Читать книгу The Black Spot - Kenneth Robeson - Страница 3

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ANDREW PODREY VANDERSLEEVE had guests in his Westchester mansion. Guests in strange garb. Grotesque guests in exclusive Westchester hills. Their conduct was as incongruous as their queer clothing.

Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve was not perturbed by all this. For the master of several millions was very dead. He sat at his ornate mahogany desk with his arms sprawled. Blood black as ink had flowed from his aristocratic veins.

The Vandersleeve guests enjoyed themselves in unseemly fashion. They shouted at each other. Some voices were hoarse and menacing. Women emitted squealing screams. Occasionally a gun popped viciously.

Upstairs, one dead hand of Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve lay in the little pool of purplish-black blood. No other person appeared to have been with him in the big library. The door and windows now were securely locked.

Outside the immense house, the walled estate was filled with the odd, roughly clad women and men. Many women wore cheap and garish dresses.

Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve had only a black spot over his heart. The upper social stratum of Westchester, an exclusive residential suburb of New York, was due for a shock.

Wild merriment rippled the night mist over the hills. The several hundred guests might have been hoodlums and their molls.

Yet upstairs, beside Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve's inert head, much real money lay undisturbed. There were a number of century notes and bills of small denomination. These were in a neat pile, with a few pieces of silver weighting them down.

Because of the character of the party, guards were everywhere. The guns in their low-slung holsters had the businesslike mark of the law upon them. Four men wore the uniforms of State police.

The State coppers remained on the highway outside the Vandersleeve estate. Their keen eyes surveyed the occupants of each arriving automobile.

In pairs, the four State policemen were stationed at the front corners of the estate wall. One wearing the insignia of a sergeant was growling aloud.

"I've got a hunch something's due to crack wide open before this thing's over."

"Well, it could happen," said the other policeman.

A swanky car swung past them. The chauffeur was sitting upright, with a scornful expression on his clean features. His passengers were shouting and singing.

Meeting this sedan head-on another car swung down the road. This, too, had a dignified chauffeur. Its occupants were roughly clothed. Their faces were masked.

It seemed for a split-second as if the cars would collide. But both chauffeurs were adroit drivers. With an effort they avoided a direct clash. The fenders grated and rubbed. One car slid into the shallow ditch.

The driver of the other car braked to a stop. Five or six men in masks spilled onto the concrete.

"If it ain't Happy Joe himself," shouted one of these men, with a laugh. "All right, Joe, shove them dames out an' alla you line up!"

Three women were pushed out. They uttered little screams and sent their white hands into the air. Three men lined up beside them. One of the three men was young, but his eyes were bloodshot. He was the one called "Happy Joe." He seemed to take some pride in the cognomen.

While three of the masked men kept pistols pointed, the others started relieving the victims of their cash and jewelry. They met with no resistance. The two State policemen walked closer. They were thinking this "holdup" was part of the horseplay of the "gangster party."

"Please, don't take that!" suddenly pleaded one of the women.

She pulled back a slender hand. On one finger was an emblem ring that might have been a family heirloom.

"Says you!" rapped one of the masked men. "There won't be any holdin' out! Oh, you would--"

The young woman had slapped him. His mask fell off. The man seized the girl's arm and twisted. With rough fingers, he jerked at the emblem ring. The metal circle came free, tearing the skin and flesh of the woman's finger. She screamed now with real pain.

"Why, you dumb ox, you can't do that!" yelled the young man named Happy Joe.

He accompanied his protest with swift action. Though clearly drunk, he carried a quick punch. One balled fist smacked squarely into the chin of the man who had pulled off the ring. The man teetered on his heels.

Then an automatic cracked. Happy Joe's left was starting a swing that might have been a finisher.

"Why, damn it," he coughed out, "you--you've shot me!"

His swinging arm carried him around. Blood spurted in little jets from the side of his throat. It pumped directly from his heart. His next words were gurgled. Then he fell down, twitching convulsively.

The two State coppers were not close enough to see clearly what had happened. But both had whipped their guns into their hands. The sergeant started running and shouted:

"Hey! That'll be about enough outside!"

Red death erupted from beside the chauffeur. This was a machine gun at close range. The State coppers jack-knifed as if solid blows had been struck across their stomachs.

The five or six masked men rolled back into their car. The chauffeur freed it smoothly. The car whirled away into the darkness.

FOR a minute or two, the other State coppers did not move to the scene of death. Nor did any of the several guards near the entrance of the estate. They were aroused to the tragic reality when a young woman ran screaming down the highway toward them.

She was waving a bloody-fingered hand.

"They're dead, I tell you! Oh, won't somebody do something! It's Happy Joe! They shot him!"

Then the policemen and guards came upon the results of the orgy of blood in the highway. One State copper stayed on the scene.

"Get headquarters!" he ordered the other, crisply. "Captain Graves himself, if he's there! Put the lid on that stuff inside! Hold everybody under guard, an' use Vandersleeve's hired men! Anybody might've known what'd be likely to bust out of this!"

CAPTAIN GRAVES, of the State police, was soon contacted. After he had viewed the murder victims outside, he made his way directly to the library of Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve.

A small gray mole of a man, who said he was Arthur Jotther, a distant cousin of the millionaire and his secretary, told Graves that Vandersleeve had not appeared at the party downstairs.

In view of the party's unusual wild character, this was of itself a peculiar circumstance. Graves knew Vandersleeve as a Wall Street plunger. He had continued to prosper during the depression. Real estate transactions and political options were his specialty.

Jotther was unlocking the library door.

"Mr. Vandersleeve had some important business to look after," he said, mildly. "He left word he was not to be disturbed. So he must have locked himself in."

"Didn't want to be disturbed!" snorted Captain Graves, the muscles of his square face twitching angrily. "What a helluva time to pick out for important business! Two of my men dead, an' another--"

Captain Graves clamped his long lower teeth suddenly on his upper lip. The library door had swung open. A desk lamp shed a white circle over the desk in the middle of the big room.

It had become abruptly apparent to Captain Graves that Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve was permanently removed from all responsibility for the weird and tragic affairs of this wild night. Only a glance was required to tell that the millionaire was dead.

Captain Graves rattled out orders. These included one that barred any person departing from the Vandersleeve house. Next he sent outside for the medical examiner, who had come up with him. After which, Captain Graves permitted only Arthur Jotther and two policemen to enter the library.

The captain remained at some distance from the polished desk. He was classifying every object with possible relation to the position of the millionaire's body.

The doctor was a fat, little man.

"Dead an hour, perhaps two hours," he announced almost as soon as he had touched Vandersleeve's body. "The body has stiffened, but it doesn't seem to be like rigor mortis. It's like he'd fought something and his muscles set that way when he died. Most unusual!"

"No more unusual, doc, than for ink to be spilled where there doesn't seem to be any ink to be upset," pointed Captain Graves. "His right hand spilled it, but there isn't any inkstand or bottle."

The medical examiner poked a fat finger at the little black pool on the desk alongside the dead man's right hand. The pool had nearly dried.

"Well--well--well!" sputtered the doctor.

He was rubbing the finger that had touched the dried black stain on the desk. He lifted the dead man's right hand. With one palm he rubbed the top of the smooth desk thoughtfully.

"Humph! Chemically impossible!"

"That's what I thought," said Captain Graves, "but I was waiting for your opinion. His wrist is slashed by the broken glass. That would be his blood. I've heard some of the old families claim it's blue, but I've never heard of that color even with a black sheep."

"Yes, his wrist was cut by the glass," said the medical examiner. "He had been drinking. Some one was with him."

"I'd judged that," said Captain Graves, referring to the decanter of red liquor and the two glasses on the desk. One of the glasses was shattered. "Perhaps he brought his hand down suddenly and broke the glass. It might have been he was struck."

"He wasn't struck," said the medical examiner. "There is no sign of violence, except for the cut on his wrist."

Arthur Jotther spoke unexpectedly with his meek, small voice.

"I don't think Mr. Vandersleeve was quarreling with any one. He seemed to be in an extremely jovial mood. As a matter of fact, it was I he was drinking with. He invited me, which was most unusual. We had two drinks. Then he said he did not want to be disturbed. I heard him lock the door."

"Well--well--well!" sputtered the medical examiner. "I was about to say perhaps the liquor--it might have had something to do with the color of the blood--but wait!"

With expert movement, the doctor produced a small lancet. With this he made a slight, deep incision across an area of the dead man's arm. The blood of the corpse was thick and did not flow.

But in the opened vein it was as black as that staining the desk.

"I suffered no ill effects from the drinks," suggested Jotther. "If you'll pardon me, I think perhaps the money might have something to do with it."

"I've been thinkin' about that money," said Captain Graves. "There's several grand on the desk. So it wasn't robbery. Doc, is there evidence of poison?"

"Well, it's my first experience with dark blood," retorted the examiner. "Offhand, I'd say it probably is poison."

"Then it could be suicide," said Captain Graves, but his eyes were boring into Arthur Jotther. "Or there might have been poison placed in his glass. By the way, Mr. Jotther, what do you think?"

The quick, direct question indicated Captain Graves already had a suspicion of his own. Arthur Jotther's reply came with a slap of surprise.

"I don't believe Mr. Vandersleeve killed himself," he said, wildly. "There is considerable money missing. Would you object to my counting the money on the desk?"

Captain Graves whistled to himself.

"As far as Mr. Vandersleeve's death is concerned," added Arthur Jotther, "perhaps I could be said to have good reason for wishing it. Though I was his secretary, he was bitterly opposed to my hope of marrying Geneva, his daughter. Despite that, I believe I have been bequeathed a small fortune in his will."

"I'll be damned!" exploded Captain Graves. "O. K.! Count the money!"

The mild little man fingered the notes and silver quickly. "It comes to $18,450.80," he specified. "That means the sum of $131,549.20 is missing."

Captain Graves exclaimed again.

"That's a lot of money and it's a clever cover-up! It proves no ordinary crook pulled this job. Somebody's smart, too smart! All right, doc. Any more ideas on what killed him?"

The medical examiner had stripped back the millionaire's shirt. He was tentatively touching a mark directly over Vandersleeve's heart.

This was a round black spot, round as a perfect circle.

"Funny," murmured the medical examiner. "And it seems to penetrate deeply. It's something more than a surface discoloration. It will require an autopsy, of course, to determine its true character, but I would say offhand that black spot either originated from the heart or goes all the way in."

"Then he was hit?" quizzed the captain. "By what kind of a weapon?"

"No, I don't mean that. It isn't a bruise. The skin is unbroken and so are the veins underneath. It's--well, it's just a black spot--black like his blood."

Captain Graves eyed Arthur Jotther keenly. The mild little man must be clever. Without reason he had volunteered the admission he stood to profit by Vandersleeve's death. That he had wanted to marry the millionaire's daughter.

"How do you know about the correct amount of money?" Graves suddenly questioned.

Arthur Jotther was not in the least disturbed.

"Mr. Vandersleeve brought $150,000 cash out from the city," he said quietly. "The sum was to take up a secret land option on the harbor. The other party insisted the payment be made in cash."

"And who is this other party?"

"I have no means of knowing," said Jotther. "Mr. Vandersleeve did not confide in me. Also, I know he destroyed the letter he received. He informed me of the purpose of the money. He was to have completed the deal tonight."

"Has big deal on--doesn't want to be disturbed--and pulls a gangster party," muttered Captain Graves.