The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction (87 page)

“Why did you kill your sister, Pam?”

Pamela Bogart spun on her heel and looked up at Jeff. Her eyes narrowed to slits, studying him.

“What do you mean?” she snapped, between whitening lips.

“You haven’t answered me.”

“An answer isn’t necessary. I didn’t kill Corinne. She killed herself.”

“How could she? What became of the gun?”

“I don’t know what happened to the gun. But I do know she killed herself. Maybe uncle, or someone else, picked it up and hid it. I know I didn’t.”

“It wasn’t your uncle, because he’s afraid you might be killed.”

“I don’t think there’s any danger of that.”

“About that I don’t know. Certainly, there must be a great many people who would like to kill you.”

Jeff turned away from her and picked up an engraved silver cigarette box from the coffee table. Idly, he turned it around in his hand, examining the workmanship.

Pamela Bogart watched him warily. When he set down the box, she spoke again:

“Jeff, I’m going to tell you something. Something I was ashamed to tell even the police.”

“From the things I’ve known you to do, I can’t imagine your being ashamed of anything.”

“Yon didn’t let me finish. I was ashamed to tell the police that Corinne had been running around with a married man. She went with him on business trips, and visited him in a cabin in the hills. When he grew tired of her, she was heartbroken. The engagement to Mike was only a gesture. She couldn’t go through with it. That’s why she killed herself. Don’t you believe me?”

“No. I don’t believe a word of truth ever crossed your lips. Come on, Smitty!” He moved toward the door.

“Jeff! There was one night you believed me, loved me, even, a little. The night Myrna Dalton—”

Jeff slammed the door behind him.

“Jeff,” Smitty said, when they were again in the car, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you hated her.”

“OK, Smitty. I asked for it.”

“Jeff, will you tell me something?”

“What?”

“Why was Corinne shot with a silver bullet?”

“To kill her.”

“I know that, but why silver? Aren’t silver bullets used to kill vampires?”

“She wasn’t a vampire. Now, be quiet. I want to think.”

“Just one more question. Where are we going?”

“To the bank, the National Trust.”

Five minutes after their arrival, they were shown into the office of the president. He greeted them pleasantly, dismissed his secretary, and leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Mr Hunter?”

“Do you know anything about the Bogarts’ financial setup?”

The banker didn’t answer immediately. When he did speak, he talked slowly, as if he were carefully choosing each word.

“Yes. But there are some things I am not at liberty to tell you without a court order or without my clients’ consent. The Bogarts have accounts here, and we have handled the various estates. I think we’d get along better if you asked me questions. I’ll answer those I can.”

“Fair enough. Smitty, tell him what we know. He can confirm it for us.”

“Herbert Bogart” – words rattled from Smitty’s lips – “father of Wendell and Herbert, Jr., left the vast war speculator’s fortune he accumulated in 1914–19, divided equally between his two sons and their heirs. Wendell Bogart received his half, is the administrator of the estate and is trustee for his niece’s share. The two orphan daughters of Herbert, Jr., inherited their father’s share. The principal was tied up until their thirtieth birthdays.”

“That is substantially correct,” the banker agreed. “Miss Corinne Bogart died, leaving her share to be divided between her uncle and her sister. There was also a comparatively small bequest to Professor Collins whom she intended to marry, for earthquake research.”

“Pamela’s trust is still handled by her uncle?” Jeff asked.

“That’s right. She gets the interest. I can’t imagine how she manages to spend it.”

“There is no question about the trust? Wendell Bogart couldn’t tamper with it?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” The banker appeared horrified at the suggestion. “The bonding company and the courts see to that.”

“Can you tell me how Wendell Bogart stands today, financially? I understand he’s shaky.”

“I couldn’t do that, Mr Hunter, without Bogart’s permission. Naturally, he, like the rest of us, was hit hard in ’29, and again during the recent war.”

“I see. Then there is no question in your mind that if Pamela Bogart lives to reach her thirtieth birthday, she will be given every penny of her inheritance?”

“If she lives until her thirthieth birthday, I have no doubt but that Pamela will receive her full inheritance, according to law.”

“That’s good enough for me. Thanks. Now, one other thing. I understand you’re quite a collector of pewter and silver. Could you tell me which silversmith marks his work with a die shaped like a flying bat?”

“Yes” – the banker spoke without hesitation – “a silversmith who calls himself John Stevens, at 72 Water Street. Personally, I’d steer clear of him.”

“Why.”

“He’s a gypsy from one of those Balkan countries. A very clever fellow. Unfortunately, ‘sterling’ has several meanings for him.”

“Thanks. I don’t intend to buy anything from him.”

“Why all the questions about silver?” Smitty demanded, when they were in the car heading for the water front.

“You’ll find out.” Jeff grinned. “Here’s Water Street now. 72 is on the corner. Coming in?”

A small, dark gypsy looked up from the spoon, set in a bowl of pitch, on which he was engraving an elaborate floral design. He set his work aside and stepped to the counter. “What can I do for you?”

“Did you ever make anything like this?” Jeff sketched a long-nosed bullet, keeping his drawing to actual dimensions.

“What is it? What is it supposed to be?” The man’s black eyes were filled with suspicion.

“I don’t know. Maybe the tip of a hatpin, or maybe an ornament. I haven’t any idea. But it looks like a bullet to me Anyway, it was made of silver.”

“I don’t remember ever making anything like that. Say, weren’t the police around asking the same question about a year ago?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were,” Jeff agreed. “My client is very interested in it now. He’d pay a lot of money to know who ordered it made.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about it.” Stevens’ teeth flashed.

“Sure? It might have been an umbrella ferule or a swagger stick tip. Sure you’ve never made anything like it?”

The gypsy’s eyes narrowed. “Positive.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Jeff said. “You look back over your old records and see if you can’t find the name of the person for whom you made something similar to this. Not a bullet, of course, but something like it. Then give me a ring.” Jeff slid one of his cards into the outstretched palm. “If your records tell you anything, we’ll talk price later. Right?”

“I’m positive I’ve never made anything like it, but I’ll look through my records to make sure. One’s memory sometimes plays odd tricks.”

“Isn’t it the truth?” Jeff said grimly. “Come on, Smitty.”

Jeff circled the block. A policeman eyed the yellow convertible suspiciously when Jeff slid to a stop beside a fire plug. The car was markedly out of place among the rumbling trucks and horse-drawn drays of the water front.

“Smitty, I want you to hang around a while. Unless I’m badly mistaken, Stevens is the man who made that bullet. I think he’s going to have a caller very soon.”

“Right. There was a bar across the street from 72. I’ll wait there. What do you want me to do?”

“Just keep your eyes open. Notice who goes in. If you don’t know them, get the license number of the car or the cab they arrive in. If you can’t do that, get a good look at them.”

“OK. I’ll call in when something happens.”

Back in his office, Jefferson Hunter relaxed in his chair, running over in his mind the salient points concerning the death of Corinne Bogart. Acting on impulse, he picked up the telephone and dialed the medical examiner’s number.

“Dr Marshall, this is Jeff Hunter. Could you tell me who performed the autopsy on Corinne Bogart? She was shot with a silver bullet about a—”

“I remember it very well, Mr Hunter. I did the p. m. myself. What did you want to know?”

“I have an investigation on hand that indirectly ties in with Corinne Bogart’s death. I’ve heard various rumors about her running around with a married man, going away with him on business trips, that sort of thing.”

“Absolutely untrue. The police were given the same story in an anonymous letter. I believe someone advanced the theory that the girl committed suicide. There was absolutely nothing to it. The girl was straight as a die. She led a normal, wholesome life.”

“I see. Thanks, doctor.”

The phone rang as soon as it was hung up.

“Jeff, this is Smitty. Guess who just walked into Stevens’ shop?”

“Pamela Bogart.”

“Aw-w! How did you know?”

“A little bird told me. Is she still in the shop?”

“Yes.”

“She and Stevens will have a lot to discuss. Grab a cab and come back here.”

“Jeff,” Smitty demanded, when he entered the office ten minutes later, “do you really think she killed her sister?”

“I’m practically sure of it. The suicide story is an out-and-out fake. I don’t believe anyone on the terrace could have shot Corinne without someone seeing them. I’m betting she was shot from inside the house, probably by Pamela when she was getting the drinks. It has to be that way.”

Smitty shook his head. “I can’t believe a girl like Pamela Bogart would kill anyone, much less her own sister. She’s so little and pretty. I’m sure you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong, Smitty. Try to figure out what she could have done with the gun. Say she shot Corinne from the living room, picked up the tray of drinks, and stepped to the door just as her sister fell. That’s not impossible. What could she have done with the gun in the meantime?”

“There wouldn’t be much time. The only thing she could have done with it,” the practical Smitty said, “was to hide it on herself, or drop it in a chair seat – something like that. But she never killed anybody, Jeff.”

“Don’t bet on it. I wonder how long it was between the time of the actual shooting and the time the police began their search for the gun. I should have asked Bill Gaines. Call the chief and ask him, Smitty.”

The door of the office swung inward and Chief Gaines stepped into the room. Jeff and Smitty gasped at the sudden appearance of the man they were about to call. The chief’s face wore a look of grim determination. Without speaking, he walked to the center of the office.

“Speak of the devil!” Jeff recovered himself. “Smitty was just going to phone you, Bill. What’s the matter?”

“Get your hat, Jeff. You, too, Smitty. We’re going downtown. We’ve a few questions for you boys to answer.”

“About what?”

“About murder, Jeff,” the chief answered gravely.

“Whose?”

“John Stevens, a silversmith. You attracted the attention of one of my men when you stopped your yellow car near a fire plug. In criminal investigations, Jeff, never make yourself conspicuous.”

“But—”

“That isn’t all. Stevens was clutching one of your business cards in his hand when he was shot.”

An assistant from the DA’s office waved Jeff and Smitty to chairs, and concluded his conversation with Mike Collins. After the seismologist left, he turned to Jeff.

“You know why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like an account of your visit to Stevens.”

Quickly, Jeff outlined his call, omitting only the mention of the bullet.

“As I see it,” the assistant summed up, “you called on Stevens in an effort to trace the manufacturer of an article for one of your clients. You admit giving him the card he was holding. The name of your client, and the nature of the article, you refuse to tell me on ethical grounds. Is that your story?”

“That’s it.” Jeff nodded.

“Then why,” the assistant asked him, “did you station your watchdog in a saloon across the street?”

With apparent candor, Jeff answered quickly, “To check on Stevens’ visitors.”

The young man’s eyebrows shot upward. “Were there visitors between the time you two left and the time the body was found?”

Jeff nodded to Smitty. “Tell him, chum.”

“One,” Smitty said reluctantly.

“Who?”

“I’d rather not say. I’m sure she had nothing to do with the killing of Stevens.”

“She? Uh-huh! It’s up to the police to decide whether or not she had anything to do with the killing. Who was it, Mr Smith?”

“I . . . I refuse to say! Ladies’ names—”

The DA’s man smiled grimly. “Maybe you’ll think differently after a stay in jail.”

The little man turned hopeful eyes to his boss. “He can’t do that to me, can he, Jeff? You could get me out on a habeas corpus writ? Won’t I have to be charged with something?”

Jeff grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ll be charged. Probably with being an accessory after the fact, and held without bail. The weather is getting warmer, and I haven’t heard that the jail is air-conditioned.”

Smitty gulped and looked at the assistant. The DA’s man nodded in agreement.

“Don’t be a fool, Smitty,” Jeff warned. “Tell him. It will only be a matter of time before someone else comes forward. She’s too much woman to pass the whole street unnoticed.”

The ringing of the telephone interrupted them. The young assistant picked up the instrument and listened intently. Then he spoke:

“Who? You’d better come right to headquarters, miss. It’s fortunate you called when you did. I have a man in my office now” – he glanced at Smitty – “who saw you enter the shop, and who can identify you.” He hung up the receiver.

“That was Pamela Bogart?” Smitty’s eyes flew open. “She’s coming down here?”

Jeff and the DA’s man exchanged amused glances.

“Mr Smith” – the assistant leaned forward – “was there anyone with Miss Bogart? I should have asked her. What time did she enter the shop? When did she leave?”

“There was no one with her.” Smitty shook his head sadly. “She entered at a minute or two before noon. The whistles were blowing when I left the saloon. I didn’t wait until she came out.”