The Complete Cases of the Marquis of Broadway, Volume 1

by John Lawrence

  He brushed himself, slipped fresh shells in his revolver as they raced the few blocks to the hotel. His head was hot, feverish with bewilderment. If there had been any doubt that something vicious was going on, the doubt was gone now. No small racket would accept the risk of putting the death mark on the Marquis of Broadway. But why? What was the obscure, criminal set-up into which he seemed to have stepped, all unaware?

  He found that out, faster than he wanted to.

  His cab screeched in before the hotel lobby and he drove open the door—and stopped.

  HARRY DEROSIER was just stumbling out of the revolving doors of the hotel. He stood swaying, almost fell. His washed-out blue eyes were thick, stupid. There was a purple welt over his right eye and he had to make three attempts before he could take a step.

  The Marquis said through tight teeth, “Harry!” and the thick eyes wavered up. Derosier lurched across the sidewalk at a run, caught himself on the open cab door. He could not raise his head. He mumbled: “Gone—girl’s—gone.”

  “How? When?”

  “D’no—how long—long time. Ordered s’m’ice—ginger ale—bellboy. Minute later came back—said forgot bottle opener—opened door—sapped me—must have drugged me—something wrong m’head….”

  “Get in here!” The Marquis’ voice was vicious. He flung out, heaved the half-conscious man into the cab, rapped at him, “Keep taking fast breaths—as fast as you can—don’t stop—” and ran across the sidewalk, plunged into the hotel, plowed for the phone booths.

  Titanic Johnson was not, of course, still at the restaurant. He had left an hour ago, almost on the Marquis’ heels.

  He was not at his hotel. No one seemed to know where he was. Forehead flushed, the Marquis turned and ran back to the cab. There was one place where the gambler would almost certainly appear at this hour or shortly—the floating crap game which he operated. To the cabby, as he piled in, he said: “Over to Broadway and Forty-fourth. I’m looking for Stewart, the steerer for the floating crap game. He hangs out around that corner.”

  Derosier was holding his head in his hands moaning, breathing heavily, desperately. As they shot across town, he said in a less thick voice: “What—what time is it, Marty?”

  “About eleven thirty.”

  The other groaned. “Then she’s been gone over three hours. I—I guess I better go back to the Missing Persons Bureau. What a dud I turned out to be, Marty.”

  The Marquis said nothing.

  AT THE corner he had designated he was out of the cab before it stopped, making for a weedy, pimply-faced youth in Kollege-Kut clothes and a peaked cap, who was inspecting more Kollege-Kut clothes in a store window.

  “Stew!”

  The other whirled. His little beady eyes flickered and he licked his lips. “Hello—uh—Marty.”

  “Where’s Titanic?”

  The other shrugged. “I wish I knew. He called an hour or so ago and said there’d be no game tonight—at least till after three o’clock.” The youth hesitated, swallowed. “He—he said he was afraid of you interfering. He’s supposed to get in touch with me around three.”

  “He—”

  A woman’s wild, crazy scream cut him off. It sounded almost like laughter but it was shrill and incredibly penetrating.

  They were standing at Forty-fourth Street. The triangle that is Longacre Square starts at Forty-fifth and Broadway, and the two streets divide around a pointed block at Forty-sixth. The scream was coming from some point above Forty-sixth—out of sight of where they stood. With the crowd noises it was surprising that it could be heard.

  The Marquis turned curiously toward it—and the first bang came. It was not a backfire—it was a shot. Again it racketed and then suddenly a gun broke into a wild, furious fusillade—someone pulling trigger again and again. The woman’s scream mounted once again. There were three more shots—and then silence.

  As though moved by a magnet, the scattered strollers in sight suddenly halted, turned, began streaming toward the sounds. The Marquis, suddenly alarmed, raced for his cab, roared: “Get up there!” The taxi started for the spot and was instantly hemmed in by the surging crowd. The Marquis cursed, yelled, “Come on!” to Derosier and they piled out, raced the two blocks on foot—and were too late. They had to piece together the staggering thing that had happened from the shouts of eyewitnesses.

  It was the pay-off—only there was something terribly wrong with it.

  A GIRL had been standing under the brilliantly lighted marquee of the Tivoli Theater. She was very beautiful—a small, dark girl with shy, long-lashed, soft pansy-purple eyes and softly waving chestnut hair, bound with a luminous white straw coronet. She wore a stunning gown of white sequins that modeled her dainty, rounded little figure to perfection. She had been standing in the lobby for some fifteen minutes and all the theater employees had noticed her.

  A Lincoln sedan had drawn up to the curb and parked, almost, but not quite, in front of the marquee. They had seen the girl tense as she saw it, start forward, snapping open her handbag. She was reeling a little.

  From the sedan, the well-known Broadway playboy, Tommy Manson, and a small-time lawyer long known along the Stem—Max Sokolow—had stepped. Apparently they were making for the entrance to the stairs that led to offices above the block of stores adjoining the theater, where Manson maintained a cubicle.

  The girl suddenly ran out and stood in front of them. She had a blue-steel automatic pistol in her hand.

  At that point two men in the crowd— newspaper photographers—had recognized the little shy-eyed, dark girl in white sequins, as Cynthia Manson, wife of the playboy, who had not been seen on Broadway in five years, since her marriage.

  She screamed wildly, crazily. Tommy Manson’s face went white and he tried desperately to back away. The girl fired, blindly, still screaming. The shot hit no one, but Tommy Manson dived to the sidewalk like a terrified rabbit, whirling to one side. Again and again she fired, sending pedestrians nearby into diving panic. Then Tommy Manson, with the fear of desperation in his eyes, suddenly flung himself up and toward the girl, from the side. She ducked him, screamed again, fired two quick shots at him and then, when the playboy was five yards from her, suddenly turned the muzzle of the gun to her own soft breast and thumbed the trigger.

  The frantic playboy caught her, almost as she fired, but her suddenly slack body eeled out of his hands, flopped to the sidewalk. Spreading crimson was already staining the white of her dress, and there were smudges from the powder.

  For a second Tommy Manson stood over her, stunned, his hands to his head, calling: “Cynthia! Cynthia!”

  He dropped down beside her, grabbed for her wrist. Then he gave a startled sharp little yell and called to Max Sokolow hoarsely: “She’s still alive! Quick—give me a hand! We’ve got to get her to a hospital!”

  The lawyer dived to his assistance and they picked the girl up hastily, ran with her to the tonneau of the Lincoln. Tommy Manson’s voice kept calling her name in shrill falsetto. Then, as they closed the door, he suddenly cried out, “My God! She hit you, Max!” and clapped a hand to the lawyer’s shoulder, flung an arm around him.

  The lawyer said hastily: “No—I’m all right—get in there and drive like mad!”

  They seemed to be into the car in a flash, tears running down the sobbing playboy’s face, but he sent the car leaping away like a thing alive, fairly lifted it to the next corner and went east on two wheels, the motor thundering.

  All that had happened in half the time it had taken the Marquis to get to the scene.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Corpse on the Hospital Steps

  THE Marquis stood tight-jawed, uncomprehending. For once, his nimble brain was absolutely stopped. Then he snatched at the arm of one of the photographers who had recognized the playboy’s wife and whipped the watch-back from his pocket, showed the picture the actor had been carrying.

  “Is that the girl?”

  “Yes! Yes! Hey! I took that very picture—
when she was playing stock in Jersey City.”

  “That’s where Tommy Manson met her—” the other photographer began.

  The Marquis was not listening. He was beating his way through the morbidly curious mob, recalling the desperate face of the little lawyer saying: “How would I know what girls were in Kansas,” and “Somebody wrote a latter to Miss Scudder in Davenport….”

  In three minutes he was talking to the chief of police in Davenport, Kansas—population eighteen hundred. In five minutes, the chief was saying with finality: “I’ve known every soul in this town for eighteen years. We ain’t got no Eve Scudders, in fact we ain’t got no Scudders at all.”

  When he came from the booth, Derosier was just running in the cigar shop’s door, peering around. His face was still white but the other indications of his doping had almost disappeared. He was waving a newspaper in his hand and his washed-out blue eyes were bloodshot and shocked. He yelled: “Chief—for God’s sake look at this! Lawrence Lockman’s gossip column!”

  The Marquis snatched the paper. Its ink was still wet—fresh off the press. Derosier’s forefinger trembled as he indicated a paragraph halfway down the column.

  By the time you read this, the lovely Cynthia Manson will be in town, accompanied by her father-in-law, with whom she has been living in Albany. What makes this news is that Cynthia is here to seek divorce evidence against the great white-lighter, Tommy Manson. Apparently, five years have worn down the religious convictions of the lady and—are we wrong in assuming that papa-in-law is also getting over his old-fashioned ideas about Reno-vating? All in all, this will be good news to what femme violinist?

  It took two calls to locate Lawrence Lockman at his home, and a vicious, snarled threat from the Marquis to bring out: “I—I swear to God, I don’t know who gave me the tip. It was anonymous—telephoned. But I checked with the Ritz-Plaza and Cynthia and old man Manson were in town—which nobody knew, so I took a chance on the rest of it.”

  The Marquis’ jaw was tight. “If I find you’re lying, I’ll have you run out of town.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Who’s this ‘femme violinist’?”

  The columnist’s voice was relieved. “Oh, anybody can tell you that. She’s a girl named Dorothy Vernor—plays classical pieces over the radio—tall and haughty—kind of a funny babe for Tommy, but he’s had every other kind I supp—”

  “You know where she lives?”

  “Sure. Number — Charles Street.”

  “All right. If that anonymous tipster calls again I want him. It’ll be worth your while.”

  As he came out of the booth a radio cop was bawling in the adjoining phone: “Cover all the hospitals! Manson is heading for one—with Max Sokolow and Mrs. Manson, both shot, in the car.”

  WHEN he joined Derosier, the tall blond man railed viciously: “She put it over me like a tent. I would of sworn she was just a country-girl. When I ordered shrimps for dinner, she said she’d never eaten them before—and put away two portions. What an actress! She said she’d never seen a subway—didn’t believe me when I pointed them out to her. And when I tried to set her right on that dress she had on, she said I was impolite to make personal remarks. Then, out of a clear sky, this! She slugs me—” A wondering look came over his face. “Hey! She didn’t slug me! She must have had an accomplice—the guy that trailed us to the hotel and sneaked up…. My God, what is this? She has an accomplice—and she goes berserk.”

  “Give up, Harry. That thin brain of yours won’t stand it.”

  “Well, she came here for evidence, the plan went sour and she found herself cooped up with me. Her accomplice got her loose. She ditches the make-up and puts on an evening dress, comes over here and tries to give her husband the business—then does the Dutch. What in God’s name else is there to it?”

  The Marquis’ face was like stone. “If that story’s the truth—if any part of it’s the truth—I’ll turn in my badge. And that’s a promise. If you want to exercise your mind, try figuring why they tried to kill me!”

  “Well, maybe—”

  “Shut up. Get up to the Ritz-Plaza Hotel. Tommy Manson’s father is supposed to be registered there, with the wife. Go and hold him there—see if he has any angles.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I don’t know. When they locate that beetle-wit that ran off with the two shot people, I’ll probably be there. Have them broadcast for me if you get anything.”

  The tall man hurried out. The Marquis went back and rejoined the throng of police who were still shouting questions around the entrance to the Tivoli Theater. In ten minutes he had learned nothing new.

  A MOP of shaggy, tawny-colored hair crowned by a too-small hat loomed over the crowd—Johnny Berthold. The Marquis eased toward him and the big Newfoundland-like detective looked down anxiously. “What’s it all about?”

  “Go and locate Titanic Johnson for me,” the Marquis said.

  “Huh?… Right.”

  The Marquis sat in a parked radio car, turned up the dial. He was just in time to hear the last of a repeat broadcast.

  “… back Tommy Manson for routine questioning. Officers will use discretion, as he may be in a hysterical state, but bear in mind that the man is not a criminal….”

  He had been sitting there for twenty full minutes when the announcer’s voice suddenly crackled: “Cars Forty-seven and Ninety-two. Go to Mercy Hospital! There’s a dead man sitting on the steps!”

  The Marquis leaped out of the car. To the patrolmen who owned it he said, “Tell Johnny Berthold I’m phoning in that cigar-store if he comes back,” and ran for the same booth he had used before.

  He called the radio despatcher at headquarters and snapped: “That dead man sitting on the steps of Mercy Hospital—any identification?”

  “No, not yet—wait a minute! It’s coming in now. M—Max S—Sokolow. Yeah—Max Sokolow, Tommy Manson’s lawyer. He was shot by a—by Tommy Manson’s wife just—well, less than an hour ago. And say—I just got something to shoot out to you over the air. I’ll give it to you now. It says for you to call Harry Derosier at the Ritz-Plaza.”

  Derosier said, when the Marquis called him: “I just this minute walked in the hotel. The old man—Cotton Manson—is out. He left not five minutes before I got here, but what do you think? As I walk up to the desk, I hear somebody asking for Mrs. Manson and who is it but the Spick who used to be her partner.”

  “Her what?”

  Derosier gulped. “Before Cynthia Manson was married, she was a dancer. She worked with this Spick named Hernandez. He came here to see her, just now, and I got him up in her suite.”

  “I’ll be right there,” the Marquis said. As he stepped from the booth big Johnny Berthold bulked in the doorway.

  “I can’t seem to find Titanic—” he began.

  “Go over to Mercy Hospital,” the Marquis interrupted, “and look over Max Sokolow. That hysterical ass Manson, evidently dumped him out on the hospital steps to die. God knows what’s got into his dim brain.”

  “What do I do with the dead gent?”

  “Just look at him—see what he has in his pockets. I don’t know. Then meet me at the Ritz-Plaza.”

  THE Marquis met Harry Derosier in the hall of the eighth floor of the Ritz-Plaza. “I didn’t tell him anything. He doesn’t even know why he’s being held,” Derosier said.

  “What kind of a bird is he?”

  “Take a look.”

  He was a typical professional dancing man, though taller than most. Much use of make-up had given his long face a high color and his long-lashed black eyes were shiny, luminous. His forehead shone from pomade which made his black hair glisten. He had a thin black line of mustache. He was in full evening dress—tails. A polo coat and a soft black hat lay on the table beside him when the Marquis came into the room.

  The Marquis asked: “Do you know who I am?”

  “Of course.”

  “I want you to answer some questions.”

>   The Spaniard was a little stiff. “About what?”

  “You were Cynthia Manson’s dancing partner before she was married?”

  “I have already told—”

  “Were you, by any chance, in love with her?”

  Hernandez drew himself up slowly, his eyes dulling. “I hardly see how you expect me to answer questions so personal—”

  “You don’t have to.” The Marquis’ face was stony. “You can play around—but, if you do, I’ll take you to the precinct house and have you beaten stiff.”

  The Spaniard’s face paled. “I—” He hesitated a long minute, lips clamped. “Very well. I was in love with her. It so happened that I had no money—no reputation—we had not even had a New York engagement at that time, so—” He shrugged. Then suddenly a deep frown cut his shiny forehead. “However, if you are attempting to twist this into evidence that Mrs. Manson and myself have been anything to each other since her marriage, you most certainly—”

  “What have you been, since her marriage?”

  “No more than the good friend I hope I am. We have kept in touch, in a casual way. I have seen her—in company—on the two occasions in five years on which she was in New York.”

  “You hoped something would change? That she and you would eventually…?”

  The Spaniard’s eyes veiled. “I had no such hopes. Unfortunately, neither her religion nor mine are tolerant of the easy divorce laws.”

  Derosier broke in: “So that’s why you sent her out to kill him? Divorce was out—so a bump-off seemed indicated.”

  The corner of the Spaniard’s mouth curled in the beginning of a contemptuous smile. Then his face became pasty as he looked from one of them to the other. His hand went to his throat. “You—you are not serious?”

  “Just as serious as she was when she emptied her gun at him.”

  Hernandez’ mouth opened. He looked hypnotized. “She—she—killed him?”

  “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  The Spaniard swayed. His eyes were stunned. After a long minute he said: “Yes, it is what I—no, no—my God, no!” He clutched the Marquis’ arm suddenly. “She—she is in prison?”