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

“Because,” replied Dick, “Jonathan won’t stick his nose out of his castle for some time. If he recognized you, found out you were the sister of Cody’s attorney and fled Palm Springs on that account, he’ll stick close to the home fires. And how long do you suppose our friend Maroni will let us lie in wait? Tonight is ours. He doesn’t know yet that Tim got away from the gang who were driving him to Chicago. He’s probably sleeping in his bed at the Biltmore tonight. So, sister!”

Clarice laughed. “Okay, Chief.”

“Tim,” he said to me. “Just what arguments are you going to use on the two men to induce them to turn bandit?”

“Well, I’ll offer them money, tell them there won’t be any comeback.”

“You let me talk to them,” he demanded. “If they have any sense your proposition won’t appeal to them.”

“Let me vamp ’em,” suggested Clarice.

“You’ll keep out of this,” said Dick fiercely.

While we were still chattering we drew up in front of a seedy apartment house away over on the south side of town and I got out and rang the bell of what was ostentatiously styled Suite Four... name Bridgeman.

“Tim Cody,” I called up the tube. “Is Jim there?”

“You bet.” The door clicked and I pushed it open to be joined immediately by Clarice and Dick. We climbed three flights of stairs and met Jim in the hall.

“Hello, folks; say, this is an honor.” He grinned at Clarice in open admiration. “Hey, Bill, put your coat on,” he bellowed. “Swell company.”

Bill Bridgeman was a second I edition of Jim except that his nose was flattened on his face and he was bigger, which made him gigantic. He had his coat on when we entered. It was a dingy apartment, the sort you can get for twenty dollars a month in Los Angeles.

Jim introduced us. Bill looked impressed.

“You ain’t Richard Barton, the district attorney?” he demanded. “Why, I voted for you.”

“ Thanks,” said Dick, who met his grip with one equally terrific. “I resigned a few months ago. Too many crooks smelling up the place.”

“Say, you got a nifty sister,” declared Bill, eying Clarice with so much ardor that I began to bristle.

“Do you two guys want to make some real dough?” I demanded.

“Sure,” they said simultaneously. “How much and what for?” demanded Bill.

“A thousand dollars apiece for a few hours’ work,” said Dick Barton. “Steady, boys, while you get the dough anyway, you might have to do a stretch in San Quentin.”

“You wouldn’t make us do anything crooked, Mr. Barton,” protested Bill. “A thousand bucks!”

“I seen his house,” stated Jim. “Swell joint. I guess he can pay big money, if he says he will. What’s the proposition, sir?”

“Sit down, everybody,” suggested Dick. “We intend to right a great wrong by illegal means. I need two-fisted guys who aren’t afraid to shoot off a gun. Tim says both you fellows are ex-service men and not afraid to take chances. This is the situation. If we pull off this job successfully, we’re heroes, we’re within the law and nobody can touch us. If we foozle it and happen to kill somebody, all of us might be hanged.”

“Listen,” said Jim Bridgeman. “You’re a political spellbinder. Well, I like Tim Cody or I’d turn thumbs down on this. But you got to tell me and Bill exactly what we’re up against or we’ll tell you what to do with this thousand apiece you’re talking about.”

“That will be all for you, Dick,” said Clarice maliciously. “Let Tim tell ’em. They like Tim.”

Dick laughed with some embarrassment and nodded to me.

“Jim,” I said, “I didn’t tell you how I came to be in that farmhouse. Well, I escaped from a car full of Chicago gangsters who were taking me to Chicago to be put on the spot. We’re up against gangsters tonight.”

The two big fellows looked at each other. Both grinned.

“What we’re going to do is rush the house of Jonathan Steele in Santa Barbara and capture Jonathan. Ever hear of him?”

“Who hasn’t?” asked Jim.

“If we can carry him off, we’re in the clear because he isn’t Jonathan Steele at all but an impostor named Tommy Donnegan. We can prove that if we have him in our hands. He is guarded by a mob of gangsters who’ll shoot to kill. If we get beaten off or captured, as Dick says, we’ll go to jail. If somebody has been killed, we’ll hang.”

“How you going to prove this and what good will it do you?” asked Bill.

“His grandson is my best friend. If a faker is posing as his grandfather, he is being kept out of one of the biggest fortunes in America.”

“Why don’t this guy do his own dirty work?” asked Bill pertinently.

“Because he’s a prisoner in their hands. You see why we can afford to give you fellows a thousand each. Dick Barton and I will be with you — we take every chance you take. Dick is his lawyer” — I stretched a point there — “and I’m his pal.”

“Wait a minute, this Steele’s grandson was murdered, wasn’t he?” said Bill. “I read it in the papers.”

“We can prove that he wasn’t. It was a man named Adamson.”

They didn’t say anything. I stood up. “Well, Dick,” I said, “I don’t blame the boys for turning us down. It’s an awful risk. Let’s go.”

Jim jumped up and pushed me back into my chair. “What have we got to lose?” he demanded. “They give the prisoners good chuck in San Quentin. What I could do with a thousand bucks! I’m with you, buddy.”

“That goes for me,” said Bill. “If we’re up against gangsters, we shoot to kill, eh?”

“Of course,” said Dick. “We can prove who they are and get three rousing cheers for eliminating them — if we get safe away with this fake Jonathan Steele.”

“Wait till I get an overcoat and my artillery,” requested Bill Bridgeman.

He politely offered his arm to Clarice, who took it with an amused smile at me.

“What are we going to do about her?” I whispered to Dick as we brought up the rear.

“We’re going to maroon her,” he told me. “You can’t argue with her. I can’t trust her even to sit in the car while we go inside. That kid would be on our heels. So, at Malibu, where she knows a dozen people, we’re going to stop the car and put her in the road.”

“She’ll never forgive us.”

He laughed kind of funny. “I think she’ll forgive you, all right. And time will temper her fury against me.”

Bill Bridgeman had climbed into the front seat beside Clarice. Jim sat with us in the back seat on the left side. He was silent and puzzled, not sure we weren’t crazy, probably dubious of the outcome of our enterprise, but ready to take his chances for a fee of a thousand dollars.

“Queer how a key clears up a profound mystery,” said Dick gaily. “We’re deadlocked, a chance remark by Clarice is caught up by you, and in a minute the whole blamed cryptogram has been solved. With Donnegan in our hands, the enemy has to surrender — all that was inexplicable is clear as crystal.”

Clarice glanced back. “Great brain,” she inquired, “when and if we lay hands on Jonathan, where are we going to take him? Of course you haven’t considered that at all.”

I looked at Dick and he looked at me, and we both laughed. We hadn’t got around to consideration of that.

“I have a key to Stella Grey’s cabin in Tiger Cañon north of Santa Barbara,” she said. “Nobody goes up there at this season and there are no neighbors within a quarter of a mile.”

“The very place,” cried Dick. “Just where is it?”

Clarice laughed merrily. “Don’t you wish you knew? You two boys allowed me to come without protesting enough. Well, if you’re planning to get rid of me, reconsider. I’ll guide you to the cabin.”