“Won’t do you any good. Come on—”
Christie did scream, but she knew it was hopeless. She tried to fight, but the grip on her arm was paralyzing. When the intruder pulled her down the hall, she cried, “Mr. Stevenson—”
But then she was taken into the bedroom and saw that Clyde Stevenson was stretched face down across the bed. “He’s out,” the man said. A tough grin crossed his lips, and he shook his head. “Too much wine, I guess.”
Christie’s mind was reeling, and she stared down at the still figure of her employer. “Is he . . . dead?”
“Dead? Why, no, he’s just drugged.” He looked down at her and said, “Look, I’m not gonna’ hurt you, girlie. But I’ve got a job to do. Make it easy on yourself, why don’t you?”
“What kind of a . . . job?”
“I’ve got to get you drunk—and then get some pictures of you.” He nodded at the helpless form of Stevenson, adding, “Got to get shots of the two of you in bed.”
Revulsion came to Christie, and she understood at once what was happening. “You’ll never get away with it. Even with a picture!”
“Oh, I guess I will. You see, Mrs. Stevenson, she ain’t been here. She’s gone to see a friend way across town. The friend will swear to that. So you and Stevenson came to the house for some loving. Happens all the time! Now, pretty soon there’s going to be some people coming to take pictures. But you’ve got to be drinking to make it look good. Now—drink this down.”
Christie stared at the dark bottle the man produced with his free hand. “I won’t do it!”
“Sure, you will—one way or another.” He suddenly released her arm, caught the back of her neck and after pulling the cork free with his teeth, forced the bottle between her teeth.
Christie gagged and fought but had no chance at all. The raw odor of whiskey filled her nose, and she gagged as she tried to escape. Despite her struggle, the whiskey went down her throat, burning rankly.
“Don’t fight it, Sweetie,” the big man said, almost gently. “We all have to take what comes—so just ride with it.”
Christie fought, but her captor relentlessly funneled the liquor down her throat. Soon she got dizzy, then sick, but he kept on until she passed out.
He looked down at the limp form, and disgust came to him. “There’s gotta be a better way of making a living than this!” he muttered. He put the whiskey bottle on the bedside table, then placed Christie on the bed next to Stevenson and left the room. He went at once to a telephone, and when he got his party, said roughly, “All right, come and get the shots—and have witnesses. The front door won’t be locked.”
Slamming the phone on the hook, Vallentine gave one look toward the bedroom, then left the house. He got into his car, and when a dark sedan came roaring out of the darkness to stop in front of the house, he watched carefully. When three men went inside, one of them carrying a camera, he started the engine and pulled out of the shadows.
“A shame to pull a stunt like that on a sweet kid.” He grew angry and spoke into the darkness. “Now, then, Mrs. Lorene Stevenson, you can dish it out—let’s see if you can take it. I figure about five grand would be a nice round fee for a private detective.”
LYLAH AND THE BURGLAR
A keen March wind holding a tang of winter cold blew across Lake Michigan, riffling the dark gray water into small whitecaps. It snatched up a sheaf of newspaper, scattering the pages across the park with a prodigal hand. One of the pages fluttered wildly as if trying to escape, then surrendered. It rose high into the air, rolling with the current of air, then suddenly dropped, falling on the lap of the man who sat staring out at the cold waters.
“What?—” Jerry started, then grabbed the paper and stared at it. “Front page,” he muttered. “Won’t have any good news, though.” Straightening it out, he let his gaze trace the stories, reading aloud with numbed lips.
“Lee De Forest announces invention of motion picture device containing photoplay and voice on same film.” He grinned and shook his head. “Talking pictures? I guess Aunt Lylah will like that—if it works.” He lowered his eyes and noted that Annie Oakley had broken the world’s trapshooting record by breaking ninety-eight out of one hundred clay pigeons in Pinehurst, North Carolina. A new magazine, the Reader’s Digest, had been founded, and the new pope took the name of Pius XI. Turning the page he saw an incriminating story about Fatty Arbuckle, the actor. “Lylah said she knew him,” he muttered.
Jerry tossed the paper down with distaste, rose, and walked along the lake. “Don’t see why Lylah wants to get involved with people like that,” he muttered. Then he thought of his own life and shook his head. “I’m a fine one to criticize her—lost everything I really wanted, and for what?”
He had failed to get a flying job, for there were still plenty of pilots who’d flown in the war. For weeks he’d followed every air show he could find, but none of the owners would even talk to him. He’d worked for three weeks for one of them cleaning and servicing planes, but it had gone bankrupt, and he’d used his last few dollars to take a bus to Chicago.
Now as he moved slowly around the lake he thought of going home. His parents would accept him, he knew that. But stubbornly he refused to give in. “Got to be some kind of flying job,” he muttered. The sky was growing dark, and he tried to think of a place to stay. Grew up in a big city like this and can’t find a place to sleep! he thought morbidly.
Actually he had several good friends who would have been happy to take him in—one or two on a long-term basis. But he couldn’t make himself go to them. He’d left town bragging about how he was going to be a hotshot pilot in an air show, and now to go back broke and out of work was something he couldn’t face.
He felt the stirrings of hunger pangs, and after counting the last of his money, he decided to have a meal. By the time he got to the South Side where he knew several good restaurants, he was famished. He ordered a big meal, ate it hungrily, then left his last dollar as a tip for the waitress. It was a gesture he felt he had to make—besides, one dollar wouldn’t help him.
He walked the streets for an hour, his mind fluttering like a bird in a cage, seeking for some answer. He had no skill save for flying—and even that was not marketable. He thought of the newly born airmail service but knew they demanded many more hours than he had.
The thought of flying drew him to the airport, and as darkness began to close in, he stood on the edge of the field watching the planes land and take off. He saw no one he knew and finally realized he had no options. Got to go home—and I’d rather die almost!
Wearily he turned, wondering if he had enough change to take a cab, but he knew he didn’t. It was a long walk all the way across town to his parents’ home, and he hated to ask for rides.
As he passed the hangar he was aware of a man dressed in a long black overcoat and a derby who was talking with one of the mechanics. He looked vaguely familiar, but Jerry couldn’t remember where he’d seen him. He passed by the two, and when he was a few steps away, he heard someone call, “Hey—Stuart—that you?”
Jerry turned quickly, and the man in the overcoat came toward him. “I’m Stuart,” he nodded, then he recognized Eddy Castellano. “How are you, Mr. Castellano?”
“Hey, you got a good memory, Kid,” Castellano nodded.
“I don’t forget favors,” Jerry said. “After we left the club, I found out who it was I was about to get into a fight with. I don’t think I’d have lasted long against Johnny Torrio and his men.”
“It was a pretty close thing,” Eddy nodded. “I got letters from Amos and Owen thanking me for stepping in. You must have told them I was quite a fellow.”
“Well, it was good of you to take my troubles.” Jerry hesitated then asked, “You’re . . . sort of in business with them, aren’t you?”
Castellano laughed and slapped Jerry on the shoulder. “I guess ‘sort of’ describes it pretty well. We’re competitors, you might say.” He looked up at the sky and said abruptly, “I gott
a’ run, Jerry. Give you a ride someplace?”
“Well, I’m headed for Kenwood to Dad’s house—but that’s out of your way—”
“No problem, Kid! I got me a new car. Come along and see what you think of it.” He led Jerry to the parking lot where he pointed with pride to a huge Packard. “Still got the new smell,” Eddy nodded. “Ever drive one of these?”
“No, I never did.”
“Get behind the wheel. You can be the chauffeur.”
Jerry nodded eagerly. He started the big car and drove it smoothly out of the parking lot, turning east. He drove with verve and assurance, and Eddy said, “Hey, you’re quite a driver, Kid! Ever think of giving Barney Oldsfield a run for his money?”
“Never driven a racing car, but they can’t be as tricky as a plane.”
Eddy twisted his head and regarded Jerry with surprise. “You a pilot, Jerry?”
“I’ve been flying some for my uncle, Gavin Stuart. He’s a younger brother of Dad’s and Uncle Owen’s.” Jerry nodded. “He’s about the best pilot there is, I think.”
Eddy fell silent, and when Jerry glanced at him he saw that the owner of the car was in some kind of deep study. Finally Eddy asked, “You still working for your uncle?”
“Well . . . no, I’m not.” Jerry squirmed and finally admitted, “I got out of line, and he laid me off. I’ve been knocking around trying to find another job, but I don’t have as much experience as lots of the older pilots.”
“Kid, I want you to have supper with me. You don’t have to be home right away, do you?”
“No, not really.”
“Good! Take a turn and head for the levee. You know it?”
“Sure. It’s a pretty tough part of town, Mr. Castellano.”
“Yeah, it is. But I’m meet’n my brother Nick. He’ll be glad to see you. Thinks the world of your dad and your uncle Owen.”
Jerry followed Eddy’s instructions, pulling up finally before a cafe with the name Dutch’s Place on the front. “Come on, Kid. We’ll get something good to eat. The Dutchman is the best cook in Little Italy.”
Jerry followed Eddy inside, glancing around at the dimly lighted interior. It was a nicer place than the exterior had implied—tables covered with red and white tablecloths, expensive chandeliers, waiters wearing black suits and gleaming white shirts. One of them, an older man with silver hair and bright black eyes came to say, “Ah, Mister Castellano! Your brother is here. Come with me, please.”
Eddy motioned to Jerry, and the two of them followed the head waiter to a table set off in an alcove. Eddy said at once, “Nick, this is Jerry Stuart—the kid I told you about.”
Nick Castellano was not the lean, hard young man that Amos had described to Jerry. He was only forty-five, but he was too heavy. He had swarthy skin and regular features, but his lustrous black hair was going gray. However, his eyes were warm, and he put out his hand at once, “Hey, you’re the image of your old man!” he said. “Sit down—I’ll order you something really great.” Turning to the waiter, he said, “Leon, bring this young fellow one of them good steaks, the special kind, you know?”
“Of course, Mr. Castellano—and some of your special wine?”
“Why not?” Nick waited until the two were seated then grinned at Jerry. “First time I seen your old man, he looked like a puppy somebody had thrown in the river. But so did I, come to think of it. We were all half-starved in those days. He ever tell you about when he stayed in our house in New York?”
“Yes, he did. He’s never forgotten how kind you were to him. I think he looks on your mother as sort of a second mother.”
“Sure, he still sends her flowers on her birthday—even after all these years.” He nodded at Jerry, saying, “That’s a good old man you got—and your mother, she’s turned out real good. Hope you appreciate them.”
“I . . . guess I haven’t been as good to them as my sister,” Jerry said. “She’s the good one.”
“Hey, you gotta’ show respect, Kid!” Nick scolded. “Ain’t that right, Eddy?”
“Sure, Jerry. Family—that’s everything. The country comes and goes—so does everything else. But the family, that’s where the roots are. That’s why Nick brought us with him when he moved his operation to Chicago a couple of years ago.”
“Eddy’s right,” Nick nodded. “I read every word your old man writes. He’s smart—a little old fashioned, but there ain’t no man I respect more than I do Amos Stuart. Bet you got a good education, too, ain’t you?”
“I got through some college, but I haven’t finished.”
“Go back and get all the education you can.”
Jerry smiled at him, saying, “You’re doing all right, Mr. Castellano. Missing out on college didn’t hurt you any.”
Nick glanced at Eddy, then smiled broadly. “You’re a pretty up-front young fellow. Just like your dad!”
“Nick, Jerry’s a pilot. Been flying with his uncle, Amos’s brother.”
Nick stared at Jerry, finding the statement interesting. “Is that right? How’d that happen?”
Jerry stumbled through his history, not sparing himself when he came to the story of how he’d left the show. “It wasn’t Uncle Gavin’s fault,” he said quickly. “I’m just too much of a maverick I guess.”
“Sounds like I found a winner, don’t it, Nick,” Eddy grinned. “Talk about pennies from heaven!”
Nick nodded slowly but waited until the meal came before he said, “Buck into that slab of meat, Jerry.” He himself ate heartily, drinking liberally of the red wine. He talked about the early days, when he and Amos had scraped by doing whatever they could find. Relating the history of those days pleased him, and he finally said, “They were hard times—but a few of us survived. Me and Amos and Owen. Lots of fellows just didn’t make it.” He leaned back and said abruptly, “Tell me about the flying you do.”
Jerry began to speak, and the two men listened carefully. Finally he laughed, “I’ve been talking too much—but flying’s all I want to do.”
“But you can’t get a job, you say?” Nick prompted.
“Not so far. But I’ll keep on trying.”
Nick exchanged glances with Eddy, who nodded at him. Leaning forward with his smoldering dark eyes on the young man, Nick said, “Jerry, I’m a businessman. You pretty well know what it is, I guess. You’ve read it in the paper, or maybe your old man told you.”
“I guess you’re in the liquor business.”
“Sure. Everybody calls me a racketeer. I call myself a businessman. When I sell liquor, it’s bootlegging. When the people I sell it to serve it on a silver tray on Lakeshore Drive, it’s hospitality.” He spoke for some time on the injustice of prohibition, then asked abruptly, “You ever hear of a fellow called Ben Howard?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He designs airplanes—a real special kind.” Nick grinned and blew on his cigar tip. “The kind he designs are built to haul liquor, not passengers. He’s been selling them to fellows who fly liquor across the Canadian and Mexican borders.”
“And we’ve just bought one of his planes, Kid,” Eddy spoke up. “That’s what I was doing at the airport—trying to make a connection with a pilot.” He grinned, adding, “And here I bump into you—a flier without a job who wants to get rich—and the son of an old friend of the family. If I believed in miracles, I’d say this is one of them.”
“Well, what do you say?” Nick demanded. “We’ll pay you twice what you were making with that air show—with a bonus every time you take a load.”
When Jerry hesitated, Eddy said smoothly, “I know your family won’t like this—but a man’s got to look out for himself. Stay with us for awhile, Kid, and you’ll be able to buy your own plane—write your own ticket.”
Jerry sat bolt upright, his brain racing. I can’t go home broke and whipped! But if I do this job—just for awhile—I’ll make enough dough to get on my own.
The light of the yellow candle flame reflected in Nick’s and Eddy’s eye
s, giving them a wolfish appearance. But Jerry was seeing the money that lay ahead of him—not the men who would provide it, not the dangers he would have to face to get it.
“I’ll do it, Mr. Castellano—until I get enough money to go on my own.”
The brothers smiled, and Eddy patted Jerry on the back. “Now you’re being smart, Kid! We’re gonna’ make a pile of money!”
Lylah took the note from the man, asking, “You say it’s from Bonnie Hart?”
“Yes, ma’am. I live down the road from her a ways. She flagged me down and gave me a dollar to bring it to you.” He was a moon-faced man of around thirty with a terrible complexion. “You want me to take her an answer?”
“Let me read it.” She took out the slip of paper and read the brief message:
Miss Stuart,
I hurt my ankle and won’t be able to come to work for awhile. I’m so sorry! If you could bring Adam here, I could keep him while you work.
Bonnie
Looking up, Lylah said impulsively, “I need to see Bonnie. Wait until I get my little boy ready, and you can ride back in a taxi with us.” She hurried inside and found Adam playing on the floor. “We’re going to see Bonnie, Adam. You’ll have to get dressed.”
Thirty minutes later the cab stopped in front of a house set back from the main road. “That’s it, ma’am,” the moon-faced messenger nodded.
“Thanks for showing it to me.” Lylah gave him two dollars, then said to the driver, “I’ll be a few minutes. Wait for me.” She bundled up the large sack filled with Adam’s clothes and a few toys. Going up to the front door, she pushed the bell, then waited. The house was a low ranch-style affair, made of white stucco. It was shaded by large trees, and flowers grew luxuriously. The door opened, and Bonnie, balancing on one foot, stared at her visitors.
“Why—I didn’t expect you so soon, Miss Stuart!” She gasped as Adam held his arms up, begging to be taken up. “I can’t hold you, Sweetheart,” Bonnie said. “Come on in, and I’ll fix you something good to eat.”
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