The Oxford Book of American Det (39 page)

“Somebody bomb the office?” I asked cheerfully.

“It’s Clare Gordon,” Dinah said. “She’s been kidnapped. Half an hour ago. She was taking off from her father’s estate out near Huntington, Long Island. Three men jumped her. At least that’s what the chauffeur says. The snatchers piled into the plane and they all took off for points unknown.”

I chuckled. “Damn the gel! Any other fine points?”

“There was a ransom note left behind. It names you as go-between! The bulls have been here for you. They’re on their way up there now! The Old Man is frantic, trying to find you. The last place we looked was home. You’re seldom there.”

“Listen, Dinah,” I said, “don’t get excited. The Gordon skirt framed this whole thing.

I’ll tell the Old Man when I see him. It was put-up.”

“Are you sure, Daffy? It doesn’t look like a frame.”

“It’s a frame, my chickadee,” I said. “Forget it. Who’s covering for the paper?”

“Harry Lyons.”

“Oh me, oh my,” I gloated. “What glorious fun! Abyssinia, my hour-glass. Look me up in Atlanta.”

I hung up, threw on my hat and coat and took a powder before the police reached my place. I wasn’t any too soon either. They roared up the street to the door, sirens going, just as I went down the block. I caught a cab, said: “Headquarters, Mac,” and settled back on the cushions to enjoy the ride, which cost me seventy-five cents when I finally paid off in front of the Centre Street building at the other end.

I went up to see Captain George Shane, who, I figured, would be in charge of the case, even if it had taken place on Long Island. They centralise things like kidnappings, because one man has to stand in with the Federal authorities when they come searching. Inspector Calloran and Sergeant Bill Hanley of the Homicide Squad were both on the out in this snatch.

I was right. Captain Shane was my man. Every newshound in the city was outside his door, pounding on it, trying to get in and get hold of some facts. A cop—I recognised him as Curly Newton—was pushing them aside. In the midst of the holocaust I saw Harry Lyons. He had a bad eye where I had brushed him off. I said: “Gentlemen of the Press!”

There was sudden silence. They stopped pushing and turned around. Lyons yelled:

“Daffy Dill!” and that started it. I forgot for a moment that I had been named go-between in Clare Gordon’s screwy ransom note. I was a public figure in the case. They mobbed me for a statement while Curly Newton tore into Captain Shane’s office. In a second or two, before I could say a word, Newton came out again and dragged me through the mob into Shane’s office. He closed the door and I liked the quiet for a change.

Captain Shane was pacing the floor in front of Pemberton Gordon, Clare’s father. He recognised me easily since I had interviewed him for the paper only the week before, as Clare had said.

There were two other men in the room too. They were Federal operatives. I could see it as plain as day.

“Daffy,” said Captain Shane. “You heard what’s happened?” I nodded.

“You heard you’ve been named go-between?”

I nodded again, looking at Pemberton Gordon’s face. He was scared to death. His hands were trembling. I could see a vein in his temple throbbing like hell. I felt sorry for him.

“Listen, Captain,” I said, “I just heard about it and I came right down to blow it up.

It’s a fake.”

“A what?”

“A fake, a pushover, sandy. It’s a frame. The kid did it on purpose to help me get my job back.”

Captain Shane stared at me. “Daffy, are you on the level?”

“You know me, Captain,” I said. “I don’t lie to you.”

“Then start talking,” he snapped. “Let’s hear this one.” I talked and told him all that had happened, how I’d done the gel a favour (I didn’t say what it was because her old man was there) and how she wanted to do something for me. I told how she said she’d kidnap herself, name me as the go-between so’s I’d get the job back. Shane listened without saying anything, just nodding now and then, but I saw that Pemberton Gordon was regarding me with the kind of a look he’d give Frankenstein’s monster. And the Federal dicks were giving me the kind of eye which meant a rubber hose. I prayed.

When I had finished, Captain Shane shook his head.

“Daffy,” he said, “it sounds fishy. I’ve known you a long time and all that, but it sounds fishy. I don’t like to say it—but it does. Now come clean.”

“Chief,” I said shortly, “that’s clean. I wouldn’t fool you.”

“He’s one of the gang!” Gordon exclaimed. “I know he’s one of the gang. That’s why he was named as go-between. He knows where Clare is! I want him arrested!” One of the Feds said: “Don’t worry about that none.”

“Wait a second,” I said. “Take it easy, boys. I’m telling the God’s honest truth.” I was sweating like a soda glass. “The girl is up at her father’s cabin at Binneybunk, Maine.

Why don’t you check on that and see if I’m right.”

Shane nodded. “That’s sound.”

“We’ll do that little thing,” one of the Feds snapped.

“Meanwhile,” said the other, “you’re being detained as a material witness or suspicious character or anything you’d like. Put him in the can, Captain.”

“That’s what I’ll have to do, Daffy,” said Shane. “Sorry.”

“O.K., chief,” I said. “Just so we clear the thing up. I told that scatterbrained frill I wasn’t in on it. She said that wouldn’t stop her.”

“We’ll wire the Binneybunk sheriff,” said Captain Shane. “Sit tight in the jug. You’ll know in an hour.”

FOUR

They put me in a cell. The minutes took a hell of a long time to pass. I smoked. I got to smoking so much I used a whole half-pack of cigarettes and my tongue felt like the Russian army had walked across it with bayonets fixed. I kept sweating and my hands were trembling. I don’t know why, but I felt damned uneasy.

At ten o’clock Captain Shane came to see me.

“Did they find her?” I asked.

“Daffy,” he said slowly, “I hate like hell to do this. But Pemberton Gordon just swore out a warrant for your arrest. You’re charged with aiding in the kidnapping of one Clare Gordon, and anything you say from now on can be used against you. They’re setting your bail at twenty-five grand.”

“Twenty-five grand!” I yelled. “Arrest? Chief, for God’s sake, listen. The girl—“

“She wasn’t there,” Captain Shane said. “The cabin hadn’t been opened since Gordon was up at Binneybunk last summer.”

I wilted. “Oh,” I said. “Oh, thanks.” I was croaking, not talking. “Thanks, chief. I—I guess I’m in a jam. Do me a favour, will you?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Get me some cigs, please?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Telephone—telephone the Old Man. Tell him I want to see him.” Captain Shane shook his head. “No need of that, Daffy. The Old Man’s here. He wants to see you.”

“Can he?”

Captain Shane shrugged. “O.K., I guess. But only for five minutes.”

“Thanks,” I nodded. I felt better somehow. The sweating stopped. The suspense was killed. I knew where I stood. He went away. In a few seconds the Old Man puffed up to my cell and stared at me.

“Daffy, you old jailbird,” he said, “when I told you to go scoopy, I didn’t say get a life sentence doing it. Is it a story?”

“It’s a story,” I said. “But I’m the fall guy.”

He looked me straight in the eye.

“Tell me one thing,” he said. “One thing, Daffy. You’re clean on this thing?” I said: “I’m clean, chief.”

“Good.” He chuckled. “Then spill it.”

I spilled it, the whole damn thing, and he listened, taking in every news angle it had.

When I finished he remarked: “It’s a lulu, all right. It’ll make us dust off the type we used for the Armistice. But can you write it? If I get a machine up here, can you write that yarn? Can you—“ He stopped and glanced warily at me. “Wait a second. If you—

hell’s bells! The girl wasn’t at the Maine cabin. That means she’s really been snatched!”

I nodded.

“Daffy,” he said, watching my face, “do you know who did it?”

“I’ve got a good idea,” I said.

The Old Man got pale. He paced back and forth a few minutes. Then he called: “Be right back,” and left. I felt for a cigarette, but I didn’t have any. Captain Shane came along and slipped me a pack. I paid him for them; they hadn’t taken my belongings yet.

“Thanks,” I said. The Old Man showed up just at that instant.

“You’re free, Daffy,” he said. “I called up Kennril. He said that with the yarn behind it the
Chronicle
was going to post bond for your bail. That’s legal. All O.K., Captain?”

“Hell, yes,” Shane said. “The
Chronicle
is good for twenty-five grand. Have you signed the papers?”

“No, but I will now. Let the boy out.”

“Not till the bond is posted.”

They went off and fixed that business up while I jiggled on pins and needles. Every minute was precious. After an awfully long wait the turnkey came and let me out. The Old Man and Shane were waiting for me in Shane’s office. Shane gave me a card, in case other bulls tried to put the bite on me.

“Judas,” I said to the Old Man, “thanks! Thanks for everything! I’ll never—“

“Wait a second,” he said. “You’ve got to earn that bond. Go out and after them, Daffy. And try to break it right for the noon edition.” “Say,” asked Shane suspiciously,

“does he know the snatchers?”

“I don’t know a thing,” I said. “See my lawyer. O.K. I’m on my way.” I shook hands with the Old Man. “I mean it, chief. Thanks.”

“Get to hell out of here,” the Old Man snapped. I had a gun permit for a .32 Colt, but I never carried the rod. I figured I needed it tonight, so I took a cab uptown to my place. There was a cop out front. I didn’t want trouble. I went in the back way and upstairs. I found the rod all right, primed and ready to go. I slipped it in my coat pocket and went out the back way. Then I headed for the main stem, crossed it, and went into the Hot Spot. I called a waiter. “Is the Brain in?”

“No.” The reply was surly.

“Rigo? Luke Terk?”

“Naw, they’re all out.”

“O.K.,” I said. I went out and turned into the back alley. I knew if any one of the three came they’d go into the Brain’s office the back way. I took up a spot in the shadows and waited with my right hand wrapped fondly around my gun.

I waited about fifteen minutes. It was ten after eleven by the Paramount clock. I heard footsteps come along the street. I ducked back farther into the shadows. A man turned into the alley. He was all alone. I recognised him. Rigo, with his short-stepped gait. I let the Colt go. I reached in my pocket and took out my penknife and snapped open the blade.

Rigo was careful. He took a good look around himself, but it was damn dark where I stood. He missed me. He aimed for the side door of the Hot Spot, and for one second he turned his back to me.

I jumped out of the shadows, threw my left arm around his neck and jabbed the knife into his back, just enough for him to feel the cold steel.

“Hello, Rigo,” I said. “Nice seeing you again.”

He was breathing hard. He gasped: “Who is it?”

“Daffy Dill,” I said. “An old friend.” I sneaked my left hand into his shoulder holster and put his gun in my pocket. “Don’t move, you rat,” I snapped, “or I’ll give you the length of this blade.” He didn’t move. He asked:

“What’re you after, Dill?”

“Clare Gordon,” I answered, “and the boys who snatched her.” He shuddered. I could feel it. He said: “Wrong alley. I don’t know nothing about it.”

“Listen, you crumby little bun,” I snapped, “come clean. I’m not kidding now. The Brain engineered this. You overheard the gel say she was going to stage a fake. You were taking it out on her because I got that I.O.U. of her brother’s back. That and the fact that I wrote those gambling expose articles which will blow your business to hell.

You needed a new racket, and the Brain chose this one.”

“You’re crazy!” he said.

“Rigo,” I said coldly, “where is she?”

“I tell you I don’t know.”

I took the knife and cut him deep across the back of the neck. The blood started running down over his shirt.

“Rigo,” I said, “you’re going to tell me or I’ll cut your head off. Come clean. Where is she?”

“I tell you I don’t—know!” His voice was shrill and he was breathing hard from the pain. That pup was scared to death.

“Want another cut?” I asked.

“Leave me alone! For God’s sake, leave me alone. I don’t know anything about it. I told you—“

I cut him again on the back of the neck, deeper this time. He winced and began to half sob from the pain. “For God’s sake, Dill, are you crazy? Leave me alone!”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t—“

I put the edge of the blade across the front of his throat. I tightened it there.

“Rigo,” I said, “I’m going to tell you a little secret. I’m out on bail. I’m charged with Clare Gordon’s snatch. If I don’t find out from you where she is I’m due for either a death sentence or a lifer term.”

“I don’t know where she is!”

“I haven’t got much to lose, Rigo,” I said coldly. I pressed the knife harder. “Your jugular vein is right there. If you don’t spill her location in ten seconds I’m going to slice your throat wide open and let you bleed to death.”

“That’s murder, Dill!”

“Sure,” I said. “But what have I got to lose. Your ten seconds are up. Here goes. So long, Rigo.”

I cut him slightly. He half screamed and tried to break away from me. I listened to his shrill words as he got hysterical with terror. “She’s at the Brain’s place! She’s at the Brain’s place!”

“Take it easy,” I said, easing up on the blade. “What do you mean?”

“The Brain’s place!” he babbled. “Uptown. Ritz Towers! The Brain’s penthouse!” It’s funny how fear will make a guy squeal on his own mother. I kept the knife on him but just enough for him to feel it. “How’d she get there?” I asked. “You snatched her when she was taking off in her plane from Huntington, Long Island!”

“The Brain and Luke Terk engineered the snatch over there! I waited up at Yonkers with a speedboat!”

“Who piloted?”

“Cantrey! The Brain!” He was gasping.

“What then?”

“Cantrey set the crate down in the Hudson. He had flares.”