Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  I shrugged. “Guess I’m getting old.” My eyes were on Herron, watching him. “The floor shows are all the same, and you can buy liquor at a drug store.”

  Koble nodded, “Repeal did take the fun out of drinking, didn’t it? But say, there’s a swell little dancer in the show here. Her name’s Blake.”

  My eyes got very narrow, but I tried not to show my interest as my mind raced. I found a cigarette, tapped it slowly, placed it between my lips, and fished for a match. Koble took a step forward, held a jeweled lighter to the cigarette.

  “I said, “Thanks,” dryly. I knew that Koble didn’t want me to talk to the dancer, knew that the racketeer knew that I knew. “I might catch her act some time.” My voice was careless. “Not to-night.” I yawned widely.

  Koble smiled. He tried to make it friendly. It wasn’t. It was wolfish. “I’m going to tell you something, because I know you’ve got sense. Blake is my girl. See? I don’t want her to get a chance in pictures. It’s all right, her dancing in this joint; she doesn’t make so much coin.”

  I let a smile spread slowly across my face. “I get it. You think that if she clicked in pictures she’d hand you the run around.”

  Koble nodded. “Paul knows how I feel, so when you sent him back to talk to Honey he talked to me instead. Paul’s a smart boy, but he isn’t any smarter than you. I told him that. I said, ‘I’ll go talk to Ted. He’ll see my angle. He’ll listen to reason.’ ”

  I kept my smile on, said “Sure,” and waved to the bartender. “Set them up. Just to show that there aren’t any feelings.”

  Koble did not relax. “I knew that you were a smarty, Ted.”

  I tasted my drink. “Hell! There are enough dames in this country without taking yours. Sorry I led with my chin. Forget it.”

  Koble held out his hand. “I won’t forget it, Ted. I don’t forget anything.”

  I laughed. “That’s where we’re different. I forget things all the time.”

  KOBLE turned toward the door, said across his shoulder, “I’ve known guys to live longer doing that. Be seeing you.” He was gone, followed by Herron.

  I eyed the door thoughtfully, decided not to follow, and went back to the slot machines. Something about the whirling circles fascinated me. I hit eight, twelve, four, and eight again. The room was filling now, a little crowd of people formed about me, watching. A girl with curly, almost kinky red hair, put one hand on my shoulder, and smiled as I looked around. “For luck.”

  I staggered slightly as I turned, and slipping quarters into her hand, weaved to the bar. I was back again with drinks for both of us. Her eyes studied me, seemed to pry. I knew what she was there for and went back after more drinks. Finally she decided that I was drunk enough and slipped away.

  I hatched her go, a smile creeping up one corner of my mouth, twisting it. I saw her slide through the door and moved after her, no sign of liquor in my walk. I opened the door a crack and peered into the entry hall. The red-headed girl was talking to Herron not three feet from me. She said, “He’s drunk, plenty drunk. You can forget about him for to-night.”

  Herron grinned. “I’ve got Joe planted outside in a cab. When Cayton blows, he’ll pick him up and take him out in the valley. We can’t stand rough stuff around here to-night.”

  I shut the door quietly, went back to the bar, bought a drink, sipped it, and switched glasses with the drunk at my elbow. I’d been doing the same thing all evening. I paid for the drink and moved with careful dignity toward the door. As I struggled into my coat at the checkroom counter, I saw Paul watching me.

  Gravely I saluted the head waiter, moved toward the entrance, and almost fell in so doing. My hat was perched on top of my head. Outside the doorman steered my uncertain steps toward a cab at the far end of the building. I crawled in, mumbled my address, and almost immediately slid to the floor.

  The doorman and driver exchanged looks. The cab started with a jerk, went out the curving drive and into Sunset. The driver was busy watching traffic. He didn’t see the door on the other side open; see me slide to the running board and drop to the gutter as we made the slow turn.

  I rose, noted a tear in my pants and grinned sourly after the rapidly disappearing tail lamp; then I turned and limped down the sidewalk to the first cross street, went up it, over a board fence, across several vacant lots, and reached the rear door of the club.

  Music reached me faintly as I went through the door. To the right were the kitchens, to the left a stairway went upward. I took the stairs cautiously and came out into an upper hall. To the left, a short passage opened into what was obviously the dressing rooms for the performers.

  Noise reached me from below. The floor show was just over and the girls were coming up. I looked about quickly. I wanted to see “Honey” Blake, but I didn’t want to be seen by any one else. There was a door almost opposite the passage entrance. I opened it and slid through into an office. I shut the door and looked around. A desk and letter files almost filled the room. The desk was cluttered with papers.

  There was a second door across the room. I moved toward it, listened and then tried the knob. It was locked. I hesitated, wondering why it was locked, what was behind it; then I drew a ring of keys from my pocket. The fourth one turned. I pushed the door open a crack and peered in, but could see nothing. The room was in heavy darkness. Even the blinds were drawn to keep out the light from the distant street lamps.

  I struck a match on my finger nail, then swore softly. A man lay on a leather couch against the opposite wall. The match flickered. I stared around for the light switch, found it and pressed it. Then I shut the door, locked it, and crossed the room.

  THE MAN lay on his side, his face to the wall, his wrists and ankles bound with tape; a handkerchief knotted at the back of his head served as a gag.

  I bent over, stared. The man on the couch was Clipper Allen. The writer’s eyes were on me as I turned him over on his back. He tried to make noises around the gag. I loosened it, but for several minutes Allen could not speak. His wrists and ankles were chafed from the bonds and he could not stand.

  I rubbed the circulation back into his arms and helped him to his feet. Allen said, hoarsely, “Never mind me. You’d better scram before Koble sees you.

  I grinned wryly. “He’s seen me already. Forget Koble. How’d you happen to be here?”

  Allen was trying to walk and making a poor job of it. “My own fault,” he said, grimly. “I got a tip from Stella’s maid, almost as soon as she knew that Gordon was dead. I ducked, not because I was scared, but because I figured that I might be dragged in and that the publicity wouldn’t be so hot for Stella. After all, we’d been friends, you know, and the papers would probably pick that up and make plenty of it.

  “I came over here because I’d known Koble around Chicago and I figured that I’d be safe. What I didn’t figure was that Koble and Herron had rubbed Gordon out themselves and that they’d use me. They kept me around in case things got too tough. If the cops had gotten on their tails I’d have been found in some ditch with lead in my chest.”

  I was staring at him. “Does Koble own the joint?”

  He nodded. “Sure and like a damn fool I spilled my story to him. I never thought that he had killed Gordon.”

  “Just why did he kill Gordon?”

  The writer shrugged. “Because for the first time in his life, Gordon was making himself some dough. He’d got backing somewhere and had bucked into the slot-machine game. He was getting too powerful and they wanted him out of the way.”

  I nodded. “What I don’t get,” I told him, “is how the cops got after you.”

  Clipper grinned without mirth. “Koble tipped them. He had some dame call them from this office. I heard the call, but I was tied up. They’re plenty scared anyhow. The lid’s about due to blow off around this town, and the dancer that headlines this show heard them plotting to kill Gordon. She tried to warn him and they caught her. They’re keeping the poor kid in her dressing room between acts and th
ere’s a guy planted out in the crowd when she dances. She’s in a tough spot.”

  I whistled softly. “So that’s why they didn’t want me talking to her.” I turned and started for the door. The outer office was still deserted. “Listen, Clipper—you watch your chance and duck out when you can. I’m going over to Blake’s dressing room. I’ve got to get her away from here.”

  Allen said, “You’re screwy—”

  There was respect in his voice. “Don’t do it, Ted. Call the cops.”

  “And have the girl gone by the time they burst in? No, Clipper! You’re in a bad spot—so’s Stella. The only way to clean things up is for this Honey Blake to talk.”

  I didn’t stay to argue further. I turned and went across the outer office, paused for a moment to listen before I opened the door, then pulled it toward me and stepped into the hall.

  I tried the doors of three dressing rooms before I found the right one. I knew I was right because it was locked on the outside. The lock wasn’t much, just a padlock on a hasp, and the hasp was new. The dressing room was away from the others at the end of a short, cross hall. I looked at it for a couple of minutes, then I pulled out my gun and smashed the lock with a couple of blows.

  I PULLED the door open and went in. The room wasn’t large and the single window opened onto an air shaft. There was a girl standing in the middle of the room—a girl with golden hair.

  As I came in she retreated toward the far wall. She was plenty scared, her blue eyes very wide, and the back of one hand pressed against her full lips. Her voice was trembling when she said, “What is it? Who are you?”

  “A friend.” I knew that it sounded dumb the minute I said it. “Listen, kid—you’re in a tough spot and we have to move fast.”

  She made no movement toward me. She stood with her back pressed against the wall. “Why should you help me?”

  My voice got savage. “Don’t be a sap. I’m not helping you. I’m trying to help Clipper Allen. You know who killed Gordon and I want you to have a chance to talk. You can’t if you stay here. You’ll never talk to any one.”

  She buried her face in her hands and started to sob. She was very small, terribly attractive, but I couldn’t let myself think of that, then. We had to get out and get out fast.

  “Come on, kid, buck up.” I shook her, none too gently. Then I turned toward the door.

  Koble was standing there, watching, a gun in his hand.

  My mouth felt suddenly dry. I read death in his eyes, knew that he would kill. His voice sounded raspy as he said, “It seems that you aren’t the smarty I thought you were.”

  I found my voice with an effort, tried to make it sound natural, and didn’t succeed so well. “You can’t get away with this, Koble. Don’t you think I called the cops before I came back here? Don’t you think that I’ve found Allen, that he’s free—” I kept talking, because I realized that when I stopped the man’s finger would tighten on the trigger, that the squat gun would send its stream of death.

  Koble took a step forward and the girl shrank back with a little moan. He said to me. “Shut up, you talk like Alberts. He was a smart reporter, but meddlesome. You don’t know it, but he’s dead. He died cause he kept butting in. That goes for you, Cayton, you—”

  But I wasn’t watching Koble any more, I was watching the door behind him. Clipper Allen was there, and he had a gun.

  Something in my eyes must have warned Koble. He jumped sideways, swinging about and firing as he went. The bullet struck the doorframe just above Allen’s head. Allen fired, missing, and Koble’s second shot dropped him, just inside the door.

  I jumped in, caught Koble’s wrist before he could shoot for a third time, and we went down together. His strength was surprising. His massive arms locked about me, bending me almost double. I tried to wrench free; had a fleeting glimpse of Allen. He had dragged himself up and was squatted there beside the door, trying to get a clear shot.

  There was red on his shoulder and his face was white, drawn. Then Koble’s fingers came up, hunting for my eyes. I pulled them away and drove a hand into his face. He didn’t like that and I tried it again. It broke his hold and he rolled away from me, knocking the girl down.

  Allen was crawling forward grimly. Koble threw the girl from him and scrambled to his feet.

  He started for the door. Allen was in the way and he kicked viciously at the writer.

  ALLEN fired upward once, as I got my gun out. Koble seemed to pause, hesitate, then went over and stayed down. I climbed to my feet and went to Allen.

  He managed to grin up at me.

  “Hurt, Clipper?” I asked.

  “Just the shoulder. I think it missed the lung.” He coughed and wasn’t so sure but I didn’t let him see that. I turned and went to the girl.

  She was out, partly from fear. I turned toward the door.

  Allen’s voice was sharp. “Where are you headed?”

  I stared at him. “Where’d you get your gun?”

  He grinned weakly. “In the office desk. Where you going?”

  “Herron’s downstairs somewhere.”

  Allen stared at me. “Wait for the cops, you lug.”

  “And have him get clear!” I was already in the hall, headed for the stairs. As I reached the top Herron was halfway up, coming toward me. He’d heard the shooting and he had his gun out. He swore when he saw me and snapped a shot, then twisted and jumped.

  I sent a bullet after him, but it was too high. It’s hard to shoot down. He disappeared around the door at the foot of the stairs and I went after him. As I turned into the hall, a bullet nicked my ribs, making me duck. I leaned around the door and snapped two shots. I didn’t know that I’d hit him until I went through into the bar and found him a crumpled heap before the row of slot machines.

  The bartender was just going through the window, and a drunk at the slot machine was staring down at Herron. As I arrived, he pulled the lever and watched the whirling circles. One bar dropped into place, the second, and then the third. The machine rained quarters, some spilling out of the slot onto Herron.

  The drunk crowed, “Lookie, lookie,” and started to scoop them up, but I wasn’t interested. I stared down at Herron, made sure that he wasn’t going any place, then went back upstairs. I wanted to call the cops, and I wanted to see Honey Blake. She was just a scared kid, but she was nice and I wanted her telephone number.

  GOLDFISH

  Raymond Chandler

  ONE

  I wasn’t doing any work that day, just catching up on my foot-dangling. A warm gusty breeze was blowing in at the office window and the soot from the Mansion House Hotel oil burners across the alley was rolling across the glass top of my desk in tiny particles, like pollen drifting over a vacant lot.

  I was just thinking about going to lunch when Kathy Horne came in.

  She was a tall, seedy, sad-eyed blonde who had once been a policewoman and had lost her job when she married a cheap little check bouncer named Johnny Horne, to reform him. She hadn’t reformed him, but she was waiting for him to come out so she could try again. In the meantime she ran the cigar counter at the Mansion House, and watched the grifters go by in a haze of nickel cigar smoke. And once in a while lent one of them ten dollars to get out of town. She was just that soft. She sat down and opened her big shiny bag and got out a package of cigarettes and lit one with my desk lighter. She blew a plume of smoke, wrinkled her nose at it.

  “Did you ever hear of the Leander pearls?” she asked. “Gosh, that blue serge shines. You must have money in the bank, the clothes you wear.”

  “No,” I said, “to both your ideas. I never heard of the Leander pearls and don’t have any money in the bank.”

  “Then you’d like to make yourself a cut of twenty-five grand maybe.”

  I lit one of her cigarettes. She got up and shut the window, saying: “I get enough of that hotel smell on the job.”

  She sat down again, went on: “It’s nineteen years ago. They had the guy in Leavenworth fifteen
and it’s four since they let him out. A big lumberman from up north named Sol Leander bought them for his wife—the pearls, I mean—just two of them. They cost two hundred grand.”

  “It must have taken a hand truck to move them,” I said.

  “I see you don’t know a lot about pearls,” Kathy Horne said. “It’s not just size. Anyhow they’re worth more today and the twenty-five-grand reward the Reliance people put out is still good.”

  “I get it,” I said. “Somebody copped them off.”

  “Now you’re getting yourself some oxygen.” She dropped her cigarette into a tray and let it smoke, as ladies will. I put it out for her. “That’s what the guy was in Leavenworth for, only they never proved he got the pearls. It was a mail-car job. He got himself hidden in the car somehow and up in Wyoming he shot the clerk, cleaned out the registered mail and dropped off. He got to B. C. before he was nailed. But they didn’t get any of the stuff—not then. All they got was him. He got life.”

  “If it’s going to be a long story, let’s have a drink.”

  “I never drink until sundown. That way you don’t get to be a heel.”

  “Tough on the Eskimos,” I said. “In the summertime anyway.”

  She watched me get my little flat bottle out. Then she went on: “His name was Sype—Wally Sype. He did it alone. And he wouldn’t squawk about the stuff, not a peep. Then after fifteen long years they offered him a pardon, if he would loosen up with the loot. He gave up everything but the pearls.”

  “Where did he have it?” I asked. “In his hat?”

  “Listen, this ain’t just a bunch of gag lines, I’ve had a lead to those marbles.”

  I shut my mouth with my hand and looked solemn.

  “He said he never had the pearls and they must have halfway believed him because they gave him the pardon. Yet the pearls were in the load, registered mail, and they were never seen again.”