E. Hoffmann Price's Two-Fisted Detectives

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Between telling her of the clients he was getting, warehouse owners along the waterfront, pouring a refill of Pedro Domecq, and completing the ruin of Alma’s makeup, he was quite certain that he was safely on the right side of the fine line that divides generous-mindedness from stupidity. The snarl of the buzzer broke in. He made a long lunge, cursed idiots who didn’t bother to phone, then jabbed the button to release the latch of the door which opened from the street and into the arched passageway. It was shadowy, and perhaps sixty feet from door to courtyard.

  So he sat back to wait. Hopefully, he began to think, “Someone forgot the outside key and needed a buzz to get in.” He resumed talk about the patrol service.

  All this was spoiled when, without a warning jingle, the door slammed open. A big fellow, blond and rugged of face, wearing an important look and in dinner jacket, barged in. His expression of haughty disapproval, and the way he carried his head, made it plain that he not only knew what was wrong with the world, but also had the answers needed to make it right.

  “Who the hell let you in?” Carver demanded. “Get out and try knocking next time!” The man wasn’t a client, and couldn’t be if he wanted to.

  Alma bounced to her feet with a cry of dismay. “Oh, Herb, I didn’t know it was so late! Jeff, you’ve never met Mr. Lowry, have you?”

  “Seeing was enough for me; skip the meeting.”

  Lowry ignored both Carver and the remark. He caught Alma by the arm. “Can’t your tax problems hold?” he demanded. “Or how much longer shall I wait?”

  Carver interposed. “Take your hands off, and put ’em where they’ll do you some good, meat-head!”

  And to show him where the hands ought to be, Carver hauled off and socked him. Lowry slammed back against the rickety table, knocking over the brandy. Carver, in no mood to flood the floor with any such liquor, whirled to retrieve it.

  He had underestimated Lowry; instead of going glassy eyed, the intruder recovered and clipped him one that promised to lift his head and send it up through the ceiling. What settled the ensuing even exchange was Carver’s stumbling over a shoe; not one of those he was wearing, but one that should have been put away. He took a lurch, banged his head against the corner of the Chesterfield, and for a moment was too busy clutching the floor for support to have any chance of getting back into immediate action.

  Alma flared up, “You can keep your dinner, if you’re in such a frightful hurry!”

  Seeing that protest or apology would get him nowhere; and perhaps sensing that he had used up his day’s quota of luck, Lowry shrugged, and made for the door. The balcony decking sounded under his tread. By the time Carver regained his feet, the departing visitor was in the courtyard and not dallying to pick cape jasmine.

  Carver, still unsteady, hustled Alma to the bridge. “Get on your phone and camp on it, honey. He’ll be calling when he cools down; and if he buzzes from the street and can’t get an answer from you, he won’t try my number again.”

  She tried to smooth things over, but Carver’s response was, “He’s probably heading home to retouch his makeup, sulk awhile, and then come back. I’ll bust in on him and give him something more than a rumpled shirt and tie, the flathead!”

  “Oh, good Lord, Jeff! Don’t! You’re advertising it to the entire building. I’m awfully sorry; it is my fault, and he was all wrong, but—”

  “Run along, run along. I’m not sore at you. But I’m taking care of that high-ranking drip!” Once she had crossed the bridge, Carver thumbed the phone book, got the man’s address, and drove uptown. Lowry lived not far from where St. Charles Avenue branches off to become Carrollton.

  * * * *

  When he got to the place, Carver chalked up a bad guess. The house was dark; the convertible was not in the garage.

  Remembering, from Alma’s chatter, the bars that she and Lowry and his crowd had visited, he hightailed back to the Vieux Carre—the “Old Square“, that original French city once enclosed by parapets on three sides, and guarded by the river on the fourth.

  He looked in at the Original Absinthe House, and the Old Absinthe House, both of which, appropriately, were on Bourbon Street. Inquiry got him no word of Lowry or friends of Lowry. He had no better luck at several of the less historical spots. But at the Slave Exchange, operated by a solid citizen named Lamazou—who boasted that he never forgot a face nor the recipe for a drink, however complicated the latter or uninteresting the former—Carver got his break.

  “I guarantee you, he was here!” the good man declared, happy to prove that the Slave Exchange offered services beyond the modest claim that here one got a better Sazerac than Old Man Sazerac himself ever mixed, and a better Ramos Fizz than the original Ramos had ever dreamed of. “He was here, and I tell you, he was sore.”

  “What about?” Carver wondered, innocently and cheerily.

  Since the information had not been given in confidence, the proprietor saw no good cause for making more of it than Lowry himself had. “About the income tax,” he answered. “The government is gypping him, like everybody. Or it is the expert. So he is going home to fix it.”

  “I’m an expert,” Carver declared. “And I bet I can help him plenty.”

  Apparently, Lowry was going nonchalant, demonstrating to Alma that his tax problems were more important than women, she or any other. Carver, good and fed-up, regardless of how honest Alma’s intentions undoubtedly were, found it more and more necessary to leave Lowry with sufficient souvenirs of the evening so that his social inclinations would lead him elsewhere. Carver’s only mistake, as he saw it, had been to proclaim his intentions to Alma. It would have been much better to have said nothing, and let her guess, bit by bit, why Lowry no longer called.

  If Alma really had to meet people who were the key to better employment, she could readily enough find a new face.

  “A new face…” Carver savored the phrase, as, having overshot his mark by two numbers, he left his parked car and set out afoot to Lowry’s place. “A nice new one for Lowry…just what that stinker needs.”

  The house was old fashioned, one of the several survivors of the day when Carrollton was a separate town. It was set well back, with magnolias shading the front. The broad leaves of plantain stalks made a secondary screen about the house.

  There were lights. The front door was slightly ajar. This was strictly custom-built; give him a taste of visitors who barge in without knocking.

  Carver went down the hall toward the light, which came from a doorway. The room into which he stepped was in more of a litter than his own, but the effect was entirely different.

  The phone, yanked from its wall niche, lay in the midst of a scattering of ashes and butts spilled from a smoking stand. Bourbon, broken tumblers, a bottle of Seven-Up, and a cigarette container were blended into a mess of papers swept from the work table, on which a typewriter still sat. Blood splashed the plaster, as well as the floor, and the overturned chairs.

  Lowry lay there, a sodden and soggy heap. Whether this was a blunt-instrument murder, or a knock-down fight in which the victor, running amuck, had booted and trampled an unconscious opponent to death, would require a closer inspection of the body than Carver wanted to give it. What upset his stomach was that this which was sprawled out before him was a horrible exaggeration of the decisive cold-caulking he had come to dish out. His wrath kicked back and sickened him. He would have run out—he had to fight the urge not to—had it not been for his loud-mouthed tour of bars. And there was even more: for, while this gruesome killing might not be connected with him, Alma would inevitably have her own doubts, her suspicions, so that human qualm would rise as a barrier between her and Carver.

  He now had himself for a client. While this was a dish for the cops, Carver had too big a stake to let him stand by, without trying to make a clear cut and decisive case against the killer.

  CHAPTER 2

  Carver l
atched the front door and went to the end of the hall to unlatch the back. He drew a shade, so that light from the hall would not be visible from the street. Due to his unfamiliarity with the place, he had overshot his mark; a similar old-fashioned house had tricked him. He had parked in the shadows of tall trees. Finally, the avenue was wide, with a parkway and row of palms down the center. Thus his arrival had not been conspicuous.

  Dodging blood splashes not quite dried dark, he began his survey. An electric clock, knocked out of action by the fracas, had stopped at 9:47. The time element, however, would not help Carver, for while the Vieux Carre bartenders would remember him, and in one spot at least, Lowry, their notions as to the hour would naturally be in round figures, give or take thirty minutes.

  Two things other than professional ethics, the last being a consideration which a man who was in a tight corner would be inclined to ignore, kept him from setting the clock either forward or back, within the limits of the interval in which the coroner could place the time of death. Since he had to work on this case, any attempt at faking an alibi for himself might be making one for a man who might otherwise be charged with the crime.

  Lowry had actually been engrossed with his income tax. On the floor, beneath the work table, was a duplicate return; there was also the Internal Revenue bill for the current quarter. The amount on this was several hundred dollars less than on the duplicate. A man who had the answers to everything would be inclined to look for someone to eat out.

  And scattered papers indicated that giving a chewing out to everyone, from Congress down to the parish dog catcher, was a hobby of the deceased. His bitter invective and polished style should have made him a fortune. He gave his biting words away, and got a good bit of his output published in Vox Pop and Forum and Safety Valve columns of New Orleans and several other Gulf Coast city newspapers, all the way to Biloxi. His success was clear: clippings taped to carbons of the original blasts gave testimony.

  A stamped envelope, freshly addressed to the Standard, lay on the table. There was no letter to match. Carver frowned.

  “That’s an odd one! A fellow usually writes the letter, and then addresses the envelope.” He noticed a sheet of carbon paper. It had been used only once; every impression of the type showed clearly, though in reverse, so that it would be difficult to read without holding it to a mirror.

  He got just sufficient of the “Scathing indictment” to make him fold the carbon paper and put it into the envelope, which he pocketed. There had been words about income tax exemptions, and fumbling “experts.” Anything that had been the target of Lowry’s indignation on that day would be worth studying. Whether his written words were actually a reasonable motive for murder was an open question, but Carver’s hasty glances at the samples convinced him that they were.

  However, what promised to be a more pointed lead was in a pen-written letter, addressed to Lowry, and apparently by a woman: I can play just as dirty as you. If you think being dog in the manger is going to get you anywhere, just keep at it, and see who gets paid off, and how. It was signed, Guess Who?

  The shattered phone had kept him from notifying the police, even anonymously. And now, with a vindictive woman in the pattern, Carver had a greater stake than ever: there was the danger of having Alma involved; and, however unjustly, she would be, if the unknown woman in the case were cornered and began to tell her side of things.

  Jeff pocketed that letter, figuring he had sufficient detail. Whether he could risk getting finger-print gear and his miniature camera for close up shots of developed prints was a question which good judgment would answer with a king size No. The same applied to frisking the house.

  A heel print in a pool of blood caught his eye. The track had been duplicated on the floor, for several paces. It was anything but clear, and was a job for a technician. His mounting uneasiness, and the urge to get out and show himself again in the Vieux Carre, became so strong as to scream a warning. With a dead phone, there might be visitors stopping to leave a note.

  Carver snapped off the lights.

  He had barely done so when a car pulled up in front. Instead of with a lusty slam, its door had been closed too carefully, yet not softly enough for him to miss it. The unlatching of the front gate was done with too much care. A man and a woman were momentarily silhouetted by the glow of a distant street lamp. Advancing, they were absorbed by shadow, though he could distinguish them as darker masses, and moving.

  Carver made for the rear. He had barely got to the stoop when a flashlight beam, lancing down the long hallway, softened the darkness about him. He paused at the jamb and risked pressing his face against the pane. Reflection from the plaster of the hall picked out the blonde glint of the woman’s hair. She and her companion must have used a key.

  Carver went to the front with long, springy strides. He followed the walk until he had cleared the house. From there, stepping-stones reached toward the side fence. He vaulted this, and then, shadow protected, hurried to the sidewalk. Everything was clear. He noted the license plate numbers of the car, then got a look at the registration papers at the steering column.

  This had barely been done when he heard the scream he had been expecting. Not knowing who or what the two were, Jeff had no thought either of waiting to make further observations, or to follow them, if they left. They might not be leaving, for good reason. It was time and more than time to get going.

  Carver lost little time following the long, crescent curve of the avenue until it crossed the head of Canal Street. At a pay station, he phoned police headquarters. He began, breathlessly, “Trouble Dennis Wayland’s place,” and gave Lowry’s address. “D, dog; E, eager; N, nuts; I, Isidore; S, sugar—Get the name, and address, you’ll get the trouble quick enough.” He spelled Wayland, and then added, “He just killed Herb Lowry.”

  He hung up, and got going. Putting a stranger on the spot was unpalatable business, but with someone else on the defensive—even temporarily—Carver would have a better screen behind which to work. And whatever decent qualms he did have were restrained by the certainty that the two who had come to Lowry’s house had moved furtively. Possession of a key did not prove that their visit was legitimate.

  Snapping on his radio, he followed Canal Street. Before he was half way to the river, Jeff heard the first police broadcast routine to patrol car. By the time he swung into the French Quarter’s narrow streets, the Carrollton district had undoubtedly been sewed up tight. There was no night man on duty where Carver garaged his car, so his departure and return would not have been noted pointedly.

  Once back at his apartment, he looked in the phone directory. Dennis Wayland was listed. He’d be tagged soon enough.

  * * * *

  Carver crossed the bridge to Alma’s balcony. She was not at home. He concluded that she had snapped at some other Vieux Carre festivity. Alma would reason, naturally enough, that being away from home would keep her in a strictly neutral position, neither upsetting Carver’s feelings by favoring the useful Lowry, by listening to him in the event that he called again, nor offending that high-handed man by continuing her stand in favor of Carver.

  Thinking back, Carver discovered another useful angle in having set the police on Dennis Wayland. If, as the furtiveness of the visit suggested, the man had made plans against Lowry or had had trouble with him, at least the general pattern would appear in the newspaper account, and so save Carver a lot of leg work. And the prowler’s blonde companion kept him reminded of the reproachful letter which some woman had written Lowry. There would be plenty to ask Alma, now that the police broadcast gave Carver a way of accounting for his knowledge of the event.

  Her spontaneous flare-up of indignation at Lowry’s high handedness cheered Carver, despite the position in which he was all too likely to find himself before the police went far with their work. Behind her gaiety and breathless frivolity, she was strictly bonded goods. He could not doubt her loyalty; he could
count upon her not talking out of turn about his quarrel with Lowry. But he wondered, as he sat there, trying to plan his campaign, if she would suspect him. Or, suspecting, whether she could conceal her thought.

  Even though he were not involved, or even questioned, the case would almost surely be a barrier between him and Alma until it was solved: and while the percentage of unsolved homicides was low, it was quite too high for Carver’s taste. An ordinary killing, either with knife or gun, was one thing. The maniac frenzy and vindictiveness that had been expended on Lowry indicated a killer whose personality was inhuman, whatever his form and appearance. This intangible, this emotional element, was Carver’s greatest danger. Even though she had actively disliked the victim, the manner of his death would turn her stomach.

  After an hour or so of telling himself that he had not a Chinaman’s chance of getting any sleep, he tried it. In a restless way, he succeeded, until the jingle of the doorbell aroused him. The note was insistent, as though the tension of the finger had been communicated to the button.

  It was not the police.

  It was Alma, with her make-up taken off. Like Carver, she had apparently been aroused from sleep. Her robe, all awry, revealed a sapphire-colored nightgown with lace panels which would have been intriguing under other circumstances. Carver’s second blinking glance at the clock told him he had been dozing for a couple of hours. Meanwhile, Alma had come home, without having awakened him as she high-heeled it along the balcony, and across the bridge.

  “Back for more brandy?” he grumbled.

  She caught him by the arms. “You’ve got a client, Jeff, whether you want one or not.” Her animation had a flavor of a sort she had never displayed before. Alma was worried, frightened, and grabbing him for support, rather than for emphasis.

  “What have you gone and done?” he countered, as he shut the door behind her. “You look as if you need a drink!”

  Premonition gave Jeff a case of shakes that promised to match Alma’s. Nothing less than the killing up in Carrollton could have knocked her into such a shuddering state. As she gulped her brandy, Carver checked up the crazy pace of his imagination; yet, while no woman other than a side-show freak could have done that gruesome job, she could in some way have been involved.