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

by Unknown

  Keenan said: “It wasn’t the money. With an outfit like that, a man didn’t have a chance. Major Russell was a rat. There’s just one thing to do with a rat, Kitten. I figured that staring him down like that would knock him off balance, make him panicky. When Russell was on the short end of a hundred to one chance he was cool; and a heel like him had had it all in his favor so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to play it even up.”

  Shivering, Ellen Bridges came close into his shoulder, put her hand over his on the steering wheel.

  “And it wasn’t me?” she asked, after a while. “Not even a little bit?”

  Keenan looked down at her, his gray eyes amused.

  He said: “That’s one you have to figure out, Kitten.”

  Murder in the Ring

  Raoul Whitfield

  RAOUL (FAUCCONIER) WHITFIELD (1896–1945) was born in New York City and traveled with his family extensively, spending much of his youth in the Philippines. During World War I, he served with the U.S. Army Air Corps in France as a pilot. When he returned to the United States, he went to learn the steel business (he was related to Andrew Carnegie), then worked as a newspaper reporter and began to write fiction for pulp magazines. He used his flying background to write aviation stories for the pulps in the early 1920s, then sold his first mystery to Black Mask for the March 1926 issue. He went on, in a serious burst of prolificity, to write nearly ninety stories, under his own name and as Ramon Decolta, for Black Mask between that first effort and his last one, only eight years later, for the February 1934 issue. During that time, he also wrote five mystery novels: three under his own name, Green Ice (1930), Death in a Bowl (1931), and The Virgin Kills (1932); and two under the pseudonym Temple Field, Five (1931) and Killer’s Carnival (1932). As Whitfield, he wrote four juveniles, all with aviation backgrounds: Wings of Gold (1930), Silver Wings (1930), Danger Zone (1931), and Danger Circus (1933). His Black Mask story “Man Killer,” which was published in the April 1932 issue, was filmed as Private Detective 62 by Paramount in 1933; Michael Curtiz was the director, and the comic crime story starred William Powell and Margaret Lindsay.

  “Murder in the Ring” was published in the December 1930 issue.

  Murder in the Ring

  Raoul Whitfield

  A fighter with promise of the big money and a gang that wants the split.

  US MONKLY WATCHED Pardo crowd the blond slugger into a neutral corner, work his huge arms like battering rams. The Garden crowd was on its feet—the arena was shrill with sound. Across the ring Gus saw Eddie Feese, his white face twisted as he shouted at his blond fighter. There was a sudden silence from the crowd—Gus got his eyes on Pardo again. The seven-foot giant was stepping back. He was grinning. Mike Connell sagged forward as Pardo backed away. He went to his knees.

  The crowd roared again. Pardo lowered his guard and glanced towards Gus. The manager’s face twisted with fear. Connell pitched upward and forward. The referee had his back turned to the blond fighter; he was waving Pardo to a neutral corner.

  Connell ripped up a short right arm, and then the referee was between the two men. Pardo muttered something as the referee stepped away. The dark-haired fighter shoved a huge right glove in Connell’s face, stepped around to the right. Connell was trying to weave, but he was groggy. He led with a left that was short, threw over a hard right. The right glanced off Pardo’s left shoulder. The giant shot his own right, straight for the chin.

  It landed with a sound that could be heard all over the Garden. Connell went down like a slaughtered steer. Resin dust rose from the canvas. The referee waved Pardo back. Once again the big, black-haired fighter glanced towards Gus Monkly. The manager swore at him, but his curses were lost in the roar of the crowd.

  Pardo backed into the wrong corner, and the referee pointed to a neutral one. Pardo stared stupidly at the man in white. Then he went across the ring to the neutral corner. The referee stood beside Connell, picked up the pounded count from Snyder. At “ten” he straightened, raised his arms high, pointed towards Pardo. The crowd yelled wildly.

  Gus Monkly stood up and frowned at Jerry Gold. Gold grinned and said in a husky voice:

  “He’s put you in line, Gus—the next shot will do the trick. Good for—a half million if he gets by Bolley.”

  Gus kept on frowning towards the winner of the final go. Pardo stood in the center of the ring, grinned sheepishly, and tapped his gloves together, above his head. The crowd cheered and jeered. Seconds dragged the unconscious figure of Mike Connell from the resin, towards his corner. The radio announcer stood at the edge of the ring and shouted at Pardo.

  Gus muttered grimly: “What the hell—that palooka’s too dumb to talk at a mike! Hey, Berry!”

  Lou Berryman stood inside the ropes and grinned at Pardo’s manager. Gus kept on frowning.

  “Get him out of there!” he shouted at Berryman. “Get him downstairs, Berry. Stay along with him—get him out of there!”

  Berryman nodded and went over near the towering Pardo. He grabbed him by a wrist and pointed towards the exit corner of the ring. The radio announcer started to rave at Berryman. Gus Monkly fought his way to a spot close to the mike. He leaned down, and the announcer grinned at him. He lifted the mike high.

  Gus breathed heavily through his nose. “This is Giant Pardo—” he announced thickly. “I just—wanna say—he give me—a sweet scrap, he did! Mike’s a good boy—but I guess I was—better! I’m gonna be—fightin’ the champ yet—s’long folks!”

  Gus stepped away from the microphone. The announcer glared at him.

  “What the hell’s the idea?” he muttered. “You can’t get away with that stuff!”

  Monkly narrowed his beady little eyes. “No?” he questioned. “Lay off, boy. Didn’t you get what you wanted? They won’t know the difference. Pardo—he can’t talk. He’s a scrapper.”

  He turned away, with the announcer muttering at him. A short, red-faced individual gripped him by the arm.

  “What do you mean—that bum’s a scrapper?” he asked. “Better take him out in the sticks for a while, Gus. It’ll be healthier.”

  Gus grinned at the short one. “Want a piece of him?” he asked. “Like hell you don’t. I’ll cut you forty percent of him—for fifty grand.”

  Charlie Russel threw back his red face and laughed. Then suddenly he stopped laughing.

  “If he gets by Bolley—come and see me, Gus.”

  The manager swore. “Do I look that way?” he snapped. “If he gets by Bolley come and try to see me. The line forms on the right.”

  He fought his way towards the aisle that led to the dressing rooms. The Garden crowd was using the exits. Mike Connell was being carried through the ropes. Eddie Feese caught Gus’s eye and called over to him.

  “It was—just a lucky one.”

  Gus Monkly chuckled hoarsely. “Sure,” he yelled back. “Lucky Pardo didn’t hit him real hard!”

  He went along the aisle, grinned at the big Garden copper who kept the crowd moving in another direction. As he went past the officer, Riley said:

  “You got a money fighter, Gus. All yours?”

  Gus nodded. “All mine, Irish,” he replied. “I’m going to clean up on him.”

  The copper grunted. “If he gets by Bolley,” he corrected.

  The manager chuckled again. “They can’t stop that right, Irish,” he stated hoarsely. “It’s worse than that dynamite Cotti serves over the bar. They can’t stop him, Irish.”

  The Garden copper shrugged. “I’ve seen a lot of ’em stopped in here, Gus,” he said. “But I hope you’re right. It’s a sweet spot for a clean-up.”

  Gus Monkly went along the corridor that led to the dressing rooms. Humans spoke to him, patted him, grinned at him. Gus grinned back. He used words in reply. But he wasn’t caring much. He was thinking about Pardo. A palooka with a punch. A big guy he’d grabbed at the right time. He tapped on the door of Pardo’s dressing room—Berryman opened it. Gus went inside and Berryman slammed the
door in the faces of the three or four guys.

  Pardo sat on the edge of the training table and grinned at the manager.

  “Not so rotten, eh?” he said in a voice that was husky and flat. “He ain’t dead?”

  Gus Monkly frowned at his fighter. “He damn’ near finished you,” he snapped. “You got to cut out looking at me every time you knock a guy off his feet, see?”

  Pardo looked hurt. He held huge, taped hands close together and looked down stupidly at them. He weighed two hundred and sixty-four—and towered above the handlers crowded into the dressing room. He had thick lips and dumb, dark eyes.

  Gus looked at Berryman and said: “Get him fixed up right—and let him feed the way he likes. There’ll be a crowd hanging around the lobby to see him come out. Go out that way and stroll around a little. I’ll see you tomorrow at ten, at the hotel.”

  He turned his back on the men in the room, moved towards the door. Before he reached it he faced Pardo and grinned at the fighter.

  “That wasn’t so rotten, Big Boy,” he said. “But remember—Bolley won’t let you get him on the ropes like Mike did.”

  Pardo made a hoarse sound with his lips. He swung the upper part of his huge body from side to side, showed broken teeth, grinned. He flicked his broken nose with the back of a huge hand.

  “I’ll make a bum outa Bolley,” he muttered.

  Gus said: “Yeah? Well, ain’t that nice! We ain’t got him yet, Big Boy.”

  Pardo grinned. “That’s your job,” he said. “You get him—I’ll kill him.”

  Gus whistled softly. “Sure, sure,” he agreed, and went from the dressing room.

  When he got in the corridor again he moved slowly towards a Forty-ninth Street exit. He lighted a cigar and swore softly.

  “I get him—and the Big Boy kills him!” he breathed to himself. “Now, that ain’t just what I’d call dumb.”

  CHAPTER II

  erryman ran stubby fingers over his bald head and watched the swinging doors of the speakeasy nervously. The doors separated a narrow hallway from the bar and the few tables along the side wall. Berryman took the fingers away from his head and tapped the surface of the table. Gus Monkly sipped his beer and shoved a cigar around between his narrow lips. The half-moon scar on his right cheek twitched a little more than usual, and his beady eyes were a little brighter than at most times.

  Berryman said: “Bolley’ll lick him, sure as hell. Jeez—but I hate to see that coin get away from us, Gus.”

  The manager grinned at Pardo’s chief second. He said in his husky, flat voice:

  “Yeah—away from us? How do you cut in, Berry?”

  The second showed yellow teeth in a swift grin. He said very softly:

  “Be wise, Gus—hand over a piece to me. It’ll be easier.”

  Monkly sat up a little in his chair and moved his head forward. He stopped sipping the beer. His beady eyes got narrow.

  “Let’s get it over with, Berry,” he said in a hard tone. “You’ve got somethin’ on your mind. It’s been there a week or so. Spill it loose.”

  The second kept tapping on the dirty table surface and watching the swinging doors. Gus leaned forward a little more.

  “Get it out, Berry!” he advised. “You’re a pretty expensive second for me to carry.”

  A little red went out of Berryman’s face. He got very quiet.

  “I’m pretty cheap, Gus,” he corrected. “I’m cheap as hell.”

  The swinging doors opened; a short, plump blonde came in. She spoke to the bartender, waved her left hand towards the table at which Gus and Berryman sat. Her right arm was held close to her side. She walked over, and Gus kicked out a chair. He didn’t speak.

  Berryman said: “Hello, Edna—where’s Hurry?”

  The blonde looked at Gus and didn’t answer the second. She leaned towards the manager and said cheerfully:

  “That was a nice scrap your wop put up last night. Maybe he’s a champ, eh?”

  She laughed without looking happy. There was too much color on her face skin and the wrong shade on her lips. She had dull gray eyes, and they were too black underneath.

  Gus said: “Maybe, yeah.”

  The girl made the laughing sound again. She looked at Berryman and answered his question.

  “Hurry’ll be along pretty quick. He had to make a trip to Philly, after the scrap.”

  Gus Monkly sucked in his breath and reached for the beer. The girl said:

  “Yeah, I’ll have something. Damn’ nice of you two chiselers to think of it!”

  Berryman called the waiter. The girl ordered whiskey and White Rock. Gus said in a tone that was too soft:

  “What do you mean—chiselers?”

  The blonde smiled without parting her rouged lips.

  “I figured maybe you might not sell Hurry the hunk he’s counting on,” she said slowly.

  Gus Monkly frowned at her and stretched his arms. He stopped frowning, grinned.

  “You talk too damn’ much, Edna,” he said. “I’m out of beer, anyway.”

  She nodded. “How much have you made on that wop, Gus?” she said softly.

  Gus looked at his fingernails and said that he’d taken a bad trimming on the World Series games. Berryman watched the swinging doors and said nothing. The girl kept her eyes on Monkly and smiled. Her smile wasn’t too pretty.

  “Well, you get the idea,” she said. “When Hurry parks himself close to you—don’t stall. What he’s looking for is the answer.”

  Gus said disagreeably: “I don’t know what you’re gabbing about, Edna. If Hurry’s got the hunch that—”

  He stopped. The swinging doors moved and a man came through. He came through slowly. He was a big man, with broad shoulders and a moon face. He looked a lot like Paul Whiteman. Berryman got up and pulled over a chair from another table. Gus straightened up and got a smile on his face. The blonde said:

  “Gus has been worried about you, Hurry.”

  The big man moved towards the table. He didn’t move his arms as he walked, and his pace was slow. He smiled gently.

  “Well, ain’t that nice,” he stated in a homey tone. “I don’t like having people worried about me.”

  He sat down, and when the waiter brought the blonde her whiskey and White Rock he ordered the same. He turned his small eyes on Gus and chuckled. He chuckled like a traveling salesman about to tell a story.

  “Maybe that guy can fight, Gus,” he said. “Maybe he can get past Bolley.”

  Gus widened his eyes and looked surprised. “Don’t be that way, Hurry,” he said softly. “Giant Pardo—fight? Quit kiddin’—Bolley’ll kill him.”

  Hurry smiled almost gently and took his eyes away from the beady ones of Monkly. He looked down at the rigid right arm of the girl.

  “How’s the arm, Kid?” he asked.

  Edna Harms shook her head. She sipped whiskey and said slowly:

  “I hate gettin’ that slug from a guy that was quittin’ you, Hurry. Maybe I’ll be able to swing it again sometime. The doc ain’t sure.”

  Hurry stopped smiling and said to Gus: “Remember the afternoon the Kid took that slug, Gus?”

  Gus Monkly’s narrow lips twitched. He remembered the afternoon well enough. There had been a lot of times he would have liked to forget it. He said to Hurry:

  “Listen—I picked the wop up when I worked loose from Chi. He’s dumb, Hurry. He’s just a little too dumb. Mike almost came back and finished him tonight. The referee happened to be in the way.”

  Hurry Lassen tapped the leather of his right shoe on the wood beneath the table. He let his moon face grin but he talked hard.

  “I happen to be in the way—right now, Gus.”

  The manager wet his lips with his tongue, looked at Lou Berryman. He said in a voice that was a little strained:

  “I’ve only got forty percent of him, Hurry. Berry’s got forty. A guy named Langdon’s got the rest. He greased me so that I could get the Big Boy away from the little lake town where I fo
und him. He runs a small club there.”

  Hurry sat back in his chair and looked at the drink the waiter had brought. He whistled a little. The girl looked at him.

  “He’s lyin’, Hurry,” she said in a tone that had a lot of hate in it.

  Gus turned his head towards her and said in a nasty voice:

  “Now you keep out of this, Edna. It ain’t healthy to lie to Hurry, and I know it.”

  Lassen raised his eyebrows and looked at Lou Berryman. He said in a voice that was half amused:

  “So you’ve got a forty percent cut in this Giant Pardo, eh?”

  Berryman nodded. He tried to smile. Gus spoke softly.

  “Berry’s been pretty nice with me, Hurry. I gave him the cut cheap. But we didn’t figure the Big Boy would even scrap in the Garden ropes.”

  The girl laughed bitterly. “They’re both lyin’, Hurry,” she said. “They blundered into a money fighter—that big bozo will slam Bolley down. The next scrap will mean half a million. It’ll be with the champ—and the champ’s making a come-back. An outdoor shot, Hurry.”

  Hurry’s moon-like face stopped smiling. He nodded his head slowly.

  “Want to sell your forty percent, Berryman?” he asked in a cold tone.

  The second glanced towards Gus. Hurry followed the glance with contempt in his eyes. Gus yawned and reached for a cigarette. Berryman shook his head.

  “It’s a gamble,” he said shakily. “He might take Bolley—then my cut would be worth plenty. Or he might get licked and go hitting the sticks again. It’s a gamble.”

  “Once in a while,” Hurry said slowly, “I like to gamble. Twenty-five grand for your forty.”

  Berryman looked at Gus again. The moon-faced one stopped tapping his foot on the wood of the floor, leaned across the table and got big fingers around the gray-striped tie that the second wore. He jerked Berryman’s shoulder and head towards him.

  “You dirty liar!” he snapped coldly. “You don’t hold a cut on that slugger!”