Candidate for Murder Read online

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  Candidate for Murder

  Nels Leroy Jorgensen

  This page formatted 2011 Blackmask Online.

  http://www.blackmask.com

  Black Book Detective, May, 1949

  Through a maze of politics and gangsterism, the gambler-sleuth gropes his way to the foes of a gubernatorial aspirant whom underworld has doomed to death! A Black Burton Novelet.

  CHAPTER I. Forced Interview

  BLACK BURTON, in dressing gown and morocco slippers, had just found the fresh shirt he needed in the bureau drawer—his black tie and wing collar were laid out—when he felt a draft behind him. He had been alone, and it needed only a glance to show him that his gun and holster were too far off to do him any good just then. So he sighed, straightening, said as he turned:

  “Yes, of course. Pete Nougat! Didn't anybody ever tell you about a Sullivan Law? And you less than five months out of the Big House!”

  From under heavy black eyebrows, bushing under a short brow, Pete Nougat's slanting slate eyes tightened and below there the gun in his hairy fist jerked. In the eyes was a fanatic light. A killer's eyes, with a puff of heroin to make them brighter. Pete Nougat's nostrils flared.

  “Been watchin' all day, Burton. Job I like. You helped to send me up, last time. You and your pal, Dalton. Timed it when that valet of yours went out; had him tailed. He's safe.” The smoky killer eyes flicked to the gun and holster once more; the lips smiled. “Keep on gettin' dressed. I'd like to wear clothes like that. I'm here for an escort. Merlehan wants to make talk with you. Sorry! He told me to bring you in in one piece, and undamaged. But he didn't say what I was to do if you didn't behave nice. Even he knows about that draw of yours. I don't figure to risk it—not yet.”

  “You will, Pete, you will,” Burton mused, and continued dressing.

  Attired in the dark black of evening wear, with a black tie and the copper light burnishing from the ceiling, he looked younger than he was, a tall man with black hair that was glossy and well groomed, gambler's eyes that never showed what was behind them. He picked up a slouch Borsalino and when it was on his head, he turned to meet the watching eyes of the gunman, eyes that had been following his every move, nodded.

  “I was showering,” he mused. “So you must have got in then. But who had the key?”

  Nougat grinned. “I got keys 'll fit any lock,” he said. “One of me accomplishments. You should remember. You ready now? No perfume in that hankie here in your coat?”

  “I'm ready,” Burton said. He looked at his shoulder-holster and gun. Nougat grinned again. He crossed to the .38 automatic so snugly encased, snapped out the clip and shoved it in his pocket, snapped back the top to make sure the chamber was empty, then said, “Put it on. I'll hand you the clip, though, after we part; after we've seen the boss.”

  WITHOUT comment Burton adjusted his harness. A gambler, he knew when to accept the breaks. When to wait for them. “You work for Merlehan now?” he mused. “Still?”

  “That's right. Ready?”

  Burton regarded the gunny, with a look that was like measuring him for a shroud. Under the regard the man squirmed a little. He had a gun tight in his fist and Burton was disarmed—but after all it was Burton. Pete Nougat had reason to know all about him. Most criminals in New York City did—and some other cities too. A professional gambler who worked with the police, whose best friend was a dreaded lieutenant of Homicide, Dalton: target of the underworld and yet with friends there too.

  Burton might have made a move and he might have retrieved his clip of cartridges. It would have been a risky move, for Nougat was addicted to dope and he was hair-triggered. Even so Burton had outwitted men like him before. He did not make the move though, and that was because of one consideration: he wanted to know what Merlehan wanted of him. He had no fear of Merlehan, a big-time gambler owning two places in Manhattan and with greedy fingers in political pies. Merlehan was a dangerous man but as yet not an avowed enemy. Burton needed to know, in the light of what he already knew, why Merlehan should be using this method with him. There was no quarrel between them that he knew of.

  He saw Nougat push the gun into a little bag he carried, then nodded as Nougat motioned him to the door. He proceeded the gunman out. Nougat's.45 was nudging his side as they went down the stairs and to the curb where a big sleek black sedan purred, with a stoney-faced individual behind its wheel.

  There was no conversation as they purred uptown some distance to swing toward the East Side, the newer section that was a conglomeration of fine smart apartment buildings and old tenements. One of Merlehan's many houses, Burton conjectured, as they drew up under a dark port-cochere without the least noise of brakes.

  Nougat backed out warily, holding Burton's spiked .38 under his left arm, his right hand bulging his side pocket where his own gun was. He gestured with his chin. Burton, stepping onto the cement curve below the door and regarding the imposing entrance, said:

  “Your boss is doing himself nicely. Only dabbles in politics, too. Becoming a public spirited citizen, I hear.”

  Nougat cursed as the door swung open inward. Light spilled out as Black Burton turned easily toward him. But Burton's face was a mask; his lips scarcely moving as he said:

  “I don't know where this leads, Nougat. I want to find out some things and that's why I let you bring me along. In case you were surprised! But don't forget, there's a time coming when you won't be behind me. That'll be payoff time!”

  He went striding past a tall butler with mutton-chop whiskers, a man out of a Wodehouse gallery, and the man said tonelessly:

  “Mr. Merlehan is waiting for you, sir. This way, please.” Exactly as though there had been no gun behind the guest. Nougat edged at Burton's heels, close, and they were shown into a room the like of which Burton had seen only a few times before. It lay behind a richly carven ornate door of oak.

  Merlehan arose quietly from behind a wide heavy desk. The rich room contrasted his appearance, a bulldog jaw and a thatch of grizzled hair never straight, a man in his early fifties with aggressiveness marking every line of his strong features. His steel-blue eyes were hooded and calculating. After a moment of silence while Merlehan stood measuring him, Burton smiled a tight smile. His host broke the silence with:

  “What would that be for, Burton?” Burton replied: “You remind me a lot of Haviland. Did anyone ever mention that before?”

  Merlehan thrust a cigar into his big mouth and said: “What's Haviland payin' you, Burton? What's your cut there?”

  Burton said, “First I want to know why I'm here. You're not paying me, are you?”

  “It's an idea, Burton,” Merlehan said. “Sit down.”

  BURTON dropped into a chair. Merlehan went to a cabinet and brought forth Scotch wrapped in gold foil, a pail of ice, glasses and soda, which he set on the desk edge. Then as he squirted soda into two glasses he said casually:

  “I got the idea you're not too fond of Pete Nougat.” And he pushed the glass toward his guest.

  Burton touched the glass, nodded over it. “Nougat's a killer. I helped to send him up once and you got him out. He's breaking the Sullivan Law right now. They say you can get a liking for strychnine; maybe I could like Nougat if I tried hard.” He drank. “Do you realize that my presence here can be turned into a kidnap rap?”

  Merlehan shook his head from side to side in a fatherly way. “That's not the idea, Burton. I wanted to see you and knew you'd be shy of me. So I took this way. You're not kidnaped. Your gun's emptied, that's all. This is only a conference.”

  Burton drank. He still wanted to know the reason for all this. Politics had little to do with it, of course. Yet the wealthy Grover Merlehan, who sat opposite him now, was not a
politician.

  Burton could figure backward, and he did. Harvey U. Haviland was running for the Governorship. He was Merlehan's open enemy. He had got where he was by the most ruthless means, and by the use of his wife's great fortune: he was her second husband. But he walked in fear of his life. Still, he could purchase loyalty. Burton knew why Haviland had cultivated him; Haviland knew the gambler was straight, knew he could shoot— and knew Burton's presence would keep the underworld from him to some extent.

  “What's your tieup with Haviland?” the big gambler inquired, after a moment of silence.

  Burton said, “I don't have to tell you but I will. First, I'm curious. That's one of the reasons why I'm here right now; Nougat could never have brought me in if I hadn't been curious.”

  “I know that,” Merlehan said, and waited. “The second is—I'm a gambler. Harvey U. Haviland is paying me for lessons, professional payments, in bridge and contract—with some poker.”

  “That all?” “That's all you're going to know. I know he's out on his ticket to do away with gambling houses; it's on his program.”

  Merlehan breathed deeply through his nose. It was a sigh. He moved something on the desk, kept his eyes lowered, said:

  “Haviland is going to be murdered. He's announced himself as a candidate for murder. He wants you because he knows your guns. I want that murder to go through, even though I'm not arranging it. You got to take my word for that: I'm not. Even if I do want him dead.”

  “How do you know he's going to be killed if you aren't in on it?” Burton asked.

  “I know. And I wouldn't lift a finger to stop it. He's got an appointment for it. I'm out of it. I just wanted to see if I could get you out of the way—for a price. It means a big price to me.”

  Burton stood up. “Not enough,” he said. “I'm no hired gunny but I took a job and if the job means trouble I'm in. You haven't got the price, Merlehan. Is that all you wanted?”

  “That's all.” Merlehan sighed. He pressed a button under the desk and the door opened. “Sorry, Burton. You might be unlucky, too.”

  Burton said, “I might. You think you've got Nougat at your heel?”

  “I bought him out.” “And he'll sell you out,” Burton said. “I don't know why I'm handing you information, but he's highest bidder stuff. Tell him to return my gun—and then to keep out of my way!”

  He got his gun while Merlehan never moved and Nougat said nothing. He went out, and on the next corner managed to flag a cab. He gave the address of Haviland's super deluxe hotel apartments and in the taxi strapped on his .38 again.

  CHAPTER II. Hovering Death

  IT HAD not needed Grover Merlehan's assurance to convince Burton that Harvey U. Haviland walked in hourly danger. It had not even needed that to tell him that was the reason why Haviland was paying for his services. The trick of paying a high bonus for bridge and poker lessons was a transparent pretense. Burton knew that Haviland had angered the gambling element in the state and that his election, if he backed his promises, would ruin it. He might back his promises too. He was beyond bribery because of the wealth into which he'd married. Therefore, fanatic or whatever anyone wished to call him, he was a menace to certain dishonest elements and those elements had stood for grave danger in other eras.

  There was a big party on, running all through the two expensive floors of the luxurious hotel, when Burton entered. Haviland's step-son and step-daughter were going on with their usual affairs, laughing at their step-father's ambitions and ignoring the danger that menaced him.

  Those step-children! Ronald and Gayda Haviland! Ronald was always in debt, and Gayda barely succeeded in concealing her contempt for her mother who, by means of wealth, had tried to buy her way into wealth and society.

  Burton went on to Haviland's private suite.

  A private detective on guard at the door offered:

  “Ulysses has been raising cain wondering why you didn't show up, Burton. We told him we had everything covered but that wasn't enough. Boy, is that guy scared!”

  Burton answered, “He doesn't want to give them a chance to assassinate him. He knows he's made himself a candidate for more than the Governorship—for murder.”

  The guard tapped a cigarette and lit it. “Yeah. And that Gay kid, she's been all over the hotel lookin' for you personal. What a party they're throwin'!”

  “They call it tea,” Burton said, smiling, and turned away.

  Gayda was the biggest problem to the gambler. She was beautiful, young, and vivacious. She wanted new experiences. When Burton had first appeared, she had liked his looks. He'd told her he was married and the fact that he was not living with his wife had made him all the more interesting. Burton had represented a marked change from the crowd she knew, the hectic, always-moving nightclub gang that found bed at dawn only to arise for cocktails at noon. Gay had unmistakable allure.

  He encountered her almost as he stepped into the first room of the magnificent suite. Haviland maintained two top floors of the hotel for his own apartments and entourage. Supposedly the suite was shared with his wife. The floor below was occupied by the brother and sister and the friends they might choose to accommodate from time to time. Mrs. Haviland had her own retiring quarters—and it was known that it was there she spent her time—in rooms of the lower suite.

  The room Burton had entered was crowded with people. He halted. Gay saw him and caught his arm.

  About Haviland's stepdaughter there lingered always the heavy odor as of new-cut gardenias: she seemed perennially fresh, always alive. That her manicurist, her couturier, her French maid adept at Swedish massage, lotions, creams and astringents—that all these contributed Burton was full aware, had been since he first knew her. But even the knowledge could not serve to deny her young thrilling attractiveness; she was dangerous! Her painted lips were arched provocatively and her bronzed hair shone as she shook it back, catching the gambler's silk lapel.

  “We've missed you, Noir, we've missed you!” she exclaimed, using the name she had chosen for him. “Where have you been?”

  He smiled down at her and evaded: “I'd like to see your father right away. I've been— busy.”

  She half released him. “Of course! But you've met Captain Lamonte, haven't you?” And she nodded casually to the tall slim man who had come ranging alongside her.

  Lamonte only gave a cold bow. Burton said, “Yes, we've met. Good evening, Ronald,” to the girl's brother, before bustling away.

  LAMONTE! Well, at least Ronnie had not brought back a foreign wife on his last trip abroad. No. Instead, this Lamonte gentleman. Lean and bronzed and with a distinctly Continental air, Lamonte had been over a period of weeks an intimate in the lavish Haviland household. One newspaperman had labeled him as Gayda's fiancé, had spoken of manorial estates in Kent.

  But the stepfather did the dictating for them all and he was a hard man. His wife had known it for some time. His stepchildren, spoiled though they were, faced it with resentment and bitterness. And his death, which Merlehan had spoken of, would release a huge fortune and freedom for three persons.

  Crossing the rooms where the party was in progress, Burton nodded to two or three acquaintances, noting that Haviland's bodyguards were quietly present. They knew him. He knocked at an oak door, received a short command bidding him enter, and stepped into the magnificent library of the suite that Harry U. Haviland retained for his own. No one violated the great man's privacy here; here scarcely a breath could penetrate from the world without. The walls were lined with expensive and unread books; the carpets were so thick as to deaden all sound; a Napoleonic desk dominated a room made for a dictator or a Czar.

  Haviland was in his middle fifties. He had a mane of shaggy gray hair that he would push back from time to time in one of those leonine gestures of which he was so fond. His blue eyes were hard and icily commanding, and his jaw was scarped blue granite. There was distinction in him, unquestionably. And yet behind his eyes lay continual fear. He rapped out, before Burton had a
chance to speak:

  “I've been trying to get hold of you for an hour. Where have you been?”

  Burton smiled. “Delayed. I've been with Grover Merlehan.”

  “What?” “With Merlehan. He wanted to see me.” Haviland started from his c h air.

  “You're telling me you went to see Merlehan? Because he wanted to see you? Am I crazy or you? It's been less than three days since Merlehan was quoted as saying that humanity would be better off if I were dead. Only he didn't mention me by name. What— what does this mean?”

  Burton said, “Merlehan sent one of his gunmen after me, and the gun was an invitation to come across town and see him. I went. Even though I don't like to have a gun pulled on me. Merlehan made me an offer, gave me an opportunity to get away from you. He—” Burton paused ”—he wanted to give me the same chance he'd give any rat to get off a sinking ship.”

  Burton had spoken quietly. But the words made the big man who so feared death sink back into the great imperial chair.

  There was silence in the big room for a long moment. The clock ticked loudly. Then at last Haviland drew himself together. In the voice that the outside world knew, lacking its harshness and its tremor, he rasped:

  “Then why did you come back, Burton? I imagine he had a price? You expect me to jack it up?”

  Burton said, while his eyes gleamed, “I came back because I had an appointment here. I don't think, from what Merlehan said, that there's any intention of trying to get at you— with his men. He hates you but I'll bet on that. He warned me, though. You're in danger, but I think we've both known that for a long time. I didn't imagine I was being paid to teach you bridge!” Abruptly: “That party tonight?”

  “It's on. You saw that. Shall I—” “We've been warned, so we can consider ourselves ready. Stearns Warren is coming, I hear, to your party. He's supporting you politically but he's not to be trusted. If you want to trust him that's your business. He controls the state but he's got a lot of irons in the fire, and one of them is the fact that he doesn't like your anti-gambling measure, the one in your platform.”