by Jerry eBooks
Downstairs someone hit the door. Then a window crashed. Feet pounded up the stairs.
Sergeant Anderson, who had worked with Johnny, came into the room with drawn gun. He fired a shot. Drake screamed and raised his good hand. Ogden turned to face this new danger. He was grumbling under his breath and he slowly began an advance on Anderson.
“I’ll cut you down,” the detective warned.
Ogden kept up his grumbling and didn’t stop. Johnny leaped at him from behind. He wound an arm around his neck, put a knee into the small of his back and Anderson moved in. One blow of the gun and it was over.
“He did it all!” Drake began screaming. “He killed them all!”
“Take him,” Johnny said curtly. “Take him, Sergeant, and the charge is murder. I thought they’d hash it all out when they returned and Ogden found that Sinclair had died in the bathtub and not by breaking his neck on the stairs. He also guessed that Drake had outwitted him. Drake knew all the while that Ogden had killed at least two people, but he didn’t care. Because Drake himself, was building things up to a point where he could commit murder and get it blamed on Ogden.
“Sure, Drake was Ogden’s alibi. Looked good too, until I found out that Drake can drink only so much and then he passes out for fifteen or twenty minutes. Enough time to let Ogden depart, do his killing and get back. But Drake knew he always passed out. I doubt it was an act because the whole thing was done too well. If Drake woke up, all he had to do was pretend to be still out, anyway.
“Then I discovered this fact. Drake probably wondered why I didn’t act on it. Maybe he thought I was dumb or maybe he felt certain I’d come back and lay a trap. When he saw me board an express plane he thought he had plenty of time, but I fooled him by arranging for a quick, unscheduled landing. Drake wanted his uncle’s share in the business they ran together. Ogden accused him of this while I was listening.”
Sergeant Anderson advanced with handcuffs ready. “That guy Drake is just a little handyman for murder, but we can fix that. Stick out your good wrist, Drake.”
$10,000 AN INCH
Tedd Thomey
Gus Kessler plays uncle to the tall girl who’s slated for death!
THE long, green sedan roared down the alley in second. Its driver must have seen me, but he pretended he didn’t-which is hard to do, where I’m concerned. They don’t call me Big Gus for nothing. I’m six feet five and wide as a steam shovel.
I jumped clear. The front fender practically unbuttoned my coat. I swore at the red tail-light and blatting exhaust as they rolled into the darkness.
The license number wouldn’t be hard to remember—9H1402, only a few digits different than my own. I kept watching the sedan. When it had gone about half a block, a rear door opened. The car was near a yellow arc light, so I could see what happened.
A girl jumped out. She landed on her feet, but her knees buckled and she went sprawling on her stomach. She rolled over twice, long legs flying, her skirt tangled in her elbows.
I started running toward her. The sedan squealed to a stop and three guys piled out. The girl was on her feet, sprinting unevenly. She had lost a shoe and the remaining high heel was worse than running on one stilt.
I was still fifty yards away when the first guy caught her. He put a hand on her shoulder and dragged his feet. Her reaction must have surprised him. She stopped, whirled free of his grasp and slapped him so hard he staggered. It sounded like a shot.
The other two guys were closing in on her by the time I got there. I grabbed one by the shoulder and turned him around. He was a little fellow—only six feet. I sank my fist into his soft middle.
His eyes crossed and he had trouble with his breathing. He took a step backward, just far enough so I got a good swing on his chin. My knuckles burned and he decided to lie down.
The girl was doing fine. And why not? She was a good three inches taller than the other two guys. She was slapping one with both hands and he was yelling. His face was becoming a peculiar purple.
I recognized the other guy. Spoons Moran, a nasty little crook with blotches on his face. He pulled out a .45 and pointed it at my vest.
I did a foolish thing. According to the book, you should never try to take a gun away from a man unless you’ve got him covered or he’s dead. But I grabbed for his gun wrist. And I caught it. He didn’t even pull the trigger. I brought my other hand into play and twisted his wrist. Something snapped and the gun clattered to the pavement.
Spoons broke away and ran to the sedan. He was holding his broken wrist and whimpering.
“Scram!” he yelled at the other two. “Get the devil outa here!”
The man the girl had been slapping ran to the sedan. The one I had socked got up and rushed, somewhat drunkenly, to the rear door.
As he climbed in, I got out my service .38. I aimed at the tires and the bullet bong-g-g-ed off the roof. I aimed for the driver and missed the car completely. It gained speed and I fired once more—this time at the gas tank. I hit a garbage can.
WELL, that’s the way it goes. I’ve been on the San Francisco force eight years now, ever since I was twenty-one. And I’ve never hit anybody with my gun—except the time I threw it at Little Kelly and knocked him out. I’ve only killed one man and that was accidental. He had kicked me below the belt. I got sore and smashed him in the jaw as hard as I could. He died of a broken neck.
The girl was breathing hard and staring down the alley after the sedan. Her skirt was split up the side, her long black hair was tangled and that brush with the pavement had covered her with grime. But she still would have rated a long, low whistle from Billy Rose. And a big guy like me appreciates a queen that tall even more.
I turned my back on her for a moment and wiped the tears from my eyes with a handkerchief.
She looked at me inquiringly. Then she said, “They were going to kill me.” She shuddered and added, “How can I ever thank you?”
“Bah,” I said. “You didn’t need my help. Five minutes more and you’d have piled them up like firewood.”
She smiled and I glanced down at the pavement. She certainly had long legs. The lithe, slender kind, developed by high board diving or six sets of tennis dally. The toenails on her bare foot were painted red.
“Where’d you lose your shoe?” I asked her.
She scanned the alley. “I had it when I jumped. Oh, there it is.” She hobbled a few steps and picked up the shoe. Then she balanced neatly on one foot and slipped it on.
“Who were those three guys?” I inquired.
“That’s just it!” she said. “I don’t know them. I don’t even know why they wanted to kill me.”
That sounded a little wacky. “Are you sure?” I said.
“Of course, I’m sure,” she cracked. “Usually, when people want to kill me, I at least know why.”
I grinned and snapped down the brim on my hat. “Sounds mysterious,” I said. “But let’s not just stand here in the alley all night. How about telling me all about it over a cup of coffee and a sandwich?”
Her blue eyes grew wary. “Well—I don’t know,” she said.
“It’s all right,” I explained. I drew out my wallet and showed her the brass gimmick pinned to the leather. “Inspector Gus Kessler,” I said.
“That’s different. I’m starved. Those men kept me in their car all day and only gave me a hamburger.”
My coupe—it’s a police car without official markings—was parked a little further down the alley. I had been walking toward it when the sedan nearly a knocked me down. We got in and I pulled the radio-phone from its rack under the dash. I gave headquarters the sedan’s license number and asked them to put out a net for Spoons Moran.
It was midnight by the time we traveled the seven blocks to O’Looney’s cafe on Haight Street. On the way over, the girl drew a mirror from her shoulder-strap bag and fixed her lipstick and hair. When we got out she was as good as new, except for the split in her skirt, which gave her the daring look of an Apache dancer.
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We sat in the beige, leather-and-wood booth in the rear and ordered liverwurst sandwiches. I highly recommend O’Looney’s liverwurst sandwiches. They have personality.
“Now, then,” I said to the girl. “How did you ever grow so tall without getting over-sized feet?”
“I’ll ask you the same question,” she smiled. “How did you?”
I stuck my shoes out in the aisle. “I didn’t. Look. The navy used ’em for carriers during the Battle of Midway.”
She laughed and two dimples appeared out of nowhere.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Jackie Loring.”
“Occupation?”
“Model.”
I whistled a little. “I’d have guessed that. Phone number?”
She lifted a restraining hand. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Let’s not get carried away.”
I dug inside my coat and pulled out my notebook. “For the record,” I grinned. “I have to turn in a report.”
She relented and gave me the number and her address. I copied them down and asked: “Now when did those men pick you up?”
She didn’t get a chance to reply.
A gun exploded near the door. Two holes appeared in the wood near Jackie’s head and chips flew into her dark curls.
LIKE a fool, I had sat with my back toward the door. I didn’t even get to see the gunman. By the time I had drawn my revolver and started down the aisle, he was gone. I spent two or three useless minutes looking for him out on the street.
When I returned, O’Looney and his other four customers were jabbering like crows in a bean field. Jackie’s face was white.
I finished wiping my eyes again and put the handkerchief away. Jackie was looking at me strangely and I knew why.
“Come on,” I said, taking her wrist. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s talk in the car. It’s harder to hit a moving target.”
We drove up the bumpy Haight Street hill behind a struggling streetcar. I turned right at Masonic and went into Golden Gate Park. According to the rear vision mirror, we were not being tailed.
“Those guys aren’t playing tiddly winks,” I said, turning into the park’s main boulevard. “They’re out to get you!”
“I know,” Jackie said. Her words were strained. “I’m scared.”
“And you don’t even know why they’re trying to kill you?” A note of incredulity sneaked into my voice. I couldn’t help it. The thing sounded so unconvincing.
“It all started this morning,” Jackie explained. “I was standing on a corner on Howard Street waiting for one of the electric buses. Suddenly this sedan pulled up and two of the men jumped out. They grabbed my arms and hustled me into the car. I was so surprised I CJ didn’t even fight back. All day we drove around. One of the men, the one with blotches on his face, kept getting out every so often and making phone calls.”
“That was Spoons Moran,” I said. “The boys may pick him up. Any idea who he was phoning?”
“No. He seemed to be trying to get instructions from somebody. Around eleven-thirty tonight, we stopped in front of a bar on Mission Street—I think it was McCarthy’s Big Glass. He phoned again and I guess he found out what to do with me. He told the driver to head for the alley and he got out the gun. I couldn’t believe he was going to shoot me. There was absolutely no reason.
“All day I had asked them why they were holding me and they wouldn’t say. We came down the alley. I was so scared. He was really going to shoot me. And then we passed you. It was my only chance. I jumped out the door—I don’t know why he didn’t shoot then.”
“Probably saw me,” I said, “and didn’t want a witness.”
I turned the car around and headed back toward the business district. “They may try for you again,” I said. “You need protection. Got an extra cot at your place?”
Jackie’s mother and father had raised her well. She wasn’t sure she wanted seventy-seven inches of cop in her apartment all night. But then she must’ve remembered that those two marks which had appeared in the woodwork near her head weren’t worm holes. She also remembered that the apartment across from hers would be vacant a week. Two of her friends on vacation.
I went to sleep in the friends’ apartment across the hall from Jackie’s. I was close enough so I could hear her scream if anyone tried to get funny during the night.
The phone rang the next morning while Jackie and I were breakfasting in her little ivory-painted kitchen. I kept on eating eggs and toast while she answered it.
She talked two or three minutes and wrote something on the note-pad beside the phone. When she got back to the table, her eyes were shining with excitement.
“It’s so silly,” she said.
“What is?”
“He said I’ve just inherited fifteen thousand dollars! Isn’t that silly?”
“The devil it isn’t. That’s money. Very handy stuff.”
“Yes,” she said. “But I don’t know the man who phoned. And I’ve never heard of the old lady who left me the fifteen thousand dollars, either!”
That gave the old brain a tickle. “I see what you mean,” I said. “Who was the guy that phoned?”
Jackie consulted the note-pad. “David Jessop. He said his aunt left me the money. And he wants me to come out to—let’s see—9660 Jackson Street, and sign some papers around eleven this morning.
I smelled a large and shaggy rat. “Great,” I said. “You’ve just been appointed trigger-bait again. The idea is for you to hop out there so Spoons and his boys can continue where they left off last night. That fifteen thousand dollars is just a gag.”
Jackie was disappointed. “It would have bought a lot of shoes and hats,” she said. She pushed out her lower lip in a pretty pout. Then she added. “What do we do now?”
I didn’t come up with the answer right away. After five or six minutes, I said, “We’ll go out there at eleven and look over the set-up. If we play our cards right, maybe we can get to the bottom of the whole thing. Want to take the risk?”
Jackie did. She phoned her agency and said she would be away for the day. Then she cleared the dishes off the table. Because I insisted, she let me wash them. She dried. When we were nearly finished, she looked at me inquisitively.
“I’ve got about as much tact as a giraffe,” she observed. “I’m just burning with curiosity. I know I shouldn’t, but could I ask you something personal?”
“Sure,” I said. I had a hunch that I knew what was coming up.
“Well, twice last night you were crying. And I’ve been wondering why. Am I embarrassing you?”
My face felt a little hot. “No,” I said. “Anyway, I wasn’t crying. I just had tears in my eyes.” That sounded a little contradictory. I hurried on: “It always happens after I’ve been through a little action. Last night, it was right after the fight in the alley. And after they fired at you at O’Looney’s. It’s nothing serious. My eyes just fill up, that’s all.”
She was still looking at me curiously. “I’ve been to a psychiatrist,” I said. “He says it’s easy to explain. It’s perfectly normal—for me. Part of the let-down after a lot of excitement. Some guys’ hands shake. Others twitch a little. Me—well, I get tears in my eyes.”
Jackie was smiling. I guess I did look sort of funny trying to explain it. “It sure raises blue mud with me on the force,” I added. “The men are always ribbing me.”
“I think it’s very nice,” she said. “It shows you’re a sensitive man. Besides, it’s cute.”
I didn’t say anything more. Frankly, I’ve never been able to see anything cute about a guy six feet five bawling like a kid with a busted rattle.
WE DROVE out to Jackson Street in my coupe. On the way over I parked for a few minutes. Using the radiophone, I called Captain Neeley at headquarters. I told him what I was working on and that I thought I might run into Spoons and his buddies. Then I asked for a squad car with four men to rendezvous with me at the Presidio’s south gate. The gate is about
six blocks from the Jackson Street address.
Neeley’s a good man. In half an hour, I was working out a plan with four of the boys at the gate. We decided that I would park in front of the house and send Jackie in. The squad car would park a block away.
At the first sign of trouble, she was to holler for me. I would signal the squad car and go roaring in.
Jackson Street is in San Francisco’s finest residential district. The address turned out to be a three-story brick house, covered with vines and overlooking the blue bay. The lawn was smooth as a ping-pong table. I parked in front and Jackie got out.
“Remember,” I cautioned. “If you weren’t big enough to take care of yourself, I’d never let you go in alone. But don’t try to handle it all by yourself. If you just so much as see Spoons, yell for me. And don’t let them try to kid you with that fifteen thousand smacker routine.”
“Yes, Uncle Gus,” she said, sweetly. She straightened her coat collar and went up the brick path. I watched her go. It’s something to see a girl that tall just walk. She moved like a model, all right—no extra wiggles.
I couldn’t see who let her in. About ten minutes passed. I smoked a couple of cigarettes and kept shifting around in the seat. I cussed the department for giving me a car with so little leg room.
Suddenly, I heard two shots fired in rapid succession. I got out of the coupe, drew my gun and waved at the squad car. When I was halfway up the path, Jackie shouted: “Gus!” There was terror in her voice.
I flung open the front door and found myself in a hallway. On the left was a wide entrance-way and steps leading down to a drawing room. I bounded down them.
Jackie was standing in the center of the deep blue rug. She was holding an Army style .45 and looking down with trembling lower lip at a prostrate man. There were two red holes over the left pocket of his yellow sports shirt. I’ve had a lot of practise. I can usually tell whether a man’s dying or dead. This one was gone.
