“Are you accusing Mrs. Drake’s son of murder?” Corning cried.
“Not at all,” Tracy said evenly. “I’m accusing you of that, Mr. Corning. Mr. Drake’s son got to the town house too late. He merely stole the body and removed the clues after you and Mrs. Drake fled from that boarded-up mansion on East 56th Street.”
Anne Leslie screamed as Corning sprang. But Sergeant Killan had been watching the lawyer shrewdly and he caught the upraised fist in a grip of steel. The two men wrestled fiercely for an instant and then Corning’s violent rage evaporated. He became perfectly quiet. Killan let go his arm. “Easy, mister. No rough stuff!”
“You’re quite right, Sergeant,” Corning said calmly. “I lost my head for a moment. I’m sorry.”
He smiled evenly at Inspector Fitzgerald.
“If you’ll look at this telegram you’ll realize that all this sensational talk about murder and corpses is rather idiotic.”
Fitz took the sheet of yellow flimsy and Tracy read it over the old man’s shoulder. It was a telegram from Edgar Drake to Corning, ordering him to cancel the millionaire’s reservation on the Queen Mary and stating that he was obliged to leave suddenly and secretly for an important conference in the Middle West.
Jerry Tracy said coldly, “So what? It wouldn’t be the first time a man sent himself a telegram as an alibi. You naturally have to have something tangible to clear yourself if Drake’s body is found—or is never found, as you hope.”
Corning ignored the columnist’s deliberate baiting with a perceptible effort. He continued to stare challengingly at Fitzgerald.
“As an experienced police official, I need not tell you that without a body there can be no murder. I advise you to find your corpse before you intrude on Mrs. Drake again. If the smallest hint of scandal or accusation appears in the Daily Planet, I shall sue both the newspaper and the police department for malicious libel. You’re not dealing with cheap underworld characters. You’re threatening the good name of prominent personages.”
His voice kept getting quieter and quieter. He went on:
“You’re attacking, whether you mean to or not, the financial integrity of Drake Utilities. A false report of Edgar Drake’s death might wreck his whole enterprise and bring ruin to millions of innocent stockholders.”
“You mean the company is shaky, eh? Is that what you mean?” Tracy said. “In that case, how about a man who deliberately issues a falsely optimistic statement to lure more investors to buy?”
“Get out, all of you!”
“You’re not selling short, by any chance, are you, Mr. Corning?”
“Get out!”
He watched the three move toward the door. His eyes were smoldering. His finger pointed wrathfully at Inspector Fitzgerald.
“One last warning. I know your thick-skulled police methods. If I find that you’re attempting to shadow me or Mrs. Drake or Anne Leslie, her secretary, I’ll go straight to the mayor’s office! We’ll see who has more influence in this town, Inspector Fitzgerald or Drake Utilities.”
Sergeant Killan said, “Yeah?” in a belligerent growl, but Fitz silenced him.
“The police department has no intention of persecuting anyone in the absence of proof, Mr. Corning,” Fitz said very blandly. “As you say, there’s still a body to be found. Good day.”
Fitzgerald looked haggard and worried on the sidewalk downstairs. The strong sunlight made him blink. He asked, “What about this son of hers, Jerry? Were you bluffing his mother about him?”
“No. That stuff about her divorce quarrel and the son’s murder threat is true. I had it from a confidential source.”
“Do you know where he is?” Tracy said truthfully, “No, I don’t.
What are you going to do now?”
“Damned if I know,” Fitz admitted.
“I’ll probably have another look at the house. I’ve got a plainclothes man watching the rear in case anyone tries to sneak in. If Drake’s body has been really hidden there—”
“My guess is that it was taken away. It could’ve been dragged through that window when I was out cold.”
“I’ve covered that, too,” Fitz murmured grimly. “I’ve sent out a quiet alarm to comb every vacant lot in the five boroughs. Across the river they’re searching the Jersey meadows.”
“Let me know if anything turns up.”
“Where are you going?”
Tracy chuckled. The last trace of puzzlement vanished from his lean face. The same strong sunlight that had emphasized the wrinkles in Fitz’s countenance made Tracy look eager and boyish.
“Believe it or not, I work for a living. I’ve got a column to write, keed. I’ll give you a buzz later on. … Hey, taxi!”
He got downtown to his Times Square office in jig time. But he didn’t get promptly to work. Instead, he stared meditatively at the typewriter and the dictograph machine. He was thinking of something he had said on the impulse of the moment back there in Mrs. Drake’s hotel suite. It had made Corning damned sore. In fact, it had broken up the interview. Maybe. …
He grabbed his telephone and called a number in the financial district.
“Hello, Andy? Jerry Tracy. Got a job for you. Look, Andy, see if you can do a little fast nosing around and find out if anyone is selling short on Drake Utilities. C as in confidential.”
“What’s the idea? Do you think—”
“Call me back if you dig anything.”
He pronged the instrument and got to work. The minute hand of the clock went round and round but he was oblivious to the passing of time. The secret of Jerry Tracy’s journalistic success was that he’d rather play with words than eat. Every wise-crack he fed into the dictograph brought a pleased grin of self-approval. He played the record back, changing a phrase or a word here and there with a brief nasal toned postscript at the end of the record. In his own words, “he always finished his act with a script-tease.”
The wrapped cylinder was on its way to the Daily Planet office when the phone rang. It was Andy.
“You’re a good guesser, Jerry. I got the info but it’s gonna cost you dough. You sounded eager enough to spend a grand.”
“Right. I’ll send you a check. Who’s selling short on Drake Utilities?”
“Some guy named Amos Brandt.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. It’s all I could get. I had to turn the heat on just to get the name.”
“You did perfectly well. Thanks a lot.”
Tracy picked up a Manhattan phone book and slapped it open. There was a whole column of Brandts but no Amos. The name was obviously a phoney; the whole deal a smart undercover transaction.
Tracy called up again and got a quotation on Drake Utilities. The stock was up two more points. Evidently Corning’s reassuring explanation of the financier’s trip was bearing fruit. But if Corning was really the mysterious short seller, why was he boosting the stock’s price? For a public alibi? A damned expensive one!
The afternoon sun was getting thin outside. Time for a cocktail. Tracy decided to get it at the Club Pom-Pom. He had told Inspector Fitzgerald grim truth when he had said he didn’t know the present whereabouts of Mrs. Drake’s son. It was high time he hunted up this Tony Pedley. Tony might be on the lam by this time, his pockets lined with his mother’s dough; but Fred Hammer would have his last address.
Hammer looked puzzled when Jerry finished his cocktail and made his casual request.
“What’s the idea, Jerry? This makes twice you’ve been in here asking about the kid. Now you want his address. Is he in a jam?”
“I just want to ask him a couple of questions.”
“He’s a good kid, Jerry. If you knew who he really was—Say!” Over the noisy bleat of the cocktail music, Fred Hammer’s good-natured voice became louder. “Come to think of it, I did tell you once who the kid really is. You promised not to print it.”
“Well, did I?”
The nightclub owner hesitated. He leaned closer.
“I’ve been reading the papers. You think Tony’s sick stomach last night had something to do with Drake not sailing for Europe?”
“I want to find out if Tony’s still in town, that’s all.”
“He is,” Hammer admitted slowly. “He called up at noon, said he was still sick and couldn’t make it this afternoon. I’ll give you his address if you insist, but I’m telling you, you’re hunting trouble. The kid has a quick temper.”
“So what?” Tracy’s tone was playful but he remembered suddenly the two vicious attacks on him the night before. A picture of the dark, sullen eyes and the strong, muscular hands of Tony Pedley became unpleasantly vivid in his mind.
He said, “Fred, I’ve never asked you before to do me a favor. You can do me one right now. Come on along with me. If Tony trusts you, you may save me a little wear and tear.”
“You got him tabbed for something?”
“Maybe.”
Hammer stared, then went back of the office curtain for his hat. In the taxi on the way across town he made only one remark. “I’ll lay you an even grand that the kid’s nose is clean.”
“No bet. I’ve already spent a grand today.”
Pedley’s address proved to be in a cheap red-brick apartment house on the west fringe of the theatrical and restaurant district. There was a dingy-looking gray coupé parked at the curb, and Hammer said in a tone of surprise, “Hello! What’s that doing here, I wonder?”
“Tony’s heap?”
“Yeah.”
Tracy looked it over. The rumble seat was locked. He had a queer tingling in his fingers as he tried vainly to lift it. A glance at the instruments on the dash made him frown. The locked rumble made him suspect a filled gas tank and plenty of oil for a long drive. But the indicator showed a little more than a gallon of gas.
“Has the kid been flush or broke the last few days, Fred?”
“Broke,” Hammer said. “He got into me for five bucks day before yesterday. Why?”
Tracy shrugged, located Pedley’s name over a vestibule bell, led the way up one flight to a door at the rear. When the door opened Pedley had his hat on. He had evidently been just about to leave. He took one look at Tracy and promptly tried to slam the door. Fred Hammer stopped that with a quick shove of his foot.
He said, “Easy, Tony. Don’t be silly. What’s the hell wrong with you, anyway?”
“What are you bringing that cheap tabloid hound here for?”
Tracy said quietly, “I asked him to. If you’re sensible, you’ll uncurl that fist. I’m an easy guy to talk to. Cops might be tougher.”
“What do you mean, cops?”
“They wear blue uniforms. They arrest people for murder. … By the way, exactly where were you last night between about ten-thirty and midnight?”
“None of your damned business.”
“Maybe I’d better save time.”
He saved it by shooting crisp, direct sentences at Tony Pedley. Hammer’s amazed mouth opened wider and wider as he listened to the columnist. But Pedley’s lips got so tight there were white ridges along his jaw. By the time Tracy got to the talk of divorce and Tony’s murder threat against his stepfather, the kid was like a carving in ice. The expression in his dark eyes made him look for an instant like a vivid good-looking counterpart of his mother.
He laughed shudderingly.
“For gosh sake, Fred, don’t look so solemn. I didn’t kill Drake. I should have, because if ever there was a mean-tempered, dirty-minded skunk, he was it. Yes, I knew all about those lies he was whispering about my mother and Corning. That’s why I faked a stomach-ache and went to his hotel last night. But I didn’t kill the old devil; I didn’t even see him.”
He elaborated, his dark eyes vengeful. He had taken his gray coupé from the garage and driven over to the Waldorf to have it out with his stepfather. But Drake had already left his suite. He’d left no word at the desk. Tony parked across from the hotel entrance and waited grimly in the rain. Waited until a quarter of midnight. Then he raced across town to the Cunard pier, only to find that Drake had suddenly changed his plans and the ship was sailing without him.
“Did anyone see you while you were waiting outside the hotel?”
“No.”
“Do you remember exactly who told you that Drake had cancelled his trip?”
Tony Pedley flushed. “I saw his baggage piled on the pier. That was enough for me. I talked to nobody.”
“No alibi, eh? I didn’t really expect you to have one, and I’ll tell you why. Drake did come out of the hotel while you were waiting outside. You followed him to his deserted town house. It scared you because you knew your mother and Corning were inside for a secret conference regarding the feasibility of an absentee divorce action. While you were nerving yourself to follow Drake through the basement window, I came along, and you realized the scandalous nature of the trap Drake had laid. You sneaked in while I was upstairs and found Drake dead. You had to do something damned quick to protect your mother and her lover. You did it by socking me unconscious and hiding the evidence. Where’s the body now? Downstairs in the locked rumble of your car?”
Tony Pedley’s laughter was jeering. He said nothing.
Tracy hesitated. Then his hand whipped out of his pocket with the black-and-red rubber ear-stopple he had found on Drake’s body. He held it palm-upward for an instant.
The effect on Pedley was immediate and frightening. He shrank back with a shrill cry.
“My God, where did you get that?”
Tracy’s eyes never left the suspect’s. Pedley was making a tremendous effort to control himself. An expressionless mask seemed to slide like a steel plate over his face. When he spoke his voice was barely audible.
“You found that on the body?”
“Of course. You’re playing tag with the electric chair, son. Don’t you think you’ve been a fall guy long enough? You hid Drake’s body, didn’t you?”
There was a long breathless pause.
“Yes. I—I took it. I hid it. My God, what a sap I’ve been!”
“Where is it—down in the car?”
Pedley shook his head. Fred Hammer stared wordlessly at him. Tracy didn’t try to press the kid with questions.
“I—I meant to drive it away today and dump it. I didn’t kill Drake. But I did steal his body. The corpse is right here. In this apartment.”
“Where?”
“Come on!”
His face was twitching. He was sobbing with relief. He led the way to a tiny bathroom and flung open the door.
“In the bathtub, gentlemen. Behind the shower curtain. And thank God, you came. You’ve saved me from—”
Hammer’s tremulous hand reached out to slide back the green waterproofed curtain. Tracy, who was nearest the door, swerved suddenly around. He had heard the grating sound of a stealthily withdrawn key. Pedley leaped back out of the tiled bathroom entrance and slammed the door. Tracy clutched wildly for the knob but he was too late. The key clicked in the outside of the lock.
Pedley’s muffled laughter was freezingly triumphant.
“Stay there and sweat, damn you!”
Fred Hammer was still holding the parted shower curtain with a paralyzed hand. The bathtub was empty. The nightclub owner snapped out of his trance and hurled himself at the locked door. It was solid, well fitted timber. No give to it. He tried three times and then Tracy grabbed his hunched shoulder, spinning him.
“It can’t be done. You’re wasting time. Gimme a hand up to that window.”
The bathroom window was ground-glass and very tiny. Braced by Hammer, Tracy got his head out and peered eagerly.
He said in a clipped whisper, “Oke. It’s small but I think I can squeeze through. There’s a narrow stone ledge out here. Quick—twist me around! Get my feet up!”
His legs pivoted upward. He slid feet-first through the tiny opening. It was so small that he had trouble working his shoulders through. Hammer, looking upward, saw one hand vanish from the sill, then the other
. He waited for what seemed like hours. Then there were quick, racing foot-steps outside the bathroom door and the lock clicked open.
Tracy was grinning haggardly, his forehead damp with sweat.
“That was a hell of a ledge to inch across. Got in again through the living-room window. If I hadn’t worked the trick fast, I’d have broken my neck. A blank brick wall in the rear, or somebody would be blowing a police whistle right now. … Let’s go!”
There was no sign of Pedley’s gray coupé at the curb downstairs.
“You’d better get the cops,” Hammer whispered uneasily.
“Cops, hell. There’s no time. You say the kid is flat broke? He’ll have to borrow dough in a hurry for his getaway. Only one place to go. His mother!”
They had hurried up toward the corner while they talked. Tracy’s brisk yelp halted a rolling cab.
“Come on! We’ll have to move fast to nail him.”
Fred Hammer shook his head. His grin quivered.
“Where do you get that ‘we’ stuff?” he said faintly. “Count me out. I’ve had all I want. I’m going home.”
“O.K., but keep your mouth shut till you hear from me.”
The cab whirled away and Jerry stepped up its speed with an advance payment that made the hacker’s eyes glisten. He entered the Waldorf from the Lexington Avenue side and whizzed upward in the tower elevator. A brisk knock at the door brought the pale face of Anne Leslie. Tracy slid through the closing aperture like a well tailored eel and darted into the living-room.
Pauline Drake screamed faintly as she saw his blazing eyes.
“What do you want? How dare you force your way into my—If you don’t leave at once—”
Tracy sprang past her, searching every room of the suite with grim speed. There was no sign of Tony Pedley. He hurried back to the living-room—and stopped short. Anne Leslie was holding a wicked looking little automatic pistol and its muzzle was trained steadily on the vest button that covered the columnist’s navel.
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 69
