Murder Applied For. Lloyd Biggle, jr.

following Parnet to see how things went, or they were still tailing Frank. They knew he’d talked to Parnet this morning, and the moment he walked over to the wreck to see the girl’s body, he knew too much. Or maybe he knew too much anyway. They killed him the first chance they got. Total score: Two damned clever murders. If luck hadn’t been on our side, both of them could have slipped through as accidents. Is that enough gruesome detail?”

      “Plenty,” Webber said.

      “We have one more piece of highly interesting information. The car Betty Parnet was driving—that was a stolen car, too.”

      “You’re kidding!”

      Hendricks raised his right hand. “Fact.”

      “I’ve never seen a more unlikely-looking car thief.”

      “The whole situation is unlikely. The car she was driving was reported stolen at one-thirty this afternoon. The owner is one William J. Howard, who just happens to be Betty Parnet’s uncle—and the man named as beneficiary on that insurance application. Before you start working that one over, I need some help. Betty Parnet said she didn’t apply for an insurance policy. I have to know whether she was telling the truth, and if she was, the key problem is this investigation will be to find out who did. I’ve been trying to get in touch with the Star Mutual manager for the last two hours. No luck. How can I get ahold of that insurance agent tonight?”

      “Just a moment,” Webber said. “Can I have Frank’s reports? I might as well type them up. If I don’t, someone will have to go over the same ground again.”

      “Eventually they’ll be evidence—I hope. I’ve already had them duplicated. Will the copies do?”

      “I suppose.”

      “Take the copies, then. What about the insurance agent?”

      “Your boys brought me down here,” Webber said. “Will you drive?”

      * * * *

      There was no moving traffic on Front Street, and few parked cars. Webber directed Hendricks into a parking place, they jumped out and quickly climbed a flight of stairs to the National Credit Company office.

      Webber produced a key, fumbled, turned it over, fumbled again, and got the door open. “First time I’ve ever had to use it,” he said.

      Hendricks was studying the row of desks. “Did Frank have a desk here?”

      Webber had a filing drawer open, fingering the contents. “Over there,” he said, nodding. “The second one.”

      “Any chance that he got back here during the day, and left something in his desk?”

      “No chance at all. He typed all of his reports at the apartment. Brought them in every morning, picked up his new assignments, and left for the day. If anything came up—here it is, Jones.”

      “Jones? Any first name?”

      “No. Probably not necessary. Star Mutual probably has only one Jones.”

      “Carter City has more than one,” Hendricks said. He flipped open a telephone book, and shook his head. “Carter City has about four columns of them. Can I make an outside call on this phone?”

      “What are you going to do?”

      “Put a man to work on the City Directory.”

      “We have six copies of it here.”

      Well down the list of Joneses, they located Raymond F., insurance agent. Hendricks telephoned, found him home, and promised to call on him within the next twenty minutes. He kept his voice down and spoke politely and somehow conveyed the impression that the consequences would be dire indeed if Mr. Jones did not see fit to wait.

      He slammed the phone down. “Want to come along?”

      “No,” Webber said. Funeral arrangements, relatives—he wondered if Frank had left a will.

      “I’m not just asking to be sociable. I might need you again.”

      Insurance policies. Bank accounts. Gloria. “All right. How could the police get along without conscientious citizens like me?”

      When they reached the street they found a patrol car double-parked by Hendricks’s car. “Any trouble?” the officer asked Hendricks. Hendricks told him no, no trouble, borrowed the use of his radio, and then sent him on his way. A moment later they were driving quickly through the near-deserted streets.

      Hendricks drove staring moodily straight ahead. Webber leaned back and closed his eyes, and did his thinking aloud.

      “There are other angles to this thing,” he said. “You have an insurance application for a thirty-five thousand dollar policy, and there’s only one person on this planet who could possibly benefit from such a policy. The beneficiary. William J. Howard, wasn’t it? The girl’s uncle? And if she was driving his car, and the steering mechanism had been tampered with—”

      Hendricks made no comment.

      “Wonder if there was a double indemnity clause,” Webber mused. “That would double the amount of insurance in event of accidental death, which would make the policy worth seventy thousand. Few uncles have nieces who do as well for them. Have you done any checking on the beneficiary?”

      Hendricks did not answer.

      “Who is this guy Howard?”

      “Like you say, there are other angles. Some of them are peculiar. How will the insurance company handle it?”

      “That’s hard to say. If no money was paid with the application, they’ll just forget about it. But if money was paid, most companies consider the insurance in force when the examining doctor approves the applicant, if it’s a large policy. Whether the company could legally avoid a payment on the basis of Frank’s notes, I couldn’t say, but you can count on a thorough investigation before Mr. Howard gets his thirty-five thousand dollars. Or his seventy thousand dollars.”

      “Was money paid with this application?”

      “You’ll have to ask agent Jones about that. Anyway, if Betty Parnet didn’t apply for this insurance, she certainly didn’t have a medical examination.”

      “But whoever did apply might have had an examination.”

      Webber whistled. “That wouldn’t have occurred to my innocent mind. It takes a policeman to think up angles like that.”

      Hendricks spoke savagely. “A policeman—or a crook.”

      They had reached the outskirts of town, and Hendricks started checking the names of streets in a new subdivision. He found the one he wanted, and turned. He flashed his spotlight on a couple of house numbers, and drove slowly.

      Webber made out outlines of a few of the houses and said dryly, “Insurance agents must do pretty well.”

      “This one seems to, if he can sell insurance to people without their knowing about it.”

      Hendricks checked again with his spotlight and parked. Webber followed him up the walk to a sprawling brick house. Chimes sounded as Hendricks raised the door knocker, and the door swung open immediately. The short, stocky insurance agent greeted them with a grin. It was a broad grin, a permanently-installed grin, a typical salesman grin. Webber had the feeling that he could meet such a grin on the street in Carter City, or in Moscow, or Timbuktu, and know a sales pitch was moving right behind it.

      “Raymond F. Jones?” Hendricks said. “Hendricks is my name. I talked to you on the telephone. This is Ron Webber.”

      Webber handed him a card, and he glanced at it, and nodded. “Oh, yes. You do our inspection reports. Come in, won’t you?”

      They followed him into the living room, and caught a fleeting glimpse of Mrs. Jones disappearing into the kitchen. Jones flipped off the television set, and they arranged themselves on sleek, modernistic chairs that