I tingled all over.
I found a hammer and began pounding on a cement block in the wall, chipping it. Finally the hammer broke through. After that it was easy. I pounded the block into small pieces, revealing the money stashed in its interior.
I went to work on other blocks, pounding furiously, and the money began to pile up on the floor. I became so excited at the sight — and the prospect — that I forgot all caution. I hammered viciously, opening one block after another all across the freshly calked area.
I cleaned out Keever and Tish Grant/Rhonda McCracken. I went upstairs and found two suitcases and a makeup carrier. I filled each. No bills remained on the cement floor or inside the wall.
I drove out to the airport and boarded the first flight to New York City. Then I caught a flight to Los Angeles. The next hop was to Toronto where I rested for two days. Then I rode a commercial liner to Mexico City where I finally dressed first class and boarded first class to London.
But it was in Madrid that I finally completed the transformation. I no longer was a small time hood and some time stoolie who got off by trading information.
I became a wealthy Mexican-American new on the scene at the various waterholes of the swingers.
In time, I would be accepted.
The Apple Orchard Murder Case
by Joseph Payne Brennan
Mother Nature, Lucius Leffing knew, is a woman to be counted on, not trifled with. It was, of course, only natural for a man who hoarded every scrap of paper to find something deadly precious.
One September evening a few years ago, my investigator friend, Lucius Leffing, telephoned to tell me that he expected a prospective client to visit him the following day, adding that he would welcome my presence, if my work schedule permitted.
After lunch the next day, I drove over to Seven Autumn Street. When I was seated in his quaint Victorian living-room, Leffing leaned back in his worn but still comfortable Morris chair.
“The case concerns the murder of an old man which occurred about a month ago in the town of Cresswood, Connecticut,” he informed me. “I know little more than that. I have not yet agreed to accept the case. My caller is the murdered man’s sister, a Mrs. Lorna Kelvin.”
A few minutes later the door chimes sounded. Leffing introduced me to a middle-aged woman, grey-haired and somewhat too thin for her height, but fashionably-dressed and by no means unattractive. She was friendly but reserved in manner. She looked depressed and rather tired.
Leffing’s manner, courtly and considerate, appeared to lessen the tension which possessed her; she seemed to relax a little as she sat down and removed her gloves.
“Violent crime is so commonplace these days,” she began, “I don’t know if your local paper even mentioned the murder of my brother in Cresswood. He was an elderly eccentric, a sort of hermit I suppose you’d say, and I presume his murder wasn’t considered important enough for headlines.” She looked at him almost defiantly.
Leffing frowned as he racked his memory. “I do not recall the crime, Mrs. Kelvin. If the local paper carried an account, it seems unlikely that I would have missed it.”
Mrs. Kelvin nodded. A look of bitterness shadowed her face. “He was just an old man, living alone in a one-room cabin.” She bit her lip but quickly regained her composure.
“Since I know nothing concerning the case,” Leffing told her, “suppose you give me whatever details you possess. How and where was your brother murdered?”
“My brother, Franklin Selk, was strangled in an apple orchard on the outskirts of Cresswood. Apparently he had gone to the orchard to gather apples. He had been seen, carrying a sack of some kind, walking in that direction. The murder was brutal and entirely senseless. My brother had no money left — in fact, the town people can’t recall that he even carried a wallet. He lived in a — well, a shack, I guess you’d call it — and just managed to exist by doing a few chores and odd jobs for the people around there.”
She sighed and shook her head. “For years we — my brothers and I — tried to help him, but it was useless. Where money was concerned, he was like a child. He just lost it or wasted it and never seemed able to give a coherent account of what had happened to it. He went through his inheritance in a year or two.”
“Did your brother receive a substantial inheritance?” Leffing asked.
“My father was quite wealthy. After my mother had been provided for, all four children received fifty thousand dollars upon reaching the age of twenty-one. Franklin was the eldest and he ran through his money in no time at all, as I have just said. He got involved in all sorts of harebrained, speculative schemes. For years my two brothers and I tried to get him back on his feet financially, but it was useless. At length, as our own resources declined and our responsibilities increased, we gave up. We were merely tossing our money to the winds.”
Leffing was silent for some time. “A familiar and unfortunate state of affairs,” he commented at length, “but it certainly gives us no motive for murder!”
“That is what baffles us, Mr. Leffing. In spite of his meager mode of existence, Franklin was always amiable and friendly. Always likable. It doesn’t seem possible that he could have made any enemies. The people in Cresswood may have, well, made fun of him at times, but they were fond of him just the same. They were shocked at the manner of his death and really quite angry — but of course that is of no help to us.”
“Did the local authorities uncover any clues or any evidence which might suggest a motive?”
An expression of exasperation overspread Mrs. Kelvin’s face. “The coroner’s inquest decided that my brother had ‘come to his death my manual strangulation at the hands of a party or parties unknown’ — or some such routine jargon. I can’t recall it word for word. But in my opinion the police investigation was perfunctory. They poked around the orchard a few times, looked into my brother’s shack, asked us a few rather silly questions — and then dropped the whole matter. At least it would appear so.
“I believe their favorite theory is that a stranger, a hitchhiker probably, got into an argument with my brother and strangled him. They said the killer might have been ‘high’ on drugs. But we aren’t satisfied, Mr. Leffing, and that’s why I’ve come to you.”
At this point our visitor took a handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. “In spite of my brother’s faults and his way of life, I loved him — we all did — and we want a thorough investigation. It was a horrible way for a poor old man to die. The thought of his murderer running around loose, enjoying life, makes me furious!”
For some minutes Leffing sat without speaking, his fingers tented together. “I will accept the case,” he said finally, “but it is only fair to warn you, Mrs. Kelvin, that I may be no more successful than your local police. If a psychotic hitchhiker killed your brother, he may be hundreds or possibly thousands of miles away by now. If he was a drug addict, he may not even have any memory of the murder!”
Mrs. Kelvin got up, visibly relieved. “I am aware of your reputation, Mr. Leffing. All the family asks is that you do your best. Your fee will be paid without question whether or not you succeed in tracking down the killer.”
After our visitor had left, my friend glanced at me quizzically. “Well, Brennan, what is your opinion of the case?”
“I hate to be eternally pessimistic, but I think you’ve taken on a tartar this time! The odds against a successful solution would seem to be astronomical!”
Leffing picked up an antique pearl-ware epergne and inspected it lovingly. “You may be right, but we can no more than try. In any event, no other business is pending at the moment. I’ll plan to get up to Cresswood tomorrow. Will you care to come along?”