Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Some foot kicked her. Plaster rained down in the acrid darkness. Gritty particles clung to her hand, which was strangely wet and warm. The floor creaked and jarred beneath her. Hart was pulling. There was a dull sound like a dropped weight. Instantly Sally’s lungs filled with stifling agony, from a tear-gas bomb pitched near her feet. Hoarse curses rattled between the flaming crashes from the guns. Madly she scrambled to get away.

  Now the racket dimmed slightly. Hart had slammed a door. He was drawing her to her feet.

  “Hurry!” he urged, not letting go her hand.

  HE hurt her arm as he pulled her around an invisible corner in the darkness. She could not see where to step.

  Like whipcracks now, the firing sounded less violent and farther behind them. Hart was forcing her to run. Another step, and they were in the open air of night. The man seemed to be attempting to study her face, at close range.

  “Don’t be too scared,” he said.

  Now the whitish glare of a flashlight made her gasp. It was her escort, holding the flash with its light turned full upon his own face. He had an arm about her and was rushing her forward down a wooden walk in deep shadow. It seemed insane, to use a light—and if it must be used, not to turn it to advantage for their bewildered feet.

  Here came Death, thought Sally, and her heart stopped as a blurred figure with a shotgun loomed out from behind a coal shed.

  “Hartley,” said her companion, identifying himself to the deputy with the gun. “This girl goes with me. Mike’s boy is tied up in there, probably shot. Joe Condo is the man, the master mind. The phony cash is in the third office. Tell the Chief I’ll report later.”

  The flashlight winked out, and in the darkness Sally was again obliged to respond to the violent drag of his hand. They were running across a lightless areaway. They ducked around the corner of a deserted building, and then he eased their pace to a walk. He was looking at her, almost anxiously.

  Sally could not speak. He had gotten her out of that ghastly trap of bullets and gas. True, as Condo said, her life was worth very little now; but she felt glad to breathe outdoor air. She wanted to thank Hart or Hartley. Whatever his name, she knew now he was not one of Condo’s men. He did not release her arm.

  “Was it too tough for you?” he asked.

  “Oh, thanks—it isn’t that,” she husked, her throat dry.

  The familiar world, with the grinding rumble of the elevated and its, high, angular shadows above her, seemed but a taunting moment of freedom. In her future, such moments were to be rare indeed—for a murderess.

  Hartley was winging down a taxicab. He helped her into it at the curb. She felt faint.

  “Here, snap out of it!”

  He lightly slapped her cheeks and commanded, leaning closer: “Look at me. Sally Marsh. Don’t let go now! You said something in there, just before the boys arrived, that gave me half an idea about your difficulty. Now, sit up straight and help me figure the other half. What did you mean about so many coincidences tonight?”

  “What are you, anyway?” she feebly inquired, with an earnest look into his eyes.

  “Look here—is that blood on your hand? Is it yours?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m just somebody that would like to get you out of trouble—and keep you out of it. Now talk straight. I’m not a Condo man or a G-man. I work by myself. Been tracing my way to Condo for two months, without knowing he was the man I wanted. I was even on his payroll. Tonight I needed the police. I figured I might, so I tipped them this afternoon. But tell me—how was it with you and Mike?”

  Unaccountably, Sally Marsh began to cry. She leaned into his arms. The cab went jolting up Ninth Avenue. As intelligibly as she was able, Sally sobbed: “Take me home—please! Let me get this awful—blood and dirt off of me.”

  He held her quietly against him, patting her shoulder. And once, when she looked up, he smoothed her cheek with his fingers.

  THE cab had turned up her street, and Hartley was watching out the window. “There a News photographer, and the fellow with him is from headquarters. Isn’t this where you live?”

  “They’re waiting for me!” cried Sally. “Driver,” said Hartley, “keep going.” The taxi drove past the familiar entrance. Hartley said seriously:

  “You must tell me about Mike. Why did you go to see him tonight?”

  “I wanted a story on the Bantner girl’s suicide.”

  “Was Mike alone in his private office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he try to annoy you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he happen to be drinking a bottle of Cantillon whisky?”

  “Yes, he was. I hit him with the bottle.”

  “Did you drink with him, Sally?”

  “I never drink with people like him.”

  Hartley laughed and halted the cab near the corner drugstore. Again his hand had tightened on the girl’s arm. “I think I see the answer to this,” he said. “Condo ordered that bottle sent to Mike—faked it as a gift from one of Mike’s grateful customers. Yesterday I saw that bottle. I was present, as a Condo man, when the plan was worked out to fool Mike. Today, in Joe Condo’s own bathroom, when I had to go to his apartment to bring down part of the counterfeit money, I noticed an ounce of cyanide. I didn’t see the connection then, but it’s possible. How many drinks did Mike pour for himself from that bottle?”

  “Three.”

  “All right. Come on while I make a phone call.”

  He hurriedly led her from the cab, into the drugstore. Vainly she dabbed at the blood and dirt on her hands and coat and skirt. People in the store became quietly curious, perhaps sympathetic for her as he pulled her along with him and thrust her inside a telephone booth. He came inside with her. She watched him dial a number. It meant—police. . . .

  “Hello, captain,” said Hartley into the telephone. “I’m with Sally Marsh. There’s a warrant out for her arrest. She hit Mike Breslak on the head with a Cantillon whisky bottle. Get that bottle, quick. You remember, Mike made that brand famous during Prohibition, until Joe Condo chiseled in on him.

  “I didn’t know until an hour ago that Condo was master-minding this new, phony money. I figure now that he slipped cyanide into that gift bottle for Mike. Never mind why I think so. Get the bottle and analyze whatever remains in it. I won’t produce Sally Marsh until you have a report from the chemist on it. And I suggest you instruct the coroner to open up Mike’s stomach.”

  Hartley hung up and squeezed around in the crowded space to grin at his close companion.

  “Your turn—so call your paper,” he said, and lifted a nickel to the drop. “Tell your boss you saw the police—directed by Captain Ira Shaughnessy—when they surrounded and broke in on Joe Condo, poison-murderer of Mike Breslak, kidnaper of Mike’s son, and passer of synthetic money.”

  Sally grasped the receiver, and thrust herself up to the mouthpiece, first asking him:

  “What was the address of that coal yard?”

  THEY were in a taxicab again, spinning on Riverside Drive toward the bridge.

  “I have a married sister across the river,” he said, “about your size. We’re going there to borrow some clothes for you. In a couple of hours the police will know you didn’t murder Mike. You socked a poisoned man on the head. That’s plain enough now.”

  “He didn’t seem merely drunk,” declared Sally, coming to life. “He was slipping too fast. He’d sag and look sick; then he’d come at me like a bear. Mike was never that way.”

  “He was dying, and neither of you knew it,” said Hartley. “You had me scared. At first I thought you might be working with Condo. Besides, I thought newspaper women were hard characters. But you’re—lovely!”

  Sally found she could laugh. “I’ll bet I am, all messed up this way.”

  He made her look at him again. “Are you committed to anybody?”

  “Nobody wants me except the police.”

  “You’re wrong two ways on that,” he
said earnestly. “You hit Mike in selfdefense. If you couldn’t prove that, the worst they can lay on you is manslaughter, and that’s easy to beat. Only you didn’t kill him. And quite apart from all that, I want you, personally.”

  “How time flies!” said Sally, pretending to be thoughtful when really she wanted to cry out for joy. “An hour ago I’d never seen you. Ten years from now, we’ll be old friends. If I go to prison, will you bring me chocolate bars?”

  “How often do you want them?”

  “Oh, every Saturday,” she said.

  “With or without cyanide in them?”

  “Preferably, without.”

  The cab lurched for a turn. Sally was thrown against the man who had saved her life at least twice during the past hour. For so hard-eyed a man, his kiss was surprisingly gentle, tender, easy to remember. But Sally kissed him again to make sure.

  RACE WITH DEATH

  Marian Gailor Squire

  Long after other offices in the tall Palmer Building were closed for the night, a yellow shaft of light glowed under the door marked, “P. Brent. Private Investigator.” In the inner office, P. Brent faced a late caller across a huge, scarred desk.

  Pretty, she would have been, under other circumstances—the girl whose tragic gaze met that of the detective. But her eyes were reddened from weeping, her face white and strained, and her clothes dishevelled as though she had dressed with utter disregard for her appearance.

  In decided contrast to her distracted client, was the crisp daintiness of P. Brent—P. for Patricia, and Patsy to her friends.

  P. Brent was a definite shock to clients who entered the office, expecting to find a beetle-browed, gimlet-eyed sleuth.

  There were those who had laughed indulgently when Patsy placed her number four pumps under the desk so long occupied by her late father. But they hadn’t laughed long. For there was a keen brain under the banner of amber hair, shrewdness in the depths of the Killarney eyes, and the soft round chin masked strength and determination. The chin set now, as her client’s voice rose on a note of hysteria.

  “They’re going to kill him! In just a few hours they’ll put him in the electric chair—and I’ve got to save him, I tell you! He’s innocent, and they’re going to take his life—murder him . . .”

  Patsy’s heart was wrung with sympathy, but she knew that if she displayed any gentleness now, the girl would break completely.

  “Ellen Blake,” she said sharply, “You’re going to be brave. You can do that for Don. Tell me everything you can remember. One day—” she added significantly—“that doesn’t give us much time.”

  Her last statement shocked the girl into a semblance of calm. She locked her hands tightly in her lap, and bent a concentrated gaze on Patsy.

  “Don Edwards and I were engaged,” she began, making a valiant effort to steady her voice. “We were to be married. We were just waiting for an investment of his to pay, but he lost all his money in the stock, and then—then this horrible thing happened. I—I—”

  “I know some of the facts,” Patsy put in in a deliberately matter-of-fact tone. “Tell me just what occurred—from your side of the fence.”

  Ellen took a sudden sharp breath. “Don worked in the office of Elliot Grodon—”

  Patsy nodded. She knew of Elliot Grodon. Not a politician, but power behind the throne of many local officials. Ostensibly, he handled investments.

  “The day it happened,” Ellen went on in her small faltering voice, “the day Bertram Arnold’s body was found in Grodon’s office, Mr. Grodon had gone to Chicago. Don knew that—” a sob struggled in the girl’s throat whenever she mentioned the beloved name—“He knew it because he phoned for Mr. Grodon’s ticket himself. So Mr. Grodon told everybody they could leave early, but he asked Don to come back at seven o’clock because Mr. Arnold was coming in with some valuable negotiable securities. He wanted Don to take them and put them in the safe. So Don came back, and when he opened the door, he saw—he saw—”

  Ellen’s nerve was breaking. Her pale mouth twisted, and the slender hands locked until the knuckles whitened. Patsy spoke quickly:

  “I know. He saw Arnold’s body. Arnold had been shot in the back of the head. The gun, you say, lay near the body. Now, did Don touch the gun? Just what did he do then?”

  Patsy’s psychology worked. Ellen answered with more strength in her tones.

  “Oh, no. He didn’t touch the gun. But his finger-prints were on it anyway. You see, it was Mr. Grodon’s gun, and Mr. Grodon had given it to Don before he went away and told him to lock it in his desk.” Ellen swallowed hard, but with Patsy’s intent gaze upon her, her chin lifted bravely. “You can imagine how Don felt when he saw—the body. For a second, he was just frozen, he told me. Then he grabbed the phone, and tried to call the police. But he couldn’t get any answer. The line was dead. So he ran out of the office . . . There weren’t many people left in the building, so when the elevator didn’t come right away, Don thought it wasn’t running—”

  “I see.” Patsy’s blue eyes darkened with intensity. “Then at the trial, the elevator boy testified that he saw Don running away. Is that right?”

  Ellen nodded. “And when the police came, and brought Don back, they found the telephone in perfect order?”

  The other girl nodded, her eyes pools of tragedy. “Yes. But the worst thing at the trial was the testimony of that detective, Al Jason. I—I could have killed him.”

  AT any other time, the idea of the gentle Ellen doing violence would have amused Patsy. But the name, “Al Jason,” caused her own scalp to prickle with righteous indignation.

  Al Jason—Jason, of the sharp practices and ruthless cunning, had long been a blot on the escutcheon of honest detectives. Patsy felt that she would be avenging the name of her honorable father, if she could expose Al Jason for what he was. As a woman, she had realized the honesty and sincerity of the terrified girl who appealed to her. As a detective, she sensed that Don Edwards was being railroaded to the electric chair for a crime he had not committed. If anything was needed to strengthen her convictions, it was Al Jason’s connection with the case.

  She betrayed none of these thoughts to the other girl, however.

  “Al Jason,” she repeated softly. “And just what was Jason’s testimony?”

  Ellen blinked back tears. “Jason said he’d found little pieces of the missing bonds—little scraps of them, caught in the hinges of Don’s suitcase when he searched his room. He had the pieces in court. That convinced the jury that Don was guilty.”

  “And Grodon,” Patsy interrupted, “denied that he had given Don any instructions about the gun, but said that Don knew where it was kept?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Brent. He did.” Ellen nodded confirmation. “But he must have forgotten. Because he felt very badly about Don losing his money. You see, it was Mr. Grodon who had advised him to make the investment.” Ellen didn’t see the spark this information struck in Patsy’s eyes. “He only said he’d told Don about Mr. Arnold bringing a fortune in securities to the office. Of course, it looked awfully bad when they brought out about Don losing all that money, and planning to be—married.”

  Suddenly, Ellen’s slender arms covered her face, and her slight body was racked with sobs.

  Patsy rose with decision. She crossed to the other girl’s side, and placed a comforting arm about her shoulders.

  “Ellen,” she said quietly, “we’ve talked half the night.” Determination blazed in her eyes. A confidence rang in her voice—a confidence that bred courage in the woebegone Ellen. “We’re going to save your Don. But right now, you’re coming home with me, and we’re both going to get some sleep.” The enormity of her responsibility swept over her with the words. “I realize,” she went on, “that there is only one day—but I’m going to pack a lot of action in it.”

  Ellen was encouraged in spite of herself. But another thought brought fresh tears to her eyes. “I—I couldn’t impose on you. Why, I can’t even pay you for all you’re doi
ng now. But I will, Miss Brent. I’ll work, and—”

  “And,” Patsy smiled warmly, “you’ll call me Patsy. Now powder your nose and come with me. No more argument. Right now, we’re going to get some food and go home.”

  Ellen clasped her hand gratefully, and protested no further.

  Patsy’s optimistic air was responsible for the first sleep Ellen had had since her sweetheart’s conviction. But Patsy, herself, was far from feeling the hope she expressed.

  Next morning, Ellen scrambled out of bed at sound of the alarm, and insisted on preparing breakfast while Patsy dressed.

  She gave a gasp of amazement when Patsy entered the little dinette. A gasp most gratifying to the tiny sleuth.

  “Why—why I’d hardy have known you.”

  Patsy wore a drab brown dress and coat, her bright hair completely hidden under a plain brown felt hat.

  “That’s the idea,” she chuckled. “When people think of Patsy Brent, they think of red hair. I thought I might be able to get around town less obtrusively if it was covered.”

  It was only when the girl detective prepared to leave, that Ellen’s emotions crashed through the barrier she had set up. She rose abruptly from the table, her head turned to hide the tragedy that welled up in her eyes.

  “If only,” her tortured voice cried—“if only there was something I could do. Oh, Patsy! I love him so. I couldn’t live—I wouldn’t want to—if that awful thing happened. And I can’t even get word to him that there’s—there’s a little hope.”

  “Ellen.” Patsy’s hands gripped the trembling shoulders, turned them about. There was a smile on her soft lips, and purpose in her eyes. “There is hope. More than a little.” The two girls were walking toward the door, when Patsy halted abruptly. “There’s one important thing,” she said quietly. “Don’t leave the house under any circumstances. I know it will be hard, but you stay right here by the telephone. I’ll get in touch with you—Meantime—courage!”

  With a flashing smile, she was out the door, and down the old-fashioned brownstone steps.