by Jerry eBooks
ROWLEY smiled sadly. “Bea wasn’t satisfied, but she couldn’t have proved a thing. I was shooting at you, Jay. And I’ll be able to do a better job of it here. You see, I know you haven’t got more than a suspicion, and a little circumstantial evidence, but I flatter you to the point of being afraid you might be able to stir up a little trouble for me with even that little to go on.”
Jay said, “Another error you made, Sam. I’ve got a complete case against you, with motive, opportunity and means of committing the murder. You were out in your boat at about sundown that day, fishing for bass. Instead of continuing to fish, you bought a fish from Benny, then slipped over to Dale’s and turned on the gas in his range, and also screwed one of the electric fuse plugs out of its socket. Then you went back to the neck and fished until dusk.
“When Dale came in from his trip, he stopped off at the club, and you detained him there until dark, when you drove him on to his cabin. You planned that when he found his lights weren’t working, he would strike a match, which would ignite the escaped gas, and blow himself—”
“That’s enough, Jay. One would think I’d written a confession and you had read it. It’s too bad you were so meddlesome.”
Suddenly Jay was seized by an overpowering rage. He flung himself on the calm little lawyer without regard for the gun. It exploded just as his shoulder knocked the man off balance. The jolt knocked the weapon from Rowley’s hand.
Then the reception room door opened and Chamberlin rushed in, his pink face blanched. “Rowley, what’s up?” he blurted.
“Kill him,” Rowley yelled. “He’s found out—”
That was as far as Rowley got, for as Chamberlin’s quick mind reacted, he knotted his fist and swung at Jay. Jay spun and knocked him down with one solid blow to the jaw. Then he turned back to Rowley who was getting up onto his hands and knees and crawling toward his gun. Jay kicked the gun out of his reach.
Rowley wasn’t through fighting for his life. He grabbed Jay by both legs and hugged them to him, jerked him to the floor. On the green rug, Rowley’s desperate fingers found Jay’s throat, dug in and locked.
Jay had no choice. In order to live, he had to bring out a trick of his Army jungle training. He broke the man’s neck, and only when Rowley died could Jay breathe again.
Chamberlin was moving and groaning now, and Jay heard the wheels rolling out in the elevator shaft and knew that somebody was coming up.
He picked Chamberlin up and slammed him into a chair. “I owe you one,” he threatened. “You’re mixed up in this murder, and I’d just as soon kill you, too, if I can’t get what I want out of you.”
“I don’t know anything,” Chamberlin gasped.
“You’re a liar. You knew that Benny Postoak was feeding Dale Vaughan’s birds every night while he was gone. He fed them the night of the explosion. If there had been a gas leak in that house for a week like you swore at the coroner’s court, the birds would have been dead a week.
“You knew that they use little birds in the coal mines around here to test the air for gas, because any gas will kill them and warn the miners. You knew that Dale’s dad was killed by gas in a mine, and that Dale had worked with bottled gas and knew its danger, and kept those birds in that house for that reason.
“If those birds were alive for Benny to feed just before dark that night, then somebody had to have gone there and turned on that gas! You used to be a freelance oil lease scout, and probably hustled all those leases that Rowley bought for Vaughan. It’ll be easy enough to prove.
“So you figured Rowley’s game, and faced him with it, and made him pay you to testify that the thing was an accident. That’s probably where you got the money you were stuffing in your pocketbook when Rowley came out of your office redfaced and sore just as I went in. Then when I faced you with your lie, you went out and tipped Rowley off, and he trailed Bea and me and shot at us. You’d probably have collected more for that little favor. Chamberlin, you’re tarred with a murder brush unless you come clean—but quick.”
“All right,” Chamberlin moaned as the starch went out of him. “You figured it out almost exactly. I knew Benny could testify about there being no gas in the house just before Vaughan went in, and I used him as a club over Rowley’s head. You help me get out of this easy and I’ll be your witness.”
There were heavy footsteps outside in the hall as the elevator stopped, and the two state policemen came in, with their guns in their hands. Jay smiled at them. “Looking for me, gents? I’m ready to have that little talk now.”
“Now that’s mighty white of you,” the Sergeant said. “More .22’s flying around, huh?”
Jay took half an hour to tell them the whole story, and to show them the exhibits in his case. They listened through it all, and they were convinced, and now they were his friends.
“So,” Jay finished, “if you’re going to press that charge of speeding, let me at least phone the hospital before you throw me in the jug.”
The Sergeant looked at the other cop and winked. “We’re going to throw you in, all right, but not into the jug. Into the hospital. We’ll drop you off as we take this beautiful clothes horse down to the jail.”
“How come?” Jay asked, puzzled.
“That little lady,” the Sergeant grinned. “She ain’t bad hurt at all, except in the heart. The doc says for us to find a lug named Jay and bring him in a hurry, because all the time she was under ether she was telling him what a blind fool he was for not bein’ able to see how much she loved him. The doc says that’s hurtin’ her worse’n the bullet.”
“Okay, officer, let’s hurry. I want to see a lady about a lug.”
CLOSE COVER BEFORE STRIKING
Sam Merwin, Jr.
Jed Thurston’s city editor gives him a cold tip that turns hot!
Jed Thurston wished the telephone booth was one of the kind that had a seat in it. Arlie Morris, city editor of the New York Gazette, which employed Jed as a feature writer, was really putting him through the wringer. Morris’ voice came through the earphone like something a convict would like to find in a cake. Jed winced and moved it a safe inch away.
“. . . and you’ve been yelling about getting on a real story for months,” City Editor Morris snarled. “Heaven knows why, but here’s your chance. Get busy and dig me up some facts and don’t let any grass—”
“Your three minutes are up, sir,” said the operator with specious if welcome serenity. “If you will deposit another nickel—”
“Okay, okay,” said Jed. He went into a contortion which would have done credit to a basketball center in an upper berth, and managed to come up with the coin after spilling most of his change on the floor of the booth. There was a clunk, and Morris’ voice was back at his eardrum.
“Now listen, Arlie,” interrupted Jed. “What else do you want. The guy was outside the Fighting Cock when somebody stepped up and put three dumdums into him. His name was Tony Dubois. He lived at one-twenty-three—”
“We got all that,” said Morris with acid weariness. “We’re checking.”
“Okay, so what do you want me to do?” snapped Jed.
“Get us some leads,” said Morris. “Get us something to keep the late editions alive. You say Pat Barlick’s on the case. Didn’t you do a feature on what a hot detective he was just last month?”
“You know too much,” said Jed gloomily. “So what do I do?”
“Get after Barlick,” said Morris. “Camp on his tail. Here’s an unknown man gunned down right in front of a swank midtown restaurant. Find out who he was, what he was doing there, where he’d been?”
“Tony Dubois refuses to give out any interviews,” said Jed acidly.
“Holy cow!” cried the city editor, his voice so loud that Jed winced. “And you call yourself a newspaperman! Find out what he had in his pockets. Notes, money, papers, matchbooks. Run down where he’s been through them.”
“Take it easy, Arlie,” said Jed. “That matchbook gag is exploded. I got one from
a joint in Texarkana from my corner cigar store last week.”
“Maybe this time it will work,” snapped the editor. “Don’t leave a stone unturned. This is murder man—this is a story. Now get on it.”
Jed Thurston hung up with a look of disgust. He had been about to turn in when the call from Morris sent him on this story. It was past midnight and he was ready for the sack. Just because he had the misfortune to live a scant two blocks away from the scene of the shooting.
He looked at the matchbooks in his own pocket after emerging from the booth into the glaring light of the drug store. There were three of them in more or less crumpled condition. One advertised a famous hangover cure, another an equally famous laxative, a third a shoe repair shop in Brooklyn. He sighed, put them back in his pocket, returned to the scene of the crime.
Most of the excitement was over. The tail lights of the meat wagon were just disappearing around the corner on the trip to the morgue. The crowd of onlookers, morbid or merely curious, who had threatened to block the street in front of the Fighting Cock marquee had dispersed. A couple of police cars and a scattering of officials and hangers on were all that remained to show a crime had been committed.
Jed spotted the familiar bulky form of Detective Lieutenant Pat Barlick standing by one of the police cars and strolled over to him. The official removed a cigar to greet him and ask him what he wanted.
“It’s not me,” said Jed. “It’s good old Front Page Morris. He wants to know if the late Dubois was vaccinated, if he was good to his mother and did he hate cats? Have you picked up anything at all you can give me, Pat?”
“Not a thing,” said the detective. “If I had you could have it and welcome, Jed. All he had on him was identification, an address and a few routine cards—laundry and so on. We’ll dig it out but it will take time.”
“Don’t laugh now—it’s not my idea,” said Jed. “How about matchbooks?”
The detective laughed. “I’m serious, Pat,” said Jed. “Did you make a list of them?”
“What kind of a cop do you think I am?” Barlick inquired unsweetly. He pulled a little notebook from his breast pocket. “Yeah, believe it or not I did. He was carrying quite a slue of them.”
“Let’s have it,” said Jed, pulling out his own paper and pencil.
“You asked for it,” said Pat. In the light of the police car dashboard he read them off slowly. “One from the Fighting Cock, one from the Oriole Cafe in Baltimore, one from the Porterhouse on East Sixtieth, one from the Mockingbird Inn in Savannah—Georgia that is—”
“No comedy, Senator, please,” said Jed. “Any more?”
“One from the Cardinal Tavern in Miami, one from Chu Tsein’s over at Broadway and Fifty-fifth, one from the Bobolink Restaurant in Charleston.”
“That all?” said Jed with faint irony. “He really went for birds.”
“That he did,” said the detective. He and the reporter looked at each other and grinned. Jed thanked the detective, started to turn, paused.
“The Fighting Cock, eh?” he said. “What do they say about that inside? Did they know the poor bastrich?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Nobody’s certain,” said the officer.” He shrugged. “But they draw a few hundred on a good night so—” Jed thanked him again and turned away. Barlick was getting into the car as he crossed the street.
The atmosphere of the quietly glittering Fighting Cock was a trifle subdued for the hour after midnight. Jed checked his hat and topcoat with the trim mascaraed miss in the foyer, exchanged greetings with her and went on inside to the bar. A head waiter gave him what passed for a smile. As a metropolitan feature writer, Jed was used to such recognition.
He paused inside the entrance, surveyed the scene. Perhaps a half dozen couples and a scattering of strays were at the bar instead of the customary three-deep line-up. Beyond, in the main dining and supper room, only a few couples were dancing to the muted music of a samba band. Murder, apparently, was not good business when mixed with night life.
Ray Corbin, the owner, came up as Jed took his place on a bar stool. The Fighting Cock boniface was a blond, rosy-cheeked, unexpectedly youthful specimen of chunky, middle size. He greeted Jed with a shake of his well-combed light head. His usual smile had been replaced by melancholy.
“Tough break,” Jed told him. “Was the guy a regular customer here?”
“Not a regular at any rate,” said Corbin. “He may have come in here. Milly, the check girl, thought she knew him. We get a lot of people here.”
“Sure, I know,” said Jed. “Well, it’ll blow over soon.”
“I hope so,” said the night club owner dubiously. “I hate to see the club involved. We’ve got a record to maintain. What’ll it be, Jed?”
“Bourbon and soda, I guess,” said Jed. “I need one. I was ready to turn in when Arlie Morris routed me out of my place.”
“Don’t tell me you’re working on it?” said Corbin, faintly amused.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Jed. “It’s just because I live two blocks down, I guess. Thanks, Ray.” He downed his whiskey, chased it with soda and reached for a smoke. To his disgust he had none on him. Noting his predicament, Corbin signaled for the cigarette girl, a snapping eyed brunette minx, who opened a package, gave him one and lit it. She gave him the matches with a falsely demure curtsey and he gave her a dollar bill.
“Arlie’s nuts,” he said, staring at the book, which bore the Fighting Cock emblem. “He wants me to trace Dubois by his book matches.”
“But that’s absurd,” said Corbin, blinking. “They come from all over.”
“You’re telling me,” said Jed. “This guy had the whole Eastern seaboard as well as some local joints—including this one. More birds’ names.”
“Birds’ names are in vogue for restaurants,” said Corbin. He gave Jed an amiable pat on the shoulder. “What are you going to do?”
“Follow them up as best I can, I guess,” said Jed. “You know Arlie.”
“I sure do,” said Corbin. “Well, the place is yours.” He went on his way. Jed, wondering what next, settled that issue by ordering another drink. He was about to put it to his lips when the girl spoke to him.
She was seated two stools down, and she was a dish. Jed wondered if he were slipping for not having noticed her sooner. He decided to add this to his burden of blame on Arlie Morris. She was blond—golden blonde and obviously genuine. Her figure was simply and superbly set off by a black dress whose lines were obviously expensive. A sheared beaver coat was cast negligently across her shoulders. Her near-perfect features were inquiring. There was a vertical line that might have been worry between her brows.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but could you help me out?”
“I’m not,” said Jed promptly. His six months in Manhattan so far had produced nothing like this. A slight nod indicated a tall, attractively homely young man approaching from the direction of the rest rooms with a definite list to starboard.
“My date hasn’t shown up,” she said, speaking hurriedly. “Would you very much mind playing stand-in for him, to eliminate brother Barleycorn?”
“You’ve bought yourself a stand-in,” said Jed, moving quickly to the stool beside hers. He gave his name quickly, looked inquiringly at the red-headed drunk, who was reeling up with a fatuous grin.
“Thought I wasn’t coming back, didn’t you?” he said to the girl. “Well, I don’t desert li’l girls in distress—not Lou Page.”
“Better desert this one—fast,” said Jed. “She has company.” Murder case or no, he was not passing up a chance like this. Redhead glowered.
“Trying to cut my time?” he said angrily, glaring down at Jed. He was well over six feet. Jed glanced at the bartender and stood up himself. His height matched that of the red-head.
“Come on, honey,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
They got out unscathed and Jed got into a cab with the girl. He lit her a cigarette and one for himself, gave their destination as
Chu Tsein’s to the driver. He looked at the girl with lifted brows.
“Is ‘Honey’ your whole name?” he asked. She laughed a bit breathlessly.
“It’s Connie Lopez,” she replied. “Why the Chinese influence?”
“Combining business with pleasure,” he told her. He went on to explain about his matchbook pursuit. “It was one of the places,” he concluded.
“I’ve seen your stuff—your stories, I mean, in the Gazette,” she said. She had a vibrant, rather deep voice that he liked. “So you’re working on a murder case tonight. I think it’s rather exciting.”
“Thanks to you, Connie,” he told her. “What happened to your evening? You don’t look like a girl men forget easily, much less stand up.”
“It can happen in the best of families,” she replied. “He probably had a good reason.”
“Beautiful and kind!” he exclaimed. “This is my lucky night.”
“Let’s hope it works out for both of us,” she replied. He laughed at that.
They had egg rolls and Chinese tea and rum in the lacquer-red-and-gold decor of the Oriental restaurant and Jed found his companion delightful if somewhat preoccupied. Otherwise they drew a blank. No one had heard of Tony Dubois. Jed, who had always scoffed at Oriental impassivity as a myth, began to doubt his skepticism. He was looking into his teacup when a recently familiar voice brought him to full attention.
It was the red-head from the Fighting Cock. He called himself Lou Page, Jed recalled. He was standing over them, still swaying, a highball glass in his hand. His grin was divided equally between them.
“No, sir,” he said, “Li’l Lou never deserts a couple in distress.”
“But we’re not in distress,” protested Jed, looking hopelessly at the Lopez. She drew her wrap closer around her beautiful shoulders. Page grinned.
“You stick around with me and you will be,” he said with a knowing wink. “I make it an infabi—infallible rule. ‘Snever failed to date.”
