I got my lips close to Quirt’s left ear.
“We’re going inside—stick close.”
He nodded. I stepped out, made a quick turn, went through the hotel door. Things had happened fast inside. A gray-haired clerk was lying behind the desk—red staining his hair. From up above there was the sound of footfalls on thinly carpeted steps.
Quirt swore softly. I headed for the stairs, ten feet beyond the small lobby desk. The carloads of men were going to do something, and they were going to do it fast. They were working crudely, but it wasn’t because they didn’t know better.
I was halfway up the first flight of steps when the door crashed. It made a lot of racket—as if men had put their weight against it. There was a high-pitched scream. Then the shooting started. There was a lot of it, but it only lasted about five seconds. It stopped.
A hoarse voice sounded from another flight or so up. It got out just one word. “Outside!”
We reached a landing—Quirt pulled me toward a dim, red light along the hall. There were men pounding down the steps above. Quirt put his weight against a door. We got out on a narrow fire escape, shoved the door closed. The escape was on an alley. The pounding of feet grew louder. A door slammed, below. I pulled open the fire escape door, headed for the stairs. Quirt was behind me. We went up two flights—light streaked into the dingy corridor from a room whose door was open. The location was right. It was the room Quirt had pointed out.
I ran for the room, with Quirt behind me. He was muttering something about “police”—but that was why I was hurrying. Faintly I heard the sounds of cars picking up speed through the shifts. I reached the room. There was plenty of light inside.
Carrie Donner was lying near the window. I went in.
Quirt came in behind me and muttered: “They got—the redhead.”
He was right. There wasn’t a doubt. A lot of guys had squeezed lead on the red-haired one, and it didn’t look as though any of them had missed. She was through.
I took a quick look around the room. There were three bags. There was no sign of Virgie. There was no bathroom. I spoke to Quirt.
“Go back to the head of the stairs—call out if you hear anyone coming up. On your way take a look and see if that fire escape is right on this floor.”
He nodded, went out. I got a handkerchief wrapped around my right hand, opened a closet door. Virgie wasn’t inside. There were two or three bugs crawling around. I closed the door, listened to a police whistle shrill, a block or so away, went over and looked at Carrie. My eyes picked up a glow of color, near her right hand. I picked up the glow. It was a small stone—a rich green in color.
Quirt sang out. “Let’s go!” His voice was low, strained.
I took a last look at Carrie. She looked bad. I slipped the stone in my right lower vest pocket, met Quirt at the fire escape door. We went down—dropped into an alley, came out on the side street, walked away from the sound of a police whistle shrilling from in front of the hotel. They’d found the hotel clerk.
We reached the main street and strolled, looking in windows.
Quirt said: “We got there a little late.”
I swore softly. “We might have been too soon,” I told him. “Mrs. Evans wasn’t there.”
He smiled with his lips. “Virgie Beers must be a wise kid,” he said.
We stopped in front of a pet store and watched some pups sleeping. I thought of the green stone in my vest pocket, of Virgie Beers, and of the fact that the room hadn’t had a bath attached. The green stone interested me most. But Virgie came next. Carrie was out—it was too bad, but she ceased to figure when she stopped moving around and lying.
“Where do you suppose Mrs. Evans got to?” Quirt asked.
I passed the cigarettes—we both lighted up.
“Maybe she was taking a bath,” I replied.
He nodded. “I thought of that,” he said. “Even looked for the bathroom—couldn’t spot it. Maybe on the floor below.”
I said maybe. He wanted to know what next. It was too tough for me. I told him he might work the North Side station to see what they got out of it. And he might play around the Harris House without getting too close. I told him to ring me at the William Penn in an hour. He said he might not be able to pick up Mrs. Evans again. He said he could run over to the morgue now and then. She might turn up there.
He smiled his gentle smile. There was something about him I didn’t like. But I smiled back at him.
“Use your own judgment, Mr. Jackson,” I said. “I’d like to get in touch with Mrs. Evans—quietly.”
He nodded, moved along. I stood for a few seconds and watched the pups sleep. A siren made sound, but didn’t get very near the lighted street. I put a right-hand finger in my vest pocket and touched the green stone. It felt cold.
11
OVAL FACE
It was ten minutes to midnight when I rode up in the ancient elevator and walked over the creaking boards of the Post-Dispatch editorial rooms. Phil Dobe was standing up behind his desk—he glared at me as I came along. When I got up close enough he used words. “You’re just two jumps ahead of the bulls, Mal. What’d you do—go out the back way?”
I looked puzzled. There were a couple of good cigars lying beside a blue pencil—I took one of them, bit off an end, lighted up. Dobe swore at me.
“What you holding out on me for?” he demanded. “Haven’t I covered you up?”
I grinned. “What do you mean—holding out? I’ve been sleeping a lot.”
He swore again. “Not so much—you haven’t,” he muttered. “But you know someone who’s sleeping right now.”
I told him his cigars were stronger than the Post-Dispatch circulation, said that his taste in neckties was improving, and asked him what had happened to the tall blonde he used to take out after “thirty”—and watch her drink coffee from the saucer.
He suggested that I was an illegitimate child, doing it in two words. He sat down and glared up at me.
“A woman named Carrie Donner got the works, over in a cheap hotel on the North Side. She’s been identified. A red-haired jane. Her brother was bumped off in New York a few days ago. Maybe you heard about that?”
I nodded. “I was there just after he got shot. So he had a sister, eh?”
Phil Dobe groaned. “Stop me if I’m telling you something you don’t know,” he said sarcastically. “A guy got shot in the belly—at the William Penn, maybe a couple of hours before the Donner woman got her dose. He may live. His name’s Eddie Flynn—that’s all the doctors would let the bulls find out.”
I sat on the desk and looked interested.
“We had an Emma Flynn cooking for us when I was a kid. Maybe he’s some relation.”
Dobe nodded. “Or maybe he’s Herb Steiner,” he said grimly.
I pulled on the cigar. The city editor was watching me closely.
“Come through, Mal,” he said suddenly. “You may need me, later.”
I thought that over and ended up by nodding. I got off the edge of the desk, pulled up a battered chair close to his, sat in it.
“I’ll talk a little, Phil,” I said. “But you’ve got to use the stuff I give you the way I want you to use it. It’ll still be news. I’ll have to have your word for that. Me first—the paper next.”
Dobe grunted. “You would,” he said dryly. “All right. Tell me what’s up.”
I shook my head. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t tell you. It happens that I don’t know. But here’s something: there’ve been a flock of killings, seemingly related. They started right after I got out of stir—and they’re still going. They’ve taken the play away from me. I had an idea, and Wirt Donner was in on it. We were going to try and get at the few big crooks through the little ones they worked on.”
Dobe acted impatient. “I heard about the wet-nursing stuff,” he said. “It’s no good. Even cheap crooks hate reformers.”
I nodded. “They’d protect the ones higher up, I’ll agree there—if they could. But a
lot of them are stupid.”
“The stupid ones die off,” Dobe said grimly.
“Or stand the raps,” I added. “Anyway, Carrie Donner wasn’t my idea of a stupid lady. Some of the clever ones get it, too.”
Phil leaned forward and tapped on his desk with the knuckles of his right hand. The noise from the A. P. machines and the clatter of the typewriters drowned out the sound his knuckles made.
“To hell with theory,” he said. “Give me something I can feed into the presses.”
I shook my head. “I’ll give you the story—and some theory,” I told him. “But you can’t use it until there’s a break. When that happens, if you play with me now, I’ll give you everything. It’ll be a steal. Yes—or no?”
He stuck out his barrel chest and narrowed dark eyes on mine. His face was all twisted up in a frown. I sat back and pulled on the cigar. Dobe swore a couple of times.
“Yes,” he said jerkily. “Who got Carrie Donner?”
I laughed at him. “You’d make a good crook. If I knew that and told you—you’d use it for a head. I don’t know.”
Phil relaxed a little. “What’s all the shooting for?” he asked in a changed tone.
I reached in my pocket and put the green stone on the scarred wood of his desk. Light from a green-shaded bulb hit it. It looked nice. The city editor leaned forward and stared at the stone. The color was a rich green—and yet it was transparent. Dobe grunted.
“What is it?” he asked. “It’s green.”
“No?” I rolled it over with my right forefinger. “You’ve been studying.”
Dobe poked it around. It was cut in oblong fashion, with angular corners.
“Looks like a coffin, something,” he muttered. “A nice, green coffin.”
I nodded grimly. “It looks like that to a lot of humans,” I said.
The city editor stopped poking it. His dark eyes met mine.
“Emerald?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Haven’t had time to learn that,” I said. “Do it in the morning. You playing with me until I give you the print sign?”
He looked at the stone—then nodded his head.
“Where’d you get it?” he asked.
“Found it lying near one of Carrie Donner’s dead hands,” I said.
He whistled softly, lighted a cigar that had gone out, whistled again, poked the stone some more. Then he looked at me.
“Well?” he questioned.
The fire alarm started to bang out a call-box number. Out of the corner of my eyes I watched the one rewrite man still on duty thumb a little red book and shake his head.
“Brooker and First,” he called across to Dobe. “Nigger town.”
Phil told the copyreader to see that Levy didn’t try to hop a cab and chase the fire. He said that Levy had a dark girl up around Brooker somewhere. The copyreader said he didn’t have her anymore—that he was chasing a jane with a Turk name. Phil said he didn’t believe that, and the copyreader said he did because he’d seen the girl, and Levy was training his mustache to look just like hers. Phil thought that was pretty funny. Levy sat before a typewriter, took it all in between noisy yawns. Phil looked at the stone, then at me again.
“Well?” he repeated.
“Babe Mullens and Angel Cherulli are supposed to have worked a guy named Malendez—a South American—loose from a flock of these, Phil. Angel forgot to pass the stuff along to the big guys. They closed in—and he passed the stones to Dot Ellis. Things started to happen.”
Dobe whistled again. I picked up the green stone and slipped it into a vest pocket. He watched it disappear, but he seemed to be thinking about other matters.
“Who told you that?” he asked, after a while.
“Carrie Donner,” I replied.
“Believe it?”
I swore softly. “Haven’t got around to that point yet,” I said. “Been too busy.”
He nodded. “Who shot Herb Steiner?” he asked. “The bulls recognized him—but they made my police man promise to keep quiet.”
I took a chance. “Carrie shot him—but her aim was rotten. She was trying for me. That’s out, Phil. If you use it—I’ll cover up what comes next.”
He grunted. “Hell!” he said softly. “So you were there, too. Just luck?”
I shook my head. “It took a couple of us to get me nearly killed,” I said. “I’m using your man Quirt.”
He looked at my head, smiled. “Don’t kid me, Mal,” he said. “I’ll tell you another dick who’s pretty good. I didn’t know until an hour ago that Quirt was up in Canada.”
I sat up straight, tried not to look at him. I coughed a few times.
“Just the same,” I said slowly, “I’ve been using a bird who passed himself off as Quirt. He said Callarson was in Detroit.”
Phil stared at me. “The hell he did!” he muttered. “Jimmy Rellis was in here—he said Quirt left for Canada yesterday. Went up to join his partner—they’re trying to trace some split payroll coin. How’d you get this guy who says he’s Quirt?”
“Called the number you gave me—got some girl, asked for Mr. Quirt. Man answered. Told him I was Howard Evans, and that you had said he might be able to help me. He said he’d come over, and I told him where. He came.”
The city editor was frowning. “What’d he look like?” he asked.
“Middle-aged—mild smile. Gentle blue eyes. Gray mustache, nice teeth. Medium in size. Thin hands. Thin, quiet voice. Works pretty smoothly.”
Phil Dobe smiled grimly. “I’ll say he does,” he said. “Almost as smoothly as the real gent.”
2
We sat in my room at the William Penn. Phil Dobe had a quart of bad red wine—we were gaining on it. It was after one, and there had been no call from Quirt. The city editor sprawled in his chair, a faint smile on his face.
“If he comes—we’ll learn things,” he said slowly. “When I worked the North Side police beat, there was that guy Gleason. Jeez—but he could take it out of a man. And he didn’t use any rubber hose or leave marks.”
I shook my head. “You can’t get anywhere that way—not in this deal,” I said. “The thing for me to do is to stop making mistakes.”
Dobe grunted. “Getting to be a damned Pollyanna,” he said. “That’s the thing for us all to stop doing—but we never get around to it. “And then again, there’s virtue in making mistakes.”
I swore softly. “Not from where I’m sitting, there isn’t.”
I lighted a fresh cigarette and Phil took another drink of the wine.
“Let’s see—there’s this old gal of yours—Dot Ellis. There’s Wirt Donner, the Widow, Chief Butman—and now Carrie Donner. You think the bulls in New York gave that bird Salmon the final slams. You and some dick got this bird Ben Garren—”
“That was open and shut,” I cut in. He murdered Dot. And don’t forget Angel Cherulli. They mobbed him out.”
Phil Dobe nodded. His dark eyes were half closed.
“I think you’re still holding out something, Mal,” he muttered. “But even if you are—that’s a lot of killing for a flock of stones that won’t market for more than fifty grand if they’re worth a hundred right now.”
I was willing to agree on that. Dobe shook his head slowly.
“They try to push you under—and Carrie gets Herb Steiner in the stomach. He’s your man, Mal—he knows things. I’ll have the boys watch the City Hospital—we don’t want him to get well too quickly.”
“The bulls’ll hold him, even if he gets out of the hospital,” I suggested.
Phil wasn’t so sure of that. He said it depended on what sort of a greasing job Herb could handle. There wasn’t much of a charge against him. The only thing he’d done was to get shot in the stomach.
We sat in silence for a while. Then Phil spoke. “Cherulli takes a South American for a flock of green stones. He doesn’t pass along the stones. He’s mobbed out. Dot Ellis is murdered, because maybe Cherulli’s passed the stones to her. You go looking for this Do
nner guy, with the idea of taking him on as a partner and reforming the crooks of the world, and he’s dead when you find him. You trap Ben Garren—and get a dick to shoot him before he can talk. Ain’t that sweet?”
I smiled grimly. “It was Donelly or Garren,” I said. “I didn’t figure Garren would take it so hard.”
Phil swore. “You come out here—get out to Duquesne, chasing Carrie Donner. You get the dope on her in New York. The Widow is carved up. And next Butman gets it. You tell me you chase Carrie into town. Steiner’s with her—and when she lets go at you she gets him. Somewhere along the same time she hits you over the head with a fizz bottle. A guy you think is Quirt because he says he’s a private dick tails her to the Harris House. She’s mobbed out just as you and the guy you think is Quirt, for no particular reason, get there. Is all that fairly close?”
“Fairly,” I said, grinning.
He got up from the chair, swore, turned his back on me.
“I’ve got a hunch you’re a damned liar, Mal,” he said. “I’ve got a hunch you’re holding back on me. But I’m too much of a gent to even let you suspect I figure that way.”
I kept on grinning. I was holding out Virgie Beers. She counted big, but I didn’t feel that Dobe should know that. I wanted him to know enough to help me, and not enough to hurt me.
He turned around and faced me. He was frowning.
“You think all these killings are because a nightclub wop trims a sucker?” he asked.
“It’s the best I can think—just now,” I said. “Every once in a while the big guys preach a lesson. Boys and gals get taught to keep school. Sometimes the new kids get a worse dose than they rate. That’s up to the big boys.”
Phil grunted. “You’re using words, and you don’t know what’s what,” he sneered.
I nodded. “All right—I’ll admit I haven’t learned much. But we got the one that finished Dot Ellis.”
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