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

  “Name it!” he said, quickly, earnestly, “and the life you’ve saved will be risked in its accomplishment if necessary!”

  She laughed softly in the darkness.

  “The help I ask,” she said, “will bring about the downfall of the Black Legion and the complete ruin of the higher-ups in this state, Cathern! We must move fast! Come—”

  Without another word, Ellen Patrick set out in the direction of the road, and Paul Cathern followed after her.

  As the rear door of the sedan swung open, and Ellen’s pencil flash sprayed the interior with white light, Paul Cathern’s lips curved in a pleased grin. He stood for a moment looking down upon the bound figure of J. Riggs Saint without a hint of compassion in his gray eyes.

  Then he shot a questioning glance at The Domino Lady.

  “The Black Legion owes much to this man,” drawled Ellen in explanation. “He’s one of the higher-ups who provide protection! It’s my idea that he should pay as they have made other victims pay!”

  “Just what is your idea?” whispered Cathern, meaningly.

  Ellen laughed, liquidly. “Have you noticed the similarity in size and coloring between you and Saint?”

  The investigator started. “You’re right!” he exclaimed, “though I’d never noticed it before! Just what—”

  “They were going to torture you,” she interrupted, evenly, “and this scoundrel had assured them of immunity! What could be more appropriate than a quick switch of clothing, plant Saint in your place, and his brutes do as they will with him! By the way they looked tonight, I have a feeling that they’ll fail to recognize him. And J. Riggs Saint will get a sound flogging; a dose of his own medicine.”

  The special investigator grinned. “All the way!” he cried, softly, “and then some! Let’s get busy!” He began peeling off his coat.

  Ellen busied herself with the bulky briefcase she had taken from the politician.

  By the dashlight, she gave its contents closer attention than before. She was astounded by the scope of damaging evidence it contained. Evidently the district attorney had been an active organizer and a charter member of the Black Legion in the state!

  His intimate papers went into detail, mentioned prominent names, some of them political figures of highest power!

  She turned at the sound of Cathern’s voice to find him garbed in the district attorney’s natty tweeds, his own rumpled worsted gracing the figure of the politician.

  The latter was now conscious, and his eyes rolled in fear from one to the other of his captors. Cathern had again bound him, securely.

  The tape prevented him from speaking, but he squirmed frantically about, struggling with his bonds.

  The investigator bent, placed the handkerchief mask upon the upper part of the attorney’s face. Thus rigged, no one could possibly tell the politician from the young detective!

  And, since the Legion usually bound and taped a masked prisoner before torturing him, it looked as though J. Riggs Saint was in for a dose of his own medicine!

  It wasn’t far to the window. Cathern was small but wiry, with spring steel rippling along shoulders and legs. He had no particular difficulty in lifting the flabby form of the district attorney to his shoulders. Guided by Ellen, he moved noiselessly toward the house with his burden.

  Sounds of maudlin singing came from the lighted room as they hefted the figure over the sill, and into the interior of the prison. Evidently, the heavy drinking Lucas had reached a state of inebriation where song alone could express his feelings. Ellen was glad.

  The sounds of their movements were masked completely by the off-key bellowing of the drunken Legionaries!

  They placed the still squirming form of the politician in the exact spot where Paul Cathern had lain.

  A moment later, they were again outside the building, the window closed. They hurried toward Saint’s sedan. Ellen would have liked to remain in the vicinity to witness the surprising denouement when Saint’s men discovered that their victim was the district attorney himself, but the need for retreat was pressing.

  Too much depended upon a quick return to the city, and safe disposal of the incriminating evidence to think of tarrying for the sake of pleasure!

  So it was that she backed the car in a noiseless half circle, and allowed it to glide toward the distant concrete highway without engine power.

  Once at a distance from the torture house, she throttled the engine to a steady, mile-eating pace, headed for the city.

  There was little conversation between them as they hurtled along through the night. Ellen thought she understood why Paul Cathern was so quiet.

  He was an employee of the sheriff’s office, and The Domino Lady was reputedly outside the law. She had saved his life, and he couldn’t very well question her or attempt to establish her identity!

  He looked out of the window, away from her, his long fingers testing the toughness of a two-day growth of dark beard on his lean cheeks.

  As they crossed the city limits, and neared a cab stand, Ellen laughed swiftly, and slowed the sedan.

  “Obviously, you must leave me here,” she told him in the assumed drawl, “since I must remove the mask before driving farther into the city. And I must ditch Riggs Saint’s car, you know! You should have no difficulty in getting a taxi to your apartment.”

  For the first time in minutes, he looked at her, intently.

  “Certainly!” he returned, quickly.

  “I understand! But before we part, let me assure you of my undying gratitude for this night’s work! I’ve heard some pretty awful things about The Domino Lady in the past.”

  She interrupted. “And you believed them, of course?”

  Cathern grinned.

  “Perhaps I did,” he admitted, “but never again! You’re aces with me! If I can ever help you in any way, please call upon me. I owe a lot to you.”

  Again Ellen interrupted, as she drew the sedan to the curb.

  “Forget it!”

  And then, “It was all in the night’s work. I’m amply repaid if you’re convinced that I’m not the creature my enemies would have everyone believe. But there is one favor you can grant me, if you will.”

  “Just name it!” he said, eagerly.

  Ellen held out the briefcase to him.

  “Take this,” she said, “and see that it gets into the right hands. It contains a lot of vital information which will help to break up the Black Legion in California. It contains dates, rituals, and a complete list of political office holders who are secretly members of the clan.”

  “But the credit?” interpolated Paul Cathern, soberly.

  She gestured with gloved hands, briefly. “Who cares about that? It was only to defeat the political machine that I became interested. If you will take this evidence I’ll be more than satisfied. As an officer, the credit will set well on your shoulders.”

  He had climbed from the car, briefcase in hand, but now he leaned through the window, and grasped her hand. Her red lips pursed a charming:

  “Goodbye.”

  “Til we meet?” he breathed, with an engaging grin.

  “Quien sabe?”

  She meshed the gears, rolled from the curb, pulling the domino from her round cheeks as soon as she was out of range of his vision. It was one o’clock when she parked the sedan, got out and walked away. Twice she looked behind her, fearful that some prowl car might connect the abandoned Saint car with her. But her fears were groundless; the streets were deserted. A short time later, she had descended from a cab and entered the exclusive apartment house which she called home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE DOMINO LADY TRIUMPHANT

  It was evening of the following day when Ellen Patrick moved across the heavy Boukhara of her living room and opened the outside door. Paul Cathern entered the room. He carried a folded newspaper, and he was grinning, widely. He took off his gray felt as he closed the door, then followed Ellen to the center of the room.

  The powder-blue negligee she a
ffected set off her shapely rounded body to perfection, and Cathern’s eyes were freighted with frank admiration as he followed the intoxicating undulations of her figure as she sank down upon a crimson chaise longue. She smiled, motioned him to sit beside her.

  “Suppose you give an account of yourself, big boy?” she said, pertly, brows arched in interrogation. “Haven’t seen you around.”

  Paul Cathern had such an engaging grin, and it broadened to show his white teeth as he dropped down beside Ellen. He unfolded a late edition of the Express, handed it to her.

  “Perhaps this will explain,” he said.

  Ellen feigned complete amazement as she looked at the paper. Little sounds of excitement and pleasure escaped her ripe lips as she read the information emblazoned upon the front page:

  BLACK LEGION DEFINITELY DOOMED!

  CHARTER MEMBERS FLEEING AFTER EXPOSE BY ACE

  SLEUTH FROM SHERIFFS OFFICE. INDICTMENTS OUT FOR

  LEADING POLITICAL FIGURES; J. RIGGS SAINT, DISTRICT

  ATTORNEY, IS MYSTERIOUSLY MISSING!

  June 7. Following a startling expose of Black Legion activities in the state, by Paul Cathern, special investigator from Sheriff Bonsill’s office, indictments have been sworn out for some of the leading politicians, including J. Riggs Saint, District Attorney, and Leo U. Gorsh, State Representative.

  Saint has handed in his written resignation, but cannot be reached for a statement. One report has it that he is confined in a private hospital, suffering from mysterious injuries that threaten his life. Another that he is taking an extended sea voyage for his health. Mr. Gorsh is reported as flying to Mexico City on business. In any event, both gentlemen will find a warm welcome awaiting them when they are located and turned over to the newly-appointed District Attorney, Mr. John Smithson. This is one of the most startling exposes in the history of the state, and politicians both big and small are leaving for parts unknown by rail, water and air. Mr. Smithson, interviewed at his office today, promises a thorough clean-up, and in taking every step to apprehend the fleeing higher-ups of the Black Legion …

  There were columns more of lurid details, but Ellen turned to her visitor without reading them. Her great eyes were gleaming. Her plans had worked out to perfection! This was her most successful and far-reaching master stroke against the state machine which had brought about the death of her father! It all seemed too marvelous to be true and she leaned toward Paul Cathern, lovely bosom tossing with emotion.

  “Oh, Paul! It’s wonderful!” she cried softly. “Almost too good to be true! It’s simply great to think that you accomplished so much where all others have failed.” She leaned closer, kissed him lightly upon the cheek. He grinned.

  “It’s great, all right, honey!” he told her, enthusiastically, “but I’d never have accomplished anything without help. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the timely interference of a mysterious lady, I wouldn’t be alive now!”

  Ellen looked at Cathern, intently. “A mysterious lady?” she repeated softly, “I don’t understand, Paul. It fails to mention her in the news.”

  The investigator’s gray eyes focused upon her piquant face, the grin fading. “Last night,” he said, slowly, “I was a prisoner of the Black Legion, facing torture, or worse. A fearless woman, The Domino Lady, seized the D.A., rescued me from under the noses of my guards, and substituted Riggs Saint in my place! That no doubt accounts for his ‘mysterious injuries’ referred to in the Express! The Domino Lady likewise turned over to me incriminating documents she had taken from Saint. Those documents furnished the expose you’ve been reading about, yet she insisted that I take full credit, and leave her name out of it! Don’t you agree that I owe the lady much, Ellen?”

  She smiled, “Why, yes, of course, Paul. But I thought The Domino Lady was wanted by the police? How could you permit her to go free?”

  Cathern’s eyes softened. “Ellen,” he said, “I recognized The Domino Lady!”

  The little adventuress’ body went rigid. With a great effort she fought down the panic that welled within her slender frame. She raised guileless eyes to meet his probing glance.

  “So what?” she managed, precisely.

  For a moment his eyes held hers, in an effort to read her calm gaze.

  “Don’t you see I couldn’t betray her, honey,” he murmured, “after she’d saved my life, and accomplished so much good for the state? Besides,” he went on, grinning again, “the credit she bestowed upon me has assured me a fancy promotion! If the authorities wait on me to reveal the identity of The Domino Lady, they’re going to have a mighty long wait!”

  She breathed a deep sigh of relief, leaned against Cathern. She smiled at him, her great eyes filled with admiration for the conquering male.

  “You’re tops, Paul!” she breathed. “A grand person! Any woman would be lucky to have you for a friend, I’m so glad of your success and promotion, darling! Shall we drink a toast to them?”

  Paul Cathern smiled, understanding^, and manipulated the decanter. He handed a drink to Ellen, then dropped down beside her again, glass in hand. They touched glasses, lifted them high.

  “To the future!” she toasted, softly, brown eyes starry.

  “Of The Domino Lady!” added Paul Cathern, meaningly.

  He rose, replaced the glasses upon their taboret without looking at her. Then he turned. Ellen Patrick laughed throatily as she went to his open arms.

  Three Wise Men of Babylon

  Richard Sale

  STRANGELY FORGOTTEN today, Richard Sale (1911-1993) was one of the most successful pulp writers of the 1930s and ‘40s, known as “the Dumas of the pulps,” and then enjoyed even greater success in Hollywood. At the peak of the pulp era, his work was in such demand that he averaged a story a week for Argosy, Detective Fiction Weekly, Dime Detective, and most other top magazines while also writing novels, producing a million words a year for a decade. His first novel, Not Too Narrow, Not Too Deep (1936), about tough prisoners attempting to escape from Devil’s Island, was filmed as Strange Cargo in 1940 with his screenplay. Two of his best, most enduring, and quirkiest novels were set in Hollywood. Lazarus #7 (1942) involves a movie star with murderous intentions and leprosy, and a studio doctor who raises dogs from the dead. Passing Strange (1942) tells the story of a doctor shot dead while performing a Cesarean on a famous movie star.

  Sale’s most famous pulp creations were Joe “Daffy” Dill, a tough-talking wiseguy who appeared in Detective Fiction Weekly with regularity, and Dinah Mason, his outrageously gorgeous colleague at the New York Chronicle. She is not one of the boys. She looks like a Petty girl, only better, and is a good reporter but gets sick at the sight of a corpse. In a running sidebar to the mysteries they get involved with, for years Dill ask Dinah to marry him.

  “Three Wise Men from Babylon” was first published in the April 1, 1939, issue of DFW.

  Three Wise Men of Babylon

  Richard Sale

  Murder was on the make—and I was yelling into a dead phone

  Gotham’s wackiest scribe. Daffy Dill,

  puts a small brown fox on the trail

  of a dog-eared murderer

  IT WAS A FRIDAY when the holocaust began. I remember that because Friday was never a good day for me. I don’t like fish, black cats bother me, and the Friday issue of the Chronicle is always, for some reason, the kind that runs a guy ragged around the arches. So it was a Friday, and when I say holocaust, I don’t mean a casual massacre. I was sitting at my desk in that dark and dingy corner of the city room which I call home because nobody else will, and I was writing a follow-up on the suicide of a guy named Milton Swan, when a Western Union boy popped into the city room and began to call my name. McGinty at the sports desk showed the boy over to me, and I signed for the wire and did not tip him.

  “Well, well,” Dinah Mason said, “wires from Garbo, hah? I knew I never should have let you go cover that screwy case in Hollywood. I don’t care if Candid Jones did go with you, he’s a pal of yours and if you to
ld him to say that you didn’t carry the torch for any—”

  “Did Candid say I’d been a good boy? Bless his little heart,” I said. “And how do you get that way, Angel-Eyes? Don’t you trust me?”

  “Sure,” Dinah said. “Like I trust king cobras.”

  “You’ve got a nerve,” I said. “You won’t marry me, so why should you worry what cutie I parade in the Tinsel Town? Confidentially, my hollyhock, time goes on, you get older, silver threads among the gold, and your chances may not be so good. You’d better grab me now while you can still handle a husband. And lay off trying to pump Candid on my movie-town activities … Well?”

  “Well, what?” Dinah said, preening her platinum hair as she sat there on the edge of my desk. “If you mean will I marry you, the answer is hmm.”

  “Nix,” I snapped, irked. “I mean, what are you hanging around for? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Yes, darling,” she said. “But you also have not opened that telegram and I’m just dying to see what kind of a sap would spend the mazuma to send you a message via the wires when it would only cost three cents to write the same thing. Open up and let’s have a look.”

  I stared at her. “You uncommon buzzard,” I said. “No wonder you got so interested and came over to sling words with me. This wire.”

  “From Hollywood,” she said. “Who sent it? Come on.”

  I opened the wire and I looked at the date line. It was Babylon, Iowa, and I told her so. That fixed it. “Babylon, Iowa,” Dinah snorted. “Well, personally, I wouldn’t care what it said after that name for a town. It’s all yours and you can have it.”

  Well, as it turned out, Dinah did the right thing. It was all mine and I was stuck with it. The telegram said:

  DAFFY DILL

  N Y CHRONICLE

  NEW YORK N Y