She squirmed a little; her breath was like a drowsy gust of hate in his face.
He crammed a gag in her mouth and stood there thinking hard. There was that damned Swede in the cellar. Had he really foxed the mope? He’d have to get downstairs in a hurry and buzz Harry Wilkie—Marty Kane had been Harry’s partner—Harry was the logical man to look in the bathroom and switch his red bloodhound beak from Johnny Vega to a guy named Nick. Meanwhile the Swede hadda stay dumb and this half-naked jane hadda stay put. …
With a grin Jerry remembered the incinerator hopper in the service hall outside. He cleaned out her clothes closet, picked up the junk from the chair. It made a double armful.
The elevator outside was just where he had left it. The incinerator hopper was set in the wall on the right of the corridor. He flipped it open—and knew with a sick certainty what the Swede was up to. Tiny sparks danced, there was a hot, tinny smell. The Swede was in this thing up to his eyes! Johnny Vega obviously wasn’t going to stay very long in the bathtub—and by the same token a guy named Nick certainly had unfinished business in apartment 12-B.
The Planet’s columnist shoved the girl’s clothes down the warm flue, left the door of the apartment wide open and went down in the elevator.
He got out on the street floor, tiptoed through to the public hall and sat down at the deserted switchboard. The place was like a silent tomb; a single light burned wanly and the only sound he could hear was the dim, bee-like humming of the motor traffic on the avenue outside.
He got headquarters, gave his name and asked for Wilkie, listened feverishly to a bit of kidding from his friend on the desk, was switched finally to the 98th precinct house. More kidding, and—
“That you, Jerry? Wilkie talkin’. ’Smatter, kid?”
“Listen! Write it down fast!” He gave the address. “Kane case. Keep your mouth shut. Hop over quick if you want the lad that cut down Marty Kane.”
He heard a faint gasp. “You got Johnny Vega there? Is this a gag?”
Tracy swallowed fiercely. “Get over here, you louse. No squad car. Take a cab. I’ll let you in the front door. How soon?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Make it ten, Harry, for —— sake.”
He was sweating as he sat back. His face was yellow under the light. He wiped off his forehead with a tremulous hand. Back in the dimness of the service hall a shadow retraced noiseless steps towards the elevator. The Swede’s face was puckered in a frozen, nearsighted glare. Ten minutes—he had heard that! He hesitated at the elevator, changed his mind, sped up the boxed stairs without a sound. …
The street door darkened with Wilkie’s bulk and Jerry sprang up and let Kane’s partner in. He was a big man with a pouty lip, a barrel chest and thin legs. He uncovered a dull-blue gat without haste.
He said, in a low voice: “What’s the lay?”
Jerry nudged him round the corner to the elevator and they rode up. The apartment door was still open. Wilkie looked puzzled at that. He went in first. There was no one on the bed. The knotted slips had been hurriedly slashed with a knife. The detective took one look and his bull voice roared:
“—— sake! Yuh let Vega scram?”
“No. He’s here.”
“Where ’bouts?”
“Maid’s bathroom. Down the hall there.”
“Bathroom? Say, what is this—a comic strip act?”
“Take a look, Harry,” said the columnist in a weak voice.
Wilkie wrenched open the door, rocked slightly upward on his toes, said very briefly: “——!” He came back to Jerry, his pouty lips working with a snarled undertone.
“Who done it? Who was here? Gimme the dope.”
Tracy talked fast. He gave him a swift outline. “She can’t be far away. She’s half naked! Just that robe of hers. Bare feet. I shoved her clothes down the incinerator.”
Wilkie grinned nastily. “What of it? You’d git far away, wouldn’t yuh, with a thing like that in the bathtub? Jeeze, wotta girl-friend! The Swede musta been wise—heard yuh come back maybe, or got a flash of you phonin’. … If you think they’re still in the buildin’, you’re nuts. Gimme a quick description of them two. I’m gonna hop down to the switchboard for a secon’ and have a fast look in the basement, too. Stay here.”
“Don’t mention the bathtub or Nick,” Tracy begged. “He’s coming back—he’s got to! He doesn’t know the thing’s busted. If he sees a flock of P.D. cars outside—”
“Don’t worry any,” said Marty Kane’s partner grimly. “Jist a routine alarm for a wench and a Swede. The rest is my party. I’ll take a chance on a police trial for withholdin’ information.”
He was gone in a flash. When he showed again he said harshly, “You say this guy Nick has a key to the joint?”
“Yeah. She bawled me out for not using it when I rapped.”
“Okey.” Wilkie shut the door and turned the lock knob. “We’ll jist stick around.” His chuckle held no mirth. “Entertainment committee.”
“I can’t figure her on the street in that outfit she’s wearing,” Tracy muttered.
“Can’tcha? What’s the matter with the Swede flaggin’ a cab from that dam’ service alley, carryin’ his sick sister out, takin’ her to his wife’s mother—or anybody else he can think of? He’s had over ten minutes to stir his hump while you were sweatin’ downstairs at the switchboard. You shoulda taken that wrench off him and nicked his skull in the first place. … Huh! Let’s glom this dive!”
They found a fresh ugly stain on one of the mattresses after they had ripped off the clean bed-clothes and turned the mattress over.
“Vega got his payoff right here,” said Wilkie sourly. “He ain’t improved any since he got it. I s’pose I oughta apologize to th’ corpse if your slant is right.”
His big body teetered about the room without sound on his thin legs like an overbalanced cat. There was nothing much to play with except the irregular brown stain on the mattress. Johnny Vega’s clothes and the soiled sheets had probably gone down the incinerator. The two men flopped the mattress over and re-made the bed.
They tiptoed back to the maid’s room and Wilkie fixed the door slightly ajar. The bathroom was still open and, with a faint grimace, Tracy went over and closed it without looking in.
Wilkie’s low murmur hummed in his ear.
“A swell layout, hey? The girl and Nick and the janitor in cahoots. Vega’s been the fall-guy from the start—right from the time poor Marty Kane got the heat. It’s all a guess—the girl mighta had an apartment in this hive and tipped Nick the news when the tenants were moved over to the Canopus. Nick braced Vega an’ it pro’ly sounded like heaven to a mug with a general police alarm on his tail. Wotta dump … Phones dead, shades drawn, oil lamps—an’ the Swede for a lookout man. He’s the guy that pro’ly spilled the beans. I noticed his phone’s working; plugged in with the switchboard trunk-line. If Vega sneaked down at two a.m. this morning to make a call, an’ the Swede listened in, it would be just too bad for Johnny, hey?”
“It’s a fair guess, I s’pose.”
“Sure it’s a guess. It’s all guess. The finger was out for Johnny and he was panicky as hell—he should be! I’d of plugged him on sight!—so Nick played the good, er, Samarian an’ got him under the hatches, figgerin’ that while the cops hunted Johnny they wouldn’t be apt to hunt Nick. It’d work swell unless Vega happened to git wise to who bumped poor Marty Kane. … Looks like he got wise some time yestiddy.”
Wilkie’s pouty lips closed. He stood tensely, quietly for a moment, listening, his eyes on the crack of the door. After a while he grinned and relaxed. His grin lingered at Tracy’s whispered question.
“I’m still guessin’,” he admitted. “But I gotta hunch I’m ringin’ the cane. How could it happen? Well, they’re both dopies, see?—Nick and his gal—an’ six weeks is a long time. Yuh git careless. And don’t forget yuh feel like a king in Babelong when yuh got a skinful o’ high-power. Yuh might begin to drop woids—mayb
e boast what a hell of a clever fella you are. Yuh might—holy Jeeze!”
A flush mottled his heavy face. He took out his handkerchief and mopped it off.
“That might be it, for —— sake! If the murderin’ louse had that in his pocket an’ Vega got a flash of it—sure, he’d have it! Why didn’t I think—only a dopie’d take it in the first place. He’d like to play with it an’ laff long an’ satisfied, an’ think what a coupla cheap two-dollar punks Napoleon an’ Caesar was. … By ——!”
“What do you mean?” Tracy whispered uneasily.
“Never mind what,” Harry Wilkie husked. “I’m prayin’ the fella shows, that’s all. I gotta notion I’m gonna roll him an’ scrape out his pockets. I gotta notion—”
His hard fingers bit suddenly into the columnist’s forearm. The metallic sound was faint but unmistakable. A key was fiddling in the lock of the service door of the apartment.
It opened and shut again with a slam. Wilkie’s gun looked big, even in his big hand. Both men held their breaths and watched through the crack. The murderer was tall, bony, built like a lath. He was grinning a mile a minute, talking to himself. His eyes glittered in the semi-darkness, a fixed glitter of satisfaction.
“Hey, Myrtle! Hey, Kid! Where are yuh, yuh li’l ——?”
He meandered around, always laughing softly.
“Where are yuh, Myrt? I gotta deck for you. … Huh! Gone out for a hop sandwich—couldn’t wait for Poppa’s groceries. Awright, Baby—I’m happy. Hell with you. … ”
He came noisily down the darkened hall and Tracy’s mouth was wide open. Wilkie’s fingers had uncurled from the columnist’s forearm. It was just as though the big homicide dick wasn’t there at all.
The visitor disappeared into one of the bedrooms and they heard a chair creak. In a minute a shoe thumped on the floor. The second one clattered. Jerry stood frozenly, wondering with a kind of insane calm, why dropped shoes usually roll topside on the sole nine times out of ten. Wilkie was still fast asleep with his eyes open.
The man came out of the bedroom presently—stark naked—and padded down the hall with a soft slip-slap. He went into the kitchen.
Wilkie’s drowsy eyes gleamed. He couldn’t resist a brief threadlike whisper: “Remember the roomin’-house case in Brooklyn? Same thing all over. No stained clothes.”
Goose flesh crawled up Tracy’s neck.
The man Nick came out of the kitchen. He had a big knife in his hand. He walked down the hall, swung open the door to the maid’s room. It screened the two hunters in the corner. The murderer took four steps towards the bathroom and then Wilkie’s arm slammed the door.
Nick whirled, screeched once, and lunged at them with a downward sweep of his knife.
Wilkie didn’t say anything. He grouped four holes well above the navel. Then he opened the door, walked out and went into the bedroom.
He riffled through the pile of clothing with a face like stone. He held up his palm for Jerry to look. A flat shiny thing with a coat of arms on it and a number.
Wilkie swayed up on his big brogans. He was blinking rapidly. He said, suddenly: “Kane was a good man—one square dick. … ”
He whirled with a strangled oath and went clamping into the maid’s room where the body lay. When he came lack Jerry didn’t make any comment.
“Let’s get the hell downstairs,” said Wilkie. “I gotta put in a call.”
The deserted switchboard was buzzing monotonously as they got out of the elevator.
Wilkie grinned at that “I gave ’em the number just in case. Wonder if they’ve nabbed them two. … Hello? Yeah; right here.”
He talked a while and then listened.
“Right Sweat ’em some more and see if I care. Listen, Eddie—hold everything—I got Johnny Vega. Dead, yeah. An’ a mug name o’ Nick, ditto. Found Marty’s shield on him. … Okey; send over the works. You aught flash the bozo on this beat; there’ll be a mob outside, pretty soon.”
He hung up with a small, finicky gesture.
“They tripped Swedie an’ the gal. Add one for the flatfoot boys. He seen she carryin’ act goin’ into a dump on East a Hunnerd an’ Tenth right after he got the G.A. … Yuh look lousy, Jerry. You crazy to be in on this?”
“——! no!”
“Okey. You don’t need to show. Take your runout while you got the chance. How do yuh feel?”
“Not so good.”
Wilkie’s laugh rumbled. “None of you newspaper guys can take it. You make me think of a joke I heard once—remember it? The one where the doctor says to the patient: ‘Trouble with you is you got a weak stummick!’ Scram Jerry; you’re a good guy.”
He unlocked the door and Jerry went out into the afternoon air. He thumbed a rolling cab and relaxed on the cushioned seat.
“Up Fifth,” he told the hacker.
At Seventy-odd he got out and went into the Park. The little lake was alive with kids’ boats.
He thought, “——! I never want to see a grifter or a cop again!”
A voice said: “Nice day, sor, ain’t it?”
A paunchy old flatfoot was grinning at him, reaching down with a lazy grunt to untwine a kid in soiled shorts who was trying to climb his uniformed leg. A bloated old Mick cop with a cheerfully creased phiz, a comfortable belly, comfortably flat feet. He whacked the kid softly on the tail with his gloved palm.
“Git off wid ye, ye monkey!”
Tracy looked at him queerly. “What’s a good way to lose a grouch, Officer?”
“Well, sor,” he grinned amiably and considered, “I wouldn’t call that a poser by army means. I’d have a dhrink or two, maybe—shtep out wid the old woman, telephone aroun’ teill I found a party goin’ on wid a real good accordeon player—”
“Thanks. Have a cigar.”
Tracy hurried out the Park entrance and hooked another cab with a brisk gesture. “Down to Fifty-ninth and then west.”
He’d have a Chinaman named McNulty shake him up a couple of extra specials. He’d crawl into a stiff shirt and have dinner out. With whom? Somebody decent—somebody with a clean line of charter. A red-head. … Stella—that crazy little bimbo with million-dollar dogs and a laugh like a tall drink with bubbles. One swell Broadway child and as straight as a string.
He watched the cars scud by, going north.
A nice dinner—pick up a gang somewhere—drag ’em over to the penthouse. Organize a kazoo orchestra and let Stella tap for ’em—oh, man! Get Abrams and Manny Field to put on the great Rival Stooge act. Hold on, for —— sake—Schnozzle himself was in town. …
He leaned forward with a blurred smile and slid back the glass panel in the front.
“Step on it, mug!” he told the hacker. “Papa’s on the prod!”
Beyond All Light
What the world doesn’t see, it doesn’t believe. A blind man judges without sight and believes he is always right.
A DRIPPING, slate-colored afternoon—brrrr! The slow squishy, filthy cold downpour was one of those icy, skin prickling drizzles, scarcely more than a smoky mist but it was falling steadily and freezing underfoot. The sidewalk as a paste of frosty slush.
The beggar at the curb said no word at all as Tracy went by. He stood patiently aloof, as quiet as a stone. Tracy was sloshing along in the very devil of a hurry, but he paused instinctively as he caught a sidelong glimpse if the man’s extended cup and his wide, sightless eyes. There were two wet pennies in the cup and the fingers that held it were blue with cold. Jerry fumbled a moment, dropped in a quarter with a brisk plink! and walked on.
The beggar’s left hand moved upward from his side with a lightning dart, probed deftly for the quarter, slipped it into his pocket. He said in a rasping singsong: “Thank you, sir!”
Tracy was already two or three paces away when he heard the growled acknowledgement of his gift. He stopped short, hesitated, turned, came slowly back again. His mouth was twitching faintly with the mirthless grin of Broadway—a trick done mostly with the lips and teeth, comp
ounded equally of cold amusement and colder wisdom, with a grim dash of “sez you!”
He said to the man: “I like to know things. I’m funny that way. That was a pretty good quarter I slipped you. … Just how really blind are yuh, Bud?”
“Blind?” said the beggar. “You’re a wise guy with a quarter and you’d like to know how blind am I, Bud?” He laughed harshly for an instant. “Blind?” he said again. He seemed to derive a kind of tortured pleasure from the repetition. He played with the word, terrier-like. “As blind as a bright red fire-plug. As blind as the side of a whitewashed barn. A velvet mole with whiskers and a tin cup … Is that a quarter’s worth, Mister?”
He stared at Tracy through the freezing mist and people went skittering past the two of them, heads down, elbows shoving; a swirl of damp ghosts in a slippery, endless maze. The beggar’s wide-open eyes were milky and unwinking; they looked unpleasantly like chinaware. His short-clipped beard was a scraggly, fuzzy brown. Water trickled down his forehead from the sodden brim of him hat. The upturned collar of his cheap overcoat was beaded with twinkling drops.
He shivered suddenly and the two pennies in his cup clipped together in a faint scuffle.
“You said ‘thank you, sir’,” Tracy said. “I wondered how you knew it was a man and not a woman.”
“Thought maybe I was peeking?”
“I just wondered,” Tracy said nasally.
The man’s jeering laugh was so low it was barely audible.
“Very simple, Watson. The night has a thousand eyes—surely you remember that. You walk like a man; longer steps, fainter clicks. You smell of tobacco and soup. You didn’t open and close a handbag when you took out your quarter … And women always give pennies—never less than two or more than four—and that’s all, Watson. Put your whistle away.”
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 7