Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

When you’re on the road today, your most precious item is a draft card. Lots of times the cops will stop you and ask to see it. If you’ve got one, they’ll probably say okay but keep on moving. If you haven’t, it’s just too bad.

  Getting out of the hotel via the fire escape was easy, and it was simple to find the block where the drunk had passed out—but after that my luck changed. I saw two cops pulled up to the curb, their spotlights directed down at the guy in the grass, and in the distance I heard an ambulance moaning. I was too late; someone had already spotted him.

  As ever, a bunch of curious passersby had stopped to snoop. Dressed the way I was, and with an address for the night, I didn’t hesitate to walk right up to the scene. Two guys were standing next to me and I heard one of them say, “I heard he was dead. Poison booze. There’s two-three cases every week! When will this state wake up and accept the Repeal amendment? People drink just as much in the wet states, but they pay less—and live afterward. It’s criminal!”

  Edging through the crowd, I got close to the group of cops. I heard one say to another who was taking notes, “You got that about him carrying a South American passport? Okay. There’s three-hundred bucks in the wallet. Some private papers. An identification card agrees with the name on the passport—Ricardo Montez, home town Rio de Janeiro. Got that?”

  Montez—when the first name I’d seen was Crowley! Then the old dame had swapped wallets—eighteen bucks for three hundred! Right then I began to smell murder.

  I waited until the ambulance doc pronounced a tentative diagnosis of wood-alcohol poisoning, then I started back for the hotel. On the way back I passed a speakeasy and I talked my way in. The drink of rotgut booze they gave me for a buck didn’t make me feel any better and it didn’t clear anything up. I figured sleep was the answer now.

  I knew someone had been in my room as soon as I got there. For a moment I considered raising hell about it, pounding on the old dame’s door and demanding an explanation. I knew she was in the adjoining room, because she’d stepped out of there when she’d caught me in the hall. But then I said the hell with it. I’d only get some double-talk about my rags being “dreadfully soiled” and a pious reminder that cleanliness was next to Godliness. Life was too short to go through that again.

  I did examine the connecting door between the two rooms, though, and discovered that it was unlocked on both sides. When I tried to shoot the bolt on my side I found it was jammed—probably on purpose. It opened in on the old babe’s room, so a chair wouldn’t block the knob. Then I had to laugh. Who’d be afraid of a halfpint old crone? Furthermore, I’d been on the road so long, no one could get within six feet of me without waking me up.

  I DIDN’T undress that night, though. If anything unexpected broke, it was the fire-escape for me—and fast. I lay down on top of the spread and drifted off slowly. Just before I went fast asleep I thought I heard the old babe talking in the next room. I figured maybe she was giving herself a lecture on honesty and how it’s better to steal on an 18-300 basis. And that was the last I remember for a while.

  Once during the night I came awake with a girl’s scream ringing in my ears, but I couldn’t be sure whether I’d really heard it or if I’d dreamed it. It wasn’t repeated, so I went back to sleep again.

  It was someone rapping on my door that awakened me next morning. It wasn’t loud but it was insistent; the knocking didn’t stop until I’d rolled out of bed and groped my way drunkenly to the door. A typical house dick stood outside.

  “Complaints,” he wheezed. He was fat and bored looking. “Too much noise. Cut it out.”

  This could be a trick, so I was wary. Maybe he wasn’t any house dick. He looked the part too well.

  “Noise?” I snapped. “Can’t you see I’m alone, that I’ve been sleeping? I wasn’t making a sound!”

  Suddenly the guy’s eyes jumped wide open; they were surprisingly blue, I noticed. He lifted a trembling finger and pointed over my shoulder.

  “It’s a cinch it wasn’t that corpse sitting in the chair behind you, mister!” he almost whispered.

  That was the oldest trick in the books. He expected me to spin around so he could give me the business. I’d been waiting for something like that. I spun, all right, but I spun on the balls of my feet as I smashed an uppercut to his double chin. I had to wince myself when it connected, and again when he hit the opposite side of the hallway and collapsed to a sitting position—out cold. Then I slammed the door and turned back into the room.

  Now it was my turn to take it on the chin. I stopped cold, gaping, doubting my senses. There was a guy sitting in the big easy chair—and he was just as undoubtedly dead. A knife—my pocket knife, probably with my fingerprints still on it—was plunged into his throat, severing the jugular vein. It was a messy, gruesome sight—and it spelled murder and hanging.

  I’d prepared for a quick get-away the night before, and I moved fast now. I jumped across the room and whipped the knife out of the guy’s throat—but, surprisingly, he didn’t bleed any more. The knife I shoved in my pocket. Then, curious as to whom I was going to be accused of killing, I slipped a letter from his pocket. It was addressed to William Schram at some address in New Orleans.

  All that occupied but ten seconds, and then I was set. Knowing it was the mealy-mouthed old babe in the next room who had arranged this little party, I whispered a forlorn little prayer that she was still hanging around, that I could get my fingers on her for a few seconds—and went through the connecting door like Mel Hein crashing through left tackle.

  The result was beautiful to see. The old babe had evidently had her head plastered close to the door, listening in and never doubting that I’d go along quiet and peaceful with the house detective. The first crash knocked her back a couple of feet—and then the wild-swinging door, with my weight behind it, caught her full on the skull. She sort of arched over onto the bed and never moved a muscle after she landed.

  Some bellboys must have found the house dick then, because fists were drumming on my door and other guests on the floor were evidently pouring into the hall to see what it was all about. There was plenty of yelling going on but little coordinated action. I slapped the connecting door closed, locked it, and jumped for the window that led to the fire escape. It was only then that the movements on the other bed caught my attention.

  A girl lay there—a young, pretty girl with raven black hair and angry, flashing black eyes. She was bound hand and foot, gagged, and her only way to attract my attention was to bounce around and hope I’d notice her. One look and I was at her side, ripping away the cords. In seconds she was free.

  “Come on, big boy,” was the first thing she said. “We want out—and right now! I don’t know who you are, but if they’re against you, you must be on my side. Let’s go!”

  We hopped through the window, ran down the fire escape—which, fortunately, was an old fashioned affair with ornate scrollwork that practically hid us from the street. On the way down, I heard the door of my room give under the onslaught of those in the hall. But they were too late.

  WITHOUT a word, I grabbed the girl’s hand and made for the parking lot behind the hotel. I still had the keys to the old dame’s car so it was the obvious thing to do. What was a little matter of larceny on top of cold-blooded murder?

  We didn’t speak even then—not until we were well away from the hotel, when I pulled up on a quiet sidestreet.

  I let out a long breath. “Close. I thought they had us there for a while. We just got out in time.”

  “But we didn’t get out,” the girl said quietly. “We’re just getting in, big boy.” This girl seemed to know what she was talking about, and she spoke with a quiet authority.

  “Okay,” I told her. “Then we’ll find a way out, the two of us. We’ll blast a way out, if necessary.”

  “I’m glad you’re with me,” she said simply. “For some reason I feel I can trust you—and I need help.”

  “You and me both,” I told her.

  I n
oticed the girl was the one who started asking questions. She found out all she wanted to about me, and all I knew about her was her name: Dorothy Crane. But after a time she seemed to come to a decision.

  “As long as you’re working with me,” she said, “you might as well know. I’m on a special assignment for the F.B.I. We’ve been warned by U. S. agents in South America that two experts in railroad sabotage were landed in Florida during the past week. They are to recruit and train other pro-Axis men here in the methods of railroad wrecking and in the charting of troop transport.”

  She took a breath, continued:

  “Such a warning came through once before, but we never managed to pick up the agents. Before we could do so, they were both found—dead. Probably killed by their own men, as soon as it was known we’d spotted them, to prevent our picking up their contacts and associates—”

  “No!” The word exploded as the truth dawned on me. “Look: you had only the names of these men, not their pictures?”

  “Yes—and the names didn’t mean a thing. As for the pictures, the agents were undoubtedly selected because we wouldn’t know them from Adam—or a hundred thirty million other citizens.”

  “What were the names of the latest two?”

  “Schram and Montez,” she told me, puzzled.

  Then I told her about the “drunk” I’d seen, who later died—and about the corpse in my bedroom. “Those two will be identified as Schram and Montez!” I said. “Aunt Agatha saw to that. And there won’t be any complications because when she picked them up on the highway—hoboes both—she made sure they had no living relatives before she adopted them—for death.

  “On top of that, both Schram and Montez now have brand new identities—with genuine draft cards to match! What better place for a train saboteur than as a hobo on the tracks?”

  The girl nodded slowly, her lovely white features set, her dark eyes flashing. “We’re getting warm. As for your Aunt Agatha, according to the Washington office, she’s the connecting link between arriving agents and the brain of the U. S. receiving center for foreign agents. She hasn’t been picked up in the hope she’d lead us to the head man, as well as the two new members.

  “All we know is that they make their headquarters somewhere in Philadelphia—but we don’t know where.”

  “What about last night?” I asked. “How come Aunt Agatha took you over without a sound. You knew who she was.”

  Dorothy made a face. “I was watching outside the hotel. Dear Aunt Agatha came out about midnight and I figured that was my cue to search her room. I guess that’s just what she wanted anyone tailing her to do. She must have doubled around and returned by the fire escape. By the time I got her door open, she was waiting for me—and the next thing I knew I was done up like a gift package.”

  “And that guy in my room this morning—?”

  He came shortly after auntie had taken care of me. He had a bundle she’d evidently sent him for—”

  “To get him out of the way while she fixed Crowley—”

  Dorothy nodded. “Auntie doped him with a drink, held him in the room until dawn, and then she—she—” Dot shuddered.

  “I know,” I broke in. “And what happens now?”

  She drew in a deep breath. “Now the fireworks,” she said, her tone desperate.

  “First, let’s drive back to the hotel, Jim.”

  “The hotel! Listen, are you—”

  Her eyes stopped me; I got the car moving. I figured Aunt Agatha would be at the hotel, at that. Why should she run? That would look suspicious in itself. No one had seen her talking to me—or, I was willing to bet, to either Crowley or Schram. A nice old lady certainly wouldn’t commit cold-blooded murder!

  Dorothy was the only one who could safely go into the hotel and I didn’t like it. I’d be spotted sure. And I put up a strong argument when she insisted I leave the car, stand a full block away so I couldn’t be seen from the hotel. I lost the argument, of course.

  IT SEEMED I stood for hours at the far corner. Half the time I couldn’t see the car because of the passing traffic and I’d be standing on tip-toe to get a glimpse of it. Then I saw Dot—and Aunt Agatha! I let out a yell, started to run—because dear auntie obviously had a gun in Dot’s back, hidden by her handbag!

  I was too late. By the time I reached the corner, the car had disappeared. And I knew now why that pretty kid had insisted I keep my distance. She’d intended all along for Aunt Agatha to pick her up! She realized it was the only way to get to the espionage headquarters that night! She hadn’t been willing for me to share the deadly risk.

  I don’t know how long I walked the streets, racking my brain. Here I was in Jackson—with Dot somewhere in Philadelphia, in the hands of enemy agents. There my knowledge stopped. How could I hope to find her with nothing at all to go on?

  I suppose it was pure luck when I angrily jammed my fists into my jacket pockets—and found the letter I’d taken from the corpse in my bedroom. I couldn’t open it fast enough. It read:

  Wilhelm:

  This is to confirm the address in Chicago: Quakertown; 423 La Salle.

  Yours, C.

  For a while I couldn’t dope it out.

  Chicago? The girl had said the F.B.I. was sure—Then I realized it was only a blind. “Quakertown” was the key word—and it checked. Philadelphia is Quakertown. Then the rest must be the all-important address! My heart was drumming and I was breathing hard. All I had to do was dope out that “423 LaSalle” and then I’d have it.

  Jackson’s public library answered that one, finally. A city directory of Philadelphia told me there was no such street as LaSalle—which I’d expected—but I found out there was a Hotel LaSalle, and that was all I needed. Room 423 was my cue. I grabbed a cab and raced for the railroad station. . . .

  The LaSalle was a shoddy red-brick building, a dump, down by the railroad tracks. I didn’t think I’d have too much trouble getting in, but after walking casually across the lobby and up four flights of stairs, I saw I was mistaken. Two big husky guys stood in front of room 423. That way was blocked tight as the hinges of hell.

  I went back to the street and figured I’d try the fire escape—and was fooled again. A couple of fullbacks were standing guard there too. The roof? I knew if they were watching the foot of the fire escape, they’d also be watching the head. But there was one place they couldn’t watch!

  I walked up to the fifth floor this time and knocked on the door of room 523. A sour-faced old guy in a long nightshirt opened the door, growling, and I shoved past him with some double-talk about “repairs.” I was out of the window and going down before he knew what it was all about. I kept moving—fast.

  What the hell I expected to do when I got into 423 I’ll never know; I hadn’t figured that far ahead. And what I saw going on there made me go cold all over. In one corner of the room, crumpled in a pitifully still heap, lay a young girl. That must be Dot—and maybe dead! I prayed not.

  At the other side, Aunt Agatha was battling two husky boys—and was doing all right for herself. They’d evidently managed to knock her gun out of her hand, but as I watched, she twisted suddenly, got some sort of tricky hold on the nearest guy—and a moment later he was flying across the room. The second one was closing in then, while the men in the hall were hurling themselves against the locked door, shattering it slowly. I threw myself through the window in a clumsy imitation of Superman. Those guys needed help!

  My one thought was to get Dot safely away, though. Once free, we could call for reinforcements; Aunt Agatha seemed to be too well supplied with muscle men for our small party to handle.

  I was half way across the room when the door burst open and four men crashed in. Aunt Agatha was yelling something, but in the confusion she couldn’t be understood. The nearest guy I caught with a beautiful left hook. The others were on me then.

  I was good at rough and tumble brawling. If these guys wanted it tough, okay—that’s the way they’d get it. I shot over a vicious right
cross that would’ve floored Gargantua—and hit only air. A split second later a General Grant tank caught me on the chin and I sailed half way across the room. Pure luck, I thought to myself. The second time I went for the guy I was cagier. I bobbed, weaved, feinted, rushed in suddenly—and got the same result, except that when I landed I couldn’t see the room any more. It was spinning around dizzily, crazily, and I knew I couldn’t get up. I was as good as out—and both Dot and I were trapped. Me, the tough guy, the champ! I’d failed Dorothy in the pinch.

  WHEN I finally came out of it, everything had quieted down. The room was full of people now, and Aunt Agatha was standing over me, a look of concern on her face. When she saw I was coming out of it, she smiled roguishly.

  “Are you comfy, Jimmie?” she asked sweetly. Then, when she saw the expression on my face, she laughed aloud. “You may call me Aunt Dorothy, dear boy. Isn’t that lovely?”

  The old woman was Dot—Dot dressed in Aunt Agatha’s clothes! She pulled off the white wig now, shook her own lovely hair free.

  “After I let the old dame take me prisoner, Jim,” she explained, “I noticed the wig she was wearing—which suggested some interesting angles. So, when we arrived here and I found we were momentarily alone, I went to work on her. The whole outfit was a fake. It was simply a disguise to conceal the true head of the spy combine—because she’s the head man! She only uses that Aunt Agatha get-up for outside work. So I left her in the corner to sleep it off while I called the Bureau for reinforcements, then dressed in her outfit to greet the expected visitors.” She nodded to the two handcuffed men sitting on the sofa—the same two she’d been fighting when I broke in. “The outfit fooled them before, so it fooled them again. So, while my men remained hidden, I got the whole story from them—before they became suspicious and jumped me.”

  “Did we have the right dope?” I asked.

  “Just about. Auntie met these two agents in Florida, told them to report to this hotel tonight for their papers. Meantime, holding their papers, she selected two unattached, wandering hoboes and played fairy godmother to them—even destroying their old soiled clothes and buying them new outfits that couldn’t be traced.