by Jerry Sohl
"Say, these are the guys in Union City Hospital. They have the—whatever it is."
"And I just thought of something else, Hal . . . These guys are men!"
Are you kidding? What did you expect. A blonde?"
"No, it was just—it was a fleeting thought."
"What am I supposed to find out, Trav?"
"I was coming to that. I want you to find out if either-Sansona or Kronansky has been in, around or near 1722 Winthrop Street—you must know by this time about the laboratory burning down."
"I saw it all in this morning's paper. I read about you, too."
"Haven't had time to read it myself."
"When and where am I supposed to call you? Or maybe we ought to meet so I can collect that drink you're offering-"
"Listen, remember that joint on Empire Street? Laughing Boy Tavern?"
"That dump?"
"Well, it's near where we'll be."
"The best drink in there only costs two bits."
"I'll buy you two, then. Meet you there at, say five o'clock. O.K.?"
"O.K., O.K. I'll see you."
Travis paid his respects to Hiram Peaslip who had kept at least one ear open to the conversation. The old man just grunted. Travis walked out.
At a corner newsstand he bought a copy of the Star, read the account of two mysterious deaths and the encounter he had with a pretty blonde who had murder in her heart for an old man. There was no news yet about the three new cases. Then he made his way to the office of Dutch McCoy.
The gambler transacted his business from an unpretentious office in a downtown building—at least it looked unpretentious to the average visitor. But Travis was familiar with its microphones, peepholes and bulletproof doors.
The bright young men with the slick hair, the knowing eyes and the bulges gave him no trouble. He got by them and into Dutch's office in record time.
"Phillip Gibbs!" Dutch grunted from behind his desk, extending a pudgy hand in greeting. "The knows-all, sees all and tells-everything. Sit down. Have a cigar."
"No thanks." Travis sat down.
"What can I do for you, friend?"
"I'll make it short and sweet, Dutch. What about that property that burned yesterday. Seventeen twenty-two Winthrop."
If the gambler was taken by surprise or was uneasy—or even was on his guard—he gave no sign of it.
"What about it?" he asked calmly.
"Was it your laboratory that burned up?"
"Funny. The police asked me that very question this morning, Travis. I can tell you just what I told them. It was not my laboratory that burned up."
"Whose laboratory was it?"
Dutch shook his head. "I don't have any idea."
"But you rented the place."
"You sound like the cops. Sure, I rented it. They wanted to know who to." He laughed. "I told them that was my business."
"Who did you rent it to?"
"You know, Travis, I like you." Dutch lit a cigar. "You know something else? I'm going to tell you: I don't know."
Travis stood up. "That's a hell of an answer!"
"People don't talk to me like that." There was an edge to Dutch's voice.
"But you are too smart for that. If anybody knows what's going on in this town, it's you. And you don't mean to tell me you'd rent your own property to somebody without knowing who it is!"
"All right, Travis," Dutch said, knocking his cigar ashes neatly into a tray. "It was like this: I get a telephone call. It's a woman. She knows I own that vacant place. She asks me if I want to rent it. I say, 'Sure.' She says, 'How much?' I don't like her voice, so I say, A thousand a month.' The dame says, 'You'll get six thousand in the mail tomorrow. We'll move in next week.' I say, 'It's a deal.' The next day I get the registered parcel. The dough is all there in hundred dollar bills. What the hell do I care what goes on? I never even went out to see the place."
"Thanks, Dutch," Travis said. "How long ago was that?"
Dutch thought a moment. "That was about six months ago."
"Thanks again, Dutch."
"You believe me?" Dutch looked at him squarely.
Travis had no way of telling whether or not he was telling the truth but there was no percentage in antagonizing him.
"Yes, I believe you."
"You're a good kid. I like you."
Travis was used to driving a Star car; now he had to choose between a cab and a bus. In the interests of economy he took a bus to the other side of town as he had done on the previous day. He was looking for the home of Jeb Tobias, 2112 Ridgeway, the same street he'd been on yesterday. He found it a few blocks from the grocery store and little Lila who had expected a half dollar.
The Tobias place was a modest one. Its fresh white paint and clean windows spoke of good housekeeping. The parkway grass had been cut a few days before and there was a knee-high picket fence along the front with a few bushes behind it.
Mrs. Tobias came to the door in answer to his ring. Her eyes were bloodshot and tear-ringed. Her gray hair needed to be combed.
He introduced himself and though she did not seem to care to talk about it, she let him come in.
"They won't even let. me see him," she complained later. "There Jeb is in the hospital all alone. It's the first time we've been separated for twenty years. I sent the kids to my sister's in the hopes I could get him home. I swear I could take care of him as well as they can."
Travis was careful not to comment on the nature of her husband's ailment. Instead, he asked her whether or not he was ever in the vicinity of 1722 Winthrop Street.
"Winthrop Street?" she asked, wrinkling her brow. "Why, that's just over here a block . . . what address was that?"
"Maybe this will help. It's next to a place—a sort of warehouse, I guess, with the name 'Morris Number Six' on the front."
" 'Morris Number Six?' Why, that's where he works every other day! He spends one day in the factory across the street and the next day in the warehouse. Hes a punch press operator in the factory and sort of a foreman of the warehouse men—oh, I don't know exactly what he does there ..."
"Do you think he'd have any opportunity to go into the house across the lot, this 1722 Winthrop Street place? It's just to the west of the warehouse."
Mrs. Tobias shook her head. "Jeb as a very proper man. He minds his own business and doesn't gossip ever. No, I can't see him leaving the warehouse for anything. Mr. Sargent, that's his boss, says he's one of the most loyal workers . . ."
The woman went on talking about her husband and, in deference to her and the fact that she seemed to have forgotten her husband's illness for a while, he let her go on. In the end he thanked her and left the house. It was nearing five o'clock and his appointment with Hal Cable. The Laughing Boy Tavern was not far from the Tobias residence, so he decided to walk to it.
The facts were pretty plain now. An old man had died. A bum had died. Both had been in the Winthrop Street house. Now three more were stricken. One of them had worked near-by. Had he visited the house next to his warehouse? It did not seem possible germs could have floated out of the laboratory clear over to the warehouse to inflict their disease on a man working there.
If the germs—if they were germs—could travel that distance, he could expect himself and Captain Tomkins and half a dozen others to come down with it at any time. Incubation period. That's all the germs needed. Five days. Six days. Fourteen days. One part of the puzzle didn't fit together, though. That was the blonde. The sparkling girl who was so intent on killing the old man. The man was scheduled to die anyway. Why should she want to hurry it up? And, if she was so intent on killing him, why hadn't she killed Tobias, Sansona and Kronansky? Maybe she was stalking the contagion ward on such an errand now. But that would be an awful chance for anyone to take. The girl might get the disease . . . Why, maybe she had it already. Maybe she was lying dead in some attic somewhere.
The picture of those beautiful eyes closed in death, those pretty legs turned black, the smooth, white neck
changed to gray with purple splotches—he shuddered as he thought of it and turned into the tavern.
He looked around for Hal but didn't see him. It was a few minutes before five, so he decided to pay for a friendly telephone call to Captain Tomkins, if he was still in his office. He went to the booth and put the call through.
"Still around, eh?" the Captain said.
"Certain aspects of the case interest me, Captain."
"A shapely blonde of around twenty-two?"
"More than that. I just figure maybe there's something I can do. I hope I don't get in your hair."
"Don't worry about a little thing like that. If you do we'll just knock you off. Reporters are a dime a dozen. What's on your mind?"
"I just wondered if you ever found out who the old guy was."
"Since it's you, I'll tell you. Washington has no record of him. You remember the prints that were taken in the house on Winthrop Street? Prints on the jars and pieces of metal? No record anywhere of who they belong to. They weren't known criminals, anyway.
"Chief Riley and I talked it over with the men we had out there that morning. We figure it was a sort of headquarters for manufacturing something. Some guys we talked to said the machine might have been a spot welder. Several of the boys say a sample of floor scrapings show steel filings, too, as if they had cut sheet metal for something.
"And then Grimes. We traced Grimes from the state penal farm up until two months ago when he disappeared fight in town. The autopsy on him has the same results as the old man. The medicos are completely in the dark."
"I hear some government boys are coming in, Captain."
Just doctors from the state health department. They flew is afternoon. Anything else you want to know?"
"I've done some scouting around. I found out Jeb Tobias, one of the guys in the hospital, worked at the warehouse where the shots came from."
"That's an angle we hadn't thought of. Thanks."
"And I've also discovered Dutch McCoy owns the Winthrop house that burned."
"Found out about that this morning myself. As usual, Dutch won't say anything."
"If I get any more brainstorms, I'll call."
"If you get sick, let me know. Remember we were in that house, too, Travis."
"Yeah. How do you feel?"
"Fine right now. There's half a dozen others who don't, though."
"Half a dozen others? What do you mean, Captain?"
"Haven't you heard? Six new ones turned up this afternoon. There are nine in that hospital ward now."
Travis felt a little sick to his stomach. "Thanks, Captain," he said. "Thanks for the information. I'll be seeing you."
Hal Cable came through the door of the tavern shortly after five and headed for the booth Travis had taken.
"Hey, you sure sent me on a tough one," he said, puffing and wheezing and wiping his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief. "I see why you didn't take the job yourself. Phew! It's hot." Hal took his hat off and put it on the seat beside him.
"Well, what did you find out?"
Hal put up his hand in protest. "Wait a minute. How about that drink you offered me?"
"You have to produce first."
"Hell, I got it. Let's have the drink."
"Are you an alcoholic?"
"Haven't joined anything yet."
"Okay, then." Travis ordered a whiskey and ginger ale for each of them. "Now let's have it."
"Well, I went to this Sansona house first. It's on Willard. Mrs. Sansona was all put out because she couldn't even see her husband. You should have heard what she called those hospital people!"
"I didn't send you to listen to—"
"O.K., O.K. I'm coming to what you want. It seems Tony, her husband, works for the Morris Manufacturing Company. He helps out a guy in a warehouse right next to that Winthrop Street address."
"Just as I thought. He probably works for this Jeb Tobias. He's foreman or something at that warehouse every other day. He's one of those in the hospital with the disease."
"This Kronansky. That's the one on Leland. I could hardly understand what the wife was talking about. She lapsed into Polish, I guess it was, when she got to talking about the hospital. They wouldn't let her in either."
Hal Cable polished off his drink and continued.
"It seems Kronansky left his wife the other day and went to live with his sister. She lives on Archer. 1718 Archer Street. You know where that is?"
"No. Does he have any connection with the warehouse?"
Hal shook his head. "Nope. He just lived with his sister. Sponged off her, I guess. He didn't have a job."
"I wonder how he got it, then."
"I was going to tell you. Archer is the street just north of Winthrop."
"So that's it!"
"Right. Now let's have another."
They drank another.
"What do you make of it, Hal?"
"The three guys must have slipped into that house on Winthrop, that's all."
"I wonder why? Well, there have been new developments. Six more have it now. They were taken to the hospital this afternoon, I guess. Captain Tomkins told me that just a little while ago."
"An ambulance breezed by me in an awful hurry as I was on my way here. Maybe it was another case."
"It's no good, Hal," Travis said gloomily, staring into the bottom of his glass. "There's something going on I don't understand. Dutch McCoy—and this is strictly confidential —told me today a woman he had never seen rented the house for six thousand dollars for six months, paid in advance in one hundred dollar bills?"
"Now what would a woman rent a house like that for so much money? I could think of one reason, but it wouldn't be any reason to burn it down."
"No, it goes deeper than that. It's all there, if only you could figure it out. How'd you get the afternoon off?"
"I left Hayden in charge. I nave a lot of time coming. Where are we going to eat?"
"Not in here."
"I hope not; let's go to the Manor."
Travis agreed. They had another drink, then walked out of the Laughing Boy. By that time it was after six o'clock and most of the rush hour traffic had dwindled.
"I left the car around the corner," Hal said. "Couldn't get a parking space before. Want to wait here?"
"Sure. That's the kind of service I like."
"It's the kind I don't give. Come on along."
Together they walked down the street, past a tailor shop, a barbershop and a small lunchroom now crowded with diners. They swung around the corner and stopped.
A girl blocked their way. A blonde. A blonde a head shorter than Travis. A shapely girl with the prettiest legs you ever saw. It was the girl who looked as nice from the front as she did from the rear. There were only two things wrong with her at that moment. The first was that her eyes weren't friendly.
The second was that she had a revolver in her hand.
The three figures—the girl, Travis and Hal Cable—were locked in immobility, as if in tableau. Then the poses exploded into motion as she turned and ran down the street toward the alley with Travis and Hal in pursuit.
At the alley she whirled around to them, leveled the gun.
"I will use it," she said frantically, "I will, if you come any closer. Now turn around and walk."
The pair did not wish to test the nerves of her index finger so did as they were bid. They had taken a few steps down the street when Travis turned. He did not see the girl. He and Hal ran back. The girl was running down the alley as fast as she could, gun in hand. She looked back, saw they were standing there, fired a shot in their direction. It kicked up a little dust in the alley and ricocheted over their heads. Travis and Hal ducked back out of sight.
"That was the blonde!" Travis said.
"Nice company you keep," Hal commented, struggling for breath.
"Yeah. This thing gets funnier as it goes along. Now why should she want to kill me?"
"She doesn't. If she had, she'd have done it."
/> "Why should she want to put on the act, then?"
"To scare you, maybe. Listen, that's the most exercise I've had since I was in the army." Hal was still breathing hard. "Let's go to the Manor."
"I still think she's a cute kid."
"Yeah. Yeah. Just the kind of a wife to have. You never can tell when she's going to knock you off."
"There's something wrong with that girl. She's just not the type to be running around with a gun."
"You're evidently not the type she uses it on."
"I wish I could believe that.
FIVE
"Listen," Hal Cable said, a lump of steak in his right cheek, his fork poised in mid-air for attention. "That babe didn't aim to kill you. That's part of the game. Now you're supposed to know you're not wanted." He resumed chewing and cut another big hunk of steak.
"Not wanted by whom?" Travis asked.
"By Dutch McCoy, that's who. Who else? You found out he owned the house didn't you? He gave you that song and dance about a dame renting it. That's a lot of bull. He's got something going on and you're getting too close, that's all."
"Dutch McCoy wouldn't go to the trouble of setting up a laboratory for anything. He uses the numbers, the policy wheels, the punchboards, the crap games. They're simpler and more direct."
"O.K., O.K." Hal took another hunk of meat. "Have it your way."
They ate in silence for a while, cleaning up the Remains of two rare filets. They finished their meal with dessert and coffee, then just sat, Travis with a cigarette, Hal with his cigar.
"Well, Hal, you know all the facts and still you think it's McCoy," Travis said. "I'm not denying you have a right to your opinion. But it just strikes me Dutch McCoy has other things to do than setting somebody up in a lab."
"I don't see why you don't give it up," Hal said drily. "You were the guy who wanted the long rest, remember? You're going to get it if that babe turns up and means business. Trying to figure this out is like stepping in front of a moving car. It'd be more healthy for you to go back and work for Cline and just ask the police how the case is coming."
