Horace McCoy

Trapped By Silver

Nickel Detective, August 1933

Death saddles many strange steeds that murder may ride — but none as strange as this.

"THIS IS the kind of a thing," Donovan said, "that makes me wonder whether I got promoted to the homicide squad or demoted to it. Here's the case of that Rushing guy who's been buried a week and I got to find out if he died according to Hoyle."

"I thought the newspapers said it was heart disease," I said.

"They did. So did the medical examiner and a whole raft of doctors. Chances are, that's what it was, too. But it seems the old guy left something in his will that's made somebody suspicious."

"What was it?"

"That's what I got to find out. Wanna come along?"

On the way to the attorney's, Donovan told me about Dr. Sidney Rushing. He said it proved that fable about bread cast upon the waters.

When Dr. Rushing came out of medical school he settled in a small town in Texas and it wasn't long before he had built up a practice. Which wasn't hard, Donovan said, what with him treating people for what they could afford to give him, potatoes, pigs, chickens and sometimes nothing but a prayer and a thank you. He took himself and his work and his Hippocratic oath seriously and if anybody was sick and needed a doctor he went, treating black and white and rich and poor alike. Over a period of years he had acquired in payment for services rendered a miscellany of things, including several plots of barren land which had been worthless for five generations. But three thousand feet under that whole country lay an ocean of oil.

"They say one company paid him $600,000 cash for a little piece of ground," Donovan said, "which is big-league dough in anybody's language. After that he mixed business with doctoring and from then on it reads like a fairy story. They say he finally quit with fifty millions. That sanitarium he built in Brooklyn cost a million-"

"I remember reading about that," I said.

"Sure, you remember it. Well," Donovan went on, "he had enough dough to go haywire. He did. He got married. He got married and came East. That's all I know about him."

We reached the attorney's office. His name was Morton. He greeted Donovan by name, shook hands with me.

"There is no doubt in my mind that Dr. Rushing's death was due to natural causes," he said. "For many years he had been suffering with heart disease, but he was a bit eccentric and one of the stipulations in his will was that the Police Commissioner should testify in writing that everything was regular before I could administer the estate. I suppose the commissioner told you that?"

"He gave me a list of names, and told me to have a look around," Donovan said, "but I don't see how I can do much looking a week after he's buried. How come we started so late, Mr. Morton?"

"To tell you the truth, Sergeant," Morton said, "I forgot about that stipulation in his will until last night when I read it over again." He smiled flatteringly. "Then I telephoned the commissioner for his best man.""And they were all so busy playing pinochle the inspector gave it to me," Donovan said. "Who got the most of his money?"

"Much of the estate went to charity," Morton said. "Dr. Rushing was the supporter of half a dozen welfare organizations. But two millions in cash and the Petroleum building on Seventy-fourth street were left to his son, Thomas."

"You were one of the old guy's closest friends, Mr. Morton. Ever hear him say anything about anybody having it in for him?"

"You mean someone might have killed him?" Donovan nodded. "Heavens no," Morton exclaimed.

"Everybody loved him. Oh, no, nothing like that, Sergeant. It won't be necessary for you to spend a lot of time investigating. Everything was regular enough. But just to clear my own conscience, make it legal-" "Sure, sure, I know. Mind reading me the exact part of his will that asks you to do this?"

Morton picked up the will which was opened to the page he wanted. He read:. . and in the event of my death, irrespective of the diagnosis of my physicians and their report of the conditions and causes, I stipulate that my estate will not be filed for administration until the Commissioner of Police shall attest in a signed statement that said death was due to natural causes."

"Anybody else know about that paragraph?"

"No, of course not."

"Now whatever do you suppose he put that in there for?" Donovan asked.

"Dr. Rushing was a bit eccentric," Morton said.

"That part of it's eccentric enough. Well, I'll have a look around," Donovan said, going out.

NEXT WE WENT to Dr. Strube's, the physician who had attended Dr. Rushing and who had signed the death certificate. When Donovan explained what he was doing Dr. Strube laughed and asked him what he expected to find.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," Donovan said, unruffled, "but I got a report to make to the Commissioner and it would be a hell of a report unless it said I visited you."

"I suppose it would," Dr. Strube admitted, "but the police have undertaken quite a healthy job if they're going to investigate all the angina pectoris deaths in this town."

"Just what is that in plain English?" Donovan asked.

"A sudden and severe contraction of the chest. In this case it meant suffocation of the heart."

"Were you there when he died, Doctor?"

"No, but I went immediately on being telephoned. He had been dead no more than an hour. That his death was perfectly natural admits of no doubt."

"Who telephoned you?"

"Jenkins. He-"

"Jenkins. Would that be the butler?"

"It is," Dr. Strube replied.

"Well, it's regular enough up to that point," Donovan said dryly, "even the butler's name was Jenkins."

Dr. Strube seemed suddenly to realize that the police were investigating a case wherein he had signed a certificate of natural death. He was plainly concerned with his professional reputation.

"What's this all about, Sergeant? Why is the homicide squad interested in Dr. Rushing?"

Donovan patiently explained the stipulation in the will. Dr. Strube was much relieved.

"Dr. Rushing was very eccentric," he said, feeling better.

Donovan said yes, he understood that was the general opinion. He apologized for disturbing Dr. Strube and we left. I complained to Donovan I couldn't see the sense of all this. "Neither can I, but that's what a man gets for being on the force," he said. "There are a lot of things I'd rather be doing but as long as I work for a living I guess I got to do what I'm told." "But why drag me along?"

"For no good reason," he said, "except I wanted somebody to do the chauffeuring. You'd ought to remember what I told you about bread cast on the waters."

The mortuary was next. The chief undertaker was as much surprised to see Donovan as the others. He asserted that he had a copy of the death certificate and that everything was regular and normal and that Donovan could put that in his report.

Donovan said he'd do that little thing. "Now we only got one more place to go," he said, when we were outside. "We'll visit the old guy's house and then we're finished."

I drove to Dr. Rushing's house on Long Island, a none-too-pretentious estate which certainly gave no obvious indications of the owner's tremendous wealth. It was a modest Georgian house which sat back fifty feet from the highway in a grove of trees and shrubbery. A graveled driveway swung in a wide S to a roomy porte-cochere. It was clean and orderly.

Jenkins met us at the door and escorted us into the drawing room, saying he would get Mr. Thomas. I moved around the room, admiring some fine prints on the wall while Donovan just sat and stared at the floor.

In a minute or two Thomas Rushing came downstairs. He was twenty-three, neatly-dressed, a not unhandsome boy. He did not seem greatly surprised to see Donovan. He offered a drink, which Donovan refused, and sat down.

Donovan apologized for disturbing him, saying the commissioner just wanted to be sure everything was regular in the recent and sad death of Dr. Rushing.

"Yes, thank you. Everything was regular," Thomas said politely.

"Were you with him when he died?"

"I'm sorry to say I wasn't. Jenkins found him and then roused me out. I went at once. He had been dead half an hour, I judged."

"I understand your father'd had heart trouble a long time," Donovan said.

"That's true. For eight or nine years, I guess."

"Well, you're the boss now and if you're satisfied I guess we ought to be," Donovan said.

Thomas Rushing nodded, sighing heavily. He took a small key chain from his pocket and moved the keys around with his fingers. He was so preoccupied that he did not seem to be aware his fingers were moving at all, or that they held anything.

"We wouldn't have taken up your time," Donovan said, "only you remember that clause in your father's will that wanted Commissioner-"

"Yes, of course. Thank you very much. Father was eccentric-"

"I understand he was," Donovan said. "Well, that's all, Mr. Rushing. Will you send in the butler?"

THOMAS RUSHING went out swinging the key chain, and in a moment Jenkins entered.

"There's a few little odds and ends I got to clean up before I go," Donovan said to him. "Tell me about that night you found Dr. Rushing."

"I was pressing my suit for the next day," Jenkins said. "I sleep on the same floor-three rooms behind him towards the rear of the house. My iron wasn't very good and I started to the kitchen to get a larger one. As

I passed Dr. Rushing's door I could see by the floodlights outside that the French windows were open. I knew this was too much air, so I tiptoed in to close them. Then I glanced at the bed and saw Dr. Rushing was partly uncovered. I went over to adjust the covers."

"You liked your master, eh?"

"He was the finest man I've ever known," Jenkins said with reverence. "Two years ago he paid my brother's tuition for an entire college course."

"And after you adjusted the covers-"

"Yes, sir. I discovered then he was dead. I called Mr. Thomas and he asked me to call Dr. Strube. That was all, sir."

"Did Dr. Rushing seem his usual self that night?"

"Why, yes, sir. He was all right. But then we never knew when he would get a stroke. I've been with him ten years and I learned that his condition had nothing to do with them. He'd seem perfectly all right one minute and then the next he'd be helpless."

"What did he do that last night?"

"He had dinner and then he and Mr. Thomas went to a motion picture show in the village. He retired to his room to write a letter-"

"Who was the letter to?"

"I don't know, sir. I only know I saw him at the secretaire. Sometime later he was in bed reading. I stopped in and asked him if I could get him anything. He said no and that's the last time-"

"Take us to his room," Donovan said. Jenkins led the way upstairs. We saw nothing of Thomas Rushing.

"Are you trying to make a case out of this?" I whispered to Donovan on the stairs.

"May as well look around," he whispered in reply, "the afternoon's ruined for me anyway."

Dr. Rushing's room was spacious and deep- toned. Great double French windows opened onto a small veranda, shaded by trees. The furnishings were heavy and baronial. The bed was a canopied four-poster with a cylindrical reading lamp clipped to its head. There was a slender secretaire against the wall that looked entirely out of place against so masculine a background.

"Is that thing the secretaire?" Donovan asked. Jenkins said it was. Donovan seated himself and examined the sheets of paper which lay loosely on a small blotter. Occasionally he held one up, peering at it from under his thickish brows. They told him nothing. Then he grunted and picked up a wadded sheet, smoothing it out.

"This must be it," he said. The sheet of paper was dated the night Dr. Rushing died, but there was no writing on it. At the bottom of the page were a few meaningless symbols such as a man makes when he is trying to think with a pen in his hand.

"He started to write and then gave it up," Donovan said.

Next he picked up a book which was bookmarked by a pair of silver pince-nez.

"That was the book he was reading," Jenkins said. "When I found him the book was beside his pillow, so I laid it on the secretaire. This is the first time I've been in the room since I straightened it-" "These his glasses?" Donovan asked, holding the pince-nez.

"Yes, sir."

"And this pair too?" Donovan asked, holding up another pince-nez, identical with the first.

"Yes, sir." Donovan was silent a moment. Then he got up.

"Well, I guess that's all," he said. Jenkins let us out downstairs.

"You've certainly wasted this afternoon," I said, as we rolled back to town. "You might just as well have faked that report to the commissioner and had an afternoon off."

"I guess I should have," Donovan said. "Oh, well. . if I was real bright I wouldn't be a copper in the first place."

THE NEXT afternoon I read in a newspaper that the homicide squad had made an arrest in the death of Dr.

Sidney Rushing, famed philanthropist, who had died a week ago of what was then thought heart disease.

I hurried over to headquarters. I was told Donovan was "in conference" and to wait around. Thirty minutes later he emerged from the Inspector's office bearing a folded sheet of legal paper. He grinned at me, opening the paper.

"Have a look at that," he said, pointing to the signature. The name affixed was Thomas Rushing.

"His son killed him?" I asked, amazed. "But when did you suspect the boy?"

"I didn't suspect anybody to begin with. That part of it came later. I didn't even suspect him when he lied to me."

"When was that?" I asked, not remembering any lie.

"Yesterday afternoon. I asked him if he knew about that clause in his father's will about the commissioner and he said yes. That was a lie. Morton said nobody knew about it but him and the old guy.

"Then when I started talking to the kid yesterday he pulled out that key chain and started playing with it.That was just a habit, of course. But I recognized that key chain by a little tag on the end of it. It was a speakeasy identification. I still didn't think anything about that; a young fellow can have a speakeasy identification without being a murderer.

"The thing I couldn't understand was those glasses of the old guy. He had two pairs, both alike, both silver.

Only the rims of one pair looked brassy, like they had been worn a lot. After I left you I started to think about that. How could a new model pair of glasses get so badly worn? The other pair was okay. I took them to a jeweler and he said they weren't worn, they were tarnished and that some chemical had tarnished them. I thought that was funny, so I went to a laboratory. I found out hydrocyanic acid fumes had done it.

"Right away I knew this thing was phony. Then I went to that speakeasy and asked Emil some questions.

He didn't want to talk about his customers at first but when I reminded him of a couple of little favors I'd done for him he kicked it. He told me about the kid and how he was seen a lot with Jimmy Frioto. Jimmy's a tough egg and not a fit companion for a kid coming into as much money as Rushing was.

"I always thought Jimmy made them bombs which blew out Judge Horgan's porch a couple years ago, but

I never could hang it on him. Anyway, I remembered he used to work for the Interstate Chemical people, so I went around to pay him a visit.

"Knowing I didn't have nothing on him, he talked pretty free. He was still working with criminals. Well, he didn't know nothing about any hydrocyanic acid fumes, and so we talked and talked. I finally persuaded him to be sensible. He'd fixed some of the acid fumes in a bottle and given it to the kid, and all the kid had to do was to hold it under the old guy's nose and break off a little glass tip. One whiff of that stuff and it was curtains. It was a perfect set-up, the kid knew everybody knew the old guy had heart trouble and this stuff didn't leave no odor or mark or nothing. I guess that's what them French windows was doing open, the kid wasn't taking no chances.

"The old guy suspected all along that the stepson was after his dough. The kid figured the old guy might live forever because he kept having them heart attacks that didn't do nothing permanent to him. He figured he'd better knock the old guy off before he changed the will.

"But the kid got a bad break because the old guy was reading and wearing them silver pince-nez. If they'd been gold pince-nez it'd been a perfect crime. Gold won't show no trace of hydrocyanic acid fumes. But these were silver. Well, I picked the kid up early this morning, expecting to have a tough job to prove anything to a jury, but he seemed proud of what he'd done. He didn't seem a bit worried that he might go to the chair. You ought to have heard him dictating that confession. You'd have thought he'd just flown the Atlantic. But I believe I was prouder of nailing Jimmy Frioto. I been trying to land that wop for two years."

"A brilliant piece of work," I said admiringly. "You'll probably get a promotion out of this." "Nope, one of them pinochle players'll get all the credit," Donovan said. "You wait and see. Oh, well-what movie'll we shoot?"

Content

Horace McCoy
Trapped By Silver