Murder Every Hour

CHAPTER VIII THE POST MORTEM

AT seven o’clock that evening, Philo Dreblin was seated behind his massive desk, finishing dictation to Hastings. Leaning back, the calthite manufacturer watched his secretary arise. Hastings spoke, almost apologetically.

“Do you wish me to bring in the letters after I have typed them?” he asked. “Or shall I leave them, sir, for your new secretary?”

“Neither,” returned Dreblin, dryly. “Give them to Alfred and have him bring them into me. Then you can leave. Good-by, Hastings. Good luck on the new job.”

Dreblin arose to extend his hand. Hastings accepted the clasp and made his departure.

As soon as the secretary was gone, Dreblin went to the bookcase and pressed the signal for Nethro. The special investigator arrived a few moments after Dreblin had returned to his desk.

“Well, Nethro,” began Dreblin, gruffly, “why were you not here last night?”

“I had nothing to report,” returned Nethro. “There was work to do at the Acme Agency, so I remained there.”

“But you decided to favor me with a visit tonight,” rumbled Dreblin. “Thoughtful of you, Nethro. Well, it’s good you came around, after all this” — the calthite magnate nudged a stack of newspapers on his desk — “for I was just about ready to notify the police of your absence.”

“The police?” echoed Nethro.

“Certainly,” replied Dreblin. “I was astounded this morning, Nethro, when I read of the deaths of those three men. Lentz — Morath — Frieth — all of them dead. Murdered!”

“So you connected me with the killings?”

“Certainly. When I did not hear from you, I supposed that you had turned to crime in order to gain the two hundred thousand dollars that I offered you.”

“And yet you waited before telling the police about me. Waited one whole day. How do you explain that, Mr. Dreblin?”

Sarcasm governed Nethro’s tone. Dreblin met it with a fierce glare of challenge. Then the heavy-browed magnate calmed. He spoke in a steady tone.

“I waited until afternoon,” declared Dreblin. “Then I chanced to read of the arrest of Donald Powlden. The police, apparently, consider him to be the murderer. On that account, I waited to see if you came here this evening.”

“And if I had not come?” queried Nethro.

“I would have told the police that I thought they had the wrong man,” responded Dreblin. “That the evidence against Powlden could well have been planted.”

“Since I am here, what do you intend to do?”

“I want a full accounting of your actions.”

Nethro smiled. He tossed his light gray coat upon a chair and placed his hat upon it. With his left hand, he helped himself to one of Dreblin’s cigarettes and lighted it. Puffing, he sat down and met the magnate’s glower.

“JUST before five o’clock, yesterday afternoon,” stated Nethro, “I called on Jeremy Lentz at his office. I told him my business; that I represented a syndicate that was in the market for Duro Metal.”

“Did Lentz listen?”

“Yes. I smoked a cigarette with him while we chatted. He told me that he had no control over the sale of Duro Metal. He advised me to see Morath and Frieth.”

“So you went to see Morath?”

“Yes. At about quarter of six. Banged at the door of his apartment and when he opened it, I began the same stall that I had used with Lentz. but it didn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Morath said the Duro Metal was not for sale to any syndicate. I asked for details. He wouldn’t give them. He slammed the door in my face.”

“What did you do then?”

“Rang for the elevator. It didn’t come up. So I walked down the eight flights of stairs and found nobody in the lobby. I went out.”

“At what time was this? Quarter of six, you say?”

“It may have been a little earlier than that. Say five-thirty. I’m not quite sure.”

“And then?”

“I had a bite to eat. After that, I went to the Hotel Gilderoy, where Frieth lived. The clerk told me he was out. I sat around and waited in the lobby. Smoked a cigarette; then I decided there was no use sticking there. I left the lobby of the Gilderoy along about twenty-five of seven. I went up to the Acme Agency.”

“Hm-m-m. You ran pretty close to the time of the murders, didn’t you? You’d find it pretty difficult to produce an alibi, wouldn’t you?”

“Not at all. The Acme Agency is only half a block from the Gilderoy. They saw me come in there—”

“At what time?”

Dreblin’s interruption was a sharp one. The glare from beneath the heavy brows was almost ferocious. Nethro rubbed his chin and considered.

“I was going to say at twenty minutes of seven,” declared the investigator, slowly. “That, by the way, would be before Frieth came back to his hotel, according to the newspaper account. But I guess I’m wrong on that point, Mr. Dreblin. I stopped off on my way to the agency. Bought some cigarettes and a newspaper. Read some of the headlines and looked at a few magazines. Come to think of it. I guess it was after seven o’clock when I reached the agency.”

“Which kills your alibi.”

“Yes. But I had nothing to do with those murders. You can take my word for that.”

DREBLIN strummed the big desk. He settled back in his chair, as though considering Nethro’s story. Then, in a mild tone, he declared:

“Well, since the police have arrested Powlden, I can accept your story Nethro. But it would be much better if you had an alibi. Much better.”

“On account of the two hundred thousand dollars?”

“Yes. Money is a great temptation, Nethro.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars would be. But not so pressing a temptation as two million.”

“What do you insinuate?”

Dreblin came half to his feet as he rasped the indignant question. Nethro chuckled and motioned the magnate down. Dreblin subsided; but retained clenched fists.

“I went no further than you did,” asserted Nethro. “You suspected me of murder on account of the two hundred grand. Why shouldn’t I suspect you on account of the two million that those birds wanted to hijack out of you?”

“But you are talking absurdities—”

“Certainly. If you can supply an alibi for your own actions. How about it, Mr. Dreblin?”

“I was here until half past six. Alone in this room. Then some friends called. I went out to dinner with them.”

“At half past six?”

“Well, perhaps at quarter of seven.”

“Seven o’clock, maybe?”

Dreblin started an indignant growl; then stopped short. He eyed Nethro with heavy challenge and clenched his fists as he viewed the investigator’s smirk. Half a minute passed; then Dreblin settled back and rumbled a basso laugh.

“I FORGET the exact time, Nethro,” stated the magnate. “Maybe it was after seven o’clock. But what does it matter? Your statement satisfies me. Mine should satisfy you.”

“Putting it that way makes me agreeable.”

“And leaves us free to discuss the matter of my payment to you.”

“That’s right. I’m willing to take half of what you offered.”

Dreblin considered. Nethro specified.

“Duro Metal is out,” declared the investigator. “I didn’t end it; so I can’t claim the dough you promised me. At the same time, I didn’t take on a job that had strings hitched to it.

“With Duro Metal eliminated, you could afford to chuck a hundred grand just in way of celebration. So why not toss it my way? You gave me the job; Powlden going goofy and bumping those hijackers was just a lucky break for me.”

“One hundred thousand dollars.” Dreblin shook his head. “Too much money, Nethro, under the circumstances. Fifty thousand, perhaps.”

“One hundred. That’s the figure, Mr. Dreblin.”

“All right, Nethro. If you are willing to wait.”

“What for?”

“Until we learn positively that Duro Metal is not due to bob up again. Someone else might know about it. You can keep my signed memo in the meantime.”

“All right. That’s fair enough. Say, figuring that Powlden bumped those birds — and it looks mighty like it — you don’t think that he could have kept the Duro Metal papers, do you?”

“It is a possibility, Nethro. That is why I choose to wait. After Powlden’s case is finished, we can have our settlement. But I believe that Powlden, acting like a fanatic, would have destroyed the documents.”

“To get even with the gyps who swindled him on the synthetic gasoline deal. Well, it sounds likely enough.”

Momentary silence followed. Philo Dreblin drew open the drawer at the right of his desk and produced a stack of crisp new currency. He peeled off bills of high denomination, counted them and passed the money across to Nethro.

“Five thousand dollars,” stated the magnate. “An advance payment to tide you over. No receipt is necessary. It is wise for you to leave now, Nethro. My servant, Alfred, may be here shortly.”

“What about your secretary, Hastings?”

“He is still here. But tonight is his last. A new man, named Vincent, comes on tomorrow. It will be safe for you to call again. I shall expect to see you regularly, Nethro.”

The investigator nodded as he thrust the money into his inside pocket. He arose and went toward the bookcase. There, he stopped, with an afterthought.

“Suppose Powlden did hang on to those papers,” suggested Nethro. “He might have stowed them somewhere. I know where his house is located, up on Eighty-eighth Street. I might take a chance on looking through there.”

“Stay away from Powlden’s,” warned Dreblin, promptly. “Just because I have believed your statement is no reason why the police would do so. Why be a fool, Nethro? Do you want to be dragged into this mess?”

“I suppose you’re right in the matter, Mr. Dreblin—”

“You know that I am right. Understand, Nethro, I want you to stay away from Powlden’s. You are still in my employ.”

Dreblin had also approached the bookcase. He opened it and pointed. He was anxious for the investigator to leave. Nethro sidled through the opening and Dreblin closed the bookcase behind the departing visitor.

RETURNING to his desk, the magnate sat down and began a new strumming. The opened drawer attracted his attention. He reached in and drew out the packet of bills from which he had paid cash to Nethro.

Counting the remaining money, Dreblin arose and went to the safe behind the desk. He opened the large door, counted off some of the bills and put them in the safe. He closed the door, turned the combination and returned to the desk.

There he replaced the rest of the currency in the drawer, which he shut immediately afterward. Seating himself, Dreblin indulged in a smile which did not look pleasant on his rugged, unhandsome features. The magnate delivered a gruff chuckle.

Unquestionably, Philo Dreblin did not regret the deaths of the three men who had sought to sell him Duro Metal. But it was not the thought of past murder that had produced his chuckle. Dreblin was thinking of the future; of a game that lay ahead. There had been a reason for his willingness to comply with Kip Nethro’s demand for a hundred thousand dollars. Nethro, Dreblin knew, felt confident that he would eventually receive that sum.

Dreblin, however, had opinions of his own. He had handed Nethro five thousand dollars in order to hold the investigator’s confidence. For reasons known only to himself, the magnate was sure that the five thousand dollars would be the first, the last and the only payment that he would give Kip Nethro.