Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  I said, “I sent up my name.”

  Her shoulders moved. “Names don’t mean anything, and I didn’t pay any attention—but—” Her eyes got speculative. “So R.K.B. is interested in what I know about Gordon?”

  I said, harshly, “I didn’t say R.K.B. is interested. I said that I am.

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “No, sweetheart, it’s not the same. You might squeeze some dough out of the studio, you won’t from me.”

  Her voice was begging. “Give a girl a break, Cayton. I know plenty.”

  I smiled at her. “That’s all I wanted to find out. I’ll let the cops squeeze it out of you.” I walked across the floor toward the phone on the end table. She watched me with smoldering eyes. As I picked up the instrument I turned and looked toward her.

  “Go ahead, cheap sport. Make good your bluff.”

  I TURNED MY BACK, said to the switchboard operator, “Police headquarters, homicide department,” and waited. Across the room the girl drew her breath sharply. I said, without looking around, “Want to talk?”

  She did not answer, and I said into the phone. “Is Louman there? . . . Hello, copper, Ted Cayton . . . Yeah, what’s new? No. I’m out on Fountain Avenue. There’s a dame out here that knows more about Gordon than he knew about himself . . . Yeah, Max Gordon. The heel that got his in Beverly this afternoon. Yeah, her name is Terrel, a phony blonde. I’ll wait until you show up.” I replaced the receiver and turned around, a half smile lifting one corner of my mouth. The smile died, and my eyes drew together until they were little more than slits. Aside from myself, the room was empty.

  Hastily, I went through the apartment. There was no sign of her. I opened the door into the outer hall and went quickly to the lobby. “Miss Terrel come through here a minute ago?”

  The telephone girl looked at me with hostile eyes. “I haven’t seen her for a week.”

  I swore at her, crossed the lobby quickly, and stepped out onto the street, but she was not in sight. Slowly I retraced my steps to her apartment, and called Louman. The detective laughed. “That’s one time you slipped up, wise guy.”

  I said, shortly, “The fact that she scrammed when I called you proves that she knows something.” I gave him a detailed description. “Better get a man out here. She took the air in slacks and without a coat. She may double back to get her things.” I hung up, locked the apartment, and went into the lobby. The operator was busy at the switchboard and did not look up; I leaned against the counter and waited.

  Finally she raised her eyes. They were cold, mocking. I asked, “Like your job, sister?”

  “I don’t like some of the visitors,” she replied.

  I grinned sourly. “O.K., grafter, but you won’t like the cops either,” and moved toward the door.

  I walked to the Boulevard and got a cab. I looked at my watch and saw that it was seven thirty. I rode to Sardi’s and got out. Sid Blanchard was just turning into the restaurant. I stepped back and waited until the other had disappeared. I did not want to answer the columnist’s questions at the moment. When he had gone, I walked down to Bob Perry’s, ordered a corn-beef sandwich, and sat down at one of the stools before the bar.

  ED ALBERTS of the Telegram drifted onto the stool beside me, ordered, winked at a redhead across my shoulder, and said, “Hear that R.K.B. is having murder trouble.”

  “What big ears you have, grand-son.”

  Alberts grinned and buried his lips in the foam on his stein. “Don’t be touchy. You don’t know how we boys needed a good killing. There hasn’t been any news except the dog show for weeks.”

  I grunted. “That’s swell. Why the hell don’t you go out and make some?”

  Alberts said, “Save me. I know the story. When you were on the Inter-Ocean or the World, and there wasn’t any news—”

  “You kids don’t know anything about a newspaper,” I said. “All you can do is drop a nickel in the phone and call the rewrite.”

  Alberts was twisting his stein slowly in his fingers. “I was going to tell you things. Maybe now I won’t.”

  I grinned. “You never kept a secret in your life. What’s this one?” The reporter was silent for a moment. “All right, figure it out. Gordon’s been in the dough for the last three months. Find out where it came from.”

  I stared at him. “You mean that he’s been chiseling on his wife for a year and a half. He never made a nickel in his life.”

  “O.K., smart guy.” Alberts fished in his pockets, found a crumpled bill, slid it onto the bar and rose. My long fingers closed on the collar of his tweed coat.

  “What’s the answer?”

  Alberts said mournfully, “If I knew, you could read about it in the Telegram.” He lifted one hand, pried my fingers loose from the coat collar, and patted it into place. “Treat the fabric gently, son. It’s old, and age demands respect.” He moved away through the door and disappeared.

  I finished my sandwich, paid my check, and walked to the phone booth. I called the studio and a voice said, “There’s a message for you, Mr. Cayton. Hold the wire.” I held it impatiently, then the voice said, “A man called you, said that it was important. That you were to go to 781 North Humbolt, Apartment Three.”

  I said, “Thanks,” and hung up.

  I went out onto the sidewalk and looked for a cab. A newsboy, calling the bulldog edition of a morning paper came toward me. I bought one as a cab swung into the curb. I got in, gave the number, and opened the paper. Then I swore. A black headline splashed itself across the front page:

  WRITER SOUGHT IN BEVERLY

  MURDER. CLIPPER ALLEN

  MISSING

  My eyes moved down the column and read:

  The police, acting on a mysterious telephone tip, are seeking Clipper Allen, scenario writer, former gangster and newspaperman, for questioning in connection with the murder of Max Gordon, clubman and playboy, and husband of Stella Darlow, stage and screen star—

  I stopped reading and dropped the paper to the cab floor. I hadn’t expected the police to get the Allen angle so soon; in fact, I hadn’t expected them to get it at all.

  THE CAB jerked and slid to a grudging halt for a signal, went forward, swung to the left.

  No. 781 proved to be a two-story apartment house. I paid the driver and walked into the tiled entry. There was no name on the mail box of Apartment Three. I pressed the bell, and waited. The inner door clicked, and I went up three carpeted steps and along the poorly lighted hall. I wondered what Allen was doing, hiding in such a place.

  Some one in the building was cooking cabbage, and the smell filled the place. I paused before the floor of the apartment and knocked. It opened at once, and I faced a man whom I had never seen before. “Hello, Cayton!”

  I didn’t say anything. Suddenly I realized that I had made a mistake, had assumed that the telephone call had come from Allen. I started to draw back. The man said, “Come on in, wise guy.” There was a gun in his hand, and a smile on the thin lips. He backed away, and after an instant’s hesitation, I followed. In the square, shabby front room I faced another man and a girl, the girl from the Fountain Avenue apartment.

  She smiled, but it wasn’t a nice smile. “Did you get the cops, big shot?”

  I didn’t answer. I was looking about the room. The man with the gun stood against the wall, watching; the other stepped forward and ran his hand over my coat. He didn’t find anything, and he seemed disappointed. He said, “You were around asking Myra questions. Suppose you ask me some.”

  I shrugged. “You wouldn’t answer if I did.”

  The other laughed. “Pretty cool, aren’t you? What’s your interest in Gordon?”

  “The studio wants to know who killed him.”

  The man shook his head. “It won’t work. You told Myra that you wanted to know. Come on. We don’t want to get rough.”

  I looked at the girl. “Did she tell you that she tried to sell out, and that I wouldn’t buy?”

  She said, hoarsely, “Shut up
, you.” I laughed, and let myself relax. “So you didn’t tell them that?”

  She said slowly, distinctly, “You’re a liar, you—”

  The man with the gun said, sharply, “What is this? You can’t buy anything by bluffing, Cayton.” I looked at him. “I’m not bluffing. I wanted to find out who got Max Gordon. I asked the little lady, and she offered to tell me for dough.”

  “You—” She started toward me. The other man caught her, pulled her back.”

  “Cut it out. So you’d have crossed us if the price had been right?”

  She said, sobbingly, “Don’t, Frank. You hurt.”

  He said, grimly, “You’ll be hurt worse, later,” and twisted her arm; then to me, “But this doesn’t let you out, fellow. What would you do if I told you to lay off the Gordon killing?”

  The girl said, “He won’t, he—” and the man slapped her sharply across the mouth.

  “I almost like you,” I said, with a grin. “We might use you in a picture.” I looked at the girl. “I might come up on the price if you’d play with me now.”

  SHE eyed me sullenly. The man with the gun moved closer. I watched him from the corner of my eye. I knew that I was in a bad spot. These men might not have killed Gordon, but they knew who did, and meant to keep me from finding out. For a moment no one spoke. I said suddenly, “I don’t care who killed Gordon. All I want to prove is that Clipper Allen didn’t. I’ll trade with you anyway, so long as I can clear—” I lunged sideways suddenly, caught the wrist of the man’s gun hand, and drove my right fist into his face.

  The man went down with startling suddenness, almost dragging me with him. The gun clattered on the bare floor at the edge of the rug. I paid no attention to the fallen man. I twisted, saw the other grabbing for his pocket, and leaped in.

  The gun exploded, the bullet burning its way through the man’s pocket, and missing me by inches. I jumped, and caught the other with a short jab which turned him part way around, as the gun spoke again, and the bullet crashed through one of the windows.

  People outside were yelling. A siren moaned in the distance, as we clinched and went over onto the rug. I did not see the girl. I was fighting for possession of the gun. I did not see the iron ash-tray standard which she caught up. I only felt it. It seemed for a moment that the world had dropped on top of my head. I wasn’t out, but I seemed paralyzed, unable to move.

  I knew that she was helping the gunman to his feet, that they were talking loudly as they moved across the room toward their companion. None of them paid the slightest attention to me. Their one idea seemed to be to escape. They had helped the other man to his feet, and were half dragging him to the door.

  The siren moaned again, nearer this time. I managed to raise myself to my knees. I did not want the cops to find me there, did not want to answer their questions. I swayed dizzily as I gained my feet and moved to the window.

  There were people outside, gathered into a little excited crowd on the sidewalk. I went to the door, gained the hall, and went toward the rear. An open window led to the fire escape, and it was only a few feet to the ground. I reasoned that my attackers had gone this way, but I hardly had time. Even as I put one leg over the sill, the police car came to a sliding halt before the apartment, its siren dying with a low moan.

  I went up instead of down. I reached the roof, crawled behind one of the chimneys, and lay down. My head hurt badly, and I felt sick and shaky. I reasoned that the police would not stay long when they found no one at the scene of the shooting. After an hour I straightened, brushed my clothes carefully with my hands, pulled my hat well down over my eyes, and went stiffly down the iron steps. I reached the ground without incident, moved through a vacant lot to the next street, and walked toward Melrose. I caught a cab, and, giving the driver Albert’s address, settled back with a sigh.

  The reporter knew something, that was evident. I wanted to talk with him before I made another move. I left the cab before the bungalow court which Alberts called home, and went back the concrete walk between the narrow grass plots. The reporter lived in the last one on the right, and I noted with satisfaction that there was a light.

  I knocked, waited, and knocked again, without response. Swearing softly to myself, I tried the third time. Either the reporter had left his lights burning when he went out, or he was asleep; tight, probably.

  I tried the door, found it locked, and walked to the window. The shade was drawn, but the window was open a crack at the top. I inserted two fingers and pushed the shade a little to one side, giving myself a partial view of the room. Then I grinned sourly. Alberts lay on a cot against the far wall, his hat pulled well over his eyes, and a bottle of whisky tipped onto the rug.

  I pulled down the upper sash, snapped up the blind, and stepped up onto the sill. A moment later I was in the room and closing the window. “Hey, Alberts!”

  The reporter did not stir. I said loudly, “Come on, drunk, snap out of it.”

  I crossed the room and pulled the hat from his eyes. “Hey, you—”

  The words died in my throat. There was a jagged tear in the other’s vest, and a dark stain, which spread downward onto the couch. The man wasn’t drunk—he was dead.

  I stood staring at him for a moment, the odor of whisky from the overturned bottle filling my nostrils, making my headache worse. Slowly I turned and looked around the room. Alberts had known something. I wished that I had talked to the reporter in Bob Perry’s. I wished—but there were other things to do. Hastily, I went to the window, with my handkerchief, removed whatever fingerprints I might have left there, pulled the blind into place, and let myself out of the door. Everything around the court was quiet. I walked rapidly to my cab and got in.

  VI.

  THE CORN COB CLUB was a long, two-story building, set well back from Sunset. It looked cheap, was cheap, but at the moment it was the most popular spot for moviedom.

  I went past the Negro doorman, gave my hat and coat to the check girl, and went into the men’s lavatory. There was no one in the tiled room, and I went to the row of basins, washed my hands and face, and examined my head in the mirror. The skin wasn’t broken, but there was a lump. I combed my hair, straightened my tie, and went out.

  For a moment I stood in the entry hall, watching the crowd come in. I hesitated, hoping that some one I knew would arrive, some one whose party I could join, but no such person came. Finally I flipped my cigarette away, and walked toward the door of the supper room. The place was crowded; the tiny floor was filled with swaying couples. Everywhere there was noise and confusion. I smiled grimly to myself. It mattered not at all to these people that two murders had been committed, and that the murderer might be among them.

  The head waiter came toward me, sailing. I recognized him. He’d been steward at one of the beach clubs the preceding summer. I said, “Hello, Paul!”

  “Good evening, Mr. Cayton. Do you want dinner? It’s an hour before the floor show.”

  I shook my head and slid a bill into his palm. “You’ve got a dancer here, Honey Blake. I want to see her.”

  The other hesitated, and a film seemed to spread over his dark eyes. “I don’t know—I’ll see.”

  I nodded, and watched him thread his way between the tables. He disappeared through a door at the far end of the room, and I went back to the foyer. There was a door opposite me. I walked toward it, tried the knob, found it unlocked, and pushed it open.

  Beyond was a small, heavily carpeted room. At one side was a short bar, flanked with stools. On the other were half a dozen leather-seated booths, and at the far end were five slot machines. I looked at the machines, then walked to the bar and ordered a drink.

  The single attendant looked at me questioningly, then turned to mix the drink. I went over to the slot machines and lost a dollar in dimes, then returned to the bar and drank the whisky slowly. Looking in the mirror I saw a door behind me open, and Paul appeared. He came across the room.

  “I couldn’t find you outside.” His tone was mea
nt to be apologetic. It wasn’t, and I grinned.

  “You can always find me in the bar, if there’s one around. Will she see me?”

  The man cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but she asked to be excused.”

  My face did not change. “The hell you say! That’s the first dancer that ever refused a chance in pictures. O.K., Paul! Forget it. You can fix me up with a table later. I’ll stick to the bar for a while.”

  “But Mr. Cayton—” Paul’s eyes were on my rumpled business suit.

  I grinned at him. “Stick me in a corner somewhere. It doesn’t matter. But when did Hollywood go formal?”

  He didn’t answer, and I turned back to the bar, conscious that he still lingered. I ordered another drink, played with it. Finally the head waiter left, and I got five dollars’ worth of quarters from the bar man, and went back to the slot machines.

  THE DOOR from the hall opened again, and two men came through. I stiffened as I saw them, and then pulled the lever so hard that the machine almost fell from its place. One man was tall, with padded shoulders and a tight-waisted, double-breasted dinner jacket. The other was short, lumpy. He was the man who had held the gun on me in the Humbolt Street apartment. They went to the bar, ordered, and turned to survey the room. The tall man said something to his companion, then came toward me.

  “Why, Cayton.” He extended a soft hand at the end of an extremely long arm. “Long time no see.”

  I said, “Hello, Koble! How’s the slot-machine king?”

  The tall man shrugged. “Frank, I want you to meet Ted Cayton, the private dick. He does the dirty work for the studios around town. Ted, this is Frank Herron.”

  There was a bruise beneath Herron’s right eye, put there by my fist. We stared at each other for an instant, then shook hands.

  Herron said, “I’ve been meaning to meet you for a long time.”

  I smiled sardonically. “Any friend of Koble’s should be a friend of mine.”

  Koble smiled. Herron didn’t. He stepped back and let one hand slide into his coat pocket. Koble said, “How are things breaking? I don’t see you around the hot spots as much as I did.”