The affair in the Hotel Pavilion was more serious. Two men had been killed in cold blood. Gifford Morton had been wounded; his secretary, Gorman, was hovering between life and death. Sullen killers had been captured. Herbert Carpenter, blackmailer de luxe, was accused of crime, and had been placed in jail.
From mobsters, accused of murder, the police could learn but little. Pieced facts showed that organized crime had flourished in Seaview City, but the men responsible for it had disappeared. The names of Shifter Reeves and Hooks Borglund were dragged from reluctant lips.
A thorough investigation, sponsored by Mayor Rufus Cruikshank and the Public Safety Committee, enabled Police Chief Yates to make discoveries. The efficient police officer found direct connection between certain mobsters and the dope racket which had spread throughout Seaview City. He was hot on the trail of Shifter Reeves.
The man was nowhere to be found. In a twinkling, the rats had taken to cover. Seaview City was purged of dope peddlers. The evil that had crept though the resort was ended.
Hooks Borglund remained a little-known factor. It was evident only that certain gangsters had known him — perhaps followed his orders. Police were watching for him, but not because they had sufficient evidence to make serious trouble for him. They wanted to quiz Hooks Borglund — that was all.
Chief Yates summarized his findings at a meeting of the Public Safety Commission, held in Mayor Cruikshank’s home. The assembled men were gathered about a huge table in a big room adjourning the mayor’s office. All were subdued that night. Helwig, Coates, and Hurley — the three who had wanted a kid-gloved police force — were listeners, not talkers.
“We’ve smashed crime!” asserted Chief Yates emphatically, as he addressed the group. “Smashed it cold, here in Seaview City. From now on, crooks will figure that this place is unhealthy. Ocean air may agree with some people, but not with them.”
“You have done a creditable job, Yates,” commended Mayor Cruikshank. “You have shown yourself worthy of the confidence that I have placed in you.”
The mayor’s quiet approval was an expression of the sentiment of the entire committee. But Yates, bulky and imposing, shook his head as he heard the words.
“I’m not asking for any medals, your honor,” he said. “I’ve done my duty — that’s all. I’m satisfied that it’s done, but I’m sorry that things got as far as they did. The breaks came our way. We used them. That’s all.”
He looked about the group, and decided to explain in full. The police chief felt that a recounting of important incidents would be of value.
“TAKE the Club Catalina,” he said. “The trouble started there when a bunch of these gorillas got too tough. They were after some fellow who made a getaway up the stairs. They were doing a fine lot of shooting when my men showed up.
“The gunmen tried to alibi themselves out of it, but it didn’t go. With other trouble over at the hotel, we knew they were phony. That’s why we raided Bagshawe’s place and cleaned it out.”
“You say they were after some one?” questioned Mayor Cruikshank.
“Yes,” asserted Yates, “but it strikes me the idea was a stall. One man couldn’t have started all that trouble. I think the gunmen were fighting it out among themselves, or trying to raid Bagshawe’s place for money.
“We had men all over there, looking for this imaginary trouble-maker they were telling us about. Where was he? Barred windows — people fighting on the stairs—”
“Is there only one exit from the gambling hall?”
“How could there be more?” questioned Yates. “Look at the place, your honor. A second floor perched over the big night club. You can’t have a stairway going down through a room twenty feet high. That’s the layout there.”
Committee members nodded. They were familiar with the Club Catalina. Seeing that all understood, the police chief proceeded.
“Over at the hotel,” he said, “this fellow Carpenter was trying to blackmail Gifford Morton, the millionaire. Morton was too clever for him. Had detectives and a secretary there. Sent for the police. Our men were on the way when some gangsters crashed in.”
“Called by Carpenter?” questioned the mayor.
“Couldn’t have been,” declared Yates. “Morton had Carpenter covered. We figure they went up there, knowing that something phony was going on. Out to get the dough that Carpenter was taking.
“They killed the detectives, but those fellows put up a fine battle. There was still a lot of shooting when my men arrived.
“Morton’s all right, and we think his secretary, Gorman, will pull through. We’ve got the shorthand notes. Everything needed to give Carpenter a ride for attempted blackmail. The gang — what’s left of them — are held on a murder charge.”
“Did any of them get away?” asked Cruikshank.
“One man seems to have,” responded Yates, in a regretful tone. “He was seen outside the window. No traces of him yet. Anyhow, he doesn’t matter. The big point is, the dopesters have slid out — like rats.”
“You have traced their source of supply?” asked Cruikshank.
“No,” admitted Yates, “but there’s no more coming in. We’ve killed the racket. We’re looking for a fellow called Shifter Reeves. But, more than that, I’ve got another man I’m looking for—”
“Hooks Borglund?” asked a committeeman.
“You’ve been reading the papers, eh?” grinned Yates. “No — it’s a bigger guy we’re after. Wheels Bryant is his name.”
“Wheels Bryant?” questioned Rufus Cruikshank. “Who is he?”
“A big shot,” declared Yates. “Maybe you’ve never heard of him — but he’s big, all right. So big, he has always kept out of sight, and a big shot that can do that is mighty big! One of the gunmen blabbed his name. So we’re looking for him — and I’d like to get him!”
“We wish you success, Chief Yates,” declared the mayor. “We are with you to a man. I repeat, again, that your work has been excellent.”
POLICE CHIEF YATES, despite his investigations, had managed only to accumulate a mass of disconnected facts. The chief reason of his failure to obtain more was due to his neglect of one prisoner — Herbert Carpenter.
Strangely enough, the man who had aided Carpenter to escape questioning on charges other than the blackmail affair, was Gifford Morton.
The millionaire could have definitely linked Carpenter with the gunmen, for he had overheard one of them speaking to the blackmailer. But in Gifford Morton’s make-up was a strong touch of remorse.
He remembered certain phases of that eventful night for which he felt a complete regret. In a crucial moment, when gangsters had been about to take his life, Herbert Carpenter had intervened. In return, Morton had cracked the blackmailer over the head with a bottle.
Now, Morton was actually sorry. Hence in his testimony, he had emphasized the fact that Carpenter, like himself, had been surprised by the entrance of the gunmen. Morton was willing to see Carpenter convicted for blackmail, but not for murder.
As a result, Carpenter was out of jail, under heavy bail. At the very time that Police Chief Yates was in session with the mayor and the Public Safety Committee, the blackmailer was seated in his comfortable cottage, the picture of dejection.
Carpenter’s past had been a career of subtle crime. Now, he was realizing the first fruits of his double life. For years he had managed to pass in good society. His wife — and his two children — had lived in ignorance of his criminal activities. His arrest had been a blow to them.
Nothing was being said tonight. The children were in bed. Herbert Carpenter was slowly puffing a cigarette, as he sat in the living room of his home. An ash tray, piled with stubs, accounted for the smoke-filled room.