The speaker’s cough exploded over the phone. He hastened to deny that, making some vague reference to just “Investigation.”
“Well,” Aunt Tilly said, “I don’t suppose you can tell those things, but it’s clear that the senator had you phone, and it was certainly generous of him to allow me fifty dollars a pen, when it’s really a patriotic duty—”
The speaker made a sound that conveyed extreme pain. He said nothing had been said about that to him.
“But it must have been mentioned!” she said steadfastly. “He said that he was having a hundred of them picked up in the city and they’d all be paid for at the same rate in cash.”
“A hundred of them?” the speaker choked. Then he switched his tune. “But I think I can explain. You see, we’re not picking them up. The manufacturer is — as it was apparently a mistake clean through.”
“And of course,” Aunt Tilly said with an older woman’s understanding, “the manufacturer will pay, and that is really patriotic of him to try to make restitution at his own expense. When shall I expect him, Mr. — did you say, Wolf?”
He made uncertain sounds. He wanted to talk price again, but Stack guessed that he was worried an official investigator might already be on the trail and cutting them out.
“Oh really,” Aunt Tilly interrupted, “if there’s no money involved, it would be as easy for me to just mail them to Washington, wouldn’t it?”
There was a fresh burst of rapid talk. Chip could imagine the swindler sweating. He finally said that he’d send the manufacturer’s representative right over.
Aunt Tilly hung up and giggled and smoothed her skirts. She said, “That last one really choked him! They hate to see a dollar get away, don’t they? But won’t they notice the weight?”
“I don’t think they’ll take time to notice anything except grab and run,” Chip said. “They’ll think a Washington man is already breathing down their necks and they’ll try to beat him to every pen they can grab.”
Aunt Tilly freshened a cup of tea and had just finished it when her maid announced the manufacturer’s agent. Stack vanished into an adjoining room and Aunt Tilly gave her most winsome smile as the racketeer came in.
“The nation can be proud of business men like you,” she greeted him. “This really wasn’t your fault, and yet you’re willing to take all this trouble and expense just to retrieve two pens.”
He gave a fat faced, pallid smile. “We are really pretty rushed. I hope that you’ve located the pens?”
“Oh yes,” she said. She picked them up and compared them. “I suppose I should have noticed that they’re heavier than my other ball pens.”
He laid a hundred dollar bill on the table and extended a pudgy hand. Aunt Tilly placed them in his hand with force.
“You see, they are heavier,” she murmured brightly. “But won’t you sit down and have a cup of tea? I think another of the senator’s men will be here shortly.”
The swindler gulped and made excuses and rushed out stuffing the pens into his pocket. Aunt Tilly whacked her knee and laughed like Tugboat Annie.
Her nephew came forth regarding her suspiciously. “Just where did you learn to push a light weight when you want it to feel heavier?” Chip inquired.
“Oh that,” she sniffed. “Well, I do read detective magazines.”
Her agile mind had been caught by another thought. She was ticking on her fingers. She said thoughtfully, “You know, if those pens were worth a hundred dollars and he picks up a hundred, it would be quite a nice day’s work, Chip.”
“Five thousand dollars,” he said. “Likewise, if he picks up a hundred, even at twenty-five dollars average, he’ll be out a nice month’s profits.”
“I’m sure poor Arthur will rest much easier now,” she said. “He did so hate to be bested.” She picked up the hundred dollar bill and held it to him. “I’ll just take fifteen dollars and forty-two cents, Chip, and I think I’ll put you back in my will.”
The Marrow of Justice
by Hal Ellson
The smoldering anger of the crowd awaited eruption. Detective Fiala was unconcerned — his eyes sought only one man — the murderer who, through guilt or morbid curiosity, might be lurking at the scene.
The coffin was a plain one, finished in the shop of Carlos Martinez, without frills, stark naked wood of soft pine. Harsh sunlight splintered off it as the men carried it through the miserable street, treading its dust, stones and the scattered fire of tangerine peels withering in the heat.
It was a day of flame but, in this land of perpetual sun, not unseasonable. No more than death. The poor in their shacks and crumbling adobes knew its ghastly visits all too frequently. Funerals were commonplace and all of a kind. A plain pine box for the deceased, four men to carry it and a small group of mourners following.
A vast crowd followed the coffin of Rosa Belmonte, the third young girl in the city to die by violation in a brief period of three months. Half-starved dogs with ribs showing, children, toddlers and beggars amidst the crowd lent it a pseudo air of carnival which was diluted by the sombre faces of adults and a muffled silence under which anger awaited eruption.
The police felt it, a news-photographer sighted it in his camera. Detective Fiala was aware of the same phenomenon, but unconcerned with the crowd as such. His eyes sought only one man — the murderer who, through guilt or morbid disposition, might be lurking here.
No face riveted his attention till Fiala noticed the limousine, with the crowd breaking round it and the Chief of Police, Jose Santiago. He was sitting beside his chauffeur, face bloated and dark, tinted glasses concealing incongruous blue eyes that resembled twin stones and reflected the basic nature of the man.
Without the uniform he might be the one I’m looking for, Fiala thought, turning away and moving on with the sullen crowd that refused to acknowledge the naked violence of the sun.
The funeral went off without incident, the police were relieved, Chief Santiago satisfied. His chauffeur returned him to the Municipal building, the location of police headquarters.
As he entered his office with Captain Torres, the phone rang. He picked it up, listened, then dismissed Captain Torres with a wave of his hand. Frowning now, he spoke to his caller, Victor Quevedo, Mayor of the city and the one who had “made” him. These two were friends of a sort, but the conversation that ensued between them now was strictly business.
The murder of Rosa Belmonte, with the killer not apprehended, as in both previous murders, had created grave criticism of the police which, in turn, reflected upon Quevedo, exposing him to the machinations of his political enemies. This was the gist of Quevedo’s complaint along with his sharp demand that Santiago do something and do it fast.
“Do what?” said Santiago.
“Get the killer before midnight.”
Astounded, Santiago hesitated, stuttered inanely and finally managed to say, “But Victor—”
Quevedo cut him off sharply. “I am being embarrassed politically and otherwise,” he snapped. “If you wish to continue as Chief of Police, find the killer. Don’t — and you’re finished.”
Sweating profusely, Santiago dropped the phone and sat back. Slowly with trembling hands he lit a cigarette and dispersed a cloud of smoke. His thoughts were in chaos, dark face swollen to bursting. Slowly the agitation within him receded. Behind his tinted glasses his cold eyes lit up as a face focused in his mind.
He crushed his cigarette, arose, opened the door, called Captain Torres into the office and gave him his orders: “Pick up Manuel Domingo for the murder of Rosa Belmonte.”