Black Mask (Vol. 15, No. 2 — April, 1932)

A client asks Race Williams for protection — of the two-gun kind.

1

There were two things that sent me to Baltimore. Curiosity and money. I knew nothing about the case. A lad giving the name of Hulbert Clovelly had paid for a long-distance call, asked me to leave immediately for Baltimore and go straight to the Carleton Hotel and wait for his ring. When he backed up that request with a wire for five hundred dollars I believed that he meant it — and went.

The Carleton Hotel proved a good shack. I scribbled the name Race Williams smack across the register, picked me a good room and bath, did a wash and ate a dinner which would set my client back $4.85 when he got the expense account. I’m not on a diet, you understand. Then I went to my room and waited.

Almost on the minute of twelve my phone rang. It was not the same voice that called me on the long distance. At least, I didn’t think it was. The calmness had gone out of it; a fear had crept in. It was a wavering, shaky voice, with a gulp to it.

“Mr. Williams — Race Williams — the private detective?” The voice had a squeak at the end of it which nearly took my ear off.

“That’s right,” I cheered him up. “You are—?” and I waited.

“Hulbert Clovelly. Things have taken a bad turn. I need you.” And he went on to tell me of the money he had sent me.

“Yes, yes — I know all that,” I cut in on him. “What do you want? If it is imperative — important — you better lay a finger on it right off the bat.” And when he started to argue: “No, you don’t have to explain. If it isn’t legitimate, you’ll be the sorry one.” And I put a bit of a threat in that, for contrary to the general opinion of so-called private detectives, I never work a crooked racket. There were lads who’d gladly pay five hundred berries, or even more to trap me to my death. And fair is fair. Any time a lad puts up that much money to trap me, he is entitled to a bit of a run for his money. And I’m the boy to give him that run.

“Now,” I finished, “tell me what’s on your chest; if you need me right away, or—”

“Need you! Right away!” He damn’ near split my ear drum. “The — he has taken refuge in a warehouse. They are hunting him out now, to... to... to— Don’t you understand? They are going to do him to death — kill him — murder him.”

Do him to death. Kill him. Murder him. You’ve got to admit that any one of the three was a bad way to begin a week. But it wasn’t the time for making bum jokes. This lad had paid for service and was entitled to it.

“Who is he — and where is he?” I snapped into business.

“I don’t know if it’s too late. He’s my friend. I—”

“Come! Where are you? Out with it, man,” I demanded. He seemed like a loose thinker.

And he told me. He was in a cheap restaurant on the other side of town. Close to the warehouse, he said. Then he wanted to give me directions. But once I got the name of the street I knew I’d find it. While he wanted to chew the fat I gave him orders to stay put, and I’d be down.

“You can—? Can you—? Are you armed?”

“Don’t worry about me,” I told him sarcastically. “I’ll threaten these birds with the police if they can’t be reasoned with.”

“Oh, no — you can’t do that. You really can’t. That’s why... why you’re in it. Because the police can’t — must not be called.”

“All right then. I’ll shoot them to death for you.” And with that bit of pleasantry I hung up the receiver, grabbed my hat, shoved a gun into a hip pocket, shoved the other rod a bit tighter in its shoulder-holster and sought the elevator. This case looked like it was going to start with action. And I like action.

I didn’t take a taxi directly from the hotel door, nor did I drive smack to the little restaurant. I let the driver help me out on my street directions, spotted the restaurant as we drove by it, climbed out a block and a half away and around the corner, and letting the taxi go I hoofed it back.

The lad was watching for me in the doorway of a beanery. Anyway, a man stepped out; walked uncertainly towards me; hesitated when I didn’t give him a tumble, and when he started by me I grabbed his arm — and spoke.

“You sent me some money. How much? When and where — and what name did you use?”

After gulping a moment he gave the answers like the back of an arithmetic book, and we got down to business. He was a lean man, without age. His eyes set far back in his head. His cheeks were sunken and pallid. His lips, a dry colorless thickness. And he had a way of doing tricks with his fingers when he spoke. But he got his line over clear enough.

“My friend — McNab. He telephoned you, to New York. My health is not good. He’s handling things, and—”

“Yes, yes — all that can come later. Where is he?”

“The warehouse — down the block — around the corner. They followed us. I got away. They wanted me, I think. McNab ran into the warehouse.” He walked me to the corner and pointed. “That building down there. No, don’t go any farther now. One man is by the entrance; by the little side door. I saw him from the alley I hid in. There’s something black in his hand — short, snub-nosed. Something—”

“From your description one might suspect it was a gun.” But such light humor was lost on him. “All right.” I steadied him as he started to lean against me. “I’ll get this McNab out of there.”

“And me — you don’t want me?”

“No,” I said, and meant it. “I don’t want you.” And since he needed a bit of stirring up, I added: “You can stay alive and tell the authorities where to ship the body.”

Not a pleasant thought? Maybe not. If there was a lad on the door, with a gun, these boys meant business. That didn’t bother me any. If lads didn’t occasionally wait around for others, with guns, I couldn’t make such a good living using mine.

Just before I left him Clovelly clutched me by the sleeve.

“No — no violence, please. Just stamp around — make a noise. Frighten them off.”

I looked at this pale, bent bird. Certainly he needed someone to take care of him.

“I’ll just—”

I stopped. We both raised our heads and drew back in the little alley at the end of the warehouse. Somewhere above us — distant, indistinct, and dying almost before I was sure I had heard it, had come a shriek — a piercing shriek of terror. Someone had cried out. Quick, sharp notes of fear had come from that musty warehouse.

“I’ll be in the restaurant over—” Clovelly started. But I was gone, slipping close to the warehouse; hurrying down to that little door just by the corner, where the man who watched was supposed to be.

And I saw him. Dimly, his figure there in the darkness as I passed. Just a shadow that moved irresolutely towards the street, stopped uncertainly. And I turned quickly, pushed my shoulder close against the building, edged back to the doorway and waited beside it. My jacket collar was turned up high, my slouch hat pulled well down over my forehead.

He did the expected. Out came his head — cautiously, furtively, around the corner of that entrance. It was so easy, it was to laugh. I didn’t have to do a thing; didn’t have to move. I didn’t even stick my gun in his face. He saved me the trouble. He just popped his head out of that doorway and smacked his face flat against my rod that was waiting.

“Easy does it, Buddy.” I shot the words through the side of my mouth as I saw his right hand half struggling in his jacket pocket. “You pull out that rod, and — plop — right like that comes a shovelful of dirt.”

Silly talk, that? Sure. But then, this was silly business. As a gunman, this lad was a flop. I pushed his head back in the doorway with my gun, and where his head went his body had to follow — and that was well back in the darkness.

He had more guts than I gave him credit for. He made a quick, sudden movement of that, right hand in his pocket. But that was a stall. I knew it the moment he ducked his head and his left hand flashed up with the knife. Maybe he saved his life by that lowering of his head. Maybe I saved it for him, for as a rule I don’t like shooting lads unless I’m more or less acquainted with them. Not from the book of etiquette, that. Let’s call it native caution.

Since his head was just below my gun and since my left hand held the wrist that was half out of his jacket pocket while my right arm had warded off the downward thrust of the knife, I just did the easiest thing. My right hand went up and down quickly, forcibly. There was a dull thud as steel hit bone — real bone at that, and the would-be knife sticker folded up and lay down in the little hallway.

I took the gun, of course. Partly because he might come to before I was finished with my business, and partly because I thought firearms were dangerous for him to play with. Then I hopped his crumpled form, found the door open in the back of that hallway and was right in the center of ten thousand evil smells. Damp ones mostly. I won’t say there were fish in that warehouse, but I will say that there had been fish in it in its time. And the memory of the fish still lingered.

2

It was while I was drawing my pocket flashlight that I bumped into the stairs. And those stairs were of the common household cellar variety. Plenty of space to slip your feet in between them and, so. smack your face on the rough, splintery wood before sliding back down. No guard rail on either side — but no creaks to them either, which I rather liked.

Cautiously, yet rapidly enough, my hand now feeling the steps above, I went up. And I reached the top. There was no doubt about that. My head struck solid wood, my hand shot up and felt the braces of iron — and I knew it was a trap door.

Rather tricky work starting that door open. But once it gave enough to assure me there was darkness above, it was easy going. After a few preliminary squeaks I knew I had nothing to worry about. There were answering groans of old planks; creaks and cracks that offset my own and made the hinges of that trap door sound like the whining of a baby.

Yep — creaks of old beams, that came from back in that warehouse. Groans of the boards, too, that sounded almost human — and they were human. Plainly, now, I made out the moan of a man; a muffled, distant, drawn out sort of sigh, as if lips were tightly compressed.

The trap was up and I spotted the light. There — perhaps fifty feet to the back — a wavering, jumping light. And I saw the shadow of a partly open door. The light was shining from behind that open door.

I braced myself, crawled up the little ladder effect at the top of the stairs and stood on the floor above.

Voices from that room where the light had ceased to waver and had become steady. Mumbled, incoherent, yet threatening words, I thought. And again, clearly, the muffled groan.

One quick pencil of light from my flash across the floor almost to that door — then darkness, and I was on my way. I’m a good judge of distance. Ten steps forward, a little move to the right, and I passed the huge packing box that had stood for a moment in the light of my flash. Then straight forward, a slight trip over some sacking — which helped deaden the fall of my feet rather than accentuate them, and I was close to the little door and the tiny streamer of light.

I bent my head slightly and looked into that room. The glare of the light threw into bold relief a rusty iron support that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Standing with his back against that pillar of iron was a man. He was a weazened little, weather-beaten fellow with broad shoulders, thick lips, bulgy eyes and a matted shock of sandy hair. His face! There were deep gashes across it — fresh gashes. For as I watched, the blood ran down and trickled over his hanging lower lip. And then I noticed why the man stood so stiff and straight. His hands were behind his back, his wrists bound to that iron upright.

Then he spoke, addressing his words to a figure hidden by the door frame from where I stood.

“If you go to murder, the bloke downstairs will tell. He’ll know. You can’t tell — he might be listening now.”

“He didn’t get a look at me.” A metallic voice came out of the darkness. “He was picked to do this job, but he’ll never know my voice, for he’ll never hear it again. You asked me when we came up why I talk like I do. Now you know why. No one—”

The man in the light cut in.

“A’fore Gawd, Governor, I wouldn’t blow on ya. And I didn’t. I come, like you said, to have a little talk and tell ya you was safe in my hands.”

“You came,” this from the lad who sounded as if he were talking through the wrong end of a fish horn, “to blackmail me to the tune of twenty-five thousand dollars. You came because you thought there would be more from me than from the girl. Now — what did you tell her?”

I saw a white hand stretch out of the darkness and caught the sharp glitter of the knife it held as it pierced the circle of light.

Raising my gun, I waited. I could have shot that hand off, but the knife paused a safe distance from the bound man’s throat.

“Wacco,” said the voice behind the knife, again, “how much did you tell Rita? Oh, I know you told her about Carl Fisher, and Hulbert Clovelly — but what else?”

“Nothing else. I swear it. I never knew till she told me. I never had any idea you were Farron Bronson. She told me that. Don’t! Not the knife again. I wouldn’t squeak on a’ old lag. Not Wacco, Governor. I— Not the knife again!” And the terrified little figure tried to draw back.

“Wacco,” said the voice again, “I believe you. You need have no fear. You shan’t feel the knife again. My secret, which I would not trust to any man, is safe with you. I know that.”

“That’s right, Governor.” The little twisted, cut face raised now, the pop eyes flashed a bit and a tongue licked shrewdly at dry lips. “I’ll go back to England, like I promised.”

“You won’t have to do that, Wacco. It isn’t necessary. I can be assured of your silence without—”

The voice stopped. No white hand stretched out of the darkness now. Just a moment of silence — then the sudden roar of a gun; an orange blue streak of flame, and the face that had been Wacco’s was— But we won’t go into the horrible. Wacco simply gave at the knees, hung limp from his bound wrists and slid to the floor.

The thing was so sudden — so unexpected and so brutal that it stunned even me. And I want to tell you, that’s something. Not that it unnerved me. For I acted at once. Kicked the door further open and looked for the hidden figure. And I didn’t see him. A door closed softly; just the swish of wind and the creak of hinges, and my own flash was out — sweeping the room that was empty. Empty of life, I mean.

Then I spotted the door and dashed to it. The man called Bronson was gone, and the door was locked behind him. That was my mistake — running to that door. I should have gone around the open space from the doorway I came in. But I could not have known that, and there’s no use crying over spilt gin.

I didn’t know who Wacco was, nor what part he played in the game. But I did know that Wacco was dead and I didn’t want to be mixed up in the thing.

3

When I started to leave I went down those old steps in a hurry, pausing at the door only long enough to observe that the lad I had knocked out had walked, or was carted away. Anyhow, he wasn’t there.

I reached the dirty little restaurant and went in. It was deserted but for two men at a table in the rear. One of them was Hulbert Clovelly. Now, I can’t be sure — and it may have been on my mind that he looked like a sleigh-rider — but it did seem to me that he jabbed something in his arm and pulled down his sleeve quickly as I entered. The other man at the table was not looking at him, but watching the door and me.

He was somewhere in his thirties; blond, clear blue eyes and a pleasant, honest face — if an honest face means anything today. He was drinking coffee and eating a piece of cake.

“Sit down,” he said. “You’re Mr. Williams and I’m Lu McNab, Mr. Clovelly’s assistant and friend.”

“Oh—” I said. “The lad who was chased into the warehouse.”

“No.” He smiled, but it was a rather serious smile. “Mr. Clovelly thought that, but I went down the side street. We saw someone Mr. Clovelly had cause to fear, and I believe he went into the warehouse. I hope nothing happened there.”

“No—” I lit a butt easily, paused a moment and looked at Clovelly. Then I said: “Only — a man called Wacco was shot to death. Do you gentlemen want to know who—”

And Clovelly cut in.

“Wacco. Killed! I knew it. I... I should have prevented it, and—”

McNab leaned over and took him by the arm.

“We were here to prevent it, Hulbert,” he said. “I think if you had told Mr. Williams the truth he might have gotten there in time. But you were late in telephoning him. You did nothing until you missed me. You—” And as Hulbert Clovelly suddenly buried his head in his hands: “There — it isn’t necessary to question him, Mr. Williams. It was through my advice that he wired you,” and looking up as the greasy proprietor came in: “Will you get a taxi, Mr. Williams? We can’t talk here — and I don’t like to leave Mr. Clovelly.”

I don’t like to be ordered about, but the request was a natural one. I got up and left them.

It was a punk section of town and I had trouble getting a cab. But I did get one finally.

My hysterical client had calmed down a bit. His face was a whitish yellow in the darkness, but his lips were set tightly and he was fairly steady as he climbed into the taxi. The husky assistant and friend, McNab, held his arm to steady him.

“The Park View,” McNab told the driver, and we were off — Clovelly and I in the rear seat and McNab facing me, his back to the driver.

“Can you tell me,” he said, “who killed this Wacco?”

“A man,” I said, “called Farron Bronson.”

McNab knitted his eyes. Hulbert Clovelly clutched at my arm and his whole body shuddered, but he said nothing.

“So—” said McNab, “it’s that bad then.” And suddenly: “How much would you want, Mr. Williams, to spend the night at the Park View Hotel under the name of another man?”

I had had that line before, and the answer was not as easy as the simple “yes” I had given then. Now I was cautious.

“It would depend,” I said, “on the name of that man.”

“Of course,” McNab nodded, “it would not be entirely without danger. What do you mean ‘it would depend on the name of the man’?”

“Simply if I were to pose as Al Capone I would want a heap of jack, a machine-gun or two, a steel vest — and even then, I don’t know.”

“I see.” I think that he smiled. “The name, then, is Hulbert Clovelly. The price we offer is one thousand dollars over and above your expenses and the five hundred retainer we sent you. There may be something bigger in it for you later. Mr. Clovelly doesn’t think that there will be an attempt on your life.”

“Then why the offer?”

“To find out if there will be. To find out if certain people have tracked down Mr. Clovelly. We understand you accept money to face danger — real or imaginary. Does the price suit you?”

“Oh — the price is all right,” I told him. “It seems tricky. Won’t these people know Mr. Clovelly — am I to sit in the dark and wait?”

“On the contrary, you are to act as you would in any hotel room. These people, as you put it, have never seen Hulbert Clovelly. We have been at the Park View Hotel for a few days. I did the registering. Mr. Clovelly has spent his time in his room. When I telephoned you we had learned that a certain party was in town.. But if it were to track Mr. Clovelly or the unfortunate Wacco we do not know. We have brought you here to find out. Mr. Clovelly’s clothes are still in his room. I left word he would return to the hotel. You will simply ask for the key to room No. 746.”

“And the police?” I was thinking the thing out.

“The police must be out of it. Entirely out of it. If Mr. Clovelly were in a position to use the police we would have sought that protection. Shall we say a thousand dollars, then, to spend a single night in a hotel room under the name of Hulbert Clovelly?” And quickly, as I rubbed my chin: “If there were anything criminal in the procedure we would hardly suggest that you take Mr. Clovelly’s name. It wouldn’t make sense.”

“Crime never does make sense,” I told him. I was thinking up some questions. Yet — perhaps the less I knew, the better. Certainly the thing was in my line. Unlawful to pose as another man? Hardly — and easy to work out of with the police. It wouldn’t be the first time I took an assumed name.

“You’ll do it?”

“And if my life is attempted, what do you gain?”

“Knowledge — as well as fear,” he said. “Will you do it?”

“Yes—” I finally told him. It was late now — not much of a vigil to keep in a large hotel room. “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

“Not at the moment,” he said. “Here are five hundred dollars.” He shoved a roll of bills into my hands without counting them. “And here is the Park View Hotel. I think we will leave you outside. You will find us in the morning at the Jefferson Hotel. Simply ask for Mr. McNab. I’ll have the other five hundred ready for you.”

“Scotch.” I smiled. Somehow. Well, it’s funny how a bank roll will make you coddle more or less to a lad.

I hesitated there, flat against the wall of the Park View Hotel, as the taxi pulled away. Then I looked at the entrance to the hotel again. A girl was coming down the steps. She was carrying a light bag and looking back up into the now dimly lighted lobby. For a minute, perhaps, she stood under the single lamp. What I could see of her face was good — and there was a tilt to her head. If she was making a decision, she didn’t motion picture it. But finally she decided against going back into the hotel. At least, she came down the remaining steps with a determined air.

There were two taxis just to the left of the hotel; on the side away from me and nearer the corner. They were regulation hotel cabs. Either one would have suited the girl. She raised her hand towards the nearer cab. The chauffeur saw her, came to life, stepped on the starter — and the motor whirred. Then, as the girl crossed the sidewalk to the curb, two men suddenly came into the picture from the darkness. They came from either close to the hotel or around the corner, though I favored the idea that they came from the shadows against the building. Why did I favor that? I don’t know, but at the moment that was my thought.

They weren’t together. That is, apparently they weren’t. For one sought the first cab and the other sought the second cab. The driver of that first cab must have fancied a man passenger rather than a woman, or maybe a bill went into his hand. Anyway, he gave up his idea of drawing up for the girl.

A car which had been further down the block broke into life. It was not a hotel cab. It was not a taxi — at least, not a regulation metered taxi. It was a big blue limousine.

The two taxis went speeding down the street. -The thing was a cinch, from my point of view. The two men were simply there to take those cabs out of the way: nice and quiet-like, without fuss or trouble — or anything suspicious, to be looked back on later.

In a way, I think the girl was on — but she didn’t have time to figure it out exactly. The big car had swung to the curb; the chauffeur had hopped quickly from behind the wheel instead of leaning back, and now stood with the door open, his right hand sort of helping the girl into the car.

Maybe she drew back and maybe she didn’t. I couldn’t be sure of that. But she did take one hasty look at the hotel lobby, and I caught her voice when she spoke to the chauffeur. Half in the car she was then.

“The railroad station,” she said.

That was all. She was in the car, the door slammed closed, the chauffeur hopped quickly in behind the wheel and threw the car into gear.

Where was I? Why, I simply dog-trotted from the shadows to the curb, swung aboard the car, jerked open the door and was inside, closing the door behind me just as the car started.

4

The chauffeur didn’t see me burst into his car. Not that I cared much, except perhaps for a bit of pride that I do things well. As for hearing me! Well — maybe he heard the door close, or the noise of it closing. Maybe he didn’t, for he kept the car in low gear, the engine making the devil of a racket. Later I knew the reason for that low gear and the racing engine. Yes — later. Three seconds later, to be exact.

“Don’t be frightened,” I started in before I was fairly into that car. Just started, mind you. Then I stopped dead — for two reasons. One was to curse as a foot kicked me in the shin. The other was the bit of a row going on in the far corner of the car. I saw it plainly in the quick flash of a street light, for although the front curtain between the driver and the rear was drawn, the side curtains were up.

Yep — four of my senses went into action at once. See — hear — feel — and smell. I heard the girl’s stifled scream. I saw the hard cruel face of the man who held her tightly, and I smelt the soft odor of chloroform. The “feel” was entirely on my shin.

The man had seen me, too — for all the good it did him. At least, I think he saw me — for he had thrown the girl on the seat and half risen, crouched in the car, a hand in a jacket pocket, clutching something that he tugged from that jacket pocket — or almost from it. Then I let him have it. I crashed him a right, smack on the chin, that nearly put his head through the side of that car. I could hear his skull crash against the steel, and wondered if he’d be so proud of the fact that his car was one that wouldn’t be damaged because of an all steel frame.

Then, since he wasn’t in condition to help himself, I slipped the gun from his pocket, quickly broke it open, tossed it on the floor and put the cartridges in my pocket. Not that I thought he would be likely to use it again, but I carry two rods that I know — and I don’t want to be cluttered up with any extra hardware; and being of a nervous type I don’t like loaded revolvers hanging around — if they belong to others, I mean.

The driver was still raising hell with that engine, though not so bad. I eased the would-be kidnaper on to the floor, got a foot on his neck so I’d be tipped off if he wanted to get frisky again, and tossing the bottle of chloroform that was wrapped up in a heavy bit of cloth out of the window I gave my attention to the girl. The car had dropped into high now and had a gentle purr. I liked that. It showed the confidence the driver had in the lad in the back.

The girl was not “out” — far from it. I had to pull her back on the seat as she grabbed frantically at the handle of the door, as if to jump out.

“Easy does it, lady,” I told her. “I don’t know how much of the fracas you saw, but I’m—”

“I know... I know,” she said, falling back in the seat. “But I did not know, till you spoke, if it were you or the other man. You are my friend?” And there was a puzzled sort of question in her voice.

“If not exactly a friend, not an enemy.” I tried the jocular. “Anyway, a rescuer.”

“But, the chauffeur?”

“We can turn him over to the first cop we see, and—”

“No... no.” She clutched at my arm. “I don’t want to do that. Must I? You’re not an officer?”

She was trying to get a slant at me, but I pushed back in the darkness. Oh... I would have pushed forward and handed her a business card if things had been different. But, now, I was employed for the time being. I was supposed to be back in that hotel, posing as another man. This was simply an amateur job.

“No.” I eased her mind. I don’t like the cops mixed in with my affairs, either. “I was just passing and saw the play. I don’t know where this fellow is taking us, but it certainly is not to the railroad station.”

“You’re very—”

And my hand went over her mouth. I knew then that I should have stuck a gun in that driver’s back right after I laid out his pal. But I had expected the car to hit for the country. I didn’t expect things to happen so quickly.

It was the sudden appearance of another car alongside of ours and the squeak of brakes — the jerk forward in the seat as we came to a stop. The other car, heavily curtained, had stopped just a bit ahead of us and across the street. Only its curb lights were burning.

I half leaned forward to jerk up the curtain on the window behind the driver, and didn’t. A single man had climbed from that other car. He looked up and down the street, jerked something black and snub-nosed into his right hand, and walked slowly and with great assurance towards us.

He nodded once to the driver, and I think the driver said “Okey.” Then he reached the car, stood so a moment, as though he would peer over the window, thought better of it — and twisting the handle jerked the door open. And I saw his face.

Boy! All he needed to be the old-time villain that forecloses the mortgages was a mustache to twirl with his fingers. In every other way he was cast for heavy melodrama. But he was one of those boys who have a weakness. His was to talk before he looked, and his voice was deep and sinister.

“Come on out, girlie. You are going to keep your date. You know who you got a date with?” And with the heavy dirt that might have done justice to a great tragedian, he threw the big line of his act. “You have a date — a date, perhaps, with death. Or worse — a date with — Bronson.”

This lad had an expressive face. Things registered on it even in the dim light. He wasn’t sure, of course, just what had happened, but he suddenly knew something had gone wrong. At heart he was a timid soul. And sometimes timid souls are more dangerous than stout-hearted ones. To this extent anyway. They get panicky quickly. He was close to that stage now. But his shaking hand that suddenly raised the gun was dangerous, in spite of the tremor in his voice.

“Joe... Joe — it’s all right? She—”

“Oh... yeah?” was all I said as I tapped him. Maybe I should have gone in for light banter. I’m not bad at it. Something told me it wasn’t the time for it. The man under my foot had started to twist.

So we’ll let it go that I tapped him. Rather viciously, perhaps, as I chewed over the name Bronson, and thought of the dead man in the warehouse, with his head blown in. But I just brought the nose of my gun down across his forehead.

His eyes rolled up, his lips sort of dropped, and after resting his chin on the edge of the open tonneau door he flopped back into the street.

It was as I leaned forward to close that door that the shots came. Two quick ones, from across the street. Close to the parked car, but the blaze of the gun was not within my range of vision.

I acted quickly after that, put a couple of .44’s into the parked car for general effect, then leaned downward, dragged that twisting, stuttering, dazed form at my feet more erect and hurled it into the street.

There were two more shots, as with a final lurch he joined his friend on the pavement. Then the shots stopped. I thought I heard a little curse of satisfaction, as if the boy with the gun thought he had dumped me over. I jerked up the curtain, pulled down the front window and stuck my rod in the driver’s back as he was rising to climb from behind that wheel.

“On your way, Bozo — and make it snappy,” I told him.

He knew the feel of a gun all right, and knew the purpose of it — and was up on his underworld etiquette — that the man with the gun talks and the one without listens.

He was the well-trained chauffeur, too, and knew the impression to make on his new boss. He did sort of start with a jerk that nearly tore the open door from the car, but it swung back, and it was easy to grab the handle and slam it shut.

No more shots. Nothing but the roar of our engine, which performed better now — and I gave my instructions to the driver.

“Hit the main street — and hit it quick. And don’t run down any policemen.” And in way of encouragement: “If you’re a good boy you’ll get home for breakfast. If not,” another jab of the gun, “you may get home for it but you won’t eat it.”

I shoved my coat collar up a bit now — jerked my hat down, too. The name Bronson had, in the words of the literati, interested me.

5

I took a squint at the girl. She was tightened up in the corner, trying to hold in her sobs. It’s the way of women, I guess. I stretched out a hand and patted her arm there in the blackness.

“That’s all right, kid. It’s over now, and the time to bawl is over, too. You were a regular guy when a regular guy was needed.” No bull or flattery about that either. It was the truth. She might have raised particular hell and gone into hysterics at an important moment and so put a bullet into one of us.

“Come... come!” I squeezed her arm slightly as the car turned into the main thoroughfare. “It’s time we were leaving our agreeable chauffeur. The cry’s over — take a laugh.”

She suddenly grabbed at my hand and clutched it tightly, placing it against her cheek. Her face was soft and wet. It was funny, too. I’ve met all kinds of women — good, bad — real good and damn’ bad, and thoroughbreds, too. But I couldn’t remember that little trick. I liked it and didn’t like it. It’s hard to explain. One thing was certain. She didn’t belong in this sort of thing. She was young; she was class; she was— But— Hell! she was talking.

“Just a few minutes to get my train.” She was looking out of the window, so she must have seen a clock somewhere. “You don’t mind. The station!”

Somehow, I didn’t like to lose the girl altogether. Besides, there was Bronson; and there was — well, there was my client.

“The station,” I told the driver, and that was all. It was surprising how he had improved since working for me. He just nodded and turned in the right direction. I looked back at the girl.

“I haven’t even really seen you,” she said. “And I don’t know who you are. You act as if it meant nothing to you. How did you happen to do it?”

“Impulse,” I told her. “Forget it.” And then: “You’ll be seeing me again, I think.”

“You believe that? Believe in fate?”

“Fate!” I laughed. “No — it’s simply in the cards. We’ll be brought together.”

“Yes—” she said, “we will. I believe that, too. At least, I hope that.” Then suddenly: “No, I don’t. I don’t. I’ve been born to be unhappy.” And the car pulled up at the deserted railroad station.

The chauffeur sat straight and stiff. Both his hands were on the wheel. I could sit up straight in the seat and see the whiteness of them. No, I wasn’t holding my gun against his back any more. But I was covering him. And he knew it or guessed it — or he was just a cautious man.

“You think,” the girl said, as she opened the car door and lifted her little bag from the floor, “that something will bring us together again. If not Fate, if that is not the name for it, then what name—”

“The name of Bronson,” I told her simply, and watched her face.

She turned now in the open doorway and looked at me — or tried to look at me there in the darkness. Then she stepped to the street, sort of backing from me.

“Bronson—” she said. “Something tells me that you won’t believe me, but I never heard that name before tonight.”

“Easy does it, kid,” I warned her, as I came to my feet. And for the first time I got a good slant at her. At first you might think there was that sharpness that you find in the faces of too many girls. Her features were sharp — yes, but a lad with a flair for beauty would picture it as a finely chiseled face, while you and I would simply say she was nice to look at. There was a directness to those brown eyes of hers too.

“You’re not going to tell me — about yourself?” I said. “Who you are — why this happened?”

She seemed to think a minute.

“No—” she said, “I’m not. I’d like to but I won’t.” And very slowly and thoughtfully — and maybe, too, just a bit hopelessly: “I’d like to know who you are because — I like to dream. It won’t ever come true, of course — but it might help, to think it would. That some day I could see you and thank you.”

“Yeah?” She was talking like a book, and I didn’t like it. I don’t know why. The kid was getting under my skin, I guess. She talked romance, but it sounded as if she meant it.

Then, as I didn’t say anything more, she gave me one long, searching look and beat it.

I swung quickly as the girl flashed through the doors of the station. And I wasn’t any too soon either. All this had taken place in jig time — that is, the time I had my back to that driver — or rather, just my side to him.

He had the gun in his hand, a sneer on his face — and murder, I guess, in his heart.

But the gun was only in his hand, not yet raised above the door of the car, when I swung and crashed mine against his chest. I hadn’t seen his gun until then, but I knew it was there just the same. And it stayed there — stayed beneath that door. He had only to raise it a bit, just a few inches, to fire into my arm, at least — for my elbow was on the flat surface of the open window and prevented his hand coming up.

It was a bad moment for him. There wasn’t time to argue him out of firing. This guy was bad. He hadn’t given me a lot of lip. He was one of those big, strong, silent men — and now he would be silent forever. My finger half closed upon the trigger. He dropped his gun and spoke.

“A flattie. A bull.” His lips just formed the words, and my gun hammer slipped back again with a tiny click that made his face turn from a sickly white to a pasty yellow.

I heard the steps.,The measured tread of heavy feet — easy feet. The next moment I was in the car and had slammed the door.

“Park View Hotel,” I said simply.

He didn’t speak as he threw the car into gear — and I gave him credit for being nervous when the car jumped forward, rather than think he was trying to give me a jolt. Anyway, he made it directly to my hotel; jerked to a stop before the door.

I climbed out on to the sidewalk.

“Get out!” I told him. “Make it snappy!”

I half looked at the hotel — at the street, deserted except for a few people crossing down by the corner. Then I jerked the door open, and grabbing him by the collar dragged him into the street.

He stood there now, fully my size, a good ten pounds over my weight.

I just stood and faced him a moment, my face close to his. Then I lifted my gun and tucked it into its shoulder-holster. Mean eyes glinted; a coarse forehead drew into dirty ridges; his hands, at his sides, twitched spasmodically. He was looking me over.

He didn’t have the guts to do it. We stood there man to man. He had just as much chance of drawing a gun as I had. At least, from his point of view he had. And he did it suddenly. Just what I might have expected from the kidnaper of a girl. He drew back his foot and kicked at my shins.

Just kicked at them, mind you — nothing more. I stepped back and let him have it as he swung his right arm wildly. A guy in my business has to know where to hit and when to hit. Anyway, I landed square on his beak. Did I break it? I’m not a doctor and I didn’t stop to examine it. He just crashed back against the fender, clutched at it, slipped on the curb and buried his face in the gutter. The bust in the beak was my idea. Sticking his face in the gutter was entirely his. But I was satisfied.

Why did I do it? I don’t know — or maybe I do know. It’s psychology, I guess. I couldn’t just shoot him to death before the hotel. I’m only human. The urge to sock him was there. It made me feel a whole lot better. And, stupid or not, I did it. I don’t like kidnapers. And I’m a guy who shows my dislikes.

6

A clock hammered out the hour of two as I entered the hotel and hit straight to the desk. Head bent slightly, I said to the night clerk:

“I’ve come back. Key, please. 746.”

The clerk eyed me a moment, then reached back in the boxes, got himself a key and gave it to me. I turned, entered the elevator at the end of the hall and stirred up the sleeping boy.

The seventh floor hall was deserted. I slipped a gun from a hip to a jacket pocket and went to room 746. I shoved the key in the lock, spun the knob, pushed the door open slightly and held it so. There was a light in room 746. Hospitable? Certainly — if you looked on it from that point of view. But I didn’t. I had been warned that my life might be sought.

I raised my right foot and sent the door crashing back. If there were a lad lurking behind the heavy wood, he would be surprised at the result. That is, be surprised a half hour or so later, when he came to.

The door crashed against the solid wall — with a bang that must have sat a few of the patrons bolt upright in bed. It also sent someone else bolt upright. That was the man who sat to the left of the window, in the easy rocker beneath the reading lamp. He sort of jolted erect, and let the paper he had been reading fall across his knees. But the lighted cigar still reposed between his lips, though the ashes dropped from the end and sported playfully across his vest.

Heavy rimmed glasses found plenty of room on his nose, and the thick black ribbon lost itself some place beneath his jacket.

“Really, you gave me quite a start.” He spoke in a low, soft voice that was almost a whisper, as the wrinkles in his forehead stretched themselves up on to the baldness of his head beneath the light.

I looked at him coldly enough as I took in the room, but I stayed put not far from the bathroom door, which was open.

“I guess,” I said slowly, “I’ll give you another start. On your way! Or perhaps this isn’t my room — the right room.” The last was supposed to be heavy sarcasm. But it didn’t register.

“You are in your room.” He folded up his paper, dropped it on the floor beside him, carefully brushed the ashes from his vest, and then he leaned forward and peered at me over the glasses. “That is, of course, if you are, as I presume, Mr. Clovelly — Mr. Hulbert Clovelly.”

I stepped into the bathroom and out again. Then I walked about the room; jerked open the closet door, found it empty; half bent to look under the bed — then stepping to the open window, held the curtains aside and peered out.

The room was on a court. My visitor smoked serenely on as I tried to make sure there wasn’t a fire-escape, or if there was, to make sure that no one was occupying it. He cut in on my stage business.

“Don’t be so fussy. There’s a red light at the end of the corridor; another down the hall, if you turn left. I assure you the hotel is amply protected against fire hazards. There is no fire-escape outside your window, and no man—”

And as I took my eyes off him for a moment and pushed back the curtain, peering into the darkness — I saw it, or at least I thought I saw it. A distant shadow across the court; a figure, perhaps, in a window; a long pointed cylinder. I jumped back and ducked low.

There was a distinct humming sound. I recognized it even as I ducked. The whir of a high powered air rifle.

I did feel the tiny jar to my hat, and I did hear the dull thud as the leaden pellet struck into the wall across the room. Then I stepped aside and pulled down the shade, and was facing my visitor in the chair.

He looked up at me and smiled, pointed a finger at my hat and said:

“There’s a hole in it. Very close to the brim.” Then he got to his feet and walked across the room, felt in his vest pocket, produced a pen knife, opened it with a quick jerk and proceeded to dig into the tiny hole in the wall.

“Rather powerful for an air gun,” he said, as he lifted the bit of lead from the hole with two fingers. “But very effective, my dear Mr. Clovelly.” And he kept looking at me over his glasses, his head cocked, his chin down on his chest. “It flattened quite a bit, you see. It had a soft nose, that would spread out and tear a rather ghastly hole in one’s anatomy — and cause considerable damage, even later death. Death, while one had a chance to consider his past mistakes and—”

“Give me that bullet.” I stepped forward and held out my left hand. My right was still stuck in my jacket pocket.

“Why — certainly.” He held the little flat disk of metal up, so that the roughened, sharp edges showed — then dropped it daintily into my hand. “It is yours. It was meant for you.”

I put it into my pocket and still looked at him. He certainly was very sure of himself.

“You wanted to have me killed. Why?”

“I!” And his eyebrows went up. “I thought you understood my attitude distinctly on that subject. Didn’t Wacco give you my message? To avoid all misunderstanding, I am Sam Wentworth — Whispering Sam Wentworth.” And after a pause: “You know why I’m here, of course.”

“I can guess,” I said, in a tone of deep meaning.

“Of course you can. We’ve never met, but it’s not too late for us to become friends.” He paused, turned in the center of the room. “I want to see you live for a long time. Indeed, so much so that I’m here to offer you one hundred thousand dollars for the diamond, Mr. Hulbert Clovelly — alias Carl Fisher.”

“Yeah!” I showed an interest. It was real.

“Don’t be foolish. Bronson is back with us now. He didn’t think we’d find out who you were. Sometimes I think he always knew. He’ll get the ‘ice’ and kill you. I tell you, he’s changed from the old days. He’s a killer. He’d double-cross me. He’d double-cross you. He offered me an extra split to put out Rita.” And suddenly leaning forward: “I know you sent it to the little girl down South. She won’t have it on her, of course — but she’ll talk, if properly persuaded. Come on, now. I’m in a position to swing the deal and take the short end of the purse.”

“I’ll think it over.” The thing was all Greek to me. “Now— Get out!”

“Get out!” he cried — and the polished man of the world disappeared. “You’ll think it over, eh? Well, you can’t. The girl came up to see you tonight. And they got her. I arranged that. Bronson don’t know about that racket yet. I hire everyone who works for him. Look here! You know Bronson. You know how far he’ll go for information. I’ve kept the girl from him until I could see you. Now — he’ll have her in half an hour.”

“So you think you have the girl.” I tried that one out.

“You don’t believe it? It was I who sent for her, under your name. Oh, I figured it out that you’d sent the rock to her. And I have her now. You don’t believe me? Listen!”

And he recounted to me the kidnaping of the girl I had saved. He told me of the two men he had planted, to take off the regular taxis. And he gloated over the girl’s suffering, painting a picture of what Bronson would do to her if I didn’t come through with the “diamond.”

“So you got her, did you?” I said. “How do you know the deal went through?” And the thing in my face began to register in his mind.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he cried out. But just the same, he drew back from me. “You’re a coward. You’re only an amateur in this racket. You’re yellow — you’re a stool-pigeon. You’re— Don’t do that. By— I’m armed.”

And I raised my right hand and smacked it across his mouth, like to knock his teeth out. His hand half stole to his hip, and my other hand came up and swiped him another back handed stroke. Why? Don’t ask me. I said I don’t like kidnapers. And I liked that kid. And, damn it! I didn’t like this lad.

His hand was close to his hip now. There was blood on his mouth. Tiny bubbles of saliva, too, smeared with red. I liked that. He fought to control his impulse to draw a gun.

“Don’t! Don’t!” He backed away. “You know, or have heard, of my reputation with a gun. Must I—”

“Why not — if you have the guts for it?”

“You’re mad — mad,” he cried. And I had him by the throat, forcing him to his knees.

“Listen.” I guess I hissed the word like any ten, twenty and thirty stock company villain myself. “If anything happens to that girl — anything — through you or Bronson or anyone — you’ll die. I’ll kill you.”

“You’re mad.” He choked out the words again as I tightened my fingers upon his neck. His bulging eyes looked into mine. What he read there didn’t help him any. “My — you’re going to strangle me.” And his fingers tore frantically at mine, upon his thick throat.

Was I? I guess not. I never lose my head that much. His tongue was out. His lips were a bluish black. His fingers were only twitching, helpless efforts. I didn’t let him go altogether. There was abject terror in his face — his blackening face. I loosened my fingers a bit.

“If anything happens to me, the girl dies,” he gasped.

“The girl left the city long ago, you goat,” I told him. “She’s safe now.”

He didn’t believe me at first. Then he did, and he tried a different line.

“Safe maybe. But for how long? I don’t have to tell you. You know that Bronson never forgets — never forgives — never lets up on a double-crosser. It’s you — and it’s the girl now. We know she has the stuff. You didn’t think your real name was known. Well — you know now. You’ll have to go for the diamond. And the girl! Bronson will get her — make her talk. One hundred thousand dollars — you’ll be safe in London. I’ll arrange everything. You can’t get rid of it yourself.”

He was getting back his confidence now. I didn’t like that. Here was a chance to learn something — maybe, who the feared Bronson was. And I tightened my fingers suddenly into his throat — and loosened them at once.

Distinctly on the door came a knock — a rather loud knock, the first one. But the second was louder still. Imperative — commanding.

7

My hands no sooner dropped from Sam Wentworth’s throat than he was on his feet, staggered once, caught his balance, lurched across the room and sort of fell sidewise, gripping at the bathroom door. Then he closed that door softly and I was alone in the room as the knock came again. This time a voice also. Then the knob turned, a key grated in the lock and the knob turned again.

The door swung open and I took a smile. I might have known. This time there was to be a little light comedy, that helps out in every melodrama. The night clerk was there. He pranced right in — that is, for three quick steps. But he motioned to the man behind him to stay planted squarely in the doorway, where he could keep an eye on me. I looked the second lad over. Big, broad, and dumb. I labeled him for the night porter.

The clerk was trying to peer over my shoulder and into the room, then under my arm or around my side.

“Well—” I said. “Lost anything?”

“No, no — indeed not.” He had dropped his mask for a moment and was almost human. Then he was the night clerk again. “Someone telephoned the office. Heard a noise here; angry voices too. I just thought—”

And the clerk was saved the bad taste of asking a guest a too personal question. The bathroom door opened suddenly. Collar straightened, coat pulled down, what hair there was — brushed back, and a sleek smooth smile to his lips, Whispering Sam Wentworth stepped out of that bathroom. He moved quickly and easily for a heavy man. Just glided out that door, lifted a hand almost over the night clerk’s shoulders, plucked his hat, top coat and cane from the costumer with a single movement, and with a nod and a smile — in which there was no trace of excitement, said:

“Good evening, Mr. Hulbert Clovelly. Later, perhaps, we can discuss the matter. Your pardon, my man.” His cane shot up, touched the night porter lightly but authoritatively on the side, and he was gone.

I turned to the clerk. “Do you want the room? Do you want a written apology for something or other, or do you just want someone to talk to the rest of the night?”

Apparently he wanted neither. Without a word he turned and left me.

That was all. I closed the door, slipped off some clothes, and snapping out the light climbed into bed. I thought of Clovelly and decided to collect my extra five hundred bucks and chuck the thing.

I thought of the girl and decided— But I don’t know what, the hell I did decide. I guess I just decided to sleep.

It must have been an hour later that I woke up. Something was scratching against my door. Then it stopped — and came again. It sounded like a lad working on the lock — carefully, cautiously. Maybe I was going to have a look at Bronson. Somehow, I was getting curious about this bird. He sure seemed to command a lot of respect in certain circles. But that he had killed a man was certain. Brutally, and without—

As I reached the door the scratch turned into a knock. Not loud, perhaps, but recognizable as a bid for me to answer. I did. I’m a curious guy, and want to know all that’s going on.

I braced a foot against the door, opened it a fraction of an inch and held it against the pressure from without.

“It’s me — the girl.” I hardly caught the voice. “You know. Let me in.”

The girl. She had followed me then — grabbed another cab and— But she couldn’t have. She must have thought she was visiting Clovelly. The station had been a fake. She— But I said:

“Wait a minute and I’ll let you in.”

“No— I can’t stand here in the hall.” And I think she added, “you fool.” But her voice was too low to be sure — and besides, I didn’t think she’d exactly pull that line on me. Anyway I heard her add distinctly: “Someone’s coming.”

I stepped back into the darkness. Partly felt my way and was partly guided by the light from the window.

I found my trousers and slipped into them as she closed the door tightly — locked it — and breathed heavily with relief.

I crossed to the window as I slipped on my jacket, found the shade and jerked it down just as the girl spoke.

“Where the hell is the light?” she said. Then she laughed.

Her voice was louder now; her tones harsher, harder. The light snapped on. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I know, but it was a shock when I saw her. She was not the girl of the kidnaping.

She was not bad to look at. That is, in one way. Cold, hard beauty. Even keen shrewdness, if not exactly what you’d call intelligence, in her face. Her mouth, that had rosebud lips when she first looked at me, was too damn big for beauty when she opened it and laughed. And she did laugh — easy and naturally too. And then, suddenly: “Who the hell did you expect to come here?”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Me?” She sort of puffed out her front and jerked up her head. “Didn’t you guess? I’m Bronson’s girl. Rita Haskins.”

“Yeah?” And with a grin: “Bronson has a lot of friends.”

“Somehow,” she put hard green glims on me, “I didn’t expect to find you this kind of a guy. Oh, I didn’t care if you were a sniveling coward or not. You’ve got brains, kid — lots of them. And you had the guts to step out for yourself when the big chance came. Just one mistake. You didn’t think Bronson would ever connect you up with the name of Hulbert Clovelly.”

“Just what do you want now?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” She watched me. “You’re different than I expected. But I don’t know. Would you go as far as... as a killing?”

“You mean murder?” I put it to her straight.

“If you want to call it that.” There was no horror in her face — in her voice.

“Who’s to take the ride?” I asked her.

“Bronson. He’s got to go. It’s him or me,” she said. “He’d never chuck me out and let me live. And he’s through with me. Wacco will talk tonight. It was Wacco, of course, who told me you were Hulbert Clovelly.”

“Bronson tried to kill me tonight,” I said.

She looked puzzled at that.

“He must be pretty sure of getting the stone from her then. But that’s all the more reason for putting him out. Will you do it? He’ll kill you sure, if you don’t strike first. Me too.”

“And why your interest in me?”

“Because you can’t get rid of the diamond — I can. I know a collector who’ll take it with blood all over it. I want to handle the deal. And I want half the price, and I want Bronson dead. Look here! I’m going to set him up for you. You’ll only have to stick a gun in his back and give him the works.”

“I see,” I told her. “I’ll think it over. How much can you get for the rock?”

She chewed over her answer. In a way, when I saw that shrewd, beautiful, evil face, I didn’t exactly wonder that Bronson might have a natural desire to knock her over before dropping her out of his life. But I think she told the truth when she said:

“Two hundred grand. Two hundred thousand dollars, spot cash. Half yours and half mine. With Bronson dead, there’s me. I think I could like you. And when I like a guy — I like him.”

Her arms went around my neck, her body sort of slid to and fitted against mine. She knew her stuff, and I daresay she would have her moments.

One hand half held me to her. The other — I felt the leather of her handbag cold against my neck, just above the collar. Then the empty hand caressing me — my hair — my cheeks, her lips turning up towards mine — slightly parting; alluring, clear white teeth; overpowering perfume, if you can believe the advertisements.

Her face moved quickly; her cheek pressed against mine so that I didn’t see her eyes. But I had seen them — seen them when her body clung close; when her full red mouth held a promise. And those eyes were not soft. They were green and cold — and, perhaps, held a sort of determination in them. And I did it.

My head snapped up, with force enough to knock her teeth out. My hand gripped her right wrist and twisted violently. There was a dull thud, and a tiny .25-caliber automatic lay on the floor.

The girl stood there, looking at me a minute. Those hard, cruel eyes were surprised now — slightly stunned too. She felt her mouth; pulled awkwardly at a loose tooth.

“Jeeze!” she said. “Jeeze! You might have knocked my teeth out.”

“I ought to wring your neck,” I told her, as I shook her — and got a few more teeth loose, maybe. “You tried to kill me.” I let her go.

“No.” She shook her head. “Only tried to scare some sense into you.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“No—” she flashed suddenly, “I don’t. Yes, I’ll kill you if you won’t kill Bronson. It’s my life or Bronson’s life — or your life.”

“So it’s me or Bronson.” I stroked my chin as I slipped her gun into my pocket. “Maybe I’ll kill him for you.”

“You’re a real man.” She shook me by the shoulder now. “I never expected to find you like this. You’ll do it?”

“I’ll give you my answer later,” I told her. “Where can I meet you?” It wouldn’t be bad to have a line on this dame.

“Don’t bother about that. I’ll meet you. I know where you’ll be going; where you’ll have to go. It will draw you like a magnet.”

The door closed; the woman was gone. She had given me an earful, and no mistake. Of course, I tried to think it out. Jumbled thoughts that wouldn’t be worth the trouble of putting them on paper.

This time I didn’t even get to sleep. Feet came softly down the hall, a key grated in the lock, the knob turned and a body pushed against the door.

The door knob rattled and shook again as I started to put on some things. Then a loud, booming voice that seemed familiar — although I couldn’t place it.

“Come on — open up! There’s no use to try to hide it. I know she’s in there.”

“All right, brother,” I called out, in a sleepy voice as I again got into some clothes. “Is there a fire, or—” And I was across to the door, but not opening it at once. This game was rather a rough one.

Now the night clerk was talking. There was elation in his voice and a sort of “I told you so.”

“Women are not allowed in the rooms, Mr. Clovelly. You know that. We’ll have to ask you for your room. If this gentleman will—”

Again my gun shot into my jacket pocket. Then I plugged on the light, stepped forward and flung open the door. A giant of a man almost fell on me. Behind him was the night clerk. A little cockier this time.

The big man lurched half across the room, had a look-see in the bathroom, half turned towards me — and bellowed:

“Come on, young fellow — me lad. Where’s the dame? We know—” And he faced me. His mouth hung open and the unlighted half of a cigar toppled over his lower lip and just hung there. But his amazement was no greater than mine. The world’s master detective was on the job. Gregory Ford. Head of one of New York’s biggest detective agencies. I knew him of course — had been on cases with him — and against him.

8

Something about him made me laugh; then I closed up my face, jerked a thumb towards the clerk and winked. Gregory Ford took the cue.

He turned to the clerk. “Outside! You must have been sleeping. There’s no one in here — no woman. You want to be careful.” Gregory Ford’s stomach came out, masquerading as his chest, and his cigar shot straight up in his mouth. “This man might sue you, you know.”

The clerk left, and Gregory and I were alone.

“Now—” said Gregory Ford, “what’s the racket? For Rita must have come in here.”

“No girl here,” I told him. “What put that idea into your head?”

“I saw her,” he told me. “But I couldn’t go prancing down the hall after her. I lost her in the corridor. All right. I could make it unpleasant for you. You’ve got a strange moniker down on the register. Hulbert Clovelly. Why that?”

“It’s as good as another,” I told him. “You’re a detective, or so listed and licensed. You don’t go around advertising it — that is, all the time.” But I did see that the name Hulbert Clovelly seemed to mean nothing to him.

“All right, all right.” He threw himself into a chair. “Want to swap a few yarns?”

“I don’t know.” I sat on the end of the bed. “Talk if you want. If it’s interesting I may talk back.”

“Interested in hearing anything about the Mayfair diamond?” And he shoved his slouch hat back and regarded me a moment. “That got you, eh?”

“Of course,” I said easily, “the May-fair diamond would interest anybody, even if it hasn’t brought the hard luck and the deaths that follow the Hope diamond over the years.”

“No.” Gregory Ford stroked his chins. “Not over the years, it don’t. But it’s brought enough deaths. Smack — like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Didn’t read about it, did you?”

“No, I didn’t; But I’m very much interested.” Which was the truth.

“Yeah — I believe that.” Gregory ford’s eyes got narrow. “Want to hear more?”

“Sure.”

Gregory Ford made a race track out of his mouth with the unlighted cigar, crossed his legs, looked at me out of the corner of his eyes, and got a load off his chest which was far more, interesting to me than he thought it was. For I believe he felt that he was just showing me his knowledge, and that I knew what he knew all along.

“Well,” said Gregory, “as everyone knows, the Mayfair was owned by Charlie Remington, the English bachelor millionaire. Charlie went broke in the crash, but kept his head up so that his many creditors wouldn’t hear about it and jump him. But he had to get money to patch things up and get it quick.”

Gregory scratched a match, held it a moment without bringing it to his damp cigar, and threw it away. That was a trick of his.

“The Mayfair,” he went on, “had been a hobby with him, although he kept it in the vault of a bank; but it was the least conspicuous of his properties he could sell.

“He made — or thought he had made — a secret deal. Four hundred thousand dollars was the price; and four men were in the deal — the purchaser, a big jeweler, the head of the insurance company, and Remington’s lawyer, and all sworn to secrecy.

“But there was one unknown man who got on to the transaction, and the last man in the world who should have been in on it. You tell me his name and I’ll go on with the story.”

“His name,” I told Gregory Ford, with great assurance, “was Farron Bronson.”

And Gregory Ford was startled.

“Bronson!” He sort of straightened, and the ragged end of the cigar clapped against his huge nose, which explained, perhaps, why he kept it unlighted. “Bronson, eh? I don’t like to think it but it may be so.

“Three years ago — yes. He was the greatest jewel thief in Europe; but, you see, no one knew Aronson more than as a name except one man, an old-timer called Colonel Stallings.

“Stallings built up an organization of high-class crooks for Bronson. They caught Stallings, but he wouldn’t talk and he died in prison not long ago.

“They say Bronson tried one more robbery without Stallings that went blooey. He left his own fingerprints on a safe and committed his first murder — a girl. He went to pieces. Last heard of him was in the slums of Paris, broken, down and out. It don’t seem reasonable that he could come back. Perhaps he has. Anyway, I have his fingerprints with me now.” And Gregory tapped his breast pocket.

“But, to get back to the Mayfair — the messenger with the diamond left the bank, guarded by two picked men from Scotland Yard. Right in front of Hudson’s Jewelry Shop, he was stopped by two men. He was shot to death without warning and one of the two men grabbed the bag. In the exchange of shots that followed, a Scotland Yard man was killed, as was one of the holdup men. The other one, who grabbed the bag, was wounded so badly that he had to be helped to the scaffold when he was hanged — and there you are.”

“But if the men were caught, what became of the Mayfair diamond?”

“There was a third man, who lay hidden outside that jewelry store — by the next building — beneath an iron grating in the sidewalk; an iron grating which was opened far enough for a man to receive the bag containing the diamond, and leave with it by the cellar below. The position of the rusty grating after the shooting; the broken lock on the rear door of the cellar in that adjoining building, are all we — or rather, the English police, have. But, at that, it was not much of a price to pay for such a prize. Two dead men, who won’t have to share in the profits, and a famous diamond worth, as it stands in the open market, at least four hundred thousand dollars.”

“Why tell me all this?”

“It’s history. You can read it in any of the papers of a few months back. You’re a detective — or people think you are — which serves the same purpose, though others may simply call you a gunman. You’re in Baltimore under an assumed name. I’m in Baltimore under my own. And Rita Haskins, a known diamond smuggler, is in Baltimore — was, or is, in this hotel — and not so long ago was in this room with you.”

“And if she was, where does she fit in? The robbery took place in London. Rita, as you say, may be a jewel thief — but there are hundreds of other jewel thieves in America, you know.”

“Sure,” he admitted. “Thousands, I daresay. But only one who stood on the end of the gangplank when the Mauretania sailed for America, within ten hours after the robbery.”

“And she was searched when the ship docked in New York.”

“No, she wasn’t. Because, you see, she did not sail. Now, that’s expensive — and don’t often happen, you know. Yet it happened twice on the sailing of the Mauretania that day six months ago. One other passenger who booked his passage did not sail. Maybe that had something to do with Rita changing her mind also.”

“And you found out the name of the other passenger who did not sail?”

“Certainly,” said Gregory Ford. “He was the secretary to Charlie Remington. He was, I am fairly certain, the man who lay hidden beneath that grating and escaped through the cellar door with the broken lock. He was the man who decided to take it all for himself. Four hundred thousand dollars. Not bad work for an amateur.”

“So you think Rita is in on this?” I asked.

Gregory Ford stroked one of his chins and tried to look clever. “And Rita is ready to make a deal with me. It’s a question of price.”

“And you tell me all this!”

“Sure. If Rita came to see you, she came for the same reason she came to see me. Just a question of the highest bidder. We might knock down on the price, Race. We might even work together. It ain’t a one-man job. It takes brains as well as a gun.”

“How about Charlie Remington pulling this deal himself?”

“He was home at the time, but he disappeared from London that night when the Scotland Yard men went to question him. He didn’t have a hand in it. Once the proposed sale and the robbery became known he was ruined. Big shots in the city were on his notes for close to one million dollars. He got hold of fifty thousand dollars cash and disappeared. They haven’t heard of him since.”

Gregory stretched himself to his full height, yawned and grinned.

“How did the diamond get into America?” I asked. “Every well-known crook must have been watched.”

“It is at a point like that where a real detective shows his stuff. Here’s the way I dope it. This secretary who got the diamond through the grating, who double-crossed Bronson, Rita Haskins, or whoever was in on the deal, must have worked for Remington under an assumed name. When he got the diamond, he simply resumed his real name and sailed home under his own passport.

“Now, Rita Haskins knew this man’s real name and she wants $25,000 to spill it to me. I don’t know if it’s worth it — if I could trust her. But, mark my words, Remington’s secretary had that Mayfair diamond and Bronson was after it and after him.”

“And what was this secretary’s name?”

“Oh, hell — everybody knows that. He called himself Carl Fisher. What’s the matter, Race?”

9

Maybe there was something the matter. Maybe I did suspect it all along — maybe I didn’t. My client, Hulbert Clovelly alias Carl Fisher, was the present holder of the Mayfair diamond. He was wanted in England, for a bit of a necktie party, for the murder of the Scotland Yard man. He might even have shot him down from the grating. My client was— Oh, hell! that was what got me. Any way you looked at it, the girl I had saved was involved. But Gregory was talking.

“Well — I’ve unloaded a chestful to you. Now it’s your turn. Who’re you working for in this — the man who wanted to buy the rock? He’d do anything to get it.”

“No. I’m working alone, I think.”

“You think!” Gregory Ford sneered. “And a twenty-five thousand dollar reward offered by the insurance company for the return of the Mayfair diamond. You think!”

“It’s not a bad bit of change.” I pretended indifference, but I certainly was interested.

“You’re hot stuff in a back alley — with spitting lead, Race. A fool for courage and a remarkable aptitude for placing bullets between lads’ eyes. But you’re over your head now, Race. Rita Haskins will make a monkey out of you. This takes brains. You better come in with me. I’ll take care of you on the reward, and I’ll pay you well. You know more than you’ve told me. But don’t forget I know more than I’ve told you too. Here’s your chance for sure money. I want Carl Fisher.”

“I’d let you know later.” I yawned, and my eyes blinked. “I’m dead tired now.”

And, strange as it may seem, Gregory got the idea and left.

The next morning I checked out fairly early. I didn’t want to see Gregory Ford. Gregory would have an interest in me. Rita would have an interest in me. And as I thought that out I went down the steps — and saw Gregory Ford.

He was standing a bit down the street from the hotel and his back was to me. But I knew him. And I was sure of him because of the girl he held by either arm, shaking her — apparently pleasantly to the casual passerby — but, somehow, I thought differently.

The girl was Rita Haskins. She saw me. And as she saw me I spotted the roll of bills that she shoved into her handbag.

It gave her a shock all right as her face slipped around Gregory’s left arm, and her eyes narrowed — grew suddenly wide — and her large mouth opened, the hole in her face distracting from her beauty. But her surprise was genuine. Maybe not surprise — maybe just amazement — and maybe a touch of fear. Anyway, she cried out.

“Look out!” She fairly shot the words at Gregory Ford. There was no doubt. I heard it and Gregory heard it, and anyone else passing, who had a mind to — or rather, an ear to — heard it. And then she said something else. I’m not sure what it was, but will give it as a guess on my part. She said, I think: “That’s him now.”

Anyway, Gregory Ford ducked a hand quickly under his armpit and swung around, still holding the girl with his left hand. His eyes met mine almost at once, shot to the left and right and behind me — then he half turned back to the girl, and did himself a bit of a curse.

The girl twisted suddenly, brought a hand sharply down on Gregory’s funny bone — and was gone, moving quickly to the corner and around it.

Gregory hesitated about following her, I think. Saw the eyes of a curious few, who loitered and looked back over their shoulders, and decided to let her go. Which was just as well, considering her slender but muscular young body and Gregory’s huge bulk. Gregory Ford was built for comfort, not speed. But he came up to me now, passed me, looked into the lobby, and as I started down the steps swung and caught me by the arm.

“Anyone pass you — anyone at all, Race?”

“Sure.” The street was pretty well crowded. People were passing in and out of the hotel. I shrugged my shoulders. “She got some money out of you — didn’t she, Gregory?” I asked him.

“Yeah.” He tilted his hat on the side of his head as he looked the crowd over. “But I won’t worry about that. She’ll give me the real name of this Fisher or return the money — or I’ll drag her in. It wouldn’t be hard to hunt up something on a dame like that if a guy was of a curious turn of mind.”

His hand fell upon my shoulder.

“There’s a job open for you, Race, with me.” He snapped out his watch. “Open until say — dinner time. You’ll get me here at the hotel. After that—”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll think it over.” And then to myself I thought, Why not? I’d be through with Hulbert Clovelly within the next hour. I might make a better deal with Gregory. Business is business. So, as he left me, I said:

“I’ll look you up by dinner time, or—”

“You’ll work alone, eh?” His eyes got beady and studied me. “Where you going, now?” he added shrewdly.

“To see a man about a dog,” I told him, and left him flat.

But over my shoulder and through the corners of my eyes I saw Gregory run a hand through his hair and nod his head slightly towards me. A man loitering in front of the hotel pulled down his hat, jerked his jacket by both lapels, screwed his face into that “honest citizen” look and moved his dogs in my direction. No. Gregory may not have looked the detective of fiction, but he acted like one. Operator 666 was on the job. “Follow that man,” was his watchword — and the man was yours truly, Race Williams.

My shadow was a second edition of Gregory Ford. A bit smaller, not quite so heavy, more chunky, perhaps, than stocky, but the same extra assortment of chins. “Be nonchalant” was his motto as he slowed down with me and gazed into shop windows. I grinned to myself. It’s easy to take private dicks off your tracks.

I just walked along until I spotted two taxis, one behind the other. The two drivers were talking. I gave them the hearty smile and the heavy hand — full of money. But the conversation first.

“You have the second cab,” I said, when I found out which was which. “Well — I’ll hop this first one, and a squatty guy will come up to you and ask you to follow me. There’ll be a ten spot for driving him around the first corner and letting me go my way in the first cab. He’s a private dick, hunting divorce evidence,” and with a wink that I knew that sensuous mouth would understand — “He might get it. I’ll give your buddy, here, the ten for you if you work it right.”

“Okey, Boss.” And we became partners in the little affair of the grand runaround for the imaginary wife.

So I hopped the first cab, drove off, and had the satisfaction of seeing the astute operator, 666, jump into that second cab, talk hurriedly to the driver and slam the door.

I knew my ten was good. I know how these operators work and just what they can run in on an expense account. Operator 666 might be good for a bunch of promises and a ten-cent cigar. Anyway, the cab behind turned the first corner and kept right on going. The ten had worked. Money well spent, and not so much of it — besides which, I got results before I parted with that sawbuck. It was good pay for the driver of that second cab — good money for a half-block ride.

I leaned over and slipped the ten into my own driver’s hand.

“For your buddy,” I said. “Now — the railroad station — and there’ll be another ten in it for you to forget where you took me.”

I smiled in satisfaction — then I frowned. I leaned forward and told my driver to take a right turn. The next block I ordered a left turn — and later another right. After that I was as sure as I could be, without a written affidavit, that another little shadow was on the job. The car that followed me this time was not a taxi. Maybe I’d get arrested for holding a parade without a license. This boy in the flashy gray sedan that tailed me must be one of the Bronson outfit, or maybe another Ford operator — which second thought I liked because it flattered my vanity.

But the station it was, and I let it go at that. It would be as good a place as another to lose a lad — better, no doubt.

The lad in the sedan had a good driver. I could see the figure in the rear lean forward and talk to him as we approached the station. And the driver did his stuff in and out of the traffic which closed up the gap between us considerably. It was nice driving. Disarming, under ordinary conditions too. Just a man in a hurry to make a train. So it was that the car behind was smack on our heels, or on our rear wheels, as I left the taxi, paid the driver without glancing towards the car behind. I had a good slant at my shadow in the mirror of the taxi as he stepped from the car and slipped quickly to the protecting shadows of the wall.

Yep — I knew him. He was the boy who had tried to take a bit of a chunk out of my shoulder with the knife, there by the warehouse. But he didn’t recognize me as the lad who had slapped him down with a gun muzzle. At least, I don’t think he did. For there was nothing in his face that showed it. Anyway, that was my conclusion. Maybe I was wrong. I have been wrong before, you know. And what’s more, I expect to be wrong again.

This lad was not an expert shadow, or he knew I was on — and didn’t care. He stuck pretty close to me as I entered the station and went straight to the men’s wash-room. It was a good hour. Not many were hunting up trains. I wanted to get rid of him, and I didn’t intend to do it by jumping in and out of taxis at ten dollars a jump. Besides, I didn’t like this bird. He came from the enemy’s camp. He had tried to take a shot at me, had nearly dug a piece out of my shoulder — and he couldn’t very well appeal to the police — and neither could I.

There was a bit of a thrill in walking down that station to the men’s washroom. My right hand was sunk in my coat pocket. Of course it would be foolish for the lad behind me to open fire there in the public station. But such things have been done, you know. Anyway, at the first shot I’d swing, draw and knock him over — that is, of course, if that first shot missed. That was where the thrill came in. And the longer the thrill, the more I began to dislike this second rate gunman who was following me. I have pride in my work. This lad should be disposed of quickly, cheaply. The finesse necessary for Gregory Ford’s little shadowing act would be wasted on this bird. What he needed was a pop in the mouth. And life is funny that way. You generally get what’s coming to you.

I made the wash-room, just a few feet ahead of my heel. The door swung closed behind me. I looked down the length of that room. One man had his head buried in a wash basin; the attendant was cleaning out another bowl down the line — and there was no one else about. I turned quickly as the door swung open and the boy friend came in.