Talmage Powell

Murder Isn’t Timid

The cream of wheat was even more tasteless than usual; or maybe it was because he had spent three sleepless, terror-ridden nights, shivering in bed while he heard the ghostly noises downstairs.

Across the breakfast table from him, Maggie, his wife, a corpulent woman with a mannish face and a voice like a cracking whip, rustled the morning paper. “All through, Sylvester?”

He raised red-rimmed, tired eyes. “Yes, dear.” He wished she wouldn’t come to the breakfast table with her hair kinked up on stringy rags.

She said, “Well, you’d better be getting ready. Mr. Allenby will be by in a moment.”

He got up from the table. His head felt thick, his mouth fuzzy. He hoped there would be no noises tonight and he could get some sleep. He got his hat and coat from his bedroom, came back downstairs, and told Maggie “Bye, dear.” She submitted to his kiss on her cheek without-looking up from the paper.

She said, “Here’s something else about Todd Bassett, Sylvester. It’s been in the paper before, but they’re stressing the point now.”

“What is it?”

“His left foot. It says here that his left foot tilts outward sharply. Seems as if his left leg was broken once and... My goodness! What’s the matter?”

Sylvester Sneed sank weakly into his chair, his eyes popping a little, his thin face tinged with green.

“Sylvester!” Maggie sat up straight, alarmed. “What’s the mat...”

“The noises,” he croaked. “The noises we’ve been hearing downstairs for the last three nights. I... this morning... the furnace.” He pulped, groped with his hand, and steadied himself against the table. “This morning when I went to look at the furnace, dear, I found footprints.”

“Footprints?”

He nodded miserably. “The print of the left foot tilled outward, Maggie. It...”

Maggie squealed, went white, and swayed in her chair. “That’s who! Todd Bassett has been in this house! Maybe hiding here! We started hearing the noises the night after he escaped from prison. And now you find his footprint...” She got up quickly, the paper coming apart and spilling to the floor.

“Where are you going, dear?”

“To someplace I can feel protected.” Her voice was the cracking whip now. “For three nights you’ve listened to those sounds and have been afraid to get out of bed and chase the prowler out. If it’s Todd Bassett...” She shuddered, her plump body quivering all over. “I’m going home!”

“But, dear...” The slam of the door behind Maggie cut him off. He stood and looked helplessly. He pondered going after her, but a horn honked outside, and he knew he couldn’t keep Mr. Allenby waiting. Sylvester Sneed miserably left the room.

The morning outside was gray and a chill bit into Sylvester’s lungs each time he drew a breath; and to make it worse, Herbert Allenby was his usual bubbling self.

He looked very well fed and sure of himself, a cigar in his mouth, as he opened the door of his maroon coupe for Sylvester to climb in.

“Well, well, how’s Sneedie this morning?”

For a moment, he was too tired to stay in character. He said, “I feel lousy and I’d like to get drunk!”

Mr. Allenby almost swallowed his cigar. “Huh? Oh... yeah, sure.” He gave Sylvester a crooked glance. “What’s troubling you, old man?”

“Well, it’s this way. Four days ago I was a happily married man. Maggie sort of likes to have her way, but I’m accustomed to it. That morning — four days ago — we read in the paper — you remember the big, black headlines — that Todd Bassett had escaped from prison.

“Lots of folks here in Middleton remember Todd, and we wish he’d never been born here. He robbed a bank, killed a railroad man, then he kidnapped a child and neither the child nor the ransom was recovered. After that he tried to hold up a night club in Chicago and killed the manager. Smart lawyers got him off with a life sentence.”

He suddenly realized how much he had talked, and he looked at Herbert Allenby in embarrassment.

“Go on,” Herbert said.

“Well, this sounds silly, but Todd Bassett is ruining my marriage!”

Allenby’s forehead wrinkled. “Your marriage?” he echoed.

Sylvester nodded. “For three nights my life has been in mortal danger.” He swallowed hard. “I’m half dead from it already. Been hearing noises downstairs. And this morning, by a footprint, I knew Todd Bassett had been hiding in my house. I guess he figured the police would never dream of looking there. Not when he learned who had bought the old house and fixed it up. So Maggie’s leaving, until they catch Todd or I... I do something.”

“Why haven’t you called the police?”

“I thought of it. But... but wouldn’t there be shooting?”

“I suppose so. You really should sell the old place to me. Well, here’s your stop.”

Mr. Allenby pulled over in front of the two-story, aged brick building that housed Collins Hide and Metal Corp. Sylvester thanked him for the ride and got out.

Even on the sidewalk, the rank odor of old hides and new hides with the fur yet to be removed from them hit and splashed in Sylvester’s stomach. Of course, the smell wasn’t so bad in the office where he worked, but it was an unusual day indeed when he could eat a hearty lunch. He had been on the point of quilting the Collins Corp., had stood it as many years as he thought he possibly could, when Pearl Harbor happened. And Collins, with its metal and leather, had suddenly become very important. Because he knew the business, every tangent of it, Sylvester Sneed had stuck to his guns, working long hours and swallowing his stomach when the odor got too bad.

Herbert Allenby pulled away, zooming into traffic, and Sylvester stood a moment thinking that Allenby had told him, when he’d moved in the hotel four blocks up the street from Sylvester, of a nice, air-conditioned office where he, Allenby worked. Sylvester sighed, and the brick building swallowed him.

The day was an eternity, every moment filled with “Sneed do this” or “Sneed, look to that.” He worried about Maggie, and he wondered if he should call the police or trust to Bassett to leave him alone in the future. He’d never been in a position like this, and he was bewildered.

His nerves made him feel as if he were jerking all over and there were dark circles under his eyes when he came out of the brick building at six o’clock.

He stood on the sidewalk waiting for a break in traffic. He took off his glasses, was wiping the lenses with a handkerchief, when the dark sedan pulled over to the curb.

“Hello there, Sneed.”

“Eh?” He peered at the car, saw the vague shape of a smiling face.

“Want a lift?”

“Oh, I can catch a bus.”

“No need of that. Get in. This is Joe Clayton.”

Sylvester thought very hard, putting his glasses on slowly.

“Don’t you remember me?”

“Er... oh, sure.” He tried to think that he did.

“Well, come around the car and get in. I want you to drive for me as far as your house. Hurt my finger with ray cigarette lighter a moment ago.”

A car behind the sedan began honking its horn viciously.

“Get in, Sneed!”

Something about the voice made Sylvester jump, and without quite realizing it, thinking that he was making the driver behind very angry by holding up Joe Clayton, he went around the sedan.

His mind full of Todd Bassett, Sylvester looked into the car. The man scooted over. He was a blonde, and Bassett, Sneed remembered, had been a brunette, with slick hair. His breath whistled out in relief. The horn behind him blared again and he jerked the door open.

“Sure appreciate this, Mr. Clayton,” he said, scooting under the wheel. “Buses awful crowded these days. Is your finger bad?”

“Not very, but when I saw you, I knew you’d not mind driving a few blocks for me.”

“Certainly not.” With the horn behind prodding him, Sylvester let the clutch out slowly and the sedan crept away from the curb.

They drove five blocks, turned left and were on a dark, quiet street. “Two blocks longer this way,” Sylvester said, “but not so much traffic.” His hands stayed clammy all the time he was driving in traffic.

He kept trying to place Joe Clayton, glancing furtively at him. Then his gaze dropped to Clayton’s shoes. Weakness washed over him. The left shoe tilted sharply outward...

He heard the other man. “Hah! You know me?”

Sylvester nodded. Peroxide and a curling iron would account for the wavy blond hair; a bit of make-up, parafin to change the nostrils, things Sylvester had heard about vaguely, had further changed the man.

His vocal cords opened enough for him to whisper, “Yes, Mr. Bassett.”

Todd Bassett tilted bark his head and laughed. Gone now was every vestige of restrained speech and manner. He was exactly as Sylvester remembered — hard and illiterate. Todd had seen enough of the world for him to put on a faint edge of polish, with effort, when he needed it; but now the killer in him glowed in his eyes.

“Okay, you little punk! You worm!”

Sylvester shrank behind the wheel, steering the car with difficulty. “But why me, Mr. Bassett. Why...”

“Because it’s safe. No copper’d get it in his numb brain that a smart guy like me would be hiding in your basement. And you’re one of the rats that used to think I was so awful when the truant officer, or whichever you call the rat that hunts kids that’s too smart to go to school, would get me.” He laughed without mirth. “I heard a little of what your old woman said this morning. Thought I better see you and make sure the basement stayed cozy.” Numb with terror, Sylvester moaned.

Then he was aware that Bassett’s hand had made a quick motion. For the first time in his life, Sneed saw a gun up close. He was looking at it from the business end, and there was a leering, laughing face behind it. His pulses pounded in his head, and he felt sick. The bore of the gun yawned at him, got bigger and bigger until it encompassed him. Sneed fainted dead away...

He couldn’t have been out long, for the car was still quivering when his brain swam out of the gray, sickening mist. The windshield was cob-webbed with cracks, and Sneed’s thin chest hurt where he’d been thrown against the wheel. He pulled himself up, saw that a light post was upended over the hood. The car had hit it head on.

Then terror brought him fully to life. But Todd Bassett was gone. Sylvester heard a woman yelling; then her voice was drowned in the scream of a siren, and Sneed knew that a nearby police car must have heard the rending crash of the car. The siren had driven Bassett off.

But it had left Sneed in a spot. There was the woman, and he could hear quick feet — a crowd gathering. And those cops weren’t over a block away. There’d be charges of stealing a car pressed — a jail sentence... He tumbled out of the warped door. A man yelled. People seemed to be coming from all directions, like demons converging on him. The closest man wasn’t over a hundred feet away.

And the darkness cloaked Todd Bassett...

The voices of the people, rising like the sounds in a nightmare, drove him frantic. He ran headlong across the street, cut into a driveway, and scurried across a back yard.

He was trembling, and each breath was a tearing sob. He came up on a woman quite suddenly and she screamed. He turned, plowed into a wooden fence, and scrambled over it.

Four blocks away a grain of sanity began to return. He slowed, stepped out of an alley, on a lighted street. He mopped the side of his face with a handkerchief where he’d hit the wooden fence. He tried to walk casually.

He knew now that he’d only made matters worse. He had got free of the stolen car, but he was still not free of Todd Bassett. And he couldn’t go back to the wreck now. What could he tell them? How could he explain?

He caught a bus and went home.

The house was totally dark, and it made him feel very forlorn. He’d have traded his right arm at that moment for Maggie’s warm, plump presence.

He scouted the house, listening, his body bent, at a basement window. There was no sound, and he went to the back door, let himself in with a key.

He said, “Maggie?” But he didn’t hear anything, and he knew he’d only tried to say it. Nothing had come out. He made a stronger effort, croaking, “Maggie?” He started from room to room.

She was gone.

He came down to the living room, absently picked up a pipe and lighted it. He could go to Maggie’s mother’s house over on Devon street. But he flinched from that. It might not do any good; Maggie would take her own time about coming back, probably longer if he went and made a scene. And he couldn’t help making a scene with Maggie’s old man. Too, he was a little afraid that in his present mood he’d not let the old man browbeat him. He might even tell the old man where to get off. That might prove to be disastrous later.

He decided not to rock the boat. After the episode in the car, Todd Bassett might be scared off. He was sure that Maggie would be back sometime tomorrow. She’d have dinner cooked tomorrow night, her tongue as acid as ever. The best thing, Sneed decided, was for him to go to his room, lock the doors and windows, and go to bed.

He went down the hall, paused and listened at the basement door. He started down the basement steps, clicking the light on by the switch at the top of the steps. His feet tingled, as if he was walking on hot coals.

He reached the bottom of the steps, peeked into the basement, poised for instant flight. Then he went toward the furnace, wondering how many seconds it would take him to stoke it and get to his room.

He watched the corners, thinking of the Roland child that Bassett had kidnapped for fifty thousand dollars, the railroad man named Farnum he’d killed. Sneed had known Farnum...

He opened the stoker, picked up a shovel, drew it back to swing it into the coal in the bin near the furnace, and that’s the way he stayed, like a statue, the shovel drawn back. Every drop of his blood congealed, literally ran cold. He didn’t breath. He stared at the shoe.

It was a man’s shoe, and it protruded from the coal, and Sneed could see the ankle it was attached to. An ankle sprinkled with coal dust.

Sneed’s aching eyes blurred, focused, and his gaze moved slowly, hypnotically, up the mound of coal. He saw a hand with a heavy ring on the little finger. Then he saw the face. It was the face of Mr. Herbert Allenby, and it had a faintly comical look, with coal dust sifted about the nostrils, his mouth, and eyes. Except it was a horrible comedy, for his mouth and eyes were open and there was a messy mixture of black dust and blood on his temple.

Sneed could hear his nerves crackling like wires overloaded with electricity. It didn’t make sense. There was no reason why Allenby should be dead here in this basement. He saw Sneed only mornings, had moved in up the street only six weeks ago. He’d been nice, Sneed thought, his brain crazily amplifying that thought above the thousands that poured out of it. Allenby had been nice, had kidded about wanting to buy this house which had stood vacant a long time before Sneed moved in a year ago, and now he was dead.

Did only nice people get in trouble?

He moved his legs stiffly. He wasn’t holding the shovel now, but he didn’t remember dropping it. He barked toward the stairs, watching Herbert Allenby’s face.

Woodenly, he went up the stairs backward, slamming the door at the top with all his strength, then leaning against it, panting.

Weaving like a drunken man, he turned and went down the hall. He had only one thought — to get out of the house. He knew he had the choice of the police or a killer stalking in the deep well of night. The police he dreaded more. There was only one killer, but the police were everywhere. That sight in the basement wouldn’t look so good to them. They’d learn that Sneed had seen Allenby occasionally, and with Allenby dead there in the basement... Sneed had heard of third degrees. No telling what the police would make him say.

He came out hatless, thinking that he didn’t have much time. Sooner or later someone would find that corpse. But what could he do?

Then he heard the tapping of high heels. They were coming closer very fast, and his heart picked up rhythm, beat in time to them. He was watching the shadows.

The tappings turned in at his walk, and he saw her face, a pale blur in the darkness. She came closer and he could see that she was tall, taller than he, and very beautiful. Her blonde hair fell in waves below her chic felt hat. The light from inside was Ml on her face now, and looking at it did strange things inside of him. He looked up at the feather in her hat to keep from looking at her face.

“Mr. Sneed?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I’m Hazel Winters. I work for Walter Padgett, the private detective.”

He looked at her face then. “Detective?”

“Yes. Your wife came to Mr. Padgett today. She was afraid of burglars, strange noises, in the house. She wants Mr. Padgett to find out...”

“That’s funny,” he said. “I didn’t know we had a private detective in Middleton.”

“You don’t have.” She smiled. “We were on our way to Florida for a vacation and stopped over for a couple of days. Here...” she fumbled at her bag, “here is a copy of one of Mr. Padgett’s old licenses.”

Sylvester Sneed had never seen such a license before. The one she handed him was dated five years back and a little tattered about the edges. It bore the name of Walter L. Padgett and had a very legal look. He gave it back to her. The knots were untying inside of him. He really had need of a private detective now. The flashing vision of dumping all his troubles, plus the corpse in the coal, on the experienced bosom of Walter Padgett greatly appealed to Sneed.

“Does Mr. Padgett want to see me?”

“Yes, he’d like to ask you in detail about the prowler.”

“I’ll tell him everything I know,” Sneed said. “Thank heaven, everything!”

Hazel Winters’ car was three houses down. She’d missed Sneed’s number in the dark. Little pincushions of excitement kept rolling up and down his spine as he walked beside the blonde vision and opened her car door for her.

She drove, handling the car nicely, and they went downtown to the Walton Hotel. It was Middleton’s best, and Sneed momentarily forgot his pressing troubles as the bell hops sprang to attention at Hazel Winters’ approach.

But in the elevator, the troubles all came back. What if the police found the corpse while he was gone? They’d say he ran away; and that caused an unpleasant thought of the electric chair to loom very large.

They went down a corridor, and Hazel tapped lightly on an ivory colored door. It swung open, and Sneed knew he was looking at Walter Padgett. The man had a detecting look about him. He was lean, with broad shoulders, narrow hips. His face was rather gaunt, harsh maybe, and his dark brown eyes pierced Sneed.

“This is Mr. Sylvester Sneed,” the girl said.

Padgett swung the door open, and Sneed followed the girl in. It was the living room of a suite, and it made Sneed uncomfortable. It probably cost as much in two days as he made in a week.

“Sit down, Mr. Sneed. Have a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

Walt Padgett took a cigarette from a silver case, snapped a light to it, and sat down opposite Sylvester. The girl strolled over to the window, stood looking down at the street.

“Mr. Sneed,” Padgett began solemnly, “I’m on a vacation. I do not ordinarily take cases without a... well, a rather nice fee. But your wife was so genuinely scared that I’d like to help you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Padgett.” At this very instant, was a cop going down those basement stairs?

“Now tell me,” Padgett said, flicking an ash from his imported tweed coat sleeve, “do you have any idea whom the intruder is?”

“I...” Then he clicked his teeth together. He suddenly distrusted this suave man. Probably k was his natural distrust of people, built inside of him over the rather lonely, friendless, timid years. Or maybe it was the faint gleam in Padgett’s eyes. Two thoughts flashed through his mind, jarring him. First, why, actually, was Padgett so interested in the noises in the basement? He really didn’t seem the type to help out just for the sake of generosity. And why hadn’t Maggie told Padgett that they suspected the noises being made by Bassett?

He said, “I’m awful sorry, sir, but I don’t know who made the noises.”

“I see. Your wife was rather reticent, also.” He stood up, his gaze flicking to the girl. A signal seemed to pass between them.

“Mr. Sneed,” Padgett said, “I’ll call on your wife again. We really must get together if we expect to crack this thing.”

Sneed half rose. “You’re going to my house?”

Padgett nodded.

A vision of Allenby’s corpse flashed through Sneed’s mind again, and he repressed a shudder with a hard effort. He felt trapped. What if Padgett found the corpse and called the police? Or what if Padgett was crooked and decided to try blackmail on Sneed? A cold knot gathered in Sylvester’s stomach. It was like being caught by an octopus. First the noises, danger enough for him. Then the brush with Todd Bassett, the finding of Allenby’s body, and now a slick customer like Padgett dipping his fingers in.

Padgett was slipping into a light camel’s hair topcoat. Sneed said, “Don’t you think I’d better go along?”

“No need endangering yourself.”

“But I...”

“Oh, run along, Walt,” the girl said. “We’ll be company enough, won’t we, Mr. Sneed?”

Hating himself, Sneed was thrilled by the girl’s voice right down to his toes. He gulped, his face crimson.

Padgett laughed easily. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“I... uh...” Sneed began; then the door closed behind Padgett, and Sneed found himself looking at the girl, still in his awkward, half standing position.

She smiled, and he sat down weakly. She began to chatter, sitting on the couch beside him. Her perfume made his head whirl. He sat helplessly.

Finally, she ran out of talk and said, “Wouldn’t you like a drink?”

“No, honest, Miss Winters...”

“Call me Hazel, won’t you?”

“I... uh...” He licked his lips, gathered strength, and said, “I gotta get out of here!”

He sprang to his feet, intending to make a dash for the door. She rose with him, her hand on his arm, and as he broke away, she stumbled and fell, crying out sharply.

He looked at her, not knowing quite what to do, his hands feeling useless.

“I’m sorry, Miss Winters.”

“It’s nothing much. Help me to the couch, will you?”

He sprang to help her. Her teeth were set as he held her arms and eased her to the couch. “It’s my ankle.”

“Maybe... maybe a cold compress would help.”

She gave him a dazzling smile. “Would you? The bath is right there.”

He got a towel, wet it, and when he came back, she had her shoe and hose off. Gently, he put the towel about her ankle.

There was no swelling, but she continued to complain, and he was carrying the tenth or eleventh cold towel — he’d lost count — when the door opened and Padgett came in.

Sneed explained what had happened as hurriedly as he could. He forget to ask Padgett if he’d had any success. The gleam was sharper in Padgett’s eyes now, and Sneed could feel perspiration trickling down his back.

“And... uh... I put cold compresses on the ankle, Mr. Padgett. Uh... I’ll see you later.” He thought he heard a faint giggle from Hazel Winters as he hurried out the door.

He breathed deeply on the street; he was sure now that Padgett was up to something. He yelled at a taxi, gave his home address. He’d phone Maggie’s mother, pet Maggie to come home. She’d think of something. She always did...

The house was still dark when he went back up the front walk. He considered taking a peep at the corpse in the basement, just to be sure that Padgett hadn’t bothered it. But rebellion was too strong in him. He wiped his forehead with the back of his trembling hand and went into the living room.

He snapped on the light, crossed the room to the phone, and found it. A note, terse, but utterly without sense. He read it over three times, panic and bewilderment growing in him. The third lime he read it softly aloud:

“Mr. Sneed.

“We’re really gentle folk, and mean no bodily harm to your spouse. She is quite safe, and will be returned to you tomorrow morning if you move the coal to the other side of your basement immediately, go downtown without a word to anyone, and rent a room in the Elite Hotel under the name of John Bragg. Stay in the room until eight thirty tomorrow morning. Disobey these orders and you may consider yourself responsible for your wife’s death.”

The word death kept leaping out at him. He felt the muscles in his thin, anemic-looking face harden, his five foot three body come alive. Inside be felt the same way he had the day the Japs had bombed Pearl Harbor and he’d decided to May at Collins Hide and Metal.

He sat down, thrusting the note in his pocket, and called Walter Padgett. “Did you see my wife, Padgett?”

“No. The house was dark, and I could get no answer to my knock. You got away from the hotel here before I could tell you. What’s wrong?”

“My wife is gone.”

He heard a faint “ohhhh.” Then Padgett asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I...” But what if Padgett had done it? “I’m going up to the attic, get a smaller shovel. The big one in the basement breaks my back. Then I’m going to move the coal in my basement.”

“Attic? Coal?” Padgett’s voice sounded hard. “What the hell is this? You wait until I get there!” There was a slam of the receiver at the other end of the line.

Sylvester Sneed waited five intolerable, aching minutes. Padgett should have been here by now. He stalled up the stairs.

As he opened the flimsy door to the attic, he thought he heard a door closing down in the depths of the house. Hot fear shot through him, but he went on into the attic.

He clicked on the faint bulb, skirted an old trunk, and froze in his tracks as he heard a faint bump behind an old dresser. Some of his courage which had come a moment ago drained out of him and his teeth chattered.

But he went toward the dresser. After all, he didn’t have much more to lose.

He looked behind the dresser; then he was jerking it out of the way, kneeling over Maggie. She was bound hand and foot, and a dirty rag was about her mouth.

The rag made an effective gag and after swift consideration of the acid qualities of her tongue, he thought he’d leave it until last. But she made angry, muffled noises, and fearing future retribution, he took the gag off. He expected a storm of words, but she moaned, “Oh, Sylvester!” There was something about it that made his chest feel larger than thirty-four inches.

He reached toward her wrists just as the attic door slammed open. It was Padgett and there was a big, black automatic in his hand. It was pointed at Sneed and Maggie began to sob whimperingly.

Very slowly, Sneed got to his feet. “I get it. You got me to the hotel, knowing that Maggie was out. You’ve probably scouted the house earlier. Your girl friend kept me at the hotel while you came here, called Maggie, and brought her up here. You...”

At that moment a newcomer made his appearance. He was shooting and the house seemed to rock to its foundations with the blasting gunfire.

It was Todd Bassett, snarling hate and anger.

His first slug broke a windowpane. Maggie screamed and promptly fainted. It was somehow like a dash of steadying icewater to Sneed. He dropped flat.

Padgett, whirling, caught the second slug in the arm. His gun bounced crazily out of his hand. Sneed scooped it up.

Standing in the doorway, smoke curling from his gun, Bassett laughed throatily at the sight of Sneed gripping the gun.

While he was still laughing, Sylvester Sneed, using two hands, raised the gun, took aim and pulled the trigger.

The house was overflowing with people, blue-coated cops, plainclothes dicks, reporters, and photographers. Herbert Allenby’s corpse was laid out in the hall, waiting for the meat wagon, flash bulbs exploding over it.

In the living room, two internes in white coats were putting Todd Bassett on a stretcher. He was breathing heavily, but steadily, a slug in his chest. Padgett sat glumly on the sofa, gripping his injured arm. Maggie hovered at the side of the room, looking wide-eyed at the knot of people in the middle of the room. In the midst of the knot, smiling a little, two high spots of color on his lean cheeks, was Sylvester Sneed. “...And then,” he was saving, “I made Padgett lug Bassett down here. Maggie had recovered her faint, and we waited in the living room for the police.”

“But what’s it all about, Sneed?”

He looked down, kicked the carpet with the toe of his shoe, and said, “Well, I just happened to be an innocent bystander who got caught in the middle. I think when you finish moving that coal and dig a little you’ll find whatever is left of the Roland child and the ransom money.

“The house was vacant back then — at the time of the kidnapping. And Todd Bassett used the basement as a hiding place. That’s why he came back here. Ordinarily, you’d think that a man on the run would steer dear of his home town. But Todd had to have money, and he’d buried the ransom in the basement. When he prowled the basement, he found that I’d put cool over the hiding place. That’s why he laid for me tonight, to make sure I’d keep quiet until he could get the money.”

A reporter said, “So he kidnapped Mrs. Sneed?”

“No, Padgett did that. Padgett and Allenby were working together. They’d learned about the ransom and its hiding place. Allenby came here first, and he ran smack into the same trouble that Bassett later did. I had moved into the house and four tons of coal were lying over the fifty thousand dollars. He tried to buy the house, couldn’t, and when Bassett escaped from prison he knew that he and Padgett didn’t have much time. He called Padgett to come and help out. So you see it was Padgett and Allenby against Bassett, with a fifty-thousand-dollar stake, and that left me and Maggie right in the middle.”

“Then Padgett killed Allenby?” The faces pressed eagerly closer, and Sneed went crimson right up to the roots of his hair. But it was a pleasant embarrassment.

“No. This is one time where crooks are getting what’s coming to them. Allenby lost his life. Padgett and the girl will get nice long prison terms. And after killing four times before, Todd Bassett has finally put himself in the electric chair. Bassett killed Allenby.”

There was a ripple of gasps, and Sneed studied his toe, pecking at the carpet with it.

A detective asked, “How come you’re so sure?”

Sneed started to say, “Shucks, it’s simple.” But that might have been insulting, and he looked very studious and said, “It’s like this. Whoever wrote that kidnap note to me was not illiterate. That meant that Todd Bassett didn’t do it. I knew that Padgett had, and I wouldn’t have phoned him if I’d thought he had Maggie right in this house in the attic — which, after all, was about the safest place in the world. But — if Padgett had killed his partner and had left his body in the basement, he’d not have asked me to move the coal immediately. He’d want time to get the body out because he’d be afraid I’d see it, and with Maggie gone, would call the police, which might have upset things if he’d been the killer. So he didn’t even know his partner had been killed. Which meant that Bassett and Allenby both had been unlucky enough to be prowling the basement at the same time. Bassett shot him, then tried to get his hands on me to keep roe quiet until he could get the body and get the ransom money. He didn’t want me finding the body and calling the police either.

“When you check Bassett’s gun, and make Padgett and Hazel Winters come clean to keep clear of the murder charge themselves, you’ll have proof enough.”

There was more, a lot more, and when they finally cleared out, Sylvester Sneed went to bed — and didn’t sleep. He felt too strong, too big. He daydreamed.

The next morning his head felt thick, his mouth fuzzy. His eyes were red-rimmed, tired. The cream of wheat was even more tasteless than usual.

He looked up. “Maggie, dear, couldn’t we have some ham and eggs some morning?”

She gave him a withering glance over the top of the paper. “Ham? With all this meat rationing you want ham? Don’t you know there’s a war on?”

The mighty Sneed said meekly, “Yes, dear.”

Content

Talmage Powell
Murder Isn’t Timid