Corpse on the Grill

He fell heavily, keeping his grip on Krass and sending home one bone-crushing blow to his prisoner’s jaw. There wasn’t time to get out his gun; the Marshal felt another terrific, nerve-numbing blow on top of his head — and that was all he felt.

It was dark and damp and cold. Pedley’s whole body ached so that it was torture to move. When he did attempt it, he found his movements were tightly restricted. His right arm was strapped to his side with surgeon’s tape; his mouth had been plastered up with the same adhesive and his feet bound together. His left wrist was locked in one half of his own handcuffs; the other half of the bracelets had been snapped around a two-inch water-pipe running from floor to ceiling.

There was a cement floor under his feet and a rock wall at his back; he knew he was in the basement garage of the Krass house, even before he distinguished the low purr of the motor.

So that was the idea: the locked, unventilated garage; the running motor... Easy, painless death! And there wasn’t anything to do about it, except take it. Krass’ wife had begun that attack on him because she must have suspected her husband was guilty. Once they’d started it, Pedley supposed they could think of no alternative course than to put him out of the way. And yet...

He strained at his bonds. It was hopeless. There was no way of telling how long it would take for the CO to take effect. He had heard that the only warning you got was a splitting headache; but he had that already. And he couldn’t guess how long he’d been down here.

A drop splashed down on his face. It felt cool, refreshing. He looked up. Dimly, he could make out a faucet in a T joint on the riser above his head. Water! If he could get that faucet open, there might still be the slimmest chance.

He slid his handcuffed hand up the pipe, stood on tiptoe. He could just touch the lower rim of the faucet wheel. It was rusted! It stuck! It took him an eternity to force it open enough to permit a slow trickle down on him.

Pedley shifted so the water would drip on the tape at his right side. He squirmed and wriggled with every ounce of effort he could command. At first he thought it would be useless, but gradually the adhesive began to give.

Chapter Six The Man with the Key

The purr of the motor was louder now, or it seemed so to the Marshal. By the time he had managed to wrench his wrist free from the gummy tape, the pounding in his ears was thunderous, either from the motor or the thumping of his heart.

He tore at the bindings around his ankles, ripped the sticky bandage loose. He let the water splash on his upturned face a second, then shimmied up the pipe, using his feet and left hand to grip the metal, until he could turn the faucet on full force.

He got it wide open. Then he gripped the T pipe with the fingers of his right hand, got the ball of his thumb across the jet of the stream. Would it reach?

It would!

The spurt of water hissed out in a thin fan, toward the hood of the sedan. Pedley jockeyed it so the jet hit the side louvres. The sound of the stream hitting the metal of the hood was music to his ears.

But there was no certainty it would reach a vital connection, dampen the wires, get to the distributor. It might... and that was all the chance he had.

He felt himself getting noticeably weaker. It took strength to maintain his grip on that pipe; he couldn’t last much longer. The motor droned away, unconcernedly.

He altered the angle of the jet. There was a sputter, a miss. He clung to the pipe with the grim determination of a drowning man clutching a branch. Finally, when his hold was loosening and he was beginning to slip down the pipe, there was complete silence.

He’d done it! The invisible, death-dealing fumes wouldn’t come pouring out of that exhaust any longer. If there wasn’t already too much poison in the air...

He climbed up with a final effort and shut off the water. Puddles on the floor gurgled as they ran to the drain.

The Marshal left the tape on his mouth, rearranged the bindings around his feet so they wouldn’t seem to have been disarranged, at first glance. He turned over on his side, so that his right arm would be against the wall.

Then he waited. Hours it seemed...

The footsteps came slowly down, gritting on the cement floor of the garage. Pedley could just make out a vague shadow moving in silhouette against the deeper blackness.

Pedley kept his muscles limp, relaxed; simulating as nearly as possible the lifeless corpse which he should have been. The fire detective could hear the murderer’s stertorous breathing, could feel fingers probing his throat for his pulse. Then the Marshal snapped into convulsive action.

His right hand shot out, clutched the shadowy figure fiercely by the neck. At the same instant, using his steel-locked left hand as leverage, Pedley threw his legs around the man’s body in a scissors grip.