Эрл Гарднер - Time for Murder

Brokay managed to unprison, the little animal’s arms and legs.

“Get ready to go,” he said, “I’m going to toss him out.”

Sam West snapped the car into, gear.

Brokay tossed the animal to the pavement. The animal screamed shrill rage. The car veered sharply from the curb and jumped into immediate speed.

“You wanted excitement,” Sam West said, “and you’re going to get it. We’ve got to find some place to hide — and what I mean is, we’ve got to take it on the lam. Every radio car in the city will be looking for us, and three of them are converging on this district.”

“You know the routes they’re coming, so you can avoid them,” Brokay pointed out.

“We know where three of them are coming, but how about the others?”

“I’ll tell you. What I’ll do,” Brokay said. “You got into this thing partially because of me. I’ll give you a break. We can go to my place and we’ll hole up there. The police certainly won’t think of searching my house. I’m a respected member of society, and—”

“And don’t ever kid yourself that this isn’t a society murder,” said the burglar. “That woman, lying almost naked on the bed, was killed by someone that’s accustomed to evening clothes, and all the fine things of life, don’t ever forget it. It’s a society killing. We sure as hell chose a great time to bust into that place.”

“You’re the one who picked the time,” Brokay reminded him.

“Yeah,” said Sam West, “so you could get a thrill — and a hell of a time I picked — a time for murder!”

“Nevertheless,” Brokay said, “you can’t think of any place that’s better to hide than my place.”

“O. K.,” Sam West said, and swung the wheel to the right. “It’s just a case of any port in a storm.”

The men rode in silence for half a dozen blocks, and then the burglar turned the car into Brokay’s driveway. The car purred smoothly up to the garage and then stopped as the burglar applied the brakes. Brokay reached from the car, pressed an electric button on an upright post by the side of the driveway. The doors of the garage slid smoothly back. The roadster slipped through the doors and came to rest in the spacious garage. Sam West sighed and shut off the motor. Brokay opened the door and stepped to the cement floor.

“Well,” he said, “we’d better look the thing over for bullet marks. They probably hit us. We’d better find if we can disguise it so it doesn’t look so much like a bullet mark.”

He walked to the rear of the car.

There was a glad cry, the sound of a shrill chattering, and the monkey leapt from the spare tire directly to Brokay’s shoulder, where it cuddled up against his cheek, wrapping its tail around Brokay’s neck.

“Where the devil did that beast come from?” said Sam West.

“He rode the spare tire,” Brokay said. “Poor little devil, he’s shivering so he can hardly hang on.”

Sam West grimly drew his revolver.

There was an angry glint in Brokay’s eyes. His right hand slid to his own hip pocket. “No you don’t!” he said.

The burglar looked at Brokay’s concealed hand. “Why don’t I?” he inquired ominously, his eyes glinting.

“Don’t forget one thing, West,” Brokay told him. “Before we get done, we may have to solve this murder to prove that we didn’t do it, and this monkey may be the only clue that we’ve got and the police haven’t.”

The glitter faded from Sam West’s eyes. He frowned thoughtfully. Slowly, he lowered his gun. “You may be right, at that,” he said slowly.

Morning newspapers carried headlines which screamed the news of the murder to the world. Gladys Ordway, a beautiful society girl, had been found nude on the bed of her bedroom. She had been stabbed in the back, with some long slender instrument which had penetrated the heart, and the point of which had even pierced the skin of the left breast. Death had been instantaneous.

The chauffeur, asleep in the garage, happening to glance out of his window, had seen lights flickering in the Ordway residence, a light which led him to believe that someone was using a flashlight in the house. He had called police headquarters and the call had been relayed to the radio cars. Car 32 had gone to investigate and had surprised two men running away from the house. The officers claimed to have seen a monkey clinging to the shoulder of one of the men, but subsequent investigation had shown that none of the servants in the house knew anything at all about a monkey.

John C. Ordway had been attending an important conference. The servants had either retired, or, as in the case of the butler, had been spending the night away from the house. The chauffeur had had the evening off, but had returned at about eleven o’clock; he had been restless and had not slept well; he was awakened by some sound. He thought it might have been a scream, but could not be certain. He looked toward the house, saw the reflections of the flashlight, and notified the police. Gladys Ordway was supposed to have attended a masquerade ball. The costume which she was to have worn had been found in the closet of her room. No one knew whether she had actually attended the ball and returned to meet her death, or whether she had not gone to the masquerade. The police were making a check-up for the purpose of ascertaining. They had failed to find a weapon.

Sam West, clad in a pair of brocaded silk pajamas, sat up in bed, read the papers and made a wry face at Brokay. “Well,” he said, “You wanted excitement.”

Brokay, fresh from the shower, with the tingle of youth and health on his cheeks, his hair still wet at the temples, grinned reassuringly. “I’ve got some more news for you,” he said.

West yawned. “What is it?” he asked. “And when do we eat?”

“You notice that the newspaper mentions that the police have some clues that they are running down.”

“Yes,” said Sam West, “it always mentions those things. Those don’t amount to anything. That’s just a sop that the newspaper guys hand to the police.”

“In this case it may not be?” Brokay said.

“How do you mean?” West inquired.

“When we started to run,” Brokay said, “the monkey jittered around on my shoulder; he reached up and grabbed my hair. In doing that he dislodged my hat, and it fell off. I was going to stop to pick it up, but you jabbed the gun into my ribs and I didn’t have a chance to explain.”

Sam West sat bolt upright in bed, staring at George Brokay with wide, startled eyes. “Your hat?” he asked.

Brokay nodded.

“Now,” said Sam West, “go ahead and pour it on, hand it to me right on the chin. Tell me that your hat has got your initials in it.”

Brokay nodded. “And more than that,” he said, “it has the name of my hatter. The police can trace that hat and can identify it, just as sure as I’m standing here.”

The covers flung back as Sam West’s bare feet hit the floor. He started peeling off the pajamas, reaching for underwear.

“We can’t run away from them,” Brokay said. “We’ve got to face the music.”

“The hell we can’t,” Sam West told him. “You don’t know what you’re up against, brother. If the police trace that hat here, and start asking you questions, what are you going to tell them?”

“If necessary, I can tell them the truth,” Brokay said.

“Oh no you can’t, brother. We went into that last night. You can’t explain what you were doing in the house.”

“I might say that I was driving by and saw someone jimmying the window; that I tried to stop him and he ran away.”

“And then, instead of calling the police to help you, you ran when the police came up,” sneered Sam West. “Moreover, they go out in the garage and open the garage door and find my roadster in there, with a neat little bullet hole in the rear of the body. Try and explain that away.”