Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Who knew about those uncut diamonds being in the safe?” Blake asked instantly.

  “Mr. Lenz, and I—and Inez!”

  “Where’s this Phil Abrams?”

  “I believe he’s stopping at the Royal Hotel. He and Mr. Lenz went to that roadhouse outside of town—the Show Boat—together last night. Mr. Abrams represents a New York firm, you know.”

  “Safe wasn’t busted open, was it? Didn’t look as if it was to me—only just had a glance at it.”

  “No,” said Will, “that’s the funny thing about it. Whoever opened it must have known the combination.

  “Another thing that’s queer: Sam Murtha acted as doorman for the Pleasure Palace—he’s still got his uniform on, as you saw—and as watchman for this store—they’re so close together, he could do that. He had the key to the store, but he never before went inside that I remember. What did he go inside for this time?”

  “Did Murtha know the combination to the safe?”

  “No!”

  “Telephone was off the hook,” said Big John in Blake’s ear.

  Blake nodded. “I noticed that.” He asked the clerk, “Was the outside door open when you came this morning?”

  “No, it was locked as usual. I’ll go into the drugstore and ‘phone Mr. Lenz and Mr. Abrams. I can’t do it from—in there!” He shuddered.

  “Well, John”—Blake grinned at him ruefully—“it’s just your luck to fall in on a thing like this when you come into town with me for a visit! Wait here for me, mind? I’ve got to get the medical examiner and the fingerprint expert up here.”

  HE WENT back into the small office in the rear. While he was away, the girl Inez came in. She nodded and smiled at John in a much friendlier manner than she had shown toward Blake.

  “You don’t live here in town, do you?” she asked.

  “No,” said John. “Oklahoma.”

  “Oh—now I remember! You’re Big John, the—the . . .”

  “Half-breed,” John finished dryly.

  “Half-breed or full-breed, you’re quite a man!” Her half-closed eyes surveyed his big, powerful body and strong face with its high cheekbones and the straight black hair over it. “I heard about your marvelous hearing—and how you helped Captain Hubbard catch those four men who tried to steal the electric company’s payroll in Laneboro last month. I guess those big black eyes of yours don’t miss much, do they?”

  “Guess your black eyes don’t, either,” said John gravely. “As for my hearing—I inherited it. Mother was a Shoshone—she and her family had it—were born with it, just as I was.”

  Blake came striding back. He said to John, “Someone started to call Lenz’s home at about two in the morning—and left the receiver off the hook. That dumb operator never tried to investigate what happened. A receiver is left off the hook in a jewelry store at two in the morning and it doesn’t mean a damn thing to her! Talk about your morons!” He said to the girl: “What do you know about this, Inez?”

  “About what?” There was immediate hostility in her tone.

  “Sam Murtha was killed—he’s lying back in the office inside. Didn’t you know?”

  The color drained from her face. “Killed? No!” She looked at John. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Do you know the combination to the safe inside?” interposed Blake.

  “I—well, sometimes I have the early shift, and then . . .”

  “So you do know it. Does Vic Terris know it? Did you ever tell it to him?”

  “I knew you’d think that right away.” Her face flamed and her black eyes snapped with anger. “He’s never done a thing since he came to town you could find any fault with—and you’re always picking on him! I think it’s a shame!”

  “He never did a thing except run the only clip joint in town.”

  “It isn’t a clip joint!”

  “No? And did he ever tell you why he left the Big Burg to honor us with his presence here, Inez? You’re a town girl—I’ve known you ever since you were born. I don’t like to see you make a bad mistake, Inez.”

  “I know, Chief, but”—her voice dropped to a plaintive key—“I’m not marrying Vic yet, and besides I know he means to—to go straight—no matter what happened to him in the city.”

  Blake said grimly, “I’ll believe that when he closes down that joint around the corner! If he doesn’t, I will—and damn soon, too! You can tell him I said so.”

  A well-dressed, light-haired man of medium height entered the store. He said, “You Chief Blake? I hear there’s been a robbery. My name is Abrams. I had my sample case in the safe with a lot of uncut diamonds in it. Will tells me it’s gone!”

  Will burst in. “Well, I called Mr. Lenz. He’ll be here in a minute.”

  Blake was studying Abrams keenly. He said, “You don’t seem much put out about losing all those diamonds, Mr. Abrams.”

  “Oh, I feel badly—but they were insured, you know.”

  “How did you come to leave them in Lenz’s safe?”

  “Well now”—Abrams spoke patiently—“I’ve been doing that for years—every time I call on Lenz. Last night we went out for an evening’s recreation—the Show Boat—and that safe of his seemed as good a place to leave my stuff as any other. Nothing ever happened to it before.”

  A heavy-set, dignified-looking man with a tanned face and hawkish eyes opened the door and walked in. Inez and Will Simmons chorused, “Good morning, Mr. Lenz,” and he nodded to them. He said to Blake, “Chief, this is too bad, too bad! Too much of that sort of thing happening lately.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode past Blake toward the rear of the store where the office was situated. Abrams followed him.

  The chief took John’s arm and walked him away from the two clerks. He asked John, “What’s Abrams saying? Can you hear him?”

  Lenz and Abrams were standing on the threshold of the office, looking down at the body. Not even the murmur of their voices came to Blake’s ears.

  But John said, “Abrams isn’t saying anything. Lenz is doing the talking. He’s saying there’s been a regular crime wave in town lately and that they need a police chief who can protect them. He says they’ll get one, too.” He paused and listened again.

  “He doesn’t seem to think well of you,” finished John briefly.

  Two newcomers appeared, the medical examiner and the fingerprint man. When the door opened, John could see that a crowd had gathered. The examiner called, “Where’s the corpse, Chief?” Blake and Big John preceded the men to the office. In front of it, Lenz and Abrams still stood conversing.

  Lenz said gravely, “Whoever did it, Chief, either had the combination to the safe, or was able to open it without. That would indicate an expert, wouldn’t it?”

  “If he opened it without knowing the combination—yes. Someone, Sam Murtha probably—tried to call you on the ‘phone at about two in the morning—never finished the call. Must’ve been knocked off while he was making it.”

  “M-m-m!” Lenz looked thoughtful. “Here’s how I’d figure that: Whoever it was, told Murtha I sent him. Murtha went inside to call me up and verify it. While he was telephoning, the assassin shot him! What do you think?”

  “Sounds logical,” said Blake. “Look, Mr. Lenz—were you with Mr. Abrams last night?”

  “If you’re suspecting Abrams”—Lenz’s voice sounded impatient—“you’re barking up the wrong tree. His firm would trust him with a million dollars in jewels—and so would I. We were at the Show Boat together last night—from about ten until five this morning. And a great many people we knew—particularly whom I knew—were there and saw us both.”

  “I see.” Blake called to the fingerprint expert: “Find anything, Pete?”

  Pete looked up and shook his head negatively. “Looks as if every print on the safe was wiped off. I ain’t finished yet, but that’s what it seems like.”

  “Professional!” commented Lenz significantly. The medical examiner came over. He said briefly, “Bullet through the lungs, o
ne through the cardiac region, one through the brain. Dead about six to eight hours, I should say.”

  “Killed about the time of this attempted call to my house,” said Lenz.

  “Who else,” asked Blake, “knew the combination to that safe, Mr. Lenz?”

  “Only the people in the store—Will and Inez.” He thought a moment. “Wait—two other clerks who formerly worked for me knew it—Paul Tierney and Clara Smith. Paul lives in Cincinnati now, and as for Clara—she’s married to our congressman.”

  “Yes, I know,” Blake said tiredly. “But if they knew it, a lot of others might know it. Inez, for instance, is a friend of Vic Terris—did that occur to you?”

  Lenz said reflectively, “He looks like a bad actor!”

  Two uniformed policemen came in, and Blake left them in charge.

  “I better have a talk with Vic Terris!” Blake said to Big John. They walked toward the street.

  “Want to go back to camp?” Blake asked Big John. “This isn’t as enjoyable as fishing, is it?”

  THEY had paused at a point about the middle of the big store. John said, “I’ll stick around a while. Inez is asking Will whether he thinks Abrams did it. She thinks Abrams knows the combination. Will says he does know it—it just occurred to him.”

  Blake stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Inez just remembered,” continued Big John placidly, “that my hearing is unusually good—she’s whispering to Will about it. I can hear her, though—her whisper is even plainer than her ordinary tone.”

  “But how could it have been Abrams—he was with Lenz all night! Lenz says so!” Blake looked exasperated and puzzled. “Damn it, everybody seems to have known that combination! Well—come on! I’m going over to the Pleasure Palace.” There were eleven secret entrances and exits to the Pleasure Palace, Blake told Big John, as they stood before the main entrance, around the corner from the jewelry store.

  “This Vic Terris who owns the Palace used to be a wrestler—a near-champ,” commented Blake.

  A powerfully-built man with small, beady eyes, and a cauliflower ear, opened the door. He wore a red bathrobe. He said, “Hello, Chief. Want me?”

  “I’m going to search your place,” Blake told him, and shoved past, Terris giving way reluctantly. Blake called over his shoulder, “Come on, John!”

  John followed inside. The sybaritic chambers lay dark and silent, fetid with stale odors.

  “New cop?” asked Terris.

  “Friend of mine—Big John Cornell.”

  “Oh—the guy with the hearing!” Terris grinned crookedly. “Kin you hear what I’m thinkin’, pal?”

  “Sure,” said Big John, “and if I was Chief Blake I’d hit you with a nightstick for insulting me.”

  Terris roared with laughter.

  “It isn’t so funny.” Blake gave him a sour look. “Sam Murtha was murdered.”

  There was no real surprise on the wrestler’s face, to Big John’s keen eyes—only a very poor simulation.

  “Killed, hey?” Terris shook his head. “Say, that’s too bad! When?”

  “You know damned well when,” gritted Blake. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I find the stuff that was stolen right in this joint of yours.”

  A complete change came over Terris’s face. His small eyes glittered redly. He demanded, “Where’s your warrant to search this place? Got a warrant?” Blake touched a button and illuminated the room. “I don’t need a warrant. Sit down and keep out of my way.”

  “Just like that!” The wrestler’s voice was bitter. “You got a lot of brass. And you even bring friends along that ain’t cops!”

  “I’d better clear out,” suggested John.

  “No, you stay right here.” Blake studied the wrestler ominously. “You put on a bum act, Vic, pretending you didn’t know Sam was murdered. You weren’t kidding me any.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute! You tryin’ to pin this on me?”

  “You know the combination to the safe, I know you do!” Blake crowded the man against the wall. “Inez gave it to you. You made Sam go into the store with you—you told him Lenz gave you permission to get something—and you killed him while he was at that telephone. I think I’ll take you down to the station!”

  FOR a minute the wrestler stood as though stunned. Then he growled, “What’re you tryin’ to do, frame me? Hell, there’s a coupla dozen people saw me right here all night—I didn’t stir outta the place. Sure, I knew Sam was bumped off . . . somebody ‘phoned me a little while ago—and they said my name was mentioned. I didn’t let on I knew, because you’ve got it in for me!”

  “It was Inez ‘phoned you! Shut up and stay out of my way,” snapped Blake.

  “Okay,” said Terris. “You won’t find nothin’ in here unless you plant it yourself.”

  The search proved fruitless. No jewelry—and no guns. From the dresser in Terris’s room, Blake lifted a picture of two girls. One was Inez.

  “Who’s the other dame?” asked Blake.

  “That’s Juanita,” grunted Terris reluctantly. “She works at the kid summer camp on the lake—housekeeper. She’s Spanish, too—Inez’s folks are Spanish. That’s how they come to be friends.”

  “What,” asked Blake abruptly, “made Sam Murtha leave his post in front of your place and go into the jewelry store? Got any idea?”

  “You kin search me—I don’t know. He was supposed to visit the store every half-hour—try the door, see. He had the key, I know that. Why he went in there is more’n I can tell.”

  IN THE police chiefs private office, Blake asked, “Well, John, who do you think did it?” John merely shrugged.

  “Could be Terris, Abrams—Lenz himself—either of those two clerks—I’d say Inez sooner’n Will—Will ain’t got any guts at all. Could be someone who got the combination from one of those who knew it. One thing I’m sure of—Lenz is pretty sore about this—he’d like to get rid of me. Thinks I’m a bum as a police chief.” Blake grinned ruefully. “He’s got a lot of influence in this town!” Portentously, the telephone rang. “Yes, this is Chief Blake . . . oh hello, Mr. Mayor, how are you? I just happened to come in from camp—I’m not due back for another week . . . I thought it was that . . . well, I don’t see where I’ve been lax . . . of course I’ll do my best. I suppose it was Lenz complained.” And then his face darkened. He said crisply, “That’s up to you, Mr. Mayor. I’ve been chief of police in this town for ten years, and this is the first time any threat like that was made. I don’t know whether you have the right to remove me—I believe that’s up to the city council. Bye!”

  “Hear that?” he snapped, his blue eyes flaming. John nodded sympathetically.

  “Threatened to remove me for incompetency,” muttered Blake. “That’s some of Lenz’s work! John, I’ve got to solve this case. It means a lot to me. I’m going to put every man I can spare on it.” John said reflectively, “I remember we had a lot of stealing at college one season . . .”

  “Oh, college!” Blake grinned. “Thought you were just one of these untutored red men who roam the forest primeval. . . .”

  “Played center on the football team and majored in English,” said Big John placidly. “It didn’t change me in any important way—just surface polish. I was saying, we had a lot of stealing at college one season . . . got so annoying we organized a Students’ Vigilance Committee secretly. When we caught him, the thief was the president of the committee!”

  “Are you pointing the finger of suspicion at me, or Lenz, or the mayor?” Blake asked dryly.

  John grinned and shrugged in his characteristic fashion, but said nothing.

  “Well,” said Blake, “I think I’ll go down to the Show Boat and check up on Lenz and Abrams. I suppose you’re going back to camp?”

  “Guess so!”

  “Maybe I’ll see you there tonight,” Blake said, “but it looks as though my vacation is over—unless I get a permanent one through my pal, the mayor.” There was a knock on the door, and a detective entered.
He said, “Got something to tell you about this Murtha case, Chief,” and glanced questioningly at John.

  “Come in and spill it,” ordered Blake. “It’s okay!”

  “Well,” began the detective, “Bill Bowen, over at the hardware store, says he saw a short, dark guy stop in front of the jewelry store ‘round one or two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Did he say Sam Murtha was with him?”

  “No, nobody was with him. Bill was on his way to see a nurse who’s on night duty at St. Mary’s Hospital. He says there was nobody else on the block at that hour—that’s how he came to notice this guy. Short, dark guy! Bill’s got an idea he knows him, but he can’t place him. Bill’s a little dumb, Chief.”

  “It’s something to work on, anyhow,” Blake told John, after the detective had gone out. “You know Bill Bowen, don’t you?”

  “Little fellow who has a bungalow on the lake near the summer camp—about a quarter of a mile from ours?”

  “That’s him! Come on—unless you’re tired of all this and wanna get back to camp. Got to have a talk with Bill—maybe he’ll remember!”

  When they entered the hardware store, Bill Bowen was busy with a customer, and they had to wait a little while. He was a thin, rather vacuous young fellow whose most valued asset appeared to be a light mustache which he constantly caressed.

  “Who is this short, dark guy—where can I see him?” asked the Chief.

  “For the life of me, Chief, I can’t remember!

  Honest I can’t. I got a pretty good look at his face under the light—darn it, he did seem familiar! But no matter how I try, I can’t seem to place him.” He smiled apologetically. “It may come to me yet. Maybe I’m just imagining. Say, is there any reward out for the guy who bumped off Sam Murtha, Chief?”

  “Bound to be—it’ll probably be announced in a day or two by the insurance company. Short, dark guy?” He glanced at John and laughed. “As dark as my friend here?”

  “Yeah—but about half his size!”