The Complete Cases of the Marquis of Broadway, Volume 1

by John Lawrence

  “How about his brother, Moe?”

  “He’s been behind the bar all evening.”

  When they had passed on, the Marquis clipped at Johnny: “Go around to the back. There’s an alley in this block and I think this joint’s got a bolt-hole.”

  Big Johnny shrugged and said: “So you never make mistakes, eh? How did he happen to be sitting with Harry two hours ago—with Moe behind the bar—when the attempt was made on Ebie? Or are you going to tell me he hired a torpedo—that there’s any torpedo in the United States that’d hire out to murder for that louse?”

  “Go around to the back.”

  When the white-coated figure, vaguely visible beyond the slatted screens, came to the window and turned out the front light, the Marquis could afford to wait no longer and banged on the door. The white-coated figure turned and lifted the screen, made negative motions with head and hands. He was a nearly bald, slack-mouthed man of forty-five, with puffed jowls and the scaly skin and shifty eyes of a dope addict.

  The Marquis said: “Come on. Moe—open up before I kick it in.”

  The other called in a nasal, whiskied voice: “Who is it? Marty Marquis? Hey, I we’re all closed up Marty….”

  The Marquis gave the door a heavy kick and the pasty-faced bartender winced, hastily unlocked.

  “All right, close it,” the Marquis said when he was inside. “I want to see Leo.”

  The bartender fussed with locks and said over his shoulder: “I—gosh, Leo, well—he just left a minute or two ago.”

  The Marquis drove a neat black-gloved fist into Moe’s face. “Never mind that crap, louse. Show me Leo.”

  IT was a combination saloon and nightclub. That is, it was a drinking-place—a bar in front, with a space at the rear, half-trellised off and tables behind that, a miniature floor-show of a very informal sort being presented. It specialized in dimness. Unescorted ladies were always present, some free and easy-going, some just easy-going. On slow nights when a few male customers were around, these lonesome ladies were not without hope. There was always Leo, the proprietor.

  Downstairs, in a spacious, chandelier-lit basement room, there was a large studio couch, a flat-topped desk, a liquor cabinet and a cabinet radio. On the desk was a tantalus, a large, silver-topped cigarette humidor that would accommodate maybe five hundred cigarettes, blotting pad and desk accessories.

  Leo was behind the desk, just about to consume a short glass of whiskey in his skinny hand. He was skinny, his weasel-face the color of a beet, his greedy little brown eyes bulbous, parboiled-looking.

  He gulped and stammered: “Oh, hello, Marty. Didn’t know it was you.”

  The Marquis hinged back the lid of the half-empty cigarette-box, dug out a slender perfumed, cork-tipped tube, let the lid drop closed. He grunted: “Just for lady guests, eh?” He threw it into the waste-basket, slid his hands in his pockets and said: “I came here to throw you in the tank, Leo, but you get a break. Instead, I’m just warning you. I peg you for trying to bump off Ebie Hastings tonight, after he tried to collect something on the twenty Gs you conned—God knows how—out of him. I just want you to know this: if anything more happens to Ebie, I’m going to put you and Johnny Berthold in a room together for about six hours. Understand?”

  The thin-faced Leo was white as a sheet. He fingered his collar and said desperately: “Marty—for God’s sake—you’ve got me wrong. I swear to God— My God, why would I— Why Ebie lent me that dough to start this joint—”

  “You louse, you’re not fooling anybody. You don’t make a nickel out of this place. You run it because you can play around with the tarts that come here. If you had to pay up what you owe, you’d be back standing on street corners whispering out of the side of your mouth to the yokels.”

  The Marquis grunted as Leo exploded into anxious speech, and walked out.

  “Go somewhere and locate this wife of Ebie’s,” he snarled at Berthold.

  “So you admit Leo didn’t do it,” Berthold jibed. “And you’re never wrong.”

  IT was noon before the Marquis met Berthold again on narrow Morton Street. The big man pointed a thick finger at a house four doors away. “She lives on that third floor, see—there.”

  Curving, narrow hallways and stairways led up three smelly flights to a board door on which ancient green paint was blistered. Before knocking, the Marquis told Berthold, “I’ll handle this,” and the big giant nodded promptly, retired. When the Marquis knocked the door was almost instantly opened.

  He was being regarded by a pair of long-lashed, brown eyes that somehow managed to be sharp. The girl was tall, willowy, with chestnut hair drawn to a knot at the back of her neck and not a trace of make-up on her narrowish, high-cheek-boned face.

  The Marquis said: “I’m Lieutenant Marquis of the Broadway Squad, ma’am. Your husband had a little trouble and I’m looking into it. Could I ask you one or two things—just a formality?”

  “What has happened to Eberhard?” the girl asked in a colorless voice.

  “A window fell on him, cut his arm. It might have killed him. Matter of fact, we think it was intended to.”

  “Really?” There was profound disinterest in the glance she cast over the Marquis’ trim, neatly tailored figure. “What has that to do with me?”

  “He’s your husband still, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes, legally. Surely you don’t expect me to exhibit concern about him at this late date.”

  “It seems you’re still his heir.”

  For just a second, there was a quick flash of yellow in the girl’s dark eyes—a flash, the Marquis was sure, of greed. Then she put her hands behind her and stared sullenly. “Really? Is there anything left? I should have thought the chorus girls would have it all by now.”

  “There isn’t a great deal left,” the Marquis admitted quietly. “Or so I gather. Enough though to make it worth while stopping him from spending it.”

  For a moment she looked blank. Then two angry spots of color bloomed high in her cheeks. “What do you mean?”

  The Marquis’ small, ruddy-cheeked face was expressionless, his shaded China-blue eyes calm. “I don’t mean anything particular, Mrs. Hastings—except this: Ebie is a friend of mine. He’s a nice guy—whatever your opinion may be. If I didn’t like him, I’d still have to protect him. He’s a popular man on Broadway. If he’s killed, it’s a sock at my prestige—at my ability to handle my district.

  “Once in a while, an outsider—a non-professional criminal—stumbles into my bailiwick and goes haywire. I just thought you might be interested in knowing that they get the same treatment as anybody else—and, in this case, the treatment will be something. I promise you that.”

  She was shaking but she was perfectly poised—save for a slight huskiness in her voice. “If this—if this is intended as an accusation, Mr. Policeman, I have never heard such impudence in my life. I shall certainly complain to—”

  There was a booming knocking at the door and the Marquis recognized Johnny Berthold’s efforts, stepped quickly over and opened it. Big Johnny towered behind a slender blond youth—blond save for a pair of jet black eyes. He looked to be in his twenties.

  “He wanted to knock, hisself,” Berthold explained, “but he took so long doing it, I thought I’d help him out. He’s been standing outside there gettin’ an earful.”

  The blond youth was flushed, angry, embarrassed. “I wanted to tell Floren—Mrs. Hastings something. When I heard voices, I listened to see if I recognized them. I didn’t want to butt in.”

  “Who are you?” the Marquis asked.

  “My name’s Morris—Dan Morris. I live on the floor just below here.”

  “And you wanted to tell her something.”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “Is it anything that two members of the city police force shouldn’t hear?”

  “No. Certainly not.”

  “Then go right ahead. Tell her.”

  Now beet-red, the youth looked at the gi
rl and said: “I just wanted to tell you that I have a chance over Station WXI at three—a part in a skit where I also get a chance to play the piano. I was hoping you’d come to the studio with me.”

  The girl said: “I can’t, Danny. But I’ll be listening. You’re being paid for it, of course?”

  The boy squirmed. “No, it’s just a test performance. If I’m satisfactory, they’ll pay me from now on.”

  The girl’s lips tightened, but she only said: “I’ll be wishing you the best, Danny. But I can’t go with you.”

  The Marquis said: “We’ll go with you, Mr. Morris. We’ll drive you uptown.”

  In the car, the youth sat rigidly between them. The Marquis asked: “Are you and Mrs. Hastings pretty good friends?”

  “I should like to think so,” the youth said shortly. “I admire her very much.”

  “Are you her boy-friend?” big Johnny Berthold wanted to know.

  “Mrs. Hastings,” the boy said stiffly, “happens to be a married woman.

  “And strait-laced and religious and mercenary,” Johnny Berthold added. “So, as long as her husband is around, you’re holding your hand on your neck—”

  The youth suddenly bit through tight lips: “I’m damned if I’ll stand any more of this insulting, gratuitous innuendo. I happen to live below Mrs. Hastings and she’s been very kind to me, encouraging me and advising me in getting started in New York and that’s all there is to it—”

  “That’s all right,” the Marquis assured him. “We were just wondering. You see—somebody’s been trying to kill Mrs. Hastings’ husband. It wouldn’t be you, by any chance?”

  The boy’s eyes blazed as he turned on the Marquis. “No—it wouldn’t. But it’s a wonder to me that somebody hasn’t done that drunken, gross, philandering lout in long ago. Anybody who hadn’t the fineness to appreciate Flor—Mrs. Hastings and would walk out on her, giving her a pittance to live on—”

  “How much do you think he gives her?” the Marquis asked.

  “I don’t know—but it’s pitifully little. She has to scrimp and save….”

  Let that go,” the Marquis said quickly as big Johnny gulped in a lungful of air.

  AS they waited in the broadcasting studio’s waiting-room the Marquis said: “He’s either a damned sight better actor than seems to be generally realized, or else he’s completely clear of all this.”

  They heard the sketch in which the youth performed. He had too small a part to test his histrionic ability, but he was very good on the piano.

  When they had waited half an hour after the broadcast without the actor reappearing, they instituted inquiries—and found that he had left by another exit.

  “What the hell’s he afraid of?” Berthold asked belligerently. “He knew we were waiting for him—”

  “We didn’t tell him so,” the Marquis said. “Forget him.”

  “Forget him! Sure—forget him! He’s probably nuts about this wife of Ebie’s and can’t get her while he’s alive. He figures to bump him off—”

  “Maybe,” the Marquis said.

  “Maybe, hell! You’re still sticking to Leo Feinberg, I suppose! Just because you spoke out of turn you won’t back water. Nuts. Why don’t you admit you were wrong for once?”

  “I will—when I’m sure I was.”

  “What! You still think—”

  “I still think what I said goes. Maybe you’ve forgotten what I did say, you muttonhead. Get into that phone booth and call the hospital.”

  Ebie Hastings was still safe, though chafing, was under heavy guard and was raising hell about it. He demanded to speak to the Marquis on the phone.

  The playboy pleaded: “Please, Marty—take this army corps off my back. I’m getting out after dinner tonight and I’ve simply got to see people. It’s personal—I can’t ask them to face coppers—”

  “What! You’re getting out tonight! I thought they said—”

  “I know what they said, but damn it, I can’t afford twenty dollars a day, Marty. I’ll tell you something I haven’t told a living soul. I’m damned short of cash. Unless I want to close out what few securities I have left and give up all hope of making a come-back, I’ve got to raise—”

  “Some cash. I know,” the Marquis said. “But it won’t help you if you’re dead. Now behave. Johnny’s coming up.”

  He hung up and told the big man: “Give me your gun, and you stop somewhere and borrow one—then go up to the hospital and don’t let Ebie out of your sight till you see me.”

  “Gun?” Berthold blinked. “What happened to that trick little automatic you—”

  “I haven’t got it on me,” the Marquis said. “Go on, move. I thought we had a day or two. Now we’ve got about three hours to get the answer to this thing.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Some phoning. Beat it.”

  He phoned to the precinct house where every gatherable shred of glass was being checked for fingerprints. There were no fingerprints. He called the bureau that was checking on how the killer had managed to get a key to the vacant store from which he’d shoved the window. There were no leads there. He called the hospital, to find that Johnny Berthold had been trying to get in touch with him.

  “Listen,” the big man said, “maybe you’re not so screwy as I thought. One of the men on the door here—Hazen, of Homicide—saw Moe Feinburg hanging around the hospital around ten o’clock. Hazen thinks Moe spotted him and ducked. And the information desk got a call around that time asking when Ebie would be leaving the hospital.”

  “When is he leaving?”

  “In about an hour.”

  The Marquis’ teeth snapped. “You better see that he gets home safely.”

  He ran out to his car, jumped in and sent it spinning down and across town.

  At the tavern run by the brothers Steinberg he flung into the dimly lit, well filled bar to find a relief bartender serving. To his snapped questions, the man replied bewilderedly that he did not know where Moe was, that Leo was not due at the place for another half hour or so, and that the Marquis might catch him at home.

  The Marquis did not catch him at home. No one answered the Bronx number.

  When he got to Ebie’s apartment house it was quite dark. From across the street, the Marquis stared up at the darkened windows of Ebie’s suite, where he had partaken of more than one late highball. There was a fringe of trees along the curbs on both sides of this street but he could distinguish no lurking figures. Then the whole case went mad.

  In the very moment that the Marquis stepped into the street, to make his way into the apartment house, the dull report sounded.

  In the instant of the report, he caught the savage spurt of flame in Ebie Hastings’ top-floor apartment.

  He flung into the lobby, roared at the astonished boy on the switchboard: “Call a police car—a prowl car—quick! Have them block off the building front and rear and no elevator moves, except this one!”

  When he burst into Ebie’s suite the door was swinging loosely, the entire place pitch-black. He fumbled for the light-switch, jabbed the button home and jumped aside, his gun ready. The sharp stink of powder was in the air.

  For a moment, he thought the room was empty. Then he saw a patent-leather shoe protruding slightly beyond a Chesterfield, toe up. His heart was in his mouth as he jumped around the furniture—and his breath went out in a rush.

  There was a dead man on the floor—a man with a hole in the bridge of his nose, his face powder-blackened. It was Danny Morris, the youthful blond actor.

  The Marquis’ eyes went blank, flabbergasted. It did not make sense.

  Then he heard the siren of the prowl car in the street below. He ran out. For the first time, he saw the covered flight of steps leading up to the roof. He dived at the door, cursing himself for not having considered it sooner—and his heart sank as he found it open, the staple torn out.

  He reached the roof in four strides.

  FROM the chimney of this house, close again
st the building’s side, a double rope was stretched across to the next building. Swift estimates of the seconds that it had taken him from the moment of the shot to reach here, sent the Marquis’ heart down in his boots. He raced to the front of the building, leaned over the copping where men were leaping from the police car and roared down at them: “Surround this house and the next one! Let nobody out!” and had to repeat it three times, shouting himself hoarse.

  He ran back down into the room where the temperamental actor lay incredibly dead. For the first time he noticed something blue protruding between the clenched fingers of the dead man’s hand. Hastily he dropped to one knee, pried savagely at the fingers to get them open.

  A tiny, crumpled slip of blue paper, watermarked, was in the shot man’s hand. Quickly, the Marquis spread it open. There were shreds of tobacco embedded in its wrinkles and it was torn by the very violence of the grip that had clutched it. But there was no mistaking what it was—a sweepstakes ticket.

  And in the moment of that discovery, the phone burst into insistent ringing.

  For a second he hesitated, then stepped quickly over and answered.

  To his astonishment, the voice said breathlessly: “Is Lieutenant Marquis of the Broadway Squad there or do you know where I can reach him instantly?”

  “Who is this?” the Marquis asked.

  “Moe Feinburg. I got to get hold—”

  “This is the Marquis. What is it?”

  The other gasped. “Thank God! Marty—can you get down here quick! That woman—Ebie’s wife—she’s here. She’s threatening to frame us!”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Come in the back door and down to the office downstairs,” Moe pleaded.

  The Marquis ran out, his forehead scarlet, jabbed for the elevator and, after an eternity, it came. He dropped to the lobby—and faced a mob scene.

  Ebie Hastings and his party—four detectives beside big Johnny—were just entering the lobby. Uniformed prowl cops were all around.

  The Marquis roared at Johnny: “Take Ebie back to the hospital. There’s a dead man in his apartment!” To the others he snapped: “Did you catch anybody?”

  “No, nobody tried to—”