Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  “Forget it,” Tracy said smilingly, “He’s probably up at the Dutchman’s waiting for me. We always knock over a light beer after I work out. The last one there pays the check.”

  “Yeah, but he swung at me! Him, the most good-natured guy on earth!”

  “Forget it,” Tracy said. The moment he got outside his stride lengthened. He thought of Tess Roland’s dark, sullen eyes, and of Fleeter’s tremulous hand rubbing at his bald head. Storm Signal! What in hell had she told Fleeter to upset him so?

  Tracy walked mechanically onward to the Dutchman’s. He discovered that Tommy Fleeter had already been there, had barely left. And the manner of his coming and going was even more disturbing than his behavior with Clancy.

  “He comes in,” the Dutchman said, “like he’s sick. He valks straight up to der bar and he orders—vot do you t’ink?—viskey!”

  “Whiskey?” Tracy said. “You’re crazy. He hates booze.”

  “Straight viskey,” the Dutchman said stolidly. “He gulps it down. Bing! Orders another. Bing! Two straight viskeys. Und not a vord—und out der door.”

  “Did you watch where he went?”

  “Uptown he goes, not down. I’m so surprised I come out from the bar und go by der door und vatch. Straight viskey. Bing! Und then he gulps und—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Tracy snapped. “He went bing twice. Okey. … Thanks.”

  He walked to the corner and stood there for a moment in deep puzzlement, He was actually starting to walk aimlessly north, when he chuckled wryly and snapped back to reality. He had a column to turn out and he had already used up the whole morning. Tommy’s sudden fade was queer, but what of it? Jerry himself had done screwier things than that, and for no other reason except a perfectly normal urgency to get something important done in a hurry. The only funny thing about Fleeter’s sudden runout was the whiskey—and the sinister visit of Tess Roland. Tracy stood irresolutely on the sidewalk, cursing the dark-eyed torch singer in a low whisper.

  A rolling cab slowed near the curb and Jerry nodded and got in. He squeezed the puzzle of Tommy Fleeter out of his busy mind. He’d call up the gym later on and find out if Tommy was okey. He had a hasty bite in a Times Square cafeteria and plunged into his delayed column. It was getting dark when he sighed and quit.

  His door opened. A heavy voice said urgently: “Jerry! Hey, Jerry!”

  Butch was staring at him. “Hey, did yuh hear about Tommy Fleeter?”

  Tracy’s eyes narrowed. He’d forgotten to call the gym; the thing had completely slipped his mind under the rush of business.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s disappeared. Walked out at noon and never came back. I dropped in to say hello to Clancy, an’ boy, he was sure noivous.”

  “Tommy probably had an appointment somewhere and then went on home.”

  “Nix. Clancy said he called Mrs. Fleeter an’ she didn’t know nothin’ about it. Clancy said she sounded scared. It’s the first time in his life Tommy ever pulled a funny sneak like that. And besides, he was supposed to be at the gym this afternoon to fix up some papers about a mortgage or somethin.’ Clancy said to keep me trap shut, but he looked plenty worried.”

  “Mmmm, … I’ll take a run up and see what’s the matter.”

  “Better make it fast,” Butch muttered. “They close the place at five, yuh know. How ’bout me comin’ along?”

  Tracy shook his head. “You g’wait back to the penthouse. Tell the Chink to hold dinner for a while. I’ll phone.”

  “Gee whiz, don’t I ever git no breaks?”

  But Tracy, after a quick glance at the clock, had slid into his coat and plunked on his derby, and was out the door. He’d be lucky if he made it in time!

  He didn’t. When he stepped out of the cab he saw that the ramshackle building Fleeter owned was dark from cellar to roof. It annoyed him to discover that his heart was pumping with excitement. What the devil was there to get excited about? Tommy was the last guy in the world to get himself into a mess.

  He turned on his heel, went down to the corner drug-store and looked up Mrs. Fleeter’s phone number. He was about to lift the receiver when he changed his mind and came out of the booth. Once more he leafed through the book. Storm Signal! The torch singer’s sullen face was like a bright, sneering photograph in his brain.

  He called the doorman of the Albion Theatre. The show Tess had been in had folded two weeks before; not even her glorious voice could save the badly produced musical. But there were rehearsals for a new piece going on right now and Dinty would be on the rear door. He got Dinty after a brief wait, identified himself, and found out where Tess Roland lived. It was a swanky hive on Central Park West. He wrote the address down in his notebook and called Mrs. Fleeter.

  Belle sounded scared. Clancy had called her twice that afternoon about Tommy’s mysterious disappearance. She had telephoned the gym a few moments ago and discovered that Clancy had closed up the place as usual and had gone home. She didn’t know where he lived. She didn’t know what to do. Should she call the police?

  “No,” Tracy said. “I’ll be down to see you later.”

  Belle’s voice shook. “Come right away, will you? It ain’t like Tommy to pull a trick like this. He’s the most considerate man alive. And there’s a special reason why he should have come home this afternoon. Maybe he’s in danger. He’s had more than one argument with tough guys that tried to use the gym for a hangout.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  He dropped another nickel in the box, bracing himself to meet McNulty’s displeasure over the spoiled meal. To his surprise the Chink didn’t answer the call. Butch’s gruff voice came on the wire. He spluttered with profane excitement when he recognized Tracy’s brisk tones.

  “Hey—Jerry—it’s cockeyed—it’s nutty, but. … ”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “He was here!”

  “Who?”

  “Fleeter. Tommy Fleeter.”

  “Good. Did he leave any message for me?”

  “Good, nothin’!” Butch growled. “He made a wreck outa the place. Damned near scared McNulty to death. I found the Chink tied up like a mummy—and Fleeter has vanished again. Will you tell me what the hell—”

  “You say Fleeter searched the place?”

  “Yeah. The minute McNulty opened the door Fleeter socked him and tied him up. Never opened his trap once. The Chink says he looked like a crazy nut, smelt like he’d been drinkin’ likker. Went through every room and closet, read all your letters. Told McNulty he’d kill him if he breathed a word who was here—and scrammed. … You better git home, Boss, and find out what this thing is about.”

  “Stop yelling at me and listen. Are you scared of Fleeter’s punch?”

  “Not if I got a chair-leg or somepin in one hand.”

  “All right. Bust a chair and make yourself a club. I got other places to go. I don’t know what it’s all about, but there’s a chance Fleeter may come back to find what he was looking for. He didn’t take anything away, did he?”

  “Nothing McNulty could see.”

  “If he comes back, nail him. I’ll be through as soon as I can.”

  “Okey.”

  Tracy hung up and walked towards the deserted gymnasium. His jaw tightened as he recalled Mrs. Fleeter’s nervous words on the wire. Tommy had never played gentle with the gunners and racketeers that buzzed like blue-jowled flies at the edges of the fight game. The Family Man, fight writers called him. He had retired undefeated with a comfortable fortune. The crash in Wall Street had wiped him clean. He could have come back and picked up plenty from fixed fights—but he didn’t. He had dough enough left to start his legitimate gymnasium and to keep it swept clean of rats. That part was okey, Jerry thought; but why should his old friend be searching the penthouse and scaring the life out of McNulty?

  Tracy stared at the deserted façade of the squat two-story gymnasium. He hated to leave the neighborhood. He had an uneasy feeling that inside the gym mig
ht be the key to the riddle of Tommy’s disappearance. He grinned wanly at the thought. Should he go peeking into lockers, prying around the caged handball courts on the roof, dragging the swimming pool, for a guy who was apparently ducking all over town?

  Disgusted, he turned away. Suddenly he gave a quick, incredulous exclamation. There was a public garage across the street where portable gasoline tanks cluttered the dark sidewalk and a dim light burned over the arched entrance.

  Tracy reached the garage doorway on the jump. He was starting towards the rear when the door of a small side office opened and a man in greasy gray overalls came out. He stared at Tracy’s excited face.

  “Smatter, Mister? Lookin’ for someone?”

  “Yeah. A bum. He ducked in here just a second ago.”

  “He musta come in damned quiet. What about him?”

  “He gypped me,” Jerry said hesitantly. “He asked me for a dime for coffee and I slipped him a buck. I just discovered that I gave him a five by mistake. He beat it in here when he saw me coming back.”

  “Yeah? Maybe he’s in the men’s room. Over behind that big truck in the back.” The garage man chuckled. “A fin for a cup of coffee, huh? Boy, that was a neat panhandle!”

  Tracy was already around the end of the truck. He opened the door of the small men’s room. It was empty. He stared at another door, a sheet-metal affair, further along the rear wall of the garage.

  “Where’s that lead to?”

  “To the back,” the garageman said. “It’s locked. Key’s on the nail alongside.”

  But it wasn’t locked. The key was in the keyhole. It opened when Jerry whirled the knob. He found himself in the darkness of a small paved courtyard enclosed by a ten-foot board fence.

  “You sure you saw the bum come in?” the garageman said. “That’s a high fence. He must have been some jumper.”

  “Gimme a hand up,” Tracy said.

  The garageman frowned at his persistence, but he heaved Tracy aloft and the little newspaper columnist peered briefly. He sucked in his breath with disappointment. He was staring at a deserted sidewalk and a dark street.

  He dropped back into the courtyard and gave the man in overalls a dollar. “Sorry to trouble you,” he said. “I hated to lose the fin, that’s all.”

  “What’s the bum look like?”

  “Dunno,” Tracy lied. “I didn’t get much of a look at his face.”

  He walked back through the garage and out to the street. Bum, hell! It was Tommy Fleeter! He had seen his pale face clearly as Fleeter had whirled and run into the garage. That ten-foot fence in the rear was pie for the ex-champ. But what the devil was he hanging around the gym for? And why did he run like a scared rabbit when a man stopped and looked at the gym? Jerry was pretty certain Fleeter hadn’t recognized him. He had been standing in the shadows, a dim figure from across the street.

  He walked a block or two uptown until he spotted an empty roller. He hailed it and drove in moody silence to Fleeter’s home.

  It was a neat but unpretentious walk-up on the better edge of Yorkville. Belle Fleeter opened the door herself. Her eyes were red. She looked thoroughly scared. She was a stout little woman, grayish hair, with a nice mouth and clear, pink skin. She gestured towards the closed door of the living-room with a tremulous hand.

  “I don’t want Bobbie to know there’s anything wrong. He’s inside doing his homework … , Jerry—what has happened?”

  “Take it easy, Belle.”

  “Do you think I ought to call the police?”

  “Not till we know more about this thing. Why are you so worried? Was Tommy in trouble of any kind?”

  Belle shook her head dully. “He’s been as straight as a string all his life. That’s what scares me. We’ve been married twenty years and today was our wedding anniversary. Tommy always comes home early with flowers, and we have dinner out, and—and celebrate.” She smiled wanly, “This is the first time we—we haven’t celebrated. It’s not like him, Jerry, He’s been hurt or—or kidnaped.”

  Tracy could hear the slow click of typing in the adjoining room.

  “Bobby’s doing his homework.” Belle said. “I—I bought him a little portable typewriter and he does all his lessons on it.” The fear vanished momentarily from her red eyes. “A smart little fella. We’re hoping to send him to college.”

  “That’s swell. How’s Freddie doing?”

  “Better than he was. He’s up at Fishkill in a military academy. Ethel’s in Pittsburgh—you knew that, I s’pose?”

  “Yeah. How’s the show doing?”

  “I had a letter from her yesterday. She’s out of the chorus—she says Klemmer gave her a specialty dance. She—” Mrs. Fleeter whimpered suddenly and caught Jerry’s arm. “Do you think I ought to send her a wire about—her father?”

  “Why worry her? What good can she do here?”

  “You don’t understand. Ethel has always been Tommy’s favorite. They’re—they’re crazy about each other. When she wanted to go on the stage I put my foot down, but Tommy let her go. She’s only nineteen, but Tommy said the stage couldn’t hurt anyone as smart and decent as Ethel. She adores him. If he’s in trouble and I don’t wire her, she’ll never forgive me.”

  “Let her stay where she is,” Tracy said.

  He patted Belle’s shoulder, “Look. Tommy may show up any minute and chase all this scared look out of your eyes with a reasonable explanation. In that case we don’t want any cops and we don’t want any fuss. And suppose he is in a jam? We still don’t want cops—not till we find out whether police and newspaper publicity are going to hurt him.”

  The faint clicking of the portable typewriter in the next room was the only sound for a moment.

  “Clancy said something about a mortgage that Tommy had to attend to this afternoon. Was it important?”

  “No. It was just an interest payment Tommy had to make. Just a small payment, a few hundred dollars. He has the money in the bank, plenty to cover it.”

  Tracy nodded, picked up his hat. “I’ll move on, see what I can find out, I’ll call you back later, in case you hear anything in the meantime.” He paused in the doorway. He was about to ask her if she knew anything about Tess Roland, the torch singer; but he decided not to add to Belle’s fright by suggesting that there might be a woman back of the unaccountable flight of Tommy Fleeter.

  He had left his cab waiting at the curb for him. He gave the driver Tess Roland’s address. Storm Signal! She had started the whole screwy business. A bad egg with a singing voice like an angel. He had never understood why Paul Yager had made such a play for her. Paul was a good guy, but he sure was a sucker for dames. Anyone with sense would have given the Storm Signal a wide berth.

  The taxi hummed along the transverse road through Central Park and stopped in the Elegant Eighties. Tracy’s impeccable appearance got him a respectful nod from the doorman and a quiet-voiced, “Chilly night, sir.”

  He didn’t answer. He was putting on his well-bred act. He had no intention of sending his name up to the Storm Signal and being told over the house phone in a throaty, million-dollar voice, to go roll his hoop. He clicked past the desk and paid no attention to the desk man’s hesitant “Ahem!” The elevator was open and he stepped in.

  “Eight, please,”

  “Who did you say you wished to see, sir?”

  “I said, eight, please!”

  The operator gazed at the flinty visage of his passenger, at the imported derby and the faultlessly correct overcoat. He stuck his head out irresolutely and passed the buck to the man at the desk.

  “Dammit all!” Tracy said with quiet fury, “What are we waiting here for?”

  “Okey, Charles,” the desk man murmured.

  The car ascended in a silence as soft as down. Tracy got off at eight, walked leisurely down the hall, drawing off his gloves with slow deliberation. The moment the car sank he turned on his heel and went back to the stairs. He ascended to the twelfth floor, blessing the doorman of the Albion T
heatre for his foresight in telling him the apartment number. Smiling, Jerry made a mental note to send Dinty a case of the punkest brand of gin Butch could locate; Dinty didn’t like good gin, said it had no body to it.

  Tess Roland opened the door. She gasped and tried to slam it when she recognized her caller. But Jerry hadn’t expected to be welcomed with palms and hosannas. He was all set. He slid in like an agile moonbeam and clicked the door shut behind him.

  Tess’s dark eyes flared. “Where do you get that push-in stuff? Out!”

  He kept right on until he had entered the living-room.

  “Merely a conference, babe. A small intimate powwow.”

  He couldn’t tell whether she was angry or scared. Both, probably; that was why she was standing there like a dope, goggling at him. More than one emotion at a time was too much for her. Had it been plain rage, her nails would have been into him by this time. He sniffed the air of the room suddenly. His own voice got coldly menacing.

  “Listen, Storm Signal—”

  “I told you not to call me by that name!”

  “A certain gentleman has disappeared. A guy with a bald head, a decent wife, and three sweet kids.”

  “Nuts to you, Mister.”

  “Where did your friend duck who was in this room a minute ago?”

  “You would think there was a man here, you evil-minded little rat! Out, before I get tough!”

  “I didn’t say a man, Storm Signal. And I’m rat enough to know strange perfume when I smell it. Who’s the dame? And why did she scram when the bell rang?”

  Tess Roland laughed stridently. She had backed against a low mahogany chest across the room. She jerked out a pistol and pointed it at Tracy with almost a single motion. “Beat it—and keep your nose clear of something that doesn’t concern you.”

  Tracy laughed harshly. “You’re not scaring me with that rod, baby. You’re bluffing. What are you trying to hide from me?”

  “Out!”

  “What have you got against Fleeter?”

  “I’m trying to help him, you sap.”

  “You sure have funny ways of—” His hand shot towards the gun with the speed of light. There was a single crashing report and a bullet drilled into the floor. Tracy wrenched the gun loose.