Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Holohan struggled, kicked, reached for Vic’s throat with his other hand. But the armlock held, grew more intense. Sweat rolled from the big man’s agonized, blood-streaked face. His teeth gritted. There was a battering on the office door, shouts outside.

  Vic gasped: “I’ll break it, Ed, if you don’t talk fast!”

  Holohan made one final effort to free his arm, sank back groaning as the hold tightened. The noise at the door grew louder.

  “Quick!” Vic panted. “Or else . . .!”

  “See Gordon,” Holohan moaned. “It’s Link Gordon.” As the armlock eased off, he babbled: “Gordon’s brought hired guns into town. He’s gonna set himself up as an independent while we fight the fleets. . . .”

  Vic prompted: “And it was an independent cab that went up at South Station.”

  Holohan mumbled: “They’ll try to pin it on us . . . just like you. . . .”

  “You half-wit!” Vic snapped. “I wasn’t trying to pin anything on you. I just wanted some information.” He got to his feet, scooping up the automatic.

  “Next time I ask questions be a little more civil, will you?”

  Holohan, still on the floor nursing his arm, pleaded: “Lay off this, Vic. We’ll take care of everything, including Gordon.”

  Vic mopped his face, avoiding a rapidly swelling eye. He said: “I’ll let you know about that later, after I’ve seen Gordon myself. Now call off those mugs outside before I have to shoot somebody.”

  Holohan stood up, unlocked the door. Vic was behind him, gun in hand. “It’s all right, boys,” Holohan said to the group in the doorway. “A little personal matter between Vic and me. He’s leaving now. Let him alone—for the time being.”

  Vic, walking out, called over his shoulder: “I’ll be seeing you, Ed, out of my good eye.”

  STODDARD sat scowling across the office desk at Vic Smail. “It’s what I’ve always told you,” he complained. “You can’t think beyond a fight. If you can’t use a gun or fists you’re not interested in a case. Hell, what are your brains for?”

  Vic cupped his sore eye gingerly and tried to look sheepish. “I got a lead on that bombing and maybe some future strike trouble,” he pointed out. “If this Gordon—”

  “You got a face that looks like a horse stepped on it,” Stoddard corrected. “Why not use your head instead of your muscle, at least part of the time?”

  “O.K., boss.”

  “I mean it,” Stoddard insisted. “You and Girsh are just alike. You think you’re tough—hard guys. But it’s a lousy way to do business and I don’t like it.”

  “O.K., boss.”

  “Tell Girsh what I said, if you can find him.”

  “He left a note here. Said he’d located Cora at St. George’s Hospital and was going out there. She was brought in unconscious from an overdose of barbitol.”

  “Barbitol? What was the matter? Couldn’t she sleep?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Send some flowers. I’ll try to get out and see her tomorrow.”

  “The Meade thing’s keeping you busy?”

  “They ought to be getting another note from the kidnapers soon . . . seeing as how the first fifty grand was blown up.

  “That makes it pretty expensive,” Vic said reflectively. “Who was the fellow in the polo coat?”

  “Lawrence Dean. Did you ever hear of him?”

  Vic shook his head.

  “Neither did I,” Stoddard said, “but it seems he was a steel man, well-to-do, sweet on Meade’s daughter. He drove up from Oreville last night at her request and went to the station this morning to do the job for them. You know the rest.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep working.”

  “And the cops?”

  “Not yet I may have to call them in later. A lot depends on the way the strike progresses.”

  “You want me to stick on that?”

  Stoddard sighed. “If I could trust you—”

  “Sure you can, boss.”

  “Remember, we’re not representing anyone officially. But if you get hold of anything concerning Meade’s whereabouts—”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “And not a word about this fellow Lawrence Dean,” Stoddard cautioned. “If the cops link him with the Meade family the cat’s out.”

  “Don’t worry,” Vic said. “I’ll stick to the strike. Maybe if I could settle it they’d turn in Benton Meade.” He walked toward the office door adding: “Of course that’s just a crazy idea of mine.”

  “Crazy is right,” Stoddard assured him.

  EMERGING from the lobby of the building, Vic saw Livingston and Novak, from headquarters, standing on the curb beside his car. He turned back quickly but Livingston overtook him beside the elevator-bank.

  “Relax, Vic,” the detective said.

  Vic replied casually: “I’m pretty busy right now. Drop around tomorrow or the day after.”

  “This is a pinch, Vic.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Assault and battery. Ed Holohan’s the complainant.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Novak had edged up, watching Vic carefully. Livingston said: “I don’t care whether you believe it or not. We’re taking you in.”

  “I had a row with Holohan,” Vic admitted, “but it was strictly a personal matter.”

  Livingston nodded. “I can tell from looking at you. Come on.”

  Vic went with them, complaining: “Imagine that heel, Holohan. We have a little fight and he turns me in.”

  Novak laughed. “Let’s use your car, Vic,” he said. “You drive.”

  The two detectives crowded into the front seat beside him and Vic started the motor, pulled away from the curb. On the way downtown, Livingston asked: “What was the trouble with Holohan? Strike stuff?”

  “Well,” Vic answered, “maybe.”

  “Come on, let’s have it. We’ll be mixed up in that strike ourselves if the going gets rough.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “No, of course not,” Livingston scoffed. “That’s why Benton Meade hired you during the last strike.”

  “Well, he hasn’t this time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ask him.”

  “But still you beat up the union’s business agent. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I told you it was a personal matter between Holohan and me. We don’t like each other.”

  “All right, but why pick out today to sock him? D’you. think Holohan planted that bomb for you?”

  Vic blinked. “What bomb?” he said quickly.

  “You know the one I mean.”

  Vic hesitated, then laughed. “You’re screwy, Livingston.”

  “You’re not going to tell me you weren’t at South Station this morning.”

  “Oh, I was there all right. But if Holohan was trying to bomb me this morning he wouldn’t be running to you now and squealing that I slapped his face.”

  Livingston thought it over. “You can’t tell. I don’t trust Holohan any more than I do you.”

  “How much is that?” Vic inquired.

  “About as far as I could drop-kick this automobile.”

  “I’m not flattered,” Vic said, “if the size of your feet are any indication. . . .”

  Livingston interrupted with, “Never mind! Let’s get back to the bombing.”

  “There’s no hurry,” Vic said. “I’ll have to answer these foolish questions all over again at headquarters.”

  “That’s right,” Livingston agreed.

  Vic swung the car off Pearl Street and headed through Public Square. A moment later he jammed on his brakes and yelled: “Look, you guys! Someone’s getting lumps!”

  A crowd of grim-faced, determined men had surrounded a taxicab diagonally across the roadway. The driver had been forced to stop or run them down. Now he was being dragged, fighting, from behind his wheel. Some of the crowd were jerking at the handles of the
cab door, others were stabbing at the tires.

  Novak, jumping out of the car, shouted: “Hold it, Vic! I’ll take care of this!”

  At that moment a man in the back seat of the taxicab started shooting. The roar of gunfire topped the din about him with complete finality and was followed by a second’s breathless hush. Then the mob broke and began to scatter, running. All but two men, who lay where they had flopped to the pavement, sprawling.

  Livingston had a police .38 in his hand, climbing out of Vic’s car. “You wait here,” he muttered.

  Vic saw the cab-driver kicking frantically at his starter and the gunman at the sliding window behind him shouting orders. But the taxicab refused to start.

  With sudden decision Vic eased his own car into gear and pulled down the street. The move left Livingston uncovered, sent him scurrying into a doorway. Vic glanced back, laughing, then spun the car around in one turn. Motor racing, he pulled abreast of the taxicab, knocked open his door.

  “In here, punks!” he shouted. “Quick!”

  The driver hesitated, but the gunman came clambering across the running-boards at once. He ducked into the seat beside Vic, yelled: “Let’s go! They got nothing on him!”

  Glass broke behind them. In his rearview mirror Vic saw Novak approaching on the run, pistol smoking. He slumped over the wheel, released his clutch and sped recklessly across the square. Swerving into a side street without cutting speed, Vic saw Livingston and Novak both shooting after him. He grinned maliciously, drove through a red light at the next intersection, then made a sharp right turn and cut into an alley.

  “All right,” Vic told his passenger. “You’d better drop that rod overboard, just in case. Then sit up. We’re hitting the main stem.”

  The gunman complied. “Where you taking me, pal?” he asked.

  “Back to Link Gordon, safe and sound,” was the answer. “Tell me the quickest way to get there.”

  TWENTY minutes drive along the waterfront and Vic, at the gunman’s direction, pulled up in front of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Windows of the dilapidated brick building were boarded up and the heavy double doors at the end of the driveway sagged on rusty hinges.

  Nevertheless, the doors swung open as Vic’s passenger got out and approached them. He motioned Vic inside and followed on foot. “Pull up and wait,” he called. “I’ll tell the boss you’re here.” He started away, then came back to inquire: “What’s your name?”

  Vic told him, saw that it failed to register.

  Meanwhile the doors had been closed. Vic watched half a dozen men in mechanics’ overalls moving about the shadowy interior of the long room. Lined against the walls in double rows were taxicabs—the independent variety. There was a lighted workshop in the rear, noisy with activity. Near the front doors he had just entered, Vic spotted two armed guards.

  A creaking freight elevator descended, a freshly painted cab was rolled off and moved into the line across the floor.

  Vic’s recent passenger returned, summoned him with a gesture. “Gordon’ll see you upstairs,” he said. “He’s in a lousy frame of mind.”

  “What’s troubling him?” Vic asked.

  “Six cabs smashed so far today and a couple more pushed off piers.” The gunman’s mouth moved in a sour grimace. “This way—and talk fast.”

  LINK GORDON, broad, bulky, with a flat, scarred face and the neck of a wrestler was standing with his back to the wall of the cubicle he used as an office, waiting for them. He shot a suspicious look at Vic, but seemed amused at the sight of his visitor’s black eye. He waved the gunman from the office and began: “You’re the Vic Smail who works with Stoddard, so you ain’t here to do me any good. I suppose I owe you for keeping that hood out of the can.”

  Vic shook his head, sat down. “I was on the way to jail myself at the time,” he said. “Your boys putting on a show gave me a break.”

  “What were you going in for?”

  “Socking Ed Holohan.”

  Gordon’s thick lips curled in a grin. He took a square bottle and glasses from a desk drawer, saying: “Then I still owe you. Help yourself and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Vic drank, studied Gordon who had seated himself behind the desk. “It occurred to me,” he said, “we might go on doing each other favors.”

  “Maybe yes. It depends. What can I do for you?”

  “You can go on not liking Holohan?”

  “That’s easy.” Gordon’s eyes narrowed with shrewdness. “And what do you do?”

  “Give you some information that will save you a headache—and a lot of cabs.”

  “So? That’s quite a fancy proposition,” Gordon mused. “But I’ll tell you plain, mister, I’ve already got the headache and I want no part of Holohan.”

  “Listen,” Vic said, “You and I see eye to eye on that buzzard. I hate his guts. Sure it’s mutual, but he’s not wasting any love on you either.”

  “So he’s a pain to both of us. So what?”

  “You be the doctor,” Vic said pointedly.

  Gordon grinned again. “That’s what I thought. You want some favor—a murder. I should do the dirty work for you and Stoddard? Yeah, and Benton Meade.”

  “Why Meade?”

  “You’re tied in with him. Everyone knows that.”

  “Then everyone’s wrong. And it’s a funny thing, you bringing that up. I figured you were tied in with Benton Meade.”

  Gordon put his drink down, spluttering. “Me!” What the hell . . .?”

  “Sure,” Vic said. “You’re not bucking him and the union both. Not single-handed. You may be plenty tough and have a good-sized roll, but—”

  “Never mind about that stuff,” Gordon interrupted. “Let me tell you about Meade.”

  Vic sat forward attentively. “A pleasure,” he said.

  Gordon poured himself another drink, swallowed it slowly. “On second thought,” he said, “skip it. Either you’re trying to con me or you’re plain nuts.”

  “No,” Vic said, “but I may be wrong. It was just an idea.”

  “You’re full of bum ideas, mister,” Gordon told him. “First you want me to get Holohan for you—”

  Vic broke in: “Nothing the matter with that. That’s still a good idea.”

  “Look,” Gordon said with a show of patience, “I’m a very busy man. I’ve got enough trouble.”

  “If that’s what you think now, wait until tonight.”

  “What about tonight?”

  Vic hesitated. “I could say skip it, too,” he pointed out, “only I’d like to play ball with you and get Holohan properly taken care of. So I’m going to go right on doing you favors. Here’s the layout.

  “The strikers are going to start shoving your cabs off the Doric Line pier at nine o’clock tonight when the Norfolk boat docks. They’ll be concentrated there, set to wreck or sink every cab of yours in the neighborhood.”

  “Where’d you get this information?” Gordon demanded.

  “Straight from the feed-bag,” Vic said blithely. “Strike headquarters.”

  “And is Holohan going to be there at the pier?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, yes.”

  Gordon cocked an eye at the ceiling, pondered. “If you’re a right guy,” he said slowly, “and this dope is anywhere near correct, I’ll do you a favor that is a favor. Maybe even a couple of favors.”

  “Take your time,” Vic said.

  “It won’t be long if you’ve told me a straight story,” Gordon said. “I’ll take care of Holohan personally—tonight!”

  “You’re not so tough to do business with.” Vic offered his hand.

  “We’ll see,” said Gordon.

  FIVE minutes later Vic was well away from the warehouse, headed for home by a devious back-street route. When he reached the apartment he found Girsh waiting, propped up on the lounge, a half-empty bottle of Scotch on the table beside him.

  Vic took one look at Girsh and moved the bottle out of reach.

&n
bsp; “I need it, Vic,” Girsh complained. “I just came from the hospital. Cora got it.”

  “Cora got what?”

  “A knife under the ribs. She’s dead—murdered.”

  Vic stiffened, sucked in a breath. “How come?”

  “A strange thing,” Girsh said, leaning back and closing his eyes. “She was feeling better this afternoon, snapping out of it, the nurse told me. She was in a private room and had a couple of callers. The last visitor left just before I arrived. The nurse said it was O.K. for me to go in—she was sure Cora was still awake.” Girsh moved shaking fingers across his forehead and reached for his glass before resuming. “But it—it was terrible, Vic. I stood there looking at her—I don’t know how long. Then I let out a yell that brought the nurse running.

  Cora had rolled over on the knife. The sheets were all stained red. . . .” Girsh’s voice died out, he turned his face away.

  Vic stood watching him, then moved the bottle back across the table. “I feel like a drink myself,” he said. “Poor Cora. That’s tough.” He gulped down a shot of the whiskey. “Didn’t the nurse know . . .?”

  Girsh said quickly: “Not a thing. They don’t take visitor’s names out there. She only had a vague idea what the guy ahead of me looked like.”

  “But Cora hadn’t been dead long.”

  “It was hard to tell. Maybe two minutes—maybe ten. The nurse got panicky. The whole hospital was upset.”

  “I can imagine,” Vic said. “What’d you do?”

  “Learned what I could,” Girsh answered. “Gave them the information they wanted in turn. Then I came out here. I felt sick—still do.”

  “Sure. Take it easy.” Vic walked to the telephone table near the door, picked up an envelope lying there. “Does Stoddard know about Cora yet?”

  “I doubt it, unless someone in the hospital caught him at the office. They expected me to tell him—but I hate to.”