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

MacBride grunted, opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Three Star Hennessy.

  “Have a drink, Kennedy,” he said. “There are times when I’d like to kick you in the slats, but I admire your brains and the way you get the low-down on things.”

  Through the window came another burst of dance music. On Jackson Street couples were dancing, political banners were flying, ropes of colored lights were glowing. And policemen were on the walkout, idly swinging nightsticks, watching, waiting, prepared for the worst and hoping for the best.

  MacBride lit a cigar and looked up to find Detective Moriarity standing in the doorway.

  “ ‘Lo, cap. ‘Lo, Kennedy.” Moriarity was a slim, compactly built young man, short on speech, quick in action—one-time runner-up for the welterweight title.

  “How do things look?” asked MacBride.

  “Depends,” said Moriarity. “Committeeman Shanz is a little tight. Bedell ain’t there yet. Shanz expects him, though. Says Bedell’s s’posed to speak at eleven.”

  “See any bums?”

  “No. But pipe this. I just been tipped off that a crowd of Anderson-Connaught sympathizers from the Fourth Ward are making a tour of the town. About ten machines. Band and flags and all that crap. I figure this way. Ten to one all o’ them have got some booze along, to make ‘em feel better. They’re mostly storekeepers and automobile dealers, but if they get tight they’ll get gay. Like as not they’ll wind up at the block-party and some wiseguy will haul off and talk outta turn.”

  MacBride doubled his fist and took a crack at the desk. “Just about that, Jake! All right. Get back on the job. Cohen with you?”

  “Yeah, Ike’s over there. Patrolmen Gunther and Holstein at one end the street. McClusky and Swanson the other. Things are running smooth so far. Don’t see any o’ Duveen’s guns, or Bonelio’s.”

  “That,” said MacBride, “is what itches me. Bonelio ought to be there. He’s Shanz’s friend.”

  “He’s not there. None of his guns, either. Tell you who is there, though, cap.”

  “Who?”

  “Bonelio’s skirt. That little wren he yanked from the burlesque circuit and shoved in his ritzy night-club on Paradise Street. Trixie Meloy. Ask me and I’ll crack she still oughter be back in burlesque, and third rate at that.”

  “Who’s she with?”

  “Alone. High-hatting everybody. But she sticks close to Shanz.”

  “I got it!” clipped MacBride. “She’s waiting for somebody, for Bonelio. Watch her, Jake. It’s ten-thirty now. Bonelio should have been on hand long ago. He shows up at all of the district’s balls and dances. Until he comes anything can happen. Tell the cops to keep their eyes open. Tell Cohen to tend to business and quit trying to date up the gals. I know Ike. On the way out tell the sergeant to see the reserves are ready for a break. First time you pipe a Duveen gun on the scene, run him off. If he cracks wise, bring him over here.

  “Remember, Jake, this precinct is just about as safe as a volcano. We’ve heard rumblings for the past month, and God knows when the top’ll blow off. It’s a tough situation. I’m all for the Anderson-Connaught ticket, as you know, but no rat like Duveen is going to get away with anything. He doesn’t give a damn for the Anderson-Connaught combine. He’s sore at the present State’s Attorney and the greaseball Bonelio. Both of them ought to be in the pen, and before this election is over I’ve got a hunch one of them will be—if he doesn’t get bumped off during the rush. On your way, Jake, and good luck.”

  Moriarity went out.

  Kennedy said, “I’m going over and look around, too, Mac.”

  “You smell headlines for tomorrow’s Press, don’t you?”

  “Yeah—the city of dreadful night. Hell, man, we ain’t had a good hot story since that Dutch butcher tapped his frau on the knob with a meat ax. Years ago, Mac, old bean!”

  “Two weeks ago last night,” mused MacBride. “Ah-r-r, when will this crime wave stop? Wives killing husbands; husbands killing wives! College kids going in for suicide and double death pacts! Men braining little kids! Men willing to kill to get power!”

  “That,” said Kennedy, pausing in the doorway, “is what keeps the circulation of the daily tabloids on top. See you later.”

  Alone, MacBride stared into space for a long moment, his eyes glazed with thought. Then he sighed bitterly, flung off the mood with a savage little gesture, and continued looking over the collection of police bulletins.

  Fifteen minutes dragged by. The dusty-faced clock on the wall ticked them off with hollow monotony.

  Then the telephone rang.

  MacBride picked up the receiver, said, “Hello.”

  “MacBride?”

  “Yup.”

  “Bedell’s slated to get the works tonight.”

  The instrument clicked.

  “Hello—hello!” barked MacBride.

  There was no use. The man behind the mysterious voice had hung up. MacBride rang the operator, gave his name.

  “Trace that call,” he snapped. “Fast!”

  II

  He pressed one of a series of buttons on his desk. The door opened. Lieutenant Donnelly tramped in wiping the cobwebs of a recent nap from his eyes.

  “On your toes, lieutenant!” cracked MacBride. “Just got a blind call that Bedell’s going to get bumped off. You’ll take charge here tonight while I’m on the outside.”

  The telephone rang. MacBride reached for it, said, “Yes?” A moment later he hung up, snorted with disappointment. “Call was from a booth in the railroad terminal.”

  “Who d’ you suppose it was, captain?” ventured Donnelly.

  “How the hell do I know?” MacBride was on his feet, buttoning his coat. He reached for his visored cap, but changed his mind and slapped on a flap-brimmed fedora.

  “I’ll be over on Jackson Street,” he told Donnelly crisply. “Bedell’s supposed to pull a campaign speech at eleven. I’ll put the clamps on that. Bedell’s no friend of mine, but I’m damned if any bum is going to kill him in my precinct. If Headquarters wants me, give ‘em the dope and tell ‘em where I am.”

  He strode into the central room and shot brief orders to the desk sergeant. Then he drafted four policemen from the reserve room. They came out buttoning their coats, nightsticks drawn. The lieutenant, the sergeant, the four policemen—all were affected by the vigor, the spirit with which MacBride dived into the middle of things. No captain liked more to get out in the raw and the rough of crime than MacBride. The crack of his voice, the snap of his movement, made him a man whom others were eager to follow. Hard he was, but with the hardness of a man supremely capable of command. He had turned down a Headquarters job on the grounds that it was too soft—that he would stagnate and grow old before his time, grow whiskers and a large waistband.

  He led the way out of the station house. His step was firm and resolute, and he carried himself with a definite air of determination. One block west, and two south, and they were at Jackson Street.

  The band was playing a fox trot. The block was roped off at either end, and a hundred couples were dancing on the street pavement. On the sidewalks and the short stone flights before the tenement were a hundred-odd onlookers. Strung from pole to pole were rows of colored electric lights. Banners were waving; posters showing likenesses of Alderman Bedell and State’s Attorney Krug emblazoned the houses and the poles. A temporary bandstand had been erected in the middle of the block, and from this, too, the candidates for re-election were expected to speak.

  MacBride looked the place over critically. Detective Ike Cohen left a couple of girls to join the captain.

  “Something up, Cap?”

  “Maybe. See any old familiar faces around?”

  “None that’d interest you. Here comes Mori-arity.”

  At sight of the captain Moriarity frowned quizzically. “Huh?” he asked.

  MacBride explained about the telephone call. Gunther and Holstein, the patrolmen stationed at that end of the block, mingled with the four reserves, al
l wondering what was in the wind.

  “Where’s Committeeman Shanz?” MacBride asked.

  “I’ll get him,” said Moriarity, and faded into the crowd.

  He reappeared in company with Shanz, district committeeman and chairman of the night’s carnival. Shanz was a German-Jew, though he had more of the beer-garden look about him. A short, rotund man, beefy-cheeked and spectacled, with a jovial grin that was only skin deep.

  “Well, well, captain,” he boomed, waddling forward with his hand extended, “this is a pleasure.”

  MacBride shook and said, “Not so much, Shanz. You’ve got to bust up this picnic.”

  Shanz’s grin faded. “How’s this?”

  “The ball is over,” explained MacBride. “There’s trouble brewing and it’s liable to boil over any minute.”

  “But I got to make a speech,” argued Shanz. “And Alderman Bedell is due here now.” He looked at his watch. “He’s going to make a speech, too.”

  “I don’t give a damn! You’re not going to broadcast and neither is Bedell. I tell you, Shanz, this block-party scheme is the bunk. It’s the best way I know of to start a riot.”

  “Do you say that, heh, because you favor the opposition? Ha, I know where your sympathy lays, captain!”

  “Don’t be a fool! I just got a tip that Bedell’s set to get bumped off, and it’s not going to happen in my precinct.”

  Shanz leaned back and threw out his chest. “What is the police for? What are you for?”

  “I’ve got a hunch I’m supposed to side-track crime. I’m no master mind, Shanz. I don’t go in for solving riddles. I’m just a cop who tries to beat crime to the tape. Now don’t stick out your belly and hand me an argument. I’m not in the mood.”

  Shanz was troubled. “I can’t stop it. If I do that and Bedell can’t make his speech he’ll land on me. Wait till he comes. Talk to him. But I ain’t going to call it off. We staged this so Bedell could make a speech.”

  MacBride, impatient, cracked fist into palm. “Cripes, I want to clear this crowd out before Bedell gets here! I told you he’s not going to make a speech. I won’t let him.”

  The dance number stopped. But from the distance came the sound of another band, with brass and drums in the majority. It drew nearer with the minutes, and then a string of cars appeared, flaunting banners that exalted the virtues of the Anderson-Connaught combine. Colored torches smoked from every machine, and the roving campaigners cheered their candidates lustily.

  “What in hell is this?” roared Shanz, reddening.

  “Competition,” said MacBride.

  The automobiles stopped, and the brass band attained new heights of noise commingled with the singing voices of the men. The carnival orchestra, not to be outdone, burst into action, hammering out a military march. The result was boisterous, maddening, and everybody began yelling.

  The first symptoms of mob hysteria were apparent.

  MacBride snapped quick orders to the policemen. “Chase this crowd! The dance is over!”

  He pivoted sharply, set his jaw and plowed through the crowd on a beeline for the leaders of the parade.

  “You move on!” he barked. “Come on, no stalling. Get out of here, and I mean now!”

  “Aw, go fly a kite,” came a bibulous retort. “Everybody havin’ helluva good time. Who’s all right? Hiram Anderson, the next State’s Attorney’s all right! Y-e-e-e-e!”

  Others took up the cry. Somebody flung a bottle and it crashed against a house front, the glass spattering.

  “Dammit,” yelled MacBride, “you’re starting a riot! Get a move on!”

  One of the cars started moving. Others honked their horns. Many of the occupants had piled out and several of them, far gone with walloping liquor, hilarious as sailors on a spree, were trying to tear down the banners of the Krug-Bedell faction. The supporters of Alderman Bedell objected strenuously, and fists began flying about promiscuously. It was, now, anybody’s and everybody’s carnival. Admission fees were waived. The two bands continued to add to the din and clamor. The tempo of their combined efforts went far toward heightening the strain of hysteria that had taken hold of the mob. The streets were jammed with motor cars, and the horns honked and bleated.

  Women screeched, and men began striking out without apparent provocation. The crowd surged this way and that, but never got anywhere. Nightsticks rapped more frequently on stubborn heads. Somebody heaved a brick that crashed through an automobile windshield and knocked the man at the wheel unconscious. The machine swerved, bounded and banged head-on into a doorway.

  “Good God Almighty!” groaned MacBride.

  He plunged through the mob, fought, pounded, hammered his way to the big touring car that carried the musicians. He leaped to the running-board, wrenched a trombone from the player’s hand.

  “Stop it!” he yelled. “I’ll cave in the next mouth that pulls another toot!”

  He silenced them.

  He turned and weaved toward the bandstand, and on the way ran into Alderman Bedell.

  “Who started this, MacBride? What is it? What’s going on?”

  “What the hell does it look like, a May party?”

  “Don’t get sore—don’t get sore!”

  “Listen to me, Bedell!” MacBride gripped his arm hard. “You’re no friend of mine, but I’m giving you a tip. Get out of here! Jump in your car, go home and lock all the doors. Some pup is out to get you!”

  “He is, eh?” snarled Bedell, a big whale of a man with gimlet eyes. “Let him!”

  “Don’t be a blockhead all your life! I tell you, man, you’re in danger!” A whiff of Bedell’s breath told him the man had been drinking. Drink always made Bedell cocky, and he spoke best from a platform when he was moderately soaked.

  “I’m going to d’liver a speech here tonight, MacBride—”

  MacBride snorted with disgust and went on his way. He reached the bandstand and ripped the baton from the leader’s hand. He kicked over the drum and shot out short, sizzling commands. He left a silenced bandstand.

  The policemen had managed to club into submission the instigators of the riot. Swollen heads, black eyes and bruised jaws were in abundance. The best argument in a riot is a deftly wielded nightstick. A clout on the head is something a temporarily crazed man will understand.

  The hysteria was dwindling. A dozen of the rioters were hastily escorted away from the scene by four policemen and taken to the station house. The crowd quieted, took a long breath generally, and waited.

  MacBride climbed back upon the bandstand, rumbled the drum in plea for silence, and then raised his voice.

  “Please, now, everybody go home!” he demanded. “The party is over. It’s too bad, but nothing can be done.” He waved his arms. “Clear out, everybody—now!”

  A figure bulked at his elbow. It was that of Alderman Bedell, and before MacBride could get a word in edgewise, Bedell roared, “La-dies and gentlemen, it grieves me to see this sociable gathering break up because of the undignified actions of the hirelings—yes, hirelings, I say—of the party which is trying to drive me out of office. As alderman of this district, I want to say—I … ugh!”

  He clapped a hand to his chest, swayed, then crumpled heavily at MacBride’s feet.

  “Heart attack,” cried someone in the crowd.

  MacBride knelt down, turned the alderman over, felt his chest, ran his hand inside the shirt. It came out stained with blood. Bedell twitched, stiffened, and was dead.

  Cohen said over MacBride’s shoulder, “Headlines, Mac, in the first edition. Hot diggity damn!”

  III

  An hour later MacBride stood spread-legged in his office at the station house. His coat was unbuttoned, his hair was tousled, and his lean cheeks looked a little drawn.

  Among the others present were Committee-man Shanz, Trixie Meloy, Moriarity and Cohen, and the inevitable Kennedy. No one had been apprehended. No shot had been heard. Obviously a silencer had been used on the gun that sent Bedell to his death. Bed
ell’s body was at the morgue being probed by the deputy medical examiner.

  “Now look here, Miss Meloy,” MacBride said. “You say you were standing on Jackson Street near Holly. You saw a man wearing a light gray suit and a gray cap drift down Holly, get into a car and drive off when Bedell was shot. Why didn’t you yell out?”

  “Does a lady go shoutin’ out like that?” she retorted, tossing her peroxide bob. “Besides I didn’t know what it was all about. I didn’t know he was shot. I thought he fainted or something. I didn’t connect the two up until I heard you yell he was killed. Then I thought of the other man.”

  “In that case, how does it happen you remember what he wore?”

  “Well, I got an eye for nice clothes. He was dressed swell, that’s why. A woman notices clothes more than a man does.”

  “Remember the car?”

  “Not so good. It wasn’t so near. It looked like a roadster.”

  “How about the man—besides his clothes?”

  “I didn’t see his face—only his back as he was walkin’ away.”

  “I see. You’re a friend of Tony Bonelio’s, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Antonio’s a good friend of mine.”

  “My mistake. Antonio.” He smiled drily. “How come Antonio wasn’t at the dance with you?”

  “He was at his night-club. I never seen a block party, so I come down to look it over. Mr. Shanz here invited me. He’s a friend of Antonio’s.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” put in Shanz.

  “And listen,” said Trixie, looking at her strap-watch. “I got to dance at the Palmetto Club tonight.”

  “All right, Miss Meloy. You run along. Keep in mind, though, that I may want to ask you more questions.”

  Shanz stood up. “I’ll take Miss Meloy to the club in my car,” he said.

  “Suit yourself,” shrugged MacBride. “Maybe this’ll be a lesson to you about block parties.”

  “It cooks the Anderson-Connaught goose, too, captain,” replied Shanz. “Connaught’s a guy preaches a lot and then goes and hires gunmen.”

  “Careful how you talk,” warned MacBride. “If it was a gunman of Connaught’s I’ll nail him. But I’ve got a hunch it wasn’t.”