by Jerry eBooks
Jason grinned happily. This was the overhand blow the killer had tried to use. This man, then, was the one who had murdered Nichols, the reporter, and later on killed Franconi. He was also the real leader of Franconi’s old crowd and the man behind the desk was but a figurehead. Jason clamped his jaw down tight. He was in a tough spot. If he succeeded in downing this murderer, there were three other armed men who could shoot him instantly.
He dodged another savage assault, stepped close and began to use his fists. The killer snorted in rage as two painful blows struck him in the face. He got in a telling punch that rocked Jason and sent his senses spinning. The killer tried to follow up his advantage and ran full tilt into a roundhouse punch that sent him careening back against the wall. With a curse he whipped out a slender knife. Jason’s eyes widened. This might be the knife that killed Nichols.
Bowen brought it down in a wide arc and the keen blade ripped through cloth to carve a nasty wound on Jason’s left shoulder.
“You’re a coward,” Jason grated. “When you can’t connect with that raking punch, you use a knife. That’s okay with me. Now I can really smack you.”
Bowen tried to raise the knife again, but Jason was fighting bitterly now with all the accumulated skill of five years in the ring. His fists flashed dizzily and almost every time connected. Not knockout blows, but painful, body-racking punches. Bowen’s face was smeared with blood, but he fought on, seeking to use the deadly knife.
The other crooks held their fire, but guns were ready for the moment when Jason would be fully exposed without endangering Bowen. Jason knew that and despite the menace of the knife, he stayed in close. He was battling for time now, trying to listen above shouts and curses of Bowen and his men.
Faintly he heard the wail of a siren. A minute later he detected scores of heavy feet tramping the floor above. Jason took his life in his hands for one fleeting instant. He turned suddenly and lunged for one of the armed thugs. He closed with him, his right hand forcing the gunman’s finger against the trigger of the automatic he held. There was a roar as the gun exploded.
Jason gave the man a rap on the chin, flooring him. Bowen was circling Jason, the knife upraised and a murderous leer across his face. The blade came down, swishing through the air. Jason crouched. He launched his entire body at the killer and all his strength was behind the blow he administered. Bowen’s head snapped back and there was a crunching of bone and muscle. His eyes glazed and he slumped weakly to the floor.
Havek, the pudgy man behind the desk, fired a shot. It caught Jason in his already wounded shoulder. Without a word Jason leaped over the desk and threw himself upon the cowardly crook. Both men went down in a heap of tangled arms and legs. Jason hammered punishing blows to Havek’s midriff, eliciting groans of agony.
“Don’t,” Havek yelled. “Don’t! I ain’t got a grudge against you. It’s Bowen that bumped Franconi—not me!”
Someone crashed through the door behind Jason. A heavy hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet. Lieutenant Birkett grunted in satisfaction.
“So we finally got you, huh? Stick out your mitts, McGee. It’s the bracelets for you now.”
“Wait a minute,” Jason was gasping for breath. “Talk to Havek. He knows who killed Franconi and why. Speak up, Havek—or shall I persuade you a little?”
Jason waved his fist in front of the coward’s nose. Havek shuddered and slumped back in his chair.
“Bowen killed him,” he admitted. “He wanted to take over Franconi’s bunch, but he was gonna be in the background. I was gonna be the face, but I didn’t have anythin’ to do with it. Honest I didn’t—”
Havek suddenly gasped in terror. Bowen was conscious and he gripped a small automatic in his fist. It spoke flatly and Havek’s body lurched back as the slug caught him between the eyes.
Jason leaped. He knocked aside the spitting gun, sat astride Bowen and carefully gauged the final blow. It started somewhere near Bowen’s ankles and ended against his jaw. Bowen shuddered and went limp.
“What’s this all about?” Birkett cried. He turned to his men. “Cuff that guy on the floor. We got him for bumping Havek, anyway. And you, McGee, are still under arrest. Maybe Bowen killed Franconi, but how do we know he bumped Nichols, the reporter?”
“Because nobody else could have done it. Nichols was killed partly as an excuse to make it seem as though Franconi killed himself. Maybe Nichols knew something and Bowen didn’t dare let him live. Anyway Bowen and Franconi got Nichols drunk. They hired my cab to take him downtown. Franconi had his own ideas about Bowen. He didn’t trust him. That’s why he picked that hack license off my coat. He knew that if he was killed, I might recognize Bowen. Well, I wouldn’t have been able to do that.”
“How come you’re so sure of all this?” Birkett demanded, but there was less belligerency in his voice.
“Because Franconi certainly didn’t know Nichols was to be killed. He didn’t care if I recognized him. But Bowen wanted to be sure I knew Franconi so he even called him by name and to top it off, he had me drive the body to a police precinct station. Then he killed Franconi and tried to make the job look like suicide, only Franconi still held my hack license in his hand.”
Birkett rubbed his nose roughly. His face was a dull crimson. McGee’s reasoning was perfect and was backed up by every detail of the case.
“Bowen used a peculiar punch on me up at the Four Leaf Clover,” Jason went on. “That’s how I spotted him tonight. I knew Franconi was killed so his rackets could be taken over and I knew that this joint right here would be headquarters for the new mob so I came down. I let one of your cops spot me so he’d call you and have a squad sent—just in case there were more guys than I could handle. There’s a knife near Bowen, too. I’ll bet my Sunday hat it is the one that killed Nichols.”
“All right,” Birkett said slowly. “You can go, McGee, but next time something like this happens, keep your nose out of it. Come to me. I’m paid to do this kind of work. You’re no cop—and don’t forget it.”
Jason grinned. “How could I—when I think of you? But when you pull boners, I can’t help butting in. The old job, you know. Any time you need a man with brains, you’ll find me in my cab. So long.”
DICKS DIE HARD
Theodore Tinsley
Martin Clyde, headquarters detective, would walk barefoot through hell to prove that—
A GANG of workmen were repairing the street paving and the clatter of their pneumatic drills against the asphalt was a hammering snarl that matched the grim rage in the heart of Detective Martin Clyde. Just ahead was the doorway of the dingy tenement where Mopsy Dolan had his hangout. Martin had made up his mind to stride in there and shake Mopsy’s teeth loose. It was the only way to make him lay off young Sam.
Mopsy was a vicious crook who lived well at the expense of timorous merchants who paid monthly tribute. If they didn’t pay, an “Italian grapefruit” might be tossed through their plate-glass—or worse. The worried detective knew that his brother was playing around with Mopsy. He had begged Sam earnestly to cut loose, but had been told angrily by the kid to mind his own business.
He had said no more to Sam. But he sent a grim warning to the gangster: “Keep your dirty paws off my brother, or I’ll bust your head open.”
Mopsy’s answer was an invitation, to go to hell. Marty Clyde hesitated in front of the tenement. The noise of the pneumatic drills made his worried head ache. The threats he had made against Mopsy were common knowledge in police headquarters. He’d been urged to get the goods on Mopsy’s racket so they could haul him in.
A figure came hurrying suddenly from the dim doorway, bumped into the detective, recoiled with a gasp. Martin’s face paled as he recognized his younger brother. Breathing heavily, his clothes rumpled, Sam looked the picture of frightened dismay.
“Oh—er—hello.”
“Hello, Sam. Been talking with Mopsy Dolan again, huh?”
“Who, me? You’re crazy. I—I haven’t se
en him in days.”
“What happened to the button on your coat?” Sam’s shifty eyes flicked toward the missing button. “The—the tailor musta ripped it off. I sent the suit to be dry-cleaned the other day.”
“Yeah?” Martin eyed the suit grimly. It was rumpled, wrinkled, dusty, unpressed. “Listen, kid—”
Sam jerked away suddenly. “See you later, Martin. I—I gotta be going.” He disappeared down the street.
With an angry spark in his dark eyes, Martin strode into the tenement.
He expected to find Mopsy’s hangout on the ground floor—but he didn’t expect to find the door ajar. He pushed it wider and peered inside. He couldn’t see anyone, but there was a faintly familiar reek in the air that sent him questing toward an inner room like a hound on the scent. The automatic lock clicked as he slammed the door shut.
Mopsy was on the floor, face upward, a bullet-hole in his chest. Dead as a smoked herring. The wide-open eyes were blankly dull; the gun in the loosely extended hand looked very quiet.
A SUDDEN icy terror coursed through his blood. Sam! He bent swiftly and pried open the clenched left hand of the gangster. His breath hissed as he saw the pearl-gray glint of a coat button. It had happened—the thing he had dreaded for weeks—Sam was a murderer.
A sudden pounding at the front door made the quiet apartment rumble with sinister echoes.
“Open up! Open up for the police, or I’ll bust the door down!”
Martin knew the voice with a sick dismay. Tierney—the cop on the beat. He acted instinctively, shoved the damning gray coat button into his pocket. With noiseless stealth he ran to a rear room, opened a closet, closed the door, fired a bullet from his service gun into the floor. Grimly he blessed the stuttering clamor of the pneumatic drills on the asphalt outside. They filled the dusk with a snarl like machine-guns; they camouflaged the muffled roar of his shot.
Patrolman Tierney looked puzzled when he entered. Suspicions grew in his blue eyes as Martin Clyde told his story. Self-defense. A well-known crook trailed to his hideout for questioning, a sudden treacherous attack—a deadly killer wiped out in line of duty.
Tierney loosened the gun from Mopsy’s limp hand. “That’s funny. You say he fired at you? This gun ain’t been used.”
“I—I meant he tried to use it. I—I beat him to the draw.” Martin’s voice steadied suddenly. “Take charge here, will you? I’m going down to headquarters and report.”
“This is serious. I understand you and Mopsy weren’t exactly pals.” Tierney’s eyes bored briefly into the detective’s.
“How did you know about this—mess?” Martin asked slowly.
“I got a call at the police box. Somebody tipped headquarters that Mopsy had an argument and got bumped.”
“Yeah? I wonder who phoned? Well, see you later.”
Tierney made no effort to detain him. He caught a trolley and rode to headquarters, a sick horror at his heart. No one but Sam could have tipped the police. Sam knew that the minute the button was found he was doomed. But he knew, also, Martin’s fierce love for him, knew that the button would be instantly pocketed and covered up. Sam—his own brother had done this!
The inspector listened to Martin Clyde’s explanation with a flinty face. “Self-defense, eh? Patrolman Tierney phoned in his report a few minutes ago. I’m sorry a detective on my staff had to commit murder to satisfy a personal grudge. Turn in your shield. You’re suspended, pending a departmental trial. Go home—and report the moment I send for you. If you try to skip out—” His voice hardened.
Martin’s voice matched his superior’s. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll report.”
His mother was in the living room when he reached home. So was Sam. Sam looked queerly at his brother. His face was white, but whether with triumph or fear, Martin couldn’t tell. He tossed his coat over the back of a chair—and instantly cursed himself for his stupidity.
His mother was staring at him. “Why, Marty! Where’s your shield?”
“I turned it in,” he said dully. “I’ve been suspended from duty.”
He told her the same story he had told Patrolman Tierney and the inspector. “Is that the truth? Self-defense, son?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Then you’ve only done your duty and you’ve nothing to fear.”
She kissed him, went into the kitchen. Martin closed the door softly. His hand came out of his pocket and showed Sam the pearl-gray button. Sam’s fingers jumped to the empty spot on his coat for a instant.
“How did it get into Mopsy’s fist?”
“I dunno.” His eyes peered beseechingly at his brother’s set face. “Don’t turn me in, Marty! I didn’t do it. Arrestin’ me would kill the old lady.
She—”
“Shut up, you sniveling little skunk!” Martin’s voice cut like a knife. “I’m taking the rap for this.” His head jerked toward the kitchen. “Not for your sake, but for hers. Thanks to a murderous little whelp, I’m going to be kicked off the force—maybe convicted of murder. But I’ll save mother the horror of seeing you burned in the chair.”
Sam’s voice was a frightened snarl. “Aw, nuts! You can’t prove a thing on me. Gimme that button!”
They were glaring at each other, the older brother’s fist clenched, when the door opened and Mrs. Clyde came in with some food.
“Well, for—” Her face cleared and she smiled. “Wrestling, are ye? A fine way to treat my furniture!”
“I was showing Sam a new police hold,” Martin mumbled.
“Be careful ye don’t hurt him.”
“No. I—I won’t hurt him, Mother,” Martin said.
After supper the younger brother walked to the telephone and called a number. He talked in a low voice. Martin, listening intently behind his newspaper, couldn’t hear what he said. He watched Sam pick up his hat, slide casually into his overcoat.
“Where are you going?”
“Mind your own business.”
“Let him alone, Marty,” Mrs. Clyde said gently. “Where are you going, Sammy boy?”
“I’m going to see Tom Rainey. Thought we’d go over to the settlement house and shoot a few games of billiards.”
MARTIN waited in the little living room till nearly two-thirty without any sign of his sullen brother. He gave up, finally, and went to bed.
He fell asleep almost instantly. He didn’t hear Sam come in.
They had finished breakfast the next morning when the doorbell rang.
It was Inspector Schwartz and a lean little ferret of a man whom Martin recognized as a detective from the district attorney’s office.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said dully. “Come in.”
The inspector nodded with faint embarrassment at Mrs. Clyde. He walked straight to the chair on which Martin’s coat still hung. He put his hand in the inner pocket and drew out something. He showed it to the D.A.’s man.
“Mopsy Dolan’s wallet, all right,” the latter snapped. “Look—there’s the little ivory elephant Mopsy always carried for luck.”
“Where did you get this, Clyde?” the inspector snapped.
“Why, I—” Martin’s face darkened. He looked at Sam, but Sam’s face was averted. “Who told you I had this wallet of Mopsy’s, Inspector?”
“What’s that got to do with it? We had a tip over the phone that the wallet was still hot in your pocket. Put on your hat and coat, Clyde,” the inspector said. “You’re under arrest.” He showed a thick sheaf of hundred dollar bills in the wallet.
Martin was staring at him like an automaton when the doorbell rang again. Sam answered it.
He came back with a quiet, sober-eyed man, a little older than himself.
“This is Tom Rainey, Inspector. I—I was out with him last night. I asked him to call here this morning. You see—when I told him, that I—I discovered Mopsy’s wallet last night in Martin’s pocket—”
“You lie!” Martin interrupted him fiercely. “The wallet was not in my pocket last night and you know it.
”
Sam gulped and moved closer to the protecting bulk of the inspector.
“Yeah? Is that so? Well, I saw it—and I told Tom Rainey. He said the ivory elephant sounded like Mopsy’s luck-piece—and he told me something else. Mopsy met Tom in the settlement house a coupla nights ago. He was half-drunk and pretty nasty. Tell ’em about it, Tom.”
Rainey nodded gravely. “Well, Mopsy told me Martin had threatened to kill him. He said that Martin was demanding too big a split on the—”
“Split?” The inspector’s smile was like ice.
“Yes, sir. He said Martin was giving the boys plenty of police protection. But he was demanding a fifty-fifty split of the graft money. They had an argument and Mopsy told him to go to hell. Martin said he’d get rid of him and split the graft with someone else.”
“I—I thought you ought to know about this,” Sam faltered. “That’s why I asked Rainey to come over this morning. I’m—I’m the one who tipped headquarters about the wallet. I—I don’t believe in murder, even if it’s my own brother.”
Martin’s throat contracted with a dry, clicking sound. “Okay. I’m guilty. Let’s go.”
“No, no!” Mrs. Clyde wailed.
“I’m sorry about this,” Rainey said. “I only wish it wasn’t true. But the wallet and the button and—” He gulped, stopped talking suddenly.
“What button?” In one fierce leap Sam was away from the inspector’s side and in front of Rainey. “What button?”
“Why—I—the button—that . . .” Rainey’s voice trailed. His heavy face was suddenly the color of clay.
“No one on earth knew about that button, except Martin and myself,” Sam cried shrilly. “Marty hid it to save me. He didn’t report it to the police. But you know about it, hey? Why? Because you planted that button in Mopsy’s hand—after you killed him!”
Rainey was snarling. He backed away a step.
Sam’s eyes blazed. “I brought you here deliberately to trap you, Rainey. I knew you’d get too confident and give yourself away. Grab him, don’t let him get out! He killed Mopsy!”