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

  “Good night,” said the lawyer pointedly, his steely eyes glittering into those of the officers.

  Shamefacedly, the officers trooped from the room.

  Jean threw herself into my arms.

  “Ed, you came back because of me! You risked your life to save mine, to see that a wrong was righted, to see that I was restored to my father! Ed, dear, you are a man in a million.”

  I patted her shoulder.

  “You were a good pal, Jean, and I saw you through,” I said. “Now you must forget about it. The daughter of a prominent millionaire has no business knowing a crook.”

  Arthur Holton advanced, hand outstretched.

  “I was hypnotized, fooled, taken in by an adventuress and worse. I can hardly think clearly, the events of the past few minutes have been so swift, but this much I do know. I can never repay you for what you have done, Ed Jenkins. I will see that your name is cleared of every charge against you in every state, that you are a free man, that you are restored to citizenship, and that you have the right to live,” and here he glanced at Jean: “You will stay with us as my guest?”

  I shook my head. It was all right for them to feel grateful, to get a bit sloppy now that the grandstand play had been made, but they’d probably feel different about it by morning.

  “I think I’ll be on my way,” I said, and started for the door.

  “Ed!” It was the girl’s cry, a cry which was as sharp, as stabbing as a quick pain at the heart. “Ed, you’re not leaving!”

  By way of answer I stumbled forward. Hell, was it possible that the difficulty with that threshold was that there was a mist in my eyes? Was Ed Jenkins, the phantom crook, known and feared by the police of a dozen states, becoming an old woman?

  Two soft arms flashed about my neck, a swift kiss planted itself on my cheek, warm lips whispered in my ear.

  I shook myself free, and stumbled out into the darkness. She was nothing but a kid, the daughter of a millionaire oil magnate. I was a crook. Nothing but hurt to her could come to any further acquaintance. It had gone too far already.

  I jumped to one side, doubled around the house, away from the street lights, hugging the shadow which lay near the wall. From within the room, through the half-open window there came a steady, throbbing, thrumming sound: “Rummy-tum-tum; rummy-tum-tum; rummy-tum-tummy; tum-tummy-tum-tum.”

  H. F. Morton was thinking.

  The Dilemma of the Dead Lady Cornell Woolrich

  THE MASTER OF NOIR fiction, Cornell Woolrich (1903-1968) wrote literally hundreds of stories, of which fewer than you might think have happy endings.

  It was difficult to find the right story for this section because so many of his characters are shades of gray. People with whom we empathize choose to murder someone, or are put in positions where there seems to be no choice. Policemen, the upholders of the law, are frequently fascistic thugs who enjoy torturing suspects. Pretty girls with faces of angels turn out to be liars and cheats, and often worse. His situations ended unjustly when other authors would have resolved them neatly, and a Woolrich character often still faces a future barren of love, joy, or hope at the end of a story.

  “The Dilemma of the Dead Lady” has had a varied life. Inspired by a cruise he took with his mother in 1931, he twists the memories into one of his most horrifying suspense stories. Although it was common for Woolrich to visit great terrors on ordinary, decent people, in this tale the central character is such a lowlife that we almost feel he deserves whatever befalls him.

  After its original publication in the July 4, 1936, issue of Detective Fiction Weekly, it was retitled “Wardrobe Trunk” for its book publication in The Blue Ribbon (1946) by William Irish, Woolrich’s pseudonym. Oddly, Woolrich rewrote it as a radio play titled “Working Is for Fools,” which was never produced but did appear in the March 1964 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

  The Dilemma of the Dead Lady

  Cornell Woolrich

  1

  It was already getting light out, but the peculiar milky-white Paris street lights were still on outside Babe Sherman’s hotel window. He had the room light on, too, such as it was, and was busy packing at a mile-a-minute rate. The boat ticket was in the envelope on the bureau. All the bureau drawers were hanging out, and his big wardrobe trunk was yawning wide open in the middle of the room. He kept moving back and forth between it and the bureau with a sort of catlike tread, transferring things.

  He was a good-looking devil, if you cared for his type of good looks—and women usually did. Then later on, they always found out how wrong they’d been. They were only a sideline with him, anyway; they were apt to get tangled around a guy’s feet, trip him up when he least expected it. Like this little—what was her name now? He actually couldn’t remember it for a minute, and didn’t try to; he wouldn’t be using it any more now, anyway. She’d come in handy, though—or rather her life’s savings had—right after he’d been cleaned at the Longchamps track. And then holding down a good job like she did with one of the biggest jewelry firms on the Rue de la Paix had been damned convenient for his purposes. He smiled when he thought of the long, slow build-up it had taken—calling for her there twice a day, taking her out to meals, playing Sir Galahad. Boy, he’d had to work hard for his loot this time, but it was worth it! He unwrapped the little tissue-paper package in his breastpocket, held the string of pearls up to the light, and looked at them. Matched, every one of them— and with a diamond clasp. They’d bring plenty in New York! He knew just the right fence, too.

  The guff he’d had to hand her, though, when she first got around to pointing out new articles in the display cases, each time one was added to the stock! “I’d rather look at you, honey.” Not seeming to take any interest, not even glancing down. Until finally, when things were ripe enough to suit him: “Nice pearls, those. Hold ‘em up to your neck a minute, let’s see how they look on you.”

  “Oh, I’m not allow’ to take them out! I am only suppose’ to handle the briquets, gold cigarette cases—” But she would have done anything he asked her by that time. With a quick glance at the back of M’sieu Proprietor, who was right in the room with them, she was holding them at her throat for a stolen moment.

  “I’ll fasten the catch for you—turn around, look at the glass.”

  “No, no, please—” They fell to the floor, somehow. He picked them up and handed them back to her; they were standing at the end of the long case, he on his side, she on her side. And when they went back onto the velvet tray inside the case, the switch had already been made. As easy as that!

  He was all dressed, even had his hat on the back of his skull, but he’d left his shoes off, had been going around in his stocking feet, hence the catlike tread. Nor was this because he intended beating this cheesy side-street hotel out of his bill, although that wouldn’t have been anything new to his experience either. He could possibly have gotten away with it at that—there was only what they called a “concierge” on duty below until seven, and at that he was always asleep. But for once in his life he’d paid up. He wasn’t taking any chances of getting stopped at the station. He wanted to get clear of this damn burg and clear of this damn country without a hitch. He had a good reason, $75,000-worth of pearls. When they said it in francs it sounded like a telephone number. Besides, he didn’t like the looks of their jails here; you could smell them blocks away. One more thing: you didn’t just step on the boat like in New York. It took five hours on the boat train getting to it, and a wire to Cherbourg to hold you and send you back could make it in twenty minutes. So it was better to part friends with everyone. Not that the management of a third-class joint like this would send a wire to Cherbourg, but they would go to the police, and if the switch of the pearls happened to come to light at about the same time….

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up his right shoe. He put the pearls down for a minute, draped across his thigh, fumbled under the mattress and took out a tiny screwdriver. He went to work on the three little
screws that fastened his heel. A minute later it was loose in his hand. It was hollow, had a steel rim on the end of it to keep it from wearing down. He coiled the pearls up, packed them in. There was no customs inspection at this end, and before he tackled the Feds at the other side, he’d think up something better. This would do for now.

  It was just when he had the heel fitted in place again, but not screwed on, that the knock on the door came. He got white as a sheet for a minute, sat there without breathing. Then he remembered that he’d left word downstairs last night that he was making the boat train; it was probably the porter for his wardrobe trunk. He got his windpipe going again, called out in his half-baked French, “Too soon, gimme another ten minutes!”

  The knocking hadn’t quit from the time it began, without getting louder it kept getting faster and faster all the time. The answer froze him when it came through the door: “Let me in, let me in, Bebe, it’s me!”

  He knew who “me” was, all right! He began to swear viciously but soundlessly. He’d already answered like a fool, she knew he was there! If he’d only kept his trap shut, she might have gone away. But if he didn’t let her in now, she’d probably rouse the whole hotel! He didn’t want any publicity if he could help it. She could make it tough for him, even without knowing about the pearls. After all, she had turned over her savings to him. Her knocking was a frantic machine-gun tattoo by now, and getting louder all the time. Maybe he could stall her off for an hour or two, get rid of her long enough to make the station, feed her some taffy or other….

  He hid the screwdriver again, stuck his feet into his shoes without lacing them, shuffled over to the door and unlocked it. Then he tried to stand in the opening so that she couldn’t see past him into the room.

  She seemed half-hysterical, there were tears standing in her eyes. “Bebe, I waited for you there last night, what happen’? Why you do these to me, what I have done?”

  “What d’ya mean by coming here at this hour?” he hissed viciously at her. “Didn’t I tell you never to come here!”

  “Nobody see me, the concierge was asleep, I walk all the way up the stairs—” She broke off suddenly. “You are all dress’, at these hour? You, who never get up ontil late! The hat even—”

  “I just got in,” he tried to bluff her, looking up and down the passageway. The motion was his undoing; in that instant she had peered inside, across his shoulder, possibly on the lookout for some other girl. She saw the trunk standing there open in the middle of the room.

  He clapped his hand to her mouth in the nick of time, stifling her scream. Then pulled her roughly in after him and locked the door.

  He let go of her then. “Now, there’s nothing to get excited about,” he said soothingly. “I’m just going on a little business trip to, er—” He snapped his fingers helplessly, couldn’t think of any French names. “I’ll be back day after tomorrow—”

  But she wasn’t listening, was at the bureau before he could stop her, pawing the boat ticket. He snatched it from her, but the damage had already been done. “But you are going to New York! This ticket is for one! You said never a word—” Anyone but a heel like Babe Sherman would have been wrung by the misery in her voice. “I thought that you and I, we—”

  He was getting sick of this. “What a crust!” he snarled. “Get hep to yourself! I should marry you! Why, we don’t even talk the same lingo!”

  She reeled as though an invisible blow had struck her, pulled herself together again. She had changed now. Her eyes were blazing. “My money!” she cried hoarsely. “Every sou I had in the world I turned over to you! My dot, my marriage dowry, that was suppose’ to be! No, no, you are not going to do these to me! You do not leave here ontil you have give it back—” She darted at the locked door. “I tell my story to the gendarmes—”

  He reared after her, stumbled over the rug but caught her in time, flung her backward away from the door. The key came out of the keyhole, dropped to the floor, he kicked it sideways out of her reach. “No, you don’t!” he panted.

  Something was holding her rigid, though his hands were no longer on her. He followed the direction of her dilated eyes, down toward the floor. His loosened heel had come off just now. She was staring, not at that, but at the lustrous string of pearls that spilled out of it like a tiny snake, their diamond catch twinkling like an eye.

  Again she pounced, and again he forestalled her, whipped them up out of her reach. But as he did so, they straightened out and she got a better look at them than she would have had they stayed coiled in a mass. “It is number twenty-nine, from the store!” she gasped. “The one I showed you! Oh, mon Dieu, when they find out, they will blame me! They will send me to St. Lazare—”

  He had never yet killed anyone, didn’t intend to even now. But death was already in the room with the two of them. She could have still saved herself, probably, by using her head, subsiding, pretending to fall in with his plans for the time being. That way she might have gotten out of there alive. But it would have been superhuman; no one in her position would have had the self-control to do it. She was only a very frightened French girl after all. They were both at a white-heat of fear and self-preservation; she lost her head completely, did the one thing that was calculated to doom her. She flung herself for the last time at the door, panic-stricken, with a hoarse cry for help. And he, equally panic-stricken, and more concerned about silencing her before she roused the house than even about keeping her in the room with him, took the shortest way of muffling her voice. The inaccurate way, the deadly way. He flung the long loop of pearls over her head from behind like a lasso, foreshortened them into a choking noose, dragged her stumbling backward. They were strung on fine platinum wire, almost unbreakable. She turned and turned, three times over, like a dislodged tenpin, whipping the thing inextricably around her throat, came up against him, coughing, clawing at herself, eyes rolling. Too late he let go, there wasn’t any slack left, the pearls were like gleaming white nail heads driven into her flesh.

  He clawed now, too, trying to free her as he saw her face begin to mottle. There wasn’t room for a finger hold; to pluck at one loop only tightened the other two under it. Suddenly she dropped vertically, like a plummet, between his fumbling hands, twitched spasmodically for an instant at his feet, then lay there still, face black now, eyes horrible protuberances. Dead. Strangled by a thing of beauty, a thing meant to give pleasure.

  2

  Babe Sherman was a realist, also known as a heel. He saw from where he was that she was gone, without even bending over her. No face could turn that color and ever be alive again. No eyes could swell in their sockets like that and ever see again. He didn’t even bend down over her, to feel for her heart; didn’t say a word, didn’t make a sound. The thought in his mind was: “Now I’ve done it. Added murder to all the rest. It was about the only thing missing!”

  His first move was to the door. He stood there listening. Their scuffle hadn’t taken long; these old Paris dumps had thick stone walls. Her last cry at the door, before he’d corralled her, had been a hoarse, low-pitched one, not a shrill, woman’s scream. There wasn’t a sound outside. Then he went to the window, peered through the mangy curtains, first from one side, then the other. He was low enough—third story—and the light had been on, but the shutters were all tightly closed on the third floor of the building across the way, every last one of them. He carefully fitted his own together; in France they come inside the vertical windows.

  He went back to her, and he walked all around her. This time the thought was, appropriately enough: “How is it I’ve never done it before now? Lucky, I guess.” He wasn’t as cool as he looked, by any means, but he wasn’t as frightened as a decent man would have been, either; there’d been too many things in his life before this, the edge had been taken off long ago. He had no conscience.

  He stopped over her for the first time, but only to fumble some more with the necklace. He saw that it would have to stay; opening the catch was no good, only a wire clipper c
ould have severed it, and he had none. He spoke aloud for the first time since he’d been “alone” in the room. “Y’ wanted ‘em back,” he said gruffly, “well, y’ got ‘em!” A defense mechanism, to show himself how unfrightened he was. And then, supreme irony, her given name came back to him at last, for the first time since she’d put in an appearance, “Manon,” he added grudgingly. The final insult!

  He straightened up, flew at the door like an arrow almost before the second knocking had begun, to make sure that it was still locked. This time it was the porter, sealing him up in there, trapping him! “M’sieu, the baggages.”

  “Wait! One little minute! Go downstairs again, then come back—”

  But he wouldn’t go away. “M’sieu hasn’t much time. The boat train leaves in fifteen minutes. They didn’t tell me until just now. It takes nearly that long to the sta—”

  “Go back, go back I tell you!”

  “Then m’sieu not want to make his train—”

  But he had to, it meant the guillotine if he stayed here even another twenty-four hours! He couldn’t keep her in the damned place with him forever; he couldn’t smuggle her out, he couldn’t even blow and leave her behind! In ten minutes after he was gone they’d find her in the room, and a wire could get to Cherbourg four and a half hours before his train!

  He broke for just a minute. He groaned, went around in circles in there, like a trapped beast. Then he snapped right out of it again. The answer was so obvious! His only safety lay in taking her with him, dead or not! The concierge had been asleep, hadn’t seen her come in. Let her employer or her landlord turn her name over to the Missing Persons Bureau—or whatever they called it here—a week or ten days from now. She’d be at the bottom of the deep Atlantic long before that. The phony pearls in the showcase would give them their explanation. And she had no close relatives here in Paris. She’d already told him that. The trunk, of course, had been staring him in the face the whole time.