by Otto Penzler
“But how,” protested the charming lawyer, “can we prove you innocent when you are guilty of something else?”
Skuro bit his lip. “Your husband will know how to handle that, ma’m.”
“You tell me,” suggested Martindel.
Nuene spoke: “For ten gran’, Duke, we want you to frame us innocent!”
Duke Martindel whistled softly and dropped his feet over the edge of the bed. “That’s a new one,” he mused aloud. “They are guilty of one crime and want to be framed innocent on one they did not commit.” He shook his head. “I don’t want any part of it, boys. You’re a couple of bad eggs that should be frying up in the big house.”
His wife caught his arm. “But, Duke, if they didn’t kill Washburn, you wouldn’t want to see them—” She stopped, embarrassed.
“They robbed a bank,” he reminded her. “I’ll be compounding a felony if I monkey with that or try to cover it up.”
Nuene interrupted. “We thought of that, Duke, so we got a counter proposition. Suppose we give you the dough we got out of that crib— fifty thousand, it was—and you go and make a deal with the manager. It’s a small, independent bank and I don’t think the manager would want any publicity about the job if he could recover his dough on the quiet.”
“Any damage done?”
Nuene shook his head. “Not much. We stuck up the watchman and gagged him with tape. Sam opened the vault like it was a can of sardines.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “It’s not three yet. If you beat it out to the manager’s house, offer to return the dough and pay for any damages, I think he’ll listen to reason. We’re on the level about this, Duke, we don’t want to dangle for something we didn’t do.”
Skuro contributed: “The manager’s name is Mayhew Henderson. He lives at Two Sixty Carthay Circle. He’s home tonight—we checked all those angles.”
“The money?” Duke asked.
“We’ll leave it on your back door step.”
“Where will you boys be?”
Skuro shook his head decisively. “You don’t need to know that, Duke. We’ll get in touch with our"—he gave Phyllis Martindel a glance— ”our attorney when the time comes.”
“How do you know I won’t run out on you with the money?”
“Two reasons,” Nuene replied. “First, you’re a square dick; second, you’ll want to know who knocked off Washburn by shooting him in the back.”
Sam had already backed out of the room and now Gus Nuene followed. As the door closed, Martindel grinned at his wife.
“Well, Mrs. Martindel, how would you like to go to Europe on sixty thousand—”
“No thank you, Mr. Martindel. Now will you be on your way to Carthay Circle?” She placed a tiny foot in the small of his back and prodded him out of the bed.
CHAPTER TWO
MURDER FRAME
Duke Martindel brought his roadster to a stop diagonally across the street from a large, brick mansion. He turned the beam of his spotlight onto the white numerals painted on the curb, saw they were 260. Then he climbed out and approached the darkened house.
It took considerable argument to convince the sleepy butler who answered the door that the matter was of sufficient importance to disturb the slumber of his master. But the sounds of the verbal exchange succeeded where the reasoning had failed, for a stubby little man appeared at the head of the stairs and demanded to know what the trouble was. Before the servant could speak, Martindel cut in.
“Mr. Henderson, I am a detective. I have some very urgent business to discuss with you relative to your bank.”
Henderson gave an astonished grunt and padded down the stairs, his slippers clap-clapping on the polished surface. He dismissed the butler with an imperious wave of his hand, tightened his robe around his full figure and led the way into a small reception room off the hallway. Without sitting down, he faced the detective.
“Now, sir,” he demanded. “What business have you to discuss?”
Martindel let his eyes sweep the banker in a cold, appraising stare. To him, every man was a subject to be dealt with differently and he wondered how best to approach the rather delicate matter he had to discuss. Henderson, he readily surmised, was not a man that would have any sympathy for others; there was a tightness around his small, thin mouth, set as it was in his chubby face, that suggested cruelty. He stared at his visitor with a haughty frown, but Duke saw a tremor of fear in the depths of his eyes and it heartened him. He made his approach accordingly.
“Mr. Henderson, if your bank was burglarized, your vault rifled, it would be rather awkward from a business point of view, would it not?”
The banker’s eyes bulged. “Burglarized? Why, what are you trying to say?”
“Your bank was burglarized last night. The vault was cleaned!”
Henderson collapsed into a chair. “Are you from the police?” he gasped.
Martindel shook his head. “No, I am a private detective.”
“You represent the insurance?”
“I,” the detective put in flatly, “represent the burglars.”
Henderson gave a startled grunt, then groped for the telephone. Before he could lift the receiver, Martindel pinned his hand down.
“Wait a minute,” he suggested quietly. “You would do well to hear me out.”
“You can’t blackmail me!” blustered the banker.
“I’m not trying to blackmail you. I have with me the entire amount stolen and enough extra to make good any damages incurred by the entry. It is a most unusual circumstance, but I want to return the money on behalf of the criminals on the one condition that you make no report of the incident. I believe, if you will consider the matter from all angles, you would be well advised to agree. If your clients knew that your vault could be opened like"—he grinned as he recalled Gus Nuene’s apt simile— ”like a can of sardines, you would lose a lot of business.”
Henderson hesitated and his hand slowly came away from the instrument. “What about Chris Foy, the watchman?” he queried huskily.
“Foy is all right, so I understand,” Duke assured him. “I’m confident he will keep his mouth shut under the circumstances. He is now bound and gagged at the bank.”
“You have the money with you?”
“In my car. I suggest that you dress and come with me. We will liberate the watchman, return the money to the vault and let the matter drop.”
Henderson squinted at Martindel. “I don’t understand why you are doing this. Do you expect a reward?”
“No. I expect nothing—from you. My reasons, on the other hand, are no concern of yours. Are you going to come, or not?”
Henderson ran a chubby hand across his moist forehead as though the matter was too much for his comprehension.
“How do I know this isn’t some trick to get me to open the bank?” he asked defensively.
Martindel shrugged. “You don’t know, but you cannot afford to take a chance that I might be right. If someone discovers the burglary before we get this money back, you know what will happen to your depositors. They’ll walk out on you. I’d suggest that you pile into some clothes and make it snappy.”
Henderson nodded. “I’ll be ready in five minutes,” he promised and hurried from the room.
He was ready in six minutes by Martindel’s watch. He came into the room dressed in a conventional serge suit, but a too obvious bulge in his right coat pocket warned the detective that he was armed. Duke frowned impatiently. It irritated him when untrained men carried guns. With a curt nod, he led the way out of the house and across the street to his roadster.
Henderson hesitated before entering. “Where is the money?” he demanded.
Martindel swore softly, walked to the rear of the machine and unlocked the turtleback. He opened the portmanteau and held the beam of a small pocket flashlight on the contents. It was bulging with currency and negotiable bonds.
“Satisfied?” he growled.
Henderson bobbed his head, edged into the seat and sat wari
ly in one corner. The detective stretched his lanky frame under the steering wheel, depressed the starter and tooled the machine into motion.
The ride was made in silence. The banker crouched on the extreme end of the seat and it was quite apparent that he did not trust his companion. But Duke Martindel was indifferent to that. There was nothing he had to discuss with Mayhew Henderson and he wanted time to mull over the strange situation in which he found himself.
Perhaps he was a plain damn fool. He knew he could trust neither Gus Nuene nor Sam Skuro as far as he could throw them with a broken wrist; he was too experienced a veteran to believe that quaint old fairy tale about honor among thieves; that was plain hooey. He sought to mentally marshal his facts, slim as they were. First, Nuene and Skuro were scared—they had to be plenty terrified to return fifty thousand in loot. Both men were veteran criminals, but they were the old-time craftsmen, not the modern, back-shooting assassin of today. Duke nodded to himself—yes, he was inclined to believe the precious pair when they said they did not kill Wash-burn. If they had killed Washburn in looting the bank—they would hardly be willing to return the loot. It would appear logical for them to use the money in making a get-away.
But Harry Washburn was dead! Duke had heard that officially from the police broadcast, and Skuro and Nuene were accused and suspected of the crime. Yet it was easy to find a motive why certain people and factions might want the relentless investigator out of the way. Duke had worked with Harry Washburn back in the days when he was in harness and even then, Washburn was a cold-blooded, tenacious man-hunter. There was something about the way he tore into a case that chilled even his co-workers. But he was a smart dick, uncompromisingly honest, and he had risen rapidly, although cordially disliked by his associates, and when the grand jury picked him out of the entire force to investigate certain underworld activities in the city, dislike turned to fear.
Duke knew what it was to be feared and disliked. He had chucked the police force when things became too raw for his taste and opened a private bureau. He had made good on several well paying cases and wisely invested his surplus. Honest coppers, like old “Skipper” Dombey, grizzled pilot of the detective bureau, favored him, gave him tips and did what they could to help him along. But the department was under the thumb of Inspector Egan of the uniformed men. Egan hated two things—Duke Martindel was both of them.
A cheerful grin stole over Duke’s tanned features as he recalled Phyllis booting him out of the bed. What a girl! Even after some three years of marriage, Duke continued to marvel at his luck in winning her. They had met when she visited the police department as a member of a law class studying criminal procedure. The day she passed her bar examination they were married. Since that time, she had only practiced law when it was necessary to extricate her adventurous husband from some escapade. Yet Duke invariably insisted that she was the real business head of the family and that he merely worked for her. It tickled him immensely when she begged him to quit the detective business, with its attendant dangers, and then the first case that looked as though some innocent party might be in trouble, she insisted that he take it and straighten it out.
The sudden looming up of the County and Suburban Bank before him broke up his reverie. He stopped the car at the curb in front of the building and switched off the engine.
“All right,” he grunted at Henderson. “Let’s go.”
The other hesitated, moistening his lips. “I warn you,” he jerked huskily. “If anything is—”
“Don’t be a damn fool!” cut in Martindel. He opened the door and stepped to the sidewalk.
Henderson followed reluctantly. He paused, glanced suspiciously up and down the deserted street, then hurried across the sidewalk and keyed open the front door. He started to enter, changed his mind and stepped aside for the detective to precede him.
Duke gave an impatient snort, knuckled open the big door and strode inside. The foyer was dimly illumined by a night-light that bathed the empty cages in pale shadows. The thick marble pillars, cold and stark, reminded Duke of a mausoleum. Some strange unfamiliar dread began to come over him. He glanced around but could see no sign of the watchman. Casting a quick look over his shoulder, he found Henderson watching him through narrowed eyes.
“Where’s the vault?” he asked.
The banker jerked his head toward the rotunda. As Duke passed the end of the cages, he saw the vault door ajar. He pushed aside a brass rail and strode over. He shot another glance at Henderson, then gripped the big handle and swung the door outward. He jumped backward with an unwitting gasp of surprise.
For the trussed-up body of a man tumbled out of the dark recess of the vault and fell at his feet!
Martindel rasped a curse, whipped out his flash and turned the light on the features of the man on the tiled floor. One quick glance was sufficient; the man was dead.
“Foy!” choked Henderson.
Martindel dropped to one knee beside the corpse. The watchman had been beaten about the head until it was but a pulpy mass. Ropes wrapped around his body held him mummy-like and the dirty strips of adhesive tape across his dead lips added a grim touch to the horror of it all. The detective’s jaw tightened and the veins along his temples swelled. He pushed slowly erect and turned to Henderson.
“I don’t understand—” he began, then stopped abruptly as he found himself staring into the tremulous muzzle of the banker’s gun.
“You dirty crook!” rasped Henderson. “Don’t move or I’ll kill you!” His rotund little body was doubled into a half-crouch as he backed toward a desk.
Martindel stiffened. “Be careful of that gun,” he suggested drily. “It might go off.”
“It will go off if you move before the police get here!” promised Henderson. He put his left hand behind him and patted the desk as he searched for the instrument.
Duke Martindel bit his lip. He was in probably the worst predicament of his eventful career. If the police caught him now—he shuddered. He turned his attention to Henderson. The latter was just picking up the receiver.
Duke gauged his distance. Henderson stood about ten feet away. The gun was aimed in the general direction of the detective’s broad chest but the muzzle wavered in a restless arc. Duke heard the receiver make metallic noises, saw Henderson open his mouth to speak, then he jumped—
He went feet first like a player sliding for a base. The gun roared over his head—the marble foyer amplifying the sound. Then his feet struck Henderson’s legs and with a terrified bleat, the banker flopped on top of him.
Duke’s powerful arm closed around Henderson’s throat, choking the cry before it was born. He rolled over, came to his knees then releasing his strangle hold, he caught the other by the tie and jerked him into a sitting position. Henderson made one futile attempt to cry out just as Duke’s fist reached his jaw. The bleat turned into an indifferent whoosh as the air left the tubby body and Mayhew Henderson cradled his head on the mosaic floor and temporarily lost all interest in the encounter.
Martindel combed his fingers through his hair and stood up. The telephone lay on its side, the receiver squawking imperiously. With a soft oath, he pronged the thing and recovered his crush felt. He jammed it on the back of his head, carefully wiped the handle of the vault door so as to eradicate any fingerprints, and moved swiftly toward the front of the bank.
He was directly in the middle of the foyer when the barred front door suddenly swung inward and three blue-coated figures barged inside. The pale moonlight glinted on blued steel. A cold, venomous voice knifed the stillness.
“Hold it, Martindel!”
Duke Martindel froze immobile. He rasped the one word: “Egan—” and made a run for it.
A gun belched in his face. His head exploded and he went down—cold.
CHAPTER THREE
FRENCH LEAVE
Daybreak filtering through the grimy little window of the headquarters’ interrogation room, fell in wan splashes on the weary features of Duke Martindel. With cloth
ing disheveled, his shirt front stiff with dried blood and a turban of bandages crowning the upper portion of his head, he sprawled in a hard-backed chair in the center of the battered room. There were four other men present, but Martindel’s eyes were focused unwaveringly on the tall, gaunt figure that stood before him, silhouetted by the tiny window.
Inspector Egan was a thinnish man whose gauntness was deceptive. Like a puma, his muscles were so evenly divided over his frame as to be unnoticeable. His face was long and narrow and the features sharp, fox-like, and his salt-and-pepper brows, when he frowned, formed a straight unbroken line across the upper part of his face. This tended to thrust his colorless eyes into a pocket of shadow and give to them a metallic luster that was disconcertingly impersonal. No man on the department had ever seen him smile. He was shrewd and intuitive; he seemed to smell a situation before it was possible to know by any other means. Few men liked him personally, but he had the knack of winning the respect and blind obedience of his men. It was rumored that he was the real power behind the city government, but such rumors were always whispered furtively, for Wyatt Egan was not the type of man to oppose unless one was prepared to prove his accusation.
“Talk?” he asked Martindel.
Duke shrugged. “Sure. I didn’t kill Chris Foy.”
Egan tugged at his nose. It seemed to lengthen in his hand. “It was a two-man job—who was your partner.”
“I didn’t have a partner, Egan; I didn’t need one.”
“That your story?”
“Part of it.”
“What’s the rest of it?”
“I didn’t crack that vault.”
One of the other cops laughed. Egan rocked on his heels meditatively. When he spoke, his voice was low, controlled as though he were holding himself back.
“You killed Chris Foy, Martindel, then tried to put one over on Henderson. Don’t forget, we found fifty thousand bucks in the turtle-back of your roadster. How do you explain that?”
Duke shook his head. “I’m not going to try,” he said wearily.
