Корнелл Вулрич - Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 50, No. 5, October 10, 1936

by Fred MacIsaac

Stephen Steele and Private Detective Tim Cody had been roommates and close friends back at old Eli Evans School in Providence, so that when they met in New York after a lapse of years, the two young men decided to have a reunion and talk over old times.

Steve, who is the wealthy grandson of old Jonathan Steele, multi-millionaire owner of the Steele Motor Company, takes Tim to meet the glamorous Rhoda Robinson, an actress whom he had met a short while previously on the boat coming from Europe. Rhoda and Steve are devoted to each other, and Steve decides to fly to California to tell his irascible old grandfather of his engagement to Rhoda.

A few days later the newspapers announced in screaming headlines that Jonathan Steele’s grandson has been murdered. Tim and Rhoda are broken up over the news of his death — which, according to the newspaper a c counts, had happened amid unsavory surroundings in the Los Angeles negro section. Rhoda wishes to attend the funeral, but the Steele family, believing that she is an adventuress, denies her the privilege. Tim has a hunch that the whole case is phony, and decides to spend the legacy of ten thousand dollars which Steve had willed him in finding out the truth. He suspects that Steve is still alive and so he flies to Los Angeles to investigate.

On arriving in Los Angeles, Tim is met by two city detectives. Having had a “tip” that he is a tough guy from New York, they tell him they have orders to run him out of town. Tim phones Richard Barton, an attorney, a relative of Steve Steele’s personal lawyer, for legal help. He comes immediately to Tim’s hotel and puts the squeeze on the two flatfeet, who apologize to Tim. Barton learns from them that it was a Mr. Rogers of the Steele Company who had given the orders:

Barton listens to Tim’s ideas about the murder, and Barton, on the spur of the moment, decides that they should make a call on old Jonathan in Santa Barbara. He phones his sister, Clarice, a charming and witty girl, to pick them up in her car and drive them out.

After an hour of fast and furious driving, they arrive at the Steele estate, scale the surrounding wall, and are just about to enter the mansion, when they are met by guards who break up their little party. During the scuffle. Tim thinks he sees the face of Steve at one of the upper windows. By overpowering the gate keeper, they manage to leave the estate unapprehended, and return to Los Angeles.

Barton tells Tim that even if Steve is alive, they still have a huge fight on their hands, for Steve is now legally dead. Barton phones Parker B. Blake of the Steele Corporation, who requests that Tim have a talk with Lafe Morton, the personal representative of Patterson, President of the Steele Corporation.

Acting for Mr. Patterson, Lafe Morton, alias Giovanni Maroni, advises him to give up his activities in the Steele case for fifty thousand dollars — or else I Tim flatly refuses. Later, from a surprising source — the chance remark of a hotel bellboy — Tim learns that the man who, for a time, was Steve’s impostor, had a missing finger joint on one hand, and that it had been shot off in a gambling joint in Las Vegas, near Boulder Dam, Colorado. Tim makes a quick trip to Las Vegas for an investigation, and discovers that the impostor’s name is Ambrose J. Adamson of St. Louis, whose body must have been substituted for Steve’s at the funeral.

On returning to Los Angeles, Tim tries to get in touch with Barton, who has been shot by an unknown assailant. Convalescing at the Emergency Hospital, visitors are denied to him. Later, Tim has a conversation at his hotel with Mr. Patterson, loses his temper and blurts out that he knows Steve is still alive. Soon after, Tim is picked up by gangsters in Patterson’s pay, brought to a cheap hide-out, where it looks as if he is going to get the heat.

Maroni orders his henchmen to take Tim safely to Chicago, where he is to be killed. They leave Los Angeles and head across the desert where they run into a spring blizzard. Tim manages to escape during the confusion of the storm, and is nearly frozen when he passes out.

In the meantime, Barton, the lawyer, has recovered from his wound. He uses Clarice to lure Maroni to a private dining room and with assumed righteous indignation breaks in upon them and forces Maroni to go to the Barton home where he receives a good beating. Soon after, Maroni’s pals, having trailed him, break in on the Bartons, and the tables are turned. Clarice and Barton are to be taken to “The Castle,” Maroni’s headquarters, but they contrive to escape.

Tim wakes up to find that he is being well taken care of in the farmhouse of “Maw” and “Paw” Piper. He drives back to Los Angeles in a truck driven by Jim Bridgeman and the two immediately call on the Bartons.

“If we’re beaten off,” Tim told them, “and captured, we’ll get long jail sentences, so we won’t be beaten off. We’ll go in force. Jim Bridgeman is an old service man and would take any chance for a few hundred dollars. From what he tells me of his brother, he’ll join us. Four determined armed men in a surprise rush.”

“Tim, come to my arms,” cried Dick.

“Five,” cried Clarice. “Count me in.”

“My dear young lady!” exclaimed Upton Reynolds. I’m ashamed to put it down, but Clarice stuck out her tongue at him.

“You’re out,” snarled Dick. She stuck out her tongue at him.

“Yes, you are, Clarice,” I said.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Can’t I drive the car?” she asked plaintively.

“No,” I shouted. To my surprise she began to sniffle and then ran out of the room.

Reynolds was on his feet. “I can’t countenance this,” he cried. “It’s insane.”

“Take your hat and go for a walk,” said Dick insolently.

The old boy’s face grew red. He swallowed and then he spoke mildly. “What purpose will be served?” he asked me.

“ We’ll carry off Jonathan.”

“Where will you take him?”

“To the Soldiers’ Home to be fingerprinted,” I said with a laugh.

Dick embraced me. He pumped my hand. “A stroke of genius, but — if he turns out to be Jonathan—”

I hummed a bar of the prisoner’s song and he joined in.

“I’ll have no part in this. I’ve a mind to report you to the police,” exclaimed Reynolds.

“Are you going to, sir?” I inquired.

“No, damn it,” he replied and left the room.

“Rhoda,” I said gently. The girl was sitting there very pale but with very bright eyes. “We’ll bring back Steve if we can.”

“I know you will. I’ll pray for you,” she said softly.

“Let’s go find this truck driver and his brother,” Dick proposed. “First let me get you some decent clothes. Mine will be a trifle big for you, but not too much.”

That seemed sensible, so I went up to his room and changed clothing. Dick had produced a revolver and an automatic pistol and several boxes of cartridges. We went downstairs. The big car was in the driveway and Clarice sat in it. She was in black and her chin was thrust out. “I go with this car,” she said firmly.

Dick winked at me. “Okay,” he said. “Has Jim got a gun?”

“He had two on the truck.”

He struck me as a nice fellow. “What’s the address?”

I gave his brother’s address and Clarice started the car. We were off upon the first lap of the wildest, maddest adventure of my brief career. Inside of me I was scared. I looked at Dick. He was a perfect picture of a radiantly happy man.

“I’m not welshing,” Clarice called back after a minute, “but why storm this fortress? Why not lay in wait for Jonathan when he goes to play golf — it would be much easier. You know how I can outdistance pursuit.”