“But you had fifty-seven grand that no one knew about.” The boss laughed, puffed his fag. “This is the first case on record where a man killed other people for his own money. That’s exactly what you did. You were finished. There was only one way out—get away, start over. For a start you needed money. And the only way to keep your fifty-seven grand was to die here and be another man someplace else. That fifty thousand dollars wouldn’t have lasted long, what with all your debts, if you’d tried to leave in a legal manner.”
The boss sat down like he had all the sweet time he needed. The others watched him like buzzards. Me, I was soaking my shirt with sweat.
“When Pete Lorentz gave you the beating,” the boss said, “you got your big idea. It was a hard pill to swallow, having a two-by-four bookie beat hell out of you. It showed just how far you had slipped. You were so enraged you wanted to kill—and thinking about it started the plan in your mind.
“You killed Pete with a shotgun, Droyster. With your clothes and ring on him, and his head gone, everyone thought it was you. Neither of you had ever been fingerprinted. You knew Lawrence Jordan would swear the corpse was you, even if he did have a few doubts. He was that anxious to get your wife.”
The boss put out his cigarette, fired another one. “So you were a dead man—with a nice stake of fifty-seven grand, no strings attached. But Newell happened to go into the room, drop a calling card, and your wife, wanting insurance, called me in. Perhaps Newell suspected the truth about you, Droyster.
“He dropped a few words around Joe Dance, and Joe thought to make himself a pile of dough by spilling it. But you had been hiding close around. You killed Dance and brought him up here, then called the police.
“Were you in that storage house most of the time, Droyster? Is there a phone extension there?”
“In the attic,” Droyster said, “I heard Dance phone my wife and I heard her phone you.”
The boss nodded. “That’s why the Great Dane went out to the storage house, because you were there. He barked with joy and you slashed his throat to silence him. That was the same day you killed Pete Lorentz.
“That night you sneaked back into your house. You knew you simply couldn’t have Pete up and vanish. If his draft board should put him in 1-A and the F.B.I. went looking for him, it might have upset your scheme. You had to get Pete’s body out of the coffin, mutilate it more, and plant it someplace where it could be found, with papers to show his true identity, several days later.
“You took the dog’s body back into the house when you went after Pete. You took Pete out of the casket, put the dog in, knowing the casket would not be opened because of the horrible condition of the body. You knew it might take a day or so to dispose of Pete’s body, which was very ticklish business; so for safe-keeping you put your fifty-seven grand in the casket—in that blood-stained, satin pillow.
“You went to the graveyard last night, but the caretaker scared you off. You couldn’t get rid of Pete’s body sooner, and tonight I was on the case. You had to watch other things than the cemetery.”
“You talk well, Smith,” Droyster said, “but where’s the slip? Give out—and hurry!”
Smith smiled at Droyster. “Let me finish. Newell gave you a bit of help all along. First he tried to gun us off the case, later to buy us off. He really wanted that dog track. You were hiding outside, Droyster, when we came out of the storage house. You heard Newell almost break down; so you took a shot at him.
“Naturally, I was wondering all along, since I found the corpse in the storage house, what the devil was in the casket. So Willie and I went to the cemetery. We found your money, left my card where you’d think I accidentally dropped it. You were pretty close on our heels. You found the card as I hoped.
“I left the light on long enough so that you’d not think I suspected you of shadowing me. You watched from across the street until the light went off. You waited until you thought we had gone, then you came to find your money.”
I saw just a little bit of sweat on the boss’ face. That made my knees bang. If Smith was sweating…
“Poppycock!” Droyster said. “He’s stalling. Take him on, Newell.”
Newell nodded. He started to say something, but the door crashed open.
Bless his heart! Bedrock Hannrihan looked like the answer to my prayers. “Smith—” he howled. Then he flopped on the floor as Ike Clark got his roscoe going. I hit Newell and Newell hit the floor.
It was some party. Hannrihan’s gun went like a cannon. Droyster was cursing a blue streak. Somebody hit a chair. Ike Clark screamed.
Somebody slung a slug my way. It caught me in the leg, knocked me down. I looked up to see Harry Haines. The boss and me don’t like people that shoot at us. The boss shot Haines in the neck.
The bullet in my leg kept me on the floor. I rolled around. I was scared sick with all the lead flying loose. I rolled into Newell. He was drawing a bead on the boss and I hit him, I broke his nose with that one and blood went everywhere.
Then it stopped and my ears rang. Ike Clark was doubled up in front of the desk. Haines was on his back, blood coming out of his neck, Newell was over at the wall holding his nose and moaning.
Droyster hadn’t been touched. He dropped his gun, looked at the boss, and said, “You win, Smith.”
Hannrihan took a
