The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

Julius W. Long (1907–1955) was born in Ohio, received a law degree, and was admitted to the Ohio bar, where he practiced. He was a collector of guns (at one time he owned the only Tokarev 7.62 ever offered for sale in The American Rifleman), and his extensive knowledge of firearms was often apparent in his articles for Field & Stream as well as in his crime and mystery stories.

Long wrote many different types of fiction for about thirty magazines, most importantly ghost and fantastic stories for the top magazine in the genre, Weird Tales, to which he was a regular contributor in the 1930s, and mystery stories for Black Mask, Detective Story, Dime Detective, Dime Story, The Shadow, and Strange Detective Tales. One of his Black Mask stories, “Carnie Kill,” was selected for Best Detective Stories of the Year (1945). He wrote only one novel, Keep the Coffins Coming (1947), a murder mystery involving a beautiful woman, her millionaire father, a Communist leader, a German scientist, and several gorillas.

One of his short stories served as the basis for the motion picture The Judge (1949); it was released in Great Britain as The Gamblers. The story of a crooked lawyer who blackmails his client into killing his wife, it was directed by Elmer Clifton, produced by Anson Bond, with a screenplay by Samuel Newman, Clifton, and Bond, and starred Milburn Stone, Katherine DeMille, Paul Guilfoyle, and Stanley Waxman.

“Merely Murder” was published in the July 1944 issue.

“If I ever get my hands on the guy...” Peterson had mumbled. Well, he — or somebody — sure got his wish, because Shorty Waxman, the shifty little shyster, now looked like something only Homicide could love.

Chapter One Warrant for Life

I could tell from Keever’s stride when he came into the office that someone was in for trouble.

“Come in here, Ben. I’ve got a little job for you.”

I looked sadly at Miss Spain, Keever’s confidential secretary, and followed Keever into his inner sanctum. It was Monday morning, and the week was getting off to its usual lousy start. Being special investigator for Burton H. Keever, the dashing D.A., had never been a picnic, but now that a couple of sensational cases had inspired some loose talk of a governorship, he drove me like a slave.

There was a gleam in his eyes as he drew a document from his pocket and tossed it across his desk.

I picked up the document. It was a warrant. The man named was Sam Peterson. The charge was violation of the Habitual Criminal Act. The penalty, if Peterson was convicted, was life imprisonment. I eyed Keever.

“Holding out again, huh? When did you find out that Peterson had three more raps against him?”

It took four raps to rate a conviction under the Habitual Criminal Act, and the only thing against Peterson to my knowledge was his conviction of a little more than a year before. He had been tried then on two counts, breaking and entering and grand larceny. At the time he had been employed as a gardener at the Riverside Road estate of Jimmie Harmon, son of the late great realty king James D. Harmon Sr. There had been one of those cute wall safes in Harmon’s bedroom, and Peterson hadn’t been able to resist the temptation.

“Peterson’s an old hand at burglary,” Keever confided. “Late Saturday afternoon I got a tip that he had a record out West. I wired the warden of a western penitentiary, and, sure enough, they had Peterson’s prints. He’d been in twice for burglary and once for grand larceny. So I got a warrant for him the first thing this morning, and I want you to pick him up. No slip-up, understand?”

“Sure, no slip-up. You’re sure the prints are Peterson’s? We checked with Washington when Peterson was on trial before. They didn’t have any.”

“I know, I know. Seems Peterson had some drag with the trusty in charge of filing prints in that joint, and they were never sent in. It’ll be quite a shock to Peterson when he finds out his past has caught up with him.”

I took the warrant and went down to my car. I remembered Peterson’s address, for I had checked up on him a few weeks ago when he had been let out on parole. He lived in a southside apartment with his mother. I could recall pleasanter jobs.

I hadn’t had to ask Keever why he had wished it off on me. He could easily have used someone from the sheriff’s office or the local police department, but by sending me, his personal flunky, he could reserve all the credit for his own office. I could see the headlines: KEEVER GETS CONFESSION!

Of course, Peterson would have no alternative if he really had done three stretches in that western can. And I had a sickening feeling that he had, all right, though the idea had given me quite a jolt. I would have sworn that Peterson had been on trial for his first offense when Keever had got him convicted a year ago. He wasn’t quite thirty, clean-cut and clear-eyed. But you never can tell.

Peterson’s mother answered the bell at their apartment.

“Why, it’s Mr. Corbett! Won’t you come in? But I suppose you want to talk to Sam again. He isn’t here now. He’s got a wonderful new job in a war plant!”

“I did want to see him. It’s rather urgent. Will you tell me where he’s working?”

She did. I think she worried a little about having a district attorney’s investigator showing up to embarrass her son, but she appeared to have no greater worry. I decided that if Peterson did have a western record he had kept it from his mother.

My badge got me through the gates at the war plant and into the office of the head personnel man. I showed him the warrant.

“I was afraid of something like this!” he moaned. “Of course, we knew Peterson was on parole, but we need men so badly we can’t be too particular. Well, I’ll have him for you in a minute.”

Peterson was slightly pale when he walked in. His pallor increased when he saw me. I showed him the warrant. He accepted it with trembling fingers and read the charge. His face lost all color.

So it was true — Peterson was a four-time loser. He handed back the warrant and said listlessly: “I guess my luck will never change.”

“Then you are the guy?”

“What’s the use of denying it? Prints don’t lie.” He turned to the personnel man. “I’m sorry, sir. I hope this doesn’t make any trouble for you. I sure liked my job here. If there’d been jobs ten years ago, I wouldn’t be in this jam now. I hope they give me a job in the pen — a job making stuff to smack the Japs the way I’ve been doing here.”

I didn’t handcuff him. He got his stuff, and we walked out to my car. He was beginning to recover from the shock of his arrest, and now his brow was furrowed in thought.

“Would you mind telling me how Keever got wise to those prints? I happen to know they were never sent to Washington.”

“You’ll think I’m kidding you, Peterson, but I really don’t know. The first I heard about it was when Keever handed me the warrant this morning.”

Peterson did think I was kidding.

“O.K., you don’t have to tell me. I think I know. If I ever get my hands on the guy...”

He clammed up then. I drove away from the factory and turned downtown. Then Peterson said: “Will you do me a favor? I want to tell my mother about this before she hears it some other way. She doesn’t know about my record. It’s going to be terrible.”

I drove two blocks without answering; then I made a U-turn in the middle of the street.

“Damn you, don’t try anything!”

When we got to his place, he asked: “Will you let me break it to her alone?”

I gave him a sidelong look, and he shrugged. We went into his apartment. His mother came out of the kitchen with a worried look. She also held a revolver, and I could see that its hammer was cocked.

“What is it, son? I knew something was wrong, the way this man acted. I’m not going to let him take you away again!”

I think Peterson was even more astonished than I was. But he recovered more quickly. In one leap he was across the room. He took the revolver from his mother’s hand and covered me.

“I didn’t ask for this break, Corbett, but I’m taking it. Don’t try anything — so help me, I’ll let you have it!”

“Relax. I’m no hero.”

“You’ve got a gun. Hand it over — butt-first.”

I minded like a little lamb. He took my thirty-eight and thrust it under his belt. Then he turned to his mother.

“I’ll never see you again, Mom.”

She stood there looking at him and trembling. He started for the door. It was touching. I could have kicked the dear old lady’s teeth right down her throat. I didn’t even dare to think of what Keever would have to say when I gave him the lowdown on this deal.

Peterson slammed the door behind him, and I heard him racing down the stairs. I faced his mother.

“Have you a phone?”

She didn’t hear me. I didn’t see any phone and decided there wouldn’t be one. I went downstairs and into the street in time to see Peterson taking two dollars’ worth of rubber off my tires as he rounded a corner. There was a drug store on the corner. I phoned the cops. Then I took a deep breath and called Keever.

Somehow I forgot to mention the part Peterson’s mother had played, and that didn’t help my story. Keever emitted something that sounded like a death rattle; then he roared: “You blundering fool! You’ve made a laughingstock of my office! Get back here, and get back here fast!”

He hung up. That was all that kept me from telling him what he could do with his job. Of course, I could have called him back. I walked out of the booth instead. I knew deep down that this was one time when Keever had a legitimate beef. If I had been in his shoes, I’d have taken them off and thrown them at me.

It was well after eleven, so I hopped a streetcar and got off at Mike’s, my favorite eatery. The place was beginning to fill up. Not until I had squeezed into a wall bench did I discover that the man in the adjoining seat was Shorty Waxman.

“It’s a small world.”

Waxman looked up from his lunch.

“Oh, hello, Ben. What do you mean, it’s a small world?”

“I just left one of your former clients — rather, he just left me, borrowing my car and my gun. Sam Peterson.”

Waxman’s face twitched.

“Oh, yes. I remember Peterson. What’s he been up to?”

“Habitual Criminal Act. Keever just discovered that the Harmon job was his fourth. I went out to pick him up but had a bad case of butter-fingers.”

Waxman suddenly looked as if he needed a blood transfusion. His round little eyes widened until they seemed about to pop from their sockets. He choked on his food.

“Let me out of here, Ben! I just remembered something I forgot to do. Excuse, please!”

He fairly fought his way over me before I could slide out of the seat. At the cashier’s desk he threw down a bill and ran to the phone booths without waiting for his change. He was in a booth for about two minutes; then he raced out again and made his exit. I regarded the lunch he had left. It was virtually all there. I ordered and took my time eating. Waxman had left not only his lunch. He had left food for thought.

Chapter Two Where There’s a Will There’s a Slaying

It was one o’clock when I walked into the Criminal Courts Building, which housed Keever’s office. I had intended to duck Keever until he cooled off, but curiosity gave me courage. I wanted to find out why news of Peterson’s pick-up and escape had sent Waxman on the run. But I didn’t get to Keever’s office. Pop Martin, the elevator starter, stopped me the moment he spied me.

“Gee, Ben, am I glad to see you! Keever’s had everybody on your trail. You’re to meet him at the Mercury Tower — Waxman’s office.”

“Waxman? What’s with Waxman?”

“Murder. Somebody got him half an hour ago!”

I used a cab. Half a block from the Mercury Tower I had the driver stop. I got out and crossed the street to a crummy-looking coupe on which a patrolman was placing a ticket. It was my coupe. It was in a parking meter stall, and the flag was up.

“Hold it, pal. That’s my car.”

The cop recognized me. He grinned gloatingly.

“It makes no difference to me that you’re from the D.A.’s office, pal. I seen my duty, and I done it.”

“Oh, you did? I suppose you reported finding my car. There’s been a circular out on it for a couple of hours and—”

The ticket was snatched from under the windshield wiper and torn to bits. The cop almost burst into tears. “For the love of Mike, don’t tell anyone about this! It’d break me!”

I regarded him thoughtfully. “I think I’ll take your advice.” I walked on to the Mercury Tower, took a kidding from a couple of patrolmen on guard at the door and paused to scan the list of tenants. My memory had been correct. Jimmie Harmon’s real estate office was in the same building, a couple of floors below Waxman’s.

There was a mob of reporters outside Waxman’s office.

“Give out,” begged Lou Byrd of the Globe. Like the others, he was too desperate to rib me about my stolen car. “That bird-brained boss of yours won’t give us a line, and this case is the hottest thing in years. A lawyer getting bumped is something that happens seldom.”

“Too seldom,” I said, and shrugged my way through them. Waxman’s reception room was deserted save for a patrolman posted at the door, but his private office was so packed that there was hardly room for the corpse.

It was an all-out case. Dain Carrothers, Homicide’s smartest cop, had a whole army at work. They milled over Waxman’s body like a gang of females over a new baby. The body lay on its face in front of the safe, the door of which was closed. The arms were flung out, and there was an ugly slit in the back of the coat. There was no doubt about how the job had been accomplished — Shorty had been done in with a shiv.

“Well, thanks for coming around!”

I turned to face Keever. He spoke from across the room, where he was buttonholing an old guy in an elevator starter’s gold braid. He beckoned me over.

“This is Corwin, the starter. He saw everybody who came into the building. You may be interested to know that he has identified this man as a visitor.”

Keever exhibited a rogue’s gallery set, complete with fingerprints and profile and full-face photos of Sam Peterson. I asked Corwin: “When was he here?”

“He came into the building at about a quarter to twelve. About fifteen minutes after that Mr. Waxman arrived. Then, about twenty minutes passed, and this man left the building.”

Keever looked me up and down. His eyes were accusing slits. “I hope you’re satisfied, Ben. When you let Peterson escape you cost a human life — the life of my colleague and a member of the bar!”

I laughed in Keever’s face, and he reddened, for he knew why I laughed. During Waxman’s lifetime, he had called him every kind of shyster that ever breathed, denouncing him on more than one occasion to the grievance committee of the Bar Association. But now that Shorty had passed out of this world, Keever would probably show up at the Bar Association meeting to read his eulogy. Among lawyers the only good lawyer is a dead one.

“Your theory of this case interests me,” I told Keever. “What if Peterson did show up here? Wasn’t it natural for him to come running to his lawyer? Waxman defended him before — he must have wanted to hire him again.”

“Hire him, my eye! He didn’t want to hire Waxman; he wanted revenge! He guessed that Waxman had spilled the beans about those three raps out West. He was positive it was Waxman, for his own lawyer was the only person he had told. That takes care of the motive angle. And when we nail Peterson, we’ll take care of him!”

I remembered Peterson’s threat with regard to the man who had turned him in. He had said: “If I ever get my hands on the guy...” And I had to admit that this time Keever’s theory made sense. It was logical that Peterson had told his whole record to his lawyer, that Waxman would be the first and probably only man he would suspect. I nodded toward the corpse.

“Where’s the shiv?”

“A fingerprint man’s got it — took it over to the lab. It was a paper knife from Waxman’s own desk. One of those things the patent lawyers send out.”

“How about the safe? Was it opened?”

“It’s locked, but that doesn’t mean anything. Waxman could have had it open, and Peterson could have locked it after he knifed him.”

“Haven’t you checked the contents?”

“We’re waiting for Waxman’s secretary. She probably has the combination.”

I looked at my watch. It was one-twenty. I looked at Keever. He rolled his eyes. A couple of minutes later, when Waxman’s secretary sauntered in, I caught on. When they’re built like that they rate two hours for lunch in any man’s office.

Her name was Mickey O’Hara — she lived at 1109 West Crawford, and she immediately stole the show from everyone including Waxman. The entire Homicide detail promptly forgot the existence of a corpse as they began drooling over Miss O’Hara in the pretense of acting in the line of duty. But Keever, as usual, was equal to the occasion. He grabbed her by the elbow and took her into the library. I thought he needed help, so I trailed along.

She didn’t know anything, including the combination of the safe. She had left for lunch at eleven-thirty and had missed Peterson.

“I just can’t understand who could do such a thing to Mr. Waxman!” she cooed. “He was so nice — such a perfect gentleman.”

She crossed her legs and exhibited hosiery that sells for half a secretary’s salary. Appreciating the hosiery, Keever furrowed his brows in a shrewd manner and asked: “Then Waxman had no enemies?”

I laughed impolitely. “He was a lawyer, wasn’t he?”

Keever reddened. “Ben, I’ve learned to overlook your not very subtle sarcasm. You are no doubt referring to the fact that lawyers, who of necessity handle the troubles of others, accumulate the enemies of others. But such enemies rarely murder. If they did there wouldn’t be enough lawyers left to... to—”

“To fill an ambulance!” I cracked. Keever looked apologetically to Mickey O’Hara.

“You’re sure then that Mr. Waxman hadn’t received any threats of any kind?”

“Yes, Mr. Keever, I’m sure he hadn’t.”

It went on for about fifteen minutes, and I decided Keever was prolonging the interview only because he appreciated Miss O’Hara’s hosiery. I liked it, too, but I still had a mild curiosity about who killed Waxman. I walked out of the library.

“You’ll have to hire a locksmith,” I told Carrothers. “The Petty girl doesn’t know the combination.”

“We may find it somewhere,” Carrothers said hopefully.

I shook my head. “Five will get you ten that you don’t.” I went out.

The elevators were close by, but I used the stairway at the back of the building. I walked down two flights and found Jimmie Harmon’s office. His secretary informed me that he was in but very, very busy.

“I’m the law,” I said, showing my badge. “I think he’ll see me.”

He did. He came to the door and ushered me inside in a very cordial way. He even flattered me by remembering my name, though I had hardly more than met him at the time of Peterson’s trial. He seemed a nice enough guy in spite of the million bucks he and his sister had inherited from James D. Harmon Sr., who had made his dough in the real estate business. This had been the old man’s office. Jimmie pretended to be following in his father’s footsteps, but he used the place mainly to recuperate from hangovers. As for selling real estate, he couldn’t have sold a hideout to Hitler.

“I thought you’d like to know,” I opened, “that I went out and picked up Peterson. He’ll be on ice for a nice long time.”

Harmon gave me a startled, then quizzical look.

“It’s all right,” I assured him. “Keever told me all about it.”

Harmon looked a little hurt. “Damn it! I told Keever not to tell anyone.”

I smiled. “But I’m his right-hand man. It was natural for him to tell me who’d tipped him to Peterson’s record.”

“I suppose it was.” Harmon was studying me. “You didn’t come here just to tell me you’d nailed Peterson.”

“No, I didn’t. I thought you’d like to know that Peterson got away. He’s still at large.”

Harmon got up and began to pace back and forth behind his desk.

“Thanks, Corbett. I appreciate your warning me. But I’m sure Peterson will never guess that I turned him in. Unless, of course, Keever’s really started broadcasting it.” He looked alarmed. “Do you think Keever’s told anyone else besides you?”

“I’m sure he hasn’t. Besides, it looks as if you’re quite safe. There’s a pretty generally accepted theory that Peterson put the blame on his lawyer. Anyway, Shorty Waxman’s up in his office dead, and Peterson’s been identified as a visitor. When they catch him a life stretch will be the least of his worries.”

Harmon had stopped short.

“Waxman dead! Do you really think Peterson—”

“Maybe. By the way, do you have an alibi for this noon?”

“Me? Are you crazy? You can’t—” Harmon glared. “But of course, you can! You cops can suspect anybody, for any reason, no matter how trivial. I suppose you think I might have murdered him merely because he tried to make a monkey out of me during Peterson’s trial.”

I had to laugh at the memory of it. Waxman hadn’t merely tried to make a monkey out of Harmon — he couldn’t have succeeded much better if he had had Harmon scratching for lice. Waxman had gone into the matter of this phony real estate layout, and a jury consisting of working folk had laughed their glee. But Waxman’s jibes hadn’t helped Peterson.

“I was just kidding about your alibi,” I told Harmon, to cover up my laughter. “Of course we don’t suspect you of bumping Waxman. You had no motive whatever. And the fact that your office is in the same building doesn’t mean anything either. By the way, I’m curious about how you tumbled to Peterson’s record. That’s something Keever didn’t tell me.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell him,” Harmon said sullenly. “I don’t see that it makes any difference how I got the information, so long as it was right.”

“Right. Well, I’ll be getting along.”

Harmon looked agitated as I left. I went back upstairs and found that even Keever had had enough of the eye-filling O’Hara and had sent her home.

“I don’t know that there’s anything to do,” he was telling Carrothers, “until Peterson’s picked up.” He cast a side look in my direction. “If he’d never got away, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Pretending not to hear, I said: “I’m driving back to the office. Want to come with me?”

“Driving? You mean they’ve found your car?”

“No. I found it myself. Peterson didn’t get very far.”

“Where did he—”

“I’ll tell you about it sometime. Are you coming with me?”

“No. I drove my own car.”

The parking lot at the Criminal Courts Building was in back, and I entered by the back entrance. A figure startled me as it detached itself from a shadow.

“Hello, Mr. Corbett.”

It was Peterson.

“Well, well. Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’m giving myself up. I’ve been waiting to see you. I wanted you to be the one to turn me in. I hate it about that break. I hope you won’t do anything to my mother. She didn’t know what she was doing.”

“Forget it. I forgot to tell Keever about her, anyway.”

Peterson’s eyes brightened.

“Thanks a million! When the radio news didn’t mention her, I wondered if you’d left her out of it. But I didn’t dare hope.”

“Well, let’s get going.”

I walked down the gloomy corridor beside Peterson. I asked casually: “Did you have a nice talk with Waxman?”

Peterson started. “How did you know about that?”

“Well, you left my car right outside his office building.”

“I did at that. I guess it doesn’t make any difference whether you know about my seeing Waxman. I did see him. He told me to turn myself in.”

“Oh, he did, did he? I suppose he told you he could beat the rap, that he’d take your case?”

“He told me to keep my mouth shut.”

“It was pretty good advice. I’ll have to warn you that anything you may say will be held against you.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Waxman’s dead.”

Peterson stopped short. He was pale.

“Murdered?” I nodded. He started on again with exaggerated casualness: “Well, that makes me no difference. Nobody can hang that one on me.”

This time I stopped. “Look here, Peterson, you’re very inconsistent. A moment ago you indicated that Waxman was taking your case. It was plain from your manner that you had high hopes he would beat it for you, that Waxman was indeed your lifesaver. Now you’re very indifferent about his murder. His murder means he wouldn’t be in there to beat that habitual criminal charge for you. So either you’re lying about Waxman helping you or you’re lying about his death making no difference. Which is it?”

Peterson eyed me coolly. “I’m taking Waxman’s advice. I’m keeping my mouth shut.”

We were within ten feet of the elevator bank, and plenty of cops were coming in and out. They all knew about Peterson, but they never dreamed he could be the man talking with me. I took Peterson’s arm and stopped him.

“You’re not being very bright about this thing. I heard you make a threat about getting your hands on the guy who turned you in. It might interest you to know that the D.A. has a theory you did get your hands on the guy — Waxman.”

Peterson made a wry face. “Then he’s nuts; Waxman never turned me in.”

“But he did know about your record?”

“Of course. I leveled with him. And he’s always played straight with me.” An idea came to Peterson. “Besides, why should he turn me in when he’d never been paid for defending me in that last case? I’d just started to pay him every week out of my wages. Going up for life would mean I’d never pay him another dime.”

“So he took your case that other time without advance payment? That’s not like Waxman. He always has to have it on the line.”

“Well, he went to bat for me. I didn’t have a dime, and he knew it. Even the money I’d stolen from Harmon’s safe — he made me turn that over to him so he could turn it in. He did that. Every cent of it. And the other paper, too.”

“What other paper? You weren’t charged with stealing anything but the money.”

“Oh, the other paper didn’t amount to anything. Waxman said he’d give it back to Harmon personally. It was Harmon’s will. I guess Waxman thought he wouldn’t want it aired in public. It wasn’t worth anything to anybody but Harmon, and he could easily have made a new one if he never got it back.”

“That’s very interesting. I’m sure even Keever didn’t know about that angle. You didn’t happen to read the will?”

Peterson looked a little shamefaced. “As a matter of fact I did. It was short. Harmon just left everything to Louise.”

Louise was Harmon’s sister. I regarded Peterson curiously. “Why in the world did you steal a will?”

“I didn’t know it was a will. It was in an envelope, like the money. I just grabbed both envelopes and ran when I heard someone coming.”

That sounded plausible. A servant had surprised Peterson at his thievery and he had fled in haste, but not effectively enough to prevent his identification.

“Well, if Waxman didn’t turn you in, who did?”

“You’re asking me!” Peterson’s manner changed. He regarded me hostilely. “I don’t like it a bit. You know damned well it wasn’t Waxman, yet you’re trying to make out that I killed him for revenge.”

“All right, granting that Waxman wasn’t the one who turned you in, you had no way of knowing that. He would be the logical man for you to suspect. Right now you can’t think of anyone else who could have turned you in!”

Peterson’s face flushed. I was right. He couldn’t think of anyone else. He muttered: “Damn you! You made me talk! From now on I’m keeping my mouth shut!”

And he did. Keever conducted a cross-examination that lasted till five in the afternoon. By that time he was trembling with anger. His face stayed red five minutes after Peterson had been taken away.

“The rat!” he growled. “He got Waxman all right! It couldn’t have been anybody else. He killed Waxman because he thought Waxman squealed on him.”

“You seem pretty sure. By the way, was it Waxman?”

“The rat!” Keever muttered. “Well, I’ll break him down tomorrow if I have to grill him all day!”

Chapter Three Pictures Can Lie

So Keever was holding out on me, as usual. He meant to let me think that Waxman had turned in Peterson’s record. He would probably let the jury think that, too, for it would point the finger of guilt more steadily at Peterson. Don’t misunderstand Keever — he wasn’t trying to railroad the youth. But years in the D.A.’s office had slightly warped his sense of ethics. He had fought so many legal battles with unscrupulous shysters like the late Shorty Waxman that he had himself picked up a few low punches.

He was morally certain that Peterson was guilty of Waxman’s murder, and he meant to convict him by any means, fair or foul. But I couldn’t quite accept the case as open and shut. There was something rank in Rotterdam, my nose told me, and I wanted to find out what it was. I lingered in the office long enough to phone Homicide and learn that there had been no prints on the knife that had stabbed Waxman. I hadn’t hoped there would be. I got my car and headed out to Riverside Road.

Riverside Road is the swank highway that runs along the Silver River bank north of town. Everybody who is anybody has a big estate up there, and Old Man Harmon had been somebody. The Harmon place was one of the biggest. It was here that Jimmie Harmon and his sister, Louise, had lived since their father’s death. No will had turned up, so the pair had inherited the place equally as heirs at law.

It was the wall safe in the wing occupied by Jimmie that Peterson had broken into. Peterson’s job as gardener there had been full-time, but he had lived at his mother’s apartment, commuting in an old flivver. Turning into the drive, I could easily see why it had been necessary to have a full-time man. The grounds were really magnificent. The house was something, too — not quite a mansion but almost large enough.

A maid answered my ring. I flashed my badge.

“I’m from the D.A.’s office. I want to see Miss Harmon.”

A little gleam of satisfaction came into the maid’s eyes. Evidently she enjoyed a hope that her mistress was in trouble. She let me in and went eagerly to report my visit. But I had to wait ten minutes before Louise Harmon showed up.

“I’m sorry. I was finishing dressing.”

“That’s all right. It was worth waiting for.”

It was. This Harmon was a sloe-eyed brunette with a milky-white complexion that rocked you on your heels. It was plain she had devoted a lot of time to making the best of her natural assets — those last ten minutes had been well spent.

I introduced myself and said: “I’m just doing a little informal checking up. Please don’t get excited about it. I only want to have your corroboration of your brother’s statement that you were with him at the time of Shorty Waxman’s murder.”

Louise Harmon didn’t look at all as if she intended to get excited. She looked at me as if trying to decide whether I had all my marbles.

“I don’t understand. Why would my brother need an alibi for Waxman’s murder? He certainly couldn’t have had any reason to kill Waxman!”

I said lamely: “He couldn’t have had any love for Waxman after the way Waxman treated him at Peterson’s trial.”

Louise Harmon now eyed me as if she had made up her mind about whether I had all my marbles. Her decision was plainly in the negative.

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Well, you haven’t answered my question. Were you with Jimmie this noon?”

“No, and you know I wasn’t. He never told you that I was.”

“All right, if you weren’t with Jimmie, will you tell me where you were then?”

Louise Harmon’s eyes widened. For a split second they became angry; then they mocked me. “So I’m a suspect! Well, this is precious — little Louise has finally amounted to something! A murder suspect at last after twenty-two years of a drab, dreary existence! Are you going to take me down to headquarters for a third degree?”

“I hope not. It’ll help if you just tell me where you were.”

Her eyes gleamed with mock mystery.

“Everything’s against me. I was in the Mercury Tower at noon! I can’t deny it — the elevator starter would remember me. It’s the curse of being so beautiful that every old man ogles you. Little did I dream — well, to go on with my confession, I dropped in to see Jimmie. He wasn’t there. His office was deserted, and I waited maybe ten minutes in his reception room. Then I went out for lunch.”

“So you don’t have any alibi for ten minutes?”

Louise Harmon hung her head.

“No! It was careless of me, but then I didn’t know that Shorty Waxman was being murdered!”

She laughed in my face. My face was very red. Then I heard a noise and turned. Keever had come into the room. I recalled Louise Harmon’s ten-minute delay. So she had called my boss.

“What’s going on here, Ben?” Keever’s face was like a thundercloud.

Louise Harmon answered for me: “Oh, we’re having a wonderful time! Isn’t it marvelous — I’m getting the third degree as a suspect in the Waxman murder case!”

Keever slowly faced me. “Go outside, Ben. Wait for me. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

I went outside. I leaned dejectedly on a fender of my car and lighted a cigarette. I wasn’t half finished with it when Keever appeared. He hadn’t cooled off a bit.

“A fine spot you put me in! I had to apologize all over the place. Imagine treating Louise Harmon as a murder suspect!”

“I didn’t. That was her idea. I was merely curious as to where her brother had been while Waxman was getting himself murdered. I found out one thing, at least. Harmon wasn’t in his office — his sister just told me so.”

Keever started to speak, then eyed me carefully. His anger subsided in favor of curiosity.

“Come on, Ben, give out. Why are you pointing your finger at Harmon?”

“Well, there was a will. It was in the safe Peterson robbed. Peterson says it was Harmon’s will, and he gave everything to Louise. Somehow the will was never mentioned at the trial. Jimmie Harmon said nothing about it being stolen, and Peterson says he turned it over to Waxman. Supposing Waxman decided not to give Harmon the will. Maybe Harmon wanted it bad enough to kill him for it.”

Keever looked at me with horror.

“I never dreamed it! I never dreamed that anyone could be so ignorant of the law! Evidently you think that Harmon had to get his old will back and destroy it before he could make a new one! Why, all he would have to do to revoke the will would be to make a new one!”

“Well, I’m not a lawyer.”

“And you’re a hell of a detective! What’s the idea of holding out this long about that will? Try to remember that you’re working for me. Instead of running around in circles and trying to crack this case on your own, I want you to get Waxman’s secretary, the O’Hara girl, and bring her to Waxman’s office by eight. A locksmith’s going to try to open that safe this evening, and Waxman’s secretary should know something about the contents.”

It was one detail I could accept without urging. I had been careful to jot down Mickey O’Hara’s address, but I hadn’t hoped to be able to use it so soon. Her place turned out to be the first floor of a duplex. When she came to the door and saw me she seemed a little disappointed.

“Oh, it’s Mr. Corbett! I wasn’t expecting you. Is your visit official?”

“Only if you want it to be. I’m to take you to Waxman’s office, and I thought you might like to have dinner first.”

I could see that she wasn’t crazy about the idea, but she said: “Why, that would be lovely. I’ll only take a minute.”

Her place was furnished modestly enough. I dropped into a lounge chair and surveyed things casually. My gaze halted at a silver picture frame. It contained the smiling likeness of Jimmie Harmon. It was a good photo, but it had been mounted in such a way that the face bulged and looked a little bloated.

I averted my gaze from the photo as Mickey O’Hara appeared, but she gave the photo a sharp look, realizing I couldn’t have missed it.

“So you and Jimmie are that way?” I ventured, when we had driven a block from the duplex. Mickey O’Hara gave a nervous little laugh.

“I consider Jimmie a very good friend, that’s all. We used to bump into each other in the elevator and got to having lunch together. As for Jimmie being ‘that way,’ I don’t have to tell you about his reputation as a bite-and-run wolf.”

I let it go at that. I drove across town, out on Broad and pulled up at the Arabian Grill. It’s an expensive joint that I seldom patronize, for an obvious reason. But I had good cause for selecting it now.

“You’ll have to run along and order for both of us while I go down the street and get a check cashed. They don’t know me in there.”

I waited till she had gone inside, then turned around and drove back to the duplex. Picking its lock took only a minute, and once inside I didn’t bother to turn on the lights, for I knew where to go. I crossed the room to the silver picture frame and pried off its heavy cardboard back. The back and picture fell free to expose a folded paper between. I got out a pocket flash and scrutinized the paper.

It was the Harmon will. I read it through. It was a homemade job, all right, written by a guy who thought anyone can write his own will. I know better. I’ve whiled away quite a bit of time in Keever’s office over a book on wills, and I know they’re tricky things. A lot of people so hate to give a lawyer five dollars that they write their own wills, and after they’re dead their crude mistakes cause long-winded lawsuits that result in the lawyers getting all of their estates.

I put out my flash, folded up the will and started for the door. Then I went out like a light. I knew when I came around that I’d taken a perfect rabbit punch. I got up off the floor and fell down again. The next time I stayed up, but I knew I was going to be sick. I went into the bathroom and got it over with. Then I went back into the room. The will was gone. I didn’t waste time looking for it. My watch said eight-thirty. I went out to my car and drove to the Mercury Tower.

There was one of Carrothers’ men at the door. He looked at me pityingly as he let me in.

“I’m sure glad I’m not in your shoes! Keever’s layin’ for you with a meat-axe!”

I couldn’t think of a single cute thing to say. The night man took me to Waxman’s floor. The first face I saw when I opened his office door was Sam Peterson’s. He was flanked by two headquarters men, and Carrothers himself sat close by. But Peterson looked strangely at ease in contrast to the others in the room.

There was quite a gathering. Her silken knees crossed, Mickey O’Hara knifed me a look from a chair in a corner. Jimmie Harmon adjoined her. It was something of a shock to discover his sister seated on the opposite side of the room. Louise Harmon apparently had been in conversation with Keever, who stood beside her. His face got red the moment he saw me.

“So you’ve finally shown up!” he raged. “Pardon my curiosity, but would you mind telling me why it is that when I send you out to do even the simplest thing, you muff the job?”

“He was trying to cash a check,” Mickey O’Hara said icily. “I hope you succeeded, brother, ’cause you owe me three dollars for the steak I ordered for you. Whether you have the chivalry to pay for the one I ate is purely speculative.”

Somewhat grandly I paid up. But that didn’t satisfy Keever.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“Nothing. Anything I said would be used against me.” I was busy trying to figure out Keever’s angle in having Jimmie and Louise Harmon and Peterson here. What was up Keever’s sleeve? “The safe,” I said, “has it been opened yet?”

Keever shook his head.

“But it soon will be. We’ve got a good man in there.” He indicated the inner office. “He’s been at it since seven. He should be through any minute now.”

Keever did have something up his sleeve, all right — plenty. Otherwise he wouldn’t have left off riding me about my unexplained absence. I was glad to let it go at that, and for about ten minutes we all waited in uncomfortable silence. Most uncomfortable of all was Jimmie Harmon. He sat fidgeting, mopping his moistening temples from time to time. He started half out of his chair when the door suddenly opened, and a bald little guy stuck his face through.

“All set, Mr. Keever.”

I knew the locksmith, Clyde Altman. He was a skilled man, trusted by the police, but Keever had seen to it that a headquarters man had been on the job while Altman had worked.

“Has anything been touched?” Keever questioned the man, as we filed into the inner room.

“Not a thing, sir. The strongbox door’s been opened — that’s the only thing that’s been done to the inside.”

We formed a semi-circle in front of the safe at a respectful distance. Keever, wasting no time with the stuff in the pigeonholes, removed the strongbox drawer at once. His eyes lighted as he saw the paper on top. He snatched it up, unfolded it and gave it a rapid inspection. There was triumph in his eyes as he turned mysteriously to Louise Harmon.

“Miss Harmon, will you please look at this signature?”

Keever exhibited the paper. The girl’s eyes widened.

“Why... why, it’s Dad’s signature! What is this paper?”

“It’s a will, Miss Harmon, your father’s will. And now, Peterson, come over here and look carefully. Did you ever see this paper before?”

Peterson came forward and scanned the paper with growing astonishment.

“Yes, I saw it once. It’s the will that I stole out of Jimmie Harmon’s safe!”

“Exactly!” Keever’s eyes flashed with triumph as they fixed their gaze upon Jimmie Harmon. The boy had lost all color. Satisfied, Keever turned to me. “You didn’t realize it, Ben, but this afternoon you gave me the information that enabled me to crack this case. When you told me that Peterson had stolen a will and that it left the entire estate to Louise Harmon, you unwittingly supplied the key to the entire case.

“You see, it wasn’t Jimmie Harmon’s will that was stolen. Peterson thought so because it was in Jimmie’s safe and because he was misled by the signature. As Miss Harmon has just stated, the signature was actually her father’s — his name is the same as Jimmie’s. It wasn’t Jimmie who was leaving everything to his sister — it was James D. Harmon Sr. In his father’s will, Jimmie was completely disinherited.”

Chapter Four The Real McCoy

Keever’s words seemed to echo in the still room. Suddenly he whirled again upon Jimmie Harmon.

“Do you dare deny it?” he barked.

The youth admitted hollowly: “It’s Dad’s will, all right. I found it after his death and hid it in my safe.”

Louise Harmon gave a startled gasp.

“Jimmie! How could you do such a thing?”

Jimmie Harmon lost his hangdog look as anger reddened his face.

“Wipe that look of righteous indignation off your face! I wasn’t doing anything you wouldn’t have done! What you did was worse — you sold Dad the idea I was a spendthrift playboy who couldn’t look out for himself. If only Dad would leave everything to you, you’d take care of me. Yes, you would! You’d have doled out a nickel at a time and made me crawl for it! When I hid that will, I was only protecting my rightful property!”

“And you were doing the same thing when you killed Shorty Waxman!”

Everybody subsided at Keever’s accusation. Keever pressed home the advantage his shock had given.

“You killed Waxman because he had the will and because he had been blackmailing you! Though Peterson failed to understand the significance of the will, thinking it was your own, Waxman knew better. That’s why he took Peterson’s case, though Peterson didn’t have any money to pay him. He knew he could collect plenty by threatening you with exposure. But he didn’t know you’d get so desperate that you’d kill him! And you did kill him, didn’t you?”

Keever had his long forefinger under Jimmie Harmon’s nose now, and Harmon slapped it away with a sharpness that made Keever wince.

“Damn you, no! Sure, Waxman was blackmailing me. The dirty skunk started it even before Peterson’s trial. He insisted that Peterson knew nothing about it, that only he knew the truth about the will. I paid and paid. I might have dropped the prosecution against Peterson if I hadn’t been sore about the hell he had caused me. That’s why I turned in his penitentiary record. Last Saturday afternoon I got half soused and spilled the beans to you. It wasn’t very bright, but then I felt I had to take it out on somebody — I couldn’t touch Waxman.”

“But you did, Jimmie, this noon! You touched him deeply — with a knife! You killed him because his relentless blackmailing had made you desperate! You can’t look me in the eye and deny it!”

Something inside Jimmie Harmon seemed to snap. Before Keever could dodge, Harmon had landed a solid punch on his jaw. Keever reeled and would have gone down if Carrothers hadn’t caught him. Shaking with anger, he roared: “See? See, what he did — it all goes to show how he resorts to violence when cornered! I’m warning you, Harmon, that anything you say will be held against you!”

I took a deep breath.

“Might I say a word?”

Keever growled: “Well, Ben, what is it?”

I took another deep breath.

“I don’t want to upset your little playhouse, but I think you ought to know that this will hasn’t been locked in the safe since Waxman’s murder. It was planted there. I happen to know because a couple of hours ago I saw it in Mickey O’Hara’s apartment. It was hidden back of her photo of Jimmie Harmon. I’d just removed it when I got conked. I passed out cold — that explains why I didn’t show up with Miss O’Hara as scheduled.”

Keever’s jaw hung open.

“Ben, are you sure about that? Are you sure this will was at Mickey O’Hara’s apartment?”

“Positively. I read the whole will by my flashlight.”

Keever looked lost. He turned slowly to face Mickey O’Hara.

“Is this true?”

Jimmie Harmon stepped forward, firmly grasping Mickey O’Hara’s arm.

“Just a moment, Keever. Supposing Mickey did have the will and did conceal it the same as I did. I believe that the concealment of a will is a criminal offense. If she admitted that she had it, would she be laying herself open to a criminal charge?”

Keever nodded reluctantly. “That’s right. Miss O’Hara, I’ll have to warn you that your answer may be held against you.”

Mickey O’Hara replied coolly and without hesitation: “This detective is right — the will was at my place, hidden in a picture frame. A short time after I met Jimmie he told me about the jam he was in and asked me to help him. I didn’t have any trouble going through the files of the Peterson case — that’s how I was able to find out about Peterson’s criminal record and turn it over to Jimmie. It took me longer to find an occasion when the safe was unlocked and get into the strongbox. But I did find the opportunity, and I’ve had the will for a couple of weeks.”

Jimmie Harmon’s eyes widened as they stared.

“Why, Mickey — why didn’t you tell me you had it?”

“Because I love you, you wolf! Your only interest in me was to get me to help you recover that will. Once I’d delivered it, you’d have dropped me like a hot potato. So long as I had the will, I had you.”

“But, Mickey, I wouldn’t have—”

“That doesn’t change anything,” Keever interrupted Harmon. “The fact that Miss O’Hara had the will doesn’t alter the fact that you thought Waxman had it. Your motive remains as strong as ever.”

I indulged in another deep breath.

“But that doesn’t explain why Harmon would slug me to get the will and plant it in this safe where it was bound to be found! You’ve just heard him confess that he had concealed it and paid blackmail to prevent its exposure.”

Keever had no comeback for that one. I pressed my advantage.

“The person who planted that will wanted it to be found, wanted it to be exposed. That person had the most to be gained from the will’s exposure. It was that person that Waxman phoned this noon just before he left Mike’s restaurant. He—”

“What phone call?” Keever demanded. “You said nothing about seeing Waxman at Mike’s! Why are you always holding out on me?”

I shrugged.

“I didn’t think it was important at the time. Now I realize what upset Waxman when I told him Peterson had been picked up on the Habitual Criminal Act. He guessed that Harmon had turned him in, and that showed him Harmon was getting too desperate to be blackmailed. It was time to make a deal with the one person who had most to benefit by the exposure of the will. So he called that person and made a noon appointment at his office.

“Waxman quickly made a deal with his visitor, selling the will for a cash price. But when he went to his safe and opened it, he found that the will was missing. It was never like Waxman to give up any money once he had his hands on it. He stalled. But the purchaser of the will suspected trickery, was angered into murderous fury. A paper knife was convenient. You can guess the rest.

“Later the murderer, aware of the romantic connection between Jimmie Harmon and Waxman’s secretary, guessed that the girl might have got the will from Waxman’s safe and might have it in her possession. So the murderer went to the girl’s apartment, found that I had discovered the will, slugged me and took it from me. Then the murderer, who had memorized the combination of Waxman’s safe, came here and planted the will where it would be found.”

I paused. Keever had listened intently. Now he said: “But whoever planted that will had to have a key to the building and a key to Waxman’s office.”

I regarded Louise Harmon.

“Miss Harmon, do you have a key to this building?”

The girl was pale.

“Yes. Father gave me one several years ago. His office is now Jimmie’s. I still have the key.”

“And you admit that you visited the building this noon?”

“Of course. I told you that when you called this afternoon.”

“But there was nobody here to corroborate your alibi?”

“No. I also told you that Jimmie wasn’t here; nobody was here but me.”

I turned to Keever.

“There you are. Getting a key to Waxman’s office wouldn’t be such a hard stunt for the murderer. It might have been taken from Waxman’s pocket, or one might have been loose around Mickey O’Hara’s place.”

Keever had been staring incredulously at Louise Harmon. Slowly he turned to me.

“Then you think the murderer is Louise? She’s the only one to gain from the exposure of the will.”

“No, Burt, you’re wrong. You glanced at the beginning of the will, the part that left everything to Louise outright. Read the last paragraph. It’s a little vague, but the meaning is clear. Old Man Harmon knew how he wanted to leave his estate, all right. He meant that Louise should have it all but should pay out to Jimmie whatever he actually needed.

“But he didn’t know how to say it. When he got through pecking out his homemade will on his typewriter, he had left everything to Louise but in trust for Jimmie! When Jimmie discovered the will after his father’s death he didn’t understand it any better than his father had, and he was afraid to go to a lawyer.

“So he hid the will in his safe. Peterson stole it, failed to realize that it was the old man’s will and turned it over to Waxman, who understood it at a glance. Then Waxman contacted Jimmie and explained that the will really made him the sole beneficiary of his father’s estate, that all Louise could ever get out of it was a nominal fee for administering the trust.

“Waxman had Jimmie over a barrel. Jimmie had concealed the existence of the will — he couldn’t prove its existence now unless Waxman turned it over. Waxman held out for a price. Jimmie refused to meet it. They haggled for a year, Jimmie finally using Mickey O’Hara in an attempt to get his fingers on the precious paper. In a fit of meanness, he exposed Peterson’s criminal record, and that scared Waxman. He knew that he was dealing with a desperate man. He phoned Jimmie, and they got together on a price. When they met in Waxman’s office, and he couldn’t produce the will, Jimmie blew his top and knifed Waxman to death.”

Keever had been reading the last paragraph of the will as he listened. Now he stared at Jimmie Harmon.

“You really had it figured out, didn’t you? By planting this will in the safe you made yourself seem the least likely suspect. Who would accuse you of doing the planting when you thought exposure of the will completely disinherited you?”

“Nobody,” Jimmie Harmon answered promptly. “And nobody will ever believe I planted it there. For, in spite of your stooge’s beautiful theory, it’s nothing but a theory. You’ve got nothing against me but circumstantial evidence.”

He calmly lighted a cigarette and blew the smoke into Keever’s face. Mickey O’Hara had stood loyally by him until now, but she edged away. The revulsion she felt was shared by the rest of us, but we knew the truth was reflected in Keever’s face. He and the rest of us knew that Harmon’s taunt was painfully true — we had nothing but a theory.

I faced Keever.

“I think it’s time I should tell you that I’ve been holding out again. My theory didn’t just come out of my head. I had something concrete to go on. When I got conked tonight I got a glimpse of the guy that conked me just before I passed out. It was Harmon. I guess there’s something more than circumstantial about that.”

Harmon whirled upon me. “You’re a damned liar! You went out like a light!”

I grinned in his face. He started, saw that his slip was fatal. He wheeled, ran toward the door. Sam Peterson casually thrust out his foot. Harmon tripped and fell sprawling. The two headquarters men dragged Harmon ignominiously to his feet. He was blubbering as they took him out.

“So you held out on me again?” said Keever. “How am I going to cure you?”

“You don’t have to. I didn’t hold out this time. Harmon was right — I’m a damned liar. I passed out like a light.”

Keever shook his head. He smiled at Louise Harmon, who looked stunned.

“Don’t feel so badly about it. Your brother will get off with life — his murder of Waxman was only second degree because it was not premeditated but done in anger. As for the will, I must say that Waxman was really trying to make a sucker out of your brother. It isn’t any will at all. Evidently your father didn’t know he was supposed to have witnesses to his signature. Anyway, there are none, so you’ll each get half of your father’s estate, though Jimmie won’t get much of a chance to spend his share unless he spends it on lawyers.”

Louise Harmon didn’t seem at all relieved. She looked first at Mickey O’Hara, who was quietly sobbing, then at Peterson. She turned to Keever.

“Must this man be prosecuted? Will he have to go to the penitentiary for life?”

Keever hesitated. Peterson spoke up.

“Thanks for your sympathy, Miss Harmon, but I don’t need it. You see, I had quite a talk with Mr. Waxman before he was murdered. He told me something about my trial for the robbery of your brother’s safe. I was tried both for breaking and entering and grand larceny, but when the jury returned a verdict of ‘guilty as charged in the indictment,’ they didn’t specify which offense I was guilty of. Mr. Waxman said that though grand larceny is an offense listed in the Habitual Criminal Act, breaking and entering isn’t. He says the jury’s verdict would have to be strictly construed in my favor, so I’d be shown to be guilty only of breaking and entering, which isn’t a crime in the eyes of the Habitual Criminal Act. Is that the McCoy, Mr. Keever?”

“That,” said Keever, “is the McCoy.”