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

by Unknown

  Anton’s expression was casual, his eyes on no one in particular. But something in the face of the fat man standing next to me, as it was reflected in the bar mirror, caused me to shift my glance from the gunman to him. The fat man’s face was expressionless, but his eyes unwinkingly followed the image of Anton Strowlski.

  It was then I decided to move from my stool. Not that I expected anything to happen in as public a place as the Jefferson Lounge, but some inbred caution prompted me to want a large section of the Jefferson’s air-conditioned atmosphere wedged between myself and the fat man. And I found myself stuck to the floor.

  The fat man stood half-faced away from me, his left elbow propped on the bar and his left foot solidly crushing the full weight of his two hundred forty pounds on my right shoe. With one eye still on Anton, I tapped his arm.

  The gesture caught Anton’s attention and he flashed me a quick glance, nodded in recognition and made an abrupt right wheel toward the far end of the bar.

  Without moving his body, the fat man turned at me a florid face which would have meant a fortune to a burlesque comedian. High-domed, round-cheeked and pug-nosed, and with bright, heavy-lidded eyes over which satanic eyebrows arched upward at the ends, instead of down, it was the face of a rollicking satyr.

  I pointed at the floor. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take my foot with me.”

  His lips drew back over dazzling mail-order teeth, and a chuckle worked its way up from his gargantuan paunch, coming out baritone and amused. Without moving his foot, he turned his back.

  I began to get sore, but not enough to slug him. The Jefferson Lounge frowns on commotion. It even frowns if you drop your money on the bar instead of laying it down noiselessly. It features organ music and quietness, apparently ashamed of being a saloon and trying to disguise the truth under a church-like atmosphere. I tapped my fat drinking mate again.

  “Your foot is on mine,” I explained clearly.

  “I know.” He turned his back again.

  “Move it,” I said to his back, without raising my voice.

  His big head swiveled at me for the third time. Satanic brows quirked upward and his ready-made incisors sparkled again.

  “You move it.”

  His bright eyes glinted mischievously, completely lacking the contentiousness of a stew picking a fight. I saw he was dead sober, yet for some reason, which I vaguely linked with the presence of Anton Strowlski, was deliberately trying to start a scene. So I gave him one.

  Sliding my stool to the left, I let the side of my chest drop across it, grasping the seat with both hands for support. Rapidly crossing my left leg over my right until the sole of my foot rested against the inside of his far knee, I pushed.

  His right leg buckled, throwing him off balance, and he grabbed at the bar with both hands. At the same time he involuntarily moved the foot imprisoning mine a step backward. Snapping erect, I smashed the heel of my released right foot into the underside of his left knee. He sat down with a crash that shook the room and stopped the organist in the middle of a bar.

  With surprising agility for a fat man, he bounced to his feet and swung a roundhouse at my head. In a brawl, I watch a man’s eyes. His showed no anger, only an increased mischievous joy. My knees bent and his fist whistled a foot over my hair.

  He was easy. One short jab in that soft stomach jackknifed him forward with his jaw conveniently out-thrust. When he hit the floor this time, he stayed there and slept.

  I looked up from his sprawled body just in time to see Anton Strowlski let the street door swing closed behind him.

  You simply did not brawl in the Jefferson Lounge. Fatso was hardly asleep before a cop had me by either arm. I think management keeps cops under the bar, along with ice-cubes and lemons.

  When they finally got Fatso awake, they put us both in a prowl car. The Jefferson’s manager stood at the curb wringing his hands and looking horrified.

  “No charges, Officer,” he kept saying. “Just take them away.”

  The older of the two cops said testily: “All right. All right,” and the manager moved away.

  The Jefferson Lounge is situated in one corner of the elaborate Jefferson Hotel. As the Lounge manager passed back into the dispensary, I noticed Anton Strowlski a few yards up the street under the hotel marquee. With his back against the brick wall near the main entrance, he watched us broodingly. I recognized our driver, a stocky, middle-aged cop, without being able to recall his name. I know most men on the force, at least by sight. The other cop was young and unfamiliar, probably a rookie.

  The driver twisted in his seat to look us over. Fatso was shaking his head and working his jaw back and forth with one hand.

  “You’re Manny Moon, aren’t you?” the driver said to me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who are you?” he asked my sparring partner.

  “Willard Longstreet.” The fat man turned to me. “Manville Moon, are you? The private dick?”

  I nodded shortly.

  “What you hit me with?”

  “With great enjoyment, you big ape.”

  He grinned his satyr grin and mischievous brightness returned to his eyes. He fixed them on the driver.

  “What are your plans, cop?”

  The policeman frowned. “They were to let you go, if you promise to behave. But I don’t like ‘cop.’ ”

  “I want Moon booked for assault and battery,” Longstreet said calmly. “Drive along.”

  “Why you … !” I started to say, then stopped and relaxed. “Go along,” I told the driver.

  Shrugging, the cop faced forward and started the motor. I glanced over at Anton once more, saw him frown at us worriedly, and on a spur-of-the-moment impulse decided to make the party complete.

  “Hold it!” I told the driver.

  Gears clashed as the driver, starting to release the clutch, suddenly braked and slipped back into neutral. Locking the emergency, he peered at me in the rear-view mirror.

  “Now what?”

  I said: “The guy standing under the hotel marquee is Anton Strowlski. Know him?”

  Both cops glanced that way and both shook their heads.

  “Chicago boy. Even money you’ll find a gun if you shake him down.”

  Anton, noting our eyes on him, began to move away slowly. Swinging open his door, the younger cop bounced from the car.

  “You!” he called.

  Pretending not to hear, Anton increased his pace. The cop legged after him, drawing his service revolver as he ran.

  “Halt, or I’ll shoot!”

  The command improved Anton’s hearing and he stopped dead in his tracks and turned. The cop gestured toward the building with his gun and Anton, familiar with the routine through much previous experience, faced the wall with his hands elevated about to shoulder height.

  Deftly running his free hand over the gunman’s body, the policeman relieved him of a dainty, snub-nosed automatic. He found it in the same pocket Anton’s hand had occupied when I first glimpsed him in the mirror.

  Reholstering his revolver, the cop let Anton precede him back to the car. Without a word the gunman took his place in the rear seat between Longstreet and me.

  As we made our second start, I said: “Who you working for these days, Strowlski?”

  Eyes brittle as broken glass swung to my face. He ignored my question. “You finger me, Moon?”

  “Mister Moon,” I said.

  His lips quirked upward, lacking mirth. “I’ve heard that gag about you. I don’t mister nobody.”

  Without moving my body or changing expression, I drove my right elbow into his chin. His smirk was absorbed by a vacuous look and he slumped heavily against the shoulder of Longstreet, who flashed me a startled glance and pushed the gunman away. Anton’s head slumped forward, hiding his vacant expression, and his body, wedged between us, remained erect.

  Neither of the cops suspected anything wrong. Traffic sounds had drowned the slap of my elbow against Anton’s jaw, and the younger cop,
periodically turning to look us over, apparently assumed the gunman’s bowed head was the result of bashfulness.

  Anton was still resting when we arrived at the station. I got out one side of the car, Longstreet got out the other and Anton rolled slowly forward on his face.

  Before either cop could open his mouth I said: “What’s the matter with him?” threw a suspicious look at Longstreet and asked, “You do something to him in the car?”

  Longstreet’s outraged expression faded into one of amusement. “He was all right a minute ago.”

  “Looks like he fainted,” said the younger cop.

  The middle-aged cop glanced at Longstreet suspiciously, then said to his colleague: “Well, drag him out and slap him awake.”

  Without waiting to see his instructions carried out, he waved us ahead of him and followed us up the steps grunting audibly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MURDER BY MAGIC

  Sergeant Danny Blake was working the desk at headquarters. When he saw me, he flashed his gold front tooth and asked hopefully: “What’s the charge? Homicide?”

  “Assault and battery,” said our chauffeur. He pointed his thumb first at Longstreet and then at me. “On him, by him.”

  “The old man will be disappointed,” Blake said, enjoying himself. “Only assault and battery.”

  I said: “Fill out your forms, clown, or it will be homicide. Only someone else will have to enter the charge.”

  Throwing open his log book, Blake entered my name and other identifying information, put down Longstreet as complainant, then, pen poised, looked inquiringly up at the arresting officer.

  “Jefferson Lounge,” the policeman said. “About a half hour ago.” He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “That’d make it 2:30 p.m. It was about 50-50, according to the manager. They both swung, only Moon connected.”

  Blake looked at me. “You filing counter-charges?”

  Ever since we left the Jefferson, I had been thinking that over. I turned toward Longstreet and caught the same mischievous laughter deep in his eyes. I didn’t understand him. I didn’t understand anything, except that up till now I seemed to be reacting exactly as he wanted. I decided to change that.

  “No counter-charge,” I said, and the lights went out of Longstreet’s eyes as though someone had thrown a switch.

  He watched me thoughtfully as I posted $250.00 bond, which left my checking account at five figures: a one, a two, a six, a decimal point and two zeros.

  “It’ll help my civil suit if you’re convicted in police court,” he remarked pleasantly. “I’m going to sue you, of course.”

  “Do that.” I took my receipt and turned to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” Longstreet called.

  I looked back at him, waiting.

  “I withdraw all charges,” he said to Blake.

  Sergeant Blake’s face reddened and he rose to his feet. “Lissen …” he started to say, but that was as far as he got.

  “Don’t raise your voice at me!” Longstreet interrupted. And, leaning across the rail, he planted his fist squarely in the sergeant’s nose.

  Two things happened rapidly. Sergeant Blake sat on the floor, and the cop who brought us in twisted Longstreet’s arm up behind his back until the fat man stood on his toes.

  “Lock him up!” Blake roared, using his desk to pull himself erect. Blood trickled across his mouth from each nostril.

  Still cramping Longstreet’s arm behind his back, our cop dogtrotted him toward the corridor leading to the pokey. As they passed through the door, the fat man twisted his head over his shoulder to grin at me. The familiar mischievous laughter was back in his eyes.

  “He had a devil of a time getting arrested,” I said to Blake.

  But the sergeant was too busy holding a handkerchief to his nose to care what I said or did. I picked my check off his desk, dropped the receipt and left.

  As I went down the steps, Anton Strowlski, partially supported by the rookie cop, groggily stumbled up. The look he threw me tried to be venomous, but it came out more punchy than baneful.

  I returned it with a grin.

  The phone blared me out of a sound sleep at four in the morning. I let it ring while I strapped on my leg and slipped into a robe, being in no rush to end the wait of anyone who phoned at that hour.

  “Moon,” I said, when I finally got to the phone.

  “About time,” a familiar voice rapped in my ear.

  It was Inspector Warren Day, Chief of Homicide, who for years had been trying to decide whether he hated my guts or loved me like a brother.

  “Go to bed,” I said.

  “Get your clothes on. Hannegan is on his way over to pick you up.”

  “Yeah? What’s the charge?”

  “No charge. Want to see you.”

  I was silent for a minute. Then I said: “You’ve seen me lots of times. Go home and sober up.”

  Day’s voice sank to its normal growl. “Listen, Moon. I’m in no mood for your sass. You come with Hannegan, or I’ll send him back with a warrant. You’re a material witness in a murder.”

  “Nuts. I haven’t seen a murder since the last time I unraveled one you’d fouled up.”

  “Get your clothes on,” Day repeated, and hung up.

  I brushed my teeth, felt the rubble on my cheeks and wondered if a shave would bring me awake. Deciding against it, I jolted myself alive with a shot of rye instead. I was dressed when Lieutenant Hannegan arrived.

  His expression was wary when he came in, a result of past experience with my resistance to Inspector Day’s arbitrary orders.

  “You ready?” he asked uneasily.

  “All set.”

  He looked relieved and a little surprised. I followed him outside to the squad car, and asked no questions until he got it in motion.

  Then I asked: “What’s the deal?”

  “Corpse named Carmichael. And the guy who did it, couldn’t have.”

  “Come again?”

  “The guy who did it was in jail when it happened. That’s where you come in. Fellow named Longstreet.”

  “Oh,” I said softly. “A faint light glimmers.”

  Inspector Warren Day paced back and forth in his office, chewing his eternal dead cigar and periodically ducking his skinny bald head to peer at one or another of us over his glasses.

  Willard Longstreet sat on a straight-backed chair in the center of the room, his fat seat protruding beyond both edges. His clothes hung in perspiration-soaked wrinkles and his round face sagged with fatigue from hours of answering questions. But a faint mocking light still glimmered in the back of his eyes.

  Hannegan sat alongside Day’s desk, and I relaxed in a chair tilted against the wall.

  “You can’t get away with it,” Day snarled at Longstreet for the twenty-seventh time. “At 3:30 p.m. you had a phone argument with Carmichael. Your joint secretary recognized your voice. At 5:00 p.m. you phoned again and told Carmichael you’d be there in ten minutes. Your secretary swears it was your voice. When she left for home, Carmichael was in his office waiting for you. At 5:30 a shot was heard and the medics confirm that as the time of death. Your gun was found on the office floor too far away for it to be suicide. Your prints, and nobody else’s, are on it. You got plenty of motive. You did it. How?”

  “Anyone could have stolen my gun,” Longstreet said patiently, also for the twenty-seventh time. “I live in a hotel and passkeys are easy to get. Besides, I was in a locked cell from 3:00 p.m. on.”

  “Locked cell! Locked cell!” Day screeched. “Shut up about locked cells! You got out and back in some way.” He turned on Hannegan. “Get him out of my sight! Chain him to the wall. And post a guard in sight of him, so he doesn’t get out and murder the whole police department. He’s got Houdini beat!”

  Hannegan got to his feet and motioned the prisoner erect. Longstreet rose slowly, his shoulders drooping with tiredness.

  “Would you like to earn ten thousand dollars, Moon?” he asked me casually.<
br />
  “Mister Moon,” I said.

  “Mr. Moon, then,” he said agreeably. “Would you like to earn ten thousand?”

  “Depends on the method.”

  A mischievous twinkle pushed past the fatigue in his eyes. “Break this case. I don’t think the cops can.”

  I looked him over thoughtfully. “If I prove you did it, where do I collect? From your estate?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t do it.”

  I said: “I’ll drop down to your cell later on.”

  When Hannegan and Longstreet were gone, Warren Day threw himself into his desk chair, traded his cigar butt for one just like it in his ashtray, carefully dusted it off and stuck it in his mouth.

  “What do you think, Manny?” he asked dispiritedly.

  “I think four in the morning is a hell of a time to wake me up when the murder was discovered ten hours earlier.”

  “How’d I know you’d been brought in with Longstreet? A different man was on the desk at six, and I didn’t hear about you till just before I called.” He ran a hand over the place his hair had been. “What you think about all this?”

  I said: “You’re sitting on dynamite.”

  “I know I am.”

  “Wait till the papers learn you’ve charged a guy with committing a murder that happened while he was locked in one of your escape-proof cells.”

  “He’s not charged with murder. We’re holding him for assaulting a cop.”

  “What’s bond?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Five hundred!” I said. “Longstreet only cost me two-fifty. Cops aren’t worth twice as much as people.”

  Day wiggled his thin nose and studied his cigar. “He hasn’t inquired about bond. Seems in no hurry to get out.”

  “But he can, whenever he wants. Then what do you do? Charge him with murder?”

  The inspector rubbed the side of his nose. “I’d get laughed out of town. Jeepers creepers, Manny, you got any ideas at all about this?”

  I felt sorry for him. Normally he would cut off his head before he would ask my opinion about the weather. But he was stopped so cold by this that he hadn’t even cursed me once. And it was the first time in our eight-year acquaintance that we had met without trading profanity and a few mild threats.