Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  He grunted as he sprang past Carron. His fingers closed grimly on the icy-cold wrist of a woman. He jerked her off balance and click went the steel handcuffs on her left wrist.

  Charlotte uttered no cry but she fought like a maddened tigress. The sudden glitter of a knife slashed Tracy’s coat-sleeve from shoulder to elbow. Sergeant Killan dived in, wrenched the knife away—and Tracy got plenty rough. In another second the dangling cuffs were locked on both wrists and the manacled lady’s maid began to laugh. Stridently, horribly.

  Inspector Fitzgerald had taken efficient care of Hunter. For a dazed second the handcuffed butler seemed bereft of his senses. Then he began to shout, to rave like a madman.

  “Let her alone!” he screamed. “Take your dirty hands off Charlotte! She didn’t do it! I did—do you hear me? I killed the old fool! I did!”

  “You both did,” Tracy panted. “Nice, sweet couple. Very lovable lice—the two of you.” His glittering eye quelled the murmurs in the rest of the assemblage. “Shut up, everybody—and stand still. I’m not through with the rest of you, yet.”

  Fitz said calmly: “Go ahead, Jerry. The stage is yours.”

  “Thanks. … The butler and the maid worked in cahoots. Charlotte did the drugging of the old man’s saccharine tablets; Hunter did the actual murder with the poisoned pin. He coated it, is my guess, with a paste of glycerine and potassium cyanide. Did it as he passed by the old man in the darkness of the music room on his way to call me. The old man was dead in a second or two. Just gulped as the pin pricked his dazed neck—and died. The foxy Hunter then quietly attracts my attention, escorts me back to the dining-room; and he and his precious Charlotte spin me a well-prepared baloney yarn that I fell for at first like a ton of bricks. All about a noble brother and a poor unfortunate sister. As a matter of fact, Charlotte is the worse of the two—as I discovered when I rummaged around in her room upstairs. She’s the one who first suggested the whole plot. She’s the cold-blooded tigress behind this planned murder.

  “She stole the engraved invitation from the social secretary and invited me here for the sole purpose of having a well-known newspaper man to copper-rivet her brother’s alibi. So daring a stunt, you might almost call it genius. Charlotte and Hunter and I were talking nice and chummy in the dining-room when the old man’s body finally slipped out of his chair. That’s what gave me my first hunch. The alibi was why I was invited. And Hunter and Charlotte and I were the only ones so favored.”

  “And the motive?” Fitzgerald suggested dryly. “You said murder for profit.”

  “Greed was the motive. There’s a package of $50,000 in negotiable securities hidden under a loose board in the floor of Charlotte’s room. It was stolen from Mr. Barker’s safe. Hunter tried for it once, and failed. The iron-willed Charlotte sneaked back afterwards and got it.”

  Tracy’s smile hardened.

  “Which brings me to an unfortunate angle—the part of this peculiar triangle that concerns Lily Barker and Major Griscom.”

  Griscom was very pale. He didn’t say anything. There was a uniformed policeman standing stolidly at his elbow.

  “Blackmail,” Tracy whispered softly. “That’s not a very pretty word, Major. Griscom had something on Lily and he put the bee on her for $50,000. She asked her father for the dough and he refused. Said he wouldn’t give her a penny. Hunter told me about it and that part of his story was true. But Hunter didn’t tell me the rest. Which was, that John Barker relented later, got the stuff, placed it in his wall safe to give to Lily tomorrow. The butler, with his expert keyhole system, was aware of this. Nobody knew the dough was in the house except old man Barker—and Hunter and Charlotte. A swell set-up to swipe it, kill the old man, toss the blame of his death on his daughter, who had, before witnesses, said she’d get that loan if she had to get it as her father’s heir.”

  The columnist’s finger pointed at the major.

  “Griscom came here tonight to renew his demands for the payoff. I got a hunch he was in your room tonight, Lily, when I knocked at your closed door and you didn’t answer. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “It’s true,” Lily Barker said drearily. “He came up to my room, threatened to accuse me to the police of father’s death if I didn’t shut his mouth with money. He skipped out of my room under cover of the assault on you. You were lying out in the hall, half unconscious—”

  “I know,” Tracy said shortly. “When I opened my eyes, Griscom had already stepped over my body and beat it—and you were standing there, staring at me, wondering who had slugged me and what it was all about. … Which brings me to the third and final angle of this crazy puzzle.”

  He walked across to Carron, smiled pleasantly, held out his palm.

  “Let’s have it, Carron, if you please.”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean,” Carron faltered.

  “Oh, yes, you do! Your share of the swag. You took it out of the safe. I want it.”

  “You’re mistaken, Mr. Tracy. I never was near the safe.”

  “Are you going to hand me that Siamese Chaulmoogra?” Tracy rasped. “Or do you want me to get tough?”

  Carron shrugged, removed a wallet from his inner pocket and tremulously laid a postage stamp in the palm of the Daily Planet man.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” he said in a dead whisper. “I really didn’t mean anything criminal. Barker defrauded me out of that stamp. It was rightfully, morally mine. I—I knew it was here. I couldn’t get the thought of it out of my head. The—the moment I realized that Barker was really dead, I determined to get it.”

  “Even if you had to sock two people on the skull to steal it, huh? Who told you the combination of the safe? Hunter?”

  “Yes. I had bribed Hunter weeks before and I knew the combination. He copied it from the old man’s private papers. I thought no one would miss the stamp in the excitement attendant on Barker’s unexpected death. I sneaked upstairs the moment I thought everything was clear.”

  “Must have been a damned political convention going on upstairs,” Inspector Fitzgerald commented bitterly.

  “Pretty close to it,” Tracy nodded. “Griscom and Lily, arguing stealthily in her bedroom; Carron down the hall, trying feverishly to open Barker’s safe and swipe that blasted Siamese stamp. I sure picked a swell time to knock at Lily’s door. She and Griscom must have been scared stiff when they heard my knock. And Carron heard it, too. He was afraid that maybe I’d suspect what he was up to; so he reached out cautiously and threw the hallway into darkness. Socked me on the skull and vanished. And then, by God—he got his nerve back and decided to have a second try. Showing,” Tracy muttered, “that when a man plays too hard at a boy’s hobby, he’s apt to come pretty close to being a monomaniac.”

  “You mean that Carron was the guy who socked Hunter, too?” Sergeant Killan asked dazedly.

  Tracy nodded.

  “The butler, of course, lied and reversed what had really happened. Hunter was at the safe looking for the fifty thousand bucks when Carron tiptoed in and surprised him. Carron socked him before Hunter could see who it was, stole his blasted Siamese stamp, closed the safe and beat it. That ended the evening’s strong-arm stuff, except for a few minor affairs like—”

  Jerry smiled ruefully.

  “—like dropping me down a laundry chute, beating me up in the cellar, lugging me out to the garage in the rear and trying to murder me with carbon monoxide from an automobile exhaust. Good old Hunter attended to those details, because he was beginning to suspect from a couple of hints I had carelessly let drop, that I was getting wise to him and his sweet sister, Charlotte.”

  “Go to hell, you little punk,” Charlotte said sweetly. “Do I move along to jail—or do I have to listen to this guy all night? He gives me a pain —— ——.”

  “Shut up,” Killan growled and emphasized the remark.

  “What am I going to do about Carron?” the inspector asked Jerry. “You advised me to let him go. He stole the stamp, didn’t he? He admi
ts it. And he socked you and he socked that damned butler.”

  Jerry smiled. “I don’t think I’d call Carron a habitual criminal. Let him go, Fitz; I’ll talk to him later. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he quit collecting stamps from now on.”

  “I swear it!” Carron cried eagerly.

  “I’ll—I’ll burn every stamp I own. I’ll never touch another one as long as I live. I didn’t really mean to—to hurt anyone.”

  Tracy said, dryly: “You do pretty good for an amateur, Carron. However, I don’t think we’ll press the assault and theft charges. I don’t think Hunter will, either. … Besides, there’s still something important for me to consider. Griscom is the guy that interests me.”

  His cold eye focused on Major Griscom and the major quailed.

  Griscom,” Jerry said evenly, “is due for a large load of bricks on the skull. He’s the one who started this whole filthy business brewing. He’s a blackmailer, a cowardly whelp who makes his dirty living from the terror and shame of women. There’s a word that describes him very accurately, Fitz, but I won’t use it.” He turned towards Lily Barker and his voice got very gentle, very low.

  “It’s in your power, Lily, to put this crawling little piece of boudoir vermin out of circulation.”

  The girl didn’t reply. She stood there, looking at Tracy; straight-backed, erect, her face as white as paper. No tears, no wringing of foolish hands. A thoroughbred! Tracy admired her suddenly like hell.

  “May I speak with you privately, Lily, for just a moment or so?”

  Her face didn’t alter. She merely nodded, turned and followed him into the next room.

  “We’ve both of us done a little misjudging,” Tracy said. “It may even be possible that I’m not the cheap little tabloid guttersnipe that you thought I was.”

  No answer.

  “There’s no way of telling,” Tracy said meditatively, “just how much wreckage a guy like Griscom leaves in his wake. No telling how many people he’s driven to suicide or worse. However, I’d say the answer was plenty. You’ve got it in your power to stop him once and for all. I’m not asking you to testify against him; I’m merely asking you to think it over. I may be able to hush up some of the newspaper dirt but not all. You won’t be able to escape all of the pain, all of the humiliating notoriety. If you don’t do anything about it, Griscom will probably beat the rap. There’s nothing to connect him definitely with the murder of your father. On the other hand, if you do testify against him, he can be nailed to the cross and his slimy career ended—but in that case, Lily, you yourself will take the rap. I’m not trying to kid you, you see.”

  No answer.

  “I won’t blame you if you say ‘no’ to the proposition. You have a free choice. If you do say ‘no,’ I’ll promise to do my damnedest to keep your name out of this mess and to close Inspector Fitzgerald’s trap. … And—I guess that’s all, Lily.”

  “It’s unfair,” she whispered. He had to bend close to hear her. “I’ve been foolish, headstrong, self-willed, bad-tempered—anything you like. But I—I don’t see why I should have to suffer more than I have already, for the good of other—”

  She broke off, her eyes tightly closed. There was a long pause. When she opened her eyes they were wet. She smiled forlornly at the columnist.

  “Tell your tiresome inspector of police that I’ll—I’ll prosecute Major Griscom for extortion,” Lily Barker said.

  Tracy nodded at that. He took her slack hand, clasped it man-fashion till she winced.

  “You sure don’t belong in a stuffy old household like this,” he whispered huskily. “I know what you’ve been up against, why you’ve been kiting around to night clubs and jazz hives, bored and disgusted and desperate for something real. Why don’t you skip this whole set-up of hypocrisy and stodgy living with a bunch of near-men and women that haven’t brains enough to stuff a scallion? You’ve got the brains, Lily! You’ve got guts, grit, courage! Why don’t you stand on your own two feet? Get a job, work like hell, live!”

  She cried, fiercely: “If I could do that, if I could—”

  “Why not, Lily? You can. I’ve got a million friends on Broadway. Say the word and I’ll spot you in a job tomorrow. A hard job or an easy one.”

  “Make it a hard one,” she whispered. “A job where I’ll have to use an alarm clock. Where I’ll get so damned tired that Sunday will seem like heaven. Where I can do the first day’s work I’ve ever done in my life.”

  “Lily,” Tracy promised huskily, “I’ll spot you in a job where they’ll give you a straight shot at something—and handle you with crowbars! I’ll make you a credit to your hardworking old grand-pop—and he earned forty millions.”

  To her manifest horror, Lily found herself sniffling.

  “You’re a grand guy, Jerry Tracy,” she choked.

  “Nerts,” Tracy said. “That’s because you’ve been in one spot too long. Haven’t seen anything outside of it.”

  Jerry took his time getting back to the outer room. To the silent people assembled there he was still the same grinning, impudent, cocksure Jerry Tracy, the pampered darling of Broadway. But wise old Inspector Fitzgerald saw that the smile was a feeble affair.

  “How’d you make out, Jerry?”

  “It’s okey, Fitz.” His voice sounded very tired. “She’ll press the complaint.”

  “Swell. … Feel all right now? Want a drink?”

  “No. I’m okey, Fitz. Thanks.” The Tracy grin got more natural. “Hell, I’m just beginning to realize that I’ve taken a couple of bouncings around tonight.”

  “Boy, I’ll say!” boomed Sergeant Killan. “They done everything to you—except maybe bat you with Brooklyn Bridge. … Hey, how you ever gonna explain that bump on the coco to the lads in Times Square?”

  “I’ll tell ’em,” Tracy said with mock solemnity, “that I’m not used to million-dollar bonded liquor. I fell down after three tall drinks and bumped a gold-plated coal scuttle with the rear of my plebeian forehead.”

  Killan’s gruff laughter boomed. “If I were you, Jerry, from now on I’d stick to the—”

  “Save it,” Tracy murmured, “I know the answer, myself.”

  He felt tenderly of the egg-shaped swelling on his skull.

  “I’m sticking to the Broadway muggs, thank you. A little crude maybe, but give ’em credit: when they get mad they don’t sock you—they sue you, God bless ’em. … I don’t expect to receive any more engraved invitations from Park Avenue, but if I do—guess whom I’m gonna turn it over to? Think hard, sweetheart!”

  “Maxie Baer?” Killan chuckled.

  “Right!” said Jerry Tracy.

  BEHIND THE COLUMN

  Jerry Tracy noses into a Numbers Racket blot-out

  JERRY TRACY STRODE BRISKLY along through the incoming bustle of Grand Central. The distant tooting of taxis brought a sparkle to his eye, curved his thin lips into a dreamy smile. Monday morning became suddenly bearable. That week-end at Scarsdale had been swell, but … His stride lengthened. He bumped heedlessly into a fat woman and carommed off her bosom.

  “Why don’tcha look where you’re walking?” She glared.

  “Thank you, lady. And how have you been?”

  Hotcha! Back in town! Honed and stropped, ready to slash expertly at the fat jowls of complacent Manhattan.

  He shoved his expensive leather bag through a half-caged window. His fingers made eager, snapping music.

  “Check, my lad, and don’t spare the horses.”

  Something in the staccato enunciation of the Daily Planet’s star columnist made the attendant’s eyes bug suddenly with recognition. Few people off Broadway knew what Jerry Tracy looked like, but a lot of people had heard him galloping briskly through their loud speakers.

  “Hey! For gosh sake—Ain’t you—”

  “Fine, sweetheart. And you?”

  Tracy pocketed his check and walked up the long concrete ramp to Forty-second. There was a brisk breeze winging from the west, but the morning
was balmy and warm. Grand old burg, Jerry chuckled. He ignored the soft, cooing call of a gyp taximan and strolled towards Fifth. A morning like this called for a bus ride. Maybe grab a snootful of copy from the hurricane deck. Gangway for a little guy back on the job!

  Fifth Avenue was jammed as usual, he discovered. Traffic lights red and a flock of stalled buses at Forty-first. He toed the curb and reached for a cigarette. Before he could light his butt an automobile horn blared an imperious ocean-liner contralto and heads craned curiously all along the curb. A sleek-looking police sedan was coming northward past the red lights. Jerry caught a glimpse of the uniformed cop behind the wheel. Barney Callahan—Fitz’ screwy young driver. Where in the heck was Inspector Fitzgerald going so early on a Monday morning? Tracy could see Fitz hunched forward on the edge of the back seat; same conservative old derby, same double-breasted gray suit.

  The columnist of the Daily Planet skipped monkey-like into the gutter, made rapid windmill motions with his arms.

  “Hey, Barney! Barney!”

  The chauffeur’s slitted eyes veered briefly and he grinned. Fitzgerald nodded and beckoned. The police sedan braked with a harsh wail halfway up the block. Tracy trotted up the asphalt and climbed in.

  “Hello, Jerry,” Fitz growled. The police sedan began again insulting red lights. “Where have you been? I tried to raise you on the phone a little while ago.”

  “Scarsdale. A classy golf community up in Westchester County. If I ever do it again, Fitz, kill me with much agony. … Where are we going, sweetheart?”

  “Uptown.” The keen blue eyes stared at the newspaper columnist with a searching expression. “I tried to get you at your office. Thought maybe you might disgorge something useful.”

  “Such as?”

  “A tip, Jerry. On a dark horse I’m interested in.”

  “You mean a dead horse, Fitz?”

  “Yeah. A feller named Sam Ritter.”

  “Who made him dead?”

  “Dunno. That’s what we’re gonna find out. Wholesale cloak-and-suit. At least, that’s how he’s been filing his tax reports. In business up to now with a feller name of Morris Fink. Somebody stabbed Ritter to death last night in a Spig tenement up in Harlem. Discovered it this morning. Sergeant Killan’s up there now.”