But “The Scourge” didn’t know anything about it.
Barnaby’s dive carried the now startled Ritter to the floor. He made a vague motion in the general direction of his arm-pit but all it earned him was a stunning blow on the jaw from one of the copper’s massive fists. The “ace” mobster stole a hasty glance at his assailant towering above him … and surrendered.
He was rudely yanked erect, a steel bracelet bit into his right wrist and by it, he was unceremoniously dragged out of the cafe in the wake of the well-burdened Duane. And no one interfered with their going. Ritter balked outside when he saw that the car awaiting him was not an official machine—Ritter had learned that a ride in a regular police car invariably terminated at Police Headquarters where one of the mob’s shysters would be waiting to spring him.
But his obstinacy was short-lived. Barnaby mouthed an expressive oath, then half-threw, half-kicked him into the rear seat where he was at once handcuffed to the unconscious “Scourge.”
The car swung into motion.
Duane drove, eyes glued on the road ahead, mouth tightened. Barnaby sat sidewise on the seat beside him, his left elbow resting on the back seat, his bitter gaze riveted on the pair in the rear. In his right hand, he cradled a long nightstick; it swayed suggestively in his restless grip.
Ritter saw the stick, remembered the car, and stark terror gripped him. Some of the angry color seeped from his avaricious features, leaving them the shade of stale dough.
“Wait a minute, Barnaby,” he jerked. “You can’t do this!”
Barnaby’s mocking laughter hit him like a blow. There was no mirth in the sound, rather a menace….
“But this ain’t official!” protested Ritter.
The doughty veteran sneered. “Sure it’s official, you rat. You got me canned from one police force, but I got on another. You’re arrested, Ritter; you’ll get a trial all legal-like. But you won’t have no crooked lawyers, Ritter.”
The gunman’s eyes protruded. “Another police force?” he gasped. “What city hired you? Where are you takin’ us … ?”
“To a city where you belong, Ritter—The City of Hell!”
Duane toured around several blocks, crossing his own trail to make sure they had no tail, then satisfied at last there was no one following, he cut rapidly across the city to the warehouse district. He came to an abandoned loft building, circled it twice, finally to stop in a pool of black shadow. As he stepped out one side of the car, Barnaby went out the opposite side.
“All right, Ritter,” Barnaby growled, opening the rear door. “Pile out.” Duane turned the beam of his flash in the tonneau.
Rieg had regained part of his sense. He sat blinking at the light. Ritter shrank back into the seat, but when Barnaby hit him across the shins with the night-stick, he bounced to the edge of the seat and filed out, dragging the still dazed Rieg with him.
Ritter said: “On the level, Cap, ain’t there some way we can square this beef? I’ll see you get your old job back an’ …”
Barnaby stiffened, his thin smile widened into a wolfish grin.
“So you can get me my old job back, eh?” he whispered softly. His voice changed abruptly to a savage growl. “Why you lousy … !”
Smack! It was only an open-handed slap, but it floored the astonished Ritter and he, in turn, pulled “The Scourge” down with him.
It was Duane who prodded them erect. He motioned them to follow the big form of Barnaby, who was striding through the darkness. The reflected light of his flash painted him in eery shadow; he loomed there like some fabled giant.
“I wouldn’t irritate him,” Duane suggested mildly. “He’s in good humor now, but he might get peevish.”
Ritter shuddered and hurried in Barnaby’s wake.
Barnaby’s course led him through long-deserted rooms, down a dusty stairway to a basement. He explored the filth-laden floor for a few minutes until he found a heavy iron plate set flush with the cement. He scuffed dirt away from an iron ring, hooked his fingers through it and lifted the lid, disclosing a black hole that vanished into the bowels of the earth.
He leaned forward and rapped briskly on the rim of the hole with a night-stick. The noise echoed out of the blackness to be followed by a ponderous silence….
Abruptly, as from a great distance, the sound of a tapping came to them; an echo, as it were, of Barnaby’s own raps.
Barnaby prodded Ritter with the club. Duane unlocked the cuffs.
“Get down, muggs,” he ordered; and when he saw them hesitate, added, “get, or I’ll heave you down!”
They went … down a rusty ladder, into the arms of Hallahan and Forsythe.
Barnaby came down last, pulling the iron cover in place after him. When he reached the bottom, he grinned.
“Ritter, meet the new police department; coppers of The City of Hell!”
Duane swung his light so it illuminated the others. “Any luck?” he asked.
“Plenty!” chortled Hallahan. “Come on.”
He led the way down a great brick tube about twelve feet in diameter. The concave floor was slimy and a thin trickle of filthy water crawled along the middle. The wan glow of the flashlights showed dripping walls and on several occasions, huge bats swept squealing at the heads of the grim paraders.
Suddenly Rieg shrieked in terror.
“Something stabbed my ankle!” he wailed.
Barnaby grunted. “Rats! Big sewer rats. Better stick close; they’ll attack a single man.”
Rieg huddled closer.
The tunnel branched abruptly. Hallahan, leading, swung off. A hundred yards farther along, he turned the beam of his light on an opening several feet above the floor of the main tube. He nodded to the others and climbed the iron rungs to disappear into the cave-like hole.
At a prod from Barnaby’s night-stick, Ritter and his trembling companion followed.
They found themselves in a square, windowless room. It was like the dungeon of some medieval castle. In the center was a crude table, rotten with age. Along two of the walls were winches. A candle was stuck in a whiskey bottle. Hallahan lighted it and extinguished the flash. Hidden drafts made the single flame flicker and ghostly shadows danced on the brick walls.
Hallahan seated himself at the table. He took a small note-book from his pocket, fingered the stub of a pencil and looked at Barnaby.
“Have you told him, Chief?”
Barnaby shook his head. “You’re the judge,” he remarked.
Hallahan nodded soberly and turned to the gaping prisoners. He surveyed them for a while, then began to speak in a slow, judicial tone.
“You’re in the court of a new order, boys,” he told them. “Chief Barnaby called it The City of Hell. Up above, you crooks run things; your boss makes and breaks judges, coppers, politicians. You and your lawyers rule the courts, the city government, the law. Well, we’ve started a new city down here. This old sewer is a monument to the system; it was built years ago by a bunch of crooked grafters and had to be abandoned because it wouldn’t work. For nearly three decades it’s been a breeding place for rats so we figgered this was a good place to bring you birds. Now you’re under arrest and you’ll get a fair trial. First we want you to take the stand an’ tell us …”
“Aw, cut out this baloney!” Ritter sneered. “What the hell do you think you’re settin’ yourself up to be? We’ll stand trial whenever we have to, in a court of law—what’s this farce anyway? You guys gone goofy?”
Hallahan sighed patiently. “The Constitution guarantees every citizen the right of trial by jury, but the Constitution was made before your breed came into existence; it was intended to protect decent citizens from oppression. Since you’re not a decent citizen, Ritter, you an’ ‘The Scourge’ can’t expect that sort of protection. We want you to tell us the truth about that baby killin’ last night.”
Ritter stiffened. “I’ll be damned if I will! Come on with your rough stuff. I can take it!”
Hallahan nodded. “That’s be
en the trouble up above. The cops beat up you guys but it didn’t work because the human body can only absorb just so much punishment an’ after that you don’t feel it. We got a better stunt.” He swung his gaze on Forsythe. “Lieutenant, lock up the prisoners!”
Forsythe strode willingly out of the shadows and clamped a big hand on each of the two crooks.
“Gladly, Your Honor” He jerked them around and started for the door, then paused in front of Duane. “Sam, would you take that club an’ beat off the rats until I chain these muggs to the floor?”
Duane hefted a club. “Sure,” he agreed.
“The Scourge” leapt sidewise. “Rats! Good God! You can’t do that! We’d be eaten alive!”
Forsythe jerked him towards the opening. “That’s your funeral; you heard the Judge’s orders.”
Rieg continued to struggle. “No, no, I tell you!”
Barnaby strode over and caught “The Scourge” by the neck. He hustled him through the opening into a smaller tunnel. As the flash sent an explorative beam ahead, large gray shapes scurried into the deeper shadows where twin eyes glowed in the darkness at the human intruders.
Ritter snarled through his teeth. “Shut up, Rieg! It’s a bluff!”
Barnaby snorted but made no reply. He threw the squirming gunman to the slimy floor, snapped a cuff on his wrist and hooked the other end to an iron ring sunk in the floor. “The Scourge” sobbed brokenly, but Ritter kept his nerve up.
“Swarm will take care of you finks!” he prophesied grimly.
Barnaby wiped his hands together. “An’ these wharf rats will take care of you. That makes it even.” He started to leave the cavern, but Rieg’s cry stopped him.
“You’re murderin’ me!” he shrieked.
Barnaby wagged his gray head. “No Whisper, you’re commitin’ suicide. If you talk, you got a fightin’ chance. For instance, if you was to tell us who ordered you killers out….”
“I can’t!” screamed “The Scourge.”
Barnaby shrugged and passed through the opening. He heard Ritter’s husky tones pleading, cajoling Rieg to keep up his nerve. Then a rat must have bitten “The Scourge” for he uttered one long wail of terror.
“Listen to reason, in God’s name!” he howled.
Barnaby paused, winked to Forsythe, then called back. “Give us names, Whisper, not an argument.”
“Swarm….”
Coxy Swarm leaned forward, his elbows propped on the arms of his chair, and his cold fish-eyes focused on the slender little man striding up and down the room.
“If Rieg and Ritter had been snatched by some of the other boys it would be my job, Hymie,” he growled. “But you’re paid a damn’ good salary to act as the mouthpiece for this outfit, and when the cops grab two of my best boys, it’s your job to see they get sprung. I’m waiting for service.” The cold cigar on one side of his thin-lipped mouth crawled up at an aggressive angle.
The little lawyer stopped, combed his black tousled hair with nervous fingers, then made a futile gesture with his hands.
“But I tell you, Coxy,” he shouted, after the manner of a man who has been repeating the same explanation over and over, “these two men, Barnaby and Duane, are not with the police department! I did what you asked and had them demoted, but they got tough and quit. But in spite of that, I have assistants staked out at every precinct station within fifty miles of here. So far, these ex-cops haven’t taken Ritter and Rieg to a jail. If they do, I’ll spring ‘em; I can get any man I want released from any jail in this county. But, Coxy, be reasonable! I can’t get a man out of jail when he hasn’t been put in!”
A tall, gangling hood sitting near the door spoke. “You don’t suppose these cops took the boys for a ride, do you?”
Lawyer Croker stiffened to his full five feet four inches. “They wouldn’t dare!” he shouted. “I’d have them broke!”
Swarm jerked the cigar out of his mouth, glanced at the cold ash and hurled it from him with an oath. He reached a big hand into a niche in the wall beside him and grabbed a telephone. Then he called an unlisted number.
“Judge Tweedie? Listen, Tweedie, this is Swarm. Two dumb cops named Barnaby and Duane snatched a pair of my best boys, see. I want those flat-feet nailed to the cross! Get in touch with the foreman of your Grand Jury and have ‘em bring in an indictment first thing in the morning. No, don’t wait until morning to call the foreman, do it right now. I don’t give a damn if it is nearly midnight! Maybe we can smoke that pair out in the open with an indictment, but if my boys find ‘em in the meantime, you won’t need to bother with the Grand Jury. Goodbye!” He waited for no answer, but hung up.
He let his eyes wander over the assembled group. Besides Croker the lawyer, five of his ablest lieutenants sat quietly in a semi-circle, awaiting his orders. Despite his rage, he felt a suffusion of pride creep over him. These were not the beetle-browed gorillas of fiction; these men were well educated—with the exception of Gebardi, an importation from Sicily—and versed in modern business administration. They could organize a union, break a strike, control a voting precinct, or examine a company’s account books with equal facility. And what was even more important, they could and would carry out his orders without question.
“Miller,” he said finally, to the lanky hood by the door, “take Gebardi and find out if either Duane or Barnaby’s got a wife. If so, grab her and take her up to the farm. Gebardi’ll know how to make her talk. But don’t actually kill her because we might need her to write a note to her husband.”
Croker wiped sudden sweat from his face. “I can save you time,” he wheezed. “This guy Barnaby is not married, but Duane is. He lives on Becker Street, the third duplex from the corner of Hansard Avenue. His wife’s name is Molly. Duane’s nuts about her.”
Miller stood up, motioned to Gebardi and adjusted his fedora. “That’ll help, Hymie. If she knows where her old man is we’ll make her tell us. If she don’t,” he shrugged grimly, “it’ll be tough on her.” With Gebardi at his heels, he went out.
Lawyer Hymie Croker’s mouth opened and closed in a quick, nervous smile. He wiped the moist handkerchief over his face and sought to conceal the involuntary shudder that shook his slender frame. Croker belonged to that peculiar breed of jackal who could cheerfully frame an innocent man into the penitentiary, or even to the gallows, and feel no pang of conscience. He could advise his assorted clients on the slickest manner of evading the laws; even assist them in their work under the cloak of his profession. But when he stood in the presence of violence, the yellow stripe that lined his back widened until he trembled.
Swarm took a fresh cigar from his vest pocket, ripped off the end with his teeth and set it on the table before him. “I can’t exactly figure this out,” he mused, scowling. “There’s just a chance that these two cops took the boys for a buggy ride. But it don’t look that way; they took too much of a chance in snatching them out of La Parisienne. At least a hundred people saw them do it.”
“Perhaps they wanted to make ‘em talk,” suggested a mobster named Haight.
Croker answered that one. “Talk? What for? Grogan takes his orders from me and Judge Tweedie has the Grand Jury in tow. Tweedie’ll have the Grand Jury return an indictment as Coxy told him to do and Barnaby and Duane will be in jail. I can promise you service along that line.” He used the handkerchief again.
“Anyway,” drawled a big man, “they couldn’t make Ritter talk. He can take it.”
Swarm shrugged. “Hymie’s right. There’s nobody for them to tell anything to. You’re right about Ritter, Slade, but I got my doubts if Rieg could keep his mouth shut under pressure. ‘The Scourge’ is mean as hell with a gun in his hand, but …” He shrugged and pulled his chair closer to the table. “Well, sit down, Hymie, and we’ll have a round of stud.”
Croker prodded a chair into position with his foot. “I’ll sit in until Miller and Gebardi call back. We ought to hear from them within half an hour.”
About forty minutes later, Hai
ght quit the game and walked to the door of the office. He mumbled something about a drink and went out, only to reappear about a minute later with his face the color of damp cement.
Swarm frowned, slowly put down his cards, started to push back his chair. “Well, what in hell’s the matter with you?”
Haight made a vague motion with his head towards the darkness behind.
“Gebardi… !”
The way he said it brought them to their feet in unison, but Swarm was the first man to reach the crumpled body of his ace executioner.
Gebardi was quite dead. He lay across the curb, his bloody knees in the gutter, his torso sprawled across the sidewalk. A nearby street lamp loaned ghastly shadows to the scene. The corpse looked like a great black spider which had been stepped on.
Swarm cursed, shot a quick glance up and down the street. It was practically deserted; the body could have lain there but a few minutes.
“Come on,” he snarled. “Carry it inside.”
Three of the men grabbed their erstwhile companion and whisked him inside the office. From a closet, Swarm took out a large rubber sheet and spread it on the floor. They dumped the battered remains of Gebardi on to this. It was then that Swarm glimpsed the folded piece of paper pinned to the dead man’s chest.
He retrieved it and moved closer to the light. Examination disclosed the obvious fact that the paper had been clipped from an advertisement in a newspaper. It simply stated in large black type:
SURE CURE FOR RODENTS!
That was all.
“And Miller …?” gasped Croker. “They’ve grabbed Miller!”
Swarm crushed the clipping in the palm of his fist. “Every one of you birds get out and see what you can find. Get your boys moving. I want these two crazy cops dead by daylight.” As the men started for their haunts, he swung on Croker.
“Have you got your car with you, Hymie?”
The lawyer nodded. “I told my driver to wait around the corner.”
Swarm nodded impatiently. “Okey. Now you beat it to Grogan. Tell him to find Barnaby and Duane before morning, or there’ll be another Chief of Police in this damn’ town!” He made a gesture of dismissal and the lawyer waited no longer. He scooped up his hat and cane and fled the office. And the last thing he saw as he went out was the bloody corpse of the late Antonio Gebardi spread-eagled on the rubber sheet.
The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps Page 24
