Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Hedrick’s gaze swung back on Hawke. “Client of yours?”

  Hawke nodded. “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hedrick’s brows hiked up and his jaw jutted forward belligerently. “Don’t be coy, Hawke. This is murder.”

  Hawke shrugged. “I’m serious, Hedrick. The guy came into my office, offered me two hundred bucks to protect him while he transferred some valuables. He didn’t tell me his name and I didn’t ask. He took Aldrich’s box and walked into that cubicle. The box must have been loaded with nitro, fixed to go off when the lid was opened. He wasn’t in there a full minute when the blast came.

  “That’s all I know about it. Except somebody took a pop at him with a gun out in the street a little while ago. The finger was on him and I guess he had to get it sooner or later.”

  One of the cops brought the tattered remnants of a wallet to Hedrick. The sergeant made a cursory examination of the contents.

  “Timothy Priest,” he said. “Bachelor, retired.” He snapped an order to another of the harness bulls. “Get homicide. Call the medical examiner. And have the morgue send up the meat wagon.”

  By that time Sam Hawke had stemmed the flow from his nose. He reached over and appropriated the hand-rolled silk handkerchief from Oakley’s breast pocket, patted his mouth with it.

  “May I make a suggestion, Hedrick?” he asked, and continued: “Look up the records and see who was the last man at Aldrich’s box. Obviously, that’s who loaded it with explosive.”

  Hedrick snorted. “I know my business. Get me the files, Oakley.”

  The manager nodded to Pop Worden, and the stooped figure moved back toward the anteroom. He came back with a startled look on his face.

  “They’re gone,” he said hoarsely. “The cards are gone.”

  The pince-nez fell off Oakley’s nose and broke on the tile floor. His jowls gave a convulsive twitch and he gasped: “Impossible!”

  “They’re gone,” Worden repeated dumbly.

  “Nothing like this ever happened before,” Oakley groaned.

  “Now wait a minute,” Hedrick said harshly. “What’s missing?”

  Oakley blinked. “It’s like this. You see, when the holder of a safe deposit box wants access to it, he must sign a card. In that way we cross-check signatures. It also gives us a permanent record of every visitor. It seems those cards have been stolen. I’ll have to make a thorough investigation. Somebody’s going to get fired. We can’t have anything like this going on in—”

  “Shut up!” Hedrick interrupted. “There’ll be an investigation, but you won’t make it. We’re gonna—hold it, Hawke. Where the devil are you going?”

  “Out,” Sam Hawke said innocently. “You don’t need me and I want some fresh air.”

  “You stay here, or I’ll slap a pair of cuffs on you. You’re under suspicion, too.”

  “Me?” Hawke’s long face writhed into an amazed expression.

  “You bet. How do I know you didn’t wait till Priest opened the box, then conked him and planted a small bomb in the room?”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Hawke. “You don’t mean that.”

  Hedrick grinned very unpleasantly. “Maybe not, but stick around.”

  Sam Hawke shrugged resignedly.

  Like the snap of a rubber band Oakley erupted into excitement. “I have it. I have it.” He was practically dancing. “A couple of weeks ago another stranger opened Mr. Aldrich’s box with a power of attorney. A young chap. The paper is probably in my desk.” He rushed off as if a tornado were howling at his back.

  Hawke exchanged glances with Sergeant Hedrick, then looked at Pop Worden. “Remember anything about that, Pop?”

  Worden’s seamed face was screwed up in thought. “Why, come to think of it, I do. I had Mr. Oakley check up and then I gave this young chap the box. He kept it in one of the cubicles about five minutes.”

  “How did he look when he came out?”

  Worden seemed to be scraping back into his memory. “ ‘Bout the same, I guess. He didn’t seem nervous or anything.”

  “Remember if anybody else asked for Aldrich’s box after that?”

  The stoop-shouldered attendant hunched his shoulders. “You know how it is here, Mr. Hawke. Maybe a hundred people come in every day. I don’t remember from week to week.”

  Hawke nodded, then looked up as Oakley came wheeling down the corridor, triumphantly waving a sheet of paper. Sergeant Hedrick snatched it out of his hand.

  “Yep, this is it. Jerome Connel. He had a look into the box three weeks ago. We got to get a line on him and pick him up.

  He looks like our man.”

  But two seconds later Hedrick was shoved into the background. The homicide squad arrived and with them a staff print man and photographers. They took over like the Nazis took Poland. From the questions they asked Oakley, Sam Hawke learned that Edward Aldrich was an investment broker, highly successful at one time, but doing little business now, although he was reputed to have salted away a considerable pile of government lettuce.

  Lieutenant Nulty of homicide was a tall, lean whippet of a man with searching gray eyes, prominent temples, and from having seen too much death in one lifetime, a bitter seam of a mouth. Since a number of Sam Hawke’s cases had held their element of violence, the two men had often been thrown into contact.

  And so it was not unusual that when Nulty finally stood before Edward Aldrich, Sam Hawke had a place at his side.

  All that was visible of Mr. Edward Aldrich was a gaunt, bony face into which were set a pair of opaque eyes with no more expression than a professional gambler’s. The rest of him was concealed by the heavy bedclothes which were drawn up to his chin. The bed itself was shaded by an old-fashioned canopy. The little Jap man-servant who had admitted them had faded silently out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  “Tashito said you were policemen.” Aldrich’s voice was a dry monotone.

  “That’s right,” Nulty said.

  “What do you want?”

  “To ask you some questions.”

  “Relevant to what?”

  “The questions first,” Nulty said. “You have a safe deposit box at the Miner’s National Bank?”

  “I have.”

  “When was the last time you were there?”

  The colorless lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. “Sorry, my dear sir, but I will not answer without benefit of counselor at least until I know why you’re asking.”

  Nulty gazed at Hawke. The latter shrugged. Aldrich was within his rights. If he desired not to answer that was his prerogative. This was not a courtroom and he could not be punished for failure to answer. It was clear, moreover, that Aldrich was not a man who could be easily bullied. Nulty started to speak, but Sam Hawke forestalled the question with one of his own.

  “Did you know a man named Timothy Priest?”

  The bony face screwed itself into an expression of rage. He half lifted himself out of the bed, and rasped through clenched teeth:

  “So he went and blabbed, did he?”

  “He did.” Hawke nodded wisely.

  “All right. Then indict me and get it over with.”

  Hawke wet his lips. He must tread carefully, feel his way, retain the impression that he knew far more than was actually the case. He smiled quizzically.

  “Priest had plenty on you, didn’t he?”

  “Enough,” snapped Aldrich.

  “Blackmailing you?”

  “You can put it that way, if you like.”

  Sensing the direction which Hawke’s questions were taking, and not wanting to be left behind, Nulty entered the inquiry.

  “You were tied down in bed, couldn’t get up to procure money for the payoff, so you gave him a power of attorney to open your safe deposit box.”

  Aldrich shrugged against the white satin pillow.

  “You knew,” Nulty said, “what would happen when he opened the box.”

&nb
sp; “I most certainly did.”

  Nulty’s eyebrows jumped up in a surprised arc and his eyes widened.

  “You did?”

  “Emphatically. He would find fifty thousand dollars in negotiable securities, and ten thousand dollars in cash. Enough to keep him quiet for the time being.”

  “Oh.” Nulty’s voice expressed disappointment.

  Hawke said: “Several weeks ago you gave a power of attorney to a man named Jerome Connel. Who was he?”

  “My confidential secretary.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I fired him.”

  “Ah,” breathed Hawke dreamily. “Had you been to the box after that?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because,” cracked Nulty, losing his patience, “that box was loaded with nitroglycerin which exploded and murdered Priest.”

  For the space of several seconds absolutely no change came over Edward Aldrich’s gaunt death’s-head of a face, and then his mouth spread into a slow grin. He said, rolling the words over his tongue and relishing them with the approval of a wine taster:

  “So Priest is dead. Good. Very good. In fact, splendid.”

  Nulty didn’t like that. He didn’t like it one bit. He could see nothing good or splendid in murder, and his lean jaw lengthened.

  “Not so very, my friend,” he said. “Because we’re going to hold you under suspicion of murder.”

  “Me!” The word cracked out like a gunshot. “Get out. Get out. You haven’t got a warrant. You haven’t any proof. Tashito! Tashito, come here.”

  The door opened as if the little sloeeyed Jap had been waiting for such a summons. He slid into the room, stepped to one side of the door and bowed politely from the waist. His smile showed teeth as white and even as piano keys. And when he spoke his voice was a soft, sibilant whisper.

  “Thanking you to leave, gentlemen. Master not well.”

  Splotches of angry color heightened Nulty’s cheekbones. “Wait a minute,” he blustered. “You can’t—”

  The rest of it was lost between suddenly locked teeth. Exactly when the Jap reached for the gun neither investigator knew. But abruptly it was pointing at them from out of a tight brown fist, small, compact, utterly deadly. The brownish eyes held a cold, faraway look, but the smile remained as it had been.

  “Not liking to shoot policemen,” he said. “Exit, please.”

  Hawke moved fluidly forward and the gun wavered, picked a pin point directly over his heart.

  “Get out, gentlemen,” Aldrich growled.

  Hawke had the usual instincts of selfpreservation. He did not know how far the Jap might go, and he never took chances unless vitally necessary. This was, after all, Nulty’s affair. Hawke had his two hundred dollars, and considerably more time than a half hour had passed since he’d started on this thing. And that was all Priest had promised the matter would take.

  He let his shoulders drop. “You can stay if you like, Nulty. I’m leaving.”

  And with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances he stalked out of the room. Nulty’s breath was warm against the back of his neck.

  “I’ll be damned!” was all the lieutenant said.

  Absently, Sam Hawke pressed the elevator button. When the car came up he followed Nulty inside and spoke to the operator.

  “Did Mr. Aldrich go out today?”

  The operator was a young kid with a ready tongue. “Yeah, early this afternoon. Came back about two hours ago.”

  Lieutenant Nulty inhaled deeply. Hawke was satisfied.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Got trouble with his legs. Don’t know what, but the Jap almost has to carry him.”

  Hawke gave the kid a dollar. That would make a friend of him, and perhaps later sew up his testimony. Out in the street, he waved impatiently at Nulty’s prodding questions, headed for a drug store, flipped the pages of a telephone book, then locked himself into a booth. In two minutes he emerged, flagged a cab and settled down beside the lieutenant.

  “What’s up?” Nulty demanded.

  “This. Aldrich still maintains an office. I called there and asked for Jerome Connel’s address.”

  “Aldrich’s former confidential secretary?”

  “Precisely. We’re headed there now.”

  Nulty rubbed the tips of his fingers together. “You heard what the boy in the elevator said. Aldrich went out. That gave him an opportunity to try to head off Priest and put a bullet into him before he had a chance to go to the bank and clean out the safe deposit box. What do you think, Hawke?”

  Hawke nodded. “Exactly what I had in mind. But first let’s talk to Connel. Probably he knows enough about Aldrich’s affairs to shed considerable light upon the trouble between Aldrich and Priest.”

  Jerome Connel was a rabbity specimen with a bald head, nervously darting eyes, and a habit of continually clicking his tongue against his upper plate. He answered the doorbell dressed in a flannel robe and dragging the crumpled remains of a newspaper at his side.

  Ensconced in a frowzily upholstered easy chair, he welcomed the opportunity to talk about and against his former employer. He was, in fact, eager to do so.

  “You knew Timothy Priest?” Nulty asked.

  “Of course,” Connel nodded vigorously. “He was one of our principal clients, and—”

  “Clients?”

  “Yes. Priest was a rather wealthy man.

  He placed some very valuable securities into Aldrich’s hands for investment.”

  “Did Aldrich invest it advantageously?”

  “Ha!” Connel snorted. “And again—ha! He certainly did. Advantageously for himself.” He let his plate slip, then snapped it back against his gums with his tongue. “Mind you, gentlemen, I have no proof that Aldrich was actually dishonest, but during the last year he kept making money while his clients kept losing it.”

  Hawke said: “Tell us about it.”

  “Well, I think Aldrich used to buy up worthless securities for a song. These he would credit to the accounts of his clients. Their original securities he would appropriate for himself after some very shady paper manipulations.”

  “Besides Priest,” Hawke inquired, “can you name any of his other clients?”

  Connel shook his head, gave them a wily smile. “That is what I was trying to find out when Aldrich sacked me. He kept his files pretty secret and—wait a minute, yes, there was one man he gypped rather badly. I know because this man came to the house one day and threatened to get the district attorney to investigate Aldrich.”

  “His name?”

  “Maybe you know him. Robert Oakley, manager of the Miner’s National Bank.”

  Nulty stiffened and flashed Hawke a significant look. Hawke’s lean-jawed face was blank and innocent.

  “Tell me,” he said softly, “when you opened Aldrich’s safe deposit box under a power of attorney, did you see any cash in it?”

  The lids blinked rapidly over Connel’s nervous eyes. He was silent a shade too long, then his tongue darted out and moistened his lips. Some of the color fled from his face and he came up out of the easy chair, shaking.

  “Money?” he said. “Cash? I should say not. If Aldrich is trying to imply that I stole the money from his box he is a liar. A double-barreled liar—and I will push the words down his throat.”

  Hawke pursed his lips. “Easy, Connel, take it easy. One more question. Do you know for certain whether Aldrich visited his box after you were there?”

  “He certainly did. Two days later. I know because I was with him. If any money was missing, why didn’t he complain then? Why didn’t he, I ask you?”

  Hawke shrugged and his eyes were half closed with a dreamy look in them. “I’m not sure, but we’re going to investigate a little further along those lines. Get dressed, Connel.”

  The bald man spluttered like a dud firecracker, but when Lieutenant Nulty suddenly produced his service special and cracked an order, he jumped toward the be
droom, dropping his upper plate on the frayed carpet and scooping it up as he went.

  Robert Oakley’s office in the Miner’s National Bank contained a number of hostile figures. The tension in the room was drawn as tight as a violin string. Seated in a corner, with a pair of crutches propped against the chair, sat Edward Aldrich, lips tucked inward at the corners of his gaunt face. His opaque eyes disdained even to favor the others with a look.

  Two pairs of eyes glared at him hatefully. Connel was fumbling nervously with his hat. And Oakley, much of his pomposity shattered by the recent catastrophe in the bank, stood opening and shutting his fists.

  Sergeant Hedrick, still on duty at the bank, was guarding the door with his mountainous body. Lieutenant Nulty sat on the edge of the desk, waiting for Hawke. And five minutes later Hawke entered the room, the sleepy look still in his eyes.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he drawled, “but I was going over several of the accounts in the bank.” He turned to Aldrich. “Your Jap brought you here. Where is he now?”

  “In the lobby, waiting.”

  Hawke nodded to Nulty and the latter ordered Hedrick to fetch Tashito. Hawke did not wait before commencing. He waved an admonishing finger at Aldrich.

  “You were not at all co-operative,” he said. “You refused to budge and so Nulty had to book you for murder in order to get you here. You may live to regret that, Aldrich. And then again, you may not. It is my belief that Connel stole some money from your safe deposit box. Was there any in it when of you foolishly permitted him to open it?”

  “There certainly was. Several thousand dollars. And it was not foolish because all of my employees are bonded.”

  Hedrick opened the door and ushered Tashito into the room. The little brown man was still wearing the same indomitable smile, all his teeth showing ivory-white. Hawke jerked his thumb at a chair.

  “Thanking you so much,” the Jap said, “but prefer standing.”

  Hawke nodded. “Now let’s get down to cases. Priest was murdered by the very novel method of planting an explosive in your safe deposit box, Aldrich. Did you open the box after Connel?”

  Aldrich’s thin seam of a mouth pulled into a mocking smile. “Do you expect me to answer that?”