Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

Paul threw the car in gear and let up the clutch. He pulled away from the curb, watching the street behind him in the rear vision glass. With sinking heart he saw the police car racing after them, pulling alongside. “It’s no use!” he muttered.

But the girl at his side had different ideas. “Keep still and don’t say a word. I’ll handle this!”

The cop in the police car was waving at him to stop, and Paul pulled up. The cop got out of the car, leaving his partner at the wheel. He had his hand on the holstered gun at his side, his eyes fixed on Paul.

“Don’t try nothin’—”

He stopped short, his eyes widening, fixed on the girl. Abruptly his tone changed. “Why, good day, Miss Hastings. I... I didn’t know this was your car.”

“How do you do, officer,” she said with a wealth of suddenly acquired sweetness. “Is anything wrong?”

“Why, no, I guess not. We’re lookin’ for a guy that just shot a man and escaped on the El. We figured he would get off at this station, and the newsdealer at the corner said such a man just came down, and then went in this car. We figured he stole a car and was lamming.”

The girl’s tinkling laugh interrupted. “How funny! This is my chauffeur, Brown.”

“And he’s been with you all the time? He didn’t just get in the car?”

“You don’t think I’d send my chauffeur around shooting people, do you?”

“Well, uh, I guess not. Well, we better start searching the block. Maybe the newsdealer was mistaken about where the guy went, but it’s pretty certain he was the one got off the El. If you see your father, Miss Hastings, tell him I didn’t mean nothin’ by stopping you. Just doing my duty, is all. Officer Woods is the name.”

“Of course, Mr. Woods. I understand.” Then to Paul, “You may go on, Brown.”

Paul called to the cop, who was already turning away, “Say, Mr. Woods, did you say this man shot someone?”

The cop turned, raised his eyebrows at the idea of a chauffeur talking up like that. But he replied, “Yeah. We didn’t get much — only a snatch over the short wave while we were coming up Ninth Avenue. Shot him to death right in his apartment. Nobody knows anything much yet. We haven’t even got the description. But we’ll get that in a couple of minutes. It seems there was a plain-clothes man right at the scene, and he’s phoning in the stuff and they’re relaying it over the radio. My partner is getting it right now.”

“Thanks!” Paul said hastily, and started the coupe forward. In a minute he was out of the block and swinging north into Central Park West.

The girl had the gun out once more, and was covering him with it.

“Drive through the park,” she said. “We’re going up Fifth Avenue.”

Paul glanced at her sideways. “I know who you are now,” he told her. “You’re Helen Hastings, the District Attorney’s daughter. Your picture was in the paper last week, but I didn’t place you at first. Your father is in some sort of trouble. A night club singer was murdered the other night, and it was discovered that your father had been coming to see her. The opposition papers are playing it up big, and your dad refused to resign, saying he wouldn’t quit under a cloud. I followed that story very closely. It looks bad for your father, but I don’t think there’s any evidence to prove he killed the girl.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Helen Hastings said. Her little mouth was still tight. “As if you didn’t know all along who I was! You knew I was coming to see Groh, and you killed him before I could get there!”

Paul’s perplexity grew as he swung the car into the transverse across Central Park. “What I can’t understand is if you’re the D.A.’s daughter, why did you save me from the police?”

“You know very well why I saved you from the police. I want that gun. Better give it to me now.”

“Look here, Miss Hastings, I swear to you, I didn’t shoot that man, Groh. I just hit him on the button. I was trying to sell his wife a vacuum cleaner.”

Helen Hastings uttered a short, brittle laugh. “You were just waiting for a street car!”

She fiddled with the radio on the dash-board, using her left hand while she kept the gun steadily pointed at him with her right. The voice of a news announcer emanated from, the speaker, uttering quick staccato sentences in highly excited tones.

“...murder in the heart of the city! Less than ten minutes ago, Michael Groh, a chauffeur, was shot down in cold blood in his own home by a killer posing as a vacuum cleaner salesman.

“Groh, until last week in the employ of Lawrence Cleverly, boss of the East End Election District, was killed by a bullet in the base of his brain. Police are laying a dragnet around the city.

“The murderer’s description is as follows: Five feet ten or eleven; black, curly hair; clean-shaven; was wearing a blue serge suit and a blue-striped tie when last seen, making his escape on Ninth Avenue Elevated. This man appears young and innocent, but is really very dangerous. Citizens are advised to use caution if they should see him, as this description tallies with that of ‘Baby Face’ Matt Squeer...”