“So you went down to the Whalen Agency and hired Davidson?”
“Yes. That was last week. Mr. Davidson came up and looked around my apartment here and—and he told me almost immediately that every one of the notes had been written on—on Leo’s portable typewriter.”
“Did you tell that to Leo?”
“No. Leo asked me several times to show him the notes, but I refused.”
“Mmmm. … Did Davidson accuse Leo of writing them?”
“Leo never saw Davidson. Davidson took the notes with him and said I was to do nothing and wait for the next threat. No more came. Leo seemed awfully curious about the whole matter. He asked me if any more messages had come, and when I told him no, he chuckled and said maybe the joker was getting cold feet. … I was more than ever uneasy on account of something else. Leo—well, Leo suddenly ceased his demands for the money.”
“What money?”
“He wanted $10,000,” Mrs. Shale faltered. “I’m almost sure he’s gotten himself into some kind of a blackmail mix-up. He owes some man $10,000 and he and his sister, Ruth, have been worried and quite bitter about it. They both said I had no right to—to refuse them the money. But I can’t give them a penny more than their regular allowance, which is fixed by the court. They both wanted to borrow $5,000 on their inheritance and I—I refused to sign my name to the paper. Either Leo or Ruth is being blackmailed—I am sure of it. They wouldn’t discuss it with me.”
“What does Leo work at?” Tracy asked curiously.
“He works for an importing house downtown.”
“And his sister, Ruth?”
“She’s on the stage. A specialty dancer, I think you call it. That’s the added suspicious circumstance that made me call in Mr. Davidson. You see, Ruth is employed at the Parkhurst Theater. She dances a specialty in the first act of Alabama Moon.”
“I see.” Tracy’s voice was low, expressionless. “So Ruth Glennon is actually in the show, eh? Tell me—when were you last in touch with Davidson, Mrs. Shale?”
“He called on the telephone early this afternoon. He said he was following up a promising lead and would probably have some interesting news for me tomorrow morning.”
“Did he say what he was planning to do?”
“No. He merely told me to sit tight, to be sure to say nothing to either Leo or Ruth. He said he’d get in touch with me tomorrow.”
For a moment Jerry Tracy was silent. Then he said, very quietly: “Mrs. Shale, why did you lie to me about the identity of the burglar who struck you on the head tonight?”
Her lips began to tremble. “I didn’t lie,” she gasped.
“You recognized that burglar,” Tracy said slowly. “He wore no mask. Who was it—Leo?”
“I—I don’t know. I couldn’t be sure.”
“But it might have been Leo, eh? I know you don’t like to accuse your own nephew of striking you down, but I can’t get to the bottom of this unless you’re absolutely fair with me. You think it was Leo, don’t you?”
“It—It might have been. I won’t swear to it.”
She looked suddenly, pitifully old.
“He’s my—my dead brother’s son. I—I tried to bring him up properly. I don’t really believe that either Leo or Ruth would ever dream of—” Her jaw tautened. “I’m positive that the man who struck me was not Leo.”
“Let’s hope not,” Tracy said gently. “Suppose you go into your bedroom for a few minutes and lie down. I may want to ask you a question or two later. In the meantime I’d like to talk to your nephew and niece.”
He waited till the door of her bedroom closed, then he raised his voice and called Pat.
“Okey,” a faint voice replied cheer? fully. “Shake a leg, folks. The boss wants to see you.”
Leo strode in with a vicious scowl.
“Where do you get this third degree stuff, Mister Detective? If you think you’re going to get Ruth and me mixed up in this theater ticket mess, you’ve got another think coming. Go ahead and arrest us. See how far you’ll get.”
“Please, Leo,” Ruth said tremulously. There was terror and bewilderment in her gray eyes.
“I’ll do the talking,” Tracy said. His eyes swung to Leo. “You know your aunt has been getting a free theater ticket sent to her every week for the past six weeks or so. Do you happen to know why she didn’t get one this week? She hired a detective named Davidson a couple of days ago. Do you suppose the arrival of Davidson on the scene had anything to do with the sudden stopping of the tickets—and the murder notes?”
Leo’s laugh was bitter, ugly.
“If you really want to know, Sherlocko, I think the whole thing is a pipe-dream. I don’t believe Auntie ever got any typewritten notes.”
“Who told you that the notes were typewritten, Leo?”
“Why—my aunt,” he growled hesitantly.
Jerry Tracy smiled slowly and let that pass.
“Why did you kill Harry Davidson this afternoon in the Hotel Cantwell?” he asked Leo.
“He didn’t!” Ruth Glennon cried swiftly. “Leo wasn’t there. Why don’t you let him alone?”
“Where were you, Leo?”
His eyes looked hunted, worried. “I was at the movies.”
“Any particular movie—or just the movies?” Tracy purred. No answer.
“I understand that you’re in a financial jam right now. You could use a little ready cash in a hurry, no?” No answer. There was sweat on Leo’s forehead, a taut bulge at his jaw muscle. Ruth looked as though she were about to faint.
Tracy tried an entirely new tack with the sullen nephew.
“I’d like to play a little game with you, Leo. If you’re really innocent, you won’t mind playing.”
“Game? What do you mean?”
“Oh, just a little word game. For instance, what does the word lead-pencil make you think of? Quick!”
“Eraser,” Leo grinned.
“Detective,” Tracy said next.
Leo’s grin broadened. “Flat feet,” he said promptly.
“Corpse,” Tracy shot at him with a second’s pause.
Leo hesitated. “Undertaker,” he muttered uneasily.
“Hotel bathroom. Come on!” This time Leo floundered badly. After a long wait, he said in a low tone: “Cake of soap.”
“That’s enough!” Tracy said sharply. “You were in that room at the Cantwell. And you killed Davidson!”
“You’re a liar. I told you I was at the movies.”
A shrill scream of terror cut across the murmur of Leo’s words. A woman’s frightened scream. It came from the closed bedroom of Mrs. Shale.
The Planet’s columnist swung towards his thinfaced companion.
“Get in there, Pat!”
“Right!” the agency man snapped.
He sprang through the doorway and ran down the long hall. Jerry kept narrowed eyes on his two prisoners. Neither of them made a move to get away. A subtle look passed swiftly between them. Ruth was white-faced and trembling; Leo seemed to be smiling inwardly.
“I s’pose you’ll be blaming Ruth and me for that, too,” Leo sneered. “Maybe I’m in the bedroom right now, socking dear old Auntie on the dome.”
“Shut up!” Tracy ordered. He stood quite still, listening for further sound. The bedroom was as silent as a tomb.
“Pat!” he called out.
No reply.
“Pat! Mrs. Shale! Are you all right in there?”
Still no reply.
Ruth Glennon’s scared gray eyes stared at the Broadway columnist. Leo fished a cigarette out of his pocket and struck a match with a show of elaborate unconcern.
“Both of you stay right here,” Jerry grunted harshly.
He ran out into the hall and sped swiftly to Mrs. Shale’s bedroom. Mrs. Shale was lying on the bed, her eyes bulging with fear. Her finger pointed shakingly towards the opened window. There was no sign of Pat.
In two jumps Jerry Tracy was over at the window and had his head out.
&
nbsp; The concrete backyard was empty and dark under the black night sky. Directly below the bedroom window were two motionless objects. One of them was Pat’s hat. The other was a cat.
The cat was a coal-black Tom. It was eying the motionless fedora with slitted green eyes that seemed to flame in the darkness. The green eyes lifted and surveyed Tracy lazily. Slowly, the bored Tom cat began methodically licking its paws.
Tracy swore, drew in his head and stepped back to the frightened woman on the bed.
“Quick!” he cried, “Where did he go?”
Mrs. Shale was the color of paper. She could barely talk.
“He went out the—the window,” she gasped. “It all happened so quickly that I—I—”
“Did you see anyone? Who did he jump out after?”
“I was here in bed,” Mrs. Shale quavered. “I happened to turn my head on the pillow, I looked towards the window. I saw a—a face. … A man. … He was hanging from the sill by his hands—staring in at me. … I screamed and the—the face dropped out of sight. The detective came rushing in, and I pointed—and the detective went out the window after him.”
“Did you recognize that face you saw?”
Mrs. Shale shook her head weakly. “It wasn’t Leo,” she muttered. “It looked more like—like the other man.”
“What other man?”
“The man that Leo’s been seeing so often lately. The man that Leo has been trying to get the—the money for.”
Her eyes closed.
Jerry Tracy turned away with a sibilant oath and ran back towards the living-room. As he stepped through the doorway a muscular hand closed on his throat with a grip of steel. The blade of a large jack-knife made an ugly, prickling dimple in the soft flesh of Tracy’s neck.
“Stand still, dick, or I’ll rip your jugular in half!”
Leo Glennon’s eyes were burning into Jerry’s with a glare of desperation and savage satisfaction.
The trapped columnist made no effort to struggle. He was facing the living-room doorway. Looking over Leo’s back he could see no sign of the frightened Ruth Glennon.
Leo kept the cold point of the knife steadily against the columnist’s neck.
“Hurry it up, Ruth!” he shouted hoarsely. “Don’t waste any time. Grab our hats and coats!”
Tracy could hear Ruth’s panting breath, her footsteps in the next room.
The floor creaked faintly beyond the doorway of the living-room and a woman tottered into view. It was Mrs. Shale, white-faced, staring. Leo’s back was to the doorway. He couldn’t see who it was.
“Okey, Ruth?” he snapped. “All set?”
The Daily Planet’s columnist shot an agonized and appealing look towards the staring aunt. She screamed.
Leo jumped at the sound as though he had been shot. For a split second the point of the jack-knife blade left Tracy’s throat.
Instantly, Tracy’s knees bent and dropped his alert body a full six inches. With one hand he caught and clamped hard on his assailant’s right wrist. His other clutched at Leo’s thigh. With a swift shove of his glossy-toed foot, he tripped the fellow and fell on top of him.
They rolled over and over in a desperate embrace. The knife flew through the air and bounced with a faint thud on the rug. Jerry had a dizzily blurred vision of Mrs. Shale, still standing like a gaunt corpse in the doorway of the living-room. Behind her, a shadowy face moved along the hall—Ruth Glennon, fully dressed for the street, a man’s hat in her hand. …
The thump of Jerry’s head against a low bookcase spilled books helter-skelter over the two struggling men. Leo’s knee dug viciously at Tracy’s abdomen, but the columnist saw it coming and managed to squirm away. He clutched at Leo’s shirt and the fabric ripped free from his hooked fingers. Leo swayed upright on his knees, staggered to his feet.
He tried to run but Tracy’s grip on his ankle toppled him again. The columnist managed to climb astride the thrashing body of his foe and he dazed him with a clumsy blow alongside the temple. He got one hand on Leo’s throat and pinned him immovable for the second it took him to aim a more accurate punch. This time Tracy’s hard fist landed squarely on the button and Leo groaned and got like jelly.
The Daily Planet’s columnist was on his feet like a flash. He didn’t bother trying for the fallen jack-knife on the rug. He hurdled Leo’s twitching body and dove past the frozen figure of Mrs. Shale in the doorway.
Ruth Glennon was out in the apartment foyer, her hand fumbling desperately with the catch of the front door. Tracy pulled her gently back, walked her into the living-room, sat her into a chair.
She stared at him like a bloodless ghost.
“Leo didn’t do it,” she gasped. “Leo had nothing to do with the theater tickets. It was I!”
“You’re just a little bit too late with your information,” Tracy said mildly. “I know all the answers, myself.”
The girl began to weep suddenly, her face staring hopelessly at the groggy figure of her brother. Leo was rising unsteadily from the floor, one hand bracing himself against the overturned bookcase. Jerry Tracy picked up the fallen jack-knife.
“Better be good, Leo,” he said.
He nodded reassuringly to the aunt in the living-room doorway.
“Don’t worry about Leo, Mrs. Shale. I’ll guarantee that he’ll behave himself. I’m going to settle this whole mystery right now. … I’d have settled it a lot sooner, only I wanted definite proof.”
Tracy’s eyes flashed somberly. “Mrs. Shale, was Leo the man who struck you on the temple tonight?”
Leo glared vindictively at her. She shuddered and turned away.
“Yes,” she admitted in a whisper that was almost inaudible.
“And the fellow who tried to climb in your bedroom window—the man that Pat jumped out after? Who was he?”
“He was the man Leo wanted the $10,000 for—the man who has some sort of blackmail hold on Leo and Ruth.”
“Thanks.”
Jerry Tracy nodded. He reached suddenly for the telephone, called police headquarters. He murmured an official’s name, got his party after a short delay.
“I want,” he said, “a detective over here in a hurry from the West 123rd Street Precinct. With a pair of handcuffs. The address is 225 Clayborn Avenue. Apartment 1-C. And send someone over to the Hotel Cantwell. There’s a private op. on the bathroom floor of room 729. His name is Harry Davidson and he works for the Whalen Agency. He’s been murdered.”
The voice in the earpiece buzzed with startled distinctness. “For God’s sake, Jerry! What’s going on?”
“Tell you later, Inspector.”
He hung up with a little click. None of the other three moved. They were like wax figures in a museum, all of them.
After a while the doorbell rang and Jerry Tracy got up and admitted a stocky, ruddy-faced Irishman in a blue serge suit.
“My name’s Walsh,” the visitor said dryly. “West 123rd Street Station. You Mister Tracy?”
“Yeah. Let me have your cuffs, please.”
Walsh blinked. He took his own slow time fishing out the steel bracelets. He eyed the tremulous Mrs. Shale, the damaged Leo. He looked at the weeping Ruth Glennon, took stock of her dark good looks. His eyes drifted back to the Broadway columnist and there were wrinkles of puzzlement on his ruddy forehead.
He handed Jerry the steel cuffs without another word.
Leo’s puffy face paled as the columnist walked slowly towards him. He squirmed towards his weeping sister as Tracy’s hand reached out.
There was a grim, menacing tautness on Jerry’s lips. His hand shot out suddenly—and went past Leo’s slumped shoulder. Click went a steel handcuff on a relaxed wrist—and suddenly hell seemed to break loose in the quiet room.
Mrs. Claudia Shale screamed shrilly like a trapped animal. She tore her fettered hand loose from Tracy’s grasp and struck viciously at his face with the dangling cuff. He dodged with a grunt, clutched at her again and missed her as white teeth sank into his flesh.
Walsh, the precinct man, leaped to Tracy’s aid. There was a fierce, straining flurry of arms and legs, then—click—went the second cuff, and with the sound all the demoniac rage left Mrs. Claudia Shale as swiftly as it had possessed her. She stood there, panting, a man on either side of her, and suddenly she laughed. A cold, eerie chuckle, deep in her throat.
“You seem to be a rather shrewd detective, after all,” she told Tracy very calmly. “You were clever enough to give me no warning. I think, with a second or two of warning, I still might have outwitted you, my friend.”
“Hang on to her, Walsh!” Jerry panted. “Don’t let her fool you. Don’t let go of this hellcat for one minute.”
He turned and ran out into the hall.
“Hey!” Walsh bellowed. “Where are you going?”
“Going to find a friend of mine named Pat. And hoping to God that this she-devil hasn’t killed him.”
They heard his feet returning in a minute or two, shuffling heavily. He came slowly through the living-room doorway, with the unconscious figure of the agency sleuth in his arms. Pat’s scalp was torn and bleeding. He hung dazed and limp in his friend’s encircling grip.
Jerry laid him gently down on a sofa.
“May I help?” Ruth Glennon whispered in a small voice.
“Get me some cold water.”
In a few moments the battered Pat stirred and began to groan faintly. His eyelids fluttered open and he tried to rise. Jerry’s palm held him gently quiet.
The voice of Mrs. Shale—sneering, hard as ice—purred a slow question:
“How did you guess the fool was hidden in my bedroom closet?”
“I didn’t guess. I knew!” Tracy replied softly.
The columnist’s smile was like granite.
“Pat was unfortunate. You expected me into that bedroom, didn’t you? Poor Pat took the rap for me—a rap right on the skull. You were waiting just inside your door with a lifted sash weight. You struck him unconscious, heaved him swiftly into your closet, tossed his hat out your window to the backyard—and you were flat on the bed in a fake state of terror when I came running in to investigate. You must have been frantic with rage when you realized I was still on the job.”
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 38
