My Old Man's Badge (Black Gat Books Book 23) by Ferguson Findley

Author:Ferguson Findley [Findley, Ferguson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery & Detective, Thriller & Suspense, Hard-Boiled
ISBN: 9781944520878
Publisher: Stark House Press
Published: 2019-12-11T11:00:00+00:00

MURDER SUSPECTED IN SEAMAN’S DEATH

Boatswain Peter Arranto, whose body was found in a hallway on West Eighteenth Street at 3:30 this morning, was murdered, according to information from the Homicide Squad. The dead man, who was identified as a member of the crew of the SS San Stefano, which arrived in New York from the Mediterranean three days ago, had been stabbed in the back of the neck, according to the police.

There was more to the story than that, but I didn’t need to read any further. In a few seconds I was in a phone booth and talking to Inspector Stratford. “About this guy Peter Arranto that was found on West Eighteenth, Chief—when did he get killed?”

“About eleven o’clock last night, as near as we can figure.”

“What killed him?”

“Somebody stabbed him in the back of the neck, right at the bottom of his skull, straight through his spinal column.”

“What with?”

“That’s a funny thing. The medico says he never saw a wound like it before. Must have been made by a smooth spike of some kind, about three inches long. Not an ice pick, though, it’s a little bigger than that. About as big around as a pencil at the thick end. Why? Do you know something about it?”

“Not a thing, Chief. Not a thing,” I lied. “I thought maybe I did, but from what you tell me I must have been wrong. Did Tony find out anything about that girl?”

“He says she’s a hophead and a nymphomaniac—and he had a hell of a time finding out that she uses dope.” The Inspector laughed. “He picked her up as she was coming out of Sophie’s the night before last.”

“Tell him to look out. That’s all.”

I shouldn’t have lied to Stratford. When he described the hole in the dead man’s neck, I knew who had struck him. It was Herman, with his spiked knife. And the dead man had been the guy who rowed the boat and bummed my matches. And Herman was in twenty thousand dollars.

But if I had told Stratford he would have picked Herman up, busted the gang, and I might never have found out who and where Rudy Hoffmann was.

That’s what I thought.

Muddy kept me waiting almost half an hour, but we finally made our contact. This time I found myself with a candy box to deliver, and when I saw the note with it I whistled in spite of myself. Business was picking up. The address impressed me so much I stopped and had my shoes shined before I hailed a taxi and gave the Park Avenue number.

A doorman wearing a uniform that would have shamed a five-star admiral in the Balkan Navy opened the taxi door, and I tipped him a dollar before I entered the imposing lobby of the apartment house. Another flunky, who must have been at least a three-star Balkan admiral, greeted me with an “I smell-horse-manure” expression and finally condescended to ask me whom I wanted to see.

“The Countess de Callene.”

“And whom shall I say is calling, please?” he whined through his thin nose.

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