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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Mammoth Detective, May 1944,
with "O'Sheen Sees Red"
O'Sheen felt pity well up in his Irish heart as
he extricated the limp figure from the wreckage.
Brewster's wife died in a speeding car. Paddy's pity
changed to anger because he completely missed seeing red.
PADDY O'SHEEN wandered along the sidewalk that bordered Highway 17, close to the edge of town. He realized vaguely that the sedan which passed him was traveling too fast. But, as Highway 17 was under the rule of the state police, he muttered a few choice oaths and forgot it. The expensive car whizzed out of town, over the hill and down the long grade toward the Illinois Central Railroad viaduct. Paddy resumed his stroll, and returned, in a day-dream, to the chocolate cake Marta had promised for dinner. O'Sheen's comfortably padded figure proved that he was neither loath to eat good food, nor carry the result around his waistline.
CRASH!
O'Sheen stopped short, the memory of the speeding sedan hurtling back into his thoughts. He was sure he had heard the final, sickening impact of steel against the solid cement support that bordered Highway 17 under the viaduct.
There was no further sound. The very finality of it made his blood run cold.
Willy Evans peddled by on his bicycle.
"Better hurry up, Paddy," Willy shouted over his shoulder. "That was a super-crash if I ever heard one."
O'Sheen left the comparative comfort of the sidewalk and broke into a sluggish dog-trot. He wasn't built for speed. He puffed hard, fighting for his breath, and reached the top of the hill. Below, a blot on the otherwise quiet green valley, the sedan leaned crazily against the viaduct.
At least one of them was alive, Paddy thought. Before he was half way down the hill, a man climbed stiffly from the driver's seat and waved his arms frantically, signaling O'Sheen.
"Hold your horses," Paddy wheezed. "Sure, and I'm a wreck myself!"
O'Sheen stared fixedly at the still, white-covered
figure on the stretcher. His throat was all tied up in a
knot. He wondered what he'd do if this were Marta.
Chief Walter Henderson, Paddy's boss, was questioning Walter Brewster, the dead woman's husband.
"Still can't understand how it happened," Henderson insisted. He was very sorry for Brewster, but he had to make some pretense of settling the problem.
Howard Brewster was a stout, carefully-dressed little man. He adjusted his expensive, pearl-gray gloves as he talked. His eyes were red, but he managed to keep his voice calm.
"I told Mr. O'Sheen what happened." he said. "Later, perhaps, we can talk. Now, it's pretty hard...."
"It's all right, Chief," O'Sheen said. "They were traveling pretty fast at the top of the hill. He lost control."
"Pardon me," a voice said behind O'Sheen, and anemic, vulture-faced Doc Hargreave edged into the little group. He spoke directly to Brewster.
"I suppose you'll want your wife's—er—remains returned to the city?"
Brewster found a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes.
"Please," he said, and fumbled for his wallet. He removed a fifty-dollar bill and passed it to the doctor. "Take care of everything for me. I'm—I'm afraid I'm pretty badly mixed up."
"Sure, and I'd think you might be." Paddy O'Sheen broke in. "I think Mr. Brewster should leave with—with his wife, if he wants to."
"I'll drive you into town," Henderson offered. "Your car will be at the county garage when you want it." Brewster shuddered.
"I'll send Peter, my chauffeur, for it. He'll dispose of it for me. I couldn't stand having it around after...." Henderson nodded.
Paddy O'Sheen let his eyes trail away from Brewster's tense face. He could understand what a strain all this must be. He winced, remembering the crushed, gaping wound in Mrs. Brewster's forehead. He had lifted her tenderly from the car and, when he saw that every speck of life was gone, placed her on a seat cushion beside the road.
Paddy's eyes grew misty.
For the first time he knew how helpless a tiny, beautiful woman could be. Her lips were drawn and colorless. He stared down at the reproachful, saddened face. In death she seemed plain, almost freshly scrubbed.
One limp arm had fallen from the cushion, and the smooth, unpolished nails made her hand seem so fragile that it startled him.
Paddy was still dreaming when Brewster spoke to him.
"I appreciate your help, Mr. O'Sheen." He extended a gloved hand. "It isn't often a man feels that he has met a new friend."
O'Sheen didn't seem to hear. His face had suddenly turned a shade darker. His mouth closed grimly. He stared over Brewster's head at the retreating ambulance.
"Paddy!" Henderson said sharply.
O'Sheen snapped out of it.
"Huh?" He accepted Brewster's outstretched hand. "Sure now, and it's no more than any peace officer would do."
He knew that Brewster was still muttering words of thanks, but his mind was far away again. Brewster had mentioned that he would have a chauffeur pick up the car.
Why hadn't the chauffeur been driving?
O'Sheen wondered if it meant anything. Maybe not, but there were two or three things that bothered his sense of balance.
Skinny Farrell backed the ancient tow-car bumper to
bumper with Brewster's wrecked sedan. He stuck a freckled
face from the window of the cab and shouted to O'Sheen.
"Does that do it?"
O'Sheen was sitting on the steep bank that led up to the track level. He looked up thoughtfully and nodded. "Good enough," he said.
Skinny climbed slowly out of the tow-truck, picked a long blade of grass and inserted it between his teeth. He sauntered slowly around the car, stopping near the badly-crushed right side.
"How in hell could anyone pile up against that viaduct with driving conditions all perfect?"
Paddy scowled.
"Hey," Skinny shouted. "You said there was a dame killed in this mess?"
O'Sheen jumped to his feet. Skinny had kicked something out of the dirt and was holding it between his fingers.
"This ring must be hers," he said. "Though I don't see how it amounted to much."
O'Sheen took the tiny gold band from him. He squinted at it thoughtfully.
"Looks like the stone was crushed in the setting," Skinny offered. "Must have hit something a stiff crack. Darned if I knew you could crack a diamond."
O'Sheen nodded.
"Darned if I did," he agreed grimly.
O'Sheen felt stuffy and uncomfortable in the new,
blue-serge suit. He waited before the door, wondering if
they had heard the bell. He had wandered into Brewster's
garden and found his way to the two-story garage. Fresh
curtains on the second floor told him that the chauffeur
probably lived here.
He was about to press the bell-button again when he heard footsteps descending the stairs. The door opened and a freshly-shaven, uniformed man in his early thirties came out. Peter, the chauffeur, looked as though he might become-a good 1-A applicant in a short tune. There wasn't anything about him that breathed dishonesty.
"Hello," he said. "Anything I can do for you?
O'Sheen grinned, and they both liked each other at once.
"My name's O'Sheen," he said. "Wanted to ask you about the accident."
Peter scowled.
"I been expecting you."
O'Sheen tried to hide his amazement.
"Expecting me?"
"Oh, don't get excited about it," Peter said. "Brewster—may the devil get the old goat—told me what to say if anyone started checking up on him."
Paddy's eyes narrowed.
"And I take it you don't like being told?"
Peter chuckled.
"That's right," he admitted. "I only work here, and I don't want any part of Brewster's family trouble."
"Wait a minute," O'Sheen begged. "Does Brewster quarrel with his wife?"
"He did," Peter replied dryly, "the day the accident happened. They did everything but sling the kitchen sink at each other. Brewster wanted me to tell you I had Monday off."
"And you didn't?"
"Nope," Peter said. "He ordered the car early in the morning. Said they were driving up to the Green Stream Country Club. Later he said it was a nice day and he'd drive himself. Had me leave the car in the rear drive. They left right after I took the car around."
"And that was at what time?"
"Noon, or maybe ten after."
O'Sheen nodded. That was about right. It was twenty to one when the car had hit the viaduct.
"Say," Peter started eagerly, "do you think ...?
"No," O'Sheen interrupted. "Not very often.... Ever hear of a diamond that would crack with a single blow?"
Peter shook his head.
"Not the kind I spend my money on," he said.
"That's what I thought," O'Sheen replied, holding out his hand. "Glad to get a chance to meet you.
The chauffeur laughed heartily.
"Not going to tell me any secrets, I see. I planned to go up after the car today. Want to drive back with me?"
"Do I look like a man who enjoys walking?" O'Sheen asked.
O'Sheen heard the metallic click of the phone and a
voice answered. "Green Stream Country Club."
"Hello," O'Sheen said. "This is the police department calling. Did a Mr. Walter Brewster make reservations with you for Monday night?"
He cupped his hand over the phone, after the voice promised to check the club record.
"Marta," he called.
Marta O'Sheen came from the kitchen, wiping her smooth, pliant fingers on a flour-covered apron.
"And what might my hero be wanting?" Her eyes twinkled.
"Would you be willing to sell your engagement ring—it you had one?"
Marta shook her head. "Certainly not," she said emphatically. "Why would you be asking that ...?"
"Oh! Hello," O'Sheen ignored her answer to return to the phone. "Yes—Walter Brewster."
Another pause, then:
"Well! What do you know about that!" Paddy said, and hung up.
"Now you listen to me, Paddy O'Sheen. If you think all this mystery....!"
She stopped, seeing the worried look in his eyes. O'Sheen, she decided was either a very clever man, or he had more bad luck than most men.
"Paddy," she said tenderly. "You aren't going out again tonight?"
"No," he said slowly. "Not—tonight. I got to do some thinking. Right now I'm not quite sure."
She left him, returning to the kitchen. Death was a very unpleasant thing, and it affected Paddy more deeply than most men. Perhaps that was why he could sense violence where others failed to find it. Death had to be justified, and O'Sheen was a hard man to convince.
"I'm damned if I can see it," Henderson grumbled from
the back seat. "Brewster's worth millions. The theory
doesn't hang together."
O'Sheen's eyes never left the road. He drove slowly and listened to Doc Hargreave chuckle at his side.
"O'Sheen's talk makes good sense," he insisted. "I agree with him."
"Damned if I ain't always wrong," Henderson said plaintively. "Maybe O'Sheen oughta be chief of police."
Hargreave snorted.
"Don't think everyone in town ain't thinking the same thing," he shouted. "Paddy's refusal to accept your job is the only thing that saved you when he cleaned up the Warner killing."
Henderson lapsed into silence and Paddy O'Sheen turned several shades redder.
They reached the outskirts of the city and turned into the richly-settled section. O'Sheen found his way to the correct address and stopped before the tall, spacious mansion.
On the porch, he waited until the others were grouped around him. He rang the bell. Almost at once a butler appeared.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?"
Henderson cleared his throat.
"We'd like to speak to Mr. Brewster," he said, and lifted his lapel so the butler could see his badge.
The butler opened the door.
"Will you wait in the hall, please?" His voice wasn't pleasant. "I'll call Mr. Brewster at once."
In three minutes, Walter Brewster came in, dressed in slippers and a blue wool robe. To O'Sheen, he looked very pale and uneasy.
"I'm sorry you boys were kept waiting," Brewster attempted a smile. "Come into the library, I'll order something for you."
"Don't think that's necessary," Henderson said nervously. "We have a couple of questions."
"About the accident?"
"About your wife," Doc Hargreave said quietly, "and how she managed to get killed in an accident that you escaped from without a scratch."
There was no mistaking the coldness of Brewster's expression.
"It seems to me that we covered everything thoroughly," he said. "You're a little out of bounds, aren't you? Suppose you go to the city police?"
O'Sheen had been listening quietly.
"You were playing your game in our territory," he snapped. "We didn't ask you to dump a dead woman into our arms."
Brewster stiffened. His eyes were flinty with anger.
"You get the hell out of here," he shouted. "Or I'll call the police. I don't have to take insults from you yokels."
O'Sheen's face was very red. His fists clenched at his sides.
"Did you know that your wife cancelled the reservations at the Country Club?" he asked. "You should have renewed them before you left the house."
Brewster's eyes faltered and moved away from O'Sheen. Paddy thought he could almost feel the man's emotions. Brewster was in a tight spot. He must be asking himself: "How much do they know? How much do they know?"
"I—don't quite understand," he faltered.
"I think you do," O'Sheen continued. "The chauffeur was to drive you there Monday afternoon. At noon you told him you'd drive yourself."
"It was a nice day to drive," Brewster defended himself weakly.
"You fought with your wife in the morning," O'Sheen said coolly.
Brewster laughed, but it sounded hollow and insincere.
"Fight with Elsa? Don't be absurd. That's the weakest argument you could fabricate. Everyone knew we were very devoted."
"Does everyone know that she sold her jewelry and substituted paste stones for the originals?"
Brewster backed away from O'Sheen slowly.
"Where did you find ...?"
He stopped short, realizing that he had betrayed himself.
"For some reason, your wife needed money. I don't care to know why, and I don't expect we'll find out."
O'Sheen was laying his high cards down swiftly now.
"You fought with her Monday, lost your temper and hit her with a blunt instrument."
Doc Hargreave nodded grimly.
"A nasty sock on the forehead," he said. "Probably a poker. There are several fireplaces here."
O'Sheen went on.
"You decided to make it look like an accident. You told Peter you'd drive yourself. You carried your wife to the car and started out to create an accident."
Brewster sank into a chair, crossed his legs and lighted a cigarette. Perspiration stood out on his upper lip.
"You have the imagination of a five year old," he told O'Sheen. "But go on."
"You drove past me going about sixty miles an hour," O'Sheen said. "You knew someone would remember that. Then you slowed down on the hill and hit the viaduct a glancing blow, knowing you couldn't get badly hurt yourself."
"A freak accident," Brewster snapped.
"Freak, is right," Paddy admitted. "You knew you could claim that she hit her head on the dashboard."
Brewster's fingers we're shaking. He had forgotten the cigarette in his hand.
"Supposing such a thing were true," he said. "Just how would you prove it?"
O'Sheen took a threatening step forward. For the first time that he could remember, he was about to lose his temper completely.
"Sure, and I've a good mind to put you out of your misery without botherin' about the proof. You destroyed your wife's paste-jewelry, but you overlooked one thing. A man would never think his wife would sell even her engagement ring, would he? The stone in the engagement ring was also paste, Brewster."
Brewster started forward in his chair.
"She—wouldn't...."
O'Sheen took the ring from his pocket and passed it to the little man. Brewster seemed to grow smaller. He looked like a helpless, caged animal. His eyes met O'Sheen's and there were tears in them.
"But, what was I to do," he begged. "She wouldn't tell me what she had done with the money. She sold fifteen thousand dollars' worth of diamonds. It might have been another—man."
O'Sheen looked at Henderson.
"He'll sign a confession now," he said.
Brewster seemed puzzled. He sank back into his chair. His eyes were on O'Sheen's ruddy face.
"But—the whole thing seemed so easy," he protested. "Now that it's over, I'm not sorry. I couldn't sleep. But how did I betray myself?"
"You didn't," O'Sheen said. Now that the triumph of the hunt was over he felt let down and disgusted. "Your wife betrayed you."
Brewster's cigarette-dropped to the floor.
"My wife?"
Paddy O'Sheen nodded.
"Women like to look their best when they go to a party," he said. "You said you were on your way to the Country Club. When I first saw your wife's body, I wondered why her face wasn't made up, and why there was no polish on her nails. There aren't many women who would go out without nail polish, lipstick and powder."
"You didn't tell us that," Henderson protested.
Doc Hargreave shook his head sadly.
"And to think I took care of the body and didn't even notice."
Paddy's neck got red and he felt uncomfortable.
"It looked funny to me," he admitted. "So I checked up with the chauffeur and the Country Club. The ring gave me the motive.
"I was so mad, when I guessed what had happened," O'Sheen continued, "that I was seeing red."
"You might say, that because you didn't see any red, you did see it," Hargreave offered. "If I know what I mean, and I'm not sure I do."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.