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

by Unknown

  “S’matter, buddy? Sick?”

  “Nope. I’m all right.”

  Except for an arm that felt like boiled spaghetti and a lump on the back of his head where he had kissed the sidewalk, Jerry was beginning to feel normal. The man with the umbrella handed the columnist his hat and walked off. Didn’t even look back.

  “If I’d been jumped like this in Peoria,” Tracy reflected grimly, “there’d have been six cops with notebooks, a hook and ladder company, and a thousand nosy gazabos. Get half killed in Manhattan and a lone guy with an umbrella hands you back your hat—and goes right on to the drug-store to buy his aspirin!”

  The thought made him grin cheerfully. He went back to the Club Español with almost a jaunty stride.

  He asked for an inconspicuous table and got it. Garcia, the swarthy and affable headwaiter, bubbled with friendliness for the Daily Planet’s expensive little hireling. Tracy had helped many a good show, had rescued many a lousy one, by a good-humored boost salted away in a pert paragraph.

  Garcia rubbed swarthy hands together. “Señorita Lois goes on in about wan hour. You weel like her, I’m sure.”

  “I can’t wait an hour. I want to see her now.”

  Garcia’s chuckle seemed a bit strained. “Ah, no, no … Why not wait, have a few dreenks—see for yourself thees glorious dance she makes with thees glorious body, no?”

  “You mean she doesn’t want to talk to me?”

  “Tonight she is a leetle bit upset.”

  “Sick, eh?” Tracy’s tone was sharp.

  “No, no. Worried, per’aps. Maybe a leetle temperament. Ha, ha! She snarl and she snap. She weel talk weeth no one.”

  “Tell her Jerry Tracy wants to see her.”

  Garcia shrugged, scowled, departed. When he returned his message was brief.

  “She say—” He gulped. “She say how you lak to go to hell in a tin bucket?”

  “I see. Got an envelope and a small hunk of paper?”

  “But surely.”

  Tracy cupped the paper behind his left hand, scrawled a brief sentence, sealed the envelope. “Take her this.”

  In three minutes Garcia was back. There was incredulity in his black eyes, a faint overlay of perspiration on his olive forehead.

  “You are indeed a magician, Señor Tracy. She see you. Come weeth me.”

  Tracy threaded his way past crowded tables, paid no attention to the whispered buzz of comment his presence excited. He crossed a shining expanse of open floor, ducked under a curtain of heavy brocaded material and climbed a flight of wooden stairs to a closed door.

  “Beat it,” he told Garcia.

  He opened the door without knocking, clicked it shut behind him.

  “Hello, Toots.”

  is note was still in her hand. She had thrown a light robe over her shoulders but the thing gaped candidly and Tracy, in spite of the hard anger that gripped him, was forced to admit to himself that this kid was strictly the goods.

  It was hard to say which was uppermost in her swimming dark eyes: rage, or a bright, overmastering fear.

  “Listen, you wise little newspaper heel! If you’re trying one of your celebrated snoop acts, pulling a cheap bluff—”

  “Shut up!” He was not an awful lot taller than the dancer, but he seemed to loom a foot higher as he tramped slowly towards her. “As far as I’m concerned, Toots, you’re a two-bit strip act—and I’m doing you a favor to sneeze at you. I never fool and I never bluff. I asked you how you’d like to push a bubble around in a death cell. Think it over, Miss Malloy.”

  “You—damn you … Who said my name’s Malloy?”

  She sprang at him without warning, caught both his shoulders in a nail-digging frenzy. Her flimsy robe trailed but neither of them was aware of anything but their locked double glare. Tracy kept his lips compressed, gave no indication whatever that the pointed nails of the dancer were hurting him like hell.

  He flung her backward a step.

  “If you don’t talk—and talk plenty, Toots!—I’m gonna nail that kalsomined shape of yours to the cross. I’m calling you Malloy because you’re Sweetie Malloy’s daughter.”

  He heard the sharp hissing of her breath. There was a moment of utter silence in the room.

  “Well? So what if I am?”

  “I want to know why you’re so damned scared tonight. Are you waiting to hear the newspaper extras that your mother has been pinched for murder?”

  Her rouged face was as white as the notepaper that fluttered to the floor at her bare feet. “You’re nuts. You’re absolutely insane.”

  “Am I?” He stopped and placed the paper in his pocket. “If I’m insane, let out a scream and have me pinched for annoying you. I’d love to tell the cops why Sweetie Malloy could not have killed Phil Clement, your manager.”

  “Is Phil—dead?”

  “You know damn’ well he is.… You’re the one that killed him. How about going straight back to your apartment and talking this over?” His glance was like the flick of a whip. “Well?”

  “Let’s go,” she gasped.

  She clutched at his hand, wrenched the door open. Barefooted, panting, she sprang down the wooden staircase, her left hand dragging the startled columnist. A chorus girl, ascending the narrow stairs, flattened herself against the banister as the almost nude dancer and the columnist swept on past her.

  “Well, for Gawd’s sake …”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Tracy growled. He pulled the fluttering robe tight, knotted the silken cord securely. “Where’s your shoes? You can’t go out barefooted, dope!”

  There was almost an insane blaze in Lois’ eyes. She jerked him forward, pattered through a darkened corridor, swung open a door. There was a paved alley outside and a parked limousine.

  “Yours?” Tracy snapped.

  “Yes.”

  “Swell.” He swung her up in his arms with a sudden heave and carried her through the rain. A sleepy chauffeur in a plum-colored uniform flung open the automobile’s door, gaping stupidly.

  Tracy bounced Lois in on the cushioned seat, crawled in beside her. “Tell this lad it’s okey. Tell him home, James.”

  The chauffeur had recovered his scattered wits. He had the door open again, a wrench hefted menacingly in his gauntleted hand.

  “It’s—it’s all right, Peter,” Lois whispered fiercely. “I’m—I’m not feeling well. Drive us home.”

  “And toss that overcoat of yours back here!” Tracy snapped at him.

  Lois Malloy jerked the speaking tube to her tremulous lips. “I won’t need you any more tonight after we get there, Peter. You can put up the car and go home.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  The apartment building was a swanky stone hive that went up and up through the rain like the side of a terra-cotta cliff. It had a canopy, a doorman, a rubber carpet to the curb and an umbrella ready to be snicked open for milady.

  Tracy shoved all the hubbub away with a sweep of his arm. He grinned at the startled doorman. He was just beginning to realize that he was bareheaded and coatless himself. And the bubble dancer’s appearance was enough to make any respectable doorman gulp.

  Jerry carried Lois Malloy to the silver and onyx elevator. She wriggled loose and slid to her feet as the car ascended. Jerry didn’t mind that a bit; it had been quite a trick to carry her with that numb left arm of his. Her eyes, he saw, were free of terror; they were colder now, wary, self-possessed.

  “I haven’t my key with me,” she told the stolid elevator man. “Will you get a duplicate, please?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  She padded barefooted to her penthouse door and waited with Tracy while the elevator man descended.

  “Maid out tonight?” Tracy suggested.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I think so.”

  “Her name’s Selma.”

  “Selma what?”

  She whirled at him suddenly. “How the hell do I
know? Just plain Selma!”

  The doorman appeared, inserted a key, opened the door, vanished. They went into a gorgeous living-room and Tracy said mildly: “Nice dump you’ve got.”

  Lois’ bare feet made quick, meaty sounds on the floor. She jerked out a cabinet drawer, slammed viciously about with a gun in her hand.

  “Listen, you! Stand right where you are. What do you know about my—my mother? And what do you know about Phil Clement?”

  “I know why Clement was killed—and where,” Tracy bluffed.

  “Yes?” Her voice grated. “He was killed because my mother was dumb enough to take him on as a lover. And if you think you can drag me into her mess, you’ve got another think coming.”

  Tracy nodded a little. “I’ve seen and touched a lot of lice in New York,” he said in a slow whisper, “but you’re the first dame I’ve run into who tried to dodge a murder rap by jamming her own mother into the electric chair.”

  The gun in the dancer’s hand was as steady as a rock. Her crimson lips jeered. “Sweetie Malloy gunned Clement in her own house. The body’s on her own bedroom floor. She’s surrendering to the cops—if she hasn’t done so already.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Because she phoned me and confessed.”

  “And you’re letting her take the rap?”

  “Why not? She killed the guy, didn’t she?”

  Jerry stared contemptuously until the hard eyes flickered and turned away. He said, quietly: “Your mother was here in this penthouse today.”

  “What of it? I had some sewing stuff for her. She—she sews things for me.”

  “I see. Sews things for you. And won’t tell the cops she’s your mother. But you don’t mind if she burns for murder.… God, you get better all the time.”

  “What you think about me doesn’t worry me,” Lois said sullenly.

  “Is your maid coming back here tonight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where does this Selma live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does she look like?”

  Lois’ lovely lips curled contemptuously. “What does any Swede look like?”

  “A Swede, eh? Thanks.”

  He leaned towards her, smiling, and with a sudden gesture wrenched the gun from her hand and shoved her into a chair. She landed with a force that made her bounce.

  “I’m taking a quick look about this arty dump, just for the fun of it,” Tracy growled.

  He disappeared into another room. She could hear him moving about, but her rigid pose never changed. She was still sitting there, barefooted, creamy-bosomed where the coat gaped, when Tracy returned.

  He snapped her eyes awake with a sharp question:

  “Do you happen to know a guy who likes to wear very sporty gray topcoats?”

  He could see the dancer freeze up inside.

  “Well? Do you?” he repeated.

  “Get out!”

  “Sure,” Tracy said unevenly. He threw her gun into her lap. “Do me a favor, Toots. Empty that thing into your rotten little skull. I’d do it myself if I had an exterminator’s license.”

  “What’s your angle on this thing, Tracy?”

  He eyed her steadily. “I’m working for the lad in the gray topcoat.”

  Lois’ breath sizzled briefly. “Do—do you know anything about architecture, Mr. Tracy?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “This apartment is completely soundproof.”

  “So what?” he asked.

  “So—this!” The gun he had tossed contemptuously into her lap streaked upward like a flash of light. Her finger pressed the trigger six times.

  The six harmless clicks sounded almost like one. It was nearly twenty seconds before the knowledge that the gun was empty seeped into her rigid eyes.

  Tracy gave her a scornful, sandpaper chuckle. “I emptied that toy while I was strolling through the apartment. Wanted to see what you’d do. Here—take ’em back! They stink in my pocket.”

  He threw the handful of loose cartridges at her. They bounded off her body, rolled helter-skelter across the rug. Lois didn’t utter a sound. She was sitting there, watching him like a stone carving, when he slammed the apartment door.

  He shivered a little while he waited for the elevator, blinked once or twice to get rid of the image of that baleful face.

  he opening door of the elevator found him debonair and cheerful.

  “Were any of you boys on duty this afternoon?” he asked on the way down.

  “No, sir … That is, come to think of it—Roy was.” This little bareheaded guy had eyes that seemed to dig right into a fella. “Roy was—was home sick one day this week, so he hadda take a double stretch to make up for it.”

  “I get it.” The elevator stopped and the doors slid apart. “Which one is Roy? Call him over.”

  Roy was a tall, gangling youth with pale, good-natured eyes in a weak, taffy-colored face. The shrewd Daily Planet columnist tabbed his type instantly: a two-dollar racehorse sport, a policy ticket sucker, a sweepstake boob, an eager patron of small craps games. There were a dozen kids just like him in the Daily Planet building. A cinch for a bribe.

  “Come here, son. I wanna talk to you.”

  He went with Roy down a short corridor off the lobby and halted in front of the service elevator. His fingers opened and left a crumpled ten-dollar bill in Roy’s moist palm.

  “All you’ve got to do is answer a couple of harmless questions.”

  Tracy’s grin had never been more warmly appealing. His wink was a humorous, good-natured, man-to-man affair. Roy grinned back.

  Once the kid had started, he spilled like a broken faucet. Tracy’s respectful nods were subtle flattery to egg him on.

  The señorita had gone out a little before two o’clock that same afternoon. Said she couldn’t wait for the sewing woman, and to send her up for the stuff when she came. The old dame came a little after two. Went up. About a half hour later the service buzzer rang. The sewing woman and the maid met Roy in the kitchen doorway. They both looked scared and sorta funny, he thought. He didn’t pay no particular attention; people were always looking funny in a big house like this.

  “What did they want?” Tracy asked.

  Well, they wanted a trunk up out of the storage room in the cellar. He brought it up. After a while—must have been around three o’clock then—he got another buzz. Went up. Took the sewing woman down and the trunk, too. Got it out to a cab and the old lady drove off with it.

  “Did she say what was in it?”

  “Yeah. She did. I didn’t ask her, but she told me anyway. Old dresses of the señorita’s. Felt as heavy as hell.” He grinned weakly. “Maybe that was because the old sewing woman forgot to gimme a tip.”

  “Let’s fix that right now.” Tracy shot him another ten-spot. “What about the maid?”

  Well, Roy thought, that was sorta funny, too. Selma, the maid, came down in the passenger elevator about twenty minutes later. With a heavy suitcase. Gave up her apartment key. Said she was called away suddenly and to give it to the señorita when she came back. The señorita got back around four or so, Roy thought. He gave her Selma’s key and she looked pretty angry and pretty puzzled.

  “Not scared?”

  “No, sir. Just wonderin’, sorta. She said okey and rode upstairs. And I guess that’s all.”

  “Do you know Mr. Clement?”

  “Oh, sure. Her manager, you mean?”

  “Yes. Did he call on her any time today?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How about a short, heavy-set man in a light gray topcoat?”

  “Dunno him. There wasn’t any visitors except the old sewing woman.”

  “Thanks, Roy. You’ve been a big help.”

  His pale eyes goggled. “You a detective, mister?”

  Tracy grinned, leaned closer. “Say, ever hear of a guy named Jerry Tracy?”

  “Jeeze, yes …”

  Jerry tapped his chest brie
fly. “Me.”

  “No kiddin’. I—I always thought you was a much bigger guy. I’ll be darned.”

  “Keep your eyes and ears open—and your mouth shut. Any time you run across a hot bit of dirt, gimme a ring at the Planet office.”

  “I sure will, Mister Tracy. Jeeze, thanks …”

  Tracy went back to the lobby and out to the street. The rain had stopped but the gutter still raced with water. The doorman’s shrill whistle brought a cab splashing east from the dark avenue.

  Tracy murmured his own address, relaxed with a tired grunt—and immediately leaned forward again. “Change that! Take me to the Club Español.”

  No sense riding home like a shivering, bareheaded dope! His topcoat and hat were still in the checkroom; Nita would be wondering what the hell was wrong.

  The Club Español was still wide-open. Nita grinned perkily at Tracy. “Hey, hey, muchacho! Where you been?”

  He saw that she was looking at him with a peculiar stare.

  “You sure gummed the works here tonight,” she said tonelessly. “Garcia’s still tearing his hair. I hear you pulled the señorita out in her B.V.D.s—and damned little of them. The customers raised Cain when they heard her late show was off. I dunno what Garcia told ’em.” Nita grinned cynically. “Maybe he told ’em the señorita busted her bubble. Anyhow, there was a lot of arguing, one drunken brawl that was a honey; and half the customers scrammed out to the opposish down the avenoo. First time I ever saw Garcia cry. Tears like big round hunks of putty. I’m not foolin’.”

  “Yeah?” Tracy said inattentively and turned away. Nita’s hand on his wrist pulled him around, restrained him.

  “Remember when you first came in tonight, Jerry? There was a mug in a very light-gray topcoat. He scrammed the minute he saw you—and you ups and outs right after him. I wondered.”

  “Don’t tell me you tabbed him!” Tracy’s glare was so intent that she pulled back a little, her hand still on his.

  “I didn’t tab him the first time—but I did later.”

  “He came back here?”

  “Yowsuh. I mean, por supuesto, ciertamente,” Nita kidded nervously. “Brought a dame along.”

  “A Swede?” Jerry whispered. “A big horse-faced number? Sorta pale and angular?”

  “Right. She had on a street coat over a very punkerino and secondhandish evening rag. They both checked their coats. Didn’t stay long; beat it the moment they heard the señorita wasn’t gonna bounce through that ‘Me and My Bubble’ number.”