by Otto Penzler
The cop wiped sweat off his forehead. “It’s all balled up in my mind. Was this Willard the one who shot the fat boy, here?”
“Might have been. The gun was still in my pocket when I went down. Somebody took it out and used it on T. Chauncey Helbourne. Somebody else. Not me.” Teccard gazed grimly around the room. “The worse of it is, I couldn’t absolutely identify Willard, even now. He was covering his smush with a towel and he sort of kept his back to me, anyhow.”
He didn’t bring up the point that bothered him most—it was a cinch Willard hadn’t been the one who crowned Teccard from behind that door. Maybe his unseen assailant had been Helbourne. In any case, what was the proprietor of the Herald of Happiness doing up here, when he had claimed complete ignorance of Willard!
A siren wailed, out in the street.
“Holler down to the doc, Taylor. Tell him all he needs to bring up is a few stitches for my scalp.”
“You’d ought to go to the hospital, Lieutenant. Have an X-ray, to be sure there ain’t any fracture.”
Teccard went over to the closet door, opened it. “There’s nothing more the matter with my head than’s been wrong with it for thirty-seven years. Did you buzz the station, too, Taylor?” he said.
“Yes, sir. Cap Meyer is coming right over, himself, with a couple of the boys.” Taylor went out into the hall, shouted down the stairwell.
The lieutenant sniffed at the empty closet. The only things in it were a few coat hangers and a sweet scent that made him think of church. Queer thing to find in a place like this, probably came from clothing that had been hung up here.
He looked around the room for the weapon with which he had been slugged. There wasn’t anything heavier than a cane wastebasket. The wastebasket was empty, too, except for a crumpled piece of cellophane stripped from a pack of cigarettes. He fished it out with the point of his fountain-pen, put it on the bureau.
HE interne arrived, went to work with needle and sutures. Meyer and two plain-clothesmen came up. While the doctor jabbed the needle through his scalp, Teccard told the captain what was wanted.
“Box up that cellophane, run it down to my office. There might be prints on it. Get a photographer up here from Homicide. Have him powder the knobs, the bureau drawers, the iron part of the bed, those hangers in the closet. Run a vacuum over the floor, ship the dust down to the lab for examination.”
Meyer crouched over the fat man. “Who’s this guy, Lieutenant?”
“Crumb who ran a matrimonial agency. That’s what’s back of those bones your boys dug up today. Go through his pockets, will you? And mark someone down for going through the house, here, to see what they can get on Willard. Taylor, you learn anything about him from the landlord?”
The patrolman scratched his head. “Not much. Oh, one funny thing. He must have a night job. Because he only comes here in the daytime. And he must write a lot of letters, because practically the only thing old Halzer remembers his having up here, outside his clothes, is a box of writing paper and a bottle of ink.”
“Yair? See can you find if he threw any of his scribbling in the wastebasket. Maybe some of it is still in the trashcan.”
Meyer said: “Not much dough, but plenty of unpaid bills, on this fella. He’s been hitting the high spots, you ask me. Here’s a credit-jewelry store summons for non-payment on a diamond wristwatch. And a bunch of duns from department stores and an automobile company.” He tossed the sheaf of papers on the bed. “Eleven fish and some chickenfeed, a cheap ticker, two nickel cigars, a silk handkerchief stinking of whiskey, and a bunch of keys.”
“No weapon?”
“Not even a pen-knife, Lieutenant. You’re pretty positive he wasn’t the fella cut up that girl’s body?”
“He’d have been well-padded with folding money, in that case, Cap. No. You rustle around, get a description of Harold Willard.”
Teccard waited until the doctor growled: “Kind of a patchwork job, Lieutenant. You’d be smart to take a couple days’ sick leave. That’s an ugly gash.”
“If that stuff about the stitch in time is on the up and up, you must have saved about ninety-
nine of’em. Thanks. I’ll be around, for you to rip them out again.” He picked up the keys. “I might use these, Cap.”
“Want Taylor to go with you?”
“No.” Teccard examined his hat. There was a right angle cut where the brim joined the crown. He smoothed the felt thoughtfully. “You might let me have a gun, though. Mine’ll have to go to Ballistics.”
Meyer brought out an automatic. “You can take Betsy, if you don’t mind a big caliber.”
The corners of Teccard’s mouth curled up. “A forty-five is just the ticket.”
“You after big game?”
“Yair.” Teccard checked the magazine to make sure it was loaded. “You ever go after moose, Cap?”
“Moose? Hell, no. Duck is my limit.”
“Well, when a guy goes after moose, he uses a horn that makes a sound like a female moose. The bull comes a-running—and the hunter does his stuff.”
A puzzled scowl wrinkled Meyer’s forehead.
“I’m going to get me a horn, Cap. But there’s nothing in the book says for the rest of you to stop hunting.”
He went downstairs.
The night elevator man in the building housing the Herald of Happiness regarded Teccard coldly. “Who you want to see on the third, mister?”
“Just giving the premises the once-over.” The lieutenant held his badge out on his palm. “Snap it up. I haven’t got all night.”
“Ain’t anyone up on that floor.”
“That’s why I’m going up. Do I push the lever myself?”
The car started. “I can’t have people going in and out alia time. I’ll lose my job.”
“Don’t worry about it. Everything’s strictly copacetic.”
The elevator door clanged loudly. Teccard swung around the corner of the corridor into the ell where Helbourne’s office was located—and stopped short. Somewhere ahead of him a light had been suddenly extinguished. He stood still, listening. There were none of the noises to be expected when an office is being closed for the night. No door opened.
He balanced the heavy automatic in his left hand, held the keys in his right, tightly, so they wouldn’t rattle. Quietly, on the balls of his feet, he moved to the Herald‘s door. Still he heard nothing, except the faraway roar of Broadway. He tried the key which showed the most signs of use. The latch turned. He stepped aside swiftly to the right, kicked the door open.
If there was anyone inside, the only target would be Teccard’s hand, holding the pistol. He snaked his wrist around the jamb of the door, fumbled for the light switch he knew must be there. It clicked. The office flooded with brilliance.
There was a laugh.
“Kamerad! “
He swore under his breath, stepped out into the doorway. She was sitting back in Hel-bourne’s chair, her feet cocked upon the desk. There was a pile of letters in her lap, a flashlight in one hand and a short-barreled .32 in the other.
“Imagine meeting you here,” he said dryly. “I phoned the Policewomen’s Bureau for you. They knew from nothing!”
Sergeant Dixon took her high heels off the desk. “I’ve been using the super’s passkey every night for the last two weeks. How’d j/#w get in?”
He jangled the keys. “Property of T. Chaun-cey Helbourne. For the evidence clerk.”
She looked at him sharply. “Evidence? Is Helbourne … dead?”
Teccard sat down on the edge of the desk. “That’s what happens when you take a slug under the fourth rib.”
“Who shot him, Jerry?” The sergeant tossed the letters on the desk, stood up.
“There seems to be a general impression I did. The bullet came from my Regulation, all right. But I’d say the killer was the same one who did away with Ruby Belle.”
She saw the bandage on the back of his head. “Jerry! You were in it! You’re hurt!”
“Ya
ir.” He managed a lop-sided grin. “That was no love-tap. Somebody dropped the boom on me, but good.”
She reached up, lifted his hat off gently. “That was close, Jerry.”
“They meant to kill me, at first. Changed their minds when they fished through my pockets, found my badge.”
“They? Were there two of them?”
The lieutenant nodded. “One K.O.’d me while I was putting the gun on the other one. I went bye-bye before I got a square look at either of them. They both scrammed. Now they know we’re closing in, they’ll be foxier than ever. If they’ve got anything on fire, they may try to pull it off before they do the vanishing act. But we’ll have to move fast, if we’re going to catch up with them. That’s why I came down here, to see if there might be any other poor boobs readied up for the kill.”
“You might have asked me. Just because I spent two years putting fortune tellers out of business and running around to disorderly dance halls, doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to use my mind.” She held up a sheet of pink notepaper. “I dug this out of Helbourne’s private postoffice, there. It has all the earmarks. Box KDD. A Miss Marion Yulett, seamstress of Algers. Thirty-three. Possesses certain means of her own. Has a cheerful, homeloving disposition, yet is full of pep. Miss Yulett encloses five dollars to secure the address of a certain Peter Forst who’s apparently been giving her a buildup about his charms.”
“He live in New York City?”
“Can’t find any folder for Mr. Forst. Peculiar. Not even any letters to him—or from him.”
ECCARD chewed on his pipe-stem. Was Forst another one of Willard’s aliases? Had Helbourne been putting one over when he claimed to know nothing about other letters from the mysterious individual who always wrote from Manhattan? “When did this deluded dame come through with Helbourne’s fee?”
“Week ago today.”
The lieutenant reached for the phone. “Hustle me through to your super, pal. Supervisor? This is Lieutenant Jerome Teccard, New York Police Department, Criminal Identification Bureau. Talking from Bryant 3-2717. Yair. Get me the chief of police of Algers, New York, in a hurry, will you? Algers is up near Whitehall. Yair … I’ll hang on …”
While he was waiting, Teccard tried the only flat key, from Helbourne’s bunch, on the locked middle drawer of the desk. It fitted. In the drawer was an empty cigar carton, some paper matchbooks, an overdue bill from one printer and a sheaf of estimates from another, a half-full flask of Nip-and-Tuck Rye, and a torn, much-folded plain-paper envelope, addressed to the Herals of Happiness, Box KDD!
The envelope was postmarked three weeks ago, from Station U, New York City.
Helen looked up Station U. “East One Hundred and Sixth Street, Jerry.”
“Same precinct as the bones. And friend Willard. One will get you ten that’s where we find brother Forst, too.”
There was a voice in the receiver. Teccard held it to his ear, muttered “Yair” a few times, added “Much obliged, Chief,” racked the receiver.
“Too late. Sucker Yulett left Algers on the morning train.”
Helen punched the files with her fist, angrily. “For New York?”
“Didn’t know. Southbound, anyway.”
The hurt look came into her eyes again.
Teccard shoved his hands into his pockets, gloomily. “All he did know—she had her suitcase, and the station agent said she was wearing a corsage.”
She showed teeth that were clenched. “Those damned flowers again!”
“They’ll probably last just long enough to be used on her casket,” Teccard brooded. “Wait, though. We might still be in time.”
“It wouldn’t take her all day to get to New York!”
“It might. Station master didn’t tell the chief what time the train left, this a.m. Might have been late morning. And those trains up north of the capital run slower than a glacier. If the Yulett girl had to change at Albany, and wait …”
Helen got the phone first, called train information. It was busy. The sergeant kept pounding the desk with her fist until she got her connection.
Before she hung up, Teccard was asking: “Can we stop her?”
“Only train making connections from Algers to New York arrives at Grand Central, eight forty. Gives us about twenty minutes.”
He caught her arm. “Hell it does. We’ll have to burn rubber to make it. We can’t wait until she gets off the train. We’ll have to find her, convince her we’re on the level, tip her off what she’s to do. Chances are, Forst’ll be waiting for her. We’d scare him off before we spotted him.”
She was streaking down the corridor toward the elevator. “We catch the train at a Hundred and Twenty-fifth, come in with her?”
“If she’s on it. If we can locate it. And if she’ll listen to reason. That’s a hell of a lot of’ifs.’ “
HE department sedan zoomed over to Park and Thirty-fourth—went through the red lights with siren screeching. They didn’t stop to park at a Hundred and Twenty-fifth, sprinted up the stairs as the conductor gave the “Boa-r-r-r-d!”
The sergeant saw the bunch of lilies-of-the-valley first. “That sweet-faced one, in the dark blue coat and that God-awful hat, Jerry.”
“Yair. You better break the ice. She’ll be suspicious of a man.”
Helen dropped into the empty seat beside the woman in the unbecoming hat. The lieutenant stayed a couple of paces in the rear.
“Miss Yulett?” the sergeant inquired, softly.
“You’re Miss Marion Yulett, from Algers, aren’t you?”
The woman smiled sweetly, opened her bag, produced a small pad and a pencil.
Swiftly she wrote: Sorry. I am hard of hearing.
Teccard smothered an oath. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been crippled or scarred up— Helen would have been able to fix it so the Yulett woman could step into a ladies’ room, somewhere, and give her instructions to handle the man she was going to meet. But there wouldn’t be time to write everything out in longhand, without arousing “Forst’s” suspicions. And if the killer had an accomplice, as the lieutenant believed, this deaf woman couldn’t hear what “Forst” and the other would be saying to each other—and that might prove to be the most important evidence of all!
Helen scribbled away on the pad. Teccard sidled up alongside so he could read.
I am Sergeant Dixon from the N. Y. Policewomen’s Bureau. Are you Marion Yulett?
The woman shrank back in her seat.
“Yes. Why do you want me?” Her voice shook.
The pencil raced in Helen’s fingers.
Only to save you unhappiness. Maybe worse. You plan to meet a man named Peter Forst?
“Yes. Is anything wrong?”
The sergeant held the pad out, again.
We believe he’s a killer who’s murdered several women who became acquainted with him through the Herald. Have you a picture of him?
Miss Yulett fumbled nervously in her bag, produced a small, glossy snap-shot. Teccard’s forehead puckered up. This couldn’t be a photo of Willard, by any possibility! The man in the snap-shot was round-faced and pudgy-cheeked. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and his hair receded at the temples, from a high forehead!
Helen wrote: How will Forst recognize you?
“I had my picture taken, too. I sent it to him day before yesterday.” Miss Yulett bit her lip to keep from crying. “I’m afraid it wasn’t a very good likeness—I don’t photograph well. But I was wearing this hat and these beads,” she touched a necklace of imitation pink jade, “and I’m wearing his flowers, too.” Tears began to stream down her cheeks, she turned her face toward the window. “You must be mistaken about Peter, his letters were so sweet and kind. I can’t imagine his … hurting anybody.”
The train began to slow for the track intersections in the upper yard. There was no time for softening the blow, with sympathy.
Helen made the pad say: If he’s the man we’re after, he doesn’t intend to marry you at all. If you have any money, he�
�ll wheedle it away fromyou and then— Did he mention anything about money?
The words came out between convulsive sobs: “Only that he had a small and prosperous business. With a partner who wasn’t… quite honest, perhaps. If Peter and I … got… along … he said I might want to buy out this other man’s interest. So my … my husband and I… could be partners.”
The pencil moved so swiftly Teccard could hardly follow it.
Brace up now, Marion. We’re getting in. Take off your hat. And your beads.
Miss Yulett dried her eyes on a tiny handkerchief, did her best to smile. “You’re going to meet him, with me—so he can have a chance to explain?”
No, I’m going to meet him. As you. Wearing your hat and beads. Unpin those flowers, too.
“But, please! Please let me—”
Don’t waste time arguing. If he looks all right to me, I’ll let you meet him later. I’ll take your bag, too. You take mine. And wear my hat.
The disturbed woman unclasped her beads. “But what on earth am I to do? Where will I go? I don’t know anybody but Peter—”
The gentleman standing behind us is Police Lieutenant Teccard. He’ll see that you get to a hotel. Stay where he tells you to until I can get in touch with you.
Teccard gripped Helen’s shoulder. “No you don’t. You take Miss Yulett to the hotel. I’ll meet pal Peter.”
Sergeant Dixon looked up at him. “What evidence do you think you’d get out of him, Jerry? He’s not the same man you ran into uptown, is he? As things stand, you haven’t a thing on him.”
“I’ll sweat the evidence out of him, all right.”
“Maybe you couldn’t. There’s always the possibility this fellow’s on the level. If he is, I turn him over to Miss Yulett. If he isn’t, I’ll be able to give first-hand testimony as to how he operates. This is a job only a policewoman can handle effectively.”
Teccard grimaced. “Put your gun in her bag, then. And don’t be dainty about using it. Another thing: I’m going to turn Miss Yulett over to one of the pick-pocket squad in the terminal and tail you and your intended.”
