American Gun Mystery (21 page)

It was field day for the press; and Grand Marshal of the field was Ted Lyons. After squeezing every last drop of gossip from the Mars-Grant-Centre Street controversy, he turned his attention to Tommy Black.

The item that set the bomb appeared without warning in Lyons’s column one morning. “Shades of Gentleman Jim and the Manassa Mauler! How times do change. …What prominent challenger for the Biff-Bang title in the mastodon class is training on a diet of jazz, orange-blossoms, and Orchids? And what’s the matter with the Orch’s better half—or laugh—who’s being made an old cuck by said stumble-bum, as every wise guy on the Main Stem knows? Come, come, Rollo; your house is afire.”

The first echo of the explosion reached Headquarters a half-hour after it rolled back from the cliffs of the downtown canyons. Julian Hunter, to the delight of an assembled and derisive staff, marched into the editorial offices of Lyons’s tabloid, carefully placed his derby and stick on an idle typewriter, kicked in the door of Lyons’s sanctum, took off his coat, and invited the columnist to put up the columnar hands. Lyons had made an impolite noise, in the creation of which he was a master, had pressed a button kept handy for just such emergencies, and Mr. Hunter soon after found himself outside the office, on the floor, propelled by a muscular gentleman who acted as the columnist’s bravo. Mr. Hunter, retrieving his outer garments, had departed with murder in his eyes. And the next morning Lyons’s column had continued the barrage of thinly camouflaged insinuations.

The second echo rolled back on the first night, the detonation being set off within the sacrosant precincts of the
Club Mara
itself.

The Inspector was aging. The case had drawn itself out to the most microscopic of vanishing points; Ellery was increasingly irritable and uncommunicative; the press was clamoring for action; there was an undercurrent of talk on Centre Street about a “shake-up, boys, a real shake-up!” Rather desperately the old man concentrated on Julian Hunter, now that Lyons was turning up delicious dirt and Hunter had lost his temper.

“I’ve told you all along,” he muttered to Ellery that evening, “that Hunter knows more than he admitted. About the Horne business, I mean. Ellery, we’ve simply got to do something.”

There was pity—and still reservation—in Ellery’s eyes. “We must wait. There’s nothing to be done. Time, dad. Only time will turn the trick.”

“I’m goin’ down to that bird’s club tonight,” snarled the Inspector, “and you’re goin’ with me.”

“But what for?”

“I’ve been finding out things about Hunter, that’s what for.”

An hour before midnight found the Queens at the door of the
Club Mara.
Sergeant Velie’s mountainous figure loomed dimly on the sidewalk across the street. The old man was cool enough, cooler than Ellery, who had a sick feeling in his stomach. They entered, and the Inspector asked for Hunter. There was some difficulty at first; the gentleman, it appeared, was not in evening dress. The gentleman, however (Ellery being properly attired) produced a gleaming little shield, and after that there was no trouble.

They found Hunter at a large table near the dance-floor, engaged in silent communion with a bottle of rye whisky. The man was pale as a goat, and taut; even the pouches beneath his eyes seemed to have shrunk and tightened. He kept looking at his glass, and a waiter kept mechanically refilling it.

He might have been thousands of miles away for all the attention his companions paid him. Sitting together, laughing, knees frankly touching, were the orchidaceous Mara and huge, black-browed Tommy Black. The pugilist’s paws, covered with fur, pressed gently on the woman’s dainty hands. They flirted openly before Hunter; neither, in fact, seemed aware of Hunter’s existence. The fourth member of this singular party was Tony Mars, dressed in ill-fitting evening togs and worrying a cigar as if it were the Commissioner’s hand.

The Inspector, with Ellery hovering uncomfortably in the background, came up to the table and said: “Good evening, folks,” in a very friendly tone.

Mars started to rise; then he sank back again. Mara Gay cut a trilling laugh in half and stared at the little Inspector. “Why, look who’s here!” she cried shrilly. She was a little drunk, and her eyes were strangely bright. In her extreme
decollete
the full thin sinuosity of her torso lay exposed. “And there’s Sherlock Holmes! C’mon join us, Sherlock—an’ you, too, Gran’pa. Whee!”

Julian Hunter put down his glass and said quietly: “Shut up, Mara.”

Black doubled his fists and placed them before him on the cloth. His immense shoulders contracted a little.

“Hello, Inspector,” said Mars thickly. “Cripes, I’m glad to see you! Been tryin’ to buzz you all day. What’s the matter with takin’ the padlock off my place. …”

“Some other time, Tony,” smiled the Inspector. “Ah—Hunter, I’d like to see you for a couple of minutes.”

Hunter looked up, briefly, and looked down again. “Come around tomorrow.”

“I think I’ll be busy tomorrow,” said the Inspector gently.

“Tough.”

“I’ve been called that, too, Hunter. Will you take me somewhere where we can talk alone, or do you want me to spill it here?”

Hunter said icily: “You can do what you damned please.”

Ellery took a quick step forward, and stopped when the Inspector thrust his little arm out. “All right, then I’ll speak before your friends. I’ve been lookin’ you up, Hunter. And I’ve found out some mighty interestin’ things about you.”

Hunter moved his head the merest bit. “Still barking up the murder tree?” he sneered. “Why don’t you arrest me for killing Horne and be done with it?”

“Arrest you for killing Horne? Whatever made you think that? No, it isn’t that, Hunter,” said the Inspector dreamily. “It’s something else again. It’s that business of gambling.”

“Of
what?
”

Inspector Queen took a pinch of snuff. “You’re running a gambling joint upstairs, Hunter.”

Hunter gripped the edge of the table and hauled himself to his feet. “Say that again?” he said in a strangled undertone.

“You’ve got one of the toniest layouts in the city upstairs. And one of the fanciest hunks of protection, too,” said the Inspector amiably. “Oh, I know I’m risking my shield by saying it, but the fact is that your joint—I should say joints—are being protected by a bunch of divvying crooks in City Hall.”

“Why, you stupid old fool,” began Hunter thickly; his eyes were steaming and red.

“Not only that, but you’re one of the big money boys behind the fight racket, Hunter. You engineered the Murphy-Tamara fake, you’re workin’ hand-in-glove with Pugliezi in the wrestling racket, and there’s even talk that you’ve got Tony Mars under your thumb. Only I don’t believe that; Mars is on the square. And then it’s common talk that you’ve fixed the Harker-Black fight in a big way; Tony would never go for that. …Sit still, Black; your punch won’t do you any good here.”

The prizefighter did not remove his small black eyes from the Inspector’s face. Mars sat very still.

“Why, you meddling little rat!” shouted Hunter, and stumbled forward with curling fingers. Mars rose quickly and pushed him back. Mara Gay sat pale and rigid, very sober now. And Tommy Black did not even blink. “Why, I’ll have you kicked out of the Department. … you dried-up old baboon. …I’ll throttle you like—”

Ellery pushed by his smiling father and said coldly: “I thought you were drunk, but now I know you’re insane. Are you going to take that back, or do I have to thrash you?”

It was all very confusing and embarrassing. Waiters began running toward the table. The orchestra struck into a loud number with furious gusto. People craned. The noise mounted. Black rose and, taking Mara’s arm, quietly walked her off into the crowd. For an instant Hunter’s attention was diverted; a trickle of saliva crept down his chin; his eyes started wildly from his head and he lunged for Black, screaming: “And you, too, damn your soul! You b—” Mars clamped a hand over his mouth and pulled him down in the chair. …

Ellery found himself on the sidewalk beside his father, walking toward Broadway filled with a vast disgust for himself, the world, and everything in it. Curiously enough, the Inspector was still smiling. Sergeant Velie fell silently into step with them.

“Hear the riot, Thomas?” chuckled the old man.

“Riot!”

“Darn near. Society!” The old man snorted derisively. “Blue blood! Scratch ’em all, all these crooks, and you’ll find just plain stink underneath. Hunter. … bah!”

“Find out anything?” asked the Sergeant, scowling.

“No. But that bird’s tied up in this business somewhere, I’d stake my life on it.”

Ellery groaned. “You’ve gone about it in exactly the wrong way if you expect to get anything out of him.”

“Says you,” jeered the Inspector. “Fat lot you know about
that
sort of thing. I tell you, I’ve ripped the hide off him. Sure, he was soused. But you mark your daddy’s words. It won’t be long before he forgets there ever was such a thing as caution. We’ll know the whole story soon, El; mark my words, mark my words!”

Whether the Inspector was a lucky prophet or a shrewd psychologist, the fact remained that the period of gestation was drawing to its close.

Spurred on by malice, perhaps, Hunter manipulated strings too insistent to be denied. Things began to happen.

And two of the things that happened crowded each other in the happening. The first was that the very next morning Commissioner Welles ordered the ban on the
Colosseum
lifted.

The other was that the evening papers ran an announcement to the following effect: On the coming Friday night Tommy Black would fight Heavyweight Champion Jack Harker for the title, as originally scheduled, at the
Colosseum.
And on Saturday, the next night—working, as Mars told the reporters, “faster than hell” to accomplish the feat of removing the ring, ringside seats, and other props of the fistic battle—Wild Bill Grant’s Rodeo, “monster Western attraction which opened so tragically some three weeks ago,” would have a second Grand Opening for the edification of the kiddies and the satiation of the curiosity-seekers.

*
Mr. Queen has often been criticized by readers for his seemingly heartless lack of co-operation with the Inspector in cases which claimed their joint attention. A psychiatrist could probably discover the truth in short order. It is necessary only to refer the interested reader to
The Greek Coffin Mystery
for the simple explanation. It will be remembered that in that investigation, which in point of time was one of the earliest Mr. Queen engaged in, he was repeatedly outwitted by a very clever criminal. His experience of giving on several occasions what seemed to him the proper solution, and then finding he was completely wrong, made him vow never to talk about his reasoning until he was utterly convinced, beyond any doubt, that the reasoning was correct.—J. J. McC.

“L
ADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF
the radio audience here we are at ringside in the modern coliseum of sport arenas Tony Mars’s
Colosseum
in New York City about to broadcast on this lovely Friday evening the Battle of the Grand I mean the Century ha ha. … this program is being broadcast through the courtesy of the Broadcasting Company as you very well know on a nation-wide hook-up and is also linked to England, France and Germany. …

“It’s almost time for the big scrap to begin let me see it will begin in exactly twelve minutes how’s that for timing ha ha. …I suppose you can hear the noise out there
Deutschland
it looks like all New York and a good part of Chicago are here to view the most important event in fistic history. …The little ole
Colosseum
which has a seating capacity of twenty thousand is packed to the rafters who says boxing is on its last legs ha ha. …Yes, and you can’t say that about the speculators either they had a field day today somebody in the row behind me just told me he paid one hundred smackers in good American do-re-mi for the privilege of seeing this fracas who says times are hard ha ha. …

“Well I hope the gentleman gets his money’s worth tut tut I didn’t mean that for seriously folks this looks like one humdinger of a scrap eight minutes to go you know this is the championship heavyweight battle between Tommy Black challenger and Champion Jack Harker for those of you who tuned in late being broad cast by courtesy of the Broadcasting Company on an international network much excitement around here but can learn very little if anything ha ha. …Oh it’s just two of the lads making love to each other no seriously folks it’s the main preliminary going on hear that gong that’s the bell for the thirteenth round of the scheduled fifteen-round bout between George Dickens the Georgia Black Boy and Battling Ben Riley of Boston and a good set-to it is too believe you me fast all the way with Riley having a shade the better of it excuse me a moment please can’t see much of what’s going on or hear either there’s so much yelling you’d think this was the Democratic National Convention ha ha. …

“Ringside tonight is glittering with the nobility beg pardon the bluebloods you’d think this was opening night at the Metropolitan the ladies are out in all their glory and
lavallieres
is that the way you pronounce it Paree. … who’s that I see why yes there’s the lovely Mara Gay famous screen star the Orchid of Hollywood you know looking lovely as ever by the side of Julian Hunter the well-known society man and Broadway club-owner her husband at ringside. …Gorgeous Mara’s rooting for Tommy Black tonight I’ll bet he’s a California boy you know. … and there’s old Tony Mars himself right next to the Hunters old Tony Mars most famous sports promoter in this little old world who built this magnificent temple of sports you know. … and yes there’s Wild Bill Grant the old-time fightin’ deputy of the West with his son Curly and Miss Kit Horne the well-known Western movie star and. … excuse me a minute folks (Bill who’s that tall young fellow next to Miss Horne fellow with the
pince-nez
eyeglasses and the sharp face oh thanks) and there’s Mr. Ellery Queen of the Centre Street Queens looks like the police department is well represented tonight because I see good old Commissioner Welles on the other side of the ring talking to Chief Inspector Klein and. …