Jim Hanvey, Detective

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  She was exultant at his report of success, and immediately they set the stage for a new drama. From the depths of his trunk he produced several dozen blank checks of the Crescent National of New Orleans. These he placed on the writing desk beside Major Torrance’s check for eight thousand dollars, which was also on the Crescent National. A half dozen pens were next laid out carefully and several bottles of ink, all approximately of the color used originally by the unsuspecting horse owner, who was at that moment a victim to mal de mer.43 Then, with brow furrowed, Johnny went to work. The spell of it gained upon him; he forgot for the moment that this was not seriously undertaken. His fingers, clumsy through lack of practice, labored over 8’s and 0’s similar to those made by the major.

  “It’s a dog-goned shame,” commented Johnny, “that I ain’t really trying something like this.”

  Helen gazed pridefully upon his handiwork.

  “Come off that, dearie! Jim’d have you in less than no time.”

  “I know, I know; but I’m awfully tempted.” He shoved his chair back from the writing desk, lighted a Turkish cigarette and walked to the window, where he posed for a moment, carelessly twirling his close-clipped mustache. “Better telephone Jim, Helen. We want this thing to be an alibi.”

  She called the number of Jim’s hotel apartment house. The switchboard operator there answered.

  “Mr. Hanvey’s apartment, please.”

  There was a brief pause and then the operator’s voice: “If you’ll hold the telephone for a moment I’ll connect you. Mr. Hanvey has just went up in the elevator.”

  Helen nodded violently at her husband, signifying that Jim was at home. In the transmitter she fired a question: “How long has he been out?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just been on duty a half hour. If you wish——”

  Then came a violent buzzing, a pause and a drawling, lazy voice from the other end:

  “Hello! Who’s this now?”

  “Jim?”

  “Yeh?”

  “This is Helen.”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh, Jim”—she pulled out the tremolo stop—“you promised to help me keep Johnny straight—you promised!”

  “Well, I’m doin’ my best.”

  “You haven’t done enough. He’s working now, Jim—right now. Do you understand?”

  “On that paper?”

  “Yes. Understand?”

  “Sure; sure I do, Helen! I ain’t so thick I can’t see the joke when one clown slaps another in the pants. What you want me to do about it?”

  “Come down and stop him. He’ll listen to you.”

  “There ain’t many folks will.” Brief silence and then—“I’ll come. It’s awful hot for walkin’——”

  “Take a taxi.”

  Came Jim’s answer, heavy with sarcasm: “Too durned expensive for an honest detective.”

  His receiver clicked on the hook. Helen flung herself across the room and into her husband’s arms.

  “It worked, dearie. He just came in, which means he ain’t hanging around Starnes & Company. He probably followed you when you left there, to get an idea if you were up to anything special. Saw you return to the hotel, and he went home. You’ve got an alibi. And now—now we’ll let him save you from going crooked! Oh, honey, we’re getting away with it!”

  He patted her shoulder fondly.

  “You sure are a dandy wife, Helen! Great ol’ girl!”

  She bustled into the dressing room.

  “I’ll be on the watchout for Jim in the lobby. Remember, Johnny, if you act your part right he’ll never suspect you of being in on this deal, even if something should go wrong.”

  As she arranged her hat Johnny Norton glanced across the housetops in the general direction of the downtown business district.

  “Gee, I’d give something to know what happened down yonder!”

  It was worth knowing, for there had been action a-plenty. All three of the waiting men had witnessed Johnny’s departure from the offices of Starnes & Company, and they saw Johnny walk to the bank via the route which they knew the messenger would take. The quintet had planned this affair to a detail. They knew, for instance, that securities of unusual value held by Starnes & Company were daily taken to the First National Bank by a trustworthy messenger.

  This messenger was little more than a glorified office boy despite his maturity. Too, he was a creature of habit. He daily departed the Starnes & Company suite about 2:30 o’clock, and being methodical took the shortest possible route to the First National. It was upon this habit of the messenger’s that much of their scheme was based.

  There were two routes between the Starnes corner and the First National, located two blocks away. The obvious one was down Elm Street one block to Main, and thence along that cheap thoroughfare to Pelham Street. The other was one block north on Ashmore and thence across on Pelham to Main. The latter route was several steps shorter, less traveled, and therefore easier. It was this second route which the Starnes messenger was in the habit of taking.

  Almost identical in distance, the two routes were entirely dissimilar. Elm Street was a principal thoroughfare, something which could not be said of either Ashmore or Pelham. Those two blocks were lined with shoddy secondhand stores, groceries, markets and third-rate cafeterias.

  At thirty-three minutes after two o’clock the Starnes messenger emerged from the big office building and started northward on Ashmore. He walked with a peculiar shuffling gait, and in his right hand he clutched a brown leather satchel. The moment he appeared Slim Bolton slipped into reverse, backed his sedan into the traffic, turned into Ashmore and followed. He saw Connie Hawes detach himself from the doorway of a barber shop and fall into step behind the decrepit and unsuspecting messenger.

  Slim was driving parallel to the slow-moving messenger. His car veered toward the curb. A trifle ahead of the man, Slim stopped his car and immediately slipped into second in preparation for a quick get-away. Happy Gorman, every inch the gentleman in appearance, opened the rear door of the sedan and hailed the little old man.

  “Pardon me, stranger,” he said politely, “but would you mind telling me which way I go to reach the best hotel?”

  The messenger paused and quite innocently moved toward the curb and the car. He recognized that this man must be a tourist. Connie Hawes closed in on him from the rear.

  “The best hotel?” repeated the messenger, pleased at having been questioned. “It’s two blocks down that way, and then——”

  The world went black before his eyes. Connie Hawes struck as he leaped. The messenger pitched forward into the opened door and Connie flung him out of the way as he darted by and grabbed the satchel. A spectator, rigid with terror, emitted a shriek of horror. The messenger crumpled grotesquely in the gutter—stunned.

  Slim clamped down on the accelerator and sped forward. There was no traffic policeman on that little-used corner. Another pedestrian shouted, but no one knew what caused his excitement. The car whirled eastward on Pelham Street, turned north at the next corner and then rounded the block and sped southward over the viaduct. A crowd had collected about the figure of the stricken messenger, who was now struggling back to consciousness. Excitement was intense, but explanations given the belated policeman were incoherent. The officer notified headquarters that a messenger for the Starnes banking house had been hit on the head and robbed, but he had no clue as to the identity of the assailants and knew nothing of the affair save that the escape had been made in an automobile. And the three criminals, speeding across country, little appreciated the measure of their safety. They drove at reasonable speed for thirty miles. At the first little town Connie Hawes alighted, carrying the satchel. The car proceeded. Twelve miles farther south Happy Gorman left the car. Slim drove into the next town, parked his car at the curb, strolled nonchalantly into a drug store, where he consumed an ice-cr
eam soda, and twenty minutes later boarded a New Orleans-bound train. In the second Pullman44 he saw Connie Hawes and Happy Gorman, but by no slightest gesture did these men indicate an acquaintanceship with one another.

  They knew that they were safe, but took no chances. Time enough for that after their trip westward from New Orleans, when they should have attained safety on the far side of the Mexican border.

  Events of some importance had been occurring contemporaneously in the city from which they had so abruptly departed. Immediately on receiving the telephone call from Helen of Troy, Jim Hanvey left his diminutive apartment. The heat had become more intense; the sun baked down from a sky unmarked by clouds.

  Walking, for Jim, was far from a pleasure. He rolled uncomfortably down the street, his tiny45, fishlike eyes blinking with interminable slowness, fat hands flapping awkwardly against his pants legs with each lumbering step. He turned in at the hotel lobby and there found Helen. She crossed eagerly toward him, futilely searching his puttylike face for any indication of suspicion.

  “You understand what I wanted with you, Jim?”

  “Yeh, sure I understand, Helen. But it does seem to me Johnny might’ve been considerate enough to pick a cooler day to go crooked on.”

  “He’s working now. He’s all excited, looking like he’s sorry he wasted all this time going straight. He’s a wizard with other folks’ checks, Johnny is.”

  “M’m-h’m! Clever boy. What you want me to do?”

  “Go up and talk to him.”

  “Alone?”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “He won’t get peeved at you for tipping me off?”

  “I don’t care if he does,” she returned virtuously. “I always have believed that honesty was the best policy—when you don’t really need money.”

  “Yeh—and when you get away with it.”

  They entered Johnny’s room without the formality of knocking.

  Johnny backed against the table, jaws working in true movie-villain fashion. His hands, groping behind his back, scraped the checks into a heap in a crude attempt at concealment. Helen, too, gave evidence of the fact that the art of the actor is not yet dead—or even ill. She raised pitiful eyes to her husband’s face.

  “I know you’ll hate me, Johnny; but I tipped Jim off.”

  He simulated great rage.

  “Snitched on me, eh? Damn you——”

  “Whoa, Johnny! Easy there, son! I hate to hear ladies damn-you’d when I’m around.”

  Johnny turned his offended attention to the detective.

  “It’s none of your business——”

  “I hope not, Johnny; but it most likely would have been if Helen hadn’t telephoned me.”

  “I did it for your sake, Johnny,” she chimed in. “I have been very happy during the last six years, unhaunted by the fear of prison cells.”

  Jim turned to her, a quizzical light in his glassy eyes.

  “Who wrote them words?”

  She flushed.

  “I don’t know; but they’re just what I feel.” She threw her arms around Johnny’s neck. “Please, dearie, for my sake, for the sake of our happiness, listen to Jim! We’ve been straight for so long. You couldn’t get away with no forgery job now, dearie; you’re all out of practice.”

  Jim waddled heavily across the room and took the batch of half-written checks from Johnny’s unresisting hand.

  “Lemme see how good you are now, kid. You used to be real clever.” He inspected them closely. “T’chk! T’chk! They just can’t come back, Johnny. That’s awful rough work. I’d have got you in no time at all. Yeh, tough luck, son; but I reckon you’d be wise to run straight from now on. You’ve lost your touch, Johnny.”

  An expression of genuine sorrow crossed Johnny’s face.

  “On the level?”

  “Surest thing you know!”

  “Well”—and Johnny sighed—“I s’pose I might as well keep on like I’ve been going. Much obliged, Jim.”

  Helen’s hysterical squeal of delight filled the room.

  “You promise, dearie—promise to keep straight forever and ever?”

  “Amen!”

  She turned her attention to Jim, clasped one of his hands between both of hers.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Jim. You’ve been wonderful, marvelous!”

  Jim blushed boyishly.

  “Gee, Helen, lay offen that stuff! When a good-lookin’ dame begins sayin’ sweet things to me I ain’t got no more backbone than a nickel’s worth of ice cream.”

  “But, Jim——”

  The telephone jangled.

  “That’s for me,” Jim announced.

  “You?”

  “Uh-huh! I was expectin’ a call an’ I told the apartment house operator she’d find me here.”

  Helen and her husband were ill-at-ease. In a trice they had ceased to be sorry for the ungainly detective. There was something so cumbersomely positive in his manner; such a degree of assurance.

  “Hello!”

  It was Hanvey at the telephone. The two others strained their ears, but without result. And Jim’s face told them no more than they could have learned by watching the lee side of a cantaloupe.

  “Yeh, Jim Hanvey speaking.…Uh-huh.…You don’t say so!…When?…Clear?…You done what I suggested?…Well, that proves you ain’t the absolute ass I thought you was, Mr. Starnes.”

  He clicked the receiver on the hook and turned away. He lighted a fresh cigar and jerked his head toward the telephone. “Funny thing,” he commented disinterestedly.

  “Yes?” They spoke eagerly in chorus.

  “Messenger left the Starnes offices a few minutes ago. Coupla roughnecks bumped him on the bean, grabbed his satchel and made a get-away.” If he discerned their mutual signs of relief he gave no indication of the fact. His voice droned on monotonously. “Old man Starnes is a stiff-necked idiot, but this time he was wise. He took my advice for once.”

  “Your advice?”

  “Sure! Y’see, with you dumping a quarter million dollars in unregistered Liberties with him, there was always danger that some crooks might get wise to it and try to make a haul. So I suggested to Fat-head Starnes that he stick them securities in his own vault for a while instead of sendin’ ’em down to the First National as he usually does. In view of what just happened, I think I was kinder clever—real awful clever.” He paused apologetically. “You ain’t got no objections to me callin’ myself clever, have you?”

  They did not answer, a premonition of disaster had robbed them of speech.

  “Y’see, Helen, them naughty crooks might of got away with Johnny’s Liberty Bonds. Might of, I said. But they didn’t. All that was in that satchel was a few registered bonds which ain’t worth duck soup s’far’s negotiatin’ ’em is concerned.”

  Helen’s face was dead white beneath her plentiful make-up.

  “Johnny’s Liberty Bonds are still at Starnes & Company?”

  “Yeh, sure!”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, Jim, would you?”

  “Aw, Helen, you know I wouldn’t! Fat men are rotten liars.”

  “You suspected that the bank messenger was going to be robbed?”

  He nodded.

  “I had a sort of a hunch thataway.”

  She turned dejectedly. It was Johnny Norton who launched the next question:

  “How did you get wise, Jim?”

  “Me? It was easy this time. A lady tipped me off; a terrible pretty blond lady.” Helen winced. “’Bout as much of a tip-off as I needed, anyway,” continued Jim softly. “Y’know, Johnny, things occur awful funny sometimes. I happened to drift into the Starnes offices just after you left, and would you believe it, the list of bond numbers that old bird had didn’t tally with the bonds at all. It was real peculiar. So I just suggeste
d that they hold ’em there a while for the bookkeeper to enter ’em up. Y’know, a banker ought to be more careful than Starnes was. He never knows when he’s li’ble to get gypped.” He turned toward the door. “Yeh, Johnny, if I was you I’d stay on the safe side of things. You’ve lost your touch, son—lost it complete.”

  Helen of Troy stared at her husband and he returned her gaze with one equally miserable. Jim Hanvey posed heavily in the doorway, the fingers of his right hand fiddling with his massive watch chain. He regarded them benignly. Then he blinked with maddening slowness.

  “Didn’t you come to me, Helen, an’ ask me to keep Johnny from goin’ crooked?”

  She nodded.

  “Well,” drawled the big man, “I only done what you asked me, didn’t I?”

  * * *

  31 Hanvey misquotes the King James Bible (“Oh death, where is thy sting?” from 1 Corinthians 15:55).

  32 A popular phrase with no discernible meaning.

  33 “Lissome” means supple, limber.

  34 “I’d just as soon be in jail.”

  35 “Oralizing” simply means reading something out loud. The slang usage here appears to refer to touts who work the horseraces and orally offer their betting odds.

  36 A standard auditing technique, to add up all of the debits and credits and check against the totals.

  37 Another slang phrase of obscure meaning.

  38 Slang for a woman, used as early as 1899, according to the New Partridge Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English.

  39 A pickpocket.

  40 An old saying, “everything is chicken but the gravy” means that everything is acceptable except for one grievance; shortened here, Johnny means that everything is all right.

  41 To renege, usually on payment.