Hell's Siphon

by George Harmon Coxe

  His eyes would not focus properly as he straightened up. His head was splitting and spinning dizzily, his stomach quivering with nausea. Yet his right hand went to his holster, and he lurched drunkenly in the direction of the door, stumbled over the plate case and fell heavily.

  This time the shock of the fall helped clear his brain. When he got to his feet again, his thoughts were once more logical and lucid, so that a grim bitterness gripped him.

  His sweeping glance checked an instant on the form on the bed as he flung open the door. Steig's motionless position was unchanged. But in the center of the forehead was a red-rimmed hole that had not been there before.

  Nason saw Carrigan as he leaped into the hall, saw him jack-knifed on the floor, his back against the near wall, his felt hat caught on one humped knee. Opposite, a door to a sun porch was open, and Nason dashed through it, his stride unchecked.

  His eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness, betrayed him for a moment and he brought up sharply against the railing. At the same instant an automobile engine roared to life far down across the gently sloping lawn, roared to life and accelerated to a pulsing, rhythmic beat.

  For seconds Nason stood there, his thighs pressed tightly against the iron railing. The chilled breeze, slanting in from the East, steadied him, left his body as cold as his thoughts. Overhead a drab, sullen night sky frowned down on him as he holstered his gun and turned wearily away.

  Three white-faced and excited nurses were helping Carrigan to his feet. Nason grabbed the fellow's arm and jerked him through the doorway into Steig's room. The nurses pressed in behind him but he turned angrily, rapped: “Get out!”

  There was a jumbled protest and he steadied his voice.

  “The house doctor—get him here! Quick!” He shut the door and leaned back against it. Carrigan was rubbing his head and staring wide- eyed at Steig; and he kept saying: “Oh!” over and over.

  Nason bent down and picked up the camera. As he did so he saw the yellow card the pimply-faced youth had dropped. It was a Courier card, all right. But the picture on it was of a round-faced fellow with glasses; the name was Thomas Walcott.

  “It's my fault,” Carrigan said hoarsely. “I fell for it. There was two of 'em. One had a camera and a big case. They acted all right until after I called you. Then the skinny guy opened the door, and the other mug sorta pulled me to one side. He did it gentle-like—until I reached for the guy at the door.

  Then I guess he cracked down on me. I don't remember.”

  Carrigan shook his head sadly and his thin face was lined with worry. “They'll break me for this.”

  “Nuts!” rapped Nason through stiff lips. “They'll break me,” chanted Carrigan.

  “If they break you, they break me,” raged Nason. “They were smart, that's all. They had the camera and case to front for them; they had a police card. They got you to call me—to get me off guard. Then the skinny guy came in with the sales talk to build me up for the fall. And the other guy took care of you.”

  Nason spat out a bitter curse, looked down at the police card. “I'll want to have a talk with Tommy Walcott and—” He broke off as a sudden flash of inspiration came to him.

  Stepping over to Steig's coat, he took out the watch, opened the back and removed the picture. Carrigan was still staring at the hole in the man's forehead, but Nason said:

  “She might be a lead—this dame. If I can find her. And if those hoods got Walcott's camera, maybe he can help. It's about all we got.”

  CHAPTER III. CRIME CALLS LATE

  LIEUTENANT FITZPATRICK'S mouth was shut so tightly he appeared to be without lips. His voice was thin, cutting.

  “We either find those two torpedoes, or the force takes it on the chin. When the papers get through, the public'll think every damn one of us is a lousy crook.”

  “And if we do find them”—Captain Bacorn, a thick-set veteran with walrus mustache and a heavy red nose, pushed back in his chair behind his desk, his small deep-set eyes alternating between the raging Fitzpatrick and the grim, set face of Nason—“and they talk, and the story is what you think it is, Fitz, it'll be swell, huh? About Donigan.”

  “It doesn't have to be Fitzpatrick's way,” Nason argued.

  “He had the diamonds on him—tucked in his shirt pocket,” Bacorn said levelly.

  “They could've been planted.”

  “But why? And how about the gun—still in the holster? Hell”—Bacorn spread his hands—“I don't want to believe it, but I know how it'll look.”

  Fitzpatrick glared at a round-faced, bespectacled youth who stood beside the closed door of the office. “And you, Walcott, what a spot you put us in,” he said to the photographer.

  “What a spot I put myself in.” Walcott blinked his blue eyes and pushed back a battered felt hat that looked ten years old, a perfect companion piece to his baggy suit. “But what the hell.”

  He rubbed a pudgy hand over his freckled face. “I was having a drink in the Greek's about 12:30 on my way back to the office. I noticed these two guys—they were only a couple tables away. One of 'em went out for a minute, and when he came back they went into a huddle.

  “They came over and began to kid me, asked me to take their pictures. They acted sorta boiled. One of 'em bought a drink. I said I had to be going, and they went out with me, still acting half-shot, and curious. I remember we passed an alley on the way back to the Avenue. Then socko. I wake up flat on my back.”

  Walcott grinned ruefully, took off his hat and touched a finger to a swelling over one ear. “That's their trademark.”

  Carrigan said: “It's my fault; I should—”

  “Your fault, hell!” lipped Fitzpatrick. “If it's anybody's fault—“ he broke off and glanced at Nason, his eyes sardonic slits. “You're the one that let that hood in the room. The sorta personality that makes news, huh? Well, it'll take more than personality this time.”

  Nason flushed as anger streaked through his brain. He knew what the lieutenant referred to, but before he could dwell on the subject Bacorn said:

  “This isn't getting us anywhere. What do you want to do, Fitz?”

  “Go down to the Greek's and see if I can get a line on those two hoods,” grated Fitzpatrick. “There were no prints on the safe or on the torch that was left behind. We're tryin' to trace it, but it'll be a miracle if we get anywhere with that angle.”

  He nodded to Carrigan. “Come on.”

  WHEN the door closed Bacorn again cleared his throat and looked up at Nason through bushy brows without lifting his head.

  “Fitz lives and thinks and breathes police work,” Bacorn said thoughtfully. “He's all shot over how it's gonna look—about Donigan.” He hesitated a moment, adding absently: “The sort of personality that makes news.”

  Bacorn said something else, but Nason did not catch it, because his brain vortexed around that phrase.

  It all went back to the fact that Nason had always played ball with newspapermen. On more than one occasion he had received valuable tips, and he played this source of information just as he played any other—for information—not publicity. He knew that the more contacts a detective has, the more tips he gets. And that more cases are solved on tips than in any other way.

  On two occasions, he had been lucky enough to help solve cases that, for the very nature of the crime, had been heavily publicized, even before he was assigned to them. And it was in writing up one of these, that some reporter in describing his work had said: “He has the sort of personality that makes news.”

  That phrase cost Nason a lot of good-natured razzing. He continued to play ball with the press; the press played ball with him. They liked him. And now this reputation had boomeranged. A pseudo-photographer had tricked him and murdered the State's witness. He was conscious that Bacorn was talking.

  “There's a lot of truth in what Fitzpatrick said.”

  “What?” grunted Nason.

  “That you'd need more personality this time.” Bacorn's voice was sharp, but not unk
ind. “I know you played the publicity angle for the tips it would get you. But you've got a reputation—and it's gonna look different tomorrow in black and white.”

  Bacorn scowled until his brows drew together. “We find a cop with a pocket full of diamonds, his gun in his holster and a bullet in his back from the man who was guarding the store. Then we let some hoods come in and knock off this witness under police guard. The papers'll ride the D.A. and the Commissioner will ride the Super and me and— well—” Bacorn slid his palms across the desk top. “If you figure on any future in this business, you'd better get started. Because you'll be walking a beat if you don't show something.”

  Nason moved to the door. “Okay,” he said grimly. “You've all got Donigan figured a lousy crook. And if somebody doesn't show something it looks like that's the way it's going down in the books.”

  In the downstairs hall, Walcott, who had tagged along behind Nason, struggling with his camera and plate case, said:

  “Where you goin'?” Nason stopped suddenly, his mind fastening on the one clue that he alone had. He took out the little photograph of Steig and the girl on the beach.

  “Know her?” Walcott set down the plate case, took the photograph, finally said: “Sure. Rita Jordan. Works down at the Cafe Royale —hostess.”

  “The value of publicity,” snorted Nason starting off again.

  “But—” sputtered Walcott, “what you gonna do?”

  “Try and hang on to my job.”

  “You'n me.” Walcott swung up the plate case. “You,” growled Nason. “You've caused enough trouble. G'wan back to your rag and—”

  “Go back for what? Unless you get lucky and I get some pictures I've no more job than a rabbit. I stick with you.”

  THE hands of the huge electric clock that glared down on Boylston Street, pointed to 1:25. Nason, slouched back on the seat, stared morosely out of the taxi window at the deserted sidewalks and hollow-eyed window fronts; and the reflection of corner streetlights swept a face that was somber and knotted at the corners of his jaws. He had not spoken a word since they had talked with the manager of the Cafe Royale and discovered Rita Jordan's address.

  Walcott squirmed on the seat and peered through the semi-darkness at Nason.

  “Now we got her address, what're you gonna prove?”

  Nason told Walcott where he got the picture, added: “She must've known Steig pretty well. Maybe she knows things about him. What the hell.” The voice was brusk. “I'm grabbin' at straws.”

  Nason let the few facts he had on the case parade before his mind's-eye in single file. There was no use thinking much about the robbery or the diamonds in Donigan's pocket now. His only chance was to find the two hoods. Simple as hell. Just find them and there would be some sort of an answer.

  The best lead was through the Greek's—where the gunmen had picked up Walcott. But if there was anything there, Fitzpatrick would find it. He might have a nasty tongue, but he was a damn good cop.

  So that left Rita Jordan. Aside from her there was just one thing—one vague question in the back of Nason's brain. He did not know what the question was. But it was there, some place.

  The cab slowed down in a quiet, darkened street, lined with three and four-story red brick houses which had been remodeled into cheap apartments. In another moment the driver said: “This is it.”

  Nason and Walcott got out, and Nason told the driver to wait.

  THE house was of three stories, sandwiched in between two slightly taller buildings, all alike architecturally. They climbed narrow stone steps, moved into a darkened vestibule and the wind whipped in behind them, tugging at their coattails. A faint smell of fried food and dusty corners hung in the air as Nason struck a match and studied the row of mail boxes on the wall to learn that Rita Jordan had apartment 3-B.

  Nason had to knock three times on the door on the right side of the third floor hall before a thick, contralto voice said: “Who is it?”

  Nason nudged Walcott, who blurted: “Tommy Walcott.”

  A key scratched in the lock. The door opened a two-inch crack and a slab of light slid out and divided Walcott's face. The voice said: “This is a swell time to come calling.”

  Walcott pushed gently on the door. “I want to talk to you a minute.”

  Nason studied the girl. With the light behind her, he could not see much of her face. But he saw that she was tall, dark-haired; that she wore filmy pajamas and some sort of a silk robe.

  “Who's your friend?” she asked.

  “He's from the office,” lied Walcott. Then, his voice growing petulant. “All right. Drag up a chair and we'll talk in the hall.”

  The girl laughed abruptly. “You've got plenty of nerve to—”

  “You gotta have nerve or they shove you around.”

  “All right.” The girl stood back from the door. “But don't think you're going to stay long. I need my sleep.”

  Nason followed Walcott into the room. The girl turned on a top-heavy lamp. He saw then that the silk wrapper she wore was red, and spotted with stains. She had apparently gone to bed with her makeup on. It gave a feverish tinge to her skin. At that, she was attractive. She had a nice build and she looked as if she could add up to ten.

  Nason dropped on the davenport and Rita Jordan said: “Well, now that you woke me up.”

  “You a friend of Sam Steig's?” Nason asked easily.

  “Maybe.” The girl's manner was at once skeptical and on the defensive.

  “Know him pretty well?” Rita Jordan glanced at Walcott. “What is this?” she asked irritably.

  Nason took out his shield, flashed it in his palm. The girl said: “Oh,” and her eyes went as round as her mouth.

  Nason said: “Who did Steig pal around with?”

  “Why do you want to know?” The girl's eyes narrowed again. “What's he done?” Her voice was anxious now, but she turned again to Walcott and tried to make it matter-of-fact. “A fine pal you turned out to be.”

  Nason said: “Who'd he run with? He must have some friends.”

  “Certainly he has friends.” The girl stopped, glared at Nason, then turned to the door and grabbed at the knob. “Get out. I don't have to talk to you.”

  Nason stood up. Walking slowly up to the girl, he deliberately took her wrist and pulled her hand from the knob. She jerked back.

  “You can't get away with this. I've got friends to take care of me.”

  Nason studied her a moment, then moved to the center of the room. He took the little photograph out of his pocket, held it up for the girl to see.

  Instantly her face paled and there was a breathless quality to her words.

  “Where'd you get that?”

  “You were pretty good friends, weren't you?”

  “Where did you get it?” This in a low frightened tone.

  “Out of his watch.”

  “But—”

  “Down in the City Hospital.” Nason made his voice deliberately hard and cutting. “He was shot in Alpert's. They took him to the hospital. A couple hoods broke in and gunned him out. I was wondering if you knew any of his friends.”

  “You lie!” Rita Jordan whispered the words, and her face paled so that the old makeup stood out like fever blotches.

  Nason's voice was low and even as he waited for the reaction. “He oughta be in the morgue by now.”

  HE knew, as he spoke, that he had come to the right place. The girl was in love with Steig. She was hard, matter-of-fact, not easy to bluff. But the veneer was scraped clean now. And what he saw was a woman afraid; frightened nearly to hysteria.

  Her hand came to her breast, clutched the fabric of her robe. Then she screamed.

  Nason started for her. He heard Walcott's muffled curse. He took just one step when the door opened, slapped against the girl's back and knocked her aside.

  In the half-light of the background, he saw two men. Or rather, he knew they were there. His eyes were fixed on the snouty muzzle of the automatic, held waist high. For a second
he watched it move towards him. Then he brought his eyes up.

  The pimply-faced youth, his little mustache curved like his lips in a leering smile, stared back at him. Behind him, closing and locking the door, was a bull-necked fellow with thick black hair and a nose that was flattened and twisted.

  At no time in those two or three seconds did Nason have a chance to go for his gun—and he was experienced enough to know when to draw, and when not to. So he smiled purposely and made his voice bored, indulgent.

  “I've been looking for you.”

  “Imagine that.” The pimply-faced youth advanced a step, called over his shoulder to his companion. “Get his gun, Hymie!”

  Hymie shuffled forward, a squat, long-armed figure. Circling behind Nason, he removed the service revolver.

  The pimply-faced youth's glance slid sideways to Walcott, and then to Rita Jordan, who stood like a statue in chalk, one arm crossed tightly to her breast. He grinned at Walcott.

  “We didn't get a chance to thank you for the camera, punk. Get over there with your copper friend.”

  Walcott blinked, seemed unable to fully grasp what had happened. He moved slowly, protestingly, and the pimply-faced youth reached out and slapped him with the barrel of the automatic. Walcott cursed and spun about. This time the barrel of the gun crashed down on his head with a sickening thud. His hat flew off and he crumpled and went down on his face, joint by joint.

  Nason had moved with the blow. But Hymie was still behind him. The gun jammed against his spine and he stiffened there with the sweat breaking out on his forehead.

  Hymie grunted in satisfaction. “Now what, Leo?”

  The thin youth glanced at Rita Jordan, reached out and took her by the arm. “Get some clothes on, sweetheart, we're goin' places.”

  Color, oozing slowly back into the girl's face, kept pace with her composure. She seemed to make a desperate effort to mask her feelings, her voice.