Murder Every Hour

CHAPTER II FIVE O’CLOCK DEATH

EARLY dusk had settled over Manhattan. The day had been a cloudy one, and the sky had blackened with each succeeding hour of afternoon. Lights were twinkling from myriad windows where electricity had supplanted the fading illumination of day.

A man was seated at a battered table in a small, paneled office. The room looked antiquated; it was located only a few stories above the street. This little office, in an old-fashioned building, was the inner room of the suite occupied by Jeremy Lentz.

The inventor was the man at the table. Before him lay a mass of spread-out blueprints. Lentz, sour-faced and bespectacled, was studying the blueprints. His lips protruded as he pursed them. Mechanically, the inventor drew a cigarette from a pack that lay on the table beside him.

The cigarette was of the cork-tipped variety. The trade-mark imprinted upon it was a small blue crown. This was Lentz’s regular brand. An ash tray cluttered with stumps was evidence that the inventor was a heavy smoker.

Bluish smoke was curling from the ash tray as Lentz lighted his fresh cigarette. Careless in habit, Lentz let the old stumps smolder in the metal ash tray. The odor of burning cork mingled with that of tobacco; but the heavy atmosphere did not appear to bother the inventor.

Standing up from the table, Lentz looked about and noticed the settling darkness. He glanced at a wrist watch and seemed surprised to note that it was not quite five o’clock. The closeness to the hour, however, reminded him of something. Lentz went to the door of the office and opened it.

A stenographer was seated at a small desk in the outside reception room. The girl was putting away a stack of old letters. She looked up as Lentz opened the door.

“You may leave now, Miss Farthington,” informed the inventor, in a mild tone. “I shall not require you any longer.”

“Aren’t you going to file the blueprints?” questioned the girl.

“I can attend to that myself,” returned Lentz. “I shall be here until six o’clock.”

Abruptly, the inventor went back into the inner office, closing the door behind him. The stenographer put away the letters, donned hat and coat, then went out into the hallway.

LENTZ’S office was the last door on this corridor. Directly opposite it was the door of an unoccupied office. Beyond these doors, the corridor terminated in a window that opened above an alleyway three floors below.

The window was at the girl’s left as she stepped out into the hall. Hence she turned right in order to approach the elevators.

The corridor was dim, for it had not been lighted, despite the gloom of the day. As the stenographer reached the main portion of the hall, she stepped squarely into the path of a man coming from an elevator. The man moved quickly aside. The stenographer passed him and rang the elevator bell.

At that moment, the girl wondered if the visitor happened to be coming to Lentz’s office. Turning back, she was just in time to see him opening the door that led into the inventor’s offices.

She noticed that the man was tall and stoop-shouldered. His coat, a light gray, was visible in the gloom of the corridor. But the stenographer could catch no glimpse of the man’s face.

Before the girl could start back to the office to find out who the arrival was, the door of an elevator banged open and the operator called “Down.” The stenographer decided not to return to the office. Instead, she took the elevator and descended.

The lobby of the little building was not a pretentious one; yet there was a fair flow of people passing through it, most of them outward bound. Lentz’s stenographer went out with other home-goers. It seemed as though nearly every one was leaving before five, on this afternoon.

FIVE minutes passed. A short, stubby man jostled his way into the building, carrying a stack of cigar boxes. He managed to grab loose boxes that were toppling as someone brushed against him.

Twisting aside, the stubby man avoided the final members of the crowd and paused beside a table where the elevator dispatcher was standing.

“Nearly bowled you over,” chuckled the dispatcher. “Would have been too bad if you’d busted up some of those fancy boxes. Got an extra smoke today, bud?”

A grin appeared upon the stubby man’s red face as he used his chin to indicate the breast pocket of his overcoat. The dispatcher reached in and extracted a wrapped cigar, which he transferred to a pocket of his uniform.

“Take another,” suggested the stubby man, in a gruff voice. “I’ve got plenty.”

The dispatcher helped himself.

“Kind of hoped you’d be in today,” he remarked. “But I’d given you up, this late. What’s the idea hitting here as late as five? Most everybody’s gone out.”

“I’ve got to see one customer,” informed the stubby man, in his hoarse tones. “Fellow named Lentz. Ain’t gone out, has he?”

“Don’t think so,” returned the dispatcher. “His stenog breezed by about five minutes ago. But I think he’s still up there. Usually stays late. I check off anybody that goes in or out after six o’clock. He’s a regular late-stayer, Lentz is. Hello there, Terry.”

The last remark was addressed to a newcomer. The stubby cigar salesman turned about to see a uniformed policeman who had entered the lobby. The officer was obviously the patrolman covering the beat that included this office building.

“Hello,” returned the cop. “What’re you doing? Buying some cigars?”

“Not me,” laughed the dispatcher. “Meet this guy, Terry. He sells the offices in this building. What did you say your name was, bud? I’ve forgotten.”

“Garsher,” informed the stubby man. “George Garsher. I do a business in high-grade cigars. Try a couple of smokes, officer. They’re in the outside pocket of my overcoat.”

The cop nodded solemnly and helped himself to two of Garsher’s perfectos. His eyes opened as he saw the bands that proclaimed the cigars to be an imported brand.

Just then an elevator door whammed open and a flood of passengers came from the car. The dispatcher nudged Garsher, who nodded and walked aboard.

The dispatcher turned to chat with the bluecoat. Both forgot Garsher; neither noted the people from the elevator. Thus they failed to see a stoop-shouldered fellow in a gray coat who walked out briskly with the throng.

“GOOD smokes, these,” remarked the dispatcher, tapping his pocket. “Next time that fellow Garsher comes in, I’ll remind him to leave a couple for you.”

“He blows in regular?” queried the cop. “Customers in the building?”

“Yeah. He sells high-class brands at a cut rate. Does a good business here. Usually comes in with a big stack and goes out empty-handed. Well, Terry, how does it look out? Due for rain?”

“No. But it’s chilly, though. And me on the beat with this cold of mine. Well, I’ve stuck it out all week. Guess I can keep going. But I don’t figure it’s a bad idea to step inside once in a while. It don’t hurt on this beat.”

Terry leaned back against the wall. His elbow jostled a telephone from the table. The dispatcher caught the instrument before it fell to the floor. He hung the receiver on the hook and replaced the instrument on the table.

“Don’t knock it again, Terry,” he warned. “We’ve cracked a couple of ‘em on this stone floor. Phone company got sore about it.”

“What does this do? Hook up with the offices? I didn’t know you had a switchboard service in this building.”

“We don’t. This is just the building phone. But we gave out cards with the numbers to all the guys that have offices here. So they can call down if they want service. And we can reach them at night, too. The owner’s kind of particular. Here’s the list. All the phone numbers in the building.”

The dispatcher pulled a small book from a drawer in the table. He handed it to the patrolman. Terry was glancing through the pages when the telephone began to ring. The dispatcher answered it.

“Hello…” There was a curious pause in the dispatcher’s voice. Terry looked up. “Hello… Who? Lentz… You mean… Sure, he’s still here… Yeah. We’ll be right up.”

“What is it?” queried the cop, as the dispatcher hung up the telephone.

“Something’s happened to a guy named Lentz,” was the response. “That was Garsher calling. The bird with the cigars.”

“From Lentz’s office?”

“Yeah. On the third floor.”

Passengers were coming from another elevator. The dispatcher and the policeman hurried into the emptying car. The dispatcher spoke to the operator. The door clanged. They rode to the third floor.

The dispatcher guided Terry along the gloomy hall. A lighted patch greeted them. It came from the door of Lentz’s office. They saw Garsher standing, there, his cigar boxes tumbled on the floor beside him.

“Look — look inside,” panted the stubby man. He was clutching at the door frame. “In the — in the inside office. It’s — it’s Lentz!”

The patrolman shouldered through. He reached the inner door and drew it outward. He stopped short on the threshold, staring at the sight before him while the dispatcher looked over his shoulder.

Halfway between table and door lay Jeremy Lentz, dead. The inventor had apparently slumped forward; then rolled upon his back. There was no doubt as to the cause of Lentz’s death. He had been slain by a gunshot.

A huge, gaping wound showed in Lentz’s bloodstained shirt front. Crimson was still oozing from the spot where a murderous slug had entered. The patrolman had seen such sights before. He knew that Lentz had been shot through the heart.

TURNING about, the officer motioned the dispatcher back into the outer office. White-faced, the fellow leaned against the wall. Garsher, his features pitiful, was looking in from the door.

“Is — is — he dead?” stammered the cigar salesman.

“I’ll say he is!” responded the patrolman. “What did you do? Walk in and find him there?”

“I–I waited here for a few minutes. Here — here in the outer office. Then — then I knocked at the inside door. But there wasn’t any answer.”

“So you opened the door?”

“Yes — after I had knocked. After I had knocked twice. Then — then I almost stepped onto the body. I–I saw the face. I knew it was Mr. Lentz.”

“And you used this phone to call downstairs?” demanded the patrolman, indicating an instrument on the desk.

Garsher nodded.

“Where’d you get the number?”

The cigar salesman pointed to a card that was dangling from the mouthpiece of the telephone. It carried the number of the building telephone.

“Sit down over there,” ordered the cop, indicating a chair. “No — never mind those cigar boxes. Do what I tell you. Stay there while I call headquarters.”

Garsher slumped in the chair and buried his face in his hands. The dispatcher weakly managed himself to another vacant chair. He, too, was shaken.

But Terry the cop was brisk and businesslike. He completed his report; then hung up the receiver of Lentz’s telephone. Garsher’s face bobbed up when Terry had finished talking.

“You — you’re holding me here?” queried the cigar salesman. “Just because — because I found the body and told you about it? Honest, officer, I–I didn’t have anything to do with it!”

“We’ll find out about that later,” returned the patrolman. “You’ll get a chance to tell your story later.”

“You — you’re holding me — for murder?”

“Never mind. Just sit tight and wait. Maybe for murder; maybe as a material witness. It’s not my job to decide which. You’ll find out what’s what when the inspector gets here.”

As Garsher sagged in his chair, the patrolman approached him and began a search of his pockets. He hoisted the cigar salesman in order to complete the search; then, finding no gun, he thrust Garsher back into his chair.

The net result of the frisk consisted of six cigars, which the patrolman placed on the desk beside the telephone. As an afterthought, he added the two perfectos that Garsher had given him in the lobby.

The dispatcher saw the action and solemnly brought out his own cigars, setting them down as if they were poisonous.

George Garsher did not see the action.

His head was buried against his forearm as he sat slumped in the chair. To him waiting was to be an ordeal, as minutes began their slow progress in that room outside the office where a man lay dead.