The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

D(’arcy) L(yndon) Champion (1902–1968) was borne in Melbourne, Australia, and fought with the British Army in World War II before emigrating to the United States. His first published work was a serialization under the pseudonym G. Wayman Jones, a house name, of Alias Dr. Death in the February to October 1932 issues of Thrilling Detective; it was published in book form later in the same year. In 1933, he created the character of Richard Curtis Van Loan, better known as the Phantom Detective, under another house name, Robert Wallace. He wrote most of the early episodes of the Phantom Detective, the second hero pulp to come out after the Shadow. It ran for 170 issues between 1933 and 1953, the third-longest-running hero pulp, ranking just behind the Shadow and Doc Savage. Under his own name and as Jack D’Arcy, he created several other memorable characters. Mariano Mercado is a hypochondriac detective who appeared in eight novelettes between 1944 and 1948 in Dime Detective. Inspector Allhof, a former New York City policeman who lost his legs while leading a botched raid, is retained by the NYPD because of his brilliance and in spite of his arrogance. Allhof appeared in twenty-nine stories from 1938 to 1945, mainly in Dime Detective; twelve of the tales were collected in Footprints on a Brain: The Inspector Allhof Stories (2001). Perhaps his most popular series featured Rex Sackler, known as the “Parsimonious Prince of Penny Pinchers.” The hilarious series began in Dime Detective, then moved to Black Mask.

“Death Stops Payment,” Champion’s first Black Mask story, was published in the July 1940 issue.

Anything to make a couple of grand — or even a plugged nickel. That was Rex Sackler’s code of life — and death. For he was equally quick to euchre lucre from the living or cash out of a corpse.

Chapter One After All — What’s Money?

I arrived at the office at ten minutes past nine and received a surly good-morning from Sackler. He glowered at a story of the national debt in the Tribune and I sat down, lit a cigarette and grinned at him. His dyspeptic mood was no stunning surprise to me.

This was Wednesday — pay day. And Rex Sackler parting with money was as gay and light-hearted as Romeo taking his leave of Juliet.

I took the cigarette from my mouth and coughed politely. He lifted his head from the paper and stared at me with his dark sullen eyes. With nice delicacy, I scratched the palm of my left hand with the index finger of my right. Sackler folded the Tribune with great deliberation and sighed the sigh of a sorely tried man.

“Joey,” he said, “you’re a money grubber. A beaten slave of Mammon. Your job, to you, is a matter of dollars. Service, you know nothing of. Loyalty is beyond your limited ken. The noble pleasure of sheer altruism is something your material mind cannot grasp.”

That, coming from Rex Sackler, was uproarious. He had quit the police department because of his theory that a man of his talents could make a fortune as a private detective. To the regret of several people, he had been right. Not only was he competent but he could smell a nickel before it had left the mint. He possessed all the business instincts of a Scotsman, an Armenian trader and a bank vault. He made money hand over fist. He disgorged it with the reluctance of a slot machine.

I put out my cigarette and stood up. “I’m strictly a strong-arm guy,” I told him. “However, I can grasp the simple fact that you owe me some sixty-five slugs for last week’s wages. Do I collect?”

Sackler shook his head and this time his sigh came from the soles of his feet. He put his hand inside his breast pocket and withdrew his wallet as if it had an anchor attached. He counted out some bills with the meticulous care of a near-sighted croupier and laid them on the desk.

I put the money in my pocket. I said, very politely: “Now just what plans have you formulated for taking this away from me?”

He looked at me reproachfully. “Joey,” he said, “your misconstruction of my motives is incredible. Merely because I sometimes gamble with you for pastime, you appear to believe I really care about winning. Crass, Joey. And gauche. After all, what’s money?”

I picked that cue up fast. “Money,” I said, “is what you’ve got socked in every Postal Savings account in the city because you think banks are a wild gamble. Money is what you’d sell your grandmother to the Arab slave-dealers for. Money is what you reluctantly pay me every week, then devise schemes for winning back. Money—”

He wasn’t listening to me. He had taken a pair of dice from his pocket and was caressing them in his hand. There was a little click as he spun them over the desk blotter. I watched them come to rest, revealing a pair of deuces. Then I suddenly caught myself and walked to the window.

“Oh, no,” I said. “You can put those right back in your pocket. You’re not getting a nickel out of me this week, even if you offer a dime for it.”

I stood at the window showing him my back and contemplating the thrumming Madison Avenue traffic. I still heard the gentle click of the dice behind me and the gambling corpuscles in my veins throbbed nervously. Resolutely, I stared through the glass.

I turned only when I heard the door of the outer office slam. Sackler lifted his head like a hyena scenting prey. He adjusted his cuffs and cleared his throat, preparatory to the onslaught on the client’s pocketbook. Inspector Wolley of the Headquarters Squad strode into the room.

Sackler’s phoney smile of welcome faded. He reached for the dice again and said ungraciously: “Oh, it’s you.”

“It sure is,” said Wolley with loud affability. “And how’s business, Rex? How’s every little thing with the sharpest shamus in town?”

That speech coming from Wolley was far, far phonier than Sackler’s smile had been. As a general rule Wolley and Sackler go along like Martin Dies and a liberal thought. Sackler believed Wolley a pompous incompetent, which he was; while Wolley’s heart dripped envy every time he compared Sackler’s income with his own.

“Rex,” said Wolley, “I’d like to ask you a question. To settle a little discussion we were having downtown. Exactly why did you quit the department to go in business on your own hook?”

Sackler took a package of ten-cent cigarettes from his pocket and lighted one. Carefully, he replaced the burnt match in its book. When he answered he did not speak the truth.

“Public service,” he said virtuously. “With my talent it stands to reason I can accomplish more civic good than under the orders of a block-headed police commissioner.”

“Exactly,” boomed Wolley. “That’s just what I said. Now how about lending us a hand on the Capek case?”

Sackler blinked at him. I leaned forward in my chair and said maliciously: “Free, Inspector?”

“Well,” said Wolley as if he were the Chamber of Commerce and I was looking over the factory site, “we’re all working for the public good together. After all, what’s money?”

This magnificent indifference to money on the part of all hands was beginning to overwhelm me. But in spite of all this idealistic chatter, I knew damned well Sackler wouldn’t stir out of his chair to solve a tabloid cross-word puzzle until someone slapped a large bill on the desktop.

He was staring unpleasantly at Wolley. He resented the trap into which the inspector had led him. He took a deep breath and proceeded to squirm out of it.

“Wolley,” he said with a fine air of regret, “I’d like to help you. But it wouldn’t be fair to my other clients. You see, if they pay high rates for my services it isn’t right for me to work for nothing. It would offend them.”

Wolley grunted skeptically. “Well,” he said slowly, “I sort of thought of that myself. So I got together with some of the boys and raised a little purse for you.”

Sackler’s eyes gleamed. “A purse? How much?”

“A couple of hundred.”

Sackler looked insulted. The gleam went from his eyes faster than it had come in. I knew quite well he wasn’t going to let that two hundred get away from him. But he was going to indulge in some very fancy haggling first.

“That’s not much money, Wolley,” he said. “Make it five.”

“My God,” said Wolley. “Ten coppers put together don’t make as much money as you do in a year, Rex. Besides, we’re gambling with you. We’ll give you the two hundred free and clear. We ask no guarantees. Even if someone else breaks the Capek case you can keep the dough.”

That didn’t sound so bad. This Capek case was no cinch. Capek was a very odd character. With all the dough he’d piled up I suppose he had a right to be. He’d come to this country, a ragged immigrant boy, about fifty years ago. He’d rolled up his sleeves and gone to work — hard and successfully. Today, he controlled a dozen corporations and half a dozen banks. He was a strong, square-jawed character who possessed a great deal of pride and no friends. Hardly any acquaintances, save for a young guy named Rawson, who had once been his secretary and was now his partner.

Capek had been missing for about two weeks. His household on Long Island and the police suspected kidnaping, although no ransom demand had yet been received. Anyway, it made a good newspaper story and the whole police department was going nuts looking for Capek.

As Wolley’s unprecedented visit attested, they hadn’t had much success.

Sackler was looking at Wolley and there was a shrewd glitter in his eye. I knew quite well what he was thinking. As Sackler’s fees went, two hundred bucks was no fortune. But this was an opportunity to get it for nothing. I knew, moreover, that he was going to accept the deal ultimately, but first he was going to break his neck to have Wolley raise the ante.

“Three hundred,” he said, “and it’s a deal.”

Wolley drummed angrily on the desk with his fingers. He got very little more than three hundred a month. Sackler yawned elaborately and picked up the dice again.

The telephone jangled suddenly. I picked it up. It was for Wolley. I handed him the phone and he talked rapidly into the receiver, listened for a moment and hung up. He turned to Sackler, a wide grin on his face, and all the false affability had vanished from his voice as he spoke.

“Wise guy,” he jeered. “Just a shrewd business genius. Well, you just haggled yourself out of two hundred bucks, my friend. They’ve found Capek.”

Sackler dropped the dice and jerked his head up angrily.

“Where?”

“In the caretaker’s lodge on his own estate. And dead. Apparently a suicide.” But Wolley wasn’t interested in Capek anymore. He reverted to the subject nearest his heart. “But you — you could have had two hundred bucks just for sitting at your desk until that phone call came in. You wouldn’t have had to move a muscle of a brain cell.”

He walked to the doorway, grinning triumphantly, and added: “And it’s breaking your chiseling marble heart.”

The door slammed behind him and he was gone.

Whether or not there were any cracks in Sackler’s cardiac region, I didn’t know. But I was very happy about it all. It wasn’t every day I was granted the privilege of seeing Sackler lose money.

He looked up suddenly, saw my grin and rolled the dice again. Double six came up.

“What do you say, Joey? Just one roll. For a buck.”

I hesitated. Sackler had been rolling craps with a fair degree of regularity this morning. Besides, if the law of averages hadn’t been suspended, I was due. I took a dollar from my pocket and laid it on the desk.

“Just once,” I said. “One fast roll. That’s all. Win, lose or draw.”

“Sure, Joey. Just one.”

Twenty minutes later when the outer door slammed for the second time that day, I was out precisely thirty-three bucks. Sackler snatched up the dice as our caller entered the room.

He was tall, well built, about thirty-five and exceedingly well dressed. He gave out a strong aroma of ready cash and Sackler came to point like a bird dog. I sat down sulkily at my desk and wondered why the hell I’d ever got in that crap game. In four years I’d never won a dime from Rex Sackler at anything.

The stranger nodded his head and said briskly: “Mr. Sackler?”

Sackler admitted his identity.

“I’m Rawson. Harold Rawson.”

Sackler’s face lit up. Wolley’s two hundred was water under the dam now.

“Rawson,” he said quickly. “Karl Capek’s partner?”

“Not anymore,” said Rawson briefly.

“Ah,” said Sackler like a doctor at the death bed, “that suicide. Very unfortunate. Very—”

“It wasn’t suicide,” snapped Rawson.

Sackler’s eyes opened wide. It was neither surprise nor shock, I knew. It was wholehearted satisfaction that here, indeed, was a fee.

“You’re sure of that?”

“Positive,” said Rawson. “I have information which precludes all suicidal possibilities.”

“Ah,” said Sackler again, “and you want me to find out—”

“I want you to find out who killed him.”

Sackler rubbed his hands together and gazed dreamily at his client.

“The fee,” he murmured, “will be twenty-five hundred dollars. In advance. Make the check out to cash, please.”

Rawson sat down. He took a fountain pen and a check book from his pocket. He said, “Quite satisfactory,” and proceeded to write. Sackler watched him happily. Then Rawson spoke again.

“I’m a little short of cash, Sackler. Been out of town on business. Just got back to find this awful tragedy. Can you let me have fifty in cash if I make the check out for that much additional?”

“Of course,” said Sackler, always willing to exchange fifty for twenty-five hundred. “Glad to oblige.”

He counted out five tens and picked up the check. “Now,” he said, “first, what is this information you have that makes you so sure Capek was murdered?”

Rawson stood up. There was a hard coldness in his eyes. “I shall tell you that tonight,” he said. “Can you be at the Capek mansion tonight, at nine o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” said Rawson. He turned and walked to the door. He paused on the threshold and for a moment his brusque businesslike air dropped from him.

“Karl Capek was a great man,” he said, and there was a peculiar huskiness to his voice. “He was my best, my only friend. And by God, I will avenge him!”

He swung around on his heel and marched into the corridor.

Sackler held the check in his hand as if it were a diamond he’d just picked up in the gutter, which it more or less was.

I stood over by the window bathed in envy. Here Sackler had just had twenty-five hundred dollars dropped into his avaricious lap while I was out thirty-three bucks of last week’s salary. If there was any justice in the world it never seemed to get around to this office.

“Joey, my lad,” said Sackler, “run over to the bank with this check. Get it cashed right away.”

That was Sackler all over. Whenever he got a check he rushed it over to the bank, cashed it and sank it in one of his Postal Savings accounts. Nothing short of the revolution was going to get a nickel out of him.

I sighed, put on my hat and coat, and went out into the street.

I returned half an hour later. I was grinning happily from ear to ear. There was a soothing, gloating sensation in my heart that almost made me forget about my thirty-three bucks. Sackler looked up as I approached his desk.

“Ah,” he said, “get to the bank all right?”

“And had a very pleasant trip,” I told him. “Here.”

I groped in my pocket and laid Rawson’s check down on the desk before him. He looked at it, then looked at me.

“Well,” he said testily, “where’s the cash?”

I smiled at him sweetly. “There isn’t any cash.”

“What the devil are you talking about, Joey? What do you mean there—”

“There isn’t enough cash anyway. Insufficient funds.”

He looked for all the world as if someone had slugged him over the head with a mallet.

“My God, Joey, you don’t mean—”

“I mean that Harold Rawson, who’s probably worth several hundred thousand times as much dough as you are, has given you a bum check. Moreover, you’ve been taken for fifty bucks in cash. I might add, I think it very, very funny.”

“My God,” said Sackler in an anguished tone, “twenty-five hundred and fifty bucks. I’ve been taken for twenty-five hundred and fifty bucks. I’m a ruined man. I—”

“Do we still keep that appointment at Capek’s joint?” I asked him.

“You’re damn right we do,” he said explosively. “I’m going to see that Rawson. He can’t do this to me. Good heavens, twenty-five hundred and fifty bucks is one hell of a lot of dough, Joey.”

“You’re actually out only fifty,” I pointed out. “That’s all you gave him in cash.”

He paid no attention to me. He buried his face in his hands and muttered over and over again: “Twenty-five hundred and fifty bucks, my God!”

In my book he was still out only fifty but in his present distrait condition all the arithmetic in the world wasn’t going to convince him.

Chapter Two You Can’t Get Cash from a Corpse

It was a raw blustery night as we drove through Long Island on the Grand Central Parkway. Sackler had recovered somewhat from his fiscal grief. He had arrived at the conclusion that it was a ghastly and horrible mistake, but nevertheless, a mistake. Considering Rawson’s position, his wealth, the fact that he was Karl Capek’s partner, I was reluctantly inclined to agree with him.

But I wasn’t so optimistic about my thirty-three bucks as Sackler was about his twenty-five hundred and fifty. All afternoon, I’d been racking my brains for some cinch bet which would enable me to win it back, without success. Now, as I heard Sackler humming gayly at my side in the car, I tried another tack.

“Hey,” I said, “I’ll make a deal with you.”

Sackler kept on humming.

“If Rawson makes good for you on that check, how about giving me back that dough I lost at dice?”

The melody died on his lips. “Why, Joey,” he said reproachfully, “they’re two entirely different things. Yours was a gambling debt. I couldn’t insult you by offering to return it.”

I sighed and said: “No, I hardly thought you could.”

We made the rest of the trip in silence. Some twenty miles out I turned through an elaborate pair of wrought-iron gates and drove through the heavily wooded estate of Karl Capek. The wind blew cold from the Sound and the sky was starless. It was a cold cheerless night that fitted in well with my own mood.

I brought the car to a halt underneath a high Colonial portico. A moment later Sackler pressed the doorbell. After another moment the door was opened by a liveried butler.

The first thing I heard was Wolley’s familiar voice. We found him in the living-room, a glass of brandy in his hand, a cigar in his mouth, holding forth on his police adventures to a politely bored audience. We were introduced all around and informed that Rawson hadn’t arrived yet, although he was expected soon.

Without delay we went into our usual routine. Sackler demanded he be assigned a room in which to mastermind. I whipped out my notebook and proceeded to do the rounds, picking up bits of information I thought might be useful. Since Sackler was actually starting to work before he had negotiated about the check, I became more certain that he wasn’t really worried much about it.

I snooped around the house for a good hour. I questioned Wolley, the servants and everybody else. I went out into the windy night and personally examined the caretaker’s lodge where they’d found Capek’s body.

I came back cold as hell, commandeered a pint of brandy from the butler’s pantry and went up to the second-floor study which had been assigned to Sackler. I took out my notebook and sat down.

Sackler was having one hell of a time with a humidor of cigars he had found. His pocket was stuffed and he was rolling one around lusciously in his mouth. Since they were free the taste, I presume, was much improved.

“All right,” he said. “What have we got?”

“Not Rawson,” I told him. “He phoned a little while ago. He’ll be another half-hour. Business held him up.”

“What else?”

“First, those guys downstairs. That watery-eyed young blond guy is a relative of Capek’s. Name of Crosher. Only living relative as far as anyone knows. He’s been here for a month. He’s broke and was trying to get some dough from the old guy. Came from Chi. Never seen his cousin before. In fact, he only just found out he was Capek’s cousin. He’s in direct line for the estate.”

I thought maybe I had something there. But as I glanced quickly at Sackler he seemed more interested in his cigar.

“Next, the Union League Club stuffed shirt in the wing collar is Granville S. Colby, of whom you may have heard.”

“Often,” said Sackler. “Lawyer. Old family. Blue-blood stock. Stiff-necked. Don’t like him.”

“Then there’s that guy Benjamin. He’s the skinny one with the thin face. Another lawyer. Colby’s assistant. They’ve both been here for a little over a month. Colby’s supposed to be resting. Doctor’s orders. But he was handling some legal stuff for Capek and Rawson. Was doing it out here.”

Sackler looked up. “Notice anything funny about that Benjamin?”

“Yeah. Face seems familiar. Can’t quite place it. Maybe I’ve seen him somewhere around in court. Why?”

“Keep talking,” said Sackler. “What about Capek?”

“There’s a caretaker’s lodge out there in the forest,” I told him. “They don’t use it anymore. It was all boarded up. That’s where they found Capek. A revolver was in his hand and his brains were on the floor. There was a portable typewriter there with a suicide note in it. Capek’s fingerprints were on the keys. The doc said he’s been dead three days.”

“He was missing two weeks,” said Sackler. “What was he doing the rest of the time? Contemplating suicide?”

“You think you’re kidding,” I told him, “but you’re dead on. That’s exactly what he said in the suicide note.”

For the first time, Sackler appeared interested. “What’s exactly what he said in the note?”

“I got it from Wolley. He didn’t have a copy of it with him. Gave it to me from memory. Something about being tired of life, retiring to the lodge alone to think things over. Deciding finally to die. Wolley seems to think it’s on the level. Thinks Rawson’s crazy for asking him to come out here tonight.”

“Don’t bother me with Wolley’s opinions. Anything else?”

“Well, there was the faucets.”

“The faucets? What about the faucets?”

“The ones in the lodge. They were smashed. There was a stove lid on the floor. I guess that’s what had been used. There was one faucet over the kitchen sink, another in a washroom just off the kitchen.”

Sackler frowned. “And they were smashed?”

“They’d been battered about a hell of a lot. But that might have happened a long while ago.”

Thoughtfully, he crushed his cigar out in a silver ash tray. I took a cigarette from behind my ear and lit it. A moment later Sackler sniffed and said: “That’s a fancy brand for you, isn’t it? What is it, Egyptian?”

“Right,” I told him. “And from the exalted case of Granville S. Colby.”

Sackler grunted. “Must cost a lot of dough.”

“The way he smokes them it does. He’s a chain smoker. Lights one from the butt of the last.”

Sackler stood up. “Well,” he said, “since there’s nothing more to do until Rawson gets here, I guess I’ll go downstairs and bum one from him. Come along, Joey.”

I followed him down the winding staircase. In the living-room Wolley was still holding forth to Crosher and Benjamin. They didn’t appear very interested. Colby’s eardrums must have revolted already. Sackler and I found him alone in the library on the other side of the foyer, with a half-smoked Egyptian cigarette in his hand.

Sackler, who wouldn’t hesitate to ask the President for a match, put the bite on Colby for a smoke. Colby patted his pockets, looked up and said coldly: “My cigarette case is in my overcoat pocket. It’s hanging in the hall closet.”

I took that to mean why in hell didn’t Sackler buy his own butts but that spendthrift said casually, “Don’t get up. I’ll find it,” and walked out into the hall.

I followed along aimlessly; then I turned into the living-room just in time to catch Wolley’s recital of the time he raided the murderer’s nest single-handed. Just then there came the sound of a wounded banshee and the cook ran into the living-room, her mouth wide open and her larynx vibrating like an off-key harp.

Sackler and Colby came racing into the room. We got the cook into a chair and poured a slug of brandy into her. At that she became coherent enough to shriek: “The garage! Mr. Rawson! For heaven’s sake—”

There was more to it than that but we didn’t wait to hear. I was in the lead with Sackler and Wolley on my heels. We rushed out into the bitter night, across the sweeping back lawn to the garage. The door was open and the light was turned on. There was a car inside, its headlights aglow.

At the wheel slumped Rawson. There was a gun in his hand and an ugly hole in his head. He was as dead as hope in Poland. Wolley, Sackler and I did some routine looking around and found nothing.

Behind us, young Crosher said: “My God, this is awful. There’s a murderer in this house.”

“Maybe,” said Colby’s deep bass, “it wasn’t murder.”

Wolley seized on that. “My idea, too,” he said, his voice thickened by the brandy he’d been drinking. “Rawson worshiped Capek. Brooded about his death. Killed himself.”

“The only virtue in that theory,” said Sackler, “is its convenience. Everybody commits suicide so the coppers can go home. Otherwise it stinks.”

Wolley turned on him angrily. “Maybe you got a theory, wise guy.”

“Maybe,” said Sackler. “Has anyone been outside the house tonight?”

“I have,” I reminded him.

“I don’t suspect you, Joey,” he said magnanimously. “Anyone else?”

Individually, everyone denied having left the house since dinnertime. We trooped back to the Capek mansion. Wolley went to the telephone to call headquarters. Colby used his best courtroom persuasion on the cook, assuring her it would be quite safe for her to sleep in her quarters above the garage. Sackler, registering heavy thought, retired again to the second-floor study. I trailed along behind him.

Sackler sat down at the desk and rested his head in his hands. There was utter despair on his face. It was hardly customary for Sackler to take violent death so seriously and I commented upon it.

He looked up at me. “Joey,” he said, and his voice was drenched in gloom, “don’t you see what this does to my check? It may never be good now.”

I hadn’t thought of that, but now that I did I brightened considerably. It would be an edifying spectacle to see Rex Sackler solve a case free.

He looked up again and now there was an odd light in his eyes. He slapped his fist on the desk.

“Joey,” he said, “I think I’ve got something. Go and see that Benjamin guy. Ask him what a writ of replevin is.”

That didn’t sound very sensible to me. But I went downstairs and did it. I came back and reported: “He says he’s a little rusty on it but he believes it’s something like a habeas corpus.”

“Good,” said Sackler. “I thought so.”

I needled him by deliberately misunderstanding. “You mean you think it’s like habeas corpus, too?”

“No, you idiot. I mean that guy’s not a law clerk at all. He’s Benny Bagel. I’ve been trying to place him all night. But now I’m certain.”

“Bagel?” I said. “Benny Bagel? Sounds vaguely familiar, but it still doesn’t click.”

“Forger,” said Sackler, and there was a little tremor of excitement in his tone. “Indicted twice. Never convicted. I’ve seen his picture in the tabloids. Considered the best guy in the field.”

“What’s he doing here as Colby’s law clerk?”

“It’ll take me all night to figure that,” said Sackler. “But at last I’m beginning to see the light. Hey, get me the phone number of that bank Rawson’s check was drawn on. I want to call them early in the morning. Tell Wolley he better stay over tonight, too. Then get the hell out of my sight and let me think.”

I let him think for the rest of the night. In the morning, Wolley, sticking stubbornly to his double suicide theory, was anxious to get back to town. Sackler insisted he stay. I saw little of either Sackler or Colby before lunch. When neither of them appeared then I went up to the study to find Sackler still sitting at the desk.

“Well,” I said, “what have you got?”

He drew a deep breath. “Plenty,” he said. “Do you realize, Joey, that Capek never made a will, never owned a driving license, that Rawson held his complete power-of-attorney in every deal?”

“So,” I said, “what? Maybe Rawson killed him, then got the horrors about it and killed himself.”

Sackler snorted. “That sounds like a Wolley theory,” he said. “You get to the phone, Joey. Call Postal Union. Tell them to send me their most trusted messenger. And tell him to hurry. Then tell Wolley I’ll be right down to solve his case for him.”

“Free?” I asked maliciously. But to my surprise even the mention of his lost dough didn’t get a rise out of him. He smiled benignly.

“By the way,” I said as I went to the door, “where’s Colby? I thought he was with you.”

“Somewhere around,” said Sackler vaguely. “Hurry with that messenger, will you?”

Chapter Three Madman’s Millions

It was two thirty in the afternoon and Wolley was getting impatient. He paced the broad living-room floor, scowling at Sackler, who sat at his ease before the fire and smoked a cigar he’d cadged from Crosher. Crosher stood by the window twining his fingers about each other like nervous snakes.

Benny Bagel, the forger law clerk, avidly conned a stack of old-fashioned stereopticon views. At last Wolley stopped his pacing. He came to a guardsman’s halt in front of Sackler and spoke his vehement piece.

“Damn it, Sackler. Last night you said you’d have something this morning. This morning’s gone. So’s half the afternoon. Capek was a suicide. Quite obviously he was something of a wack and he killed himself. Can you improve on that theory?”

“Infinitely,” said Sackler.

“Well, go ahead.”

“I’m waiting for my messenger boy,” said Sackler. “I can’t do a thing until he arrives.”

“My God,” said Wolley, “what the hell can a messenger boy have to do with the death of Karl Capek?”

“Nothing,” said Sackler. “But he may have a great deal to do with the solution.”

The doorbell jangled then. Benny turned to answer it but Sackler stayed him with a gesture. He strode out into the foyer and admitted a Postal Union boy. He spoke to him earnestly for a moment and in a tone so low I couldn’t hear him.

I admit I tried.

There was an expression of relief on his face when he returned to the living-room. He drew a Windsor chair up to a table and sat facing us all.

“Now,” he said with a businesslike air, “how do you figure this Capek case, Wolley?”

Wolley glared at him. If he’d told him how he figured the Capek case once, he’d told him a dozen times. Now he lifted his voice and told it again — loud.

“Capek was an eccentric. A nut, as I figure it. His typewritten note gave that away. He went out to that unused lodge to think things over. After a few days of brooding, he killed himself. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Sackler. “And what about Rawson?”

“Rawson was devoted to the old guy. Capek gave him everything he had. He was so broken up at Capek’s death that he killed himself, too.”

“That,” remarked Sackler to me, “is typical modern police work. When you can’t solve a killing you call it suicide in a loud authoritative voice, then go back to a nice warm station-house and finish reading the comic papers.”

There was confidence in his manner. As a matter of fact he seemed so assured I began to think he’d cooked up some way to save his twenty-five hundred dollars.

“All right,” said Wolley, annoyed. “I’ve told you. Now you tell me. What did happen to Capek?”

“What was the first official police theory?” asked Sackler. “Two weeks ago when Capek was first reported missing?”

“Kidnaping. But we exploded that.”

“Ah,” said Sackler gently, “did you? This may be incredible to you, Inspector, but you were right the first time.”

“Hooey,” said Wolley. “Who the hell would kidnap a guy and hold him prisoner on his own estate?”

“A very bright guy indeed,” said Sackler. “The coppers never looked for him there, did they?”

“There were no ransom notes, were there? What the hell sort of a kidnaping would it be without any ransom notes?”

“An extremely unusual one,” said Sackler.

I watched Sackler closely. This talking in circles wasn’t like him at all. When he had a case broken he usually threw it in everyone’s face abruptly and without waste of words. But now his eyes kept straying to the big clock on the mantelpiece and his manner was that of a man who is just trying to use up time.

I looked around the room. Our old pal Benny now stood a graven image by the fireplace. Crosher had turned his back to the window and stared at Sackler. I reflected that had I killed Capek and Rawson, I would have made a point of appearing less apprehensive than Crosher.

Wolley’s face was ruddier than usual. Sackler invariably irritated him and today’s circumlocution was angering him even more than was customary.

“Sackler,” he said, “will you stop horsing around? If you’ve any evidence, present it.”

“All right,” said Sackler. “Let’s begin with the kidnaping premise. There’s a guy, a certain guy who knows Capek. He’s in a jam — a financial jam. He needs dough badly. So he takes Capek down to that boarded-up lodge and demands a juicy check. Capek won’t give it to him. So he kills him.”

That was too much even for me. Wolley was just two points this side of apoplexy.

“That’s the screwiest thing I ever heard,” he yelled. “What good is Capek to him dead if he needs dough?”

“None whatever,” said Sackler, “but the killer didn’t know that at the time.” He paused for a long moment; then he glanced over at the fireplace and added: “Did he, Benny?”

Benny Bagel almost fell over the fire tools. His face was suddenly pale. His eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped so quickly I expected it to bounce off his chest. Wolley noted his expression and some of his doubt left him.

“What’s he got to do with it?”

Sackler turned to Crosher, who viewed the proceedings blankly.

“You see,” he said, “there’s your police department for you. Benny’s a forger. He’s served two raps and is considered by his pals the top man in the business. Right, Benny?”

Benny had recovered somewhat by now. “I’m afraid you’re making a mistake,” he said politely. “I’ve been in law or law school all my life. You’re confusing me with some criminal.”

“Of course,” said Wolley hopefully. “Of course.”

“Sure,” said Sackler. “Did you see him register when I threw it in his face? He’s Benny Bagel. You’ve got his fingerprints downtown, Wolley. You’ve got his Bertillons and everything else. In a very short while you’re going to have him in person.”

Wolley looked from Benny, who appeared very uncomfortable, to Sackler, who didn’t.

“What’s it all about?” he asked. “Are you saying this guy killed him?”

“Accessory,” said Sackler. “After and during the fact of murder.”

“Well, for the love of God,” roared Wolley, “who did the actual killing?”

Sackler looked at the clock again before answering. It was two minutes to three.

“First,” said Sackler, “let me tell you why and how.”

“For heaven’s sake,” snapped Wolley, “tell me something.”

“This certain guy I mentioned a little while ago — let’s call him Smith. Well, he was in trouble. So he took Capek out to that caretaker’s lodge and proceeded to put the bite on him. He demanded that Capek write a letter asking for a hell of a lot of ransom. A note which would be delivered to Rawson, who, being quite fond of the old guy, would undoubtedly pay. Colby was named as the intermediary.”

“Colby,” said Wolley suddenly. “Where the devil is he?”

“Don’t bother about him,” said Sackler. “We don’t need him until later.”

Benny Bagel screwed up his brow and shot a puzzled glance at Sackler. Wolley banged the table impatiently with his fist and said: “All right. Get on with it.”

“Well,” went on Sackler, “Capek wouldn’t sign. This guy Smith got pretty sore about it. He knew Capek was a pretty stubborn guy. Torture, ordinary physical torture, was rather out of this Smith’s line. So he hit on what he thought was a brilliant idea. He thought of a torture which was bloodless, horrible and very effective.”

By this time Sackler had me as bewildered as anyone in the room. Usually, I could follow his reasoning at least halfway. But for a guy who apparently had nothing to work on he was delivering one hell of a lot of detail.

“So,” said Wolley, “what was this unusual torture?”

“Water,” said Sackler, “or rather, lack of it.”

Benny Bagel uttered a little sigh and sat down. I said: “Now how can you figure a thing like that?”

“It’s not too hard, Joey. First those smashed faucets. If they’d been smashed in rage or blind fury, it’s quite probable that something else, the furniture, the light bulbs, would also have been wrecked. But it was only the water faucets. Smashed by a man who is dying of thirst, who turns on the tap to get nothing but emptiness for perhaps the hundredth time. Then he did go nuts. He took the stove lid and crashed it down on the taps.”

I thought that over and conceded to myself there might be something in it. Wolley scratched his graying head in silence. Crosher opened his mouth for the first time.

“It’s impossible,” he said. “What about the medical examiner? He would have noticed dehydration. If Cousin Karl had been on the verge of death from thirst, the medical examiner couldn’t have failed to notice it.”

“Right,” said Wolley emphatically. “Absolutely right. You’re screwy, Rex.”

“You all forget,” said Sackler, “that Capek was in that lodge for fourteen days. He had been dead three when he was found. Suppose he’d been deprived of water for a week. That’s enough to drive a man mad. But after he was mad there was no point in dealing with him. This Smith decided to kill him then. But he waited some four days before he did so. During those four days he gave Capek water and food. He did that so that the medical examiner wouldn’t know just what had happened.”

“If this Smith guy was so smart,” I said, “couldn’t he figure Capek might go nuts from lack of water?”

Sackler shook his head. “No. He thought Capek would give in to his demands before then. Besides, when Capek proved adamant, Smith got himself another idea. He figured out how to get the money even after Capek was dead.”

Wolley shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Rex,” he said, “it won’t do. First, Capek had one hell of a lot of money. It seems reasonable to me that he’d be quite willing to surrender any amount of it to save his life, particularly if he was going mad for water.”

“Besides,” said Crosher, “how could he obtain a signed ransom note if Cousin Karl was dead?”

“I’ll answer the second question first,” said Sackler. “That’s where Benny Bagel came in. Faced with Capek’s point-blank refusal, our friend Smith cooked up a second idea. He decided, since Capek was going nuts, he’d have to kill him anyway. So he brought in Benny here.”

“Why?” said Wolley.

“My God,” said Sackler wearily, “are you that stupid? I told you Benny is a forger. The best in the business. Benny was going to sign Capek’s name to the note.”

“All right, then,” snapped Wolley. “So why didn’t he?”

“Because,” said Sackler slowly, “they couldn’t find anything to copy.”

“Couldn’t find what to copy?” shouted Wolley impatiently. “Rex, what the devil are you talking about?”

“To forge a signature, you must have an original to copy from. It’s a prime rule of the profession, isn’t it, Benny?”

“Listen,” said Benny Bagel in a low hoarse voice, “I want to see a lawyer. Where’s Colby?”

“Well, why couldn’t they find a signature of Capek’s to copy from? There must be plenty of them around the house somewhere,” Wolley stated.

“That,” said Sackler, “is where you’re wrong. There’s not a single signature of Karl Capek in existence.”

Wolley and Crosher gaped at him. But at this point something lit up in my brain.

“You mean he couldn’t write?”

“I’m glad someone got it at last,” said Sackler. “Capek couldn’t write. He was a proud man, a strong character and a man whose success had made him ashamed of his lack of education. Capek couldn’t write and there was only one person in all the world who shared his secret. That was Rawson.”

Wolley was half convinced. His brow was corrugated, his eyes shaded with deep thought. “How can you arrive at that conclusion, Rex?”

“Consider the circumstances. Capek never held a driver’s license. He never made a will. All his business, even his income-tax returns, was handled through Rawson’s power-of-attorney. In Capek’s desk I found a hundred documents, all in the same handwriting. That handwriting was Rawson’s. Consider again. Capek had no friends, no acquaintances, save Rawson. We know he came here from Middle Europe as a lad of seven. We know he never went to school. We know, further, that he was generous with his money. He’d made munificent endowments and donations, yet he wouldn’t spend any of it to save his life.”

“You mean,” I said, “that he died rather than admit he couldn’t write?”

“That’s my theory,” said Sackler. “Of all the statements I’m making this afternoon, that one will always have to remain a theory. But nothing else fits. It’s quite logical. It was Capek’s secret. No one knew it. He intended no one ever should. He wouldn’t admit it to Smith until thirst had driven him mad, probably too mad to know what the hell was going on. So Smith called in his forger and killed him.”

“Then,” I said, “he killed his own scheme because he couldn’t find any signature of Capek’s to copy.”

“True,” said Sackler, “but he did salvage a little from the wreck, didn’t he, Benny?”

Benny stared at Sackler in horror but he didn’t answer.

“Seeing all was lost,” continued Sackler, “our pal Smith embarked on a new plan. After Capek’s body and phony suicide note which Smith had typed with the dead man’s fingers, Smith was told by Rawson that Capek couldn’t write. Told today, in fact. That fact, once known, was dangerous. So Smith planned to murder Rawson, too. The afternoon before he killed him, he had Benny here forge his name to a check for a hundred thousand dollars. That cleaned out Rawson’s bank account.”

I might have known that Sackler would find out why he hadn’t got his twenty-five hundred and fifty bucks. Undoubtedly, he’d checked on that before anything else.

“Wait a minute,” croaked Benny Bagel, “you can’t prove that.”

Sackler smiled at him benignly. “The hell I can’t,” he said. “I called the bank. The last check that was presented was for something in excess of a hundred grand. That check is down at Wolley’s fingerprint bureau right now.”

“So what?” said Benny. “There’ll be a dozen sets of prints on it by now.”

“True,” said Sackler. “One of those sets will be yours, and what is equally important, none of them will be Rawson’s. Even you can’t forge a check with gloves on, Benny. And it’ll be conclusive proof of forgery if Rawson — the supposed maker of the check — hasn’t left his own fingerprint on it.”

“Well,” said Wolley grudgingly, “at last we’ve got some evidence instead of theory.”

Crosher coughed nervously. “Who is this Smith?” he said suddenly. “Why have you deliberately concealed the name of the killer? Who is it?”

Wolley spun around on his heel. He had been so engaged in trying to figure how Sackler could be wrong, he’d completely overlooked the minor fact of the killer’s identity.

“Of course,” he snapped. “Who did it? Who’s the mastermind? Who was working with Benny, here?”

Sackler suddenly looked acutely uncomfortable. He stared at the clock. I followed his gaze and noted it was exactly twelve minutes past three.

“Well,” said Wolley again. “Who is it? Is this whole thing a fairy story or do you know who it was?”

Sackler appeared more upset than he had a moment ago. In inverse ratio, Benny seemed to perk up a bit.

“Well,” said Sackler with obvious reluctance, “maybe it was Crosher, here. It’s quite possible that—”

Crosher’s mouth twisted suddenly. His eyes shone like pale blue ice. He took a step forward toward Sackler and his voice trembled as he spoke.

“Damn you!” he screamed. “Are you accusing me of killing my own flesh and blood? Are you saying that—”

“Pay no attention to him,” said Benny, and there was relief in his tone. “He knows nothing. It’s all wild guesswork. He can’t check anything he says. He—”

The doorbell sounded imperiously. Sackler took a deep breath. He lifted his head to heaven and said fervently: “Thank God! Joey, open the door!”

Chapter Four Blood from a Turnip

I went out, opened the door and returned with the Postal Union boy Sackler had sent out three-quarters of an hour before. I led him into the living-room. He stood before Sackler, thrust his hand into his hip pocket and pulled out a thick roll of bills.

The boy began to count aloud. I was seized with a sudden cold suspicion that Sackler had somehow contrived to get his twenty-five hundred bucks after all. I remembered, abruptly and without satisfaction, that I still hadn’t retrieved my thirty-three.

Wolley gaped at the mounting money on the desk. Envy, frank and hostile, was in his gaze.

“Great God,” he said, “is this a murder case or a private business deal?”

Sackler didn’t answer him. He was gazing at the stack of bills with an ethereal light in his eyes. The Postal Union lad laid a final fifty on top of the pile, announced: “Twenty-five hundred and fifty. That’s right, isn’t it?”

That, as I knew too well, was absolutely right. To the penny. Sackler took a worn leather change purse from his pocket and handed the boy a dime. He was impervious to the look of scorn he received in exchange. The messenger left the room and Sackler stood up, stowing the bills away in his pocket like a hophead who has just come upon a mountain of cocaine.

He walked into the foyer and called back over his shoulder: “Hey, Joey.”

I went along, not having the slightest idea what he wanted. I could almost feel Wolley’s outraged glare on my back.

“Joey,” said Sackler in a whisper, “within the next three minutes sneak out of the room on some pretext. Go upstairs to the attic. The third door on the right at the head of the stairway. There’s a transom there. Half open. Throw this over it into the room.”

He handed me a sealed envelope. There was something small, hard and heavy inside it. I put it in my pocket without asking questions. By the time I returned to the living-room, I began to have vague visions of getting back my thirty-three bucks.

“Do you mind telling me,” said Wolley, restraining his wrath with a noticeable effort, “what the hell is going on here? Damn it, Rex, in the name of the law, I demand to know who your murderer is. You’re obstructing justice.”

Sackler nodded frantically to me. I murmured something about going to the bathroom and slid out of the room. I raced upstairs to the attic. I stood for a moment before the door Sackler had designated, listening. Then I tossed the envelope over the transom. I heard the metallic click as it hit the floor within; then I heard a sigh and a shuffling footstep. I scooted back down the stairs.

When I got back to the living-room, Wolley was pounding the table savagely. His voice roared against the tapestried walls and reverberated back again. He threatened Sackler with decades of imprisonment for obstructing justice. He accused him of being an accessory after the fact of murder for withholding evidence. Sackler sat there in uncomfortable silence till he saw me. Then he brightened.

“All right, Joey?” he shouted above the noise of Wolley’s voice.

I nodded my head. “Shut up, Inspector,” said Sackler. “I’ll give you your killer.”

Wolley shut up for a moment, breathless. He inhaled quickly and said: “Who is it?”

“Colby,” said Sackler. “Granville S. Colby. Embezzler of his clients’ trust funds. Murderer. Kidnaper and a consorter with a forger. There’s your man.”

“Colby!” yelled Wolley. “Where is he? He was here this morning. Search the house. My God, perhaps he got away. Perhaps he—”

The shot sounded through the house like a fragment of thunder. Benny sat up in his chair. Wolley froze where he stood and Crosher looked more afraid than ever. Sackler stood up. He pointed at the clock.

“The time,” he yelled. “Note the time. I want witnesses. It’s exactly three twenty-eight. Look!”

We all looked at the clock.

“Come on,” yelled Wolley. “Let’s investigate that shot. It was upstairs.”

I caught Sackler’s eye. “It seemed to me to come from the attic,” I said.

Wolley grabbed Benny before he raced up the stairs. He was taking no chances on losing one of his prisoners. The rest of us followed him to the attic.

There was a smell of cordite coming over the transom through which I had thrown Sackler’s envelope. Wolley tried the door. It had a mortised lock which had been secured. He handed Benny over to me, and smashed his broad shoulder against the door. At the second thrust, the lock gave.

The five of us catapulted into the room. “My God,” said Wolley. “I bet you were right, Rex. Look at that!”

I didn’t have to look. I knew quite well what was there on the floor. It was Colby. Colby with a revolver in his hand, a bullet in his brain. A trickle of blood stained the dusty boards at our feet. Crumpled and lying across the room was the envelope I had brought upstairs a moment before.

Wolley looked at the body closely, then turned around and examined the door.

“Say,” he said. “There’s no key here. If he locked himself in here where’s the key? Say, don’t tell me this isn’t a suicide either.”

Rex Sackler heaved a profound sigh.

“This one’s a suicide,” he said. “I personally guarantee it.”

Wolley went pounding down the stairs again to the telephone. Crosher, Sackler and I followed leisurely. I was holding on to Benny’s arm and I could feel him trembling. We arrived on the ground floor as Wolley completed his call to headquarters.

“Rex,” he said, “there’s still some things I don’t understand. First about Rawson. Are you sure Colby killed him, too?”

“That’s the first thing I was sure of,” said Sackler. “That’s what started my whole train of thought. Once I decided Colby had killed Rawson, it was easy to figure the rest.”

“But how, Rex? How?”

Wolley was almost respectful now.

“Colby was a chain smoker. Do you remember? He’d light one butt from the end of the other. Last night when I asked him for a cigarette he patted his coat pockets and told me his case was in his overcoat. It was. I got it out myself.”

“So?”

“Yet Colby swore he wasn’t out of the house last night. A chain smoker like that doesn’t keep butts in his overcoat so he’s got to go out to the hall closet every time he wants a smoke. But if he went outside, he would put them in his overcoat. That’s just what Colby did. He undoubtedly lit a cigarette after he killed Rawson and he hadn’t finished smoking it when I borrowed one from him.”

“Borrowed,” I said. “Very funny.”

But Sackler was so pleased with himself he didn’t even glare at me. However, I didn’t much care. Sackler’s play was over. I still had a little something up my sleeve.

“Well,” asked Wolley, “why the hell didn’t he get Benny out of here when the job was done?”

“He didn’t know Rawson had called me in. He didn’t expect the police to question the suicide theory. But the servants may have mentioned Benny and it’d look funny if he wasn’t on the spot, since he’d been staying here for three weeks as Colby’s clerk. You see how simple they made it? Living here in Capek’s house, holding him a prisoner on his own estate, who’d ever suspect them?”

“And the dough?” said Wolley. “What about the dough that boy brought you?”

“Oh, that,” said Sackler, as if he’d never given it a second thought. “Just a little personal matter.”

I drove the coupe for a good five miles before I opened up. Then I said, very casually: “It’d be a good idea if you got rid of that key before we got back to town. Wolley might start thinking and figure out the whole deal.”

Sackler raised his eyebrows. “Deal?” he said. “Key?”

“Key,” I said. “Deal. Maybe I’m not quite as dumb as you think I am.”

He looked at me for a long time. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out a key. He said: “I imagine it’s safe to throw this out the window here.”

I said that I guessed it was. He flung it into the ditch.

I drove another five miles. Then I said: “There’s a couple of minor items I’d like to discuss with you.”

He nodded a trifle grimly. “I was afraid of that, Joey.”

“First,” I said, “I’d like a bonus.”

“A bonus, Joey? How much?”

“Thirty-three bucks,” I told him. “Cash money.”

For once he was very quiet at the mention of money. Finally he said, in the tone of a man suffering great physical pain: “I think that can be arranged, Joey.”

“Good,” I said. “Then there’s the matter of a ten-dollar-a-week raise.”

Now he looked like a man with the black cholera. “Joey,” he exclaimed. “That’s over five hundred a year. That’s a lot of money, my boy.”

“It’s only one-fifth of twenty-five hundred,” I told him.

There was another long silence. Then, “Suppose, Joey, I didn’t see my way clear to letting you have it?”

I made a clucking sound with my tongue and shook my head sadly.

“It’s my conscience,” I told him. “My damnable conscience. It’s driving me to perform my civic duty. To tell Headquarters how you told Colby what you’d figured before you told Wolley. How you explained to Colby how you’d figured he must be in a bad financial jam in order to have murdered Capek. How you pointed out that his peculations were bound to come out when you had him pinched for murder.”

“Yes, Joey,” said Sackler weakly. “Anything else?”

“Why, yes,” I said. “It occurs to me that you offered him an easy out. Instead of being pilloried in the press, instead of bearing the sneers of his upper-crust friends, you offered to let him commit suicide. For a consideration.”

“A consideration, Joey?”

“Twenty-five hundred and fifty dollars,” I said. “Of course, you couldn’t let him kill himself before the check was cashed. It wouldn’t have been legal. That’s why you called our attention to the time when we heard the shot that killed Colby. Your check was in the bank by then.”

I looked at him and observed with vast satisfaction that for the first time in our joint careers I had him on the run.

“To ensure his not dying before you cashed the check you locked him in the attic and gave him a gun with no ammunition. Moreover, you referred to him as Smith so that Wolley wouldn’t arrest Colby, at once, thus wrecking your deal. Then when you had the dough in your pocket you sent me up with a bullet, all as per private and strictly extralegal agreement with Colby.”

“Joey,” he said, “you figured all that out yourself?”

“I did, indeed,” I said. “And my reward will be five hundred and twenty dollars spread over the coming year, plus thirty-three bucks in cash — now.”

He sighed heavily. He thrust his hand into his pocket and took out some bills. He handed them over to me, then delivered a speech which, coming from Rex Sackler, has always seemed a classic to me.

“Joey,” he said reproachfully, “sometimes I think there is nothing you wouldn’t do for money.”