by William Ard
“Bill!"
Ann's voice postponed the decision for the moment and he swung toward her as she came quickly across the room from the bedroom. But then, at sight of her distress, he whirled angrily to Dane again.
"Don't, Bill!" Ann pushed herself between them, her back to Dane, her hands pushing against her man's belligerent chest.
“That's right," said Stern. "This is Dane, the guy Bert Hill hired to make a martyr out of himself for that union of theirs." He came up close, his face inches from Timothy's. "That's all he wants," he said. "To get worked over good by the police so he can collect their dirty money . . ."
The hell with it. That's what Dane remembered thinking as he was hitting Stern. The hell with it, he thought again as Stern crashed into the couch, hit the floor, rolled and tried to climb slowly to his feet. He saw him do all that even as he was busy with the big one, Weir, and the girl's screams were echoing in his ears. The problem was to avoid hitting Weir too hard without getting hit too hard himself.
It was Stern who solved that by locking his arms around Weir and pulling him away.
"Stay out of this," he told his partner. "This is a private fight!"
"Stop!" Ann Bogan cried. "Please stop!"
The voice, perilously close to hysteria, reached all three men and their eyes swept to her apprehensively.
"Okay, honey," Weir told her, his arm encircling her shoulder as he led her toward the couch. "What's this guy been doing to you?"
"Nothing, Bill. He hasn't done anything but talk—"
"About what?"
"About you, Weir," Dane told him, knowing the girl didn't want to go through it all again.
"What about me?"
Dane turned to Mike Stern, his eyes unable to avoid noticing the reddish welt rising on the man's jaw. "I think the three of us ought to have a talk," he said. "A quiet one."
"Yeah." The detective turned to Ann. "Why don't you go on inside?" he asked her gently. "Bill and I want to hear what this—what he has to say."
She stood up. "Promise no more fighting?" she asked.
"Not in here," Stern said laconically.
"Not anywhere, Mike," she told him. "It won't solve anybody's problems to use your fists." She took Weir's hand in hers, squeezed it and moved across the room. The bedroom door closed behind her.
"Go ahead, sleuth," said Stern quietly. "You've got the floor."
Dane found himself between two hard-eyed, antagonistic policemen.
"I'll make it short," he said, talking to Stern. "Al Stanzyck is dead. That suits me the same way I think it suits you. But somebody killed him and that's not so good. In the first place it gives the police department a black eye when they can least afford one. In the second place it involves a million dollars' worth of life insurance—"
"It what?"
"I've met you twice," Dane told him, "and both times you pop off to me about dirty money. I want to straighten you out once and for all. This is an insurance job with me. When and if I finish it, my bill goes to the Fidelis Company, not to Bert Hill . . ."
"You say."
"You're a tough guy to get along with, Stern. But let’s forget personalities," he added, straightening his shoulders. "Stanzyck was shot in a hotel called The Inn. There were a lot of people inside who could have done it. There was also at least one person outside who might have slipped in and gunned him. That one is your partner here."
Stern's glance moved to Weir.
"Is he right, Bill?"
"He's right," Weir answered.
"Your partner also sent a series of threatening notes to Bert Hill from the time Stanzyck was arrested for killing Ralph Bogan."
"I'll admit that, too," said Weir. "But you’ll never prove it."
"Maybe," Dane said, still talking to Stern. "Your partner is also the person with a motive for getting Stanzyck once and for all."
That's something else you're guessing about," said Weir.
“Sure. But how long do you think that girl of yours is going to stand up under some real hot grilling?" When Weir said nothing, Dane went on. "Ann Bogan wasn't safe as long as Al Stanzyck was still alive. And the D.A. still had a case if he could dig up new information. I think the girl had some kind of information and sooner or later they'd get around to asking her about it."
“Does she know something, Bill?" Mike Stern asked.
“Sure she knows something. My God, Ralph was her brother. He told her everything that was going on between him and Stanzyck. But it was only circumstantial, only hearsay—"
"But important," Dane broke in. "And you must have thought so or you wouldn't have sent those letters to Hill. You wouldn't have gone up there the night before last."
Stern said, "Is that why you took it so hard when we lost our witnesses, Bill?"
“I was worried. Who wouldn't be?"
"Okay, Dane. You've got some letters, you've got motive, you've got him at the scene. Now What?"
“You ask him," said Dane softly, his back squarely to Weir.
For several moments Stern and the private detective looked into each other's faces. Then Stern said, "Did you do it, Bill?" and his eyes went beyond Dane.
“No, Mike, I didn't," said Weir. "I know I didn't, but I don't know much else. I remember being right here in this room and hearing the news that the son-of-a-bitch was out. Then it's like a dream. I went out of here and headed right for their union office. I think there was a girl there, a secretary. Nobody else. I went to that restaurant he was in when we picked him up that night. I went to that bottle club he belongs to, to the political club, to the place where he took his Turkish baths. Then I took off in the car. I don't remember a minute of the ride or anything else until some guy flashed a light on me outside the hotel. It was like waking up. I told him something about being a reporter and asked him about a back way out. What I'd been planning to do was the worst possible solution for me, and for Ann—for everybody . . ."
"Meaning Joe?" asked Stern.
"Joe," he said. "And you. The department . . . I don't know. I just couldn't go in there and kill him."
Silence hung in the small room, and then was broken by the hushed opening of a door. They looked to find Ann Bogan there, her cheeks glistening with tears but her face a radiant smile. Still no one said anything until Dane spoke.
"Do you believe that, Stern?" he asked.
"Every word of it."
"Then maybe I can stop wasting time and look for the one who did kill Al Stanzyck."
Stern was unable to suppress a grin. But when he spoke his voice had its usual cold reserve.
"Why don't you do that, mister," he said, "and stop bothering people."
"I'm sorry I busted you one," Dane told him.
"Not as sorry as I'd like to make you." He watched the investigator walk slowly to the door. "And another thing, wise guy. What was that note about you stole from Purdy?"
"I haven't found out yet," Timothy told him. "I've been too busy with the police department."
"If you need anything," Stern began, "not forgetting what I owe you—but if you need anything . . ."
"Thanks," Dane told him sincerely. "I might take you up on that." He pulled the door open in his hand.
"You really don't have anything at all?" Stern persisted, and to someone who didn't know how much he disliked private detectives it would almost seem that he was reluctant to let Dane go.
"Why don't you and I talk it over with a drink," Timothy suggested. "These two probably won't miss you."
"Not in the least," said Ann. She stood at Weir's shoulder and ached to have his arm around her own.
Stern joined Dane at the door and they left together.
CHAPTER 14
Bannerman had walked from West Twentieth Street to the building at 24 Murray. This was called the Manhattan School of Firearms and its target range was the official one for the police of the 10th Precinct.
The civilian gunsmith on duty greeted him familiarly. "What're you doin' here, Lieutenant? Miss someb
ody at point-blank range?"
"Not yet, Frank. Anybody here?"
"Just a pistol club having practice. You can have your own range to yourself."
“Fine."
"How's Bill Weir, Joe? Haven't seen him in weeks."
"We been busy, Frank." Bannerman made as though to move on.
"All the more reason," said Frank, laughing. "I guess Bill don't need much practice. That boy and a pistol just naturally go together."
"Yeah, I know." Bannerman continued on downstairs and entered the area reserved for the Police Department. Near the standard target board he found what he was looking for—a large, rectangular section of kapok similar to what Ballistics used in their tests. He then scooped enough shavings from the sawdust pile to make a sizable mound and set the kapok before it. His revolver appeared in his hand and he stepped off three paces from his makeshift target and turned. With a final look around to make sure he was unobserved, Bannerman fired carefully five times into the thick material.
His fingers searched the sawdust, scattering it, until he had retrieved all five slugs. When they were in his pocket he lit a cigarette and smoked it leisurely. A reasonable amount of time had passed, he thought, and he journeyed back upstairs.
"Still got the old eagle-eye, Lieutenant?" asked the gunsmith.
"Hit it every time," he answered truthfully, waved a farewell and was gone. Back at the precinct house he listened to the report about the' arrest of Augie La Starza with what the stenographer thought was unenthusiasm, even for Bannerman. His only comment was a nod of the head, and as he entered his office he gave orders that he wasn't to be disturbed. The stenographer heard the lock turn in the door and wondered what important case had come up.
Bannerman set his own slugs on the left side of his desk and those that had killed Al Stanzyck on the other. He lifted one from each pile at random, and watching closely that he made no mistake, examined them against one another. The nose of his own bullet, he decided, could have been dented more irregularly, but by and large, considering the improvisation, they could pass as identical to the unsuspecting eye. At least, he said fervently to himself, he hoped so.
He picked up the empty envelope and filled it with the slugs from the left side. The envelope was replaced in his desk. Into his pocket, this time, went the other five. Bannerman stood up, walked to his closet and took out a battered portable typewriter lying on the floor. He brought it back to the desk, opened it and inserted a plain white sheet of paper. Painstakingly, with only the forefinger of each hand, he began to type:
To the Commissioner of Police, New York
Dear Sir:
If you want to solve the killing of Al Stanzyck then do this immediately: Impound the service revolver of everyman in the Homicide Squad, West Side. Compare barrel markings with those on slugs recovered from Stanzyck’s corpse. This comes to you from somebody who knows.
Leaving the note unsigned, he pulled it from the machine, inserted a plain envelope and typed the Centre Street address of the Commissioner's office. The note was folded, put into the envelope and sealed for mailing. Bannerman replaced the portable in the interior of the closet and made one more trip to the desk. He slid his revolver from his coat and laid it carelessly in the drawer beside the envelope of slugs. He closed the drawer, debated whether to lock it, decided not to, and then, with a slowly revolving glance that lingered for a moment on every familiar object in the room, Bannerman left his office. The letter, bearing special delivery stamps, was mailed from Grand Central Station two hours later. Five minutes after that, the policeman was occupying a roomette aboard the Montrealer, calling himself Mr. John Miller and with a one-way ticket in his pocket for a place named Fredericton in the Province of New Brunswick.
CHAPTER 15
"You say your name is Dane?" asked the doorman, politely but expertly inserting his body between the open door and the apartment lobby beyond.
"Yes, I say my name is Dane. The lady's expecting me."
"She was."
"What?"
"Was expecting you," he said. "At seven o'clock. It's now eight thirty. She isn't expecting you any more."
"I'll just see," the tall man told him, politely but expertly shouldering the guard aside.
"Look here . . . !"
"Let go of that arm," Dane told him quietly. "This isn't a social call anymore. I'm working now, and if I find out she isn't up there I'm going to come down again and you're going to tell me where she is at. Right?"
"My, my!"
It was a voice that Dane was beginning to know very well, and he turned to a dark alcove of the Spanish-type lobby to see Roxanne Garde sitting cross-legged in the shadows.
"Hi," he called to her cheerfully.
"Don't hi me," she answered angrily. "I was giving you the benefit of the doubt for being an hour and a half late, but after listening to that gallant little speech you can just pack your carpetbag and blow away."
Timothy used the time to cross the expanse of thick rug and come to stand before the high-backed, throne-like chair with his long arms at his side and his body bent diffidently forward.
But there was nothing supplicating in his voice.
"Things are different, Miss Garde."
"I said blow away, Mr. Dane. Far away. How do you mean, different?"
"Now I want to talk to you," he said.
She let the echoes of his voice die, let the implication of his words deepen.
"Was I that obvious?" she asked then, leaning forward, her own voice soft and surprising him with its sudden warmth.
"You . . ." Her body was projected toward him, and he found that he was more absorbed with the revelation of her figure beneath the swooping neckline of her gown than he was in the flashy answer that had been on the tip of his tongue.
"I what?"
"I'd better take you to dinner," he said.
She uncrossed her legs, rose out of the chair and stood close to him with what Dane thought was a single, fluid motion. Her scent assailed him, made him more conscious of her basic femaleness than he could remember. And more aware of his own manhood.
"I'm very angry with you," she said, her face uplifted, her glistening lips forming each word disconcertingly.
"I'm an hour and a half late," he said lamely, needing something to say.
"Yes. And that power play with the doorman."
"I wanted to see you—"
"Roxy."
"Roxy." Pronouncing her name seemed to clear the air for him. "Where would you like to eat?"
"Why don't we go upstairs for a while?" she suggested, hooking her arm beneath his own and turning him toward the elevators. "We can eat later."
At the door of her apartment she handed Dane a specially cut gold key. He opened the door and stood aside for her. But when the door was closed again she set the double lock.
"Is that a reflex?" he asked. "Or are you worried about visitors?"
"I'm not as confident about that doorman as I was," she told him. Around her shoulders had been draped a bluish colored mink. Now she let it drop almost negligently to a chair.
"Who else beside me would try to get past him?"
"Let me get you a drink," she said.
"Sure. A little Rye on the rocks if you have it."
"I've got it," she said, and he watched her admiringly as she turned and moved with effortless grace to the bar in the corner. You really have got it, lady, he said to himself.
"Rye on the rocks," she told him moments later, handing him the glass. In her own hand was a pony containing a pale green liquor that Dane suspected was minted Aquavit or Pernod. "Do you like my dress?" she asked suddenly, whirling before his eyes, miraculously not spilling a drop of the drink which she held gaily aloft.
"Real nice," he said truthfully. He guessed that the silken material in it was taffeta. The top of the gown was ivory white and practically nonexistent, just managing to cup her bosom while leaving her arms, shoulders and chest uncovered. The coal-black skirt, by contrast, was e
xtravagantly full and billowed out from her slender waist at such an angle that he was sure it required an old-fashioned hoop beneath it.
"Do you like me?" Her pirouette had brought her up against him, so close that she could whisper the question.
"You smell good," he said.
"Is that all?"
"It's all I can think of at the moment."
"I like you," she told him. "In the strangest way."
"Please don't slip any notes in my pocket," Dane said quietly.
Roxanne stepped back, and with her eyes intent on his face finished the drink in her hand at one swift swallow.
"What was that supposed to mean?" she asked him.
"It means that all this is very nice. The door is locked, the lights are low, there's plenty of liquor and you couldn't look better to me if you were naked—"
"I couldn't?"
"But if I seem a little stuffy," he went on easily, "if my warming point is high, it's because I'm thinking back forty-eight hours when you invited another boyfriend to step down the hall and have his brains blown out. . . ."
He moved just in time to have the glass sail past his head and splinter expensively against the wall beyond. Without commenting on it, he walked past her to the bar and returned with a second pony of what turned out to be, of all things, highly illegal Absinthe, poured from a long necked bottle bearing the name of an Egyptian distiller and the information that it was 154 proof.
"How many of these things do you think you're going to handle?"
"As many as I feel like having."
"Was that one of Stanzyck's side lines, smuggling in this junk?"
"Forget Stanzyck!" she cried. "I don't want to hear about him any more . . ."
"Don't you know that Absinthe can drive you insane?"
"Good," she said. She lifted the glass to her lips. Then, without drinking any, slowly lowered it. "Don't you want me to have it?" she asked him gently, almost docilely.
"No."
She carried the drink to the bar, left it there and returned to him.