“They trapped me,” — Carol Baldwin, one of his three intimate confidantes grinned — “beneath a hair dryer. Sorry I’m late.”
“Hmmm.” He let her see he approved of the result. Carol — Special Investigator on the D.A’s staff, complete with credentials if her hair-trigger mind ever needed any!
“All members now being present,” Tony said, “the Board of Strategy will come to order.” He rustled a telegram crisply. “I have here a wire from the Chief of Police in Norristown, Pennsylvania, concerning the mysterious disappearance of one Jules Verchamps. May I inquire of our statistical expert what data he may have on hand concerning Monsieur Verchamps.”
Silk Kirby and Carol looked inquiringly at Butch — O’Leary, the man who completed the trio of Tony’s assistants — Butch, a cave man with a shave and a houndstooth sports jacket. That ponderous-shouldered individual stared blankly at Tony. Then he did a double-take.
“Statistician? That’s me! Yeah, sure. I got the dope on this Jules. He’s the shifty nifty who’s been importing all them pint-size foreign cars. Fifty miles to the gallon, run all year on two quarts oil, all that hooey. Only the last one he brings in, them Customs boys get more’n fifty miles out of it. They crack open the cylinder block and come up with a million bucks’ worth of unset ice. He claims it’s all a surprise to him, still I hear they figure to pin his ears back for about ten years at the October session of the Federal Court.”
Tony nodded. “That’ll do for Smuggler Verchamps. Very concise. Butch.”
“Was I wrong, Boss?” Butch tugged uneasily at the knot of his flamboyant four-in-hand.
“You’re just right,” Tony said. “Except you failed to add that, since Tuesday, when M’sieu Verchamps left to drive his snazzy convertible to Chicago for consultation with parties unknown, he has not been seen or heard from.”
Silk glanced up at the map of the state of Ohio on the wall. “He might have routed himself through Vulcan City, going from Norristown to Chicago.”
“He could have,” Tony agreed. “We now come to the interesting particulars about Myron Attar of Newark, New Jersey, and various other points on our Eastern seaboard. Anything on Attar, Butch?”
The big man colored. “Begging your pardon, Carol—”
She gestured nonchalantly. “Go right ahead, Butch. I’m a big girl, now. Besides, I’m Special Investigator. If you can tell me anything I haven’t heard about that stinker, I’ll buy you a double demerara next time you’re thirsty.”
Silk said, “This Attar is a new one to me.”
Butch cleared his throat, half closed his eyes, recited as if from a police flyer, “Attar, Myron, alias Mike Brecher, Michael Hatta, John Myron, so on, so forth. Four convictions pandering, procuring. Time in Great Meadow Pen, Comstock, New York, Federal Correctional Institution, Danbury, Connecticut, couple others. Runs string of so-called sanitariums from Asbury Park, New Jersey, to Miami, Florida. Takes drug addicts, promises to cure ’em. Hires nurses who” — he ran his finger around under his collar — “who sleep with male patients. Nurses have some venereal disease.”
Carol said, “There is a more ordinary term for it, Butch. Don’t spare my girlish blushes.”
“Yeah.” Butch squirmed. “Well, so the guys get infected. Have to stay in them sanitariums for treatment. Treatment consists of blackmail. Attar is supposed to be plenty well fixed in the bucks department.”
Silk murmured, “Of all the lousy, low-down rackets!”
Tony said, “This nice, clean-cut citizen was last heard of in Newark last Friday when he started to drive his Buick to St. Louis, purpose of visit unknown. The district attorney of Newark reports much consternation in criminal circles due to this unexplained disappearance.”
Silk went to the wall map. “Newark to Philadelphia. Philly to Pittsburgh over the speed pike. Pittsburg to Vulcan City. And so to St. Looey. If he got past our fair city, that is.”
Quinn looked stern. “He might have got as far as Saylor’s Creek — or Harris Run.” He briefed Carol on the Prosser matter. “Here we have three hot shots dropping out of sight in a space of five days. In each case they either came to this town or were heading in its general direction. Also, within the last three days, we Rave — or, more accurately, the autopsy surgeons over at the morgue have — two unidentified and presumably unidentifiable bodies. Whether there may be a third lying in some pond out in the county is anybody’s guess. But that the two sets of circumstances are tied in together seems more than a probability. What do you make of it?”
Silk said, “One thing for sure, it’s not going to make the prosecutor’s office look too good if we have a bunch of unsolved torso murders right off the bat.”
Butch smacked a ham-sized fist into the palm of his other hand. “All kidding about this statistical business aside, I’d say the percentage was on some kinda kidnap and ransom setup. Them three schmoos, they’re meat for the grab-and-hold crowd, because they’re loaded with pay-off coin and they can’t squawk or go to the cops. Only maybe in this case the snatchers collect and then don’t let the schmoos go, but run ’em through the meat-chopper and dump ’em in the brook.”
“Reasonable,” Tony admitted, “as far as it goes. But it doesn’t go far enough to give us a line on the murderer. Any suggestions, Carol?”
She studied her slim ankles. “If Silk is right about all three men coming to Vulcan City, and if Butch has hit it anywhere near the mark about kidnaping, then it’s only fair to assume we have a branch of Murder Incorporated right here under our nose.”
Tony said, “Close. Maybe even close enough to win the great big, gorgeous, woolly panda bear. But there’s a difference, Carol. That Brooklyn crew of cutthroats disposed only of crooks who’d got in wrong with their own crime syndicate. As far as we know, that isn’t true of Prosser, for instance. He’s on the bad books of the Revenue Bureau, but not of his own gambler pals — at least, not on the surface.”
The phone on the desk purred. Silk took it.
“Hello? Oh, yes, Captain, he’s right here. Just a second.” He held his hand over the mouthpiece as he handed the instrument to Tony. “Yabor, sir. Homicide.”
Tony quirked one eybrow. “Afternoon, Captain.”
The head of the Homicide Bureau grunted, “We just got an identification on that chewed-up bunch of bones over at the morgue. Thought you might like to know.”
Tony asked, “Which one?”
“Saylor’s Creek victim. Name was Pete Cuanzalini. Lived out in Berkeley Extension.”
“How’d you identify?”
“Dental work.”
“Thought none of his teeth had been found.”
The captain snorted. “We keep looking, here at Headquarters, Quinn. And we don’t waste our time running down cockeyed leads like some guys sucking the city teat.”
“Who verified the teeth for you?”
“His wife. And his dentist. Doctor Arthur Dryden, Alloy Building. Affidavits covering everything.”
Tony frowned. “The woman have any idea why Pete was killed?”
“Yeah, yeah. He got in a fight with a couple fellows about six or seven dollars due him for a paint job he helped do on a car. She says they threatened to cut him up into ribbons if he made any trouble. It’s all in the affidavit. I’ll shoot it over.”
“She know the names of the other men?”
“Nah. She never even seen ’em. Pete told her about it, is all.”
“Are you holding her?”
“Hell, no. What for?”
“Material witness in a murder case, Captain.”
“Crysake, you can make her spiel to the Grand Jury. What’s the difference? Chances are you’ll never go to trial with it anyhow. Those fellers are probably in Mexico by now.” The captain’s sneer was too flagrant to be ignored.