Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

“I’ll get Carlin,” Slabbe said. He shook his head ponderously, went back into the building. The elevator boy had said he’d seen both Whitey and Abe Morse come into the building but hadn’t seen them leave. Till now, Slabbe had thought that Whitey had told Abe something and they’d gone off together; but if Abe had been with Whitey he wouldn’t have let Whitey get killed. Slabbe had faith in the men he worked with.

He growled at himself: “And Abe wouldn’t have left the office, either, when he was supposed to be on the job. I bet he didn’t, not under his own power!”

Slabbe stopped dead in the corridor, eyes clear again, glittering. He saw the door of the mop closet, went to it and jerked it open. He cursed softly at the motionless heap of blue serge, then bent swiftly and ripped the gag from Abe Morse’s mouth. The little dick was conscious but too weak to move.

He gagged, tried to lick his lips, gagged some more. Slabbe picked him up as he was and carried him into the office, put him on the couch and tore off the twine that bound him hand and foot. He recognized it as the very twine he kept in his desk.

Abe croaked: “I got slugged. I was only here twenty minutes and blooie. I didn’t see nothing.”

Slabbe gave Abe beer, got on the phone, called Carlin’s office. He said to Abe: “Then you didn’t see Whitey Fite, either?”

“I was slugged,” Abe repeated earnestly. “And, honest Benjy, I didn’t get cute or nothing like that.”

Slabbe got connected with Carlin, told a terse story, ending with: “Happy’s the only guy unaccounted for now and Gage is on his tail — I hope. Let’s all be set this time. We won’t muff it again.” He hung up before Carlin started in on his ancestors.

Charlie Somers came panting into the office. “Wow! They worked you over, too!” he exclaimed. He saw Tommy Rex handcuffed to the radiator. “You hit back, though, huh? When you made that crack on the phone and then hung right up, I knew what was up. I didn’t figure I could get here fast enough, so I called the radio rotunda and told ’em to get a prowl car here on the double.”

“Thanks, cousin,” Slabbe said. “You did fine, but it might have been worth taking a couple more pokes if you’d have come yourself. The prowl car cops had to use their siren, the dopes, and Happy lammed. We got to sweat it out again and hope Gage sticks to Happy.”

But there wasn’t much waiting this time. One of the prowl car cops came back up from the alley, then Lieutenant Carlin arrived with a squad and started to instruct Slabbe, Charlie Somers and Abe Morse on how private investigators’ licenses were forfeited. It didn’t last long.

The telephone rang and Slabbe answered. Al Gage said: “Gage talking. It’s washed up.”

Slabbe gaped. “Huh?”

Gage sounded very pleased. “I’ll see that you get all the credit that’s coming to you and your expenses taken care of, but don’t forget I took Happy by myself.”

Slabbe bellowed: “Will you tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

“Sure thing. I got Happy. That’s it, isn’t it? I chased him down the fire escape, tailed him to this hotel I’m at now. He come in, took a room, went up and I went up after him. I knocked on the door. We both had guns out, only I shot first. He’s meat, and he had the jewels on him.”

Slabbe uttered a string of words, the mildest of which was: “Goddam!” He took a breath and yelled: “What hotel?”

“Uncas Hotel, just around the corner from your place,” Gage said.

The procession that left Slabbe’s office and marched to the Uncas hotel included Slabbe, Charlie Somers, Abe Morse, Lieutenant Carlin and four plainclothes men and three harness cops.

The desk clerk marveled. “My God, you cops move fast these days! I just hung up from calling City Hall. Room 307. The man just came in and registered and went upstairs and the next thing I knew a woman came screaming down that there was shooting there.”

The last harness cop in the procession might have heard the desk clerk, but the others had already crowded into an elevator.

Al Gage was sitting at the writing desk in room 307, talking on the telephone. On the green blotter in front of him lay a gun and a chamois bag. The drawstring of the bag was loose and glittering stones had spilled out of it: diamonds, pearls, an emerald or two.

Gage looked around at the sound of feet, held up a hand for silence, then waved at the bent-over heap which was Happy Lado. Happy was doubled up on the floor, resting on his knees and forehead, both arms clasped about his midsection as if he’d tried to hold pain down or his guts in. Gage had obviously shot him in the stomach. Happy’s gun was under him, just the butt visible, as it would naturally be if he’d dropped it after collapsing.

Everybody started talking, and Gage held up his hand again, said into the telephone: “Mr. Oliver? Gage talking. I’ve recovered the jewels. Satisfactory?... Yessir, my lead worked out fine. I’ll get some sleep and come in.”