“Nevertheless….” MacBride’s hand moved toward the row of buttons on the desk.
Duveen snapped, “Kid!”
“Up high, Cap!” hissed a voice at the window.
MacBride swivelled. A rat-faced runt was leaning in through the open window, an automatic trained on the captain.
Duveen ran to the window, stepped out. There was an economy of words. With a leer, the rat-faced man disappeared.
MacBride yanked his gun, blew a whistle.
The reserves, Moriarity and Cohen came on the run. They swept out, guns drawn.
But the city swallowed Duveen and his gunman.
MacBride took the blow silently, choking down his chagrin.
“Did he wear a gray suit?” asked Moriarity.
“Yes,” muttered MacBride. “Block all city exits, place men in the railroad station. Tell Headquarters to inform all outlying precincts and booths, motorcycle and patrol flivvers, Duveen’s in town. What I can’t understand is, why the hell he came strolling in here?”
“Crust, Cap. Duveen’s got more gall, more nerve, than any bum I know of. Probably came looking for information.”
“Yes, and I pulled a bone,” confessed MacBride. “I should have played him a while, drawn him out. But seeing him here, I wanted to get the clamps on him right away. He had no gun—he’s wise. But he had a gunman planted outside the window. If I can get him, get this Trixie Meloy gal to identify him as the man walked down Holly Street toward the roadster, we can crash his alibi. We know he couldn’t have fired the shot, but it’s likely one of his rats was planted on the roof, and Duveen was on hand to see things went off as per schedule.”
An hour later the telephone rang.
“MacBride?”
The captain thought fast. “No. You want him?”
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute.”
MacBride dived into the central room, barked, “Sergeant, call the telephone exchange— quick—see where this guy’s calling from.”
The sergeant whipped into action, had the report in less than a minute. “Booth number three at the railroad waiting room.”
“Good. Call the Information Desk at the railroad. Cohen’s there. Tell him to nab the guy comes out of booth three. Fast!”
The sergeant put the call through, snapped a brief order to Detective Cohen.
MacBride was on the way back into his office. He stood before the desk, looked at his watch. He would give Cohen two minutes. The two minutes ticked off. He picked up the instrument, drawled “MacBride speaking.”
“Just a tip, MacBride. Your station-house is going to be blown up. If you’re clever, you’ll get the guys. Sometime tonight.”
That was all.
MacBride hung up, sat back, his fists clenched, his eyes glued on the instrument.
V
Who was the man behind the voice? Who was he double-crossing, and why?
MacBride went into the central room, called out four reserves. “Look here, boys,” he said. “I’ve got a tip somebody’s going to try to blow up this place. One of you at each end of the block, the other two in the back. Let no machines come through the street. No people, either. Make ‘em detour. Anybody around the back, pick him up. Anybody tries to hand you an argument, get rough. All right, go to it.”
He went back into his office, clasped his hands behind his back and paced the floor.
Twenty minutes later the door opened. Cohen came in with a man. The man was a little disarranged. His natty clothes were dusty and his modish neckwear was askew. His derby had a dent in it, and wrath smoldered in his black eyes.
Slim and lithe he was, olive skinned, with long, trick sideburns that put him in the category familiarly known as “Sheik.”
Cohen’s explanation was simple. “He tried to argue, Cap.”
MacBride rubbed his hands together briskly. The mysterious informant was in his hands. His enormous bluff, recently put into print, that he had a valuable suspect in connection with the murder of Bedell, had worked out admirably.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I’m not telling,” snapped the high-strung stranger, struggling for dignity.
“I want to thank you for those tips,” went on MacBride, “but I want to know more. Now cut out the nonsense.”
“I’m not telling,” reiterated the stranger. “It was a dirty trick, getting me this way. If those guys knew I’d been tipping you off, my life wouldn’t be worth a cent.”
“You tell me your name,” proceeded MacBride, “and I’ll promise to keep your name mum until the whole show is over.”
“That’s out. I don’t want your promise. I didn’t do anything. I’m not a gangster. I was just trying to help you out and keep my name out of it at the same time. It wouldn’t do you any good to hold me. I’ve got no record. I didn’t do anything.”
MacBride told him to sit down, then said, “I’m sorry we had to grab you, buddy, but I’ve got a lot to answer for, and I’ve no intentions of getting tough with you. Just come across.”
The man was losing his dignity rapidly. His black eyes darted about feverishly, his fingers writhed, his breath came in short little gasps. Fear was flickering across his face, not fear of MacBride, but of something or someone else. Mixed with the fear was a hint of anguish.
“Please,” he pleaded, “let me go. My God, if I’d thought it would come to this, that I’d be picked up, have my name spread around, I’d never have tipped you off. Give me a chance, Captain. Let me go. I told you this place is going to be blown up tonight.”
“Who’s going to blow it up?”
“Don’t make me tell that! God, don’t. I guess I’ve been a fool, but I—I—Oh, hell!” He choked on a hoarse sob. “I told you what’s going to happen. Lay for them. Get them when they try to blow you up. You’ll learn everything then.”
“Why have you been tipping me off?”
“I—for many reasons. A grudge, but behind the grudge—something else. It’s been driving me crazy. Haven’t been able to sleep. I was going to kill—but—I didn’t.” He raised his hands and shook them. “I’m lost, Captain, if you keep me, if you let loose who tipped you off. Dear God, give me a break—won’t you?”
He leaned forward, extending his hands, pleading with his dark eyes, his face lined with agony.
MacBride bit him with an unwavering stare. What tragedy was in this fellow’s life? He was sincere, that was certain. Something terrible was gnawing at his soul, making of him a shivering, palsied wreck, pleading eloquently for mercy.
“I don’t want anybody to know I’ve been in this,” he hurried on. “It’s not only my life’s at stake, it’s something else—something bigger and deeper. Don’t make me explain. I can’t. Isn’t it enough I warned you about this—this bombing?”
MacBride looked down at the desk, tapped his fingers meditatively. Then he looked up. “I’ll give you a break,” he said. “I’m going to lock you up for the night. If I get the men I want, you slide out quietly, and my mysterious informant remains a mystery. That’s a promise. If Cohen here can find a Bible, I’ll swear on it.”
“Not a Bible in the whole dump,” said Cohen.
The stranger was on his feet. “You promise, Captain? You will promise me that?”
“I’ve promised,” nodded MacBride.
“Thanks. God, thanks! I’ve heard you were a hard-boiled egg. I—I didn’t expect—”
“Pipe down. Ike,” he said to Cohen, “lock him up and keep your jaw tight about what’s just happened.”
Cohen took the man out, and MacBride leaned back to sigh and light a fresh cigar, musing, “Maybe I ought to get kicked in the pants for making that promise. But I think the guy’s hard-hit.”
Half an hour later he was visited by State’s Attorney Krug. Krug was pompous. “What are the latest developments, Captain?”
“Got some dope this joint is going to be blown up. You better get on your way.”
Krug’s eyes dilated. “Blown up!�
��
“Right.”
“Then why don’t you clear out?”
“See me clearing out for a lot of bums like that!”
“But this fellow you’ve got—this mystery man. Hadn’t you better get him out of here? Don’t you realize that it is possible they intend blowing up the place so that the man will be exterminated? Dead, he can give no evidence. I say, Captain, you ought to turn him over to me. Consider that I am eager to start a trial. We can use him, put the blame on him temporarily, at least make some headway. Come, now.”
MacBride shook his head. “Nothing doing, Mr. Krug.”
“This,” stormed Krug, indignantly, “is monstrous!”
“If I were you, I’d get out of the neighborhood. Hell knows when these birds will show up. You don’t want to follow in Bedell’s footsteps, do you?”
“Damn my stars, you are impossible!” With that Krug banged out.
The echoes of his departure had barely died when Kennedy wandered in.
“How about some more news, Mac?”
“Thanks for mentioning my name so much in your write-up,” replied MacBride. “When there’s more news, you’ll get it.”
“Meaning there’s none now.”
“How clever you are!”
“Applesauce!”
“On your way, Kennedy.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“You won’t be if you hang around here much longer. Now cut out the boloney, old timer. I’m busy, there’s no news, and you’re in my way.”
Kennedy regarded him whimsically. “When you talk that way, Mac, I know there’s something in the wind. All right, I’ll toddle along.” He coughed behind his hand. “By the way, I intended buying some smokes on the way over, but—”
MacBride hauled out his cigar box, and Kennedy, helping himself to a cigar, sniffed it as he sauntered to the door.
“I wish you’d keep ‘em a little moist, Mac,” he ventured.
He was gone before MacBride could throw him a verbal hot-shot.
The captain put on his visored cap, strode into the central room, looked around and then went out into the street. At the corner he paused for a brief chat with the policemen stationed there.
“Everything okay, boys?”
“So far, Cap.”
“Keep a sharp lookout. If it comes, it will come suddenly.”
The men nodded, fingering their nightsticks gingerly. A street light shone on their brass buttons, on their polished shields. Beneath their visors, their faces were tense and alert.
MacBride made a tour of the block, and then through the alley in the rear. Everything was calm, every man was in readiness. They spoke in voices a trifle bated. They exuded an air of tense expectancy, peering keenly into the shadows, moving on restless feet.
As MacBride swung back into the central room he almost banged into the desk sergeant.
“Just about to call you, Cap,” the sergeant puffed. “Holstein and Gunther just picked up a touring car with three guys, and a machine-gun and half-a-dozen grenades.”
“Where?” MacBride shot back.
“Down near the railroad yards. They were coming north and stopped to fix a flat. Holstein and Gunther are bringing ‘em in.”
“Good!” exploded MacBride, and punched a hole in the atmosphere. “By George, that’s good.”
Moriarity and Cohen were grinning. “Looks like them guys got one bum break,” chuckled Moriarity.
“Sure does, boys!”
MacBride strode up and down the room grinning from ear to ear. He kept banging fist into palm boisterously. He was elated.
A little later there was a big touring car outside, and a deal of swearing and rough-housing. MacBride went out, and found Holstein and Gunther manhandling three roughnecks. Kennedy was there, having popped up from nowhere.
“Knew something was in the wind, Mac,” he chortled.
“You’ll get plenty of headlines now, Kennedy,” flung back the captain.
Patrolman Gunther said, “Nasty mutts, these guys, Cap. One of ‘em tried to pull his rod and I opened his cheek.”
“G’ on, yuh big louse!” snarled that guy.
“I’ll shove your teeth down your throat!” growled Gunther, raising his stick.
“All inside,” clipped MacBride.
The roughs were bustled into the central room. A reserve carried in the grenades and the machine-gun. There was a noticeable lack of politeness on the part of the three gangsters. Also, there was noticeable lack of gentleness on the part of the policemen. One of the gunmen, a big, surly towhead, was loudest of all, despite the gash on his cheek. He started to make a pass at Gunther, but MacBride caught him by the shoulder, spun him around and slammed him down upon a chair.
“That’ll be all from you, Hess,” he ripped out warmly. “I guess we’re near the bottom of things now.”
“Who is he?” asked Kennedy.
“ ‘Slugger’ Hess, Duveen’s strong-arm man.”
“Hot diggity damn!”
“Now where’s Duveen?” MacBride flung at Hess. “I want that guy. Every damn gangster in this burg is going to get treated rough. Now you come clean or you get the beating of your life!”
“And I’d like to do it, Cap,” put in Gunther.
“Yah, yuh big hunk of tripe!” snarled Hess.
“Can that!” barked MacBride. “Where’s Duveen?”
Hess was not soft-boiled. Despite the roomful of policemen, he stuck out his jaw. “Go find him, Captain. You can’t bulldoze me, neither you nor that pup Gunther!”
“Where’s Duveen?” MacBride had a dangerous look in his eyes, and his doubled fists were swinging at his sides.
“You heard me the first time.”
Gunther flexed his hands. “Should I sweat him, Cap?”
“Sweat the three of them,” said MacBride. “In my office. Ike, Jake, you’ll help,” he added to Moriarity and Cohen.
Eager hands took hold of the three gangsters and propelled them toward MacBride’s office.
But before they reached the door there was a terrific explosion, and the walls billowed and crashed.
VI
Stone, splinters, plaster, beams thundered down. Yells and screams commingled with the tumult of toppling walls and ceilings. Lights were snuffed out. The roof, or what remained of it, boomed down. There were cries for help, groans, oaths. Tongues of flame leaped about, crackling.
MacBride found himself beneath a beam, an upturned table, and an assortment of other debris. Near him somebody was swearing violently.
“That you, Jake?”
“Yeah, Cap … if I can get this damn hunk of ceiling off my chest….”
MacBride squirmed, twisted, heaved. He jackknifed his legs and knocked aside the table. He brushed powdered plaster from his eyes, spat it from his mouth. The beam was harder. It was wedged down at both ends by other weighty debris, and MacBride could not shove it off.
But he twisted his body from side to side, backed up bit by bit, finally won free and stood up. His face was bloody, the sleeve of his right arm was torn from shoulder to elbow. He did not know it. He stumbled toward the pinioned Moriarity, freed him from the weighty debris pressing upon him and helped him to the sidewalk.
Going back in, he ran into Cohen. Ike was carrying a semi-conscious desk sergeant.
A crowd had already gathered. People came on the run from all directions. Somebody had pulled the fire-alarm down the block. The flames were growing. From a crackling sound they had been whipped into a dull roar.
Two battered but otherwise able policemen came out and MacBride sent them to chase away the crowd. Blocks away fire-engines were clanging, sirens were screaming. The policemen fought with the crowd, drove it back down the street. MacBride and Cohen were busy carrying out those they were able to pry from beneath the debris.
The first fire-engine came booming around the corner, snorted to a stop, bell clanging. Hel-meted fire-fighters with drawn axes ran for the building. A couple of flashlights
blinked. The big searchlight on the fire-engine swung around and played its beams on the demolished station-house. The firemen stormed into the mass of wreckage, hacked their way through to the pinioned men.
MacBride plowed back into the cell where the mysterious stranger had been placed a few hours before. He had trouble finding him. The man was deep beneath the wreckage. MacBride ran out, got an axe and came back to chop his way through. He carried out a limp dead weight.
Other engines came roaring upon the scene. There was a din of ringing bells, hooting motors, loud commands. Hose was being strung out. Streams of water began shooting upon the building, roaring and hissing. A grocery store down the street was used to shelter the injured men, all of whom had been taken from the building. An ambulance was on the way.
MacBride and Cohen were bending over the stranger. He was a mass of bruises, scarce able to breathe, let alone talk.
“Guess … I’m … dying,” he whispered, his eyes closed, his body twitching with pain.
“The hell you are!” said MacBride. “We’ll have an ambulance here in a minute.”
“Don’t… tell.” He struggled for breath, then choked. “Two ten … Jockey Street…. Get ‘em!” Then he fainted.
One of the gangsters was dead. The two others had escaped in the wild melee.
Kennedy was alive, though pretty much the worse for wear. He was hatless, covered with soot and grime, one eyes closed, a welt on his forehead. He limped, too, but he was not daunted.
“What next, Mac?”
MacBride turned. “God, Kennedy, you look rotten!”
“Feel rotten. I’d like to find the guy put his heel on my eye. I’m out of smokes. Who’s got a butt?”
Moriarity had one.
The battalion chief for the fire department came up. “Hello, Mac. Bomb, eh? Yeah, I know. I’ve just been around. It was pitched through a window in the back.” He looked up. “Good-bye, station-house, Mac!”
Even as he said this the front swayed, caved in with a smother of smoke, cinders and flame. Firemen rushed to escape the deluge. The hose lines pounded the place with water.
Detective Cohen appeared, with a bad wrist—his left hand.
The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps Page 137
