by Jerry eBooks
For a moment he could see or hear nothing but the pelting of the rain. Then his sharp ears caught the patter of distant, running feet. Whoever his would-be killer had been, hehad fired the one shot and fled. Pursuit was useless.
His eyes thoughtful, Martin waited a moment more, then stepped back into his car and headed for the Blue Lantern. He was glad the attempt on his life had been made. It removed all cause for grattude. If the boys wanted to toss lead, that was fine. It was the one game he really knew.
Hunt might have him removed from office. He might kiss Jennifer goodbye. “B-but by God,” he swore, “while I ast. Irontown will know it has a s-sheriff!”
THE CAFÉ was thick with smoke, shrill with laughter and music. Off-shift mill-workers crowded the booths and the bar, cajoled into turning their hard-earned money into hangovers by pretty, too young girls who should have been home at that hour. As his eyes swept the cafe, Martin made a mental note to check into the statutes concerning minors in the morning. Kids that age had no business being in bars.
Hunt, a fat man in his early fifties, was sitting in a front booth with Sharon, the superintendent of the Helm open hearth. Bill Helm, a slim, patrician looking man in his early thirties, much the worse for drink, was standing half-way down the bar buying drinks for a crowd of equally drunken workers.
His big thumbs hooked in his belt, Martha, studied the man he had hoped would some day be his brother-in-law. Good-looking, well-educated, brilliant, Bill Helm had been born with everything any man could ask for—with the exception of a backbone. He was both a heavy gambler and a heavy drinker. It was said the elder Helm had spent a fortune prying him out of jams, and his appointment as general superintendent of the mills was the last chance he was to have. He seemed bent on throwing it away. With it all, Stan Martin thought wryly, as his eyes traveled slowly over the other man, he was a gentleman from the soles of his well-polished shoes to the angle at which his twenty-dollar hair was tilted.
Thinking of Jennifer, he walked slowly up to the group and laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder, asking quietly, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Bill?”
Helm had difficulty in focusing his eyes, but his voice, when he spoke, was pleasant if a trifle blurred. “Oh, hello there, Stan. How’s the boy sheriff tonight?”
“Not so good,” Martin said frankly. He repeated his question. “How about going home, Bill?”
A trim little blonde, new to Martin, said, “How’s about minding your own business, Sheriff.” She emphasized the word sheriff and the crowded bar rocked with laughter. Only Helm failed to laugh. “You may be right, Stan,” he admitted with drunken gravity. “Ver’ poshible I’ve had enough.” He picked his change from the bar. “Go righ’ back up on the hill as soon ash I she Hertha home.”
Partially supported by the blonde, he staggered from the bar. Martin crooked a finger at Jimmy Glade, the owner of the Blue Lantern. “I thought,” he told him, “that there was a law in this state about selling whiskey to a drunken man.”
Glade continued to pick his teeth. “Yeah. I guess there is,” he admitted, “but—”
“Then observe it,” Martin said curtly. “I’m not out to spoil any man’s fun. But if I catch you selling Bill Helm or any other drunk a drink, I’ll close you up as tight as a drum.” The bar owner stare I at him but made no comment. Martin strode back to the booth where Hunt and Sharon were sitting. “Look,” he demanded of the fat man. “Just who is sheriff of this town, Paul Saltzer or myself?” Hunt seemed surprised. “Why you are. Why? What’s the matter, Stan?”
The younger man considered briefly, then told him about Sadie Wolinsky. “What’s more,” he concluded, “I know that she was murdered.”
The superintendent of the open hearth got to his feet. “And you didn’t see who it was who took the shot at you after you’d talked to her parents?”
“No,” Martin admitted, “I didn’t.” He remembered suddenly that Sharon was also interested in Jennifer. “But just why should it interest you?”
Sharon smiled wryly. “Who knows, hero? Maybe I wish he’d gotten you.”
He walked over to the bar. Martin studied his shoes with interest. The sole and heels were thick with the yellow clay that was found only in Hunkytown. “How long has he been here?” he asked Hunt.
Hunt thought a moment, said, “I wouldn’t know. He was here when I came in. But surely you don’t think—”
“I haven’t been thinking,” Martin admitted. “But I’m beginning to.” He slid into the booth across from Hunt. “Look, Big Shot. I’m kicking over the traces. I’m through with being sheriff in name only. Why did you give Paul Saltzer orders to find Sadie’s death a suicide?”
The fat man’s smile was sickly. “If that’s a gun you’re pointing at my stomach, Stan, you’re being very foolish. I had a hand in electing you sheriff, true. But if you think that I give the orders for the rough stuff that’s pulled around Irontown,” he waved a plump hand at the bar, “if you think I am the lad who is getting a rake-off for allowing these joints to run wide-open, then you’d better rub your eyes and grow up. Hell. I thought you were just putting on a dumb act for, shall we say, reasons of your own.”
Stan demanded to know what he was talking about.
“You’re the sheriff,” Hunt told him. “Suppose you try to find out.” Ignoring the younger man’s gun, he heaved his bulk to his feet and joined Sharon at the bar.
FEELING very juvenile, Martin returned his gun to its holster. He wished he were smarter. It took more than a gun and the desire to be an intelligent sheriff. Something went on here that he didn’t know, something that had escaped him entirely.
He started to get to his feet, saw a hostess named Cora whom he knew slightly from their school days and motioned her to the booth. “You knew Sadie Wolinsky quite well, didn’t you, Cora?” he asked her.
The girl wet dry lips with her tongue. “Yeah, I knew Sadie,” she admitted. “I also know she’s dead because she got high one night and threatened to talk to the feds.” Martin thought that one over. It was the first time the federals had entered the picture. There seemed to be a lot of things he didn’t know.
Cora continued, “But if you think I’m talking, you’re crazy.” She added, hotly, “I will say this much. All of Hunkytown is laughing at you. They all know that the so utterly-cut Miss Helm will throw you over like that,” she snapped her fingers, “as soon as you’ve pulled her brother’s chestnuts out of the fire.” His stomach suddenly felt sore as if she had kicked him. Martin caught at her arm. “You’re lying, Cora. Bill Helm is a sot. But he had nothing to do with Sadie’s death.” The girl tore her arm free. Her face was contorted with anger. “Keep your hands off me. You know as well as I do who killed Sadie. He told her too much about his business. And he was afraid she would talk.” She was gone before he could stop her. Martin leaned back in the booth. The whole world seemed suddenly rotten. If what Cora had hinted was true, it was small wonder that Hunt had advised him to grow up, that Saltzer had been so insistent that he agree with him in calling Sadie’s death a suicide.
He mentally tabulated the few facts he knew. Bill Helm was a heavy drinker, a big gambler, and a ladies’ man. And on the scale in which he indulged, all three vices took big money. As general manager of the mills, his was the final word on all matters concerning the town that made its living from the mills. Working through the medium of a man like Paul Saltzer, it was a natural set-up. Bill Helm could shake down Irontown to pay for his fun and still not have to account to his father for the huge sums that he expended.
On a hunch, Martin strode to the bar and asked Glade, “W-who do you pay off to, Jimmy? And h-how much?”
The owner of the Blue Lantern studied him through heavy lidded eyes. “Coming from you that’s a hell of a question, Sheriff. You know I pay my levy to Saltzer. What’s the matter, your future brother-in-law holding out on you?”
There it was.
From down the bar, Hunt asked, “Beginning to grow up, St
an?” Martin walked out without answering, feeling his ears grow red. Bill Helm was a crook. The wise boys thought he was getting a share. The others thought with Cora, “All Hunkytown is laughing at you.” They thought that because of Jennifer he was allowing Bill to get away with murder.
The rain cool on his hot face, he stopped under a street lamp, took his badge from his pocket and stared at it. The score remained the same. He lost Jennifer. There was only one thing he could do. If Bill Helm had killed Sadie Wolinsky to close her painted mouth, he was no better than any other killer. His first move, he decided, would be to have a showdown with Saltzer.
HE DROPPED his badge back in his pocket and walked on slowly through the ram,:;, his heels making soft, sucking sounds on the sidewalk. A tan convertible with the top up was parked under the street lamp in front of his office. As Jennifer rolled down the window and called to him, he realized for the first time that he had left his own car parked in front of the Blue Lantern. Her eyes worried, she wanted to know if he had seen her brother.
Even the sight of her hurt. It made him realize all that he was losing. This was the girl he had dreamed of in a hundred fox-holes. And a silver badge and a brother-rat were washing out that dream.
“Dad’s furious and I’m frantic,” she continued. “It’s something about some woman and a check.”
Martin wondered if she knew and was stalling. He decided her only fault was loving her brother too well. “Yes. I saw Bill. A few minutes ago,” he told her. “I chased him out of the Blue Lantern.”
She opened the door of the car. “Please come with me, Stan. I’ve got to find him and straighten him out before Dad sees him. He swore this was Bill’s last chance. And he means it.”
Martin hesitated briefly. He wanted the address of the little blonde Helm had been with. And before he saw Bill again, he wanted to know just what he was guilty of and how much evidence there was against him. “Wait,” he told the girl, and walked up the stairs of his office.
Saltzer was sitting at his desk working on a bottle of rye. Martin pulled him to his feet, then knocked him off them. “That’s just a starter,” he warned his deputy. “Who are you working for, Paul?”
The other man got to his feet, spluttering that he was working for the county. Martin knocked him down again. When he got up the second time, the other man admitted: “Okay. Don’t hit me again. I’ve been collecting for young Bill Helm.”
“And it was Bill who killed Sadie Wolinsky?”
“I don’t know,” Saltzer said, shifty-eyed. “But I do know they’ve been plenty thick. That’s why I tried to tip you.” He wiped the blood from his lips. “Don’t be a fool, Stan. Jennifer won’t ever marry you if you send her brother up for murder.”
Martin thought a minute, said, “If they were thick, why should he kill her?”
Saltzer shook his head. “I didn’t say Bill did. But a few days ago he met a little blonde he liked better. And I’ve heard some talk in the bars that Sadie was broadcasting that unless Bill came across with plenty, she was going to turn him in to the feds.”
“For what?” Martin wanted to know. “Income tax evasion,” Saltzer said succinctly. “They know this is a wide-open town. They know someone is collecting plenty. I’ve warned him time and again. But Bill hasn’t dared to declare his take because he knew his old man would raise hell, probably disinherit him.” He added virtuously, “But they haven’t a thing on me. I’ve declared every dime of the ten percent Bill gave me for collecting.”
He took a drink from the bottle and offered it to Martin. The youthful sheriff shook his head. “But you have no real proof it was Bill who killed Sadie?”
Saltzer’s eyes grew shifty again. “No, no actual proof. And if I were you, Stan—”
“Y-you’re not,” Martin cut him short. “Now s-stop lying and s-stop trying to tell me what to do. M-maybe I’m only a dumb Polack from the w-wrong side of the tracks. But while I last, I’m sheriff.” He held out a hand. “Give. What did you pick up in that cottage that proved that Bill Helm killed Sadie!”
He doubled his fist again and Saltzer handed him a crumpled, muddied scrap of paper. “I found this on the porch,” he said quickly. “It must have dropped cut of Bill Helm’s pocket.”
Martin smoothed the scrap of cheap note paper. The note was signed Sadie and read—
Dere Bill:
You can’t do this to me. I no all about the new blonde. And you come around to my place tonight redy to pay off plenty or I’ll tell the fedral men who it is that really runs Irontown.
“That makes it clear?” Saltzer asked. Martin dosed his eyes, remembering Sadie, seeing Bill Helm as he had seen him last in the Blue Lantern, and hearing Jennifer say, ‘It’s something about some woman and a check.’ “Y-yes. Perfectly clear,” he said quietly. It did. He had been an even bigger fool than he had realized. “You k-know this blonde’s address?”
Saltzer stared at him sharply. “Yeah. Sure. Her name is Hertha Best. And she has a room at the Rand Hotel, next door to the Blue Lantern.”
“T-that makes it just fine,” Martin told him. He slid his gun from his holster and thumbed the safety on and off. “C-come on. Let’s you and I go pick up a k-killer.” Saltzer’s hawk face grew even thinner. His eyes were mere slits of suspicion. “You know, damn you!” he accused.
Martin fingered his badge with his free hand. The cold silver felt good. “That’s right,” he admitted. “I know.” He added sharply, “Don’t try it, Paul!”
But Saltzer did. His hand swept up holding a gun. A blow as from a heavy hammer pounded Martin against the wall. Then the gun in his own hand bucked. He regarded the result with satisfaction. “I w-warned you,” he told Saltzer.
THE RAIN had increased, if anything, but the crowd waiting in his office overflowed down the stairs and out on to the walk. Ignoring them completely, Martin herded the drink-sodden, protesting mill superintendent and the blonde upstairs and into his office.
Having told Jennifer he was on his way to pick up Bill, he was not surprised to see the elder Helm flanked by two of his lawyers. The mill owner shook an outraged finger in his face. “You’ll regret this, Martin. My boy is no more a killer than I am. I see I was right in my judgment of you. For the sake of a few dirty dollars and a silver badge—” Jennifer held her brother’s head against her, sobbing, “How could you, Stan? How could you?” He looked at her but said nothing.
One of the Helm lawyers asked, “Do we understand correctly, Sheriff? You are charging Bill Helm with the murder of one Sadie Wolinsky?”
Young Helm looked up. “I didn’t,” he protested. “I didn’t kill anyone.” He buried his head in, his hands. “At least I don’t remember it, if I did.”
“H-how about it, Hertha?” Martin asked the blonde. “You still sticking to the story you told when I arrested you? You still claim that Bill was with you all evening?”
She wet her lips, seemingly frightened. “No. I’m not sticking my neck out for anyone. Just before we met you at the Blue Lantern, Bill stumbled into my room roaring drunk and mumbling something about he’d ‘fixed her clock.’ ”
Hunt patted his fat belly. “Well, that would seem to be that. When you grew up, you grew up fast, Stan.” He glanced around the office, as if in search of someone.
Martin said frankly, “As I got the story, Bill has been using the Helm influence to put the bite on the town. Using my deputy, Paul Saltzer, as his collection man, he chiseled enough to warrant a federal investigation for income tax evasion. And when Sadie threatened to talk, he killed her.”
Bill Helm spread his hands in a futile gesture. “How can I prove anything? I was drunk.”
His father tried a new tack. “You know what this will mean, Stan, as far as you and Jennifer are concerned.”
Martin smiled wryly. “Sure. I go back to my own side of the tracks and the big white house on the hill is out of bounds.”
Hunt cleared his throat. “Not necessarily. I’d say by what you have done tonight, by sacrifici
ng your natural personal feelings, by showing yourself a fearless and valuable servant of the people, you’ve made yourself certain of re-election as long as you care to hold office.” He glanced around him again, a puzzled frown on his face.
“Looking for someone, louse?” Martin asked him quietly.
“What do you mean?” the fat man asked.
“I think you know,” Martin said. “And I know who you’re looking for: one of your missing bird dogs who was well paid to point in the wrong direction. It’s been you all the time. And it was either you or Saltzer who killed Sadie.”
Hunt gasped, “You’re crazy. Why—I had you elected.”
“That’s right,” Martin admitted. “I was your final protective line. You’re the lad who runs the machine. You’ve been running it for years, with Saltzer as your collection man. But once you learned Uncle Sam was on your tail, you had to think up something fast. I was it. I was the perfect stooge, the poor but honest hero, home from the wars.”
He made a gesture of disgust. “Hell. With a yarn like that any D.A. just out of law school could have sent Bill to the chair. You merely transferred your guilt to Bill With the help of your various bird dogs.”
The elder Helm stammered, “Then Bill didn’t—?”
The youthful sheriff shook his head, “Hell no. All that Bill is guilty of is being a damn fool. I knew that as soon as I started to use my brains. The man who killed Sadie got mud on his shoes. Saltzer had plenty on his, but Bill’s shoes were weil-polished. Bill was in a check jam. And if he had been collecting the dough he was supposed to, such a thing couldn’t have happened.” He took the note that Saltzer had given him from his pocket. “But this is what really tipped me. Whoever wrote it had Sadie spell like she hadn’t gone through third grade.” Self-conscious, he stuttered for the first time in minutes. “W-while as it so happened, S-Sadie and I were the best spellers in our s-senior class.” He looked at Jennifer. “R-right?”
Her bright eyes white tears, she nodded. Hunt’s face was ugly. “Okay. You seem to have me, Sheriff. Everything you’ve said is true. I was the one Sadie threatened. And I had Saltzer kill her. But you’ll never burn me.” He whipped a gun from his pocket. “I’m leaving here—right now!”