“All right,” said MacBride. “Here’s a half-dollar. Run home.”
The boy ran off and MacBride stopped. “Riggy, Tim, we’ve got to get Scoggins. The Commissioner wants him.”
“I wonder if he really does,” said Rigallo.
MacBride grinned. “I’ll be doing my duty. He told me to get him.”
They walked on, crossed the street and drew near the red brick house. An empty store was on the street level, windows soaped and pasted with To Let signs. Above this ranged two stories. North Street is a mongrel street. There are warehouses, garages, poolrooms, a few tenements.
“There’s an alley,” said Doran, pointing a few doors further on.
“Good idea,” said MacBride. “We’ll go around to the back.”
They entered the alley, followed it to the rear, vaulted a couple of board fences and eventually found themselves in the yard back of the red brick house. A door that apparently led into the back of the store barred the way. There were two windows.
“We don’t want to make any noise,” said MacBride. “Cut the putty away from that top pane and we’ll pry it out.”
They used jack-knives, succeeded in removing the pane with a minimum of noise. MacBride reached in, unlocked the window, pushed it up. Then he crawled in. Doran and Rigallo followed, and they stood in an empty room littered with paper and old boxes.
“Upstairs, I guess,” said MacBride, and opening a door, stepped into a musty hallway.
Each man carried one hand in his pocket, on his gun.
MacBride led the way up a flight of stairs. He stood on the first landing, looking around. Doran and Rigallo joined him. There were four doors along the side, and one at either end of the corridor.
MacBride whispered, “You guys park on the next stairway and watch. Quiet, now.”
They nodded and cat-footed off.
MacBride stood alone, deliberating. Now that he was here, what should he do? The situation presented some difficulties. Where was Scoggins? What room? How much of a gang was here? Where was the gang? Why hadn’t Scoggins been more explicit?
Questions? The answers would be arrived at only through action. He shrugged. Couldn’t stand here all day. Supposed he picked a door at random and knocked?
Well, try it. He did. Squared his shoulders, assumed an innocent expression and rapped on the nearest door. Whom should he ask for? …
The door opened and a man in an undershirt and trousers looked out.
“Hello,” said MacBride.
“Hello,” grunted the man.
“I’m a tenement-house inspector,” said MacBride. “I’d like to look through the rooms. Won’t take long.”
“What do you want to look for?”
“Just see about lights, fire exits. Won’t take long. Few minutes. Hate like hell to bother you, but the boss has been riding me.”
“Well, come in, then,” grunted the man.
MacBride entered, wondering what tenement-house inspectors were supposed to do. He took out a pencil, however, and a batch of old envelopes from his pocket. He made a few lines, looked very thoughtful, went to each of the two windows in the room, opened and closed them. The man in the undershirt watched him closely.
“Well, this room’s all right,” said MacBride. “Now the next.”
“Wait a minute,” grumbled the man, and entered the next room, closing the door behind him. MacBride heard subdued voices during the brief moment the door was open.
He stepped to the hall door, swung it open, caught Rigallo’s eye, and put a finger to his lip. Rigallo, hiding with Doran on the staircase, nodded and grinned. MacBride closed the door softly.
A second later the other door opened, and the man in the undershirt came back. With him was another man, a tall, slim, saturnine man smoking a cigarette through an ivory holder. He eyed MacBride with a cold stare.
“Who sent you here?” he clipped.
“My boss.”
“Well, come around some other time.”
“Can’t. I’m taking this block today.”
“Well, take this dump some other day.”
“What’s the idea?” shot back MacBride. “What do you suppose the boss will say if I take all the houses on this street except this one?”
“That’s your lookout. Here’s twenty-five bucks. Mark this place as okey.”
“Sorry,” said MacBride.
“Then clear out.”
MacBride didn’t know how tenement-house inspectors acted in such a case, but he knew how a cop acted. “Now look here, mister,” he said. “My job is to look these places over, and I’m going to look it over. Don’t get snotty, either, or I’ll condemn the damned joint right off the bat.”
“You will, eh?”
“You said it.”
“Who cares?”
“I don’t,” shrugged MacBride.
“And neither do I. Can that crap and on your way, buddy.”
“Well, all right, then, if you want to get mean about it,” said MacBride. “I’ll hand in a bum report.”
“Sure. Go ahead. I don’t care.”
MacBride put away his pencil and paper and pulled open the door, shoved his hand into his pocket, and stood there.
“Now I’ll get mean,” he ripped out. “Just like this!”
His gun jumped into view, and the two men gasped.
“Raise ‘em high!” snapped MacBride; and over his shoulder, “Come on, boys.”
But Doran and Rigallo were already beside him. “Frisk ‘em,” said MacBride.
Rigallo entered the room and approached the man in the undershirt, relieving him of an automatic. The other man snarled:
“What the hell kind of a stunt is this?”
“Shut up!” said MacBride. “Get your hands up.”
He snatched a gun from the man’s pocket and put it into his own.
“It’s a frame-up!” yelled the man.
“Damn you, close your trap!” barked MacBride.
The door to the next room swung open. He caught a momentary glimpse of a group of startled faces. Then the door banged, as Doran leaped toward it and tried to keep it open.
“Hold everything, gang!” yelled the saturnine man.
A shot crashed, splintered the door.
Doran stepped back, leveled his gun and put three shots through the lock.
Rigallo handcuffed the two men together. MacBride took another pair of manacles and secured them to a waterpipe.
“You guys are dicks!” cried the saturnine man.
“God, but you’re bright!” chuckled MacBride.
Somewhere below, glass crashed. Doran reloaded his gun. Rigallo fired a couple of shots through the door.
Footsteps were pounding up the stairway. MacBride jumped into the hall, his gun leveled. Two policemen appeared, guns drawn.
“Take it easy, boys,” called MacBride. “Stay here in the hall. We’ve got some bums bottled up.”
Even as he said this a door further down the hallway burst open and men rushed out. Revolvers blazed, and one of the policemen went down. MacBride fired and Doran joined him. Eight men swept down upon them like an avalanche. Rigallo came hurtling out of the room.
Doran sank under a blackjack. MacBride put two shots through the head of the man who had wielded it. A clubbed revolver skimmed along his skull and thudded on his shoulder. He twisted and clubbed his own gun, and broke a man’s nose. Blood splashed over him.
Somebody reeled, balanced on the balustrade, and then pitched down into the hallway below. Somebody else kicked MacBride in the stomach while he was trying to reload. He doubled and fell to the floor, and another foot cut open his left ear.
Rigallo, holding the doorway of the room wherein the two men were manacled, put a slug in the back of the man who was kicking MacBride’s head. The man fell over the captain and never moved once, until MacBride shoved him over and staggered to his feet.
Two men rushed Rigallo, and one swore in Italian. Rigallo snarled, “As one wop to another, ba
ck up!” The man struck with his blackjack. Rigallo dodged and blew out the man’s stomach.
“Cripes!” choked the other.
“Stay back,” warned Rigallo, “or I’ll spill your guts, too.”
Two more policemen rushed up the stairs, met two gangsters at the head, forced them back. Suddenly the shots ceased, and the hallway was strangely quiet. Six men, one of them a policeman, lay on the floor, dead. Three gangsters stood with their backs against the wall, disarmed, breathing thickly, one with a broken and bloody nose.
Rigallo still stood in the doorway. MacBride lifted up Doran, shook him.
“You all right, Tim?”
“Yeah—sure,” mumbled Doran.
“Hold him,” MacBride said to one of the policemen.
Then he turned toward the door, laid his hand on Rigallo’s shoulder. “Riggy, this was a hell of a blow-out!”
“Sloppy,” nodded Rigallo.
MacBride entered the room and looked at the two men manacled to the water-pipe.
“Well, you satisfied?”
The man in the undershirt said nothing. The other said, “No, are you?”
“Not yet.”
MacBride entered the other room. A table was littered with bottles and glasses. He looked around, rubbing his jaw. He crossed and opened another door, looked into a bedroom. It was empty. He backed up, called Rigallo.
“You and Doran hunt for Scoggins. He must be hidden somewhere. Go right to the roof, if you have to.”
They went out, and MacBride sampled a bottle of Three Star Hennessy. It was good stuff, warmed him up. He noticed a closet door, and with the bottle still in his hand, walked over and grasped the knob. He pulled, but the door resisted, yet it was not locked. He dropped the bottle and drew his gun. Someone was in that closet, holding the door shut.
“Come out!” MacBride called.
There was not a murmur.
“Out, or I’ll riddle the door!” said MacBride.
Still no answer.
“I’ll count three,” said MacBride. “Ready. One!” He marked time. “Two!” His gun steadied. “Three!”
His finger tightened on the trigger. He aimed low.
Bang! Bang!
Rigallo and Doran came in, with Scoggins between them.
“Found him, Cap,” said Rigallo.
“Just a minute, Riggy,” said MacBride. “I’ve found something else.”
He waited. He saw the knob move.
“Atta boy!” he called. “Open it or I’ll shoot higher. Ready!”
The door burst open and a wild-eyed man tottered out.
“Well!” exclaimed MacBride. “Greetings, Mr. Braun!”
“G-God!” stuttered Braun.
A new voice penetrated the room— ”Is that Braun of the Harbor Towing, Mac?”
MacBride pivoted.
Kennedy of the Free Press was leaning in the doorway, tapping his chin with a pencil.
VI
Braun, that short, round, dark, nervous man, seemed to be swallowing hard lumps.
MacBride spoke to a policeman, “Ed, you shove those three bums in the hall into the next room with the other two.”
“Right-o, Cap.”
“Riggy and Tim, you stay in here with me,” went on MacBride. “Kennedy, you can stay here on the condition that you don’t publish anything unless you have my consent.”
“Suits me, Mac.”
MacBride rubbed his hands gingerly. “This will be interesting. Make yourselves at home, men—you, too, Braun, and you there, Scoggins. There’s a bottle and glasses. Let’s get clubby.”
Braun was not in a clubby mood. He was emphatically nervous, and kept biting his thin red lips.
MacBride said, “Now, Scoggins, what happened?”
Scoggins had taken a drink. He wiped his mouth. “Gosh, I was scared. T’ other afternoon me and Alf Nelson met in the lunchroom across from Pier Ten. I said, ‘Hello, Alf.’ And he said, ‘Hello, Gus.’ Then I said, ‘Look here, Alf, we know each other for years. We worked together. What’s the sense o’ bein’ mean? I know you tried to cut me loose t’other night, but I’m willin’ to forget it.’ And Alf said, ‘I been a big bum, Gus.’ And I said, ‘You been a fool, Alf. You never had much brains. You’re lettin’ some big guys talk you into doin’ things. You’ll get in trouble, Alf, if you don’t look out.’ So Alf looked kinda guilty, and he said, ‘Yeah, I been a big bum, Gus. I been wantin’ to get some money ahead, so me and Hilda could get hitched. You and me been friends for years, Gus.’ And I said, ‘We sure have, Alf. And like one friend to another, I’d warn you to look out for them big buys. If you get in Dutch, they ain’t goin’ to help you.’ So he said, ‘I guess you’re right, Gus. I been a dumb-bell.’ I said, ‘You sure have, Alf.’ And he nodded and then said, ‘Gus, come over my barge tomorrer night and have a game of pinochle like old times.’ So I said I would, and I did.
“So I went over. We played for an hour, and then some guy came in, and Alf said, ‘This is a friend, Gus. Call him Pete.’ So I called him Pete and he called me Gus, but I didn’t like him. He wasn’t a waterfront man. Along about ‘leven o’clock I figgered I better go, and Pete said, ‘Me, too. I got a motorboat out here. I’ll take you upriver.’ I said, ‘Thanks,’ and we went.
“There was another guy waitin’ in the boat, and when we got out in the river they jumped me. I was knocked out. When I come to I was in a room upstairs. I was sore. I wonder if Alf double-crossed me.”
“Alf is dead,” said MacBride.
Scoggins squinted. “What!”
“Was killed about an hour after you left.”
“Dead!”
“Uhuh.”
“But who did it?”
“I don’t know—yet.” MacBride turned to Braun. “Maybe you know.”
Braun started. His eyes blinked. He moistened his lips. “Captain, I seem in a peculiar position. Unfortunately, circumstances are against me. I believe I’ll not say anything until I’ve thought things out more.”
“Until you’ve seen a lawyer?” sneered MacBride.
“Until he’s seen the Commissioner,” sliced in Kennedy.
It was like dropping a bomb. MacBride swung on him. Braun shuddered, clenched his hands, pursed his lips. Rigallo tapped the floor with his toe. A long moment of silence enveloped the room. Kennedy smiled whimsically, one eyebrow slightly arched.
MacBride said to Rigallo, “Bring in those guys we hitched to the pipes inside.”
Rigallo grinned, entered the adjoining room, returned a minute later with the saturnine man and the man in the undershirt. The saturnine man had tightened his dark face, and his eyes were two black slots of malevolence, his lips were flattened against his teeth.
Scoggins said, “That’s the guy we played cards with. He’s the guy took me for a motorboat ride.”
“The guy that killed Nelson, eh?” put in Kennedy. “Know him, Mac?”
“Not yet.”
“He’s from Chicago, if I’ve got my mugs right. Pete Redmond.”
“Well, what about it?” snarled the man.
“Soft pedal,” said MacBride. “I’m going to plant you for a long while, buddy.”
“Like hell you are!” snapped Redmond.
“Sh!” put in Braun.
Redmond turned to him. “What’s the matter with you? You look yellow around the gills. Come on, tell this guy who we are. I can’t hang around here all day. I got a date. Call the Commissioner on the telephone.”
Braun turned a shade whiter. “Sh! Don’t be a fool, Redmond!” he gulped.
“Well, then, let’s go. He can’t hold us. Telephone the Commissioner. I tell you, I got a date.”
MacBride said, “Braun, do you want to make a telephone call?”
Braun shifted nervously, wore a pained look.
“Go ahead,” urged Redmond. “Call him up.”
Braun went over to the telephone, called a number. “Hello, George,” he said. “Listen, George…. Huh? You know…. Well, what are you
going to do? … Yeah, Pete is here…. Well, how could I help it? … Well, don’t bawl me out, George…. All right.”
He hung up, said, “He’ll be right over.”
Kennedy licked his lips. “Hot diggity!”
Braun was pale. Redmond scowled under MacBride’s steady gaze and said, “Think you’re wise, eh? I get a great kick out of you, big boy. I didn’t think they came that dumb.”
“You’ll find how dumb I am,” said MacBride.
“Wait till the Commissioner comes,” smirked Redmond.
“Ah, just wait,” said Kennedy.
So everybody waited. Thirty minutes passed, and then an hour.
Braun said, “I wonder what’s keeping him.”
“He’d better hurry,” said Redmond. “I got a date.”
“Oh, damn your date!” cried Braun.
“Yeah?” snarled Redmond.
MacBride took a drink and said, “Pipe down.”
The telephone rang. Rigallo was nearest and took the call. When he hung up, he said, “We should all go over to Headquarters.”
“Now why the hell should we go to Headquarters?” snapped Redmond. “I’m not going.”
“Let’s go,” said MacBride.
“I don’t savvy this at all,” complained Redmond.
“It will be all right,” soothed Braun.
“It better be,” said Redmond.
MacBride called the morgue, said, “There are a lot of stiffs at 46 North Street. Better come up and collect ‘em.”
He went into the next room, and told one of the policemen to remain with the dead until the men from the morgue arrived. To the others he said, “We’re taking the rest over to Headquarters.”
MacBride, Rigallo and Doran and the three policemen gathered the six gangsters together and marched them down the stairs. All were handcuffed, including Braun, who stumbled as he walked. MacBride hauled him along roughly. Scoggins walked beside Kennedy.
Below, a crowd of people swarmed on the sidewalk outside the door. MacBride chased them as he led the way. Rigallo and Redmond were behind him. They marched down the street, two by two.
“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.
The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps Page 141
