by Jerry eBooks
“Naturally,” Vic agreed. “The boss will be plenty upset. He was fond of Cora. She’d been in the office a long time.” He tore open the envelope, adding: “But I guess we better get word to him, even if he has got the Meade case on his mind.”
Vic unfolded the note paper, read it quickly, glanced up. Then he studied the note at length and re-folded it, smiling. “More news for the boss,” he said, dialing the office number.
When Stoddard’s voice came over the wire, Vic said: “Here’s a hot one, boss. I just got a note from Benton Meade’s kidnapers, warning me to lay off.”
“So did I,” Stoddard responded. “What else did they say?”
“That if I don’t, I’ll get the same as Lawrence Dean.”
“That’s a new line. Nothing like that in mine. They know who they killed, eh?”
“Apparently.”
“Save that note. I want to see it. And how d’you suppose they figure you’re on the case?”
“They probably know I work for you and that you’re handling it,” Vic answered. “And, boss, there’s something else.”
He hesitated, groping for words.
“It . . . it’s about Cora. . . .”
Stoddard was silent a moment, then answered in a low voice: “I’ve heard about it. Is Girsh with you?”
“Yes. And pretty sick.”
“When am I going to see you two again?”
“Later tonight. I’ve got something pretty hot on the strike. Link Gordon’s mixed up in it, but I can’t tell you any more on the phone. Maybe we’ll get a break out of it. I’ll know for sure by ten o’clock.”
“All right, come in then. And tell Girsh to do what he can about the other—about Cora. I’ll want to take a hand in that just as soon as I can get a breather.”
“Sure, boss.” Vic racked up the telephone, waited briefly, then dialed union headquarters and asked to speak to Ed Holohan.
“Listen, bum,” he said when the business agent answered, “this is your little playmate, Vic Smail. Instead of trying to put over a rap on me, here’s a real job for you . . . that is, if you’re man enough to go for it. All you’ve got to do is bring your wrecking crew to the Doric Line pier before the Norfolk boat pulls in tonight. Link Gordon, in person, and his mob will be there. . . . Yeah, in their cabs. Don’t thank me for the tip, I only want to show you up for a yellow rat.”
He hung up quickly and winked at Girsh.
“Just setting the stage for a little fracas,” he explained, working the dial again. Into the phone he said: “Let me speak to Livingston.”
The mention of the headquarters detective’s name brought Girsh upright, muttering: “What the hell are you doing, Vic. . .?”
Vic winked again. “Get a load of this.”
A MOMENT later the connection clicked and Livingston’s answer came over the wire. “Sorry I had to run out on you this afternoon, Livingston, old boy,” Vic began, “but I’m going to make it up to you with some dope that’ll put you in line for promotion.” He waited patiently while the detective raged, showering him with abuse. Then he resumed: “So now I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, pal. At nine o’clock tonight Link Gordon and his hoods will ride up to the Doric Line pier looking for trouble. They’ll be set to gun out any and all strikers. If you show there with plenty of help you ought to bottle up the whole mob. You’ll not only get Gordon himself, you’ll do a lot toward ending the strike. Thus you become a hero, Livingston, a model cop—right down to your fallen arches—due to the consideration and good wishes of your old chum, Vic Smail. . . .”
Vic interrupted another tirade of abuse by adding: “Take my word for it, you’ll have a fight on your hands. AH hell’s going to pop.”
This time the detective began barking questions.
Vic cut him short with, “That’s all I can tell you, Livingston. Take it or leave it.”
He hung up and turned to Girsh. “Better begin pulling yourself together, Ben. We’ve got a hell of a big night ahead of us. . . .”
TWO BLOCKS from the Doric Line pier Vic pulled into the shadows and parked. He glanced at his watch. It was 8:45. After a careful survey of the street in both directions he slid from behind the wheel and started on foot for the pier.
Rounding into the side street that led to the paved square fronting the pier sheds, Vic noted with satisfaction that the entire neighborhood was comparatively dark. Street lamps were few and far between, and trucks at the freight entrance to the pier, and private cars parked in the center of the square, had their lights dimmed. The Norfolk boat was not in sight.
Vic strolled casually along the sidewalk, keeping in the shadow of the building. No cabs had appeared as yet. Only a handful of men loitered along the curb.
As Vic passed a pile of crates that jutted across the walk he was seized with startling suddenness, spun around. A powerful hand was clamped across his face, wiry fingers jerked at his collar from behind.
Vic shoved at the hand that was smothering him. It came away to disclose Holohan, the union boss, jaw thrust out and regarding him with baleful eyes less than a half-step away. Vic jerked, trying to free himself from the choking holds, and realized that two more pairs of hands had seized him from behind.
“All right, wise guy!” Holohan was snarling. “Stay right where you are and take it! You’re the one who arranged this party. Now you can be guest of honor!”
Vic gulped, tried to speak. A fist from the darkness thudded against the side of his head. Holohan warned: “None of your lip! You’ve talked enough for one day!” He moved still closer, thrusting his battered face near Vic’s. “It never occurred to you that we’d have a couple of men planted in Link Gordon’s outfit, did it? Or that Livingston would check your tip with us? Well, that’s where you outsmarted yourself—trying to jam us with Gordon’s mob and the cops at the same time. Now if any shooting starts you’ll get a front seat. Way in front!”
Holohan broke off as a voice whispered from behind him.
He stepped to the curb and peered across the square.
From the narrow street entrance was emerging a line of taxicabs, newly painted—all independents—heading toward the pier. The cabs circled the central parking space in the square, pulled into the curb at the far end. Thus they commanded the side street as well as the square itself. Still the Norfolk boat had not docked.
Calculating his chances in the event a street fight broke, Vic decided to risk it. With a quick twist he tore his right arm free, dug for his shoulder holster. A crashing blow on the jaw sent him spinning against another of his captors, but the gun came out blazing.
The roar echoed across the square, brought instant response from the parked cabs. Flame belched from open rear windows, bullets thudded into wooden walls, ricocheted along the street. Vic went down in a pile of diving, crawling bodies. A heelplate ground into his wrist and the automatic fell from his grasp.
Sirens screamed in the side street and the gunfire broke off abruptly . . . only to be renewed a moment later with increased frenzy.
Squirming toward the curb, Vic watched Gordon’s mob clash with the police. The first of the taxicabs to leave the square and head into the side street were caught in a cross-fire, literally ripped apart by a hail of lead. Tires blew, glass splintered and above the din of firing came the agonized yell of a wounded driver, who leaped from his seat, tottered crazily and plunged face down to the pavement.
Vic saw the bulky Gordon clutching a sub-machine gun and leading a knot of gangsters in hurried retreat on foot toward the pier. Police cars were edging into the square and spreading out to angle their fire at Gordon and his followers.
Vic raised to one knee, shouted: “Here they come, Holohan! We’ve got Gordon trapped! Let’s take him!”
“Take him yourself!”
The voice came from behind a barricade of crates.
“Where’s my gun?”
A hand reached from the shadows and knocked against Vic. His groping fingers closed on the butt of an automatic. Crouching low
, Vic ran into the square, approaching Gordon directly from behind.
Two of the gunmen with Gordon dropped their weapons simultaneously, broke for cover. Gordon hurled curses after them without pausing in his fire at the police cars that were closing in about him.
Twenty yards in the rear, Vic stood erect, bellowed: “Drop it, Gordon! I’ve got you cold!”
The mob leader whirled, weapon flaming. Vic slid to the pavement, raised his automatic, aimed carefully. Before he could pull the trigger, Gordon gave a gasping cough, slumped forward in a heap. The sub-machine gun clattered to the street. Four remaining mobsters hesitated, unnerved, leaderless. The police closed in with a rush.
VIC got to his feet in bewildered surprise as Les Stoddard climbed from a police car, approached with Livingston and Novak.
“Hey! What you doing here, boss?” he shouted.
Stoddard walked closer, pushing back his ancient felt hat to regard Vic with sorrowful mien. “Winding up my case is all,” he said. “Hand over your gun, Vic.”
Vic’s lips twitched in a smile that faded quickly as he observed Stoddard’s revolver pointing at his chest. “What’s up, boss?”
“Your game.” Stoddard spoke coldly, his eyes glued to Vic’s. “Your squeeze play didn’t quite come off. Now hand over that gun. The police want you.”
Vic surrendered the automatic with a shrug. “The heat’s got you, boss. Livingston wanted me for assaulting Holohan, but after this night’s work he ought to reduce it to a “dis con” rap or spring me altogether.”
Stoddard smiled ironically. “He wants you and Ben Girsh for murder, Vic. Three murders, to be exact. Benton Meade, Lawrence Dean and Cora Winters. We’ve got you dead to. . . .”
Vic dived forward, clutching at the sub-machine gun beside Link Gordon’s body. With a scarcely perceptible motion of his arm, Stoddard batted his revolver against the base of Vic’s skull.
Livingston knelt beside Vic, then looked up.
“You were plenty quick with that, Stoddard.” he commented approvingly.
Stoddard pocketed his gun slowly. “I can be tough, too,” he said. “When it’s necessary.”
VIC CAME to with an aching head as the squad car drew to a halt fifteen minutes later. He was bundled out, marched between? Livingston and Novak into Stoddard’s office. Girsh was there, bound hand and foot to a heavy chair, gagged with a towel.
“There’s the other one, Livingston,” Stoddard said. “Neatly tied up for delivery.”
“Much obliged.” Livingston smiled gratefully. “And what about this confession you spoke of?”
Stoddard said: “Take his gag out. He’ll talk, He’s tired of being tough. I smacked all that out of him earlier tonight when I caught him piling Benton Meade’s body into the rumble seat of his car. I was waiting in the garage in back of their apartment house, expecting such a move.”
Vic shuddered, sank to a chair. “You—you’ve got Meade’s body?” he muttered.
And that’s not all.” Stoddard reached under his desk. “Here’s a pillow slip I found hidden in your closet at the apartment It contains the fifty grand you took from that kit bag at South Station this morning, after sending the checkroom clerk out to get you toast and coffee.
Stoddard turned to the headquarters detectives. “That clerk will make you fellows a nice witness. So will the cab-starter at the station. He can identify Girsh as the driver of the cab that blew up when Lawrence Dean got in. The bomb was wired to the springs in the rear seat. Weight on the springs completed the circuit. You’ll finch some leftovers from that homemade bomb in their garage, also the license plates they switched from the hack they stole and later blew up.
In case you’re puzzled,” Stoddard continued, “the idea in back of the bombing was not so much to kill Lawrence Dean as it was to cover their theft of the fifty grand. They didn’t know Dean and had no motive for bumping him off other than to completely stall any search for that ransom money.”
LIVINGSTON, who was busily jotting notes on the back of an envelope, said: “So much for the bombing.
“That’s only one item,” Stoddard agreed. “The Benton Meade snatch was the start. Vic Smail and Ben Girsh figured—and rightly—that the strike trouble would result in a soft pedal on the kidnaping and, what’s also important, that I’d be called in to handle the case. Thus, they’d be working on the inside, presumably helping but actually hindering me.
“They worked out the time element carefully. They knew Meade. They knew the strikers. Pretty well assured the walk-out would be staged on schedule at six o’clock this morning, they laid for Meade night before last and got him without much trouble. You see, they’d worked with him before, knew his habits, the route he drove home.
“But, by the same token, Meade knew them. Which meant they had to bump him off as soon as they got him. When that was done, all that remained was to collect the ransom by a tricky device and then pin the blame for the whole business on someone else. In casting about for the logical victims of such a frame-up, they hit upon Ed Holohan and Link Gordon, both of whom had plenty of reasons to want Meade out of the way.
“That’s where Vic started his squeeze play—first getting Holohan into a fight, later, pulling Gordon off his base with that double-cross tip on trouble at the pier. There was sure to be a fight down there tonight—gunplay. Vic was ready to kill Gordon himself if necessary. The police saved him the trouble. But don’t forget he was there, gun poised, when Gordon got it. And I’ll tell you why he was there.
“Vic and Girsh had decided to frame Gordon for the kidnaping of Benton Meade. Their plan was to have Girsh dump Meade’s body in or near Gordon’s warehouse headquarters while Link and most of his mob were away, decoyed into a fight and, as it turned out, death. Gordon, dead, couldn’t defend himself from the rap they had framed for him. Meanwhile they’d written some fake ransom and warning notes. Vic even addressed one to himself. All in line with their plan of diverting suspicion and throwing me off the trail.
“But I got on the right track late this afternoon when Cora Winter’s brother came to see me. He was the visitor that preceded Girsh at the hospital. He learned from Cora that she had overheard Vic and Ben talking here in the office about the Meade snatch, hours before they were supposed to know anything about it. They guessed she’d overheard them and realized their danger.
“So Vic took Cora to dinner and doped her drinks with barbitol. They hoped to have the ransom money safely cached and the kidnaping pinned on someone else by the time she came out of it. But when Girsh went to the hospital to check on Cora’s condition this afternoon, he found her getting better fast and plenty sore. She was so sore, in fact, that she made the mistake of accusing Girsh and Smail—and got the works.
“Girsh admitted that. He told me of stabbing her and holding her mouth shut to stifle her cries until she died. Then he sounded the alarm himself. That helped him to escape once more, but only temporarily.
“That was a bad bungle, their first misplay. And Girsh realized it. Vic must have too. Still they thought they had a chance to come through, bluff it out. But that stabbing shook Girsh up. It broke his nerve. He cracked completely tonight when I caught him in the garage . . .”
Vic Smail was on his feet, stumbling across the room toward Girsh. He screamed: “Rat! Yellow belly! Couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut, could you? Now you’re going to burn! Both of us will burn!” He broke off, babbling incoherently.
Stoddard snapped: “Get a load of that, Livingston! There’s a real break!” He jerked the gag from Girsh’s mouth, adding: “Fell for a little squeeze play of mine, didn’t you, Vic? Let Girsh tell you—”
“Shut up!” Girsh was yelling. “Keep your mouth closed, Vic! I’ve told ’em nothing!”
VIC SMAIL tottered backward a step, looked dazedly from face to face, then began to sob hysterically.
Stoddard laughed grimly. “Tough guy!” he mocked. Then to Livingston, “Lock ’em up, copper. I guessed a part of that story I just told you,
but it was mostly the truth.”
Livingston untied Girsh, handcuffed his wrist to Vic’s.
“They look good that way,” Stoddard commented. “You might even stick them in the same cell. It’d probably save the state some trial money.”
“Come along-and watch what I do with ’em,” Livingston invited.
“Not me,” said Stoddard wearily. “Tonight I’m going to get some sleep. And tomorrow I’m going to get some new operatives. Smarter ones, and not too tough.”
THE RED TIDE
Cornell Woolrich
Young Mrs. Jacqueline Blaine opened a pair of gas-flame-blue eyes and looked wistfully up at the ceiling. Then she closed them again and nearly went back to sleep. There wasn’t very much to get up for; the party was over.
The party was over, and they hadn’t raised the twenty-five hundred dollars.
She rolled her head sidewise on the pillow and nestled it against the curve of one ivory shoulder, the way a pouting little girl does. Maybe it was that last thought made her do it, instinctively. Water was sizzling downward against tiling somewhere close by; then it broke off as cleanly as at the cut of a switch, and a lot of laggard, left-over drops went tick, tick, tick like a clock.
Jacqueline Blaine opened her eyes a second time, looked down her arm over the edge of the bed to the little diamondsplintered microcosm attached to the back of her wrist. It was about the size of one of her own elongated fingernails, and very hard to read numbers from. She raised her head slightly from the pillow, and still couldn’t make out the time on the tiny watch.
It didn’t matter; the party was over, they’d all gone—all but that old fossil, maybe. Gil had seemed to pin his hopes on him, had said he hoped he could get him alone. She could have told Gil right now the old bird was a hopeless case; Gil wouldn’t be able to make a dent in him. She’d seen that when she tried to lay the groundwork for Gil the day before.
Well, if he’d stayed, let Leona look after him, get his breakfast. She sat up and yawned, and until you’d seen her yawn, you would have called a yawn an ungainly grimace. Not after, though. She propped her chin up with her knees and looked around. A silverish evening dress was lying where she last remembered squirming out of it, too tired to care. Gil’s dress tie was coiled in a snake formation on the floor.