The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps: The Best Crime Stories from the Pulps During Their Golden Age--The '20s, '30s & '40s

by Otto Penzler

  The girl said nothing. McFee ran the car up to the filling station oil pumps. Behind them, the brakes of the pursuing car made a high wailing sound and the car—a rakish black sedan— rocked to a standstill. It had not crossed the intersection.

  “What’s the street this side of Avalon?”

  “Hawthorne.”

  “Trees on it?”

  “Yes.”

  To the white-uniformed, freckle-faced lad who came running up, McFee said, “Gimme a five-gallon can of crankcase oil—Eastern. Step on it.” McFee took out a jacknife, opened a blade. The lad reappeared, lugging the can of oil. McFee placed it on the seat, between himself and the red-headed girl. “Throw in five gallons of gas.” He added to the girl, “Just to fool those birds,” and drove his knife blade into the top of the can. Ripping around the edge, he muttered, “This is going to be dirty.”

  The girl’s eyes became spheres of green light.

  Oil slopped onto McFee’s clothing, over the girl’s wrap. The lad came back, McFee threw ten dollars at him.

  “Keep the change, kid. And do this—” McFee impaled him with an oily forefinger. “Hop your telephone. Call police headquarters. Tell ‘em, there’s an accident on Hawthorne, north of Grand. Tell ‘em to send a riot squad. Tell ‘em McFee told you.”

  The boy blurted, “Anybody hurt?”

  “There’s going to be,” McFee said as he jumped the car into the boulevard.

  They hit fifty. The sedan behind them zoomed across the intersection, then settled down to tailing the coop from two blocks back.

  Irene Mayo said tersely. “Avalon—three blocks.”

  McFee dropped to thirty. The car behind picked up. McFee made the right hand turn at Hawthorne. The street was narrow, a black tunnel of peppers and eucalypti.

  McFee drove half a block, dropping to fifteen. He shifted off the crown of the street. He placed the red-headed girl’s right hand on top of the wheel. She stared at him, her mouth a red gash in her white face. McFee bent back the top of the can. He caught the ragged edge nearest him with his left hand, thrust his right under the bottom of the can. The lights behind made a wide arc as the sedan swung crazily into Hawthorne.

  Before the lights had quite straightened out, McFee heaved the can over the wheel and dumped the oil onto the crown of the road.

  The oil ran in every direction. McFee flung the can into the trees. The sedan came roaring down Hawthorne, huge and devastating behind its tremendous lights. McFee shot the coupe ahead. He abruptly turned into a private driveway, shut off the lights.

  The brakes of the big sedan screamed. The car staggered, ploughed towards the wet smear that oozed towards either curb of the narrow street. Someone in the car shouted thickly, hysterically.

  The locked wheels of the sedan skidded into the oil.

  McFee and Irene Mayo saw a big sedan slide sidewise on tortured rubber. Twice the car cut a complete circle at terrible speed, its lights slicing the darkness; then it leaped the opposite curb and snapped off a street light standard. Glass shattered. A wheel flew somewhere. The huge car lifted itself in a final spasm and fell on its side.

  McFee said softly, “Very swell.”

  8

  Windows were going up as McFee backed into Hawthorne. He turned on his lights. Somebody yelled at him. At the corner, he made a left hand turn; then a right hand at Avalon. He drove two blocks, and saw the St. Regis, a green light over its entrance, at the next corner. It was a fairly exclusive, small, three-story house with garages. He drove into an open garage.

  “Not bad.” He laughed and looked at the girl. She was leaning against his shoulder, very white. “Oh,” said McFee. “Well.”

  He took out the ignition key. There were five keys on a ring. Sliding out of the coupe, he lifted the girl into his arms and carried her around to the front entrance. No one was about. The trees in the parking threw long shadows after him. A police siren wailed somewhere.

  The letter-box directory indicated that Miss Mayo’s apartment was No. 305. He carried her upstairs, reminded of an Olga Nethersole play he had seen at the Gaiety years ago. Heavy, wine-colored carpet covered the stairs and halls. Some potted palms stood around and looked at him.

  At No. 305, McFee tried three of the keys before he got the door open. A little light from the corridor came in with McFee—enough for him to see a divan in the middle of the living room into which the small entrance hall opened. He laid the girl on it, snapped a floor lamp switch. The room had dim lights, soft rugs, lots of pillows, some books and a couple of pictures. A swell little shack for a lad to hang up his hat in.

  One of the girl’s green snakeskin slippers had become unbuckled. It fell off. McFee saw a long manila envelope fastened to the lining of her wrap with a safety pin. He chewed his knuckle, then unpinned the envelope. “Shelldon File” was pencilled on its upper left-hand corner. The envelope was sealed. McFee stared hard at the girl. Her eyelashes rested on the shadows beneath her eyes. Slitting the top of the envelope, he looked into it. His expression became astonished. He smiled crookedly and put the envelope inside his waistcoat.

  In the kitchen McFee got a glass of water. When he came back the girl was sitting up.

  “How’s it coming?” he asked.

  “Nicely.” Her eyes were amused but a little cold. “You must have done a gorgeous Sappho.” She looked at her hands, at her wrap and gown. “That oil made a horrible mess. Do you suppose they are hurt?”

  “You can give the hospital a bell in ten minutes.”

  She laughed uneasily. “Make yourself comfortable while I get into something else.”

  McFee was in a mess himself. He lit a cigarette. He began to walk up and down.

  An ornamental mirror hung on the wall opposite the bedroom door. The girl had not closed the door and he saw her reflection in the mirror. She stood beside a table, a framed photograph clasped in her hands. Her expression and attitude were tragic and adoring. She pressed the photograph to her lips, held it there. Her slender body drooped. She put the photograph down but continued to stare at it, her fingers pressed against her mouth. The photograph was of Ranee Damon.

  Irene Mayo slipped out of her green gown, when she reappeared some minutes later her eyes were subtle and untragic, and she wore lounging pajamas of green silk with a flowing red sash. She dropped onto the divan and laid her red head against a green pillow.

  “You’d better use the bathroom, McFee,” she told him.

  The bathroom was finished in green and white tile and much nickel. He used a mono-grammed hand towel on his oil splashed clothes. He washed his hands and face and combed his hair. Stared at his automatic meditatively, then stood it on its nose in his right hand coat pocket.

  When McFee showed himself again, Irene Mayo had a bottle of gin and a couple of glasses on a small table.

  “Straight is all I can do.”

  “You couldn’t do better.”

  McFee sat down on the girl’s left. The liquor made a gurgling sound. She poured until McFee said “yes,” which wasn’t immediately.

  As he occupied himself with the glass, a blunt object jammed his ribs. He finished the liquor.

  The girl said coldly, “Your own gun.”

  McFee asked, “What do you want?”

  “That envelope.” Her eyes were cold, too. “McFee, I went through Ranee’s pockets just before you came back and found me kneeling beside him. He had the Shelldon file. I took it. You have it. I want it back.”

  “What you want it for?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Maybe I want it too.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” Her cheek bones began to burn. “I’ll kill you if you don’t give me that file.”

  “What’d the coppers say to that?”

  “I’d tell them you wouldn’t go home.”

  McFee smiled charmingly and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Still smiling, he handed her the envelope and said, “You better look at the catch.”

  Suspicious, she jumped up, back
ed to the other side of the room, still covering him with the .38, and shook the envelope. Sheets of folded paper slid out, fluttered onto the floor. They were blank.

  The girl said furiously, “McFee, I’ll give you just three seconds—”

  “Use your bean,” McFee said harshly. “You saw me unpin that envelope. You know where I been since—the kitchen, the bathroom. I haven’t got anything in my clothes. “If you like, I’ll take ‘em off. Some’dy’s give you the run-around.”

  She stared at him, the cold fury in her eyes turning to mortification. “I didn’t look—I took it for granted— What an idiot you must think me!” she wept. And then, stamping angrily, “How do you explain this?”

  McFee said, “I can think of a coupla answers.” He helped himself appreciatively to the gin. “Number One: Leclair’s putting the buzz on Melrose. She killed Damon, picked the meat out of the envelope, and left those blanks behind. Number Two: Damon had showed Leclair the file, but was trying to sell her the blanks.” McFee set his glass down. “Here’s another one: Mr. X, as the book writers call him, shot Damon and worked the switch. Don’t ask me why. There’s only one answer, sister.”

  “And Sam Melrose knows it!” Irene Mayo declared passionately.

  She came towards McFee, her red sash swaying as she walked. Laughing a little, she sat down beside him, handed him the pistol. McFee took the cartridge clip out of his coat pocket, opened the magazine, shot the clip home. He set the safety.

  Irene Mayo said, “Oh! You knew what I would do? You are clever—”

  “Just an agency dick trying to get along,” McFee answered softly.

  She laid her head on the green pillow, her red mouth smiling.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she murmured. And then, “Is your wife home, McFee?”

  “Visiting her sister,” he said.

  After a while, McFee went away.

  Down below McFee hopped the taxi he had called from Irene Mayo’s apartment. He told the man to take him to the Manchester Arms, on Gerard Street. It was daylight.

  At the Manchester, McFee paid the fare and went into the house, feeling for his keys. They were gone. “Metz!” he muttered, and explored his other pockets. Some letters and a note book he had had were gone. “I owe those lads a couple,” he muttered.

  McFee got a spare key off the building superintendent and walked up to his apartment on the fourth floor. He let himself into the entrance hall and pushed into the living room.

  Joe Metz sat in a chair in front of the door. He had a .38 in his hand.

  Metz said, “Hello, McFee.”

  McFee stood quite still. Metz’s left cheek was strapped in adhesive tape from eye to mouth. His bulbous forehead was wet. Art Kline came out of the bathroom in his shirt sleeves. He was swart and squat, a barrel of a man. His nose and right forearm were plastered. The door behind McFee closed. Steel prodded his kidneys.

  “Don’t make any break, sap,” said whispering Monty Welch.

  McFee answered, “I thought I put you lads on ice.”

  “You bust Tony Starke’s neck,” Metz said.

  Welch drove McFee forward. Metz stood up. The whites of his eyes showed. Art Kline shuffled across the room. He carried his hands as if they were paws. His eyes were fixed, reddish, minute.

  Metz said, “Sit down.”

  McFee stared at the empty chair. It had wide wings. The three closed in upon him.

  “Sit down, McFee.”

  The latter whirled quietly and crashed his right into Kline’s swart jaw. The blow made a dull chopping sound. Kline hit a sofa against the wall. If he’d had anything less than a horse shoe in his jaw he’d have stayed there, but as the other two jumped McFee he bounced up, shook his head, dived in. McFee took a beating before they slammed him down into the chair. He rocked a moment, then threw himself forward and up. They slammed him back.

  Art Kline smashed him terrifically in the mouth. McFee fell against the back of the chair. Metz began to go swiftly, thoroughly, through his clothes.

  He said harshly, “McFee, what you done with that Shelldon file? What we just handed you is pie crust to what you’ll get if you don’t play ball.”

  “I haven’t got it,” McFee whispered.

  Kline hit him again. McFee’s mouth became bloody. He sat very still.

  Metz said, “What you holding out for, goat? This is Melrose’s town. You can’t buck Sam. Come through, or I’ll turn this coupla bear eaters loose.”

  Sick and raging, McFee blurted, “You bat-eyed kite, d’you think I’d be sitting here if I had it? I’d be down at the Trib spilling a story to Roy Cruikshank that’d put you gophers in your holes.”

  “Not if you were saving it until you thought you had enough to put the bell on Melrose.” Metz unfolded a handkerchief, wiped his wet forehead, said slowly, “McFee, you must have that file. And if you have it, you’re holding it with a notion of putting the bell on Sam. Nob’dy in this town’11 live long enough to do that— I mean it both ways. But Sam wants that indictment killed, election coming on. Ten grand, McFee?”

  “Go paddle your drum.”

  “Lemme work on him,” Art Kline said. An impediment in his speech gummed up his voice. “I owe him a couple for Tony.”

  He went behind McFee’s chair. He laid his tremendous hands on the top of it, flexed his powerful fingers. Whispering Monty Welch sat on the right arm of the chair. His patent leather-shod diminutive feet swung clear of the floor. Welch placed a cigarette between his lips, ignited it with a gem-studded lighter.

  McFee waited.

  Metz said, “They got no use for dicks in heaven.”

  McFee’s mouth twitched. There was sweat in his eyes, on his cheekbones. He suddenly threw himself out of the chair and at Metz. The latter smacked him lightly across the head with his gun. McFee wobbled, fell back.

  Metz said, “I’m waiting.”

  McFee did not answer. Welch dragged on his cigarette. The detached expression of his puckish face was unchanged as he held the red end a half inch from McFee’s cheek. McFee slowly lifted his head. Art Kline laughed and slapped adhesive tape over McFee’s mouth; then he caught McFee’s wrists and began to bend his arms over the back of the chair.

  Metz said, “Blow your whistle when it’s plenty.”

  McFee threw himself around in the chair, but the steam had gone out of him. Metz and Welch held his legs. Kline leaned heavily, enthusiastically, on his arms. A seam in McFee’s coat shoulder burst. His sinews cracked. His eyeballs came slowly out of their sockets.

  Metz said, “Well?” anxiously.

  McFee mumbled defiantly behind his taped lips.

  “Funny about a guy’s arm,” Art Kline said.

  To his downward pressure he added a side-wise motion. Welch drew his cigarette across McFee’s corded throat. McFee’s face turned green. His eyes rolled in a hot, white hate.

  “This oughta do it,” Art Kline said.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  McFee fell sidewise in his chair, his arm limp. Welch squeezed out his cigarette. Metz held up a hand, his thin white face oddly disconcerted. The other two nodded slowly. The knocking set up a reverberation in the room.

  A soprano voice said lazily, “This is Roy Cruikshank, McFee. Pete Hurley’s with me. The superintendent said you came in ten minutes ago. We are coming in with a pass key, if you don’t open up.” Placatingly, “Now be reasonable, Handsome—we got to get out the paper.” Pete Hurley added querulously, “I wanna talk to you about that wrecked sedan on Hawthorne. Open the door!”

  McFee lifted his head. He clawed at his taped lips, raised up in his chair. Art Kline smacked him down again.

  “One peep outta you—”

  Metz’s agile eyes had been racing around the room. They jumped at Kline. “Cut that!” he said tersely. And then, in a loud voice, “I’m coming. We been in a little game.”

  Metz’ eyes lighted on a tier of bookshelves. On the top shelf were some decks of cards and a box of poker chips. Beside the
bookshelves stood a card table. Moving fast, Metz grabbed the table with one hand, cards and box of chips with the other. Monty Welch took them away from him.

  “Set ‘em up,” Metz said.

  In the kitchen on the sink were some glasses and a bottle of gin. Metz carried these into the living room. He placed them on the floor beside the card table, which Welch had set up in front of McFee’s chair. McFee stared at Metz ironically. Art Kline stood over him, bewildered. Metz carefully upset the card table, spilling chips and cards. He threw some money on the floor.

  Outside, Hurley shouted, “McFee, I told you t’open the door!” and rattled the handle.

  “Maybe he’s pulling his pants on,” Roy Cruikshank said patiently.

  “Don’t get excited.” Metz spoke irritably. “I’m coming.” He ripped the tape off McFee’s lips. “Tell ‘em anything you please—it won’t stick. Not in this town, it won’t. We got all the alibis we need.” To the other two he said, “McFee and Art tangled over a pair of jacks, see? Art laid him out.”

  Metz poured gin into a glass. He drank half of it, spilled the remainder on the carpet. He wiped his lips on a handkerchief and opened the door.

  “Hello, Pete!” Metz said.

  “Oh, it’s you!” Hurley’s bitter button eyes went tight in their sockets. He shoved past Metz, saying, “Where’s McFee?”

  Roy Cruikshank tailed him into the living room. Cruikshank was a slouching pink lad in his thirties. He had an egg-shaped stomach, evangelical hands and cynical, indolent eyes.

  “Party,” Cruikshank said lazily. “Well, well.”

  Hurley’s hostile eyes made their calculations. Art Kline sat on the couch, nursing his jaw. Welch, leaning back in a chair near the table, squeezed five cards in his left hand, lighted a cigarette with his right. McFee’s face was a mess.

  “What happened, Handsome?” Hurley muttered.

  McFee smiled with bruised lips. “Ask Metz.”

  “Art and McFee mixed over a pair of Jacks,” Metz said with annoyed distinctness. “McFee smacked Art. Art laid him out.”

  “How long you been playing?”

  “Half an hour.”