Read Online Hard Case Crime: Blackmailer by George Axelrod - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: George Axelrod
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me with an amused expression on his face.
“Walter,” I said, “I’m going to find out what’s going on here, and I’m going to find out right now.”
Walter sighed. “I have already told you, Richard, that I know very little about any of this. When the lights went on last night, I was standing at the top of the stairs.
“Several people had gone down the stairs in spite of my protests. As it was pitch black, however, I had no way of knowing who they were. Then, about thirty seconds after the lights went on, I heard Max calling me from the foot of the stairs.
“As I came down I saw Max leaning over Miss Dahl’s body. It was a shocking sight. There was blood on the side of her head. I said, ‘Max, what is it?’ And he said, ‘Walter, I think the kid is dead.’ That’s all there was to it. From the way she was lying, it seemed perfectly obvious that she had fallen down the stairs, hitting her head on something as she fell.
“I had no reason to doubt that she had fallen. Now,Richard, as I understand it, you say you saw her the instant the lights went on. And that she was lying on the far side of the hall by the door.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I saw her and so did Janis Whitney. I’m going to ask you about her in a minute. But first, I want to ask you about your friend Max Shriber.”
Walter giggled nervously. “Hardly my friend, Richard. My associate. My business associate. As a matter of fact, Max is handling some of the details of the little business matter I mentioned to you a few moments ago.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. “I’d never even heard of Max Shriber until the other day, when I got a registered letter from him. The letter said he had been engaged by Anstruther’s literary executors to represent a new Anstruther novel.”
“That is correct.”
“And where do you come in?”
Walter smiled. It was a modest, self-effacing smile. “Before he died, Charles was kind enough to appoint me his literary executor.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I guess I have come to the right place. You’re behind all this.”
“If you mean that I, in effect, am the one who offered the book to you, you are absolutely correct.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t understand anything. Most of all I don’t understand where Jean Dahl fits into this.”
“What makes you think she fits into this at all? So far as I can see, we are dealing with two separate problems. A girl has an unfortunate accident at a party...”
I tried to interrupt but he refused to be interrupted.
“...Oh, I know you have some hysterical idea that she was murdered. And, for that matter, maybe she was. But why on earth should that have any connection with the matter we are talking about?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Another thing I’m trying to find out is why, if you are Anstruther’s literary executor, did you offer the book to us? Any one of the big publishing houses would pay almost anything to get it. Conrad, Sherman can’t afford to give you any big advance. Tell me honestly, Walter, is there really an Anstruther book—and is your offer really genuine?”
“All right, Richard, I shall try to answer you. First of all, yes, there is a book. And secondly, yes, the offer is most assuredly genuine. I would like to have The Winding Road to the Hills by Charles Anstruther published under the imprint of Conrad, Sherman.”
“But why?” I said. “Why us?”
Walter lit a cigarette. “Let me see,” he said, “how to explain.” He let the smoke trickle out through his nostrils. “First, I suppose I must tell you that the term ‘literary executor’ is a bit of a euphemism. In actuality, I own Charles Anstruther’s book outright.”
“You own it?”
“That is correct. I bought all rights from Charles Anstruther a week or so before his tragic demise. Now, now, Richard, stop looking so skeptical. I didn’t murder
“Walter,” I said, “I’m going to find out what’s going on here, and I’m going to find out right now.”
Walter sighed. “I have already told you, Richard, that I know very little about any of this. When the lights went on last night, I was standing at the top of the stairs.
“Several people had gone down the stairs in spite of my protests. As it was pitch black, however, I had no way of knowing who they were. Then, about thirty seconds after the lights went on, I heard Max calling me from the foot of the stairs.
“As I came down I saw Max leaning over Miss Dahl’s body. It was a shocking sight. There was blood on the side of her head. I said, ‘Max, what is it?’ And he said, ‘Walter, I think the kid is dead.’ That’s all there was to it. From the way she was lying, it seemed perfectly obvious that she had fallen down the stairs, hitting her head on something as she fell.
“I had no reason to doubt that she had fallen. Now,Richard, as I understand it, you say you saw her the instant the lights went on. And that she was lying on the far side of the hall by the door.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I saw her and so did Janis Whitney. I’m going to ask you about her in a minute. But first, I want to ask you about your friend Max Shriber.”
Walter giggled nervously. “Hardly my friend, Richard. My associate. My business associate. As a matter of fact, Max is handling some of the details of the little business matter I mentioned to you a few moments ago.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. “I’d never even heard of Max Shriber until the other day, when I got a registered letter from him. The letter said he had been engaged by Anstruther’s literary executors to represent a new Anstruther novel.”
“That is correct.”
“And where do you come in?”
Walter smiled. It was a modest, self-effacing smile. “Before he died, Charles was kind enough to appoint me his literary executor.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I guess I have come to the right place. You’re behind all this.”
“If you mean that I, in effect, am the one who offered the book to you, you are absolutely correct.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t understand anything. Most of all I don’t understand where Jean Dahl fits into this.”
“What makes you think she fits into this at all? So far as I can see, we are dealing with two separate problems. A girl has an unfortunate accident at a party...”
I tried to interrupt but he refused to be interrupted.
“...Oh, I know you have some hysterical idea that she was murdered. And, for that matter, maybe she was. But why on earth should that have any connection with the matter we are talking about?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Another thing I’m trying to find out is why, if you are Anstruther’s literary executor, did you offer the book to us? Any one of the big publishing houses would pay almost anything to get it. Conrad, Sherman can’t afford to give you any big advance. Tell me honestly, Walter, is there really an Anstruther book—and is your offer really genuine?”
“All right, Richard, I shall try to answer you. First of all, yes, there is a book. And secondly, yes, the offer is most assuredly genuine. I would like to have The Winding Road to the Hills by Charles Anstruther published under the imprint of Conrad, Sherman.”
“But why?” I said. “Why us?”
Walter lit a cigarette. “Let me see,” he said, “how to explain.” He let the smoke trickle out through his nostrils. “First, I suppose I must tell you that the term ‘literary executor’ is a bit of a euphemism. In actuality, I own Charles Anstruther’s book outright.”
“You own it?”
“That is correct. I bought all rights from Charles Anstruther a week or so before his tragic demise. Now, now, Richard, stop looking so skeptical. I didn’t murder
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