Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  WITH the power and weight of a steel battering ram, Pat hit the white, panicky features. A crazy screech trembled in his ears. And he beat it to silence with his fists that pistoned back and forth. Brain-maddened with Papa Greyer’s wrinkled features dancing in the red mist before his eyes, he smashed away—smashed until strong hands tugged at his shoulders, wrenching him away from his inert victim.

  Captain Burke’s voice quieted him, drove the rage from his brain.

  “All right, Mooney! He’s cuffed. Not that he needs to be. The boy’s safe, too.”

  Pat weaved erect.

  “Okay, Skipper. You—saw Papa Greyer’s—shop?”

  Sympathetically the skipper’s hand patted the big cop’s shoulder.

  “Too bad, son. But you paid it back in part, anyway.”

  They went out into the cool evening air. A crowd had gathered, blocking the street. At sight of Mooney, a wildly affectionate roar burst from them.

  CAPTAIN BURKE slanted a keen glance at Pat.

  “I’ve been wondering. What were those explosions inside?”

  Pat explained his idea of a surprise attack. “The rest was laboratory work,” he finished modestly. “From the ice cream storage-tanks I got dry ice blocks. Those ice cream gallon tins furnished the containers. Water was handy, and that was all.” Scratching his chin, Captain Burke grinned.

  “In my day we didn’t have laboratory training. So what happened?”

  “Dry ice, sir, is compressed carbon dioxide. With water added it swiftly generates a gas. Sure, and if it’s sealed tightly, the gas’ll explode just like a bomb. I know it’s crude, but it’s effective, all right.”

  “Good work, Mooney,” Burke chuckled. “The Commissioner’ll hear of this. And, suppose we—er—continue the good work. I may have been a trifle—ahem—hasty in my decisions.”

  Pat grinned. His side was raising hell, but he could overlook that because of the fact that the skipper had seen things in a different light.

  An elderly woman pushed determinedly through the police lines. She was broad, buxom and Irish.

  “Patrick Mooney!” she snapped crisply. “Where is that recipe for mint jelly Mrs. Barry gave you? I’ve been waiting for hours. My syrup will be spoiled!”

  Pat flushed, gulped.

  “Gosh, Mrs. Ryan, I clean forgot about it. You see, I—we, that is, had some work to do—”

  Captain Burke purpled and lunged for the police car.

  “Delehanty,” he growled, “take me the hell out of here!” He rubbed his chin, awed incredulity in his eyes. “What can you do with a guy like that?”

  TWO FOR A CORPSE

  Lawrence Treat

  KINCAID. He’s dry and sallow and tireless. He has three citations for bravery and holds every medal awarded. When he grins, you want to knock his teeth in.

  The evening I got my detective’s rating, Marge and I had a little celebration. Dinner out, with drinks, and then a downtown movie. The extra pay meant we could get married.

  The next day I reported to the Seventh Precinct and Lieutenant Bolger shook hands, introduced me all around. And then he said “This is Kincaid. You two’ll work together.”

  My face must have shown how I felt. Kincaid said, “What’s the matter? Don’t you like me?”

  I muttered something or other and shook his big clammy paw. It felt like a slab of dead fish.

  Practically everybody in the precinct had tried working with him as a partner. The average was a few weeks and the record just over six months. Eventually they all blew up and said one more day with Kincaid and they’d murder him. And they meant it, too.

  He had an uncanny knack of spotting weaknesses, and once he spotted them he never let up. The result was that the whole precinct was out to get him, but they didn’t have a chance. He was honest, and.he knew the rule book backwards. He could spout every municipal ordinance verbatim.

  I’m not claiming that Bolger had anything against me personally. Rather, he was sick of having Kincaid run his men ragged and he saw a way of solving the problem.

  “Somers,” he said, “as long as you stick to Kincaid, you’ll keep your detective’s rating. But quit him, and it’s back to the ranks.”

  I was so mad I didn’t even answer. Some fools had passed a regulation that all promotions were temporary for one year. After that the appointment became permanent and you could never be reduced. Nothing could touch you except dismissal from the department.

  And I needed a detective’s pay to marry Marge. A good slice of my salary goes to my sister, you see. She’s a widow and has a kid to bring up.

  Bolger snapped out, “Somers! You heard me?”

  I stalked off without even looking at him. Discipline, hell!

  Kincaid followed me into the locker room. “Grade B, probationary,” he grinned. It was more of a leer than a grin. “You know you take orders from me, don’t you? Well, don’t forget it.”

  I got to know Kincaid a little better, the next few days. His favorite trick was heckling people for a minor violation that nobody else had bothered about. They’d get so mad they’d almost burst a blood vessel, and Kincaid would stand there, cool and leering. I think his ambition was to heckle somebody into a fit of apoplexy. He’d done it once, I’d heard, and was doing his damndest to repeat.

  At first I interfered with him, but I learned to shut up. Once you got sore, you were lost.

  I’D STOOD it for about a week. We were coming back from a routine call and we were walking along Beech.

  It’s a fairly tough tenement district and I noticed the car as we turned into the block. It was an expensive limousine, well-kept and with white-walled tires. It was parked at the opposite curb, near a street lamp, and if I’d been alone I’d have had a look. The car didn’t belong in a neighborhood like this.

  As we neared it, Kincaid snorted as if he’d made a brilliant discovery and said, “What’s that thing doing here?”

  When Kincaid suggests anything, it’s human nature to object.

  “A man hasn’t the right to park his car on the street any more,” I said irritably. “We have to investigate, huh?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said drily, and started across the street.

  I muttered under my breath and followed. The street light shone directly on the radiator and windshield, but the rear was in heavy shadow. I let Kincaid nose around. I stuck my hands in my pockets and whistled.

  He was staring through a side window when the shot sounded out. I didn’t see where it came from. I heard the report and I thought I heard the bullet whistle past. I ducked and leaped for the protection of the car. Kincaid didn’t move.

  “What’s the matter?” he sneered. “Scared?”

  “Sure. Aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  I had him then. “All right,” I said. “Let’s see you step into the light, where the car doesn’t hide you.”

  He stepped forwards and leered at me. “Well?” he asked. “Satisfied?”

  He isn’t human.

  I tried to dope the thing out. We look at a car and somebody shoots. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred would stop worrying about the car and beat it. So there was something about the car that we weren’t supposed to see.

  Kincaid must have figured the same way. He strolled back to the rear door and tried the handle again. Locked. He snapped on his flashlight and poked the beam inside. Another shot banged out. His flash didn’t even jerk, but a second later he switched it out and bent down.

  “Looks like a body in there,” he remarked.

  Calmly, as if he were doing some minor repair work in a garage, he lifted the hood and disconnected an ignition wire. Apparently the mysterious gunman was no longer watching, because Kincaid didn’t draw fire. And he was a lovely target, too.

  When he had refastened the hood, he stood up and sauntered to the curb. “Come on,” he said.

  He headed down the street, casually, as if he’d decided the hell with the car, there was nothing worth looking at, he
’d go home. If it had been up to me, I’d have dashed for the line of stoops and stalked every hallway until I had the right one. Or else I’d have gone for the nearest phone and gotten a few patrol cars and an emergency squad to turn that block inside out.

  But not Kincaid. He was going after another citation. All I hoped was that it would be posthumous.

  I tagged along with him. What else could I do? I was wondering about the guy who’d stood him for six months.

  “Nice night,” I observed.

  “Don’t be so damn talkative,” he snapped. “Or are you trying to impress me? Pulling the casual line, huh?” I felt as if he could see clear through me and read my thoughts.

  At the fourth house he stopped. “Here,” he said.

  The hallway was musty and dark as a tunnel. I went in first. I heard someone scurry upstairs but I couldn’t see a thing. I had a ticklish feeling as I stepped through the doorway and knew I was silhouetted against a light outside, but nothing happened.

  I groped for the stairs and started up. Kincaid was right behind me, with his fingers touching my back for a guide. When I reached the first landing I stopped.

  “Where do you figure he went?” I whispered.

  A flashlight snapped in our faces and blinded us. A high, shrill voice barked, “Stick ’em up!”

  I obeyed. From the corner of my eye I saw Kincaid was doing the same thing. But his tongue wagged.

  “You sure got brains,” he said sarcastically. “Had to talk. Had to give me away. If I stick with you they ought to put me in the lunatic asylum.”

  He was right, too. That whisper of mine had been the give-away.

  THE shrill voice whined, “Look like dicks to me. Frisk ’em.”

  The light held steady while footsteps clumped on the creaky wooden floor. I felt hands pat me under the arms and at the pockets. That was Kincaid’s chance. He could dive at the man who was disarming me, and in the darkness, with nothing but a flashlight for illumination, Kincaid’s chances would be about even.

  The man with the torch would fire and get me, of course, but I didn’t think that would bother Kincaid. I could feel the jerking of the pulse in my throat. I’d never been shot, and for a second or two I went giddy. Then I cleared my throat and uttered a low laugh. I was all right again.

  But Kincaid didn’t move, and for the first time I realized he was human.

  A wave of gratitude flooded me and I almost liked him. He’d held back because he knew that I’d pay with my life for whatever he succeeded in doing.

  Then the man with my gun slid over and took away Kincaid’s. I had a glimpse of a thin determined face and sparse blond hair. It looked almost white in the rays of the torch.

  The squeaky voice said, “Got their rods?”

  Whitey snapped, “Yeah. Now what?”

  “What else they got?”

  “Usual stuff. Flashlights, handcuffs, keys and a bunch of—”

  Squeak-voice interrupted. “Bracelets, huh? Lock ’em up together, and make sure you take good care of them keys.”

  For the second time Whitey’s hands went through my pockets. Then he grabbed my left hand and Kincaid’s right and snapped on the steel handcuffs.

  The light moved slightly and Squeak-voice said, “Take the other set and fasten ’em to the bannister.” His quick burst of laughter sounded like the whinny of a horse. “That’ll hold ’em.”

  Whitey locked Kincaid’s left hand to the upright. I thought we’d look plenty silly when the emergency squad sawed us or chopped us loose, but I didn’t mind. The laugh would be on Kincaid as much as on me. For once in his life, he was right square behind the eight ball.

  Whitey circled us carefully and Squeak-voice started down the stairs. “Don’t get lonesome, boys,” he twanged. “But then, you got each other for company.” Their feet stamped downward. The light switched off and they went out.

  “Funny tiling,” I said, “but when that guy was taking my gun, I could almost feel you get set to grab him, and then change your mind.” I coughed awkwardly. “Thanks,” I added.

  “Thanks for what?”

  “For not doing it. Chances are you could have gotten away with it, but I’d Lave got bumped.”

  “Don’t be a damn fool!” he said drily. “The only reason I didn’t do it was that the gun was aimed at me.”

  That got me for a second. Then I laughed. Kincaid the hard-boiled . . . wouldn’t even admit he’d done anything decent. But I had him, and I pushed him to the wall.

  “How the hell could you see, with that light in your eyes?”

  “Simple,” he said. “Lower your lids till you just see a crack. Then you can look anywheres except at the light itself.” He grunted. “Geez! Are you so dumb you didn’t even know that?”

  I had to clench my teeth to keep from hitting him. I thought the desire would pass off in a few seconds, but it didn’t. I had to sock him. Then I remembered he was helpless and couldn’t hit back, and that held me for a few seconds. Then I decided to sock him anyhow.

  I clenched my fist, and there in the darkness I grinned. This was going to be good.

  At that moment Kincaid gave a sudden wrench. I heard wood creak and splinter, but the bannister didn’t quite break. He set his feet and gave another tug. Wood ripped and he banged into me and thumped me against the opposite wall. We were free. Except we were still handcuffed together.

  “COME on,” he said. He almost pulled my arm out of its socket as he started briskly for the stairs.

  At the doorway we poked out our heads. The front door of the limousine was open and Whitey was standing on the runningboard. Apparently Squeak-voice was trying to start the car and couldn’t.

  Whitey’s head turned. When he sighted us, he reached for a gun. We jumped back into the doorway. It was the first time we’d done anything in unison.

  Kincaid said, “Got your whistle?”

  I felt in my pockets. “No. They must have taken it.”

  “Mine too.”

  Kincaid twirled the handcuff dangling from his free hand. He had a vicious weapon if he could ever get close enough to use it. It was hard steel, sharp-edged, and he could swing it with terrific force. It lengthened his reach a couple of inches, too.

  It occurred to me that I was the only one that he was close enough to use it on.

  He moved toward the door and shattered a pane of glass with the handcuff. Then he let out a couple of terrific bellows.

  “Noise’ll scare ’em off,” he said. “Might bring a patrolman, too. There wouldn’t be any telephones in houses like this.”

  When we glanced at the street again, the two gunmen were at the far corner, and running. Kincaid stared at them regretfully, as if the loss of the chance to kill a man left a permanent scar on his soul. Then he started for the car.

  The jerk on the handcuff bit into my wrist. “Trying to peal off all the skin?” I asked sharply. “When you want to go somewhere, say so. It’s just as easy.”

  “If I can stand it, you can,” he said laconically.

  When he reached the car, he swung the handcuff at the glass door until he’d punched a hole. Then he reached inside, opened the door and turned on the roof light.

  The body was covered with a blanket. He pushed it back. A little guy with a long, thin nose lay huddled up like a kid that had fallen asleep and then gotten cold. I knelt on the running-board to ease the pull on my wrist. There wasn’t room for the two of us inside.

  Kincaid hooked back the handcuff while he searched the pockets. They were empty. He stared for a long while at the dead face. “Know who that is?” he asked finally.

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he remarked contemptuously. “It’s Johnny Otis. Inherited his old man’s sand and gravel business this spring. The old man was pretty close to Charlie Hammond, the political boss.”

  I knew that part of it. Hammond and the older Otis were supposed to have cleaned up a fortune on city building contracts. Otis had supplied most of the material. Hammon
d just about owned the fourth ward, which made him a key figure in city politics.

  “I heard a story about young Otis,” went on Kincaid, knitting his brows. “Hammond’s a heavy gambler, and the story is that Otis bragged he was going to try to take Hammond for all he had. If Otis won, Hammond would pay up all right; but if Otis lost, he wouldn’t pay Hammond a cent. Could get out of it by threatening to expose the sand and gravel frauds. Young Otis had all the. evidence in his father’s books, and he was clean himself.”

  Kincaid stared at the pale face. The kid must have been a little over twenty-one, but he looked a lot younger.

  “Hammond,” observed Kincaid, “wouldn’t stand for a trick like that. He’s nobody’s fool.”

  Kincaid jerked at my wrist. I gritted my teeth and planted my feet on the sidewalk. “What the hell is this?” I demanded.

  “We’re going over to Otis’s place.”

  “What for?”

  “You wouldn’t have the brains to understand even if I told you.”

  I LIFTED my wrist. “We’re going to get these things off first. Then we’re going to get guns. And then, if you want, I’ll clean up every lousy crook in town. But not before.”

  “You’re taking orders,” declared Kincaid.

  “Not from you.”

  Kincaid twirled the handcuff that dangled from his free wrist. “You’ll do what I tell you or I’ll make mincemeat out of your face. With this.”

  He could and he would. And he was aching for the chance.

  “Somebody’ll call a cop and they’ll take charge of this thing,” he added. “And I’m in a hurry. Coming?”

  I hesitated. If I could get my hand on that steel weapon, we’d be even. Kincaid was a little bigger than I am but I was younger. And I hated his guts. Then I thought of Marge and what a detective’s pay meant.

  “Okay,” I said.

  He jerked on my wrist again and started dogtrotting towards the avenue. I kept up with him. We hailed a cab and Kincaid gave the address of the Otis gravel works. As he climbed in, he yanked at the handcuffs again, just to annoy me. My skin was rubbed raw and I glanced at my wrist. It was scraped red and there was blood on it, but is wasn’t my blood. It was Kincaid’s. If the jerks annoyed me, they must have been minor torture to him. What kind of guy was he, anyhow?