The Case of the Crime King

Chapter 32

I grabbed the redhead’s shoulder and spun her across the hall toward the front-room door. Frank and the blonde were just coming through it. Frank neatly sidestepped, and the redhead crashed into the blonde. They fell into the front room in a tangle of arms and legs just as Strite’s pistol went off.

I had started to throw myself sidewise and draw the instant after I’d propelled the girl out of the line of fire. Strite’s bullet cut air where I had been a microsecond before. Then I was drawing and squeezing the trigger even as I brought the gun up.

My shot was echoed by one from Frank’s gun. The suspect let out a yell as a slug caught his left arm. I could see the round, dark spot appear against the white of his shirt sleeve just above the elbow.

Strite reeled backward and out of sight. We could hear him running down the hall, yelling, “Julie!” I started up the stairs three at a time with Frank right behind me. I reached the top just as Big Julie burst from a room at the end of the hall. He was in his undershirt and his hair hung over his forehead in disorder. He didn’t look like a scholar tonight. His face was bloated with drink, and his expression was the same as he wore in his mugg shot. He looked like a wild animal at bay. A .45 automatic was gripped in one huge fist.

Harry Strite sped right past him into the room Big Julie had just left. Julie leveled his gun at me and was squeezing the trigger when I fired. He staggered backward just as his gun went off, and the bullet went high over my head. I fired again, he gave a grunt and reeled out of sight into an alcove in the wall directly opposite the room where Strite was.

Frank was alongside me then, and we crouched side by side, our guns ready. There was no protection in the hall, but neither suspect could attempt a shot without exposing himself to our fire.

A door alongside of us cracked open, and the terrified eyes of a girl looked out. Undoubtedly the busy Flora, interrupted in the middle of her date. When she saw our guns, the door slammed and a bolt shot home.

I inched forward until I could see at an angle into the alcove where Big Julie was. My view was too restricted to see him, but I could make out that the alcove was a stairway to the roof.

I called, “Give it up and throw out your guns. You haven’t got a chance.”

The gunfire had alerted the outside stakeouts. The hallway suddenly grew brighter as spotlights from both the street in front and the alley out back hit windows at either end of the hall. Simultaneously there was a pounding on the door downstairs.

Harry Strite’s scared voice called, “Julie, I’m hit! We better give it up.”

“So am I, you chicken little runt,” Julie growled back from across the hall. “We’ll fight it out.”

“I can’t, Julie! I’m bleeding.” The little man’s voice contained an edge of panic. “Hey, Friday! I’m coming out. Don’t shoot!”

Julie yelled, “You stay where you are, chicken! You’re not running out on me.”

Strite made no reply. His gun skidded out into the hall, hit the mop board, and caromed toward us. Then he stepped through the door, his right arm held high and his bloodstained left arm dangling limply at his side.

“Why, you double-crossing little punk!” Big Julie’s thick voice said.

Strite glanced toward the roof stairs, and his expression grew terrified. “Don’t, Julie!” he whispered. “Don’t!”

Two thunderous shots sounded, and the little man slammed backward against the wall. His raised arm dropped to press against his stomach, and he slid slowly to a sitting position, his gaze fixed in shock and disbelief on the man he had regarded as a demigod.

The shots were still echoing when I ran forward and snapped a quick shot into the stairway alcove. It missed, and I jerked back out of the line of fire just as Julie fired back.

Momentarily we were stalemated, neither of us willing to risk exposure in order to get in another shot.

Then Frank and I heard the rasp of hinges as Julie heaved open the door to the roof. Frank and I both raced forward and leveled our guns just as the big man started to turn around again.

He never made it. Both of us fired point-blank while he was still half facing away from us. He tried to bring his gun around the rest of the way, emitted a deep groan, and tumbled head first down the stairs to land at our feet.

I kicked his dropped gun aside and knelt over him.

There was a clattering on the stairs, and Andy and LaMonica suddenly appeared in the upper hallway with drawn guns. They halted and lowered the guns when they saw Frank putting his away. I rose and put mine away, too.

“He’s dead,” I announced generally.

Frank was bending over Harry Strite, who still sat on the hall floor with his back against the wall, his good hand clutched to his stomach. Red was seeping between his fingers.

Frank said, “He’s still alive. But I think he’s dying.”

I leaned over the wounded man, too. I said, “Can you hear me, Harry?”

He looked at me dully. “Julie did it. I never thought—”

“You haven’t got much time, Harry,” I interrupted. “Want to go out clean?”

“We shouldn’t of come in,” the dying man whispered. “We shouldn’t of left Whittier.”

“Where in Whittier, Harry?” I said. “Is that where Maury Wey is?”

I seemed to reach him finally. His eyes momentarily cleared, and he looked directly into my face. “Arnold Watson’s on Firebird Avenue,” he said. “Be careful you don’t hurt the kids.”

His head drooped to his chest.

“He’s dead,” Frank said, and rose to his feet.

12:47 a.m. From a phone in the downstairs hall I called Detective Headquarters to report Harry Strite’s dying words. Al Shambra, who took the report, said he would get the information to the Whittier police immediately.

“What do you think he meant by ‘Be careful you don’t hurt the kids’?” he asked.

“I’d guess he meant there were some kids in the house,” I said. “Better advise the Whittier police not to rush in until they find out.”

When I hung up, Andy and Frank were standing in the hall. Andy said, “Want us to wind things up here, Joe, and let you and Frank get some sleep?”

Frank answered for both of us. He said, “Sure appreciate it, Andy. I been spending so many nights out, Fay wonders why I don’t transfer to the night watch.”

The next morning Frank and I met in front of the elevators. As we rode up to third, Frank asked, “Heard how they made out with Maury Wey?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Nothing in the morning paper. Something else interesting, though.”

“What?” I asked.

“Customs agents knocked over a ship in San Francisco Harbor. Arrested the skipper and a couple of other guys. Confiscated the cargo.”

“Yeah?” I said.

“Ship named the Gloria May. With a cargo of contraband guns.”

7:58 a.m. We checked in and found a message in the book that the captain wanted to see us.

“Friday, Smith,” he said when we walked into his office. “Got a chore for you.”

Frank nodded, and I said, “Yes, sir.”

“Whittier police, with an assist from sheriff’s deputies, have got Maury Wey corked up like a moth in a bottle. Had him staked out all night.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But there’s another man, a woman, and two kids in the house with him. They’re afraid to move in for fear of their getting hurt.”

Frank said, “We were afraid of something like that.”

“They’d just wait for Wey to come out,” the captain said. “But he might take a week. So they’ve asked for help.”

“What kind of help?” I asked.

“They figure you and Frank know Wey better than anybody. They’d like you to run out there and see if you can figure a way to get him out of the house.”