Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  One of them . . . one of them did it! Jake raged weakly to himself. One of them dealt me those new aces! Slipped that new deck in my pocket! Red was dealing . . . Red! I know it was Red . . . but . . . what will I do . . . Red will kill a man. They say he killed Nix Farron. If . . . Oh, God . . . what a hell to walk into . . . if I could only back up half an hour I’d go home and . . .

  He shook his head. But he couldn’t shake it from his mind. Jean . . . what will I tell her . . . and where can I get that much money . . . I’ve got to have it for him by eight . . . I know what he’ll do if I don’t get there with it when . . . I . . . Abruptly Jake knocked away his glass and straightened. He threw a bill on the bar and stumbled out.

  Home . . . home . . . his shattered mind kept echoing. He had to talk . . . to tell Jean . . .

  It was six o’clock when he opened the door of the small apartment on 14th Street. “Jean! Jean!” he called.

  There was no answer. He moved frantically through the three rooms. She was not there. Maybe she went to the store for something. She’d be back. He stopped before the desk and took out the check-book. He looked at their balance: Six hundred and eighteen dollars.

  “Where . . . where can I get the rest . . . seven hundred dollars in two hours?” he breathed harshly. “I . . . Oh, God, why did I go there? Why did I do it? I’d promised . . . I hate them . . . I know what they are . . . why did I go there and—”

  “Don’t move, Jake,” came a flat deep whisper from behind him.

  Jake jerked. Instinctively he started to turn.

  “I said, don’t move!” the voice snarled. “I never liked a guy to cheat me,” came the deadly whisper.

  “Man . . . Manny, listen . . . listen a minute to . . .” Jake gasped. The words were never finished. One instant he was trying to speak. The next split-instant a shattering blow crashed against his skull. His eyes danced with a hail of blinding lights. His ears drummed and roared with sudden concussion. He felt his muscles loosen . . . felt himself twisting . . . sinking . . . falling . . .

  “Jake! Please wake up, Jake! Oh, please!” The distant frantic cries wore into his ears. He opened his eyes and stared blankly upward. Out of the stunned blindness, Jean’s slender face, her dark curled hair took shape; her lips were begging him:

  “Please! Oh, Jake, for God’s sake, please!”

  “Uh . . . huh?” He struggled to sit erect. His head ached; a salty thickness coated his tongue. He couldn’t remember . . . and then he saw.

  It lay just within the door from the bed room—still—crumpled in the dark stain that spread from beneath it and over the rug . . . the eyes, small and beady, were locked upon the ceiling. The lips were lax; they seemed, almost, to be smiling. And in the center of the forehead was one small hole; across the temple was a trail of now-dry blood.

  “M—M—Manny!” Jake whispered. “Manny . . . you . . . he . . . dead!” he gasped. He twisted his eyes to Jean. “What . . . how did . . .”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” she sobbed half-hysterically. “I . . . I came back from the office where you called me and there . . . he was like that . . . just like that . . . and you . . . with that gun in your hand . . .” She choked and swallowed. Jake stared at the floor beside him. There was a small blunt automatic. Slowly his eyes widened. A cool frozen reality was replacing the dazed fog of his brain. “Jake . . .” Jean sobbed.

  “What did you mean—where I called you at the office?” Jake interrupted suddenly.

  “But you remember—you called me an hour—over an hour ago. You said you were at the office—that you had to see me there at once. You wouldn’t say why, but . . . Jake! . . . It wasn’t you!”

  “No! Certainly it wasn’t me!” He stumbled to his feet and stared down at the body.

  “What does it mean . . . how did it happen and—” Jean stammered.

  Jake shook his head. “I’ll have to tell you all I know. I . . . I got in a poker game this afternoon, honey. I . . . lost. Thirteen hundred dollars.” He swallowed as her cheeks turned pale. Quickly, then, he told her what had followed.

  “I came home here. The next thing, Manny . . . I thought it was Manny—he told me to stand still. Then I got slugged. That’s all I know. I . . . I swear it’s all I know, Jean. You believe me? You believe—”

  “Oh, Jake, of course I believe you, but . . . but who . . . why was he killed? And right in this room?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to understand. I . . . listen!” he exploded. “I think I see it: One of those men wanted to kill Manny; either it was Charlie Broski or Red Shelly or that stranger! But the killer needed a red-herring to pull across his trail. He’d planned to flush those crooked aces into the game, and when I sat down, he made me the sucker! I got ’em! So Manny caught me cheating! I owed Manny money, and we both hated each other because of the crooked deal! He figured the cops would believe I killed Manny! Wouldn’t they! If Red and Charlie and the stranger told the story! And Manny’s body was here in this room! I’d be holding the death gun! I—”

  “But then . . . which one of them did do it?” Jean asked starkly. “And why did they want to kill him?”

  “That’s the hell of it!” Jake sighed emptily. “You can’t name a crooked guy on the West End that wouldn’t have a reason for killing Manny! Maybe the killer owed Manny money from gambling at Manny’s dice-table. Maybe the killer wanted to move into Manny’s numbers-territory! Maybe he knew Manny had something on him that would make a blackmail axe—Manny’s picked up a little at that before! It . . . it could be a thousand men. It could be one of those three, I know!”

  “But then, what—” Jean stopped. Neither of them breathed. The heavy steps in the hall stopped. A knock came at the door.

  “Martin! Martin!” a hard, deliberate voice called.

  “Jean . . . that . . . that’s the cops!” Jake choked. “If—”

  “Get in the kitchen! Please hurry! I’ll try to talk . . . tell them you aren’t here! Keep them from coming in—”

  The knock came again. Jake cursed wildly.

  He cursed himself for having to leave Jean to face them. He stooped and pocketed the death-gun, then turned toward the kitchen. He turned the lock and leaned against the wall, his ear to the door-crack. He heard Jean open the front door. He heard a voice asking for Jake Martin. Then his nerves leaped. He heard Red Shelly’s voice, piping:

  “Maybe if he ain’t here, you can tell us where Manny is?”

  “Manny? Who is—” Jean started uneasily. “My name is Detective Irwin, lady,” another voice said. “You wouldn’t mind if we just stepped inside and waited for Jake Martin?”

  “But I . . . if you don’t—” Jean began. Then Jake heard the heavy steps entering the apartment. His breath vanished. His fingers tightened against his palms. And then the steps halted.

  “Well, well, well!” said the hard voice of Irwin.

  “Jeez, he . . . he’s dead! Dead!” Shelly gasped wildly. “Listen, lemme tell you! I was there see, and this Jake Martin got hisself caught trying to run in four new aces! Manny caught him and rustled the new deck outta his pocket! So Martin owes Manny a grand and three hundred, and Manny says get it by eight o’clock! So this Martin scrams out. Then about an hour ago when we’re all still sitting at Manny’s talking about what a cheat this Martin is, Manny gets a telephone call. It’s from Martin, who says for Manny to get over here to this apartment and get the dough. Okay, says Manny. And he leaves to come over here—but first he says to me, ‘If I don’t run into no trouble, I’ll be back in half an hour.’ So when he don’t come back, I get a funny feeling. That’s why I give you a ring and bring you over here, see?”

  “I see,” Irwin agreed gently. Jake heard him striking a match. “Now, Mrs. Martin . . . you just start slow and tell me exactly what happened. And tell me where your husband is. It’ll be a lot easier—”

  “But I . . . I swear I don’t know! He didn’t do it, I know, but I don’t know where he is or—”

  “You
didn’t want to let us in . . . maybe . . .” And Irwin’s steps moved about the room. Jake jerked back from the door. Wildly his eyes fled about the room, locked on the fire-escape. Swiftly he tip-toed across the floor and raised the window. The door knob rattled violently. Jake started out onto the steel landing of the fire-escape. His left foot, still on the kitchen floor, twisted beneath him, throwing him noisily against the window. He cursed frantically and looked down. His foot had turned on a small metal object.

  Irwin shouted furiously. His fist hammered into the locked door. Then his weight crashed against it.

  Jake dragged himself through the window and stumbled down the steel steps. He could hear the shouts above him, he could hear the crash of the kitchen door. He dropped into the service-alley as a voice shouted above him. He was fleeing about the corner into the street when a gun roared above and a slug came whining down and spanged off the concrete . . .

  Time . . . time . . . Jake’s confused mind was chanting anxiously. Time to think . . . I know it was Red Shelly . . . if I can only find something . . . some proof . . .

  Three blocks away, he wrenched open the door of a cab and slammed it behind him. “Times Square,” he panted.

  At Times Square he left the cab, entered the subway, and rode uptown. On 76th Street, he found a small nondescript hotel. He rolled up his collar, pulled down his hat, and entered. Minutes later he sank down in a chair behind the locked door of a small drab room and lit a cigarette.

  “So many reasons why Red Shelly would want to kill Manny . . .” he whispered to himself. “Manny had a finger in so many dirty pies, I don’t know where to start looking. He’s pulled blackmail, protection, numbers, dice . . . he—” Jake stopped abruptly. “Damn! His private office and apartment in the Bronx! He kept his records there! If Shelly doesn’t know about the place, maybe he hasn’t been able to kick apart any evidence that Manny might have left . . . if I only knew where the damned apartment was! Manny kept it secret and—” Jake stopped again. His eyes narrowed, then lighted. “Delores! That little dancer! She would know if—”

  Jake moved to the telephone and dialed the number of the Star Club. “Is Delores there?” he asked heavily. Then he waited. If she hasn’t heard, he hoped anxiously. A sweet voice answered: “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Honey? This is Manny. How’s yourself?”

  “Oh, Manny,” she murmured intimately. “I’m all right. What—”

  “Listen, honey, I’ve got to see you and quick. It’s important. I want you to grab a taxi in ten minutes and meet me at the place in the Bronx. You know. I’ll be waiting and—”

  “But I . . . you know I’ve got to dance in forty minutes—”

  “This is important, I said. I mean it, honey! Start from there in ten minutes—no sooner. You will, won’t you, baby?”

  “I . . . yeah, sure . . . if you say so, Manny.”

  “Good.” He hung up and hurried to the door. On the street he caught a cab and gave the address of the Star Club. It was almost eight now. New York was wrapped in the darkness of night. Almost eight, Jake thought again: If it hadn’t been for murder, what would I be doing now . . . meeting Manny telling him I couldn’t pay and . . .

  He closed his eyes. While he moved in frantic reality, trying to think against the tightening mesh of time, he still felt the hollow emptiness of nightmare.

  The cab approached the Star Club. “Park here,” Jake told the driver. “We’ll wait a few minutes.” From the parking place, he could see the dimly lit entrance of the little club, four doors down the block. He looked at his watch. It was time . . .

  He leaned forward suddenly as the door of the Star opened. A slender girl with shining blonde hair crossed the walk and entered a cab. It was Delores . . .

  “Follow that cab pulling out,” Jake ordered.

  He kept leaning forward. Slowly, then swiftly the cabs moved. Twenty minutes later, at a small apartment house in the Bronx, the first cab stopped. Jake felt in his pocket. He had no money.

  “You wait here,” he told the driver. “I’ll be about ten minutes.”

  He left the cab and followed Delores into the modernistic blue-and-irass lobby of the building. She was climbing the stairs when he entered. He waited at the foot of the steps, watching her slender white fingers move up the rail. They left the stairs at the third floor. Quickly and silently he followed. When he reached the third floor and peered into the corridor, the girl was fumbling into her purse for a key. She opened a door at the back of the building and disappeared. Quickly Jake tip-toed down the hall. He hesitated a moment. The building was silent. He drew the gun from his pocket, then knocked softly.

  Steps sounded in the room. The lock turned and the slender arch-eyed little dancer smiled brightly. “Manny, I—” The smile evaporated. Her eyes widened as she saw the gun. Jake moved fast.

  “Keep your mouth shut!” He pushed into the room and closed the door, tripping the lock. “Now, take it easy and you’ll be okay. But don’t make any noise!”

  “You . . . what do you . . . that gun . . .” Delores cried.

  “I said, keep still!” he whispered harshly. “Back over . . . in that corner . . . don’t move!”

  He glanced about the room. It was plain, modestly furnished. Two doors, closed, led into other rooms. Jake started to move. His steps halted. His eyes locked on an ash-tray.

  In it lay a curve-stemmed pipe.

  “A pipe . . . but Manny smoked cigars and . . . Charlie!” Jake gasped. “He’s been here and . . . that thing I tripped on in my kitchen! That was a pipe-reamer! That means . . . Charlie was the man who slugged me and killed—”

  “Yeah. Doesn’t it?” a deep quiet voice said lazily. Jake jerked. His fingers pushed at the safety of his gun—too late.

  In the doorway of one of the other rooms was Charlie. His large round face was drawn into impassive deep lines. His eyes, behind their pillows of fat, burned intently. And the gun in his hand was levelled on Jake’s head.

  “Drop it, Jake. Drop it now,” he said quietly.

  Delores half-screamed, the sound small in her throat. Jake tried to speak, to think. There was nothing . . . he felt his fingers obeying . . . heard the gun thump on the floor. Charlie let a faint smile stray across his thick lips.

  “You’re making it a little hard on me, Jake. I never liked three corpses in one day.”

  “You . . . damn you . . . you can’t get away with—”

  “I think I can. I think I will,” came the ironic answer. “It’s worth eighty grand of the numbers pay-off that Manny’s got stowed in the next room. And it’s worth his slice of the club and the racket to me. A brother ought to move in when his brother gets killed, don’t you think?—even when his brother was a tight rat like Manny, and was trying to freeze me out.”

  “You . . . you stacked that deck! You killed Manny! You called him on that fake-call and sent him to my place, then you slugged me and killed him! I know—”

  “Yeah. You know. But knowing now is knowing too late, Jake,” he murmured. He smiled again. “I never had anything against you. I guess it was kind of what you’d call fate . . . you coming in right when you did. It was all set for the slant-eyed little bookie named Red to catch the bad aces, but I couldn’t pull the deck out of the game—it was too damned risky. You just sat down in the dead man’s seat. Sorry . . .”

  “But . . . damn you, I . . . listen, Charlie, listen, I . . .” Jake swallowed. “You . . . can’t kill us both! You know something will—”

  “Why not?” Charlie wondered. “The cops will find the girl dead. So what? She was meeting Manny here when you walked in to raid Manny’s cash-box. You plugged her to shut her mouth. But the neighbors heard the shot and came around. You got rattled and tried to scram down the fire-escape . . . And because you was so excited, your foot slipped and damned if you didn’t fall. It’s three floors to the concrete. That ought to do the job.” Jake’s lips sagged. He stared at the impassive face. “You couldn’t do . . .” Then he stopped. H
e knew Charlie could do it. And he knew Charlie would . . .

  He felt a slow chill crawl upward along his spine. He moved his tongue thickly. “Charlie, for God’s sake, you—”

  He stopped. And across Charlie’s face flashed a trace of bleak surprise. From the outside corridor came steps, and an excited voice exclaiming:

  “. . . it was him! I know on account of I heard the police broadcast what gave his description! It was Martin, okay! But when he got in my cab, I knew damn well he was lugging a gun! I couldn’t do nothing but drive where he said, and that was here, see? Then he came up here to this door and—”

  “Damn, damn,” Charlie Broski snarled savagely. His suddenly bright eyes raked the room as his body congealed into taut dynamite.

  “Okay, Martin! Open it up!” a voice shouted. A fist cracked against the door. Jake began to sweat, his eyes jerking between Charlie’s gun and the door. Delores was whimpering hysterically in the corner. Charlie was tip-toeing like a caged animal, to the window, across the room, to the doors . . . hunting, searching . . .

  Jake dragged in a hard breath. “If you shoot now,” he said thickly, “you’re nailed for murder, cold.”

  “But I can take you with me, Jake,” came the harsh whisper. “You back this way . . . into this room—move!”

  The hammering at the door was gone now. There was a moment of silence as Jake began to move. Then a gun roared. The door splintered at the lock.

  “Hurry!” Charlie snarled. Again the gun roared into the lock. Bits of metal showered into the room. Jake felt salty perspiration touch his lips. He felt Charlie’s gun settle against his spine.

  “Back to this window . . . the fire-escape . . . you’re covering me when we go down!” The window rasped up. Charlie crawled out, never letting his gun leave Jake’s spine. A third time the gun blasted at the door—and Jake heard the crash as the door fell in.