The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Penzler, Otto

  “From a client,” said Rudolph Myer. “The fee for keeping a closed mouth and escorting an individual from—from one destination to another.”

  “And the client?” I fingered the bills. They were new and fresh.

  “Proposes to remain incognito.” The shoulders hunched again. “But if you recognize his features—I can not prevent that. I might add,” he winked broadly at me, “that I knew him at once. And to miss this opportunity might be the mistake of your life.”

  “Might?”

  “Yes—might. The thing might go no further, of course. There is that possibility. Your name is in his head. His task is a tremendous one. But there are times when even a man whose pen is weighty enough finds the gun a much surer weapon. At least, tonight he needs the service of a bodyguard.”

  I fingered through the bills a moment, tucked them carefully into the envelope again and handed it back to Rudolph Myer.

  “It’s not enough,” I told him. “I’ll want a thousand for the job.”

  No, I wasn’t greedy, but I knew Rudolph Myer. I thought this client, who had consulted him, had paid more than that—told him to offer me more than that. Rudolph would certainly subtract a good commission for himself.

  He saw my reasoning too, for he nodded his understanding as he waved away the proffered envelope.

  “It’s a small job, Race. I told him five hundred wasn’t enough to interest you, but he wouldn’t pay more. ‘I’m not thinking of the five hundred,’ he said, ‘and if Race Williams is the kind of a man I think he is and some have described him, neither will he. It’s small work—half an hour by a man’s side, with the chances a hundred to one that nothing will happen. I don’t believe Williams is a grafter, like other private detectives in the city. But he may get out of this the biggest thing in his career. Myer, I could hire a half dozen strong armed men tonight—trusted men—for less than half that sum. Don’t tell Williams this, but I’m paying five hundred dollars for the opportunity to look him straight in the eyes and read what’s behind them—and judge.’ “

  “Yeah?” Somehow I believed that Myer hadn’t got much out of it for himself after all. “What do you think?”

  Myer hesitated a moment.

  “I think this man could offer you certainly the biggest case of your career—and certainly too, if not the most hopeless one, the most dangerous. If I were you I’d cop off the five hundred, tip my hat to the gentleman in question and leave him flat. I’ll be waiting here until you come back.”

  “Here? Why?”

  “Well—” said Myer, “I’m acting for—shall I say ‘our’ client, and expect to be paid my regular fee. I’ve engaged this table for the evening. There will be interesting people at the adjoining table—or so I understand. I think you’ll be asked to deliver a message to one of them, and I shall report his reactions to that message.”

  “Then what?” I was growing interested. Mysteries are all right in books, but you don’t meet so many in real life. Besides, I like guys who give you straight talk. And when Myer didn’t say anything, I said:

  “I’m going to meet The Flame by one o’clock, you know.”

  Rudolph Myer snapped out his watch.

  “It’s twenty minutes to eleven. You’re to meet—er—our client at eleven. He promises to keep you only half an hour. You’ll be back here before twelve, and on your way as soon after as you wish.”

  I nodded at that. “But—how come this man picks you to pick me? Why don’t he come straight to me?”

  “I’ll tell you this much. More, I’d consider betraying the interest of a client; and at present it’s to my best interest not to. This client came to me, spoke of my familiarity with the underworld, and asked me to deliver a message to a certain party.”

  “And the party was—?”

  “That you will probably learn later.”

  “And the message?”

  “That I didn’t find out. The name of the party who was to be the recipient of that message was quite sufficient for me. Even though I didn’t learn the contents of that message, my—or rather—our client was honest enough to tell me that the delivery of that message would gain the animosity of the greatest menace in the city of New York. I like money. But I like life better. I turned him down flat.” Rudolph Myer grinned across at me. “But I did tell him there was only one man fool enough to take the chance. Of course, Race, I named you.”

  “And then?”

  “He walked about a bit and said, ‘I have thought of him. I have often thought of Williams.’ And half to himself, ‘But if it had to come out, I wonder how the papers and the people—and even the officials—might take it.’ “

  “Tell me some more.”

  “That is all. Name yourself a good price if you go on with the thing. But make no promises until you are sure of the circumstances. And get yourself a job chasing pickpockets before you decide to cross the man our client names.”

  Now, if Rudolph Myer had not wanted me to mix myself up in this thing he couldn’t have gone about it in a worse way. I may be fussy about the cases I take and don’t take, and where the lack of money won’t always keep me out of a job—the lack of danger might. When I get mixed up in a case I like things to happen.

  When there was no more to come out of Myer I grabbed up my hat, was rather amazed at the place I was to meet my unknown client—which was in front of a drug store—and with a final sentence to Rudolph Myer, left the table.

  “See you some more,” was all I said.

  At the main street door of the dining room I met the head waiter, and parted company with a yellow boy that brought a smile to his face. And when you can buy a smile out of Russett, the head waiter at the Golden Dog, you’ve spent some real money.

  “Who’ll be the party at the next table to Mr. Myer tonight?” I asked him. I don’t invest money in smiles alone. I like talk.

  “Tonight!” Russett looked down at the bill in his hand before he spoke. “Tonight—and most every Monday night—who else but Mr. Gorgon—Mr. Joseph Gorgon.”

  “Ah—yes,” was all I said. But I must have liked it, for I repeated that bit of eloquence, “ah—yes” to myself again as I sought the street.

  The Gorgons, for some time prominent in the city of New York, were suddenly shoving themselves into my life—or perhaps, to be more exact—I was shoving myself into their lives. But, any way you take it—things looked promising. That is, if you look on sudden and violent death as promising.

  CHAPTER III

  THE MAN OF VENGEANCE

  I bought a paper as I rode down town in the subway. Things certainly were breaking wide open in our peaceful city. One more city magistrate had been forced to resign from office. The Grand Jury had indicted two others, and the name of a Supreme Court judge was featured pretty conspicuously in the latest investigation—featured with an indifference to a libel suit that bespoke great confidence on the part of the Morning Globe.

  And once again on the first page was the picture of Joe Gorgon, with the caption below it.

  TWENTY YEARS AGO HE SOLD

  PEANUTS. TODAY DOES HE SELL

  JUDGESHIPS?

  And through the story was a rehash of the several examinations of Joe Gorgon: The rise of the Gorgon brothers to fortune, if not exactly fame; how Joe Gorgon, back in the days when his name was Gorgonette, had pushed himself up to the leadership of the old Gorilla Bridge Gang, when his younger brother, Eddie, was running barefoot in the streets of New York.

  The article went on more or less sarcastically about the unfortunate “breaks that young Eddie Gorgon was getting in life” according to his brother Joe. Twice Eddie had actually been indicted for murder, and to the knowledge of the newspapers Eddie was questioned on half a dozen crimes of extreme violence. But how many times the hand of the law, hampered by criminal magistrates, crooked politics and the brotherly love of Joe Gorgon, had been stayed, was beyond the record of that newspaper.

  “Investigations may come and magistrates may go, but the rule of
Joe Gorgon in the city of New York is still with us. But where his brother, Eddie, is constantly in trouble, the breath of scandal has not blown upon Joe Gorgon—at least, not hard enough to blow him into a prison cell, where he undoubtedly belongs.”

  That was headline stuff. I skipped to the column heads. One, at least, was good for a grin and reminded me of Eddie Gorgon’s last laugh, about looking a Gorgon in the face and dying.

  LATEST EAST SIDE GUN-MURDER

  RECALLS COLUMNISTS STORY OF

  THREE GORGON BROTHERS.

  And the reporter here had played upon his imagination a bit, but made a rather plausible story for the public at that. He dished up first the article written by a well known columnist comparing the Gorgons to the old myth, and Hawthorne’s immortal tale of how Perseus was sent out by the wicked king to bring back to him the head of one of the Gorgons, three winged monsters with claws of bronze and serpents for hair. In this article the writer had nicely called the Gorgon brothers monsters with claws of gold, whose many hairs were the gangsters, crooked public servants and racketeers whom they controlled. But the old Greek myth said that to look a Gorgon in the face meant that the one who looked would turn to stone—or die.

  And, continued the story, Eddie Gorgon had certainly stared long enough at Butch Fitzgerald, in an East Side dive, to fulfill the old myth. It is sufficient to say that Butch Fitzgerald had died—been shot to death on Delancey Street. Though Eddie Gorgon presented indisputable evidence that at the time he was visiting friends in New Bedford, Massachusetts, there are many who would bet their last nickel that Eddie Gorgon had a face, if not a hand, in the murder.

  But the article, in conclusion, said that the enterprising columnist, not forgetting that the old myth and Hawthorne’s tale consisted of three Gorgons, had gone out and not only hunted himself up another Gorgon brother, but had interviewed that brother, Professor Michelle Gorgon, a quiet man surrounded by his books. “An artist and a scholar, whose collection of first prints is the envy and admiration of both amateur and professional collectors. If Michelle Gorgon feels the notoriety which his brothers have given his name, he keeps it well buried inside him. But it is rather well known that neither Joe nor Eddie often visit their brother’s apartment atop one of Park Avenue’s most pretentious dwellings.

  “It would be a queer trick of fate if this educated and quiet, soft spoken Michelle Gorgon after all turned out to be the fine Italian hand that has guided his brothers up the ladder of doubtful fame. For, after all, to talk with Joe Gorgon leaves one with the impression that despite his rather forced smoothness of surface, his Gorilla days are not far behind him.”

  Of course I had heard that story before. Just the fanaticism of a columnist, but maybe very real to Eddie Gorgon or his brother, Joe. After all, I’ve often said that crooks are like children at play. Anything that stimulates or satisfies their vanity is quickly grabbed at. Yep, I could very easily see them coddle to that Gorgon myth, rather than resent it. And certainly Eddie Gorgon had glared me down. But then, if I remember Hawthorne’s tale of the GORGON’S HEAD, Perseus had used a sword, and I— well—I go in heavy for guns, and I’m still alive to tell you that a forty-four in the hands of a man who knows how and has the will to use it takes a lot of glaring down—even from a Gorgon. But I shrugged my shoulders, folded up my paper, and stepping out on the subway platform climbed to the street above.

  I met my man—or rather, he met me. I was hardly out of the subway station before he walked straight up to me.

  “Race Williams.” He eyed me closely from under his gray felt hat. Keen, sharp, hard eyes. But I gave him look for look. And I didn’t know him. That is, I did and didn’t. His face was familiar. But we’ll simply say that he was about forty-five; clear, weather beaten skin; piercing, cold, but honest eyes—and the chin of a fighter. Not pugnacious, you understand more, determined, ambitious. A go-getter, and what I liked mostly—not a guy to be sidetracked from his purpose.

  He had a way of talking straight talk.

  “You will not, of course, presume on my identity. If you discover it, forget it. I shan’t go into details about your qualifications. I believe in laying my hand on men personally. If I’m fooled, I want to fool myself. I don’t want to blame any one but myself. You have been paid for this job tonight. If it is my pleasure, afterwards, I want you to forget this—this incident. That’s agreeable, of course.”

  “Suits me.” I was trying to place him, but couldn’t. This much I felt. I had spotted that map in a daily paper—and not so long since either. But I shrugged my shoulders. If he wanted it strictly business he could have it his way.

  He led me to a car, threw open the door and watched me climb in.

  “I shall drive,” he said. “You shall watch that we are not followed. I am putting a great confidence in you.”

  “Okay!” was the best I gave him as he slid behind the wheel.

  “You are not a very talkative man.”

  “It’s your racket.” I shrugged.

  “Yes—my racket.” And he seemed to think aloud, as Rudolph Myer had described it. “Entirely my racket.” And then, with a half turn of his head toward me, “I am placing in your hands tonight the life of a man. Maybe, the life and honor of a great many men. What do you say to that?” He fairly snapped the last words at me. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like his attitude. He was treating me like an ordinary gunman—the gunman the papers sometimes painted me.

  “You’re trying to buy a lot of silence in New York for five hundred dollars,” was what I said to that.

  He sort of jumped the car around the corner.

  “If a man’s honor is for sale, I could never raise a sufficient sum to bid for his silence against—” He hesitated, and then, “I am not buying your silence, Mr. Williams. It is my understanding that it is not for sale. I’m paying you for your time—and your courage, which I understand is for sale. I back my judgment of character rather than my bank balance.” I think that he smiled. “Perhaps it’s less altruistic and laudable when I confess that my bank balance, compared with my judgment, is negligible. I must confess that I picked you first from—well—if not exactly hearsay, from the opinion of another.”

  “Rudolph Myer.” I smiled a bit.

  He smiled too. A hard sort of smile.

  “You believe that?” he asked.

  “Well—Myer told me so.”

  “Quite so. I told him that.” He nodded, pulled the car up by the iron fence of St.— well—I’ll just say, a well known city hospital, and leaving it there in the dark walked by my side to a small gate.

  We passed slowly into the hospital, down the dimly lit corridor, ignored the elevator and climbed to the second floor. There another long corridor, a turn to the left, through a curtain into a dark alcove at the end—and a man who had been sitting beside a partly open door jumped to his feet, and with a hand to his hip swung and faced us.

  I got a jolt out of that. The man, in plain clothes, was Detective Sergeant O’Rourke, of the New York City police.

  “A police case.” I guess the words were jarred out of me, and probably not in an enthusiastic voice. The police don’t often want me in with them—and I don’t want them in with me. Fair is fair! Now, was it simply to identify a man that I was there? I turned to my guide and client. Let the police fight their own battles! They do everything to hamper mine. Five hundred dollars to identify a suspect that the police couldn’t lay a finger to! Well—I’d tell this lad where he got off. But I didn’t tell him. He was talking.

  “Detective Sergeant O’Rourke,” he said very slowly, “is off duty tonight. That is, off regular police duty.”

  O’Rourke was all right. It wasn’t working with him I objected to. In fact, I’d go a long way for O’Rourke any time—and had. And O’Rourke would go a long way for me—and maybe, after all, he had. But, as I said, I swallowed my hasty words. I would see what broke.

  A white clad nurse opened a door for us, stepped quickly aside, sniffed once—then bowed and
left the room. Another nurse, who was sitting by the side of the single bed, rose as we passed behind the screen and I looked at the man on the bed.

  He was very old, I thought. His hair was gray. But it was the corrugated skin of his sunken cheeks, the deep lines that set off vividly the hollows that were his eyes. Emaciated parchment covered the single hand upon the white sheet; thick, purple ridges ran from his fingers to his wrist, to lose themselves in the sleeve of the snowy white hospital night shirt.

  “You don’t know that man?” my client asked me. And there was nothing of anxiety or hope in his voice. It was simply a question; an ordinary question he might ask any one. So he hadn’t brought me there for the purpose of identification, for he hardly looked at me when I shook my head.

  The old eyes opened. Burning, colorless orbs, except that they shone like two coals of fire. My unknown client stepped to the bed and took him by the hand. The old man clutched the hand frantically, dragging his other with a great effort from beneath the clothes. Eyes alight with both fear and fever burnt from those hollows as his fingers clutched that single strong hand in a grip of terror.

  My client spoke.

  “It is all right, my friend. I have come back as I promised. I have come to take you away from here. Take you where you’ll be comfortable.” And as the eyes still burned steadily—terror and horror in their flaming depths, but no recognition—my client leaned down and barely whispered, “Take you to a place where you will find safety—safety and vengeance.”

  “Vengeance! That is it. That is it. That is what you promise me.” There was a decided foreign accent to the old man’s words, that was not hidden by the thickness of his voice as he pulled himself up in the bed and kissed that hand he held over and over. “Vengeance!” he said again. “The soul of Rose Marie cries out for vengeance. It is years ago—many. They feared me then. I am not so young now. The Devil. Yes, that was it. They called me The Devil. And now—” And he fell back on the bed, muttering to himself “prison” and “sickness” and “silence.” That was all I could understand.