The Last Express

by Baynard Kendrick

  He returned to the bed and pulled a light spread over him, but sleep was more elusive than ever. The events of the past few days kept writhing through his mind. They merged into a series of vivid colors which he could never see—like the passing of a circus parade in the dark, tangible only through sound and smell. He had fought a long uphill fight and won, but the winning had not left him unscathed. At least, his last battle was one to remember. A battle which brought to him visions of colors he had not seen for years—blues, greens, purples and red—the deep red of blood on the soft body of Amy Arden.

  The dance of flames was there, too—and smells. Terrible smells of singeing hair, blistering wood and choking smoke. Also present was the strange warm odor of the subway—the not unpleasant ozone of a million or more wires carrying great power to keep a city alive. Ozone mixed faintly with illuminating gas. Most vivid of all, perhaps, was the dank mustiness of Beach’s subway—the smell of a crypt where a dream lay buried, where a man with vision had run his first, and last, express.

  He lived again the short perilous journey from trap door to trap door along the express tracks—watching constantly for another train, avoiding the covered third rail loaded with electrical death.

  Luckily, the train which nearly killed Fox was the last express for the night.

  He could still feel under his fingers the touch of the crumbling ancient car and the molding, rotting seat which Paul Zarinka considered so safe a place of concealment. He had been blind in the face of Paul’s warning himself, nearly as blind as those around him—but the obvious thing was always the most difficult to see.

  Spud had read to him Paul Zarinka’s notes on the Hoefle case. They cleared up the rest of the fog. It was always so pitiful when a brilliant mind like Zarinka’s strayed into the labyrinth of crime—a labyrinth more complicated and dangerous than any to be found under the city.

  Those notes of Paul Zarinka’s would provide plenty of work for the police. They were as clear before Maclain as printed words, though he had heard them but once:

  Notes on the Case of the

  PEOPLE VS. BENJAMIN HOEFLE, ET AL

  1. Present to the grand jury the attached agreement between Benny Hoefle and Trilby and Shane, a firm of private detectives, whereby the said Trilby and Shane, for the sum of $10,000, agreed to employ thugs to beat up and intimidate Tom Delancey.

  2. The dancer—Amy Arden. She got the goods on Hoefle and stole the agreement from his safe. Note: Bring out to the grand jury that Hoefle forced Trilby and Shane to sign this and turn it over to him to protect himself from their squawk.

  That was worth $300,000 to Hoefle, thought Maclain. Breaking into his thoughts, the buzzer of the telephone sounded close beside his bed.

  “The D. A.’s here to see you,” said the sleepy voice of the night man from downstairs. “Shall I bring him up?”

  “Yes,” said Maclain, “bring him up.”

  He reached for the Swiss repeater watch beside his bed. It tinkled 3:45. He slipped on his dressing gown, pushed his feet into sandals, and quietly went into the office. There he turned on the lights and took his place behind the desk to wait.

  He heard the click as the automatic elevator stopped. A warm body moved close by his leg. “Lie down,” he said firmly.

  The door of the office opened and closed, without a preliminary knock. Maclain smiled pleasantly and said:

  “Sit down, gentlemen. It’s rather late for a call.”

  He gave no sign that he had heard the sound of the safety bolt pushed home on the door.

  The first man in crossed the room and boldly turned the key in the lock of the door which led to Rena’s office. The captain smiled contentedly again. He had solved the source of the familiar sound—that illusive sound, like a haunting name, which had bothered him for days.

  It was nothing more than a footstep, familiar because he had heard it once before—passing in back of his chair at the table where Amy Arden was killed. The room was ominously quiet.

  “Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. It’s rather informal—don’t you think—to come in without knocking.”

  The youth in the corner nearest to the hall door took out a comb and carefully brushed back his sleek blond hair. His filmy round eyes widened with surprise.

  “Listen, dead blinks,” he said softly, “you better hope we go out the same way.”

  The man nearer the desk hitched his chair forward and said fiercely, “Shut up. If you don’t let me handle this—you may not go out at all.” He moved around closer to the captain. “You know why we’re here, Maclain. We want that money you got tonight—and the evidence you have on Hoefle.”

  “That would be rather foolish of me, wouldn’t it—since it’s the only thing that keeps you from killing me now?”

  Maclain moved slightly.

  “Put your hands down flat on the top of the desk and keep them there,” the man ordered. “My friend’s got a gun muffled in a handkerchief. It won’t be heard outside of your soundproof room. It’s trained on your head right now, and I wouldn’t advise you to try anything.”

  The captain complied. He had good reason to know that no gun was trained on his forehead; in fact, that no gun was in sight. He could leave that with confidence to the dog by his side.

  “Now, talk,” the man continued. “We want the combination to that safe back of the paneling in the corner.”

  “Why didn’t you bring along a hand grenade?” asked Maclain. “You might have blown it open like you blew up Zarinka.”

  “What do you mean by that?” The voice was deadly.

  Maclain sighed. “I suppose you’ll have to kill me now—since I know who you are. It’s a pity, too, for you’re really very clever.”

  There was a hypnotic assurance in Maclain’s speech which kept him master of the situation. He had every appearance of being utterly relaxed, but not for an instant did he forget that he had never been in greater peril. “Yes,” he continued, “I have so much on you that you almost have to kill me. It never could have been anyone but you—from the time your incendiary friend in the corner double-crossed Hoefle and brought you the information that Paul Zarinka had sold out”

  “What’s the combination?” the threatening voice in front of the desk repeated.

  “I’ll give it to you when I get ready,” said Maclain. “Not before. You were the only one who had access to everything in the D.A.’s office—the only one who could get a Mills hand grenade from the Police Department’s arsenal—the only one who wasn’t conspicuous wearing a coat in the Hi-de-Ho Club, to cover the stains of Amy Arden’s blood—the only one always present, and never considered, because we were so used to you. You killed Paul because the governor’s investigation was coming on—and because he’d held out on you the money you expected to get. You were afraid, under pressure, he’d talk. Then you thought of the girl—Amy Arden. You knew her history—with Delancey—Hoefle—and Zarinka, and you guessed the truth. You went to her to confirm it, telling her you came from Paul. Cleverly you wormed out of her the facts of the agreement between Hoefle and Trilby and Shane, and that she’d taken the agreement from Hoefle’s safe. That was a mistake, wasn’t it? With Paul dead—and the governor’s investigation under way—she’d wonder why you kept so quiet. And you had to kill her!”

  Madonna, sitting fascinated in the corner, began to squirm. Time was fleeting, and he was keen to feel it There was a night attendant who had announced them by phone and brought them up in the elevator to be taken care of before morning. Once before the same helpless blind man seated at the desk had stood between him and fortune. Now he was calmly killing their chances with words, an endless stream of words—cunningly playing for time.

  “Why don’t you make him talk sense?” Madonna spat out suddenly. “Why do you want to sit there like a lunk and listen? There’re ways of making him cough up that combination—and none of them make pleasant dying.”

  “Yes, why not make me talk?” The captain’s voice was still even and un
troubled. “I’ll be glad to give you the combination—and the money’s in there, too: $130,000! Unfortunately, you can’t get it even if I tell you the combination.”

  “I’ll take a chance,” said the man in front of the desk. “I’ve taken plenty already. You’re too smart for your own good, Captain Duncan Maclain—but you’ve handled your last case. Don’t think I overlooked all the checking that went on about lights in the Hi-de-Ho. I did some myself, you know. My mistake was not bumping you off along with the girl. I’m not afraid of the entire department—but I am afraid of you. I’m still giving you a choice. You can give us the combination and die quickly, or you can keep it to yourself—and die Madonna’s way. Either way, you’re just as dead. Whatever you decide, I know which way to jump.”

  “It’s good to know which way to jump,” said Maclain, “when you have to get away from a dog.”

  The man in front of the desk laughed. “That’s a fine bluff, Captain, a swell bluff—but this time it won’t go across.”

  Fear struck like a bolt into the craven thing Madonna called a soul. Under the desk something moved and stood up—the one stark terror of Madonna’s life.

  For the last time in his murderous career he spoiled a careful plan. His handkerchief-wrapped hand whipped from his pocket, and a gun coughed dully in the confines of the office.

  The bullet struck Maclain. Slowly he crumpled over the desk, hands wide spread.

  Dreist attacked like light. Madonna fired again, but he fired wildly at a speeding, dodging lump of brown fury. Teeth were in his wrist. He screamed with pain and dropped the gun, searching to find a hold in the shaggy throat. The dog was gone again and back, clamping down on the other hand until blood spurted free. Madonna fell to the floor and rolled. The dog had him by the arm again. The man in front of the desk sat graven. Running feet sounded outside, and someone was beating at the door. Covered by Dreist’s attack, Maclain’s elbow had found the row of buttons unobserved.

  “I’ll let your friends in,” said the man. “They can go down along with you. I’ve shot my way out of tighter places than this. With them dead, nobody will be left to talk!”

  “Except the Ediphone,” Maclain said weakly and relaxed on the desk.

  From the other side of the room a new voice spoke. Startled beyond control, the man in front of the desk swung in his chair and fired.

  “When you hear the signal,” said the voice, “the time will be—four-seventeen and one quarter.”

  It was the last thing he ever heard, for Maclain, moving even swifter than Dreist, straightened up.

  His flat .32 was in his hand. Cool and calculating, he shot, judging by the report. He aimed slightly below it and for the left of the man who had just fired.

  His visitor slipped from the chair to the floor, shot cleanly through the heart.

  Gun in hand, Maclain came around the desk, bent over and touched him briefly.

  Ignoring the weeping youth on the floor, safely guarded by Dreist, Maclain pressed a handkerchief over the shoulder wound which was staining his white pajamas. He admitted the frantic Spud and Rena and said:

  “You’d better phone Claude Dearborn, Spud. While you’re at it, get a doctor. Dreist’s playmate got me in the shoulder—but the man I really wanted to get is dead!”

  The D. A., white and shaken, followed on the heels of the doctor.

  “I don’t get it, Maclain,”’ he admitted when he viewed the corpse on the floor.

  “And I probably wouldn’t have—if I’d have been able to see.” The captain winced under the surgeon’s probe. “You were so used to him, and he probably looked so big and dumb. But to me, once I had him under suspicion, his very failure to speak indicated his brains and how much he heard. Most criminals trap themselves by talking. He was so close to you, Claude, that at first I thought it was you.”

  “Great heavens!” said Dearborn. “That’s terrible, Maclain!”

  “It is,” the captain agreed. “But I couldn’t solve two things: You had a perfect alibi the night Paul was killed—for you spent the evening at Tammany Hall. Springer was on guard outside—except for the time he took off to run downtown on the subway and finish Paul! Then another thing was a phone call which came for you at the restaurant—a false one, I’m sure—to get you away from the table long enough for the girl to be stabbed. It happened you’d gone out for the doctor, and I forgot to tell you. I have enough evidence on the Ediphone records to free Chick tomorrow. And there’s enough in my safe, as you know, to clean up Trilby and Shane—and bring Hoefle back to town! The genial gunman with the fancy name is still in the other room playing dead dog for Dreist. Take him away with you when you go, for he uses scented soap.”

  “I can never thank you, Maclain—never,” said Dearborn warmly. “Not in a thousand years!”

  “But you can with a thousand dollars—and your check goes to the Seeing Eye, for I’m through with detective work, Claude—this time I’ve taken the ‘last express.’”

  Spud, standing by the bed, bent over the captain. “What was the last, Dunc?” he demanded.

  “I said I was through,” repeated Duncan Maclain. “Finished with detective work—forever. It’s your business from now on, Spud—for me it’s the ‘last express.’”

  “Thank God,” said Spud fervently, “that the express trains start running again tomorrow!”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Duncan Maclain Mysteries

  Chapter One: Note of Alarm

  “Here’s a guest worth going after,” said Mr. Fralinger, thrusting a piece of newspaper before the manager. “I’ve already written him a letter soliciting his patronage while in New York. If you approve, I’ll ask you to sign it.”

  Rudolph Bleucher plucked at his close-clipped military mustache and went through the motions of reading. The other occupants of the manager’s office maintained a discreet silence, awaiting his important decision.

  Slimly erect as a grenadier, and uniformed with the same patterned care, Thomas Fralinger stood at attention before the mahogany desk. His slightly crooked nose moved over wide humorous lips, indicating an invisible smile. His strong chin, cleft enough to attract a second look, remained firm.

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and he was on duty, which meant he was as formally attired as a Sunday-supplement groom. His pin-stripe trousers, dark coat, vest and stock represented an investment of some $120 on the part of Doncaster House. No assistant manager ever passed Bleucher’s stringent requirements until he was fully at home in morning and evening clothes.

  Indeed, the clothes must be more than worn well. They must be worn with distinction and with an air. The Bleucher air, which permeated the entire ménage of the luxurious hotel.

  Standing at the end of the desk, the housekeeper Mrs. Colling-Sands maintained the poise of a silvered-hair goddess. She was nearing 40, but nothing around Doncaster House was allowed to become old and unattractive. Under Bleucher’s code that was a privilege reserved exclusively for guests. The rule applied both to furnishings and personnel.

  Mrs. Colling-Sands broke it only by refusing to dye her hair. She had earned the silver with 20 years of hotel experience and wore it proudly as a badge of merit—boyishly bobbed and expensively coiffured. Her essential slimness of figure was maintained, according to her, by supervising the activities of 60 maids, 20 cleaners, three assistant housekeepers, and seven housemen.

  She performed the miracle with effortless ease, but supervising such a staff, spread through 480 rooms, took its toll. There were nights when endless vistas of dark, immaculate stairs disturbed her sleep; when nightmarish piles of expensive linen, always short in count, loomed up to trouble her dreams.

  Bleucher was halfway down the page of Fralinger’s letter when Mrs. Colling-Sands allowed herself a tactful cough. Two of the assistant housekeepers were waiting for her in the linen room, she had another damage report on 712—this time a bedspread worth $20—and the new maid on the sixth floor had taken two hours and a half to fini
sh making up 620, a small apartment never allotted more than 80 minutes

  It was indiscreet to cough at Bleucher, Mrs. Colling-Sands knew from past experience. It furthered no end except to make him more deliberately ponderous. Imperturbably he continued in his heavy fashion which, right or wrong, had carried him to the management of New York’s most de luxe hotel. Still, there were times when he passed the limits of endurance and forced the busy housekeeper to remind him that others had duties to perform.

  His perusal, without glasses, of Fralinger’s letters was a constant irritation. Bleucher’s eyes might never miss a spot left after cleaning or a dime-size stain on a uniformed maid, but without spectacles he could not read a word of print—a fact well known to the entire staff. Yet morning after morning he persisted in the comedy of approving correspondence which he could not sec. Consequently, Mrs. Colling-Sands coughed.

  Mr. Fralinger favored her with a quickly suppressed grin, followed by a wink which she decided to ignore. She smoothed down the lines of her smartly cut working dress and said, “If you please, sir—”

  The manager raised a strong brown hand and pointed at her with a slightly spatulate finger. “When I finish. Will that be soon enough, Mrs. Sands?” He usually dropped the “Colling” from her name, as did most of her friends and associates. He continued a moment longer with the letter before he pushed it across the desk to his assistant. “Good!” he declared after what he considered a proper length of pause. “Send it along!”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Fralinger, his marked English accent hinting suppressed annoyance. “I’m sure Dryden Winslow will be a most desirable guest—if we can get him, Mr. Bleucher.”

  “Dryden Winslow?” Rudolph Bleucher questioned. “Who is Dryden Winslow?”

  Mrs. Sands began tapping the floor with one expensively shod foot, but the sound was lost in the wealth of thick green carpet.

  “In the clipping, Mr. Bleucher. My letter, you know. He’s paying at least forty dollars a day for a suite at the Golden Regent.” Mr., Fralinger paused.