BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

      All the Colors of Darkness (Jan Darzek)

      The Chronicide Mission

      The Fury Out of Time

      A Galaxy of Strangers

      The Light That Never Was

      Monument

      Murder Applied For: A Classic Crime Mystery (with Kenneth Lloyd Biggle)

      Murder Jambalaya: A J. Pletcher & Raina Lambert Mystery

      The Rule of the Door and Other Fanciful Regulations

      Silence Is Deadly (Jan Darzek)

      The Still, Small Voice of Trumpets (Cultural Survey)

      This Darkening Universe (Jan Darzek)

      Watchers of the Dark (Jan Darzek)

      The Whirligig of Time (Jan Darzek)

      The World Menders (Cultural Survey)

      The World That Death Made: A Science Fiction Novel (with Kenneth Lloyd Biggle)

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2013 by Kenneth Lloyd Biggle and Donna Biggle Emerson

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      With Special Thanks to Donna Biggle Emerson, My Sister and Editor

      INTRODUCTION

      My father, Lloyd Biggle, Jr., died in 2002 after a long battle with leukemia.

      He left behind a legacy in the written word of science fiction, and mystery novels, short stories, and novellas. He also left behind about every letter, note, story idea, and outline that he ever possessed, a lot of it very neatly cataloged, stored and boxed, and some just…well…boxed.

      It is now the year 2013. My sister and I are still making our way through this lifetime of material.

      This story, found in one of the manuscript boxes has a date of: “8/30/64.” The manuscript had revision pages that were not added to the original manuscript. This makes me believe that the final form was never submitted to a publisher. I have added them where possible to make the final version complete.

      Murder Applied For is unusual as it involves an insurance investigator, and a lot of insurance practices that were probably the norm in the early 1960s. My father was an insurance agent before and into the beginning of his writing career, giving him this knowledge base.

      This is an early Biggle story, and reflects his developing style of writing, which did change throughout his lifetime.

      I hope that you find this story and character concept to be enjoyable.

      —Kenneth Lloyd Biggle

      CHAPTER ONE

      The patrol car swerved, came to a halt, and Ron Webber opened his eyes and looked about dazedly. He hadn’t thought to ask where they were going, and now he found himself blinking in surprise at the arrow and the flickering neon words: “Ambulance Entrance.”

      He said, “Where are we?”

      “Municipal Hospital,” the young officer said.

      Webber nodded, opened a rear door, and climbed out. It had to be a hospital, he supposed. Either that, or a funeral parlor, because Carter City didn’t have a morgue. There was even a highly unfunny comic song about that:

      “It has doctors by the dozens, it has chiropractors, too

      And hospitals and pharmacies and nursing homes galore;

      You can get your body sutured, any hour, day or night

      But you can’t die, ’cause it hasn’t got a morgue.”

      Webber took two steps, turned, and waited numbly. The two officers were talking in guarded tones, and their sudden laughter jolted him. He scowled resentfully, thrust his hands into his pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels, shivering in the warm, humid night air.

      The young officer got out, carelessly slammed both doors, and moved on ahead of him. He turned, holding the door open for Webber, and Webber set his feet in motion and entered the air conditioned corridor of the hospital.

      The officer caught up with him, and their footsteps clicked in a confused pattern on the tiled floor. He touched Webber’s arm, opened a door, and a white-coated attendant stepped forward to meet them.

      “Sure was a hot day,” the officer said. “It almost feels cold in here.”

      Webber made no response. He wanted no casual conversation in that chill, sterile room. He wanted only to do his duty and depart. In the presence of the crushed body of a friend, the death-room was a suffocating place.

      The ceremony was brief—a gesture, a mechanical gesture to the letter of the law. The sheet was raised, and Webber glanced and nodded. “It’s him. It’s Frank Milford.”

      The officer shrugged. “Tough,” he said.

      Webber thought bitterly, “It’s all in a day’s work for him.” And then, because he knew that was the way it had to be, he wondered why he was bitter.

      The officer paused for a whispered conversation with an attendant, and Webber turned away. He needed some time to himself, some time to think. There would be relatives to notify, if Frank had any. He couldn’t recall. There would be funeral arrangements to make, and Frank’s personal effects to look after, and probably other things. And there was Gloria. Someone—anyone, so long as it was not Ron Webber—would have to tell Gloria.

      He moved out into the corridor, walking quickly.

      He heard a shuffle of footsteps as the officer hurried to catch up with him. Just then the outside door banged, and the second officer strode toward them. He muttered something into the ear of Webber’s escort. The escort nodded, and turned politely to Webber.

      “If you don’t mind, Mr. Webber, we’d like to have you.…”

      Back up the corridor they went and this time it was a girl. Webber looked quickly and turned away, carrying with him a grim impression of blonde hair and a small, serious face. The eyes would be blue, he thought, and she wouldn’t be beautiful, but she’d be nice-looking and probably have the kind of figure that gets spontaneous whistles on street corners. He wondered if some young man would be heart-broken about this.

      “No,” he said. “I don’t recognize her.”

      Again they walked way. The officer got in step with Webber, and their footsteps clicked rhythmically. Webber glanced sideways at him.

      “Was it the same accident? Was she with Frank?”

      “It was a different accident.”

      His bland expression told Webber nothing. Webber shrugged, and kept to himself the moral outrage he felt at the calloused manner in which the police exhibited dead bodies.

      They stepped through the door, and the faintly-stirring, warm night air instantly engulfed them. From the main thoroughfare at the end of the ambulance drive came sputtering traffic noises and the flash of neon signs. Webber shook his head confusedly. What had he been thinking about? Relatives, if any. And funeral arrangements. And he’d have to track down things like bank accounts and bonds and insurance policies. And someone would have to tell Gloria.

      The officer opened the rear door for him.

      “Many thanks,” Webber said. “But I can find my way home all right. I’d just as soon be alone, if you don’t mind.”

      The officer nodded. If an expressionless face could possibly be called sympathetic, his was. “The Old Man wants to talk to you,” he said.

      “Sure. First thing in the