want you to make some discreet inquiries.
Find out the name of the person it belongs to and where they live. I don't want anybody to know why we're asking.
This party may have some relatives or friends who would be worried. When I find out who, what, and why, then I'll know what to do."
"You have some idea to whom it belongs?" he asked.
"I think so. I hope to find out for sure. Meanwhile, do this for me. Take down an accurate description of this pin, then my name and description." I could see the suspicion fading from his eyes. "Then if anything goes haywire, I'll be in the clear."
"And the stone?" he asked.
"I'll see it gets to a safe place."
Leaving the store, I turned into a five-and-dime and after picking up a box several times larger than the pin would need, I wadded the pin in paper, stuffed it in the box, and then had the box wrapped by their wrapping service.
Then I addressed it to myself and dropped it in a mailbox.
Emery, the Casino bartender, had said the kid was worried.
He might have something.
I caught a cab and gave the address that was on the visiting card the kid had left for me.
None of this was my business. Yet I could not leave it alone. The girl had measured up to be the right sort, yet somehow she was tied up with Blubber Puss, who was a wrong G from any angle.
No girl wears jewelry like that when she's willingly working with a strong-arm guy. There was something that smelled in this deal, and I meant to find out what.
The kid lived in a swank apartment. I stopped at the desk and when the lad turned around I said, "Which apartment is Mr. Seagram in?"
He looked at me coolly. "He lives in C-three, but I don't believe he's in. His office has been calling and hasn't gotten an answer."
"His office?"
"Asiatic Importing and Development Company."
"Oh? Then if they are calling him maybe he didn't go to work this morning."
He frowned. "I'm sure nothing is wrong. Mr. Seagram is often out of town."
"I'll go up," I said.
He was watching me as I started for the elevator. I found C-3 around the corner of the hall, out of sight of the foyer.
There was no answer to my knock, and then I saw that the door wasn't quite closed. I pushed it open and stepped in.
Randolph Seagram lay on the floor near an overturned chair. He was dead, half of a knife sticking from his chest.
The lights were on, although it was broad daylight and one whole side of the place was windows.
"Got him last night," I told myself. I took a quick gander around, then stepped to the phone. "Get me the police,"
I said.
In about a minute, the clerk downstairs is on the phone.
I'm still looking the place over.
"What's the trouble?" the clerk asked. "We mustn't have the police."
"Listen, brother," I cut in quickly. "You've got to have the police. This guy is stone cold dead on the carpet. Get them on the phone, I'll do the talking."
When he got them, I asked for Homicide.
"Mooney talkin'," a voice said. "What's up?"
"There's a guy down here in apartment C-three of the Cranston Arms," I said, "who came out on the wrong end of an argument. He's lying here on the carpet with a knife in his ribs."
I heard his feet come off the desk with a thud. "Where's that again? Who are you?"
"My name is Morgan," I told him, "Kipling Morgan.
Kipling as in Gunga Din."
"Don't let anybody leave," he said. "We'll be over."
Kneeling beside him, I gave the lad a hurried frisk. He didn't have any folding money, and his wallet was lying on the floor. They had nicked him for his dough, too. But it wasn't what I was looking for.
Knowing my own habits, I took a chance on his.
There were three addresses on a worn envelope, three addresses and a telephone number. I stuck the envelope in my pocket.
When the police came in, I was sitting in the chair by the telephone like I hadn't moved.
"Detective Lieutenant Mooney." The guy who said it was short and square-shouldered, but looked rugged enough for two men. He gave the body a quick looking over, picked
Find out the name of the person it belongs to and where they live. I don't want anybody to know why we're asking.
This party may have some relatives or friends who would be worried. When I find out who, what, and why, then I'll know what to do."
"You have some idea to whom it belongs?" he asked.
"I think so. I hope to find out for sure. Meanwhile, do this for me. Take down an accurate description of this pin, then my name and description." I could see the suspicion fading from his eyes. "Then if anything goes haywire, I'll be in the clear."
"And the stone?" he asked.
"I'll see it gets to a safe place."
Leaving the store, I turned into a five-and-dime and after picking up a box several times larger than the pin would need, I wadded the pin in paper, stuffed it in the box, and then had the box wrapped by their wrapping service.
Then I addressed it to myself and dropped it in a mailbox.
Emery, the Casino bartender, had said the kid was worried.
He might have something.
I caught a cab and gave the address that was on the visiting card the kid had left for me.
None of this was my business. Yet I could not leave it alone. The girl had measured up to be the right sort, yet somehow she was tied up with Blubber Puss, who was a wrong G from any angle.
No girl wears jewelry like that when she's willingly working with a strong-arm guy. There was something that smelled in this deal, and I meant to find out what.
The kid lived in a swank apartment. I stopped at the desk and when the lad turned around I said, "Which apartment is Mr. Seagram in?"
He looked at me coolly. "He lives in C-three, but I don't believe he's in. His office has been calling and hasn't gotten an answer."
"His office?"
"Asiatic Importing and Development Company."
"Oh? Then if they are calling him maybe he didn't go to work this morning."
He frowned. "I'm sure nothing is wrong. Mr. Seagram is often out of town."
"I'll go up," I said.
He was watching me as I started for the elevator. I found C-3 around the corner of the hall, out of sight of the foyer.
There was no answer to my knock, and then I saw that the door wasn't quite closed. I pushed it open and stepped in.
Randolph Seagram lay on the floor near an overturned chair. He was dead, half of a knife sticking from his chest.
The lights were on, although it was broad daylight and one whole side of the place was windows.
"Got him last night," I told myself. I took a quick gander around, then stepped to the phone. "Get me the police,"
I said.
In about a minute, the clerk downstairs is on the phone.
I'm still looking the place over.
"What's the trouble?" the clerk asked. "We mustn't have the police."
"Listen, brother," I cut in quickly. "You've got to have the police. This guy is stone cold dead on the carpet. Get them on the phone, I'll do the talking."
When he got them, I asked for Homicide.
"Mooney talkin'," a voice said. "What's up?"
"There's a guy down here in apartment C-three of the Cranston Arms," I said, "who came out on the wrong end of an argument. He's lying here on the carpet with a knife in his ribs."
I heard his feet come off the desk with a thud. "Where's that again? Who are you?"
"My name is Morgan," I told him, "Kipling Morgan.
Kipling as in Gunga Din."
"Don't let anybody leave," he said. "We'll be over."
Kneeling beside him, I gave the lad a hurried frisk. He didn't have any folding money, and his wallet was lying on the floor. They had nicked him for his dough, too. But it wasn't what I was looking for.
Knowing my own habits, I took a chance on his.
There were three addresses on a worn envelope, three addresses and a telephone number. I stuck the envelope in my pocket.
When the police came in, I was sitting in the chair by the telephone like I hadn't moved.
"Detective Lieutenant Mooney." The guy who said it was short and square-shouldered, but looked rugged enough for two men. He gave the body a quick looking over, picked
Similar Books
