The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction

THE BLUE STEEL SQUIRREL Frank R. Read

In a silver flood of moonlight, a group of people laughed and talked together on a terrace in a high-walled garden. The occasion was a happy one – a betrothal party. The soft June air, still fresh from a sundown shower, was heavy with the scent of roses. A mockingbird, perched high atop a chimney, trilled a liquid melody.

The bride-to-be, radiant with happiness, sat in a cane garden chair, watching the familiar scene. Her eyes lingered over each precious beauty, the playing fountain, the full moon. They rested on the face of the man she loved, Michael Collins.

Mike, toying with the dials of a portable radio, paused as the familiar hum of a station fried in the loud-speaker. He smiled at his fiancée, and absent-mindedly turned up the volume.

A mighty roar rolled over the terrace as a brassy swing band crashed into a hot tune. Guests and host, jolted by the discordant notes, stiffened and glared at the young man. Mike mumbled apologies, and snapped off the radio.

The guests sank back in their chairs with a sigh of relief, all but the bride-to-be. She stiffened, slumped forward in her chair, and tumbled forward to the flagstone flooring.

A silver bullet had pierced her heart.

There had been no sound, no outcry, no flash of gunfire. Stupidly, the members of the party looked from one to the other. The spell of inactivity was broken only when one of the woman screamed.

A year later, there was a bulging file at police headquarters, titled:

The long, sun-bronzed young man, wearing an impeccable dark-blue tropical worsted suit, leaned back in his swivel chair and studied his name lettered in reverse on the ground-glass door of his office – Jefferson Hunter. Just that, nothing more.

There is no trade term, unless, perhaps, “Confidential Commercial Agent”, that could be applied to him. That, too, would be a misnomer, for Jefferson Hunter, home again after solving a foreign reconstruction problem, looked into anything that intrigued him, with or without permission. The fees he demanded and received from corporations were known to have made boards of directors shudder. Yet his services were in immediate demand as soon as he reopened his office.

“Anything exciting in the morning mail, Smitty?” he asked Z. Z. Smith, his small, wiry assistant.

“Yes.” Smitty slid a small pile of letters across his boss’s desk. “The top note has me stumped.”

Jeff’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting?”

“Could be. It’s from a guy named Bogart.”

“What?” Jeff sat up. “What did you say?”

“I said it’s from a guy named Bogart. Wendell A. Best clubs and so on. Director of this and that. Smells of do-re-mi. He wants you to come to see him about something personal and confidential. He says Wagner, the man you helped on the oil deal in Iran, recommended you.”

Jeff leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes hardening. “It’s foolish,” he told himself, “to keep avoiding Pamela Bogart.” Sooner or later, he was bound to meet her. Why postpone the inevitable?

“OK, Smitty, make an appointment.”

“I have. Bogart is waiting for us at his home.”

“Um-m-m! Didn’t give me a chance to refuse, did you?”

Smitty, like all valuable assistants, knew his boss like a book. He anticipated his wishes, needled him into action, and restrained his enthusiasms. Smitty, in short, was invaluable.

The sleek yellow convertible, carrying Jeff and his Man Friday, purred into the Valley, the town’s exclusive suburb.

“There’s the house, Jeff!” Smitty pointed. “Nice dive! There’s a ten-foot brick wall around the back garden. Cripes, the house is built of white marble.”

“I hate to disillusion you, Smitty,” Jeff said, as they stopped under an ornate porte-cochere, “but this pile has only a one-inch marble face, probably over cinder block or tile. It’s typical of the late twenties. Built for show. Two bits says Bogart’s a pain in the neck.”

“No takers, Jeff. You’re too often right.”

Wendell Bogart did not look up when the butler showed them into the library. He was examining six gayly feathered darts spread out on the desk before him. He gathered them into his hands, turned in his chair and smiled at the thin, bespectacled young man standing beside him. Effortlessly, one of the darts flew from his hand and thudded into a target across the room. The other five followed in rapid succession.

Jeff’s eyes widened when the darts came to rest. One, double one, triple one. Two, double two, triple two.

“I wouldn’t want to play you for more than a beer,” Jeff said.

Wendell Bogart didn’t answer. The studious-looking young man beside him smiled, nodded to Jeff and left the room. Bogart spun in his chair, raising his dark-brown eyes to meet Jeff’s level gray ones. For a moment, neither spoke, each studying, measuring the other. It was the older man who broke the silence.

“My only niece, Pamela Bogart, must not die.”

The words, spoken flatly and matter-of-factly, startled the visitors.

Jeff looked narrowly at the man. “Why? What’s the story?”

“Story?” Bogart rose to his feet, shook his shaggy white head and glared at Jeff. “Surely, you must have heard of the tragic death, last June, of Pamela’s sister, Corinne?”

“No, I didn’t. I was in China at the time. I’ve been home less than a week. What happened to Corinne?”

“Corinne was shot through the heart.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Bogart” – Jeff rose to his feet – “this is out of my line. If Miss Bogart were being held for ransom by Mexican bandits, or Argentine insurrectionists, I might be able to do something. Murder, per se, is police business and I leave it to them. Come along, Smitty.”

“Wait!” Bogart slapped the desk top. “Wait until you hear what I have to say.”

“There is nothing—”

“Corinne was shot with a silver bullet, in the close company of seven friends and relatives. The case has never been solved. The only clue is the bullet that killed her.”

Jefferson Hunter sat down again. He nodded to Smitty, who flipped open his notebook on the corner of the desk.

“Mr Bogart,” Jeff spoke slowly, “why are you apprehensive about Pamela? Skip the details about Corinne.”

Bogart sank back in his chair and looked questioningly at the younger man. He opened a mahogany humidor, extracted a cigar and jammed it into his mouth. He glanced annoyedly at Smitty and dropped the cigar back in the humidor. Reaching into the ash tray, he picked up a large butt and clamped it between his teeth.

Jeff rose, flipped his lighter and held its flame to the end of the cigar.

“Pamela” – Bogart drew contentedly – “is about to announce her engagement. It is customary in our family for the oldest member to give the dinner at which an engagement is to be announced. It doesn’t mean much any more. The family is reduced to Pam and me. However, she has set her heart on following the tradition.”

“Why shouldn’t she?”

“Because, at a similar dinner I gave for Corinne and Professor Collins last year, Corinne died. I don’t want to risk a repetition of that. Incidentally, that was Professor Michael Collins, the seismologist, who just left.”

“Why should there be a repetition?”

“No reason at all, except that Corinne’s death has never been cleared up.”

“What do you expect me to do? Clear it up?”

“No. I just want you to see that murder doesn’t happen again. Pam is obstinate and insists that I have the dinner. She is very headstrong, very willful. Er . . . I believe, Hunter, that you are acquainted with Pam?”

“I— Yes, I’ve met her. When do you plan to have the dinner, Mr Bogart?”

“Tonight”

“That doesn’t give me much time to take precautionary steps.”

Jeff stooped over and picked up the slip of paper that had fluttered to the floor from Smitty’s notebook. He glanced at the hurriedly scrawled message advising him not to get involved, and handed the sheet back to his assistant.

“Mr Bogart” – Jeff smiled at the older man – “I’m afraid I can’t handle this. It’s entirely out of my line. I suggest the police. I’m sure—”

“Humph! Pamela said you wouldn’t be interested unless there was a whopping big fee in it.”

“Did she say that?” Jeff’s cheeks burned.

“Yes.”

“Then count me in. I’ll be here for dinner tonight.” He rose to his feet.

“Eh? Here for dinner! That will never do, young man. The guests are all my friends. I . . . er . . . couldn’t ask them to mingle socially with an . . . er – employee!”

Chairs scraped backward. Smitty snapped shut his notebook and collided with Jeff in the library doorway.

“Wait! Just a minute!” Wendell Bogart’s voice sounded behind them.

The big house rumbled from the slamming of the heavy front door.

“Why did you lay yourself open, Jeff? I told you to turn it down cold.”

“Shut up!” Jeff snapped, and concentrated on his driving.

Smitty was not so easily squelched. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Jeff’s flaming cheeks and clamped jaw. Smitty grinned and cleared his throat.

“I say, Jeff,” he drawled, “I . . . er . . . can’t have my employer driving me around like this. It just isn’t being done, old man. Suppose some of the boys down at the local saw me. I’d lose face—”

Jeff Hunter’s big foot stamped down on the brake. The sudden stop lifted the light Smitty from his seat. Jeff snapped open the door and rolled the astonished little man into the bushes by the roadside. He slammed the door, dropped the car in gear and headed for town.

A mile farther on, his irritation evaporated, and remorse set in. He grinned, swung the car in a sharp U-turn, and headed back to the spot where he had left Smitty. His assistant was nowhere to be seen.

A worried frown furrowed his forehead. He U-turned again, drove back into town, and parked in the restricted space before police headquarters. Running lightly up the steps, he whirled through the revolving doors and barged into the office of the chief of detectives.

Chief William Gaines was lifting the telephone to put through a call. He recradled the instrument and smiled at the intruder.

“Bill” – Jeff shook his friend’s hand – “I hate to remind pals of past favors, but—”

“OK, Jeff.” The chief grinned wryly. “I expected it when you tipped me off on those missing bonds. What do you want? You’re not usually bashful.”

“What’s the story on the Corinne Bogart killing? I wasn’t around when it happened. I know Pamela, and I’ve just met her uncle, Wendell—”

The chief grimaced in distaste. “The boss has an exaggerated view of his importance in the scheme of things. Did he tell you to use the tradesmen’s entrance?”

“Not this time, but he left no doubt that we were to use it if we called again.” Briefly, Jeff outlined the events of the morning.

“Off the record,” the chief said, “it would be a blessing to the community if Pamela were bumped. She is one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen, but strictly N.G.”

“Didn’t I say I knew her?” Jeff reminded him. “The old man said the police had no idea who had killed Corinne. Is it the other way around? Are there so many suspects—”

“Oh, no. It’s not like that at all. Corinne really was different. She wasn’t a bit like Pamela. The old man was telling the truth there. She was one swell person, so far as we’ve discovered.”

“Then what happened to her?”

“She died at her own engagement party. Her coming marriage to Professor Collins was announced at dinner. The party then retired to the back terrace, just off the living room, for highballs. They were talking idly. Mike, probably dreaming of earthquakes, was twisting the dials of a portable radio. Accidentally, he shot up the volume and a swing band blared out. Everybody sort of jumped at the sudden noise.”

“Then?”

“They sank back in their chairs, everyone but Corinne. She pitched forward to the terrace floor, shot through the heart by a silver bullet. The gun was never found, nor was a motive discovered. That is the official story.”

“Humph!” Jeff leaned back in his chair. “I can imagine how the newspapers kicked that one around. ‘What are the police doing? Is Corinne Bogart a vampire?’ I can just see the headlines. I bet they gave the silver bullet a big play.”

“That’s right. It was pretty grim. None of the papers went so far as to mention the word ‘vampire’, but it was broadly hinted. Remember that Bogart, though he is out of step with the times, is still a very influential person. Very influential! We put the best detectives in the country on the case. The investigation was a blank.”

“Now” – Jeff grinned – “give me the low-down. Was the shot fired when the volume rose? How close was the killer? Who had the opportunity? Who gains?”

“Whoa, Jeff! Whoa!” Chief Gaines held up his hand “We don’t know definitely when the shot was fired. We don’t know how close the killer was. As for opportunity, anyone there could have done it. It could even have been suicide, if the gun was taken from her hand before she fell. It’s possible, but highly improbable. As for who gains, her money was divided equally between Pamela and her uncle.”

“Something’s rotten.” Jeff glared at the chief.

“All right, Jeff, ask questions. I’ll answer those I can.”

“Why wasn’t the shot heard?”

“Because it was fired from one of those clever, powerful little air pistols. A scrape of a chair, anything, would have covered the small pop the gun made. The radio could have done it.”

“You sure it was an air pistol?”

“No question about it. We learned that from the bullet. The mark of the lands, absence of powder, smallness of caliber – All those things confirmed beyond doubt that it was fired from an air pistol.”

“What about the bullet itself, Chief?”

“Ah-h-h! The bullet was a long, pointed silver one, handmade.”

“Why handmade? Why silver?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Probably a bit of sand-in-the-eye technique on the part of the murderer. So far as we know, the supernatural didn’t enter into the case, except to cloud the main issues and cause us to waste a lot of time. We searched everywhere for that gun. We fine-combed the house and grounds. We tried to trace it through dealers.”

“Could an outsider have killed her?”

“No. There’s a ten-foot wall around the back garden. There had been a shower at sunset and there were no footprints inside or outside the wall. The servants are in the clear, too. They were all in the kitchen together. Besides having alibis, they lack motive.”

“Who served the drinks?” Jeff demanded.

“Don’t think we overlooked that bet. We’re not exactly dumb.” The chief grinned. “The first round was served by the butler as soon as the party went out to the terrace. Wendell Bogart served the second, mixing them at a portable bar in the living room. The third round had not been served. Pamela was standing in the doorway with the tray in her hands when her sister slumped forward. Everyone else was on the terrace within ten feet of her.”

“Could” – Jeff fixed his eyes on the chief – “could Pamela have fired that shot before she stepped into the doorway with the tray of drinks?”

“Now, Jeff, you’re getting on dangerous ground. I’m going to tell you one more thing, then this conference ends. And, for cripes sake, keep it under your hat!”

“I promise. Shoot!”

“Pamela could have fired the gun if her sister happened to turn toward the room where she was, and if she was shot at least five seconds before she pitched forward. If Pamela wasn’t a Bogart, we’d have dragged her in and questioned her until we were satisfied she hadn’t done it. The consensus of the experts is that there is not enough evidence to warrant indicting her, much less making her stand trial. Now, beat it, Jeff, and take your grinning watchdog with you.”

“My watchdog?”

Jeff turned and met the blank stare of his assistant. “How did you get here?”

Smitty brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the sleeve of his seersucker suit, and looked dumbfounded at his employer. “Me? How did I get here?”

“You heard me. You didn’t walk back that quick.”

“Hardly. A very charming young lady drove me to town. A very, very charming girl. She was suffering under the misapprehension that you no longer cared for her, Jeff. Of course, I speedily corrected that impression. On the contrary, I assured her that you still cared very much.”

“Smitty” – Jeff grabbed the little man, and his voice grated – “for your sake, I hope that what I’m thinking is true. Who was the charming young lady?”

“Miss Pamela Bogart. What’s the matter, Jeff? She was very happy to learn you still cared for her. So much so that she said to tell you that, under the circumstances, she would not permit her engagement to be announced this evening. You all right, Jeff?”

“Where are we going?” Smitty asked when they were again in the convertible.

“We’re going to call on Pamela Bogart and you’re going to tell her you had some other girl in mind. Understand?”

“Me? Me, a self-confessed liar in the eyes of Pamela Bogart? Oh, no, Jeff!”

“Oh, yes, you are!”

Smitty reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He looked at his watch, noted the time and scribbled it, together with the date, at the top of the page. He handed the folded sheet to Jeff.

“What’s this? Listen, Smitty,” Jeff said, after hurriedly scanning the paper, “you can’t resign! I’ve got your contract. You—”

“There’s nothing in the contract that calls for me to be dumped, out of a moving car.”

“The car wasn’t moving. It had stopped, and you fell out, with more or less urging.”

“Ah-h-h! There is nothing about urging in the contract.”

“OK. You win. I’ll see Pamela myself.”

“She has an apartment in the Normandy.” Smitty grinned at his boss, took back his resignation, erased the date and time, and replaced it in his pocket. “I told her you’d probably come to see her right away. She said she’d be waiting for you. Will you need a bodyguard?”

Jeff didn’t answer. He clamped his jaws, swung his big car into the traffic and pressed down the accelerator. Five minutes later, he parked it before the large apartment hotel.

When a uniformed maid admitted them to Apartment 4C, Smitty was at his heels.

Pamela Bogart laid aside the magazine she was reading, and jumped to her feet, silver bracelets jangling on her arms. Her smile died when she saw the expression on Jeff’s face. A puzzled frown replaced it.

Jeff didn’t speak at first. He studied the diminutive brunette before him. His keen eyes took in her perfect form, the dark curls and wide gray eyes. They lingered on her mouth, beautifully shaped, but with a cruel curve at the corners. “She hasn’t changed a bit,” was his conclusion.

“Hello, Jeff. I was under the impression that you were willing to let bygones be bygones. I understood from Mr Smith—”

“Smitty was sore with me for dumping him out on the road. I’ll never change my opinion of you, Pam. Don’t ever forget it. I only came here to set you straight. You—”

“All right! You’ve had your say. Now, get out.” She walked toward the door.

“Why did you kill your sister, Pam?”

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

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

“You haven’t answered me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeff slammed the door behind him.

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

“OK, Smitty. I asked for it.”

“Jeff, will you tell me something?”

“What?”

“Why was Corinne shot with a silver bullet?”

“To kill her.”

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

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

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

“To the bank, the National Trust.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The gypsy’s eyes narrowed. “Positive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see. Thanks, doctor.”

The phone rang as soon as it was hung up.

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

“Pamela Bogart.”

“Aw-w! How did you know?”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About what?”

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

“Whose?”

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

“But—”

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

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

“You know why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“That’s it.” Jeff nodded.

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

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

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

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

“One,” Smitty said reluctantly.

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeff and the DA’s man exchanged amused glances.

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

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

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

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

“You’ll hear. Don’t worry.”

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

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

“Thanks. Come on, Smitty.”

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

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

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

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

“What did I do?” demanded Smitty belligerently.

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you tell me, Jeff?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what happened?”

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

“And what was detaining the police?”

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

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

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

“Where was everyone before the search began?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeff slammed down the phone.

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

“Who else could have committed the murders?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you took your lawyer down with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You hung a pretty frame on me, Pam.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why Mike?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Mike Collins,” Smitty said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you wondering, Mike?”

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

“She didn’t ask me.”

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

“Come to the point, Mike.”

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

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

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

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

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

Jeff didn’t answer. He read the slip of paper Smitty pushed across the desk to him, “Go.” He nodded to Smitty, leaned back in his chair and dropped his feet on the desk top.

“Mike, I’d like to tell you a little story. Before the war, I was engaged to Myrna Dalton. It was the only serious love affair of my life. I went to her home for a weekend house party, just before her unit sailed for England. The first night, most of the crowd were tired and went to bed early. Three other fellows and myself sat up in the library playing poker until near dawn.”

“I know how it is,” Mike said.

“We’d been drinking, but not too much. I was dead tired when I climbed into bed. There had been a long drive there, the lateness of the hour, and the strain of the card game. I must have gone to sleep the minute my head hit the pillow.”

“I should imagine you did.”

“Pamela Bogart was one of the party. She was the first to wake next morning, and she promoted some silly idea of dragging everyone out of bed and dumping them into the swimming pool. The girls bore down on each room in turn, making a game of it.”

“I’ve been through the same thing,” Mike sympathized.

“When the whole party pounced into my room, they found it strewn with feminine apparel. As an added touch, there was an extra pillow on the bed with the imprint of a head. Someone had sneaked into my room while I was asleep and planted the stuff. Myrna was badly cut up about it, wouldn’t listen to my explanation.”

“I can understand her feeling. But what are you driving at, Jeff?”

“Pamela Bogart was the girl who planted that evidence. She did it for pure meanness. I didn’t get any proof that she did it until much later.”

The line was silent for a long time. Then Mike’s voice came over the wire:

“I see. I’m sorry, Jeff.”

“If you still want me to come to that party tonight, I’ll come after dinner – say, about seven thirty. But you’ll have to tell me why you’re marrying Pamela, Mike. You’re one of the last people in the world I’d expect to marry her!”

Smitty looked at his boss with open mouth. He reread the words he had written, as if he couldn’t believe them. He, too, hung on the line, waiting for Mike’s answer.

“I’ll tell you, Jeff, and then I don’t want to discuss it again. I know what Pamela is. I can well believe the story you’ve told me. But the part you don’t understand is that I loved Corinne. I’ll never love another girl. Pam is – well, she sort of looks like Corinne.”

“What do her looks have to do with it?”

“I guess we professors aren’t very practical. I’m marrying Pam on the chance that our children would be like Corinne. That’s all there is to it, Jeff.”

“You’ve considered the possibility that she might walk out on you and take the children with her, bring them up as replicas of herself?”

“Yes, I’ve considered that. She couldn’t do that to me. My life is an open book. There isn’t a court in the land that—”

“Oh, come down to earth, Mike!” Jeff snapped. “She has over a million dollars, you have ten thousand. You couldn’t begin to defend the appeals.”

“Oh, come, Jeff. You don’t mean to insinuate that the courts are crooked?”

“Of course I don’t. I just wanted to point out that by the time you could regain custody over the children, they would have passed beyond their formative years—”

“There’s no use going into that. It’s too late now. I’ve committed myself. You will stop in for highballs after dinner, then?”

“I’ll be there.”

Jeff hung up the phone and looked at Smitty, who shook his head sadly.

“I wouldn’t have believed Pamela was like that. Imagine Mike marrying her for any such reason!”

“I can’t.”

“What did you say, Jeff?”

“I said I can’t imagine Mike’s marrying her, for that or any other reason. There’s a lot of funny things going on. I wish you could come along to help keep an eye on things tonight.”

“I’ve considered it. There are plenty of large trees in and outside of the wall, Jeff. There’s one in the back that would be easy to climb.”

“So?”

“Well, I imagine they’ll sit on the terrace after dinner. I could climb one of the trees and keep an eye on things with night glasses. I think I’d see more that way than if I were actually on the terrace.”

“OK. Make your own arrangements, Smitty.”

“Right.”

“Tell Chief Gaines what we’re going to do. I don’t like this setup. I can’t imagine why Pam wants me there. Not to protect her, that’s sure. You keep your eyes glued on her, Smitty. Don’t stop watching her, no matter what happens. But that’s ridiculous. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open. Er . . . Jeff, after vampires have been shot with a silver bullet, they don’t come back, do they?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was just thinking, suppose it gets real dark while I’m still in that tree – Jeff, tell me why a silver bullet was used.”

“Figure it out while you’re roosting on a limb,” Jeff said, as he left the office.

It was seven thirty, and the guests were still at dinner when the Bogarts’ butler led Jeff to the terrace off the living room, facing the large, walled-in garden.

Jeff looked about him. French windows opened from the living room. The top and both ends of the terrace were screened by a heavy, vine-covered trellis. Beyond the terrace was open lawn, broken by formal flowerbeds and a two-tiered fountain.

The furniture came under Jeff’s scrutiny. It was cane, upholstered with gayly colored cushions, a settee at either end, backed against the vine-covered trellis, with eight lounge chairs spotted irregularly between them.

Jeff looked at the trees. There were dozens in and close to the garden. At each end of the terrace, large oaks rose protectingly above the house. His eyes rested on a tulip poplar that was just beyond the wall, commanding an unobstructed view of the terrace. In the failing light, he caught a glimpse of something white moving back and forth. He made an up-and-down motion with his hand, and the white speck did the same. Grinning, he thumbed his nose at the spot.

Jeff turned at the sound of footsteps inside the living room. Pamela, between her uncle and Mike Collins, led the procession through the French window. Bogart nodded curtly.

“Oh, Jeff, look!” The girl ran to him, extending her hand. Jeff paid a pretty compliment to the modest diamond ring she was wearing.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” she asked, and winked at Mike.

“I hope you’ll be very happy. But more important, I hope that you’ll make Mike happy. He’s a swell guy, Pam.”

She bit her lips and winced. For the first time, Jeff noticed that her mouth was slightly swollen. For a moment, he was sorry he had struck her. At her next words, he wished he had broken her neck.

“It’s just as well, Jeff, that you never married Myrna Dalton. She wasn’t the girl you thought her.”

“Pamela!” Wendell Bogart called. “Come and sit beside your old uncle, here on the settee.”

The girl spun on her heel and crossed to the far end of the terrace, smiling back triumphantly over her shoulder at Jeff.

Mike Collins caught Jeff’s arm and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “Come on, Jeff. Meet the others.”

The two other couples, Mr and Mrs Frederick Marston and Mr and Mrs Donald Wellington, were old friends of the family. They murmured the usual acknowledgments. Jeff quickly lost interest in them. They were obviously ill at ease, for they had attended the fatal dinner of the year before. Both men showed the effects of the strain, and had had more than their share of alcoholic stimulants. The two women stole nervous glances at their wrist watches.

The butler served tall highballs. The small talk was carefully kept in bounds. Mrs Marston tried to draw Jeff out, but his obvious absorption quickly discouraged her. She turned to Mike, and started him talking about earthquakes.

Pamela and her uncle were carrying on a low conversation between themselves. Pam laughed a good bit, and darted occasional looks of defiance at Jeff. Wendell Bogart pointedly ignored him.

“Gosh, it’s hot!”

Donald Wellington’s too-loud voice was like a bombshell. He was sitting alone, dabbing at his face with a large handkerchief. The highball glass in his hand was already empty.

Jeff leaned back. It was warm, but not that warm. The alcohol, the heavy dinner, and the strain were probably responsible for Wellington’s discomfort.

“Don’t you have an electric fan you could hook up, Wendell?” Donald Wellington demanded of his host.

“Don’t bother,” Mrs Wellington spoke quickly. “We’ll have to be going soon.”

“There’s no fan available, Donald,” Wendell Bogart replied. “But we could have the fountain turned on. That will cool the air some. Turn it on, please, Hunter.”

“Where’s the connection?” Jeff asked.

“I know where it is. I’ll do it.” Fred Marston rose unsteadily to his feet, crossed in front of Jeff, and stepped off the terrace.

Jeff, covertly keeping his eye on Pamela, also watched Marston fumbling with the cover of a stop box set flush in the lawn. His fumbling fingers finally hooked the ring bolt and he gave it a hearty tug.

Pamela squealed.

Jeff looked sharply at the girl. She was pointing to Marston who had sprawled on the grass when the sticking cover loosened. He scrambled to his knees, reached into the stop box and twisted the valve.

There was a bright-yellow flash, a sharp explosion.

Jeff looked toward Pamela. The sudden glare had fuzzed his vision. The others on the terrace were staring stupidly at the bubbling fountain. Jeff blinked his eyes and brought Pamela into focus.

Slowly, yet surely, she was sliding away from her uncle toward the floor.

Wendell Bogart, with one arm laid along the top of the settee behind his niece, was staring fascinatedly toward the fountain. He didn’t appear to realize that Pamela was falling.

Jeff stepped into the living room as the girl’s body thudded to the flagstones. He was picking up the telephone when Mrs Wellington screamed. She was still screaming, joined by Mrs Marston, when Jeff was connected with Chief Gaines.

“It’s happened, Bill,” Jeff barked.

“Who?”

“Pamela herself.”

“Damn! Don’t let them touch anything, Jeff. We’ll be there quicker than you think.”

“She’s dead!” Mike Collins said in a flat, bewildered voice as Jeff stepped back to the terrace.

“She can’t be! It’s impossible!” Wendell Bogart shouted. “Lift her to the couch. No, wait. Carry her upstairs!”

“Don’t move her!” Jeff warned, heading toward the group.

“Get out of my way!” Bogart shoved him aside. “A lot of help you were!”

The rise and fall of a police siren tore the quiet night. It was close by, and racing nearer.

“Don’t be a fool, Bogart. The police are on their way here now. I tell you not to touch her.”

“Get out of my way, you blundering idiot. My niece isn’t going to lie there like a sack of meal.”

Wendell Bogart stooped and picked up the girl. The police cars screamed into the driveway. Carrying her in his arms, Bogart walked slowly toward the living room. A uniformed patrolman stepped through the French door and blocked his passage.

“What’s going on here? What happened?” the officer demanded. “What are you doing with that girl? What’s the matter with her?”

“She’s dead, Officer. I . . . I was taking her up to her bedroom.”

“Put her down, mister. Here!” He indicated the settee opposite the one Pamela had shared with her uncle.

Wendell Bogart lowered his niece and straightened her rumpled clothing. Almost reverently, he pressed the lids down over her now lusterless eyes.

Jeff looked at Pamela. There were no marks of violence other than the swollen lips. To all appearances, she was a young woman dreaming, a surprising dream. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she had just been told something incredible.

More police arrived. A sergeant assumed control.

“Mr Bogart, do you have a clubroom, or some place we can put you people where you’ll be out of the way?”

“There’s a basement game room.”

The sergeant pointed out a red-headed giant. “Murphy! Herd these people into the basement. Don’t let any of them out of your sight.”

Jeff followed the others into a paneled clubroom. Murphy opened the door and snapped on the lights, then followed them in and stood with his back to the door. Outside, the night was filled with screaming sirens.

Wendell Bogart, without a word to his guests, crossed to the portable bar. From beneath it, he drew out a bottle of old Scotch and poured himself half a glass.

“I could do with one of those,” Fred Marston said wistfully.

Bogart ignored him, replaced the bottle and slumped into a lounge chair. He stared quietly into space. Jeff sat alone at the far corner of the room. He pulled out his notebook and began writing rapidly. Once or twice he heard his name spoken in angry tones, but he didn’t raise his head. After filling several pages with neat, small script, he loosened the pages and dropped the book into his left coat pocket.

“Why don’t you say something?” Wendell Bogart demanded, as Jeff’s eyes met his. “Why did you kill her?”

“I didn’t kill her, and you damn well know it.”

“Listen, Hunter,” the older man snapped, “you hated my niece! She told me what happened this afternoon in the Normandy bar. There are plenty of witnesses who heard you threaten her. Her mouth is bruised from the brutal blow you gave her.”

“So what?” Jeff demanded.

“You don’t deny you struck her?” Wendell Bogart lurched to his feet and swung wildly at Jeff.

“Sit down!” The alert Murphy pushed Bogart back into his chair. “Make another move like that, and I’ll put you to sleep.”

The clubroom door swung open. “Jefferson Hunter! Upstairs!”

Jeff rose to his feet and followed the officer to the library on the floor above. Chief Gaines, and three detectives, were seated at one end of the big mahogany table. Sitting alone at the opposite end was Smitty. Jeff pulled up a chair at his assistant’s right.

“Things are a lot different than when we were here this summer.” Smitty grinned.

“Yes, Smitty, they are.” He patted his left coat pocket meaningly. “Bill” – Jeff turned to the chief – “what killed her?”

The chief of detectives paused a moment, considering his reply. He looked sharply at Jeff, then spoke, “The medical examiner doesn’t know yet. He hasn’t found a mark on her body, except the bruised mouth, and that is hours old. It sounds damned silly, but the only explanation he has ventured is the possibility of rare poison.”

“It wasn’t that.’

“He doesn’t think it was, either. I’ll have you make a statement to a stenographer in a few minutes, Jeff. But, first, is there anything you can tell me that will speed things up?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I was looking at Pamela when the flash temporarily blinded me. When my eyes focused again, she was slumping forward. What caused the explosion?”

“Haven’t found out, yet. Whatever it was, it occurred in the top dish of the fountain, according to Smitty.”

“That’s how it was.” Smitty nodded. “It was almost dark. I was watching Pamela through my glasses from the tree, when the flash blinded me. When my eyes cleared, she was falling off the settee. I continued to watch. I saw Jeff’s back as he slipped into the house to phone you. No one concealed anything. I never took my eyes from that terrace until after the first policemen took over. Then I climbed down out of the tree and started toward the house. An officer grabbed me as I came to the end of the wall.”

Jeff nodded and turned to the chief. “How did you get on the job so quickly?”

“I wasn’t taking a chance, Jeff. When Smitty told me about the dinner tonight and that you were coming here, I sent two patrol cars to cruise the neighborhood. They were here in less than a minute after you called.”

An excited young detective burst into the library, glanced around hurriedly, and handed the chief a manila envelope. Chief Gaines lifted the flap. Jeff and the others leaned forward, Smitty bumping awkwardly against Jeff.

Out of the envelope rolled a small, misshapen lead pellet.

The mushroom-shaped bullet had a bit of red coloring on the end of it. Bill Gaines drew a magnifying glass from his pocket and studied it. He passed the glass to the other detectives in turn.

“I’ll be damned. An air pistol pellet. That little thing couldn’t have killed her, but call Doc Marshall and tell him about it. If this hit her, there must be some mark somewhere on her body.”

“Where was the slug found?” Jeff asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

The young detective answered without thinking, “Under the settee at the far end of the terrace where she—”

“Quiet!” Chief Gaines shot an irritated glance at his subordinate, and turned to Jeff. “Keep that to yourself, Hunter. We’ll find the gun this time. Hawkins” – he turned to one of the detectives at the table – “begin with Jeff Hunter. Take him up to one of the bedrooms and search him. Get a stenographer to take down his statement. Keep him there until I send for him.”

“What about this one?” Detective Hawkins jerked his thumb at Smitty.

“Leave him here. His eyewitness account will give us a basis for our questioning.”

“Come along, Mr Hunter,” Hawkins said.

“OK. Just a second.” Jeff addressed the chief. “Bill, will you have your men make a thorough search of the lawn? Using a vacuum cleaner might not be a bad idea for a quick preliminary search. I’ve got a hunch—”

“What foolishness—”

“Bill, you owe me something,” Jeff reminded him. “If I hadn’t tipped you off, they would have had Pamela upstairs and it might have been the same thing over again.”

“OK, Jeff.”

In an upstairs bedroom, Jeff was quickly searched. He dictated his detailed statement and was questioned closely by Detective Hawkins.

As Jeff signed the final copy of the statement, Patrolman Murphy burst into the room.

“Hell has broken loose. The chief wants you in the library, Mr Hunter. Bogart’s on the verge of apoplexy. Come on.”

“What’s happened?” Hawkins demanded.

Murphy paused to explain. “Plenty. Bogart’s taking the line that his niece died of heart trouble. The chief is holding everyone incommunicado. He’s within his rights on the preliminary investigation. Somehow, Bogart’s lawyers have learned something’s wrong here. They’re burning the town getting restraining orders against a p.m., against everything. The investigation’s at a standstill, outside of this house.”

Bogart, seated behind his big desk in the library, reached into his humidor for a cigar as Jeff entered. He paused a second, then jammed one into his mouth, and shoved the opened humidor toward the assembled crowd.

“Mr Hunter” – he looked at Jeff – “I wish you’d try to convince these stupid policemen that Pamela died of a heart attack.”

“The police aren’t stupid, Mr Bogart. Why have you changed your tune? Downstairs, a while ago, you were accusing me of killing her.”

“I thought you had some sense, Hunter. If she didn’t die of a heart attack, you did kill her. There are plenty of witnesses who heard you threaten her. I’ve told the police. Granted that Pamela played a mean trick on you, it was, after all, only a joke. It didn’t justify your striking her, much less killing her.”

“It was more than a joke, Mr Bogart. It was pure malice. There was something wrong with Pamela – she couldn’t bear to see anyone else happy. I tried to explain that to Myrna Dalton, but there wasn’t time.”

“Why not?”

“She shipped out a couple of days after Pamela planted those clothes in my bedroom. I wrote to her once from China, and asked if she was ready to listen to my explanation. She wrote back that she was.”

“Why didn’t you send her the statement you forced from my niece? Oh, she told me about that, too!”

“I did, Mr Bogart. It would have squared things, but Myrna was killed in a bombing raid before the letter reached her.”

Bogart didn’t comment. Absent-mindedly, he picked up the darts that were lying on the desk before him, and threw them into the target as if continuing the around-the-clock game he had begun that morning. The feathered darts smacked into three, double three, triple three, four, double four.

Before throwing the last dart, Bogart looked at it. The needle-like steel point was broken off near the wooden body. With apparent disgust, he dropped the dart into the wastebasket.

“You should be glad Pamela’s dead,” Jeff continued. “She killed her own sister; she killed Stevens, the man who made the bullet with which she shot Corinne. You can’t beat murder. It would have been only a matter of time until the police had sufficient evidence to ask for an indictment.”

Wendell Bogart’s face flamed. He jumped to his feet. “That’s slander! There has never been any sort of scandal in the Bogart family. If you don’t burn for murdering her, Hunter, I’ll run you out of town. I’ll get every penny you have or ever will have!”

Jeff turned and walked to the big table where Chief Gaines was examining the hundreds of bits of trash gathered from the lawn. He looked up wearily as Jeff approached.

“Where’s Smitty?”

“Here he comes, now. I gave him permission to go into the servants’ quarters to make a few phone calls from their phone. We’ve been using this one.”

“Hello, Jeff.” Smitty looked sheepishly at his boss. “You were right as usual.”

“What are the answers?”

“Sodium and under hair.”

“Thanks.” Jeff grinned at the bewildered men around him. “That’s what I thought.”

“Listen,” Chief Gaines protested, “this is no time to—”

“Hold it, Chief. Is there anything in this mass of stuff you gathered from the lawn that could be used for a cork stopper?”

“There’s a cork.” Detective Hawkins pointed to a small ordinary cork. “It was found near the fountain.”

“Good. Get a chemical analysis of scrapings from its top. The analysis should show a trace of sodium. While you’re about it, have the medical examiner give Pamela’s hair a fine-tooth combing, close to the scalp. Where did these come from?” Jeff picked up several dried grayish-brown oak leaves, with bits of fine gray hair clinging to them.

“From the lawn at the end of the terrace. Those green oak leaves were gathered up there, too. They were beyond the trellis where Miss Bogart was sitting.”

“OK. I think I’ve got all the answers. Mike! Mike Collins!”

“Yes, Jeff?” Mike got up from a lounge chair in a far corner of the room.

“This case is solved now, Mike. Tell the truth. Pamela’s dead.”

Mike nodded. “Yes, she’s dead.”

“What was your real reason for marrying her? Tell the truth.”

“I intended to kill her. Legally, of course, by eventually trapping her into admitting she killed Corinne. But I didn’t kill her tonight.”

“What did you see or learn a year ago that convinced you she had killed Corinne?”

“Corinne turned in her chair and looked toward the living room a few seconds before she slumped forward. In confidence, I told the police about it, but apparently they could do nothing, so I decided to drag a confession from Pamela myself. Marrying her would give me the opportunity.”

Jeff nodded. “This is what happened that night last June,” he continued. “After Corinne was shot, Pamela dropped the air pistol somewhere in the living room. The present killer found it. I don’t know where he concealed it for a year, but the police will find out.”

“I hope,” Chief Gaines said fervently. “I also hope you know what your talking about, Hunter.”

Jeff went on, “Tonight, a new killer went into action. He decided to create a diversion to cover the killing. He did that by inserting a dry cork in the tip of the fountain, and placing a small piece of sodium on it. When Fred Marston turned on the water, the pressure blew the cork out of the pipe, and the piece of sodium dropped into the fountain. Sodium is very tricky. There is spontaneous combustion when it gets wet. If Fred Marston hadn’t turned the fountain on, someone else would have. I nearly did it myself.”

“How do you know all that?” Chief Gaines demanded. “Are you just guessing?”

“Tell them, Smitty,” Jeff said.

“Upon getting Jeff’s written instructions – I found them in his coat pocket – I called everyone I could think of, chemists, magicians, professors of chemistry, everyone. It didn’t take long. They immediately and unanimously said ‘sodium’ when I mentioned water and the yellow flash. Spontaneous combustion in water and yellow flames are characteristic properties of sodium.”

Jeff grinned at the chief. “Under cover of the flash, the killer pulled the trigger of the air pistol.”

“Wait a minute,” Chief Gaines protested. “That little pellet couldn’t have more than stunned her. It—”

The shrill ringing of the telephone interrupted him. Hawkins answered it, and handed it to his superior. Chief Gaines’ side of the conversation was “yes” and “no”. He hung up and nodded to Jeff to continue.

“Now, the puzzling part was that there were apparently no marks on the body. I made a note of that and asked Smitty to get me the answer. Tell us, Smitty.”

The little man cleared his throat. “I telephoned several famous pathologists. Their unanimous opinion was that such a thing was impossible. The nearest solution they had for the problem was the possibility that a long, thin sliver had entered a vital organ. They discounted the heart, for they felt that the point of entrance would easily have been noticed.”

“What about the brain?” Chief Gaines asked.

“They said it could have entered through the ears, mouth, nose or eyes, points of entry harder to find. They also suggested making a thorough search of the scalp.”

“That’s where it was,” the chief grinned. “Doc Marshall missed it on his preliminary examination. He found the hole hidden by hair at the base of Pamela’s skull, not much bigger than a pinhole. Lodged in—”

Wendell Bogart jumped to his feet. “Did you have the gall to perform an autopsy on my niece without a reasonable suspicion of foul play?”

“We didn’t,” the chief said. “An X-ray of her head showed a long piece of metal like a thick needle.”

“I think you’ll find, Bill,” Jeff explained, “that it is probably the end from the dart Bogart dropped into the wastebasket. You see, the blunt end could be forced into the head of the lead pellet. When it drove into her skull, the pellet only followed until it struck bone. The point of the dart would continue into the head.”

“This is ridiculous!” Wendell Bogart sat down, puffing furiously on his cigar.

“Give us the answer, Jeff,” the chief said. “Also, tell us where the gun is.”

“Those leaves should tell you, chief.” Jeff pointed to the dried leaves with the bits of the gray hairs clinging to them. “What would dead leaves be doing on a lawn at this time of year?”

“I’ll be damned.” Chief Gaines whistled. “And I was raised in the country, too. Those leaves are from an old squirrel’s nest. Something must have disturbed it. Could it have been a gun?”

“That’s right. You’ll probably find some sort of contraption like those spring clothesline reels, or maybe something bigger, like the spring that pulls back an air hose.”

“But how?”

“I think you’ll find, if you examine the trellis, a spot where the air gun was wedged in the framework, screened by leaves. Under cover of the flash, the killer fired the gun, pushed it through the trellis, and let it go. A spring coil, or counterweight, jerked it up into that big oak tree. On its way up, it knocked off growing leaves and also struck an abandoned squirrel’s nest.”

“What’s the motive, Jeff?”

“The same old one – money. You ready to confess, Bogart? You know, your fingerprints will be on the gun. You were the only person who could have shot her in that spot. That’s why your arm was resting on the top of the settee, behind Pamela.”

“This is ridiculous!” Bogart snorted, his face turning gray. “Whatever gave you the idea that I need money?”

“Just little things, like cutting down on cigars, and not carrying matches. That’s the sort of foolish thing that normally wealthy people usually do when they try to economize. I suspected you weren’t on the level when I came here early this morning. Everyone around town seems to know you’re having financial troubles.”

Hawkins burst into the library. “The gun’s there, chief. There are beautiful prints on it, too. I’m not going to attempt to move it yet. I want to photograph that little blue steel squirrel in its nest. It was jerked up into the old squirrel’s nest by a fine steel wire, and a small coil drum. It looked like a specially made contraption to do that one job. OK for me to get a hook and ladder company out here? We can get photographs from the raised ladders.”

“Go to it, Hawkins,” the chief said. “You ready to talk, Mr Bogart? You’ve got to talk if I spend the rest of the week in an outlying police station taking you apart. You have a workshop and laboratory here in the house, and you probably manufactured your own props. I’m going to have an airtight case against you before I book you. Going to talk willingly?”

A look of fear crossed the older man’s face. “I should have my lawyer.”

“You’ll get him after you make a statement. To begin with, how did you get the gun when Corinne was murdered? Where did you hide it?”

“I found it in the chair where Pamela dropped it. Temporarily, I hid it behind the seat of the family doctor’s car when he came to examine Corinne. He drove away with it. I recovered it a few days later. My first idea was to protect Pamela. The scandal—”

“Later,” Jeff prompted, “you decided to cash in.”

“Pamela was a murderess; she didn’t deserve to live.”

“Besides, you needed the money. You were afraid to dip into her trust fund because of the courts and the bonding company. You wouldn’t denounce her to the police because of the publicity and also because you thought you’d be indicted, too, as an accessory after the fact.”

“Something like that.”

“Come on, Smitty, let’s go.”

“But, Jeff, why the silver bullet?”

“It didn’t have to be silver. It could have been copper, or maybe eight or ten-carat gold. The bullet had to be made of a metal soft enough to form a temporary seal to back up the compressed air in the pistol, and hard enough to penetrate a body. Pamela never thought of a dart. Silver happened to be handy. Besides, it was bizarre, showy, and all the Bogarts go for that. Pamela’s tricks, Wendell Bogart’s showing off with darts, the sodium flash.”

“Jeff, don’t let’s take any more criminal cases unless they are—”

“No more at all! Let’s go.”