by Jerry eBooks
“Get down on the floor, Bliss,” the hard-faced man growled. “And no tricks.
I’m just in the mood to plug a few smart guys tonight.”
He looked as if he meant business and Barnaby got off the seat and crouched down on the floor. The cab had started almost the instant Barnaby had gotten into it, and his sense of direction told him they were heading east toward the river.
“A bit cold for swimming, don’t you think?” said Barnaby pleasantly. The man with the gun grinned.
“You won’t mind it,” he said.
“Ah,” said Barnaby. “Do I gather that you plan to shoot me first?”
The man looked at him in disgust. “Shooting’s noisy,” he said. “Aincha heard about the mayor’s drive to cut down noise in this city? We’re taxpayers here, so we use a lead pipe. It don’t distoib the guys what is catching them some shut-eye.” He leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “Pull up here, Ippy, this’ll do.”
THE cab jolted to a stop. As it did, Barnaby grabbed the gun with his left and brought his right hand up from the floor. It landed cleanly and Barnaby saw Hard-face slump in the seat. As he did, the window panel behind Barnaby slid open and he ducked but not in time. Something hit him across the top of his head, and the cab whirled about him and dissolved into blackness.
When he came to, his head was throbbing horribly and a soft light was shining in his face. He propped himself up on an elbow and stared about him. He was in his own apartment. He leaned back on the pillow.
“Wellington,” he called. “Bring me a drink, you—” He broke off, remembering that he had fired Wellington.
“Coming up, boss,” said Wellington’s familiar voice, and the door opened and Wellington came in with a tray on which stood a bottle of Scotch and a siphon. Barnaby hid his pleasure in a snarl.
“Applejack, you idiot. You know I don’t drink Scotch.”
“We’re all out of applejack, boss,” said Wellington unruffled.
“There were two quarts here when I left,” Barnaby reminded him.
“A lot’s happened since then, boss.”
Barnaby looked at him sternly, then a smile dissolved the scowl on his face. “I guess you’re right, Wellington,” he said. “Pour out the Scotch. And—uh—will you join me in one?”
Wellington looked horrified. “Sorry, boss, that ain’t right. A soivant ain’t supposed to drink wit’ his boss.”
“We’ll dispense with the rules temporarily,” said Barnaby. Wellington sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled an extra glass out of his pocket. “Don’t mind if I do, boss,” he said, and filled the glasses.
Barnaby took a long pull on his drink and set it down. Wellington reached in his pocket and passed him a cigar. Barnaby got it going and relaxed.
“All right, Wellington. How did I get back here?”
“Don’t remember too clearly, boss. I must have passed out after de boys put us in a taxi.”
“Passed out?” asked Barnaby. “What from?”
“Applejack,” said Wellington. “What a headache I got.” He rubbed his head gently. “Me and de skinny guy was pourin’ ’em down before he got bumped off.”
Barnaby scowled. “Wellington, is it impossible for you to tell a story in any semblance of decent order?”
A faint shouting drifted up from the street and Wellington went to the window and leaned out. In a second he pulled his head back.
“An extra, boss. You better catch up on dis morning’s papers while I go out and get de extra.” He tossed a newspaper on the bed and started for the door.
“This morning’s papers!” exclaimed Barnaby. “What time is it now?”
“Eight o’clock in de evening, boss. You’ve been out cold since last night.” He turned and went out and Barnaby picked up the paper. Wellington had marked with a red pencil a feature story and a small paragraph down at the bottom of the page. He glanced at the item’s headline.
WAR CORRESPONDENT MISSING
In small type was the story of Danvers’ failure to show up for the broadcast, and the facts that he had not checked in to his hotel room nor had any word of him been heard. It went on to give his history. Barnaby skipped through it hurriedly and looked at the marked paragraph.
It said merely that an unidentified man of about forty had been shot to death in an alleyway in the Yorkville section. Besides the fact that the man had a gold watch that had a swastika and the inscription To R. D. inside the case, there were no clues to his identity.
Barnaby had finished the paper and his drink when Wellington reappeared and handed Barnaby the extra.
A glaring headline ran across the front page.
WAR WRITER ESCAPES MAKES
BROADCAST TONIGHT
Underneath was a dramatic story of Danvers’ kidnaping by a band of thugs and of his single-handed escape. It ended in a glowing tribute to Danvers’ courage in making the broadcast tonight. There was even a statement by R. G. Salston. Barnaby threw the paper on the floor in disgust.
“Made to order, ain’t it, boss?” said Wellington. Barnaby stared at him in surprise.
“Wellington,” he said, “a more accurate statement never came out of your mouth. But why did you mark that paragraph about the man found shot in Yorkville?”
WELLINGTON got up and went out of the room. He returned with a heavy object carefully wrapped in a newspaper. He undid the package and disclosed a Mauser .32 automatic.
“What’s that?” asked Barnaby.
“A gun, boss,” replied Wellington.
“I know, I know,” said Barnaby angrily. “But what gun?”
“Dat’s de gun, boss, what killed de guy in Yorkville.”
Barnaby swung his long frame out of bed and started for Wellington menacingly. Wellington backed nimbly away and held out his hands in protest.
“Take it easy, boss,” he pleaded. “I’m tellin’ de story, ain’t I?”
Barnaby felt suddenly weak and he sat down on the bed and poured himself a drink.
“All right,” he said wearily, “give it to me the best you can.”
“O.K., boss. Well, right after you leave, de skinny guy what Danvers was shootin’ at comes back. He wants me to call you at de broadcasting studio and let him talk to you. I try de broadcasting studio, but dey say you ain’t been dere. So de skinny guy says he’ll wait and wonders if he could have a drink of applejack. I get him one, and since I’m fired anyway, I have one wit’ him. You don’t show up and we have another. Dat keeps up and de foist t’ing I know, de bottle’s empty.
“Well, we’re gettin’ pretty chummy by dis time, so I opens another. An’ de apple goes to woik on de guy, an’ he gets to de point where he insists dat he is Danvers and dat Danvers is Danvers also.
“Den he gets to yammerin’ about gettin’ put in a concentration camp, an’ escapin’ and followin’ his brother over here. I don’t pay much attention, devotin’ my energies mostly to de apple. Pretty soon de second bottle’s gone and de skinny guy suggests we get some more, providin’ I pay for it.
“But I only got a little change in my pocket. Dat racin’ sheet was all wrong about dat horse in de second race at Saratoga. Den I t’inks to myself dat you fired me wit’out payin’ me off So I tells Skinny we got to go find you and he agrees.
“Foist we go to de studio, and a guy I know in de hackstand tells me you went to de Bulletin building. Makin’ it brief, I trails you dere and to de drug store, but after dat, I lose you. I tell Skinny somet’ing musta happened to you, and he says he bets he knows what. He starts off uptown an’ I follow.
“He goes up to Yorkville and finally comes to a creepy lookin’ jernt. He stops and says he bets you’re in it. I say let’s go get him, an’ he says no, dey’ll kill us an’ he means it. I tell him to wait and goes to a drug store an’ calls up some of my pals over in Brooklyn. Dey say dey ain’t doin’ nuttin’ an’ dey’ll be right over.
“I goes back to where Skinny is waitin’ an’ just as I turn de corner. I see Danvers ru
n out from de creepy lookin’ jernt. He sees Skinny an’ he hauls out a gun an’ lets him have it. I duck into a doorway. Danvers looks around careful and don’t see nobody. He chucks de gun in a garbage can and beats it up de street towards me.
“I pull my hat down over my eyes and steps out of the doorway. I act like I don’t see Danvers and I bump into him, swipin’ his watch in de collision. He don’t recognize me and runs on up de street.
“When I get to Skinny, his lights are goin’ out. He gasps, ‘Rodney’ once an’ kicks de bucket. I drag him into a dark alley, an’ somet’ing tells me to put de watch in his pocket to make sure Danvers gets caught. I gets de gun outa de garbage can and den de boys show up. I tell ’em my boss is in de jernt dere, an’ I don’t want no trouble gettin’ him out. Dey tell me to wait five minutes an’ I can take anyt’ing I want outa dere.
“Dey goes in an’ pretty soon one of ’em comes out an’ gives me de high sign. I goes in an’ dey have three sad-lookin’ punks stretched out on de floor. I find you out cold in an upstairs room an’ de boys help me load you in a taxi. I tell dem to take care of de three punks till I let dem know what’s what. Dey say O.K. an’ a couple of dem ride back in de taxi to bring you up here.
“I guess I passed out after dat, on account of I don’t remember a t’ing until I woke up here dis mornin’. Whew! Pass de bottle, boss.”
Barnaby handed it to him. “Did I get any mail today, Wellington?”
“An air mail special from Washington, boss.”
“Get it for me, Wellington. And have you got the glass and tableware Danvers used?”
“Sure t’ing, boss.” Wellington went out and Barnaby picked up the phone from his bed table. In a few minutes he had the commissioner of police on the wire.
“This is Barnaby Bliss, commissioner. It will be to your advantage to come over to my place immediately. And bring R.G. Salston, the cereal king, with you.” He gave his address and hung up. Wellington came back with Danvers’ knife and fork and the air mail letter.
IT WAS half-past eight when the commissioner and Salston showed up. They were indignant at Barnaby’s peremptory summons, but Barnaby cut them short.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I want your cooperation in stopping the Danvers’ broadcast tonight.”
“Impossible,” snapped Salston. “The nation is waiting to hear Arnold Danvers’ broadcast.”
“Arnold Danvers,” said Barnaby flatly, “is dead.”
“Dead?” asked the commissioner, bewildered.
“Murdered,” Barnaby told him. “But let me tell you a little story. A few years back a man by the name of Arnold Danvers took a rap for espionage on the West Coast. It was suspected that he took it to shield someone else, but nothing definite was known.
“Later this Danvers went to Europe as a war correspondent. His stuff was good for a while, then suddenly became nothing short of propaganda. No reputable paper would touch it. Then he came back to this country and Salston hired him for a broadcast.
“But it wasn’t Arnold Danvers he hired, but his brother, Rodney, whom the real Arnold Danvers had shielded in the espionage rap. The real Arnold Danvers had been put in a concentration camp and his brother Rodney substituted for him. This Rodney would sell his sister for a few dollars and he didn’t mind selling his brother for propaganda gold.
“When Rodney Danvers discovered that his brother had escaped and followed him to New York, he shot him, fearing exposure. And tonight, unless stopped, he will sell democracy short—sell it short on a broadcast sponsored by an American, sell it short to an American public prepared by a fake kidnaping to believe his every word. What are you going to do about it, gentlemen?”
“If what you say is true,” said the commissioner, “what can we do about it? How can we prove it?”
“There was an unidentified man shot in Yorkville last night,” said Barnaby. “His name was Arnold Danvers. His prints will check with those I have here in this envelope, sent to me by the F. B. I. in Washington, who obtained them from the authorities in California.
“In his possession a watch was found which will bear prints corresponding with those of the fake Arnold Danvers. And in his body is a bullet which can be proved to have been fired by this gun bearing the prints of the fake Arnold Danvers. The fingerprints of the fake Arnold Danvers are here on this glass and on this knife and fork.
“Add to this the eyewitness account of the shooting which Wellington can furnish you and the state has a clear case of murder. Does that answer you, commissioner?”
The commissioner looked at his watch. “Come on, Salston,” he said, “we’re going to arrest a propagandist for murder.”
“But my program,” moaned Salston. “I thought I had such a bargain when I hired Danvers. He was giving it free as a gift to the American people.”
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,” said Barnaby, smiling.
“You said it, boss,” agreed Wellington. “Dat’s Latin. It means, ‘I fear the Greeks even when dey are bringing gifts.’ In udder woids, when a crooked waiter says it’s on de house, he’s probably fixin’ to hand you a Mickey.”
BLONDE DEATH
Dale Clark
When white-haired Amy Stafford held her seventy-first birthday party, with twelve gorgeous blondes as celebrants, who could foretell that murder was to be served as the main course?
CHAPTER I
Strange Birthday Party
“This is dynamite.” Ed Harnock nodded. “It’s going to blow up in somebody’s face.”
Mrs. Stafford’s shrill, age-cracked voice echoed defiantly.
“I hope so!” She was seventy-one today. Mourning black cloaked her bent figure. Her high-piled hair was snow white. She looked like the frail, helpless old type of lady who would need a Boy Scout’s help at a street corner.
Actually, Amy Stafford was nothing of the sort. Her helpless appearance camouflaged a determination of steel. She was a dowager used to enormous wealth, used to power, and used to having her own tyrannical way. Now, at seventy-one, she wanted one thing more than she had wanted anything else in her life—and she would stop at nothing to get it.
Ed Harnock reflected that Kipling might very well have had this type of iron-purposed, fanatically determined woman in mind when he penned his famous line about the female of the species . . .
“I meant,” he elucidated, “that your scheme is liable to blow up in our own faces.”
“I’m not afraid.” Amy Stafford’s eyes glittered. “Are you?”
Harnock’s lean face reddened. “Not for myself,” he said. “But what about the girl?”
“Don’t worry about the girl. I understand young women of the working class, Mr. Harnock. I’ve been hiring and firing maids all my life. You can rely on me to select a trustworthy one for this job.”
“I’m not afraid of the girl,” Harnock retaliated. “I’m afraid for her. She’ll be an innocent third party. Have you stopped to realize what you’re dragging her into?”
“Nonsense! Girls of that sort are used to running risks. They’ll tackle anything for money.” Amy Stafford bent forward in her chair. Her voice was getting shriller and harder. “The police have been on this case ten weeks, and they haven’t accomplished a thing. You’ve been on it three weeks, and you haven’t accomplished a thing either. Now I want action! I’m going through with my plan, no matter what the risks. If you want to quit, say so. There are plenty of other private detectives.”
Ed Harnock rubbed his chin. “I guess you mean it.”
“I want your answer right now,” Amy Stafford said.
“Okay, okay. When it blows up, I’ll be there to pick up the pieces. Since I can’t stop you, the least I can do is try to get the girl out of it alive . . .”
* * * *
Twin elevator doors opened majestically onto the majestic expanse of hallway, ivory-painted and expensively green-plush carpeted. “B-Sixteen?” asked the brass-buttoned, gold-braided operator. “To your right, first door, first door on yo
u right.”
Watching the girls through the narrowing aperture as the doors closed, his lips pursed into a silent whistle of approval. “B-Sixteen, hot diggity! I wouldn’t mind having a bid to that party myself!”
But one of the girls wouldn’t have agreed with him. Betty Lorell was shaking.
“Marge, I’m so scared I can hardly walk . . . I never did anything like this before. I don’t know whether I can go through with it or not!”
Both girls were blonde; both wore short fur jackets over smooth, figure-moulding evening gowns. Marge Dean, the taller of the two, was laughing, but with little enthusiasm.
“You need the ten bucks, don’t you?”
“Y-yes, I guess so . . .”
“Well, I don’t guess. I know you do. And I’ll go farther than that,” Marge Dean declared, “You not only need the ten bucks, but you’re also half-famished for the feed that you’re going to get in the process of earning it.”
“Why, Marge . . . I . . . Whatever gave you such a silly idea?”
“I’ve been around the Girls’ Club too long not to know the signs,” Marge smiled. “When I see a gal quit eating regular meals, notice she turns to the help wanted column before she reads the department store ads, and finally takes off her wrist-watch to be ‘repaired’—well, I can add up the answer. It’s true, isn’t it, honey?”
Betty Lorell dropped her blue eyes. Tears were smarting under their lids. She might just as well face the truth. She had gone without meals, had pawned her wrist-watch to pay for her voice lessons, simply because she had too much pride to go back home and be pitied as the local girl who had failed to make good.
Yet she never dreamed the other girls, merely her acquaintances at the Club, already knew and were pitying her.
“Buck up, kid. This Escortette racket isn’t so bad. It’s really a darned sight easier than being free-dated by some young punk who’d take you to a cheap jute joint, feed you four bits worth of spaghetti, and then dance your feet off until three A.M.”