The Fall Guy

by Joe Barry

  “She’s at my apartment. You can phone her there.” Rush gave him the number and leaned back as O’Hara called it. He got his party.

  “Hello, my dear. I am just making the acquaintance of a friend of yours. His name is,” he looked inquiringly at Rush. Rush told him.

  O’Hara listened, spoke. “I met him in your rooms giving them a quick search. Yes, yes, Hope. Just what arrangements have you made with Mr. Henry?” He listened again, then spoke a brief command to return to the hotel, and hung up. He turned back to Rush and his eyes were hard.

  “You will give me the thousand dollars my daughter gave you yesterday, Mr. Henry.”

  “No,” Rush said.

  “I think you will, Mr. Henry. My daughter stole it first from me. It is rightfully mine. You will give it to me.”

  “No,” Rush said.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to search you, Mr. Henry. Stand up:” Revolver in hand he came around the end of the desk. Rush remained in his seat. If O’Hara had known Rush better he would have distrusted the grin that settled around the corners of his mouth but didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “Sit down, O’Hara,” Rush said, and the note of command in his voice halted O’Hara at the corner of the desk. “I’m tired of being bluffed. I’ve let you get away with it this far to see where you were going, but you jumped the bounds. Nobody searches me unless I want them to. Sit down I” O’Hara walked slowly back around the desk and sat down.

  “You’ve got no more chance of shooting me and getting away with it than the man in the moon. I’m known to the police, favorably. They know that I don’t break and enter. And besides, I have a hunt suspicion, Mr. O’Hara, that you want as little to do with the police as you possibly can. So let’s forget this talk of shooting and searches and get down to business. What, Mr. O’Hara, is your racket?”

  With an effort O’Hara relaxed and a smile wreathed his chubby features. “You do know your way about, Mr. Henry. Perhaps I underestimated you. Also, perhaps I can use you. Keep the thousand dollars and listen to a story.”

  Rush sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. O’Hara settled himself as though time didn’t exist and began his story.

  “You have been misled from the very first, Mr. Henry. My name is not O’Hara, nor is Hope my daughter. My name is Jago, Bernard Jago. Hope’s name is O’Hara, however. Now, Mr. Henry, this affair is something more than a tawdry, evil stepfather drama. Big things are concerned and I think you can help us out quite a little.”

  “How?” Rush asked.

  “Several months ago a man approached me in San Francisco. He told me that he had completed plans for a repeating rifle of an extremely simple nature. It operated with compressed air and required no explosives whatsoever for its use. It was also almost silent. It could be manufactured in great quantities, cheaply, and with existing facilities. You, I am sure, recognize the value of such a discovery at a time like this. This man needed funds, however, to complete his working model. For a fifty-percent interest in the gun I advanced him two thousand dollars. He was to deliver the plans to me and I was to market them.” Jago paused to light a cigar and looked at Rush over the match flame. He blew out a cloud of smoke and resumed his story.

  “Two months went by and I heard nothing from this man. Finally, I made a trip to his laboratory, some miles out of San Francisco, and found the place empty. My bird had flown. You can imagine my feelings.”

  Rush nodded.

  “I instituted a search with all the means at my disposal and they are many. I learned some interesting facts. The man had had a visitor several nights before my arrival at his laboratory. The next day the place was empty. My inventor and his visitor had vanished in the night.”

  “A very nice story,” said Rush. “But where do I fit in?”

  “I’m coming to that. We traced the inventor to Chicago. He and his friend arrived here about two or three weeks ago. We lost a lot of time running them down and just got here three days ago ourselves. We’ve lost the inventor somewhere in your city, but we did find a trace of the friend yesterday morning. Then we lost him again, permanently this time, I’m afraid.” There was a harsh note in his voice.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that,” Rush said.

  “Quite simple,* and by the way, this is where you come in. The friend was found stabbed to death in the alley by your office building late yesterday afternoon.”

  Long practice in deception held Rush’s face immobile. He glanced down at the tip of his cigarette, lifted it to his lips, and took a drag before he spoke.

  “Did you know who he was?”

  “Not until the papers identified him last night. I assure you that I am as mystified as you must be, at his identity.”

  “It’s a natural surprise,” Rush said. “But I still don’t see—”

  “Where you come in? Elementary, Mr. Henry. We know that young Germaine called at your office yesterday afternoon shortly before he was killed. It seems likely that he mentioned his business to you.” Jago’s voice went cold on his last sentence and his eyes watched every muscle of Rush’s face.

  “No,” Rush said. “No, as a matter of fact, he didn’t. He merely asked me for protection. He didn’t identify himself and had no money to offer as a retainer so I turned him down. It seems I made a mistake.”

  “You expect me to believe that, Mr. Henry?”

  “I don’t know that I care whether you believe me or not. It happens to be true.”

  Jago digested that. “Is there anything you might tell me that could help me in my search?”

  Rush thought a moment “Only one thing occurs to me. Just after the murder I was followed from the alley by a very unusual man He asked me a great many questions and appeared overly interested for a casual bystander.”

  “Describe him, please.” Jago’s voice trembled down deep.

  “He was tall and dark, very thin, he wore dark clothes and a dark string tie. His voice seemed to come from his boot tops.”

  Jago swallowed and Rush would have sworn that the look that came over his face was fear.

  “That, Mr. Henry, was Otho Brin, the inventor I spoke of.”

  6

  That filled out the pattern. All the little pieces fell into place. It made a complete picture, but Rush didn’t like it. The picture was just barely out of drawing, the colors ran a little. Rush couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong, but deep down where his hunches lived, Rush had a feeling. He was sure that the look he had surprised in Jago’s eyes h!ad been fear, yet there was no reason for him to be afraid of the inventor, if inventor he was. In the few seconds Rush sat digesting the story Jago had told him, a knock came on the door. Surprisingly light on his feet for so fat a man, Jago was at the door almost before the knocking ceased. He put the gun in his pocket and kept his hand there. With his other hand he opened the door a crack, then swung it wide.

  “Come in, come in, children. I have a visitor I want you to meet.”

  Rush swiveled in his chair to look toward the door. Framed in it as they entered the room were a striking brunette with a slight oriental cast to her features, whom Rush had never seen before, and Wilmer, Leslie Germaine’s companion of the previous evening. Rush almost laughed aloud. The strings were all tying together in one knot. What he had thought of as three jobs were turning out to be all the same job. He rose to be introduced.

  “My dear, this is Mr. Rush Henry. Mr. Henry, my daughter—my real daughter, that is—Myrna Jago. Mr. Henry is a detective, my dear. Wilmer, meet Mr.—”

  “We’ve met,” Rush said. He rose to shake hands. Wilmer looked at him and walked away to stand by a window, looking out.

  “You mustn’t mind Wilmer, Mr. Henry. He’s a very moody boy. But what’s this about you two meeting before? You didn’t tell me, Wilmer.”

  Wilmer didn’t turn his head to answer. “I met him last night when I was with that Germaine wench.”

  “Now, Wilmer, you mustn’t—”

  “Mustn’t, hell.
Next time get somebody else to do that kind of dirty work.” Wilmer’s voice rose an octave above its usual flatness. “I can’t stand that woman. She wanted to do the most awful things. I won’t go out with her again.” His voice ended on a note of uncompromising decision.

  “All right, Wilmer. You needn’t go out with her again.”

  Jago shut the door and locked it, putting the key in his pocket. He turned to Rush.

  “Now, Mr. Henry, I will trouble you for that thousand-dollar bill. The numbers are against you this time. I’m quite sure we can take it from you by force if you insist. My daughter is quite strong, really, although she appears to be a very fragile sort of flower.”

  Rush looked at the girl. He could believe that there was power of a sort beneath the svelte exterior. At second glance he thought it might be fun to wrestle with her. He decided against it.

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Jago, I haven’t the bill with me. I’m not used to carrying that large a sum of money around with me. I left it behind.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t take your word for that. We’ll have to search you. Wilmer!”

  Wilmer left the window and stood beside Jago. “Shall I take him?”

  Wilmer’s hand slipped to the V of his coat, and in that instant Rush stood up taking his chair with him in a sweeping arc, loosing it at the top of the swing.’ It caught Wilmer flush, pinning his arm to his chest and knocking him off his feet. On the floor Wilmer clawed at his shoulder holster but Rush had followed the chair and sat astride him. Rush took the gun from the holster and stood up, looking down at Wilmer who was dabbing blood which seeped from a cut over his right eye.

  “I don’t allow punks to ask if they should take me,” Rush said. He looked around at Jago, remembering the gun he carried. Jago chuckled gently.

  “You do know your business, Mr. Henry. But I still have the key to the door and I don’t think you can take it away from me. We seem to reach an impasse. Have you any suggestions?”

  “Yes. The girl can search me. I wouldn’t let that gunsel of yours touch me with his little finger and if I had the bill on me none of you would. But since I’m clean and you have to be shown, let the girl go over me.”

  Jago looked at his daughter who was standing watching Rush with an unfathomable light in her eyes. “Well, my dear, you heard Mr. Henry. Search him. You are looking for a thousand-dollar bill.”

  The dark girl moved over to Rush and with a curious smile began to search him. She was thorough. Her slim fingers didn’t miss a trick. She threw his billfold, checkbook, and card case on the table for Jago to search and then felt every inch of every garment for the folds of the thousand-dollar bill. Jago handed back his belongings.

  “I didn’t think you had it but for that sum I couldn’t afford to take chances. It seems, Mr. Henry, that you have received a retainer of one thousand dollars. What are you going to do to earn it?”

  “Protect Hope from you.” Rush grinned.

  “Very good, Mr. Henry. Very good.” He chuckled. “But should I decide to take you to court for the money, that would have very little chance of standing up. Hope, I am sure, will back me up in any story I care to tell.”

  “I’m sure she will, Mr. Jago. But there is an old saying that lawyers have about court of equity. I think it applies here very aptly.”

  “And that is?”

  “You must always come before the court with clean hands. Have you looked at yours lately?”

  Jago had no comment.

  “And before you unlock the door let me give you an even thousand dollars’ worth of advice.” Rush looked at them—Jago standing balancing the automatic in his right hand and looking inscrutable; Wilmer still on the floor, a deadly cold hatred burning in his eyes; and Myrna, now standing with her back to him, looking out the window. “This is my town and I don’t stand getting pushed around in it. Not with my connections. You, Jago, don’t consider any other means of persuasion to get back your grand; it won’t work. If I should run across the plans you are looking for I’ll sell them to you. And Wilmer, those ideas of yours about fogging me in a dark alley won’t work. I’m too smart. Miss Jago, for you I have only thanks for a very nice going-over. It was a pleasure.”

  Myrna Jago had the grace to blush.

  “Now, Mr. Jago, the door please.”

  Slowly, thoughtfully, Jago hoisted his bulk from the edge of the desk and moved to the door, unlocking it with the key he took from his pocket. Rush moved to the door and stood in the open archway.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been retained by the family in the murder of Paul Germaine. I most certainly intend to find someone who looks guilty enough to hang. If I were you, Jago, I’d decide now whom I could best get along without.”

  Rush left them standing open-mouthed staring after him through the empty doorway. It was, he considered, a not unprofitable morning.

  The morning sun had lifted high out of Lake Michigan and had flooded the pavement with a steaming sea of heat. Barney’s was a cool haven. Rush ordered beer and nosed into the mammoth fishbowl with a sigh of perfect contentment.

  “Hot out?” asked Barney.

  Rush looked at him.

  “Yeah, I thought it looked hot.” Barney swiped at the bar with a damp cloth. “Merwin was looking for you.”

  “I want to see him whenever he comes in again. I’ll leave word in the office where I am.”

  “I’ll tell him. Hey, what’s the matter with him anyway? I never seen him look so low.”

  “He lost a tail I had him on.”

  “Merwin?” Barney was unbelieving.

  “Yeah. It looked too easy and Merwin was giving him a light tail. He ducked in Field’s.”

  “First time I ever heard of that happening.”

  “It’ll probably be the last. He’ll never get overconfident again.”

  “Yeah. Another bowl?”

  Rush nodded and carried the second fishbowl of beer to his booth. He had to run down a hunch.

  He settled back and drained an inch off the top of his beer. He took up his facts one by one. Most of them, really, weren’t facts; they were people. Old Paul Germaine, the esoteric Leslie, Paul, Jr., choking out his destiny in an alley, the weird character Wilmer—not so weird, however, that he didn’t fit a classification in Rush’s mind; the man in black who didn’t look like an inventor, but then he didn’t look like anything; Myrna, the sultry daughter, and her father, the incredible Jago; and Hope O’Hara. The cast was complete in Rush’s mind. He did a quick mental rerun of Jago’s story of the compressed air rifle. It didn’t fit somehow. On a sudden resolve he stood up and walked to the back of the bar to the wall phone. He slipped a nickel slug in the slot and dialed a number.

  “Hello, is Jimmy there?” He waited a moment. “Hello, Jimmy. I have a question for you. Is it possible to construct a gun using compressed air instead of powder to propel the bullet?” He listened for several minutes, inserting a question now and then.

  “Thanks, Jimmy. You’ve cleared up something for me.”

  Rush went back to his booth and sat down again. Either his hunch was right and Jago’s story was another false trail, or Jago’s inventor had overcome difficulties that had baffled other inventors for years. Rush had the authority of the firearms expert of the Chicago police for that, and Jimmy had lived firearms for thirty years. He shook his people and facts around again and let them fall.

  Obviously something very valuable was floating around Chicago. Something easily marketable for a large sum, otherwise Paul Germaine, who lacked the proper underworld connections, couldn’t have been sure of disposing of it. Rush seemed to be the only person in the whole affair who didn’t know what the shooting was for. A bulky figure slumped into the seat opposite him.

  “Hello, Merwin,” Rush said.

  Dejection hung on every feature of Merwin’s battered face. “I ain’t found him, Rush. The guy’s left town or I woulda found him.”

  “No, I don’t think he’s left town, Merwin. He’s still around, beca
use what he’s looking for is still here. He just isn’t showing anywhere.”

  “Well, if he’s here I’ll find him.” Merwin started to struggle to his feet.

  “Sit still, Merwin. I’ve got another job for you. One you’ll like better.”

  “Yeah? What is it, Rush? Whatcha got for me?”

  “First, I want to make you understand that this is a business, not a pleasure trip. I want to learn something, and you’ve got to get it for me.”

  “Sure, Rush, I’ll stick to business. I won’t mess around none.”

  “I hope you do, Merwin. But it’ll be an awful temptation.”

  “Watcha got, Rush? I won’t miss this time.” Merwin was anxious to redeem himself in Rush’s eyes.

  “You remember the girl I told you about the other day?”

  Merwin searched his murky memory and came up with a fact. “Oh yeah, the dame which thinks she’s a female torpedo. Yeah, I remember. Her old man don’t want her to.”

  “That’s the one.” Rush reached in his pocket and pulled out the sheaf of pictures he had taken from Leslie’s room the day before. “These are pictures of her. Here, look them over.”

  “Hey, look at her on the nag.” The horse struck a vibrant chord in Merwin’s memory. “Hey, Rush, did I tell you I brought in a parlay at Empire yes-tiddy? I make sixty-five bucks. I take this goat—”

  “Forget the goat, Merwin. Concentrate on these pictures.”

  “Oh yeah, the dame. She’s a nice looker, ain’t she?”

  “Yes. Now, Merwin, I want you to take those pictures and make the rounds of all the joints. All the places the trouble boys hang out. Take those pictures and find out if any of the boys have seen her.” Merwin thought that through. “You mean you want me to make all them joints asking if this babe has been there?”