by Unknown
She shook her head. Her dark eyes never left his for an instant. They were deep, unsmiling, very lovely. “How about you, Jerry? You’re in this thing yourself.”
“I’m okey. Fitz knows about most of it already. Thank God it was Fitz’ bullet that finished Emil. I’m in the clear. So are you, if you beat it right away—before a lot of reporters come smelling around like a pack of hungry hyenas.”
“There’s a fire escape in the rear,” Inspector Fitzgerald suggested dryly. “If you both want to do a quick fade, it’s all right with me. I can use all the credit this case is worth. I’ll tell the news-hounds I broke this case on an anonymous tip.… You’ve got about two minutes if you two want to dodge headlines.”
“Thanks, Fitz,” Tracy muttered. “You’re a prince.”
He seized the dancer’s arm, hurried her to the rear of the apartment. The window was still open. He swung her slim weight up in his arms and helped her to the fire-escape platform. In the darkness there was nothing visible except the blank brick wall opposite and the shadowy dimness of a backyard far below.
They stood there for an instant in the darkness—a couple of clear-eyed square shooters. Human to the core, both of them.
“Why did you pretend to be such a rotten little tramp, Lois? You deliberately made me think you were out to frame your own mother.”
She nodded ruefully. “The mule in me, Jerry. I was playing it close for a showdown; letting whoever was in it think it was running all their way. I was trying desperately for a lead, but I was almost ready to call a copper when you barged in. You made me damned mad for one thing. You called me dirt right off the bat. Remember? I won’t take that from anyone.
“For another thing, what you did gave me more time. And I was hurt enough and stubborn enough to want to go on playing it my way without you. Of course I was wrong and rotten. I knew it all the time. Well, that’s me.”
Lois Malloy drew a deep breath.
“It was really Sweetie’s own idea for me to live alone. She wanted me to prove myself—alone. She was always ready to step in, if I—I seemed to be failing.”
“Failing?” Jerry whispered huskily. “I never want to meet anyone finer than you, Lois. You and Sweetie make a grand pair of thoroughbreds.”
He swung her impulsively towards him. His voice was suddenly eager, boyish. “How would you like to drive out to the suburbs—right now? Is it a go? We’ll pick up a birthday cake—”
“And some birthday candles—”
“And we’ll give Sweetie the best damned—”
“Oh, Jerry … Come on—hurry!”
Murder on the Gayway
Dwight V. Babcock
DWIGHT V(INCENT) BABCOCK (1909–1979) was born in Ida Grove, Iowa, but lived in Southern California from childhood. Before becoming a full-time writer, Babcock worked as a banjo player, piano tuner, vice president of a grape juice company, and owner of a service station.
His first stories were sold to pulp magazines, including Black Mask when it was published by Joseph Shaw, who then became Babcock’s agent. He wrote three novels, all of which were about Joe Kirby, as ordinary as his name, and Hannah Van Doren, who was anything but ordinary. A feature writer for crime magazines, she searches for stories, “the gorier the better, and with a sex angle if possible,” and is known as “the Gorgeous Ghoul.” She has the face of an angel but drinks “like a fish.” The three novels about “Homicide Hannah” are A Homicide for Hannah (1941), The Gorgeous Ghoul (1941), and Hannah Says Foul Play (1946).
Having achieved only moderate success with his novels, Babcock turned to screenwriting and became a prolific author of motion pictures, including Road to Alcatraz (1945), The Corpse Came C.O.D. (1947), and several low-budget horror films, and an active TV writer, with scripts for scores of popular programs to his credit, including The Lone Ranger, Dick Tracy, The Adventures of Kit Carson, The Roy Rogers Show, Racket Squad, The Adventures of Ellery Queen, Adventures of Superman, and Hawaii Five-0.
“Murder on the Gayway” was published in the October 1939 issue.
Murder on the Gayway
Dwight V. Babcock
A knifer mingled in the crowd at Treasure Island’s Nude Ranch. Guess who it was before Beek does!
Y DOGS WERE KILLING me when I reached the car. I’d have bet I walked a hundred miles, seeing the Fair in one day. I climbed into my coupé, unlaced my shoes, kicked them off and sat back wiggling my toes, sighing with the ecstasy of relief. After that I got a cigarette going and settled down to wait for Mac.
It was a little after midnight and there was a balmy summer breeze blowing in from the Golden Gate. My Zephyr was in the parking space at the north end of Treasure Island, and from where I sat in it I could see the lights of San Francisco across the water to my right and the lights of Berkeley and Oakland twinkling off to my left.
Most of Treasure Island was still lighted up too, and at night like that, with the buildings bathed in all the different colors, it looked like fairyland—though about all I could see of it from this dark end of the island was the tall spire of the Tower of the Sun. The exhibit halls had all closed at ten p.m., but the Gayway was still going strong, its lights and its noise reaching back here from a distance.
What was left of the crowd was on the Gayway. It didn’t look as if there were many cars remaining on the lot, but that was because they had thinned out, were sprinkled far and wide over the approximate hundred acres of parking grounds. Two men and a girl had come from the direction of the Gayway into the parking grounds, and having nothing better to do I watched them approach.
One of the men was so fat he waddled, and the girl was between him and the other guy. They each had hold of one of her arms and were walking her along as if she’d had one too many and wasn’t able to navigate without help. It wasn’t till they passed right in front of the Zephyr that I caught on there was more to it than that.
I heard the girl say in a fierce whisper, “Let me go!” and realized she was struggling against the grip the two had on her arms. I acted instinctively, leaned forward and switched on the headlights. Caught in the glare, the men’s heads jerked up and around and their stride faltered.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, sticking my head out the side window—and my nose into something that probably wasn’t any of my business, a bad habit of mine.
“Nothing,” the nearest one answered in an annoyed tone, and I recognized his face as the light hit it.
He wasn’t the fat one, and his name was Art Vogelsang. I’d run into him off and on when I’d worked the police beat for the Tribune in past years. He’d been a runner for a crooked shyster then, until the lawyer got himself disbarred. Then he’d worked for a bail-bond broker who was later tried and convicted as a fence. Vogelsang had slipped out from under both times, and I didn’t know what he was doing now. But I did know he was a smoothie, an opportunist who worked on the shady side of the law.
“Hold it,” I said. “I’ve got a gun here. Are you sure everything’s all right, miss?”
I didn’t have a gun, but they stopped just within the beam of light and the girl cried: “No—no, everything’s not all right! These two men are forcing me to go with them!”
She was a tiny trick in a dark tailored suit, a rakish hat with a feather stuck in it at a jaunty angle. She had a round baby face and a turned-up nose. Her eyes were large and glistening in the headlight glare, but she seemed more angry than afraid. The fat man jerked her arm, growled in a deep bass:
“Shut up, you!” He squinted into the light. “She’s drunk. She don’t know what she’s saying. Come on.”
His eyes were almost hidden in his moon face and he had wet blubbery lips. He was built like a gigantic egg. I’d never seen him before that I remembered, and if I had I would have remembered anyone his size.
“Wait,” I said. “I don’t think the girl wants to go with you, fatty. Let go of her. Or would you rather I called some of the Exposition cops?”
Fatty looked at Vogelsang an
d Vogelsang’s teeth made a white glitter as he smiled. He wore tweeds—a lean, sharp-faced blond man with expressionless blue eyes and a clipped mustache. His voice was oily as he said:
“This is all a mistake, brother. The little lady is slightly tipsy. We’re going to see that she gets home safely.”
“I’m not tight,” the girl denied, and stamped one foot indignantly. “Let me go! I don’t want to go with you. Please,” she said, addressing her appeal to me, “make them let me go!”
“O.K.,” I said, and got my teeth into the words. “Let the little lady go. I’ll see that she gets home safely. She don’t seem tight to me, and I’ll take her word against yours anytime, Vogelsang, you cheap chiseler.”
His mouth and eyes tightened down and he tried to see me through the light glare. “Who are you?”
“Never mind that,” I bit out. “Let the girl go or I’m going to start squeezing lead and noise out of this heater and draw a swarm of cops around here.”
He hesitated a moment, standing very tense and still, then tossed his jaw at the fat man and they let go of the girl’s arms. She moved away from them, straightening her jacket with a disdainful jerk of her shoulders.
“Let that be a lesson to you, you heels,” she told them scornfully. “Picking on a lady!”
Vogelsang was still glaring in my direction, but I was pretty sure he couldn’t see me. “You’ll regret this, brother,” he lipped tightly.
“So I’ll regret it,” I said cheerfully. “Scram, you and your fat stooge. Get in your car and highball out of here. If you’re not off the Island in two minutes, I’ll get some law on your tail. Molesting a girl—and she looks like a minor at that. Go on, beat it.”
Vogelsang swung away without another word and, trailed by the waddling fat man, strode off toward a light sedan about twenty yards away. The girl moved around to the right side of my coupé and watched them as they got in their car. The sedan’s motor came to life with a sputtering roar, its lights blinked on and it jerked forward, wheeled around and charged straight at the left side of my Zephyr. Headlight beams caught me in the face and I ducked back. The sedan veered off, went by the tail of the Zephyr in a rush that raised a miniature whirlwind, headed for the outlet along the west edge of the island which led across Yerba Buena to the Bay Bridge.
I watched it go, knowing Vogelsang and his fat partner had seen me and now knew who I was. And I had a feeling in my bones the guy hadn’t been fooling when he’d told me I’d regret interfering.
Swearing at and to myself for the impulse that had made me stick my neck out again, I turned to the girl. She was standing by the open right-hand window and I flicked on the dome light so I could see her. She was pert and doll-faced with large doll-like eyes and hair the color of pine shavings. She looked about seventeen and spoke with the suggestion of a lisp.
“Thanks,” she said, blinking long lashes at me and smiling shyly. “I—I don’t know how to thank you, Mr.…”
“Beeker,” I told her. “Just call me Beek. So what’s your name and who are you and how did it happen those two lugs—”
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head in wide-eyed wonder. “I never saw them before in my life. I—I got separated from my—my friend in the crowd on the Gayway, and those men accosted me and drew me down a dark passageway and made me come out here. I don’t know where they were taking me.”
“Why didn’t you scream?” I asked skeptically.
Her doll-like eyes got even wider. “But I couldn’t! The fat one had a black-jack and he said he’d hit me with it if I let out a peep.”
She was either very dumb, or putting on an act. I reluctantly pulled my shoes back on my aching feet, slid over to her side of the car and got out to stand beside her. “Maybe we’d better go report this at the Exposition Police Headquarters.”
“No!” She said it quickly, almost too quickly, as though a swift stab of fear had forced it out of her. She sent a quick look swinging around the parking area. “I’ll be all right now, I think.”
“Well,” I said, “at least I can help you find your friend. Who is he and where did you get separated from him?”
“In front of the Greenwich Village. I stopped to look at the dancing girls out in front and when I looked around Johnny was gone. He just seemed to have disappeared.”
“Johnny who?” I asked patiently.
“Johnny Foster,” she told me, gazing over toward the Gayway.
The name clicked. “Not the Johnny Foster who’s heir to the Foster sugar millions?”
She looked at me, batting her eyelids. “I—I don’t know. You see, I don’t know him very well.”
“Oh,” I said. “And now, just to get the record more or less complete, suppose you tell me your name.”
She hesitated before answering, glancing around again. “Daisy,” she said then. “Daisy May Huggins. Who’s that coming?”
Her hand had tightened on my arm and she was staring toward the dark back of the Gayway, at a figure who was coming toward us in a fast slouching shuffle.
“That looks like little Mac. Don’t worry, he’s a pal of mine.” I looked down at her. “Daisy May Huggins,” I said. “That’s a pretty name.”
She glanced up sharply, to see if I was kidding her, and I knew she wasn’t as dumb as she was acting. I kept a straight face for her benefit, and then Mac was on us, croaking excitedly:
“Hey, Beek! I found her! I found her!”
“You found who?” I said.
He was a little guy with an oversize Adam’s apple and a thin and crooked face. His moist eyes were usually sad as a setter’s, but now they were lit up and glowing. He waved the newspaper he had clutched in one hand and his Adam’s apple bobbled with excitement.
“The missing Ingraham babe,” he said. “Take a swivel at this.”
He snapped the paper open and thrust it into my hands. In the glow that fell out from the dome light I could see it was a bulldog edition of the Morning Tribune, and a head in midpage read:
HILDEGARDE INGRAHAM TRACED TO SAN FRANCISCO
I’d read the story before. Hildegarde Ingraham, daughter of a wealthy Chicago meat-packer, had disappeared from her home in the Windy City about ten days ago. At first a kidnaping had been suspected, but no ransom notes had been received, and the father had finally offered a reward for her return unharmed, or information as to her whereabouts.
Now, it had been ascertained—on good authority, according to the writeup—that a girl answering Hildegarde’s description had left a trail that led to San Francisco after evidently just running away from home. There was no art with the story; due to an eccentricity of her parents and a fear of kidnapers, they had never allowed her photograph to be taken, either by reporters or in a studio. There was a description of the girl, a brunette of eighteen years.
I looked up and saw that Daisy May had drawn away a little and was watching me silently. I grinned at Mac.
“So what gives, pal?”
“So there’s a reward. And I know where she is! She’s one of the girls in the Nude Ranch. We can put the arm on her and cop off the reward.”
His full name was Adelbert McGillicuddy and he was a former small-time crook with a record, on parole now and trying to go straight. Being sorry for him and not knowing what I was letting myself in for, I’d done him a favor in the past. In return he’d saved my life and attached himself to me like a porous plaster.
He was all right except when temptation was put in his path, and then he weakened very easily. I had a time watching him and keeping him fairly honest. He was a pest sometimes, but he meant well, and I couldn’t get rid of him without hurting his feelings. Besides, I’d learned to really like the little twerp and I owed him something for saving my life, though that couldn’t be worth a hell of a lot.
“So that’s where you’ve been all this time—in the Nude Ranch,” I said, and couldn’t help laughing. “Nuts! What would a gal like this Ingraham kid be doing exhibiting herself in a place like that
?”
“But she is!” Mac was very earnest, his crooked face screwed up into prunelike wrinkles, gesturing volubly with his hands. “Maybe she is one of these here now exhibitionists by nature. Or maybe she run out of dough and had to take this job. This twist is different than the rest. She’s not bad, if I do say so myself, and she’s got something the others ain’t—class and stuff like that there. And she’s young, a brunette, and with a mole on her left upper arm, just like that description in the paper. It’s her, honest to Gawd, Beek. I know it!”
I sighed, shook my head. “Ever since we happened to be lucky enough to knock off that reward for recovering some letters for a gal, you seem to think we’re in the dick business. Every time you read about a reward being offered for something, you start getting ants in your pants. You’re driving me nuts. Drop wise, Mac. This girl isn’t—”
“But, criminy, Beek.” He looked hurt and his voice was wistful. “Five grand, this reward is! And I tell you honest that this is the girl. It wouldn’t hurt none just to take a swivel at her, would it?”
“O.K.,” I agreed, just to humor him. “We’ll take a look. We’ve got to go back that way anyway and help Miss Huggins here find her escort. She got separated from him in the crowd.”
“Oh!” He stared at her as if he hadn’t realized she was there before. He doffed his hat and bobbed his head. “Pleased to meetcha, miss.”
Daisy May smiled at him and I said, “Come on. We’ll see if we can find Johnny and then take a look at this gal in the Nude Ranch.”
he throng was thinning out along the Gayway and the blare and glitter were dying a slow death due to the lateness of the hour. We made one trip up and down its length to see if we could spot Daisy May’s friend Johnny Foster, but it was no dice, so to satisfy Mac and get it over with we turned in at the Nude Ranch.
The Nude Ranch was a long, low building with a rustic, Spanish-type front. In the heart of the Gayway and its most popular attraction, the barkers out front were made up like copies of the Lone Ranger and didn’t have to work very hard to lure customers inside at two bits a crack. The exhibit was coining money.
