The note pad, “And I’m your doctor!”
He stood up, staggering, and started across the room to the telephone on her desk. She jumped in front of him and pushed him back onto the leather table.
The gleam in her eye wasn’t exactly friendly, but she reached for the phone. He watched her dial the police number.
Three
Charles Horne sat upright in the three-quarters bed with his knees virtually propping up his chin, surrounded by scattered blankets and a deep, penetrating silence. He reread for the fourth time the hour-old telegram in his fingers.
Mother Hubbard had brought it in on tiptoe, placing it on his pillow without awakening him, she thought. As soon as she had closed the bedroom door behind her he sat up and ripped open the yellow envelope.
There followed the sound of the ripping a single, expressive word.
Crisply, abruptly, the telegram yanked Charles Horne from the passive role of eyewitness to the crime and put him to running with the hounds. He glanced at the clock and saw it was long past his usual breakfast hour. Union Workman’s Mutual had had time to be notified of the death, but the beneficiary must be in one hell of a hurry. Of course, they could have been notified by the police while the latter were asking questions, or it may have been on the night wire services and already published in Chicago.
Sergeant Wiedenbeck would love this.
Union Workman’s Mutual had become most concerned over the untimely demise of policyholder number G-388,017, more familiarly known as Mr. Walter Alfred Channy III.
Mr. Walter Alfred Channy, the Third, was the sleek and overfed gentleman who so strongly reminded one of a worm. The same sleek and overfed gentleman who had so recently been removed from Boone by the machinations of a practical joker. Union Workman’s Mutual directed Charles Horne to proceed with the investigation of said death and to co-operate with the police in every way.
Which was another way of saying he was to pump them for every scrap of information worth knowing. The death was definitely not an accidental one. It was bare and premeditated murder, but proof of the same must needs be forthcoming, if Union Workman’s Mutual hoped to avoid paying the face value of the policy doubled in greenbacks, as contained in the accidental death benefit clause.
A photostatic copy of the policy application along with other pertinent information was enroute to him via special delivery mail, for his confidential use. A code word embodied in the telegram stated the face amount of the policy was forty-five thousand dollars.
Ninety thousand dollars in cold cash to some lucky individual who happened to be the beneficiary, unless he or the police could present concrete proof of murder. Premeditated murder. And it had to be concrete. The courts were funny that way; they figured insurance companies had money to burn.
There were the so-called “Pearl Harbor cases” in insurance history. The Japanese attack that December day was an act of war and therefore (presumably) put into effect the war clauses in policy contracts held by some individuals who were killed on Sunday morning. But several courts ruled otherwise. Because Congress had not declared war until the following day, the courts held these deaths were murder, and not acts of war. The claims were paid.
Horne read the telegram again.
He noted that one of Everett’s assistants had sent the wire; the old man himself was probably in a state. That was the kind of a supervisor Everetts was; Union Workman Mutual’s penny and dime watchdog who had his nose in everything having the smell of money. Everetts personally checked each new policy-before it took effect, and double-checked each claim before it was paid. The man worked on a flat salary but every employee under him stood ready to swear he received a commission on all monies not paid out.
Horne recalled the futile efforts he had made to pad his expense accounts, and hoped Everetts was developing ulcers over this case. It wouldn’t be hard to prevent the payment of double the face value, but Union Workman’s Mutual was stuck for forty-five thousand as sure as Channy’s death.
Horne’s thoughts switched back to Dr. Saari. She had made him sleep, but the sleep did not wash away the memory of last night’s interview with the police sergeant.
Dr. Saari had difficulty in locating the man.
She had first dialed the police station and asked for him, only to be told he wasn’t in. After she had identified herself, the desk man explained that Wiedenbeck was at the scene of the explosion. She hung up.
“He’s here,” she explained to Charles. “Down on the street.”
“I’ll get him.” The detective stood up.
The doctor shook her chestnut locks, and pushed him down again.
“I’ll get him. Be back in a few minutes. Sit down and rest.”
“What?”
“Oh, sit down!”
Charles Horne sat down. He watched the doctor go out. Waiting until he judged she had had sufficient time to descend the stairs he stood up, crossed the hall to his own office, located a bottle of medicinal spirits and lightened its weight. Then he returned to her office and stretched himself out on the examining table, contemplating her ceiling.
Dr. Saari stood before the broken windows of the drugstore, estimating the damage to this one establishment alone. The nearest window was in complete shatters. Blood flecked the jagged edges still in place around the window casing and was spattered over the displays within the window.
An easy, familiar voice spoke up beside her.
“A man went through that window, doctor.”
She nodded. “I guessed as much. How are you, sergeant?”
The sergeant was a runt as far as size was concerned. She turned to face him, her eyes on a level with his own. But from past experience and talk-about-town she knew he was no runt in brain power. He had risen from patrolman to detective-sergeant in a little over three years’ time.
“I’m getting gray, doctor, getting gray. Things like this don’t help any. There was another guy. He didn’t get it so bad. He was coming out of the drugstore. He got blown back through the door,”
“Badly hurt?”
“Who, the guy kicked through the door? No, he’ll live. The other man won’t, though. The one that went through the window. He’ll be dead by the time the wagon gets him to the hospital, or my name ain’t Wiedenbeck. Thanks for coming down, though, doctor.”
She smiled at him. “There is still another casualty, sergeant. He called me downtown. He wants to see you.”
“Another one! Who?”
“Chuck — Charles Horne.”
“The hell! Where was he? We checked everybody up and down the street.”
“He was in his office. He’s waiting in mine, now. Nothing serious. He wants to see you.”
“To see me? Why?”
She shook her head in mild bewilderment. “I’m not too sure. Something about a wig and a worm.”
He stopped in mid-stride, whirled to face her.
“You’re not... No, you ain’t. What about a wig and a worm?”
“I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask him. He’s groggy to the point where he is thinking out loud. He claims he saw the entire episode. He says he saw the person responsible for this, and a wig and a worm fits in, somehow.”
The sergeant already had her by the arm and was covering ground in long strides. She was forced into a half-run to keep pace with him. Onlookers stared at them, curiously. As he walked, he questioned her.
“You sure he ain’t out of his head?”
“Oh, he’s that all right. But he’s sensible. I mean he can make sense if he wants to. He’s all in and I’m taking him home to bed. Probably have to give him an injection.”