The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Penzler, Otto

  Rocco whipped out his handkerchief and carefully wiped the gun

  On the band platform, Jugger Callahan broke into Ain’t Misbehavin’ and Mona Leeds, the outfit’s torch singer, took over the mile. A hush settled over the place. The voice was rich and husky and, like her face and figure, possessed a torrid beauty. She sang into the mike but faced Jugger Callahan—as if to let the world know who her man was.

  Mona Leeds finished her number and the dance hall echoed with appreciative whistles and stomping feet. Next to Firpo Cole, a voice said: “That’s the kind of chicken they should have in every pot.”

  Firpo looked up to find Rocco Pace standing beside him. Rocco was one of the city’s moderately successful racketeers. He dressed according to color charts, seemed pleasant and mild-mannered, but, if occasion demanded, could be dangerous.

  Firpo said: “Yeah, Mona’s all right.”

  Rocco nodded toward Ruth Bailey who still talked with the stranger. “But nothing like her, eh?”

  “Nobody’s like her,” said Firpo in a flat, emotionless voice.

  “Has she still got that yen for Jugger?”

  Firpo Cole nodded.

  “How come you take it laying down, Firpo? Me, I’d blow a fuse.”

  “Jugger’s a good-looking guy. I don’t blame her. I’m just going to see she gets them dealt from the top of the deck.”

  Rocco Pace shrugged. Certain things were beyond his Latin comprehension. He slipped a flat .32 automatic out of a shoulder holster and handed it to Firpo Cole who dropped it in his pocket. It was a service for which Firpo usually made four bits. Rocco had long ago discovered that he couldn’t hold the girls the way he liked if he sported an eighteen-ounce piece of metal over his chest.

  Rocco Pace waved to Firpo and walked toward the barrier. The hostesses made a beeline for him. They liked this smiling, pleasant racketeer who gave big tips and who really came to dance.

  Firpo Cole saw the stranger in the corner stand up and nod a farewell to Ruth Bailey. He didn’t hand her any tickets. Firpo waited till the man got near him, then stood up and blocked his path.

  “Well?” asked the stranger. He was middle-aged and asthmatic.

  Firpo Cole said: “What are you trying to get away with?”

  “Anything I can,” replied the stranger pleasantly.

  “Well, I’m here to see that you don’t, mister.”

  “Get out of my way, son.”

  “Not till you pay her, chiseler.”

  “Pay Miss Bailey?” The stranger sounded puzzled. “Maybe you got me mixed up with Santa Claus.”

  “You owe her ten tickets,” said Firpo, figuring the extra two as a tip. “That’ll be one buck.”

  “For the last time, get out of my way.”

  Firpo Cole knew it was coming but he did nothing to prevent it. Ruth Bailey was worth a beating any day in the week. It never occurred to him to draw the flat automatic in his pocket.

  The stranger’s arm came around in a wide arc that sent the frail Firpo spinning over the floor for fifteen feet. Firpo saw the stranger leave with unhurried steps, then a sudden attack of vertigo seized him and he passed out.

  IRPO COLE came to on a couch in Ephraim Tuttle’s office. Mona Leeds, the torch singer, was swabbing his forehead with a damp rag and, from behind his desk, the business manager regarded them sourly.

  Tuttle said: “Firpo, for a guy who couldn’t lick a butterfly you certainly like to throw your weight around.”

  “Stop riding him,” snapped Mona Leeds.

  The door opened and Ruth Bailey came in. “Firpo, they told me you were in a fight. Are you all right?”

  Firpo Cole struggled into a sitting posture. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

  Ruth seemed to notice the torch singer for the first time. The corners of her mouth twisted. “Well, well, if it isn’t our little thrush trying to cut in on Firpo.”

  “Now, Ruth,” said Firpo weakly. “She was just trying to help me.”

  Mona Leeds stood up and walked over to the hostess. The two women faced each other: Mona Leeds, in all her beautiful, slithering, scented allure, and Ruth Bailey, refreshing and young in a simple gown with a gold brooch at the neck. The one, a night life beauty with a duco finish, the other, a breath of fresh air too rare in a taxi-joint.

  Ruth Bailey’s voice had a faint hint of hysteria. “Why aren’t you satisfied with Jugger? You got him solid—why do you want more? Firpo would be a pretty miserable addition to your collection. Why don’t you leave him alone?”

  “You —,” said the torch singer.

  Ruth’s hand snapped out and slapped Mona Leeds squarely over the face.

  Ephraim Tuttle’s warning shout was lost as the torch singer sprang for Ruth Bailey, her claws spread like a cat’s. Mona’s hands tore into Ruth’s face and hair and the hostess clutched at the singer’s dress. In a moment they were on the floor, scrabbling in mute fury. Paralyzed with the fascination of the spectacle, the two men simply watched.

  With a yank, Ruth ripped apart the front of Mona’s dress and the torch singer sank sharp, white, translucent teeth into the hostess’s shoulder. Long, lacquered nails clawed, fists pum-meled, slipper-shod feet kicked. The wildcats rolled over the floor and, with squeals of rage, tore at hair, face, clothing.

  The door opened and Rocco Pace appeared. He said, “What the hell,” and leaped to separate the fighting girls.

  Their fury subsided as suddenly as it rose and they stood up, appraising the damage they had done each other.

  “That’s a lousy way to act in my office,” complained Ephraim Tuttle.

  “Oh go add up some numbers,” said Mona Leeds calmly. She pulled her torn dress together and left.

  Ruth Bailey anxiously scanned her face in a compact mirror.

  “Girls will be girls,” philosophized the racketeer. “I used to have one who tried to kill me every time I went to sleep.”

  Ruth Bailey picked up the brooch that had been ripped from her gown. It was a simple item of jewelry, with what seemed to be a pale-blue piece of glass set in the center.

  “Say, don’t that belong to Mona?” asked Tuttle.

  “Even if it did,” replied Ruth Bailey smoothly, “I wouldn’t give it to her.” Then she walked out.

  “There’s life in those girls,” said Rocco Pace. He turned to Firpo Cole. “I came for my persuader.”

  Firpo returned the automatic. The racketeer tossed him a half dollar and bade them good-bye.

  Tuttle snorted and hunted for a cigar. “This place is getting to be a regular nuthouse. First somebody steals my letter opener and now this. Did you hook that opener, Firpo?”

  Firpo Cole was feeling a little better. The stranger hadn’t hit him very hard. He said: “Don’t bother me.”

  Ephraim Tuttle’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Listen, you lousy pickpocket, I’m just asking nicely if you took it. It was pretty valuable. It had an onyx handle with silver edging.”

  Firpo said, “The hell with you and your letter opener,” got up and left.

  It was after one already and the customers had gone. On the bandstand, Jugger Callahan and his boys were putting away their instruments, though Monkey Harris, a drummer, still banged on the skins as if to relieve his pent-up weariness.

  Firpo Cole made his way to the back, entered a large dressing-room and sat down in a corner to wait for Ruth Bailey. The hostesses were hanging their gowns in a closet and changing into street clothes. Some sat quietly and rested their swollen feet in pans of hot water. None paid the slightest attention to Firpo.

  Ruth Bailey changed her stockings, which had snagged during the fight, and touched up a blackened eye with powder. Ephraim Tuttle came in and asked whether anyone had seen his letter opener. No one had and he left. Ruth Bailey finished making up and she and Firpo Cole quit the dressing-room and went out to the street.

  These nightly walks, when he took her home, were usually full with the talk and gossip of the Tango Palace, but tonight, it was s
ome time before Ruth Bailey finally broke the heavy silence between them.

  “Firpo, I’m afraid.”

  “Forget it, Ruth. Mona won’t get you fired. She’s too white for that.”

  “I’m not talking about the fight,” she said. “I just forgot myself when I saw her by you and she was mad about this.” She touched the brooch at her throat.

  “What has that got to do with it?”

  “Well, you remember the night the old ballroom burned down? I went back for my purse which I’d forgotten and there was a light in Jug-ger’s office. I went inside and there was no one there but I saw a jewel case on his desk. It had this inside of it.”

  “You shouldn’t of taken it.”

  “Maybe, but all I knew was that Jugger bought it for Mona and I guess I got jealous. I started wearing it a few days ago. Jugger’s seen it but he’s too much of a gentleman to say anything. But Mona knows it belongs to her and that’s what she was really fighting about with me.”

  “You’ve got to give it to her, Ruth.”

  “I will. Tomorrow. She’s beautiful—I don’t blame Jugger for preferring her to me.”

  “Jugger may be a nice guy but he’s a damned fool for wanting Mona Leeds instead of you.”

  They reached her rooming house and halted.

  “You know, Firpo, it’s funny how I’m sick about Jugger and you about me. It seems like such a damned shame that life never—”

  “I know all about it,” he cut in harshly. “You didn’t tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  “Firpo, someone—I don’t know who—put five hundred dollars in my purse tonight.”

  He whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

  She reached into her coat pocket. “This is what the money came in.”

  He took a plain, white envelope from her hand and read the typewritten line on it: This better be enough.

  Under a lamplight, Firpo Cole’s prematurely weazened face was lost in thought. After a while he returned the envelope to her and said: “You better hold on to this and the dough. You didn’t see anyone messing around with your purse tonight?”

  “No—but of course anyone could have gotten at it in the dressing-room.”

  “Has anything like this happened before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, all I can figure, Ruth, is that someone’s mixing you up with somebody else. I’ll try and check tomorrow.”

  “There’s another thing, Firpo. You know that man you had a fight with today?”

  “What about him?”

  “He said not to tell anybody but he’s a detective from an insurance company. They think that fire wasn’t an accident. He knows I came back that night after everyone was gone and he asked me a lot of questions about it.”

  Firpo Cole shrugged. “If that fire’s faked it’s Jugger’s worry—not yours. He got the insurance dough from it.”

  “I know Jugger wouldn’t do a thing like that. Something’s wrong, Firpo. I’m afraid.”

  “Forget it, Ruth.”

  She leaned over and kissed him full on the lips. “You’re swell, Firpo. I’m sorry we don’t hit it off together.”

  “Sure,” said Firpo Cole. “I’m swell.” He turned abruptly and made for his own lodgings.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DEAD FEET

  HERE was hard and insistent rapping on the door panel. After some time, the steady pounding had its effect. Firpo Cole stirred uneasily in his sleep, then awoke with a start.

  He groped for the light chain above his bed and the light revealed a small, unkempt, five-dollar-a-week room. He knuckled his eyes, then peered at a clock on the dresser but found that he had forgotten to wind it. Through the window he could see the first streaks of dawn. The pounding on the door did not let up.

  Firpo Cole disentangled himself from the bed covers, worked his feet into straw slippers and opened the door. Two men entered. He knew one—a plainclothes police dick named Simms. The other was a uniformed cop.

  Simms said, “Go to it, Max,” and the uniformed cop began a somewhat perfunctory search of the room. The dick sat down on the bed. “How you getting along, Firpo?”

  “Fine,” replied Firpo Cole. “And you?”

  “Just dandy, thanks. Have you been picking pockets lately, Firpo?”

  “No.”

  “That’s swell. Your record ain’t so good on the blotter, is it?”

  “I lost once.”

  “I remember, Firpo. Meatball rap. Two years in college, wasn’t it?”

  “One year. What is this, Simms—a frame?”

  The police dick shook his head. “Nope. I’ve just been checking on you, Firpo. I’m glad you’re going straight. What time did you check in last night?”

  “I came home around two or a little after.”

  “Go out again?”

  “No.”

  “How do you pay for your room and grits, Firpo?”

  “I do odd jobs around the Tango Palace.”

  Simms nodded sagely. “So I hear. I also hear you’re carrying a torch for one of the dames that works there—a Ruth Bailey—and that she won’t give you a tumble because she got a yen for Jug-ger Callahan.”

  “What are you driving at, Simms?”

  Max was finished with his cursory examination of the room. “Nothing,” he grunted.

  Simms shrugged. “There’s nothing to find anyway. It’s open and shut.” He turned to Firpo again. “I’ll tell you what I’m driving at. That Ruth Bailey of yours was murdered a couple of hours ago.”

  “If you’re being funny,” said Firpo Cole tonelessly, “I’ll kill you, Simms.”

  Simms said: “Sure I’m being funny. Me and Max come here only to have tea and crumpets.”

  Firpo’s eyes searched the police dick’s face. He saw that Simms was speaking the truth. Suddenly he felt sick. He got up and stumbled through the door, across the hallway, to the washroom. He kneeled over the bowl and the fleshless body shook and strained convulsively.

  Simms cautioned, “Don’t let the guy pull any fast one,” and Max walked over to the open door and watched till Firpo returned.

  Simms said: “I figure it this way, Firpo. Tell me if I get the details wrong. You were after Ruth Bailey but there was no sale because she was hot for this Jugger Callahan. So you got fed up with the whole business and went and killed her.”

  “I didn’t kill her.” He began to tremble and a fit of coughing seized him. He covered his mouth with a towel and when he took it away there were flecks of blood on it. “I didn’t kill her,” he repeated.

  Simms said: “It probably just slipped your mind, Firpo. I guess we can make you remember again. Get some duds on that gorgeous torso of yours and come along.”

  The prowl car stopped at the rooming house of the late Ruth Bailey. The sun was already showing itself and supplanting the coolness of a Los Angeles night with a dry desert heat.

  Simms, Max and Firpo Cole went up the two flights of groaning steps and entered Ruth Bailey’s small apartment. The place had already been dusted and photoed and the few department men who remained sat around yawning and wishing they were home in bed. A couple of bored reporters were handicapping the Caliente races and exhibiting a complete disinterest in this murder of a taxi dance hall hostess.

  The body lay on the floor where it had fallen. Simms yanked off the bed sheet that covered it and said: “Come here.”

  Firpo Cole walked over and stared down on Ruth Bailey. He thought he would be sick again but the feeling passed. She wore the same dress, and the brooch that Jugger had bought for Mona Leeds was still clasped at her neck. The steel point of Ephraim Tuttle’s stolen letter opener was buried deep in her heart.

  But Firpo was looking neither at the brooch nor the murder weapon. His eyes were fastened on the dead lips and the heavy coloring of lipstick over them—and on the strange shading of tangerine.

  As if from a great distance, Firpo heard Simms’ matter-of-fact voice saying: “Take a good look at what you done and t
hen see if you still got the crust to deny it.”

  Firpo Cole gave a queer, strangled gasp and sank down on his knees beside the body. His hand went out and caressed Ruth Bailey’s neck and he bent over and kissed her on the forehead. Behind him, a flashlight bulb exploded.

  After a while, Firpo stood up. His eyes were dry and had a strange glint of understanding in them and the white, unhealthy face was set with rocky determination.

  Simms said: “You did a pretty messy job, didn’t you? Do you feel like talking about it now?”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “No? Then who did?”

  Firpo Cole was sure he knew. Jugger Calla-han! It couldn’t be anyone else. But his face gave no inkling of his thought. He would get at the truth—and when he did, no one but he would have the pleasure of dealing with the murderer. He said: “I didn’t do this, Simms. I would of killed myself for even thinking of doing it.”

  Max gave a yell and pointed at the body. “It’s gone!”

  They followed the cop’s fingers. The brooch that had been clasped at Ruth Bailey’s neck was missing.

  “Kee-rist!” roared Simms. “You lousy pickpocket, what the hell do you think you’re pulling offhere?”

  The police dick grabbed at Firpo Cole and began to bounce him up and down like a cocktail shaker. “You wouldn’t kill her!” he shouted. “Why you even rob her dead body to get a two buck hunk of jewelry!”

  “I didn’t take it,” Firpo gasped as well as he could.

  “No one else was near her,” snorted Simms. His hands plunged into Firpo’s pockets—and came up empty. Bewilderment spread over his beet-face as he ran his hands over Firpo’s clothes. “What the hell did you do with it?”

  “I didn’t touch it,” said Firpo.

  “Take your duds off!”

  Firpo Cole shed his clothes till he stood completely naked. Simms carefully felt and looked over each item of clothing and even ran his hands through Firpo’s hair and looked in his mouth. The brooch was not on him. Simms gave the shivering Firpo permission to dress.