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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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The Phantom Detective, December 1935, with "Marked for Salvage"
On the trail of the famous Flagstaff Ruby,
grisly danger lurked at every turn!
ANDY BOLD, head of the salvage department of the Crescent Indemnity Company, awoke to the muted jangle of the muffled telephone at his bedside.
So light a sleeper was he that he had the instrument off the stand almost before the first ring was over. In a voice that gave no hint that he had just come out of a sound sleep, he said: "Hello. Bold speaking."
The words that slapped against his ear startled him into alertness: "For the love of God, Mr. Bold, come quickly to the Casa Sevastian! They are going to torture me. Choose a table near the dance floor. I'll try to talk to you. I—"
"Just a minute, lady," Andy broke in. "Who are you? Why should I come to the Casa Sevastian?"
The voice on the other end was a woman's, and it seemed to be taut with terror. "I can tell you where to recover the Flagstaff Ruby!"
"What?"
"The Flagstaff Ruby," the woman hurried on, breathlessly. "Your company insured it, and paid the loss when it was stolen. Please, please, don't ask any more questions now. They may come at any moment. I've been watched all the time—this is the first chance I've had to phone. Come quickly. But you must promise—"
Andy Bold tensed as the flat sound of a sudden blow came to him over the wire, followed by a startled exclamation in the woman's voice, then silence. Andy held the phone for a moment longer, sensed that the wire was dead, and hung up.
Swiftly his thoughts ran over the situation. The Crescent Indemnity Company had paid a hundred and eighty thousand dollars less than two weeks ago, when the Flagstaff Ruby was stolen from the Wilson Museum. A watchman had been killed. Andy Bold had offered in behalf of Crescent Indemnity a reward of ten thousand dollars for information leading to the recovery of the stone.
THE phone call was not unusual; he received such calls almost
every day, and managed to salvage almost sixty percent of
Crescent Indemnity's annual losses—which was why he
continued as head of the salvage department.
The thing that was unusual was the quality of the woman's voice, the note of terror.
Automatically his hand reached once more for the phone as it rang again. Again he said: "Bold speaking."
It was the same woman. But now her voice was dull, hopeless.
"This is the party that just called you. I was mistaken about the Flagstaff Ruby. Don't bother to come. If I get another lead I'll phone you again."
Andy Bold said tonelessly: "All right. I wish you wouldn't wake me up out of bed on false alarms. Be sure of your stuff next time. And keep on trying—there's ten thousand in it."
"I'll let you know the first news I get," the woman said. She sounded disappointed, dull.
Andy hung up as the receiver clicked down at the other end. He waited a moment, then jiggled his hook again, gave the operator a number. His dark eyes were flashing with the pleasurable anticipation of excitement as he held the French phone with one hand and started unbuttoning his pajamas with the other.
He had wriggled out of them entirely by the time he got his number. "Get your cab, Louie," he ordered crisply into the instrument, "and meet me in front of my hotel in ten minutes."
"Gee, boss," Louie protested. "I just got through ridin' you around town all day. And we was up half of last night. Can't we get no sleep?"
"In ten minutes, Louie," Andy Bold said firmly, and hung up.
Then he began feverishly to dress. He selected a tuxedo from the closet, and despite the difficulty of getting into evening clothes, he was finished well within the ten minutes.
Instead of his regular .32, which he ordinarily carried in a shoulder holster, he took a small .25 automatic that had been specially calibrated to hold .32 cartridges. It slipped snugly into an inside pocket of his jacket and made practically no bulge.
Downstairs in the lobby he stopped at the switchboard, said to the male operator who was on duty at night: "I'm going out, Mike. If anybody calls, tell them I've gone back to sleep and given orders that I'm not to be disturbed. Get me?"
Mike grinned. "I get you, Mr. Bold. You're out but you're in. Leave it to me."
Andy nodded, went out to the street. A taxi swung around the corner on two wheels, squealed to a halt at the curb before the hotel.
The driver, a broad-shouldered, pug-nosed roughneck in a pullover sweater and uniform cap, called out: "Here you are, boss, right on time!" He added ruefully over his shoulder as Andy got in:
"Gee, boss, driving for you is worse than the fight game used to be. At least I got sent to sleep at regular hours."
Andy said: "Never mind, Louie, you'll get plenty of rest when you're dead. Get going—the Casa Sevastian. Don't drive up to the entrance. Pull up around the corner."
"Okay, boss. But take a tip from me and look out for Sevastian. He's nasty medicine. I seen that kid, Steve Kenlon, hanging around there a lot, recently. I think Sevastian's got his claws into him."
"You mean old John Kenlon's son?"
"Yep. Detective-sergeant John Kenlon. I thought I'd tell you, seein' as how the old man is a kind of friend o' yours."
"Thanks," Andy said. "I'll look into that—if my other business there doesn't get too pressing."
Louie grinned, and was about to reach over to drop the flag when Andy Bold rapped out:
"Hold it, Louie. Let's see what this is."
A sedan had turned the far corner, was crawling toward the hotel. It was coming toward them, on the other side of the street, but it swung over toward the hotel entrance, stopped with its nose close to the nose of the cab. The sedan was now parked facing in the wrong direction, but at this time of the night nobody minded. Its powerful headlights bathed the taxi.
Andy Bold sank back into the shadows of the cab's tonneau as two men got out of the sedan, went into the hotel. Andy whispered: "Keep the flag up a while, Louie, and stay here. I know one of those men." Louie shifted around in his seat, went through the business of reaching in behind him and fiddling with the radio. "I know him too, boss. The tall guy with the limp. He's Creel—Sevastian's manager."
Andy ordered him: "Turn around and try to act natural. The driver is still in the sedan, and he's eyeing you."
THEY waited for perhaps five minutes. The two men came out
again, stood irresolutely before the entrance. Finally the man
with the limp said something to his companion, and walked up to
the cab.
He was wearing a dark topcoat and a grey felt hat. His limp was very slight, and didn't seem to bother him. He constantly kept his head on one side, and when he spoke he only opened about three quarters of his mouth. "How long you been here, buddy?" he asked.
Louie said: "I guess about twenty minutes."
"Did you see anybody come out of the hotel?"
"Not a soul, mister. I was hoping I'd pick up a fare before turning in." The tall man bent a little closer. "Don't I know you?"
Louie grinned nervously. "I guess you seen me around, Mr. Creel. I been hackin' in this town for a long time. I hit the Casa Sevastian almost every night."
"That must be it," said Creel. While they had been talking, Andy Bold had kept back in the obscurity of the tonneau. Louie had left the radio set at a metropolitan broadcasting station, and the soft music gave place to the station announcer who was followed by a suave voice that said: "Welcome, everybody, to the Casa Sevastian, the rendezvous of New York. You are just in time for the sensational appearance of New York's new darling, Señorita Eleanora. You will hear her sing, but it's too bad you can't see her dance—"
Creel exclaimed: "I got to get back." He motioned to the other man who had come with him out of the hotel. "Take this cab, Sully, and stay right here. If you see our friend come out, you know what to do."
Sully said: "Okay, Creel, but how will I know him? I never seen him before."
"He's about five foot eleven," Creel told him, "and he's got black hair and a chin like a battleship. He's got the build of a prize fighter, and he walks like he owns the world. I don't think he'll be comin' out—the clerk says he's sound asleep. But you never can tell with that guy."
Sully said, "I'll take him, Creel," and made to open the door of the cab.
Louie exclaimed: "Hey, wait a minute. You don't want to get in here!"
Creel put his hand in his topcoat pocket, said coldly: "No? Why not?"
"Well, I—"
"You said you were looking to pick up a fare, didn't you?"
"Sure, Mister Creel, but this friend of yours says he's gonna take a guy. Well, I ain't lookin' to get in a jam."
Sully sneered. "You'll be in a worse jam if you start an argument. Get me?"
"He's not going to knock him off," Creel explained. "He's just going to keep him from going some place."
"That's all right," Louie insisted, "but you just gave him a description of Mr. Andrew Bold. If that's the guy he's supposed to stop, I can tell you there'll be plenty of trouble."
Creel said nastily: "You talk too much for your health, boy. Put that flag down and shut up." He took his hand out of his pocket, and it was holding a short-muzzled automatic with a silencer attached. "There's fifty bucks in it for you if you play with us. If you don't, boy, we got these." He raised the gun a little.
Louie was white. He didn't say anything. Andy Bold, in the tonneau, could tell that Louie was waiting for his employer to take a hand. But Andy kept still, grinning to himself.
Sully said: "Go ahead, Creel. I can handle this baby."
Creel started toward the sedan, throwing a significant look at Louie. "You can come down to the Casa Sevastian later, and get the fifty."
HE entered the sedan, the driver backed up, pulled away, going
down the street. As the sedan disappeared around the corner,
Sully threw away the cigarette he had been smoking, came close to
Louie, leaning against the side window. His hand was still in his
pocket.
"You know this Bold when you see him?"
Louie gulped, nodded.
"Well, if he comes out of here, you tip me off, see?" Sully put out his left hand to open the door of the tonneau.
And Andy Bold acted. He reached out swiftly from the shadows, twisted down the handle of the door, pushed it out hard.
The edge of the door caught Sully in the shoulder and the side of the head, sent him spinning back across the sidewalk. Instinctively his right hand came out of his pocket as he sought to recover his balance.
The hand was holding an automatic with a silencer like Creel's. He saw Andy step out of the car, snarled, and swung the gun toward him. Andy Bold took a swift step after him, and before the gunman could bring his automatic in line, he brought up a hard bunched fist to the point of Sully's jaw. Sully was lifted off his feet, landed in a heap up against the cornerstone of the hotel entrance. He was out cold.
ANDY BOLD stopped, picked up the automatic. "Handy little
thing," he commented. "Maybe I'll have some use for it
tonight."
Louie said admiringly: "Gee, boss, if I had a right like that I'd be on top of the fight game today!" Andy paid no attention, left the inert figure of Sully where it lay, and got into the cab.
"I think we can go to the Casa Sevastian now, Louie," he said softly. He was massaging the knuckles of his right hand.
Louie chuckled as he set the cab in motion. "Looks like Sevastian don't want you to go there tonight."
"Maybe not. But I think there's somebody who wants me very badly." He was thinking of the strange note of terror in the woman's voice over the phone. "You can drive right up to the door now, Louie. I don't think Sevastian will really be expecting me anymore." It was ten minutes after one when Andrew Bold stepped out of the cab before the glittering entrance of the Casa Sevastian.
He stopped for a moment at the curb, said: "Drive around the corner, Louie, and park with the flag down. At exactly one forty-five, if I haven't come out, you get to a phone and call the Casa Sevastian. Say you're Detective-sergeant Kenlon, and you know I'm in there because you have men stationed outside that saw me go in, and you want to talk to me or by God you'll tear the place apart. Understand?"
Louie nodded doubtfully. "Gee, Kenlon will tear me apart if he ever hears—"
"Never mind, I'll take care of you. Kenlon talks just the way you do anyway, only with more snap. Try to get more snap in your voice, Louie. That's the only difference between a detective-sergeant and a cab driver."
"Okey-doke, boss. What do I do when you get on the wire?"
"I'll tell you then," said Andy. "I'll know more about where I stand."
"All right, but be careful, will you? Creel may be a bad guy, but Sevastian is lots more dangerous. An' I'd hate to see you get knocked off. I been living on you for the past year."
Andy Bold smiled bleakly. "Get going," was all he said.
He watched the cab pull away from the curb, then turned and entered the Casa Sevastian through the door that was obsequiously held open for him by the uniformed flunkey.
On both side of the lobby were framed posters resting on metal easels. They were done in color, with pictures of a gorgeously beautiful, dark-haired girl in a flaming red mantilla and a high Spanish comb in her hair.
Andy stopped a moment to light a cigarette and read the poster.
EXCLUSIVE ENGAGEMENT IN NEW YORK!
SEÑORITA ELEANORA
SEE HER DANCE
HEAR HER SING
THE THRILL OF A LIFETIME!
THE strains of slow, languorous dance music came from within
as Andy Bold deposited his hat and coat with the hat-check girl.
He had stuck the silenced pistol which he had taken from Sully in
the waistband of his trousers, under the vest. It made a little
bulge there but he didn't mind.
As he stood at the entrance to the huge dining room with the dance floor and raised dais at the far end, he was a striking figure of a man, and many of the diners at the tables glanced at him covertly, whispered his name behind their hands. His name and picture had been often in the papers recently, in connection with the sensational recovery of various stolen items, and he was more or less of a legendary figure.
He smiled at the platinum hostess who approached him, said in answer to her question:
"Yes, I'm alone. I see a table over there next to the dance floor. If it isn't reserved, I'd like it."
"You're lucky," she told him. "It was reserved by young Mr. Steve Kenlon, but Mr. Sevastian just told me he isn't going to use it tonight. Come—"
SHE stopped in mid-sentence, stared past Andy's shoulder, and
he noted that her face had become suddenly set and cold, and that
there was something like subdued fear in her eyes.
He turned easily, lithely, and stared bleakly at the man who had come up behind him. He said evenly:
"Hello, Sevastian. I met a couple of friends of yours a while ago. Have you heard about it?"
Sevastian was very tall—he even topped Andy Bold by an inch or two—and unnaturally thin. His face was long, surmounted by extremely black hair, close-cropped; there were deep hollows in his cheeks, and his eyes were sunk far back in his head so that the eyebrows seemed to be entirely disassociated from them.
Sevastian said to the platinum hostess: "You may go. I will myself attend to Mr. Bold's—comfort."
The hostess gulped, said weakly, "Yes, sir," and backed away.
Sevastian turned to Andy Bold, and his lips smiled, though his eyes did not. "Friends of mine?" he murmured.
"Your—er—assistant," Andy told him. "Creel—and a chap named Sully." He watched the other carefully, but Sevastian's face gave no indication of what he thought. Andy went on: "I don't like their methods, Mr. Sevastian. Those two boys are liable to get you in trouble."
Sevastian said quickly: "Creel is no longer in my employ. And I don't know the other man you mentioned."
Andy shrugged. "Let it ride. Take me to that table."
"I'm sorry, but that table is reserved. There are no vacant tables here tonight."
Andy said: "Thanks," dryly, and left Sevastian standing there, and threaded his way across the floor to the table he wanted. Sevastian followed him. "Look here, Bold, you can't come in here like this. That table—"
"Is mine now, Sevastian," Andy told him, swinging around. "What are you going to do about it?" Sevastian lowered his eyes. "Nothing—for the present."
Andy grunted, kept on, and seated himself. He didn't look behind him, but he could almost feel Sevastian staring at his back. To the waiter who approached he said: "A bottle of Mumm's, please."
The floor show was in progress, and Andy watched the almost nude chorus girls cavorting on the dais, then let his eyes wander about the crowded night club. Somewhere in this place was a woman—a woman who had called him in terror, who knew where the Flagstaff Ruby was. Which one of these was it—entertainers, guests, who?
As if idly, he finally glanced back to where he had left Sevastian, saw that the proprietor was approaching the table. The chorus was finishing its number, filing out through the heavy drapes behind the dais. The orchestra crashed to the close of the piece, the drapes fell back into place as Sevastian seated himself opposite Andy. The waiter brought the champagne, with two glasses instead of one, and Sevastian, smiling sourly, said:
"This is on me, Bold."
Andy said: "I don't think I want to drink with you, Sevastian—unless you want to do business with me."
"Business?" Sevastian looked at him inquiringly.
"The Flagstaff Ruby. What's the use of fencing around. You know why I'm here. A woman called me from here. Somebody made her cancel the appointment. Then, to make sure I didn't come, Creel and Sully arrive to watch my hotel, and stop me. I'm not a fool, Sevastian. I know you're losing money on this dump of yours—big money. Night clubs aren't paying propositions these days."
HE waved the waiter away, went on. "So where do you get the
money to sink in here? And why do you sink it? I'll tell you.
This place is only a front for your real business. There've been
some pretty big hauls recently. My company didn't insure them so
it wasn't any of my worry. I think, Sevastian, that you were
behind them. And I think you were behind the Flagstaff haul. Only
this time, I happen to be interested in it."
Sevastian leaned back in his chair, his small black eyes staring at Andy out of that corpse-like face of his.
"Bold," he said softly, "our paths have never crossed before. You will find I am a harder man to fight than—"
HE stopped as the sound of a woman's shriek came from behind
the drapes at the back of the dais. It was a scream of pain, but
it ceased at once, as if a hand had been placed over the woman's
mouth. There was no mistaking it for anything else, and the
diners all turned to stare.
Sevastian exclaimed under his breath: "Damn her!"
The drapes parted, and Creel appeared on the dais, bowing and smiling to the diners. "I am sorry to announce," he said, "that we will have to disappoint you tonight. Señorita Eleanora has just had a slight accident to her ankle, and will be unable to appear. I am afraid she will be laid up for a few days, but she will be back to entertain you as soon as her ankle is better. In the meantime we will give you some dance music until the next number is ready." He motioned to the orchestra leader. "Play, Martinez. Give them something hot!"
He bowed, stepped back through the drapes as the orchestra swung into a dance number.
Andy had been watching Sevastian while Creel talked. Now he arose, smiling thinly. "So Creel is no longer in your employ, eh? You make your stories pretty thin, Sevastian."
Sevastian stood up, too. "Listen, Bold," he said tightly, "don't do anything rash. I admit I sent Creel and Sully—but it was only to keep you out of trouble. This is nothing that concerns you. That woman only mentioned the Flagstaff Ruby to bring you down here—she's in a jam, and she figured you'd help her out of it if you thought she had a lead for you."
Andy kept nodding his head while the other talked. "Sounds swell, Sevastian, but I'm going to find out for myself."
The night club proprietor came closer, lowered his voice, though nobody was paying them any attention in the press of eager couples to get on the dance floor. "You only work for a salary, Bold. You're on a false trail here, and you can't do the Crescent any good; you'll only spoil a little private play of my own, that has nothing to do with the Flagstaff Ruby. All right, I'll give you a half a grand to go out of here this minute, and forget about that phone call. I'd rather do that than have trouble with you."
ANDY shook his head. "I could have a swell nest-egg by this
time if I wanted to play the game that way. You should know I
don't go for that stuff. I'm going to see this Señorita
Eleanora of yours. My hunch is that she's the one who phoned
me—and I think you're right about her being in a jam."
He started away from the table, threaded his way around toward the dais. At the foot of the platform he felt a tug at his sleeve, turned to see that Sevastian had followed him.
There were little pinpoints of fire in the night club proprietor's eyes. He said, "You're a stubborn fool, Bold, and there's only one way to deal with stubborn fools. If you put a foot on that dais, you'll drop with a slug through your heart!"
Andy smiled bleakly. "Who's going to do that, Mr. Sevastian?"
"Creel is right behind those drapes, with a silenced gun. The orchestra is playing, nobody is looking at us. If you drop, these people won't even know you've been shot. By the time the police get here, Creel will have gotten rid of the gun. Your death will be a mystery. As far as the police know, I have no motive for killing you."
Andy looked into Sevastian's eyes and he knew that the other meant every word of what he had said. He didn't doubt that Sevastian would go through with the plan; for if he were behind the Flagstaff robbery, there was already the death of the watchman chalked up against him and his gunmen. He would be no worse off with a double killing.
Andy said: "I get it." He reached out, took Sevastian's arm in a viselike grip, drew the night club proprietor close to him. Sevastian tried to pull away, but Andy held him powerless, moved him forward so that he had Sevastian between himself and the drapes. He was smiling, talking very low, as if he were telling the other something very confidential. To a casual observer he was merely walking up the dais with the owner of the night club. He did not seem to be exerting himself at all. Yet his merciless grip on Sevastian's arm brought a grimace of pain to the latter's face as he forced him forward, ahead of him, toward the draped doorway.
"Let's see," Andy murmured in Sevastian's ear, "if Creel has the nerve to try a shot at me like this. I'll bet you a five-spot he hits you instead of me!"
Sevastian's face lost color. They were close to the drapes now, and Andy saw Creel's flushed, angry face peering out at them. Sevastian called hoarsely: "Give it to him, Creel! He's forcing our hand!"
Andy saw the curtains part just a trifle, saw Creel's hand coming up with a silenced automatic. And he gave Sevastian a powerful shove, sent him hurtling into the drapes, into Creel's gun hand.
Creel cursed, tried to swing his gun past Sevastian's body. But Andy was crowding close behind the night club proprietor, gave him another shove that sent both him and Creel violently backward, and followed them through the doorway. The slight scuffle had passed entirely unnoticed.
Inside was a short hallway, deserted, for the entertainers were in their dressing rooms. Creel was staggering backward, while Sevastian was clutching at his manager's sleeve to retain his balance.
Creel backed up against the wall, snarling, and raised his gun. Andy stepped in fast, swung his fist in a short arc that caught Creel on the side of the head. At the same time he chopped down with his left hand, struck the silenced automatic down. It exploded with a muffled spat, and the slug buried itself in the floor.
Andy half pivoted toward Sevastian, whose hand was digging into the inside of his dinner jacket for a gun. Andy swung a backhanded blow at the night club proprietor that sent him sprawling. Before Creel or Sevastian could recover Andy had stepped back, and was covering them both with the silenced automatic from his waistband. "Drop the gun!" he said curtly to Creel.
Creel obeyed. There was a large red spot on his left temple where Andy had hit him. Andy said to Sevastian: "Take your hand out of your coat—without the gun."
Sevastian slowly withdrew his hand. "You can't make it, Bold," he said. "I've got a dozen men in this place. You'll never get out alive!" His eyes burned at Andy.
Andy Bold grinned. "So I've been told before. Now lead me to the woman that just yelled."
Neither of them moved. Sevastian smiled triumphantly. "Mr. Bold, we don't know what you're talking about. No woman yelled in this place. What's more, I'm going to have you arrested for attacking us. You are disturbing the peace in a public place. Suppose you get out."
Andy said: "That sounds logical. So is this." He stepped in, swung a short left to Creel's jaw that sent the manager crashing back against the wall. The back of Creel's head struck the wall, and he sank to the floor with a long sigh, lay still.
Andy turned on Sevastian. "Want the same, mister?"
SEVASTIAN lowered his eyes. "You're making a big mistake.
Bold—one that may prove fatal—to you." Then he added
hastily as Andy came closer: "But I'll take you to her."
"That's better," Andy told him. Sevastian cast a glance at the prone form of Creel, then turned without another word and led the way down the corridor, turned right and ascended an iron staircase. Andy, following close behind him, saw that the dressing rooms were on the floor below around a bend in the corridor, and wondered if Sevastian was leading him into a trap.
He said, "Look, Sevastian, this is Sully's gun that I have here. If you try anything funny, I'll let you have it. Do you understand?"
Sevastian grunted. "I said I would take you to her. That's what I'm doing. But I tell you, Bold, you'll regret it."
On the upper floor they passed a door marked "Private," and then Sevastian stopped at another door, tried the knob, found it locked, and knocked. He called out:
"Open up. It's Mr. Sevastian. I've got somebody with me."
Somebody on the inside fiddled with a lock, and the door came open, Sevastian entered and stepped aside, calling out: "It's Bold. Take him, boys!"
Andy was halfway through the doorway. He got a glimpse of a white-faced girl lying bound on a bed, gagged, her dark head with its tall Spanish comb still in place, raised from the pillow; of a hot poker in the hand of a stocky man who was pulling out a gun from a shoulder holster with his other hand, and of another man, taller, who had a silenced automatic like Creel's in his hand.
Andy got the picture in a flash, as he dropped to the floor, squeezing the trigger of his automatic which he held at arm's length, directing the stream of slugs from it first at one of the men, then at the other. Two shots whizzed harmlessly over his head, and then he squirmed, got to his feet. Both those men were dead. The one with the poker was still holding it and lying across the bed. The other was on the floor, face up, and he wasn't a pretty sight, for Andy's shots had caught him in the face.
Andy saw the girl on the bed staring at him with wide, terror-filled eyes, as if she were trying to give him a message. For some reason she was keeping her head in the air, not resting it on the pillow. Her red mantilla lay beside her, and her black silk dress was up above her knees. Her stockings and shoes had been stripped from her, and there was a red welt on the side of her right leg. No wonder she had screamed.
The poker in the dead man's hand was on the bed, and the red hot part of it was smoking against the spread. In a moment the spread would take fire.
Andy leaped across, heaved the dead man off the bed, and the hot poker fell from his limp hand to the floor. Then Andy beat out the incipient flames on the bed. The girl was still straining against the gag, and in a moment Andy knew what it was she was trying to tell him.
He had forgotten about Sevastian, who had erased himself by pressing back against the wall close to the door. Now he heard Sevastian's cold, deadly voice behind him, edged with gloating satisfaction:
"Drop your gun, Bold, and lift up your hands. You'll go to the chair for shooting these two men!"
Andy froze, half bending over the bed as Sevastian's voice had caught him, slowly turned his head. The night club proprietor had a small automatic pointed at him, and Andy could see that he would not hesitate to use it. He straightened, let the silenced gun slide from his fingers. His eyes were blazing at Sevastian.
"You were having this girl tortured!" he said between tight lips. "I'm going to kill you for it, Sevastian!"
Sevastian grinned nastily. "Your killing days are going to be over soon." He stepped along the wall warily, lifted off the house phone which was set into a panel near the wall, and said: "Connect me with Kenlon in my office. And I'll be in room eighteen if I'm wanted for the next half hour. What? Yes, somebody hit Creel. Is he all right? Tell him to take charge till I get down, and not to let anybody up here. Now get me Kenlon."
He waited a moment, holding the automatic trained on Andy, then when he got his private office he said: "Kenlon! Come down the hall to room eighteen, quick. Something's happened."
He hung up, and Andy said: "Is that Sergeant Kenlon you were talking to? What's he doing here? You're crazy to call him. I'll bet this girl knows about the Flagstaff robbery. He'll see you've been torturing her—"
"Let me worry about that, Bold," Sevastian told him. "You've got plenty to worry about, yourself." He swung his eyes to the girl on the bed. "Are you ready to talk?" he asked her. "We're not through with you. You better tell us where the Flagstaff ruby is."
The girl shook her head violently in the negative. And Andy Bold got his left foot under the poker on the floor, sent it spinning through the air at Sevastian like a football.
Sevastian instinctively ducked away from the red-hot iron, raising his hand to ward it away. The poker missed Sevastian and clattered against the wall. But it had given Andy his chance.
His hand flicked in and out of his jacket pocket, came out with the small .25. He stepped in close to Sevastian, brought the barrel down with a nasty crack on Sevastian's wrist. Sevastian dropped his automatic with a cry of pain, hugged his broken wrist.
Andy said: "It'll mend in about a month, Sevastian." He kicked the automatic away from Sevastian's feet, and moved back to the bed, reached behind him and undid the gag from the girl's mouth. She lifted her head, still with the tall Spanish comb stuck in her hair, and said shakily:
"I knew you'd come, Mr. Bold. You're the only one—"
She stopped as the doorknob turned, and the door opened to admit the big, heavy-set figure of Detective-sergeant Kenlon. Behind him was a youngster of about twenty-four, who was the image of Kenlon, except that his chin was not as square as the sergeant's.
Kenlon's eyes swept from Sevastian, still holding his wrist, to the two bodies on the floor, the girl on the bed, then to Andy Bold. He said gruffly: "What's been going—"
He was interrupted by the young man behind him, who pushed him aside, rushed to the bed and folded the girl in his arms. "Eleanora, dearest," he said huskily, "who's been doing this to you?"
The girl said weakly, without any Spanish accent: "Steve, they—they burned my feet. But I wouldn't tell them."
The young man let her go, swung away from the bed, and his eyes were blazing. "Sevastian," he said, "I'm going to kill you!"
He reached for the night club proprietor, who stepped back, called out to the detective-sergeant: "Kenlon, call your son off!"
Kenlon barked: "Steve! Keep back!" He stepped into the room, closed the door.
Young Steve Kenlon restrained himself with an effort, glaring at the night club proprietor.
Sevastian said mockingly: "Yes, Steve, keep back. You wouldn't want to fry in the big chair for the murder of that night watchman, would you?"
STEVE uttered a hoarse cry, buried his face in his hands. "I
didn't kill him, I tell you. I didn't!" Andy Bold had been
watching, puzzled. Now he said: "Hello, Kenlon. Would you mind
telling me what this is all about?"
The eyes of the grizzled detective-sergeant looked desperate, hunted. His face was drawn and grey; he appeared ten years older than when Bold had seen him only a week or two ago. He said in a monotonous, hopeless voice:
"That's Steve's girl—Eleanora Sweeney. Her mother was Spanish. She's trying to cover up for Steve. Sevastian's rats stole the Flagstaff ruby, Andy, and killed the watchman. But they've put an ironclad frame on my boy, Steve. They had Steve along with them that night, and they got Steve's prints on the gun that killed the watchman. Steve hasn't got an alibi in the world. Do you understand, Andy—" the nails of Kenlon's clenched hands bit into his palms, and he almost spat out the words—"if I turn these rats in for the Flagstaff job, it'll be the same as sending my own son to the chair!"
Sevastian chuckled. "You see, Bold, I was only trying to keep you out of where you weren't wanted." He suddenly grimaced with pain. "God! I owe you for this wrist."
Andy said: "I get part of the picture. Why were you burning her feet?"
The girl answered for him. "I got the ruby from Creel, and I've hidden it. I won't give it to them unless they put Steve in the clear!"
Andy said wonderingly: "You've got nerve, kid, to take what they've been giving you for Steve's sake."
She hurried on. "I called you, Mr. Bold, because I knew that Steve's father's hands were tied. The minute the police got into it officially, Steve would be arrested for murder. You see, that's the first thing they'd do—turn in the murder gun with Steve's prints on it."
She was talking eagerly, earnestly, while Steve Kenlon was untwisting the wire with which her hands and feet had been bound.
Sergeant Kenlon said: "God, Andy, it looks like you've broken this thing wide open. With these two birds killed, the whole thing will become public. Steve will be cooked."
"Fried, you mean," Sevastian snarled. "There's only one thing for you to do, Kenlon—" He stopped, licking his lips as the others waited. "Shoot Bold, here—kill him! Then say you caught him just after he'd killed two of my men, and he resisted arrest. Steve and the girl won't talk. The girl gives up the ruby to me, and everything is fine."
Andy said: "I know a better one, Sevastian." He stepped close to the night club proprietor, swung his automatic in a raking blow that caught him across the right cheek, left a gaping, raw welt.
Sevastian cried out in pain.
Andy did it again, on the left cheek. Sevastian whimpered. The girl moaned, closed her eyes. Kenlon looked on grimly silent, while his son held the girl in his arms.
Andy asked Sevastian softly: "Where's the gun with Steve Kenlon's prints on it?"
Sevastian cried: "You think I'd be crazy enough to tell—"
He broke off and shrieked as Andy's gun skimmed across his face again. This time it left a wide cut alongside his left eye.
"Maybe you like this better than talking," Andy speculated grimly. He sighed. "It hurts me more than it hurts you, Sevastian. Well, I guess I got to do it." He raised the gun again.
Sevastian's face was a bloody mess. He cried: "Wait!"
Andy held the gun poised, said: "Well?"
Sevastian said huskily: "The gun's in my safe in the private office." He slumped down.
Andy cast a glance of triumph at Kenlon, who let out a long sigh. Andy asked Sevastian: "Safe locked?"
"Yes."
"What's the combination?"
"Damn you, I won't—"
Andy raised the gun once more. Sevastian hastily said: "Right—4-18-32; left—6-4."
Andy lowered the gun, looked at Kenlon. "Get it?"
Kenlon repeated: "Right—4-18-32; left—6-4." He turned, went out of the room as if in a daze.
Minutes later he returned, face flushed and happy. He was holding a wicked-looking snub-nosed automatic wrapped in waxed paper to preserve the fingerprints. While Andy watched he removed the waxed paper, wiped the gun clean with his handkerchief. He exchanged a long look with his son. "That's that, Steve!"
Andy took the automatic from him gingerly, by the barrel, stepped over to Sevastian, and before the latter knew what he intended to do, he had pressed the stock of the pistol into the hand of the night club proprietor, and pressed hard over the other's hand, holding his thumb down on the safety. Then he let go of Sevastian's hand, stepped away still holding the automatic by the barrel. "There's a perfect set of prints, Kenlon," he said.
Sevastian uttered a hoarse cry. "You can't—God, I didn't kill the watchman—I just fenced—"
"Too bad," Andy murmured. "Fingerprints count for a lot. I don't think you'll stand a chance before a jury—any more than Steve would have." He added dryly: "You might call it a reverse frame, huh?"
He motioned to Kenlon, who said happily: "I get the idea, Andy."
The sergeant took out a pair of handcuffs, clicked them on Sevastian's wrists. "You'll talk plenty down at Headquarters."
Sevastian grimaced with the pain of his broken wrist, wiped blood from his face with his sleeve. "Listen," he said hoarsely, "get me a plea to manslaughter and I'll give you the name of the one that fired the gun."
Kenlon shook his head. "Can't promise a thing. But if you talk, it'll help with the D.A."
"All right," said Sevastian. "It was Creel. Creel got your kid drunk and they dragged him along with them to the museum. Then they planted the kid's prints on the gun."
Kenlon said: "Swell. All we need now is to round up Creel and the others. I'll phone—"
He was interrupted by the ringing of the wall telephone. He picked off the receiver, said: "Hello." He glanced at Andy, said: "Wants you," then asked into the receiver: "Who wants to talk to him?" Suddenly his face got a dull brick red. "What? Where do you get that stuff? This is Detective-sergeant Kenlon, right here. Who's this?" He jiggled the hook, muttered: "He's hung up!" then slammed the receiver down.
"Can you beat that?" he asked Andy. "That guy said he wanted to talk to you, said he was me, and that he had the place surrounded. What sort of gag is that?"
Andy grinned. "Probably a practical joker. Forget it." He turned to the girl, who was sitting on the edge of the bed now, smiling happily in Steve Kenlon's arms. "The only other thing we have on the program," he said, "is the Flagstaff ruby. Sevastian, here, couldn't get you to talk."
Kenlon said: "Where is it, Eleanora?" Andy winked at the girl, and she smiled up at him prettily.
"You know, Mr. Bold?"
Andy said: "I hope to tell you I do. If Sevastian and his hoods had used their eyes, they would have saved themselves all this." He stepped to the girl's side, reached up and pulled the big Spanish comb out of her hair. Her hair tumbled down over her shoulders, and out of it fell a glowing, darkly beautiful ruby the size of a large walnut.
Steve stared, and his father uttered a cry of wonder. Sevastian bared his teeth in a snarl. "The dumb clucks!" he bit out. "I told them to search her. They never thought of her hair!"
Kenlon asked: "How did you know it was there, Bold?"
Andy grinned. "She was keeping her head off the pillow all the time," he explained. "A girl who's just been treated with a hot poker isn't going to do that unless she's got a darn good reason."
Kenlon sighed, went to the phone. "The Crescent Indemnity has a bargain, Andy," he said, "even at the fifteen grand they pay you every year."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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