Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Joshua grinned mirthlessly. “I had him hiding in the cellar. When I went out, I was supposed to go to the village. But instead, I stole back in the cellar. I stabbed him. I figgered I could say later that I’d met up with him and killed him in self-defense. Then I pulled the fuses an’ come up to the kitchen.” His head dropped back weakly.

  Crandall’s mouth was set in a grim line as he turned to the girl. She had fainted. He picked her up and carried her down the stairs. He took her into the kitchen. His flashlight showed him Avery with a bloody head, supporting Anselm Griggs. Avery set Anselm in a chair and took the girl from him.

  Crandall searched around in the closets and found a box of candles. He lit a couple and placed them on the table. By their light, he poured water over the girl’s face. Anselm watched dazedly while she regained consciousness.

  She opened her eyes.

  Crandall said to Avery, “Take my flashlight. Go in and tell Phineas Griggs that everything is all right. We’ve got the murderer!”

  Anselm shouted, “You did? Who was it? We didn’t hear a thing after the lights went out. Then someone struck me on the head. He must have knocked out Avery too, and dragged Mary out!”

  “It’s Quincy,” said Crandall. “He never went to that farmhouse. He stole back and pulled out the fuses, then came up to the kitchen. He was sure set on wiping out your family!”

  Avery went out with the flashlight. The girl was still dazed. Her eyes were losing their glassy expression, though.

  “Where’s Quincy?” Anselm asked.

  “Upstairs—wounded in the shoulder?”

  “Won’t he get away?”

  Crandall allowed himself a grin. “When you get hit by a slug from this little plaything,” he tapped his pocket, “you don’t want to go any place. You just lie down and kind of pass out for awhile.”

  Avery shuffled back. His eyes were dull. “Old Phineas,” he said slowly, “is no more. The shock.”

  Mary began to sob. Crandall patted her shoulder and looked across at Anselm, “Sorry, old man,” he said.

  Mary Griggs said, “My leg. I must have hurt it.” She reached down, and quickly drew her hand back with a startled cry. Crandall looked, and swore. He bent to her leg and yanked off the slimy thing that clung there. It came away with a “phut” of yielding suction, leaving three red spots like the points of a triangle that showed through the sheer stocking.

  He threw the thing to the other end of the room. Anselm had half risen from his chair. “A leech!” he cried. “That’s how they died—Richard and Georgia!”

  Crandall jumped up. He said, “Damn!” He had just remembered the box that Joshua Quincy had dropped when he let the girl fall. He remembered hearing the box break.

  He snatched the flash light from Avery and raced up the stairs. He stopped at the top. After a moment, he turned away. He brushed viciously at a repulsive thing that leaped from the bannister and clung to his hand. It fell away leaving the three red pin points.

  When he came down, they looked at him questioningly. He told them.

  “Quincy. He must have fainted from the wound. He had a box of leeches with him. I guess he was going to use them on this little girl. His system was to let them sate themselves on the blood of his victim. When they were full, they fall away. Then he’d let the water run and the little things would be washed down the drain. There’d be no trace of them.

  “Well, his box of leeches broke, up there. They went to work on him—and a death that he escaped thirty rears ago caught up with him.”

  “SWEET SUE”

  Bill Williams

  Her name was Sue, and she was an 18-year-old corn fed honey, with plenty of tricks up her kimona sleeve—when she had a kimona on!

  She was built like the hind quarters of an elephant this gal, Sal Tinker, and probably she was just as tough. But when I ran cross her one day in a clip joint down on Main Street, she was whining like a calf that had been forced on to a skim milk diet before it’s time.

  Sal laid claim to being responsible for the word “prostitute” being part of the dictionary and I don’t doubt but what she was right. She looked old enough to have been one of Cleopatra’s chamber maids.

  But she couldn’t raise a nickel on her own rusty charms.

  Even if Sal was more or less out of date and wind broken she was still a winning horse for she had under her control four or five young hens that were still in the peeping stage and quite eligible enough for any monkey shine from turning a hand spring to turning a sucker inside out and wringing him dry.

  One of these blandishing females was the cause of my extemporaneous visit to Sal’s place of business that eventful day on orders from the District Attorney.

  It seems old J.P. Something or other had stepped out of bounds a trifle. He was lean, lank and handsome as Sal’s girls would have said but he was unlucky enough to have been burdened down with a wife.

  But old J.P. was in his second childhood or close to that stage for he was beginning to feel his oats once more at a time when he should have been making sure his insurance policies were all in good shape.

  A few shots of Sal’s furniture polish started those oats to sprouting faster than bees from a punctured nest and that was Sal’s cue to sic one of her trained pussies on to the dizzy gent.

  She played her shots well for she picked an eighteen year old, corn fed honey to carry on the good work with instructions to trim this Christmas tree right. But the corn fed had a few tricks up her own kimona that hadn’t been born yet in Sal’s hey-day and she picked J.P. as a likely looking customer to try them on.

  Her name was Sue and she earned every letter in it for she began by leading the docile J.P. upstairs over the drinking room to a two by four bedroom she called her own.

  But J.P. was groggy. Sue let her kimona flap open enticingly. Her voluptuous breasts bobbed around in front of his nose, and a trifle farther down her shining body there was a navel display that only his vest buttons were reviewing. Beyond that a pair of dainty silk panties half covered the remainder of the charms that were now working the old bozo into a fever sweat.

  J.P. had never seen anything so beautiful. At least he admitted as much to the crafty Susan. But the little corn fed must have soaked her tongue in laudanum before she went to work on the old bird for he passed into the arms of Morpheous before his excess boiler pressure had a chance to blow off.

  At least that was what he told the D.A. sort of confidentially the next day when he came to his senses and went down to headquarters. He thrashed things out with the D.A. behind closed doors and when he left an hour later he was a wiser man both financially and morally.

  A short time later I got the dope also behind closed doors. It was in the shape of leather wallet crammed full of money but it wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. Yes, it was queer money, several thousand dollars of it.

  Sal was slated for a housecleaning at that minute. The D.A. was plenty sore because J.P. was the corner stone of his office. Something had to be done and damn quick. So armed with the wallet and instructions to make Sal replace every dollar of that dough with honest to God currency of the Realm I sauntered down Main Street keyed to the point where I was ready to run the old war horse and her three ringed circus out into the sticks if necessary.

  But Sal’s joy parlor looked more like a corner in the Public Library when I arrived. Business was at a standstill and the numerous tables scattered round the room were sans any customers except the chesty Sal herself. She was reading a copy of a book that I hadn’t thought, up ‘til now, she had ever even heard of. Yep, it was a Bible and huge blops of water were balancing themselves precariously on her flabby cheeks perhaps hesitating to inspect the abyss below that lay between her breasts now resting on the table.

  Dumfounded I stood there scratching my head while I wondered if the old gal was really reforming or had picked up the book by mistake. Then remembering that I was on business I tossed the wallet on the table in front of her and said, “You suck
ed the wrong lemon last night, Sal. There’s five thousand dollars of fancy engraved paper in that wallet and the D.A. wants you to redeem it pronto or else you’re quits here. Understand?”

  But good old Sal never even sighed. She turned over another page in the Bible and fished out a lace bordered handkerchief from some where down around forbidden territory and dabbed it gently to her eyes.

  “What is this any how? Are you trying to make a monkey out of me?” I shot at her as I began to get riled up. “I said I want you to redeem this money.”

  “I heard you the first time,” she drawled out unconcernedly and she dropped the book on the table. “I’d like to have some one redeem a nice new one grand bill myself, sweetheart,” she smiled.

  “Tell it to the Marines, Sal,” I said. “They’re interested in foreign tales. Where’s all your female performers? Are you giving them a vacation on last night’s proceeds?”

  “Yes,” she sneered. “They earned it. When an eighteen year old hick can come in here an’ take Sal Tinker over the hurdles like this dame, Sue, did well, it’s time for me to retire or something.”

  “What d’you mean?” I inquired still unable to penetrate her wandering remarks.

  “Why she’s the one that’s passing this queer money. That’s what I mean. Last night she swapped bank rolls with old J.P. just so he wouldn’t notice it if he did regain his senses before she had a chance to get away. Then the little sorceress had the crust to tell me that he slipped her a grand note for her entertainment abilities.”

  “Well, maybe he did, Sal,” I said. Knowing that when a man’s charged alcoholically he is liable to do funny things.

  “Not on your tin-type,” she snarled back at me. “She had a grand note all right but she didn’t get it from him. There it is,” and she tossed it on to the table in front of me. “I was fool enough to change it into small bills for her. Damn near cleaned me out of ready cash too at that.”

  “So the up and coming generation is getting too smart for you, eh, Sal?” I said. “But what’s a little cash to you? You’ll make that up in no time. How about this bunch of paper I have here? What do you intend to do about it?”

  “Not a damn thing,” she said and she picked up the Book again. “You can tell J.P. for me that he’d better keep a tight hold on to his shirt or that little sorceress will make it run up and down his back like a window shade.”

  “Say, what is this sorceress business, anyhow?” I asked. “When did you get so damned educated?”

  “Last night, sweetheart. So did J.P. for sweet little Sue showed me a nice pair of silk panties that have the swellest set of finger prints on them you ever saw. Nice heavy black ink ones too. Did he mention anything about his soiled fingers this morning? Sue said she was keeping the panties for a souvenir, you know, Just in case J.P. should get up on his high horse occasionally. Now isn’t that sorcery for you?”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I emitted surprised. “But you didn’t find that word in the Bible, I hope?”

  “Yes, it’s in here, old dear, but I just found it out. I guess I’m getting too old to buck this game any more. So I’m thinking of becoming an Evangelist or something. Don’t slam the door when you go out.”

  Well, I took the wallet back to the D.A.’s office and Sal’s thousand buck note also. J.P.’s mouth shut up like a clam when he heard the news. Yes, the little corn fed morsel came back to town but she received as much protection as the crown jewels would have got at a Four Hundred Ball.

  Sue is still her name even though she has a swell three room apartment and sports sables. Sue is her occupation also which old J.P. could testify to if he had a mind to talk. The pink panties have well earned their keep and Sue has had them photographed just to remind J.P. occasionally that they’re still useful even if they are out of date.

  Sal? Oh, yes, I saw her the other day punching a tambourine down on Main Street while she warbled some song that had to do with saving sinners. Cock eyed world all right, damned if it ain’t.

  NIGHT SCENE

  Jerome Severs Perry

  It was a trap . . . and the girl blew she was Jailing for it! Here’s a story of drama at midnight—with a dozen surprise twists

  DONOVAN was looking at a window display of men’s overcoats Donovan didn’t look like a Headquarters man He looked more like a successful lawyer, or doctor perhaps. But he was a detective just the same.

  Rain fell in a persistent drizzle. There wasn’t much traffic on the street. It was about nine o’clock at night.

  A girl sidled up alongside Donovan She pretended to be looking at the overcoat display in the window, the same as Donovan was. But actually she was giving Donovan a furtive double-o.

  Then she said, “Pretty wet tonight, isn’t it?” Donovan turned and looked at her. Took in the bedraggled finery of her tawdry hat, the rain-sodden thinness of her topcoat. Read the invitation in her hard, tired eyes. Saw the professional, come-hither smile on her rouged lips Donovan said, “Yeah. Plenty wet Wish I was indoors. But it’s too lonesome indoors.”

  The girl said “I’ve got a room around the corner.”

  Donovan said, “That suits me Let’s go.”

  They went around the corner. Entered a weather-beaten two-story frame house. Went upstairs.

  The girl opened a bedroom door.

  She snapped on a soft light.

  Donovan took off his hat and raincoat He sat down He watched the girl. She removed her soaked topcoat, threw her hat on the bureau. She had hair the color of brass Bleached—many times.

  She smiled at Donovan “Like me, big boy?”

  He nodded “Sure I like you But I’d like you better undressed.”

  The girl said, “God but you’re impatient.” Then she unfastened her dress and kicked out of it.

  Her only underwear was a pair of baby-blue panties. Her breasts looked soft and warm. Her body was slender. It didn’t look as old as her face looked.

  Donovan said, “Take off your stockings too. I don’t like a girl to keep her stockings on.”

  She leaned down to unfasten the pink-rosetted garters around her legs, just below the knees. Her breasts swayed, became downward-pointed cones Then she looked at Donovan. “How about some money?” she said Donovan reached into his pocket and drew out some crumpled bills He said, “How much?”

  “Two dollars. Standard price.”

  “Here’s five. I’ll stay all evening.” He handed her the money.

  SHE took off her stockings Then she slipped her bare feet into her shoes and stuffed the five-dollar bill into the left shoe She came over and sat on Donovan’s lap.

  Donovan cupped her breast. He said, “These looked even nicer three years ago when you were a strip-teaser at the Hi-de-ho Burlesque.”

  She jumped up from his lap. She said, “How in hell did you know?”

  Donovan grinned and said, “I remember you You’re Marie Norris. You quit the show when you took up with Silk Whitman. Silk made a bum out of you.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve calling me a bum. If you think I’m such a bum, what the hell are you doing here?” the girl said bitterly.

  Donovan said, “I wanted to ask you about Silk Whitman.”

  “I don’t know anything about Silk Whitman.”

  “You ought to,” Donovan said. “He’s been your boyfriend for three years.”

  “That’s my business!” the girl snapped.

  Donovan said, “Yeah. And it’s my business to ask you why you bumped him off this afternoon.” The girl went pale under her rouge. She said, “Silk—bumped off?” in a strangled whisper.

  Donovan said, “That’s right. We found his body in an alley He had a hole in his skull Bullet hole.” The girl sank on the edge of the bed. Her lips were trembling. She said, “Silk—dead!”

  “Sure he’s dead. You killed him He made a bum out of you. Lived off your earnings. You stood it as long as you could. But when he brought three Filipinos up here last night you decided you’d reached the end of you
r string. From a hundred-dollar-a-night baby on Park Avenue to a two-dollar Filipino moll was too much of a drop. So you bumped Silk Whitman.”

  The girl said, “You lie.”

  Donovan shook his head. “No, I’m telling the truth. You know it.”

  The girl said, “Who in hell are you anyhow?”

  “I’m Donovan from Headquarters.”

  She opened her eyes. Her hand went to her bare breast, over her heart. She said, “You haven’t got anything on me, copper.”

  Donovan said, “I’ve got plenty. I gave you a marked five-buck note. You’ve been pinched a couple of times for soliciting Tins time you’ll face a habitual-prostitute rap That means a stiff sentence.”

  She said, “Even that’s better than going to the chair on a murder frame-up.”

  Donovan said, “Confess killing Silk Whitman and you won’t go to the chair. You’ll go free. Whitman was a rat. The world’s better off without him. When the jury hears your story they’ll agree you were justified in knocking Whitman off.”

  The girl said, “I won’t confess something I didn’t do.”

  Donovan shrugged. “Then it’s five years for street-walking.” He smiled “There it is, baby. Confess killing Whitman and you go free. Balk, and you go to the jug on this other charge Take your choice.”

  “How do I know you’re on the level, copper? Suppose I do confess to this killing—which I didn’t do? Suppose I’m freed? You could turn around and pin the street-walking rap on me anyhow.”

  Donovan said, “I wouldn’t do that.”

  She studied him. Then she said, “Cops are nasty vermin.”

  DONOVAN grinned. Then he got up and sat down alongside her on the bed. He put his arm around her He touched her naked breasts.

  The girl said, “Keep your filthy doublecrossing paws off me!”

  “I’m no worse than a Filipino, am I?” Donovan said.

  She flushed. “I suppose you think a—a girl like me hasn’t got any feelings?”

  Donovan said “Sure you have.” He played with his fingers on the bare flesh of her thigh. He said, “I feel sorry for you It’s a tough racket, yours is.”