I liked that. His belly was flabby, and it got softer every time I hit it. I hit it often.
He was chopping at my face, but by digging my nose into his chest and holding it there I kept my beauty from being altogether ruined. Meanwhile I threw my right fist into him.
Then I became aware that Cara Kenbrook was moving around behind me; and I remembered the revolver that had fallen somewhere when I had charged Tennant. I didn’t like that; but there was nothing I could do about it—except put more weight in my punches. My own gun, I thought, was in one of his pockets. But neither of us had time to hunt for it now.
Tennant’s knees sagged the next time I hit him.
Once more, I said to myself, and then I’ll step back, let him have one on the button, and watch him fall.
But I didn’t get that far.
Something that I knew was the missing revolver struck me on the top of the head. An ineffectual blow—not clean enough to stun me—but it took the steam out of my punches.
Another.
They weren’t hard; these taps, but to hurt a skull with a hunk of metal you don’t have to hit it hard.
I tried to twist away from the next bump, and failed. Not only failed, but let Tennant wiggle away from me.
That was the end.
I wheeled on the girl just in time to take another rap on the head, and then one of Tennant’s fists took me over the ear.
I went clown in one of those falls that get pugs called quitters—my eyes were open, my mind was alive, but my legs and arms wouldn’t lift me up from the floor.
Tennant took my own gun out of a pocket, and with it held on me, sat down in a Morris chair, to gasp for the air I had pounded out of him. The girl sat in another chair; and I, finding I could manage it, sat up in the middle of the floor and looked at them.
Tennant spoke, still panting.
“This is fine—all the signs of a struggle we need to make our story good!”
“If they don’t believe you were in a fight,” I suggested sourly, pressing my aching head with both hands, “you can strip and show them your little tummy.”
“And you can show them this!”
He leaned down and split my lip with a punch that spread me on my back.
Anger brought my legs to life. I got up on them. Tennant moved around behind the Morris chair. My black gun was steady in his hand.
“Go easy,” he warned me. “My story will work if I have to kill you—maybe work better.”
That was sense. I stood still.
“Phone the police, Cara,” he ordered.
She went out of the room, closing the door behind her; and all I could hear of her talk was a broken murmur.
Ten minutes later three uniformed policemen arrived. All three knew Tennant, and they treated him with respect. Tennant reeled off the story he and the girl had cooked up, with a few changes to take care of the shot that had been fired from the nickeled gun and our rough−house. She nodded her head vigorously whenever a policeman looked at her. Tennant turned both guns over to the white−haired sergeant in charge.
I didn’t argue, didn’t deny anything, but told the sergeant:
“I’m working with Detective Sergeant O’Gar on a job. I want to talk to him over the phone and then I want you to take all three of us down to the detective bureau.”
Tennant objected to that, of course; not because he expected to gain anything, but on the off−chance that he might. The white−haired sergeant looked from one of us to the other in puzzlement. Me, with my skinned face and split lip; Tennant, with a red lump under one eye where my first wallop had landed; and the girl, with most of the clothes above the waistline ripped off and a bruised cheek.
“It has a queer look, this thing,” the sergeant decided aloud, “and I shouldn’t wonder but what the detective bureau was the place for the lot of you.”
One of the policemen went into the hall with me, and I got O’Gar on the phone at his home. It was nearly ten o’clock by now, and he was preparing for bed.
“Cleaning up the Gilmore murder,” I told him. “Meet me at the Hall. Will you get hold of Kelly, the patrolman who found Gilmore, and bring him down there? I want him to look at some people.”
“I will that,” O’Gar promised, and I hung up.
The “wagon” in which the three policemen had answered Cara Kenbrook’s call carried us down to the Hall of Justice, where we all went into the captain of detectives’ office. McTighe, a lieutenant, was on duty.
I knew McTighe, and we were on pretty good terms, but I wasn’t an influence in local politics, and Tennant was. I don’t mean that McTighe would have knowingly helped Tennant frame me; but with me stacked up against the assistant city engineer, I knew who would get the benefit of any doubt there might be.
My head was thumping and roaring just now, with knots all over it where the girl had beaned me. I sat down, kept quiet, and nursed my head while Tennant and Cara Kenbrook, with a lot of details that they had not wasted on the uniformed men, told their tale and showed their injuries.
Tennant was talking—describing the terrible scene that had met his eyes when, drawn by the girl’s screams, he had rushed into her apartment—when O’Gar came into the office. He recognized Tennant with a lifted eyebrow, and came over to sit beside me.
“What the hell is all this?” he muttered.
“A lovely mess,” I whispered back. “Listen—in that nickel gun on the desk there’s an empty shell. Get it for me.”
He scratched his head doubtfully, listened to the next few words of Tennant’s yarn, glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, and then went over to the desk and picked up the revolver.
McTighe looked at him—a sharp, questioning look.
“Something on the Gilmore killing,” the detective−sergeant said, breaking the gun.
The lieutenant started to speak, changed his mind, and O’Gar brought the shell over and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, putting it in my pocket. “Now listen to my friend there. It’s a good act, if you like it.”
Tennant was winding up his history.
“. . . Naturally a man who tried a thing like that on an unprotected woman would be yellow, so it wasn’t very hard to handle him after I got his gun away from him. I hit him a couple of times, and he quit—begging me to stop, getting down on his knees. Then we called the police.”
McTighe looked at me with eyes that were cold and hard. Tennant had made a believer of him, and not only of him—the police−sergeant and his two men were glowering at me. I suspected that even O’Gar—with whom I had been through a dozen storms—would have been half−convinced if the engineer hadn’t added the neat touches about my kneeling.
“Well, what have you got to say?” McTighe challenged me in a tone which suggested that it didn’t make much difference what I said.
“I’ve got nothing to say about this dream,” I said shortly. “I’m interested in the Gilmore murder—not in this stuff.” I turned to O’Gar. “Is the patrolman here?”
The detective−sergeant went to the door, and called: “Oh, Kelly!”
Kelly came in—a big, straight−standing man, with iron−gray hair and an intelligent fat face.
“You found Gilmore’s body?” I asked.
“I did.”
I pointed at Cara Kenbrook.
“Ever see her before?”
His gray eyes studied her carefully.
“Not that I remember,” he answered.
“Did she come up the street while you were looking at Gilmore, and go into the house he was lying in front of?”
“She did not.”
I took out the empty shell O’Gar had got for me, and chucked it down on the desk in front of the patrolman.
“Kelly,” I asked, “why did you kill Gilmore?”
Kelly’s right hand went under his coat−tail at his hip.
I jumped for him.
Somebody grabbed me by the neck. Somebody else piled on my back. McTighe aimed a bi
g fist at my face, but it missed. My legs had been suddenly kicked from under me, and I went down hard with men all over me.
When I was yanked to my feet again, big Kelly stood straight up by the desk, weighing his service revolver in his hand. His clear eyes met mine, and he laid the weapon on the desk. Then he unfastened his shield and put it with the gun.
“It was an accident,” he said simply.
By this time the birds who had been manhandling me woke up to the fact that maybe they were missing part of the play—that maybe I wasn’t a maniac. Hands dropped off me, and presently everybody was listening to Kelly.
He told his story with unhurried evenness, his eyes never wavering or clouding. A deliberate man, though unlucky.
“I was walkin’ my beat that night, an’ as I turned the corner of Jones into Pine I saw a man jump back from the steps of a buildin’ into the vestibule. A burglar, I thought, an’ cat−footed it down there. It was a dark vestibule, an’ deep, an’ I saw somethin’ that looked like a man in it, but I wasn’t sure.
“Come out o’ there!” I called, but there was no answer. I took my gun in my hand an’ started up the steps. I saw him move just then, comin’ out. An’ then my foot slipped. It was worn smooth, the bottom step, an’ my foot slipped. I fell forward, the gun went off, an’ the bullet hit him. He had come out a ways by then, an’ when the bullet hit him he toppled over frontwise, tumblin’ clown the steps onto the sidewalk.
“When I looked at him I saw it was Gilmore. I knew him to say ‘howdy’ to, an’ he knew me—which is why he must o’ ducked out of sight when he saw me comin’ around the corner. He didn’t want me to see him comin’ out of a buildin’ where I knew Mr. Tennant lived, I suppose, thinkin’ I’d put two an’ two together, an’ maybe talk.
“I don’t say that I did the right thing by lyin’, but it didn’t hurt anybody. It was an accident, but he was a man with a lot of friends up in high places, an’—accident or no—I stood a good chance of bein’ broke, an’ maybe sent over for a while. So I told my story the way you people know it. I couldn’t say I’d seen anything suspicious without maybe puttin’ the blame on some innocent party, an’ I didn’t want that. I’d made up my mind that if anybody was arrested for the murder, an’ things looked bad for them, I’d come out an’ say I’d done it. Home, you’ll find a confession all written out—written out in case somethin’ happened to me—so nobody else’d ever be blamed. “That’s why I had to say I’d never seen the lady here. I did see her—saw her go into the buildin’ that night—the buildin’ Gilmore had come out of. But I couldn’t say so without makin’ it look bad for her; so I lied. I could have thought up a better story if I’d had more time, I don’t doubt, but I had to think quick. Anyways, I’m glad it’s all over.”
Kelly and the other uniformed policeman had left the office, which now held McTighe, O’Gar, Cara Kenbrook, Tennant, and me. Tennant had crossed to my side, and was apologizing.
“I hope you’ll let me square myself for this evening’s work. But you know how it is when somebody you care for is in a jam. I’d have killed you if I had thought it would help Cara—on the level. Why didn’t you tell us that you didn’t suspect her?”
“But I did suspect the pair of you,” I said. “It looked as if Kelly had to be the guilty one; but you people carried on so much that I began to feel doubtful. For a while it was funny—you thinking she had done it, and she thinking you had, though I suppose each had sworn to his or her innocence. But after a time it stopped being funny. You carried it too far.”
“How did you rap to Kelly?” O’Gar, at my shoulder, asked.
“Miss Kenbrook was walking north on Leavenworth—and was halfway between Bush and Pine—when the shot was fired. She saw nobody, no cars, until she rounded the corner. Mrs. Gilmore, walking north on Jones, was about the same distance away when she heard the shot, and she saw nobody until she reached Pine Street.
If Kelly had been telling the truth, she would have seen him on Jones Street. He said he didn’t turn the corner until after the shot was fired.
“Either of the women could have killed Gilmore, but hardly both; and I doubted that either could have shot him and got away without running into Kelly or the other. Suppose both of them were telling the truth—what then? Kelly must have been lying! He was the logical suspect anyway—the nearest known person to the murdered man when the shot was fired.
“To back all this up, he had let Miss Kenbrook go into the apartment building at three in the morning, in front of which a man had just been killed, without questioning her or mentioning her in his report. That looked as if he knew who had done the killing. So I took a chance with the empty−shell trick, it being a good bet that he would have thrown his away, and would think that—”
McTighe’s heavy voice interrupted my explanation.
“How about this assault charge?” he asked, and had the decency to avoid my eye when I turned toward him with the others.
Tennant cleared his throat.
“Er—ah—in view of the way things have turned out, and knowing that Miss Kenbrook doesn’t want the disagreeable publicity that would accompany an affair of this sort, why, I’d suggest that we drop the whole thing.” He smiled brightly from McTighe to me. “You know nothing has gone on the records yet.”
“Make the big heap play his hand out,” O’Gar growled in my ear. “Don’t let him drop it.”
“Of course if Miss Kenbrook doesn’t want to press the charge,” McTighe was saying, watching me out of the tail of his eye, “I suppose—”
“If everybody understands that the whole thing was a plant,” I said, “and if the policemen who heard the story are brought in here now and told by Tennant and Miss Kenbrook that it was all a lie—then I’m willing to let it go at that. Otherwise, I won’t stand for a hush−up.”
“You’re a damned fool!” O’Gar whispered. “Put the screws on them!”
But I shook my head. I didn’t see any sense in making a lot of trouble for myself just to make some for somebody else—and suppose Tennant proved his story . . .
So the policemen were found, and brought into the office again, and told the truth.
And presently Tennant, the girl, and I were walking together like three old friends through the corridors toward the door, Tennant still asking me to let him make amends for the evening’s work.
“You’ve got to let me do something!” he insisted. “It’s only right!”
His hand dipped into his coat, and came out with a thick billfold.
“Here,” he said, “let me—”
We were going, at that happy moment, down the stone vestibule steps that lead to Kearny Street—six or seven steps there are.
“No,” I said, “let me—”
He was on the next to the top step, when I reached up and let go.
He settled in a rather limp pile at the bottom.
Leaving his empty−faced lady love to watch over him, I strolled up through Portsmouth Square toward a restaurant where the steaks come thick.
THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
“I haven’t anything very exciting to offer you this time,” Vance Richmond said as we shook hands. “I want you to find a man for me—a man who is not a criminal.”
There was an apology in his voice. The last couple of jobs this lean, gray-faced attorney had thrown my way had run to gun-play and other forms of rioting, and I suppose he thought anything less than that would put me to sleep. Was a time when he might have been right—when I was a young sprout of twenty or so, newly attached to the Continental Detective Agency. But the fifteen years that had slid by since then had dulled my appetite for rough stuff.
“The man I want found,” the lawyer went on, as we sat down, “is an English architect named Norman Ashcraft. He is a man of about thirty-seven, five feet ten inches tall, well built, and fair-skinned, with light hair and blue eyes. Four years ago he was a typical specimen of the clean-cut blond Britisher. He may not be like that now—those four years have bee
n rather hard ones for him, I imagine.
“Here is the story. Four years ago the Ashcrafts were living together in England, in Bristol. It seems that Mrs. Ashcraft is of a very jealous disposition, and he was rather high-strung. Furthermore, he had only what money he earned at his profession, while she had inherited quite a bit from her parents. Ashcraft was rather foolishly sensitive about being the husband of a wealthy woman—was inclined to go out of his way to show that he was not dependent upon her money, that he wouldn’t be influenced by it. Foolish, of course, but just the sort of attitude a man of his temperament would assume. One night she accused him of paying too much attention to another woman. They quarreled, and he packed up and left.
“She was repentant within a week—especially repentant since she had learned that her suspicion had had no foundation outside of her own jealousy—and she tried to find him. But he was gone. She succeeded in tracing him from Bristol to New York, and then to Detroit, where he had been arrested and fined for disturbing the peace in a drunken row of some sort. After that he dropped out of sight until he bobbed up in Seattle ten months later.” The attorney hunted through the papers on his desk and found a memorandum.
“On May 23, 1923, he shot and killed a burglar in his room in a hotel there. The Seattle police seem to have suspected that there was something funny about the shooting, but had nothing to hold Ashcraft on. The man he killed was undoubtedly a burglar. Then Ashcraft disappeared again, and nothing was heard of him until just about a year ago. Mrs. Ashcraft had advertisements inserted in the Personal columns of papers in the principal American cities.
“One day she received a letter from him, from San Francisco. It was a very formal letter, and simply requested her to stop advertising. Although he was through with the name Norman Ashcraft, he wrote, he disliked seeing it published in every newspaper he read.
“She mailed a letter to him at the General Delivery window here, and used another advertisement to tell him about it. He answered it, rather caustically. She wrote him again, asking him to come home. He refused, though he seemed less bitter toward her. They exchanged several letters, and she learned that he had become a drug addict, and what was left of his pride would not let him return to her until he looked—and was at least somewhat like—his former self. She persuaded him to accept enough money from her to straighten himself out. She sent him this money each month, in care of General Delivery, here.
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