by Jerry eBooks
“No, but we have a way of finding out. Hedrick, tell Pop Worden to come in here with the requisition cards.” Hedrick left, scowling. He didn’t like taking orders from Hawke, but Nulty had made it very clear that the private detective was running the show.
Pop Worden must have been waiting outside, because his stooped figure appeared almost immediately. He extended a white card to Hawke, who took it, glanced at it, then passed it over to Aldrich.
“That is your signature, isn’t it?”
Aldrich frowned at the card and then looked up through narrowlidded eyes. “Yes, and unless it is a very clever forgery, I would say you are trying to frame me for murder. I did not visit the bank on that date.”
Hawke smiled disparagingly. He knew damn well that Aldrich had not visited the bank on that date. The card was an old one, perhaps a year old. All that had been cleverly changed was the date.
“Framed?” he questioned softly. “If so, somebody here in the bank is trying to do it. Didn’t you invest some of Oakley’s money for him, and didn’t you give him a raw deal?”
Aldrich did not answer immediately. Hawke knew exactly what was running through his mind, that it would be better to accept punishment for fraud than for murder.
“Yes,” Aldrich admitted quietly. “I did give him a raw deal.”
As if he were suddenly seized with an attack of palsy, Oakley’s body began to shake. “No,” he cried. “No. You can’t put the blame on me. You can’t—” He stopped short, a wild light entering his eyes. “How about Connel? Maybe he stole the money and put the bomb in the box so that when Aldrich would open it it would kill him and he’d never be accused of the theft.
“Maybe Aldrich himself planted it and deliberately sent Priest to the bank, expecting him to be killed. He could bribe Worden to steal the cards so we’d never know he’d been here. That’s it, he bribed Worden.” Oakley spun on the stooped attendant. “He gave you money, didn’t he—didn’t he—” And lunging forward he curled his hands around Worden’s slender neck, shaking the attendant like a cat with a ball of wool.
One of Hedrick’s big paws knocked him off. Pop Worden’s face was very pale and he ran his fingers around the inside of his collar, loosening it.
Hawke didn’t particularly like what he had to do now. He shook his head and said softly: “No, he didn’t have to bribe Worden. Because Worden stole the cards of his own accord, to protect himself. Didn’t you, Pop?”
The nostrils spread flat against the seamed face and the dull glaze of hatred glowed in Worden’s eyes. They darted for an avenue of escape. Finding none, he threw himself against Hedrick who was guarding the door. With the heel of a beefy hand, Hedrick sent him reeling against the far wall.
Nulty’s mouth was open. “I’ll be damned,” he said.
Hawke shook his head sadly. “It hit me only a little while ago. I suppose there’d been a nibble of suspicion back of my mind all the time, but it only crystallized while I was arranging with Worden to fix the requisition cards. Then I suddenly recalled that he’d neglected to make Priest sign a card for Aldrich’s box. Why? That should have been automatic with him, almost a reflex. It was because he was badly rattled when Priest appeared. He hadn’t meant to kill Priest. The explosive had been for Aldrich.”
“Motive?” Nulty asked. “What was his motive?”
“Well, I looked up his account here in the bank. Two thousand dollars had been withdrawn in one lump. That’s a lot of money for a man making only thirty-five a week. I concluded he had asked Aldrich to invest it for him. You did, didn’t you, Aldrich?”
The gaunt man nodded.
“And lost it. So Worden decided to get his money back simply by taking it out of your safe deposit box. Who had a better opportunity? While you were examining your valuables he was in possession of both keys. Simple to make a wax impression of yours, then on some quiet day, get the box, open it, clean it out, and plant the explosive.
“It was better for you to be killed. Otherwise you might find the box empty and accuse him. He stole the cards. He knew Connel had been there and that your secretary would be traced through the power of attorney in Oakley’s possession. That would indicate Connel. But as I say, his plan backfired when Priest appeared instead of you.”
Aldrich got the crutches under his arm and heaved his bony frame upright. “Well, gentlemen, I don’t suppose you’ll need me any longer.”
“On the contrary,” Hawke murmured. “We need you badly. There’s that little matter of the shot somebody took at Priest in the street. You left your apartment this afternoon at about the time. Where did you go?”
Aldrich’s nostrils pinched together. “To my doctor for diathermy treatment on my legs.”
“But not Tashito. You sent him after Priest. The bullet was found imbedded in a wall near the shooting. Right now a couple of cops are searching for the gun in your apartment. If it checks with the bullet—”
The Jap whistled through his nose and his face distorted into an expression of fear. For the first time Hawke saw it without the smile. And as Tashito stepped back cowering against the wall, Hedrick pounced on him with a pair of handcuffs.
“Attempted murder,” Nulty said. “I get it. When we visited you today you probably thought the Jap had only wounded Priest and that was why Priest had told his story. What story, Aldrich?”
Hawke supplied the answer. “Priest had proof of Aldrich’s fraud and threatened to go to the D.A. unless he made good. So Aldrich promised him everything he owned, although he probably has another fortune elsewhere, and even offered to let Priest go to the sate deposit box himself. Sending the Jap to waylay him was an afterthought.”
Nulty nodded shortly. “Well, that about ties up the loose ends.”
“Not altogether. I imagine Connel swiped a few thousand dollars from the box when he opened it. We won’t try to prove that if he turns state’s evidence.”
“I will,” Connel’s head bobbed eagerly. “I will.”
Nulty stared at Pop Worden and shook his head. “You never can tell,” he said.
OFF THE RECORD
Robert Wallace
Ex-Captain Ed Mahoney Had to Use Crutches to Move His Body Around—but He Didn’t Need Any Help to Make His Brain-Cells Click!
ED MAHONEY glared at the big radio-combination cabinet and thought of several choice names he could call his son when next they met. Talk, talk, talk! Fine speeches about reform, political crime, and the gangsters that infested Riverdale. That was all—a lot of blather, and nothing done.
“District attorney, are you?” Mahoney growled. “You got more done when you were just a lawyer. Now you do nothing but jabber.” He leaned forward in the armchair and rattled his crutches angrily.
Still, Jerry had a good delivery. His father had to admit that—and Ed Mahoney was a connoisseur of radio broadcasts. It was one way of passing the time, since a man with a crippled leg couldn’t very well remain a police captain.
Old Ed Mahoney was small, but Irish, and therefore tough as sinewy leather. Ten years ago there had been few crooks in Riverdale who didn’t fear the lean, runty, blue-eyed Captain Mahoney—his deceptively mild voice, his hard fists, and the tiny, murderously accurate automatic that supplemented his service pistol.
But a decade had brought changes. Captain Mahoney was old Ed Mahoney now, his tongue soured and his leg crippled, living alone in a suburb of Riverdale, furiously resentful of those who felt pity for him. Perhaps Mahoney wasn’t quite sure of himself these days. Perhaps he secretly called himself a has-been. Yet it was hard to stay out of the fight while the city slowly came under the sway of a political gang. That had happened before, and Mahoney was one of the men who had helped bring about a show-down and a clean-up.
He couldn’t help now. But his son could. Red-haired, grinning Jerry Mahoney, recently elected D.A. on a reform ticket, with his golden gift of blarney that was now pouring out of the radio and being recorded on a phonograph disc. Mahoney had a file of his son’s speeches, but
he seldom played them over these days. There was a reason.
The speeches had changed. In the beginning they had been quite fearless, denouncing the gang that ruled Riverdale, naming names and risking libel suits at every broadcast. Still, nobody had sued—for obvious reasons. But lately the tenor of the broadcasts had altered. Jerry was slowing down. He was changing from reform to conservative, it seemed—and in Riverdale conservative meant something uglier.
Mahoney scowled. He had seen too many men change, once they had got into office. But his son, the red-haired kid he almost worshiped, in whom he had centered all his dreams—no, it couldn’t be happening to Jerry. And yet—
THE distinctive voice, with its slight brogue, poured out of the radio. The implications were unmistakable. The kid was retrenching. Certainly this was the wrong time, if ever, with the Conwell case coming before the courts in a day or so. If the D.A. used his head, that case could crack the political set-up wide open. Jerry could do it. He knew the angles. Unless—unless he was taking smart money . . .
Mahoney swore at the thought, as the speech ended. He rose laboriously and clicked off the recorder. An announcer said:
“You have been listening to a talk by District Attorney Mahoney . . .”
Yeah—sure! On his crutches, Mahoney stumped to the window and peered out. He spent most of his time in this upstairs room, where, from the window, he could see big, sprawling Riverdale in the distance. Now the city was a blaze of lights against overcast cloudy darkness. Headlights of a car were bobbing up and down on the uneven road that led to Mahoney’s house. A visitor? There were few of those.
The radio was still on.
“And now a few remarks from Mr. Bernard Kettleman, publisher of the Riverdale Gazette. . . .”
Kettleman. He was another new one. Five years ago, he had bought the Gazette and started a blazing crusade against crime that sniped mercilessly at its victims. Lately, Kettleman, who had at first supported the D.A., was editorially calling him a turncoat, a crook, and a man who had sold out to political interests. Kettleman was a crusader—and it was unpleasant to know that his shafts were aimed now at Mahoney’s son.
The bell rang. With surprising agility, Mahoney went downstairs to answer it. On the doorstep stood a big man in a black topcoat, his hat pulled low over his eyes.
There was a gun in his hand.
Instinctively Mahoney reached for the pocket of his dressing-gown, but the other forestalled him. His weapon jerked forward.
“Hold it,” he said quietly. “Let’s have that rod.”
No use to resist, Mahoney knew. Silently, he let the big man frisk him, bringing to light the tiny automatic which the ex-officer always carried.
“Now get back. Upstairs. And take it easy.”
Mahoney obeyed. What the devil was this all about? An ordinary stickup? He didn’t think so. Above the sound of the radio he could hear a car being driven into the empty garage, which was, as always, unlocked. There were, then, at least two of the thugs.
The big man looked slightly surprised as he entered the room after Mahoney. With a quick movement, he turned off the radio.
“Sit down,” he commanded, and followed his prisoner’s example. His gun hand was steady as he glanced at the little automatic.
“Nice handy gadget, eh? I’d better keep it for a while.” He slipped the weapon into a pocket. “Now we can have a talk. My name’s Buchta—Sam Buchta.”
Mahoney nodded. He had already classified Buchta as a strong-arm man—a hired killer. His hard, smooth, too-handsome face and his shallow, cold eyes were the tip-off on that. But what was he doing here?
NOISES came from below. Mahoney tried to figure them out. The door closed, and there was a dragging sound. What could that mean?
Buchta gestured with his gun.
“Forget about listening. Except to me. We’re going to have a talk. I don’t think this’ll be necessary”—he patted the weapon—“but I take no chances. Are you going to listen?”
Mahoney nodded, forcing himself to relax, but with watchful vigilance in his keen blue eyes.
“Sure. Mind if I smoke?” At Buchta’s nod he lit a cigarette. “Now shoot.”
“It’s simple. We need a hideout. Nobody’ll look for us here. You’re the D.A.’s old man. Things are too hot for us to make a break just now, and we want to wait till the pressure’s off. So we’re staying here. That’s all.”
It wasn’t all, of course. Mahoney felt quite certain of that. But he only said: “What have you been up to?”
Buchta’s shallow eyes flickered. “Bank stickup. Nobody got hurt. And—”
A footstep sounded in the hall. A thick-set, ugly man waddled in. He was bald, and had a jagged scar on his left cheek. His voice was low and grating as he asked:
“Where’s the boss? I heard—”
“Sit down and shut up,” Buchta commanded. “Mahoney and I are having a little talk. This is Cal Hogarth. Might as well know our names. You’ll be seeing quite a bit of us.”
Mahoney exhaled smoke. “You haven’t finished talking. What’s the pressure angle?”
The big man grinned in a surprised way.
“You’re no fool, eh? Well, take a look at these. One at a time. They’ll give you the dope on your kid—the reformer D.A.”
He laughed, a short, harsh bark. “Reformer—that’s good. Look ’em over.”
From an inside pocket he fished a packet of folded documents and tossed one to Mahoney. The old man glanced over the paper, and his eyes went wide. He looked up.
“But—” His voice was unsteady. “This can’t be true!”
“No? Toss it back, and I’ll show you some more. Kinda hard to believe your kid’s a crook, eh? Well—the Gazette would pay plenty to get these back.”
Mahoney’s lips were white. He felt a sick and dizzy.
“What the devil do you mean? Start talking. Fast!”
Buchta made a pushing motion with his palm.
“Take it easy, Pop. Don’t get ideas. I’ve got a—friend—working in the Gazette office. He tipped me off that these things were in the docket, ready to be used in a publicity campaign—affidavits, photographs, photostats, everything. There weren’t any copies. These papers make up the whole case. I managed to get hold of ’em, and they’re yours, if you’ll talk turkey. Otherwise—”
“Otherwise what?”
“I’ll mail ’em back to the Gazette. And then it’ll be just too bad for the D.A.”
MAHONEY put down his cigarette with trembling fingers. His throat felt tight and dry. He stared at the packet of documents in Buchta’s hand. It was evidence, all right. Evidence that Jerry Mahoney, his own son, was a crook—that the D.A. had been taking the wrong kind of money, had sold out to the political gang that ruled Riverdale. Irrefutable evidence! Kettleman’s reporters must have been busy—and clever.
Buchta grinned. “Surprised, eh? You must have thought your kid was straight.
Nobody’s straight nowadays, if they can get away with it. But the D.A.’s headed for a smashup, unless you play ball with us.”
“Yeah?” Mahoney’s seamed old face was a harsh mask.
“String along, and I’ll give you these papers when we lam out. You can tell your kid what the Gazette has been up to, and he can cover his tracks. Then nobody’ll get hurt. See?”
Mahoney’s fists clenched. He leaned forward, and Buchta’s eyes swung mockingly to the crutches.
“Forgot about that, eh?” he inquired. “Listen, Mister. I’ve heard about you. You used to be a hellion when you were on the force. But you’re just a has-been now—and your kid will be one too, unless you play smart.” His voice became persuasive. “We’re not asking you to do anything but keep your eyes shut. Why not string along?”
“You—”
“I got the angles figured out. You live alone here, do your own cooking and cleaning.” That was true. Mahoney couldn’t bear to employ servants—it would reflect on his own helplessness. “You order your grub by ph
one. Fair enough. We’ll stick around here a few days and then scram. And you’ll be in the clear—with these.” He tapped the papers.
“Listen,” Mahoney said with soft fury, “I’ve never played along with rotten, blackmailing—”
Hogarth moved quickly across the room. His hard palm slapped against Mahoney’s mouth, knocking the old man back into his chair.
“Take it easy,” he growled. “I don’t like cracks.” Buchta hadn’t tried to interfere.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to call names,” he said. “Maybe you’re straight, but your kid isn’t. Anyhow, think it over.”
He went to the window and closed it.
“It’s a long drop to the ground—especially for a guy on crutches. So don’t try any tricks.”
He hesitated, and then picked up Mahoney’s crutches from the ex-officer’s lap.
The old man made no move as Buchta went out, Hogarth at his heels. The lock of the door clicked.
Mahoney sat motionless, his mouth working with silent pain.
His son . . . no! It couldn’t be true. And yet the proof was there. Jerry Mahoney had sold out to the forces against which his father had fought for so many years.
There was only one thing in the world that Mahoney loved. That was his son. And there was one thing in the world that he hated with the cold, deadly fury of a lawman. That was crime.
He glanced toward the window. No help there. The city was too far away. Buchta and Hogarth—they were not merely bank robbers. There was some subtler purpose—behind this.
The radio might give an answer. Mahoney slipped down from the chair, his useless legs buckling, and dragged himself across the floor. He twisted the dial.
Kettleman was just finishing his speech. Mahoney kept the volume very low.
“There is crime in high places in this city. It is fighting desperately to maintain itself. It cannot win! The Gazette has pledged itself to wipe out political corruption in Riverdale . . .”
POLITICAL corruption—Jerry!
Mahoney crouched in a heap before the radio, sick and shaking with emotion. His brain felt on fire. What could he do?
