by Jerry eBooks
“I should shoot you,” her voice was flat, lacking emotion, as if she were reciting something which she had learned by heart, “but I won’t if you’ll go now.”
Lombard stared at her. He did not move and she said:
“I’m going to count five. If you aren’t out of here by then, I’ll shoot, so help me.”
Suddenly he knew that she was speaking the truth. He did not need to see the skin whitening across her finger to know that it was tightening on the trigger. As she said, “One,” he rose, moved toward the door. “Two.” The apartment bell shrilled.
HER eyes jerked away from him for the instant, but he needed only that instant. He twisted, pivoting on the ball of his foot. His hand closed over the gun, forcing it downward to her side.
She struggled to free herself, to bring the gun up, but he was too strong. The apartment bell pealed again. Lombard wrenched the gun free, dropped it into his pocket. “You’d better answer that.”
She looked at him, her dark eyes burning. Then without a word she turned and went toward the door.
There was a big man in the hall outside—a man with gray hair and a closely-clipped gray mustache. He said, “Does Miss Ruth Clayton live here?”
The girl said, “I’m Miss Clayton.”
“I’d like to talk to you. My name’s Sample—David Sample.” He came in without being asked, stopped when he saw the detective. “Why, Lombard?”
Hank nodded. “Hello, Sample.” He knew the man. Sample had been a member of the parole board for two years. He wondered what he was doing here.
The girl was wondering too. It showed in her eyes. She said, “Won’t you sit down?”
The big man helped himself to a chair. His voice had a rumbling sound. “I met your brother while he was in prison. I was quite interested in him. In fact, I helped get his parole.”
She nodded without speaking. Sample looked toward Lombard, then back at the girl. “I just read about his death in the afternoon papers. I don’t need to tell you how shocked I was. I came out immediately to see if I could be of any help.”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing anyone can do. That is, unless you can keep the police from bothering me.”
“Bothering you . . .” He turned to stare at Lombard. “Have they been bothering you?”
She nodded and Sample said, “Lieutenant, I should think that there would be enough other work for you, and the force, without bothering this girl.” He sounded very pompous.
Lombard said, “Yeah, but Mr. Sample . . .”
“Enough!” The man was decisive. “Either you leave at once and stop annoying this girl, or I’ll call the Commissioner. Do you understand?”
Lombard looked toward the girl, but she refused to meet his eyes. He rose. “Okay, Mr. Sample. You seem to be callling the play. Goodbye, Ruth.”
She ignored him. For a moment he hesitated at the door, then he went out.
HE SAT at his desk at police headquarters for awhile, thinking it over, then he glanced at his watch. It was almost six. He yawned, rose, shrugged into his coat and left the building. He walked to the corner, stood for a moment debating whether to cross the street or eat at the Coffee Pot on the corner. Something made him look around.
A black car was sweeping toward the corner traveling too fast for ordinary traffic. He jumped backward, saw the gun protruding over the edge of the door, saw the gun and tugged at his police special. Then lead was hammering at him across the intervening space. He dropped flat on the sidewalk, heard the yells as the people on the sidewalk scattered. Twenty minutes earlier the street would have been jammed, but as it was, only a dozen people were on the block. It was the supper lull.
The car had slowed as if the marksman wanted to be certain of his work. A bullet struck cement close to Lombard’s ear, ricochetted to strike the window of the Coffee Pot behind him.
Lombard came up on one elbow and drew down on the driver, ignoring the man who was shooting at him from the rear seat. His gun jumped in his hand and he saw the windshield spider-web as a hole appeared in the center of the glass. The car leaped forward. The man in the rear seat leaned out to fire again. In the gathering dusk Lombard couldn’t get a good look at the man, but he sent a slug tearing into the car’s side as it went away fast.
People were spilling out of the Coffee Pot. An old man came over as Hank got slowly to his feet. “Want an ambulance? Want an ambulance?”
Hank said, “No.” His cheek felt wet and he put up one hand. Cement chips had carved grooves in his skin. He got a handkerchief and held it against the scratches as men from headquarters grouped around him.
The captain of detectives took his arm. “Who was it, Hank, the same mob?” Lombard nodded. “I think so.”
“Let me have Boyer picked up. We’ll sweat it out of him.”
Lombard shook his head. “We’d lose what little we’ve gained, Skipper. We haven’t enough to even hold him, and you know it.”
The captain’s mouth was grim. “At least I could throw the fear of God into him. I can’t let them keep on shooting at you this way. Either we pick him up or you get out of town for a couple of weeks.”
Lombard said, “Listen, Skipper. I’ve always taken orders and never talked back, haven’t I? Well, let me play it my way, just this once. I’ve got a personal stake in this. Clayton’s sister figures that I got her brother shot. The least I can do is to turn up the killer. And I want to do it myself.”
The skipper looked at him. “What’s this dame like.”
Color made a background for Lombard’s dark face. “Just a girl. Forget it. Come on, I’ll spot you to a cup of Java.” He led the way back to the Coffee Pot, brushed broken glass from one of the stools and sat down.
A white-faced counter man, whose hand trembled so that the black liquid almost spilled over the broad side of the thick cup, waited on them. Lombard ate with enjoyment.
The Captain of Detectives watched him, a grim smile tickling the corner of his tight mouth. There was a look of praise about the tired gray eyes. What the Force needed was more men like Hank Lombard.
When they finished their meal, the Skipper went back to the station while Lombard rode a streetcar out to his apartment. He hadn’t been there five minutes when the phone rang.
Boyer’s voice said, “And did you like the party? That was just to show you that a badge is no protection if you cross us.”
Lombard said, “You’d have felt tough if one of those slugs had caught me and those letters had gotten into the wrong hands.”
“That’s the chance we take. Now listen, Lombard. You’re either with us or against us. We’re giving you a chance to prove that you’re with us all the way. We’re ready to put the squeeze on a big shot, and you’re the boy that’s going to handle it. If you come through on this, we’ll cut you in for a regular share. Right?”
Lombard said, “I guess so.”
“Okay, here’s the dope. We’ve got David Sample just where we want him. We’ve talked to him twice on the phone.”
Lombard whistled. “Not the David Sample—the one on the parole board?”
Boyer chuckled. “I thought that would get you.”
Lombard’s voice tightened. “What are you trying to do—get me into a jam? What about the kick-back?”
Boyer chuckled. “Thought you had nerve. As long as you have those letters Sam Clayton left, I don’t dare cross you, do I?”
Lombard said, “No,” slowly. “I guess that’s right, but what do I say to Sample? I’ve got to say something that will scare him.”
Boyer’s voice was easy. “Just ask him if he wants everyone in town to read the story about Alaska. That will bring him around. Tell him it will cost five grand to keep it quiet. Get the money in cash, and bring it to my office.” He hung up.
Lombard replaced the receiver slowly, sat for a moment staring at the wall opposite his desk, thinking about Sample and the girl, then he got up and went back downtown.
The skipper wasn’t there. Hank scribb
led a note, left it with the desk sergeant, looked up Sample’s address and left the building.
“The cab company will declare an extra dividend,” he muttered as he got into a taxi.
SAMPLE’S home was not as pretentious as some of its neighbors, but it was large. The house sat well back from the street in the middle of the carefully kept grounds. Lombard went up the walk, pushed the bell and waited. A man in a white coat answered, a black-haired man with a shrewd, thoughtful face. He stared at Lombard.
Hank ignored the stare. He said, tensely, “Hank Lombard to see Mr. Sample.” His badge made a gleam in the palm of his hand. “Tell him that it’s important.”
The houseman hesitated, started to say something, didn’t. He backed away so that the detective could step into the hall, then he closed the door and disappeared into a room to the right. He reappeared a couple of minutes later.
“Mr. Sample will see you. This way please.”
Lombard followed him into the book-lined room. The large man was in the far corner, seated at a walnut desk. He rose without extending his hand. “What is it, Lombard? I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
The detective shrugged. Sample turned to the houseman who stood beside the door. “Take this letter into the city, John.” He extended an envelope. “Use the big car. You’d better start at once. I’ll see Mr. Lombard out when he’s ready to leave.” The houseman disappeared.
Sample turned to the detective. “All right. What is it?” His tone was far from cordial.
Lombard’s eyes were hard. “For me—nothing. For the city and people of Los Angeles—a lot. These last ten years you’ve been squawking your head off about crime conditions in this city. You’ve had your finger in every reform movement; you’ve headed half the investigating committees. All you’ve accomplished is to get your name in the papers and grab a spot on the parole board.”
Sample cleared his throat noisily. “I’m sorry you take that attitude, Lombard.”
The detective said, “Nuts,” roughly. “Do you really believe all you’ve been saying for years, or was it just a publicity gag?”
Sample’s face was red. “Of course I’ve meant it.”
“Okay.” Lombard moved a step closer. “Here’s your chance to prove it. Here’s your chance to really help in the battle against crime. For five years a mob has been playing the extortion racket in this city. I helped send up a minor member of the mob, but I didn’t get the big shot. I’m after him, and you can help me.” Sample said, in a quieter tone: “I don’t quite understand.”
Lombard explained. “I’ll make myself clear. This mob is shaking you down. They know something that happened a long time ago—in Alaska. They want five thousand dollars. Instead of paying it, help me catch them—show that you meant what you’ve been saying. That’s always been the trouble, the victims were always too scared to fight back.”
Sample’s face had changed. “But that would mean exposure. I couldn’t. I’ve got to think of my family . . . my position.”
Lombard sounded disgusted. “No guts. I was afraid of that. I thought you were nothing but a wind-bag. Okay then, I’ll make you play with me. I’ll publish the story, show that Sample—the civic leader—hasn’t the nerve to . . .”
A voice behind him said, “Your days of getting people are past, Lombard, you’re all through.”
THE detective swung to see Boyer standing in the French doors, regarding him with mocking eyes. There was a gun in the lawyer’s hand. He laughed as he stepped into the room, followed by the gunman, Joe.
“You didn’t expect to see us, did you, Lombard? The trouble with you wise boys is that you know too much but you still don’t know enough.”
Lombard ignored the gun in Boyer’s hand. He said to the lawyer. “I’ve still got Sammy Clayton’s letters. If anything happens to me, they go to my boss.”
Boyer laughed outright. “That gag is worn thin. I suspected all along that you didn’t have them. That’s the reason I sent you out here. It was a test. If you’d really had the letters, as you claimed, you’d have known that David Sample was the big shot—the brains.
“That’s the secret Sam Clayton had. I’m telling you now because you won’t have a chance to tell anyone. Sample made the plans and dug up the dope for our little blackmail stunts, and at the same time he posed as the town’s leading reformer. That really is a laugh. It’s a shame that you won’t live to tell it.” Lombard looked across his shoulder at Sample. The man was smiling. He said, “It’s a shame you weren’t on the level with us, Lombard. We could have used you. A cop would have been a lot of help in this racket. We’ve got a good thing here. We’ll make a million in the next two years.”
Joe moved forward. “Shall I fan him?”
Boyer nodded. The man stepped to Lombard’s side and got the gun from his coat pocket. Boyer said, “Sit down, Hank. We’ll wait a little while. It’s too early to take you riding back into the hills.” Lombard looked around, toward the hall door, then back at Sample. “All right. I didn’t have the letters,” he was thinking fast, trying to stall, “but you still are in a tough spot. I made a deal with Sam Clayton’s sister. If I don’t go back, she’ll turn them over to the police.” The men looked at each other. Boyer said, to Lombard, “Are you sure that she has them—that she knows where they are?”
Lombard nodded. “Certainly. Do you think I’m crazy. She was afraid to give them to me. She didn’t like me, but it won’t keep her from giving them to the other cops. You can kill me, but that doesn’t get you off the spot. Let me go. I can get the letters from the girl and . . .” He stopped as Boyer laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
The lawyer said, “You are. You squirm worse than a snake, but you aren’t buying yourself a thing. Joe! Bring the dame in from the car.”
Lombard stared. “The car?”
Boyer said, “Sure. Sample wasn’t satisfied after he talked to her this afternoon, so we sent Joe for her . . . just in case . . .” He broke off as Joe came through the French doors, pushing the girl before him.
Lombard and Ruth Clayton stared at each other. Boyer walked across to face the girl. “Where are those letters that your brother had?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t got them.”
The lawyer told her. “Lombard says you have. Come on, don’t make us get rough.”
Lombard cut in, desperately, “Wait! I lied, Boyer. I was just stalling. She hasn’t got them. She doesn’t know a thing about this. Let her go.”
Boyer laughed. “Not a chance. Both of you know too much. There’s only one way we can be sure that neither of you will talk. What time is it, Joe?”
THE gunman turned to look out of the front window. As he turned, Lombard jumped sideways, locked his left arm about the man’s neck and twisted the gun free with his right.
Boyer swore hoarsely, and jerked his gun. The detective swung so that Joe’s struggling body formed a shield. Sample charged in from behind, grabbed his shoulders and tried to pull him back. Lombard kicked backward, his heel catching the man in the groin. Sample sat down with a grunt of pain. Boyer was circling, trying to shoot past Joe’s body. Lombard fired, but the struggling gunman spoiled his aim.
The girl called a warning and he whirled, letting Joe go. Sample had retreated to the desk, jerked a gun from the drawer and was leveling it. Their guns exploded together.
Sample’s bullet cut a lock from Lombard’s hair but didn’t break the skin. Sample got a surprised look and dropped heavily against the desk. Lombard didn’t know where his bullet had struck.
He fired again, then turned as both Boyer and Joe charged him. They all went down together, rolled across the heavy carpet and banged the corner of the desk, hard. Joe stopped struggling. His head had struck the corner. Boyer was trying to twist his gun against Lombard’s side. The detective’s fingers locked on the man’s wrist, then a voice from the hall door said, sharply, “Stop it!”
The Skipper jumped into the room, caught Joe’s shoulder,
jerked the gunman upright and slammed his big hand into the snarling face with a lot of evident pleasure. The gunman’s knees folded and he would have fallen had not the Skipper been holding him. The Captain of Detectives grunted.
“Rat!” He spun him into the arms of one of the other men who had crowded through the door after him.
Relieved of Joe, Lombard rolled Boyer over, pinned the lawyer’s arms to his side and held him until a uniformed man snapped cuffs on Boyer’s wrists.
The Skipper said, “You crazy mugg. Why did you have to come out here alone. Why didn’t you wait until I got back before you started?”
Lombard shrugged. “I couldn’t wait, and I was afraid that if I told the rest of the gang, they’d show up too quick. It was a chance I had to take. I wanted to trap Sample and I didn’t know any other way. The only thing that bothers me is, what happened to those letters of Sam’s.” The girl looked at him, her face flushing. “I mailed them to the D.A.’s office this morning.”
“You did!” He stared at her. “Why?” She said, and now she wasn’t looking at him: “I mailed them as soon as they took Sam’s body away.”
His voice was bitter. “That’s right. Never trust a cop. Well, I guess I can’t blame you. After all, if it hadn’t been for me, Sam might not have been killed. But really, it was the gang’s fault. If they hadn’t been so scared that I’d see Sam, they wouldn’t have sent me the note warning me to leave town. Then I’d probably never have come out to your place. I don’t blame you for not trusting us, though.” She said, “That wasn’t the reason. I did trust you. But I saw my brother killed. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to you. I tried to be as nasty as I could so that you wouldn’t get hurt.” He stared at her. “You mean . . .”
The skipper was grinning widely. “She means that a cop should never trust a dame—but you will. I have a hunch, so there’s no use talking.” He turned and called headquarters on the phone. Neither Lombard nor the girl heard him.
THE END
THE SINISTER CURTAIN
