The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Otto Penzler

  Then the department men carefully combed the room for any possible hiding place. The search did not reveal the missing jewel. Simms scratched at his chin, puzzled.

  “Sure as hell that thing was on her neck when we come in here,” he said.

  Max asked: “Are you sure it was there when Firpo touched her?”

  They looked at each other uncertainly, even suspiciously. Finally, Simms said: “Well, we know that Firpo hasn’t got it.” He jerked a finger at the reporters. “Search those crumbs down to their drawers. If it ain’t on them you better take this room apart till you find it!”

  Simms grabbed Firpo by the arm and pushed him toward the door. He never felt Firpo’s sensitive, experienced fingers as they dipped into his jacket pocket to retrieve the missing brooch.

  LONE in a small cell in the city jail, Firpo Cole hid the brooch in one of his shoes, then lay down on the iron cot and waited. He tried not to think of the dead body. It would just make him sick again and he couldn’t afford that now. Afterwards it would be all right but first there was work to do.

  Several hours passed and it was nearing ten before a guard came along and roused Firpo out of his dull, lethargic sleep. He blinked as he was taken into a sunlit, cheerful room. Simms sat behind a desk talking with Jugger Callahan and Ephraim Tuttle. There were a few cops there, including Max, and a male secretary was taking notes on a stenotype. The guard pushed Firpo into a chair and left.

  Jugger was saying: “I didn’t see her after she left with Firpo. Firpo used to walk her home every night so it was nothing out of the ordinary. Lots of crumbs hang out in front of every dance hall and she never liked to go home alone.”

  Simms asked: “Didn’t you have another joint which burned down a couple of months ago?” “Yes. I have a new place now. What of it?” “Nothing. I just remembered. Was Ruth Bailey on the weed?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “The autopsy’ll show anyway.” Simms absently tore at a blotter. “It still looks like Firpo did it. He was nuts about Ruth Bailey but she passed him up for you.”

  Jugger’s words came clipped and precise. “Ruth Bailey and I were friends and nothing more. Understand?”

  Simms shrugged. “It makes no difference what you call it. Any way you slice it the motive is still jealousy. Last night Firpo got particularly jealous when he saw some guy talking to her through a few dances. Afterwards he picked a fight with the guy and got poked. He was mad clear through so he stole the letter opener and took her home and let her have it.”

  “That don’t hold water,” Ephraim Tuttle intruded. “My letter opener was missing before Firpo had that fight.”

  Simms carefully dropped the shreds of the blotter into a waste basket. “Before-after-sooner-later. What’s the difference so long as he hangs for it?”

  “I still think you’re all wet about Firpo,” said Jugger Callahan. “I’ll be glad to stand the bail for him if he’s held.”

  Simms pushed his chair back. “There ain’t no bail in a first degree homicide charge.”

  Jugger Callahan and Ephraim Tuttle moved for the door. The band leader said to Firpo, “Take it easy,” and they left.

  Simms came from behind the desk and planted himself in front of Firpo. Max and one of the other cops moved in closer.

  Simms spoke persuasively, almost with a note of regret: “It’s open and shut, Firpo. If you get a good shyster you’ll probably be able to beat it with an insanity plea. Sick guys like you who don’t rate with the dames often get violent about it. You suddenly got tired of playing second fiddle to Jugger Callahan with the Bailey frill so you stole the letter opener. You had a chance to steal it any time because you were always around the Tango Palace. You walked her home, went up to her room and killed her.”

  Simms went over to a water cooler and drank three times from a lily cup.

  Max said: “Firpo thought he wiped his prints off that letter opener but we’ll bring ‘em up with a special process.”

  Simms returned. “It had to be you, Firpo,” he continued, “because anyone coming along later would have found Bailey in bed and she was wearing her street clothes when she was killed. What makes the whole thing worse is that you stole the letter opener beforehand so that makes it premeditated murder. Why don’t you plead guilty, Firpo, and we’ll let you cop an insanity plea?”

  Firpo Cole didn’t reply. The dick’s words made him wonder why Ruth was still wearing her clothes when she was murdered. Ordinarily, she would have gone to bed right away. She was tired enough. Did she stay up to wait for Jugger? Did she go out to visit him and then come back?

  Simms sighed. He said: “I hate to do this.” He slapped Firpo squarely over the mouth and someone behind Firpo hit him over the ear. “Are you gonna look at this sensibly?” asked Simms.

  The stenotypist left. The brooch was cutting into the sole of Firpo’s foot but he was glad to feel it there. That cheap piece of jewelry which Jugger Callahan had bought for Mona Leeds would yet prove his guilt.

  Simms hit Firpo over the mouth again and repeated his question. Blood from a broken tooth choked Firpo and he could only shake his head in reply. Somebody gave him a sharp, clipping blow over the nape of his neck, the chair tilted and the broadloom rug seemed to rush up at him.

  “Like hitting an old woman,” commented Max disgustedly.

  When Firpo Cole regained consciousness, he found himself lying on the cot in his cell. The tooth socket had stopped bleeding. He did not know how long he stayed there. Somebody brought him a tin platter full of some mush but he didn’t touch it. A drunk in the next cell tried to find out from Firpo what had caused the Yankees to slump.

  After a while, the guard came along and he was taken up to that cheerful room again. Simms, Max and the other shams were there but this time the outsider was the stranger who had sat through eight dances with Ruth and who had subsequently biffed Firpo.

  “Sit down, Firpo.” Simms sounded friendly.

  He indicated the stranger. “This is Mickey Hymer.”

  “I met him,” responded Firpo through bruised lips.

  “So you did. How come you tried to step on Mr. Hymer last night?”

  “He wouldn’t pay Ruth Bailey her tickets.”

  “As it turned out, Firpo, she didn’t need them. Mr. Hymer is an investigator for Eastern-states Insurance and he wants to ask you a few questions.”

  Mr. Hymer reached over and extended a hand to Firpo Cole. “First how about letting bygones be bygones?”

  Firpo ignored the outstretched hand.

  “Have it your way,” shrugged the insurance dick. “Firpo, I’ll be frank with you. We think that was no accidental fire that burned down the Tango Palace. Jugger Callahan had a pretty heavy policy on it and the whole business stinks.”

  Firpo Cole felt a sudden surge of panic. Jugger Callahan in jail for incendiarism and insurance fraud was the last thing he wanted. Jugger had to be kept free—and very accessible. He said: “That fire was on the level.”

  “What makes you think so, Firpo?”

  “Jugger had over twelve hundred bucks in his desk when the place burned down. It was the take for three days and he was going to deposit it the next morning. If he would have started that fire he wouldn’t have left that much dough there.”

  Mr. Hymer nodded. “That’s the story I heard, Firpo, but Callahan had a heavy property policy on the place and that more than made up for the money that burned. Besides,” he added with careful emphasis, “outside of Jugger Calla-han’s business manager, we have no proof that the money was really left there.”

  “What stinks about the fire?” asked Firpo.

  “We found what looks like the remains of a few empty oil cans in the basement. In addition, it was a very profitable fire for Callahan. But what I’d like to know from you is where Ruth Bailey came in on it.”

  “Don’t think you can frame her because she’s dead,” said Firpo tensely.

  “Keep cool,” soothed Mr. Hymer. “I got as much respec
t for the dead as the next man. Only I know she was the last one in the dance hall before it burned down and I thought maybe she told you something she forgot to say to me.”

  “She told me nothing you don’t know. When she got home that night she found out that she forgot her purse at the dance hall so she had to go back.”

  “Why couldn’t she get it the next day?”

  “Because the key to her apartment was in it,” said Firpo.

  “I see. What’s the rest of her story?”

  “When she got back the place was empty and outside of a couple of lights someone left on, she saw nothing suspicious. She got her purse and went home. That’s all she had to do with it.”

  Firpo wondered what the insurance dick would say if he knew that Ruth had taken that brooch from Jugger’s office. Did it prove that Jugger Callahan had also come back after the others were gone and forgotten it on his desk?

  Mr. Hymes picked at his nose thoughtfully. “That’s the same story she—the deceased—told me last night.” He stood up. “I guess I’ll mosey along.”

  HEN the door was closed behind the insurance dick, Simms turned to Firpo. “It still looks like you’re the murderer,” he informed him cozily.

  “I didn’t do it,” said Firpo Cole for the sake of the secretary’s record.

  “My men have been checking all morning and they can’t find anyone who saw Ruth Bailey go out after you took her home last night. So you must have gone up to the apartment with her and killed her before she had a chance to get her clothes off and go to bed.”

  Suddenly, Firpo Cole knew the meaning of the lipstick on the dead woman’s mouth. It was something no one could have noticed but he. He knew the kind of lipstick she always used—a deep carmine brand named Machavelli. On those rare occasions that Ruth had kissed him, he had never wiped it off. But the lipstick on her, when she was murdered, had a tangerine coloring—the kind that Mona Leeds, the torch singer, used. It could mean only that Ruth had gone out again to see Mona.

  Firpo hadn’t been listening to Simms’ persuasive arguments for appointing him the murderer. He said: “Go jump in a sewer.”

  Simms and Max came around to where Firpo sat. The stenotypist left the room. Firpo braced himself.

  Simms sighed. “This is a hell of a case. I wish I knew what happened to that jewelry that was on Bailey’s neck.” Then he began to hit Firpo methodically, with semi-clenched fists.

  A spasm of coughing shook Firpo’s spare body. The contents were heavy and deep from the lungs.

  Max moved away. “Watch those damned germs,” he complained. “You oughta learn enough to cover your mouth.”

  Firpo knew he was going to faint again. He struggled against it, for a few moments, then gave way.

  When Firpo Cole came around, he found himself lying on a cot in the dispensary. He could see through an unshaded window ahead of him. It was dark outside. He must have been out for several hours.

  The doctor who was bending over Firpo stood up and faced Simms and Max. “He’s all right now but if you give him another shellacking I’m not responsible.”

  “Shellacking!” exclaimed Simms. “We hardly touched the guy. We just gave him a few slaps to help his memory and—”

  “I’m not interested,” cut in the doctor. “All I say is that another memory course might bring on a much worse hemorrhage, so don’t try it.” He snapped his bag shut and stalked over to a desk to fill in a report.

  “And that’s what you call cooperation,” muttered Max.

  Firpo sat up on the edge of the cot and buttoned his shirt. The telephone jangled and Max took it. He listened a moment, then tendered the receiver to Simms. “It’s for you. The autopsy report on the Bailey woman.”

  “Yes?” said Simms. He glanced covertly toward Firpo. “You say that Ruth Bailey was opened by the usual mid-line incision? … You’re some cut-up, ha, ha, ha … Now forget that scientific bull—tell me in plain, everyday American … I see … And how about her guts? … I see … Aha—the liver and spleen … and the markings on the body? … Good-looking, eh? … O.K., send up the report.”

  Simms cradled the receiver and turned to Firpo. “That sawbones just hasn’t got any feelings.”

  “I know,” said Firpo. “It’s the psychological angle, so forget it.”

  “Wise guy. Well, what do you think about this? Ruth Bailey was gonna have a kid.”

  Firpo found some kind of medicine bottle within his reach and threw it.

  Simms ducked. “A lie like that,” he said darkly, “don’t give you the right to throw things at me. Watch your step or I’ll forget myself and give you the shellacking of your life. Now beat it.”

  “Beat it?” said Firpo stupidly.

  “Yeah. Get out of here. We know damned well you did the murder but we can’t prove it— yet. We’re just giving you rope, Firpo.”

  Max emitted a sudden guffaw. “Maybe,” he explained, “we’ll give him more rope later— around the neck!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  REQUIEM IN JAZZ

  EAVING the Hall of Justice, Firpo Cole cut across to old Chinatown. He dodged into a dark alley and pressed himself against the wall. He waited thus for fifteen minutes before he felt assured that he was not being followed. The cops didn’t even have enough on him to put a shadow on his tail.

  He removed his shoe and took out the brooch.

  The sole of his foot was criss-crossed with cuts and his cotton sock was caked with blood. He bound the foot with a soiled handkerchief and proceeded up Main Street.

  Some ten minutes later he reached a pawn shop just as the owner was closing up for the night. He put the brooch on the counter.

  “I want you to look at this, Saul.”

  “Firpo, when will you guys learn I don’t handle hot stuff?”

  “I only asked you to look at it.”

  The short, bald-headed man picked up the brooch and studied it. Finally, he said: “I wouldn’t touch it, Firpo, but it’s worth two or three hundred dollars.”

  Firpo started. “For that little gold and a little piece of glass? Are you sure?”

  “Not for the gold, Firpo. It’s for what you think is a piece of glass.” Saul held it back to let the light of a lamp fall on it. Small white rays seemed to radiate from a flaw in its sparkling sky-blue center.

  “It’s a fair example of a star sapphire,” continued Saul, “and if it wasn’t hot you’d even be able to get up to four and a half hundred for it.”

  Firpo took the brooch from Saul’s hand and walked out. This gave Jugger Callahan an even stronger motive to murder Ruth Bailey. The brooch was worth real dough—all the more reason for Jugger to be thoroughly enraged over its theft.

  Firpo saw a clock over a bus depot. It was already after ten. He wasn’t at all hungry but he hadn’t eaten since the previous evening and he knew that he should have something. He found some loose change in his pockets and entered a cafeteria. With swollen lips he sipped a glass of buttermilk through a straw, and then he headed straight for the Tango Palace.

  The taxi dance hall was going full blast. On the platform, Mona Leeds was giving her all to the Basin Street Blues and extra hostesses were on the floor to take care of the large, Saturday night trade.

  Firpo Cole sank into the settee and his eyes automatically searched among the dancers for Ruth Bailey. Then he remembered. Some of the girls walked over to tell him that Ruth had been a good kid and that if they could do anything …

  To one side, Simms was grilling the hostesses by turns. He saw Firpo and came over to him.

  “I hope there’s no hard feelings, Firpo.”

  “Who found the body, Simms?”

  “The apartment door was left open and some tenant who came in at three thirty saw her on the floor.”

  “O.K.”

  “You don’t look so good, Firpo. You’re as white as a baby’s behind. Why don’t you go home?”

  “Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  “Now don’t take it that way,
Firpo. Just regard me as a plainclothes dick who has to do his job.”

  Firpo said: “I love you with an overwhelming passion.”

  Simms snorted. “If you didn’t do the murder a guy would think you’d try to help me find who did. But everybody in this stinkhole thinks I’m their enemy.” He stalked off.

  Mona finished her number and left the stand. Ephraim Tuttle scurried back and forth settling arguments when he found them and creating them when he didn’t. He stopped by Firpo Cole.

  “I heard you were out, Firpo. I tried to tell those dopes that you couldn’t have done a thing like that to her.”

  “Thanks.”

  The business manager regarded Firpo’s battered face and clucked sympathetically. “That’s a hell of a way to treat you. As if you would have touched a hair of her head.”

  “We won’t talk about it, Tuttle.”

  “Sure. She’d want us to forget it.”

  “That’s right. Shut up.”

  Ephraim Tuttle muttered something under his breath and left. Firpo buried his face in his hands and sobs seemed to rack his body, but when his hands dropped away, his eyes were dry. Rocco Pace, dressed to the hilt, came by and sat beside him.

  The racketeer asked: “Are you still a checking-room?”

  “Sure.”

  Rocco Pace slipped his gun out of the shoulder holster and handed it to Firpo. “I see that the shams gave you the lumps, pal.”

  Firpo Cole nodded.

  “Don’t let it worry you, Firpo. You’ll get used to it—after a while.” He patted Firpo’s back and went out on the dance floor. In a moment, he was dancing a wild waltz, to the beat of a fox trot, whirling in and out among the unmoving couples.

  IRPO COLE ran fingers over the automatic in his pocket. He caressed its smoothness and put down the safety. He stood up and pushed L his way through the dancers and idlers, down the length of the hall. “∗He went through a curtained archway that led backstage to the band platform and knocked on the dressing-room off the right wings.

  Mona Leeds said: “Come in.”