The Oxford Book of American Det (38 page)

This way.”

When he had gone in the vague direction of the Old Man’s office I grabbed a stray copy of the Chronicle and hurriedly thumbed through it to my story, which had made a big enough hit with the Old Man to net me a by-line. I read it through carefully. Near the end I groaned. It went like this:

“Adolph was famous long before he entered the cuisine of the Grenada Hotel. For ten years before the war, he was the most famous of all the crooks of Vienna.” Libel? It was dynamite, fuse lighted and all! I had meant to say that he was the most famous cook in all Vienna. But somehow my typewriter must have slipped in that wandering r while I was pounding the keys. I groaned. I locked my desk, got up, and found my hat and coat. I knew right then that I had joined the legion of the unemployed, but somehow that word crook still rankled me. I was damn positive that I hadn’t written crook for cook. And if I had—why hadn’t the copyreader picked it up and fixed it? Suspicion grew, and in five short minutes I realised that Harry Lyons, C.

T. (Cut-Throat), had pulled a sandy on me. So I waited for him.

In a little while, Adolph came out of the Old Man’s office with a happy expression on his face—as though he had just seen my corpse. He sneered a sneer at me and left the city room. No sooner had he gone out than Lyons came to my desk.

“Why, hello, Daffy,” he said. “The Old Man wants to see you right away.”

“You don’t say,” I said. “And some one wants to see you right away too.”

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Your favourite doctor,” I said.

With that I let him have a short sweet haymaker right under his eye, which spot I had chosen previously. There was a pleasant crunch. His teeth clicked together neatly. His eyes closed with a snap you could hear on West Street. He went down and—out.

McGuire, the sports editor, looked up from the story he was writing about Lou Gehrig and yawned: “Nice punch, Daffy. Better see the Old Man anyway. He may have mercy on your soul.”

“Thanks, Mac,” I said. “I’ll see him.”

I went to the Old Man’s office and knocked. Then I opened the door and stuck my head in, weaving in case he started to throw things.

“Come in here, Daffy,” the Old Man ordered. “Sit down a second.”

“On the level?”

“Why, Daffy, did I ever—“

“O.K.,” I growled. “Ixnay on the pathos. Let’s get it over.” He nodded and I sat down.

“In the first place,” he said, “you are fired.”

“I knew that,” I said.

“Listen, Daffy,” the Old Man said suddenly. “I hate like hell to do it, but I’ve got a boss too, the guy who publishes this sheet. I couldn’t let you stay.”

“I know, I know.”

“I had to settle with that frocked cook for one grand. He wouldn’t take a cent less for release of that libel.” The Old Man shrugged. “I have to fire you. Can’t do anything else. But I wanted to speak to you about those gambling expose articles you’ve been writing, the ones you left with me for safety.”

“They’re mine,” I said. “I did them on my own time.”

“I know it,” he said. “But I want them. They’ll blow Cantrey’s graft organisation wide open when I break them.

“Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll keep ‘em here. You go out and run into the prize scoopy of the year. It’ll have to be an exclusive. Then I’ll just be forced to hire you again, over the publisher’s head, to get your yarn. And all will be serene once more.”

“You mean,” I said, “that I’ve got to scoop the A. P., the U. P., the Metropolitan News Service and every other rag in this city to get my job back?”

“Yeah.”

I sighed. “The day of miracles is past, my fran.”

The Old Man shrugged. “You’ll have to do it. I can’t take you back otherwise. I’ve got to protect myself. I want you. You’re a good newspaper man, Daffy. And I want that gambling expose too. Make a try anyhow. You’ve got thirty bucks due on salary.

How about it?”

“Slave-driver,” I said, “I will try. I’ll do my damnedest, even if I have to steal or murder myself. So long. When you see this intelligent phiz again it will hold in its mind the greatest circulation yarn in days.”

I went out. I felt enthusiastic and fine. The Old Man was a prince. He liked me—or my gambling story. When I reached the street, I went limp. Where in hell could you get a scoop in a modern newspaper day like this? I began to feel down. So I took the subway up to Times Square, which is my happy hunting ground. And then I went to the Hot Spot Club to drown my sorrows for awhile.

TWO

The Hot Spot is on West Forty-third, and it is owned by Mike Cantrey, alias the Brain.

Cantrey headed just about every racket on the main stem. No murder, beering or bootlegging. Not crude stuff like that. He just took suckers. He ran machines, gambling houses, spots like this one, which were blinds for his crooked wheels in the rear. And it was Cantrey I had written my expose about.

I went in and took a seat by myself in one of the oaken stalls. A waiter came over and looked questioningly at me. I said: “An Old Fashioned, garsong, as ever.” While I was waiting for him I lighted a cigarette. A shadow fell across my table. I looked up. A girl was standing in front of my stall. She had corn-hair, a smooth-looker, and was dressed like the Queen of Sheba.

“I know you,” she said, pointing.

She was a little bit tight and she was holding a rye highball. I thought I’d seen her before somewhere, but I played safe. I said: “You’ve got the better of me, Garbo.”

“You’re Daffy Dill,” she said.

“Right the first time,” I said.

“You’re a reporter on the
Chronicle.”

“Wrong there,” I said sadly. “I was a reporter on the
Chronicle.
I just lost my job.

That’s why my tears are staining my best shirt. Sit down and put up your hair and have a good cry with me. Who are you?”

“Tough,” she said—about the job, and then added: “I’m Clare Gordon.” I didn’t look bright. “You know—Pemberton Gordon’s daughter. You interviewed him at the house last week on the N.R.A. He’s in the cloak and suit end as administrator.”

“Hell, yes!” I said, shaking hands with the gel. “But I didn’t see you there or I would have stayed longer.” I surveyed her. “You make pretty good copy yourself. Been in any more scrapes lately? I haven’t seen a yarn about you since you forced down the police plane when it tried to get you for stunting over the city.” She made a face. “That was a jam. They cracked up in landing. I’ve reformed. Dad played hell with me on that one.”

The waiter brought my Old Fashioned.

“Have one?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”

“Another,” I told the waiter. He left.

“How’d you lose your job?”

I said: “I happened to have a guy in the office who hates my nerve. He had my job but he couldn’t deliver. They promoted me to his forty fish a week and he’s been sore at me ever since. He fixed me into a libellous story. Changed one word and got the paper in a jam. It looked as though I’d written it—and so I am fired.”

“Tsk, tsk,” she said, shaking her head. “Bad, bad. Daffy, am I a pal?”

“My fran,” I said, “I have known you for years.”

“You help me out,” Clare said, “and I’ll get you back your job.”

“Why not?” I said. “Consider yourself helped.”

She handed me a slip of paper. It had a list of figures on it which added up to five grand. “Know what that is?”

“I.O.U.’s, probably,” I said. “Been playing the wheel?”

“Not me,” she said. “I’m not that dumb. But my brother has and he’s in a real spot.

Dad’s cracked down on him lately. Won’t give him money. Dick was playing the wheel here at Cantrey’s. He lost. He gave them an I.O.U. each time. Now they want to collect. They’re going to go to dad and I know it’ll get Dick disowned or something. I told him I’d fix it up. I saw the Brain. He said no.”

“Five grand,” I mused. “O.K., girlie. You sit here and devour your drink. I’ll be right back.”

I got up and went to the back door. Rigo, the Brain’s right-hand man, peered out at me through the barred door.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, and opened up. I went in.

The tables were all getting a good play, even for daytime. Suckers were plunking down the coppers and having them swept away without a bit of return, but they kept right at it. I asked Rigo: “Where’s the Brain?”

“In his office,” Rigo said. He was a little guy with black hair, black mustachio, and squinty eyes. “Want to see him?”

“Yeah.”

He took me in. The Brain was sitting behind his desk, smoking a cigar. Luke Terk was sitting with him. Luke was the Brain’s muscle man when customers were broken-armed about paying up. Rigo closed the door behind us.

“Hello, Daffy,” said the Brain. “How’s tricks?”

“Fair,” I said. “I want to ask a favour.”

“Anything for a pal,” said the Brain, smiling, and I shivered because I knew damn well he would have liked to have had my throat slit. “What is it?”

“There’s a guy named Richard Gordon,” I said. “A good pal of mine. He owes you five grand.”

“That’s right.”

“Tear up his I.O.U.,” I said. “He’s a personal friend, you see. He didn’t know your wheels were crooked.”

Luke Terk jumped around and stared at me. “Listen, birdie, button your lip or—“

“Why, Luke!” the Brain said. “Don’t speak like that. Daffy’s my best friend, aren’t you, Daffy?”

“How about it?” I asked. “Afraid the answer’s no,” the Brain said. “Five grand is five grand.”

“I see,” I said. “Mind if I use your phone?”

“Go ahead.”

I called the Old Man at the Chronicle. The three buzzards watched me carefully. The Old Man said irascibly: “Yeah.”

“Chief,” I said, “this is Daffy Dill. I’m at the Hot Spot seeing Mike Cantrey. He just refused to do a favour for me. Don’t you think it was about time the
Chronicle
ran that series of articles exposing his crooked gambling joints all over the city?”

“Hell, no!” the Old Man said. “You haven’t finished them up yet.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll tell him he can read all about it in tomorrow’s editions then.”

“Wait a second,” the Brain said.

“I get you,” said the Old Man. “You’re baiting him. Keep talking if you want. I’ll play along from this end.”

“Nice going, chief,” I said. “But wait a second.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece and asked: “What is it?”

The Brain studied me. “Is that on the level?”

“You bet your sweet life it is!”

“It can’t hurt me. I’ve got the political boys greased.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but you haven’t got the public greased. You take their money and they’ll be sore when they read about it. They’ll put the blame for any time they’ve ever been gypped on you. Maybe there’ll be a Federal inquiry. And in two months there’s an election coming up. The people won’t elect your political boys unless they clean you out.”

Luke Terk snapped: “This is one guy we oughta cook, Brain.”

“Let me do it!” Rigo growled.

“Boys, boys!” I said. “Don’t be silly. You don’t kill a reporter who has just written an expose of you. That adds murder to the other crimes.” The Brain said: “He’s right, you lugs. Call off your dogs, Daffy. It’s a deal. I’ll give you the I.O.U.”

“Chief,” I said into the phone, “it’s all off. You’ll have to hold those articles for another favour. So long.”

I hung up. The Brain opened his desk, took out a note, handed it to me.

“I’m on the short end,” he said. “You’ve still got those articles for publication. How much for them?”

“I’m not blackmailing,” I said.

“You mean you’ll run them sometime anyhow?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you’ll have time to get your affairs together and start a new racket, Brain. Gambling’s dead from now on.”

Luke Terk growled: “Get outta here, you rat, before I forget myself and blast you.” I got out.

THREE

Clare Gordon had finished her Old Fashioned when I went back to the stall. She was a little tighter. She laughed at me and asked: “How’d you make out?” I handed her the I.O.U. “Is this your brother’s signature?” She nodded. “That’s it.”

“Then you’re all set.” I took out a match and burned the note. “Tell him he’s in the clear. Also tell him to lay off crooked joints. Now, how about my job?”

“That’s right,” she said. “I told you I’d get it back. I’ve got a swell plan. I’m going to be kidnapped.”

“What?” I cried.

“Sure. I’m going to be kidnapped tomorrow night at eight o’clock. By airplane.” Rigo went by the stall at that moment.

“Shh,” I said. “Not so loud. Now, what in hell is this?”

“I just figured it out,” she said, “sitting here. You write my folks a threatening letter, saying I’ve been kidnapped and that the ransom—“

I sighed. “Did you ever hear of the Lindbergh Law?”

“Sure, but what’s the difference? All right then. I’ll write my own letter. I’ll say that I’ve been kidnapped and the ransom is two hundred thousand. I’ll name you as go-between. Then I’ll take off from home in my plane tomorrow at 8:00 P.M. and fly up to Binneybunk, Maine, where dad has a cabin. It’ll be deserted there now. After a week or two, while you bask in the publicity of go-between and your paper cries for your services, I’ll come back and tell a wild story.”

“You’re hopped,” I said. “You’re staggering. Forget it. I wouldn’t go in on a plan like that for money.”

“But I want to help you!”

“Help me? You want me to become a lifer in a Federal jug!” Clare wrinkled her nose. “All right. But you can’t stop me from doing it. And I’ll write the ransom note and still name you as go-between.”

“I’ll blow up the story.”

“And they’ll pinch you for conspiracy or something. I’m telling you, Daffy. Tomorrow at 8:00 P.M. I hop off for Maine and kidnap myself. Them’s the kind words that gets back your job.”

Well, she meant what she said. I was sitting in my apartment the next night around eight thirty, bemoaning the lack of scoops in this dazzling world. I had had a hard day trying to find a story which would yank back my job, but no luck. My nose simply wasn’t in the news. I was washed up. Then my telephone rang.

I answered it with: “Your nickel!”

It was my heart, Dinah Mason. She thrust aside the usual sentimental amenities and said: “Daffy, hell’s broken loose!”