COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1943 by Gentry Nyland
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
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Chapter One
THE BAROMETER DROPPED. For the first time in years the hurricane warning was to be seen atop the Whitehall Building. A fifty-mile gale, blown in from the Southeast, swept the chilling rain across Manhattan.
Joe South, seated by the window, stared at the opposite office building as the howling wind threatened to crash the rattling casement and shatter the quiet interior of the too-dignified office. He scowled and decided that all lawyers were either crooks or fools, and he knew from past experience that the man across the desk from him was not a fool.
Joe had been feeling good when he arrived at the lawyer’s office an hour ago. He was wearing his dark blue suit with a white shirt and black tie. He thought he looked neat and respectable and had expected to merit some recognition of this virtuous conduct from Van Pelt. But no. He had had to kick his heels in the reception room twenty minutes while some female client poured her troubles into the lawyer’s too-willing ear.
From the musical overtones of the finishing-school voice Joe didn’t blame the lawyer, but the enforced wait hadn’t improved his own temper. She must be one of Van Pelt’s “specials” to rate the private entrance.
He scowled at the water slapping against the window panes. Even now, after forty minutes closeted with one of the largest corporation lawyers in Manhattan, he knew very little more about the job he had been hired for than when he came in. Apparently all it amounted to was to bodyguard some rich brat to the tune of three hundred and fifty dollars a month. He, Joe Smith, the best private detective in New York, had come to this. Oh, well, he had to eat, and since his license had been suspended as a result of his activities in the Martin kidnaping case he couldn’t be choosy.
Van Pelt’s voice broke into his brooding.
“And remember this, Joe,” the crisp words were impatient. “This is a respectable firm and I hope you will try to conduct yourself accordingly.”
Stuyvesant Van Pelt’s person was like his name. He was a tall thin, ascetic man in his early fifties. His cold blue eyes were remote and steely, and he wore a small, waxed military mustache over slightly full lips which might have suggested a weakness for the fleshpots.
Seated now behind a massive desk, he looked and acted like the headmaster of an exclusive boys’ school. The wide expanse of polished glass in front of him was free of all standard office equipment Instead there was a fifth bottle of Scotch, a syphon of seltzer and two glasses arranged neatly on a silver tray.
Joe frowned and removed his chubby leg from the arm of the chair. He reached for the bottle, and ignoring the seltzer, poured three ounces of Scotch and swallowed it neat. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke ceilingward as he relaxed in his former position.
The lawyer shifted his position and coughed.
“I must remind you also, Joe, that this job, if you take it, will not call for your usual amount of drinking.”
Joe’s expression of bored indifference didn’t change.
“It’s the rain,” he mourned. “I’m just like a woman. Every time I hear water running I hafta drink.” He looked at the lawyer through sleepy lids and added softly, “How much?”
“My client,” Van Pelt told him, “has provided a substantial retainer. I might add, unusually substantial, considering the nature of the case. The sum mentioned in the letter I sent you was seven hundred dollars, and the job should be satisfactorily completed within two months. I think that is unusually substantial, and, of course, if Mr. Raleigh should want you for longer you will be proportionately imbursed.”
Joe said, “It’s substantial,” and extended a chubby hand. The lawyer started to take it, then realizing the absurdity of the gesture his hand went to his pocket instead. From there he took a manila envelope and placed it in Joe’s outstretched palm. The detective slit it quickly and took out seven hundred-dollar bills. He counted them carefully and slipped them into his own pocket.
“I assume then,” Van Pelt said, “that you will begin work tonight. I have told Mr. Raleigh you would see him at three-thirty this afternoon at Hillman Hospital.”
Joe said, “Yeah,” and heaved himself to his feet. He threw his raincoat over his arm and started for the door. Halfway there Van Pelt’s voice stopped him.
“Just one thing more,” he was saying, “it’s my opinion that this assignment could be better handled without the assistance of . . . er . . . ah . . . shall I say, your confederates?”
“Okay,” Joe said over his shoulder. “It don’t look like I’ll need ’em anyway. S’long.”
In the outer office he stopped before the girl at the typewriter. The name plate on her desk said she was Miss Lane.
“Hello, Beacon Hill,” Joe greeted her and stopped beside the desk.
“Oh, hello, Joe. Gosh, you scared me.” She took off her glasses and looked him up and down. “Do you know, Joey, you’re getting to be more like Jack Oakie every time I see you?”
“That’s not original, baby, and don’t think you’re flattering me. How’s tricks with Van Pelt?”
The elevator opened directly into the reception room and he pressed the down button. The girl at the desk looked at him suspiciously.
“You’ve just been in there. You should know.”
Joe leered. “I don’t but I can guess.”
The red line of her lips parted to reveal small, even teeth. “That alleged mind of yours needs a trip to the laundry, Joe South,” she hissed.
“Now, now, shug, you walked smack into that one,” Joe countered as the elevator door opened. “Remember? Suspicion is my business.” The pen she had picked up cracked against the outside of the cage. Some of the ink splashed the detective’s shirt. It was red. He was chuckling as the elevator door closed behind him.
As he swung through the door into the street a blast of wind swept off his hat and kicked it several blocks down Broadway. He didn’t bother to chase it. Rain drenched him as he ran for the only cab parked on the street. Joe climbed in.
“Take me to the hotel,” he ordered.
Traffic up Broadway was almost at a standstill. Progress was a fitful series of gears grinding and brakes screeching. The cab swung left at Times Square and stopped in front of the Brant Hotel. Joe slammed the door and started across the street. The driver honked his horn and yelled.
“Hey, Joey. Not so fast. You owe me fifteen dollars and eighty cents.”
Joe came back. Without a word he took out the envelope Van Pelt had given him and solemnly handed one of the hundred-dollar bills to the driver. The boy blinked and swore.
“Holy eats, Joey! Who d’ya think I’m
