Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  “Shut up!” Fitz growled. “What do you know, Jerry?”

  “I know that this specimen here is a crook and a kidnaper. Where are you from, Ala—Delancey Street or Coney Island? And who taught your secretary how to use a strangle cord?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” the swami said.

  “Ever hear of a cute little dancer named Peggy Arlen?”

  “No.”

  “Or an unfortunate little street Arab named Eddie?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Been anywhere near the Garfield Theatre tonight?”

  “No.” His voice got silky. “As I have just explained to this police gentleman, I have not been outside my home today. Today is my time for rest and meditation.”

  He was glaring at the dapper little columnist, his lips taut with repressed fury, when the telephone on the desk in the corner of the room rang suddenly.

  Fitz’ arm blocked off the swami’s forward movement. “You answer it, Jerry.”

  Tracy was already at the phone, his eyes alert. He said in a deliberately blurred murmur: “Allo?”

  Words came over the wire with an excited rush. “Sorry, swami, but we had to croak Ned Wortman. We snatched him okey, but he tried a fast one just a minute ago and we had to hand it to him. He’s as dead as a mackerel.”

  “That ees well,” Tracy said calmly and replaced the phone. He stared at Fitzgerald. “Is it true that Wortman was kidnapped tonight?” Fitz nodded, a little bewildered by the curt question.

  “He was grabbed right after he left the show at the Garfield Theatre. There’s a confidential alarm out for him now. How did you know?”

  From the hall doorway came a gentle cough in the tones of McNulty. The Chinaman’s yellow eyelid dropped in an unmistakable wink.

  Tracy said: “Wait a second, Fitz. I’ll be right back.”

  He shut the door behind him. McNulty’s eyes were motioning down the hall towards a tall chair alongside a shadowy hatstand.

  “Look-see,” McNulty whispered.

  The chair was straightbacked, with a knob on either side. One of the knobs was covered with a pale green scarf. The scarf had been hurriedly wrapped around the knob in a loosely draped, turban-like effect. It was almost invisible in the shadow.

  “Some more of the same,” Tracy said gently. He untangled the scarf and stuffed it into his pocket.

  He was turning back towards the room where he had left Fitz and the swami, when he heard the sound of light footfalls approaching from the rear of the long hallway. He stood quite still as he saw the woman advance.

  She was dressed in flowing robes. On her forehead was a circular red caste mark. The dark-skinned effect was undoubtedly make-up. If this was the so-called “looney dame,” it was a cinch that she was no Hindoo, but a white woman. She walked straight towards the foot of the stairs. She paid no attention whatever to Tracy or McNulty or the servant. McNulty eyed her carefully and nodded to Tracy. But his identification of her was not necessary.

  She was carrying a book. As she turned to ascend the stairs she lifted the book with a negligent gesture so that Tracy could see the name on the cover. It was a copy of The Arabian Nights. An exactly similar edition to the one that had so mysteriously turned up at Tracy’s penthouse. Without a sound, without even a glance, the woman in the long robe walked quietly up the dimly lit stairs and disappeared.

  Tracy felt his heart quicken. In danger herself, perhaps, and trying to warn Jerry. The book stunt must have been the only way she could work the game without alarming the swami. Coupled with the turban on the chair in the hall, it meant that Lightweight was a prisoner in this house. And Eddie, too! The dame in the robes and the walnut makeup was trying to snitch on what was evidently a criminal racket without risking her neck as a traitress.

  Tracy paused for a moment to consider one other angle. Ned Wortman! A third victim—and a theatrical man like the other two, Davis and Parker. According to Inspector Fitzgerald, Wortman had been kidnaped. According to the voice on the telephone, Wortman had been not only kidnaped, but killed. The Daily Planet’s shrewd little columnist was now absolutely certain that Wortman had been kidnaped but was not dead. The voice on the wire had been too eager to pour out the hooey.

  But the real reason for Tracy’s puzzled frown lay in something more substantial. He had recognized that breathless voice on the wire. It was the same fat guy who had said “no” to Jerry’s queries in the Egyptian tobacco shop. The same guy who had sneaked so quietly from the swami’s room the moment Jerry had walked in. He had obviously called up on another phone from somewhere in the house and spilled his message about a murder, knowing that Tracy or the inspector would answer the phone at the first warning tinkle of the bell. It looked like a clever stunt to draw them away from the house while the swami and his fake “secretary” got rid of Lightweight and the kid.

  Tracy decided to do a little smooth faking himself. He opened the door of the parlor and gave Fitzgerald a good imitation of a crestfallen grin.

  “Sorry, Fitz. I’m afraid I’ve pulled a boner. We owe Mr. Ala an apology.”

  “Huh?” Fitz growled.

  Tracy saw that the inner door was opened a trifle. He suspected that the ear of the wily “secretary” was not far from that infinitesimal crack.

  “Ned Wortman’s been killed. We’ll have to race uptown in a hurry if we’re going to nab the real murderer.”

  “Uptown where? And who says Wortman is dead?” Fitz was watching the columnist keenly.

  “I got it from Inspector Malarkey.” Tracy said, with a faint emphasis on the name.

  “Malarkey? But there isn’t any—”

  Suddenly Fitz got it. Jerry was trying to kid the swami. He didn’t dare say hooey or baloney. Malarkey was as close as he could get.

  “Come on,” Tracy urged. “I’ve got my car outside at the curb. We can make it uptown in a hurry.” He grinned at the suspicious eyes of Ala. “Sorry, swami, that we busted in on you this way. I made a bum guess. If you’re sore about it—sue the Daily Planet. Okey, McNulty; come on!”

  The three hurried through the hall. The front door closed behind them. In the pouring rain that danced with a drumming sound on the stone stoop, Tracy clutched Fitz’ arm. The silly look was gone from his face. He was Jerry Tracy again—smart, eager, the little guy that Broadway respected and loved. He whispered urgently in the old man’s ear.

  “Lightweight and Eddie are hidden in that house,” he concluded. “That dame with the book cinches it. She’s on our side, Fitz, trying to tip us to the truth.”

  Fitzgerald, who had seen no one but the swami and his two henchmen, started to spurt questions but Jerry shook his head.

  “No time for talk now. Hop to a booth and shoot in a call for a couple of squad cars. You’ve got to surround this joint and search it in a hurry, or there’ll be two more murders in tomorrow’s headlines. The Chink and I will stick around in my parked car in case the kidnapers try a fast sneak with Lightweight and the kid.”

  Fitz’ red face looked worried. “Are you sure about all this, Jerry? I can’t afford to make a dumb play.”

  “You’re making a dumb play by wasting time.”

  “Okey. You’ve never let me down yet.”

  They started to descend to the sidewalk.

  “Hold it, you muggs!” a hard voice said.

  The door of the vestibule had opened without sound. Two men with automatics were grinning at the departing guests. The fellow who had snarled the command was the fat-faced secretary. The other gunman was the lad whom McNulty had cornered in the hall.

  There was death in the grim faces in the vestibule opening. And the slanting rain, spattering into the eyes of the broad-shouldered cop and the little columnist, made any attempt at movement a suicidal proposition. McNulty muttered something in Chinese, and stood quietly watching Tracy.

  “Take the door, Andy,” Fat Face growled at his pal.

  “Right. Can you ease ’em in, Nick?”

  “Just l
ike hot grease.” Nick chuckled. “Forward march, gents!”

  Under the watchful glare of the secretary’s beady eyes, the three prisoners passed quietly back inside the house.

  The party was herded along the dim hallway and into the room of the swami. Ala looked more frightened than triumphant.

  “You’re making a foolish mistake, Nick,” he said faintly. “Why didn’t you let them go? We could have arranged things much better.”

  “Nuts to that. We got dynamite to get rid of before it busts in our faces. Three hunks of it right here—and two more upstairs.” Nick’s fat face looked hot and sweaty. “All we gotta do is pull the fuses on these guys, and then we’re sittin’ pretty.”

  Ala’s face got whiter. He had lost all of his fake suavity. For the first time, Tracy received a strong impression that the secretary, Nick, was the real boss of this gang. Andy, the other gunman, paid scant attention to Ala. He kept watching Nick. Both these yeggs were either running the racket themselves, or working for someone else.

  “You’re not going to kill these people, are you?” Ala gasped.

  “Sure.”

  “You’re crazy. We can’t get away with it.”

  “No? Watch!”

  His gun barrel swung toward Fitz’ belly. Tracy, helpless under the weapon of Andy, sucked in a frightened breath.

  “Don’t!” he begged. “For God’s sake boys—you can’t—”

  McNulty was shivering. He began to wail in Chinese. Suddenly his hand jerked towards his flowing sleeve as though drawing a knife. It drew Nick’s gaze and created diversion enough for Tracy to dive headlong at the thug. His plunging body struck Nick in the shins and sent him forward. There was a crash as he fell. His bullet plowed into the floor.

  Fitzgerald fired almost simultaneously. His slug ripped into Nick’s body. Andy fired at Fitz, missed—and Tracy’s fist caught him in the mouth. The flame of Andy’s pistol almost blinded him, but the deflected bullet missed his neck by a hair’s-breadth. McNulty, who had wriggled across the floor, yanked the gunman’s ankles out from under him. As he fell, he dropped the gun and Tracy struck him over the skull with the butt.

  As he whirled, he saw the swami leap away from an open drawer of his desk with an automatic. Ala fired wildly—twice—before Fitz’ spurt of flame cut him down. It was neat shooting, too. The swami hit the floor with a sodden smack and didn’t move. Fitz leaped over his body and snapped cuffs on Andy, the thug Tracy had slugged.

  The only sounds in a suddenly quiet room were the faint groans of the wounded Nick and the mouselike rustle that McNulty made as he regained his slippered feet. Nick’s eyes were glaring. His hands were pressed tightly over the wound in his side. Blood welled between his clutching fingers.

  “Confucius say,” McNulty remarked breathlessly, “it velly bad to hurt human man. He say nothing about rats.”

  Tracy whirled towards the open doorway behind them. He had heard the patter of light footsteps, the sound of a sobbing breath. An instant later a girl was swaying in the doorway. A girl in Oriental robes, with a vivid caste mark on her forehead.

  She was gasping, trying to talk. The fake Hindoo pose was gone. Her words were nasal New Yorkese, shrill with terror and excitement.

  “Quick! Upstairs—prisoners! A dame and a kid!”

  Tracy’s voice crackled. “Any more gunmen?”

  “No. Just Nick and Andy—and Morello.”

  “Morello?” Fitz barked. “Who’s he?”

  She pointed with a quivering finger at the dead body of the swami. She began to weep hysterically. Tracy shook her out of it, hurried her to the staircase outside.

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you,” he said gently. “Show us where to go.”

  Up one carpeted flight. Down a narrow hall. Up another. … On the top floor the girl pointed towards a locked door. Fitz rattled the knob without result and sprang back a few steps. He threw himself fiercely at the barrier. It ripped on the fourth try and fell inward with a crash.

  Tracy uttered a clipped exclamation of despair as he hurdled the prone body of the inspector. The room was empty. There were faint marks on the bed and a few loose cords. A window had been raised from the bottom and rain was driving in on the soaked carpet. Lightweight was gone! It looked as though she had managed to squirm out of her bonds and scram in terror via the window route.

  An instant later Tracy was sure of it. With his head poked outward into the driving downpour, he saw the blur of fire-escape ladders and an alley below. He saw something closer at hand and, leaning swiftly, picked the thing up. It was a fragment of cloth, ripped from a woman’s gown. A bit of satin material. Apple-green!

  Fitz was yelling grimly at the girl in the Oriental make-up, but Tracy intervened. “Don’t holler at her, Fitz. You’ll scare her dumb—and she’s trying to help us.”

  He smiled at her, patted her quivering shoulder. There was reassurance in his voice, friendliness in his smile. “Where’s the boy? Where did they hide Eddie?”

  They found him in a front room, face down on a bed, tied up like a miniature mummy. Jerry’s pocket knife slashed the cords away.

  Eddie was bleary-eyed, almost senseless, but a faint grin wavered on his wizened, dirty little face as he recognized the Daily Planet’s columnist.

  “Jeeze, Mister Tracy, I knew you’d show up. … You’re—you’re tops, no kiddin’.”

  He flopped forward, out cold. There were ugly smudges of red on his face and neck where he’d been slapped around by someone.

  “Dig up some water, McNulty,” Tracy said. He whirled towards the girl behind him. “What’s your name—your real one?”

  “Dot Hagen.”

  “Who’s Morello—is that the swami?”

  “Yes. I—I swear I had nothing to do with this. Morello forced me into the racket. I pulled a fast one out at Coney Island last year and Morello put the heat on me to play ball.”

  “Coney Island, eh? Is that where he figured out his swami stunt?”

  “He was a mind-reader. He used it as a cover for blackmail. He used to kid customers along, squeeze scandal out of them—and then make ’em pay plenty to keep it quiet.”

  Fitz glared at her. “You trying for an out on this? You claiming that Morello and his two gunmen forced you into murder and kidnaping?”

  “Easy, Fitz,” Jerry cautioned. “I think she’s on the level.”

  “I swear it,” she whimpered. “You can ask Mr. Tracy. I snatched Eddie because Morello was right next to me in the car with a gun. But I tried to warn you, Mr. Tracy. I—I sent you a marked book, figuring you’d tumble and come with cops. The book was the only chance I had. Morello had his eye on me all the time. I figured you’d see the hookup between Alladin and Ala Dhinn. I—”

  A groan from the bed brought Tracy swinging around. Eddie had recovered consciousness under the ministrations of McNulty. The Chinaman lifted the limp kid in his arms and frowned reprovingly at his two companions.

  “Boy hurt. Allatime talk, talk, talk. … You talk—boy die. Velly fine!”

  Fitzgerald clutched Dot Hagen’s shoulder. “You don’t know where Lightweight is now?”

  “No, no. … Morello had her tied up here ever since he snatched her from the theater. She—she must have—”

  “Let’s get downstairs,” Tracy said.

  Nick was still lying on his side, with one hand clutching his wound, the other doubled weakly beneath his body. He was obviously dying. His glazed eyes glared at the girl. She shrank back.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Jerry said gently. “He can’t hurt you. Nick and Andy did the killing for Morello. Right?”

  Dot Hagen shook her head. “No. They were here to watch Morello and me. They didn’t kill Sol Davis. They didn’t kill Stuart Parker.”

  “Huh?” Inspector Fitzgerald stared at her. “Who did? Morello himself?”

  “No. Morello was just a front, a fall guy. So was I. Except that Morello didn’t get wise to it in time—but I did.”

  “Who’s
the undercover boss?”

  “This kid knows,” she said faintly, pointing to the dazed Eddie who hung limply in McNulty’s arms. “That’s why he was snatched—to shut his mouth.”

  “Who did it?” Fitz repeated impatiently. “Talk up. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

  “A slimy, rotten hypocrite!” Dot Hagen flashed, her terror whipped away by hate. “A big shot. A wise guy by the name of—”

  She screamed and her hand clutched at her breast. Nick had whipped his hidden gun from under his wounded body, and had fired upward from the floor where he lay. Dot Hagen’s mouth was still open soundlessly as she fell.

  The dying killer’s gun roared as it jerked towards Fitz and Tracy. But both of them had leaped aside at the first explosion. The inspector’s gun swung downward. Nick’s body bounced as police slugs ripped into him. This time he really was dead! Breathing hard, Fitz stood over him like a frozen marionette, smoke curling thinly from the barrel of his .38.

  Tracy had dropped to his knees beside the unconscious girl. To his relief he saw that she was not badly wounded.

  “Forget her,” Fitz barked. “She’s as bad as the rest.”

  “Not much. She’s been trying to help me right from the start. This kid’s going to a private room in a hospital. At my expense. And I’m spotting her to a decent job when she gets well—and don’t you forget it!”

  Fitz nodded. “All right. Have it your way, Jerry.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tracy interrupted. His own voice was barely audible. There was a queer look on his wizened little face—a flash of quick comprehension. He was staring straight at the semi-conscious street urchin in the arms of McNulty. “Of course! Unless he were a witness, there’d have been no reason for snatching Eddie.”

  “Huh?” Fitzgerald gaped at the columnist.

  “Outside! My car’s still there. We’ve got to get Eddie out of his doze in a hurry. He’s got the key to this puzzle without realizing it.”

  The rain was still pouring hard. Fitzgerald slid in past the wheel of the car Jerry threw open the rear door and motioned for McNulty to get in with Eddie. The Chinaman was bending forward when he gave a little yelp.