by Jerry eBooks
“Who says so?”
“My lawyer—David Hollister.”
The chief shook his head.
“I’m in the office of a suburban chief of police,” Larry said into the mouthpiece. “There have been several men killed here, and he wants authority.”
“Give me the number and hang up,” David Hollister said briefly.
Larry gave it, then said: “Wish you would get me the address of this number,” He repeated from memory the phone number which the Glover man had given to Elsie Garland. The inspiration came from a maze of thoughts flashing through Larry’s brain. He swung around slowly. His face had grown paler. The three men waited in silence. When the phone rang, the chief leaned over and took it.
“Yes, sir,” he said and listened. “About twenty minutes. All right, sir.” He stood up and looked over at Schlesinger. I think we’ll take him down, Bob. Things here can wait.”
Schlesinger stood up. He took a folded paper from his pocket, spread it and laid it on the desk. Larry’s name was in three-inch letters, and beneath:
EX-FOOTBALL STAR OF A FEW YEARS BACK SOUGHT IN MURDER
Some quirk of thought made Larry grin. “Maybe that will bring me some business,” he said.
“You’re a cool one,” the chief said. “That’s the dangerous kind.”
Then one, perhaps both, had known who he was from the first.
“And you two,” Larry said, “have to put up with men like Mahoney.”
“He brought you in,” the chief reminded him. “Let’s go.”
The drive was made in silence. On a quiet side street, half a dozen policemen made a double line from curb to the soberly lighted, modest entrance. The car drew up there, and a man threw his cigar butt into the street and came to the door. The chief unlocked the cuffs and Larry got out.
The man nodded to the chief. “You’ll get in the record,” he said, as he took Larry’s arm and led him toward the entrance.
Larry didn’t like that remark. It struck a foreboding chill in him. Innocence was one thing; to prove it, he knew, was something else, again. His law had taught him that, but he’d never really appreciated the force of it before.
One flight up, they entered a big library with a deep-piled rug that made their footsteps soundless. Only the opening and closing of the door notified the men inside of their coming.
One man was leaning far back in a swivel chair. The man’s face was in the shade, but the strong features stood out, and the sharply intelligent eyes of John Haverstraw, the district attorney.
David Hollister was sitting quietly at one side, but the man in the brighter light before the desk drew Larry’s glance. At the moment, his head was bent a little to one side as he followed his process of cleaning polished nails with the blade of a gold penknife. He made no move to look up until Haverstraw waved a hand and Larry had seated himself in a companion chair, also in the brighter light. He closed the penknife, regarded the effect of his work, then let his glance drift to Larry over his raised fingers as Haverstraw intoned the customary: “You are under no pressure to talk, Mr. Clinton, but I must warn you”—he gestured where a young man was sitting bolt upright, notebook and a dozen sharpened pencils spread on the little table before him—“whatever you say may be used against you.”
Larry laughed shortly.
“I am a lawyer, Mr. Haverstraw, and I could construct a hellish circumstantial case against myself. That’s why I want to talk. But, with your permission, I should like to speak with Mr. Hollister first. I need some information that will make my knowledge more complete.”
“It is possible,” the D.A. said, “that we may have the information you need. Suppose, first, we set before you what we already are prepared to present to the court. Captain Pratt, you undoubtedly have more details than I.”
“Just a moment,” Larry interrupted. “Have you found anything on Vivian Knapp, yet?”
The district attorney gave him a keen glance.
“Nothing, so far,” he said. “Important to your defense?” Captain Pratt wanted to know.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Larry said slowly. “No, I believe not. She’s just a girl who tried to help me, and fell into pretty rough hands.”
“Whose?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Suppose you go ahead, captain,” Haverstraw intervened.
Pratt, dapper, cold, kept his eyes on Larry.
“I shall ask first degree,” he stated bluntly.
“John—” David Hollister started to protest; but the D.A. silenced him with raised hand.
“Here it is,” Pratt went on as if there’d been no interruption. “You were a prize athlete in college, which means you were close to the easy money. Your family was wealthy, once. Then you turned lawyer. You got no clients, you are practically broke. A chemist spends his lifetime working out a formula; he is successful, and it’s worth a good fortune. You come to him on the day of his success—today. You pretend that a patent once granted to your father plays a part in the final formula. You try to make a deal. He turns you down, flat. You kill him and make off with the stuff. We have proof of every step. How’d you kill him, Clinton?”
“I don’t know how he was killed. I saw blood on his chest, but I did not examine it.”
Pratt shot a finger into his face. “Then you admit you were there!” he almost shouted.
“Of course. I was going to tell you about it.”
“What did you carry off with you?”
Larry reached into his side breast pocket, pulled the torn sheet out and gave it to Haverstraw.
“This was clutched in his hand. And the hand, I noticed, was not yet cold. You will see it has part of my father’s name.”
“Like I said,” Pratt said triumphantly. “What else?”
Larry began to undo his shirt. “I hunted as best I could in the dark, through the main room and the small office. The only thing I found and took was what I thought might be a notebook. I haven’t had a chance to look at it.” He pushed it across the desk to Haverstraw.
The district attorney flipped the pages and gave a low whistle.
“This,” he said gravely, “has the name of Horatio Farley and seems to be a collection of notes and formulas.”
“What!” Pratt shouted. “Did you commit that murder too, Clinton?”
David Hollister stood up.
“I suggest we postpone this informal—er—examination.”
“No!” Larry said firmly. “I want to go on with it. No,” he said again, to Pratt; “neither that nor any other murder. Let me tell my story.”
“Go ahead,” Pratt said sarcastically.
“I’ll have to warn you again—” Haverstraw began, but Larry waved it aside. Starting with his return to his office building that noon, Larry traced every step he had taken, every action he had witnessed or had been a part of, to the time of his arrival there. One thing only he omitted: reference to the call made to his office by the man calling himself Glover. When he came to it in his summation, he decided on that instant to hold it in reserve. As he finished, he pointed to the D.A.’s desk. “I see you have my lighter. I knocked it over, as I told you, and forgot it.”
Captain Pratt laughed, a brittle, mirthless sound.
“Never in all my experience,” he declared, “have I had an accused play so perfectly into my hands. What do you expect to get out of this phony story you’ve told us, Clinton?”
“It being the truth,” Larry said quietly, “I expect it may help you clear things up. I don’t know who killed Galt. It couldn’t have been Haynes or those men of his who were with us. But round them up, and you’ll find, out that I couldn’t have, either.”
“We found the body of Otto Krantz not far from that laboratory. Who killed him?”
“I hadn’t known about that until I heard Pellini speak of Otto’s being wiped out. I only know now that it must have been the Krantz who came to my office with Pellini. I suppose Haynes or one of his men must have shot him in that figh
t.”
“Do you think Haynes or Ches or Smoke will admit it?” Pratt asked very softly.
Larry laughed grimly.
“I imagine you could get it out of them, captain.”
“Man,” Pratt said, “if we round up Haynes or his men alive, you’re finished. Those lads will swear you into the chair.”
Larry leaned back in his chair to think this over. Then came away quickly with a squirm of his shoulders.
“What’s the matter—nervous?” Pratt jeered.
Larry turned to Haverstraw. He was very quiet, but some desperate idea had come into his mind.
“Have you any iodine, Mr. Haverstraw?” he asked. “I’ve a couple of bullet nicks and I’ve been too busy to think about them before.” He stretched out his left hand where blood had trickled down his arm and dried on the wrist.
“Why, to be sure. Come with me.”
He led the way to a large bathroom and opened a medicine chest. Larry had peeled off coat and shirts and the district attorney glanced at the muscled torso. He brought out a small bottle. “Want me to touch it up?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” Larry said. With Haverstraw’s back turned, he had seen through the open window the outline of a fire escape. “I like to gauge the burn, myself.”
“Make yourself comfortable,” Haverstraw said and went out, closing the door behind him.
Larry turned the bolt softly. He slapped iodine on the cut in his arm, twisted it and streaked it across his back, then fairly threw his clothes on. Then he climbed through the window and went noiselessly downward. There was a drop at the bottom, but Larry swung down on his long arms and took it without trouble. With all the speed he could make, he cut over to a back street, picked up the first taxi and gave a block number across town to the driver.
He had neglected to ask David Hollister the address of Glover’s telephone but he knew the general section of the exchange. It had taken him no longer than a second to see the trap he was in. He was gambling on the long chance that Glover was the man behind Haynes and his gunmen, and that he might make a deal with Glover to turn the men in right. A half million dollars made a pretty good argument. If he were right, he would also have a lead to Vivian Knapp. He was in wrong all the way, now; it was worth the try—the only one he could see.
He called the number from a dial booth, and a man’s cautious voice answered.
“Mr. Glover,” he said, “Lawrence Clinton calling.”
“This is Mr. Glover.”
“Remember a proposition you made my office this afternoon?”
“Of course.” There was a curious intonation to the voice that puzzled Larry. Whether it was eagerness or nervousness he couldn’t decide.
“What was the amount mentioned?”
“Fifty thousand,” was the prompt answer, “but that need not be the maximum if the delivery can be made clear.”
“I want to make a deal with you,” Larry told him. “The money end can be half of that. I want Vivian Knapp freed unharmed, and there is one more contingency.”
“These are matters we cannot discuss by telephone,” Glover said a little sharply. “Can you give me your word that you are alone?”
“Absolutely!”
Glover gave an address. “This is not my home,” he added, “but I will talk with you here. Come immediately!”
CHAPTER VI.
KILLER BAIT!
Several minutes later, Larry walked up two flights and pressed a button at the door of the one apartment on that floor. It was opened by a Jap, and he walked through a short hallway to a small reception room and from there into a living-room that seemed to take the width of the building. A short, flabbyappearing man was seated before a desk. He had sparse, grayish hair, fish-cold eyes and a round, expressionless face. On a divan, not far from his chair, sat Vivian Knapp. Her wrists and ankles were taped and there was a strip across her lips. Her eyes were frightened, but there was a glint in them as she looked up at Larry.
“Sit over here, Mr. Clinton,” Glover invited, and gestured to a chair across the desk.
As Larry seated himself, he heard steps and glanced around.
Haynes walked into the room and took a seat on the divan. The young gunman named Ches followed, his left arm in a sling; and behind him came the sedan driver, Smoke, and a fourth Larry had not seen before.
“Now ain’t this nice,” Ches sneered. He stood leaning against the wall, his eyes scowling at Larry. Smoke came down the room.
“I wanted to speak with you alone, Mr. Glover,” Larry said coolly. Glover glanced around.
“I didn’t call you,” he said. “You can wait outside until I do.”
Haynes shook his head silently. Ches was more outspoken.
“Not on your life. We’re not taking our eyes off this guy till he’s put where he’s safe—for us.”
“I think,” Glover said, and his voice was as cold as his eyes, “I am the one to give the orders here.”
“Not this time, boss,” Smoke growled. “Ches is right. This guy can send the bunch of us to the chair. He may have a murder tacked on him, but he’s seen us in a couple of burnin’s.”
“It is not my fault or responsibility,” Glover said, “if you got onto trouble by exceeding your orders.” His glance traveled to Larry.
Ches laughed. “Don’t worry about that punk hearin’ what we say. He ain’t goin’ to peddle it anywhere. You gave us your orders, boss, an’ we carried ’em out.”
“Look, Mr. Glover,” Haynes spoke for the first time. “We don’t care what you get out of Clinton. We’ll help you get it if he don’t give easy. But we’ve got him here, and we’re keeping him! With him out, we’re in the clear. That’s your answer, and that goes for the girl, too.” Glover was looking steadily at Larry. His eyes seemed to be trying to convey some message, but Larry could make nothing of it. He was measuring his chances and finding them hardly worth figuring. There was only one thing he counted on: they would hardly gun him out here, and that would mean a fight without shooting, first.
“Under the circumstances,” Glover was saying, and again his eyes bored hard at Larry, “do you feel like continuing our conversation, Mr. Clinton?”
There was something here; but unless Glover was sparring for time, he did not know what it was.
“I should like to think it over further,” he said. “Your offer sounds reasonable, but there are those points on my side I’ll have to consider.”
“Take your time, punk,” Ches jeered. “You got all night—say, till about three in the mornin’.”
A light gleamed momentarily in Glover’s fish eyes before he dropped them. He pressed a button on his desk, and the Jap padded softly in.
“Bring me—” Glover began, then lapsed into Japanese. It seemed to Larry a long sentence for a simple order. Smoke, apparently, got the same idea. He scowled after the Jap, looked over at the fourth man and jerked his head.
“Go see what he’s doin’.”
Glover didn’t so much as look at him. In a few moments the Jap was back with a glass of strained orange juice. The gunman, looking a little foolish, followed him in and resumed his place near Ches. But Smoke was not so easily satisfied. He waited a couple of minutes, then jerked his head again.
“Go see where he is now, Al.”
Al pushed away from the wall and went out.
Glover sipped a little of his juice. His eyes glanced at Larry, then lowered to his desk with his head turned a little sidewise in the direction of the drawer; but if there were a pistol there, Larry had no idea of trying for it. He wouldn’t have time for it, and it wasn’t his style of fighting.
He glanced at Vivian Knapp and saw that her eyes were closed, her lids fluttering. There was no chance that she could mistake her situation. Larry ground his teeth. He had bungled it. Now both were doomed!
“You still insist on those two conditions, Mr. Clinton?” Glover asked slowly.
Ches shoved away from the wall.
“Say,” he said angri
ly, “these two guys are stallin’, both of ’em. If Glover ain’t got any business to do, let’s get goin’.”
Smoke moved nearer the desk to look down the room.
“Now where the hell’s Al?” he growled. “It couldn’t ’a’ taken him that long to see.”
“Like I said,” Ches cut in. “We’re takin’ chances waitin’,” With a smooth movement a gun appeared in his hand. It was pointed toward Larry. “I’m coverin’ him, Smoke, an’ I’ll burn him if he moves. You crown him.”
Smoke wheeled, drew a sap from his pocket.
There was a crashing, tearing sound from another room. Ches and Smoke glanced quickly around, and in that moment Larry saw Glover throw the contents of his glass into Smoke’s eyes.
Then Larry was out of his chair. Ches turned like light. His gun hand came up; his eyes blazed behind the barrel.
Glass blew in with a crashing report! Ches jerked, then slumped downward. Larry was across the room, his hands pinioning Haynes’ arms, holding one back where a pistol wavered. He heard shouts, the smashing of glass, another report close by his ear. Then a hand came past his hand and clamped steel on Haynes’ wrist, pulling it to its mate and fastening both.
Larry sprang to Vivian Knapp where she was slumped against the end of the divan. He tore the tape from wrists and ankles. Her eyes opened, looking up at him. Then he removed the strip from her mouth. Larry turned around and faced Captain Pratt, as dapper as ever. It was apparent that he had entered through the window. He was shoving a pistol back in its holster.
A police lieutenant came in from the other room. Pratt ordered him to take charge, with a gesture that included the man with the fish eyes sitting silently at the desk. He turned to Larry.
“We’ll go back, now,” he said dryly, “and finish our talk with the D.A. And, Miss Knapp, you will come with us.”
“Wait a moment,” she said. “That man”—she indicated Haynes—“has a receipt in his pocket that should be of interest to Mr. Clinton.”
Pratt got the paper, glanced at it, and with a shrug put it in his pocket. A police car was waiting around the corner. On the way over, Pratt spoke once.