by Jerry eBooks
“I’m not selling,” I replied.
THERE was a heavy ring on his left hand.
That hand bunched into a fist and the ring sideswiped my jaw, with teeth-rattling impact. As my head snapped back he hit me again, then kept hitting. I tasted blood.
“Where is it?” Crunch! Crunch! “Where’s the Paris Star?”
He was growling that at me between punches. Then he stepped back, breathing heavy. He was muscle-bound and short-winded. I was glad of that. I wiped the blood off my mouth and looked at the girl. She was rubbing her numbed wrists, shaking her head.
“Tell him,” she urged. “Tell him, if you know!”
“Okay,” I said. “Refrigerator. Look in the ice-trays.”
Again a vicious swing of that ringed fist cracked against my face. I managed to stay upright in the chair, but bright lights were flashing in my head.
“Ice-trays, eh?” Mayo growled. “We looked there. And all over. No diamond. Now out with it, Ames!”
That cleared my brain. So I’d been all wrong on that hunch. And not one of us knew who was carrying the ball!
But that same hunch, in bringing me here, gave me the whole rhyme and reason for the murder. And now, action was in order.
Mayo came at me again. I slumped sideward, head down. He stopped right in front of me, the gun dangling.
“Guess I got too rough,” he rasped. “He’s out like a light.”
What else he may have wanted to say came out in an agonized whoosh as my fist plowed into his soft middle. Two could play at a dirty game, I thought. He doubled, his fat face livid, and I went after him, twisting his limp gun arm. The automatic slithered away out of sight, under the phonograph.
He came at me, swinging drunkenly, and I let him have it, one, two. He went glassyeyed, his jaw wide open. So I let him have it from the floor. I heard something give, then he went down, and out.
A half-scream of fright from the girl whirled me around. A fantastic figure was holding a gun on us from the bedroom door. It still wore the make-up and the nightdress of “Mrs. Mayo”, but under the gown were trousers, and the gaunt frame and face of a “lean and hungry college teacher” ! Something clicked in my brain.
“You recover fast, Aunty,” I said. “Or should I say—Professor Tobin?”
“You guessed it, Ames.” The voice was harsh and masculine; no longer shrill and senile. “Tobin. Don’t look so amazed, Miss Ordway. Slug and I—Slug’s the stupid ox your boy friend just knocked out—have been on your tail for weeks. You nearly gave us the slip. But not quite.”
I looked at Joan.
“It adds up,” I said. “Murder with music. Music loud enough to cover the shots when Tobin and Slug killed your father and searched your apartment. And loud enough to cover any screams you might have let out when they kidnaped you.”
Tobin took over.
“When we finally traced you here, Miss Ordway, this apartment was vacant. It looked like a good pitch, so Slug and I put on the sick aunt act and moved in. Who’d suspect an invalid and her doting nephew?”
“Nobody,” I said. “Except when that gun showed up in my apartment I began to get ideas.”
“From the first, Ames, we had you spotted for the frame,” Tobin went on. “Slug slipped down the back way while the cops were working on you in the Ordway apartment, and planted the murder rod in your room.”
“You—you murdered my father!” Joan murmured as she stared at Tobin.
The grotesquely attired figure shrugged.
“We had to. He wouldn’t play ball or tell us where the Paris Star was after Slug shot him from behind through the shoulder. So I had to finish him.” Tobin suddenly snarled: “Now, which one of you has the Paris Star?”
I saw murder in his eye. The music was swelling to a climax. Before the record finished he would shoot!
Then suddenly came a soft thud in the bedroom, the clear tinkling of a bell. I saw a cat’s glowing eyes behind Tobin. And all at once I knew the answer!
Tobin turned slightly, and in the brief second he was off guard I crashed into him with a flying tackle. I winced as the gun roared almost in my ear, but the bullet raced into the ceiling. I grabbed his wrist, yelling to Joan to do something. But she was way ahead of me.
SHE shut the phonograph off and screamed at the top of her voice. Tobin cursed and fought like a madman. We rolled across the room, fighting for the gun. Then I twisted his wrist and the weapon clattered to the floor.
He clawed at my throat with bony hands that had steel-like strength. Viciously he brought up his knee. In a wave of nausea I felt the power drain out of my fingers. Then we rolled over again, the floor came up and slapped the back of my head, and I suddenly lost all interest in the affair . . .
Doyle was helping me to my feet, and the room was seething with uniforms. I looked around for Tobin and his hood, “Slug.” They were both handcuffed, and Slug was holding what looked like a broken jaw.
“Feel okay—hero?” said Doyle. He grinned as I gave him a questioning look. “The girl just explained. But next time, Ames, let us in on your capers. And why’d you run out?”
I felt a goose-egg lump on the back of my head, and winced.
“War nerves, Doyle. I didn’t want to be cooped up in a nice cool jail.”
“Tobin, the big jewel crook, under our noses,” he said wonderingly and scowled. “But where’s the Paris Star?”
A furry shape was slinking toward the open window over the fire-escape.
“Grab it!” I yelled. “Grab that cat!”
They looked at me as if they thought that conk on the noggin had affected my brain. But Hennessy was near the cat, and reached out for it. I went over and took the squirming Persian from him. Then I looked at the girl.
“Miss Ordway, your father had the Paris Star’s hiding-place figured out ahead of time. And he tried to tell you in his own blood, before Tobin shot him through the brain. But I figured the letters ‘C-O-L’ all wrong. What he was trying to write was this.”
I had the leather collar off the cat.
“ ‘Collar’,” I said. “What better hiding place?”
I was right this time. I felt the bulge as I handed the collar to Doyle.
“With his knife your father slit an opening in the leather, inserted the jewel, and—”
I didn’t have to go on. Doyle was already holding a glittering object in his hand. A mass of white fire—the flawless Paris Star. The cops gathered around, gaping. Joan Ordway looked at it, then at me.
“And to think I accused you, made you a fugitive.”
“I told you once—forget it.”
I smiled. She smiled. We were standing there like that when Hatch burst into the room.
“Bill! Where’s my cab? If anything’s happened to it—”
He stopped, seeing I wasn’t paying any attention to him. I was still looking at the girl and she was still looking at me. Hatch looked at both of us.
“Bill,” he said slowly, “is this it?”
“Hatch,” I said, “this is it.”
A PHOTO AND A VOICE
David Goodis
Private Detectives Dreer and Burns find plenty of action when a racketeer attempts to spring a vicious shakedown!
THINGS were dull and Bill Dreer was getting ready to close up the office when the telephone rang. Dreer looked at bulky Don Burns, his assistant.
“You expecting a call?” he asked. “Who ever calls me?” Burns said. “Answer it. Maybe it’s something big.”
It turned out to be something big.
It seemed that there was a man named Marsh, and he had a new kind of vending machine, that would take a fellow’s picture and at the same time make a disc recording of his voice, all for a half-dollar. This Marsh was an independent sort of person, and he had financed the thing himself. He manufactured the machines, had formed his own distribution agency, and had started to put the things on the market.
Along came the racket boys. They had scared most of the vending ope
rators into paying a protection fee. When a few of the operators protested, the racket boys had caught up with their trucks and smashed their machines. One of the big shots in the vending business had had his nose broken one day, so the other boys had got scared and decided to pay off.
When Marsh’s machine went over big, he had been approached by the racket lads, who told him an interesting story.
They said that it would be healthy for him to join the Amusement Machine Protective Association. They said that he would pay exactly ten per cent of his monthly net profit to the association, for which he would receive protection.
Marsh said that he did not need any protection, and he told the racket boys to go to a hot spot.
This had peeved the protectors, and they had walked out of the office and on the following day caught up with one of Marsh’s trucks and turned it over, beat up the driver, and smashed ten machines. . .
NOT long after that phone call, Marsh was in Dreer’s office. Marsh was a good-looking man in his early forties and he dressed as if he had money.
“What made you call me up?” Dreer asked him.
Bill Dreer was just an average private sleuth. He was a year over thirty, was of average height and average weight, and had gray eyes and a short nose.
“I’ll tell you,” Marsh said. “I’ve got a feeling that the police wouldn’t be able to help me much with this thing. The racket boys are plenty smart. I looked you up in a directory. That is, I opened the directory and just let my finger fall on a name and it turned out to be yours.”
“Whaddya know about that?” Burns said.
Don Burns had a pink face and a lot of curly brown hair, and he had been a wrestler, a bouncer, and an all-round tough guy.
Dreer grinned at Marsh. “Let’s talk business,” he said.
“Sure,” Marsh said. “I want you to bust up this protective association. I’ll pay you a hundred bucks a week for two weeks and when you get something on these thugs and they go to jail I’ll give you three thousand dollars.”
“You talk as if it’s worth a lot to you, Marsh,” Dreer said.
“Sure it’s worth a lot to me,” Marsh admitted. He acted as if he didn’t want to waste any time. “I’ll make it five thousand.”
“That’s fine,” Dreer said. “What do I have to work on?”
“Nothing but what I’ve told you,” Marsh said. “From now on it’s your job.”
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a roll of bills. . . .
On the following day, Dreer and Burns took jobs in the factory where Marsh turned out his Photo-Voice, as he called it. The machine was a classy job about four feet high, all chromium and lavender enamel and mirror. You inclined your head into a metal hood and put a half-dollar in the slot. You smiled or made faces or tried to look intelligent, and then the lights went on inside the machine and things buzzed.
In thirty seconds a neat-looking package came out of the machine and you opened it up and saw a black disc, to which was attached ten pictures of yourself. When you played the record, the pictures flapped around to make a continuous motion-photo, with your lips moving in accompaniment to your voice.
Marsh was showing Dreer how the thing worked when a few smart-looking boys walked into the big shipping room. They were racket men. They wore doublebreasted suits and loud neckties, and they had grease on their black hair and powder on their blue chins. One of them stepped forward and smiled like a rat filled with cheese.
He was short and heavy and he had a big yellow stone on the little finger of his right hand.
“How ya doin’, Marsh?” he said.
“I’m doing fine,” Marsh said.
The racket man looked at Dreer and Burns and then at the machines. “Are you ready to see things our way?” he asked.
“Don’t be a fool,” Marsh said. He acted as if he was bored with this little meeting. “Sorry, but I’m busy. You can talk with our new plant manager if you want to. He’s in charge of our new distribution set-up. He may be interested. Mr. Dreer, meet Mr.—”
“Lucchi,” the racket man said.
He had a black look on his face now. He shook hands with Dreer and watched Marsh walk into another room.
“Mr. Marsh is a funny type of man,” Dreer said. “Very nervous. I got a feeling that this business is too complicated for him.”
“Yeah?” Lucchi said. He glanced at his boys and they were all looking at Dreer and Burns as kids looks at new arrivals in the neighborhood.
“What’s it all about?” Dreer asked.
He took out a pack of cigarettes and flipped one up for Lucchi. The racket man took it and Dreer took one and they lit up. Dreer acted very friendly.
Lucchi sat down and Dreer pulled a chair over. Burns stood behind him. The racket men stood behind Lucchi.
“You know how these things work,” Lucchi said. “The vending machine business is sort of complicated. Unless everyone cooperates, things get messed up. There has to be some sort of organization to control the industry. If we didn’t do it, the city or state would.”
“Sure,” Dreer said. He took a long drag at his smoke and added, “I’ve been in this game a long time, Lucchi. That’s why Marsh hired me. He knows that I have all the angles. He’ll listen to me.”
“That’s fine,” Lucchi said. “That’s really fine.” He leaned forward like an old chum. “Tell you what we’ll do, Dreer,” he said. “We’ll come to terms right now. Talking in round figures, what do you know about Marsh’s weekly take with these machines?”
“Five thousand dollars,” Dreer said. He wasn’t kidding.
“That gives us five hundred,” Lucchi said. “And this business is growing steadily. When it’s doubled, we get a thousand.” He was talking to himself now, swimming in money. “We’ll come around every week and take our ten per cent. In return for that, we’ll see that you have no trouble. We’ll bust up any competition that tries to snake in on your territory and we’ll—well, you know how it works—we’ll protect you.”
DREER looked at the floor and puffed hard at his cigarette.
“Well?” Lucchi said.
Dreer grinned. “You’re new to this racket, aren’t you, Lucchi?” he asked.
“Whaddya talkin’ about?” The short, heavy man looked mean.
“I used to work it myself, Lucchi,” Dreer said. “1 had a protective association for amusement machines, out on the Coast. But I did it the smooth way. Take my advice and learn the business before you go around making transactions. You’ll only get yourself in a lot of trouble, the way you’re doing things.”
Lucchi was dumbfounded. All he could say was, “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Dreer said.
And even as he said it he knew that he had pulled a boner. This Lucchi couldn’t be oiled out of five hundred, or maybe a grand, each seven days. He was a tough customer and the only way to deal with him was the tough way. Either that—or payoff. And Dreer was thinking that now was no time to be tough.
A moment later he was knowing it. He was on the floor and there was a lot of pain around his mouth. Blood was running down his chin and he was staring up at Lucchi. Lucchi was caressing his right fist.
“So I should take your advice and learn the business,” Lucchi was saying. “That’s good. That’s the best one I’ve heard in a long time. Why that’s—”
He couldn’t get the next word out because Burns’ fist was pumping it back down his throat. Burns was standing in front of Lucchi and punching him in the mouth. And then Lucchi was sitting down.
The racket men were reaching in their pockets and Lucchi was spitting blood and curses.
“Not that way boys,” he was saying. “We don’t really want to hurt them, do we?” He was getting up and wiping the blood from his lips. Then he was saying, “I’ll give you a big break, Dreer. I’ll give you a few hours to think it over. We’ll be back. . . .”
Marsh and Dreer and Burns were sitting at the big desk in the inner office.
“Well?” Marsh
said.
“We can’t do anything except wait for him,” Dreer murmured. “We can’t call the cops because this Lucchi is smart, and besides the cops will mess it up so that we can’t bring complete charges. The only thing to do is wait for them and figure out some way to get something on them we can prove.”
“I don’t like the way you’re handling this,” Marsh said.
“Just let me work it my way and I’ll pull you through,” Dreer said, and smiled. “I need that five thousand badly, and if I do anything dumb, at least you’ll know that it’s not on purpose.”
He walked out of the office and Burns followed him. Marsh stayed there to look over some new orders.
In the shipping room, Dreer examined a few of the machines. He plugged one of the wires into a wall socket, took out a half-dollar, and took his picture and voice recording. It came out fine. He told Burns to go change two dollars, to bring back four half-dollars.
Burns asked him what he had in mind, and Dreer said that he just wanted to kill time until Lucchi and the boys came back.
When Burns returned with the four half-dollars, Dreer took his picture again. Then he grabbed hold of one of the machines, picked it up, and rested it horizontal on a shelf. He put a chair near the face-hood and then pulled over another chair. Finally he was arranging the machine and the chair and measuring distances, and making a big fuss over the chair and the machine.
“What’s it all about?” Burns wanted to know.
“Just sit in that chair,” Dreer muttered. “Sit in that chair and act natural. Just face this other chair and act as if I was sitting there and you were talking to me.”
Burns shrugged and sat down in. the chair, faced the other chair and started to give out with double-talk. Dreer walked behind him and put the half-dollar in the slot of the machine. Burns’ head was near the hood and in thirty seconds the package came out. Dreer tested the record and it was a perfect job.
“Do you get the idea?” Dreer said.
“Sort of.” Burns grinned. Then he laughed. “Lucchi’s just about my size, ain’t he?” he said.
“Sort of,” Dreer said. He walked into the office to talk to Marsh.