Stern was reknotting his tie before the mirror in the little room at the end of the hall when he heard the shots. There were two close together, then a third, sounding distant and muffled, so that he could not tell the direction from which they came and stood quite still for a moment, gazing at the picture of arrested motion in the mirror before him. It was a backfire. It couldn’t be shots. Nothing could happen—not here—not so soon. He didn’t have the guts. He wouldn’t dare.
Then there was confusion in the hall, and Stern dived for the door and flung it open on a tableau that included Dr. Stevenson, in his shirt sleeves, standing in the open door of his room, looking alert and disturbed as a startled goat, and Whitey Gordon poised momentarily in the hall, a pistol in his hand.
“The dirty son of a bitch,” gasped Gordon, his excited words tumbling out all in one breath without punctuation. “He shot him—through the open window. I think I winged him—I’m going down to see. Take care of Jack, somebody, will ya?”
Ridiculously, it occurred to Stern that nobody had an open window through which to be shot.
“Wait,” he shouted, but Gordon was already halfway down the stairs, and the front door banged before Stern had taken more than a few steps.
Jackson lay on his face and very still, with one arm doubled under him and the other reaching out toward the open window from which the lace curtain drifted back lazily. Dr. Stevenson was kneeling beside him when Stern entered the room.
“Is he dead, Doc?”
“Get my bag,” snapped the little man. “In the closet in my room.” And, when Stern had found the bag and returned it, “Here, help me with this coat. The wound’s high under the shoulder blade—nasty, but not necessarily serious. Take his legs. We’ll get him on the bed.”
There was a flurry of feet on the stairs, and Stern turned and attempted to catch Blackie, but she eluded him and flung herself on the floor cradling Jackson’s head in her arms. “O God,” she moaned. “Not yet. Not so soon.”
The little doctor was magnificent. He caught Maeve under the chin and snapped up her head so that she was forced to look at him. The gesture had all the effects of a blow. “Blackie,” he snapped. “Hot water and towels. Boil up a scalpel and probe. Scissors, sutures, bandage—we’re going after that bullet. Do you want him to lie here and bleed to death?”
Maeve blinked to clear her vision and gave him a long, questioning look. Then she said, “I’m sorry,” and struggled to her feet and out of the room. By the time they had Jackson on the bed she was back with water and towels, her face pale and vacuous, but her movements steady, quick, and competent. Stern, backing out of the room, had a final vision of her small white hands wielding scissors to cut away the blood-soaked shirt.
Once in the hall, he turned and went rapidly down the stairs and out the front door, pausing only long enough to speak a reassuring word to Mrs. Cox, already busy at the sterilizer in the little office off the entrance foyer. The sidewalk leading around the house was free of snow, but directly beneath the open window two trails marred the whiteness of the lawn. They converged to an ordinary wooden ladder set against an oak tree about ten feet out from the walk, then led off in parallel lines cutting diagonally across the lawn to the street. Stern hesitated only a moment, then plunged out across the lawn, slipping and sliding in the wet snow but managing to keep his trail well apart and distinct from the other two.
He found Gordon at the corner half a block from the house, the gun still clutched in his hand, peering this way and that down the two streets and cursing aloud in a steady flow that did not once repeat itself. The two streets were deserted except for a distant car and an old lady with a market basket who stood on the curb, her terror of this bareheaded apparition that had dashed at her, gun in hand, beginning to be overcome by outrage at its vocabulary.
“He’s gone,” Gordon shouted into Stern’s face. “He got away.” He lapsed into another flurry of profanity.
“Shut up and listen to me. Did you see him? Do you know who it was?”
Gordon shook his head hopelessly. “I saw him on the ladder after he fired. He wore a black slicker but he jumped before I saw his face. He stumbled, and I thought I winged him, but when I got out of the house there was nothing but his footprints in the snow. I guess I’m not very good with one of these things.” He held up the gun and surveyed it disgustedly.
“All right,” said Stern. It was growing colder, and he chattered a little as he spoke. “Come on, we have to get back to the house and call the police. I should have done it sooner, but maybe there’s still time for a prowl car to pick him up.”
The old lady finally found her voice. “Police!” she screamed vehemently. “Well! Well, I should think so.”
Stern called both the township police and the sheriff’s office. He gave Gordon’s description of the raincoat but warned that it was almost certain to be discarded. The best that could be done was to post men at the ferries and vehicular tunnels and send out a general alarm to highway patrols and radio cars to pick up all suspicious persons. The township officials would be over immediately, and Sheriff Christy was also on his way, although the Stevenson residence was outside his jurisdiction.
The complications of a new set of officials in the case did not serve to brighten Stern’s outlook. He sighed and was about to put in a call to Nicholson when he received an imperative summons from the head of the stairs. Dr. Stevenson called down to say that Jackson had recovered consciousness and was demanding to speak to him immediately.
The alarm would go across the river automatically, and the call to Nicholson could wait. He left the phone and bounded up the stairs to seize the doctor’s arm.
“How is he?”
The old man smiled. “If he doesn’t break a blood vessel from indignation he’ll live. I never saw anyone so fighting mad in all my life.”
The flood of relief that Stern felt at the doctor’s answer left him weak. At least he would not have another death on his conscience.
“The wound isn’t serious then?”
“Not too serious. Fortunately, the bullet angled up along the bone and lodged in the fleshy part of the shoulder. Barring complications, he should be as fit as ever in three or four weeks.”
Jackson lay on his side while Maeve, her lips clamped tight but her tear-stained face no longer blank, applied the finishing touches to the bandaged shoulder and Gordon watched from the foot of the bed. The wounded man was quiet, but his eyes were hot and his out thrust jaw rigid.
When Stern came within his line of vision he said, “I gotta talk to you—right away—alone.”
Gordon protested. “He hadn’t ought to talk now, had he, Miss O’Callighan? He oughtta rest.”
Jackson did not look at him. “It’s all right, baby,” he told Maeve. “I have to talk to Stern. Now! Right away!”
Maeve rose from beside the bed. “I suppose you won’t be quiet otherwise,” she said with some of her old spirit. “I never saw such a stubborn man. Just for a minute, though, and don’t you dare move.”
When the door was closed and they were alone Jackson said, “What happened?”
Stern grinned. “You tell me.”
“I mean afterward. After I passed out.”
Stern told him. When he had finished Jackson nodded.
“I thought it was something like that. He’s too clever to live, the dirty, double-crossing rat. But this time his goose is cooked.”
“Did you see him? Do you know who it was?”
“Sure I saw him.” Jackson ground his teeth. “I knew before but I wouldn’t believe it. I couldn’t see how. I’d like to break his neck myself but now that I’m laid up I’ll have to turn him over to the cops before he kills somebody else.”
“Who?”
Jackson shook his head slowly. “Not you. The cops and plenty of ‘em.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Too dangerous. He’s still got a gun. He thinks he fooled us. He’ll wait.”
“Listen,” said Stern. “I know what you’re thinking, you crazy fool. You mean you’re going to tell the cops——”
“That’s just what I mean.”
“But you’re wrong—dead wrong.”
“The hell I am. I don’t know all the angles but I know what I see.”
Stern wasted no more time in argument. He saw that Jackson was stubborn, and that left only one thing to be done. Much as he disliked it, his hand was called, and there would have to be an immediate showdown.
“Okay,” he told the man on the bed. “Do me just one favor, will you?”
“What?”
“Hold your fire until we get everybody in the case rounded up. Then you can accuse whomever you want.”
The dying wail of a siren sounded in the street outside, and both men paused to listen.
“That’s the cops,” said Jackson. “Boy, that’s the first time I was ever glad to hear that noise.” He looked up at Stern. “How soon?”
“A couple of hours.”
“All right. I guess the son of a bitch will keep that long.”
“My condolences to both of you,” he said gently. “I think he’ll live to beat you.”
Maeve put her hand on his arm and looked up into his face. “How did you know?”
“Even a bum detective like me couldn’t miss. Besides, I eavesdropped.”
Her eyes met his, and her hand tightened on his sleeve. A message of sympathy and understanding passed silently between them. Then she dropped his arm and went quietly into the room and closed the door.
Stern went down the stairs to find a pompous chief of police talking to Dr. Stevenson and Whitey Gordon. He joined the group, introduced himself, and added his story to those of the others, then drew the doctor aside.
“You wouldn’t want your patient to suffer a relapse, would you, Doc?”
“If he does I’m sunk,” chuckled the old man. “My niece just tells me she has special designs on the young man.”
Stern nodded. “Well, then, your patient is very sick. He can’t be disturbed and under no circumstances can he be moved.”
The doctor digested this diagnosis for a moment. Then his white goatee bobbed up and down as gravely as though it were a medical opinion advanced by a high-priced consultant. “I understand,” he said.
“Good. Then wouldn’t it be advisable for you to be in close attendance for the next couple of hours?”
Dr. Stevenson sensed developments he was loath to miss. “Won’t I be needed down here?” he demurred. “The police ..His eagerness was so transparent that Stern grinned.
“I’ll take care of the police, Doctor. You get up and look after your patient.”
When the little old man had gone somewhat reluctantly up the stairs Stern turned his attention to the township officer whose name was Holcomb.
“Chief,” he said when he succeeded in gaining the official ear, “if you have a man you can spare I’d post him outside the wounded man’s door.”
“What for?” snapped the other. “You don’t think there’s any chance of another attack, do you?”
“Not exactly.” Stern’s tone was suggestively vague. “If you’ll step outside with me, Chief, I’ll show you——”
The township man was an old-time conspirator. He followed Stern out onto the porch and closed the door carefully behind him. “What’s up, Counselor?”
“The man upstairs is a vital witness in two murder cases. That’s why he was shot. And he just told me confidentially that he knows who shot him. Now if we cooperate I think we’ve got a chance of cleaning up this case and a couple of others as well. And one of the others is the Murdock killing.”
“The Murdock killing? Hell, they got the guy who did that.
McArthur was in my office just this afternoon, and he says——”
“How would you like to prove McArthur’s wrong?”
The official’s eyes gleamed. “That’d be something,” he admitted.
“You mean you think the fellow who did this shooting——?”
Stern interrupted hurriedly. “I don’t think; I know. And if you’ll help I’ll prove it. All we have to do is get all the suspects in those other cases out here——”
“Wait a minute. What the hell do we have to do that for? Why not just nail the guy this guy says shot him and go to work on him.”
Stern couldn’t help it. “The guy this guy says shot him,” he repeated, “has committed three murders and failed in a fourth by the width of a thin whisker, all in the last three days. Do you think you could beat that out of him? He’s afraid but he’s more afraid of several other things than he is of you and your rubber hose.”
“Oh, tough, is he?” asked the chief. “Then how——”
A car was drawing up before the house. “That would be Sheriff Christy.” Stern cut off Holcomb’s question.
“Not tough,” he said. “Desperate. There’s a tremendous difference. Get him out here along with the rest of the people I name, and I’ll crack this thing for you. He’ll be your prisoner, and you can have the credit. Is it a deal?”
The man still hesitated. “What do you want me to do?” he asked suspiciously.
“Follow my lead and back me up.” Stern moved down the steps to greet the sheriff. “Glad you could come,” he said, shaking hands. “Will McArthur be over?”
“McArthur? What do you need him for?”
“I don’t.” Stern grinned. “But I think he might want to be here. This is the pay-off on the Murdock business. Chief Holcomb, here, is requesting a roundup of suspects for questioning.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He just decided to ask you to bring your prisoner over. Burke’s still in your custody, isn’t he?”
The sheriff’s blue eyes twinkled. “Who’s going to do the questioning?”
“The chief insists that I do it,” Stern told him unblinkingly. “He agrees that both this shooting and the Murdock murder are part of a pattern that started with the killing of the longshoreman, Riorden, and that since I have been connected with the case from the beginning——”
“I get it. I get it.” The sheriff held up his hand. “I don’t need a blueprint. And if you want Burke over here you’ll get him. Of course, you’ll have to remember that he’s still my prisoner.”
“Sure. Sure.” Stern hurried the two officials into the house. The highest hurdle was still ahead—getting Nicholson to agree to the plan.
Once on the phone, Nicholson fussed and fumed as Stern had known he would. “Of all the harebrained screwball ideas,” he raved, “this takes the prize. Even if it’s legal—and I’m not sure it is—I’m taking an awful chance transporting witnesses out of the state for questioning. How do I know it’ll work? How do I know I’m not letting the city in for a mess of damage suits that’ll knock our case from hell to breakfast?”
“The same answer to both questions,” said Stern. “You’ll have to take my word for it. Either this works, or we’ll never find the answer, and this fellow’ll go on killing people. Besides, Chief Holcomb requests it. You wouldn’t hold out on a brother officer?” The answer that came sputtering out of the phone was slightly incoherent, but Stern gathered the gist of it which was that all smart-aleck young shysters who meddled in police business should be in hell and would be, if the speaker had his way. He held the receiver some inches away from his ear and waited patiently for the storm to blow itself out. When Nicholson paused for breath he said one word:
“So?”
“So to hell with you,” said Nicholson in a weary, defeated tone. “I don’t give a damn for a carload of Chief Holcombs, but you know I’ll do anything short of committing a murder myself to get this case cleaned up.”
“Okay,” said Stern. “Get ‘em out here as soon as you can, will you? And don’t forget Powers and Mayme Burke.”
“Suppose they don’t want to come? What am I supposed to do—shanghai ‘em? And what in the name of common sense do you want with Mayme Burke?”
“Persuade ‘em,” laughed Stern. “The last guy out here is a sissy. For crying out loud, do I have to tell you how to round up suspects? And Mayme’s important; she’s a character witness.”
“Whose character?”
“What do you care? You’re a married man.”
Stern stood by while the sheriff called the jail and ordered one of his deputies to bring Burke to Dr. Stevenson’s immediately, then called several restaurants until he located McArthur and informed the loudly protesting county attorney of impending developments. This business finished, Stern and the two officials went outside again.
Two prowl-car men, very natty in blue uniforms with shiny black leather putties and Sam Browne belts, were guarding the foot of the terrace steps against a little group of curious citizens and a couple of yapping reporters. Holcomb called one of the cops and sent him up to guard the door of Jackson’s room. He quieted the reporters, giving them the bare facts of what had happened and hinting that he would have a very important statement to make in the near future. While the chief was thus occupied Stern led Sheriff Christy around the side of the house to where a middle-aged detective with the lugubrious features of a Newfoundland dog stood disconsolately by the tree, guarding the ladder and the footprints in the snow.
It had stopped snowing, and the night was clear and crisp. Light from the windows of the house made orange rectangles on the lawn and glistened on the branches of the tall tree. Stern was reminded of the Christmas-card impression he had gotten when he first drove up to the house an hour or so ago. Things had certainly happened fast in that hour to dispel the feeling of peace and security that first impression had given him.
Chief Holcomb joined them, and Stern again related what had happened. Sheriff Christy looked up at the branch of the tree against which the ladder leaned and nodded.
“The way that branch curves, a man on the ladder would have to stand below the level of the window to get a clean shot into the room. That’s probably why the path of the bullet ranged upward. Don’t look like the fellow had much time to plan what he wanted to do. Where’d he get the ladder?”
“Dr. Stevenson told me that it was lying alongside the house,” said Chief Holcomb. “He had been using it earlier in the day.” He turned to the sad-looking detective. “You boys find anything, Hurd?”
“Not much,” said Hurd. “Sam and Peanuts followed the footsteps out to the edge of the walk. They’re out there now, trying to dig up something. Them footprints are our best bet. They’re so clear you can see the trade-mark on the heel a couple of places.”
“That oughtta help,” the chief nodded. He turned back to the others. “Well, boys, it don’t look like there’s much for us to do out here. Let’s get back into the house where it’s warm.”
As they rounded the front of the house another of Holcomb’s men came hurrying up the steps from the street. He had a black rubber slicker over his arm and carried in one hand a heavy pair of old-fashioned overshoes with metal fasteners.
“Look what we found in the bushes down by the corner,” he called out to the chief.
Holcomb took the garments and examined them. “Fairly new and in good condition,” he said. “Looks like they might have been worn by our man.”
“It’s a cinch they were,” said the detective. “They were thrown over the bushes from the sidewalk. You could see where they had hit the top branches and knocked off the snow as they rolled down. And there was snow under them, so they must have been thrown there recently.”
The chief turned to Stern. “This is going to make it easy,” he announced gleefully. “When our guests arrive we’ll find out who these belong to in a hurry and then we’ll have our man.”
Stern shrugged, and his face reflected none of the chief’s enthusiasm.
“Maybe we can find out whom they belong to right now,” he said.
He took the garments and led the way into the front door of the house and through to the kitchen. Mrs. Cox and Whitey were sitting at the kitchen table eating roast duck and dressing. Whitey had the good grace to look guilty.
“Won’t you have some dinner, Mr. Stern?” urged Mrs. Cox. “I took a tray upstairs for the doctor and Maeve and the poor young man who was shot and I almost had to fight to get it past that policeman at the door. Whatever happens, there’s no sense letting good food go to waste.” She noticed the articles Stern was carrying. “Where did you find the doctor’s raincoat and overshoes? I told him someone would steal them if he kept leaving them on the back porch.”
Stern turned to Holcomb with a rueful grin. “There’s the answer to your footprints, chief,” he said.