Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  There was the sound of a step . . . outside in the hall.

  The door opened. A flash opened its eye, finding the couch unerringly. The white beam touched his ankles, moving slowly to his chest—went off. The sweat on Gil’s skin became an icy bath as he heard the door close, knowing it was Rand who was moving softly toward him.

  Gil rocked his body. He froze fast as he heard the ominous noise of a gun hammer being drawn back. He wanted to yell. It was like a horrible nightmare with the knowledge that he couldn’t wake up and say it was just a dream.

  Tires whined outside . . .

  Rand’s breath was sucked in avidly. Plainly from the street below Gil could hear men piling from a car, mounting steps. The cops! Rand must have sensed something was awry, for he moved toward the door, flinging it open . . .

  The sound of feet was heard in the house downstairs. Rand slammed the door, started across the room toward the kitchen. The feet were louder now. Gil’s eyes closed in the darkness in silent thanks.

  Whammm!

  It was Rand’s gun. A searing iron was laid across Gil’s chest. Dimly Gil heard Rand in the kitchen, heard him tearing open a window even as the feet thundered in the hall outside and the door burst in.

  Flashlights bathed the room in brilliance. Somebody snapped the wall switch. Gil blinking, saw four plainclothesmen, all holding .38’s. One of them made for the kitchen. Two sprang for the conch, ripping the ties from Gil’s ankles and wrists, freeing his mouth.

  The man from the kitchen returned . . . alone.

  Ten minutes later, Gil was in a cab bound uptown. It hadn’t been too hard to convince the cops he had been taken for a ride. They knew Rand and Lemand and Joyce Drake . . . believed Gil readily when he told them he’d been rolled in a clip joint and brought here. More, one of them had mentioned in an offhand manner something about Rand having a houseboat at anchor in lower East River . . .

  In his hotel room, Gil grabbed his gun case and a box of forty-five slugs. The waiting taxi nosed back downtown and across. It was after two, still sultry. Traffic was sporadic. The lights on Broadway had dimmed a little. As far as possible, New York slept.

  Loading the forty-five’s on his way to the East River, Gil murmured tightly: “Sorry, Jack. But I can’t see it any other way—now.”

  Gil found a tattered relic of humanity snoring against a piling on a rickety pier facing the East River. Wakened, the man mumbled he had a boat and would row him out for a dollar. Rand’s houseboat was anchored several hundred yards from shore, one window a rectangle of light reflected over the inky water.

  There was no moon. As they drew alongside the houseboat, Gil handed the man two ones and was thanked gratefully. The houseboat was huge, rising almost ten feet from the water. Gil tossed his gun case over the edge, waiting some moments after the soft thump on the deck. When nothing happened, he leaped, caught his hands, and pulled himself up and over.

  Oarlocks creaked as Charon pulled back to his interrupted slumber; two dollars richer.

  Everything was oddly quiet. Steam was rising from the black river. Manhattan was a dull glow in the skies. It was much cooler, but dank and unhealthy, somehow. Gil took off his shoes and cat-footed forward.

  He made directly across deck and down the side of the cabin to the lighted window. Bending almost double, he crouched beneath it—heard nothing. Then he raised slowly, peeking from one side. What he saw within caused his blond hair to come to attention.

  Rand and Myrna Bruce were embracing!

  The girl was clad only in step-ins . . . vivid blue silk ones. The sight of her generous breasts, mashed against Rand’s chest, caused Gil to grind his teeth.

  He had the gun case open and one of the forty-fives out, when the torrid tableau was torn apart. Myrna, holding her palms against Rand’s thin chest, laughed shakily.

  “When are we going to get married, Fred?” she asked.

  “Aw, baby, why bring that up now? You know we’re going to. What difference does it make when?” He tried to push her hands away, to grab her again, but she held fast.

  “I want to know—now,” she said firmly.

  Rand stepped back a pace, bringing his fists up and down across her forearms. Myrna dropped her hands and Rand stepped in, clutching her to him.

  “Forget it, baby,” he whispered raggedly. “Just love me . . .”

  Myrna brought up her right hand. Smack! Rand staggered away a step, the imprint of her palm against his cheek.

  “Why you . . .!” he began. “I wouldn’t marry you if . . .”

  Gil Marham throwing a leg over the sill, barked: “That’ll do, skinny. I’m running this show from now on!”

  In reflex, Myrna crossed her arms over her breasts, facing the window.

  “Gil . . .!” she breathed.

  Snarling after his surprise, Rand grated: “It’s the clown again. Always gumming somebody’s act.”

  An odd sort of detachment claimed Gil. He felt as if he were a fly on the wall, the only witness to the proceedings. Carefully he laid the gun case on a chair.

  “This time,” he said thinly, “I’m going to fold you up and feed you to the fish.”

  Rand backed off, suddenly white. There was no mistaking the steely intent of Gil’s words. Myrna Bruce, her eyes wide lakes of fright, finally lowered her hands and Gil almost forgot himself at the glorious sight of her unbridled, swaying breasts.

  Hastily Rand said, “If I had a gun—”

  Gil grinned coldly. “Swell,” he agreed, his hard blue eyes appraising the skinny racketeer. “We’ll make this a handicap race. I’ve got two guns here. One for each of us, We’ll all be even and see who can shoot fastest and”—he bared his teeth, strikingly white against his coppery akin—“straightest.”

  Rand picked his lip, his eyes slithering about. “Swell,” he echoed weakly.

  Gil opened the gun case and took one of the heavy weapons in each hand.

  “They’re both loaded to the hilt,” he said easily. “I’ll put one at each end of this table. We’ll square off three paces. Then—go for your gun!” He thrust a square chin forward. “And God help you if you miss!”

  Myrna, terrorized, was in a corner. Rand, shaking, nodded dumbly in agreement. Gil placed the guns on the table.

  “All right Rand! Take your place.”

  Yellow with fright, the skinny man obeyed, moving like an automaton.

  “Ready!” Gil snapped, back to the table.

  There was a wild shriek from Myrna. “Gil . . . look out!”

  Gil whirled. Rand had grabbed his forty-five, was bringing it up even as Gil made a dive for his own weapon. Thunder shook the room. Rand, wild in his nervousness, missed Gil by inches. Before the echoes of the shot had faded, Gil had his own gun. Rand pulled the trigger again, the whites of his eyes showing in terror. The heavy slug bit, into Gil’s left shoulder, starting him on a spin.

  Gil caught himself, dug in his heels . . . squeezed trigger.

  Mortal agony was in Rand’s shriek. The soft-nosed bullet, catching him high in the chest, almost lifted him from the floor. Once more Gil took fast but careful aim and fired. The second bullet, tearing into flesh and bone almost in the same spot as had the first, slammed Rand to the floor.

  He was dead before he hit . . .

  The silence was almost deafening. Gil pulled his eyes from the bloody figure nearly at his feet, moving to one side. Instantly he forgot he’d just killed a man. Myrna Bruce was moving toward him from her corner, her torso a white column above her silk step-in, her breasts swaying languidly with the movement of her walk.

  Her eyes sought his shoulder, widened. “Gil!” she cried softly. “You’re—hurt!”

  Pain was in Gil Markham’s shoulder for the first time. The wound itself had already clotted together, except for a thin trickle of blood which had wriggled down his arm to his hand, Absently, because the glorious nearness of the girl’s almost naked body was stirring his senses, Gil said, “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

&
nbsp; She was against him, pity in her eyes. “Oh—but it is. Let me wash it—” She started to turn away but both of Gil’s hands were on her waist.

  “It can wait,” he drawled thickly.

  She melted in his hungry clasp, kissing him with wild abandon. Pinwheels scampered dizzily through Gil’s brain as he braced himself against the searching undulations of her flaming body.

  Sudden glare erupted from the inky East River! It was like a knife. Gil grabbed the girl, pulling her to the floor.

  “The police!” he gritted. “Those shots must’ve raised hell. I’ve got to get away from here . . . quick!”

  Almost before he’d finished speaking, he had ripped off his shirt and trousers.

  Myrna was puzzled. “What of it! I saw everything. You killed”—she shuddered—“him in self-defense. I’ll testify for you.”

  Gil laid a tender palm on one of her breasts, kissing her lingeringly.

  “Thanks, honey. But I’m not worried about that. Did you ever hear Jack talk about the Texan?”

  The girl frowned for a moment. Then, slowly: “I—think so. Didn’t he kill some gangsters in New York a long time ago? But—”

  “Right!” Gil clipped. “I’m the Texan. So—I’m on my way.”

  Turning, he began crawling toward the door on the far side of the boat. The glare from the police boat was increasing. Though the sultry night air its powerful motor snarled in mounting tempo.

  At the doorway, Gil looked back to say: “So long—”

  Myrna Bruce was beside him. “I can swim, too,” she said. “You’re not leaving me.”

  Just for a split second did Gil hesitate. Then grabbing her wrist he said, “Let’s go, then. It may be cold in that river, but it’s hot as hell in Texas!”

  MAKE-UP FOR MURDER

  Thomas King

  What was in the girl’s bag to cause murder—to set the brunette to using all of woman’s wiles to get it from him?

  IT HAPPENED in the cocktail room of the Belmont Hotel. I had tailed the girl down Fifth Street, was right on her high French heels when she swung through the ornate entrance of the Belmont.

  The tightness of her skirt enhanced the lines of long, rounded legs as she walked across the lobby, got through the lounge and slid into a seat at the U-bar I slipped into the seat next to her I said softly, “You’re Diana Farrar?”

  She was dressed simply enough Grey tweed suit with a three quarter coat; a hat of the same color. A heavy veil was clouding her features.

  She jarred around to me when I spoke, and I felt the shock of cold eyes through the veil.

  She said evenly. “I am not—And I don’t know you.”

  I grinned at the rebuff “All right, Miss Farrar, you’re not Farrar.”

  Her voice tightened. “You’re mistaken. And you’re annoying me.”

  I quit grinning, started in to tell just how I knew that she was Farrar But it happened then. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the two lads doing a single file across the lounge, both headed for the bar.

  THE tall lad in the lead with the tan top coat, I didn’t know. He was smiling. But behind him a bit was a lad that I did know He wasn’t smiling. Chris Barton. A dough-heavy lad whose burning yen for blondes and hot-spots had made food for many a chatter-columnist’s mill.

  He had his hat pulled low over his face and both hands were buried to the wrist in the pockets of his overcoat. And then, as he took his right hand out of the pocket, light caught and glinted wickedly on metal His glance never wavered from the back in front of him.

  I said, “If I know my signs, and I think I do, there’s going to be fireworks in back of us. We’re moving out of line of stray slugs.”

  Following my gaze, the girl sucked in her breath when she saw the gun in Barton’s hand A startled gasp came from her lips as I surged suddenly to my feet, brought her up with me and away from the bar Her purse fell to the seat and I scooped it up, jumped her across the floor with an arm about her waist. There was a side entrance to the lounge—we were near it.

  Behind us came a tight voice Chris Barton’s. He said, “You . . . you. Hal Robson! Turn around!” Over a shoulder, I saw the tall lad come to a stop, the smile leaving his face as though it had been wiped away. He twisted his head. He saw the gun . . . saw death staring at him. He didn’t like it Fear stamped his face.

  But he was turning now, kept his voice from trembling He said, “Put that gun down. Barton!” And hell! Chris Barton smiled—shot him three times.

  Under the impact of tearing lead, Robson went back to his heels, teetered for a time, face drained to a weak coffee brown He tried to make words—eyes dilated hideously. Both hands swept up to his throat and, through clutching fingers, blood seeped sluggishly. Red stained the tan of his coat.

  He went down with both hands still gripping his throat.

  But I had the girl through the door now, had walked her away from the screams issuing from the death room. Though the rough fabric of her coat, I could feel the softness of a pliant body, sensed the trembling of flesh.

  I said, “Murder publicity isn’t nice . . . there’s a side door to the street down the lobby.”

  For an instant she plastered her trembling form against mine, then she drew away, ran down the lobby. Moving fast, I got through the annex of the lounge, came out on Fifth Street through the florist shop.

  A hurtling figure came pounding out the Belmont entrance, gun still gnpped in his hand. Instinctively, my hand swept beneath my left arm for the gun that wasn’t there. I had left it with my gunsmith to have a front sight straightened. At the curb was a black coupe with red disc wheels. Barton pounded across the walk toward the coupe, smashed headlong into a girl who was rooted, paralyzed with fear, in his path.

  Tire impact was terrific, sent the girl reeling to her hands and knees. She screamed—dress whipping up about her waist to reveal a froth of step-ins and startlingly white thighs The killer’s hat was jarred to the back of his head. He stabbed at it with his hand, slid beneath the steering wheel of the coupe. The gun made a metallic sound on the sidewalk.

  The motor of the coupe had been left idling—now it roared defiantly, was raced away from the curb.

  I SIGHED, started shoving a path through the milling crowd that had erupted from the Belmont. I walked two blocks down Fifth, grabbed a cab. Above the din of early evening traffic I could hear the wailing of sirens, the sound increasing in crescendo as police cars approached the death scene.

  And now, as I settled back against the cab seat, something was kicking around in the back of my head trying to get itself recognized This Hal Robson—A stranger to me, yes, but I felt that I should know the name.

  And Diana Farrar—Maybe it had been chance alone that placed her on the scene But again, maybe not. That she was Farrar. I know. A couple of years ago I’d been a Universe News cameraman, had given up the job to become a private detective. But while I was on the Universe lot, I had not only seen Farrar a number of times, but I’d been on parties that she had attended. She had been just another extra then—now she had moved up, was playing featured roles.

  As for Chris Barton—Hell, he must have gone screw-loose. The cops would throw out a net, pick him up in a matter of hours. It was a thousand-to-one bet that there were at least twenty people there in the cocktail room who had recognized him and watched him go murder mad.

  But the cab had swung into the curb now, and I crawled out, paid up and took the steps to my joint on the first floor of the Podalar Apartments. The first great drops of a rain were making drumming sounds against the windows as I got inside, peeled out of my overcoat.

  I noticed then the bulk in a pocket, drew out the purse I’d scooped off the bar Diana’s. I’d forgotten to hand it to her—had crammed it in a pocket. I tossed it onto a table, crossed to the phone when it buzzed.

  I GOT a cigarette in one corner of my mouth, talked out of the other comer. “Yes—”

  It was a feminine voice that answered. A voice that asked, “Are you Curti
s Benson, private detective?”

  I said, “That’s me.”

  The voice, a strange one to me, said, “I wanted to thank you for what you did for Diana Tins is Grace Farrar, her sister.”

  I said, “Forget it. It was nothing.”

  She said, “It must have been horrible—watching a man shot to death.” When I didn’t say anything, she said, “I wanted to talk with you about something else, too, Mr. Benson I wonder if you would come over here? Diana is here, too.”

  I said, “Why, sure Now?”

  She said, “Yes, if you can 206 Huntington Arms is my address. Oh yes, Diana said she saw you recover her bag, but that she failed to get it from you.”

  I said, “I’ll bring it along.”

  After a lot of small talk I hung up. But a thought or two was bothering me. I got back to the phone, dialed Main 2121 When a voice answered, I said, “Connect me with Priscilla Bishop, please.”

  The same voice said, “It’s the lady in the flesh, Curtis.”

  I grinned into the phone, “You got a cold . . . I didn’t recognize your voice?”

  Priscilla said, “Yeah. A co’d in the he’d.”

  I said, “Say, you write a Screen Column. Does Diana Farrar out at Universe have a sister?”

  She said hoarsely. “Nary a sister Why?”

  I said, “Just a little business.”

  She laughed, “Lay away from that gal, Curtis. She breaks hearts Want to know more about her? She was born in the Bronx, Big Town . . . is twenty-four years old . . . had one brother. Wealthy parents . . . comes into dough when she’s twenty-five. It’s an inheritance of some kind And say, I know a guy that knows a guy that says she’s got a mole on her right hip.”

  I laughed. “Couldn’t be the left one?”

  She made a thick sound that might have been a chuckle, then she choked up and sneezed in my ear. I pronged the phone slowly, trying to make the words fit the music.

  Something was screwy.

  FINALLY, I shrugged, got into my overcoat and crammed the purse into a pocket Yielding to an impulse, I got it out again, took myself a look-see into it A roll of dough—not much though. And just the usual woman make-up stuff Cramming the tiling back in my pocket, I crossed to the door, got fingers around the knob just as someone knocked. I opened the door.