by Otto Penzler
I sat down on the bed, took out my cigarettes and lit one, pretty slow, giving her look for look. I was stalling for time. I wanted to size her up, get what there was to get from her; and at the same time I was trying to put together a little puzzle that was working in my mind. She wasn’t hard to look at, for all the glasses and her hair twisted in a knot at the back of her head like a biddy’s on Monday morning. Somehow she looked familiar, but I shoved that off; I can only work on one thing at a time.
I said:
“You’re half right on your supposition, Miss Kelly.”
Her eyebrows rose at that.
“Miss Kelly, eh? Pleased to meet you, Mr.—”
“Burns. William J.”
She had to laugh.
“You don’t go in for false whiskers like most of them, do you?” she said. Then, going back: “So I’m half right, am I? And as this is the wrong room, I take it you didn’t make a mistake in getting into it.”
“Good for Vassar!” I applauded; then I got serious. “How long have you been working here, Miss Kelly?” I asked. Not that I wanted an answer. I was busy thinking.
“Let’s see your tin medal before you start the third degree,” she answers, coolly. “And while you’re about it,” she drawled, when I didn’t make a move, “you might tell me how you happened to get in this locked room. It’d make interesting reading.”
I looked up at her quick. I’d got hold of something.
“Do you know Jobson?” I demanded.
“Let’s see the medal.” She flicked a fly carelessly off her cheek.
“Do you know Jobson?” I repeated it in a monotone.
She was tapping her toe, easy, looking bored-like at the ceiling.
“Let’s see the medal.”
And then, in the same monotone:
“Do you know a murderer was in this room with him?”
She forgets the ceiling at that. Her eyes shot down to mine, big and startled behind her glasses. I could see the color draw out of her cheeks.
“You saw—a murderer—here?” she almost whispered.
“I’m not saying what I saw.” I leaned forward, studying her a moment. She wasn’t faking that horror; that was easily seen. But I wasn’t worrying about that right now. I had a theory, and I was taking a long shot at it.
“Miss Kelly,” I said, slowly and distinctly; “you were in the hall after the cops left with Job-son and another chap—Mr. Bond, the lawyer?”
She hesitated a moment. She swallowed hard; then she nodded, without speaking.
“Now!” I snapped; “answer me this, and answer me right! Did you see another man sneak out of here after they left?”
Again she gave me a long hard stare, like she was doing a lot of thinking. Then, finally, she nodded.
“Yes, I did,” she said, low. “I thought he was one of the party, so—”
I waved explanations away.
“Never mind that,” I said; but I felt a quick thrill. It looked like my guessing was coming out right. “What did he look like?” I asked.
“A medium, thin fellow; white face, big nose; sort of mean little eyes—”
That was a description of Spike Lewis himself. I jumped up.
She drew in her breath. Then she went on. “Listen. I’ve tended to my own business so far. But I can learn a lot of interesting news if I want to, and in quick time.” She thought a moment. “Where are you going to be at eight o’clock?” she asked at last.
“Who knows? Maybe in the morgue with the unidentified bodies.”
She tossed off a polite smile, and then was all serious.
“Listen. Take this number.” I pulled out my note book. “Ashley 2836. That’s a long way from here. I wouldn’t dare give you this number. Phone that number at eight, sharp. If I’m not there, I haven’t any news for you. If I have, I’ll be there.” She stuck out her hand, pal fashion, looking me in the eye. “And I think I’ll be there,” she finished.
We shook.
“Good enough for you, Miriam!” I says, starting down the hall. “I’ll give you a ring.”
I was half way down the next flight when I heard her call. I looked up, and saw her grinning over the banister.
“Believe it or not,” she calls, softly, “it’s Des-demona!” Two minutes later I was in my car and bowling towards town.
I was pretty well pleased with myself as I tore along. I was damned certain who the killer was now; all I had to do was catch him, and catch him with the goods. That may sound hard, and I knew it wasn’t going to be any cinch. But Percy Warren wasn’t being paid easy money for an easy job. When I reached town, I turned off the highway and slowed her up a bit. Then I sat up with a bang.
“Why, you ham sleuth you!” I muttered to myself.
Here I’d been handing myself orchids for snappy thinking. And if I was right, it meant that Jobson, instead of being safe in jail, held as material witness, suspicious character, or whatever the temperamental captain decided on, it meant he’d probably been freed to get himself murdered! I was only about ten blocks from the Bradford Street apartments, but I swung up to the curb by a drug-store, vaulted out, and ran inside to a phone booth.
Jobson answered after a minute’s ringing. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard his voice.
“Listen, Jobson,” I said when I’d told him who I was, “are you alone there?”
He hesitated long enough so that I knew the answer.
“Yes, I am,” he growled.
“All right,” I snapped; “have it your way. But answer me this: did your little playmate come up the elevator with you, or did he sneak in some other way?”
I heard him suck in his breath. Then he turned and whispered something to somebody. I climbed inside the mouthpiece. There wasn’t any time for fooling.
“Jobson!” I called. “Jobson!”
He came back at that.
“What is it?” he says, sulkily.
“Listen, Jobson,” I says, sharp and quick. “You’re playing with dynamite! You get out of that apartment right away, you understand? That guy’s going to—” I stopped.
There was a curious AxxWplop! in my ear.
“Jobson!” I called.
Silence. Then a far-away sounding thud.
“Jobson! “
A second I stood listening to nothing. Oh, I knew the truth, all right, but I just hung on, listening. And then, all at once, I wasn’t listening to nothing.
I was listening to somebody breathing, close to the phone, somebody who was listening back at me. I slammed down the receiver, ran out to the car, and started her with a jerk, and in two or three minutes I was in the lobby of the Bradford Street apartments.
The overworked elevator boy was sitting on a stool in the elevator.
“Listen, kid,” I says, shaking him to wake him up. “Shoot me up to the third, as fast as this hearse can go!” And then, after he’d got it running: “And give me a pass key to the Fuller apartment!” I was afraid maybe mine wouldn’t work. “Snappy!”
I left him staring after me as I loped around the corner of the corridor. Another minute and I’d opened the apartment door and locked it behind me. Then I took a few steps into the front room, and stopped.
He was dead all right. His big hulk of a body lay sprawling on the floor below the telephone, where that gun with its silencer had dropped him. I noticed the receiver was back on the hook, though. And Jobson hadn’t done that.
I knelt down and took a quick look at him. But before I did, I knew Mr. Jobson had gone where all good blackmailers go, and in a second I was on my feet again. I hadn’t hoped to be able to help him, and I didn’t expect to find the killer around. But I did hope, if I scared him away soon enough, to find some sign of the bird’s job, so as to be able to nail it on him. I gave the telephone receiver the once-over.
Right away I could see it was wiped clean as a Wall Street sucker. I gave the room a quick look. I didn’t expect to find a special brand of cigarette butts tucked away in dark corner
s; if there was anything at all, it would be right under my eyes. And it wasn’t there. I moved down the carpeted corridor, off which were the rooms.
The first three were bedrooms. I hardly gave them a look. Then the bathroom; then the dining-room. I opened the door at the end of the corridor.
Here was the kitchen. There was a door open across, and a dark stairway, leading down, probably, to the tradesmen’s entrance. I figured that’s how the killer got in. There weren’t any doormen at that entrance. I looked around, and gave one of those Percy Warren whistles.
There were two empty glasses on the table, and a beer bottle beside them. They’d been talking it over here before I called. Here was how I would nail my friend—good ole finger prints!
I crossed the kitchen floor and reached for the glasses, planning to lift them by sticking my fingers inside.
“All right. Stick them up—and don’t turn around!”
I stuck them up. That deep hoarse voice meant business. I heard him take a step back.
“All right. Turn and look. Then turn front again.”
I gave a look around.
There wasn’t anybody in sight. But there was the muzzle of a gun sticking out the end of the corridor. That was all I could see, and that was all he meant for me to see. Just to show he wasn’t playing.
“Are you looking front now?” the voice snapped.
“Yep.”
I heard him cross the kitchen, catlike, till he was at the opposite wall.
“Now turn and walk down the corridor— slow!”
I turned and crossed to the corridor. I heard him come after me as I started down it. I reached the bathroom.
“Stop!”
I stopped.
“Right hand down—slow! Reach around for the key. Got it? Now put it in this side the door.”
I followed instructions. He was close behind me now.
“Get in there. Cross to the window, hands up!”
I crossed to the window. The door slammed and the key clicked.
I didn’t even bother to turn. I threw open the window, looked out, and gave a laugh. What a mistake that baby had made! In another second I was outside and running down the fire-escape.
There was an alley leading from the foot of the stairs to the street. It was surrounded on three sides by the apartment, and the only trouble was the tradesmen’s stairway led to another block. But I tore on down the stairs and down the alley, and almost ran into the dick that was keeping an eagle eye on the apartment.
He was leaning against the side of the building at the head of the alley, and I reckon the sound of my feet woke him up. He stepped out to block my way.
“What’s the big rush, buddy?” he says.
“Want to be on time for church,” I snarled; “out of my way, flatfoot!”
But he grabbed me by both arms.
“Now listen, Major,” he said, soft-like, “you don’t want to run like that, it’s bad for the heart. And besides, I’d love it a lot if you’d just stick around a bit, so’s we can get acquainted,” and a lot of soft soap like that that the old-time dick pulls before he slaps you down; and I had to argue with him and show him everything but my baby pictures before he let up on me.
And by that time my killer probably was home and had his two beer glasses tucked safe in bed. I made a couple of observations on the bull’s ancestors and walked around to Bradford Street; and just as I was passing the front of the apartment, a car drew up. I turned and looked.
Coleman Fuller was climbing out. He gave me a salute.
“Coming or going, Mr. Warren?” he asked. “I was just going up to see Jobson.”
I looked him over quick.
“He’s something to see,” I said, “if you like them dead.”
His mouth and eyes opened wide at that.
“Dead?” he whispered. “You don’t mean—”
“Don’t I, though! Go up and take a look at him. And while you’re about it, you might phone headquarters. I’ve kept it a little secret so far because I haven’t time to go down and fill out questionnaires, like they’d want me to. I’ve got a job on my hands.”
But he grabbed my arm as I was starting off.
“Was it the same man that killed my uncle?” he asked, all breathless.
“Same and identical.”
“And—and do you know yet who it was? Have you any idea?”
I tipped him a wink.
“There’s a little birdie been flitting around my ear the last couple of hours,” I said. I started to go on, but he was keen for more dope. “Listen,” I said, “if things go right, I’ll know more about it tonight. Maybe I’ll even have a little surprise package to bring you afterwards.”
“Tonight?” He stared at me. Then: “Where are you staying?” he suddenly said.
I thought quick, then decided it wouldn’t do any harm.
“Stopover Inn, on the Eastern Highway.”
“Stopover Inn?’ he gasped. “But isn’t that—”
“Yep,” I cut in. “The hangout of the wild and wicked Lewis gang.”
He thought that over. Then he looked at me funny and said: “Are you going there—all alone?”
“What do you want to know that for?” I asked.
He looked away.
“I just—it’s rather dangerous going there alone, isn’t it?” he murmured.
I started off.
“Don’t you worry about that,” I told him. “That’s your Uncle Dudley’s business. Just you have that ten grand ready, or else a first class undertaker.” I left him there, hopped into Lizzie, and started off. I wanted to be alone to think something over, for I’d just seen a bright light. Seeing Nephew Coleman had done that.
Desdemona. Take off those glasses, fluff up that knotted hair, throw a few glad rags on her in place of that starched dress, and what have you? You have a lady I’d seen just once before, and then only for a second.
And what did that prove?
I took that thought into a restaurant and chewed on it along with an extra tough steak. It might not prove so much, and then again it might prove a hell of a lot. The more I thought of it, the more I leaned towards the latter idea. It was just short of eight o’clock, and jumping up, I paid my check, went out to the nearest drugstore, and put in a call.
Desdemona herself answered the phone.
“Listen, Mr. Warren.” She spoke in a whisper, her lips close to the mouthpiece. “I’ve learned something. I know who did it and I know where to find him. Have you got a car?”
“She’s champing right outside here.”
“Well, listen. Can you drive out now and get me? I’m on Milton Boulevard in a drug-store. Number 1038.”
I whistled.
“That’s a hell of a long ways out, Juliette,” I said.
“Well,” she answered, “if you’re interested in landing this fish—”
“Right you are!” I cut in. “I’ll motor right along. But listen, lady!” I added quick. “You park yourself there, understand? Maybe I’ll put in a call or two for you on the way!” And I hung up, went out and whipped up the steed.
While I bowled along at a good pace, I kept my eyes peeled, watching particularly the traffic coming the other way. It must have been two miles out that I realized I was nobody’s fool.
The car—a high-powered bus—was coming slow. Over the headlights I could just make out a half dozen men’s heads, all turned to peer at the traffic going my way. Then they came alongside me.
I just had time to see six pair of eyes staring at me, to see one thin white face with a long nose— the face of Spike Lewis that decorates the front page of our papers so often—to hear a quick exclamation from all of them. Then they were way behind me, and I was working Elizabeth up to sixty. I gave a quick glance around.
The big car was swinging around. I turned front and tended to business.
The traffic was medium thick about now. For a couple of miles there weren’t any side streets, so the cars were buzzing right alon
g, with nothing to hinder them. But I got Elizabeth going full steam and left the most of them pretty much standing still. After a minute or two I gave another look behind me.
Boy, was that bus eating up the road! In that quick eyeful I could see it charging down on me, a powerful looking baby, with a half dozen heads peering forward. I had the same chance of pulling away from her as if I was on foot with the gout. But I tore on for a bit longer.
Then I eased up, as much as I dared. Fifty. Forty-five. Forty. I can hear those lads now, roaring behind me. I saw one long chance, and I took it.
The road was clear all around me, except for a car ahead. I eased her some more, until I could near feel the hot breath of that bus, so to speak, on the back of my neck. Then, all at once, I clamped down on clutch and brake.
It all happened in a flash. There was a zipp! as that juggernaut went shooting past; six tense faces turned towards me; the loud crrrackrack-rack! of a machine-gun and zplop! as the tail end of the burst hit my fender. I went shooting in a crazy wide arc across to the left hand side of the road, up on the sidewalk, passing the lamppost on the wrong side; but not before, from the corner of my eye, I saw the poor innocent bozo in the car that was ahead of mine, suddenly slump in his seat.
I came down off the sidewalk—lucky it was low here—without stopping, and gave a look around. The car with the dead man had crashed into another, and the crowds were already pulling up to see the fun. Nobody noticed me; if they did, I suppose they figured I was getting out of the way and that it was the dead man they wanted. The juggernaut was probably a mile away by now, and I figured it would keep right on going. I glanced at a house number.
1104. I’d come a bit beyond where I was heading for. In another minute I was drawing up at the drug-store number 1038 and climbed out.
Desdemona Kelly met me at the door, pale and fidgety.
“You got here all right, I see,” she said in a low voice.
I hauled up the eyebrows in the right fashion.
“Why shouldn’t I?” I asked.
“Why—I just thought—it seemed like I heard some shooting up the line,” she answered, weaklike.
“Oh that.” I shrugged. “Just some Chicago confetti. It seems they were after a guy in the car ahead of me—and got him. Got his wife and baby too,” I added, to make the story good.