“I’m sorry I told him,” she said. “It was a mistake.”
“Not for me,” I said. “It made me a smart guy instead of a corpse.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s not important.”
The sun in the sky was nearing the tooled ridge of stone. I wished for a drink, but nobody brought one. Faith Salem’s breasts rose and fell, rose and fell. Her long brown legs stirred slightly in the sun.
“Did Constance tell all this?” she said.
“The part about the murder. Not the rest.”
“How strange it is. How strange simply to forget everything and become someone else.”
“Strange enough, but not incredible. It’s happened before. People have gone half around the world and lived undetected in new identities tor years.”
“Is she all right now?”
“She remembers who she is and everything that happened until she found the body of Regis Lawler in his apartment. She doesn’t remember anything that happened in the time of the fugue. That’s a long way from all right, I guess, but it’s as good as she can hope for.”
“Why become me? Why me of all people?”
There was honest wonderment in her voice. Looking at her, the lean brown length of her, I could have told her why, but I didn’t. I had a feeling that it was time to be going, and I stood up.
“I think I’d better leave now,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “I think so.”
“I’ll send you a bill.”
“Of course. I’ll be here as long as the rent’s paid. That’s about three months.”
“Are you going to look at me before I leave?”
“No. I don’t think so. Do you mind letting yourself out?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Good-by, then, Mr. Hand. I wish you had a lot of money. It’s a shame you’re so poor.”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “It’s a crying shame.”
She never moved or looked at me, and I went away. The next day I sent her a bill, and two days after that I got a check. I saw her twice again, but not to speak to. Once she was coming out of a shop alone, and once she was going into a theater on the arm of a man. I learned later that she married a very rich brewer and went to live in Milwaukee.
A LONG ROPE, by Archie Oboler
Originally published in Ten Detective Aces, April 1933.
Gabby Bellam let his eyes glide slowly over the figure of the young woman seated opposite him. Then he lifted his gaze to her face again and said, “What did you say that rope was worth?”
The woman fingered the string of glimmering rubies at her throat, then, with a quick movement, she brought the collar of her coat close about her as she answered, “They’re insured for thirty thousand dollars, Mr. Bellam.”
“You’re a rotten little liar,” thought Bellam. “If those rubies aren’t worth an even hundred grand, I’m a milkman.”
Out loud he said, “And you want me to take them away from you some dark night so that you can collect from the insurance company, eh? Who did you say told you about me?”
“Mrs. Bennicott,” said the woman. “She told me you did the same kind of, er—work for her.”
The woman was quite young, very smartly dressed, and exceedingly pretty; the latter fact was, primarily, the reason Gabby Bellam was prolonging this little interview as long as possible.
His sharp eyes swept around the dimly lit tearoom before he continued with, “When do you want the job pulled?”
“Would this Wednesday, tomorrow, do? I go to the theatre every Wednesday. You could hold me up on my return.”
“Can’t do it,” declared Bellam. “Got a job on tomorrow.”
“Oh, I see,” said the woman. “Well, then, could you come a week from tomorrow?”
“Okay,” said Bellam. He lit a cigarette and gazed at it thoughtfully a moment. Then he said, “You can pay me a grand now, and four grand after I pull the job.”
“A grand?” puzzled the girl. “Oh, I see. You mean a thousand dollars. I’ll give you a check.”
“Check? Nothing doing. Cash, lady, cash.”
“You’ll have to wait, then, until I walk over to the bank.”
“Yeah, I’ll wait,” said Bellam languidly. “Don’t be long.”
He watched the back of the woman until she was lost in the traffic outside, his eyes sharp and intense. Some baby, this Mrs. Warren, his thoughts ran. Real class there. A divorcee, he had gathered. A little ritzy now, of course, but as soon as he’d pulled this fake robbery for her, she’d come off her high horse. He was certain of that. As party to a conspiracy to defraud, she would be right in his hands. She’d be forced to be nice to him. His face grew heavy with desire at the thought.
When the woman returned, Bellam played his trump hand.
“By the way,” he said, as he pocketed the money, “I haven’t got much time now, so here’s what you’d better do: you drop me a letter in the next few days telling me what time you’ll be coming back from the show and everything like that. That’ll be all I’ll need. You can depend on me being there.”
“You’ll bring the necklace back to me the day after you rob, er—take it?” questioned the woman.
“Sure, I’ll bring it back.” Bellam got to his feet. “Well, don’t forget that letter so I’ll know what time to be there.”
“No, I won’t,” returned Mrs. Warren. “But wait a minute, Mr. Bellam. Where’ll I send it?”
“General delivery. I’ll get it. Well, see you two weeks from tomorrow.” He smiled fawningly, tipped his derby, and went his way.
As he walked along in the swirling holiday crowds, Gabby felt exceedingly exultant. With that incriminating letter in his possession, he’d be sitting on top of the world. Old Lady Bennicott had steered him into a juicy job in this Warren business all right. He had a grand in his pocket now; once he got hands on those rubies, that would mean another thirty grand.
And then there was—and Bellam’s eyes glistened at the thought—the very delectable young woman herself.
* * * *
The following day—Wednesday—the departure from and the return to her apartment of Mrs. Warren was followed very intently by Mr. Gabby Bellam. It was not until the woman finally entered the lobby of her apartment building that he flipped his cigarette away, turned up his coat collar, and hurried off. He considered it an evening well spent.
The Warren woman went to the theatre on Wednesdays all right. Now he felt safe to go ahead with that fake jewel robbery. Fake robbery! That was a laugh. Bellam chuckled as he went around the corner where his car stood parked. It would be a fake all right, but not as far as Gabby Bellam was concerned.
A week from that night, at the same late hour of the evening, once again Bellam stood across the street from Mrs. Warren’s home. It was drizzling slightly and the man pulled up the collar of his coat and cursed lustily under his breath. Why didn’t that blanked woman hurry? Twelve o’clock was the hour she had given him in her letter. He looked at his watch, holding the face of it up toward the streetlight. It was 12:30. Just like a woman.
And then Bellam had to smile in spite of himself, as he recalled just how profitable this evening’s work was going to be. It was going to be worth standing around an extra half hour for such profits.
The side street was practically deserted, now, except for occasional autos gliding by on the wet street, and Bellam crossed over to the opposite side. He stationed himself in the shadows alongside the apartment-house entrance.
A taxi drew up and two women got out. Bellam peered out cautiously and saw that the woman paying the driver was his Mrs. Warren. Smart, eh? She’d brought along another woman to make the job look better. He reached into his pocket, took out a dark cloth, tied it around the lower half of his face, pulled an automatic out of a shoulder holst
er, and stood waiting.
The moment the taxi pulled away, he stepped out and met the two women as they came up to the door.
“Get over there!” he snarled. “Keep your mouths shut!” With his gun he motioned toward the shadows from which he had stepped.
The woman with Mrs. Warren gave a faint bleat of alarm, and Mrs. Warren took her arm and pulled her over into the shadows.
In three minutes Bellam was through; the necklace was in his pocket together with the pocketbooks and incidental jewelry of both the women.
Then he snapped, “Don’t move for five minutes or I’ll kill you!” turned, and dashed around the corner to where his car stood waiting.
* * * *
The next afternoon an impeccably attired Gabby Bellam pressed the bell-button labeled “Mrs. C. Warren.” At the faint response down the tube he answered, “Mr. Bellam,” and smiled at the immediate buzz of the door release. Anxious to see him, was she?
“Hello,” Mrs. Warren greeted him. “Won’t you come in?”
Would he come in? Bellam grinned at that. Try and keep him out! He followed her into the apartment, his eyes feasting on her. Some baby. She’d have to be mighty nice to him now.
“Well, how did you like the way I put it over?” he questioned when they were seated on a divan in the living room.
“It was a good thing I knew who you were or I’d have been frightened to death,” smiled the young woman. “Poor Mrs. Winslow’s in bed yet from the shock. It was unfortunate for her that she met me at the theatre and absolutely insisted on driving home in my cab.”
“Yeah? Well, I didn’t mind,” said Bellam easily, reaching over the woman familiarly to get a cigarette off the end-table.
“No, I suppose not,” said the woman. “Mrs. Winslow’s jewelry will be sort of a—er—bonus for you.”
“Yeah, sort of,” said Bellam. He let his arm drop in back of her. “So you were a little scared of me, eh?”
“No, really I wasn’t,” said Mrs. Warren. She moved away a bit from the man and added: “You give me the rubies now, and then I’ll give you a check. I’ve got to hurry. I’ve got an engagement this afternoon.”
Bellam stiffened at the sudden formality of her tone. So she was going to be high-hat, was she? He made one more attempt at familiarity.
“Aw, be nice,” he murmured with a smile intended to be beguiling. “I’m only a poor orphan with one mother and one father.” He reached out for her hand, but she snatched it away and stood erect.
“I’d like to have that necklace now,” she said. “I told you I’m very busy today.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’m not.” Bellam was in a cold fury now. He dropped all pretense at amiability. “What do you want with those rubies anyway? They’re paste.”
“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Warren.
Bellam jumped to his feet, anger twisting his thin face, and seized her arm.
“Thought you were smart, eh,” he demanded, “wearing paste last night instead of the real stuff? I should do all the work and be satisfied with five grand while you look pretty and clean up thirty grand on the insurance and keep your string on top of it. Thought I was a sap, eh? Well, I’m not, see, baby. Come across now. Where’s that rope?”
The woman’s free hand was in the right pocket of the coat of her tailored suit; suddenly it came out with a small automatic in it. Bellam let go of her other arm and staggered back, blank surprise on his face. Then he smiled evilly and crouched slightly. “Carry a gat, eh? Quite some little lady.”
“Put your hands up,” ordered the woman tensely.
Bellam’s arms came up from his sides slowly, then his mouth fell agape and he exclaimed, “You!” in horror-stricken tones, his eyes popping at something behind her. Startled, the woman turned her head slightly. In that moment Bellam’s long arm shot out and the small gun clattered to the floor. The woman cried out in pain and grasped her wrist.
A kick and the gun slithered under a chair, while in Bellam’s hand an automatic menaced the woman.
“Now will you be good, baby,” grinned Bellam. “Let’s have a kiss before you go get the necklace for me.” His left arm went out and pulled the girl to him. To his surprise she did not struggle against him and he dropped his gun on the sofa behind him and held her close.
Suddenly she stared over his shoulder. “You!” she said in a startled voice.
Bellam grinned. “That only works once, baby!” he laughed.
Then the feel of a hard object pressing into the small of his back made him realize that the woman had not been acting.
“Put your hands up,” came the order in a deep masculine voice.
Bellam’s arms went up.
“Now turn around.”
Bellam did. Then his knees buckled slightly and his face went white. Toole, the insurance detail dick!
“Yes, Gabby, it’s Johnny Toole, all right,” said the detective. “Put out your hands.” Then, as he clicked on the handcuffs he said, in an aside to the woman:
“Sorry I let you in for this, Mrs. Warren. I stepped out the back way to get a breath of air, and I just got back in time to see Romeo here strut his stuff.
“The insurance companies have been chasing you a year now, Gabby,” he went on. “It wasn’t until we brought a good-looking woman into the case that we got you. Sure, Mrs. Warren here works for the very companies you and your lady friends have been defrauding for the last year. How do you like her?”
But he got no answer to that. For the first time in his life the very garrulous Mr. Gabby Bellam was speechless. He was stricken dumb, curiously enough, by two metal bands encircling his wrists.
YOUR CRIME IS MY CRIME, by Talmage Powell
Originally published in New Detective Magazine, May 1946.
The city of Baltimore lay sweltering in the sluggish heat of the autumn night. A searing, fitful breeze off the bay lay its hot tongue on the dinginess of Pratt Street, bringing tired, stringy-haired women to doorways, causing babies to whimper in their grotesque sleep. On Redwood Street, a few offices in concrete and steel buildings blazed with light as brokers figured clients’ margins, or tried to guess how many points above 103 Acme Steel would be four weeks from today. Lower East Baltimore Street teemed with sweat-boiled, jostling bodies. A newsboy hawked his wares, rearranging newspapers and magazines laid along the grimy curb and held prisoner from the faint breeze by paperweights.
A burlesque barker added his voice to the din and the air-conditioned penny arcades were jammed, offering refuge from the heat for the price of a pinball game and hot dog smeared with sweet relish. Shooting galleries reminded passing veterans of things they wanted to forget, and bartenders worked like machines, pouring streams of cool liquid over damp bars, while the laughter of men was joined by the tinkling laughter of women and juke boxes and sweating four-piece orchestras pounded a never-ending rhythm. Street cars clanged and horns blared as taxis snaked toward curbs for fares and into the stream of traffic again.
In John Hopkins, a quartet of specialists studied a case of leukemia and wagged their heads over it, knowing it to be incurable. In surgery a famed obstetrician finished a Caesarian and the new life was rushed to an incubator.
It was people. It was sound and silence, life and death. It was kinship, for no matter what a man was doing that hot night in Baltimore, there was another doing or thinking a similar act—even to murder.
Save for the man in the small apartment on Mount Royal Avenue. He was quite alone in his decision, his act—for there was, after all, only one John Brennan.
He stood looking at the slim steady girl with the brunette hair and the rotund, bald man who sat on the couch beside her. They looked back at him and the silence was heavy, broken only by the angry hum of traffic on the street below and the laboring whir of an exhaust fan somewhere in the building.
The rotund, bald, red-nosed man stood up
his bulldog jaw quivering on the black cigar clamped between his teeth. “But you can’t mean this, John! Now that you’re back, you’re staying right here—in Baltimore. We need you. Jean,” he glanced at the girl who looked at John Brennan so steadily, “and me. The force needs you. And the city, John. We’ve been waiting for you to come back—me and Jean and the force and the city. We’ve waited a long time. When V-J day came—”
Brennan turned from the window. He’d been a big, strapping, lean-bellied man once. Now he wasn’t. He felt only the ghost of himself.
He broke in, “V-J day was just another day in a hospital for me, MacLaren—and for a lot of other guys.” His voice was almost savage, bringing the heavy silence back again. Then he added, “Sorry.” He waited a moment and said, “Thanks for coming by, Inspector MacLaren. Tell the boys on the force—”
The ash on MacLaren’s cigar glowed. “I’ll tell them you’re coming back, John.” He moved over beside the younger man, the man who looked and felt old. He took Brennan’s elbows in his hands and gripped until the tall, gaunt man winced. “You remember Donnavan, don’t you, John? Donnavan is dead.”
The Second Pulp Crime Page 16
