Murder Applied For. Lloyd Biggle, jr.

writing,” Webber said. “It looks like a license number, but I don’t recognize it.”

      “He didn’t say anything about it when you had lunch with him?”

      “No.”

      “Did he tell you anything about this Parnet business that he doesn’t have written down here?”

      Webber shook his head. “No. We talked about it, and about what he ought to do. He thought he should talk it over with the boss, and have the boss check with the insurance company, before he went any further.”

      “Would you say Frank was a good investigator?”

      “He was the best in our office. By far.”

      Hendricks took the report form, and carefully attached it to the clipboard. He sat back, his hands folded on the desk, his face thoughtful, as if he were phrasing and rephrasing a question in his head. “Just how do you interpret Frank’s notes?” he asked finally.

      Webber jerked erect. “The girl at the hospital!”

      The Old Man got noisily to his feet. “He’s real bright—a real credit to his family. If you dangle it in front of him carefully enough, and give him time enough, and finally hit him over the head with it, he’s bound to get it. Real bright.”

      He strode toward the door.

      Webber felt bruised and short of breath, as though he’d just received an unexpected kick in the stomach. He was still fighting to control himself when the Old Man growled, “I’ll be home if anything turns up,” reached for his hat, and left without a backward glance. He did not close the door gently.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Webber got up and walked over to the window. He stood looking down at the parking lot as the Old Man strode briskly over to his car, got in, and drove away.

      Hendricks said quietly, “You two ought to bury the hatchet. You always used to be great pals.”

      Webber shrugged wearily, and returned to his chair. “The girl at the hospital,” he said.

      “Yes. The girl at the hospital was Betty Parnet. Now how do you interpret Frank’s notes?”

      “There’s only one possible way to interpret them. Someone applied for an insurance policy on the life of Betty Parnet without her knowing about it.”

      “Is that possible?”

      “It’s possible to try. Obviously. I don’t think it would be possible to get a policy issued. Certainly not one that large, with the investigating we do. In some circumstances I suppose a small one might slip through.”

      “I see.”

      Webber realized suddenly that Hendricks was an angry man. Fury throbbed in the scowl that twisted his lean face, and flashed dangerously in his dark eyes.

      “How was Betty Parnet killed?” Webber asked.

      “Automobile accident.”

      “Sure. Now I want you to draw me a nice, pretty picture, and don’t spare the gruesome details.”

      “What sort of picture?”

      “We have two people killed in two separate automobile accidents. You’re behaving as if they’re both murder cases. Start drawing.”

      Hendricks lit a cigarette, and tossed the match at an ash tray. He missed, and perched on the edge of the desk shaking his head. “Nerves. You and Frank were close friends, I suppose.”

      “He was like a big brother to me. A darned close big brother.”

      “He was a wonderful guy. I always wondered why he didn’t marry. Some woman missed getting a first rate husband.

      “Some woman missed being a young widow. Let’s have it.”

      “We don’t have any answers, yet,” Hendricks said. “But I think I know what the questions are.” He sent a smoke ring whirling across the room. “I have it figured out something like this. Frank had this Parnet investigation to do, and sometime this morning he went to the Ronson and Wilcox offices looking for her. She wasn’t in. He tried to get some information from the receptionist, and she wouldn’t talk. Is that unusual?”

      “It happens,” Webber said.

      “Then Frank called on Betty Parnet at her home address, which is 974 Sunset Boulevard. He wrote up a summary of what happened and let the matter drop. I suppose he figured if Betty Parnet didn’t apply for any insurance, of course the company wouldn’t issue the policy, and he’d have been wasting time and money to go into it any further. He had plenty of other work to do, se he went ahead with his other investigations. Three of them concern people living in Rossville. Sometime late this afternoon he drove to Rossville, and when he’d finished he came back to Carter City on Ridge Road.

      “From this point I’m guessing, but I think it happened this way. Earlier in the day, Frank noticed that he was being tailed. He wrote down the car’s license number on his memo pad, probably meaning to ask me to check it out for him. Maybe he was just curious, or maybe he had a better reason. Whether or not he connected it with the Parnet case, we’ll never know. But he did write it down.

      “He drove back to Carter City, and just as he got to suicide curve he witnessed a peach of an accident. Or maybe he came along just after it happened. Anyway, it was a peculiar accident. According to witnesses, the car made no attempt to go around the curve. It went straight ahead, crashed through the guard railing, rolled down the embankment, and wrapped itself around a tree. The driver had her chest crushed and was probably killed instantly. Her face wasn’t injured, and when Frank stopped and went over to the wreck, he recognized her as Betty Parnet.

      “He knew something was wrong. The girl claimed she hadn’t applied for any insurance, but somebody had, thirty-five thousand dollars’ worth on her life, and she was dead. He drove a quarter of a mile toward town, and stopped at Bill’s Place. Know it? Combination gas station and hamburger joint. Frank didn’t drive into the station. He parked along the highway, and went in to make a phone call.

      “Now get this. I’ve known Frank Milford all my life. We went through school together, and he went to work for National Credit about the same time I joined the force. We haven’t been in close contact the past few years, but several times Frank has run into things he thought peculiar, and given me leads on them. His leads were always good.

      “He had a lead for me today, Ron. As soon as he recognized Betty Parnet, he stopped at the first public telephone he saw and called me. Maybe he knew more about the case than what he wrote down. I think so—but unfortunately I was out. He left word that he was on his way down to see me, and then he ran out to get into his car. Just as he got the door open, a car veered off the road, ran him down, and kept on going. Witnesses said it had been parked up the road waiting. And they got the license number.”

      Hendricks paused, and puffed nervously on his cigarette. “We found the hit-and-run car abandoned. It was a stolen car, and the plates had been switched. Odd, the number of stolen cars we’ve had all of a sudden.”

      “You found the report on Betty Parnet in Frank’s briefcase, and started to add one and one,” Webber suggested.

      “Yes. We couldn’t read Frank’s shorthand, but of course the girl’s name and address, and the information about the insurance policy, were typewritten at the top of the sheet. The fact that he stopped to call just after he passed the scene of the Parnet accident, and the fact that thirty-five grand is a fair amount of money, made us look into the Parnet death very carefully. The steering mechanism on her car had been tampered with. The poor kid didn’t have a chance on that curve. She was murdered just as certainly as if someone had pointed a gun and pulled the trigger.”

      “Then there was that license number on Frank’s memo pad. We already had the number of the hit-and-run car from witnesses, and they matched. When you find a hit-and-run victim who has already taken down the number of the