by Jerry eBooks
I searched for the money I was carrying. It was gone but for the thousand dollar bill in the handkerchief pocket. I crumpled it in my hand and started to jam it into my wallet, but suddenly stopped because somebody was staring at me. It was a woman and her wide open eyes were expressionless.
She sat in an armchair near the writing desk I’d fallen over when I was slugged. I walked over carefully. The cork-handled knife in her stomach, almost hidden by bloodied negligee frills, was buried to its hilt.
I felt a chunk of ice sliding along my insides and stood there for some time. Then I closed her eyes and put the lights in the apartment out. I took the elevator down to the street and under a street lamp examined my hands. They had red blotches over them.
At first my eyebrows drew into a deep frown, but as I stood there, a hard twist curled my lips. A slow rage licked hotly in my brain. I went up again to the apartment and ten minutes later was back in the street, locking for an all-night drugstore. I found one a few blocks away and called the police. I told them where to go.
“Hold on, mister,” the cop at the other end bellowed. “Who—” I hung up.
My mouth was drawn into a determined slit when I took the subway back to Murray Street. The cafe was dark.
I rattled the shuttered doors. No answer. I laughed to myself. What a nice bit of stink I’d found for myself. I might as well go home—and I did.
My wife was asleep and I didn’t wake her. I fixed myself something to eat and afterwards sat down in the living room with a book and read until it grew light. Then I wrote a note about a hot follow-up story so Tess wouldn’t worry, and left it under the table lamp.
OUTSIDE, a damp wind gushed over the house tops from a dreary sky promising rain. I got a cab at a hackstand and made good time going downtown. When I paid the cabbie outside the cafe, it was drizzling.
I noticed a man further down the block pouring gasoline into a sedan from a tin. Probably had the same trouble I did last night, I thought, going over to my Buick. I saw there was no ticket for overnight parking and then strode over the wet gutter to the cafe.
An old man was moving ash cans in front of a rickety tenement house. He watched me with interest. “Not open yet, mister,” he caned, wiping gnarled hands on faded blue pants. “You can get a drink a couple of blocks down though.”
I glanced at him fleetingly and pounded on the closed doors. As no answer came, the old man chuckled in wheezing gasps and returned to his ashcans. I began to kick with the back of my heel. Heavy footsteps sounded inside and a lock rattled. I pushed the door open, walked straight ahead to the bar. Prescott came stomping after me.
“Say, what the hell—” His porker eyes took in my face. “Oh, you. What’s the matter?”
I didn’t answer but went on into his office. I sat down before the desk. He came wallowing up in a hurry.
“Look here, punk, I’m used to getting answers.” He stood menacingly before me. “Did you deliver the dough?”
I pulled out a cigarette and lighted it, taking my time. “Call Shaw and get him down here.”
Prescott’s thick eyebrows lowered and a meaty hand reached for my necktie. I brushed it aside. “Don’t be a sap,” I said.
He grunted and let the hand fall to his side, twitching it undecidedly. Then he went behind the desk and dialed. He spoke briefly and hung up. He glared at me. “Let’s have one of your butts. I’m all out.”
I tossed the pack on the desk. He took one and, while smoking, opened a drawer and got out a bag of gum drops. He began pegging them into his mouth nervously.
On my fourth cigarette I heard someone banging the street doors. Prescott went to answer and came back with Shaw. He came directly over to me and threw the morning newspaper in my lap.
“What about this?” Shaw snarled.
“What page is the story on?” I asked.
“Four, damn you. Haven’t you read it?”
“No,” I said coldly and began to read. I finished and Prescott yanked the paper out of my hands. He pored over it.
“Mrs. Helen Smith was found stabbed to death last night after a mysterious telephone call had summoned the police—” he mumbled and stopped as his lips could not keep up with his eyes.
“Let’s have your end of it,” Shaw demanded menacingly of me.
I nodded unconcernedly and gave all the details of what happened. When I finished, Shaw made inarticulate noises in his throat and turned on his heel away from me. He paced up and down the room. Then he whirled on Prescott.
“Do you believe him?”
Prescott folded his paws. “No, let’s turn him over to the cops.”
“I don’t like to get dragged into this business.” Shaw frowned. “With my reputation, they’ll put me over the hurdles.”
Prescott banged a fist. “It’s the only thing we can do.”
I got up slowly and faced the fat man. “You killed Peanut’s wife,” I said.
The heavy face smoothed out with surprise and the mustache wriggled. “Come again?”
“You killed Peanut’s wife,” I repeated, “and I’ll be damned if I’m going to take the rap for it. When I came to after the killer slugged me, I don’t remember exactly what I did. It’s all hazy and confused. But after I got out into the street my head cleared and I found blood all over my hands.”
I put my face close to Prescott’s. “I’m not used to finding corpses and I may have dopily tried to pull the knife out of her body, thinking she was still alive. My fingerprints are probably on that knife right now!”
Prescott laughed flatly. “But what makes you think I killed her, sonny?”
I snapped back from the desk and faced Shaw. “One of us must be the murderer. Only we three knew about the money. Why is Prescott here so early if he didn’t know I had to come here?”
“You must be crazy to think you can pin a murder rap on me because I came to my place early on one morning,” Prescott thundered. “I got a business here with plenty of bills and orders. It takes damn long to fix things up.”
SHAW gripped my shoulders and glared at Prescott angrily. “Shut up, both of you. Accusing each other won’t help, because none of us did the killing. Think a little. None of us has a motive. If Powers wanted the dough, he could have just skipped out without doing murder. If me or you wanted the dough, Prescott, we could have slugged Powers somewhere before he even got to Helen Smith’s apartment. Why bother about killing the girl?”
Prescott’s mouth hung open stupidly and he closed it only to open it again. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that a stranger might be the murderer?” Shaw continued savagely. “Maybe a house-breaker, or someone with reasons of his own—and the dough on Powers was so much to the good.”
I sat down limply in my chair. “There’s something to that. The grand bill in my handkerchief pocket wasn’t stolen. A stranger wouldn’t think of looking there.”
Shaw nodded vehemently. “Sure.”
“But what about my prints on the knife?” I asked desperately.
Shaw rubbed a finger across his lips. “That’s bad. But before we knock ourselves out, let’s find out for certain.” He went behind the desk and motioned for Prescott to get up. Then he lifted the telephone.
“I know some of the right people in this town,” he said, “and I’ll find out if there are any prints on the knife.”
He dialed and after a pause grinned. “Hello, Harry, how’s it going? Yeah? Fine. Say, I want you to do me a favor. Peanut Smith was a friend of mine. I’d like to know if there were any fingerprints on the knife that killed his wife last night.”
Shaw glanced at us, held up a forefinger and waited about five minutes. Then he smiled tightly and hung up, saying, “Thanks.”
He walked around the desk, satisfied with himself. “Helen Smith was killed by a knife with a cork handle. A cork handle, you two guys ought to know, can’t hold any fingerprints. Now if I had my way, we’d all go home and leave the rest to the cops.”
“We won’t go home, Shaw,”
I said calmly and got up. “You were talking to yourself just now. I know, because there’s a kitchen knife in Helen Smith’s body right now. I put it there, after taking out this one.” I yanked the cork-handled knife out of my pocket and threw it on the desk.
“The cops don’t know about a cork-handled knife, the papers don’t know, only the murderer and I know—and you’re the murderer.”
I finished speaking, and the silence that blanketed the room was thick and alive. Prescott and I stared at Shaw whose gaze burned on the knife on the desk.
“Powers, you’re smarter than I thought,” he said bitterly. His head sagged. “How could I know you took the knife with you?” His back slumped dejectedly and I started forward when he suddenly lashed out with a foot. It caught me in the stomach and I went flying backward.
I hit the chair by the desk and it toppled over, with me somersaulting on my neck. I looked up to see a gun half out of Shaw’s pocket and Prescott hulking toward him. I scrambled up and grabbed the only thing handy, the knife on the desk.
Shaw’s wild eyes swiveled on me and he shot twice without taking aim. The desk lamp smashed and tore itself off the desk. I whipped the knife forward and went lunging after it.
The butt hit Shaw in the face and he staggered while Prescott’s ham of a fist slammed down on the back of his head. He slipped to his knees feebly tried to point the gun up.
I swung my bunched knuckles and they cut hard. Shaw flopped over without a moan. I picked up his gun.
Prescott stood impassively over the inert body. “Call the police,” he said, breathing heavily. I went over and called and came back.
Prescott’s jowls heaved with mixed emotion. “The wife of his best friend! Why’d he do it?”
“Because he was probably broke and a guy like him gets used to having money. The twenty grand he gave me was all in new bills. They were counterfeit, having spent the original. He went through the whole farce about the delivery, instead of skipping out, so he could get your twenty grand too.
“He knew you’d soon realize he had robbed me, if he didn’t kill Helen Smith. You, you knew you didn’t rob me. If I’d taken the money, would I be sap enough to return and try to bluff? Very unlikely. There was only one possible course left for Shaw to avert suspicion—kill Helen Smith and point out, since none of us seemingly had a motive for this, that a stranger must have killed her.”
Prescott’s great head shook sadly. “But what was all that baloney about me being the killer before?”
“Shaw had to get to Helen Smith’s apartment before I did. Last night, before he came in here, he siphoned the gasoline out of all three cars parked outside. Then, to get the smell of oil off his hands, he washed them with salt in the washroom. I noticed some crystals on his wrist. Careless of him to go so far as to prepare the salt beforehand and then trip up by a hasty washing.
“By accusing you of the murder, by pretending to think that the red stuff I’d gotten on my hands—which Shaw knew was red ink from falling over Helen Smith’s writing desk—was blood and that I’d left my prints on the knife, I was tangling up Shaw’s plans. I might have bolted to the police. Next to convincing you that none of us stole the forty grand, Shaw was most anxious not to have the police associate him in any way with the murder. In less than half an hour they’d be able to find out how broke he was. No, Shaw’s aim was to make us forget the whole thing. My assumed panic forced him to reveal what I’d been angling for all the time—that he knew the girl was murdered with a cork-handled knife!”
Prescott made weary noises in his throat and shuffled back to his chair. “When the cops find Peanut’s stolen dough, I don’t want any part of it.”
“It’ll go to the government,” I said. “That’s the law.”
I picked up the overturned chair and fell heavily into it. I took out the thousand dollar bill Shaw had given me and slapped it down on the desk.
“So long war bonds,” I said to it ruefully. “But your story will make the city editor do a jitterbug.”
ROCK-A-BYE BOOBY
Richard Brister
When Carmody sought to find the secret of that old man’s second childhood, he learned how quickly the cradle can lead to the grave.
THE old geezer’s dancing was definitely dated. The blonde in his arms was anything but; she had all that it takes and the effect on him who looked was most pleasant.
Carmody watched from the zoot-suited stag line and at first sight of the blonde, gave an involuntary whistle.
“Holy Hannah! How’s the old buck rate that?”
One thing you had to hand the old boy—he had pepper. Carmody had all he could do to follow the old man’s swift gyrations. The blonde had a fixed smile nailed on her tubular lips as she struggled to keep up with her energetic partner.
Carmody thought, The lady wants out. He walked out quickly and rapped the old boy on the shoulder.
“Cut, Pop?”
He didn’t wait. He grabbed the girl’s elbow. Standing close to, he saw now that her lips were trembling from the excessive exertion. She was panting like a spent race horse, although there was no further resemblance. And the old boy was wheezing like an antique bellows; there was a dangerous glaze in his eyes, and Carmody would bet Pop’s heart was pumping out a fast tempo in fox-trot time.
The blonde said, “Sorry. We’re not cutting.” She pulled her elbow away somewhat harder than Carmody thought necessary. He said:
“Aw, be a sport, lady. Pop’s gonna cave in, you keep up this—”
The orchestra was cutting loose with a brassy rendition of Mr. Five-By-Five. The old buck said petulantly, “My name’s not Pop. Who is this man, Linda? You know him?”
She had to shout to make herself heard above the music and the jitterbugs’ stomping. “No. I don’t know him, Tom.”
Tom! That struck Carmody funny, her calling an old coot like Pop, Tom. He grinned. Then his jaw fell down in real amazement as the old boy pushed against him, his face working with anger. “Get along, bud!”
“Huh?” Carmody blinked.
“I said move along!”
Carmody would have laughed out loud if Pop hadn’t been wearing an absolute deadpan. He was dead serious about it. He was gallantly shielding his lady from the unruly stranger. It didn’t occur to him, apparently, that Carmody could pick him up and deposit him in the nearest ashcan without ruffling a hair, if he took the notion.
He said, grinning, “Act your age, Pop. I just wanted a dance with the lady.”
The old boy reached out and grabbed at his lapels with bony fingers. “My name’s not Pop, I told you. Don’t get funny with me, bud. If it wasn’t for the lady present—”
“Oh, come on, Tom,” the girl said. “Ignore him.”
Carmody had leaned forward a bit when the old boy grabbed him, and caught a whiff of Tom’s breath. There was no trace of liquor about him, so that didn’t explain his goofy actions. Nothing did; Carmody was now more curious than ever.
The girl tugged Pop’s sleeve, slipped a luscious arm behind him, and together they slid into the music’s fast tempo. The old boy was good, if you liked your dancing styled 1918. In his way, he put the kids, with their hopping, pirouetting, and stomping, to shame.
Before long, the younger generation realized there was a better show on the floor than there was on the bandstand. They formed a circle around Pop, clapping their hands in time with the music.
Pop grinned at this display of attention. He put on a good show for them. But Carmody couldn’t escape the feeling that there was something phony about the exhibition. He had an eerie sensation of being transported in time to a bygone era, the way you’d feel watching a twenty-year-old movie.
It wasn’t the blonde. She was strictly 1943 and a perfect package. She matched the old buck’s steps with the natural ease and grace of an experienced dancer. But her heart wasn’t in it. She kept darting worried glances in Carmody’s direction. Finally she whispered something in the old guy’s ear. He nodded and they walked towa
rd the cloakroom.
CARMODY waited until they’d collected their coats and hats. He’d half intended to investigate them from the very beginning. The blonde’s suspicious fear of attracting too much attention clinched it.
There was a terrace out front, right above the entrance. He stood against the parapet, looking down on the street. Leaning out slightly, he saw the old boy and his date or his wife or his daughter—whoever she was—come out and wave for a taxi.
Carmody cupped both ears, straining hard, when Pop gave the hackman the address he wanted.
“Two-thirteen Walnut Drive.”
Carmody whistled. If Pop lived there, he was in the chips plenty. Which made things even more crazy. People who live on Walnut Drive spend their Saturday nights at the Ritz, not joints like this Moonlight Garden; they think of the word “bud” as something that comes on a flower, not a name to call strangers; and they’re not given to dancing exhibitions for the general public.
Carmody picked up his hat and coat and made a beeline for his coupe. He was behind the wheel, kicking the starter button, when the two men came out of the darkness behind him.
The fat one opened the door and stuck a .45 automatic in at him. “Keep yer trap shut an’ you won’t get hurt, buddy.” He nodded across at the thin one, who had the other door open. “Frisk him, Charlie.”
Carmody said, “He won’t find anything. What is this? Can’t a guy go to a dance without—” Charlie’s hands moved over him swiftly. “Nothin’ on him, Wally.”
Wally said, “Move over, fella. Get in, Charlie.”
“Listen, what the—”
“Shut up,” Wally said.
“Yeah,” Charlie repeated. “Shut up.”
“I’m no copper. And if it’s money you’re after, you got your signals mixed,” Carmody said. “I’m clean as a whistle.”
Wally had the car moving easily through the mid-city traffic. “You talk a lot, buddy. Can it.”
“Yeah, can it,” Charlie echoed.
Carmody buttoned up until they’d slipped out of the central part of the city. Wally headed out No. 319, toward the Chestnut Hill section. Walnut Drive, Carmody thought. So he had been on the track of something!
