Black Mask (Vol. 21, No. 8 — November, 1938)
- Автор: Баллард Уиллис Тодхантер, Cave Hugh B.
- Год: 1938
- Язык: английский
- Год: Pro-Distributors Publishing
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Black Mask (Vol. 21, No. 8 — November, 1938)». Краткое содержание книги:
Frank Hobbs’ face was a mask of repression. “If they—” His fists bulged at his sides.
Spellman was watching him. “If who?”
The flyer shook his head. “Nothing.”
Spellman exploded. “What the hell is going on here? Listen, if you think that just because you know me, and that you work for the studio...” He was shouting at Lennox.
Bill said, “Save it.”
“Save it, hell.” He swung back to face Hobbs. “Listen, you. Ever see this before?” He extended the gun.
Hobbs nodded. “Sure. It was Mike’s. He took it off a drunk in an east side joint a couple of months ago. But I don’t know who used it.”
The Detective Captain said, “You didn’t, of course?”
The flyer stared at him. “Are you trying to be funny?”
Spellman nodded. “Sure. I go around cracking wise whenever we have a murder. I’m funny that way. Now get this, mugg. I don’t like your attitude.”
Hobbs’ mouth had a circle of whiteness. Lennox grabbed his shoulder as the flyer started to heave forward.
“Hold it!” His tone was curt. “We’re not getting any place with this. You guys aren’t staging a battle. You’re trying to find out who killed Mike.”
Hobbs said, in a milder tone, “Then make the big lug lay off me.”
Spellman’s face gained a bloated appearance. “Lug! I’ll show you who’s a lug. When’d you see Farnero last?”
Hobbs hesitated. “At dinner. We all had dinner together. Nancy and I went ahead up to my place to get things ready. Mike had a couple of letters he wanted to write. He said he’d be up around eight.”
Spellman was trying to be subtle. “And you never left the party? You didn’t come down here — sneak down?”
Hobbs stared at him, anger again glinting in his eyes, darkening them. “I did not.”
Spellman turned to one of his men. “I’m going upstairs, Harry. Hold these people until I get back.” He was gone, slamming the door.
Lennox lit a cigarette, told Hobbs in a low tone, “Don’t rub Floyd the wrong He’s a good guy when you know him, but if he gets an idea he never gets rid of it.”
The chubby flyer sounded surly. “Then tell him to lay off. I didn’t kill Mike. I want his murderer a lot more than that big-footed mugg does.”
Lennox sounded dry. “You haven’t been exactly helpful. You were going to tell him something, then you didn’t.”
Hobbs said, “Because it was a screwy idea. It wouldn’t help and it might hurt a lot of people. I—” He broke off as Spellman came back through the door. He looked pleased, like a cat that had just found a full mouse trap.
“I thought you said you didn’t leave the party upstairs?”
Hobbs’ face set. “Well?”
The Detective Captain spoke slowly. “They tell me that you did; that you were gone almost fifteen minutes, and that you’d been back only a few minutes when Lennox came to the door.”
Nancy stared miserably at her cousin.
Hobbs said, “They’re mistaken. I stepped out onto the balcony for a minute to see why Nancy and Mike weren’t coming, but I went back in. I wasn’t out more than a couple of minutes or so.”
Lennox, watching the flyer, knew suddenly that Hobbs was lying. He wasn’t sure that Spellman knew, but Hobbs’ voice wasn’t natural. It was forced, too positive.
The detective turned toward the coroner’s man. “How long has he been dead, Doc?”
The man shrugged. “Not long. I’d say he was killed around ten, maybe a little earlier.”
Spellman swung about. “What about prints on the gun?”
The man said, “Can’t tell exactly, Captain, but there seems to be only one set — a woman’s, I’d say, and some blurred ones at the end of the barrel.”
“Those’ll be mine,” Lennox told him. “I picked it up that way.”
“Woman’s, huh?” Spellman glowered at Nancy.
Lennox said, sharply, “Don’t be a sap. I told you that she had the gun in her hand when I came in. And get this, Floyd. That gun’s been lying around for months. It would have a lot of prints on it except for one thing.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“The murderer — whoever it was — wiped off the gun after he shot Farnero. Otherwise there’d be a whole raft of prints on it. As it is, there are just mine and hers.”
Spellman said, “She might have wiped it off.”
Lennox stared at him. “Are you nuts? Why in the hell would she wipe it off?”
The Detective Captain shrugged. “Well, she might do it if she were covering up for someone, perhaps her—” The door slammed open and the blonde Lennox had seen with Hobbs barged into the room.
She was more than a little drunk, and fended off the homicide men with a dignity which was almost comical. She pushed her way forward until she faced Spellman.
“Ju wanna know who killed Mike Farnero? I know.”
They all stared at her. “He did.” She turned and pointed dramatically at Frank Hobbs. “He did it.”
Spellman barked, “Where’d you get that idea?”
She said owlishly, “Didn’t. Mike told me. Mike said Frank was damn fool. Said Frank was screwy and that he wasn’t going to let him walk out on studio.”
Spellman swung on Lennox. “What’s this about Hobbs walking out on the studio?”
Bill hesitated. “Nothing. Just a little matter which we’ll get ironed out Farnero didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Spellman rapped, “Then where did this dame get the idea?”
Lennox said, with obvious disgust “Out of a bottle. I don’t even know who she is.”
The blonde said, “Mike’s girl.” She was very grave, very positive about it then she collapsed into the nearest cop’s arms.
Spellman shrugged. “That cinches it.”
“Cinches what?” Lennox was staring at him.
“We hold Hobbs.”
Nancy’s eyes met Bill’s wide, urgent. They said more plainly than words, “Do something! You’ve got to do something.”
He nodded to show her that he understood, turned and going to the phone, called Sam Marx. The lawyer sounded sleepy, but he promised to meet them at Headquarters.
Morning sunlight drew a pattern across the carpet in Spellman’s office as Lennox walked in. The Detective Captain looked up and grunted a welcome which had no pleasure in it.
“What do you want?”
Lennox said, “Two things. I want you to free Frank Hobbs, and if you won’t do that, I want you to let him come out to the studio. We’ve got ten more days shooting on the picture and we’ve got to have him.”
“You’re nuts. You can’t use a murderer in pictures and get away with it. The Hayes office would kill it in a minute.”
“He isn’t a murderer. You can’t show me one motive which would stand up.”
Spellman’s smile was thick with satisfaction. “We’ve got the best motive in the world, wise guy. Greed. Farnero left half of everything he owned to Hobbs.”
Lennox was laughing suddenly- Spellman stared at him suspiciously. “What s so funny about that?”
Lennox said, “Everything. You, mostly. The idea that a tramp flyer would have any dough at all is crazy enough, but that Mike Farnero could have had enough to make someone kill him to get it is really one for the book.”
Spellman nodded. “O.K., wise guy. Get a load of this. I’ve talked to the lawyer that drew Farnero’s will last week. It seems that two years ago when Mike and Frank Hobbs were fighting for the revolutionists below the Line, Mike saved the life of a big ranchero. This mugg died recently, and he left Mike over a million in good old American dollars. Frank Hobbs gets half of that. A nephew of Mike’s in San Diego gets the rest. This nephew is flying up here this morning.”
For an instant Lennox was too surprised to speak, then he said, slowly, “That doesn’t even make sense. Farnero and Hobbs were buddies. If Frank had wanted dough, Mike would have given him the whole works. He didn’t have to kill him.”