Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Aw,” grunted Johnny Regan. “Come on.” He waved his arm impatiently. “Look at things. No lights. Dimouts! Maybe even a blackout tomorrow night. And they used to call this Santa Claus Lane!”

  But nothing Regan said could dim Ben Slattery’s cheerfulness. Lights or no lights, he had the spirit, and he kept on humming:

  Hark, the herald angels sing . . .

  Their loud-speaker crackled and the voice of the dispatcher came crisply over the air:

  “Car Two-nineteen, attention. An emergency call. A woman in distress. Car Two-nineteen . . .”

  Johnny Regan’s gray eyes brightened a trifle.

  “Maybe she’s a blond and needs help. Anything to relieve the monotony! Let’s roll!”

  TWO-NINETEEN was their car and their call. The address given by the dispatcher was not far. Ben Slattery tramped his brogan down on the gas and they were off.

  Moments later they cut down the side street of small movie studios and rooming houses—Poverty Row, as it was known in the trade.

  Ben Slattery flicked on the adjustable spotlight and searched house numbers. He slowed before a house half-way down the block, stopped, and pulled on the brake.

  “All right, kid,” he said. “Run in and see what the dame wants.”

  He leaned back, pushed his cap to the back of his shaggy head, and started to whistle “Holy Night” again.

  Johnny Regan gave his partner a pained frown and slid out of the car. He hard-heeled up the walk, was just feeling around for the bell button when the outside door was jerked open.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” a woman’s voice said with relief.

  She must have been waiting for him just inside the vestibule. A dim light glowed far back in the hallway, so that Regan could not get a good look at her features. But she appeared to be young, slim-built. Probably pretty.

  He grinned in the half darkness.

  “What’s up, lady? We got a call—”

  “My baby,” she started, voice worried: “He’s ill. I’ve got to get down to the corner drugstore for something and I haven’t a phone.”

  “I guess we could run down there for you,” Regan said.

  “Oh, no,” the woman said swiftly. “I’ll have to go myself. It’s a special prescription and I want to make certain that the druggist compounds it correctly. If you could just stay with Cecil a moment—”

  She looked up at him, hopefully, then motioned to the open doorway behind her. Another light glowed dimly in there, a small night light of some sort. The woman turned and led the way.

  “He’s just fallen asleep again,” she said. “If you’ll just be very quiet. It will only take me a moment.”

  Johnny Regan saw the plainly furnished room, and the open doorway to the room beyond. The woman looked up at him again appealingly, and she wasn’t bad to look at. Not bad at all.

  “Just a moment, lady, until I tell my partner,” Regan said, “then I’ll be right back.”

  “Hurry,” she pleaded.

  He moved outside, went back to the car, was grinning when he met Ben Slattery’s inquisitive eyes.

  “She was,” he announced.

  “She was what?” Big Ben demanded.

  “A blonde! Nice, too. Look, I got to mind her kid while she runs down to the corner a moment. The baby’s sick, and she’s got no one to leave it with.”

  “What is this,” Slattery growled. “A diaper service?”

  “Now, listen,” said Regan. “Only a moment, see? We’ve got to help her out.”

  A limping footstep sounded behind Johnny Regan, and he turned to recognize old Peter Kelsey, watchman at Acme Features, hobbling down the sidewalk. Pete was a nice old guy. Many a night in the quiet hours before dawn they stopped by to have a cup of coffee with him in his watchman’s shack just inside the small studio grounds. Acme Features was one of the smaller Poverty Row outfits, and was located around the corner.

  “THE leg bothering you again, Pete?” Regan asked with feeling, as the elderly man came limping up.

  The watchman nodded. “I guess we’re going to have rain for Christmas, looks like.” He rubbed his thigh, smiling. “I can always tell.”

  From the open coupe window, Big Ben said:

  “Come on, Pete. I’ll give you a lift the rest of the way.” He jerked his big thumb at Regan. “My partner’s got to play nursemaid for a bit.”

  As Ben Slattery opened the door, Regan hurried back to the house. The police coupe was moving down the street as the blonde opened the front door again.

  “Okay, lady,” he said. “I’ll wait here for you.”

  She nodded toward the car disappearing down the block. Regan noted that she had slipped on a light sports coat and beret.

  “Isn’t your partner waiting for you?” she asked.

  “He’s got to run an errand,” Regan said truthfully. He hoped Ben would take his time, and that the blonde would be back before him. He thought it might be kind of nice talking to her for a while. She was the kind who could take your mind off Christmas, and the fact that tomorrow night you had to work.

  “Be quiet now,” she whispered. “Don’t frighten Cecil.” She hurried out then.

  Johnny Regan tiptoed into the drably furnished living room, gingerly sat down on the edge of a chair. He took off his cap, then put it on again, feeling foolish. What the blazes did you do if a baby started bawling?

  He started listening for the slightest sound that would indicate the baby was waking up.

  He found himself holding his breath, waiting. It occurred to him that it must be an awful strain to be a father. After a while he relaxed a little bit. No sound had come from the adjoining bedroom. Long quiet moments passed. Certainly the woman ought to be back.

  He must have waited fifteen minutes, and was remembering that they had a box to pull shortly on another part of their beat when, disturbed now, Regan got up and tiptoed toward the bedroom. Maybe there was something wrong with the kid. Maybe it had—died!

  The thought jerked him into swift action. Using his flashlight, Regan stepped to the doorway of the adjoining room, snapped the light briefly, stared around for the crib.

  And he continued to stare.

  The room contained a battered washstand, a portable clothes-closet, two straight-back chairs and a single metal bed. The bed was made up and covered with a cheap imitation chenille spread.

  There was no crib and no baby.

  “Well, I’ll be a son!” Regan muttered and slammed toward the hall door.

  What kind of a gag was this? Why had the blonde phoned?

  In the vestibule he remembered. Phoned? What a dope he was! She had said she must run down to the druggist’s because she had no phone. Then how in blazes had she phoned the police?

  Reagan reached the sidewalk, was staring around looking for either the blonde or his partner, when he heard the shots. Two of them, flat and hard in the stillness of the long side street.

  And they came from down there around the corner where Big Ben had headed with old Pete Kelsey!

  JOHNNY REGAN was running. It seemed he would never reach the end of the long block. He swung the corner, unloosening the flap of his holster as he ran. He saw his big partner’s police coupe parked near the entrance drive of Acme Features. The door was hanging open.

  Another shot sounded then, from inside the grounds of the movie company. Regan slammed through the open gates, caught the vaguest glimpse of a big form just swinging around the corner of one of the buildings. He started to raise his gun.

  “It’s me, kid!” his partner yelled at him. “Look out!” He waved an arm. “Over there! That back fence!”

  Just as he called the warning, Big Ben jerked around in a peculiar manner. There was the crack of a shot. Regan thought, “The guy’s hit!” He dashed forward, keeping close to the building wall in a low crouch.

  Slattery was hit. His left arm dangled uselessly. But his big blocky features were grim as he jerked his chin toward the rear, gloomy lot.


  “Fence back there,” he explained tersely. “Two guys hiding. Watch it!”

  “You wait here!” Regan said, and pushed past his big partner and slithered along the wall, covered by shadows of the night. He was thinking that it was his fault that Slattery was hurt. If he hadn’t been such a sucker for a dame’s attractive figure—

  Grimly, with the .38 raised in his fist, he neared the end of the studio building, got the swift blur of a dodging form. A man was leaping toward the wire fence that enclosed the rear of the studio lot. Regan leaped out into the open and leveled the heavy weapon in his first.

  A slug screamed inches from his head!

  Regan threw himself down to the ground, whipped around, tried to locate source of that shot. He saw the second man going up over another section of the fence. He snapped a quick shot, looked back to see what had happened to the first fellow.

  He was over the fence and gone.

  Johnny Regan jerked to his feet and took out after the second man. Big Ben was running up behind him.

  “I think you winged that second one, kid!” he was calling softly.

  Then both of them heard the second man’s feet slap the sidewalk beyond the wire fence and start running. Before Regan could even get a bead on the man, he had disappeared down a narrow alley that cut between two buildings beyond the studio lot.

  Even as Johnny Regan raced toward the fence there was the sound of a car motor roaring into life. Then the motor sound was quickly fading in the distance.

  Slattery drew up, swore vehemently. “Lost them!” he said.

  Johnny Regan saw his friend’s limply hanging arm.

  “You need attention,” he said. He started toward the studio building.

  “Where’s old Pete?” he asked abruptly. He had just remembered the watchman.

  “He’s all right,” Ben Slattery said. His voice sounded suddenly tired. “Those two guys jumped us as we headed toward Pete’s office. I shoved Pete on ahead of me inside the doorway. I might have banged his head or something. I was pretty rough about it.”

  JUST then, in the doorway of a small building just inside the gates, old Pete himself appeared. He seemed to limp more than usual, and he was rubbing his forehead.

  “You all right, old-timer?” Slattery asked, more worried about the elderly watchman than he was about himself.

  Pete nodded. “I’ve called the police. I guess I got a little dizzy. I banged my head on the wall when you pushed me inside the doorway.” He looked at Big Ben Slattery and smiled, though he was still trembling. “Thank you for saving my life.” He reached out, touched the officer’s arm gratefully, not noticing that the arm dangled strangely. Slattery involuntarily winced.

  “Ben needs some attention,” Regan said swiftly, and urged his friend toward the small office. At the same time, within the long block beyond the gates, police sirens were already sounding shrilly in the night.

  Regan was thinking that this was a fine thing indeed. Old Pete had had to call the police, and here he, Johnny Regan, was the police! He had certainly bungled things in a fine way!

  All because of a baby—a blond baby!

  It was almost dawn when they were finally back at Headquarters and tall, alertlooking Lieutenant Anderson had checked out the men on his division. Johnny Regan and his partner, Ben Slattery, were the last ones there, remaining behind, and now the Lieutenant was saying:

  “And so those crooks were apparently after some Christmas bonus money that Acme was holding on hand for various employees. It’s too bad they got away.”

  That’s the way he said it, quietly, but Regan knew what Lieutenant Anderson was thinking. A couple of patrol cops on the job and crooks had slipped right through their fingers. And all because he, Johnny Regan, had been taken in by a blonde.

  Only by the slightest margin had his partner missed death. And Slattery had even risked that in order to warn Regan as he had run into the Acme grounds.

  “You better take a few days leave, Slattery, until that arm is in shape,” the lieutenant was saying.

  The way he said it, Regan thought, was even including Slattery in a silent reprimand for letting the potential killers get away. And just recently around Headquarters they had been talking about how Slattery was in line for promotion. He deserved it. He had been some time on the force.

  Lieutenant Anderson looked at Johnny Regan.

  “We’ve checked with that rooming house,” he said. “A woman rented a room there for a few days. She and her husband, the landlady said. They just moved out tonight. No forwarding address. They must have been spotting that Acme job, and the woman probably knew about that empty apartment right inside the ground floor, and worked that gag to get you and Slattery off the beat while the men pulled the job.”

  “Slattery’s not to be blamed for this, sir,” Regan blurted suddenly. “It was all my fault. I fell for that woman’s story. I should have checked more closely.”

  “Regan probably saved my life, Lieutenant,” Slattery said quickly. “If it hadn’t been for him—”

  THAT was like Slattery, Regan thought. Taking the blame equally. He wanted to protest, to explain that if it hadn’t been for his own carelessness—

  But Lieutenant Anderson finished:

  “So you’ll have to handle that beat alone, tomorrow night, Regan. I’m too short of men to put anyone on with you, and I’ve promised these others that they could have Christmas Eve off.”

  “Yes sir,” said Johnny Regan, and he and Slattery went out.

  Regan had his own car parked down the street.

  “I’ll run you home, Ben,” he said.

  Both of them were pretty quiet on the ride through the early dawn, and both of them were thinking, especially Regan. This was the heck of a Christmas present to give his friend—a slug through the arm.

  When Slattery climbed out, he said, grinning:

  “Keep away from blondes, kid.” But his face was pale. He had lost some blood.

  “I’m sorry for what happen—” Regan began.

  “Forget it,” Slattery said.

  And because there was nothing else to say, Johnny Regan drove off. He kept thinking about that blond woman, and the fact that she must be tied in with the crooks, and he was wondering how he could get a lead to the gang. . . .

  He stopped around at the boarding house later that same morning. He talked to the landlady, but all she could tell was what she had told the police last night. The blond woman and her husband—“Goodness sakes, he might not even be her husband!”—had moved last night, leaving in a hurry, never even giving her a forwarding address for mail.

  She took Regan in and showed him the small flat where the baby was supposed to have been sleeping last night.

  “Of course I didn’t have the door locked,” she explained. “So many people are always coming in and out to look at rooms. Why, that hussy even kept the key to my front door, and she must have known I was going out last night!”

  “Yes,” Regan said. “You sure can’t trust some people.”

  He looked briefly but sharply around the small flat. He was wondering if there could be something that the blond might have left behind—some little thing that would give him a lead to the gang.

  He found nothing.

  Later, when he came on duty that night, his eyes burned from lack of sleep and he found himself in a tense, thoughtful mood. In the Department six months, and what a showing he had made! If he could only get a line on those crooks!

  About eleven o’clock it started to rain. He recalled old Pete Kelsey’s prediction last evening. He guessed he ought to stop around and see Pete a moment.

  It was a dreary night. Lights were dimmed in shops. Last night he had been growling because they would have to work tonight—Christmas Eve. But it wouldn’t have been so bad with jovial Ben Slattery in the car. Now it was like a hearse!

  Regan steered the police coupe down the long block leading to the Acme Studio. The rain kept coming down. He was midway in the block when the b
lackout sirens sounded. The weird, banshee wails shivered through the dismal night.

  REGAN watched to see if there were any cars moving in the block. All traffic except police and fire department cars was supposed to pull to the curb and park during an air raid warning. There had been several to date, here on the Coast.

  But Regan saw no traffic moving within the block. It was deserted.

  Or was it?

  He was nearing the corner, driving slowly because of the suddenly blacked-out street lights, when he noted the sedan parked in gloom at the curb. He thought he detected the movement of someone behind the wheel. A girl!

  Johnny Regan slowed as he passed, tried to get a closer look at the woman. Reflection of his own lighted headlamps gave him a partial glimpse of a face that was swiftly turned away from him.

  Funny! He thought of that blond dame last night. He could have sworn—

  A hunch told him to keep on driving, not stopping, not letting on that he had seen anyone in the car. Because he was suddenly thinking of old Pete Kelsey, and that Pete would be on duty at the Acme Studio just around the next corner. Could that woman parked there in the darkened sedan be a lookout for the gang?

  Regan didn’t turn at the corner. Instead, he rolled down another block, gathering speed in the darkness, cut around the square and headed back to the movie lot. Leaving the car parked in blackness in a nearby alley, he hurried toward the studio gates.

  He saw an air-raid warden just disappearing down the block in the darkness. He was tempted to hail the man, then decided against it. He had pulled a boner last night. Perhaps his uneasiness now was just imagination.

  He noted that old Pete had the studio entrance gates locked, as they should be. Regan moved along the fence in the utter blackout darkness, located a spot alongside one of the buildings just inside the high fence, then started climbing over. He dropped lightly to the ground inside.

  Pete’s office was in darkness. But that was as it should be, too. The watchman had naturally closed the blackout curtains.

  Regan hurried up to the door, started to reach for the knob, then gave a start as he saw the door partway open. And no light came from inside at all!