The Complete Cases of the Marquis of Broadway, Volume 1

by John Lawrence

  Bedsprings were shaking, creaking, as he walked into the bedroom.

  He stopped, staring. A blond girl lay on a filthy bed, spread-eagled, wrists and ankles tied to the bed-corners with rope. She was gagged.

  She was the girl he had shot in the alley. Her dresses were up around her waist and there was a cross-patch of adhesive-over-gauze on her wound. She was writhing wildly, frantically, in her fear.

  The Marquis stepped over and pulled her dress down over her rosy legs. “Take it easy, sister. The fire’s a fake—a little smoke bomb I fixed up in the hall. There’s nothing to be alarmed about.”

  With his penknife, he slashed the ropes, slashed the cord that held dirty wadding in her mouth. She tried to get up, succeeded only in rolling herself off the bed onto the floor with a thump. She was gasping, trying to make stiffened limbs move, her long-lashed, deep-blue eyes frantic.

  The Marquis said, “Take it easy. There’s nothing to be afraid…” and in that instant he recognized her as an actress. A good actress—and on the way up. He fumbled in surprise for her name, even as he reached down and helped her stagger to her feet.

  He burst out: “For the love of heaven, Miss Leroy! What—how—”

  She cried, “Oh get me out of here! Get me out of here! I can’t be found here. If the police—”

  “I’m the police,” he told her. “I’m the cop you helped Nate shoot at in the Lubert Theater Alley.”

  She cried, “Oh, God, I—” and backed away from him, hands to her cheeks.

  He stared at her incredulously. “If there’s any explanation—let’s have it. Otherwise—”

  She croaked: “He—he’s my husband. He—I swear—he forced me to do what I did. He’s taken all my money. If it came out that I was married to him—I didn’t know what he was—I thought he was just a gambler…. Oh God, please….”

  He looked at her for a long minute. There was no deception in her terrified blue eyes. He said: “All right. You can go home for now. I’m Lieutenant Marquis. I’ll see you about it later. Come on.”

  Apparently she did not know what he meant, but she ran and took his arm. The hall was still full of smoke as they came out. He told her: “Pull something over your face as we go down. You don’t want to be recognized.”

  The lower floors were full of stark, frightened, half-clad people. The Marquis felt the girl shudder beside him as he snarled their way to the street. Then they were outside and hurrying across the street to an open cafeteria.

  By a miracle a cab came along as they were halfway across and the Marquis whistled it down. He fairly shoved the dazed, now-sobbing, stammering girl inside and told her: “Go to your hotel and keep your mouth shut.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Blast-Out

  THE MARQUIS trotted on across the street and into the lunch-room, phoned Asa MacGuire. When the quick voice of the redhead came on, he told him: “Get three or four men down to the Frontenac in about five minutes—maybe ten. Cover all the doors. You go up and cover the manager’s own room—and I mean cover it. Nate Heyworth is on his way down—ought to be about there now. Get him as he comes out—but don’t stop him going in!”

  “Wow! Right!”

  He slipped another nickel into the slot and called big Johnny Berthold.

  The phone rang three times before it was answered, and the blond giant’s voice was hurried, intense. When he heard who was calling, he burst out excitedly: “Marty! Hey! They found him!”

  “Who?”

  “George Mahaffey. They found the cabby that drove the little guy downtown and made him tell him where he got out. It was right by an alley back of a undertaker’s. George was there. His head’s beaten in and he’s took an awful beating with a piece of pipe—iron pipe.” He hesitated. “Hey—ain’t you surprised any?”

  “Not very.”

  Well—well—you mean we got another lead? Homicide’s raising hell over at the spot. They can’t get the body identified—I mean the little feller. We’re still in the picture?”

  “The picture’s about five minutes from being wiped out. Let me speak to Miss O’Higgins.”

  Then his whole carefully, extravagantly nursed case exploded.

  Johnny said: “Huh? Why, she ain’t here. She went out—”

  “What!”

  “Well, sure. You told me to stay here to guard her against George Mahaffey. When we hear he’s dead, there ain’t much use guarding her—”

  “You madman! Where’d she go?”

  “Well—lemme think. Some hotel. When I told her about George she got kind of white. She said she wanted to go to some hotel for some information. She wanted me to go too but I thought I better wait in case you called—”

  “Was it the Frontenac?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. That’s it. What’s—”

  The Marquis yelled at the mouthpiece as he threw the receiver at the hook: “Meet me there—as fast as you know how! That place is dynamite!”

  He dived out.

  People were getting into a cab at the curb, ten rods away. He sprinted, yelled at them, hurled them aside with a yelled, “Police Business,” and piled into the cab. He barked the address of the hotel, and rattled: “Red lights or anything—don’t stop! I’ve got to get there in seconds!”

  SWEAT literally came out in waves on him, as he half crouched in the tonneau. He knew exactly the murderous climax he had sent rushing at that hotel—and he knew that it could not be stopped.

  In one moment, his whole carefully built structure had backfired. It had collapsed on him—and his heart was stuck in his throat as he saw the ghastly possibilities.

  He raved steadily, desperately, at the hacker for more speed. They raced down Avenue A, swung over, rocked, on two wheels, into Fifth.

  He tried to guess—to imagine what murderous turn the girl’s advent might have given his subtle equation. It was beyond imagining. Anything might be happening at this moment.

  Then they were swinging across town, the cab’s tires shrieking, and ahead of him he saw the dingy, perpendicular sign of the Frontenac, high overhead. He wrenched open the door, crouched, holding it against the wind.

  He was nearly driven to his knees as the driver flung to a squealing, headlong stop. He pitched out diving to the sidewalk, off balance, caught himself, whirled and plunged for the revolving door.

  He burst into an empty lobby.

  There was not even anyone behind the green-and-black desk. He banged into it, peered over, in case the clerk were sleeping in some corner, but there was no sign of him. The Marquis’ eyes flew to the rack of pigeonholes, hastily trying to locate the one marked 419—Purley Rentz’s room.

  He caught his lip in his teeth as he saw that the little hole was empty—the key gone.

  He whirled toward the elevator—and the revolving door behind him rustled in sudden activity. He swung back just as big Johnny Berthold burst in, holding his too-small hat on his shaggy blond hair, his eyes worried, bewildered.

  The Marquis snapped, “Your gun—quick!” and the big man opened his mouth, closed it, hastily snatched a service pistol from his hip, handed it to the Marquis.

  “Stay here,” the Marquis flung over his shoulder as he raced for the elevator. “Nobody in or out.”

  “But my gun—”

  “There should be one behind the desk.”

  The elevator came to a stop, just as he reached it, and his gloved hand caught the slowly-rolling-open door, yanked it. He plunged in, flung it closed and rapped at the goggling boy, “Three—fast! Move—or I’ll brain you!” and the elevator zoomed. “Stay there!” the Marquis bit as he dived out.

  He raced for the stairs, the gun in his hand, whirled round the banister and up. As he reached the top every prayer he could think of went up that the girl had not got herself jammed.

  Then he was crouched outside the door of 419—and his heart was dizzily down in his boots. He could not see any light in the room—the transom was closed.

  But through the thick wood, he could hea
r the snarling tones of a man—quick, vicious words—though the old-fashioned walls did not let enough sound through the door to let him catch what was being said.

  FOR JUST a second, the Marquis hesitated, sweat shining on his forehead. Then he turned and ran back downstairs, started down the hall below till he was at Rentz’s Room—319. He started to beat a desperate, unceasing tattoo on the door, praying that it would prove occupied.

  It did.

  An old man with drooping yellow mustaches fumbled open the door, stood blinking in the hall’s light. His hand groped for the light button on the wall.

  The Marquis knocked his hand away, snapped, “Be quiet! Police business! Don’t touch that light—get back into bed!” and ran to the window.

  It was open. He flung himself over the sill, onto the fire escape. He went up the iron stairs, literally with his hands, keeping as much weight off his feet as he could—and then he was outside the window of Rentz’s room, huddled down, eyes raking the interior of 419.

  Blood surged up to his head, and he tightened his lips.

  The window was down a few inches from the top, and the blind was halfway up. He could see half the room. Witherspoon, the plump hollow-eyed manager, now dressed in a gray suit, stood against the wall with his hands up, looking downward aghast. Toni O’Higgins lay on the floor, an angry red mark across her forehead. Her eyes were closed, one hand outflung. Then the Marquis’ heart beat again—as she stirred.

  Her eyes opened groggily, blinked several times. She pushed herself up with one hand, the other clapped to her wincing head. She suddenly came to, looked wildly up at Witherspoon, then over at the part of the room the Marquis could not see.

  A snarling voice from that quarter whispered viciously. “Fine! Now we’ll get somewhere! Listen to me, you two.”

  The Marquis craned his neck wildly, shifted in every conceivable angle. Maddeningly, the man still was out of sight. The Marquis’ gun was ready in his hand, the safety catch off—but he could not line up. Frantically, he pulled back, jerked his eyes along the wall.

  A tiny window, a few yards away, gave out faint glow. He jumped up, slid for it. It was the bathroom window, and the door leading out of it was a third open. But the figure of the man inside was still not visible.

  Wildly, the Marquis swayed back and forth between the two. The tones of the other were getting a little shrill, a little wild—and it struck ice to the Marquis’ heart. He knew that it was Angle Nate Heyworth in the room—and he knew that the gunman was trapped. By no conceivable possibility could he get out of the building alive. But—the things he could do—the things, judging by his voice that he was on the edge of doing momentarily—before being taken—made the Marquis’ blood run cold.

  The gunman was saying, in a voice now jittery and jerky: “All right. One of you has got a key—a little bronze key. I want it—and I’m going to have it. It’s my last chance—and I’m a desperate man. Don’t make any mistake—I’ll cut you to pieces, inch by inch if I have to.” He hesitated. Then, “How about it, sister? He says he hasn’t got it.”

  The girl’s eyes were terrified as she looked up at the spot where the gunman was crouched. Her voice was husky. “I never even heard of a bronze key.”

  Again the ex-gambler hesitated. Then he snarled: “Come here, you—and keep those hands high!”

  The fat, hollow-eyed Witherspoon’s face was white. He swallowed, edged slowly over, till he too was out of the line of sight. The Marquis heard him blurt under his breath: “I—I haven’t got it.”

  After a moment, during which he was evidently being searched, the gunman said: “All right. It isn’t on you. Where is it?”

  The other gasped, “I swear—” and there was a crack! Witherspoon screamed thinly, came staggering back. Blood ran between his fingers as he held his cheek.

  Heyworth said hoarsely: “It’s a good game. We’ll play it—till one of you comes across. Come here, baby—on your feet.”

  The Marquis lashed his brain, desperate, as the girl slowly stood up. There wasn’t a drop of color in her white face.

  THE invisible gunman said: “Come on, sweetheart—or if you’re tired of playing—you can have a bullet in your pretty thick head!” and the girl’s eyes dropped down, to waist-level, suddenly flared in quick fear. She swayed, took a step forward.

  The Marquis’ forehead was turgid. He felt his scalp rising. He jumped to the bathroom window, laid palms against the glass—and it went up.

  Taut, his nerves wincing for the sound of a blow, he eased it up. So fearful was he of the crackling electricity in the room that he even checked himself to make his voice soothing and soft.

  He said through the open bathroom window, “She hasn’t got it either, Nate. I have it. You want it?” and was instantly back at the bedroom window, his breath stopped, gun up, waiting for the other to back into sight.

  He had underestimated the gunman’s frenzied wits. Even at this penultimate moment, Angle Nate’s scheming mind was like lightning.

  His gun boomed—and the light in the bedroom exploded into blackness.

  There was a scuffling sound, a sudden cry from the girl, then the gunman’s hoarse tones—“All right, wise-guy—whoever you are—start shooting!”

  “No! No!” the girl cried hastily. “He—he’s got me in front of him….” There was more struggling, then she cried, “He’s coming to the win—”

  Fear-spurred lightning tipped the Marquis’ brain. In a split-second movement he stripped off one glove. His hand flashed in and out of his vest pocket and he jammed the tiny, powerful flashlight deep into his black glove, touched the button. No light showed.

  Angle Nate Heyworth made a mistake. His gun exploded—and the window of the bedroom blew outward in a thousand pieces. The Marquis was well to one side—the gunman had fired at a mirage.

  But the Marquis did not miss the opportunity. He groaned realistically. His fingers moved like a flash, wrapping the glove’s folds around the still burning flashlight. He jumped up and came down heavily on the metal fire-escape to simulate a fall—and in the same instant he threw the gloved flashlight into the room, spinning.

  Till it lit, he was still desperate, grasping at this last straw. Then it hit a table. The glove fell one way, the threshing flashlight another—and the shadowy beam lit up the room.

  Angle Nate Heyworth was trapped. He still had the girl in one arm, but his burning eyes were on the window and he had taken a stride that flung her half away from him. Witherspoon cowered in a corner, his hands to his mouth. The Marquis fired instantly.

  At that he was only a split second ahead of Angle Nate’s second shot, but the dark-faced killer was slammed backwards by the force of the Marquis’ bullet and his own went wild. He slammed into the door of the room, just as the flashlight maddeningly rolled around—and pointed straight at the Marquis, blinding him.

  But the gunman was hit. He grunted with pain. He clawed at the doorknob—and in the instant that the Marquis tried wildly to escape the glare of the light, the ex-gambler whipped open the door and staggered out. The door slammed.

  The Marquis half started in through the broken window, then clipped, “Turn the bridge lamp on here,” and spun round, plunged back down the fire-escape.

  When he reached the open window on the floor below, he dived through, raced for the door and burst out. He sprinted for the stairs. Again he had guessed wrong—but it was too late to matter.

  Angle Nate Heyworth had gone up—not down. As the Marquis’ somber eyes peered up the stairs, he saw—two stories above him—the wavering hand on the staircase banister. It stopped, moved on, stopped again.

  The Marquis ran up a flight. In the dimness above the banister half a flight above him, he saw the blazing gray eyes of the gunman. A hand wobbled over the banister—a hand still holding the Marquis’ own gun. The Marquis spread his legs and deliberately fired—twice.

  Angle Nate seemed to let his head go back and wince. The gun slipped out of his fingers, went sailing d
own the stairwell. He half turned, as his knees gave way—and pitched head foremost down the stairs.

  The Marquis jumped for him, was on his knees beside the dying man. His fingers flew through the ex-gambler’s pockets and fished out a key—the twin to the other bronze one.

  He urged: “Nate! Nate! What’s in that P.O. box you had jointly with the horse-groom?”

  The other’s eyes were closed, his thin face covered with clammy sweat. He rolled his head a little and whispered: “Money—twenty-five grand. The—the pup wouldn’t play with me—till he saw the color of it. He—made me rent box jointly, mail his share to—it—before he’d….” His head lolled limply.

  SHOUTING men were racing up the stairs. High-pitched chattering, screaming, came from behind closed doors. The Marquis jumped up, turned and ran back to the bedroom. The girl was sitting on a chair, her head in her hands.

  Witherspoon was hovering over her like a plump, distracted hen. The Marquis closed the door, asked her quickly: “You all right, Toni?”

  “Yes,” she said, not lifting her head.

  He stooped and picked up his glove, tucked his gun under his arm while he put it on, looking down at her.

  “The place is full of Homicide dicks,” he told her. “I’d rather they didn’t know you’d come to me before. Tell it to them from the time you heard George was killed. Say you just wanted to come and prowl the room—see if you could pick up anything. Like it was.”

  She said, “All right,” in a dull voice.

  “I’m going to give them the pinch, so that will square it pretty near all,” he explained. “But I don’t want any more hard feelings than necessary.”

  She looked up, uncomprehending. “The—the pinch? Didn’t you—kill Nate?”

  “Nate? Sure. Why?”

  Her eyes swelled. “Didn’t—didn’t—”

  “Nate kill George and Rentz? Don’t be silly. No professional like Nate did that work. The killer must have left them both alive—George to tell the little guy to come to me—the little guy to manage to get himself into a cab. You didn’t think Nate would fumble as badly as that?”