Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 19, No. 99, February 1952
- Автор: Грубер Фрэнк, Кемельман Гарри
- Год: 1952
- Язык: английский
- Год: American Mercury
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 19, No. 99, February 1952». Краткое содержание книги:
To kill time we got up on a couple of high seats to get our shoes shined. Benny got his shined first, then the bootblack started on mine. It was timing things pretty close. When he finished with me, it was two minutes to train time. I paid for the shines and headed for the door. It opened before I got to it and the stranger came in.
Benny let go altogether this time. He yelled to high heaven and he got so scared he dropped the cup.
Me, I just stood and stared at the tall man. I guess I’d still be standing there looking at him, if he hadn’t stooped and picked up the package. He held it out, smiled, and said:
“Take it back, Jim Vedder.”
He left me holding it, turned, and walked out. Benny recovered then. “What... what do you make of that?”
I said: “We’re taking it back, Benny. Come on!”
The gateman was just about to close the gate when we got to it. I grabbed another newspaper from a stand next to the door, threw down a nickel, and scooted inside. We caught the last car of the train.
We got seats in the rear and I spread out the newspaper. It was the noon edition of an evening paper. The story was still on the front page. But there were some new angles to it. First of all, Alfred D. Halleck was offering a reward of $1,500 for the safe return of the gold cup — and No Questions Asked.
In an adjoining column was an interview with Halleck, written up by one of the paper’s reporters. Halleck was pretty upset by what had happened. He was offering a reward, he said, but he didn’t really expect to get the gold cup back. That was because he didn’t think that ordinary burglars had blown his safe. He suspected the job had been done, or hired done, by a certain wealthy collector of objets d’art who’d been bothering him for the last three years, trying to make Halleck sell him the gold cup. The collector, Halleck said, had offered him $50,000 for the cup and when he’d still refused to sell it, the collector threatened to steal it.
Halleck wouldn’t tell the reporter the collector’s name, but the reporter was a smart lad. He’d checked up back in the office and had gone to ask a Mr. August Messerschmidt, who lived on Park Avenue in New York, if he had any comment to make. Mr. Messerschmidt was a well-known collector of objets d’art. The reporter didn’t come right out and say that Messerschmidt was the man who’d made the offer and threat to Halleck, but any kid could figure out the answer. Anyway, Messerschmidt had thrown the reporter out on his ear.
Benny was reading over my shoulder. When I put down the paper he took it from me and ripped out the page. He began folding it up.
I said: “What’re you going to do?”
He didn’t answer right away. The conductor had come along, collected our tickets and put a couple of slips in the slot on the back of the seat ahead of us. When he had gone away, Benny said:
“This Messerschmidt’s a crook. He wants that cup any way he can get it. I’ve heard of guys like him. There’s a fella in Philadelphia, collects pictures. He’s got a million dollars’ worth of them and no one ever sees them but himself, because half of them have been swiped. This Messerschmidt’ll go twenty-five g’s. We’ll get off at 125th Street Station.”
I wondered why I’d ever tied up with Benny Potter. With what had happened to us in the last hour... I said to him: “No, we’re going to Scarsdale. The cup goes back to Halleck.”
“Are you crazy?” Benny yelped. “The most he’d give is fifteen hundred and the chances are four in five he won’t give us anything but a houseful of cops. We’re not going anywhere near Fox Meadow. We’re getting off at the first stop and taking this to Park Avenue. That, guy Messerschmidt’s a bigger crook than we are. That’s why he’ll come across... Gimme the cup!”
He reached for it and I shifted it to my left arm, against the window. With my right hand I slapped down his reaching paw.
He gave me a dirty look, then slumped down in his seat. He didn’t say a word until the train pulled into the 125th Street Station. Then he suddenly got up. “All right, Jim, if that’s the way you want it—”
His hand went to his hip and came back with the automatic. I’d forgot all about his having it.
I looked into his eyes and knew that he was going to take the cup from me if he had to shoot to get it. But I knew, too, that I wasn’t going to give it to him.
I shook my head. “You can’t, Benny. You...” I broke off and made a sudden dive for him. Even as I moved, I knew I couldn’t make it. Benny’s finger tightened on that automatic.
It thundered. But I didn’t feel any shock or pain. I landed in the aisle on my hands and knees, twisted around, and looked up at the stranger!
Benny was looking at him, too. And all of a sudden he yelled and headed for the door.
The train was already moving, the door was closed, but Benny tore it open. I climbed to my feet, started back for Benny, and then I heard a scream that I’ll hear to my dying day.
There was a lot of commotion, then. People shouted, the conductor pulled the cord, and the train stopped.
Benny... Benny was dead.
The 125th Street Station is in the heart of Harlem, it’s up in the air like an elevated, and the station platform is about three feet above the tracks. When Benny jumped, the train was already beyond the platform. Benny had landed on the ties, fallen forward onto the next track... just as another train pulled in on that track.
I didn’t wait. There were half a dozen policemen around and questions were going to be asked — questions I didn’t want to answer. I took a subway train back to Grand Central, bought another ticket for Scarsdale, and took the first train.
In Scarsdale I took a taxi to Alfred Halleck’s house in Fox Meadow.
I didn’t ring the bell. I didn’t have to, because the door opened before I got to it. It was opened by the tall, dark man. I wasn’t surprised. Not by then. In fact, I would have been surprised if it had been anyone else.
He smiled at me, in a pleased sort of way, and said: “I’m glad you brought it back. Will you come in?”
He led the way to a library, opened the door for me, and said: “Mr. Halleck!”
Halleck sitting behind a teakwood desk, looked up at me, said: “Yes?”
I walked across the room and put the package on the desk in front of him. “I brought back the gold cup.”
His eyes popped wide open and he grabbed the package and tore the newspaper from about it. When he stripped off the towel and saw the cup, perspiration came to his forehead. He said: “Thank God!”
Then he looked at me. “Do you mind telling me... I know, I said no questions asked and this is not going to go any further... did you steal it, or are you returning this for someone?”
I told him. “I stole it. I’m sorry. You can call the police.”
He looked at me in a funny sort of a way. “The police?” he repeated. “I’m not going to call them. I’m too glad to get this back. And here...” He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick stack of bills. “Here’s the reward — fifteen hundred dollars.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t want any reward. Not money. But you can do something. Tell me... who is the man who brought me into this room?”
He blinked. “No one brought you. You came in yourself.”
“But there was a man with me. He — he opened the door and brought me to the room. He called your name.”
“You said my name,” Halleck replied. “And you came in by yourself. There isn’t another man in the house. Besides ourselves there’s only the cook in the kitchen.”
I returned the gold cup six months ago. Alfred Halleck gave me a job. I’m a sort of handyman around his place, and I’m going with Mr. Halleck on his next trip to Asia. He knows all about me.