Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  “Not bad.”

  Tracy came dizzily to a sitting position on the sofa. Sat there, swaying.

  “I’m not kidding you about the dough, boys,” he whispered. “I mean a real payoff. You know me, exactly who I am. Five grand—right on the line. No kickbacks. Five grand—and you don’t have to play with a murder rap. Is it a deal, boys?”

  “Run a little water in the bathtub,” Steve told his partner.

  He padded swiftly into a small, closetlike recess and Tracy heard the noisy splatter of water.

  “What do you say?” the Daily Planet man pleaded.

  “Jeeze, are you a persistent guy!”

  “You can’t get away with it. Really, you can’t. I’m a pretty prominent gazabo. And besides, that rod of yours will make things too tough to handle—the minute it goes off.”

  “Who says we’re usin’ a gun?” Steve grinned. He raised his voice. “Ready with that bathtub, Harry?”

  “Yeah.” The water stopped running and Harry came back. “What’s the little punk beefing about now?”

  “Dough.”

  “Yeah? What’s he good for?”

  “Five grand, he says.”

  “No kidding. Can yuh beat that? A lousy five grand.” Harry smashed his fist against the columnist’s jaw. He seemed to like hitting Tracy. Tracy fell off the sofa and got up again.

  “I’ll double it, boys. Five grand apiece; and no tail on you after you cash in. No double-cross.”

  “You wouldn’t fool us, would you?” Harry croaked. He winked at Steve, nodded meaningly at their captive.

  “Sure,” Steve said. “Hand him one for me. In the belly.”

  They waited with enjoyment until the paralyzed stomach muscles quivered and let an agonized gasp of air suck back into Tracy’s lungs.

  “Wanna know a little secret?” Steve said. “You ain’t got enough dough in the bank to spoil this party, Mister. We’re gonna like doin’ this job. Am I right, Harry?”

  “I’ll say. Jeeze, don’t this guy bounce when he’s socked! I’m gettin’ tired.”

  “Me, too. Let’s lug him inside and git through.”

  “Wait!” Tracy gasped. He could hardly recognize the hoarse quaver of his own voice.

  “Huh?” Harry said. “Whaddye mean, wait?”

  “Sock him in the puss,” Steve said. “This guy gits on my noives.”

  “Who hired this kill?” Tracy whispered from the floor. “Was it—Morris Fink?”

  He had to keep his aching head alert—and stall, stall, stall! Drag it along, play for time! Still a chance, a slim hope. … If the cops came, they’d come softly, without bell or siren. …

  “Morris Fink, wasn’t it?” he groaned, his lips twisted in an aching counterfeit of a smile.

  They let go of him and his head thumped hollowly on the floor.

  “Sure, it was Fink,” Steve said. “So what?”

  “I—I thought all along that Fink was a wrong guy,” Tracy mumbled. “He ran the numbers racket fifty-fifty with Sam Ritter, didn’t he? That innocent cloak-and-suit stuff was the bunk, huh?”

  “Sure it was the bunk,” Steve said.

  “Shut up!” Harry growled warningly. “We ain’t paid to gab.”

  “What’s the diff? If it’ll make the guy die any happier in that bathtub, wise him up, I say.”

  “Why did Fink sic you boys onto me?” Tracy begged.

  “You got him sore with that stuff of yours in today’s column,” Steve said. “He figgers with you out of the way—let the dumb coppers go ahead and pinch him. They ain’t got a thing on him. But Fink kinda thinks that you have.”

  “Did Fink kill Sam Ritter last night?”

  “He thinks you got him lined up for the rap,” Steve grinned. “Anyhow, there’s one—”

  The window behind Steve smashed suddenly into a thousand jangling fragments. The taut windowshade bellied out grotesquely, ripped down from its roller in a flapping tangle around the arms and shoulders of a uniformed policeman. He came diving head-first into the room. The flame of his gun burned a hole through the crumpled shade and dropped Steve a scant second before the killer’s startled finger could press his own trigger.

  Almost in the same instant, it seemed to Tracy, the front door of the apartment crashed flat on the floor. Cops spilled helter-skelter into the room, raced over the flattened door like a gangplank. The trapped Harry squealed shrilly and tried to run. He hurdled the prone body of Steve and made for the bathroom alcove.

  Twice his shaking gun flared scarlet. Then he dropped to one knee and crumpled on his side, wriggling spasmodically like a hooked fish. A broadsoled police boot kicked the gun away from his feebly groping fingers. He was hauled feet-first out of the alcove and flopped alongside the motionless Steve.

  Jerry Tracy struggled dazedly to his feet. He was conscious of an arm about his waist and, bending his head upward, saw that it was Inspector Fitzgerald. He could see other things—the beam of a police flashlight on the grating of the fire-escape outside; the thick sole of a cop’s shoe, stamping methodically on the smoldering sparks that ringed a bullet-hole in a crumpled window-shade on the floor. He recognized some of the faces that swam so queerly in his vision—Hindermann, Joe Caldwell, Rice, Sinnott, Mojeskie. A fat cop, whose name he couldn’t recall, was sucking calmly at a bloody gash on his left hand. …

  “Feel all right?” Fitzgerald was asking him.

  “Oh, sure, sure. I—I guess so.”

  There was a dull pain in his ribs where somebody had kicked him. He said, “Ouch,” when Fitz touched him. But it developed that the ribs were all right. “No fracture,” Fitz beamed. “Just a hickey. The boys hadda come in a little too fast to be careful.”

  A drink appeared magically from nowhere and Tracy gulped, blinked once or twice, came out of his trance.

  He stared at the two quiet killers on the floor and shuddered.

  “Dead?”

  “Kinda,” Fitz said mildly. “Know ’em?”

  “The fella with the chin is Steve. The other lad’s name is Harry.”

  “It was Harry,” Fitz corrected calmly. “What goes on, anyway? Where did they pick you up?”

  “Broadway and 49th. Neat, too. Scooped me up like a pancake.”

  “Working for little Morris Fink.”

  Jerry nodded. “That squib of mine in the column did me no good, Fitz.”

  “I’ll say it didn’t. When you feel a bit stronger, you might take a squint in that bathroom. Might interest you.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “Oh—just a tub half-full of water and the biggest butcher knife I’ve seen in a year of Sundays. Wouldn’t surprise me if we turned up a couple of nice gunny-sacks somewhere. The two boy friends seem to have had a swell old-fashioned idea about how to get rid of a prominent guy.”

  “Quit it, Fitz!” Jerry shuddered and set his jaw. “How did Fink arrange this thing? Didn’t you cover his phone?”

  “Sure did, Jerry. I’ll swear he never did it over a wire.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “On his way to a steel one-room apartment,” Fitzgerald said grimly. “From now on, we quit playing. Incidentally”—his blue eyes narrowed quizzically at the columnist of the Daily Planet—“does this thing happen to be yours?”

  He held out a handkerchief, held it spread wide open so that the embroidered name in the corner was vividly apparent. It was large enough to be vivid without much displaying of it: Jerry Tracy.

  “How did you lose this—er—little affair without those muggs seeing you?” Fitzgerald asked.

  For some unaccountable reason Tracy’s ears began to get pink. He talked rapidly as though to hide a growing embarrassment.

  “I figured the scheme out in the automobile. Felt the handkerchief and the gold-plated penknife when I shoved my hands in my pants pockets. Gave me an idea. I balled up the handkerchief, got that and the knife into my topcoat pocket. Kidded the lad with the gun, told him exactly what I was carrying.

 
; Fed him a line of comedy; kept working gently with one hand until I had the blade of the penknife open. I slit the pocket while they were walking me along the sidewalk outside the tenement. Held on to the penknife, poked the handkerchief out. The two muggs were too busy telling me to get a move on to notice anything. I took a chance that one of those sidewalk bums would notice the name on the handkerchief, think there was something phoney going on—and do things.”

  “Yeah,” Fitzgerald said dryly. “They did. One of those grocery store lizards was a stool, sonny—and damned lucky for you. Damned lucky, too, that we were near enough to make a quick run of it.” His smile widened. “What is this handkerchief—a souvenir, or something?”

  “You mean the name on it?”

  “Yeah. Do you always carry these flags—or was it just luck tonight?”

  “Not exactly luck,” Jerry muttered. Fitz whooped with delighted laughter.

  “You mean you always carry one of these things?”

  The face of the Daily Planet’s famous columnist became a deep, unhappy red. The circle of grinning cops turned discreetly away from his belligerent glare. He didn’t glare at Fitzgerald; just smiled rather foolishly.

  “So that’s it,” the police inspector said softly.

  “That’s it, sweetheart. Shall we change the subject?”

  “Right. … I doubt like the devil if I’m going to be able to tie up a foxy guy like Morris Fink with these two dead palookas. But I can tie him up with Sam Ritter. I can tie him up with that well-oiled numbers racket that he claims he doesn’t know a thing about.”

  “You’re going to need a lot of evidence.”

  “That’s no worry. What does worry me is the murder of Sam Ritter.”

  Jerry Tracy didn’t say anything.

  “What was that crack you made about hardware this morning, Jerry?”

  “Hardware?”

  “Sure. You asked Fink about electric fans, toasters and a couple of other gadgets.”

  “Oh, that.” Tracy grinned. “I was off on the wrong foot. Made a bum guess.”

  “Did it have anything to do with that defrosting refrigerator?”

  “Not directly. I was more interested in the electric outlet in the wall.”

  “Yeah? What about it? Did you spot anything positive about the killer?”

  Tracy hesitated. “Not exactly,” he said slowly. “The conclusion I drew was negative.”

  “What’s that mean in English?”

  “If you don’t mind, Fitz, I’d like to play with it alone for a while.”

  “And get yourself killed for good, huh?”

  Tracy shook his head. Smiled faintly. “With Fink in jail, I think I’ll make a fair risk for any insurance company. Don’t worry, Fitz, I’ll be all right.”

  He picked up his light topcoat, shrugged his arms into the sleeves with a tender slowness. He walked over to a far corner of the room and picked up his trampled hat.

  “Hey, where are you going now?” Fitzgerald growled.

  “Just remembered I’ve got a date. You forget things like dates when guys are trying to murder you. I promised a couple of people I’d drop into their restaurant tonight.”

  He stepped across the ruined door, pushed through a small knot of murmuring loiterers and walked east till he found a nighthawk taxi.

  The fresh air was good for that dull, throbbing ache in his head. He was a little more like his flashy, imperturbable self when he walked into Ralph’s and Alma’s restaurant.

  Alma was smiling at him, pretty as hell tonight, more flustered than there seemed any reason for her to be. She gave him a table in the middle. A waiter was standing beside it, apparently ready for him, grinning amicably at the honored guest.

  First time the columnist had ever been inside the joint.

  “How’s the liquor, Emil?”

  “George, Mister Tracy. Liquor is swell. Like something to eat, too?”

  “Mmmmm. … Maybe. Let’s see a menu. Anything here I can use ketchup with?”

  Alma giggled. She hadn’t used to giggle like that. They chatted together for a minute; then a party of four came in and she excused herself and hurried away.

  The waiter’s soiled finger came across Tracy’s arm and began hovering down the menu card.

  “For Gawd’s sake, don’t tell me hash!” Tracy growled. “Bring me the best rye highball you can find. Try across the street. And leave my menu alone. Maybe I can find a natural all by myself.”

  The highball was rotten but he finished it and ordered another. The thought of food made him mildly sick. He eyed the menu languidly. The usual soups—a grand choice of two. The usual fish—only this time they called it Brook Trout. Beef à la Creole with creamed gravy. His eye came back to that again. He didn’t want the damned stuff! Creamed gravy!

  Suddenly the menu card moved between his slim fingers. He glanced up, looked across the room.

  His waiter had his thumb in a bowl of soup at another table. Tracy picked up his card again. His eyes seemed to be playing him a queer optical trick. Instead of creamed gravy, the cheap mimeographed card seemed to be saying Jerry Tracy. The “R” and the “Y” did it. Out of alignment. A hair’s-breadth jump downward in the reproduced typing.

  The Daily Planet’s columnist caught his waiter’s eye, jerked an imperious finger.

  “Another highball, Emil.”

  “George, sir.”

  “Sure. George is swell, too. Another highball. And will you tell—er—Alma, if she has a minute to spare, to come over?”

  Alma refused a drink with a murmured apology and that new giggle of hers. Tracy knew the answer to her nervousness at last. She must have had reason a-plenty to worry in the last eight months or so. He tried to cast swiftly back in his mind and date that first typewritten tip that he had frowned over, checked—and found oke. Yeah—just about eight months ago. An additional fact joined with it in his mind and did things to his lips.

  “What are you scowling about, Jerry?” Alma asked.

  “Was I scowling, sweet? How’s that? Better now?”

  “Much better.”

  “I guess I never knew how much you really like me, Alma,” he said.

  “I ought to like you, Jerry.” Her voice was tremulous, barely audible. “You did something for me once, something I’ll never forget.”

  “I think you’re a dope,” he said harshly.

  “Not now. But I was then. A little dope fresh from Schenectady. Green as canned spinach. And you were a bigshot then—just like you are now. But that didn’t stop you from doing something for me that was so utterly decent and unselfish, so damned sweet—”

  She started hurriedly to rise from her chair. “So long, Jerry. I—I gotta beat it.”

  His hand dropped momentarily on hers. Under its brief, feathery pressure Alma seemed to wilt suddenly, to go soft in the legs.

  “You should have stayed in show business, Alma. You had a future. I could have helped you a lot.”

  “It’s okey. I’m satisfied.”

  “How long you been married, keed? You sent me a cute announcement, I remember.”

  “Ten months. Not quite a year.”

  “Gosh. Time sure flies, doesn’t it? Ralph’s a swell guy, eh?”

  “Yeah. Ralph is swell.”

  Tracy fumbled with the menu card. He felt very sorry for this poor little kid with the tired mouth and the henna hair. Leveling all the time! Not a crooked bone in her whole decent little body. And loyal to him for that favor he had done for her. What more loyalty could a guy want! Playing a desperately dangerous game, shooting him valuable, dynamite-loaded tips. He should have guessed her identity months ago. That signature of hers: “God bless you, Jerry. You’re a good guy.” Who else, but Alma?

  “I’m going to make a little guess,” he told her gently. “This menu here—you typed it for the mimeograph, didn’t you?”

  “Why—why sure.”

  “On an Underwood portable?” He could see her body tensing. “Why do you ask th
at?”

  “I’m still the same old Jerry you’ve always known. Cards on the table. Square as hell with square people. … Did you type that menu on an Underwood portable?”

  “Yes.”

  The color was draining slowly out of her face. She could sense now what was coming. Frightened. Cold with terror.

  “Take it easy, Alma,” Jerry said. “People may be watching. Laugh at me a little. Get a bit coy as though I was trying to make you. … Good girl! You’re a trouper.”

  “How did I give myself away?” she breathed.

  “The menu, sweet. That typing hit me right in the eye. So you sent me every one of those tips, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Jerry. I did.”

  Silence. Tracy’s fingers idly caressed a highball glass half-filled with lousy rye and soda.

  “I’ve only known about six grand people in this town,” he said to his glass. “You’re one of ’em.”

  “Don’t, Jerry! I—I gotta keep on smiling.”

  “You on the inside of something? In with a wrong crowd, Alma?”

  “Maybe. What’s the diff?”

  “You’d have to be, I guess, to keep sending me that brand of true-talk.”

  He handed her a cigarette, leaned intimately across the table to light it for her.

  “Did Morris Fink kill Ritter?”

  “Please, Jerry.”

  He stared at her. “Tell me you’re involved and I’ll drop it and forget it. You clean about this thing yourself?”

  “What do you think?” She was trying; pitifully, to be jaunty about it.

  “We can’t talk here, Alma. That’s a cinch.”

  “No. We can’t.”

  “Where? My place?”

  “Too dangerous,” Alma breathed. “You don’t realize, Jerry, how really tough and ticklish this whole mess is. Beat it—please. People are beginning to look over here. We’re causing comment.”

  “Nuts to that. Where do I see you?”

  “My apartment. Tomorrow morning. I’ll be free then. The restaurant here doesn’t open until noon. Say about—ten?”

  “Check on ten. … How about Ralph? Will he think I’m getting funny about you?”

  “Ralph won’t be there. He’ll be down at the market. He attends to all the ordering. Ring a long and two shorts on the bell and I’ll know it’s you.”