Tess’ eyes were burning bright. “You fool,” she gasped.
“Maybe. I’m gonna take a look around this joint right now. One funny move out of you and I’ll bounce a lump on that skull of yours.”
She tried to struggle but his fingers were twisted on her left shoulder like bands of steel. There was a closet in an L-shaped recess across the room with a brass key in the lock.
“In you go, Storm Signal!”
He was tensing his left hand to clutch at the knob, when the door was suddenly thrown open.
A girl sprang out of the closet, white-faced, staring. Tracy took one look at her and the gun in Tess’ back wavered.
“Ethel!” he whispered in incredulous wonder. “Ethel Fleeter!”
Tommy Fleeter’s daughter was trembling. She tried to speak but her throat gagged wordlessly. Tess Roland swung furiously about and tried to wrench the pistol from Tracy. Her desperate attack galvanized him into motion. With a swift heave he flung her head foremost into the open closet and locked the door. The key dropped into his pocket. He could hear Tess pounding and yelling and the furious sounds made him smile grimly.
He stared at Fleeter’s daughter. “When did you get in from Pittsburgh, Ethel?”
“This—this morning.”
“Are you a prisoner? What hold has this tough dame got on you?”
“Jerry, you’re making a big mistake. Tess is my friend. She’s dad’s friend.”
“Oh, yeah? Did you know that your father has disappeared?”
“My God—no!” Her face became the color of chalk. “Then they’ve got him. They’re taken him for a ride!”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice became hysterically accusing. “My God, why did you butt in? Did you speak to Dad? Did you advise him to stay and fight?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why did you sneak here from Pittsburgh? And why are you hiding in the apartment of a mugg like Tess?”
“I’m not hiding.”
He stared at her suspiciously. She looked very frightened and very stubborn. But there was no crookedness in those clear brown eyes. The same sweet little kid he had always known. It was impossible to think she could be ganging up on her own father.
He flung eager questions at her but she locked her lovely red lips.
“All right,” he said grimly. “Get your hat and coat. We’re going places.”
“Where?”
“Back to your own home. To your mother’s.”
“No. For God’s sake, don’t do that! You’ll frighten her to death, spoil everything.”
From the locked closet came the faint sound of furious banging, Tracy’s eyes jerked towards the closed door. “Who brought you here from Pittsburgh? Tess?”
“I came of my own free will. She’s a good—good friend. She’s trying to save Dad’s life.”
Ethel saw the grim doubt in Tracy’s eyes and made a sudden helpless gesture.
“I’ve got a brief case full of—of papers that made it imperative for me to see Dad. His life is in deadly danger. I—I beg you to do what Tess asked you!—keep yourself out of this. You’ll only make matters worse.”
“Where are the papers?”
She pointed tremulously, “In the bedroom. In a brief case on the dresser.”
She had slumped into a chair, her hands over her face. Tracy whirled on his heel and hurried through the bedroom door. He was staring at the empty top of the dresser, looking for the brief case, when he heard a swift rush of feet in the adjoining room.
Ethel Fleeter was racing towards the open door. She beat Tracy’s quick clutch for the knob and slammed the door. The bolt shot home. Raging with chagrin, Tracy knew that he had been neatly trapped. The yarn about the brief case was a phoney. Fleeter’s daughter had pulled a fast one on him.
Grimly he hurled himself against the locked barrier. It wouldn’t budge. His eyes glanced upward and he saw the transom. It was a small one, but not too small for a determined little guy like Tracy. He found a chair and climbed atop it like a nimble monkey. The transom swung wide. He could see into the room where he had left Ethel. It was empty.
It was no cinch to wriggle past the narrow opening of the transom, but he managed to pry himself through. He dropped awkwardly to the floor on the other side, ran to the apartment door and peered out. The corridor was empty. The arrow of the elevator was motionless on the figure one. Ethel already had time to reach the street level and vanish.
But she had gone alone! A muffled sound from the apartment brought Tracy back. The dim thumping of Tess’ fists on the inside of the closet door filled the columnist’s blood with savage satisfaction. The Storm Signal would talk now, by God, if he had to club the truth out of her!
He unlocked the door and hauled her out. Her eyes glared around the empty room. “Where’s the kid? Gone?”
“You damned well know she’s gone.” He sunk his fingers into her slack arm. “Talk—and talk fast!”
The torch singer made no effort to struggle. She glared at Tracy with listless terror.
“You fool!” she breathed.
“Old stuff. Make it sensible.”
“Okey. I wired Ethel to come here from Pittsburgh. She came of her own free will because she trusts me. The finger is out for Tommy Fleeter. I’ve been trying to persuade him to leave town. That’s why I sent for Ethel. You think I’m a louse, but that doesn’t bother me. I hate your little wiseguy guts. But I happen to like Tommy Fleeter and I’m not going to let you talk him into being killed.”
“All very nice and all very noble. Who’s supposed to be trying to kill Tommy? And why did you tell him to pay no attention to anything I said? It seems damned funny that right after you got to him, he took a runout.”
“That’s something I don’t understand,” Tess admitted slowly, “It’s been puzzling me like the devil. I—I don’t like that vanishing act.”
She was glaring at the columnist. She looked as nasty as ever, but there was a ring to her voice that sounded queerly like the truth. Still, she had tried to stick him up with a gun, and she did hate his guts!
“Where did Ethel go?” he asked abruptly.
“I don’t know. Probably rushed out to try and find her father before it’s too late.” She drew a deep breath. “Believe it or not, wise guy, as you damn’ please. I got the tip from Paul Yager.”
“Yager, eh? You trying to frame him, too?”
“You want to know the truth, don’t you? Then why don’t you close that monkey trap of yours and listen?”
Tracy listened to the terse, sullen words of the torch singer. Yager had come to her the day before with the news that Tommy Fleeter had got himself in dutch and was marked for slaughter. Yager didn’t know who was back of the planned kill, but he had good enough underworld connections to know that the rumor he had picked up was true. He came to Tess and they talked it over. He and Tess both like Fleeter and they decided to try and persuade him to leave town until the thing blew over, or until Yager could find out who was back of the plot. He knew that Tess and Ethel Fleeter were good friends; Tess had done a big favor for Ethel when the kid had first broken into theatrical business, and Ethel had never forgotten it.
Yager had already been to see Fleeter but the gym owner laughed at the warning and refused to budge. So Tess played her ace. She wired to Pittsburgh, telling Ethel what was brewing and the kid grabbed the first train to New York. She came secretly to Tess’ place. She planned to meet her father there and persuade him to leave town for a few days. She didn’t want her mother to know anything was wrong. That was why she had kept under cover.
“You’re lying,” Tracy said flatly. “Ethel knows I’m Tommy’s friend. Why did she trick me and duck out the way she did?”
“Because neither of us want you to gum up this thing,” Tess said sullenly. “What would you have advised Tommy to do if you had known this morning what was afoot?”
“I’d have told him to stay and fight—not to run away li
ke a dope.”
“Exactly. That’s what Ethel and I were afraid of. So I went to see him at the gym this morning and—”
“You told him the situation was desperate and not to pay any attention to anything that Jerry Tracy might say. I heard that much.”
“Right,” Tess snapped. “I never liked you and I never will. I wasn’t going to have you call in your dumb police-inspector pal and get poor old Tommy a bullet in the back. Listen, stupid, do you really think I’d frame Fleeter? Do you think Paul Yager would?”
“Paul’s on the level,” Tracy said, “You’re the one I’m leery about. What else did you tell Fleeter?”
“I told him Ethel was in town and I’d get in touch with him later. You butted in then, so I breezed. When I called up the guy, Clancy said Tommy was gone.”
“Yeah. And he took a gun. Why? And he turned up later at my penthouse—”
“Huh?” Tess gasped. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, you know it now. He tied up my Chink and scared him half to death. He searched the whole apartment, ripped everything upside down and disappeared again. Why is he hiding? What the hell is he up to? Why is he ducking away from me, his best friend?”
“I don’t know,” Tess muttered. “It sounds screwy, that’s a fact.” Then she caught his arm suddenly, held it taut in her strong fingers. “Listen, mugg. We don’t trust each other, but we got one thing in common. We both like Tommy and want to keep him from getting hurt. Right?”
Tracy looked at her suspiciously. “So what?”
“Let’s team up and find out what’s wrong?”
“You’re crazy.”
“It’s you that’s crazy,” Tess snarled. “Here’s three people, all trying to help Tommy, and all tearing at one another’s throats. Four, by God, if you count Paul Yager. Lemme call Paul and tell him what’s happened. Or do you think he’s a heel, too?”
“Call Yager,” Tracy growled.
Tess darted across to the telephone stand. She waited a few minutes, her face frowning. Then she slammed down the instrument with a muttered oath. “Can’t get him. He’s not in.” There was fear in her face. “Do you think someone got wise to the fact that Paul was trying to tip Fleeter to his danger? Do you s’pose someone has taken him for a ride?”
“Who?” Tracy snapped irritably.
“I don’t know. I’ve told you all I do know. For —— sake, why don’t you wipe that foxy look off your pan—and do something!”
“Okey.” The little columnist ran back into the bedroom where he had squirmed out of his overcoat. He donned it and picked up his natty derby.
“I’m going to have to trust you.”
She laughed bitterly. “Forget about yourself for once. Who cares whether you trust me or not? Find Fleeter! Find his daughter! Find out what’s happened to Yager.”
“Thanks. That’s just what I intend to do. And don’t go hunting for your hat and coat. You’re staying right here.”
“Why?”
“For phone calls. There’s a chance that Ethel may call back.”
“Where’ll you be?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m going to try and trace Ethel. Call my penthouse if anything turns up. Butch and the Chink are there.”
He caught her suddenly by one shoulder and shoved her chin up so that his gaze went deep into her dark eyes.
“What’s that mean?” Tess sneered. She threw off his hand with a force that spun him away. But Tracy had seen enough to make his lips curve in a mirthless grimace. “If it was me that was in trouble, be damned if I still don’t think you’d stick a knife into me, you hellion.”
“It must be tough to have to depend on me,” she jeered.
“It is, Storm Signal.”
She swung an angry fist at his jaw, but he ducked away.
The elevator man gazed at him queerly, remembering that he had let him out, not on the 12th, but on the 8th floor. In a heavily elegant silence Tracy descended to the street level and hurried out to the sidewalk.
He caught the doorman by a limp hand and left a crumpled five dollar bill in the man’s cold palm.
“A girl left this building about ten minutes ago.” He described Ethel Fleeter. “Which way did she walk?”
“She didn’t,” the doorman said.
“Huh?”
“She took a car.”
“Taxi?”
“No. A sedan. It was parked near the entrance here. The moment she came out of the house, the guy in the car waves his arm and calls her over. I couldn’t hear what he said, but she went over to the curb, talked with him. She didn’t seem to want to get in. Finally, she does. They drove downtown.”
Tracy nodded. His mind was buzzing with a queer surmise. Was it Paul Yager, returning unexpectedly to Tess’ apartment? He described Yager to the doorman but the latter shook his head.
“That wasn’t the guy. Smaller and fatter. A round, moon face and a double chin. Looked like an Irishman. I couldn’t help noticing him because the girl seemed sorta scared when she got in.”
“Okey. Thanks.”
Tracy nodded and walked off. From the doorman’s description he was certain of the identity of the man who had enticed Ethel Fleeter into the sedan. It was the last person on earth he would have thought of.
Mike Clancy! Fleeter’s own trusted associate in the gym.
The Daily Planet’s columnist raced a half block and caught an empty cab at a red light. He gave the address of the gymnasium and asked for speed. Clancy! Why in the name of common sense hadn’t he thought of that before? Tommy Fleeter’s friendship for the Irishman had been a sort of guarantee that Clancy had reformed and was on the level. Yet his past had been damned unsavory. A crooked fight manager, an associate of yeggs and gunmen, Mike Clancy had found himself ruled out of the sport, blacklisted and busted. He was in the gutter, down and out, when he appealed to the soft-hearted ex-champ.
Fleeter took Clancy in and had a heart to heart talk with him. The result was that Clancy wept, promised to be decent—and was given a job. He had been in the gym ever since and had turned out to be an invaluable assistant to Fleeter. At least, so the sport world thought; and Tracy too. Now he wasn’t so sure. He remembered that queer, challenging look that the Irishman had given him when he had told Jerry about Fleeter’s inexplicable runout.
The gym seemed to be the logical place to pick up Clancy’s trail. The while mixup seemed to center there.
It was across the avenue from the darkened gym that Tracy had caught his brief glimpse of the vanished Fleeter, Jerry had had a peculiar feeling at the time that Fleeter was trailing him, had followed him there from his office on Broadway. But Clancy’s sudden pickup of Fleeter’s daughter gave Tracy a more logical and less fantastic picture. Maybe Fleeter was tailing Clancy. Maybe that was why he had been hanging around the gym! His queer visit to Tracy’s penthouse was still a mystery, but Tracy put that aside for the moment. One thing at a time, or he’d go nuts.
Jerry paid off his cab-driver a block away from the shambling two-story gymnasium. His eyes gave the darkened building a quick once over as he walked past. This time it wasn’t completely dark. There was a light burning behind a drawn shade in a room on the second floor. Tracy’s heart expanded with excitement as he recognized the location of that room. It was Fleeter’s office.
Jerry Tracy continued around the block. There were a row of tenements in the back and he went through the lower hallway of the one that abutted on the gym. The back door was locked on the inside. He opened it and went through a dark concrete backyard towards a high board fence.
A quick swing upward and he was over the fence in the rear of the gym.
He tried the ground glass windows of the basement. Behind them, he knew, was the darkness of the swimming pool. To his disgust he couldn’t budge a single window. His roving eyes surveyed the yard. There was the usual scattering of broken bottles and tin cans hurled out the rear windows of the tenement dwellers—and a rotted hunk of timber where one of the fenc
e posts had been recently repaired.
Tracy picked it up and hefted it. He hesitated. If Clancy and Fleeter’s daughter were inside, Jerry wasn’t anxious to advertise his presence by the noisy jingle of broken glass.
The racket of a fire engine somewhere down the invisible avenue gave Tracy the break he was waiting for. He gripped the chunk of timber. As the fire engine roared past the silent tenement behind him, it gave an ear splitting blast of its siren. Tracy swung the club and scattered the heavy pane of opaque glass.
It was pitch dark inside. He waited at the jagged opening for five long minutes, listening intently. He could hear nothing.
He dropped to the tiled walk surrounding the pool and made his quiet way to the locker room. He knew the layout of the place accurately from the hundreds of pleasant visits he had made there. He climbed the iron steps from the locker room as soundlessly as a cat. The gym floor was in profound darkness, but he could see a reflection of yellow light from the corridor where Fleeter’s office was located.
Tracy drew his gun and crept quietly through the darkness. He tripped over one edge of an unseen wrestling mat, and for a startled moment or two he stood like a rigid statue. But nothing happened.
The door of Fleeter’s office was closed. The light reflection came from the transom. Tracy listened but there was no sound whatever from within. His left hand turned the knob slowly. The gun in his right was like part of his body.
Suddenly he threw the door wide, For a bare second he was motionless. Then he cried out faintly and sprang forward.
Mike Clancy was seated at Fleeter’s battered old desk. There was blood on the chair, blood on the floor; his bent head was soaked with crimson. No need to wonder how he had met his end. The room was a shambles; furniture overturned, articles from the desk scattered all over the floor. The implement that had crushed Clancy’s skull was a heavy bronze statue of a crouched boxer. It lay near the dead man’s feet, stained with a dark smear of blood,
Clancy’s head lay forward on the desk.
The body was still warm. Whoever had killed Clancy had done it damned recently. There was no trace of Ethel Fleeter. Yet Tracy, sniffing the air of the room, detected at once the same elusive scent he had smelled in the apartment of Tess Roland. Ethel had been in this musty office not many minutes earlier. She had seen Clancy killed and had been kidnaped—or had gone off willingly with the murderer!
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 49