Chapter 5
Ethel sat in her room and waited for Nat Innes to come and see her. He said he'd be there in fifteen minutes, and she was beginning to worry. What if the detective arrested him? But that was stupid, she told herself-Nat didn't have anything to do with the old grouch's murder.
As this thought eased her mind, there was the sound of steps in the hall and a moment later a scratching at her door. Nat opened the door and walked in, closing and latching it behind him. He turned around and took Ethel in his arms and kissed her. His mouth felt both familiar and strangely exciting to her, as if she were tasting once more a fount which she had not yet exhausted.. .
Ethel relaxed in his strong arms, nudging her body lightly against him, making sure that her tits pushed firmly into his chest. He kissed her soft lips soundly, feeling them become slowly agitated. They parted breathlessly, and he pushed his tongue gently between her teeth-touching her own and finding it as delicious as he'd remembered. Moving his hands down her body, he drew up her uniform-skirt, forcing it over her buttocks, and began to massage the ripe cheeks through the sexy-feeling material of her panties.
"Hey, now!" she mumbled, with her lips still on his. "We ain't got time for that:"
His answer was to press her buttocks even more tightly, straining her body more intensely against his own, his fingers curling so that they fitted into the twin curves beneath her ass.
Ethel's uniform-skirt rose at the front, too, and Nat could feel the pressure of her mons veneris thrusting urgently into his rising prick.
"We always got time for a little nooky," he muttered, as his cock rapidly reach full erection. Using one hand to free it from his trousers, Nat held her firmly with the other. He got out the huge shaft and planked between her thighs, hard against her slit. She writhed shamelessly against it, and he slid two of his fingers right into the divide between her ass. He rubbed greedily up and down the warm hollow until his fingers felt the giving hole of Ethel's anus.
Breathing heavily, Nat ended their kiss and started to walk the girl backward to her bed. They moved dreamlike for a half-dozen paces, until Ethel's legs bumped softly against the mattress.
"You love it, baby," he said, nibbling her earlobe. "And I gotta have a feel of that beautiful, hot pussy on my cock.. . "
He lowered her, his hands never leaving the hot cheeks of her bottom, until she was lying back on the bed-her feet still resting on the carpet.
She lay quite still for him, though she was unable to keep her legs from twitching with nervous tension as his cock came nearer and nearer to her waiting cunt.
"We ought to wait, honey," she said. "What if somebody wants something-the car maybe."
"They're all too busy with that detective to want anything," he said, hoarsely. "Now shut up and let me get into that juicy pussy of yours."
The mighty red length of his cock was swiftly guided into her slit, expertly pushing her panty-protection to the side. He jabbed his prick into the cunt, missed the vulva and stabbed the crown into the valley where the clitoris nestled.
Ethel winced as her clitoris was buffeted by the fierce cock; then relaxed again as he slid the throbbing shaft further down her slot and found the soaking cloister of her cunt. He released it when the crest was halfway in, allowing his penis to find its own way into the familiar passage. Easily, without meeting the least opposition, his cock penetrated her. His mind leaped into ecstasy as he felt the greasy tightness of her pussy all about his cock.
Nat began to fuck her; entering and withdrawing; pulling out, lunging tightly inwards again. As they fucked, he lifted her haunches from the bed-bearing down on her with his cock and lunging the stiff rod deeper and deeper into her wet, only too eager cunt
The sperm rose in his testicles-and with a smothered roar of maddened fury, he rammed her deep and hard. His chest squashed down on her breasts, his total weight bearing heavily down on her, as his cock spurted a great glob of semen into her sucking, tightly grasping cunt.
Ethel reached her orgasm only moments later, triggered by his driving, shooting prick. Her cunt seemed to tighten round the bulbous staff, and she used her vaginal muscles to grip the spouting flesh while shuddering through her own explosion.
"I'll have to change my uniform," she complained, but not discontentedly. "What were they doing upstairs when you left?"
"Same old shit," he answered, withdrawing his cock from the tunnel of love. "Last I heard that Stryker fellow sent Finley Grahm to fetch Janet Boyington.. . "
Flint Stryker turned to Bill Cooley with a grim smile on his otherwise impassive face.
"Nothing so far, Bill?"
"No, sir. It isn't going to be an easy nut to crack."
Stryker did not answer, but, dropping into a chair, sat staring silently at the carpet as if trying to read in the pattern the solution of the mystery. So far so good, but all he had learned amounted to practically nothing. Obviously none of the servants were implicated. Each had told a straight forward story, and there was no good reason for doubting any one's word. Besides, the police had thoroughly checked all alibis.. .
Jumping up, Stryker went over to the big desk to examine the contents of the drawers. Bill, on the other side of the room, picked up the debris scattered all over the floor and arranged everything systematically on the win-down-seat
Suddenly Stryker stooped down and picked up a discarded cigar band. Examining it closely, he said:
"I wonder what brand the old man smoked?"
Bill pointed to the cigar boxes on the desk. "I think those were his," he said.
Stryker opened one of the boxes. Taking out a cigar, he compared the bands. Shaking his head, he said:
"Not the same. May have been a cigar the old man had in his pocket. May also have been on the cigar of the man who killed him.. . "
Slipping the band into his coat pocket, Stryker went on with the work of ransacking the desk. For several minutes nothing was said, both men working hard, waiting for Janet Boyington to arrive. All at once Stryker uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Well, that's damned funny!"
"What?" said Bill, looking up.
"Here's a new hundred dollar bill in an envelope."
"In the desk?"
"Yes, and the drawer looks as if it has been pretty well searched, too."
Bill nodded. Then he pointed to the debris he had collected.
"I've got all this stuff laid out, Flint."
Stryker nodded approvingly.
"Better start with the fingerprints now, Bill. Get all the servants-both hands."
As he spoke the library door opened and the butler appeared.
Stryker hastily put the one hundred dollar bill in an envelope which he thrust in his pocket. Looking up, he asked, carelessly:
"What is it, Grahm?"
"Mr. Knapp's here, sir."
"Is Miss Boyington coming?"
"I've not had time to see, sir. I'm going to her now." Stryker made an impatient gesture. Sharply he said: "Don't delay any longer. Meantime, ask Mr. Knapp to come in."
The butler went out, and directly his back was turned, Stryker hurried over to where Bill was still at work.
"Bill, go and phone our office in San Francisco. Tell them to look up Mrs. James Boyington-maiden name Thelma Hillyer. Died in San Francisco about twenty years ago."
"Yes, sir," Bill said, writing the order down. Before he finished -the door opened and Mr. Knapp appeared.
The lawyer was a carefully dressed man, with a flower in the buttonhole of his coat, a conservative tie with an expensive pin, and Italian shoes. No one could mistake his profession. He had about him that self-confident, aggressive manner usually associated with attorneys. He did not wait for introductions, but advanced with his hand outstretched, with great cordiality.
"Good morning, Mr. Stryker, I'm Floyd Knapp, the Thomas's lawyer. I'm mighty glad that you've come in on the case. I don't doubt you'll clear the mystery up for us."
He spoke with deliberation and affection, as if always endeavoring to impress the world with his importance. "Well, I hope so, Mr. Knapp," replied Stryker, dryly. The lawyer shook his head.
"It means time and a good deal of work, though. There are so many ways the thing might have occurred."
"As, for instance-pardon me!"
Bill, his work finished, had started to leave the room quietly. He went out, leaving the two men together. Stryker apologized for the interruption.
"You were saying, Mr. Knapp-"
"I was saying there are so many ways the thing might have possibly occurred." Drawing a cigar case from his pocket, he held it out. "Smoke?"
"No, thank you."
The lawyer turned his back a moment to get a match from the table, and like a flash, Stryker stooped and picked up the cigar band which Knapp had discarded from his own cigar. Then, taking from his pocket the one he found on his entrance, he quickly compared the two. But the clue, if it was one, seemed valueless. There was not the slightest similarity. Evidently, the murdered man did not smoke the same cigar as Mr. Knapp.
Languidly, the lawyer dropped into an arm chair and, leisurely crossing his knees, puffed away. His elbow resting on the arm of the chair, and a hand supporting his bulging brow, the attorney proceeded to theorize on the subject of the murder.
"For instance, let us suppose that the murderer obtained entry by the connivance of one of the servants. Possibly one of them carelessly lost a key, or perhaps he gained an entrance in some way that the investigation hasn't yet disclosed. The intruder is discovered by Mr. Thomas, who threatens him with a revolver, and a fatal struggle ensues."
From his chair facing the attorney Stryker listened attentively. When Knapp stopped speaking, he asked, quietly:
"How does your theory account for the fact that throughout this struggle-a struggle in which several blows were struck, judging by the marks on the face and chest of the dead man-how does your theory account for the fact that Mr. Thomas made no outcry?"
"His cries may not have been heard?"
"Very true."
"Of course, the strong argument against the burglar theory is that nothing was stolen, although, as a matter-of-fact, that is a poor argument. The burglar might have been frightened away."
"You're convinced, then, that it was a burglar, and not some intimate who killed him?" said Stryker quickly.
For a moment the lawyer seemed nonplussed. He hesitated in an embarrassed kind of way, but laughed it off boisterously as he replied:
"Well-er-er-no, I was simply airing that idea. As to the suggestion that it might have been some one of his household, some member of his family, that is, of course, absurd. There is an entire lack of motive, or, rather, a large discrepancy between the nature of the crime and the character of the only person who might have a motive."
The detective rose and paced the floor.
"Miss Boyington, for instance?" he said, quietly.
"Oh, it couldn't be Miss Boyington!" replied the lawyer, also rising. "It's quite preposterous to imagine for a moment that a girl like Miss Boyington could be involved in such an affair. Besides, how was she to know that if he died at that particular moment she would be sole heir under the will?"
"Was the fact that he was about to make a new will secret?"
The lawyer did not answer for a moment, but looked closely at the detective's face, trying to penetrate his inscrutable mask. Dropping again into a seat, he said, in his exasperating, self-important way:
"Well, now, Mr. Stryker, I'll tell you about that. My client had an idea that is not uncommon among millionaires. He had an almost morbid apprehension of having his heirs waiting to inherit his estate. In the last few days of his life, when he contemplated reinstating his son in his favor, he was particularly insistent on secrecy."
"Did the son know that he had been disinherited?"
"I doubt it. When I mentioned to a reporter yesterday that Mr. Thomas had made a new will at the time of his death it never for a moment occurred to me that it might harm Miss Boyington. But when newspapers come to construe motives-"
Stryker interrupted him. Abruptly he asked:
"You drew up the new will?"
"Well, now, Mr. Stryker, I'll tell you about that. The old man was greatly incensed against his son because of the latter's marriage, and he sent for me to draw a new will."
"Did you draw up the old one?"
"No, that was before my time. That was drawn up by Frick & Tyler."
Before the questioning could go any further, the library door opened, and Fred entered quickly, a newspaper in his hand. His face was flushed with anger and his manner greatly excited. Nodding to the detective, he said:
"Good morning, Mr. Stryker."
"Good morning, Mr. Thomas."
"I'm awfully sorry I'm late."
Stryker smiled amicably.
"Oh, that's all right."
Not stopping to say more, the young man went straight up to his father's lawyer. Wrathfully he burst out:
"Look here, Floyd, why did you go and give out that stuff to the newspapers, about father's changing his will and starting them up with all this rot about Janet? Why, the papers this morning are full of the damnedest libels."
The attorney shrugged his shoulders. Loftily he replied:
"Why pay any attention to that sort of thing? You ought to be used to the methods of sensational journalism by this time."
"That's nothing to do with it. The information came from you, and a lawyer should keep such things from scandal-mongers, not furnish them with ammunition. It was bad enough when they insinuated that some of father's stock market victims came and killed him, or maybe some fellow wanted to marry Janet for her money and had to get him out of the way, but, Floyd, you've given them just what they wanted to build on!"
The lawyer bit his lip.
"I'm very sorry, but I didn't think we had anything to conceal. You can't hide much from the newspapers.
If we are going to get at the truth of this matter we need to be open and honest. Isn't that so, Mr. Stryker?"
Stryker smiled politely.
"Why, of course, Mr. Knapp."
The lawyer resumed his seat and went on with his cigar while the detective turned to the dead man's son.
"You understand, Mr. Thomas, that you are now the head of the family, and the responsibility for the success or failure of this investigation will rest largely with you. I'll have to ask for your cooperation in everything, and I'll expect that you'll consult with me before you make any more or express any opinion or do anything that has a bearing on this case."
Fred nodded.
"Certainly, I understand that, Mr. Stryker."
"Mr. Thomas, you were the last person known to be with your father the night of the murder."
"Yes, that's true-I was. I had dinner here with Janet and him."
"Was that unusual?"
"Well, you know, I suppose, that father and I didn't get along any too well together. I broke away about a year ago when he objected to my marrying. My foster-sister, Miss Boyington, has been trying ever since to bring us together. That night my father was more amiable, and we three had a splendid time. She was as happy as could be about it-because father and I were on good terms again. She went to her room early and left us here to have a talk."
"Did you father seem worried about anything?"
"He had a telephone call that disturbed him a good deal while I was here."
"What time was that?"
"Why, about nine o'clock."
"Did he receive it himself?"
"Yes; he was called on his private wire-right there."
"What did he say?"
"I don't remember, except that he kept saying 'No' very emphatically. I concluded that it was something connected with his business affairs. Afterward he seemed preoccupied and worried. I thought he wanted to be alone so he could think it over, so I left soon after."
Changing abruptly the line of questions, the detective asked, "Where did you sleep that night?"
"In my studio, where I live."
"How did you get there? A taxi?"
"No, I walked."
"Walked, eh? Were you caught in the rain."
"I didn't know it rained."
"Nobody saw you-think-nobody saw you leave here?" Fred hesitated for a moment. Stryker noticed it, and quickly repeated the question: "Nobody saw you leave here."
"No."
"You didn't see Grahm, the butler."
"No," Fred replied quickly, "I told you I saw no one."
Stryker smiled encouragingly. "Listen, Mr. Thomas, if you are not going to give me your confidence it would be better for me to drop the case right here."
"Well-I-"
"Now-who was it that you thought you saw?"
Fred looked harassed, worried. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead and clearing his throat, he stammered:
"Well, I saw.. .that is, I thought, as I was going out.. . I thought I saw somebody looking over the banister rail.. . "
"Was it Miss Boyington?"
"I-I'm not sure; it might have been one of the maids."
Going to the mantelpiece, Fred stood for a moment glaring at the newspaper which, in its frantic efforts to secure circulation, did not hesitate to try and fasten the crime on Janet. Crushing the paper up in his hands, he threw it on the floor. Stryker, who had watched him in silence, crossed to him.
"That's nothing-don't mind what they say. The truth will come out, you know. It always does in a case of this type. The thing that strikes me as most significant in all this is the telephone message."
Mr. Knapp looked up quickly.
"What do you see significant in that?" he demanded.
"It is very simple," said the detective. "The person who called him up must have known his private telephone number. That would indicate someone who was familiar with the house. And the fact that he was disturbed by the message but said nothing of it might argue that it was someone known to him who was in a position to annoy him-possibly some old servant with whom he had confidential relations." Turning to the lawyer, he asked:
"Had he any business enemies that you knew of Mr. Knapp?"
The lawyer shifted uneasily about in his chair. Puffing at his cigar furiously, he said:
"Well, I'll tell you about that you understand, of course, that I've only recently been associated with Mr. Thomas, and he didn't consult me about everything, but naturally a man of his many interests must have enemies."
Fred turned to Stryker and held out his hand. Cordially he said:
"I leave everything to you. You may not be able to find out who did this. We'll be satisfied if you only prove that Janet did not."
Stryker smiled, and there was a kindly expression about his mouth as he replied:
"The best way to prove who didn't kill your father is to prove who did kill him."