Стюарт Стерлинг - Collection of Stories

“Yes, sir. Cap Meyer is coming right over, himself, with a couple of the boys.” Taylor went out into the hall, shouted down the stairwell.

The lieutenant sniffed at the empty closet. The only things in it were a few coat hangers and a sweet scent that made him think of church. Queer thing to find in a place like this, probably came from clothing that had been hung up here.

He looked around the room for the weapon with which he had been slugged. There wasn’t anything heavier than a cane wastebasket. The wastebasket was empty, too, except for a crumpled piece of cellophane stripped from a pack of cigarettes. He fished it out with the point of his fountain-pen, put it on the bureau.

The interne arrived, went to work with needle and sutures. Meyer and two plain-clothesmen came up. While the doctor jabbed the needle through his scalp, Teccard told the captain what was wanted.

“Box up that cellophane, run it down to my office. There might be prints on it. Get a photographer up here from Homicide. Have him powder the knobs, the bureau drawers, the iron part of the bed, those hangers in the closet. Run a vacuum over the floor, ship the dust down to the lab for examination.”

Meyer crouched over the fat man. “Who’s this guy, Lieutenant?”

“Crumb who ran a matrimonial agency. That’s what’s back of those bones your boys dug up today. Go through his pockets, will you? And mark someone down for going through the house, here, to see what they can get on Willard. Taylor, you learn anything about him from the landlord?”

The patrolman scratched his head. “Not much. Oh, one funny thing. He must have a night job. Because he only comes here in the daytime. And he must write a lot of letters, because practically the only thing old Halzer remembers his having up here, outside his clothes, is a box of writing paper and a bottle of ink.”

“Yair? See can you find if he threw any of his scribbling in the wastebasket. Maybe some of it is still in the trashcan.”

Meyer said: “Not much dough, but plenty of unpaid bills, on this fella. He’s been hitting the high spots, you ask me. Here’s a credit-jewelry store summons for non-payment on a diamond wristwatch. And a bunch of duns from department stores and an automobile company.” He tossed the sheaf of papers on the bed. “Eleven fish and some chickenfeed, a cheap ticker, two nickel cigars, a silk handkerchief stinking of whiskey, and a bunch of keys.”

“No weapon?”

“Not even a pen-knife, Lieutenant. You’re pretty positive he wasn’t the fella cut up that girl’s body?”

“He’d have been well-padded with folding money, in that case, Cap. No. You rustle around, get a description of Harold Willard.”

Teccard waited until the doctor growled: “Kind of a patchwork job, Lieutenant. You’d be smart to take a couple days’ sick leave. That’s an ugly gash.”

“If that stuff about the stitch in time is on the up and up, you must have saved about ninety-nine of ’em. Thanks. I’ll be around, for you to rip them out again.” He picked up the keys. “I might use these, Cap.”

“Want Taylor to go with you?”

“No.” Teccard examined his hat. There was a right angle cut where the brim joined the crown. He smoothed the felt thoughtfully. “You might let me have a gun, though. Mine’ll have to go to Ballistics.”

Meyer brought out an automatic. “You can take Betsy, if you don’t mind a big caliber.”

The corners of Teccard’s mouth curled up. “A forty-five is just the ticket.”

“You after big game?”

“Yair.” Teccard checked the magazine to make sure it was loaded. “You ever go after moose, Cap?”

“Moose? Hell, no. Duck is my limit.”

“Well, when a guy goes after moose, he uses a horn that makes a sound like a female moose. The bull comes a-running — and the hunter does his stuff.”

A puzzled scowl wrinkled Meyer’s forehead.

“I’m going to get me a horn, Cap. But there’s nothing in the book says for the rest of you to stop hunting.”

He went downstairs.

The night elevator man in the building housing the Herald of Happiness regarded Teccard coldly. “Who you want to see on the third, mister?”

“Just giving the premises the once-over.” The lieutenant held his badge out on his palm. “Snap it up. I haven’t got all night.”

“Ain’t anyone up on that floor.”

“That’s why I’m going up. Do I push the lever myself?”

The car started. “I can’t have people going in and out alla time. I’ll lose my job.”

“Don’t worry about it. Everything’s strictly copacetic.”

The elevator door clanged loudly. Teccard swung around the corner of the corridor into the hall where Helbourne’s office was located — and stopped short. Somewhere ahead of him a light had been suddenly extinguished. He stood still, listening. There were none of the noises to be expected when an office is being closed for the night. No door opened.

He balanced the heavy automatic in his left hand, held the keys in his right, tightly, so they wouldn’t rattle. Quietly, on the balls of his feet, he moved to the Herald’s door. Still he heard nothing, except the faraway roar of Broadway. He tried the key which showed the most signs of use. The latch turned. He stepped aside swiftly to the right, kicked the door open.

If there was anyone inside, the only target would be Teccard’s hand, holding the pistol. He snaked his wrist around the jamb of the door, fumbled for the light switch he knew must be there. It clicked. The office flooded with brilliance.

There was a laugh.

“Kamerad!”

He swore under his breath, stepped out into the doorway. She was sitting back in Helbourne’s chair, her feet cocked upon the desk. There was a pile of letters in her lap, a flashlight in one hand and a short-barreled .32 in the other.

“Imagine meeting you here,” he said dryly. “I phoned the Policewomen’s Bureau for you. They knew from nothing!”

Sergeant Dixon took her high heels off the desk. “I’ve been using the super’s passkey every night for the last two weeks. How’d you get in?”

He jangled the keys. “Property of T. Chauncey Helbourne. For the evidence clerk.”

She looked at him sharply. “Evidence? Is Helbourne... dead?”

Teccard sat down on the edge of the desk. “That’s what happens when you take a slug under the fourth rib.”

“Who shot him, Jerry?” The sergeant tossed the letters on the desk, stood up.

“There seems to be a general impression I did. The bullet came from my Regulation, all right. But I’d say the killer was the same one who did away with Ruby Belle.”

She saw the bandage on the back of his head. “Jerry! You were in it! You’re hurt!”

“Yair.” He managed a lop-sided grin. “That was no love-tap. Somebody dropped the boom on me, but good.”

She reached up, lifted his hat off gently. “That was close, Jerry.”

“They meant to kill me, at first. Changed their minds when they fished through my pockets, found my badge.”

“They? Were there two of them?”

The lieutenant nodded. “One K.O.’d me while I was putting the gun on the other one. I went bye-bye before I got a square look at either of them. They both scrammed. Now they know we’re closing in, they’ll be foxier than ever. If they’ve got anything on fire, they may try to pull it off before they do the vanishing act. But we’ll have to move fast, if we’re going to catch up with them. That’s why I came down here, to see if there might be any other poor boobs readied up for the kill.”

“You might have asked me. Just because I spent two years putting fortune tellers out of business and running around to disorderly dance halls, doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to use my mind.” She held up a sheet of pink notepaper. “I dug this out of Helbourne’s private postoffice, there. It has all the earmarks. Box KDD. A Miss Marion Yulett, seamstress of Algers. Thirty-three. Possesses certain means of her own. Has a cheerful, homeloving disposition, yet is full of pep. Miss Yulett encloses five dollars to secure the address of a certain Peter Forst who’s apparently been giving her a buildup about his charms.”