5 Detective Novels Fall 1952 by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Anthology, Pulp
Publisher: 5 Detective Novels
Published: 1952-10-08T05:00:00+00:00

HE CARRIED the file to Barton’s desk and sorted through it. It was the last paper in the file. It was in a blue cardboard binder and the inscription on the first page read:

Last Will and Testament of Sherry Fields

We sat on the desk while he skimmed through it.

“Then the wren in my office wasn’t lying!” I exclaimed.

“No.” Bowles shook his head. “According to this rather remarkable document, Sherry Fields’ financial affairs have been managed by my partner for some time. And she left, or thought she left, two hundred thousand dollars. She willed it in equal shares to her sister, Sally Fields, and her husband, Joseph Phillips.”

“Why wasn’t that will filed for probate, and why did Mr. Barton deny that there was a will?” I asked Bowles.

“That is what I’d like to know.”

He looked at the will again. Scrawled on the margin in pencil, opposite the name of Phillips, was a notation:

Tried to Locate

“Yes,” Bowles continued, “why wasn’t this filed for probate? Or, at least, why didn’t the old gentleman tell me about it? I could have got a locked jury, if nothing else, if I’d had this at Steve’s trial.”

He picked up the phone on Barton’s desk and called the Corinth. Barton had gone.

Harry came right to the point.

“But if the Fields dame left two hundred grand, where is it?”

Bowles pursed his lips for a minute and went through the will again. It wasn’t pleasant for him. After all, he was Barton’s partner.

“Okay—I started this,” he admitted. “But let’s not jump to conclusions. They wen’t hold in a court of law. And they won’t earn Steve a stay. There must be some explanation. After all, J. P. isn’t exactly the type of man who would go around murdering and conspiring against anybody’s heirs because he had—er—mismanaged their alleged estates.”

I thought of my lie over Irv’s phone and wondered. I had accused J. P. Barton of just that thing to get in to see him.

And it could have been that he wasn’t mad, but scared!

On a hunch, I picked up the phone and called the Musicians’ Union. When somebody answered, I asked:

“What is the present address of a trap-drummer you have on your books by the name of Joseph Phillips?”

“Two-seventeen East Ontario,” somebody’s voice told me two minutes later. That was how easy it was to find him. “But if you’re thinking of hiring him, the union won’t guarantee Phillips. He’s a top skin-banger, but it says on his card that he kicks the gong around.”

I thanked him and hung up. If Barton had tried to find Phillips, he hadn’t tried any too hard.

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