Лоуренс Трит - Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 6, April 16, 1938

“Of course not.”

Van Dyke grunted skeptically. “How much did you take?”

Bradley gave the first sum that came to mind — his savings. “Thirty-four hundred.”

“Good heavens!” said Van Dyke in disgust. “I’d have given you that much to keep away from me! Damn that memory of yours. I remembered I’d mentioned this place to you, but I hoped you’d forgotten it. Did you bring a suitcase?”

“It’s back in the car.”

“We’ll take a flashlight and get it after supper. Come on in — as long as you’re here. I was just about to put some trout in the pan. Beauties. What a wonderful spot to fish!”

Van Dyke turned to the cabin door, asking, “What did they say at the bank?”

“They thought you were a fool,” said Bradley, reaching under his coat.

Van Dyke laughed — he was still laughing when the first bullet caught him in the back and knocked him sprawling... The last bullet in the pistol entered the back of his head.

Bradley jumped back, shaking, gagging, looked once with horrified fascination, and plunged blindly into the cabin still holding the smoking pistol.

He was panting, sweat was on his face as he looked wildly around, saw the expensive leather suitcases against the wall, and jumped to the nearest. It was unlocked, and when he snatched it open, neat bundles of bills tumbled out on the floor.

Bradley dropped to his knees, fingering them. All here! Some fifties — all readily passable, almost impossible to trace. He steadied as he handled the money. All over now, all as he had planned — nothing but the vision of Alvin Bradley, wealthy and free, with the world before him.

Van Dyke’s body, weighted with stones, would be safe in the lake for some time. Through the night hundreds of miles could be covered — Utah, Nevada, California. With most of the money hidden, the car disposed of, there were a thousand places in the United States, Canada, Mexico, where an unknown man might enjoy himself.

Bradley closed the suitcase, stood up and spoke aloud. “So you thought I was a fool? We’ll see now.”

He was out the doorway, halfway to the body when the quiet voice at the corner of the cabin said, “I’ll kill you if you move!”

He looked as sloppily dressed as ever, that little bonding company detective, but no longer vague and helpless as he came forward with a nickel-plated revolver.

“I didn’t think you’d be crazy enough to do this. I should have stopped you last night,” said Candleman regretfully.

“Stopped me?” Bradley repealed stupidly. He was dazed with fear. “You... you were following me?”

“All the way,” said Candleman. “Where’s that gun?”

“B-but I hadn’t done anything!”

“That was what made me curious,” said Candleman. “I couldn’t figure what you were up to, borrowing fishing tackle an hour before I dropped in to see Mrs. Van Dyke.”

“What was wrong about t-that?” Bradley stammered.

“Nothing, mister. But when a man borrows a deep-sea fishing rod made to catch ’em weighing hundreds of pounds, and a small creel to carry them back in, I get curious. Cleve, at the bank, told me over the telephone you never fished. And when you started inland to Indianapolis next day with a deep-sea fishing rod, I thought I’d better tag along. But I didn’t dream you were up to this. It’s first-degree murder. I suppose you know what it means?”

Saliva was running from the corner of Bradley’s mouth as he looked toward the suitcase with its neat packets of bills.

Black Bill’s hoard was cached, nobody knew where, by an old man who’d forgotten what it was and where he hid it

There was a breeze drawing through the open window but it felt as if it were pulled out of the mouth of an open furnace. The thermometer in the shady side of the window registered something over a hundred. Dell Breen jerked his big feet off the desk and let them fall with a bang, flung the paper he had been reading into the corner and said, “Nuts!” in a raspy, sour tone.

Outside the open door a voice said musically, “Remember your blood pressure, Mr. Breen.”

Dell stood up, growling unintelligibly. He jammed a battered Panama over his touseled, ink-black hair and jerked it down over one cold, blue eye. He draped his coat over an arm and stalked out through the outer office.

The red-headed girl at the desk looked up and her eyebrows raised quizzically. “And now, I’ll bet,” she said, “you’re going out and drink a couple of gallons of beer. Don’t you know that will only make you hotter?”

“Wrong,” Dell snapped. “I’m going to Marty’s and have a Tom Collins. That will make me cooler. The hell with business in this weather.”

Trina Crane smiled mockingly. “You still eat in this weather. And the rent comes due no matter how high the thermometer registers. Think of that while you’re having your Tom Collins, Mr. Breen.”

“How do you gals do it?” Dell asked stormily. “You look as cool as an Eskimo. You must have ice water in your veins. I was going to let you take the afternoon off. But since you like business so blame much you can just hold down the fort.”

Trina put her head on one side and crinkled her snub nose in derision. “I always said you big fellows couldn’t take it. Go ahead and have your Tom Collins. If the bill collector calls, I’ll just stall him off as usual.”

Dell said, “Nuts!” again, with still greater vehemence. He slammed the door behind him with a force that made the ground glass panel tremble, and went down the empty corridor with hard banging strides.

He walked into Marty’s and relaxed with a long sigh. It was cool inside. He could feel the chilled air caress the back of his neck and wash gently over his temples. He leaned on the bar and said, “Andy, I don’t know why everyone isn’t in here today. To hell with the streets in this weather.”

Andy grinned and said, “I’ll bet I know what you’re going to have, Mr. Breen. I’ll bet you’re going to have a Tom Collins, I’ll bet.”

“You’d win, Andy,” Dell said. “Slap a long, cool one together and start another right after that. This heat is frying my insides.”

The two old guys were at their usual place at the end of the bar. The big, gaunt man was drawing his usual map. He bent over the bar and his sunken eyes glowed under his jutting brows as he traced lines on the paper with the blunt pencil. His face had a bewildered, lost expression on it as he drew.

The other man was short and round, a roly poly. He watched the gaunt man with compassionate interest on his round face and drank beer.

Dell walked down the bar and stopped beside them. He grinned at them and said to the man with the pencil, “Hello, Skipper, how goes it?”

The gaunt man pushed the map toward him and said, “That’s Waiki. That’s where I was when Black Bill came ashore. He was a black, hard devil, was Black Bill; a murdering, thieving scoundrel. He killed my men, burned my boat and stole my money. But I beat him at last.”

He chuckled deep down in his chest. “He was a hard, to ugh man but I beat him. I beat him with these two hands.” He thrust out his great, bony hands and stared at them. “I killed Black Bill in fair fight with my two hands. Then I took—” He halted, his deep-set eyes tragic in their bewilderment. “What was it I took off Black Bill?”

The little fat man said, “There, there, Skipper, don’t let it worry you. You’ll remember one of these days.” He smiled at Dell as though asking him to humor the skipper.