Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “As I was saying,” he said meaningfully, “I told Lindfors—”

  When he finished the story, Mark laughed dutifully and got to his feet. It was six-thirty, time to be leaving for his appointment with Linda. He said a general good-by and sauntered out of the room, aware that Neelan was watching him with smoldering resentment.

  Downstairs he made a few calls about the beat. There was an accident in another district, but it didn’t seem very serious. He met Cabot as he was leaving, and told him that nothing was stirring.

  “Fine,” Cabot said, screwing a cigarette into his holder. He was two hours late, which was about standard for him. “I was out to see my boy this afternoon,” he said. “They’re trying a new gadget on him this week. Some kind of electrical stimulation. Sounds very hopeful.”

  Cabot’s son was in a home for incurables with paralysis of the spine. It wasn’t likely anything could ever be done for him. “Well, that’s fine,” Mark said. “Hope you get good news on it.”

  He told Cabot he was going to be gone for an hour or so, and left the District.

  Upstairs, Neelan watched the clock. He knew that Brewster was on his way to see Linda. Irritable and moody, he sucked on his dead cigar and brooded about that meeting. Also, he did some thinking about Espizito. He’d have to call that fellow tonight. Neelan ran a hand through his hair. One minute things were beautiful; the next it was all a mess.

  Smitty strolled over to him and put a smile on his face. “Neelan, I’m sorry I yapped off. Let’s forget it, eh?”

  “Sure, sure,” Neelan said.

  “And while it’s none of my business, I think you’ve got a wrong slant on Brewster. He’s a good guy, you’ll find.”

  Neelan hurled his cigar onto the floor and came to his feet with amazing speed. “Why don’t you mind your own business?” he said in a trembling voice.

  Smitty had plenty of guts, but something in Neelan’s eyes made him uncertain. He shrugged, said, “Okay, if that’s the way you want it,” in a careful voice, and walked over to the windows and looked into the street.

  Neelan glared at his stiff back for a moment before picking up his hat and striding out of the room.

  Sergeant Odell looked at Lindfors and Gianfaldo. They shrugged; Lindfors turned his palms up, and Gianfaldo stared at the ceiling. Odell frowned at his hands for a few seconds, and then, sighing, lifted his considerable bulk from his chair and went over to the Lieutenant’s office. He knocked and went in, closing the door.

  “Boss, we got a little personal problem outside,” he said. “Neelan just blew his top at Smitty. Things like that can get out of hand pretty fast, you know.”

  Ramussen leaned back in his chair, and his eyes were bright and hard. “What’s bothering Neelan, Sergeant?”

  Odell shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s just touchy, I guess.”

  “Would you imagine that he’s worrying about that shooting last night?”

  “Why should he?” Odell said.

  “I’m asking the questions,” Ramussen said, and smiled.

  “No, I don’t think he is,” Odell said, relaxing slightly. “It’s no novelty for him to shoot somebody.”

  Ramussen stood and paced the floor behind his desk. There was a thoughtful expression on his face. “You know, Sergeant, the loyalty police officers have for each other is a very uncritical emotion. It’s like love, in that respect.”

  “I don’t know that I get you, sir,” Odell said.

  “Well, it’s not profound, God knows,” Ramussen said. He sat down again and picked up a report. “Let me know if anything like this happens again.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Downstairs, Neelan walked into the brightly lighted roll-call room and found it empty. He turned into the House Sergeant’s office, where Sergeant Brennan, a calm elderly man, was typing out his duty sheets.

  “That reporter go out?” he said.

  “Cabot or Brewster?”

  “Brewster.”

  “He was using the phone outside in the hall a few minutes ago. If he’s not there, I expect he’s gone. Cabot’s outside on the steps with the turnkey:”

  Neelan cursed pointlessly and walked back into the roll-call room, then strode down the corridor toward the stairs that led up to the Detective Division. The front door of the station-house banged open and a detective named Senesky from Germantown came in and waved to him. Senesky was a frail, white-haired man in his middle sixties, and Neelan had always thought him a bore. “What y’say, boy?” Senesky said.

  They met at the foot of the stairs and shook hands. “Speak of the devil,” Senesky said. “We were talking about you just yesterday, out at the Forty-first.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “You know, the boys out there, and that reporter, Mark Brewster.”

  Neelan studied him carefully. “What were the boys saying?”

  “We were talking about that fellow you killed, that Dave Fiest.”

  “How did Brewster happen to be out there?”

  Senesky scratched his head. “Damned if I know’,” he said at last. “He just dropped in—around noon, it was.” He laughed and patted Neelan’s arm. “You don’t take any chances with these bums, do you, Barny? Why the hell should you? That’s what I kept telling ’em yesterday.”

  “And what were they telling you?” Neelan said dryly. Senesky looked embarrassed. “You know how the talk goes,” he said. “Doesn’t mean a damn thing, I always say.” He moved toward the steps. “Nice seeing you again, Barny. I got some papers to give Ramussen. He upstairs?”

  “Yeah, he’s upstairs,” Neelan said, and took hold of the older man’s arm. “But let’s finish our talk. The boys think I shouldn’t have shot Fiest, eh?”

  “No, not by a damn sight,” Senesky said hurriedly. “Who was doing all the talking?”

  “Well, you know how Spiegel is,” Senesky said. “He’s mad at something all the time. Nothing anybody does is ever right according to him. You know how he is, Barny.”

  “Yeah, I know how he is,” Barny said. Spiegel, Neelan thought. The tough and lippy Yid. “What did Brewster have to say?”

  “Nothing at all that I remember,” Senesky said. “He just listened.”

  And now he’s listening to Linda, Neelan thought. He’d have to put a stop to that habit of Brewster’s.

  He released Senesky’s arm. “Take it easy, pal.”

  “Yeah, see you around, boy,” Senesky said, and went clattering up the stairs gratefully.

  NEELAN wandered back to the roll-call room. Frowning and unwrapping a cigar. He stood for a moment staring at the pictures of the dead policemen, who smiled across eternally at the bench of Justice. Why in the name of God did cops always get their pictures taken smiling? What the hell was so funny?

  He took a nickel from his pocket and tossed it up and down in his palm a few times. Then, sighing, he walked to the phone and dialed Espizito’s club.

  The man who answered said Espizito was busy. Neelan gave him his name, and a moment later Mike Espizito’s soft, pleasing voice was in his ear.

  “Hello, there, Barny. How’s the boy?”

  “Fine. You called, “I understand. What’s up?”

  “I’d like to talk to you tonight, if you’re not busy.”

  “I’m working four to twelve, you know.”

  Espizito laughed good-humoredly. “I keep late hours too. Supposing you stop by for a drink when you finish. Okay?”

  “Sure, Mike.” Neelan studied the receiver, a grim little smile on his lips. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Excellent.” The phone clicked in his ear.

  Chapter Eight

  HER NAME WAS PRINTED ON A WHITE CARD IN A brass frame: Linda Wade. Mark pressed the button beside it, and the inner door lock clicked immediately. He stepped into a large paneled foyer that was decorated with pots of ivy and several old-fashioned hunting prints.

  A door on his left opened. Linda Wade, in black slacks and a white silk blouse, smiled at him, and said: “
Come in, please. I’ve always heard that reporters were erratic, but you’re right on time.”

  His first impression was that she was smaller than he’d remembered her; but then, as he followed her into the apartment, he noticed that she was wearing moccasins.

  The living room was high-ceilinged, spacious, and bright with colorful print drapes and white string rugs. There was a record-player in one corner, and beside it, a bookcase full of albums. Music was playing now, a medley of show tunes.

  She took his hat into another room and came back a moment later with a coffee tray and a plate of cookies. “Please sit down,” she said. “This is all I have before my first show, so I thought we might share it. Or would you rather have a drink?”

  “No, thanks, the coffee will be fine.”

  She poured their coffee and said: “A non-drinking, punctual reporter. You’re shattering all my illusions, Mr. Brewster.”

  Mark realized that she was making small-talk, trying to put him at his ease. He must be making a dapper impression, he thought.

  “Reporters are getting to be a pretty prosaic bunch,” he said, taking the coffee from her. “Nothing like the old days, you understand, with great scoops and great drinking bouts going on between editions. Anyway, that’s the solemn story we get from the old-timers at the office.”

  She smiled at him. “You mean, it’s like the old line—the fishing isn’t as good as it used to be—and it never was.”

  “Exactly.” He sipped his coffee, and he noticed that she was very assured and poised. Also, she was very lovely, he decided. Her skin was soft and fresh, and her lace even in repose was good-humored and friendly. “I think we have a mutual friend, Miss Wade,” he said. “Barny Neelan.”

  “Oh, certainly. I’ve known him four or five months now.”

  “He works at the Division I usually cover, but he hasn’t been there long. I don’t know him too well.”

  Linda sipped her coffee, then smiled. “I like him. He’s the diamond-in-the-rough type. His bark is worse than his bite, if you’ll let me exhaust all my clichés in one burst.”

  “I get the general idea,” Mark said. “One of the boys was telling me he’s having a rough time financially. That’s too bad, if it’s true.”

  “I think it might be,” Linda said. “But he told me last night that he won’t be paying alimony any more, and he seemed sure that would make a big difference.”

  “Things have improved for him, then?”

  “I suppose you might put it that way.” She regarded him curiously. “I’m not sure I understand this. Did you come here to talk about me or about Barny?”

  “You, of course. We just got off on a tangent. Supposing we talk about you now.”

  She seemed uncertain, but began talking, telling him the sort of things she had undoubtedly told interviewers on dozens of occasions.

  She’d been born and raised in Davenport, Iowa, had gone to the State University, where she had sung in the glee club and with several small bands. Her father had taught music in a high school in Rock Island, which was just across the river from Davenport, and had helped train her voice. He hadn’t liked her style very much, but eventually became resigned to the fact that she simply wouldn’t ever be a coloratura soprano. When he died, she’d gone to Chicago, where she got her first break in radio. That had been two years ago, and she was still delighted and slightly amazed by her good luck.

  “Can you remember all of this?” she said. “You’re not taking notes.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Where did my father teach school?” she said. “What?”

  She put her cup down. “I’m not so naive as you apparently think,” she said. “You’re not a bit interested in me. You’re interested in Barny, aren’t you?”

  Mark started to protest, but suddenly found himself sick of the deception. “Yes, I’m interested in Neelan.” His abrupt candor put her off balance. She looked puzzled.

  “I don’t understand at all. Why would you come to me to find out about Barny? Why not talk to him?”

  “That’s just not a very practical idea,” Mark said dryly. “And you’re his girl, aren’t you? I thought you might be a good lead.”

  “I think you’d better leave,” she said. She stood up, and there was an eloquent finality in. every line of her slim body.

  “Aren’t you curious about my interest in Neelan?” Mark said.

  “Not in the least.”

  “Barny Neelan is a murderer,” Mark said.

  The words were brutal and stark in the cheerful room. Linda moved one hand slowly to her throat.

  “You’re not serious,” she said.

  “That’s not my idea of a funny line,” he said. He leaned forward and met her eyes directly. “I’m sorry if I shocked you. I didn’t mean to. But the facts are these: last night Neelan shot and killed a gambler named Dave Fiest. He shot Fiest in the back, without any credible provocation.”

  “He—he tried to escape,” Linda said.

  “Sure, sure, that’s Neelan’s story. But Fiest had money on him when he was shot, a lot of it. And that was gone when the other cops got to the scene.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” She picked up a cigarette and lighter from the coffee table. Her voice was strained. “Why—why don’t you go to the police?”

  “Neelan is the police,” Mark said. “That complicates things, you see. If he weren’t a cop, I’d take my story to the Lieutenant at the Division, and he’d carry on from there. But I can’t go to him with the same story about Neelan.”

  “Why not?”

  “You probably won’t understand. But cops are very sensitive about having other cops called murderers.”

  SHE sat down and tucked her feet beneath her in an oddly little-girl gesture. He felt slightly sorry for her, as she stared at the smoke curling from her cigarette. “Well, why are you making it your business?”

  “That’s a good question,” he said. “Maybe I want to be a hero, like the reporters in movies. I don’t know; but it’s something I’ve got to do. I can’t sit still and let Neelan get away with this. I’d like to skip it, let it go merrily to the devil, but I just can’t. Did you ever have that experience?”

  “No,” she said shortly. She had recovered her poise now, and was more defiant. “How do I know there’s any truth in what you’re telling me? I don’t think Barny would commit a cold-blooded murder; and if you knew him, you’d understand why. He’s sullen at times, and easily hurt and moody, but that doesn’t make him a criminal. He’s lonely, and he feels—oh, I don’t know—that he doesn’t belong anywhere.”

  “He belongs in jail.”

  “This is preposterous,” Linda said angrily. “What did you expect to find out from me? Did you think I’d have the stolen money tucked away in the bosom of my dress? Or that I’d help you lay some sort of trap for Barny?”

  Mark shrugged. “I hardly know what I hoped to find out. At any rate, I loused things up neatly.” He glanced at her, frowning. “I can’t make up my mind about you.”

  “No one asked you to.”

  “I know, but it’s intriguing, anyway. I can’t figure out which one of you is real: The Midwestern kid with the nice father, or Neelan’s girl.”

  LINDA rose—more decisively this time if that were possible, and walked to the door. “Will you go now, or shall I call Barny and tell him you’re here and won’t leave?”

  “I’ll go,” he said.

  “I’m delighted,” she said, and brought him his hat.

  “There’s just one thing,” Mark said. “Has Neelan given you anything to keep for him? Any kind of a package?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you if he had.”

  “Meaning, I take it, that he hasn’t. Very well.” Mark took his bat and she opened the door. “There’s still one more thing, though.”

  She looked up into his eyes, a faint smile on her lips. “I can guess what that is. You’re going to ask me not to tell Neelan you were here.”

  “Tha
t’s right. You must be psychic.”

  “I just knew you’d be afraid of him.”

  “Of course I’m afraid of him,” Mark said shortly. “That’s logical, isn’t it? I think he’s a murderer. And I’m afraid of murderers. It’s something Freudian, I suppose.”

  He walked out, and she closed the door and stood with her back to it a moment, listening to the quick beat of her heart . . .

  Her first number went badly that night. She sat at her dressing-table afterward, smoking a cigarette and hating Mark Brewster thoroughly and completely. Why had he done this to her? Irritably she freshened her make-up, and decided as she studied her pale cheeks that she’d tell Barny about it, and ask him to make Brewster leave her alone. This was a situation he could handle perfectly.

  A bus boy stopped by to tell her she was wanted on the phone. She walked down the corridor to the booth and picked up the receiver. It was Barny, and she was unexpectedly glad to hear his voice.

  “Are you busy now?” he asked.

  “No, I just finished my first set. I was hoping you’d call?”

  “Were you?” He was surprised and pleased. “That’s wonderful, Linda,” he said, and felt a slight pang at his dependence on her casual moods.

  “Could I pick you up in about ten minutes?” he asked. “It’s important. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “All right, Barny. I’ll meet you in front of the club.”

  “That’s fine, kid.”

  She was standing under the canopy with a wrap over her bare shoulders when he pulled up in his car.

  “You got time for dinner now?” he said, as they drove away.

  “No, and I’m not really hungry.”

  “Well, how about a drink?”

  “No, thanks, Barny. I think I’d just rather drive for a while, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a headache.”

  “Here, I’ll put my window down. The fresh air will help.”

  “Thanks.”

  He drove out the Parkway and along the river, and there was a pleasant smell of leaves and water in the air. “How did the interview go?” he asked.