Black Maria, M. A.: A Classic Crime Novel

by John Russell Fearn

  “Your stop, lady!”

  Maria gathered herself together and alighted. She found herself left on the pavement in the beating afternoon sunshine. Here indeed was a different world, far removed from the lordly majesty girt about the Black residence. It seemed to breathe the fetid atmosphere of struggle, the battle of men and women against in­exorable squalor....

  It was rare Maria was at a loss, but she was this time. The more she looked round on the drab buildings and rearing backdrops of factories the more utterly isolated she felt and the less she admired Patricia’s choice of a destination. She stood thinking, until her eyes chanced to catch the sign ICE CREAM SODAS over a distant doorway across the road. She hurried across to it immediately, peered uncertainly through grimy glass doors, then slipped into a semi-under­ground place where the electric lights blazed in pallid contrast to the glare of sun outside.

  The bell of the door still clanging over her head, Maria looked first at a white counter, then at partitions each shielding a table, and finally towards a row of swivel stools lined up before the counter. Only two people were present—a girl of about eight playing with a toy pistol, and a triple-chinned man leaning his flabby arms on the counter. He was enormously fat, curly-black-haired, and perspiring visibly. He shifted his dark eyes from an absent survey of the opposite wall as Maria began to advance.

  “Would it be possible to have a cup of tea here, my man?”

  “Sure!” He swung aside to a hissing cistern and busied himself with the crockery. The girl with the gun scratched her head as she surveyed Maria, made an obviously wry face, then went on with her job of taking point-blank aim at a tattered rag doll. There was a grim implication behind it that filled Maria with a rather vague horror. With an effort she turned back to the counter.

  “Very quiet here this afternoon, my man,” she commented.

  “Yeah!”

  “Trade usually as bad as this?”

  “Nope!”

  Maria swallowed some tea, then went on, “I don’t suppose you are particular about trade to bring you in money? I mean I’ll pay you as much as a whole day’s customers would bring in if you can give me some information....”

  “Yeah?” The fat one stared, his eyes astonished.

  “How much would you take if you worked from now to closing time on a normally busy day?”

  He reflected. “About five bucks. Mebbe.”

  “I’ll make it ten,” Maria said, and opening her bag she tossed ten dollars on the counter. “There it is, my man.... Now you can perhaps give me the information I’m seeking. I’m looking for a place to find a reliable, tough type of man with preferably a knowledge of the—er—underworld and its denizens.”

  “No kiddin’!” A fat hand thrust the notes out of sight under a white apron. Then there was the silence of meditation.

  “Ex-con?” he asked abruptly.

  “Ex—? Oh, a former convict? Yes, that would do admirably.”

  “Oke. Lucy!”

  The child stopped her playing and turned. “Well?”

  “Fetch Pulp. Quick!”

  “O.K., pop....” She turned and skipped to the door, vanished outside, leaving Maria still staring at the clanging bell.

  “Cute!” the big fellow said, with an admiring wag of his dark head.

  “Your daughter, I presume?” Maria asked, recovering.

  “Ninth!”

  “Amazing...! Tell me, do you mean to say you trust her in safety among questionable characters? Among the type of men I am looking for?”

  “Sure!”

  “And nothing ever happens to her?”

  “Nope!”

  Maria finished her tea. She asked, “By ‘Pulp,’ do I understand you mean a person? That it is a nickname?”

  “You betcha!”

  Maria gave it up. She paid her bill and then settled to wait. At last the bell jangled and the child came scampering back. Behind her loomed an individual in ill-fitting checks, a gray shirt with an open neck, and a green pork-pie hat of the soft variety pushed up on his forehead. His hair, what Maria could see of it, was flaming red, shading away with scarcely any change of color into his skin. In a broad sense he was not bad-looking—heavy-jawed, strong-mouthed, short-nosed, with the keenest sapphire-blue eyes. Probably, Maria decided, he was a man of tremendous physical strength at the expense of the mental. Yet his forehead.... Not at all bad.

  “You sent for me, Three-Shot?” he demanded, coming up to the counter with easy strides. He wore enormous tan walking-shoes, Maria noticed.

  “No. Her!”

  “Huh? What the— You!” The thug turned and faced Maria’s calm, steady scrutiny. He pushed his hat farther up, then put his hands on his hips. “Say, lady, what is this? What in heck would your sort be wantin’ with me, anyway? Look at you! Class written all over you or I don’t know the upper five.”

  “What you know in that direction does not concern me, my man,” Maria replied calmly. “I sent for you even as—er—Three-Shot said.” She coughed the nickname away primly. “I am given to understand that you are a rough, reliable man conversant with the underworld and its denizens.”

  “Yeah?” His sapphire-blue eyes narrowed for a moment. Then he gave a shrug: “Okay, you got it straight. Three-Shot always did talk too much—I don’t think.... I’m Pulp Martin, see, because I never socked a guy’s jaw but what I pulped it. Feel them muscles!” he invited proudly, and crooked his huge arm.

  Maria eyed him icily. “I did not summon you here for the doubtful pleasure of testing your biceps, Mr. Martin.”

  He lowered his arm and looked at her with sharp eyes.

  “You’re English, ain’t you? A furriner! Not that I holds it against you, mind. I always protects the weaker sex....” Pulp’s eyes went up and down Maria’s mannish costume doubtfully. Then he scratched his head. “You were saying something about a know­ledge of the underworld? You came to the right guy, lady. Three times in and out of the pen—that’s me. Once for breaking a guy’s head; once for friskin’ a trifle from a jeweler’s; and once for runnin’ a car over a cliff with a guy in it. But they couldn’t prove nothin’, see, so I got off light. Anyway, that feller wanted bumpin’ off. He was playin’ ball with a bunch of no-class heels.”

  “Seth Munro?” the fat one reflected.

  “Yeah,” Pulp acknowledged. “But look here, lady, you was sayin’—?”

  “I fancy you have been doing all the talking, my friend!” Maria compressed her lips, then asked briefly, “You drink?”

  “Nothing that Three Shot sells. I like a kick in my stuff—some­thing to rip your boots off.”

  “Extraordinary!” Maria extracted another dollar from her bag. “Here, take this and procure for yourself a screwball—or highball, or whatever it is, later on. There will be more dollars for you if you help me and do exactly as I say. All providing you can first give me the information I want—or at least obtain it for me.”

  “This on the level? You offerin’ me a job?”

  “Definitely!” Maria studied him thoughtfully for a moment. “To be frank, Mr. Martin, I like you quite well despite an apparent lack of education. That, however, may prove all to the good. And I may as well warn you now that any attempt to steal from me or to injure me personally will put you in a pretty dangerous position.”

  “You’re a cop?” Pulp hazarded, pocketing the dollar. “A sort of woman flatfoot?”

  “No....” Maria gave a grim smile, then she said casually, “Did you ever hear of—‘Black Maria’?”

  Pulp considered. “Let me see— Maisie the Wren, Muscle-bound Maggie, Adirondack Alice— No, you’ve got me!”

  “Obviously you have never been in England,” Maria observed gravely. “Otherwise you would know that ‘Black Maria’ means the police are somewhere near— Get it?” she asked keenly.

  Pulp stared at the last bit and she wondered if it had been uncon­vincing; then a light dawned in his eyes. “Yeah, sure I get it. The police was after you and you took a powder
. You sort of got your sugar in a big way over in England. Okay, Black Maria, your secret’s safe with me. Now we’re acquainted what sort of gravy is it you want?”

  “Gravy?” Maria repeated, mystified.

  He gestured impatiently. “Dope! Lowdown! Whadda you want to know?”

  “Oh, I see! Well, to begin with, I want to know where an escaped convict would probably hide himself if he wanted to be reasonably sure of escaping detection. It will probably be a place where a girl, probably his wife, can reach him without much trouble.”

  “Gosh, lady, you don’t want much for your smacker, do you? Where would a con on the run hide? Might be anywhere from the docks to the middle of the city, and New York City ain’t a car park, you know.”

  “It is around here somewhere,” Maria insisted. “Somewhere within walking distance of that bus stop across the street.”

  “Got things all narrowed down, eh?” Pulp said admiringly, then he scratched his chin and pondered. “Seems to me there is only one con on the run at present. He broke a prison farm a while back—Arthur Salter.”

  “That’s the man!” Maria cried eagerly.

  “I figured it must be: can’t be anybody else.... But I don’t know where he is. He’s not in the regular line of boys who do a stretch and then come back to the family circle. I haven’t sort of bothered about him— You’re sure he’s around here some place?”

  “I have every reason to think so, yes.”

  “An’ supposin’ I find him? What do you do—fetch the police? I’m giving it to you straight, lady, I won’t have no truck with no cops.”

  “I have already told you I am Black Maria,” Maria snapped. “You will have full protection, I promise you. I have no intention of getting mixed up with the police, either. I just want to know where the man is.”

  “Get a raw deal from him?” Pulp sympathized.

  “Not exactly that, but— None of your business!” Maria broke off curtly. “Can you help me, or can’t you? That’s the issue.”

  “Yeah, I can help you—at least I figure so. Only places I can think of right now are Bald Charley’s and Clip Wilson’s. If he isn’t there I’ve got boys who’ll find him, don’t you fret. And say, who’s the dame? His wife, you say? What’s she like?”

  “That,” Maria answered calmly, “does not signify.... How long will it take you to get some information?”

  “I’ll start on a snoop right now. By eight tonight I ought to have some dope for you. I’ll meet you here again then. How’d that do?”

  Maria reflected and then nodded. Then remembering the dollar she had handed over and having visions of the complete disappearance of Pulp Martin she added, “And if you bring genuine information you’ll get two more dollars. The more you do the more you get.”

  “It’s a deal!” Pulp said, beaming all over his rugged face. “Eight it is!”

  He left the café eagerly and slammed the door. Maria sat thinking until Three-Shot broke her meditations.

  “More tea?”

  “No—thank you.” She got off the stool, straightened her costume and collected bag and sunshade. “I shall return here at eight to­night, Mr. Three-Shot—”

  “Aw, the name’s Dolanki!” protested the youngster. Then she pouted, “Betcha don’t know why they all calls pop ‘Three-Shot’?”

  “I imagine,” Maria hazarded, “it has something to do with re­volvers.”

  “Revolvers nothin’! It’s ’cos he never goes more ’n three words in one mouth of wind.”

  “Right!” her father beamed.

  Maria turned to the door, shaking her head perplexedly.

  “Amazing! Positively amazing!”

  * * * *

  With four hours to kill and a hot summer evening to do it in, Maria occupied part of the time wandering in circumscribed limits through the insalubrious neighborhood in which she had landed.... From the hot main streets with their traffic and busy human beings she drifted through an area that bristled gasometers and elevated railways. It was quite unexpected when she came upon a park. Grateful for it she sought out a form and relaxed upon it in relief, her eyes traveling to the somber, brooding masses of buildings thrusting up from the city proper into the evening sky.

  At length she turned her gaze to the children playing on the distant grass; the young men and women lying out under the trees or else strolling along arm-in-arm; the elderly folk like herself re­clining on the forms.... Then her casual eye picked up the figure of a girl on a young man’s arm that struck an instant answering chord.

  There was something about the erectness of the woman, something about the showgirl carriage— Maria straightened up and frowned.

  “Be sensible, Maria,” she muttered. “You are pursuing so many trails you are getting things out of proportion. That is not Janet even if she has a similar walk—”

  But even as she talked to herself she did not believe it. Her eyes narrowed on to the pair approaching slowly along the pathway. So far the girl had been occupied in talking to her companion. He had riotous brown hair, a sweep of forehead, wore shoddy gray flannels. Obviously not a man of money—nor yet for that matter a man of dubious motives. Maria soon dispensed with him anyway: it was the girl that chained her whole attention. The walk was un­mistakable—but the shabby tweeds? The cheap shoes and hat? The heavy, horn-rimmed glasses? These were all unexpected—but the walk, and the voice as she came nearer—

  Maria rose and said calmly, “Good evening, Janet.”

  The two stopped dead, glanced sharply at each other. “Isn’t—isn’t there some mistake—?” the girl began.

  “There isn’t any mistake, Janet,” Maria answered gravely. “Glasses and cheap clothes may blind some people—but the voice and the carriage remain. I’m afraid I’d know you anywhere, my dear.”

  Janet relaxed and gave a resigned little smile.

  “All right, Aunt, you win.... This is Peter Wade, a friend of mine. Meet my aunt, Miss Black....”

  “Glad to know you, Miss Black.” He smiled and shook hands. He had eager, intelligent blue eyes but a rather rueful expression.

  Maria looked at them both in turn, saw Janet’s eyes looked troubled behind the plain-lensed glasses. Then she motioned back to the form.

  “Sit down, both of you. I’d like a word with you....” Then as they complied Maria went on pensively, “I am really just beginning to wonder why the entire Black family does not move to the East Side and have done with it! First Patricia heads in this direction: now I find you here with this young man. What are you two doing? Slumming?”

  Janet shook her head with all her old composure.

  “No—but just the same, I agree with you that we might with advantage move over here. Even you are here! Remarkable, is it not?”

  “Not particularly, Janet. I am here by chance—sightseeing. I just happened to notice you.”

  “In the vernacular, so what?” Janet asked.

  “Just why did you try to make out you were somebody else a moment ago?”

  “That? Oh, well....” Janet sat looking at the dust and frowning. Then she went on in a low voice, “I’d rather not be recognized, that’s all. And I do not believe I would be by anybody outside the family. I don’t want to be seen by anybody in this part of the city. I’m supposed to be a celebrity, you know.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Maria shrugged.

  “Well, if I were seen it might hurt me professionally.”

  “But surely you can do as you like with your private life?”

  “Not entirely.... You see, it’s because of Peter here,” Janet finished earnestly. “Tell her, Peter.”

  “At one time I was a pretty big composer,” he explained, as Maria eyed him. “Just at present I’ve fallen on hard times. Jan and I were in love when I was up at the top, and she is still in love with me even though I’m down at the bottom. But—and here is the point—if she were seen about with me it might spoil things for her with Montagu: that is her manager, controller, and general
man-of-work. He is rather ‘that way’ about her, and as long as he believes she has no outside ties he gives her all the breaks. But if he once found out that she was engaged to me he’s the kind of man to go all out to break her—and he could do it. Even yet Jan is not an absolute top-liner: one slip-up now and the whole lot would come down.... So, determined to stay beside me when she can she adopts this disguise to prevent any chance of tittle-tattle back to Montagu. Right now I’m busy on a new musical revue, which if it hits anything big will put Jan right in the front rank and to hell with Montagu.... That is the layout.”

  “In other words a matter of diplomacy?” Maria murmured. “And you are living in this district, Mr. Wade?”

  “I guess I have to,” he sighed.

  “You won’t tell anybody, Aunt?” Janet questioned urgently. “That was why I pretended to be a stranger—”

  “Because you don’t trust me?” Maria enquired dryly.

  “Well, not exactly, but because I am never sure of you unless you give your promise over something. I trust your word, but not your actions, I’m afraid.”

  Maria gave an acid smile. “I can imagine how you feel about me, Janet—but you have my assurance that this will go no further. I would not interfere with your career for the world—or try and upset your love affair. But tell me, doesn’t anybody know of this—in­trigue?”

  “Only my maid Mary and she is absolutely reliable.”

  “And the only other one is dead,” Peter Wade said grimly.

  “He means that only father knew about it,” Janet explained. “I know dad didn’t approve, but he never betrayed our secret.”

  “Did you ever meet him, Mr. Wade?” Maria questioned.

  “Once or twice,” he shrugged. “I guess one shouldn’t speak evil of the dead, but if ever there was a man of iron, a man who had no soul and a dollar sign for a heart, it was Ralph Black. He was the most ambitious, ruthless man I ever met.”