“Why not,” I suggested, “phone the bank first, and tell them that you want payment stopped on the Grattan check at once?”
Sackler looked pained. “Joey, your ignorance of financial matters, at times, appalls me. A bank will not stop payment on a check except by order of the person who issued it.”
I shrugged and picked up the phone. I reported a moment later that Alice Grattan wasn’t in.
“All right,” said Sackler, “keep ringing her every twenty minutes until you get her. Don’t leave that phone for a minute.”
I called Alice Grattan without success the rest of the day. I resumed calling, on Sackler’s frantic instructions, early Saturday morning. Shortly after noon, I got her and reported to Sackler that another check would be put in the mail immediately. It was only then that Sackler relaxed, sighed, and put his mind to the solution of Grattan case for the first time.
Chapter Two
Ten Grand on the Hoof
It wasn’t until Monday, however, that he went into action. Alice Grattan’s second check had arrived in the mail, had been duly cashed and cached. Sackler sat at his desk buried in thought. He sighed, looked up, and glanced at the package of cigarettes on my desk. I snatched them up quickly. Sackler sighed again and took the makings from his pocket. Slowly he rolled a cigarette. He came out with something that looked like a fat wet worm.
“Joey,” he said, “on Sunday night there was a robbery at Grattan’s. A wall safe behind an oil painting in the library was forced and emptied. Miss Grattan did not even know of the safe’s existence until it was broken.”
“So,” I said, “are you arguing that someone knocked off the old man so that they could roll his safe several days later?”
“Joey,” he said, “you are a fool. Grattan, I have ascertained, was a big independent dealer in diamonds. He kept large sums of money on hand and one hell of a lot of valuable ice.”
“I thought you were retained to find out who killed him.”
“That,” said Sackler, “is precisely what I am finding out. And now after weeks of idleness — weeks during which I have still paid your salary — I have a task for you.”
“Which is?”
“See Barker. For some reason Wooley thinks he may have been mistaken in his identification of Bellows. The D. A. would undoubtedly like a conviction and Bellows is a cinch save for Barker’s testimony. See the old guy. Find out whatever you can. And hurry. After that I’ve got a couple more angles for you to work on. In the meantime, I’ll find out what I can from the Grattan girl, from Bellows and that lawyer.”
Nothing loath, I hurried. I had been cooped up for two weeks in the office with Sackler. Adding what he had won from me at rummy, at dice and the cigarettes he had grubbed it hadn’t been a cheap two weeks.
I went downstairs, climbed into the coupe and headed for General Barker’s apartment house.
On the fourteenth story of an upper Park Avenue apartment house, I stood before Barker’s door and stretched my finger forth to push the bell. From within the apartment a voice sounded through the door. It was a cultured voice, a gentle voice, withal there was a note of fear in it.
“Your motive,” it said, “I do not understand. Your punishment I understand quite well. You will be executed for this. You will surely lose your life if I lose mine.”
My finger froze a tenth of an inch from the bell. My right hand reached inside my coat to my shoulder holster. My ear pressed against the panel of the door. I heard a second voice — hard, tough and vaguely familiar. “Buddy, there’s only two people ever going to know who knocked you off. And, from here on in, you don’t count. You don’t count at all.”
Three shots sounded almost simultaneously. The first two came from within the apartment. The third was fired from my own automatic and its bullet blew the lock off Barker’s door. Gun in hand I charged headlong into the apartment.
General Barker lay upon the floor. His head was cushioned on an expensive Axminster, the color of which was changing slowly from a deep blue to a dark red. Standing over him, a thirty-eight in his hand, was Big Joe Angers.
Big Joe turned his head as I raced into the room. He made a movement as if to swing his gun in my direction. He recognized me and didn’t. My automatic already covered him and Big Joe knew me well enough to know I could shoot fast and accurately.
“Drop it,” I said. “I thought I recognized your voice.”
Big Joe dropped the thirty-eight. It fell with a padded thud upon the body of the man he had just killed. I regarded him over the muzzle of my own weapon and wondered just what I’d walked into.
Big Joe watched me with hard and calculating eyes. There was a taut expression on his face. The body at his feet did not disturb him. Big Joe had killed too many men for that. He was the town’s ace killer. And he had at least one thing in common with Rex Sackler. Within the limits of his profession, which was murder, there was nothing he would not do if the price was right.
Now, he cleared his throat. He looked significantly down at the corpse of General Barker. He said hoarsely: “How much, Joey?”
God! How our reputation traveled!
“In a case like this,” I said, “there isn’t any price. I’d be an accessory and liable for the chair myself. I’m taking you in, baby.”
Big Joe’s eyes narrowed. “The cops ain’t ever going to burn me, Joey,” he said. “That’s something I promised myself a long time ago. Let’s make a deal. I got a lot of dough, Joey.”
I sighed. The reputation of Rex Sackler and Company had certainly spread. Big Joe seemed quite convinced that I would risk putting my own body in the death cell if he handed me a certified check.
“No,” I said, “you’re coming in, Joe. You—” Then I committed the gravest error in all my career as an assistant private detective.
I took a pace across the floor toward Big Joe. The Axminster slid along the highly polished floor. I slid with it and lost my balance. As I strove to recover, Big Joe lashed out with his foot and caught me on the end of the spinal column. I fell, without dignity and dangerously, upon my face.
Big Joe sprang at the thirty-eight on the floor. He picked it up as I rolled over on my back and fired twice. I missed exactly the same number of times. Big Joe retreated to the doorway. He blasted at me as I ducked behind a huge armchair. I heard a bullet plow into the overstuffing. Big Joe shot once again, then I heard the door slam. Big Joe was beating a hasty retreat before anyone came to investigate the shots. For that I was profoundly grateful.
I stood up and used a handkerchief to wipe the cold sweat from my brow. There were footsteps at the door and an elevator boy and a copper burst into the room. The policeman looked at the body. He looked at me and of course recognized me.
“Ah, Joey,” he said, not without satisfaction. “A corpse, and you with a gun in your hand. Wooley will be delighted. I’ll be a sergeant in no time.”
“Take it easy,” I said. “I’ve got a tale to tell.”
I told him about Big Joe. He seemed rather unconvinced until I showed him a hole in the wall where a bullet from the thirty-eight had landed. I pointed out that there was another slug somewhere in or about the chair. I drew attention to the fact that my gun was an automatic. Then I asked permission to call Rex Sackler.
Sackler listened to my recital, sighed heavily and said: “Well — it’s too bad, Joey.”
“What’s too bad?”
“My God, you were right on the scene when a murder was committed and we haven’t got any client who wants to know the answer. There’s not a fee in it anywhere.”