Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  A tumbled rug was rising from the floor of the car. It fell sideways and revealed the stark face of a girl. It was Lightweight, her wrap gone, the apple-green evening gown torn and bedraggled.

  “Jerry!” she moaned. “Thank God, it’s you. I was afraid that—”

  The crisp sound of automobile brakes whirled Tracy around. Two cars were slithering in towards the curb. Squad cars! Out of them tumbled cops with drawn guns.

  A tall bluecoat sprang at Tracy and began to frisk him. The cop gasped as Fitzgerald’s gray head poked belligerently out of the suspected car.

  “Murphy! Reardon! What the hell are you fools trying to do?”

  “Huh? Are—are you in on this, Inspector? Somebody phoned Headquarters and said there was a gunfight going on in that brownstone. I—we—”

  “Get inside and take charge,” Fitz snapped. “You’ll find three men and a girl in there. Get an ambulance here quick. Hang on till I get back.”

  “Yes, sir.” Reardon saluted, gazed bug-eyed for an instant at the Chinaman, the limp and dirty-faced Eddie, and the pale-green wreck of Lightweight’s evening gown. Then he turned and sprang up the front stoop after the other cops.

  Jerry Tracy’s foot was on the gas pedal, but he didn’t press it.

  “Do you know who killed Parker in your apartment?” he asked Lightweight.

  “Yes. I didn’t dare tell you when you butted in. It was Ala! He was in my room, behind a curtain, while you were talking to me. He had a gun on your back.”

  “Ala?” Fitz asked, but Tracy shut him up with a quick glance.

  “Any idea of the reason behind all this killing?” Jerry continued.

  “Yes. The whole thing is a—a theatrical racket. Ala and his two henchmen are trying to get control of every theater in New York. They’ve already got most of the houses right now. They’re planning to shake down managers, producers, actors—tie up every legitimate playhouse in Manhattan. They killed Sol Davis and Stuart Parker. They’re after Ned Wortman next.”

  “Ned’s been kidnaped,” Tracy said.

  “Kidnaped? My God, you’ve got to find him! They’ll kill him! He knew they were after him. That’s why I was spying on the swami, to help Ned. He signed over all his theatrical properties to me, in case they got him. Oh, Jerry—you’ve got to find Ned before he’s killed. Find him!”

  “Ned signed over his whole string of theaters to you? He trusted you that much?”

  “We’re—engaged to be married,” Lightweight whispered.

  Fitz said: “Uh, uh, I see,” in a tone that was still puzzled.

  Tracy’s eyes widened with surprise. This was something he had been utterly unaware of in spite of the trouble he had gone to keep a watchful eye on the girl. He had seen Wortman plenty of times in the last month. Ned and Lightweight had certainly put one over on him! Jerry’s patent-leather foot pressed the gas pedal and the car shot away.

  “Where are the transfer papers Ned signed over to you?” he asked as the automobile streaked downtown through the rain.

  “They’re in Ned’s safe. In his apartment.”

  Fitz nodded at that. “Whoever is behind the kills may be searching the place right now!”

  “Yeah,” Tracy said.

  At the desk of Wortman’s apartment house Fitzgerald did all the talking. He showed his badge and asked for a pass key—and got it.

  “Has Mr. Wortman come in since I phoned earlier this evening to ask about him?”

  “No, sir. He left just before dinner and he hasn’t returned.”

  “Any visitors for him? Anybody stop by to ask if he was home?”

  “No, sir. Not a soul.”

  “Okey.”

  The clerk’s eyes stared at the queerly assorted group. Eddie had stirred, grunted weakly and slid out of the Chinaman’s embrace. He was on his feet now, pretty rocky, the Chinaman’s arm supporting him.

  “I’m all right,” he whispered faintly to Tracy. “I—I kin take it.”

  “Swell, Eddie. You’ve got more guts than all of us. Let’s go.”

  The elevator deposited them at the twelfth floor. Fitz, at a nod from Jerry, inserted the master key and opened the door very gently. The front of the apartment was dark, but there was a light showing above the transom of a rear door, and through the closed barrier came the indistinguishable buzz of voices. Two men, whispering quietly together.

  Fitz threw the door open and Jerry followed him.

  The inspector’s gun wavered for an instant with surprise and then stayed steady in his big hand.

  “Hello, Ned,” the Daily Planet’s columnist said quietly.

  Wortman and his companion had whirled about as the door was flung open. The man with Wortman was bald, heavy-set, very obviously flustered.

  “Hello, Jerry,” Wortman said. “Hello, Inspector—Fitzgerald, isn’t it?” He sounded puzzled, yet polite. There was faint amazement in his low-toned laugh. “What is this—a raid of some sort?”

  “You’re supposed to be kidnaped, Ned,” Jerry told him evenly.

  “Oh, by gosh, right you are.” He started forward and Fitz barked suddenly. “Stick, Mister! Right where you are. What’s the idea of the fake alarm on a snatch?”

  “No fake at all. I was grabbed by a clever rogue who calls himself Ala Dhinn. Lightweight telephoned me tonight, and told me this Ala had killed Stuart Parker in her apartment. He’d threatened to kill me if I didn’t turn over to him—certain things. I was ready for trouble and I got away. I let the kidnap alarm go through to scare off that damned swami.”

  “Was that why you sneaked into your apartment by the back stairs—to dodge this Ala?”

  “Of course.” He laughed shakily. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Were those certain things that Ala was after, the deeds to your chain of theaters?” Tracy asked.

  “Sure. … Say, how in the world did you know that, Jerry?”

  “In!” Jerry called quietly and Lightweight walked slowly through the doorway.

  Wortman’s face lighted with instant relief. “Darling! Thank God you’ve surrendered! I told you it was foolish to run away. Gentlemen, this is my fiancée. She’ll tell you that for weeks I’ve been threatened with death. She’ll confirm my statement that I signed over all my properties to her in an effort to protect myself against racketeers.”

  “How about showing us those papers?” Fitz said heavily.

  “Why not?”

  He walked to a safe in the corner, twirled the knob and produced a sheaf of legal transfers. They were, as he had said, indisputable evidence that Lightweight was sole owner of his chain of theaters.

  The baldheaded little man beside Wortman continued to say nothing, Tracy smiled at him suddenly.

  “You’re name is Merkert, isn’t it? John J. Merkert?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re a lawyer—Ned’s lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re also the lawyer—” Tracy’s voice hardened, “—for the estate of the late Sam Parker, and the very, very recently deceased Stuart Parker?”

  “Why—why—what do you mean?” Merkert backed up a step, his face suddenly frightened.

  “I’m talking about a very clever rat we both know. The rat killed Sol Davis. He killed Sam Parker. And tonight, he finished up with Stuart Parker. Which gives the rat Davis’ holdings, and Parker’s holdings—together with his own. … ” His glance jerked grimly from the lawyer to the other man. “Where’s the other safe, Wortman?”

  “Eh?” Wortman took a step forward and recoiled before the gun in Fitzgerald’s hand. “Jerry! Have you gone mad? Are you accusing me of conspiracy—of murder?”

  “You’re damned right. You kidded Morello into playing the swami act for you. You kidded Lightweight into believing and trusting you. But you can’t kid me. … ” His cold whisper got louder: “In, Eddie!”

  The little street Arab came in. His eyes were bright with excitement, but he cringed as he saw Wortman glaring at him.

  �
��Listen, Eddie,” Tracy said to him gently. “You remember the tip you gave me when you opened the car door for me tonight in front of the Garfield Theatre?”

  “Sure.” Eddie’s voice was thin, reedy. “I told you I seen Lightweight and the swummy together in the swummy’s car.”

  “Right. And you started to tell me something else. You said: ‘And that ain’t all. I—’ Then there was an interruption, and when I looked around you were gone. Why did you scram? Were you scared?”

  “I’ll say!” He pointed at Wortman. “I was scared o’ that guy.”

  “Why?” Tracy’s voice was soft, encouraging.

  “Because he’s the guy I was gonna tip yuh about. As soon as the swummy and the dame drives off in the car, up comes this guy with another feller. The other feller is pretty drunk. He don’t wanta go in the hotel. But Wortman says Lightweight’s expectin’ ’em. I knew that was queer because Lightweight wasn’t upstairs. She was in the car with the swummy. And the quick way Wortman forces this drunk down the hotel alley and in a side door looked sorta dirty to me.”

  “Did you recognize the drunk with Wortman?”

  “Sure. He was Stuart Parker. That’s what I started to tell yuh when—”

  There was a stab of flame. Wortman had whipped a gun from a shoulder-holster. He fired at Tracy. But the columnist had seen the quick glint in his eye that preceded the gesture, and had leaped nimbly aside. The bullet ploughed into the wall.

  Fitz was close enough to nail Wortman without a shot. His gun butt hit the producer’s skull with a sound that seemed almost gentle; but Wortman dropped with a meaty thud and Fitz clipped steel cuffs on him with neither haste nor excitement.

  Merkert, the lawyer, gave a shrill scream. His pudgy arms were stiffly in the air above his head. “Don’t shoot! I’ll talk—I swear I will.”

  Tracy smiled. “There is another safe?” he suggested.

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Find it. Open it.”

  The stark suddenness of events had unnerved Merkert. He saw himself caught, convicted, faced with the grisly, legacy of the electric chair. His trembling hand ripped an oil landscape from the wall. There was a small circular safe set into the surface behind the painting. Merkert fiddled tremulously with the dial and the door swung open after three or four nerve-racking tries on his part.

  The safe was crammed with real estate deeds to nearly every legitimate playhouse in Manhattan. All of Davis’ holdings. All of Parker’s. And all of Wortman’s! He had, as Tracy suspected, fooled Lightweight into signing duplicate papers, transferring his holdings back to him.

  “He made me sign two sets,” she replied dazedly to Tracy’s question. “He said it was customary.”

  “It was a death warrant,” Jerry told her. “It was his ace in the hole. If anything went wrong, he could always point to his original transfers to you to support his persecution story and give him a smooth alibi. If his scheme had worked—and it would have worked without discovery, if Eddie hadn’t stopped me at the door of the theater—he’d have framed you and Morello for his last two kills and destroyed the papers. He didn’t really need those others tucked away in the wall safe. Yours were not recorded. But Wortman was such a damned sure-thing crook that he couldn’t help coppering his bet. And that gave me the handle to scare him into gunplay.”

  Tracy patted the shaking shoulders of Lightweight.

  “Tell me,” he said gently, “did you actually see the fake swami when he was holding the gun on my back in your room?”

  “I saw only the gun in the fold of the curtain. I—thought—”

  “It was Wortman. After he killed Parker he drove to my penthouse and picked me up to help his alibi. Had the gall to drive me to the theater. A smart guy.”

  “Why did he use the swami for a front?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “Because young Parker was a nut on Oriental cults. I told you so right at the start. Wortman knew it; that’s why he cut in the swami. He planted Nick and the other gunman to keep an eye on Ala. If you’ll remember, Sol Davis was garroted with an Oriental cord. That was the first plant to frame the swami. Parker’s death was a natural follow-up. The police, finding out Parker’s interest in Oriental cults, would connect the two murders. After Wortman had pinned the killings on the swami, he would have bumped him and Lightweight and buried ’em in some cellar. Wortman would be in the clear—with most of the important theaters in Manhattan in his pocket.”

  Lightweight didn’t say anything, but there was something in her level glance that made Jerry think of a grand old actor in Arizona to whom he had made a promise.

  He did something very unusual for him. The girl flushed as he released her, tried to cover the tears in her eyes with a shaky smile.

  “Guys have gotten married for less than that, boy friend,” she faltered.

  “Not me. I’m too homely to make the grade.”

  She laughed; but there was something in Lightweight’s laughter that was faintly wistful.

  LITTLE GUY

  Jerry Tracy rides a murder wave

  THE FLOOR SHOW WAS very good and Jerry Tracy was watching it with more than usual attention, because the doll-like girl in the leopard-skin number was a square-shooting little kid in hard luck whom he had placed in the show over the angry objections of Morrie Green. She was getting more than a lot of applause and that pleased Jerry. It meant that the kid had made good in spite of a mean and grafting dance director. It meant that the next time Tracy came around to place a hoofer, Morrie Green would be afraid to complain to Wertheim about wise Broadway “buttinskis” who were trying to queer the show by shoving in phoney talent on him for personal reasons.

  Wertheim himself was watching the number with a broad grin. Morrie Green was grinning, too, all over his mean little face. In the morning, Tracy knew, the dance director would be telling everyone on Broadway how he had personally discovered this little blond bombshell with the twinkling toes.

  A waiter bent over the table where Jerry Tracy sat drinking alone. Jerry frowned and set down his big, globular snifter of Napoleon brandy.

  “Who?”

  The waiter repeated the name.

  “Huh? I’ll be darned. Sure thing! Tell him to come on in.”

  He grinned with quick pleasure as he saw the enormous, fat figure of Phil Halliday away off in the shadow that surrounded the outer rim of tables. He liked Phil as well as any man he knew. A swell, good-natured guy with a mountainous stomach and a deep, jolly laugh. Phil had been down in Florida with his sleek, Diesel-powered ketch. Jerry had been on the boat plenty of times at City Island and zippy, cockeyed times they had been, too.

  Suddenly the smile went out of Tracy’s eyes. Good God, he thought, is that Phil? The man looked sick, shrunken. And he wasn’t in evening clothes either, which was unlike Phil. He came forward through the narrow aisle that separated the tables and his rumpled sack suit hung on him like wet-wash on a clothes-line. People in evening dress glanced up curiously. A few nodded, as people will to any wealthy man; and to the nodders Phil Halliday gave a fixed, glassy smile.

  He ploughed straight to Tracy’s table and the two men clasped hands. Phil’s palm was moist, sweaty. He dropped heavily into a chair.

  “God, Jerry, it’s good to see you. I’ve been chasing you all over this infernal town tonight. Missed you at Billy’s Tavern. Tried a dozen other places. You get around fast, don’t you?”

  “I thought you were still in Florida.”

  “Got back this morning.” He brushed the small talk aside with a nervous gesture. “Listen, Jerry, I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “God, yes. I’m up against something that’s taken the guts right out of me.” He smiled feebly. “That’s something in a man of my size, eh?”

  “Bourbon,” Jerry told the hovering waiter. “The best bonded stuff you’ve got in the house. Make it a double jolt.”

  He studied his friend sharply. Phil Halliday was staring at the table-cloth with a fixed, sm
iling grimace. His heavy face was tanned a deep brown; that, Jerry knew, came from lazy, nude hours spent tarpon fishing on the deck of the ketch under the blazing Florida sun. But the gray pallor under the tan, the tremble of his thick fingers on the table-cloth were utterly unlike him.

  Phil was not the ordinary fat man; he had an enormous frame, most of it hard beef. Still in his early forties, he could outwork and outplay men half his age and his weight. A good-natured, steam-roller of a man, ordinarily without a nerve in his big barn-door body. But not now. …

  Tracy said quietly, “It’s not woman trouble. I know you well enough for that. And I can’t think of anybody who’d have a gun in pickle for you.”

  Halliday’s eyes lifted with a jerk. “Jerry, it’s fantastic, it’s—it’s idiotic. Someone is trying to kill me by slowly driving me mad. I’m convinced that’s the ultimate object of this hellish series of—accidents.”

  “Accidents?”

  “If you want to call them that. At first, I wasn’t sure. After the cat and the dog episode, I began to worry. Then when my captain—you know Nick Devlin—after he fell twenty feet from a dry-dock platform and damned near broke his neck, I—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Jerry asked in a swift undertone.

  He was leaning forward, tense, interested, when the liquor came. He shoved the waiter a bill and got rid of him. Halliday downed the Bourbon with a long gulp. A faint patch of red came into his cheeks.

  “First the dog and then the cat,” Tracy said. “You mean Scotty and The Barnacle?”

  “Yes.”

  “An accident?”

  “Killed.” Halliday said. “I found the dog with his head crushed in on the pier at Biscayne Bay. He’d apparently been playing with the rope of an insecurely placed anchor and the anchor had fallen and smashed his skull in.”

  “Mmm. … What about Barney?”

  “Barney was drowned. Whoever killed him was aware of the cat’s habit of sleeping, curled up under one of the thwarts in the dinghy. The dinghy lost its plug during a rainy, stormy night and Barney drowned.”