Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  RACKMAN’S voice was thin, waspy.

  “No loss,” he said, curtly. “White was no loss. Handled my accounts like a fool. Cost me money.” He shook his head at the rest of us, as if White’s mishandling his accounts solved everything.

  “The little men who weren’t there,” Grady said, glumly. “And I’m right back where I started from. Rackman and his secretary spend all morning calling White, with no answer. Harwarth didn’t see him, but saw the kid coming out of his office. Mrs. Bedding didn’t see him at all. It listens crazy.”

  “You could be wrong,” Harwarth told him. “The stock order may have had nothing to do with this. Anyone could have murdered White.”

  “Sure,” Grady said, bitterly. “Sure.

  Over seven million people in New York, and you give me the field, wide open. I’ll play it my way, mister. I never yet found a lot of dough and a murder without there was a tie-up.” He turned to me, frowning slightly. “Okay, kid,” he said. “You can scram. But stick around. This thing isn’t over yet—and we’ll be wanting you.”

  I said, “Yes sir,” and got out fast, tossing a weak smile to Lady Liberty.

  I was still weak, and a little dizzy. If I hadn’t been so close to punch-drunk, I’d’ve thought of the out myself, without Mrs. Bedding’s help. As it was, I wasn’t feeling any too easy, even now. The way I looked at it, Grady was right. The murder and the stock order went together. And me and the stock order went together. Which meant—yeah.

  The only thing that saved me was Mabel Bedding’s point—the fact that I didn’t have the dough. That was all that was standing between me and the hottest spot any body’s ever been in—the lack of nine thousand bucks.

  And the hell of it was, I had nine thousand bucks—and didn’t even know it.

  Frankie Stayle told me about it. Stayle was head cashier, and he came in the washroom just as I was leaving. I’d ducked my head under the water until I’d managed to forget Grady’s eyes and the way he said “Murder,” and I was feeling pretty good when I met Frankie. That’s when I met him.

  “Get-rich-quick-Ramsey, eh?” he ribbed, grinning. “What’d you do, kid, rob a bank?”

  I was ready for him. I figured on a heavy razz around the office on account of being grilled by the cops, and this was just a start. “They wanted my advice,” I told him, grinning. “It was nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Nothing!” Stayle’s voice was edged, sharp. “Listen, kid, I knew you when.

  Don’t tell me nine thousand lucks is nothing.”

  I didn’t get it at first. I just stood there, staring at him, wondering what the hell he was talking about. I knew there was some nine-thousand dollar figure mixed up in this some place, but it didn’t register.

  I said: “Nine thousand whats?”

  Stayle said: “Come off, boy. Come off. I mean the nine grand you sent around to the cashier’s window. The envelope the telegraph boy brought in at two, with cash money and a note to credit your account. And don’t tell me it’s nothing, kiddo.”

  I wasn’t telling him it was nothing. I wasn’t telling him anything. I was just standing there, staring at him, wondering if the guy was nuts. I never saw nine grand cash in my life, and Stayle knew it, and I knew it, and the police knew it.

  Only the police didn’t know it. That was it. The police didn’t know it, and Stayle didn’t know it. I was the only one who knew it. Me and one other guy. The guy who sent it in.

  Stayle said: “What are you buying, Cort? Treasury bonds? Or aren’t you buying?” He was half parked in front of me, waiting for an answer, so I gave him one.

  “I already bought it,” I told him. “I already bought it, and the dough just covers the deal. I bought me a murder.”

  I put my hat on very carefully and pushed Stayle aside, closing the door in his face. I stood there with my back to the door for a full minute, getting a picture of that nine thousand bucks lying in the cash box in my name and wondering what the hell to do now.

  I said, aloud: “Nobody’ll swallow that one—nobody at all. You don’t murder a guy for a twenty-grand stock loss and then pay nine grand to cover the murder. It doesn’t make sense.” And then I realized there was only one thing that would make sense, to Grady. And that this time I wouldn’t have an out.

  I’M STILL not sure how I managed to walk out of that building. I know I walked slowly, carefully, so I wouldn’t attract attention. And I know I passed three bar signs before I knew what I wanted.

  I had one drink, a straight Scotch, and then I ordered a beer and stood at the bar, trying to figure what to do.

  There was something in this, something I should be able to put my finger on, but couldn’t. There was a line in it, somehow, that didn’t fit, if I could only find it. And if I couldn’t find it, I knew Grady wouldn’t. Grady wouldn’t be looking.

  I ran it over in my mind, adding all the pieces together. One of them had given the order to White, and tried to cover it after the crash by killing him. Sending the nine grand to Stayle for my credit had been a nice touch—but an expensive one.

  There was a chance, a fair one, that the murder wasn’t hooked in with the stock order, that the whole thing was being used for a cover. There was a. chance, for instance, that my pal Lady Liberty had knifed White for reasons of her own. I didn’t like to think of that chance. If that’s how it was, I was through.

  I almost laughed at that, at the idea of me worrying about being through. Once Grady got his hands on me, I’d be finished, anyhow. And it was going to be awfully easy for Grady to get his hands on me.

  I remember thinking how sure he’d been earlier about me being guilty, and then I realized that the killer had been pretty damned sure I’d been hooked, too. Nobody tosses nine grand away on a slim gamble.

  I was thinking of that, realizing how carefully this whole thing had been planned, how sure the killer had been that I’d be ripe for a fall guy, when the picture started unfolding for me.

  Like that, it started unfolding. I got a quick flash of the note Grady had showed me, with the 1 where there should’ve been a 2, and then I remembered the other prices on that strip of paper. That was the first fold. And the killer had been damned sure I’d get hooked. That was the second fold. Before I was finished, I knew who the killer was. I was sure of it, one hundred per cent. If I’d used my head, I’d’ve seen it earlier.

  The only thing was, I couldn’t prove it. There was one thing you had to know, before you could follow it through. You had to know Cort Ramsey was innocent.

  There were only two people who knew that—and Grady wasn’t one of them. As long as Grady had me tabbed, the whole police force, the newspapers, and any jury they picked would have me tabbed. That was the hell of it—as long as I kept the murder brand, there was no reason to look for someone else.

  They’d be looking for me, though. I realized that almost as soon as I realized I couldn’t see Grady. They’d be laying for me at home, watching the ferries, the railroad stations. They’d maybe even keep an eye on the subway exits, watching for Cort Ramsey, murderer.

  That’s when I got my idea. Maybe I didn’t expect it to work; it was one hell of a long shot. But even if it fizzled on me, it was better than the other answer. Anything is better than the chair.

  I found a thrift shop on Sixth Avenue and bought a cheap imitation leather bag for a buck and a half, and a dark gray hat for another buck. I tossed my snappy green fedora in an ashcan on Forty-Sixth Street and kept going east until I hit a radio store. A small, compact little recording phonograph cost me $18.50, and left me with less than eight bucks.

  I packed the gadget in my suitcase and took three taxis, doubling back across town, until I landed two blocks below the Pastor Hotel, on 45th. I registered as George Tackman, of Philadelphia, making sure I didn’t fall for that stunt of using the same initials as mine, the way so many guys get caught. I got a single, no bath, on the eleventh floor. The way I figured it, I was safe enough.

  They’d be watching my apartm
ent, and maybe watching the exits from the city. They wouldn’t start checking up on the hotels until morning. And by morning, I didn’t give a damn whether they found me or not. By morning I was going to have this thing broken, or I was going to be jammed up so badly it would take more than cops to get me out.

  That’s how I figured it, anyhow.

  I stayed in my room until close to ten, just sitting there, trying to keep my mind blank. Every once in a while I’d get a mental flash of blue-coated figures closing in on the hotel; not shouting or anything, just coming through the side-streets and lining up around the Pastor.

  “A cordon,” I remembered. “That’s what they say. The police threw a cordon around the Hotel Pastor, trapping . . .” I shook my head and pushed myself off the bed. It was time to move.

  This was the weak point in my whole plan, the part that might jam up on me, even if my figuring had been okay. If I could’ve ducked it, I would have—but that’s if. You don’t collect on the ifs.

  THE funny thing was, it went without a hitch. The boys in the margin department were still working, so Harwarth & Co. was open. But there was no one in the order room—and there were no cops around.

  I found a triplicate order blank in my desk, and some old copies of White’s orders. I got the figures and the letters I wanted, and traced his handwriting, pressing down on the triplicate blank underneath. When I was finished, the top part was blank, of course, but I had two carbon copies of an order in White’s handwriting. Buy 2,000 SAC @ Mkt. A/C Rackman.

  I slipped the works under the time stamp and pressed down, the clock face coming right across the “2,000.” I got an envelope out of my desk and addressed it to Mr. Rackman, at his home. I wrote across the back of the order: I can send the original of this either to you or the D.A. Make up your mind, and make it up fast. I’ll be at the Pastor Hotel, Room 1181.

  I didn’t sign it, or anything. I didn’t have to sign it. He’d know who it was from, all right. I just sealed it in the envelope and dropped it downstairs at Western Union, paying for delivery.

  After that I went back to my room at the hotel and sat down on the edge of the bed, waiting.

  Blackmail, sure. And there’s a long jail term for blackmail. Almost the works. They save the real works for something else. They save the real thing for murder.

  I tried the phonograph recorder to make sure it was hooked up all right, and then turned it off. I slipped the blank record on and pushed the contraption under the bed. After that, there wasn’t anything for me to do but sit down and wait. And it was one helluva wait.

  I kept wondering if anybody would come. If nobody came, or if the cops showed first, I was licked. If this didn’t work, I’d signed my own death certificate with that note.

  I said, aloud, “They have to come,” and then there was a soft knock at the door.

  I leaned down under the bed and snapped the recorder on and then moved across the room, to the right of the door. I got my left hand on the knob, jerked the door wide, and reached out with my right to grab the guy and pull him inside.

  He came easy, too easy. He almost flew into the room and I just managed to get my left arm around him, to hold him back and run my hands over him for a gun.

  It was Frank Rackman, himself. And it was all wrong.

  “What the devil . . .” he said. “What the devil. What’s the meaning of this?”

  I kept my voice low, quiet. “You’ll find out what it means. I’m trying to clear myself of murder.”

  The old man had nerve, I’ll say that for him. His voice cut like a whip. “You’ll pay for this, boy,” he told me. “I’m here with a warning. You can’t involve me in this filthy case. And I refuse to be blackmailed.”

  I said, “Mr. Rackman, I can prove . . .” and the voice from the doorway said:

  “You can prove what, sonny?”

  He was here. Dietrich came in slowly, his left hand in his pocket, his right hand holding the door knob. He’d come, all right, just the way I’d figured he’d come. But he was late. And that jammed the works.

  He spoke to Rackman quietly, and Rackman nodded his head a few times, and then turned and left the room, not speaking to me. At the door, he stopped a minute.

  “No money,” he warned Dietrich. “I refuse to be blackmailed. Remember that.” He closed the door quietly behind him.

  Dietrich locked it behind him. He locked it very carefully, pulling a chair out from the wall and bracing it under the knob. He did it all very deliberately, like a guy who was planning something.

  Like a guy, maybe, who was planning murder.

  MY HANDS were damp with sweat and the muscles of my back were tight, drawing me up. Just watching Dietrich, watching the way he moved, the way he kept his hand in his pocket, kept shuttling his eyes around the room, I knew what he was figuring on. And I knew it was too late to back out, now.

  He turned suddenly, weighing me in with his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was flat. “Where’d you get it, kid?” I knew what he meant, all right.

  “This morning,” I told him. “You can see the time stamp on it. White sent it through this a.m., about 10:20, with Rackman’s name on it. I been saving it.”

  “So you knew, eh?” His eyes were still cold on me, studying me, wondering what I really did know. “You figured on shaking Rackman down, making a little killing for yourself, eh?”

  I grinned at him. I didn’t want him to know I was worried, that I’d guessed he had a gun. I wanted him to think I was riding high, trying to run the show. I figured I’d get more out of him that way. And my recorder was still humming quietly under the bed.

  “It looked hot,” I told him, carefully. “It looked like a sweet chance to pick up some bucks. I figured there ought to be something in it for me.”

  “From Rackman, eh?” he said, carefully. “You figured on shaking my boss down for hush money. That’s what you figured?” He knew better than that. Just from the way he said it, I could see he knew better. But he wanted me to say it. And I did.

  “No,” I said, quietly. “No, not from Rackman. From the murderer. From you.” The noise of that recorder was like a diesel engine in the silence, but Dietrich didn’t seem to notice it. He was watching me, waiting for the rest of it. I gave it to him, cold.

  “You’ve been taking free rides on Rackman’s account for months, mister. When he gave you a five hundred share order to put through, you’d put through a hundred shares for yourself. And you put the orders through in hundred-share groups, without giving White the name. You’d pick the best buy for yourself, buying an extra hundred snares for Rackman at a higher price, if the stock went up. That’s what your boss wanted to see White about—because the way you’d been feeding his orders in, he thought the customer’s man was giving him a clipping. It wasn’t White who was giving him a clipping—it was you.”

  He wasn’t saying anything. He was just standing there, watching me, letting me blow myself out. And I blew.

  “That’s why you never took a loss on a stock, Dietrich. That’s why every time I wrote your name on an order the stock had moved up after the buy. I’ve seen that worked before, mister.”

  “You’ve seen a lot, Ramsey,” he said, softly. “You’ve maybe seen too much for a kid your age.” He was sure of his gun, sure of his ability to take me when he wanted to. And he was almost ready to want to.

  “Sure,” I told him. “Sure. I’ve seen plenty. I know that note on White’s desk was written two hours after he put the order through. It had busted utility prices, Dietrich, and it was supposed to’ve been written hours before the utilities cracked. That wasn’t smart.”

  He’d made up his mind, now. Whatever else I said wasn’t going to make any difference. “No,” he said, slowly. “That wasn’t smart.”

  “You found out White was going to see your bass, and you couldn’t allow that. The way you’d put the SAC order in, he’d be sure to mention it to Rackman. The way you’d put the order in, Dietrich, he’d have to. You’d just told him to b
uy 2,000 SAC, the way you always did, without giving him the name. And he slapped it into your boss’s account. That was too bad, Dietrich.”

  “Yes,” Dietrich agreed. “That was too bad.” The gun was still in his pocket, covered, but his eyes weren’t covered. There was murder in them. Double murder. “You were awfully sure it was me, kid,” he said, quietly. “It could’ve been Rackman, maybe. Rackman’s name was on the order.”

  I GRINNED at him. Somehow I managed to grin, right back at the hate in his smoldering eyes. “It had to be you,” I told him. “Whoever framed me had to be damned sure he could get away with it. If Rackman had put in the order, or Mrs. Bedding, it would’ve been too big a chance. White might’ve sent the slip through in their name. You were the only one, mister, who could put in an order like that, and know your name wouldn’t be on it.”

  “Smart,” Dietrich said. “Very smartly figured, sonny.” He was standing in front of me, bobbing his head up and down, like a vulture, not making a move.

  “You gave me a motive, mister,” I said, slowly, “You gave me a motive, because you figured you’d be in the clear. But I’ve got a double motive for you. A double motive and the proof. I’ve got the original of the order blank—that was half the motive. And the other half was even bigger. You had a soft job to protect, Dietrich, a nice soft job. And if all your chiseling came out, you could kiss it goodbye. It’s that simple, Dietrich.”

  “Simple,” Dietrich agreed. “It was all very simple. And it worked.”

  “Almost,” I told him. “It almost worked.”

  He shook his head at me. His lips were smiling, a thin, tight little smile, but his eyes were points of ice. “No almost, sonny,” he told me, evenly. “It worked.”

  His left hand came out of his pocket, fast, and the gun in it caught me across the side of the face, splitting the skin. He stood there a half second, staring at me, and then he leaned down toward the bed, pulling my machine out by the cord and smashing the record. When he looked up, his eyes were bright.