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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
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Detective Tales, July 1936, with "They Also Serve"
"Listen, lady," he said, "you can't kill me in cold blood...."
It was a safe-cracker who told Betty Hewitt the truth about the man she
loved—a truth that in one cruel blow shattered the faith and love of years.
IT was a small sound, but it had an indefinable quality of stealth about it. Had she been asleep, Betty Hewitt would never have heard it. Certainly it was not loud enough to awaken the lightest of sleepers. But Betty was wide awake.
Betty Hewitt was a detective's wife. She was one of that silent army of women who frequently lie awake in the night wondering when, how, and if their men are coming back to them.
With Betty it hadn't been so bad before her brother Bob, also a detective, had gone to his front door in answer to a ring one night, and fallen in his tracks with ten machine-gun slugs in him. Bob had preferred lead in his body to silver in his pockets. He had turned down Clipper Grice's proffered bribe. He had told Clipper Grice to his face that he was going to smash the policy racket that Grice and his mob controlled, if he had to turn the town upside down. But Bob had gotten smashed instead, and he had left behind a girl whose hair was turning white at twenty-four—a wife of six months.
Ever since then Betty Hewitt had lain awake and counted the hours until her own husband, Joel, had come home. She had counted the hours and listened to the sounds in her house—sounds that she had never heard before she started to lie awake nights. She had come to know them all: the little creaks of shrinking or expanding boards; the whispery ticking of the clock in the hall; the ghostly rattle of mice's feet....
The sound she heard, now, was different. Betty didn't have to hear a repetition of it to know that someone was creeping stealthily over the floor downstairs.
There was a small .32 revolver in the drawer of the nightstand at the head of Betty's bed. In the same drawer was a flashlight. Silently she reached over and drew them out. Silently she slipped out of bed and crept out into the upper hall. She paused at the top of the stairs for several moments, but she heard nothing. Then, as faint as reflected starshine, a light flickered in the lower hall for a moment, and went out. Diffused, all but imperceptible, it seemed to come from the direction of the living room. As she descended the stairs it flashed on and off twice more.
BETTY HEWITT carefully put down her flashlight on the cushioned seat of a chair in the hall. Then she reached around the edge of the doorway and switched on the lights in the living room.
"Put up your hands," she said, and neither her voice nor her gun hand shook in the least.
But the command was hardly necessary. The man in front of the wall-safe was too experienced in his craft not to know when resistance is foolish. With the snapping on of the lights he had whirled—with his hands in the air. One hand held a small red leather-covered book, the other held his flashlight. A bulge in his right coat pocket showed where his gun was—in a very inaccessible place, under the circumstances. But the tense fright in his face eased a bit when he saw that he was being confronted by a woman.
"Take it easy, lady," he said. "I ain't resistin'."
Betty looked at him steadily for several seconds. Then she said, "You're Ben Schere, one of Clipper Grice's killers, aren't, you?"
The man's face fell into lines of innocent amazement
"Me, lady?' I never heard of Clipper Grice or this, now, Ben Schere. I—"
"Don't lie!" Betty's voice was ominously cold. "I know you, Ben Schere. You are in Detective Joel Hewitt's house—you know that. I'm his wife. It was my brother Clipper Grice and his murderers killed, when he wouldn't take their filthy money. Afterward, my husband took me down to headquarters, showed me the pictures of Grice's gang, and I memorized every one of them. Yours was there, Ben Schere. My brother Bob would lie easier in his grave if I killed you now—"
"For God's sake, lady!"
The man's face went pasty-grey, and be seemed to shrink physically as his knees flexed under him.
"—and I could do it without fear of being arrested, since you have broken into my house!"
The man gulped and his small eyes drew into pin-points of fear and frenzied calculation. His right hand released its grip on the red-bound book, and it dropped to the floor. Then his hand slowly started to descend. But if he contemplated going for the gun in his coat pocket, an ominous movement of Betty's trigger finger quickly changed his mind, and the hand shot upward again.
"Listen, lady," he said, "you can't kill me in cold blood. I meant no harm, comin' here—that's levelin'. I'll tell you the God's truth—I came to get that there little red book. That's all. I had to get it, or Clipper'd cut the heart right outta me—he sure would."
Betty was silent for a moment. She had never seen the book before, but if Clipper wanted it badly enough to send a cracksman after it, it was probably some sort of evidence against the policy mob that Joel had secured. It was strange Joel hadn't turned it in at headquarters; but undoubtedly he had his own good reasons for not doing so.
"Very well" she said, "I guess I can't bring myself to kill you—unless you give me an excuse by trying to escape or go for your gun.... Turn around so your face is to the wall, while I phone for the police."
The man obeyed almost with alacrity, but as he did so, he said over his shoulder, "Thanks, lady—and just for that I'll give you a tip: burn up that book before the tops get it!"
Betty's red mouth twisted a bit.
"So Clipper Grice won't cut your heart out?"
"No, lady—" The man peered at Betty cautiously over his shoulder. "Look, now," he said, "you take it easy, lady, and I'll tell you somethin' for your own good. You don't have to take my word for it, because you can prove it for yourself.... That there book has the names in it of every big-shot in this town that has taken money off'n Clipper Grice—protection money. See? And if your old man takes it in, or the cops find it here, his job won't be worth a nickel. He—"
Betty gave a dry little laugh. "You must think I'm an awful fool. There's enough honest men in this town to rout out the dishonest ones—and protect my husband.... And if you knew anything about my husband, you'd know that wouldn't make any difference to him, anyway."
The man risked another peek at Betty over his shoulder, and the girl saw that he was trembling violently.
"Jeez," he said. "I don't know how you're gonna act when I tell you this lady—but remember I'm doin' it for your own good.... That book's got Joel Hewitt's name in it, too!"
FOR perhaps ten seconds Betty Hewitt stood silent, as motionless as a statue. A voice in her heart assured her that the man lied. It was the calm, warm voice of loyalty and love; but the longer she stood there, the more that voice was submerged in another that spoke clearly and coldly from her brain: "The man knew he was risking his life to say that.... He knew I might kill him.... Why hasn't Joel turned the book into headquarters if he has nothing to hide?... At least, I can look for myself."
At last she spoke, and now her voice was lower, and some of the steely calmness had gone out of it.
"Turn your face back to the wall," she said, "and kick the book in my direction with your heel. Move slowly and carefully. At the first quick move I'll shoot to kill."
The man's extreme care in shoving the book into place with his heel so that he could kick it toward her—and the precision of his kick—were almost comical.
Betty advanced a few paces, picked it up, and backed to her former position.
"I'm going to look at it," she said, "but I'll have an eye on you, too.... "
"Don't worry, I won't move a finger," said the man, "but I wish you'd let me lower my hands a little, lady. My arms are gettin' awful tired.... "
"All right," said Betty, "clasp them on top of your head."
Her voice shook a little. She despised herself for it—for permitting herself to doubt Joel even for a moment. But love for her husband was everything to Betty Hewitt—so much so that even the shadow of anything that might come between them must be dispelled immediately. It wasn't lack of faith, she told herself—she was just going to prove to this man that he was lying....
She watched him until his fingers were laced on top of the greasy cap he wore, then holding the book with the free fingers of her gun hand, she flipped its pages with the other.
There were many names, here, opposite amazingly large sums of money—names of aldermen, politicians, attorneys, police officials. And near the end of the list, in the back of the book, appeared Joel Hewitt's name, not once, but several times.
BOB SHORE was Betty Hewitt's brother. A sturdily-built, sturdily honest young detective he had been—and he bad died to keep his name out of Clipper Grice's red book. If Ben Schere had only known it, he could have made his getaway without a chance in ten thousand of being shot. Betty Hewitt's eyes were so full of scalding, bitter tears that she -couldn't even see the pages of the damning hook she held in her hands. There was an intense heat in her heart that she knew was the fire of a love that was burning itself out.
There was the sound of a car coming to a stop in front of the house, of footsteps coming up the front walk.... Betty sank back against the wall, the gun in her hand sinking until it pointed at the floor.
There was a muffled exclamation from the darkened hallway, and then Joel Hewitt sprang into the living room, his Police Positive pointed at the back of Ben Schere, who still stood motionless, his face to the wall,
"What the devil is this?"
Hewitt advanced to Betty's side, threw an arm around her, his eyes back on Schere. "Don't worry, baby, we've got him. Thank God I got here—"
Slowly Betty straightened, shook off her husband's arm.
"Never mind calling headquarters, baby," said Hewitt, his eyes still on Schere. "I'll take this mug down myself."
"No," said Betty, and now her voice was as calm and cold as when she had first discovered Ben Schere. "I'm going to headquarters—you're not. You'd drive that killer home—and collect another fifty dollars from Clipper Grice, I'm going to take your car and drive to headquarters—and 'give Captain Morrissey this!"
Joel Hewitt's startled eyes jerked from Schere to see Betty standing there, holding out the red book in one hand, and covering him with the other—which held the .32 revolver he had given her.
Shock held him silent for a moment, then he snapped, "Put up that gun—and give me that note book! Quick!"
There was a sudden movement on the part of Ben Schere, which both of them missed seeing. Then the crash of a shot—and the lights went out. Guns spat fire from both sides of the room, and Betty was running out into the hall. Blindly she caught up a coat from the chest where she had left it that afternoon, flung it on while the guns still thundered in the living room. Then she was out of the door, flinging herself into her husband's patrol car, and speeding off into the night.
IT was at least three miles to police headquarters, and Betty knew, before she was half-way there, that she was being followed. In her rear-vision mirror she could see a car behind her, matching her mad speed, dodging in and out of the sparse late traffic, paying no more attention to stoplights then she was.... She held down the siren button and pressed down the accelerator as far as it would go.
Brakes screamed behind her, but she didn't look around as she fled up the steps of headquarters building and burst through the revolving doors. But rapid footsteps followed her, caught up with her before she had gotten half-way down the corridor. A steely grip caught her.
"Give me that book," snapped Joel Hewitt. "Do you want to make fools of both of us?"
He snatched the red-backed book from Betty's strengthless hand, as she gazed at him with bitterness and despair.
"Now," said Hewitt, "come along!"
Betty's brain was numb, but she realized her husband was propelling her toward the big swinging doors behind which was the captain's office.
Captain Morrissey looked up from his desk as they entered, his face registering surprise, and then polite pleasure as his eyes lit on Betty.
"Oh—good evening, Mrs. Hewitt," he said. "Hello, Joel!"
"Evening, captain," said Hewitt. He tossed the red book on the captain's desk. "Here's that book I phoned you about this afternoon. I should have brought it down as you suggested. But I wanted to get out and check up on that lead you gave me, and I thought it would be safe for a few hours in my wall box.... It wouldn't have been if Betty, here, hadn't been on the job. She caught Ben Schere trying to lift it. I left Ben outside with one of the boys...!"
"Congratulations, Mrs. Hewitt," beamed the captain. "You have remarkable courage; but if I may say so, you look rather done-in. You better take her home, Joel!"
"Just what I'm going to do," returned Hewitt. Then, with his eyes quizzically on Betty's wan face he added, "and—by the way.... I've got the graft money I took from Clipper, in order to keep him from getting suspicious, in a separate account at my bank. I think it is only fair to give it back to him so he can pay a mouth-piece with it. when he comes to trial. It won't do him any good, anyway."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.