Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  Olga laughed again.

  “Well, this ain’t nothing to write home about,” she said. “I thought I was gonna get a thrill. We better change bootleggers, Joe.”

  “Aw, lay off,” said Joe. “I’m telling you, you’d’ve got all the kick you’re looking for if you’d heard that dame yell.”

  “Well, what happened?” demanded Olga, who was getting impatient.

  Joe got out the flask and took another pull at it before he answered her. The color had come back into his face now and he felt much better.

  “Soon as the boss found out there was something wrong he came in and asked this dame if he could do anything for her. And she says, “Yes, get me a taxi.’ The guy with her says, “What the devil, Nell.’ And she says, “I want to go home.’ So they went out. Boy, the way that dame looked at me, like I was, God, I don’t know what!”

  “Say, listen,” said Olga, “you been hitting the pipe.”59

  “Aw, lay off,” said Joe; “that dame’s got something on her mind, see. She’s got something on her mind.”

  Someone knocked. Olga called “come in” and a waiter opened the door and bowed.

  “Mr. Willoughby wants to know if we can bring the table in now, Miss Stassoff.”

  “Sure,” said Olga, “bring it in.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the waiter, then he cupped his hands and called down the corridor: “Allez!”

  Joe lay down on the lounge and lit a cigarette. Olga went over to her dressing-table, made up her face, and put on her Japanese kimono.

  Two waiters came in carrying a table; a third followed with a cloth and silver. When the table was set one of the waiters said:

  “Mr. Willoughby wants to know if he can come back now.”

  “Sure,” said Olga, “tell him to come right back.”

  “Shall we start to serve?”

  “Yeah,” said Olga, “right away.”

  When the waiters had gone, Joe said:

  “I’m getting fed up with this Willoughby guy. He’s a dumb egg.”

  “Sure he’s dumb,” said Olga, “but I don’t hold that against him. What I like about that bird is that he don’t get his hand stuck in his pocket when the boy comes around with the bill.”

  “He sure don’t, that’s a fact,” said Joe, laughing.

  “Well, then don’t be so particular,” said Olga; “guys like him are few and far between.”

  Willoughby tapped lightly on the door and then came in. He was freshly shaven and he looked chubby and boyish.

  Joe got up and shook hands with him. Olga said:

  “Was you out front?”

  “Yes,” said Willoughby; “by the way, Joe, what was all the commotion?”

  “See?” said Joe, turning to Olga. “She thought I was making it up, Mr. Willoughby.”

  “No, he wasn’t making it up,” said Willoughby, serious. “I never heard such a scream in my life.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said Joe; “boy, my hair stood straight up.”

  A waiter came in carrying a wine bucket, followed by another waiter carrying the soup.

  “Well,” said Willoughby, “shall we monjay, as they say in France?”

  “Oui, monsieur,” said Olga.

  “Sure,” said Joe, “I’m ready for the feed-bag in any language.”

  They sat down. One of the waiters poured the wine. Willoughby held his glass up to the light.

  “I hope you like this stuff,” he said, “it’s out of my own cellar.”

  “I’d like to sleep in that cellar,” said Olga.

  “Well,” said Willoughby, “you have a standing invitation.”

  They ate in silence for a moment, then Joe said:

  “Say, Mr. Willoughby, what you suppose was the matter with that dame?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Oh, forget it, Joe,” said Olga, “she was probably full of hop.”

  III

  Willoughby passed the cigarettes and they all left the table. Joe went back to the lounge, Olga sat in one of the armchairs, and Willoughby pulled up an ottoman and sat facing her.

  Willoughby hesitated before he said:

  “Olga, when we going to take that little trip?”

  “I don’t know,” said Olga.

  “What little trip?” asked Joe, looking at Olga.

  “Why, I got a cabin up in Wisconsin,” said Willoughby, “and I thought before it got cold it would be nice for Olga to go up and take a rest.”

  “Yeah?” said Joe.

  As soon as Willoughby lowered his eyes, Olga winked at Joe.

  “Maybe I could pull it,” said Olga.

  “Sure,” said Joe, “Olga works too hard, that’s a fact. A little rest wouldn’t hurt her none.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking,” said Willoughby. “She could sure get a rest up there. I got a couple of nice motor boats and the fishing’s great.”

  “Fishing!” said Olga, looking at Joe.

  “Well,” Willoughby considered, maybe you wouldn’t care for that, but there are any number of things you could do. Anyway, the air’s great, nothing like this Chicago muck.”60

  “Sounds good,” said Olga.

  The waiters came in to take away the table, but they were immediately followed by DeVoss, who motioned them out. There was something so strange about DeVoss’s actions that Joe sat up and stared at him. DeVoss said:

  “Joe, there’s a couple of guys looking for you.”

  “Yeah?” said Joe. “What kind of guys?”

  “Bulls,” said DeVoss, “what you been up to?”

  Olga got to her feet and stood staring at De Voss. Willoughby exclaimed: “What’s all this! What’s all this!”

  Joe took an automatic from his hip pocket and put it in Olga’s dressing-table. Olga took hold of DeVoss’s arm and said: “Tell them Joe ain’t here. Joe, honey, beat it. I’ll see if I can find out what it’s all about.”

  Willoughby was staring stupefied at Joe. He pointed to the dressing-table.

  “What do you carry that thing for?” he demanded.

  Olga said:

  “Oh, be quiet!”

  Joe grinned at Willoughby.

  “Just in case,” he said.

  “Listen, Olga,” said DeVoss, “this is serious. I could tell the way they acted. I told them I didn’t think Joe was here but they just laughed.”

  Joe stood undecided.

  “Joe,” DeVoss went on, “remember that time Mr. Rico was over here and a couple of bulls shadowed him? Well, the big one’s here.”

  “Flaherty!” cried Joe.

  Olga gave Joe a push.

  “Beat it, Joe. You know them bulls. They’ll frame you.”

  “O.K., honey,” said Joe.

  “Why, Joe,” said Willoughby, “you mean to tell me you’re in some kind of trouble?”

  “Oh, be quiet,” said Olga.

  Joe grabbed his hat from a chair and started for the door.

  “Goodbye, honey,” he said to Olga, “you’ll hear from me.”

  “Better face the music,” said Willoughby.

  “Go out through the kitchen,” said DeVoss.

  Joe opened the door but closed it immediately and said: “It’s all up. Here they come.”

  He looked in agony at Olga. Wasn’t this just his goddam luck! Penned up in a room three stories above the pavement. He made a dash for the dressing-table, but Olga grabbed his arm.

  “For God’s sake, Joe,” said DeVoss, “don’t cause no trouble in my place. I don’t know what they want you for and I don’t give a damn. I’ll get you a lawyer and see you through, but, for God’s sake, don’t do no shooting in my place.”

  Willoughby, stunned, sat staring till his cigarette burned his fingers, then he said:

  “Don’t worry, Joe. I’ll see you through too.”

  “Goddam it,” cried Joe, “you think I’m gonna let ’em take me like I was a purse-snatcher on his first stand.”

  He pushed Olga away from him and was pu
lling at the dressing-table drawer, when the door opened and Flaherty came in, followed by Spike Rieger. Flaherty had his right hand in his coat pocket.

  “Joe,” said Flaherty, “step away from that drawer and make it snappy.”

  Joe knew Flaherty’s reputation. That boy used his rod and argued afterwards. Joe moved away from the dressing-table and stood staring at the floor.

  “What the idea, Flaherty?” he demanded.

  “Well,” said Flaherty, “we got a big audience here and I ain’t much on embarrassing people, so you better just come along and we’ll have a nice little talk.”

  “Aw, can that,” said Joe.

  Willoughby walked over to Flaherty.

  “My name’s Willoughby,” he said, “John C. Willoughby. I suppose you’ve heard of me. Say, what’s this all about anyway? Why, I’ve known Joe for nearly a year and as far as I know he’s a nice young fellow.”

  “Yeah,” said Flaherty, “Joe’s a pretty smooth young fellow, but we caught up with him.”

  “Well,” said Willoughby, “I don’t know what he’s done, but I’m willing to go on his bail.”

  Flaherty turned to Rieger.

  “I don’t suppose there’ll be much talk about bail, do you, Spike?”

  Rieger grinned and shook his head.

  “No bail!” Willoughby exclaimed.

  “Aw, it’s just one of their wise frame-ups, Mr. Willoughby,” said Joe, but his face was white.

  “Well, we’ll see about this,” said Willoughby. “I’ll have my lawyer down in half an hour.”

  “Listen,” said Flaherty, “there ain’t nobody gonna see this bird for twenty-four hours.”

  Olga flung herself on the lounge and began to cry.

  “And let me give you an earful, Mr. Willoughby,” said Flaherty; “for a guy of your class you sure ain’t very careful about who you mix up with. These two birds here are taking you, see, and if I was you I’d snap out of it and forget all about getting a lawyer.”

  “If that ain’t a bull for you,” said Joe.

  “Don’t pay no attention to him, Jack,” said Olga.

  “Certainly not,” said Willoughby.

  “All right, Spike,” said Flaherty, “I guess we wasted enough time on these birds. Put the cuffs on him.”

  Olga jumped up and made a grab for Rieger, but DeVoss caught her from the back and held her.

  “You can’t do nothing that way, Olga,” he said, “you’ll just make it tough for Joe.”

  Olga screamed with rage and kicked back at DeVoss.

  “Ain’t dames awful?” said Flaherty.

  Willoughby went over to Olga and tried to talk to her, but she continued to struggle. Rieger took out his handcuffs and walked over to Joe.

  “Wait a minute, “ said Joe, “you can’t put no bracelets on me. Where’s your warrant?”

  Rieger took the warrant out of his pocket and handed it to Joe. Joe read it slowly, then, without comment, handed it back.

  “Well, Joe,” said Flaherty.

  Joe didn’t say anything; he just held out his wrists.

  “What do they want you for, Joe,” cried Olga.

  “Never mind,” said Joe, “they ain’t got no case.”

  Olga stopped struggling.

  “You mean it, Joe?”

  “Sure,” said Joe, “they ain’t got no case at all. I’ll be out in twenty-four hours.”

  “Shall I get my lawyer?” asked Willoughby.

  “Ain’t much use,” said Joe.

  DeVoss came over to Flaherty and said:

  “Listen, Mr. Flaherty, take him out through the kitchen, can’t you? I can’t have cops coming in here pinching people.”

  “You got a nerve,” said Flaherty; “why, I ought to pull you in for complicity. Didn’t you come back here and tip Joe off?”

  DeVoss got pale.

  “Honest to God, I didn’t tip him off. I just told him a couple of guys wanted to see him.”

  “Pipe down,” said Flaherty. “Come on, Joe, let’s take a ride.”

  Joe’s face was ghastly, but he grinned.

  “O.K.,” he said; “it’s the first ride I ever took with any of you birds.”

  “Well, I hope it’s the last,” said Flaherty.

  “Want me to come down and see you, Joe?” asked Olga.

  “No,” said Joe.

  They put Joe between two policemen in the back seat of the police car. Rieger and Flaherty sat in front. The traffic was light as it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. Rieger drove carelessly, one hand on the wheel most of the time, and talked to Flaherty.

  “Boy,” said Joe, “that bird don’t care how he drives.”

  “You ain’t got far to go,” said one of the policemen.

  “No, but I ain’t sure of getting there.”

  The policemen laughed.

  “Say,” said Joe, “can I smoke?”

  One of the policemen leaned forward.

  “Say, chief, can this bird smoke?”

  “No,” said Flaherty; “what the hell you think this is, Joe! Maybe we better pick up a couple of girls for you.”

  The policemen laughed.

  “Funny thing,” said Joe, “you know, Flaherty, a friend of mine told me the other day that he didn’t think you’d live long.”

  “Yeah,” said Flaherty, “I know that friend of yours. He ain’t looking any too healthy himself.”

  For as late as it was there was a good deal of activity at the station. A dozen plain-clothes men were waiting in the big room, when they brought Joe in, and the Assistant County Prosecutor was standing at the desk talking to the sergeant.

  “Looks like big doings,” said Joe.

  “Shut up,” said Flaherty; “recess is over. You open your mouth again and I’ll close it for you.”

  They took Joe up to the desk to book him.

  “Well, you got him,” said the prosecutor, looking Joe over.

  “Yeah, we got him,” said Flaherty. “Did you chase the newspaper guys?”

  “Yeah,” said the prosecutor, “there won’t be no leaks to this.”

  “O.K.,” said Flaherty.

  The sergeant nodded to him.

  “All right, chief.”

  Flaherty took Joe by the arm.

  “All right, Joe,” he said, “we’re gonna give you a nice little room.”

  “With bath?” asked Joe.

  “Listen, boy,” said Flaherty, “we’re gonna take all that smartness out of you.”

  Joe didn’t say anything. He was trying to keep up his front until they locked him in his cell, but he was ready to drop. They had him; they sure to God had him.

  The turnkey swung the big barred door wide. Flaherty took Joe to the door of his cell, unlocked the handcuffs, and gave him a push.

  “All right, boy,” he said, “I’ll be back later.”

  “Listen, Flaherty,” said Joe, “can’t I even have a smoke?”

  Flaherty laughed, motioned for the turnkey to lock the cell door, and disappeared down the corridor.

  “Say, buddy,” said Joe to the turnkey, “can’t you get me a pack of cigarettes?”

  “Nothing doing,” said the turnkey, “not for fifty bucks. I got strict orders on you, boy.”

  The turnkey went away. Joe stood in the middle of his cell for a moment, then he climbed up on his bunk and looked out the window. Far away down a side street he saw a big electric sign: DANCING.

  Joe flung himself down on his bunk. They had him; they sure to God did.

  “If I can only stick it out!” he said.

  IV

  Joe awoke from a doze and turned to look out the window. Still dark. He couldn’t have been asleep long. Wasn’t it never going to get light! He got up and walked to the front of his cell. It wouldn’t be so bad if there were some other guys to talk to; but the cells on either side of him were vacant; also the ones across the corridor.

  “They sure ain’t taking no chances with me,” said Joe.

  He began to f
eel very uneasy. Something seemed to be dragging at his stomach and he had a rotten taste in his mouth.

  “Some of that highhat grub I et,” said Joe.

  The turnkey came down the corridor and stopped in front of Joe’s cell.

  “Say, buddy,” he said, “they’ll be wanting you up front pretty soon.”

  “Yeah?” said Joe. “Listen, can’t you do me a favor and get me a pack of cigs. I got plenty of money. Ask the sergeant.”

  “Can’t cut it,” said the turnkey.

  “What’s doing up front?” asked Joe.

  “A show-up.”

  “Yeah?” said Joe; then, “listen, I’ll give you a couple of bucks for some cigs.”

  The turnkey laughed.

  “Say, there’s a guy in 18 that’d give me a hundred berries for some snow. Not a chance. They sure are putting the clamps on us now. It’s that goddam Crime Commission business.61 Tough on you birds.”

  “Ain’t it!” said Joe.

  The turnkey went away. Joe threw himself down on his bunk. Yeah, now it was coming. That goddam peroxide dame had sure put the skids under him. Well, there you was! Can’t tell how things are going to break. If he’d’ve been wise he’d’ve sent Olga to see the Big Boy or Rico. But then there’s no use letting a dame get too familiar with everything. Anyway, he had an alibi. But Flaherty was a rough agent and you could never tell what he would pull. Joe felt mechanically for his absent cigarette case.

  “Hell,” he said, “I lost my head! I lost my head! Rico ought to put a hunk of lead in me. As long as I been in the game and then don’t know no better. God, but I was dumb.”

  He turned over irritably and sat up. He heard the keys clanking down the corridor. A policeman stopped in front of his door and called:

  “All right, dago.”62

  Joe got up. The turnkey unlocked the door. There were two policemen and a plain-clothes man standing a little way down the corridor. When Joe came out one of the policemen said:

  “There’s the guy that plugged Courtney.”

  They stared at him. Joe felt sick at his stomach.

  “Yeah,” said the plain-clothes man, “they won’t do much to that bird.”