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Roy Glashan's Library
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Black Mask, May 1939, with "Death for Sale."
An energetic young man demonstrates how not to sell vacuum-cleaners.
OWARD evening Paul Tyler was pretty weary. But there was ten minutes to go before five o'clock, and he thought he might as well finish canvassing the house. He lugged the heavy cleaner down the hall, peered at the name plate alongside the door. It said: Michael Groh.
Paul put his finger on the bell, rang it once, and waited. From force of habit he straightened his tie as he had done two hundred times or more today. He put on his mechanical smile and, when the door opened, he said to the woman in the doorway, "How do you do, Mrs. Groh? Nice day, isn't it?"
Then, with his eyes studying the reactions of the stoutish Mrs. Groh, he swung smoothly into the patter that the sales manager had taught him.
"Isn't it a shame. Mrs. Groh, that cultured, delicate women like yourself should be compelled to wear themselves out performing their household tasks with antiquated implements? Now I represent the Easy-Way Vacuum-Cleaner Company. I should like to demonstrate to you how efficiently the New Improved Easy-Way 1939 Streamlined Efficiency Cleaner will do your work with only half the effort, and help you to preserve your radiant youthfulness."
Pursuant to Paragraph Three of the Easy-Way Company's "Manual for House-to-House Canvassers," Paul started to enter Mrs. Groh's apartment, carrying the vacuum-cleaner in his right hand, removing his hat with the left, and retaining the fixed smile on his lips, while at the same time keeping his eyes fixed directly upon the eyes of the prospect.
Mrs. Groh was beetle-browed, portly, with folds of fat showing along the creases of her house-dress. Her double chin wagged to the right and to the left in vigorous and intolerant negative.
"I don't want no vacuum-cleaners," she said.
Paul, still smiling, took another step across the threshold. Grudgingly, Mrs. Groh made way for him, though she continued to wag her chins.
Paul's stomach was doing curious contortions, because he hadn't eaten since breakfast, but his voice was pleasant.
"All I want is a chance to demonstrate, Mrs. Groh. Have you a rug that I can clean for you? If you could only see this new 1939 Easy-Way drag up the dust!"
He was almost inside when a voice from one of the inner rooms bellowed: "Whoozat, Mamie? If it's the girl, bring her in quick."
Mrs. Groh threw a troubled glance at Paul Tyler, and replied to the bellowing voice. "It ain't the girl, Mike. It's a canvasser. He's selling vacuum-cleaners. I thought maybe as long as we're goin' have some money—"
"T'hell wit'him. T'row him out!"
Heavy footsteps sounded, and a huge man appeared in the long hall which led down into the kitchen at the rear of the apartment. This man was in his under shirt. His face was ruddy, and his fists were knotted. He glared at Paul.
Paul Tyler knew that if he didn't make a sale, he wouldn't eat. He had put down his last ten dollars as a deposit for the Easy-Way Cleaner, and he had no more money. If he could sign these people up, the crew manager would let him draw two or three dollars advance commission. And the Sales Manual said that a belligerent prospect was the easiest one to sell to once you overcame his resistance.
So Paul persevered.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Groh. I was trying to help your wife. I'm sure you want to make things as easy as possible for her."
Mr. Groh rumbled deep in his throat, and he suddenly reached out a heavy hand. He gripped the handle of the vacuum-cleaner, and snatched it up.
Paul said, "Here!"
"I'll show you!" the big man roared.
He stepped back, raised the cleaner in the air, and brought it down in a smashing blow, swinging it with both hands. The heavy mechanism of the cleaner crashed sickeningly into the floor. There was a crunching, grinding sound, and the nice shiny streamlined 1939 Easy-Way Vacuum Cleaner lay there—dented, smashed and twisted.
Paul Tyler stood stock-still, gazing down at the wreck of the machine for which he had deposited his last ten dollars.
Mrs. Groh gasped, and her chins shook. "You shouldn't ought to've done that, Mike."
But Mr. Groh wasn't through. "Now git!" he ordered. He stepped over the shattered cleaner, and launched a huge fist at Paul's face.
Paul Tyler had spent four years at college, during which period he had not learned how to make a living. But he had learned how to dribble a basketball, how to sprint and high-jump, and how to box. At this point in his career he found a use for the education he had acquired in the halls of higher learning. He moved his head an inch to the right, and the ham-like fist of Mr. Groh merely grazed his cheek. At the same time Paul Tyler brought up his own fist to meet the onrushing jaw of Mr. Groh.
There was a very sharp crack, and simultaneously with it there was also another and louder sound, like the report of a gun or backfire from an automobile. Mr. Michael Groh's head snapped back with Paul's blow. A deep grunt escaped from somewhere within him, and then blood flecked his lips. His jaw popped over at a crooked angle, and he fell forward, crumpling on the floor.
Paul had put into that blow all of the sudden bitter anger welling up within him at sight of the ruined cleaner. Now he bent and picked it up, examining it ruefully.
But he had only a moment for this examination. A set of vicious, clawing fingernails flailed at him, and only his instinctive leap backward saved his cheek from being raked.
It was Mrs. Groh. She had sprung silently, but now she shrieked, "You've killed him! You've killed Mike! You—"
Paul waited for no more. He eluded her next attempt to rake his face, and backed precipitately into the outer hall, lugging the ruined vacuum-cleaner. He snatched at the doorknob, pulling the door shut in Mrs. Groh's face.
He was on the ground floor of the apartment house, for it was prescribed in the Easy-Way Sales Manual that canvassers should start at the top of a house and work down. So he didn't have far to go to reach the street. He stumbled out into the open air, and realized that his hat was still in the Groh apartment.
At the same instant Mrs. Groh appeared at the street door.
"Stop!" she screamed. "You murderer!"
HE house was in the middle of the block, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. There were quite a few people on both sides of the street, and they turned to stare at the screaming fat woman. Then their stares switched to Paul Tyler.
Paul suddenly felt lost in a hostile world. He was almost certain that his blow had not been sufficient to kill the porcine Mr. Groh. Yet he seemed to sense the accusation all about him now.
Mrs. Groh was coming at him with blazing eyes, and he was seized by panic. She changed her refrain from, "Stop, murderer!" to "Grab him, grab him!"
But Paul was already running, with the ruined cleaner slung across his shoulder. People stepped out of his way. Mrs. Groh waddled after him.
Paul sprinted blindly toward the corner of Ninth Avenue. A man lunged at him, but Paul straight-armed the man, and kept going.
A police whistle was shrilling loudly somewhere. Behind him, down near the Groh house, a revolver roared, and some one yelled. "Stop—in the name of the law!"
Paul threw a quick look over his shoulder and saw that a man in plain clothes had fired the shot, aiming in the air. That would be a detective. He wondered fleetingly how it was that a detective should have been around in that neighborhood at just that moment. The plain-clothes man must have been taken by surprise, for he was several hundred feet behind the rest of the pursuit.
There were a dozen men savagely chasing Paul Tyler now, with Mrs. Groh puffing in the rear. But Paul, instinctively using the long, ground-eating pace that he had learned to employ in the 440-yard dash in college, easily outdistanced them in spite of the fact that he had the cleaner over his shoulder.
He reached the corner, swung around it, and looked about desperately for the crew manager's truck of the Easy-Way Vacuum Cleaner Company, from which he had been working. He spotted the truck, half-way down the block in Ninth Avenue. He saw the seven or eight members of the canvassing crew gathered about the tailboard of the truck, turning in their orders and their machines, and getting back the deposits which they had put up.
Paul paused at the corner for only a fraction of a second. But in that infinitesimal space of time he realized bitterly that he stood no earthly chance of recovering his deposit for the ruined vacuum-cleaner. And he also realized that if he lingered here another instant, the bloodthirsty mob behind him would have him by the heels.
He was bewildered by the quick turn of events which had transformed him from a starving canvasser into a fugitive murderer. But so adaptable are human instincts that he now thought and reacted only as a fugitive. His hunted glance switched from the Easy-Way truck over toward the Ninth Avenue Elevated structure. There was a station at this corner, and he heard the rumble of an El train, approaching overhead.
That rumble, aided by the shouting pursuit that was bearing down on him, stimulated him to further flight. He launched himself up the stairs toward the station above, still hugging the useless vacuum-cleaner.
As he went up the stairs he saw the detective, still several hundred feet away, stop and take careful aim at him. He bent over almost double, and the shot clanged against the metal framework of the El station, only a few feet away.
It was a dreadful feeling to be shot at, but Paul had no time to think about it, for his pursuers were already coming up the stairs, and the first of them was almost within reach of him. He could see their maddened, angry expressions, and he could read in their eyes the intention to lynch him if they got their hands on him.
Mrs. Groh, at the foot of the stairs was shrieking, "He killed my poor husband! In cold blood!"
Paul's pulse raced wildly in competition with his flying feet as he sprinted to the top of the stairway. He heard the train pulling into the station, but he knew he could never make it with these people so close behind. He swung around, lifted the vacuum-cleaner from his shoulder, and hurled it down at the mass of faces below. He saw men duck and leap out of the way of the hurtling mechanism. Then he turned and lunged through the station.
Now, for the first time, it occurred to him that he had no nickel to get through the turnstile. The train was in. He could see its automatic doors open. They would close in another moment, and the train would go on. His escape would be cut off.
The lack of the nickel broke his stride, because he was still thinking along conventional lines. He couldn't get through without a nickel.
But the hoarse shouts from behind came floating up in a wave of hatred. And he uttered a wild laugh. He was wanted for murder now, and here he was hesitating about a nickel. With the laugh still in his throat he took a running leap and vaulted the turnstile.
The cashier in the booth yelled, "Hey!" But Paul was already across the platform and through the slowly closing door of the middle car of the train. Just as he got in, the door slid shut behind him.
It was a six-car train, and there was only one guard at the last coupling. The doors were operated by a switch at that coupling which closed them all at once, and at the same time released the power that sent the train on.
It started with a lurch as the door closed, and Paul put his face to the glass in time to see the first of the crowd streaming out on to the station platform, with the plain-clothes detective fuming behind them and waving his gun. Their figures disappeared from view as the train gathered momentum.
Paul was breathing hard. He turned to see if anyone inside the car had noticed his escape. But there'd been no one on the platform, and he realized with a sigh of relief that if any of the passengers had seen him running for the train they must have thought he was merely another New Yorker in a hurry.
He took several deep breaths to quiet the pounding of his heart, and took stock of the situation. The train was a northbound local, and there was another station, seven blocks away. He would have to get off there, because that would be the only place where he could hope to evade the police cars which would be dispatched after him. Luckily, the detective would have to take the time to run downstairs and find a phone, and that might be the margin of time between freedom and arrest.
Freedom? What sort of freedom would it be? He was now wanted for murder.
The Easy-Way crew manager would give the police all the information they would need. He dared not even go to his furnished room to pick up his belongings. He was one against society, without even a nickel in his pocket.
He could still not bring himself to believe that he had killed that man. Perhaps Mrs. Groh was mistaken. Perhaps Mike Groh was not dead. In that case, Paul Tyler would still be wanted for assault and battery. He could never convince a jury that he had struck in self-defense. The facts, as well as public opinion, would be against him.
There had recently been several cases where house-to-house salesmen had been arrested for attacks upon householders. The case of the People vs. Paul Tyler would climax them. He'd be convicted and sent to jail for a number of years. And if Groh was dead? The electric chair. Or maybe only life imprisonment.
That was as far as he got by the time the train reached the next station. He slipped out, went hurriedly down the stairs, peering over the railing to see if there were any police cars downstairs. There were none, but he thought he heard a siren in the distance. He sped down to the street level and walked quickly east.
His thoughts were jumbled, and he hadn't the faintest notion of what to do next. His indecision however, was settled for him almost at once. A small coupé drew abreast of him along the curb at his right, and its horn sounded three times, insistently.
A girl was at the wheel. Paul got a swift glimpse of reddish hair under one of those modish pancake hats, hanging on at a precarious angle over a small, pink ear. He saw a pert little face with an uptilted nose and a few freckles; a pair of very blue eyes and a nicely-shaped mouth. The general impression of all these features might have been very pleasant indeed, except for the fact that at this moment the blue eyes were very cold and very hard, and the mouth was compressed into a thin, determined line.
And the girl's cold glance was directed very definitely at him.
"Get in here!" she said. And to make it clear that she wasn't fooling, she showed him the muzzle of a small pistol just over the edge of the window.
AUL stared at her, uncomprehending. The police car siren was screeching very loudly now, around the corner on Ninth Avenue. The girl kept the gun pointed at Paul. "I followed the train," she said swiftly. "I'm only about three minutes ahead of the police. Maybe you'd like me to turn you over to them!"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Paul began.
Her mouth tightened a bit. The gun moved suggestively forward. "Maybe I ought just to kill you," she said reflectively. "I'd be within my rights. I saw you come out of Groh's house. I was on the street, coming to see him. I swung into Ninth Avenue, guessing that you'd get out at the next station. Don't try to deny that you're the man who killed Groh. I could shoot you dead and the police would thank me."
Paul's eyes narrowed. He remembered now that Groh had asked his wife if it was "the girl" at the door. And he began to be angry. Angry and reckless. It didn't matter anyway. This was a mess he could never get out of.
"All right," he snapped at her. "Shoot me!"
The girl's lips parted in surprise. But only for a moment.
"I'll do better than that!" she said savagely. "I'll give you to the police!" She kept the gun pointing at him, and with her free hand she pressed down on the horn button. The raucous blast of her horn sounded in maddening crescendo above the swiftly approaching screech of the police car siren.
Paul glanced about desperately. Maybe the girl didn't have the nerve to shoot him in cold blood. But she certainly wouldn't hesitate to fire if he started to run. And anyway, where could he run to? That police car would be around the corner in a minute, and guided by the girl they would overtake him at once. There was only one thing to do.
"O.K.," he gasped. "I'll come along."
The girl smiled triumphantly. She opened the door, and slid over in the seat. "Get behind the wheel. Can you drive?"
He nodded. In the rear-vision mirror he saw the police car swinging around the corner. One of the cops was leaning out and talking to the newsdealer at the corner, and the newsdealer was pointing toward the girl's car and shouting back to the cop.
The girl alongside Paul had the gun in her lap, pointing at him, but covered by her handbag. "Better get started," she told him.
Paul threw the car in gear and let up the clutch. He pulled away from the curb, watching the street behind him in the rear-vision glass. With sinking heart he saw the police car racing after them, pulling alongside. "It's no use!" he muttered.
But the girl at his side had different ideas. "Keep still and don't say a word. I'll handle this!"
The cop in the police car was waving at him to stop, and Paul pulled up. The cop got out of the car, leaving his partner at the wheel. He had his hand on the holstered gun at his side, his eyes fixed on Paul.
"Don't try nothin'—"
He stopped short, his eyes widening, fixed on the girl. Abruptly his tone changed. "Why, good day, Miss Hastings. I—I didn't know this was your car."
"How do you do, officer," she said with a wealth of suddenly acquired sweetness. "Is anything wrong?"
"Why, no, I guess not. We're lookin' for a guy that just shot a man and escaped on the El. We figured he would get off at this station, and the newsdealer at the corner said such a man just came down, and then went in this car. We figured he stole a car and was lamming."
The girl's tinkling laugh interrupted. "How funny! This is my chauffeur, Brown."
"And he's been with you all the time? He didn't just get in the car?"
"You don't think I'd send my chauffeur around shooting people, do you?"
"Well, uh, I guess not. Well, we better start searching the block. Maybe the newsdealer was mistaken about where the guy went, but it's pretty certain he was the one got off the El. If you see your father, Miss Hastings, tell him I didn't mean nothin' by stopping you. Just doing my duty, is all. Officer Woods is the name."
"Of course, Mr. Woods. I understand." Then to Paul, "You may go on, Brown."
Paul called to the cop, who was already turning away, "Say, Mr. Woods, did you say this man shot someone?"
The cop turned, raised his eyebrows at the idea of a chauffeur talking up like that. But he replied, "Yeah. We didn't get much—only a snatch over the short-wave while we were coming up Ninth Avenue. Shot him to death right in his apartment. Nobody knows anything much yet. We haven't even got the description. But we'll get that in a couple of minutes. It seems there was a plain-clothes man right at the scene, and he's phoning in the stuff and they're relaying it over the radio. My partner is getting it right now."
"Thanks!" Paul said hastily, and started the coupé forward. In a minute he was out of the block and swinging north into Central Park West.
The girl had the gun out once more, and was covering him with it.
"Drive through the park," she said. "We're going up Fifth Avenue."
Paul glanced at her sideways. "I know who you are now," he told her. "You're Helen Hastings, the District Attorney's daughter. Your picture was in the paper last week, but I didn't place you at first. Your father is in some sort of trouble. A night club singer was murdered the other night, and it was discovered that your father had been coming to see her. The opposition papers are playing it up big, and your dad refused to resign, saying he wouldn't quit under a cloud. I followed that story very closely. It looks bad for your father, but I don't think there's any evidence to prove he killed the girl."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Helen Hastings said. Her little mouth was still tight. "As if you didn't know all along who I was! You knew I was coming to see Groh, and you killed him before I could get there!"
Paul's perplexity grew as he swung the car into the transverse across Central Park. "What I can't understand is if you're the D.A.'s daughter, why did you save me from the police?"
"You know very well why I saved you from the police. I want that gun. Better give it to me now."
"Look here, Miss Hastings, I swear to you, I didn't shoot that man, Groh. I just hit him on the button. I was trying to sell his wife a vacuum-cleaner."
Helen Hastings uttered a short, brittle laugh. "You were just waiting for a street car!"
She fiddled with the radio on the dash-board, using her left hand while she kept the gun steadily pointed at him with her right. The voice of a news announcer emanated from, the speaker, uttering quick staccato sentences in highly excited tones.
"... murder in the heart of the city! Less than ten minutes ago, Michael Groh, a chauffeur, was shot down in cold blood in his own home by a killer posing as a vacuum-cleaner salesman.
"Groh, until last week in the employ of Lawrence Cleverly, boss of the East End Election District, was killed by a bullet in the base of his brain. Police are laying a dragnet around the city.
"The murderer's description is as follows: Five feet ten or eleven; black, curly hair; clean-shaven; was wearing a blue serge suit and a blue-striped tie when last seen, making his escape on Ninth Avenue Elevated. This man appears young and innocent, but is really very dangerous. Citizens are advised to use caution if they should see him, as this description tallies with that of 'Baby Face' Matt Squeer...."
The girl stared at him with vindictive eyes as the announcer continued his broadcast. "I was almost beginning to believe that story of yours!" she whispered. "No wonder they say you're so dangerous. You could fool anybody. I—I could almost like you if you weren't 'Baby Face' Matt Squeer." She shuddered, and raised the gun a trifle. "Remember, I can shoot. I want that gun."
"But I tell you, I didn't shoot him. Come to think of it, just as I hit Groh, there was a loud noise. I didn't pay much attention to it, except to think it was backfire from a car outside but I bet it was that gun. I bet someone shot him from down the end of the hall—"
"Never mind that," she broke in quietly. "You can explain it to Father. Here we are. Stop right in front of that door there. I'm going to keep this gun pointed at you, and if you make the slightest move that I don't like, I'm going to empty it into you. Don't think I'm fooling—not since I know you're Matt Squeer!"
The announcer's voice was still droning on, and Paul sat still for a moment, listening, in defiance of her gun.
"The murder of Groh may tear the city wide open. It is well known that District Attorney Hastings has been moving heaven and earth to secure an indictment of Lawrence Cleverly, Groh's former employer. The question is being asked: 'Does Groh's murder have any bearing on this war between political boss and fighting District Attorney?'
"It will be recalled that Matt Squeer, before he became a fugitive from justice, was part of Frenchy Peck's gambling mob, and that Lawrence Cleverly was accused by District Attorney Hastings of selling protection to Frenchy.
"If it was really Matt Squeer who shot Groh—"
The girl thrust her gun into Paul Tyler's side. "Never mind the broadcast. Just get out of the car and go in that house!"
HEY were parked before one of the more modern apartment houses facing the Park. Paul assumed this was the residence of District Attorney Hastings. He might have made an effort to take the gun away from the girl, but he noted that there were two or three men lounging across the street near the park, and that there was a police radio-car cruising down near the other end of the block. A tussle now would surely result in his apprehension. And though he could, of course, not be mistaken for "Baby Face" Matt Squeer, he was still wanted for the killing of Michael Groh.
He decided that the frying pan would be better than the fire in this case. District Attorney Hastings could do no more to him than the police; and the very fact that Helen Hastings did not want him to be arrested afforded him a dim ray of hope. So he got out of the car and went under the broad canopy, into the tiled entrance of the apartment house.
Helen Hastings was close beside him, holding the gun underneath her pocket-book in such a way that the doorman could not see it. They were swiftly whisked up to the fourteenth floor. There were only two apartments on each floor, and the girl indicated the door of 14A.
"Ring the bell!" she ordered.
They were admitted, not by a butler or maid, but by a square-jowled man in civilian clothes. This man's coat was open, and Paul could see the gold shield pinned on his vest, and the edge of the shoulder holster under his left armpit.
The man got the idea of the situation at once apparently, for he drew his gun and gripped Paul by the sleeve.
"What happened, Miss Hastings?" he demanded anxiously. "Fillmore just phoned us that Groh was shot and that he chased the killer up the El stairs and then lost him."
"This is the killer!" she said breathlessly. "I caught him!"
The detective scowled at Paul. "Tough guy, huh? And caught by a girl! Come on!"
He poked the muzzle of his revolver into Paul's back, and shoved him down the hall toward an open door. The girl followed.
As they went down the hall Paul could hear someone had a radio going in the room they were approaching. It was not the same station as the one that Helen had tuned in on in the car. The announcer was saying:
"It has now been learned that the killer planned Groh's murder very carefully. This morning he obtained a job as a canvasser with a vacuum-cleaner crew, giving the name of Paul Tyler. He apparently worked on Groh's street all day, awaiting an opportune moment to commit his crime."
As they got to the door of the living-room some one inside turned down the radio and called out, "Fowler! Who's that? Is it Helen?"
"It's Miss Hastings all right, sir!" the detective answered, tightening his grip on Paul's sleeve. "And she's brought something home with her!"
They entered the living-room, and Detective Fowler thrust Paul into a chair. Paul looked across the room to a small desk where District Attorney Thomas Hastings was sitting. It was he who had been manipulating the dial of the radio. He turned it off now and sprang up, as his daughter came into the room after Paul and the detective.
"What happened, Helen?" he demanded. His glance rested for a moment on Paul Tyler, then switched to her. "Who is this man?"
Helen Hastings' eyes were bright. "He's the man who shot Groh, Dad! I followed him—and caught him!"
Hastings' eyes narrowed. "The police don't know about this yet?"
"No, Dad. But they may suspect."
"All right. All right. We only need a few minutes."
He swung to face Paul Tyler. He was a tall man, with a great shock of white hair, and a bristling white mustache. He had made quite a record as a public prosecutor, and his name was being prominently mentioned for governor. But there were dark lines under his eyes, which Paul was sure had come there within the last few days, as a result of the "night club murder scandal," as the opposition papers had tagged it.
Hastings waved Fowler back and came and stood directly in front of Paul. "What's your name?" he barked.
Paul looked up at him, glanced sideways at the girl, then said. "Paul Tyler. And I don't understand what this is all about."
Smack!
Detective Fowler, who had moved to a spot directly behind the chair, brought his open hand around in a cruel slap to the side of Paul's face.
Helen uttered a little gasp. Paul was almost thrown from the chair.
"Just to show him we're not fooling!" Fowler growled. "I know how to make these rats talk, Mr. Hastings!"
District Attorney Hastings frowned. "I don't like it much. But we have so little time." He dropped his glance to Paul. "Well? What is your name?"
Paul said, "I tell you, my name is Paul Tyler. I'm a vacuum-cleaner salesman. There are people in this city who can identify me. I don't know anything about Groh's murder, except that when I hit him, someone must have shot him in the back at the same—"
Smack!
Detective Fowler repeated the blow to Paul's face. This time Paul was thrown sideways off the chair. He landed on the floor on his knees, rested there for an instant, his head ringing from the slap.
He got slowly to his feet. His right eye, where Fowler had slapped him, was watering. He saw the blurred figure of the girl, eyes wide with outrage, protesting to Fowler.
Fowler growled, "It's the only way to handle rats, Miss Hastings. You watch him talk!" He took a step toward Paul. "Well, rat? You ready to spill?"
Paul said slowly, "Yeah. I'm ready!" And he leaped at Fowler. Both fists pistoning in and out with furious speed, he was all over the big detective, smashing blows to his face and stomach. Fowler, with the gun in his hand, was nevertheless forced backward, trying ineffectually to cover up.
Paul landed a haymaker on the detective's jaw, but he only weighed a hundred and sixty, whereas Fowler tipped the scales at about two ten. Nevertheless, the blow rocked the big detective for a moment.
Paul dropped his fists, breathing hard. "Now if you'll listen to me for a minute—"
He wasn't prepared for what Fowler did next. The detective appeared to stagger forward, and Paul instinctively put a hand to prop him up. But Fowler raised his gun hand in a lightning motion, brought the barrel down in a chopping blow against Paul's temple.
The room began to dance around in front of Paul, and Fowler's thick-jowled face advanced and receded, and lights and shadows flickered before his eyes. He mumbled, "Who's a rat now?" and bored in weakly, but he could barely raise his arms.
Fowler grinned wickedly and raised the gun and brought it down again.
Paul heard Helen's voice, seemingly at a great distance, saying, "That's cruel, Fowler!"
And he also heard Hastings. "Stop it, Fowler! Stop it! Don't knock him out. He's got to talk!"
Slowly, Paul sank down to his knees, fighting against the nauseous darkness that was enveloping him. He felt blood in his eyes, and the taste of it in his mouth. And then a hand was helping him up and into a chair. The hand was soft and warm, and he forced his eyes open and saw that it was Helen Hastings. He smiled wanly.
She produced a small handkerchief from some mysterious recess of her clothes, and dabbed at the cuts in his temple. Over her shoulder she said, "You're a brute, Fowler!"
District Attorney Hastings came and stood in front of him, watching his daughter treat the cuts.
"Young man," he said, "I'm sorry. Fowler shouldn't have done that to you."
Helen broke in indignantly, "He was trying to knock him out. He wouldn't have been able to talk at all!"
The D.A. waved a hand. "I've sent him out. Now that we're alone, I'm going to handle this my way." He looked down at Paul. "Young man, I must know what happened to that gun. Did you get it? Believe me, it's vitally important. I can help you—"
Paul said weakly, "How in God's name can I have a gun when I didn't shoot Groh?"
"It's not that gun I want!" Hastings snapped impatiently. "I want the gun that killed Renee Townlee. Nobody has accused me, openly yet, of killing her. But there are ugly whispers. I'll never get the nomination for governor unless I uncover the real murderer. Someone killed Renee Townlee the night I visited her. She was dickering to give me information about Lawrence Cleverly that would have enabled me to indict him. Cleverly killed her. Didn't he?"
Paul looked up at him, annoyed. "Are you asking me or telling me?"
Hastings swore under his breath. He started to turn away, then swung back as if to make one more effort.
"That man, Michael Groh," he said, "used to be Cleverly's chauffeur, and was fired. Somehow or other he got hold of the gun with which Cleverly killed Renee Townlee. That was his story over the phone when he talked to Helen. He offered to sell it to her for five thousand dollars, but only if she came alone. As a precaution, I had one plain-clothes man posted in the block, but he woke up too late to catch you."
Hastings pointed an accusing finger at Paul. "You were sent there either by Cleverly, or by his gangster friend, Frenchy Peck, to kill Groh and get that gun before Helen arrived."
"I wish I could convince you," Paul said earnestly, "that I'm not in Cleverly's pay, or in Frenchy Peck's pay—and that I didn't kill Groh. Someone shot him from the back window at the very moment that I punched him in the jaw. I swear to you that I was only trying to sell them a vacuum-cleaner! If you'll let me get to the telephone, I can have someone up here to identify me."
He saw father and daughter exchanging significant looks.
"You know, Dad," Helen said softly, "his story is just far-fetched enough to be true. I'm half inclined to believe him."
There was the sound of the doorbell, and she stopped. They heard Fowler's footsteps going to answer the bell, and in a moment the square-jowled detective poked his head in the room.
"It's Murray Gisling, the shyster mouthpiece!" he announced. "He claims you have Matt Squeer here."
District Attorney Hastings uttered an ejaculation. Helen looked at Paul, and Paul saw all the doubt coming back into her eyes.
Hastings said, "Gisling is the lawyer for all the mobs. Frenchy Peck must have sent him. That means that you are Matt Squeer!"
Fowler said from the doorway, "Lemme take his prints and check 'em."
From behind Fowler came a suave voice. "Ah, my dear Hastings. I see that I was well informed!"
URRAY GISLING gently pushed Fowler out of the way, and came into the room. He threw one quick look at Paul Tyler, and raised his eyebrows. "Just as I thought, Squeer. They've been giving you the works, eh? Blood all over. Tch, tch. The judge will not like that when he sees it."
"What judge?" demanded Hastings.
Lawyer Gisling smiled thinly. He was a heavily-built man, but sleekly and extravagantly outfitted. Brown spats matched his brown shirt and tie, and the brown handkerchief in the breast pocket of his snugly-fitting Chesterfield. His brown-gloved right hand twirled a gold-tipped cane dexterously.
"Well?" Hastings demanded.
"What judge? Judge Connaught, my dear Hastings." He dipped his gloved hand into his breast pocket and drew out a legal paper which he unfolded and handed to Hastings. "I was informed that you were holding Matt Squeer here, unlawfully. So I immediately proceeded to secure a writ of habeas corpus from Judge Connaught. You will notice, my dear Hastings, that the writ commands you to produce the body of the defendant, forthwith—at the Judge's chambers."
Hastings glanced over the document, and grunted. "You always have a blank writ ready, and just fill it in, don't you?"
The lawyer shrugged, his black eyes inscrutable. "I am not here to defend my actions. It is you, my dear Hastings, who must now prepare a good story. In holding Squeer in this place and third-degreeing him brutally, you have violated the law. Judge Connaught will require an adequate explanation."
"How do you know that this man is Squeer?" Helen Hastings demanded. "Are you personally acquainted with him?"
Gisling threw another quick glance at Paul Tyler. "No, I've never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Squeer. But it will be a real pleasure to defend him. I understand that he is wanted on a number of charges."
"Who retained you to defend him?" Hastings asked.
Murray Gisling raised his eyebrows. "That, my dear Hastings, is a professional secret. Now I must demand that you immediately bring this man before the judge."
Hastings sighed. "All right." He motioned to Fowler. "Get your hat and coat. Take the prisoner down town to Judge Connaught's chambers. I'll follow in a few minutes."
Fowler went out to get his hat and coat, and Gisling said, "I suppose you will not object to my having a few moments talk with my client in private?"
Hastings nodded. He and Helen moved over to the far side of the room, out of earshot. Murray Gisling stepped close to Paul, dropped his voice to a whisper.
"Here. Take this, quick!"
Out of the glove on his left hand he slipped a small white paper containing some sort of powder, which he thrust at Paul.
"It's a deck of coke, you fool!" he said impatiently, when Paul looked at it blankly. "Frenchy says you'll need it, that your last sniff must be worn off by this time. He was afraid you'd break down without it."
Paul took the paper.
"And here. Take this, too."
Gisling had unbuttoned the top button of his Chesterfield. From the inside pocket he took a small, compact, black automatic. "Put it in your pocket!"
Paul obeyed. "What—what am I supposed to do with it?"
Gisling snorted. "All you hopheads are the same! As soon as the stuff begins to wear off, you get to be dumb clucks! What's a gun for, sap? What do you think I brought that writ for? You think it's going to do you any good to be arraigned before a judge? Connaught can't set you free. Even if you could beat this Groh rap, you're wanted in two States, as well as by the Feds. Frenchy was a dope to use you at all!"
Paul Tyler saw that Hastings and his daughter were conversing near the window, scrupulously refraining from any attempt to overhear what was being said.
"All right, all right," he said to Gisling, almost unconsciously falling into the tones he assumed a hood like Baby Face Matt Squeer would use. "So tell me what I'm supposed to do with the gun. You want me to take it out and start shooting right now?"
"No, you sap. But you've got to make a break. That's your only chance if you don't want to fry. Wait till you get downstairs with Fowler. Then let him have it in the back, and scram outside. Two of Frenchy's boys will be waiting for you in a car at the curb. Get in and they'll take you to a hide-out. Give Frenchy the gun you got from Groh, and then Frenchy will take care of getting you out of the country. Or better still, slip me the gun now, before Fowler comes back, and I'll take care of it."
"You mean the gun I killed Groh with?" Paul asked innocently.
"No!" Gisling replied with rising viciousness. "I mean the gun you got from Groh. You know damn well what gun I mean. I was a fool to promise Frenchy I'd come here. I should have known enough to keep out of it the minute he told me you were a snow bird! I mean the gun you killed Groh for. Did they frisk you? Did they get it from you? Or did you stash it?"
Paul Tyler was growing wiser by the minute in the ways that are devious. "They didn't get it," he said.
Just then Fowler came back in, and Hastings and Helen came over from the other side of the room. Fowler put a pair of handcuffs on Paul's wrists and said, "Come along. And I only hope you try to make a break for it!"
Murray Gisling said, "I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes, Mr. Hastings. Then we can go down to Judge Connaught's chambers together."
Paul understood why Gisling wanted to remain behind. The mouth-piece didn't want to be downstairs when the prisoner made his break.
Fowler took Paul by the arm and growled, "Come on, rat!"
They started for the door, and Helen Hastings called out, "Wait. I'm coming along. I'll take you in my coupé, and Father and Mr. Gisling can follow in his."
Paul said urgently, "Don't bother, Miss Hastings. You—"
The words were practically rammed down his throat by Fowler's fist. The big detective hit him in the mouth, and Paul felt his teeth cutting through his upper lip.
Fowler snapped, "Nobody asked you for advice. And remember, I got to take the blame for marking you up, so I might as well have a little more fun. Better not give me any more reason to smack you around!"
He dragged Paul out, and called back to Helen Hastings, "I'm sorry, Miss Hastings, but I won't take him if you go along. There's the chance that Frenchy's mob may try to spring him, and I don't want you in danger!"
Helen glared at Fowler, but she didn't argue with him. She watched them get into one of the two self-service elevators that served the building, and Paul's last glimpse of her showed him a queer, calculating light in her eyes.
N the way out to the elevator, Paul had managed to slip one of his two handcuffed hands into his side pocket and extract the automatic, which he held palmed in his right hand.
Fowler was looking at him peculiarly as the cage slid downward. When the cage was at the eighth floor, the big detective put his finger on the stop button, and the elevator came to rest between the seventh and eighth.
"Now!" he barked. "Maybe I couldn't work you over right up there, with Hastings and that dizzy daughter of his watching. But no one's here to stop me now!"
He gripped his heavy service revolver by the butt, raising the barrel in the air over Paul's head. "You talk, mugg, or I'm gonna slice your pretty face to ribbons. Where did you cache the gun you took from Groh?"
"I tell you, I didn't get any gun!" Paul protested.
Fowler grinned wickedly. "You didn't kill Groh for nothing. I know you're not Matt Squeer. You're some new hood working for Frenchy Peck. Frenchy sent you up there to knock off Groh and get the gun. All right, I want it. Talk!"
Paul said quietly, "Better not hit me with that gun, Fowler. It might be the last smack you'll ever take at anyone."
As he said it he slipped off the safety catch of the automatic.
Fowler heard the snick, and he started visibly, glanced downward, and saw the ugly black muzzle of the little automatic pointing at his belly.
He grew pale. Slowly and carefully, he lowered his own gun hand, being careful not to appear to be trying to point the revolver at Paul.
Paul Tyler enjoyed that moment. He knew now how it felt to be a feared and dangerous gunman. Fowler had no doubt that Paul would shoot him in the guts if he made the slightest wrong move.
Paul grinned, and reached out his left hand, dragging the right along with it by the handcuffs, and took the revolver from Fowler. He now had two guns.
"Turn around," he said.
Fowler was green around the gills. "You—you're not gonna knock me off?"
"Don't worry," Paul assured him.
Fowler was all the way around now, and Paul clubbed the heavy service revolver, struck the detective once behind the ear. Fowler's breath escaped in a quick gasp, and he folded over, slid down to the floor of the cage.
Paul bent over him, dug into his pockets until he found the key to the handcuffs, unlocked them and threw them off. Then he pocketed Fowler's revolver and sent the cage down to the ground floor. He was remembering what Gisling had told him about two of Frenchy Peck's boys waiting for him in a getaway car.
He could, at that moment, have walked out of the apartment house, ducked down the street, and escaped. But he realized that he would still be Paul Tyler, ex-vacuum-cleaner salesman, wanted for murder. Lawrence Cleverly had been able to frame a man like District Attorney Hastings for murder. Why couldn't Frenchy Peck arrange to leave him, Paul Tyler, likewise framed for a murder? Paul Tyler would become a fugitive from justice for the rest of his life. The real killer of Groh—Matt Squeer—would bring the all-important gun to Frenchy Peck, who would no doubt turn it over to Lawrence Cleverly. District Attorney Hastings would never be able to prove his innocence. And Helen—Helen with the pert little face and the red hair—would become the daughter of a disgraced official.
All that would follow if Paul Tyler ran out of the picture now. Instead of running out, he was going to try fighting it out. His brain, rendered subtle and keener by his last hour of life as a hunted criminal, had already evolved a course of action which he immediately proceeded to carry out. He bent down and took Fowler's hat and put it on his own head, pulling the brim down as low over his face as he could.
He opened the door of the cage, and at the same time raised his automatic in the air and fired two quick shots at the ceiling. Then he started to run for the front entrance. He heard the door of the second elevator cage opening behind him, but he didn't turn. He saw the doorman looking at him with distended eyes. He waved the gun, and the doorman dropped flat on the floor.
Then Paul was out in the street. Sure enough, just as Gisling had said, there was a black sedan in front of the door with motor running, pulled up just in front of Helen Hastings' coupé. There were two men in the rear of that car, and a driver behind the wheel.
Paul hesitated for a second. He had counted on only two men altogether. Then he shrugged. What were the odds?
He leaped across the sidewalk, still with his hat-brim pulled low, and the door of the sedan opened swiftly.
He leaped into the car, and the driver gave it gas. Almost before he was altogether in, the sedan was ten feet away from the house. And before he got into the seat between the two men in the rear, they were around the corner.
Paul got only a single backward glimpse of the front of the apartment building, and of Helen Hastings, coming out after him and getting into her coupé. Then they were racing eastward. It was after six o'clock now, and pretty dark, but he would have recognized that boyish young figure of hers anywhere.
He could feel the closeness of the two men on either side of him, and he could see the back of the driver's head, with a pair of enormous ears that stood out almost at right angles, under a tilted derby that squashed them downwards. Big Ears could certainly handle a car.
And then the man at the left was talking to him. "Did you knock off the dick, Baby Face?"
It was hard to see the features of either of his companions, for the driver did not even have a dashboard light on. Paul kept his hat low over his face, and merely grunted. He still had the automatic in his hand, and he wished that he were on the end instead of in the middle.
The one at the right crowded him a little. "What happened when you knocked off Groh? How come you ran for it? The boss had that other apartment upstairs in the next house, all fixed for a hide-out—gun and all. You'd 've had plenty of time to get back to it if you knocked off the dame too. Instead you had to mess it all up!"
Paul's eyes were glittering. If he could only maintain silence for a while longer, these men would spill the whole story.
"It's a cinch now," the man at his left said. "I don't hear no police sirens. We must have made a clean getaway. I—"
With sudden, disconcerting swiftness, he swept up his right arm and brushed the hat from Paul's head. At the same time he reached across and pinioned Paul's gun-hand.
"Look, Fatty!" he said to the man at Paul's right. "This ain't Baby Face!"
Fatty said, "Well, ain't that funny!" He turned in his seat, and a gun appeared magically in his paw. He thrust it into Paul's side. "O.K., sucker, you can drop the rod."
Paul let go of the automatic and it clattered to the floor of the car.
Fatty peered closely at Paul. "Looks like I made a mistake. When I seen the girl go in there with this guy, I would 've swore it was Baby Face. But that was because I didn't get a good look at his face. The boss will like to hear about this."
The man at Paul's left said to the chauffeur, "Pull up some place, Tony. I got to phone the boss."
They were far over on the east side, near the river, and Tony drove for two blocks before coming to a Bar and Grille. Fatty said, "Don't be long, Gaga. We can't take no chances with this bird. Maybe he's even a dick."
Gaga got out and went in to the Bar and Grille. Fatty kept the gun at Paul's side, and continued to look at him silently. Paul fidgetted.
Tony turned around and studied him. "You know, Fatty, I think this is the guy that really knocked off Groh. The alarm covers him. I bet he got the gun."
Fatty shrugged. "If he has, the boss will get it out of him."
Paul couldn't think of anything to say. But out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a small coupé that passed them very slowly. And he barely repressed a gasp. For the driver of that coupé was Helen Hastings. She had somehow managed to follow them.
Neither Fatty nor Tony paid any attention to the coupé. They were both certain that they had lost any possible pursuit. Fatty said, "Whatsamatter, sucker? Getting nervous?"
Just then Gaga came out of the Bar and Grille. He got in the car. "The boss wants us we should bring this guy up to the joint, Tony."
Tony nodded, and got the sedan going. They drove north for almost a mile, then cut across town toward Riverside Drive. Twice they passed traffic policemen, and each time Fatty pressed the gun a little closer against Paul's ribs, but said nothing. Paul understood.
He had seen Helen's coupé once more, when they passed her, and he knew she was following them again. She couldn't know that he was a prisoner. She must be thinking that he had shot Fowler, for she certainly hadn't taken the time to stop and examine the detective. She believed now that he was part of Frenchy Peck's gang. She was waiting to see where they went. Would she call the police then? Or would she attempt some reckless move on her own hook?
There was a pitying look in Fatty's eyes now. "Some sucker!" he said. "What did you think it would get you—messing around in Frenchy's business?"
Paul said, "Listen, you guys. I'm only a vacuum-cleaner salesman. I don't know a thing about Frenchy or his business—"
Tony, in the driver's seat, gurgled with pleasure. "Haw! A vacuum-cleaner salesman! Tie that, Gaga!"
Gaga was extremely tall, and very thin. His face was a little crooked, as if it had grown too much on the left side, and not enough on the right. Where he had acquired the name Gaga, Paul couldn't fathom. He laughed, too.
"The boss will think it is a very good joke!"
They stopped in front of an apartment house, on Riverside Drive. "O.K.," said Gaga. "Out!"
Fatty got out first, and stood with his gun close at his side. Gaga got a gun out too, and pushed Paul out to the curb. Then he followed.
"Maybe you wanna try to make a break?" he asked hopefully.
Tony called out from behind the wheel, "Hey, Gaga! Don't look now. But there's a small coupé with a dame in it. It's going by now. See? She's slowing up at the corner. I think she's been behind us for a while."
Gaga threw a quick side glance down the street. "Maybe she's tailed us. Maybe not. Watch her, Tony. If she looks like she's interested in us, bring her up!"
Then they pushed Paul between them, and headed into the house. There was only one self-service elevator here, and they took it up to the ninth floor. Gaga had a key to one of the doors on the ninth floor, and they entered a vacant apartment.
Paul looked about him, not understanding. There wasn't a stick of furniture in the place. Fatty saw his look of bewilderment, and giggled.
Gaga led them through a bedroom, and into a large closet. He fiddled with something at the back of the closet, and suddenly a door opened in the back wall, revealing a narrow staircase which led upward.
Gaga led the way, Paul followed, with Fatty's gun touching his spine.
HE staircase brought them into a similar closet on the tenth floor, and they emerged into another bedroom. This one was completely furnished. There were twin beds, and a cot against one wall, and carpets on the floor.
"Frenchy owns this house," Fatty explained to him. "He wouldn't tell us to bring you through that closet if he thought you was going to stay alive much longer." He shook his head in commiseration. "Too bad. Such a nice looking guy, too!"
The bedroom was fairly dark, for there were shutters on all the windows, and Paul could see that they were fastened on the inside with padlocks. He guessed that he was not the first prisoner that had been brought to this place.
Fatty saw his glance, and grinned. "The people what live here is supposed to be in Florida for the winter. Nice set-up, huh?"
They went through a short hall, and into a kitchen. The kitchen windows were likewise shuttered. There was a litter of dishes in the sink, and a pile of opened cans in a carton on the floor. Paul guessed that this had been used as "Baby Face" Matt Squeer's hideout, while the police and the Federal Agents searched for him all over the country.
What especially attracted Paul's glance was a nice shiny vacuum-cleaner in one corner of the kitchen. His eyes lighted with professional interest when he saw the brass name-plate on the machine: Easy-Way Vacuum Cleaner.
Although he had only been in the vacuum-cleaner business for one day, he still experienced the reaction of pride at finding a product of his firm in such an unlooked-for place. He saw that the bag was bulging with accumulated dust, and through his mind there started to run the patter he had learned out of the manual.
"Now, madam, a vacuum-cleaner is like an automobile. It requires frequent cleaning and constant care...."
He was rudely snapped out of it by Fatty, who gave him a shove that sent him staggering into the next room. Before he could regain his balance, Fatty was in after him, and gripped him by the arm, pushing him up against the wall.
Gaga came in after them, and spoke to one of the two men who were in the room.
"Look what we won, boss! We were outside Hastings' house, like you told us, expecting Baby Face to come out shooting'. And what do we get, but this!"
Paul recognized the bigger man of the two, as the much-photographed Lawrence Cleverly.
Cleverly, the political boss, was a well set-up man in his middle fifties, with iron-gray hair, and a square, determined jaw.
Frenchy Peck was small, thin, with black hair oiled back in a flat pompadour, and a small turned-up mustache. He looked like a visiting foreign count, but there was a ruthless glitter in those coal-black eyes of his.
Frenchy had prospered greatly in the last five years, since Lawrence Cleverly began to give his mob protection. Throughout the gambling fraternity it was an accepted fact that you couldn't buck or compete with any gambling house that Frenchy opened, because Cleverly was on his payroll. And Frenchy reciprocated by doing any odd little jobs that Lawrence Cleverly needed done to maintain his political leadership.
Paul Tyler knew all this from having read the editorial pages of the evening newspapers. But he had never expected to come into such close contact with the vicious set-up.
Frenchy Peck came across the room and said coldly to Gaga and Fatty, "All right, boys. Frisk him."
They went through Paul's pockets and took away Fowler's service revolver. Frenchy snatched the gun eagerly and turned to Cleverly.
"Is this the gat, Larry?"
Cleverly frowned. "No. I told you it was a pearl-handled pistol."
"O.K., O.K." He swung back to Paul. "What about it, guy? Did you knock off Groh? Or did Matt Squeer get him?"
"Squeer got him," Paul replied. "I was only in there trying to sell a vacuum-cleaner."
Fatty snickered. "That's his story, boss, and he sticks to it. Personally, I think he's a dick working for the D.A."
Lawrence Cleverly snorted. "Would he have shot Fowler then?"
Frenchy's eyes narrowed. "We don't even know that he did shoot Fowler when he escaped. Maybe they framed it to make it look like he made a break—"
Just then there was the sound of a buzzer.
"That'll be Tony," said Gaga. "He stuck around downstairs to look over a dame that might of been tailing us."
They heard the creaking of the secret door in the closet, at the other end of the apartment, and in a moment there were steps in the kitchen. The door opened, and Tony appeared there, grinning contentedly, and pushing Helen Hastings in front of him.
Her coat was ripped across the front, and the little hat was hanging down the side of her head, and she was flushed and angry.
Tony had a glaring red scratch across the left side of his face, and another one down the length of his nose. But he didn't seem to mind.
"Boy, is she a hell-cat, boss! I grabbed her comin' right in after Gaga and Fatty. She didn't know there was me in the car, layin' for her!"
Frenchy's face was purple with rage. "You sap. So you brought her up here! And through the closet!"
Tony looked bewildered, hurt that his valiant deed should be so unappreciated. "What did I do wrong, boss?"
"Nothing!" Frenchy Peck told him sweetly. "Only now we have to knock her off, so she can't talk. I put ten grand into this hide-out, and I'm not throwing it away!"
Lawrence Cleverly came up behind Frenchy. "That's Hastings' daughter!" he said.
Helen Hastings glared at him, breathing hard. "Yes. And you're Lawrence Cleverly, and I find you right here in a secret meeting place, with Frenchy Peck and his gang. And with that—that—" she pointed dramatically at Paul Tyler, "murderer!"
Frenchy Peck smiled. "She thinks the dope here killed Groh!"
"Maybe he did." Cleverly said. "Why haven't you heard from Matt Squeer?"
"He must be hiding out till the heat dies down on the block."
Helen's eyes widened. "Didn't he kill Groh?" looking at Paul.
Frenchy said, "Hell, he's only the fall guy. The dope really is a vacuum-cleaner salesman, I bet! And will he make a perfect fall guy!"
Helen started to struggle in Tony's grip. She raised her voice and began to shout. "Help! Murder! Police!"
Frenchy Peck sprang to her side and slapped her hard, sending her back into Tony's arms, who grinned, and squeezed her, forcing the breath out of her body.
Paul Tyler yelled, "Let her go!" and sprang at Tony.
Fatty hit Paul a glancing blow on the side of the head, and Gaga put out a foot and tripped him. He fell flat on his face on the floor, and Fatty kicked him hard in the ribs twice, then when he still tried to get up, once more in the head.
Paul groaned and lay flat on his face, gasping for breath. He tried to push himself up, and felt a heavy foot on his back, pressing him down against the floor.
"This guy likes to take it!" he heard Fatty say.
And then behind Fatty's voice he heard Cleverly speaking to Helen.
"I'm sorry. Miss Hastings, but it's either your skin or mine. There's no other way but to let Frenchy take care of you and that young fellow. It would be the same as signing my own death warrant if you went free, with what you know now."
The foot came off of Paul's back, but he didn't try to rise for a moment. Frenchy was giving orders to Gaga and Fatty and Tony, telling Tony to go around to the back of the house and get the "Laundry wagon" and bring it to the basement entrance.
But before Frenchy finished his instructions, the buzzer sounded again, and the closet door at the other end of the apartment creaked once more. There were footsteps, and someone came into the room.
Frenchy Peck exclaimed, "Baby Face! Where the hell have you been?"
Paul raised his head, which was swimming in a sea of pain, and saw that the man who had just come in was young, about his size and build, with curly black hair like his own. But there the resemblance ended. Though Baby Face Matt Squeer looked as young as Paul, there was a sort of white hardness about his eyes that branded him a killer. His lips were twitching.
"I got Groh, all right," he said jauntily. "But some sap of a canvasser gummed up the works. I couldn't get the old dame. But when she ran out after the canvasser, I went in the kitchen and grabbed the gun off the table where Groh had it all wrapped up. And then I holed up in the apartment in the next house. I went back the way I came, over the fire escapes, and I was just in time, because there's been cops all over that block ever since. Gawd, do I need a powder!"
He pushed a package into Frenchy Peck's hands, and rushed across the room to a desk. He opened a drawer and took out a little folded paper similar to the one which Gisling had given to Paul.
Frenchy Peck was carefully unwrapping the package, from which he took a small, pearl-handled gun. He held it up gingerly by the barrel, so as not to disturb the finger-prints on the stock.
"This your gun, Larry?" he demanded of Cleverly.
Cleverly took a step forward, reaching for it. "That's it!"
Frenchy Peck danced out of his reach. He was laughing. "So this is the little gun that you killed Renee Townlee with! And it has your prints all over it, eh?"
Cleverly looked at him sharply. "I guess so, if Groh didn't wipe them off."
"I guess he wouldn't have wiped them off," said Frenchy. "Not if he had it wrapped up in waxed paper like this. Yep, I guess your prints are still on it, Larry. I can see them plain, even without a glass."
"What are you getting at, Frenchy?" Cleverly asked, in suddenly clipped tones.
"Nothing much," Frenchy Peck smirked. "Only did you think I sent Baby Face out to pull that kill, and take them chances, just to help you out of a murder rap? You've been dragging down sixty per cent of my take for the last five years, Larry. And this is the first time I ever got a chance to get something on you. So I keep this little pistol with the pearl handle, see? I keep it, and from now on you got to take a cut in wages. Twenty per cent is your cut from now on, Mr. Cleverly. And you're gonna like it!"
Lawrence Cleverly looked at Frenchy Peck with narrowed eyes. "Be careful, Frenchy. Better men than you have tried to tie me up in a knot. Most of them are dead. Those that aren't are rotting in jail."
"I'll take the chance, Larry," Peck smirked. "Look at it my way. Not only do I snatch the fat out of the fire by getting this pistol back for you, but now I got to kill this kid here, and the girl. It looks to me like I contribute the big share to this racket, and from now on I draw down the big share!"
That was as far as he got. Paul Tyler had been lying on the floor, his muscles tense, waiting for a chance when every one's attention would be focussed elsewhere. He decided that he'd never have a better moment.
He came to his feet with a leap, and lunged through the open kitchen door, almost before any of them knew he was on the move.
Frenchy yelled, "Hey, get him!" and Fatty fired a single shot that almost singed his right leg.
Then Paul was in the kitchen, and had kicked the door shut. He slipped the latch over, locking it, and leaped out of the way just as another shot came through the door, splintering the wood. Two more shots followed it, but Paul was already across the kitchen, with both hands fumbling at that shiny new Easy-Way Vacuum Cleaner.
E had memorized reams of words about the Easy-Way Vacuum Cleaner, and they had all come back to him as he lay on the floor with Fatty's heel in his spine. And he had an idea. It was a desperate idea, and one that he surely would have laughed at in his calmer moments.
This was not one of those moments, however. There were more shots coming through the door, and some of them were coming perilously close to him where he worked at the vacuum-cleaner. Helen Hastings was in that other room, and it was a hundred to one that neither he nor Helen would ever get out of this place alive unless he did something—crazy or not.
He could hear Frenchy Peck shouting to his boys above the reverberations of the gunshots. "Never mind, keep on shooting. It's too late. The cops will be here right away. Get that guy!"
Someone fired four shots into the lock, and the door splintered around the knob and sagged open.
Paul was ready. Desperate, tight-lipped, he stood with the vacuum-cleaner at his side, like some knight of old in shining armor with a glittering lance poised. Only his lance was a vacuum-cleaner, with ten feet of electric cord. He had stuck the plug into an electric socket, and he had his finger on the switch. He had removed the sliding top from the dust bag, leaving the aperture open. He now held that aperture facing toward the door, spreading it out with the fingers of his left hand, keeping his right on the switch.
The door came open under a kick from the other room, and Gaga appeared in the doorway, gun in hand. He saw Paul and raised the gun for a quick shot.
And Paul clicked the vacuum-cleaner switch.
The machine rumbled, whizzed and buzzed. And a great, devastating cloud of dust and dirt poured out of that dust bag in a blinding enveloping spray of blackness that sent Gaga staggering backward, screaming, with both hands at his eyes.
Paul came after him inexorably, deliberately, following him as far as the electric cord would allow, until he stood in the doorway. He had shut off the switch after that first quick spray, and now he flicked it on again, directing the spray at Fatty and Tony, who had been crowding in behind Gaga.
Blinded, they yelled in pain, and leaped backward.
The vacuum-cleaner spurted its last bit of dust and dirt, and wheezed on, emptily. Paul let it drop to the floor without even turning off the switch. He swooped down and recovered the gun that Fatty had dropped, and raised it in front of him, with his hand stretched out straight before him, like the pictures he had seen of G-Men, practicing on the target range.
He pulled the trigger again and again, firing blindly into the swirling dust that enveloped the living-room. There was only one thing he was sure of—that Helen Hastings was not in the line of fire, for he saw her, pressing up against the wall alongside the door. Everybody else in that room was an enemy, and he didn't care whom he hit.
He emptied the gun, but he didn't know it until it clicked on an empty cylinder. Then he threw it away and dived blindly into the room, flailing with his fists. He saw two shapes huddled at the far side of the room, shooting at him, and he started to dive toward them and tripped over a prone body on the floor. He fell to his knees, and his hand touched a gun, and he gripped it and got to his feet.
The two men at the other end of the room had evidently emptied their guns, for when Paul stood up with the weapon in his hand, they raised their hands above their heads and screamed above the thundering echoes of the gunshots, "Don't shoot! We quit!"
Paul advanced toward them through the swirling dust, and saw they were Frenchy Peck and Lawrence Cleverly. He kept them covered, and looked around the room. There were two bodies near the kitchen door that didn't move at all, and another dead man near one of the windows. In the center of the room a man groaned and squirmed, clawing at the floor and bleeding from the throat. It was Baby Face Matt Squeer. Fatty and Gaga and Tony were dead.
Helen Hastings was picking up the pearl-handled gun from the floor where Frenchy Peck had dropped it, and someone was hammering vociferously at the front door and demanding that it be opened in the name of the law.
Paul kept his eyes on Cleverly and Peck, and backed to the door and unlocked it.
"Come on in!" he yelled.
The door was thrust open and a gigantic cop stormed in, police positive in front of him. The cop took one look at the room and gasped.
"Here, you," he shouted to Paul. "Gimme that gun!"
Paul handed it over with a sigh of relief. "Arrest those two men! They are murderers!"
"Sure, sure," said the cop. "We'll arrest everyone that needs arrestin'." He came into the middle of the room, and said, "Well, for the love of mud! This is Baby Face Squeer!" He looked at Paul. "Did you get him? There's about fifteen grand reward for him!"
Paul wasn't listening. He was looking across to where Helen Hastings was busy at the telephone. "Come over here quick, Dad!" she was gasping into the phone. "It's all cleared up. That—that young vacuum-cleaner salesman cleaned it up!"
Paul picked his way across the room and came and stood in front of her and looked into her eyes. She looked back into his and said, "You were marvelous!"
He blushed. "It wasn't much. You've got to remember it was an Easy-Way Vacuum Cleaner. It even says in the sales manual that an Easy-Way can be adapted to a lot of uses that people don't think of ordinarily."
There were other cops in the room now, and there were handcuffs on Cleverly and Peck, and a plain-clothes detective was examining the pistol with the pearl handle, while another was taking a dying statement from Baby Face Matt Squeer.
The cop who had come in first had broken open the revolver which he had taken from Paul Tyler, and he was looking at it with a stunned expression.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he said to the detective sergeant who had come in to take charge. "This gun is empty. The kid must've kept Cleverly and Peck cowed with an empty gun!"
"Well, we'll both be damned!" said the sergeant. "Wait'll I go and ask the kid if he knew the gun was empty."
He crossed the room and came up behind Paul, who was still looking into Helen's eyes and talking to her earnestly. He put out a hand to tap him on the shoulder, then drew it back and listened to what Paul was saying to Helen. A baffled look came into the sergeant's eyes.
He turned away and came back to the cop without speaking to Paul. "I didn't want to interrupt them," he told the cop. "Guess what the kid was talking to her about!"
"I give up."
"He was trying," the sergeant exploded, "to sell her a vacuum-cleaner!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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