The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  Old Elias Litzman looked at her mildly over his steel-rimmed spectacles and fingered his scraggly beard thoughtfully. “In a transaction of this size, it is necessary to make out the papers correctly. I have my pawnshop license to protect—”

  “I understand. But I’ve given you all the information you’ve asked for.”

  “How do you spell your first name, Miss Sampson? Or here”—the pawnbroker deferentially handed her his pen—“if you will just fill this in yourself. Full name and address. Phone number, if you have one …”

  The girl wrote eagerly.

  Hansard rested his elbows wearily on the counter, took his watch out of his pocket as if he were greatly embarrassed.

  The younger Litzman came up to him, briskly. “You wish to make a loan, gentleman?” He slid a slip of white paper under Mike’s hand.

  “Like to get about five-six bucks on the turnip. It’s worth twenty-five, at least.”

  On the slip he read—

  Stones: One diamond

  Weight: One and one-half carats

  Setting: 22k. yellow gold

  Inscriptions: None

  Maker’s name: None

  Mike tucked the pawnbroker’s record unobtrusively away in his pocket. “I got to have five dollars, anyway.” Under his breath he added: “Nobody with her, Sol?”

  Sol Litzman examined the watch’s movement with professional disdain. “Five I couldn’t let you have. Watches like them are positively a drag on the market, these days. Maybe three.” He whispered: “All alone, Mr. Hansard.”

  “You can sell it for fifteen. A fella offered me fifteen.”

  Sol shrugged, scornfully. “You should have taken it.”

  “Gimme five seeds on it.” Mike murmured: “Ever seen her before?”

  “Where’d you get this watch, mister? You’re so anxious to get rid of it, maybe it ain’t yours. Never laid eyes on her, so help me.”

  “It’s mine,” Hansard grumbled. “Those are my initials, inside the case, there. What’s her say-so?”

  “Claims she’s a showgirl. Used to be in burly. Out of a job. Claims she’s had the ring couple of years, guy gave it to her.” Sol laid the watch on the counter, with an air of finality. “Three-fifty is absolutely our outside limit, my friend. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll split the difference. Make it four, huh? You think she’s leveling, Sol?”

  “Well, so I’ll do it. If you don’t come back and redeem it, I lose money, I’m telling you. We put the ring under the glass, Mr. Hansard. She’s lying, positively. Ring ain’t ever been worn by nobody. Anyway, showgirl’s rings always got a little greasepaint on ’em that hold the dust under the setting points. There ain’t no dust of any sort under the points on this ring. Write out your full name and address, please.”

  Mike spoke without moving his lips. “How much will she take?”

  “Here’s four dollars, mister. She come down to a hundred-fifty.”

  “Much obliged. I’ll be back for the watch. Give it to her. I’ll be responsible for it.”

  Sol turned toward the green steel cabinet back of the counter. As he did so, he nodded almost imperceptibly to his father. And as the plainclothesman slouched toward the door, he could hear old Elias saying: “I take a chance, young lady. Actual I ain’t got a right to let you have the money. But you say you got to get to San Francisco. You give me your word. Absolutely you redeem the ring, so I make an exception.…”

  ansard glanced back through the intervening lacework of opera glasses, ukeleles, cocktail sets, drawing instruments. The girl’s head was thrown back. She was drawing a deep breath as if a terrible load had been lifted from her shoulders. This could be the frill MacReady had seen. It was the type of ring that had been stolen from Dumont’s place. He had been able to tell from the vacant spots in the jeweler’s window that most of the rings had been “engagement specials.”

  He surveyed the street. Between Forty-sixth and -seventh there was only an elderly couple strolling leisurely. No cars at the curb, just a battered baker’s truck parked in front of a Coffee Pot, down at the next corner.

  Mike slid into the doorway next to Litzman’s. He’d tail her, see who she met, where she went. Maybe the mob had been desperate for dough, had to make a fast touch to get out of town. In that case …

  She was coming. She was almost running as she pushed open the door, but she glanced warily up and down the block before she walked quickly downtown.

  She got about ten paces when the baker’s truck moved jerkily out from the curb.

  The man behind the wheel was a horse-faced individual with an ugly scar slashing down from one corner of his mouth. Hansard saw the glint of metal in the driver’s hand.

  That was enough warning for Mike.

  “Hey, kid,” he yelled. “Watch that truck!”

  She saw it at the same instant, screamed, turned and fled back for the shelter of the pawnshop doorway.

  The truck speeded up. Little jets of orange flame began to spit from a hole in the side panel of the truck. Glass shattered above Hansard’s head as he put out a foot, tripped the girl so she sprawled flat on the sidewalk.

  The staccato bark of an automatic rifle echoed hollowly in the empty street. The heavy flat report from Mike’s Police Positive crashed thunderously through the more brittle sound of the rifle fire.

  Something licked out with a hot tongue at his cheek. He dropped to one knee and aimed carefully as the gray truck roared past.

  The door and window of the pawnshop disintegrated in a jangling shatter of broken glass.

  At his feet the girl squealed, once—and lay still.

  Mike fired at the driver, saw the windshield smash, put another bullet halfway down in the front door by the driver’s seat. Then the truck was past. Lead smacked into the door jamb beside him as he thumbed fresh cartridges into his pistol, sent a burst of slugs at a rear tire. He heard the tire go, saw the truck swerve crazily around a corner.

  A police whistle shrieked. Behind him, heavy feet pounded on pavement. Hansard stood up, flipped his left hand in the horizontal palm-up, fingers-back gesture that says, “I’m a cop,” everywhere.

  A harsh voice behind him grated: “Which way they’d go?”

  “ ’Round the corner,” snapped Mike. “Gray truck. Tire gone. Watch it. They got a chatter gun—”

  The patrolman raced for the corner.

  ansard knelt beside the girl. His attempt to protect her had failed. One of those half-inch slugs from that automatic rifle had ricocheted from the metal casing of the pawnbroker’s window, caught her in the throat. She was still alive but when she tried to speak, a red froth bubbled from her lips and her eyes glazed.

  Behind Hansard, old Litzman was screeching like a maniac. “Look, nu! Look what you done. A tip-off I give you and right away is shooting, is killing.…”

  “Shut up, Papa,” yelled his son. “You ain’t hurt. That poor girl, she’s dead.”

  A radio car came down the avenue with a banshee wail, slid to a screaming stop. Two uniformed men came over cautiously, guns drawn.

  Mike said: “Hansard. Headquarters hockshop squad. Shield one-seven-two-one.”

  One of the officers had a sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeve. He glanced down at the girl, looked up at the left side of Mike’s face. “They get you bad?”

  Mike put his fingers up, touched his cheek. It was warm and wet. There was a jagged cut a couple of inches long where a splinter of glass had ripped him.

  “Cut myself shaving,” he gritted. “Tell the broadcasting boys to put out a thirty-one for an old Ford truck. Gray panel job. Two men, both armed. One’s a guy with a long, narrow face. He’s got an inch scar at the right side of his mouth. I didn’t see the other guy. He’s the one hit this kid with the stutter gun.”

  The sergeant motioned to his partner. “Phone inside. Headquarters, first. Then a meat-wagon.” The patrolman pushed open the shattered door, got in to the telephone.

  The muscles in Mike’s ja
ws twitched. “Same two who put the clutch on a flock of stones in a Bowery jewelry store and knocked off Tom MacReady, coupla hours ago, Sarge. The blonde here was in on the heist. She pulled a fast one on her pals, must’ve wanted to take a powder. She tried to hock a piece of ice here with Litzman. They followed her. When she came out of the shop, they drove up and let her have it. I winged the lug who had the wheel.” He bent down and picked up the girl’s gilt-mesh bag.

  The sergeant sheathed his gun. “Where’d this truck come from?”

  Hansard jerked his head toward the Coffee Pot. “Parked in front of the scoff-shop down there. Might be some of the boys inside got an idea where it came from, but I doubt it. This was the same outfit who were supposed to be riding around in a green Buick sedan. The truck was probably stolen, half an hour ago.”

  “I’ll drop in the lunch counter.” The sergeant bent over to get a good look at the girl’s face. “This dame didn’t work this part of town. I’ll guarantee that.”

  “Might not be from New York at all.” Mike’s face was stern. “But the fingerprint boys’ll find out. This mob that knocked her off has gone kill-crazy. If we don’t put the clamps on ’em—”

  “Yeah.” The sergeant pulled out his report book. “They might’ve holed in, right close by here. We’ll give this precinct a going over. Don’t worry about that. I knew Tom MacReady. He was a right cop.”

  “One of the best,” Mike agreed.

  The other officer ran out of the hockshop. “Tunnels and ferries and bridges all blocked. There’ll be an ambulance here in a couple of minutes.”

  “Thanks.” Mike stepped over the girl’s body. “Get something to cover that up, will you? I’m going inside a minute. I’ll stick around till Homicide gets here, anyway.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  LILY DOESN’T WORK HERE ANY MORE

  nside old Elias was blubbering incoherently, in a frenzy of fear. Sol was still trying to calm him. Mike spilled the contents of the girl’s bag out on the counter-top. Lipstick, cigarettes, gum, an address book full of phone numbers, a couple of old letters without the envelopes, a purse, some hairpins and a few keys.

  Mike opened the purse. There was a roll of bills, a couple of dollars in silver. He tossed the currency across the counter.

  “Tear up that ticket, Sol. Here’s the dough. Lemme have the ring.”

  The younger Litzman took the money as if it was a scorpion, went to the safe. Mike pawed over the miscellany on the counter, put the stuff back in the bag. The letters were addressed to Dearest Daughter and were signed Mama. There wasn’t anything in them to tell who the daughter was, or where she lived or anything about her except that her mother was glad she was so well and happy with her work.

  The names in the address book were Phils and Johns and Pauls and Bobs—no women. Most of the phone exchanges were in the midtown office section.

  Tucked away in the back of the book, where he hadn’t noticed it before, was a little piece of blue paper about three inches long and an inch wide. It was a remitter’s receipt from the American Express Company for a money order. It was for twenty bucks, was made out to F. O. Marshal, signed by L. Marsh.

  He went over to the telephone, worked the dial. After a second Schmidt came on.

  “Ed? Saw some wood for me, will you? … Yeah … I want to know who L. Marsh was. The skirt who was with the two who put the burn on MacReady. They just fixed her up with a slug, too. L. Marsh is the name. I don’t know anything about her except she’s a five-buck floozie. But she sent an express money order to someone named F. O. Marshal on April twenty-second. Number is 1317522. Get me an address, Ed.… Yeah, I’m still at Litzman’s.”

  Outside the ambulance slid to the curb with bell clanging and bloodshot headlights. The emergency intern came in and swabbed off Mike’s cheek with something that stung like fire.

  “Y’oughta come back to the hospital. Have this treated right, officer.”

  “Later, maybe. Just do your stitch-in-time stuff, Doc. I got a rush job on hand.”

  The intern got out the needle.

  Sol brought the ring to the plainclothesman while the suture was being threaded into the flesh of Mike’s cheek.

  “It ain’t the plate glass, Mr. Hansard, or the damage inside the shop here. But nobody’ll come near us now. A thing like this’ll ruin us, honest. Especially if it gets out that the poor girl was borrowing a little money from us and got murdered like that, right after. Couldn’t you tell those newspaper men that it was accidental, that she just happened to be in front of our place of business.…”

  Mike couldn’t talk back. He mumbled, “No,” as well as he could.

  “There you are, Officer.” The intern slapped gauze and collodion over the wound. “Come around in a couple days and have it dressed.”

  “Sure.” Hansard grinned lopsidedly. “That’ll be fun.”

  The intern went out to help put the girl’s body on a stretcher.

  Sol held out his hands, despairingly, to Mike. “Suppose those killers come back. Maybe they’ll think Papa and I could identify them.”

  “They know damn well I can. So they’ll come after me first. Long as I’m alive you don’t have to work up a sweat about it. There’s your phone. Maybe that’s Ed Schmidt.”

  It was. “Jeeze Mike, I just got the news over the short-wave. They get you bad?”

  “Only a scratch, Ed. You get that address?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know if it’s the right one. But the Express people say Lily Marsh lives at Four-seventy-eight West Seventy-second Street. Know what that is?”

  “Riding academy, Ed?”

  “That’s what they tell me. I wouldn’t know. I’m a married man, myself. But you’re white, single and over twenty-one, so—”

  “Go to hell, Eddie. Any other stuff come in?”

  “Not from hockshops. Word about the truck.”

  “What?”

  “Picked up what was left of it on West Forty-eighth. They’d folded it over a hydrant. Bloodstains on the upholstery of the driver’s seat. You must’ve nicked one of ’em.”

  “I hope. That wouldn’t even up the score, either. Any report from that stupe in the Ames Patrol?”

  “Yeah. He’s got Dumont down at the store. Want me to cover it?”

  “No. Stick to that phone for the time being. I’ll have a look at the Marsh hangout and then run down to Dumont’s.”

  The Homicide boys rolled up in two black cars, brought out their print kits and cameras, questioned Mike for a few minutes. Then he left them there, with the assistant medical examiner making chalk marks around the body. He got to his car, tramped on the button up through Central Park, turned west at Seventy-second.

  he ground floor of Number 478 was occupied by a glorified lunch counter, with shiny red-leather stools and lots of chromium and glass brick. There was a big neon sign flashing over the door. Every couple of seconds the crimson-and-green tubing proclaimed—THE MEATING PLACE … Where Gourmets Gather …

  There was a little hallway off at one side, a row of letter boxes with name cards in them. None of the cards bore the name of Marsh or Marshal.

  Mike went up a carpeted flight. At the head of the stairs, behind an oval marble-top table, sat an enormously fat woman in a black lace dress. Her eyes peered out slyly from puckers of pink flesh. There was no way of telling where her chin ended and her bosom began. She patted a crown of permanent curls with pudgy fingers covered with diamonds, and leered ingratiatingly.

  “Evening, sweetheart. Which one of the girls did you wanna see?”

  Mike grinned amiably. “Lily Marsh. She in?”

  The madame’s lips made an O! “She ain’t, honey. But maybe you’d like t’ make the acquaintance of a cute little redhead. She’s—” The fat woman stopped and squinted at the gold badge Mike was holding in the palm of his hand. Then she giggled. Her jowls shivered with merriment. “You’re a man who can take a joke, aren’t you, Officer? I like a man who can stand for a little kidding once in a wh
ile.” She reached down, pulled up her skirts, brought out a wad of bills from its stocking hideout.

  Hansard waved a hand. “Once in a while. But not tonight. Which is Lily’s room?”

  She put both hands flat on the marble, levered herself erect. “You ain’t gonna get rough, or anything like that, are you?”

  “Not unless I have to.” Mike’s smile was still agreeable but his eyes were frosty. “Which room?”

  “Front, right.” The stout woman pointed. “Want a key?”

  “I don’t want to kick the door down.” He held out his hand. From somewhere in the folds of her dress she produced a flat key. “Just sit right down there again. Act natural. Don’t bother to tip off anybody. Just go right on as if I wasn’t around. Probably in a few minutes I won’t be.”

  “I always play ball, Officer. It’s the safest way.”

  He went toward the front of the house, used the key. He kicked the door open, stood to one side. The room was pitch-dark, the shades were drawn in the windows looking down onto the street, although through them Mike could see the dull claret glare of the MEATING PLACE sign at regular intervals. There was an odor of musky perfume.

  He held his gun in his right hand, felt around for the light switch with his left. An unseen hand gripped his left wrist, jerked him off balance!

  Mike wrenched himself free, but not before a two-foot length of lead pipe had smashed down across the back of his neck, half stunning him. He crashed forward, to his knees. A foot stamped savagely on his gun-hand, crunching the knuckles. The shoe, which had come within the detective’s blurred vision, booted the revolver out of his grasp.

  The door slammed behind him; light flooded the room from rose-shaded bulbs in the ceiling. Hansard gazed up, groggily. Two men stood over him. One was short and squat. His arms were so long his hands hung almost to his knees. His face was long and narrow. There was a scar twisting down the right corner of his mouth. The left sleeve of his coat had a jagged tear in it. The fabric was soaked with something that looked like port wine.