by Jerry eBooks
Reirdon gazed with open admiration. “That’s exactly how he confessed it,” he marveled. “He has a record, incidentally—petty larceny, forgery. He forged a letter from Justine, telling her father where she was and had the girl mail it from Chicago.”
“Right,” I said again. “And then he learned that the old man was sending me out there to keep an eye on the girl, so he called up two gunmen and hired them to rub me out. He probably warned the girl who was out there, too. Well, after the two gunsels took me away, she got scared and beat it back to New York. And then Durell had to work fast. He killed Squire, had the girl dress in Justine’s clothes—and doublecrossed her.”
Reirdon nodded grimly. “Yeah, he took out one of the Squire cars, drove along a quiet road, then beat her over the head, left the purse for identification, and ran the car into a moving locomotive after jumping out himself.”
THE nurse made a shuddering sound. She was watching us with horrified fascination. She was too shocked to respond to my smile.
“In the meantime,” I pointed out, “he was probably listening in to all telephone calls, and heard the one from Rogel. So he sneaked into town during the night and knocked Rogel off, with the gun he had stolen from Squire.”
“Yeah,” agreed Reirdon. “We have definitely tied him with that crime. The janitor identified him as the man he saw sneaking down the stairs in the middle of the night. We found his prints around the room, too.”
I wanted to know if Durell’s gun checked with the one that had been fired at me when I’d sneaked back to the Squire estate. Reirdon said it did—that Durell had driven up just as I got out of the cab and climbed through the hedges. So the chauffeur left the car on the road, followed me, and snapped a shot at me. Then he ran back to the car, drove around a bit and came home later to make it seem like he had just arrived.
“What about those two gorillas in Chicago?” Reirdon asked.
I told him.
“You’ll have to go back there and clear it up,” he said.
I snorted. “Not till they send me carfare.”
“By the way,” Reirdon remembered. “Hedrick says you can keep the five grand you took from Squire’s drawer.”
I made a disgusted noise. “Does he think the estate’s gonna get away that easy—and me taking a bullet through the thigh? I’m going to bill him for plenty.”
Reirdon shook his head. “Always thinking about money.”
“No.” I started smiling. “Not always. Scram, Lieutenant. Beat it.”
“What’s that!” He was startled.
The nurse and I were looking at each other.
“You’ll have to leave, Reirdon,” I said. “It’s time for my alcohol rub.”
He got up, grumbling.
“Some guys have all the luck.”
DEAD END
William Beggarate
A hundred-to-one chance said this was another Dead End holdup, with ex-dick Duke Lafferty ready to settle for anything short of homicide!
DUKE LAFFERTY was standing at the bar of Frankie McMichaels’ nightclub, working on his fourth double Scotch. He hoped the liquor would drown the raucous voice of the newsboy outside, shouting a headline: “LAFFERTY SUSPENDED!” Duke looked around and saw the people who had just come in the door.
Royce Herndon nodded briefly. Young Phil and languorous Angela Herndon didn’t look in Duke’s direction. But Lee Sargent did—studied him a moment and then smiled a peculiar smile.
“I don’t think I can eat a thing tonight, R. H., Sargent told the senior Herndon loudly. “I didn’t take my powder today.”
Involuntarily Duke started for the man but Frankie McMichaels’ arm shot across the bar and he grabbed Duke warningly. Frankie said nothing, neither did Duke. After a minute he relaxed. What was the use?
This was how it was going to be. A dumb commissioner suspended you because he couldn’t tell the difference between running away from and running after the rats that had drilled your partner. Then guys like Sargent could laugh at you in public and you had to take it.
Duke gulped down his drink. The hell with them—all of them. He’d get out of New York. He’d . . . He was signalling for another drink when a hand fell on his shoulder.
“What are you having, Duke,” said a pompous voice. “Whatever it is, don’t have too many. I want you to do a job for me tomorrow.”
DUKE wheeled suspiciously. Royce Herndon stood next to him, saying “A Scotch and a Manhattan” to Frankie McMichaels. And Frankie, who’d known Duke when, and appreciated what a friendly word meant to the suspended detective right now, grinned happily.
Duke stared at Herndon, the owner of New York’s swankiest jewelry shop. A job! God, a job was what he wanted and needed more than anything else in the world.
A job! A chance for a suspended copper who’d been branded yellow to show them at headquarters that he still had what it takes, still had his nerve and brains and . . .
“Never mind that Scotch,” Duke said crisply. “I don’t drink when I’m working. And right now I’m working on whatever job you’ve got, Mr. Herndon. But——”
“Good.” The puffy-faced gem merchant drained his cocktail and said “Another, McMichaels.” Then he turned to Duke.
“No ‘but’s’,” he said. “I’ve known you since you were first assigned to the Broadway squad, and I don’t believe what the newspapers are saying about you tonight. Besides, I need a real cop tomorrow. See?”
He gulped down the cherry in his cocktail, then continued.
“Tomorrow afternoon the jewels that were contributed by European refugee royalty to the Allies Aid Association go on private sale at my store. They’re my responsibility. If anything should happen to them—He rolled pouchy eyes. “They’re worth half a million. I’m asking for a special police detail—at the last minute, to prevent leaks. But if I knew a man of your experience was around, I’d feel a lot safer. It would be worth two hundred dollars to me, Duke.”
It was an effort for Duke to keep his face expressionless.
“I’m free tomorrow,” he said quietly, “and the terms are satisfactory.” Satisfactory! Inwardly he laughed. He’d have taken the job for nothing, just in the hope that it would produce a chance for him to show that he wasn’t yellow, that he wasn’t a run-out guy, that he—but never mind that now! He asked:
“You don’t really expect trouble, Mr. Herndon?”
Herndon laughed uneasily.
“Maybe I’m letting this get on my nerves,” he said. “But with things disappearing from my very desk, and a gang operating that no one seems able to see—you know, that ‘little gang that isn’t there’ ?”
“I saw yesterday’s report at headquarters,” Duke replied, “but I was busy at the time—”
“Tonight’s paper has a comprehensive account—they pulled another one today.” Herndon handed him a sport final and pointed to a column.
Duke’s crime-wise brain drank in the details. The gang, apparently kids 16 to 18 years old, had pulled half a dozen jobs in the last two weeks, netting over two thousand dollars. Usually two of them went into a store or restaurant at a busy corner, put a gun in the cashier’s ribs, took what they could get quickly, ran out—and disappeared.
That’s what made it a good newspaper story. No one could be found who saw them escape. There was no get-away car, no wild dash through the crowds. Nothing. They just disappeared. “The Little Gang that Wasn’t There,” the paper called them.
DUKE’S brows knit. This didn’t make sense. He carefully visualized the location of every one of the places robbed. He was beginning to see light when Herndon coughed ostentatiously.
“Sorry,” said Duke. “I was thinking . . . what did you say about something vanishing from your desk?”
“The store will be closed to the general public during the sale,” Herndon said. “Admission will be strictly by invitation tomorrow afternoon. Naturally, it is extremely important that only the proper persons get the invitations. For that reason, my son Philip and I superintende
d sending them. Fourteen were left over and I put them in my desk. Today I discovered two have disappeared. Frankly, it makes me uneasy.”
“I’d like to take a look around your store tomorrow morning before it opens,” said Duke thoughtfully.
“I’ll telephone the watchman,” said Herndon. “Well, I had better get back to my table.”
Duke studied the others at Herndon’s table. Years patrolling the Bright Light sector had taught him more about the nightclub crowd than its members would ever suspect. There was handsome young Phil Herndon, formerly a star halfback, who was now learning his father’s business—and not as successfully as he was coaching an East Side settlement football team, it was said.
And Angela Herndon and her perpetual pout, as though she resented the years that had changed her from New York’s best-dressed debutante into a mere unmarried belle—and a not-so-well dressed one, either, since the time her father reputedly had dropped a million in the market.
And, finally, Lee Sargent. Duke himself had once arrested Lee Sargent. The man had beaten the seemingly iron-bound embezzlement rap against him only by persuading his mother to pawn her jewels. No wonder Sargent had seemed pleased tonight after learning Duke Lafferty had been “broken!” Sargent’s record was one of those things generally known at headquarters which somehow never leaked out in the select circles in which he played the role of debonair playboy. If Royce Herndon really knew the man who was now being so attentive to his daughter—!
Automatically Duke put on the hat and coat held for him by a hat-check girl. After all, Lee Sargent’s relations with Angela Herndon were no more business of his than was young Phil Herndon’s quiet affair with Kyla Carroll.
There was one for you! Kyla Carroll was a supper club dancer who could get more out of an admirer than if she’d been a common thief. Several times she had seen the inside of a headquarters “interview” room, although she had never been convicted. And now her current flame, according to the Broadway chatter, was young Herndon—to whom she probably appeared a pure, calm-eyed goddess!
Duke grunted cynically and strode out into the night. After all, he had a job to do.
He was so eager to get to work next morning that his breakfast was only a cup of coffee that he gulped quickly before going to the Herndon store. He found the store ideal for his purpose. It was a small, high-ceilinged, richly-appointed shop with only two entrances, a rear door which a time-lock could make impregnable, and the main customer’s entrance at the front. Over the main entrance inside ran a small balcony. A man on that balcony could see in to every nook and cranny in the store. A respectful watchman showed him the entire layout.
“You’ve seen everything now but the vault,” the watchman said. “That’s in here.”
He led Duke into a small room where one wall was a huge bolt-studded door of glossy steel.
“I’ll get back to my lunch,” the watchman said. “I’ve turned off the automatic machine gun and tear gas protection so you can fool around with the big door as much as you like. The inner one’s still locked, of course.”
DUKE nodded. Alone, he studied the huge door with a connoisseur’s eye. That double dial was unusual. Quite a job, this! Idly his hand went out to the big wheel-like handle . . . there was the sharp spat of an electric contact being made and Duke instinctively hurled himself to the floor.
As he did the room filled with the rocketing roar of a tommy gun. Slugs sprayed through the space where his body had been a second before. Then the roar stopped. In one wall there was a circle of bullet-chopped wood and plaster.
Duke leaped to his feet and raced outside to where the watchman, his face gone white, sat frozen in his chair.
“My God,” the man mumbled, “I turned those switches off. I swear I did. Why,—”
“Where are they?” snapped Duke. The watchman gestured weakly to a closet.
Duke wrenched the door open. Besides mops and brooms there were two big knife switches, one marked “Gun” and the other “Gas.” He flashed his pocket torch on them. Fingerprints were plainly visible on the gas switch, which was in the ‘off’ position. But the other, securely notched in the ‘on’ slot, had obviously been wiped clean.
“Did you take a nap this morning after turning off those switches?” Duke asked the watchman.
“Yes, but only for—”
“Never mind,” said Duke. In spite of himself he felt cold inside. “Someone’s playing for keeps today,” he said, half to himself. “Nice little case.”
He walked out of the store. Discounting the watchman, he was fairly certain only four persons could have known of his intended visit to the jewelry shop. They were Phil Herndon, who might well need money to finance his affair with Kyla Carroll. Angela Herndon, who had never got on well with her father and conceivably might lend herself to a scheme that would buy her new clothes. Royce Herndon himself, who, if he had really lost a fortune in the market, might not be above arranging a well-disguised holdup for the insurance. And finally, Lee Sargent.
Duke paused in the doorway to light a cigarette and as he did his gaze took in the usual newsstand and subway kiosk at the corner. Suddenly his eyes gleamed.
“Now I call that downright interesting,” he told himself.
Sipping a cup of coffee, it occurred to him that Kyla Carroll might be able to tell him something. She was on intimate terms with young Herndon and once had been more than friendly with Sargent. And any sort of interview, no matter how unproductive, would be better than sitting around waiting for afternoon to come! A telephone call to a theatrical agent gave him Kyla’s address. Fifteen minutes later he was approaching the entrance to the ornate uptown apartment where she lived.
As he did a familiar figure hurried out the entrance, jumped into a waiting cab and sped away. It was Royce Herndon.
Duke stared after him, trying to fit this new piece of the puzzle into place. He didn’t go up to see Kyla Carroll.
DUKE lay belly-down on the balcony of the Herndon store. Perspiration beaded under his eyes as he watched the scene below. For the hundredth time he glanced at his wrist-watch and then at the freshly-oiled automatic lying within finger’s reach. Four thirty one. In 29 minutes the sale would be over. And nothing had happened.
Duke cursed. Supposing nothing did happen? Or supposing it did, and he wasn’t able to handle it? Or supposing—
Damned fool, he told himself fiercely. In spite of case-hardened nerves this was getting him. For this time, he himself had so much at stake! He forced himself to concentrate on the people in the store. But he couldn’t refrain from another glance at his watch. Four thirty-three.
Below him, smartly dressed women and their escorts clustered about the showcases that held little shimmering clusters of jewels that were worth a king’s ransom. He could hear the oh’s and ah’s of wonder, and above them the loud chatter of two young men, foppish in afternoon coats, who had just come in.
There was a noise behind him. Instantly his gun was trained on the head of the stairway. Phil Herndon was ascending the stairs.
“Put down the cannon,” Herndon laughed nervously. “I just got away from the settlement and came over to see the fun—if any. What’s going on?”
Duke relaxed. Then before he could answer a shrill whistle beep-beeped outside. To anyone who didn’t know better it might have been a traffic policeman’s. But Duke’s eyes snapped back to the scene below him. Then they gleamed coldly. This was it!
Guns in their hands, the two foppish young men were barking orders to the frightened customers around them. Duke saw two plainly-dressed men, obviously detectives assigned to the store, reach for shoulder holsters. Guns cracked. One officer’s hand, crimson-stained, fell useless to his side. The other officer was covered now, a gun punching his back. Duke’s nerves were icy cold. He raised his gun.
One of the young thugs had smashed a show-case and was coolly filling a bag with glittering gems. The other held a gun on the unwounded detective and fanned another gun at the customers. Duk
e calmly sighted down the barrel of his automatic and waited for the man’s head to come squarely into the sight. Then he squeezed the trigger, felt the kick . . . the bandit with the guns sagged to the floor, looking surprised. That was one!
But the other, instantly sensing what had happened, wheeled and clutching the bulging bag, ran toward the door, snapping shots at Lafferty as he went. Slugs chipped the iron balcony, making it hum. Contemptuous of them, Duke raised up, sighted again, saw the man’s chest in his sight, squeezed . . . felt the kick . . .
And at the same instant something hot seared his head and it seemed as if the roof had fallen on him. He went out cold.
Later he figured he could have been out for no more than a few seconds. A bullet, creasing his head, had dazed him momentarily. Below him was the wildest confusion, men shouting and women screaming hysterically. Phil Herndon had disappeared. Grabbing his gun, Duke jumped down the stairs. God! Had he muffed it after all?
No doubt about where to go! He raced across the sidewalk into the subway entrance. At the foot of the subway stairs the man from the change booth bent over a dead figure in an afternoon coat.
“Where’s the bag he was carrying?” barked Duke.
“I didn’t see no bag,” said the change-maker. “Say, this guy’s been shot.”
It was clear enough now—now that he’d fumbled the chance he had been hoping for and had let his man get away. Or had he? There was still just a hundred-to-one chance . . .
DUKE vaulted over the turnstile and ran out on the platform where an uptown local was just leaving. At Grand Central station he changed to an express and in a few moments was in front of Kyla Carroll’s apartment. He raced into the foyer and straight into the elevator.
“Miss Carroll’s apartment—fast!” He snapped to the startled elevator boy.
When they reached the floor, the boy pointed to a door.
Running full speed down the hall, Duke hurled himself at it. The door held. He put his pistol to the lock and jerked the trigger repeatedly. He shouldered the door and it sprang open. A gun flashed powder in his face and would have blown his head off if he had not come in hunched over.