by Jerry eBooks
“Then he sent Kirby out—discharged. He saw to it that a driver who had been friendly with Kirby went along. This driver made certain that Kirby drank himself in that state where his mind snapped. Then Graham was brought in. That did it.”
Burke nodded. “We’ve got enough on McKinney’s boys so some of them will crack,” he commented. “But how’d you ever get onto McKinney? No one has ever suspected him.”
“He sent a couple of punks to Graham’s address to pick up a lot of nylons Graham had kept,” Carmel explained. “The two men we tried to take there. I didn’t have a gun at the time, so I tried to bluff them. They didn’t bluff because they knew I was unarmed and they said so. The only person who could have told them was McKinney.”
“You’ll get something out of this,” Burke said. “A bar on your shoulder at least.”
Carmel smiled and pulled the boy closer.
“I’ll take it too, sir, although I’m pretty certain this lad deserves it more than I. He swiped my gun to make me follow him, and he led me a merry trail so I’d find the evidence to put things right. He wouldn’t just say that Graham couldn’t have told McKinney, because he’d be snitching on a girl friend’s grandmother. The two kids had figured that, seeing that Graham was keeping under cover, he was wanted by the police, and the girl’s grandmother would get into a jam. I’ll bring Al home. As soon as possible, send Jack Kirby home. The kid earned that much.”
BLUE COAT GAMBLE
Neil Moran
When the wrong kind of cops raid a gambling joint, the odds may not always ride with the blue coats.
JUDSON JUDDERS moved among his guests, with the air of a man pleased with himself. It was a profitable business. Here in this house, in a side street off Fifth Avenue, he conducted a gambling house for the select few. People of means came to play the roulette wheel, or roll dice, or play cards. The large room, beautifully appointed, was filled with men and women in evening clothes.
But all was not to go well that night, though Judson Judders didn’t know that. On the way to the club, at this very hour—it was eleven o’clock—six men rode in a car. They were dressed as policemen, with the exception of the driver, and carried night sticks and concealed guns.
Butch Brierly, their leader, had overheard the conversation of two men at a bar who had gone to the club. They had given its location, and had talked of the money won and lost, and of the women who wore necklaces and jewels. Butch had seen his chance to do something a little different.
So he had procured uniforms, night sticks, hats and shields, and had instructed his men.
“Now, remember,” said Butch, looking out of the window, “everything must be done fast. Timson will run the car around to Fifth Avenue, park it, and keep the motor running. Sampson will station himself at the door. You, Eddie, Nick, and Beans, will come in with me. We cover everybody, and soon they’ll know it’s a holdup, and not a raid. Now, are there any questions?”
“None,” Timson said. “I’ve got the lay.”
“And you, Sampson?”
“I stay at the door. Tip you off if anything outside goes wrong.”
“Eddie?”
“No, I got it all down.”
“And you, Nick and Beans?”
“O.K.”
“Well, it’s a perfect setup and we ought to get away with it. The street will be deserted, or almost deserted. No crowd milling around. No talk going through the neighborhood about a raid.”
“How about police radio cars and cops on the beat?” said Timson.
“Not likely that anyone will come through. It’s not a main thoroughfare. At this time of night, it’s just the occasional pedestrian. But keep your eyes peeled, Sampson. If you see any people going up or down the street, step into the vestibule.”
“O.K.”
The car hummed along, turned off Fifth Avenue, and purred down the street. “That house over there,” said Butch. “The sixth from the corner. That’s the number. Now, you guys all set?”
“All set.”
“O.K., Timson, run the car around Fifth Avenue to the right and park it and keep the motor running. You, Sampson, remember what you’re supposed to do at the door. Everything must click. Is anyone coming up or going down the street?”
“I don’t see anyone,” said Timson.
THE car stopped, and five men got out.
Timson swung the car around, and sped toward Fifth Avenue. Butch and the others went up the steps. Sampson stepped over a couple of feet and stopped.
Butch rang the bell.
It echoed through the house, and Judders looked up, He had a signal for his guests, but this was only one ring.
“See who that is,” he said to one of his men.
The man went to the door, and peeked out from behind the curtains. He saw what he took to be the police. He turned, ran back to Judders, and told him. The bell rang again.
“A raid!” said Judders. “How did they ever—?”
But it was no time to ask questions. Judders ran into the large room, told the croupiers to conceal the paraphernalia. He explained to the guests quickly that the police were outside.
“Now, nothing to worry about,” he said. Anticipating something like this, everything moved swiftly and smoothly. The guests were told to start dancing. A radio was turned on. Music filled the room. The guests, knowing what was expected of them, began the pretense. Judders flew into the bar. He told the bartender and the guests there what was happening, and for the guests to go on drinking.
“I’ll get rid of them,” he said. “Everybody just take it easy.” The bell rang again, an insistent ring now, for Butch was becoming impatient. The door opened, and a gray-haired man appeared.
“What is it?” he said.
“Open up!” said Butch. “This is a raid!”
“A raid? You must be mistaken. This is a social club.”
“Yeah?” Butch was pushing the man aside and, with the others, was entering. Judders greeted him.
“What is this, Officer?” he said.
“Don’t try to kid me,” said Butch. “This is a gambling club.”
“Oh, but you are mistaken. This is—”
“That’s what the other fellow said,” said Butch. “Now, listen, I ain’t going to fool around with you. Where is the gambling room?” A gun suddenly appeared in Butch’s hand.
“Why, I can take you into the main room and show you the guests,” said Judders. “They’re dancing.”
“Yeah? Well, Eddie, suppose you cover the people in the bar. And you, Nick and Beans, come with me.”
They had drawn their guns. Judders knew it would be futile to resist them. He didn’t want to resist them. He wanted to get rid of them in his own way, and laugh up his sleeve. But as Butch, Nick, and Beans stepped into the room, Judders suddenly realized that this was a holdup!
“Line up against the wall,” said Butch, “and hand over your jewels. Where’s the money?”
“You’re not the police!” Judders said.
“What do you think?” Butch pushed him out of the way. He strode across the room, brandished his gun. Now the guests and croupiers realizing that these were holdup men, became alarmed.
OUTSIDE, Sampson was looking up and down the street. Well, the boys had got in and it wouldn’t be long now. The street was deserted, save for an occasional pedestrian. It was a perfect setup, as Butch had said, duck soup, the kind of thing that could only happen once in a lifetime.
Then down the street came Michael Gilroy on his way home, after having left his girl at a house over near Third Avenue. It was a heavenly night to Michael, because he was in love, and soon would be married. He looked at the stars, the moon, and then he saw the uniformed man at the door.
“Oho,” he said. “What’s this?”
He stopped, and looked up at Sampson.
Sampson told him to move along.
“What’s the matter?” Michael said, staring at Sampson.
“Don’t ask questions,” Sampson said,
trying to act like a gruff cop.
“Was somebody murdered?” said Michael.
“I told you not to ask questions. You have no business here. Get along.”
Michael kept staring at him. “Was it a suicide?” he said. “You see, Officer, I’m—”
“If you don’t beat it,” said Sampson, “I’ll run you in.”
Then Michael saw something that sent him flying down the steps. Puzzled, he hurried up the street and turned a corner, just as a radio police car came along. He flagged it.
The driver stopped, and Michael walked over.
“I’m Patrolman Gilroy,” he said, “from an uptown precinct.” He flashed his shield.
“Yeah? What can we do for you, Gilroy?” said the driver.
“I was just passing that house,” said Michael, and explained. Then he added something that brought the driver and the man with him, up in their seats. “That guy is no cop. He’s a phony!”
“No cop?” said the driver. “I was going to ask you why you didn’t tell him that you were a cop.”
“Oh, I was about to,” said Michael, “when—”
“But how do you know he’s no cop?” Michael leaned over and whispered.
“It clicks!” said the driver. “Get in. Gilroy, you’ll be made a detective for this. But we’ve got to get around to that house before they get away.”
Michael got in, and the car sped around the corner. The driver stopped it. “It would be better for you to get out here. Go back to that guy and get the drop on him. He’ll think you’re just a nosy citizen. Then Mahoney and I will appear. You’d better flash the station, Mahoney, to get more men here.”
Michael sprang out and walked down the street. Sampson saw him coming. There was that pest again. A drunk or a crazy guy.
Michael Gilroy stopped and looked up. “Hey, listen,” he said, “a woman was struck by a car around the corner. I thought you should know.”
“Call the police.”
“But look,” said Michael, starting up the steps, “you’re a policeman and—”
Suddenly, Sampson felt his arm twisted. The night stick dropped out of his hand. Michael had drawn his gun and was patting Sampson’s pockets. He got what he wanted.
The radio-car driver and Mahoney appeared.
They pushed the man into the patrol car. Timson, who had got out of his car, and looked down the street, saw what was happening. He ran back to the car, jumped into it, and drove off.
BUTCH, inside with his men, were completing the job. Everything was under control. Guns pointed. Jewels and necklaces in the bag. Judders stood frustrated, chagrined, that holdup men were walking off with his profits.
“And I guess,” said Butch, “that you won’t say anything about this. You’ll keep your mouth shut. For if you squawk, the police will have you for running a gambling den. It’s a natural!”
Starting toward the door, the guns pointed, Butch and his men were making their exit. Butch opened the door, but where was Sampson? Butch and the others ran down the steps, a little bewildered.
Then as they started toward Fifth Avenue, commands came from behind them to raise their hands. Two policemen and Gilroy had stepped out of a dark passageway.
Butch, realizing that they were trapped, raised his hands, followed by the others. Gilroy, Mahoney, and the driver walked over and frisked them.
Butch swung around. “Where’s the guy that was at the door?” he said. “What happened?”
“Well, this nosy guy here,” said the driver, grinning, “was passing, and went up and asked your front man what was the matter? He figured he was a phony cop.”
“I don’t get it,” said Butch. “We looked like cops. We had everything regular.”
“Yes, and he might have fooled me,” said Gilroy. “Probably would have. If it hadn’t been—you see, I’m a cop, too, and that guy was wearing my shield number on his shield. Get it?”
THE CASE OF THE SQUEALING DUCK
George B. Anderson
Danny Dole tried to put them in the aisles as a comedian, but the Crime File of Flamond said something about murder—and it wasn’t funny . . .
Flamond’s office door swung open and framed an amazing little man in a brilliant purple suit. A yellow sports shirt and violent hand-painted necktie added voltage to the ensemble, but the clothes weren’t as loud as the little man who filled them. He looked explosive.
Flamond’s jaw hung open. Even Sandra Lake, his sleek blonde secretary who had grown accustomed to startling clients, looked a trifle startled herself.
The little man took two quick, short steps forward and then a long, slow one. It was an entrance. When he spoke in a raspy, metallic voice, both the detective and his secretary had to stifle an impulse to laugh.
“My name’s Danny Dole, Flamond,” the little man said. “I guess I don’t haffta tell you any more.”
“Not unless you want to, I suppose,” Flamond answered.
Sandra turned on her smile. “Oh—the night club comedian—of course!”
That clicked the switch and Danny Dole lit up. “Yeah—night club, musical comedy, movies, radio—I guess they know me just about any place.”
Flamond was unimpressed. “I don’t go in much for night life.”
“That’s right, doggone it,” Sandra grinned. “But you really are a night club celebrity, Mr. Dole.”
Danny lit a cigaret with a flourish, focusing an invisible spotlight on his gold-ribbed Dunhill lighter. “Yeah,” he said, “I suppose I am. I always think, the celebrities come to catch my act—but I guess I’m one, too. And I’d sorta like to go on bein’ one.”
His voice went to an amazing falsetto. “My problem, Mister Ant’ony, is—aw nuts, it ain’t funny. Here!”
He shoved a penny postcard at Flamond. Scrawled in pencil across the face of the card were the words, “You’re a dead duck, Danny.”
Flamond came to attention. “You think this is a death threat?”
“I dunno,” Danny admitted. “Whatever it is, it isn’t good. Somebody’s tryin’ to louse me up, for sure.”
“There’ve been attempts against your life?”
“Not that.” Danny shook his head. “But somebody is tryin’ to crab my act, kill my laughs, keep my best material from gettin’ across.”
Flamond made a wry face. “Mr. Dole,” he said, “I don’t know a thing about night club material. I don’t know how people kill laughs. When I investigate a killing, it’s another kind.”
Dole grinned. “I know all about you. I listen to your radio show every week. ‘Flamond,’ ” he mimicked the announcer’s voice, “ ‘famous psychologist and character analyst, who looks beyond laughter and tears, jealously and greed, to discover their basic origins.’ Your bein’ a showman was one reason I came to you.”
Flamond winced. “I’m not a showman. My more interesting file cards are used for a series of radio mystery dramas.”
“And this psychology business of yours,” Dole continued. “I like that because there’s some of the old psychology stuff connected with what’s bein’ done to me. There’s angles I don’t get; and they tell me you’re the hottest guy on angles in the country.”
“Just what,” Flamond demanded, “are you worried about—your life or somebody spoiling your night club act?”
“Both,” Danny said solemnly. “With me, bein’ made to look like a cellar-club ham is a matter of life and death. If you’d spent years learning your timing and how to sock a gag, and you’d learned your lessons to the point where they’d started payin’ off—after sluggin’ your way to the top—and all of a sudden you started playin’ to audiences that acted like you was givin’ a funeral sermon for their best friend—” He looked to Sandra for help.
“Who’s trying to spoil your act, Mr. Dole?” she asked.
“And why should anyone be that jealous of you?” Flamond demanded.
Danny tapped the ash from his cigaret onto the carpet. “You know what I’m drawin’ down at the Club Lisetta? F
ifteen hundred bucks a week. And not newspaper publicity dough, either. Cash.”
Flamond was thoughtful. “That postcard threat looked like a death threat,” he admitted. “Any idea where it came from?”
“Sure,” Danny said. Flamond and Sandra both showed surprise. “The same person that killed my duck-hunting gag deader than a stiff on a morgue slab last night.” The thought of it brought anguish to his face.
“What was the gag?” Sandra prompted.
“It’s a wow, the way I do it.” Danny went into action. “Never fails to get five boff laughs with a sock finish. Stops the show cold sometimes. It’s a whole routine, see? I go through the imaginary motions of gettin’ ready to shoot. I’m crouched down in the duck blind. I get my shotgun up to my shoulder—all make believe, see? No gun, no nothin’. And then I make with the imaginary trigger.”
Flamond was dead-pan. “When does the laugh come?”
“Right then. When I make with this imaginary trigger, a dead duck drops down from the ceiling, right over the heads of the customers. It’s the funniest, bedraggledest-lookin’ duck you ever see in your life. I had it made up special.”
Sandra made a face. “How cute,” she said. “Flamond, wouldn’t it be a scream to get a dead duck in your soup?”
“That’s where the laugh comes,” Danny protested. “Nobody gets the duck. Everybody’s scared they’re gonna. But this duck is suspended by a thin wire. On accounta the dim lights an’ all, you can’t see what’s holding the duck up, but it quits fallin’ about ten feet above the folks’ heads.”
“Yes.” Flamond nodded thoughtfully. “I can see how that might get a laugh. The discomfiture motive.”
“It’s a socko,” Danny agreed, “but last night it was strictly from hunger. I pull the trigger and nothin’ happens. There I am caught with my pants in the sprocket and my New Departure coaster brake not workin’.”
“Mechanical contrivances sometimes get temperamental,” Flamond suggested. “Did you look over the gadget that’s supposed to release the duck?”
“Sure,” Danny said. “An’ somebody’d put in a new spring and release lever that was too strong to let the duck fall. I got a hunch it was Sheila Ray.”