Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  The front door was locked and the door chain was in position. The service door had received similar attention. Neither door had a transom. Less than two hours before, Ogden had searched the apartment thoroughly, making sure nobody was hidden in it, that no infernal machine had been placed in readiness to blow him to bits. He was wary of poison, would not use a drinking glass or dish without washing it thoroughly first. He had even thrown away the cigarettes and tobacco that had been in the room, and got out fresh.

  He seemed safe enough. But Judge Burley, who had sentenced Eddie Hill to the electric chair, had seemed safe enough, and he had been killed. John Doane, the foreman of the jury that had convicted Eddie Hill, frightened at the message he had received, had been killed also, though the police had tried in every way to protect him.

  Ogden paced back to the easy chair and settled himself in it. From his pocket he took the note he had received a month before, smoothed it out on a knee, and read it for perhaps the hundredth time.

  Judge Burley and John Doane had received similar notes, written in longhand and signed by Monk Stenner, and they were dead. The note said:

  I am back in town, and the cops can’t find me. You wouldn’t know me if you saw me. I have changed a lot in a year, thanks to plastic surgery. Because Eddie Hill died, you are to die. Before this year dies, you will be dead—the judge, the jury foreman, the cop who sent Eddie to the chair.

  Monk Stenner

  When those notes had been received, the police thought some crank or practical joker was at work, but they took precautions. Within two weeks, Judge Burley had been assassinated while making a speech at a banquet of the Bar Association—shot through an open window from a building across the street.

  Only a week ago, John Doane, who had been foreman of the jury that convicted Eddie Hill, had died while cringing behind a screen of police protection. Doane had taken a drink of milk from a bottle left at his doorstep as usual on the regular morning delivery, and the milk had held a quick-acting poison.

  Larry Ogden had taken every precaution. And he had received a second note which said he had been saved for the last, but that he was to die before midnight of the last day of the year.

  Eddie Hill had been one of the Monk Stenner gang. Report had it that he had been Stenner’s favorite, his trigger man. But Eddie had made a mistake while exterminating a man who had incurred Monk Stenner’s displeasure, and he had been caught under circumstances that made him a lively suspect.

  Ogden, in command of the homicide squad, had gone to work to pin the murder on Eddie Hill, and had succeeded. In sudden fright, the Monk Stenner gang had disbanded and scattered. But for Ogden, another murder by them might have gone unsolved.

  Some of the gang had been picked up on minor charges, but Monk Stenner had disappeared. No trace of him could be found. He was known to have ample funds, and it was supposed he had fled to some other country to hide out.

  OGDEN reviewed the whole thing mentally. He had protected himself since getting the note. His superiors had taken steps to save him. But Ogden had refused to let Tim Fielding, detective sergeant who worked with him, keep at his side. He had refused to go on a vacation. He had pointed out that this might be a chance to get Monk Stenner and send him after Eddie Hill. He had declared he would make bait of himself.

  He got up and strolled around the room again, lighting a fresh cigarette. Again he glanced at the clock. If Monk Stenner had made some errorless plan to kill him before the stroke of twelve, what method would he use?

  At what instant would death strike?

  The telephone bell sounded. Ogden flinched at the sound. He went cautiously to the small stand upon which the phone waited. Was this a trap? Had some infernal machine been attached to the telephone, fixed to do its deadly work when he took the instrument off its cradle?

  He reached out and lifted the phone. Nothing happened.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Oh, Larry!” It was the frightened voice of Laurie Carr. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m all right, Laurie,” he told her, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

  “I’m so afraid for you! I—”

  “Stop being afraid!” Ogden tried to laugh lightly, but made a poor showing. “You’re a cop’s daughter, remember? And you’ve promised to marry a cop. Chin up! It’s all in the day’s work.”

  “Please don’t talk like that, Larry. I’m terribly afraid. Judge Burley—and Mr. Doane—”

  “Stop thinking of it,” he begged. “Talk to your father. Do anything to keep your mind off it.”

  “Oh, Larry! I—I’m almost crazy. You there alone—just waiting!”

  “It’s something that has to be done, Laurie. You’d think a lot less of me if I had half the department camped around my place.”

  “Be careful every second.”

  “I’ll call you right after twelve, to wish you a Happy New Year,” be promised.

  He managed to end the conversation, and then he began pacing around the room again. Though only the floor lamp burned in the living room, he had turned on all the lights in his bedroom, in the kitchenette and tiny dinette. And now he strolled through all the rooms again to make sure nothing was changed.

  As he went back into the living room, the telephone called him again. This time, he took it off the cradle without hesitation.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Larry? This is Tim. I’m downstairs and comin’ right up.”

  “I told you to keep away from here, Tim.”

  “So you did. But I’m comin’ right up and you can’t stop me. I’m in on this.”

  The connection was broken. Ogden strolled across the room to the chained front door.

  He and Tim Fielding had gone to police school together, had been fellow rookies, had worked their way up together to a certain point. Then Ogden had advanced to a lieutenancy in the detective division, and Tim had stopped with a sergeantcy. They worked together on the homicide squad, firm friends who understood each other.

  When the buzzer sounded, Ogden took his service gun out of its shoulder holster and stepped up beside the door. Even this might be a trick. Monk Stenner or one of his trigger men might have seized Tim in the hall, after he spoke through the tube.

  BUT Ogden smiled at that thought. If anything like that had happened, there would have been quite a commotion out in the hall. Sergeant Tim Fielding had been in many tight corners, and could take care of himself. He wouldn’t lead a murderer to his friend.

  “Who is it?” Ogden asked.

  “Your old pal, Tim the Great. Open the door!”

  It was Tim’s jocular voice, all right. And ‘Tim the Great’ was an appellation Ogden had fastened on him. Ogden continued to hold the gun ready, however, as he let down the chain, turned the knob and pulled the door open. Tim came in, and Ogden promptly closed, locked and chained the door again.

  “My first glance reveals that you’re as nervous as a cat chased by a dozen bulldogs, and I can’t blame you,” Tim said. “What you mean tryin’ to hide out like this all alone?”

  “I told you I wanted to face it alone,” Ogden replied. “It was more or less an order. Why have you come prowling around here like this? What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s on my mind to see you live until after twelve and drink a toast with you to the New Year.”

  “Did the Chief send you here, or was it your own idea?”

  “Strictly my own idea,” he answered, crossing the room.

  Tim Fielding flopped down in a chair and tossed his hat aside. He was short and chunky and red-faced and freckled. In times of stress, a glint came into his eyes, which meant that he was about to go on the warpath. Ogden looked down at him, and he looked up at Ogden.

  The lieutenant was tall, slender, alert in manner. In physical appearance they were dissimilar, but they thought alike. They had solved many knotty problems by exchanging helpful ideas with each other.

  “I wish you’d go away, Tim,” Ogden said. “Than
ks for coming, but—”

  “We’ll see the New Year in together,” Tim interrupted.

  “But I want to be bait,” Ogden persisted. “I’m ready for Monk Stenner and his men, if they make a try at me. A couple of our men are supposed to be on watch down in the street—”

  “Yeah, and there’s one in the lobby watchin’ the elevators, and one in the alley and maybe one on the roof. So what? John Doane had half the force campin’ around him, and Stenner got him.”

  “If he pulls something that might—well, if he got me and you at the same I time—?” Ogden hinted.

  “Don’t know any other man I’d rather die with,” Tim broke in. “Why not pour a drink and show your hospitality? Give me a cigarette. Any grub in the ice box?”

  “Cigarettes on the table,” Ogden pointed out. “I’ve got a bottle of bourbon I bought on my way home, unopened. I’ll sterilize a couple of glasses—”

  “You’re sure careful, but under the circumstances I’m not blamin’ you. To heck with glasses. We can drink out of the bottle.”

  OGDEN managed a grin. He got the bottle and drew the cork and Tim took a drink and passed the bottle back. Ogden took a deep drink, feeling the need of one.

  The telephone sounded again. Tim got up quickly and started for it.

  “If that’s Laurie, cheer her up,” Ogden said. “She called a few minutes ago. You know how.”

  Tim answered the phone, then turned to Ogden.

  “Some gent wants you. Don’t know the voice.”

  Ogden took the phone. “Yes?” he asked.

  “It’s about ten, Ogden. Less than two hours to go.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Monk Stenner. Wanted to hear your voice again before the end. You can’t dodge it, Ogden. I’m balancing the books for Eddie Hill.”

  “Hill was a cold-blooded murderer and paid the penalty,” Ogden said, sternly. “As you’ll pay it!”

  “Oh, I think not!” Monk Stenner replied. “I’ve planned this for a long time, and my plans are perfect. Doing it with only one man to help. We didn’t fail with Judge Burley and Doane.”

  “What man is fool enough to help you?”

  Stenner’s laugh came over the wire. “Ordinarily, that’d be a fool question. But under the circumstances I don’t mind telling you. You’ll never be able to pass the word along. He’s Gus Yost. We’ve been back in town for three months. We’ve walked right past a lot of you coppers, grinning.”

  “It’ll take more than you and Gus Yost to get me,” Ogden declared.

  “And it’ll take more than your pal, Tim Fielding, to save you,” Stenner replied. “Oh, I know he’s there! Knew when you let him in. Heard you talking to your girl too. Good-by, lieutenant!”

  The connection was broken. Ogden replaced the phone with a trembling hand. He hurried to Tim and spoke in whispers: “That was Monk Stenner. He knew you’re here. Said he heard me talking to Laurie.”

  “Then he’s right close,” Tim suggested. “He or one of his men must have seen me come in. Maybe your phone line has been tapped.”

  “Could be. He told me that Gus Yost is helping him.”

  “We had a report last week that Yost had been seen. Remember? But we never got a line on him.”

  “Reports like that every day,” Ogden said.

  “Look at things, Larry! How can they get you between now and midnight? How can they get in here? Two of us ready to shoot it out with them—”

  “They got Judge Burley and John Doane.”

  “Neither of ’em was a copper used to watchin’ out for himself. How could they get you? They shot the judge through a window and fed Doane poisoned milk, yeah! But you’re keepin’ away from the windows and not drinkin’ milk. You’ve searched the place and haven’t found any time bombs. The phone didn’t blow up in your face. Who lives around you?”

  “Across the hall, an old couple who’ve been here for years; he’s a retired merchant. In front, an elderly woman who plays the radio all the time. Back of me, two old bachelor pals who read books and talk world politics. I’ve checked on them all.”

  “Under you?” Tim. questioned.

  “A big linen room where they work all night getting fresh linen ready for morning. I’ve checked that, too. No newcomers, and all the old employees can be trusted.”

  “And above you?”

  “Two career girls. One’s a secretary and the other a buyer for a department store. Been living here for more than a year. Seem like nice girls. They’re probably out to some New Year’s Eve party tonight.”

  “Then I repeat—how can they get at you?”

  OGDEN gestured that it was beyond him, and reached for the bourbon bottle again. He passed it to Tim, who drank and returned it, then took a drink himself.

  “If Stenner knew I came here a short time ago,” Tim continued, “he and Gus Yost must have seen me come in. That’d be easy; they may be watchin’ from some buildin’ across the street. And if he heard you talkin’ to Laurie, your phone may be tapped—”

  “Wait, Tim, How could that be? The phone wires come into the building through underground conduits, and through the walls from the switchboard below into the apartments.”

  “How about the switchboard?”

  “Night operator is middle-aged. Been here for years. I checked on her. She’s all right. Lives with her old mother and all that.”

  “Maybe Stenner’s got at her somehow.”

  “Makes no difference now,” Ogden pointed out. “He couldn’t kill me over the telephone, even if he is listening in when I talk.”

  “Ever stop to think,” Tim asked, “that if he doesn’t get you before midnight he’ll keep right on tryin’?”

  “Yes. And I don’t care to live in terror. That’s why I wanted to be alone tonight, to give them a chance and have it out, win or lose. Light up another cigarette.”

  Tim lit one, and Ogden followed his example. They got up and made another tour of the small apartment, inspecting it thoroughly.

  “Everything’s all right,” Tim admitted. “Seems so, anyhow. Everything’s shut up tight. Let’s make it tighter, huh? Shut the doors to the bedroom and dinette. I’m holdin’ my own service gun ready from this second, and you do the same.”

  They got out their guns. Ogden began pacing around the room again.

  “What’s that infernal racket?” Tim asked, suddenly.

  “That’s innocent enough, Tim. It’s the elderly woman next door, who plays her radio all the time. I suppose she’s listening to some New Year’s Eve celebration.”

  As the minutes passed, Ogden felt his nerves tensing. The strain was beginning to tell on him. There was no activity to offset it. Knowing his foe, he could expect anything.

  As Tim Fielding toyed with the bottle of bourbon and held his service pistol ready for instant action if it became necessary, Ogden prowled around the room again.

  He looked at the few pictures he had bought. One was slightly crooked on the wall, and he stepped over to straighten it. Little things like that.

  A strange odor assailed his nostrils. It seemed to come from the wall. He moved a small chest which had been placed against the wall beneath the picture. Some careless maid had knocked an apple core beneath the chest, he thought. Ogden was always eating apples, always kept a bowl of fruit on the end of a table in a corner of the room.

  Nothing was on the floor, and he moved the chest back and gave his attention again to straightening the picture. The apartment had been cleaned a few days before, and he supposed the cleaners had used some nauseous liquid on the baseboard and moulding.

  As he twisted the picture slightly, the hanging pin came loose, and the picture would have fallen if Ogden had not caught it. Tim Fielding got to his feet.

  “You’re too nervous to do things like that,” he told Ogden. “You’ll bust up the place. The man’s threatened with violent death, and he hangs pictures!”

  “It was crooked,” Ogden complained. “I’ll fix it.”

 
SUDDENLY, he gripped Tim’s arm fiercely and clapped a hand over his mouth for silence. Tim looked at him inquiringly. Ogden was whispering for him to be silent. He took his hand away and pointed to the moulding. A little grille had been inserted there recently, perhaps during the house-cleaning period. It was about an inch wide and four inches long and had been painted the color of the moulding. Only a close look disclosed it.

  Ogden motioned Tim again to keep silent, and spoke:

  “Tim, let’s go into the kitchenette and raid the refrigerator. We’ll bring something to eat in here, and I’ll hang the picture later.”

  They hurried into the kitchen, and Ogden’s eyes were gleaming as he spoke to Tim again: “That was a dictograph screen hidden in the moulding. Now we know.”

  “And the other end of the wire?”

  “Who knows? They’ve run it through the wall to some other apartment. They’re right in this building. They know everything we say. And we haven’t time to run the thing down between now and midnight. Careful with our talk!”

  “You need fresh air in here,” Tim complained. “The place stinks.”

  “Remember, I closed all the windows tight.”

  They got cold food out of the refrigerator, then Ogden shook his head.

  “Into the garbage can with all of it!” he whispered. “We can’t trust it. I have a couple of cans of stuff. I’m not running the risk of being poisoned.”

  “Look!” Tim whispered, and pointed.

  In a corner, in the moulding, was another little grille.

  “They’ve got dictographs all over the place,” Ogden whispered. “Have to run it down later.”

  With some canned fish and a package of crackers Ogden was sure never had had its protecting wax wrapper removed, they left the kitchen, closed the door and returned to the living room.

  “Let’s look for more little grilles,” Tim whispered.

  Ogden nodded. Aloud, he said, “I’ll hang that picture now.” He went to the picture and bent to retrieve the hanging hook from where it had fallen to the floor.