Green Ice

by Raoul Whitfield

  It sounded fishy. But a lot of things sound fishy that aren’t. The bullets had been of twenty-two caliber—and in traffic they wouldn’t make so much noise. The police were working on fingerprints in the interior of the cab, and they expected to make an arrest shortly. That sounded like the bunk. There was a brief sketch about Dot Ellis—there was nothing about me. I guessed that there hadn’t been time. I’d come in for my share of publicity in the morning.

  “Angel” Cherulli had been found in an alley behind his club, with a flock of thirty-eights in his stomach and chest. There wasn’t a clue. He had many enemies. The rest of the story was just writing. I stuck the paper in my pocket and decided that there might be some connection between the two murders. I also decided that there might not be any. I remembered, however, that two years and a few months ago Cherulli had fallen pretty hard for Dot Ellis. It seemed sort of queer that they should both drop out of worldly affairs at about the same time. Cherulli I remembered as a short, thickset Italian with a cherub-like face. I’d played around his club, contributing some of the hundred grand a damn fool uncle had left to me because his only niece had married a Swede with big feet.

  The cab was rolling around Columbus Circle. I stopped thinking about Dot Ellis and Cherulli. I was out of the Big House—my bankers had better than seventy-five thousand dollars in safe spots, and I had a job to do. Wirt Donner could help me—he knew some of the little crooks that had been squeezed. I was after the breeders of crime, and they weren’t the little ones. There would be action; my mind and body needed it.

  The cab stopped in front of the number Donner had given me. It looked something like a theatrical boardinghouse, only it wasn’t in the right neighborhood. Or maybe things had moved uptown since I’d started to serve the stretch. I paid up, got out.

  The door beyond the steps that led to the vestibule opened as I started to climb. Donner came out. He was bent over; he had both hands pressing against his stomach. Funny, thick noises came from between his lips. His head was twisted to one side.

  “What’s wrong?” I snapped, from a spot halfway up the stone steps.

  Donner was swaying from side to side, hunched forward. His face was all twisted, and there was red on his lips. He tried to scream, but it was only a cough—a choking cough—when it came out.

  Then he tumbled. I made a stab at grabbing him, changed my mind. His head hit the fifth step from the top, like a man diving into water. He went all the way down to the sidewalk. Across the street a woman screamed. I heard footfalls—someone running. It was a red-faced man; he reached Donner’s side as I came down the steps. He bent over, straightened up right away.

  “How do you figure in this?” he snapped at me.

  I shook my head. “I don’t,” I said. “Saw the sign up there—went up to see about a room. He came out, holding his stomach, and tumbled.”

  The man with the red face nodded. He moved over close to me.

  “I’m Donelly—Third Precinct,” he stated. “This bird’s dead—shot in the belly. Got a gun?”

  I shook my head, lifted my hands a little. Donelly tapped around my new suit. I wasn’t surprised to learn he was a dick—he looked like one.

  A crowd was collecting. A cop came through. Donelly made his speech all over again.

  “And stay with the dead guy,” he ordered. “I’m going in the house.”

  I managed a faint smile. “Mind if I come along?” I asked. “I’ll still take a room here, if you get the murderer.”

  The red-faced one didn’t think that was so funny. He narrowed blue eyes on me. Then he looked up at the sign. It was one of those blue ones, with white letters. It read: “VACANCY.” I’d seen it as I’d moved away from the cab.

  “Come along,” Donelly muttered, and started up the steps.

  I went up behind him. Wirt Donner was dead—shot in the stomach. He had been a second-rate crook. Up in the Big House he’d always insisted that he’d been framed.

  Donelly was shoving a bell. You could hear it ring—but nothing happened. He tried the door. It was closed, locked.

  “Not so good—for you,” Donelly muttered, giving me a quick glance. “He had a stomachache that killed him, but he stopped to close the door on the way out.”

  “Or someone shut it—after he came out,” I added.

  Donelly shoved the bell again. Nothing happened. Donelly swore. I looked down the steps. Another cop had come up. The crowd was growing. There were dirty curtains behind the glass in the door. A figure showed—the door was suddenly opened.

  The woman had on a faded negligee. It was too long for her—it trailed dirty carpet. She had a pasty complexion, sharp features, and dopey eyes. She was around forty, maybe younger. Her blond hair was black close to the scalp. She looked sleepily at Donelly.

  “You run this place?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “I stay here,” she stated. “Thought someone left his key inside. Anything wrong?”

  I figured she was lying, and so did Donelly. She wasn’t so doped up or sleepy as she looked. The dick spoke.

  “There’s a dead man on the sidewalk. Come on down and see if you know him.”

  The woman smiled. She had nice teeth.

  “Quit kidding,” she returned, and moved away from the door.

  Donelly caught her by the arm. She started to act up. She screamed. Donelly swore and let her go. A fat woman came down the stairs. She started in by giving Donelly hell, and she ended by telling him that she was the landlady and that if he was a detective he was a great guy because her nephew was one, too. She went down the steps and looked at Donner’s profile. She got kind of splotchy in the cheeks.

  “My God!” she muttered. “It’s Mr. Ross. He’s—dead.”

  One of the cops said that he’d get the morgue wagon. The landlady said that Mr. Ross had lived in her house for three months; he had a hall bedroom on the second floor. He’d told her that he was a radio man, and he always had paid his bill a week in advance. He seemed quiet. That was all she knew about him.

  Donelly said we’d go up to the parlor, if there was one. The landlady said there wasn’t. We went up to the hall. The woman with the nice teeth had gone. Donelly told me to follow him, and we went up to Donner’s room. It looked pretty neat. There was a quart of gin on a small table—a bottle of orange juice on the floor. The landlady looked surprised.

  “I didn’t know Mr. Ross drank,” she stated.

  “He’s sworn off,” Donelly returned grimly. “Ever see this gentleman before?”

  He gestured toward me. The landlady shook her head.

  “He looks something like my sister’s first husband,” she stated. “But I ain’t never seen him before.”

  Donelly was poking around the tiny room.

  “He was coming up to rent a place to sleep,” he stated. “Funny, eh?”

  I said that I didn’t see anything funny about it. Donelly told the landlady to get everybody that was in the house downstairs in the hall—and asked her if she advertised her rooms to rent. She said she didn’t except for the sign outside. She said it was a terrible thing—but that she didn’t believe Mr. Ross had been killed in the house. She went out.

  Donelly looked at me. “I was across the street when your cab stopped in front of this place,” he stated. “You knew where you were coming. What’s your name?”

  “Malcolm Ourney,” I stated. “You had a tip, eh?”

  His lips twitched. He’d been across the street, and he’d seen the cab come up. Maybe that had been chance—maybe it hadn’t. I figured it hadn’t.

  “Something like that,” he stated.

  “The murderer may be around the house,” I suggested. “You’re taking things pretty easy.”

  Donelly shook his head. “Not my precinct,” he said. “Killer’s gone away from here. Out the back way, I guess. Got a pal in back. Ourney, eh? How were all the boys up at Sing Song when you left?”

  I just smiled. But I was thinking fast. Donelly was out of his precin
ct, and he knew something. He knew a lot.

  “Pretty fair,” I stated. “Jerry Coons died of pneumonia three days ago.”

  Donelly was poking around under the bed. He dragged out a suitcase.

  “Yeah, I read about Jerry,” he stated. “He always did have bad lungs. Got ’em doing night work around the Jersey City warehouses.”

  I was beginning to think Donelly was a bright boy. There was a lot of noise coming up from the hall below. Donelly stood up. He hadn’t opened the suitcase. A deep voice reached us.

  “Oh, Mike—I grabbed Salmon jumping fences!”

  Donelly swore softly. He looked at me.

  “Not bad, eh?” he muttered. “Red always swore he’d get Donner. Let’s go down!”

  2

  He led the way. His name was Mike Donelly—he was a plainclothes bull. He knew that I was Mal Ourney, that Mr. Ross had been Wirt Donner, and that I had come along to see Wirt. He knew that I hadn’t killed him, and he was pretty sure that one “Red” Salmon had done for Donner.

  Red was pretty sick. He slumped on the dirty carpet of the lowest stair and talked a lot. He whined. He’d come over to see Donner, but he’d come in the back way because the police were riding him. He’d met Donner staggering down the stairs, and when he’d seen what was up he’d made a break for it. He hadn’t heard any shots.

  The second detective was lean and wiry. He produced a thirty-eight-caliber gun with a Maxim silencer attached. He stated that three bullets were missing, and that he’d taken the gun from Red.

  “It’s a dirty lie!” Red got pretty excited. “It ain’t my rod—it ain’t! It’s a frame.”

  Salmon was undersized, pallid, redheaded. He looked like a sniffer. I stared at him while he whined. Donelly asked a few questions of everybody, and learned nothing. No one had heard even pop-coughs of a silenced rod. No one had heard Mr. Ross coming down the stairs. Donelly told his pal to take Red out. Red protested, and Donelly told him to shut up. He shut up. Donelly’s pal took him away.

  “That’s that,” Donelly said to me. “You still want to rent a room here?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “And I don’t think Red Salmon got Donner.”

  Donelly grunted. “You don’t know so much as I do,” he stated. “I haven’t been boarding up the river for two years.”

  “Good enough,” I replied. “Who gave you the tip that Red was after Wirt?”

  The detective grinned. “If I told you that, you’d know as much as I do,” he said cheerfully. “Red got Donner, all right. He’ll burn for it.”

  I nodded. “He may burn for it,” I agreed. “But he didn’t get Donner.”

  Donelly swore softly. “Listen, Ourney,” he said slowly, “I think you’re a good guy. A lot of good guys go wrong in this man’s town. Dot Ellis is out—and now Donner’s out. You stood a rap for Ellis, and you didn’t rate it. I spotted you right away. You don’t know me, but I worked the Ellis case. She was a bum. Why don’t you take a trip west?”

  I grinned. “Why should I take a trip west?”

  “Why should a guy live?” Donelly asked pointedly.

  I didn’t answer that one, but I got the idea. We moved toward the vestibule of the boardinghouse. We went down the steps together. The morgue wagon hadn’t arrived yet. The lean detective and Red Salmon were standing near the curb. Two cops were keeping the crowd away. An elevated train clattered, a half block away. It had started to rain again.

  Donelly smiled with his lips. “You got a raw deal with Dot Ellis, Ourney;” he said. “I looked you over before you went up. You’re not a crook. Get out of town.”

  I nodded. “It might be a good idea,” I said. “Who tipped you off to the fact that Wirt Donner was to get the works?”

  Donelly’s smile became a grin. “Santa Claus,” he replied. “He’s good that way.”

  I took a last look at Donner. He wasn’t nice to look at. A siren wailed in the distance. I shrugged my shoulders.

  “He didn’t have anything to tell me, anyway,” I said slowly.

  Donelly swore. “He wasn’t much of a crook,” he stated. “Just one of the little guys.”

  “Just one,” I agreed. “Maybe I’ll take your advice, Donelly. Maybe I’ll go away from the big town.”

  The detective with the red face grinned. He swore again.

  “Maybe!” he muttered.

  I walked eastward and reached Broadway. I needed a drink. Looking at an address on a slip of paper, I discovered that the flat of Ben Garren wasn’t far distant. Crossing the circle I walked up along the park. It was almost eleven. The lights downtown give me a kick. At Sixty-seventh Street I turned westward, picked up the uneven number of the apartment house and went inside. It was a walk-up affair. I climbed two flights, going in as a woman came out, without ringing the bell. A radio was making a racket back of number thirty-five’s door. I rang the bell.

  Ben opened the door, stared at me, and cursed cheerfully.

  “Damned if it isn’t Mal!” he greeted. “Pull your hide inside. When did you get in?”

  I walked inside and Ben closed the door. The place was sloppy with newspapers, and Cherulli’s name was smeared all over them.

  “I got out this afternoon,” I corrected. “Dropped in for a drink.”

  Ben grinned. His face was dark with a stubble of beard; his small eyes looked tired. He ran his left-hand fingers through graying hair. The stone on his little finger glittered in the light from a cheap bridge lamp.

  “Gin or Scotch?” he asked. “If you want rye—”

  I groaned. “Gin,” I said hurriedly. “You’re talking the way a dead man talked—a couple of hours ago, when he wasn’t dead.”

  Ben narrowed his eyes a little; they were shot with red and looked less colorless than usual. Ben didn’t look so healthy as he had up the river.

  “Which dead man?” he said slowly.

  “Wirt Donner.” I watched his brain send a little shiver through his body. “A runt named Red Salmon gave him a dose just now, over on Fifty-sixth Street. The quiet-clothes boys had a tip and grabbed Red. He’s whining that he was framed.”

  Ben went over to a small table and squeezed a cigarette out of a half-empty package. He lighted up. He made a sucking noise through his nose as he inhaled. Then he walked out of the living room.

  “I’ll get the gin,” he stated. “Want it straight or with juice?”

  “Straight. Bring the bottle out. And some water.” I sat down in a chair that felt soft, but wasn’t. “I see by the papers that Cherulli got pumped out.”

  Ben Garren came in with two glasses, a bottle of gin, and some water in a silver pitcher. He went out and got another glass. He didn’t seem to have heard what I’d said about Angel Cherulli. He poured me a drink. When he had his fixed I lifted the glass.

  “Here’s to Donner and Cherulli—and Dot Ellis!” I toasted. “I’ve got a hunch they’re not so cold right now—as they look.”

  Ben Garren swore. “So Red got Donner, eh?” he muttered. We both drank. “He always said he would.”

  “Yeah.” I leaned back a little in the chair. “That’s what Mike Donelly told me.”

  The name caught him as he was swallowing the stuff. He choked around, said that he couldn’t drink gin anymore, poured us both another drink, went over to the door and snapped a latch on the inside, came back and sat down.

  I waited a little while and then asked a question. “Who got Cherulli, Ben?”

  He laughed. It was a harsh laugh. He pointed toward the papers on the floor.

  “Looks like a mob,” he said in his rather thin voice. “Who got Dot Ellis, Mal?”

  I lighted a pill. “I don’t like bedtime stories, Ben,” I returned. “Who got Wirt Donner?”

  Ben made some more sucking noises. He looked hurt.

  “Donner did Red some dirt on the witness stand, before he went up the river,” he stated. “Red’s been coking up—and talking too much. Red put Donner out, eh?”

  I smiled. “Lik
e hell he did,” I said. “Are we going to just talk—or are we going to talk sense?”

  Garren looked me in the eyes. He said: “You’re rushing things, Mal. Why didn’t you wait a few days? Why don’t you put up with me and—”

  “No, thanks,” I cut in. “But I’ll talk sense with you. Donner was small fry, Cherulli was getting big. I didn’t know there was any connection between the two. And where does Dot Ellis come in?”

  Ben leaned back in his chair and half closed his eyes.

  “Cherulli wouldn’t be good. He was taking graft without splitting—on the wet stuff. Dot Ellis was hanging around with him. She knew a lot of people he knew. She’d been drinking a lot lately. Maybe the mob figured she might yell around.”

  I nodded. “All right,” I stated. “But what mob?”

  Ben yawned. “Go easy, Mal,” he advised. “I know what you want to do. It’s a tough job. A lot of the small crooks won’t like it. They’ll be suspicious.”

  I smiled faintly. “Red Salmon would like it,” I stated. “He’s framed, and you know he’s framed.” Garren yawned and tossed off another drink. I tried the same thing, easing it down with a half glass of water.

  “Maybe,” Garren muttered. “But I ain’t so sure. I’ve been pretty busy, trying to keep alive, and to keep away from some people.”

  I nodded. “You said you would, Ben,” I reminded him. “It looks as though it’s been a job. It looks as though I’ll need help. I wanted Wirt Donner to help—he’s out. I’ve got some coin—you’re in, if you want the job. It’s damned foolishness, but my stretch got me sort of attached to the idea. Playing in?”