Doc offered what little assistance he could. Actually he was trying to determine for himself just how the blast had occurred and where it terminated. Had the explosive been planted in the floorboards? Was the lieutenant’s theory accurate? Maybe Short-and-Ugly had stolen a few sticks of dynamite from the other end of the island. Perhaps it was in the drawer of the table, or hidden in the floor.
Doc hadn’t seen exactly what had happened after Punchy Gus Martin’s threat. Martin may have grabbed at the little man, knocked the lamp over and ignited the dynamite. But why had it been so similar to the way Mrs. Small died? Wouldn’t dynamite do more damage? Also, what about that dry ice?
The door of the shack opened. A strapping man, rather handsome in a ratty sort of way and wearing foppish, expensive clothes, filled the doorway.
Doc recognized Luke Condor. He had even visited Condor’s popular night club, the Red Falcon, but he knew that club was only a front. Luke Condor was the Number One Public Enemy of Akelton. He had his manicured digits dipped into every filth racket in the city. Not everybody knew that, of course, and the police could never prove it. Luke Condor’s name seldom appeared in any of these shady transactions, yet there was no question that he was always involved.
“What the devil’s goin’ on here?” Condor barked.
Riordon shot him a nasty look.
“I can ask you pretty much the same question. What’re you doin’ here?”
Condor pushed into the shack. Two unpleasant-looking torpedoes followed faithfully at his heels.
“Who’re them guys?” the night club owner demanded, indicating with his polished finger the two dead men.
Lieutenant Riordon’s eyes were hot coals and they burned into Condor’s broad back. Riordon didn’t like Condor, it was plain. The gangster, ignoring him, didn’t ease the situation.
“I asked you what you’re doin’ here,” the lieutenant angrily repeated.
Condor whirled to face him. His eyes, like a cobra’s, challenged Riordan. His voice came out as heatedly as the lieutenant’s and he took pains to make each word distinct.
“Don’t yell at me. I ain’t one of your thick-skulled flatfeet. I happen to own this shack and the property it’s settin’ on.” He lifted his big hand and tapped Riordon’s chest with the ends of his manicured fingers. “Now you start answerin’ my question.”
The lieutenant winced under the look, then rage suffused his lowering countenance. Doc thought it a good time to interrupt.
“Hello, Condor,” he said mildly.
Condor turned with a glower. Then, as he recognized the plastic surgeon, the glower changed to a grin.
“How’re ya, Doc? You here, too? What the blazes goes on?”
Doc told him in as few words as possible. Storm clouds gathered in Condor’s face.
“Somebody’s tryin’ to frame me!”
“Who?” asked Riordon, still smarting under the sting of the gangster’s rebuke.
“How should I know?”
“You don’t happen to know either of these men, do you, Condor?” Doc inquired.
Condor bent forward and looked carefully at both bodies.
“Yeah,” he said, straightening. “According to his clothes and size, he looks like my watchman.”
“What was his name?” Riordon asked.
“Am I supposed to know the name of every bum I hand a job to?” Condor whipped back sharply. “I was out here one day and he came moochin’ around for a handout. I happened to need somebody to look after the place, so I slipped him the job.”
“You better come back to Headquarters with us and explain that a little better,” Riordon stated.
“Sez who?”
Doc didn’t wait to hear any more. He was anxious to get back to Akelton and have a talk with Peter de Gaul. Maybe the settlement worker could tell him something about Short-and-Ugly that would clear up this whole mess. Perhaps he might dump the whole rotten business right on Luke Condor’s doorstep.
Doc slipped out the door. Before starting down the road to catch the bus back to the city, he took another look under the window. But what he hoped to find there was gone. The dry ice had evaporated.
Chapter IX
The Lowest Racket
IT was eleven-thirty when Doc Murdock crawled through a basement window and into the mission house. The place was closed for the night. The denizens had left long ago.
Perhaps de Gaul would have willingly given Doc Murdock the information he was after with a more formal entrance, but Doc didn’t deem it wise to let anyone know that Miles Murdock was interested in the case, especially Peter de Gaul. The missioner had no secrets from the world. If Doctor Murdock visited him, asking questions about a medallion found on a dead man in an explosion, everyone in the district would hear about it by morning.
Since Doc didn’t wish to take the time to go back to the studio and put on fresh make-up, he wore for the first time the mask of the Purple Scar! He went noiselessly through the dark hall. De Gaul, he saw, hadn’t yet retired. The missioner was still in his cubbyhole office.
At the Scar’s hoarse whisper, de Gaul whirled in his swivel chair, froze. His mouth wide open. His eyes swelled in his head like a goldfish’s. He was too frightened to speak. All he did was sit there and stare up at that ghastly scarred face. It looked for a moment as if he were going to faint. His colorless face went deathly white. His knees starting banging together with fear.
“I’m the Purple Scar,” said the hideous apparition. “I’m not here to harm you. I simply want the answers to a few questions.”
“If — if you’re a thief and — and it’s money you want — it’s in my — my safe,” de Gaul choked out. “Only please don’t kill me! Please!”
The Scar tossed the lead medallion onto the desk.
“That’s one of your protective coins, isn’t it?” De Gaul nodded. The weird voice continued: “A man was killed tonight. He had this coin in his trouser pocket. I want to know who that man was, because I happen to know he was staying here at this mission about a month or so ago. He was a short man, not bigger than five-two, thin, very ugly, sandy hair, mouse-shaped face.”
De Gaul gulped nervously. “Short, thin, ugly?”
“Right,” said the deadly voice. “Who was he?”
De Gaul continued to stare at him. He swallowed again nervously.
“Sounds like a description of Gyp Nolan—”
“Nolan was taller than five-two and much heavier than this man.”
“Then — then maybe it was Dutch Andrews.”
“Andrews had dark hair. I knew him, too.”
De Gaul hesitated. “Then perhaps it was Jerry Farrar.”
“Farrar? Did he live here about a month ago?”
“Yes, just about. I remember because he was here when we painted the ceilings. He helped. He was a good worker.”
“Why did he leave?” the Scar asked.
“He said he had a job.”
“With whom?”
“He didn’t say. He never did talk very much.”
“Did he ever mention Luke Condor’s name?”
“Who?”
“Luke Condor, the gangster.”
“Oh, no,” de Gaul said with indignation. “Of course not.”
“Did he ever mention a man named Punchy Gus Martin?”
“The man who was tried for killing John Murdock?”
“Yes.”
De Gaul shook his head.
“Never,” he said venomously. “I am sure he could not have known thatthat murderer!”
“What makes you say Martin was a murderer?”
De Gaul’s eyes flamed with unconcealed fury.
“What makes me say so? Because I know he was. He killed my friend, John Murdock, one of my people. I sat in the courtroom. I saw. I heard. That man was guilty!”