“He wanted me. He wanted me to ditch Harry and go with him.”
Harry made a noise like an animal. He was high and he rocked back and forth with the night case in his arms. Terry started to go to him. But Danny gripped her arm. She didn’t struggle.
“Give me the bag now, Harry.” Danny moved toward him.
“No.” The trembling had stopped in Harry. The mind had pulled itself together enough to scurry around the trap. “No. It was Nick’s, so it’s mine now.”
Danny moved closer. But he stopped. A small gun was in Harry’s hand. A twenty-two.
“It’s not yours, Harry,” Danny said patiently. “Nick wanted Terry. So it’s hers. It’s not yours. Give it to me, Harry.”
“She’s lying.” Harry was waving the gun at them. “We were friends!” His voice got confidential. “Nick didn’t like women. He told me.”
“You killed him because he wanted Terry. Didn’t you?” Harry didn’t answer. He started keening again. Danny took a cautious step. Terry darted between them and cried, “No!” and the gun went off and Terry spun around and sat down with a surprised look.
Harry dropped the bag and scuttled to the bathroom.
There was a shot as Danny hit the door.
Danny turned back. The bag had fallen open, the money spilled over the floor. Terry was crying. Blood was staining her dress on the right side below the rib cage. He didn’t think there was too much damage.
“Lie down, I’ll see how bad it is.”
It wasn’t bad. The slug had gone through.
“Where were you planning to go?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere. Away. I didn’t know Harry killed Nick.”
The pounding at the door was impatient. He unlocked it and Buchanan and Zimmerman came in.
Danny said, “You ought to try getting some place on time.”
Buchanan looked at Terry and the money and he asked, “Where’s the big bad killer?”
Danny pointed.
The two detectives went into the bathroom. Zimmerman looked embarrassed.
Danny lit two cigarettes and brought Terry one. She took a deep drag and lay back closing her eyes. “It’s all over now,” she said.
But Danny said, “How do I tell Mrs. Dukas why Nick had to die?”
Later, it didn’t bother him so much.
Of More Value Than Sparrows
by Melville Davisson Post[3]
Alas, there are too few tales of Uncle Abner, one of the truly great detectives of all time; but if there is one Virginian gentleman and scholar who could substitute for Uncle Abner, and do his name proud, it is Mr. Post’s other great humanitarian, Colonel Braxton.
Colonel Braxton was profoundly puzzled.
It was afternoon and he had made a considerable journey.
The house sat on a hill in a grove of trees, with only a path to reach it. The unused country road below ran through a forest to the little railway station at the distant end of the valley.
Colonel Braxton came up the path alone to the house.
Not a soul was to be seen, and opening an unlatched door on the portico he went in.
It was a library that he entered, a great room, the four walls of which were filled with books on open shelves to the height of a man’s shoulder.
But no one had ever used it.
The man who built it by political accident had been a senator, and for appearance had filled this room with government reports, gathered at no cost, and of no interest to any living creature.
The earth had finally received him, and the later occupant had acquired the property at the sale that followed. He had made no change in the room, for no book intrigued him. He had permitted the volumes to remain, as one permits a permanent decoration in his house. No hand had ever removed a book from its shelf, and they became with time, like the beautiful walnut paneling above them, a part of the four walls.
There was a heavy, long, old walnut writing desk sitting near a window, with a worn upholstered chair. This desk the late owner used for his papers and accounts.
Colonel Braxton had stopped beside this desk as he came in.
The drawers had been pulled out, and the contents left in confusion. In the partly open drawer below the writing desk, a big pistol of an early model was half concealed. Colonel Braxton took it up for a moment, and then replaced it. He touched nothing else and went on to the middle of the room. Here another thing caught his eye, and he remained unmoving, his hands behind him, his big shoulders thrown forward, his face fixed in concerned reflection.
He was profoundly puzzled.
Two things had happened on this morning in strange sequence:
A girl had come into his office and asked him to make this journey in the interest of her affairs, and then, just as he was setting out, a message had arrived from this same house, asking him to come at once.
There could be no collusion in these two events, as they were from opposing interests.
To Colonel Braxton their identity in time was the mere coincidence of chance. Another in the practice of the law might believe that opposing interests raced here for the option of his professional services. But in the obscurity that surrounded these events the colonel thought he saw the dim outline of a definite purpose.
The owner of the estate, Marshall Lurty, had been dead and buried ten days. He had come here from New Orleans, bought this house and lands at the sale of the deceased senator’s effects, and had maintained the outdoor, leisurely life of a country gentleman.
He lived alone. No relative appeared until death removed him; then came the brother and this girl, as though they had winged out of distant countries, with no knowledge that either was on the way.
Of his dead client Colonel Braxton had no foreknowledge. But of this brother he had got on occasion a suggestive hint. The colonel had been attorney for the dead man in some simple matters, had seen him now and then, and had been in this house. It was in the chance vagaries of the dead man’s conversation * that he had learned a little about the brother...
There was a slight sound, and, turning swiftly, Colonel Braxton saw the new occupant before him.
He had entered softly through the open doorway at the attorney’s back. And at once, when one saw the man, one understood that method of approach — the instinct of caution, as though he were accustomed to subterranean maneuvers.
But, also, at the sight of him a doubt departed.
He was what he claimed to be, the dead man’s brother. The likeness was unmistakable. Here was no imposter. But this man was sinister, as though he might have received the last heavy dregs of evil lying in the blood of his race.
He was big, like his dead brother; but he looked soft, like a mushroom fattened in tropic cellars — a poisonous mushroom! And Colonel Braxton remembered the hint in the dead man’s talk — counselor to doubtful enterprises, cunning, untrustworthy, and dangerous.
The stranger addressed the attorney with a courteous introduction.
He was Caleb Lurty, whom doubtless his brother, Marshall Lurty, had mentioned. He was concerned in the settlement of the dead man’s estate. He had sent for Colonel Braxton in order to make a certain inquiry. Would he be seated?
He crossed then to the big old walnut desk, and sat down behind it. Colonel Braxton replied with a conventional rejoinder, but remained standing, with his hands behind him.
Mr. Caleb Lurty seemed, for some moments, as though uncertain how the conversation should be opened.
Then he put this query: “Colonel Braxton,” he said, “you have acted as attorney for my brother?”
“Yes.”