The Death Club

by George Harmon Coxe

  “You ought to get yourself a new suit,” he said thoughtfully, “and keep it pressed.”

  Munn spun about. He opened his mouth twice before he spoke. “You keep slicked up enough for both of us,” he growled.

  “But I'm gonna be away for a few days.” Harper grinned. “It's up to you to keep the firm dressed up.”

  Munn came back to his chair, dropped into it and puffed his cigar so hard it began to burn unevenly.

  Harper reached into his inside coat pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of paper and tossed it across the desk. Then he took a gold knife from his vest pocket, opened up the file blade, and began smoothing his fingernails.

  Munn grunted, took the cigar from his mouth, placed it on the edge of the desk and picked up the piece of paper. He unfolded it, read it. When he finished he looked at Harper; then he read the paper again.

  “Special investigator for the district attorney?” he snorted. “How the hell did you wangle that?”

  Harper reached out with one hand, took the paper, tucked it away in his pocket, and continued with his nails. “For one month,” he said. “I made a deal.”

  “With what?”

  “With the Dunlap story.”

  “You tipped off the D.A.?” Amazement flooded Munn's weathered features and his eyes went wide. “The cops'll raise hell with this; they raise hell with every kidnapping.”

  “No doubt,” said Harper, unruffled. “But this isn't a kidnapping.”

  Munn spat out an oath.

  “Keep your shirt on!” Harper's voice took on a thin, metallic ring. He put away his knife and sat up. “This job was pulled on the one night the housekeeper was away. While they were ganging me, Dunlap had plenty of chance to run for it. I called the girl this morning. One of his small traveling bags is missing. And since when do they snatch supposedly bankrupt bankers?”

  Munn waved his cigar in an arc of jerky impatience. “You think it was a frame?” he snapped. “What'd you tell the D.A.?”

  “I told him what happened last night. That's all.” Harper glanced at his wristwatch. “The cops have not a single lead. They won't know about the airport unless they stumble on it. Aileen Reynolds will tell them only what happened to her. They can't put the bee on me because I'm on my way. So if you don't spill things, what'll they have?”

  Harper walked over to the desk, took from a drawer what looked like a nickel-plated pencil and clipped it to his vest pocket. He picked up a suitcase and said, “Sit tight till you hear from me.”

  HARPER swung out of the red, four-place monoplane at the Boston airport at four o'clock in the afternoon. He shook hands with the pilot, then walked across the runway to the administration building. Without waiting to make any inquiry, he summoned a taxi, piled in and said, “Barker House.”

  He rode across the East Boston ferry without leaving the cab, and five minutes later was entering the School Street entrance of the hotel. He registered, asked for a room on the top floor. As soon as he was alone he opened his bag, took out a pint of rye. He poured a drink, tossed it off, stepped into the bathroom for a swallow of water. Then he got busy on the telephone.

  He made three calls and sat down to wait. He had two more drinks while he waited, and ten minutes later three knocks sounded on the door. He called, “Come in,” and watched a big, lazy-looking man with a round face and a heavy nose swing through the door.

  Harper got up, offered his hand and said, “Hello, Charlie.”

  “Hi, Walt.” Charlie pumped Harper's hand. “Last time I saw you, you were with the Feds.”

  Harper waved Charlie toward a chair by the window. He got a clean glass from the bathroom, offered this and the half-filled bottle. “How's the agency business in Boston?”

  “Rotten.” Charlie poured himself a drink, but set the glass on the windowsill while he lighted a cigar and puffed it into life. He gulped the whisky, sucked his lips a moment, and thrust the cigar between discolored teeth. “Who carved their initials on your face?” he asked.

  Harper's dark eyes flashed. “A couple of your local boys.”

  “So—”

  “Yeah.” Harper leaned forward in his chair. “I've made a couple calls since I been in. A sergeant down at Station No. 3, Joy Street, who I used to know in Washington, has been giving me a little information. He tells me Captain Galpin down at headquarters is a pretty right guy.”

  “He's so honest it hurts, and the politicians don't bother him—much.”

  “O.K. Now who's the biggest shot in town?”

  “Louis Wyman.”

  “What're his rackets?”

  Charlie waved his cigar idly. “For the public it's restaurants, warehouses, the trucking business. For himself, he cuts in on most everything that's got any gravy.”

  “Plenty of connections?”

  “Plenty.”

  Harper leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his neck so that his elbows paralleled the floor. For a moment he was silent, his face somber, but otherwise expressionless. “I've got a couple little jobs for you,” he said finally. His voice was soft and he spoke slowly, thoughtfully.

  “Go over to the airport. A Robin pulled in here last night—or this morning—around three o'clock. Find out if a car met the three men who got out, what kind it was and anything else you can. If it was a taxi, find the driver and get his story.”

  HARPER had dinner in the hotel. At eight o'clock he got a taxi, rode down Tremont Street through the evening theater traffic to Stuart Street and police headquarters. Although only a few blocks from the noisy life and movement of Tremont Street, the section in front of headquarters was quiet. A few drops of rain were beginning to fall.

  He paid the driver, and a minute or two later was upstairs sitting across a desk from a square- faced man with a red nose, deep-set gray eyes, and a shock of unruly, iron-colored hair. Harper waited until Captain Galpin had read the authorization from the district attorney and returned it. Then he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and waited for Galpin to speak.

  Galpin took the half-smoked cigar from his mouth and without looking up said, “Well, what's the story?”

  “One of our local bankers disappeared last night,” said Harper. “He'd had a couple threatening letters and had hired a private detective for a bodyguard.” Harper gave an outline of the story without mentioning his own connection with George Dunlap. “These snatchers,” he concluded, “came here in a plane early this morning.”

  “I believe some word came through on the teletype this afternoon on that,” said Galpin. “Naturally, we'll keep our eyes open.” He paused to retrieve his cigar. He knocked off the ashes with a match, lighted it again. Before he could continue, Harper interrupted.

  “I understand,” he said levelly, “that three local men have disappeared in the past four months; men who were in some way connected with defunct stock houses, men whose boom-time structures collapsed, leaving the public holding the bag.”

  Galpin took the cigar from his mouth, blew out the match, and looked at Harper from under wiry brows. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he said, “Those men were not kidnapped. They just disappeared.”

  Harper's eyes were opaque and his voice was as difficult to read as his eyes. “That big shot from Chicago, that public utility king from Cleveland were traced here, weren't they? And there was a judge from New York that headed this way before they lost trace of him.”

  Galpin's square jaws clamped on the cigar butt. “Go on,” he growled. “Speak your piece.”

  Harper uncrossed his legs, then stretched them out, surveyed his polished shoes. “I was just wondering why all these men in the same sort of boat, came this way?”

  “What about it? Your man was kidnapped.”

  “Possibly.” Harper looked at Galpin without lifting his head. “But I was just wondering. This might not be a bad place to jump from. It's a good port. You could ship for almost any place from this harbor. It's reasonably near Canada.”

  Galpin remained silent,
but his gray eyes were thoughtful.

  Harper looked back at his shoes, smoothed down his mustache with his index finger. “And about a month ago, I understand you picked up a man who had been so thoroughly beaten his face was unrecognizable. I understand his body was identified only through his dental work, and I understand he was one of your missing Boston brokers.”

  Galpin snorted and got from his chair. He walked across the room like a caged lion, paused to stare down at Harper who still stretched easily in his chair.

  “Maybe there's something to it,” said Galpin. “But I—” He broke off as a telephone on his desk shrilled to life. He jerked it up, slapped the receiver to his ear. He listened for several seconds, said, “O.K.,” and hung up the receiver.

  Galpin turned to Harper. “I've got to go out. Where you stayin'?” Harper answered and Galpin continued, “I'll call you. I want to talk with you some more.”

  THE body sprawled beside a narrow asphalt road which the rain had made into an oily black ribbon stretching off into the marshes. An ambulance, a police car, and a small sedan were parked, one after another at one side of the highway. Two policemen were holding a tent-like blanket over the body, while the medical examiner made his inspection. Two other plainclothesmen, Captain Galpin, and Walt Harper hovered around the blanket.

  The body was that of a man of medium build. The face was like pulp. It lay face up, and although the rain had washed most of the blood from the face, it was still unrecognizable. It was dressed in new overalls and a jumper. One arm was twisted under; one leg had buckled backward from a fracture so that it seemed to hold no relation to the rest of the body.

  Galpin chewed on a cigar that was out. He wiped drops of rain from his chin and turned to Harper who wore a light slicker and a felt hat turned down all around. “Lucky you came in to see me tonight. I called you because it sounded over the telephone like that other fellow we found last month. I thought maybe this might be your man.”

  “No,” said Harper. “My man was bald and that's one thing you can't cover up.” He fell silent as the examiner spoke.

  “All right,” he said, and straightened up from beside the body. “Might as well move him.”

  “What's the verdict?” asked Galpin.

  “I'm not ready for my report yet,” snapped the examiner. “But it looks like this fellow was beaten to death. If there were any gashes on his body I'd say he was struck by a freight train—hardly a major bone in his body not broken.”

  In the police car Galpin sat beside Harper. He grunted, said, “These two killings hook up. Faces smashed—”

  “Dressed the same way?” interrupted Harper. He took his hat off, shook it, put it back on his head and reached for a cigarette.

  “Exactly—no underwear and new overalls.” The reflected light from the dash showed Galpin's face grim, his eyes narrow.

  Harper lighted his cigarette, puffed silently. In the dim light his brown eyes were black pools, unblinking and steadfast.

  CHAPTER III. AT THE GOLDEN QUAIL.

  WALT HARPER, in pajamas, was having breakfast in his room. His gray-flecked black hair was smooth, his injured eye was nearly normal and he had removed the adhesive tape from his face.

  He was sitting in front of the window, idly watching a squatty tugboat pull four barges through the blue-green waters of the harbor toward Charlestown, when Charlie came in and said:

  “Pretty soft for the visiting fireman.”

  “Yeah.” Harper's smile was genuine, but thin. “What'd you find out?”

  “Not much.” Charlie went over to the table, picked a half slice of toast and crammed it into his mouth. “A taxi picked those fellows up at the airport,” he muttered through the toast, and crumbs sprayed the floor. “For a wonder the guy on duty at the office noticed the number.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was a hot cab.” Charlie drained what remained of a glass of water.

  Harper got up and started to dress while Charlie slid into the vacated chair and stared out the window.

  When he was satisfied with the set of his tie, Harper went over to the telephone table by the bed. He pawed through the directory, then put in a call. A moment later he was talking.

  “Weather bureau? . . . I'd like to find out if it was raining the night of May 15th?” He waited for a moment with narrowed eyes fixed on the opposite wall. “Yeah? . . . It was? . . . Rained all night, and quite hard, eh? . . . Thanks a lot.”

  He stepped over to the dresser, slipped his watch, chain, and knife into diagonally opposite vest pockets. He felt of his fountain pen and pencil, stepped over to his traveling bag, lifted out a lightweight shoulder holster and a .38 revolver. As he adjusted the holster, Charlie lifted his eyebrows and said:

  “Goin' calling?”

  “Yeah.” Harper slipped the gun into the holster, drew on his coat. “Where'll I find Louis Wyman?”

  Charlie's eyes popped a little and he whistled softly. “We'll probably find him at the Golden Quail,” he said, and gave an address off Washington Street.

  “The 'we' is out,” said Harper.

  “But that guy is poison,” sputtered Charlie, coming to his feet.

  “The 'we' is out,” repeated Harper. “This is just a social call.”

  THE electric sign that outlined the squat quail looked ridiculous in the daylight. Walt Harper opened the green door under the sign and passed into a deserted foyer. He pushed aside the curtains at the end and stepped into a rectangular room with a balcony at the far end. There were tables on both floors; all were vacant except one.

  Two men, sitting at this table, got up when Harper came into the room. They were both young and white-faced, and their dark suits made them look thinner than they were. One of the men walked over to Harper.

  “What's on your mind?” he said, and his hostile gaze shifted up and down Harper's slender height.

  “I want to see Wyman.”

  The man hesitated, then walked over to his companion. They talked in low tones for a moment, then the first man came back. “Sit down,” he said. “Give me your name and I'll see if he's in.”

  Harper dropped into a nearby chair and hooked his feet over the rungs of another one. “Harper's the name,” he said.

  He took a cigarette from his pocket, and watched the man walk along one side of the room and up the stairs. He circled the balcony to a door in the shadows.

  Harper rose quickly and started for the stairs.

  The other man at the table stood up and said, “Hey!”

  Harper reached for his .38, slipped it into his side pocket. The man at the table took one step after him.

  Harper picked his way hurriedly between the tables on the balcony. The door swung open as he reached it. He tried to squeeze past as the man came out, but the fellow grunted angrily and grabbed his arm. Harper swung sidewise, shook off the hand. The man stumbled, regained his balance and shot a clumsy right at Harper's chin.

  Without taking his hand from his gun, Harper stepped inside the right and hooked his own left to the man's stomach. The fellow gasped loudly, clamped his hands to his belt and doubled up. Harper slipped through the doorway, shut the door and stood with his back against it.

  The room was spacious and cool-looking; the rug on the floor was ankle deep. There were two steel filing cabinets, a safe, a water cooler, four chairs, and a flat-topped desk.

  The man at the desk scowled and stood up. He was about the same height as Harper, but thirty pounds heavier. His brown hair was combed straight back, his eyes were pale blue and small; his teeth were so perfect they seemed false.

  Harper remained motionless by the door. His dark eyes caught the blue ones of the man at the desk for a moment, then flicked to the apish-looking fellow with the flat face, bowlegs, and the long, powerful-looking arms.

  “Hello, Slug,” Harper said.

  “Well, I'll be—” Slug's remark was vile, but after his moment of surprise, his ugly face broke into a grin. “My pal.”

  Wyman dropp
ed back into his seat. Hate masked his face and he controlled his voice with an effort born of much experience. His tone was cold, suave. “Very neat—very. And you've got plenty of crust, plenty.”

  “You said it, boss.” Slug jerked his thumb toward Harper. “He's a tough baby. And does he like it? He's the swellest private dick I ever skinned a knuckle on and—”

  “I just wanted to make a short social call,” interrupted Harper. He walked to the center of the room. “I didn't expect to run into the bruiser. But at that, I'm certainly glad to see him.”

  The door of the room was jerked open and the two men who had been at the downstairs table rushed in. Harper swung about, but Wyman's command stopped the charge.