Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “I didn’t feel very good either last night,” Linda said. They were both speaking very carefully.

  “Well,” Mark said, standing and glancing at his watch. “I’ve got to run along.”

  “Please don’t go yet, Mark. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

  “Why, of course.”

  “Then don’t run off like this. I want you to stay, Mark.”

  “Well, fine,” he said. He grinned at her, and she smiled back at him; and the curious tension between them dissolved.

  “He was here last night, you know,” she said.

  “What shape was he in?”

  “He was very calm for a change. He talked about himself, about the fights he’d been in, about the breaks he’d had, and so forth.” Linda nodded to an overstuffed chair. “He sat there with his head back and just talked for two solid hours.”

  “He nearly killed Laddy O’Neill earlier last night,” Mark said. “Did he mention that?”

  Linda shook her head slowly. “No, he didn’t, Mark.” She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “When is it going to stop, Mark? How long can he go on?”

  He shrugged. “Neelan’s the law. He’s committed murder and stolen twenty-five thousand dollars. Nothing’s happened about that, you’ll notice.”

  She leaned back in the couch and put the back of her hand against her forehead. “It’s all so ghastly.”

  Mark went over and sat beside her on the couch. He took one of her hands and patted it gently. “You always get a stricken look when we talk about Neelan. So let’s skip him for a while. Okay?”

  “All right. But we can’t blame my stricken look altogether on Barny. I’ve got a foul sore throat.”

  “That’s a shame. Have you done all the usual things that don’t help?”

  “Yes, so maybe it’s just nerves. I’m not sure I can sing tonight.”

  “That’s bad, eh?”

  She smiled at him. “Now you’re getting a stricken look. So let’s skip my sore throat—okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She looked down at their interlocked hands for a moment, and then looked at him, smiling. “Okay, what shall we talk about now?”

  NEELAN walked into the Division at four o’clock. Sergeant Odell nodded to him and Gianfaldo, and said hello. He sat down at an empty desk and lit a cigar, enjoying a rare sense of well-being. Despite his drinking the day before, his head was clear and his lunch was settling comfortably on his stomach.

  The time he had spent with Linda last night was a memory that he had been examining ever since with a feeling of glowing pleasure. It was the first time he’d ever felt close to her, really close. They had sat in her apartment, the first time he’d ever been there, and he’d talked to her about the important things in his life. They were big moments to him, and it did him good to tell Linda about them. That was how people got close together, he knew now.

  Gianfaldo said: “Sarge, I hear Laddy O’Neill and Hymie Solstein got a working-over last night.”

  Odell grunted. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “A porter at Espizito’s lives in my building. He told me about it. O’Neill is over at St. Agnes’s in real bad shape. Hymie just got a busted head.”

  “That right? Where’d it happen?”

  “At Mama Ragoni’s. Some guy walked in and gave it to ’em good.”

  “One guy?”

  “Yeah, that’s the story.”

  “Well, he must have been a damn good man,” Odell said, going back to his paper.

  Neelan smiled behind his paper. That might slow Espizito down a bit. He’d know now that Barny Neelan wasn’t playing for fish cakes.

  Smitty and Lindfors sauntered in, five minutes late. Odell glanced pointedly at the clock, but said nothing.

  “Let’s get the cards out,” Smitty said, skimming his hat onto a desk. He ignored Neelan. “I got a date tonight, and I hate to spend my own money on women.”

  He walked into the adjoining room, with Lindfors and Gianfaldo at his heels. Odell heaved himself to his feet and said to Neelan: “Watch the phone, will you? I want to make sure Smitty doesn’t have too much cash to waste on that dame.”

  “Sure,” Neelan said.

  Sergeant Odell hesitated a second. “You don’t play cards anyway, do you, Neelan?”

  Neelan glanced up and said: “No, I guess I don’t.” Odell walked in and joined the game, and Neelan heard his booming laugh as he won the deal. To hell with them, he thought, knocking a length of cigar ash onto the floor. Nothing could dampen his good spirits, least of all the coolness of a bunch of slobs whose opinion didn’t mean anything to him, anyway.

  THE outer door opened a few moments later, and an elderly man with white hair and plump rosy cheeks approached the counter. There was an air of diffidence and uncertainty in his manner as he removed his hat and smiled at Neelan.

  Neelan hoisted himself from his chair and walked to the counter. “What can I do for you?”

  The man wore a neat dark suit, a precisely tied tie, and seemed very nervous. Lost his dog, Neelan thought. “You are a detective?”

  “That’s right.” Neelan pulled a pad toward him and took a pencil from his pocket. “What’s your trouble?”

  “I have information about a murder,” the man said. Neelan looked at him sharply, but saw nothing but a rather ludicrous determination in the little man’s round face.

  “What’s your name?”

  “August Sternmueller.”

  “Where do you live, August?”

  “I live at 216 Crab Street. That is just at the intersection of Crab and Ellen’s Lane.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Neelan said. Something stirred in him warningly. He glanced at the little man, studying him with alert eyes. “Let’s hear about this murder, now.”

  “Very well. Three nights ago, as you may perhaps remember, a man was killed in Ellen’s Lane.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Neelan said. “Go on.”

  “I saw this murder from my window,” August said. “The papers said the man was a prisoner who was trying to escape. That was a lie. That man was shot and killed deliberately.” August nodded for emphasis.

  “I see,” Neelan said. He was perspiring, the sweat trickling down his ribs. “How is it that you’re just coming around now with this story?”

  August leaned closer to Neelan and locked his hands together nervously. “I didn’t wish to get mixed up in any trouble, sir. I was selfish, I admit it. I delayed doing my duty because I was afraid my life would be upset. But I know I did wrong. Now I am ready to do my duty.”

  Neelan scratched his head with the point of the pencil. “You’d go to court and swear to all this, I suppose.”

  “Absolutely,” August said firmly. “That man was shot in the back, deliberately. He was standing still when he was shot. It was a terrible thing.”

  “Sure,” Neelan said. “Did you see anything else?”

  “Yes. The man with the gun ran to the side of the man who was shot, and he bent over him and took something from his pocket. After that he ran across the street and out of my sight. He came back in a few minutes and waited for the police.”

  Neelan heard a laugh from the adjoining room. Then Lindfors’ voice: “To hell with this game! I’m going to save my money.”

  Neelan tapped the man’s arm. “Thanks for your trouble, August. We’ll send someone over to your house to get the whole story.”

  “But I—”

  “Never mind. We’ll come to see you.”

  “You are sure you will come? Now that I have started this, I must see it through. My conscience won’t let me sleep until this affair is settled.”

  “We’ll settle it, all right,” Neelan said.

  “Thank you so much.”

  August Sternmueller raised his hat in a formal little gesture to Neelan, then clapped it on his head and marched through the door. Neelan stood at the counter staring at the name and address on the pad. August Sternmueller, 216 Crab Street.

 
; “What’d little Fritzie want?” It was Lindfors’ voice.

  Neelan turned, saw the detective standing by the windows. His hands were in his pockets, and a cigarette hung from his lips.

  “Nothing,” he said. He crumpled the paper and put it casually in his pocket. “Somebody stole a blanket from his car.”

  “Car locked?”

  “No. Somebody just helped himself.”

  “These characters. They never learn.”

  Neelan sat down and picked up an evening paper. His heart was pumping harder than usual, and his cigar tasted bitter. What a break! What a lousy, dirty break! Anger brought a red flush to his face. Everything going fine, and then this kick in the face. He knew Sternmueller’s type. A methodical stubborn Kraut, who’d stick to his story like a bulldog, and who’d keep pestering people until he found someone who would take him seriously. The talk would spread; the rumors would thicken, and pretty soon everyone would be watching Neelan out of the corners of their eyes, all because a damn Kraut wouldn’t mind his own business. Neelan marveled at the fantastic luck that had permitted him to intercept the man.

  Thinking about that angle made him feel slightly better. Things were still breaking his way, apparently still making sense. He tossed his paper aside, thinking that at least he had the chance to take care of August Sternmueller before he talked to the wrong people.

  HALF an hour later the card game broke up.

  Darkness came, and the business of the Division went on as usual. There was a shooting in South Philly, and Smitty took it. Ramussen came in, nodded to Odell and went into his office. Three or four people came into register various complaints or losses. Finally the phone rang, and Sergeant Odell picked it up and began making notes on the pad at his elbow. Occasionally he said, “Yea, yeah,” and then put the phone down.

  “Take this one, Neelan,” he said. “Some guy at 430 Crab Street had his room busted open and a few hundred bucks lifted. The name is Dawes. Fred Dawes.”

  “Okay,” Neelan said. That address was two blocks from where August Sternmueller lived. There was a musing smile on his lips as he took the slip of paper from Odell and walked out of the Division.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE MAN WHOSE ROOM HAD BEEN BROKEN INTO was about twenty-five with thinning blond hair and a habit of smiling nervously as he talked.

  Neelan glanced around the bedroom, then took out his notebook and asked a few questions. Fred Dawes worked as a short-order cook, and his money had been hidden away in the bottom of the bureau drawer.

  “Okay, Fred,” Neelan said. “Where do you do your drinking?”

  Fred Dawes smiled, rubbed his cheek. “I don’t do much of that, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well, somebody knew about the money. This wasn’t a lucky hit. Somebody heard you talking about it, probably. If it wasn’t a taproom, how about at work?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I do stop by a taproom at Maple and Eleventh. A fellow by the name of Joe tends bar there. I play darts and have a few beers there on payday.”

  “We’ll check Joe’s place then,” Neelan said.

  Fred Dawes rubbed his cheek, smiled at the floor. “Well, I wouldn’t like you to tell the boys there about it, as a matter of fact. They’re a nice bunch, friends of mine, you see, and it’s about the only spot I’ve got to kill time in, if you know what I mean.”

  “Damn it, do you want your money back, or not?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Okay. Next time you get some, put it in a bank.”

  Neelan glanced sourly at the ripped wood near the knob of the door, and then walked down the street and walked toward the intersection of Crab Street and Ellen’s Lane.

  August Sternmueller opened the door to his knock.

  “Ah, come in,” August said. “I hardly expected you so soon.”

  “Well, this is a pretty serious matter.”

  He glanced about the neat, comfortably furnished living-room and tossed his hat in a chair. “Supposing you tell me all about it now.”

  “Certainly.” August’s manner was solemn. He knew he was doing his duty, and that assurance gave him a solid dignity. “Come here, please—to the windows.”

  Neelan walked across the room, and August pulled aside the curtains and pointed into the street.

  “You see? I had a perfect view of what really happened that night.”

  “Yeah, a box seat,” Neelan said quietly.

  He moved closer to the windows and stared into Ellen’s Lane. He could see the spot where Dave Fiest had hit the ground, all right. Frowning, he let the curtain fall back in place. He had wanted to check this one point to make sure the old Kraut wasn’t imagining things. Obviously he wasn’t; and that more or less made up Neelan’s mind.

  The other fact that helped him reach a decision was the arrangement of the rooming-house. August’s front room opened on an enclosed stairway which led directly to the small foyer. A person could leave this apartment and go down to the street with little chance of being observed.

  “I don’t know how the newspapers could have got their story so mixed up,” August said, looking solemnly at Neelan. “I saw what really happened, so I know. Do you know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think that murderer was no policeman at all. I think he impersonated a policeman to commit the murder.”

  “That could be it,” Neelan said thoughtfully. “Tell me this: Could you identify the man who did the shooting?”

  “No, I’m afraid I couldn’t,” August said, with an apologetic smile.

  “Well, that doesn’t matter too much.”

  August’s smile was in a more relaxed manner. He felt better now that he done his duty and transferred his information to the capable hands of this detective.

  “You got a nice place here,” Neelan said, glancing around.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do your own cooking?”

  “Oh, yes indeed. And my own marketing. I put in enough on Mondays to last me the whole week.” He chuckled. “You might be surprised at some of the things I make. Sauerbraten, Wiener schnitzel, and apple dumplings, even. I take good care of my stomach.”

  “Yeah?” Neelan smiled. “That’s a smart idea.”

  He walked into the adjoining room, which was lined with wooden filing cabinets. August was at his heels, a pleased little smile on his lips.

  “This is where I keep my timetables,” he said.

  “Timetables?”

  “Yes, I collect them,” August said, somewhat, defensively. So few people understood the pleasure he took in his hobby. “I have been collecting them for years. I have the schedules of every major line in the world, and from hundreds of tiny spur lines I dare say you’ve never heard of.”

  “Well, well!” Neelan said.

  “Would you like to look at some of my very early ones?” August said eagerly.

  “Some other time. The kitchen’s right through here, eh?”

  “Yes.” August pushed open a swinging door and preceded Neelan into a small immaculate kitchen. Neelan glanced about, noting the gas stove and its capacious oven.

  “A very nice setup,” he said, taking the cigar from his mouth.

  August faced him smilingly, pleased by the detective’s unexpected interest in his home. “Yes, I’ve worked hard all my life, and now I enjoy myself, eh? That is the way it should be. The old people should have their little comforts. It keeps them out of the way of the young,” he said, and laughed at his own humor.

  “And that’s where you keep the pot and pans, eh?” Neelan said, looking over the old man’s shoulder.

  August turned around, nodding. “Yes, I built that cupboard myself.”

  “Well, you’re damn smart,” Neelan said, and raised his arm.

  Those were the last words August Sternmueller ever heard.

  NEELAN was back at the Division by seven-thirty. He walked around the counter and stopped at Odell’s desk. “This fellow Dawes hangs out at a place at Eleventh a
nd Maple. My guess is he got drunk there and talked about his money and where it was stashed away. Supposing I check around over there and see what I can find out.”

  Odell grunted without much interest. “Think it’ll do any good?”

  “Hell, no,” Lindfors said, from across the room. He was sitting with his feet propped up on a desk. “In a case like that, it could have been fifty guys.”

  Odell answered the phone, switched the call into the Lieutenant’s office. “You might take a look over there anyway,” he said to Neelan. “Although it probably won’t do any good. I know the guy who runs the place. Tell him I don’t want his joint getting a bad name. He’s all right. He’ll work with you.”

  “Okay,” Neelan said.

  He sat down and took off his hat, feeling hot and sticky; but otherwise just fine. Calm and relaxed. Now, he thought idly, almost lazily, I’m running the show. He wasn’t standing around on the outside waiting for a nod from someone, waiting for the break, waiting for something to fall into his lap. He lighted a cigar and smiled slightly.

  A WHILE later the door opened, and Mark Brewster walked in. He rested his elbows on the counter and nodded to Odell and Lindfors. “Anything doing?” he asked.

  “No, Mark, not a thing,” Odell said. He hesitated uncomfortably, glanced at Neelan, then at the reporter. “Come on in and sit down, Mark,” he said.

  “Thanks, Sarge.”

  Brewster sauntered around the counter and leaned against it, his arms folded.

  “Did you hear about Hymie Solstein and Laddy?” he asked.

  Odell grinned.

  “Yeah, Gianfaldo told me about it.”

  Neelan glanced up at the reporter. This was the first time he’d seen Brewster since the time he’d come out of Linda’s apartment, and Neelan had run him down. Brewster was limping slightly, Neelan noticed, but other than that, seemed in good shape.

  Something about the reporter made Neelan uneasy: He watched Brewster’s lean face as he chatted with Odell, wondering if he’d meant anything in particular with the crack about Hymie and Laddy. That was what he didn’t like about the reporter. He kept dropping comments that sounded significant at first, but when you pinned them down you found they didn’t mean anything after all. Or they didn’t seem to.