by William Ard
"After you," he said to Dane who was fingering innocently beside the desk. The investigator walked obediently from the room and Bannerman slammed the door shut behind them. Then they went in opposite directions. Dane toward the street, the policeman to the garage for a car that would speed him across town to Bellevue.
On Twentieth Street, Dane turned right and walked slowly in the direction of the avenue. Moments later a green-and-white patrol car shot past him, its red lights flashing. Dane stopped and turned around. A black car emerged from the police garage and headed west. Driving was Mike Stern; beside him a big-shouldered man. The license plate began N46 and when it was out of sight, Dane retraced his steps to the stationhouse. As he re-entered the building his face assumed the expression of a hurrying, preoccupied man who had no time to waste. He walked briskly past the Desk Sergeant and into the squad room.
"Forgot my briefcase," he said to the stenographer, making his voice sound anxious and out of breath.
"I'll get it for you . . ."
Dane waved him back into his seat. "Don't bother. Lieutenant's waiting for me." He opened the door of Bannerman's office, let it close behind him as unobtrusively as possible and crossed swiftly to the papers that Bannerman had seemed so secretive about. He quickly found one with the heading: "Weir to Bannerman. Confidential." It was an account of the detective's activities on the night of Stanzyck's murder and Dane's eyes swept it carefully. Then, replacing it amongst the others, he recrossed the room and left.
"Hey, the briefcase!" the stenographer shouted just as Dane had gained the far side of the squad room.
"That's all right," said Dane meaninglessly, waving his hand in a reassuring gesture. "Some other time." He got away from there fast.
CHAPTER 12
Bannerman, for all his speed, arrived at the hospital only in time to see Joe Riker die. DeLuca, a uniformed lieutenant, shook his head gravely and took the homicide man aside.
"He never was conscious from the time he was found, Joe. I called you the minute the doctor gave me the word he was sinking."
"Them stinking piers," Bannerman said savagely. "How I'd like to go over there and clean them out once and for all."
"It's the only way," DeLuca agreed. "You can't clean them up with subpoenas." The two veterans parted then, DeLuca to return to his uptown command, Bannerman to get in touch with Stern and Weir and tell them they were now on a homicide investigation. As he put through the call from the patrol car he could visualize the depressing familiarity of the scene at Pier 109.
But he was wrong. Unlike the Bogan affair when information had to be ferreted out from reluctant sources, the detectives arrived on a scene alive with angry activity. News of Riker's beating had traveled fast and now his friends had returned to the pier along with many who did not even know the loader personally but had heard of his fight that morning with Nick Mayer. Just the fact of their coming back to the pier was a protest. In the past, any sort of trouble on the docks was a signal for every man to seek the shelter of his home or his bar and cover himself with a cloak of ignorance. If the police wanted information, let them come seeking it. God help any dock-walloper caught making himself available to the hated law. It was simple jungle law for the criminal element that infested the piers; they wanted to avoid contact with the police at any cost. And the honest worker settled with his conscience by the simple explanation that ninety percent of the trouble on the waterfront was the never-ending war between the mobsters in power and the mobsters seeking to throw them over. If mad dogs were fighting, then bad cess to both of them and let the dogcatcher risk his life if that's what he wanted.
In the case of a Ralph Bogan being killed, wasn't what happened to Abe Kline and Bernie Lane answer enough?
But the beating of Joe Riker had sparked some unsuspected emotion in the hearts and minds of the honest ones. Riker had been outspokenly critical of the union for months. Starting as a one-man fight, his own bold fearlessness of Stanzyck's gang had become so contagious that a hundred of them had actually signed Riker's petition for a general election. This hundred had found in Riker the kind of man and the kind of leader that meant to them the difference between a union honestly fighting for a fair shake with the owners and a union that exploits its individual members far worse than they had ever fared at the hands of business. Under Stanzyck's strong-arm rule they found themselves not engaged in any labor organization but victims of a ruthless racket. Not only were their wages less than half of what the shippers had contracted to pay them—slashed by Stanzyck via kickbacks and endless assessments—but it was impossible to quit the docks and seek other jobs because of the loan-sharking.
The fact that Stanzyck had beaten the murder rap again did not surprise Riker and his friends. But Stanzyck's own unexpected death had seemed to them like the one chance they needed to get the mobsters out and their own men in. The one chance—until Riker had been taken care of.
And so they gathered at the pier, drawn by feelings they really didn't understand, standing in small knots with their anger and resentment unchanneled and leaderless.
Stern and Weir made directly for the largest group, a group centered around the man who had helped Riker after the fight earlier in the day.
"What's happened?" asked Stern.
"If you don't know," said Riker's friend, "then what are you doing here?"
"What's your name?"
"Pat Craig."
"You know the man who was beaten—Riker?"
"I know him."
"When did you see him last?"
"He left me in the bar across the way."
"Left you to go where—back here?"
"Left me to go home."
"Looks like he had enemies," said Stern.
"Joe has his enemies," replied Pat Craig. "And he has his friends."
The detective looked around to see the other groups edging toward them, forming a greater circle.
"Is this some kind of union trouble?" he asked.
There was a murmur, and Craig said, "Yes, you could call it that if you wanted to."
Weir touched his partner's arm and Stern turned to see a uniformed radio patrolman standing behind them.
"Word just came from Bannerman, Mike. This is homicide."
"What did he say?" asked Craig, stepping forward.
"Your friend Riker is dead, Craig," Weir told him.
"Mother of God!"
Craig's lament carried clearly to the ears of every man present, and they knew what it was for and felt the shock pass through their own minds.
"What are we waiting for?" Craig roared, his hands clenched into fists. "Let's get them!"
Stern's hand gripped the loader's arm. "That's no good, buddy," he cautioned. "You tell us who to get and we'll get them."
"Then get Nick Mayer! And King—and the lawyer!"
"You know they didn't lay a hand on Riker," Stern shouted at him.
"Mayer ordered it done, by God!"
Stern had to jerk Pat Craig around.
"You can't go at it that way, man! What we want is the one who did it—"
"A fat chance you'll have! The docks are crawling with lousy hoods!"
The crowd of husky loaders was jamming in close to the pair of detectives, their mood ominously close to mob riot.
"Back to the car," Stern said to Weir, "with him." Weir fastened himself to Pat Craig's other arm and the policemen made a sudden, darting movement that took them and their semi-prisoner through the shifting line and on toward their car. Several uniformed police came forward, forming a cordon, and the protesting Craig was expertly eased into the back seat with Weir. The doors were locked.
"Let me the hell out of here!" Craig roared.
"You'll get out when you come to your senses," Weir told him.
"Those boys out there have had enough," the loader insisted. "They'll take me out of here!"
Stern looked out the window at the half-dozen broad, blue-coated backs circling the car. Each of the men had his hand close to the butt of his revolve
r and the throng of men beyond them seemed threatening but wary.
"If you want to save a lot of unnecessary trouble," he said to Craig, "then tell us who you think killed Riker."
"Nick Mayer killed him."
"Don't waste time, for God's sake! We both know Mayer probably ordered it. But who does he pay for that stuff?"
"How do I know? Their strong-arm men come and go, move from pier to pier. You never see the same dirty faces twice . . ."
"Do they have jobs on the pier?"
Craig laughed harshly. "They get a full day's pay just to come onto the pier and play cards or shoot craps. When they're tired of that they break into cargo or beat up somebody."
"Any of them seem to have a lot of money?"
"Nick Mayer has the money. Him and King and Bert Hill. You ought to see that new car he had this morning—"
"Forget Mayer for two seconds, will you?"
"I'll forget him when he's in hell with Al Stanzyck."
"Hasn't any of the hoods that come down to the piers been spending money lately?"
"Just the little one. He's always loaded—"
"What little one? What's his name?"
"I never asked," said Craig hotly. But then, "Wait a minute, now. I heard him called Augie."
"You're sure? Where does he hang out?"
"I've seen him in a place up the street. The Red Rose. But you'll never get anywheres with that one. He'll have an alibi you'll never break."
"Let us worry about that," Stern said. "I'm letting you out of here, Craig. Now whatever you do, don't try to settle things on your own. If you do, we'll be coming after you." He released the automatic lock on the doors and Craig left the car. Stern immediately started the motor and threaded his way from the pier area.
"Let's go to the Red Rose," he said.
"What was all that business about money?" asked Weir.
"Something the private guy put us onto. The union paid ten grand to knock off our witnesses."
"To this Augie?"
"Could be, Bill. And you know what?"
"What?"
"I've got a feeling that somebody slipped up this time. I think this case is starting to split wide open." He caught Weir's eye in the mirror and smiled grimly. But Weir neither smiled back nor said anything at all.
Bannerman, meanwhile, had returned to the precinct.
"Stern and Weir phone in yet?" he asked the stenographer.
"No, sir." Then, as Bannerman was continuing on into his office: "I hope you didn't need that briefcase."
"What briefcase?"
"The one that fellow came back for and then left without."
"What are you talking about?"
"The man you left with," explained the typist. "He came running back to your office for his briefcase . . ."
Bannerman went inside and crossed swiftly to the desk. The briefcase was still there, the papers beside it. And so were the others, the squad reports. Dane, he knew, wouldn't be foolish enough to confiscate any. He would just read them. Quickly, the lieutenant found Weir's. The statement, in longhand, traced his activities of the day and night Stanzyck was killed. It finished: Spent the evening, until midnight, in the company of Miss Ann Bogan.
How long until Dane learned Ann Bogan's address? How long until he asked her, point-blank, if Bill had been with her until midnight? He remembered her warning that she would not be able to lie.
Bannerman unlocked the drawer of his desk, pulled it open and removed a small envelope. From the envelope he poured the five slugs that had been taken from Stanzyck's body—and as he stared down at them he knew that the time had come to do what he had planned to do. Planned to do and had to do. For Dane's case was falling into line. Through Ann he would guess Bill Weir's motive for killing Stanzyck—to protect Ann in the event Stanzyck had moved to eliminate the last possible witness against him. Through guileless Ann, Dane would break down Weir's false alibi. And he would place Weir at The Inn that night. Bannerman did not have to speculate on Dane's source of information about that. That someone had seen the detective there, prowling around the building, was no great surprise to him. For Bannerman, himself, was a witness to that.
The lieutenant's squad had gone off duty at four o'clock that afternoon. At five o'clock, sitting at home, he had received word of Stanzyck's release by the D.A. He had immediately called Weir at his apartment but received no answer. Ann answered the phone at her place. Yes, she and Bill had just heard about it on the radio. Where was Bill now? Why, he had left. Left to go where, Ann couldn't say. But Bannerman could guess. Weir, more afraid for Ann than he could ever be for himself, would go where Stanzyck went.
The lieutenant, knowing it was too late to pick up Stanzyck's trail after he left the city jail, had returned to his office to pore over the file. The gangster, he guessed, would head immediately to some favorite hangout for the drink he hadn't had for months now. But not a conspicuous place, not a crowded restaurant or a club. He was still too much of a newspaper celebrity for that. Bannerman noted the brief report about a place called The Inn, up in Newchester, where the union generally, had their private parties far from New York City police and New York City newspaper reporters. Bannerman, feeling that if he guessed wrong all was lost, made a desperate decision to go to Newchester himself. But unlike weir, he had parked his own Buick far from the hotel and entered the grounds on foot. Minutes later he spotted the city-owned car his assistant had driven. Then, some fifty yards away in the shadows, the big form that could only be Weir. The sudden arrival of another car, the flash of its headlights, had driven Bannerman to cover. When he emerged, Weir was nowhere in sight.
After that, pandemonium. People poured out the front door of the place, hurrying to their cars, and from fragments of conversations the hiding Bannerman knew that Al Stanzyck was dead and many of his friends were not anxious to be questioned about it. After a last quick search that revealed weir's car to be gone, Bannerman had left. How Stanzyck had been killed he didn't know until later, for he had not heard any gunshots over the noise of the very loud band.
And now Dane, like some time fuse that could not be turned off, was shortening the line that would blow Bill Weir's future to oblivion. Bannerman lifted the slugs and dropped them one by one into the envelope. The envelope went into his pocket. Finally he checked his own fully loaded .32 and left the office.
Fifteen minutes later Bannerman's extension rang and the stenographer answered it.
"This is Weir. Where's the lieutenant?"
"He left a little while ago. He didn't tell me where, though."
"If he calls back, tell him we think we have a good break. Tell him we have a gunman named Augie La Starza—"
"Slower please. Augie La-what?"
"La Starza. Tell Bannerman we picked him up on suspicion for the Riker thing. And tell him we went through La Starza's room and hit the jackpot—"
"The what?"
"Jackpot. Half a dozen guns and especially a lot of dough. Tell Bannerman this guy claims to be a working loader but he has almost eight thousand in cash . . ."
"Where can the lieutenant reach you?"
"We're booking him uptown in Lieutenant DeLuca's precinct. DeLuca wants to talk to him overnight. Tell Bannerman he can get Mike Stern and me over at Ann Bogan's place." Weir laughed into the stenographer's ear. "Tell him we're taking the rest of the day off."
"You tell him that."
"I will," said Weir happily. "I sure will!" He hung up.
CHAPTER 13
Dane stood inside Ann Bogan's apartment with the door handle in one hand, his hat in the other and the wish in his heart that there could have been another way to make a liar out of this Detective Bill Weir.
His girl certainly had no talent for it. Five minutes after consenting to talk to him she had tripped herself in half a dozen contradictions, placed Weir in certain locations that day which were miles from where the policeman placed himself, gave a too-detailed account of the picture they were supposed to have seen, and the
n, her eyes filling, refused point-blank to say anything more.
Dane saw, or thought he saw, that there was something twisting the girl that went even deeper than her obvious conviction that Weir was in trouble of some kind. And seeing it explained what had bothered the investigator from the start. At first he had discounted as completely unlikely Bert Hill's theory of a policeman killing Al Stanzyck. Then the series of notes had shaken him slightly. Then Bannerman's attitude—his move to shut Dane out. Finally, the presence of Weir at the scene.
But that still left motive, and all of Dane's experience made it impossible for him to accept the idea that "J. Lex" would go against the basic principle of police work and kill a man just for the sake of seeing justice done. Dane couldn't swallow that, nor could he explain the presence of a policeman and an identifiable police car as anything but desperation on somebody's part.
And now, in Ralph Bogan's sister, he was beginning to understand what that desperation might be. As much as he didn't want to know, he had had to ask her.
"What information did you have, Miss Bogan, that would have been helpful to the District Attorney?"
Dane hadn't got his answer in so many words.
"If Bill has done anything," she had said in a small voice, "if he's in any kind of trouble—then it's me that's to blame." The tears had come then. "Everything is my fault!" she had sobbed, and quickly turned and ran into her bedroom.
Dane had waited and, when it was obvious she wasn't able to speak to him any more, had started to leave.
There was the unexpected sound of a key entering a lock and the door handle turned in his fingers and swung open.
"Who the hell are you?" The young man who spoke was of an age with Dane, as tall, but heavier. This extra weight was put to use as he shoved the private investigator back into the apartment.
"I thought something smelled bad." This was from the one behind, the one Dane knew as Stern.
"Easy with the pushing,'' Dane said mildly.
"I’ll push you through the wall. Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"I said easy." Dane had decided to stop giving ground and his sudden ability to resist seemed to surprise the other man, make him uncertain as to how far to go.