Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  A long rasping scream was Sheila Ray’s contribution to the scene. Dangling outside the window, his neck firmly held in a rope noose, was the corpse of Gus Klumb.

  The body swung in the breeze like a pendulum, occasionally swinging inward far enough for the shoe-tips to tap against the window pane. Sheila Ray’s scream had settled down into a continuous moan, but the others stared in mute fascination. Danny Dole broke the spell with the observation, “The rope’s tied to the railing of that little exit balcony upstairs. The other end of it, I mean.” Flamond raised the window and reached out for the dead man’s legs. On the inward swing of the pendulum, he caught them. “Well,” he asked, “doesn’t anyone have a knife?”

  Josef reached into his pocket and thrust a pocket knife toward the detective. “Here,” he said.

  “Stand up on the window ledge, reach out and cut the rope at the neck,” Flamond directed.

  Josef was white. “I—I’d rather not, m’sieu,” he said.

  Danny was less shaken. “Give it to me. I’ll do it.”

  “All right,” Flamond agreed. “You can at least help me pull his body into the room,” he added to Josef.

  Danny Dole clambered up onto the window ledge, knife in hand. Sandra had a quickly repressed impulse toward hysterical laughter at the picture of the grotesquely made up little man crawling out to cut the rope. He made it, and Flamond and Josef struggled with the huge body. Sweat stood out on their faces as the body seemed on the verge of getting away from them. Even in death, Gus Klumb was a tough customer to handle.

  Danny was back in the room, directing the procedure. “Maybe you just oughta let it drop an’ go outside an’ pick it up,” he suggested. Sheila Ray looked at him in horror. Finally, the dead man’s knees were inside the window ledge, and from then on the process of hauling him into the room became less laborious.

  “There!” Flamond sighed, as he eased the body onto the rug. They all stared at the corpse.

  “I’d never guessed he was yellow,” Sheila Ray said. “The minute it looked like he was gonna get caught, he killed himself.”

  Flamond was unbuttoning the man’s coat. “No, Miss Ray,” he said, “Klumb didn’t commit suicide. See this sharp little cut in his stiff shirtfront, right over the heart?”

  “I—yeah. But there’s no blood.” she protested. “No wound.”

  Flamond nodded. “The knife wasn’t the murder instrument,” he said. “It was the thing that forced him off the balcony after he was given that hemp necktie.”

  “But—nobody could shove that guy around,” Danny protested. “He was too big.”

  “I can’t see Gus Klumb standing still for somebody to tie a noose around his neck,” Sheila added.

  Flamond smiled, but it was a weary smile. “It’s another instance of a duck that didn’t work,” he said. “Let’s call the police.”

  Lieutenant Riordan of the homicide squad could never have held a job as a movie detective. He simply didn’t look the part. The darkly handsome, neatly dressed Irishman received his aide’s report that there were no fingerprints on the iron balcony without comment. “It looks like another gang murder,” he observed. “Tell me, Flamond—did you notice any of ‘the boys’ in the crowd upstairs?”

  “Plenty of them. Why?”

  “I’ll want a list of them. We’ll have to round them up and have a little chat with them. Not that they’ll be talkative, but somebody may make a slip!”

  Josef nodded. “Some of M’sieu Klumb’s friends were—most unsavory. And they had poured a great deal of money into the Club Lisetta.”

  “Big spenders, hm?” Riordan asked. Josef smiled. “Indeed no,” he said.

  “They seldom bothered to even tip satisfactorily. But they had put up much money to keep the club from going into bankruptcy.”

  “I don’t get it,” Riordan said, puzzled. “You say the place was losing money and yet Klumb hires a headline act at fifteen hundred dollars a week.”

  Danny stepped forward. “I’ve pulled plenty of joints out of the red,” he said. “You take a spot that’s dying on its feet and what it needs is a hypo. That’s me. I got a draw that’ll put money in the bank for any night spot.”

  “That is how M’sieu Klumb reasoned,” Josef volunteered. “He felt a big-name act would draw the big spenders.”

  “Was it working out?”

  Josef shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Instead of losing six hundred a week, there was an additional fifteen hundred dollar loss. Danny Dole’s salary.”

  Lieutenant Riordan had an idea. “Were you collecting your pay all right, Josef?”

  Josef smiled. “My pay wouldn’t make much difference. Sixty dollars a week.”

  “In times like these,” Riordan observed, “that isn’t much. I should think a head-waiter with your reputation could do a lot better than that.”

  Josef’s smile widened. “I was doing all right,” he said. “Well enough to loan M’sieu Klumb six thousand dollars.”

  “But you said the club was losing money,” Sandra protested.

  “Quite so,” Josef nodded. “The club was doing badly but I was doing very well. It doesn’t take many five and ten dollar table reservations a day to do satisfactorily.”

  Sandra turned to Flamond. “Maybe you’re in the wrong business,” she said.

  Flamond seemed preoccupied, but Lieutenant Riordan was pressing.

  “Had you had any quarrel with Klumb, Josef?” he asked.

  Josef denied any difficulty. “But it was M’sieu Klumb who instructed Sheila Ray to have me put Flamond and Miss Lake at Table 16—so she says.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Sheila snarled.

  Josef lifted his brows and gave an eloquent shrug. “You don’t believe Miss Ray?” Riordan continued.

  Josef bowed toward Sheila. “Oh, I always believe a lady. But—it is unfortunate that M’sieu Klumb is dead.”

  Danny Dole laughed. “Unfortunate or inconvenient. Me, I wouldn’t know which.”

  Sheila spun toward Danny. “I’d keep that funny mouth shut if I were in your big shoes, Danny boy.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  Sheila took her turn at smiling. “I heard· that row you had with Klumb before the dinner show.”

  “I thought you weren’t listening.” Sheila was unperturbed. “I was listening, all right. And it was quite a thing to hear.”

  Lieutenant Riordan said, quickly, “What was it, Miss Ray?”

  Sheila opened her mouth, but Danny Dole was already talking: “If you don’t keep your mouth shut, I’ll make you sorry you ever snooped around my dressing room,” he threatened.

  “Like you made Gus Klumb sorry?” she inquired sweetly. Then, turning to Riordan, “Gus tried to get Danny to tear up his contract, because Danny’s act was the prize floperoo of the year. Gus was losing money on it.”

  “That’s a lie,” Danny yelled. “He hadn’t given it a chance. In another couple of days, I’d of been packing ’em in.”

  Sheila ignored him. “Gus told the funny man here that if he didn’t quit, things would happen to him.”

  Riordan turned toward Danny. “Sure,” Danny admitted. “He threatened me. So what? I called his bluff, and that lead duck was his idea of a way to crab my act.”

  Sheila thought that was funny. “Why, you big ham,” she laughed, “do you think that lead duck took its dive just to crab your act? Just how important do you think your act is?”

  “All right, Voice of Experience,” Danny said. “I’m gettin’ mad. I’ll give you a thing or two to think about.”

  “You’d have to get it out of a book.”

  “Never mind the wise cracks,” Danny said. “Josef and Flamond and me brought Miss Lake down here. And none of us left this room ‘til Gus—till the body was found. When we left the club floor, Gus was standing across the dining room—and you were still upstairs, cracker-voice. It was after you came down here that Klumb was doing a one-way stretch.”

  Sheila was blazing. “You can’t
pin it onto me. I didn’t do it. There’s only one person who—” Her voice faltered and died.

  Flamond prompted her, without much apparent interest. “What were you going to say, Miss Ray?”

  “I—nothing. I’m afraid maybe I’ve said too much now.”

  The telephone jangled and Lieutenant Riordan picked up the receiver.

  “Hello,” he said. “Nice work, Jim. You’re positive? Fine. Thanks. No, nothing else right now.” He put the phone back in its cradle and turned to Flamond.

  “They’ve found where the lead duck came from,” he said. “It was a lawn decoration at Gus Klumb’s summer cottage up at the lake.”

  “What does that prove, except that Klumb was trying to louse up my act?” Danny demanded.

  Riordan sighed. “Nothing,” he said. “It doesn’t prove anything at all. And I’m tired. You leaving, Flamond?”

  Flamond shook his head. “I think I’ll stick around awhile, Riordan,” he said. “Your boys didn’t find the knife that jabbed the slit into Klumb’s shirtfront.”

  Danny snapped his fingers. “Say,” he said. “When you had me cut the rope—Josef pulled out a knife. I forgot to give it back to him.”

  He reached into his pocket and fished out the pocketknife. “Let me see it,” Riordan asked. Danny handed it to him and Riordan snapped open the blade. He shook his head, “Not the one,” he said.

  Sheila gulped. “How can you tell?” she asked.

  Riordan smiled. “Much larger blade on the knife that gouged Klumb’s shirt-front,” he explained. “And it was hollow-ground. That made a little curve in the incision made by the blade. This knife isn’t hollow-ground.”

  “Say,” Sheila said, “you cops figure things out, don’t you?”

  “You’re wasting your time, baby,” Danny advised her. “Flattery’s got you quite a ways, but it won’t salve over a murder.”

  “Oh, what’s the use of talking with a wise guy like you around?” Sheila said. “I’d be better off getting some shut-eye.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Josef agreed. “If it’s all right for us to leave now?”

  “Go ahead,” Riordan waved his hand. “But don’t try to get out of town or forget to come back here tomorrow.”

  Sandra Lake couldn’t keep down a feeling of fear as she followed Flamond through the deserted hallway backstage at the Club Lisetta. Shadows from the dim, unshaded bulbs distorted the place, and each footstep gave off a hollow echo.

  “I suppose Danny Dole’s dressing room will have a gold star on the door,” Flamond mumbled.

  “Danny Dole’s dressing room? What do you expect to find there?”

  “With any luck,” Flamond said quietly, “I expect to find that knife.”

  “Flamond, you surely don’t think Danny Dole—”

  “Here it is,” Flamond pointed to the gold star on the door.

  “This next dressing room,” Sandra said, “I wonder—” She walked up to it. A card pinned to the door with a thumb tack bore Sheila Ray’s name.

  Flamond opened the door to Dole’s dressing room. “Just a minute,” Sandra said. “I thought I heard something.”

  “Your imagination,” Flamond laughed. “Come on.”

  “It’s odd the door doesn’t have any lock on it,” Sandra observed.

  “Nothing odd about it. Gus Klumb wasn’t the kind of fellow who wanted his performers to have any secrets. Where the devil’s the light switch?”

  Sandra held his arm as he groped along the wall for the light switch. Suddenly there was a dull, wooden thud. Sandra gasped. “Flamond,” she whispered. “What was that?”

  Flamond swept his hand along the wall. “Somebody just threw a knife at us,” he said. “It’s sticking here in the wall.” As he ended his sentence, the door closed.

  Sandra was getting panicky. “Flamond,” she said. “The door.”

  “Forget it,” Flamond whispered. “Whoever did the knife-throwing act is gone, now. Hey—I think this is the light switch.”

  The room jumped into reality as the switch clicked. Sprawled in a corner was the unfunniest comedian either Sandra or Flamond had ever seen. Danny Dole, for the first time in his life, was completely oblivious to an audience.

  “Is he—dead?” Sandra whispered. Flamond was bending over the body.

  “He’s breathing,” he said. “Been hit over the head. A mean blow. We’ll have to get him to a doctor. But before I do anything else, I want to hide that knife.”

  “Hide it? Why?”

  “Because, from what Lieutenant Riordan said, I’d bet my last dollar it’s the same knife that was used on Gus Klumb.” The door was squeaking open again. Sandra jumped back and Sheila Ray sailed into the room. “Well,” she said. “Fancy seeing you—” Her eyes caught the inert comedian. “What’s happened to him?” she demanded. “Is he—?”

  “Never mind about him,” Flamond said. “I thought you were anxious to get some sleep. Did you change your mind?”

  “I thought I’d do a little investigating on my own,” Sheila defended herself.

  Danny moaned. He was trying to sit up. “Where am I? What happened? What—?”

  “Cut the act,” Sheila sneered. “You know where you are, all right. And you know what happened. You came here to get rid of that knife and you got trapped.”

  “Knife? What knife? I gave the knife to Riordan.”

  “I’m talking about the knife that shoved Klumb over the stair-side of the balcony,” Sheila said. “You were going to hide it, but Flamond got here too soon. You threw the knife, pulled the door shut and pretended to be knocked out.”

  “You seem to know more about what happened to me than I do,” Danny said. “How do you know the knife was thrown?”

  Sheila was frightened. “All right,” she said. “I was listening again.” Danny glared at her. “Somebody was in here when I came to lock up my stuff. I hadda keep my trunk locked, what with no lock on the dressing room door. And I got hit over the head, from behind. It felt like a blackjack.”

  Sheila wasn’t convinced. “You arranged the whole business, to keep from looking bad, you ham.”

  Danny laughed. “I never looked bad in my life,” he said indignantly.

  Sheila wasn’t to be stopped. “You knew Gus Klumb was all set to give you the old heave-ho. You’d never been bounced from a job and you figured the publicity would ruin you. And so you worked out a way to make him look like a murderer and get rid of him, at the same time.”

  “You got the brains of an underprivileged gnat,” Danny snarled. “Tell me how I could hang Gus Klumb while I was down in his office and him upstairs, and I’ll get you fifty-two weeks booking as a headliner—which would be just about as good a trick.”

  “I don’t know how you did it,” Sheila admitted, “but you figured how to drop a lead weight on somebody’s head.

  You’re crazy, anyway.” Danny had suffered enough. “Arrest her, Flamond,” he ordered. “She’s the one who told Gus Klumb to seat you and Miss Lake at the table right under the lead duck. And she didn’t show up in Klumb’s office until after Klumb was hung. It hadda be her. She’s the only one it could be.”

  Footsteps echoing along the hallway stopped him. Everyone stared toward the door as Josef entered. The headwaiter beamed.

  “So!” he said. “You have caught them. Congratulations. Have they confessed?”

  That was too much for Sandra. “Really, Josef—you could hardly accuse Danny Dole and Miss Ray of working together.”

  It wasn’t too much for Josef. “But I could,” he said. “Those spats of theirs—they are an act. Sheila was mad because he was about to be fired. The two planned a dual revenge.”

  “Now, there,” said Danny, “is a new one.”

  “And not a very good one, either,” Flamond added.

  “You don’t think so?” Josef was persistent. “Look, Danny Dole invited you and Miss Lake here. Two things had to happen for you to be the victims of the dead duck. First, you had to be invited to
the club. Second, you had to be seated at the death table. Sheila Ray gave me instructions where to seat you.”

  Flamond nodded. “Miss Ray admits giving you those instructions. And that convinces me of her innocence.”

  “What?” Josef was shocked. “She admits her guilt and—”

  “If she were guilty,” Flamond continued, “she’d never in the world have admitted giving you those instructions. She’d have denied it from hell to breakfast—and nobody could proved it, either way. The one man who had proof was already dead. It would have been your word against hers.”

  “She knows she is guilty,” Josef persisted. “Consider. The only one of us who was upstairs in the club when Klumb was murdered was Sheila Ray.”

  “Who says so?” Flamond demanded. “Who saw Gus Klumb after the lead duck crashed on our table? Only you, Josef.”

  Josef gulped. “Surely, M’sieu, you do not suspect me.”

  Flamond nodded. “I not only suspect you, Josef. I think you’re guilty as hell.”

  Josef tried to laugh. “That a slight man like myself could manhandle Gus Klumb—that is something of a compliment, M’sieu. But a fantastic compliment.

  Danny was beginning to grasp the general idea. “We’ve all been takin’ Josef’s word that Klumb was still alive when we took Miss Lane down to Gus’ office. His word!”

  Josef managed to make the smile stick. “Just how, I repeat, do you think I could manhandle Gus Klumb?”

  “Simple,” Flamond told him. “Klumb always stood over by the balcony exit to watch the acts. It was easy enough for you to get out on the balcony a few minutes before the duck incident and tie the loose end of a noose or rope around the railing.”

  “Easy as feeding ham to a comedian,” Sheila agreed.

  “Josef knew Danny Dole’s duck routine and he knew he could depend on Danny’s timing. A few seconds before the lead duck started to fall, he slipped the noose over Gus Klumb’s head from behind, and pulled toward the exit door for all he was worth. He wouldn’t have had to pull too hard, because Klumb was undoubtedly anxious to see what was happening. Once he got out on the balcony, he had a knife in his ribs—a knife that forced him right over the side of the balcony where the steps were. It was all a matter of a couple of seconds. Then Josef stepped back inside.”