Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 2, March 19, 1938
- Автор: Clark Dale, 12627 Convict
- Год: 1938
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 2, March 19, 1938». Краткое содержание книги:
Getting into the penthouse apartment of Mrs. Lindsey Barrett, where I went next, was no cinch. I finally got in, but I didn’t see the lady. One of her doctors talked to me. She was suffering from severe shock; she had tried to commit suicide by jumping over the parapet that surrounded her garden. The doctor was a dry, cool, spectacled fellow; he made no bones about his feeling for Mangy. Mrs. Barrett had refused medical care and had put her trust in Mangy’s Miracle Way.
“Like hundreds of other fool women,” the medico said savagely, “she was in love with the fellow.”
“How did he feel about her?”
“Mrs. Barrett is an extremely rich woman,” he said. “Excuse me, please. And do not come here again. Mrs. Barrett can see no one.”
“Okay, doc,” I said, and strolled out past the butler.
I had skipped lunch. I gathered up all the papers and found a steak and chop joint. I chewed a thick one, washed it down with a bottle of beer, and read the papers. Kelly had Ronald hanging. His prints were on the knife along with Mangy’s. He admitted he had touched it as it lay on the desk before him while he had argued with Mangy. No other prints. Both Ronald and Irene told the same story: they had accused Mangy of hypnotizing Mrs. Rufus and had threatened him. He had laughed at them, fingering the necklace the old lady had given him. But they hadn’t killed him. He was alive, and triumphant, when they walked out. If that was true, he had been killed during the few minutes that elapsed before the typist gathered up her letters and started in to him.
I thought of Dolores again. She might still be the candidate.
Then I saw a sob sister’s story. She had been to Mrs. Barrett’s penthouse, too, and she had it from the rich dame’s secretary that Mangy and Mrs. Barrett had planned a trip to Yuma — and marriage. They were talking about it when he was stabbed.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And what does that add up to?”
I didn’t know, but I checked on Mrs. Barrett’s ex. No, he wasn’t interested; married again, and on a world cruise. Who else wouldn’t want her to marry Mangasarius? Some of her family, maybe; others who might hope to inherit something from her or otherwise get it; perhaps a disappointed suitor Mangy had cut out. But how could any of those get in and stab Mangy at just that time? No dice.
I still gave Dolores a good deal of thought. She was smooth; Kelly didn’t suspect her. She put on a good act. Even if the cops had suspected her, they would have a time proving anything. Mangy’s followers would spring to her defense; her act would convince any jury. Dressed in white, with her forgiving smile and her dark eyes, she looked too angelic for murder.
I phoned Rufus from the steak and chop dump.
“Listen,” I said, “they’ve got a lot on your wife’s niece. How much is it worth to you if I dig up the real killer and get Ronald out?”
“I’m already paying you well, Burke,” he said. “Are you earning your wages? No!”
“All right, then. I’ll quit. Never let it be said Joe Burke hung on to a job when he wasn’t earning his pay. Good-by, Mr. Hyde.”
“Wait!” he snapped. “It’s worth — anything — to get Ronald out. Mrs. Hyde—”
“Ten grand?”
“You mean ten thousand dollars?” he gasped. “Don’t be absurd, Burke.”
“How much?”
“Well, maybe five thousand.”
“Take you!” I said. “Put it in writing, send it right down to my office. And don’t welsh!”
He agreed. “You know who killed that... that faker?” he asked.
“You’ll get my report in due time,” I said. I didn’t like that nickel nurser too well.
“Try to recover my wife’s necklace!” he begged.
“For another five grand,” I said, and hung up on his sob.
I felt better, then. If I got a break, it would mean money in the pocket.
When I stepped into my two by four office, my confidential secretary, Rose O’Brien, gave me a disgusted look.
“Where have you been, big boy? Playing marbles? I wish you’d stick around and take some of these fool calls.”
I leaned over and kissed her ear. “Mister Burke!” she said.
“Tell me, babe. Who’s bothering you?”
“Captain Kelly and a dozen others.”
“Just tell ’em I’m not in.”
“I do, but they think I’m lying. I see you were on the spot at another killing. Tell me!”
I told her, to get it all straight for myself as well as for her. Rose is a bright kid; her father and uncle were cops. She knows the cop business. When I got through, she frowned and tapped her pencil on the desk.
“I wish I could see Dolores and Irene,” she said.
“You can. We shut up shop. You’re a sob sister, babe. Let’s go get your story.”
Rose can be anything at a moment’s notice — sob sister, actress, chorus girl, tough moll, debutante, or shopgirl. She does a few things to her hair and makeup, gives her mouth a different twist, switches her accent — and there she is, a new girl.
We grabbed a cab and started for the Mangasarius house.
“Go up and interview her,” I said. “I’ll wait.”
Up she went, swinging along the walk. And I thought, What a gal! She had everything Dolores or Irene had, and plenty of brains in her red head.
She was back pretty soon, too soon to have got an interview.
“The lady is not seeing the press,” she said. “So I was told by a couple of servants. They pushed me around, but I got in. I made a plea to her — told her I’d lose my job, my sick mother and three small brothers would suffer. She still wasn’t giving interviews. You said she had a sweet, forgiving smile, big boy? She’s as hard as nails right now. And the mug with her is a stir-bird or I’m a Chinaman.”
“You’re no Chinaman,” I said. “Who is he?”
“I dunno, but ten to one his picture’s in the Rogues’ Gallery. She shouldn’t play around with his kind, unless— You better go up, big boy. But put on your overshoes, wear your red flannels, and take care of yourself.”
“Yeah. You stay here. Understand English? Right here in this cab!”
“Yes, sir,” she said, too meekly.
The driver hadn’t heard all this. I told him to wait. Rose hopped in. I went up toward the house.
I was saying to myself, “Somebody who didn’t want Mangy to wed the widow is the one. And that spells Dolores.”
They gave me a song and dance, too. Dolores wasn’t seeing anybody. But a maid took my name in, and she was seeing me.
She was alone in a big room when I walked in. Rose’s stir-bird wasn’t there.
“Yes, Mr. Burke, what did you wish to see me about?”
I walked over to her. She was all in white — an evening gown, this time, that looked swell on her.
“Lady,” I said, “Ronald didn’t kill Mangasarius. The cops are wrong. It had to be someone who didn’t want him to marry Mrs. Barrett. See? Now you had a swell chance to do the job. I’m betting you can’t prove you’re his niece. I’m betting he was shoving you aside for the rich dame and you wouldn’t stand for that.”
She laughed, in that gentle forgiving way, and then said, “You have a marvelous imagination. But your wild surmises do not concern me.”
I had expected to draw the thug out of hiding. Dolores yawned and put her hand up to her lips. That was a signal, I guess, because something bored into my back and I looked over my shoulder into the dark and ugly face of the guy Rose had seen. He was a stir bug all right.