by Otto Penzler
“I don’t like this,” complained Redmond. “I don’t see why the hell we have to go to Headquarters.”
“Be quiet,” called back Braun.
“I tell you, guy, if—”
Bang!
VII
EDMOND sagged, belched blood.
Bang!
Braun stopped in his tracks, buckled, groaned.
“Duck!” yelled Mac-Bride, and dragged Braun into the nearest hallway.
Rigallo lugged Redmond into a fruit store.
Four shots rang out, and the four gangsters behind crumpled.
Kennedy and Scoggins dodged into a hardware store as a shot smashed the window beside them.
MacBride had disengaged himself from Braun. Braun was dead.
Rigallo joined the captain and said, “Redmond’s cooked, too. What the hell do you suppose happened anyway?”
“God knows, Riggy! Those shots came from that store across the way. Come on!”
He rushed into the street, blew his whistle. Doran came on the run, followed by the policemen. Doran said, “Every guy was picked off, Cap, and there was some straight shooting! That store—”
“Yeah. Let’s go,” clipped MacBride, and crossed the street on the run.
The store was empty, but they broke through the door and cascaded into the interior. The men bunched around MacBride.
“They’ve cleared out—through the back! Come on!” he said.
He led the way into the rear, and they found a back door open and thundered out into a yard. A fence barred the way, but they vaulted over it, crashed through the back door of another house and milled in a dark hallway.
MacBride rushed headlong, came to another door, yanked it open and looked out upon Jackson Street. He started to step out, when a machine-gun stuttered and the door frame splintered. Rigallo yanked him back, slammed the door.
“Don’t be a fool, Mac!”
They heard the roar of a motor. It diminished in a few seconds. MacBride again opened the door, stepped out, looked up and down the street, said over his shoulder, “Come on.”
His men came out warily. The street was empty—not a car, not a person in sight.
“Dammit!” muttered MacBride.
“Well, why worry?” asked a policeman. “One gang against another. That’s a good way of getting rid of rats.”
“It sure is,” said another cop.
MacBride grumbled.
Kennedy said, “Come on, Mac. I’ve got several ideas.”
“I’m going to Headquarters,” growled MacBride. “Riggy, you and Doran go back to North Street and see the morgue bus gets those bums.”
He turned on his heel and strode down the street. Kennedy fell in step beside him.
“Mac, we’re near the end. It won’t be long now. I figure you’re just outside the Big Guy’s doorstep.”
MacBride made no comment. His jaw was hard, and his eyes glittered.
They entered Police Headquarters. Kennedy lingered at the desk while MacBride went on to the Commissioner’s office. But the Commissioner was not in. MacBride rejoined Kennedy at the desk, prodded him and marched out.
“What’s the matter?” asked Kennedy.
“He’s not in.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Left no word.”
They stopped on the wide steps outside, and MacBride lit a cigar.
A big black limousine drew up, and Commissioner Stroble alighted. He stood speaking with someone who remained in the tonneau behind drawn curtains. Then he suddenly spun around and saw MacBride and Kennedy standing on the steps. He spoke hastily in an undertone and stepped back to the sidewalk.
The car started off. Kennedy ran down the steps, called, “Hey, how about a lift?”
The Commissioner looked startled. Kennedy jumped to the running-board, but the car jerked ahead, and he slipped, fell, rolled into the gutter.
Stroble mounted the steps, eyes narrowed. “What do you want, MacBride?”
“Just wanted to see you.”
“Come up to my office.”
As MacBride followed Stroble in, he turned and saw Kennedy standing on the sidewalk, grinning.
In the Commissioner’s office, a tenseness became apparent. Stroble took off his overcoat and sat down.
“Well, MacBride.”
“I thought you were coming over to North Street.”
“I was. But when I reached the street there was a gun-fight going on. I’m too old for gun-fights, MacBride.”
“Braun was killed. He was a friend of yours.”
Stroble sighed. “Poor Charlie. Yes, he was a friend of mine, from school days. What kind of a mess did he get into?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said MacBride. “I caught him with a bad gang. A bird named Pete Redmond, from Chicago, and some other guns.”
“My!” exclaimed Stroble. “That was strange. Charlie shouldn’t have done that.”
“He was sure you could help him,” gritted MacBride.
“Yes, for old times’ sake. Months ago he came to me and said Tate & Tate were riding him. Trade was falling off. He wanted more police protection. Well, I tried to make it easy for him. You’d do the same, MacBride, for an old friend. I didn’t know he’d gone bad.”
MacBride restrained himself with an effort. Deep in his heart he knew that Braun had been double-crossed, yet what could he do? There was no evidence.
Stroble was saying, “It was strange, too, how that other gang popped up. Why do you suppose they committed such wholesale slaughter?”
MacBride blurted out, “It looks to me like a double-cross.”
Stroble blinked. “I say, now, do you really think so?”
“Yes.”
“H’m. That is possible. Poor Charlie! He was a good chap, MacBride, but a bit of a fool. No clue to who did it?”
“No. All the cops ran to North Street when the shooting started. The gang, after they killed Braun, and the others, beat it through to Jackson Street and made a clean getaway. We tried to follow, but I damned near got plastered by a machine-gun. We had to hide.”
“Sensible, MacBride—very sensible. Personally, I believe that in such a situation, you should be careful. Gangs often destroy each other, and take that task off a policeman’s hands. Of course, we must spread an alarm. But poor Charlie! I didn’t think he’d take advantage of me—of a good thing, MacBride.”
“Scoggins, you know, was kidnapped and held by Braun’s gang.”
“Goodness, now why do you suppose they did that?”
MacBride leaned forward, barbed every word— ”So that we’d think Scoggins killed Nelson. So that red tape would tie up Tate & Tate a little longer, drive them nearer to bankruptcy, give the Harbor Towing a big lead.”
“Could that be possible!” exclaimed the Commissioner. “And there I was trying to do Charlie a good turn, for old times’ sake! It wasn’t fair of Charlie. Do you think so, MacBride?”
“I don’t know.”
“H’m. Well, run along. I’ve some work to do. File the report on this when you find time. Good luck.”
MacBride almost lost control of himself. His fingernails dug into his palms. A grunt escaped his lips.
The Commissioner looked up. “Eh?”
MacBride snapped, “Good day,” and banged out.
In the street he found Kennedy, and the reporter said, “You look fit to be tied, Mac.”
“I am! I’m stumped!”
“Mac"—Kennedy took his arm and steered him down the street— ”Mac, buck up. Before very long you’re either going to get the Big Guy—or he’ll get you.”
“What do you mean, Kennedy?”
“I know things. Come on over to the station-house.”
They tramped into MacBride’s office. Kennedy closed the door and locked it. He rubbed his hands together, smiled his tired, whimsical smile. He slid upon the desk, and tapped the blotter in front of MacBride.
“Get this, Mac, and think it over,” he said. “I’ve been
keeping a few things under my hat. Yesterday I made a discovery. Why do you think Stroble was giving the Harbor Towing all the breaks?”
“Braun was a friend of his.”
“Nonsense! Stroble is a big stockholder— silent one, you know—in the Harbor Towing.”
“How do you know?”
“I found out. I went to that lousy brokerage firm of Weber & Baum. They used to handle Stroble’s business, but he broke with them, and they got sore. In confidence Baum told me that Stroble practically owns the Harbor Towing. And look here. The Mayor owns the Atlas Trucking Corporation—under cover— and the one is practically linked with the other.
“I’ve got the whole thing doped out, Mac. Pete Redmond was head of Stroble’s private gang, and Braun had to move as he was told. When they balled things up that way, and when you flopped on their big parade—and I turned up at the right moment—the Commissioner knew that he was cooked.
“You had Braun and Redmond cold. Even Stroble, with all his power, couldn’t get them clear. So what did he do? Wiped them out! Double-crossed them! Got another gang to kill every one of them as you marched down the street.”
“Good God!” groaned MacBride. “I believe you, Kennedy. I’m sure you’re right. But the Mayor—man—the Mayor! You’re sure he’s mixed up in it?”
“I’ll say this, Mac. I’ll bet my shirt that the gang that wiped out Redmond was the Mayor’s own. Stroble went to him, told him the fix he was in. The Mayor knew that if Braun and Redmond were caught, they’d squeal on the Commissioner and that Stroble would yap on the Mayor. So he lent Stroble his gang.”
“But who is the Mayor’s gang?”
“That’s for you to find out.”
“And you think the Mayor is the Big Guy?”
“If he isn’t, I’m all wrong.”
MacBride snorted. “Hell, Kennedy, it’s incredible. I never thought much of him, but—”
“Look here, Mac,” cut in Kennedy. “The Atlas Trucking Corporation has been having hard sledding, too. The Harbor Towing will have to shut up. Tate & Tate will get that concession at Seaboard Basin. But the Colonial Trucking Corporation is a subsidiary of Tate & Tate, and I’ll bet that before long this trade war will be carried toward that end.”
“If it is, Kennedy—”
“You’ll find a hard nut to crack.”
“I’ll crack it or croak.”
Kennedy lowered his voice. “I didn’t tell you, Mac, who was in that limousine I tried to hop.”
Their eyes met, MacBride’s wide and blunt, Kennedy’s narrowed and smiling.
“Who, Kennedy?”
“Don’t you know?”
“You mean, the….”
“Sure,” nodded Kennedy. “The Mayor!”
Graft
Frederick Nebel
I
OLICE CAPTAIN Steve MacBride, elbow on desk, chin on knuckles, looked down along his nose at the open dictionary, and concentrated his gaze on the word “graft.” Now graft is a word of various meanings, and the definitions, as MacBride discovered, were manifold. But the definition that attracted and held his eyes longest, was clean-cut, crisp and acutely to the point:
Acquisition of money, position, etc., by dishonest, unjust, or parasitic means.
His lips moved. “Parasitic. Humph! That’s what they are, parasites!”
He sighed, creaked back in his swivel chair, and stared absently at the night-dark window. Cold out. The panes rattled. The wind hooted through the alley. More distant, it keened shrilly over housetops, whinnied through the complicated network of radio aerials. Even the poor had radios—bought tubes and what-not and went without shoes.
But graft. Parasitic. Parasites in the Town Hall. Hell, why hadn’t he taken up plumbing, after his father? You could straighten out a bent pipe, plug a leak. But, as a police captain, with a wife and a daughter to support, and three thousand still due on that new bungalow in Grove Manor….
He banged shut Webster’s masterpiece with a low growl, got up and took a turn up and down the room. Straight was MacBride—morally and physically. Square-shouldered, neat, built of whip-cord, hard bone, tough hide. His face was long, rough-chiselled, packed well around cheek and jaw. His mouth was wide and firm, and his eyes were keen, windy—they could lacerate a man to the core.
He ran the Second Police Precinct of Richmond City. His frontiers touched the railroad yards and warehouses, plunged through a squalid tenement district and then suddenly burst into the bright lights of theatres, hotels, nightclubs. It was the largest precinct territorially in Richmond City. It was also the toughest.
Beyond the rooftops, a bell tolled the hour. Midnight. MacBride looked at his watch. Home. He could catch the last street car out to Grove Manor. Stifling a yawn, he walked to a clothes tree and took down his conservative gray coat and his conservative gray hat. He had one arm in his coat when the door opened and Sergeant Flannery, bald as a billiard ball, poked in.
“Just a minute, Cap. Girl outside pestering me—”
“Why pass the buck?” MacBride had his coat on. “I’m going home, Sergeant.”
“But I can’t get rid of her. She wants to see you.”
“Me? Nonsense. You’ll do for a sob case, Flannery. I mind the last sob sister you pawned off on me. Was hard up for a drink, the little tramp. Widowed mother and all that crap. Bah!”
“This one’s different, Cap. Married a little over a year. Left her kid, three months old, home with her old lady. Name of Saunders. Lives over on Haggerty Alley. Damn near bawling. Wants to see you.”
“Well"—MacBride started to put on his hat, but changed his mind and flung it on the desk— “send her in.”
Overcoat partly buttoned, he dropped into the swivel chair and sighed after the manner of a man who has to listen, day in and day out, to tales of woe, of stolen cats, strayed dogs, blackened eyes, and broken promises. Well, another wouldn’t kill him….
The girl came in timidly. She wore no hat, and her coat was a cheap thing, and she looked cold and forlorn and afraid. Pity—MacBride claimed there was not an ounce of it in his makeup—prompted him to say:
“Take that chair by the radiator. Warmer.”
“Thank you.”
Pretty kid. Young, pale, brown-eyed, hatless, and hair like spun copper. A mother. Haggerty Alley. God, what a draughty, drab hole!
“Well?”
“I came to you, Captain, because Jimmy— he’s my husband—because Jimmy always says, ‘MacBride, the gent runs the Second, is one reason why there ain’t more killings in this neighborhood.’ “
MacBride was on guard. He hated compliments. But, no, this wasn’t salve. Her lower lip was quivering.
“Go on, madam.”
“Well, I feel funny, Mr. MacBride. I feel scared. Jimmy ain’t come home yet. I’ve been reading things in the newspaper about some trouble in the trucking business. Jimmy drives a big truck between Richmond City and Avon-dale—that’s thirty miles. He leaves at one and gets back to the depot at nine and he’s always home at ten. He’s been carting milk from Avon-dale, you know—for the Colonial Trucking Company.”
MacBride’s eyes steadied with interest. He leaned forward. “What makes you afraid, Mrs. Saunders?”
“Well, I was reading the paper only the other night, about this trouble in the trucking business, and Jimmy said, he said, ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if I got bumped off some night.’ You know, Mr. MacBride, only last month one of the drivers was shot at.”
“H’m.” MacBride’s fingers tapped on his knee. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Saunders. Everything’s all right. Truck might have broken down.”
“I phoned the depot, and they said that, too. But the drivers always phone in if they’re broke down. Jimmy ain’t phoned in. The night operator was fresh. He said, ‘How do I know where he is?’ So I hung up.”
“Listen, you go right home,” recommended MacBride. “Don’t worry. They don’t always break down near a telephone. Run home. Want to catch cold chasing around the str
eet? Go on, now. I’ll locate Jimmy for you, and send a man over. Got a baby, eh?”
Her eyes shone. “Yes. A boy. Eyes just like Jimmy’s.”
MacBride felt a lump in his throat, downed it. “Well, chase along. I’ll take care of things.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacBride.”
She passed out quietly; closed the door quietly. Altogether a quiet, reticent girl. He stood looking at the closed door, pictured her in the street, rounding the windy corner, with shoulders hunched in her cheap coat—on into Hag-gerty Alley, dark, gloomy hole.
Jerking himself out of the reverie, he grabbed up the telephone, asked Information for the number of the night operator at the Colonial Trucking Company’s River Street depot. He tapped his foot, waiting for the connection.
“Hel-lo-o,” yawned a voice.
“Colonial?”
“Yup.”
“That driver Saunders. Heard from him yet?”
“Cuh-ripes!” rasped the voice. “Who else is gonna call about that guy? No, he ain’t showed up, and he ain’t called, and if you wanna know any more, write the president.”
“I’ll come down there and poke you in the jaw!” snapped MacBride.
“Aw, lay off that boloney—”
“Shut up!” cut in MacBride. “Give me the route Saunders takes in from Avondale.”
“Say, who the hell are you?”
“MacBride, Second Precinct.”
“Oh-o!”
“Now that route, wise guy.”
He picked up a pencil, listened, scribbled, said, “Thanks,” and hung up.
Then he took the slip of paper and strode out into the central room. Sergeant Flannery was dozing behind the desk, with a half-eaten apple in his pudgy hand.
“Sergeant!”
Flannery popped awake, took a quick bite at the apple, and almost choked.
“Chew your food,” advised MacBride, “and you’ll live longer. Here, call the booth at Adams Crossing. We’re looking for a Colonial truck, number C-4682, between Avondale and here. Call the booths at Maple Street and Bingham Center. Those guys have bicycles. Tell ‘em to start pedaling and ring in if they find any trace. Brunner—you can locate him at the Ragtag Inn. He hangs out there between twelve and one, bumming highballs. Tell him to fork his motorcycle and start hunting.”
