Hell's Siphon

by George Harmon Coxe

  Hell's Siphon

  George Harmon Coxe

  Classic novelette about crime, murder, lurid location, sleazy detectives.

  Hell's Siphon

  George Harmon Coxe

  CHAPTER I. DEATH FOR ONE

  THE police touring car stopped with a jerk and both front doors swung wide. Jack Nason, First Grade Detective from the Central Office, slid from under the wheel, ran around behind the car and sprinted into the black mouth of the alley a stride or two in back of Detective Carrigan who had leaped to the sidewalk from the opposite door.

  Racing heels clicked on the cobblestone flooring, echoed hollowly from unseen walls until Nason jerked out his pocket flashlight. Then a yellow cone stabbed the darkness, picking out a vague, dark-suited form fifty feet beyond.

  The form took shape as he pounded on, and the rays of the flashlight picked out metal buttons, a badge, a whitish oval that became the face of Sergeant Kenny of the precinct station.

  “In here,” Kenny said, holstering his gun and pushing on a door at his side.

  An orange rectangle slashed across the alley floor and up the grimy brick wall opposite. Kenny stepped into the light and the brogue of his ancestors was in his thick voice.

  “Alpert's jewelry store. It's Donigan—and Sam Steig.”

  Nason said: “Donigan?” incredulously; then repeated the word in hollow tones as he pushed into the room with Carrigan at his heels.

  A single overhead bulb made the enclosure—a storeroom filled with cardboard cartons and dusty shelves—all highlights and shadows. Kenny continued to a doorway beyond and stepped aside.

  A canvas curtain which closed off the front of the store had been dropped a foot or so in front of a huge wall safe. Nearby was a long table, flanked by three chairs. On the floor, one outflung hand hidden by the shadow of the table, sprawled the body of Sam Steig.

  Nason saw him but vaguely. His eyes, his thoughts, were on a second crumpled and inert form a few feet away; a young-looking, curly- headed figure who wore the blue of a police uniform.

  “When Donigan didn't ring in”—Kenny nodded at the uniformed figure—“I came out to look for him.” The voice seemed chagrined. “Thought maybe he was celebrating again. He was workin' off some punishment duty for being drunk a while back.”

  Nason said: “Donigan,” again. Spoke the word in an absent, toneless voice.

  It wasn't just the macabre picture of death. He'd seen enough of this sort of thing to accept it as part of his job. But Donigan—this was different. He'd been to Police Academy with Donigan. Lately, since Nason had been moved to the detective bureau at headquarters, their paths had not crossed so frequently. But they were still friends.

  Donigan—warmhearted, happy-go-lucky Irishman.

  Nason cast aside his bitter thoughts with an effort and knelt beside his friend, felt for a pulse, dropped the limp wrist. Turning, but without getting off his one knee, he searched for a spark of life in the other man. Suddenly he muttered an oath.

  “This guy's still alive.” He looked at Carrigan. “Get on the phone. When you finish get Alpert down here.”

  KENNY pushed aside the canvas curtain and went into the front part of the store with Carrigan. Nason, concentrating on his new job now, made a careful inspection of the space behind the curtain.

  The safe had been opened. In place of the combination was a gaping hole; around this the metal looked as if it had been sprayed with blue-gray paint, the result of the intense heat of the acetylene torch which, with its torpedo-like fuel container, stood nearby.

  His ordinarily good-natured face was grim as he stood there, a well set-up fellow of average height; young, competent, clean-looking. After a moment he took off his hat and opened his topcoat. He ran a forefinger around the inside of the damp sweatband, and the shadows cast by his straight brows made his eyes as black as his hair.

  Finally he replaced the hat and gave his attention to the man beside the table, recalled what he knew about the fellow.

  Sam Steig was the sort of individual who, in a small town, would hang around the pool room and corner drugstore. He was a big man, about thirty- five; a former second-rate boxer. After leaving the ring he had become a bodyguard. And for the past six months he had been working as nightwatchman and guard for Alpert's jewelry store.

  Nason dropped beside the limp figure and opened the coat, and a vest that was sodden with blood. Steig had been shot twice in the chest and only the closest scrutiny revealed the faint movement of the breast that hoarded the spark of life.

  Carrigan and Kenny came back behind the canvas curtain. Paying them no attention, Nason moved to Donigan's body and unbuttoned the tunic. He saw then that the policeman had been shot in the back. There was no hole in the chest and the bullet was still in the body. And the service revolver was still in its holster.

  “He never had a chance to use it,” he said grimly.

  “Well, that's damn funny,” Kenny growled. Nason's deft fingers continued their exploration until they touched a tissue paper packet in the breast pocket of the shirt. Withdrawing this, he unfolded the paper until with startling suddenness, his palm was filled with a half-dozen unset diamonds that glittered and sparkled in the tepid light of the room.

  For an interminable moment no one spoke. Nason felt his nerves jerk taut as his jaw sagged. Finally Kenny cursed once and Carrigan wheezed:

  “For hell's sake, what—”

  “Take a look at Steig's gun!” Nason snapped. “How many times was it fired?”

  When Kenny said: “Once,” Nason stood up. He did not speak for a moment, but there was a weird curve to his lips that pulled them back against his teeth.

  “His gun was in his holster,” Carrigan said slowly, in the absent tones of a man talking to himself, “and those stones in an inside pocket—” His voice got thin and hard. “Hell, you don't think he—”

  “Who cares what I think?” Nason said bitterly.

  “Get on the phone. It'll be plenty of grief no matter how you figure it.”

  LIEUTENANT FITZPATRICK was a lanky, red-headed, sharp-tongued cop with cold gray eyes and a lean, hawk-like face that was twisted in a scowl as he spoke to the ambulance interne.

  “Well, how about it? Is he gonna live? Do we get to talk to him?”

  The interne, a sandy-haired fellow with glasses, shrugged in a gesture of weariness.

  “I don't think he's got a chance, no. But he might come around for a while.”

  The examiner's physician, who had been making an inspection of Donigan's body, extended a partly-flattened lead slug to Fitzpatrick.

  “This one was easy,” he said bruskly. “Just under the skin above the heart.”

  Fitzpatrick weighted the bullet in his palm, scowled down at it and said nothing. As the examiner's man began to pack his bag, Nason said:

  “I'd have somebody from Ballistics check that with Steig's gun.”

  The lieutenant's brows arched above cold gray eyes. “You think Steig shot him? Why?”

  “We looked the room over. There's no sign of any other slug. And there's no blood. Steig shot at something. If he'd hit one of the guys that cracked the box we ought to see some blood. If he missed we would've found the bullet.”

  Fitzpatrick's forehead was like a washboard. He said nothing, watched the ambulance assistants put Steig on a stretcher, until the back door banged open and footsteps scurried across the floor.

  Moe Alpert rushed through the narrow inner doorway an instant later and came to an abrupt stop just across the threshold. He was plump, curly- headed, smartly dressed, with a diamond as big as his knuckle winking from a little finger. His face was sweaty, fatty, with the look of a man who lives and eats well but not too wisely.

  As he burst into excite
d speech, directing his remarks to Fitzpatrick, Nason watched him and made an effort to recall the man's history.

  Aside from one breath of suspicion which tagged him “fence” some years ago, his record was clean. There was no black mark against his name, and for the past five years he had made money in this jewelry store which specialized in installment selling; made money, friends, and lived the life of a man who likes bright lights and entertainment.

  “You got any insurance?” Fitzpatrick was saying.

  “No—no. Most of my stuff is cheap—for the fifty cents a week buyer.” Alpert took off his derby and nervously wiped sweat from his glistening forehead and the bald spot at his crown. “But some things I have are worth money. Diamonds that—”

  “Then how come you didn't insure 'em?”

  “Too expensive,” groaned Alpert. “Until these jewel breaks started six months ago, I didn't need insurance. Then”—his shrewd eyes narrowed as he surveyed Fitzpatrick—“all the time I think you fellows will get the crooks. So I hire Steig—until you do get 'em.”

  “Nuts!” rapped Fitzpatrick. He glared around the dim confines of the room and continued as though talking to himself. “Three jewel breaks in six months. Each one as clean as a whistle. And now this.”

  He took the packet of diamonds Nason had turned over to him from his breast pocket, held them up for Alpert to see.

  “These yours?” he growled. Alpert blinked, extended a trembling hand. “I don't know. I'll see.” He started for the safe, but the lieutenant grabbed his arm.

  “Never mind—now. They're yours all right.” He swore once, then told the story he and Nason had pieced together in short, clipped sentences.

  Alpert said: “Oh—” which was all he could manage for the moment.

  “Check up and see if anything else is missing,” Fitzpatrick ordered. “And keep your mouth shut till we find out where we are.”

  He started to curse again, broke off suddenly, said: “What a smell this'll make if it's what I'm thinking it might be. Diamonds in his pocket, his gun in his holster and the nightwatchman's bullet in his back.”

  CHAPTER II. CAMERA FOR DEATH

  THEY stood around the bed in that bare hospital room, Alpert, Fitzpatrick, Carrigan and Nason, and watched the house surgeon turn away from the still form of Sam Steig.

  “I've done all I dare do now.”

  “But”—Fitzpatrick scowled and his voice was arbitrary—“can't you give him a shot in the arm or something, so maybe he can talk?”

  “It would be fatal.” The surgeon moved towards the door. “As it is, he has a chance. In a few hours”—the man spread his hands—“he may be able to talk—safely.”

  The surgeon shut the door gently as he went out. Alpert rubbed his hands and shook his head sadly. “I guess I'll go home now. Is there anything more I can do to—”

  “It'd be a break for the force,” Fitzpatrick said, “if you didn't tell the reporters all you knew. Tell 'em to come to me till we find out where we are.”

  Alpert said: “Sure,” and went out. Nason leaned against the wall beside the door and watched Steig, his mind busy with the details that had come to light since they had left the jewelry store. Alpert had stated that aside from the diamonds found on Donigan, there was another package of stones missing, worth about forty thousand dollars.

  Nason's thoughts checked when a nurse entered the room and said there was a telephone call for Fitzpatrick. The lieutenant was gone but a minute, and when he re-entered the room he said: “That does it,” bitterly.

  “The slug we got from Donigan was fired from Steig's gun.” He began to pace the floor. “Donigan was hard up, and he wasn't in such good standing. Drunk in uniform a while back, and for that he got twenty days suspension and one hundred and twenty hours of punishment duty. I wish to hell they'd kicked him off the force.”

  Nason's face flushed and he checked an angry reply. He did not speak until he had his emotions under control. Then he said, stubbornly: “Donigan was no crook. I knew him.”

  Fitzpatrick gave him a scornful glance. “Nobody could've broken in that store if Steig didn't want to open up. But he knew Donigan, and he'd open up for him. And then Donigan must've held him up and let the gang in with the torch. One of the hoods shot Steig. They probably thought he was dead.

  “They went to work on the safe, got the diamonds and gave Donigan his cut. They probably beat it and left Donigan behind to discover the break and give the alarm. But they muffed one thing. Steig wasn't dead. He had enough left to pull his gun and shoot Donigan when he wasn't looking.”

  “There'll be another way to figure it,” Nason said grimly.

  “If there is, we'd better find it. Because if we don't the press'll play it as it looks. Three slick jewel breaks. It'll be tough enough without smearing a crooked cop over the front page. But—” He threw up his hands, let them slap against his thighs.

  “You two”—he nodded to Nason and Carrigan—“stay here. Steig's our best chance. One of you stick in the room all the time.”

  NASON paced the floor for several minutes after Fitzpatrick left. Carrigan was in the corridor outside the door, ready to answer any telephone calls, or witness anything Steig might say if he recovered consciousness. After a while, Nason stepped over to the chair on the other side of the bed and stared down at Steig's clothing which had been draped over the chair back. With no particular motive in mind, he began to search the pockets.

  He found a knife, some loose keys, two dollar bills and a handful of change. There was a dirty handkerchief, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, a folder of matches, a bill from a dry-cleaning establishment. There was just one piece of jewelry—a watch.

  Nason inspected it idly. It was of the thick, elaborately engraved style in vogue some years ago. He pressed on the stem to open the front lid; then, prompted by idle curiosity, he wedged his thumbnail in the back and pried open the case.

  Stuck there loosely was a photograph which was cut to fit the case, a photograph of Steig and a tall girl who stood close together on some beach, an arm around each other's waist. The girl's face was vaguely familiar, but Nason could not place it at the moment, so he grunted softly, replaced the watch, keeping the picture. Walking around the bed, he pulled up the other chair and sat down.

  He watched Steig, but his thoughts were of Donigan. He was still young enough, Nason was, to have a few illusions; and he found it hard to make himself believe the story as Fitzpatrick saw it. There were crooked cops; there would always be crooked cops. Nason knew that. In any body of men the size of the city force, there was bound to be some chiselers, men of little honor or scruples. These, in the course of events, were generally weeded out; were dismissed, or left of their own accord.

  But Donigan— The drunkenness episode was different. Nason had talked with him afterward, had thought it was just what Donigan needed to teach him a lesson. He was an orphan. But there was a younger sister Donigan was putting through school. He was young, a bit wild, and full of the joy of living.

  Voices in the hall checked his reverie. He moved to the door as a knock sounded and Carrigan said:

  “Hey, Jack. There's a button-pusher from the Courier out here.”

  Nason put his hand on the knob, hesitated, his lean face cracked in a scowl.

  He had long since learned that the press was both an asset and a liability—depending on whether the representative was for you, or against you. Even when he could not give out information he knew enough to kid the reporters and cameramen along.

  Right now, irritation gripped him. He did not want to be bothered; he did not intend to allow any pictures taken. But these photographers had a job to do, and it paid to be decent. He opened the door.

  Nason did not recognize the man who stood in the opening. He was a tall, well-dressed youth with a pimply face and a tiny mustache. His voice, when he spoke, was thin, feminine.

  “How about a picture?”

  “No.”

  “Just one shot. What the h
ell. Give a guy a break.”

  “No.” Nason's dark eyes flashed from the youth's face to the camera in his hand, to the bulky plate case slung over one shoulder. “No pictures. If anything breaks you'll get it along with the rest of the boys.”

  Nason hesitated, instinct flashing a vague warning. His brows drew down and his voice got hard, skeptical. “You must be new at the Courier.

  Got a card?”

  “Sure.” The youth let the plate case slip from his shoulder, and as he spoke his hand went into his coat pocket and came out with the familiar yellow police card issued Courier men. On it was pasted the miniature photograph of the owner, and Nason glanced down at it as the fellow pushed by him and stepped into the room.

  Nason instinctively put out a hand to bar the youth's progress. His eyes were still on the photographer's card, and he stiffened and felt an instantaneous tingling at his nerve ends at what he saw.

  The picture on the police card showed a man who wore glasses.

  What happened after that could not have taken more than two or three seconds. Yet it was as though time stood still, so detailed was the action in his brain.

  HE was dimly conscious of another bulkier figure slipping into the doorway as he spun towards the pimply-faced youth. Then the fellow dropped the camera, and his hand, a blur of motion, held a heavy automatic against Nason's side.

  “Steady, punk! This'll rip a big hole in you.” Nason's brain stuck on his first thought: The other men in the diamond robbery—come back to make sure there was no witness. He went cold, then hot again as despair, then rage, gripped him. After that he moved instinctively, without conscious thought.

  His hand whipped to the automatic in his side and his hot fingers gripped the cold steel. He twisted with catlike quickness and the youth cursed. Then the movement behind him, from that bulkier shape at the door, flashed a warning which came too late.

  Something hard smashed down on his head. He felt his knees buckle and his pain-ridden brain gripped one thought—where was Carrigan?

  Nason hit the floor on his hands and knees. He was still partly conscious; he heard voices that sounded thin and far away, voices that were choked off in a roar that pounded at his ears and seemed to jar the very floor of the room. A door slammed; then Nason was fighting his way to his feet.