Yes, it was all clearing now. Mrs. Small’s death had been the seed from which all these other deaths sprang. John evidently had uncovered the motive behind her murder, so the killer had hired Jerry Farrar to rub him out. But Farrar had been too cowardly to do the killing himself, so he had called in Gus Martin to do the dirty work.
Martin pulled a faux paux by pawning the ring. The murderer got nervous, contacted Condor, who in turn called in Chris Korpuli. Or maybe the lawyer was playing possum and was the brains behind the scheme.
Korpuli, in any event, sprang Martin. Martin, having been promised five hundred dollars for keeping his mouth shut, was angry when he was cheated out of his money. The murderer welched and for fear that Martin and Farrar might get out of hand, he got rid of them.
But why and how was Luke Condor killed? How was it connected with Mrs. Small’s murder?
To the last questions, Doc believed he had the answers, at least to his own satisfaction. Again he smelled that peculiar odor which he sensed in the shack following the murder of Farrar and Martin. This time, however, he knew what it was.
Captain Griffin’s hard, heavy voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Now what is this all about?” Griffin demanded heatedly. “Are you the Purple Scar?”
Doc nodded without turning. Griffin twisted his face into an exasperated grimace and growled plaintively:
“For the lova Mike, what’re you up to, anyway, Doc? First you scare the pants off Peter de Gaul by lockin’ him in a closet. Now I find you up to your ears in a murder.”
DOC’S eyes swept to Griffin’s square face inquiringly.
“How did you know I locked de Gaul in a closet?”
“He happened to be at the station house, registering a complaint, when this call came in. Now what’s the answer?”
“Griff,” Doc said, looking at the captain steadily, “I finally got the answer to these riddles. The same person who killed Luke Condor also killed Mrs. Small.”
“Because they were both killed by an explosion, I suppose,” Griffin retorted, unimpressed.
“No, that’s not the only reason. I’ll tell you something else. Those two killers who were blown apart over at Red Point tonight were Jerry Farrar and Punchy Gus Martin.”
Griffin’s face fell in surprise.
“How the devil did you know that? Why, the Fingerprint Bureau handed me my report only fifteen minutes ago! It’s still on my desk. It hasn’t even been released yet.”
“I’ll answer that some other time, but Farrar and Martin were hired to kill my brother by the same party who killed Condor and Mrs. Small. Don’t ask any more questions. Give me just one hour and I’ll hand you your murderer. All I ask is that you have Chris Korpuli and Arnold Wisply at Peter de Gaul’s mission at four o’clock.”
“Have Korpuli and Wisply there?” Griffin scowled. “Why don’t you ask me to hand in my shield and be done with it?”
“You’ve got to do it, Griff!”
“But why de Gaul’s place? Why not Headquarters, if you’re so sure of catching the murderer?”
“Mainly because I don’t want anyone to know that Doctor Miles Murdock has any connection with this case. After all, he’s a surgeon, not a detective. Let the Purple Scar finish what he set out to do.”
Griffin rubbed his square jaw reflectively. He knew Doc wasn’t in the habit of making rash promises. Even though Miles had been the only person in this room when the explosion occurred, Griffin was certain that he wasn’t responsible for it. But now that he had been arrested, he’d have a mighty slim chance of proving his innocence.
It wasn’t according to the rules in the manual, nor did it follow any of the principles Griffin had been taught. He hesitated, then shrugged resignedly.
“I’m nuts, I suppose,” he grunted. “Doc, I’m likely to be dropped back to taking orders from some squirt of a sergeant out in the sticks some place, if you don’t come through.”
“But I will come through!” the Scar promised grimly. “I also assure you that I’ll make you one of the biggest men on the force.”
“I don’t care about that,” Griffin said worriedly, “but I’m going to play ball with you. I’ll give you a fair chance to get away. If you’re caught after that, I can’t do anything to help you. Open the back door. It leads into an alley. I’ll wait until you get to the end of it. Then I’m going to start firing. In five seconds you’ll have every cop in the neighborhood after you.”
Miles grinned appreciatively and took Griffin’s big hand. No word passed between them, yet Miles knew he was wishing him luck.
Doc unbolted the rear door and flung it open. He dived out into the black alley, skidded around a row of ash barrels and began to run.
True to his word, Griffin began firing the minute Doc hit the mouth of the narrow passageway. In less time than the five seconds Griffin quoted, police were in mad pursuit.
Griffin smiled to himself. He knew the alley was dark and tricky. There wasn’t a chance that anyone would catch the Purple Scar.
Chapter XV
“Sing, Brother, Sing!”
Narrow and dim, the beam of a flashlight shone on a small, square, black safe before the shadowed figures of Tommy Pedlar and the Purple Scar. Tommy’s educated fingers spun the steel dial as artfully as the fingers of Doctor Miles Murdock wielded a scalpel. He turned to one number, felt the drop of the tumbler in his sensitive fingers, paused to sensitize the tips even more on sandpaper, then turned the knob again.
“Like openin’ Janie’s pig bank,” he whispered. “This one musta been slapped together before Abe said his piece at Gettysburg.”
Another turn and another tumbler dropped. Finally Tommy turned and looked up at the Scar. He winked with an air of triumph.
“Watch out for the moths,” he said.
He gave the handle a sudden slap downward and pulled out the black door of the safe. Then he moved aside so the Scar could get to it.
The Scar brought out deeds, wills, various types of documents, leases, letters, bills of sale, citizenship papers, insurance policies—
“I’ll bet he’s even got the kitchen sink in there,” Tommy whispered.
The Scar smiled, began thumbing through the many papers he had taken from the safe, reading each name carefully. Finally, in a little compartment devoted to it alone, he came upon the paper he sought.
It was a deed with impressive gilt edges. Age had turned the face of the paper brown, but the lettering was distinct. In part it read:
This is to verify that the Red Point Super-Development Company has this day sold to Josef Pocoapoco a five-mile parcel of land facing the ocean front at Red Point.
It went on to tell just where the land was located, the exact size of the lots and all the other legal data.
“But who’s Josef Pocoapoco?” Tommy wanted to know.
The Scar, preoccupied, didn’t reply. He closed the safe, turned off his flash and told Tommy to follow him.
They went across a huge black hall, through a couple of other rooms and into a smaller room. Here the Scar clicked on his flashlight again.
It was a kitchen. In one corner of the room, the beam of light picked out a tall electric refrigerator. The arrow was set at much colder than freezing.
The Scar opened the door, pulled out the cube tray. Instead of ice cubes, the tray contained several small, coinlike gray objects.
“Now why would a guy wanna keep things like that in an ice-box?” asked Tommy.
“For a very good reason, which you’ll soon find out,” the Scar answered.
Emptying the tray into his handkerchief and closing the refrigerator door, he silently led Tommy out of the kitchen.