Читать книгу The Phantom Detective: Fangs of Murder - Robert Wallace - Страница 4

CHAPTER II

MURDER BY APPOINTMENT

ELEVEN P.M. THE CLOCK over the passenger gateway showed the time.

The huge, newly constructed pier on the Hudson River was jammed with people meeting the late docking S.S. Charlemagne which was nine hours ahead of its schedule. Private cars and taxis pulled up in turn outside the vast concrete and steel structure which was three city blocks in length.

In a rather small but handsomely finished office room of the big pier building which towered above cobblestoned Twelfth Avenue and the newly-built express highway which flowed north along the western edge of Manhattan, Inspector Thomas Gregg, chief of the Bureau of Detectives, spoke to seven elderly men.

“Without disrespect to you, gentlemen,” he said gruffly, “I must say this sounds juvenile and screwy to me. The idea of a super-criminal staging a come-back after twenty years is ridiculous on the face of it. And there were no super-criminals twenty years ago. Why, I had one devil of a time even getting reports from the mid-west on this — er — Albert Millett. And look at the picture I got from Arizona — a smooth-faced kid with buck teeth. It’s so faded you can scarcely decipher it.”

“Inspector Gregg, you are making a grave mistake in taking this matter so lightly,” said Carl Fenwick, the theatrical producer, in a solemn voice. “We were all young then, some younger than others, and photography was bad. You didn’t know Al Millett. We did.”

A sort of psychic shiver seemed to ripple around the group of seven at his words. Even Inspector Gregg felt it, and the hackles wanted to rise on his thick, red neck. This made the chief detective mad. He fairly scowled around the group which half-encircled him.

Seven elderly, influential, wealthy, distinguished men. He told them off mentally. Now that he thought of it, this was the first time Gregg had ever been in close contact with any of these prominent men — the very first time he had even heard of them appearing publicly together.

Clyde Dickson, gaunt-faced, with dark and brooding eyes, an unusually thick shock of grey hair on his oddly pointed head, was huddled deep in a leather armchair. He was the owner of the highly successful Palladium Club — one of New York’s most luxurious night spots.

Stocky, broad of beam, heavy-jowled, but visibly short of legs despite their massiveness, Bernard J. Andrews leaned on a beautifully carved cane as rugged as himself as he stood there. Andrews was the president of a nationally known radio station.

Paul Corbin, owner and operator of a small chain of exclusive night clubs and cocktail bars, stood next. Corbin was small, slender, with an effeminate sort of face out of which looked large, tragic eyes which, in themselves, were beautiful. He wore loosely tailored tweeds which almost looked too bulky, too mannish for him.

John Gifford, massive-chested and craggy of features, with arms that were a trifle abnormal in length, sat beside Dickson and spoke to him in deep whispers. Gifford was a well-known operator of a huge amusement park at Coney Island and the designer of the breath-taking Leap-for-Life rocket ride.

Gordon Drake, a well known figure in the motion picture industry, stood looking out the window. Drake was the most handsomely proportioned man present. At fifty, his body was still classical in its lines. But he marred the sweep of his fine figure by wearing a light opera cape about his shoulders. And he always wore gloves.

KENNETH MEADE, A RENOWNED RESTAURATEUR, gaunt of feature and spare of frame, attired in evening clothes for his appearance at Milady’s Salon, his newest and finest restaurant, was tapping on the desk and frowning anxiously.

Fenwick, the seventh man, was a tall, cadaverous individual clad in severe black and wearing a high, stiff collar which gave him a clerical air. Had he been funny instead of lugubrious, he could have walked right out on the stage in any one of his productions as the stage parson.

All of these men were prominent and respected. There was nothing particularly odd about them individually. But, together, they exerted a queer effect upon the inspector that was almost weird. It was an intangible feeling. Perhaps it was due to the fact that these men were noted for living so utterly alone. None of them were married. Their private lives were simple, retiring, exclusive. No two of them lived together, except the Marcy brothers, who had not arrived for this meeting.

Baffled, the Inspector shook his head and scowled.

“All right, all right,” he said. “Let’s go over it again. This Al Millet was guilty of several minor crimes some twenty-odd years ago. The worst we can find is that train robbery in Utah, and he served a sentence for that. He called himself ’The Fang’, theatrically leaving a tiger tooth as a marker on the scenes of his depredations.

“The penitentiary sentence must have taken the starch out of him. He abandoned crime upon his release to become a showman. He joined Crowley and Buckill, the then-famous circus. That was the hey-day of circus business. They puffed him up as the ’Fang’, the man with the terrible and bloody history and the criminal mind which, if loosed, could wreck the country. And all he did was ride wild horses, shoot blank pistols, and generally exhibit himself as the madman from the gory West.

“That, gentlemen, may have gone over big in those days, but no hick town in the whole United States would give that sort of side-show attraction a second glance today.

“And, as for this Al Millett, the police of this day and time have never even heard of him. I am positive that you are needlessly alarmed over this twenty-year-old bugaboo —”

“But you don’t understand!” broke in Gordon Drake, whirling about at the window. “We’ve explained that Millett disappeared suddenly just twenty years ago — right after his wife died. He blamed us for her death because we wouldn’t back him in a venture of his own. He disappeared utterly, after swearing vengeance on us, individually and collectively. And, once a year, on the anniversary of his wife’s death — for the past three years — he’s been sending us grotesque warnings of hate and disaster. We showed them to you. They came from different parts of the world.”

“We tried to trace these messages, but we couldn’t,” John Gifford spoke in his deep voice. “We thought at first like you are thinking now, but time has changed us. And this time we received this message which promises death to us, one at a time. We would have been foolish not to come to the police for aid.”

Inspector Gregg picked up one of the seven copies of identical messages from “The Fang,” and read it again.

In block-printed letters of red on black parchment paper, the words stared up at him.

MY TIME FOR REVENGE DRAWS NEAR AT LAST ON THIS TWENTIETH ­ANNIVERSARY OF BURNOOSE’S DEATH. WHEN THE CHARLEMAGNE DOCKS IN NEW YORK NEXT TRIP YOU SHALL FEEL THE FANG OF DOOM. ONE BY ONE NINE MEN SHALL DIE — IF I MAY CALL YOU MEN. WHO SHALL GO FIRST? I INVITE YUH TO MY DEBARKATION.

Inspector Gregg cleared his throat and glanced swiftly around the circle. He was surprised to find all seven men watching him in nervous intensity.

“This is theatrical hokum,” he snorted. “It stinks of melodrama. I’m amazed that you let such a crank letter disturb you. And whoever heard of murder by appointment?”

“Inspector Gregg,” said Carl Fenwick in a sepulchral voice, “please bear in mind that this Al Millett was a far more desperate and depraved character than you are giving him credit for, and that he hates the nine of us with a vindictiveness that fairly seethes in its intensity.”

“It’s too bad the Marcy brothers aren’t here to talk to you, Inspector Gregg,” added Paul Corbin in his queer, husky voice. They knew Millett more intimately, and can give you fuller details.”

“Anyway, we’ve increased the police guard for the Charlemagne’s docking, and I have a cordon of plainclothes men on hand to apprehend this Millet guy for questioning and investigation. And you are here to point him out to us. So we’ll pull his ’fangs’ before he can even sink ’em in a piece of pie at the Automat.”

“If we point him out,” observed Kenneth Meade in his stilted, slow, hoarse manner of speech. “He may be in hiding — a stowaway. Perhaps he’s changed his appearance -- other men have. He was fiendishly clever with disguise. I wish —”

“The Marcy brothers!” ejaculated Gordon Drake from the window. “I see their car just pulling up. They’re not getting out, of course.”

“Why should they?” commented John Gifford quickly. “The boat’s docking. We’d better get out of here ourselves.”

“We’ll see what the Marcys say, first,” decided Inspector Gregg, leading the way swiftly out to the parking lanes, the others following him more slowly.

THE MARCY CAR, RESPLENDENT with glittering nickel and liveried chauffeur, was parked in a little cleared space back from the front lines, as if shrinking from publicity.

In the rear seat, two brothers with faces startlingly similar, save that Benjamin wore a mustache, while Lyle was clean-shaven, looked out at the approaching detective. Famous as theatre owners, they shrank from notoriety.

“Well?” Benjamin Marcy’s mustache bristled at the converging group, although his piercing eyes had the same brooding, world-weary, yet anxious look that all these worried men seemed to have. “You don’t expect us to get out and jam into that crowd, do you? I’m tired.”

“Just tell me in few words what you can about this guy Millett,” Gregg spoke swiftly.

As one, the two brothers leaned forward.

“Al Millett must be a madman,” Lyle Marcy stated, his lean face darkening. “We were all in the show business together many years ago.

“Millett got terribly angry when we wouldn’t pool our money and back him in a crazy wild-west show of his own. His wife died, and he disappeared, after threatening us with revenge. As for his coming back now —”

“We don’t believe it!” Benjamin Marcy broke in fiercely. “This whole thing is somebody’s idea of a bad joke.”

“Whose?” demanded Andrews, panting from his laborious exertions to arrive at the car in a group with the others, leaning heavily on his cane.

“You Marcys know you’re as worried about this thing as any of the rest of us.”

“The only thing I’m worried about is the publicity,” denied Benjamin Marcy savagely. “Lyle and I hate publicity!”

The sound of a hoarse, bass siren shook the air around them. Growing commotion at the docks warned them.

“Come on, you men, and take your positions on the second level,” cried Gregg. “All passengers disembark there. You can’t miss your man, if he comes ashore.”

Leaving the grimly waiting Marcy brothers, the group made its way to the spacious second level where alphabetical partitions awaited tourists and luggage.

Pulleys creaked, winches groaned, and the huge liner came gently to rest. In a moment the gangways came sliding down, and people were pouring along them like ants. A pair of plainclothes officers stood by at each exit, watching for the chief inspector’s signal. Gregg watched the faces of his companions who went to their appointed stations, staring nervously all along the side of the great ship and up and down the gangways.

Nothing happened. The stream of passengers dwindled, died away. And no alarm had been given.

“WELL, GENTLEMEN,” GRUNTED INSPECTOR Gregg a bit peevishly an hour later. “After all your hullabaloo, your Nemesis doesn’t seem to have even got off the boat. If you can wait another hour, I’ll have the ship inspected from stem to stern to make sure your man is not aboard.”

“Please,” whispered Meade in his odd articulation. “We must be certain.”

“Where’s Andrews?” demanded Drake suddenly. “He’s supposed to be watching the D to G section.”

“There he is,” Gregg pointed. “Guess he just went down to the washroom for a moment. You haven’t seen this building until you tour it. It is conveniently arranged so that everything is accessible from almost any part of building or grounds. Well-engineered construction. Well, let’s go on board and —”

The sudden wail of a police ambulance beat upon their eardrums and rose in a sharp crescendo of sound. Police whistles shrilled. Somewhere a woman screamed. A uniformed officer dashed up to Inspector Gregg and began murmuring in his ear. At once Gregg stiffened. He motioned brusquely for the policeman to lead the way. As the followed, very white of face, the seven elderly men who had been responsible for him being here tonight fell in line as he passed their posts, and streamed along after him.

Down in the parking area the night had turned into bedlam. Red-faced patrolmen were forming lines to keep back the surging crowd and divert traffic. Screaming sirens announced the arrival of radio and squad cars. Frantic terror clutched at the hearts of the men following the chief detective as they realized the direction they were heading.

The Marcy limousine, still in an area of shadows, but no longer avoiding publicity, was before them. The car itself was harshly outlined now in the concentrated glare of police hand torches. The first thing of significance that caught Inspector Gregg’s eye was the liveried chauffeur, lolling over his wheel. The back of his skull was a bloody ruin, bashed in by some blunt instrument.

The inspector’s eyes went to the rear of the car. He braced himself for this look. The uniformed man had told him what he would find. Even so, hardened to crime as he was, he recoiled. His usually placid face went grey, eyes widening in a shock of horror and revulsion.

Benjamin and Lyle Marcy were still together in the back seat, but they had slumped down. Where their abdomens should have been, there was a gaping hole in each corpse, in the back of which the very spinal columns were exposed. Blood and viscera splattered and fouled the seat, the sides, and the floor of the tonneau.

The faces of the two brothers were frozen in grimaces of agonized horror. Their sightless, staring eyes seemed still to be looking at the hideous, brutal death monster that had struck them down. A very bad joke, indeed, Messrs. Marcy!

Paul Corbin had pushed forward behind the chief detective. He saw, and a shrill, high-pitched scream left his lips.

“God!” he shrieked. “The Fang! He’s killed the Marcys. We told you, Inspector Gregg — but you wouldn’t believe —”

“Get a grip on yourself, man!” snapped Gregg curtly. “We’ll see about this. There’s been murder, yes; but shut up about this Fang business if you don’t want publicity. You’re as jittery as a woman.”

He turned to the police captain near at hand. “Okay, Donaldson, boil it down for me — quick!”

“Very little, Inspector,” was the grimly terse answer. “No sound, nobody seen approaching or leaving the car because all eyes were on the docking Charlemagne. A late-arriving taxi driver noticed the slumped body of the chauffeur, took one look, and yelled for help. We are holding him for questioning. Rather weird, sir.”

“Check,” nodded Gregg. “I’ll say it’s weird. No clues?”

“Only this, sir,” said the captain, and he held out a large saber tooth — a tiger fang. “I found this in the front seat by the chauffeur.”

As he stared, Gregg’s color drained out of his cheeks. Was it possible, after all, that Al Millett had come back after a lapse of twenty years to avenge himself for a fancied wrong?

His eyes went to the big, lighted liner with her rakishly slanted funnels still smoking at her berth. His men had watched every egress from that vessel. Seven anxious and determined men had gazed carefully at each disembarking passenger. After forewarning his victims, had some fantastic, theatrically inclined madman eluded all detection and slipped ashore to commit his first murder?

“All right, Donaldson,” Gregg spoke. “You’re in charge. Get pics, prints, suspects — everything you can. I’ll go over it with you later. As for you seven gentlemen, I think, perhaps, you’d better go —”

A cop from a prowl car dashed up.

“Inspector,” he saluted hurriedly, “there’s been a near-riot at the Marcy Gold Slipper. Monk Gorman at the head of a big mob pulled a hijack stunt right under the noses of the theater crowds. Captain Waltham is over there hollering for you.”

Marcy Gold Slipper! The finest, newest playhouse the Marcy brothers had built. And Monk Gorman — Monk Gorman, a muscle-man of no outstanding intelligence — had headed a successful robbery there! Robbery at their own theater while the Marcys themselves got murdered here! It didn’t make sense, didn’t tie in with the story of the nine alarmed men at all.

“On second thought,” Gregg said to the white-lipped and shivering men behind him — towering figures in the entertainment world, but frightened children beside him now — “you men had better go home and stay there until you hear from me again. As soon as I look into both of these crimes closely, I’ll get in touch with each of you. I’ll furnish a police escort to see you home, a guard to stay all night, if you wish.”

Paul Corbin, the excitable, laughed hysterically. He was assisted away by two uniformed officers. His wild cry came back over his shoulder.

“We’ll need the whole police force to guard us now, Inspector Gregg,” he shouted sobbingly. “For whoever heard of murder by appointment?”