King was looking bewildered.
“But I’d never do that,” he protested. “He must have been mad!”
“He was – and desperate, too.” I grinned. “Here’s where I come into the story. Dave Kirby, the Boy Reporter. I got here today just after you left in the afternoon. I blundered in before Petroff could escape, so he lay there on the floor, hoping to fool me. When I left for the sheriff, he took a powder.
“Now the jig was up, but Petroff decided to carry the plan through. If he worked fast, he might still succeed. He’d called Lorna, asked her to come to town. He had only one idea – to appear before her as a supposed vampire and thus further bolster his story when he saw King and demanded money. This he was doing as I arrived at Lorna’s room. He fled, and undertook his next step in the plan – the murder of Dr Kelring.”
“But why would he murder Kelring?” King asked.
I shrugged. “There were several reasons. The first is the one that led me to the scene. You remember, I came out to the house for an interview on the Petroff estate art treasures, an interview Petroff had already refused to grant.”
“Yes?”
“There was a reason for my coming and a reason for his refusal. You see, my editor had a tip that several valuable vases recognized as part of the Petroff collection had been offered for sale at private auction. Get it?
“Petroff was already raising money by illegally disposing of art treasures belonging to the estate. Kelring must have just discovered this and demanded his cut. Otherwise, he would squeal about the fake death certificate. So Petroff had to kill him. Just as an added touch, he left a little souvenir after strangling him in his office.”
I handed King his spectacle case.
“You nearly had credit for that piece of work,” I said. “I’m sure he would have threatened to turn you in had you refused him money when he demanded it this evening. So it’s lucky I had you on the phone and can support an alibi.”
King blinked.
“After killing Dr Kelring he scooted out here to wait for you. He knew you’d be out to check up. He hadn’t counted on Lorna and me arriving, but when we showed up first, he was ready. After that you dashed in, made your bang-bang with the silver bullets, and passed out. You aren’t a good shot, King. Those bullets are in the walls, not in his body. But it wouldn’t have mattered much. He wore a bullet-proof vest under the cloak. Felt it when I tackled him.”
Lorna looked at me.
“You tackled him,” she whispered. “That was wonderful. Even if he might be a vampire, you took the chance.”
“But he wasn’t a vampire. I knew that.”
“Didn’t you find him with holes in his throat?”
“Right. But he made them himself. Shallow cuts with a paper-knife, no doubt. You see, a vampire’s bite will drain all blood. And there was blood. I know something about superstitions myself, Lorna.”
Sirens punctuated my sentence. The law was arriving in full force.
Suddenly I was very tired and very contented. Lenehan would get a story after all. And I’d get some sleep.
Lorna kissed me.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“For being brave. I don’t care what you say, he might have been a vampire.”
“Not a chance.” I grinned. “I knew that from the beginning. When I looked at him on the floor this afternoon, his mouth was open. That was the tip-off.”
“What do you mean?”
“He couldn’t be a vampire because he couldn’t bite anyone. After all, darling, who ever heard of a big, bad vampire with false teeth?”
THE BLUE STEEL SQUIRREL
Frank R. Read
In a silver flood of moonlight, a group of people laughed and talked together on a terrace in a high-walled garden. The occasion was a happy one – a betrothal party. The soft June air, still fresh from a sundown shower, was heavy with the scent of roses. A mockingbird, perched high atop a chimney, trilled a liquid melody.
The bride-to-be, radiant with happiness, sat in a cane garden chair, watching the familiar scene. Her eyes lingered over each precious beauty, the playing fountain, the full moon. They rested on the face of the man she loved, Michael Collins.
Mike, toying with the dials of a portable radio, paused as the familiar hum of a station fried in the loud-speaker. He smiled at his fiancée, and absent-mindedly turned up the volume.
A mighty roar rolled over the terrace as a brassy swing band crashed into a hot tune. Guests and host, jolted by the discordant notes, stiffened and glared at the young man. Mike mumbled apologies, and snapped off the radio.
The guests sank back in their chairs with a sigh of relief, all but the bride-to-be. She stiffened, slumped forward in her chair, and tumbled forward to the flagstone flooring.
A silver bullet had pierced her heart.
There had been no sound, no outcry, no flash of gunfire. Stupidly, the members of the party looked from one to the other. The spell of inactivity was broken only when one of the woman screamed.
A year later, there was a bulging file at police headquarters, titled:
“Corinne Bogart – Homicide (Unsolved)”
The long, sun-bronzed young man, wearing an impeccable dark-blue tropical worsted suit, leaned back in his swivel chair and studied his name lettered in reverse on the ground-glass door of his office – Jefferson Hunter. Just that, nothing more.
There is no trade term, unless, perhaps, “Confidential Commercial Agent”, that could be applied to him. That, too, would be a misnomer, for Jefferson Hunter, home again after solving a foreign reconstruction problem, looked into anything that intrigued him, with or without permission. The fees he demanded and received from corporations were known to have made boards of directors shudder. Yet his services were in immediate demand as soon as he reopened his office.
“Anything exciting in the morning mail, Smitty?” he asked Z. Z. Smith, his small, wiry assistant.
“Yes.” Smitty slid a small pile of letters across his boss’s desk. “The top note has me stumped.”
Jeff’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting?”
“Could be. It’s from a guy named Bogart.”
“What?” Jeff sat up. “What did you say?”
“I said it’s from a guy named Bogart. Wendell A. Best clubs and so on. Director of this and that. Smells of do-re-mi. He wants you to come to see him about something personal and confidential. He says Wagner, the man you helped on the oil deal in Iran, recommended you.”
Jeff leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes hardening. “It’s foolish,” he told himself, “to keep avoiding Pamela Bogart.” Sooner or later, he was bound to meet her. Why postpone the inevitable?
“OK, Smitty, make an appointment.”
“I have. Bogart is waiting for us at his home.”
“Um-m-m! Didn’t give me a chance to refuse, did you?”
Smitty, like all valuable assistants, knew his boss like a book. He anticipated his wishes, needled him into action, and restrained his enthusiasms. Smitty, in short, was invaluable.
The sleek yellow convertible, carrying Jeff and his Man Friday, purred into the Valley, the town’s exclusive suburb.
“There’s the house, Jeff!” Smitty pointed. “Nice dive! There’s a ten-foot brick wall around the back garden. Cripes, the house is built of white marble.”
“I hate to disillusion you, Smitty,” Jeff said, as they stopped under an ornate porte-cochere, “but this pile has only a one-inch marble face, probably over cinder block or tile. It’s typical of the late twenties. Built for show. Two bits says Bogart’s a pain in the neck.”