“I might have a minute ago,” Tracy said evenly. “A minute ago you were excited enough to pump lead. Now you’ve had time to think things over. The gun’s a bluff.”
“Yeah?”
“You live in that apartment house, mister. Or the girl does. One bang from that gun and out comes your doorman and identifies one of his tenants with a corpse.”
The drawl went out of Tracy’s voice. It crackled. “What’s your racket?”
All Tracy got was profanity.
He laughed and dropped his palm on the horn button. He kept it there in a long sustained blast. A uniformed figure came hurrying out from the ornate front entrance of the near-by apartment house. The doorman paid no attention to Tracy, He was goggling at the gunman. The weapon was no longer in sight, but the heel dent on the man’s forehead was still trickling blood.
The doorman’s frightened ejaculation sounded like the bleat of a goat. “Mr. Spane! What’s—what’s happened? Is anything wrong?”
The man didn’t say anything. He had walked quietly to the front of Tracy’s sedan and was staring intently at the license plate. Tracy started the car again and the motor caught. The man jumped sideways.
“Mr. Spane has had a little accident,” Tracy murmured to the doorman. “He was reaching for something and fell out the window.”
Spane laughed briefly. It sounded nasty. “I’ll be reaching for something else damned soon and next time I won’t flop!”
He turned and walked with swift, slippery strides toward the apartment entrance. The doorman gave Tracy a frightened look and then followed Spane.
Tracy meshed gears and eased his sedan away from the curb. He drove slowly on the slick pavement. He tried to keep his mind on the tires as he jockeyed the new sedan safely around the corner and headed down the avenue at a sluggish pace. He didn’t want a ten-thousand-dollar custom job wrapped around a light pole a week after he’d bought it!
That was what Jerry Tracy pretended to think, but it wasn’t the truth. The apartment-house doorman had given him something more sinister to think about. A guy chasing a frightened girl in a torn white evening gown didn’t mean much in Manhattan. But when the guy’s name was Ed Spane. …
Ed Spane had been very much in the news lately. Labor news. He was executive vice-president of the Textile Worker’s local in New York. For the past month Spane had taken over the leadership of the union, acting in the place of the union’s president, Nicola Durensky. Durensky had been slugged over the head and badly beaten by unidentified thugs.
An unauthorized sit-in strike had brought violence and death to the huge, sprawling factories of the Chanler Knitting Mills. Durensky had tried to settle the strike—and now he was lying in a hospital in a coma from concussion of the brain.
The trouble had flared up after years of peace between the union and the Chanler Mills. Spane charged that Roy Chanler had fomented the mysterious violence with paid spies, that his plan was to smash the union and break his labor contract. Spane ascribed the brutal slugging of Durensky to professional gorillas hired by Roy Chanler’s plant superintendent. Chanler denied it.
The girl locked in Tracy’s trunk was no longer a mystery to the dapper little columnist of the Daily Planet. Tracy had realized her identity the moment he had heard the doorman call the man with the gun Mr. Spane. She was Vera Durensky!
Her resemblance to her father was the thing that had nudged Tracy’s memory. She had his same high cheekbones, his slanting brown eyes. Tracy had met Nicola Durensky several times and had liked him. The old man had a reputation for brains, courage, and honesty. He had come to New York from Poland many years ago and had become one of the best loved labor leaders in the country. He was one of the original organizers of the Textile Union.
Tracy wondered if the attack on Durensky was linked with the frightened flight of his daughter from the apartment of Ed Spane. Spane was a relative newcomer in the union. Tracy made a mental note to get in touch with Leo Pelman and find out more about this ugly labor trouble. Pelman would know plenty about it. He was the Daily Planet’s labor expert. He ran a department called “News Along the Labor Front.”
Meanwhile there remained the awkward problem of Vera. Tracy glanced uneasily over his shoulder. Unless he got her out of that damned trunk the girl would smother to death. He started to pull in toward the curb, then changed his mind.
There were plenty of cabs on the avenue and enough pedestrians to make things a nuisance. So many people knew Tracy there was a chance he’d be spotted and recognized if he tried to release a sketchily clad brunette beauty on a public street. And Tracy didn’t want any more publicity. Spane’s threat when he had memorized Tracy’s license number, was proof enough to the Daily Planet’s columnist that he had already stuck his neck out.
The only improving situation was the weather. The sleet was changing to snow, and driving was a bit easier. Tracy stepped up his speed, keeping his eyes alert for an all-night garage.
He spied one presently and drove in. The only person in sight was a Negro car washer. Tracy got out of his sedan and the Negro shambled sleepily toward him. Tracy told him he needed an extra headlight bulb.
“Don’t reckon we got one that’ll do you, suh.”
“How about taking a look in the stock room?”
“Yassuh.”
The minute the Negro disappeared, Tracy worked fast. The girl’s teeth were chattering. She was so stiff she couldn’t move. Jerry hauled her out with a grunt. He shoved her in the rear of the sedan and dropped the lap-robe over her. He pulled a pocket flask from a compartment in the dash and thrust it into the cold clutch of the girl’s fingers. She gave him a glassy smile of thanks.
“Ain’t got no light bulb like you need, boss,” the Negro reported presently, “We don’t carry them big—”
“O.K. Never mind.”
He gave the man a dime and backed the heavy sedan to the street. He headed toward his penthouse. The girl was now hunched forward on the rear seat, the lap-robe tucked across her knees. Her teeth had stopped clicking. There was a flush on her lovely cheeks as she handed Jerry back his flask.
“Thank you. You have good liquor.”
“Good?” He grinned. “It’s perfect, Miss Schmalz! By the way, what’s your name?”
“Smith.”
“Not Mrs. John Smith?” Tracy asked dryly,
“No. Miss Johanna Smith.” He liked the way she laughed. Sleigh bells. Silver ones.
“Who was the guy that chased you? I had a time getting rid of him.”
He could almost hear the click of Vera Durensky’s brain as she hesitated. Locked in the air-tight trunk, she probably hadn’t heard a thing.
“Was he ugly about it?”
“No. I told him you had ducked into another doorway. When he chased after you, I scrammed. What was it all about?”
“I was silly enough to go look at his etchings. We had a couple of drinks and he got fresh. I’m afraid I said ‘No’ with the heel of one of my slippers. I lost the other one racing down the backstairs. I’m sorry I dragged you into it.”
Again Tracy was conscious of a pause, an indefinable hardening of the girl’s voice. “Or did I drag you in?”
“What do you mean?” Tracy asked her, his gaze flicking swiftly across his shoulder. Her brown eyes were steady.
“I thought I recognized you, but I wasn’t sure until I saw your initials on the flask. You’re Jerry Tracy of the Daily Planet. I’m wondering how you happened to be waiting so providentially outside that apartment house. It doesn’t make sense. I mean, your saving me from him.”
Tracy could sense cold, cautious antagonism. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.
“You write a Broadway column every day, don’t you?”
“Sure. So what?”
“Skip it,” she said. “Do you mind turning this car around? I live uptown.”
“You can’t go home in stocking feet and the wreck of an evening gown. You need a hot bath and some new clothes. I
can let you have both. And there isn’t a single etching in my whole penthouse.”
To his surprise Vera didn’t protest. He had a queer feeling that she had expected his suggestion, was glad that he had made it.
Tracy pulled into the curb in front of the canopied entrance of the smooth granite cliff on whose pinnacle his penthouse was perched. The doorman’s discreet smile ignored the fact that Tracy was accompanied by a very lovely and very rumpled looking girl.
“Good evening, Mr. Tracy.”
“Go upstairs, Eddie, and tell Butch to give you the smallest pair of slippers in the house. Scram.”
“Yes, sir.” He hurried away.
“Do they all have that sublime lack of curiosity?” the girl asked.
“They do when they’re on your personal payroll,” Tracy grinned. “I could bring home a white elephant in lace panties and Eddie would act just the same.” His grin widened as he gazed at Vera’s slim figure. “No offense meant, of course.”
Tracy slid the borrowed slippers on Vera’s feet while Eddie held the sedan’s door open. The girl held out her stocking feet indifferently. They were really lovely legs. Eddie kept his head up and his eyes down. It must have hurt his neck. Tracy locked the car and he and Vera went upstairs.
Butch was listening to a radio program. He gawped but didn’t say anything when Tracy and the girl walked in. Butch was Tracy’s valet, bodyguard, messenger boy and pest-chaser. He had the body of a behemoth and the mind of a child. A career in the ring as a second-rate pugilist hadn’t added anything to his intellect any. But he was as tough as a squad of marines and just as handy.
A swing band was pouring hot rhythm from the radio. Butch rubbed his bad ear and leaned closer to listen, a blurred smile on his thick lips.
“Look, lemme hear this number, will you? Boy, listen to it! Hatch Talbot’s sure playin’ with his pants down tonight—’scuse me, lady.”
“Scram!” Tracy said. “I’m busy. Take the funny paper to bed with you.”
Butch didn’t argue. He departed with his underlip hanging sadly.
Vera Durensky was calmly watching Tracy. Dance music filled the silence between them.
“There’s a key in the bedroom door,” Tracy told her. “You’ll find a selection of evening gowns and anything else you may need in my man-about-town closet. Second door to the left. The bathroom is private. You’ll like it.”
“Thank you.” Her glance as she left him was half mockery, half challenge.
Alone in the living room, Tracy wasn’t quite sure what he ought to do next. He paced up and down, listening to the dance music. Vera’s story about her visit to Spane was phoney. Spane might have made a lustful pass at her, but it didn’t explain why he had chased her to the street with a gun. There was no lust in his eyes when he had argued with Tracy; there was despair and fear. Vera had swiped something from Ed Spane! That was the only sensible answer.
Whatever Vera had stolen, it was probably in the pocket of her coat, Tracy decided to try and get hold of it. He grinned as he figured out a pleasant way to frisk the girl.
While Tracy waited, he had a good chance to call up Leo Pelman, the Daily Planet’s labor reporter. He wanted to fill out his sketchy knowledge of the trouble between Durensky’s union and the Chanler Knitting Mills.
He was leafing through the phone book for Pelman’s home address when a series of staccato sounds from the radio whirled him around with instant tension. Bap-bap-bap. … It cut through the rhythm of Hatch Talbot’s swing music like the echo of rapping knuckles.
Tracy knew what it meant. It was the click of a phone dial, picked up as electrical interference by the radio and magnified in the loud speaker. He tried to fix the number of sounds in his memory by rapping his own knuckles against his palm. He knew that for every hole in the phone dial there was an additional click from zero to A. But he was too late to get the exchange combination or the four numbers of the call. He caught only the last two.
The numbers were a seven and a three. Tracy was certain of that. He was also grimly certain of the sound origin. Vera Durensky was telephoning somebody from the phone in Tracy’s own bedroom.
He had no way of listening in. Every phone in his penthouse—and there was one in each room, including the bathroom—was a private instrument. People who called up with scandal items were entitled to protection from eavesdroppers, and some of Tracy’s pals were not above curiosity.
Frowning, Tracy picked up his living-room phone to call Leo Pelman. But he slammed it down before the operator could complete the call. His radio was rapping again!
This time Tracy got it. Seven series of bangs like the pop of a tiny firecracker. The first three was the exchange. The last four was the number. Tracy’s right hand transferred the sounds to paper as his left repeated the raps.
He glanced at the dial of his own phone and translated sound into sight. The exchange letters were grouped in threes. But the only letter combination that made sense was CH. And the next number was 9. CHester-9. … The whole thing added up to CHester 9-3248.
Tracy knew the neighborhood of the Chester exchange. Grabbing the phone book, his fingers raced tremulously along the S’s. Spane, Edward, Arlington Street, CHester 9-3248.
Tracy was afraid to turn off his radio for fear the sudden silence might warn the girl in his bedroom. He laid his ear against the door but the music ruined any chance to listen. Grimly, he decided to take advantage of the music himself. He called Leo Pelman.
Pelman sounded sleepy and puzzled.
He kept asking Tracy to talk louder. Finally, he made sense of the low urgent whispers that Tracy spat at him.
“You mean Ed Spane? Gosh, no! Where did you ever get a screwy idea like that? He’s rough and he’s tough, but he’s on the level. As honest as they come. … What? Speak up, Jerry! I can’t hear you.”
“Wait a second!”
Tracy tiptoed to the bedroom door. He thought he could hear the splash of water from his bathroom. He raced back to the phone.
Rapidly he told Pelman about his unexpected adventure with Spane and Vera Durensky. The Daily Planet’s labor reporter gasped.
“Durensky’s daughter, eh? And Spane had a gun? It doesn’t sound like him. He usually swings a fist, a tough one, too. Did you see any signs of Chanler when Vera came tearing out the alley?”
“Chanler?”
“Roy Chanler. The head of the Chanler Knitting Mills.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“Durensky’s daughter is in love with him,” Pelman sputtered over the wire. “She’s nuts about him! She’s living in his home right now as a guest of Nell Chanler, Roy’s sister. The two gals were roommates at college. When Vera’s old man was slugged on the skull, she went to live with Neil.”
“So what?”
“Vera’s gone high-hat in a big way ever since she tangled with the Chanlers, My hunch is that she’d do anything Roy asked her to. Sell out her old man and bust up his union, to take an altar-walk with a guy who has a cute dimple in his chin and eight million dollars.” All the sleepiness had whipped away from Pelman’s voice. “You don’t believe that?”
“I’m listening,” Tracy said. He kept watching the closed door of his bedroom, ready to snap down the phone at the first click of a key in the inside of the lock.
Pelman’s voice shot him labor dope over the wire. Roy Chanler was a union baiter, he said. There had been no trouble while his old man had run the mills. Durensky and old man Chanler liked and trusted each other. But after Chanler died and Roy took over, trouble had started. Mysterious violence that had sent Durensky to the hospital and had baffled Ed Spane in his efforts to make peace. Roy Chanler didn’t want peace! He wanted to smash the union and cancel his labor contracts. And Vera Durensky was hand-in-glove with him—against her own father.
“I’ll look over my files and records and call you back,” Pelman promised. “In fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Yeah. Do that, Leo.”
A moment
later the lock of Tracy’s bedroom door clicked.
Vera emerged smilingly. She looked demure and well groomed. The fact that her borrowed evening gown was a little small for her, didn’t hurt her figure any. Tracy noted that she was carrying her heavy coat. She put it on, although the temperature in the penthouse was quite warm.
“You’ve been very kind.”
“Not at all.” Tracy smiled and moved closer. “I like to accommodate my lady friends.”
Vera made no effort to withdraw from him. She had smooth, warm hands. Her dark eyes were sultry, dimly encouraging.
“Do you have many—lady friends?”
“None as gorgeous as you, my dear.”
Tracy drew her closer. She made no effort to withdraw from his tightening embrace. He kissed her experimentally, then with more ardor. He was disgusted with her easy compliance. But it made the task of frisking her coat pockets a cinch. As she swayed against him with eyes closed, Tracy’s left hand explored both pockets of her coat.
He found nothing.
“I—I think I had better go,” Vera whispered.
“I’ll drive you home,” Tracy said.
“Please don’t. If you’ll lend me a dollar for a taxi. … ”
But Tracy insisted on escorting her downstairs to his sedan. Vera seemed uneasy. Tracy knew why! She was hurrying back to see Spane for some urgent reason—the same man who had ripped her dress half off and had chased her with a gun. Was it to return whatever it was she had stolen from Spane? And what in hell had she taken?
On the sidewalk Vera refused definitely to ride in Tracy’s sedan. He shrugged and handed her a five-dollar bill. She hurried through the blur of falling snow toward the corner where a taxicab was parked. The door slammed. The cab circled into the avenue.
Tracy turned toward his own car, reaching for his key ring.
It was gone!
For an instant he stood like a fool, his fingers vainly probing his pocket. Then he realized how cleverly Vera had worked on him. Her love play upstairs had been as phoney as his! She had lifted his key ring while Tracy had probed vainly in the empty pockets of her coat.
It explained Vera’s reluctance to have him accompany her downstairs. She had wanted a chance to unlock the trunk at the rear of his sedan. That was where she had hidden whatever object she had stolen from Spane!
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 72