Green Ice

by Raoul Whitfield

  “It was so dead that Lentz asked me to look you up,” he said. “I read a good book on the way out.”

  “That’s great,” I told him. “Don’t tell me the name—I’ve read a book.”

  Donelly groaned. “There weren’t any jokes in the one I read so bad as that,” he said. “It was all about a guy who tried to reform crooks. In the end he just got himself killed. Ain’t that hell?”

  I inhaled chowder, listened to Donelly doing the same in a bigger way with his soup, and smiled at him.

  “And you came all the way out here to tell me that, eh?” I asked.

  He scattered a flock of oyster crackers in his soup and shook his head. I used up some more in the chowder. They went good.

  “Where’d Virgie get to?” he asked casually.

  I found a clam, tried it out without liquid surroundings, and was sorry.

  “I was going to ask you that,” I told him. “I wonder.”

  He got a little sore. “Listen, Ourney—some things have turned up in the Malendez case. He had more stuff on him than we thought. They’re raising hell down in a godforsaken spot called Puerto Colombia—”

  “Any place where they grow green stuff isn’t godforsaken,” I cut in. “Don’t get sore, Donelly.”

  He put down his spoon and looked at me with narrowed eyes.

  “What kind of green stuff?” he asked.

  I grinned at him. “Apples, tomatoes, lemons—that sort of stuff. Great agricultural country, Donelly. Ever been down there? What women!”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “The day I took you down to see Lentz,” he said, “there was a guy saw him after you. Herb Steiner. Know what he told him?”

  I shook my head. “Too tough,” I said.

  Donelly smiled with his lips. “He said he figured you were out to get him. He said he was worried. He said maybe he’d get out of town.”

  I leaned back in my chair, and the waiter took the soup plates away. When he’d gone I looked at Donelly.

  “Well?” I said.

  “You did the job,” Donelly stated. “Now it’s up to you to do another.”

  I thought that over. Then I said: “What sort of a job?”

  Donelly smiled more broadly. “A little squeal job. Maybe we can fix it so we’ll forget the Steiner thing.”

  The waiter came along with the spaghetti. Donelly cut his with a fork. I frowned at him.

  “This way—” I said, and worked the stringy stuff around the prongs. “By the count—one, two—”

  “To hell with the comedy!” he snapped. “You’re in a bad spot, Ourney. I told you to keep off. You mixed in—”

  “You’re out of New York State,” I interrupted. “Take it easy.”

  “I can get the papers—and take you back,” he snapped.

  I laughed at him. “The spaghetti’s damn good,” I said. “They tell me Cherulli’s old place served it up nice, too.”

  Donelly swore. His face was redder than I’d ever seen it. But he got control.

  “The trouble with you is you don’t believe what you’re told,” he said.

  I leaned over toward him. “Neither do you, Dick,” I said. “That evens things up.”

  15

  DONELLY

  We didn’t get anywhere at the wop joint. After coffee I said I was going back to the paper, and he said he’d come along if I didn’t mind. I told him it would be all right, paid the check, bought cigars, and led the way out. He stuck pretty close. We got near the Post-Dispatch building; there was the usual bulletin hung behind the glass that showed up the working presses. Donelly swore softly.

  “Hell!” he muttered. “Look at that one!”

  I looked. There had been a hundred-thousand-dollar fire over on the South Side. That led off. A couple of nervy yeggs had cracked a box in a branch post office in a nearby suburb—and had got away with some stamps. A Wilkinsburg society girl had jumped from a third-story window in her home. She’d been badly bruised. A town called East McKeesport hadn’t any water supply because the pumping-station engine had gone bad. And one Herbert Steiner, reputed to be a New York gangster, was to be given a big funeral, it was alleged. He’d been shot in a room in a local hotel, and the police were still looking for the killer.

  I read the last item twice. Donelly chewed on his cigar, muttered something about seeing my editor friend. We went in and upstairs. Phil Dobe was reading the American Mercury and cursing to himself. We went around near him. He looked up from an article titled “Pittsburgh—Steal City.”

  “Mencken’s getting soft,” he stated. “He believes newspaper reporters. Burke wrote this one. I can’t figure when the hell he got sober enough to do it.”

  Donelly leaned over and looked at the magazine.

  “Who in hell’s Mencken?” he asked.

  Phil grinned. “Played second for the Pirates, five years ago,” he said. “Came up from the old Orioles, down in Baltimore. Got run off the team for using split infinitives in a pinch.”

  Donelly looked puzzled. “It’s a baseball magazine?” he muttered.

  I nodded. “You wouldn’t like it,” I told him. “No pictures.”

  Donelly swore at me. Phil tossed the magazine aside.

  Donelly said: “You got a bulletin up—Steiner is to get a floral display for the finish.”

  The city editor nodded. “Nathan and Dirring gave it out,” he said. “They’re doing the embalming.”

  I lighted a pill, getting rid of a half-finished cigar that didn’t suit.

  “How come the bulls let the body loose?” I asked.

  Phil grunted. “He won’t keep,” he said. “They know all they want to know.”

  Donelly smiled grimly. “I’d like to believe that,” he said. “Who’s putting up the coin for the funeral?”

  Phil shrugged. “I’ve got a man trying to find that out,” he said. “The morticians won’t tell.”

  I grinned. “Just like daisies,” I said.

  Donelly frowned at me. It was a cinch that he was suspicious of both Phil and myself.

  The city editor swiveled around, got out of his chair.

  “I’m going out to eat,” he announced. “I was waiting for you birds to finish, so I wouldn’t have to pay the check.”

  He went out. I sat on an end of the desk and looked at the dirty floor. Donelly lighted what was left of his cigar and kept on frowning.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “Herb Steiner was a cheap fence. He don’t rate a procession—not by a damn sight.”

  I thought of several things, but kept them to myself. There was no way of telling how much Donelly knew.

  “If you didn’t get him, Ourney—who did?” Donelly asked suddenly.

  I passed that one. “Maybe he wasn’t so cheap,” I said. “And maybe you know he wasn’t.”

  He looked puzzled. “I’m going out to this Nathan and Dirring place,” he said. “Where can I reach you?”

  I grinned at him. “Which means you haven’t got anything on me,” I said. “I’m at the Waldron. Under the name of M. Christenson.”

  I watched him closely, caught the faint flicker of surprise in his eyes. It told me something.

  “Why Christenson?” he asked, and tried to make his voice casual.

  “No reason,” I replied. “Just a name I saw in the phone book while I was looking up a number. Liked it better than my own.”

  He smiled almost pleasantly. He said he’d look up Nathan and Dirring, go out and try to find out things, then come back and look me up. He said we were both after the same thing—and he thought we should sort of stick together.

  “Sort of,” I agreed. “But just what is the same thing we’re both after?”

  He grinned. “Try and guess,” he replied, and moved toward the phone booth at the rear of the editorial rooms.

  I sat on the desk, watched him come away from the shelf near the phone booth and go out. He waved to me. After a few minutes I called up the Schenley and got Oval Face.

  “Still
alive?” I asked.

  She said that Christenson hadn’t come back yet.

  “Maybe Herb didn’t have ’em on him,” I said.

  There was silence. Then she said she didn’t understand me. I told her that was all right, that I was just thinking out loud. Her voice was a little shaky. She said that a key was in the lock, and that “he” was coming. Her voice got low and more shaky. I told her to talk as though she were calling some female friend.

  She started to talk about some kind of face powder, told me to wait a minute. I waited. At first I couldn’t hear much—then things got louder. I heard a voice that sounded like Christenson’s, pitched high, call her names. The phone made noises—she called shrilly. “No—for God’s sake, Chris—”

  After that I didn’t hear anything. I held the receiver to my left ear, waited. Ten seconds passed—there was a faint click. I stayed with it. Central said my party had hung up. I told her to ring the number again. Christenson answered. His voice was steady. I tried to change the tone of mine.

  “Donelly—from New York headquarters,” I said. “When can I see you, Chris?”

  He swore softly. “Any time, Ourney,” he replied. “Come on up.”

  He hung the receiver. I did the same. I talked to myself.

  “There’s just one thing I won’t do,” I said grimly, “and that’s come on up.”

  2

  I got back to my room in the Waldron at ten o’clock, after a pretty long talk with Phil Dobe. I used the key going in, and found Donelly lying on the bed and looking comfortable. He grinned at me.

  “The lock was easy,” he said. “Nice beds, eh?”

  I told him I’d tried a lot of hotels in town, and the Waldron beds were as good as any. He seemed cheerful.

  “Saw Mr. Dan Dirring,” he said. “He didn’t want to talk at first, but later he did. Not a bad fellow. A brother Elk. Learned the undertaking business in my hometown, Brooklyn. That’s not far from New York.”

  I looked interested. “I’ve heard of the place,” I said. “I’ve always meant to go there.”

  Donelly stretched his legs comfortably. He had small feet for a dick.

  “It seems that Herb Steiner left a request, in the form of a note on his person, that he should be buried in the Furnaceville Cemetery. Ever hear of the place?”

  I nodded. “It’s back of Duquesne—about eight miles,” I said. “Used to be some blast furnaces there. Abandoned now. Think the Duquesne plant has a slag dump around the spot.”

  Donelly nodded. “A pal of Steiner’s named Andrees is coming on to see that things go over big. Steiner salted away his coin, and he had a yen for a final show. Hearse leaves the mortician’s place at three tomorrow afternoon. A lot of flowers, and five cars for friends.”

  Donelly grinned at me. I grinned back.

  “Who’s going to ride the five cars?” I asked.

  Donelly shrugged. “It’s funny as hell,” he said. “What’s the game, Ourney?”

  I sat down in a chair and put my feet on a windowsill. The window faced an alley. I shook my head.

  “I don’t see any game,” I told him. “Steiner was rated as a cheap fence. But then, he worked pretty smoothly until he was grabbed. He made coin. He wanted a nice funeral—and he fixed it so he’d have it. The cars may not be loaded with his pals, but the flowers will be there. A lot of crooks have had the same hunch on funerals.”

  Donelly kept on smiling. “The local coppers are looking for Virgie Beers,” he said. “They think she knows plenty.”

  I nodded. “So do I,” I said. “But she isn’t one of the big guys, Donelly.”

  His smile faded a little. “Maybe the big guys’ll be at the funeral,” he said slowly.

  “There’ll be a dick or two present,” I said. “Maybe the big guys’ll think of that—and keep clear.”

  Donelly frowned. “It’s a hell of a note,” he muttered. “I can’t figure it.”

  I looked out at the alley. “You’re not doing badly,” I told him. “Look at all the things you’ve found out.”

  He sat up and scowled at me. He got sore in a hurry.

  “I’ve found out enough to pull you back to New York!” he snapped.

  I laughed grimly. “What good would that do?” I asked. “You’re after green ice—and cold enough without it. You’d make yourself a joke.”

  He glared at me. “You know too much,” he said. “If you know what I’m after—you’re worth taking back to New York.”

  I laughed again. “Listen, Dick,” I told him, “the Malendez job is no secret. Every copper in New York knows about it. Angel Cherulli got to Malendez for maybe forty or fifty grands’ worth of emeralds. He did in Malendez—but he’s been mobbed out for trying to hog things. It just happened he tried to work the stones off on me.”

  Donelly swung his legs over the side of the bed, kept on scowling.

  “You fixed it so I had to shoot Ben Garren out,” he said. “I didn’t know it at the time, but Ben had the stuff. You were there when I got there.”

  I nodded. “I didn’t fix anything,” I said. “I didn’t know what it was all about. All I knew was that Garren had lied to me about a woman. The woman had been present when Donner was finished—she was Virgie Beers, the blonde. Garren said he didn’t know her. When I caught him in a lie, I went up to Ossining and got hold of a cab driver who told me things. I gave it to Garren straight, and he wilted. You got him before he got you, that was all.”

  Donelly grunted. “And you got the Malendez loot before I got there!” he snapped. “And it was worth more than any forty or fifty grand!”

  I widened my eyes and stared at him. I tried to act.

  “Hell!” I muttered. “So that’s what the fuss is about!”

  He smiled nastily. “Don’t pull that surprised stuff on me,” he advised. “A fence getting a big show before he goes under dirt doesn’t throw me off, Mr. Andrees.”

  I swore at him. He kept his eyes narrowed on mine. His face was red and splotched.

  “When you get off the coke—go up in the Hill district and try arak,” I suggested. “You’ll have bigger and better dreams. Me—Andrees?”

  The New York dick smiled with his lips pressed together. He parted them.

  “Just that,” he said. “You’re trying to work a throw-off. Maybe you blundered into the stuff—maybe you didn’t. But you got the ice. You know what it’s worth. You’re not a cheap crook, and when you get tired holding the stuff, and the bulls are beginning to forget, you can have the big ones recut. And you can cash in. You’re throwing a big funeral for Herb Steiner, trying to make the bulls and maybe some other guys think he was a wiser guy than he was. A bigger guy. You want a lot of people to believe that he got the big stuff—and planted it. And you’re doing it all under the cover of being a goddamed reformer—a white guy out to protect little crooks from big ones.”

  I took a deep breath, exhaled heavily. I grinned at him.

  “Lean back and rest,” I suggested. “After that speech you must be tired.”

  He got off the bed, stood near it with both hands in hip pockets. He looked pretty sore.

  “No banging me around,” I said. “My head’s bad enough right now. And you’ve got brains enough to know it won’t work.”

  He smiled. I didn’t like the smile.

  “I don’t work that way,” he said. “I’m a good guy.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You got a confession out of Red Salmon—and he knew as much about the Donner kill as you do about the Malendez job.”

  Donelly made a noise with his lips. He sucked in air with them almost pressed together. He stood staring down at me.

  “Listen, Ourney,” he said slowly, “I’ll give you a break. It would mean a lot to me to grab the Malendez stuff and get it back to New York. Lentz would see that I got a shove up the line. You know this town. You know Duquesne. You just admitted you know this cemetery. You’re a cool guy. You don’t have to work on a shoestring and get rid of the stuff right away. T
hat makes you hard to get. You worked smoothly—you were in stir when Cherulli did the job. You came out just at the right time. Come through—and I’ll let you jump the country. I’ll put it on Steiner.”

  I lighted another pill. “That’s another nice speech,” I said. “But it doesn’t mean a thing. If you had anything on me you wouldn’t make that proposition. You can’t take me across the state line until you get extradition papers, and you can’t get papers unless you’ve got something on me. You’re a nice dick, and you use a rod sweet—but you just don’t count with me. Take a walk—I’m going to bed.”

  I stood up and started to take my clothes off. Donelly stood near me, moving his fingers nervously.

  “Get going,” I said, “or I’ll call the house dick and tell him there’s a man in my room annoying me.”

  He wanted to step in close and hit me, but he had brains. He worked a smile that was pretty fair.

  “I’ll tail you until you get sick of looking at me,” he stated.

  “If that’s the case, you should have quit an hour ago,” I replied.

  He went out, slamming the door. I waited fifteen minutes, went out in the corridor and looked around, came back into the room and called Phil Dobe.

  “Anything happen in the way of murders?” I asked.

  He said that everything was quiet, but that if I had any advance information on a kill he’d like to get a cameraman on the job. He wanted to know what happened to Donelly. I told him that he’d gone away for a while, but that I thought he’d stick in town. Dobe said that the Steiner funeral was to get away from the Nathan and Dirring parlors at three tomorrow afternoon. He said he’d have a man covering the procession. He said he thought Steiner was a Jewish name, and he didn’t know what it was all about. I told him that maybe Steiner had been a Christian, and he said that it didn’t matter a hell of a lot anyway—the worms wouldn’t be able to make any distinction.

  We hung up and I remembered that Donelly had been in the room when I’d come up. I opened my bag, shoved some shirts out of the way, and looked for the stick of shaving cream. It was about where I’d put it. I took off the nickel cover, stood up, and stared at the cream. It was all messed up. Something sharp had been used on it. The green stones were gone.