A Century of Noir

by Max Allan Collins

  “Williams didn’t expose her because they were once—well, to know the Flame is—”

  “To love the Flame is to die,” Raftner snapped in. “That went for all the others. It’s going for you tonight, too.”

  “You mean—you’re going to kill me?”

  “I’m not going to have the Flame set me up for death.”

  “You’re out of your head, man,” Armin said. “It was just a coincidence.”

  “All right”—Raftner didn’t argue—“have it your way. I’m not going to die by coincidence. But you—”

  I could hear Armin’s quick breath, felt that Raftner must have shoved his gun tighter against him. Armin’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. “What—what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to pick up that phone, tell the Flame to come here—now.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m going to prevent any more coincidences. I’m going to kill her.”

  Armin laughed. “And you think I’d bring her here for that?”

  “I think—just that?”

  Armin spoke out like a man. I always thought he had it in him, but I had always thought also, and always believed and so stated, that all murderers were yellow inside; would do any rotten act, right up to tossing a knife into their best friend’s back, if it would save their own skin. Now Armin made me out a liar.

  “Raftner,” he said, “I have always played the game without a woman. That’s where I got the name, One Man Armin. Now—this is something new in my life. I’m taking on a wife not a woman. If you were to cut me to ribbons I wouldn’t lift that phone from its cradle.”

  Raftner said very seriously: “I’m not going to cut you to ribbons. I’m simply going to shoot you to death.”

  “Go ahead and shoot then.” Armin raised his voice. “I love that girl and—and—What are you going to do?”

  “Count five and shoot.”

  “Why the Flame means more to me than life.”

  “One—”

  “Death would mean nothing and—”

  “Two.”

  “You can’t bluff me by—”

  “Three.”

  “I tell you I’d die a hundred times before—” And Armin’s voice had raised to an almost hysterical shriek.

  “Four,” said Raftner.

  A sudden cry from Armin. A dead silence. Then a clicking noise. After a few minutes I heard the voice of Armin say: “This is Armin, gorgeous. I’m at the den. Come over at once. . . . Wrong? No, everything is fine. . . . Right away then. Good. . . . Sure, I have good news for you.”

  “That,” said Raftner, “is more like it.”

  “That,” I said to myself, “is more like what I expected also.” No, there was nothing yellow about Armin but his soul.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Up Popped the Devil

  They talked low after that—very low—Armin trying to convince Raftner, Raftner on his guard. Then I heard them cross the room, heard muffled conversation, and Armin curse and exclaim: “The vases—the one I marked with X. Look—the ones that had the stuff in them!”

  “Yeah, I see. No tricks now, Armin. They still have the X on them.”

  “Yes, but they are not the same vases, not the same design or color even. Look there! Remember? And the crate. By God, it’s been opened and nailed up again!”

  Loud talk then. Plenty of cursing, the pound of something heavy, and smashing crockery. More pounding, more smashing crockery—and Armin cried out: “Millions—and it’s gone! Someone has taken it away.”

  “Who? Who—Williams!” Raftner shouted and then, “Don’t go near that door! Only you could have—”

  “Me!” The door was opening, Armin was calling low now: “Sam, come here.” Feet then, and the closing door and Armin’s, “You were wrong about the Flame, Raftner. She was not building me up; she’s building up herself or—or—By God, she’s working for—”

  Mumbled words; quick questions. The voice of Sam, stupid, slow, unexcited. I damned near popped out of the vase, but didn’t.

  Sam was saying: “The Flame gave me money when I found her going through your desk. I thought it was love-letters, Armin. She always seemed jealous about you. I thought nothing of her looking through your things and—”

  “The book,” said Raftner. “The list of where the stuff was to go. What have you told her, Armin?”

  “The book is in my pocket. I told her nothing—very little. Yes, she knew it was dope; didn’t know I was head of the organization. She wanted me to make money. She had a key to the door here. I—I—Take that gun off me, Raftner. She made a fool of me. I’ll attend to her when she gets here.”

  Yep, it was just like a good radio program. I could feel Raftner looking at Armin, reading the truth in that cold, cruel face of his.

  It was after they chased Sam outside again that Raftner said: “All right, Armin. But I’ll make her tell where she put the stuff.”

  “No,” said Armin very slowly, “I’ll make her tell. I’ll cut tiny pieces from every last inch of her beautiful body—”

  “You’ll kill her too soon—before she can talk.”

  “No,” said Armin, “I won’t kill her too soon. I won’t even kill her after she talks. I’ll promise her death just as she promised me life on that trip abroad.” And after a long pause, “But I’ll make it a most horrible death. Yes, I’ll make her tell.”

  That was my cue. Just to pop up with a couple of guns before the Flame even entered the place. I was happy, too, for the first time since I had met the Flame months back and believed she was in this, the rottenest of all rackets. Then I had another thought. Perhaps they were wrong and the Flame was working just for herself.

  I’m of a suspicious nature and so I didn’t pop up. Perhaps I would hear more when the Flame came. Maybe she’d talk. Maybe they’d talk. Maybe I’d hear where the drugs were hidden. But I was listening to other pleasant conversation.

  “About this Mary Morse”—it was Raftner’s voice—“she’s apt to gum up the works any time. She’s safe?”

  Armin laughed. It was like static. “Another cute bag of tricks. I missed her going into my apartment because of Williams last night. But I caught her coming out. Yes, she was ready to holler the business from the housetops. She’s tied up on the thirty-seventh floor of the Hampton Hotel.” He paused for a moment. Then, “It would be just like her to jump from the window, toss herself to the street below.”

  “God!” said Raftner. “You haven’t done that.”

  “Not yet. I was afraid the police might find some way of identifying her body. That’d mean an investigation and cops and government men here in the shop. Williams will have to die first. The fool nearly forced me into shooting it out with him at my apartment. It’s the first time I ever ran from any man, but I couldn’t chance the investigation at this time. With Williams dead—and he will be dead—there is no one to know the truth. Conklyn Lee hardly counts. He doesn’t know your real identity and he doesn’t know mine. I might even keep the girl alive.” And talking rapidly and excitedly as if he had just had the thought, “With Williams dead—we might let Mary Morse live. She gets money—plenty of it. If Conklyn Lee knew I had her and would kill her unless she—”

  “No, no,” Raftner said quietly. “There’s more than a million in this for us. You said you had laid the foundation for the next distribution from a house in Brooklyn. The home of a respected lawyer with a big name—slated to be senator—who killed a man twenty years ago. No, Armin. This place will be too hot after tonight. I think your idea of Mary Morse jumping from the window must stand.”

  I heard Armin’s feet move, heard his hand come down upon the desk. I imagined his eyes narrowing and his lips tightening. “O.K.,” he said. “The Flame must talk. You’ve got the men outside. There’s no danger from anyone but Williams—”

  “Yes.” I didn’t need to see Raftner’s face; the hate was in his words. He spat as if he still tasted that cigar. “There are two men with machine guns i
n the alley. I had hoped to be well away in the truck before Williams could act and now—”

  A sudden silence. I heard the opening door, Sam’s voice, then the closing door again and a single pair of feet across that hard floor. Quick steps, woman’s steps; steps that stopped before they reached the rug. Then a voice said: “What’s up, Armin? You and Raftner look white as ghosts. Anything wrong?” The voice was the voice of the Flame.

  Feet went toward her, I guess. Armin spoke softly. “Why nothing, beautiful. What could be wrong with us?” Then, “To love the Flame is to die. To rat out on Armin Loring is—” A half scream, a muffled curse, a dull thud and a falling body.

  Raftner spoke. “You fool, Armin! What did you hit her for? She must talk, must—”

  “I couldn’t help it—the two-timing little tart. Besides—her purse. Look at that gun. She’d use it, too.”

  I damned near popped out then, but I didn’t. I waited and guessed what was going on outside. Moving feet, low voices; something knocked against the side of the desk, I think. Raftner was saying something about making the Flame trap me much as Armin had trapped her.

  It was hard waiting till she came to five minutes later—maybe ten. Anyway it seemed a long time before they were hammering questions at her and she was answering defiantly.

  Finally she said: “That’s right, boys. I got the filthy stuff you wanted to flood the city with. You’ll never find it now. Armin, you’re a fool. One Man Armin—taken in by a woman. Now you’d torture the woman. Well—see how that woman takes it.”

  “You worked with Williams, didn’t you?” Raftner shot the words through his teeth. “Race Williams—that was it, wasn’t it? By God, you were the woman to fool Armin—to fool men! But Williams was clever.”

  The Flame laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. “Clever? Williams is dumb. He couldn’t have fooled you two for a minute. He wouldn’t have let me try. No, I wasn’t working with him. I was working for him—but without his knowing it. It was I who made you clever men threaten him. Mary Morse couldn’t have brought him back by pleading with him. I couldn’t have brought him into it again by pleading with him. He’s built backward. You forced him back by threats he wouldn’t take, and they were at my suggestion. Mary Morse told him not to come, fearing for his life—and I put that fear into her head. You attempted to kill him—I put the attempt into your heads. And it was an attempt that nearly succeeded when Armin kept me, so that I failed to warn him. Yes, Race is a stupid, gun-toting fool. Yet he’s worth a dozen of either of you because he wins out through his lack of fear—his very conceit.”

  Maybe I turned slightly red in that tight-fitting vase, but Raftner said: “And just why did you do this—risk your life for Race Williams?”

  “Because he saw no good in me. Because he saw only bad. Because he never believed in me. Because I wanted him to believe me—and want me. Not because I’m the Flame who can make any man love her—including the great One Man Armin. No, I wanted Race to like the girl he once thought me to be. I know I’m going to die.”

  There was passion in Armin’s voice, a passion that he could not control. He said: “But you don’t know how you’re going to die.”

  “I didn’t fail.” There was a proud ring in the Flame’s voice. “The drugs are gone, hidden far away where you’ll never find them. I don’t care what you do—no, not even if you cut me to ribbons.”

  “What a coincidence,” said Armin Loring. “My dear, that is exactly what we are going to do. Cut you to ribbons.”

  “Unless,” said Raftner, “you tell us where the drugs are.”

  “And,” added Armin, “trap Race Williams for us.”

  “Trap him!” she said. “The only man I ever loved! Why—”

  She didn’t scream exactly. It was more a quick breath, a sucking sort of breath.

  And the show was over. The curtain was to ring down on the final act. I felt good way down inside me. The thing was so simple, too. These men were busy with the girl. Feared, desperate killers both of them. Yet, I had nothing to do but pop out of that vase like a jack-in-the-box, throw a couple of guns over the rim and give them both the dose if they preferred it that way.

  Dramatic? Sure it was dramatic. I knew that when the Flame winced again—yes, an audible wince if you understand what I mean. So I took my cue. I gripped both my guns firmly, straightened my body as best I could, braced my feet and started my body upward.

  My head went up into the neck of that vase, but my shoulders didn’t. They stuck; stuck there in that neck just as my head came out over the top. And I knew the truth—the horrible truth. I had gotten into the vase through the very force of my falling body. Now—I could not get out!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Blast-Out

  The Flame cried out and I made another desperate effort, felt the vase rock slightly, nearly got my shoulders wedged so that I could go neither up nor down. What if my head stuck out with my arms pinned down at my sides? What if the vase should turn over and—and—I couldn’t save the Flame then. Good God! I could kill them afterward, of course—sometime, someplace. I shuddered. Kill them after the Flame was dead; after I had crouched there helpless while they tortured her to death!

  Minutes must have passed since my brain went dead. Things must have changed outside. The Flame was saying: “Telephone Race?” Her laugh was high pitched, but determined just the same. “Trap him to his death—to watch you torture him so I will tell you where the rotten stuff is. No, no, no! I want him to live—live to kill you! I left a note to be delivered to him if I was murdered. I wanted him to know the truth about me then. He’ll kill you—both of you. Good, old stupid Race. He’d like it that way. He’d—What are you going to do with that knife! My mouth!”

  Armin said very slowly: “You wish to laugh at us, Florence. I wish to make your mouth wider so that you may better enjoy that laugh. So we, too, can enjoy that laugh. Like this—”

  God! I couldn’t see. I didn’t know what was happening. There was a struggle. I heard that and—

  A hole in the vase would mean a chance to see; a second, a chance to shoot. I placed my guns against the side of that vase, one above the other. Two holes—or would there be any holes? What was the damned vase made of? It might be steel; it might be copper. The lead might strike, ricochet and—and—No, I couldn’t live to get them then. I couldn’t live to get them anyway, once I fired that gun. No chance at all. A single bullet-hole—two holes. With the best of luck—the greatest of luck, I might hit one man. But the shots would be heard and the other man—No, I didn’t dare shoot.

  “All right, Raftner.” Armin’s voice was high now, gloating as he said: “Hold her so. The left side first. That pretty mouth slit close to the left ear before we crop that ear. Hold her steady—steady. That’s it.”

  Both my fingers closed. My body stiffened, tightened. The roar was terrific!

  God! What had happened? I was choked with smoke and burned powder. The entire room had collapsed around me, not on me, for I was there; there in the center of the room, crouched low, blinking in the light; blinking straight up into the surprised eyes of Raftner. Raftner who had turned from the Flame; turned from the back of the chair in which he held her while Armin—

  I knew then. The vase was gone, smashed into a thousand pieces. And Raftner hurled his huge body toward me—over me. He was crashing down upon me, both arms out, both hands grasping for my throat.

  Then I heard Armin Loring’s voice. “On top of him, Raftner! Pin him to the floor. I’ve got—”

  That’s all I heard then. I fired twice—just an upward flip of both guns and a split second between the shots. Did he fall dead on me pinning me to the floor? Not him—not a guy with forty-fours pounding into his chest. He picked himself up like an acrobat in the circus. Yes picked himself up and went out on his back. I never saw or heard a man hit the floor harder with his head.

  My head still rang with those first two shots and the smashing vase. I staggered to my feet and shouted the words
above the din in my head. “I’m on the kill, Armin!” I bellowed out like a madman. “On the kill!”

  Whether it was the busting vase, the crashing body of Raftner or my shouting voice, I don’t know. But Armin lost his head. He gave me a chance to rise and face him as he rushed to the Flame, raised his knife and yelled: “Drop the guns, Race, or she takes the—”

  I lowered one gun and shot at the only part of his body I could see as he crouched there before the Flame, huddled in the chair. It was his leg—just below the knee. Did I hit it? Hell—you know me. I don’t shoot at things I don’t hit.

  Armin regained his head then. I saw him step back and I saw that famous draw of his—that double draw—just both hands across his chest. You couldn’t tell if they went under his coat or not, but they were both holding guns, both blazing as mine were blazing.

  I had a sort of numb feeling as if I were going to drop. Then a sudden stab of pain in my cheek—sharp, quick pain that cleared that numb feeling.

  There was blood on Armin’s face—on mine, too, I guess. Warm—I felt it. But the blood was in Armin’s eyes. He fired again before I did. I’ll give him credit for that. But he either fired too soon or the blood blocked his vision. But he saw enough. Saw death and threw himself toward the Flame there in the chair for protection. I pushed out both my arms, twisted my guns in and fired twice.

  Maybe Armin intended to kill the Flame then. Maybe he thought more of killing the Flame than of killing me; maybe it wasn’t protection he sought after all—only vengeance. But I had fired directly—and surely—and calmly. Armin Loring was hurled backward. He half sank, straightened, crashed against the desk behind him. Then we hit it off together. Just crashing lead. If a Tommy gun had opened up in that cellar, the staccato notes of spitting steel couldn’t have been closer together.