The Complete Cases of the Marquis of Broadway, Volume 1

by John Lawrence

  “I’ll walk over to headquarters from here. It isn’t far, but it ought to be far enough to let you spot him. And don’t be afraid to take a chance with your gun if you have to. We want this baby bad.”

  When they rejoined finally on the steps of police headquarters, McGuire swore: “If there was anybody taking your dust, he’s a marvel. I didn’t catch a breath of him.”

  The Marquis absently stuffed the Alien Squad’s report in his pocket, looked back at the towering, dark canyons he had traversed. “Well, we can’t slow up on his account,” he decided after a minute. “I just phoned Johnny at the hospital and I’ve got to get up there.”

  “Shaughnessey come to?”

  “No. But young Whitelaw is there, and the girl. This picture isn’t all clear yet and maybe they can fill me in. If there’s anybody shadowing me, he’ll have to wait, that’s all.”

  On the way up, the Marquis read Shaughnessey’s dossier.

  The elderly, military-looking victim had been a lot of places, done a lot of things—yet there did not seem to be any place in his history where he would have picked up much Wall Street lore. He had been with the British army in Egypt, holding a captain’s commission. That had held him for several years, till he finally resigned in Egypt. Since then he had been in East Africa, in India, in South America, acting as guide to safaris here and there, catching wild animals for a circus, performing in circuses. He had interested himself in real-estate ventures in various South American cities, including a gigantic scheme to build golf courses in and around Buenos Aires. The scheme had evidently fizzled out, but before it had, Shaughnessey apparently had been paid off.

  Queerly, there was no mention of a daughter—or even of a wife.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gunman’s Alibi

  WHEN the Marquis and McGuire walked into the towering Mercy Hospital, they were directed to the second floor. The minute they stepped from the elevator, Big Johnny Berthold spotted them. He was on his way into one of the anterooms but swung back, came hurrying toward them with a slip of paper in his hand.

  “I got something,” he greeted them. “I got hold of that pigeon. He swears he don’t know who Al Corcoran is working for now, but he give me two or three names that he’s done jobs for during the past couple of years. Is that worth anything?”

  “It could be,” the Marquis said and read the slip.

  The names were not uninteresting. One was that of a parson who ran a Bowery mission, broadcasting appeals for funds over the radio. One was the owner of a string of small bars where pulchritude was the main commodity. One was a Greek curio dealer, who ran an exclusive Madison Avenue shop and who, to the Marquis’ belief, had amassed a fortune in smuggling narcotics, and who now contented himself with acting as banker for various underworld enterprises.

  “Where’s young Whitelaw?” he asked Johnny as he pocketed the slip.

  “Down there. There’s two waiting-rooms on this floor. The girl’s there, too.”

  “How’s Shaughnessey?”

  “No change. They think he’s going to pull through.”

  The Marquis went into the waiting-room. Jack Whitelaw, his blond face damp and pasty, was standing. His eyes were red-rimmed, sobered now. The dark-haired girl was sitting on the edge of a chair, in an ermine cape, shredding a handkerchief between her palms. Her black eyes shone with fear in her starch-white face.

  Jack Whitelaw blurted out: “Marty—Marty—what happened?”

  “Your partner was thrown from an ‘El’ platform in an attempt to kill him.”

  “I know, I know—but why? Who—”

  “I wish I knew. I will soon. It was one of your customers, I think.”

  “My God—who?”

  “The Peerless Trading Company.”

  “Who—who are they?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  The youngster patted his forehead with a handkerchief, said hoarsely: “No—no. My job was just to call on other brokers in the Street and get them to give us a chance on their foreign and obsolete—” He gulped. “I didn’t know anything about the office. Lord, Marty—you can guess how little I knew.”

  The Marquis looked at the girl kindly. “Your dad’s going to be all right, Miss Shaughnessey—and I can assure you that the persons who hurt him will wish they’d never been born.”

  She said, “Oh,” and pressed the handkerchief to her mouth, dropped her eyes.

  He turned back to Whitelaw. “You and Shaughnessey—you were equal partners?”

  “We— Yes.”

  “You put up half the money and he the other?”

  “I? My God, where would I get half of fifty thousand dollars? I haven’t a penny. Dad cut me off, over a year ago—cut my allowance. You know him—you know he wouldn’t put up a dime.”

  “The money was all Shaughnessey’s then?”

  “Yes. He—he only wanted me because I knew a lot of the fellows in the Street firms.”

  “You got on all right?”

  “Got on? Good God, you don’t mean—listen, Marty—I owed about four thousand dollars to Jake Hearn and Natural Blake—gambling debts. My father wouldn’t let loose of a nickel to pay them. I was in plenty of grease. Shaughnessey advanced me the money before I’d been with him a week, and said it could come out of my end of the profits. He’s a prince and a gentleman. How could I have trouble with a guy like that?”

  “Go outside a minute like a good guy, Jack,” the Marquis told him.

  WHEN he had the girl alone, he said: I hate to bother you, Miss Shaughnessey, but you seem quite a mystery in your father’s life. You’ve been living in England?”

  Her warm, charming little British voice said faintly: “Yes, I—my mother divorced my father when I was a year old. I—she died last month and I—I had nowhere to turn. Our solicitor found trace of my father and I cabled him to ask if I could come to him.”

  The Marquis said, “Thanks,” and went to the door, re-admitted the worried Jack Whitelaw.

  He had no more than closed it, when it burst open once more and a little man with a red monkey face hurried in. He had little puffs of white hair over his ears and on top of his head. There was white piping to the vest of his tan suit and he carried a fawn fedora which matched his spats. His blue eyes were flickering, wild with apprehension.

  “Jack—Jack— What? They told me—”

  “Mr. Shaughnessey had an accident. Fell off an elevated platform, and was seriously injured.”

  “Great Scott! He’s insured, isn’t he? I mean—you had partnership insurance and—”

  Whitelaw almost snarled at his father: “Be human for once, will you? This is Miss Shaughnessey. My father, Miss Shaughnessey. And this is Lieutenant Marquis.”

  The monkey-faced little man’s eyes flared to new heights of anxiety. “Lieutenant—you mean police? My God, what are the police—”

  The Marquis said: “I’d like to speak to you a minute, Mr. Whitelaw, if I may—in private.”

  The other wrung his hands. “I—I am not concerned in this! I have no responsibility whatever for the firm! It is none of my business.”

  The Marquis said, “Excuse us,” and led the raving old man into an unoccupied room down the tiled hall.

  “Has your son any money, Mr. Whitelaw?” the Marquis asked bluntly, when he had shut the door.

  “Not a penny—except his interest in the firm with Mr. Shaughnessey.”

  “I understood you were a rich man.”

  “I am. Until recently I gave my son a liberal allowance—a very liberal allowance indeed. Unfortunately, he had not yet learned the value of money. He dissipated it—literally threw it away in night clubs, gambling halls—till I was forced to cut him off. It is essential that he learn the value of money—even if the process be painful.”

  “Then you hardly approved of this business venture with Mr. Shaughnessey?”

  “What? Of course, I did.”

  “I understood Shaughnessey put up all the money involved—more or less gave y
our son an easy berth and paid his gambling debts.”

  “And why should I object to that? If he chose to throw his money away on my son’s—”

  “Skip it,” the Marquis said. “Then you approved of Mr. Shaughnessey?”

  “And why not? A splendid chap—with money of his own. An adventurer, maybe, as a younger man—been all over the world—but managed to collect a tidy bit of capital and wanted to establish himself in a conservative business. I admire the man.”

  “He did give your son a full partnership in the firm? There’s no question about that?”

  “None at all. He took a fancy—”

  “If he had died, what would your son realize from the firm?”

  “Why, one half its assets, of cour— Look here, are you trying to insinuate that a Whitelaw would stoop—”

  “Certainly not. Thank you very much.”

  THE Marquis walked out into the hall, leaving the door open. The elder Whitelaw hesitantly followed him out, and when confronted only with the Marquis’ back, went on to the anteroom. The Marquis was making toward a corner niche where Big Johnny Berthold lounged with Grayson, the man assigned to bodyguard Jack Whitelaw.

  He told Johnny: “Shaughnessey evidently was involved in a deal in Buenos Aires about three or four years ago, maybe longer, involving the building of golf courses. Get on the wire and get me full details of it—including how much he made and so forth.”

  “What’s the point, chief?”

  “I’m trying to see if he has any assets that weren’t in the firm. That way, killing him might help certain people cash in. All a partner’s outside assets go into the firm if they need it. That’s the law they work under. If he has any money tucked away anywhere, his death might bring it out and so forth. Get me every detail.”

  He went downstairs and found Asa McGuire, still unsuccessfully trying to spot the Marquis’ shadow.

  “I swear the guy is a genius,” the redhead said doggedly. “I can’t find him.”

  “We’re hung up,” the Marquis said as they rode up to the Marquis’ apartment to wait. “We’ve got to know who these Peerless people are. We’re stuck there.”

  “Listen—how about this? This Peerless gent has the money coming. He knows neither Jack Whitelaw nor Shaughnessey has a cent and that he can’t collect. He knocks off Shaughnessey to scare Whitelaw. The idea is Whitelaw’s father will pay off to keep the kid safe.”

  “It would work with anybody but Whitelaw’s father.”

  “Why not him?”

  “He wouldn’t give the kid money to pay dangerous gambling debts a year ago. He wouldn’t give him a dime of allowance. He sticks to his money like glue. Right now, all he’s concerned about is making it clear to everybody that he’s in no way concerned with the firm.”

  “Then why this kill?”

  “Pure anger, as far as I can see. Or maybe they meant just to injure him—not quite kill him.”

  “You know how sappy that is.”

  “I guess so.”

  THEY were hung up all night, and until late the following afternoon. The radio cars reported no sign of the gunman, Al Corcoran. He had gone to earth. Nothing came back from the inquiries regarding the golf-course deal at Buenos Aires. Shaughnessey remained—under heavy guard—in a coma that was beginning to worry the doctors again. The Wall Street Squad had moved in bodily on the firm of Whitelaw and Shaughnessey, but didn’t add anything to the knowledge the Marquis had already gleaned.

  Jack Whitelaw—now under Harry Derosier’s wing—stayed in his own apartment house. Several newspapers had found out—and printed—too much. The millionaire’s son was always good for the first page. One tab printed a scared-looking picture of him with a question mark over his head, captioned—Is he next? The Marquis burned.

  Then, at four in the afternoon, the dam went down.

  Asa McGuire answered the phone in the Marquis’ Central Park apartment. Alonzo of the Wall Street Squad had broken down the Peerless Trading Corporation. The red-headed detective yelled at the Marquis when he hung up: “Marty! It’s cracked! The Peerless Trading Corporation is Armand Dahloute—the Greek curio dealer.”

  The Marquis swiftly shrugged into his coat, eyes afire. Hastily, he dug from his Chesterfield pocket the slip Big Johnny had given him—the list of erstwhile employers of the gunman, Al Corcoran. Dahloute was one of them—a deadly, ruthless operator.

  McGuire said suddenly. “Hey! This doesn’t make sense. Dahloute is no sucker! He wouldn’t be sucked in on a guarantee that was worth nothing.”

  “Why not? He’s exactly the type that would be. The smartest men in their own rackets are the biggest suckers when they go for the other guy’s pitch.”

  The phone rang again. This time it was the I Bureau—with a message from Buenos Aires regarding the golf-course deal in which Shaughnessey had been interested. It had been a successful flotation, but badly managed and the whole thing had ultimately collapsed. To the best of the knowledge of the South American authorities, the promoters had made nothing at all—including Shaughnessey. The backer of the enterprise, they believed, was a New York resident who had South American connections, one Armand Dahloute.

  The Marquis said, “Good grief! What the hell?” and hung up.

  “What is it?” McGuire wanted to know.

  The Marquis told him. “Come on, get your hat. We’ll visit Dahloute.”

  They were at the door of the apartment when the phone rang again for the third time.

  This time it was Big Johnny at the hospital. “Hey—here’s a sour note. Al Corcoran just got off a train from Philadelphia. He has a cast-iron alibi for the time of the killing last night. He was just getting on a sleeper. He must have beat it like the wind from the time Harry saw him near the club, straight over to Grand Central. But he had nothing to do with the actual killing. Will we jug him?”

  “No. Put a tail on him and turn him loose.”

  “It doesn’t add up, does it?”

  “Nothing adds up in this dizzy mess.” He told Berthold where he was going, and hung up.

  “Al Corcoran has an alibi,” he told McGuire grimly as they went down in the elevator. “But we still call on Dahloute.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Greek Has a Word for It

  IT WAS dark when they reached the Madison Avenue curio shop, but the place was still open. A courteous, dark-skinned clerk in morning clothes took the Marquis’ card, and presently they were in a black-wood office, facing the short, fat, swarthy Greek across a marble-topped desk.

  The minute the Marquis saw the bearded lawyer, Abramson, in the corner by the brightly burning fireplace, he knew what was coming.

  The black eyes in the Greek’s shiny plump face regarded him brightly. Small, plump olive hands turned a heavy damascened dagger-paperknife over and over.

  The Marquis said: “So you were the Peerless Trading Corporation.”

  “Am,” Dahloute corrected. “Not was—am.”

  The Marquis nodded at Abramson. “You need him here?”

  “I think so,” the Greek said. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Why?”

  The Greek dug the point of the heavy dagger thoughtfully into the blotting pad. “I dealt with the firm of Shaughnessey and Whitelaw—to my sorrow. I had a sum of money due me from them, which they hesitated to pay. I wrote letters which might be regarded as threatening. Mr. Shaughnessey, of that firm, is murdered—or nearly murdered. Lieutenant Marquis of the Broadway Squad, known widely as a man who has much more respect for a blackjack than for duly constituted legal processes calls on me—the same lieutenant who not many years ago, practically accused me to my face of engineering the kidnaping of a certain gambler and his subsequent murder. Yes, I believe it best to have my lawyer present.”

  “He won’t help you now.”

  “I believe he will. You see, I anticipated this little call. When I heard the terrible news, I at once realized how unfortunately I had laid myself open to suspicion. However, luckily I passe
d last evening in the company of Senator Lipscomb, who will at least, vouch for my not being personally connected with this outrage. I have gone further. I have questioned very closely, every one of my employees, of my near acquaintances, and, fortunately, I can assure you that no one in any way connected with me—or that can in any way be connected with me—lacks an alibi for last night.”

  “Including Al Corcoran?”

  The black eyes did not change. The Greek frowned down at the desk, topped the back of his hand thoughtfully against his purple lips.

  “I don’t seem to recall anyone of that name.”

  There was a second of silence.

  “Are there any more questions? Or have I forestalled the things you had planned to ask me?”

  “Pretty well,” the Marquis said. “Except how much money you lost in the golf-club deal in Buenos Aires.”

  It took the leaden-faced Greek nearly a minute to reply to that one.

  “Very little, as a matter of fact.”

  He stood up. “And now—I am sure you are not going to submit me to the farce—the costly farce I might intimate—of an arrest. So will you be so kind as to leave me. I am a very busy man.”

  “Uh-huh,” the Marquis said, “but the sum Shaughnessey mentioned didn’t sound like ‘very little’ to me.”

  “Shaughnessey?”

  “Uh-huh. He came to about an hour ago, and he seems to have a lot to tell us, as soon as the doctors will let him get down to it.”

  “What—sum did Mr. Shaughnessey mention?”

  The bell on the phone before the Greek tinkled softly. He looked down at it a moment, then answered.

  A frown cut his forehead and he handed the instrument, blank-eyed to the Marquis.

  Big Johnny said into the Marquis’ ear: “Get down here fast. Shaughnessey’s coming out of it.”

  The Marquis handed back the phone. “Quite a figure. Yes, sir, quite a figure,” he repeated as he turned on his heel and walked out.