Professor Quotient’s quiz act suddenly pays off in grim murder, with a baffling mystery as the jackpot question!
Leaning back in the wicker hotel chair, Thomas Gaylord Schurtz gobbled a good half of a Tom Collins. He was in his pajamas and robe. He slapped his protruding paunch and said, “Ah! The world brightens!” He was a big red-faced man, with iron gray hair and big red hands. Ex-carnival barker. Ex-picker of coal. Ex-stevedore. A man with a voice like burnished brass and a laugh that was contagious.
At the moment he was Professor Quotient. It was not hard work, standing on the stage of a theater while slim Mary Adams, in sequined tights and bra, stood by holding the bowl of folded questions, the program notes. Two bright kids, Nick Wellar and Stan Haverly, plus a few local boys picked up for a five each, roamed through the audience with the hand mikes and trailing cords, singling out extroverts in the audience to answer the questions and get paid off in crisp dollar bills — or crisp fifties for the jackpot question of the evening. It was a national hookup, selling the bleating public a mouth wash made of alcohol, water, and peppermint flavoring. A thousand a week. Four hundred for Nick, Stan, and Mary for salaries and expenses. Five hundred clear for Thomas Gaylord Schurtz, alias Professor Quotient. A big deal. A fine fat deal.
Sometimes Tom Schurtz wondered how long it would last. That thought always made him vaguely uncomfortable. He wasn’t saving a dime. Not a dime. But, heck, when folks got tired of this, something else would pop up. It had to. It always had so far.
Mary Adams sat by the window reading
Nick Wellar was spread out on a bed, wearing a soft yellow sport shirt and dark green gabardine trousers. He was swinging one leg and humming at the ceiling. He was tall and straight, with the kind of good looks that are admired in Naples, Lisbon and Madrid. He moved like a bull fighter and talked with all the good humor and intelligence of a ten-cent slot machine.
Nick Wellar had three standard daydreams. The first was that he would take over Tom’s job. The second was that he would punch the ears off of Stan Haverly. The third was that Mary would accelerate her slow process of falling in love with him.
Stan Haverly was the outsider, a slow, careful lad who would have been considered handsome in Sweden, Bavaria or Princeton. In fact he had been to Princeton where he had taken work in mass psychology and the psychology of advertising. To him, his job was a clinic. He kept detailed notes on audience reaction and an analysis of humor. Stan Haverly knew that it might take ten years or twenty years, but eventually he would be known in a hundred plush offices in Manhattan as the man to see regarding program construction and audience reaction. He was careful, self-contained, scorned a bit by Tom and Nick as an outsider who was in, but not of, the entertainment world.
Tom Schurtz had hired Nick and Stan because they were clean-cut, they had voices that fit the airwaves and they knew instinctively how to handle the public. He was satisfied with both of them, and especially with Nick. Tom had picked Mary with the knowledge gained from looking at ten thousand women. He knew that each audience was filled with young men to whom the questions were just a roar of sound in their ears and who walked out of the theater in a state of numb entrancement. She could do more by just standing and holding the bowl of questions than most women could do in a lead spot with Martha Graham.
Tom gulped the rest of his drink and said, “Ah! Soon, my children, we must prepare to face our public in this thriving metropolis of Hoagersburg.”
Mary glanced up from
“Break it off, my dear,” Tom said. “We always fill their largest theater, don’t we? An audience in West Overshoe, New Hampshire, is no different than a small group packing the Yankee Stadium. As I have so often said — people are folks.”
“You used to say, ‘Skin the marks. They’re asking for it.’ Are you mellowing?” Nick asked.
Stan put on his professorial manner. “Marks — an ancient carnival word used to denote the cash customers. Now they are more generally called ‘yaks’.”
“Okay, Doctor Haverly,” Nick said. “Speaking of yaks, how about our usual bet? Our two-man pool? Are you on for a five?”
Mary grinned at Tom and said, “So again we have the five-dollar contest between practise and theory. With practise winning again.”
“Theory is right,” Stan moaned. “I don’t get it. My records say that out of the last seven times, you’ve won six. Six times you’ve handed out more dough on right answers than I have. What do you do? Whisper the answers? Or do you split with Tom?”
“Leave me out of this,” Tom said. “I make it a point to give you and Nick the same number of questions, equally difficult. And they add up to about the same amount of payoff. You guys both know what’s in the bowl. Nick just has a better eye for... for—”
“The extroverted intelligentsia,” Mary supplied.
“Yeah. You bother me, Mary. You’re beginning to sound like Doctor Haverly here. Anyway, since you so kindly supplied the words to fit my thought, I will rephrase. Nick has an eye for smarter people. How are you guys lined up for tonight?”
“I’m right balcony and Stan’s front and center,” Nick said, “You didn’t tell me, Stan boy. Is it a bet?”
“You’re twenty-five ahead. I must bet to protect my investment.”
“Run along, children,” Tom said, getting to his feet with a grunt. “Time to get ready.”
Mary and Stan, as usual, had single rooms down the hall from the double occupied by Tom and Nick. They left the room together, and Stan saw a look on Nick’s face that told him that Nick didn’t like the idea of their going anywhere together.
Stan told himself that Nick had no cause for alarm. It was true that he couldn’t look into Mary’s eyes without a small feeling of shock, but something always made him blundering and stupid when he was with her. He knew it was the gulf between them caused by the job. To Mary, the job was a part of her career. To Stan the job was a training ground, a source of data, an amusing and relatively unimportant phase. He could understand her attitude, but he doubted whether she could understand him. So he made no effort to see if she could understand. With an odd feeling of loss, he watched her gravitate toward Nick.
Suddenly she caught his arm. He looked at her in surprise.
“Hold up there, Professor. You just walked by your room.”
Stan blushed and turned back, looking over his shoulder to admire the way she walked down the hall. He stood for a time in his room, staring out of his window at a blank brick wall, his forehead knotted, trying to figure out why he was so easily beaten by Nick each week...
The Ajax Theater was loaded. Eager citizens who couldn’t find seats were herded behind the aged velvet ropes held by the pimply ushers.
The curtain went up and Tom walked out, shining in white tie and tails. He grinned at the audience, patted the top of the mike and said, “I’m Professor Quotient and friend. Neither of us kill ourselves working.” As usual he got a good laugh. “You’ve all heard this program over the radio. But on the radio, you can’t see Mary. Come out here, Mary.” She came out in her sequined tights and bra, holding the bowl of questions. Tom killed the stomping and whistling by holding up both hands. “This is called a warm up. I’m supposed to make you happy, so when we go on the air Mary and I get what’s called ‘thunderous applause’.”
As usual, they ate it up. Tom glanced out into the wings and then at his watch. “We have time for a little instruction — not that all you bright people need it. I know you’re all here loaded with facts and figures. I’ll pull a question out of the bowl and my assistants in the audience will pick out somebody to answer it. When they hand you that mike, don’t be afraid of it. Talk up. Make Aunt Minnie in Tuxedo Junction understand every word. I’ll announce the value of the question before I ask it. Okay, folks, here comes my announcer. We’re about ready for the air. Get ready now. Make with the hands when I tell you. Okay. Now!
The announcer said, “And now, from the stage of the Ajax Theater in Hoagersburg we present the one — the only — Professor Quotient — one half hour of fun and games brought to you by the manufacturers of Amoeba Mouthwash, the blue bottle that knocks off those germs...”
Stan Haverly, in the aisle, front and center, examined the faces of the customers. That kid on the aisle, smirking, greased hair. Stay away from him. Wise. And don’t pick anybody near that drunk. He might get cute and try to say something into the mike. Cute young girl there that might do. Pick ’em bright tonight. Get back one of those fives from Nick. Take the cute gal for the first one. He strolled nearer to her, and she gave him a half-frightened, sideways look. He bent over her and said, “Want to try one?”
She compressed her lips and nodded.
The commercial was through. Tom was on again, saying, “And remember that the last question, folks, is the jackpot question. All money not won during the rest of the program gets loaded on the jackpot question. Mary here will write the growing amount of the jackpot on this blackboard. Keep watching it. Tonight we’re starting it off with a hundred dollars. Watch it grow. Now for the first question. Stan?”
Stan depressed the switch on his hand mike. “A young lady here would like to try one, sir. Your name and address, Miss. Please speak directly into the microphone.”
A shy monotone. “Winifred Higby. Eleven Tyler Crescent.”
“Now, Winifred,” Tom said, “your question will pay you five crisp one-dollar bills if you answer it correctly. It’s a music question. What well known jazz musician, a guitarist, recently opened a restaurant in New York? He is famous for his unique use of the English language. Come, now. Ten seconds.”
The girl flushed and chewed her lip, looking up at Stanley hopelessly.
“Quickly, now,” Tom said. “No prompting by you people seated near her. Don’t know? Winifred, it’s the one, the only, Eddie Condon. Give the girl a ticket, Stanley, entitling her to one bottle of that great Amoeba Mouthwash. Mary, add that five dollars to the jackpot. The jackpot is now worth one hundred and five dollars. Nick? Do you have someone?”
The half hour scurried by. Stan knew that his luck was out. Only two of the people he selected were able to answer correctly. Nick’s selections missed, too, but not so often. The prizes grew larger. Ten dollars. Twenty dollars. Fifty dollars. The audience was eager and excited. The two stand-ins in other parts of the theater didn’t have as much luck as Nick.
Stan glanced at his watch. The questions were over. Only the jackpot question was left. By mutual agreement, Nick and he left the jackpot question off the pool. There was too much money involved. Stan knew that he was silly to be so concerned about the five-dollar pool that it took his mind off his real work, that of gauging and analyzing the audience reactions to standard situations. He would have notes to write up when he got back to his room.
It didn’t bother him that Nick was Tom’s obvious favorite, was given the assignments to check theaters, to make lighting arrangements, to hire the additional men needed to cover the audiences, to make a lot of the travel arrangements. It was work that Stan wasn’t interested in. What did bother him was the way that Nick could consistently win their childish pool. Was it as Mary had hinted, that Nick had a better eye for people, a better ability to gauge intelligence by outward appearance? Possibly. But it wouldn’t do any good to dwell on that thought.
As always, Stan’s mind began to wander off the subject at hand. He didn’t have to pay much attention, Nick was always given the jackpot question assignment. By habit, he always devoted the last few minutes of the program to thoughts of Mary. She was easy to think about, and easy to see, standing up there, straight and slim, her smile deep and friendly. If only— But what was the use? She was show people. There would always be a gulf between them. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to travel with Nick, Tom and Mary, and watch Mary slowly fall in love with Nick. He wasn’t good enough to her.
Stan fought his way out of these depressing thoughts in time to hear Tom say, “Thank you, Nick, for finding us a brave man willing to tackle the jackpot question. Now hold that bale of money up where Mr. Bostwick, our candidate, can see it, Nick. Like the looks of that, Mr. Bostwick? It’s all yours if you can answer one little question I’m going to ask you. Four hundred and twenty dollars for thirty little seconds of effort. Ready? It’s a question on mathematics. Mental arithmetic. And it’s a toughy. Here is the question. Using four nines — the figure nine — can you arrange them in such a way that they will equal one hundred? Do anything you want with them, but use them all, and don’t use any other figures along with them. Thirty seconds, Mr. Bostwick. Go!”
The audience was hushed. They were all trying to work the problem. Mr. Bostwick mumbled into the mike, “Now if you took ninety-nine point nine nine that would be almost—”
“Almost isn’t good enough, Mr. Bostwick. Your time is running short. You’re warm though. Think hard now.”
“Lemme see now,” Mr. Bostwick mused. “Hey! What about ninety-nine and nine ninths?”
“What about it?” Tom roared. “Man, you got it! You got it! Nick, give Mr. Bostwick the four hundred and twenty dollars. Nice work, Mr. Bostwick.” He had to wait for the applause to die away. “And now folks, since that is all we have time for, I’ll turn you over to the announcer who wants to tell you something about our sponsor’s product and our plans for next week. Thank you all.”
Stan awoke with the telephone screaming at him. He felt as though he had been asleep a long time. He clicked on the reading lamp and groped for the phone, squinting.
“Yeah?” he mumbled into the receiver.
It was Tom. “Stan, boy. Climb into your clothes. Nick has had trouble. I’m dressing. Meet you down in the lobby.” Click.
So Nick was in trouble. Nothing unusual, but this time it must be something pretty serious. Stan dashed the sleep out of his face with cold water and dressed hurriedly. Tom, jittery and impatient, had a taxi waiting.
On the way to the hospital he gave Stan the bare outlines. Nick had been picked up in an alley earlier in the evening in bad shape. Slugged. His wallet was gone and it had taken quite a while to figure out who he was. Fortunately one of the nurses remembered seeing him at the theater. The police were with him, hoping he would come out of it long enough to talk. Tom had given orders to have him moved from the ward to a private room.
The brisk interne wasted no words. “Gentlemen, he’s in bad shape. Depressed fracture. Struck with some kind of blunt weapon over the right ear. We operated immediately, hoping to remove the pressure. We have, but there is a sliver of bone driven down into the brain. If we can pull him out of his severe postoperative shock, we’ll be able to get that bone sliver. Otherwise—” The interne shrugged and made a flat chopping motion with the edge of his hand. Tom winced.
The lean, dark man beside the bed introduced himself in a hushed voice. “I’m Lieutenant Bandred. Sorry this had to happen here. I’m waiting to see if he can give us a hint as to who slugged him. I’ve got men out trying to trace his movements, but it’s hard with all the joints closed now. He was in the worst section of town.”
Nick’s swarthy face was gray against the pillow. There were deep lines around the corners of his mouth. His head was lightly bandaged and a nurse stood by to help in case he regained consciousness and started to roll over to the right. Tom stood at the foot of the bed and made fumbling motions with his big red hands.
“He’ll be okay. He’s a good kid. He’ll be okay,” he muttered.
Nick’s mouth twitched. There was no sound in the room. Tom and Stan moved closer to Nick. The nurse bent over him. The lieutenant hitched his chair a bit closer. Nick’s eyes and mouth opened slowly. The eyes were wet and glazed. The lips looked dry. The nurse made a hissing noise and the interne hurried in.
Nick’s damp eyes seemed to focus on Tom. His underlip flapped. “Belt,” he said clearly. “Margi—”
Then his body strained upward, sweat beading his face. The nurse touched his forehead. There was a guttural, dry sound in his throat, and the eyes closed again. The swarthy face seemed to shrink into the pillow, to diminish. Stan had seen it happen before, on the beaches of jungle islands. He turned away. The interne stepped forward with a stethoscope. When Stan turned around again, the face was hidden by the top of the sheet. Tom gulped and stood stricken for a moment. Stan saw the reassurance flood back into him.
“That’s too bad,” Tom said. “He was a good boy. I’ll miss him. I’ll contact his folks. Stan, you get hold of a local undertaker.”
Lieutenant Bandred stood up, wearily. He looked like a man who had had a long, difficult night. “Guess it’s not necessary to tell you folks how much I’m sorry that this thing had to happen in Hoagersburg. We’ll sure do our best on it. How long will you folks stay around?”
“We were leaving tomorrow. Let’s see. Today is Thursday. We can stay until Monday.”
“I sure hope we’ll be able to nail the guy that did this thing before then. I’ve got every exit from town blocked, and we’re pulling in every bum that tries to slip out. What do you think he meant by that belt stuff, and Margy?”
Tom sighed. “Don’t know. Guess he was saying he got belted on the head. And Margy was probably some gal friend. I don’t think you’ll get much of a lead. Stan, boy, do me a favor. You stay here and go through his stuff. I’ll do the same back at the hotel. I’ll have to tell Mary and wire New York for a replacement. I guess he can be shipped back to his folks in Chicago in what he was wearing, if they aren’t messed up.”
“His clothes weren’t soiled. The wound didn’t bleed,” the nurse said.
Tom left. Nick’s clothes were still down in the emergency room. It was a nasty job going through the pockets. Cigarettes. Gold lighter. Money clip with twenty bucks in it. Stan held the money and frowned. He stuffed it into his own pocket. Handkerchief. Nick had said something about a belt. Could be a belt on the head. Could be the belt he was wearing. Ordinary looking belt. Imitation alligator with a gold-plated buckle. Stan rubbed his fingers along it. It seemed rather thick. On a hunch he stripped it out of the loops on the trousers. His fingers began to tremble when he noticed a zipper on the underside of it. A trick belt. Obviously the lieutenant had missed it and Tom hadn’t known about it.
Stan glanced around. No one was watching him. He slid the zipper back, disclosing two flat packs of bills folded the long way. Hundreds. A couple of five hundreds. He picked the bills out of the belt and crammed them into his pocket. He rethreaded the belt through the trouser loops. Odd that Nick should have so much money. Several thousand by the feel of it. And apparently Nick wanted the money sent to somebody named Margy. Margy who? And where? An odd setup.
It was gray dawn when the taxi pulled up in front of the hotel. A man in the hotel uniform pulled himself out of a lobby chair and yawned as he took Stan up in the elevator. The transom over Tom’s door showed an oblong of yellow light. Stan knocked lightly, turned the knob and walked in. Tom was still dressed, slumped in the wicker chair. His red face looked tired and drawn, his gray hair rumpled. Mary, in a maroon robe, sat on the edge of a bed, her face puffed and streaked with tears. She was through crying. Her eyes were calm, and dead.
“Sit down, Stan. Sit down. Have a drink,” Tom said.
There was a bottle of rye and a glass on a table by the window. Stan walked over, poured out an inch of rye and threw it down. It bit his throat and nearly gagged him. He sat on the bed several feet away from Mary.
“This sort of breaks things up, my boy,” Tom said.
“How so? You’re going on with the show, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. We’ll go on. But losing Nick has made me realize what an empty life I’m leading. I looked on that boy as a son. I’m getting old, Stanley, and I get lonelier every day. I need someone. I’ve been talking to Mary. She has consented to be my wife.”
Stan held his face rigid and then forced a slow smile. He looked at Mary. She was staring at the floor, the smoke from her cigarette winding up in a pale gray thread, as gray as the dawn outside.
“You have my congratulations, Tom. You know that. I hope you’ll both be happy. Let’s talk about Nick in the morning. I’ll see you then.” He felt shocked and unbelieving, but he couldn’t let them see it. Either of them. He managed to walk to the door, say goodnight to them and shut it softly behind him. When he got back to his own room he sat on the edge of his rumpled bed. To take his mind away from Mary, he took Nick’s money out and counted it. Six thousand, six hundred dollars. Too much. Something wrong somewhere. But where?
He lifted his head as he heard Mary’s soft footsteps in the hall. He heard her door close. He got up and went down to her door and knocked. She opened it, saw him, and said, “What is it, Stan?”
“Could I come in for just a minute, Mary? I want to talk to you.”
She held the door open and he walked in. The room was identical with his own. She sat near the window and he sat on the edge of the bed. She looked defeated, completely and utterly tired.
“Why are you doing it, Mary?” he asked, gently.
Her head snapped up, and her eyes widened. “Aren’t you a little out of your area, junior? I’m marrying him because he needs me. Because this thing has nearly licked him. You, bright eyes, don’t know what it means to a woman to be needed.”
“Suppose I told you that I needed you, too?”
“Hah! A lovely thought. You and Nick. Both self-sufficient. You, because you’ve got the brains. Nick, because he knew all the angles. You two needed me like I need holes in the head.”
“You’d like to think you’re hard and tough, wouldn’t you, Mary?” he asked.
Her face crumpled a little. “Not me, Stan. There’s no toughness in me.”
“Why are you doing it?” he asked again.
Their eyes met. Hers, bright with anger, shifted and changed, as he watched. He suddenly knew that he loved her, that it was a desperate, aching love that had been growing under the surface for months. He looked at her and knew that she saw it in his eyes.
Her voice was almost a sob. “Stan, why did you have to wait until now? Until too late. Couldn’t you see? Couldn’t you tell long before this?”
“Go back now and tell him that you won’t marry him.”
She stiffened. “Get out of here. I gave my word. He’s my sort and you’re not. Get out.”
Back in his own room he pulled a chair around until it faced the window. The sky was growing lighter. He smoked cigarettes until there was a staleness in his mouth. He sensed that there were factors in his mind that could be added, if he knew how. A master quiz with a giant jackpot. Things that seemed disconnected, disassociated. Tom standing up there on the platform, dipping his left hand into the bowl held by Mary. Nick out in the audience, giving the customers a look at the money they might win. Nick winning the five-dollar pools. Nick making the arrangements. Nick and Tom and Mary sorting out the questions for the next week’s program. Trick questions. Quick questions.
He sensed that there were conclusions that could be drawn, if he could only sort out the pertinent factors.
And who was Margy?
At last he laid across the bed, fully clothed; and caught an hour of restless sleep. When he awakened, his clothes were sodden with chill perspiration and his mouth tasted sour and dry. He sat on the edge of the bed, remembering how Mary’s eyes had said something entirely different from the sharp words that had come from her lips. Their relationship was like an intricate problem in a game of chess. Each piece balanced another, and then an unexpected move had eliminated Nick. The regrouping of pieces, the different pressures of forces and circumstances, had placed the pawn labeled “Mary” under the influence of the major piece labeled “Tom Schurtz.”
He took a long shower, and as he was shaving, the last words that Nick had spoken kept running through his mind. The belt had been explained. Not Margy. Stan began to repeat softly all the words he could think of that started with Margy: Marjorie, margarine, marjoram, Margin— Margin? What sort of margin? On what? He stopped shaving, his razor in midair, staring into the eyes of the troubled stranger in the mirror. Margin! It could be! It might be! It
He finished hurriedly and dressed, fumbling with the buttons in his excitement. As soon as the waiter arrived with the orange juice and coffee, Stan made his phone call. It took quite a few minutes to convince Lieutenant Bandred that he wasn’t delirious. And another five minutes to get Bandred’s cooperation.
By ten o’clock the arrangements were completed. Stan knocked on Tom’s door and walked in. Tom was sitting on the edge of his bed, in lurid pajamas, yawning and stretching his gray head. His cheeks looked sunken and mottled.
“I woke up, Stan,” Tom said, “and I couldn’t figure out why I felt so bad until I remembered Nick. It all seems like a bad dream, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does,” Stan agreed soberly. “Look, Tom. Get your robe on and come down to my room. I’ve got something I want to show you.”
“Sure, lad. But can’t you bring it up here?”
“I’d rather do it this way. I’ll tell you when you get there.”
“Okay, if you insist. A mystery, hey? I’ll be along in a couple of minutes.”
Stan was sitting on the bed when Tom came in, yawning, and shut the door behind him. The single armchair by the window faced the bed. Tom walked heavily over to it and sat down. He yawned again.
“Give it to me, Stanley boy,” he said then. “What’s the mystery?”
Stan lowered his voice and said, “I think I better get a little more dough. Say twice as much as I’m getting now. That’s for a starter.”
Tom lifted his lips in a painted smile, exposing his wet teeth. His eyes didn’t smile. “What makes you so valuable, son?”
“I know how Nick fixed the pool now, Tom.”
“Fixed the pool! You got a fever?”
“No. Let me give you the angle. Nick went ahead and checked the theaters, didn’t he? So what did he do each time? He went to a bar and selected a few smart looking guys. He took these citizens aside and showed them how to make a few bucks. He told them to get to the theater early and sit in the exact seats he selected for them. Then he selected those guys for the questions with the big payoff and gave them the answers so they could collect. But he never paid them the entire amount. He would bend over and count out about half the amount and pocket the rest.”
“You’re yammering like crazy, Stanley. How the heck could he tell them the answers?” Tom objected.
“Too easy. We do the act with the house lights on. The seats he picked for the wise guys are right under the ceiling lights. We all know the answers to the questions and we all know that as the program goes along, the payoff gets higher. Before the show Nick picked eight or ten short answers to the questions we’re going to use, and printed them on the margins of the crisp new bills, using a very soft pencil. He could always turn a printed answer into a smudge with his thumb. He had already told the guys he contacted to look at the margin of the bill he held in front of them for the answer. All he had to do was keep the bills straight in his hand, the ones with the answers.”
“That’s fantastic!” Tom exploded.
“You think so?” Stan asked with a thin smile. “Somebody always manages to knock off that jackpot question — nearly always. People aren’t that bright. Also, Nick always got more winners than I did. That’s against the law of percentages. And, to cap it off, Nick told me.”
“Told you!” Tom stared at him coldly.
“Certainly. You already knew how he was doing it. Maybe it was your idea. But you didn’t catch on when he mumbled something about Margy. He was trying to say margin.”
“What has that got to do with me, son? Suppose he was working an angle? Why should you claim that I knew about it?”
“Go ahead,” Stan said and shrugged. “Be tough, Tom. If I can’t convince you, maybe the cops can. You know, they might say that an old hand like you could sense whether or not a question was likely to be answered correctly.”
Tom folded his red hands over his stomach. He said, “Stanley, when you mention the police you put this little talk on a different plane. Continue, please.”
“Okay. You and Nick were in this together. You shouldn’t have trusted Nick. That was a mistake. You were splitting half the jackpot on each program plus half of the fee for five or six other questions. Nick realized that he could blow you sky high if he talked. You had a lot more to lose than he did. A few little words and you’d be out of radio. Then how would you make a living? Being smart, Nick started to taper off your end of the take. At last he was taking it all, and then he put the bite on you for a little in addition.”
“Keen talking.” Tom’s face was grim.
“Glad to,” Stan said obligingly.
“You’re quite a guy, Tom. How about you and Mary? I’ll bet you’ve been wanting her for a long time and you had to sit around and watch her falling in love with Nick. That hurt, didn’t it? Then you saw the combination. Knock Nick off and catch Mary on the bounce. Good applied psychology. Also it took the pressure off you. What did Nick say before you slugged him in that alley?”
“You haven’t got enough, Stanley.”
“Not even with the sixty-six hundred bucks I found in Nick’s belt?” Stan taunted him. “You were anxious to be the one to go through his luggage. I took a look at it. That wasn’t bright, Tom, slicing the linings when you were looking for Nick’s money. And how about the act? How many people have seen you dip into that bowl with your left hand? Remember, Tom, Nick was slugged over the right ear.”
“Where’s the dough?” Tom demanded in a tight voice.
“Oh, the money? Over in the top drawer of the bureau. I feel sorry for you, Tom. You missed in too many ways. You never should have let Nick make those greedy little five-dollar bets with me. That’s what started me thinking that he worked it in a crooked manner.”
Tom smiled again, and his big lips pressed back thin and tight against his teeth. “This has been mighty white of you, Stanley. Let me tell you that I love you like my own son. I hate to do this to you, but I just can’t see jumping from the pan to the fire, like the fellow says. It’s tough on my nerves. And sixty-six hundred bucks is good nerve cure. See this thing? It’s a thirty-two automatic. I better tell the folks that you put up a battle trying to hold onto a thousand bucks that you found in Nick’s luggage. I can mark myself up a little with my own fist, I guess. And maybe I better tell them that you weren’t in your room last night, that I met you in the lobby as I was heading for the hospital. You won’t be able to contradict, son.”
“How long do you think it’ll be before one of Nick’s suckers in one of the towns we’ve played starts to talk?” Stan demanded.
Tom inspected the small gun and swung the muzzle toward Stan. “Never in this here world thought I’d end up killing both you boys,” he said with a harsh giggle.
Stan’s mouth went suddenly dry. “There’s a thirty-eight aimed right at your head, Tom,” he said. “Lieutenant Bandred is in the closet with the door opened just far enough. Come on out, Lieutenant.”
The lean dark man stepped out of the closet and took the small automatic out of Thomas Gaylord Schurtz’s limp hand. “Sure glad we were able to clean this up before you got out of town, Mr. Schurtz. All this makes me feel better about it happening here, though.” He turned to Stan and said, “You cut it pretty close, Haverly.”
“I had to. He didn’t admit it until the last. And there wasn’t any real proof.” Tom sat collapsed in the chair, staring at the far wall. The brass had gone out of his voice as he said, “Right on almost everything. Except I didn’t want to kill Nick. He wanted another two hundred a week. Said he had to have it. He laughed at me. There was a piece of pipe in the alley—”
After Tom had been taken away, Stan told Mary Adams. She sat in numb apathy until the shock dissolved itself into tears, accompanied by sobs that shook her heavily. He went over to her and after a while her sobs were less violent, and she took his hand and held it tightly.