“You want me to question the bartender?” Derosier asked hurriedly as they went in.
“Question nobody—yet.”
They sat at a corner table. None of the Mexicans or Filipinos in the place looked at them. The fat bartender laid aside his guitar and waddled over, brought them cheap rye.
“They’ve spotted us for cops,” Derosier said wearily.
“I guess so.”
“Then why sit here? These pups won’t peep—except to a wagonload of nightsticks.”
“Relax. We’ve got to hope the girl shows up. We’ve no place else to go, damn it. We’ll wait a half-hour.”
They waited three-quarters and their hopes dwindled gradually. The girl did not show up.
The Marquis clenched his teeth. “All right. We’ll have to try it, at any rate. Ask the Mex if he saw Joey Blossom in here last night. If he stalls, I’ll call the precinct.”
Derosier jabbered Spanish at the fat man. The other’s black eyebrows went up, but he shook his head uninterestedly in answering.
Derosier looked inquiringly, hotly, at the Marquis. The Marquis pushed back his chair and started grimly for the phone booth.
Derosier said “Unh!” and pulled him back, as the door opened. They both looked somberly at the thin-hipped, slender, tall girl who had just come in.
SHE had a fine, aquiline face, without make-up save a smudge of orange-red lipstick. Her face was like milk, her long, green-blue eyes tired and disdainful. She had hands in the pockets of a black jersey which came to her throat. She wore a black skirt and black beret. There was something familiar about her to the Marquis and his forehead wrinkled quickly. Then he had it.
She was Hope Dale, a show-girl who had, some two years ago, gotten into the worst kind of scandal, along with a prominent woman producer on Broadway. The woman producer had money and a husband, so was able to laugh it off. Hope Dale, having neither, was still poison on Broadway.
She did not recognize the Marquis immediately. She flicked green eyes incuriously his way, strolled on. She pulled cigarettes from her pocket, lighted one, started for an empty table. As she passed the Marquis’ table he said: “Hope!”
Curiosity, hostility—then wry recognition showed in her green eyes. She sauntered over, put out a capable hand. “Marty—how is it?”
Derosier nudged the Marquis sharply in the ribs, fingered his tie, beaming. The Marquis’ thin lips warped. It was funny, but he had no humor in him. He introduced the sergeant.
“Mr. Derosier is the Squad’s great lover,” the Marquis said. “Maybe you could use him.”
“What for?” the girl’s husky contralto wanted to know. She looked patronizingly at the blushing, bewildered Derosier. Then the queasy joviality died.
“What are you doing here?” the girl asked the Marquis.
“Waiting for you.”
Quick shadow darkened her eyes. “Me?”
“Yeah. You come here often, Hope?”
“Fairly often. I like the Mexican songs and old Miguel is really pretty good.”
“You were here last night?”
“Yes,” she said curiously. “Why?”
“You were talking to a lad named Joey Blossom?”
“I was talking to some youngster. I didn’t know—oh, my Lord! Joey Blossom! That’s the reporter who was kidnaped! Was—”
“Yeah. This is the last place he was seen. You were the last person we can find who talked to him.”
The girl was electrified. She sat up straight. “He—he had a weight ticket.”
“A what?”
“A weight ticket. You know—one of those tickets you get from a weight machine. You drop a penny and the scales register your weight on a bit of cardboard and the time of the day—and your fortune. He wanted me to read it for him, because it was all printed in Spanish.”
The Marquis’ eyes shone. “Can you remember what was on it?”
She frowned, thoughtfully for a minute, then said, “Something about a long trip and a girl, but—wait a minute. Do you want the card?”
“My God, yes!”
“Miguel has it. Miguel!”
The fat bartender came over, beaming, waddled away again when the girl spoke half a dozen sentences to him.
She explained quickly: “I was in here early last night, for a drink. That’s when I saw this poor little guy. Honestly, he looked as though he were about to fall apart. He showed me the weight card and I read it for him. Then he went in to make a phone call. I couldn’t wait—it took him a long time—so I shoved off.
“When I came in later, Miguel told me the kid had lost the card and had come back here and nearly tore the place apart. They couldn’t find it—then. After the kid had gone, Miguel found it—between the bills the kid had given him to pay for the drinks. It was in the cash register. When I came in, Miguel brought it to me, thinking I was a friend.”
She took the cardboard slip from the thick, splayed fingers of the bartender and tossed him some more Spanish, gave the card to the Marquis.
THE Marquis read it swiftly. On the back was the fortune. On the front was a large, stamped 123, and, in an upper corner: 5.9.38—2.05 A.M.
The Marquis let out breath.
“What is it?” Derosier craned over his shoulder.
“A gold mine. This card is in Spanish. That means it came from a Spanish-speaking section of the city. The weight people feed their machines that way. It’s a safe bet that this is the section this one came from—right around here.”
“And—”
“Look at the time stamped on it! Five minutes after two—Monday morning! Twenty-five minutes before the time Leroy Mills was shot down. Whoever belongs to this weight card was around here—near the Shanghai Danceland—a few minutes before the shooting.”
“So what?”
“So, you damn fool, the bird that had this is the mystery witness!”
Derosier looked muddled. “I still don’t get it.”
“Look—this is the evidence Joey Blossom found in Lebaron’s office, undoubtedly. One of the men in that office dropped it. One of the men in that office was near the Shanghai the night of the shooting. But every one of those men came up with alibis to show that they weren’t near there that night. One of them was lying—had faked his alibi.”
“By God!” Derosier said. “But hey—wait a minute. What does having this buy us? What can we do with it?”
“In the first place, we can establish it as legal evidence—all these rubber-stamping devices can be identified by the typewriter experts. We can prove it came from a certain machine—if we find the machine. That will prove somebody was there at that time—and make a lie of his alibi.”
“So what? It won’t tell us who the somebody is.”
“It must.”
“It must! Why?”
“Because Joey Blossom had only this to go on—and that made him dangerous enough to be snatched. Listen—I think I’ve got it. Most of these weight machines are in shops. Damn few shops are open at two in the morning. Damn few people weigh themselves at two in the morning. That narrows everything down. Look—this must be it. Some shopkeeper saw this unknown bird weigh himself that morning—saw him and may be able to describe him—identify him. If he can—we’re set! Mister—this case is practically finished!”
He jumped up, went into the phone booth, thumbed the directory. Everything suddenly seemed very simple. Paddy Harrigan had not caught the fugitive witness the night of Leroy Mills’ death. The witness, for reasons of his own, had kept his mouth shut. He had, later, gotten in touch with Paddy and made some deal with him. Paddy, as part of the deal, had had to protect the witness—who was now an accessory after the fact. Maybe Paddy didn’t even know who he was, maybe he had been convinced over the telephone—not a hard job, since the witness had been a few feet from the killer and had undoubtedly seen little things that no one else could have. Yet Paddy had to use his organization to protect the witness—as the witness directed, or suggested. It would be Paddy�
�or Paddy’s men—who had picked up Joey Blossom when the witness became worried.
And yet the whole thing would collapse like a house of cards if the Marquis could put his finger on that unknown witness! For there was pressure to put on now. The witness was undoubtedly an accessory after the fact now. His very silence had made him that. Once caught, he would have to testify—have to send Paddy over—or burn himself.
And this card should point unerringly at the witness!
HE FOUND the number of the Monmouth Vending Machine Company—the name was in small type at the bottom of the weight card—and called it.
It took time before he could get hold of someone in authority. He identified himself, stated the urgency and asked: “Is there any way you can tell me exactly which machine this card came from?”
“No, I’m afraid not. There are plenty of our machines carrying Spanish cards.”
“How many? Do you know?”
“A hundred and eighteen.”
The Marquis sagged. “It’s a vital matter. If I had somebody phone you in a minute, could you have someone read off the whole list to him?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
The Marquis depressed the hook, thought swiftly. After a minute he made a quick exclamation, took it up again and dialed his own number—the phone that was on his desk in MacCreagh’s Ticket Agency. “Yes?” the quick, breathless voice of the red-headed Voss popped at him.
“This is Marquis. Here’s a way for you to be of some use. Call this gent”—he gave him the weighing-machine-executive’s number—“and get a long list from him—locations of weighing-machines. Sort out the ones within a radius of two miles from the Shanghai Danceland and call me back.” He read off the number from the mouthpiece in front of him.
“All right,” the newshawk said hurriedly. “But hey—a kind of funny phone call came in. I—I’m waiting for another.”
“Never mind the phone calls. Except this one. Get that list and call me back—fast!”
He hung up, went back to the table, to the round-eyed stares of the girl and Derosier.
“In a minute,” the Marquis told Derosier, “we’ll be on the home stretch.”
“You mean you’re going to find who kidnaped that reporter?” the girl asked.
“We know that,” the Marquis said. “We’re going to grab the evidence that will fry him.”
The girl shuddered. “I guess you ghouls are used to it,” she said. “The thought makes me a little sick. I’ll go now, if you don’t mind.”
“Leave us your address,” the Marquis suggested and Derosier took it down.
They had a good fifteen-minute wait before the Marquis jumped for the ringing phone.
“There’s only three in that area,” Voss’ voice rushed out. He rattled the addresses off and the Marquis jotted them on the back of an envelope.
“Listen!” the newshawk hurried on excitedly. “A call came—”
The Marquis was already hanging up the phone when the receiver crackled: “Do you know a guy named Diego?”
The Marquis jammed the receiver back to his ear. “What? Yes.”
“Is he dependable? Would you believe what he said?”
“Maybe. Why? Hurry up—what did he say?”
“He called just a minute ago—thought I was you see? He said for you to sit right here—he’d call again. Wait—listen! He said Joey Blossom wasn’t kidnaped at all—that he was hiding out—with a girl to be his contact—bring him food. He was trying to learn where.”
“Hiding! What from?”
“He didn’t say. But he’s going to call again. He said to sit right here.”
The Marquis cursed through tight teeth. “All right,” he decided. “I’ll wait here for a little while—maybe twenty minutes. Have him call me here.”
He hung up, passed a hand over his hot forehead, cursed again and spun quickly out to Derosier. He handed him the envelope. “Go out and get weight tickets from machines at these addresses. Find out which ones were open at two in the morning on Monday—and if you click with one, see if the proprietor can describe the bird who weighed himself. And hurry!”
“You’re not com—”
“No, damn it. That stoolie called. There’s a million to one chance he might have something. I’ve got to wait here. Move!”
“Right.”
The long, washed-out sergeant hastened out into the night.
CHAPTER FOUR
Behind the Picture
THE Marquis sat fuming, damning the little Mexican stool-pigeon. He could not see where there could be any truth to his wild report. Why would Joey Blossom hide out—except under duress? The slippery little Mex was probably high on marihuana again—or something. Yet, the Marquis could not bring himself to ignore the message.
Time began to creep by—ten minutes, fifteen, twenty…. The Marquis grew angrier. Sudden, sharp worry sprang up in his mind—worry about Derosier. For all his dull appearance and seeming awkwardness, the long, lanky sergeant was a cool, deadly operator—yet the Marquis began to curse himself for not having accompanied him. Come to think of it, Derosier was doing exactly the same thing that Joey Blossom had been doing—and which had brought disaster to the reporter.
If anything happened to the sergeant and the weight slip the Marquis’ entire line of inquiry collapsed. There was nowhere else to turn.
He was almost at the point of getting up and starting out, trying to recall the addresses from memory—when the door opened.
One look at Derosier’s sober face as he pushed in sent the Marquis’ hopes down into his boots. He knew, even before the blond sergeant slapped the pack of tickets down in front of him that this line of inquiry had quietly laid down and died.
“I found it all right—second place I went,” Derosier said. “There—that ticket. It came from a drug store. Our man weighed himself there at two o’clock Monday morning.”
“And? The proprietor didn’t see him?”
“The proprietor was sound asleep in his back room. A dozen men may have weighed themselves for all he knows. We’re finished on that lead—washed up. It’s a dead-end.”
It was such a stiff blow that, for a moment the Marquis was oblivious to the phone’s ringing behind him. He said through clenched teeth: “It can’t be a dead-end! The witness himself thought he had been seen. Maybe we can use it for a bluff! Maybe—”
Then the pealing bell penetrated his consciousness and he whirled round. He jumped for the booth, snapped at the approaching bartender, “It’s for me,” and pulled shut the booth door. “Yes? This is Marquis.”
Voss’ excited voice fairly burst over the wire: “He called again, Marty. He’s in some sort of a jam! He just whispered, and he didn’t even give me a chance to say anything. He said—got a pencil—to go to Forty-three Thirty-two East Amsterdam. Got it? He said Joey would be there at three o’clock, if he wasn’t already. And listen—the girl, too. I know the place—it’s just off Haverstraw Avenue—I covered a fire near there not long ago. I’ll meet you there!”
Before the Marquis could protest, the receiver was hung up in his ear. In the second that he swayed there, irresolute, the oddly numb little part of his suspicions suddenly woke up—the girl. He was suddenly hot-eyed. If this were really not a pipe dream of the little stool-pigeon—if there really was a girl involved—what girl could it be? What girl was there anywhere in the picture—except the one he had in his hands, moments ago—the tall, slender red-headed Hope Dale?
He blurted as he strode back to the tables: “By God—she would weigh…” and clamped his lips.
He flung down money, snapped: “Come on—the car!”
As they ran outside, he clipped at Derosier: “Take me over near East Amsterdam—on Haverstraw.” He rattled the gist of Diego’s tip at him. “Get there fast—that damned reporter is on his way up and I’ve got to get there before he comes blundering in.”
Derosier groaned, sent the car leaping. “Voss is nothing more than a cub—he’ll mess it up fo
r you. They only let him try out on police work because Joey pleaded for him. Suppose I try to head him off—”
“The hell with that. You’re going to go and get Hope Dale. She may be in this somewhere.”
“Good God! You mean she’s the girl? And we had her sitting—”
“I know it,” the Marquis growled. “You go get her—and bring her here. Here—let me off here!”
He swung off on Haverstraw, half a block above East Amsterdam. For a moment he huddled in shadow while the police cruiser shot away, then hastened silently to the corner.
He was in a black, narrow little thoroughfare—completely out of the Mexican belt now, and in the colored section. On his side of the street, a huge church loomed, a few doors from the corner. By peering up at the street numbers beside him, the Marquis identified the number he sought as being approximately opposite the church.
Huddled in an arched doorway of the church, he stared in some amazement at the anomaly across the road.
There was a string of six cottages, behind a street-line iron-picket fence. The houses were set back a few yards and there was a little weed-grown grass in front of them and—strangest of all for this part of town—half a dozen towering trees. The houses themselves were two-family affairs, wooden, frail, spindly, and looked like nothing in the world but squatters’ shacks. There had been a fire in two of the end houses and the conflagration had marked up all the others. How they had escaped burning too was a miracle. There was not a light showing and all six structures had a deserted air.
There was just a tiny filter of light from the street-lamp at the distant corner. By squatting down, the Marquis was just able to make out the large metal house numbers on the shacks. He identified 4332 as the second from the end.
As he hunched there, he suddenly knew that he had not come on a wild-goose chase, that, whatever the stumbling road he had traveled, he was at the climax of this little drama. He knew it—but he could not say how he knew it. He turned and stole back to the corner.
TEN minutes later, the Marquis dropped over a rickety wooden fence and landed softly in the pitch-black, littered back yard of the place he had spotted from the front.
The Complete Cases of the Marquis of Broadway, Volume 1 Page 23