Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933
- Автор: Day Stanley, Dunn J. Allan
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933». Краткое содержание книги:
“Not a likely sounding story,” said the banker.
“It’ll save him from the death penalty, I’m afraid,” Brame admitted reluctantly. “There will be some sentimental ones on the jury. And the police department is handicapped right now. The man they call ‘The Patent Leather Kid’...”
Bill Pope laughed an interruption.
“Come, come, Inspector,” he said, “The Patent Leather Kid certainly can’t be connected with this. He’s just getting on your nerves, that’s all.”
Inspector Brame glowered.
“He’s brought about a disrespect of laws,” he said. “Just because his exploits are spectacular, they appeal to the average newspaper reader. He’s making things very hard for the police.”
Dan Seller rose, stretched, yawned, and gazed down at the three men with eyes that held a glint of tolerant humor.
“Well,” he said, “if you folks are going to talk shop, I’ll go out and take a turn in the air. All this talk about business makes me nervous.”
Inspector Brame snorted. “Can’t even stand to listen about it, eh?”
Dan Seller laughed.
“My constitutional antipathy to any form of labor, Inspector,” he apologized with mock gravity. “You’ll just have to make allowances for it.”
Bill Pope, the explorer, got up from his chair.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll be going, too.”
As Dan Seller walked to the elevator, Bill Pope was at his side.
“You’ll be back soon?” he asked.
Dan Seller regarded Bill Pope with speculative eyes.
“I’m not certain,” he said. “Why?”
Bill Pope laughed.
“Nothing,” he said. “I was just wondering. I thought perhaps Mr. Pruett did more good for his boy by coming here than he had suspected.”
Dan Seller snapped: “Just what do you mean by that, Pope?”
Bill Pope waved his hand and laughed again.
“Go on,” he said. “We’ll be talking business, first thing you know. Go on out and take your walk.”
Dan Seller stared for a moment, and then his face softened into a smile.
“Well,” he said, “it’s a good suggestion, at that.”
It took Dan Seller one hour and twenty-seven minutes to emerge from the identity of Dan Seller, wealthy young clubman, and transform himself to The Patent Leather Kid, one of the mysterious, yet prominent figures of the underworld.
The process of transformation included the use of several taxicabs, the entering of a room by one door and leaving by another, a complete change of clothes, and the final entrance in the Maplewood Apartment Hotel, where he was known as the mysterious tenant of the penthouse on the roof. The manager, the clerk and the telephone operator alone knew Dan Seller as The Patent Leather Kid, and they were extremely careful to see that the information was never broadcast.
The Kid crossed over to the glass partition behind which the switchboard operator was taking calls.
“Hello, Gertie,” he said.
The girl looked up, and her face lit as recognition flooded her features.
“Gee, Kid,” she said, “you’ve been away a long time. Where you been?”
“Oh, just out and around,” said The Kid. “Is there anything new?”
“No,” she said. “Bill Brakey’s up there.”
“Give him a buzz and tell him I’m on the way up, will you?” asked The Kid.
He went to the elevator, nodded to the attendant, and was whisked to the penthouse.
Bill Brakey, who acted as The Kid’s right hand man and bodyguard, opened the steel, bullet-proof door on the penthouse.
“Hello, Kid,” he drawled.
Bill Brakey had a perfectly calm countenance, which seemed always placid, regardless of the danger which confronted him. Only his eyes and his hands were restless. His eyes were continually roving about, staring at things, soaking in their every detail, then shifting to something else. His hands were always in motion, fluttering, restless hands, that were never far from a holstered weapon which hung under his left armpit. He was a walking encyclopedia of miscellaneous information about the underworld, and his skill and loyalty had saved the life of The Patent Leather Kid on more than one occasion.
The Kid acknowledged the greeting, went into the sitting room, and flung himself in an overstuffed chair, lit a cigarette, and said: “Bill, what’s the lowdown on this murder of Doctor George Lancaster?”
“Guy by the name of Ed Pruett did it,” said Brakey. “He was calling on the doctor’s niece when the doctor tried to put him out.”
“I know, I know,” said The Kid impatiently. “That’s the newspaper version, and that’s what the police have on it. What really happened?”
Brakey shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know a thing in the world about it,” he said, “except that I do know something about the gun.”
“What do you know about the gun, Bill?”
“Just this: The police traced the numbers on the gun, and found that it had been purchased by a chap named Rodney Field. Field said that he lost the gun about two or three months ago, and the police aren’t doing a thing about it. They’ve let it drop right there.”
The Kid scowled through his cigarette smoke.
“That’s rather strange, isn’t it?” he asked.
Bill Brakey made another gesture with his restless hands and said: “It all depends on the way you look at it. The police got Ed Pruett’s finger prints all over the gun and proved that it was the murder weapon. They don’t have to prove where he got it, and they’re not going to try. He might have picked it up in a hock shop; he might have had it given to him; or he might have found it on the street. They don’t care. He had it in his hand, and his finger prints are on it, and it was the gun that killed Lancaster. That’s all the police are going to worry about.”
“Who is this Rodney Field?” asked The Kid. “A gangster?”
“No. He’s a wealthy chap who goes in pretty strong for polo. He seems to be on the up and up.”
The Patent Leather Kid blinked thoughtfully at his bodyguard.
“It’s funny that a man would ‘lose’ a gun without knowing something else about the circumstances surrounding its loss,” he said.
Bill Brakey nodded.
“I want to find out more about it,” said The Kid, slowly.
Bill Brakey reached out one of his restless hands, caught his hat, and clamped it firmly on his forehead.
“Okay, Chief,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The Patent Leather Kid nodded, flipped away his cigarette and smoothed down his vest.
“Do you know Rodney Field?” he asked.
Bill Brakey shook his head.
“No, but I know his bootlegger — a fellow named Harry Kramer. He can tell us. I’m going to introduce you to him as a guy who may have some big orders and wants a commission.”
“Okay,” said The Kid. “Shoot.”
They left the apartment hotel, hailed a taxicab, and went to a speakeasy which was the official hang-out of Harry Kramer. Brakey indicated a man who sat at a table with a young woman of exotic appearance.
“That’s Kramer,” he said.
The Kid’s eyes surveyed Harry Kramer in shrewd appraisal.
Kramer was about thirty-three or four, black-haired and blue-eyed, slightly inclined to be stout, but carrying his weight entirely around his neck and shoulders. His hips and waist were lean and hard.
“He’s a tough baby,” said Brakey, and led the way over to the table.
Harry Kramer’s face wreathed in a smile.