Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  “I know that my broadcast tonight doomed Hilliard. I know that Bert Lord fell thirteen stories—and turns out to be innocent.” He took a deep, quivering breath. “If you boys don’t mind, I think I’ll go home.”

  “Yeah. Do that,” Fitz said gruffly. Tracy wasn’t aware of Butch’s presence alongside him till they reached the street. Butch called a taxi and Tracy seemed suddenly to wake up.

  “Beat it, Butch. I don’t need you.”

  Butch took one look at his employer’s tightly wrinkled face. There were times when argument was a waste of breath.

  This was one of them.

  “O.K. Jerry. Don’t make it too late. I’ll wait up for you.”

  Tracy didn’t answer. Butch got in the cab and drove away. The Daily Planet’s ace columnist flagged another taxi. He went up Fifth Avenue to 59th and made a slow circle through the park. He thought of a million things about Hilliard’s murder, but the core of his thinking was always the same: the flattened, battered body of Bert Lord.

  He snapped out of his mental haze when the taxi emerged again from the park at 59th. He drove to the nearest drug-store and thumbed swiftly through the D’s in a telephone book.

  Ken Dunlap was an Englishman. Ken Dunlap had once been in love with the dark-eyed Mrs. Hilliard. When she had married the tobacco tycoon there had been no pretense of love on her part. Suppose that Dunlap and not Lord was the sleek Ronald Jordan alias everything else that the British police had let slip out of England. The scandal tip about Lord had come from a woman using a disguised voice on the wire. Betty had been a grade A radio actress when she signed off to marry Hilliard. If Betty Hilliard had planned for Dunlap to kill her husband and split a fortune between them, the affair between Lord and Hilliard’s adopted daughter was a perfect smoke screen.

  Betty’s refusal to tell where she had been when she left the house might be a deliberate bit of cleverness. A belated infidelity alibi from Dunlap would smirch her and save her at the same time. The cynical columnist’s section of Tracy’s brain handed him a headline: Dirt for Dough’s Sake.

  Ken Dunlap’s apartment house was on Park Avenue. It was one of those expensive stone hives in the Fifties, the sort from which news trickled like a perennial spring into Tracy’s notebooks. The night doorman was a stooge on the Tracy payroll.

  In two minutes Jerry learned that Dunlap had gone out alone around 7:30 and hadn’t come back yet. The doorman had whistled Pete Malloy’s cab from the corner hackstand and Dunlap had been driven uptown.

  “You sure he’s still away?”

  The doorman grinned. “I’m sure enough to slip you a master key if you want to convince yourself.”

  “I won’t go up, but slip me the key anyway.”

  He walked onward to the corner and spent ten dollars on Pete Malloy. The cabbie had taken Dunlap on an aimless ten-minute drive, and had dropped him finally at a west side corner about a quarter to eight. He was positive about the time and positive about the street.

  Tracy blinked. The spot where Dunlap had alighted was a short block from the Hilliard home.

  Tracy ducked into a whitewashed alley that led to the basement of the apartment house. The service elevator, untended at night, stood open and empty at the foot of the shaft. Tracy rode the car to the floor below Dunlap’s and climbed the last flight, leaving the car’s door jammed open in case he needed it for a quick scram.

  He rang Dunlap’s service bell and ducked into the shadow of the dark stairs. No one answered his ring. After a while, he opened the door quietly with his master key.

  The apartment was in total darkness. Tracy tiptoed through the kitchen and pantry, went through a dining room. In the huge adjoining living-room, he snapped on the lights and began a quick, noiseless search. What he wanted was some small object which might reasonably contain a set of Dunlap’s fingerprints.

  He didn’t see any personal object small enough that could be wrapped and slipped into his pocket.

  He went into the bedroom and turned on a lamp. Almost the first thing he saw was a flat gold cigarette case lying on a night table alongside an extension telephone. He wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief and slid it into his pocket.

  He was turning to put out the lamp when he heard the grate of a key in the apartment’s front door.

  Tracy never moved faster in his life. A click, and the bedroom went black. A swift dart across soundless rugs and the living-room lapsed into darkness.

  Utterly unaware that the lights had been blazing a second earlier, Ken Dunlap walked quickly into his living-room and snapped on the wall switch.

  The few seconds interval between the slam of the apartment door and the unwelcome arrival of Dunlap had enabled Tracy to melt noiselessly into the blackness of the bedroom. Trapped, he stood behind heavy velour curtains, watching his suspect.

  Dunlap seemed to be as nervous as a cat and in a coldly vicious temper. He kept muttering a low-toned growl of profanity; but it was without emphasis, as if his mind was centered on something else. He had heavy shoulders and a broad, clean-shaven face.

  Tracy heard him mutter: “Mustn’t get the wind up, or we’ll both be lost!”

  The sudden ring of a telephone bell halted Dunlap in midstride. Tracy, aware of the phone set on the night table, stiffened behind his curtain. Then he realized that its bell was silent. It was merely an extension phone; the bell was ringing in the living-room.

  Tracy tiptoed away from the curtain and lifted the duplicate phone with cringing care.

  He heard the sharp bite of Dunlap’s voice on the wire. “Who is it?”

  “Betty.”

  “Right-o. What’s up?”

  “Ken, we’ve got to do something. Alice knows about the letters! And I don’t trust Furman. That secretary has sharp eyes and big ears.”

  Dunlap swore. “Don’t worry, sweet. I’ll take care of them both if necessary.”

  “You’ll have to risk coming here, Ken. I’ve got to see you. There was a nasty little columnist here from the Daily Planet. I think he overheard Alice telling me about the letters.”

  “I’ll handle it. Now listen—”

  Tracy didn’t wait for the rest. His only chance to get away unseen was to risk a sneak while Dunlap was still hunched tensely over the phone outside. He lowered his own instrument gently into its cradle.

  Before he could take two steps there was a sudden rush of heavy feet. The velvet curtain that screened the doorway of the dark bedroom was swished Viciously aside. Light flooded the room. Tracy blinked but Dunlap didn’t. He stood there with fists knotted tightly, his voice ominously quiet.

  “Cheerio, Mr. Tracy. You seem to be awf’ly clever at overhearing things. But not clever enough to hide a click on a busy wire.”

  “You didn’t, by any chance, murder Bruce Hilliard tonight, did you, Mr. Dunlap?”

  That stopped him. “You think I did?”

  “You were there tonight after Betty Hilliard obligingly emptied the house for your arrival. I have two witnesses to prove you left here and went there.”

  “Right-o.” Dunlap remained polite. “But unfortunately for your logic, I didn’t go in. Hilliard was already dead on his study floor when I peered through the window.”

  “When was that?”

  “A quarter of eight.”

  “It won’t wash. Hilliard was still alive at eight-thirty. He phoned me right after my broadcast ended. Do you know Bert Lord?”

  “We’re fairly friendly,” Dunlap said.

  “Friendly enough to steal his gun?”

  Dunlap exhaled faintly. “I begin to see your drift. Fingerprints, eh? Looking for samples in my apartment. That was bloody foolish of you.”

  Tracy’s fist lashed out as Dunlap sprang. The blow didn’t stop the headlong rush of the heavy-set Englishman. A heave jack-knifed Tracy backward. He tried to kick out with both feet but Dunlap was around him like an eel. Fingers closed on Tracy’s windpipe. The pressure eased before Tracy lapsed into unconsciousness, but he lay utterly he
lpless with a red haze whirling before his bulging eyes.

  Through the haze he could see Dunlap grimly examining the cigarette case he had found in Tracy’s pocket. He also found the master key.

  “So you sneaked in here with the connivance of the blasted doorman down-stairs! Well, it won’t do you a particle of good.”

  He hauled Tracy upright with one hand, anchoring him on swaying legs.

  “If I weren’t in such a hurry to get somewhere else, I’d give you what-for, my friend. As it is—”

  Tracy saw the fist shoot upward in a powerful uppercut, but he was too groggy to roll his head. The blow caught him squarely under the chin. He could feel the hammering impact of every tooth in his head. Then he didn’t feel anything …

  He came riding out of nothingness on long waves of nausea. It seemed as if someone had launched Tracy on a surfboard that raced up and down the smooth chasms of endless waves. Flat on his face he held on desperately until he became confusedly aware that his fingers and his wide-open mouth were pressed against the soft texture of a rug,

  He got up dizzily, clutched for a bedpost and fell over a chair. He felt weak and sick. He knelt with head hanging until the sickness reached its climax, then he felt better.

  There was no sign of Dunlap in the apartment. Tracy glanced at his wrist watch. He had been unconscious over two hours.

  He jumped to the telephone on the night table. He could get no answer from the operator. The line was dead. So was the phone in the living-room. Dunlap had done a neat job.

  Tracy raced out the front door to the corridor and kept his finger jammed on the elevator button until the indicator began to move. To his relief the elevator was operated by his friend, the doorman.

  The doorman gasped as he recognized the battered little columnist.

  “Jerry! For Gawd’s sake! Did Dunlap—!”

  “Get this cage down quick! How come you’re running it? Switchboard man off duty?”

  “He went over to Madison Avenue for some coffee.”

  “Swell. I want to phone without any publicity.”

  “Jerry, you told me you weren’t going up to his apartment. If I’d only known, I could have warned you when he came in.”

  “I know. It was a dumb stunt. I went in the back way after I spoke to the hackman at the corner. Did Dunlap hire the same cab this time?”

  “No. He stopped a roller.”

  They had reached the street lobby. The doorman jumped to the deserted switchboard and plugged an outside wire.

  “Police headquarters,” Jerry growled. “Hello? Jerry Tracy! I want to talk to Inspector Fitzgerald or Sergeant Killan. Either one.”

  “Sorry, Jerry. They’re both out right now on that Hilliard thing.”

  “Did they go back to the Hilliard home?”

  “I don’t think so. It was some other angle.”

  “Try all of the mid-town precincts. If you get ’em, tell ’em I’ll be over at Hilliard’s. Wait! Better tell ’em to give me a quick buzz before they start.” He gave them the number.

  “Anything hot?”

  “Hot enough. I’ve got a hunch two more people are due to get the works tonight.”

  “Wow! O.K.”

  Tracy hung up and called the Hilliard number. All he could raise was a busy signal. Sweating, he waited and tried again. Buzz-buzz-buzz. … Every minute he waited here he was giving Dunlap additional time. And yet if he quit and raced for a cab, he was giving him still more time. He got two more busy signals before he cursed and ran out into the street.

  The doorman’s whistle brought him the night-hawk hackman from the corner. Tracy slammed in and went streaking uptown and across to the west side.

  There were lights on in the Hilliard home, but Tracy’s ring at the doorbell went unanswered. Racing across the dark grounds, Tracy found that the side window through which he had originally entered was still open. He squirmed over the sill and darted for Hilliard’s study.

  To his angry amazement Hilliard’s butler was seated calmly in an easy chair, smoking a cigarette. There was no sign of the cop who had been left on guard—or of anyone else.

  “Why the hell don’t you answer the doorbell?”

  Marconi said placidly, “The policeman told me to remain in this room and see that nothing was disturbed. After he went I thought I’d better not leave the room.”

  Tracy felt a chill of anxiety. He had heard Fitz tell that cop to remain on duty until relieved!

  “When did the cop leave?”

  “I don’t know. I stepped into the hall to speak to him a moment ago and he wasn’t there.”

  “Has a guy named Dunlap been here? Did he and the cop go away together?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Dunlap arrived before that. The four of them—”

  “What four?”

  “Mr. Dunlap and Hilliard’s secretary, Mr. Furman, went away with Mrs. Hilliard and Miss Hilliard. They all seemed very friendly, particularly the two women, which puzzled me, sir.”

  “Me, too,” Tracy growled. “What happened?”

  “There was talk about going to Mr. Hilliard’s Long Island estate in order to avoid newspaper reporters. The policeman vetoed that. Then the front doorbell rang and the policemen left me here.”

  The word “bell” reminded Tracy suddenly of the peculiar series of busy signals when he had tried to call Hilliard’s home.

  “Who’s been using this phone?”

  Marcom looked puzzled. “No one, sir. There haven’t been any calls.” Tracy noticed that a small screen had been shifted from its accustomed place and was standing in front of the telephone desk. He whisked it away and nodded with grim understanding. Someone had slyly disconnected the phone by lifting it from its cradle. He placed it back.

  Tracy stood stiffly still, his brow wrinkled in thought. His preconceived suspicion of Bert Lord as Hilliard’s murderer had long since vanished. There was the phone call which Tracy had received on his private line at the broadcasting studio from Bruce Hilliard. Remembering something that Ken Dunlap had told him sneeringly in his Park Avenue apartment, Tracy was coldly convinced that Hilliard had been dead when that alleged call of his had gone over the wire at 8:32. And if Hilliard was dead, only two people could possibly have made the phoney call.

  One of them was a woman, one a man. The realization of the man’s identity made the hair crawl on Tracy’s scalp. He did a sudden, seemingly illogical thing. He darted toward the radio over which Hilliard had been listening when he was shot to death. He examined the dial swiftly.

  “Has anyone been near this machine?”

  “No, sir,” Marcom said. “Come on! I want to have a look at the front door.”

  The rug in the entry was badly disarranged. On the polished boards of the exposed floor was a tell-tale drip of blood. Tracy followed the trail a few feet to a hall closet. When he wrenched open the door, the unconscious body of the missing policeman tumbled head-first out. He had been knocked cold, probably by brass knuckles, judging from the multiple abrasions across his bleeding temple.

  Marcom uttered a terrified cry. Tracy said, “Ah, shut up.” The thing was too foolishly simple. The four of them had sneaked out the back door, while a dumb butler sat like a fool in Hilliard’s study and a cop stood jammed on unconscious feet in the hall closet.

  The phone began to ring.

  “Hello!”

  A woman operator answered. She sounded angry. “Your instrument was off the hook. There’s a call that’s been blocked for five minutes. Are you Mr. Jerry Tracy?”

  “Yes. Let’s have it!”

  Inspector Fitzgerald’s crisp voice came on the wire. “I’ve been trying to get you, Jerry. What’s wrong?”

  “Plenty! Furman and Alice have gone to Hilliard’s Long Island estate with Betty Hilliard and Dunlap. The trip was ostensibly taken to avoid reporters, but I suspect it concerns certain letters which Betty wrote to Dunlap after her marriage.”

  Tracy’s words raced. “Fitz, we’ve got to get there fast, or there
’ll be another murder! A double one this time!”

  “I’ll pick you up with a police car that’ll do eighty.”

  “Swell. Only phone the police air base first. Tell ’em to have an amphibian waiting. The car’ll do as far as North Beach. We’ll need the plane to make up the time we’ve lost.”

  “I’ll handle it!” Fritz growled.

  North beach airport whisked away like a flat, black pancake in the uncertain light of dawn. The police pilot did not climb very high.

  Banking, he gunned the amphibian into bullet-level flight. Fitzgerald and Sergeant Killan were packed uncomfortably together, with Jerry Tracy crouched between their knees.

  The hills and coves of Long Island’s north shore raced swiftly astern. Tracy stared ahead through the moonlit darkness, watching for the narrow entrance to the inlet where Hilliard’s country home was located. Speed sang in his blood. The wild automobile race north ward through Manhattan and across the Triborough Bridge—that was nothing compared to this!

  Suddenly he pointed. A shaggy headland was shouldering the darkness straight ahead.

  The plane curved outward from the shore, banking and slackening its speed in preparation for a water landing. The pilot was taking no chance with the cove entrance beyond the headland. He planned to taxi through on the surface of the water.

  But a yell from Jerry Tracy changed the pilot’s mind. Fitz, too, was pointing. A lengthening streak of foam showed on the surface of the water where the cove joined the sound. A dark speedboat was fleeing eastward toward Greenport and the open sea.

  It was a fast streamlined craft with a knife bow, but it was no match for the police flying boat. The amphibian overhauled it with the ease of a dropping hawk. It roared less than twenty feet above the cruiser. Tracy, peering, saw the blurred faces of Betty Hilliard and Ken Dunlap.

  Betty seemed to be tied hand and foot. Dunlap was free. He was springing to the engine controls, slowing the boat’s mad speed. The amphibian curved into the wind and landed with a shower of spray. Its momentum carried it alongside the drifting boat.

  Sergeant Killan risked a ducking with a wide, reckless leap. He was on his feet instantly in the rocking craft, his gun pointed at the tense figure of Dunlap. There was a fishing knife in Dunlap’s hand.