To Keep or Kill

Four

Charles Horne swung down the stairs after leaving Dr. Saari’s office and emerged into the bright summer sunlight flooding Wilsey Street. He blinked.

A rope barrier had been erected around the twisted lampposts and the crater in the street, holding off the gaping, jabbering crowd of curious who thronged the block. Up at the far corner stood the Finn, watching the new panes of glass being installed in his display windows. He saw Horne and waved briefly. The detective returned the greeting and started off towards the carline, examining the windows he passed. Most of them had been replaced although a few were still hung with canvas curtains or wide slabs of plywood.

There were no streetcars in sight when Charles Horne reached the corner. Shrugging, he turned east on Main Street. He wanted to question the crew of the car that stopped at Wilsey Street at approximately 7:20 the evening before, but it could wait.

Of more importance was the cat and dog hospital, the “Boone Animal Hotel.” Ninety thousand dollars, he reflected, would certainly feed a lot of cats and dogs. Mulberry Street was eight blocks across town.

Dr. Saari’s rather strange report on the man who had been hurt fought its way to the fore of his mind. The police had forbidden her to discuss the man’s situation with anyone. That order alone was strange enough to rear up on its feet and command attention. Why would a police official order a physician to keep quiet when the physician’s own code of ethics forbade disclosures? Why build a double fence around the pasture?

Because whatever was inside was something so strong that it might break down one fence. It was so important that it needed the bolstering of the second safeguard.

And that would be — what? The man’s condition. What was the matter with the man? He had been blown backwards through a doorway by the explosion. What was so mysterious about that? Dr. Saari had examined him this morning and sent him home. He, too, had probably been warned not to talk. So what? He was well enough to be sent home but his condition was so... so strange it was a secret. Hell, that didn’t make sense.

Let’s get back to the explosion. Wiedenbeck had none too subtly changed the subject when he was questioned about it last night in the doctor’s office. Why? Probably because he didn’t know what had caused it and didn’t wish to be reminded of the fact. The girl had removed a small red package from her purse, something resembling a cylinder perhaps three or four inches long and as thick as a roll of quarters. That had been it, whatever it was.

He sighed and bought a morning paper.

Leaning against a lamppost at the curb he scanned the front page for news of the tragedy. Rapidly skipping the matter he had read over someone’s shoulder that morning while riding downtown on the streetcar, including the bit of business about the oldest living inhabitant and his memory, he dug for the meat of the report.

The newspaper was delightfully vague, showing the official hand of the police department and the actual lack of real details. It quoted Sergeant Wiedenbeck as blaming “a powerful explosive in the hands of an ignorant or unscrupulous woman” for the crime, and that while “the motive was not clear, an important development was expected at any hour.” Naturally, an arrest was promised within the following forty-eight hours.

Horne was willing to bet Sergeant Wiedenbeck had never told the papers that. Wiedenbeck was not a man to make promises he couldn’t fulfil. The forty-eight hour business had come from someone higher up, the chief himself, or the mayor; someone who didn’t have to get out and get the culprit.

He read again the statement that an arrest was promised within forty-eight hours, and snorted aloud.

A feminine voice at his shoulder sniffed, “Huh! They always say that.”

He turned on the girl, amazed and amused. She was peering nearsightedly through thick glasses at his paper.

“May I?” he inquired, holding it out to her. “I can wait until you’ve finished.”

She was a mouse, peering up at him.

“Pardon me!” she answered contritely. She had forgotten to take her stenographer’s pencil from its resting place in her hair. “I’m sorry I bothered you.” And she flounced away. He watched her legs until they disappeared into a stationery store.

Back to the newspaper. What did they say about him? And the other two casualties?

Oh, yes, here was his name. Charles Horne. Too bad the paper didn’t use larger than eight-point type. Charles Horne was slightly injured when cut by falling glass. Hell — was that all? Charles Horne was slightly injured when cut by falling glass. Not a word about his being an eyewitness, not a word of his descriptions of the entire scene. Not a word — belatedly it came smashing home to him why the paper said nothing other than Charles Horne was slightly injured when cut by falling glass.

Wiedenbeck was not throwing away any chances. Charles Horne happened to be an eyewitness and was probably the only man in Boone — other than the unknown nobody who had stood below him on the stairway watching — who could describe the redheaded girl. And why should Wiedenbeck be so dumb as to advertise that fact?

The two other men: the dead man’s name and address was given following a brief report of how he had been blown through the window and had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. The body was at so-and-so’s funeral home and burial plans were incomplete. The other bystander, the one who had been sent home from the hospital: there was his name and address and a brief description of his wounds.

Compared to the main points of the murder of Channy and the terrific damage done to Wilsey Street, the sticks devoted to the three other casualties were masterpieces of brevity.

Turning to an inside page, he carefully tore the crossword puzzle from the sheet and threw the paper in the street. Charles Horne was slightly injured when cut by falling glass.

He swung eastward along Main Street, watching the shop windows and the reflections they threw back at him. Wiedenbeck’s shadow should be back there somewhere, it he were suddenly as important as the brevity of the newspaper implied. Wiedenbeck would be having him guarded, not simply followed. But all the way to Mulberry Street there was nothing to reward him.

The “Boone Animal Hotel” was a squeaking sign swaying in the breeze over a screen door through which came the not unpleasant odor of clean dogs. He pushed open the screen and walked in.

A man in a white smock and rimless glasses got up from behind the desk.

“Yes sir?”

“Are you in charge?”

“Well, sir, yes and no. I’m the veterinarian, if you have a pet. Miss Deebie Bridges is the owner.”

“She’s the one I want. I represent the Union Workman’s Mutual of Chicago. Insurance.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I have instructions about salesmen.”

Horne gave the man a soft, disarming smile and removed his wallet from an inner breast pocket. His badge was pinned inside the wallet. The veterinarian stared at it.

“I’m not a salesman,” the detective purred.

“No sir. I can see you’re not.” He reached under the ledge of the desk and pushed a button. A buzzer sounded in the faraway reaches of the building. A buzzer, and the slamming of a door. Slow, dignified footsteps came towards the door at the other end of the office and presently the door opened.

A withered, dried up little lady peeped through at them.

“Yes?” she asked patiently.

“This is a detective, Miss Bridges,” the vet said. “To see you.”

“Well, come right in, young man, come right in.” The wrinkled face screwed up into an inviting smile and the old lady stepped aside, allowing him to enter. He was in her living quarters. She shut the office door, shutting out the sight of the staring veterinarian and almost shutting out the agreeable odor of the dogs. With a frail, gracious hand she waved him to a chair.

“What’s your business, young man?”

“Miss Bridges, does the name Walter Alfred Channy mean anything to you?”

She frowned, not at him but with straining memory. “Walter Alfred Channy? Channy? I knew a family named Channy many years ago, oh, it must have been fifty years ago, but that was in the Old Country. No, not here young man, not since I left the Old Country. I don’t believe I’ve heard the name in forty or fifty years. Why?”

He said carefully, watching her, “Miss Bridges, a man named Channy was killed yesterday. Walter Alfred Channy, the Third. He was insured by my company for forty-five thousand dollars. He left it to you.”

“Young man, you’re joshing.”

“Miss Bridges, I am not joshing. I represent an insurance company that would have paid ninety thousand dollars — double the face value — if that man had met with an accidental death. The company doesn’t josh about things like that!”

“But,” she protested skeptically, “why should a stranger leave me all that money? My lands!”

“That, lady, is what I am here to find out.”

“I simply don’t understand it — I simply don’t. Young man, step to the door. Ask Dr. Lainey to come in here a moment and bring the card file with him.”

Horne opened the door and did her bidding. Lainey came in with the file box in his hand, questioningly.

“Dr. Lainey,” she directed, “please look in the files for a... a... what was that full name again?” She turned to Horne.

“Walter Alfred Channy, the Third.”

The veterinarian spun through the cards filed behind the C tab and plucked one from the box.

“Here it is,” he read. “Fox terrier, distemper, one inj.” There followed the in and out dates, showing the dog had been left with the hospital two days.

Deebie Bridges blinked and supplied, “The record means that the Channy gentleman brought us his fox terrier, which was suffering from distemper. We are usually able to cure that with but one injection, nowadays. It doesn’t make the little thing sick, either.”

Horne stared at the file card. “There’s something written on the back of it,” he pointed out.

The vet turned it over. “Oh, yes: Owner went out of his way to express appreciation.”

“I’ll say he did. Did you write that?”

“Me?” The vet was startled. “No. It must have been Ackerley, my predecessor. I’ve been here only some months.”

Deebie Bridges offered again, “Dr. Ackerley died a short while ago, poor soul. He’d been with me for years and years. But Mr. Lainey is very capable.” She smiled sweetly at the veterinarian. He blushed.

“I’m still here,” Home reminded them. He sighed and massaged the back of his neck. “That’s a mighty nice way to express appreciation.”

The old lady smiled at the doctor. “Thank you, Dr. Lainey. That will be all.” Her face in soft smiles, she held the door open for him. He thanked her with a low nod.

Horne said, “Hey! Leave that card, will you?”

Lainey gave it to him and left the room, closing the door behind him. Horne reflected the old woman must have been quite a charmer in her day. She hadn’t lost the art.

Horne thumbed the card. The shriveled old lady sat down in a well-padded rocking chair and regarded him.

“I can hardly believe it,” she exclaimed.

“You and me both,” was his rejoinder. “Especially me. Why should a man leave you forty-five thousand simply because your hospital cured his dog?”

“Young men often do unpredictable things,” she pointed out.

“So do young women,” he snapped. “Redheaded ones.”

“I don’t believe I understand that.”

“Haven’t you read the morning paper?”

“Oh lands, no! That trashy thing. Young man, I only read the evening paper. It’s Republican!”

He almost choked. “Last night, as I said, this Channy was killed. In his car. By a young, redheaded girl. She blew him up with a stick of dynamite or something.”

Miss Bridges jumped. “It’s those radicals!” she hissed. “I read all about those radicals in the Tribune!”

Horne stood up and took a turn about the room. “No, Miss Bridges, this wasn’t the work of radicals. Not your radicals, at least. This was murder. And don’t you see: the murdered man left his money to you. That’s what I’m getting at.”

“Aha!” She peered up at him sharply. “Aha, young man, at last I do understand. You think I was the redheaded girl!”

He walked to the window and stared into the street. A man loitered across the way, eating a sack of popcorn.

“No, Miss Bridges,” he said wearily, “I don’t think you are the redheaded girl.”

“But how do you know I’m not?” she insisted. “I may not have an... an alibi for last evening.”

He turned slowly to face her. “Did I say evening?”

There was no hesitation. “No, I don’t believe you did, come to think of it. You mentioned ‘yesterday’ and ‘last night.’ You also mentioned an explosion. I heard it.”

“All right. Let it pass. I know you’re not the redheaded girl because your heels don’t clack, and your hair wouldn’t glint with copper beneath the lights on a dance floor, and—” He stopped suddenly, aware that he had walked into it.

Miss Bridges beamed at him in inner satisfaction.

“You must be well acquainted with this young radical?”

He returned to the window. The man across the street was feeding his popcorn to the birds. Something about his face reminded Horne of the City Hall. He addressed the old lady behind him.

“I’d like to ask you some questions. Personal questions.”

“Go right ahead young man.”

“Are you insured? What company?”

“Oh, my yes. I have two thousand dollars. Half of that is my burial fund; it states that in the policy. The remainder goes to the man... or woman... who assumes the responsibility of the hospital.”

“What company?” he reminded her.

“Why... yours, I do declare! Yes, the workingman’s company.”

He kept his eyes on the man feeding the birds but his thoughts were on Deebie Bridges. One thousand dollars — for Dr. Lainey, probably. The old lady couldn’t live for too many years more. A thousand bucks is a trifling sum to kill for; trifling, that is, for a man in Lainey’s position. Lainey wouldn’t risk it for a thousand bucks. But he might for forty-five more added to it. Yes, indeed.

“Have you a will, Miss Bridges?”

“Certainly, young man. Everything I have — the hospital, that is — is left to the veterinarian in charge at the time of my death, if he will carry on. If not, the hospital may go to any individual or organization that will carry on the work.”

“And your executor?”

“The Boone National Bank.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. It was all so simple and beautiful. Absolutely legal and expected. Save that when the will was made there had been no forty-five thousand dollars or its doubled equivalent. Unless Deebie Bridges was somehow connected with the dangerous redhead and would share in the money, Deebie Bridges was the next slated for the axe as sure as hell. Unless there was a reasonable expectancy that she would die of old age in jig time.

“Will Lainey want to stay on with the hospital?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. I imagine so.”

“Miss Bridges—” he hesitated briefly and plunged on — “you realize this new development puts you in a new light? You’re worth a lot of money — now.”

She chuckled. “I wondered when you would mention that, young man. Yes, I think I understand what is involved. But I shan’t worry over it. Young man, do you know how old I am? No, of course you don’t. I’m sixty-one. I’ve lived a full life, and the hospital provides enough income to keep me comfortable for as long as I shall live. I’m not too worried at your fears.”

“That’s hardly the point,” he objected.

She began, “I—” but the buzzer interrupted. Smiling, she arose from the chair and walked to the office door. Lainey was beside his desk, his serious face turned to hers.

“This is the police, Miss Bridges.”

“Come in, come in.” She stepped aside as she had done earlier for the private detective, and Sergeant Wiedenbeck strode into the room. He looked at Home without a flicker of emotion.

“Hello, hot-shot. Did Dr. Saari tell you...?”

“Yeah. I can’t leave town. I’m not. What brings you here?”

“What brought you?”

“Channy. He was a policyholder.”

“So your company has informed me. That’s why I’m here.”

“I leave you,” Horne said, “to the tender mercies of Miss Bridges.”

Miss Bridges smiled upon him in a friendly fashion. “Good-bye, Mr. Horne. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

“My name is Wiedenbeck,” the sergeant cut in. “And helpful or not, Miss Bridges, I’m going to ask you to go over it all again for me. Please.”

Horne looked at the file card he still held in his hand and noted the date of the fox terrier’s injection as being more than eleven months past.

“Here.” He gave the card to Wiedenbeck. “Play around with this. And be sure to read the other side.” He nodded politely to Deebie Bridges and stepped through the door to the office, closing the panel after him. Lainey looked up.

Horne said hello.

The veterinarian responded with, “Hello. I suppose all this has to do with what I read in the morning papers?”

Horne nodded. “You’re clever. Did you know Channy was a client of the hospital? Before you found that card, I mean?”

Lainey shook his head solemnly. “I couldn’t guess why you were here until I saw his name on the file card. And then what I had read in the papers told me half the story.”

“And the other half?”

“Where Miss Bridges fits into it all?”

Home read the eagerness to know in his eyes. He looked behind him at the closed door of the apartment, peered suspiciously under the desk, and asked in a whisper,

“Are we alone?”

“Yes.”

“Promise you’ll keep this quiet?”

“Certainly! I’m a doctor.”

“Well,” the detective confided, “it’s an incredible story but it goes like this: this man Channy was a money-sucking playboy. He lived off rich old women. We suspect he was playing Deebie Bridges and this other unknown woman at the same time. Apparently he had a tip to the effect that Miss Bridges has a pile of money hidden around here somewhere. Bringing his dog for a shot was only a cover-up, an excuse to give him a chance to look around the premises. You know — case the joint!”

“But,” the perplexed doctor cut in, “the dog was ill.”

“Sure. Channy picked it up somewhere and said it was his. So he looks around and finds Deebie Bridges a poor but honest woman. He drops her like a hot potato. No money in it for him. You know what—?”

“What?”

“Until we talked to her, we thought maybe Miss Bridges had killed him in a fit of jealousy.”

“No!” the veterinarian exclaimed. Horne let it go at that.

He picked up an unused envelope lying on the desk, inserted it into the typewriter standing there, and rapidly clicked out a telephone number. Bidding the confused Lainey a pleasant good morning, Horne put the envelope in his pocket and sauntered out into the street.

The man who had been feeding the birds was not in sight.