Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  It was Joe Antonelli.

  Volga didn’t see him. What matter if he had? He’d have noted no resemblance. Dot Devore’s broken body had moldered in the earth far less swiftly than the memory of her face in Volga’s mind. Volga was laughing softly. He was saying something confidential to Flip in a soft, furry voice.

  Tracy said, suddenly: “Well … I’ll be seeing you,” scrambled headlong into the first cab and slammed the door.

  He heard Volga say with a slow, angry distinctness, “Well, of all the —— damned gall,” then the cab rolled—and Tracy’s eyes were on the rear window.

  Over his shoulder he grunted: “Straight over west. Ninth Avenue.”

  He saw the second cab moving up, sliding to where he had stood a moment before. Flip was getting in. Volga bent his sleek head. Volga was getting in. … The quick corner-turn swirled the rest out of sight.

  Tracy swallowed hard and gave his hacker the exact address. The cab rolled west to Ninth Avenue, swung north and followed Ninth till it became Columbus. Kept going north. Tracy thought about Flip and gritted his teeth. He was gambling desperately on the depth of Volga’s passion for Flip. The suave Volga would be afraid to press her too hard. He’d go easy, make the kid think—as Dot Devore had thought—that Sara was really a nice boy; just a little tough, but nice. Sure, he’d go easy. Sure he would! He’d have to, wouldn’t he? He’d play safe for later on; he’d tip his hat to Flip; and Antonelli would be waiting at the curb. Antonelli had waited a long time already. Flip was safe enough. Don’t worry, keed!

  But Tracy’s armpits were wet and his knees trembled.

  In the Seventies the taxicab made a left turn and sped along a dark side street.

  Tracy said, “Whoa! Far enough!” and they stopped. “Park here a while, Bud. This is your lucky night. You’re gonna make some money.”

  He passed over a creased ten-dollar bill and the driver took it; yet he held it doubtfully and looked troubled.

  “Listen, fella. Your dough’s nice and I like it, but I’m married and I gotta coupla kids. You on the make? You figgerin’ on a blast?”

  Tracy shook his head impatiently. “It’s okey. Newspaper stuff. Give a look, sweetheart.”

  He passed over the Daily Planet identity card. The driver looked at it, passed it back.

  “I guess it’s oke. What’s the lay? You’re plenty excited, brother. You’re tremblin’ like a leaf.”

  “Listen and shut up. I expect a cab along in a few seconds. A guy and a doll will get out. The guy’ll get back again—I hope so. When he does, follow him and don’t ever lose him. Hang back a block or two. I’d rather lose him than have the hacker that’s driving him get wise we’re tailing. … And don’t forget something else. That ten-spot of mine has lotsa brothers and sisters for the right party.”

  “Sounds oke by me.” He pondered. “Lemme get it straight, chief. S’pose the guy don’t git back in the cab again? Yuh said you hope he does.”

  “He will! If he doesn’t—I’ll have to think up something to do about it. You be ready to roll!”

  Tracy was staring backward towards the dark straddle of the “L” structure on Columbus Avenue. Suddenly headlights bounced into view and came west. Tracy went instantly down on the floor of his own cab.

  Volga’s taxi sped noisily past, went almost to the end of the block and stopped.

  Tracy growled: “Tell me about it.”

  “Both of ’em gittin’ out. Goin’ up the stoop. … I think he’s tryin’ to make a little play for the dame. They’re chewin’ together on the top step. He’s got his hat off. … The goil’s goin’ in—oops!—so is the guy—”

  Tracy said, “Damnation!” in a harsh whisper and felt swiftly at the lump under his coat that was a gun. “Are you sure?”

  “Wait a second—nope, that was just a playful gag he was pullin’. She pushed him back. … Here he comes down the stoop.”

  Tracy said: “You’ve earned ten bucks more already. Take it easy when you roll, sweetheart—and don’t lose him!”

  7

  SAM VOLGA CAME DOWN the stone stoop with a springy lift to his feet and a joyous feeling that he was eight feet high and four feet wide. He felt that he filled the whole street.

  He leaned his big hand on the taxi door. “If I shoved just once,” he thought, “I could turn this —— damned can over!”

  He got inside and sat back. Antonelli’s radio tinkled pleasantly with a suave dance rhythm. Volga liked it; it flowed evenly along with the rhythm in his own blood.

  The driver didn’t turn. He said, huskily: “Where to, sir?”

  “Wait a minute, mugg. Don’t bother me a minute. I gotta think. … What are yuh shiverin’ about? Cold?”

  “Ugh. … Y-yeah.”

  “Boy, am I hot!” Volga laughed with rumbling amusement.

  A tinny voice from the radio identified the station and the orchestra. “—in N’Yawk Ciddy.” A soft soprano began to croon:

  “Jevver see a dream walking? Well, ah deed!

  Jevver hear a dream talking? Well, ah deed!”

  “That’s me, a dream walking,” Volga thought. An idea touched him and his blood buzzed.

  He said, suddenly: “Down to the Village, mugg. I’ll give you the address when we get there.”

  He jounced with the cab’s sudden motion. He cursed Flip softly. She could wait; he’d save her for dessert later on. Gwen was the baby for a big shot. His smile became warm, eager. He hadn’t seen Gwen for two weeks or so. Gwen’s clothes and Gwen’s nutty idea of furniture was costing him plenty dough, anyhow. The thing sure ran into money! He whispered: “Gwen, yuh little hellcat!” and swore thickly. Gwen fitted his mood tonight. …

  The cab turned through 57th, went south again on Sixth. At 53rd Street the frowning Elevated structure swallowed the taxi like a long, deserted tunnel. The avenue was icy and bare. It was very late. A trolley car clattered past, its ugly yellow-cane seats all empty. Overhead, a three-car train slammed northward and tiny particles of frozen snow sifted down from the steel crossbeams.

  A red light bloomed on a distant “L” pillar and the taxi slowed. It swerved out from under the structure, idled onward to the corner and stopped. It stopped close to the curb.

  The driver glanced swiftly left and right, up and down the side-street. He turned and shoved back the glass panel behind his own seat.

  He said, in an uneven voice: “Little trouble wit’ the motor—distributor-points ain’t—”

  His gun rested suddenly on the sill, steady, rocklike.

  “Keep quiet and don’t move them hands!”

  “Why, you—” Volga’s anger changed to amused impatience. This amateur stickup was delaying his head-on collision with Gwen. He didn’t move his hands but he laughed throatily. “Stick-up, eh? You gotta live, I s’pose. Put the rod away and I’ll forget about it. I’m Sam Volga, you mugg! People don’t rattle the tin box at me. You picked out the wrong guy.”

  “The right guy, mister.”

  The radio music persisted dimly. Neither of the two men heard it. The wind sighed along the barren avenue. The “L” structure sprawled overhead in the darkness like a long rickety ghost.

  The traffic light winked green but the cab didn’t stir an inch.

  “My name is Joe Antonelli, mister. You killed a sister of mine once. The kid’s name was Josephine. You killed her, mister. … Keep them hands quiet or you’ll get it right away! Her name was Josephine, mister. You killed her.”

  Volga said unsteadily: “I never heard of her, pal, and that’s the God’s truth.”

  “She called herself Dot Devore.”

  Volga said, “Ah.” A tiny exhalation of sound. He looked at the eyes over the gun and the warmth began fading out of his body. The gun didn’t move. He watched the eyes; they were graveyard eyes.

  Words came out of the mouth; flat, lifeless words:

  “I seen you once before, mister. You rode in my cab. You were lucky that time. I didn’t get a chance. I let yuh git o
ut. I didn’t mind waitin’. … Did yuh think I only just started lookin’ for yuh tonight?”

  A dry sob rattled in Volga’s throat.

  “Listen. You’re sore. You’re excited. I didn’t know she was your sister. She got a tough break. I wanna be fair. I wanna make things right. I didn’t kill her. She killed herself. Gimme a chance. I got plenty dough. I swear I’ll—”

  “Dough!” He laughed. “Dough!”

  “You can’t get away with it,” Volga whispered wildly.

  “No? I’ll take a chance. I’m talkin’ now because I want yuh to know what hit yuh—before it hits yuh. … I’m gonna plug yuh, mister. Right between your —— damned eyes. Then I’m gonna run yuh right smack into that next electric-light pole. Somebody hijacked us. We was sideswiped by a car, see? They were after you and they let yuh have it. A gray moider car.”

  His bitter laughter rattled like rain. I

  “You can’t get away with it, pal,” Volga pleaded. “Don’tcha see how yuh can’t? You can’t ditch the gun. You can’t fake it, I tell yuh.” His teeth chattered. The muzzle of Antonelli’s gun seemed frozen on the sill. “For God’s sake lemme square things. You can’t beat the rap. You’ll burn. I tell yuh, you’ll burn!”

  Volga’s cunning hand moved a full inch under his coat. His trembling body masked the movement.

  “I’ll count three,” he thought harshly. His hand crawled further. He could feel the butt.

  “We’ve got him, Josie,” said the icy voice. Joy lingered and crawled under the ice. “Are yuh waitin’, Josie? Are yuh watchin’?”

  Volga’s terrified brain began to count.

  One. … Two. …

  8

  TRACY HEARD THE SMASHING echo of the shots. Three of them that blended almost into one.

  He saw Antonelli’s cab leap forward heard it clash into second, into high. It roared headlong down the avenue, then suddenly swerved sidewise, straight for an electric-light pole.

  The wheels jounced over the curb. They skidded on the icy sidewalk, skewing the cab broadside. It struck the metal pole with a glancing impact and bounced forward like a projectile at a dimly lit plate-glass window. The loud jangling of glass was swallowed instantly by the louder concussion. Brrroooooomp! Then there was no sound at all. Just silence.

  Jerry Tracy stood for ten paralyzed seconds poised stiffly on his toes, with his mouth agape. He whirled, then, and ran swiftly back along the side-street where his own taxicab was parked. He dived inside and slammed the door.

  “There’s been an accident,” he croaked. “Keep your mouth shut. I’ll do all the talking necessary. We heard the noise, see? Come on; get going.”

  “Oke. You’re the paymaster.”

  Heads were beginning to poke out of the dingy windows that fronted the Elevated structure. Jerry’s chauffeur braked hard. He took one good look at the mess in the shop window and said, “Jeeze!” in a small voice. He didn’t get out. Tracy did.

  Antonelli’s car had gone smack into the dimly lit show-window of a neighborhood butcher shop. It had nosed diagonally into the wall but it hadn’t crumpled badly; hadn’t been able to get up much speed.

  From the sidewalk Tracy could see neither the chauffeur nor the passenger. He noted mechanically that a leg of lamb had been tossed on the cab’s rear fender and there were curved links of pork sausage on the sidewalk.

  He turned towards the gutter and his shoes crunched on shattered glass.

  “Hold your hand on the horn button,” he ordered grimly.

  As he spoke he heard the slap-slap of racing feet and saw the panting blue-coat.

  “Accident, Officer. Heard it three blocks away. Just got here. I’m a reporter. Daily Planet.” He flashed the card and the cop looked at it and nodded.

  “Okey, brother. You guys are like lice. How do yuh do it?”

  There were long jagged sheets of glass sticking up from the lower sill of the butcher-shop window. The cop batted them out with his nightstick. He climbed inside and Jerry followed him.

  “Look out for your shoes, Planet! You can get a hell of a cut that way. I loined that at a fire once.”

  His voice changed.

  “Cripes, that’s nice. One look at that guy is plenty.”

  Antonelli’s arms were wrapped around his forehead and the top of his head. The steering-wheel held him upright. Under the wrapped arms the eyes were wide with a kind of amazed, sleepy wonderment. He hadn’t expected that skid into plate glass. His head was nearly severed from his body. It wasn’t nice.

  “You took it sweet and sudden,” Tracy thought, with a clutch of helpless pity at his heart. “I kidded myself you could have squared it; but you really couldn’t. You had good reasons, Joe—but it was still murder. You’re safe now. … I hope to God mine comes sweet and sudden like that!”

  The cop was peering through the cab’s rear window.

  “Hey! This guy is shot!”

  “Yeah?” Tracy came out of his trance. “There’s a phone in here. On the counter, under the droplight. Just a second.”

  He grabbed the instrument himself and eagerly called a number. There was a swift crunching of police brogans.

  “What’s the idea?” growled the cop. “Let the paper wait.”

  “This isn’t the paper. … Inspector Burch? Danny! This is Tracy. Murder. Take the address. … What?. … Come in your drawers—stark naked if you like. It’s Sam Volga!”

  He pronged the receiver with a bang.

  The cop said slowly with a queer, attentive note in his voice: “You a personal friend of the Inspector’s?”

  “Yeah. Don’t bother with the homicide boys. Danny’ll flash ’em.” His ears cocked. “What the hell’s that noise?”

  “Radio. In the cab. The damn’ thing is still running. Can you beat that? I left it alone. Say, you sure that guy in the back is Volga?” He whistled softly. “I’m glad I didn’t touch nothing.

  He clumped suddenly out to the front.

  “Git back, you people! Wanna cut yourself to pieces? G’wan back to bed. Whaddye think this is—a show?”

  His club prodded.

  “G’wan! Git back!”

  Jerry Tracy was on the telephone again. He got the Planet, stunned the City Desk with a brief sentence, woke up the whole lobster trick and set ’em scuttling like roaches. He kept his wire open and fed ’em details. A running account. Short flashes they could fill.

  Two police cars arrived almost simultaneously. Inspector Burch whizzed into view in still another—a commandeered sedan.

  Tracy was beside Danny Burch when he opened the taxicab’s door. The big gray-thatched Irishman took one keen look at the dead passenger and sighed softly.

  “Nice. Very nice. I was afraid it wasn’t true. Looks like the City is getting a break at last.”

  There were three holes in Sam Volga. One in his forehead, right between the eyes. One under his left cheekbone. A third had torn his upper lip and taken out two teeth. His eyes were perfectly: wide open. The whites were speckled with tiny powder marks.

  Inspector Burch looked at Tracy. Tracy pointed. The inspector glanced obediently at the hack license and his big shoulders stiffened.

  “Antonelli, eh?”

  “Dot Devore’s brother,” Tracy said.

  “Mmmmmm. … Like that … The poor devil! I wish I could have shaken hands with him before he died. He done a good job—and he went out clean.”

  “Listen,” Tracy said suddenly. Sharply.

  His face was staring, incredulous.

  “What’s that? Wait a minute!”

  He pointed to the cab’s radio. The all listened. A voice was singing. Drowsy, soft. The orchestra beat was blurred in the background but the word of the song came clearly, hauntingly:

  “ … when your heart’s on fiiiire,

  You must reeealize,

  Smoke gets in your eyes. … ”

  Tracy looked at Sam Volga, at the sleek, well-fed jaws, at the faint smudges of black on the whites of the wide eyeballs.<
br />
  He said, “Yeah,” in a flat, empty voice.

  He turned off the music.

  KEEP ON ASKING

  Jerry Tracy plays big tough brother for a little lost gal

  AS THE DOOR OF the inner office opened Jerry Tracy jerked a Lean worried face across his left shoulder. “ ’Smatter, Butch? What do you want?”

  Butch ducked his big shoulders defensively.

  “Listen, Boss. There’s a kind of a screwy dame—”

  “Chase her! Haven’t you been hanging around me long enough to know that all dames are screwy?”

  The cloudy, preoccupied look vanished from the columnist’s eyes, leaving them bright with mockery. With Tracy mockery was merely a veil to cloak his affectionate regard for this large-fisted simple-minded ex-pug who had annexed himself to Tracy’s life by the simple expedient of falling into step with the famous little columnist and refusing to be shaken off.

  The columnist grinned briefly and gestured.

  “Beat it, sweetheart. I’m busy.”

  “Like I just told you, Boss,” Butch; said calmly. “There’s a kind of a screwy dame outside and—”

  “And she wants to see me without undue delay on a matter of considerable import?”

  Butch’s thick lips grinned admiringly. “Jeeze, you took the woids right outa me mouth!”

  “I’ll bet I did. Mmmmm. … What’s the dame look like?”

  “Well, she’s got sorta—orange hair.”

  “Orange?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Young and shapely?”

  “Nope. Looks more like an old bum to me.”

  “Why do you think I ought to see her?”

  “I—I was gonna give her the bum’s rush,” Butch muttered. “But there was something about her. … Jerry, she means business! She’s gonna see you, what I mean.”

  “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “Yeah. That’s the dopey part of it. She says she wants an audition.”

  “Audition!” Tracy looked incredulously at his faithful bodyguard. “You mean she wants to go on the radio!”