by Jerry eBooks
The trip took almost an hour and Jason didn’t hurry. Drunks were bad fares at the most, but when they had to be carried into their homes, it was far worse. Sometimes a slow ride sobered them up.
The night also had brought back to Jason vivid memories. He remembered the prize ring, the cheers of the crowds and the slash of an opponent’s glove. The muffled stranger made him think of that. Franconi brought back memories of his two years as a patrolman and one more as a detective until that fatal night when he had smashed Lieutenant Birkett’s ruby-colored nose because of a difference of opinion.
Jason laughed softly, hunched closer over the wheel and began to spot the house numbers along Whately Avenue. Eleven sixty-four had been the order. Jason saw it suddenly and his jaw dropped. There were two green lights framing the number. Jason’s destination was the Fifth Precinct police station.
“A swell trick,” Jason snorted. “Just like that rat Franconi to send one of his plastered pals to a precinct station. Now I’ll have to see if I can wake him up enough to talk. Something tells me I’m going to earn my ten-buck tip.”
He pulled to the curb in front of the police station, got out and opened the door of the cab.
“Hey, mister,” he called softly. “Mister, where do you live?”
Jason received no answer. He stepped inside the cab and shook the man roughly. Then Jason’s eyes widened in horror. Across the white shirt front of his passenger was a crimson stain and on the floor of the cab a pool of blood had already formed.
His passenger was dead. Stabbed through the heart.
“What’s the matter here?” An all too familiar voice grated on Jason’s nerves. He turned quickly and looked into the broad countenance of Lieutenant Birkett.
Birkett recognized Jason instantly. “So it’s you, McGee. And I’m betting my right arm you’re rolling your fare. He looks drunk. Who is he?”
“He’s nobody now, you beefy-faced baboon,” Jason snapped. “I picked him up at the Four Leaf Clover Club. Right now he’s dead—stabbed or shot through the heart.”
“The hell you say,” Birkett ejaculated. He took a flashlight from his pocket and sprayed the dead man with, light. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “That’s Nichols, reporter for the News. And he’s dead in your cab, huh? Okay, McGee. You’re pinched. I always had a notion you’d be mixed up in something like this sooner or later.”
Birkett’s big hand gripped Jason’s collar and yanked him from the cab. Jason knocked away the heavy fist and looked up at the bigger man.
“A jackass has more brains in one ear than you got between both of yours,” he snapped. “What kind of a sap do you take me for? Do you think I bumped a guy—or helped kill him—and then drove him to a police station? Use your head, Birkett. It’s meant for more than to keep your hat on.”
“Yah!” Birkett scowled. “I said you’re pinched. Make a break for it and I’ll plant lead in your back. Get movin’, you hack driver, before I start shovin’ you. You bumped Nichols because he gave you a ride when I had you busted and dropped from the force. I’ll bet you were gonna tackle me next.”
“You listen to me,” Jason implored as his temper began to mount. “I’ll give you the low down on this, but if I’m jugged, I’ll lose my job and I need it. I picked up this guy at the Four Leaf Clover—just like I told you. He was plastered drunk when he got in the cab—anyway he looked like he was.”
“Sure,” Birkett said derisively. “And I’ll bet there ain’t a penny in his jeans either. Stick ’em up, McGee. I’m gonna frisk you. If you got more than ten bucks—”
Jason’s fingers were curling into fists of steel. He had fiery red hair and his temper matched it. He gave Birkett one more chance.
“Use some sense,” he told him. “I picked that guy up just like I told you. Two men lugged him out of the club and put him in the cab. One of the guys was Franconi. They went back into the club. Send a radio car up there. Maybe he’s still around and for the lovamike get the coroner and a morgue wagon. This dead guy is messing up the whole seat and I’ll have to clean it up.”
Birkett took a firmer grip on Jason’s arm. “You’re coming into the office with me,” he rasped. “I’ll send up to the club and prove what a liar you are.”
Jason shrugged. After all, he was a material witness and Birkett had a right to hold him temporarily. To resist would only create more trouble. Jason walked into Birkett’s small office at the rear of the station house and dropped into a chair. Birkett put an order over the wire and radio cars were dispatched to the Four Leaf Clover. Birkett curled his lip as he faced Jason again. “You can open up with the truth, McGee,” he said. ‘I’ll do what I can for you. You were a cop—once.”
“Yeah,” Jason snapped, “and I’m a better cop right now than you’ll ever be, even if I don’t wear a badge. You know why I took the rap and why I popped you on the button. Try making me confess like you did to that poor devil a year ago and I’ll pop you again. Now shut up. You’ve got nothing on me. I’ve told my story and it’s the truth.”
Birkett started to say something, but thought better of it. His eyes had dropped to Jason’s lap and watched the fists that rested there. Birkett had tasted that swift right once. He had no desire to sample it again.
Ten minutes went by. The phone on Birkett’s desk buzzed. Jason watched the detective lieutenant narrowly.
“Yeah, this is Birkett. What did you find? Huh? Franconi bumped? Yeah—uh huh—I get it. Well, you don’t have to look any further. A real dick is workin’ on this case. I got the bird that done it without even movin’ out of my office. Report back after the coroner gets there.”
A triumphant leer crossed his face when he turned to face Jason again.
“So Franconi helped to lug the dead guy out, huh? And another man you didn’t recognize, helped him. A swell story, McGee, but it won’t stick. The radio cars found Franconi all right. He was dead—shot through the head. The gun was in his hand to make it look like suicide. But you’re not smart enough. You killed both of them. You bumped Nichols because you saw a chance to roll him and at the same time get revenge on him for smearing your mug all over his paper, when I had you on the carpet. You killed Franconi so you could throw the blame on him for this job. But it’s no soap, wise guy. This time you’re licked and it’s the chair for you.”
Jason sighed heavily. Birkett was assuming too much. There was no case against him and Jason knew it. Birkett was only trying to make things tough.
“I’m through talking to you,” Jason told him. “You can call in the D.A. He’ll have sense enough to know I’m telling the truth.”
“So Franconi and Mister Mystery told you to take this guy to a precinct station, huh?” Birkett leered. “They bump a guy and have you drive the body right here, nice and handy for the cops. A nice yarn. By the way, what happened to your hack badge? It ain’t on your coat.”
Jason glanced down. Birkett was right. The metal license badge was missing. Probably, he reasoned, he had lost it when he changed the tire.
“I lost it,” he told Birkett.
“What’s the number on it?” Birkett demanded.
Jason frowned. There was something behind Birkett’s attitude. He seemed bubbling over with confidence.
“Nine-seven-two-o-three,” he replied. “Why?”
“Because, you lousy killer, Franconi had that badge gripped in his fist when the radio patrol found him. You tried to make it look like Franconi killed Nichols and then committed suicide. Talk that off, wise guy.”
Jason McGee didn’t try to talk it off. A snap decision formed in his mind. So far Birkett had sewed him up. A dumb jury might believe the evidence. The stranger who had given Jason the ten-dollar tip was the only solution and Birkett wouldn’t even look for him—not when he had a suitable candidate for the chair already. Jason lunged out of his seat, both fists flying. His right smashed Birkett full on the mouth and silenced the yell that welled from his throat. His left hammered a hard stomach blow and his right cr
ashed squarely against the protruding chin of the wobbly detective. Birkett went down like an ox.
Jason listened a moment and a slow smile crept over his face. He was living again. Excitement and danger were vital to Jason McGee. No one had heard the fight. He buttoned his coat, pursed his lips and whistled a merry tune as he walked blithely out of the precinct station, waving a greeting to the desk sergeant whom he knew well. On the street Jason paused. His own cab was at the curb, but police were clustered around it waiting for the coroner. Jason darted down the alley beside the precinct station and broke into a light run. As he passed by the window of Birkett’s office he heard an irate roar from the detective. Every cop in town would be on the lookout for him in two minutes. Jason began to feel the might of the law. For the first time in his life, he knew exactly how a fugitive felt.
He came out on the avenue parallel to the one that was now swarming with police. An owl cab stood at the curb. Jason got in.
“Listen, buddy,” he explained, “my bus is way uptown. Take me up, will you?”
He showed the edge of the five dollar bill the murderer had slipped him. The driver nodded and the cab rolled away. Jason crouched low in it, ready to jump at a sign of the first blue uniform.
The cab rolled along smoothly for a dozen blocks, turned east and passed a subway station. Jason left the five dollar bill on the seat, opened the cab door softly and clung to the running board while he closed it again.
No one was in sight. Jason dropped from the cab, dashed madly across the dangerous cleared space of sidewalk and vanished down the subway steps. A train came in, he boarded it and rode downtown again. He got out at a station half a block from his boarding house. Now he used every ounce of skill he possessed.
Birkett would quickly ascertain the address of his rooming house and have men guard it. Jason wanted a change of clothing with which to disguise himself. His cab driver’s uniform was a dead give-away.
Two men lurked in the shadows of the front hallway. Jason ran down a side street, cut through a yard and came out in the alley behind his rooming house. He slipped into the cellar, climbed the stairs until he reached the kitchen of the first floor. He sneaked through this, crept up two flights of stairs without making a sound and reached his room. He listened carefully. No one was inside. Evidently Birkett’s detectives figured they could spot him from the front door easily enough.
Inside his room Jason worked without turning on a light. The whole place had been carelessly searched. Jason removed his uniform, climbed into a neat blue suit and pulled a cap far down over his flaming locks. He stuffed his uniform into a suitcase and threw it under the bed. As he headed for the front door, he heard heavy footsteps. The detectives were coming up to his room.
He went to the window and peered out. A story and a half below there was a shed with a flat roof. The intervening space wasn’t too great. He opened the window, crouched a moment and leaped. He hit the roof, rolled over once and was up instantly as a gun cracked and lead smacked into the roof near his feet. He slid off the further edge, hung a second by his finger-tips and dropped. He was away like a flash, the night swallowing him up completely.
Downtown movie theatres concealed him from the daylight and the detectives who would be roaming about looking for him. It wasn’t until almost midnight that Jason McGee ventured to the largest of the night clubs that had been owned by Franconi.
Jason’s brain hadn’t been idle and something more than a hunch was firmly implanted on his mind and his career—even his life depended on himself alone.
The night club was going full blast. McGee walked around to the side door, stepped in and found himself standing at the end of a long mahogany bar.
“Scotch,” he told the bartender and while he waited for his drink, he looked the place over carefully. It was unusually crowded and hard-faced crooks pressed close to the bar. There was some kind of celebration going on and Jason McGee had a good idea as to the basic cause of this.
He knew he couldn’t pick out the man who had hired him to transport the body of Nichols, the reporter, to a police precinct. The killer had been far too careful for that. And McGee knew also that he, himself, might be recognized by the killer although the change of clothing did make McGee look far different than a taxi cab driver.
His plans were well developed. McGee sidled out of the side entrance, saw a uniformed patrolman at a call box on the corner and walked toward him. The cop glanced in his direction, but as McGee passed beneath a street lamp, the officer drew himself up stiffly. McGee whirled and ran down the street. As he turned into the night club again, he saw the patrolman phone headquarters.
Back at the bar McGee sipped his drink a moment before he motioned the bartender closer.
“Who’s the boss of this joint?” he asked the bartender. “I’m looking for a guy named Franconi.”
“Then you got a trip to hell ahead of you, mister,” the bartender replied with a grin.
“Franconi is croaked. Somebody bumped him early this morning.”
“Yeah?” Jason betrayed interest. “Then who takes his place? I’m from outa town and I gotta see the big shot.”
“Better not ask too many questions,” the bartender warned ominously. “Franconi’s dead and there ain’t many guys who are sorry. I don’t know who is taking over the mob or this club, but if you were a friend of Franconi’s, I’d beat it if I were you.”
“I was a friend of Franconi’s,” Jason said in a loud voice. “He was put away because somebody wanted to take over his rule. Who is the guy who took his place.”
The bartender paled a little and walked hurriedly to the further end of the bar. Jason saw two men with hard, expressionless faces striding toward him. One had his right hand plunged deep in his coat pocket. The other was carefully massaging his right fist. The little smile that spelled danger for those who knew, was stealing over McGee’s face.
The armed man stepped very close to Jason and his voice was only a barely discernible whisper.
“You talk too much, buddy,” he snarled. “Get out!”
“Take your hand out of your pocket and make me.” Jason grinned.
Things were going to suit his fancy.
This armed man might be the mysterious killer. But an instant later, Jason knew he wasn’t. Both thugs suddenly hurled themselves upon him, fists flying and sadistic smiles on their faces. Jason wiped them off so fast that neither man knew what had happened for many minutes. Jason ducked with the speed of light. His right fist lashed out, connected in a haymaker and sent the armed crook toppling to the floor. The second man cursed and charged. His wild blows met only air, but his face met a fist that cracked it scientifically. His head was jolted back and his chin raised to present a perfect target. Jason let him have it and he didn’t pull his punch.
“Anybody else?” Jason faced the astounded crowd.
There was a soft step behind Jason. A gun jabbed hard into the small of his back and a terse command was snarled in his ear.
“Lift ’em and walk toward the door to the right of the bar. Make one phony play and I’ll let you digest lead without swallowing it. Move!”
Jason raised his arms shoulder high. He went to the door, opened it and stepped into a well lighted hallway. Two other men were waiting. He was quickly searched and his arms firmly pinioned by his guards. Without further word he was hustled down a flight of steps into a cellar. A door opened and Jason stepped into what had been the hidden, elaborate quarters of Franconi.
There was a burly man seated behind the dead crook’s desk. Jason knew him for Nick Havek, an underling of the dead gang leader.
“So you’re a pal of Franconi’s, huh?” he sneered “Well we don’t like any of Franconi’s crowd that refuses to join us. What’s your game and where are you from?”
“None of your damned business,” Jason retorted. “I’m looking for the mug who took over Franconi’s rackets. I’ll talk to him and nobody else.”
“Then talk,” came the order. “I’
m headin’ this outfit now. Either you dish out a damned good story or it’s the wall in the cellar for you. The boys need target practice anyhow.”
Jason groaned inwardly. This hulk of a man couldn’t have been the muffled stranger. He didn’t have the slim, wiry build nor the venomous voice of the killer. If this was the man who had replaced Franconi, Jason was on the wrong lead and his plans were dashed to earth. He let his gaze wander over the other men in the room. Two of them, he decided mentally, could be the killer. Jason resolved to put a supreme test into action.
He turned suddenly and smashed a blow to the face of his guard. The man had grown negligent. His gun was loosely held and he had no chance to use it before Jason acted.
The other thugs drew swiftly. Four guns menaced Jason and he stared death directly in the face. Jason could feel tiny beads of perspiration forming like dew on his forehead. He had one more card to play.
“You guys are rats,” he accused. “As long as you have guns, you’re not afraid of anything. But take ’em away and what have you got? A bunch of sniveling cowards. Not one of you birds could stand up in a real fight.”
A slender, sneering thug who stood beside the leader dropped his gun to the desk top and an amused light came into his cold, slitted eyes. Jason held his breath.
“You little sawed-off runt,” this man said, “I’m going to smash your face to a pulp. I’ve seen you some place before, but when I finish, nobody will recognize you again.”
“Haw, haw!” Havek laughed. “Sock him, Bowen. Knock his head from between his ears and—”
“Shut up!” Bowen whirled on the leader. “I’m handling this party. I thought all of Franconi’s pals were checked on. How did this bird ever get in here and how come the boys haven’t taken care of him?”
“Gosh, boss—”
Bowen slapped the pudgy-faced man across the mouth and cursed a command for silence. He was half mad with rage when he came for Jason. He feinted with his right and Jason ducked neatly. Again Bowen swung and missed. He raised his fist and brought it down in a blow calculated to smash Jason’s face to a pulp.