It was a quiet day at the Special Investigations Division, one of those days that you can use for catching up on routine stuff. Filing away reports, clearing off the basket of clutter on your desk. I was just going through the motions. I was thinking of taking myself out to Charley’s for a nice juicy sirloin come evening. It was that sort of day.

But a few miles across town, it wasn’t quiet at all. There was a big noise at the lakefront mansion of Judge William Zeiger. Someone was holding a small-size cannon against Judge Zeiger’s temple and blowing his head all over his study.

But I didn’t know that yet. I was still puttering around initialing old reports and shooting them into manila folders. My name is Lew Norris, Detective Lieutenant, Special Investigations—a detail of the Central City police. We work alongside the regular uniformed cops. We handle a lot of strange stuff.

The clock was ticking along and I was getting closer and closer to that steak dinner at Charley’s when the phone rang in Captain Ford’s office.

The phone in there only rings when there’s trouble. I glanced across my desk at a couple of the other guys, and we wondered what was up.

A couple of minutes later, the Captain’s door opened. He had a troubled look on his face. I knew the look pretty well by now.

"Lew," he said. "Come in here."

I unfolded myself out of my swivel chair and went toward the open door. Captain Ford was scowling, and a muscle in his cheek was starting to hop. Maybe he was daydreaming about a steak dinner tonight too. We’re all human, even in Special Investigations.

I walked into the office. The Captain is a short, compact sort of man, and he was looking up at me. The here comes a big one look.

He said, "That was Homicide. Judge Zeiger’s been murdered."

"No!"

He snorted at me. "Okay, no. He wasn’t murdered. I dreamed the whole thing."

"I didn’t mean—"

"Okay, Lew. I know what you meant." The Chief looked like he was in no mood for joking. "He was shot in his own home about half an hour ago. His private secretary discovered him and called the cops. Homicide’s out there now, but we’re being called in too. This is going to be a big one, Lew. Get yourself out there. And for God’s sake keep the reporters under control. They’ll be having themselves a field day with this one."

"I bet they will," I murmured. "Leader of the civic reform faction murdered in his own home."

"Yeah. You get the picture. Get moving, now."

"Want me to phone you at home when I’ve sized it up?"

He shook his head. "Phone me here, if you’ve got anything to tell me. I’ll be sticking around late."

I looked at my watch. Ten minutes to five. That steak dinner would have to wait a while. You don’t punch any time clock in Special Investigations, and you don’t get any time and a half when stuff like this comes along, either.

Captain Ford was on the phone almost before I had turned around to leave. I heard him asking Files to send up all that we had on Judge Zeiger.

On my way through the office, a couple of guys looked up. Jim Maxwell said, "What’s up, Lew?"

"You’ll read about it in the papers."

"Hey—"

But I wasn’t stopping for small talk. I took the stairs on the double and scooted for the parking lot next to Special Investigations Headquarters. I made a fast blastoff, switching on the car radio and picking up the Zeiger address on the Homicide wavelength.

It was out by the Lake, in what is not quite a Millionaire’s Row but which is not too far from it. On my way out, I went over in my mind what I knew about Judge William Zeiger.

The "Judge" wasn’t strictly accurate anymore. He had resigned from the State Bench last year to run for Mayor. He wasn’t elected. Judge Zeiger was a member of a political party that just didn’t win elections in this part of the state. But he had put up a pretty good fight all the same, even if the boys who made the odds installed him as a 4-to-1 shot to lose. His picture was in the paper every day. I remembered his face clearly—a serene, dignified-looking man in his early fifties, with a shock of curly white hair, a prominent nose, and stern but yet warm eyes. If ever a man looked like a judge, it was William Zeiger.

He had something of a reputation as a martinet. While he was serving on the bench, he was considered the toughest judge in the state. And he was always involved in civic crusades to clean up local government. Whenever there was a full-page advertisement in the papers making some kind of crusading statement, there was Judge Zeiger’s name in the list of sponsors as sure as anything.

I guess he was universally respected—except by the grifters he sent to jail, and maybe even they respected him. If he hadn’t been a member of the minority party, he might have gone places in local politics. Mayor of Central City, Governor, Senator—who knew?

But he stuck to his party allegiance. Even so, he had made a game fight of it four years ago, when he ran for Congress. His heavily favored opponent had just managed to squeak through. The close contest in what wasn’t supposed to be a close district made Judge Zeiger an important man in his party, and set him up for the Mayoralty nomination the next time around.

Well, all that was over, now. There wouldn’t be any more elections for William Zeiger.

It wasn’t hard to find the Zeiger house. You just had to look for the one with the police cars in front. There were four cars in front of an imposing fieldstone-and-brick Tudor mansion at the corner. A television mobile unit was outside, getting the looks of the house down on tape. A cluster of reportery-looking people had gathered to see what was up. Two men in uniform were keeping them all back.

I walked up the front path.

A very young rookie glowered at me. He didn’t recognize me. All he saw was a tall guy in a business suit, and I guess he figured me for a reporter.

"Nobody’s being admitted," he said.

"Norris. Special Investigations."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure, Lieutenant. Go right in."

He let me by. The massive oak door was partly ajar, and I pushed it open and went in.

The house was full of policemen. They were all over the place, measuring, photographing, sniffing out fingerprints. I caught sight of Sergeant Brandon of Homicide and walked toward him.

"Good seeing you here, Lieutenant," he said crisply.

I nodded. "Damn lousy timing, Sergeant. Will you arrange in the future to have all your murders take place during my working hours? It’s after five."

"I’ll see what I can do." He shook his head. "Want to look at the body?"

"Might as well."

"Upstairs in the study. I’ll show you the way."

"Where’s the family?" I asked.

"Upstairs too. They’re pretty broken up. Wife, two little boys. The Judge’s brother is on his way over to stay with them."

"He’s a banker, isn’t he?"

"Right."

We reached the landing. Carpet so thick you could drown in it if you weren’t careful. We made a left turn and entered a big room at the end of the hall.

There were policemen in it, of course.

And what was left of Judge Zeiger.

Corpses are never pretty. But this one was exceptional in its unpleasantness. The Judge had been sitting at a wide, uncluttered desk that faced a leaded-glass bay window overlooking the garden. It was a casement-type window, and it was partly open, which wasn’t unusual considering that it was early May, too cool yet for air-conditioning but too warm to shut out all the fresh air.

The Judge had been reading a brief. Someone had come up to him, put a gun to his head, and fired.

A big gun.

The slug had ripped through his brain and taken the back of his skull off. There were pieces of brain matter scattered in a wide arc along the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the wall facing the window. He had been knocked back in his seat by the force of the shot, and he was still there, leaning back limply, half his skull shot away.

Messy.

"You find the slug?" I asked.

Brandon nodded. "It wound up in the binding of one of the books over there. A law book. He was shot at close range with a .45."

"Whoever it was didn’t want to take any chances on his surviving," I said. "It’s a wonder he didn’t use an elephant gun." I went to the window and peered through it without touching anything. Looking down, I saw the bouldery wall of the building in back. It was a nice, elegant design. It also allowed footholds for an agile killer.

I looked at Brandon. "You figure this the way I do?"

"Human fly?" he said.

"Just about." I glanced at the desk again. "It wouldn’t be much of a trick to shinny up that wall, stick an arm in the window, and blast away. Then climb down again. You wouldn’t have to be an acrobat."

"No prints worth mentioning on the casement, though. Just the judge’s and the maid’s."

"Doesn’t mean a thing." I chewed on my lower lip for a moment, visualizing the killer scrambling up to the second story for the fatal shot. "Who found the body?" I asked.

"Zeiger’s private secretary. He heard the shot and came scuttling in."

"Let’s talk to him," I said.

Brandon nodded to one of the other officers. "Tell Luton we want to see him."

"Not in here," I said. "Not everyone’s as hardened to the sight of corpses as you are, Sergeant. I don’t want the man having a breakdown."

The Sergeant shrugged. Homicide boys have a way of being a little rough on survivors in cases like this. But I wasn’t too keen on sticking around a brain-spattered room myself, let alone questioning witnesses in it.

So I went down the hall again. Brandon stayed behind this time to supervise the operations, and an officer named Konsky took me to see the dead man’s secretary. He had his own room at the end of the hall.

Konsky knocked. "Mr. Luton?"

"What is it?" A high-pitched, impatient voice.

"Someone to see you."

"Just a minute."

The door opened. A short, thin-faced man of about forty peered out at me. "Oh, I thought you were the Judge’s brother."

"He’s not here yet. I’m—"

"I won’t talk to any reporters!" Luton shrilled. "Who let you in? I—"

"I’m not a reporter, Mr. Luton," I said, stopping him. "I’m Lieutenant Norris of Special Investigations. I’d like to talk to you about—about the killing."

Some of the hostility abated. But he still looked suspicious. "Well?"

"Mind if I come in?"

He shrugged and let me enter. His room was nicely set up, actually a two-room suitelet with a small sleeping alcove as well as a desk and bookshelves and typewriter and file cabinets and other secretarial appurtenances.

Luton himself was small and high-strung. He didn’t sit down or invite me to. He just kept pacing around the room in jerky, birdlike little steps.

"Suppose you start from the beginning, Mr. Luton. When you first went to the Judge’s room—"

"I’ve been through this half a dozen times!"

"Once more," I said soothingly. "Just one more time."

He let out his breath in a noisy sigh. "All right. All right. One more time. I was right here, transcribing some dictation for the Judge. About an hour ago. Suddenly there’s this enormous explosion. Like a bomb going off in the back yard. I had no idea what it was. I came out of my room, went to the corridor window, looked out."

"Out front?"

"No, into the garden. I saw someone running—just vanishing from sight as I looked. A tall man wearing a sort of greenish jacket. My first thought was for the Judge. I ran down the hall and knocked on his door. He didn’t answer, and I knocked again and called to him, and when there was no answer this time I opened the door and looked in and there he was—" Luton paused and seemed to gag, as though even the memory of what he had seen made him want to upchuck. "There he was," he repeated. "Have you seen him?"

"Yes."

"Then that’s all I can tell."

"What happened after you made the discovery?"

Luton trembled for a moment. He was very pale. "I went to the window to look out again. I didn’t touch the window. It was open. Then Mrs. Zeiger started to come into the room, to find out what was happening. I saw her, rushed to the door to try to keep her from seeing. But she came in. She screamed and passed out. I rang for the maid, and we took her to her room and put her to bed. After that I called the police, and also Mr. Zeiger’s brother. Since then the place has been a madhouse. Absolutely a madhouse."

Luton went to his desk, where a decanter of whiskey was sitting, and poured himself a stiff shot. He didn’t offer me any, but I chalked that off to his state of near collapse more than to any intentional rudeness. I was willing to bet that under normal circumstances Luton was almost greasily polite. Private secretaries of the male sex have a way of being like that, I’ve found.

"How long have you—had you been with the Judge?"

"I’ve been his secretary for seven years. Before that I was his law clerk."

"And you live here?"

"Right here, yes,"

"Since when?"

"Look, are you grilling me because you suspect me of—"

"I’m just trying to fill in the background," I said with all the patience I could manage. "I don’t mean to intimidate you and I’m not accusing you of murder, Mr. Luton."

"Very well," he said sulkily. "I’ve been living here since the Judge bought this house."

"Which is when?"

"Just about two years ago."

"Just before he ran for Mayor?"

"Yes."

Luton was having the shakes again. He poured himself another shot and tossed it off like so much orange juice.

"What other staff people live here?"

"Just the servants."

"Who are they?"

"The maid and the gardener. A married couple who’ve been with the family a long time. The gardener’s in Peoria this week to visit his sick brother. The maid’s with Mrs. Zeiger right now."

I saw that was all I was going to get from Luton at the moment, and I didn’t feel any need to push him into a breakdown. I thanked him and left.

It seemed a little peculiar to me that Zeiger’s old law clerk would take a job as a private secretary. Law clerks are supposed to be bright young graduates of law schools, who hang around important men for a few years picking up the tricks of the trade. Then they go out on their own.

Well, maybe Luton didn’t have the temperament to go out on his own. Maybe he preferred the security of being the Judge’s secretary. It would bear some further thinking about.

But right now I wanted to meet Mrs. Zeiger.


Copyright © 1962, 1990 by Agberg Ltd.