by Unknown
HENRY HUNT SEARLS JR. (1922–) received his B.S. from the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, then attended the Stanford University Publishing Course. His background in the navy (he is now a retired lieutenant commander in the Navy Reserve), plus his avocation of yachting, provided authentic background to his many novels with military backgrounds, not to mention his novelizations of the movies Jaws 2 (1978) and Jaws: The Revenge (1987). He had a long history of writing for the pulps, notably the series about San Francisco private eye Mike Blair, which appeared in Dime Detective in the 1940s and early 1950s; seven Blair adventures were collected in The Adventures of Mike Blair (1988). Searls has written of his inexperience when he began writing, learning his craft while earning a penny a word from the pulps, which served him well when he began to write full-length novels, frequently military thrillers, such as The Crowded Sky (1960), which was filmed the same year with Dana Andrews, Rhonda Fleming, Efrem Zimbalist Jr., and Anne Francis; The Pilgrim Project (1964), filmed by Robert Altman as Countdown (1968), starring James Caan, Joanna Moore, and Robert Duvall; The Penetrators (1965); and the TV movie Overboard (1978) with Angie Dickinson. Among Searls’s other TV writing credits are episodes of The Fugitive, the miniseries Wheels, and the creation of The New Breed, which starred Leslie Nielsen.
“Drop Dead Twice” was published in the March 1950 issue.
Drop Dead Twice
Hank Searls
When a lady dabbles in blackmail, she’s begging for a shroud—and so is the private dick who goes calling on her corpse!
IT WAS A VERY NICE JOB—DEFINITELY professional. And final. The blonde lay across the hotel bed lengthwise, a gleam of golden flesh showing above her stocking, but otherwise perfectly presentable. A white linen handkerchief was clutched in her hand. She had been mugged—strangled—throttled. Whatever you wanted to call it, the killer had quite thoroughly known his business.
It was no place for me. The package in my pocket was suddenly heavy. I lit a cigarette and did some fast thinking. The more I thought the worse it looked. The desk clerk had taken my name, phoned the room. The blonde had apparently answered the phone and told him to send me up. One short elevator ride later I had walked through the open door, called her name, and gone into the bedroom.
And she was dead.
What do you do when you find a corpse? In the movies, you call the cops. The cops come and they want to know what you’re doing there. You can’t explain. So they stick you in the clink, and you stay, innocent as a new-born babe, until some smart dick solves the crime. Then they spring you and everybody lives happily ever after.
But suppose nobody solves the crime?
Maybe you burn. Maybe they adjust that last, uncomfortable necktie and spring the trapdoor. No, this is California. They put you in a quiet private room with a bottle of cyanide gas and tell you to breathe deep.
Not me.
I flicked the cigarette out the window and took a powder.…
Lippy Fargo adjusted his expensive bathrobe over his fat little belly and showed me into his apartment. He motioned to a chair in front of the big window and went to the bar.
“Whiskey, Pete?”
“A shot.”
He waddled back with two glasses and plopped himself down opposite me.
“Did you give the stuff to her?”
I took the package out of my pocket and untied it. I removed four five-hundred-dollar bills and tossed the package to Lippy. I said: “The two grand is for services rendered. Cheap, considering.”
Lippy counted the money absently. “Considering what?”
“Considering you tried to frame me.”
Lippy’s cherubic face turned red. “Suppose you quit talking in circles and tell me what happened.”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“Look, Pete. I told you I’d give you five hundred bucks if you delivered the dough. You didn’t deliver the dough and you kept two thousand. You better have a story worth two grand or else hand it over.”
“You’re damn lucky you’re getting any of it back. If the cops had turned up there, you’d never have seen your money again.”
“Cops? What cops?”
“The blonde was dead. Strangled.”
Lippy looked up sharply. “Who did it?”
“You tell me. It just seems funny as hell that you sent me there, fat, dumb, and happy, and there was somebody waiting to kill her between the time the desk clerk called and gave her my name and the time I got up to the apartment. It smells bad to me. How does it smell to you?”
Lippy shook his head. “So help me, Pete, I didn’t have a thing to do with it.”
“What were you paying off for?”
There was a long silence. “Sorry, Pete. That I can’t tell you.”
I got up and walked to the window. “You better tell me, and it better be good, because I’m calling the cops in about two minutes and telling them why I was there.”
Lippy raised himself with a grunt. He took my arm. “Don’t do that, Pete. We’re friends. You know I can’t afford to get mixed up in anything like that. I’m on parole.”
I swung around. “What about me? Am I going to be the fall guy? Why was I there? ‘Well, I’ll tell you, Inspector, I was looking for my cuff link. I was passing the hotel and it fell off and rolled through the lobby and up the stairs.’ ” I paused. “What’ll I tell them?”
Lippy walked back to his chair and collapsed wearily.
“I don’t know, Pete. It’ll kill my wife. Ever since I got out, I’ve been clean. You know that. Most of the people here don’t even know I’ve served time. My kid’s in college—it’ll ruin her. When the papers get hold of it …” He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I don’t know.…”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Lippy. I don’t know who did it. Maybe you don’t either. But I’ve got to have a story when they pick me up, and it’ll have to be the truth.”
Lippy leaned forward intently. “You’re smart, Pete. You can find out who did it. Name your own price. Just keep me out of it.” His voice was desperate.
I looked out at the fog rolling into the bay. A foghorn moaned dismally. Lippy Fargo—reformed gambler. Worth sticking your neck out for? A good guy, a good friend, but … Finally I turned.
“OK. I’ll take a crack at it. But I can’t guarantee anything if the cops pick me up. And you’ll have to come clean with me.”
Lippy nodded. “OK, Pete. What do you want to know?”
“The pay-off. What was it for?”
Lippy took a deep breath. “Two years ago I was paroled. I wanted to get out of the gambling racket, and I was selling my clubs, one at a time. I went to Nevada to sell my Reno place—broke parole to do it. I was only there three days. I got in a game of stud with two other guys: Dude Wallon, a hood that used to work for me, and an Easterner named Wright.
“Dude was pretty drunk—he was just a gunman anyway—and he claimed this guy Wright was hiding an ace. Wright gives him some lip, so Dude pulls a gun and kills him. Just like that. Then he looks in his coat for the ace. He looks up at me and grins. ‘Wrong again,’ he says. There was a girl in the room—Dude’s girl. That was the blonde you saw.”
I nodded. “So you couldn’t report the murder without being caught violating your parole, and besides, Dude and the girl might have claimed you did it.”
“That’s right. Well, Dude got rid of the body, somehow, and headed for the East—and that’s all there was to it. Until I read this in the paper the other day.”
He walked to a desk and rummaged around. Then he handed me a clipping.
VICTIM OF GANG WARFARE
New York—May 10. The body of a man identified as John “Dude” Wallon was found floating in the East River today. Police believed that he was a victim of gang warfare.
“Well,” Lippy continued, “the other day the blonde turns up. She’s seen the clipping too, she says. She says that now Dude is dead it leaves only herself and me that know about Wright’s murder, and she’s awful b
roke, and could I spare twelve grand.”
I whistled.
“I told her I’d think it over. I thought it over, and decided to pay. I figured she’d be back for more, but I had to protect my family, and what the hell—twelve grand. I didn’t want to see her again myself, and you were the only guy I knew that I could trust with that kind of dough. That’s the story, Pete.”
I puffed at my cigarette. It sounded all right, but you never know.
“Can you think of anybody that might want to see the blonde murdered? Outside of you, that is?”
He shook his head. “No, not now.”
I looked up. “What do you mean, now?”
“Well, when Dude worked for me he was quite a ladies’ man. He dated this blonde you found dead, Sylvia Clinton, and a redhead named Flame Doreen that sang at the 411 Club, and I don’t know how many others. The redhead didn’t like the blonde, and vice versa. They had a fight once, right in my office. Dude stood there and laughed. But Dude’s dead now, and there wouldn’t have been any reason—”
I shook my head. “Were there any others?”
“Not that I know of. Of course, if she was using blackmail as a steady diet, anybody might have done it.”
I drove back to my hotel to get my stuff before the cops moved in. I cased the lounge carefully—there was no one there but the desk clerk and a few of the girls who hung out in the lobby. I opened my door and switched on the light.
“Hold it, Butler,” said a voice in the shadows. I looked down the barrel of a Police Special. A little old guy wearing horn-rimmed glasses stood behind the gun, and an overgrown kid in a police uniform stood behind the little guy. I stayed where I was.
“Search him, John,” said the little guy. The cop ambled over and went through my stuff. “This is him, Inspector,” he said, looking at my driver’s license. “He’s a private eye and a sheriff’s deputy and—say!” He whistled. “Two thousand dollars.” He handed me back my wallet.
“Does murder pay that well nowadays?” asked the little man. “Maybe I’m in the wrong racket.”
“Look,” I explained, “I was going to call you guys. I just wanted to check on something first.”
“Sure,” said the inspector. “Well, don’t bother to call. The desk clerk found the girl.”
“You’re making a mistake. I didn’t do it.”
“Nobody ever does it, mac. I’ve been working in Homicide for twenty years and I never found anybody that did it.”
“Listen,” I said reasonably. “You think I’d have left my right name at the front desk if I’d gone up there to kill the girl?”
“In a word, yes. It’s a very smart thing to do. It looks awfully good to a jury. That’s why you’d do it, especially if you might get caught anyway. To make it look better, though, you should have reported the crime. Yes, I think you did it, whether you left your name or not.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“OK, so I’m wrong. What were you doing up there?”
Well, now was the time. I thought of Lippy, sweating it out at home. I thought of his wife—not a bad old girl. I thought of his daughter in college. I knew I’d hate myself for turning soft, but what can you do?
“Just a friendly call,” I said.
“OK, John, slip the cuffs on him.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said. “I can—”
The big cop moved over and clicked a handcuff onto my wrist, and that was that. A handcuff makes a very decisive sound. He put the other cuff on himself. I felt like tail-end Charlie on a chain gang.
“Take him down to the car. I’m going to look around.”
The cop marched me to the elevator. We stood behind the elevator boy, saying nothing, as we started down to the lobby. The cop towered on my right, a real tribute to American breakfast food: tall, broad, healthy. I eyed him speculatively. I thought of spending the next six months in the city jail with the prospect of graduating to a quiet grave in the municipal cemetery, and decided that it was worth trying. I never had much of a left, but if he had a glass jaw …
He did. I put everything I had into the blow, it went directly to the button, and he folded like a tired old man, almost pulling me down with him. The elevator boy turned, his face white.
“Mr. Butler, you shouldn’t oughta have done that!”
“OK, sonny. Don’t worry about it.” I pulled the gun out of the cop’s holster and the keys out of his pocket. I fumbled with the keys and tried two of them on the steel bracelet. The second one worked. “Let me out in the basement, and then let’s see this elevator head for the top floor, and I mean the top floor.”
I got out quickly, walked swiftly through the help’s quarters, and out the side door into an alley. I ran down the alley and on to the main street. I signaled a taxi and told the driver to take me to the 411 Club. I sat back and wiped the sweat off my brow. My hand was shaking. We’d gone three blocks before I heard the siren start to wail.…
I sat at a table in the back of the 411 Club and ordered a shot of whiskey and a bottle of beer. The ten o’clock floor show was just coming on. I watched the girls swinging their legs, and listened to a refugee from a third-rate burlesque try to make like a comedian, and heard a washed-up tenor murder Mother Macree. Then the redhead walked from the shadows, leaned on the piano, and began to sing.
She had creamy white skin and shimmering long hair the color of burnished copper. And sea-green eyes, and a shape that couldn’t have been natural but obviously was. She was wearing a low-cut white evening dress that rippled when she moved and she had a low, husky voice. When she sang, she sang to every man in the place. When she stopped singing, a long, male sigh escaped the room, and then applause. She sang again. I called the waiter.
“Is that Flame Doreen?”
“Yeah. Oh, brother!”
“Tell her I’d like to see her. A friend of Dude Wallon.” I slipped him a five-dollar bill. He looked at it critically.
“OK, mac, but you’re wasting your time. Strictly no soap.”
“Tell her anyway.” The waiter moved off toward the wings of the stage.
In a few minutes she appeared out of a side door, looked over the audience, and crossed the dance floor. She slid into the seat opposite mine and looked me over coolly.
“Yes?”
Now what? I tore my gaze away from the green eyes. “Drink?”
She hesitated. “All right. Whiskey and soda.”
I ordered it and sat back.
“Miss Doreen, I’d like to find out what you know about Sylvia Clinton.”
Her face froze. “Plenty. Who wants to know?”
I flashed my wallet with its sheriff’s deputy badge, and put it back into my pocket. A shadow of fear crossed her face.
“What do you want to know?”
“When did you see her last?” I asked, watching her eyes.
She studied her drink. “The other day. I ran into her on the street.”
“She’s dead.”
The fear lingered in her eyes. She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Coolly she said:
“I’m so sorry. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.”
“Murdered.”
“That I can believe. Well, is there anything else?”
“Where were you this afternoon?”
She hesitated. “Shopping.”
“What did you buy?”
“Clothes.”
“Where?”
She flushed angrily, her eyes sending out emerald sparks.
“You don’t think I killed her?”
“Maybe.”
“Look Sherlock, why would I do it?”
“Jealousy.”
“Don’t be silly. On acount of Dude? That’s all over with, and for your information, Dude is dead.”
“How do you know?”
She paused. “Maybe I read it in the paper—maybe somebody told me—I don’t know. Anyway, I heard that he was killed. Now if you’re all through …”
Something w
as wrong. I didn’t know what, but her story didn’t ring true. There was nothing I could do. I stood up.
“OK, sister. But for your information, I don’t believe you were shopping.”
I paid the bill and left the club, my hat down over my face. I hailed a cab and gave him Lippy’s address.…
Lippy was still up. He looked as if he’d had a tough night. His eyes were shadowed and his face was drawn. He let me in quickly.
He said, “Pete, thanks.”
“Thanks for what?”
“Giving them the slip.”
“How’d you find out about that?”
“The radio. They’ve broadcast your description. They have a dragnet out for you.”
I sank wearily to the couch. “Oh, brother,” I moaned. Lippy poured me a shot of whiskey. I gulped it and handed him back the glass.
“Well,” I said finally, “I talked to the redhead. No soap.”
Lippy shook his head. “She’s the only one I can think of, Pete, and with Dude dead …”
I walked to the window. Lippy was right. With Dude dead, there was no reason for jealousy. That left Lippy. I began to wonder if I were getting the run-around. I turned.
“Listen, Lippy, I hope to hell you’re playing ball with me, because if you’re not, so help me, I’ll—”
There was a crash of breaking glass and the roar of a gun. Automatically I hit the deck, grabbing for the lamp cord. I got a hand on it and pulled. The light went out. Silhouetted in the glare from the street I saw a shadow on the fire escape. I waited and then crawled to the window. Cautiously I poked my head over the ledge. Two stories below I heard a movement. Someone dropped to the pavement and a dark shape flitted into an alley. In the apartment house across the street lights flicked on and people talked excitedly. I turned.
“You all right, Lippy?” I asked softly.
I heard Lippy grunt and the light clicked on. He was standing by the door, carefully inspecting a jagged hole in the stucco wall of the living room, a big hole with cracks radiating from it.
“Close,” he said wearily, “but no cigar. Reminds me of the old days.”
“Yeah.” I lit a cigarette. “Who do you suppose has you on his list?”
