Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “You’re all right, Mr. Ghent. Just close your eyes.” The doctor removed the needle, and Barney tried to get off the cot. He would have rolled off onto the floor if the doctor hadn’t stopped him.

  “Miss Williams,” the doctor called to the nurse, “will you please help me hold this man? He’s mildly off his trolley!”

  “The hell I am!” Barney said weakly. And he kept saying that with his lips and then only with his mind as the effects of the sedative clouded his senses and brought sleep.

  He slept for a long time, and when he awoke he found himself in a room in the City Hospital. There was a nurse at his bedside.

  “How about some supper, Mr. Ghent?” the nurse asked.

  “On the taxpayers?” He eyed the tray hungrily.

  The nurse laughed. “On the taxpayers, Mr. Ghent.” She put the food down on a table and cranked up the head end of the cot. His torso felt as stiff as he had imagined Lieutenant Macallum’s was. He complained about that.

  “The doctor strapped your chest to make you a little more comfortable, Mr. Ghent,” the nurse explained. “Now eat your supper. I’ll help you if you like.”

  Opening his mouth to eat hurt the side of his face where the cut was, but he managed and gradually the stiffness wore off.

  “I want to see the doctor who’s stationed at the Emergency Hospital,” he said.

  The nurse shook her head. “You can’t. He isn’t allowed to leave his post this time of day.”

  Barney wanted to know what the strapping around his chest was for. The nurse explained that he had some bruises—nothing serious, but uncomfortable. Then she told him that after he had finished eating Dr. Bhuel of the hospital staff was going to pay him a visit. Barney didn’t want to see Dr. Bhuel.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “I haven’t much time!”

  Dr. Bhuel, a middle-aged man with thick side whiskers and ribbon-dangled pince nez, came eventually into Barney’s room. He introduced himself, showed false teeth in a smile.

  “Mr. Ghent,” Dr. Bhuel said, “Dr. Mason at Emergency informed me that you said you were suffering from an aorta aneurism.”

  “I’m not suffering from it,” Barney said. “I’ve just got one. And unless I get out of here in a hurry you’ll be suffering a lot more than I am!”

  Dr. Bhuel chose to ignore that. “Who is your physician?”

  “Dr. Fritz Wulfing,” Barney snapped.

  Dr. Bhuel pursed his lips. “A fine man. Very fine indeed. However, the best of us make mistakes, and I am delighted to inform you that Dr. Wulfing has made a mistake in diagnosis. This may be quite a shock to you, but a pleasant one, I’m sure. The bullet which penetrated your chest did crease the aorta, shall we say. Dr. Wulfing had every reason to believe that a serious aneurism would develop. But you are a man of unusual recuperative powers, a splendid constitution, and our most careful examination fails to reveal—”

  “You mean I’m not going to die?”

  “Die?” Dr. Bhuel’s laughter was somehow like the mockery of the gods. “No, indeed, Mr. Ghent. At least not for a good many years, if you scrupulously avoid further contact with rapidly moving bullets!”

  And that was water over the dam, a picture unalterable. Death was the card cheat, Barney Ghent the sucker, while the blind dame on the other side of the table dragged in the winnings and weighed them on her scales.

  “Why,” Dr. Bhuel said, as he wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes, “you’ll be out of here in twenty-four hours, after you’ve had a good long sleep!”

  “Don’t tell any more jokes, Doc,” Barney said. “I’ll die laughing!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  One Slug Too Many

  HE AWOKE in the morning with the taste of brass in his mouth and the dream indelibly etched on his mind. Bhuel came in to see him after breakfast and after a careful examination and some admonition regarding rest and relaxation, decided that he could leave.

  Barney took a taxi to Police Headquarters, determined to get the agony over with as soon as possible. Lieutenant Macallum eased out of his swivel chair and came forward to shake Barney’s hand.

  “I hear you got batted around a little Monday morning and one of the boys had to pick you up and take you to the hospital,” Macallum said,

  “Have you got Marsha Hopson?”

  Macallum’s flat blue eyes stared at Barney. He didn’t get it. Why should he have Mrs. Hopson?

  “I told that doc who patched me up to have the cops hold Marsha Hopson! Do you mean to tell me you haven’t got her?”

  Macallum shook his head. “I saw Mat this morning. He came in to talk to Betty Wulfing. Mat said his wife had gone to Chicago.”

  “Like that, huh?” Barney grunted. “Listen! Marsha Hopson was with me when I got batted around on Monday, as you call it. I was bringing her down here as a star witness. She can prove I killed Pomeroy, and she’ll confess she framed Betty Wulfing by planting the gun in Betty’s studio. If she’s gone to Chicago, it’s to avoid testimony. She wants Betty to take this murder rap because she thinks Mat has been playing around with Betty.”

  “I ought to slap you in jail, Barney. You’ve perjured yourself so damned often, just to confuse the issue. Miss Wulfing confessed she killed Harry Pomeroy about thirty minutes ago.”

  “She what?”

  “You heard me the first time.”

  “She—she can’t do that!” Barney tapped on his chest with the tips of his fingers. “I killed him! I killed Pomeroy! Marsha Hopson can prove I killed him!”

  Barney leaned forward, his hands on the edge of Macallum’s desk. He swallowed. He looked into Macallum’s immobile face. His voice dropped in quiet, earnest appeal.

  “Listen, Macallum, they told me in the hospital that I’m not going to die, so the motive you gave me for lying is shot to hell. I’m telling you the truth. If Betty confessed, it’s because she’s trying to shield somebody.”

  Macallum sucked in his lower lip. He didn’t say anything.

  “Let me talk to Betty. Let me talk to her alone.”

  Macallum shook his head. “I can’t do that. I can’t have you two comparing notes.”

  “All right. Let me talk to her right here with you. You’ve still got her here, haven’t you? You haven’t sent her to the jail yet?”

  “She’s down here in the lock-up,” Macallum said, “but I’ve had enough of this run-around you’ve been giving me. If Miss Wulfing is shielding somebody, I’ll find it out. Now you get the hell out of here!”

  Barney Ghent stood up. He said, “I’m going after Marsha Hopson.”

  “Go anywhere you like, Barney, Just so it’s a long ways from my office!” Macallum said.

  Barney slammed out the door, went through the Homicide office and into the corridor. Benny Dean, Barney’s successor on the Evening Star, was sitting on the golden-oak reporters’ bench outside.

  “I got a bone to pick with you, Barney,” he said, catching Barney’s arm.

  Barney turned savagely. “Let go, fat boy, I’m in a hurry!”

  Dean didn’t let go. He walked along, holding to Barney’s arm.

  “I’m in the doghouse for a boner you pulled, Barney. That story you phoned to Caster Sunday night on the Pomeroy murder was all wet. And I got hell for your slip-up.”

  Barney stopped. “What was the gripe?”

  “Our sheet printed that there were two bullets in Pomeroy, and the Trib came out with three bullets.”

  “There were two bullets,” Barney said. He was certain of that because he had fired only twice.

  Dean shook his head. “I checked with the cops. Three slugs from a .32 revolver.”

  “All from the same gun?”

  “Sure. The Swiss Chylewski they found in the Wulfing babe’s studio.”

  Barney got Dean by the back of the neck, his lean fingers pinched hard into fat.

  Barney shouted. “If you’re kidding me, I’ll kill you!”

  “Leggo me!” Dean squealed. “You can ask Ma
callum!”

  A cop sauntered toward them, wanted to know what the brawl was about. Barney let go of Dean’s neck.

  “So, Barney, I’d sure appreciate it if you’ll square things—”

  “Shut up!” Barney said.

  “I get it,” Dean said. “The Thinker, only with clothes on.”

  Three slugs in Pomeroy from the same gun Barney was certain he had fired twice. But he had no reason to doubt Benny Dean’s word, and he certainly couldn’t go in and ask Macallum about it. Because Macallum might get the idea that Barney was beginning to doubt his own guilt. And if there were three bullets in Pomeroy, Barney just wasn’t the murderer.

  Who, then? Betty? Barney had seen the girl leave the Pomeroy house after Pomeroy was dead. But had she entered the house after Pomeroy was dead? He didn’t know.

  What about Marsha? She had the opportunity. She was in the neighborhood when the killing took place. She had taken pains to tell Barney that she had waited there in Sam’s Subway for over an hour.

  But Betty had confessed. If she was shielding somebody-who? Not Marsha, certainly. Certainly not Mat Hopson. Barney, then?

  Barney snorted. He got up and walked to the end of the corridor where the door into the traffic court was. Benny Dean followed him. Barney stepped into a pay-telephone booth in the corner and slammed the door in Dean’s face. He slotted a nickel and called Dr. Fritz Wulfing.

  “Fritz,” Barney said, “stay where you are. I’m coming right over.”

  Barney left the building and went out for a taxi. He ordered the driver to take him to Sam’s Subway in the Martindale apartment. It was nearly noon and Sam would be open for the luncheon trade. He got out in front of the basement cafe, told the driver to wait. Then he went in to see the cashier, whose cage was directly opposite the table at which Marsha Hopson had been sitting when Barney had run into her Sunday night. The cashier, who was Sam’s eldest daughter, remembered Barney—she had noticed the blue-fox jacket Marsha was wearing.

  “She came in about seven-thirty and sat at that table until her fella came in, Mr. Ghent,” Sam’s eldest said, chewing gum close to Barney’s ear.

  “That was her husband,” Barney said. “And Mrs. Hopson was right at that table all the time? She didn’t leave your sight?”

  “Not once,” the girl said. “I guess she was sore at her husband for standing her up that long. She musta telephoned him and burned his ear for him.”

  “Then she did go out to telephone?” he asked.

  The girl shook her head. “I wouldn’t kid you, Mr. Ghent. She telephoned from our booth right here.”

  “When was that?”

  “Before you came in, quite a bit. It musta been about ten minutes to eight and she talked a good six minutes. I figured she was jawing her husband.”

  “Thanks.” Barney said.

  “And what got me, Mr. Ghent, it’s the brass of some people coming in here and sitting at a table, soaking up heat, and not buying a meal. Shortly after her husband turned up—just after you’d gone, in fact—she up and decides she don’t want to eat here anyway.”

  “Thanks.” Barney said again.

  Barney went out to his cab, gave the driver Dr. Wulfing’s address.

  In front of the big red-brick house in which Fritz Wulfing lived and worked alone, Barney got out of the cab, paid off the driver. He entered the house by the side door which led into the office waiting-room. The consultation room was closed, the clock card turned over to indicate that the doctor was in.

  Barney knocked on the closed door with his knuckles. Wulfing jerked the door open, stood there staring, a thin, worn gray man with grave eyes deeply socketed.

  “Barney,” he said. “What did you do to your face?”

  Barney grinned wryly.

  “Don’t worry, Fritz, I’m not going to die.”

  “So you found out?” he asked weakly.

  “Yeah,” Barney said. “I found out.” He walked into the room and sat down. “Betty confessed to the murder of Pomeroy,” he said.

  On the other side of the glass-topped desk. Dr. Wulfing buried his face in his hands.

  “How long have you known I wasn’t going to die?” Barney asked quietly.

  “Since two o’clock Monday morning,” Wulfing said. “when I found you on the floor of your own living-room. I intended to tell you then, just as soon as I had told they had arrested Betty. I knew then that I had made a mistake in my diagnosis. But then you start in telling me how you had killed Pomeroy and I saw a way out for Betty if you told that story to the police.”

  Wulfing raised his head. “Can you forgive me, Barney? I was afraid if you knew you were going to live you wouldn’t be willing to lie to save Betty.”

  “Lie?” Barney’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know I didn’t kill Pomeroy?”

  “I knew you couldn’t have killed him with that gun I gave you. When you asked for a gun, I knew it wasn’t for self-protection. So I fixed up the bullets so they couldn’t do any harm.”

  “How?” Barney asked. “I thought you might try panning off blanks on me. I looked to see. They looked all right to me.”

  “I removed the lead from the cartridges and substituted some ordinary lubricating graphite I had in the garage,” Wulfing explained. “I mixed the graphite with some adhesive cement, molded it to fit the cartridge cases and look like bullets. I knew as soon as the shells went off the graphite would disintegrate harmlessly.”

  Barney’s eyes narrowed. “Then you had two Chylewski revolvers in your collection? Two identical guns. I might have known that if a gun collector like you gave away one of the guns, he’d have a duplicate on hand.”

  “That’s it,” Wulfing said. “The gun found in Betty’s studio was the mate to the one you had. It was the murder gun. But I couldn’t tell you all that, Barney. I just couldn’t!”

  “Forget it,” Barney snorted. “If there’s no other out for Betty, I’ll still take the rap for her. I’m just trying to get some things straight in my mind. I shot at Harry Pomeroy in the dark though his figure was perfectly targeted against the night glow from the window. Then I lit a match to chock up. There was blood on Pomeroy’s shirt front, and I naturally thought I’d done the job. I was so sure of myself that when I telephoned the story of the killing to the paper, I said there were two shots in Pomeroy, when actually there were three.”

  “Someone stole that second Chylewski, the murder weapon, from my collection some time Sunday afternoon,” Dr. Wulfing said. “You know my reception room is always open. I was out on a call. Anybody could have unlocked that door between the reception room and my residential quarters with a ten-cent skeleton key.”

  “And you think Betty stole it?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “And didn’t it strike you queer that, out of all the guns you have, this gun thief should happen to choose the mate to the gun you gave me?” Barney asked.

  “Well, yes.”

  “When did you find out from the Nevada authorities that Harry Pomeroy was not legally divorced from Marsha?”

  “I got a telegram Saturday night,” Wulfing replied.

  “Who did you tell besides Betty?” Barney asked. “Didn’t you tell Mat Hopson, too?”

  Wulfing nodded. “I told Mat about it the first thing Sunday morning. I told him before I told Betty, as a matter of fact, hoping for some legal advice.”

  Barney reached for the doctor’s telephone and also the directory. He looked up the number of the only business-survey bureau in town and dialed. When the connection was established he asked:

  “Were any of your operators conducting a survey by telephone last Sunday night to find out the various products used by housewives?”

  “We have not conducted a telephone survey in this city for nearly six months,” was the immediate response.

  Barney put the phone down. He looked at Wulfing and grinned.

  “Well, we’ve got the killer. And it isn’t Betty. Betty undoubtedly found the murder gun in her apa
rtment, recognized it as yours, and thought you’d killed Pomeroy. She’s been shielding you.”

  “Good Lord, Barney! Betty surely didn’t take my threats seriously!”

  Barney laughed. “So you threatened to kill Pomeroy?”

  “I told Betty that, rather than see him marry her, I’d kill him-yes.”

  “Well, then you can’t blame the kid,” Barney said. “Let’s get in your car and go catch us a murderer. And you’d better pick up one of your guns on the way. And no phony bullets, either!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Honeymoon’s Off!

  FIFTEEN minutes later, they stopped the doctor’s car in front of the white concrete house of Mat Hopson, went up to the door, and knocked. To Barney’s surprise, it was Marsha who opened the door.

  “I thought you were in Chicago,” he said. Marsha was obviously dressed to go somewhere.

  “Just going,” she said. “In fact, we—I’m late as it is. You don’t mind if I don’t ask you in, do you, Barney?”

  “Not at all,” Barney said.

  He took off his hat and suddenly shoved Marsha back with his arm. He went through the doorway and Wulfing followed. Mat came out of the back bedroom.

  “Well, Barney!” he said. “Glad to see you. But say, you’ll have to excuse us. We’re off on a second honeymoon, as it were. That beastly divorce mixup—”

  “Yeah,” Barney said. “We know all about that. We can also figure that Harry Pomeroy died intestate, so that all the money he’s milked out of this town and hoarded goes to his legal wife, friend Marsha here.”

  “That’s perfectly true,” Mat said, smiling. “A fortunate circumstance which somehow compensates for an unfortunate one.”

  “Awfully damned fortunate!” Barney said. “And as soon as you found out that Marsha was still legally married to Pomeroy, your legal mind figured out all the fortunate part of it. Marsha originally planned the phony divorce scheme so that she would still have a hold on Pomeroy and his money, but you didn’t know about that until Sunday.