Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  “You wouldn’t understand, you heel.”

  “The hell I wouldn’t! I’ll shoot an arrow, just to show you. Let’s go yokel for the evening.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  He pulled on his Panama, snapped the trick brim, waited.

  “A corned-beef dinner,” said Doris Waverly, Inc. “With cabbage, or you can go to hell! A ride on the Staten Island Ferry. We’ll sit on the top and you’ll keep your mouth shut and hold my hand. Did anyone ever tell you you talk too much?”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the tip of her sharp nose.

  “You simple-minded ape,” he said, and went out the door, grinning.

  She’s got the summertime heebies, he decided mentally. The poor kid looked seedy, tired. He’d siphon a coupla drinks into her tonight and try to wisecrack her out of the gloom.

  But Patsy wasn’t to be blarneyed. She was glum over the corned-beef, sour on the boat ride. She borrowed his butts and stared morosely at the lights of St. George. The boat thudded monotonously; the vibration added their feet.

  “How’d you enjoy Lola and the boy friend?” he inquired.

  “Dead fish,” she snapped. “Must be a few more in the Harbor tonight. Get dat sweet whiff! Do you s’pose it’s true that Indians used to paddle around this lousy burg in clean water before the smell era?”

  “Don’t go Noble Redman,” he grinned. “Friend of mine went to Taos once. According to him, the Injun kids learn to smell long before they learn to eat.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. … I saw a clean show today, Jerry.”

  “You’re telling me! How’d you like the old fella?”

  He watched the slow smile come and go.

  “Ni-i-ce. An old-fashioned road show crammed full of hoke. … I don’t think it was good for me. Made me think of Dennis Aloysius.”

  “Do I know Dennis?”

  “Why should you?” she said, sweetly. “He was the respected sire. The ancestor. Tenth Avenue. Waterfront whiskey. Beer by the scuttle for a chaser.”

  Her cigarette end glowed jaggedly, once, twice, and then went over the rail in a long arc.

  “You’re swell company,” said the columnist feebly.

  They stood outside the gaunt cavern of the South Ferry Terminus and a hackman threw open his door invitingly.

  Tracy said: “You need a coupla highballs, cheerful!”

  “No.” She hesitated. “But if you knew where we could get a tall glass of good old-fashioned beer—”

  Tracy grinned. “With pretzels.”

  “And some Roquefort and crackers—and a slice of Bermuda onion.”

  Jerry turned to the chauffeur.

  “Okey, Rocco. Click us uptown till you hit Third Avenue. I’ll tell you where to stop.”

  They downed a couple of tall ones, found out they were hungry, and fixed that too. They walked over to Fifth.

  On the downtown bus the girl said, suddenly: “What are you going to do about Anne and the last of the Fenns?”

  “Have I got to tell you that again? None of your damn business.”

  “You always were a consistent rat!” she said with cold rage.

  Tracy chuckled without rancor.

  “Here’s the schedule. Go over to see Massa Geo’ge Fenn tomorrow morning. Tell him that Old Sleuth Tracy knows all and that the search has been successful. Take him over to the Consolidated Ticket Offices and if they roll Pullmans as far as Thunder Run, say Pullman as though you meant it.”

  “Any other little jobs?”

  “Sure. Check him out of the San Pueblo. See that Snitch Collins behaves himself on room extras. Then I’ll let you bring the major over to me. I’ll be in the Times Square hideout. Any questions? Dismissed!”

  He pressed the stop buzzer.

  She wrenched around to look at him. Her voice was a whisper, a mere thread.

  “You lousy heel, if you do anything or say anything to hurt that old man, I swear to I’ll—”

  “My corner. I get off here,” said the columnist.

  He tipped his hat, swayed down to the rear of the bus and swung off. He called up from the sidewalk: “So long, Babe.”

  She leaned over the rail and gave him a furious farewell—a loud and rather fruity bird.

  “Ding, ding,” went the bell. The grinning conductor leaned way out to stare. He hung like a swaying chimpanzee for the next five blocks.

  Mr. Beull Carfax was tall, handsome, with cold eyes and a small ashblond mustache. He bowed briefly to Tracy and shot a quick flicker at the stolid Butch. Tracy had forgotten to mention Butch over the wire.

  “I hardly think, Mister Tracy,” said the courtly brother of Lola, “that Mis’ Carfax would care to be interviewed. Any news of plans, social engagements and so fo’th is, of co’se, sent to yo’ readers regularly by Mis’ Carfax’s secretary.”

  Tracy said: “This is different.”

  “If there is anything that I personally might—”

  Tracy said, again: “This is different.”

  The cold eyes focused on him. After a moment they blinked.

  “Very well. This way, please.”

  Nobody said anything to Butch. He trailed after Tracy. Lola Carfax was standing on the far side of the room, examining a small hunting print on the wall. She didn’t turn around.

  Buell said, in his stately drawl: “Lola, honey, here’s that newspaperman.”

  She paid no attention. Tracy walked swiftly across. His smile was as thin as a hacksaw blade. He stood and looked at her back for a moment. He caught her eye reflected in the glass of the picture frame.

  He said, deliberately: “Turn around, you cheap little grifter!”

  She whirled. Her beauty was like the flash of a blinding ray. Tense, wordless, carved in ice. Her red lips were parted slightly, she seemed scarcely to breathe. Her eyes had the cold, hard glaze of a cat’s.

  Across the room, Buell Carfax gave a thick bellow of rage.

  “Why, dam’ yo’ filthy Yankee—”

  As he sprang forward his hand came away from his vest pocket. The light glinted on the muzzle of a tiny derringer. Butch’s hand thrust out with the speed of a striking snake. His hairy fingers closed around the slender wrist and bent arm and weapon upward.

  There was a muffled report; a short, straining tussle; Carfax squealed shrilly as his pinioned arm snapped.

  Butch’s left hand caught the slumping man by the throat and pinned him upright against the wall. He held him there almost casually. His attention was on the little derringer in his own right palm. Butch had never seen a toy like that before. He stared at it with the absorbed curiosity of a monkey.

  Tracy smiled into the lovely eyes of Lola. She was lifeless, stiff, except for the candle-flame in her eyes. There was something eerie and horrible in the intensity of her fright. Her voice was barely audible.

  “Is this a hold-up?”

  “You’re damn’ right”

  “What are you after?”

  “Everything you got.”

  They were like conspirators whispering together in a dark cave.

  “You can’t get away with this. You must be insane. You’re a madman.”

  He said to her: “No, I’m not—Mrs. Jeff Tayloe.”

  The flame he was watching was quenched for an instant and then blazed up brighter than before.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh yes you do, baby.”

  There was no humanity in Tracy, either. Two lumps of ice whispering together.

  He paused a moment.

  “Thunder Run,” he said. “It’s in North Carolina. No comment?”

  She watched him with that horrible immobility.

  “Just an old-fashioned story about an old-fashioned gal. Once upon a time there was a gal. Pretty name. Alice Anne Fenn. Lots of brains but no judgment. She was always a sucker for white teeth and a big bass voice. So she married a lousy hill-billy home from the wars, name of Jeff Tayloe—and Jeff carved a yaller gal in a parti
cularly nasty way and went to jail—and little Alice Anne saw the Big Town beckoning, packed her cotton underwear and scrammed North.”

  Tracy grinned like a wolf. Butch had pocketed the derringer. His left hand still pinned the boy friend against the wall. He was listening to the bedtime story with a puzzled interest.

  “Only trouble was Jeff Tayloe was smart, too,” the columnist resumed. “He wangled a pardon after a while and saw a photo and read the papers. He had pretty sharp eyes. It all worked out swell after the first dirty argument. Then they got down to business. Jeff got a break; Alice Anne got a well-built husband that she had kinda missed; Lola Carfax got a brother and a protector. Background means a lot on Park Avenue. Brother Buell was well worth the percentage he held out for.”

  His voice sounded friendly, quite cheerful.

  “A swell arrangement for all hands except the fish. But the fish has dough, so who cares? This fish even thinks about marrying, believe it or not. Good old Doctor Edgar Looie Altman. Let’s see; he lives at the Mayflower, doesn’t he?”

  The movie chin trembled. The little-girl eyes were grown up now and haggard. A bead of sweat gathered in the hollow under the red pout of her lower lip.

  “Blackmail,” she whispered stonily.

  “You tellin’ me?”

  “You can’t prove it. He’ll throw you out on your face.”

  Tracy said, mildly: “I forgot to tell you. Grandpa’s in town. Major Geo’ge Fenn. As innocent as a child—proud of his race and his lineage—as simple and honest as they come. I thought I’d take him over to see the Doctor.”

  Her throat made an ugly rattling sound.

  “Damn your soul, if I had a knife I’d rip your belly—”

  Slow tears welled from her eyes. He waited.

  “How much?” she said, finally.

  “I told you once. Everything you got.

  “Five thousand, cash.”

  Tracy laughed at her.

  “Put on your hat, lousy. Go get your bankbook. We’re gonna take a walk and close an account.”

  “It’s all I’ve got in the world. You’ll strip me.”

  “That’s a good start. You’ll get along. … Keep an eye on the boy friend, Butch. Well be back. Look this joint over.”

  Butch nodded and his big forehead creased with a self-conscious and intelligent frown. “Sure, sure.” Buell Carfax’s face was a dull purple. He was out on his feet. His broken arm hung limply.

  She looked at him with a cold loathing as she went out. Tracy held open the door ceremoniously. He had a brief case with him. He had brought it along because he preferred cash.

  When they returned Butch was sitting alone in an armchair, smoking a cigar. The top of his breast pocket looked like a pipe organ of Havana Specials. He nodded towards an inner room.

  “On the bed in there, Mr. Tracy. I hadda slough him. How’d yuh make out?”

  “Fair. Did you go over the joint?”

  “Yop. Small change. … Got a baby roll outa his hip pocket Coupla saw bucks in the bureau, wrapped up in a silk pantie.”

  He grinned, got up and took the heavy brief-case.

  Lola Carfax watched them go. A faint moaning reached her ears from the inner room. She stood rigid, listening to the monotonous sound for a long time. A haggard face swam back at her from the small antique mirror on the wall.

  She screeched at it suddenly. Sprang at the mirror and wrenched it down. Whirled, flung it viciously with both hands. Then she stood there shaking, looking dully at the jagged fragments.

  Patsy brought Major Fenn into Tracy’s little Times Square office with a slow, solicitous smile for the old man and a quick, stabbing scowl at the bland columnist. There was not much of Doris Waverly about her—and a whole lot of Veronica Mulligan. She looked worried, vaguely suspicious.

  Tracy sprang up and gave the old man his chair. He hooked another one closer with his toe and Patsy snapped shortly: “Thanks,” and sat down.

  Tracy fiddled with a pencil and laid it down again.

  “I, er … I promised Id try to find your granddaughter, Major. It’s been quite a search. I, er … I’ve been successful.”

  “You’ve found Alice Anne?”

  “I’ve found out about her,” Tracy said evenly.

  “Where is she? Have you her address?”

  The Planet’s playboy hesitated.

  “Do you want the truth? You’d like to know the truth, even if it—hurt?”

  The shaggy eyebrows twitched. The pink face went gradually gray.

  “I reckon the plain truth will suit me, suh.”

  The girl at his side made a sudden hopeless gesture.

  “Listen, Jerry! You didn’t find her. You’re lying. You made a mistake.”

  “Shut up!”

  His shaking voice became even again.

  “I found her under her stage name. The identification is proved. The photograph of Alice Anne and the facts you gave me were conclusive evidence. … Did you ever hear of the Arcadia Theatre?”

  No. George Fenn hadn’t heard. Neither had Veronica Mulligan, from the look on her face.

  Jerry told them about it. It stood on Fifth Avenue and 59th Street, opposite the Park. The pride of New York—the old Arcadia Theatre. It housed nothing but the best, the finest, the cream. Alice Anne was its greatest star—its last glorious star.

  The girl was staring at Tracy with amazement.

  “A little over a year ago,” Jerry said, “Alice Anne played her greatest role. In the middle of the second act there was a blinding flash backstage, a sheet of flame shot out from the proscenium. … There’s a new hotel where the grand old playhouse stood. The theatre was totally destroyed.”

  The columnist’s forehead was glistening with sweat.

  “Alice Anne Fenn was standing in the wings in costume, waiting for her cue, when the flames came. She refused to leave the theatre; shook off the hands of rescuers. She knew there were two chorus girls, hemmed in by flame in a blind corridor on the dressing-room level. Alice Anne gave up her life in a vain effort to save those two girls.”

  He added, tonelessly: “When the ruins were searched she was not—found.”

  Patsy’s palm rested suddenly on the back of the major’s veined hand. Her eyes were hard and bright, enigmatic.

  “Thank you, suh,” George Fenn managed to articulate. He drew in a deep breath. “I certainly want to—to thank you for your—efforts—”

  “Why, that’s all right. … There—there were a few legal matters connected with your granddaughter’s estate. I took the liberty of acting as your agent, signing for you. The trust officials were quite sympathetic, friendly.”

  He touched the fat brief-case awkwardly.

  “The estate, of course, goes to you. I thought you’d like it in cash. It’s here—a little over ten thousand dollars.”

  The columnist shifted slightly in his chair to avoid the angry challenge in Patsy’s eyes. The old man wasn’t listening at all; the talk of money was a meaningless buzzing on his ear-drums.

  He said, gently: “She could do no other, being Fenn. She was suckled on gallantry, suh. … She used to twist my watch chain with her little fat fingers, call me Massa Geo’ge. … My dead son’s child. … ”

  “You’ve got his ticket bought?” Tracy whispered to Patsy.

  “Yes.”

  He pressed a buzzer with a fierce, fumbling jab.

  “All right, Butch. Take care of the brief-case. Go over to Penn Station with him. See him aboard.”

  The major got slowly to his feet. He turned at the door and Patsy turned with him. Her arm braced his.

  “I want to thank you,” said the major, “for yo’ kindly help. New York’s been mighty fine to me. Nothin’ but friendliness in the two days I’ve been here. I’d feel it remiss not to thank you, not to let you know my deep gratitude.” He patted the hand his arm. “You too, Mis’ Waverly.”

  They passed outside and the columnist heard Patsy’s strained voice. “Wait a minute, Butch.
Just a second.”

  She came back and closed the door.

  “Listen, Rockefeller! I’m in on this. Your damn’ dough’s no better than mine! I’ve got a half interest in the racket or I’ll swing on your lip right now!”

  He grinned at her in startled wonder.

  “——! you’re as pretty as a picture, Kid. … Don’t be silly. It’s not my dough.”

  “Whose?”

  “I went to the proper window for it. Carfax. I pumped her for every nickel she had.”

  “Are you lying, you —— ?”

  “Stop snuffling and show sense. Do I dig for ten grand of hard-earned Tracy jack because some old bozo comes drifting in to put the bee on me? Grow up, baby; you’re living in a big town.”

  “It stinks,” she shrilled suddenly.

  “Who said it didn’t? So does Thunder Run. So does every other damn’ burg. You’re still soft, baby; get back in the water and boil some more.”

  She stared at him with brimming eyes that jeered at him.

  “Tell your friend Hennessey to run a want-ad in the Planet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m through with this lousy town. I’m going where I can breathe clean air.”

  She fumbled in her handbag, threw an envelope on the desk in front of him. Jerry could see Pullman tickets—two seats—to Thunder Run.

  She looked at him defiantly. “What the hell do you think of that!”

  She swept the tickets into her purse and the door slammed.

  A moment later it opened slowly.

  “Jerry. … Hey, hardboiled … ” Her eyes were soft. “Any time you get sick of this crooked game, come on down to Thunder Run. I’d be awful glad to see you. … Anytime. … ”

  The door swung with a small click.

  Tracy leaned back in his chair, cupped the back of his skull with his clasped hands. After a while he grimaced wanly.

  “I’m not so tough,” he thought. “I gotta be careful or they’ll have me pitchin’ hay in Wichita—or wherever the hell you pitch hay!”

  He dragged a notebook out of his pocket and flipped open the pages to a recent entry. He got up and went over to the dictaphone.

  He shrugged and spoke nasally into the flexible tube of the instrument:

  “Harvey Smith, feed and grain impresario, and his wife, the former Claire La Tour, are ffft-ffft. … Mrs. Smith has left for Reno to establish legal residence. … It’s a girl. … ”