by Jerry eBooks
“There was a bank hold-up, ten years ago,” Joe was saying. “The bank hold-up was in Moreland, Kansas. The robbers got away with thirty thousand dollars. That is, the man who was carrying the money got away. The other two were killed. The man who got away for a time, was Frank Dennison. He was later caught and sentenced to prison for life. Two years ago, he escaped.”
Hogan was sitting up straighter now. He had placed the name, Dennison. Such a man had escaped from prison about two years ago. The exact details he didn’t recall.
“What else, Joe?” he demanded.
“The money taken in the hold-up was never recovered,” said Joe. “Frank Dennison gave it to his wife. She brought it here. And he found her and killed her after making her tell him where the money was.”
“You’re guessing, now, Joe.”
“But it was what happened. I know it’s what happened.”
“Selma Conners was really Selma Dennison?”
“That’s right.”
“And how do you know Dennison followed her here?”
Joe reached into his pocket. He drew out a picture. He was breathing fast as he leaned over and placed it on the detective’s desk. “There they are, Hogan,” he cried. “Frank and Selma Dennison. Look at the man closely.”
Hogan did so. He came to his feet. “Frank McBride!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, Frank McBride.”
Here was something pretty real. Here were facts which hadn’t come out at the trial. If it was true that McBride was Dennison, and that Selma Conners had been his wife, and that she had had the money stolen from the bank, the entire case might have to be opened again. At least, after his facts were checked, the whole problem should be put up to the governor, who at least might delay the execution.
“Joe,” he said, “you stay here. Let me carry the ball for a while.”
He hurried into the next room to bark out orders, then looked back into his office. Joe Pulaski’s head was buried in his arms. His shoulders heaved as though he were crying. And Dan Hogan, who was a tough and hard-boiled guy, felt a sudden mist in his eyes which he quickly blinked away.
THAT was on Tuesday, and the following Tuesday, late in the afternoon, Dan Hogan faced one of the toughest interviews of his life. But Joe didn’t know that as he stood at the detective’s desk. He had had no warning of what to expect.
“We’ve got Frank Dennison,” said Hogan. “We finally ran him to earth.”
He had moved, dropped from sight, but each day Hogan had been promising he would be found. Joe’s face lit up at the news.
“We found him and he’s locked up,” Hogan continued. “He’ll be sent back to Kansas. It’s true, Joe, that he was Selma’s husband. He admitted she knew where he had hidden the bank loot, that when he looked for it, it was gone. He thinks she took it. He might, eventually, have killed her in trying to make her tell where it was. But he didn’t kill her, Joe. We are positive of that. His alibi is air-tight.”
“You mean—”
“I mean just that, Joe.”
“Then Mary—”
“I don’t know what the Governor will do. We can’t assure him that the discovery of Selma’s true identity has anything to do with her death. And the case against Mary—if it hadn’t been that Helen Taylor saw the murder through the window, this might give us a chance. But in view of the Taylor woman’s testimony—”
“There was a curtain over the window,” said Joe thickly.
“I know. I tested that. You could see figures in the room through the curtain, Joe. You could see well enough to distinguish a man from a woman.”
“But what about the bank money—the money that disappeared?”
“Perhaps Selma spent it or lost it, or more likely, hid it away somewhere. The secret of what happened to it may never be known.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry, Joe.”
Haggard Joe Pulaski sucked in a breath. He stared at the window without seeing it. There was a ringing sound in his ears. He tried to whip his thoughts into some kind of order, but couldn’t. Words struggled through his throat, croaking out into the room.
“She didn’t do it, I tell you, Mary didn’t kill that woman. They’ve got to set her free. How much time do I have?”
“Three days, Joe,” said Hogan. “But maybe the Governor—let me buy you a drink.”
The telephone on Hogan’s desk started ringing and Hogan turned to answer it, glad of the interruption. When he looked up once more, Joe Pulaski was gone.
IT WAS a dark night. Joe stood in the shadows of the trees across from the boarding house where Mary had lived. He watched the curtained window of Helen Taylor’s room. Helen, who had lied about what she .had seen through the back porch window. He was back to the beginning again. Helen had lied and now Helen and the man who had been Selma’s husband—The door to the house across the street opened and a man came out. He crossed the street toward a parked car, caught sight of Joe, hesitated, then moved in Joe’s direction.
“You again, Joe?” he asked curiously. The man was Ed Morris. Joe shrugged his shoulders.
“And watching Helen’s window again?” said Morris. He sounded faintly amused. “They’re going to get married, you know. Helen and Bill Conners.”
“She didn’t do it,” said Joe. “Mary did not kill Selma Conners.”
“You might be right at that,” said Ed Morris slowly, “Maybe Frankie will break down and talk. That detective, Hogan, told me about what you dug up for him in Oklahoma. I’ve got to hand it to you, Joe. You’re probably one of the most stubborn men in the country. How about running up town with me. I’ve got to see a man, then we’ll grab a bite to eat and do a little talking.”
“I want to stay here,” Joe answered.
Morris turned back to his car, hesitated momentarily, then climbed into it and drove off.
Joe stood under the shadows .of the tree, watching the curtained window across the street, but he was not thinking about the window or the woman beyond. Something kept nagging at his mind, something he couldn’t identify for a time. But finally it came to him—stabbing through him like a knife. Ed Morris had said to him, “Maybe Frankie will break down and talk.” Frankie! Morris had referred to Frank Dennison as “Frankie.” No one here had ever called him by that name. Hogan had referred to him as Frank. But in Oklahoma, a sheriff Joe had talked to had used the name Frankie, and so had others.
It was a little thing, just a diminutive ending to a name, and perhaps nothing more. It was a little thing but it was still something to grasp. There was nothing else Joe could turn to. “Frankie,” he said under his breath. “Frankie.” He started across the street.
He knew the rooming house quite well. He knew the location of Ed Morris’ room, on the lower floor. He got in through an unlocked window, drew the curtain over the window, and clicked on the lights, and stood there for a time, glancing from side to side, and suddenly excited.
“Could it have been Morris?” he was asking himself. “Could Morris have learned about the bank loot and killed Selma in an effort to make her talk? And if it had been Morris and he had found the money, couldn’t it be hidden here?” There was only a thin chance that the money might be here, but Joe didn’t have the time to miss any chance at all. Three days were left. Only three. He started searching the room. He started searching and he didn’t hear the noise at the door or hear the door open, but he heard it close and he jerked around to see Morris leaning against it, watching him. Joe saw the gun in Morris’s hand. The gun was pointed straight at him.
“Maybe it was a good hunch that brought me back,” said Morris. “But you wouldn’t have found a thing, Joe. Not a thing.”
“Not the money?” asked Joe.
“No.”
Joe Pulaski’s shoulders straightened. He knew, suddenly, that he had come to the end of his search. He knew it because of the gun in Morris’s hand, and because Morris had come back to his room, and because Morris had used the name “Frankie” in referring to Fra
nk Dennison. Here, facing him, was the man who had killed Selma Conners, and who had placed the guilt on Mary Lambert. Helen Taylor had been deceived in what she had seen through the thick curtains of the window.
“Some day,” said Joe slowly, “I’ll find the money. Some day you’ll start spending it. I’ll be right there to ask where you got it. I’ll find where you came from and why you called Frank, Frankie. I’ll discover the connection. I’ll never stop, Morris. Never.”
There was an ugly look on the face of the man who stood at the door, but he nodded his head as though in agreement. “I suppose that’s true,” he muttered. “I don’t suppose, if you lived, that you ever would stop. But death will stop you, Joe. A man can shoot an intruder whom he surprises in the darkness of his room. The police will understand.”
The gun in Morris’s hand seemed to steady. There was a sudden explosion and the gun jumped and Morris reeled sideways and grabbed at his shoulder. Joe, curiously, didn’t feel a thing. Then he understood why. The shot he had heard had come from the window and had struck Morris in the shoulder and Dan Hogan was now climbing through the window. There was almost a grin on his face.
“Sure, Morris,” he said grimly. “The police understand. You bet they understand.”
LATER Hogan explained the developments to the Chief over the telephone.
“I guessed he had gone to the rooming house, Chief,” said Hogan. “I followed him when he crossed the street and broke into Morris’s room. I didn’t stop him. The guy had used his head in what he dug up in Oklahoma. I thought he might be using it again, tonight. Anyhow, I wanted him to have any break he could get. He deserved it. I was right outside the window when Morris did his talking, and since we got Morris back here, he’s done more talking. He knew the Dennisons in Oklahoma, saw the woman on the street here, recognized her, moved to her rooming house and went after the money. Got it too. I’ll give you all the details when I get back.”
“Get back from where?” asked the chief, his eyebrows raised.
“From up state. I’m taking Joe up state. I want to be there when he breaks the news to Mary Lambert. I’ve talked to the warden. It’s all arranged. Not her release, for that’s got to be done formally, but the warden’s going to let us see her.”
Joe Pulaski, sitting in a chair near Hogan’s desk, was smiling. In his own mind he was already there with Mary, telling her that now everything would be all right.
“And another thing, Chief,” said Hogan. “There’s going to be a wedding and the whole damned Department is going to chip in for a gift. As fine a gift as we can buy. That’s an order and if you don’t issue it, I will, and I’m not getting soft, either.” Hogan sniffed and rubbed at his eyes. He looked at Joe and scowled. He said, “Come on, Joe. The car’s waiting.”
A GRAVE IS WAITING
Bruno Fischer
The lovely lady with the very red lips had a lovely proposition—to which any gentleman with guts would reply: “Nuts!” Private Detective Ben Starke’s own answer to the lady is printed in this story
BEN STARKE didn’t wear a gun. He didn’t believe in them. But he had to believe in the gun that was pointed at him.
“Get into that car,” the rolypoly man said.
They stood within a few feet of the entrance to the apartment house which filled an entire block. It was early evening; there were plenty of people on that Bronx residential street. Young Mr. and Mrs. Weinstein, who lived in the apartment next to Ben’s, came out arm in arm.
They said good-evening to Ben.
“Nice weather we’re having,” Ben observed pleasantly.
“It sure is,” Mr. Weinstein said. “Amy and I can’t decide whether to go to the movies or for a walk.”
They moved on. They hadn’t seen the gun in the rolypoly man’s hand because the gun was in his pocket. Ben knew that the gun was there because the muzzle punched out the material of the pocket.
“Into that car,” the rolypoly man said when Mr. and Mrs. Weinstein were out of earshot. “And no funny business.”
The car was parked at the curb directly in front of the apartment house entrance. It was a snappy two-toned blue sedan. The second man leaned indolently against the car’s front door. He was tall and narrow through the shoulders. He wore rimless glasses and had a hairline mustache. He looked like any other Bronx citizen lounging in the street, but his right hand was also in his pocket.
“Please hurry, Mr. Starke,” he called. “We’re late.”
Perhaps a dozen people on the street heard him, but none of them got the implied threat of something unpleasant in what he said.
Ben Starke went to the sedan. The tall man with the hairline mustache opened the rear door. Ben got in, and the rolypoly man followed and sat beside him. The tall man closed the door and walked around the sedan and got in behind the wheel. To passers-by, it was all very polite and nothing else.
The tall man turned in the front seat, faced Ben, and now his gun was visible. “Frisk him, Henry,” he said.
Henry ran pudgy hands over Ben’s torso. “He’s clean.” He pushed his rolypoly body into the corner of the seat and took out his own gun. The tall man started the car.
After they had driven a few blocks, Ben asked: “Mind if I smoke?”
Neither of them bothered to answer. The tall man was concentrating on driving through Bronx traffic. Henry sat with the heavy automatic on his fat knees, the muzzle in a line with Ben’s ribs. Ben took out pipe and tobacco and lit up. He wasn’t nearly as calm as he looked.
They drove through Van Cortlandt Park to the Sawmill River Parkway and headed north into Westchester.
“I’m curious lad,” Ben said presently. “May I know what this is about?”
“We’re the ones who’ll ask questions.” The tall man spoke without taking his eyes off the road. “Where’s George?”
“Who’s George?” Ben asked.
“Don’t be a wise guy,” Henry said. “The kid.”
“What kid?” Ben asked.
“He’s a wise guy, Gus,” Henry explained to the driver. “Every shamus I ever knew was a wise guy.” He waved his gun at Ben. “Be a wise guy and you get a slug in the gut.”
“Stow it, Henry,” Gus said. “He’ll talk when we’re ready to make him talk.”
THERE was silence. The car didn’t go particularly fast. Gus wasn’t taking a chance of being stopped by a cop for speeding. Ben sat puffing placidly on his pipe. He only looked placid; he didn’t feel that way. He was glad that he didn’t know a kid named George. Probably he could manage to keep his mouth shut, but it was just as well not to be tempted when the going got too rough.
The car left the parkway for a dark, narrow, winding road. Ben wondered where they were going.
It turned out that they weren’t going anywhere in particular. The car slowed, stopped off the road on a fringe of grass beyond which trees made a solid wall of darkness in the night. Gus took a flashlight out of the glove compartment and his gun out of his pocket and all three got out of the car. Two guns and a flashlight beam covered Ben. Following orders, he walked a short distance into the woods.
“Far enough,” Gus said.
Ben Starke felt his stomach muscles tighten. This was a good place to kill a man; his body wouldn’t be found for days or maybe weeks.
“You won’t find out anything by killing me,” Ben said.
Gus sighed. “We won’t kill you. But you’ll be a mighty unhappy guy till you talk.”
Contemplatively Ben scratched his chin. “What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll tell you what’s in it for you if you don’t talk,” Henry said. “A slug in the gut.”
“Shut up, Henry,” Gus said. “You’re acting smart now, Starke. What’s she paying you?”
“Twenty-five a day, plus a hundred dollar retainer.”
“How’d you like five hundred? All you have to do for it is tell me where he is.”
Ben said blandly, “She sent him away,” and then waited to see if that answer ma
de sense.
It seemed to. Gus nodded. “That’s what I figured. Did you take him yourself?
“Of course. That’s what she paid me for. Is it a deal for half a grand?”
“I said so, didn’t I?” Above the beam of the flashlight, Ben saw Gus’ upper lip caught between his teeth. Sweat glistened on his face. “Where is he?”
“Upstate,” Ben replied casually. He took out a match, struck it, held it to his pipe. He was moving a little, gliding into the light. “Rochester.”
“Damn you!” Gus was shaking with angry impatience. “What’s the address?”
“Take it easy.” Ben pulled at his pipe, at last seemed satisfied by the way it drew. Gus had dipped his gun a little, and the light, too. Henry was leaning forward, his mouth open. The answer meant a lot to them.
“The name of the street—” Ben said, and he brought tip his left hand.
His wrist struck the flashlight, knocking it out of Gus’ grasp. Instantly total darkness closed over the three of them, as if they had been suddenly dropped into a black, bottomless pit.
The roar of Henry’s gun drowned out Gus’ startled outcry. Orange flame spurted toward Ben. By that time he was in a crouch. Somewhere above him the bullet streaked, probably as close to Gus as to himself. He twisted, leaped erect, plunged deeper into the woods.
Henry shot again.
“You’ll hit me, you fool!” Gus screamed.
Ben’s shoulder struck a tree. He staggered sideways, regained his balance, ran with arms outstretched to save himself from other obstacles in that blackness. He glanced back. Gus or Henry had picked up the flashlight, but the jumping beam did not extend all the way to him. He cut to his left, toward the road.
There was no moon, but starlight vaguely revealed the outlines of the road. He walked west, looking constantly over his shoulder. When a glow of headlights appeared in the distance, he dove off the road, lay behind bushes. The two-toned blue sedan passed. Ben waited a safe ten minutes before walking on.
Shortly after he reached the parkway, a couple of men driving down to New York from Albany gave him a lift.