Oh, Murderer Mine by Norbert Davis (best novels ever txt) 📖

I told him, and so he started to shove me around, and Carstairs came up and bit him in the pants.”

“In the pants?” Beulah Porter Cowys repeated.

“Yes. He didn’t touch Humphrey. He just tore the seat clear out of his pants. It was broad daylight on a busy street, and Humphrey collected quite an audience. That made him mad. He’s still mad.”

“Oh, well,” said Beulah Porter Cowys, “maybe he won’t be on duty tonight…”

“He’s always on duty. He never sleeps, for fear he might miss out on a chance to arrest someone. He loves to arrest people. He’ll arrest me as soon as he sees me.”

“That’s nonsense,” said Trent. “Policemen don’t go around arresting people just because they have a grudge against them.”

“Ha?” said Doan. “May I use your telephone, Melissa?”

*

Humphrey was as round and smooth and soft as a custard pie. He came huffing importantly into the apartment, flapping his hat indignantly in his hand, with three uniformed deputies trailing right behind him.

“Now!” he barked. “What’s all this nonsense about a prowler—”

He saw Carstairs. There was a pregnant, crackling silence, and then Humphrey’s neck began to puff pinkly above his shirt collar.

Carstairs was sitting down, leaning against the wall with his eyes shut, dozing. After awhile he opened one eye and regarded Humphrey in a critical, coldly detached way, and then shut the eye again and went on dozing.

Humphrey turned his head slowly and carefully, with the air of a man who knows there is a coiled rattlesnake near him somewhere. Doan was sitting sprawled out in the lounge chair in tie corner.

“There he is,” said Humphrey. “That’s the guy. Put the cuffs on him.”

One of the deputies stepped forward alertly, pulling his handcuffs from their leather case on the back of his belt. Doan held out his hands amiably, and the cuffs snapped around his wrists.

“Search him,” Humphrey ordered.

“It’s in my waistband,” Doan volunteered.

The deputy found the revolver. “It’s a .38 Police Positive,” he reported.

“And I’ve got a license to carry it,” said Doan.

“You won’t have long,” Humphrey told him. “All right, you people. You’ll have to appear at his arraignment. That’ll be in the court in downtown Los Angeles, probably on Wednesday morning. The district attorney’s office will get in touch with you. Bring him along, boys.”

“Here!” Eric Trent shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Humphrey looked at him. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Eric Trent. Doan warned me you’d act like this, but I was stupid enough to think you’d have better sense. Doan ate dinner with me, and he was with me continuously from that time up to the time we heard this woman—What’s your name, you?”

“It’s Melissa Gregory, in case it’s any of your business, you.”

“Up to the time we heard this Melissa Gregory scream,” Trent went on, paying no attention to her tone.

“Trying to alibi him, eh?” said Humphrey. “That just makes you an accessory, bub. And you’ve got a record, too, haven’t you? I’ve seen your picture before.”

“Sir,” said one of the deputies.

Humphrey looked at him. “What do you want?”

“He’s Handsome Lover Boy.”

“What?”

“He’s the guy in those cold cream ads.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Humphrey. “So you pose for ads when you’re not prowling, eh?”

“Sir,” said the deputy.

“Now what?”

“He’s really married to that woman—that Heloise of Hollywood. It was in the papers—in the society news—a couple of years back. My wife read it to me.”

“Hmmm,” said Humphrey, staring at Trent. “Is that a fact? Are you really her husband?”

“Yes,” said Trent tightly.

“Hmmm,” said Humphrey. “Hmmm.” He spun around suddenly and pointed at Doan. “Who hired you?”

“You’ll find out,” said Doan, “in due course.”

“I’ll find out right now!”

“My wife hired him,” Trent said.

“To do what?”

“To watch me.”

“Ah,” said Humphrey. “And of course he’s playing both ends against the middle as usual. He always does. When anyone hires him to watch someone else, he always runs around to the second party and tells them and then collects from each of them for watching the other. Don’t you?”

“Sure,” said Doan.

Melissa sat up on the couch. “Listen, you,” she said loudly and clearly. “You were called here to investigate a masked prowler who attacked me. Are you going to do that, or are you going to get the hell out of my apartment?”

“Melissa!” Beulah Porter Cowys gasped.

“I mean it,” said Melissa. “I’m serious. I’ve had my nose rubbed in this teak-headed Trent’s nasty personal affairs until I’m good and sick of him and them.”

“Doan is the prowler,” Humphrey told her.

“He is not!”

“Well, then Trent is.”

“He isn’t, either!”

“How do you know—if the guy was masked?”

“Because he wasn’t as tall as Trent nor as fat as Doan.”

“You’re just trying to make things difficult for me,” Humphrey complained.

“I’ll make them more difficult,” said Doan. “There’s a murdered man in an ashcan out in the alley in back.”

“Ah-ha!” Humphrey gloated, rubbing his hands. “You heard that confession, all of you? You’re witnesses. I’ve always hoped for a chance to peek at you in the gas chamber, Doan. Who’d you kill? You might as well tell the truth, because I won’t believe what you say, anyway.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” said Doan. “The prowler did it on his way out.”

Humphrey waved his hand. “A detail. I know you’re the prowler. Who is the guy, and why did you knock him off?”

“His name is Frank Ames.”

“Oh!” Melissa gasped.

“Frank,” said Beulah Porter Cowys, swallowing with a little croaking sound. “Gee.”

“Frank Ames,” Trent repeated thoughtfully. “I met someone by that name at the faculty lunch… Isn’t he a red-haired chap? English assistant?”

“That’s the one,” said Doan.

“Why did you murder him?” Humphrey demanded.

“I just got through telling you I didn’t. The prowler did.”

“Sure, sure,” said Humphrey. “Don’t quibble. Just tell me why it happened.”

“I’m not sure why. Ames doesn’t live here, but I think he must have been visiting someone in the building.”

“M-me,” said Melissa. “He took me to dinner and the m-movies.”

“That’s it,” said Doan. “Which way did he bring you home—did he drive up the hill?”

“Yes.”

Doan nodded at Humphrey. “Here’s what happened, then. He swung his car around in a U-turn in the middle of the street. His headlights swung across that alley just as the prowler was coming out of the back areaway. Ames saw him. I think probably the prowler either had taken off or was taking off his mask. He wouldn’t want to run around the streets with it on.”

“You mean, Ames recognized you?” Humphrey asked.

“I think he must have recognized the prowler. Otherwise Ames wouldn’t have gotten out of his car, and he did. His car is headed into the curb ten feet this way from the alley with the door still open. He jumped out and went to find out what the prowler was up to. If he hadn’t known the prowler and recognized him, the prowler would just have batted him one like he did Melissa, instead of cutting his throat.”

Humphrey nodded at two of the deputies. “Go take a look. See how much of this he’s making up.”

The two deputies ducked out the door.

Melissa was bent double. “It was my—my—my fault…”

Humphrey pounced. “What? What’s that? Speak up.”

“Shut up,” said Beulah Porter Cowys. “Don’t pay any attention to this fat boob, Melissa. Don’t say anything at all if you don’t want to.”

Melissa said slowly, getting the words out with enormous effort: “He tried to ask me to marry him. He had many times—before. I liked him, but…this time I avoided—I slipped away. Oh, Beulah!”

Beulah Porter Cowys seized her competently by the shoulders. “Right in here, honey. Come on.” She boosted Melissa to her feet and headed her for the bedroom.

“Wait, now!” Humphrey shouted. “About this prowler. What kind of a mask did he have on?”

“A stocking—a silk stocking. Black. Over his whole head.”

“Whole head,” said Humphrey. “Whole head…What about the hands? Did you see them?”

“Gloves. Black shiny gloves.”

“That’s all,” said Beulah Porter Cowys, shepherding Melissa into the bedroom and slamming the door.

“Who is that dame?” Humphrey asked. “The old scrawny one?”

“Beulah Porter Cowys,” Trent told him.

“Where’d she come from?”

“She lives down the hall. She heard Melissa Gregory scream and came to see what was wrong.”

“She did, did she?” said Humphrey. “Does she ever wear slacks?”

“No,” said Doan.

“Yes,” said Trent at the same time. He looked at Doan, startled. “What?”

Doan said wearily: “Humphrey is going off into another of his dreams. The prowler wasn’t Beulah Porter Cowys because I was chasing the prowler.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Humphrey. “It could have been her—with gloves to hide her nail polish and a stocking over her noggin to hide her long hair.”

“Smoke another pipe,” Doan advised.

“Okay, smarty,” said Humphrey. “Did you see this prowler? I mean, did you pass a mirror on your way out?”

“No,” said Doan, “but I can give you a handy item of information about him. He packs a gun as well as a knife. It’s a .22, and it’s an automatic, so it’s probably a Colt Woodsman. He’s very handy with it. If you’ll look, you’ll find three ejected shells on the other side of the street light north of the building.”

“Now you’re dreaming. Why would he want to pack a peashooter like a .22?”

“If you can shoot like he can, you don’t need anything bigger.” Beulah Porter Cowys came out of the bedroom. “You’ll have to adjourn this bull session. Melissa is all shot to pieces. Scat.”

“Not so fast,” said Humphrey. “Just how well do you know Doan, eh?”

“Just as well as I want to,” said Beulah Porter Cowys, “and that’s hardly at all.”

One of the uniformed deputies squeezed through the front door. “The body is there, sir, and so is the car. It’s registered in Ames’ name. But look what I found back of the seat.”

In front of him, balanced like a tray, he was carrying a very large, thick book with a flossy hand-carved leather cover. The deputy was supporting it with the tips of his fingers. On the cover, stamped in gold, was the legend: THE PATHWAY TO PERFECTION—HELOISE OF HOLLYWOOD.

“I peeked in it,” said the deputy. “It tells how to get rid of your wrinkles if you’re an old dame and got lots.”

“Hmmm,” said Humphrey. “Did your wife know Ames, Trent?”

“I don’t think so,” said Trent.

“She did,” said Doan. “He was working for her.”

“What?” said Beulah Porter Cowys incredulously. “Frank working for Heloise of Hollywood? You’re just completely nuts!”

“Not this time,” Doan told her. “She’s getting together a new advertising campaign. It’s going to be all about middle-aged women who had a big influence on history—had poems written to them and lakes named after them and wars started on account of them and all like that. Ames was doing the research for her.”

“How do you know?” Beulah Porter Cowys demanded.

“Because Heloise told me so.”

“Hmmm,” said Humphrey. “Hmmmm. This case is beginning to develop some angles. Now suppose Ames was getting chummy with Trent’s wife, and Trent found it out from Doan and hired Doan to hide in that alley and then lured Ames…”

“Here we go again,” said Doan.

Humphrey ignored him. “Or suppose Doan told Heloise that her husband was getting chummy with this Melissa Gregory, and Heloise dropped in here to look around. Of course, Doan would cover for Heloise, because he could shake her down for plenty, and this Melissa would try to throw me off because she doesn’t want any scandal. And Ames recognized Heloise and