Nevertheless, the reporter was at present seeking new facts for the Classic. Every mob killing had its follow-up; its supposed “inside story” which readers would devour with enthusiasm. Clyde Burke was on his way to interview Joe Cardona.
When he reached detective headquarters, Clyde found the acting inspector, Joe Cardona, in his office, surrounded by a group of reporters. They had come for a statement; Joe was ready to give one. Clyde had shown up just in time to get in on the proceeding.
“It was Trip Burley who bumped Rook Hollister,” stated Cardona. “We found both of them, lying dead, up in Rook’s apartment. Nobody else could have been in there. We’ve grilled the mobsmen who were around the Hotel Thurmont.
“Just to clinch matters, we extracted the bullets and checked them with the guns. Want to see the tools? Here they are.”
Joe opened a desk drawer and the reporters crowded forward. “The big automatic belonged to Rook Hollister. The little revolver was Trip Burley’s gat.”
“They bumped each other?” queried a reporter.
“Plain as day,” assured Cardona.
“Who got which first?” demanded another newshawk.
“Who’s going to guess that?” returned Cardona. “We can’t figure it to a dot. All we can do is reconstruct the case the way it looked to us. First off, Rook Hollister had the finger pointing at him. He knew some of his old pals were out to get him.”
“Pals like Trip Burley?”
“Yeah. And somehow, Trip got into Rook’s place. How, we haven’t figured, unless one of Rook’s bodyguards sneaked him into the apartment. We haven’t picked up all of the mugs who worked for Rook. Like as not, the one guy beat it.
“Anyway, Trip found his way in there early last night. He had this revolver — it’s a .32 — and he must have let Rook know what was coming, because the big shot had this iron in his mitt. Both must have cut loose pretty quick.
“We figure Rook got Trip while he was coming in. Because the bullet from the big automatic wasn’t fired at such close range. Trip must have kept on coming, springing a pot-shot. He plugged Rook square with his little .32.
“Rook was lying by a window of his living room. Trip must have staggered about twenty feet, because he was laid out in a little dressing room that leads off from the big room. Nobody heard the shots.”
JOE CARDONA paused. He saw a newcomer stroll into the room and stare over the shoulders of the reporters. Joe recognized the heavy-jowled face of Bart Koplin. He waved a greeting to the private dick.
“Bodies found this morning,” concluded Cardona, briskly. “A lawyer named Scalwall came around to see Rook Hollister. On some case involving an auto smashup. One of Rook’s men hammered at the apartment door. No reply, so Scalwall got suspicious and notified us.
“But that part of it was in the evening newspapers. I’ve given you all the new data. Don’t ask me any more; you know as much about Rook’s rep as I do.”
Reporters began to shuffle out. Photographers wanted pictures of the death guns. Clyde Burke idled in a corner while his fellow reporters departed. He strolled up when they were gone. The only other person who had remained was Bart Koplin.
“That’s all you’ve got, Joe?” queried Clyde. “Nothing else? No fooling?”
“It’s enough, isn’t it?” growled Joe. “Police surgeon’s report; bodies at the morgue; bullet tests — what else is there? Say — you’ll be wondering next if we took fingerprints from the stiffs.”
“Did you?” asked Clyde, casually.
“Of course not!” snorted Cardona. “We knew who the guys were. Trip’s mug was in the rogues’ gallery; there wasn’t any mistaking Rook. He was a fellow you didn’t see often, I’ll admit. He liked to be alone. But nobody would forget that face of his.
“We had plenty of persons to identify both of those stiffs. So that’s that. You’ve got your story, Burke. Underworld vengeance. Mobland needs a new big shot.”
“And who’ll he be?” demanded Clyde.
“We don’t know yet,” returned Joe, “but there’s some talk about Rook’s lieutenants picking a bird called Lingo Queed. Why? — I don’t know. Gang rivalry, maybe; or it’s likely nobody else was dumb enough to take a hot spot like that one.”
Clyde was making a notation. Bart Koplin, standing by, had allowed his lips to form a wise smile. It faded as Joe Cardona turned in his direction.
“Well, Koplin,” queried the ace, “what’s on your mind? Something about that phony movie contest?”
“That’s it,” returned the private dick. “Enterprise Exhibitors want anything new if you’ve got it. Have you located Waylock?”
“No. He must have taken it on the lam. We found some of the hicks he kidded. They said he was around as late as yesterday noon. But that’s all. Waylock didn’t come back to his office.”
“I’ll make a report on that.”
“It you want lists of names, files, all that sort of stuff, you’ll find them up at Waylock’s office. Take them over to Enterprise if they want them. Only give a receipt for anything you take. We might need them; but they’re not important.”
“Thanks, Joe. Maybe I will. Who’s up there at the office? Anybody I know?”
“Sergeant Markham. Know him?”
Bart nodded. He strolled from Cardona’s office. Clyde Burke followed a few minutes afterward. He was heading out to report these new details to Burbank.
NOT for one moment had Clyde considered following Bart Koplin. The reporter saw no connection whatever between Bart and the double death at Rook Hollister’s apartment. Thus Clyde missed an excellent bet, for Bart’s course after leaving Cardona’s office proved to be a most unusual one.
Traveling from headquarters, the private dick made toward the East Side. He reached a street free from traffic, where clusters of grimy gamins were playing noisily from curb to curb. Here Bart found the house he wanted.
Stepping up, he rang a doorbell with three short pushes; then a long one.
The door opened. A stocky, hard-faced man was standing in his shirtsleeves. This ruffian eyed Bart suspiciously. The private dick produced a calling card and handed it to him. Noting writing on the card, the man nodded. He admitted Bart and led him to a dingy rear room.
“Rook gave you this before they bumped him?” queried Bart’s host. “How long ago?”
“Just this afternoon,” replied Bart.
“This afternoon!” ejaculated the interrogator. “Say — whatta you mean by that crack? Rook was rubbed out last night—”
“So they think.” Bart’s tone was steady. “But I’m telling you different. Don’t worry about Rook. He’s still with us. And he’s counting on you for what’s coming. That’s what he told me. He said: ‘Listen, Bart, the one guy that’s one hundred percent is Buzz Dongarth.’ That’s why I came here to see you.”
“Buzz” Dongarth’s tough face showed double pleasure. First, because of the news that Rook was still alive; second on account of the big shot’s expression of confidence. Bart followed up his opening.
“Here’s the dope,” he informed, producing an envelope from his pocket, “straight from Rook. Read it over. Tell me what you think about it.”
Buzz opened the envelope. He took out the letter and read its contents, nodding as he did so. Then he looked at Bart, as though to learn if his visitor knew what Rook had written. Bart nodded.
“I’m in,” declared Buzz. “I’ll line up the ginks we want and I’ll take care of them. I’ve got it straight how we’re to work. This code business will be easy. You’re the guy I’ll be seeing?”