Dan Marlowe - Doom Service

“You practicin' to sound like Dameron? You ought to know there's people will talk to me won't talk to the police.”

“We'd had rumors on that fight,” the detective admitted. “The lieutenant's afraid of an investigation. Every time there's an investigation of a sporting event, the police department winds up in the middle of a political weight-throwing contest.”

“So good old Joe was out scoutin' the ground figurin' the safest way to lean?”

“It's hardly likely there'll be an investigation now, with the boy dying a hero, as far as the newspapers are concerned. Who wants to try to make any hay bucking those headlines?” Detective Rogers looked at Johnny thoughtfully. “I can't understand how you get away with it with the lieutenant.”

Johnny grinned. “You think I got somethin' on him? Not a damn thing, except in his own mind. Joe fought a good, tight war over there, but the rat holes we was sent to plug had to be handled in a way sometimes you wouldn't want to mention at a political rally. Joe knows that I don't give a damn, an' he's afraid I'll open my mouth in the wrong place an' run his dirty underwear up to the top of the mast along with mine.” He kept his tone casual. “Say, you know anyone named Munson?”

“Only Al Munson, Lonnie Turner's press agent,” the detective said absently. “He fixes me up with a ticket every now and then.” His attention sharpened. “What's with Munson?”

“Had a message from someone by that name,” Johnny said easily. “That's probably the one. Turner promoted that fight, didn't he? It's probably about the check for the kid's end.”

“Roketenetz hadn't been paid?”

“Hadn't been time, Jimmy.”

“He had thirty-eight hundred and a few dollars on him when we-brought him in,” the slender man said slowly.

Johnny whistled. “You just this minute held your own fight investigation, didn't you? Not that there was ever any doubt, if you saw it. This Gidlow-the kid's manager — haven't I heard that he's in Turner's pocket?”

“I've heard stories.” Jimmy Rogers tugged at an ear lobe exasperatedly. “I'd like to talk to Gidlow. I've got lines out for him all over town, but he doesn't show.”

“You sure he's not upstairs?”

“He'd better not be upstairs. I've called up there fifteen times since two-thirty this morning.”

“Jake's got a gizmo disconnects his phone when he doesn't want to be bothered,” Johnny said. He removed his wallet and from a hidden compartment took out the illegal brass passkey. “You could scratch the suite off your entries right now, Jimmy.”

“I wouldn't have a leg to stand on,” Detective Rogers said.

“I'll open the door, an' if he's in there I'll double talk him about the floor below complainin' about noise. Once you know he's there you can make him open up.”

“I'm getting into bad habits associating with you,” the slender man said wryly. “All right. Come on, before I change my mind.”

Johnny led the way cheerfully to the service elevator, ran them up to the tenth floor and anchored the cab with a slab of wood. With Detective Rogers a self-conscious dozen yards away, Johnny knocked sharply three times on the door of 1020, the corner room entrance to Jake Gidlow's three-room suite. At the pervading silence he glanced sardonically at the detective and removed the key from his pocket.

“Let's give this some semblance of legitimacy,” the detective said quickly. He advanced upon the door and repeated Johnny's triple knock. “Gidlow! This is Detective Rogers! Open this door!”

“You an' your conscience,” Johnny grunted in disgust.

“You'll never get a peep outta him now.” With his toe he pointed at the base of the door. “See that?”

The sandy-haired man stared down at the bright strip of light in evidence under the sill. “So he's in there,” he said softly. From an inside breast pocket he removed a small oilskin package, which resolved itself into a two-hinged, three-sided magnifying glass of varying strengths. He knelt swiftly and applied it to the keyhole.

“Now there's a handy gadget,” Johnny approved.

“Room brightly lighted,” Detective Rogers said, and was silent. He rose finally with a peculiar expression on his face. “There's a thread running from the door to a corner I can't see.”

“A thread?” Johnny repeated incredulously. “Mmmm- from the back of the room a half-choked shotgun would get most of the door area.” Detective Rogers looked doubtful. “Okay,” Johnny continued rapidly. “It's a bum guess, you think. Let's take the guess out of it. Get down on the floor over there, out of line.” He dropped down himself, and bellied up to the wall. He reached up, inserted his key gently and looked over at the prostrate overcoated figure on the other side of the door. “Here we go, Jimmy,” he said softly, and, with his left hand, the only part of him in front of the door, turned the key and pushed in the same movement. He snatched his hand back at once as the door swung open.

Silence. Complete and utter silence…

Johnny pushed himself away from the wall and scrambled to his knees, but Detective Rogers was already up and inside. When Johnny reached him the slender man was already bending over the purple-faced gargoyle half sitting, half reclining in a corner of the upholstered divan, one hand precariously balancing an expensive-looking camera on the broad divan arm.

“You were right about one thing,” the detective said crisply. “I'll never get a peep out of him now.” He lifted an arm and watched it fall back rigidly. “Dead twelve to eighteen hours,” he said quietly, and walked to the telephone.

Lonnie Turner's office was in the Emerson Building, a block off Eighth Avenue on Fifty-third, and Johnny emerged from the third-floor elevator directly into a tastefully decorated green-and-gold waiting room complete with platinumed receptionist.

He looked around him approvingly. “Lonnie got this whole floor?” he asked the good-looking girl behind the rectangular limed oak desk.

“Mr. Turner has this floor,” she agreed pleasantly. Johnny admired the white blouse and the expanse of trim wool suit visible from his side of the desk; this girl was no midget. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Turner, sir?”

“No appointment.”

The girl managed to look doubtful, glance at her watch and reach for the phone at the same time. “The name, please?”

“Johnny Killain,” he told her. “What's yours?”

The look she directed upward changed from surprise to amusement as she intercepted his eyes upon the well-shaped, ringless fingers of the capable-looking left hand upon the phone. “The name is Bartlett, Mr. Killain. Stacy.”

“Miss Stacy Bartlett.” Johnny lingered over the syllables. “I like that.”

“Thank you.” She said it demurely. Johnny examined cameo features which were no miniature, large brown eyes, full mouth and a clean sweeping nose that was an asset to the prominent cheekbones slightly orientalizing the eyes.

“The hair doesn't match the coloring,” he told her after an inspection of the conservatively cut but dazzlingly blonde upsweep.

Her answering smile was unruffled. She had a very nice smile, Johnny thought. “I can't get used myself to that first look in the mirror mornings, Mr. Killain, but when I went looking for work it really seemed almost a requirement.”

“You a Polska, Stacy? How long since you run barefoot on the farm?”

“I'm a Polska,” she admitted. “And it hasn't been so very long.” She leaned back in her chair and took another look at him. “You know, I've been here three months now, and you're the first person to notice that I'm Polish or from the country. I was beginning to feel quite citified, with the help of the hair.”