They backed up against the French window and Korner caught Tracy with a dazed rush. The window-catch was open; Jerry had forgotten to close it when he had gazed out at the pale stars.
The frame swung wide and spilled them out on the smooth cement of the roof.
They rolled over and over through the broad splash of light into shadow. Cold wind blew into the room and whipped the drapes horizontal. The pages of an open book on the rug ruffled in the strong draft. There was no other sound in the vacant room—except for the faint murmur of grunts and labored breathing from the darkness of the terrace.
Suddenly Tracy’s voice cried out sharply in mortal fear.
Silence. The sound of men stumbling and panting.
And then—shrill and knifelike, like the wail of a child—Korner screamed. His cry lifted horribly towards the stars. And dwindled …
A slow shuffle of steps began. Jerry Tracy came stumbling blindly through the flat splash of light. Under the mask of blood his face was purplish. He reached up mechanically and loosened the ragged necktie that had been pulled tautly into his throat. His eyes were bulging; there was a small scratch on his left cheekbone under the eye, where Korner’s murderous thumb had tried to gouge him.
He didn’t close the window. Instead, he turned and stumbled towards McNulty’s bedroom. Before he could turn the knob the door opened and the Chinaman stood gazing at him impassively.
“What you want me do?” he asked calmly.
“Get that living-room cleaned up before the cops get here. Leave the window alone. Leave it open.”
The Chinaman’s breath hissed faintly. “Can do.”
Tracy peeled off the ruined tie and collar, the blood-smeared shirt. He ran to the bathroom and washed his face and hands, tousled his hair.
As he rubbed the scratch under his left eye with a styptic pencil he became aware, suddenly, that his front doorbell was ringing furiously. He climbed into pajamas, pulled on a dressing-gown. At his elbow McNulty was whispering: “Eve’ting okey.”
Tracy opened the front door. The elevator man was standing there, pale as a ghost. “The man!” Looie gasped. “The man who called on you, sir—he—”
“What about him?”
“He’s—he’s in the back court, sir. ——! he looks awful. … He—he musta fell … ”
“What! That’s impossible! I left him only—”
“That’s what I try tell you, Boss,” the Chinaman cut in swiftly. “He no in room. Me hear noise and run see.”
He added insistently: “Me hear. Him drunk man make one big squeal like dog. Then I run and call you.”
Jerry’s addled brain steadied.
“Shall I phone for the police?” the houseman quavered.
“I’ll take care of it, Looie. Come in a minute.”
The living-room was somberly quiet. Not a thing out of place. Nothing unusual except the cold air that blew in through the opened window. Tracy went to the telephone and lifted the receiver. As he waited for his number he glanced back over his shoulder at the elevator man.
“You need a drink, Looie. Over there on the sideboard.”
Wilkie’s voice growled suddenly in the receiver. Tracy spoke quickly to his friend.
“There’s been a little accident, Harry,” he said. “A friend of mine, Otto Korner—let me talk, please! He came here to spend the night. He was drunk. I left him in the living-room. He—he seems to have fallen off the terrace. … Yeah, he’s dead. … Do me a favor, Harry; get around here quick and take charge of things.”
He hung up. “That’s all, Looie,” he told the shivering houseman. “Go downstairs and wait for the police. And Looie—not a word to anyone but the cops.”
Looie nodded and scuttled away.
“There’s a shirt and collar and stuff in the bathroom,” Tracy told the Chinaman crisply. “Shove ’em down the incinerator right away. Wait a minute—Mr. Korner’s overcoat is lying in a corner somewhere in the hall outside. Bring it in and put it on a hanger. Pick up his gun and get rid of it somewhere.”
He dropped on the couch and relaxed. He felt all gone, weak as water. McNulty came through the room with the overcoat—all clear, Jerry thought with relief. He got up and poured himself a drink. His mind tightened and his brain began to click. He turned again to the telephone and called a familiar number.
“City desk. Fielding? Tracy again. … Got a story for you, Fred; not for the column. A headline—hot news! Ready? Take it. Otto ‘O.K.’ Korner, famous promoter and man-about-town, was accidentally killed early this morning by a fall from the penthouse terrace of Jerry Tracy, well-known columnist and Broadway commentator on the staff of the Planet. … Shut up and take this, you damn’ fool! It’s straight!”
His voice resumed steadily: “Korner was drunk when he arrived at the penthouse and Tracy put him up for the night on the living-room couch. A short time after they had retired, Mei-No-Lee, the columnist’s Chinese butler, was roused by a cry and discovered the living-room window wide open and the guest gone. The body was found by Louis Winniger, night doorman of the apartment house. It was lying in a concrete area in the rear of the building. Apparently the fuddled Korner wandered alone out on the terrace, lost his balance and fell sixteen stories to the rear court. He was killed instantly. … That’s all, Fred; more later.”
He slammed down the instrument. He saw McNulty’s round face surveying him.
“You sit down, Boss. Me fix you damn’ nice drink.”
“Not now.” He smiled wanly. “I’m busy.”
He picked up a sheet of paper and began to scribble. At last he turned around. His eyes gleamed. Even his voice was different.
“How’s this sound, McNulty? ‘What notorious smoke and muscle king tried to take a fall out of the well-known Fourth Estate—and wound up by finding himself just another fall guy?’ ”
There was a silence. The Oriental looked at him.
“No dam’ good. You clazy fool.”
Jerry sighed. He was like a swimmer coming up from a deep dive. “You’re dead right,” he agreed. “It’s automatic with me, kid. I had to get it out of my system.”
He laughed queerly.
“That’s one item that’ll never go into the column. It won’t have to. The guys it’s meant for are not dumb at all, kid. Let ’em figure it out for themselves. They’ll know pretty well he asked for it.”
He crumpled the sheet and threw it into the waste-basket. With a slow, fatherly smile the Chinaman reached down and picked out the ball of paper.
“You clazy fool,” the old man repeated tonelessly.
He smoothed out the wrinkled sheet and solemnly scratched a match.
Both men were silent as they watched the flame die away and the gray ash curl.
SOMEBODY STOLE MY PAL
Jerry Tracy, wisecracking columnist, finds that his wide acquaintance can be a liability—a liability to catch lead, for example
THE TALL, BONY-LOOKING MAN in the faded gray topcoat came out of the drug-store, bumped into a fat woman and without looking at her said in a mechanical murmur: “ ’Scuse me, Madam!”
He lit a cigarette, cupping the flame of the match against the warm gusty breeze. At the corner he hesitated; then he turned east and walked through the side street towards Sixth.
A moment or two later a dark blue sedan curved out of the avenue traffic. As it rolled eastward its speed slackened. It drew closer to the curb and continued moving slowly as though seeking a convenient place to park. Suddenly its door opened and two men sprang out.
On the sidewalk the gaunt man’s head turned swiftly. Without a second’s hesitation he began to run. Before he could take a half dozen steps he was clutched and halted. Not a word was spoken. He struggled silently with his captors. One of them jerked something from a coat-pocket and the tall man instantly ceased fighting. He was yanked over to the curb and shoved into the slowly moving car. The door slammed. The sedan accelerated at once and sped away with a shrill whine of its rubber treads.
Across the street a blonde stenographer in a cheap leopard coat stared open-mouthed at the vanishing automobile. She kept quiet. In a small town she’d have shrieked, pointed a dramatic finger, drawn a crowd; on West Fifty-Odd she did nothing of the sort. She gulped and remembered Manhattan’s Golden Rule: “Who, me? I didn’t see nothin’.”
A young man up near the corner smiled faintly as the girl high-heeled rapidly past him. He wasn’t so young when you got close to him. His name was Phil Duffy. He was a legman for the Star.
He said in a cynical tone: “Didn’t happen to notice the number on that car, did you, sister?”
She gave him a frosty dead-pan glance and kept right on going. He shrugged his shoulders. What was the use? If he hadn’t been able to tab the car’s license it was a cinch that the doll hadn’t, either.
The Star man had a speakeasy acquaintanceship with Earle, the man who had been helped into the sedan. He had spied Earle from the corner and had just decided to mooch up and make a touch when the quick snatch left him gaping. Phil Duffy rubbed his chin and considered. Was it a snatch? No sense calling his paper on a wild surmise. Besides, he was about washed up with the Star; he was due for the economy axe and he knew it. On the other hand, if he could do the Planet a favor, he might grab himself a new job and quit his own rag with profane dignity—before Wilson’s patent-leather toe kicked him out.
He decided to invest a nickel in the Planet.
“Hello, ladybird. City editor, please … This is Duffy talking. Phil Duffy of the Star. … Now, is that a nice thing to say? Listen, you might learn something—even from a Star man. … Somebody just put the finger on that big raw-boned feature bum of yours. Jimmy Earle—right! Couple of fast workers shoved him into a closed job and took him bye-bye. Sure I saw him. It happened right now. … How the hell do I know?”
The voice at the other end crackled briefly.
“Forget that Star stuff,” Duffy rejoined. “I’m through with the rag. They got the skids greased for me and I’m looking out for myself. I don’t know a thing about Earle’s assignment and I don’t care. Maybe we can do each other a favor. Wanta see me?”
Duffy grinned. “Fine. Send a boy downstairs with a buck to meet the cab. Better make it two bucks. I’m away uptown.”
He hung up, stuck a hopeful finger into the return-coin cup, scowled in disappointment and strolled outside.
Jerry Tracy, the Planet’s wisecracker, The most famous and the highest paid kingpin of all the Broadway gossip guys, parked himself on the managing editor’s desk and plucked a bit of fluff from his English topcoat.
“You don’t think,” he said nasally, “this guy Duffy is trying to rib us for the Star?”
“No, I don’t,” the managing editor answered bluntly. “I think we’re plain lucky. I happen to know that Duffy’s in bad with the Star. I bulled him along and promised him a job later on.”
“Where is he now? Why didn’t you hold him till I got over here?”
“Because I was afraid if you breezed in and cross-examined this mugg, Duffy, he’d smell a big rat. Might snoop around for the Star. So I gave him five bucks, thanked him for his good-will and sent him on his chiseling way. He’ll be cockeyed in twenty minutes.”
The managing editor rubbed moist uneasy palms together. He was a bald-headed, lean-shanked man with preternaturally bright eyes and a long sniffy nose. He looked like a worried stork dressed up in a brown bag of a suit.
“When did this alleged snatch occur?” Jerry asked him.
“About a half hour ago.”
“Swell,” said the famous little columnist in nasal irony. “All we have then is two fact nuggets. First, your own contribution: Jimmy Earle calls you this morning and tells you in a sober voice to forget about the ‘Crimes of Manhattan’ series; tells you to dig a hole in the makeup for a hot frontpage scream—and when Jimmy says hot he means volcano. …
“Listen, Jerry—”
“You listen. Next, we have Duffy of the Star. He sees Earle scooped up by a couple of gorillas. And it wouldn’t take much imagination to hook those two facts together. … Say, why pick on me? Why don’t you try some of your city desk Hawkshaws?”
“You’re the only man I can trust with the job, Jerry. You know everybody, where to look; whom to ask. I tell you right now that Jimmy Earle is—”
“I know what he is,” Jerry said. “But I’ll hand him this: he’s a newspaperman! When he says front page he doesn’t mean real estate notes or shipboard arrivals.”
Tracy’s mockery vanished. “Earle has been running that ‘Crimes of Manhattan’ stuff. My guess is that the lucky bum has stumbled on something hot. He never gets excited without proof. He’s got his hammer all ready to nail Somebody with Something. In fact, he calls up and boasts about it. And old boy Somebody gets suddenly wise and sweeps up Earle in a hurry. … At this particular moment I’m glad I’m not the well known special features man, James K. Earle.”
He hopped off the desk, buttoned his topcoat. He grinned airily.
“Stay sober and keep a re-write handy. I’m going out for a walk.”
He didn’t walk far; as a matter of fact his pedestrian ambition died at the curb downstairs. He hailed a cruising cab, climbed in and grunted an address. He’d try Shaney’s speako first; after that Marco’s joint; after that—plenty others. Mentally he tabbed all the likely spots where a boozy prima donna like Earle might leave a loose thread behind. It wasn’t going to be easy to follow the footprints of the vanished feature man! And Jerry himself would have to be careful not to leave a foam of shrewd whispers in his own wake.
Lying back at ease in the speeding taxi, with one creased leg folded comfortably over the other, Tracy figured with cold-blooded glee a fantastic formula. A formula for the emotional speakeasy trade. He tried it out on Pete Shaney.
Shaney was a gimlet-eyed Irishman with hairy hands and a bald head. He said: “Haven’t seen Jimmy Earle for a week or so. Why the funny look?”
“I’ve got to find him in a hurry. It’s a damn’ dirty shame!” Tracy lowered his voice decorously. “This is confidential; strictly on the q.t. His wife’s having a kid over at the Polyclinic Hospital and—”
“His wife?” The gimlet eyes widened. “Are ye kiddin’? I didn’t know that tramp was married!”
“He never advertised it. You know Earle, I guess. … Cute little wife, too; bums like that always get the sweet ones. … Something went wrong—the hospital telephoned the Planet office to rush Earle over there quick—she’s delirious and calling for her husband—and the bum’s off on a stew somewhere—”
“The dirrrty scut!” Shaney said softly. “Him married—can ye beat it! A decent kid married to a mugg like that!”
“And Earle hasn’t been around today?”
“Nope. … Wouldn’t ye think a guy like that would lay off havin’ a family.”
“Well … ” Jerry sighed mournfully. “I gotta beat it. Oh, Pete—keep this under the hat like a good fella. She’s a proud little kid; she wouldn’t want to be talked about by a lot of Broadway heels. You know how it is.”
“Sure. I know. Okey, Jerry. Good luck to ye.”
In the open air Jerry erased his grief wrinkles, chuckled and hopped into his waiting taxi. Inside the cab he burst into laughter. He couldn’t help it—the look on the Mick’s face! What an act—he’d have every hardboiled barkeep in town crying in the aisles!
He drove north and west to Marco’s joint. Nothing doing. The Planet’s missing feature man hadn’t been in there all day. Jerry spun the old hearts-and-flowers record and rushed away, with Marco’s sympathetic promise to call up Tracy’s man Butch if he heard anything, echoing from the basement entrance.
By the time Tracy covered a few more spots he found his voice choking realistically; he was beginning to believe in the maternity yarn himself. But he wasn’t an inch closer to Jimmy Earle. Earle, apparently, hadn’t been in any of his chosen booze haunts lately.
It was quite dark now; and Tracy was gettin
g hungrier by the minute. He called up the managing editor of the Planet, lied reassuringly and downed a Three Decker Special in a sandwich shoppe off lower Madison Avenue.
Doggedly he picked up another taxi and continued the hunt. On the fringe of Greenwich Village, in the shadow of the swanky new Women’s Detention Prison, he got his first hunch from Nino—Nino of the dark liquid eyes and the soft Italian smile.
“He was here last night,” Nino said. “A little dancin’ doll was with him—he told me her name—wait a minute; it’s on the tip of my tongue—Dot West, that’s it! Earle was feelin’ high; he kept pattin’ her arm and did she like it! He kept tellin’ her what a swell little kicker she was, how she oughtta be spot-tin’ a bill at the Apex Theatre if the managers weren’t all crooked. You know, feeding her the regular line. He takes me aside and boasts how he’s pulled her away from a tough mugg named Griffin—”
“Benny Griffin?” the columnist cut in swiftly.
Nino nodded. “That’s just what I asked him right away. The doll shoves me off and tells Earle to close his dumb trap. They have a brandy and soda apiece and breeze.” Nino grinned. “Does it do you any good, Mr. Tracy?”
“Okey, Nino. You’re a pal. I’m gonna give this hive of yours a sweet puff in the column next Monday. Buy a few more tables. You’ll need ’em. Good-night!”
On the swift ride uptown the case-hardened brain of Broadway’s favorite snoop artist ticked faster than the meter. He’d never heard of Dot West; that meant that she was a little two-cent hoofer trying to make the grade in the cheap mucilage spots. He’d get a line on her from Moe Edelman as soon as he got to Times Square. Moe knew all the hopefuls, the hungrys and the hams.
But Griffin—Benny Griffin! Benny was a horse of another color. Where did a gunsmith like Griffin fit into the jigsaw? The columnist’s heart beat faster. He began to sweat pleasantly with excitement. His mouth got cottony. He felt—never mind how he felt. …
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 16