Inside Job

by Raoul Whitfield

  The police lieutenant continued to frown. He looked at Fresney.

  “What’s he doing here?” he asked.

  Fresney said: “I wired for him—things looked bad for me. He’s an old friend of mine.”

  The lieutenant grunted. “Bodyguard, eh?” he breathed.

  Slade shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m no good at that sort of thing.”

  The police lieutenant stared at him. Fresney swore and sat up again. His face was pretty badly battered. The lieutenant spoke grimly.

  “Know who might have wanted to kill Vaupaugh, Fresney?”

  The city editor narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said. “But he was managing editor and owner of the sheet—and a lot of people always want to kill editors.”

  The police lieutenant smiled. “Know who might have wanted to kill you?” he asked.

  Fresney swore huskily. He touched his bandaged head with careful fingers.

  “I know a few people who might want to kill me,” he stated. “But that doesn’t say they tried.”

  Collins said: “You might have been mistaken for Vaupaugh—or he might have been mistaken for you. They wanted you, Hugh—and they got him.”

  The police lieutenant grunted. “Or maybe they figured one of you was about as bad as the other—and tried for you both.”

  Fresney shrugged. He looked at Collins. “Better get up above, and get the story going,” he said. “Reporters from the other papers will be along soon. Treat ’em nice—but don’t tell them anything important, and avoid the truth as much as possible. Get a good obituary started for Vaupaugh.”

  His words were tight, peculiar. Collins said:

  “The obit’s all ready—I had Creager write it up a week ago.”

  Fresney smiled grimly and the police lieutenant made clicking sounds.

  “You fellows work fast,” he breathed.

  Fresney looked at Collins as he turned to go from the room.

  “Say that the paper will probably offer a large reward for the arrest of the killer or killers,” he said slowly. “Don’t use my picture. Play Vaupaugh’s death up as a big loss to Pittsburgh and the newspaper world.”

  The police lieutenant swore. Collins nodded and started from the room. Fresney called in a voice that was thick and not very strong:

  “Don’t forget the police, Cleve—they’re working hard. The dragnet’s out. The police boys all loved Vaupaugh, and they were terribly broken up over his death. When word got around that I was alive—they shouted with joy—”

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. Collins went from the room. Tim Slade looked at the police lieutenant, who was regarding the city editor with a grim expression in his eyes.

  “Our job’s to get the killer,” he said simply. “This paper’s been pounding the police for weeks. We’ve been grafters, quitters, cowards and a lot of other things. You printed the stuff, Fresney—and the dead man okeyed it. But that doesn’t count. We’ll do our job.”

  Fresney said with doubt: “Yeah? Well, anything I can do to help—”

  He let his words trail off. The police lieutenant said:

  “I want the names of the persons you were worried about. And any you think Vaupaugh might have been worried about.”

  Fresney said: “Sure—got a pencil?”

  The lieutenant said: “I can remember them.”

  The city editor frowned. “Cresser was hanged a little while ago. The Dispatch thought he was guilty. We went after him. We dug up some of his past stuff. He has a wife—she’s tried to see me a couple of times. I don’t think she wanted to throw her arms around my neck. She knew Vaupaugh was the managing editor—she tried to see him, too.”

  The police lieutenant said grimly: “You think a woman knocked you out and threw you down the stairs?”

  Fresney smiled grimly. “You asked who might want to finish me—or Vaupaugh.”

  The officer said: “All right. Go on—”

  Fresney said: “You boys got Jap Dyke—but the paper had to tell you he was back in town. And the paper had to yelp that there might be graft holding off a pinch. Jap’s mob don’t love me—they didn’t love Vaupaugh.”

  The police lieutenant didn’t speak. Fresney said:

  “The Ware woman—the one that tried suicide. We gave her a play. There was a man in the background, and he was getting pretty scared. And nasty. The one she thought she wanted to suicide for. He was worried about his wife.”

  The officer narrowed his eyes on Fresney’s and started to ask a question. But the city editor shook his head.

  “In private, maybe—but you don’t get his name here.” He smiled very grimly. “He’s a big advertiser.”

  The lieutenant swore. Fresney said: “I hurt pretty bad—get me a cab, Tim. I’ll go over and let the doc see if anything’s wrong inside.”

  The police lieutenant frowned. Fresney said: “Then I’ve got to come back here—and get the sheet moving.”

  Tim Slade went outside and moved past the covered body of Clinton Vaupaugh. A uniformed cop was on a ladder that was in place near woodwork high on the wall of the landing. He had a flashlight in one hand and he called down:

  “Yeah—one hunk of lead dug in here.”

  Tim Slade kept his brown eyes narrowed a little and went down the stairs. He hailed a cab, directly in front of the entrance. Two uniformed officers were keeping the crowd moving. Theatres were out and there was a lot of traffic. There was a bulletin up stating that Walter Cresser had been hanged.

  A reporter and a plain-clothes man helped Fresney to the cab. The plain-clothes man said: “Mind if I go along, Fresney? The lieutenant thought you might remember something between now and the time you get back, and you could tell me.”

  Fresney said wearily: “Climb in.”

  Tim Slade stood near the door of the cab, and his eyes met the city editor’s. Fresney looked pretty sick.

  “See what you can dig up, Tim,” Fresney said in a tired voice. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Slade smiled. “You aren’t holding anything back?” he questioned.

  The city editor frowned. The plain-clothes man beside him yawned and looked bored. Fresney shook his head very slowly.

  “I didn’t get a peek at the killer, Tim,” he said. “I think he made a mistake—thought Vaupaugh was me. But you might work around the building a bit—that fellow seemed to know where to lay for us. The elevator wasn’t working.”

  Slade said: “Yeah—I’ll poke around the paper.”

  The plain-clothes man looked straight ahead and his eyes were expressionless. His voice was that way, too.

  “Sure,” he said. “It might have been an inside job.”

  Inspector O’Hafey had a big head, a tall body. He was gray haired and his eyes were the same color. He looked at the papers Slade handed him, handed them back.

  “Your outfit got Dunner,” he said in a husky voice. “Well, how do you figure?”

  They were in the rear of the editorial room, and there was a lot of clatter up front. Most of the Dispatch staff were working on the story—there was a lot to be done. O’Hafey was doing his questioning on the spot.

  Slade said: “I got a wire from Fresney. I’ve known him for five years or so. He’s a hard man, and he doesn’t scare easily.

  When I got here he seemed to want to keep me under cover. His life had been threatened; he was shot at this morning. Here’s the lead.”

  He handed it to the inspector, who looked at it, then handed it to a sergeant sitting beside him. Tim Slade’s browned face was expressionless.

  “Fresney seemed to be pretty certain he was slated to go out,” he went on. “He named some people who hated him enough to finish him, maybe. He told me Vaupaugh’s life had been threatened, and that the managing editor was yellow. He said the policy of the paper was to be changed, because Vaupaugh was scared. The sheet was going ‘soft.’ But he thought it was too late to save his neck, though it might save Vaupaugh.”

  O’Hafey said: �
�You’ve got a paying agency in Cleveland, yet you came on here when he wired. Why?”

  Slade smiled a little. “I was a reporter here for a while, five years ago. Worked under Fresney. He set me up in business. I still owe him some money.”

  O’Hafey said: “Uh-huh. What were you to do?” Slade spoke softly: “Go after whoever murdered Fresney, after they got him.”

  O’Hafey blinked at Slade’s brown eyes. “After they got him?” he repeated.

  Slade nodded. “He didn’t figure having a bodyguard would help much. But I tailed him back to the paper around six.” O’Hafey said: “Anything happen?”

  Slade hesitated, then shrugged. “A small, thin man with a stiff left leg followed along from the North Side. He carried a black stick. When Fresney came in the building this fellow stopped and waited around near the bulletin window. I got the idea he was stalling. After a while a blonde girl came along and dropped a paper. The one with the stiff leg picked it up and handed it back to her. I got the idea that he might have passed something along with it. Couldn’t see what he did—his back was to me. They went in different directions.”

  The inspector widened his gray eyes. “A tip for someone—that Fresney was inside, eh?” he muttered.

  Slade shrugged. “It was just a chance. I called Fresney and asked him if he knew anyone that looked like this small, thin limper. He said no—and wanted to know why. I told him and he said he wasn’t interested in the mechanics of the kill.”

  “Tough guy,” O’Hafey said. “Well, I guess we know Fresney’s tough. Wanted you to get whoever got him, eh? Working from the grave. He would like that idea.”

  Slade said: “I didn’t have to tell you these things, Inspector. I’m working for Fresney, and he isn’t exactly strong for the local police. I told you so that you wouldn’t get in my way.”

  The inspector frowned. Then he smiled grimly.

  “Go ahead, Slade,” he agreed. “Fresney thinks we won’t care much about grabbing the one who was after him, or who killed Vaupaugh. Well, that’s true enough. But we do a lot of jobs we don’t like.”

  The sergeant said quietly: “Where were you—when this murder occurred?”

  Slade grinned. “Listening to a jazz band at the Alvin Theatre,” he replied.

  O’Hafey looked at his big hands. “Any good?” he asked.

  Tim Slade nodded. “Swell,” he replied, and stood up. “If you don’t mind I’ll go out for some coffee and a doughnut.”

  The inspector nodded. “Sure,” he said.

  Slade went through the editorial room and reached Cleve Collins’ side. The assistant was reading typewritten words on newspaper. Fresney had not returned yet. It was eleven forty-five. Collins looked up and Slade said:

  “Pretty tough on Vaupaugh.”

  Collins nodded. “I think the fellow that got him was after Hugh,” he said soberly.

  Slade said: “You do? Well, he must have known he made a mistake. He heard Vaupaugh call out.”

  Collins said: “Yes—and he shot again. That was the one he missed.”

  Slade nodded. “Well, there are more than two bullets in a gun,” he said. “What next?”

  Collins shrugged. “Fresney was going for him. He stumbled. The second bullet was meant for him, maybe. It went into the wall. The spot where they dug it out is in a line—it works out right. The killer may have thought he’d hit Fresney, or he didn’t want to try again. So he used his gun on Hugh’s head—swung him around and threw him down the stairs. Then he went down past him and into the street. He got a break—he didn’t meet anyone coming up. The theatres were out, and he got away in the crowd.”

  Slade’s brown eyes looked down at a proof of a “head” that read: Dispatch Owner Slain. He nodded his head.

  “That’s the way it looks,” he said.

  He moved away from the curved desk, glancing at Fresney’s vacant chair. The telegraph machines were clattering and a lot of typewriters were working. Slade moved towards the private office of Vaupaugh, opened the door quietly and went inside. He closed the door behind him.

  Dana Jones looked at him with eyes that were a misty blue. She was small and very pretty. Tim Slade said:

  “Pardon. You’re Miss Jones, Vaupaugh’s secretary?”

  Her mouth set in a straight line. Her lips were nice, not too red. She didn’t reply.

  Slade smiled. “I’m Slade,” he said. “I’m not with the police or on any paper. I’m from Cleveland. Fresney sent for me. He was worried.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “What about?” she asked so steadily that he felt surprise.

  “He thought maybe he was going to be killed. I’m an agency man—an old friend of his.”

  She was silent again. Slade said quietly: “Some hours ago he gave me a list of those he thought might like to see him dead.”

  He stopped. The girl said: “Well—”

  Slade looked around at framed cartoons on the walls of the anteroom.

  “Your name was one of them,” he said.

  The girl’s eyes got very wide. She pressed a tiny, damp handkerchief against her lips. Slade smiled.

  “That may not mean much. I’m just poking around. The police don’t know that Fresney was worried about you—not yet.”

  Her eyes grew hard; she took the handkerchief away from her lips.

  “Fresney wasn’t killed,” she said steadily. “What difference does it make who he’s worried about?”

  Slade chuckled. “It’s a nice point,” he said. “But the police think Vaupaugh was killed by mistake. They think Fresney was slated to get the dose.”

  The girl sat very motionless behind the small desk that held her typewriter.

  “You think I shot Clinton by mistake, then threw Hugh Fresney down the stairs, then came back in here?” she said. There was scorn in her words.

  Slade shook his head and looked at the cartoons again.

  “Naturally not,” he replied. “Fresney fired a reporter named Hallam. Hallam hit him because he said something about you. Joking, I suppose. Fresney has a peculiar sense of humor. I understand you rather like Hallam.”

  The girl stood up. “Bob’s out of town,” she said firmly. “He went to Chicago yesterday at noon. I saw him off.”

  Slade nodded. “Trains run both ways,” he observed.

  She shook her head. “He got a job on the News—a night job.

  He got it by telephone. He didn’t come back. You can call the paper now—he’s probably there. You can talk with him.”

  Slade grinned. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll take your word for it. But Hallam didn’t like Fresney much, did he?”

  She smiled, her lips and eyes hard. “Of course not,” she said. “And I don’t like him much. And I can give you a list, too—” Slade lifted a hand in protest. “I believe you,” he interrupted. “Let’s forget the idea that the killer made a mistake. Let’s say he wanted to get Vaupaugh, and he got him. Fresney was coming for him, so he knocked him out and got away. That’s simple enough. Can you give me a list of some people who might have wanted to get the managing editor and owner of a sheet that was stepping down pretty hard in order to build circulation?” Dana Jones said: “Why should I? You’re not with the police.” Tim Slade shrugged. “You just said you could give me a list,” he reminded.

  She nodded. “But I didn’t say that I would.” Slade grinned. “You’re hard to get along with,” he told her cheerfully. “Think Cresser’s wife might have worked the idea that Vaupaugh would be better dead?”

  The girl sat down behind the typewriter again. She looked at him narrowly.

  “Fresney’s a pretty big man for a woman to throw downstairs,” she said.

  Tim Slade spoke patiently: “That fact has been mentioned several times,” he said. “But sometimes a woman gets a man to do a job for her.”

  Dana Jones didn’t speak. He liked her eyes and her hands. They were both strong and decisive. She had a nice voice, even when it was hard.

  Slade said: “H
ow about the Ware woman, and the advertiser she made a bum attempt at suicide for? Either one of them might have been pretty sore.”

  She nodded slowly. “Of course. And C.V. bawled out a ticket broker this morning for giving him bum seats to a show last night. The ticket broker might have been sore, too.”

  Tears filled her eyes again, but she blinked them away. Slade said:

  “You thought a lot of Vaupaugh?”

  She looked at him for several seconds, and he thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she said:

  “No, he was pretty weak. I feel sorry for him. He was very frightened.”

  Slade nodded. “He wanted the paper to make money, so he let Fresney run it his way. His way was pretty hard. They came after Vaupaugh, and he ordered the circulation building stuff stopped. But it was too late. Is that it?”

  The girl said: “I suppose—that was it.”

  Slade looked at the cartoons again. “How about this Hennessy?” he asked. “He was fed up with Fresney; he thought he was a slave-driver.”

  The girl looked at Slade and said very slowly: “What’s the use of asking me these questions? You seem to know a lot of people who hated Fresney. Some of them might have hated Vaupaugh, too. Vaupaugh gave the orders around here—”

  Slade widened his eyes. “Did he?” he asked.

  She smiled a little. It was a hard smile. “And Hugh Fresney made suggestions,” she finished.

  Slade said: “You’re all right. I like you.”

  The girl’s blue eyes looked surprised. Then she said:

  “That’s fine—can I tell mother?”

  Slade grinned and turned away. But h& stopped near the door.

  “Where were you when—”

  He stopped as she threw up a hand. “I was sitting right in here putting powder on my nose,” she said. “And I haven’t a damn’ bit of proof of it.”

  Slade chuckled. He said: “Somehow I believe you.”

  He went outside and closed the door. Hugh Fresney was easing himself into his chair at the inner curve of the long copy desk. When the police inspector went close to him he waved him away. Slade went towards the desk and heard Fresney say: “Nothing wrong inside of me—give me fifteen minutes, Inspector—and then I’ll answer questions all night. I’ve got to get the last edition lined up.”