The Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 15 Classic Crime & Mystery Stories
- Автор: Деминг Ричард
- Год: 2015
- Язык: английский
- Год: Wildside Press
- ISBN: 9781479406159
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 15 Classic Crime & Mystery Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
The question roused Lydia to action. Kicking off her shoes and letting them fall to the floor, she climbed clear to the top of the ladder, steadied herself by grasping the upper part of the transom frame with both hands and slid her legs inside.
As she lowered herself to a seated position, Weygand said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Going in to open the door,” she said calmly.
Reversing herself to roll over on her stomach and transfer her grip to the bottom sill, she slid backwards into the room and dropped to the floor. Quickly she crossed to the bed and bent over the still figure there.
Outside in the hall, Jules Weygand tired of waiting for the door to open and climbed the ladder to peer in. His face appeared just as she turned away from the bed and began to move woodenly towards the door.
“What is it?” he asked worriedly when he saw her numb expression. He couldn’t clearly see the figure on the bed because her body partially blocked the view.
Without answer she went to the door, drew back the bolt and pulled the door open. Weygand came down off the ladder, set it to one side and followed the bald-headed Simms into the room. Lydia quietly stepped out into the hall and put her shoes back on. Then she leaned against the door jamb and closed her eyes.
Inside the room the two men stared down at the figure on the bed. It was that of a man, about thirty-five, good-looking in a weak sort of way, but beginning to go to fat. He wore nothing but socks and trousers, his shoes lying in one corner and the rest of his clothing wadded on top of a chair. An empty pint bottle lay next to him on the bed and another lay on the floor beside the bed. His hands were crossed on his stomach just below a thin, horizontal slit of a wound on the left side of his chest, as though he had been reaching for the wound when he died, and hadn’t quite had the strength to raise his hands that high.
Simms tentatively touched the dead man’s cheek, then hurriedly withdrew his hand. “Cold,” he said, “Must have been dead for a while.”
“And I told her drunks never commit suicide,” Jules Weygand said softly.
Simms gave him a sharp look. “Suicide? Where’s the knife?”
Lydia’s eyes popped open. Weygand’s expression turned startled. After glancing about the room, he fell on hands and knees to peer under the bed. When he rose, he stared at the desk clerk strangely.
“The door was bolted from inside,” he said.
“Yeah,” Simms said slowly. He glanced at the window, which was unscreened and wide open from the bottom.
“It’s the seventh floor,” Weygand reminded him. “And you said there’s no fire escape.”
He walked over to look out, then turned and stared at the closed bathroom door from narrowed eyes. Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. The desk clerk gulped.
“You think the killer is still in there?” Simms whispered.
Without answering, Weygand returned to the bed, stopped and picked up the empty bottle lying next to it. Holding it by the neck he quietly approached the bathroom door and suddenly flung it open. He stepped in with the bottle raised high as a club.
Lowering it again, he came out, his expression puzzled. Simms’s gaze strayed to the door of the closet.
Striding over to it, Weygand jerked it open, the bottle again held high. The closet was empty.
With a snort of disgust Weygand set the bottle atop the dresser. Returning to the open window, he peered out a second time.
“There’s a ledge about a foot wide just below the window,” he announced. “Who has the rooms on either side of this one?”
“I’d have to check the register,” Simms said faintly. “We’d better get out of here and let the police handle this.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Weygand said. He moved toward the door. Lydia stepped back out of the way, swaying on her feet. Grasping her arm to steady her, Weygand gave her a sympathetic smile.
“I’ll be all right,” she said in a low voice.
Setting the spring lock, Simms pulled the door closed behind him and led the way to the elevator. Weygand steered Lydia after the desk clerk, still holding her arm. She moved stiffly, leaning against him for support.
Downstairs the two old men still sat in the lobby. Simms moved behind the desk and lifted the phone. Weygand led Lydia over to a sofa.
“I’ll be all right now,” she said, pulling her arm from his grip. “I don’t want to sit down.”
He gazed down at her speculatively. “You’re sure?”
“I’m not the fainting type,” she said straightening her shoulders. “I don’t suppose we’ll be able to go back to Rochester tonight, will we?”
“I hardly think so. The police will want to talk to us. And of course you’ll have to arrange for a local funeral director to ship Jim home.”
“Are you registered here?”
He shook his head. “I’m not registered anywhere. For all I knew, you meant to have me load Jim in my car and drive back to Rochester tonight. I didn’t even bring a toothbrush.”
“We may as well stay here, don’t you think?”
“The place seems clean enough,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll see if I can get us a couple of rooms.” He walked over to the desk just as Simms hung up the phone.
“They’ll be right over,” the desk clerk said. “You and Mrs. Hartman better stick around.”
“We plan to,” Weygand said. “Do you have a couple of rooms on the same floor, or perhaps adjoining?”
As Simms was checking his room chart, Lydia quietly walked to the door and outside. When Weygand finished registering, he turned to find her standing behind him with her overnight bag in her hand.
“You should have let me get that,” he said, taking it from her.
“It isn’t heavy,” she said. “Did you get rooms?”
“Two right across the hall from each other on five. We may as well wait here until the police arrive, though. Mr. Simms says they’ll be right along.”
Lydia walked over to seat herself on the couch she had previously refused. Setting the bag next to the desk, Weygand went over to sit beside her.
A homicide team arrived five minutes later. It consisted of a burly middle-aged man who introduced himself as Sergeant Charles Carter and a lean, younger man named Harry Nicholson. Carter had a puffy, red-veined face and heavy-lidded eyes which gave a first impression of stupidity until you noted the shrewd glint in the eyes behind the drooping lids.
The first thing he asked was if Simms had phoned for a doctor.
“Yes, sir,” the desk clerk said. “Before I called you. We have an arrangement with a man just up the street to be on call. He should be here any minute.”
“Then let’s take a look at the body,” Carter said. “Harry, you stay here with these folks and send the doc up when he comes.”
The sergeant and Simms moved off toward the elevator.
Harry Nicholson seemed to have no intention of asking any questions about the murder, for after making a comment about the pleasant weather Buffalo was having, he lapsed into silence. Five minutes passed before a thin, elderly man carrying a medical bag came in. Nicholson walked over to meet him at the door, and after a moment’s conversation the elderly man proceeded to the elevator.
Lydia glanced at her watch and was surprised to see it was only eight forty-five, just an hour and a quarter since she had gotten off the train.
Silence resumed when Nicholson returned to his seat. Apparently any questioning to be done was to be conducted by Sergeant Carter. Twenty more minutes passed before Simms, the sergeant and the doctor all got off the elevator together. The elderly doctor went out the front door. Simms and Carter came over to where Lydia, Weygand, and the other detective were seated.
“It’s homicide all right,” Carter informed his partner. “Somebody slid a knife between a couple of his ribs into his heart. He died so quick, he didn’t even bleed. Funny thing, though.”