by William Ard
“Not especially. But you might say he sent me up here."
"Why didn't you say so?"
"I didn't think of it," Dane admitted.
"Well?" Hermann said to the puzzled men crowding around. "Isn't there work to do?"
They shuffled back to where they had been, none the wiser but curious as to what had happened to Carl the bouncer. Carl himself struggled back to his feet and hung around sullenly.
"No hard feelings," Dane said to him.
"Go on," said Hermann. "Shake his hand. He's a friend of Mr. Hill's."
But Mr. Hill wasn't as important to Carl as the ache in his belly. He gave a final glower at Dane's outstretched arm, as though he would like to see it in a cast, and promptly left the room.
"Now what can we do for you, Mister . . ."
"Dane. I'm here about what happened the other night. Mr. Hill wants me to look into it."
"Look into it? How?"
"Ask a few questions, Hermann. See the room where be got it."
"The police have been all over that," Hermann said, leading the way out of the foyer to the stairs that led above. "But come ahead." Dane followed and they didn't speak again until they stood on the threshold of the room at the end of the hallway.
"He was lying right here," Hermann said, pointing to a spot at Dane's feet. "His feet were in the hall and his head was inside the room."
"Who found him?"
"That's what the policeman kept asking. Nobody seems to know who actually was here first."
"Weren't there a lot of shots?"
Hermann threw up his hands. "With the racket that band was making downstairs," he said, "you could have shot off a bomb up here. The first I knew there was trouble was when I saw a crowd leave the dance floor and rush upstairs. I followed, and there he was."
"But nobody said they found him first."
The manager shrugged. "With all the other trouble," he said reasonably, "I guess nobody wants to get their name in the newspapers these days."
Dane nodded, remembering Officer Jenks's written remark that "Nobody seems to know anything."
"Then you were busy downstairs?"
"I was in the kitchen most of the night. I wasn't even outside when Mr. Hill and Mr. Stanzyck arrived."
"They come here quite a bit, I take it."
"Why not?"
"I don't know why not, except that it's a hell of a ways from the city."
Hermann seemed puzzled. "But they own The Inn."
"Who owns it?"
"Mr. Stanzyck and Mr. Hill. I guess Mr. Hill by himself now."
Dane looked wise and said nothing. He was, after all, supposed to be in Hill's confidence.
"Mr. Hill," he said then, "mentioned something about a meeting. Where was that held?"
"In the conference room," answered Hermann. "At the other end of the hall."
Dane glanced in that direction, but instead of going there he stepped inside the murder room instead. It was simply, tastefully furnished. Along one wall was a three-quarter bed, covered with a dark green spread. Before one of the room's two windows was a green, two-seater couch. In front of it was a low-slung cocktail table. Another chair was beside the other window, and in the corner was a small, portable bar that held only an ice bucket and several glasses.
Dane stood in the center of the room, facing the door.
"Would you do me a favor, Hermann? Close the door from the outside and then open it as though you were coming in."
Hermann did so, even knocking on the door, and as he did, Dane kept retreating until he was pressed against the couch.
"Is this the way the furniture was?"
"I think so. But there's been so much confusion since then, so much cleaning up?"
"Cleaning up?"
Hermann made a face. "The blood, ugh. A regular river of it. We had to throw the rug away that was right in front of the door. Then we had to scrub, scrub, scrub."
"And you say he was lying across the doorway?"
"Yes."
"What happened to the briefcase, Hermann?"
The man's body went rigid, and before he spoke he carefully swallowed.
"If Mr. Hill still doesn't believe me," he said primly, then I'll quit. I told him I touched nothing, that I saw no briefcase. What would I do with Mr. Hill's briefcase?"
"Then it belonged to Hill, not Stanzyck?"
Hermann held his arms outstretched, palms turned outward. "Mr. Hill, Mr. Stanzyck—even Mr. Mayer wants to know. It could be his damn briefcase, anybody's."
"Let's have a quick look at that meeting room," Dane said, changing the subject abruptly and walking out of the room. They came to the end of the hall and this time Hermann used a key to open a door.
"Is it generally locked?"
"Mr. Hill says lock it now." He threw the door open. Dane looked in, saw nothing but a round table, chairs, lamps. But he entered, crossing to the window at the far end. The blinds were tightly drawn and he opened them. The window looked out on a low roof and beyond the roof to the back of The Inn.
"How come you lock the door and not this window?" he asked.
Hermann stood beside him, looking at the unhooked latch. He turned it petulantly.
"After the horse is stolen," he murmured, just loud enough, for Dane to hear.
"You think it was in here, too?"
Hermann turned. "You mean the briefcase? How do I know where it was? If that's the reason Mr. Hill sent you here," he said, his fast temper rising again, "then I'm quitting. I'll hand in my notice immediately."
"Relax," Dane told him. "Hill didn't send me here for any briefcase."
"Then what are you here for?"
"To have a look, as I told you. They'd like to find out just who it was who killed Al Stanzyck."
"By God"—in his anger he pronounced it "Gott"—"they can't blame me for that! I was in the kitchen. I got seven witnesses?"
"Okay, okay. Hill doesn't think you did it, either." Dane smiled. "At least you weren't one of the people he mentioned."
"For that," said Hermann, "I'm very, very grateful." He turned away. "If there's nothing else you want in here, I'd like to lock it up and get to my work. We open for lunch very soon."
They left the room and went downstairs again. Hermann introduced him to Fritz, the bartender on duty that night, but Fritz had no idea at all who had found the body or who had or hadn't been downstairs at the time.
"This place was a madhouse, mister. That band was trying to blow the shingles off the roof."
"So I hear," said the detective and moved away. He came to stand alone in the foyer, a hundred unanswered questions in his mind. He felt closer to the case now that he had seen where it had happened. He could even visualize the scene down here, dancers milling around, the band beating it out, the bar three deep with drinkers. His eye went to the checkroom. If someone was on duty here, he thought, she would have a view of the staircase. But no one was there now, only racks of empty hangers, a box of dog-eared checks, and piled in the corner the music stands of the orchestra. Emblazoned in gold across each of them was the proud announcement that the band belonged to Sammy Raye. Sammy Kaye he had heard of. Not Sammy Raye.
His ear was jarred by a loud, annoyingly insistent blare of an automobile horn just outside. He looked through the door to see a man leaning heavily on the horn ring of the Chevrolet and then went outside.
"This your heap?" was the hollered question.
"Easy on that horn," Dane told him, descending the steps. Behind the new Chevrolet was a battered Ford.
"You're blocking the way," the man said to the detective.
"Then I'll move it. Just keep yourself under control.”
"If you'd left the key in it, I'd have parked it for you."
Dane saw then that the man was wearing uniform trousers beneath his topcoat.
"Is that what you do? Park cars?"
"Yep."
"Were you working the night before last?"
"You a cop?"
"No
. I'm here for Mr. Hill," he said again, and again the name had its effect.
"Sure I was working night before last. And I'd like to meet the guy who did it."
"Why?"
"He cost me a damn good job, that's why."
"How?"
"I was hired to be Al Stanzyck's driver. He pulled in here, got out of the car, fired the driver and gave me the job on the spot. Then some son-of-a-bitch kills him!"
"Why did he fire the driver?"
"The dope let himself get picked up by a fly-cop. Big Al don't go for that at all. At least, he didn't go for it."
"Important guy," Dane said. Then, "See anybody hanging around here that night—anybody who shouldn't have been?"
"Just a newspaper reporter. I told him he'd better beat it and he did."
"A reporter came all the way up here and just left when you told him to?"
"Well, he said he was a reporter; A big guy, bigger than you. Tell you the truth, I'd of pegged him for a cop."
Dane said absolutely nothing for five seconds. Then, "But he drove away."
"That's right. Maybe I scared him, or something. He was prowling around in the back, like he was looking for a way in. I threw my flash on him and he said he was a reporter who wanted to interview Stanzyck. I told him Big Al was up here to enjoy himself, not to talk to no reporters. So he beat it."
"You saw him drive away?"
"He got into his car and went out the back way. He must have left because I didn't see him again."
"What kind of a car?"
"A black Chevy like this. Only it wasn't a coupe come to think about it. It was a sedan."
"How about plates?"
"They were city plates. N-something. N-four, six, I remember."
"How long after he left was Stanzyck shot?"
The parker shrugged. "Fifteen minutes, half an hour."
"Did you hear the shots?"
"With that racket going on? You couldn't hear yourself thinking. What a noise!"
"Thanks a lot, pal," said Dane, getting into his car. "Where's this back way out?"
"Take the lane that goes behind the building," he was told. "Just follow it out to the road. Then take a right and another right and you're back on the main road."
Dane drove the car as directed. When he was directly behind the building he stopped and got out. As he was now, he was out of sight of the parking lot. Directly above him was the low roof which could easily be scaled from a railed porch below it.
He got back in his car, threaded his way to the main road and headed in the direction of New York. He either had nothing at all out of this trip, or too much.
An hour later he was back in his office, and a few minutes after that the telephone answering service called.
"You had several calls from a Miss Roxanne Garde," he was told.
"Nothing else?"
"No. Miss Garde seemed very anxious to speak to you."
"Thanks."
The girl hesitated. "She wanted you to call her immediately."
"Don't let it worry you, honey," Dane said cheerfully.
"All right, Mr. Dane," said the operator and hung up.
Dane pushed the telephone aside and brought a piece of notepaper to the center of the desk. Then, with a directory opened beside him, he wrote, Motor Vehicle Bureau and its number. Below that, City Procurement Office and its number. Finally, Musicians' Union and that number. Then he began dialing.
Half an hour later he had added Frank Burns, 1007 W. 98th beside the first number, Detective William Weir beside the second and Sammy Raye—Hotel Leewood, W. 47th next to the Musicians' Union.
The information went into his pocket. He rose from the desk, moved to a small safe, unlocked it and removed his loaded .38. He was on his way out of the office when the telephone rang. "Timothy Dane," he said.
"Well, my God! Where've you been all day?"
"What can I do for you, Mrs. Stanzyck?"
"A joke's a joke, handsome. But let's drop that one."
"Sure. What's on your mind?"
"You are," she said. "Constantly."
Dane stared at the receiver.
"You didn't call to get that off your chest," he told her and her laughter tinkled into his ear.
"I like the way you put that," she said.
"What did you call about?"
"I want to see you, Timothy," she said familiarly.
"Not today," he answered.
"I didn't mean today. I want to see you tonight."
"Is it something to do with what I'm working on?"
"Does it have to be?"
"Yes, it has to be."
"Then it is," she said. "I want to see you on business."
"Okay. What time?"
"Come over about seven," she said. "You can buy me dinner."
"That'll be nice of me."
"I think so, Timothy. The address is?"
"I know your address."
"Well!"
"I'll pick you up at seven," he said. The receiver slipped into its cradle and Dane studied it wonderingly. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he continued on out to the address of Frank Burns.
CHAPTER 9
The tenement on West Ninety-eighth Street had seen better days, but Dane decided that even those had been nothing to brag about. The dark, foul-smelling vestibule gave up the information that Frank Burns lived upstairs, in 508, and Dane began the four-flight climb up a stairway that threatened to fall away beneath him at every step. There was no answer to his knock on the door of 508 and when he turned the knob it resisted. He leaned against it, then, pushing his shoulder against the upper door while his hand forced down on the handle. The door swung open with a groan of its ancient, worn-out lock.
It was even darker here than in the hallway. A window was shut and a black shade was drawn over it, but presently the shape of a bed became clear, and on it the form of a man. As Dane crossed to it his foot struck a discarded bottle on the uncarpeted floor and sent it clattering against the baseboard. The body on the bed stirred once and became still again.
Dane bent over and looked into the open, whiskey-reeking mouth of the slack-jawed driver Al Stanzyck had fired two nights before. Then, straightening, he began a leisurely search of the room. Four drawers of a dresser revealed nothing of interest. The closet contained one suit and an unpressed chauffeur's uniform. Beneath the bed was a pair of black shoes and a year's accumulation of dust. The shoes got a careful inspection. He raised the mattress beneath the sleeping man's feet and found nothing. There was nothing for it then but to lift the other end. The head and shoulders came up with the mattress, the eyes fluttered, and there, resting on the bedsprings was a leather briefcase.
Hands suddenly circled the investigator's throat and he was thrown off balance. The fingers tightened and he had to slam the palm of his hand against Frank Burns's jaw to break the grip.
"Whattahellgoeson?" was what Timothy Dane thought he heard.
"Take it easy," he told him quietly. "I just came for this briefcase."
"Not yours."
"Not yours either. Al Stanzyck's."
"You the cops?"
"That's right," Dane lied, and the lie paid off as Burns sank wearily back to the bed.
"How'd you find me?" The man covered his eyes, although even the bare light in the room hurt his head.
"Through that ticket you picked up the other night. Do you know it's answerable tomorrow morning?"
"He tore it up," said Burns.
“They'll still have a summons out for you, Burns. And you’ll be right here, waiting for them."
“It happened up in Westchester."
"That doesn't make any difference, buddy. All the cops work together. But I'll tell you what . . ."
"What?"
“All I want is this briefcase, quietly."
“Yeah?"
"Yeah. So to keep it quiet that I've got it. I'm going to slip you enough for that ticket and some left over."
“Yeah? How much over?"
"Twenty-five."
"Fifty."
Dane had his wallet in his hand. "Fifty it is, pal." He laid the money beside Burns's head.
“Now I'll tell you something," said Burns.
"What?" You ain't no cop."
Dane had the briefcase under his arm. "Don't worry about it," he told the other man. "Just be happy I got to you first."
"You mean Stanzyck's pals? They want this thing back?"
"It was a crazy play, stealing it out of that room. Why'd you do it?"
"That big bastard. He fired me. Told me to walk home. I climbed up on that roof and saw them having a meeting. One of them handed him the briefcase like it was important."
"Who handed it to him?"
"Ah, who knows. Hell, I figured it was stuffed with dough . . ."
"Was it the little one, with the mustache?"
"Other one. Blondie."
"How long did Stanzyck stay in the room after they left?"
"How the hell do I know?"
"Five minutes? Ten? Half an hour?"
"Ten. How about shoving off, buddy? I don't feel like jabbering."
"Sure." Dane walked to the door. "Just don't get any ideas, Burns. When I buy something I like it to stay bought."
"Beat it," came the muffled answer. "Leave me alone."
Dane did beat it, back to midtown. Outside the Leewood Hotel was a display card that announced the music of Sammy Raye in the Willow Room each night except Monday. Inside the Leewood Hotel Dane found a bell captain who thought that the maestro might be rehearsing in the Willow Room at the moment. He was right.
But the rehearsal was a surprise. This was no free-wheeling jazz outfit, no sock-em, rock'em blare band. The style was soft and danceable, a close harmony of saxophones, muted trumpets and a 'single trombone. Dane counted six fiddles and noted that the drummer used nothing but rhythmic brushes. Sammy Raye, himself, led the group from the piano, giving himself short, melodious, ear-pleasing breaks from time to time.
The detective stood off to the side, unobtrusively enjoying himself until he was finally noticed and the leader came over to him. "You must be a new one," he said good-naturedly, eyeing the briefcase.
"I'm not plugging songs, if that's what you mean," said Dane. "I just want to ask you three minutes' worth of questions about the date you played the other night."
"Oh, oh."