Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  She dove for the hall door, but he caught her, sent her spinning onto the divan. “Stay there,” his voice rasped. “You’re just making things tougher for Sam.”

  Someone tried the knob. Lombard jumped forward, jerked the door open. “Come in, Sam. We’re having a family party.”

  Clayton’s mouth drooped, but there was no hostility in his eyes as he walked past Lombard into the room. He said to the girl:

  “Hi, kid.”

  “Sam! You promised me you’d leave town.”

  He said, “I wanted to see Lombard. I’m glad you showed up, copper.” He coughed suddenly, his thin body wracked by the paroxysm. “I’m ready to talk.”

  Lombard said, “I thought you might be.”

  “You thought I might be?” Clayton’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  Lombard said, “Someone dropped a note at my office this morning—warning me that you were in town, that you were gunning for me.”

  “Me gunning for you?” Clayton coughed again. “I guess they’re wise that I’m ready to talk. Well, the hell with them. The rats promised to take care of Ruth while I was in San Quentin, if I’d take the rap for the whole gang. I took it, and they didn’t do a damn tiling for my sister. I guess they figured I couldn’t say anything that would hurt them—but they didn’t know I’d stolen those letters from the office. They didn’t know I had proof. They didn’t even try to block my parole.”

  Lombard said, “I know you got a raw deal, Sam. If you’ll talk now, I’ll see that the D. A. asks the governor that your parole be changed to a pardon.”

  Clayton’s already flushed face lighted. “That’s what I want. I want to be free. Free to go where I please. I’ll show you! I could sell this for plenty of jack to the gang . . .”

  “And maybe get shot,” Lombard suggested.

  The little convict licked his lips. “That’s right—maybe get shot.”

  Lombard said, “I can’t offer you dough, but I’ll guarantee that if you help me get the big shots in the racket, I’ll see that you get a clean slate.”

  The girl cut in, “Don’t do it, Sam! Don’t take the chance!”

  Sam paid no attention. He turned and led the way to the hall door. “See you later, Sis.”

  She said, “Please don’t! Please don’t! They’ll kill you.”

  Clayton said, “Not with a cop as a bodyguard. Come on, Lombard. I never thought I’d turn squealer. If those heels think they can get away with it, I’ll show them.”

  Lombard said, “Better tell me now who they are. It might help things.”

  Clayton shook his head. “Hold yourself. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I want to spill it at police headquarters, where they can take it all down in black and white. I want to stop at my hotel for a minute on the way down.” He led the way into the hall.

  Lombard said, “What hotel is it?”

  “The Merrimac,” Clayton told him, and shoved open the front door, stepped out onto the sidewalk. He paused for a moment, then he uttered a shrill cry and tried to dive backwards as a tommy gun cut loose from the far side of the street.

  A slug burned itself across Lombard’s leg as he threw himself sideways against the wall. The glass in the front door shattered as a leaden stream plowed through to the lobby beyond.

  Sam Clayton was a dark heap on the steps. His body twitched once, then he was still.

  Lombard had his service gun in his hand, hammering at the touring car which swung out from the far curb and ground away, its gears screaming as its speed climbed. He ran forward after it, firing as he ran, until it swung around the corner. Then he turned and went back to Clayton.

  There were a dozen holes in the man’s body. Any one of them would have killed him. Lombard straightened as the girl tore down the steps and pushed him aside to drop on her knees beside her brother.

  “Sam! Sam!” She cradled his head in her arms. For a moment Lombard stared at her, then, turning, he walked into the apartment. He dropped a nickel into the wall phone and called headquarters. He told them to send the squad, went back out and separated the crowd that had already gathered.

  A radio car pulled up. He turned the job over to the radio men, forced the girl to go back into the house. She wasn’t crying now, but her dark eyes hated him as he took her up to the apartment.

  “You cops are all alike. Anything to make an arrest.”

  He said, “I didn’t force Sam to talk.”

  She flared at him. “You were willing enough to listen. Go on, get out! I don’t want to see you. I never want to see you again.”

  HE SHRUGGED and went back down-stairs. She was pretty swell. He didn’t even blame her for hating him, but it made him sorry that she did. She was a nice kid—too nice to be Sam Clayton’s sister.

  The squad had arrived. Detective-Lieutenant Emerson was in charge. Lombard reported to him, then he had one of the radio men drive him over to where he could pick up a cab.

  The Merrimac was a cheap hotel, set on the crest of a hill overlooking the city. Lombard went in, went up to the desk. He didn’t use his badge. He said instead:

  “Any mail for Sam Clayton?” taking a chance that Sam had registered under his own name.

  The clerk ran through a bunch of letters and shook his head. Lombard swore. Evidently Sam had not used his own name.

  He said, “Thanks,” and turned away. For a few moments he stood beside the dining room door, then he stopped a passing bellboy and drew him to one side. “Want to make five dollars, kid?”

  The boy’s eyes lighted. “Sure.”

  Lombard said, “There’s a big producer I want an interview with and he’s not using his right name.” The cop pulled out the five, and flashed it. “I don’t know what name he’s using, but he’s a little guy with a sharp nose, squinty blue eyes and a gray suit that doesn’t fit. He came in this morning.”

  The boy’s eyes got narrow, then they widened. “I’ve got you. Say, I took him up myself. Room nine eleven. I remember, because he only gave me a nickel.”

  Lombard chuckled. “That’s him.” He passed the folded bill over and walked into the dining room. There was a door out onto the street. He went out the door and around the block to the service entrance.

  He rode up to the ninth floor in the freight elevator and walked along the hall. There were no floor clerks, so he went boldly to the door of Clayton’s room, drawing a bunch of keys from his pocket. But the knob turned beneath his hand and he shoved the door in.

  A man at the dresser turned. A man on the other side of the bed said:

  “Come in, punk. And shut the door.” He had a gun in his hand. Lombard looked at the gun, then obeyed. The man said, “Nice to see you again. Sorry we missed you on the Normandie. We’ll make up for that in a minute.”

  Lombard stared at him, his face blank. “Guess I’m in the wrong room . . . Sorry to disturb you.” He started to back out.

  The man with the gun snarled, “Lay off that. Come in here and let Joe fan you.”

  Lombard obeyed. Joe ran a practised hand over him, got his gun, found his badge. “What are you after, copper? Those letters Sam stole?”

  The man with the gun said, “Where are they?” and looked hard at Lombard.

  The detective smiled. “Where are what?”

  The other swore and struck him in the mouth. “Come on! You didn’t come up here to get Clayton’s clothes. Where are the letters?”

  Lombard said, “Have you tried the mattress? I always hide things in a mattress.” He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and sat down at the desk. He’d never seen either of the men before. He was sure of that.

  Joe had a knife out and went at the mattress like a terrier with a newspaper. He covered the floor with stuffing, but he didn’t find what he wanted. The man with the gun picked up the phone and called a number. He grinned at Lombard as if expecting a surprise.

  “Never mind, punk, you aren’t going any place.” Into the phone he said, “We got him.
Yeah, when he stepped out of his sister’s joint. But we can’t find the letters. And say, we got a copper. He’s a nosey guy. Came up here looking for his grandmother.”

  The detective stared at the man. He’d never seen him before but he knew the telephone number. He said, “Give Boyer my love.”

  The gunman listened a moment, then hung up. “Come on,” he said to his companion. “Let’s lam. We’re to take this guy with us.”

  Joe looked unhappy. “Let me frog him here,” he begged. “I love to shoot cops.”

  The other said with impatience, “Boyer wants to talk to him. Don’t be screwy . . .” To Lombard: “You’re going out between us, fella. If you squawk, I’ll burn you through my pocket.” He shoved his rod into his pocket and pressed close to the detective’s side. They stepped into the hall and rode down in the elevator.

  As they crossed the lobby, the bellboy came up to Lombard.

  “Did you find him?” he asked.

  The detective’s companions stiffened. Lombard said, easily, “Sure, I found him. When he comes in, tell him that I was here.” They walked on out to the curb. A long black touring car nosed its way up before them.

  The driver said in an aggrieved tone: “I’ve been around that block a dozen times. Did you get them?”

  Joe growled something and shoved Lombard into the car. “The chief’s,” he said and, getting in, slammed the door.

  BOYER lived in an unpretentious house set up on one of the canyon roads which run north from the Boulevard. The lawyer, a quiet man, too big for his dark suit, looked up and scowled.

  Lombard said, “Hello, Boyer. Long time no see.”

  The lawyer grunted. “You’re in the wrong play, Hank. It’s going to be tough.” There was real regret in his tone as he led them into the long room to the right of the hallway. He eyed Lombard thoughtfully, then turned at once to Joe.

  “You didn’t get the letters?” His voice was accusing.

  The man said, sullenly, “Hell. They weren’t there. We wrecked the joint and didn’t turn up a thing. Clayton must have had them in his pocket . . . or maybe this guy knows something. He was with Sam.”

  The lawyer’s eyes switched to Lombard. “You’re in a bad spot, Hank.”

  The detective grunted. “Do you think I’m dumb? I know when my number’s up.”

  Boyer said, “I always liked you, but unless we can make a deal of some kind, we’ve got to get rid of you. And I always heard you were a square cop.”

  Lombard stared at him, then at the men. “Is that on the level?”

  The lawyer’s eyes flicked. “On the level.”

  Lombard smiled and walked to a chair. “Swell,” he said, “You’ve got a nice racket here, Boyer—a nice little extortion racket. You’ve taken half of the city for a ride. It would be a shame to spoil it.” Joe growled. “No one’s going to spoil it.”

  “Aren’t they?” There was a slow smile on the detective’s face. “No one’s going to—as long as nothing happens to me. But if I’m picked out of some ditch, there’s going to be trouble—big trouble.” Boyer said, “Talk straight, Lombard. What do you think you can do?”

  The detective said, “Clayton took the rap for you guys, and you didn’t play it fair. He wrote it all down—names, dates, witnesses. He had letters which he stole that implicated you all. He could have peddled them in several places, but he came to me. I could have turned them in, but I haven’t—yet.”

  They stared at each other in silence. Joe said, “Hell,” with feeling and spat on the floor.

  Lombard said, “Not nice, Joe. Remember where you are. This is no beer hall.” Boyer grunted. “Are you stalling?” Again the detective grinned. “Frog me and find out,” he advised. “Clayton sold me the dope. I took the five grand to his sister’s. While I was there Sam came in. As we were leaving, you boys burned him down. After going to the banks and leaving those papers in a safe-deposit box, I hopped to his hotel to find if there was anything that he’d forgotten to turn over. I didn’t want stray papers lying about for the D.A.’s boys to see. They might go and get themselves ideas, and an idea is fatal.”

  Boyer’s eyes got narrow. “You didn’t want the D.A. to get those letters . . . Why?”

  Lombard stared at him and sighed. “You’re dumb, shyster. You’ve been in the big dough so long that you can’t figure why a copper should get tired working for buttons. Well, I’m tired. I’m going to get aboard some gravy train. I’ve got something that’s worth money. I paid five grand for it—my own dough. I’m cutting myself in on your little racket, Boyer. You won’t like it, but I’m cutting in anyway. As long as I’ve got those letters, there isn’t much you can do about it but smile.”

  Boyer said, “What will you take for those letters, Lombard. They stand you at five. I’ll make it fifteen and a ticket to Europe.”

  Lombard bowed. “You’re too kind. I couldn’t think of imposing, shyster. And what good would a ticket do me when your boys would frog me down before I got out of town? I’m sticking around and taking my cut with the rest. I can use the money.”

  There was silence in the room for a few moments. Then Boyer said, shrugging: “You win. I’m not saying that I like it, but I’m too old not to know when I’m licked.” He waved to the gunmen. “Scram,” he said. “I want to talk to Lombard.”

  They hesitated, then went through the door. The lawyer looked at the detective. “I never figured you for so much brains,” he said, frankly. “You could have played with us four years ago. If you had, Sam Clayton wouldn’t have gone to San Quentin.”

  Lombard said, “I was a kid in those days. I’ve been around since then. I’m tired of seeing a bunch of dumb yeggs and muscle men in the big dough while I walk around on half-soled shoes. I want my share, and you’re going to give it to me.”

  Boyer nodded slowly. “Smart kid. But listen. I’m not such a sucker as I look. The first move you make that looks phony, someone will get you. Oh, Joe!”

  The big man stuck his head in at the door. Boyer said, “Lombard’s with us. Take him where he wants to go in the car. But tell the boys that if he pulls anything funny, get him if it’s their last job.”

  The guard nodded and went out. Lombard said, “And tell the boys not to make mistakes, Boyer. I’m keeping those letters.”

  “No mistakes,” the Lawyer promised. The detective went out to find Joe at the door in a coupe. He got inside and slammed the door.

  The gunman said, “I never figured you’d ride out of here this way, copper. And I don’t like it. I figure Boyer is a sap, but I’m not. I’m watching you.”

  “I’ve got a lot of riding in my system, yet,” Lombard said. “Take me up to Vine or anywhere I can get a cab.” He watched the rear-view mirror as they turned into the Boulevard and saw another car just leaving the garage.

  HIS lips thinned and curved slightly at the corners. At the corner of Vine, he got out, crossed the street and picked up a cab. He rode downtown to headquarters.

  The Captain of Detectives listened as he talked. “What do you want to do? Pick up Boyer?”

  Lombard shook his head. “That would tear it. I want the big guy behind the racket. Boyer isn’t the big shot.”

  “Who is?” The detective captain was gray-haired, blue-eyed. An explosion had burned the left side of his face, twisting it so that his mouth seemed to be smiling at all times. He was smiling now, but his eyes weren’t amused.

  “I don’t like it, Hank. You haven’t got those letters Clayton was supposed to have stolen, and you haven’t the slightest idea where they are. In the meantime, if the gang gets the idea that you’re crossing them, they’ll blast you higher than seven moons.”

  Lombard said, “That’s a chance we all take. No one ever claimed that a cop’s job was one for a pansy. Clayton was blasted because he was ready to talk to me. I don’t like it. I hate Boyer and all he stands for. If it wasn’t for the crooked lawyers, we wouldn’t have half the work we have. But it goes deeper than that. There’s someone behind B
oyer—someone that none of us suspect. I’m going to get him or get blasted trying.”

  The captain shrugged. He was serving his thirty-third year on the force. He’d seen a lot of men come to grief—good men, with all the enthusiasm that Lombard had.

  “How are you going to find out?” Hank said, “I’m going out to talk to Clayton’s sister. And skipper, while we’re at it, I wish you’d have a man cover her. She’s a nice kid and there’s no telling what the mob might try.” He rose. “Do that, will you?”

  The detective captain nodded. “Sure, and watch yourself, you screwy mug.” Lombard said, “Sure.” He left headquarters, smiled to himself when he saw the car parked halfway down the block. Boyer was making good his boast. They were checking on him closely.

  He got a cab, rode it down to the business district. There he left it, went through an arcade, picked up another cab. Then he went to a department store and repeated the maneuver. There was no more sign of the black car. Satisfied, he got a third cab and gave the man the address of Ruth Clayton’s apartment.

  The manager let him through the door at the bottom of the stairs, then Lombard climbed upward and knocked on the door of the girl’s apartment.

  She appeared at the door, tried to close it when she saw who it was. He had his foot in the way and shoved it inward.

  She gave back before him, her black eyes blazing. “Haven’t you done enough?” He came through, shut the door and almost forced her into the front room. “Look, Ruth. Why fight with me? If you’d let me, I’d like to be your friend.” She said, “I pick my friends and I don’t pick coppers. Now, will you get out of here?”

  He said, “Look. You want the men who killed your brother, don’t you? Well, I want them, too. Tell me what Sam did with those letters.”

  She stared at him, then turning, moved deliberately toward the small desk. He watched her with narrowing eyes. This was too easy—much easier than he had expected. She opened the desk, fumbled around for a moment, then she swung to face him, a small gun rigid in her right hand.