The Hard Way Out

A Jack Dylan Adventure 

By Dixon Kinqade

I'd killed a shank of the afternoon in a local department store, trying for the fifth consecutive year to select something personal for a Christmas card. In desperation, the bright-eyed sales girl suggested a smoking thirty-eight caliber, spelling out noel in delicate wisps of white curly smoke. Well, I gave up and settled for a re-issue of last year's unoriginal message.

An hour later, I was driving out to meet my new client, August Quigg. I was glad to be away from the pre-holiday crowds and back at work. As I pulled up in front of the factory building, an immodest sign told me the man I was supposed to meet inside was the president and co-founder of Quigg & Slater, manufacturers of nothing but the best in construction materials.

I walked inside and quickly located Quigg's office. The door was closed. So I knocked and a voice called out.

"Come in."

So I did and without looking up, he continued.

"I'll be with you in a minute. I'm on the phone at the moment."

He addressed whoever was on the line with an angry and impatient tone.

"Listen, it doesn't change the policy overnight, Slater, not after twenty-five years. You should know that, you of all people. Nevermind the excuses, those you always have and it makes me sick."

He slammed the phone back into its cradle.

"Partnership troubles, Mr. Quigg?"

"No, my partner's been dead for ten years. That was his son, but he has no say here. His father left it that way. Sit down, Mr. Dylan, please. Slater's not what I want to talk to you about."

"Alright, Mr. Quigg. Who is the man and what's his problem?"

"My general manager, Frank Emery. He's embezzled sixty thousand dollars of this company's money in the last year."

"Then isn't this a good time for you to scream copper from the nearest rooftop?"

"No, because I want to save Frank Emery, not condemn him."

"Why? What's so special about a general manager who keeps dipping his itchy fingers into the till?"

"Mr. Dylan, Frank Emery has worked for me seven years. In that time, he climbed from shop worker to plant foreman to general manager. That's something that took me fifteen years."

"Which proves what?"

"That Frank can one day make it right to the top. Here to my job and he can do it the honest way. That's just the path he was on until a year ago when he got married."

"And that's when he started to fill his pockets with company lettuce before he'd even gotten rid of the rice. Is that it?"

"Yes, but don't leap to any conclusions, Mr. Dylan. His wife, Sheila, is a very sweet woman. Everybody knows that and if anything, she's been a good influence."

"Mr. Quigg, what's Frank Emery's salary?"

"A little under one hundred seventy-five dollars a week."

"When did you last see him?"

"This afternoon, about two o'clock. I called him in here, but I didn't say anything about the shortage. We just talked.

I asked him if he needed a vacation. He only sulked and claimed that he'd be alright in a little while. Then he left my office. When he got back to his desk, he only stopped there long enough to pick up his hat. That was three hours ago."

"You've called his house since?"

"Twice, I got no answer. Here's the number, Dylan, and the address. Now, we better stop talking and start moving. I must know what Frank Emery plans to do. Here, this is my private number. The plant closes in half an hour, but I'll be right here and working late."

"Ok, but before I get going, Mr. Quigg, one more question. Just so all this makes sense to me, were you ever in a jam like this yourself, a long time ago maybe? So you know what it's like to be in Emery's shoes."

"You're a pretty sharp fellow, Mr. Dylan. I do seem to remember a rich man who once kept me out of a great deal of trouble, but the details aren't very clear anymore. So goodnight and good luck."

I made my way to the nearest wailing wall and made a phone call. I was hoping to get a hold of Frank at his home. I soon found out that wasn't going to be so easy. When the line rang a feminine voice answered.

"Hello?"

"I'm trying to reach Frank Emery, please."

"I'm sorry he's not in. Is this Jack Dylan?"

"Yes, and you're Sheila Emery, right?"

"Yes, I just finished speaking with August Quigg at the plant, Mr. Dylan. He told me about you. About Frank..."

Her voice trailed off. Then came the crying and tears.

"Take it easy, Mrs. Emery. Crying isn't going to help."

"Yes I know, but how can I help Frank? What can I do?"

"I'm not sure, but can you meet me right away? I'm at The Golden Crown. It's a cocktail lounge on high street, near Bradley."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Dylan. I'll be there soon as possible."

Exactly twenty-four minutes later, a two-tone sleek convertible, about the size of a Pullman car, glided to a stop in front of The Golden Crown. The loveliness behind the wheel was wearing a hundred dollar hand-knit dress that just wouldn't let go. I knew it couldn't be Sheila Emery... but it was!

She was tall, luscious, and blonde with blue-gray eyes that were set wide apart. She had a face that any angel would have gladly traded his wings for. Five minutes later, we were seated inside and at a corner booth.

"Only two weeks ago everything was perfect, Mr. Dylan. Frank didn't seem to have a care in the world. Then all of a sudden, he changed. He became quiet and almost morose."

"You never suspected that he was stealing from Quigg?"

"Of course not, but I think there must be some explanation, something we don't know about."

"Maybe, but from where I'm sitting, it looks like you two have been keeping up with the Vanderbilts instead of the Joneses and that takes a bank account."

"Just what do you mean by that, Mr. Dylan?"

"Exhibit A... that knit one-two pearl number you're wearing, Exhibit B... that splash of automobile you drove up in."

"But Frank said we could afford those things. I know, because I was worried when we bought the boat."

"What boat?"

"The 'Carefree', it's a thirty-foot sailboat. We dock it near our cottage at the marina."

"Hey, wait a minute! A sailboat, a cottage, that car... just how far do you think a hundred seventy-five bucks will stretch these days?"

"What do you mean? Frank makes twice that, plus bonuses."

"Not unless he has a very fancy paper route on the side, because one hundred seventy-five period is all that Quigg quoted me an hour ago."

"No, I can't believe that. Frank wouldn't lie to me that way."

"Some guys do funny things when they're too much in love."

That's when she started with the waterworks.

"Come on now. Tears take time, honey. How about holding 'em back until you give me some dope that'll put me on Frank's trail, huh? And I mean names and numbers, his clubs, his friends, anything that'll give me a line."

"Yes of course, but all that information is in his address book at home."

"Alright, home is our next stop... Just between us, Sheila, what are the chances that Frank has an extracurricular activity on a back street somewhere?"

"Another woman? Oh no, I'm sure that's not the way things are. Frank loves me very much."

"Yeah, I guess so. Believe me, if he doesn't, we're not looking for an embezzler, we're looking for a maniac... Come on, let's get out of here."

When we left The Golden Crown, Sheila was still crying and in no shape to drive. So after parking my coupe in a nearby lot, we floated out to the Emery place in her two-tone Nash. That jalopy did everything at the push of a button except dry a girl's tears.

At the house, Sheila pulled herself together long enough to give me a handful of addresses that just might lead me to Frank Emery. Just as I was about to leave, I noticed a single phone number. It was scribbled in pencil on the edge of a desk blotter.

It was Crenshaw 2131. Since it was unexplainable by Sheila, I wrote it down on a slip of paper and filed it in my pocket then left.

Once outside, I remembered that my car was still parked at The Golden Crown. So, I started back toward the house to call a cab. That's when I noticed it.

Suddenly, I stopped at the sound of someone in the shadows alongside the house. When I moved toward the noise, a man darted out from the shadows and between two trees. Naturally, I went after him and caught him.

"Get your hands off of me!"

"Why? So we can play another game of hide and seek? No dice, brother, I'm getting too old for that. Now who are you and what are you doing around the Emery place? Come on, let's have it."

"Say, wait a minute. Aren't you Dylan, the man August Quigg hired?"

"That's right, but you still haven't answered my question."

"No, but I will now that I know who you are. I'm Quigg's old partner's son, Keith Slater. Surely, Quigg must've told you about me, the prodigal son of his late partner."

"Sure he did, but you're still parrying slightly. Why were you hiding behind those trees?"

"Correction... I wasn't hiding. I was waiting for Frank Emery."

"Alright, we won't argue semantics. Why were you waiting?"

"Because I want to get hold of Emery and help him before he goes too far. You see Dylan, he came back to the office after you left."

"What? Did he talk to Quigg?"

"No, the place was closed and the old man went out for dinner."

"Did you talk to Emery?"

"Yes, and it wasn't much fun. That poor fellow's almost out of his mind, Dylan. He ranted for an hour and a half about how unfair Quigg was. He said that he knew I was going to get to run Quigg & Slater after the old man died."

"I don't buy that. When did you become the fair-haired boy around there?"

"I'm hardly that, but I do own one-quarter of the plant. Unless, of course, Quigg fires me one day. Those are the terms of my father's will."

"But Quigg won't fire you. Is that it?"

"He wouldn't think of it! After all, that would keep my dear father from resting easy in his grave."

"Ok, ok, let's skip it. Exactly what did Frank tell you, Slater?"

"He said that Quigg was a two-faced liar and that he'd settle with Quigg in his own way. I told Quigg as much when he got back from dinner. I also reminded him that Frank has a key to the office."

"That didn't faze Quigg. Did it?"

"No, Quigg said that he never worries twice. If Emery walked in on him, he'd worry about it then. I tell ya', Dylan, we've gotta get hold of Frank Emery and stop him before it's too late."

It was nearly an hour later before I was back at my office with my finger on the dial of the telephone. I was checking the names and places that Sheila Emery had given me. Two nightclubs, three hotels, and five friends later, I'd run through the list without a single kosher lead.

Sitting there and thinking of all the places a guy could disappear to, I reached into my pocket for a lung rocket and I found something else. A slip of paper that read Crenshaw 2131. That was the number I'd seen on the desk blotter at Emery's place. With nothing left to lose, except another millimeter off the tip of my index finger, I went back to dialing.

"Newton's Pipe and Tobacco Shop, who's calling?"

"Newton's what?"

"Pipe and Tobacco Shop, what can I do for ya'?"

"Not a thing old timer, my mistake."

I'd no more than set the phone down when it rang. Looking dumbly at it, I picked it back up and put it to my ear.

"Jack Dylan speaking."

"Dylan, it's Sheila Emery and I think I know where Frank is!"

"You do?"

"Yes, the cottage at the marina. It's closed up, but I was going through some things in my desk when I discovered the key to that place was missing. The thing is... I clearly remember seeing it yesterday."

"What exactly is the location of that cottage?"

"It's number 1221 at Marina Del Rey, directly behind the large greenhouse on the Pacific Highway. You can't miss it."

"Twelve twenty-one, ok. I'm leaving right now and I'll call you soon as I can. So try not to worry."

Somehow or another I made it straight outta the city and south, down to the large greenhouse without getting tagged for low flying by any of the boys in blue. When I got down to the cottage, I found it deserted and boarded up, like opening night at an unlicensed peep show in Boston. Except for a couple of stray gulls that probably had insomnia, I was all alone.

The gregarious streak in me didn't suffer very long. For a minute later, I had an unannounced visitor. It was a nasty forty-five caliber automatic and the man on the other end gripped the handle like he knew what he was doing. He was none other than the general manager of Quigg & Slater, Mr. Frank Emery.

"You mind telling me who you are and what you want here?"

"The name, which probably doesn't matter, Mr. Emery, is Jack Dylan. My business with you is something else. I'm working for your boss, Mr. Quigg, and believe it or not, he wants to help you."

"Hold it right there, Mr. Dylan. Nobody wants to help me and you know that. This is a smart trick, but it won't work. It can't work and I'll tell you why.

When the police do get to me, Dylan, they won't find anything but a corpse. Is that clear?"

"Suicide? Don't be a fool. What about your wife?"

"Dylan, she's precisely why I took the sixty thousand bucks. So save your breath. Unless you're interested in joining me, do just exactly as I say. Here, take these keys and open the door. Go on!"

I did as I was told and unlocked the door. I opened it and we both stepped inside. Then I turned to face Emery.

"Please Frank, listen to me."

"No, I've listened to too many people already. Now it's my turn to talk and all I'm going to say is goodbye and I'm gonna do that in my own way."

"You don't know what you're doing, Frank. Stop a minute and think."

"This isn't a time to think, Dylan. This is a time to act. Now, don't move."

Emery stood outside the doorway and motioned me to stay. Then he closed and locked the door. I waited a moment until I heard his car start. Then I tried the door but knew I was wasting my time.

Emery had run a length of pipe through the handle and gargantuan himself could not have opened it from the outside. It took me ten minutes to kick enough boards off one of the windows to wiggle out. It took another five minutes to find a squawk box.

I told Sheila her husband was on his way home and in a desperate state of mind. She promised to hold him there at all costs until I could get there. Twenty minutes later, I was in Sheila's house on Bundy Drive.

"Dylan! What happened?"

"Where's your husband?"

"I don't know. He hasn't been here."

"Oh, fine."

"After you called I waited, but he didn't come back. Dylan, what did you mean when you said he was desperate?"

"I'm afraid that Frank intends to kill himself."

"Oh no, he can't!"

"We still may be able to stop him. When he left the cottage, he was heading someplace to say goodbye. I figured for sure, he meant you, but wherever he was going, he didn't want to be followed. He locked me in and... The gun! Holy smoke! Where's your phone?"

"Right over there."

"What about a gun? Does Frank have one?"

"Yeah, a forty-five. If Frank didn't come here to make his last goodbyes, that only leaves one place."

"Do you know what you're saying?"

I dialed Quigg's private number, but there was no answer. So I hung up.

"You're accusing Frank of murder. I know he hates Mr. Quigg, but he wouldn't kill him. He couldn't!"

"Now, you listen to me. Frank's cornered and he's decided to blast his way out of a hopeless situation. I'm going to Quigg's office and if Frank comes back, try to keep him here, but don't try too hard. It may be dangerous now, even for you."

I drove to the black and hulking plant of Quigg & Slater. I pulled over, parked, and walked up the alley to the side entrance. Through a barred window, I saw a feeble nightlight glowing in the outer office. Otherwise, the place was dark.

When I reached the door, I stopped. A diamond-shaped key stuck out of the lock and the heavy door was ajar. I eased it open and listened.

I heard nothing. I pulled the key out of the lock and dropped it into my pocket. Then I went inside and switched on the lights.

I found him on the floor next to his desk in his private office. He'd been shot twice in the chest, point blank, with a forty-five caliber. That meant, even before he hit the floor, August Quigg was dead.

The room was untouched. Quigg's key case lay in a pencil tray on his desk. I snapped it open and saw what I suspected. His diamond-shaped key was there.

I switched off the light and started out. That's when I heard footsteps clicking through the hallway. I backed up against the wall and waited.

It was Keith Slater. He hesitated in the doorway. With a startled look on his face, I heard him gasp.

"Good lord!"

"Hello, Slater."

"Who is it? Who's there?"

I stepped out of the shadows. "It's Dylan and I wouldn't touch anything if I were you. The police will want to see everything just as it is."

"Dylan, he's been murdered. I had no idea Frank would go this far."

"Yeah, he's full of surprises tonight. Are you sure, he's not carrying any grudges against you?"

"Frank and I are old friends. That old man was different. He wasn't human. He was a machine, a rock crusher with a concrete heart. I'm only sorry it was Frank that killed him because he'll never be able to get away with it."

"He doesn't intend to. He's going to commit suicide any minute now. Tell me something straight, Slater. How does he feel about his wife? Is he jealous?"

"Jealous? Dylan, you don't mean that he might try to kill Sheila? I'm going to call her right away!"

"Wait a minute. If Frank is there, a phone call would only hurry things. Come on, let's go over there together."

Minutes later, Slater and I arrived at the Emery place. Then I parked the car. We both got out and headed toward the house. We were both thinking the same thing, but Slater said it first.

"I don't like the looks of this."

"Neither do I."

Once inside the place, it was dark and empty. Slater called out.

"Sheila?... Frank?... Anybody home?"

We waited for a reply, but there was none. Again, Slater was the first to speak.

"They're not here, neither one of them."

"Well if they are, they're not talking."

"You've got a macabre sense of humor, Dylan."

"Nobody's laughing, brother. Look, you check upstairs and I'll see what I can find down here. For once, I hope it's nothing."

I gave the ground floor a fast run-through. It was neat and tidy from the copper potted ivy on the wall to the Sunbeam Toastmaster on the breakfast tray. The only thing out of place was a bottle of scotch near the kitchen sink and the lipstick on a glass beside it, said Sheila.

I was back in the living room before I found out why she needed that bracer. Propped against the bowl of violets on the coffee table was a pair of notes pinned together. The top one was for me and from Sheila.

---

Dylan,

I just found this note from Frank. I'm sure it means that he's going out in our boat, the 'Carefree'. I've got to stop him!

- Sheila

---

I turned to Frank's note and was reading it as Slater came downstairs.

"There's nothing unusual upstairs, Dylan. What's that? What have you found?"

"Frank's suicide note. He asked Sheila to forgive him and forget him. Here, read it yourself. I'm going to call the police."

Slater began reading the note as I walked over to the phone and started to dial Detective Wallace of the City's homicide department. I stopped dialing after the first three digits and returned the receiver to its cradle. Slater looked at me with obvious puzzlement.

"What's the matter? I thought you were going to call the police."

"I was, but I noticed this phone number here on the desk blotter again. It's a tobacco dealer... Slater, I've got a very wacky idea."

I picked up the phone again and dialed the number.

"Hello?"

"Is this Newton's Tobacco Shop?"

"Yes, but we're closed. It's after midnight, you know."

"Yes, but this is the police, Mr. Newton. We want some information. Do you have a customer named Emery, Frank Emery?"

"Yes, he was in late this afternoon."

"What did he buy?"

"Tobacco, a special blend that I mix for him."

"I see. How much did he get?"

"Oh, let me think... it was two pounds. Yes, that's right. He wanted two pounds."

"A man could lay quite a smoke screen with two pounds of tobacco. Couldn't he?"

"I'm certain that I don't follow your meaning."

"Thanks, Mr. Newton. You've been a big help."

I hung up the phone and turned to Slater. He had a concerned expression on his face.

"What's the matter, Slater? Are you thinking the same thing I am?"

"I don't know what you're thinking, Dylan."

"Only that it's mighty weird for a man to buy two pounds of tobacco before he blows his brains out. To put it succinctly, pal, I'm saying that Frank's suicide is a big fat phony."

I picked up the telephone again and made another call.

"This is Lieutenant Wallace."

"It's Dylan and catching you at this hour is the best break I've had all night."

"How so? What's up, Dylan?"

"A guy's been murdered and his killer, one Frank Emery, is getting away by boat. Can you sell the Harbor Patrol on running him down for me? He's on his own vessel, a sailboat called the 'Carefree'. It's a thirty-footer, most likely with an auxiliary motor. He'll probably be out a way, off Topanga Canyon."

"Alright, that can be arranged, but where are you? I'll need some particulars."

"I'm going to his cottage. It's in a little cove at Marina Del Rey. There's a pier and a boathouse a couple yards beyond."

"Ok, Dylan. We'll find it. Now listen, Jack. Don't get your feet wet. Wait until we get there."

The Emery cottage was deserted and dark. Slater and I went down to the boathouse which was dark too. That's where we found Sheila lying on the planks, sobbing out the end of a long hard cry. Slater went to her and lifted her to her feet. He spoke to her in a soft and sympathetic tone.

"Sheila, what happened? Where's Frank?"

"Oh Keith, I was too late. I saw him leave. He waved to me and called goodbye. I begged him to come back, but he never will."

I interrupted.

"Don't be too sure of that, honey."

"What do you mean, Dylan?"

"Oh, wait a minute. That boat coming in is probably Wallace."

The boat pulled up and sure enough, I was right. It was Wallace. He called out to me.

"Dylan! I've got another boat out looking for the 'Carefree'. So, I came directly here... Who's that with you?"

"This is Mrs. Emery and Keith Slater."

"Well, Dylan, what's this all about?"

"An embezzler killed his boss, set up a strong case of suicide, and at the moment, is pulling a very fast switch."

"You mean he's not really checking out? How do you figure?"

"He bought two pounds of his favorite pipe tobacco today."

"That's interesting, Jack, but suicides are peculiar people."

"Sure, but I'll bet you my badge against a dead jellyfish that he's got a small boat aboard and that he's going to get off the 'Carefree' and row ashore. .. How about it Mrs. Emery, is there a small boat?"

"There's a rubber life raft in one of the lockers."

"That'll do it. That's all he needs."

One of Wallace's men approached and addressed the Lieutenant.

"Wallace, we just got a call on the radio from the Harbor Patrol. They've spotted the 'Carefree' running without lights, heading southwest about two and a half miles offshore. It's holding a steady course, but there's nobody at the wheel. It seems to be abandoned."

"Well, tell 'em to stop the boat and we'll be out to pick her up."

Wallace returned his attention to me.

"Well Jack, we'll know in a minute. Let's go folks. Get aboard."

The Harbor Patrol cutter sliced through the swells with the easy grace of a head waiter after a ten-dollar tip. All the way out, it looked like Jack Dylan was going to be the bright boy of the evening. When we pulled along the 'Carefree' and boarded her, it still looked that way.

It looked great. Right up until Wallace peered through the porthole and into the closed cabin. He jerked the door open and went inside. After that, it didn't look so good.

"Dylan, come here... Is this Frank Emery?"

"Yeah, that's him, Wallace."

"He's been shot in the heart, up close from a forty-five caliber. Undoubtedly, with the same one that's still gripped in his hand."

Sheila was still standing on the deck outside the cabin and called into me, "Dylan, is it Frank?"

"Yeah, and you better not come in here Mrs. Emery. Your husband has just killed himself."

I walked back to the stern and sat down. Wallace was going through his grim routine inside and I felt lousy. I stared down vacantly at my feet and only gradually became aware of the little brass cylinder, which danced across the deck with every roll of the boat.

I picked it up. It was an ejected cartridge from a forty-five. I'd found an empty forty-five cartridge. All at once, things began to take shape. I ran back to the cabin and whispered to Wallace.

"Wallace! Wallace, hold everything! I was right. Emery didn't commit suicide after all."

"Jack, the man's body is right here with the gun in his hand."

"I know, but he was murdered. Look, I found this out on the deck and the door to this cabin was closed. Do you remember?

When a man is shot with a forty-five, he drops. He doesn't walk in, close the door, and then fall. Tell me, did Emery have any keys on him?"

"Yes, they're in that case by the wheel."

"Sure, sure. Look at this. This diamond-shaped key matches one I've got in my pocket. Come out on deck, Wallace, and watch closely."

We went out on deck and I approached Keith Slater. "Slater, can I see your key to the side door of the factory?"

"Why certainly, Dylan. It's right here in my pocket."

"It's not in your pocket, because it's here in my hand, Slater. You were so excited that when you shot Quigg, you ran off and left this sticking in the lock."

Sheila was obviously shocked and exclaimed, "No!"

"And here's one for you Mrs. Emery. While the 'Carefree' was still tied up at the dock, you stood right here. You surprised your husband in the doorway to the cabin and shot him. This little cartridge was ejected back to the stern, but you forgot about that. After you shoved him inside and put the gun in his hand, you closed the door. Then you started the motor, locked the wheel, and cut loose the boat."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dylan."

Wallace interrupted.

"Oh, I don't believe this, Jack!"

"You see, it's sort of like an equation. Two pounds of tobacco and two pieces of brass add up to two bodies and two murderers."

Once we were back on shore, the suspects were on their way to lock up. I briefed Wallace on the particulars and we were discussing the events of that evening. It was obvious he had something to say.

"Well Dylan, it beats me. That Mrs. Emery seemed to be nothing but the soft, sweet, and stay-at-home nights type of woman."

"Yeah, she pulled one of the richest double-crosses in my case files. She let her husband steal a fortune for her and even helped him plan a fake suicide to get away with it. Then she turned around and used this plan, only no fake this time, to kill him. In the end, she'd be free to run off with Slater."

"But she didn't want Slater without the money, right?"

"Right. As long as August Quigg lived, Slater could never be sure of his income."

"So, Slater killed Quigg and hung it on Emery."

"And they worked a fast routine to pass the detective right through the middle of it all. While Slater killed Quigg, I was with Sheila. Then Slater kept me occupied while she killed Frank."

"They'd make a great team in a shell game, Jack, but you did all right... Well, I'll see you tomorrow. We can fill out the report then. Goodnight, Jack."

I sat alone on the pier for a long time. I watched the waves come in and gradually, my mind untangled itself from the treachery and violence that I'd been wrapped up in all night. The lady had turned out to be the tiger.

Then as my thoughts plowed back through the whole mess of the evening and back to the afternoon when I'd been shopping for Christmas cards, I decided to cancel my order and have an entirely new set printed up. They say, it pays to advertise and if that's true, right across the top of my new cards, in big block letters, I'm gonna have the words "Goodwill Towards Men". Who knows? Maybe it'll help. Anyway, I hope so.

- TERMINUS LIBRI -