Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Larry climbed to the higher level where the building stood. He had been wondering about the men who’d started the gun fight, particularly since the bullet had come his way. Now, he saw that the point was flanked on the seaward side by a ledge of rock that made ascent, there, practically impossible. Evidently, the only approach was from the front; and he judged, from the unceasing reports, that it would be a few minutes before anyone would follow the way he’d come.

  He made out a door in the rear, went to it and found it unlatched. He entered a long room that seemed to occupy most of the space of the building. As he took a step forward, he noticed a jog at his left hand, making a tiny office. He took another step and saw that the door was half open, inward.

  There was the body of a man across the threshold!

  Larry caught his breath sharply, for the instant a little stunned and confused. In the seconds that he stood there, gazing down, drawing the back of his hand across his suddenly wet forehead, it again flashed over his mind that Vivian Knapp had started to speak of murder. Had she meant this? How could she, unless it were premeditated and she had known of it?

  But Larry knew very well he couldn’t waste time there. He bent on one knee to look closer at the murdered man, and his hand brushed a limp hand. It was not cold, and the discovery gave him a little shock without analyzing it. The man had whitish hair, but the light was too faint to see his features. Larry had no doubt that this must be the eccentric chemist, Christopher Galt, of whom Haynes had spoken; but he was less concerned with the man’s identity than he was to learn if he were still alive.

  With the battle still in progress outside, he dared not turn on the shop’s light. He did not smoke, himself, and he had no matches; but he had been given a lighter, once, and he carried it for the convenience of hoped-for clients. He twisted a little to put his back more to the windows, snapped the lighter on and, by the meager light, saw lined features that were vaguely familiar but not instantly recalled. He saw also that the man was dead beyond any question of doubt.

  Something in one outstretched hand caught his eye. He bent closer and saw that it still grasped a torn piece of paper. It was crumpled and torn, but printed words stood out.

  Patent No. 987,67—

  Issued to Lawrence Clin—

  With a swift movement, he removed the fragment of paper, and brought it closer to the tiny flame. Then he stood up, his knee brushing the lighter, extinguishing its flame and knocking it over.

  He forgot it for the moment in the face of two impressions: One was that the firing outside had ceased, and he was asking himself how long it had escaped his notice; the other was something that was hammering at his brain, seeking to awaken his memory.

  The first obviously demanded his instant attention. He shoved the paper into an inside pocket and turned toward the large room. Then a pistol crashed outside! Another answered, and the fight seemed on again. Larry suddenly wanted to get away from there—to any place where he could think in peace for a few minutes. But the working of his memory told him that he should first discover if there were anything besides this torn sheet of paper that he could take with him.

  In the dim light of the larger space, he could make out a bench running along one wall. He could see faintly the outline of objects it held: retorts, burners, long glass tubes, a small motor. He knew, then, that he was looking for the test apparatus Haynes had spoken of. That and the papers covering it, Haynes had told him, were valued at more than half a million dollars. He covered the length of the bench, swept his hand under it all the way back and found nothing that even faintly resembled what he sought.

  CHAPTER III.

  DODGING THE LAW!

  With one ear cocked to outside noises, he shuffled over the whole interior with no better result. He pufched the door wide, stepped into the office and found that while it was narrow, it was longer than he had surmised. He went over the room thoroughly, letting his fingers investigate what he could only dimly see. A shelf at one side seemed to be bare until his groping hand felt what seemed to be a notebook. He shoved it inside his shirt. Of books or other papers he could find nothing.

  He started toward the door, suddenly pressed to get away, and observed a hollow sound under his step. Turning back, he tested it again, then stooped and swept a hand over the floor. His fingers encountered a small ring. He dug it upright, put a finger through it and pulled a trapdoor upward. A faint light and the odor of the marsh came through the opening. He swung a foot downward and touched the rung of a ladder.

  Larry went down, found firm footing and turned toward the strip of light. A narrow opening between the rocks with a short stretch of beach and the water lay before him. He hurried back, pulled down the trap and returned.

  He could hear the shots more plainly, now. They were less frequent and seemed to be coming in short bursts, as if one man would fire then others would answer in the thickening dusk. Larry stooped low, moved out a step and paused. A short distance away from him was the stern of a speedboat. He looked back. The opening he had come through was hardly discernible. Bellini and his men must have missed it entirely.

  He moved farther along the beach and waited, his head turned to the right. Then a pistol flashed and, with the report, others answered that he couldn’t see. That man, at least, was beyond the flat where the causeway crossed.

  Larry crept on. He entered the water and made no sound. Keeping low and moving cautiously, he reached the stern and edged behind the shelter of the low hull. He crept to the bow and felt where the light anchor line ran out.

  Drawing a knife from his pocket, he severed the rope. Then he held the boat in the same position until, with his head close to the surface, he was back to the cockpit. He drew a long breath, gave the boat a hard shove seaward, swung one long leg over the gunwale and clambered in.

  There was a yell from the shore behind him. A bullet zipped the water alongside; another thudded into the stern, and still a third smashed into the upright boarding beside the wheel. Larry crawled frantically forward, hugging the cockpit boards.

  Between the shots, he could hear more yelling, the shouting of words; then a burst of shots with no bullets striking near him. He reached the wheel, ran his hand alongside it and felt a button. He pressed it. There was a whir of the starter; the engine caught. Still crouched low, Larry grasped the gear shift and shoved it home, and the speedboat jerked ahead.

  A bullet smashed splinters close beside his face. He lay flat, feeling the throb of the powerful engine, the lift and fall of the boat to the slight waves. A few moments later, he pulled himself into the helmsman’s seat and stepped up the gas to a louder roar of the exhaust.

  He looked backward. There were no more flashes, no reports that he could hear. Apparently, he had broken up the battle. He judged that Haynes and his men had taken advantage of the momentary diversion to scatter the other gang, but with all the firing there had been he wondered how any could be left on either side to pull a trigger.

  He was getting out of the cove into open water, and he turned his head for one last look, grinning a little in triumph at his escape. He could see the fringe of trees, a short stretch of the ridge where it was high enough to hit the skyline, then the outline of the low building. And instantly the grin was struck from his lips, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

  He stood up, slapped one pocket, then another; thrust his hands into them in vain search. He had forgotten his lighter. He had left it there beside the dead body, a body that was not yet cold.

  He cut down the motor, turned the boat around in a tight circle and stole back toward the cove with the engine muffled to its lowest sound and barely speed, ahead. He was willing to take time, to give whichever gang had come out the victor time to get away.

  Then a doubt struck him. Haynes and his men must have won out, and Haynes would never leave until he had visited that building. As he watched, his doubt was confirmed. A light showed in a window; it moved and showed again at another spot. A flashlight. They were se
arching the place!

  Larry turned the boat, stepped up the motor and fled toward the city.

  A considerable time later, Larry headed into a dark landing which looked to be deserted. He made the boat fast at one outer corner, where it could swing with the tide, and hustled ashore. He took the first avenue and went a half dozen blocks before he turned into a drugstore and sought a phone booth. It was a call phone, and he dropped in a nickel and gave his office number. It was late, but he had an idea Elsie Garland would hang around.

  There was a click, and a low-toned masculine voice came over the wire.

  “Lawrence Clinton’s office. Is this Mr. Clinton calling. Hold the phone a minute, please.”

  Larry took out his handkerchief, wiped the phone and left it dangling. He cleaned the latch, inside and out, and shoved the door closed with his heel. On the sidewalk, he took a quick glance around. Diagonally across the avenue were the lighted windows of the restaurant. He went over, found a table close to the corner window and was half through an Irish stew when a radio car drew up at the drugstore and a couple of cops jumped out and slid inside.

  Larry gulped the rest of his stew as he watched with a sidelong look. The cops came out and stood by the curb, looking up and down the avenue. One started straight across the street; the second, with a hitch at his belt, headed directly for the restaurant. Larry swung around in his chair, stood up with no more show of haste than he could help, and slipped a dollar to the waiter. He grinned down at the man.

  “Keep the change, son. Say, that stew was great. Take me in to your chef; I want to tell him so.”

  He followed the man into a sweltering kitchen, gave another dollar to a stout man in dirty apron, and cap askew on his round head.

  At the rear of the kitchen, a door stood open. Larry went out to the dimly lighted side street, then set his long legs driving him away from the avenue and toward the water. On the water-front street he turned downtown and kept going, hugging close to the dark buildings and wary of the cross streets.

  He had figured on taking the story to the police, eventually. But he needed more, much more, before doing that. To be hauled in by them and put on the defensive, with the angles all against him, was something he hadn’t counted on. And the charge would be murder, first degree!

  It didn’t make sense to him; not police action that quick. He tried to think back as he hustled along. It must have been Haynes he’d seen prowling the place with a flash. But Haynes would be the last person in the world to call copper in that deal, with half a million dollars at stake and he, himself, up to the neck in it—to say nothing of what might be laid at his door from the gang battle. No—he didn’t see Haynes in the police angle at all.

  Haynes was the one man Larry wanted to keep away from, until he had his story more complete. He might figure him for the Galt murder. Larry had counted on that. And if he’d seen the lighter with Larry’s initials on it, he wouldn’t have removed it on his life. But Haynes would figure more than the kill; he would be sure that Larry had killed, then copped the prize and lammed.

  Up ahead, Larry’s alert eyes saw the hood of a car nosing around a corner from a side street. It had no lights. He flattened himself, wriggled over and dropped down into a sunken basement entrance, to squat on the lowest step. A cold shiver ran up and down his spine. It might be the same radio car; it might be another, but the fact was evident that they were combing the section for him.

  Larry’s whole thought had been on how he could keep out of the clutches of Haynes and his men while he dug up the rest of the story to put against some very damning circumstantial evidence. Larry realized that men had burned for less than was stacked up on him. If he should be arrested, now, and Haynes were rounded up, Larry wouldn’t have a chance. While he waited the car’s approach, his alert lawyer’s mind constructed Haynes’ probable story’: how he’d come on a simple business deal, had been attacked and was defending the lone chemist when Larry had sneaked in, murdered, dropped his lighter and escaped.

  Larry caught the soft sound of rubber on the uneven pavement. A flashlight’s beam struck the wall above his head, wavered, went past, then came back.

  Then the sound of a racing car drew nearer, came abreast. There were hoarse shouts, and the beam was taken away. An engine roared; gears made a grinding sound. Larry waited. After a moment he stuck his head up cautiously, got his eyes above the level. The tail lights of a taxi were growing fainter down the street; the police car was in hot pursuit.

  He was out of there with a leap. He raced to the corner, sprinted the long block back to the avenue, crossed over and slid into a parked cab.

  In another part of town, he called Elsie Garland’s home.

  “Is it a hospital or precinct?” she asked when she heard his voice. “Are you hurt, beaten up or anything?”

  “Listen,” he cut in. “Give me the news if you have any; then I’ve a job for you.”

  “But are you—”

  “Not yet, but the prospects are good. Shoot.”

  “You do bother a person,” she said. “Then her voice got sharper. “Here it is, in order. Nothing until an hour ago. Then Jerome Knapp called to say that if a hundred thousand dollars interested you, to get in touch with him at his country place. Know where it is?”

  “Sure! Up the Sound, this side. Keep going!”

  “Then a man, who called himself Glover, phoned. Write this number down; it might be important.” Larry reached for paper, took out the torn sheet, and wrote as she gave it. Then she went on: “He said it was most confidential but to tell you that if you wanted a quick, sure way out of your present difficulties and were willing to take fifty thousand dollars for value delivered, to call him there. He’d been there all evening, but to call only in person. Make any sense?”

  “It may, when I get time to think of it. That all?”

  “Then Vivian Knapp called—”

  “Now I want you,” he cut in. “Listen. This was the most urgent of all. She didn’t offer anything. It was the way she said it, and I believe her.”

  “That helps. What was it? Hustle. I may have to duck here any second.”

  “She begged me to try everything I could to get in touch with you quick and tell you not to see anyone, not to talk with anyone but to come to her immediately at her uncle’s country place.”

  “That makes two of them,” Larry growled.

  “Listen! You are to come up the grounds from the water side. There is a summerhouse halfway to the house. She’ll be watching it from her room. She couldn’t tell me anything more but that.”

  “That all?” he asked again.

  “Take my advice for once. You go there!” Elsie Garland pleaded.

  “Listen. This may take two or three calls and I can’t wait around.”

  “Don’t you want to hear the rest?” she broke in.

  “What?”

  “I waited late at the office, then decided to go out for a bite and back. Faithful fool! I rang for an elevator. When it came up, two dicks got out. Asked if I was connected with you. I asked if they knew where you were; said I used to be employed by you, and, knowing you sometimes worked late, I came to see if I could get my job back. A woman can fool a man any time. They let me go; they stuck.”

  “Yes, I know all that.”

  “Then I called a friend, newsman on police work. He’d heard a call was out for you in connection with a murder, but he hadn’t enough then for a story. Did you do it?”

  Larry groaned. “Now, you listen. Get hold of David Hollister. He handled my father’s affairs and settled what was left of the estate. Tell him I’m mixed in a murder, and he’s got to dig up some old information fast. Get what is covered in a patent issued to my father; part of the number is”—he consulted his torn sheet—“987,67—. See if there is any record of employees at about that time—Christopher Galt, Horatio Farley and anyone—”

  “That was the man murdered!” Elsie said. “Last night.”

  “They both were. Tell him I�
�ll call him from somewhere. I’ll give him about a couple of hours, but I must have it!”

  He hung up on “You go—”

  Larry paid a cabby to drive with his flag up while Larry huddled close to the floor. The address he gave was a side street leading from the avenue to the water-front street and a few blocks north of the deserted landing where he had left the speedboat. He had decided to follow Elsie Garland’s advice. With two hours to kill, a city full of cops was no place for him to wait.

  He scouted the dark landing from the greater darkness of a convenient shrub, saw nothing suspicious and went cautiously down. Unfastening the craft, he shoved it hard away and let it drift as long as it had way before starting the motor.

  The fact that the boat was there at all and with no cops on the watch raised another question in his mind. Haynes and his men all knew that Larry had made his getaway in the boat. If any of them had set the police so quickly on his trail, the boat would have been the first thing they would have been looking for. Then, if they hadn’t, who had? Larry didn’t have the answer to that, but it occurred to him that Vivian Knapp, who seemed to have uncanny knowledge of things about to happen, might.

  CHAPTER IV.

  HOUSE OF DEATH!

  Larry knew the Jerome Knapp place well, and he approached with lights out and barely headway. He drew in to the shore and skirted it in the shadow of the trees of a neighboring estate; then he headed for an open-ended boathouse that spanned a narrow cove. The speedboat slid between platforms that seemed to have been built to its width and nosed softly against the farther end. Larry made fast his cut rope end and turned toward the grounds.

  It was silent there. A hundred yards away, he could see faint lights in a few windows of the main house; he watched but could make out nothing moving against the dim illumination. He started off to his right, still watching the lights from the house. The low roof of a summerhouse bulked into his view midway from the water. He went toward it slowly, moving cautiously from trunk to trunk of the several big trees scattered over the grounds.