Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Charlie’s round face was somber. The color in his fat cheeks became a shade paler. “It’s all right for you to stick your nose in a mess of trouble,” he said slowly, “but I live here. This guy Wyman’s liable to cramp my style.”

  Harper’s eyes were thoughtful. He caught his underlip in firm teeth, looked down at the desk, then back at Charlie. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s right.” Then he smiled. “But I guess I can keep you out of it.”

  The telephone bell shrilled. Harper’s grin was thin as he picked up the receiver. “This’ll be Wyman calling back.”

  He said, “Yeah? . . . Sure I called you . . . I don’t know. They just told me to tell you to come to the front office.” He hung up, cutting off a clicking in the diaphragm of the receiver that told of a voice which was still talking.

  Harper waited a minute, then gave another number. He said, “Galpin? . . . Harper. I’m down at the warehouse. You don’t need to worry about that warrant. Bring about a dozen men down here. Charlie Buckley’ll be waiting for you. He’ll tell you what to do.”

  Harper leaned back in the chair, fell silent while he brushed his mustache with an index finger. Then he said, “Stick here till I frisk Wyman—if he comes. You can stay behind the door so he won’t see you. Then go out and meet Galpin. He won’t crash this place without a warrant. Have him put about four men in front, a couple more in back. There may be another way out of here, so tell him to string a couple men on the corner and on that other street. He don’t have to bust in here unless he hears some shooting. But be damn sure he doesn’t let anybody out.”

  A silence settled over the little office as Harper finished; a silence that continued, unbroken, until a knock sounded on the steel street door.

  Harper jumped to his feet, picked up the shotgun. “Get out your roscoe, Charlie! You open the door for me—stay behind it until I line ’em up!”

  The two men went quickly into the hall. Harper stood about four feet in front of the door and raised the shotgun; Charlie stepped forward, pulled back the bar, and drew the door inward, keeping behind it.

  Louis Wyman and a short, heavyset man stood in the opening.

  Harper said, “Hello, Louis. Put ’em up!”

  Wyman’s hands went up immediately. The other man hesitated an instant, staring at the gaping muzzle of the shotgun. Then he withdrew his hand from a bulging pocket and lifted both arms. Harper backed up, and without a command the two men stepped in, took three steps forward and turned into the office.

  “Up against the wall,” said Harper, and his voice was cold. “And if I were you I wouldn’t turn my head.”

  Charlie came up beside Harper, who handed him the shotgun. Then Harper stepped forward, slid his hands over Wyman’s body. There was no weapon on him, but he found a .45 automatic on the short man. He stepped back and motioned Charlie from the room. The outer door clanged shut.

  Wyman said, “You’re certainly digging a grave for yourself, Harper.”

  Harper said, “You can turn around if you want to.”

  Wyman turned slowly. His eyes were like ice and his jaws were white at the corners. But it was evident, from the calm way he reached into his pocket for a cigarette and lighted it, that he had been trained in emergencies. “Now what?” he said, and smoke came out with the words.

  Harper smiled with his lips only, and the lips were thin. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said. “Galpin’s bringing a dozen men to keep anyone from getting out.” He motioned with the guns in each hand. “Come on. Let’s try the elevator.”

  CHAPTER V

  THE ROOF

  Light from the elevator shot pale-yellow into the corridor on the ninth floor that revealed an electric switch and a half-dozen doors on each side of the hall before it was lost in the shadows. Walt Harper motioned the two men ahead of him, stepped out on the concrete floor and pushed the light switch.

  The three men walked through stale, musty air to the end of the hall where a narrow, barred window looked out into the night. They turned sharp left here and climbed steep stairs that cut back and up toward a narrow steel door.

  Harper jammed his .38 in Wyman’s back. “Knock,” he said. “And don’t let your tongue slip when they open up.”

  Wyman knocked, waited, knocked again. There was a scratching noise on the door. A circular slide moved from a peephole and a three-inch shaft of light focused on Wyman’s face.

  “All right, Joe,” he said hoarsely. “Open up.”

  The short man stepped into a thickly-carpeted, well-lighted hall. Harper crowded forward behind Wyman. When he passed the thin man who had opened the door, he whipped out with the automatic in his left hand. The barrel crashed behind the man’s ear and he dropped with a groan.

  The hall was long; on each side were four gray doors, spaced equidistant and locked by a sliding bolt on the outside. At the far end of the hall could be seen a richly furnished room.

  Keeping Wyman and his bodyguard ahead of him, Harper moved to the first door on the right. He whispered a command to halt. His dark skin seemed pale now and his lips were tight. The two men stopped. He reached out and slid the bolt to the door, threw it open.

  The room was in absolute darkness, and for a moment there was no sound or movement. Then, from somewhere in those shadows, came a throaty cackle, followed by a rapid string of high-pitched gibberish. A skinny, chalk-faced, gray-haired man who was naked except for his underwear came catapulting headlong through the doorway. He bounced off Harper, threw him back against the wall, started for the door to the ninth floor.

  Wyman shouted. He and the short man threw themselves flat on the floor. A loud crack reverberated along the narrow hall. The fleeing man continued three more steps at full speed. Then he pitched forward and slid along the carpet on his face.

  Harper spun toward the sound. A faint blue haze hung around a rifle barrel that was thrust through a slit above the arch leading to the front room. The rifleman made the hall an avenue of death.

  The rifle cracked again. A slug tore through Harper’s fingers, jerking the gun from his left hand as he fired twice, rapidly, with the one in his right. For just a moment did he hesitate. Then he dove through the doorway into the darkened room, slammed the door after him.

  He shifted his gun to his left hand which, though bleeding, still had most of its strength. With his right hand, he fished a small flashlight from his vest pocket, snapped it on and wiped sudden sweat from his gray face with the back of his hand.

  The room was small with bare, gray walls. There was a bed, a dresser, and one chair. Overhead was a square, barred skylight, steel-shuttered from the roof. There was a light in the ceiling and a switch on the wall; Harper pressed it without results.

  He stuck the gun in his hip pocket and dragged the dresser over to the door, which had no lock on the inside. He pulled the bed to the dresser, upended it so that it tipped against the door. He went back to the far corner and crouched on the floor.

  He had not long to wait. In less than three minutes the steel door began to bounce against the dresser and the bed as weight was thrown behind it. Seconds later there was a two-inch crack through which light streamed in a yellow ribbon. Harper waited until the crack widened slightly, then sent two slugs through the opening. Silence followed this. The assault on the door ceased.

  Harper waited on; waited until there was a movement overhead. Metal scraped. The steel coop which covered the skylight was withdrawn. There was no glass in the skylight. A dark blotch appeared in the opening. Harper fired twice. A curse rang out followed by the low mumble of voices.

  Almost immediately something dropped to the floor of the room and exploded with a plop. White mist enveloped the room, spread quickly. Harper coughed and scrambled to his feet. As he leaped toward the door and snatched a sheet from the bed there was a second plop, followed by a third.

  Harper went back to the corner, gasping for breath. He drew the sheet across his nose and mouth, but he could not stop the coughing. Tears filled his eyes and streamed
down his face, blinding him.

  A minute later and the door of the room began to beat against the barricade. Harper fired once, wildly. The pounding continued until the door was open halfway.

  A voice said, “Throw that gun out!”

  Harper uttered a choking curse, fired his last shot, and threw the gun in the direction of the door. He slipped his right hand to his vest, removed the metal pencil and shoved it up his sleeve so that no bulge revealed its location.

  Wyman took the cigar from his mouth. “Tear gas is great stuff. That evens us up for this morning.” He waved a manicured hand. “How do you like the layout?”

  Walt Harper, his wrists handcuffed behind him, looked around the spacious front room, then back at Wyman. “Not bad,” he said. “You keep the windows and skylights covered at night, eh?”

  Wyman grinned expansively and his too-perfect teeth flashed.

  Harper said, “You got imagination to think of a setup like this. What’s the initiation fee?”

  “Well, that varies.” Wyman continued to smile. “You see it wasn’t hard to find men—rich men—who wanted to lay low. And it is hard to put on a disappearing act alone. We got a line on some of these birds, and sold ’em the idea of a nice, comfortable rich man’s club—”

  Harper was tight-lipped, but a thin smile creased his gray face. “You mean death club.”

  “Have it your way,” said Wyman easily. “But we told ’em they could get it for a thousand, plus a moderate monthly fee, and stay as long as they liked.”

  “I suppose,” grunted Harper, “after you got the first two or three, you made them give you testimonial letters.”

  “We did just that. And we had some pictures taken of this room to make it look even better.”

  “And after you got them here?”

  “After that we just found out how much money they could lay hold of, and made plans to get it.”

  “And when you got it, you tossed them off the roof on rainy nights after beating up their faces so they couldn’t be identified.”

  Wyman shrugged. “What else could we do? If we let ’em go they’d squeal; we couldn’t keep ’em here forever—too expensive. Why”—Wyman waved the hand holding the cigar in a careless sweep and lifted his eyebrows—“we only got twelve grand out of that first guy they found. Of course”—he hesitated and smiled—“our average was better than fifty, and we had eight at one time. We’d been picking them up gradually for over six months, and if you hadn’t come sticking your nose in—”

  He broke off as Slug entered the room and said, “We got all those guys dressed.” He looked at Harper, grinned, said, “Hi, pal.”

  Wyman said, “O.K.” He stood up, put the cigar in his mouth, took it out again. “The cops’re outside; we’ll go this way.” He stepped over to an upright piano against the wall, pushed a button behind one leg. The piano swung slowly out, disclosing a narrow passageway. “Our private elevator’s down this hall, Harper,” he said, “and it connects with a tunnel that comes out in the plumbing supply house down on the corner.”

  A quick gleam of satisfaction lighted Harper’s eyes, but his voice revealed nothing as he said, “Neat.”

  He turned toward the hallway and watched six men, well dressed but with terror-stricken eyes, approach the room. They were accompanied by four tight-lipped, narrow-eyed men with automatics.

  One of the well-dressed men was bald. He looked up as he stepped into the room, and his eyes fell on Harper. The eyes widened with recognition and hope. He stepped forward, “Harper—” The word died in his throat, the eyes went dull as a guard pulled him toward the opening in the wall. Harper turned away.

  Wyman said, “Three of you take these birds down to the corner place and wait. Lefty”—he turned to a husky fellow with yellow skin and a crooked nose—“you’ll have to carry the stiff in the hall. We want this place all cleaned up. Leave the elevator door open.”

  He nodded his head to Slug who took Harper by the arms, and said, “Come on, baby. I want to see you do your dive.”

  The flat, gravel-covered roof crunched under Harper’s shoes as Slug piloted him between the mushroom-like skylight covers to the two-foot parapet. Overhead the stars glistened. To the left and in front winked a network of city lights.

  Slug stopped at the parapet and said, “Say when, boss.”

  Wyman, holding an automatic, stood up against the wall about two feet from Harper. He said, “Take those cuffs off first. I don’t want any slugs in him, nothing that might look too funny. The mashed hand won’t matter when they pick him up, and nobody can prove he didn’t fall by himself.”

  He turned to Harper, who stood motionless in the darkness with only his black mustache visible in the pale oval which was his face. “You have cramped my style, plenty. But at that, I’ll be clear when we get rid of our club members.”

  He chuckled softly and continued, “When you bounce down on the alley, the cops are going to be busy picking you up. Slug and I will use our elevator. All the cops’ll find is an empty clubhouse—let the D.A. try and build a case out of that.”

  “All right, Slug.” Wyman’s voice was decisive. “Take off the bracelets.”

  Slug, standing behind Harper, fumbled with the handcuffs. He slipped them off, started to say:

  “O—”

  Harper kicked backward with his heel. Slug yelled as the sharp edge bit into his shin. Harper spun toward Wyman, crouching. The automatic went off a foot from his chest and the flash of fire revealed a gray, tight-lipped face and livid eyes.

  The crouch saved his life. The bullet tore through his chest, but it was high. The shock of the slug spun him sidewise as his hand jerked the pencil from his sleeve. There was a click, a burst of white vapor around Wyman’s head as the tear-gas shell exploded.

  Harper’s body rocked as Slug’s fist struck the top of his head.

  Cursing, Wyman dropped the gun. He coughed, rubbed his eyes. He staggered against the wall, paused there, mouthing oaths, trying to see. Harper shot a straight left to Slug’s mouth, stepped sidewise toward Wyman. Slug lowered his head and charged, both hands swinging.

  Harper dropped like a shot, landed on his hands and knees. Slug’s charge carried him blindly forward so that he tripped over Harper’s kneeling form. The wild, swinging right fist swished through space for a foot, then connected solidly with Wyman’s shoulder an instant before Slug himself fell forward against the man.

  Wyman screamed as Slug’s charge knocked him hard against the wall. For a moment he sat there on the parapet, his hands swinging, clutching frantically at empty space. Then he lost his balance and slid backward. The scream rose in pitch, became one long, drawn-out wail that became weirdly fainter and finally choked off short.

  Harper cursed softly and rolled from under Slug’s legs. He gained his feet instantly, stooped, snatched up Wyman’s automatic. He jumped back, covering Slug. But there was no fight in the man now. He came to his feet slowly, weaved back and forth like a drunken man, shivering violently.

  “All right,” he said hoarsely. “I won’t argue.” He waved his hand toward the spot where Wyman disappeared. “I won’t argue, after that.” He shuffled off across the roof toward the yellow square that marked the stairs to the floor below.

  Galpin and five men were entering the door at the end of the hall when Harper emerged from the front room. Harper said, “You got men on the corner?” And at Galpin’s, “Yes,” continued, “Take this guy with you.”

  He drew them into the room, showed them the door to the elevator. “The rest of them have gone—they’ll be in the plumbing place on the corner.”

  Harper waited until Slug and the policemen had disappeared through the hole in the wall. His face was still gray. His eyes were dull and his shoulders had a tired, unnatural sag as he walked across the room to a stand holding a half-filled whisky bottle and some glasses.

  He picked up a glass, turned it over in his hand, and stared absently at it for several seconds. Then he poured whisky int
o the glass until it was half-full. He drank quickly, without stopping. Reaching toward the tray, he dropped the glass the last few inches.

  He went back to an upholstered chair. He dropped into it, stretched out his legs in front of him. His hands hung down from the chair arms; he let his fingers relax. The gun dropped to the floor, and he stared up at the ceiling until he heard Charlie come pounding down the hall.

  LIVE BAIT

  E. Hoffmann Price

  Davis P. Barrett’ss mother, who had died when he was six, doubtless thought that he was a beautiful child; but then, she was his mother, and something like thirty odd years may have changed little Davis. Mrs. Barrett’s youngest son’s face was now the Rock of Gibraltar done in that shade of bronze which comes from long exposure to the breath of blistering deserts and tropical jungles. His broad mouth was a thin, straight line no wider than the edge of an officer’s dress-sword, and somewhat harder. His blue eyes glowed with ominous, volcanic mirth as they watched two perfectly barbered, tailored, and manicured gentlemen whose tables were at the corner of the tiny dance floor, and to Barrett’s left.

  The two racketeers were inseparable friends. They had assumed—somewhat erroneously, as it later developed—that their being at Club Martinique was pure coincidence, and they had agreed to combine their tables when their feminine companions arrived.

  A waiter was bringing a note to the gentleman whose table was nearest Barrett: Guido Pichetti. Barrett’s shaggy, reddish brows rose just perceptibly. His chin, which he fingered abstractedly, was thrust forward. There was something tense and expectant about Barrett, as though he were a panther about to spring. His interest seemed centered on the note, rather than on the perceptible bulge of the left breasts of the nicely fitted dinner jackets of Messieurs Pichetti and Spud Malone.

  Club Martinique was a mirthful madhouse of blatant music, alcoholic laughter, and tinkle of ice against the sides of many tall glasses. White arms and shoulders, and whiter shirt fronts stared spectrally through the bluish glare of the spotlight that made the shifting bands of smoke seem like phantom serpents writhing in the warmth of a ghostly sun. The reek of gin, perfume, cosmetics, and unextinguished cigarette butts was the odor of gaiety to most of those assembled: but to Davis Barrett it was the exhalation of death, and the end of a story . . .