about? What are you doing here?”
“I’ll take the knife, Fern.”
“Knife? What knife?”
“This one, wise guy.” Bill stepped closer and reached for the newspaper. Methodically he stuffed it into his own pocket. “Let’s go, Fern.”
Fern put his hand out timidly and said: “Listen. Why do you come here? What have I done? What—” Then he leaped. Breath exploded from his mouth. His head rammed Bill’s jaw and his fist made a loud crunching sound against Bill’s face. Bill stumbled back, gasping, turned on one toe and tripped into a cairn of piled-up boxes. Fern struck again blindly, and struck a third time, snarling viciously.
Bill groped up. Fern pushed him back with both hands and kicked him. The mound of boxes toppled, smothering Bill’s oath. Fern whirled and ran.
Dazed, Bill rose on one knee and elbowed himself free. He stood up, swaying. He said: “Well, I’m damned,” and limped slowly to the rear door. He stood there, scowling, and said: “Of all the fat-head fools.”
He limped back again, entered the store, and looked for a phone. There was one on a shelf behind the counter. He lifted the receiver, dialed a number, and said a moment later: “Listen, Jay. I just had a complete massage, from a guy named Matthew Fern. Yeah, the same Matthew Fern. He got away. Smacked me down and took the first train. Yeah. Send a couple of bloodhounds after him and pass the good word along.”
He forked the receiver and opened the phone book, looking for the name Jules Valliers. He dialed again and Katherine Mitchell answered the ring.
“Kennedy there?” Bill said.
“Just a moment, please.”
Bill waited, then said scowling: “Listen, Kennedy. Matthew Fern just gave me the works and got loose. He’s in the neighborhood. See what you can do.” “If there’s a lousy job around,” Kennedy growled, “I get it every time.”
“The girl make any trick moves?”
“Naw.”
“Okey. Find Fern.”
H alf an hour later Bill limped out of a cab on LaRonge Street, climbed the stationhouse steps with painful awkwardness, and found Jay O’Brien, Great Brain Macy, and Edwin Krauss in the room behind headquarters. Macy was standing on spread legs, hands hipped, neck out-thrust, over the chair which held up Krauss. Jay O’Brien was sucking a fat cigar, slipping the paper cigar-band on and off his little finger and listening without interest to Macy’s harsh syllables.
“Now listen,” Macy was rasping. “We got it on you, see? You bring a letter in here and hand it to us in a nice, sweet way, and the letter’s a fake. The girl didn’t write it, see? You did. You wrote it to hang suspicion on Valliers, see? And to clear yourself. But you’re in a jam. You’re gonna come clean.”
“I wrote it because I was afraid,” Krauss mumbled.
“You wrote it because Matthew Fern told you to,” Bill said.
Macy spun around and growled: “What?”
“Didn’t you, kid?” Bill said quietly.
“Y-yes,” Krauss said, licking his lips. “He—he said it would clear me and it wouldn’t do any harm. I was afraid I’d be accused of the murder. I took some old letters I had from Rose and—and—”
“And faked the writing. Give the kid a break, Macy. He’s just dumb.”
“You’ll be tellin’ me next he didn’t kill the girl, wise guy,” Macy said irritably.
“I even might,” Bill shrugged. He leaned against the table, looked at O’Brien, and said softly: “You get Fern yet?”
“I don’t get anything,” O’Brien said pleasantly. “I’m in a complete fog.”
Macy exhaled loudly and swung back to face Krauss. He hipped his hands again and rocked back and forth on stiff legs. He said savagely: “Well, are you gonna talk, young feller, or do I have to show you how?”
“Lay off, flatfoot,” Bill said. “He didn’t do it. Fern did it.”
“What?”
“Save it for Fern.”
“What else do you know, wise guy?” Macy scowled.
“Plenty.”
“Well?”
“All right,” Bill
“I’ll take the knife, Fern.”
“Knife? What knife?”
“This one, wise guy.” Bill stepped closer and reached for the newspaper. Methodically he stuffed it into his own pocket. “Let’s go, Fern.”
Fern put his hand out timidly and said: “Listen. Why do you come here? What have I done? What—” Then he leaped. Breath exploded from his mouth. His head rammed Bill’s jaw and his fist made a loud crunching sound against Bill’s face. Bill stumbled back, gasping, turned on one toe and tripped into a cairn of piled-up boxes. Fern struck again blindly, and struck a third time, snarling viciously.
Bill groped up. Fern pushed him back with both hands and kicked him. The mound of boxes toppled, smothering Bill’s oath. Fern whirled and ran.
Dazed, Bill rose on one knee and elbowed himself free. He stood up, swaying. He said: “Well, I’m damned,” and limped slowly to the rear door. He stood there, scowling, and said: “Of all the fat-head fools.”
He limped back again, entered the store, and looked for a phone. There was one on a shelf behind the counter. He lifted the receiver, dialed a number, and said a moment later: “Listen, Jay. I just had a complete massage, from a guy named Matthew Fern. Yeah, the same Matthew Fern. He got away. Smacked me down and took the first train. Yeah. Send a couple of bloodhounds after him and pass the good word along.”
He forked the receiver and opened the phone book, looking for the name Jules Valliers. He dialed again and Katherine Mitchell answered the ring.
“Kennedy there?” Bill said.
“Just a moment, please.”
Bill waited, then said scowling: “Listen, Kennedy. Matthew Fern just gave me the works and got loose. He’s in the neighborhood. See what you can do.” “If there’s a lousy job around,” Kennedy growled, “I get it every time.”
“The girl make any trick moves?”
“Naw.”
“Okey. Find Fern.”
H alf an hour later Bill limped out of a cab on LaRonge Street, climbed the stationhouse steps with painful awkwardness, and found Jay O’Brien, Great Brain Macy, and Edwin Krauss in the room behind headquarters. Macy was standing on spread legs, hands hipped, neck out-thrust, over the chair which held up Krauss. Jay O’Brien was sucking a fat cigar, slipping the paper cigar-band on and off his little finger and listening without interest to Macy’s harsh syllables.
“Now listen,” Macy was rasping. “We got it on you, see? You bring a letter in here and hand it to us in a nice, sweet way, and the letter’s a fake. The girl didn’t write it, see? You did. You wrote it to hang suspicion on Valliers, see? And to clear yourself. But you’re in a jam. You’re gonna come clean.”
“I wrote it because I was afraid,” Krauss mumbled.
“You wrote it because Matthew Fern told you to,” Bill said.
Macy spun around and growled: “What?”
“Didn’t you, kid?” Bill said quietly.
“Y-yes,” Krauss said, licking his lips. “He—he said it would clear me and it wouldn’t do any harm. I was afraid I’d be accused of the murder. I took some old letters I had from Rose and—and—”
“And faked the writing. Give the kid a break, Macy. He’s just dumb.”
“You’ll be tellin’ me next he didn’t kill the girl, wise guy,” Macy said irritably.
“I even might,” Bill shrugged. He leaned against the table, looked at O’Brien, and said softly: “You get Fern yet?”
“I don’t get anything,” O’Brien said pleasantly. “I’m in a complete fog.”
Macy exhaled loudly and swung back to face Krauss. He hipped his hands again and rocked back and forth on stiff legs. He said savagely: “Well, are you gonna talk, young feller, or do I have to show you how?”
“Lay off, flatfoot,” Bill said. “He didn’t do it. Fern did it.”
“What?”
“Save it for Fern.”
“What else do you know, wise guy?” Macy scowled.
“Plenty.”
“Well?”
“All right,” Bill
Similar Books
