Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  The sergeant’s voice was cautious. “We ain’t supposed to talk about it, Ryan. But they haven’t got him, I can tell you that much.”

  “Just who in hell is he?”

  “Damned if I know. I’m not sure anyone knows. The FBI is in on it now. Maybe he’s a spy or a big smuggler, or something like that.”

  “He’s just a soft-headed lush, if you ask me,” Ryan said. He hung up the phone, paid his bill and went out into the darkening evening. Now we got the FBI in it, he thought, grinning crookedly. Lot of good that would do. Those college kids would run around with trucks full of fancy equipment, using two-bit words, and wind up lost in Brewery Town, or somewhere deep in the South Side. This was a job for cops who knew their way around the city, who knew the joints and the dives, the stoolies and hoods.

  “I could find him,” Ryan muttered into the wind. He stopped at an intersection for an instant, and his next thought was reflexive, inevitable. “I’ll find him,” he said, in a low bitter voice. “Yeah, I’ll get you, you little clammed-up bum. You made a sucker out of me last night, and it’s time to even the score.”

  Ryan Walked swiftly toward his district. He stopped across the street from it, studying the three-story redbrick building with narrow, thoughtful eyes. Fifteen hours ago a nameless little man had sauntered casually out of that place, to disappear into the city. So far the FBI, the local cops, and a variety of imported brass hadn’t been able to trace him. Ryan was facing the side door of the station, the exit the little man must have used in making his escape. Okay, he had come out that door, descended a flight of stairs to the sidewalk—and then what? The little man had the choice of walking in two directions at that moment. He could go left or right. Ryan elected to check right first. That decision, if it was the one the little man had made, would have taken him into a nondescript block of delicatessen stores, business shops, and a few moderately well-kept rooming houses.

  Ryan pulled his hat brim down, and squared his jaw. Okay, I’m coming after you, little man, he thought. He crossed the street and started down the block, moving slowly but purposefully, trying to imagine the chances that would have been available the little, man, and which of them he might have chosen.

  FIRST OF all, Ryan reminded himself, it had been about three-thirty in the morning when the little man evaporated from the station. At that time these shops would have been closed up tight. The little man would have been hurrying along a dark empty street. Since it had been raining at the time, there was damn little chance than any insomniac resident of this neighborhood had been out for a restless stroll.

  So what would the little man have done? Well, that was simple; he’d just have to keep going. Obviously he must get inside, off the streets, and that meant a place that was open in the early hours of the morning. Ryan stopped at the end of the block, and looked down the next one with a grim little smile on his lips. This looked more promising; here there were a few taprooms, an all-night restaurant, and a penny arcade and shooting gallery that was open around the clock.

  “Was this what you ran for?” he said aloud, still smiling. “The bright lights, the chance to roll a drunk, or of finding some lushed-up broad who’d take you home for the night?” He started down the block slowly, a big man with hard flat features, and something of the jungle in his sort measured strides and the depths of his pitiless eyes. I’m right behind you, little man, he thought, right on your heels.

  Ryan remembered then that the little man had had no money. He frowned; that ruled out the bars and the all-night restaurants pretty definitely. You couldn’t hang around such places for long without at least springing for a beer. The penny arcade was a better bet for a guy without funds.

  Ryan sauntered into the brightly lighted arcade, and changed a quarter into pennies at the cashier’s cage. Then he wandered around for a few minutes, stopping to test his grip at a strength machine, and waiting in line to peer through a cloudy lens at a pair of tiny figures doing an Apache dance. After studying the joint a while he drifted over to the open door of a small office. Inside a paunchy balding man in his early forties was looking gloomily at a set of figures.

  “Got a minute, chief?” he said.

  The little man looked up at him frowning. “What’s on your mind?”

  Ryan hesitated. He couldn’t flash his badge and demand cooperation or else. “Matter of fact, I’m in a little trouble,” he said, and the words, faintly entreating, were stiff and awkward on his lips.

  “Well, what is it?” the balding little man said. “Lose your bankroll out there?” he asked, grinning.

  Ryan smiled slightly. “Nothing like that. The thing is I’m looking for my brother. He’s not nuts exactly, but he’s a little slow in the head. He wandered away from the house early this morning, around two-thirty or three, I think, and I’ve traced him this far. I’m wondering if you saw him. He’s a little guy, with silvery hair and kind of a lost look about him. Were you here this morning?”

  “Yeah, I was here till eight. But I didn’t see no one looking like your brother.”

  “Thanks,” Ryan said.

  HE LEFT the arcade, not discouraged, only impatient. The break would come, of course; it always did. Somewhere there would be someone who had seen the little man. Ryan had only to keep plodding along, asking questions, and eventually, inevitably, he’d get on the track of the little man with the silvery hair.

  Ryan spent the next few hours in barrooms, listening to the gossip, asking a few casual questions. He learned nothing of value. When he got a mile away from the district, he decided that he wasn’t on the right trail. The little man had found a hole immediately, otherwise he would have been picked up by the squad cars that had covered the area earlier in the morning. Frowning, Ryan retraced his route until he came back to the district. Now he’d have to start over. Well, that was okay, he thought. A slow illogical anger against the little man was building up inside him. Why hadn’t the little bastard been sensible and talked? He’d given him the chance, hadn’t he? Okay, you won’t get another one, Ryan thought. The next time I’ll play for keeps, he told himself, pounding a big fist into the palm of his hand.

  Ryan stood on the street corner, still frowning, imagining the problem the little man had faced when he left the police station. It had been raining and cold, the street had been deserted, all the shops were shut up for the night, and the little man hadn’t had a dime in his pockets. Where in hell could he have gone?

  Suddenly Ryan had an idea. Undoubtedly the street had been deserted—no one would have been out in that rain at three in the morning unless it was absolutely necessary. This thought brought a grim smile to his lips. Supposing the little man had met someone who had found it necessary to be out at that time of the night. There were such people, of course: cab drivers, waitresses, printers, newspapermen, to list only a few. Ryan moved down the block again, studying the half-dozen or so rooming houses with sharp, alert eyes. Perhaps someone who lived in this block had been coming home from a night job and bumped into the little man . . .

  Ryan turned and walked quickly back to the drug store. He entered a phone booth and called a special number of the cab company. When a voice answered, Ryan said, “Police. I want to know if one of your drivers dropped a fare on Huntington Street around three or three-thirty this morning. Yeah, that’s right. Between Third and Fourth on Huntington. I want this right away.”

  “Okay. What district are you in?”

  Ryan rubbed his jaw. “I’m on a private wire.” He gave the man his number. “I’ll wait for your call,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  Ryan went out to the counter and ordered a cup of coffee. He stared at the reflection of his square hard face in the mirror. There’s nothing to be mad about, he thought, frowning slightly. Things are working out. You’ll get the guy.

  He was on his third cup of coffee when the phone in the booth rang. Ryan hurried over and lifted the receiver.

  “This is Yellow Cab,” a voice said.

  �
�Yeah, I’m the guy you want,” Ryan said. “What did you find out?”

  “One of our boys dropped a fare at 6534 Huntington this morning at about three-thirty. The cabby knows the fare, by the way. She’s a singer, works at the Kit-Kat Club. She’s a regular customer of this cabby, he says.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Linda Nelson.”

  “Thanks,” Ryan said softly.

  HE LEFT the drug store and walked down the block to a three-storied rooming house which was numbered 6534. This was it, he thought, smiling slowly. He went up lived. She had come home last night at approximately the same time the little man had been walking down this street. Perhaps they had met, Ryan thought, smiling slowly. He went up the steps and opened the door of the vestibule: Linda Nelson’s name was on a narrow white card held in a brass bracket. Ryan touched the bell under her name with hip forefinger, and then paused. It was about nine o’clock now. She was undoubtedly at the club, the Kit-Kat. Perhaps it would be smarter to see her there. He left the house and walked down the street toward the intersection, moving now with long, eager strides. From across the street a man stepped out behind the shadow of a tree, and looked speculatively at Ryan’s retreating figure. This man was tall, heavily built, and his face was a pale triangular blur in the darkness. He lit a cigarette, and the match flame revealed a broken nose, and flat gray eyes under the ridged fore, head of a professional boxer.

  The man crossed the street and ascended the steps of the rooming house where Linda Nelson lived. He studied the name-plates inside the vestibule, scowling thoughtfully, and then left the building and went down to the sidewalk. Smiling slightly, he turned and started after Ryan, hands deep in his pockets, and a pleased little gleam shining deep in his flat gray eyes.

  RYAN REACHED the Kit-Kat club at a quarter after nine. It was an intimate little spot done in black and white leather, with a circular bar enclosing a minute bandstand. Linda Nelson went on at ten, Ryan learned from the bartender. Ryan sipped a beer and waited. He had a curious feeling that he was close to a lead.

  Ten minutes later a tall, dapperly dressed man of middle years entered the club and took a stool at the far end of the bar. Ryan recognized him as one Soapy Felbin, a horse player by profession and choice, but a police informer by necessity. Soapy was at large by sufferance of the cops—only his cooperation with them kept him out of jail.

  Ryan shifted his position so that Soapy couldn’t see his face. He kept a check on Soapy every two or three minutes, and, when Soapy stood and disappeared into the men’s room, Ryan followed him.

  Soapy was leaning close to the mirror above the hand basin, inspecting a blemish on his chin, when Ryan tapped him firmly on the shoulder. Soapy knew what that meant. Every bad break in his life had occurred immediately after that firm, patient tap on the shoulder. He turned quickly, a furtive, eager-to-please smile lighting up his pale narrow face.

  “Ryan, my boy,” he said, laughing and wetting his lips. “How’s the keed, hey?”

  “What’re you doing here?” Ryan said.

  “Why, nothing at all, nothing at all,” Soapy said. He put an astonished expression on his face. “Nothing wrong with dropping in here for a beer, is there?”

  “Maybe not,” Ryan said. He frowned, studying Soapy closely. He didn’t like this coincidence. “Tell me something, Soapy,” he said.

  “Sure, anything,” Soapy said.

  “You hear anything about a guy who broke out of the Third District last night? A little guy with silvery hair, and a kind of a dumb look about him. What’s the talk about that, Soapy?”

  Soapy’s eyes slid away Ryan’s. He shrugged elaborately. “I ain’t heard no talk, Ryan. Broke out of a jail, eh? He can’t be so dumb, hey, keed?” Soapy laughed pointlessly, trying to coax a smile into Ryan’s square face. “That’s a trick I never learned.”

  Ryan fought down his anger. They never got smart, he thought despairingly. They lied to you, cheated on you, and then wailed for heaven when you knocked the truth from them. With a big hand he gathered up the slack in Soapy’s coat-front “Now listen,” he said, jerking the man’s face within an inch of his own. “I want answers, not jokes. What about this little guy? What’s the talk?”

  SOAPY’S EYES shifted desperately about the men’s room, touching and sliding off everything within sight. “You’re off base, Ryan.” he muttered. “You’re under suspension. You got no gun or badge now.”

  “You know something after all,” Ryan said. “Okay, good. I’m on suspension. That’s means I won’t knock you around.” Ryan raised a big hand and slapped Soapy across the mouth. “See? I can’t touch you. I’m under suspension. I got no badge or gun, so I got to do this the gentle way.” He slapped Soapy again, and the impact of the blow was like a pistol shot in the small room. “Now, we’ll try it the friendly way. What’s the talk?”

  “It’s just talk,” Soapy said in a dull, lifeless voice. He wasn’t protesting any more. He was working now, doing his job, informing. He seemed almost relieved to be back at his trade. “He’s big, I guess. Nobody knows much. But Donello’s after him. After him bad.”

  “Keep going,” Ryan said. Donello ran the West Side of Philadelphia. He was big in the city, in gambling, in insurance, in politics. When Donello wanted something he got it. Or somebody was in for a brick-house full of trouble.

  “Donello has sent his boys out to pick him up,” Soapy said. “I don’t know why. The talk is that this little fellow is wanted by Washington. Maybe he’s a big smuggler, or a spy, or something. Anyway, if Donello knows, he ain’t saying. He’s just turning the city upside down to find the guy.”

  “Where’s the little guy? Anybody got any guesses?”

  Soapy shrugged. “Nobody knows anything. Honest, Ryan, that’s all I can tell you. How about letting me clear out of here?”

  “Okay, beat it. Go do your drinking somewhere else.”

  RYAN WAS sipping another beer when a slim girl with shining blonde hair and a pretty but knowing pair of blue eyes entered the club and signalled to the bartender.

  “I’m late, Joe,” she said. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

  “If I can, Linda.”

  The girl was standing beside Ryan, her graceful hands resting lightly on the edge of the bar. She was wearing a delicate perfume, and he saw, in a glance that was studiously disinterested, that her skin was very fair, and that she was probably in her late twenties. She was no dewey-eyed debutante, he guessed. There was a sharpness and hardness about that probably came from a knowledge that life was only sweet and rosy in movies, and the women’s magazines.

  “A friend dropped in on me, Linda said to Joe, as Ryan listened. “A girl I used to work with in Dallas. She’s a little down on her luck now. Here’s what I wish you’d do. Order some coffee and sandwiches and have them sent up there. Tell the boy just to leave them outside the door of my place. She may be asleep, and the poor kid needs that as much as she does food.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Linda,” Joe said.

  “Thanks a million. I’ve got to change now and get back to work, or the boss will have a hemorrhage.”

  She turned, flicked Ryan with an incurious glance, and hurried back toward her dressing room. Ryan finished this beer, paid for it, and walked outside. He was grinning. Now he knew he was on the right track. “So it’s a girl she used to work with in Dallas, eh?” he said to himself, still smiling.

  “We’ll see about that, he thought.

  LINDA NELSON entered the vestibule of her apartment house at three-thirty in the morning. The light was out, she noticed as she fumbled about in her bag for the key. She was tired and irritable. It had been a long dull night, with one table of drunks asking for Stardust again and again, until every word and note in the piece was a torture to hear and to sing. She found her key and began to fumble for the lock.

  Suddenly, without seeing or hearing anything suspicious, she knew that she wasn’t alone in the dark vestibule. There was a blackness on the
right of her that was deeper than the other shadows in the hall. She caught her breath, forcing herself not to cry out: a paralyzing shudder went through her, and her heart began to hammer painfully at her ribs. There was nothing to do, no place to run to, or hide. But she had to get away . . .

  A hand came down powerfully across her mouth.

  “Okay, just relax,” a low, harsh voice said. “You’re not going to be hurt.”

  Ryan put up his free hand and screwed the light bulb back into the socket. Illumination flooded the hallway. He released the girl, and put both hands down at his side. “That’s right, be smart,” he said.

  She was too terrified to scream. “What do you want?” she said.

  “I want to talk to you,” Ryan said. “You met a guy in the street about this time yesterday, didn’t you? A little character with silvery hair. He’s the baby I’m looking for.”

  “I’ve seen you before. You . . .”

  “That’s right. At the Kit-Kat. But let’s stay with the little guy. He’s upstairs, ain’t he? He’s the one you ordered the food for.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “I was, until your little friend got me into trouble. I’m suspended. But I won’t stay that way. I’m going to teach him what trouble is. Real trouble. He’s upstairs right now.”

  “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t get cute with me, baby. We’re going upstairs to take a look. You’re going to let me into your place, and if you say or do anything to tip him off you’ll wish to hell you hadn’t.”

  “I’m not taking you anywhere,” she said, and her voice was suddenly tense and furious. “Roll your hoop the hell out of here. You’re no copper now. I wouldn’t help you if you were after a guy who’d murdered my mother.”

  “I didn’t ask for help,” Ryan said softly. “I just told you what I want.” He caught her wrist and twisted it sharply behind her back. She tried to scream but his big hand closed over her mouth smothering it, and he held her that way, the back of her head pressed against his chest, and her arm twisted cruelly, until she stopped struggling and bean to moan softly.