The Collection (94 page)

"Yes, I was going to have the car run over his head, so
he wouldn't be identified. I missed by inches, but I couldn't try again because
another car was coming, and I had to keep on driving away.

"Luckily, Doc Skibbine didn't know him. It was while
Doc was in South America that Leedom worked for me. But there are lots of
people around who did know him. Some curiosity seeker would have identified him
in the week they hold an unidentified body and--well, once they knew who he
was and traced things back, they'd have got to me eventually for the old
business four years ago if not the fact that I killed him."

"So
that's why you had to make him unidentifiable," I said.
"I see. He looked familiar to Bill Drager, but Bill
couldn't place him."

He nodded. "Bill was just a patrolman then. He
probably had seen Leedom only a few times, but someone else--Well, Jerry, you
go back and tell them about it. Tell them I'll be here."

"Gee, Mr. Paton, I'm sorry I got to," I said.
"Isn't there anything--"

"No. Go and get them. I won't run away, I promise you.
And tell Doc he wouldn't have beat me that chess game tonight if I hadn't let
him. With what I had to do, I wanted to get out of there early. Good night,
Jerry."

He eased me out onto the porch again before I quite
realized why he had never had a chance to tell Dr. Skibbine himself. Yes, he
meant for them to find him here when they came, but not alive.

I almost turned to the door again, to break my way in and
stop him. Then I realized that everything would be easier for him if he did it
his way.

Yes, he was dead by the time they sent men out to bring him
in. Even though I had expected it, I guess I had a case of the jitters when
they phoned in the news, and I must have showed it, because Bill Drager threw
an arm across my shoulders.

"Jerry," he said, "this has been the devil
of a night for you. You need a drink. Come on."

The drink made me feel better and so did the frank
admiration in Drager's eyes. It was so completely different from what I had
seen there back in the alley.

"Jerry," he told me, "you ought to get on
the Force. Figuring out that--of all things--he had used an armadillo."

"But what else was possible? Look! All those ghoul
legends trace back to beasts that are eaters of carrion. Like hyenas. A hyena
could have done what was done back there in the morgue. But no one could have
handled a hyena--pushed it through that ventilator hole with a rope on it to
pull it up again.

"But an armadillo is an eater of corpses, too. It gets
frightened when handled and curls up into a ball, like a bowling ball. It
doesn't make any noise, and you could carry it in a bag like the one Hank
described. It has an armored shell that would break the glass of the display
case if Paton lowered it to within a few feet and let it drop the rest of the
way. And of course he looked down with a flashlight to see--"

Bill Drager shuddered a little.

"Learning is a great thing if you like it," he
said. "Studying origins of superstitions, I mean. But me, I want another
drink. How about you?"

Killer at Large

I
put down the newspaper.

"It's
about time," Kit said.

I
stood up. "Right, honey. It is."

Her
big brown eyes got bigger and browner.

"What
do you mean, Eddie? I just meant you've been reading that blasted newspaper for
hours and hours."

I
glanced at the clock. "For eleven minutes."

I
sat down again and motioned, and she came over and sat down on my lap. I almost
weakened.

"It's
been a nice honeymoon," I said. "But I
am
a
working
man. I thought you knew."

"You
mean you're taking on another case?"

"Nope,"
I told her. "One of the same ones. Paul Verne."

"Who's
Paul Verne?"

"The
gentleman I came to Springfield to find."

She
looked really shocked. "You came here to . . . Why, Eddie, we came here
for our honeymoon! You don't mean you had an ulterior motive in choosing
Springfield."

"Now,
now," I now-nowed.

"But
Eddie--"

"Shhh,"
I shhhed.

She
cuddled down in my arms. "All right, Eddie. But tell me what you're going
to do. Is it dangerous?"

"Get 'em young," I said, "treat 'em rough,
tell 'em nothing."

"Eddie, is it dangerous?"

"The world," I told her, "is a dangerous
place. One's lucky to get out of it alive."

"Oh darn it, I suppose you
are
going to do
something dangerous. I won't let you!"

I stood up, and she had to get off my lap or fall on the floor.
I walked over to the bureau and picked a necktie off the mirror.

"What
are
you going to do, Eddie?"

"Answer an ad I just read in the paper."

"You mean an ad to go to work?"

I nodded, and started to put on the necktie.

In the mirror, I could see Kit studying me.

"The idea of a pint-size like you being a
detective," she said.

"Napoleon wasn't so big," I said, over my
shoulder.

"Napoleon wasn't a detective."

"Well how about Peter Lorre? He's no bigger than I
am."

"Peter Lorre was shot in the last two pictures I saw
him in," Kit said.

She picked up the newspaper I'd put down and started scanning
the want ads, while I was putting on my coat.

"Is this the ad?" she said. " "Wanted:
Man with some knowledge of psychiatry, for confidential work'?"

"What makes you think that's it?" I countered.

"I know that's it, Eddie. All the other ads are
routine sensible ones for salesmen or dishwashers or something. But why get
dressed up to answer it? It just gives a phone number, and there's a phone
right on the table there."

"That reminds me," I said. "Use that phone
to call Information, will you, and get the listing on that phone number.
You'll find it's the Stanley Sanitarium, I think. But I might as well make
sure."

She made the call.

"You're right, Eddie. Stanley Sanitarium." She
looked at me with respect. "How did you know?"

"Hunch. There's an article on Page Three telling about
a new sanitarium for mental cases being started here. A doc by the name of
Philemon Stanley runs it."

"But why can't you phone from here about the
job?"

"From a hotel? Nix. I've got to give myself a local
background and a local address. I go rent myself a room, and then use the
landlady's phone. That way, if he's going to phone me back or write me a
letter, I can give him an address that won't sound phony."

"What's phony about the New World Hotel?"

I grinned at her. "Ten bucks a day is what's phony.
People who stay at a hotel like this don't apply for jobs that probably pay
less than their hotel bills would be."

I kissed her, thoroughly, for it just might be the last
time for a while if I had to follow up on the job right away, and left.

Half an hour later, from a rooming house, I called the
number given in the want ad.

"Ever had any experience working in an institution for
the mentally ill?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "Two years at Wales
Sanitarium in Chicago. They didn't handle really bad cases, you know, just mild
psychoses, phobiacs, chronic alcoholics, that sort of thing."

"Yes," said Dr. Stanley, "I'm familiar with the
work at Wales Sanitarium. What were your duties there?"

"Attendant, male ward."

"I believe you would fit in very nicely. Not--uh--as
an attendant, however. I have something in mind of a different and--uh --more
confidential nature."

"So
I figured from the ad, Doctor," I said. "But whatever it is, I'll be
glad to try it."

"Fine, Mr. Anderson. I'd like to talk to you
personally, of course, but if our interview is satisfactory to both of us, you
can start right away. Would you rather have that interview this evening or
tomorrow morning? Either will be quite satisfactory." I thought it over,
and weakened. After all I had been married only two weeks and I would
undoubtedly have to live at the sanitarium while I was on the job. I told him
tomorrow morning. I went back to the hotel and Kit and I went down for dinner
to the New World dining room. Over a couple of cocktails, I told her about the
phone call.

"But suppose he should phone the Wales Sanitarium to
check up on you?"

"They never do."

"What kind of confidential work would there be around
a booby hatch, Eddie?"

"I don't know," I told her. "But as long as
it puts me in contact with the patients, I don't care. Anyway, it isn't a booby
hatch, honey. It's a sanitarium for the idle rich. People who go slightly
screwy wondering how to spend their money. That's why I used Wales as a
reference. It's the same type of joint."

"It didn't say that in the article in the paper."

"Sure it did. Between the lines."

"But Eddie, aren't you going to tell me
why
you're
doing this?"

I thought out how I'd best tell it without worrying Kit too
much. She'd have to get used to things like that, but not all at once.
Not--right from our honeymoon--to know I was looking for a homicidal maniac who
had killed over a dozen people. Maybe more.

"I'm looking for a man named Paul Verne," I said.
"He's crazy, but he's crazy like a fox. He escaped three years ago from an
institution in California. It's been in the papers, but you may not have
noticed it, because his family had enough money and influence to keep it from
being played up too much."

Kit's eyes widened.

"You mean they don't want him caught?"

"They very much want him caught. They offered a reward
of twenty-five thousand bucks to have him caught and returned to the institution
from which he escaped."

"But wouldn't publicity help?"

"It would, and there has been some publicity. If the
name doesn't click with you, you just haven't read the right papers at the
right time. But they held that down, and they've spent thousands circularizing
police offices and detective agencies to be on the lookout for him. That's more
effective, and reflects less on the family name. Every copper in the country
knows who Paul Verne is, and is trying for that twenty-five grand. And every
private detective, too."

"Twenty-five thousand dollars! Why Eddie, think what
we could do with that!"

"Yeah," I said, "we could use it. But don't
get your hopes up, because I'm just playing a long shot. A tip and a
hunch."

Our dinner came and I made her wait until we'd eaten before
I told her any more. When I eat, I like to eat.

"The tip," I told her, after we had finished
dessert, "was Springfield. Never mind exactly how, because it's
complicated, but I got a tip Paul Verne was in Springfield. That's why I suggested
we come here for our honeymoon."

"Well," she said, "I suppose we had to go
somewhere, and after all--"

"Twenty-five grand isn't hay," I finished for
her. "As for the hunch--it's a poor thing, but my own. Where's the last place
you'd look for an escaped loony?"

"I don't . . . You mean in a loony-bin?"

"Brilliant.
What could possibly be a better hide-out? A private sanitarium, of course,
where everything is the best and a patient can enter voluntarily and leave when
he likes. I've made a study
of Paul Verne, and I
think it's just the kind of idea that would appeal to him."

"Would he have money? Could he afford a hide-out like
that?"

"Money is no object. He's got scads."

"But why this particular sanitarium?"

I shrugged. "Just a better chance than most. First, I
think he's in Springfield, and he isn't at any of the others."

"How do you know that?"

"There are only two others here. One is for the
criminally insane. He certainly wouldn't commit himself
there
voluntarily--too
hard to get out again, and too much investigation involved. The other's for
women only. But Stanley's place is ideal. Brand new, takes wealthy patients
with minor warps, comfortable--everything."

Kit sighed. "Well, I don't suppose it'll take you more
than a day to look over the patients and find out."

"Longer than that," I said. "I haven't too
much idea what he looks like."

She stared at me. "Mean you're working on this and
haven't even gone to the trouble to get a photograph?"

"There aren't any. Paul Verne did a real job of
escaping from the sanitarium out West. He robbed the office of all the papers
in his own case--fingerprints, photographs, everything. Took along all their
money, too."