The Complete Cases of the Marquis of Broadway, Volume 1

by John Lawrence

  The Marquis’ eyes seemed to sink back into his head, but his round-cheeked face did not change a line. He was neatly, inescapably jobbed. It tied him as closely to the case as though Joey Blossom had been his brother.

  The tormenting irony was that he had himself considered, on half a dozen tight occasions in the past, just such a broadside. He had never quite dared chance it. Failure, after such blatant outspeaking, would be too painful. Now he had been craftily jockeyed into it.

  He stood up slowly, slid small hands into the pockets of his tightly tailored Chesterfield. There was a band of crimson around his forehead but his round blue eyes were calm.

  “You better start looking for another job, Blaisdell. I’ll be phoning your managing editor in the morning.”

  The fawn-colored reporter tossed a penknife up in the air, caught it in cupped hands. “You got a lot of phoning to do then, Marty. We’re the first on the street, is all. Every paper carries that box in the next edition.”

  “What!”

  “You heard him,” Voss bit. “We’re all printing it. We’ll back each other up. We’ll all swear you gave it out.”

  “You think anybody would believe I talked to newspapermen?”

  “The crooks and hoods on Broadway will believe it. You’re stuck, wise-guy. Either hit it—or be a bag of wind.”

  The Marquis breathed slowly through thin nostrils—and the phone rang.

  A HURRIED, subdued voice said quickly into his ear: “Marty—this is Charlie Finnegan at the River Precinct. Good luck to you. If there’s anything I can do—say the word. I loved that guy. It was him saved my kid from drowning at Long Beach last summer—and damned near drowned hisself.”

  “Blossom?”

  “Yeah. Listen, Marty—on the level. You’ll remember me, if you can use a strong back and a weak mind, eh?”

  “Sure.”

  He no sooner touched the phone to the cradle than it rang again. This time it was a dignified voice, sounding as though it came around the back of a hand.

  “Lieutenant? Inspector Carrideo.”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “I—ah—just wanted to say that if there’s any way I—or my squad, for that matter—can help, please call me personally, day or night. I thought a lot of that chap—even though he did make trouble for us from time to time. Remember—call me personally, Lieutenant. There may be—ah—a little red tape if you route a call the usual way. You’ll remember?”

  “Yeah, I’ll remember.”

  He raised thin eyes to the reporters as he groped the instrument toward the cradle. “If these calls are plants…” he growled.

  Voss’ brown eyes were angrily muddled. “Plants?”

  On the instant, the phone rang a third time.

  “Well?”

  A snarling hard-bitten voice said with deadly calm: “So, you —— big-mouth, you’re sticking your nose into my business again.”

  “Who’s this? Lebaron?”

  “Yeah, it’s Lebaron—and I’m not going to fool with you, Marquis. Here’s your warning. Report to me for orders before you do anything on this job—or I’ll get you.”

  “So? I seem to remember that I ranked lieutenant six months before you did, ghost-face.”

  “The hell with that. I’m saddled with this case—and I’ve got all the headaches I can stand, right now. I’m warning you—start getting your nose in our way and I’ll job you. I’ll howl the Inspector’s head off. On the other hand, if you want to play ball—I’ll work with you, and no hard—”

  “Play ball?”

  “Yeah. Put your cards on the table with mine. Don’t tell me you got none. Even you wouldn’t sound off that way if you were blank. I’m not begging you, I’m telling you. I’ve got this job plenty covered. My men’s nerves aren’t so hot. If your crew gets in our hair, they’ll get the same treatment any other thugs….”

  The Marquis quietly replaced the receiver, slid gloved fingers flat in his pockets. Light glinted from his crisp, tight black hair. He stared at the desk-top for a full minute.

  WHEN he looked up his eyes were thin and hot. “All right. If there is such a thing as a decent reporter, I suppose Joey is it. I’ll see what I can do. In passing, who thought up this gag?”

  Blaisdell wound arms around his body and stared out the side window. “Me.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “You’ll get Paddy?” Voss drove eagerly.

  “Don’t be simple. A regiment couldn’t get Paddy—except three-deep in lawyers.”

  “Then how—hey, wait a minute,” as the Marquis settled his hard hat, touched the tight black silk muffler at his throat. “We’re going with you! We’ve got guns….”

  “Yes you are,” the Marquis said sourly. “What if we do get hold of this tongue-tied witness? Your sensibilities might be shocked—like on other occasions.”

  “Witness? Hey—you mean you’ve got a lead on the wit— By God, those phone calls? You mean, you actually…?”

  “Get outa the way,” big Johnny snapped.

  “Hey—hey! What do you want us to do?” Voss blurted as the Marquis nodded Berthold to the door ahead of him.

  “Hanging yourself wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Johnny growled.

  “Wait—look, we’ll wait right here. You can call us right here.”

  “That’ll be dandy.”

  They stepped into a cab at the curb.

  Looking back into the brilliantly lighted shop, the Marquis pointed out the two reporters to the hacker. “Either one or both of those gents will probably try to follow us. I want them shaken loose—and I mean shaken loose. I want to wind up a half-block west of my apartment where my car is parked. But I want to be alone, get it? Take your time—better start off heading downtown.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  5.9.38—2.05 A.M.

  THEY drove twistingly for twenty minutes before they turned back and made for the Marquis’ apartment, far uptown.

  “Have you really got a tip on that witness?” Johnny asked in an undertone.

  I’ve got nothing but a headache,” the Marquis assured him. “Shut up till I see if I can think us out of this mess.”

  They had come through the Park and the taxi had drawn up alongside the Marquis’ custom-built, long black convertible. They had sent the hack on its way and the Marquis had handed the convertible’s key to Johnny—it unlocked on the driver’s side—and he was himself walking around the car to reach the passenger’s seat, before the thought dawned on him.

  Big Johnny, inside, had leaned across and unlatched the door on the Marquis’ side and it was swinging open. The Marquis stopped suddenly, eyes lit with surprise—and the door bumped gently into him. He exclaimed softly: “By God! Diego! And he lives two blocks from the Shang….”

  Big Johnny trod on the starter.

  The night around the Marquis seemed, suddenly to change to dawn. He was floating through the air, backwards. Those sensations came first—before he saw the radiator of the black convertible spewed twenty feet in the air on a pillar of cherry-red fire. Everything went into a frantic, red fog.

  His head must have struck the edge of the sidewalk and he was slammed down on the strip of turf. The world rocked in thunderous, timeless haze. He was only vaguely aware, eons later, of staggering up, diving back toward the crackling, flaming convertible, struggling to claw the unconscious Johnny out from under the wheel. Blood was streaming down the big, shaggy man’s face from his forehead. His clothes were a sheet of flame.

  The Marquis must have acted in pure reflex. Somehow, he must have shouted at one of the apartment-house doormen to rush an ambulance. Somehow he must have beaten out the flames that licked the clothing away from Big Johnny’s body like paper. Somehow he must have stumbled into the ambulance with him when it came—and somehow, his own black Chesterfield must have been involved. Queerest of all, no one but himself seemed to realize the fiery haze that possessed him.

  It spun out of his brain finally, left him sitting
in cold, crawling fury, on a bench in a hospital corridor. Harry Derosier was standing beside him, holding his second-best coat. The Marquis had no idea how the lean, washed-out, stupid-English-looking sergeant had come here, why he had the extra coat or where the other had vanished to. Nor did he care. He cared about nothing save the unholy rage that shook him. His lips were stiff as paper as he slipped into the coat and asked hoarsely: “Johnny?”

  The door in front of them opened. A bony surgeon with a perfectly bald head came out, wiping his hands.

  “How is he, doc?” Derosier asked quickly.

  “Pretty badly burned and slight concussion. He won’t die, though he’ll be here a while. I’ll see that he gets the treatment he needs. He’s under morphine right now.”

  “I’ll see that he gets the treatment he needs,” the Marquis corrected grimly. “When he comes to, tell him I’ll have the rat who did it in a cell, waiting for his hands to get better.”

  “Who?” Derosier asked as he hurried at the Marquis’ heels. “Paddy?”

  “Who else?”

  They emerged into the main waiting-room at the corridor’s end, and the Marquis faltered, stopped. The room was full of people—a dozen reporters, led by the droopy, fawn-clothed Blaisdell and the bustling, plump Voss.

  “Marty—what happened? Who did it?”

  THE Marquis stood still, hands in pockets, his eyes two pin-points of light. “You bunch of vultures,” he said carefully, “can take warning. Keep out of my way, from now on. Anybody who gets in my way is going to be manhandled within an inch of his life. Is that clear?”

  “But—but what happened?” Voss pleaded. “Who—”

  “Somebody filled our engine pan with gasoline and unhooked a spark wire. We got there a little too quick. Only a part of the gasoline had vaporized. If it all had—we’d be dead. The part that had, went up when Johnny sparked the motor. Your guess who is as good as mine. But this you can count on. That guff you printed about me is on the level now. There’s going to be some action—damn fast. I don’t want to be stumbling over you rats. Anything I’ve got for the papers you can get from these stooges. You—” He aimed shining eyes at Voss.

  “I—yes, yes,” the chunky redhead said: hastily. “We—we’ll go back and wait at the ticket agency. But what are you going to do? Have you got a lead on who snatched Joey? Or who blew up your car? Or on the missing wit—”

  “You can say that I have—that I’ll reveal the witness’ name before morning. And remember—if any of you pups get underfoot, he’ll need a new face.”

  He strode through them, was almost at the door when it opened to let in a painfully thin, meticulously dressed green-eyed man. His face was like a skeleton—up to the bulging brows. He stopped, his green eyes staring down at the Marquis’ from under overhanging brown eyebrows.

  “What the hell? Weren’t you even hurt?”

  “No. Try again Mr. Lebaron. And get out of my way or you’ll be.”

  “Hey,” Derosier asked eagerly as they hit the street, “you mean you think Lebaron is this missing witness? That he sold out to Paddy and now is working with—”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea who the witness is. I only wish it were Lebaron.”

  “Here’s my car. But this lead you told the newshawks—”

  “A wild chance. Maybe no chance. I sounded off because it worked before. Evidently Paddy Harrigan’s in a panic. Or at least afraid of me. The other newspaper blast sent him running to jump me. Maybe I can prod him again.”

  “Ouch. That’s our only chance? To nail him when he comes after—”

  “Almost. There’s one other wisp of hope. You speak Mexican?”

  “Yeah—Spanish. Why?”

  For a long minute the Marquis sat grimly silent. Then, “Because we’re starting in a Mexican district. Get this can going.” He gave him the address of the stool-pigeon, Diego.

  “What’re we looking for? Exactly.”

  “Joey Blossom.”

  “Oh.”

  “You got any better ideas?” the Marquis snapped. “Joey Blossom had a line on this missing witness. He was grabbed. If we find Joey, we’ll find the witness—and burn Paddy. That’s logical, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so. We know where to find Joey?”

  “We know a rat who saw him last night—a rat that tried to avoid having to contact me by making noise about leaving town. I think it was a lot of hooey. Make this bus move. We may have a long hunt ahead—even if we do find Diego.”

  They thundered north—and into what seemed a heart-warming run of luck. They found Diego, exactly where the Marquis expected.

  IT WAS a five-story, wide-fronted, graystone apartment house, seedy and old. A light went out on the third floor, just as the police cruiser coasted by. The Marquis swore sharply.

  “Go right on to the next corner,” he said rapidly. “The pup’s there and he was watching for us! Drop me off, then go back and crash in the front. Pound his bell.”

  He swung from the car before it stopped, trotted silently down the steeply-sloping side street till he was opposite an inky slot—an alley behind the apartment house.

  He was ten paces inside the black alley, crouched down to catch silhouettes against the vaguely luminous sky, when hinges creaked.

  There was a momentary soft glow from the rear of the building, then hurried furtive footfalls pattered toward him in the blackness. He waited till the oncoming fugitive was abreast. Then he swung a gloved fist, from the ground.

  The light man was snapped from his feet, crying out in fear, and slammed into the side of the apartment building. He dropped squirming to the alley’s floor. The Marquis stood over him and squirted light from a pencil flash.

  “No! No! Not the light—” the little brown fop’s eyes were white-ringed, his voice a falsetto whisper.

  The Marquis snapped it off. “Why not? What are you doing—trying to duck me?”

  The other panted desperately: “Marty—for God’s sake—gimme a break! If he hears I even talked to you he’ll kill me.”

  “Paddy Harrigan?”

  “Yes, yes! Ah, you don’t know. He’s deadly—”

  “He won’t be—long,” the Marquis said grimly. “What’s this about Joey Blossom?”

  “My—my cousin’s friend—”

  The Marquis booted him sharply in the mouth. The little Mexican cried out, sobbing, covered his head.

  “I’m in no mood for fairy tales. You were in some café and saw him. Go on from there.”

  “I—I—he was in the Café Villa—last night—about nine o’clock. I—I saw him.”

  “How do you know Blossom by sight?”

  “I—I saw him before—the night Leroy Mills was killed. I was dancing in the Shanghai and ran out with the others. I see him pick up the booklet—”

  “All right. What was he doing last night?”

  “He—he was talking to a girl and—using the telephone.”

  “And?”

  “He—he was showing her a piece of paper or something. They had their heads together over it. Then he got up to make another phone call and she went away.”

  “Did he know this girl? Or was it just a pickup?”

  “I don’t think he knew her.”

  “All right. Go on.”

  “That’s—that’s all. When he came out and found her gone, he went out too. Then, about ten minutes later he came back for a minute, hunting through his pockets. He talked to the waiter, looked around the floor, talked to the boss—then went out again.”

  “The girl made him for something? This piece of paper?”

  “I—maybe.”

  “What’s the girl look like? A Mex?”

  “No, no. A tall girl, very white skin, red hair, kind of don’t-give-a-damn girl. You know—walks with hands in her pockets, black sweater and skirt, black beret. I see her there sometimes. Though usually later at night. That—that’s all I know, Marty. I swear to God.”

  THE Café Villa was a nearby dump. They st
ood on a broken side-street sidewalk and looked in. Through the plate-glass window’s potted palms, they saw a small orange-and-black room, festooned with Mexican vegetables.

  A bar just inside the door occupied a quarter of the sawdust-covered floor. A phone-booth opposite another eighth. Orange bulbs circled the black wainscoting and there were half a dozen rough, black-wood tables. There were seven swarthy customers, in groups of two or three and a huge, mustachioed Mexican bartender on a stool, plunking a guitar.

  At the far end of the bar there was an arch in the rear wall, and two well-patronized pool tables were squares of green light in the narrow room beyond.

  “Just what are we supposed to get from this joint?” Derosier asked.

  “A red-headed tall girl, maybe.”

  “Girl? My God, I haven’t heard about any girl—”

  “She may have helped snatch Joey. At any rate she talked to him here last night.”

  Derosier’s hand detained the Marquis. “Wait a minute. How does this line up? I still don’t know what we’re shooting at.”

  “My God—why not? We’re working on the killing of Leroy Mills,” the Marquis said irritably. “We know Paddy killed him. We know where Paddy is. But—the hole in the case is this unknown eyewitness. We’re shooting at him—and we can’t convict Paddy till we find him.”

  “Hey—maybe Paddy had him knocked off already.”

  “It doesn’t smell that way. Joey Blossom was getting close to the witness last night, evidently. Paddy had Joey picked up. That means the witness is still alive. If we can find Joey, and who snatched him, maybe we’ll find the witness—and keeno.”

  “If we don’t get knocked off in the meantime.”

  “Yeah. If we don’t get knocked off in the meantime.”