Ross shrugged. “I couldn’t imagine.”
“Probably some out-of-town mob,” Morton said, beginning to enjoy himself. “But don’t you worry. We’ll do everything possible to catch the bomber.”
“I never worry,” Ross told him.
The damage was as extensive as Ross had expected. Aside from the wreckage of tables and chairs, three panels of the glass bar were cracked, two huge wall mirrors shattered, the baby-grand piano on the orchestra stage damaged, several drapes shredded beyond repair, and the back bar was a shambles of broken bottles and spilled liquor. There was some consolation in the fact that the major part of the loss was covered by insurance, however. And there was further consolation in the knowledge that the three clubs of which Bix Lawson was part owner must be in much the same condition.
Ross said to Morton, “If you don’t need me for anything, I’m going up to bed. I suppose you’ll want me to stop down at headquarters later on to make some kind of statement.”
“Sure,” the sergeant said indulgently. “Get a little sleep. This afternoon will be all right. Say one p.m.”
It was nearly five when Ross got to bed. He slept till noon, had a combination breakfast and lunch in the downstairs kitchen by making himself a Western sandwich, and came out into the dining room to find Sam Black there with a slim, effeminate little man who wore a white neck scarf and a beret.
Black introduced the man as Monsieur Lee DuBarry, the noted interior decorator.
“I thought that as long as so much had to be repaired, we might as well do the place over completely,” Black said.
As Ross pretty well left the policy of the downstairs club to its manager, he merely shrugged. “Any idea how long it will take to get back in operation?”
M. DuBarry fluttered delicate fingers in the direction of the most extensive damage. “A week at least merely for the construction contractor, Monsieur. I do no building or repair work, or course, but I will consult with the contractor to make sure things are rebuilt in a manner conforming to my over-all plans. Then a week at least for redecorating.”
“We’ll be closed down two full weeks?” Ross said.
M. DuBarry drew himself up to his full five feet four. “Monsieur could probably get paint splashed on the walls in two days, but you have come to Lee DuBarry. When I finish, Club Rotunda will be the showplace of St. Stephen.” He snapped his fingers. “There will be no such thing as competition.”
Ross regarded the little man curiously for a moment, then said to Black, “Do whatever you think necessary. I have to go downtown and make a statement about the bombing.”
“All right,” Black said. “I’ll be here if you need me. Incidentally, I called Oscar to phone all the employees and tell them they’re temporarily laid off, with pay. Okay?”
“Sure,” Ross said, with a gambler’s total indifference to expense.
When he walked out, M. DuBarry was skipping about the room and gesticulating with his delicate hands as he expounded his plans to Black.
There was a long black sedan in the no-parking zone in front of police headquarters. A man sat behind the wheel and another sat in back. Ross recognized both as torpedoes employed by Bix Lawson, which meant that Lawson and his inevitable bodyguard must be inside the building.
Under ordinary circumstances the racketeer traveled around town under the protection of only Vince Krzal, who doubled as his driver. It amused Ross that Lawson held him in enough esteem to have tripled his protection since declaring war.
Entering the building, he took the elevator to the third floor and walked down the hall to a door labeled: DETECTIVE BUREAU. This led into a large room with a counter along one side behind which sat the desk detective. There was also a switchboard operated by a policewoman. Several doors gave off of this room to the various divisions into which the detective bureau was divided.
Waving hello to the desk man, Ross entered a door on which was lettered: HOMICIDE, ARSON, VICE, GAMBLING AND NARCOTICS. As long as this title was, Ross knew that it represented only a fraction of the responsibilities delegated to what was generally known, for the sake of brevity, as the homicide division. Lieutenant Niles Redfern had once told him that his division was responsible for the investigation of twenty-eight separate crimes, including such diverse offenses as bigamy, kidnaping and wife beating.
The theory was, Redfern had explained, that any crime which conceivably could lead to murder should be assigned to homicide so that the division would be in on the ground floor in case murder developed.
The squadroom was about thirty feet long and eighteen wide, and was filled with long tables on which stood extension phones at spaced intervals. Several detectives were talking on phones, others were writing up reports; at two tables detectives were questioning either suspects or victims. A low hum of conversation filled the room.
On one side of the rearmost table Lieutenant Niles Redfern and Sergeant Amos Morton sat facing the door. On the opposite side sat Bix Lawson and his lanky bodyguard. Redfern had an open file folder before him.
“Afternoon, Clancy,” the lieutenant said as the gambler approached. “You’re just in time to get in on this. Bix had three places bombed last night—”
“No kidding?” Ross said, seating himself on the wooden chair next to Lawson. “Much damage, Bix?”
The racketeer scowled at him. “Enough.”
“You work around the clock?” Ross asked Amos Morton.
The thick-featured detective scowled also. “I’m not on duty. The lieutenant called me in to sit in on this little conference.”
“Oh. How’s the nose?”
“It’ll mend,” Morton said through his teeth.
Redfern broke up the dialogue between the two by saying, “Lawson says he has no idea who bombed his places, Clancy. You have any theories?”
Ross glanced at Morton. In a bland tone he said. “Sergeant Morton suggested last night that it was probably some out-of-town mob.”
Redfern looked at the sergeant. “You didn’t mention that theory to me.”
“It was just a guess,” Morton said sullenly. “I hadn’t heard any rumors of anybody local pushing Ross, so I just assumed some out-of-town mob might be trying to muscle in.”
Redfern looked from Lawson to Ross. “Either of you had any threats from anybody?”
Lawson shook his head and Ross said, “I haven’t even talked to any out-of-town gangsters in the last few days.”
Redfern glanced at him sharply, wondering if the gambler was merely being flippant, or had specified “in the last few days” because of his noted reluctance to tell an outright lie. He said, “If just one place had been bombed, I might think some disgruntled patron who dropped a bundle took that way to get even. But with four, I can’t buy that. This has all the earmarks of a concerted effort to drive all local … ah … night clubs out of business.”
“You don’t have to be so delicate,” Ross said “You’ve always suspected I run an upstairs casino, even though you never find any evidence of it when you drop around. And everybody knows Bix has a finger in several.”
Lawson gave him a cold look.
“All right,” Redfern said. “I’ll be blunt. This looks to me like an all-out attack on the local gambling racket. Now, out-of-town mobs don’t move in and start tossing bombs without first trying to shoulder in through negotiation. Some deal must have been offered and refused by both of you.”
“How do you know Bix and I didn’t throw bombs at each other?” Ross inquired brightly.
“It occurred to me,” the lieutenant said in a dry tone. “But I have a lab report here.” He tapped the open folder. “They recovered enough fragments to partially reconstruct the bombs. They were all World War II grenades of the same type. And the serial numbers ran concurrently. I’m satisfied the same person or persons threw them all. Either of you want to tell me who’s been pushing you?”
“Nobody’s been trying to muscle in on me,” Lawson growled.
Ross said, “I’d be
inclined to guess it was some patron who had dined at Bix’s places, but he wouldn’t have included the Rotunda. Our food’s edible.”
“You should be on TV,” Lawson said heavily. “I can’t tell you a thing, Lieutenant. Do I have to sit here and listen to this comedian, or can I go now?”
Redfern sighed. “Go ahead. You’ve obviously decided to handle this without the help of the police.”
Bix Lawson and Vince Krzal rose to their feet. Lawson said, “I’ll let you know if I get any leads, Lieutenant,” and walked out followed by his silent bodyguard.
“I’ll bet,” Redfern muttered. “You want to tell me anything, Clancy?”
“Anything I told you, I’d have to make up.”
“Then get the hell out of here, too,” the lieutenant said wearily. “I don’t know why we need cops in this town. Nobody wants to use their services.”
“Why, there’d be traffic snarls all over town without you fellows,” Ross said, standing up. “See you around, Lieutenant. Amos, did you ever find that girl you were looking for?”
Sergeant Morton merely glowered at him.
The gambler walked out.
CHAPTER XV
ROSS FOUND BIX LAWSON waiting for him when he exited from the building. The racketeer and his bodyguard were standing on the sidewalk directly in front of the main door. Presumably the driver of the black sedan had started the engine and had reached across to open the front door when he saw his employer start down the steps, for the motor was purring and the door hung open. The man in back seemingly didn’t regard Vince Krzal as important enough to merit such courtesy, however, for the back door was still shut.
Ross halted at the bottom of the steps to regard Lawson inquiringly.
“I want to talk to you,” the racket chief growled.
“All right. Go ahead.”
“You know what’s going to happen if you don’t turn over that girl?”
“Uh-huh. I imagine I’ll have to end up killing you to get you off my back.”
Lawson emitted a disgusted snort. “Don’t throw cute answers at me, Clancy. Your bullheadedness is going to wreck us both. If Whitey Cord don’t move in and knock us both over, a couple of more stunts like last night will bring on a citizens’ reform movement. Then everybody will be out in the cold. You ever been caught in the middle of a reform movement?”
“I’ve read about them,” Ross said.
“Yeah? Well, I came here from Blair City twenty years ago after being run out of town by the do-gooders. And I never want ‘em after me again. There ain’t a way in the world you can fight a citizens’ league, Clancy. Gun down just one reformer, and the whole populace rises on its hind legs and wants to lynch you. It ain’t like fighting another mob. You can’t scare ‘em off, buy ‘em off, or kill ‘em off. You can pull in your horns, shut down the rackets for a while and hope the heat will die, but nine times out of ten they’ll dig back and fry you for things you did years ago, once they start yammering for reform.”
“It’s pretty hard to fight the general public,” Ross agreed. “You can’t very well wipe out the whole populace.”
“There ain’t no way to fight a reform movement, except run for the hills. They’re always headed by the city’s top businessmen and industrialists. Burn one and you make headlines from coast to coast. They’ve got both money and influence. They hire special investigators to dig up stuff you’ve even forgotten you did. They demand special grand juries and get them appointed.
“There’s always somebody in the group who’s a personal friend of the governor, and another who went to college with the U. S. attorney general. So in addition to the mess they stir up locally, all at once you find the town flooded with special investigators from the state and federal governments. You want a bunch of do-gooders to sweep this town clean?”
“It could probably stand it,” Ross said. “But I have to admit I like it pretty well the way it is.”
“Then stop being so damned pig-headed and turn loose that girl.”
“I have a better idea,” Ross said. “Just leave me alone. If you don’t pass at me, I won’t pass back at you, and there won’t be any more headlined incidents.”
Lawson said hotly, “I can’t leave you alone, you bullhead. Don’t you understand that if I don’t deliver that girl, the Syndicate’s going to move in and take her?”
The gambler gave his head a slow shake. “Nobody’s going to take her. You, the Syndicate or the United States Army. I’ll give you a tip, Bix. Next time you pass at me, you won’t have just three establishments wrecked. I’ll reduce every place you hold an interest in to rubble.”
The big man’s heavy face turned mahogany red. In a choking voice he said, “Take him, Vince.”
Vince Krzal looked a little startled, not being used to receiving orders to gun people down right in front of police headquarters. Ross took advantage of his hesitation by crowding in on the man and sliding his left hand beneath Krzal’s coat with the speed of a striking snake. Stepping back, he covered the bodyguard with his own gun, holding it close to his body at hip level to shield it from the gaze of a couple of pedestrians who happened to be passing at that moment.
Neither pedestrian even so much as glanced their way.
The two men in the car were reaching for guns when Ross shifted position so that Vince Krzal’s bulk ceased to block the line of fire, swung the captured gun that way and gently shook his head. Both men froze, carefully withdrew empty hands from beneath their coats and laid them on their laps.
A quick glance in all directions satisfied the gambler that no one had noticed the drama taking place smack in front of police headquarters. At the moment the only pedestrians on their side of the street were the two who had just passed and were now walking away with their backs turned. But a number of people were walking along on the opposite side of the street, cars were going by in a steady stream, and a uniformed cop directed traffic at the intersection only fifty feet away.
Hugging the pistol against his hip, Ross said softly, “Get out of the car, boys.”
Slowly the two men crawled out and stood with their hands carefully away from their sides. The driver, short, thick-featured and barrel-shaped, gazed at Ross reproachfully. The man from the rear seat, as tall and bony as Vince Krzal, kept his eyes watchfully on Ross’ gun. Vince Krzal stood staring at Ross with a stupid expression on his face, not quite believing the speed the gambler had exhibited in snaking his gun away from him. Bix Lawson had turned dead white.
“I think I’ll end this war right now, Bix,” Ross said. To the men who had been in the car, he said, “Turn your backs.”
As the two men warily turned their backs to him, Bix Lawson said huskily, “You know I don’t carry a gun, Clancy.”
Ross was aware of that. Lawson depended on hirelings to do any necessary shooting.
“We’ll fix that,” the gambler said cheerfully. “I don’t like to shoot unarmed men. You, shorty, unload your heat and toss it on the rear floor of the car.”
The gun had barely thudded to the car floor when a young patrolman in uniform came down the steps of police headquarters, nodded politely and said, “Hello, Mr. Lawson. Afternoon, Mr. Ross.” He couldn’t see the pistol pressed against Ross’ left hip, because Ross’ left side faced the car.
Lawson made some kind of indistinguishable noise and Ross said cheerfully, “Afternoon, officer.”
The policeman walked off up the street.
“You, bony,” Ross said to the man who had been in the back seat. “Lift out your gun and hand it to Bix, butt first.”
The man carefully drew out his gun, reversed it and offered it to his employer.
Staring at it in horror, Lawson said in a high voice, “No. I don’t want it.”
“Oh, come on, Bix,” the gambler urged. “Let’s settle this war once and for all.”
The racketeer gave his large head a determined shake. “You get no self-defense move from me, Clancy. If you’re going to kill me, go ahead and take a m
urder rap.”
In a disgusted tone Ross said, “Toss it in the back seat, bony.”
The second gun joined the first on the rear floor of the car. The gambler tossed the gun he was holding on top of the others and said to the two disarmed gunmen, “You can turn around now.”
Turning, they gazed at his empty hands without understanding. Vince Krzal, having the advantage of knowing what Ross had done with the gun, reacted first. His big shoulders hunched and he took a step forward.
Bix Lawson took a step backward, judging by the anticipatory light suddenly sparkling in the gambler’s eyes that Ross was only waiting for an excuse to draw his gun and burn down all four of them. “Hold it—” he started to say, but was too late because Krzal had already thrown a bony-knuckled fist at Ross’ jaw.
Ross flicked his head sidewise to let the fist whistle by, grasped the man’s shoulder with both hands and pulled to increase his forward momentum beyond what the bodyguard had intended it to be, shifted himself out of the way and thrust out a foot. As Krzal tripped and started to fall forward, Ross brought a lightning-quick judo chop down alongside his neck. When the man hit the sidewalk, face first, he stayed there.
It all happened so fast, the gambler had spun to face the other two gunmen before they started toward him. The barrel-shaped driver reacted first, rushing in with his right arm drawn back to swing a roundhouse blow.
Ross’ right knee came up to his chest, both hands grasped the sole of his foot, then he thrust the foot forward with the force of a power-driven battering ram. It caught his assailant squarely in the stomach, crushing the wind from him and driving him back into his companion so hard, both men tumbled to the sidewalk.
As the driver rolled to one side, gasping and holding his stomach, Ross took a quick step forward and his foot came up in the fluid arc of a fullback placing a drop-kick. It landed solidly beneath the chin of the remaining gunman as the man attempted to scramble to his feet, lifting him nearly erect before he tumbled over backward and lay still.
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