The Death Club

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Hold it!” He came around the desk and his blue eyes held a crafty look. “Now that you're here, you might as well sing your song.” He glanced at the two men, who were glaring angrily at Harper, and jerked his head toward the door. “Blow!” he rapped. “Stick outside.”

  WYMAN went back to the desk and sat down. “Grab a chair,” he said, and looked at Harper questioningly. “What's on your mind?”

  Harper smiled coldly. He backed into a chair so that he faced Wyman and Slug, who stood to one side and slightly behind the desk. His hand was still in his pocket as he spoke.

  “I'm looking for George Dunlap,” he began. He reached into an inside pocket. Without making mention of his connection with the district attorney he took out a card which read:

  HARPER & MUNN

  Private Investigators

  Wyman took it, but he did not look at it. His eyes, like pale-blue disks, were on Harper. “Who's George Dunlap?” he asked.

  “Slug can tell you.”

  “And where do I fit?”

  Harper smiled. “That's what I've been wondering about. A half-dozen rich men who've been in a jam have come to Boston. George Dunlap was one, and Slug brought him here. There might be”—Harper leaned back in his chair and stroked his mustache idly with his free hand—“some connection between these men and the body the police picked up last night; between that man and the one they picked up a month ago.

  “I was wondering if maybe there wasn't some sort of racket back of it all. It would take somebody pretty big to swing it, I should think; somebody who knows his way around and has connections. That's why I came to you.”

  Wyman's face was impassive, but his nostrils dilated slightly as he glanced down at Harper's card. He looked up again and smiled deliberately.

  “You think of things, don't you?” He fell silent for a moment, then continued, “I never saw a private dick yet that wasn't sticking his nose in other people's business and trying to chisel out some gravy. You stuck your nose in my business and, well”—Wyman paused—“well I don't like trouble. How about a trip to Europe?”

  He leaned over on the desk, rested his weight on his elbows and forearms. “I might have a little job for you to do over there. It might take you a couple months and it might be worth about five grand and expenses.”

  Harper uncrossed his legs and stood up. “Sounds good,” he said. “Maybe I'll take you up on it—after I find out what happened to George Dunlap. I think he gypped me out of a grand, and I want it. I'll stop by in a few days and have a talk with you.” Harper backed toward the door.

  Wyman looked at the detective a moment, then his flashing eyes flicked over his shoulder to Slug. He nodded his head toward Harper, and without raising his voice said, “All right, Slug.”

  Slug grinned and lurched forward on flat feet.

  Harper took one backward step, stopped and whipped out the .38. “Stay there, Slug!” he ordered. “Stay there and keep your hands where I can see 'em.” He glanced at Wyman. “That goes for you, too!”

  Slug stopped and his grin turned to a scowl of anger. He took a half-step and glanced questioningly at Wyman, his hands clenching convulsively in impotent rage.

  THE detective took another backward step, turned so his eyes took in the two men and the edge of the door toward which he moved.

  “Drop it!”

  Harper stiffened. For a second he held the gun on Slug. Both he and Wyman held their positions, but on Wyman's face, a knowing smile began to curve over his perfect teeth.

  “Drop it, punk, or—”

  The voice came from the wall behind Harper. There was a faint twitch of his mouth, a tightening of the lips. Then he let the gun fall from his fingers. He turned around.

  From a spot midway between the ends of the room, and above the safe, a picture had been pushed aside so that it hung askew. There was a seven-inch hole behind this, and from the circular cavity a heavy automatic protruded.

  Wyman repeated his command. “All right, Slug.”

  The man moved toward Harper, who stood motionless, his hands at his side. Slug feinted with his left, shot a vicious right to Harper's chin. The detective slipped the punch, pivoted as Slug lurched off balance, and shot his own left behind the man's ear. Slug stumbled under the blow, spun about with a curse on his lips. Wyman's voice stopped him.

  “Never mind that stuff, stupid!” he said. “There's time for that later.” His laugh was a grunt. “At that I think he might take you.” Wyman got up from the desk. “Get his gun.”

  Slug obeyed and Wyman took it. He said, “Now clear out of here. Stay outside the door; I want to talk to this dick alone.” He swung his gun on Harper, glanced at the man behind the circular hole in the wall and said, “All right, Leo. Go back downstairs.”

  Slug's little eyes took on a hurt expression. “Don't I get a chance to work out on this baby?”

  Wyman snapped, “Blow!” And to Harper, “Sit down!”

  Harper dropped into a chair. He stretched his legs, and hooked his thumbs in his upper vest pockets.

  Wyman said, “You were out with Captain Galpin last night. I was going to call on you, Harper; but this makes it better.” When Harper responded to this by nothing more than a slight raising of his dark eyebrows, Wyman continued. “I want you to call Galpin. I want you to tell him you're on your way to catch a train for Montreal, that you've got a new lead on Dunlap.”

  Wyman leaned well over on the desk, so that his gun and his eyes were scarcely two feet from the detective's head. “Then I want you to wire your partner. Tell him you got a new lead and are taking the Honoric for Havre at midnight.”

  Harper sat up in his chair and his dark eyes stared into Wyman's blue ones with a careless, bland expression. “Then what?” he said quietly.

  “Then we'll arrange a little trip for you.”

  “That's swell.” Harper smiled with his lips only, and slipped his metal pencil from his vest pocket. “Got a sheet of paper?”

  Wyman blinked at the sudden acquiescence. Then an expression of crafty guile suffused his handsome face. Without taking his eyes from Harper he reached down to a side drawer, took out a sheet of paper and slid it in front of him.

  Harper pulled the paper toward himself. He turned the pencil idly in his hands and asked, “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Say—”

  The one word was all Wyman spoke. His mouth was open when Harper flicked the clip on the pencil with his thumb. There was a faint click, then a louder click as the .38-caliber gas shell exploded in Wyman's face. The man coughed, dropped his gun, and clawed at his eyes and nose.

  Harper leaped from the chair as the white cloud of smoke-like tear gas enveloped Wyman's head. With catlike quickness he snatched up his gun, slipped the now empty pencil into his pocket, and sprang toward the door.

  He jerked it open. Slug, who must have been half-leaning against the steel panel, stumbled inward. Harper, the gun held flat in his hand, slapped it against the side of the man's head. Slug kept right on falling. He hit the floor and was trying to get up when Harper turned toward the other two men who had been standing near the door.

  He jammed the gun into the stomach of the nearest man, said, “Back up, Jack!”

  The fellow drew back. Harper withdrew the gun, reached out with his left hand, grabbed the shoulder of the other man. He spun him about like a top and stuck the gun in his back.

  “Let's go!” he said softly. “Tell your pal to lead the way. And if anyone should make a pass at me, guess what's gonna happen to you.”

  The procession of three moved quickly along the balcony, down the stairs and across the lower floor.

  CHAPTER IV. NINE OR TEN?

  “I'VE been doing some newspaper reading this afternoon.” Harper sat in Captain Galpin's office at nine o'clock that evening. A cigarette hung from one corner of his mouth. “Back numbers.” He looked up at Galpin and smiled. “There's about thirty thousand in reward for our missing rich men. Could you use half of that?” />
  Galpin waited until he had lighted a fresh cigar before answering. Then he said, “I could if it's on the level, and it comes my way.”

  “You haven't identified the man we found last night?”

  “No. We got in touch with New York, Chicago, Cleveland. It'll be another day before we get anything definite.”

  Harper nodded, flicked the ash from his cigarette. “I found one of the birds that came here with Dunlap.”

  Galpin jerked upright in his chair. “Where?”

  “I went calling on Louis Wyman. It was one of his men.”

  Galpin's jaw went slack. His eyes widened. “You mean—”

  Harper smiled and nodded. “I've had a funny hunch ever since I started digging on this thing. And the more I dig, the more I think of the hunch.” Harper spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “I think these disappearing rich men came to Boston because somebody sold them an idea.

  “Most wealthy men have cash and bonds put aside in safe-deposit boxes, so they'll have an anchor to the windward. I'm wondering if somebody didn't sell them on the idea of a rich man's hideout. A place where they could drop out of sight; where those who were in danger of cranks could be safe; where those who might tangle with the D.A. could wait until they knew which way the wind blew.”

  “It sounds crazy,” Galpin grunted.

  Harper shifted his gaze from the ceiling to Galpin and smiled. “But,” he said, “the facts are crazy, too. You picked up one Boston broker— dead. You picked up another one last night. He'll be one of those missing men just as sure as you're sitting there. We know Dunlap came here—after being to his safe-deposit box.”

  “But who's knocking 'em off, and why?”

  Harper's voice took on a chill quality. “I don't know,” he said, “unless they've been kept until they were milked dry of their funds, and then tossed out for the city to bury.”

  “Rats!” Galpin got up, chewed on his cigar, sat down again.

  “Maybe. But that's how I happened to call on Louis Wyman. I had no hunch about him, understand. Only I figured it would take somebody who was big, who had connections in other cities, to sell the proposition for a cut.

  “The biggest shot in Boston is Wyman. That's why I went to him first. It was just luck I happened to run across Slug.”

  “Slug?” shouted Galpin. “Is he the guy?” He reached for the telephone, but Harper checked him.

  “Don't bother. I don't think you'll be able to pick him up tonight. And if you did it would be tough to pin anything on him without Dunlap.”

  Harper got up from his chair. He went over to the desk, leaned forward so his eyes were less than two feet from Galpin's. “Could you get a search warrant for Wyman's warehouse out in Dorchester tonight?”

  Galpin scowled. “I doubt it. He's got too many friends. Tomorrow maybe.”

  “Tomorrow's too late.” Harper felt of his pencil, of the .38 under his arm. “He knows my guessing is getting hot.”

  “But why the warehouse?” asked Galpin, puzzled.

  “It's the one place he owns that's made to order. I had a friend of mine drive me around a bit this afternoon. I stopped there, put up a bluff, flashed a badge and looked the place over.”

  “What'd you find?”

  “Nothing definite.”

  “Then—”

  “Will you stick around here for a couple hours—wait for a call from me?”

  “Sure. But the warehouse—”

  “The warehouse is ten stories high—according to those little windows outside.” Harper moved toward the door and stopped to face the captain. “The elevator, when it reached the iron covering at the top of the shaft, had only passed nine floors.”

  Galpin's face twitched, but he did not speak.

  Harper went to the door, stopped with his hand on the knob. “Did you ever see a man who'd fallen from a high building—say ten stories?”

  “No,” said Galpin thickly.

  “I think you have. The fellow you picked up last night, aside from his face, looked like a man I saw who'd tumbled out of a twelfth-story window. The rain would wash away any trace of where the bodies landed—on both nights.”

  TEN minutes later a sedan stopped on a dark, deserted street in a neighborhood of wholesale establishments, and loft buildings, extending along a railroad spur.

  Walt Harper said, “Turn off the lights, Charlie. Leave the buggy here.”

  The two men got out, turned past a plumbing supply house, walked down a dead-end street which was swallowed up in the blackness of barren lowlands. They passed an alley, walked by a wholesale paint company, whose windows were like shiny black paper, and stopped at the alley which separated this from a tall, thick-looking building unrelieved by any light except a dim glow at a center door on the street floor.

  Harper said, “Maybe we can do a job on the watchman.”

  The two men moved slowly along the barren brick wall, stopped in front of a wide metal door. Harper cocked his head and looked up the bare, severe façade to the two small, turret-like corners. Four narrow, iron-barred windows on each floor gave the place the appearance of a fortress—or prison.

  “O.K.,” said Harper. “Knock.” As he spoke he slipped his gun from the holster, and drew back against the front corner of the wall so that he faced the street.

  Charlie raised a big fist and pounded on the door. He waited a few seconds, pounded again. There was another half-minute of silence; then a clank of metal, like the drawing of a bar, sounded inside the building. The door was opened an inch. A faint reflection of light from the office made an orange crack. And from this jutted the ugly muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. Behind this, as the door swung open, was the shadowy outline of a man.

  “Stick 'em up!”

  Charlie raised his hands and the voice continued, “That's better. Now what the hell do you want?”

  “I've got some stuff stored here,” said Charlie quickly. “I've got to get some of it out tonight.”

  “You're outta luck, buddy.”

  “It's just a couple small things. Won't take a minute. I can carry 'em in my arms. Come on, gimme a break.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then, “Come in the office till I see who you are and what you want. Keep those hands up!”

  Charlie sidled past the shotgun. Walt Harper came around the corner of the doorway in a quick, silent movement. He lunged toward the guard. His right arm made a swift, chopping motion as he went forward and the barrel of his .38 whipped down on the man's head.

  He stepped forward and slipped his hands under the fellow's arms, supporting him as his knees buckled. As if by prearranged signal, Charlie spun about and grabbed the shotgun before it clattered to the floor. Harper heeled the door shut, remained motionless with his burden as Charlie moved the few feet to the office door and swung into the dim glow with the shotgun held ready.

  “O.K.,” he said.

  Harper dragged his burden into the small office and lowered the man into a chair in one corner of the room. He went back to the outer door, slipped the heavy metal bar in place securely, and returned to the office.

  THE unconscious man in the chair was slender, an inch or so shorter than Harper. He wore a gray cap and trousers, and a brown suede jacket.

  Harper said, “Help me get this jacket off.” Charlie held the man while Harper pulled off the garment. He slipped out of his own coat, put on the jacket, substituted the cap for his hat. He stepped past a small desk to a door that opened into a closet. Rummaging there for a moment, he came back with a short length of rope and a piece of insulated wire.

  In another minute the man was securely trussed and gagged. The two detectives carried him to the closet, shut the door, and turned the key in the lock.

  “Now what?” Charlie asked.

  Harper didn't answer for a moment. He let his glance drift about the room. He took his coat, folded it up, placed this and his hat in a lower drawer of the desk. Then he sat down in front of the desk and picked up the telephone directory.
He found his number, marked it with his index finger, looked up at Charlie, and said:

  “There's a fellow by the name of George Dunlap out in our town that gypped me out of a thousand bucks. I want it. Maybe I'll get it tonight. Anyway, I got an idea and I'm going to try it.”

  He picked up the telephone, gave his number. A moment later he said, “Louis? . . . They want you down at the warehouse right away. . . . Yeah. . . . In the office on the ground floor.” He hung up the receiver.

  Charlie's round face was somber. The color in his fat cheeks became a shade paler. “It's all right for you to stick your nose in a mess of trouble,” he said slowly, “but I live here. This guy Wyman's liable to cramp my style.”