The Second Pulp Crime

by Mack Reynolds

  “You’re lyin’”

  Riley twisted his face painfully into a sneer. “Yeah? Figure it out, mug. You’re in a snatch racket, and you’re going to like it.” His eyes slid away, flickered triumphantly.

  Bart got it that time. He lunged to his feet, twisting. His eyes narrowed, muscles tightening across his jaw. His hands dropped slowly. The oily-haired hood stood ten feet down the corridor, his eyes murderous. “Go ahead,” he prayed. “Please make a break for the heat.”

  Bart heard Riley scramble to his feet. The muzzle of a gun was jammed hard into his ribs. Riley snapped, “Take it off, Johnny.”

  “His name,” informed Bart succinctly, “is not Johnny. It’s Greasy.”

  For an instant he thought that he had gone too far. Johnny’s finger trembled on the trigger. But another voice intervened. It came from down in the passageway, back in the dark. A heavy voice. “I got the Meredith fluff, Gallio. Want her?”

  “Keep the little hellcat back, you damn fool.” There was alarm in Riley’s voice.

  Bart thought, “So it’s Gallio, instead of Riley, is it? And he doesn’t want this Meredith kid to see me. So what?” Riley shifted his gun, came around to the front. For the first time Bart saw the livid marks of fingernails across his face. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. The little gunman saw them, too, and apparently took a different interpretation. “How much you ask for the picture, Gallio?”

  Riley growled surlily, “Two fifty grand.”

  Johnny cursed, spun his wicked little automatic in his hand. “We could o’ got damn near that much—the other way.”

  Riley laughed harshly. “Hell, we’re takin’ both ways.” He pushed his gat deep into Bart’s side and slapped him across the mouth with the back of his hand. Bart tasted blood. “That’s for one of your cracks,” Riley said without feeling. He answered Johnny over his shoulder. “You keep your lousy trap out of this. She’ll pay all right. She damn near went off her nut when I told her I was sending that picture in by a Star legman. The blonde fluff’s a perfect double—and her hair looks the same in a picture. If that is printed it’ll bust her divorce case wide-open. That means Haynes’ll take her for another cool million.”

  Bart blinked. This tied in with the rumor that Haynes had married Julia Meredith for her money. He didn’t have any more time to think. Riley smacked him again, with a closed fist this time. Bart staggered, his blood boiling, muscles tied into knots. Riley slash-lipped a grin. “Can’t take it?”

  Johnny stepped forward, prayed, “Let me put a load of lead in his guts!”

  Riley drove his knuckles into Bart’s nose. Bart swayed, dropped to his knees, head spinning crazily. His arms, robbed of their power, fell grotesquely about Riley’s knees. The touch loosed the raging torrent of leashed anger fired in Bart’s blood. His arms tightened about those knees, his vision clearing.

  Riley squealed with fear and chopped down with the muzzle of his gun. Bart dodged the blow, felt his left arm go limp as the gat cracked down on his shoulder. He spun Riley as he would have a toy. Johnny leaped in, face working.

  Bart heaved to his feet. His reversed captor held at arm’s length. He shoved. Riley hurtled forward. Johnny sidestepped and his gun retched a crimson flood. Bart clawed for his gun, dropped back into the shadows. The thunder of the other’s firearm beat into his consciousness, he felt a tug at the clothes on his side. His revolver came free in his hand.

  He crouched. “Now, you rats!” he snarled.

  He felt the heavy gun kick back in his hand. Johnny looked surprised. His mouth opened slowly, his automatic slid forward in his hand, dropped. Riley spun around, face contorted with fear, a ludicrous figure, a string manipulator who didn’t have any more puppets. Johnny fell against him, and he all but collapsed. He snapped two harried shots. A .44 slug struck him in the shoulder. He went down, howling with pain.

  Bart stepped forward and kicked the fallen gun out of arm’s reach. He bent, pulled Riley’s face around from the wall. “Now, damn you,” he said, “maybe you’ll talk.” He was wrong. Riley wouldn’t talk for a long time. He was unconscious.

  Bart swore. This was tough. He had a hunch that he was going to need some information, and in a hurry. He turned, looked down the passageway. He heard scuffling, a muffled curse. Then a shout, “Gallio, what the hell’s goin’ on?” That would be the hood holding Julia Meredith. Bart muffled his voice, called “Okay.” He walked into shadows, gat held ready in front of him.

  He turned the corner. In the middle of the flood of light from the open stateroom door a man and a woman were struggling. Bart tiptoed, eyes glued to the broad back of the captor. He leaped forward and brought the muzzle of his gun down hard on the back of the jutting head. The hood swayed, collapsed.

  Julia Meredith, suddenly freed, darted through the door. Bart followed, stood in the glare of light. She stared at him, and what was at first surprised recognition changed to bewilderment. Her face whitened. She drew back, pulling her thin wrap tightly over her full breasts and the smooth curves of her torso. She opened her mouth.

  “Skip it, lady,” Bart cut her off. “No, I’m not the dearly beloved. Now—get over there.” The blonde had found a filmy negligee and was curled up in it. He jerked his thumb at her. “Move over, cutie, and make room for a lady!”

  They both obeyed. Bart waggled his finger at the redheaded one. “You talk—and don’t worry who I am. Talk fast. Why was that picture so important? Why would it have busted your divorce case?”

  Julia Meredith’s eyes were on the blonde. They darkened venomously. “I know now where that picture came from. You little—”

  “Can it.” Bart leaped forward, and dragged her away from the blonde. “You’ve used your fingernails enough tonight—on Gallio.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Yeah, I’m crazy. But you start spilling the works or you’ll be worse.” Bart grimaced, hating to use these tactics.

  All the fight went out of her. She nodded wearily. “I’ll talk. My case for divorce hinges on the fact that I haven’t been living with my husband for a year and”—she colored—“haven’t had any intimate relation with him during that time. That picture, dated by a newshawk, would disprove that—apparently.”

  Bart grinned wholeheartedly for the first time that night. “Ain’t it tough?” He backed away, and felt for the light switch. “That, lady, calls for the rest of the play—and maybe a little surprise for somebody.” He snapped out the light and felt his way to the porthole, oblivious to the cries of alarm from the two women. He fished in his pocket, salvaged the subject of the afternoon phone call, the pocket flash, pointed it outboard, and snapped it on and off three times.

  He listened. Somewhere away from the ship he heard the sound of a motor idling. It shut off. He went out the porthole as he had entered. He clung to the ladder, wondering if this was the right thing. It seemed lousy to go off and leave those two this way, but they wouldn’t be any worse off than they had been. And maybe—

  There was a faint splash below, the sound of wood scraping against the sides of the ship. A feminine voice sounded, “Here, quick.”

  He slid down, felt his feet touch the unsteady bow of a boat. He crouched down, went aft, and dropped into the dark well of the forward cockpit. There was a faint purr. The boat slid away from the ship’s side. Bart looked at the blur behind the steering wheel in the after cockpit. “God, Betty,” he said, “I didn’t think you’d get here.”

  Her reply was all but drowned by the exhaust as the boat leaped forward. “I damn nearly didn’t! That idea of yours about a signal when things broke, was hot—but I’m no mermaid. But leave it to little Betty Dale. When you and that dick pulled the water act I scouted around and found this power boat.”

  “Handy, wasn’t it,” Bart said dryly. His voice was muffled, he was too busy searching about the bottom of the cockpit to speak up. His hands tou
ched nothing but wood. He looked aft. The darkness was impenetrable, Betty could not see him. He continued searching. He muttered under his breath. “It’s got to be here somewhere. She can’t have it with her in that driver’s seat, too damn bulky. Unh—here.”

  His fingers had found a wadded up blanket tucked far underneath the seat. He pulled it out, unfolded the blanket carefully, and for a second time fished out the pocket flash. He shaded it under a fold of the blanket, turned it on. For a long moment he stared at what it revealed, then he snapped off the light, rewrapped the package, and shoved it back where it had been. Then he sat up with a satisfied sigh.

  The lights of the distant harbor multiplied, grew. They came close and the girl pilot brought the boat up to a landing at a pier. Bart jumped out, took a turn with the bowline on the dock, then reached down toward Betty. She hung back. “Go see if you can find a taxi, will you?” she asked.

  “Nuts. We’ll both find it. I’m not letting you get away from me again. I’m not forgetting a certain promise you made—and you got me into a hell of a mess out there.”

  She hesitated, then with a shrug of gorgeous shoulders took his extended hand. They walked up the dock in silence. They found a cab at a nearby ferry station. They headed uptown. Bart reached over with his right arm and drew her to him. She pressed against him, her lips raised invitingly. He set his own to them. His right hand found its way under her arm, found her hand pressed to a firm breast. His left hand began exploring…

  His fingers closed about those of her right hand. He raised them, lowered his head as though to set his lips to them. The cab shot past a streetlamp, for an instant her hand was set in brilliant relief. Bart’s eyes narrowed, squinted. He laughed harshly, and in one swift motion brought her left hand up and captured both her hands in his own right one. While she struggled he deftly drew a clinking pair of handcuffs from his pocket and snapped them over her arms.

  He grinned down into her suddenly white face. “When I play detective, lady, I always have all the tools of the trade!”

  Her eyes were dilated with rage. “Let me go,” she screamed.

  “Nix.” Bart turned his head, barked at the driver. “Head for the police station, fella.”

  She calmed abruptly. Warily she demanded, “What do you think you got on me?”

  “Listen, gorgeous, when you rip your fingernails across a man’s face, make sure that you wash your hands. Lady, there’s blood—Gallio’s blood—under your nails.”

  She sagged. He saw that he had scored, not just a hit, but a whole damn home run. Her voice was lifeless. “How—?”

  “I thought it was clever—too damn clever for anybody but a woman to figure out. Snatchin’ one double, and roping in another to make a picture of what was supposed to be two film stars. But that card stunt was screwy in the first place. Too crude, Tricks. That had me wondering, which was the main reason for my following it up. But I didn’t figure where you fitted in until Gallio made that crack about the Star legman, and working both ways with that picture.

  “First Meredith was to be blackmailed with the picture, then Gallio slipped it to you and you were to go ashore with it and sell it to Haynes—he’d pay plenty for it to break the divorce. You’d collect double, and then scram. Neat!”

  She sobbed, and sagged lifelessly against him, her shoulder supported by his. She begged, piteously, “Please don’t turn me in, Bart. It—it was Gallio’s idea—not mine.” Her tear-filled eyes were turned up to his and she beat her manacled hands against his chest. “Please, Bart.”

  Suddenly, her body stiffened. Her interlocked hands darted unerringly beneath his coat, toward his left armpit. He was caught entirely off guard. Before he could move, the muzzle of his gun was pressed into his ribs.

  Her voice hardened, whipped at him, “Now I’ll play, sap. You were going to get off easy, taken off the boat and everything. But you know where guys who get too smart go. Gallio got too fresh, and I fixed his face. You get too smart, and I’ll fix—” She left the sentence unfinished, went on triumphantly, “I’m collecting tonight. I’m going to Haynes. I’ve got the plates for the picture in the boat.”

  “Yeah,” said Bart, “I found ’em—in a blanket. That cinched it.” He reached down. There was a dull click of a falling hammer. The girl recoiled, the gun falling from her fingers.

  Bart grinned. “The last shot went into the shoulder of your friend, Gallio.” He looked up, ahead. “It’s curtains now. You can tell your sad, sad story to the judge. And when the boys go out to round up your playmates, tell them to be nice to the little blonde.” He smiled reminiscently. “You’d be surprised how nice she can be.”

  He added, as an afterthought, “And maybe for this stunt I’ll get back on the force.”

  FLOPHOUSE COURT, by Hapsburg Liebe

  Originally published in Ten Detective Aces, September 1933.

  A sort of father confessor to human wreckage off the Big Muddy, was “Sir Henry” Morgan, proprietor of a combination flop-house and soup kitchen—he called it a hotel—in New Orleans’ most squalid river-front section. He slept and fed the derelicts when they came to him penniless and hungry, knowing that they’d pay him sometime. His having fallen farther and harder than any of them made him sympathetic. He’d been a great aristocrat in his day. He was still pompous. Hence his nickname, “Sir Henry.”

  Tonight there was a dick in the house, a squat fellow in the guise of a river-underworld thug, who called himself Frazier. He sat off in a corner of the dimly lighted, unswept lobby and watched the black front doorway with the eyes of a hawk. Unshaven, hard-bitten men came and went; Frazier did not notice them, the man he wanted was not there, as yet. The tall, gray Morgan, sitting back of the ramshackle desk, knew very well that the fellow was a dick. Morgan always knew.

  Presently a stranger drifted in, came as soundlessly as a shadow, by way of the rear. He was young, slim, in dark clothing. A pair of very blue eyes burned under the lowdown rim of his soft hat. Leaning across the desk, he breathed shakily: “Are you Mr. Morgan?”

  “I most assuredly am, seh. What can I do for you?”

  Before the newcomer could answer, another human form approached the desk as soundlessly as a shadow. This was a shawled and slippered hag. The network of lines in her face half concealed a hideous disfigurement of ancient scars. She peered hard at the newcomer’s features, then muttered: “It ain’t him, no, it ain’t him,” and vanished.

  “Poor old Moll,” said Morgan, with much feeling. “Well, seh, what can I do for you?”

  The young man with the burning blue eyes glanced uneasily at two passing tatterdemalions, and announced: “I want to see you—private.”

  For a few seconds of time Morgan watched the disguised officer in the dim corner. Frazier did not look around. Morgan pointed slyly toward the barnlike and now dark room that served as a dining-room. They went in.

  “Well, seh?”

  The youthful voice was low and strained: “I’m from Memphis, and my name’s George Boland, though mos’ly they called me ‘Little Tennessee’ because I’d come off o’ the Little Tennessee River. I was p’izen bad, but I wasn’t any crook—jus’ buck-wild, y’know. When I tried to straighten up, it was too late. I’d been ’cused o’ a lot o’ things I didn’t do. Then I went to Jim Anderson for advice. Jim runs a little store dost to the water. Said he knowed you, Mr. Morgan. Right?”

  “That is correct. Anderson is one of my very good friends. And then, seh?”

  “Well,” continued the other, “Jim su’gested for me to come to you here in N’Awleens, and he gimme a note to interdooce me to you, and loant me twenty dollars. The note said you’d mebbe loand me another twenty, so I could go to Central America and begin life all over. I snook on the old Covington Belle to work my way down the river hustlin’ freight; wanted to save my money, y’see, for the long trip. Well, they was a pickpocket aboard. Now listen dost, Mr. Morgan:
>
  “This crook was about my age and size, and awful slick and fast. That night I couldn’t sleep, and got up to walk the deck, and I seen him dip into a old man passenger’s pocket. Only the three o’ us was on that part o’ the deck then. Well, the passenger jerked a big gun, but the crook grabbed it, and then he pushed the old man overboard deliberate to keep him from talkin’—and you know what that means?”

  “I do, seh. The paddle blades of the wheel mangled and killed the poor fellow, of course. Horrible!”

  George Boland, Little Tennessee, went on:

  “Like a fool, I jumped the crook, gun and all. He lammed me acrost the head with the gun-barrel, nearly knockin’ me out, went through my pockets, and pushed me overboard too! But when I hits water I comes to myself, and swims to beat all. I swam to shore, and caught a freight train at the closest town, and—here I am, half starved to death. The pickpocket got the note I was bringin’ to you from Jim Anderson, as well as my twenty dollars. Has he showed up here?”

  “No,” Sir Henry said. “Come this way, if you please, seh.”

  * * * *

  He piloted Boland to the patchwork lean-to kitchen, sat Boland down to a great bowl of soup and a plate of buns.

  “When you’ve finished eating, go upstairs and find yourself a bed. I will see you later. Goodnight!”

  He went back to the lobby.

  Frazier, the dick, still sat watching the front entrance like a hawk. This annoyed Morgan a good deal now. He noted then that old Moll the hag had just come in again and was looking closely at the dick.

  “It ain’t him,” she moaned.

  “What do you mean?” blurted Frazier. “Are you cracked?”

  “Yes, she’s cracked,” quickly said Morgan, at the desk. He ordered sharply: “You, seh, come here!”

  The dick frowned, did not move. A nondescript man rose from a soapbox in deeper shadows, walked to Frazier and glared down at him.

  “Sir Henry wants you, didn’t you hear? Must I paste yo’ face to the back o’ yo’ neck? Or will you go see what Sir Henry wants?”