Out of Control

By Baynard Kendrick

Murder disrupts a blind PI’s honeymoon in this mix of detective novel and psychological thriller from the author of Death Knell.

The wife of a wealthy Tennessee mining tycoon, Marcia Fillmore has worked hard to get to where she is in life. She’s also a woman with a dark past, one she’s put behind her . . . until a man walks into the Black Pigeon in Gatlinburg and takes a seat beside her at the bar. Marcia doesn’t take kindly to him threatening her with blackmail, following her home—or seeing her kiss a man who isn’t her husband. Everything could fall apart. No, something must be done . . .

A former intelligence officer in the army, Capt. Duncan Maclain lost his sight in World War I. Since then, he’s honed his other senses and become a successful private detective whose unique skills are sought after frequently. So it’s no surprise when he arrives in the Smoky Mountains with his new bride and the sheriff asks him for help investigating a suspicious car wreck. With evidence that points to foul play, the sheriff and Maclain know they’ve got a killer to catch—but she’s not going to go down without a fight . . .

“Ingenious.” —Kirkus Reviews

“The most completely evil and yet interesting woman you’ve read about in a long time . . . Superlative!” —Chicago Daily News 

Baynard Kendrick was the first American to enlist in the Canadian Army during World War I. While in London, he met a blind English soldier whose observational skills inspired the character of Capt. Duncan Maclain. Kendrick was also a founding member of the Mystery Writers of America and winner of the organization’s Grand Master Award.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504065610

Baynard Kendrick

Baynard Kendrick (1894–1977) was one of the founders of the Mystery Writers of America, later named a Grand Master by the organization. After returning from military service in World War I, Kendrick wrote for pulp magazines such as Black Mask and Dime Detective Magazine under various pseudonyms before creating the Duncan Maclain character for which he is now known. The blind detective appeared in twelve novels, several short stories, and three films. 

Book preview

Out of Control

A Duncan Maclain Mystery

Baynard Kendrick

Contents

I. Dead Ashes into Live Coals

II . Campaign for Killing

III . Two Deaths to Hide

IV . No Perfect Murder

V. Murder Needs a Motive

VI . A Stalking Killer

VII . Funeral Parlor Fracas

VIII . Double Zero

Chapter One

Dead Ashes into Live Coals

The perpetual purple mist from which the Great Smokies derive their name, circled the mountaintops and bunched together into a great gray storm cloud. It began to rain.

Marcia Fillmore cocked a weather-wise eye at the sky and urged her tired rental horse into a faster pace uphill on the road to Gatlinburg a short distance away. Beyond the edge of the storm cloud she could see a faint glint of late afternoon sun.

The Tennessee mountains in June were always producing quick spasmodic downpours which soaked one through and then laughingly passed on. The downpours ranged from drizzles to minor cloudbursts, and this one promised to fall in the latter category.

The first drops struck the road in a flurry, leaving spots the size of quarters—a sign that the deluge would dump itself out in a hurry. She decided to take shelter in the Black Pigeon instead of pushing on to the stables more than a mile away.

The Black Pigeon, a long one-story building, was quite near. It clung to the edge of the highway, precariously overhanging the rushing water of the Little Pigeon River far below. In addition to defacing the natural beauty of the mountain landscape, it had the added function of dispensing beer and what its proprietors optimistically called Tennessee country-cured ham.

The mountain road darkened quickly as the cloud moved closer. As Marcia guided her mount from the road to the gravel turning-space, lights in the Black Pigeon were turned on. The six front windows glowed yellowly, adding a touch of cheer.

Marcia dismounted quickly and tied her horse to a rail in the lee of the building. A truck was parked outside. She gave it a single quick glance and went on in.

A blond girl in a pink cotton dress was laughing with two men at the counter. The men turned and looked as Marcia entered. She felt their appraisal of the raindrops on her blue-black hair, the fullness of her breast under the brown sport shirt, and the trimness of her figure, well set off by jodhpurs and soft expensive boots.

The girl behind the counter said, Hello, Mrs. Fillmore. You’re up early this year.

The men turned away.

Too early, Elsie. It’s done nothing but rain.

She was sorry the men had turned and missed her smile. Her smile was always good, showing just enough of her sharp even teeth, and bringing out the dimple in her chin. Few men could resist that smile, and Marcia knew it.

Elsie asked, But you’re going to stay?

For a while, at any rate.

Is Mr. Fillmore with you? I heard he was away.

I’m expecting him shortly, Elsie. Marcia walked to a table. The girl had nerve inquiring about Dennis. Maybe the inquiry held more than idle curiosity. Anyone’s private affairs made quick news in the mountains. Marcia began to wonder if there had been talk about how much Dennis stayed away.

Can I get you something, Mrs. Fillmore?

Beer, if it’s cold.

Marcia pulled out a chair, stumbled noisily, and laughed. Damn these spurs. I’ve been riding for years and I still trip over them.

She sat down and crossed her legs to adjust one of the offending spurs. It was a pose that showed her off to best advantage. Without looking, she knew that the two men were watching her again.

She resented men who took one look at Marcia Fillmore and turned away.

A gust sent raindrops thrashing against the windows. Elsie brought a glass and a frosty open bottle, served her, and returned to the counter.

Under the silent service Marcia could detect a slight hostility. It produced a sense of comforting warmth, and relaxed her almost as much as the charm of a crackling fire. She was lacking a badly wanted drink of whisky, for Gatlinburg was dry, but Elsie’s resentment added the tang of a pepper dash to the beer.

Life was a battleground to Marcia. The prize of victory was masculine attention. She was a masterful general who raided without warning. It was true that Elsie could scarcely be classed as formidable, for while her vacuous face was pretty, she was dumb and her body was scrawny. Nevertheless, she had been there first, and that in itself was a challenge to Marcia. Victory in the minor skirmish had proved that in spite of windblown hair and riding-togs, the beautiful Mrs. Fillmore was still the winner.

A car pulled up outside, scattering gravel. Marcia gave the two men a three-quarter view of her classic profile and studiedly took another drink of her beer.

One of the men took a look at a wall clock and said to the other, We’d better be moving, Bud. It’s nearly six.

Coins rang on the counter. Keep your shirt on, Elsie.

Don’t be so fresh, you two.

Like mountain milk, eh, Elsie?

They clumped out, passing a man in the doorway.

The newcomer stepped aside, then closed the door behind him, shutting out the rain. He was short and thickset and his shoulders looked broad under a striped gray mohair suit spattered with raindrops. He took off an expensive panama and shook it free of a little water. At his temples his brownish hair was turning gray. Deceivingly frank blue eyes looked at Elsie, dismissed her, and turned to Marcia.

Walter Crane! She washed down the name with a swallow of beer. Her dark eyes were blank. I thought you were in California.

His round face beamed in a charming smile. Well, this is a break! Just imagine. I asked at your house in Knoxville and they told me you were up here. Now I stumble right on to you.

Yes, said Marcia, her red lips tight. "Lucky, isn’t it? What do you want?"

What do I want? He crossed to the table and pulled out a chair, his round face pained. In the words of the poet, Where thou goest, I comest, sweetheart. There’s something irresistible about you, Marcia. I hear you’re here and I hear you’re there, and after a while I get a yen to see you, and for all the tea in China I just can’t stay away. Touching, isn’t it? Drink? He turned and beckoned to Elsie. A couple of beers and a couple of glasses. Or you’d better make the glasses three. He took a pint of rye from his pocket and set it on the table.

Marcia said, Elsie won’t serve you if she sees that whisky. There’s nothing but beer in this part of Tennessee.

Crane ignored her. Elsie came with the beer and the glasses and started to speak.

Crane smiled and handed her a bill. Blondes look better in blue than pink, little girl. Keep the change and get yourself another dress. A present to you from me.

Elsie took the bill and departed, giggling gratefully.

Marcia’s legs felt cramped. You must have touched someone good, Walter.

I’m organizing a company. He poured whisky into two of the glasses, handed her one, and downed his drink, chasing it with beer.

Marcia sipped her own. It stung her tongue into rawness and seeped down her throat with burning drops. She swallowed the remainder in a single gulp and cooled the burn with a draught of beer. Not until the fire was assuaged, leaving her warm inside, did she realize that a chill had been quite near.

Far below, in back of the house, the Little Pigeon River roared its song. Marcia reached for the bottle and poured another drink. It burned its way into the first one and restored tranquillity.

You were always a crook, Walter, clever but cheap. What get-rich-quick scheme brought you to Gatlinburg?

Crane said, Oh dear. He leaned back in his chair and whistled a few bars of a popular song.

Marcia said, You’re barking up the wrong tree, Walter. If I had any money I wouldn’t put it into a company of yours.

"If you had any money!" He was smiling at her sport shirt where it opened in a V.

Well, I haven’t.

Crane said, Dear me, that’s very unfortunate. Dear me! You’re married to a wealthy man.

He poured three fingers of whisky into the glass, disposed of it, and smacked his lips. Marcia’s eyes watched the liquor go down. They were well-shaped eyes, wide-set, and brilliant now with a touch of malice.

He’s wealthy because he knows how to keep his money.

There are lots of rich people in Knoxville, said Crane. Even if you have no faith in my company, rather than pay out income tax some of them might be persuaded to invest their money. He disposed of another three fingers.

Marcia said, You drink too much.

There isn’t enough liquor to drink too much. Crane took a bedraggled folded-up newspaper clipping from his side coat pocket and spread it out on the table, weighting the top with a glass of beer.

Eddie Hassen killed in auto crash he read quite slowly. Colorful California figure plunges from mountain trail near Rancho Santa Fe Police claim faulty steering-gear.

Dead ashes, said Marcia.

Yes, Crane agreed. There’s nothing quite so dead as a three-year-old paper. He folded the clipping and put it away. You dropped out of sight nearly as fast as Eddie went over the mountain. Left without even saying good-by. I liked Eddie and I rather liked you. We used to have some good times kicking around together, we three.

I came east, Marcia said. What was wrong in that? I wanted to forget it all.

Certainly you did. Crane nodded solemnly. It must have been quite a shock considering how close you and Eddie Hassen were. You needed somebody to help you forget. So you came down to Knoxville and married Dennis Fillmore in less than sixty days.

Who told you that?

It’s on the records in Knoxville, said Crane. I didn’t find out what had happened to you for nearly a year. He shrugged his chunky shoulders. Well, I suppose his millions are good heart balm. I understand that he owns a lot of coal mines and some day hopes to be Governor of Tennessee. His blue eyes were benign. Where did you meet him, darling?

I met him at a party in Knoxville, said Marcia, a day or two after I landed here.

That’s a lie, said Crane. He called to Elsie, Bring us another cold bottle of beer. Do you want another?

No. Marcia pulled a brown silk handkerchief from her belt and wiped her forehead. The rain’s slacking up. I think I’ll go. I don’t feel like talking to you, Walter, and it’s hot in here.

Elsie put another bottle on the table and left.

Crane said, It will pay you to sit and listen while I drink my beer. They have a spot particularly reserved for your kind of women, Marcia, and it’s a hell of a sight hotter than in here. You met Dennis Fillmore in Eddie Hassen’s gambling-house in Palm Springs. That was two weeks before Eddie cracked up in his car.

I suppose that’s a crime. I don’t remember being married to Eddie Hassen.

No, I guess you don’t. Crane took a swallow of beer. Eddie had a wife tucked away some place, and you knew it. He had started divorce proceedings before he died. Two days before he went off the road, he took out a ten thousand dollar policy payable to you. You may not have been married to him, but you collected that all right. That was the stake that brought you to Knoxville.

God knows, I earned it, said Marcia. I put up with Eddie’s bad temper, and women chasing after him night and day. I waited on him hand and foot.

Yes, said Crane. And it must have been an effort with those diamond bracelets weighing down your wrists. It won’t wash, Marcia. Tell your sob story to somebody who didn’t know Eddie. He never looked at another woman after you came into the picture, and you know it. I heard a few things from Tyler, the bartender at Eddie’s Palm Springs house. Dennis Fillmore proposed to you there at the bar.

And I turned him down.

Well, temporarily anyhow, said Crane. It was a lucky break for you that Eddie died so quickly after that nice proposal.

For a second her face was unpleasant. There’s nothing decent in you, is there, Walter? Eddie crashed twenty miles from his home. He was alone in the car.

Dead ashes, said Crane. And three years later I get to thinking that maybe you told him about the rich Mr. Fillmore. Eddie was a sensitive guy. I got to thinking that maybe that night, driving alone in the rain in the mountains, he suddenly decided that he just didn’t give a damn, and headed the car for a place where the road went straight down.

He was drunk, said Marcia.

Crane nodded and tapped his pocket. Yes, that’s what it says in here. They found enough alcohol in him to pickle a couple of rubber boots.

Then what are you driving at? asked Marcia.

I was wondering, said Walter Crane, if I came a couple of thousand miles across country if the rich Mr. Dennis Fillmore would be interested in the fact that you lived for a couple of years with Eddie Hassen as his mistress. I was wondering if maybe you could tell me what was wrong with Eddie’s steering-gear.

The rain had slackened into a drizzle which would soon disappear. Crane paid the check and they stepped outside with Marcia clinging possessively to his arm. He held her horse while she mounted. Silence caught them and for a moment they stood staring up toward the mountains. Under the gray of the passing storm clouds, the trees had taken on a pink pastel from the rays of the setting sun.

Crane released the horse, got in his car, and leaned out the window. He was driving a DeSoto that looked fairly new. Did you say you were staying up here alone?

I don’t remember discussing it. Marcia’s horse wheeled restlessly, eager to be off home.

You’re a hospitable wench.

Marcia held her horse in check. Gatlinburg is full of hotels, tourist homes, and cabins. She gave the horse his head and he trotted out onto the highway.

A moment later, Crane overtook her, crowding her dangerously to the side of the road. I thought you might want a house guest, he yelled from the car.

Marcia remembered she was playing a game and forced herself to smile. Not this summer, Walter. You’d better try the Mountain View.

Where’s that?

First road on the left. You can’t miss it. I leave my horse there.

Maybe I can drive you home.

Not tonight. My car’s parked right in front of the hotel.

Fine, he called. I’ll be seeing you.

His tail lights bobbed off up the road and Marcia pulled her horse down into a walk, her hands firm against his urging She was startled at herself and wanted time to think.

Aside from being a suave promoter of dubious stocks and chimerical schemes for relieving the over-rich of surplus money, Walter Crane was a harmless enough fellow. Certainly he knew nothing which could do her any damage. She still had sense enough to analyze her own emotions and to realize that a panicky decision without foundation, and not Walter Crane, might be a real cause for alarm.

She began to laugh. The patient horse pricked up his ears and lengthened his stride. Marcia gave him his head, riding easily until he halted with a whinny at the side of the hostler in front of the Mountain View.

I’m sorry I’m late. Have I kept you from your dinner?

No’m, Mis’ Fillmore. Not a-tall. There are others still out, delayed by the rain like you.

The man helped her dismount and touched his hat at the feel of the half dollar Marcia pressed into his palm. I hope it didn’t catch you.

I stopped in the Black Pigeon.

Will you be riding again tomorrow?

If it’s a decent day.

I’ll hold Bobby for you.

Thanks.

She smiled and watched him give a slow grin in return. Usually he was very testy. She walked toward her car, feeling quite pleased at another evidence of what her beauty and charm could do.

It was nearly dark. Crane startled her as he got up from the running-board of her car.

How did you know this was mine?

The bellboy pointed it out. You wouldn’t invite me to dinner, so I thought I’d invite you.

Some other time, Walter. I’ve a lot of things to do.

Well, you can come up and have a drink and see my room. It has a lovely mountain view.

It’s too dark to see mountains, Walter. She got in and started her car.

Crane asked, Where’s your house?

She pointed up the Roaring Fork Road. You pass two side roads to the left, and it’s the first big white one on the right, set back with a gravel driveway. He could find out anyhow, for everyone knew.

Telephone?

Two-eight-J. The car turned.

I’ll call you.

She drove on without looking back. The road was paved but narrow, winding upward to make a curve around a sharp high promontory in an almost perfect U. Marcia kept close to the right, blowing her horn in warning before making the turn. Occasionally the natives, used to the narrow precarious road, came hurtling around the blind turn at dangerous speed. Tourists, unused to the mountain roads, were worse, staying too close to the middle. She had avoided smashups on that very turn half a dozen times merely by her own cautious driving.

It was funny how until Crane appeared she had almost forgotten Eddie Hassen. A cold wind struck at her as she came around the turn, carrying with it the noise of Roaring Fork Creek, below and to her left. It was no wonder she drove with caution. Eddie’s fatal crash was proof enough of what gasoline and alcohol could do.

Close to her own driveway, she pulled the car far to the side of the road and stopped without turning in. She had left the house deserted, but a light was on now in the living-room. She switched off the headlights, stopped the motor, and, walking quietly up the grassy edge of the driveway, halted before the curtained French doors and peered in. A man was sitting in her armchair reading a book. She retraced her steps down the driveway, started the car, and turned in.

When she left the car in the garage, he was leaning across the lower half of the door to greet her. He was tall and spare, and his saturnine face made a hawklike silhouette against the light behind him.

You have the gall of the devil, Bill Everly. You frightened me. How did you get in?

Through a window. He opened the lower half of the door. I’ve been waiting here two hours. Where the hell have you been?

Riding.

A light went on, on the screened porch of the Rion house a hundred yards away across the hedge. Marcia stepped inside quickly and closed the door behind her.

Everly looked at her briefly, then put his lean strong arms about her, pulled her close, and kissed her. She responded once before she pushed him away.

What’s the matter? His face was puzzled, his wide mouth hard.

People can see through the windows. Don’t be a fool, Bill. You know up here in the mountains nothing travels faster than a little innocent sin.

You’re expecting the genial Dennis, I suppose.

Any time, now. Marcia tossed her light riding-crop onto the small hall table.

Everly picked it up and followed her into the sitting-room, bending the crop slowly back and forth between his powerful hands, watching her while she toured the room pulling down shades.

You haven’t any sense, Bill.

Neither have you. He sat down on a black walnut mountain-made settin’-chair. Why didn’t you tell me you were here alone?

Because this isn’t the city—and Dennis is my husband. Marcia cupped her hands around a cigarette and turned to face him, leaning against a heavy antique table. You’re not very discreet, Bill.

Some day I’m going to beat hell out of you if you don’t let me forget it. The crop made a bow under his tightened fingers.

You’re divine when you get masculine. Marcia tried and failed to blow a perfect ring. I might enjoy it. When does the beating begin?

Never, I guess. He tossed the crop to the floor beside him. There’s something about you that arouses everything mean in me. I think you’re a bitch.

Probably. She crossed the room and gave him a long slow kiss, then straightened up and took a bunch of keys from her pocket. Selecting one, she handed it to him and said, You can mix Martinis. It’ll make you feel better. The gin’s in the cupboard. I’m going to shower and dress.

Are you inviting me for dinner?

Dinner? With my husband away? Marcia eyed him archly.

I certainly wouldn’t expect you to ask me, if he were here. His eyes were asking for something. Isn’t there anything soft in you, Marcia? Anything deep and real? Has it ever occurred to you I might love you and lie awake at night up in my cabin thinking about you, suffering physical torture to have you near me? Must you always play?

My marriage to Dennis is real, Bill. At that I don’t play.

No, I guess you don’t, he said bitterly. No penniless painter daubing at canvas will ever break up your romance with a few million dollars, darling. It wouldn’t pay.

A car pulled into the Rions’ driveway, and Marcia’s head went up, listening. Bill, you have to go. The Rions will see the light on here. They may come over any minute.

My work’s suffering, Marcia. I keep seeing your face in the trees and mountains. I can’t paint any more.

Bill, please go.

He came close and caught her in his arms again, kissing her on her face and neck and throat as she struggled. Quit him, Marcia. You don’t give a damn for Dennis. Quit him and let’s be happy.

She wrenched herself loose. Bill, they may be coming across the lawn. You can’t hear them.

What do we care?

Bill, some night I’ll come up to the cabin. Honestly. We’ll talk it over. I see what you mean, darling.

Is that a promise?

Yes, she said softly. A promise, Bill. Please go.

All right, I’ll hold you to it. He started for the front door.

No, she said quickly. Not there, Bill, please. Use the back way.

As soon as he had gone she switched off the lights in the hall and quickly pulled open the front door. She had heard a step on the gravel as she freed herself from Bill’s embrace. Now she was just in time to see a man’s chunky thickset figure leaving the lawn for the roadway. A moment later headlights went on, throwing a shaft of brightness down the road, and an automobile started for town.

She stood staring after the twin tail lights feeling terribly chagrined. She might have known that Crane would trail her and locate her house. There was every chance that he had seen Bill Everly kiss her.

It wouldn’t do at all. Dennis was infatuated, proud of her, and a well-trained worshiper at the Marcia shrine. But he wasn’t a fool. Underneath his placid affection was a streak of determination as hard as a vein of slate in one of his coal mines. There were moments when he seemed to be laughing at her quietly, as though her quick whims were traits to be expected in an unstable child.

His silent laughter always left her feeling most unsure. All her life she had done what she wanted to do, but it might not be wise to let Dennis Fillmore know. Men such as Dennis had strange ideas about the sanctity of the home. They liked to be jealous, but they didn’t want cause.

Marcia’s lips set into a narrow straight line and for an instant she wasn’t pretty. Something definitely had to be done about Walter Crane.

Inside again, Marcia stood for a minute, then went quietly to the kitchen and locked the back door. She saw to the front one too, shooting home the big old-fashioned wrought-iron bolt, on her way back to the bedroom.

She was mad at Everly and annoyed with herself for underrating his crazy artistic whims. He had the effrontery to gibe at her about playing, when he didn’t know the meaning of the word.

In a year he had become irritatingly persistent, as though a few warm kisses were some invisible bond cementing forever a casual bit of fun that had started in Gatlinburg the year before. He had had sense enough during the winter in Knoxville to see things in their true perspective, or at least act as though he saw them that way. Now she was scarcely back in Gatlinburg for the summer when he started pursuing her again.

She was a mite afraid of Bill Everly. She picked up the riding-crop he had dropped on the floor and put it on the table. He hadn’t been fooling when he arched that crop between his hands. Maybe that was what attracted her. There was something primitive about his gaunt strong frame, something brutal about the way he kissed her. She picked up the crop and lashed herself lightly across the hip. It stung and cut through the molded cloth of the jodhpurs, and Marcia winced. The idea was rather stimulating in her imagination, but she wanted no more than that. She had never been able to stand any physical pain.

The telephone rang. She restored the crop to the table and stood indecisive while the bell trilled three times more. Finally she answered it.

It was Dennis phoning from Sevierville, thirteen miles away. Have you had your dinner?

His tone filled her with elation. The longing for her was still there, as firm and as strong as it had been the very first day.

She could see him as clearly as if every line of his smooth impassive face were less than a foot away. His jet-black hair was trimmed and combed. His sport clothes were casual, studiedly casual. His wide-set, deep brown eyes were laughingly warm with anticipation.

Dennis, darling! Her voice went up and down, skillfully smearing the phone with honey. I didn’t know you were coming home today.

I’m full of surprises. Miss me?

Of course, silly.

I thought if you hadn’t had dinner, we’d eat someplace in Gatlinburg. My car’s in the garage for a day or two. I’m driving out with Connie Woodruff. She picked me up in Knoxville. We’ll be there in about forty-five minutes, if you can wait that long.

That was sweet of her, said Marcia. She’ll have dinner with us, won’t she? I love to hear her talk about mountain furniture.

What’s the matter?

Nothing, darling. Hurry. It had been careless to make that crack about the furniture, and sound querulous over the phone.

I’ll hurry. My time’s up on this call.

Marcia replaced the receiver very slowly. So it was Connie now. First it had been Miss Woodruff who had gotten a sizable check