Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “I’ve got to search you, Mat,” Barney said. “Search me? What for?” Hopson laughed. “You told me the other day you wouldn’t be smoking any more cigars. I thought I’d help myself. I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have.”

  Barney hauled the unresisting Hopson away from the table, slapped the lawyer’s pockets, searching for a gun. Until tonight, after he had returned from the Pomeroy house, Barney had kept the gun Wulfing had given him in that cigar humidor. He didn’t know but what he had returned it to the humidor instead of the drawer in his bedroom. That Mat Hopson had slipped the gun from the humidor was a dumb idea, but then a lot of dumb ideas are born of desperation.

  Mat said, “What’s the matter with you, Barney?”

  “The murder weapon. It’s gone! Somebody stole the gun!”

  “You mean the gun that killed Pomeroy?” Macallum asked.

  “Of course. I put it in a drawer in my bedroom, I’m certain. It’s not there now.”

  “So that’s your proof?” Macallum asked. “You could have saved me the trip out here! We found the murder gun in Miss Wulfing’s studio!”

  Barney stumbled over to a chair and sat down. He shook his head in an effort to clear it. Everything was muddling up. He asked, “What kind of gun? A Swiss revolver?”

  “A Chylewski .32,” Macallum nodded. “And we’re positive of the identification, since the slugs in Pomeroy checked with the barrel. I figured Miss Wulfing took the gun from her father’s collection.” Macallum turned his flat, strange eyes on Dr. Wulfing. “You had a Chylewski in your house, didn’t you?”

  “He had one,” Barney said. “But he gave it to me Friday. Didn’t you, Fritz?”

  Dr. Wulfing twisted his mouth, and the long, dark wrinkles in his sunken cheeks twisted too.

  “Yes,” he said. “The Chylewski. I gave it to Barney.” He ran his finger around inside his collar as though it was choking him. “That was Friday I gave you the Chylewski, Barney.”

  Macallum turned as though his neck was stiff and looked at Barney. The small muscles of Barney’s brows ached from scowling, he was trying so hard to think this thing through.

  “When did you pick up Betty at the studio, Mac?”

  “Little after midnight.”

  “And it was about ten-thirty when I came home here and got knocked out.” Barney’s eyes met Macallum’s. “Was Betty in her studio say between eleven o’clock and the time you picked her up?”

  “Not according to her. She claimed she’d been out walking for several hours. But just where she walked she didn’t know.”

  Barney thought that she wouldn’t know. After finding Pomeroy’s body she’d walk and walk, trying to pick up the pieces of her world and stick them back together.

  “She was framed, Mac. You can see that, can’t you?” Macallum said, “I think you and Doc are trying to put something over.”

  Barney stood up, went over to the table, took a drink of whisky. He licked his lips, put down the empty glass.

  “You gentlemen help yourselves,” he said, indicating the decanter. “I’ve got to step out for a moment.”

  Mat Hopson said, “I could use a drink. How about you, Doctor?”

  Dr. Wulfing didn’t say anything. His eyes followed Barney across the room and out the door.

  Barney went down the stairway, out the side door of the apartment building, down a walk that led to the garages at the rear. He was thinking of a half-finished portrait he had seen in Betty Wulfing’s studio when he had visited her a few days before that hophead killer had sent a slug into his chest. It was a portrait of Mat Hopson. Betty had told Barney that Mat was having the portrait made as a surprise for Marsha.

  Barney went to his garage, slid back the door, got into his coupe. He hadn’t touched the car in weeks and had a little trouble starting it. He had discarded the danger of driving in his present physical condition because of the graver danger to Betty Wulfing. He was desperately determined that he was going to live to see this thing through. He just couldn’t die until his job was done.

  He backed the car out into the alley and headed for the street. Except for sharp stabs of pain in his chest brought on by the exertion required to steer the car, he felt fine.

  His mind went back to that portrait of Mat Hopson. Mat had made a mistake, not telling Marsha why he was visiting Betty’s studio. Marsha was an extremely jealous woman. If she had seen Mat going to Betty’s studio, she would have come to some definite and wholly inaccurate conclusions. Who but a jealous woman would have framed Betty Wulfing for this crime? And it was a woman who had knocked Barney out in Barney’s flat.

  He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before. It just hadn’t seemed important because when he had come to Fritz Wulfing had told him the police had arrested Betty. That news had knocked everything else out of his head.

  Now that his mind was definitely fixed on Marsha, he recognized that cloying perfume he had smelled in his apartment as hers. He recalled the sharp tap and the thump he had heard Just before the knockout. That had been Marsha taking a step toward him with one high-heeled pump on and the other in her hand, raised for a blow to Barney’s head.

  Barney got his car onto Thurman Boulevard and kicked down on the throttle. He drove madly, translating the exultation within him into speed. Betty was going to be all right. He had a witness now to prove he had killed Harry Pomeroy. How would Marsha have known where to find the murder weapon if she hadn’t witnessed the killing, or at least seen him dash from the Pomeroy house after the killing? Marsha had been just across the street at the time, waiting for Mat.

  He braked his car in front of the modernistic concrete bungalow that belonged to the Hopsons. A dim light burned in the living-room in anticipation of Mat’s return. Barney went to the front door and thumbed the bell push. It was a little while before Marsha opened the door. She was wearing a quilted satin robe over her nightgown. Face cream had restored pallor and shine to her face. There were sleepless blue circles under her eyes, and just now she looked all of forty years.

  “Barney!” she gasped.

  He took off his hat. “Mind if I come in a moment?”

  “But it’s nearly four in the morning! Where’s Mat?”

  “At my flat,” he said, and pushed his way into the living-room. She stepped back, left the door open. Barney closed the door, then walked over to a squarish red-leather chair and sat down. Marsha stood there, holding the front of her pink robe up tightly about her throat. She was shivering.

  “Sit down,” Barney said. “I’ve got to talk to you.

  She went over to the davenport, sat down, brought her slippered feet up under her.

  He said, “Betty Wulfing has been arrested for the Pomeroy murder, but I guess you know that. She didn’t kill Pomeroy. I killed him, and I guess you know that as well.” He creased and recreased the crown of his felt hat in his big hands. “The point is, Marsha, you’ve got to tell the police that you know I killed Pomeroy.”

  “But—but Barney, I don’t know anything. Not anything at all! You killed Harry?”

  “Sure. I had a couple of good reasons to do it. One of them was that I didn’t want him marrying Betty. You, Pomeroy’s ex-wife, can appreciate that. Maybe I shouldn’t say ex-wife, Marsha, since there was something phony about that Reno divorce of yours.”

  Marsha picked at the satin of her robe, watched what her fingers were doing studiously. She didn’t say anything, but her lips trembled.

  “I’ll get back to that divorce business later,” Barney said. “That and your bigamy. Right now, let’s talk about that visit you paid to my flat about ten-thirty tonight. Tell me about that.”

  She didn’t say anything. Her face was like wax.

  “Then I’ll tell you,” he said. “You had seen me leave the Pomeroy house after the killing. I had the murder gun in my pocket when I was sitting there in Sam’s Subway talking to you. At ten-thirty when I went home to my flat, you followed me. I made the mistake of leaving my door open. If I hadn’t, you’d ha
ve got in anyway by simply knocking at the door and paying me a call. You were after the murder gun. My leaving the door open gave you a swell chance. You came in, turned off the light when I went into the bedroom. When I came out again, you had one shoe off. And there isn’t a better blunt instrument anywhere than a woman’s high-heeled slipper. That’s what you hit me with.

  “You swiped the murder gun out of my bedroom. You took my wallet also, to make it look like simple robbery. You took the gun to Betty’s studio, and again you played in luck. Betty was out, walking herself out of a threatening spell of hysteria. You planted the murder gun there. Why? Because Mat had been visiting Betty’s studio regularly. You thought there was something between Mat and Betty, Mat being the dashing ladies’ man that he is. You knew that Betty’s being engaged to Harry Pomeroy wouldn’t make any difference to Mat. But you didn’t know that Betty wasn’t that kind of girl. Maybe you judge all women by yourself.”

  Marsha’s face flushed as though she had been slapped.

  “With Pomeroy dead, you pictured Mat and Betty hooking up, with you out in the cold. You’ve always worried about losing Mat, haven’t you?”

  Marsha stood up, She was rather tall and looked it in the long robe she wore. When she was angry, there was a certain majestic arrogance about her. She pointed to the door.

  “Get out! I’m not going to sit here and let a cheap newspaper reporter insult me!”

  “Sit or stand,” Barney said, without moving from his chair, “but you’re going to listen, because I’m back to the phony divorce decree. You were the one who went to Reno to get that divorce from Harry Pomeroy. But Dr. Wulfing checked up, desperately trying to find something that would put an obstacle between Pomeroy and Betty. There wasn’t any divorce at all. You’d bought yourself a forged decree. It can be done—has been done before.”

  Marsha put both of her palms on her hips. “Why would any woman do that?”

  “No decent woman would. But you like money, Marsha. You expected Harry Pomeroy to marry again. Then you’d blackmail him for his dough. A man of his political weight couldn’t risk bigamy charges. You didn’t know then that you were going to fall in love with Mat Hopson, and that, in spite of the fact that you yourself were committing bigamy, you were going to marry Mat.”

  “I met Mat before I ever left Harry,” she said, trying to poke holes in his argument.

  “But you didn’t intend to marry him,” Barney persisted. “You thought you were proof against Mat Hopson, but you weren’t. After you’d fallen for him, you didn’t dare tell him that you were still legally married to Harry Pomeroy. You loved Mat too much to risk losing him.”

  Barney settled back into the cushions of the chair. A grin curled the ends of his wide mouth—a sort of sly grin.

  “But don’t take it so hard, Marsha. Didn’t good old Gentleman Ghent fix things for you by knocking off Harry Pomeroy? You’re a widow now, and you and Mat can get married all over again, or just let things ride as they are. Who’s going to be the wiser? Fritz Wulfing, a doctor, can certainly keep your secret. Betty won’t care to tell. As for Macallum, he and Mat are good friends, and I imagine some sort of deal can be arranged. The only person who knows all and will tell all is that same Gentleman Ghent. Unless—”

  Barney paused, then broke into a cheerful laugh. “You get my point? You tell the cops how you saw me leave the Pomeroy house, how you stole the murder gun from me, and how you framed Betty Wulfing. Do that and we’ll manage to hush up the bigamy.”

  Marsha toyed with the idea a moment, her lips parted, her blue eyes fixed on Barney’s face. Then with a swish of satin, she turned to the table that was back against the wall, opened a drawer, took out something. She returned to Barney and handed him his wallet.

  “Well, thanks, Marsha!”

  Eyebrows arched high on her beautiful forehead, she looked down at him.

  “You’ve made yourself a bargain,” she said. “Everything you’ve said is the truth. I’ll testify against you, clear the Wulfing girl.”

  “Thanks, Marsha,” he said again. “Better get dressed.”

  “Now?”

  “Sure, now. I told Betty I’d have her out before dawn. That doesn’t leave us much time. Go get some clothes on. I’ll wait.”

  Ten minutes later, Marsha returned wearing the same outfit Barney had seen her in at Sam’s Subway. Hastily applied makeup had dropped years from the age of her face, Barney stood up and mocked her by adjusting his tie.

  She said, “You actually seem anxious to go to the electric chair, Barney.

  “My dear lady,” he said, “I won’t live that long. They won’t even get me to court.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  No Time to Die

  AS THEY left the house and walked out toward Barney’s car, a man appeared suddenly on the sidewalk and walked in their direction. As Barney opened the car door, the man thrust out his hand in a motion like a traffic cop’s signal to halt.

  “Hey,” the man said.

  Barney turned. In the dim light he could see nothing of the man’s face, but he was short and heavy.

  “Your name Ghent?” he asked, coming up to Barney. He had an unpleasant nasal voice.

  “Yes,” Barney said.

  “Well, I’ve got something for you.”

  The man drew his right hand from his pocket and Barney caught the blue-black gleam of an automatic.

  Marsha Hopson had not yet got into the car. She was at Barney Ghent’s side and a little behind him, now that the gun had appeared in the hand of the short man. She moved still farther toward the nose of the car as the man with the gun crowded Barney.

  Barney slammed the car door, fell back against it. And then he kicked a hard fast one to the short man’s middle. The man went back and down, but that stuff that padded his body wasn’t beef. It was rubber, and he bounced. He came at Barney, waving the automatic above his head. Barney guessed there wouldn’t be any shooting and stepped out to meet the short man. He tried a left hook, and the short man ducked, came on with head lowered to butt Barney in the chest.

  Barney was thrown back against the car, and maybe it was the car door handle that got him from behind just as the short man’s head got him in the front. It was a sort of pincers movement. And it was howling agony for Barney. The breath went out of him, but that was the least of it. The most of it was the pain in his chest. He doubled over, started to slide down the side of the car. The short man caught him, straightened him, raked the barrel of his gun across Barney’s face.

  Something inside Barney told him he couldn’t shove off now—not with Betty in the hooks of the law. He tried with his left again, savagely, and with double effect. The short man backed under the impact, but the rubber body of him seemed to have sponged up all the fight in Barney’s body. He slid down on the sidewalk and the back of his head banged on the running-board of the car. His hat was gone from his head, and the short man stooped, got a handful of hair, used it as a handle to thump Barney’s head against the running-board a couple of times.

  Barney rolled over on his face. He would have crawled under the car if there had been room, he was that sick with pain. He gagged and gasped in air. He lay there with his chin on the curb, the top of his head touching the running-board.

  The short man was pawing over him, rifling his pockets. But Barney didn’t have anything that he cared about hanging on to except a few hours in which to live and to save Betty Wulfing from a murder rap.

  The short man got Barney by the coat collar, lifted him back from the curb, and dropped him on the pavement. Barney lay still. Blood from the cut on his face trickled down to the corner of his mouth. He heard the whine of a car starter and the blurt of the exhaust. Then there was complete silence.

  “Marsha, give a guy a hand! Get a doctor!”

  He said that mostly with his mind. His lips scarcely moved. And then there was a long period of complete blackout, broken by a glaring flash of white light and dim white figures moving about a room. The smell of iodin
e, the saw-edged bite of it on the raw cut on his cheek cleared his vision somewhat. He knew that he was in the emergency hospital. He had probably been picked up by a cop.

  “Doc,” he grunted, as the iodine swab burned down his cheek again, “that hurts like hell!”

  The pink, young face of the doctor bending over Barney broke into a friendly smile.

  “If you play rough games, Mr. Ghent, you’re bound to get hurt.”

  Barney struggled to sit up on the cot. The doctor had long, delicate fingers, but the pressure of those fingers on Barney’s chest was enough to flatten him.

  “Be good until I get this dressing on, Mr. Ghent.”

  “Listen.” Barney gripped the doctor’s hand. “Where’s Marsha Hopson?”

  “I don’t even know the lady,” the doctor said. “Are you going to let me dress that cut or do I have to use three men and a boy to hold you down?”

  “Doc, they’ve got to find Marsha Hopson! It’s important. Get the police!”

  “All right, all right, Mr. Ghent, We’ll find your lady friend. Now stop squirming, will you?”

  “My chest,” Barney said. He reached up weakly and put a hand over his heart “Never mind my face, Doc. Inside my chest. An aneurism in the aorta, I’ve got to shove off. Die. But not now. You’ve got to keep me going. There’s a girl—”

  He broke off suddenly because there wasn’t breath or strength to go on. A nurse came over to the cot and began swabbing the inside of his arm with alcohol. She was a pretty blond girl with freckles and a tilted nose. Barney closed his eyes and saw her still. And then her features changed and her hair darkened. Her eyes became dark-brown, trusting and grave. Betty, as she had looked when he’d told her he’d have her free by dawn.

  The sting of a hypo needle in his arm brought his eyes open.

  “Now, Mr. Ghent—” the doctor cautioned. “Listen, Doc, what time is it?”

  “About five in the morning.”

  Barney groaned. He rolled his eyes at the hypodermic syringe. “Lay off that stuff, Doc! I’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want to sleep! I tell you I’ve got only a few more hours to live and I’ve got a lot to do. No time to sleep. No time to die.” The doctor gripped Barney’s arm and kept pressing on the plunger of the syringe.