them was genre – mysteries, Westerns and science fiction.
Standing in the middle of the room were two men – Eberhardt and an inspector I recognized named Jordan. Eberhardt was puffing away on one of his battered black briars; the air in the room was blue with smoke. Eighteen months ago, when I owned a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit, the smoke would have started me coughing but also made me hungry for a weed. But I’d gone to a doctor about the cough around that time, and he had found what he was afraid might be a malignant lesion on one lung. I’d had a bad scare for a while; if the lesion
Both Eberhardt and Jordan turned when I came in. Eb said something to the inspector, who nodded and started out. He gave me a nod on his way past that conveyed uncertainty about whether or not I ought to be there. Which made two of us.
Eberhardt was wearing a rumpled blue suit and his usual sour look; but the look seemed tempered a little today with something that might have been embarrassment. And that was odd, too, because I had never known him to be embarrassed by anything while he was on the job.
“You took your time getting here, hotshot,” he said.
“Come on, Eb, it’s only been half an hour since you called. You can’t drive out here from downtown in much less than that.” I glanced around at the bookshelves again. “What’s all this?”
“The Paperback Room,” he said.
“How’s that?”
“You heard me. The Paperback Room. There’s also a Hardcover Room, a Radio and Television Room, a Movie Room, a Pulp Room, a Comic Art Room and two or three others I can’t remember.”
I just looked at him.
“This place belongs to Thomas Murray,” he said. “Name mean anything to you?”
“Not offhand.”
“Media’s done features on him in the past – the King of the Popular Culture Collectors.”
The name clicked then in my memory; I had read an article on Murray in one of the Sunday supplements about a year ago. He was a retired manufacturer of electronic components, worth a couple of million dollars, who spent all his time accumulating popular culture – genre books and magazines, prints of television and theatrical films, old radio shows on tape, comic books and strips, original artwork, Sherlockiana and other such items. He was reputed to be one of the foremost experts in the country on these subjects, and regularly provided material and copies of material to other collectors, students and historians for nominal fees.
I said, “Okay, I know who he is. But I-”
“Was,” Eberhardt said.
“What?”
“Who he
“So that’s it.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” His mouth turned down at the corners in a sardonic scowl. “He was found here by his niece shortly before one o’clock. In a locked room.”
“Locked room?”
“Something the matter with your hearing today?” Eberhardt said irritably. “Yes, a damned locked room. We had to break down the door because it was locked from the inside, and we found Murray lying in his own blood on the carpet. Stabbed under the breastbone with a razor-sharp piece of thin steel, like a splinter.” He paused, watching me. I kept my expression stoic and attentive. “We also found what looks like a kind of dying message, if you want to call it that.”
“What sort of message?”
“You’ll see for yourself pretty soon.”
“Me? Look, Eb, just why did you get me out here?”
“Because I want your help, damn it. And if you say anything cute about this being a big switch, the cops calling in a private eye for help on a murder case, I won’t like it much.”
So that was the reason he seemed a little embarrassed. I said, “I wasn’t going to make any wisecracks; you know me better than that. If I can help you I’ll do it gladly – but I don’t know how.”
“You collect pulp magazines yourself, don’t you?”
“Sure. But what does that have to do with-”
“The homicide took place in the Pulp Room,” he said. “And the dying message involves pulp magazines. Okay?”
I was surprised, and twice as curious now, but I said only, “Okay.” Eberhardt is not a man you can prod.
He said, “Before we go in there, you’d better know a little of the background. Murray lived here alone except for the niece, Paula Thurman, and a housekeeper named Edith Keeler. His wife died a few years ago, and they didn’t have any children. Two other people have keys to the house – a cousin, Walter Cox, and Murray’s brother David. We managed to round up all four of those people, and we’ve got them in a room at the rear of the house.
“None of them claims to know anything about the murder. The housekeeper was out all day; this is the day she does her shopping. The niece is a would-be artist, and she was taking a class at San Francisco State. The cousin was having a long lunch with a girl friend downtown, and the brother was at Tanforan with another horseplayer. In other words, three of them have got alibis for the probable time of Murray’s death, but none of the alibis is what you could call unshakable.
“And all of them, with the possible exception of the housekeeper, have strong motives. Murray was worth around three million, and he wasn’t exactly generous with his money where his relatives are concerned; he doled out allowances to each of them, but he spent most of his ready cash on his popular-culture collection. They’re all in his will – they freely admit that – and each of them stands to inherit a potful now that he’s dead.
“They also freely admit, all of them, that they could use the inheritance. Paula Thurman is a nice-looking blonde, around twenty-five, and she wants to go to Europe and pursue an art career. David Murray is about the same age as his brother, late fifties; if the broken veins in his nose are any indication he’s a boozer as well as a horseplayer – a literal loser and going downhill fast. Walter Cox is a mousy little guy who wears glasses about six inches thick; he fancies himself an investments expert but doesn’t have the cash to make himself rich – he says – in the stock market. Edith Keeler is around sixty, not too bright, and stands to inherit a token five thousand dollars in Murray’s will; that’s why she’s what your pulp detectives call ‘the least likely suspect.’”
He paused again. “Lot of details there, but I figured you’d better know as much as possible. You with me so far?”
I nodded.
“Okay. Now, Murray was one of these regimented types – did everything the same way day after day. Or at least he did when he wasn’t off on buying trips or attending popular-culture conventions. He spent two hours every day in each of his Rooms, starting with the Paperback Room at eight am. His time in the Pulp Room was from noon until two pm. While he was in each of these Rooms he would read or watch films or listen to tapes, and he would also answer correspondence pertaining to whatever that Room contained – pulps, paperbacks, TV and radio shows, and so on. Did all his own secretarial work – and kept all his correspondence segregated by Rooms.”
I remembered these eccentricities of Murray’s being mentioned in the article I had read about him. It had seemed to me then, judging from his quoted comments, that they were calculated in order to enhance his image as King of the Popular Culture Collectors. But if so, it no longer mattered; all that mattered now was that he was dead.
