by Jerry eBooks
Argust spoke up. “Yes, Steve—Cosselli’s here. But he won’t testify for you—or anybody else. Cosselli’s dead. Velz says Cosselli broke into his house, and he shot him—thought he was shooting a burglar.”
Steve groaned. “My last witness to pin the rap on Velz gone!” He got up and limped into the library.
Argust and I followed. “You won’t need Cosselli’s testimony, Sieve,” I said. “I’ve got Velz—and he’ll be convicted of murder!”
“You’re crazy!” blurted Velz out of a twisted mouth. He was plenty white now. “I haven’t murdered anybody. I killed a burglar! I was standing right here. He struck me on the head with a blackjack—then I fired. That’s not murder!”
“You’ve lied, Velz!” I barked. “Cosselli came here to see you and you shot him down in cold blood. I told you your talk reminded me of some things I’d forgotten—about Cosselli. Again, thanks for the memories—the second murder memo.
“Two years ago I shot Cosselli in a running fight and broke his right arm. That bullet left his lower arm stiff. He could raise it, but no higher than his waist. It was impossible for Cosselli to raise his right hand high enough to strike you on the head with a blackjack!”
THE DEATH KISS
Lew McCoy
The girl paced the floor of her room like a restless leopardess. Her attractive face was set hard with desperation; the red lips, drawn to straight lines, looked as though they were about to curl back in a snarl. Waiting . . .
Nervously smoking one cigarette after another. Would Nate come? The time was growing short. In four short hours, Red, her man, would be strapped into that awful chair. At midnight he would be legally executed for killing a copper. Red had been framed . . . she knew that. She was obsessed by a vivid picture of that big lean body lunging against the straps as the terrific current ripped through it.
“Oh, God!” she moaned. “Not that! Not that!” Would Nate come? Nate Boroni knew who killed the cop. It was her only chance to save Red. A light rapping at the door brought her to a quivering stop. She composed herself with a deep breath, whispering, “Oh, Red, dearest!” She took a quick glance into the mirror, ran a powder-puff lightly over her face, fluffed her loose hair into luxurious abandonment, and went to the door. A bulky-shouldered figure stood in the dim-lit hallway, a slouch hat, pulled low, shaded his features. She welcomed him with a warm smile, opening the door wide.
“Hello, Nate, come in,” she said invitingly. He stepped into the room, one hand in his coat pocket, his eyes darting about with suspicion.
“What’s the idea of you wantin’ to see me?” he asked, turning to her. “You always hated me.” She gave him a slow, provocative smile.
“Yeah? Maybe you were wrong, Nate. Maybe I acted like that because . . . well, you know how Red was with me. I couldn’t even look sideways.”
His dark features wrinkled with amazement as her meaning came to him. His cold eyes glowed with sudden fire as he looked down upon her deliberately alluring face, and over the voluptuous symmetry of her body, not too well concealed by the filmy, black negligee she wore. His hot hands closed around her bare arms. His black, intense eyes bored into hers. “You mean you don’t hate me, after all?” His powerful hands shook her in his eagerness. “Is this on the level, kid?”
She brought up a bubbling laugh. “Oh, stupid,” she said. “I’ve always been strong for you, Nate. You’ve got something that gets me! But come on, sit down; I’ll pour you a drink.” His eyes followed her hungrily as she went over to a wall-table for the liquor. This was almost too good to be true; he had always wanted Red’s moll, but she had never given him a tumble; now she was practically jumping into his lap. A deep, protective instinct within him was sounding a warning; but the clamor of his senses deafened him. Never had he wanted a woman quite so badly.
The girl, with hands that shook, poured a stiff slug of whiskey for Nate, and a smaller one for herself . . . she needed it! Nate had settled himself comfortably on the lounge. He grinned appreciatively as she moved toward him with undulating hips. “Kid, you sure got what it takes,” he said, reaching for his drink. The girl lifted her glass.
“Here’s how, Nate!” she cried gaily. “To . . . us!” Her thought flashed to that curtained cell in the Death Row where Red was sitting, accompanied by a quiet, watchful guard, waiting out the last few hours. A sob welled into her throat. She downed the fiery whiskey.
But in that grim, grey pile of stone the death cells were open. Prison riot! Grey-clad men were raging through the corridors. Guns cracked viciously; convicts and guards, alike, lay huddled in the halls; the warden was held captive. Three men shot their way through the outer gate. One of them managed to plunge into the cold water of the river, the whine of bullets in his ears.
“You sure had me fooled, kid,” said Nate, reaching for the girl’s wrist to pull her closer. “I thought you were solid for Red.” She went to one knee on the couch. His hands slid upward over her curving hips.
She laughed, short and hard. “Me? Solid for Red? I was afraid of him, Nate. I don’t mind a bit of a brute in a man . . .” Her lashes lowered as her eyes traveled slowly, significantly, over his bulky, powerful torso. “But Red was . . . cruel . . .” she choked slightly, then added vindictively: “I’m glad you framed him, Nate!”
Nate’s hands dropped away as he stiffened abruptly. His eyes narrowed with returning suspicion. “Who told you that?” he questioned sharply. She threw back her head and laughed softly, richly, deep in her throat.
“Nobody. I figured you were making a play for me. Who else would have had the nerve?” She sagged down against him, her face close to his, the soft mouth tremulous, letting the warm, fragrant delight of her creep into his brain. His arms went around her, pulled her down; his thick lips crushed her mouth hungrily, then dropped and fastened on the soft spot where neck melted into shoulder.
Her eyes filled with loathing; her breast tossed with a sudden access of hate. Red had always loved to kiss her there. Nate mistook her agitation for passion. He pushed her away to look at her. Her eyes were veiled, now, with false amorousness.
“Sure!” he exclaimed gloatingly, drunk with her unexpected surrender. “I croaked that cop; he knew too much! And I pinned the rap on Red; he was in my road! He’ll burn for it, damn him! And I’ve got the moll he was so crazy about. What a break!” His arms closed around her.
The window crashed inwards. A man landed in the room, crouching, a heavy gat in his hand. A man with an unruly tangle of coppery hair. The two on the couch broke loose and leaped to their feet. The girl cried out as she faced the intruder:
“Red! . . . oh, Red! I thought you were . . .” She checked her motion to go to him at sight of his distorted face—the face of a man about to kill. Thinking only of the fact that he must not kill Nate, the girl stepped before the gangster, stretching her arms pleadingly toward Red.
“Red . . . no!” she cried in an agonized voice. “Don’t shoot him; he . . .” Red’s snarl interrupted her.
“Yeh. You thought I was on my way to the hot-squat, fixed for keeps! Well, I busted loose. I come back to burn down the dirty rat that framed me . . . an’ I find you in his arms! You was in on it. You double-crossed me, an’ I’m gonna . . .”
Nate had stood, white-faced and tense, waiting for a chance to reach for his rod. He took it now. The gun came out and flamed over the girl’s shoulder. Red took a backward step as though struck a violent blow with a fist. The roar of his heavier gun was deafening in the small room. The steel-jacketed bullet slipped through the girl’s soft flesh, and smashed into the gangster behind her. Nate’s rod thudded to the floor as he staggered backward against the bureau.
The girl stood, swaying, staring wide-eyed at Red. One hand was clutched tightly to her breast—between her fingers crept trickles of crimson.
“Red . . . you . . . shot me!” There was only wonderment in her voice.
“No moll can . . . double-cross me an’ . . . get away with it,” gasped Red painfully
.
“I didn’t, Red, I . . .” she choked, and pointed past him. “Cassidy . . .” She collapsed to the floor.
Detective-Sergeant Cassidy stood in the doorway of the adjoining room. Too late to do any good. “A boneheaded play, Red,” he observed casually to the drooping Red. “Your moll had the goods on Nate. A dictaphone record of confession—you’d have got reprieve.”
Red heard, but the voice sounded far off. He was looking down at the limp figure, crumpled on the floor. His woman—he had killed her. He dropped to his knees beside her and turned her over gently.
“Sorry, Baby . . . I was . . . wrong,” he mumbled. Slowly, senses fading, he slumped down, one arm across her, his face coming to rest, his dead lips caressing the curve of neck and shoulder.
Detective Cassidy, inured to violence through his long career, looked with grim pity on this tragic finish. It was a tough break. He looked up at the wounded Nate, who was supporting himself weakly on the bureau, and spoke, half to the gangster and half to himself.
“It’s a great game you guys play; with the deck stacked against you . . . and the joker pops up to trump the trick.” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Come on, Nate, we’ve got an armchair warmed for you upriver.” He put away his gun and pulled out his bracelets.
Nate, in spite of his apparent weakness, suddenly made a dash for the door. Cassidy was caught off guard by the unexpected break, but he made no move to pursue the escaping gangster. He stood still, listening. A muffled shout, a brief pause, then the sharp rat-tat-tat-tat of a machine-rifle echoed through the building. Cassidy shrugged his shoulders.
“Three of a kind,” he murmured, “but the joker took the tricks.”
SATAN’S BONEYARD
Leon Dupont
Detective Lanigan spent too much time watching a weird old watchman grinding bones in that somber meat-packing plant. For as he watched, the gloomy building was transformed into . . .
Young Jim Lanigan, newly appointed to the detective division, faced old, white-haired Inspector Cochran stubbornly. The eyes of both were grim.
“You can’t go it alone,” growled Cochran. “It isn’t a solo job, I tell you. Gabrillo’s wanted for murder. Even before he went in for big-time box cracking he was one of the toughest mugs in the slaughterhouse district. Now he’s turned killer.”
Lanigan nodded quickly, soberly, said: “I ought to know. We lived on the same block when we were kids. We used to fight—and we’ll keep on fighting till one of us shoves off. I don’t want any help when I go after him.”
“Grandstanding, eh?” jeered Cochran. “Lone wolf stuff!”
Lanigan shook his head. He smiled suddenly, a hard, bright smile that had no humor in it and that made his lean young face look older. “More than that, chief. It’s a personal matter. Gabrillo crippled one of the best pals I ever had, wrapped a piece of pipe around him and put him in a wheelchair for life. That’s why I want to handle this tip in my own way and try to get him.” He paused, touched his watch chain where a small silver horseshoe dangled. “I’ve even got my lucky gadget with me—the one Dad used to wear when he was on the force.”
Inspector Cochran glowered, then snorted. “There’s no such thing as luck in this man’s game. It’s the wits and nerves of the coppers against the crooks. The only guys who are lucky are the ones who make the breaks for themselves.”
“Maybe,” said Lanigan. “But luck or no luck, I want to go after Gabrillo. I’ve got a hunch, and I want to play it. I’m asking you for a break.”
A glint shone in Inspector Cochran’s eyes. He spoke with grudging admiration. “You’re just like your old man, Lanny—stubborn as hell and superstitious. But go ahead if you think you can do it—bring Gabrillo in. I’m warning you, though—if you get yourself shot up I’ll have you demoted.”
“Thanks, chief, thanks!” Lanigan reached forward and grasped Cochran’s horny hand. He turned and walked from the office with a buoyant, swinging stride.
His own ancient flivver was parked at the curb outside headquarters. He used it in preference to one of the sleek police cars he could have commandeered. He was on his own tonight, going after Gabrillo the killer, running down a hot tip that had reached him that afternoon.
The tip had come indirectly, but its source was right. A disgruntled moll of Gabrillo’s had spoken out of turn. The big cracksman had looked at another woman and the first one had blabbed in a fit of jealous anger. Gabrillo was hiding where the police couldn’t find him, but he had boasted to his moll that he was going back to his old home territory to make a cleanup. He claimed to know where money could be found.
Lanigan had acted quickly. He’d spent the afternoon quietly gathering facts. Now he was playing a hunch that seemed a certain bet.
There was only one place on Slaughterhouse Row where there was enough cash on hand to interest the big-time peterman that Gabrillo had become. That was in the safe of the United Packing Company’s plant on Dover Street. Eighteen thousand dollars in payroll money lay there waiting to be handed out to the workmen tomorrow. Lanigan had learned that at the bank. He knew that Gabrillo had ways of getting information, too. Eighteen grand was a big enough haul to bring a murderer out of hiding. Dover Street was near the section where Gabrillo had once lived. The two things added up.
Grimly, Lanigan headed his flivver toward the slaughterhouse district, It wasn’t a cheerful place at night. A macabre air of death hung over the great, gloomy buildings that housed the packing companies. Lanigan remembered watching the cattle and sheep and poultry come in truckloads when he was a kid. He remembered the animal noises that had sounded; the bellows, bleats and cackles. He recalled the odd, deathly, stillness that had settled over the place when the day’s work was done.
Gabrillo hadn’t minded such things even then. Stocky, thick-set, brutal, with a crafty light in his sloe-black eyes, he had been the neighborhood bully, beating up every kid he could handle. Then for a time he had got a job as a slaughterer, until crime had lured him away from even that honest work.
Lanigan parked on Dover street and stealthily moved forward in the early darkness, toward the United Packing Company’s plant. Gabrillo surely wouldn’t come out of hiding for some time yet. He had become a night-prowling creature. Lanigan wanted to be ready when he arrived.
The buildings around him were dark, for the most part, and deserted. A few basement lights and an occasional watchman’s lantern glimmered. Lanigan passed a patrolling cop and exchanged a brief word of greeting. The cop was curious, but Lanigan gave no explanation for his presence.
He hurried on along the gloomy street and turned left down an alley that skirted the United Company’s plant.
There were a few dim bulbs burning on the street floor. The office where the safe was located was toward the building’s front. Lanigan suddenly stopped and listened.
From somewhere in the rear there came a metallic rumble. His hand tightened over the butt of his police automatic for an instant. Then he relaxed his grip. No use getting jumpy! Gabrillo couldn’t be at work so soon. And if the peterman was here he wouldn’t be making such a lot of noise. Gabrillo had made a reputation for himself as a silent worker.
Lanigan shoved forward cautiously to see what the rumble was. He recognized it as the sound of machinery. A big electric motor was turning over. But its purring was interrupted from time to time by a grating, crunching vibration that set Lanigan’s teeth on edge. Someone was at work inside, and this surprised him. He thought the place would be empty at night, except for a watchman.
He located a side window opened outward for ventilation. He deftly reached in and loosened the sliding catch. In a moment he had raised the sash higher and squeezed his lean body in.
There was a dank, unpleasant smell of meat inside the building. The rumbling motor and that weird crunching vibration jarred the whole floor. A single light overhead shed an orange glow.
Lanigan walked cautiously toward the sound of the motor, keeping along the walls where the s
hadows were thick.
He reached a door, edged through it, and stopped beside a big refrigerating unit.
He now saw what caused the strange rumbling. An old man, evidently the watchman, was at work before a giant motor-driven grinder. There was a heavy, table-like chopping block beside him. On this was a pile of bones and hoofs and strips of skin. A nauseous animal odor filled the air. The ancient watchman was swinging a huge cleaver, cutting the biggest bones in two and tossing them into the hopper of the grinder. Every time he did so the crunching vibration that Lanigan had heard outside sounded again.
The man was cleaning up the day’s residue. Nothing was wasted in this modern plant. The grinder, Lanigan realized, deposited the ground bones and skin and hoofs in a bin in the basement. There the rank grist would be used for gelatin, or sold for fertilizer or the making of glue.
The old watchman’s thin face was as withered and impassive as a corpse’s. His bony hands moved with the perfunctory rhythm of a machine. Chop went the cleaver, and another remnant of animal carcass sailed through the air. The grinder soughed and vibrated again.
When the pile on the great table block was disposed of, the watchman went to a big lever switch at the top of a box beside the motor, and shoved it forward. The grinder stopped, filling the building with a sudden vacuum of silence.
Lanigan shrank back in the shadows and saw the watchman go to a bin behind the chopper and gather up another basketful of crimson-stained bones. When he had collected a pile, he threw the switch once more, and the spine-chilling grinding began again.
Lanigan cautiously moved away, went the rounds of the bottom floor and edged into the building’s office. He let his small flashlight play over the safe for an instant.
It was still intact, holding its eighteen thousand dollar treasure. But it was an old-fashioned type. It would offer little resistance to a cracksman’s “can-opener.” Gabrillo wouldn’t even have to use “dope.”
