The paper from the death car showed the page of the other paper through the opening where the knife had cut. That which had been cut out was a picture with a small paragraph or two below it.
Ken looked at the picture.
It showed a man with a square-cut chin, shell glasses, a firm, thin mouth, high cheek bones and a high forehead. Below it appeared the words Mayor Appoints Harry B. Dike as New Head of Water Department.
Corning read the few paragraphs appearing below the headlines of the accompanying news article. Those paragraphs recited the enviable record Harry B. Dike had enjoyed in connection with his own business enterprises and such civic activities as had claimed his time. It also mentioned that Dike was firmly opposed to the granting of contracts and concessions to those who enjoyed political pull, and that, in the future, the water department would be conducted upon a basis of efficiency with all work thrown open to the lowest responsible bidders, although the department would reserve the right to let private contracts.
The article sounded very promising. It gave the location of Dike’s office in the Monadnock Building. The Monadnock Building was on Seventh Street, between Madison and Harkley.
Helen Vail watched Corning as he clamped his hat down on his forehead.
“Ken,” she said, “you’re going out … on this thing, into danger?”
Her face was a dead white. The eyes were starry and tender.
He laughed at her, saw the pale lips stiffen, quiver and tremble into the first sign of a sob, then lift into a half smile. He patted her shoulder, grinned at her.
“Listen, kid, I’m a newcomer here. I’m here to stay. Some of these chaps don’t recognize that fact yet, that’s all. It’s time they did. I’m just going out and let a few of them know that when I hung out my shingle in this town I did it with my eyes open. I planted my feet here, and I’m staying here.”
And he strode across the office, went through the outer door, made time to the street, caught a taxi. “Monadnock Building,” he said, as he settled back against the cushions, “and make it snappy.”
The cab lurched into motion.
“Man shot here a while back,” said the communicative driver. “Raised hell with traffic.”
Corning said: “Yeah,” without interest and the conversation languished. The cab swung in to the curb at Seventh Street, Corning paid the meter, consulted the directory of the Monadnock Building, found that Dike’s office was on the seventh floor, and took the elevator up.
There was no one in the reception office except a typist who was tapping frantically at the keys of a noiseless typewriter, and a rather stern-faced but pretty secretary who sat stiffly behind a desk in the corner of the room, three telephones in front of her.
Corning walked to her, smiled.
“I’m anxious to get in touch with a man who was to have met me here earlier this afternoon, but I had a puncture and was delayed. He’s a great big man, fat, about forty-eight, wearing a gray suit that’s in need of pressing …”
Her voice was crisply efficient.
“You mean Mr. Parks. He’s been here and gone.”
Corning made a gesture of disappointment, but his mouth clamped shut to keep from showing his elation.
“Mr. Dike’s in?”
“Yes. He’s busy. You haven’t an appointment?”
“No. Can you answer the question? What kind of a car does he drive?”
“A Cadillac. Ifs a sedan. Then he has a roadster, a Buick.”
“Thanks. I think I’m interested in the Cadillac. It’s a bright red, isn’t it?”
“It’s red, yes.”
“I’m afraid I’ve got to disturb Mr. Dike. Tell him it’s Mr. Corning, and that I’m in a hurry.”
She shook her head.
“He’s not to be disturbed. You haven’t an appointment, and …”
Corning gained the door to the inner office in a swift stride, without waiting for her to finish the sentence.
“And I’m in a hurry,” he said, and opened the door.
Harry B. Dike was even more dignified in his frosty appearance than the newspaper photograph would have indicated to a casual observer. The light glinted from the bald reaches of his high forehead. His eyes were steel gray and bored steadily out from behind his shell spectacles. He looked up from a desk which contained a sheaf of papers, stared at Corning and said: “Get out! I’m busy.”
His eyes went down to the papers.
Corning walked across the room.
Dike didn’t look up again. He was moving the point of a pencil along the typewritten lines of a document. “Get out,” he said, “or I’ll call a cop and have you thrown in for disturbing the peace. I’ve canceled my appointments. I don’t want any life insurance, any books or a new automobile.”
Corning sat down.
Dike scowled at him, banged the pencil down on his desk and reached for the telephone.
“I’m Kenneth D. Corning, attorney for Sam Parks, the man who called on you a little while earlier this afternoon,” he said.
Dike dropped the telephone. His eyes widened, darkened, then became fixedly steady in gaze and expression. He said coldly: “What’s that to me?”
“It has to do with your acceptance of the position of Superintendent of the Water Department,” said Corning. “I think it would be far better for you to refuse the appointment—particularly in view of the fact that Parks was murdered about twenty minutes ago.”
The face did not change by so much as a line.
“You mean that you think I had something to do with the murder?” asked Dike coldly.
Corning’s tone was equally cold.
“Yes,” he said.
The two men stared at each other.
“Corning,” said Dike, as though trying to place the name. “A newcomer here, eh? I presume you’re crazy. But if you’ve got anything to say, I’ll listen.”
Corning spoke, his tone dispassionate.
“He made the mistake of coming to you first. I presume he wanted a shakedown. When things didn’t go to suit him here he called me. It was Dwight’s men who put him on the spot. You probably weren’t directly connected with it. You notified Dwight, that’s all. You weren’t entirely surprised to hear of the murder, but you hadn’t exactly expected it.”
Dike got to his feet.
“All right. You’ve had your say. Now get out.”
Corning held his ground.
“You accept that position of Superintendent of the Water Department,” he said, slowly and forcefully, “and I’ll have you before the grand jury for murder.”
Dike laughed scornfully.
“A man calls at my office. Later on he’s found murdered. I have been sitting here all the time. Simply because he came here you think that I should give up my career, eh?”
Corning played his bluff.
“Forget it,” he said. “I know what I’m doing. Parks talked before he died. It was on the road to the hospital. I rode with him in the ambulance.”
That statement shook Dike’s self-control. The eyes wavered. The mouth twitched. Then he gripped himself and was as granite once more.
“I presume he said I ran alongside his flivver and stabbed him!” he snorted.
Corning grinned.
“So you know it was a flivver, eh? Well, I’ll tell you what he said. He said that he and his wife were out driving and that they had an automobile accident. The car that they ran into was your car. You were in it, and there was another man in it, Carl Dwight, the head of the machine that’s milking the city of millions in graft money. The people had been demanding a change in the water department because of that very graft. The mayor made them a gesture by putting you in charge. You were supposed to put an end to the graft on water contracts. Yet you were out riding with Dwight, the man you were supposed to fight.
“You didn’t get the man’s name. But you found out about the woman. She was driving the car. You learned she was running a speakeasy. You thought it’d be a good plan to g
et her where her testimony wouldn’t count. So Dwight raided her place and framed a felony rap on her. She didn’t know the full significance of what she’d seen You thought it’d be a good plan to forestall developments. The testimony of a convicted felon wouldn’t go very far in a court of law.”
Corning ceased talking. His fists were clenched, his eyes cold and steady.
Dike’s gaze was equally steady.
“Corning,” he said, “you are a very vigorous and impulsive young man. You are also either drunk or crazy. Get out and stay out.”
Corning turned towards the door.
“I thought,” he said, ” that I would have the satisfaction of telling you what I know, and showing you that you can’t gain anything by railroading this woman. Also you’ll either resign your post, or you’ll be mixed up in murder.”
Dike scooped up the telephone.
“When you go out,” he said, “tell my secretary to put the spring catch on the door. I don’t want any more crazy guys busting in here.”
Corning grinned at him.
“I’ll put the catch on the door myself,” he said, and pushed the thumb snap down, walked out and closed the door behind him. The typist paused in her pounding of the keys to watch him. The secretary stared with wide eyes. Corning walked to the corridor and took the elevator.
He stepped into a drug store on the corner and called police headquarters. He asked for the homicide squad, and got Sergeant Home on the line.
“This,” he said, “is a tip.”
“What is?” graffed the sergeant.
“What you’re hearing. A man named Parks was killed this afternoon. He’d been driving a flivver that had collided with a red car. Harry B. Dike owns a red car that’s been in a collision. Parks had been to call on Dike just before he got killed. Carl Dwight has been in some sort of a smash. There’s a cut on his forehead, and he walks with a limp. Sam Parks has a wife, Esther. You’ve got her in jail right now on a felony charge.”
Sergeant Home’s voice betrayed his excitement.
“Tell me, who is this speaking? Where do you get that dope?”
Ken snapped his answer into the transmitter.
“Have a man you can trust at the Columbino at eight tonight. Have him wear a white carnation and sit near the front door. Look up the information I’ve given you in the meantime.”
And Corning slammed the receiver back on the hook, waited a moment for a free line, and then called Harry Dike’s office on the telephone. The line was busy. He called three times with the same result. The fourth time he got Dike on the line, after some argument with the secretary.
“Corning,” he snapped crisply. “I’m giving you one last chance to get out of the tangle Dwight’s got you in. I’ll be at the Columbino tonight at eight. If you want to make a written statement and get out of the mess I won’t put the screws down.”
Dike’s voice was smoothly suave.
“Kind of you, I’m sure, but I don’t think I care to see you there. However … where are you now?”
Corning laughed into the transmitter.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” he said, and hung up.
He waited in front of the drug-store, keeping in the background, yet being where he could watch the entrance to Dike’s office building.
Carl Dwight didn’t show up. But a speeding automobile, slamming into the curb at the fire hydrant, disgorged Perkins, the detective. Half a dozen minutes later a taxicab paused to let out Fred Granger, who was Dwight’s right-hand man.
Perkins came out, almost on the run, within fifteen minutes. Granger didn’t come out for half an hour. Dike followed him. Ten minutes after that, a police car bearing a detective stopped in front of the office building.
Ken Corning terminated his vigil, stepped into a barber shop, had a shave, hot towels, massage, haircut and shampoo. He was careful not to go near any of his regular haunts, or leave a trail which could be picked up.
The Columbino ran fairly wide open. Anyone could get in there who had the price. It went in somewhat for music, atmosphere and an aura of respectability. The liquor was very good.
It was early when Ken Corning walked into the place, exactly eight o’clock, and there were but few patrons, most of them eating, The dance floor would fill up later on, and by midnight the place would be going full blast.
A man in evening clothes, with a conspicuous white carnation in his buttonhole, had a table in the front of the place. Ken heaved a sigh as he saw that Home had investigated his tip, found out enough to go ahead on the lead.
Ken Corning ordered a full dinner with a cocktail at the start, a bottle of wine with the meal, a cordial afterwards. Momentarily he expected action, and the action did not come.
It was nine-fifteen when he reluctantly called for the waiter and paid the check. The man with the white carnation continued to sit by the door.
Evidently the powers that ruled the city had decided to ignore Ken Corning, and Ken was disquieted at the thought. Things were not turning out as he had anticipated.
The waiter was gone some little time. Ken waited for the change. The man in the dinner coat with white carnation looked at his watch, pursed his lips. Ken got the idea that this man had a definite time limit fixed. At nine-thirty, probably, he would leave.
The waiter returned.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but the manager wants to see you in his office. There’s a bit of trouble, sir.”
Ken got to his feet, followed the waiter. He was walking lightly, his hands slightly away from his sides, his head carried alertly, eyes watchful.
The manager stared coldly from behind the desk.
The waiter turned to go. Ken thought that something brushed against his coat. He couldn’t be sure. He glanced at the waiter’s retreating back.
The manager said: “I’m sure it’s a mistake, but it’s something I’ll have to investigate.”
“What is?” asked Corning.
“This,” said the manager, and placed on the desk in front of him the bill which Ken Corning had given the waiter. “It’s counterfeit.”
Ken laughed.
“Well,” he said, “it happens that I can give a complete history of that bill. It was paid me this morning by way of retainer in a legal matter, in the presence of my secretary. What’s more, I don’t think it’s counterfeit.”
A door opened. A man stepped purposefully into the room.
The manager waved his hand.
“I’ll let you discuss that with McGovern, of the Secret Service. You probably don’t know it, but we’ve been flooded with clever counterfeits here the last week. McGovern has been waiting on call.”
Ken turned to meet the man’s eyes.
McGovern smiled, and the smile was frank.
“If you can tell me where you got it, that’s all I need to know,” he said. “One look at you’s enough to convince me you’re no counterfeiter.”
Ken smiled in return, then let the smile fade.
“Look here,” he said, “this bill came from a client. I have an idea certain interests would like to frame something else on that client and his wife. The man is dead. The wife isn’t—yet. I don’t want to play into any frame-up… .”
The other smiled, waved his hand.
“Just a formality, but you’ll have to tell me. You’re dealing with the Federal Secret Service now. You won’t find any political frame-ups with us. As a matter of form, would you mind letting me see the rest of your money?”
Ken laughed, reached in his coat, took out his wallet.
That wallet felt strangely bulky. He stared at it. It wasn’t his wallet. It was crammed with currency. He made a move as though to put it back in his pocket. The Federal man whipped down a swift arm.
“Here,” he said, “none of that. Acting funny ain’t going to help you.”
He grabbed the wallet, opened it, whistled.
There was a moment of silence.
“That,” said Ken, “is not my wallet. I demand that t
he waiter who brought me in here be called. I want to have him searched. He slipped this wallet into my pocket and took mine out. He’s a professional dip, and this is a plant.”
The lip of the Federal man curled.
“Yeah,” he said. “How often I’ve heard that one! You’ve got to come along. Want to go quietly, or would you rather make a fuss?”
Ken stared at the wallet.
“I’ll go quietly if you’ll pick up that waiter and take him along, too,” said Ken.
The Federal turned to the manager.
“Who was it?” he asked.
“Frank,” said the manager.
“Get him,” said the Federal, “In the meantime I’ll take this guy along in a cab. Come on. You can tell your story where it’ll be appreciated. They don’t pay me to listen, only to do things.”
Ken went out through, the cabaret.
The man in the dinner coat, who wore the white carnation, was looking at his watch with an air of finality. Ken walked rapidly so that he was a step or two ahead of McGovern. There were couples standing on the floor. Many of the tables were vacant. The music stopped when Ken was some twenty feet from the table occupied by the man in the dinner coat who wore the white carnation. There was a perfunctory spatter of applause and then couples stood, waiting, staring at the orchestra expectantly.
Ken Corning raised his voice and called over his shoulder to McGovern: “This is just a frame-up, because I’ve got some evidence in that Parks murder case.”
McGovern spoke in an even, ominous tone. “Shut up!” he said.
Ken Hashed a glance to the man who wore the white carnation. He was signaling a waiter for his check. There was nothing on his face to indicate that he had heard what Ken had said; or hearing, was in anywise concerned with it. The orchestra struck up an encore. As the couples started to twine and twist to the strains of the dance, Ken flashed a glance at McGovern, then at the man who wore the white carnation. The man was handing the waiter a bill, The waiter was pushing an oblong of pink pasteboard at him from which had been figured the items of the check. The man pushed away the pasteboard, made a sweeping gesture with his hand as though to indicate that the waiter should keep the change. Staring at Ms face, it was impossible for Ken to tell whether the man had hurried his exit because Ken was leaving, or whether he had simply grown tired of waiting, and decided to knock off for the day.
Honest Money Page 3
