by Jerry eBooks
With half an ear he listened to the radio. A newscast came on, and one item made him sit up hastily.
“Mrs. Harding Sullivan, wife of the key witness in the forthcoming Conwell trial, has disappeared. Police are . . .”
Mahoney’s grim face changed. The Conwell trial—which could crack the political game wide open. And now Mrs. Sullivan, wife of the chief witness, was gone.
The ex-officer’s trained mind worked swiftly. That, of course, was the answer. Instantly he connected the curious noises he had heard downstairs. Hogarth had carried in a burden. That burden must have been Mrs. Sullivan!
Or—her body.
No, they wouldn’t have risked murder unnecessarily. Hogarth and Buchta weren’t merely bank robbers. They were kidnapers. That was why they had wanted Mahoney’s aid. It would be incredibly difficult to get out of town through the dragnet with their victim. And it would be equally difficult to escape a thorough search, unless a good hideout were found. The home of the district attorney’s father was a perfect hideout!
So that was the answer! Buchta had not wanted to test Mahoney’s love for his son too far. Kidnaping was a more serious matter than robbery.
The radio said, “Flash! Mr. Harding Sullivan has just refuted the report of his wife’s abduction. He states that she has secretly left town in order to avoid possible danger from criminal sources . . .
Mahoney smiled crookedly. He could guess what was behind that. Someone had phoned Sullivan and told him to keep quiet. With his wife’s life depending on what he did, the chief witness in the Conwell case would be smart.
Sullivan wasn’t a coward. But knowing that his wife faced murder or torture, he would do the only possible thing. He’d refuse to give evidence in the Conwell trial. If necessary, he’d disappear. Mahoney knew the ropes too well to have to guess about that. Things hadn’t changed much in ten years.
And now Mrs. Sullivan was a captive, in the cellar, probably. Mahoney’s eyes were suddenly aglow. There might be a way out.
Mahoney loved his son. But coldblooded, ruthless kidnaping was something he could not condone. So he was smiling tightly as he crawled awkwardly to the closet door and opened it. He fumbled behind the suits hanging there, and brought out his extra pair of crutches.
Moving more easily now, he went to his bureau and rummaged in one of the drawers, bringing up a length of wire from the mess there. Ed Mahoney had picked up more than one handy trick during his years on the force!
The door’s lock was not difficult to pick, after he had forced out the key. Softly he turned the knob and waited.
The house was silent. Where were Buchta and Hogarth?
Mahoney slipped out into the hall and softly swung down the stairs, the rubber tips of his crutches making no sound. At the foot of the steps he paused. On his left was an open door. He could see the telephone, on its stand, across the room, reflecting the light from the hall. But on Mahoney’s right another door was open, and the murmur of a low conversation came from across that threshold. Buchta and Hogarth.
Mahoney’s eyes narrowed. He could not use the phone without attracting the kidnapers’ attention. Well—
STEALTHILY, he swung around and headed for the back of the hall. The rear door was locked, he found, and the key was gone. He could not escape by the front, under the eyes of his two captors. But there might be an answer in the cellar.
Cautiously, he pushed back the bolt, let himself down a step or two, and closed the door behind him. Then he switched on the light.
The neat, orderly cellar, with its bin of coal and the little work-table in one corner, lay before him. Flat on the floor against one wall was the tightly-trussed body of a woman. For a sickening moment Mahoney thought she was dead. Then he saw her eyes, above the gag in her mouth, turning in his direction.
Swiftly, silently, he descended the stairs and knelt beside the woman, his fingers flying over her bonds. She was about thirty, he guessed, a slim, pretty blonde, who had more than her quota of courage. At least, she wasn’t hysterical.
“Keep your voice down,” he cautioned, as he loosened the gag. “If they hear us, we’re sunk. You’re Mrs. Sullivan?”
“I—yes.” She licked dry lips, fear in the gray eyes. “What—what do you want me to do?”
Mahoney frowned. He wasn’t quite sure how to work this.
“What happened to you?”
“I was driving home an hour ago when a car forced me to the curb. Two men jumped out. One of them put a wad of cloth over my face—and I woke up here.” Mahoney sniffed experimentally. “Chloroform. Yeah.” Swiftly he explained the situation. “Their car’s in the garage, but they wouldn’t have left the key in the ignition. You’ll have to head for the highway. It’s about half a mile due east. There’s a gas station there. You can see its light from the front door.”
He glanced around, and then picked up a knife from the work-bench nearby.
“Now listen carefully. I’m going upstairs and start a rumpus. When you hear it, get going. The front door. The back one’s locked. Watch your chance, and don’t stop for anything.”
Mrs. Sullivan’s gray eyes met his.
“But what about you?”
“I can’t run,” Mahoney said simply. “I’m depending on you to get help.” He silenced her objections with a brusk syllable. “Now get ready. Wait at the top of the stairs.”
She followed him up, shivering a little, but with tight, firmly compressed lips.
Mahoney quietly switched off the cellar light. Then he slipped out through the door, closing it behind him, but leaving a crack through which Mrs. Sullivan could watch.
The little knife in his hand, he inched his way along the hall. Hogarth and Buchta were still talking in the dining room. Mahoney stealthily entered the room directly across the hall, headed for the telephone, and picked it up in one hand. Simultaneously, he heard an oath in Buchta’s voice, and the clatter of an overturned chair. They had seen him, then—
FOOTSTEPS pounded. Mahoney dialed the operator, his gaze glued to the doorway. He saw Buchta’s big form lurch into view, Hogarth behind him. Instantly, he dived under a table, overturning it as a barricade. His crutches clattered on the floor.
The operator’s voice hummed over the wire, and at the same moment a glancing blow from Hogarth’s gun smashed against the side of his head. The telephone was torn from his hand. Mahoney grunted with pain, tried to shake off his dizziness, and lunged up with the knife. Hogarth twisted aside to avoid the blow. He raised his gun.
“No!” Buchta struck it down. “It’s okay—”
The front door squealed on its hinges. Buchta caught his breath, face twisting in startled anger. He barked a command to Hogarth as he turned and went racing out into the hall.
Mahoney tried to drag himself up, but Hogarth, grinning mockingly, drew back and replaced the phone on its stand. He stood motionless, his gun ready.
“Don’t try anything. You’re licked, Pop. Take it easy till Buchta gets back.”
Mahoney felt sick inside. He was hoping, praying, that Mrs. Sullivan would make good her escape. But he was afraid. He might have inadvertently caused her death. Buchta would not hesitate to shoot, if he thought it necessary . . .
There was a sound at the door. The big man appeared, Mrs. Sullivan’s limp body slung carelessly over his shoulder. There was a purple welt on the woman’s forehead.
Mahoney’s fists clenched. “If you’ve killed her—”
Buchta’s lips twisted. “She’s not hurt. I told you not to try any tricks. Get wise to yourself. You’re a has-been. Just remember that, and you won’t get hurt.”
“What about the phone?” Hogarth asked.
“He didn’t have time to call anybody. Not even the operator. Take him upstairs. I’ll put the dame back in the cellar.”
He went out. Hogarth didn’t offer to bring Mahoney his crutches. He watched mockingly as the old man painfully crawled to where they were and hoisted himself up. Silently, Mahoney went upstairs, his h
ead bowed in defeat.
Hogarth had not noticed Mahoney slip the little knife into his pocket . . .
The scar-faced man shoved his captive roughly into a chair, glanced around the room, and then yanked down the drapes from the window. He ripped them into strips and deftly went about the work of binding Mahoney. When he had finished, the old man was trussed like a chicken ready for slaughter.
Hogarth paused at the door to grin.
“You’re lucky. I ought to kick your teeth in. And I will, next time.”
Mahoney didn’t raise his head. He looked utterly broken. His position did not change till Hogarth had found the key, gone out, and locked the door behind him.
Then Mahoney smiled—not pleasantly.
He was crippled, but his hands were still strong. So within ten minutes he managed to get the knife out of his pocket. With the aid of its keen blade, the improvised ropes were cut.
Now silence and speed were essential, if Mahoney’s plan were to work. He picked up his crutches, went to the window and opened it, and then hastily began piecing together the drapes that had bound him. At last he had a fairly strong rope, which he anchored to the leg of the heavy bureau. The other end of it, he flung out the window.
LOOKING down, he hesitated. He might escape by this method—but, crippled as he was, he could not go far. Moreover, he dared not leave Mrs. Sullivan. Now there might be a chance of saving her. If the kidnapers took her elsewhere, that chance might be lost.
He switched off the light, swung to the radio, and turned on the recording he had just made of his son’s speech. If he could only make Hogarth and Buchta think that Jerry was with him—that his interrupted telephone call downstairs had brought aid. Jerry’s voice, with its slight brogue, was distinctive. From time to time Mahoney stopped the record to interject comments of his own. Anyone outside would have been unable to catch more than a few words, but could not fail to overhear the “conversation.”
Mahoney kept one foot hooked over the electric cord. As a key rattled in the lock, he jerked the plug free. The radio suddenly went silent. Mahoney overturned a chair and swung himself toward the open window. He said loudly:
“Quick! Climb down this, Jerry. Get help—hurry! Hurry!”
The door burst open. Buchta plunged in, gun in hand, the squat figure of Hogarth at his heels.
Light from the hallway poured in behind them. Buchta saw the open window and yelled:
“He went out there—down that rope! Stay here, Hogarth!”
He whirled and dived back into the hall. His feet clattered on the stairs. A moment later the door slammed.
Hogarth lunged toward the window. Mahoney, swaying on his crutches, tried to intercept him. The squat man smashed his fist against Mahoney’s jaw, and the latter went hurtling back against the wall. His head cracked sickeningly against it. He slid down helplessly, one of the crutches lying across his body. The other was in a distant corner.
Hogarth, at the window, shouted questions. Buchta’s more distant voice answered.
“Behind the garage . . . no cover anywhere else . . .”
Mahoney curled his fingers about the cross-grip of his crutch and groaned. He had rolled his head with Hogarth’s blow, but the punch had been hard enough to make his brain reel. Desperately he fought to hold to consciousness. His plan had worked so far. The pair had been separated. He couldn’t fail now.
He groaned again and muttered, “Police—told him—”
Hogarth turned, came toward the prostrate figure, and stood glaring down, gun in hand.
“I got a mind to plug you right now,” he growled.
“They—doublecrossed you—”
Mahoney gasped.
“What?” Hogarth leaned closer, bent on one knee, pistol dangling. He licked his lips. “What the devil are you saying?”
Mahoney moved then. Braced as he was against the wall, it wasn’t too difficult. He brought up the crutch in a vicious, spearing thrust, and its butt thudded sickeningly into the soft flesh under Hogarth’s jutting jaw. The squat man’s head jerked back under the impact. He lost his balance and went over sidewards, coughing and spitting. Instantly Mahoney flung himself upon the other.
They wrestled for the gun. Mahoney was handicaped by his lameness, but his hands were still strong. And Hogarth was weakened by the blow he had received. Abruptly the lights snapped on.
Buchta stood in the doorway. He took in the situation at a glance. His pistol coughed fire.
But footsteps on the stairs had warned Mahoney. He went suddenly limp, no longer resisting his opponent, and rolled over underneath Hogarth. Buchta’s bullet smacked into Hogarth’s back.
The latter gave a short, gasping scream, his breath fetid against Mahoney’s cheek. The older man already had Hogarth’s gun, wresting it from convulsing fingers. He felt a sledgehammer blow along his side as Buchta’s gun barked again, and simultaneously his own weapon bucked in his hand.
Buchta’s body arched like a bow. He toppled over, dead instantly, and a worm of blood crawled out of the hole in his forehead.
The echoes of gun-fire died. Painfully, Mahoney dragged himself from beneath Hogarth. He needed his crutches . . .
Then he searched the two men, taking the incriminating documents as well as a ring of keys. After that, teeth clenched, he clumped downstairs to the cellar.
As he had expected, Mrs. Sullivan was still there. She was conscious by now. Mahoney gave her the keys and told to take the gangsters’ car.
“Sure you can drive all right?”
“Y-yes. I’m all right now. But you—” Mahoney’s eyes were hard. “I’ve got a job to finish here. Run along, now. Go directly to Police Headquarters.”
After she was gone, he found bandages and awkwardly applied first aid as he dialed a number on the telephone. By good luck, Bernard Kettleman was home. Mahoney told the publisher what had happened, and listened to the other man’s gasp.
“But—good Lord, man! I don’t understand this. You’re Jerry Mahoney’s father—”
“I’m not the father of a crook. Kettleman, I want you to come out here and take back those documents incriminating the district attorney. I want you to publish them. I’m not even trusting the police now. But I can trust you, and I want you to blow this thing wide open—even if it means smashing Jerry Mahoney. I’m going to make Hogarth talk.”
“He’s not dead? I thought you said—”
“Buchta’s bullet went through a lung, I think. Hogarth’s alive all right, though he had me fooled for a few minutes. He must be pretty tough.” Mahoney laughed softly. “Well, I’ll be waiting.”
“Okay,” Kettleman said. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t change your mind! This is what I’ve been waiting for!”
Mahoney hung up and continued his bandaging . . .
TEN minutes later there was a ring at the door. Bernard Kettleman stood there, a thin, tall man with the stern face of a Puritan and a bristling gray mustache. His gaze examined Mahoney anxiously. “You’re hurt. Badly?”
“No. Just my side—and I broke my wrist or sprained it, I guess.” Mahoney glanced down at the heavy bandage that bound his hand. “Come in, Kettleman, and we can finish this job. You alone?”
“Yes. I thought—”
Mahoney nodded. “Good. Come on, then.”
He led the way upstairs. Kettleman went white at sight of the two bodies.
“Both dead?”
“Yeah. Sit down. Here are those documents.”
Mahoney lowered himself into a chair and rested his bandaged hand on his knee. From his pocket he took a pistol and tossed it to Kettleman.
“You’ll want that, for evidence. I’d like to clean-up matters before the police arrive.”
Kettleman nodded. “How long have we got?”
“Long enough,” Mahoney said quietly. “You see, I’ve reason to believe that those documents are forged. And I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“I’m sorry,” the publisher denied, “but they’re straight
stuff. I’ve been investigating your son for a long time.”
MAHONEY smiled a little. “But I still think they’re faked. You were trying to frame Jerry.”
Kettleman stared. “Why the devil should I want to do that?”
“Because you’re behind the political crookedness in Riverdale,” Mahoney said, his voice deceptively gentle.
“You must be crazy!”
“I don’t think so. You’ve got an almost perfect out. You masqueraded as a crusading publisher, entirely above suspicion. But through the Gazette you got hold of plenty of information. When the lid was going to blow off, you’d hear about it—and certain men would be removed. Just as you paid Hogarth and Buchta to kidnap Mrs. Sullivan so that her husband would be afraid to give evidence.”
Kettleman shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mahoney. You’re trying to convince yourself. It’s a fact that your son—”
“Jerry’s been playing a smart game. A waiting game. I’ve done the same thing myself. He hasn’t sold out. He’s been pretending to weaken, hoping that the political gang would try and buy him. It was the only way he could get evidence. You covered up your tracks too well for the usual methods to work. When I phoned you tonight, you thought Hogarth was still alive—and might talk and incriminate you. So you came out here to kill me. Did you intend to murder Hogarth, too?”
Kettleman was silent, smiling pityingly.
“I should have guessed the answer long before I did,” Mahoney went on. “It was Hogarth who really tipped me off. When he first came in here, he said, ‘Where’s the boss? I heard—’ ”
“Eh?”
“He’d heard your voice, Kettleman. You made a speech on the radio tonight, and Hogarth thought you were actually in this room. Buchta shut him up in a hurry, but not quite soon enough.”
Kettleman said, “If you had any real proof—”
“I’ve enough to convince Jerry. And if he begins to check up—”
“I’d prefer not to have an investigation,” the publisher smiled, and lifted the gun Mahoney had tossed to him. The ex-officer grunted.
“Think I’m a fool? That rod’s not loaded.”