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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Five Novels Monthly, May 1937, with
"So Death Talks Politics"
She stammered, "Please! I didn't do it!"
Greg said gruffly, "Who did, then?"
GREGG said to Furman, "You're pretty well gagged now. The wire is tight, but you should be able to wriggle your wrists out of it inside of a half hour. I ought to kill you, but I guess I'm too soft. I'm letting you live to take more money from innocent suckers with your crooked roulette wheels and your doped faro layouts!"
Furman was helplessly bound, on the floor, and he didn't struggle. He just lay there, staring up with his venomous black eyes. Gregg wondered whether he had pierced the protection of his mask. Gregg had disguised his voice by talking huskily, deep in his throat, and he wore gloves to conceal his hands, which Furman would be sure to recognize.
But Furman had seen him open the safe in the corner, watched him work the tumblers. If he knew Gregg's identity, then Gregg could be sure of a swift death within twenty-four hours; yet he could not bring himself to kill Furman.
Furman's small eyes followed him as he crossed the little office on the third floor of the Montevideo Club building, watched him as he climbed through the window with the small Boston bag crammed full of tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds from the safe.
Halfway over the window-sill, Gregg bowed to him, said: "I'll be back again, Furman, when I think you can afford another contribution. For this thirty thousand dollars, accept the thanks of—The Buccaneer!"
The last thing he saw as he started down the fire-escape ladder was the stark hate in Furman's eyes.
On the second floor fire-escape, Gregg stopped, removed the mask and the gloves, crammed them into the bag with the money. Then he made his way down to the next floor. The swinging ladder that would take him to the cement floor of the alley below was up. Drawn close to the curb at the mouth of the alley, he could see his limousine, with Kuralenko, his White-Russian chauffeur, at the wheel. Kuralenko was sitting stiffly, staring straight ahead, his huge hands gripping the wheel tight.
Gregg knew there was trouble around, for their standing arrangement was that Kuralenko should keep a cigarette in his mouth as long as the coast was clear. The moment danger threatened, he discarded the cigarette.
Gregg crouched in the darkness on the fire-escape landing, debating what to do. The nature of the danger he could only guess at. His eyes searched the shadows below in the alley, and he thought he discerned a dark shape almost merged with the wall, beneath—and a little to the left of—the fire-escape upon which he crouched.
Whoever it was, the chances were even that the fellow hadn't seen Gregg descending, for the roof of the alley was not open; there was a connecting passage at the top floor between the Montevideo Club and the Montevideo Hotel next door, which was also owned by Furman. Hence Gregg's figure would not show up to a watcher below, and it was mainly because of that that he had chosen this method of egress.
He had to think quickly, for at any moment someone might come to Furman's office, find him trussed up and raise an alarm; or Furman might struggle free of his bonds before the half hour was up. In either case, Gregg would be neatly trapped.
He swung cautiously to the window beside him. Working swiftly yet silently, he donned the linen gloves once more, and put on the mask again. He knew that the window was unlocked, for he had left it so. It was through this window that he had come out to climb to Furman's office. Behind it was a small waiter's pantry, which the waiters used for dressing, and for hanging their street clothes. The dining room and floor show were on this floor. The pantry had a light in it, and Gregg was reasonably sure that there was nobody inside. Yet he couldn't open that window without making enough noise to attract the watcher below. The glass itself was leaded, as were all the windows of the Montevideo Club, and he couldn't see inside.
Kuralenko was still sitting stiffly erect; Gregg glanced below, but could not find the shadow. Then he saw it. Whoever it was had moved across the alley and was now directly below the fire-escape emergency ladder. Gregg detected the glint of metal, knew that a gun was out. Well, there were many men in the city who would be glad to shoot the Buccaneer without warning.
At that moment Kuralenko came to his aid. Suddenly from the direction of the limousine there came the raucous, high-pitched tooting of the horn. Kuralenko was leaning his elbow on the button!
The shape beneath moved, swung toward the sound. Low-voiced curses came. A second figure darted alongside the limousine, reached in and shook Kuralenko until he took his elbow from the horn button.
But the few moments' distraction had been enough for Gregg. He raised the window quickly. For a second, light flooded the alley, showed him a stocky form down below that he recognized. Then he was inside, and the window was closed.
IN his hurry, Gregg had gone in backward, clutching the Boston bag. He swung about instantly in the little lighted room, his hand gripping the automatic he had taken from the clip under his left arm. Then he stopped short.
He had left the pantry empty; now there was somebody in it. She stood there, near the door, pale, her lips trembling. She was dressed in a green evening gown, and her hair was black, bobbed short. She was no more than twenty.
He said through his mask, "Don't be alarmed, miss—" And he stopped. His eyes followed hers over to the corner near the window he had just entered. There,
crumpled on the floor beside a serving table, lay the body of a man. He was bald, with a thick neck and huge hands. He was lying on his right side, facing into the room, and his eyes were wide open, staring in death. Under him there was a pool of blood that came from a wound in the small of his back.
The knife was still in him, and the narrow steel handle protruded at a sharp angle upward. Whoever had driven it into him knew exactly at what angle to strike in order to reach a vital spot.
Gregg knew the dead man. He was Sam Martinson, a private detective with a not-too-good reputation. His agency barely kept its license by the skin of its teeth and a little shady pull. Gregg swiveled his eyes back to the girl. Her slight body was trembling. She stammered, "Please! I—d-didn't do it!"
Gregg said gruffly, "Who did, then?"
"A man—with a crooked nose."
Whatever further he could have asked her remained unasked. For from out in the alley came hoarse shouts, the voice of the stocky man whose shadow he had seen:
"He's got away, Kelly! Spread out your men. No one leaves this place. Come on—we're going in!"
The girl stared at Gregg with frightened eyes. "You're the Buccaneer," she whispered.
He stepped swiftly over to the door, pulled it open an inch and stared into the corridor. There was no one in sight, and he motioned to the girl.
"Get out!" he ordered. "Go over to the bar and order a drink. Try to act natural, as if nothing had happened. And the first chance you get, go home."
She obeyed him as in a daze, started out.
"Wait," he said.
She stopped obediently.
"Have you any money?"
She shook her head. "No. Mr. Martinson brought me. I—I didn't expect to need money."
Gregg took several bills from his pocket, thrust them into her hand. "Did you have a wrap?"
"Yes."
"Martinson have the check?"
"Yes."
Grimacing with disgust, Gregg knelt beside Martinson's body, fingered through his pockets till he found two small cardboard checks from the coatroom. In the Montevideo they give you a red check for women's garments, and a blue one for men's clothes. This facilitates getting the things when you claim them, and it was a great help to Gregg. He gave her the red check, dropped the blue one on the floor beside the body.
Then he said, "Go ahead. Don't waste any more time. The police will be all over the place soon."
There were tears in her eyes as she said, "How can I thank you? You never saw me before, yet you help me this way—"
"Never mind about that. Just get out. I have work to do."
"I'll go," she said humbly. "B-but I want to tell you I know you. You're the Buccaneer. The police are after you—they'll catch you. And this body—they'll say you did it. They'll send you to the chair!"
"Don't worry about me!'" He gave her a little push through the door. "I can take care of myself—but you seem to need a nurse!"
"All right," she said. "But if you should get in trouble, I'll be glad to help. So will father, when I tell him about this. And Dad is very powerful. He is George Rodney."
And she was off down the corridor.
Gregg knew who she was without her telling him. George Rodney was the conservative congressman from the silk stocking, sixth district. His party had drafted him to run for mayor on a reform ticket, in a desperate effort to oust Dan Kruger's corrupt City Party from power.
And Gregg was his opponent. Gregg, the Buccaneer, was a respectable citizen in the daytime—so respectable that the corrupt City Party had chosen him as the only candidate to meet the threat of such an outstanding personality as George Rodney. And here was Rodney's daughter—in a waiters' pantry, with a murdered man!
Gregg recalled a bit of history about the Rodney family. Rodney's first wife, this girl's mother, had run off years ago and been killed in an auto crash, so they said. He had married again, but the second Mrs. Rodney had died two years ago. He lived in a tall, stately house on Madison Street, and his daughter did the managing. How she'd got into this mess, Gregg couldn't understand.
Well, there was no time to speculate now. He had plenty to do—and he had to do it fast, if he was to escape the police dragnet around the Montevideo Club.
GREGG opened the Boston bag, crammed the bills indiscriminately into his pockets. There was also a packet of papers, tied with rubber bands, which he had taken from the safe. That Furman and the City Hall crowd that gave him protection indulged in blackmail was no secret to Gregg. And he had felt that he might be doing someone a favor in removing those papers as well as the money.
He put the small package away with the money, and placed the empty bag on a shelf in the closet. Then he took from his pocket a pearl-studded pin, which he had removed from his shirt-front before entering Furman's office. He now replaced it, straightened his clothes, and stepped out into the corridor, throwing a last look back at the rapidly stiffening body of Martinson.
He took the opposite direction from that taken by the girl, skirted the dining room, and came out behind the stage. Through the drapes, he could see that the dining floor was crowded. The floor show was in full swing; the chorus was strutting its stuff, while a noted torch singer was giving it to the patrons hot and stormy.
Frank Lasker, Furman's manager, saw Gregg and came over, pushing through a group of performers who were awaiting their turn. He was a short, stubby, powerful man, and he frowned at Gregg, saying:
"No one is allowed behind here, Professor Braden. You know that. If Mr. Furman saw—"
"All right," Gregg said. "I won't get you in trouble, Lasker. I'm getting right out."
Gregg made his way out to the bar. The girl in the green dress was there, sipping a cocktail nervously. She looked at him curiously as he entered. Gregg could guess what was in her mind. She was inspecting every man who came in, wondering which one was the Buccaneer. He passed right by her, nodded to the two men who were standing in the entrance of the bar.
Gregg knew one of them—Inspector Logan, of headquarters. Logan was a lean man, tall and gray-haired, in his middle fifties, with a shrewd head on his shoulders. The other man—Gregg was pretty certain that he, too, was of the police.
This was confirmed when he approached them, and Logan said:
"Hello, Professor. Meet Detective Sergeant Kelly. Kelly, this is our next mayor—Professor Braden; and he's the man who can teach us all how to catch crooks. He's professor of the department of—" he turned to Gregg. "What's that fancy name you have for your department over at the University, Prof?"
Gregg smiled. "The Department of Criminal Psychology, Inspector. But you flatter me when you say I can teach you how to catch criminals. I'm sure nobody can teach you your business."
Logan grinned. He said to the sergeant: "The Prof isn't like most of these theorists, Kelly. He'll make a swell mayor. Every once in a while he pitches in and breaks a case for us—and we get the credit."
"Fine!" said the sergeant. Kelly was a big man, towering over both Logan and Gregg. He was chewing tobacco. He crammed the wad into his left cheek, and said, "Maybe you'll tell us how to catch the Buccaneer, Professor?"
"Is that what you're after in this place?"
Logan said glumly, "Right. And I could cheerfully choke that Russky chauffeur of yours. You'd think he was in league with the Buccaneer!"
"Really?" Gregg said. "How is that?"
"You know the Buccaneer sent Furman a note promising to be here tonight and collect ten per cent of what Furman had in the safe?"
Gregg nodded, smiling. "You mentioned that at the lecture you gave before my class yesterday."
"Well," Logan went on, "we had this place surrounded. I was out in the alley and, sure enough, I spotted the Buccaneer—at least, I'd swear it was he—on the first-floor fire-escape landing. And just as I was about to call out to him to give up, what does that Kuralenko of yours do but start honking his horn for all he's worth. I turned away for a minute, and that was all the Buccaneer needed to make his getaway. He disappeared into thin air!"
"Really!" Gregg exclaimed.
"Yeah. And the only place he could have gone is right back in here. Believe me, Professor, this joint is going to be combed—"
Just then a panting plainclothes man came into the bar, spied them and hurried over.
"Come upstairs, Inspector," he said urgently. "I found Furman in his office, all trussed up. The Buccaneer was in there, and he got a hundred thousand bucks out of the safe!"
Gregg had difficulty repressing a grin, it was so like Furman to exaggerate thirty thousand into a hundred thousand.
Logan said coolly, "I knew it. The Buccaneer was all through with the job when I spotted him. What do you think, Professor?" There was a note of patronizing levity in his voice. "Where do you think the Buccaneer is now? And how should we go about catching him?"
Gregg said stiffly, "I am sorry, Inspector, but I can give you no assistance in tracking the Buccaneer. I am more or less in sympathy with him, for he always robs people of Furman's ilk, who deserve much worse at his hands. Furman runs a crooked gambling den upstairs, yet he goes on with impunity. No need to deny it, Inspector. If, by some fluke, I should be elected, this is the first place that I would order you to close. It's indecent—"
The inspector stopped him. "Sorry, Professor, there's no time for argument now. Stick around till I get back—I'll show you the Buccaneer!" He went out hastily with the plainclothesman, leaving Kelly in the bar.
THE floor show was still going on. By looking out, Gregg could see plain-clothesmen circulating among the diners, looking them over.
Kelly said, "We've got fifty men here, Professor. Nobody leaves till Logan gives the word. I bet Mr. Buccaneer is plenty worried this minute!"
"I bet he is," Gregg said.. "Will you have a drink?"
Kelly shook his head, mournfully. "Can't drink while on duty—and you know it, too."
"Sorry," Gregg said. "I need one. You can watch me."
He left Kelly, sauntered over to the bar. Mike already had his drink going in the shaker. He poured the sidecar, pushed it over.
"What's all the activity, Professor Braden?" he asked. "What's the police doing here?"
"I can't tell you, Mike. But I hope Furman got his tables covered up upstairs."
Mike grinned. "Leave it to Furman! I bet you there wasn't a trace of a wheel up there by the time the cops got in the front door."
Two men nearby laughed. The whole town knew that Furman ran a fast gambling establishment - upstairs—the whole town, that is, except the police. And that was funny, too, because several high officials had been seen many times at the roulette wheel. They were suckers as well as the rest, because you couldn't win at Furman's wheels. No one could.
Gregg had barely got the sidecar to his lips when he became aware that someone had edged in beside him. He glanced down to see the slim girl in the green dress—George Rodney's daughter.
The drink had flushed her cheeks, removed some of her nervousness. There was
a keen light in her dark eyes as she looked at him closely.
"Aren't you Professor Braden, the candidate for mayor?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I heard those men mention your name. I'm Patricia Rodney. Father is your opponent in the election."
"Glad to know you," he said.
She was looking at his shirt-front. "That pearl stud," she murmured. "You must have put it on in a hurry. There's a little hole in your shirt-front just below it, where it should have been put. It looks as if you'd taken it out some time this evening, and then put it back again."
Gregg said, "Really? You're very observant, Miss Rodney." He put the drink down, lifted his shirt-front so he could see. Sure enough, there was the little pinprick, quite evident on the starched white linen.
She raised her cocktail glass, but kept her eyes on Gregg's. "I'd move the pin down if I were you, Professor Braden. Somebody else might notice it."
He shrugged, trying to appear careless. "What if they do?" But he knew very well what if they did. For instance, if Furman had noticed the little pin-prick, he'd be looking for it.
"If it will make you happier, Miss Rodney," he said, and unfastened the clasp, took out the pin.
She took it out of his hand. "Let me do it for you." She set her glass down, raised herself on tiptoe in order to reach. While she was doing it, she whispered, "Your left trouser leg has rust on it. You've been very careless tonight, haven't you—Mr. Buccaneer?"
Her face was close to his, and Gregg saw, out of the corner of his eye, that several men at the bar were looking at him enviously. They wouldn't have been so envious if they had known what she was saying.
Gregg tried to appear indignant, but kept his voice low. "Miss Rodney! Do you know what you're saying?"
She finished with the pin. "I know quite well. You can deny it, of course, and I'll never say a word. You can be sure that your secret is perfectly safe with me—after what you did"—she shuddered—"in there!"
Gregg said nothing, but motioned to the bartender. "Double them up, Mike."
He nodded, set up two shakers.
Patricia Rodney whispered, "Better wipe that rust off your trouser leg. The pin is fixed—it covers the top hole. But I saw that detective looking at your trousers just before."
Gregg glanced down, and saw that she as right. There was a long streak of rust diagonally across his right leg. He reached down, brushed at it. Part of it came off, the rest stuck.
"Excuse me," said the girl. She took a handkerchief from her purse, wet it with her lips, and, stooping, rubbed at the streak. It disappeared under her treatment, but left a little smudge of wetness.
He said, "Thank you," and handed her the cocktail Mike had just placed before her. She had done it so deftly, so naturally, that it had hardly attracted any attention. Kelly had wandered down to the other end of the bar, inspecting the people fined up along it, and he had not seen her wiping the smudge off. Gregg doubted if he had really been looking at that smudge. Probably the girl's nervous imagination had made her think so.
He said, "You were going to tell me who did that—in there."
ABRUPTLY she closed her eyes, and swayed. He put out a hand to support her, gripped her arm. She steadied, forced herself to talk.
"I—I don't know his name. But he came over to our table, whispered something to Martinson, and Martinson got up and walked down into that corridor with him. I had come here with Martinson to find out things about this place—you know, Dad is running for mayor, and I was looking for campaign material to help him. So I hired Martinson to escort—"
"You what?" he exclaimed. "Does your father know what you're doing?" She shook her head. "Of course not. He'd never allow me to—but let me tell you. After Martinson left the table, I waited about five minutes, and then a waiter came over and said I was wanted on the phone. He brought me as far as the corridor and told me to go through to the stairs. As I started down, I saw that man with the crooked nose, who had spoken to Martinson, come out of the waiters' pantry and hurry away. I was curious, so I opened the door and looked in. You—know what I found."
"Swell!" Gregg said bitterly. "Don't you know that Furman's crowd controls the political clique in this town? They spotted you right away and went to work on Martinson. Do you know what it would mean for your father if you were involved in a murder scandal at this time?"
She lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't think they'd go that far. Now we must get out of here—"
Gregg shook his head. "There's a police cordon around the place," he said. "The Buccaneer held up Furman in his office upstairs, and took some papers and cash out of the safe. No one leaves here till they've caught the Buccaneer."
The girl forgot about her own plight. "How—how do they expect to catch him?"
"They'll search every man in the place. NO doubt Furman can supply some of the serial numbers—"
She looked down at his pockets. He had distributed the money pretty well, but evening clothes can't stand any bulges.
"You'll be caught!" she breathed. "How will you get rid of—?"
"Get rid of it!" he said harshly. "Do you think I'm going to give it up, after risking—"
He clamped his mouth shut, glared at her, and finished his cocktail. For the last five minutes he had been virtually admitting to her what he had never admitted to a living soul—the fact that he, Gregory Braden, Ph.D., LL.D., head of the chair of criminal psychology at Hughes University, was the criminal known as the Buccaneer.
She understood, and smiled. "Thank you," she said, "for your confidence—"
That was as far as she got, because just then he saw Kelly hurrying past them toward the door, where one of the plain-clothesmen was gesticulating to him. Gregg motioned to the girl to be silent, and watched as the plainclothesman talked earnestly to the sergeant, who gave him instructions. The man left, and Kelly turned back into the bar, looking somber. As he came back, he saw Gregg looking at him and said triumphantly:
"Maybe you'll change your mind about your pet, the Buccaneer, Professor. Now he's added murder to his list! There's a dead man in the waiters' pantry. Some private dick, I suppose, that got on his trail."
Gregg looked incredulous. "You don't think—"
Kelly laughed. "All these crooks are the same. This Buccaneer may be a gentleman and everything, but when his hide is in danger, he'll kill like the next one. Now well get him on a murder rap!"
Patricia Rodney's face was white as Kelly went out. "I'm going to tell them what happened," she said decisively. "I can't let you—"
The man next to her at the bar turned to glance at her, and Gregg covered up by calling loudly to Mike for two more drinks. The man turned back to the bar.
"You'll do nothing of the kind," Gregg told her firmly. "Logan would never believe you, anyway. He'd hold you for the murder. You know how these cops are—they have to make a pinch, and they don't care who it is. In this case it would be just swell—the daughter of the opposition candidate for mayor arrested as a murder suspect! They'd keep it in the headlines till after election, and then you'd be lucky if they ever dropped it!"
Seeing Logan coming back into the bar, Gregg tossed off his drink, put a bill on the bar for Mike.
Logan's face was glum as he came straight over to Gregg.
"Come upstairs, Professor," he said. "I want to talk to you—and to the young lady!"
Gregg said, "But Miss Smith—" and
Logan gave him a grim, sardonic look.
"Miss Smith, huh?" he said. And then: "How do you do, Miss Rodney? Right this way, please."
That was all he said, but it was a slap in the face for Gregory Braden.
As he and the girl followed Logan out of the bar and into the elevator, he could see that she was panic-stricken. He didn't wonder. He himself felt pretty sick. Hadn't he dragged her into this?
ON the third floor, they passed through what had been a superbly furnished gambling room only a few minutes ago. Now there was no sign of roulette, faro, or dice tables. Men and women sat around at small tables—which had been brought in for the emergency—sipping drinks. They looked nervous enough, but they were safe. At the first intimation of a police raid, Furman's efficient aides had worked a miracle, converted a gambling room into a cocktail lounge.
The inspector led his charges down the long hall to Furman's office.
Furman was sitting at his desk, glowering. The safe was open, just as Gregg had left it. The window, too, was open.
Two plainclothesmen were going over the room, dusting it for fingerprints. Beside Furman's desk there stood a tall man with a narrow face and a twisted nose that must have been badly broken at some time. Gregg had his hand on Patricia's arm, and he felt.her start as she saw him. The fellow was Siever, assistant manager of the Montevideo Club. It must have been he who had called Martinson away from the table and to his death.
There was a strange tenseness in the room, and Gregg waited, taut, his eyes on Furman, while Logan closed the door. Furman showed no sign of recognizing Gregg as the Buccaneer. In fact, he allowed his surly look to disappear, and twisted his lips into a smile. After all, Gregg was the candidate selected by the party that was giving him protection, the man they wanted for mayor. But Furman had no smile for the girl standing at Gregg's side.
Inspector Logan walked around the desk, stood close to Furman.
"We came here to catch the Buccaneer, Professor," he said, "and we've run into a murder. There's a dead man in the waiters' pantry on the first floor. He's Sam Martinson, the private detective."
Abruptly, he faced Patricia. "Martinson came here with you, Miss Rodney!"
Patricia's face was white. Gregg could feel her tremble.
Had he been the ordinary, opportunist type of politician, he would have welcomed this opportunity to see the daughter of his political opponent grilled as a murder suspect on the eve of election. Instead, he felt sharp pity for the girl. And his deepest instinct was to protect her.
"That's crazy," he said coldly. "Miss Rodney came here with me. Where did you get your information?"
Logan looked incredulous. "You mean to say that you brought Miss Rodney here?"
"Right. And I've been with her all evening."
Logan glanced uncertainly at Furman, who lowered his eyes, then raised them to Gregg's.
"Look here, Professor. You're shielding the girt, and it won't help her any. Siever here—" he jerked his head toward the man with the crooked- nose, who stood at his left "—saw her and Martinson come in. He—"
"Hold it, Furman!" Gregg rapped. "Are you trying to rig something on Miss Rodney? I tell you / came here with her. She couldn't have killed any man in any waiters' pantry." He glared at Siever and said, "Whoever says otherwise is a damned liar!"
Siever's crooked nose twitched, and he snarled, "Hell—" but he stopped at a sharp word from Furman, who said gently:
"No one wants to fight with you, Professor. We're all your friends here. This girl is the daughter of your opponent. Why should you go out of the way to protect her? If she killed Martinson, she should pay the penalty. You know it's a crime to compound a murder—"
"You don't have to tell me the law, Furman," Gregg snapped. "I teach it!"
Inspector Logan eyed him queerly. "This girl may be an accomplice of the Buccaneer, Professor. I don't understand your attitude. I'm quite sure that you never met Miss Rodney until tonight, and yet here you are, claiming that you brought her here—"
Gregg felt Patricia's arm stiffen, and he knew why. She was thinking of the thirty thousand dollars in currency in his pockets. If Logan became suspicious of him, and ordered him searched—
Suddenly Patricia pulled away from Mm and broke into crisp, decisive speed..
"You're right, Inspector. Professor Braden was shielding me. I did come here with Martinson!"
SHE had courage, and she looked very sweet and helpless as she stood there, and Gregg cursed under his breath. Furman sneered triumphantly, and Logan let out a deep sigh.
"Well!" said the inspector. "Now we're getting somewhere!" He came out from around Furman's desk, stood over the girl. "Did you kill Martinson?" he said. "No," she said in a small voice. "Why did you come here with Martinson?" Logan demanded.
She raised her eyes to his. "I—we came here to get material to use in my father's campaign."
Logan laughed shortly. "That doesn't sound so good, Miss Rodney. You couldn't get anything here that the public doesn't know all about. Why—" he gestured toward Gregg—"even the City Party candidate himself comes here. You'll have to do better than that. Now"—he towered over her—"why did you come here with Martinson?"
Suddenly Patricia Rodney looked beaten. Her eyes dropped before Logan's inquisitorial glare. "I—I can't tell you!"
Furman got up from his desk, winked at Siever, and spoke to Gregg.
"You see, Professor Braden? There's something fishy about the whole thing. She and Martinson are tied up with the Buccaneer! She knows who killed him, all right—if she didn't do it herself!"
Gregg didn't get a chance to answer him, because there was an imperious knock at the door, and Dan Kruger stormed in.
Dan Kruger was the "power behind the throne" of the City Party. It was he who had chosen Gregg to be the candidate against Rodney. The police department, the mayor—in fact, everybody in town—took orders from Dan Kruger. He was big, florid-faced, gray-haired. His eyes always twinkled with good humor, but his mouth was straight, firm, unyielding. He had a tremendous amount of vitality, of driving energy; and it was this that had brought him his power—when his opponents were all tired out and ready to quit, Dan Kruger was usually just getting his second wind.
Kruger glanced around the room after shutting the door behind him, and in that single glance he took in the entire situation.
"Well, well!" he said, with a superficial air of geniality. "So this is Miss Rodney! Involved in a murder, eh?" He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Too bad! Too bad! Comes at a poor time!" His small eyes swung to Gregg. "Hello, Professor! How's our next mayor?"
"Pretty rotten, Dan. I hate to see a girl framed," Gregg retorted.
Kruger raised his eyebrows. "Framed? That's a harsh word, Professor!" He went over to Gregg, brushing right past Patricia Rodney, and took his elbow familiarly.
"Look, Professor," he said confidentially. "You don't want to mix up in this end of the business. I'm running you for mayor, and I'll get you elected. All you have to do is make a few speeches and let the voters see you. Now let me handle this, and you forget the whole thing."
He patted Gregg on the back and turned to Logan. "The boys phoned me about this, so I came over. Now I'm not the police commissioner, of course, so you don't have to take orders from me—"
Logan interrupted him, smiling. "That's all right, Dan."
Furman laughed, Siever grinned thinly.
Kruger frowned at them and said to Logan, "You better take Miss Rodney down to headquarters. But don't book her or anything. Just give her a comfortable room, and some magazines to read. I'll call up her father in the meantime." He laid his heavy arm across her shoulders. "There, Miss Rodney, there's nothing to worry about. I'm sure your dad will be able to straighten everything out for you. A fine man, your father, even if he is on the wrong side of the fence."
He swung on Furman. "Those other papers—you have them all right?"
Furman squirmed under his gaze. "I got them tonight, Dan, but the Buccaneer took them away."
Kruger's eyes blazed. "Damn it, Logan, you've got to find the Buccaneer! The boys downstairs tell me no one has left this place, so the Buccaneer is somewhere in the club. Search every man and woman. Get the matrons in from headquarters. We must have those papers back unopened. Understand?"
Logan nodded. "I've given orders about that already, Dan." The men are being searched. Kelly has sent downtown for matrons to search the women."
Kruger mumbled, "So the Buccaneer's got the papers! That bird is pretty smart. If I guess right, you won't find him. Well, that changes the whole situation. You'd better book Miss Rodney, then—suspicion of murder. Take her away, Logan."
"Wait!" Gregg snapped. "This girl is being framed. Martinson was killed by someone belonging to the Montevideo Club, either because he knew too much about the inside racket, or else for the express purpose of placing Miss Rodney in this position. Now you're going to demand that Rodney withdraw from the mayoralty race in return for squashing the charge. Am I right?"
KRUGER looked at him queerly, shrugged. "Why bother about this stuff, Professor? Politics is a dirty business, no matter how you figure it. After you're elected you can be as straight as you want. Right now, we have to use whatever comes up. Just let me handle everything. If Rodney withdraws, you've got clear sailing—" Gregg nodded bitterly. "Just a minute, Dan!" he said.
He strode to Furman's desk, tore a sheet from his calendar pad, and took out his fountain pen. On the blank side of the sheet, he wrote:
In the best interests of the City of Newcastle, I hereby withdraw my candidacy for the office of Mayor.
And he signed it with a flourish, Gregory Braden.
He capped the pen, handed the sheet of paper to Dan Kruger. "I'm through, Dan," he said. "As Professor of the Chair of Criminal Psychology at Hughes University, I can't possibly countenance such methods on the part of my sponsors. I never wanted to run for mayor in the first place—"
"Hold it, Professor!" Kruger snapped. "Don't get excited! We'll thresh this out some other way."
Gregg allowed himself to be calmed down. Kruger's face had gone a deep red. He was badly worried. Without Gregg, his whole ticket would fall through, and he would lose control of every city department. He said:
"Just reconsider this, Professor, and I'll fall in line with any suggestion you make about Miss Rodney."'
Gregg glared at him, then glanced at the girl. Patricia was looking at him with grateful, glowing eyes.
He said to Kruger, "It's absurd to charge Miss Rodney with murder. At the most, she may be able to supply information that will help us catch Martinson's murderer. Very well, then let her go in my custody. You can always get her if you want her. And I will undertake to help you in any way I can to find the murderer of Sam Martinson—if only to clear Miss Rodney's name."
Kruger turned an inquiring glance at Logan, who cleared his throat and said:
"We're not saying, Professor, that Miss Rodney killed Martinson. We know that the Buccaneer did that—he came down the fire-escape and entered through the window of that waiters' pantry. Martinson must have been in there for some reason, and the Buccaneer killed him. Now we'd like to know why Martinson went in there, but Miss Rodney won't tell us."
Patricia suddenly raised her head. "I didn't say that. I can tell you why Martinson went in the pantry!" She pointed her finger at Siever. "That man—"
Kruger coughed loudly. "I think perhaps the professor is right. There is no use subjecting Miss Rodney to further humiliation. If she will just submit to being searched by the matrons, I think we can let her go—provided she promises to come down to headquarters whenever she's sent for."
Patricia murmured, "I will."
Gregg pressed the advantage quickly. "I'll have my chauffeur take her home. I'll remain here while you search for the Buccaneer—though I'm quite sure you'll find he's not the murderer of Martinson."
While Patricia was being searched by one of the matrons who had arrived from downtown, Kruger paced up and down the small office, watching Logan give orders for the apprehension of the Buccaneer. It seemed, from what Kruger said from time to time, that he attached great importance to the papers which the Buccaneer had taken from Furman's safe—and which Gregg now had in his pocket.
Both Siever and Furman shrank under his fury as he lashed them for their carelessness in leaving those papers in the safe on the very night the Buccaneer had sworn to visit the club. What their nature was, Gregg couldn't guess, except that they had something to do with Patricia Rodney.
When the girl returned, the matron said tersely to Logan, "She's clean, inspector."
Patricia was all on edge, Gregg saw. She had not got over the shock of Martinson's murder, and she was very worried about the currency and papers in his pockets.
Kruger stopped ranting when she came in, and after the matron was gone he lifted the sheet of paper on which Gregg had written his resignation, and said, "With your permission, Professor," and tore it into bits. "Now," he said, "we can send Miss Rodney home and get down to the real business of capturing the Buccaneer."
As Gregg was about to lead the girl out, Furman spoke from behind his desk.
"Of course, Professor," he said with hard malice, "you will want to be searched yourself, along with everybody else." He added hastily, "If only to serve as an example."
Gregg felt Patricia's body tense.
"Of course," he said. "As soon as I see Miss Rodney off."
Logan glowered at Furman. "You don't think Professor Braden is the Buccaneer, by any chance?"
Furman shrugged, glanced at Siever, whose eyes were on Gregg's pockets. Gregg hurried out, before Furman could say anything further. Logan called to one of his men to escort them down and pass Patricia out at the door.
ON the ground floor things were proceeding as usual. The floor show was over, and the dance floor was crowded with couples. Waiters were* threading their way among the tables, with trays. The patrons-seemed unaware of anything out of the ordinary, but the waiters all bore worried expressions. They knew, by this time, that a dead man had been found in one of the pantries, and that the Buccaneer was loose somewhere in the building. The plainclothesmen had moved over to the edge of the floor and were standing about, tense, ready for anything.
As they got out of the elevator and walked across the lobby, Gregg had to smile inwardly at all this preparation. As Professor Gregory Braden, he had twice lectured these men at the Police Academy on the theoretical aspects of crime detection. Now, as the Buccaneer, he was giving them an object lesson in the practical methods of law evasion.
The plainclothesman who had gone down in the elevator with them walked a little in advance. Patricia pressed Gregg's arm, and he looked down to see her eyes, wide with concern, raised to his.
"They—they're going to search you!" she whispered.
"Don't worry. They won't find a thing," he said.
She lowered her eyes to the bulges in his pockets. "What are you going to do with—?"
"Watch and see."
She stopped abruptly in the crowded foyer, spoke very low. "Those papers that Furman had—would you give them to me? Please?"
He shook his head. "Sorry, Miss Rodney. Getting you out of a jam is one thing. Giving you the fruits of my—er—crime is another."
She would have argued further, but he saw Kuralenko standing near the door, next to the cloakroom. He hurried over to him.
Kuralenko was a Cossack who had served in the White Russian army. He weighed two hundred and thirty pounds, and was all muscle. He loomed above the hefty headquarters men around him like a giant among pigmies. He had fled to this country at the collapse of the counterrevolution in Russia.
Up till tonight, he was the only person in the world who knew that Gregory Braden, Ph.D., LL.D., was also the Buccaneer.
His blue, innocent-looking eyes lighted up when he saw Gregg, and he pushed three or four policemen roughly aside, almost bowling them over, in his haste to get to him.
Gregg said, "Andrei, this is Miss Rodney. You are to take her to her home, and then come back for me."
Kuralenko nodded, and bowed to Patricia.
She smiled wanly. Beside the big Russian, she looked like a child.
The officer who had brought them down said to the guard at the door, "You can pass this young lady out. She's been searched."
There was a good deal of excitement around them. Several couples had already attempted to leave and had been stopped. They were now fuming in the lobby, demanding to be allowed to speak to someone in authority.
Gregg took Patricia's arm, escorted her out, following Kuralenko. The plainclothes-man with them made a half motion to stop Gregg, but he said: "I'm just taking her to the car. I'll be right back."
That fellow wanted no trouble with the man who might be his next mayor, so he let Gregg pass.
Outside, at the car, there was another officer on guard. Kuralenko got behind the wheel, and Gregg helped Patricia into the rear. Then, under pretext of giving Kuralenko instructions, he dumped the money from his pockets onto the floorboard at his feet and handed the Russian the package of papers.
"Hold onto these, Andrei," he said, "and don't give them to anybody. Understand?"
Kuralenko nodded. His huge hands meshed the gears, and the car pulled away. The last glimpse Gregg had was of the girl, looking at him queerly out of the side window. There was a strange smile on her lips. It made him uneasy.
The officer was watching him, and he smiled and went back into the club to be searched.
THE searching was in full, swing when Gregg got upstairs. Logan was sweating, and Dan Kruger was cursing. They had given up the idea of keeping the patrons in the dark, and everybody in the place was being subjected to a thorough grilling. Each person's whereabouts for the period between eight-thirty and nine o'clock were being checked by statements from his companions at the table as well as from the waiters who served him.
Every nook and cranny of the place was being gone over with a fine comb, on the theory that the Buccaneer might have cached his loot and the papers. But, naturally, they drew a blank.
It wasn't till eleven that Kruger gave up. Gregg had submitted to being searched, had called Lasker to witness that he'd been behind the scenes at the floor show at the time in question. But they didn't even call Lasker to ask him about it.
Kruger said, "Come on, Professor, let's get out of here. You have a speech to make tomorrow morning before the Ladies' Auxiliary of the Rotary Club." He threw a nasty glance at Furman, and rushed Gregg out. Gregg noticed that Siever was "not around, but didn't say anything.
Furman saw them to the elevator. There he drew Kruger aside, whispered to him out of earshot for a couple of minutes, his venomous black eyes on Gregg all the time.
The elevator came up, and Kruger said out loud to Furman, "I'll look into that angle." Then he took Gregg by the arm, and they entered the elevator.
Downstairs, Logan was directing his men. When he saw Kruger and Gregg, he came over.
"I'm working on a new line, Dan," he said. "Furman tells me that the Buccaneer had white gloves on when he was upstairs, but I was standing down in the alley, and I saw his hands for a minute. I'm sure he didn't have any on. So maybe he took them off when he climbed out of Furman's window."
Kruger looked a little blank. "What of it, Logan?"
It didn't mean anything to him, but it meant a lot to Gregg. He started to get cold chills.
Logan said triumphantly, "Don't you see, Dan? If he took his gloves off, he must have left his prints somewhere along the fire-escape. I'm having a couple of men dust every inch of it. If they find any prints on there, we can be sure they're the prints of the Buccaneer!"
"Hell!" Kruger exclaimed. "That's fine!" His lips set in a savage line. "If -. there's one thing I want more than anything else, it's to get the Buccaneer!"
They left Logan, and Kruger said to Gregg, "I'll give you a lift home, Professor."
"That's all right, Dan," Gregg said. "Thanks, but Kuralenko'll be waiting for me."
They went outside, but there was no Kuralenko. Gregg began to be worried. Kuralenko had had plenty of time to take Patricia Rodney home and come back.
Kruger grinned. "That's the worst of those Cossacks. You can never tell when they're going to get drunk on you. Better come with me."
Gregg got into his car, which was driven by a combination bodyguard and chauffeur. Kruger talked about the Buccaneer all the way, but Gregg answered only in monosyllables. He was worried about Kuralenko. He knew the Russian wasn't drunk, because Kuralenko never drank when on duty. Something had happened. Gregg remembered uneasily the queer smile on Patricia Rodney's mouth.
He lived on South Twelfth, just below Glendale, and it took about fifteen minutes to get there. He had a two-room place, with a kitchenette, in a remodeled building.
When they got there he said, "Thanks for the lift, Dan," and started to get out. He saw his car parked a little way down the street, and he was anxious to see what was the trouble. He figured that Kuralenko would have come back here to stow away the money and the papers before calling for him; but he couldn't understand why he'd been there two hours.
Dan Kruger got out with him, saying, "I think I'll go upstairs with you, Professor. There are a couple of things I Want .to talk about, and you can give me some - of that Polish cherry brandy you've got*"
"Sure, Dan, come up," Gregg said, but he was in an agony of apprehension.
As soon as he got to the first landing, he knew something was wrong—for the door of his apartment was ajar. Light was streaming into the hall from the living room. He eased the automatic out of its clip, pushed the door in, and threw a quick glance into the room.
It was unoccupied—except for the body of Kuralenko, stretched on his face on the rug, in the middle of the floor. An empty sensation at the pit of his being,. Gregg rushed across the floor, knelt at his side.
THE haft of a knife protruded from Kuralenko's back between his shoulder blades—and it was exactly the same kind of narrow steel handle that Gregg had seen on the knife m Martinson's body. Only he noticed with a pang of hope that its angle was to the right, away from the heart, this time.
It's funny what things you'll notice at moments of great grief or sudden shock. Just then, as Gregg knelt beside Kuralenko, he noticed that the Russian had a scar almost an inch long on the back of his neck; and he made a mental note to ask him how he'd got it—provided he lived.
The back of his coat was bloodstained, and there was blood on the floor. Gregg was afraid to pull the knife out, but he lifted Kuralenko's head a little, and the Russian uttered a deep groan. There was a little froth of blood at his mouth. His eyes were closed, but he was muttering something in Russian.
Gregg tried to say something to him, but the words choked in his throat. He felt a film of tears in his eyes. Kuralenko's head was over on one side, resting on Gregg's arm. His face was white. A surge of rage swept over Gregg. A knife in the back was about the only way to down Kuralenko.
Suddenly Gregg became aware of Dan Kruger. He was stopping to take something white from Kuralenko's right hand. He pried it out, held it up.
"A woman did this, Professor. It's a woman's handkerchief!" he said.
Gregg recognized that handkerchief, because it had little rust marks on it! For a moment he struggled against the implication of that handkerchief. There it was, staring him in the face, while Kuralenko's breath was coming in painful gasps, depositing a little more frothy blood on his mouth with each exhalation.
In grief and rage, Gregg cried, "Don't stand there like a fool! Use that phone! Call an ambulance! Damn it, don't you see he's dying?"
Kruger said, "Sure, Gregg, sure," dropped the handkerchief and hastened to the phone on the end table near the door.
Kuralenko was mumbling and moaning. Gregg bent close, whispered, "You'll be all right, Andrei. They'll make you all right. You're going to have the best surgeons in the world. You'll be okay!"
And suddenly Kuralenko opened his great blue eyes and looked up at him, his leathery face wrinkled in pain.
"Swell!" he said, and fainted.
Gregg remembered little of the next twenty minutes, except that his arm got numb, and his heart almost stopped beating because at one moment he thought that Kuralenko had died. His face was waxen and Gregg had to bend close to detect his breathing.
Kruger used the phone, held a low-voiced conversation, and Gregg, in rage, ordered him to cut it short and phone the hospital again. Then Gregg was pressing a huge wad of bills into the hand of the interne, begging him to see that Kuralenko had the best of accommodations and the best surgeon in the city.
Newspaper reporters came. After all, this was no ordinary knifing. The victim was the servant of the City Party's candidate for mayor. Kruger shooed them all away. In the meantime, Gregg went into the bedroom, closed and locked the door, and unscrewed the wall-bracket over his bed. Behind it was the secret safe where he stowed things that the Buccaneer had acquired until he could dispose of them. He wanted to see whether Kuralenko had had a chance to put the stuff away before he'd been attacked.
The compartment was empty.
There had been nothing in Kuralenko's pockets when they took him away on the stretcher, either. Grimly Gregg screwed the fixture back on again and went out into the living room. He had the rust-marked handkerchief in his pocket, and he showed it to the precinct sergeant, who had come to investigate. Dan Kruger put his hand on his shoulder.
"You can tell the sergeant whose handkerchief that is, Gregg. You're an impressionable young fellow, and I don't blame you for shielding that girl back at the club. But now you can see—"
"Wait a minute, Dan!" Gregg said. He couldn't accept the evidence of that handkerchief. Back at the Montevideo Club, when he had seen Patricia Rodney standing over the dead body of Martinson, he hadn't for a moment believed that she had killed him. Perhaps it was because Martinson didn't mean anything to him. But this was different. Andrei Kuralenko had come to mean more than a servant to him. He was a partner in crime. He had pulled Gregg out of many a tough spot by that massive bulldog strength of his. If that girl had knifed him—
Rage burned up in Gregg. Whoever had struck down Kuralenko should pay, and pay high. It couldn't be Patricia Rodney, and yet—
He said slowly to Kruger, "Do me a favor, Dan. Tell the sergeant here that it's okay for me to take this handkerchief with me. I want to—find out something."
The sergeant scratched his head, looked inquiringly at Kruger. But Dan Kruger lost some of his geniality.
"Nothing doing, Gregg. I'm not going to let you be a fool any longer. That girl's got you going, and you're letting her get away with murder. The handkerchief stays here!"
"All right," Gregg said flatly, and handed it to the sergeant. "I don't know whom that belongs to. I can't identify it."
Kruger exclaimed, "Hold on, Gregg!"—but Gregg was already out the door. He had to see Patricia Rodney—and see her quick.
GREGG drove the car uptown himself, and he would have got half a dozen tickets if he hadn't been the candidate for mayor. As it was, the traffic officers who stopped him saluted uneasily and apologized for delaying him. They must have thought he was crazy, driving through the streets of Newcastle with dried blood on his sleeve and a wild look in his eye. But Gregg didn't care. He parked in front of George Rodney's house on Madison Street, but as he started to cross the sidewalk, someone touched his arm.
He whirled, growling, "What is it?" She was a thin, frail woman of forty or forty-five. Her hair hung in wisps under an outmoded hat, and she wore a threadbare suit with a worn fur collar. The hand she laid on his arm was trembling.
"Take me in there, sir, won't you please?" she said pleadingly.
"What do you want in there?" he said impatiently. "Who are you?"
Her eyes searched his face. "You're Professor Braden, aren't you?" she asked. "I've seen your picture on the posters—" He nodded. "I'm sorry, madam, but I'm in a hurry. If you want to go in there, you don't need me—"
"But George won't see anybody!" Her voice was low, desperate. "He's locked himself in his study, and the butler won't even tell him I'm here. He thinks I'm—thinks—I'm drunk!" Suddenly her grip tightened and her tired eyes blazed at him.
"You and your dirty crowd! Why don't you leave George alone? I didn't understand. You—you tricked me. Give me back those papers!" Her voice rose hysterically. Color went from her face, and she wavered, seemed about to fall. Gregg put an arm about her, guided her into his car. She sagged, and he thought she was going to faint. But she didn't. She looked up at him, and the fight was gone out of her. She began to plead.
"Please! You're so young, you have your future before you. Why must you wreck an old man's life for the sake of your ambition? Give me back those papers."
Gregg had the door of the car open, and he put his foot on the running-board, leaning close to her.
"Madam," he said, "will you take my word that I don't know what you're talking about? Will you tell me who you are?"
She looked at him, seemed to study him a long time. Then she nodded slowly to herself.
"I do believe you're speaking the truth!" She tilted her chin a little, patted the cheap, worn fur of her collar. "I," she said, "am Mrs. George Rodney."
Gregg gasped. "But Rodney's a widower!"
She shook her head, smiled wanly, and he could see that she must once have been very beautiful. Looking at her, he even thought he could detect a likeness between her and Patricia.
"I," she told him, "am George's first wife. He never legally divorced me, because he thought me dead. I left him when Patricia was only a year old, and I was reported killed a week later in an auto wreck. They thought me dead, but I wasn't; I was ashamed to come back. I've followed George's career in the papers. I read how he got married again, and how his second wife died. I longed to see Patty. I brooded and brooded, while I slaved in a canning factory in the South. I got terribly bitter."
She wasn't looking at him now. She was looking out through the windshield, as if she were seeing visions of the past in the glass.
"I came to Newcastle and saw a lawyer. He told me he knew a man who'd pay me a lot of money if I signed affidavits. He sent me to a man named Furman. Before I went, I phoned George and told him what I was going to do. George is a stubborn, violent-tempered man. He—he's never forgiven me in all these years."
Tears were working their way down her cheeks now, as she turned her eyes to Gregg. "Furman gave me five thousand dollars. I have the money here—" she tapped the breast of her blouse "—and it burns. Burns! After I left Furman, I realized what I was doing to George and to Pat.
I went back to get possession of the papers, but there were police all over. I couldn't get in. Please—" she stretched her hand appealingly—"give me back those papers. Don't spread this scandal before the world. Don't ruin George."
The whole thing was clear to Gregg now. He saw why Kruger had wanted those papers so badly; saw why Patricia had gone to the Montevideo with a private detective—in an effort to head off her mother. He put his hand over the woman's.
"Stay here," he said. "I'm going in and talk to Rodney. Believe me, I haven't got those papers. I didn't know about them until just now—and I'm glad you, told me."
He left her in the car, raced up the stairs of Rodney's house.
THE butler was very polite, but very firm. "I'm sorry, sir, but Miss Rodney is not at home. No, sir, Congressman Rodney is at home, but he has given strict orders not to admit anyone."
"Listen!" Gregg said. "Do you know who I am?"
"Of course, sir. You are Professor Braden. May I say that I have read your articles on criminology in the daily papers, sir, and that I admire you immensely. If it were not for my loyalty to—"
"All right," Gregg interrupted desperately. "I've got to see him at once. Tell him it's about his daughter—"
From inside a weary voice came: "Let the gentleman in, Brooks."
Brooks started, opened the door wide. Gregg followed him into the study, and stood facing George Rodney. Brooks left, closing the door.
Gregg had met Rodney before, but was startled by the man's appearance now. There were heavy pouches under his eyes, and his stiff-backed, aristocratic bearing was gone. There was a stubble of grayish beard on the lower part of his chin.
Rodney said nothing, just stared at Gregg, haggard-eyed.
"Your wife is outside in my car, Rodney," Gregg said.
Rodney took a single step backward, as if Gregg had struck him. His bloodshot eyes blazed, and he kept his voice low with an effort, though it was hoarse with emotion.
"I'll thank you to keep out of my family affairs! Braden, I always thought you were a gentleman—"
"Wait, Rodney!" Gregg said tensely. "There is no time for argument. There's something I must know. Where is your daughter?"
"Damn you!" he shouted. "You know where my daughter is! You framed her yourself! Kruger just called me—" Rodney turned away, covered his face with his hands.
Gregg stepped close to him, seized his shoulder, and demanded fiercely, "What did Kruger say? Where is she?"
Rodney lifted his face from his hands. It was drawn with misery. "Why do you torture me? You're Kruger's man—you know what he's doing. Here—" he snatched two sheets of paper from the writing desk beside him "—here's everything you want." He stuffed the papers into Gregg's hand. "There's my withdrawal from the mayoralty contest, in your favor. And there's my resignation from Congress—so that Kruger can have the governor appoint a City Party man." He fairly pushed Gregg toward the door. "Go! Take it to Kruger! You've beaten me, the two of you—you with your suave, criminal mind, and Kruger with his ruthless politics. You have everything. Only send me back my daughter! My God, man, you can't charge my little girl with murder!"
His frenzy was so great that he had pushed Gregg almost to the door. Gregg got a grip on his shoulder, swung him around, and pushed him forcibly into the chair before the writing desk.
"Mr. Rodney," he said urgently, "you've got to believe me. I didn't plan any of this. I begin to understand what Kruger's been doing, and I don't want any part of it. I'll get Patricia out of this without any resignations from you—but you've got to help me!"
Rodney looked up dully. His eyes searched Gregg's and he shrugged hopelessly.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Tell me where Kruger took your daughter. Is she in headquarters?"
"No. Kruger has her somewhere. He let me talk to her on the phone. They—they accuse her of killing Martinson, and of stabbing your man. But Kruger promised that he wouldn't even have her booked, if he got those resignations within two hours. I—I told him I had to think about it. I'm to call him back."
"And you don't know where they've got Patricia?"
"No." The word was almost a groan.
"All right," Gregg said. "I think I can find her."
Gregg crossed to the phone and dialed the number of the Montevideo Club. Furman's voice answered, and Gregg asked him curtly whether Kruger was there. Furman hesitated, put his hand over the mouthpiece as he spoke to someone there—Gregg could tell what he was doing by the vibrations that were transmitted through the palm of his hand—and then said, "Just a minute, Professor."
A second later, Kruger's voice came over the wire.
Gregg said, "Listen, Dan, I've had a chance to think about that business. Nobody else could have stabbed Kuralenko. I want to press a charge against a certain person."
Kruger's voice sounded relieved. "Glad you got yourself some sense, Gregg. I thought for a while you were going haywire. Come right over. We've got the girl here, and Logan's grilling her before taking her downtown."
"Be right over," Gregg said, and hung up.
Rodney was looking at him perplexedly. "What—"
"They've got her at the Montevideo. I'm going over there and break this thing up."
Rodney got up. "I'll go too."
"No," Gregg said. "You stay here and pull yourself together. You're in no shape to go out!"
Rodney sank back into the chair, mumbling, "That's right. I'm not fit to go. All broken up—getting old—"
Gregg said gently, "Your wife's outside. Do you want me to send—"
Rodney jerked his head up, and in spite of his dejected, beaten weariness there was a stubborn gleam in his eye. "No! Ill never look at that woman again." His voice broke. "I loved her—"
He broke off.
"George!"
The door had opened silently, and the woman with the worn fur collar stood there, hands outstretched, palms up. Gregg tore his eyes away from the agony in her face, and looked down at Rodney. He saw the cold stubbornness go out of Rodney's eyes.
"Natalie!" Rodney whispered.
Her eyes never left his face.
"George," she said, "I've done such terrible things to you! Can you forgive me?"
Gregg, unnoticed, turned and tiptoed out of the room. It would have been sacrilege to stay longer.
MADISON STREET is all the way across the city from the downtown section, but it was long after midnight, and there were no more traffic lights. Gregg made it to the Montevideo Club in eleven minutes.
There was a uniformed cop before the entrance, and a couple of plainclothesmen lounged in the foyer. The patrons had long since gone, but the lights were all on. The great dining room on the first floor looked like some ghostly banquet hall. The tables were all set, with their white linen and the silver and the dishes, many of them left untouched by the guests. A couple of plainclothesmen were poking about, killing time.
Gregg used the telephone at the desk to call the hospital, and was informed that the knife had just grazed Kuralenko's lung. His vitality, they said, was amazing, and he would recover.
Gregg, breathing a little easier, went up to the third floor.
There was quite a gathering in Furman's office. Furman was there, but he wasn't at his desk. Dan Kruger sat there.
Patricia Rodney sat in a straight-backed chair in a corner near the still open safe. Her hands were in her lap, and she was twisting her fingers. Her eyes were red, but in spite of that she was still pretty, appealing. Gregg was amazed to see how much like her mother she looked. She looked at Gregg dully, hopelessly.
Logan was standing on one side of her, Siever on the other. Logan looked very serious, and slightly irritable. Siever was smirking. His crooked nose made him look like a gargoyle.
Furman was standing near the door, and he kicked it shut after Gregg got in. Gregg didn't glance at him, stood spraddle-legged in the middle of the room, facing the others.
Kruger seemed ill at ease. He said, "We've been waiting for you, Gregg. This thing is shaping up nicely."
Gregg was holding Rodney's two signed papers in his hand. He slapped them down on the desk.
"That's what you wanted from Rodney, Dan," be said mildly. "I saw him and he gave them to me."
Kruger examined them eagerly. "Fine! You're a cinch for the next mayor, Gregg!"
"And the girl goes home to her father?"
"Sure. We've got nothing against her—or against Rodney, for that matter."
"And the papers?" Gregg said. "The affidavits that Miss Rodney came here with Martinson to get—they go back too?"
"Sure, Gregg. As long as Rodney is out of the picture, we don't need to hurt him."
Gregg pondered that a minute. Then he said slowly, "Then there's only one fly in the ointment."
Kruger got up, a worried frown on his forehead, and his shrewd old eyes bored into Gregg.
"What's that?" he said.
"Martinson's murder. We need a fall guy for that—somebody to feed to the wolves. You can't let it go unsolved just before election."
"Martinson's murder. We need a fall guy
for that—somebody to feed to the wolves.
Kruger said, "You're right. I wish to hell Martinson hadn't been killed. I tell you, Gregg, I don't know the answer to that one. Whoever did it certainly gummed up the works. We would have had clear sailing if it hadn't been for that."
Gregg believed him. Kruger hadn't planned Martinson's murder. He had walked in on the accomplished fact, and, like the practical politician that he was, he had tried to make the most of it.
"Maybe," Kruger said, "we could just string it along till after election; you know—give out word that we expect to apprehend the murderer any day. What do you think, Logan?"
Logan scratched his head. Gregg could see that he hadn't liked the whole business from the start. He was just a good cop, caught up in the whirl of crooked politics, and letting the tide drag him around.
"I don't know," he said doubtfully.
"No!" Gregg rapped out. "We need a fall guy!"
Kruger saw that he was aiming at something, and said, "Who do you suggest, Gregg?"
Gregg looked at Siever, then at Furman, and let his fingers wander along the lapel of his dinner jacket, near the shoulder-clip where his automatic rested.
"Why," he said slowly, "I should think that the best fall guy for the murder would be the murderer himself!"
He saw Siever's body go tense. Furman stirred nervously.
Logan caught the tenseness that had suddenly come into the air, and so did Patricia. She hunched forward in her chair, and her anxious eyes traveled swiftly from one face to another. Then her eyes met Gregg's, and he saw confidence in them, and trust.
Furman snickered. "Maybe you've got the murderer spotted, Professor?"
Gregg didn't answer him, but didn't turn his back on him either. He said to Kruger, "Have you got those affidavits, Dan?"
He nodded. "Right here." He reached over, took them out of the open top drawer of the desk. It was the same packet Gregg had taken from Furman's safe earlier in the evening.
"Who brought them back to you?"
"Siever."
"All right," Gregg said. "Now we're getting somewhere! Will you tell us where you got them, and just how, Siever?"
Siever said hoarsely, "No. It's none of your damn business. I work for Dan Kruger. I'm not answerable to you."
"Let it slide," Gregg said, "for the present." He swung his glance to the girl. "Will you tell us, Miss Rodney, how your handkerchief came to be in Kuralenko's fist when Kruger and I found him with a knife in his back?"
Patricia paled, but she braced her shoulders, spoke evenly.
"You want me to tell—everything?"
He nodded. "Everything."
PATRICIA took a deep breath. "Kuralenko took me home. I asked him to come in, but he wouldn't. I knew he had those affidavits, and I was desperately anxious to get them, so I told Kuralenko that something had come up and I had to see you again. He said he had to go to your apartment first, so I went there with him. He opened the door, and we entered. Then somebody jumped out from behind the door"—she shuddered, and closed her eyes, then opened them and forced herself to go on—"and stabbed him in the back before he could put the light on. I tried to scream, but someone put a hand over my mouth and slammed my head against the wall. That's all I know. They must have taken my handkerchief and put it in Kuralenko's fingers."
"Thank you, Miss Rodney." Gregg stepped back a pace, let his glance travel from Furman to Siever, to Logan, to Kruger. "Now, gentlemen," he went on, "I can vouch for the fact that Kuralenko had this package of papers when he left here. I gave it to him—"
Furman broke in. "Then that makes you the Buccaneer, Braden!"
"That's right. It makes me the Buccaneer. And it makes our friend Siever the stabber of Kuralenko—and the murderer of Martinson. He's probably cached the money he took from Kuralenko when he stabbed him."
Siever backed to the wall, and his hand went to his pocket. "So what?" he snarled. "Sure I killed Martinson! We're all in on it, so it doesn't matter what I admit here. Furman told me to knock off Martinson, when he learned that this girl was here with him. He thought it would be a perfect frame." His eyes sought Kruger's. "We were working in your interests, Dan, and in the interests of Braden. We thought—"
"Damn it!" Kruger exclaimed. "Why did you have to pull such a raw stunt?"
"Why can't we forget the whole thing?" Furman suggested. "The girl won't dare to blab—we can keep those affidavits. We'll forget that Braden is the Buccaneer—"
"No!" Gregg broke in. "I'm the Buccaneer, and Siever is a murderer. Logan, make your arrests! You've heard Siever's confession!"
Dan Kruger shouted, "Hell, you're crazy! Who cares if you're the Buccaneer? We'll keep it quiet. Do you want to go to jail and give up the mayoralty?"
"That's just what I want to do," Gregg said, "just so Siever and Furman can take the rap for Martinson's murder!"
Kruger stared at him uncomprehendingly. "You're willing to go to jail, lose your chance of becoming mayor, lose your position at the university? You'd be throwing away your whole life, Gregg!"
"If it's the only way of getting these two to the chair, Dan, that's what I'm going to do—unless you can figure another way out."
Logan's eyes narrowed, a dawning light of comprehension in them. He saw the goal Gregg was working toward, and he unostentatiously let his hand creep toward his shoulder holster.
Siever and Furman were staring at Gregg as if he was crazy. Patricia Rodney was on the edge of her chair, her eyes flitting from one face to another.
Kruger said musingly, "I believe you'd do it, Gregg. You're just that much of a fool!"
Siever said hoarsely, "To hell with him, Dan! Tell Logan to throw him in the can. We can pin the murder on him—"
"And lose my candidate for mayor?" Kruger snapped. "I can't do that. It's our chance to rule the city. Maybe," he went on reflectively, "you could take the rap,
Siever. I'd get you a commutation, and a pardon within a year—"
Siever's face went black with rage.
"You rat, you!" he snarled.
His hand came out of his pocket with a gun at the same time that Furman pulled his gun.
Gregg been waiting for it, and so had Logan. Gregg's automatic was out at the same time as Siever's, and they fired at the same instant, as did Logan and Furman. The' room was filled with the thunderous detonations of the explosions. Gregg shot only once, at Siever's heart, and then he ducked across, pulled Patricia out of her chair and down to the floor.
When the smoke cleared, Dan Kruger was lying across the desk, panting, with blood running down him from two places—where both Siever and Furman had shot him. And those two were on the floor—dead. Logan had got Furman just as Gregg shot Siever. Logan was standing looking somberly down at the two bodies.
The crooked city ring was broken!
Gregg helped Patricia to her feet. She wabbled, and was a little sick, but he got her into the chair again.
Big Dan Kruger wasn't yet dead. He moaned, and Logan stepped over to him, raised his head. Kruger's eyes were filming. He said brokenly:
"Shrewd old fox like me—you outsmarted me, Gregg!" And, with a last, painful breath, big Dan Kruger died. Logan laid him down gently.
"All right, Inspector," Gregg said. "Now you can arrest the Buccaneer. It's a big day for you!"
He held out his hands for the cuffs, but Logan smiled grimly, shook his head. Instead, he reached out his hand and gripped Gregg's.
"I'm shaking hands with the next mayor," he said. "And I don't know a thing about the Buccaneer. Only I'm sure well have a decent administration, and a cop won't have to be a crook to keep his job!"
Their eyes met, and Gregg returned his grip. Then he picked up the two papers Rodney had written. He tore up the resignation from Congress, but kept the withdrawal from the Mayoralty contest.
"Congressman Rodney remains in Congress," he said. "Here, Patricia, you can take these back to your father—and mother."
Patricia tried to thank him, but the words wouldn't come.
"Come along," Gregg said. "I'll take you home. That is—if you still trust the Buccaneer."
"Trust him!" Patricia said. "Oh, Gregg, what would I have done without you?"
And that answer, for the moment, was enough for Gregg.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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