Mickey Spillane - I, The Jury

“How quickly did you come back? Wait a minute. Go in there and get a beer. Let me see how long it took you.” The darky shuffled off while I timed him. Fifteen seconds later he was back with a bottle in his hand.

“Did you do it that fast before? Think now. Did you drink it here or in there?”

“Here, boss,” he said simply, pointing to an empty bottle on the floor. I yelled to him not to move, then ran for the back of the house. The place was built in two sections, this part an addition to the other. The only way in was through the French windows to the bar and the back door, or the one connecting door to the other section. The windows were bolted. So was the back door. The twin doors between the two sections of the building were firmly in place and locked. I looked for other possible entries, but there were none. If that were so I could still have the killer trapped somewhere inside.

Quickly, I raced up the stairs. The maid was recovering and I helped her to her feet. She was pasty-faced and breathing hard, so I sat her down on the top step as Charlotte came in with the twins.

The maid was in no condition to answer questions. I shouted down to Charlotte to call Pat Chambers as fast as she could and get him up here. He could call the local cops later. Mary and Esther came up and took the maid out of my hands and half carried her downstairs to a chair.

I went into the murder room and closed the door after me. I didn’t worry about fingerprints. My killer never left any.

Myrna had on her blue coat, though I couldn’t see why. The night was far too warm for it. She lay in front of a full-length mirror, doubled up. I looked closely at the wound. Another .45. The killer’s gun. I was bent down on my knees looking for the bullet when I noticed the stuff on the rug. A white powder. Around it the nap of the carpet had been ruffled as though someone had tried to scoop it up. I took an envelope from my pocket and got some of the grains inside. I felt the body. It was still warm. But then, at this temperature, rigor mortis wouldn’t set in until late.

Myrna’s hands were clenched together so tightly I had difficulty working my fingers under hers. She had clawed at her coat trying to hold the wound, and fibers of wool were caught under her fingernails. She had died hard, but fast. Death was merciful.

I felt under the coat, and there in the folds of the cloth was the bullet, a .45. I had my killer here. All I had to do was find him. Why he should kill Myrna was beyond me. She was as far out of the case as I was. The motive. The motive. What the hell kind of a motive was it that ate into so many people? The people the killer reached out and touched had nothing to give. They were all so different.

Jack, yes. I could see where he’d got mixed up in murder, but Myrna, no. Look at Bobo. Nothing could make me believe he was part of the picture. Where was motive there? Dope, he had been delivering it. But the connection. He never lived long enough to tell where he got the package or to whom it was going.

I shut the door softly behind me out of respect for the dead. Esther Bellemy had the maid in a chair at the foot of the stairs trying to comfort her. Mary was pouring herself a stiff whisky, her hands trembling. This hit her hard, whereas Esther was well composed. Charlotte came in with a cold compress and held it against the maid’s head.

“Can she talk yet?” I asked Charlotte.

“Yes, I think so. Just be easy with her.”

I knelt in front of the maid and patted her hand. “Feel better?” She nodded. “Good, I just want to ask you a few questions, then you can lie down. Did you see anyone come or go?”

“No. I—I was in the back of the house cleaning up.”

“Did you hear a shot?”

Another negative.

I called over to the colored man. “What about you, hear anything?”

“Nosuh, I don’ heah nuthin’.”

If neither had heard the shot, then the silencer must still be on the .45. And if the killer had it around, we’d find it. That kind of a rig is too big to hide.

I went back to the maid. “Why did you go upstairs?”

“To straighten out the clothes. The women had left them all over the bed. That’s when I saw the b-body.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed quietly.

“Now, one more thing, did you touch anything?”

“No, I faulted.”

“Put her to bed, Charlotte; see if you can find something to make her sleep. She’s pretty upset.”

Between Charlotte and Esther they half dragged the maid to a bed. Mary Bellemy was pouring one drink after another in her. She wouldn’t be standing up much longer. I took the darky aside. “I’m going upstairs. Don’t let anyone in or out unless I say so, you hear? You do and you’ll wind up in jail yourself.” I didn’t have to say anything else. He stammered out a reply that I didn’t get, then locked and bolted the front door.

My killer had to be somewhere around. He had to leave through the front door unless he went out an upstairs window. Everything else was locked up tightly. But except for the little bit of time the bartender was away from the door, someone was there. That time had been enough to let the killer in, but not enough to let him back out again. Not without being seen by the bartender, that is. If the darky had seen someone and had been told to keep his mouth shut, I would have known it. I could swear that he was telling the truth. Besides, my killer would have knocked him off as well, and as easily, rather than take the risk of exposure.

From the top of the stairs, the hall crossed like a T. Doors opened off the one side, and each proved to be a guest room. I tried the windows. Locked. I went up and down both ends of the T trying to find where the exit was. Each room I inspected and searched with my rod in my fist, waiting, hoping.

The murder room was the last room I tried. And that’s where the killer got out. The window slid up easily, and I looked down fifteen feet to a flagstone walk below. If he had jumped he wouldn’t be walking now. The drop was enough to break a leg, especially on those stones. Around the building and directly under the window ran a narrow ledge. It projected out about eight inches from the wall and was clean of dust or dirt on both sides of the window. I lit a match and looked for heel marks in the concrete of the ledge, but there were none. Not a mark. This was enough to drive me nuts.

Even the eight inches wasn’t enough to walk across on barefaced brick. I tried it. I got out on the ledge and tried first to walk along with my face to the wall, then with my back to it. In both cases I almost took a spill. It would take a real athlete to cross that. Someone who was part cat.

Inside the room, I pulled the window down and went back to the hall. At either end a window overlooked the grounds. I didn’t see it at first, but when I stuck my head out there was a fire-escape ladder built into the wall adjacent to the window. Oh, how pretty if it could be done. The killer strikes, then out the window to the ledge, and around to the fire escape. Now I had an acrobat on my hands. Swell, more headaches.

I went downstairs and took the bottle away from Mary in time to salvage a drink from the wreckage and ease her into a chair. She was dead drunk.

A half hour later I had still gotten nowhere when I heard the pounding of feet outside and told the darky to open up.

Pat and his staff walked in escorted by some county police. How that guy could get around the red tape of city limitations and restrictions was beyond me. He went upstairs at once, listening as I gave him the details.

I finished as he was bent over the body. The county coroner bustled in, declared the girl officially dead and made out a report. “How long since she died?” Pat asked.