Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “It’s easy enough to prove. He’s waiting to hear from me. I have the private number he gave me, if you want me to call—”

  No. She wouldn’t be allowed to telephone. She read that in Jason’s eyes, and his words were confirmation.

  “Yeah? If there’s any telephoning done, I’ll do it. Gimme the number. We’ll see what this is all about.”

  Patsy sank back on the huge couch. The telephone, an intricate arrangement was fastened to the end table. Changing her position brought her head on a level with the mouthpiece.

  “Trusting soul, aren’t you,” she said, to distract his attention from her movement. “I don’t see why I should tip you off.”

  Jason leaned over her, wiry fist doubled—“Come on. Gimme that number—”

  “Oh, all right.” She appeared to reconsider. “You’ll find out I’m telling the truth.” With an inward plea to the Gods of Justice, she calmly gave him—Mike Farris’ number.

  Grimly, still with suspicion in his rodent eyes, Jason dialed. Patsy felt she must suffocate. Would Mike be at home? Could she speak before he answered the ring. On these next few moments depended Don Edwards’ life. Hers too.

  Patsy nerved herself for the crucial moment. Apparently, the two men attached no significance to her proximity to the telephone. She waited, every nerve on edge for the click that told her the receiver had been picked up at the other end. So quickly did she speak, that the sentence was out before Jason could move.

  “Greeve might be afraid to answer,” she said clearly toward the mouthpiece, “but I tell you, Al Jason, he told me to come here to Grodon’s apartment and I’d find the bonds—”

  With a snarl of rage, Jason slammed the receiver down and clapped a rough hand over her mouth.

  Patsy felt a sickening, crunching blow. Lights danced before her eyes—nausea swept over her, and a dull sense of defeat. Then two angry voices faded into nothingness, and the world was blotted out.

  At length, Jason’s voice dimly penetrated her consciousness. How long had she been out? Minutes? Hours? Not long, she decided by the trend of conversation. But long enough to be tied securely to a heavy chair.

  Had Mike heard her voice? And if he had, had he recognized it and realized her predicament?

  “We got one chance—” Jason’s voice a held a razor-edge. “Out the window. We can drop her from that service stairway in the back of the building. Take her up a couple of floors. They can’t pin it on you. She’ll be out of the picture—but first we got to find those bonds.”

  So, they hadn’t found the bonds. Patsy realized that her purse had fallen under the couch when Jason struck her. They’d been so intent on disposing of her, they hadn’t noticed. Reprieve—a very slight reprieve. They didn’t dare kill her until the bonds were found.

  Her lashes must have fluttered in spite of her effort to remain immobile, for Jason was coming toward her, a small black object in his right hand. “We’ll find ’em,” he was saying. “I’ll just make sure she gets a little more sleep.”

  Stars danced crazily through her mind as the black-jack descended smartly on her temple. And she knew no more until she awoke in the middle of an earthquake.

  The noise was real enough, but she was dreaming, because Mike Farris was lunging through the door at Grodon.

  Another figure struggled with Jason for possession of a pistol, and blue coats were surging through the open door into the melee.

  Patsy tried to cry out as Grodon’s hand groped behind him for a heavy bronze statue. But Mike saw the attempt and sent a crashing blow to Grodon’s jaw. The statue thudded harmlessly to the floor—and so did Grodon. Mike stooped swiftly and fastened gleaming handcuffs to the man’s wrists. Jason, too, was now wearing bracelets. Miraculously, Mike was at her side, loosening the bonds that secured her to the chair. She tore the gag from her mouth, and asked tremulously:

  “Mike—the time? What time is it?”

  “About ten.”

  Limbs numb beyond all feeling, she rose and staggered toward the couch. Mike steadied her with a strong arm about her shoulders.

  “Take it easy, Chipmunk. What are you after?”

  “My purse—” her words came in a little rush. “Oh, Mike, I’ve found them. There’s time, thanks to you. I’ve—I’ve got to call the governor right away.”

  Blessedly, he asked no further questions.

  In a telephone booth at a nearby restaurant, Patsy remained for some time, talking animatedly.

  Eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed—blissfully unaware of two angry lumps that materially changed the contour of her forehead, she rejoined Mike.

  “I’ve talked to the governor,” she bubbled. “Don Edwards won’t be electrocuted tonight—or any other night. And I called Ellen. I think she’s going crazy. But being crazy with joy is a nice kind of craziness.”

  Her knees buckled suddenly, and Mike lowered her into a chair, concern in his dark eyes.

  “Bacon and eggs for two,” he called to the waiter. “And three quarts of your hottest coffee. Now, Chipmunk,” turning to Patsy, “we can talk.”

  Between sips of comforting coffee, Patsy sketched briefly her interview with Ellen, the day’s discoveries, leading up to the finding of the bonds—and the entrance of Jason and Grodon.

  “So you see,” she finished, “it’s two lives you saved to-night.”

  “Don’t try to make me out a hero.” He grinned to hide his embarrassment at her words of praise. “But if I was in the life-saving business, I can think of no life I’d rather save than Patsy Brent’s.”

  “Mike Farris,” she told him with a little catch in her throat, “you’re a man!”

  “Patsy Brent—” and there was something deeper than affection in his wide Irish grin—“Patsy Brent, the same to you!”

  WANTED BY THE D.A.

  Avin H. Johnston

  UNDER ordinary circumstances Carter Morris did not resemble the popular conception of a crook. Known on the Street as the head of Morris and Company, reputable brokers, his shock of white hair, his hard lips and firm chin were generally construed to be the trademarks of an honest dealer in bonds and stocks.

  But just now, crouched over the desk in his ornate Westchester home, Carter Morris did not in the least look the part of a respectable Wall Street broker. His white hair was ruffled, there was a dampness on his forehead not brought about by the June weather.

  Morris worked feverishly with the papers on the desk. There were bundles of securities, pads of bank notes, all of large denomination, more money in loose piles.

  “Sixty thousand in cash!” Morris mumbled as he worked. “An even hundred thousand in securities! I can cash them anywhere. Get this matter straight and I’ll grab the first boat for Europe. One’s sailing tomorrow. That’ll give me time.” He rubbed a hand across his face.

  “God!” he whispered. “I’ve got to get away before they find out about that Texas oil deal. Hundred and sixty thousand! That’ll keep me for a time. It’ll blow over. Sure it will! It’ll blow over.”

  He was trying to bolster up the courage he had felt slipping away during the last hectic week, during which time he worked over the books of his company, endeavoring to falsify the accounts, stave off the pending investigation he knew would shortly take place. Hadn’t two of his investors demanded an accounting of their money placed in his keeping on that Texas deal?

  Morris cursed bitterly. Thirty years on the Street thrown over by one stupid move. Like many others on the Street, Morris and Company had been hit hard. Carter Morris had seen a chance to make a cleanup, recover some of his losses. It was on the shady side of the ledger, but he had taken it—and lost out.

  Even now the D.A. was after those in on the Texas deal—and he was one of the principal fish.

  Morris worked feverishly for another ten minutes, stuffed the money and securities into a bag, locked it, thrust the key into his pocket, rose and crossed to the window.

  Visions of newspaper headlines flashed before his eyes. He saw the
m as if they were reality and not figments of his fevered brain:

  CARTER MORRIS, FINANCIER

  AND FLOWER FANCIER

  ARRESTED BY D.A.’s OFFICE

  Reported Moving Spirit Behind

  Huge Texas Oil Swindle

  MILLIONS LOST BY INVESTORS

  Morris’ breath choked him, sweat made his hands and face clammy. In an effort to divert his mind from the subject, he swept the lawns and gardens with a swift glance. Everywhere was a riot of color. Hundreds of rosebushes clustered around the lawn. Roses he had trained and watched, treated and experimented with. Roses of every color under the sun, crossstrains he had grown by himself. Roses he loved—his hobby.

  Morris tore his gaze from their beauty and stumbled back into the room. As he reached the desk, the sound of a car rolling across the gravel drive brought him back to the window in a single leap. It was a big car. It contained four men.

  Four letters on the side door sent Morris lurching against the window edge, grasping the wood for support. The four letters were U.S.D.A. Morris’ face lost its color.

  “The district attorney’s men!” he whispered, the sound coming from between shaking lips.

  He whirled to the desk, tossed the bag containing the cash and securities into a lower drawer, locked it. His eyes roved wildly around the room. The front doorbell chimed.

  The broker lurched again to the window and what he saw there sent his knees weak. One man from the car stood near the bottom of the steps. A second wandered around towards the rear of the house out of his sight, a third bent over a rosebush, apparently examining the beauty of the flowers. The fourth was not in sight.

  Wade, Morris’ butler, knocked on the door of the study, entered. If he noted Morris’ terror-stricken condition he made no sign.

  “A gentleman to see you, sir,” his dry voice said. “Says it’s important.”

  Morris choked before he replied.

  “Tell him to wait! I’ll see him in a moment.”

  Wade withdrew. Morris pounded the desk with clenched fists.

  “Caught!” He mouthed the word.

  No use trying to get away. The man who had gone around to the back would block that exit. There was no other way out of the house except the front and back doors. The windows! No, they’d spot him for sure, one of them. Bluff it out! He didn’t have the nerve.

  He glared wildly around the room. A short barking laugh bubbled from his lips. There was one way out—

  “MR. MORRIS will see you in a moment, sir,” said Wade to the man at the door.

  “Sure! Just wanted to—”

  The words were cut short by a crackling shot from the study. Both men plunged into the room. Wade jerked back with a cry.

  Carter Morris sat at his desk, his head on the blotter. A thin trickle of blood seeped from a hole in his right temple, staining the blotter; smoke floated from the gun clenched in his right hand.

  “Mr. Morris!” cried Wade.

  The other man whistled. “Whew! this looks like a case for the coroner. My business will have to wait. I’m from the Department of Agriculture. We wanted a few roots of that Blue Giant rose he developed recently. Wanted them for the President’s garden at the White House. But I guess that’ll have to wait—now.”

  HIGH-VOLTAGE HOMICIDE

  Frankie Lewis

  Palmer the Eel was as slippery as his prototype. But he had one lesson to learn—that a slip too many can mean a long slide to hell.

  I’m sitting in the Clarion offices watching a couple of goldfish swim around in a bowl when my mind shoots back to the “Eel.” I was just a punk kid when this case broke, but some of you older readers might recall it. The “Crime of the Century” it had been called. Then, on the spur of the moment, I decided to pay a call on old “Pop” Murphy, ex-con now going straight as a watchman for Gaffney’s Coal Yard. I hot-footed it to Gaffney’s, where I found old Pop smoking a thick cigar.

  When he saw me, he got up and greeted me like a long-lost son.

  “Well, if it ain’t Frankie! I hear you’re a writer now. How do you like bein’ a pen pusher?”

  “Oh, it’s easy to kill ’em on paper,” I flipped. “But say, Pop, do you remember the case of Palmer the Eel?”

  “Do I!” Pop slapped me on the back with a hamlike hand. “I was in the next cell to that rat at San Laramie. That’s the bozo that croaked his sister. Grab yourself a seat, Frankie, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  The Eel came from a good family (said Pop). His old man was skipper on a whaler. A good old soak, too, but one of them blue-nosed saints, you know, straightlaced to the core. I sailed under him as a kid on the old Hathaway. When the whaling business went on the fritz, the old sea-dog took a crack at farming and didn’t do bad at all. Then the love bug musta bit him, and he got spliced with a girl from the next farm to his.

  Things went swell for old Yance, and before long he increased his acres and was blessed with a son, the Eel. If you ask me, the old man should have kept the stork and tossed that punk out in the gutter.

  When Palmer’s sister was born, the mother died; and when old Yance called in a nurse to look after them, the Eel almost raised the roof. The kid sister was never healthy. The Eel used to torment her so that, when he was eighteen, the old duck told his lovin’ son never to darken his bathtub again.

  The kid kicked around the globe for a number of years, and finally got himself a berth with the State Fish Hatchery. When he’d get his pay, he’d go down to the Skidway—that’s the old Barbary Coast—and buck the old tiger for all it was worth.

  Well, he had been at the hatchery for a couple of years, and I don’t know why, but he was learning the p’s and q’s pretty fast. He had full charge of a group of rare fish.

  The Eel never cared much about writin’ home—footloose and fancy free, that’s him. Then one day he got a wire from a firm of mouthpieces tellin’ him his old gent had kicked the bucket. As there was only him and the kid sister, he decided to grab all the swag. He made up his mind to croak his own flesh and blood.

  Then Palmer gets the smart idea of how to bump off his sister. No rod or shiv for this baby. No, sir. He gets the screwy idea of bumpin’ the dame off with an eel. That’s how he got his moniker.

  The guy takes a couple of big eels from the hatchery, puts them in a glass kiester, and before he gets to the house, he dumps the eels in a little pond that he and his kid sister used to wade in. Then, as though nothin’ happened, he walks into the house like the proverbial, long-lost brother.

  The sister is tickled pink to see the mug and tells him that half of what old Yance Palmer left is his. But was the rat satisfied? No; he’s gotta get it all. He stalls around the joint for a while, in the meantime noticin’ that his kid sister’s got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. The old man’s death didn’t improve her heart none either.

  The Eel pretends he’s all love for his sister who, only a kid and not hep to the kind of a heel her brother is, falls for his line like a brick. Next day he asks her to wade in the pond with him, like they used to do when they were kids. He knows them eels was in the pond, so he makes her go in first. That’s all the Eel wanted! The minute the dame’s in the drink, she lets out a holler that would have raised the dead!

  The Eel pretends to play the hero. He knows that the kid’s deader’n a doornail. Her ticker couldn’t stand the shock.

  Now the Eel was gonna write his own ticket, but there was another fly in the soup. The girl had a boy friend that was no deadhead, and he near goes nuts when he saw the poor kid all cold and stiff as a poker.

  The girl’s sweetheart, who was one of them “toxicologams”—you know, a guy what works on poisons—gets a hunch that the setup ain’t kosher. It’s the Eel’s map that makes him leery. Well, when the kid’s put to bed with a shovel, the Eel had hid all the evidence.

  The boy friend checks up on his nibs at the State Hatchery and found that he spilled a line about them two eels dying and havin’ to bury them. He
goes back home and snoops around in the pond. What he finds there stands him on his ear.

  He goes to the bulls and gets two of them to return to the Palmer house with him. He finds the Eel as snug as a bug. Yes, sir, Jimmie the Eel’s sittin’ on top o’ the world.

  The kid gives the chump a fast line about him knowin’ about them eels being kept in the State Hatchery. The Eel sticks to his story about them dyin’ and him burying them.

  The boy friend’s got plenty of savvy, though, and he tells Palmer that he knows all about a rare poison that them eels give off when they’re dead. This scares the chump, and so just to prove he’s a right guy, he digs ’em up for the boy friend.

  The kid has the two bulls planted behind some bushes while young Palmer is diggin’ up the dead fish. The kid excuses himself and beats it for a couple of minutes.

  He comes back with a pair of rubber gloves and a paper-covered package. The Eel shoves one of the fish to the boy friend; and when he takes it, the boy friend pops:

  “I’m gonna kill you, Palmer, just like you killed your poor sister. One touch of this dead eel and you’ll die a horrible death!”

  This near scares the punk to death, but he tries to bluff his way out. The kid keeps shouting: “You knew these eels were Electric Rays, and their shock will stun a horse. You put them in the pond alive. After your sister’s death, you fished them up and killed them. Now I’m going to kill you.”

  With that he makes a couple of passes at Palmer with the dead eel. Palmer was ready to break by this time, he was half nuts believing that the dead ray was poisonous. But he still held out that the eels was dead when he brought ’em home.

  “Then explain these!” And the poison guy sticks the jar full of little electric eels right in Palmer’s kisser. “You didn’t know that the female had spawned, did you, Palmer? And left these baby electric eels in the pond?”

  Well, the killer sees that the jig was up. He knew that the guy had him dead to rights; and when the kid finally pushed the stinking eel in Palmer’s face, the sucker, thinking he would catch some terrible disease, spilled the works. The dicks closed in and took him away.