The Second Mystery Megapack. Mack Reynolds

Again I looked at Joe, but he volunteered nothing.

      The ambulance’s siren cut off as it pulled into the farm’s driveway; I could see its flashing lights through the drawn shades. The police officer who had collected the pills pushed past Joe and jogged down the stairs to show them in.

      Two minutes later, they had Aunt Peck on a stretcher and carried her down. All the fuss and attention seemed to have finally penetrated her stupor. She half opened her eyes and looked at me.

      “Angels…,” she whispered.

      Maybe that’s where all her visitations had come from—drug-induced dreams. Which meant Joe had dosed her before. All the pieces of the puzzle were falling neatly into place. Everything except why.

      When I patted her arm gently, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

      “Where will they take her?” I asked the police.

      “County hospital,” the first officer said. “It’s the closest. Don’t worry, they’ll take good care of her.”

      “I should go, too,” muttered Joe. “Bessie….”

      “No,” I said firmly. “You aren’t family. The hospital won’t let you in.” Pointedly, I added, “Besides, you’ve done quite enough for Aunt Peck already.”

      Joe stared at me, eyes glittering with hatred. “Then you should go.”

      “I’d love to, but I’m not family, either.”

      “But you said—”

      I smiled sweetly. “I lied.”

      Just then the first police officer returned and asked for my name. I told him the truth, and he wrote it down. Then he did the same to Joe. A little sullenly, Joe told him.

      Joe and I stood side by side on the front porch, watching in silence as first the ambulance and then the police car peeled away—the ambulance with its lights flashing, the police car dark but close behind.

      “I ought to kill you,” Joe Carver announced.

      “That would not be wise.” I shifted uncomfortably, leaning heavily on my walking stick. “We’re about to have company. Very powerful and very mean company who won’t like what you did to Aunt Peck. And then we’re going to find the money.”

      It was a stab in the dark, but his response told me I’d guessed right.

      “How do you know about the money—” he gasped out.

      “I work for Bruno Tortelli’s son.”

      Joe sagged, all the fight gone out of him. He sat on the porch steps and began to sob quietly.

      Just as he managed to compose himself, a black car pulled into the driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. It parked beside the pink Cadillac, and two stocky men in dark suits climbed out. Both carried handguns in shoulder holsters.

      “Mr. Geller?” asked the driver.

      “That’s me,” I said. “Is Mr. Smith coming?”

      “Yes.”

      “Excellent.” I turned and limped toward the front door. “Let’s wait inside. My feet are killing me. Oh, and don’t let Mr. Carver leave.”

      * * * *

      The mantle clock showed 3:10 when I heard another car pull up in the yard. One of the guards got up to check. He returned a moment later with Mr. Smith.

      “This had better be good,” Smith said even before I’d managed to pull myself to my feet. He looked tired and rumpled and unhappy at being dragged out here.

      “I think you’ll be pleased,” I said.

      He folded his arms. “Proceed.”

      “Surely you remember Joe Carver from your childhood days here.” I indicated Joe with a nod of my head.

      Smith frowned. “The handyman?”

      “Correct. But this story starts in 1963. Your father stole some money and brought it out here. Somehow, he talked Reverend Peck into holding onto it for him—together, they hid it inside the house. I believe Joe can corroborate that part of the story. Joe?”

      “Yeah,” Joe said sullenly. “That’s what happened.”

      “Unfortunately,” I went on, “your father was killed before he could return for it. And Reverend Peck refused to touch the money because it was stolen.”

      “Go on,” said Smith, looking interested.

      I said, “Decades passed. Somehow, Joe heard about the money—”

      “Joshua was dyin’,” said Joe Carver. “Out of his head, just babblin’. He thought I was Bruno Tortelli, and he began arguin’ with me. Said he couldn’t keep the money here. Said he wanted it gone before Bessie found out.”

      I continued, “So that’s when Joe decided to take the money for himself. His wife died sick—it probably left him deep in debt. He wanted to clear himself so he could remarry. I’m sure he had the best motives.”

      “Where does my aunt fit into this?” Mr. Smith asked.

      “She doesn’t believe in locking doors or windows,” I said. “Joe has been coming at night and searching for the money. She attributed the noises and disturbances to ghosts and angels. But Joe couldn’t find the money. Now he thinks it may be hidden under the floorboards. This afternoon, he drugged your aunt—probably with one of the medicines his wife used to take—and he came out tonight planning to rip up the floorboards.”

      Smith looked around. “Where is Aunt Peck?”

      “In the hospital. I found her drugged, so I called an ambulance. She’s a strong old girl; she’ll be fine.”

      “She better be.” Smith gave Joe a dark look. “If anything happens to her.…”

      “Right now,” I said, “I think we should look for the money. I’m willing to bet Joe got it right. It’s under the floor. But not in the dining room.”

      “Where, then?” said Joe.

      “Did you noticed,” I said to Joe, “that the steps to the second floor don’t squeak?”

      “No. But what of it?”

      “In a house this old, the steps should squeak. All the other floorboards do. I think someone took the staircase apart and put it back together more firmly. And someone has been giving the steps extra attention over the years to keep them in tip-top shape.”

      “All this time…,” Joe muttered. “All this time, and I never even suspected!”

      “Of course, I could be wrong.” I pulled myself to my feet. “Mr. Smith? Shall we have a look?”

      “Certainly!”

      Joe Carver fetched a crowbar from his toolbox and brought it to the staircase. He hunted around the first step, looking for the right spot, then deftly inserted the thin end of the crowbar and pried.

      With a groan, the nails pulled free. Then the step popped up…and in a dusty little hole under the first step, I spotted three dusty canvas bags. Each had been stenciled with “Manhattan Federal Trust” in dark blue letters.

      Smith pushed Joe aside, took out the bags, and dumped neat stacks of twenty dollar bills wrapped in paper bands onto the floor. Fifty-five bundles of bills—not so much these days, but in 1963 it would have been a fortune.

      Smith tossed me one of the stacks. I flipped through the bills slowly: fifty of them, exactly one thousand dollars.

      “The serial numbers are non-sequential,” I observed. “This money has been circulated. And there are a few gold certificates in here. They may be worth more to collectors than the face value of the