The Talmage Powell Crime Megapack

I heard the dog yelping out in back. Then he barked in pain and that’s the last I know of him. He was out at the little house we use for storage. I made a quick search out there but didn’t find the dog. He has simply vanished.”
I didn’t think the bait was very good. What was she trying to get us to do? Pin a murder rap on somebody so she could cash Droyster’s insurance?
The boss said, “I’m afraid I can do nothing. If there was something else you could tell me…”
“There is!” She seemed out of wind, like she had gone nine rounds. “There is! A man named Joe Dance phoned me. He promised to give me definite facts about my husband’s death, which no one else knows. I’m to meet him tonight at nine o’clock at the Greenleaf Bar on Canal Street.”
“That’s better,” the boss said. “You want Willie and me to interview Mr. Dance?”
She nodded in a hurry.
“Very well,” Smith said, “we will take the case. It will cost you one thousand—cash.”
That one was almost below the belt and it jolted her. Then she smiled. “That’s about all I have left, Mr. Smith”—I could almost see her thoughts—thousands of dollars of insurance money—“but I’m sure it will be worth it.”
CHAPTER II
The guy who named it the Greenleaf Bar must have been punch-drunk. Or just plain drunk. It should have been called the Smokehouse. The place was jammed when me and the boss got there, and it was some brawl.
Me and the boss wrestled our way in. The tobacco smoke made my eyes burn.
Some of the big punks saw the boss and it was a scream to see them make room for him. But they knew Percival Smith. They knew he looked as soft as a wet sponge when he’s more like a chunk of stone. He has shot more than one guy and he can handle his dukes. Me, I’m ready, but I’d want five to two before I’d take the boss on in what he calls fisticuffs.
A Greek and a slick-looking kid were working out behind the bar.
I thought for a minute the Greek was going to hug Smith. “Smeeth! You lika some gooda Scotch?”
The boss nodded. I said, “Give me some bourbon, Nick.”
The Greek brought our drinks. The boss pulled out a five spot, waved it back and forth in front of Nick’s eyes.
After the Greek digested the sight of the five, the boss said, “What are they saying about the dog track, Nick?”
The Greek looked all around, then back at Smith. “She’sa keep running. She’sa belong to Newell now.”
“So?”
The Greek hunched his shoulders. He began swiping the bar with a towel. “There wasa no contract.”
“A thieves’ agreement between Newell and Droyster personally, eh?” The boss downed a little of the Scotch and made a face.
“One more thing, Nick,” he said. “Where is Pete Lorentz? Pete’s been booking my bets for over a year now. He’s cost me a grand or so. Three days ago I placed a bet with him on White Lady. He was supposed to bring my winnings to my office, but I haven’t laid eyes on him.”
I remembered that. The boss had sure been in a stew because he thought Lorentz had run out. The odds on White Lady had been right and the boss had made a killing. He’d called all over town for Pete before he decided the bookie had taken a powder.
The Greek hunched his shoulders again.
The boss said, “Well, where’s Pete?”
Nick grunted. “You keepa the five dollar, Smeeth. Pete—he’sa none my business.”
The boss was never one to dicker. He peeled five more off his roll. Nick licked his lips.
“I tella you then, Smeeth. Pete leave town. He have the fight with Mark Droyster the day Droyster killa himself. Pete—he mop floor over witha Droyster.”
“And where did Pete go?”
“She’sa big mystery. No one see Pete since he hava the fight.”
“Okay, Nick,” the boss said. The Greek grabbed the dough. Smith said, “That drunk down the line needs a drink.”
“You no tella what I say?”
“Have I ever, Nick?”
“No, you gooda fran, Smeeth.” Nick moved away.
The boss and me parked in a booth to wait on Joe Dance. I kept looking at the clock behind the bar every now and then. Nine o’clock came, but Joe Dance didn’t show up. I had another bourbon.
At ten, the boss said, “Dance isn’t coming, Willie. Let’s be toddling.”
We went outside and the boss told me to hail a cab. I flagged one to the curb and we got in.
Smith gave the hackie Al Newell’s address, which isn’t far from Alicia Droyster’s.
“You think we ought to go there, boss?”
“It’s a lead.” He didn’t say nothing more for awhile. Then he said, “You know, Willie, it’s all rather queer.”
“What is?”
“Joe Dance and Pete Lorentz are great pals—and they both work for Newell.”
I said, “Uh huh.”
Smith said, “Look at it this way. Droyster and Newell own a dog track together. Droyster is dead—suicide they say—and Lorentz has vanished. To top that, Dance breaks an appointment with us.”
“Maybe we should hunt Dance, boss.”
He laughed. “We shall, Willie. We shall call on a great number of people.”
* * * *
When we got uptown, the cab turned a corner beside the Jackson building. That’s where Smith’s office is. The boss was looking out the cab as we went around the corner. He sucked in his breath like he had been punched in the stomach.
“Hold it!” he said. “We’ll get out here.”
The hackie pulled over and the boss tossed a piece of folding money at him.
I nearly had to sprint to keep up with him. “What in blazes, boss?”
He didn’t say nothing. He just pointed up. I said, “Cripes!” There was a light in the boss’ office. And we sure as hell hadn’t left it burning.
The elevators had quit for the night, but Smith likes to be close to the ground. So we only had four flights to go up.
The boss must have thought it was time for a