Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Nickey said: “Use your head, copper. Lola’s still wearing the evening gown she had on when she left the Casino Habana last night. That was half past twelve. I can produce a hundred witnesses who’ll tell you I was there until after three.”

  Grady looked down at the dark beauty of Lola Mendoza and said: “She looks like the type that’d have a lot of boy friends.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Nickey said sullenly. “Of course a lot of. guys tried to date her. Lola was a hot dancer. She did something to ’em. That’s why they kept coming. But, if you’ve got an idea I was one of the inflammable lads, you’ve got it all wrong. Only way I was interested in Lola was mercenary. She brought ’em in and they spent the dough. And now well, this is a hell of a pay-off.”

  “How about this morning?” Grady asked.

  “Well, she had a new dance routine. She and Gregory Dumont worked it out between them. Something Gregory called the Black Narcissus. I came around to see about it. The apartment door., was unlocked and she didn’t answer my knock, so I came in. There she was, on the floor in front of her dressing table, just like you found her. I didn’t touch a thing.”

  Grady unwrapped a cigar slowly and looked at Doc Walters.

  “Near as I can make out,” Doc said, “it happened about eight-nine hours ago. Say one or two o’clock.”

  “I was at the Casino Habana until after three,” Nickey Nolan said again. His voice seemed to sound relieved. “But say! I can tell you something. Gregory Dumont was one of the boys that seemed to fall heavy for Lola. They left in the same taxi last night.”

  “We’ll see him,” Grady promised.

  “Where does he hang out?”

  Nickey told him; then one of the busy little guys of the homicide squad jerked Grady’s sleeve.

  “Take a look at this, chief. We found it in her bag on the dressing table.” He handed Grady a yellow envelope. Grady grunted and fished out the message, spreading it on the table so we could all see. The telegram had been filed in Wichita at nine o’clock at night and said:

  AM COMING OUT TO GET YOU AND I MEAN DEFINITELY.

  EDDIE CARLISLE.

  Grady looked around bleakly as he refolded the sheet and stuck it back in the envelope.

  “There’s a guy that means business,” he said. “Ten words. No more; no less. Who is Eddie Carlisle?”

  “If you’re asking me,” Nickey Nolan said heavily, “I wouldn’t know. But look. Am I under arrest or anything? Longer I think about this thing, the more I realize what a hell of a break it is. The overhead at the Casino Havana—What are we going to do without Lola Mendoza to pull ’em in?”

  Grady shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. Get yourself another dancer. Oh, run on. If we want you, we’ll know where to get you.”

  “Yes.” Nickey nodded wearily as he moved toward the door. “You’ll know where to find me.”

  Then one of the guys that had been prowling around the apartment with an assortment of fingerprint powder and a flash camera turned loose a sudden yelp. He laid aside his paraphernalia and raised one of the windows. The same old northwest wind that had been howling for the past three days whooped into the apartment.

  “Over this way!” the fingerprint guy said quickly. “Some guy climbed this fire escape last night! Went down again, too. There’s two sets of footprints in the snow, and one overlaps the other.”

  We took turns looking out the window at the two sets of footprints in the snow; then Grady rubbed his nose and moved toward the door.

  “Get pictures and moulages,” he grunted. “Those on the fire escape won’t be much good. Try in the court.”

  We went down the flight of creaking steps that led to the main floor.

  “Wonder why a dame like Lola Mendoza lived in a dump like this?” Grady muttered, as we reached the street. Then: “Suppose we might’s well have a look in the court and alley. Then we’ll call on Gregory Dumont.”

  “What for?” I asked. “This Eddie Carlisle is the boy you want. He wired her he was coming, and he came. He slipped up the fire escape and batted her on the head while she was sitting in front of her dressing table.”

  Grady’s bushy eyebrows drew down in a disapproving frown as he grunted: “You newspaper guys! If it wasn’t that you could drive a car and keep your mouth shut most of the time—”

  We got around in the court under Lola Mendoza’s window and Grady studied the footprints in the snow. They were clear and sharp. The guy that made ’em had a hole the size of a half dollar in the sole of his right shoe.

  “Check,” Grady said. “He went up, and he came down. Shoes, nine and a half or ten. Heels run over; hole in sole. He wasn’t a very prosperous character. Let’s go and see Gregory.”

  Gregory Dumont is a sort of neuter gender that tries to fool’the public into believing that he’s a hairy chest by using a lot of naughty words. Trouble is, he hasn’t got the vocal equipment to make them sound convincing, and his fluttering little mannerisms convey the impression that he was the kind of boy who squatted to play marbles.

  Grady didn’t tell him what had happened; didn’t even mention that he belonged on the police department. He started talking show business and let Gregory bring Lola Mendoza into the conversation.

  “She’s positively sensational!” said Dumont. “With her flashing dark eyes, her blue-black hair, and her grace. She’s so damned seductive, so filled with ungodly allure. There’s-something provocative in her every movement.”

  “I’ve seen her,” Grady said coldly.

  “A fellow was telling me about something new you’ve cooked up. Something about the Black Narcissus.”

  “Ah, the Black Narcissus! There, gentlemen, is a creation of which I am genuinely proud! It is a work of art—a masterpiece which will make Lola Mendoza the most famous woman in show business! You have seen Lola Mendoza, you say?”

  “Recently,” Grady grunted.

  I didn’t need to shut my eyes to see that crumpled figure on the floor in front of her dressing table. Gregory Dumond lighted a cigarette with a quick, feminine gesture. It was a perfumed cigarette.

  “Then picture this,” he said. “And remember the whole thing is my creation; the setting, the lighting effects, the costume, the music. I created the whole thing for Lola Mendoza; she is the only woman in the world who can carry it through the way I vision it.”

  He jerked his head in a way that looked like a quick little bow and strutted across the room to the keyboard of a grand piano. His delicate fingers wandered over the keys.

  “Like this,” he breathed. “Picture it. The stage hangings are back-lighted a deep ultramarine which gradually grows lighter, tinted with-rose and finally merges into the azure of a. summer day. All back-lighting, you understand. And the music—”

  His fingers fluttered through a light, rollicking bit of music that seemed to hint of a spring morning. He looked up at Grady, with a kind of pathetic eagerness.

  “The hangings turn to deep blue again,” he said, “and dimmed floods illuminate the stage with a beautiful, eerie light. No less than a dozen baby spotlights glow upon a cluster of greenery in the middle of the stage. In the center of this foliage is a large black bud, opening slowly as the music quickens and takes on an undertone of rhythm—an undulating, sinuous rhythm. Like the throb of deepvoiced tom-toms.”

  Cellophane crackled loudly as Grady unwrapped a cigar. Gregory Dumont frowned slightly at the sound, then spoke rapidly:

  “The petals of the Black Narcissus open slowly, gracefully. As the diaphanous black veils unfold, we glimpse the stamen of this exotic blossom. Lola Mendoza! The soft whiteness of her lissome body stands out in startling contrast against the velvety blackness of the petals! Can you picture it? And the music—”

  “Another nude dancer,” Grady grunted.

  Gregory Dumont shook his head violently. “Not another nude dancer. Lola Mendoza! There never was anyone like her; there never will be! Picture the blue-black of her hair, the flash of her dark eyes
, the vivid red of her poppy lips—”

  “Afraid I can’t.” Grady’s teeth were clamped tight around his cigar. Then, with Gregory Dumont sitting on the piano bench, staring at him in open-mouthed amazement, he let him have it.

  “Lola Mendoza is dead. Murdered. Around one o’clock this morning, somebody smacked her over the head with a bottle. Not just once. Several times. And a fellow told me you left the Casino Habana with her about twelve thirty—”

  I felt sorry for the little sissy. “Lola . . . Lola’s dead? No, I don’t believe it! Who could have wanted to kill her?”

  Grady never felt sorry for anybody. “That’s what I want to know,” he said. “Far as anybody’s been able to find out, you’re the last one to see her. For all I know, maybe you wanted to kill her.”

  “Me?” Dumont’s weak chin quivered for a moment. “Why would I want to kill her? She was going to pay me a royalty for every performance of the Black Narcissus. I can show you the contract she signed.”

  “I’ll look it over,” Grady promised. “First, tell me about last night. Where did you go when you left the Casino Habana?”

  “Why—nowhere. Lola had a headache. I took her home in a taxi and bade her good night in the downstairs hall. She went upstairs and I came here.”

  “In the taxi?”

  “No. I’d dismissed the taxi. I walked. Working out a few final details of the Black Narcissus. Lola was going to put on a dress rehearsal this morning. And now—”

  “But, you can’t prove you came directly home?”

  Dumont looked at Grady and licked his pale lips. “Why—No, I’m afraid I can’t. But—”

  “Did Miss Mendoza say anything about expecting company?”

  “No. Say, there is something you might like to know. When we got to her place, there was a telegram waiting for her. Stuck in the mailbox. She said she’d been expecting it and had asked the caretaker to sign for it.”

  “What did the telegram say?” Dumont shrugged his thin shoulders. “She didn’t open it while I was with her. Just snatched it up as she was telling me good night. I supposed it was from one of her numerous admirers. Say! I’m a dumb bunny for not thinking of this before! Lola lives in an old-time apartment, pretty much of a dump. There’s a fire escape leads up to one of her windows and—”

  “We’ve seen the fire escape,” Grady said. “What about it?”

  “Just this. Lola was afraid of prowlers. One night last week she thought she saw a man peeking in her window.”

  Grady said maybe a prowler cracked her on the head with the bottle. “But we’ll need a deposition from you. Can you spare the time for a trip down to headquarters?”

  A couple of guys were waiting in Grady’s office. One of them was Detective Hadjek; the other was one of the characters which is usually known as “an unidentified transient.” Hadjek grinned at Grady and jerked his thumb at the other guy.

  “Look what I nabbed at Little Sam Goldberg’s pawnshop,” he said. “And look what he was trying to hock.” He tossed a lady’s diamond ring on Grady’s desk. “And look what he was carrying around in his pocket.” And he laid a metal jewel case beside the ring.

  Grady raised the lid and whistled.

  “And,” said Hadjek, fawning over his words like they had a sweet taste, “have a look at this.”

  He grabbed the cuff on the right leg of the guy’s pants and hoisted his foot off the floor. The shoes were size nine and a half or ten. The heels were run over, and there was a hole the size of a half dollar in the sole.

  “And,” continued Hadjek with an oily smirk, “listen to the yarn he tells. Says he’s been sleeping on top of the coal bunkers in the boiler room back of the apartment house where Miss Mendoza lives. It’s nice and warm in there. And last night, the fireman caught him and put the run on him. He was going through the court toward the street when the woman hailed him and invited him up to the room.”

  “Boloney!” Grady said, and dropped into his creaking chair.

  “That’s the way he tells it. Says she—”

  The bum raised a pair of stricken eyes to Grady’s face. “Honest, boss!” he said in a thin, cracked voice. “Listen. Maybe you’ll believe me if I tell it myself. These other dicks just give me the laugh and—”

  “Go ahead,” said Grady. “What happened?”

  “Well, I’m going through the court, see? Shivering in the wind and wondering where I’m gonna sleep, now that the old duck run me out of the boiler room. Then this dame hails me. She says, ‘ps-s-s-t’ a couple of times, and then she ‘yoo-hoos’ quietlike. Confidential, see? She don’t want nobody to know what’s going on. I don’t place her at first because everything’s dark; but pretty soon I make her leaning out the window where the fire escape is. She tells me to come up—”

  “Get it?” Hadjek grinned. “She was an awful naughty girl, inviting guys up to her room.”

  Grady was looking intently at the bum. He said softly:

  “Shut up, Hadjek. Go ahead, fellow. She told you to come up.”

  “Yeah. Well, I goes up the fire escape and through the open window into a dark room. But there’s a light shining through the doorway to the next room—the bedroom, I guess. Anyhow, the dame calls out and says she ain’t dressed and can’t come out, but there’s a metal box on a table to the left of the window. She says for me to take it to the Hotel Corrigan and—”

  “Here comes the part I like,” put in Hadjek. “This Lola Mendoza calls in a bum—a alley rat—a guy she never saw before. And she hands over a couple grand in jewels. Imagine!”

  The bum spread his grimy hands and looked hopelessly at Grady, “Honest, mister! I know it sounds screwy, but—”

  Grady was leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, frowning hard at the bum. “Why didn’t you take the box to the Corrigan?”

  “I did, honest, mister! But they never heard of the guy I’m supposed to deliver it to. The dame said Eddie Carlisle would slip me some dough for delivering it.

  For a long time, the only sound in the room was the noise Grady made peeling the Cellophane from his cigar. Then Hadjek cut loose with that nasty laugh of his.

  “Guess that puts it in the bag, eh, chief? Lola Mendoza’s sitting in front of her dressing table, putting her jewelry away when this egg climbs the fire escape, crawls through the window, and sneaks up behind her. He bops her and grabs the box. Then, when we nabbed him in the hockshop, he made up the screwy yarn.”

  Grady gave Hadjek a frosty glance. “Maybe you noticed the name of the guy he was supposed to deliver the box to. He didn’t make that up. This Eddie Carlisle—” Hadjek was ready. “He got it off the telegram! Don’t-you see? He read the telegram and—”

  “And folded it neatly and put it back in the envelope? Him?” Grady snorted disgustedly.

  “Well, he must’ve done it. How else can you figure it?”

  “ ‘Nother thing. She was smacked with a bottle. Now, a neat little lady like Lola Mendoza don’t have bottles cluttering up her apartment unless she’s having a drink with someone.”

  “That’s an easy one. He brought the bottle with him, picked it up in the alley. He knew he needed a weapon—”

  Grady lowered his right eyebrow and leered at Hadjek. “How many bottles half full of Scotch have you picked up in a lifetime of alley snooping?”

  “Well—Aw, the hell with that, chief! We got a perfect case against this egg. The jury’ll convict him without even leaving the courtroom. Just let me work on him a little while; he’ll give us a full and complete confession.”

  Grady frowned at the bum thoughtfully for a moment; then he shook his head.

  “He’d just lie to you. And he couldn’t tell a good lie to save his neck. He’s dumb. If he wasn’t dumb, he wouldn’t have tried to hock that ring. Just dum—”

  The bum looked at Grady with eyes like a sick kitten. “Dumb? Sure I’m dumb! But I ain’t that dumb, mister. I knew the dame was dead. I went back that way this morning, figuring to return the box. The dump
was full of cops; I seen ’em looking at my tracks in the snow. Yeah, I know she was dead. And I knew there was a murder rap hanging over me.”

  “But you tried to pawn one of the dead woman’s rings.”

  “Yeah. I—Well, cripes, mister! Ain’t you ever been hungry?”

  Grady grunted and slumped down in his chair. Finally, after he’d looked at the bum a good long time, he shoved his hand into his pocket and dragged out a tattered old bill-bold.

  “Hadjek,” he said softly, “take this guy across the street and buy him as much breakfast as he can put away. Then get him a pack of cigarettes or a fistful of cigars, whichever he prefers, and bring him back here. And, Hadjek—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Watch your manners. This gentleman is my guest.”

  After the apoplectic Hadjek had led the shambling bum outside, I turned admiringly to Grady.

  “The good old psychology,” I said. “You figure a big meal and a smoke will put him in a mellow, confiding mood and—”

  Grady groaned, “You newspaper guys!” and shook his head dolorously. “Always suspicious. Always questioning a guy’s motives.”

  Then the telephone rang. Grady listened a moment, then replaced the receiver, tilted his chair back, and clasped his hands behind his head.

  “That was Cullen,” he said. “From Lola Mendoza’s apartment. They just nabbed a guy wandering around the place. Said he was her husband. They’re bringing him in.”

  “Nice,” I said. “But unnecessary. It’s an anticlimax. As Hadjek so aptly put it, the case is in the bag, and I’m going back to the office to dash off a couple of paragraphs about the lovely and glamorous Lola Mendoza being slain by a moronic prowler. I had hopes of making a feature of it, but—”

  “Maybe I forgot to mention it,” Grady drawled. “This guy says his name is Eddie Carlisle. Well, so long. I’ll be seeing you.”

  I went over to a corner and sat down. Grady didn’t seem to notice whether I went or stayed. He was busy with a heap of typewritten reports and didn’t look up until the door opened and an irritated voice blustered:

  “Mr. Grady! I would like to know how much longer you intend to keep me waiting in your damned drafty hall! I have an appointment at—”