Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  He slammed into the back seat and made Payton and the woman move over. “Sorry. Orders!” Tracy said vaguely. “I wanted you to hear the facts about Linda’s death on the way in.”

  “You might have killed us all, officer!” He didn’t reply. He was a little sore that Payton hadn’t recognized him. Jerry didn’t want to be recognized—but after all, he was Jerry Tracy! His sour expression helped the deception along.

  The car got swiftly under way. Butch trailed in Tracy’s car. Tracy went into a careful song and dance, leading delicately to the subject of murder. Payton jumped at the word as if he had been shot.

  “Murder? That’s idiotic!” The woman beside him looked startled, too. But she made no comment. She continued to soothe Payton with the quiet pressure of her hand on his arm. The millionaire’s face was ghastly.

  “Perhaps it might be better to let this detective explain the basis of his theory,” the woman said gently.

  “But, Martha, I’ve known too long—and you have, too—how unhappy and depressed Linda was. She made one unhappy attempt. … ”

  “I know. Try not to think about it.”

  Tracy had been studying the woman’s profile. She was probably five or six years younger than Case Payton. Her voice was nice. No longer young, she was still handsome, with dark hazel eyes and a clear outdoor skin. She suggested beagle hunts and station wagons. When Payton called her Martha, the Daily Planet’s omniscient columnist guessed who she was.

  Martha Nixon. Payton’s nearest Connecticut neighbor. Not in the Payton money bracket, but socially a notch or two above it. Tracy had heard rumors of Payton’s growing interest in this somewhat aloof Miss Nixon. A crusty widower for years, Payton had shown signs of remarriage. Tracy had never been able to verify it for his column. Now, however, he was certain. The shock of his daughter’s death had battered down Payton’s defenses. His eyes gave him away. Martha Nixon’s, too.

  Mentally, Tracy filed away a marriage notice for a later column.

  He told them some of his suspicions concerning the suicide set-up in Linda’s apartment. He didn’t mention Paul Voisin. But he did speak of Richard Druse and the latter’s late arrival for Linda’s last and tragic tête-à-tête dinner.

  Payton growled at the mention of Druse. But it was contempt rather than anger. To Payton, Druse was obviously a cardboard nonentity, a penniless, good-looking nuisance. He dismissed Tracy’s murder suspicion as fantastic nonsense.

  “I don’t want any police sensation made out of this,” he muttered thickly. “I’m satisfied that Linda took her own life. She was terribly neurotic. If she had—waited, had only trusted to my judgment!” His harsh voice broke.

  Martha Nixon patted his clenched hand. “Try not to think about it, dear.”

  “No. Let me talk, please! I wanted Linda to marry Voisin. It would’ve been a perfect marriage, but I couldn’t make Linda see it. She signed the marriage contract just to please me. I knew that. But I thought—well, what does it matter now what I thought? Linda is dead by her own hand! And Paul, who is a civilized gentleman, has been drawn into an unfortunate mess through no fault of mine or his.”

  Tracy clucked sympathetically. But he shot in a couple of innocent questions about the elegant Monsieur Voisin. He learned that Paul was sitting pretty financially, regardless of the tragedy. Voisin had stipulated in the contract that he should receive the full dowry, even if the marriage failed to take place. The only bar was moral turpitude or misstatements about his family or social position.

  It was something to think about. But Tracy had more immediate things to worry him. Having failed to shake Payton’s certainty of suicide, Tracy was anxious to get away from the millionaire’s car before his fake role of plainclothes cop was revealed.

  He didn’t get a chance for a discreet sneak. At the city line two motorcycle cops were waiting to provide a fast escort into town for the bereaved father. Both of them knew Tracy. So he huddled back in the darkness of the rear seat, cursing his luck.

  His luck, having changed, ran out fast. When Payton’s limousine halted finally in front of Linda’s apartment house, the first face Tracy saw was the red, ugly phiz of Inspector Carlson! Carlson had come downstairs to interview the doorman. He stepped respectfully to the curb and assisted Cass Payton and Martha Nixon to alight.

  There was nothing for Tracy to do but to get out, too.

  Carlson went speechless with fury as he saw the dapper little scandal columnist of the Daily Planet. He made up for the delay when the yell finally burst from his fat throat.

  “Why, you damned little rat! I told you to get out of this case and stay out! What the hell are you doing in that car? Has he been bothering you. Mr. Payton?”

  “Bothering me? Isn’t he a police detective? Didn’t you send him out to question me?”

  “Now wait a minute,” Tracy began.

  Carlson grabbed him by the neck. “Detective, hell! This little sewer rat is Jerry Tracy! I threw him out when he tried to twist a suicide case into a sensational murder yarn for that gutter sheet of his. Too bad, Tracy! I’ve been waiting for a break like this. Impersonating a police officer is a criminal offense. I’m going to drop-kick your tail into a cell.”

  “Did I tell you that I was a police officer?” Tracy asked Cass Payton.

  “No, but—” Payton choked wrathfully. “You showed me a police badge!”

  “I showed you this.”

  Tracy twisted in Carlson’s grasp and yanked out his special deputy’s badge.

  “I told Payton nothing. He did all the talking. I can’t help it if he made a bum guess. But I can help it if you’re stupid enough to toss me in a cell. You’re as wide open as usual, Carlson. Pull up your zipper!”

  Martha Nixon intervened with a worried murmur. News photographers were shoving through the crowd. Payton and Miss Nixon retreated hurriedly into the apartment house. With a gulp of rage Carlson flung Tracy spinning. He followed Payton.

  Butch was parked discreetly half a block away in Tracy’s car.

  “You should’ve given Carlson the one-two,” Butch growled.

  “Shut up and get going!”

  “Where to?”

  Tracy told him. Butch grinned with cold anticipation as the big car hummed along at a fast clip.

  “Swell! I gotta bone to pick with this Wahsang guy. Lemme handle him for yuh. The guy must be a crook, with that alias of his!”

  “Alias? What are you talking about?”

  “Mush Ear. Ain’t that what you called him? Mush Ear Wahsang.”

  Tracy chuckled. He lost some of his tension.

  “You stay in the car. I’ll take care of Mush Ear.”

  Monsieur Voisin lived in an impressive building in a very impressive neighborhood. But Tracy had no trouble getting past the hired help. Quite the contrary. The mere mention of his name eased him up swiftly in an onyx and gold elevator. Mr. Tracy was expected. But definitely!

  Voisin himself opened the door. He was all alone. He looked amiable and very continental in a Japanese house-robe, knotted neatly over dinner clothes. But there was nothing French about his talk. That was pure American.

  “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  Voisin shrugged. The waxed mustache ends lifted sardonically.

  “Apples. Marbles. Whatever you want to call it. I expected you, of course. I was awkward enough to cause you some annoyance when I bumped into you earlier this evening. For that minor annoyance I am prepared to pay.”

  His cool effrontery annoyed Tracy. “This isn’t France, boy friend. Over here the newspaper racket is dirty, but honest.”

  “How about five thousand? Dollars, naturally. Not francs.”

  “Did Linda send for you tonight, or did you sneak in through the cellar on your own hook?”

  “Let’s not haggle on the price. Ten thousand!”

  “Linda might have called off the marriage,” Tracy rasped, “and you bumped her to get the dough in a hurry. Either that, or there was something yo
u were afraid might queer the legal payoff of the marriage contract. Payton let drop the fact that you collect whether you do the altar walk or not. There’s a rotten egg somewhere in the nest! I can smell it, even if I can’t locate it.”

  Voisin lost his amused composure. He was a big man but very light on his feet. Tracy ducked backward, and they glowered warily at each other. The silence magnified the sound of a key in the front door. Tracy suspected a planned ruse and kept his eyes on Voisin. But one glance told him the Frenchman was as rattled as he was by the unexpected visitor. Voisin’s face went white, then a fiery red.

  “You know better than this, Julie! Get out!”

  Julie came in. Her laughter was softly indulgent.

  “No need for you to look so stern, Paul. I ’ave need of a small amount of money.” She consulted a soiled slip of paper in her gloved hand. “Feety-five dollars and twenty cent.”

  She was a lot Frenchier than Voisin. She had the overlarge eyes, the small chin, the dusky pallor of the Parisienne. Tracy guessed that Julie’s bosom would match her eyes. He chalked up a win as she languidly divested herself of her furred wrap. Julie was amused by Tracy’s frankly slanting gaze.

  Voisin spat something in French.

  “Silly!” Julie said. “The taxi is waiting downstairs. Please pay him or he will not go ’way. Who is this cute little man? Has he never seen a woman before?”

  Tracy’s heart began to beat fast. Fifty-five twenty was a hell of a big taxi bill! Voisin’s rage had plenty of fear in it. Voisin tried to shut Julie up by fumbling fiercely under his dressing robe for his billfold. Julie wasn’t entirely at ease either. She was breathing a little too fast. She was afraid of Voisin, but she was trying not to let on.

  “You must like taxi riding,” Tracy told her. “Where did you go—Connecticut?”

  The abrupt question startled them both.

  “You will say nothing Julie,” Voisin snapped. “I command it! Go into my bedroom and close the door.”

  “Doe she have a key to that, too?” Tracy ask dryly.

  Voisin cursed. He was obviously itching to get downstairs and get rid of the taxi driver. But he was afraid to leave Tracy alone with Julie. Tracy tried to upset the girl’s cool composure by a bold question about her personal relationship with Voisin. All it got him was a puzzled smile.

  “But, of course! We have mutual living, naturally. Why else would Paul maintain me?”

  “Be quiet!” Paul hissed. “This man is of the newspapers!”

  “Is he then shocked because I am your mistress? But how droll! You go pay my bill, no? I will discuss life with this amusing little man. He is funnee! I theenk I like him.”

  A quick look passed between the two. Voisin hurried from the apartment. Tracy started after him, but Julie stopped that.

  She had an unexpectedly strong grip. Her hands, Tracy discovered, matched her large eyes, too. There was nothing soft about them. He was wrist-yanked over to the couch. Julie plumped down beside him, still holding.

  He tried, not too fiercely, to free himself. The struggle toppled them over sideways on the couch. Julie giggled.

  “Ah no, M’sieu! That ees not nice!”

  But she didn’t let go. She flung a leg across Tracy to help anchor him, a very nice leg. Tracy was amazed at her savage strength. He was also amazed at his growing reluctance to escape. It took will power to keep thinking about that taxicab downstairs.

  Suddenly Tracy began to laugh. He ducked his head and kissed Julie. He made it convincing enough for her to let go of one of his hands. The moment he got the hand free, he violated one of the Marquis of Queensbury rules. Julie recoiled with a shocked squeal.

  Tracy bounded off the couch and raced from the apartment, his face red.

  He didn’t bother waiting for the elevator. He went down the fire stairs with reckless, thumping leaps. When he reached the sidewalk there was no sign of Julie’s taxicab. Or of Paul Voisin.

  Or Butch, either!

  Butch’s idiotic disappearance with Tracy’s car made the Daily Planet’s angry columnist madder than a hornet. He tried to find out something about it from the doorman. But the lad in the admiral’s uniform was vaguer than a fog. He had a smug, a ten-dollar grin on his face.

  There was a parked taxi up the street. Tracy headed for it on the run. Here he had better luck. The hackman was a company driver from one of the big fleets. He had seen the other cab race away and he was pretty sore about it. It had almost sliced off his fender. What’s more, it was a damn Independent! He began to orate profanely on the subject of owner-driven taxis.

  Tracy calmed him with five bucks.

  “Did you get the bum’s number?”

  “I sure did!”

  He fished into the pocket of his sheepskin coat and pulled out a crumpled hunk of paper.

  “I figured I’d prob’ly run into the louse later on somewhere, and I wanted to make sure I’d get the right guy. So I wrote down his license. Believe you me, mister, I’ll show him a couple of traffic tricks that will scorch his tool chest. I’ll hook his engine out from under his hood!”

  “Did you see anything of a fat-headed lug with big ears, driving an expensive private job?” Tracy asked.

  But the cabbie hadn’t seen Butch.

  “I jist got here a few minutes ago, Bee? I’m jist hardly parked when this Independent hacker scoots off like I old you. Somebody from the apartment handed him a big, juicy bunch of bills—and the guy whoops off like an Indian. Believe you me, mister, I—”

  Tracy didn’t wait to hear any more. He had copied down the license number of the cabby who had driven Julie somewhere to the tune of fifty-five twenty. To Tracy it sounded like Connecticut.

  He walked down the avenue, his eyes peeled for some sign of the truant Butch. But his thoughts remained grimly on that sexy gal friend of Paul Voisin’s. He remembered her strong, sinewy hands, the tigerish way she had pinioned him on the couch. Julie hadn’t wanted Tracy to find out where she had been, any more than Voisin had.

  For the second time during this frustrated evening Tracy felt himself stabbed with an electric shock of blind certainty. It was better than a clue or a deduction. It was a Grade A hunch!

  He thought about another murder—one that couldn’t possibly be a suicide! He considered anew the case of the mortorcycle cop who had been bumped on a lonely stretch of highway near the city line. When Tracy had first earned about the cop killing, it had been merely something to sweep off the front page to make room for the Linda Payton case. Now he was ablaze with the instinctive feeling that there was a definite connection between the two tragedies.

  If Julie had made a swift journey to Connecticut, she must have traversed that lonely stretch where the cop’s skull had been battered to bloody paste by a halted motorist. Tracy had hitherto taken it for granted that the killer was a man. But a woman desperate with ear could have done the job just as easily. More easily! A cop, leaning forward to write out a summons for speeding, would have no suspicion of peril. A wrench over the skull would drop him in a heap at the edge of the road. Then a flurry of silken legs, a woman bending over the inert victim, smashing, battering. …

  If Julie’s Connecticut trip was linked somehow with the “suicide” of Linda Payton, she’d be afraid to let that cop stay alive! His testimony later on might place Julie in a spot where she dared not allow her identity to be established.

  It sounded like feeble motivation for a savage murder, but Tracy was convinced he was on the right track. Julie had just about time enough to poison Linda and dash up to Connecticut and back. But would she kill a cop under the eyes of a hired cab driver? Even if the guy was paid off later, Julie was sticking her neck into some nasty blackmail. And why was Voisin so thunderstruck when she showed up at his apartment to borrow money for the cab bill? Hadn’t Voisin known where she had gone?

  Tracy was so grimly absorbed with his whys and wherefores that he didn’t hear the whine of an automobile racing along the curb behind him. His only warning was
the staccato crashing of bullets. He felt his hat jump from his head. A hot wind tugged at the cloth peak of his tailored shoulder. Then he was down on his face, scrabbling desperately to flatten himself closer to the sidewalk.

  In Tracy’s frightened brain was the confused blur of a fast-moving shadowy car out of which orange streaks had stabbed with hammer-like concussions. He rolled over as he heard the car race for the next corner. It took the turn in a dry skid, rubber shrieking. Tracy was too shaken up to identify the dark, faceless blob hunched over the wheel. But the car itself was easily distinguishable as it vanished down the side street. It was a Ford V8.

  Tracy didn’t remember picking up his lost hat. The thing was in his hand somehow, as he ran onward toward the corner. He could feel the bunched felt, and a small, warmish hole under his fingertip. He kept thinking perversely about the hat. He had paid a lot for it. The brim had just suited him. …

  He almost ran headlong into a man as he raced around the corner. The man was panting. He could hardly talk.

  “What happened?” he gasped. “I heard shooting and—”

  He was a young man, with pale blue eyes and tight, curly hair, the color of hemp. Tracy looked past him. He saw a car parked midway down the street, its engine quietly purring. It was a Ford V8. The sight of the car and the pale, breathless face of Richard Druse made Tracy want to grab him by the neck. But he didn’t. He got as cold as ice inside. He uttered a brief, metallic laugh that hurt his throat.

  “Next time aim lower! You might have better luck.”

  “You’re crazy,” Druse said faintly.

  “That’s your Ford, isn’t it?”

  “So what? I had just parked it there when the other guy zoomed past. He had a Ford, too. They’re not exactly an exclusive make. Maybe the guy was in the low-price group, like me.”

  Druse was losing some of his tension. Tracy stayed tight.

  “I don’t suppose you saw the guy’s face?”

  “No. I was just stepping out of my car when I heard the shots. He went past my back like a whirlwind.”