by Craig Rice
Was there another car following? She couldn’t be sure. The street was dark and deserted, but there was a pair of headlights that seemed to keep about a block behind. Well, that was a risk she had to take.
The car ahead stopped in front of an underlighted pawnshop. Helene said, “Pssst!” The cab passed the pawnshop, Stan switched off the lights and slid silently up to the curb half a block beyond. The car behind slowed down and turned the next corner. Helene, said, “Wait for me,” and stepped out. Stan said, “Don’t you want I should come with you, lady?” and she shook her head. No use involving anyone else in this. She wanted a look through the windows of that pawnshop. She wanted to memorize its location, and the face of the man behind the counter.
Were there steps behind her, on the sidewalk? She wasn’t sure. She paused a moment, listening. Yes, there had been steps. They’d paused when she paused. Maybe she ought to turn back and run, maybe she ought to yell for Stan. No good. To turn back would be to confront whoever was following and Stan was out of earshot by now. There was no way to go but ahead.
Her limbs were stiff with terror as she walked on. Only one light showed in the entire block, the window of the pawnshop where Harris Lawrence and the hard-faced man had gone. By now, they must have discovered that her diamonds had come from the Forty-second Street Woolworth’s. She couldn’t go on, someone was coming down the walk toward her, someone who’d got out of the black sedan. She couldn’t turn back; the footsteps were right behind her now. She couldn’t scream for help, because her throat was frozen shut with fear.
A car crept up the street and slowed to a stop beside her. She turned quickly and went into the pawnshop. New horrors might be waiting for her there, but at least it was lighted.
A gray-haired hunchback was behind the counter, facing Harris Lawrence and the hard-faced man. There was a tray in front of him, glittering red and green and white. He moved the tray and lights flashed from it, and he said, “I got gypped on this stuff from the Morrison dame, and now I’m damned if I’ll even look—”
The door creaked. Harris Lawrence and the hard-faced man spun around; their faces grew long with surprise. The hard-faced man said, “It’s a trap—”
Helene thrust her hands deeper in the pocket of her evening coat and said, “If anybody moves, I’ll shoot.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as trembling as it felt. There was an answer to that line, she remembered it from a long-ago vaudeville act. “And if anybody shoots, I’ll move.” She didn’t say it out loud.
The footsteps had stopped just outside the door, then they’d begun again, coming in. The three men in the pawnshop moved a step toward her, then stopped. She hoped Jake wouldn’t be too sorry. She hoped he’d marry again, and have a happy life. The blond young man turned white, and gave a little cry. A voice behind her said, “Duck, Mrs. Justus.”
A shot whistled past her cheek. A hand struck her on the back of the neck, throwing her to the floor. There was another shot, and she saw the hard-faced man collapse. The gray-haired hunchback ran toward a rear door, a shadowy figure hurtled past her, dived at him, and brought him down. Harris Lawrence stood in the farthest corner, screaming.
Someone came running in the door. It was Stan. He was saying, “I heard shots. Is the lady all right?”
“She’s all right,” someone said.
Helene looked up. Her face hurt, where she’d hit the floor. The green chiffon dress had been badly torn. Oh, well, she hadn’t liked it very much, anyway. She looked up into the anxious face of O’Brien. “Are you O.K., Mrs. Justus?” he asked anxiously.
Helene nodded and struggled to her feet. Something had happened to her knees. They seemed to have liquefied. “Peterson said we should keep an eye on you,” O’Brien said. There was a note of apology in his voice. “I hope you are O.K. Because he’ll raise hell if you aren’t.”
“I feel wonderful,” Helene gasped. She pointed a shaking hand toward the tray and said, “Jewels. Bertha Morrison’s. He said so.”
The gray-haired hunchback shrieked, “I didn’t know they were hers. I didn’t know anything. I’m an honest businessman trying to make a living. I didn’t know anything. I’m an honest businessman—”
No one paid any attention to him. A man who’d come in with O’Brien said, “By God, they are Bertha Morrison’s. I saw a picture of that clasp.”
Stan supported Helene with one arm, pulled a half-pint flask from his pocket, and poured cheap whisky between her chattering teeth. The cold began to recede from her bones. “You’ll be all right, lady,” he assured her.
The man who’d come in with O’Brien picked up Helene’s necklace and bracelets and said, “Are these yours?”
Helene nodded. “But they can keep them. They came from the Woolworth’s on Forty-second Street.”
Harris Lawrence stopped screaming and began to laugh hysterically. O’Brien took his hand off Helene’s arm and said, “Come out of that corner, you. Before I drag you out.”
The other cop prodded the blond young man into the middle of the room and under the lights. Then he beamed unpleasantly and said, “Well, as I live and breathe! Howie Lutts!”
25. “I’m an Honest Businessman”
“Stop worrying,” Malone said to Jake. “She’s all right, nothing’s happened to her.” He gave up trying to light a cigar.
“Of course she’s all right,” Jake said. He managed to make his teeth stop playing the Habañera from Carmen. “Just because they called from police headquarters—”
Malone made another try with the cigar, almost setting the taxi on fire. He tried to think of something helpful to say to Jake and finally fell back on, “Stop worrying.”
“Me worry?” Jake said. His teeth finally settled down to a slow samba. “Helene’s all right. Nothing could happen to Helene. She could look after herself anywhere.” He drew in a quick breath and said, “You stop worrying.”
“Who’s worrying?” Malone said. He threw the cigar out the window and put the burnt match back in his pocket. Then he leaned forward and said to the cab driver, “For the love of Mike, step on it!”
The cab driver said, “Don’t worry.” Conversation lagged.
Helene had been murdered. Helene had been kidnaped. Helene had been arrested for something. The cab drove up in front of police headquarters. Jake was out before it stopped and flung a bill at the cab driver. The elevator inside the building moved slowly, and Malone said, “Hurry up, damn you.”
There hadn’t been any information in the telephone call. Simply, “Are you the husband of Mrs. Helene Justus? Will you please come down to police headquarters, right away?”
Helene had been in a traffic accident. Helene had been robbed. Helene had been raped. It was a hell of a long way from the elevator to Arthur Peterson’s office. Helene had been run over by a subway train. Helene had fallen out of a window. Helene had been trapped in a burning building. Helene had—
Helene was sitting in the most comfortable chair in Arthur Peterson’s office, looking beautiful and serene. She was saying, “It really was just an accident. I didn’t have any idea that Bertha Morrison’s jewels—I mean, it just happened that Mr. Justus had to be out on business this evening, and I didn’t want to stay home alone, so I called up this escort bureau. And then—” She turned her head, her eyes grew wide and bright, and she said, “Oh, Jake!”
He saw then that there was a bruise on her cheek, that her dress was soiled and torn. He walked over to her fast and put his arms around her. She was trembling a little, and she buried her face against his chest. He held her very close, pressing his cheek against her soft hair. It didn’t matter, right now, that the room was full of plain-clothes men. It didn’t matter that a sleepy-eyed Arthur Peterson was watching from behind his desk. Only one thing mattered. Helene was here, and safe, and in his arms.
Arthur Peterson cleared his throat, loudly. Jake looked up. What was this about Bertha Morrison’s jewels? What had Helene been up to this time? Had Arthur Peterson given away any secrets?
Arthur Peterson’s eyes told Jake that he hadn’t, and that he wouldn’t. Jake relaxed. He stood up, glared at Helene, and said, “I ought to give you a good punch in the nose.”
“Mrs. Justus has been a very great help,” Arthur Peterson said coldly. “She’s a brave little woman.”
A big blond bruiser, handcuffed to O’Brien, snorted and said a very rude word. O’Brien slapped him across the mouth with his free hand. A little gray-haired hunchback, who’d been weeping silently into a big handkerchief, looked up and said, “I’m an honest businessman just trying to make a living. I didn’t know it was stolen jewelry.”
A hard-faced man, wrapped in a gray police blanket, and with one arm bandaged, said, “Honest businessman—”
“You shut up, too,” O’Brien said.
Malone managed to get his cigar lighted, and said, “Would somebody mind telling me what goes on here? I missed the first few reels.”
A red-faced man in a cab driver’s uniform said, “I dunno who you are, Mac, but believe me, if you know this lady you oughta be proud.”
“Single-handed,” O’Brien said, almost reverently. “Single-handed, she trapped this whole bunch of crooks.”
The gray-haired hunchback wailed. “I’m no crook. I got a family. I got to make a living.”
Arthur Peterson repeated, this time to Malone, “Mrs. Justus has been a very great help.”
“I didn’t mean to be a help,” Helene said. “Honest.” She looked at him appealingly. “I told you. Mr. Justus had to be out on business. Mr. Malone was busy. I didn’t want to stay home alone all evening, so I thought it might be fun to call up an escort bureau. I remembered Dennis Morrison had mentioned he once worked for one, and I called it up, that’s all.” She reflected that the police already knew Dennis Morrison’s life history, she wasn’t giving anything away. “Honestly, that was all. Then I began to get a sort of funny feeling. Like, well, something was wrong. I can’t explain it, really. It was a sort of hunch.”
“Intuition,” Arthur Peterson said admiringly.
“So I thought it might be fun to play along and see what the racket was. And I did. And they got me to this place and pretended there was a raid. I knew it wasn’t a real raid because of the flashlight going off.”
Arthur Peterson looked up and said quickly, “Did you pick up those four women?”
“We sent ’em home,” a plain-clothes man said, “and we got the picture and destroyed it.” He added, “One of ’em’s the sister-in-law of a councilman.”
“Oh,” Peterson said. “Well, there’s no use dragging innocent victims into this.” He smiled at Helene and said, “Go on, Mrs. Justus.”
“That’s about all,” Helene said limpidly. “I was curious to know what they were going to do with my jewelry, so Mr. Sczinsky and I followed them.”
“Just call me Stan,” the cab driver said modestly.
“And you know the rest,” Helene finished. She beamed up at O’Brien and said, “It’s so lucky you were there.”
Jake looked at Helene, at O’Brien, and at Peterson. He said, “What the hell was the idea of having my wife followed?”
“And having me followed?” Malone added. He looked almost agreeably at Schultz, who’d come in just behind him, and said, “Not that it didn’t turn out to be a good idea.”
“Well, to be frank,” Arthur Peterson said, “I felt a little uneasy about all three of you. You know Dennis Morrison, you’d been with him the night of the murder. I thought it might be a good idea to keep all of you in sight.” He scowled and said, “I don’t know what’s happened to Birnbaum.” He changed the subject quickly. “This is a pure and simple extortion case. It really shouldn’t come into this department. This overlapping of cases from one department to another impairs efficiency. But in view of the fact that those were Bertha Morrison’s jewels, and that this young man is Bertha Morrison’s cousin—”
Malone wheeled around to look at Howie Lutts. He was the one Abner Proudfoot had described. It had once been planned that she would marry Howard when she attained her maturity, but for some reason the match never came off. Howard can be a rather difficult individual. He didn’t look like a very difficult individual right now. He looked like a rabbit.
“Listen,” Howie Lutts said hoarsely. “Listen to me. I haven’t seen Bertha for years. I used to know her when we were kids, but she was always a pain in the neck to me. And you know I was working the night she was bumped off. You know that.”
“We’ve checked his alibi,” a plain-clothes man said. “It’s O.K. He took a Mrs. Carl Browne, from Kansas City, to dinner at the Rainbow Room, and to a series of night clubs. They ended up in a hotel on Amsterdam Avenue, where a babe, pretending to be his wife, broke in, raised a rumpus, and Mrs. Browne paid her off. We’ve got the babe locked up, Mr. Browne has heard the whole story and he’s being very nice about it, and Mrs. Browne is filing a complaint against this guy.”
“O.K.,” Howie said. “You hear that? Maybe you got me for extortion, but you ain’t got me for murder. And I’ll get a good lawyer, I’ll get a light sentence. I’m young yet.” There was a half sob in his voice. “It ain’t my fault. I never knew what it was all about. He got me into it.” He jerked his head toward the hard-faced man. “He’s the guy you ought to send up, not me.”
The hard-faced man spat on the floor, and said, “You’re a lying son-of-a-bitch. I was trying to run a nice quiet little night club—”
The gray-haired man howled out something about being an honest businessman. Arthur Peterson cut short the uproar by pounding on his desk. Then he said, “Keep quiet! All this is in another department.” He looked coldly at Howie Lutts and said, “Did you introduce your cousin Bertha to Dennis Morrison?”
Howie shook his head and whimpered, “I never knew he even knew her. I never knew him, neither. Not well, I mean. He was just another guy who worked for Al.”
Al, the hard-faced man, looked up and said, quickly and smoothly, “Dennis Morrison did work for me. Sure, I run an escort bureau. It was a little side line of mine. I’m in the entertainment business, and I like to see people have a good time. There’s a lot of lonely people in the world, and the escort bureau paired them up. It wasn’t licensed or supervised because my competitors bribed the authorities, they were trying to run me out of business. Naturally, I couldn’t control the activities of the people who worked for me. But the bureau was perfectly legitimate. It’s resulted in some very happy marriages. But in every business like mine a few crooks get in, who take advantage of their opportunities. Like this young man. But I’m not responsible. I can prove I’m in the clear. I’ve got a good lawyer.” He drew in his breath. “As far as Dennis Morrison is concerned, he was with me for a little while, and then left, about a year ago. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.” Malone hoped he did have a good lawyer. He was sure as hell going to need a lot of coaching before he got on a witness stand.
“By the way,” Jake said quietly. “Where is Dennis Morrison? I should think he’d be rather helpful right now.”
Arthur Peterson said, “We’re looking for him.” The tone of his voice said, “And don’t ask any more questions.”
Jake pretended he hadn’t noticed the tone of voice, and said, “How about Bertha Morrison’s jewelry?”
O’Brien said, “Yeah, how about that, Mr. Prince?”
The gray-haired man looked up from his handkerchief. “Understand,” he said. “I’m an honest businessman. I try to make a living for my family. My wife, she has to have operations, my daughters, they’re in school yet, my son, he’s out of college, he can’t find a job, my wife’s mother, she lives with us. I try to make them a living. Rent I have to pay, taxes I have to pay, the pawnbroker license I have to pay. Donations to the police benefits I still have to pay. Understand? But I’m an honest businessman, I pay the rent, I pay the taxes, I pay the license, I give to the police. So if somebody brings in a piece of jewelry he should pawn, am I asking questions?”
O’Brien scowle
d and said, “When these crooks thought they had a bunch of hot ice to dispose of, they brought it straight to you. How do you explain that?”
The gray-haired man smiled and said, “All right. So I’m open evenings.”
Malone said, thinking out loud, “The guys in this fake escort racket disposed of their stuff through this fence. Dennis Morrison had worked for the outfit. If he had any jewels to dispose of—”
“Don’t be silly, Malone,” Helene said.
She was ignored. Arthur Peterson shoved a picture of Dennis Morrison toward the gray-haired man and said, “Who’s this?”
Mr. Prince studied the picture, shrugged his shoulders, and looked apologetic. “I see so many people—”
“How did you get hold of Bertha Morrison’s jewelry?” O’Brien demanded.
“Why, I bought it,” Mr. Prince said. “Understand? I told you, I don’t ask questions. Am I to know where the jewelry came from? Am I to know a young lady has been murdered? The jewelry is offered to me for sale and I buy it for a good price, maybe even I cheat myself a little. Then when I see the picture in the papers, should I go running to the police? Will that bring the poor girl back to life again?”
“Girl?” Arthur Peterson said.
Malone said, “What girl?”
“Why,” Mr. Prince said, “she sold me the jewelry. Poor girl, she was so young. You know who I mean. Gloria Garden.” He looked up, smiled, and said, “Understand?”
There was a little silence. Then Arthur Peterson said, “Gloria Garden sold you that jewelry?”
Mr. Prince smiled again, and said, “Who else?”
“Why didn’t you tell me this in the first place?” Arthur Peterson demanded. His voice was a trifle hoarse.
Mr. Prince shrugged his shoulders. “Did anyone ask me?”
A barrage of questions brought out the rest of the facts. Gloria Garden had appeared in Mr. Prince’s establishment about eleven o’clock on the night of the murder. She’d had on a black dress, studded with gold nailheads, and a tan polo coat. Jake remembered the dress and the polo coat; they’d been hanging in Gloria Garden’s closet. There hadn’t been any bloodstains on them.