Murder can be fun aka a.., p.19
Murder Can Be Fun # aka A Plot for Murder, page 19
“That's easy to figure. A man no older than he wouldn't attempt to retire for life on the small amount those pearls and his bank draft came to. He had something else — maybe diamonds — that he wanted to bring in without paying duty on them. Something that would bring him enough to retire on.
“But you didn't find the diamonds — let's call them that. He didn't have them with him.”
“Didn't he?”
“No. So you watched what happened. You may have attended the inquest; maybe you found out things in other ways; I don't know. But you knew those diamonds had to be somewhere, so you kept close track.
“You learned about Dineen. You learned he'd sent the Dineens presents. You got the hunch that he'd sent the diamonds to Dineen, probably without Dineen's knowledge, concealed in — well, in an inkwell or something. But you didn't know just what presents he'd sent. You'd have to get close to Dineen to find out.
“And that's where you first roped me in. Until two months ago, we'd met once or twice in bars; I didn't even know your name. But you knew mine and where I worked, and you got chummy. I was a sucker; I took your word that you were an actor who needed a job and I wrote you into the scripts, introduced you to Dineen, and got you a job working right under him. So you got to know him and got to know about the inkwell and where it came from. And you saw it was big and ornate enough to conceal anything short of a bunch of bananas. And maybe you thought it was the only thing Mueller had sent Dineen.
“And to get it, you swiped one of my script ideas on how to—”
“Tracy, you are crazy. What you've said so far makes sense except for the pronoun you're using. But according to your own story, nobody could have read that script of yours.”
“Nobody but someone Frank Hrdlicka knew as a friend of mine. There's only one way it could have happened, Dick. Monday evening I left that Santa script in my machine and went out. You came here looking for me, and saw Frank, and he used his passkey to let you come in to wait for me in the apartment. He knew I wouldn't mind.”
Tracy's voice was getting surer now. He went on: “You read that script, and the others. You saw in that script an idea how you could hold up Dineen and get the inkwell, and never be recognized. Maybe the idea tickled your sense of humor. Dammit, it was a good idea.
“And you thought once you got the inkwell you'd have the diamonds and do a fadeout, so the thing would be over. But the idea went wrong; the dog was there, and you had to shoot, and killed Dineen. And when you got the inkwell home, there was nothing hidden in it.
“So you couldn't fade out of the picture yet; you wanted to stay Dick Kreburn — instead of whatever your real name is — and keep in touch with things until you found out where the stuff really was.
“And so you came back here and killed Frank — because Frank could have told that you had access to those scripts, In fact, I'd already decided to ask Frank whether anybody had been in here Monday evening.
“And — either because of a macabre sense of humor or to make things as complicated as you could — you remembered one of my scripts had been about a janitor, and you followed that script in killing Frank.”
Dick Kreburn was leaning forward in the chair now, interest and nothing else showing in his face. He said, “You're making a good story, Tracy. Except, like I said, for the pronoun. And did you mention four murders?”
“You know about that. Tonight. You'd learned about the clock and maybe about other presents the Dineens had received, and you went out there to collect them. You killed the detective on guard out there, and you killed Rex. You followed another Murder Can Be Fun idea on the policeman. Too bad I never wrote a script about a man being run down in an alley by an auto — but you missed getting me, anyway.”
“That all?” Kreburn asked. He leaned back in the chair again. “It's good, Tracy. I really think maybe you've got something, except why pick on me?”
“Two reasons — besides the fact that I first met you at just about the right time, and you talked me into getting you the job at KRBY. One of them is the laryngitis you had. Or the sore throat. You got that from wearing a heavy flannel Santa Claus suit over your regular clothes on a sweltering August day. You were probably soaked with sweat before you got rid of it.”
Dick Kreburn chuckled. “You call that proof?”
“No,” Tracy said. “But the other reason is the important one. It's this. There never was a Murder Can Be Fun script about a man being strangled with his own necktie. The furthest that ever got was a rough note in the notebook I carry in my pocket. Nobody knew about it. Not even Millie Wheeler. Not even Inspector Bates. And I tore up the page and threw it away.
“But I remembered tonight that when I took you home in a taxi from the radio station, and wouldn't let you talk to me because of your throat, I passed you that notebook to write out whatever you wanted to say. You leafed through it to find a blank page. That's when you could have — and must have — seen that notation about a man being strangled with his own cravat — and you're the only person besides myself who ever handled that notebook.”
Kreburn chuckled again. He said, “Pretty good, Tracy. Pretty good.”
Tracy stood up, keeping the gun pointed carefully, keeping his distance.
He said, “And now, can you tell me any reason why I shouldn't phone the cops?”
“Yes,” Kreburn said, “When you phoned me to ask for a gun, I thought you might have got smart and decided to pull a fast one like this, Tracy. I wanted to hear what you had to say. I knew you'd be smart enough to look over the gun to be sure it was loaded — but I didn't think you'd go so far as to check whether or not the firing pin had been taken out.”
Another pistol — one with a long silencer on the barrel — was coming out from under Kreburn's coat as he stood up.
Tracy's finger tightened on the trigger of the automatic in his hand — because there could be such a thing as a bluff — and the spring of the automatic clicked metallically. That was all; there wasn't any shot.
Something in Tracy's mind said to him, “Here it comes—” but there wasn't any numbness in his mind.
Even as the silenced gun was centering on Tracy's chest, he saw the door that led to the other room of his apartment, the bedroom, opening slowly and silently.
He jerked his eyes back to Kreburn's face and said, “Wait, Dick,” because, if help was coming, even a fraction of a second's delay might save him.
Over Dick's shoulder, he could see now who was opening the door. Two heads showed in the opening doorway — Bates and Corey, Corey's head towering over that of the smaller man.
Only if they didn't shoot, and Kreburn did—?
He said, “Wait, Dick. You haven't got the diamonds yet. And I know where they are.”
Kreburn's face didn't register belief, but his finger stopped tightening on the trigger. He said, “You're stalling, Tracy.”
“What good does it do me to stall? Stall, hell; I want a bargain. I want to get out of this alive if I tell you where the diamonds are.”
The door was wide open now, and Bates was tiptoeing through it; he made no sound.
Kreburn asked, “Where are they?”
“If I tell you,” Tracy said, “you'll shoot. We'll have to work out something better than that.”
“Tell me, and I'll tie you up and leave you. You'll be found some time tomorrow.”
Bates was coming alongside Kreburn now, walking silently as a cat. There was a pistol in his hand and it was lifting, not to shoot, but to crack down across Kreburn's hand that gripped the silenced gun. Corey was standing still back in the doorway. There was a gun in his hand, too; a forty-five automatic that looked as big as a cannon.
Tracy said, “Fair enough. But how can I take your word that you'll—?”
That was as far as he had to go. Bates struck. Kreburn yelped, half from pain and half from surprise, and the silenced gun thudded against the carpet. Kreburn turned on Bates, and then Corey was there — seeming to have covered the distance between the doorway and the killer in nothing flat — with the big forty-five jammed into Kreburn's side.
Tracy sat back down on the desk. Not because he had decided to, but because his knees had decided not to hold him up any longer.
He fumbled a cigarette out of his case and got it to his mouth. He tried to light it, and Bates watched him and grinned. After a few seconds, Bates stepped forward, struck a match, and held it for him.
Tracy asked, “H-how did you happen to be in there?”
Bates said, “In a minute.” He picked up the phone and said, “Get the wagon, George. Then you can go home.”
He put down the receiver. He grinned at Tracy again, and sat down on the arm of the Morris chair. He said, “There's been a bug on your phone line for three days. Man on duty in the basement — it's George right now — in the back room of what used to be Frank's quarters.
“When we came around to arrest you half an hour ago, we dropped in on George to see what had been going on — and we learned you'd asked Kreburn to come over and bring a rod. And you'd just been checked into Thompson's, so we thought we'd come in and wait to see what you wanted with Kreburn and the rod before we made the pinch.”
Tracy said, “You took a hell of a chance with my life, waiting that long. Next time, arrest me.”
Bates laughed. “He might have shot you, sure. Then again, you might have shot him. Call it a horse apiece.”
“I could call it worse,” Tracy said. “You were going to arrest me?”
“Hell, yes. You left a trail a mile wide out to Queens. Those men you ducked had the license number of the cab they'd been trailing. When they lost you at Forty-second and Broadway, they checked on the cab and found out where its stand was. Then they found from the cabby you'd been heading for Queens.
“And then — well, we got the report from Queens. Blame us for coming to get you? And — say!”
“Say what?”
“Were you kidding, or do you know where the diamonds are? If there are any, that is.”
“I'd like to guess. I'll bet Kreburn never happened to learn that the dog collar was a present, and a pretty recent one, from Mueller. That collar's got twelve or fifteen pretty large studs, each one big enough to hold a ten- or twenty-carat stone inside it. And if there are any diamonds, I hope that's where they are — because my dear friend here had two perfectly good chances to take that collar, and didn't. That's why I'm pretty sure he didn't know the collar came from Mueller.” Bates nodded slowly.
He said, “There's red tape. There's a lot of paper work to washing up four murders. We need statements and stuff. Want to come down and get it over with, or sleep?”
“Sleep?” Tracy asked. “What's sleep?” Then he remembered. “Go ahead, Inspector,” he said, “I got a call to make. If I'm not downstairs in time for a ride in the wagon, I'll follow in a cab.”
Bates nodded. He and Corey took Kreburn out. Tracy called Lee Randolph at the Blade. He said, “Here's your story, Lee.” And then he talked fast for ten minutes straight. He added, “If I find the hunch about the dog collar is right, I'll call you back. Save that for a lead for the final.”
“Swell, Tracy; listen, I'm sorry I—”
“Skip it. See you tomorrow.” He hung up before Lee could say any more. When he got downstairs, the wagon had come and gone. That was all right with Tracy. He went to headquarters by way of Barney's, and had a few beers with the late shift from the Blade. He played the Beer Barrel Polka twice on the juke box. From Barney's he would have gone straight to headquarters except that he remembered to stop by Stan Hrdlicka's place to tell him about it, and by that time he'd forgotten how the slivovitz had bitten him once. It bit him again.
But not so badly this time; he woke up in Stan's bed, of his own volition and bright and early at eight o'clock in the morning.
He felt swell. He bought a clean shirt, took a Turkish bath, got shaved at a barber shop, and felt marvelous.
He got to Bates' office by ten, and got away by eleven. He had a momentary twinge of conscience when he learned that the stones — they'd been matched diamonds — had been in the studs of the dog collar. He felt better when he found a final of the Blade still left on a newsstand and saw that Lee had got it in time anyway.
He had breakfast, and then went to KRBY. He breezed into Wilkins' office, whistling.
He saw a copy of the Blade on Wilkins' desk. Wilkins glanced at Tracy, back at the paper, and then at Tracy again. He said, “Good morning, Mr. Tracy.” His voice was friendly. “I see you have solved your difficulties.”
“Yes,” said Tracy. “Have you?”
Wilkins stiffened a little. He said, “I hope that now that your mind is free from — ah — the worries to which it has undoubtedly been subjected, you will feel up to writing again. But — ah — would you care to try your hand at something different? Miss Mueller appears to be doing so well—”
“Doesn't she?” said Tracy.
Wilkins frowned. He said, “If you will read your contract, Mr. Tracy, you will discover that we are empowered to use you as we see fit, provided only that we meet the financial terms. Your contract does not specify that you must write Millie's Millions.”
“And how, Mr. Wilkins,” asked Tracy, “do you see fit to use me?”
“We would like you to try your hand at writing commercials, Mr. Tracy.”
Tracy grinned. “And if I refuse, the contract terminates?”
“Ah — yes.”
Tracy stood up. “I shall not belabor the obvious by telling you what to do with the contract, Mr. Wilkins. Please give Miss Mueller my regards. And my pay check.”
He left, even more cheerful than he had come.
He went to see Lee Randolph at Lee's hotel, waking him up out of a sound sleep.
He went back to Barney's, had a beer and a sandwich, and played the Beer Barrel Polka on the juke box.
Then, from Barney's booth, he phoned Millie Wheeler.
“Tracy!” she said. “I just read the morning papers. I'm so glad. I knew you could do it!”
“Uh-huh,” said Tracy modestly. “I'm wonderful. I've got even better news. I'm bounced at the studio. I'm back to being a reporter, at about half my erstwhile income. Think we could live on that?”
“Huh? You mean—?”
“I mean I think maybe I love you. I think maybe I've been an awful sap for a long time. I think maybe you should quit working and I should quit drinking — except for beers with the boys at Barney's — say, isn't that lovely alliteration? — beers with the boys at Barney's — and maybe we should forget how smart we are and raise a kid or two and play bridge in the suburbs. Will you meet me at the city hall?”
Millie took a deep breath. She asked, “When?”
“Half an hour?”
“Give me two hours, you big lug. I'll skip buying a trousseau, but Tracy, a bride's got to take a bath and put on clean underwear.”
“An hour and a half,” said Tracy. “Meet you there at a quarter of three. 'Bye now.”
He came out of the phone booth and went over to the bar whistling the Beer Barrel Polka. He said, “A short beer, Barney.”
Barney drew it and scooped off the foam. Then he went around the bar and put a nickel in the juke box. It started playing the Beer Barrel Polka, and he went back behind the bar and said, “That damn tune.”
He drew himself a beer. “You say you're starting in again at the Blade tomorrow night?”
“Right,” said Tracy.
“There'll be a pinochle game about eleven this evening when the boys come in. Drop around.”
“I'll try,” said Tracy. “Might be a little hard to get away this evening, but I'll try.”
Also By Fredric Brown
Mitkey Astromouse (1941)
The Fabulous Clipjoint (1947)
The Dead Ringer (1948)
Murder Can Be Fun (1948)
The Screaming Mimi (1949)
The Bloody Moonlight (1949)
Compliments of a Fiend (1950)
Here Comes a Candle (1950)
The Case of the Dancing Sandwiches (1951)
Death Has Many Doors (1951)
The Far Cry (1951)
Night of the Jabberwock (1951)
We All Killed Grandma (1952)
The Deep End (1952)
Madball (1953)
Project Jupiter (1953)
aka The Lights in the Sky Are Stars
His Name Was Death (1954)
Martians, Go Home (1955)
The Wench Is Dead (1955)
The Lenient Beast (1957)
Rogue in Space (1957)
One for the Road (1958)
The Office (1958)
Knock Three-One-Two (1959)
The Late Lamented (1959)
The Mind Thing (1961)
The Murderers (1961)
The Five-Day Nightmare (1962)
Mrs Murphy's Underpants (1963)
Before She Kills (1984)
Homicide Sanitarium (1984)
The Freak Show Murders: Fredric Brown Pulp Detective Series, Vol. 5 (1987)
Thirty Corpses Every Thursday (1987)
Pardon My Ghoulish Laughter: Fredric Brown Pulp Detective Series, Vol. 7 (1987)
Red Is the Hue of Hell (1990)
Fredric Brown, Murder Can Be Fun # aka A Plot for Murder
