by Otto Penzler
“You had ten thousand dollars in your pocket,” Egan went on. “You know where that came from, don’t you?”
“Sure, but you don’t.”
“Wrong,” corrected Egan drily. “We checked the serial numbers of those bills and found they were part of the loot stolen from the Seaside National Bank last month. Talk yourself out of that one.”
Duke Martindel swore softly and covered his chagrin by gingerly patting the bandage around his head. From the neck up he was just one big ache; a slug from Egan’s gun had creased his skull and come, literally, within a hair’s-breadth of killing him. And now, with throbbing head, he found the predicament almost too much for him. The evidence was damning—he could not dispute that fact.
He tried to reason it out in his mind. Although satisfied that Sam Skuro and Gus Nuene had deliberately framed him for the burglary and the murder of the watchman, Foy, he could see no point in explaining the matter to Inspector Egan. In the first place, he had been caught red-handed and would be, in any case, considered an accomplice of Skuro and Nuene. As such, his testimony would be worthless in court and he would be regarded equally guilty with the other pair. Then, too, the police were perfectly satisfied that Skuro and Nuene were the murderers of Wash-burn; they neither would be, nor could be, induced to change that theory.
A sharp commotion in the corridor outside broke in on his musing. Egan scowled and started across the floor when the door swung open and a woman darted into the room. Her eyes settled for an instant on the group, then with a little cry, she ran to the prisoner and threw her arms around him.
“Duke! Are you hurt, darling?” she whimpered.
Martindel jumped to his feet. “Phyllis!” Then he grinned ruefully. “No, Phyl, Egan shot me in the head where it couldn’t do any damage.” He cast a glance over his shoulder where the inspector was growling at a desk sergeant.
The latter was fuming embarrassedly. “I couldn’t stop her, Inspector!” he apologized. “She walked right past me an’ headed for this room.”
Egan swung around. “You’ll have to get out, Mrs. Martindel,” he snapped.
Phyllis Martindel drew herself up to her full five feet. “I will not!” she retorted.
“The hell she does, Egan,” put in Duke. “She’s my attorney, in case you don’t know.”
Phyllis slapped a folded document on the table. “Here is a writ for Duke’s release.”
Egan pushed it away from him. “You keep a supply of those damn things all filled out?”
The girl gave him an icy stare. “I think you will find it in perfect order.”
Egan picked it up. Without unfolding it, he turned to Martindel. “Duke, I happen to know that you had two visitors earlier this morning: Sam Skuro and Gus Nuene. We want those two. Where are they?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea,” Duke told him.
Egan tugged at his nose. “We know definitely that they came to see you. After they left, you went out. Now I want to know what business they had with you that prompted that. You’re in a bad spot, Duke, so you better talk. In any case, I can take you before a magistrate, put you under oath and either force you to talk or put you in the position of an accomplice, because the only excuse you could give for not talking is that it might tend to incriminate you.”
Martindel grinned maliciously. “I’m only a dumb private dick, Egan; I work for my lawyer. Skuro and Nuene came up to see her because she’s their attorney as well as mine. They didn’t tell me a damn thing.”
The inspector’s eyes retreated into a deeper socket of shadow. “I’ll make her talk,” he growled.
Phyllis shook her head. “I don’t think you will!” she challenged him testily. “If you know anything about legal procedure at all, you know that an attorney cannot be forced to testify to any conversation with a client. That is a privileged communication, you murdering old crook!”
Egan sniffed; it was the nearest he ever came to laughter. “You make a fine pair—a shyster mouthpiece in skirts and a crooked, double-crossing, gum-shoe. That’s like marrying a jackal and a skunk.”
Duke smiled thinly. “You’re well up on zoology, Egan, but then, that’s natural. Now, how about this writ?”
Inspector Egan turned slowly and walked over to the window where he stood straddle-legged, his hands behind him, staring into the street below. Finally, after a moody silence that lasted for nearly five minutes, he swung around and shook the crumpled writ at the Martindels.
“You win this round,” he growled. “I’m not ready to tip my hand yet. This case has a lot of angles and if I resisted this writ, I’d have to go into court and show my evidence right now.
When I’m ready, I’ll have you picked up, Duke, but in the meantime, don’t either of you try to leave town. You can beat it now.”
Phyllis sniffed disdainfully and proffered a pack of cigarettes to her husband. Duke came slowly to his feet, paused with irritating nonchalance to light his smoke, then with a cynical grin for the somber-faced coppers, he turned and limped out of the room.
They tramped down the dingy stairs in silence. At the front door of the station-house, she gave his arm a squeeze.
“Drive, darling?”
Duke grinned, shook his head. “You drive, Phyl. I want to think.” He crossed the sidewalk and opened the door of his wife’s coupe.
Phyllis slid under the wheel and Duke lolled beside her, his head resting against the top of the cushion. As his wife tooled the little car into the early-morning traffic, she laughed.
“I’ll bet you’re thinking what a smart little wife you have,” she chided. “I don’t know what you would do if I didn’t keep yanking you out of tight spots all the time, you big baby.”
Duke grinned. “It would be mighty dull, Phyl. You invariably yank me out of one spot, all right, but you drop me into the middle of a tighter one.”
“Meaning—”
Duke tried a smoke ring—and failed. “Darling,” he asked, “do you look good in black?”
“Hideous! Why?”
“Then you better watch your step unless you want to be wearing a widow’s garment.”
A tinge of terror crept into Phyllis’ voice. “What do you mean, Duke?”
“I mean that something’s up,” he told her drily. “Why do you suppose Egan turned me loose?”
She hesitated. “Why, the writ—”
“Nope, darling, wrong. Old Egan could beat that writ without half trying. All he had to do was to show to any magistrate that I was captured in a bank in the wee morning hours with a dead man and fifty thousand bucks in my car and—” he made an eloquent gesture with his hands.
“Then why did he turn you loose?” she protested.
Duke shrugged. “Egan tried to kill me; he wants me—dead. Perhaps it is just his personal animosity, perhaps it is something else.”
“You think he knows you had nothing to do with the bank robbery—”
Martindel sighed. “I’m not sure. Did you hear from Skuro or Nuene?”
“Sam Skuro called; he left a number where we could reach him in an emergency.” She fished a slip of paper out of a pocket and handed it to him.
“When was that?”
“Just before I left for the station.”
Duke flipped his cigarette stub into the street. “By the way, how did you know I was down at headquarters?”
“Somebody telephoned. They told me you were in a jam and needed an attorney—they should have said a nurse. I didn’t recognize the voice.” Anxiety crept into her tone. “You didn’t tell me why Egan turned you free, Duke.”
Duke pushed himself erect in his seat. “I can’t answer yet, except to say that there must be a damn good reason, otherwise he wouldn’t have done it. Don’t underestimate old Egan, he makes a fox look like a moron by comparison.” He reached up and adjusted the rear-view mirror so that he could see behind without turning his head.
“Don’t drive so fast, darling,” he suggested.
“Why—” Phyllis
asked, startled. “I always drive—”
“Because you’re making it tough for those dog-faced flatfeet of Egan’s to stay on our tail.”
She whistled softly. “You mean they are following us, Duke? Shall I lose them?”
“Uh-uk I know a better way. We don’t want them cluttering up our own apartment, so drive to Chelsea Street. I know a nice quiet family hotel. You remember it, darling; I took you there for a couple of days right after I gave you that nice mink coat.”
Phyllis shot him a malicious glance. “You know very well I never had a mink coat.”
Duke chuckled. “Pardon me. I got us confused with two other people.”
Phyllis Martindel brought the coupe to a stop before a small hotel that was sandwiched in between two austere apartment houses. A bellhop ran across the sidewalk and yanked open the door.
Duke handed him a dollar. “Put this bus in a safe place, son. We don’t want it for several hours; I need some sleep.” He left the hop in charge of the coupe and crossed the sidewalk. As he pushed open the door of the hotel, he glanced over his shoulder and saw a sedan drift slowly past.
“I don’t understand how you can talk of sleep at a time like this,” sighed his wife. “I never felt less like sleeping in my life.”
Duke chuckled. “Well, Phyl, keep it a secret then,” he whispered as they approached the desk.
After exchanging the usual greetings with the hotel clerk, Duke picked up the pen and wrote Mr. and Mrs. Duke Martindel in bold letters across the registry card. “And now,” he told the clerk, “we want a room with a southern exposure. I am very particular about rooms.”
The clerk picked up a key ring. He signaled to an assistant to take his place and then he circled the counter. “The only rooms we have with a southern exposure, Mr. Martindel, face on an alley at the rear,” he said doubtfully. “I’ll be glad to show you what we have.” He led the way to the elevator. As the lift started to rise, he told the operator to stop at the sixth floor.
Duke interrupted him. “That’s too high. My wife has a very poor heart; she likes something nearer the ground than that. Don’t you, darling?”
Phyllis gave him a quick grimace. “Of course,” she acquiesced.
At the clerk’s command, the elevator paused at the second floor and they got out. The clerk showed them a room on the southwest side.
“How do you like this, Mrs. Martindel?” he inquired.
Before Phyllis could reply, Duke cut in. “No, this won’t do. How about something on the other side of the hall?”
The clerk shrugged and led the way across the hall. As they passed through the door, Phyllis whispered: “Have you gone completely crazy?”
Duke winked. “Don’t forget, I was shot in the head.”
The next room seemed to please the detective, although it appeared identical with the other one. But the clerk was used to cranky customers, so he politely inquired if there was anything else they wanted.
Duke nodded. “Yes, I want perfect quiet.” He tapped his bandaged head significantly. “I had a slight accident and I intend to get a little rest. Please put a. Do Not Disturb sign on the door and a plug in the phone. Under no circumstances do I wish to be bothered. If there are any visitors or phone messages, kindly get the name or numbers. Is that plain?”
“Certainly, sir,” agreed the clerk. “I will see that you are not interrupted.”
Duke handed him a bill. “Since we had no baggage, I will pay in advance for the room. Put the receipt in my mail box.” He dismissed the clerk with a wave of his hand.
As the door closed, Phyllis sank on the bed and made a weary little gesture with her hands. “Crazy! Crazy as a loon! A murder charge hanging over your head, the police trying to kill you and you come to a respectable hotel and act like an old maid on her honeymoon.”
“No such thing,” he corrected her, “as an old maid on a honeymoon.”
“Be serious, Duke,” Phyllis begged. “What in the world made you do this? Why, you said yourself that the police were following you. They will be sitting down in the street waiting for you.”
“Exactly, darling. That’s what I’m counting on. Do you know why I didn’t take that room across the hall? Well, this room has a fire escape,
the other did not. I am very timid about fires, you know.”
Phyllis grimaced. “Oh, you fool! I see it now. You went to all the trouble of renting this room and telling those monstrous lies, just to sneak out of here and lose the police. I could have lost them in five minutes.”
He kissed her. “Remarkable, Watson! But I don’t want to lose them; I want them sitting out front and I want head-quarters to believe I’m holed up here asleep. You can bet your sweet little life that right this very minute, a scared desk-clerk is repeating my orders to a couple of Egan’s bloodhounds.”
“So what?”
“So I take French leave through that window and get in touch with that double-crossing Sam Skuro. After that, well, who knows.”
Duke hurried into the bathroom. He carefully unwound the bandage and found that the wound had caked over. He gingerly adjusted his hat and came back into the bedroom. Phyllis still sat on the edge of the bed looking very crestfallen.
“Oh Duke, why did you get mixed up in this terrible affair? Let’s take a boat to Europe, or someplace.”
“I offered you that, Mrs. Martindel,” he reminded her with a grin, “but you chased me into this, literally kicked me headlong into it. Now I’ve got to get out of it. Bye.” He brushed her cheek with his lips, crossed the room and raised the sash.
The alley appeared deserted. The fire escape was the type that descends with weight, so Duke eased his bulk through the window and, turning, blew a kiss to his wife. “I’m glad you have a weak heart, darling. Hope it’s over me.”
Phyllis wrinkled up her pert little nose at him. “Conceited idiot!” she jeered as he softly closed the window behind him and disappeared.
Once on the alley level, Duke swung west. At the first street that intersected the alley, he turned south until he located a drug store. Inside, he found a phone booth, dialed headquarters and asked for Captain Dombey. When he finally heard the low, quiet voice of the veteran detective on the wire, he said: “Hello, Skipper. This is Martindel.”
Dombey grunted in surprise. “I wasn’t expectin’ a call from you, Duke.”
“I imagine not. Are you working on the Washburn case, Skipper?”
“We’re all workin’ on it, in a way,” Dombey replied cautiously. “The dragnet’s out for Skuro an’ Nuene.”
“Preferably dead, eh?”
Dombey gave another noncommittal grunt. “I heard somethin’ like that,” he admitted drily.
From his pocket, Duke fished out the memo his wife had given him. “I think I can locate that pair, Skipper,” he said, “but I have reasons for wanting them taken alive. How about it?”
The copper agreed. “That’s all right with me, Duke. What’s the angle?”
“Call the telephone company and get the address on this telephone number.” He tilted the slip of paper so that the light fell across it. “Hempstead Two-four-two-o-six. Then pick up an extra gun for me and meet me alone.”
“Where?”
“Drive down Market. Go slowly after you pass Glendale Avenue. I’ll hop aboard if everything is O.K.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” the copper promised and hung up.
CHAPTER FOUR
TRAP FOR RATS
Captain Dombey looked just what he was—a straight cop. Nature had molded him for the task; years in harness had sculptured his character in deep, seamed lines. He was broad and strong, built close to the ground, with powerful neck and ham-like fists, the better to fight when the going was rough. His crag of a jaw might represent bull-headed aggressiveness, or perhaps just strength of character.
Time had mellowed nature’s work by carving deep channels along his leathery old face, by crowning his massive head with thick silvery hair, and by
giving to his voice a low richness that stirred the listener. Through twenty years of departmental intrigue, of crime, of hatred and tragedy, old Skipper Dombey had gone his quiet, sure way, doing his work as best he could, sticking, helping, fighting.
As Duke Martindel swung onto the running board of the Skipper’s machine, he felt all those things in one quick rush of confidence.
Dombey wasted no words in idle greeting. “That number you gave me—it’s a roomin’ house on Chester Street. Want to go there?”
Martindel slipped into the seat, nodded. “Who killed Washburn, Skipper?”
Dombey grunted. “I’ll bite. It was supposed to be Sam Skuro an’ Gus Nuene.”
“Couldn’t have been. They got an alibi.”
Dombey glanced sideways. “How do you know, Duke? You were supposed to be robbin’ a bank.”
Martindel nodded grimly. “Sam and Gus framed me on that, Skipper.” He briefly recounted the series of events that had transpired since the moment he was awakened to find Skuro and Nuene in his room.
Dombey remained silent. At length he shook his head deliberately. “Nuene might pull that, but it don’t sound like Sam Skuro. Sam has slugged too many men to make a mess of it like you say Foy was.”
“That’s the rub,” Duke growled. “Foy was either beaten to death and then gagged, which would be silly, because any fool could have seen he was finished, or else he was bound and gagged and then battered, which would be needless brutality.”
“That’s what I can’t figger,” Dombey contributed. He took a gun out of his coat pocket and pushed it toward his companion. “I don’t think you’ll need this; I’ve pinched Sam a dozen times an’ never had to use one.”
Duke tested the balance of the revolver, flipped open the cylinder and checked the load, then shoved it into his pocket. He was about to speak, when Dombey suddenly slowed the machine.
“What’s this?” he growled. “There’s the dead wagon in front of the roomin’ house I was headin’ for.”
Duke felt a queer, unfamiliar tightening around his diaphragm as he glanced through the windshield. A crowd stood in a great semi-circle around the coroner’s small black truck, and uniformed policemen were seeking to clear a path for traffic.
