Black Mask (Vol. 7, No. 5 — April 1950), British Edition

“Because he was the last one to be with Harry, tonight,” Gus told him. “When you quit the game, Eric, Harry and Willis Marlow and I kept playing. Then I quit and Harry and Marlow continued by themselves, bumping heads over big pots.”

“Was Pops losing?” Lee asked.

“He was way ahead for awhile,” Gus told her. “Then he hit a bad streak. He was going behind when I quit. Maybe he came out of it with a lucky run of cards again or maybe he didn’t. Either way, neither of them could have lasted long the way the betting was going by that time.”

I said, “Did anybody have sense enough to call the police? They’ll want to know about this.”

“I called them,” Eric Fabian said. “The whole police department will be over soon.”

“You mean Quimby?” Irma Wenzel said. “Quimby’s the chief.”

“He is the police department,” Fabian told her with feigned dignity.

“Why is it necessary to call the police in on this?” Lee Marlow wondered.

“For a routine investigation,” I said. “After all, there’s always the possibility that what looks like an accidental death isn’t that at all. They always check up on all the facts to make sure. Maybe Harry was forced into the dog’s pen, made to turn his back. Maybe he was unconscious and thrown in there. Of course—”

“Don’t be a jerk, Matty,” Pete Saterlee stopped me. “What the hell’s the idea of starting a rumor like that? Who’d want to kill Harry Wenzel and why? That’s ridiculous.”

There was silence for a few moments and then Irma Wenzel, holding the rim of a cocktail glass close to her lips and talking over the top of it, said, “Maybe Matty’s got something there. The theory is not as ridiculous as it sounds. If somebody did have murder in mind, it would be an ideal way to commit it. Harry, himself, has set the stage perfectly for it ever since he first acquired that murderous beast.”

Gus Berkaw moved over in front of Irma, leaned across the bar toward her. “Easy, kid,” he said. “You’re still suffering from shock. You don’t want to get yourself all upset. You don’t want to go saying things you’ll be sorry for, later.” Gus, himself, looked more strained and upset than Irma did at that moment. His heavy-featured, handsome dark face was taut and too intense. His deeply sunken brown eyes were too bright and restless. Irma, on the other hand, seemed calm and in full control of her emotions, now.

“I know what I’m saying. I’m saying that it strikes me as a little odd that Harry would go out into Satan’s pen at this time of night, in the dark and the fog. Did he even have a flashlight? Did anybody see a flashlight out there?”

Nobody answered. Nobody said anything. “Okay,” Irma went on. “So he didn’t have a flashlight. Don’t tell me, no matter how drunk Harry might have been, that he’d be fool enough to go out into that pen without a light of any kind. As for who would want to kill Harry — the answer is almost anyone.

“I have a reason. He was loaded with insurance. Eric Fabian, there, might do it. Eric wanted to buy the place when he heard about the new road coming through, but Harry wouldn’t sell. Eric knew I would. So he eliminates Harry and—”

Eric Fabian knocked over the whiskey glass in front of him. He spun around on his stool. “Now, wait a minute, Irma,” he snarled. “Are you accusing me of murder?”

She laughed brittley. “I’m not accusing anyone. I’m just saying what could be. Pete Saterlee might even have wanted revenge on Harry for slugging him, last night. People have killed for lesser, sillier motives.”

“That’s fine talk,” Pete said, “with a newspaper reporter sitting right here, listening. How is all this going to sound on the front page of the Wildwood Press?”

Before anybody had a chance to answer, the sound of a car moving into the parking space outside, was heard. It’s headlights flashed through the windows and then were turned off. We all sat there silently, listening to the car door slam. Footsteps came up onto the verandah outside and then the door burst open and a man in uniform came in.

Chief of Police Arnold Quimby was a proud and portly figure in a resplendant uniform with razor-creased trousers and plenty of gold braid on his sleeves. His badge and brass buttons were brightly polished as pushcart apples. He walked toward the bar with a brisk, military step and whipped off expensive, soft leather gloves. Chief Quimby’s moon face was heavy-joweled and florid and was puffed with an expression of smug importance.

“Where’s Harry?” he said. “Let’s have a look at him.”

Nobody said anything but Gus Berkaw moved around from behind the bar and gestured with his hand for Quimby to follow him. I trailed them outside. Dawn was just beginning to break and the fog had lifted somewhat. You could see things close to the ground quite clearly but I still had the flashlight, so I flicked it on. As we entered the dog pen, Quimby asked for the light and I passed it to him. He flashed it on the twisted figures of the dead dog and man and squatted down beside them.

“Dead all right. Who shot the dog?”