The Silent Death

CHAPTER XII. THE QUIZ

“COME on, Slips. Open up.”

Cardona’s challenging voice brought a feeble grin from Slips Harbeck. The captured gangster was standing the ordeal of a constant grilling by Cardona and other detectives.

“What do you know?”

Slips shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing,” he drawled.

Cardona paced the little room where the quiz was taking place. He studied Slips Harbeck’s strained face.

The gangster was slouched in a chair, in a state of exhaustion. He had managed to hold out for hours.

“Look here, Slips” — Cardona’s milder tones denoted a change of tactics — “we’ve got the goods on you. You were hooked up with Duster Brooks. We know you were with those gorillas at Sartain’s penthouse.”

“Never heard of the place,” protested Slips.

“You were in on the job at Barnsworth’s,” continued Cardona. “That’s why we put the clamps on you. But we didn’t do it until we got the goods. My man heard that phone call you got at Red Mike’s. That’s how we queered the job at Joyce’s office. You can’t get out of it, Slips. Understand?”

“You’ve got nothing on me,” drawled the gangster.

“We don’t want anything on you,” announced Cardona quietly. “We want to give you a break. You were at Sartain’s. All right. You beat it. We’ve got no proof that you even fired a shot.

“Somebody planted a death trap at Barnsworth’s place. We aren’t laying that on you. Last of all, you were to go to Joyce’s office, to get a phone call. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll know when I tell you what happened,” asserted Cardona grimly. “That phone call came through. I took it. I’ll show you what I nearly got.”

He motioned to one of the detectives. The man produced the fake telephone. Cardona exhibited the parts to Slips Harbeck.

“See?” quizzed the detective. “Right up against my ear like that. It would have got me, if I hadn’t turned wise all of a sudden. Say, Slips” — Cardona spoke as though he had a sudden idea — “I think you’re all right, after all. Lucky, I call it. You were going to that office. You were going to answer the telephone. Maybe this was meant for you.”

Slips grinned derisively. Cardona snapped at the opportunity. It was exactly what the detective had wanted.

“So you don’t think it was meant for me, eh?” questioned Cardona. “Then I guess you knew about it. Knew it was a plant, eh? All set to bump somebody off. That looks bad for you, Slips!”

A WORRIED expression registered itself upon the gangster’s face. Slips realized that he had put himself in a predicament. He saw the flash in Cardona’s eyes and feared the consequences. Slips knew that Cardona had the facts regarding that last call which the gangster had received from Larry Ricordo.

“Lay off me,” pleaded Slips. “You’ve got me all mixed. I didn’t know nothing about that phony phone. Maybe you were right, Joe. It might have been meant for me.”

“Somebody double-crossing you, eh?” quizzed Cardona derisively. “Fine guy for you to stick up for. Come on — it’s your only chance. If you were double-crossed, you’ve got a right to squeal. If you don’t talk, it proves you knew the game. That’s sure enough, isn’t it?”

Confronted by this dilemma, Slips tried to play a middle course. He licked his lips and blinked his eyes as he tried to face his inquisitor.

“You said you’d give me a break,” he protested. “Honest, I wasn’t in on any lay like this. I guess you’re right about the double cross.”

“You see it now, eh?”

“Yeah. Somebody wanted to get me, I guess. I’m sort of mixed up, Joe, but I guess you’re right. A double cross, but I didn’t know it. I guess Larry did want to—”

Slips Harbeck stopped suddenly and bit his lip. He realized his mistake. Joe Cardona glared triumphant.

The detective, unwearied, was quick on the job.

“Larry, eh?” he questioned. “You’re talking about Larry. Larry— what’s the rest of his name?”

“I don’t know nothing!” snarled Slips.

“Larry,” checked Cardona, in a speculative tone. “There’s a lot of Larrys who pack guns, aren’t there, Slips? I’m trying to think of some who would be in on this.”

The detective turned to question one of his subordinates. His eyes were away from Slips Harbeck.

“Say, Mayhew,” questioned Cardona, “what’s become of Larry Ricordo. You know — the guy that was going to be a big shot, but got cold feet.”

“I don’t know,” responded Mayhew. “He took out to the sticks, so they say.”

A momentary smile flickered on Slips Harbeck’s sullen face. Cardona’s turnabout had given the gangster a momentary respite.

But that was part of Cardona’s game — an old trick which he frequently worked with Mayhew. The other detective was watching Slips from the corner of his eye.

“You’ve hit it, Joe,” said Mayhew, with a grin. “Hit the bull’s-eye. Larry Ricordo’s the one we want!”

This, too, was a follow-up in Cardona’s game. Mayhew had learned his part from experience. Cardona’s pretended lack of vigilance; Mayhew’s sharp observation; then Mayhew’s comment. These were three steps.

Cardona provided the fourth. He swung back to Slips Harbeck, and loosed a sweeping volley of denunciation.

“So it’s Larry Ricordo, eh?” demanded Cardona. “You know why he beat it out of town, don’t you? Because he double-crossed Louie Muth. You didn’t know that, did you? Didn’t know who Muth’s mob was gunning after? Well, you know now! You’d better be glad we pinched you, Slips. If that mob had ever found you out—”

CARDONA’S outburst was well calculated. His statements were fictitious. He knew that some mystery surrounded the death of the mob leader whom he had named. He also was subtle when he introduced the suggestion of a double cross. That was the very element that he had been building up in Slips Harbeck’s mind.

“Come clean,” added Cardona, after a pause. “You asked for a break. I’m giving it to you. Come clean, Slips!”

Cardona had driven the wedge. It was all that he had needed. Slips Harbeck, exhausted, no longer possessed the strength to battle back after Cardona had gained a definite point. The naming of Larry; the logical guess that it might be Larry Ricordo — these had given Cardona a step toward the fact he wanted.

The ace detective followed up his advantage. He purred smooth questions, and guided Slips Harbeck toward the answers. Easing the gangster’s mind as he went along, Cardona turned everything his own way.

Slips resorted to uncertainty, licking his lips as he went along. He admitted that he had opened negotiations with a man who purported to be Larry Ricordo. He was not sure that it was Larry; for he had conducted all transactions over the telephone.

Cunningly, Slips denied all connection with the affair at Alfred Sartain’s, and the explosion at Wesley Barnsworth’s apartment. He suggested that Duster Brooks must have given his name to Larry Ricordo — or whoever it was that pretended to be the big shot.

All that Slips claimed to know was that a package of cash had been delivered to him at Red Mike’s as advance payment for a job, with orders to follow telephoned instructions. He stated that he had intended to avoid a visit to Gardner Joyce’s office.

“I was going to scram,” he protested. “Honest I was, Cardona. You can’t blame me for picking up some loose cash, can you? It was soft. I figured if it was Larry Ricordo who was giving me the dough, he wouldn’t come after me if I beat it out of town. I knew he was laying low.”

Slips Harbeck’s plea was a shrewd one. He told his story convincingly, by using enough truth to support his fabric of doubts and lies.

Joe Cardona saw the game and took advantage of it. The detective knew that it would be difficult to convict Slips Harbeck of any crime, for the only actual testimony referred to the telephone call at Red Mike’s; and Gawky Tyson, the stool pigeon, had been the only listener.

But Cardona, by concentrating upon the story that Slips told, was establishing the most important point: namely, that Larry Ricordo was behind the crimes that had been attempted. To prevent further criminal activities — and Cardona feared murder — the arrest of Larry Ricordo would be a logical step.

If Slips was as important an underling as Cardona supposed, the capture of this lieutenant would embarrass Larry Ricordo, and put the big shot at a disadvantage. It was best for Slips to be absent for a while.

“We’re going to hold you, Slips,” announced Cardona. “We’ll need you later on. I’m out to get Larry Ricordo — and you’re not going to be loose to queer it. See?”

Slips nodded. He submitted weakly to Cardona’s decision.

The detective was somewhat surprised. He attributed the gangster’s lack of spirit to a fear of Larry Ricordo’s wrath. In that surmise, the detective went wide of the truth. Slips Harbeck did not mind a period behind the bars, simply because he was thinking of The Shadow. He knew that he had been treading dangerous ground. He was glad to get away from his predicament.

AFTER Slips Harbeck had been removed, Joe Cardona went to his office. He classified facts that he had learned; then rested at his desk. The detective had worked since early in the morning, quizzing Slips Harbeck. The tedium of several hours was beginning to tell. It was ten o’clock now. Cardona prepared to leave.

A man entered the office to interrupt. Cardona found himself facing Clyde Burke, reporter on the New York Classic. The newspaperman was the last person whom Cardona wanted to talk to at the present moment.

“Hello, Burke,” he growled. “I can’t talk to you now. Going out to get some shut-eye.”

“Been up a while, eh?” questioned Burke. “Who’ve you been grilling, Joe? Slips Harbeck?”

Cardona glared at the reporter with challenging air. Clyde Burke grinned. Cardona laughed gruffly.

“Beats me,” he said, “how you news hounds guess things. Why don’t you apply for a job on the force? We could use some smart detectives like you.”

“Not for me, Joe,” laughed Burke. “I can find out more without a badge than with one. What did Slips have to say?”

“You ask me? Why didn’t you come around to grill him yourself?”

“I wouldn’t have minded it, Joe. But I prefer sleep during the early-morning hours.”

“Well, you slept through it then. Come around tonight. Maybe I’ll have something for you.”

“The old stall. That makes it the usual story. Third degree failed—”

“Listen here, Burke.” Cardona’s interruption was a challenge. “Lay off that heavy stuff. Get me? I’m tired out, and I’m impatient. Beat it — I’m leaving.”

“Hm-m-m.” Burke seemed thoughtful. “Guess you did find out plenty from Slips Harbeck. Tell you what, Joe. Suppose we make it a compromise. Just a nice story that the police are holding Slips Harbeck as a possible suspect.”

“That’s all right.”

“And in return for it” — Burke’s tone was smooth — “you give me an idea of what he really did say.”

Cardona stared squarely at the reporter. He went back to his desk and motioned Burke to sit down.

Tapping thoughtfully upon the woodwork, Cardona talked terms.

“Just as I get through quizzing a prisoner,” he remarked, “you come along and quiz me. Well, I can’t blame you. But you know what I’m up against, Burke.”

“Yes, and you know me, Joe,” returned Burke. “You know what I’m up against. If I don’t get the news, somebody else may get it. I just want to protect myself, that’s all, and I know you’ll give me a break.”

“That’s right. You’ve always played fair, Burke. Here’s the terms. I’ll tell you what I’ve found out — but you’re to keep it out of the columns. I’ll count on you to bluff the rest of the news hounds after I duck out of here. In return, you’ll get a real story later on but you can’t bust it until I give the word.”

“Absolutely, Joe. I’ve worked that way before.”

“I know you have. I never figured out why. The paper’s paying you, but you use discretion — which makes you different from every other reporter that I’ve ever met.”

“That’s agreed,” said Burke quietly. “Leave it all to me, Joe. I can figure why you’re holding Slips Harbeck. He knows something about these would-be murders.”

“He knows plenty.”

“And the man in back of it?”

Cardona leaned across the desk and whispered the name in Clyde Burke’s ear.

“Larry Ricordo,” said the detective.

“The bird that was going to be a big shot?” questioned Burke. “I thought he had cleared out.”

“He’s come back,” asserted Cardona. “We’re going to arrest him when we find him. You see how I stand, Burke.”

“I’m with you, Joe. A story now may mean no pinch later. No pinch means I never get the real story that may be coming.”

“You’ve got it, Burke. I’m counting on you, old man. What are you going to tell the rest of the reporters when they show up?”

“Leave that to me, Joe. All right if I stick around here a while?”

“Sure.”

“Well, the boys will be in. I’ll tell them you went out long ago. No grilling — nothing. Slips Harbeck is just another gunman.”

Cardona grinned as he rose from the desk. He shook Burke’s hand, and left the office. The reporter took the desk and called the Classic to state that there was nothing new on the case that he was covering.

OTHER reporters arrived while Burke was phoning. The Classic reporter told them the same story, and left with the crowd. But when Burke had separated from his companions, he went directly to a cigar store and entered a telephone booth.

It was not the Classic office which he called this time. Instead, Clyde Burke telephoned to an office in the Badger Building, and conversed with an investment broker named Rutledge Mann. Briefly, Burke gave the facts concerning Larry Ricordo.

Clyde Burke was smiling when he left the store. His phone call had been an answer to Cardona’s puzzlement concerning the reporter’s connection with the Classic. The detective did not know that Burke, as a reporter, was an agent of The Shadow.

Through Rutledge Mann, who served as contact man by day, as Burbank served by night, the name of Larry Ricordo would be forwarded to The Shadow. What Cardona knew, The Shadow would know also.

Joe Cardona had quizzed Slips Harbeck. Clyde Burke, in turn, had quizzed Joe Cardona Another of The Shadow’s agents had served his master well.