No Pockets in a Shroud

by Horace McCoy

  'Sorry, Mike,' Cully said. 'Tough business bucking Jack Carlisle—'

  'It's beginning to look like it, all right,' Dolan said. 'Will you get everything together and let those guys out in back have it—you know, those mugs—'

  'Sure—'

  'Thanks for everything, Cully.'

  They went back upstairs. Myra was emptying the drawers of the desk, stacking the stuff on the desk.

  'We're moving,' Bishop said.

  'I suspected as much when the press stopped—'

  'Ed,' Dolan said, picking up his coat, 'stick here until I get back. I've got to see that lawyer, and then I'll get a truck.'

  'Where're we moving?'

  'If I don't get that money, we're not moving anywhere—we're finished. If I do get it... Just stick here. I'll speak to those guys out back. You think I'd better send them up?'

  'What for?'

  'In case anything should happen—'

  'They'd only be in the way. Myra and I and old Pretty Boy Floyd here can handle things,' he said, patting his hip.

  'And Thomas just called,' Myra said.

  'I wish he'd let me alone,' Dolan said, moving to the door.

  'Mike,' Myra called, 'do be careful—'

  'I will...'

  * * * * *

  Oppenheimer, the lawyer, walked slowly up and down his carpet, hands in his pockets, looking alternately from Dolan to the window.

  'I think the rain's just about over now,' he remarked. 'Looks like it's breaking up in the north. If we get a wind it'll be dry enough by tomorrow afternoon to play golf. You play golf, Dolan?'

  'No, I never got around to it—'

  'Great game, golf.'

  'So they tell me—'

  Oppenheimer stopped in front of Dolan, looking down at him.

  'I don't think you handled this thing very wisely, Dolan. The Senator's not the kind of a man you should offend. I know him. He's very much upset.'

  'I'm upset too—'

  'You should have taken his check. You practically insulted him by refusing it.'

  'Look, Mr. Oppenheimer. I came here to sign that waiver, and I will sign it when he comes back with the cash. I refused his check simply because I'm not going to take chances on him having the payment stopped—'

  'But that's why he was offended. That was tantamount to saying you didn't trust him. The Senator is an honorable man—'

  'I know, I know. I know all about the Senator. You forget I worked on a newspaper for several years—'

  The door opened.

  'Well, well, come in, Senator,' Oppenheimer said.

  'Here,' the Senator said, tossing a bundle of currency into Dolan's lap. 'Seventy five hundred dollar bills. Now, by God, you sign that waiver or I'll personally throw you out the window—'

  'Thanks,' Dolan said, getting up, going to the desk. 'Where do I sign, Mr. Oppenheimer?'

  'Right there—right there—'

  Dolan signed his name and straightened up. 'Thanks,' he said again, putting the money in his inside pocket, walking out.

  * * * * *

  The secretary pushed her head inside the door.

  'I hate to interrupt, Mr. Baumgarten,' she said, 'but you're due at Pacific Press at eleven, and it's ten-thirty now—'

  'AH right,' Baumgarten said. 'I'll be there.'

  The secretary's head disappeared, and the door closed again.

  'They're installing some machinery,' he said to Dolan. 'What was all that you were trying to tell me?'

  'I'm putting out a magazine,' Dolan began patiently.

  'I know. The Cosmopolite. I know that. What were you saying about the press?'

  'You sold Lawrence his machinery, didn't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's what I wanted to know. I'm not printing the magazine there any more. I've got the formes and everything, and I simply wanted to know if you could tell me where there is a press in town exactly like his.'

  'You want to put out the magazine somewhere else—'

  'Right. But I want to keep the same size.'

  'There are several presses in town like Lawrence's. Green has one—'

  'He's out. His uncle publishes the Courier, and sooner or later—No, he's out.'

  'Grissom has one, right around the corner. Used to do a lot of house organs and mining brochures. I sold him some new equipment a couple of months ago.'

  'You think he might take on the Cosmopolite?'

  'I don't see why not. He's your best chance, anyway. Of course, it won't help your standing in the community much to be associated with him—'

  'I can't be choosey, I've got to take what I can get. Why wouldn't it help my standing?'

  'He's the fellow who used to print those Communistic tracts. That's why Lawrence does most of the house-organ business today, too—'

  'Apparently it didn't hurt your standing in the community to associate with him. I thought you were pretty active in the American Legion—'

  'Business is business,' Baumgarten said. 'I only belong to the Legion at night.'

  '—Grissom, you say?'

  'Right around the corner. I'd take you there except that I'm pressed for time.'

  'That's all right. Thanks, Henry—'

  'Okay, Mike. Let me know how you come out—'

  * * * * *

  Grissom was a mild-looking man of fifty-odd, white-haired, with blue eyes and a scholarly face. He was very much interested in Dolan's proposition. He kept nodding his head and smiling through the story of what had happened to the Cosmopolite, and when Dolan brought it up to date by relating how Lawrence had stopped the press a few hours ago, Grissom laughed heartily, very much amused.

  'Well, Mr. Dolan,' he said, 'you need have no fears about this press being stopped. At the risk of being considered irreverent, I want you to know I am not in the least awed by Jack Carlisle.'

  'Have you got a place here we could use as an office?'

  'That. Would that do?'

  He pointed to the rear of the plant to a balcony.

  'My proof-readers used to use that—when I had proofreaders. How big is your staff? Or do you have a staff?'

  'Three. Two others and myself—'

  'I don't see why you couldn't use the balcony—'

  'That's not important, anyway. The important thing is, when can we finish the press run?'

  'Any time. I could start now if I had the formes. I'll have to get some girls who know how to fold and bind—'

  'We can do that ourselves—if we have to. Here,' Dolan said, putting his hand in his inside pocket, working a bill loose with his fingers. 'Here's five hundred dollars. Just to prove there's no monkey business about this—'

  'Why—this isn't necessary—'

  'Take it—'

  'Well...' Grissom said, taking the bill, still surprised.

  'I'll get a truck and bring the stuff down. Be here in an hour. I'd like to get started by noon if I could—'

  'I'll rustle up a crew,' Grissom said ...

  * * * * *

  Thirty minutes later Dolan arrived at the parking lot of the Lawrence plant in a moving van. All the formes and bound and unbound leaves of the magazine were outside on a work bench, neatly stacked, being watched by the gorillas the police chief had rounded up for him.

  'Load that stuff on the truck, fellows—and after that we have some lunch. We're moving down to the wholesale district, and some time this afternoon we'll have the magazine ready to be delivered.'

  He walked around to the front of the building and went upstairs.

  'Well?' Bishop and Myra said.

  Dolan took out the currency and laid it on the desk.

  'Thirty-four thousand, five hundred dollars. Cash.'

  'Well, I'll be a sonofabitch,' Bishop exclaimed, picking up the money, riffling it. 'This is the most dough I ever saw at one time in my life.'

  'What about the magazine? Where're we going? I see you brought a truck big enough to move the entire joint,' Myra said.

  'I found a place on Sixth
Avenue, just off Terminal. Man by the name of Grissom—'

  'Grissom?' Bishop said suddenly.

  'You know him?'

  'I know who he is. He's radical. The cops have run him in a couple of times—'

  'He seemed harmless enough to me. Very nice and very inoffensive. I don't care whether he's radical or not. He's got a printing-press, and that's all I'm interested in—'

  '—Okay. I'm game,' Bishop said. 'But I can tell you right now I don't have to be a crystal-gazer to know what's going to happen—'

  'The first thing that's happening is, Myra and I are going to the bank. “You go down on the truck with the stuff, and we'll meet you there as soon as we can.'

  'You don't mean you're going to deposit all this money in my name, do you?' Myra said, taking the bundle of currency from Bishop.

  'I can't very well put it in my own—not with all the judgements and things I've got against me,' Dolan said. 'That's as good as they want—me to have dough in the bank. They'd slap an attachment on it so fast it'd make your head swim.'

  'See you at Grissom's,' Bishop said.

  'Sure. Come on, Myra—'

  'You'd better call Thomas,' Myra said, putting on her hat. 'He's tried to get you a couple of times—'

  'It's beginning to look like the guy's queer for me,' Dolan said. 'Come on, let's get that money in the bank before somebody hijacks us—'

  * * * * *

  Vol. I. No. 5 of the Cosmopolite was back on the news-stands shortly before five o'clock that afternoon, in plenty of time to catch the home-going traffic. Big posters read:

  ON SALE HERE -- THE COSMOPOLITE

  The Magazine They Tried to Suppress

  In This Issue:

  THE INSIDE STORY OF DR HARRY CARLISLE

  The Cosmopolite

  (The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but the Truth)

  At each of seven important stands in the heaviest traffic centres, beside the pile of magazines, stood one of the gorillas. Each man had been equipped with a leather black-jack and a pair of brass knucks (that Dolan had bought from a pawnshop), and was keeping an eye out for trouble. They had been fully rehearsed and knew what to do if any attempt was made at further strong-arming.

  Dolan, Bishop, and Myra cruised around these seven stands, reconnoitering, checking up, giving each gorilla a ten-dollar bill, and promising him another ten if he protected the magazines until nine o'clock.

  'Swell. They're going like hotcakes,' Dolan said, as he drove away from the last news-stand. 'And not even a chirp from Carlisle.'

  'Let's don't get premature,' Bishop said. 'There's plenty of time left for him to start something—'

  'Those mugs'll know what to do. They love it. Three of 'em used to work for Bergoff.'

  'Who's Bergoff?'

  'Pearl Bergoff. You never heard of Pearl Bergoff?'

  'I think I do remember something about him,' Bishop said. 'Story in Fortune, wasn't there?'

  'That's right—'

  'Mike,' Myra said, 'you'd better get in touch with McGonagill about that girl who used to work in Carlisle's office. You're going to need her. It's a cinch the Grand Jury will want to know about this now, and the Medical Association—'

  'I'm going to call him tonight. Oh, I'll have my facts straight, don't you worry—'

  He was stopped by a traffic semaphore.

  '—Look,' Bishop said quietly. 'In that car to your left—'

  Dolan looked. An expensive sedan had pulled alongside. A man was driving, with a woman sitting beside him. The woman was reading aloud from the Cosmopolite. The man had his head slanted over so he could hear.

  'Get it?' Bishop asked.

  'It'll be all over town by tonight.'

  'It's all over town now,' Bishop said.

  The semaphore changed and Dolan drove on, south, towards the ocean.

  'Where're we going to eat? ...' Myra asked.

  'My God,' Bishop said. 'You're not hungry again?'

  'I could eat a dead Confederate soldier,' she said.

  'Want to go to the beach?' Dolan asked. 'You like clam chowder?'

  'I like good clam chowder, but I've never had any at a beach yet. It's too close to the ocean.'

  'Clams come out of the ocean, you dope,' Dolan said.

  'I know it. That's what I mean—'

  'I'll go for anything but hamburgers,' Bishop said. 'Now that we're in the money I never want to see another hamburger again.'

  'Myra,' Dolan said, 'remind me to take a check to David and Mrs. Marsden tonight—'

  'Why, for God's sake?' Bishop asked. 'We may need that dough. You don't have to pay them yet—'

  'I'm going to while I've got it. I'm going to pay up some other bills, too. I just thought of something,' he said, laughing, pushing down on the foot accelerator, anxious to get to the beach and have dinner and then get back home.

  * * * * *

  The telephone rang, and a few minutes later Ulysses came into the room.

  'That was Mr. McGonagill. He said you'd know what it was about.'

  Dolan got up off the bed and started out.

  'He's hung up,' Ulysses said, stopping him.

  'Whyn't you call me?' Dolan said crossly. 'You know I wanted to talk to him—'

  'No, sir, I didn't. You said you didn't want to talk to nobody. Didn't he, Miss Myra?'

  'That's right, Ulysses. It's not his fault, Mike,' she said. 'He's done nothing but answer that telephone since eight o'clock.'

  'I'm sorry, Ulysses,' Dolan said. 'I'll call him at home.'

  He went into the living-room and called McGonagill at home.

  'Bud? ... This is Mike Dolan. You want me? ... Swell! What is it? ... Wait a moment, let me get a pencil and write it down ... All right. Jean Christie. Where does she live? ... Dolly Madison Apartments. Good ... Oh, you did? Swell, Bud—I appreciate this a lot. Say, hear anything from Carlisle? ... You didn't, hunh? We put out the magazines this afternoon ... You did? What'd you think of the story? ... I'll say it's hot stuff. Thanks, Bud—thanks very much—'

  He went back into the living-room.

  'McGonagill's located the girl for us. Name's Jean Christie, and she lives at the Dolly Madison Apartments. What's more, he's talked to her, and she says she'll be glad to testify if they ever call on her.'

  'By God, that's marvellous,' Bishop said.

  'He said we'd better slip her fifty—just for her time, you know. That's all right—'

  Myra lay down on the bed, very pale, and started fanning herself with a book.

  'What's the matter?' Dolan asked, a little alarmed.

  'Those clams—they're riding my stomach with spurs,' she said. 'I knew it—I knew it.'

  'You want anything?'

  'No, I'll be all right in a minute,' she said, groaning.

  'Ed,' Dolan said, 'I think I'll run over and have a talk with this Christie girl—'

  'Go ahead if you want to, but I don't see much sense in it. If Bud spoke to her we've got nothing to worry about.'

  'Just the same I'd feel better if I had a talk with her myself... You sure you don't want anything, Myra? Can I bring you something from the drug-store?'

  'I'm all right,' Myra said. 'But don't be gone too long, will you? Ed, hadn't you better go with him?'

  'You stay here, Ed,' Dolan said. 'I won't be gone long ...'

  * * * * *

  'I'm sorry I couldn't ask you to my room,' Jean Christie said, 'but this is a women's apartment and they've got old-fashioned ideas.'

  'This lounge is all right,' Dolan said. 'Thank you for coming down.'

  'Not at all. I was expecting you. Mr. McGonagill said you'd probably call—'

  'I understand he told you what I wanted.'

  'He did. About the Harry Carlisle story in your magazine.'

  'Have you seen the magazine?'

  'That part of it I've read, yes. You certainly spoke right out, didn't you?'

  'That's about the only way to handle a story like that—right on the nose. Do you remember
either the Griffith or McAlister girl?'

  'Both of them. I assisted in both operations. The McAlister girl died in my arms.'

  'She did?' Dolan exclaimed, astonished. 'God, I never thought getting the goods on Carlisle'd be this simple. Miss Christie, I'm afraid there'll be an investigation about this, and I wonder if you'd—well—'

  'Tell my story to the Grand Jury?'

  'Would you?—I hate to ask you, but unless we can get evidence we won't have a leg to stand on—'

  'I'll tell it, you can just bet I'll tell it,' she said, with vehemence. 'That's not all I'll tell, either. He performed a criminal operation on me, too. He got me, in that condition himself and operated on me—and then he fired me a month later.'

  'I don't blame you for being sore at him,' Dolan said. 'You've got a squawk coming. But I would think he'd be too smart to offend you—'

  'You would think so, wouldn't you? Perhaps it's my fault, perhaps I used the wrong technique. I used to plead with him—and, of course, that invariably makes a man despise a woman. Then, too, he has always depended on his brother's power to get him out of any jam. He thought he had me bluffed. Believe me, Mr. Dolan—I've been praying for a chance like this—a chance to get even—'

  'Here it is. I'll tell you what I think. I think we would be smart to go to a notary public right now and get your sworn statement. I know a notary who'd take it. Would you mind?'

  'Whatever you think. I've got to be back in by eleven o'clock—'

  'I think yes. It can't do any harm. I'd feel much better about it.'

  'All right. I'll get my things.'

  'Here,' Dolan said, handing her an envelope as she got up, an envelope with fifty dollars in it.

  'What is this?' she asked, blushing, knowing what it was.

  'A note. Open it upstairs. I'll wait for you right here ...'

  She smiled at him, moving towards the elevator.

  * * * * *

  There were three mugs sticking to the ceiling, face downward, with long pieces of lead pipe in their hands. They wore white gauze helmets and red rubber gloves, and they were all looking down at Dolan, whispering. In a moment they started swinging the lead pipes at his head, not angry at all, but smiling and laughing like kids playing a game. Dolan tried to ward off the blows, tried to get up, but found he could move only in an absurdly slow slow-motion. The pipes crashed into his head and he thought: Hell, why can't I move? and finally he fell out of bed and started crawling, with them directly behind him swinging those lead pipes. He finally managed to get to his feet, but his legs were working in that absurdly slow slow-motion too, and he leaned over, bending almost double, putting his hands on the ground, shoving with them, trying desperately to increase his speed. The three mugs kept banging at him with those lead pipes ... and he screamed and sat up, opening his eyes.