The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction (88 page)

“Thanks. You two can go, now, Mr Hunter, I’m asking for a ruling on your so-called ethical grounds in refusing to answer. Don’t leave town. I may need to get in touch with you.”

Jeff nodded. “I wouldn’t mind telling you,” he said. “In fact, I’d like to. It’s just a matter of principle. I’ll be glad to hear the result of the ruling, win or lose.”

“You’ll hear. Don’t worry.”

“Another thing, will you tell me what Professor Collins was doing here? I mean, assuming his presence was connected with this case?”

“Yes. Though if you waited, you could read it in the evening papers. Professor Collins found Stevens. The silversmith does quite a bit of work for him, making and repairing scientific instruments.”

“Thanks. Come on, Smitty.”

“Now, where?” Smitty demanded, when they were again in the yellow car.

“To see Professor Collins. Don’t take it so hard, little man. Reconcile yourself to the fact that Pamela killed Stevens. If you didn’t have a closed mind, you’d have realized it long ago.”

“Says you!” Smitty snapped. “If you didn’t have a closed mind, you’d see Collins killed him, and then pretended that he was already dead. It adds up—”

“To zero! Smitty, you’re a darn good accountant. You can always tell me who swiped the stamp when a corporation’s ten-million-dollar balance sheet is three cents out, but murder investigations are different. You don’t understand them. Look what you did back there.”

“What did I do?” demanded Smitty belligerently.

“Nothing very important. They would have found out it was Pamela Bogart, sooner or later. Your handing it to them on a platter just made it easier.”

“Jeff!” Smitty grabbed his boss’ arm. “Wasn’t that call on the level?”

“Of course it wasn’t. If you’d been paying attention, you’d have seen the DA’s man press a button under the edge of the desk. It rang a telephone bell.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Jeff?”

“Because I like you, Smitty. Besides, I need you in my work, other work than this sort of thing, which, incidentally, I am indulging in only because I’d like to see Pamela Bogart get a little of the punishment that’s due her. Here’s the college.”

The car coasted to a stop before the science building. Jeff and Smitty followed an attendant who led them down into the subbasement where the seismograph recording instruments were located. Professor Michael Collins rose from behind a desk and came to meet them, with hand outstretched.

“Sorry I wasn’t introduced by Mr Bogart this morning.” The professor smiled. “He’s funny that way. My first name is Mike.”

“Hello, Mike.” Jeff shook hands. “This is Smitty. Mr Z. Z. Smith, my assistant.”

“Hello, Smitty,” Mike said. “Are you the Z. Z. Smith who worked out the simplified percentage tables?”

“Why, yes. Yes, I am. You know, I haven’t thought of those for years. Where did you learn about them?”

“I’m naturally interested in anything mathematical. A friend of mine tipped me off to them. I’ve found the tables useful in long-distance earthquake computations. Just a minute, I have one here. I—”

“If you’ll forgive me, Mike,” Jeff said, “you and Smitty can carry it on later. I’ve an investigation on my hands that has to be made fast.”

“Sorry. I let my enthusiasm run away with me. We’ll get together later, Smitty. What can I do for you, Jeff?”

“They tell me you were engaged to Corinne Bogart, and were present the night she was murdered. Would you mind giving me your story of that evening?”

Mike Collins told the same story they had heard from Chief Gaines.

When he finished, Jeff asked, “How much time would you say elapsed between the actual shooting and the search for the gun?”

“I don’t know exactly. An hour, or an hour and a half. After Corinne was shot, we were pretty excited. I carried her upstairs to her bedroom.”

“You mean, you actually moved the body?” Smitty asked, aghast. “Even I know better than to do that.”

“Yes, I knew better, too. But Mr Bogart had already lifted her from the floor. I couldn’t see where moving her again would make any difference.”

“Then what happened?”

“Someone called the doctor. He didn’t arrive until fifteen or twenty minutes later. He pronounced her dead, then he came down to the library and had a drink. Finally, he asked what was keeping the police.”

“And what was detaining the police?”

“No one had called them. Everyone thought someone else had done it. They were called then, but I guess it was at least an hour after the shooting before they got there. First a radio car, and eventually the men from homicide.”

“So anyone could have disposed of the gun in the meantime.”

“Yes.” Mike nodded. “Anyone could. The case was badly handled. Of course, losing Corinne had stunned me. I guess, among us all, we messed it up”

“Where was everyone before the search began?”

“I haven’t any idea. I can only answer for myself. I carried Corinne upstairs and stayed with her until the doctor threw a sheet over her face. Then I came down to the library and waited until the police came. Everyone was moving around.”

“I see. Mike, what is your candid opinion of Wendell Bogart?”

Mike grinned sheepishly, and began polishing his glasses. “He’s all right, I guess. Though he is apt to forget he lives in a democracy.”

Jeff watched the seismologist closely. “Was Bogart ever poor?”

“No, I don’t believe he was. His father patented a number of appliances for use in filling stations – self-coiling hoses, automatic dispensers, fire extinguishers and things like that. I don’t mean to imply that Mr Bogart isn’t smart. He is. He has his own personal workshop and laboratory in the basement of his home. He’s made improved working models of all the patented devices upon which the original Bogart fortune was founded.”

“I see. Mike, how are you fixed financially?”

Mike Collins’s eyes widened. “Why, I’m very well off, Jeff. I have about ten thousand dollars set aside and my job. My work is well endowed, thanks to Corinne. I should say I’m very well off indeed.”

“What is your salary?” Jeff asked. “You don’t have to answer that one, Mike. You can tell me where to go.”

“I don’t mind telling you. Three thousand a year. Out of that, I save three or four hundred.”

“Thank you very much, Mike. Come along, Smitty.”

“What do you think of him, Jeff?” Smitty asked, when they were back in the office.

“He’s A-1 in my book. I hope you appreciate your salary now!”

“Yes, Jeff, I do appreciate it. Why else do you think I work for you?” Smitty grinned.

“I’ll be damned! You’re certainly frank! I’d hope you liked me. Do you still think Mike killed Corinne Bogart or John Stevens?”

“Oh, he couldn’t have done it, Jeff. He’s much too honest.”

“Yes, he’s honest. He’s also read your simplified interest table.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Smitty snapped.

The ringing of the telephone interrupted their conversation. Automatically, Smitty answered, and shoved the extension to Jeff.

“This is Pamela Bogart, Jeff. I must see you, alone. It’s important! Jeff, I’m afraid. I’m in the bar at the Normandy. Please come!”

“You’ve nothing to be afraid of, beautiful,” Jeff taunted. “Gals like you seldom burn for murder. The gallant juries always compromise on life imprisonment. You’ll be out in about twelve years, if you ever go in.”

“Don’t be so hateful, Jeff. Please come. If it’s a fee you want, I’ll buy your time.”

Jeff slammed down the phone.

Smitty smiled. “You’ve got a blind spot about her, Jeff.”

“Who else could have committed the murders?”

“There were about eight people at the dinner. Why pick on her?”

“Listen, Smitty. The police aren’t stupid. They handle hundreds of murder investigations. They know what they’re doing. Occasionally, they louse up a case, but you can bet they didn’t louse up this one. It’s too important. They’ve eliminated all suspects but Pamela.”

“And the possibility of suicide,” Smitty reminded him. “You have to consider that.”

“Nuts! The police don’t seriously consider it. They don’t actually say Pamela’s the murderer, but they don’t offer any other solution. I have no doubt that the police consider this an unproved murder rather than an unsolved one.”

“Jeff, do me a favor. Please!” Smitty looked at his boss with pleading eyes that reminded Jeff of a faithful hound.

“Here’s where I become a sucker again. What is it, Smitty?”

“Go see Pamela. Try to keep an open mind like you do when we make a commercial investigation. Just this once, Jeff. You listened to me on the Wagner oil deal and I was right.”

“You win, Smitty. I’ll see her. Stick around until I get back.”

Pamela Bogart looked up and smiled when Jeff entered the Normandy bar. She slid closer to the inside of the bench in the booth she was occupying alone. Jeff ignored the invitation and sat opposite her.

“You don’t look like a person who has just shot and killed a man,” he opened the conversation curtly. “How did you get out so soon?”

“I haven’t killed anybody. Why shouldn’t they release me? Why should I kill a man I buy my jewelry from? My lawyer explained all that to—”

“So you took your lawyer down with you?”

“Naturally. Jeff, why must you be so hateful?”

“Because I don’t like murderers. You saw me examine that silver box. You knew I was looking for the maker’s mark. When Stevens called you and told you I had offered to buy information about the bullet, you lost no time in putting him out of the way. Probably he had been blackmailing you, anyway. Did you drop the gun you used into the harbor?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. I hardly know the man. Why should he make a silver bullet? Why silver?”

“To kill Corinne with. You should know. You ordered it made.”

“Jeff, I didn’t. I’ll admit I didn’t like Corinne. She was a prude, always so careful, so economical. But one doesn’t kill one’s sister for that sort of thing.”

“Maybe not. But a truckload of dough isn’t to be sneezed at. Your income increased fifty percent at her death.”

“You’re hateful, Jeff. But that’s not what I want to talk about. I’m frightened. I don’t want to get married. I’m afraid of marriage.”

Jeff leaned back in the booth and roared with laughter. “You’re afraid. But marriage has nothing to do with your fears.”

Pamela twisted the stem of the filled cocktail glass in slender fingers.

“Can’t you forget Myrna Dalton, Jeff? Didn’t you ever hear from her after you sent her the statement you made me write?”

Jeff didn’t answer. He rose to his feet and towered over the girl sitting opposite. The lids of his eyes dropped. A small muscle in his clamped jaw throbbed. He glared at Pamela Bogart.

“I’m warning you, Pam” – he spoke loudly in an even, harsh tone – “if I ever hear you mention Myrna Dalton’s name again, I’ll be tempted to kill you.”

Several men lounging against the bar looked toward the booth. The big bouncer came from behind the cashier’s cage and stood watching Jeff.

“You hung a pretty frame on me, Pam.”

“I don’t see what the fuss was all about,” Pam answered defiantly. “After all, Myrna was no saint, either.”

“You little liar!” Jeff didn’t lower his voice.

Pamela’s lips tightened, and the color drained from her face. She splashed the contents of her glass into Jeff’s face.

Jeff’s big hand slashed blindly across her mouth and the back of her head hit the booth with a thump.

Pamela screamed. “Mike Collins will kill you for that!”

“Why Mike?”

“Because he’s the man I’m going to marry! That’s why!”

“Listen, bud” – the bouncer spun Jeff around – “I’m gonna slug you for—”

All the pent-up hatred Jeff was feeling, all the frustrated urge to kill was in the blow he hung on the bouncer’s unguarded chin. The big man sagged, and Jeff walked unmolested out of the bar.

Back in the office, Smitty tried to pump him for the details of his meeting with Pamela. Jeff kept quiet. He leaned on his desk and attempted to concentrate on a long commercial report dealing with the acquiring of a string of air strips in the Brazilian jungles.

But his mind wandered to Mike Collins, trying to understand why Mike was going to marry Pamela after having been engaged to Corinne. Could it be money? Love? None of the conventional reasons seemed plausible.

The sharp ringing of the telephone was a death knell to further logical thinking.

“It’s Mike Collins,” Smitty said.

Jeff picked up the extension and nodded to Smitty to stay on the line.

“Jeff Hunter speaking. What can I do for you, Mike?”

“Pamela just phoned me. She’s been telling me a strange tale, Jeff.”

“I’m listening,” Jeff said grimly, and watched as Smitty took the words down in shorthand.

“She told me the police had questioned her about the killing of Stevens, that silversmith. Pam buys a lot of stuff from him.”

“Mike,” Jeff snapped, “did she tell you she had seen me in the Normandy bar?”

“No, she didn’t. But she did mention she had just left the bar, and was in her apartment. I wonder—”

“What are you wondering, Mike?”

“Whether she had asked you to come to dinner tonight and you had refused.”

“She didn’t ask me.”

“Jeff, she told me she’s frightened, that someone is after her. That they told the police she was in Stevens’ place just before he was killed.”

“Come to the point, Mike.”

“She asked me to try to persuade you to come to dinner this evening. I realize it’s almost five now, and cocktails will be served at six. I know it’s late to ask it, Jeff, but I wish you’d come. Pamela’s frightened. She said she’d feel safer if you were there. Won’t you come, Jeff?”

“No. Wendell Bogart very pointedly told me I was not wanted, that I was
persona non grata
for social occasions.”

“Don’t mind the old boy, Jeff. Pam said she’d take care of him, and he’d be glad to see you. His bark is worse than his bite.”

“Maybe so, but I don’t like barks, I’m staying away.”

“Jeff, I do want you to come. Is there anything I could do to make you change your mind? Pamela mentioned offering you a fee, but I realize that’s ridiculous. Isn’t there any way I can persuade you?”