by Otto Penzler
Outside, he climbed into the car and said, “Know the Blue River Inn?”
Donnegan said, “Yes.”
“That’s where we’re going. Don’t run right up to it. Park back a distance, out of sight.”
The car shot off through town, hit Old Stone Road and followed it into Farmingville Turnpike. Half an hour later Donnegan pulled up on the side of the road, in the shadow of a deep woods. Up ahead they could see Blue River Inn, picked out in electric light bulbs.
“You wait here, Donnegan,” said MacBride. “I won’t be long.”
The inn was large and rambling, two storied, with many windows. MacBride entered the large, carpeted room that served as a lobby, and the head-waiter, with a menu in his hand, bowed.
“I’m not eating,” clipped MacBride. “Who runs this dump?”
“Sir?”
“Cut out the flowers, buddy. I’m from the precinct.” He flashed his badge. “Snap on it!”
A short, rotund man in dinner clothes came strolling in from the main corridor, and the head-waiter, a little troubled, beckoned to him.
“You the owner?” asked MacBride. “What’s your name?”
“Hinkle, owner and manager. What can I do for you?”
“I’m MacBride, from the precinct. There were two couples in here last night— You!” he suddenly shot at the head-waiter. “Stay here! Now,” he went on, “who were the two men?”
“Of course,” said Hinkle, “there are so many people come here, we cannot recall them. So many are transients.”
“Look here,” pursued MacBride. “One of those men was Joe Manola, who was later killed in a wreck last night. Now who was the other guy—the guy with him?”
Hinkle moistened his lips and his eyes shifted nervously. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. Nor does my head-waiter.”
The girl at the desk trilled, “Mr. Hinkle, telephone.”
Hinkle went over to the desk, and MacBride followed, stood beside him. Hinkle picked up the telephone, and said, “Yes, Hinkle talking.” And then his face blanched, and his lips began to writhe.
MacBride’s gun came out of his pocket, jammed against Hinkle’s adipose paunch. He tore the receiver from Hinkle’s hand and clasped it to his own ear, heard—
“… and get that, Hinkle. Act dumb, all the time, see. And if it gets too hot, call me on the wire. Got that number? Main 1808?”
MacBride’s lips moved silently, forming the words, “Say yes, Hinkle.”
“Yes, yes,” said Hinkle, his face pasty white.
“O.K. then,” was the reply, and the man at the other end hung up.
MacBride hung up, set down the telephone, a thin, hard smile on his face.
“Who was that, Hinkle?”
Hinkle wilted, blubbered, kept shaking his head.
“Chuck Devore, eh?” grinned MacBride, without humor.
“Oh, G-God!” choked Hinkle, gasping for air and reeling backward.
MacBride picked up the telephone and called the precinct. To Sergeant Haley he said, “Send a man out around to the telephone exchange. Tell the operators there to allow no calls incoming or outgoing from"—he looked down at the number on the phone— ”Farmingville 664. Also, no calls to be connected, outgoing or incoming, to Main 1808. Until further notice from the station. Also, get me the address of Main 1808, quick, and ring me at Farmingville 664 before the order to shut off. Snap on it, sergeant!”
He hung up, stepped to the door and blew his whistle. When Donnegan came in on the run, MacBride said, “No hurry. Just stay here and keep your eyes on these two men till you get word from the precinct. Don’t let them get out of sight. Go in the dining-room and tell all the guests to clear out.”
There were only a dozen-odd persons in the dining-room, and they made an angry and protesting exodus. When they had gone, MacBride said to Donnegan. “Let no more in. See that no more cars leave.”
The telephone rang, and he picked it up, listened. “All right, sergeant,” he said. “I’ll have to pass there on the way through. Tell Kelly and Kerr to be ready and I’ll pick them up.”
He turned from the telephone, looked at the group of waiters and at Hinkle and his steward. Then he looked at Donnegan. “Keep them salted, Donnegan, right in this room. You, Hinkle, have your sign shut off and all the lights in the house except in this room. You’re temporarily closed for business.”
“It’s an outrage!” choked Hinkle.
“See if I care,” chuckled MacBride; and to Donnegan, “I’ll take the car.”
VI
Kelly and Kerr were waiting outside of the precinct when MacBride drew up.
“Hop in, boys. We’re going for maybe a little target practice.”
Kelly shifted his chew and climbed in, and Kerr, eagerness sparking in his eyes, followed. MacBride stepped on the gas and they shot off.
“What’s the lay, Cap?” asked Kelly.
“We’re going to look up Chuck Devore, at a dump in lower Jockey Street. There may be a fight. You boys well heeled?”
They were. And as they drove on, MacBride explained about his pilgrimage to the Blue River Inn.
They made good time into the city. Traffic on Main Street, the artery of theatres and cabarets, held them up.
Presently MacBride turned into Jockey Street and followed it west. Near Main Street, small restaurants, Chinese or Italian, displayed their signs. Further along, it changed to blank-faced brick houses, old and peeling, with here and there a single globe of light marking out a speakeasy. The municipal lighting system was poor, and the way was dark.
MacBride pulled up in the middle of a block and said, “It’s on the next block, but we’ll leave the car here. Come on.”
They got out and continued down Jockey Street with MacBride taking long strides in the lead. There was a noticeable jut to his teak-hard jaw and a windy look in his blue eyes. He was not the man to grow stale from sitting on his spine in a precinct office. The game on the outside still lured him—the somewhat dangerous game of poking into back alleys and underworld hideouts.
He slowed down, but did not stop. “This is the house, boys. Number 40. Don’t stop. All dark except the third floor. Shades drawn there, but you can see the light through the cracks. I know this neighborhood. They have a lookout in the hall, and a man needs a password to get in. A red light dump without the red lights. We’ll see if there’s a way to it from the next street.”
At the next block they turned south, and then east into the next street. Between the houses here they could see the backs of the houses on Jockey Street.
“There it is,” pointed out MacBride. “That three-story place, taller than the others.” He stopped. “Here’s an alley. Come on.”
They swung into a dark, narrow passageway that led between two wooden houses and on into a small yard criss-crossed with clothes-lines. Separating this yard from that of the one belonging to the house in Jockey Street was a high board fence. Behind this, the three paused and looked up. All floors were dark except the third and top-most.
MacBride gripped the top of the fence, heaved up and over, landed in soft earth. Kerr and Kelly followed and they stood hunched closely, whispering. MacBride pointed to the fire-escape.
“Up we go. You boys trail me. Easy!” he warned.
He led the way up the ladders, his gun drawn. Nearing the top story, he went more cautiously, more quietly, and turned once to recommend silence with a finger tapping his lips. At the third floor he stopped, hunched over. The window was open, a half-drawn shade crackling in the draft.
Slowly MacBride raised his head and peered in over the sill. Four men were sitting around a table in shirt-sleeves, their collars open. A bottle and glasses were on the table, and MacBride caught whiffs of cigarette smoke. He saw Chuck Devore in profile. Devore was a tall, smooth-shaven man of thirty, with curly brown hair and a cleft chin. His eyes were deep-set and peculiarly luminous. In repose, his face was not bad to look at—except for the strange, impenetrable eyes. MacBride had never s
een the others, but all of them bore the stamp of hard, dangerous living. The most outstanding, besides Devore, was a huge bull of a man with flaming red hair and a heavy jaw.
“It will be a cinch,” Devore was saying. “We can bust in about three a.m. and stick up the works, and you can take it from me, there’ll be no small change. Not with Diamond Jack Winslow in on the show and a lot of big political guns. And they can’t yap. That’s where we’ve got them. They’re playing a crooked game, and if the public got wind of it, Perrone would have about as much chance of getting in the alder-manic show as I would. And Haggerty’d land on his can, too.”
“And won’t Duke Manola get sore!” chuckled the red-head.
“Yes, the lousy bum!” snapped Devore. “Cripes, his kid brother spilled a lot of beans. Wild sheik, that bird was.”
“Yeah—was,” nodded the red-head.
“I feel a draft,” said Devore, and got up, coming toward the window.
He walked into the muzzle of MacBride’s thirty-eight.
“Nice, now, Chuck!” bit off MacBride. “Up high.”
He stepped in through the window, and Kerr was half-way through behind him, his gun covering the startled group at the table.
Then came Kelly, slit-eyed, dangerous.
“What’s the meaning of this, Mac?” snarled Devore.
“Be your age, Chuck,” said MacBride.
No one saw a hand sliding in through a door that led to another room. This hand, slim and white, felt for the light-switch, found it, and pressed the button.
The room was thrown into sudden darkness. Chairs scraped. A door banged.
A dagger of flame slashed through the gloom, and a man screamed, his body hit the floor with a thud.
MacBride found Devore on his hands, and the gangster was trying to twist the captain’s gun arm behind his back.
“No, you don’t, Devore!”
MacBride heaved with him, spun through the darkness, crashed into other struggling figures. He slammed Devore against the wall, and Devore tried to use his knee for a dirty blow. MacBride blocked with his hip and banged Devore’s head to the wall, again and again. Then Devore twisted and dragged out of the jam, but MacBride heaved against him and they crashed to the floor.
Struggling feet stumbled over their twisting bodies, and curses ripped through the darkness. Another shot banged out, went wild and shattered a light bulb in the chandelier. The table toppled, and somebody crashed over a chair.
Then the door leading to the hall was flung open and dim figures hurtled through it on the way out, their feet pounding on the floor. Devore planted his knee brutally in MacBride’s stomach and the captain buckled, gasping for breath. Then Devore tore free, reeled about the room and dived for the open door.
But MacBride caught his breath, heaved up and lunged after him. Doors opened and banged, but nobody came out to get in the way. Somewhere far below MacBride heard a sharp exchange of shots. He catapulted after Devore who was racing down the staircase. Near the bottom, he leaped through space and landing on Devore’s neck, crashed him to the floor.
Devore groaned and relaxed. MacBride straddled him, drew out manacles and settled Devore’s status for the time being. He stood up, wiping blood from his face, shoving wet strands of hair back from his forehead. He heard footsteps rushing up from below and swung around with his gun leveled.
It was Ted Kerr, his clothes in tatters and a couple of blue welts on his face.
“They got away, Cap,” he explained. “Through the back. Went through a door, slammed it and locked it. Kelly and I tried to bust it, but no can do. I came up to see if you were all right. One was wounded. Here’s Kelly.”
Kelly puffed up, his collar gone but his tie still draped around his neck.
“Take this guy,” MacBride said, jerking a thumb toward Devore. “I’ll be right down.”
He went upstairs two steps at a time and entered the gang’s quarters. He lit a match, found the light switch and snapped it. The room was in ruin, and the shade still clicked in the draft. He crossed to another door, stood to one side, then turned the knob and kicked the door open. A light was burning inside, and a breeze blowing through an open window.
Entering, MacBride set it down as a room used by a woman. There was a littered dressing table, and a bureau with several drawers half out and signs indicatory of somebody having made a quick getaway. A cursory examination revealed no tell-tale clues. MacBride turned out the lights, left the rooms, and descended the staircase.
Devore was standing up now, between Kerr and Kelly, and venom was burning in his strange, enigmatic eyes.
MacBride said, “Now for a little buggy ride, Devore.”
“You’re going to regret this, MacBride,” the man snarled. “By cripes, you are!”
“Cut out the threats, you bum!”
“Cut out hell! Before you know what’s what I’m going to have you tied by the heels.”
“Should I sock him, Cap?” inquired Kelly.
“No. He’ll get a lot of that later, where it’s more convenient.” MacBride’s hand clenched, and his lips flattened back against his teeth.
Devore smiled, mockingly. “We’ll see, MacBride—we’ll see!”
VII
It was about half-past ten when the police car rolled into Grove Manor. Ted Kerr was at the wheel. Devore sat in the rear, between MacBride and Kelly.
“Looks like a crowd in front of the station,” sang out Kerr.
“ ‘Swing into the next block,” said MacBride. “Probably some photographers and—no doubt— that very good friend of mine, Kennedy, with his nose for news, and his wisecracks.”
The car turned into a dark street several blocks this side of the police station and halted.
“What should I do, Cap?” asked Kerr.
MacBride was thinking. “Let’s see. H’m. Drive around the back way, Ted. Park a block away from the station. I’ll run this bird in the back way, right into my office. You and Kelly drive up a little later. And don’t spill any beans—keep your traps shut. Then you come in my office, Ted, and we’ll see.”
Kerr drove off slowly, cut around the back of the town and came up a dark, poorly paved street that ran back of the station. When he pulled up, MacBride hauled Devore out and marched him off. They took a path that led through a vacant lot and on up to the back of the station.
Here MacBride, using a key, opened a door and shoved Devore in, then followed and, locking the door, guided the gangster along a dark hallway that ended against another door. MacBride unlocked this and stepped into his office, relocked it quickly and crossing to the door that led into the central room, shoved shut the bolt. Then he turned with a sigh of relief, took off his cap and sailed it across his desk.
“Take the load off your feet, Devore,” he droned, and pulling open a drawer in his desk, hauled out a bottle and downed a stiff bracer. He turned to Devore. “Dry?”
“I don’t drink slops, thanks.”
“You can go to hell,” chuckled MacBride, slamming shut the drawer.
“Listen,” jerked out Devore. “Let me use that phone. I gotta talk to my lawyer.”
“Try setting that to music, guy. You’re calling no lawyer. You’re seeing no one. And the newspapers aren’t going to know I’ve got you. I’m top-dog, you dirty slob, and you’re going to come across!”
“About what?”
“Ask me another,” scoffed MacBride. “About the killing of Joe Manola. Now don’t try to hand me a song and dance, Devore. I was listening outside the window on the fire-escape. I heard you and your guns talking.”
“How did you get the lay on me, MacBride?”
“Don’t worry about that, Devore. The thing is, I’ve got you, and you’re going to come across.”
Devore leaned forward, his teeth bared, but not in a smile. “How about your kid daughter, big boy?”
“Yes, you pup, how about her?” exploded MacBride, a bad light in his eyes.
“Sound nice, won’t it? Daughter of
Captain MacBride linked up with gangsters. Think it over, MacBride.”
“I’m thinking it over, Devore. It’s a blow—a sock flush on the button, but I’ll weather it. She’ll have to talk, sooner or later, even though she is my daughter. But she’s been framed somehow. And what I want to know is, who’s the woman who was in the quartette last night at the Blue River?”
“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know!” Devore snarled; and then snapped, “Try and find out, you big bum!”
There was a knock on the door. MacBride walked over and asked, “Who is it?”
“Ted.”
He opened the door and Ted Kerr slipped in. MacBride snapped shut the bolt. Kerr scowled at Devore.
“Right at home, eh, Devore? You won’t be,” he threatened.
MacBride said, “Keep your eye on him, Ted. I’m going out and give the gang the air.”
There was a sizable crowd waiting for news. Four reporters, three photographers. And Kennedy, with his whimsical smile.
“Ah, captain,” he chortled, “and now you broadcast.”
MacBride bored him with a keen stare. “You’re wasting your time, Kennedy. On your way—all of you boys. No news tonight.”
“But who’s the bird you’ve got?” demanded a reporter from the city news association.
“You heard me,” shot back MacBride. “No news. There’s a trolley goes through here in five minutes. Take a tip. Hop it.”
“Aw, for cripe’s sakes,” protested Kennedy. “Be a sport, Cap. Think of all the good breaks I’ve put in your way.”
“Think of all the good drinks I’ve handed out,” replied MacBride. “No use, Kennedy. Beat it, all of you. You’re cluttering up the station.”
The outer door opened and a man strolled in nonchalantly smoking a cork-tipped cigarette. He was of medium height, slight in build, dressed in the acme of fashion. He wore a gray suit that could not have been made for less than a hundred dollars, a cream-colored silk shirt, a blue tie, and a rakish Panama hat. He carried a Malacca stick, and now he leaned on it, his hand aglitter with diamonds, a lazy, indolent look in his slitted brown eyes.