by Jerry eBooks
For once in her life, Judy was no thinking, reasoning nurse. She became a wild dynamo of anger, of desperate hatred. Her hand grabbed the frying-pan. She didn’t feel the too-hot handle burn her flesh. She slashed the hot grease over Trimmer’s head, knocked the wavering gun from his fist, battered his face.
Then a strong hand clamped around her wrist, held her.
“Steady now, Judy,” Sergeant Flaherty tried to soothe her. “You’ve laid the lunkhead out cold.” He snapped handcuffs on Trimmer’s wrists. “Lookit that galoot’s nose, will you now?” he gasped. “It’s a squashed tomato.”
The frying-pan fell from Judy’s hand, clattered loudly on the floor. Margy stood like a statue, her eyes fixed with hysteria. She screamed.
Judy slumped tiredly into her seat, picked up a glass of water and dashed it into Margy’s face. “Shut up, kid,” she said wearily. “It’s all over.”
Flaherty had got some of the red stuff on his hands. He wiped them on a handkerchief.
“And just how—” he started to ask.
Judy sighed wearily. “I put a can of tomato puree on the gas flame, unopened. Then I talked to him about getting shot in the back. When that puree got to steaming, the can blew up and,”—her head dropped on her arms as tears came in her eyes. “That’s all.”
Flaherty gently stroked her hair. “Well, now, Judy darlin’,” he said. And then she was in his arms.
Margy’s eyes grew big. She said softly “Oh!” and tip-toed to the door. Officer Jones was barging in.
“Out, Jonesy,” she whispered. “This is no place for you.”
MOONLIGHT SAVING
E.O. Umsted
Ed Farrell, Insurance Detective, Stalks a Murdering Saboteur Through a Sinister Maze of Political Corruption!
OVER in town, a clock tolled seven as I parked on the bridge approach. The construction shack squatted there was like all others I’d seen on Reliance Bridge Company jobs—unpainted, boxlike. Only one detail differed here. A dark piece of crepe fluttered from the door.
The door opened as I jumped from my coupe. A stocky, booted man stepped out.
“You’re Farrell, the insurance company detective?” he asked me. “I’m Dade, job superintendent.” He nodded somberly toward the crepe. “Fellow named Wicker, poor chap. He was our night-watchman.”
“Natural death?” I asked.
“No, somebody slugged him,” he said. “About four this morning. We didn’t get word to Chicago till you’d left. He’d flopped right where you’re standing—See the blood?”
The Reliance Bridge Company carries construction insurance with Federated American, the company I sleuth for. On each new bridge-building contract, they take out one policy covering intentional damage. Human damage. There’s always the chance some fired workman will sabotage a bridge for spite. More likely, it’s some crook posing as a workman.
My employer at the Chicago home office had called me in early that morning.
“This Clay Hill bridge,” he explained, “will connect that town of twenty thousand with a rich farming section, the Bottoms, across the river. A Reliance executive just phoned me, from their office here. He’s panicky about a message they just received.
“They got a threatening letter once before. It was last summer, when they bid this job in. They were warned that they’d never finish their bridge. They put that down as a crackpot’s work, didn’t even report it to us. Now they received this new threat.”
“Another letter?”
He nodded worriedly.
“It says: ‘You had your warning about Clay Hill bridge, suckers!’ ”
The boss explained Reliance’s jitters further. This was a steel-arch bridge, a hundred-yard span. They’d been building several months from both river banks. The day after tomorrow they’d join the two reaching arms in the center. But till then the arms, resting on frail props or “bents,” wouldn’t stand much jolting.
“Reliance is worried about dynamite,” my boss finished. “So am I—plenty! Reliance would lose twenty percent if the bridge was wrecked. But Federated American Insurance in would lose the rest—nearly two hundred grand! Ed, it’s up to you to see that nothing happens to that bridge!”
A BLEAK December wind fluttered the dead watchman’s crepe. I glanced up at the incomplete bridge. Lights, following the arch, faintly illuminated the girders. A half moon careened through fuzzy clouds, silhouetting the framework like the stark ribs of a prehistoric monster.
Shivering, I stepped inside the office crammed with blueprints, tools, and welcome heat. I asked Dade about the killing.
“I’d stationed two watchmen,” he said. “One at each approach. I’d heard about that first threat and, the arch-closing being a crucial moment, I remembered it.”
“You didn’t know about the new letter yet?” I asked.
“No, not till I phoned Chicago this morning after the murder. Wicker had lights burning here—you noticed the bulbs on the arch and approaches? Besides, a searchlight’s spotted on the water where each bent rises from the river bottom. A ‘bent’ is the support propping each arm. I figured that if I could keep a wrecker off the approaches and bents, he couldn’t touch the bridge.”
“Who found the body?”
“A girl. She lives under the abutment here and heard the shot. A brave kid. She grabbed her gun, ran up here and chased the killer off single-handed. The lights had gone out—damn that power company! So she couldn’t see much of this running man by moonlight. Then she discovered poor Wicker, this Miss McElroy did, and phoned me.”
“McElroy?” I said, startled. “Betty? Is she here?”
He nodded approvingly.
“Guess you’ve handled our cases before.”
Betty McElroy! Every time Reliance finished a job, Betty and her mother would load their cookstove and kitchen utensils into their trailer, light out to another Reliance location. Then they’d rent a building nearby or have one hammered together. And presto! She had another restaurant and was feeding all the construction hands. Why? Her fare was good, the company recommended her, and—she was a swell kid.
“The local mayor came here today,” Dade continued, “and offered me police protection. I told him we’d leave all arrangements to you.” His hands trembled when he lit a match. “That’s all I know.”
“Look,” I said. “You’ve been around this town three months. You must know some people, hear things. What about suspects?”
Dade tugged at a hairy ear.
“There’s three you might investigate,” he said. “The first is Mayor Gorse, a smooth-talking, ambitious politician. He’s against the new bridge. When the bids were opened on this job, he had them drawn illegally. But an alderman caught on. It was some kind of trick to delay the contract award until next city election, then take a new bridge vote. Besides, Gorse is linked with the local power company.”
“Crooked?” I asked.
“So I gather. Then there’s Blodgett. He owns the river ferry just below here.”
“He opposes the bridge because it’ll hurt his ferry business?” I guessed.
DADE shook his head. “It’ll ruin it!
The city’s already gone to court, canceled his franchise. He can’t even operate after the bridge is finished! Also, there’s Parelli, a banker at Oakville, twenty miles across the river. Oakville depends entirely on farm trade with The Bottoms. The free bridge will bring that here, because Clay Hill is much nearer that section. Farmers go to Oakville now to save ferry fare. The bridge will wreck Oakville, and Parelli practically owns the little town. So he’d rather see it in the river than over it!”
Outside, the wind whistled a vibrant, urging tune. I jumped to my feet, turned my coat collar up.
“Driving down,” I said, “I hoped this threat was a practical joke. Now I know better. That murderer won’t hesitate to make mincemeat of this bridge! His only problem’s how, and when. I’m out to stop him. Not just while the arch is being joined but till the job’s done! What’s more, the Clay
Hill people never can feel their bridge is safe until this killer’s put away. And Wicker—we’re not forgetting him. I mean to get that rat!”
After introducing Hull, the new night-watchman, Dade left. Then I had another look at the bridge. The road continued only to the abutment end. The bridge floor wouldn’t be swung from the suspenders until the arch was closed.
The moon played ghostly tag with breaking clouds. The near arch-arm curved over a crutchlike bent, projected free beyond for forty feet. The other arm, stretching from the far side, had steadier support. Its bent stood much nearer the free end.
If anybody desired to commit big damage, the arm on our side was the one to blast. The arms were twelve feet apart now, Hull said. Two more days of work would link them together. And it was sixty feet down to water from up there.
Hull was nervous. He kept wetting his lips, rubbing horny hands. A riveter, he’d been given the guard job after Wicker left a vacancy. Thick muscles lumped out his sleeves.
He showed me a telephone that was connected with the far bank. I phoned the other watchman, Charley. All quiet over there, his voice told me. Then I asked Hull where I could locate Clay Hill’s mayor.
“City Hall.” Hull squinted his watch. “Evening paper announces a regular city council meeting there at seven. It’s seven-fifteen now.”
It was eight blocks downtown, he said. With the night becoming clearer, I decided to walk it.
Two hundred yards from the bridge the road right-angled into a town street. A little old man stood under the intersection light, scanning the sky.
“She’s gonna stay out, hey?” he croaked at me.
“The moon? Yeah, it isn’t going to rain after all.”
He hopped birdlike inside a coop-size booth off the sidewalk. His arm levered and the intersection light went out. I stared downtown. All the streetlights were blacked out.
“Did you do that?” I asked, scowling.
“I’m Jelk, city moon-watcher,” he cackled proudly. “When the moon’s bright, we save light! Forty smackers a night, my nephew the mayor says!”
I SNORTED.
“So your nephew Mayor Gorse pays you city money to watch the moon and yank a switch. Hard work.” I glanced back where I’d walked from and my jaw dropped. “Hey, the bridge lights are out, too!”
“Yep, same powerline.” He giggled. “This is the second time I’ve jerked that switch. My job only started last week.”
I grabbed his arm, shook him.
“So you had those lights off when Wicker was shot! Now you’ll scare the new watchman. Switch those lights on!”
The old man jumped into his doghouse, slammed the door. A bolt grated.
“Hull knows I might turn ’em off,” he yelled at me. “I told him today. You see the mayor, mister! This here’s my job!”
You bet I’d see the mayor. I started downtown.
There was only a house or two to the block out here. The rest were vacant lots, bare trees, bushes. Frosty shadows loomed everywhere. Then I heard something thump! It sounded just ahead, in a dark clump of bushes. The bushes shook. I stopped, braced myself. Then I understood. Somebody had tossed a rock in that bush to distract me.
I whirled, ducked from an onrushing masked shape. A club crashed off my skull. Skyrockets exploded in my seething brain. I staggered, but kept my feet. Then he ran away and scooted behind a board fence as I whipped my gun out and shot three times. Bending low, I ran to the fence, peered over.
I saw lots of trees—a park probably. My assailant was hidden there by now. All I knew was that he’d worn a dark cloth over his lower face. I didn’t even know if he was big or little.
Waggling a groggy head, I staggered toward town. Then I broke into a trot. When I reached City Hall, my head was clear and I was running hard.
“Where’s that council meeting?” I asked the uniformed cop at the desk downstairs.
“Postponed.” He blinked. “The mayor had to leave. Got a phone call a few minutes back, so he left with Mr. Stroud.”
“Stroud? The power company owner?”
“Yep.” The cop started running around the desk. “Hold on, young fella! You been fightin’?”
I ran outside. I’d forgotten my face was all bloody. I found a cab, handed the hackie a buck to wheel me to the bridge fast. When I jumped out there, he left looking scared. I yelled for Hull. A flashlight beam drilled me.
“You, Mr. Farrell?” It was Hull, a gun in his fist. “Wanted to make sure. I chased a guy off ten minutes ago. Right after the lights went out. Caught him sneaking onto the bridge.”
“Recognize him?”
“No, sir. He ran like a deer, after I shot. But he dropped this. Heard it pop the planking and found it with my flash.”
He laid a gold watch in my palm. I flipped it over. On the back was engraved the letter “P.”
AFTER keeping Hull company for half the night, I drifted into Betty McElroy’s lunchroom for a late breakfast. I perched on a stool at the clean white counter.
“Ed!” Betty waltzed out of the kitchen, shook hands warmly. “I heard about last night. I’ve been expecting you. How’s your head?”
It still throbbed from a knot under my snap-brim, but seeing Betty again made me feel fine all over. She looked swell. She had dark shining hair, a million-dollar figure and blue Irish eyes a mile deep.
She fried ham and eggs on the spick and span griddle. She told me her mother was out back in their trailer. She was in bed, half sick from the excitement. Betty was keeping her .32 under the counter, in case the killer showed again.
She’d heard local news around the lunchroom. For instance, that Blodgett, the ferryman, had been defeated for mayor by Gorse in the last three elections. He would run again next February. Some townfolks predicted he would win.
The campaign issue was utilities—lights, water, gas. This bird Stroud owned the local plant that supplied all three. Blodgett wanted to boot him out, let the city operate its own plant. Blodgett claimed he’d made a study of power rates.
He branded Stroud’s rates exorbitant.
Blodgett charged that Mayor Gorse had persuaded the council to keep Stroud’s plant. For this work Stroud was furnishing free gas to run a mill Gorse owned. Blodgett couldn’t prove this story, but it threatened Gorse’s chances for re-election.
“I’ll interview the mayor,” I told curvesome Betty. “And, pet, if there’s more shooting necessary, leave it to me!”
“I haven’t seen you for months,” she said, “so don’t get yourself plugged!”
She’d tried to joke, but suddenly shuddered and went white as a flour sack.
At City Hall the mayor sent word I could come upstairs. Lanky, about thirty-five, this dapper fashion plate shook hands damply. He ran a palm over slick black hair.
“Heard about you,” he said silkily. “Meet my friend Stroud.”
This other man in the little office was shorter than Gorse, but huge! Three hundred and fifty pounds anyway! Age about forty-five. He didn’t even try to rise for manners. Nobody could blame him.
“A pleasure,” he said, slipping me a limp ham hand. “The mayor was just telling me you got slugged last night, son.” Gorse’s sanctum was small but ornate and expensive. There were new deep-cushioned chairs, a gigantic shiny desk for His Honor. A framed motto on it read: “Strike While the Iron Is Hot.”
Gorse blew a bulging smoke ring. “Heard about it this morning, Farrell,” he said. “Next time, cut us in. My city force would have the hoodlum in the clink by now.”
“Thanks,” I said, scowling darkly. “Also for offering your cops to guard the bridge, which I understand you did.”
Gorse assumed a platform pose, waved a slim cigar airily.
“And Dade, the superintendent, crudely refused our aid! No gentleman, that fellow. You’d think I was after the bridge! If Dade was the only one concerned, I’d say let his arch go splash!”
HE and Stroud swapped quick, apprehensive glances.
“Of course, I�
��d hate to see you insurance people hurt,” Gorse added, waxy eyelids fluttering. “And this city—why, this bridge’ll be wonderful for Clay Hill! I love my town, Farrell! Living in Chicago, maybe you’ve never felt the warm fire in your heart for a small town like . . .”
When Gorse’s flowery oration ended, I told him about the bridge lights’ blackout last night.
“Why can’t the power company give us a private line? Instead of that street light hookup? If you love Clay Hill’s bridge so, how about letting those lights burn uninterruptedly till we can close that arch?”
A cold, contemptuous grin twisted the corners of Gorse’s handsome lips.
“You don’t know politics here,” he said. “And you don’t know Blodgett!”
“What’s the connection?”
The mayor and Stroud exchanged more furtive glances. The ponderous powerman sat quietly, like a placid Oriental idol—except his slitted, venomous eyes. I understood now where Gorse looked for directions. But though Stroud might be engineering all this deviltry, he’d had help. With his giant bulk, he couldn’t run as speedily as my attacker had.
“Here’s the set-up, Farrell,” Gorse said smoothly. “Recently I read how various mayors had saved their cities money with this moonlight saving plan. But the minute I started it, what did that crank Blodgett do? He began yapping that I was raising an economy smoke screen, a publicity stunt just to capture votes next February! While I’m really helping Mr. Stroud bleed the citizens with high power rates, he said!”
“Blodgett’s wrong there?” I asked, twisting my wide lips wryly.
Gorse shot me a venomous scowl. His brow furrowed. His expression molded into one of martyred pain.
“It’s no joke, Farrell,” the mayor said coldly. “I must march on with my moonlight economy project! If I retreated even one night to help your watchmen, Blodgett would jeer how he’d exposed me as a scheming politician! It might win him the election. A calamity!”
I wheeled on enormous Stroud, owner of power plants in half a dozen towns.
