“Close up this joint of yours,” he told the druggist. “Slide into the back room, where we can talk.”
Durlew nodded, and moved toward the door. Spark picked up the newspaper and added:
“I’ll take this sheet in there with us. I want to see what sort of baloney the bladders have been handing out.”
Durlew closed his tawdry shop and extinguished the lights. He and Spark walked around an ancient show case that reached the ceiling, and entered a dim, dingy passage at the back of the store.
They came to a small room; Durlew turned on the lights and closed the door. They were in the apothecary’s office.
This room was as old-fashioned as the store at the front. The rolltop desk and swivel chair; the revolving bookcase – all were furniture of the past century, as antiquated as the title of “apothecary,” which Durlew preferred to druggist.
“Getting jittery, Durlew?”
Spark snapped the question as the druggist seated himself in the swivel chair. Durlew nodded; licking his twitchy lips, he replied:
“You faked what you said about the bottle and the poison, Spark. If I’d known you were after an important man like William Hessup, I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”
“Just what I figured,” retorted Spark. “That’s why I bluffed you, Durlew. What difference does it make, though? Your moniker wasn’t on that bottle label. It said Northern Drug Company.”
“The police will make inquiries at the Northern Drug Company.”
“What if they do? The bulls will spend a week quizzing mugs who know nothing. That’s all the further they’ll get.”
“Unless they find out that the printer who does work for the Northern Company ran off some labels for me,” Durlew said. “Maybe he’ll remember that he shipped a small batch of Northern Drug labels to the wrong customer.”
“Forget it! There’s no dick on the force who’s smart enough to go to see the printer. But what if some one does? All you’ve got to do is sit tight. Just say that you never got any of the wrong labels.”
DURLEW pondered. Spark pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighted it while he watched Durlew’s expression. The druggist winced under Spark’s scrutiny.
“The facts still remain, Spark,” whined Durlew. “I provided you with the planted bottle and the poison, too. I thought they were for a gang feud, to cover something that the police would soon forget. Actually, I had no proof that you intended murder at all.”
“There’s your alibi, Durlew.”
Durlew shook his head, despite Spark’s reassurance. He licked his lips, blinked owlishly. Swinging away from his desk, he pointed to the newspaper under Spark’s arm.
“Tell me, Spark,” pleaded the druggist, “is there really a link between Hessup’s death and that of Blessingdale, who was murdered yesterday?”
Momentarily, Spark’s facial muscles tightened in ugly fashion. Quickly, the crook relaxed. His growl lessened as he replied:
“Sure! We bumped Blessingdale yesterday. That job was a cinch! Hessup was just as easy.”
Durlew’s troubled expression changed to a look of shrewdness. Spark saw it; instead of betraying anger, he pretended, greater confidence. Leaning over the edge of the rolltop desk, he announced:
“There’ll be another job tonight. Sweeter than either of those two! Ever hear of George Furbish?” Durlew shook his head.
“Furbish is a Wall Street guy,” informed Spark. “Out of town right now; but he’s due back, maybe tonight. He’s coming to a new apartment; one of those big-dough joints that you’ve got to buy, because they won’t just rent them. It’s a ritzy place, called the Royal Arms.
“Blessingdale and Hessup went the route. So will Furbish. This is a real racket, Durlew; I’m working for a big-shot, a guy who put a bank roll into the game. The fact that we’re knocking off blokes like Blessingdale, Hessup and Furbish ought to show you that we’re out to grab real potatoes.
“Get over the jitters.” Spark clapped a brawny hand on Durlew’s frail shoulder. “If you’re worried, close up this joint and take it on the lam. I’ll see the big-shot tonight; and I’ll slip you a fistful of mazuma tomorrow. Well pay your freight wherever you want to go.”
Durlew raised his head with a pleased smile. He nodded, as if eager to accept Spark’s suggestion. Spark grinned, dunked his cigarette in an ash tray and strolled to the door. He gave a wave of his hand as he departed.
DURLEW listened intently to Spark’s fading footsteps. The crook was going out by a rear passage that led to a back alley. Durlew heard a door slam. It signified Spark’s final departure, for the rear door had an automatic latch.
Quickly, Durlew reached into a pigeonhole of the desk. He produced a long-pointed pencil and a small prescription pad.
Hurriedly, Durlew wrote the same of George Furbish; after it, the next victim’s address: the Royal Arms.
Worry dominated the druggist’s owlish face. At last, Durlew drew a tense breath. He picked up a telephone book, found a number; he lifted a telephone that stood upon the revolving bookcase. Raising the receiver, Durlew dialed a number.
The druggist was calling detective headquarters.
From the moment that he had connected the deaths of Blessingdale and Hessup, Durlew had been hoping for a way to square himself with the law. The link between Blessingdale and Hessup was insufficient to amend Durlew’s deed of supplying Spark Ganza with poison. Durlew had wanted something that would better fortify his position. He had gained it, thanks to Spark.
The crook had named a coming victim: George Furbish. Durlew could tell the law facts that would forestall crime. That would establish his sincerity. The police would believe him if he claimed to be an unwitting tool in the matter of Hessup’s death.
Durlew’s shaky finger delivered the final twist to the dial. The druggist was holding the receiver clamped against his left ear. Suddenly, a hand planked itself upon his left. A snarl sounded, as the hand wrenched away the receiver and banged it down upon the hook.
Gasping, Durlew revolved in his swivel chair. His bespectacled eye blinked into the muzzle of a leveled revolver. Back of the weapon were the ugly eyes of Spark Ganza.
The crook had faked his departure. He had sneaked in through the passage, to learn if Durlew had decided to use the information that had been fed to him.
Spark saw the telltale pad on Durlew’s desk. With his left hand, he ripped away the top sheet that bore the scrawled name of Furbish. Wadding the paper, Spark thrust it in his pocket. All the while, his gun was straight between Durlew’s eyes.
“Spark! I – I wasn’t – I – don’t kill me, Spark! I – I -”
Durlew’s incoherent protest ended as the revolver shoved forward. Spark pressed the trigger. From a two-inch range, a bullet boomed into Durlew’s brain. Spark watched the victim’s head tilt back. The swivel chair spun crazily; Durlew’s form slumped toward the desk. His mutilated forehead thudded the woodwork.
There was a tremble of the building. An elevated train was rumbling along the tracks that ran in front. Spark knew that the rear alley was deserted. No one could have heard the revolver’s blast. Pocketing his gun, Spark strode from the tiny office. This time, his departure was unfaked.
THE muffled slam of the rear door was the last sound, except for the loud ticking of an alarm clock that stood upon a windowsill, in front of a drawn blind. Minutes passed slowly, solemnly, in this room of death. Seven had gone before a new motion occurred.
Something stirred the frayed green windowshade behind the clock. An edge moved slightly, to a distance no greater than the width of a human eye. Motion stilled; then gloved fingers appeared uncannily beneath the windowshade. They were black, those fingers; they acted like detached creatures.