Gilded Canary Read Online Free PDF Page B

leapt to one side and downward, as he did so pulling at the
     Colt .38 Detective Special contained in the spring holster clipped under the waistband of his trousers.
    The blasting sound of two shots ripped through the air, filling the small lobby and reverberating through it. “Uh,” came from
     Jabber-Jabber, and he pitched to the glistening floor, a neat hole between his eyes not yet beginning to ooze blood, the receiver
     he’d been holding in his hand all through his conversation with Lockwood now swinging lifelessly on its cord.
    The gunman was already running, feet clacking on the lobby’s tiles as Lockwood rushed after him, pistol raised, the buzz of
     violence filling his being, roaring into his ears.
    Calidone sprinted toward the exit, never looking back. Two startled tourists drew away from him, but were still too close
     for Lockwood to chance a shot.
    Lockwood sped through the revolving door, and couldn’t believe his luck. Calidone was in a black DeSoto, tearing away from
     the curb, and no one was near. The .38 went into position, cracked twice, and the DeSoto continued on a few more yards, then
     went out of control, careening against the sidewalk, then richocheting into a fire hydrant, the water gushing out as the plug
     clattered to the street, and then into a blank brick wall near a music shop. The initial whomp! of the impact was followed
     at once by little crashing sounds of metal and glass.
    Immediately, Lockwood was there, but it was too late, as far as he could see. Calidone was half out of the windshield, his
     body a limp rag, his face a pulpy mass. The driver was half man, half steering wheel, the two parts so intermeshed it looked
     as if he’d grown that way.
    Jabber-Jabber was dead; so were these two, or would be in another moment or two. None of them could talk, and yet something
     had emerged. Calidone and the getaway driver were, Lockwood knew, members of Two-Scar Toomey’s gang.
    “Don’t you know there’s a fine for littering?” a big voice boomed into Lockwood’s ear.
    Lockwood turned, grateful for the distraction that broke the somberness of his mood. Lt. Jimbo Brannigan of Midtown Precinct
     was there, towering over him, a caustic grin on his weathered Irish mug, a couple of patrolmen standing respectfully behind
     him. “Hello, Jimbo,” The Hook said. “I think we’ve got something here.”
    “Sure. Something for the trash heap, it looks like,” growled Jimbo, peering at the driver, then Calidone. “Him I recognize,”
     he said, pointing to the driver, “but who did that used to be?”
    “Richie Calidone. He just plugged Jabber-Jabber Jacoby, the press agent.”
    “Jesus. Two-Scar’s at it again, eh? But why Jacoby?”
    “My guess is it’s tied into the Dearborn robbery. Could be it was Two-Scar who engineered it. Jabber-Jabber may have known
     too much, and they decided to put a clamp on his mouth. Permanently.”
    “Interesting,” Brannigan commented. “There’s word going around that the jewels have already been laid off. The dope is Stymie
     the Fence got ’em.”
    Lockwood looked repulsed. “Damn. Not Stymie. I was hoping I’d never have to go near that slippery mass of slime again.”
    Brannigan roared. “By Jesus, Hookie-boy, you’ve described him right enough! I tell ya, after I heard the rumor, I had my boys
     check him out, and they didn’t come up with anything, except an intense desire to fumigate themselves after they left him.”
    This time The Hook smiled. “I know the feeling. I don’t suppose I’ll find anything your guys didn’t, but I guess I’ll have
     to check him out.”
    “Want a lift?”
    “No, I want to see Muffy Dearborn first. Tell her about Jabber-Jabber, see what she has to say. You’ll find Jacoby’s body
     at the Alvin.”
    “Yeah. Guess they’ll be renting out his office now,” Jimbo shrugged, and turned to the cops hovering nearby.
    Stephanie answered the doorbell, eyes wide and hard when she saw who it