Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Sheila Ray! What a nice name,” Sandra said.

  “There’s nothin’ nice about her,” Danny said. “She gets by on her looks and,” he eyed Sandra appreciatively, “you could give her eight to five odds there. But if it wasn’t for her—uh—curves, her voice wouldn’t get her a job callin’ trains in Winapausaukee, North Dakota. She drools songs into a mike, and had the top spot on the show til I come in. Then she got second billing. She stayed.”

  “Do you have any proof that she rewired your duck gadget,” Flamond asked.

  “Not an eye-ota,” Danny admitted. “But it sure killed my big laugh.”

  “I think somebody’s interested in killing more than laughs, Mr. Dole,” Flamond said. “We’ll catch your act tonight and then talk things over after the show.”

  “Fine,” Danny beamed. “I’ll see you get a ringside table. And don’t worry about the tab. It’s on me.” He swaggered out of the office as quickly as he had come in.

  “Well?” Sandra shrugged her shoulders.

  “Find out who owns the Club Lisetta,” Flamond asked.

  “I already know. Gus Klumb.” Flamond rubbed his chin. “That name sounds familiar.”

  “It doesn’t,” Sandra protested. “Why don’t you come right out and ask me what I know about him? He’s not one of our sterling citizens but his club is extra-lush and the best people go to it to see the best night-spot shows and eat the best food—at the biggest prices.” She hesitated. “It’s sultra-swank. You’re supposed to dress. And it’s four o’clock now and my hair’s a sight.”

  “Danny Dole didn’t seem to mind,” Flamond grinned.

  “It isn’t Danny Dole I’ll be trying to impress tonight,” Sandra answered. “You can pick me up about seven o’clock.”

  She was already at the clothes closet, putting on her coat.

  The Club Lisetta would look better out front, with soft-tinted lights playing on the room. Backstage, though, would never look any better than this. Cracked plaster. Unshaded light bulbs. Penciled notations on the walls. Narrow halls leading to small dressing rooms. Danny Dole’s dressing room had a gold star on the door and it had a lavatory. Aside from that, it was like all the others.

  Gus Klumb, owner of the Club Lisetta, sat on the dressing room table, and there wasn’t any room to spare. It wasn’t that Gus was fat; he was big. His made-to-order cigars were super-king size, and they accentuated his hugeness. He rolled one to the corner of his mouth how.

  “You gonna be funny tonight, Dole?” he asked.

  Danny didn’t look around from the makeup mirror. “I ain’t had any complaints ‘til I hit this beanery,” he said.

  “At these other places, they must have been giving away dishes. Or maybe having bank nights. We ain’t got fifty reservations for the dinner show.”

  Danny sighed. “The word gets around when you clip the customers,” he said Gus Klumb took the cigar from his mouth and looked at it. “When I pay a comedian fifteen hundred dollars a week, I expect to get crowds. That’s the idea of putting out that kinda money. You don’t want a drawing card, you get a hundred dollar comic.”

  “I only been here two weeks,” Danny said hopefully. “Folks’ll get wise. Business’ll build.”

  “Get wise to how you kick your material around?” Klumb demanded.

  “It’s not me,” Danny argued. “I got nothin’ to do with the things that’s been happenin’.”

  “Maybe not,” Klumb admitted. “But if they aren’t your fault, you’re not able to take care of yourself very well, are you?”

  “I’ve got a contract for ten weeks—an air-tight contract. That’s not takin’ care of yourself so bad.”

  Klumb eyed his cigar. “Suppose I throw you out and refuse to pay off?”

  Danny looked at the club owner for the first time. “Your joint’d be closed in two hours. You couldn’t get a band or an act. You can maybe shove people around, but you’re not big enough to get tough with a union contract.”

  “Suppose you leave,” Klumb suggested. “Suppose you jump the contract?”

  “You’ve got a different script from mine.”

  “I’ve got some wonderful friends,” Klumb said. “They think the world of me.”

  “What about ’em?” Danny started to turn back to the mirror.

  “They don’t like people who give me bum deals,” Klumb said coldly. “Sometimes they get sore about it. And when they get mad, they do funny things—a lot funnier things than you do in your act.”

  “Funny things like tryin’ to kill a comedian’s laughs?”

  “No,” Klumb shook his head. “Like tryin’ to kill a comedian, period.”

  Danny tried to look tough, but he wasn’t that good an actor. He was trying to think of something to say when a knock came on his door.

  “Come in,” Klumb muttered, and there was Sheila Ray. She was wearing a bare-midriff evening gown, but the bare part of her somehow managed to be the least suggestive. The curves were all high-lighted, and they hadn’t been bad curves to start with. Her henna rinse was all right, too, and the make-up job was the kind worn only by headliners. She smiled at Klumb and then turned to Danny.

  “Joe said to tell you that you go on five minutes early for the dinner show tonight, Danny,” she said insolently.

  “Why?” Danny demanded.

  “Not for an encore for your act, that’s for sure,” Sheila said. “If you’ve got any beefs, talk to him.” She started to leave and Klumb reached out his hand, the cigar still in it.

  “Hey,” she protested. “Don’t get that dirty old cigar on this dress.”

  “Don’t you worry about my cigars,” Klumb said. “How come you’re bringing Danny a message about going on early?”

  “Why—” She was startled. “Joe asked me.”

  “You’re doin’ what the head-waiter says now?”

  “I was only coming backstage anyway, Gus.”

  “To Dole’s dressing room?” Klumb demanded.

  Sheila laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Gus. If you were—say, what’s eating you, anyway?”

  Klumb lifted his bulk from the table and it was a slow, laborious process. He put the cigar back into his mouth and grabbed the girl by the arm.

  “How long were you standing outside that door before you knocked,” he demanded. “Answer me!”

  “Hey, you big ape,” she protested. “Let go of my arm.”

  “I’ll break it off, you go trying any funny stuff. One bum comedian’s enough for this place. What did you hear?”

  “Ouch!” she winced. “I didn’t hear anything. Honest.”

  “Honest,” he laughed. “That’s very good from a tramp like you. What did you hear?”

  “Nothing,” she insisted. “And ease up on my arm. You’ll have it black and blue. What do you want me to say?”

  Suddenly Klumb let go of her arm, spinning her around in the process. “I want you to say exactly what you just said, kid—nothing.”

  The girl looked indignantly at Danny Dole. “If there were any gentlemen around here,” she began.

  “There ain’t,” Klumb said. “And no ladies, either. Now, get outta here.”

  She got, slamming the door behind her.

  Klumb turned back to Danny Dole, grinning, but the grin froze on his face. Danny had a neat little .32 revolver in his hands.

  “What’re you doing with that thing?” the club owner said. “You think you can get tough with me, you little—”

  “No bad words, please,” Danny admonished. “I wouldn’t dream of hurting the goose that’s laying the golden eggs. But you said something about friends before we were interrupted—friends of yours who do funny things. I got a great little gag for them, Klumb. They’ll die laughing.”

  “You wouldn’t have the nerve to pull the trigger on that thing if it was loaded with blanks,” Klumb said.

  “If any of these friends of yours want odds on that one, just send them around,” Danny offered. “And now, if you’ll ge
t out of here, I have to get ready to do a show.”

  Klumb backed out of the room. All the way down the hall he kept his head slightly turned. “Comics are all crazy,” he muttered. “A guy like that could do almost anything.” He ducked his head to go through the door leading to “out front,” and a little smile lit his face. Business wasn’t good, but at least eighty tables were filled and the waiters were rushing back and forth with trays of drinks. The ringside tables, reserved for parties of four or more, were all filled except one. Klumb frowned. What did Joe mean, giving a couple a table like that? Joe needed talking to, anyway. Joe was probably getting a fast double-sawbuck out of it and Klumb would get half the normal take of the table. He ambled toward the back of the club, looking for the head-waiter.

  Sandra Lake, at the table in question, was enjoying herself. “Flamond,” she said, “I wish we’d get a client like Danny Dole at least once a week. You know, you’re not half bad when you relax and forget to work at being a character analyst and psychologist.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, Sandra,” he smiled, “but I’m not relaxing. This is a job.”

  “But a light one.” Flamond frowned.

  “You mean you took that egocentric little comedian seriously?” Sandra was incredulous.

  “I’m afraid I did,” Flamond admitted. Then he grinned. “All right,” he said, “your evening gown’s a knockout.”

  “Not as flashy as the singer’s, maybe,” Sandra said, “but—say, speaking of the singer, she wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected, after what Danny Dole told us. “Maybe Danny’s jealous of her instead of the other way around. We haven’t seen his act yet.”

  The chorus danced off the floor to loud applause and the orchestra went into an exaggerated fanfare which built up and up and then stopped abruptly. A funny little man took quick, mincing steps to the center of the floor and then drew himself to a halt with a long, slow step.

  “I was right,” Sandra whispered. “I knew that was an entrance he made in our office this afternoon.”

  “Shh,” Flamond hissed, and all over the room, noise diminished. The little man in the spotlight blinked and smiled. Finally, the room was absolutely still. Danny Dole heaved a big sigh and an expansive smile lit up his face. All the customers smiled in unconscious imitation of the comedian.

  “Welcome,” he said. “Welcome to the Club Lisetta—the Club Lisetta where you pay plenty for what you getta. Such happy faces. Wait ‘til you get your checks.” He eyed a couple being seated at a table far back. “Waiter,” he called, “waiter! Bring that young couple a bottle of the best imported vintage champagne—the twenty-two-fifty stuff.”

  “Yes, m’sieu,” the waiter called.

  The crowd applauded. Everyone watched the waiter run up to the table with a bottle of champagne.

  “And waiter,” Danny called, “put it on this man’s bill over here.” He pointed toward another table.

  Danny visited with people in the audience. He burlesqued the earlier acts in the show. He grabbed a trumpet from one of the band boys and began doing bugle calls. “That last one,” he said, “—you know what that was? The Hunt. You know—the Hunt. Yerks! Yerks! This is the Brooklyn Hunt Club. Imagine dem bums chasin’ a little fox. I’m not a fox man, myself. I’m a duck man.”

  “This is it,” Sandra whispered. Flamond looked toward the high dimly lit ceiling of the room.

  “Yes, I’m a duck man,” Danny said. “One day I’m blind—no, that’s another day. I’m out in the blind . . . waitin’ for the ducks to fly over. From the north, I see a flock of fifty ducks headin’ south. They’re southern ducks. I know they’re southern ducks because I hear ’em quackin’ as they get closer—quack, quack you . . . quack, quack you-all. I pull my shotgun out of my pocket. I can carry it there because the pocket has a hole in it. I get down on one knee, just like Jolson. I put the gun to my shoulder.”

  The comedian went through an amazing bit of pantomime. Without any props, he made his audience see this funny little man in a duck blind. He had difficulties loading the shotgun and the audience suffered with him. The gun kept sliding down from his shoulder and he kept hoisting it back up. He got all ready to shoot.

  “And then,” he said, “I remembered the old adage: never shoot into a flock of ducks ‘til you can see the whites of their—eyes. I wait. The ducks get closer. The time is ripe. I pull the trigger.”

  A chair clattered on the night club floor. Sandra Lake screamed simultaneously with the crash of the chair, because she was sitting on it and Flamond had pushed it over. Amazed spectators heard a terrific crash and a few of them saw something plummet right through the top of the table. Splintering china added to the noise.

  The audience came to life. Women screamed. Men stood on chairs to try to see what had happened. People began edging up to the badly wrecked table.

  Danny Dole was the first to make it. “What was it,” he gasped. “I heard the crash and—”

  He stooped over and tugged to lift what he found on the floor. “That’s a swell gag, that is,” he said. “Switchin’ my feather-stuffed duck for one made of lead. Why, this thing must weigh close to twenty-five pounds.”

  Josef, the head-waiter, was at Danny’s elbow, out of breath. “And it was not attached to any wire, m’sieu,” he said.

  Sandra Lake was still sprawled on the floor. “Hey,” she demanded, “isn’t somebody going to help me up?”

  “Sandra—” Flamond was apologetic. “I saw the thing coming and I had to get you out of the way. You—you’re hurt!”

  “My ankle,” Sandra admitted. “I tried to twist out of the chair when it tipped and—”

  Flamond turned to the head-waiter. “Isn’t there somewhere we can take her?”

  “Yes, m’sieu.” Josef bobbed his head. “Down to M’sieu Klumb’s office. I can call a doctor if you like.”

  “We’ll see first if that’s necessary. Whoever tried to murder her is going to need one, anyway.”

  Josef was visibly shaken. “Murder? M’sieu, please—the other people—you must not—”

  “Never mind what I must do. Take her arm, on the other side. And be quick about it.”

  Josef was quite quick, all things considered. Danny Dole led the way down the narrow stairway and knocked on Gus Klumb’s door. There was no answer.

  “Open it,” Flamond ordered. “But, m’sieu,” Josef protested.

  “Open the door, Dole,” Flamond insisted. Danny opened it and Flamond and Josef let Sandra down onto a red leather davenport.

  “Say,” she said, “this is all right. And I certainly learned something tonight.”

  “That going to night clubs is dangerous?” Flamond suggested.

  “No,” she grinned, “that interfering with a comedian’s laughs is serious business.”

  “I don’t get it,” Danny shook his head. “Maybe I do,” Flamond said. “Josef, why did you seat us at the particular table we occupied?”

  “What?” Josef seemed astonished at the question. “Why, M’sieu Dole told me to.”

  “I didn’t mean any particular table,” Danny said. “You know I didn’t. I just said, a good one. Ringside.”

  “And the other ringside tables were all taken,” Josef smiled. “As you knew, if you took the trouble to look over my reservation chart.”

  “Did you see his chart?” Flamond asked Danny.

  “No. I didn’t even know he had one.”

  “He did not see the chart to my knowledge,” Josef admitted. “It was Miss Ray who—”

  Danny looked gleeful. “Who what?”

  “She said M’sieu Klumb had ordered this table for M’sieu Doles’ guests,” the head-waiter said.

  A throaty feminine voice blasted in from the hall. “I heard that one, Josef,” Sheila Ray yelled, charging in. “You’re gettin’ the habit of listening in on other people’s conversations, ain’t you?” Danny sneered.

  Sheila wasn’t bothered, except to see that her dress was still tight in the right places.
“Listening looks like a healthy thing to do around this place,” she observed.

  “How about it, Miss Ray?” Flamond asked. “Did you tell Josef that Gus Klumb had ordered that table for us?”

  The singer forgot to be dignified.

  “You’re not pinning this onto me, you bum!” she shouted.

  Danny grabbed her by the shoulder. “You hated my guts because I was getting top billing and top dough. You’ve been pulling stuff on me ever since I came into this joint.”

  Sheila started to tell him off and then regained her composure. “I’m not denying that I told Josef about the table,” she said.

  Sandra was startled. “You admit it? But what could you possibly have against me? Why, you don’t even know me. And if Flamond hadn’t kicked my chair over, I’d have been killed by that lead duck.”

  Sheila nodded in agreement. “You’re forgetting one thing, sister—one awfully important thing, I told Josef what Gus Klumb had told me to tell him. I remember, Gus told me to tell Josef it was very important Danny’s guests should get that table.”

  Josef rubbed his forefinger along the side of his nose. “It is funny, that,” he said, “very funny—that M’sieu Klumb is not around, with all this excitement.”

  “Say, that is kinda queer,” Sheila agreed. “I haven’t seen him, either.”

  “The last time I saw him,” Josef remembered, “was when we were bringing this young lady down here. He was across the room.”

  “Flamond was surprised. “He must still be upstairs, then. He wouldn’t dare try to get away. Go up and tell him—”

  A faint tap on the window stopped his sentence. Josef hadn’t heard it. “M’sieu,” he asked, “do you have a revolver?”

  This was one of Flamond’s pet phobias. “I never carry one,” he said. “A gun is a sign of weakness. It’s an admission that you aren’t able to handle things with your head. It—”

  “Flamond’s scared to death of firearms,” Sandra explained.

  Again, the tapping on the window.

  This time, it was loud enough to get everybody’s attention. Sandra walked over to the window and tugged at the lowered shade, disregarding a warning from Flamond. Danny Dole gripped the revolver in his pocket as the window shade snapped up.