give them to her,” boasted Malliett. “I couldn’t travel with a girl like her without cash, and Ann wouldn’t let me have any. Neither would Paul. Francine didn’t care what game a man was in just so he spent money on her.”
“I can believe that,” said Farrell dryly. “And what about this Devore baby, the jazz leader at the Walnut Club?”
“Well, what about him?” asked Malliett sullenly. “I hardly know him.”
“He knew Enid Cleet. She used to sneak out there to see him. Don’t suppose you were onto that?”
“No. I didn’t know about her affairs.”
“And Louise Lee — where is she?”
Again the cunning look dropped like a shadow across the man’s unpleasant features.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “She’s away.”
As he spoke he suddenly heaved his body up from his chair and lurched across the chief’s desk. Farrell, who had been watching him closely, sprang at the same time. But he was not quick enough to prevent Malliett from gashing his wrist with the paper knife which lay upon the blotter.
Tom Grant grasped the telephone to call Dr. Wilson.
As he waited impatiently for the number, watching the wounded man groaning and falling limply into a chair, the fact that Malliett had suddenly attempted suicide kept pounding at his brain for explanation.
Why had the man done that? Was it because Farrell had just asked him about that mystery girl, Louise Lee, or was it because he knew himself to be in a hot spot, hotter, perhaps, than the police yet realized?
Chapter XXIX
An Evil House
Edgar Malliett, fastidious crook and spendthrift, had had no sleep when, two hours later, in the humid atmosphere of Superintendent Merrill’s office in the city, he faced Jack Morse and Bill Brasson.
Weak and pallid from loss of blood, his wrist bound, Malliett wore a silly air of bravado which, after his suicide attempt, puzzled Farrell and Tom Grant, who had gone into town with the prisoner.
Merrill, obeying Farrell’s request over the telephone, had interviewed Morse and Brasson prior to the arrival of Malliett. He had informed them that their game was up and that Malliett had talked, even that the newly taken prisoner had told the police the name of Bill Brasson’s “high-toned girl.” This ruse, to the chagrin of the superintendent, had got nothing at all from the surly young men. Being able to rouse only grunts and frowns from them, he had finally given up and had returned them to their cells to await the coming of Farrell and Malliett.
Rumors of the whereabouts of Louise Lee were pouring in. It was always the case when any one in a murder case was reported missing. Merrill, who had snatched a few hours’ sleep early in the previous day, saw no rest for him that night. Farrell was a driver. He knew that as long as anything was breaking in the case the detective would not stop. And the heat was getting the superintendent. When at last Morse and Brasson were confronted with Malliett, Merrill’s nerves were on the ragged edge.
Morse and Brasson, glaring at their confederate, maintained their stubborn silence, and Malliett, grinning and mopping his face, insisted upon the police sending for Seymor Carson.
“He was Paul’s lawyer, and he’s good enough for me,” he muttered.
“You’re Mr. Grant’s prisoner,” Farrell told him with a twist of his lip. “You men have all got to be taken out to Darbyville.”
“We can’t refuse him his lawyer,” said Tom mildly. “Send for Carson by all means.”
He would get quite a kick out of confronting the clever lawyer summoned on this case. What did he know about the various robberies which had been committed by these men, and the rich loot hidden in the old cellar at the farm which he had visited on the murder night? It would be interesting to see.
“Now, you boys have got to tell us what you did with your time last night,” said Merrill sharply, irritated by the continued silence of the prisoners. “What did you do with your evening? Come across now. We’ve been pretty patient with you.”
“If they don’t tell us, the girl will.” Farrell winked at Tom.
“You don’t know anything about a girl,” growled Bill Brasson, fear in his eyes.
Farrell paid no attention to him.
“Come on, Malliett, you’ve got brains,” he prodded. “You know it is no use holding out any longer. This is a murder case we’re investigating.”
“I don’t see any use, boys, in keeping back anything that has to do with our adventures,” grinned Malliett, as he looked from Morse to Brasson. “I’ll tell if you won’t. The boys stole that car and came to me at the farm. We went down in the cellar, where the police found me, and talked over our campaign for the next week or so. We did that every once in a while. Nobody ever went to Paul’s old farm. The boys left the little car on the highway, and we decided on several jobs which looked good.”
Here, to the amazment of the officers, Jack Morse sprang to his feet and started toward Malliett, but Tom seized his arms and forced him back in his chair.
“Say, you, you know what we talked over mostly!” he growled. “You sent us to that mill. You were onto something all right. You knew those murders were going to be pulled off and you sent us there to get mixed up in them! You told us there was old silver in the mill and you could get a pretty price on it. You gave me the key to the damn place.”
“Of course I did,” said Malliett mildly. “I’ve told the police that. I thought it was silver.”
“Yeah, you thought it was silver,” growled Brasson, his eyes feverishly bright, his hands working. “You knew damn well it was pewter! You sent us to the mill for some reason of your own. We’ve been double crossed, Jack. This guy has ratted on us. We don’t know a thing more than we’ve told you cops. Work it out for yourselves.”
“I don’t believe you do,” said Tom Grant suddenly and with emphasis. He was looking with increasing interest at Malliett. Was it possible that this man had planned those murders and sent these young crooks into the midst of them that suspicion might be drawn from himself? But with the arrest of Morse and Brasson he must have known that his series of robberies would come to light.
“What have you done to my girl?” Brasson demanded of the foolishly smiling Malliett. “If you’ve touched her I’ll—”
“What girl?” asked Malliett, looking squarely into Brasson’s face.
There was a moment of silence, during which Brasson’s aggressive air slowly vanished and he subsided in his chair.
“We know what girl,” said Farrell quietly. “And we are waiting to question her until you birds come across with all the facts you have. You don’t realize that you may be held for murder. None of you has an alibi.”
As Farrell spoke there swept over Tom Grant a sensation of futility. He knew that in that sweltering little office they were wasting time. They were coming no closer to the solution.
“I shan’t say another word until I see Carson,” grunted Malliett and slumped into an obstinate heap. “Ann would say that was the thing to do and I shall do it.”
As he spoke the telephone on the superintendent’s desk rang and Merrill answered it. He showed small patience with the person he spoke to, and swung about almost immediately from the instrument to glance at Tom Grant.
“Grant, there is a woman on the wire who wants to speak to you,” he growled. “She called Darbyville first, she says, and now she insists on talking to you. She won’t give her name.” As Tom rose to cross the room to the desk, he sensed a sudden tenseness in the attitude of the three prisoners. What woman would call him at police headquarters at that hour in the early morning? Did those men know? He kept an eye on them as he lifted the receiver.