“Swell.” Tracy laughed with a sudden jovial noisiness, patted her arm, glanced at his watch ostentatiously. “Check, waiter!”
Alma rustled demurely away.
A few minutes later Tracy was jouncing homeward in a well-dented taxicab towards the swanky penthouse that hadn’t seen him since the preceding Friday.
Rain slanted briskly on Manhattan from ragged, gray clouds that drove steadily from the East River. Jerry Tracy sloshed pleasantly along in a belted raincoat and a not-so-good hat. He hadn’t far to go; and besides, on a puffy, wet morning like this he disdained taxis.
He went plodding along through the wetness—a little guy in his own home town, a guy who asked directions from nobody.
He turned and let the gusty breeze push him around a corner. Halfway down a short, sedate block, he stopped under a striped and dripping canopy and a fat man dressed like an admiral opened the door.
“Is she expecting you, sir?” a second man said.
The third man was a boy. He said, languidly: “Fourth floor. Apartment Three B.”
“Just enough of you guys for indoor polo,” Tracy grinned. “Why don’t you try it some time?”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“What’s the difference, so long as you’re healthy? Ever listen to Jack Benny?”
He watched the ornate doors of the elevator close and depart. As he turned towards 3-B a slight frown chased the smile from his shrewd eyes.
“Capital D for this dump,” he said pensively to himself. “Now I know why Greeks go into the restaurant business.”
There was a small bronze knocker on the door, carved like a wreath of metal holly; but Tracy paid no attention to it. He lit a dry cigarette, shot the paper match end over end and pushed his fingertip against the bell button. A long and two shorts.
Instantly—as though Tracy himself had caused it—a woman screamed shrilly inside the apartment. A muffled explosion, unmistakably a pistol shot, cut across the scream and stopped it I
Tracy’s lips let go of his cigarette. He skipped nimbly backward from the closed door, coughing a little from the smoke he had inhaled the wrong way.
No further sound came from the apartment. The columnist stood where he was, crouching, hardly knowing exactly what to do next. The thing going on behind that closed apartment door had built up on him without a second of warning. Just a long and two shorts on the bell and—whango! Did that shrill scream of terror come from Alma? And if so, who was in there with her? Who had boldly cut her down with a quick chunk of lead?
Tracy’s eyes flicked across his shoulder towards the elevator panel. The signal arrow was moving upward. The rattling of a door-knob whirled him around to face Alma’s apartment again. He saw the apartment door fling open.
A woman in a black silk negligée—swaying blindly, half fainting—a pistol in her slack right hand. … Alma!
“Jerry,” she moaned. “Is that you, Jerry?”
“Are you all right, sweet?” He sprang at her, braced her under an arm-pit, slipped the gun out of her relaxing fingers. “What’s wrong in there? What happened?”
“Come inside,” she gasped. “Quick! Shut the door.”
He slammed it shut. Sniffed the burned powder smell in the air and stared toward the dim living-room. “Who did you plug, Alma? Where’s the guy?”
The body was just inside the living-room. On his back and stone dead, apparently. One leg doubled up, the other leg flat; with a ridge of rug bunched under his left hand where he had clawed Briefly. Alma’s Greek husband. The big, good-looking, curly-haired Ralph, with a great big gun in his dead right hand.
Tracy looked downward at him, nodded his head “yes” for some peculiar reason. He didn’t seem so surprised, after all.
He stared at the deadly little gun, still warm in his own hand—the gun he had just taken from Alma’s slack fingers. She had killed this mugg husband of hers, all right. Tracy still didn’t now the how or the why of it yet—and didn’t give a damn! All he was conscious of was that this loyal little dame had saved the life of Jerry Tracy and was up to her neck in trouble if he didn’t do something lightning fast to clear her of the murder rap. That elevator operator would be pounding on the door in about ’steen seconds!
Tracy bent downward and pried Ralph’s gun out of his dead hand, thankful of his own gloved fingers. The gun was fully loaded. None of the cartridges had been exploded.
Jerry leveled the weapon, calmly pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed through a glazed pottery bowl on the Me and lodged in the wall. In a moment the columnist forced the exploded gun back into Ralph’s right hand, made quietly sure that the dead fingers were molded properly around the weapon. Only a few swift seconds had intervened between Alma’s shot and Jerry’s. He’d try and kid the police with a phoney story of self-defense on his part—take the rap for the whole thing. …
The front doorbell began to ring. The reedy voice of the elevator boy echoed shrilly through the closed door. “Are you folks all right in there? Anything wrong?”
“Tell that sap it’s okey,” Jerry whispered. “Tell him it’s all right, Alma.”
But Alma wasn’t talking. She was hanging halfway off the couch, halfway on it. Fainted.
The doorbell kept on ringing. Long idiotic toots.
“Beat it, sonny!” Tracy bawled. “Everything’s all right.”
“Is—is it all right for the Super to unlock the—the door and come in?”
“No. Wait a minute. … ” Jerry’s eyes swept haggardly about. “Tell you what you do! Listen, can you hear me?”
“Yessir.”
“Go downstairs. Walk up to the corner—Madison Avenue. See if you can find a cop—a traffic cop will do fine. Bring him back here. And don’t make any fuss about all this when you talk to him. If you do, I’ll—I’ll sue the landlord for heavy damages. Get me?”
“Yessir.”
Alma was beginning to snap out of her fainting spell. She swayed unsteadily to her feet, her eyes wide with a sick terror, her face white.
“What did you do, Jerry?”
“You know damned well what I did, baby,” he said steadily. “I shot that tramp husband of yours.”
“No, no. … Jerry—no!”
“In self-defense. He let go one at me and missed—the big overgrown dope! You can see, I did much better.”
“You can’t do it, Jerry. I won’t let you.”
“Ssssh! Let’s not waste time wrangling. Did that last crime tip that you sent me from him—from Ralph?”
“Yes.”
“Just what I thought. And if something else I’m fairly sure about is true—we’re both sitting pretty. … Don’t cry, sweet, for the luva mud! There’ll be a cop banging on our door in about a minute and I want to squeeze in a quick phone call to Inspector Fitzgerald.”
He ran across to the telephone like a brisk little ferret. He jerked up the instrument and dialed fiercely. …
“Hello, Fitz? Jerry. … Yeah—Jerry Tracy; right! Listen—hop it up here fast, will you?” He gave Fitz the address and apartment number. “A guy just got dead up here. A tie-up with the numbers racket and that Ritter murder or I’m very wet. … What? Oh—I forgot—I killed him. Yeah, me.”
He could hear the voice of Fitzgerald sputtering incoherently on the other end of the wire.
“Will you quit burping and get under way?” Jerry snarled. “Bring Killan along with you. And keep this news temporarily under the hat like a good guy.”
He banged down the instrument and swung impatiently back towards Alma. She was staring at him with her lips still open.
“How did you do it, sweet?” he asked her gently. “How were you able to get the drop on Ralph?”
“When Ralph first came in, he did something so—so horrible to me that I knew he was determined to kill you without mercy the moment you rang the bell. I went to the bedroom, palmed the gun and had it behind me in the chair. I let him have it the moment he got up and sneaked towards the door to let you in.”
She began to weep suddenly, to lose some of that dreadful rigidity from her throat. …
“He—he was going to kill you. The minute you came in the door.”
“Why me?” Tracy sounded like a man who already knew the answer.
“Ralph said,” Alma whispered brokenly, “that you knew too damned much, that you were nosing too close to him.”
“How did he know I was coming here to see you this morning?”
“I told him,” Alma moaned. “He suspected something and beat it out of me. I—I couldn’t help it. He—he made me tell. Then he sat there, grinning, with a gun ready, waiting for you, to ring the bell.” Her voice cracked. “Said if I opened my—my trap, tried to warn you—he’d hand it to us both as a betrayed husband.”
She gestured hopelessly and a corner of the black negligée slipped from one shoulder. Tracy, eying her, grunted savagely and took a swift step towards her.
“So Ralph made you tell him, eh?”
He yanked the frail lacy stuff away from both her shoulders. The sight of her naked back made him wince and curse faintly.
“What did he use on you, sweet? A whip?”
“A dog whip. Said a dog whip would be swell for a —— like me. He—he locked the bedroom door and—”
“Just a nice guy.” Tracy stood over the dead man with smoldering eyes.
Then he dropped to one knee, went through Ralph’s pockets. A little croon of satisfaction escaped him.
“Greedy man,” he whispered and re-placed the object carefully.
The doorbell began to ring. Urgently. No letup to it. Tracy opened the door and smiled mildly at the drawn gun of a traffic cop.
“It’s okey. Battle’s over. Come on in.”
The cop’s gun stayed menacing. He was looking fixedly at Tracy’s belted raincoat, the damp hat that was still on his head.
“You live here?”
“Nope. Just a friend of the bride and groom. Come on in.”
The cop gave Ralph’s stiffening body a quick professional glance.
“Who done this?”
“I did, Officer,” Jerry said.
“Yeah?” He eyed Alma, the lacy negligée she had hurriedly bunched over her breast. “You the dead guy’s wife?”
“Yes. I—I—”
“You were out like a light when it happened,” Tracy warned her swiftly. “You wouldn’t remember a thing.”
“A wise guy, eh?” the cop snapped. “That’ll be about enough outa you. I’ll do all the talking. And keep them hands right where they are, or I’ll make things tough. Who are you? What’s your name?”
“The name, my businesslike friend, is Tracy. Jerry Tracy.”
“Huh?” The cop’s eyes studied the wizen-faced little fashion-plate with a new and more lively interest. “Jerry Tracy? You mean that you’re the—”
“Yeah. I mean. Of the Daily Planet. And if I were a bright young officer, I’d stick around and take things easy—before I got too smart and pulled a boner.”
The traffic man grunted doubtfully. Then, with his eyes on the columnist, he began to back slowly towards the small table in the corner of the room.
“I’ve already phoned,” Jerry smiled. “If you’ll wait for about two more minutes—”
The front doorbell rang again. Jerry was beginning to feel almost fond of that bell. He chuckled with relief.
“Shall I let Inspector Fitzgerald in, or will you?”
The cop let him in. Sergeant Killan came in with him. Fitz’ blue eyes looked at the traffic man and the cop became at once inconspicuous.
“Mmmm. … ” Fitz said thoughtfully. “Who is he, Jerry?”
“A Greek by the name of Ralph. Let’s see if I can remember his last name—Koulopolis. … That hole in the wall came from Ralph. That hole in Ralph’s belly came from me.”
Fitz blinked. “What’s the story, Jerry?”
“Ralph runs a restaurant. A very phoney one, it seems. This sweet little lady here—” His eyes burned suddenly but the gesture he threw towards her was polite and mechanical. “—had the very tough luck to be married to this rat. Alma, meet Fitz, a square cop. Sergeant Killan, ditto.”
The Daily Planet’s little columnist smiled.
“Alma put me wise to something I was just a little vague about. I came over here to see her about it. Our Greek friend was waiting for me with a gun. He got tough and I deaded him. … Alma, by the way, is that sweet little tipster you’ve been so worried about, gentlemen.”
“Uh-huh,” Sergeant Killan muttered.
The inspector said: “Mmmm. … Am I getting this thing right? This fellow Ralph was in on the numbers thing? A tie-up with Ritter and Fink?”
“In way up to his Grecian neck—and over, sweetheart. Listen, has Morris Fink done any talking since you—”
“Plenty,” Fitz snapped triumphantly. “His cloak-and-suit business was strictly a cover-up—a phoney. Fink and Ritter split fifty-fifty on the numbers graft. They met regularly every Sunday night at that St. Nicholas Avenue dive. Fink caved in, finally, with a little help from Killan here, and admitted he was at the St. Nicholas Avenue place Sunday night. But he swears that Ritter was still alive when he left. Says he didn’t kill him.”
“He didn’t,” Tracy said. “This guy did.”
“Are you sure?”
“Take a look at his pockets,” Tracy suggested. “He was greedy enough to steal something. A Greek, bearing a gift. Vest pocket, Fitz.”
The inspector grunted as he studied the watch. A diamond-studded little masterpiece. On the inside of the paper-thin case, a couple of lines of microscopic engraving: “To Sam, my woolly old woof-woof, from Belle.”
All Greeks are art lovers,” Tracy suggested mildly. “Ralph couldn’t resist swiping the ticker after he had stabbed the guy.”
“How did you know he stabbed Ritter in the first place?”
“I didn’t, Fitz. Remember how I told you I had reached a conclusion; but that it was negative? All I knew until recently was that Morris Fink didn’t kill Ritter.”
“How come?”
“Fink was too small, too soft—too weak. The whole thing hinged on that sloppy wet floor in the kitchen. Some one had pulled the electric plug out of the wall and the refrigerator had been defrosting all night. The door had been left partly open and there was no tray under the freezing unit—hence, sloppy floor. It looked as if someone had been cleaning something off the floor, and that made me curious, got me to looking around, and let me discover where the killing had been done.”
Killan said slowly: “You mean Ritter was killed in the kitchen?”
“Correct. I’m afraid you didn’t notice the tiny smear of blood between the ragged edges of the linoleum and the wall. The murderer thought he had wiped it all away, but he overlooked the crack at the edge of the linoleum. There was also a tiny sliver of broken glass, sharp enough to cut my dirty finger and make me worry till I slapped some iodine on it later. … What I think—the guy stabbed Ritter while they were having a sociable drink at the icebox. Ritter went down like an ox and his hooked arm caught the wire and dragged it down with him. The murderer heaved him up and carried him into the dinette where we found him. Now, we know that Ritter was a heavy man, husky as hell in the shoulders. His partner, Fink, couldn’t possibly have carried him. Too weak, just a buttery-fleshed little runt.”
Tracy shrugged.
“Ergo, don’t bother with Fink for the murder rap but look for a guy as big, or bigger, than Ritter. As a matter of fact, a guy who turns out to be none other than our good-looking and oversize friend here.”
“How did he get in the apartment?” the inspector wondered.
“I’ll tell you,” Alma said. Her voice sounded weak and very tired. “Ralph told me about that. Kept boasting to me while he was sitting here with a gun in his hand waiting for—for Mr. Tracy. Ritter let Ralph into the apartment right after Fink left. They had arranged a private conference beforehand. Sam Ritter was planning to freeze Fink o
ut of the profits and tie up with Ralph instead.”
Her breast heaved.
“The murder happened exactly the way you said, Jerry. Ritter didn’t suspect a thing. He died while they were drinking a toast to each other. Ralph killed him because he wanted to get the racket for nothing. He took Ritter first because Ritter was the tougher of the two partners—and because he figured that any hurried alibi Fink was forced to dig up wouldn’t hold water. With Ritter dead and Fink accused of the crime, the numbers racket wouldn’t have to be bought out. It’ll be ripe to pick up out of the gutter. Ralph was all set to grab it for nothing.” Alma’s eyes blinked the tears away. “He made me send you that last tip, Jerry. That tip was deliberate. He was using you and your column in the Daily Planet. Using you to hand him a fortune for nothing.”
Tracy gave Inspector Fitzgerald a hard look. “You’ve got what you wanted, Fitz. Call in the mob whenever you like. But let me handle the newspaper slant on this thing. Alma is out of all this. Maybe I’m in it. I dunno yet. But whatever I tell the boys will be as plausible as hell. Satisfied?”
“Your dice, Jerry,” Fitzgerald said. “Roll ’em as neat as you can!”
TICKETED FOR DEATH
Jerry Tracy’s hunch of crime or adventure is not always a safe one to follow
THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT the man in the brown suit that Jerry Tracy didn’t like. He first saw the fellow loitering over near the ornate cigar stand in the Diplomat’s swanky lobby. His eyes were beady; he looked like a shabby brown fox.
Tracy happened to be behind the theater ticket desk by a mere fluke. With a few minutes to kill he had wandered into the Diplomat, and wound up talking to Peterson at the agency desk. Peterson had promptly seized the opportunity to buzz off for a quick cup of coffee; and Tracy, bored and lazy, nodded and said, sure, he’d watch things for a while. It was barely three o’clock in the afternoon and Tracy was in no hurry.
He had tabbed this shabby guy with the first shrewd glance. The man seemed mildly uneasy as he stared out of the corner of his eye. Tracy catalogued him swiftly as he walked across to the ticket desk.
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 34