Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  But he had to drag Whorl all the way through the mud and rain. A cussing, spattering passage.

  It was dark in the basement and Kilgore lit a kerosene lamp standing in a bracket on the wall. Cutting off a few yards of the rope he tied Whorl’s legs tightly together, running the rope in a spiral from ankles to knees. Then he removed the handcuffs.

  “That’ll let you thresh about a bit,” Kilgore grinned, in sadistic anticipation. “Off comes the coat and shirt. There you are—squat on the floor,” and he kicked Whorl’s bound feet from under him. The murderer hit the floor with a crash.

  “I’ll poke a knife into you for this,” choked Whorl, face livid with passion. “Yella dick!”

  “Now grin and take it,” hissed Kilgore, cutting the air with the whip.

  “Not th’ whip,” choked Whorl. “I—I can’t stand th’ whip—they lashed me to death in th’ pen.”

  Craftily he began to quiver and whine, and then started crawling across the floor toward Kilgore in whimpering humility. He drew himself forward with his hands, like a hamstrung beast.

  As Whorl crawled he paused at intervals and beat the planks with bruised and bloody fists. Wild, blind energies and a madman’s greed for a stolen fortune sustained his acting. The basement resounded with his animal cries.

  Racking sobs shook his body. He kept his mouth hanging open, drooling. His crazy, darting, bloodshot eyes were hideous pits from which hell’s cunning looked out. His act appeared real.

  “Greetings, Hardhead. Going to shell out like a beer baron on a souse, eh? ‘Bout time—You look a mess, what I mean,” said Kilgore, in mock sympathy. “A tough world.”

  Whorl’s mouth worked with unsightly writhings.

  “I’ll—split it—with you—give half. That’s—fair. I’m a fair-minded guy. I took all—th’—chances.”

  “Oh, yeah? I guess not all the chances.” Kilgore grinned. There was Rathbone—and good old Slats! “Anyway, Whorl, I can’t take an ex-con and a murderer in partnership. Why, it would hurt my reputation.” Kilgore smirked with malicious indignation. “Nope—I’m still in business for myself.”

  Disappointed, Whorl glared, his fists clenched, unclenched, lifted in clawing threat, slicing the air with revolting frenzy. Greed goaded him to greater heights of histrionic effort. He twitched convulsively—then began to weave his bullet head right and left—eyes hot, agonized—pleading.

  “Half!” he panted.

  Sweat streamed from him. Great drops trickled into his bushy eyebrows, paused to pick up the light-beams and glow for a brief instant with weird fires. Strangling, gulping sobs erupted from his straining throat. Explosive curses, beguiling and wheedling overtures were strangely mixed.

  “Half—half!” he wheezed hoarsely.

  A funny sight to Kilgore. “E—lk . . . e—lk . . . e—lk,” he laughed until his sides ached.

  Closer and closer the prone wretch inched his way, and then in a piteous ecstasy of abasement, he began to plead and to kiss Kilgore’s muddy boots.

  “Here—here! You daffy nut! Nix on the smacking. Where’d you hide the old grouch-bag, rat?”

  These groveling attentions were nauseating to the hardboiled Kilgore. The prone creature was deranged, he felt, mad now beyond recalling what he had been grilled for.

  “Half—half—half!” he gurgled in a haunting, barbaric rhythm.

  A pathetic whining and moaning interspersed Whorl’s panting words. His unsightly, monstrous face was raised in trembling supplication, eyes swimming in a reek of anguish, beseeching clemency.

  “Faugh!” exploded Kilgore, in disgust. “All of it for me.”

  Instantly Whorl’s strained face went slack and laughter began to shake him. Laughter in weird chuckles—a wild mirth that rose in swelling volume until a shocking torrent of sound rattled in an eerie, chattering cacophony from his quivering mouth.

  A horrible twisting spasm and he fainted, lids open, his protruding eyeballs dead white.

  Kilgore coolly took a cigar from his pocket, bit the end off and spit it against the wall explosively. His match flared, and he puffed slowly. He was sure now that physical violence would not break the will of this tough prison-hardened ex-convict.

  More subtle methods must be used. He felt it would require a creeping and corroding fear, product of the relentless forces of nature—a force uprearing in elemental menace only could crack the shell of Whorl’s granite-like resistance.

  Kilgore pondered ways and means. Listening to the maddening refrain of water pounding against the house, he was suddenly inspired by the vague outline of a plan.

  Rain fell in lashing fury. The world was blind with storm. Creeks filled and overspread the lowlands. The big river crept up its banks, snarling viciously.

  In sudden decision Kilgore got together, rope and block and tackle. He peered out, down toward that projecting limb, near where his boat was moored, noting the while that the engorged river was still rising.

  He handcuffed Whorl, and hobbled his feet, having removed the spiral bonds from his legs. The wretch came to, and shuddered. He stared mute, fascinated as Kilgore worked deftly, then cursed as he was yanked upright.

  “Move,” barked Kilgore. “We’re going to the river.”

  A short and sodden journey, but sparkling with emotional eruptions, kicks and blows.

  On the bank Kilgore halted his blasphemous prisoner and lashed him to a young pine. Then Kilgore climbed the big tree, and fastened the block and tackle near the end of the limb out over the current. He rove a line through the pulleys, carrying the end of the rope back to the ground where he knotted it tightly to Whorl’s bound ankles.

  “Couldn’t coax it out of you,” grunted Kilgore, “so I’ll soak it out. You’re going to the laundry like a dirty shirt.”

  Cursing, threatening, sullen defiance in his glittering eyes, Whorl was drawn up and out, to dangle head down from the limb. He slobbered in an ecstasy of fury. His distorted face came to rest but a few inches above the hissing surface of the river.

  Kilgore got into his powerboat and moved close to Whorl’s body.

  “Looks like you’re going to get your ugly face washed,” Kilgore leered. “Last chance now—to address the Chair.”

  “Th’ hell with you!” Whorl’s words leaped with sudden violent ferocity, startling testimony that new strength had come into his body.

  “Okay, tightwad. But wait until the water starts running into your smeller.” Kilgore’s tone was taunting, exultant, confident of victory.

  The yellow tide rose steadily. Whorl groaned, rolling his hate-choked eyes. Blood thundered in his head—an excess of blood—an agonizing whirlpool, a tearing, out-thrusting pressure.

  “You look down-the-mouth,” grinned Kilgore. “I think it would brighten your day if you gave me some financial news.”

  Whorl broke out in a renewed fury of vehemence.

  In sudden impatient rage Kilgore stood up and threatened to drive his knotted fist into Whorl’s stomach. The man screeched. Kilgore dropped his arm and grinned.

  The far-off bellow of a river steamer echoed mournfully through the rain-lashed hills, offering uncertain cheer and remote relief to Whorl in his dangerous plight.

  “You’ll—get caught!” he choked. “Let me down—an’ I give you my word—I won’t squawk.”

  “Coming through?”

  “Go plumb to hell.”

  Kilgore craftily backed his boat downstream, under the shelter of a leafy limb. It would hide him from sharp eyes on the approaching steamer, he thought, and also keep off the downpour. No use of him getting soaked. He lit a cigar and puffed contentedly, vigilant but serene.

  The water rose. It was almost up to Whorl’s eyes. The flood bubbled and hissed loudly in his ears. Whorl began to curse again—fearful oaths cracked out. The water crept up his forehead and Kilgore watched, silent and impassive, but much pleased.

  Kilgore’s smile was wide and satisfied. That would break the stubborn fool.

  “Dark d
own there, Hardhead? Dark as hell! The old river’s blindfolding you with muddy water. Looks like your finish. Too bad. I just got to give up. You know I tried—gave you a chance. I see you’d rather croak.”

  The rain abated. The clouds parted and silver banners of light slanted to the earth. A rainbow arched down in gorgeous splendor behind the green forest. A gentle wind whispered like a prayer in the pines.

  Whorl’s body jerked spasmodically, agonizingly. The horror of the creeping water-cap engulfing his head—the inky blackness pressing in upon him—was maddening.

  The line of yellow tide was now traveling gently up the bridge of Whorl’s nose. It seemed to sear his skin like a streak of fire. He began to slobber in terror. A choking shriek escaped him. The current climbed steadily up the bridge of his nose—neared the tip.

  He gasped—his mouth hung open, lax, exposing its red interior.

  Again Whorl uttered that animal cry. “Quick! I’ll tell! Quick! Get me down! I’ll tell—everythin’—you thievin’ flatfoot!”

  “Right on the dot,” chuckled Kilgore. A pleasant exultation filled and warmed him. Twenty thousand dollars—all his! “Kidding me all the time, wasn’t you, old eagle stuffer?

  “I’ll think of you when I’m spending this dough around Paris. Now, before I take you down—an office rule of mine: Just where is this dough planted?”

  “Get me down first—hustle!”

  “Think I’m a sucker?” chided Kilgore. “Kick in first.”

  “Quick—I’ll tell you—”

  Kilgore laughed smugly in huge delight. He had plenty of time. Whorl and the twenty thousand dollars were in his bag now. He licked his lips.

  “I’ll tell you—”

  “Sure you’ll tell me—from where you’re hanging. Nothing can stop you—absolutely nothing,” Kilgore grinned with jovial brutality and conceit.

  Like a thunderbolt out of the sky sped the great eagle, his mighty pinions thrashing and vibrating as he swooped to his accustomed perch on the swaying limb.

  The limb sagged under his weight and the suspended Whorl was driven down headfirst in the boiling tide.

  Kilgore gaped, spellbound with amazement. Then, infuriated, he lost his head and precious time in the surge of rage and panic. Excitedly, he yanked out his gun, but it slipped from his wet fingers into the river. He lunged clumsily for the motor, tripped and fell flat. Half-stunned and cursing, he turned the motor over. It sputtered promisingly, aggravatingly, and went dead. Hurry, hurry—you fool, Kilgore urged himself, frantically. But the motor remained perverse and silent. He felt himself turn sick as he darted a dismayed glance at the submerged man.

  “Shoo there!” he screamed desperately at the uneasy eagle, suddenly aware of a strange presence. “You damn stinking—! Shoo, there!”

  Kilgore raised his knotted fists skyward, spouting obscene oaths of rage and vilification.

  At this insulting tirade, the eagle swooped from the limb with imperial dignity and ascended the clean steeps to the far heavens. Relieved of the bird’s weight, the limb swung upward and Whorl’s shoulders came awash, then his neck and chin cleared the water.

  Paralyzed at the swift reversal of events, Kilgore stared crazily at the bound man on the limb, idly dipping, swaying, a ghastly pendulum, with the current creaming in angry sulphurous froth in and out of the pitiful, widely gaping mouth that mocked him. Cheated by the whim of a bird. Inscrutable trick of Fate.

  Unheeded, the warning roar of the steamer’s siren went crying into the drenched hills. The nerve-tingling alarm of the bell, the sloshing wash of the back-threshing hull, the sharp commands as men piled into the throbbing motorboat and streaked toward him, were unnoticed by the frantic Kilgore.

  “There’s th’ rat—git ‘im!” The words came in a familiar reedy shriek. “Th’ dirty double-crosser!”

  Kilgore whirled, stunned, pop-eyed—and fixed a swollen stare on the beady-eyed, hate-choked, triumphant face of Slats Kehoe—and then cringed under the black muzzle of an officer’s gun.

  “Keep ’em up, Kilgore!” barked a stern voice. “You’re my prisoner.” Then: “Quick, men! Get that fellow down.”

  And the infuriated Kilgore’s bitter humiliation made him gnash his teeth when the revived Whorl hoarsely revealed the hiding-place of the twenty thousand dollars of stolen money.

  Ringing down over the desolate scene of flood and tragedy, blending oddly with Slats Kehoe’s thin, gloating cough, came the ironical screech of the winged instrument of an implacable justice.

  DOUBLE CHECK

  Thomas Walsh

  A detective long on brains and a copper long on brawn team up on a big-loot, murder case

  DEVINE WAS A SMALL, slender man, thin-featured, and quick of I manner. His hair and the wisp of mustache on his upper lip were deep black. His sharp eyes, wrinkled at the corners, watched the man across from him with a mixture of anxiety and forced lightness as he spoke.

  “You must understand that I’m not taking it seriously,” he said.

  Flaherty nodded. He knew the type—money, position, pride and a manner that told nothing whatsoever of the man himself.

  The banker’s low voice went on more rapidly:

  “I received the first letter two weeks ago. After that they kept coming at intervals of two or three days. Of course I paid them no attention—men in my profession are constantly getting letters of this type. Cranks, most of them. But yesterday they put in a phone call here to my office; it was then that I decided to send for the police. Professional advice, you know—” He smiled faintly with an uncertain upward curl of the lips.

  Flaherty nodded. “The right thing to do,” he said. “Have you got the letters?”

  Devine turned slightly in his chair, pressing one of the white-disced buzzers at his side. “Why, no. Unless Barrett—my secretary—kept them. I didn’t imagine—”

  A tall man with gray eyes, gray clothes, grayish-brown hair, came noiselessly through the door. He stared coldly at Flaherty after a brief nod.

  “No,” he answered, when Devine repeated the question. “Sorry—I threw them in the waste-paper basket; in fact, it seemed the best place for that kind of rubbish. I had no idea they were necessary.”

  Flaherty’s lean young face soured. Snobby guy, he thought. “You should have saved them. Sometimes there’s a lot to be got out of stuff like that. Hold any more.” He turned back to Devine. “What did the phone call say?”

  “It came in about noon. When I picked up the receiver there seemed to be two voices at the other end. But they were speaking too far away from the instrument for me to make out the words. Oh, yes—I think I got one; something like Ginger or Jigger. I took it for one of the men’s names. When I said hello a voice replied: ‘We’re not fooling. Have the money by noon Thursday. No police. If you’re ready to pay put an ad in the Morning Herald to Charlie. We’ll let you know what to do with it.’ Then they hung up.”

  “That all?” Flaherty asked, shortly. At the banker’s nod he rose and gripped his hat. “Don’t do anything until you hear from me; I’ll phone you tonight. We might have to put that ad in the morning paper to get them. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Devine’s thin features broke in a smile he couldn’t quite control; his tongue tipped out nervously for an instant. “I’m not afraid, of course. I have no intention of paying. They can’t frighten me like they would a little shopkeeper. I’ll leave it in your hands, Mr. eh—Flaherty.”

  Flaherty didn’t like that eh stuff so much as he went out. He slammed the door behind him and passed through the outer offices of the First Commercial Bank to the shaded crispness of a late September afternoon. His dark, small eyes flickered right and left along the street. Nothing to stuff like that, usually. Still—

  He handed in his report at headquarters and was going down the stairs from the chiefs office when he met Mike Martin coming up. Mike was big and paunchy, with a gruff voice and hands like fleshed mallets. Beside the younger, slimly muscled Flaherty he resembl
ed a fat pug next a whippet.

  Flaherty grabbed his arm and drew him into a niche by the elevator shaft. “Just the man, Mike. You’re working with me on an extortion case. Old man’s say-so.”

  “The old man’s getting’ smart,” said Mike. “He musta wanted someone with brains on the job.”

  “Yeh,” said Flaherty. “And he thought you’d pick up a little experience. It’s Conrad Devine, head of the Commercial Bank.”

  Mike took a cigarette from Flaherty’s pack and puffed slowly.

  “Devine?” he said. “They’re not picking smart. There’s talk the Commercial’s about to crash.”

  Flaherty grunted. “What bank ain’t?” he said. “They called him up yesterday. He says he heard one of the names—it sounded like Jigger to him.”

  Mike spat thoughtfully into the corner of the wall. “Jigger? That might be Jigger Burns—been pretty quiet for a while now. But he don’t figure in a case like this.”

  Flaherty said: “That’s the way I got it. This ain’t the Jigger’s line. But anything’ll do these days.”

  “Let’s see,” said Mike. “Jigger’s a peter man—expert on nitro. He’s cracked enough jackboxes to blow us to hell.” He stared at Flaherty wide-eyed, without seeing him. “I saw him in Joe’s place Monday night—fourteen minutes to eight. He was wearin’ a blue suit, white spats, yella gloves—” Mike stopped admiringly. “Yella gloves! The old lady bought me some last Christmas, but I’m damned if I could ever wear ’em. I had to tell her they were lost. He was talkin’ to Johnny Greco.”

  “You’re fading,” said Flaherty. “I didn’t hear you mention his tie. What you got on Johnny Greco?”

  “Tough,” said Mike, spitting again. “Thirty-five; five feet eight; one sixty on the hoof; dark hair and eyes; scar on right eyebrow. Up twice for assault—once for homicide. Acquitted—no witnesses. He—”

  “Can it,” said Flaherty. “I know the ginny. Davis brought him in on a loft job last week, but had to drop him on a writ. He plays around with a Polack girl at the Esplanade. We could stop there this evenin’ and pick him up.”