Honest Money and Other Short Novels

Making the Breaks

The desk was piled high with law books. On a space which had been cleared in one corner was an electric coffee percolator bubbling steadily. An electric clock on a bookcase showed the time as two o’clock in the morning.

Ken Corning sipped black coffee from a cup which he held in his left hand. His eyes moved steadily down the printed text of a volume of the Atlantic Reporter. From time to time he made notes with a pencil.

The outer door gave forth rasping noises as a key was inserted into the lock. Then the door swung inward, and Helen Vail, Ken Corning’s secretary, walked across the outer office, stood in the doorway of the inner office, and surveyed the man at the desk with anxious, sympathetic eyes.

After a moment Ken Corning felt her presence, and looked up, scowling impatiently. The scowl changed to a tired smile. His eyes went swiftly to the windows, then back to the face of the clock.

“Thought it must be morning,” he said, “and you were coming to work.”

“No, it’s two o’clock. I was out at a cabaret, and ditched the party.”

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

Something in her face showed him that her visit was not at all casual, and that her eyes were anxious.

“Go ahead,” he said. “What is it?”

Helen Vail crossed the room to the side of his desk, pushed back a stacked pile of leather-bound law books, and rested one hip against the side of the desk, swinging one foot, the other foot braced on the floor.

“I don’t know, chief,” she said, “what it is.”

He looked at her, frowning. She slowly opened her purse and took out two one-hundred-dollar bills, which she placed on the desk in front of him.

He looked at them curiously.

“Been robbing a bank?” he asked.

She shook her head, “They were in my purse,” she told him.

“So I saw.”

“But,” she said, “I don’t know how they got there.”

“Don’t know what?”

“Don’t know how they got there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I say. I was down at the cabaret, and a purse snatcher tried to grab my purse. One of the men in the party hit him on the jaw and knocked him down. A special detective ran up and there was quite a commotion. An officer came in, and there was a plainclothesman there in the cabaret. They recognized the purse snatcher as an old hand at the game, and arrested him. They wanted me to look in my purse and see if he’d taken anything. I told them it was impossible because he hadn’t even had the purse in his hands. He’d simply made a grab at it, but I kept hold of the purse.”

Ken Corning’s eyes were level-lidded with intense thought. His pupils were contracted until they seemed mere black needle points in the midst of a cold background.

“Go on,” he said.

“They looked in the purse.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing, except these hundred-dollar-bills were in there.”

“Did you say anything?” he inquired.

“No. Naturally I didn’t speak up and tell them that I didn’t know where this money came from.”

“Why?”

“It was none of their business.”

“When did you look in your purse last?”

“You mean before the purse snatcher?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. I got out my compact some time during the first part of the evening and put my mouth on straight. I don’t know just when it was.”

“Were the bills there then?” asked Ken Corning.

“I don’t think so, chief. They might have been there, and I didn’t notice them. But I don’t think so.”

Ken Corning picked up the bills again and studied them carefully. He pushed back his swivel-chair, got to his feet, and stood for a moment, staring down at the desk, Then he swung about and started to pace the floor restlessly.

Helen Vail looked at the money, then at him.

“Is it serious?” she asked. “Does it mean anything?”

“I think so,” he told her.

Suddenly he whirled, strode to the desk, picked up the bills, looked at them once more, and then threw them down on the blotter.

“All right, kid,” he said quietly, “we’re framed.”

“What do you mean, chief?”

There was a peremptory pounding on the outer door of the office. Helen Vail reached hastily for the two one-hundred-dollar bills.

“That’s all right,” said Corning. “Leave them there. Sit where you are.”

He strode across the office, to the outer door, and jerked it open. Three men stood on the threshold. The tallest of the three pushed his way forward, grinning.

“Hello, Corning,” he said.

“Hello, Malone,” Corning replied. “What do you want?”

“Is your secretary here?” asked Malone.

Corning nodded. “She just came in,” he said.

“We want to see her,” said Malone.

Corning nodded.

“Come in,” he said. “I want to see you. There’s something funny here.”

“What’s funny?”

“A purse snatcher made a grab at her purse down in a cabaret.”

“We know that,” Malone said.

“He didn’t take anything out,” said Ken Corning “He put something in.”

“What do you mean?”

“He put some money in — two one-hundred-dollar bills.”

Malone laughed mirthlessly.

“Show me,” he said.

Ken Corning led the way to the inner office. Malone nodded curtly to Helen Vail, then walked over to the desk and stood staring down at the two one-hundred-dollar bills.

“This the stuff?” he asked.

Ken Corning nodded.

Malone reached forward and picked up the bills, then looked shrewdly at Helen Vail.

“Where did you get these?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Once more Malone laughed, that mirthless laugh of his.

“Look around, boys,” he told them.

“What the hell do you mean, look around?” Ken Corning demanded.

“Just what I say,” said Frank Malone. “We’re going to search the office.”

“Got a warrant?” asked Corning ominously.

“Certainly not. Do we need one?”

“You need one,” said Ken Corning.

Malone turned to grin at the two men who stood back of him.

“Okey, boys,” he said, “we won’t search. We need a warrant.”

“Wait a minute,” Corning told him, “I think I’ll change my mind on that.”

“Too late now,” Malone told him.

“What kind of deal is this?” Corning demanded.

“Suppose you tell me,” Malone replied.

“What are you driving at?”

“You know what I’m driving at. Those two one-hundred-dollar bills were taken from Samuel Grosbeck.”

“You’re crazy!” Corning said.

“No, we’re not crazy. We’ve got the numbers of the bills. You should know that.”

“I tell you,” said Corning, “the bills were planted in the young lady’s purse.”

“Sure,” said Malone, soothingly, “you told me that before, Corning.”

Malone leaned forward, and copied the numbers on the bills into a leather-backed notebook. He took a fountain pen from his pocket and wrote his initials in small letters on the comers of the currency.

“All right,” he said, “that’s all we can do here. He won’t let us search the office without a warrant.”

“I said you could search,” Corning replied.

“We didn’t hear you except the first tune,” said Malone. “You’ve had a chance to ditch any of the stuff now anyway. Come on, boys, let’s go.”

Ken Corning strode rapidly across the room, and stood between Malone and the door.

“Malone,” he said, “you can’t get by with this.”

Malone pushed forward and past Corning.

“I’m not getting by with anything,” he said. “Because I’m not trying anything. Don’t lose those bills. They’re evidence.”

The three men walked wordlessly across the outer office, pushed open the door, and went out into the corridor. The door swung shut, and a latch clicked mechanically.

Helen Vail left her position on the desk, where she had remained during the interview, and crossed to Ken Corning. She put her hand on his arm and stared up at him with wide frightened eyes.

“What is it, chief?” she asked.

“A frame-up,” he told her. “A dirty frame-up!”

“But what?”

Ken Corning walked back to the desk, sat down in the swivel-chair, stared at the bills, then looked moodily at her.

“Samuel Grosbeck,” he said, “had something like fifteen hundred dollars on him in one-hundred-dollar bills when he was murdered. He’d received the bills from his bank. They were new bills, and the bank happens to have the number sequence.”

“But why should they plant them on me?” asked Helen Vail.

“Because you’re working for me, and because I’m defending Fred Parkett.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple,” he told her. “Grosbeck and a chap named Stanwood were sitting in a car parked near the curb. A hold-up man who limped, carried a cane, wore an overcoat and a cap, told them to throw up their hands. Stanwood put up his hands. Grosbeck didn’t, or was slow about it, and got the contents of an automatic emptied into his vest. He died right then.

“The hold-up man went through his clothes and took a wallet; also a brown manila envelope. We don’t know what was in the manila envelope. There was fifteen hundred dollars in cash in the wallet. The hold-up man ran as fast as he could with his game leg, and turned at the corner. Stanwood found Grosbeck was dead, managed to get to a telephone, and notified the police. The police broadcast the call over the shortwave radio to all cars, and Dick Carr, the detective, was the first on the spot. He cruised around and picked up Fred Parkett.

“Parkett wore an overcoat, a cap, carried a cane, and limped. He’s a crook with a criminal record a yard long. He didn’t have a gun; he didn’t have any money on him, and he claimed he hadn’t been near the car in which Grosbeck was killed. He was picked up within six blocks of the place, however, and Stanwood identified him as being the murderer. Two other fellows, Arthur Longwell and Jim Monteith, positively identified him as the man they saw running within a block of the scene of the murder.

“I’m defending Parkett. It looks as though he might beat the case if we can break down the identification. The District Attorney knows I’m planning a big fight. He doesn’t know just what kind of fight it is.”

Helen Vail nodded her head impatiently.

“Of course,” she said, “I know all about that. But...”

She broke off, gasped and stared at Ken Corning with eyes that were dark with alarm

“Do you mean that the District Attorney’s office is going to claim that Parkett paid you a retainer in money that he had taken from the murdered man, and that you gave me a cut out of it?”

“Exactly,” he told her.

“Then the bills were planted earlier in the evening.”

He nodded.

“But,” she said, “where would they get the bills to plant? The man who planted them must have been the murderer.”

“He must have known the murderer,” Corning told her. “It looks like a frame-up and a tip-off. Somebody who was anxious to have Parkett convicted planted the evidence and then tipped off the police that they’d find it.”

“And that’s the reason the purse snatcher tried to grab my purse?”

“Yes. You can see how they worked it,” Corning said. “The purse snatcher planted the money in your purse earlier in the evening. Then he made a grab at the purse, and did it so clumsily that he was caught and knocked down. The plainclothesman may, or may not, have been a plant. He wanted to look into your purse. You looked in and saw the two one-hundred-dollar bills. They figured you wouldn’t say anything about them, but would come to me. They tipped off Malone to come up here and look in your purse.”

“Why did he pull that stuff about a search warrant?” she asked.

“I walked into that,” he told her. “The fact that I wouldn’t let them search the office without a warrant suggests that I had something to conceal. It’s simply one more thing to explain.”

“What are you going to do?”

He stared down at the two one-hundred-dollar bills on the blotter.

“Did you hear the name of the purse snatcher who was arrested?” he asked.

“Yes. It was Oscar Lane.”

“All right,” he told her. “I’ll take care of that. Leave the money here. Now here’s something I want you to do. This murder was committed on December ninth, at 10:15 p.m. I think Stanwood is on the square. He identifies Parkett simply because Parkett wore an overcoat and a cap, had a limp, and carried a cane. I don’t think he ever saw the face of the man who fired the shot; not clearly, anyway. But he’s been over it so many times with the detectives and the District Attorney’s staff that he thinks he remembers the man’s face.”

“How about these two men, Longwell and Monteith, who identify Parkett so positively?” she asked.

“I’m coming to those two,” he said. “I think they’re professional witnesses.”

“How do you mean?”

“I think they were planted. I don’t think they were within a mile of the place at that time.”

“You mean the police planted them?”

“I mean,” he said, “that somebody planted them. They are simply in the case to convict Parkett. I don’t know why, or who’s back of them, but I do know this: they’ve got girl friends. I’ve had detectives look that up. There’s a girl named Mabel Fosdick, and one named Edith Laverne.

“They live in the same apartment house, the Monadnock, and they work in the same office — the Streeter Finance Corporation. I want you to go to the Monadnock Apartments, take an apartment there, and get acquainted with those two girls. You’ll have to work fast. I want you to find out if they were out with Longwell and Monteith on the night of December ninth. There’s a chance that they were together as a foursome, or a chance that one of the men may have been with one of the women.”

“And thus case comes up tomorrow?” she asked.

He looked at the clock and grinned. “Today,” he told her.

“Aren’t you going to get some sleep?” she inquired solicitously.

He shook his head and motioned towards the door. He was drawing a fresh cup of coffee from the percolator as she stood in the doorway, raised her hand in a mock military salute, and vanished.

It was late in the afternoon when Ken Corning came in from court, carrying his brief case and two books under his arm.

“I haven’t heard anything,” she said, “about the money.”

“You won’t,” Corning told her. “They’ll save that for the last.”

“Then they’ll call you as a witness?” she inquired.

He shook his head, smiling. “No,” he told her, “they’ll let the story leak out to the newspapers.”

“I thought the jurors weren’t supposed to read the newspapers.”

He looked at her and grinned, but said nothing. After a moment, he set the brief case and law books on her desk, and lowered his voice.

“Get anything on the two women?” he asked.

“I’ve moved out there and talked with one of them a little while this morning, just casually. How much time have I got, chief?”

“The case will last about a week.”

“How does it look?”

“Bad,” he told her. “And yet I think Parkett’s innocent. His story sounds like it. Usually a guilty man tries to conceal something, This man doesn’t. He says that he was walking along the sidewalk when the officers picked him up. That he’d been moving right along. He admits that he was on the prowl, but he says he didn’t have a rod with him.”

“What do the officers say?”

“They didn’t find a gun. They didn’t find anything else.”

“How did they know he was there?”

“They just picked him up. But Parkett says that Dick Carr, the detective, cruised past him in a radio car but didn’t see him. After he had gone, Parkett kept on his prowl, looking for something easy. About twenty minutes afterwards the police closed up the district, and Carr picked him up.”

“You think it’s a frame-up?” she inquired.

“He’s either guilty,” he told her slowly, “or else it’s a deliberate frame-up.”

They were silent for a moment. Helen Vail knew the political background of York City well enough to realize that it was readily possible to frame a man for murder. Ken Corning had been there for less than a year. During that time he had fought the crooked politicians who controlled the municipal affairs. Gradually he had made a name for himself, and his reputation had brought him business. That reputation had been founded upon but one thing — his ability as a fighter. He asked for no quarter and gave none.

The door of the outer office opened, and a man of about fifty-five, with keen, wary eyes and tight lips, walked into the room. He looked at Ken Corning, then at Helen Vail, then back at Ken Corning.

“Mr. Corning,” he asked, “the lawyer?”

Ken Corning nodded, stood to one side, and indicated the door to his private office. The man walked with quick, purposeful strides across the room.

“What name?” asked Helen Vail.

The man flashed her a single swift glance and said: “B. W. Flint.”

Helen Vail made a note with her pencil in the day book in which she listed the people who called.

Ken Corning followed his visitor into the private office, and closed the door.

Flint turned on him.

“You’re the attorney representing Fred Parkett.”

The man’s restless eyes flashed swiftly over Ken Corning in shrewd appraisal.

“I came,” he said, “to help you and your client.”

Corning nodded, indicated a chair, walked to the swivel-chair back of his desk and sat down. Then Flint leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“When Parkett went through Grosbeck’s clothes,” he said, “he found some money, and lie found a brown manila envelope that was sealed.”

Ken Corning shook his head patiently. “The trouble with that is,” he said, “that Parkett wasn’t there at all.”

“It might make it better for him if he was there,” Flint said quietly.

“Now what does that mean?” Corning wanted to know.

“It means simply,” said Flint, “that if you could get your client to tell you just what he did with that manila envelope that was taken from Grosbeck’s pocket, and could produce that manila envelope and turn it over to me, your client might get immunity.”

“If Parkett shows up with that envelope, it would be pretty good evidence that he committed the murder.”

Flint made an impatient gesture. “Let’s put it this way,” he said. “If Parkett committed that murder, it’s a cinch he’s got the envelope.”

“All right,” Corning remarked. “It’s the same in either event. When he surrenders the envelope, it means that he’s convicted himself of murder. And yet you say he can get immunity. I’m just mentioning this thing so you can see how foolish your proposition is, and what a sucker I’d be even to listen to it.”

Flint got to his feet and stared intently at the lawyer.

“I think we understand each other all right, Mr. Corning,” he said,

“Where can I meet you, say, some lime tonight, about nine o’clock?”

“I could come to your office.”

“Not quite so hot,” said Ken Corning, “Pick out some place where I can meet you.”

“The Columbino is a good place,” Flint told him. “I’ll be there, dining. You can meet me there.”

“You’ll be alone?” asked Corning.

“Of course.”

“Do you know what was in the envelope?” asked Corning.

Flint hesitated a moment, then shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I don’t. The people who are working with me do.”

“And who are those people?” Corning asked in a tone of voice which showed he hardly expected a reply, but was asking the question mechanically.

Flint smiled. “Those people,” he said carefully, “are big enough to get immunity for Fred Parkett.”

“Well,” Corning said, “that sounds reasonable.”

Flint smiled. “You mean,” he said, “it sounds hopeful.”

“Nine o’clock tonight,” said Corning, pushing back his chair.

Flint nodded, hesitated for a moment, half extended his hand, then turned and walked out of the door.

“At The Columbino,” he called over his shoulder, and closed the door behind him.

Ken Corning heard his quick steps as he crossed the outer office, then the click of the outer door opening and closing.

Corning walked swiftly to his outer office.

“Whom do I charge that call to, and how much is the charge?” asked Helen Vail, indicating the name of B. W. Flint, which she had written in her day book.

“I think we’ll charge it to experience,” said Corning. “Could you write a good love letter?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean a nice love letter. Spread it on pretty thick.”

“Whom do I write to?”

“To Samuel Grosbeck,” he said. “You can start it: ‘My dearest, dearest Sammy,’ and go on from there.”

“What do you want to do with it?”

“I want to put it in a brown manila envelope, seal it up, and hand it to the man who was just in here. I want to see if he knows enough about the stuff he wants, to know that the love letter isn’t it.”

“What will he do when he gets it?” she asked.

“That,” Corning told her, “is one of the things I want to find out. Make it fairly long. I want the envelope to be pretty bulky. You can sign it any name you want.”

Stepping purposefully from his car, Ken Corning strode up the cement walk, climbed the four steps to the porch and jabbed his finger against the doorbell.

Steps sounded on the inside of the house, and a sad-faced woman opened the door and looked at him lugubriously.

“Is Mr. Jason home?” asked Corning.

“What do you want?” she inquired, without answering his question.

“My name is Corning,” he told her, “and I want to see Mr. Jason on a matter of business.”

“He’s eating his dinner now.”

“I’ll wait until he finishes,”

She stood staring at him for a moment, then moved silently to one side.

“Come in,” she invited.

Corning walked into the hallway, and the woman marched flat-footedly into a room which opened on the left. She indicated a chair. “Sit down,” she said.

Ken Corning dropped into the chair and waited. The house was not large, and the odor of cooked food penetrated to the room where he sat. The dining-room was evidently next to it. Corning heard a chair scrape back. He got to his feet as a tall, slender man with a bald head came into the room.

“Jason?” he asked.

The man nodded.

“I’m Corning, attorney for Fred Parkett.”

The man’s face suddenly lit up with some swift flicker of expression which was instantly subdued. He nodded.

“I’ve read about the case in the papers,” he said.

“You were foreman of the Grand Jury which indicted Parkett, I believe,” said Corning.

“I’ve read about the case in the papers,” Jason repeated.

“I suppose that means you’re not going to talk about the Grand Jury business.”

“Not necessarily,” said Jason. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t, and,” he added after a moment’s pause, “there’s no particular reason why I should.”

“The shooting,” said Corning, “took place right across the street. If you’d been home, you’d probably have been a witness.”

“But,” said Jason, “I wasn’t home.”

“Rather a peculiar thing,” Corning told him, “that the shooting should have been in this neighborhood, and you should have been foreman of the Grand Jury which indicted a man for murder.”

“Murders,” Jason said, “have been committed in all parts of the city. I don’t know that there’s any reason a man can’t be held up in this neighborhood simply because I happen to he on the Grand Jury.”

“The evidence,” persisted Corning, “shows that Grosbeck and Harry Stanwood were driving in an automobile. Stanwood is a little bit hazy as to just why they happened to stop here. They had been sitting in the car for some fifteen or twenty minutes before the holdup, and, as I have said, the car was directly across the street from this house.”

“As I remember the evidence that was introduced before the Grand Jury,” Jason said, “that’s an accurate statement.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” asked Corning, “that there might have been a reason that the killing took place in this neighborhood?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean has it ever occurred to you that the murder might have been committed here because you were foreman of the Grand Jury?”

“What would that have to do with it?”

“It may have been that Grosbeck wanted to see you, and was waiting across the street for you to come home so that he could see you as soon as you arrived.”

“What makes you think that?” Jason inquired with mild curiosity.

“Because it is very possible it was so. Have you any reason to believe that Grosbeck was waiting in this neighborhood to see you?”

“No.”

“Do you know why Grosbeck was there?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything about Grosbeck?”

“No.”

“Had you ever met him, or talked with him before the murder?”

“No.”

“How long after the murder did you come home?”

“It must have been fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Did you hear Stanwood telling the officers what had happened?”

“You mean after I came home on the night of the murder?”

“Yes.”

“No, I heard nothing. My wife told me about what had happened. She heard the sound of the shot. She was in bed. She thought at first it was a truck that had backfired. That’s all I know about it.”

“Did she hear the murderer running away?” asked Corning.

“You mean his steps on the pavement?”

“Yes.”

“No. I think she heard the men who ran towards the car after Mr. Stanwood raised the alarm.”

“If,” said Corning, “she heard the steps of the murderer running away from the scene of the crime, she could have told, from the sound of the steps, whether or not the man was lame, couldn’t she?”

“Perhaps; but she didn’t hear any steps. I’m afraid she can’t help you as a witness, Mr. Corning. I’ve talked the matter over with her in great detail. She knows nothing that would help your client.”

“Does she know anything that would hurt him?” Corning asked.

“No. She heard the shot, that’s all.”

Ken Coining said: “Thank you. I’m sorry I disturbed you,” and pushed his way through the door.

The Columbino was a cabaret where fairly good liquor could be obtained. An orchestra played dance music, and a half-dozen entertainers put on a varied vaudeville program between dances. B. W. Flint sat alone at a table, eating slowly, pausing from time to time to stare at the dancers or watch the entertainers.

Ken Corning stood by the hat-check stand, and watched Flint for a few minutes. He tried to find if Flint exchanged any signals or significant glances with anyone else in the room.

After his inspection had yielded him nothing, Ken Corning walked into the cabaret, and moved over to Flint’s table.

Flint looked at him with keenly appraising eyes, and a face which showed no expression whatever, either of hope or surprise.

Ken Corning dropped into the chair across the table.

“Well?” asked Flint.

Ken Corning reached into his pocket and took out a sealed manila envelope. His eyes were fastened on Flint’s face as he pulled the envelope into sight.

Flint looked at the envelope just as he had looked at Ken Corning, without any particular expression.

Ken Corning toyed with the envelope.

“What assurance have I,” he asked, “that if I do what you want, you can do what you said you would?”

Flint’s answer was prompt and pointed. “You haven’t any assurance,” he said, “except my word.”

“But I don’t know you,” said Corning.

“Exactly,” Flint said.

Corning studied the smoke which eddied upward from his cigarette.

“Suppose you should double-cross me?” he asked.

“How could I double-cross you?”

“That’s easy enough. You could use the contents of that envelope to trap my client.”

“If I wanted to double-cross you,” said Flint, “I would have had detectives stationed around here. I would have given them a signal as soon as I found out you had the envelope, and they would grab you and take the envelope from your possession. After you pass it over to me, I have no way of connecting it with you or your client except by my testimony, and your word is as good as mine.”

“If no one sees me when I hand it to you,” said Corning.

“Well, no one needs to see.”

“All right,” said Corning. “That sounds reasonable. I’ll go out and get in a taxicab and wait. You go straight down the street for two blocks and wait at the comer. I’ll follow you and get out. You get in the same taxicab, look under the seat cushion, and you’ll find the envelope.”

“You’re going to a lot of unnecessary trouble,” Flint told him. “You could hand it to me here, under the table.”

“No, I’d rather have it that way,” said Corning.

Flint shrugged his shoulders.

“Wait until I can get my waiter and pay my check.”

Ken Corning walked from the cabaret, found a taxi at the door and sat in it until he saw Flint leave the cabaret and walk swiftly down the street.

“Cruise along behind that man,” he told the driver.

As the cab ground into slow motion, Ken Corning pulled the manila envelope from his pocket and slipped it under the cushions of the seat. He kept peering about, to make certain that no one was following Flint. At the comer of the second block, Flint stopped. Corning tapped on the glass and handed the driver a dollar bill.

“I’m leaving you here, buddy,” he said. “That man waiting there at the corner is going to signal you.”

The cab driver turned to flash Corning a single suspicious glance, but pocketed the dollar bill and grinned as he pulled into the curb. Corning stepped out of the cab without looking at Flint, turned and walked rapidly back towards The Columbino. Flint raised his arm and signaled the cab.

Ken Corning’s roadster was parked at the curb, facing the direction in which the cab was headed. He climbed into the roadster as Flint was entering the cab, and stepped on the starter. As the cab swung out into the middle of the street, Ken Corning snapped home the gearshift and eased in the clutch. His roadster purred into traffic behind the taxicab.

Following the taxicab was an easy matter. Flint was evidently in a hurry, and had instructed the cab driver to step on it. The cab went at high speed straight down the boulevard, turned to the left, roared into speed again, and slowed as it came to the neighborhood in which the murder of Samuel Grosbeck had been committed.

Ken Corning slowed his car, switched out the lights, and pulled in close to the curb. The taxicab ahead of him swung abruptly to the right, came to a stop. Flint got out, paid off the driver, and ran across the sidewalk, up the steps which led to a porch, then across the porch.

The residence was that of Edward Jason, the foreman of the Grand Jury.

Ken Corning sat in the roadster and smoked for some fifteen minutes. At the end of that time, Flint had not left the house. Corning stepped on the starter, tossed away his cigarette and drove back to his office.

Jangling peals of the telephone bell greeted Ken Corning as he fitted his latch-key to the door of the office. He hurried across the room, scooped the receiver to his ear and said: “Hello.”

Helen Vail’s voice was guarded.

“Chief,” she said, “I’ve been trying to catch you for an hour.”

“Something important?” he asked.

“Yes. I wonder if you can come over.”

“Where are you?”

“At the Monadnock,” she said. “I’ve got apartment 318.”

“All right,” he told her. “I’ve got one more job to do before I get there. It’ll be about half an hour.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she told him. “Don’t knock, just walk right in.”

Corning took the elevator to the street and walked three blocks to an office building. On the seventh floor he entered the offices of the Intercoastal Detective Agency.

He gave his name to a young woman at the switchboard and asked for Tom Dunton.

“Third door on the left,” she said. “The last office.”

Corning opened the door, walked along the corridor, and entered a small office barely large enough to contain a desk and two chairs. A man of about fifty, with broad shoulders, got to his feet and extended his hand.

“Hello, Corning. Haven’t seen you for a long while.”

Corning shook hands, sat down, and started in talking business.

“A man named Oscar Lane,” he said, “arrested for purse snatching. Bail has been fixed in the sum of five hundred dollars cash or one-thousand-dollar bond. No one has bailed him out. He’s in jail.”

“All right,” said Dunton. “What can we do?”

“Bail him out,” said Corning.

He took a wallet from his coat pocket and counted out currency. When he had finished, he pushed the pile across to Dunton. Dunton picked it up and counted it, then reached for a receipt book.

“Five hundred dollars,” he said. “Who do we say is putting it up?”

“Take some name that sounds like an alias — John Jones or Sam Black, or something like that. Get a man who looks a little seedy to go in and put up the bail. He’ll say that Lane is a friend of his.”

“And then, what?”

“After you get him out on bail, I want him shadowed. I want to know where he goes and with whom he talks. Put enough men on the job to keep him under constant surveillance. Don’t let him get away no matter what happens.”

“Sometimes you can’t help it,” Dunton told him. “You know that. A man can always give an operative the slip.”

“This is one of the times you’ve got to help it,” Corning told him.

“We’ll do the best we can,” Dunton said.

Corning took the receipt, folded it, pushed it into his pocket, and turned to the door.

“How’s the Fred Parkett case coming?” asked Dunton. “Going to get him off?”

“Maybe.”

“They say it’s a cinch he’s going to be convicted. Some of the wise guys were telling me there was nothing to it. I told them that any case you were handling was loaded with dynamite for the prosecution. I offered to bet even money that you get him off. Was it a good bet?”

Ken Corning narrowed his eyes and looked at Tom Dunton.

“If Oscar Lane,” he sand, “gets out of jail and gets in touch with Dick Carr, a detective, go ahead and bet ail the money you can get.”

“Are you telling me this so that I’ll be sure to keep Lane shadowed?” asked Dunton, grinning.

“I’m telling you that so you can win some money,” Corning told him, and walked out of the office.

Ken Corning pushed his way into apartment 318.

Helen Vail was stretched out in an overstuffed chair, with her feet on a davenport. She seemed very much at ease.

Ken Corning looked around the apartment. “Something’s wrong with you,” he said.

“What’s wrong? Haven’t I done what you told me to?”

“That’s just the trouble,” he said. “You haven’t cut any corners yet.”

“I know when to cut corners and when to do just what I’m told,” she said. “Any time I’ve disregarded instructions it’s worked out all right,”

“Any time it doesn’t, you’re canned,” he told her. “What’s the dirt?”

“Mabel Fosdick’s checking out,” she said. “She’s going somewhere. I think she’s leaving for good.”

“Know where she’s going?”

“It’s some place out of the state. I don’t know just where. She’s not supposed to tell anybody.”

“How about the other girl, Edith Laverne?”

“She’s staying here apparently.”

“Thought the girls had jobs here.”

“They have. But Mabel Fosdick had something offered her that will take her out of the state. She’s packing up and intends to get out a little after midnight.”

“What kind of girls are they?” asked Corning.

“Mabel Fosdick is on the square. I’d trust her,” said Helen Vail. “The Laverne woman is different. She’s one of those mealy mouthed women who are always worrying about their reputations, and all that stuff. Mabel Fosdick is right out in the open with everything she does.”

“You think it’s unexpected, this business of Mabel Fosdick’s getting out?”

“Yes, I’m certain it is. I was commencing to get friendly with her.”

“Has some man been calling here this evening?”

“Not that I know of.”

“She’s mysterious about it?”

“Yes, whatever it is. It’s some job that has been given her, and she’s been told not to say anything about what it is, or where it’s going to take her.”

“What’s Mabel Fosdick going to do with her furniture? Is she going to take it with her?”

“The apartment’s furnished. All she’s got is her personal belongings. She has a big trunk, a small trunk, two or three suitcases, and a hat box.”

“You’ve been up there?”

“I helped her pack.”

“Good girl.”

“I can tell you something else — she keeps a diary.”

“Now,” said Ken Corning, “you’re getting somewhere. That diary is what I want. Could you get a chance to look in it?”

“No, it’s one of the kind that are locked and have a key. She was right there all the time and I didn’t have a chance to get it.”

“Where is it, in one of the suit-cases?”

“Yes.”

Ken Corning looked at his watch.

“Okey,” he said. “You took the apartment under an assumed name?”

“Sure.”

“All right. You’d better vanish.”

“What are you intending to do?”

“I don’t know. What’s the number of Mabel Fosdick’s apartment?”

“Four nineteen. It’s on the floor above.”

“She’s in there now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if she’s got her tickets purchased?”

“I think her tickets have been sent to her.”

“What does she look like?” asked Corning.

“She’s about as tall as I am; about twenty-four or twenty-five years old. She’s got a gray coat with a fur collar. She’s a brunette, and runs pretty heavy to lipstick. But she’s a good kid and she looks it. Trim and pretty, but not loud.”

“How about your clothes?” asked Corning. “Have you everything so you can put it in one suitcase?”

“Sure. That’s what you told me to do.”

“Okey, kid. Get that suitcase packed, and beat it. Leave me the key. I’m going up and stick around on the upper floor for a little while.”

“Promise me you won’t get into trouble,” she said.

He smiled at her, shook his head, and walked out.

Ken Corning climbed the stairs to the floor above, spotted apartment 419, took up his station at the end of the corridor, and waited.

He waited less than five minutes when the door of the apartment opened and a trim, well-dressed young woman stepped into the corridor, pulled the door closed behind her and walked swiftly to the elevator.

Corning waited until he heard the door of the elevator cage slam shut, then moved down the corridor and bent over the lock on the door of the apartment. His third skeleton key clicked back the bolt, and he walked in.

The apartment was similar to the one occupied by Helen Vail. Baggage was stacked up in a neat pile, as though awaiting the call of a transfer man.

Corning started in on the suitcases, and found the diary packed in the first. He made no attempt to examine the diary there, but closed up the suit-case, took the diary with him, and went back to Helen Vail’s apartment. Helen Vail had gone.

Corning picked the lock on the diary, sat down and read it carefully. When he had finished reading, he put it into his pocket and went back to Mabel Fosdick’s apartment and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again, and then when there still was no answer, once more opened the door and stepped into the apartment.

The baggage was gone.

Ken Corning looked at his watch, nodded and went back to Helen Vail’s apartment. He put in ten minutes making certain that there was nothing left in the place which could identify Helen Vail as the tenant who had kept it for so short a time. When he had finished, he left the key on the table, walked out of the apartment, and pulled the door shut after him. The spring lock clicked into place.

The midnight train was clicking over the switches when Ken Corning approached the slim girl in the gray coat with the fur collar.

“Miss Fosdick?” he asked.

She looked up at him speculatively, and nodded coolly.

Ken Corning said: “I want to get a little information from you. It’s a matter of some importance. Do you remember the night that you went to the hockey game with Arthur Longwell, Jim Monteith and Edith Laverne?”

She spoke in a cool, collected voice. “May I ask just what business it is of yours?”

“It happens,” he said, “that it’s rather important. If you don’t answer it might interfere with your trip.”

“You’re a detective?”

“I’m simply telling you that it might interfere with your trip.”

She sighed. “Yes,” she said, “I remember the occasion.”

“Do you remember the teams that were playing?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the date?”

“I’m not certain that I do. It was some time in the winter — in December, I think.”

“Do you remember which team won, and the score?”

“Yes.”

“Do you suppose it was on the ninth of December?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t tell.”

“Could you tell if you consulted your diary?”

She gave a little convulsive start and stared at him.

“Yes,” she said, “I think so. Why?”

Ken Corning reached into his pocket and pulled out her diary.

She gasped. “Why, what are you doing with that? That’s mine. You’ve no business taking that! You must have stolen it from my suitcase!”

“We’ll talk about that a little later,” lie told her. “Let’s look at the date in the diary and see if you can tell exactly what evening that trip took place.”

She didn’t open the book, but stared at him with blazing eyes.

“You had no business to read my diary,” she said.

Ken Corning planted his feet wide apart, braced his body against the swaying motion of the tram, and stared down at her.

“All right,” he said. “Now I’m going to tell you something. Samuel Grosbeck was murdered on the night of December ninth. Fred Parkett is being tried for that murder. Jim Monteith and Arthur Longwell are going to swear that they were in the vicinity and saw a man running away; that they recognized the man as the defendant, Fred Parkett; that the date was December ninth, and the hour was 10:30 p.m.

“Those men weren’t there at the time. They’re simply giving testimony to help convict the defendant. They knew that you could give evidence that the four of you were sitting in a box at the rink at the very moment the two men claimed to have been near the scene where Grosbeck was murdered. As a result, they’re getting you out of the state.”

She stared at him with an agony of conflicting expressions on her countenance.

“In fact,” said Corning, “you have wondered somewhat about this position and why it was offered to you. You have known generally that Longwell and Monteith were going to be witnesses in this murder case. You haven’t taken the trouble to check back and find out the date and time of the murder, and then consult your diary. I suggest that you do so now.”

“They wouldn’t do anything like that,” she said. “They couldn’t. They’re not that type.”

By way of answer, Ken Corning opened the diary to the date of December ninth, and pushed the open volume into her lap.

“Read it,” he said. “You don’t even need to rely on the diary for it. If you remember the hockey game, the records show that it took place on that particular date, and that it wasn’t over until eleven fifteen — more than an hour after the time the two men swear they were at the scene of the murder.”

His eyes red and swollen from loss of sleep, Ken Corning propped his elbow against the side of the telephone booth, and wearily closed his eyes as he listened to the squawking noises which came over the receiver.

“Did you cover the rooming-house,” he asked, “where you say Lane went?”

Tom Dunton’s voice showed a trace of impatience.

“Of course we covered the rooming-house,” he said. “We checked every man and every woman who went in there, and shadowed them when they went out.”

“And you’re sure Dick Carr wasn’t one of the people who went in?” asked Corning.

“Hell!” said Dunton explosively. “I guess I know Dick Carr when I see him, don’t I? I tell you, Dick Carr didn’t come near the place, and, as nearly as I can find out, there wasn’t any other detective that did.”

“Anybody that looked a little bit suspicious, or off-color?” asked Corning.

“There was only one man,” said Dunton, “and that was a bird about sixty years old, with spectacles that had a black ribbon running down from them. He was clean-shaved, hatchet-faced, tight-lipped, and he looked as though he was afraid somebody was going to catch him. We followed him when he left, and he got in a car that had a chauffeur. The chauffeur drove him off.”

“Get the number of the car?” asked Corning.

“Yes. We got the license number and we’re looking it up... wait a minute, here it comes now. Here’s the dope on the car. It’s owned by a man named Stanwood, Harry Stanwood, of 9486 North Bronson.”

Ken Corning frowned.

“Does that mean anything to you?” asked the detective as Corning continued to be silent.

“Yes,” said Corning, “it means a lot. I don’t know just what it means, but I think it’s what I wanted to know. I’ll call you back later on, maybe.”

He hung up the receiver and strode out of the telephone booth. The weariness seemed to have gone from his face, and in its place was a look of keen concentration; the look which is on the face of a chess player as he contemplates the men on the board at a critical stage of the game.

Corning took a taxicab, and went to his office. The night operator took him up on the elevator. Corning inserted his key in the spring lock of the office door, and pushed it open. A paper, which had been inserted between the door and the sill, caught his eye. He picked it up.

The note was scribbled in a few words, on a single sheet of paper: “Apparently you handed me wrong envelope. Have you another? Call GLadstone 6-4938.”

The note was unsigned. There were not even any initials on it.

Ken Corning looked at his strapwatch. It was 1:45. He sat down at the telephone and dialed the number of Helen Vail’s apartment. He heard the bell ringing, and waited for several rings before he heard her voice on the line.

“Were you asleep?” he asked,

“Don’t be silly,” she told him. “I was lying awake, thinking up nice things to say to you in the morning for ringing my telephone at this hour.”

He managed a grin, but it was a grin with his lips only. His eyes were cold and hard.

“Remember when we represented the men who were arrested in that theater war?” he said. “There were several smoke bombs that were held for a while as evidence. We have them in the office somewhere. Where are they?”

“In the cloak closet. In a big box over in the back. Why do you want them?”

“I happened to think of them for a certain purpose. If I didn’t have them I’d have to think up something else.”

“Are you going to get any sleep?”

“Probably tomorrow,” he said.

“I thought you were going to be in court tomorrow.”

“I think,” he said, “the case will be continued.”

He slid the receiver back on the hook, and called GLadstone 6-4938.

The sound of the ringing signal came over the telephone just once, and then a rasping, impatient voice snapped: “Hello. What do you want?”

“Corning speaking,” he said. “I gave you the wrong envelope.”

“I know you did,” Flint’s voice replied, with a certain cold suspicion in its tone.

“I’ve got the right envelope now,” said Corning.

“Where are you?” Flint inquired cautiously.

“I’m out in the ninety-four hundred block on North Bronson. Can you meet me there in about an hour?”

“I can get there before that.”

“No,” said Corning, “I think an hour will be about right.”

“Look here,” Flint told him, “the proposition that I made you is predicated on fair play all around. You can’t get what you want unless I get what I want, and I don’t want any more false alarms.”

“Don’t come unless you want to,” said Corning, and slammed the receiver back on the hook.

He went to the cloak closet, got out the box which contained the smoke bombs, carried them down to his car, and made time through the deserted streets.

The house at 9486 North Bronson was a stucco residence in a fairly exclusive neighborhood. The building was set back from the sidewalk, with a strip of lawn and some ornamental trees at the corner.

Ken Corning moved with the swift certainty of a skilful lawbreaker who knows exactly what he intends to do. He walked along the shadows until he had reached a side window. A jimmy from his pocket pushed open the window. He lit a smoke bomb, tossed it inside of the house. He walked to the back of the house, jimmied another window, tossed in a second bomb, circled on the other side, and put two more bombs in the house. Then he returned to the sidewalk, where he sat in his automobile, patiently waiting.

After a few minutes dense clouds of black smoke began to pour from the windows of the place. There was, however, no sign of activity. The building remained slumbering and dark.

Ken Corning looked at his watch.

Ten minutes passed. There was a light suddenly visible in a window in the upper floor of the house. Almost at once other lights came on. These lights showed dimly as reddish oblongs of illumination through the billowing clouds of smoke which eddied about the place.

Once more Ken Corning consulted his watch.

Getting hurriedly from his car, Corning raised his voice in a shout of “Fire! Fire!! Fire!!!”, ran across the strip of lawn and started to pound on the front door with hands and fists. After a few moments, he kicked in the glass of a window, making a great noise as he did so, and once more shouted his alarm of fire.

He heard steps on the stairs, a man’s voice shouting.

The lower floor was filled with pungent, thick, oily smoke. Ken Corning climbed through the window, shouting at the top of his lungs, and pushed his way through the smoke. He found a doorway, stairs which led up from a hall, and saw a faint light shining through the smoke at the top of the stairway. A dim figure loomed up out of the smoke ahead of him.

Corning shouted once more: “Fire!”

A man’s voice said irritably: “What is it? Where is it?”

Corning reached forward, touched the bulk of the figure with questing fingers.

“Can you get out?” he shouted. “The whole basement is on fire! The place is going up in smoke!”

“Just a minute,” said the querulous voice.

“There’s no time to be lost! You’ve got to get out right now!” said Corning. “I’ve turned in the fire alarm, but the timbers may collapse at any moment.”

The man on the stairs cursed and started to turn back. Ken Corning clutched at his garments.

“No, no, you can’t go back there! It’s fatal! You’ve got to come!”

The man swung a clumsy fist in an awkward blow which glanced from the side of Corning’s head. Corning let loose his hold and the man ran upstairs. After a second, Corning started in pursuit.

The man reached the top of the stairs, plunged along the dimly lighted corridor, through which dense clouds of smoke were moving slowly. He entered the door of a room and vanished. Corning waited by the door of the room, crouched, tense, expectant.

Forty seconds passed and the man came running out of the room. As he reached the corridor, Corning stopped Mm, then swung Ms fist expertly to the man’s jaw. The man slumped, knocked out.

Corning caught him and flung the senseless form over his shoulder. He groped his way down to the lower floor, found the front door, got it open and stumbled out into the night, with his helpless burden.

Several people were standing in front of the house, clad in various forms of nightdress, staring with wide eyes and open mouths. A clanging gong and the wail of a siren announced that the fire department was within a few blocks of the place.

Corning ran out across the lawn to his automobile and dumped the man into the machine. He was about sixty years of age, tall and thin, with a hatchet face and thin lips. He was clad in pajamas and slippers.

One or two of the spectators crowded up close to the machine.

“Overcome by smoke,” said Corning. “I’m rushing him to a hospital.”

He ran around the car, climbed in behind the steering wheel, stepped on the starter and purred away from the curb.

A car was parked some fifty yards down the street and a man stood by the car, watching the sidewalk and street, then turning to stare at the residence from which the smoke was pouring.

Ken Corning slowed the car as he approached. His lights struck the man who was standing by the running-board. It was B. W. Flint.

Corning called to him: “Okey, Flint. Fall in behind and follow me.”

The man in Corning’s car stirred, groaned and asked an unintelligible question in thick tones. Corning pushed him back against the cushions.

He ran his car around the corner, made speed for three blocks, and then pulled to the curb. The other car, with Flint at the wheel, was right behind him. Corning switched off his lights and the motor and waited until he heard Flint’s steps coming along the sidewalk. Flint drew alongside the car.

The man at Corning’s side made an ineffective effort to open the door. Corning pushed him back.

“Have you got the envelope?” asked Flint.

“Come around the other side,” said Corning. “I’ll talk to you there.”

Flint moved around to the other side of the car.

Corning spoke rapidly.

“The reason I gave you the wrong envelope,” he said, “was because I didn’t have the right envelope. I wanted to find out what it was all about. The general idea was that Grosbeck was killed by a stick-up. He wasn’t. He was betrayed by a friend. When you thought you had the envelope you took it right to Jason, which fold me what I had surmised — that Jason suspected Grosbeck had important evidence that was to go to the Grand Jury, Jason was out when Grosbeck came to his house to see him. Grosbeck waited for Jason to come back. Somebody shot Grosbeck.”

The man in pajamas struggled feebly. “What the devil’s the meaning of this?” he asked.

“You were overcome by smoke,” Corning told him, “and I rescued you.”

“All right, I can get out now,” said the man.

“Who is it?” asked Flint.

“Harry Stanwood,” said Corning. “Do you know him?”

Flint gave an exclamation of surprise.

Corning continued to talk rapidly.

“Two witnesses pin the kill on Fred Parkett. There’s a man named Longwell and one named Monteith. They claim they were there and saw Parkett miming away from the scene of the crime. They weren’t there. Those witnesses were planted. I’ve got an affidavit showing they couldn’t have been there. It’s the affidavit by one of the young women who was with them at a hockey game that didn’t break up until an hour after the murder. Mrs. Jason heard the shot, but she didn’t hear anyone running away from the car where the murder was committed. The reason for that is that nobody did run away.”

Corning turned abruptly to Stanwood.

“How about those papers, Stanwood?”

“What papers?” gasped the man, his face a pasty white.

“The papers that you took from Grosbeck’s body as soon as you had killed him,” said Corning. “The papers that were of such importance to the Grand Jury. The papers that were going to incriminate Dick Carr and some other detectives.”

“You’re crazy!” Stanwood said.

Corning smiled, and the smile was cold.

“It won’t be hard to find out,” he said. “The way I dope it out, Stanwood made the kill, and Dick Carr, the detective, is standing back of him. They needed a fall guy, so they picked on Fred Parkett, the ex-convict. Naturally, Stanwood wasn’t going to surrender the papers until he was out in the clear. But even then he couldn’t stand the gaff. He figured that he had to gild the lily and paint the rose, so he worked with Carr, and got a purse snatcher to plant some evidence on my secretary. I put some smoke bombs in his house so that he d think the place was burning down, and I figured he’d carry his most valuable possessions with him when he went out.”

Stanwood cursed and swung his fist full into Corning’s face. Corning took the blow without flinching, leaned forward and pinned Stanwood’s arms. Flint ran around the car and jerked open the door. The two struggling men fell to the running-board. Flint reached up with the barrel of the gun and brought it sharply down on Stanwood’s skull. Stanwood lay limp.

Flint reached an exploring hand into the breast of Stanwood’s pajamas.

“Here it is,” he said.

“All right,” Corning said. “I don’t want to mix in this any more than I have to. Suppose you tell me what your connection is.”

“I’m a Federal detective,” said Flint. “I was in touch with Jason right after the murder. Jason suspected it wasn’t a simple hold-up, but we always figured Parkett had done the job. Grosbeck had some valuable evidence, and he’d split with the gang. He was going to turn the evidence over to Jason. Jason told him to come to his residence. He’d talked with Jason over the telephone. Jason was delayed getting there, and when he got there Grosbeck was dead.”

Ken Corning brushed the dust from his knees.

“How about packing him over to your car?” he said. “I don’t want to figure in this part of it if I don’t have to. I’ve got a young woman named Mabel Fosdick in the Beechwood Hotel She’s made an affidavit, and she’s willing to tell the truth. She can give you the lever that will crack the testimony of Longwell and Monteith. They’ll probably name the people higher up when you work on them.”

Flint clicked handcuffs of the wrists of the unconscious figure in pajamas. He looked at Corning and his grim features relaxed.

“Do you always get your clients out?” he asked.

Ken Corning shrugged his shoulders.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I get a break. And sometimes... I have to make a break.”

Flint chuckled.

“All right,” he said. “You take his feet and I’ll take his head.”