Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 104, No. 4, August 22, 1936

“Don’t worry,” he said. “The police will be at every custom gate on the pier. The instant this chap shows that Solomon Sampson news pass to get out — they’ll nab him.”

I wasn’t so sure. The whole thing was lopsided and it seemed to me that if a guy had been smart enough to murder a man in full company, a mere mob of flatfoots wouldn’t bother him much. And still I couldn’t get it. The ruby was safe. Rainsford was dead. The suicide note — probably a phony.

But the signature looked genuine. And that meant that Rainsford had been killed by some one who either knew him or knew his fist.

III

Well, it turned out that my hunch had been pretty good. At one o’clock every passenger had cleaned up his luggage and there wasn’t a soul left on the pier except the custom men and the police.

And no one had presented a newsman’s pass with the name Solomon Sampson on it.

When the ship had first docked, I went right downtown and wrote the story. Only I had an inside track. I called it murder right from the start because that was the beat. The other poor scribblers didn’t know that Solly’s pass had been heisted.

After I wrote the yarn, I went back uptown to the dock where I found Lieutenant Bill Hanley who is why the homicide squad of our fair city enjoys such repute.

“Hello, Poppa,” I said.

Hanley looked glum. “’Lo, Daffy,” he said, chewing stolidly upon the unlighted cigar in his mouth, his face as homely as ever. “I suppose you heard.”

“Your man got away.”

Hanley nodded. “I don’t figure it at all. Don’t see how else he could ’a’ got through.”

I said, “Sometimes I wonder, Poppa, how you get along. I’ll tell you how I would have worked it.”

“How?”

“I’d have done two things. First, I’d have stolen a newsman’s pass. Then I’d have procured a custom pass, issued to those who wish to see friends aboard ship before they finish with the customs. All you do is write to the line, ask for a pass, mention the passenger you are going to see, and the pass is sent to you.”

“Well?”

“Then — like the killer did — I’d have posed as Solly and gone aboard with the reporters. After killing Rainsford, I’d have used the custom pass to get through the customs after the ship docked. Mighty smooth guy, eh?”

“As simple as that!” Hanley grunted, stomping on his cigar and grinding it to pieces. “There may be a slip there at that. I’ll check with the line and see if any passes were issued to friends of Rainsford.”

“Did Doc Kyne see Rainsford?” I asked. Dr. Kerr Kyne, the buzzard, was chief medical examiner of New York County.

“Yeah.”

“Cyanide.”

“Yeah. And no prints on that suicide note, Daffy. Oh, Rainsford was bumped all right. But for God’s sake, will you tell me why?”

“I can’t tell you,” I bluffed, “because it’s an exclusive story in the Chronicle. The homicide squad should really subscribe. It would help you out no end.”

“To no end is more like it, quack,” Hanley grunted, grinning at me. “There’s no green in my eye, Daffy. You’re as dumb as I am on this one.”

I said, “That’s a fact, Poppa. But I have got a lead, at least. I’ll give you a buzz later.”

“Right.”

I caught a cab and rode east to Solly Sampson’s quarters, an apartment house on East 92nd Street and when I reached there I paid off and went upstairs.

Solly was in bed.

“Oh, Daffy,” he groaned, balancing an ice bag on his head, “if you could feel like I feel — it was a red truck — it hit me when I, a sober citizen, stuck my foot off the curb and merely began to—”

I said, “All right, Solly. Skip the act.”

“The act?” he said. “I feel terrible.”

“Yeah?” I said. “And you’ll feel worse when you know what you missed. You were supposed to cover Rainsford’s return with the Lane ruby today, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, the Old Man said he’d send you.”

“He did. And Rainsford was murdered.”

Solly put down the ice-bag and sat up. “Murder on the high seas! Twelve years I’ve been on the waterfront beat and it happens the day I’m blotto!”

“The guy who bumped Rainsford got aboard posing as you — using your pass.”

Solly just gaped.

I said, “Now drag your brains together and do a lot of recalling, you cluck. You were taken last night and taken sweetly. And you so young. Where were you?”

Solly said soberly, “Surf Bar. 52nd Street.”

“Alone?”

“I was. But another guy bought me a couple of drinks and then we binged.”

“Who was he?”

“I never saw him before. He said his name was George Baker. He was a nice little guy and he sure handed out the drinks.”

“He knew who you were, I’ll bet?”

“Yeah. He said he recognized me.”

I shook my head. “And have you figured out why you were sick today? You were Mickey Finned, you sap, and you aren’t out of it yet! He lifted your wallet and got your pass and probably gave you back your wallet. Were you out when you got home?”

“I don’t remember a thing. I woke up in bed,” Solly said.

I nodded. “I’ll see you later,” and I left.