“She was here yesterday. In this office. Showed me a photograph of her brother. Threatened me with—with harm if I breathed a single word to Mr. Halliday of her visit.”
Tracy sighed. It was tough on Phil, but he’d suspected something like this right from the start. He took out a cigarette, lit it, inhaled deeply. “Tell me about her,” he said.
The visitor was Cora, all right. Miss Clarkson described the dark-eyed Southern gal to a T. She had come in calmly, quietly, and identified herself to Halliday’s flustered secretary in the privacy of the inner office. Had even brought her marriage certificate with her to prove her identity, and a photograph in her handbag of a man that she said was her brother.
“What did he look like?” Tracy asked.
“Well, it was a small picture; a photo mounted on cardboard. A sandy-haired man, rather young, with a long, straight nose and rather heavy blond eyebrows. Not too tall, about your size—”
“By God, another little man,” Tracy growled. “That makes three of ’em!”
“What?”
“Don’t mind me. Go ahead. What did Mrs. Halliday want?”
Miss Clarkson’s voice was tense, very low. Cora wanted to know if her brother—Jim Barfield she called him—had been in the office recently to see Halliday. Miss Clarkson had said no. Cora’s dark eyes had seemed to burn right through the flustered secretary; she had been so intense, so grim, that Miss Clarkson had become instantly afraid of her. Had Jim by any chance called at Miss Clarkson’s home? Had he sent her any messages? Had she seen him anywhere?
“I finally convinced her,” the gray-haired secretary told Tracy with a shudder, “that I knew nothing whatever of her mysterious brother—if that’s what he was. She smiled at me then; and if ever I saw murder in a woman’s eyes, saw it in hers. She told me quite calmly that if I breathed a word, the merest hint, to Mr. Halliday of her visit to me or her conversation that she’d kill me without hesitation. She said her brother was a blackmailing crook, an ex-convict intent on breaking up their marriage if she didn’t keep paying him tribute. Said she had lied to her husband and told him she was an orphan. Said that if Mr. Halliday ever found out the truth about her brother and the rest of her family, she’d know where to look and what to—to do. She took a knife out of her handbag—”
“A knife, eh?”
“Yes, sir. A small one with a pearl handle. She showed it to me for a minute, and then walked out of the office as calmly as she had come in.”
“You didn’t see her on the subway station later, by any chance?”
“No.”
“Or her brother?”
“No. At the time I was too upset to—”
“I can well imagine,” Tracy said grimly. “Thanks for your information. It will help a lot if you keep quiet about all this.”
He made her repeat her description of the sandy little man with the long straight nose and the heavy, blond eyebrows. He thought about Cora’s determined red lips and those small male footprints in Phil’s garage all the way back to his penthouse. Cullop and Genung seemed to recede into a harmless background.
Tracy’s first telephone call, however, made him swear with sharp surprise. The Biddle detective agency’s report yanked Mr. Wilbur Genung right back into the screwy line-up. He load had an accident, it seemed. Had been away from home for two weeks. In the hospital with a sprained ankle.
Fred Biddle’s operative, posing as a postal investigator on a lost letter follow-up, had dug the story out of the hallman of the apartment house. Had gone to the hospital and verified the fact that Genung had been there, all right. But he had been there only two days. His whereabouts for the rest of the fortnight were completely unknown.
The wily Mr. Genung had obviously had time to fly to Florida and back, with plenty of chance for dog-and-cat killing in between. And he had returned, according to the hallman, the day before yesterday.
He was not overly surprised when the phone rang presently and an answer arrived to the telegram he had dispatched to Canada. The message was as follows:
MR. DAVID CULLOP HAS NOT BEEN A GUEST AT SEEGER’S CAMP THIS YEAR STOP MADE ALL PRELIMINARY ARRANGEMENTS AND THEN CANCELLED
BERT SEEGER
Jerry Tracy bounded to his feet and slid into his overcoat. He started for the door and then hesitated. For an instant he played with the irresolute idea of taking Butch with him—Butch, his oversized, very faithful and very dumb body-guard. He decided not to.
Both these lads—Cullop and Genung—were by Halliday’s own admission tough little monkeys and Jerry was not anxious to stop a Chinese battle-ax or a swift right hand to the jaw. But he was afraid that Butch might queer the whole thing by some stupid mistake and throw the whole case into the lap of the newspapers. And Phil Halliday didn’t want publicity. Besides, you couldn’t call copper because of a drowned cat and a smashed dog in Florida—and the rest was merely a haze of suspicion. For instance, Jerry was still a long way from believing that Cora had really been kidnaped. And a mustache could turn either Cullop or Genung into her “brother.” The whole set-up smelled funny.
David Cullop was a little guy, no bigger than Tracy, with a vindictive lower lip that pouted unpleasantly and red-rimmed eyes. The eyes narrowed when Jerry introduced himself as a friend of Halliday’s. Talking very quietly, the Daily Planet’s columnist sketched the peculiar chain of events that had happened in Florida and New York. Cullop stared at him silently, his lower lip jutting, until Tracy got to the subject of the Chinese battle-ax and the threat that had been uttered.
Instantly Cullop threw back his head and laughed. Roared with shrill merriment.
“Oh, that? Of all the idiotic nonsense! Man, it happened a full fifteen years ago! As a matter of fact, Halliday did me a favor when he acted as he did; although, naturally, you can imagine I didn’t think so at the time.” Again his laughter bubbled, but it was mean, nasty. “I didn’t know that dear old Phil was married again. I didn’t even know he was in Florida. If you think that I drowned his damned cat, you’re completely haywire, my friend. I’d have had to have a long arm indeed to reach all the way down from Canada, from the camp where I went to do some winter shooting.”
Tracy eyed the man’s face with a meaning smile. Cullop’s face and the back of his sinewy little hands were tanned a deep tropical brown.
“Pretty strong winter sun up in; Canada.”
“Eh? What the infernal hell are you getting at?”
“I’d like to know why you took the trouble to make a sneaky visit to Florida, Mr. Cullop. I had a wire from Seeger’s Camp which definitely proves that you’re a liar.”
“All right. You’re a gentleman and I’m a liar. So what?”
“What brought you to Florida?”
“None of your damned business.” Cullop’s fingers were clenched, his red eyes were blinking.
“That’s what you think. How would you like me to go to police headquarters and—”
He was utterly unprepared for the savage fury of Cullop’s rush. The little importer sprang forward, with a yelp of rage. Tracy’s upflung arm was not fast enough to ward off the furious blow of the hairy, sun-tanned fist. It landed on Tracy’s jaw and sent him staggering backward against a table.
His right countered awkwardly and sent Cullop spinning away. It was a push, rather than a punch. Instantly the little importer came charging back. Tracy’s left hand, however, had seized a heavy cut-glass urn and he swung it upward like a glittering club.
“O.K., Mister Cullop!” he panted. “Come on and take it!”
Cullop skipped nimbly backward as Jerry advanced. The murderous rage spilled out of his ugly red eyes as quickly as it had appeared. He darted behind a table and threw up a pleading hand. He began to laugh a little. Jerry stared at him, white with rage.
“What’s so funny about all this, you little rat?”
“I’m sorry,” Cullop croaked. “It really is funny, you know. I had no intention of—We’ve both been behaving like children. Put down y
our cut-glass bludgeon, my friend, and let’s talk this thing over sensibly.”
Cullop became very bland, almost jovial. Jerry stood there, the heavy vase in his hand, trying to chisel a little truth out of him. It was a hopeless task. For five minutes the smiling Mr. Cullop parried, punned, uttered his mean, arking laugh—and Tracy got nowhere.
The angrier he got, the more silken and suave Mr. Cullop became. In the end, Jerry gave up and walked out.
“Give my best to dear old Phil,” Cullop said sneeringly. His eyelids blinked.
“Tell him I grieve at the untimely demise of his cat and his dog. If he’ll let me know where the unfortunate little beasts are buried, I’d love to send a floral remembrance to mark the hallowed spot.”
“Nuts,” Tracy growled fiercely and slammed the door.
On the sidewalk downstairs he rubbed his jaw and thought of Butch. That sly little devil upstairs had socked like a pile-driver! And, according to Halliday, Genung was even tougher; he was the lad who had pulled a gun! Suddenly Tracy grinned stubbornly and thumbed a cab to the curb. Lightning, he thought, never strikes twice in the same place. He gave the driver the address on Central Park West.
Mr. Wilbur Genung was a more surly, gruffer proposition. Gray hair with a faint sprinkle of blond. None of Cullop’s febrile rage or suave palaver. A little guy, with a foot no bigger than Tracy’s. In a husky voice he came straight to the point, wanted to know who the hell Tracy was and what the hell Mr. Halliday meant by sending a private detective to his home.
“You don’t like Mr. Halliday very much, eh?”
“I think he’s a dirty, double-crossing louse.”
“Is that why you kidnaped his wife?”
Genung stared, “Wait a minute! I’ve seen you before somewhere, haven’t I?”
“Maybe. I just came back from Florida.”
Genung looked puzzled and then chuckled as he saw Tracy’s glance. “Oh, you mean the tan I’ve got? Bum guess, Mr. Gumshoe.” He threw a casual gesture toward the sun-lamp in the corner of his study. “Try it some time, my friend. It’ll do wonders with that pale little puss of yours. Fifteen minutes a day—and damned fools will come around and tell you you’ve been in Florida.”
“When all the time you’ve really been in the hospital?”
“Right.” His face flushed. “Oh, you’ve found that out, eh?”
“I’ve found out,” Tracy said quietly, “that you spent only two days there. Where were you the rest of the fortnight. Miami?”
Genung was peering steadily at the columnist. “By God,” he whispered, “now I know you! You’re no detective. Jerry Tracy—the snooper, the newspaper buttinski, the cheap little dirt peddler! Get out before I throw you out!”
“Yeah?” Jerry’s eyes gleamed. “You tried that once on Phil Halliday, didn’t you? You got kicked in the belly, if you’ll remember. Were you thinking of that kick in the belly when you arranged a sprained ankle and a phoney hospital alibi?”
This time Jerry landed first. His fist beat Gunung’s by a scant second and drove him back on his heels. Genung came charging forward with a roar of rage. For a minute or two they tussled and again Jerry felt a numbing smack on the jaw. But Tracy was cooler than the raging little stock speculator and he managed to hold him off and tie him up with a straight left.
Jerry’s right crossed like a streak of light and landed with all of his strength in the pit of Genung’s belly. The man’s mouth flew open with the sharp agony of paralyzed diaphragm muscles. He went down in a tight writhing ball on the floor and his opened mouth made quick, gasping sounds. His eyes were bulging with the fierce agony of trying to breathe.
“You’ll always be a sucker for the belly,” Tracy told him in a harsh monotone.
He walked over to the sun lamp and examined it. There was no bulb in the thing. Genung swayed to his knees, both hands still clutching at his solar plexus. He couldn’t talk but the look in his eyes was unmistakable as he glanced toward the top drawer of a carved cabinet. Tracy opened the drawer with a quick jerk and took out a shining .32. It was fully loaded. He shoved it into his pocket and walked out. Genung tried to rush at him as he reached the door. There was an opened pocket-knife in his hand. Jerry hit him briefly with the butt of the gun.
“Try that on your piano, Mr. Genung,” he said and slammed the door.
He hadn’t found out a thing to compensate him for the two cracks on the jaw. But he did know that both Genung and Cullop were still very much in the puzzle. He decided to give Fred Biddie’s detective agency another ring, put their Florida office to work.
In the meantime, poor Phil Halliday was probably sweating blood in the Albermarle Hotel, wondering what Tracy was up to. If Tracy told him the truth he’d have to report honestly that he’d been blundering around like a fat-head. No news whatever of Cora’s whereabouts. Nothing but a whirligig of suspicious little men. Three of them so far. He was convinced that the key to the whole puzzle lay in those footprints on the whitewashed floor of Halliday’s Westchester garage.
He took a cab to his Times Square office and picked up Butch.
“What’s the matter with your jaw?” Butch asked him with a slow grin.
“I’ve been using it instead of my brains. Come on, big boy; we’ve got to see a man about his dog and his ship’s captain and his wife and three little guys from school.”
The afternoon was getting much colder and darker; beginning to look a lot like snow. People walked head down, their coat-tails lashing in the stiff gale. Jerry chose to walk instead of grabbing the inevitable cab. It was not more than six or seven blocks to the Albermarle Hotel, and besides, there was something in the cold smack of the wind that matched his feeling of savage disgust. He hadn’t gained an inch in this queer run-around.
Light snow began to fall. Jerry pulled his muffler higher on his throat and turned up his coat collar. He had just passed the glass and steel maw of a subway kiosk when he heard the rapid click of heels behind him. The sound filled him with a queer premonition of peril. But before he could whirl he felt the sudden searing agony of a sharp blade in the flesh of his neck.
Blood gushed from a ragged slash in his muffler and coat collar. It stained his clutching hand crimson. Weakly he stumbled forward and fell to the pavement. Butch, who was several feet ahead, turned as he heard Jerry’s cry. He sprang to him with a frightened yelp as he saw Jerry lying on the pavement, his neck and throat red.
The sidewalk, the falling snow seemed to reel dizzily before the fallen columnist’s glaring eyes. He could hear the roaring yell of Butch’s voice, feel the excited fumble of the big hands on his prone body.
“The subway!” he gasped faintly. “Don’t mind me. Down the subway. Go get him!”
He was dimly conscious of the shuffling of many feet, the stare of countless eyes, the shrill bleat of a police whistle. He saw the bent head of Butch reappear, huge and red like a bloated balloon, felt himself lifted in Butch’s paws. …
He dreamed that he was on the swaying back of a camel moving mile after mile over a perfectly level and incredibly hot desert. …
A slightly Jewish voice said calmly, “You’ve a very lucky gent, Mister,” and Tracy opened his eyes and saw the face of an ambulance surgeon. He was flat on his back across a couple of chairs in the back of a drug-store. The place reeked with steam heat. His coat and muffler were gone and there was a white, lumpy bandage around his throat.
“Very lucky,” the ambulance doctor repeated. “If it had been the other side of your neck—zippo!—that knife would have sliced right through your jugular.”
“Did they catch the guy?” Jerry whispered weakly.
“Nope. He got away. Who was he? Did you know him?”
Butch, who was bending close toward his employer, seemed to be making urgent little gestures with his big head. One of his eyes closed in a brief, heavy wink. Instantly Jerry’s brain cleared. He remembered how Butch had gone helter-skelter down the subway steps after the fugitive. He must have discovered someth
ing and was uncertain whether to spill it or not.
Tracy got quietly stubborn with these fussy people who were trying to rush him off to a hospital. He told the cop his name and refused hospital treatment. He forced the shrugging ambulance doctor to admit that the wound itself was not dangerous; a shallow scoop, more bloody than serious. The muffler and coat collar had turned the blade of the assailant’s weapon and inflicted a gouge rather than a gash in the flesh of his neck.
Tracy mentioned the name of his own personal physician, the most famous and highest priced surgeon in New York. The ambulance man shrugged and said dryly, “O.K.—if you want to go home. It’s your neck, Mister Tracy.”
The slow ding-etty-ding of the ambulance vanished and the cop made a passage for Tracy and Butch through the lingering crowd outside the drug-store. Butch helped his pale-faced employer into a taxi and Jerry whispered to the driver, “Albermarle Hotel. Make it nice and slow.” He had crammed the bloody muffler into his pocket and his slashed overcoat collar was turned up high over the bandage on his neck.
“Did you get a look at the guy that sliced me?” He asked Butch.
“It wasn’t a guy,” Butch stuttered. “It was a dame.”
“Huh? A woman? What she look like?”
To his disgust Butch couldn’t tell him a thing, except that she wore a black hat and looked like a dame. “Oh, yeah, she had silk stockings,” Butch added, with the air of a man imparting valuable information.
The time spent bending over his bleeding employer had given the desperate woman too long a start. She was past the turnstiles and the door of a train was closing behind her by the time that the heavy-footed Butch had reached the change booth downstairs.
“I found this on the steps,” he said huskily.
“Ah,” Tracy said.
The object that Butch had laid in his palm was a knife. An ugly little thing with a pearl handle. He snapped it gently open and the blade was drenched with fresh blood.
“I didn’t know whether you wanted me to show it to the cop or not,” Butch mumbled.
“You’re a smart pal. I didn’t.”
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 58