Bones Don't Lie Read online

  He entered the scale reading and the fracture appearance on the record. Then, shifting the lever so the crosshead moved rapidly upward again, he reached for the next test piece.

  A muffled rustling sound reached his ears from somewhere behind the machine, followed by a faint, high-pitched squeak.

  Keyed up as he was, his muscles almost refused to function. He stood with the test piece still in his fingers, frozen into immobility, while imagination painted lurid pictures of the murderer creeping upon him with the weapon which left a crescent-shaped bruise.

  Suddenly he realized that his tense, strained appearance might warn the murderer. Evidently Ulysses Flint had not expected him to indicate in any way that the culprit was in danger of exposure.

  Gently he set the test specimen back upon the table. The stealthy noise, which came again, seemed to originate from a tall metal container near the wall back of the Norton machine. Warily Ray circled the scale arm to investigate. He took one look into the container, then laughed aloud. The can was half filled with clean cotton waste. On this soft bedding, the laboratory cat, Oscar, had made himself comfortable…along with five, tiny newborn kittens. Oscar, it seemed, had recently become a mother!

  The cat blinked up at Ray, rumbling with a deep purr as Ray’s head appeared above the top of the big can. One of the blind, helpless kittens, scrambling feebly among its brothers in search of nourishment, mewed loudly now, a piteous baby cry, as it nuzzled Oscar’s warmth.

  Ray went back to his test pieces. His chuckle held a more genuine note of amusement as he shifted the control lever and pulled the next tensile test.

  Then a step sounded on the wooden floor of the outer room. Ray looked up quickly. One person, the General had said, would be coming to the physical lab tonight…

  Benjamin Gaylord walked into the room.

  The Chief Inspector was dressed for the street. His suit, a light shade of brown, was newer, less shabby than his customary clay-colored attire. He was sucking the stem of an empty pipe and his eyes, sunk deep into his bony skull, contemplated Ray with mild surprise.

  “Didn’t expect to find you here!” he remarked with open curiosity. “Where’ve you been, Ray? You’re supposed to have run out after killing Tracy, y’know.”

  Ray said, “I know. But I had nothing to do with Tracy.”

  He was surprised at his complete lack of nerves, now that he was actually face to face with the skulking killer. Even with the knowledge that Gaylord had been his own logical choice for the murderer, it was hard for Ray to picture the man as deadly; difficult to imagine the shabby, bony-faced Chief Inspector smashing a man’s head beneath a steam hammer and guillotining another with the alligator shears.

  But Ulysses Flint had been explicit. Only one man would come into the laboratory tonight—the murderer.

  “I suppose I should notify the authorities that you’re here. But I can’t imagine you as the murderer of Leonard Tracy,” Gaylord said. His friendly matter-of-fact tone added to Ray’s sense of unreality. “I’ve got an appointment now, but I want to have a good long talk with you, Ray. Stick around, will you, until I’m free?”

  Ray mumbled, “Sure.”

  He turned back to the test machine, keeping one eye on Gaylord as the man went past him to the stairs.

  What now? he thought. The General had told him nothing, except to note who came to the lab. The indicated procedure then, was for him to continue with the test specimens.

  Excitement had gripped him now. It was very hard to pay proper attention to the test machine. He clamped another specimen between the jaws and started it downward.

  Something moving in the corridor beyond Ashley’s office caught his eye. Had Gaylord come down again silently?

  He turned just in time to see the dead-pan profile of Glenn Cannon as the man started up the stairs to the chemical lab. For all of Cannon’s weight, he moved without a sound.

  Ray was confused. The General had specified that there would be one visitor tonight. He had also positively ordered Cannon to stay away from the Ironton Works. Was Cannon then the murderer, and not Gaylord?

  Scarcely had the question presented itself, when a third figure passed quietly through the corridor. This time it was a girl—Jackie North, right on Glenn Cannon’s heels.

  It was thoroughly bewildering. Undoubtedly something had gone wrong with the General’s plan. Ray was sure of it when Ashley himself came in through the outer room.

  The bearded Engineer of Tests looked Ray squarely in the face. There was something akin to hatred in the man’s eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something, thought better of it and went past without a word. Unlike Cannon, Ashley walked heavily; Ray could hear his feet on the stair treads going up.

  Ashley had barely reached the upstairs before Ray heard the tap-tap of a woman’s high heels coming down. It must he Jackie North again, he thought.

  But it was Clara Dunne in her twill laboratory coat who reached the bottom of the steps. And just as she did so, the ugly face of “Windpipe” Bixler appeared through the side corridor.

  He heard Bixler say, “Evenin’, Miss Dunne.” The company cop’s tone was oily, ingratiating.

  Clara Dunne brushed past the man. “Good evening,” she said and her tone was very cool.

  She was at Ashley’s door as Bixler went up the stairs. Ray could hear her rattle the knob and mutter, “Darn! It’s locked.”

  Clara turned and went back upstairs. Ray was completely at a loss to understand the sudden turn of events. Instead of there being but one person at the lab tonight, all of Ironton seemed to be milling around the test building.

  It struck Ray suddenly that every suspect in the murder case was now here, with the sole exception of Quentin Harris. Could it be that the General had stated his expectation in exact reverse? Was it possible that the only person who did not come to the laboratory tonight would be the murderer?

  But if that were the case, how did it happen that…

  He heard a sound behind him, the barest whisper of sound. He whirled instantly. The lights in the physical lab went out as he did so.

  Nothing was entirely clear after that, just impressions. He caught a glimpse of a wide, black bulk just behind him. Then he felt the crashing physical pain of a blow on the head.

  After that, he had no sense of sight—just of feel.

  He felt the rough floor boards smacking him suddenly in the face, strong arms dragging him upright, lifting him easily. He felt cold steel beneath his stomach as his attacker slid him between the vertical screws of the test machine.

  Then his other senses began to return. He could identify the dry cottony taste of the waste stuffed roughly into his mouth, and hear the gears of the Norton machine being shifted.

  The chill against his stomach was greater. It came now from within rather than from the cold metal on which he lay. Nightmare horror grew inside him, like a freezing ball just under his diaphragm.

  Ray knew what would happen when the crosshead of the machine pinned him against the base. The testing machine could be used for compression tests as well as tensile, for crushing as well as tearing apart. It was strong enough to squeeze a two-inch cylinder of steel into a crumpled disk.

  His brain was functioning again, except that there was a short circuit somewhere between the motor centers and its connecting nerves. His muscles would not obey instructions. It was as if he had been stricken with paralysis. He tried to shout, but his vocal cords were dead. In addition, the cottony waste in his mouth made an efficient gag.

  He felt the slowly descending crosshead press against the small of his back. It tightened as the vertical screws of the machine turned at eighth-inch-a-minute speed. How long would it be, he wondered, before his spine would crack?

  From the inward side of the laboratory door, a bulky figure moved. As Ray writhed with returning muscular strength, too late to avoid the
tightening grip of the machine, the figure was silhouetted against the lighted square of the corridor door.

  In profile, the rectangular, beefy form was easily recognizable.

  It was Quentin Harris.

  In the extremity of his terror and desperation, Ray had time for one bitter thought:

  He had trusted Ulysses G. Flint. And Flint had betrayed him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  One more minute and it was over. Someone shouted. Lights came on, revealing the powerful presence of Ulysses G. Flint.

  The General reached the Norton machine in one leap from his position by the wall switch. The pressure of the descending crosshead, just beginning to clamp painfully against Rays spine, relaxed instantly as Flint thrust the control lever upward into high speed.

  Then the General was dragging Ray across the steel block, out from between the vertical screws. He plucked the wad of cotton waste from Ray’s mouth.

  Vaguely, Ray saw people swarming downstairs from the chemical lab, alarmed by the shouting and confusion. His knees were wobbly from shock and sudden relief. He brushed sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “A few more minutes…” he said.

  The General spoke sharply, “Nonsense, Locke! I told you there would be no personal danger. Have you no faith?”

  Ray managed a feeble grin. “What’s the quotation, sir, about faith being known through works?”

  “You’ve suffered nothing more serious than a bad fright,” the General insisted with complete lack of sympathy. “I knew you’d have a scare—a scare and a rap over the head. But with your assistance, our murder case is now, in the idiom of the day, ‘busted wide open.’”

  “I don’t see,” Ray began dazedly, “what I’ve done, except…”

  “Naturally you don’t.” The General was brisk. He turned to the curious faces pressing behind. “Tonight,” he said evenly, “I had planned a little round table conference in Mr. Tracy’s former office. But someone, it appears, decided to alter my plans at the last minute. As it happens, that is quite satisfactory. We will hold the conference forthwith—here and now!”

  Standing there near the balance arm of the test machine, the center of attention, the General was like a sales manager haranguing his staff. His dark eyes swept restlessly over the faces, tabulating them all mentally. It seemed as though he were weighing each individual in the scales of his mind and that no secrets would remain after that weighing was complete.

  Ray ticked them all off his own mental list. They were all here, except the workmen, Sisco and Kosleck.

  There was the wisp-bearded Ashley; the cadaver-like Gaylord; the plug-ugly Bixler; the dead-pan Glenn Cannon; and the women, Clara Dunne and Jackie North.

  In the rear of the group Ray noticed the hatchet face of the homicide lieutenant, Lambert. Standing beside Lambert, Quentin Harris’ pale eyes were fixed intently upon the General.

  “All of you,” the General said earnestly, “Have a vital stake in the reputation and good name of American-Consolidated Steel. That’s why I want to say what I have to say in front of you all. I am trusting that your selfish interest, as well as your sense of obligation and responsibility, will prevent anything reflecting adversely upon the company from going any farther than this group. I feel that if you do not know the true facts, a basis for ugly and distorted rumors might be laid. But I do wish to emphasize that the crimes which have been committed in the Ironton Works have been the doings of individuals. In no sense do they reflect upon the company, or its management, or upon the steel industry.”

  U. G. Flint’s eyes sought out Ashley among the intent group. His next words seemed to be addressed directly to the bearded Engineer of Tests.

  “It will not come particularly as news to anyone present that there has been trouble in connection with falsified tests involving certain products manufactured at this plant. The matter first came to the attention of the company management, and to public notice as well, with resultant unfortunate publicity, when the streamliner, Prairie Comet, was wrecked slightly more than a year ago and a number of persons killed.”

  The General’s eyes left Ashley and rested momentarily upon Glenn Cannon. “When Cannon and Locke were convicted and sent to prison, our people in New York thought the matter was ended. But they were wrong. Since that time, there have been indications of similar wrong-doing!”

  Christopher Ashley shook his head violently. “I shall have to differ with you on that, Mr. Flint. I don’t think…”

  The General silenced the man with a lifted hand. “Wait, please! You will have your opportunity to talk. I repeat, then, evidence of further crookedness at Ironton was brought to the attention of the New York office. Very fortunately, no more fatal accidents have resulted and there has been no further damaging publicity. But New York was seriously alarmed. They requested me to investigate the situation. And so it was arranged that my very able friend, Mr. Quentin Harris, be sent from New York and placed in a position of sufficient responsibility so that he might get accurate first-hand knowledge of conditions at Ironton under the Tracy administration.”

  Ray drew in his breath sharply. What an idiot he had been not to realize why the General had never suspected Harris! It was so very obvious now that the two men had been working together from the start.

  Ulysses Flint was continuing. “The management knew, of course, that the type of rascality involved might be exceedingly difficult to smoke out. While it might mean nothing more than one or two weak sisters in the Test Department”—his eyes went back again to Ashley—“actual maladministration on the part of the plant’s responsible top executive might be involved. Actually we did find it very hard to dig out the facts, particularly since Leonard Tracy was severely burned in an accident shortly before Mr. Harris arrived here to take up his new duties. But Mr. Harris went on with his quiet undercover digging and eventually, quite recently in fact, made at least one important discovery: that certain chemical analyses had been altered by a member of the chemical staff. I refer, of course, to the late Walter Keene.”

  Quentin Harris spoke quietly from the rear of the group. “When I found out about Keene I was so angry I made some remark to Mr. Flint about Keene’s deserving to be killed. It was ironic, therefore, to find that after Keene’s death I myself was suspected as the murderer.”

  “Keene was not fired,” the General continued. “In fact, we took particular care not to alarm him in any way. We knew Keene was nothing more than a pawn in the game. Falsifying the chemical analyses was the easiest part. We knew that someone with a thorough knowledge of the steel business must be involved, someone with opportunity and enough experience to fool qualified outside inspectors. So Keene was kept on the job in the hope that we might be able to trace the higher-up through that source.”

  He paused shortly and Ashley seized the opportunity to protest again. “I find it very hard to believe there has been crookedness in my department. I presume you have some definite—”

  The General’s look cut him short. “Plenty of proof,” he said savagely. “But it wasn’t until last night we knew Benjamin Gaylord was the man we were after.”

  Gaylord was plucking nervously at his colorless mustache. “You’ve made a terrible mistake. I haven’t…”

  “No use trying to bluff,” the General said. “Your friends Sisco and Kosleck are both in the hands of the police. They’ve already spoken their piece, Gaylord, to save their own necks on the murder rap.”

  “Do I understand that Benjamin Gaylord is the person who committed these terrible crimes?” It was Ashley again. The tall, stoop-shouldered Engineer of Tests wore a new look of righteous indignation on his scholarly face.

  This time the General ignored the man completely. “Gaylord has been getting away with murder for a long time,” he said. He swung suddenly to Glenn Cannon. “Back even in the days when you, Cannon, were Ironton’s Chief Inspector. H
e was helped when necessary, by Keene on the chemical end.”

  Frantically Gaylord cried, “I didn’t kill Walter! I didn’t! You’ve got to believe me.”

  The skin was stretched even tighter than usual across the man’s high cheekbones. His receding chin quivered weakly.

  The General gave him a look of contempt. “I wouldn’t believe you under oath, Gaylord. But it so happens you are not the only bad egg connected with the local Test Department.” His eyes traveled back to Glenn Cannon. “You were framed, of course,” he said, “you and young Locke as well.”

  For once Glenn Cannons face expressed emotion. Ray saw the man’s look of relief as he glanced quickly at Jackie North.

  Ray’s eyes followed Cannon’s. He noted that the girl’s pretty face was white beneath her make-up.

  “Miss North,” the General continued, “allow me to congratulate you! You and Cannon together have done a beautiful job of confusing the issue. You managed to be virtually on the spot at the time both murders were committed. Only the fact that you were hiding in the dark rear office kept you from seeing the murderer carry Keene’s body upstairs after his skull had been shattered. Again, you actually stumbled across Tracy’s body only a matter of minutes after he had been decapitated. Only an overworked guardian angel has kept the two of you from really serious trouble.”

  Color was flooding back into Jackie’s pale cheeks. “We thought the old records might show…”

  “It’s too late for explanations,” the General said severely. “You managed throughout to make additional trouble for the police and for me. In addition you caused acute embarrassment to your boss, Mr. Harris.”

  “I denied having asked you to look over the records for me,” Harris put in, “because Mr. Flint was not yet ready to expose my connection with his investigation. You almost upset the whole apple cart, Miss North.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry,” the girl said. “I suppose I should have told you the truth immediately.”