Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  The voice continued, just like I knew it would, as if it were something unreal, beyond control. I knew I could never stop it. But I gave no sign to that opposite bunk.

  It said, “Gees, it was funny. That copper was sneaking around to get us from the back. Maybe he was more surprised than I was. I don’t know. His shot went by my ear. I swung at him with my gun but he grabbed my wrist and I dropped it. Me, I got a knee into his belly but he was a dumb flatfoot—dumb and tough. The dumber they are the tougher they are. That’s what I always say.”

  THAT is what he did always say.

  Somehow, I’d been listening just hoping this time he would forget that line. He didn’t. It was always the same. The dumber they are the tougher . . .

  “He stayed up,” the voice went on. “He tried to bring his gun up level. I grabbed it and we wrastled around. Then I put my shoulder into him and smacked him back against the wall so his head banged it and bounced. It was just as he slapped me over the ear with his billy and I couldn’t see straight.” That dry laugh again. “Gees, when his head hit that wall it made a sound like when you slap a big watermelon to see if it’s ripe.”

  It always had to be a watermelon. Always had to start me going inside, wondering how a big thick slice of watermelon would taste now. They don’t feed you watermelon in State Prison.

  I didn’t move an inch, but the voice picked it up again. You’d think he’d get tired, never getting an answer, never a “Yeah” or “Ya don’t mean that.” But not him. Him and his voice, they never get tired.

  “So he goes down,” the voice went on. “I jumped over him and starts up the alley. Gees, I’m running like a guy on a ten-day drunk. He sure clipped me a tough one with that blackjack. Inside that bank, it sounds like somebody’s bowling with hand grenades. Ever’thing’s blowing off.

  “Right then, I wouldn’t of bet a five-cent slug on my chances. But just as I get to the front of the alley, Links goes running down the steps of the bank, holding in his guts with his hands. He ain’t got a prayer but he’s running, running crazy, this a-way and that, like a chicken with his head cut off. And they can’t seem to hit him, them cops who’re shooting. He gets across the street and flops behind a car there. And some of the cops begin to move out, spreading, to come around both ends of that car. So ever’body is watching that and I slip outa the alley and around the corner with nobody noticing. That’s where we got a second car planted just in case something went wrong with the getaway. See how smart we was? See?”

  I didn’t answer him yes or no. I gave him nothing.

  “Some dumb Joe sticks his—head—outa the door of a store and starts to yell. But I hit him over the head with my gun—I’d been smart enough to grab it up after I laid out the copper in the alley—and shuts him up. Bingo, like that. Then I jumps in the car and gets the hell outa there.

  “Well, ya know the rest. How the alarm was out. And that storekeeper’s kid is watchin’ all the time from an upstairs winda. And how he seen me leave and checks the license plate number. Ya know the rest . . .”

  I was tempted to give some sign then, to admit I did. Only I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Cod, how I knew the rest! But saying, yes, I knew it, that wouldn’t stop that voice.

  “Well,” it went on, as I knew it would, “Well, I left that burg behind me but State troopers take up the chase out on the main highway. I hit dirt side-roads. I even busted through one road-block they’d thrown up. One of the motorcycle guys on my tail, he left the road on an S-turn. It was right a’ter that it began to rain. And I came out on that macadam. There was a bridge straight ahead and I seen the county coppers waiting on that. So I tried to make it into the side road.”

  I didn’t say I saw. Maybe that voice might dry up in the throat, but it didn’t.

  “Gees, the wheels skidded out from under me on that macadam like I was on a hot greased griddle. The side of the car bounces off a big rocky bank. Then I try to straighten it out but the wheel don’t work. And there’s that big tree cornin’ right at me. Smacko—like that.

  “Only I didn’t hear it hit. Next thing I know I’m coming outa the fog and one of them State guys is saying, ‘Yeah, this must be the rat that killed the cop outside the bank.’ I wanted to laugh in his face but my head hurt so I couldn’t. And the trooper, he says, ‘Yeah, here’s the cop’s gun.’ That gives me a laugh again.

  “Well, I’m in the hospital for a few days. Then they lock me up and when I hears it’s murder, I wanta laugh some more like hell. Only it always hurts my head to laugh now. I can’t any more.”

  I COULDN’T either; I tried to. I thought it might break off that monotonous hundred-times-told tale. But I couldn’t seem to get the sound out. Something stopped me.

  The voice picked it up again with the indefatigability of a bulldog. “So they gets me inta court. That copper in the alley died all right. Fractured skull. But they can’t pin it on me; that’s what I tells myself. There was no witnesses. See? So how the hell can they tell who fractured that lousy cop’s head? They can’t; they can’t fool me; I ain’t scared a bit. Then the State trooper gets in the witness chair and he swears that when they pulled me outa the wrecked car, I had the copper’s gun in my lap. Can ya beat that?”

  I didn’t say I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have done any good. I tried not to think at all. I tried to forget how lonely I was, but that damn voice beat at me.

  “How the hell could that cop’s gun get on my lap? That’s what I wanta know. How could it? That’s what I never could figure out.”

  I had no answer for that one either; couldn’t figure it out from the first time he told me the story. Maybe there was no answer.

  “So there’s the State’s case. See? Their proof I killed that cop rested on that I had his gun when I was captured. It don’t make sense! How the hell could I get it? Ya tell me. How could I?”

  I still couldn’t answer.

  “So ya see how it is. Here I am. But it ain’t legal. Technically the State never proved I killed the cop. How could they? How could that cop’s gun get in my lap? Ya tell me.”

  My head ached. Maybe the very compulsion of that voice had caught up to me by then. I never could understand how the cop’s gun got where he said they found it.

  “So here I am,” the voice said again, bitter now, running down on a descending scale. “In for life. And I didn’t do it—I didn’t really do it—because they can’t prove I did. Ya see how it is? Ya see?”

  I almost gave a sign then. I saw his point. In our game, you didn’t do what you did unless they can hang it on you. The court ruled guilty. They said he’d done it. But they hadn’t really proven it. Because how could—

  The voice said the rest of it for me. “—could that copper’s gun got on me? Huh? You answer me that and I’ll plead guilty. But till ya show me how, I ain’t guilty. I didn’t do it—not—not—”

  The voice stopped. Then I realized one of the guards had his face glued against the grille of the door. I turned my back, saying nothing. The voice had stopped but my head ached like blazes.

  On the other side of the door, the guard turned to his companion. “You know, Bill, I think that Lasgotz is going stir-crazy—if he wasn’t screwy when he came in here. The warden oughta take him outa solitary. He’s always talking to himself . . .”

  THE END

  FRIENDLESS CORPSE

  Arthur Mann

  Introducing Lew Curry of the Daily Star, and a corpse nobody loved when it was a living man, and nobody wept over now!

  THE trunk wasn’t there when you went over,” Inspector Wolfe echoed. “But it was propped up when you came back from the cafeteria?”

  There was nothing to do but nod, and so Lew Curry nodded a thatch of brick-colored hair. The inspector’s attitude indicated that he had undoubtedly been roused from heavy sleep in the headquarters dormitory. He was unnecessarily severe and suspicious, Lew had done nothing more than observe a sizeable trunk leaning up against one of those candy and soda-water booths that jut ont
o the sidewalk from big-city buildings. Had he known it contained a body, he’d have gone about his business like a good reporter, for good reporters leave macabre discoveries like that to the patrolling police. Evidently he had made a sorrowful mistake in bringing a headquarters detail back to look at a strange trunk in a stranger place.

  “What do you do, Curry,” Sergeant Raymer asked with a strong suggestion of sarcasm, “go along Canal Street checkin’ things to see if they’re the same as when you passed last time?”

  “Lay off, Sarge!” the reporter muttered testily. His face turned as red as the hair above, and his chin jutted with rising belligerence. “I notice things, that’s all. Anybody’d notice a big trunk like that leanin’ against a candy booth—”

  “At two-thirty in the mornin’ ?” the sergeant sneered. “Sure, everybody but me an’ Webb who are assigned to patrol the area, an’ who passed there only fifteen minutes before!”

  “Well, what’s the idea of the heat an’ excitement?” Curry exclaimed and lighted another cigaret. “I did you a favor by findin’ the body before the street cleaners swept it up as garbage, Anybody’d think I bumped off the guy.”

  Inspector Wolfe cleared his throat. He peered at a preliminary report again, just delivered from downstairs by Patrolman Costigan, of the headquarters detail.

  “Curry, you got a peek this corpse, didn’t you?” he asked.

  Lew nodded.

  “And you didn’t recognize him?”

  “Nope. Should I have?”

  The Inspector shrugged. “All right. Identity is established—”

  “Who is it?” Lew asked. “I got to phone the Daily Star, After all, it’s my corpse, I found it.”

  “News will be on the slips for everybody,” the inspector said coolly. “I’m going back to sleep. The autopsy will be ready by noon, Sergeant. I think we’ll be able to support the D.A.’s indictment at that time. Good night. And Curry, thanks for finding the body.”

  Inspector Wolfe departed to resume his slumber. The sergeant and Costigan returned to their headquarters posts. Lew Curry followed in the direction of his office across the street, there to take on the duties of what ordinarily was a quiet lobster trick—midnight to 8 a.m. The slips would report one more murder—

  A patrolman had followed him into the elevator, and his hand was slapped from the push-button. The slapping hand then pushed, not G for ground, but R for roof.

  “Costigan!” Lew greeted.

  THE patrolman, recently demoted from assignments and plainclothes, nodded a florid, but sober faces. Reaching the roof, he cut off the current by pressing the red emergency button, and spoke.

  “Lew, it was a mistake not to recognize that corpse.”

  “How could I?” the reporter protested. “The face was purple . . . eyes closed . . . mouth distorted. I only peeked. Who was the stiff?”

  “A guy you lost four hundred an’ eighty bucks to Saturday night,” Costigan confided. “Hugh Maxon!”

  “Hugh Maxon!” Lew gasped. “That’s impossible. I didn’t—”

  “Shot with a thirty-eight automatic,” Costigan went on. “Plenty of identification in his pocket . . . an’ a raft of stuff, bad stuff, besides. He had a small book with a list of reporters an’ slip boys across the street who reported ambulance cases to him, along with a rough idea of collections an’ how much he paid.”

  “Well, don’t worry, Costigan,” Lew comforted. “My name wasn’t in that book.”

  “But the I.O.U. was, Lew,” the patrolman murmured, He switched on the current and pressed the G button. “Signed with your signature. That’s a lotta dough for a reporter to lose. An’ Lew, in the side pocket of his topcoat was your paper . . . this mornin’s marked ‘Office Copy.’ ”

  “But if I did it, Costigan,” Lew argued, “wouldn’t I take all that stuff out first, especially that phony I.O.U.?”

  “Inspector Wolfe said no,” Costigan whispered. “That’s what made him so ornery. He says it looks too much like a plant, an’ your noticin’ a trunk in a dark side street . . . thought you oughta know.”

  “Gee . . . thanks, Costigan.”

  “I haven’t forgot what you tried to do for me in that conduct unbecomin’ an officer case. They doubted you, but you did go to bat.”

  “Sure. Well, I didn’t want to see an innocent guy pilloried.”

  “Neither do I,” Costigan whispered. “That is . . . if . . .”

  “Costigan!” Lew chided. “You know I wouldn’t kill a guy?”

  “But you did lose the money. The I.O.U.’s dated Saturday.”

  “On Hotel Royale stationery,” Lew added. “I played some stud in a guy’s apartment. That’s another story . . . a good one, too.”

  They reached the ground floor. “Don’t worry about me, Costigan. I’m thinkin’ of the guys named in that little book. My slip boy, Tony Mascheri, an’ drunken Dave Potter, The Standard swore to jail Dave before the police did, if they caught him feedin’ ambulance-chasers again. An’ Martin Thentic, of the Gazette. He hates ambulance-chasers in general, and Hugh Maxon in particular, enough to kill. I’ve heard him say he prefers the rats across the street. See you later, Costigan, and . . . thanks for the buggy ride.”

  Lew hurried to the basement, but an elderly, dignified figure with quiet, dark eyes and a set mouth was already pawing through the batch of slips that reflected police news of the past few hours. Fights . . . contusions . . . abrasions . . . fires . . . false alarms . . . slight concussions sustained during altercation . . . auto collision, driver DOA (Dead on Arrival) . . . body recovered from river . . . unknown girl found wandering, apparently amnesia victim . . . body of man in trunk, still warm, apparently choked, identified as Hugh Maxon . . .

  “Somebody seems to have nailed your friend,” the veteran muttered, tossing the slip along the desk-like shelf. “I hear a reporter discovered the body.”

  “You’re about as funny as these slips, Martin,” Curry muttered, studying the last report. The veteran’s deep voice sounded ominous, but he was a pessimist at heart—if he had a heart. Lew said, “This news’ll make a lot of headquarters guys happy.”

  HE HASTENED from the big granite building, crossed the street and entered the tier of rooms which the city’s newspapers used as offices. They were old, rat-infested, smoky and smelly, but the police history of several generations had been telephoned from these little rooms.

  Drab and dimly-lighted, they contained a pot-stove for winter heating, a couple of desks and enough chairs for an exciting card game. The two telephones were connected to outside bells loud enough to summon a reporter from across the street, or waken him from the soundest sleep on the couch in the corner. Still another bell relayed fire signals and the extent of alarms. And on the desk wag a box of well-thumbed cards, containing the numbers and location of the city’s fire-alarm boxes.

  Heading for the third floor, two steps at a time, Lew paused at the first landing. Somebody’s telephone. He listened. It was the Gazette office—Martin Thentic’s. He was across the street. Lew opened the unlocked door and lifted the receiver. The Gazette undoubtedly wanted the slow-gaited veteran to speed it up . . .

  “Hello!” he called.

  “Hello . . . Martin Thentic?”

  “No, I’ll get him. Who’s callin’, please?”

  “Rose . . . hurry. Tell him Rose. He’ll understand. Please hurry!”

  Lew lowered the receiver. He listened for approaching footsteps. This was no ordinary call, and Martin Thentic was a widower. The voice was almost hysterical. Why would a hysterical woman be calling the suave, holier-than-thou Martin Thentic—?

  “Hello . . .”

  Lew had held the mouthpiece of the old-fashioned instrument to his chest. The resonance simulated the low pitch of the veteran reporter’s voice.

  “Martin!” the woman gasped. “This is Rose Maxon . . . they’ve killed him. They’ve killed Hugh!”

  “How . . . how do you know . . .?”

  “Some one just teleph
oned me from where you are . . . police headquarters,” she exclaimed, though lowering her voice. “They suspect a newspaperman. Martin . . . I’m half-crazy with worry.”

  “Who called you?”

  “A policeman. Said he was shot . . . and pushed into a trunk. A newspaperman found him. Martin . . . what’ll I do . . . what?”

  “Don’t do anything,” Lew said with great composure. “Meet me at nine o’clock . . .”

  “Where?”

  “What’s nearest . . . most convenient for you?”

  “What a question!” she gasped.

  “The usual . . . Liggett’s . . . Forty-ninth . . . Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  Lew replaced the receiver and ducked from the office. He rushed up to his own office, called the city desk and relayed the facts of the discovery, including his own part, though he omitted the police’s willingness to suspect a newspaperman.

  “Got any dope on him there?” the re-write man asked.

  “Yes, just a minute,” Lew replied. “Got a little stuff here in the drawer. Hold the phone.”

  He opened the drawer, and lost all interest in the facts of Hugh Maxon’s discolored life. Mechanically, he shouted, “Call you back, if I find it. You must have somethin’ in the morgue.”

  HANGING up, he stared at a corner of the drawer where the paper’s 38-caliber automatic usually rested. It was missing and, for the first time, Lew Curry began to worry. The day man had no use for it, and the night man, Mefford, had specific ideas about never removing the gun, except in emergency. And so Lew’s thoughts naturally flashed to Tony Mascheri, the slip boy, who had been lured on to Maxon’s payroll for telephoning accident cases as soon as the slips arrived.

  Lew consulted a list of telephone numbers and called Tony’s home. A sleepy, feminine voice replied. Lew explained, with apologies, that this was the office, and was Tony there.

  “No,” the wife replied. “Tony phoned just before midnight. Said he’d be detained down there. He’s not home . . . is . . . is there anything wrong?”