Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  The cabin was suddenly illuminated by wavering white lights that seeped in at the windows and cast ghastly shadows in the rooms. The mobsters rushed back into the living room and shrank against the inner wall.

  Flares! Blazing white light burning from the ground on each side of the cabin made the clearing an oasis of brilliance in the blackness.

  There was absolute silence again in the timber beyond the clearing.

  “You can all have one guess!” Red Cordage snarled. “We’re in a spot. If we walk out of any door or try to make it from a window, they’ll knock us off before we get started. I think I get the idea. They’re gonna hold us here like this till daylight, then make us give up or gun us. So what are we gonna do?”

  “We can make a run for it—go out shootin’,” Flint suggested.

  “Yeah, we can do that,” Red agreed. “We all boasted that we’d never be taken alive. But when a guy says that he’ll never be taken alive he means that he’ll shoot it out with the cops if he’s got so much as a long chance. Here—we ain’t got a chance. All of you that want to commit suicide, march right on out and try to run those flares. Personally, I’m goin’ to wait for daylight and see what happens.”

  Big Red guessed right. No more flares came from the timber when it was light enough to see.

  Jim Forde bellowed his ultimatum through a megaphone. He gave the mob ten minutes to think it over. They walked out in two minutes, Big Red leading the procession with his hands high above his head. The G-men closed in, searched them and cuffed them together.

  “Who tipped you that we was holed up here?” Red asked.

  “You tipped us yourselves,” Forde chuckled.

  “How?”

  “The way you handled the money. You see, Red, Bert Orton wasn’t quite the sucker that you thought he was. He tipped off the situation in the bank by writing notes on the deposit slips of the bank’s best customer, Sam Weisner. Sam called us. When I walked into the bank just before closing time I knew the setup, knew from the description that Orton gave and the fact that forty grand was being floated, that it was Flint Bovan who was parked in the back office, that it was your mob behind the play. I could easily have grabbed Flint and Winnie right there, but I wanted the whole mob—you in particular.”

  “I don’t get it,” Red growled. “You didn’t manage to tail Flint and Winnie to this hideout?”

  “No, I didn’t. But I guessed just what would happen if I walked in the bank and started asking Orton questions. I guessed that Flint, if he was sure that I was alone, would grab the cash in the till and beat it. That’s what he did.”

  Red stared, a large question in his eyes.

  “So just before closing time I had Sam Weisner go into the bank and pretend to make a deposit. Instead of making a deposit, he made a trade with Orton. Orton slipped him the currency that was in the drawer. Weisner slipped Orton a little over four thousand in currency—currency that was marked in a manner that any banker could detect at a glance, Before that trade was made, the necessary information was on the way to every bank in this section of the country. When some of that money showed up at the bank at Green Falls, just eight miles from here, we got busy in short order. You spent that bank dough freely, never suspecting that it could be traced. You bought groceries, a radio, tires—”

  “I get it,” Red grimaced. “It was a cinch for you to ask the yokels questions and spot us here. It’s our tough luck. We were hooked all around on tabbed jack. I’d like to get my hands on that two-timin’ Wainright. He crossed us after we handed him back his kid just like we promised we’d—”

  “That’s another little mistake you made, Red,” Forde grinned. “Wainright didn’t cross you. You could have passed that money anywhere in the country without the slightest risk. The money was not marked. The numbers weren’t taken. But it was a cinch to figure out that it was the Wainright money that you were putting through. Even without Orton’s description of Flint, we would have known it. We’ve pretty well cleaned up the snatch mobs. The Wainright job was the only unsolved case that involved as much as forty grand.”

  PUPPET BOSS OF DESTINY

  Ernest Bean

  A perfect butler is supposed to know everything. James was a perfect butler. But he knew too much.

  As he approached the bedroom of Mrs. Norwood Fairbanks, James, her newly-hired butler, halted suddenly. Through the closed door he could hear his mistress talking on the telephone. He listened carefully.

  He heard her say: “Yes, dear, the new butler seems to be perfect. I’m very glad I engaged him.”

  James allowed a smile to flit across his expansive, but normally impassive face. So Mrs. Fairbanks thought he was a perfect butler, did she? Not surprising. All his list of clients had thought the same when he was in their employ. Each had later given him a glowing reference. Not one had dared do otherwise . . . So she called the person she was speaking to “Dear.” That merited attention.

  Mrs. Fairbanks was saying: “I miss you so much, Norwood.”

  Merely a phone call to her husband, out West on a business trip. Not worth while listening to such a conversation. He knocked on the door, a gentle knock considering his bulk.

  James heard a few more words, followed by good-byes, and knocked again.

  “Come in.”

  He entered the superbly furnished room and bowed to the still beautiful woman of forty who occupied it. “Your orders for the evening, madam.”

  She turned her dark eyes on him. “I’m dining out and going to a concert afterwards. I’ll not return till late.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Half an hour after Mrs. Fairbanks left the house, James re-entered her bedroom and approached her ornate Italian writing desk. Carefully he examined its intricate carvings.

  His eyes gleamed as he located a secret drawer. From his pocket he drew a set of thin skeleton keys. The drawer was quickly opened. Only one thing lay in it—a packet of a dozen letters, tied with baby-blue ribbon.

  He picked up the packet and thumbed it hurriedly. All in the same handwriting. He glanced at one, addressed to “Leona darling.” The first name of Mrs. Fairbanks. Good, so far. Hastily he scanned ardent passages till he came to the signature “Angelo.” Wonderful! That bore out what he understood before applying for the position. He had heard that Mrs. Fairbanks had not always been discreet.

  James stuffed the letters into a capacious back pocket. Before leaving the room, he glanced over his mistress’ check book and made a mental note of the monthly allowance she received from her husband.

  Early the next morning he waited upon Mrs. Fairbanks. With a woebegone expression on his face, he let her glimpse a telegram which he partially drew from his pocket.

  “To my regret, madam, I have just received word that my mother is very ill. So ill that I must leave for her bedside at once. May I, therefore, tender my resignation?”

  “Your resig—Why, I’m so sorry. I was quite well pleased with the way you were handling your work, James. Of course you may visit your mother. If you will be gone for a few days only, I’ll keep, the position open till you can return and resume your duties.”

  “There is no telling, madam, how long I must be away. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you for an indefinite period. However, I will promise to get in touch with you as soon as I do return.”

  On the following day, Mrs. Fairbanks received a phone call. “James Frye speaking, madam.”

  “I’m so glad to hear your voice. How is your mother? I hope she is well enough so you can come back now. As yet, I’ve engaged no one to take your place.”

  “Alas, madam, I fear I will never reenter your employ. However, I hope this conversation means the beginning of cordial relations between us.”

  “Cordial relations between us?”

  “Why, yes, madam. Do you recall certain letters which you were so careless as to leave in your writing desk? If you will examine that desk, you will see that they have been removed for safe-keeping.”

  He hea
rd her gasp of dismay followed by “What!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fairbanks, I have placed them where they will be safe from your husband’s eyes—under certain conditions.”

  “Conditions?”

  “Simple ones. I will merely charge you a nominal fee for safe-keeping. It would give me great pleasure to add your name to others for whom I am keeping valuable documents—in your case for a hundred dollars a week.”

  “A hun—Why, that’s outrageous! I couldn’t possibly pay that!”

  “I beg your pardon, madam, but I took the precaution of glancing through your check book. If you would cut down on your wardrobe—”

  “Your demand is preposterous!”

  “I doubt it, madam. I feel certain that your husband would pay—”

  “No, no. Don’t speak to him about those letters. I—I’ll try to raise the money somehow. I just don’t know how, though.”

  “There are many ways, Mrs. Fairbanks. When I see you tomorrow, I will suggest some.”

  “You—you—”

  “Don’t say it, madam, or I will be tempted to increase my modest demands. Now as to the first payment—could you bring it to my apartment tomorrow morning? Say at eleven? At that time you will run no risk of meeting others of my regular clients.”

  “I—I guess I must. Where do you live?”

  “At the Woodbine Apartments on Fiftieth Avenue. Seventh floor.”

  After he hung up the phone, James rubbed his hands together. She would make an excellent addition to his list of clients. From now on he need never play the part of a butler again. His income would enable him to retire and live the life of a gentleman.

  Promptly at eleven the next morning, he heard a ring at the door of his apartment. He opened it and bowed. “Delighted to see you, Mrs. Fairbanks. Won’t you come in?”

  “For—for a moment.” She seemed palpably nervous as she entered his living room. “I—I would like to speak to you about—about buying back those letters.”

  “I regret, madam, that those letters are not for sale.”

  “Not for sale? But please, James, those letters are so precious to me.”

  He permitted himself to smile. “And even more precious to me. Let us understand each other once and for all. I will not sell you those letters. I will merely act as their guardian for the small sum of one hundred dollars a week.” It looked as if tears were about to flow. Brusqueness might stop them. “Have you brought the first payment?”

  She bit her lips. Opening her purse, she drew out five twenty-dollar bills, and extended them towards James.

  “Here is your blood money.”

  He raised one hand. “Please, madam, don’t consider this payment in that light. Please think of it as a mere gift of expiation.”

  A dangerous light flashed momentarily in her eyes. She opened her mouth, only to snap it closed. After a brief pause, she asked in a strained voice: “May I leave now?”

  “Certainly, madam.” He stepped towards the door. “Remember to return at the same hour next week.”

  “With another hundred dollars!”

  “Not necessarily money.” He was bowing her out into the hall. “For example, I recall you have a lovely Dresden china lamp in your living room. You could tell your husband that some careless parlor maid knocked it over and broke it into a hundred pieces. That lamp should add greatly to the appearance of my own living room. I would allow you—let me see—say, three weeks’ payments in return for it.”

  She was in the hall now. “You—you—” With a great effort she seemed able to control herself enough to beg again: “Won’t you please sell me those letters?”

  “No, I will not sell them. That is definite. I will merely act as their guardian for the small weekly fee I mentioned.” She shook her head. “You have no heart.”

  He smiled again. “That is why I am a success in my profession.”

  Her eyes flashed fire, but she said nothing. With a shrug of her shoulders she turned to leave.

  At that moment a man carrying a small suitcase approached from the direction of the elevator. Suddenly he dropped his suitcase and thrust a gun into James’ stomach. “Up with your hands!”

  James raised his arms at once.

  The newcomer half turned to Mrs. Fairbanks. “Okay, lady?”

  “Yes.” She was smiling.

  The man snapped at James: “Where’s them letters?”

  James grinned. A big bluff on Mrs. Fairbanks’ part of course. She couldn’t stand the notoriety of a shooting or a slugging.

  “What fools you both are! To think I would be careless enough to let precious documents remain where they might be stolen. The letters to which you refer are perfectly safe in my box at the bank.”

  “Thanks for tippin’ me off where they was at, you rat. Now come along with me and get ’em.”

  James was laughing by now. “Enough of this bluffing, my friends. Mrs. Fairbanks, this crude attempt to force me to deliver you the letters makes me insist on your bringing me two hundred dollars next week. Let this be a lesson to you. You might as well admit defeat and tell your boy friend to put away his revolver and leave. If he doesn’t, I shall be forced to complain to the police.”

  “You’re talkin’ to one of ’em now, wise guy.” The man’s free hand pulled back his coat. “Detective Hayes from headquarters.”

  “What!”

  “Sure.” The detective slipped a pair of handcuffs over James’ wrists. He turned to Mrs. Fairbanks. “Mighty brave of you, lady, to show up this here rat. Mighty few folks would’ve had the guts to do it. The department sure thanks you.”

  James sneered, “I’ll be sorry for you, madam, when those letters are published in the newspapers. I certainly would like to hear what your husband will say when he sees them.”

  That evening Mrs. Fairbanks was again telephoning her husband. “Who would have taken James for a crook? He was so efficient and so gentlemanly. Such excellent references, too. I’m beginning to wonder about the people who wrote them . . . I’m awfully sorry about the letters. I’m afraid people will be greatly amused when they read the ardent passages you wrote me when we were first married. Remember how you signed them ‘Angelo’ because it was the silly pet name I gave you on our Italian honeymoon? Now you’ll have to write me some nice new letters to keep in my secret drawer till the police give me my others back.” After saying good-bye and hanging up, Mrs. Fairbanks locked the door leading to her bedroom. She pulled out the secret drawer of her writing desk. Her hand groped about in the cavity behind it. From there she drew a packet of letters tied with pink ribbon. Sighing, she kissed each letter, then consigned them to the flames in her fireplace for safekeeping.

  THE SUICIDE COTERIE

  Emile C. Tepperman

  Private Detective Taylor thought the assignment was only a routine bodyguard job. But in that tumbledown, gloomy hotel he found himself at the mercy of . . . The Suicide Coterie

  I SPOTTED the hotel before Braden did. It was getting dark, and I guess his eyesight wasn’t so good anyway, what with those thick-lensed glasses that seemed to make a gargoyle out of his soft round face. I slowed up the coupe and said: “Is that it, Mr. Braden?”

  The cement road sloped upward here for about half a mile, and at the top of the slope lay this old, tumbledown summer hotel, dark except for a single room on the ground floor that seemed to be brightly lit.

  Braden didn’t answer my question. There was sweat on his forehead—which was a pretty bad sign, considering that it was about twenty above zero outside. January first is cold in up-state New York. I had noticed that he appeared to get more fidgety as we neared our destination.

  I pushed down on the brake, pulled the coupe up to the side of the road and shut off the ignition. He turned a startled face to me.

  “It—it’s a half mile farther, Taylor,” he said. “W-why do you stop here?”

  “I know it’s a half mile farther, Mr. Braden,” I told him. “But I figure now is the time to get the low-down on this
business. I’ve come a hundred miles with you without asking any questions. Here you bust in on me after I’ve just got back from a New Year’s eve celebration, and you hand me five hundred dollars to come along and be your bodyguard. You tell me you’ll give me the dope on the way up here, but so far you haven’t opened your mouth. Well, now is the time.”

  Braden lowered his lids behind the thick lenses of the glasses, avoiding my gaze. His hands folded over his round paunch. He said: “Yes, yes. I’ve been so upset, you know. And then, you’ve been so cold and businesslike. I just couldn’t bring myself—”

  I shrugged. “I can see you’re down in the dumps about something. But it’s my idea, Mr. Braden, that a private detective is paid for getting his clients out of jams, not for wetnursing them.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you the whole story, Taylor. There will be five men up there at the hotel. They are all dangerous men, particularly Joplin. You’ll know him from the others because he is tremendous, even taller than you are, Taylor, and brutally powerful. He is a giant of a man, and strong/” Braden’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “How strong!”

  “Okay,” I said. “I get you—Mr. Joplin is bad medicine. So far, so good. Now, what’s the setup? What’s your business with these five men, and what might they do to you that requires a five-hundred-dollar bodyguard?” Braden fidgeted. He opened his coat, reached into his hip pocket, took out a handkerchief. Then he took off his glasses, wiped them with the handkerchief. His small, nearsighted eyes kept blinking continuously. Finally he said:

  “We meet here once a year, Taylor, on New Year’s Day. We have done this for seven years now.”

  “Fine!” I approved. “What are you, alumni of some college; or is it a freak bet?”

  He was silent for a minute. Then he slowly repeated my last words, almost under his breath: “Freak bet—freak bet. Yes, you could almost call it that.”

  He stared at me, studying me. “Suppose we do call it that, Taylor—a freak bet. That’s exactly it.” He moved closer to me as if he were afraid of being overheard. “Your name was given to me, Taylor, by my bank, who said that you were a reliable private detective who was fast with a gun and could keep his mouth shut. All you have to do up there at the hotel is to protect me in case Joplin or any of the others should attempt to do me—harm.”