Эрл Гарднер - Time for Murder

George Brokay latchkeyed the front door of his palatial residence, where he maintained de luxe bachelor quarters. There was a yawn twisting his lips, and complete boredom in his eyes.

The hour was but five minutes after midnight, which was no time for a wealthy, eligible young bachelor to be returning home. And George Brokay was doing it only because he could think of no better place to go.

His hand reached for the light switch and was almost on the point of pushing the button, when he noticed a ribbon of light coming from under the side of a doorway at the end of the hall.

He paused, staring at the ribbon of light.

Grigsby, the butler, should have retired long since. Brokay had left specific orders that his valet was not to wait up for him. There was, therefore, no good reason why anyone should he in the library. Yet, unmistakably, a light was burning in there, and, as Brokay watched the strip of yellow which showed beneath the door, he saw moving shadows cross it.

There was someone in the room; someone who was moving.

Brokay stepped silently into the little den which was at the left of the corridor. He noiselessly opened the drawer of a desk and took out an automatic. Moving as silently as a shadow, he slipped through the dark corridor and paused, with his hand on the knob of the door to the library.

He listened and could hear nothing.

He turned the knob slowly, exerting pressure on the door as he did so, so that the latch would give no audible click. When he felt the knob turn as far as it would go, he pulled on the door, opening it an inch at a time.

The door swung back upon well-oiled hinges. Brokay, the wicked-looking automatic held in his right hand, kept to one side so that he could see through the opening of the door.

The portion of the library which was visible through the partially opened door was the corner which contained the wall safe. The panel which concealed the safe had been swung open. A man was standing in front of it, moving with swiftly silent rapidity.

Brokay watched him with fascination.

The man took a cake of soft yellow laundry soap, kneeded the soap into a cup-shaped container, which he fastened to the door of the safe, just at the point where the door joined the body of the safe. Then, with deft fingers, he pressed the soap along the crack between the door and the safe. The man’s fingers moved so swiftly and so capably that Brokay realized he was watching a master workman.

It was when the man bent to a leather satchel on the floor and took out a bottle of thick, slightly yellowish, viscid liquid, and was about to pour a measure of that liquid into the cup-shaped container at the top of the safe, that Brokay announced his presence.

“Don’t move,” he said.

The man was facing the safe, the bottle held in his right hand. The cork had been removed. As Brokay spoke, the man froze into immobility, without moving so much as a muscle.

Brokay, who had rather expected the man to give a guilty start, to whirl and face him with terror upon a countenance grayed with fear, thought that perhaps the man had not heard him.

“I said don’t move,” Brokay repeated. “I’ve got you covered with a gun. I’m rather expert in its use. I most certainly shall drill you right through the back if you make any sudden moves or try to escape.”

The man still kept his back turned and spoke over his shoulder.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he said.

“Don’t ever do what?” asked Brokay, puzzled and interested at the well-modulated tone of the man’s voice.

“Don’t ever interrupt a box-man when he’s pouring ‘soup’ into a box. I was just getting ready to make a jamb-shot, and you came along and pulled that line of yours. Don’t you know that there’s enough nitroglycerine in this bottle to blow all of us to Kingdom Come? It would wreck the house. If I dropped it, it would probably go off. There wouldn’t be two sticks left standing around here. They wouldn’t find enough of us to be able to tell what had happened. You couldn’t even have a funeral.”

“Well,” Brokay said, “what of it?”

“I’m just telling you,” the man said, “don’t ever do that again.”

Slowly and deliberately he inserted a cork in the bottle, stooped and put the bottle back in the bag. During all of this time, he had kept his back turned to Brokay.

There was a twinkle of lazy humor in Brokay’s eyes. “Be very careful with your hands,” he said, “when you take them out of that bag. I’d hate to have to shoot you.”

The man straightened, turned toward Brokay, presenting a face that was quick and alert, eyes that were a dark brown, and dancing with excitement.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I know when I’m caught. But you haven’t got me in the hands of the police yet. I’ve been in tighter positions than this before.”

“Would you mind,” Brokay asked with genuine curiosity in his voice, “telling me exactly what you expected to find in that safe?”

“Oh, just a few trinkets,” the man said.

“Did you have any specific article in mind?” Brokay inquired.

“No. Why?”

“Nothing,” Brokay said, “only, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you now, I happen to have a very valuable diamond necklace that I put in that safe yesterday.”

“Wouldn’t that have been a break for me!” the man said.

“And no one tipped you off?” Brokay inquired.

“Not a soul. That’s on the level. I was just on the prowl, and this joint looked easy to me. I figured that a young, good-looking bachelor like you, who had inherited a million and boosted that million to about five million by good business judgment, was pretty likely to have a lot of stuff hanging around the house. In other words,” figured you’d be careless with money.

“It’s rather interesting, in case you’re at all interested in psychology. A person who has acquired money by scrimping and saving doesn’t usually have anything valuable around the house unless he’s one of the kind that distrusts the banks and hoards his money. A sap that makes money easily and rapidly gets careless with things. He’s very much inclined to get pieces of value and leave them hanging around in safes that don’t offer much more protection against a burglar than a bread box.”

“Look here,” Brokay said suddenly, “you’re no ordinary crook!”

“Who said I was?” asked the burglar.

“You’re talking, of course,” Brokay said, “to gain time. You’re simply stalling for a break. You figure that if you can get my interest, you’re going to delay my call for the police.”

The burglar laughed, and there was genuine amusement in his laugh.

“And,” Brokay went on, “you’ve got rather a magnetic personality. You think that if you can engage me in conversation and get me to have a liking for you, I won’t be quite so ready to pull the trigger when you rush me.”

The smile faded from the man’s face. “Listen, brother,” he said, “you’re too good a mind reader. No wonder you made four or five million bucks in a couple of years.”

“Apparently, you’ve looked up quite a bit of my history,” Brokay told him.

“Oh, sure, we always do that. We know the kind of a lay we’re running into before we crack the joint.”

Brokay suddenly lowered the gun. “Look here,” he said, “suppose I’d make a bargain with you?”

“What sort of a bargain?” asked the man, his eyes suddenly hard and appraising.