A Century of Noir

by Max Allan Collins

  She shrugged. “You told me once that I would make a charming widow.”

  I let that slide and spoke what was on my mind. “They wish to keep me away from Mary Morse. Why? She doesn’t want me, doesn’t need me now.”

  “She needs you more than she ever needed you. Armin would like an excuse to kill you. Someone watches over Mary day and night. Someone who came from the Orient. Someone who could shoot you to death right in a public place and wield enough influence—what with your reputation for shooting—to escape punishment. If you want to live don’t go near Mary Morse.”

  I didn’t get it, but I drew in my knees and let the Flame slide from the booth. Certainly, I admitted, she was a gorgeous woman, but if I were Armin, I’d have her searched upon her wedding night.

  She turned her lithe, feline body there at the end of the booth and said: “There are a million tiny cells in every human brain, Race. Try using just one of them. Remember, the police arrived in time. They might have been late.”

  That they had been late was my only thought as she swung down the room.

  A minute later I picked up my check and saw the small envelope under it. I drew out the oblong bit of cardboard about as big as a visiting-card. It was from the Flame, of course. But it wasn’t. It read simply—

  Race—Race, don’t come to the Green Room. Don’t come to my table. It means your death. Don’t come no matter what I say—how I plead. It’s a trap to kill you—I won’t mean it.

  Mary Morse

  CHAPTER THREE

  Champagne Supper

  I stalled around a bit before going back to my office. When I got there the body was gone. O’Rourke wanted to hear my story again. Nelson wanted to hear it again. The D. A. wanted to hear it and so did the commissioner of police. Also a dozen or more reporters wanted to hear it.

  By that time I didn’t want to hear it and had boiled it down to a few words. I simply said: “His name, the cops say, was Willis. Why he tried to kill me I don’t know. He fired and missed. I fired and didn’t miss.” After all, there wasn’t a hell of a lot more to it.

  One reporter said: “You killed him.” And when he saw the expressions on the faces of boys who had been around and knew my record, added hastily, “Of course.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “If I didn’t kill him, you’ve got a great story. ‘Cops Bury Man Alive’.”

  You just can’t go around the city shooting people to death, nor are you even allowed to pull off promiscuous killings in your own office. But it was routine to me. I knew all the answers, and if I didn’t, I had a damn good lawyer who did. Spats Willis was wanted for murder. It was easier to find reasons for killing him than it was to find reasons for not killing him. Everybody was pleased—even Nelson.

  After I went downtown and traded dirty words with the D.A., O’Rourke got me alone in his room and talked straight out. We liked each other O’Rourke and me.

  “Race,” he said, “there’s a new angle to this case. You see, we got word that Spats Willis was coming to America, also that Raftner was coming. Now, Spats was known, but no one has ever seen Raftner. Raftner is also supposed to be here in New York. He’s the biggest narcotic agent in the world. Yet, if he walked into police headquarters this minute no one could arrest him. You know—that knowledge-without-the-evidence stuff. Wanted in England, Germany, France, Italy—”

  “I know.” I nodded. “But what of that? He’s in New York now.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” O’Rourke eyed me shrewdly. “We were tipped off he was coming by the G-men. They could have dragged in Spats Willis any time they wanted to; they’ve been following him ever since he landed. Lost him last week—and we wanted him for murder here. But the G-men have been following someone else longer than they have been following Willis.”

  “Who—Raftner?”

  “No. Take another guess.”

  “I’m not good at riddles.”

  “You,” said O’Rourke. “You, Race.”

  “Hell! I should have known it. There’s been a dozen or more lads playing lamb to my little Mary.” And suddenly, “How long? What did they find?”

  O’Rourke grinned. “You seem excited, Race. They drew a blank on you, passed you up over a week ago. Gave you a clean bill of health.”

  I breathed easier, said: “What put me into their heads? They didn’t suspect I was in the racket?”

  “I don’t know what they suspected; or how they picked up your trail. But they knew drugs had entered the country and that a big man handled it. Gentle Jim Corrigan was wanted, but they weren’t sure he headed the dope-ring. They only had to read the newspapers to know that you shot Corrigan to death smack in front of Nelson and myself. So they figured some place along the line you had a client in the racket—and they sat down on your tail.”

  “Well”—I looked straight at O’Rourke—“I haven’t got a client, in or out of the racket.”

  “Have you met the Flame lately?”

  “Haven’t seen her in three or four months.” My attitude was one of total indifference.

  “You mean since lunchtime today.” O’Rourke tossed his bomb as casually.

  “My God!” I cried out. “You—spying on me like that. How did you find that out?”

  O’Rourke chided me lightly. “Now, now. You’ve been seeing too many movies with dumb cops in them, Race. You shot a man to death and walked out for your lunch. The police were interested in whom you met. You won’t argue with me, Race, when I say that the Flame is the most beautiful and the most dangerous woman in New York. And today she was with the most dangerous man in New York—Armin Loring. That’s a combination a single man can’t beat. No, not even a single man like you. Women are dangerous to men in the racket. Armin never had a woman before—and such a woman.”

  “The Flame is not—” I started, but O’Rourke cut in.

  “I know. I know.” A long pause and then, “He’d think nothing of having you killed. And Armin can think fast.”

  “Fast with his brain as well as with his gun,” I thought half aloud.

  “Correct,” O’Rourke agreed. “Just fast with a gun won’t keep a man from being shot in the back of the head.” And with a smile, “Your being alive sort of disproves that theory, eh Race?”

  “Yeah,” was the best I could do.

  O’Rourke laid a hand on my shoulder. “You have something that none of them have, boy. You’ve got instinct. You feel danger before you see it. That’s what keeps you alive.”

  “What about these federal men. Are they going to question me?”

  “No. In fact, they’ve decided to drop you as useless to them.”

  “Even though I killed Willis?”

  “Even though you killed Willis. They didn’t make me promise not to tell you about them, but I think a demand for such a promise was coming when we were interrupted. Now, Race, those are my cards. I want yours.”

  “Mine? I have none. You don’t think Armin is in the dope racket? As for the Flame—” I stopped there. Sure, she was in it.

  O’Rourke went on and his voice was low. “I never pushed you, Race. I won’t push you now. You worked with the G-men once—they owe you something now. It would be a great feather in my hat if we beat them to the pinch.” And after a moment, “I’d stretch a point for your client, too.”

  “O’Rourke!” I looked indignant. “You don’t think I’d help anyone who—”

  “Never mind what I think. Will you play ball with me when the big moment comes? I don’t want our city to be flooded openly with dope. I’d like to think that I was the guy—even through you—who helped prevent that.” And suddenly, “Did you know that Armin has been to Singapore?”

  “No, but I know he intends to go.”

  “And for some reason or other he intends to have you killed. That’s a fact, Race. It’s common gossip in the underworld. Do you know why?”

  I grinned broadly, thought of Mary Morse and grinned more. “Is it about a woman?” I asked innocently.

  “A
woman?” O’Rourke seemed surprised so I switched that.

  “Well—I don’t know just who Mr. Armin Loring will get to alibi him in my death.”

  O’Rourke said rather sadly: “The lad who knocks you over won’t even need a lawyer. Any self-defence plea will save the man who kills you. With your record any judge, any jury will feel that if you didn’t try to kill the man first it was simply an oversight on your part.”

  I took a bow. “I won’t worry about the lad who does me in.” And in sudden thought, “Now, O’Rourke, you think Armin is going to kill me. Armin, perhaps, thinks the same thing. Just how would you feel if I—well, prevented Armin from killing me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if he wasn’t alive, why he couldn’t kill anyone.”

  “You mean that you’d murder him?”

  My shoulders went up and down. “Why make a nasty word out of it?”

  “I’m telling you now that he can shoot circles around you.”

  “That’ll be fine.” I grinned. “If I’m standing in the middle of that circle while he’s doing his act, then good-bye, Mr. Armin Loring. Suppose”—I leaned forward—“suppose seriously, O’Rourke, because I have a great respect for Armin and his gun, that it was kill or be killed. Just one bullet from one gun—whichever lad fired first. How would you like it if Armin took the dose?”

  “Personally,” said O’Rourke, “I’d like it fine.”

  “All right.” I turned toward the door. “I’ll see what I can do for you—personally.”

  “Personally—” He started suddenly, stopped, then blurted it out. “You said it was a woman. Good God, it’s not the Flame!”

  “Good God—it’s not.” I had the door half open and O’Rourke had his mouth half open. I knew what he was going to say; what he always said. His personal opinion had nothing to do with that of the department, so I didn’t give him a chance to say it. I just closed the door and took it on the run down the hall. If anything happened to Armin now, I’d tell O’Rourke I thought he wanted it that way. And truth is truth—I think he did.

  * * *

  I went whistling out of the building and grabbed the subway uptown. Oh, I know taxis are the thing for private investigators. You can’t very well say to subway motormen: “Follow that man.” But then I had no man to follow—and more to the point, no client to pay for the taxi.

  When I reached my own apartment I dropped into an easy chair, picked up the evening papers. I liked the streamers on a couple of the papers. Wanted Murderer Shot To Death and Hoodlum Killed As He Threatens Death. But one sheet did its stuff and wouldn’t hurt my business any. Yep, the blazing banner I liked best read—Race Williams Does It Again.

  On the second page I took a laugh. The photograph was good; the wording under it better. There was a picture of Iron Man Nelson leaning over the body of Spats Willis in my office. And the caption read— Inspector Nelson First to Find the Dead Body. Get it? Of course, you do—and so would Nelson. He had been making it a habit lately of finding bodies—after I laid those bodies out for him.

  The phone rang. It was Mary Morse and she was crying. There was terror in her voice. She had hard work in getting her words out over the phone, and I had a sight harder work understanding them. Then she cleared up.

  “Race,” she said finally, very slowly and distinctly, “I need you more than I have ever needed you. I am at the Green Room of the Hotel York Terrace. There is a man with me called Raftner. He is controlling my every move, because—well, you know why.”

  I didn’t get the idea, but I said simply: “Sure, Mary. I’ll come around and have a talk with you.”

  “But this man—he’ll kill you if you come!”

  “Nonsense.” I put it lightly. “I’ll stick you for the supper check.”

  “But this Raftner—he’s here with me.”

  “Then we’ll stick him for the check,” I chuckled.

  Her voice lowered. Someone muttered beside her. Mary Morse pulled an aside in a hoarse whisper. “I won’t. I won’t. He’s coming.” A pause and then, “Close the door of the booth. Wait on the outside, and I will—Oh, I will!”

  I didn’t cut in on the little comedy—or tragedy—that took place in that booth. I just listened. I heard a single step, a soft swish which sounded like the telephone-booth door closing, then Mary Morse’s voice.

  “They are making me do this. Raftner is making me. They want me to plead with you to come. They want to find out if you would come. Race, Race! I’ve caused you enough danger. Don’t come—don’t come. This Raftner is different; has influence. He’s—he’s bad.”

  “He’s kidding you, Mary. I’ll just trot over to the York Terrace and see how bad he really is.”

  “No—no!” Her voice wasn’t low now. “Don’t come! He’ll kill you right here at—”

  There was a slight thud, a stifled scream, the click of the receiver—and I dropped my own phone back in its cradle.

  I whistled softly as I adjusted my shoulder holsters, slipped into my jacket, picked up my hat. Armin Loring had warned me not to see Mary Morse again. The Flame had told me not to see her again. Mary Morse herself had told me not to come—both on that card and over the phone. And a lad called Raftner—so bad that he admitted it himself—threatened my death if I visited the Green Room of the Hotel York Terrace.

  There was only one answer to that.

  The York Terrace is a rather classy, high-priced hotel, and the Green Room some parsnips in the night life of a great city. Yet, I didn’t get into evening clothes. I can wear the boiled shirt as well as the next fellow and talk so I won’t be taken for a waiter. But a shoulder holster isn’t so good with a tux, unless you sport a small gun. Me—I don’t like twenty-twos. When I put a hole in a guy I don’t embarrass half a dozen doctors who try to find it. My motto is: There isn’t much sense in shooting the same guy over and over.

  The exclusive Hotel York Terrace was having something put over on it. I spotted him as soon as I entered the lobby. He was all decked out in fish-and-soup and leaning against a pillar—a bad boy of the night. He had the size to look down at you, and the twisted kisser to scare people to death. Now he grabbed my arm and started to work on me as soon as I reached the pillar.

  “Listen, Williams,” he said, and despite my six feet, I had to raise my head slightly to look at him, “I’m working for Armin—Armin Loring. You’re not to go in that Green Room. You’re to beat it from the hotel now before I—”

  I stopped him there. I knew why he repeated Armin’s name. It was like whistling in the dark. His heart wasn’t in his threat. I said simply: “Take your hand off me, Sam, before I shoot your arm away at the shoulder.” And when he dropped his hand as if he were gripping a hot iron, “Now—tell me what you’ll do. And if I don’t like it—you’ll be surprised.”

  His face got a bit white. “Well—” He hedged trying to get us a little back from the entrance to the Green Room which made me turn my head and see Mr. Armin Loring sitting at a table by the door with the Flame. His face was sideways to us. “Well,” Sam tried again, “I was just to say it wouldn’t be healthy for you.” And as I carelessly crossed my right hand to my left armpit, “God, Mr. Williams! It was just a message I had to give and—and—”

  I watched him back away then, fade to the left and out of sight of the crowd in the Green Room. He didn’t speak again. When he got far enough away he turned sideways and did a little ballet dance toward the main entrance. And he was right. I don’t take talk from guys like him; never did; never will.

  I spun on my heel and entered the Green Room. Armin turned his head and saw me just as I saw Mary Morse—frightened, white-faced little Mary Morse who had gone through so much with her head up—and the gent beside her. Big shoulders, big neck, big head—and so help me God!—nose-glasses with a wide black ribbon running down from them and half twisted about the huge cigar that decorated his thick-lipped puss. They were far down in a corner of that room.

  “Hello, Arm
in.” I leaned on Armin’s table and smiled at him; smiled just as the lights dimmed, a spotlight flashed, and a dame started to sing. “Is Raftner still tough? Is he the guy with the crape on his glasses?”

  Armin said very slowly: “That is Raftner—and he’ll shoot you to death right at the table. So don’t go near Mary Morse.”

  I smiled cheerfully over at the Flame. She wasn’t the young girl now. She was the hard, calculating woman of the night. It was in her eyes, her face, her tight lips—in the very movement she made pulling the high-priced fur piece over her bare right shoulder.

  I said to Armin above the singer who had hit her stride and was raising hell all over the room: “And if Raftner isn’t as bad as you think, then you’ll—”

  He almost snarled as he cut in. “Any time and place.”

  “Fine.” I patted Armin—the dangerous Armin—on the back. “Get ready for the fireworks.”

  “You fool!” Armin clutched at my arm, looked at me as if he were figuring out if I were drunk or not. “Don’t try anything here. I tell you this man will kill you.”

  “You asked for it, brother,” I told him and then almost viciously as I jerked my arm free, “If Raftner’s half the man you think he is, we’ll give the Green Room a floor-show that will be entirely different.”

  I moved around the edge of the dance-floor, cut across it on the fringe of the light, nearly lost an eardrum as the singing girl, feeling that she was not annoying enough people, began to circle around.

  I went straight down the lane of light toward those wide, staring terror-stricken eyes of Mary Morse. I saw Raftner, too. He was half turned now. One arm—his left—hung over the side of his chair. His right hand was holding a glass of champagne. The silver ice-bucket was plainly visible beside him.

  I got a good look at his face. He wasn’t any gunman—that is a gunman as we picture one. He was smiling at me and his bulging, fish-like eyes had a film over them; a film that seemed to magnify instead of dim them through the lenses of his glasses.