Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  I figure it is a great idea and if it goes over in his home town I will plaster the country with them.

  By five o’clock I am really tired and stop in at the Friendly Tavern to get a beer. I stand Mac one and after a bit I say: “Mac, who does the smart money think killed Hinkle?”

  Mac scratches his chin and thinks about it until I pull out another fifty cents. Then he says: “Well, some of the boys are saying that Harris was trying a little past posting for his boss, Juke Box Joe, and Big Jim got sore.”

  “You mean betting?” I ask. If I seem overly ignorant it is because long ago my mother told me never to smoke, drink, gamble or go out with fast women. Following her advice I have never gambled.

  “Yeah,” says Mac. “You see the direct wire service from the big Eastern race tracks doesn’t come any farther west than Las Vegas. Now sometimes the actual post time isn’t always the time in the papers. So all you have to do is have some guy in Vegas phone the results to you. Sometimes they come in a good ten minutes before listed post time in California. Then you trot round to the bookie and place your bet. It’s been done every now and then ever since they stopped the race wire services in California. But you have to be careful. So maybe Hinkle wasn’t careful.”

  “That’s an angle, all right,” I tell him. I pay him for my beer and go back to the hotel. The clerk tells me Herbert has been ringing all afternoon, so I call him. He is not there, but his landlady says he was in his room all day packing until the two police detectives came, and then he left with them.

  I THINK there may be a police persecution angle on this so I call Filch. He acts kind of cagey on the phone until I mention the police detectives. Then I hear mumbling as if he is talking to someone in his office.

  Then he says: “You’re crazy, Typhoon”—we have become good friends by this time—“the chief of police is right here in my office and he says all his boys are attending a pistol shooting match.”

  There is silence for a minute while we listen to each other think. Then we yell together: “Kidnaped!” What an angle!

  Flick hangs up so he can get another extra on the streets, and I call Mr. Plunket long distance. He gets really excited and says he will get the printers to work night and day so we will have enough copies of Herbert’s books to meet the demand. He also says he will call the art department and get them to design a special dust cover with black borders in case Herbert makes the supreme sacrifice. He will then be eligible for the Creepy Club posthumous Medal of Honor.

  As soon as Mr. Plunket hangs up I go back to the Friendly Tavern and hand Mac a dollar bill.

  “Mac,” I says, “things are reaching a climax. How can I get in touch with Juke Box Joe and Big Jim?”

  Mac gives me fifty cents change and says: “Try the phone book.”

  This I do. I call the number listed for J.B.J. Denton and an uncultured voice answers and says: “Spit it out, pal.”

  “Let me speak to Herbert,” I tell him.

  “Hey, Al,” I can hear the voice yelling, “anyone around here named Herbert?” I cannot hear what Al says but it must be “no” because the voice comes back and tells me to get lost. I hang up.

  “I then call Big Jim Murphy’s number and again ask to speak to Herbert. This time a real cagey voice says: “Herbert? Herbert? What would a Herbert be doing here?”

  This sounds suspicious to me so I say: “Don’t kid me, friend, I want to speak to Herbert Hotspur right away.”

  “I’m afraid you have been misinformed,” says the cagey voice. “Mr. Hotspur is not here.”

  “Hah!” I say, hanging up.

  It is now obvious to me that they have put the snatch on Herbert. Otherwise why would they be so polite?

  “Mac,” I asks, “what would Big Jim want to kidnap Herbert for?”

  Mac looks thoughtful. “Probably to bump him off,” he says at last. “I guess he figures Herbert’s putting the heat on him.”

  This I realize is serious. Herbert has a contract with Creepy Club for three more books. Right away I decide Herbert must be rescued.

  I borrow another nickel from Mac and, call the police department. “Listen,” I tell them, “this is Herbert Hotspur’s publicity agent.” That is as far as I get. A snarling voice at the other end makes some untrue statements about my ancestry and then the line goes dead. I call twice more with the same result before I realize they do not want to cooperate. To say I am annoyed is to understate the matter. No public servant should use language like that to a taxpayer.

  Then I get an idea, this time a real brain wave.

  “Mac,” I say, “where would Big Jim be likely to take Herbert?”

  Mac ponders. “My guess would be they’ve already buried him,” he says. “But if they wanted to work him over a little first, they’d most likely take him to Big Jim’s roadhouse just out of town. They call it the Bon Repose.”

  I CANNOT help smiling at Mac’s French accent, but this is the information I need and right away I call Juke Box Joe’s number again.

  “This is a stool pigeon,” I say in a voice like George Raft, “lemme speak to Joe.” In a minute or so Joe comes on the phone. “Listen J.B.J.,” I tell him. “This is a hot tip. Herbert Hotspur has dug up enough evidence on you to send you up for fifty years. What’s more he’s right now over at Big Jim’s selling you out.”

  “Thanks pal,” Joe says, “my boys and I will attend to it right away.” We both hang up.

  It is hard to keep from chuckling out loud over the situation. I can imagine Big Jim’s face when Juke Box Joe and his gang show up. Only Typhoon Townsend would think of having one crook rescue Herbert from another.

  I tell Mac and he agrees it’s pretty funny, except that now there are two gangs after Herbert’s blood. I can see that he has found the weak link in my schema.

  I ring Fitts and he says I couldn’t have called at a better time as some newsreel men have just arrived. He says they will leave immediately for the Bon Repose. I ask him to stop by for me and he says they will right after they stop at the drug store to buy some extra film for his photographer.

  SURE enough in about five minutes Fipps drives up and we depart for the Bon Repose to record Herbert’s last stand for posterity. It is true we do not make as good time as we might have, but as Fisch explains, there would be no point in being arrested for speeding, and besides the newsreel men are following in two other cars behind and might easily get lost.

  When we near the roadhouse I am compelled to admire Big Jim’s architectural taste. The Bon Repose is a rambling sort of building done in English Tudor style with California Mission type trimmings, except the front which is thatched with palm leaves South Sea fashion. The whole makes a very attractive picture what with flowers and such growing around and makes me realize more fully the beauty and tranquility to be found in the Golden State of California. I express such thoughts to Fills but his mind is elsewhere.

  We park outside next to a marble statue of a Greek wood nymph and get out to consider the situation. It is clear all is not well within. In fact the noise coming from the Bon Repose resembles closely the sound of a cattle stampede through a bowling alley.

  Pretty soon a chair comes flying through a window, followed by two men, followed by a small table. Chippendale.

  The newsreel men set up their cameras, and the rest of us just sort of stand around and wait. Fitz says it isn’t as if he could do anything, what with his football knee and all, and I cannot help but agree with him as my rheumatism would make me a great handicap to our side in a roughhouse. It is not really fair to ask the newsreel men to interfere in local matters, as one of them points out.

  After half an hour or so, the noise begins to die down, with only an occasional thud or groan. It seems more than likely that the two gangs have fought each other to a standstill, if not a knockdown.

  We cautiously advance through what had been the main entrance (the palm fronds unfortunately have collapsed), and such indeed proves to be the case. The whole place inside i
s a mess, what with unconscious bodies, broken tables and chairs and a general untidiness. All is reasonably quiet. It is true that under one pile of bodies a man is still cursing and snarling as he twists someone’s foot, but as it is clearly his own foot it is safe to say that serious altercations have ended.

  After the local photographer has taken his pictures we begin to search for Herbert. The newsreel men are not very cooperative in this, as they are trying to get some of the semiconscious combatants to renew hostilities outside, the light indoors being poor for motion picture work. After ten minutes searching it is hard not to assume that Herbert is missing.

  Then I get another brainwave. Not for nothing do I patronize movies three times a week. Right away I turn on the light switch and look up. Sure enough, there is Herbert outlined against the chandelier.

  “Come down Herbert,” I call, “the newsreel men’s time is very valuable.”

  It is clear however, that Herbert wishes to remain where he is. Fortunately the matter is solved by the chandelier’s chain breaking suddenly. After Herbert is dusted off I am relieved to find he has only minor injuries.

  However he seems to have caught a severe chill, as he is shaking violently.

  LUCKILY the police riot squad arrives at this point, and we are able to borrow a tommy gun for Herbert to pose with. We take about a dozen shots of Herbert with his foot resting on both Big Jim and Juke Box Joe, as well as on three other unidentified gentlemen. If you have seen any copies of the photographs, you will be interested to know that I am the man looking over Herbert’s left shoulder. Actually I am holding him up.

  We leave the mopping up operations for the police and depart for town. I am still worried about what the two gangs will do to Creepy Club’s star writer after they recover. Fish however, says that crime is through in Santa Rosita. Criminals can survive gang wars, he says, but they cannot stand being laughed at. And no one will take Big Jim or Juke Box Joe seriously after the results of Herbert’s one-man crusade. As it turns out, he is right, and within a week both of them have left town for good. What is more, they leave together. This is another result of Herbert’s campaign that I am proud of—bringing together two lifelong enemies. As the poet says, blood is after all thicker than water.

  I myself leave Santa Rosita as soon as Herbert is out of the hospital. Much though I would like to stay I must depart for Boston where Creepy Club’s best selling female author—a sweet old lady of seventy-five—makes her home. I have a plan for publicizing her which is nothing short of hydro-atomic.

  Just before my train is due to leave I call on Herbert, and what do you think I find? Herbert, hard at work on a new book. Such loyalty to Creepy Club is touching. He tells me it is a horror story, the first ten chapters telling how the victim was tortured to death, slowly. He is calling it Death of a Book Salesman. It is obvious he has a terrific idea, but I cannot say I think much of his title.

  Not until I am half way to Boston do I remember that we have forgotten to solve the mystery of Hinkle’s decease. However I do not let it prey on my mind as it is my personal theory that Hinkle committed suicide. And that, after all, is against the law. The people we must consider first are the respectable, law-abiding citizens. Such as myself.

  NIGHT OF THE THIRTEENTH

  J.A. Allan

  Ominous sound to that title—mystery, eerie shadows, a shot—but J. Allan Dunn has, with his unfailing touch, given all this a different turn.

  The sorrel mare was hitched third from the far end of the rail. Evidence as to her disposition was plain. The pinto to her left and the white stockinged bay on her right had crowded against their opposite neighbors, giving the mare all the spare room possible. As Jimmy Pringle came toward her she laid back her ears and showed a white rim to her nigh eye, twisting a snaky neck as far as her bridle hitch would allow. This was her average greeting, ending in a vicious nip for Jimmy’s knee as he swung down into the saddle. Usually he greeted her with an amiable, if vigorous, cussword. Tonight his own mood too nearly matched that of the mare. He was sore at the world.

  Chaps and spurs were fastened to his saddle-horn by a latigo thong and he untied them, stepping into the former one leg at a time, balanced on a high heel as he stood stork-fashion. He had parked his gun at the Gopher Saloon with the rest of the bucks who had come to the dance, according to long established custom. This he had already retrieved and he adjusted the chaparejos strap and his cartridge belt with deft, accustomed fingers before he backed the sulky sorrel away from the well cribbed rail.

  The blaring music of the jazz orchestra, imported for the occasion, came out of the open windows of the lodge hall above the general store; mingled with the light laughter of dancing couples. Jimmy Pringle scowled over his shoulder at the silhouettes that flitted across the blinded windows, set his left foot in the twisted stirrup, twined his left hand in the mare’s mane, clutched the horn with his right, and, out of long experience, pulled himself, not to the saddle but flat against the sorrel’s withers as she whirled in a half circle and ended her geometrical exhibition with a buck.

  The instant her four feet reached the ground Jimmy’s right leg was across the cantle. His knees gripped in as he settled to leather, his spurs roweled the mare’s flanks and she shot forward snorting and protesting, her gait more like that of a jackrabbit than the fastest pony in Mesquite County, sending up smoky spurts of dust in the starlight until she reached the sage. There Jimmy gave her a taste of the quirt to show he meant business and she settled down, traveling fast, drumming softly over the open ground.

  Jimmy ignored the road that led toward his own holding, the U—U. He didn’t give a damn where he was going, he told himself, and the mare seemed to sense it. Weary of the long stand at the rail, she stretched her dainty, but sinewy limbs in full gallop, making for the mesa, her petulant mind fixed upon a spring and certain succulent grass surrounding it.

  That she made for instinctively as, later, the bucks would lead their partners to the ice cream counter; or with each other, to flask and glass. Jimmy let her roll, his Stetson jammed down, chin on chest, wishing he’d thought to get him a chaw before he started, condemning all pleasures as hollow, all women as fickle jades and Helen Faulkner the most deceitful of all women. That, to his mind, she was also the most attractive, was no palliation. He summed up his bitterness in one syllable as a last burst of jangled drum and cymbal syncopation came faintly to him down the wind; like the bray of a burro, Jimmy told himself, giving a parting salute to a brother ass.

  She had let him take her to the dance—in the first place. She had even hinted for his escort, in the second, though at the time he had been too thrilled with triumph to analyze the method of its accomplishment.

  Then she had danced with him with no more animation that if he had been a dummy—and Jimmy knew he was a good dancer. He had done his durndest to entertain her, and she had come back with a vague smile or two and an occasional answer which showed she had not been listening to what he was saying. The third dance she had wanted to sit out. Flattered, thinking she was going to reveal to him the reason for her manner, perhaps ask his advice, he had gone with her to the open gallery that looked out over the sage toward Bitter Creek. And she had spent the entire time gazing into the night with an anxiety that he could not but fail to read—looking for another hombre than Jimmy Pringle.

  When Buck Stetson had arrived—Buck lived beyond Bitter Creek on the Lazy Y—it was plain. She transferred her attentions to Buck. Their first greeting unlocked her tongue and their dance conversation brought smiles to her face and a light to her eyes that all of Jimmy’s sallies had failed to evoke. Then Buck and Helen had gone to the gallery, and Jimmy could well fancy that she did not spend her time looking beyond Bitter Creek. The Bitter Creek interest was present.

  If it had been anybody else but Buck Stetson! All the county knew that Pringle and Stetson had been partners together on the Lazy Y and that they had split up—not altogether on Helen’s account, but she had started it. Since t
hen Buck had been lucky on the Lazy Y, and Jimmy had been afflicted with Old Man Misfortune as active, uninvited partner on the U—U.

  The truth of the matter was that they needed each other. They made a natural team. Jimmy was a wonder with cattle, and Buck was a first class business man. But Jimmy was too sore for that retrospect at present though it had often occurred to him since their split.

  A jackrabbit showed its ears behind a clump of sage, big as a doe in the starlight, and went leaping away. The mare snorted. Jimmy pulled his gun and blazed at the flying hare as it bounded over a bush. He thought he hit it. He didn’t want the blame thing. It was out of season, the meat would be no tenderer nor more palatable than a meal of solid rubber tire. Jimmy didn’t care for jackrabbit at any time. But he felt like shooting.

  After her snort the sorrel stood on her hind legs until Jimmy was vertical. She waltzed and whirled, then, coming down jarringly hard on her forelegs, she started to buck, to weave, to sunfish, to do everything in her repertoire of mean tricks but roll over. That she left out because she did not happen to feel like it. It was as fine an unwitnessed exhibition of a bucking bronco as the country, if not the state, had ever known.

  The mare acted more like a locoed slickear than a broken pony. No unslit, unbranded colt ever lunged more viciously, tried harder to show how mean a manhater it was. A few minutes saw the sorrel coat stained with sweat, lathering at the cinches, and foam at the curb. Jimmy was sweating, too, in the hot night as he stayed like a burr to a coyote’s tail, never touching leather save in his seat, riding her whichever way she snaked or swerved.