by Jerry eBooks
“No, Mrs. Mascheri,” Lew assured her. “He went out on a . . . a story. Guess it took him longer than we realized. Go back to sleep. And, when Tony comes, tell him to call me—Lew Curry—at my hotel before he reports to work. Good night.”
“Wow!” Lew exclaimed aloud. He leaned back in the swivel chair, but bounded up again.
He dashed from his own office, and into the Standard’s office.
“Dave!” he called.
There was no reply, which wasn’t unusual, but the lack of a drunken snore was. Lew pushed back a portiere in the rear of the office, and, for the first time, saw no prostrate figure of the dissolute reporter. And that was bad, for the missing gun could mean that Dave Potter might have suddenly decided to remove the millstone from his red neck by doing away with Hugh Maxon, even though it might mean wearing a larger millstone, plus a ball and chain. Lew was on the phone again. He asked for the Standard city desk, and relayed the Maxon story. Finished, he prevailed upon the operator to reveal Potter’s address. He had a furnished room somewhere.
“It’s near headquarters,” the operator said, “unless he’s been thrown out since we wrote it down. One thirty-seven Marberry Street. No phone.”
A few minutes later Lew Curry received still another shock, because he was back at the spot where he had discovered the trunk. One thirty-seven Marberry was a doorway off Canal Street, only a few feet from the candy booth. He entered a dark vestibule, and struck a match.
Peering along the mail boxes, he found Potter’s. Top floor, rear.
Two steps at a time, and Lew reached the top landing with scarcely enough breath to negotiate the rest of the distance. He knocked on the door, but again there was no response. He entered and heard the familiar snore of the habitual inebriate. Lew turned on some lights. The place smelled of human sweat and whiskey, and Potter was dead drunk.
Lew searched the place for signs of the .38-caliber automatic, but failed to uncover it. He did, however, uncover something almost as good. It was a list of scrawled telephone numbers, and under the initials, “H.M.” was Mu-9-0031.
THE gray of dawn was lighting the city streets when Lew left Potter’s flea-bag of a hideout. In less than eight hours, according to Inspector Wolfe’s promise, the murder would be broken with enough evidence to support an indictment, The reporter hurried back to his office, searching his conscious thoughts for some kind of hint as to who and exactly why.
Through his office telephone, he called Maxon’s number, as listed in Potter’s collection. No one would be at the number around five in the morning, but Lew was leaving no stone unturned’—
“Office of Hugh Maxon!”
The voice of a girl. It came clear and awake over the wire.
“Ah . . . is Mr. Maxon there?” Lew stammered.
“No, he isn’t, I’m sorry. May I take a message or have him call you?” the girl asked.
“Never mind,” Lew said, “I’ll call after nine o’clock.”
Beads of perspiration popped out among the freckles of his brow, for the whole thing was crazy. What kind a law office did Maxon run to have a girl answer at five in the morning? Recalling his promise to supply some data on the murdered lawyer, Lew found the memorandum of facts in the drawer and called the re-write. There wasn’t much, but it would help pad out the story in the first evening edition, The day man could follow up with more. There would be developments anyway.
“So, I’m leaving,” Lew told him, “It’s quiet here. I’m all in. I’ll be at my hotel, if you want me.”
He was most anxious to learn if Tony Mascheri had called, because Tony must know something about the gun, Lew hoped against hope, because the kid was married and had a family. It was tough enough to be on an ambulance chaser’s payroll, violating the law of the city as well as his own newspaper, without having a murder hung on him. It would be hung on some newspaperman. Of that Lew was certain, yet he hadn’t considered Costigan’s warning, He was too busy with the other developments.
There was the date in Liggett’s at nine o’clock with Rose Maxon. What was she like? How long had Martin Thentic known her, and to what extent? How could he learn where she lived?
The hotel had no word from Tony.
Lew trudged to his room, wishing that time would stop, so that he could think. Had Potter been drunk all evening? He sat on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes, when his eyes froze their gaze to the number he had copied from Potter’s list. Not exactly, but one almost like it.
Mu-9-0050! Printed on the edge of the telephone directory.
“Twenty-four-hour service. Let us be your secretary. Kind-Courteous-Accurate. 20th Century Secretarial Service.”
Lew called the number. He sweat for ten seconds, and then heard the same voice.
“You have service for Hugh Maxon,” the reporter said.
“Yes, we have,” the girl replied. “May I take a message?”
“I’d like to reach him personally. Can you give me his address?”
“I’m sorry, but we take only incoming calls for Mr. Maxon on another trunk. You may leave a message and we’ll have him call.”
Lew hung up with a chuckle. “That’d be the trick of the week, sister,” he muttered, and stretched his angular figure over the bed.
N-ice business, he reflected, staring into the darkness beyond the glow of the night lamp. Maxon covered himself and his law office, wherever that was, by routing accident reports through a telephone-answering service. Tony and Dave Potter made their calls from public booths, and from so many different booths that tapping was impossible.
And thus a conscienceless lawyer was able to get first-hand information on automobile and street-car accidents, rush to the victim post haste and fill the city’s courts with damage suits.
But even that nefarious business, long since outlawed as a racket, wasn’t enough to prompt or justify coldblooded murder. Or was it? Tony Mascheri had often swore to break loose, yet was blackmailed into continuing each time he tried to sever the ever-stronger cord. Dave Potter was too weak, or needed money too often, to break, though in his sober moments he had often muttered that “death of either him or me is the only way.”
Martin Thentic had openly promised dire reprisal against anyone who used his Gazette office, or any reporter or slip boy connected with the office, to obtain news of accidents. Suave, smooth Martin, veteran of headquarters, was, however, hooked up someway with Maxon . . . or the woman . . . or . . . what?
LIGGETT’S was busy from 8.30 on, with a parade of break-fasters moving on to the stools and off. It was awkward, trying to keep track of those who went in and check against those who came out, but Lew managed by a process of elimination to reduce prospects to a half-dozen. As they left the counter one by one, his hopes sank.
But they bobbed up at one minute to nine when a smartly dressed blonde of perhaps thirty-two entered with an impatient step and hurried to the last stool. She ordered coffee, and peered anxiously at the door, through the window to the street and back at the door again. It was obviously Rose Pdaxon.
She left the drug store at 9.20 and walked across-town. Lew followed at a discreet distance. Wherever she was headed couldn’t be far, because such dames always are shod for sitting, not walking. And he was right, for a block farther on, she turned south and entered the Hotel Royale. So, this was where the Maxons lived. Fine, except that it made matters worse. It lent a sinister significance to the Saturday night poker game, wherein he had dropped a neat pile and left an I.O.U. with the bank at cashing-in time.
Oscar Traub . . . Mike Farrelly . . . Sam Drosch . . . three strangers, but friends of Joe Abelard, who covered the Tenderloin district for the Daily Star. It had been a good game, though unlucky most of the way, especially after the limit had been raised—
Rose Maxon disappeared into the elevator. Lew went to the desk and asked the number of Hugh Maxon’s room. The clerk scowled, consulted his list and returned, asking:
“When did he register?”
“I
. . . I guess he didn’t arrive yet,” Lew murmured coloring.
He turned away, paced the lobby a few minutes, and then made up his mind. Soon the papers would be on the street with the news. The killer would run to cover. Or would he brazen it out? One thing was certain: That I.O.U. would have to be explained. Of all the dirty tricks . . . But it wasn’t too late to clear up that angle!
He dashed for the elevator . . . eighth floor . . . hurried along the corridor and knocked on the door of 832. A woman’s voice called, “Who is it?”
“Window cleaner,” Lew replied. “Sorry . . .”
As the door opened, he thrust his foot through and forced it against pressure from within. He closed it, turned the lock and stood face to face with Rose Maxon. In Oscar Traub’s room . . .
“Who are you?” she gasped, “What do you want?”
“Friend of Oscar Traub’s,” Lew replied. “I was here the other night playin’ cards. I left somethin’. He said I could pick it up. He didn’t tell me about you, though.”
“I don’t believe you,” she gasped, backing away. Her pretty face though a bit hard around the mouth, had paled beneath heavy make-up. Lacquered fingernails ground into her trembling palms.
EW waved her away, and then pawed through the top drawer of the bureau. He found two decks of cards, and pocketed them. Then he bowed, but as he started to speak, the telephone bell rang.
“Wait a minute!” Lew exclaimed. “We’ll do this together.”
He picked up the French phone from the cradle, pulled her head close to his, so that he could listen and she would be in a position to reply. Her blond hair smelled of dye and perspiration. At a nod from Lew, she called, “Hello.”
From the other end came the unmistakable low voice of Martin Thentic.
He was calling from the lobby. Lew motioned for her to tell him to come up.
“Come on up, Martin,” she whispered.
Lew pressed his thumb against the phone-cradle before she could say anything else. He replaced the instrument, and made for the door. Gaining the corridor, he headed for the red light that pointed to the stairway. Then he raced down the seven flights, through the lobby to the street and into the first public telephone booth. An instant later he was talking to Inspector Wolfe.
“Get a quorum up to the Hotel Royale, Inspector,” he called. “You can break the Hugh Maxon case wide open.
“It’s already broken,” the inspector replied coolly. “What’s more, a detail is out to pick you up. We have your thirty-eight automatic, turned in from the Fourth Precinct. And we have your slip boy, Tony Mascheri He’s just about ready to spill the whole business to save his own skin. You can save the city a little expense by surrendering—”
But Lew was already fishing out another nickel, preparatory to making a second call of the same number, If the inspector was too narrow, or perhaps too sleepy, to pay attention, Costigan would, And if Costigan wouldn’t—
Lew caught the patrolman in the locker room, washing up to go home, after changing to street clothes.
“Don’t ask questions, Costigan,” Lew pleaded. “Come up to the Hotel Royale, Get a couple of uniformed men off the sidewalk and bring in what you find in Room Eight-three-two. Don’t miss it, eight-three-two, and whoever you find, and don’t be surprised at what or whom you find. Cuff ’em an’ bring ’em down to headquarters. I’m on my way down there now. Make it snappy, Costigan!”
It was almost ten-thirty when Lew appeared before Inspector Wolfe, and he was immediately taken into custody on a suspicion of murder. Tony Mascheri was held as a material witness, and Dave Potter, still fuzzy from a hangover, had the same status.
“If this doesn’t end ambulance chasing,” Inspector Wolfe muttered, “I’ll be willing to call it quits.”
“Ambulance chasing has nothing to do with it, Inspector,” Lew declared, peering out the window for signs of Costigan. “It happens to be a murder. The ambulance-chasing, if any, will come later. Tony—”
“I’ve tried to tell ’em I didn’t do it,” Tony protested. “This guy said he was a friend of yours, Lew. It was just before midnight. He said you wanted the mornin’ paper, an’ to bring the gun, because the new license was bein’ issued. Then they took me—”
“All right, all right, Tony,” Inspector Wolfe ordered. “That’s all in your statement, and it’ll be typed and ready to sign in a few minutes. Curry, you’d better come downstairs and start talking.”
“In the stories I phone to the paper,” Lew parried, “it always says that the wise prisoner remains silent till he talks with his lawyer.”
“And if we put him in a room and just ask questions till he’s ready to rot,” the inspector sneered, “he sometimes never sees his lawyer. Come on. Don’t be rugged about it.”
Lew patted Tony Mascheri’s head of black curls, and followed the inspector under guard. It wouldn’t be long. It couldn’t be long before Costigan arrived—
“What about Potter?” Lew asked suddenly.
“He’s already admitted that he let you use his room to meet Maxon in,” the inspector lied. “Very convenient, I must say.”
“You haven’t enough bait on your hook to catch a minnow,” Lew challenged. “If you had paid some attention to me, Inspector, you might have received credit for breaking the case.
As it is, every bit of the credit goes to George Costigan.”
“Costigan!” Inspector Wolfe echoed, whirling to face the prisoner. “Costigan’s home sleeping. His tour ended at nine.”
“Costigan happens to be bringing in the murderer—or murderers,” Lew laughed, for he heard the new commotion in the receiving room. “Yes, sir, Inspector, he has the killer . . .”
THE party detoured into the large Ji receiving room, where Costigan and two uniformed patrolmen stood with Martin Thentic, an abashed Rose Maxon and .a tail, swarthy man of about forty, whom Lew greeted as Oscar Traub.
“Costigan!” Inspector Wolfe gasped. “What is this?”
The patrolman’s florid face went a shade deeper. He nodded to Lew. “With . . . with a bit of help from Curry, sir—”
“Look here, Curry,” Martin Thentic protested. His low voice trembled, and his face had gone ashen. “If you think I know—”
“We all know very little,” Lew muttered, “when we think we know a lot. Oscar Traub killed Hugh Maxon—”
“Why, you confounded idiot!” Traub screamed.
“This is a trap!” the woman exclaimed. “He came into the hotel room a few minutes ago—”
“Pipe down, Rose,” Lew ordered, “or maybe I’ll believe that you pulled the trigger. As it stands, Inspector, this woman is bad medicine at best. She fell for Traub and vice-versa, and they decided to get rid of Maxon. That was a good idea, but their method was a little nasty. Traub and two stooges named Farreily and Drosch, do the strong-arm work on Maxon’s ambulance cases, to make sure nobody else gets the damage suits. So Traub doped out the perfect method of implicating a half-dozen newspapermen here at Police Headquarters to make sure that at least one would get the rap. He trapped Tony, then involved Thentic and me.”
“You seem too positive, Curry,” Inspector Wolfe challenged.
“Rose Maxon knows her husband is not only dead,” Lew said, “but she knows how he died. Ask her how she knew he was choked—”
“I . . . I was told he was shot,” she exclaimed. “Somebody called me . . . from headquarters . . .”
HE began to sob. Lew looked at the inspector and shrugged.
“That’s just a starter,” the reporter laughed.
Inspector Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. He began to study faces.
“No one knew Maxon was shot,” he muttered. “Only those who examined him. The slips still read ‘apparently choked.’ ”
“Martin Thentic called me,” the woman sobbed. “He hate-d Hugh, because I . . . I turned him down for Hugh several years ago . . .”
Defeat seemed to hang Martin Thentic’s sober face. His erect figure seemed to crumble, unt
il Lew spoke.
“That couldn’t be,” he said with a shrug of his bony shoulders. “The papers on the street now say Maxon was choked. Thentic phoned it that way to the Gazette. I phoned it that way to the Daily Star and Standard. I covered Dave Potter. Martin Thentic didn’t know Maxon had been shot, until he talked to Rose Maxon at about nine-thirty when she called him at his apartment and told him to hurry over to the Royale Hotel, That was a trap.”
“A trap for what?” the inspector asked.
“Something went wrong,” the reporter muttered. “Rose Maxon suspected it when Thentic made a date to meet her in a drug store, and failed to show up. She didn’t know that I had made the date when she telephoned his office at three o’clock this morning. And she told me that Hugh Maxon had been shot. That’s how I knew it!”
A tremendous sigh escaped from Patrolman Costigan.
“I also realized the whole thing was a terrific plant,” Lew went on. “Especially the I.O.U., I lost a hundred an’ eighty dollars Saturday night . . . with a deck of phony cards. Here they are . . . diamond backs . . .”
He produced the decks just recovered from Oscar Traub’s room. He riffed them, exposing the backs, and the pattern jumped like nests of fleas.
“So, not only does he work the oldest sucker game in the world, but he made a four out of the one, an’ stuck it in Hugh Maxon’s little black book. He tricked Tony Mascheri into bringing my paper and the office gun to him last night. Then he did away with Maxon and planted the body right in line where he knows I go for coffee and a plate of eggs every morning at two-thirty—”
“Costigan!” Inspector Wolfe commanded. “You better manacle both of them.”
The two, Traub and Rose Maxon, protested volubly as Costigan cuffed both prisoners.
“And by the way, Inspector,” Lew reminded, “Costigan is in plain clothes. He not only looks better, but he seems to do better work in them, don’t you think?”
“What I think can’t be printed,” Inspector Wolfe muttered. “But I get the point. You’d better come upstairs, all of you. Curry you’ll have to identify the gun, which the killer threw away in a nice conspicuous spot . . . and make depositions on the I.O.U., the newspaper . . .”