by Jerry eBooks
Sampson said, “You heard enough of this, boss.”
“Gag him,” I said impatiently. “Listen, McGuire. There may be some people you don’t need, but I’m not one of them.”
“This is all very interesting,” said McGuire, “and sounds in spots rather unfortunate. But what do you suggest?”
I smiled. “Are we talking openly?” I asked. “Can we assume we all know I’m in a frame?”
“Let’s assume that for the moment,” said McGuire.
Sampson jeered, “How do you like the fit?”
McGuire said, “What’s your suggestion, Roney?”
I grinned. “Enlarge the frame. It ought to fit someone else—in fact, I have a pigeon in mind.”
Narrowing his eyes, McGuire said, “Let us look at this thing for a moment. Yesterday you were too honest to want a syndicate branch in your restaurants. Today you are perfectly willing to frame a man for murder. Isn’t this something of a change?”
I said, “Not as much as you might think. As your stooge here has said, I came up fast. A man in a hurry almost always resorts to—let us say—expedients. Also,” I forced a smile, “I’d be something of a fool if I were not slightly swayed by the pressure you’ve applied.”
“Anything else?” McGuire said tonelessly. I could tell nothing from his voice.
“Money,” I said. “I have always been open to suggestions that would help me make more. Only”—I pointed to Sampson—“I did resent your sending this jerk with a business proposition.”
Sampson said desperately, “McGuire, don’t let this guy—”
“The purpose of this organization,” McGuire said coldly, “is to make money. All other considerations are secondary. Try to remember that—as long as you are working for me.”
Sampson returned to his chair.
“As I said,” I began, “I have a man in mind a man who will have no alibi. He was home alone when Malcolm and the girl were killed.”
McGuire said, “His motive?”
I thought of the girl crumpled pathetically on the floor of my bedroom. I put the thought out of my mind. “Love,” I said. “And revenge. The girl was his, and when he found her at my house with Malcolm, he blew his top and killed them both.”
Sampson snorted. “He’d have to be a dope to fit that picture.”
“He is,” I answered quietly. “He’s a slob.”
McGuire said, “Sampson’s right. If your man has any brains, he can wriggle out.”
“He hasn’t any,” I said. “But why don’t you look him over? I can arrange a meeting tonight.”
McGuire said nothing for a moment. His eyes seem to turn inward, inspecting possible gain and loss. When he looked at me again, it was obvious he had made up his mind.
“What time,” he said, “and where?”
“Ten tonight,” I said. “His apartment’s Number 7, at 210 West Nautilus. I’ll see that he’s there.” I got up, and my shaking legs reluctantly held my weight. Not until then did I know how much I’d been afraid. “See you then,” I said.
“Roney.”
“Yeah.”
“Before you go—remember. Don’t play it too smart. Compared to some ways I know, the chair can be an easy way to die.”
“I believe you.” I said soberly. I glanced at Sampson.
The little man said softly, “I almost hope something does go wrong, so I can get one more crack at you.”
I let it go. I said, “Thanks for your time, McGuire. I think you’ll find it’s worth it.”
“I hope so,” McGuire answered. His cold gray eyes bored into mine. “I get very upset, Roney, when it turns out I’ve made a mistake. What’s this fellow’s name?”
“Lester,” I said. “George Lester.” I watched the two of them. Neither did a take. I got out of there in a hurry and headed for a phone.
CHAPTER IV
Date with Death
Pug Lester’s voice came coldly over the wire. Outside the booth I could see the waitress behind the counter, methodically chewing her gum. Lester was saying, “What about it, bright boy? When are you coming in?”
“I’d rather meet you,” I said.
“All right,” he said shortly. “Say where.”
“Your apartment. Ten o’clock tonight.”
“My apartment,” he repeated. “Why there? We’ve got some business, boy—remember? This won’t be a social call.”
I said, “Pug, I’m going to ask for the biggest favor you ever did any man.”
“Go on,” Pug Lester said.
“I want you to remove anything from your apartment that would indicate you’re a cop. Pictures. Pistol trophies. All that kind of stuff.”
“And then?” Pug said without warmth.
“At ten, I come in with some friends. You play dumb. You’re not a cop. You sell—coffee. Sure. Coffee’s good enough.” I stopped talking. The waitress in the coffee shop was craning her neck for a better view, idly trying for a better view of something out on the street.
I said sharply. “Pug, you still there?”
“Yeah,” he said, “but, I dunno—”
The waitress nodded lazily, and then Sampson came into view. He had seen me, and he was grinning as he headed for the phone booth.
I said, “Pug! I can’t talk any more!”
There was a long silence. I held the receiver against my ear while Sampson came right up to the booth and pressed his face against the glass. Then Pug Lester’s voice said, “Okay, Roney. See you at ten.”
I said, “Fine,” and hung up the phone.
“What’s fine?” Sampson said, as I opened the door.
I said, “My girl still loves me. What are you doing here?”
“Trailing you,” he said promptly. “You left so fast I had trouble picking you up.”
“You might have had more trouble,” I told him. “Sometimes, after I talk to my girl, I take off like a jet plane.”
Sampson patted his shoulder holster. “Why don’t you try it?” he said softly.
There was no point in bickering with the little gunman. I said, “Look, Sampson. I’ve got to keep off the streets. Haven’t you got a place to stay? You could save wear and tear on your feet, and I could phone McGuire.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Come on.”
He took me to a fancy apartment that looked like a chorus girl’s dream. We stayed there all through the afternoon and evening. At 9:45, McGuire’s chauffeur rang and said McGuire was waiting downstairs in his car. We didn’t keep him waiting. We went down right away.
Pug Lester’s apartment was on the second floor of an old house that had submitted to remodeling. Pug Lester let us in, and, when I inspected the living room, I saw nothing that would indicate a police officer lived in the place. There were several light patches on the walls where pictures had been removed, and I was grateful to the detective for attending to this detail.
Pug closed the door behind us, and went back to the chair. His fat cheeks almost hid his eyes as he sat there, looking up. “Scuse me,” he said, “if I seem to sit down. I had a busy day.”
Sampson said nothing; he remained standing to one side of the apartment door, wary and unconvinced.
McGuire went to Pug Lester, and stood, eyeing the fat man critically. “He looks stupid enough,” he said finally.
Pug Lester said lazily, “You boys playin’ some kind of a joke?”
“A little one,” said McGuire. “You can play too. Know where you were last night?”
“Right here,” Pug Lester said, “mostly.”
“Anyone with you?”
“Nope, I was all alone.” Pug Lester sighed heavily, and his eyes opened wide enough for me to see the impatience in their depths.
Suddenly, I knew it would not go off as planned. Pug Lester, with me there before him, was not going to wait through a lot of what to him was aimless talk. In that same moment I realized that my position had not changed. McGuire and Sampson could walk out. The detective would have no reason to hold them. T
hat would leave me where I began—with a ticket for the chair.
For a second time that day, I cursed myself for a chump. If I had given Lester some idea of what I was doing, my chances would have been better. Right now my chances were zero. I knew Pug wasn’t going to wait.
Into the silence, I said. “What about it? Think he’ll do?”
McGuire swung his head impatiently. “We’ll see,” he said. “Let’s not hurry.”
Pug Lester said, “Do for what?”
“You had a girl,” I said, talking desperately, “who sometimes called herself Elaine Watkins. It was a secret thing—nobody knew. And the reason you killed her and Malcolm was jealousy—an old reason, but always good. Malcolm was taking your girl away, and you, a coffee salesman, couldn’t compete with him.” I glanced at McGuire. The gambling czar was frowning at my awkward pitch. I looked back at Pug Lester.
The detective’s chins were pleated on his neck. His mouth was open slightly. He said, “What’re you tryin’ to do, Roney? Cop an insanity plea?”
Nothing moved in the room. I grinned tautly, thinking of McGuire’s bewilderment. It was not easy to frame pigeons who talk about copping a plea.
Then McGuire said, “Sampson!”
The little gunman seemed to flick a hand at his lapel, and then the gun was in his hand. He swung it slowly, saying nothing, letting his lips draw back from his teeth.
“That wasn’t smart of you,” McGuire said softly. “It wasn’t bright of either of you. In fact, if I were asked to say what had caused your death, I should have to say stupidity.”
Pug Lester said placidly, “You mean you’re going to kill him and me too?” His small nod included me.
McGuire inclined his head. “I’m afraid Sampson will insist.”
“Just askin’,” Pug Lester said.
I thought, but I couldn’t be sure, that one of Lester’s plump hands brought the gun up from under the cushion. It was a large gun, a 45. It made a hellish roar in the room, and it blew out a section of Sampson’s head.
The slender little hood made no noise as he fell forward on the worn carpet.
McGuire lunged at me. I spun away to avoid being used as a shield. As I whirled, I clipped McGuire on the side of the head.
The man stepped back nimbly. He was far from soft, I observed—probably kept in condition by handball and boxing at his club. I moved toward him, carrying my hands low, swinging precisely. McGuire gave ground slowly, dodging and weaving. Then, abruptly, he landed a straight left that snapped my head back, followed it with a right cross that drove me to the floor.
Falling, with the pink mist in front of my eyes, I could see Pug Lester still sitting in the chair. The mist was still there, but some of it went away when I bounced on the carpet. Digging my nails into the short pile, I hauled myself to my feet.
McGuire came in again, and I had to shake my head to get his image clearly. Then I saw the smooth pink face, red now, and fiercely contorted. One of McGuire’s fists lashed along my cheek.
I took a deep and shuddering breath. Then, with both arms pumping, I began a slow walk forward. McGuire’s blows were landing freely, but I didn’t feel them now. The pink haze was all around me, and in the middle of it a face danced and bobbed, a face that sometimes blended with the haze, but was redder, and could therefore be seen.
The face went away. I stood swaying waiting for the haze to dissolve.
It was clearing, and from somewhere off to my left, Pug Lester was speaking to me.
“I figured you’d want to do that,” Pug Lester said. “I figured you had it coming.”
I shook my head, and then I could see the floor. McGuire was lying there, and as I watched him groggily, he rolled over and staggered to his feet.
I brought my hands up, but I knew they wouldn’t be any good against the heavy ashtray clutched in McGuire’s hand.
McGuire was drawing back for a swing when Pug Lester’s gun barrel caught him and sent him down for the count.
“Let me,” Pug Lester said. “I get paid, you know—and I like to earn my keep.”
I heard myself say, “Thanks, Lieutenant,” and my voice seemed far away. I found myself thinking of Pug’s lonely life, and of the girl who had been a greedy gertie, the one who’d been nobody’s doll. She might have made a wife for Pug if things had been some other way.
Pug said, “Hey, boy. You all right?”
I said, “I wonder if she could cook?”
“Golden boy,” Pug said, “you look mottled. You’re all washed up for the day.”
I shook my head and the haze dissolved. “Where’s your phone?” I asked Pug. He pointed, and stood by while I dialed Lola Grashin’s number. “Gotta tell a girl a story,” I said. “Back me up, and I’ll buy you a steak.”
His mouth had begun to water by the time Lola said hello.
MIRACLE ON 9TH STREET
Day Keene
Two harness bulls had to face a killer with a machine gun
DEATH was kind to the girl on the bed. Her young face was still pretty. Her lips were parted in a smile. The ruffle of her cheap evening gown hid the small hole under one breast. At first glance she looked alive, a tired little taxi-dancer stretched out for forty winks before rising to go meet her lover after a tiresome evening of allowing strange, amorous, males to embrace her around a floor, and call it dancing.
Tom Hart snuffed his cigarette in the well-filled ash tray on the dresser. “Just another little tramp who got tired of riding the pink horse.” He looked at the small automatic on the floor beside the bed. “Funny she’d shoot herself, though. Most of them take poison.”
Painfully conscious the bottom of his pajamas were showing under his hastily pulled on uniform pants, Pete Hanson said, “It was suicide then?”
The dapper sergeant was patient with him. “That’s right. You can get back to bed now, Pete. I’ll take care of this.” Hart turned to old man Kenny, the night clerk of the Ninth Street Hotel. “But the next time you come up with a stiff, call me. Understand?”
Old man Kenny swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. It was just on account of Pete being the cop on the beat—”
Hart tapped his chest with a stiff forefinger. “For drunks and lost kids, you call Hanson. For the dead ones, you call me.”
“Yes, sergeant,” the old man promised.
A big man in his early thirties, Pete Hanson scuffed his way down the stairs, through the small lobby, and across the street to the flat he shared with his sister, Dotty. Hart was right, of course. He usually was. The dead ones were Tom Hart’s job. But Hart hadn’t needed to rub it in. It was natural for old man Kenny to call him. Half of the neighborhood did that whenever anything went wrong.
Dotty was awake. “What was it, Pete?” she called.
“A suicide,” he told her. “A girl shot herself.”
“Tom said so?”
“He did.”
“Then that’s what it was.” Dotty giggled. “That good looking devil is always right.”
LONG after Dotty had gone to sleep, Hanson sat on the edge of his bed, smoking. Hart was smart. He was good looking. But Hart was also a devil. Hanson knew. He had seen Sergeant Hart in action. There was no tougher lad on the Force—when he was alone in the fish-bowl with a bleary-eyed stumble bum who had lost all ability, and desire, to defend himself.
“Yeah. Sure. I done it.” they’d say. Anything to get away from Hart and the flailing fists that were making mince meat of their kidneys.
But in clear thinking, clean living, First Grade Patrolman Pete Hanson’s book, Hart was also a coward and a chaser. Not that he could prove it. What complicated matters was the fact that Dotty was high-heels over hair-do in love with the good looking sergeant.
It was even worse than he thought. The next morning at breakfast Dotty told him, “I’ve got a big surprise, Pete. Tom and I are going to be married one week from this afternoon in The Church Of Our Blessed Lady.”
The fried eggs were tasteless in Hanson’s mouth. The cube stea
k was so much leather.
A tart note crept into Dotty’s voice. “You don’t seem very pleased.”
“I was thinking of Joe,” he admitted. “Joe is going to take this pretty hard.”
Dotty shrugged her slim shoulders. “So what?” Joe was the boy with whom she had grown up, the boy who had carried her books home from school, the boy with whom she had been in love until she had met Tom Hart and he had rushed her off her feet. “I should marry a flat-foot. No thank you. One in the family is enough. Tom is going places.”
That much, Hanson thought, was true. The question was, just where was Tom Hart going?
Dotty was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, Pete. I didn’t mean to low-rate you. No girl ever had a better brother.” She brightened. “But don’t you see? You’ll be rid of me now. Now you and Cary can marry.”
“That,” Hanson admitted, “is an idea.” Just as if he hadn’t thought of it for a hundred sleepless nights.
Slipping into his uniform coat he made certain his book, his billy, his club, and his gun, were in place and walked down the shabby stair-well of the flat in which both he and Dotty had been born. In some ways he couldn’t blame Dotty for wanting to get out of the old neighborhood. Ninth Street hadn’t grown with the rest of the City. It was still the same slightly shabby mixed residential and business street it had always been.
But, for himself, he liked it. The walks in front of the small business houses were freshly swept. The windows of the stores gleamed. So it was shabby. So were his favorite slippers. Ninth Street was clean and it was friendly. It was a nice place to live.
Cary stopped him in front of the bakery. “What’s the idea, officer? Going to give me a pass this morning?”
Hanson pushed back his cap as he looked at her. He liked Cary better every time he saw her. She was blonde and solid and good, a walking advertisement for the excellence of the wares she sold over her spotless counters. More, Cary wasn’t any of your slim modern snips without hips enough to hold up a pair of panties. Cary’s hips were wide enough for the bearing of children.
The blond girl blushed under his scrutiny. “What’s the idea, Pete?”
