Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)
- Автор: Холлидэй Бретт, Reeves Robert
- Год: 1945
- Язык: английский
- Год: Fictioneers
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)». Краткое содержание книги:
In addition, Henry Fields had been psychologically ripe for such a deal. All suicides by relatively sane people are born of despair. It must have been a shock for Fields to discover that his previous visitor had not been a detective, that no one was working in his cause. Ample reason for hopeless despair.
Still Cellini hesitated. True, the elements were all there but they could add up to anything. He bent over to see if there were any further marks on the body. The vague, reddish band around the left wrist was probably from a wrist watch. However, the welt over the right temple, just below the hairline, was a different matter. It could have come from hitting the edge of the bathtub when Fields fell unconscious. Or it could have come from a blow delivered by some visitor.
Cellini returned to the bedroom. Nothing seemed disturbed or missing. The dead man’s wallet and pockets held the usual collection. But no receipt, no piece of paper or anything else that seemed to have any connection with stocks or brokers.
There was little to do but try Howard’s office again and see what the files on Fields contained. Cellini turned off the lights and went out into the hallway.
“Mr. Smith! I thought you were supposed to be going to bed.” It was Miss Banks carrying the glass of milk.
“I’ve been busy examining a corpse.”
“After you’ve stayed a while you’ll learn I have no sense of humor. I’ll take you to your room. You shouldn’t be running around the corridors.”
Cellini followed meekly. Above all, he didn’t want her to report to Howard.
At the door to his room, Cellini said: “Good-by, we must do this again some time.”
She swept by him and entered. “Don’t be silly. I want to see you safely asleep. You’ll find pajamas, tooth brush and anything you want in there.”
“Look, Miss Banks. I’m a grown boy now. I shave twice a month.”
Coldly, she said: “If you’re modest, you can go in the bathroom. If you’re insubordinate, I’ll call for help.”
Cellini changed into pajamas and crawled into bed. He would have to wait for her to leave before starting out again. She sat on the edge of the bed and handed him the milk which he drank with distaste.
He asked: “Aren’t you afraid to be alone with a man like me?”
“No, Mr. Smith. Chronic inebriates are not interested in women.”
“That guy Sprigley is interested and he seems as chronic as they make them.”
“He hasn’t been here long enough for me to find out. Please finish the milk.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A few years.”
“And no stew has ever” — he hunted for the proper euphemism and continued — “made advances toward you?”
“Certainly not.” Her cold fingers began stroking his forehead. “You must try to sleep now.”
“How about Henry Fields?”
The fingers seemed to press harder. “That poor man should be put out of his misery. He worries so.”
“That’s interesting. I didn’t know that mercy killing was a house specialty.”
“Euthanasia?” she said. “Why not? It would be a mercy to society, let alone to him. Alcoholic insanity accounts for about five per cent of all hospital cases.”
“But would you put Fields out of the way if you had the opportunity?”
She said something in reply but he did not hear her. An overwhelming urge to sleep had come over him. Through the drowsiness that swept over him he understood the cause.
“Damn it, you put veronal in the milk.”
He made out the words: “Not veronal... sedative... sleep...” A hand pressed against his chest, preventing him from rising. She was stronger than he had supposed. Strong enough to drag a body around. The cold fingers still stroked his forehead.
Someone had hold of Cellini Smith’s shoulders and was shaking him violently.
“Wake up! What’s the matter with you?”
Reluctantly, Cellini opened his eyes. For a full thirty seconds, he stared at the anxious face above him, trying to recognize the features. Then he remembered that they belonged to Tom Sprigley and he sat upright.
“Well, it’s about time,” Sprigley said. “Do you realize it’s after two o’clock?”
“What about it?”
“You’d better decide what to say to the cops.”
“I’m just deciding what to say to Miss Banks.” Cellini frowned. “What is this cops routine you’re giving out with?”
“Henry Fields killed himself last night and the cops are going around talking to everybody. You asked about Fields last night in front of me and Ivy Collins. What I want to know is whether we should mention it to the police?”
“It doesn’t make much difference, does it?”
“Probably not, Smith. They’ll just bother you with a lot of extra questions. That’s all.”
“In that case, let’s forget about it.”
Sprigley winked. “O.K. I’ll pass the good word on to Ivy.” He stopped by the door. “Do you think Fields might have killed himself because Ivy got out of hand? A fit of depression and that kind of stuff?”
“Could be.”
While Cellini shaved and showered he tried to decide what to do. The paramount fact was that there was no longer any money in it. His client was dead. And along with his death went the answers to a lot of questions.
Cellini stopped scrubbing. Perhaps there would be some money in this. In any event, it would be worth trying.
Fully clothed, Cellini stepped outside. The subdued voices and the sober faces of those who passed were familiar. He knew from experience that they had already heard of Henry Fields’ death. He stopped an orderly and was shown to the dining room where he was fed breakfast.
Someone said: “Did you hear—”
Cellini said: “I heard.”
After breakfast, he was led to a small projection room and shown a film depicting the perils of drink which gave a somewhat detailed picture of how the body’s various organs reacted to alcohol. When it was over, Miss Banks came in and led him out to the grounds.
“The next time,” said Cellini, “you want me to drink milk, you’ll have to bring the cow over and let me draw it myself.”
“It’s for your own good,” she replied. “You will stay out here till called for.”
This seemed to be the sunning hour, for most of the patients were outside, strolling about or sitting on garden furniture. At the far end, he recognized the bulky form of Detective-Sergeant Ira Haenigson, of Homicide, questioning somebody. Ivy Collins was talking to a middle-aged man encased in tweeds and Cellini walked over.
“Mr. Smith, I want you to meet Larry Coomb.” Hastily, she added: “My fiancé.”
Coomb pointed his sharp nose at Cellini like a bird dog and slapped a trouser leg with the gloves he carried. He did not offer to shake hands.
Cellini asked: “Hear about Henry Fields being dead?”
“Good riddance,” said Larry Coomb.
“Why, because he made a pass at Ivy?”
The nose seemed to leap up and the pair of gloves slapped Cellini across the mouth.
“I’m getting tired of all this,” said Cellini. “Very sick and very tired.” His left hand closed around Coomb’s throat and his other grabbed the gloves. “Now open your mouth.”
Coomb pawed the air and fell to one knee. As his mouth opened, Cellini stuffed the gloves between his teeth and then pushed him roughly aside.
Ivy Collins let out a slight giggle that turned into raucous laughter. Unable to speak, she pointed. Four of Howard’s henchmen were converging on him.
The attendants respectfully led Cellini into Howard’s office. The owner sat behind his desk, frowning.
“Mr. Smith, I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Why don’t you try penicillin?”