The Complete Cases of the Marquis of Broadway, Volume 1

by John Lawrence

  “Well, tell him we’re here, anyway.”

  The Marquis got one break. Instead of the lawyer, Abramson, being in Dahloute’s office, he was now accompanied by none other than the dark, bucket-eared, skinny gunman, Al Corcoran.

  McGuire closed the door behind them and stood with his back against it. The olive-skinned, plump Dahloute sat behind his marble desk, toying again with the oversize damascened dagger. Firelight shone against one side of his face, from the leaping flames in the grate.

  Dahloute’s jet eyes were burning. He said: “I have phoned for my attorney. I will not discuss anything with you till he arrives.”

  The Marquis shrugged. He spotted a small, squat lamp on one end of the mantel, wandered over to it and turned it on.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “I only came to bring you a little information.”

  He unrolled the closely written page he had prepared in the hotel lobby.

  “This is a preliminary report, phoned me from Buenos Aires,” he told them. “It seems to indicate that the firm of Fay and Fernandez—or maybe you don’t recall Fay and Fernandez? They were the firm who sold Shaughnessey the bonds that he later sold to you with the guarantee.”

  “Oh, yes,” the Greek said wearily.

  “It begins to look like Fay and Fernandez were non-existent folk—or at best, stooges for someone else. You, for instance.”

  The Greek laid down the paperknife and stood up slowly. “Mr. Marquis, you seem singularly inept. If what you said were true—which it isn’t—it would make no difference whatever. Fay and Fernandez sold the bonds at one price. I bought them at a higher price. If I were Fay and Fernandez, it would be reasonable to suppose I made the transaction—paying the firm their profit—for the assurance of their guarantee. It is, however, all ridiculous.”

  “The police report doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “What else do they have to add?”

  “You may see it,” the Marquis said, “you and your hired thug—but not out of my hands.” He stretched it tight, under the little mantel lamp.

  Asa McGuire took out his handkerchief, mopped his forehead.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Dahloute and Corcoran came over to look at the paper. Asa McGuire sauntered over to the desk.

  WHEN the Greek had finished, he stood up and his lip curled. “This is not only inept, it is positively childish, Mr. Marquis. I believe I have been overestimating you.”

  “Maybe so,” the Marquis said, and re-pocketed the papers. He looked over at McGuire, back again at the door, “You’d better go and see if our friend has arrived yet, Ace.”

  When the door had closed behind the redhead, he looked curiously at Corcoran.

  “You fellows certainly do things in great shape when you get started,” he said admiringly. “Let’s see—you hired Corcoran, making infinitely sure that we couldn’t connect you with him. Then he hired the two stooges that tossed Shaughnessey over the railing. I bet you don’t even know who they were, Dahloute.”

  “You are quite right. I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “A very subtle part you have,” the Marquis said. “First you go to infinite pains to make yourself legally safe from all connection—and then deliberately invite suspicion. You go to a lot of trouble. Not,” he added as an afterthought, “that a quarter of a million dollars isn’t worth it—to some folks.”

  The Greek’s forehead was knotted in frank irritation. “Good Lord, Marquis, if you haven’t anything better than these madman’s ideas to retail to me, I really haven’t time—”

  There was a tap at the door. The bearded Abramson came in, closing the door behind him. To the Marquis, he said: “Your red-headed henchman seems to be in a hurry. He nearly knocked me down as he ran out.”

  “I guess one of our witnesses didn’t show up,” the Marquis said easily. “Well, now that you are here, Counsellor, we can get down to business.”

  Abramson looked questioningly at the Greek, who said testily: “I think he’s gone mad, Solly. I wouldn’t have called you, except that you’d built him up as such a terror. I—he’s fumbling around with some wild idea that I’m a swindler or something.”

  Abramson’s sharp little eyes were worried. “If he’s got you thinking he’s mad, you’re probably in a hole,” he said earnestly. “What is it, Marty?”

  “Murder, Sol—murder, about forty minutes ago.”

  The lawyer blinked rapidly, his eyes jumping to the Greek’s. The Greek looked only vaguely surprised. “And who am I supposed to have murdered this time?”

  “Whitelaw, Senior—Jack Whitelaw’s father—in Shaughnessey’s apartment.”

  “When?”

  The Marquis looked at his watch. “Just about forty minutes ago, more or less.”

  The Greek shrugged in frank disdain. “Pitiful, Marquis. I was right here in my office at that time—and for some time before and after. And I can prove it.”

  The Marquis looked obliquely at Al Corcoran. “I hope you don’t expect to alibi yourself with a bird with a record like Al’s.”

  “That is as may be—”

  “Because”—the Marquis crossed quickly to a door in the rear of the office, opened it onto a corridor leading toward the rear of the building—“hardly any jury would doubt me if I said you left Corcoran sitting here while you went out—it’s only a four-minute walk, cutting through in back of buildings—and murdered Whitelaw. And certainly, none of them would put perjury beyond a rat with his record.”

  Abramson’s sharp little eyes were beginning to be apprehensive.

  The Greek said: “I’ve had enough of this. Either pinch me or get out.”

  “All right,” the Marquis said, “I pinch you. You’re under arrest for the murder of John Whitelaw, Senior.”

  “Good Lord!” Abramson burst out. “What is this, Arnold? Why—”

  “He hasn’t got a single thing in the world to go on,” Dahloute said wildly.

  “Haven’t I?” the Marquis said. “How would you like to come and see what I’ve got?”

  There was a moment of silence. Now bewildered worry was beginning to show in Dahloute’s and Corcoran’s eyes.

  Abramson cleared his throat. “Just what is the purpose of this—exhibition? In what capacity are we to consider ourselves?”

  “Whatever you like. After we visit this little scene, maybe Mr. Dahloute will wish to confide something to me—privately.”

  For a minute, they shot glances at one another. Then Dahloute shrugged. “What can we lose?” he asked. “And I’ll ask you to note, Counsellor, that I’m under arrest. This man Marquis is supposed to have quite a bit of money. He’ll have less when we get through with him.”

  “Let’s go this way,” the Marquis urged, and led them out the back way.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Silent Partner

  IT WAS less than four minutes, walking through building corridors and the basements of apartment houses facing on Lexington, till they stood in front of the trim red-and-white vestibule of Shaughnessey’s apartment house.

  “Would you care to use your passkey?” the Marquis invited Dahloute, and when he got nothing but a scowl, “No? Then we will have to be a little unethical.”

  He quickly inserted the picklock but the door was opened from inside and the news-feature-writer, Sutherland, of the Clarion stood in the doorway. He said: “Hello, Marty.”

  “Wally,” the Marquis said casually. “You know these gentlemen?”

  The feature-writer laughed wryly. “I know Mr. Dahloute. He was supposed to give me an interview a little while ago, and walked out on me.”

  “What?” It crackled from Dahloute’s lips.

  “Sure,” the news-writer looked at him curiously. “You invited me into your private office, sent this lug out and then excused yourself out the back door. I sat there for fifteen minutes, till you finally came back just when I was about to leave.”

  “You’re a damned liar!” the Greek shouted. “I was there all the time—with
you—talking to you!”

  Abramson hastily thrust himself forward. “Please, Arnold—be quiet. After all, the unsupported word of one person doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Tsk! Tsk,” the Marquis said. “But won’t he be in a spot for an alibi witness now.”

  Before the sweating Greek could speak, Abramson said: “We have no reason so far to believe that Mr. Dahloute needs an alibi.”

  “Right,” the Marquis said cheerfully.

  On the second-floor landing, back among the dimness of the shadows, Asa McGuire was standing motionless with a pasty-faced, thin youth who carried a small, black satchel.

  The Marquis nodded as he passed and said: “Presently.”

  Then they were again in front of Apartment 4-A and the Marquis again opened the spring lock. Before he let the door go open, however, he tucked the keycase away in his pocket and brought out his service revolver.

  “Just to make everything perfectly clear,” he said, “no one is to go in this room. You can look, and that is all. Understood?”

  They nodded. The Greek blurted: “Get this farce over with.”

  The Marquis nodded wisely to Abramson. “He’s been spoiled. He doesn’t take punishment very well,” and threw open the door.

  The room was unchanged, save for one item. The heavy, aboriginal metal dagger was no longer in the wound in the dead man’s back. Instead, the inlaid handle of Dahloute’s big damascened dagger-paperknife protruded from the corpse’s shoulders.

  Dahloute gasped. “My paperknife!”

  The Marquis nodded. “Yes, both Mr. McGuire and myself recognized it. We also recognized that it had not only been stuck in, but twisted around—a Greek trick, no? That was why we made that call at your office, just now, to make sure the knife was not there. We are both sure—and prepared to swear to it. Of course, you may have lost it somewhere else, and the one there before you may not have your fingerprints all over it. We will have to—”

  Dahloute screamed: “You stole it— just now—that McGuire—I’m framed!” He made a moaning sound, tried to dive into the room. The Marquis’ gun came up, poked him in the neck and he staggered back, choking.

  Abramson raved: “Arnold—for Heaven’s sake—don’t lose your head!”

  The Marquis said: “He’s lost it, Counsellor. Let me give you some advice. A felony is likely to be compounded here in the next couple of minutes. You’d better go downstairs.”

  “I shall do nothing of the k—”

  The Marquis looked at Dahloute. “How about it, greaseball? You want to do a little trading—in exchange for that knife?”

  The Greek’s face shone like lead. His eyes were white-ringed. He croaked in a barely audible voice: “Yes.”

  Abramson threw up his hands.

  “Wait downstairs, Counsellor,” the Marquis called after him. “We may need you yet.”

  Then he turned on Dahloute. “All right, rat. I want, first, the written guarantee that the firm of Whitelaw and Shaughnessey gave you against loss on the bonds. I’m not sure that that will cover it, so in addition you will draw up a paper, acknowledging receipt of one dollar and other valuable consideration, for which you return the guarantee—release them from it.”

  “And?” the Greek croaked.

  “I’ll give you back your knife, and your alibi.”

  For a long minute, the Greek stared hollowly at the dead man. Then he licked his lips. “The—guarantee is in my office.”

  They filed out into the hall again and as they passed McGuire on the landing, the Marquis stopped and told him in a low voice: “Get the wiring ripped out behind that wall board and the baseboard so no one can tell it’s been disturbed. Also where it enters the safe. What did you do with the big knife?”

  “It’s in the sewer. That thing weighed plenty.”

  “Naturally. Call me in about ten minutes at the Greek’s.”

  He went downstairs, and out onto the street. “We’ll take a cab, this time,” the Marquis said. “I’m not keen on these backyard short-cuts.”

  They were climbing in when a prowl car, passing, suddenly checked with a wild squealing of brakes, whirled around on two wheels and came bumping up to stop.

  The recorder called: “Lieutenant! Lieutenant Marquis!”

  The Marquis cursed, stepped out. “Well?”

  “Every prowl car has been looking for you for twenty minutes. A man named Shaughnessey—supposed to be nearly dead in the hospital—got some clothes out of a closet and got out the fire-escape. He’s loose somewhere now.”

  The Marquis’ eyes jumped. For a minute he stood rigid. Then he said, “Thanks,” through tight teeth and climbed back into the cab.

  The others—Corcoran and Dahloute—had not heard the message except in scraps.

  Corcoran said: “What was that? Did he say something about Shaughnessey?”

  “Only that they’ve got a full statement out of him at last.”

  Dahloute said through clenched teeth: “Hurry this cab up, will you?”

  “When you’re licked, you’re licked all over, aren’t you, Arnold?” the Marquis said pleasantly.

  BEHIND the marble desk in his office, Dahloute touched a spring. A secret drawer shot into view down by his knee. He fumbled with it, brought out legal documents.

  He tossed the guarantee on the table, hastily dipped pen in ink and scribbled out the release the Marquis dictated.

  The Marquis looked round the empty office. “Where is Corcoran?”

  “I told him to wait in the store.”

  “Good.” The Marquis’ eyes were like agate. He folded the documents and put them away in his pocket. Dahloute sat humped over, hands hanging down, looking up at the Marquis like a poodle.

  The Marquis picked up the phone in one hand, holding his gun ready in the other, and dialed a number.

  When he got an answer, he said: “Homicide? Charlie? This is Marty Marquis. Go to Lexington Avenue in twenty minutes—not any sooner. You’ll find a dead man—stabbed to death with a knife belonging to Arnold Dahloute. There ought to be fingerprints on it. I’ve just checked and he has no alibi.”

  The Marquis didn’t know that the Greek had somewhere procured a gun, nor did he know that the face of the marble desk was thin wood. He found out as the desk seemed to explode like a bursting bomb. A slug ticked the inside of his slightly spread legs six inches above the knee. Reflex action made him jump up in the air a little bit, so his own first bullet went alongside the Greek’s neck, smashing him over sideways, chair and all, instead of into his chest.

  The Greek screamed, “You dirty framing double-crosser…” and closed his eyes, pumped slugs as fast as he could pull trigger. The Marquis flung himself wildly away, snapped two caps—and blew the top of the Greek’s head into a bloody shambles.

  He whirled just as the door came down. Al Corcoran burst in, shooting. He fired once and the Marquis ducked just in time, let go one thunderous report that sent the gunman flopping wildly into a corner, pitching squarely on his face.

  The Marquis roared sharply, “Stay there—don’t move!” but the gunman somehow twisted his wrist around under his body and the gun spat flame and thunder. The Marquis’ hard hat was whisked from his head. Deliberately, the Marquis pumped a shot, first into one of the gunman’s shoulder-blades, then into the other, and Corcoran slumped with a groan.

  The Marquis walked over and kicked him over on his back with a neat, shiny toe.

  “Who were the stooges you hired, Al, to help Shaughnessey over the railing?”

  The gunman, face dingy and dank from pain, screwed up into a terrible grimace, bit through clenched teeth: “You’ll never know, copper. They’re well out of the country by now.”

  The Marquis fingered his chin ruefully. “Well, guess they aren’t much of a loss, at that. How much did Dahloute pay you for this job?”

  “Dahloute?” Even in the pain-wracked eyes of the killer, a little astonishment became visible. “Dahloute? Oh, my God, you mean you think… ahhhh!” and
he lost consciousness, just as the phone on the desk began to peal.

  McGuire’s hoarse voice brooked no question when it clipped over the wire: “Get over here as fast as you can.”

  For just a second, the Marquis hesitated, then the receiver was hung up in his ear.

  HE MET the first of the prowl-car cops as they ran in and he ran out. He was almost shot in the dim store. He called out his name just in time and added as he ran past the startled patrolmen, “Two lugs back there—resisted arrest. I’ll be back in a minute and give you the dope,” and dived out to the street.

  For a second he almost commandeered a prowl car, but a cab came along and whirled him round the few blocks to the trim red-and-white vestibuled apartment house.

  There was a little knot around the vestibule now and he had to elbow his way through a knot of curious spectators.

  He came to a sudden halt in the hall inside, just as an ambulance screamed to a stop at the curb behind him.

  McGuire jumped up and the Marquis could see what he had been bending over.

  A man was kneeling, just inside the door, with his forehead to the carpeted floor. He had, obviously, slowly collapsed. There was blood everywhere. Red still drooled from a corner of the man’s mouth. Through his shabby overcoat, the white of a hospital nightgown showed. The man was Shaughnessey.

  McGuire said excitedly: “He came ringing the bell and ringing it! I beat it down—and there he was—hemorrhaging. What in God’s name—”

  Ambulance surgeons ran in, and the Marquis stepped away to let them get to the bleeding man.

  One of them finally got up and said: “He’s finished. He’ll be dead in about a minute. We’ll wait—I’m not going to load him till he’s dead, or I’ll have to buy drinks for the ward. On the level, Marty, he can’t last two more minutes.”

  “Just as well,” the Marquis said, and dropped down to the dying man’s ear.

  “Shaughnessey,” he said. “This is Lieutenant Marquis. I’ve just recovered the guarantee, so there’ll be the cash money that’s in the firm free and clear for the girl. I did this because I wanted her to have a break. This is the end—there’s no chance to pretend to dope yourself to avoid questioning. Now you’ve got to give me a break before you go—you’re going fast.”