The Last Express

by Baynard Kendrick

  The D. A. suppressed a short answer and walked away, not quite certain whether or not the inspector was kidding him by his use of the legal phrase res gesta. Inspector Davis watched him lift the end of the rubber blanket and quickly lower it again.

  Dearborn crossed the street back to the Cadillac coupé and got in, beckoning the inspector to him through the window. The inspector assigned Sergeant Archer to join him, fearing a tirade which he did not care to face alone. But the D. A. was calm, almost ominously so.

  Three veterans of the press from headquarters were already bearing down on him through the cordon of police. The situation was more than trying and gave every evidence of getting progressively worse.

  “What have you found?” Dearborn asked curtly, with an eye on the approaching reporters.

  “Quite a lot for twenty minutes.” The inspector reached under his slicker for a toothpick and worked on a front tooth. “The officer on the beat here saw a man waiting in Zarinka’s car.”

  “Who?”

  “Ask me another.”

  “Where was the car?”

  “It was parked just below Walker Street.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Forty-five minutes.” The inspector threw his toothpick away and turned to Sergeant Archer. “You can attend to the gentlemen of the press, Sergeant. Tell ’em what you know—anything—but keep ’em from crawling all over the car here until the D. A. can get away.”

  The sergeant walked off to greet the reporters, and Davis continued, “From what I can tell now, he was killed with a Mills hand grenade thrown into the back of his car out of a passing taxi.”

  “How did you get that?”

  “The Bomb Squad found pieces of the grenade, and there were marks of Michelin taxi tires visible close by where his car was stopped.”

  “How do you know his car was stopped ?”

  “You’ll have to ask Dilks of the Auto Squad. He told me so. That’s his business.”

  Claude Dearborn looked past the inspector at the wreckage on the street. “What happened to the other man in the car?”

  “He got out.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he wasn’t blown out.” The inspector leaned an elbow wearily against the open window of the coupé and rested himself. Obvious questions always made him a trifle sick to his stomach. “We found some mice in a doorway.”

  “What, for God’s sake, has that to do with the explosion?”

  “I wish I knew. Lieutenant Kilpatrick of the Bomb Squad says they were blown there. They were in a wire cage.”

  “I never heard such tommyrot,” the D. A. said disgustedly. “Some kid probably left them in the doorway, and they were killed by the explosion.”

  “I don’t think any kid would leave his pets in a doorway overnight, do you?”

  “How do you know they were pets?”

  “Well, most white mice in a cage are pets.” The inspector straightened up and shook himself free of water. “And these were white and in a cage and dead, and Kilpatrick says they’d been blown through the air. I’m inclined to take his word for it.”

  “Well, I’m not,” said Dearborn. “That’s the trouble with the department today. It’s gotten so scientific, it goes haywire over its experts and lets the criminals get away.”

  The inspector choked back a smoky remark which had to do with lawyers and legal technicalities. A man was hurrying toward them carrying something in his hand. He stopped beside the inspector and held out a square of brown cloth.

  “What’s that?” Dearborn asked.

  “A piece of carpet from the back of the car.”

  “All cars have carpet in them.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man held the carpet in through the window. “That’s quite true, Mr. Dearborn, but I wanted the inspector to see these spots.”

  “They’re probably blood.” The D. A. switched on the lights in the top of the coupé and looked closer. Springer, from his place behind the wheel, turned his big head long enough to glance without interest at the brown fabric. The inspector leaned back against the side of the coupé and gazed at the buildings across the street, then turned quickly and produced another toothpick from his pocket. He leaned through the window beside the man and pried with the end of the toothpick at one of the flattened brownish spots enmeshed in the fabric. It came loose and he flicked it into his broad palm.

  “I guess we’ll have to depend on one of our no-account laboratories again,” he said, “but I’ll tell you what this is, Mr. Dearborn, and before the carpet gets up there. This is a dropping—a dropping from one of the pets in that wire cage. Those two mice, were in Paul Zarinka’s car!”

  Chapter Five: PERHAPS FOR A WARNING

  A vast submerged city exists below the swarming streets of New York. In its cavernous depths thousands of busy workers toil all day and all night, following as many and as varied pursuits as are found aboveground. They live a life artificial as a paper flower, hardly ever conscious of the weather outside.

  Their world has a million suns, glowing electric bulbs never dark, the weird green rays of mercury-vapor tubes. Dotted miles of emerald and red planets form their stars, safely checking the headlong rush of speeding trains. Massive pumps work endlessly to keep the inhabitants of this strange underground city alive, cleansing and purifying the air they breathe, keeping their domain free of encroaching water from hidden streams, which sometimes run far above their heads.

  The apartment house occupied by Captain Duncan Maclain towered 26 stories above 72nd Street, but that was not the extent of its height. Actually it had 30 floors, four of which were underground. In its subbasements were boilers, a refrigeration plant, an immaculate kitchen, supplying viands to the restaurant, and ample storage space to house the surplus baggage of the tenants.

  Each of the subbasements was larger in area than the stories above, for New York buildings, unlike those of most cities, have a peculiar privilege. Their area underground extends to the edge of the sidewalk, and under the sidewalks are vaults.

  On the morning after Paul Zarinka was killed, Duncan Maclain, clothed in slacks and a white silk sports shirt, revealing strong tanned arms, was engaged in a curious occupation in the subbasement four stories below the level of the street. A 40-foot square had been built in one corner of the basement by the simple expedient of piling flour sacks, filled with sand, one on top of the other to form a surrounding wall nine feet high. The floor in the center of the square was of soft white sand, levelly piled about a foot deep.

  Duncan Maclain was standing in the center of the square, poised lightly on the balls of his feet like a boxer ready for the fray, his mobile face alert and eager. Hanging under his left arm was a soft leather armpit holster, holding with a spring clip a flat .32 automatic in such fashion that it could be freed from the holster by a single jerk.

  “Ready?” asked a voice from outside of the nine-foot wall.

  “Ready,” Maclain replied.

  An empty tin coffee can was tossed over the wall to the inside of the square. It landed with a soft thud at Maclain’s back and slightly to his left. For the barest fraction of a second he stood listening; then as the can ceased to roll, he jerked the gun from the holster with a gesture smooth as oil, made a quarter turn to the left, and fired.

  The steel-jacketed bullet plowed up sand within eight inches of the can. The head of Samuel Savage, known to Duncan Maclain and his friends as Spud, appeared over the top of the sandbags from the outside.

  “Eight inches to the right, Dunc,” he said, a glint of admiration showing in his peculiar yellow eyes. “Not bad for blind shooting. Try it again.”

  He climbed down from the small stepladder which supported him and took another coffee can from a basketful beside him. Stepping gingerly on tiptoe, he made his way around to the other side of the square. It was a precaution taken in deference to Duncan Maclain. Spud’s feet were rubber-soled and apparently made no noise on the cement floor. But Spud Savage had worked too long
with Maclain not to know that the captain far exceeded normality in ability to hear. The second time, Spud threw the can over the sandbag wall without prewarning. Maclain fired. Spud ran to the other end of the square and tossed in another. Almost as it landed Maclain shot again, and the metallic clink of a bullet on tin showed he had a hit.

  “Hold it,” Spud said, “there’s someone coming.”

  The rattle of an elevator door sounded at the other end of the basement. Footsteps started across the floor toward Maclain’s sand pit, where years of practice, two days a week, had developed his skill in shooting at sound to a phenomenal degree.

  He slipped the gun back into its holster and stood listening. The apartment house had strict orders that he was never to be interviewed anywhere but in his penthouse, unless it was a matter of extreme urgency. He recognized the sound of small well-shod feet accompanied by a pair of heavier brogans, then he heard Spud say, “Hello, Claude. What’s in the wind?”

  Spud’s words were followed by a soft, half-friendly, half-warning growl from Schnucke, who had been lying quietly outside, undisturbed by the shooting, waiting for her master.

  Maclain walked to a corner of the pit where niches in the sandbags provided a foothold, agilely climbed to the top of the wall, and sat down. Springer, without taking his eyes off Schnucke, wonderingly noted Maclain’s costume and the gun strapped under his left arm, but made no comment.

  The D. A. greeted Spud and watched him place the small stepladder and assist Maclain to the floor. He shook hands with the captain but stepped quickly, almost precipitately, back as Schnucke came up and stood at her master’s left side, the top of the leather-covered U-shaped brace harnessed to her back close to Maclain’s hand.

  “And how are you, Springer?” Maclain extended his hand toward the D. A.’s bodyguard, surprising that imperturbable man into a quick clasp and an articulate “Howdy.”

  “Suppose we go upstairs,” Maclain suggested. “It’s more comfortable there.”

  Springer watched admiringly as Maclain seized the brace on Schnucke’s back with his left hand and without hesitation followed her guidance to the elevator door, where he found the button and pressed it.

  Hot rain, spattering on the terrace, showed through the windows of the penthouse office, but the air-conditioned room was cool. As the four men came into the room, Rena Savage greeted the visitors and held a soft blue blazer for Maclain. He slipped it on, then unhesitatingly crossed the room and took his place behind the desk.

  Repa Savage disposed of wet raincoats for Dearborn and Springer, then went into an adjoining room and closed the door behind her.

  The room she entered was half the size of the adjacent office. Arranged about the walls in orderly array were hundreds of Ediphone records, each one carefully indexed. They formed only a small part of the verbal records of Maclain’s cases since he and Spud had gone into business together. Over 2,000 more such records were stored in a fireproof vault in the subbasement of the apartment house, where they were safe but easily available.

  A double record was made of every conversation which took place in Maclain’s office, although many of the people concerned were unaware of the fact. Concealed at points of vantage behind the paneling of the walls were four detecto-dictographs, highly sensitive and efficient. The touch of a button under Maclain’s desk signaled Rena in the adjoining room. Through headphones she took every word in shorthand. In addition, an Ediphone record picked up and recorded directly each spoken word. The records were checked against Rena’s notes when the interview was over, and a second wax cylinder was made, transcribed verbatim from her shorthand book in her pleasant, distinct voice.

  A complete transcript of Evelyn Zarinka’s interview with Maclain the previous evening already formed part of the files.

  Springer disposed of himself in a corner. Spud Savage stretched out on a comfortable divan. The district attorney pulled a chair close to the desk and accepted a cigarette from Maclain’s tendered box. He was a man accustomed to legal battles and cross-examination, but he found himself at a disadvantage in talking to Duncan Maclain. He had overcome a monotonous tone of voice by a successful habit of gazing directly into people’s eyes when he spoke and punctuating his telling points by quick changes of expression. Maclain’s inability to respond invariably made him ill at ease.

  “I learned this morning that you were mixed up in the Zarinka killing.”

  “You make it sound as if I were a suspect, Claude. I suppose you’ve talked to his sister.”

  “Not yet. One of Inspector Davis’s men found she had consulted you last night.”

  “From her?”

  The D. A. nodded. “Yes. I trotted right up here. I need help. Since you’re already in this thing—”

  “I’m in nothing,” Maclain interrupted. “Evelyn Zarinka consulted me last night because she was worried about her brother’s actions during the past few months. He’s dead now, and that lets me out. I’ve already told Rena to return Miss Zarinka’s retainer.”

  “You can tell me what she was worried about.”

  “So can she. That’s straight police work.”

  “You can’t drop out of this now, Maclain.” Dearborn leaned across the desk to add force to his words, then straightened up again. He turned pleadingly to Spud Savage. “Give me a hand with him, Spud. You know what I’m up against on this case—a political mess is right down your alley—and this is a mess.”

  Spud swung his feet from the divan to the floor and looked first at the motionless Springer, then at the D. A. “Your compliments are backhanded this morning,” he said with a slow grin, “but I’ll take them with a sprig of parsley. Why don’t you speak out and quit stalling, Claude? Dunc’s blind, but he can still see you’re suffering. Is the importunate press muttering in its beard about the fair name of your office—or is it bothered about the lack of an indictment in the killing of one Thomas Delancey on West 42d Street ?”

  “You hardly needed to bring that up, Spud,” Maclain chided his friend in a mocking tone. He knew that Dearborn was flushing with anger, for the Delancey murder had been front-page news for months. It had finally reached the attention of the governor, via the report of a zealous grand jury. As a result, District Attorney Claude Dearborn was stewing in a pot of political broth, boiled to a fury.

  “Hit me anywhere you like,” said Dearborn. “My chin’s grown a callus. I’ll tell you why I need help. The police department is as friendly toward me as two leopards in a cage with a pork chop. I don’t need to tell you about the Delancey affair. Everybody in New York who can read thinks that Hoefle bumped him. That includes me.”

  “The grand jury didn’t think so,” Maclain reminded.

  The D. A. made a noise with his lips. “Grand juries can’t think. One jury fails to indict Hoefle. The next one wants me kicked out of office because he wasn’t indicted. Add the tabloids howling for my scalp, and stir in a dash of my best man, Zarinka, blasted on the front steps of police headquarters. The answer is why I’m here.”

  Duncan Maclain reached for the jigsaw puzzle in the drawer of his desk and dumped the pieces on the top.

  “Am I being retained for something?”

  “And if so—who pays?” Spud asked.

  “I’m paying,” said Dearborn. “I always do. You seem to get the general idea. The papers are nailing my hide to the mast—yelling their heads off for fireworks and action. I’m going to reopen the Delancey case—

  “And toss the press a veal cutlet,” said Spud. “That’s you, Dunc. Picturesque figure and all that sort of thing. Noted blind detective called in to assist D. A.’s investigators—columns about the Seeing Eye and the human qualities of Schnucke—all designed to quiet the panting reporters.”

  “I’ve been a veal cutlet before, Spud.” Maclain’s fingers were busy with the puzzle. “Outside of the smoke screen, Claude, what do you really want me to do?”

  “Find out who got Zarinka—and why.”

  “Didn’t he work on the Del
ancey case?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then you know who got him.”

  “I know who got Delancey, too. But I’m about to lose my job trying to prove it. This isn’t as easy as it looks, Maclain. I’m getting the razz from the Police Department.”

  “Who’s on the case?” Spud asked.

  “Inspector Davis and Archer of the Homicide Squad. Why?”

  Spud shook his head.

  “You’re off on the wrong foot already, Claude. I’ve known that pair too long. They never razzed anybody in their official career. Together they have less humor than the late Cal Coolidge. What was their current bit of persiflage?”

  The D. A. took a final quick puff from his cigarette, then blurted out, “Davis claims that Paul was carrying around two white mice in his car. Archer found a couple of dead ones in a birdcage near where the car was wrecked.”

  “Whew!” Spud’s yellow eyes gleamed with joy. “What the papers will do to that one! ‘D. A. Hires Man and Dog to Trail Mice!’ I’d say that lets us out, Dunc. What about it?”

  “Maybe they weren’t kidding.” Maclain’s hands were still, a certain sign of his interest. “I think I’ll help you, Claude. One hundred dollars a day—expenses—and a free hand. I’m interested in those mice.”

  “Good Lord, Maclain!” the D. A. exclaimed, startled. “You don’t think those could have come from Paul’s car. What in the name of heaven would Zarinka be doing with mice?”

  “Some folks like them as pets.” Maclain smiled broadly. “I don’t think Zarinka falls in that class. Others use them for experimental purposes in the science of medicine. He hardly fits there, either. Maybe he had them along with him to warn him.”

  “What do they do?” the silent Springer asked. “Sing?”

  “No,” Maclain told him. “They wriggle and squeak whenever they get a whiff of poison gas.”

  Chapter Six: AN UNCANNY MEETING

  Charles Hartshorn was a personable young man in his late 20’s. Softly padded against the knotty problems of life by a comfortable income, his even disposition concealed a real capability for many things. His affability and sweetness delighted many hostesses on Park Avenue and the East Side. He lived a life of consistent correctness, believed that the Republican Party was a panacea for all ills, and intuitively knew what system his partner used at bridge, and whether or not he should show up for dinner with a black or white tie.